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itsnothingofinterest · 4 months

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So if it isn’t clear, I’m not a fan of chapter 423 and how it ended this final fight with AFO or Deku's supposed save of Tomura. I know I haven't talked that much about it but it's true.

And being the arrogant little internet-er that I am, I thought I might go over how I think this fight should’ve gone down. A little self-indulgent thing about how I would've done it, to make myself feel better, which you guys can read too if for some reason you want to. Granted, the objectively correct way to end this arc would’ve of course been to not do the fight or bring back AFO, end it at 418 as I described before; but this outline is for if one were to really insist on a final battle with a returned AFO.

Starting disclaimer; length: as mentioned in the above linked post, this is going to be quite longer than what we saw in canon. Some may say this is unfair to claim Hori should have done when he’s so clearly burnt out, but that’s just what the fight needs to be properly epic or properly conclude it’s dangling plot threads. Again, this is why ending it at 418 was the correct move. If we really are including this extra climax though, then it needs enough pages for it; which is why we’re going further than the entire manga might, up to chapter 430 plus an epilogue. (Wanted that to be including Epilogue but one chapter outline went long so I split it in two. Just the way things go.)

Pre-423 changes:

Surprisingly little. A part of me wants to change the ‘it was AFO all along’ reveal to be less dog-doodoo but I can’t imagine how. The reveal is bad; ruining many of MHA’s themes, several of its characters, and helping cement Deku as an All Might clone by ending his arc as a hero who beats the big bad AFO…but it’s also necessary for the extra climax to happen. AFO’s ability to take over Tomura is almost literally directly proportional to how bad the reveal is, so we’re kind of stuck with it.

However I would like to change Deku’s dialogue with Aizawa in 420 to not mention his plans of killing Tomura along with AFO up to now. His character just becomes unsalvageablely unlikable with the reveal that he was just looking for a way to murder the crying child in a way he found most tasteful this whole time. So we’re cutting that and Deku’s still aiming for the save like a good hero should. Just have him go into more detail on what happened in Tomura's mind; it'll be useful for Kurogiri to overhear for later.

Besides that, the early chapters of the final AFO fight were mostly fixable with later additions or otherwise inoffensive, so we’re moving on to:

423: On the Offensive

Once again, we start with Deku just landing a huge hit on AFO. Immediate change; the fight is not over with this: AFO manifests a huge mouth with sharp teeth on his chest right where Deku hit to chomp down and pin him before charging up an energy explosion point blank that’ll rip his arm off at minimum.

Deku escapes using a St. Louise Smash to scrape off the bottom row of teeth, letting his arm out and chasing that energy attack to mostly just propel him back into the ground.

Some hero comments how it’s like they’re back to square one while another denies that and points out AFO’s two new major injuries. Shoto takes the opportunity to try going for a major attack too; but AFO, furious that the heroes think he’s on the back foot, uses a quirk to launch the remaining sharp teeth at Shoto as missiles. Endeavor then swoops in and takes the hit for Shoto, surprising him with the sacrifice play but demoralizing the other heroes for their No. 1 to take a hit like that.

Now needing to get back on the offensive, AFO pulls out the giant double rivot mouth move to try and chomp down on Deku while he’s reeling; but they get intercepted by Mt. Lady and Ryukyu. At this time, Aizawa notices Kurogiri has disappeared from beside him.

As Deku is helped up by Aoyama, we see Kurogiri reappear on a bit of elevated dirt behind them; and stepping out to comment on how much he’s missed is a dishevelled looking Spinner.

424: The League of Villains

We instead start with a flashback to Touya, Fuyumi, and Rei being taken away from the battle by those stretcher robots. While they’re a distance away from others, sparks appear from the droids carrying Touya as they halt in place; causing Fuyumi to panic and ask her and her mom’s droids to also stop so she can see what happened. As Rei and Fuyumi struggle to sit up, they see that Toga has thrown knives into both of Touya’s robots and is now cutting him out.

As Fuyumi panics and tells her to get away, a warp gate opens and lets out Spinner, who tells Dabi to get up because the inevitable has happened and AFO has started fighting Tomura; Kurogiri filled him in on the whole thing. Dabi responds, revealing he’s still awake, and attempts to get up with Toga’s help.

Fuyumi begins really panicking, telling them not to take her brother when he’s so injured and she just got him back. But Dabi responds, in an apologetic tone as one could expect of Dabi, that he’s got something important to do.

Rei finally takes the chance to pipe up, asking if these are the friends Touya’s been staying with. Touya introduces Spinner, Toga, and Kurogiri, and says that they are; and then introduces his mom and sister to the League.

Back at Mt. Fuji, Spinne, Toga, and Dabi arrive out of Kurogiri and take in the situation. Kurogiri, now awake for real but with some Shirakumo in his tone, comments that it seems AFO is back in control of Tomura, but that like he saw last time, AFO’s control is probably still precarious. They just need to wake up Tomura again before they think of a more permanent solution.

Aoyama panics seeing the League here, but Deku interrupts asking if they’re here to fight AFO and save Tomura. Toga answers by saying he can just sit back and watch them do his job before telling Kurogiri that he’ll need to play defence; neither the heroes or AFO have noticed them in the crowd yet, but they will not appreciate them being here once they do. As he does, she and Spinner start yelling at Tomura; asking why he left them behind to wallow in his self-pity while they’re still waiting on him to destroy this unfair world? Where’s their horizon?

(maybe call back to this^ somehow?)

This grabs the heroes attention, some wondering if they need to fight them too. But then Dabi joins in, saying that Shigaraki was the one person to truly surpass All Might in power, so to see him a pawn of AM’s favourite punching bag is just sad; what’s with this embarrassing state, leader? Reminded at this sight of his own words to All Might in Kamino, Endeavor tells the other heroes to let the villains speak, while thinking to himself that he can finally see what relationship Tomura has with these villains like his son, and that he's glad he learned this about Touya.

AFO gets annoyed at the League’s insults and moves to attack, but finds his body shaking. In the back of his mind, Tomura stops screaming and appears behind AFO from the shadows, responding to the League’s call.

425: Secret Boss Battle

A fight begins at the centre of the mind between Tomura and AFO, the arena resembling the destroyed cityscape from when he first got the AFO quirk, but shrouded in darkness. Unable to really use their quirks in this space, they basically both resort to hand-to-hand combat and psychically throwing debris at eachother.

As they fight, AFO asks how Shigaraki awakened; his will should have been crushed with his identity as Tenko Shimura torn to shreds. Tomura affirms that he finds no will in the friends or dreams of Tenko Shimura, AFO has managed to treed on those things thoroughly; so instead he'll hold onto what is his own as Shigaraki Tomura. AFO balks at that; he moulded that identity even more thoroughly, implanted every idea in his head and guided his every decision; but Tomura reminds him that's not true, he left Tomura in the care of others many times. We then get both a flashback to Kurogiri comforting Tomura when AFO first died fightign AM, and a montage of flashback panels to his time with the League. Tomura exclaims that this is more than enough will to take on a shitty secret boss like AFO.

At this point, Shinomori appears and punches AFO hard in the face. He is proceeded shortly after by Ragdoll & various other costumed folk who follow up Shinomori with their own attacks. AFO asks if Tomura has caused a quirk rebellion like what happened to the 'other him' and Tomura answers: yes & no. The quirks are active in fighting, but they're not so much rebelling as just helping him subdue a rogue quirk, like what happened against Star & Stripe (he made sure to ask them though; need to know your party for the raid boss after all, and he'd been meaning to take stoke anyway). Or did AFO forget the dynamic of person & quirk between them?

AFO responds by growing into a giant, elongated monster to fight back; furious that these pawns, husks, and nobodies think they have any right not only attacking the demon lord, but looking down on him. AFO knocks a dozen hero & villain vestiges back, but Tomura throws a whole mental building at him for his trouble. AFO emerges out the top trying to attack him, but gets intercepted by the vestiges of Kudo and Bruce; both of them look shattered and like they're missing half their pieces, but the rest are keeping shape to punch AFO as much as they can.

AFO's fury briefly flares seeing them, but he quickly realizes what their being here means, as he hated them too much to ever take their pathetic quirks. Tomura confirms by saying AFO has his own secret boss, pointing out a small light in the distance like a star that AFO immediately identifies as the last spark of Yoichi.

426: Two Fronts

The inner fight continues: AFO begins racing past everyone to try and claim that distant light, but this just allows vestiges both stolen and OFA to slam him into huge debris as he tries. AFO grows even larger to Machia-level size and swats them away, landing a good hit on Tomura, Kudo, & Bruce as he tells them to stop infringing on his story. Just he he goes for another blow though, he takes a hit from seemingly nothing.

Cut back to outside and it's clear that he just got hit by Momo & Denki's canon, now with Jirou helping too. Dazed and in disbelief, AFO is then also hit by Kamui Woods throwing many huge boulders at him. Rikido and Kirishima go for a big attack too, but AFO knocks them away as he regains himself.

Realizing that he's on a war of two fronts and losing, he implants himself with those large roots he seems to have, embedding them in the earth and spreading them out to disrupt and separate the heroes. He then uses more quirks to form a large shell around himself, and uses a more defensive All-Factor Release to launch a myriad of attacks from the shell's surface. Deku goes in to attack AFO from an opening on the shell, but he launches more attacks out of it at Deku & the League. With the roots and shell protecting AFO from most of the heroes, he left an opening on purpose so he can see the League and focus on destroying them, which will then let him subdue Tomura. Deku realizes this plan too, and changes course to deflect the attacks on the League.

More roots emerge, but other members of the class catch on; Shoto freezing some while Shoji grabs others, allowing the League to keep yelling for Tomura to fight. At this time, with assistance from Sero, Iida, Mineta, & Mina; Ruyukyu and Mt. Lady lady finally rip out those mouth stalks, leaving two great black indents in the shell. Enraged, AFO causes the shell to grow large with great teeth around it's opening and enlarge in size greatly, now resembling the imagery of ultimate evil from All Might's old description of AFO as it launches more attacks at Deku and the League.

Deku tells the League to keep it up while he protects them, and we see side-by-side panels of both him and Tomura, bolstered by the League's words calling for his help, continuing their respective assaults on AFO.

427: Trust and Worth

We briefly see the other heroes attempts to get through the now-giant shell in between AFO's still-ongoing onslaught of attacks; Nejire and Amajiki's best attacks doing nothing, and Momo's laser barely putting in a scratch. Mirio says he got in, but his punches still can't phase the guy inside. Weird thing is, he didn't even notice a hero got in; so focused on Deku & the League. The attacks from the shell's surface seem completely random and haphazard too; he's ignoring them. Shoto points out that he basically can thanks to his defences, so does this mean they have to wait for someone who can do something? But Mirio rephrases it to that they need to wait for when they can do something.

Cut back to Deku and he's in a similar mental state. He's almost literally running on OFA's fumes and he's stuck on the defence protecting the League because he can't get into the shell through all the attacks, especially now that it's grown much larger and AFO is hiding deeper inside. It's anxiety inducing, he knows Bakugou would hate it. A part of him wants to try and think of a way to blast past the attacks, but he's not sure he could beat AFO in one hit so it might be too risky (if not for him, then for those behind him). Better to do some entrusting himself and leave this to Tomura until he leaves an opening or needs one himself, which Deku will know because he can see the fight in his mind through their connection.

But back at the mental battle; Shigaraki's confidence only enrages AFO, who grabs him in his giant hand and start squeezing. He taunts Tomura, asks if he really thinks someone who AFO built from the ground up can deny him? 'No, his pathetic friends will have their cries left unanswered forevermore, as punishment for entrusting their hopes to a pawn.'

Just then, another new player swoops in, busting right through the palm of AFO's hand to pull Tomura out. It's Hana Shimura! Who promptly tells AFO to shut up about her brother. The rest of the Shimuras also appear, with Kotaro denying the scope AFO's influence, apologizing to Tenko, and saying his abusive behaviour was his fault alone. Tomura pauses at seeing them, and says while he's in no mood to forgive his father, he promises to get them all out alive so he can grovel for forgiveness properly later.

Nana also appears and asks how the Shimuras are here, which Nao answers saying AFO pilfered their quirks from their remains after their tragedy. Nana is horrified, but AFO can only say that he's beginning to regret letting his whims draw him to any worthless trash he found along his path. Shigaraki remarks back that he's finding plenty of worth in this so called 'trash'.

428: A New Strategy

As more vestiges go back on the offensive; the Shimura family take a moment for strategy, wondering how they can beat this giant monster. Nana wonders why AFO can even grow like this, but Tomura figures he must've done it by letting long-suppressed emotions run wild. He's fraying himself for a chance to reach Yoichi, but stronger emotions like from Tomura or his sister can tear right through him. It also means if they beat him, he'll either be gone for good, or unveil his own core like what happened with Tenko. Concluding this is enough strategy, Tomura leaps into the fray and deals a massive wound to AFO.

AFO is beginning to realize his situation in this two-front battle is not improving, but being so close to Yoichi, he reconsiders his priorities and his strategy to shut up the League. Luckily the reappearance of Nana reminds him of just the way to do it. Outside, Deku, Aoyama, and a few other students continue to protect the League as they call for Tomura and mock AFO, when something changes. The onslaught of random attacks stops, and instead the shell begins to glow, and then a massive force begins emanating from the shell causing gale force winds to blast everyone away. AFO has combined the energy explosion he used to kill Nana with Air Cannon & Shokewave and is using them continuously to create these winds. Using his explosion quirk like this might burn up all his stamina, maybe even kill him and Tomura, but he decides it's worth it to see Yoichi.

The winds drown out the League, internally causing Shigaraki to think they might've just died, which in turn lets AFO pin him under his hand and start crushing him once more.

Deku, being blasted into a wall of dirt, realizes they can't keep up a passive strategy anymore, these winds will tear & burn everyone up. This is when a Warp Gate opens in front of his face, blocking the winds and letting him talk though it with the League, who are protected by a much larger Warp Gate. Spinner says they need a new strategy, but Deku gets distracted observing how Kurogiri's Warp Gates seem to be very effective against these winds by just warping the wind somewhere else. Before Dabi can properly express annoyance, Deku says he's got a plan; but he'll need the League's full cooperation, so are the willing to work with him? Dabi & Toga look to Spinner, who tells Deku...fat chance. He wants their help, he's the one who has to work with them. Deku agrees, so Spinner welcomes him to the League of Villains and asks for his plan.

429: All For One; One For All; All Or Nothing; One Last Smash

Deku and the League begin their operation. Kurogiri opens various Warp Gates around the area that a) give heroes places to take cover from the gusts of wind, and b) let him create his own jets of wind. He points all of them at Deku's back, launching the boy at the shell's opening. The force of each jet matches the force of AFO's wind, meaning multiple will overcome it. Granted, applying that much force to someone from both ends this way would crush most people, but Deku's got a body that can withstand OFA so this is nothing.

As he's launched at the opening, AFO notices his approach and creates giant sharp teeth to impale him; but Deku, being carried by the wind, is free to use another St. Louise Smash to destroy them and make his way in. AFO then tries a variety of other attacks inside the chamber of the shell, but a Warp Gate opens and a blast of ice freezes all of them, and we see Dabi commenting how there's nothing like a life or death situation to see how strong you really are (his mom's quirk packs quite the punch).

AFO then closes the shell to stop the League's interference, air jets or otherwise, and prepares another All-Factor laser pointed right at Deku. But just then, we see Shoto outside preparing a ramp, which Bakugou takes off from (that's right we see their team-up this time), using explosions to overpower the wind, break through the shell where team Momo scratched it, and blast away the charged up laser before it could fire. Now with line of sight inside back, another Gate opens with one of Toga's syringes shot through. Deku grabs it's cord, and uses it to launch himself back at AFO, finally landing the hit to knock off his gag.

Back inside the mental battlefield; AFO is so close to Yoichi and is dragging himself through the vestiges' attacks. Deku suddenly arrives across their mental link, and slams into the giant AFO. Truly desperate, AFO seems to almost puke up something from the hit that gets launched at Yoichi; it's trashbag baby AFO! Who's suddenly feeling a lot more honest, yelling for Yoichi about how much he needs him, how he only cares about him, just let him see his brother's face one last time.

Shigaraki hears this and realizes what kind of person his sensei was all along, and decides what to do with a pity-ing look on his face and a nod from his parents. AFO's path is interrupted one last time by Tenko Shimura, who grabs him in a hug and tells him he understands his pain, but it's over, he needs to let go of this. The star-like light he'd been chasing turns into Yoichi's face, causing AFO to being to cry and relax into the hug, and the two boys fade into another tiny light that rests in Tomura's hand as he shows Deku & the vestiges. It's over.

430: What Makes Heroes and Villains

Deku asks what what Tomura will do with that last shred of AFO, and Tomura says he doesn't know. Part of him still wants to crush it, both out of anger & just to be safe, but that seems distasteful after what just happened. Just then, one vestige steps forth and asks for it, who Tomura identifies as Spearlike Bones; the Shigaraki twins' mother. She doesn't introduce herself as such, but says she knew AFO before he went evil, so give it to her and she'll keep it safe and out of trouble this time. Both Deku and Tomura agree, and then sit down to talk.

The scene shifts to a beach at night, they're alone, and they shift to their four and five-year-old selves. Tenko and Izuku talk for a bit like that, about...a lot of stuff. Mostly about heroes, about Deku, and what Tenko thinks of Deku. If Tenko feels saved (a bit yeah, but also a bit not), how Deku's a good hero, how he's a mediocre hero. How Tenko thinks all heroes suck and are failures, especially All Might, which riles 4-year old Izuku up good...but also how, as the first hero that Tenko doesn't think is a failure who sucks, Deku is the greatest hero ever.

Izuku asks what Tenko will do now, and he says he'll do what he said before; be a hero for the villains, as only a villain can. That said, Tomura doesn't really want to fight Deku anymore if he can avoid it; so he's prepared a peace offering, and a message. The peace offering appear to Izuku as a meteor shower in the night sky, accompanied with a shot outside the mental world to show Shigaraki standing over an unconscious Deku with Tomura's hand pressed agianst him. The message gets blacked out a la Dabi. Izuku, suddenly a teenager is shocked and turns to ask what he means, but finds instead Shinomori asking what what means? Deku has been given the quirks from OFA back, although they are all in pieces aside from Danger Sense, hence them appearing to him as a meteor shower.

We cut to various scenes with villains; Skeptic in a police carrier, Spinner's advisors and a couple other rioters being held in custody, Compress in prison, Redestro in another prison, and even Gigantomachia, once more being tied down even as he holds his hand to the wound AFO gave him. They all see above them a tiny blotch of blackness like Kurogiri's mist.

Back at Mt. Fuji, Tomura finally emerges from the shell of ultimate evil carrying Deku. Lemillion is first on the scene and tells Tomura to hand him over; and is quite shocked when Tomura does just that without issue. Says the two of them made friends and sorted it out in there so don't worry. Toga also tells Mirio to relay a message to Deku that she'll be keeping an eye on both him and Uraraka from here, so keep up their progress together. Other heroes arrive and surround them slowly, not sure what move to make. Iida is the one who finally tells them to come quietly and let this end.

Tomura agrees to let this all end, and Spinner & Toga both ask what they're doing now? Going out in a peaceful way, or a villainous way? Tomura says both; that they'll be performing what may be their final act of villainy, before asking if Kurogiri has a big enough place picked out. Kurogiri confirms he does, and opens a Warp Gate for the League.

At this time, those other villains we saw earlier start getting Gloop Warped away from custody. As the League step through Kurogiri, a number of heroes suddenly move to stop them. Deku barely regains a bit of consciousness and tells them not to attack, causing a few of his classmates to pause. No one is fast enough to stop the League anyway, and Kurogiri disappears behind them. The League are gone.

The chapter ends with police, prison managers, and heroes all reporting in. Besides Dr. Garaki and Overhaul who got left behind, every villain bigger than a small time crook they had in any form of custody throughout the entire country has disappeared.

431: Class 1A Rising

The obligatory Epilogue chapter. As I expect of canon, this would probably be extra long and cover a lot of different plot threads. It'll also be very different based on how Hori wants to take things; but I'll go the simple route.

First things first is catching up with all the hero kids in the hospital. Friendship moments, decompression, comments on character arcs, that sort of stuff. We also learn Tomura's final message to Deku, which he relays to everyone else, student and pro: The heroes have attacked the League three times now. If they attack a fourth time, the villains will return to destroy Japan. But if they don't, the villains will never return.

We then get narration of the immediate aftermath of this announcement; heroes throughout the country search high and low for any signs of Shigaraki & the disappeared villains for months. In a similar case to when they hunted for Stain, this results in heroes finding a lot of injustices they'd normally overlook to catch bigger villains; lost children, domestic abuse, prejudice, that sort of thing. Still, for those entire months, no villains more dangerous than some corner store robbers are found.

Speaking of the heroes, an emergency ranking is conducted; naming Kamui Woods as the new number one, with the rest of the Lurkers as No. 2 & 3. The previous top 3 have all retied (maybe Endeavor dies from that tooth attack he took for Shoto, idk.) Additionally, Mirio, Nejire, & Tamaki have taken the no. 8, 9, and 10 slots, and vow to catch up and rise even higher. Still, there's not a lot of interest by anyone involved; seems everyone has their eyes on the next generation.

There's a few more scenes of loose ends getting tied up like Overhaul waking up Pops or Gentle & Nagant getting status as heroes before we finally return to UA The kids' 2nd year finally begins for real. it's jarring to be sure, but time must go on and so too must education. Besides, a lot of them have started thinking after that war that they need to consider what kinds of heroes they want to be. Deku's falling behind with his shattered OFA not yet showing signs of healing, if that's even possible, but he's confident he'll catch up once again. Perhaps this is where we'd see out final moments with the core cast, checking in with everyone here as they all get ready for their next lesson/mission as heroes. If Hori wanted a more overtly 'to be continued' ending (though I imagine he would not), perhaps we might see where the villains ended up in some sense, building up a future conflict. Or perhaps we might skip forward years into the future, see the kid as pros and end on that kind of uncompromising 'Happily ever after'. Depends on how much open-endedness is preferred.

Either way, there's my conclusion. I won't say it's perfect or anything; I'll even admit I may have gotten the League more involved than would ever be realistic (or maybe it's more like I may not have involved the Deku's class enough). But I like to think I got some cool plot beats in, some cool reveals, I'm more proud of the call back to All Might's ultimate evil imagery than it may deserve; but most importantly, the villains end this war alive and saved. Tomura got to be the hero for villains; and I'd say Deku, between getting his save off and not being the focal point of the win, came out looking a lot less like an All Might clone or the next pillar, and just looking a lot like a better hero than in canon in general. That's what I feel anyway.

Regardless, writing this whole 'what-if' out did in fact make me feel better about 423. So my self-indulgent ramblings were worth that much at least.

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makemeimmortalwithahug · 2 months

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My Place By Your Side

Painland Week Day 1 - Love Languages/Sickfic

Charles/Edwin - post-canon

@painlandweek has brought me so much joy, it's so fun to just write for the sake of celebrating something I love again

Word count: 3920

summary:

When Edwin gets sick, Charles needs to figure out a way to comfort both Edwin and himself.

“Mate, that really doesn’t look too good.” Charles was crouched over Edwin’s arm, the shirt-sleeve rolled up to reveal the pale skin that sported dots in varying sizes and colours that made Charles feel sick in return. The rash reached from his elbow until the back of his hand, starting small in muted earthy tones that anyone else might have mistaken simply for moles. But Charles knew Edwin like no one else. He could’ve reached out and found every scar, every beauty spot or callus blindly in an instant. He could’ve counted the speckles in Edwin’s eyes from memory alone.

“Astute observation, Charles,” Edwin sniped but Charles wasn’t fooled. The distress in his voice was obvious, pitchy and cutting around the vowels. He had spent the better part of the day going through his collection of books that dealt with similar symptoms while he kept anxiously glimpsing at the exposed skin. It had not reached the other arm yet but when Edwin lost his bowtie, complaining about the heat in the office that had never bothered him before, Charles could see hot pink and green speckles like those on Edwin’s hand.

“No reason to snap, mate, I don’t know what caused this either.”

If there was any indicator for how worried Edwin was in that moment himself, it was at what speed he gave in. Charles could see him practically wilt right in front of him, his shoulders drooping and Edwin shifting his weight self-consciously from one foot to the other.

“I do apologise, Charles. I frankly do not know what to do.”

Charles frowned. Edwin was stubborn on his worst days, a quality Charles found oddly charming. To see him fold so easily was more disconcerting than it should have been.

Charles stood up and moved to put his hand on Edwin’s shoulder in comfort, trying with all his might to make it seem casual and not an act to calm his own nerves. Before he could feel the soft fabric, however, Edwin flinched away, forgetting to phase through the desk and instead hitting it and knocking down the last payment they had received for a job well jobbed (a magical ball of wool that kept changing colours depending on your mood).

Well, Charles thought hysterically, there was that.

In the unsure way only an entirely gobsmacked person could manage, Charles drew his hand back.

His heart hurt. He didn’t know that was still possible.

In general, Edwin wasn’t known for initiating their physical contact but he certainly wasn’t averse to it, always grateful for feeling Charles close to him. Except for literal Hell, Charles couldn’t remember a time where Edwin had avoided his touch.

“Charles,” he heard, but the word hardly registered. He kept awkwardly staring at his hand.

“Charles,” Edwin said again, closer now again as he cautiously inched around the desk.

“Mhh.” The sound was less acknowledgement and more a way to push back the cry that wanted to force its way out of Charles’ mouth.

“You must know that I mean no offence,” Edwin began, which almost caused Charles to snort or, at the very least, crack a smile. Never in their friendship after the day of their meeting had Edwin bothered with sugar-coating anything. Charles had spent the majority of his life tip toeing around his father in fear of his rage at any given moment. Until he met Edwin, he hadn’t known how much he’d like not having to guess someone’s feelings and walk around on eggshells.

Edwin cleared his throat. “I do realise this situation is far from ideal, what with all these new cases.” This at last pulled Charles somewhat out of his stupor. Who cared about the bloody cases? “But we cannot risk you falling ill as well in the pursuit of helping me get to the bottom of this. We don’t even know whether it is contagious, not to mention by touch or mere proximity!”

Edwin ran both hands through his hair, messing up the carefully coiffed strands. It was a gesture so jarringly agitated and foreign on him that it shocked Charles once more. “Therefore,” he concludes, “it would be better if I keep my distance until I have found a solution.”

And the worst thing was: Charles couldn’t blame him for coming to this conclusion. This supernatural disease could end up in more chaos than they usually dealt with. Because what else could it have been? Edwin had his last cold in 1915 and the last time he had so much as sneezed was when that poor bloke’s head had blown up into their faces in Port Townsend and he had been too shocked to let it not affect him.

No, Edwin was right. This could endanger the agency if Charles accidentally got sick too. One detective out of commission for legwork was bad enough and he didn’t want to imagine one of their clients catching this.

Didn’t mean that Charles had to like this plan, though. And it wasn’t particularly about them not being able to touch anymore for the foreseeable future. Despite how right Crystal was when she said that they lived in each other’s pockets, they weren’t literally attached at the hip.

What Charles actually made nauseous was the way in which Edwin had recoiled from him that resonated horribly within him. Ghosts couldn’t normally get cold, but Charles felt like someone had shoved a bunch of ice cubes into the inside of his polo shirt, leaving him shivering and shaken.

He never wanted to make Edwin feel scared of him and even though he knew that Edwin was just trying to protect him, something about the alarm in his eyes had him thinking back to seeing himself in the mirror when he heard his father come home early. He had sworn to himself that he would never put this look in anyone’s eyes - accident or not. He had already failed at that with the Night Nurse, but even then it had been Charles who had shied away from contact and not Edwin. Never Edwin. Until today. Edwin used to freeze, sure, and it had taken a long time for Edwin to lean on Charles as well, but he didn’t know what to do now with the sharp panic edged into his best mate’s features.

A soft sound made him pay attention to his surroundings again. Edwin was still standing at least an arm’s length away from him, his hand curled into a fist to knock against the top of the desk to get Charles’ attention. His eyebrows were furrowed in concern, his mouth a thin line. A blue dot had reached the side of his throat.

Charles sighed and shot him a quick smile, trying to seem fondly exasperated at the worry.

“For sure, mate. You’ll be well in no time, it’s gonna be brills.”

Charles hated this for both of them, but most of all for Edwin. From the outside, nothing seemed to have changed. Edwin was still sitting at his desk, rifling through paperwork, while Charles sat upside-down on their couch, throwing the magical ball of wool from one hand to the other. It was navy blue.

He felt like there was an invisible barrier between them, a line Charles couldn’t cross without repercussions he couldn’t imagine. Edwin looked like a confetti cannon had exploded right in front of him, the confetti littering his face.

After Niko and Crystal showed up at the agency to keep an eye on Edwin (Edwin vehemently argued that he did not need a minder, thank you very much), Charles had risked a quick mirror-trip to Tragic Mick to get advice. To everyone’s dismay, Tragic Mick said there was nothing they could do except wait it out.

That was two weeks ago and Charles thought he was going insane. His best mate constantly looked on edge and seemed on the verge of tears at every minor inconvenience in his files. The Night Nurse was no help either, opting to comply with Edwin’s self-assigned quarantine that he had set in motion after Crystal expressed a slight scratching in her throat. The only acceptable exception to his isolation was Charles. Which should make him feel better but it just made him long even more for Edwin because he could see him.

No, they never used to touch constantly but there had always been the possibility. Having this revoked from him, the reassurance that Edwin was in reach, that he was there, made his skin feel tight. After Hell, it had been so good to walk next to Edwin, leaning into him or letting his fingers brush Edwin’s shoulders - to have physical proof that Edwin was with him.

Now, Charles sometimes looked at Edwin, watching the outline of him against the backdrop of the window so hard that he was almost convinced that Edwin was just a figment of his imagination. That only his silhouette was left for him to admire from afar while the real Edwin was still stuck in Hell.

Other times, he just stared into the air, his mind stuck on how Edwin jerked back on impulse - to get away from Charles. He never wanted to make Edwin feel helpless but he still managed to fail, leaving Edwin with the desperate need to get enough space between them. The thought was enough to repeat the moment again and again, a split-second decision that haunted Charles.

Poorly suppressing a groan, Edwin stood up and started pacing the floor. He came to a halt in front of their massive bookshelf, where he started pulling out books at random, flipping brusquely through the pages. Every so often, a gust of wind came through their window that turned the pages, which made Edwin quietly swear before giving up. They were less than four metres apart but it might as well have been an entire ocean. Edwin kept pulling on and off his gloves in irritation. All Charles wanted to do was to make it somehow better. He needed to make it better. But usually his strategy for making Edwin feel better was to hug him or lean into his side or put his head against his.

On the day Niko and Crystal finished moving into their new flat, Niko spent an evening curled up with Charles on her bed doing quizzes online while Crystal introduced Edwin to the confusing twists and turns of reality tv next door. One of the quizzes was called, “What is YOUR Love Language?” and after Niko explained the concept to him, Charles set to answering the questions until the words, “Physical Touch” blinked at him. He hadn’t put much thought to it except yeah, that checks out.

But Charles was at a loss now. How could he cheer Edwin up? When he was in this space of mind, no word of support would get through to Edwin, but how else should he reach him?

He tried anyway. “Mate, we’ll get through this, you know that, right? Tragic Mick said it’ll pass and you trust him.” At least he did after his soapstone bear had managed to save Niko. Charles made sure to make his voice as happy as possible, as “happy-go-lucky” as he could manage.

“I know.” But the flat tone told Charles that Edwin didn’t know. Bloody hell, why did he have to be so rubbish at words? In the end, though, there was nothing Charles could say in this situation that would ease Edwin’s worries. Charles had a lot of practice soothing Edwin when he was stressed about something but he wouldn’t be fobbed off with sweet nothings. Normally, Charles could give Edwin a new perspective, but right now Charles was in the same hole of despair and however hard he’d wreck his brain, he couldn’t come up with anything remotely helpful.

Sighing, he let himself slide down off the couch and onto the floor when something caught his eye. He reached out and found a small box on top of a stack of colourful paper. The box contained pretty ribbons, glitter pens, googly eyes, different yarns and at the bottom, there was a thin booklet about origami. Niko must’ve left it here, she enjoyed making all kinds of decorations and had gone at it with extra vigour when Crystal allowed her to decorate their flat (under supervision by Edwin. Who was not as assertive as one might have imagined, only fools thought someone could resist Niko).

Charles tilted his head, discreetly looking at Edwin who didn’t pay him any attention, a hopeless expression on his face, his now once again gloved fingers curling uselessly. Charles would do anything to see Edwin smile again, no matter how long this nightmare would go on. And Charles got to work.

Charles couldn’t say that he was a crafty person, in life or death. He knew his way around his bag of tricks and could hold a paintbrush well enough to paint runes and used to do pottery with his mother. But he never made things like the adorable mug cosies Niko loves.

Therefore, he figured he should start simple. In this case - a bookmark. Edwin normally didn’t bother using them because he is the brains, after all, he just memorised the last page he had read. There were cases, though, where they both were in a hurry and having to spare precious time for Edwin to rifle through a proper tome while the danger came closer and closer was never a good time for any of them.

A bookmark it was, then. He first made a dark blue one, a paper rectangle with a hole through which he threaded a few threads of silver yarn and knotted them. It looked elegant, something that would fit into Edwin’s encyclopaedias or the poetry books stacked in-between. Edwin was sitting on the desk, playing with the now grey-ish ball of wool. Charles would tease him, because Edwin was the one who usually chastised Charles lightheartedly for not sitting properly, but honestly Charles was just relieved Edwin was doing anything but forlornly looking at his files. They hadn’t bickered in days. Edwin seemed exhausted enough that he didn’t talk much. Charles would be scared that his best mate was getting sick of being stuck here with him. And a part of him was still petrified of how scared Edwin had acted and that was the only thing that kept Charles from following the direction in which every atom of his body longed to pull him - right into Edwin’s arms, his face plastered into the crook of his neck. It kept him confined to his spot on their couch, embarrassingly conscious of their positions in the room, the walls closing in on him whenever he blinked, compelling him to press deeper into the cushions to give Edwin the space he deserved.

But even he realised that the “stuck here” part without being able to go on cases as an outlet was the problem and not Charles. He willed his mind to shut it.

Speaking of cases, he felt bad leaving Edwin behind and in the one case had been on since Edwin got sick, a deep feeling of homesickness had made him careless, like a missing limb throwing him off his balance.

From then on, he had referred the easier cases to Crystal and Niko, while he had checked in with their clients with more difficult cases and told them they would get back to them as soon as possible.

Now Charles was on a new case: The “Give Edwin Presents (Probably) Debacle”. He picked up the bookmark and slowly made his way towards Edwin, hiding the gift behind his back. “Hey there, mate,” he grinned, coming to a halt in front of him - still far enough from him to not freak him out -, and nervously shuffled his feet.

The ball of wool flashed a subdued pink hue. “Charles,” he said, a small smile gracing his lips, a blink-and-you-miss-it moment. There were so many dots in his face, blue and green and magenta. The others on his arm hadn’t disappeared either but at least didn’t Edwin seem bothered by the heat anymore. Small mercies. “Is there something you need?”

I need you to get better, I need to reach out again and feel again, I need to sit near you again, my place is still there, right? By your side? Do you forgive me? Say it’s going to be okay soon.

“Ah, no mate, everything’s aces. So, ah, you know, business is pretty slow right now, so I thought I’d make you a little something to…” to pass the time, he almost said, but that wasn’t right, was it? Charles didn’t want Edwin to think this came from simple boredom and not from the heart. “to make you smile,” he finished, holding the bookmark at one corner out to Edwin so that he could grab the other one.

But Edwin didn’t reach out immediately and instead stared down at it, puzzled beyond belief.

Humour had rarely disappointed him. “Come on, mate, don’t let me down here. I might just cry,” he joked.

This set Edwin in motion and he reached for the bookmark, inspecting it. And after turning it in his hands a couple of times, he finally broke out in a brilliant smile, his eyes bright. He looked up at Charles and made an aborted move like he wanted to hug him, but for the first time in weeks, the realisation that that wasn’t possible right now didn’t dim the spark in his eyes.

“Thank you so much, Charles. It’s beautiful.�� Charles basked in the unabashed sincerity and warmth. It had been such a simple and easy thing to do but hearing Edwin’s praise made him happy and proud in a way he couldn’t describe with words. He didn’t need to, he was feeling it.

“Don’t mention it, happy to do it.” And he was.

It didn’t stop there. The bookmark found a home in one of Edwin’s favourite books and another one soon followed - an origami bookmark corner for which Charles found instructions in the book. It was quite nice to have something to do with his hands, being careful to neatly fold the corners and afterwards decorating it with silly googly eyes and a glitter pen smile. Edwin found it incredibly charming.

“That’s going to come quite in handy on cases, the other one might fall out, thank you!” The excitement was addicting and Charles loved seeing how Edwin flourished.

The dots became fewer. Charles counted them like the days that passed on the calendar.

An origami owl followed. He used a light green sheet of paper, gave it buttons as eyes and made a bowtie out of a red ribbon. When Edwin saw it, he smiled this soft smile that made Charles melt inside. “I don’t think ‘thank you’ suffices anymore,” he murmured. “I don’t have anything to give you.”

Charles moved closer to him. Edwin was lounging at the desk and Charles carefully sat down on the corner, almost where he always used to greet their clients.

“Edwin, honest, you give me so much. Just keep being you.” Edwin laughed and Charles only ached a little. The ball of wool glowed green.

He made origami plants and butterflies, stars and swans. They littered their windowsills and shelves. Their office never used to look this colourful.

It had been a little over a month. Who was Charles kidding? He knew the exact time. One month, three days and five hours and Edwin’s supernatural cold had finally ended. There was nothing but pale skin to be seen.

The moment Charles saw the last dot on Edwin’s cheek disappear, he leaped up and practically flew over to him, pulling him into his arms, chanting, “It’s gone, Edwin, it’s gone, it’s gone!” He pulled back and kissed the same spot where the last reminder of this nightmare had been. And then the other cheek. Edwin’s arms were tight like a vice around him, gripping the back of his shirt.

“Charles…” He gasped softly, a man dying of thirst being offered a cup of water. Charles could relate. When he died, he had given up the need for air. Now, he just needed Edwin.

Blinking back tears, Charles buried his face in Edwin’s chest. He couldn’t imagine letting Edwin go, in this decade or the next. Feeling the proof that he was really there - his Edwin was with him, Edwin wanted to be there with him - under his fingertips, it was like letting out a breath he had held for too long.

But there was one thing left to do. Blindly, he felt after one of Edwin’s hands. It took a few tries and gentle shushing to pry Edwin’s fingers off of Charles, but eventually he pulled the hand to his mouth, kissed the back of it and linked their hands.

“Shh, you’re alright mate, c’mon, love, it’s okay. Let’s just get over there, yeah? Easy, innit?”

They ended up on the couch, Edwin’s face pressed into his neck. All semblance of composure had vanished long ago. They were both frayed at the seams, chests pried open to reveal their unbeating hearts, vulnerable and open to one another.

Hastily, Charles went through the pockets of his jackets in search of his most important gift yet. His fingers closed around it.

“Edwin, hey? I got something for you.” He presented him with a little paper heart in blue and red. Charles had the front row seat to see Edwin’s eyes fill up with new tears all over again, joy flowing over his lovely face.

Edwin let go of Charles’ hand in favour of taking the heart into both of his reverently, careful as if he were handling a real one, and pressed it to his chest where his own heart was.

They leaned into each other, with Charles eventually ending up on top of Edwin, and he lazily played with Edwin’s short hair. The next time Charles kissed Edwin, it was softly on the lips. Both of them drifted to a not-quite-sleep with Charles’ lips pressed to Edwin’s forehead

With quarantine officially over, Niko and Crystal were allowed back in the agency. They hugged them tightly and Edwin didn’t even complain about how “a handshake would have sufficed, Crystal”. While Edwin was resting with his head in Charles’ lap, he and Niko took up their usual search for quizzes again. They came across another one of those talking about love languages. This time, his result was “Words of Affirmation”. When he fussed about how his results could’ve changed so quickly, Niko just giggled.

“Oh, but it’s not just black and white, you know,” she explained in her soft voice. “It’s never just one of them. Here, you can see your percentages.” She pointed at a few blue bars, the first one titled the same as his result with 74 percent, the second one, “Physical Touch”, just barely below with 71 percent. “And there’s also a difference of which direction the love language takes. It’s a two-way street. Love languages for how you love and for how you wish to be loved. And that changes constantly, and multiple can overlap. It’s interesting, isn’t it?”

Niko smiled brightly and Charles was helpless to do anything but give her one of his own.

“Which ones do you think Edwin has?” she mused.

Charles grinned and ran his fingers through Edwin’s hair. “I think I have an idea or two.”

#painlandweek #painland week #dead boy detectives #payneland #painland #charles rowland #edwin payne #niko sasaki #crystal palace

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magicxc · 4 months

Text

Frenemies

Pairings: Survey Corps - people they cannot STAND

Word Count: 1076

Warnings: none

A/N: Idk man I love a good tussle jskksks. Like give me two characters who absolutely hate each other! And with AOT I really don't have to look too far, yay. This is basically canon but it's funny to think about so here it is as well.

Headcannons Masterlist

Eren - Jean, Weak People

I think the Jean one gets over exaggerated a little, and for good reason too, cause the girlies be EATING with those tropes. But at the end of the day they have a mutual understanding and are cordial at best. They're mostly cool because they share mutual friends and spaces but it’s no longer beef per se.

Hear me out, I don't think anyone wiping out 80% of humanity is willing to kick it with people who aint about it. Mans need someone who’s willing to stand on business behind him. Even throughout the show he’s always admitted to not liking people who’s willing to live like “livestock.” So this is not to be confused with physically weak people by the way but psychologically weak people. Essentially Eren has beef if you’re willing to take it lying down.

Levi - Zeke

Listennnn I LIVE for their fight scenes okay lmao. Like it's almost always on sight for them and their lil jabs at one another? It’s chucklessss for me omg. Lets be clear, their beef is absolutely warranted. It can be safely argued that Levi doesnt really care for most people but Zeke?? Oh baby its all smoke for him.

Erwin - The Government

I swear if it wasn't for the literal fate of humanity and his brewing theory Erwin would've just said fuck it cause baybeeee, they wanted that man GONE. They've tried to get him fired, pointed guns in his face, and built a whole ass guillotine to unalive him; in front of the entire town mind you. Maybe that was the custom back then I don't know. I don’t remember Erwin outright saying that he doesn't fuck with the government but fuck it, I’ll say it for him. Cause I'll stand ten toes down behind this one here.

Connie - Ymir

I promise you I let out a nasty ole chuckle at the thought cause he don't even dislike her fr fr. I think it's a situation similar to Eren and Jean's in the sense that their friends and environment often see them in the same places. Because if we’re being real, not only do they have little in common but they just don't really vibe like that. I think they could've been a little more cordial but Ymir be on her own timing and it's usually at the expense of the squad. Like when she made fun of Connie for suspecting his mother was a titan or when she kidnapped Historia like 3 times and put them all in danger. And I can't even be mad at Connie for being the voice of reason cause him calling her ugly was simply the truth. I, too, reared back when I first saw Ymir's titan form.

Jean - Eren, Reiner, Annie, Bertholt

The whole Eren thing is basically squashed but it’s worth noting that if he were to see him in public, he’d walk the other way.

I lowkey had to dig deep for this one cause I genuinely forgot. But even though they’re all kumbaya now, those three bitches literally watched his homie get half his face chewed off by a titan. Jean is absolutely pouring one out for Marco every birthday by the way, but yeahh it’s still fuck them. Like if they were playing uno stacked, he’d save all his draw 4’s and make them draw 16.

Onyankopon - Yelena

I'm not too sure that Ony dislikes anyone honestly. But I'm going with Yelena here mostly because she’s the reason he found himself in his current predicament. On what was supposed to be a solid plan in motion to save his people quickly turned into Ony modernizing a primitive people, helping build their resources from scratch, having people question his race (and I'm willing to bet my bottom dollar it was mfs that got ignorant), seeming untrustworthy among his peers, almost getting killed, fighting in a war he had nothing to do with, and probably losing his entire family in the rumble. Now, one or two of those things were inevitable, but if you were to view things from Ony’s POV everything went to shit over a bitch with a fatal attraction to a man with daddy issues.

Reiner - Himself

Lmaooo I LOVE a good Reiner drag. And while this started out as a joke, I'm deadass now. This man stays talking about wanting to end it all but never follows through, smh. With lots of therapy and support, I genuinely think that Reiner would be on the road to recovery and a healthy lifestyle; but there’ll always be that lingering thought on if he’s worth it or not

Honorable mention: Ymir. But solely because she would get in the way of his fantasy life with Historia.

Armin - Floch?

This munchkin is damn near Tanjiro levels of sweet cause omg who does he even hate??? He is always looking for the good in people and I'm about to dislocate my shoulder reaching this hard BUT, hear me out - It’s Floch even if he doesn’t outright say it. The same Floch who damaged the flying boat and almost ruined their mission before it even started? The same Floch who fucked it up so bad that Hange had to sacrifice herself which resulted in Armin taking on an even bigger responsibility? The same Floch who got in a lil too close with his bestie Eren? Close enough to be trusted with his future plans? The same Floch who when he lay on that ground bleeding Armin was nowhere in sight? Even at the port where they attacked the Yeagerists and Armin got shot in the face, he pleaded with his old comrades to stand down but Floch is beneath that level of reasoning huh? Whether Armin despises Floch or not it's safe to say if Floch were getting jumped, Armin would definitely sneak in a kick before helping.

Floch - Erwin

This is literally one of those cases where its like I disagree but I understand lol. That man legit made them do a suicide charge and yeah he lead the charge blah blah blah but I could never be that brave. And so that resentment is understandable but in all fairness it shaped Flochs character for the better to be honest; cause that whole pwussy boi arc was annoying.

Also adding the main cast of the Scouts lmao. They thwarted his plans and he spent his DYING breath standing on business. Gotta respect it.

Tags - @eveningatthemoviesnetwork

#Emmy Writes #Emmy Tries #eveningatthemoviesnetwork #AOT #attack on titan #aot x black reader #aot x black y/n #aot x you #aot x reader #eren x reader #levi x reader #erwin x reader #connie x reader #jean x reader #onyankopon x reader #reiner x reader #armin x reader #floch x reader

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linddzz · 8 months

Note

32 with Dreamling? 👀

Smut Prompts:

#32: A suffers from pent-up stress and frustration. B offers their body for them to use to get rid of negative emotions.

Edit: Full fic on AO3

Wordcount: 6977 (nice)

Warnings: Canon typical descriptions of violence. Dream being an unhinged little nightmare, but Hob is so down for it. Also, it's a smut prompt. So there is smut. Dicks abound. In typical fashion it took me a while to get to said dicks though. No beta and only the barest editing.

Summary: Service Dom Hob is here to give his bizarre Eldritch boyfriend the tenderest, gentlest domming of his Endles existence. Dream is still going to be a hissing little brat about it. Tbh I waffled a bit on which way to go with this one, but realized that what I really want sometimes is to have Hob scruff Dream like the pissy wet cat that he is and tell him to SHUSH while Dream goes all ragdoll. I also fully embraced a horny headcanon of mine where Dream is more sensitive to physical touch in the Waking.

Shout out to @amahhi, because I picked little bits from our RP here and there for this. What can I say, we got a good Dream and Hob.

Edit 2.0: trying to get the blog unflagged, so the read more has the fic up to the spicy bits. Full fic is in the AO3 link 🙃

-----

It's been a very normal, mundane, and drab sort of day when Hob comes home at the end of it. There's the standard London drizzle tapping away at his window, transforming the world outside into a melting blur of darkening gray shot through with bright smears from electric street lights coming on one by one.

Electric lights. Brilliant. Literally brilliant. They're all going to pay for it in the long run of course, but fuck is it nice to just come home and flick a switch - like so - to light a room up.

There's a corpse on his sofa.

The corpse is on its back, arms rigid at its side. Its skin has a drained, cold paleness with veins as gray as the current sky. The face is perfectly still and perfectly expressionless, with flat blue eyes open and unseeing towards the ceiling. The startling ghastliness of the corpse is offset by the soft black t-shirt, along with black pajama bottoms decorated with alarmingly cheerful blue stars.

This is also, increasingly, a normal part of his day.

"All right, love?" He asks, shutting the door behind him. The first time he came home to Dream lying out stiff and apparently lifeless in his flat there had been a bit more yelling and panicking, followed by careful explanations about what the unexpected sight of a pale and unmoving body with open, unseeing eyes showing up in a safe and comfortable space can do to someone who has been through a few wars.

It kept happening, which meant Dream did not actually understand. But now Dream always makes an effort to put his form into pajamas first, possibly with the logic that if he were dressed comfortably for sleep, then he couldn’t possibly look like a corpse. Which meant he was trying, even if severely misguided. It's more touching than it should be.

The corpse on the sofa routine all started when they became...whatever they are now. The best explanation Hob ever got was that a chunk of Dream’s duties involve delving into the vast unconsciousness of himself, sinking into the wild depths that were made of every dreaming mind that created him to make sure everything was flowing smoothly.

It was all very metaphysical in all the ways that Hob tries not to think about too much. When he compared it to a computer shutting down for maintenance, he got himself a curdled look of such offended disgust that he knew he was on the money. He compared it to sleep instead, which mollified Dream at the time.

In the past this deeper delving into himself was done from the throne room. Then Dream started showing up in Hob's flat every now and again, refusing to explain why. Hob isn't stupid, so he doesn't ask why after the first few times. Whatever the metaphysics of it, Dream wants to come here and lie on Hob's furniture being vulnerable in the Waking world, despite all his grumblings about said world. Dream may not be able to explain the want for a space outside of work to go to, but Hob gets the difference between grading papers at his office and doing it in his living room. The fact that Dream seeks this space out makes Hob's chest go all fluttery and hot, and he will never question it ever.

It's why he doesn't make a fuss about the fact that Dream hasn't figured out that he looks like a fucking horror movie prop when he does it.

“Obviously.” Dream rumbles in answer. His voice has a deep, slow resonance that's being dragged up from the darkest fathoms. It's a growling sneer, the sharp warning crack of a cliff face about to give. It says that asking things like “all right?” is the most low, simple mindedly human thing Hob could ask, because there is no reason Dream would be otherwise.

“That sort of day then? Budge up.” Hob tosses his coat to the chair, which earns him an annoyed huff of a sound, and shoves a space for himself by Dream's hip, which earns him a growl.

“What. Sort of. Day?” Dream asks darkly. He turns his head, slowly. His movements are always slow when he's coming up from his not-sleep, and Hob is always fascinated by the process. He imagines Dream reeling himself back from wherever he has gone to, a long thread of his consciousness spooling up to refill the shape of his body. The waxy deadness in his skin doesn't exactly liven up, but it becomes more luminous. The stiffness melts from carved stone to…well not relaxed but something with a bit more give to it than stone anyway. The eyes change the most. The empty flatness of them turns into a clear, bright blue. They're flashing with liquid fire when Dream looks up at Hob, even if the rest of him is still an angrily stiff bunch of sharp edges.

“Not a great one, I think.” Hob leans, propping his shoulders on the back of the couch with Dreams waist and arm against the small of his back. Dream turns his head with his jaw clenched, and Hob reaches out, brushing the backs of his curled fingers in the barest caress over the plane of Dreams cheek.

There's a nearly imperceptible tremor in the core of the body he's leaned himself against. The corners of Dreams mouth tightens, and his eyes flare, like that lightest touch has opened a raw nerve.

“Maybe the sort of day I could help you forget?” Hob murmurs. He hasn't decided exactly what he's offering when he offers it. They could just stay here, watching some meaningless picture while Dream stays pressed between Hob and the sofa, and Hob combs his fingers through that downy soft black hair until all the tension melts from him. Hob could make that milky, sugary lavender infusion Dream is fond of and kiss him slow and sweet for hours. They could have a wild shag or the easiest love making. Whatever will help ease the coiled tension that’s churning just beneath Dream’s carefully still surface. Anything.

The caress continues. Hob traces his fingertips up the edge of Dreams cheekbone and sinks them back into the wild black hair to cradle around that impossible skull. There's a suspicious scraping sound down by his hip.

“That better not be you clawing up my upholstery.” He hums, rubbing his thumb over the hairline at Dreams temple. “Come on love, what do you want?”

“What. I. Want?”

The stillness breaks. A hand snaps up and clamps around Hob's wrist. Dream surges up, sitting awkwardly with Hob nearly in his lap, his eyes flashing dark and his teeth bared close to Hob's mouth.

“You would offer yourself then? A sacrifice to what you would call a bad day?” Dream asks, his voice dropping into a hard scrape. There's a sharp prick against the skin of Hob's wrist as claws grow from Dreams fingers. “You ask for what I want?”

“Obviously.” Hob repeats Dream’s earlier answer back at him. This is always the most uncertain part, when Dream is in one of these moods. This night could go a million different ways, but Hob finds himself keen for any of them. Any that keep Dream right here with all of his attention, snarling or otherwise, right on Hob that is.

There's a hiss of sound, sharp and explosive. The sharp pricks against Hob's skin turn into bright bursts of hot pain, and he feels the wet slide of blood down the inside of his arm. There's a shudder, and Dream suddenly curls down against him with his forehead ground into the curve of Hob's shoulder at the base of his throat. It's an awkward reach, but Hob brings his far arm around to run his palm up the knobbed curve of Dreams spine.

“It's alright, love.” He whispers. The slump is not a loosening at all. Hob can feel the jerky tension in every line of Dream’s body, and his love feels like a spring winding tighter and tighter.

“No.” Dream spits. “You ask what I want. The things I want. You are foolhardy. Brash. You understand nothing. Ignorant.”

“Flattery gets you nowhere, my Dream.” Hob keeps running his hand up and down Dream’s spine, thinking that he really is wound up if those are the best insults he can come up with.

There's a bizarre, inhuman sound. A sharp, jagged, snarling grind. Dream's other hand splays against his ribs, vibrating and sharp. The Endless goes quiet again, and Hob keeps stroking his back, happy to wait for whatever comes next.

“The way you say my name.” Dream whispers. “I want to open your ribs and make you say it. I want to pull each apart, one by one, like the petals of the rarest flower. I want to splay them, pin them. Expose the secret parts of you. I want to see how your lungs fill and shrink when you say my name, when you scream it. I want to see how your heart beats when you dream of me. I want to put my hand around it and feel the precious fluttering of it when I punch my fingers through the chambers. I want to feel it burst like the most wondrous fruit plucked out and crushed in my grasp. I want to feel the pockets of your lungs crackle against my palms when they fill with air. I want you to be screaming my name when I do it.”

His hand moves as he talks. Long fingers drag along the valleys between Hob's ribs, slow and methodical. They're also shaking, a sharp electric buzzing of claws through Hob's button down shirt.

That sort of night then?

“If you're trying to scare me off, you’ve already done that sort of thing in a few of my more exciting dreams.” Hob points out.

“I want to do it here.” It isn't even a whisper now. It's just an exhale shaped into words. Hob notices that it isn't a threatening snarl, or the low purr of Dream enjoying the build up to a grand old violently nightmarish time. There's a shivery dread. A horror deeper than the obvious goriness of it all.

“You fantasize about killing me?” Hob asks, curious. Ok fine, it wouldn't actually kill him, but it would feel like it.

“You can't die.”

It's an immediate response. Breathless. Rapturous. Terrified. Hob is starting to get the idea of what's going on here.

“Scariest thing you've said to me, that was.” He observes with some interest. It's true, after all. He's just learned that his immortality fuels his love's apparent wish to vivisect him in the plane where they both know it would hurt the worst, where the violence of it would be all of the bloody screaming reality without the cushioned fantasy of the Dreaming. Dream admitted that in a way that was clear that he thinks about it regularly. It is, objectively, a scary thing to learn. There it is. Horrifying and alarming. Huh! How about that.

He doesn’t pretend to be surprised at himself when his cock twitches against his jeans. The only thing he isn’t sure of is if it’s the violent idea itself, or the fact that Dream is very obviously holding himself back from affectionately mauling him right this instant.

He's still petting his hand up and down Dream's spine, and he can feel the way his love bunches in on himself with a cracked whining sound that makes Hob's chest ache like his heart’s already been torn and exposed for the soft tender thing it is. There are talons still scraping anxiously at Hob's ribcage. There are still claws dug into his arm, but with less force than before. Dream is tense, already in a state, and in the fine process of working himself up into what could possibly be a legendary tantrum of self loathing.

“Right.” Hob declares, coming to a decision. “First thing: put a pin in that idea. I have to sit on it a bit and work up to it, but I did just get a little hard there, so it's not entirely off the table. I don't think that's what you want right now though.”

Dream froze with shock halfway through that, and Hob knows the best course of action is to keep moving before that impossible head has enough time to tangle itself up in a new way. The hand on Dream's spine sweeps up and grabs Dream by the nape, hard.

There is an explosive hiss of incredulous shock when Hob yanks him back. The face that Hob pulls off of his shoulder has wide obsidian eyes and a snarl with a wicked set of fangs. He holds the nightmare scruffed, meeting glittering dark eyes while his heart pounds with what isn't nearly enough actual fear.

“You want me to stop you.”

Dream’s eyes widen further, the hand on Hob's wrist drops lifeless to the sofa. Hob watches a burst of pink bloom across the unnatural white of his cheeks before the response is wrestled back down. Dream’s eyes narrow, but he's watching Hob closely.

“You are. Incapable. Of stopping me.” He growls. It's not a threat, just reality. Which is how most of Dream’s threats go.

“You're going to let me though, I think.” Hob says. He digs his fingers a little into the hard muscle of the back of Dream's neck, and takes several mental notes on the way the nightmare’s head lolls back and the hand on his ribs goes still. Hob turns where he's sitting to bring one leg up on the sofa, to bring himself closer to the odd monster he loves so dearly. He pulls Dream further, already feeling dizzy at the way the jagged, black eyed nightmare with his luminous white skin and razor teeth goes pliantly until he's leant back, practically being dipped with Hob over him.

“I think you need to let go, love. But you don't like what you might do if you let go.” He says with a smile. “How about we try things my way hm? You let go, but you hand the reins to me. Let me take charge.”

Dreams face goes through some fascinating shifts. He gazes up at Hob with such a raw, wounded want that it looks painful before the expression flinches when Hob's other hand comes up to stroke his cheek again. There's a jerk though Dream's limbs, and Hob is sure the joints are doing things that would make him feel queasy if he looked.

“You…here?” Dream asks, and his voice is thin and sharp and shivery. Hob knows why Dream’s clarifying that, and why here is making Dream writhe and flush with his mouth stretched a little too far on teeth that weren't meant for a human jawline. Hob knows that things feel different for Dream, when he's in the Waking. He's a creature of thought and idea, and touches in the more physical Waking world come across stronger than he's used to, more overwhelming. It’s not that Dream never bottoms, or even that he never submits. But it’s always in Dream’s own realm, where his submission isn’t really submission at all, but a coy play where he acts up the part of a sweet wilting fae lover or a wanton hedonist. He has a harder time staying in control of the situation, when they’re in Hob’s world, where there are less heated fantasies for him to sink himself into.

And the Dreamlord would never admit it, but Hob has noticed the way he keeps showing up in the Waking world to initiate things, even if it's just to cuddle up against Hob and find ways to get petted until he turns into a shivering puddle of nerves. But cuddling here is one thing, this is something else, something new.

“Here.” Hob nods, stroking his thumb slow and firm over Dream's nape, feeling the little vibration that goes down Dream's spine from that point. “I need you to say you want me to though, ok?”

That gets a furious, low hiss of a growl. Dream’s eyes flash and he snaps his mouth full of razor teeth with the sound like a bear trap. Hob lets him squirm and hiss and shudder. He's always such a trembling little thing, like there is too much going on inside for his outer shell to hold in. One day, Hob is going to properly catalog all of the ways his cosmic power of a lover shivers like a leaf when he thinks he's keeping himself all grim and stoic.

“You. Wish me …complicit.” Dream hisses, the words grinding out from his chest, as there's no way the wide maw of needle teeth is currently capable of speaking that clearly. “You would have me voice it. Admit to it. To be brought low and ragged.”

“I want your consent,” Hob huffs a small laugh, which might not be the best response but God does he love this proud twit, “you pretty, deranged little thing. I'm not doing anything if you don't actually want me to, and we can stop at any point. It's important to me that you get that.”

“My consent,” Dream spits, and this time there's a tearing sound when he does start clawing up Hob's upholstery, “is that I am allowing it.”

On paper, true enough. Dream is thrashing and snarling and gnashing his monstrous teeth with eyes like flaming pits. He's also kept in place by the weak, flesh and blood human hand holding him by the back of the neck. The only reason Hob is able to scruff him and have his head tilted pliantly back to expose the long white throat, is because Dream is letting it happen.

“I think you would allow me to do a lot of things you don't want me to.” Hob says gently. The thrashing stills, the snarling quiets, Dream's teeth finally shrink down into more standard shapes.

“There we are.” Hob breathes, smiling. His chest feels like it may burst, like Dream may end up getting his dark little fantasy after all. It's more than any man could deserve, seeing the way Dream goes quiet and panting, eyes fixed wide and blue again as they stare up at Hob. He keeps the hold on Dreams neck, and smoothes the other hand back through Dreams hair.

Dream makes a thin, fragile sound, eyes flashing black before returning to their clear blue.

“I need to know you actually want this, darling.” Hob explains again. “Not just that you're allowing it. I can't go thinking that you might just be going along with what you think I want from you.”

There's a shift of movement, more of a little squirm than the furious thrashing from a few seconds ago. Dream clenches his jaw together and stares, eyes glittering with new wetness. Christ. Hob is going to get a complex. It can't be good for his ego, having Dream like this.

“Yes.” Dream finally whispers, swallowing thickly. He even nods with little jerky movements against Hob's grip. “I want…what it is, you are planning. Here. In the Waking. I want you to have me. Your way.”

Hob rewards him with a hard kiss, mostly because if he doesn't get his mouth on those quivering pink lips he might explode. Dream goes lax with a whining sound that is absolutely going to give Hob a complex. Plush lips part immediately under his, as sweet as anything. Then teeth flash against his mouth, still sharp and wild but followed fast by Dream’s tongue lapping hungrily at the bite. There are hands clawing at him again, pawing at his back, twisting in his hair, digging into his hips. Dream is doing some impossible wiggling and Hob realizes that there is more than one pair of legs hitching around his hips and tangling between his own legs. It must look like he's snogging an enthusiastic spider.

“Enough of that.” He chides, pushing a hand on Dream's chest. Teeth sink into his lip again, and there's a low growl when Hob pulls his head back so Dream can't start trying to get his tongue down Hob's throat. Or trying to affectionately bite his lips off. “Shush. Lie back, and settle down dearest. Christ, you're all wound up.”

Another small push does the trick. Dream goes down with a little huff when his back hits the sofa. He’s suddenly as meek as a kitten, if that kitten had blood on its lips and a sharp intrigued glint to its eyes. Rather like a kitten then, actually.

Not that Hob is thinking much about kittens. He's far more focused on the way Dream’s skin has gained a more human flush to it, on the curious little chirrup noise that comes from him. He's looking up at Hob with swollen pink lips and his eyes still blue, but the dark blue of a deep ocean. The shirt he's wearing is stretched at the collar, revealing the tantalizing dip of his clavicles, and his ruffled hair is the most adorable thing Hob could imagine. It's such a flip from the snarling monstrous thing Hob had scruffed less than a minute ago, and all of it is so wonderfully Dream. Objectively terrifying in his violence, objectively sexier than sin.

“You're horrible for my ego.” Hob declares, sitting up kneeling between long legs that are still clad in the damn cartoon star pajamas. Dream answers this with a velvety pleased sound, and Hob feels legs bent around his hips and hitched up his waist and one bends a knee up on his shoulder-

“Ah-ah, stick with two.” Hob taps at one of Dream’s thighs before getting to work unbuttoning his shirt enough to tug it up over his head. “We're in my world right now, so we’re doing things my way. With a human shape. And stop eyeballing my ribcage, thanks. I told you we're putting a pin in that.”

He can hear the displeased hissing sound, and decides to give Dream a pass on that. There are times where words seem to lack the correct expressions for the Prince of Stories, and he has an astounding repertoire of inhuman, and even inorganic, sounds to fall back on. Despite his orders to stop with the rib stuff, there are long hands on his sides as soon as his shirt is tossed away. When he looks down, Dream’s eyes are half lidded and dark, fully fixed with stark hunger on Hob’s exposed torso.

There's a scrape of claw, smoother than before, and the bright line over his side goes right to his prick. It is…so tempting…to change his mind and tell Dream to have at it. Just to see what would happen, to see how it would feel to get torn apart by something that loves him so much. Except there's a little tense pinching at Dreams mouth, even as his eyes darken further and his hands spread over Hob's ribs to feel them expand with each breath.

“Hands to yourself.” Hob decides for both their sakes. He taps a finger between Dream’s eyes in chastisement, and nearly loses that finger when teeth snap up towards it. Dream is fast, but he's used to getting away with things, so there's only a surprised hitch of sound when Hob grabs under his jaw and shoves his head back.

“My way.” Hob reminds him, surprised at how low and rough his own voice comes out.

FULL FIC ON AO3

#dreamling #my fic #dom gadling is here to be the gentlest mildest service top #dream is a weird eldritch cat

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netherfeildren · 1 year

Text

The Cassandra Complex : Chapter IV : Aite

Series Masterlist : Moodboard

(Din Djarin x F!Reader)

Content Warnings: Hunter/prey dynamics; Dom/sub undertones; Spanking; Orgasm delay/denial; Overstimulation; Rough sex; Squirting

A/N: happy mando monday mother fuckers — literally nobody look at me i have nothing to say for myself

also, again, canon deviation — he’s got the beskar spear here already.

Rating: Explicit 18+

Word count: 9.3K

Read on AO3

CHAPTER IV : AITE

MEGARA: You love the light so much?

AMPHITRYON: I do, I love its hopes.

Anne Carson, Grief Lessons: Four plays by Euripides

You stir hours later, sweltering and tangled under the covers in the dark, cramped alcove of his narrow bunk, sweat pooling between your breasts and at the nape of your neck. It takes you a moment to gather your bearings and take in the steaming beast of a man, heavy muscle and a solid chest pressed into your back. Din’s nose nuzzles into your hair as he breathes deep and steady. The bunk is so narrow, and he is so broad, half draped on top of you, and you’re being smothered by his heat and weight.

“Din,” muffled, sleep graveled voice, “Heavy.” He doesn’t answer – dead to the world after everything the two of you had been through. The two of you’d crawled into the cool darkness of his bunk and promptly lost consciousness after the emotional ordeal of everything you’d talked about, but now you are hot and aching, and as you try and shift and wiggle, murmuring supplications to rouse him he huffs in his sleep, disturbed at your wriggling, and that unyielding arm of muscle presses you deeper into his chest, constricting your ribs, at the same time that his overly large shirt he’d put you in shifts up to reveal your naked bottom half, and his hips shift up to press his hard, seeking cock to the wet seam of your cunt. His hips rock into you, rolling you further onto your belly, and he growls a sleepy sound deep in his chest that you’re sure would translate to sleep, little one, were he conscious. He keeps trying to push in, frustrated grumbles when he meets only soft thigh instead of the warm cunt his dreams expect.

You can feel them on the periphery of your conscious mind, he’s dreaming of you, of your wet pussy, and the feeling of your slippery walls clenching around him. And you’ve no other choice but to give in, pulling a knee up to your chest you sense him step into this side of consciousness, and then he’s fucking in deep, meeting the end of you and grinding his hips against your ass with a low, hoarse groan. “Fuck, I was dreaming of this.”

“I know,” you whisper, pressing your bottom to his pelvis and trying to tilt forward as far as the bunk allows to deepen the angle, but he pulls you back tight to his chest and lifts your leg to drape back over his hip. His hands snake up the bottom of his shirt you’re wearing to palm your tits and pinch your nipples, rolling the aching peaks between his rough fingers and mouthing at the sweaty skin of your neck.

“You’re sore and exhausted, little one. I told you no more,” he admonishes but doesn’t stop the rhythm of his thrusting hips, rolling up into your slick cunt over and over.

“I don’t care. I don’t care if I hurt.” And part of you regrets it as soon as the words leave your mouth, painfully honest, humiliating, but the larger part of you is only desperate and aching for him to fuck into you, writhing wet and wanton on his cock.

“But I do. That’s all I care about.” He pushes inside again anyway though – the need too great, again and again until the two of you are trembling with orgasm together, wet and shaky and intimate.

The next bounty finds itself on the planet of Kashyyyk and the Razor Crest makes planet-fall a few hours after the two of you finally stumble out of the warm cocoon of his bunk.

You make tremendous fun of him and his ridiculously beloved ship, you can’t help it with a snickered, A Razor Crest? Really? Has the Guild been skimping out on you? To which you’re met with nothing but stony silence and then again, This hunk of junk is going to leave you stranded out in open space one day, I’m surprised it even still has the capacity to travel at– and then him spinning to pinch your cheeks between his fingers, forcing your mouth into a pucker, he gives your head a little shake. “One more bad word about my ship, and I’ll put this smart mouth to better use, do you hear me?” He’d forced your head into a little nod, but you’d rolled your eyes, snorting at him, as if you wouldn’t enjoy that. He’d harrumphed and turned to climb up into the cockpit after that while you’d washed the sweat and come of your nap from your body in the little fresher, the sound of him whispering his name to you ringing in your ears.

“When do you think you’ll be back?” You pout up at him, spread out on your nest on the floor of the hull that’s become a permanent monument, your still damp, trembling, just fucked form covered only by a thin blanket. It’d been hours since the two of you’d touched down on Kashyyyk, and you knew he probably should’ve been gone ages ago, out hunting his bounty, but he’d not been able to pull himself from your soft wet clutch. He was grumpy now and insisting he had to go even though you desperately did not want him to.

“It won’t be long – maybe two days, three at the most.” He’s re-donning the armor he hasn’t worn in days, slowly and meticulously adorning himself with each piece of beskar.

“Alright…” you sigh, stretching out into lithe, soft lines, your hands above your head so that the blanket covering your chest inches down to expose one soft nipple to his gaze. He pauses deathly still to watch your display, and you spread your knees beneath the cover with a breathy, little moan. “I guess I’ll see you in three days… I’ll just be here.” You look up at him with the most guilelessly innocent eyes you can muster. One of his boots sneaks forward to toe the blanket away from you: He can see your little cunt, wet and gleaming, the reddened swell of recent use, and when you spread those soft, gorgeous thighs a little further apart there he is. The slow drool of his spend from your pussy. Fuck, that bounty is never getting brought in.

Squeezing your eyes shut, turning to hide your face in the bend of your arm — you need to be more careful about that, don’t know why it keeps happening. You listen to the clang of one of his pauldrons dropping to the floor.

“What are you going to do while I’m gone?” His voice has taken on that deeper tone he falls into right before he’s about to sink inside of you.

Shit, shit shit, this is too much. Too desperate.

You spread your legs wider, slowly pulling one knee up to your chest, and gently running your fingertips up the sensitive inside of your thighs until you reach your messy center. Swollen and overwrought from his ferocity, and you don’t care, you still want more. You flutter your fingers over the wet mess, circle your clit and pass over your clenching opening.

“Think about you of course,” you moan, and listen to a restrained growl from him, the fall of another piece of his armor and then the soft shuck of his shirt falling as well.

“I can see myself drooling from that sloppy little hole,” he murmurs, now the crash of the helmet, you squeeze your eyes shut tight, “Push it back in. Fuck yourself.” He falls to his knees between your spread legs.

It is hours later before he finally manages to make it outside.

On the fourth day without him, you begin to stir with restlessness.

He’d promised three at the most, and you’d wanted to say that three days was an unbearably long time to be away from him. Yes, even this soon – weak hearted little wench, you’d griped at yourself. But you’d been cast in an unbearable silly wash of shyness, going hot and vulnerable from head to toe when the moment finally came that he’d dallied just too long, and he absolutely had to go now, really, I do have to go, the bounty isn’t going to catch itself, and we’re soon to be out of credits. As if you couldn’t just steal or trick your way into more credits if absolutely need be, but he’d hear nothing of such petty thievery. So you’d kept your pouting to yourself, and let him go.

He was a day late now, and you knew it was silly to worry about him.

He was a kriffing Mandalorian. He didn’t need you clucking over him like some worried mother tip-yip, but you couldn’t help it. You knew, even with as little experience with him as you have, that when he said he’d do something he did it. So you were beginning to stir with a frenzied and restlessly anxious energy, thinking of all the potential possibilities of harm he could have come to. Could Wookies chew through beskar? You didn’t know, but it seemed highly probable with the sort of Maker blasted luck you’d been cursed with that he’d randomly get eaten by a Wookie or some other beast on this fucking jungle planet and leave you stranded and without him.

You step off the Crest’s ramp late in the afternoon. Clad in only a pair of soft, worn leggings and your breast band, saber hilt in hand, thinking that perhaps a spot of training would help dispel your anxiety over him, but when you make it outside the weather is so lovely, warm and temperate, and you can’t help flop down into the soft grass of the field he’d landed the ship in to take in the heat of the sun.

The sky has been different every morning, but it’s almost pearlescent today, watery gray shot with silver white that coalesces into a sort of soft hued lavender. The planet’s single star, soft behind the protection of the clouds, has you going lazy and lethargic as it fights to push its way through. You think that perhaps, the training is unnecessary then, if the sun’s able to soothe you into peace for a few moments, and you cross your arms behind your head to lay back and close your eyes to the sky, feeling the warmth of it seeping through the thin membrane of your lids.

The two of you had both gone a little shy and awkward as he’d gotten ready to finally go four days ago. While he’d gotten dressed, arming himself to the teeth, you’d felt his eyes on you as you lay wet and trembling where he’d left you, and you were sure he could read how much you did not want him to go. You’d so desperately wanted him to bid you farewell with a kiss, to tell you he’d be back to you soon, but he’d done none of those things. Had gone quiet and awkward and given you a sharp nod of his head before he was spinning on his heel, cape snapping behind him and throwing himself out into Kashyyyk’s wilderness for his bounty. Why the fuck anyone would choose the Wookie homeworld as a place to hide was beyond you. You think you’d much prefer being caught by the tin can than eaten by one of those overgrown hairballs, but what do you know.

Well, actually – no, you’re certain you preferred being caught by him.

I like to be caught.

By me.

By you.

So all you had to do now was sit here and stew with your own thoughts. You wonder if maybe you should plan for what your next move will be after you leave him – but your mind immediately shies away from the possibility of that. No, you think, you’ll consider that later, in a few days, a few weeks, whenever he finally gets sick of you, which you know will happen sooner rather than later. But despite your recalcitrance to consider the timeline of when this will end, there is no part of you that doesn’t know how this will end. In ruination, surely, come by your hand, him angry or hating you. You just hope you can hold off on your inevitable destruction for a while longer, for you so enjoy being with him.

If you’re being modest and not entirely honest with what you feel, then, yes, you enjoy being here with him, enjoyment verging on something much deeper, more intense. The warmth and comfort you’d found in his ship, even if it was a hunk of junk Razor Crest, being with him, fucking him, having him take care of you, you like this.

And it is not so much a realization, but a reminder that you’d been unsatisfied with your life thus far. Again, if you were being modest and not entirely honest, then sure, you could call it dissatisfaction. Dissatisfaction with what you are, what you had been, and you’re angry too. Angry at the things that were done to you, the things you’d endured. You did not deserve to have been treated so. You had not deserved such cruelty, and perhaps, this time here with the Mandalorian, with Din, could be taken as a recompense of sorts. A lovely and wholly unexpected prize, a gift, after all you had endured. You could take this time with him with a grain of salt, a seed of wariness, and try and keep yourself as internally stoic as possible, entirely plausible, sure, and then when the time was right you could part ways and take your losses for what they were. For as good as you are at lying to yourself, you are self aware enough to know that at the end of this it will be a loss, he will be a loss. A worry for a later time, though, you suppose.

You settle back on your bent arms.

Dissatisfaction with life… you laugh lightly to yourself. What a silly thing. You’re alive, you’re free. That’s more than enough to be satisfied with.

But at the same time, you can’t help but wonder at what it is to be a God and a slave all at once? You feel you know both sides of the coin so well – both sides of yourself. And you find yourself dissatisfied and angry at the intimacy of the knowledge you hold. You wish you could wash your hands of both facets of yourself and begin anew.

You wonder if perhaps he could provide the answer to the start of that question.

“What are you doing?” His voice comes, what could be hours or minutes later, and you feel a soft, lazy smile spread across your face. Finally, finally, he’s back, he’s back.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” you murmur up at him. You think you must have dozed off.

“You shouldn’t be out here in the open – it’s dangerous.” You give a derisive little snort of self assured laughter at that. Dangerous, ha ha, yeah, sure. “Where are your clothes?” So grouchy.

“I’m wearing them, shiny.” You’ve still not opened your eyes, and you listen to the sound of his long suffering sigh, big smile stretched across your face now.

“Little one–” Your eyes finally blink open to take in the sight of him after four long days – he looms above you, extraordinary and singular, like some warrior of old – a knight or some other silver burning effigy, standing as the face of all that is good and valiant and true. Your pathetic little heart gives a sickly sweet flutter inside your chest. The two of you stare at each other silent and still, caught in each other’s gazes – it’s been four days, four agonizing, interminable days and you’d missed him. You’d traveled with him for such a short time, and already you found yourself in the painful business of missing him.

He’s got one inescapable hand clamped around the bounty’s arm, an unfortunate Mythrol, whose head whips back and forth between the two of you. “Aww, there’s no way – No way, man. Is this your girlfriend, Mando?!” The Mythrol practically howls. “There is absolutely no way this hunk of metal got you to bang him.”

“Shut the fuck up. Do not speak to her,” Din’s head snaps away from you to shake the creature roughly, shoving him forward. But the comically unintelligent bounty fails to read the Mandalorian’s angry countenance and digs his heels in.

“I’d decided on a spot of training, but then I got tired and lazy and hot, and now I am resting. I’m sure you’ve heard of it before–” bratty drawl to answer his earlier question.

“The galaxy really does show you new wonders every single day,” the Mythrol goes on unheeded, looking down at you with moon eyes, and you snicker. “Tell me, gorgeous, is his junk at least normal looking? He’s not like … green or something under there is he? Scales? Any strange orifices?”

“You’re literally blue,” Din deadpans.

“Blue is a perfectly respectable color to be.”

“Well, I haven’t gotten a good look at all his orifices yet, but I’ll let you know once I do,” you say coyly, looking up at Din and batting your eyelashes at him.

“You have fucking gills–” and he sounds so comically offended, you can’t help but break out into hysterical giggles.

“Listen, if he isn’t doing it for you, trust me, I'm getting out of this real soon. I’ll surely take care of you if h–” And then Din’s huge, balled up fist snaps out to punch the poor bounty in the face, dragging him off towards the Razor Crest, and muttering under his breath about brats and no respect and piece of bantha shit bounties. You make sure your laugh follows him all the way into the hull while you lay your head back on your crossed arms and continue enjoying the warm sun on your face and exposed belly.

“You’re fucking naked,” he growls a few minutes later, hovering over you menacingly, very aggravatingly blocking out your warm sun.

You open your eyes to look up at him, shading yourself from the glare shining off the curve of his helmet. He’s rid himself of his armor and duraweave and remains only in his flight pants, long sleeved undershirt and helmet, the expanse of his thick neck left naked without his cowl so that you can admire all of that gorgeously tanned skin. “Mandalorian, you’re in your underthings! How scandalous.” He’s got his beskar spear gripped in one hand, and you eye it dubiously.

“You’re naked,” again, cold and clipped.

“So are you.” Maker, just the stance on him is full of sass, hands on his hips, one foot propped out like he’s about to start tapping it at you, on the verge of shaking his finger at the ornery little girl.

“Shut up, brat. And get up.”

“I think I won’t, actually.” You lay back on your crossed arms and close your eyes again, but he knocks the edge of his boot against your bare ankle, right at the prominence of bone on the side so that you’re yelping unexpectedly and folding your knee up towards your chest to get away from him. “Mean man,” you frown up at him accusingly.

“Get up. I want to see what you can do – let’s spar.”

The laughing smile you have plastered across your face goes wan and melts away. “You want to do what now?”

“You said you were training – I want to see what you can do.”

“Well, I don’t want to show you.”

“My mistake, it wasn’t meant to be a request. Get your little ass up.”

“Exactly – I’m too little. I can’t spar with you.” You look up at him with big, pleading eyes, pouting at him.

“Yes, you can. Get up.”

“I don’t want to spar with you.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t want to hurt you.” And he laughs. He laughs, as if it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard in his entire life. You scowl at him, bristling with indignation.

“You could never–” You take his legs out from under him with a single crook of your finger so that he’s hitting the ground with a jarring thud, knocking the breath from his lungs unexpectedly. You get to your feet, pinning him there lightly, but so that he’s not able to move even a millimeter.

“You were saying?” Silence. “Do not mistake me for something I’m not,” you say slowly. “I could hurt you. Easily. I could kill you easily. I have to be conscious of myself and you and all the things around me every day so that I don’t unwittingly cause harm.”

More silence from him, and you panic for a second that you’ve actually gone and accidentally killed him. You fall to your knees at his side, letting go of your hold over him, and he stays still and unmoving, but then says, “I know. I know what you are. I also know that you would never hurt me. Even accidentally. You’d never let yourself.”

“Din,” you whisper, letting your forehead fall to his belly. He brings a hand up to cup the bowl of your skull and softly strokes your hair. He can’t know that. He doesn’t know you well enough to know that, and yet…

“Spar with me. It’ll be fun.”

You groan, rolling your forehead against his stomach in feigned denial. “Fine, you have a fucked up idea of fun, and when I whoop your ass you’re not allowed to be angry with me.” You move to stand, clasping his hand in yours to pull him up with you.

He slaps your bottom when he gets to his feet, squeezes just a little bit, “Brat.”

“You are not allowed to grope me when you’re making me do things I don’t want to do,” you say indignantly, turning your nose up at him, “And I want to make this interesting.” You move a few paces away from him, and then spin on the ball of your bare foot back towards him, igniting your saber on the come around. “Let’s switch weapons,” you say with a conniving little smirk.

“You want me to use your lightsaber?”

“Scared?”

“Fuck off, and give it here.” Oh, he’s funny when he’s grouchy.

You disengage the plasma beam and toss him the crossguard at the same time that he sends his spear your way. You catch it easily and give it an experimental twirl in your hands – it’s light, nicely balanced, and you give it a figure eight twist in front of you, once, twice, “Not as fancy – but I suppose it’ll do.” You take position, flexing up once on your toes to feel the tight stretch of your calves, a fizzy flutter of excitement in your belly. He’s right, you would never hurt him. A small, terrifying part of you even whispers that you think you’d do harm to yourself before you could ever even think of hurting him.

You can feel a deep hum of satisfaction coming off of him at the sight of you wielding one of his weapons, and he pauses for a beat, admiring you, and then ignites the saber, spinning the blade once in his hand, and then moving towards you on the defensive immediately, without thought. “No powers – just us,” he says, and he brings your lightsaber up above his head, the frame of his heavily muscled arms almost distracting you for a second, and then down upon you with all of his considerable strength. Fast as light, and he’s fucking strong so you feel the reverberation of the weapons meeting in your teeth with how powerful his strike is.

“Maker– I didn’t think you were going to be a dick about this.”

“That was your mistake.”

“Oh, you suck,”

“Not quite. But you will be later, trust me.”

“Did you just make a dirty joke?! I didn’t know you were allowed to do that,” you gasp. “This is not the way, Mandalorian,” you intone in a deep voice, imitating his baritone.

You disengage from his lock and spin away from him, twirling the spear above your head in a quick little flourish, hair fanning out around you, and then bringing it down upon him again. He’s fast and strong, but you’re small and sneaky, easily distracting. Your footwork has always been your greatest strength, like a dance and a game and a duel all at once. He parries your blow and steps to the side trying to evade you by going around. You take a light hop further away from him, and then pirouette back again, fast as you can, ready to strike once more, but he’s already there waiting, leaning heavily into your space so that the plasma blade flashes violet and angry, buzzing right up against your face. You feel the heat radiating off of it on your eyelids, and a bead of sweat slides down your temple.

“You’re not getting laid for a week,” you grit through clenched teeth, blowing a fallen piece of fringe out of your eyes.

“Oh, you’re getting fucked as soon as this is over.” He shoves you back with all his strength, and you stumble over your own feet, giving an outraged little screech as you go ass over tits, and your bottom meets the hard ground. He circles your fallen form, “Get up. I'm not done with you yet, little one.”

Jerk. You spring back up onto the balls of your feet and meet him in a parry of blindingly quick strikes, one after the other after the other. He matches them all without even seeming to strain himself. Your strength is nothing compared to his, and for a second you feel a flash of anger, a memory of being weaker and smaller than everyone around you. He’s not even trying. You growl and spin again, going low, trying to get his legs, but he meets your blow, and then brings one of his hands up to shove you away by the shoulder. He’s never even wielded a fucking lightsaber before and this is how he does – you catch yourself with a supportive tendril of the Force on that one, and bare your teeth at him.

“You’re stronger than me – this isn’t fair,” you pant.

“You know that isn’t true.” He strikes again, and you block it, barely. “But if it were, you’re tiny. Most people are going to be stronger than you. Tough shit – you can’t always rely on your tricks.”

“My tricks–” Fuck you. You jerk away from him, gasping for breath, sweating, angry at his words and full of reckless defiance. But you take a deep, calming breath and give him a small smile. “Oh, no?” you croon, and lunge at him again at the same time that you snake a ribbon of Force around his striking arm to pull the limb backwards, rendering it motionless and him without protection. He brings his other arm up to block your presumed blow, but you pull the saber from his grasp with your mind instead and knock the side of his spear against the curve of his helmet, loud clang echoing at the same time that you bring one small, bare foot up to the center of his belly and shove him back, sending him sprawling to the ground. How’s that for a trick? “Life isn’t fair, shiny. I'm going to use all the tricks in my book until I'm dead – and even after that, I still might find a way.” You stand over him looking down at the impenetrable dark of his visor. You crook your eyebrow at him, a little shrug of one shoulder, and oh, he’s fucking pissed, you can feel it rolling off of him.

“I said no powers,” and grunts when you place a small foot on his belly, a conqueror over your felled opponent.

“Oops.” You see the strain of his arms trying to fight against your restraints, biceps bulging and bunching, and he growls like an animal, like someone about to teach you a particularly savage lesson. You remove your foot from him and take a few, slow steps back from him. Retreating from the beast you’ve just purposefully enraged. “Now, now,” you try, “We were just messing around–” a nervous, hiccuping laugh.

You let him go, and he moves to his feet, long legs unfolding almost in slow motion. “You better fucking run, little girl. You do not want me to get my hands on you right now,” he says slowly.

You don’t need to be told twice, without a second thought you’re throwing both weapons to the ground and spinning on your heel, sprinting away as fast as you possibly can on bare feet. You’re pretty sure he even gives you a few seconds head start before he’s shooting after you. You can hear the pounding sound of his heavy strides over the hard ground, and you pump your arms and legs as fast as you can, making for the tree line far ahead, but there are rocks and small bric-a-brac hidden in the underbrush, and your pace falters, heart thumping painfully fast within the cage of your chest. There's a fine sheen of sweat covering your whole body, and right before his chest makes harsh contact with your back you have the thought that being caught by him is one of the greatest pleasures you’ve ever experienced in your entire life.

He slams into your back and takes you to the ground, his hand coming up to protect your face, his other arm banding tightly around your waist seeming to press all of the air from your lungs.

“Should’ve run faster.”

“Maybe I wanted to be caught,” you gasp.

“Oh? Are you sure about that?” You feel him lever himself up above you, and then he’s ripping down your leggings and underwear, the sound of seams popping at the ferocity of his movements, “You want to be my little whore? Want me to fuck you right here under the open sky for the entire galaxy and the Maker to see how I own this cunt?” And lands a stinging, sharp slap to your ass. He grips the meat of your cheek and spreads you wide for his inspection, you feel the probe of his thumb at the tight furl of your ass, then lower to your folds, your leaking entrance, your swollen clit. “Look at you, fucking soaked already, shit. You like being hunted and caught, little one?”

“Only by you,” you moan into the dirt, an echo of your past words to each other, your cheek squished against the grass, you watch the panting huffs of your breath disturb the blades and let him do with you what he will. He’s caught his bounty, he should enjoy the fruits of his spoils now. He presses his thumb inside, sliding it in and out of you slowly, and then unexpectedly slaps you again and you mewl, twisting the soft green blades between your shaking fingers, trying to find purchase, an anchoring, anything to steady your racing heart. You listen to the rustle of his clothes as he frees his cock and finally, finally, you can hear the change in his breath as he takes hold of his hard length. Make me so fucking hard, you hear him mutter. He reaches for your twisted hands then, pulling them behind you, “Hand here, and here–” he sets each palm on either of your cheeks, “Show me that little asshole. I want to see it.” Nasty man, and like the good girl you’re trying to pretend to be, you obey and pull yourself apart for him, presenting all you have to offer, hips lifted in a desperate little arc for him to fuck into you. He presses the wide head of his cock to your fluttering cunt, and starts to push in, stretching you painfully without having made you come before – it hurts to take him like this. Caught and fucked into the dirt, and he pushes in until he’s rooted to the hilt, heavy sac pressed tightly against your backside, and you love it. His strong thighs bracket your own, restrained in your partially shoved down leggings, making the fit all the more snug when he wedges that thick cock inside of you. “Fuck, yes,” he growls and sets a punishing pace. Slamming his hips so hard into your ass you can feel the rebound of your soft flesh in your hands, still holding yourself open, drooling and sobbing into the grass, hair a fallen mess, sticking to the wetness of your tears and spit on your cheeks. He angles his hips down and hammers into your g-spot. Fucking made for me, perfect little cunt, so pretty, you can hear him muttering hoarsely through the modulator behind you over the wet, sucking slide of his cock. He sets a brutal pace that has you going almost cross-eyed, weak little huffs of breath being fucked out of you on every push in so that you can’t even make a sound of pleasure or pain or anything. All you can do is take it.

He moans an almost agonized sound, feels so fucking good – and oh, it’s too much, the punishing pace, the sound of his pleasure, the painful stretch of his thick cock inside of you, hitting against that ravenous little place, the feel of his desire for you pushing up against the periphery of your mind – he is devastating and life changing, world altering inside of you, and, “Din, Din, please – I’m going to come,” you hitch and cry.

And he pulls out. Suddenly, painfully, he rips his sliding cock from the wet, fluttering clutch of your pussy on the verge of orgasm, dripping cock smearing wetly against the curve of your ass. “No,” he sits back on his haunches and turns you over roughly, your bare arms and back chafing against the grass and dirt. “Who said you had permission to come?” He rips your leggings down one leg to get at your sex and spreads your thighs wide, right here in the middle of the open field, and then hooks his fingers under your breast band at the space between your tits to pull you up into a sitting position. “Grab my cock,” he orders. “Bad girls don’t get to come.” You wrap your slim fingers around the swollen, slick length of him and start to slide your hand up and down, squeezing to the very root and then back up to the drooling head, ending in a little twist. You look up at the visage of his helmet, if his gaze had a physical manifestation it’d be all over your skin, licking and kissing and sucking. He pushes your breast band down to free the heavy, aching weights of your tits and squeezes them hard so that you’re moaning up at him softly, legs spread around his kneeling form, bare, pulsing cunt leaking into the grass beneath. You can see the skin of his neck where his stubble fades to tan sweaty skin beneath the edge of his helmet, and your teeth ache to bite there. You want to see what sort of sound he’d make if you bit hard enough to draw blood…

He twists your nipples between his fingers, and then switches to softer, soothing passes around your areolas, lifting each breast high to squeeze and then letting them fall to hang and sway heavily. “Too fucking beautiful for your own good,” he says in a low whisper, as if only for himself. Your other hand moves to cup the hanging weight of his balls and you massage them gently, and then twist a little, applying more pressure, eliciting a soft whimper from him. “No,” he grunts suddenly, pressing you belly back into the hard ground, pinning you there despite a whine and dolling out a quick, stinging slap to your spread sex. You cry out, trying to toe him away with one small foot lifted to his shoulder, escape his unforgiving hands, but he digs his fingers into the softness of your thighs and pulls you back towards him, gripping the base of his cock to feed it back into you. “This is your punishment, stop distracting me.”

He lifts up the hem of his shirt, tucking it beneath his lowered chin so that he can fuck you unobstructed. He hooks his fingers under the fabric of your breast band around your waist and uses it as leverage to pull you onto his impaling cock, fucking up into your cervix painfully, sending you right to the edge of orgasm once again. The sight of his exposed abdomen shifting under the sunlight, sweat sliding down from his chest to the hair trailing from his navel, lower to the thick root of his cock, neatly trimmed, mouth watering – it has your already overwrought cunt pulsing and aching and drooling, clenching down painfully around him. “You are not allowed to come. If you do, I'm going to make it so much worse for you, do you understand me?”

“No, please. Please, Din. I’ll be good. I promise, I’ll be good,” you cry, deepening the arch of your back to open yourself further to him, to feel the jolt of his cock more intensely within you.

“Too late.” His thrusts speed up, sloppy and unsynchronized, and he growls low in his throat beneath the helmet as he rips himself from you once again and takes his soaked length in hand, fucking his fist furiously until he comes over the gaping slit of your sex, covering your pusling cunt in the searing heat of his milky spend, spurting thickly onto the slope of your belly and your heaving tits. You let out an agonized sob, throwing your arms over your face to hide the sight of your tears from him. Your womb twists painfully, low in your pelvis, the echoes of his brutal fucking still felt in the unsatisfied frenzied fluttering of your muscles. “Bad girls don’t get filled up either.” He gives his slick length one final squeeze, twisting his fist viciously at the angry, red tip to milk out the last final drops of his come. You watch his fist, gripped around himself so tightly, beneath the hood of your wet lashes and crossed arms, and think it must surely hurt him, such a punishing hold on himself – but you also think that, like you, he enjoys a little pain with his pleasure. Or a lot… depending on the day.

He drops his wet hand to your pulsing sex, smearing the thick viscosity of his semen into your painfully sensitive skin, and then slaps it again and again and again. Three stinging slaps in a row that has you twisting away, trying to escape him. “I want to eat your cunt,” and his voice is nothing but a gasp, “It’s so fucking red and swollen – and it gapes when I slap it.” He hits you again, presses a hand low on your belly to keep you in place and incite the coiled ball of unreleased arousal sitting inside of you, all at once.

He leans forward, holding himself up over you on one strong arm and grips your jaw tightly, his hand wet and sticky with his come and your own slick, and squeezes your cheeks together, forcing your mouth into a pout and giving your head a little jostle, his hold on you, so tight, you feel the imprinted shape of your teeth on the inside of your cheeks. “What if someone saw you like this, being fucked full of cock? What would you do?” His hand leaves your face to press two thick fingers inside of your poor, abused pussy.

“Please, no more–” you whisper, you can’t take anymore.

“Quit. As much as I say – it’s mine. Isn’t it? It belongs to me.” You have to nod, you have no other choice, you must tell the truth right now, and then answering his first question: “Nothing. I don't care. What would you do?” And despite your protestations, you wrap both your hands around his thick wrist to leverage yourself against him and begin to ride his hand, fucking yourself on his fingers crooked inside of you.

“Kill them. You’re only mine to see like this– fucking mine,” but he pulls his fingers from you, again. You give a little undignified screech, feeling the overwhelming sensation of your opening clenching hungrily around nothing, and he sits back on his haunches again, taking himself away from you, and tucks his still wet, still semi-hard cock back behind the plaque of his trousers. He takes several deep breaths, the wings of his rib cage expanding so wide on the exhale you worry for a second he’d take flight, escape you, go somewhere where you could not reach him.

“You’re so mean,” you mewl up at him, tears streaming across your cheeks and backwards, down your temples into your hair – making your already sweat damp hairline even wetter. Your whole body feels wet and trembling and raw. You move to press your knees closed, but he grips you around the ankle still wearing your leggings and pulls them off of you entirely.

“I know,” he says, “Poor, little girl,” cooed at you, a little mean, a little condescending, his voice so soft and smokey and deep. “Perhaps, this’ll teach you what happens to bad girls who don’t follow the rules.” He pulls you by the wrist to sit up and curls to press his shoulder into the soft of your belly, unfolding from the ground all the way to standing, with the entirety of your weight slung over his shoulder, just by the pure strength of him. He turns back towards the ship and slaps your ass as he walks, right at the apex of your thighs so that you feel the rebound of it in your cunt. Tears drip down your upside down face while your arms hang limply down towards the ground, your head bobbing along limply with his gait, wild, loose hair swinging, entirely overwhelmed and conquered – just like he’d wanted you.

And after everything, even without an orgasm, it’s really not so bad.

He hauls your ass back to the ship without even seeming to lose his breath, carrying your weight easily over his shoulder. He’s so strong, and it makes you even wetter for him, if possible. Making his way up the ramp, he hits the button to disengage and shut it behind the two of you once you’re inside, and deposits your limp, trembling form onto your nest of blankets. A murmured: “I’m going to get us in the air,” and then he’s climbing up into the cockpit. You think you must fall asleep or go so delirious from the cramping deep in your belly that you lose consciousness for what seems like seconds or possibly hours later he’s back and spreading your legs again, you mumble something incoherently that sounds like his name or a plea for mercy or his cock, and then his unmodulated voice sounds, “Don’t open your eyes, little one.” You think you nod your head or give some sort of a reply of confirmation, but you can’t be sure. Your body feels so far removed from you, sun drunk and cock drunk and Din drunk. He shoves the breadth of his wide, naked shoulders between your thighs and hooks both thumbs at your soft outer lips to spread you wide and spits directly onto your swollen clit and blushed, fluttering hole. You moan and writhe, bringing your hands up to your face to dig the heels of your palms harshly into your sockets, sliding the tips of your fingers through your hairline to pull at the strands. He starts off light, whisper soft, the tip of his tongue tracing figure eights over your clit, and then further down to flutter lightly at the mouth of your cunt. You’re sex is drenched in his own come, and he doesn’t seem to give a single fuck, tasting himself on your own skin and groaning at your combined flavors. He moves back up to your clit and sucks it into his mouth hard. Your back arches in an almost painful bend, bringing your knees up as far back as you can to your shoulders, hands hooked beneath the sweaty bend of your joints to hold yourself open for him.

“Are you going to be bad again?” he murmurs into your cunt.

“Yes–” irrationally, recklessly defiant.

“Good. I’d expect nothing less.” He licks a long, wet swipe through your slit, further down to taste your ass, his tongue applying pressure to the sensitive rosebud, then back up to your pussy, licking into you with the strong muscle of his tongue. You can feel him rutting into the blanketed floor.

“Are you hard again already?” voice ragged, you want to know, you want it in your mouth.

“Fuck yes, I’m hard. I’m always hard for you. Most perfect little cunt in the entire galaxy,” and he literally slurps at your folds, wet and lewd and entirely obscene. You writhe on the blankets, one foot pressed to the thick mass of his muscular shoulder trying to push him away and rock yourself against his face all at the same time. He moves to kneel over you and grips your other leg open under the bend of your knee. “Never want you to fucking behave,” he presses two thick fingers inside of you, hooked against that spongey spot at the front of your cunt, thumb on your clit, and sets a quick fire pace, tugging your orgasm forward, jostling his fingers inside of you. “Means I get to do this to you as many times as I want,” he grits. “Get this fucking cunt wet for me, little girl.” He shoves a third finger inside of you, hooks his fingers against your g-spot again and presses down on your lower belly with his other hand, and rubs fast and hard inside of you. You whine high pitched, an animal sound, writhing in the nest of blankets, twisting them in your hands to press your face to them. He quickens his pace, his whole hand shaking within you, and then wrenches it from your cunt and you feel yourself gush onto the waiting blankets and his spread thighs.

He moans a savage sound, “Yes, yes – fucking again,” and he pushes those three fingers back into your gaping hole, the palm on your belly giving a slow soothing circular stroke to settle you, and you think you must surely want to beg for no more, please, no more, but you cannot. He pauses for a second, and you listen to the sound of his heavy panting breaths over the sound of your own echoing heart in your ears. His palm is so big and warm on your abdomen, and it soothes you for a second, your limbs full of fired lightning. He pets softly at your g-spot, and then quakes his hand again, palm on your belly pushing down to apply pressure from the outside. It feels like there’s plasma melting down your spine, and your vision behind your closed lids bends and flashes blinding white. Again, it’s going to happen again – he rips his hand from you, and you gush once again, soaking wet. Yes, yes, yes, he’s chanting, sounding half delirious, nonsensical, and then his mouth is at your cunt again, drinking up all the slick wetness you’ve just made for him.

Mine, all mine, look at all this – made it all for me, didn’t you, gorgeous thing.

He laps at you gently until he’s gotten all of it, every last drop of your come and slick and sweat. Your entire frame shakes and jolts with aftershocks, trembling and sweating and crying. Heart beating an overwhelmed symphony within your chest to the tune of his name. This is not like anything else, you think. This is something to venerate and fear equally, you think. You feel afraid. He mouths gently at the raw skin of your inner thighs, pressing slow kisses to your mound, up the slope of your belly, over the trembling hills of your breasts, up finally all the way to your mouth where he licks into you wet and hot. There’s a desperately hungry energy to him, ready to shove into your cunt and fuck you again. You feel the drooling tip of his heavily hanging cock bob against your belly, and he makes a soft sound, low in his throat, but pulls back, humming contemplatively.

“Let’s take a shower,” he murmurs between kisses, “You’re filthy,” the soft sound of his self satisfied huff of laughter. He presses one last kiss to your mouth then gets to his feet with a soft groan, the hollow sounding pop of his knees, and you listen to him move into the fresher, starting the water and shuffling about. You’re beyond words, vaguely painful aftershocks seizing your throat and muscles, and you can’t open your eyes, you won’t. He’s walking around with so much trust, moving about the hull into the softly lit fresher helmetless and entirely vulnerable. He trusts you, and you don’t think you’ve ever been able to say that, ever been able to claim the trust of another person. Never. You need to protect this at all costs, guard it fiercely and nurture it as you would a fragile and delicate sapling.

He returns to your side after a moment, wrapping his hands around you. Your limbs have been rendered limp and useless, entirely pliable for his strong hands to pull you up into his embrace, and you feel like water in his arms as he carries you into the warm spray of the fresher, submerged in his touch and his smell, your mind murky and floating with your eyes still closed. He shuts off the lights as he passes, sinking the two of you into a deep darkness once again and sets you on your feet, shaky, weak knees knocking together, coltish and frail.

The spray of the water is warm and sets about a cloud of humidity around the two of you. You reach up to twist your arms around his strong neck, fingers twisting in the damp curls at the nape of his neck, and his roving hands slide along your limbs and curves, water slick and lust frenzied, but still slow, categorizing, exploring. He feels you, grips your soft flesh in his big hands, the rough calluses on his palms catching at your sensitive skin, his fingers pressing along your arms, gripping the joints of your elbows between his fingers, up to your wrists clasped behind his neck. He brings one hand down to his face to press a long kiss to the center of your palm, then presses your splayed palm to his cheek, nuzzles against you like an overly large cat. “I love how this feels,” he whispers low. You think you must have lost your voice, spit it out in the field where he’d fucked you and left it there, forgotten, but you press your face up into the warm spot beneath his jaw, mouthing slowly there at his burning hot skin. He tastes like the sun, like earth and life and all the goodness you’d never before had the chance to taste, and you want to drink him down, take a bite and swallow him, let him settle down, deep and heavy in your belly where you’d keep him always. Your heart gives a heavy thump of fear, but then his other hand is there, sliding down the arch of your spine and gripping your ass to press you into the long line of his erection. “Are you ready for my cock again, little one?” And his words return your mind to the slow cramping, deep in your pelvis. The hungry clench of your cunt and the shivers zipping down the lines of your muscles.

Yes, please, you think you whisper, and you must, for he lifts one of your thighs, hooking it around his hip and bending his knees slightly to press the head of his cock to the slick mouth of your cunt, and then he’s surging up and sliding deep inside you, gripping your other thigh as he goes to lift you high up into his arms and settle himself deep into your belly, to what feels like the very end of you, knees hooked over the bends of his elbows. It feels like he presses all the way to the heart of you, your very heart, your very heart, he has it in his clutch. That heart you’d for so long feared had been taken from you, swallowed and destroyed. You moan softly into his open mouth and he swallows down your sounds, tastes the inside of your mouth with his tongue, grips and kneads all the soft contours that make you up – that softness that still makes up the hard creature that they’d tried to force you into. He feels it, takes it in his hands.

You run your hands along him as well. The hard lines of him to juxtapose your own softness. His broad shoulders, muscled and strong and endless, seemingly wide enough to hold up the weight of the galaxy. The thick bulge of his biceps, the strength of his chest, the flat expanse of his abdomen that gently turns to softness lower down. The thick root of his cock fucking up into you. You softly circle your hand there, feeling the slide of him thrusting into you, pressing into the swollen bud of your clit. You can feel your orgasm churning like molten ore in your pelvis, the base of your spine. You’re both scarred all over, mottled in the painful history of your individual pasts, and he has scars on his hands, covered in them, for some reason these hurt you more than any you’ve ever endured on your own body. Such strong, capable, gentle hands – you pull them to your mouth one by one and kiss each and every one of them.

He grips your ass to pull you onto his impaling cock harder, bends his knees to deepen the angle inside of you and you keen and mewl weakly for him, a supplication in the shape of his name, shared here in this warm darkness he’s pulled you into with him, and you think of the dark and of the opposition of light. Of being alone and together and here with him, afraid and protected and how the darkness had never seemed anything more than a cruel and suffocating mantle meant to only ever subjugate and enslave you, and how here, with him now, with him inside of you and held in his arms it feels like nothing more than protection. A safe place to cast away your fear. “Are you going to come for me, cyar’ika?” he murmurs into the lush of your breasts, sucking your nipple into his mouth and biting down gently.

Cyar’ika, Cyar’ika, Cyar’ika.

My good girl, taking me so well.

And no one had ever baptized you with a veneration such as that. No one had ever called to you in gentleness or care, and so you do. You come for him at the sound of it, at the feel of the wide head of his cock kissing your womb on every press inside, the grip of his hands, possessive and hard and gentle and coaxing and inescapable, all at the same time. It’s like he’s all the things in the world that a man could ever be, and you give him your pleasure, and he returns it in kind, filling you with the heat of his spend, coating your insides with himself. Sweet and full of heart, just like he’d said.

Chapter V

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dnsleif · 1 year

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malleus draconia x reader. 1.7k words, hurt no comfort disguised as hurt/comfort kinda im sorrryyyyyyy, yandere-ish but its literally just how malleus is in canon so lol, BOOK 7 PART 3 SPOILERS

Green flames take over your vision, followed by the sight of Malleus in front of you.

Everything is hazy from there on out, from the words the Briar Valley prince says, to the yelling coming from your friends in Diasomnia, to the loud beeping and Ortho’s warning that goes unheard from your ears.

The dorm seems to be in a mess of chaos, a panicked state that is overtaking everyone but you. You’re not sure why the scenes before you seem to be playing out in slow-motion, or why the faces you see are blurred and the voices you hear are jumbled together.

The only thing you can see clearly is the horned fairy whose facial expressions are slowly morphing into a Malleus Draconia you’ve never seen before, a part of himself that he’s worked hard to keep hidden deep in the caverns of his very being.

There’s more screaming. Malleus is yelling now, presumably—you can’t exactly hear the exchange. But you can see the pained look on his face and the way his mouth moves in such a hurried and frantic manner.

You thought that, perhaps, you were one of the only people in the world who knew every side to Malleus Draconia. The only person who knew his pet peeves and his loneliness and everything in his heart.

But with the scene unfolding in front of you, you came to the realization that there was no way that could be true. There was a side of Malleus that not even you had seen before, a side that perhaps he didn’t want you to see. But somehow it hurts. It hurts that you’re seeing him like this and it hurts that you can’t do anything to ease the pain he’s feeling now.

Even if you wanted to reach out, wanted to console him, to take his face in your hands and let him know that you’d always be there for him, you couldn’t. Not with the way bodies upon bodies are running out in front of you towards the fairy, ready to attack. Not when it feels like your feet are too heavy for your own body to carry.

And just like that, the haziness becomes all the more apparent as your surroundings are suddenly shrouded in a green hue. You can just barely make out the sight of ebony vines, covered in thorns, snaking their way across the room.

Your eyes are closing, your consciousness fading, mind becoming even more cloudy than before.

Before the last bit of your consciousness slips away from you, you’re suddenly aware of the sleeping bodies beside you. The faces of your friends, the people you’ve come to think of as your closest companions, all fast asleep.

The deadly silence paired with nothing but a symphony of quiet snores was nothing less than terrifying. You watched the thorns continue to latch onto the various pieces of furniture—it was a sinister feeling, horrifying.

From the corner of your eye, you caught sight of the future king once again. He was different, a Malleus you didn’t know stood before you.

Green flames adorned the bottom of his cape, just like when he had first arrived. His horns glowed green, as well. You noticed there was ink seeping out of his shoulders, and his face was deathly white.

You thought he looked beautiful. No matter his attire or his form, he was always beautiful to you. So why was your heart clenching at the sight of him now?

The silence was cut off by the sound of his humming, a deep, low voice—one that you usually found comfort in.

But, somehow, for the first time in your life, you were scared of Malleus Draconia. Even though that voice was the one who called out to you in the dark, even though that face was as beautiful as the nights he laid beside you, you were scared—terrified.

That voice was not whispering sweet nothings into your ears—rather it was humming that deafening tune that made your stomach turn and your head cloud over even more. That face was not bashfully flushed at your hand in his hair, it was smiling at the sight of all your friends in a comatose state.

The last of your consciousness finally drifted off as your eyes closed. You were grateful, somehow, that the moment finally came. You thought that maybe it was better to join your friends in this deep sleep than to look at the man you love in fear.

———

You startled awake, eyes jolting open. Your breathing was unsteady, rapid breaths coming out of your mouth as you tried to settle down.

Just a dream.

Before you was the softness of your blanket and the sunlight of Twisted Wonderland peeking in through your blinds.

Your hands reached up to your eyes, presumably to rub the tiredness away and cope with the sudden brightness of your room, but your fingers were welcomed by a trail of wetness starting to dry on your cheeks. You were crying. Why?

The dream that had startled you awake had all but disappeared from your memory. It must have been a really bad one, you thought. It was strange, though, you can’t recall a single thing about it, yet it was horrible enough to bring you to tears?

You hear a low groan from the other side of the bed that you’re facing away from, making the tears on your face become all but forgotten. Suddenly, you’re aware of the arm encircling your waist, the grip getting tighter and pulling you closer.

You move a bit in the embrace, until you can turn around and see the person that is holding onto you so tightly.

A smile adorns your lips at the sight in front of you. Malleus, with his dark horns and messy hair scattered around the pillow, eyes closed with a small smile gracing his lips, is laying beside you.

A sleepy dragon, just for you. The Malleus Draconia that not a single other soul in this world gets to see.

He’s beautiful and you’re happy at the sight of him before you.

So, why do you feel the corners of your lips spread into a frown?

However, the frown is quickly replaced by wide eyes and slightly parted lips as Malleus opens his eyes. He’s sleepy, you can tell by the way he squints his eyes as he looks at you.

But however sleepy he is, that doesn’t stop the smile on his lips from growing larger when he sees your face in front of him, watching him sleep. It’s a lazy smile, one that has his fangs slightly protruding and his lips lopsided, but it’s so undeniably attractive coming from the ever-elegant prince.

“Good morning, my love,” his voice is groggy. He lets out a hum before nuzzling his face into your neck, still sleepy. The hum is deep, low and… familiar?

Did he sing you to sleep last night?

The thought was gone before it was completely finished as Malleus plants a messy kiss onto your neck. You sigh at the feeling and the sight of one of the most powerful mages in the world beside you in bed, holding onto you as tight as possible while peppering kisses onto every visible surface of skin his still-tired lips can reach. You never knew it was in a dragon’s nature to be clingy.

You love him, this Malleus in front of you. You love the Malleus that looks at you kindly as soon as he wakes up and the Malleus who wants nothing more than to hold you close to him and feel the warmth of your body right next to the coldness of his own.

As you’re thinking of him fondly, the dragon suddenly looks up at you, eyes wide and worried. His eyes are so unbelievably big and green, you feel you could get lost in them if he looked at you like this for any longer.

“You’re crying,” he says in a whisper, taking a hand off of your waist and reaching up to your face. Sure enough, when he pulls away, his fingers are glistening with your tears.

You’re crying. Why?

You’re not sure when the tears had started nor why, but the pit in your stomach that’s been there ever since you woke up from your nightmare hasn’t gone away.

Your lover’s face usually eases all your anxieties, so why, when you look at him right now, does the pit in your stomach grow larger? As he looks at you with his widened, worried eyes, as he wipes away your tears and whispers in your ear that he’s here, everything will be alright, why are you shaking even more?

And there it is.

In the background of your mind you see a flash of green flames and thorny vines and suddenly everything that happened last night is clear once again.

You shake out of Malleus’ arms, needing to be away from him after remembering the events from the night before. You don’t want to be away from him, you would never want to be out of his embrace, but right now, you need to. And he lets you, for he would never want his love to be uncomfortable beside him.

He lets you stumble out of his arms and he watches as you stand up, eyes still locked onto his own as you cry a seemingly never-ending cascade of tears.

He thinks you're beautiful, even as you cry, even as you pull away from his outstretched hand, even when he knows you’ve “awakened.”

But he doesn’t want to see you sad, especially not because of him. Perhaps this dream wasn’t satisfactory enough, maybe he was too simple in creating your dream—thinking that you’d be happy with just him, maybe that was just his wishful thinking.

He reaches out for you once again and you don’t move from his arms, you don’t think you have the strength to do so once again. He whispers in your ear, in that dreamlike voice that you’ve always loved, that he’ll do better, he’ll create a better dream for you, a dream where you’ll feel no sadness nor shed any more tears.

“Let us meet once upon a dream again.” He plants a gentle kiss to your temple.

His lips are cold.

And with that, your consciousness is fading once more and you think once again that this may be for the better—that you’d rather be in a dream forever than be afraid of the man you love.

#malleus draconia x reader #malleus x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #erm idk how i feel abt this

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cloudcountry · 1 year

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bird brain

Genre/Tropes: Fluffy bird brain behavior & Established relationship.

Summary: Crowley has a bird brain, but you love him anyway.

Author's Comments: I just think that this is canon. Also I feel like I don't have to say this but just in case Reader is not Yuu. They teach at NRC. I think this turned out pretty well even though it was first time writing for a staff member? I don't think I'll do this often since I literally don't know how to write anyone except for Crowley so if there are any Crowley likers out there let me know LMAO I might write more of him idk yet.

~~~~~

It was no secret to you and the other faculty at Night Raven College that Crowley had a bit of a bird brain. He liked to spoil you in his own special way, with shiny rocks and pretty feathers and seashells presented to you with lovesick eyes. That man would do anything for your approval, and while it was endearing, it did get obnoxious sometimes.

Like, for example, when he slammed open your classroom doors with a rock in hand, setting it on your desk where you had been organizing papers. There were always little flecks of dirt that fell off onto the pristine white papers, but you sucked it up as he gloated. Or when you’d be in the middle of a lecture and he’d bust down your classroom doors again, holding a shimmering multicolored feather that he picked up off the ground somewhere. Your students would try to hide their laughter, and some, their exasperation, when he acted like you were the only person in the room. All he ever wanted was praise, and maybe a smooch if you were feeling generous (but you always refused the latter in front of the students. They did not need to see that, and the gall of Crowley to even ask was beyond you.)

It had left you flustered and reeling too many times to count, the little shoebox in the bottom drawer of your desk slowly growing full with his gifts.

And speak of the devil, he was here again.

The telltale fast paced footsteps outside your classroom had you rolling your eyes as you set down your pen. A loud thump at the door made you try to hold back laughter—that lovable idiot had run into the door again.

The door flung open with a strong gust of air, and standing there was Headmage Crowley in the flesh.

“Beloved!” he yelled enthusiastically, making a beeline for your desk.

“Yes, dear?” you looked up at him, an amused grin on your face.

“Here.” he beamed, placing a dented bottle cap on your desk.

Despite the grime, you had to give him credit. It was pretty shiny, and the design over the metal featured mostly your favorite color. It wasn’t hard to see why he’d picked it up for you.

“What do you want in return for it?” you shook your head, picking up the bottle cap and twirling it over your fingers.

“Nothing, of course! It's a gift out of my infinite kindness!” he gloated.

“That’s what you always say. Now come on, what would you like?” you stood up, walking around your desk to face him.

“...A kiss?” he chuckled, pointing at his lips excitedly.

“Of course.” you laughed, setting the bottle cap down on your desk.

Crowley was practically vibrating on the spot from how excited he was, the goofy grin on his face making your heart squeeze. He never failed to be absolutely adorable whenever you offered up affection—it made you wonder if the esteemed headmage of Night Raven College was secretly touch starved. Gently, you placed your hands on his shoulders and pressed your lips against his. Crowley’s hand found its way to the back of your head, the claws scratching against the skin tenderly. He really made for the best head massager sometimes.

You pulled away but he chased you, stumbling over his feet before he finally let you go. You were flustered once again as he smiled, seemingly satisfied with the state he’d left you in.

“Thank you, my dear.” Crowley cupped your face, kissing your forehead for good measure, “Would you mind if I made myself at home here for a while?”

“Of course not. I was grading papers though, so I won’t be able to pay you my full attention.” you hummed, turning away from him.

“That’s fine! I can help! After all, I am very kind. Oh, I’m so benevolent!” he beamed, radiating smugness.

“Naturally. Thank you, dearest.” you sat down to begin your work once again, the bottlecap glinting cheerfully in the candlelight of your classroom.

#auburn's fics <3 #disney twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #twisted wonderland #disney twst x reader #twst x reader #twst crowley #crowley x reader #dire crowley x reader

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twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat · 1 year

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OH MY DESTINY, HOW FAR YOU HAVE SPRUNG NOW ; SATORU GOJO

synopsis; satoru gojo goes north.

word count; 5.3k

contents; satoru gojo, canon divergence, HEAVY jjk spoilers (for chapter 236!! but also kinda 237), fix-it fic, me coping w/ the manga for 5k words straight, canon-typical violence and death, implied stsg, probably non-canon compliant use of binding vows (but do i care? no), gojo satoru lives.

a/n; yeaaa this is literally just me coping <3 needed to write this for my mental health. he’s fine guys trust me

the experience is not altogether unfamiliar, on its own.

he’s felt it before. even now, he can still vividly recall it; a girl he failed to protect, a boy he failed to save. a man with a scar on his bottom lip.

that sickening numbness, as he lied in a pool of his own blood. sticking to his hair and tattered clothes, the colour red flooding his subconscious. that cold, cold sensation — a jarring shift, chilling and ruthless, going from everything to nothing. tiptoeing the line between life and death.

emptiness. sinking deeper into the abyss, that all-enveloping darkness. that awful feeling of pure helplessness.

(he could never forget it.)

back then, though, gojo is certain he didn’t feel this way. all he could think about twelve years ago was survival — clinging to the weak flutter of his heart, a dying butterfly. clawing his way up to the skies. anything to escape that harrowing sensation, a kind of desperation all humans feel in the face of certain death, spurring him on. but now —

he almost welcomes it. nearly content in its approach. it should frighten him, but it doesn’t.

through half-lidded eyes, vision blurred by sweat and blood and dust, gojo watches the sky.

it's beautiful, he thinks. as beautiful as ever. peaceful, unchanging, soothing in an eerie kind of way. that clear blue, fading a little at the corners as his muddled mind grows just a little darker, a little more fatigued. he can barely gather the strength to keep his eyelids open.

yet he keeps his gaze on that endless sky, as if it’s all he’s ever known.

with every passing second, the world grows just a little more blurry. pale dots spread around the corners of his vision, like grains of stardust in an ever-expanding cosmos, clouding his senses. there’s a buzzing in his head that won’t go away. everything looks as if it's spinning, and he can barely tell left from right, north from south. everything is growing darker, so fast that it’s alarming, and gojo can’t seem to even think clearly.

but he can still see that blue, blue sky. bluer than he ever remembers it being. even as snow begins to fall, descending upon shinjuku as if bidding him farewell. the sky takes on a gray hue, but that shade of blue is still all gojo can see, as he takes shallow breaths and half-heartedly attempts to remain conscious. willing himself not to give in just yet, choking on his own blood.

and it's an odd feeling, really. one he never thought he'd meet again, but here it is, it's back — and it's all-consuming. beckoning him into a place he’s never been before. the unknown.

it's not scary. gojo doesn’t think he has it in him to feel fear, anymore. but it's a strange sensation, as death kisses its way up his neck, sending shivers down his spine; as the numbness spreads, devouring him whole.

it’s unknown. thoroughly and wholly. and that unknown is overwhelming, all-encompassing, it’s all he can see before him, it's —

ah.

gojo takes a deep breath. the air burns his lungs.

everything's ending, isn't it?

it would be so easy. to simply close his eyes, let them flutter shut as that all-encompassing sensation takes him down to earth. to allow himself to simply rest, for a moment. wouldn’t that be nice?

it would be so easy.

gojo watches the sky. it's all he can do.

the numbness keeps spreading throughout every cell of his body. he can barely feel the blood trickling down his chin, or the harsh bite of the winter cold, his skin buzzing with ache. he can't feel his arms or his legs, and he knows exactly why. everything in the world is closing in on him and god, he just feels so fucking tired.

ah. ah. more darkness. more numbness.

everything and nothing, all at once. slipping away into oblivion. the snow keeps falling but he can't see anything, can't hear anything, can't feel anything, anything at all.

nothing. nothing. less than nothing.

— and then, suddenly, an airport.

"yo."

gojo blinks.

a boy. a boy with black hair, tied into a small bun. a dead boy. his best friend.

suguru stands before him, and he looks exactly the same as gojo remembers. young, bright, with those awkward bangs still hanging over his face. grinning boyishly, and greeting him with youthful cheer.

gojo feels young, too, he realizes — the weight on his shoulders a little less heavy, the familiar black of his sunglasses obscuring his vision. but he can still see the flicker of suguru’s cursed energy clear as day. as if it never left him.

feigning a mild displeasure, gojo makes a face. he hears himself speak, but his mind and six eyes continue to spin in circles, trying to comprehend the sight in front of him. trying to make it understandable, figure out what’s going on.

but he doesn’t succeed. because it’s impossible to understand. and, really, that’s answer enough.

huh.

so this is what the afterlife is like?

he inhales through his nose, basking in the clear air, and it doesn’t burn his lungs. his chest feels lighter than it’s been in years.

that seems a little too good to be true.

"you’re kidding me. this sucks.”

suguru makes a kind of face like he’s pouting, plopping down in the seat right next to gojo’s. the white haired boy stretches his limbs out and huffs, pretending the sight in front of him doesn't send a tremor running through his very soul.

suguru continues to speak and gojo continues to listen, all while observing the scenery in front of him.

the airport looks familiar. through the glass windows he can see a glimmer of the blue sky, and a plane waiting to take flight into the clouds. the air smells of summer and jet fuel and new beginnings. it’s pleasantly cool, a light breeze caressing his skin and coaxing a hum from the confines of his throat.

(he remembers this airport. remembers having his arms full of vending machine snacks, trailing after suguru as he dealt with all the annoying technicalities. amanai was there, too, watching a plane soar up into the sky with childlike wonder. a little anxious, as she boarded the plane to okinawa, and then back to tokyo.

her first and last flight.)

suguru is there, right next to him, and he’s speaking. breathing. like something out of a dream, the kind that always haunts gojo in his sleep.

he breathes in, and then out.

suguru is there. and not just him – nanami and haibara are, too. all young, all dead. all somehow breathing; he sees them inhale and he sees them exhale. he hears them speak and it’s like nothing ever changed.

they speak of regrets, of south and of north. nanami doesn’t seem to regret a single thing, and gojo is glad. even yaga is there, he notices belatedly. even amanai, and her maid, and a certain man with a scar on his bottom lip. everyone all together again.

the airport buzzes with warmth. nostalgia, as suguru’s laughter rings in his ears. and gojo grins, in tandem, bright and childlike. wallowing in the tender atmosphere.

the sight in front of his eyes is perfect, he thinks. absolutely perfect. a glimmer of spring, one he never quite managed to forget. a vibrant flicker of blue, one he thought he’d lost forever.

his one and only blue spring of youth, right in front of his all-seeing eyes.

a little too good to be true.

with a sigh, gojo stretches idly, smiling a little to himself. his joints don’t ache, his head isn’t buzzing with fatigue, and his heart feels lighter than it's been in recent memory.

“now i’m hoping this isn’t a dream,” he hears himself mutter, allowing his eyes to flutter shut at last. he can still see suguru’s cursed energy, and everyone else’s. he isn’t alone. what a nice thought.

and it’s strange, gojo thinks. it really is. he’s dead. sukuna killed him. he’s dead, his remains are lying somewhere in the streets of shinjuku, and that should bother him. he should be punching the floor and screaming, cursing sukuna’s name with every fiber of his being — it should frighten him, the realization that everything has ended.

but it doesn’t.

gojo isn’t afraid. and he isn’t upset, either. he bears no grudge against anyone, just like that day twelve years ago.

he’s with suguru, now, and his juniors. his old teacher. the people he cares for are with him, and the airport smells so nice. everyone is young, and happy, and none of them will ever have to kill or be killed again.

calling it anything less than heaven would be doing it a disservice.

gojo smiles, exhaling a relieved breath. one he hadn’t realized he’d been holding til now, stuck in the back of his throat for the past decade. a tiny thought makes it to the forefront of his brain, like a spring breeze flitting in through an open window.

like this, he thinks, i could die with no regrets.

“— except that’s not true.” a voice proclaims. “is it?”

gojo opens his eyes.

suguru looks at him. everything goes silent. everyone else has already gone blurry, a little faded, as if they aren’t what’s really important. as if the entire world has narrowed down to just this; him, and suguru, in the corner of an airport too precious for words. that one decisive slice of heaven.

suguru opens his mouth, and speaks, and his voice has a finality to it that fills gojo with a mellow kind of dread.

they look into each other’s eyes, and both know what’s coming.

“the students are outclassed.” suguru rests his chin on the heel of his palm. ”you said it yourself — sukuna wasn’t giving it his all when he fought you. he still has more than a couple cards up his sleeve, doesn’t he? like his incarnation.”

gojo listens to suguru speak, not saying a word.

“they’re no match for him,” he continues, unperturbed. “all of them are going to die. every single one.”

suguru leans back in his chair, still looking straight into gojo’s eyes. seeing through him, gaze filled with a certain sharpness. a little cruel, but there’s a kindness there, too. as if he’s simply ripping the band-aid off, trying to make it as painless as possible.

he clicks his tongue.

“and you still haven’t buried my body, either.”

a moment passes. then two.

gojo smiles to himself, rueful. a little saddened.

“.. damn,” he grins, weakly. leaning back in his chair, slumping against the soft leather. “couldn’t you have kept indulging me for just a bit longer?”

suguru smiles. a soft thing, in the flicker of the light. a little too good to be true. “sorry,” he chimes. “but the plane is leaving soon.”

as if on cue, the pa system sounds.

flight to okinawa; departing in nineteen minutes.

“it hasn’t left, yet,” suguru hums, and it sounds like an inevitability. ringing in gojo’s ears. “you know what that means, don’t you?”

he does. he does, but it still hurts. gojo looks into suguru’s eyes, and sees himself reflected in them — young, transparent. blue. fading, but not quite faded. not quite dead.

and maybe it’s to be expected. maybe he was just trying to delude himself into believing the alternative, into believing that an afterlife as sweet as this could really be waiting for him. maybe it was naive, a childish fantasy.

but still —

”haah.” a heavy exhale, fatigued. gojo slumps even further into his seat, squeezing his eyes shut. running a hand through the soft strands of his hair. ”oh, gimme a break. and here i thought i could finally relax for once.”

a chuckle flows from suguru’s lips, amused. ”you aren’t the type to go down like that,” he murmurs. ”c’mon, satoru. there are still things you need to do.”

”how?” gojo scoffs. ”i’m split in half. and i’m too exhausted to use my reverse cursed technique.”

”eh,” suguru shrugs. ”you’ll manage.”

gojo shoots him a dubious look. ”you’re acting like it’s a papercut,” he huffs, crossing his arms. ”my guts are on the fuckin’ pavement.”

”oh, quit your complaining already," suguru rolls his eyes, and shoots him an accusatory glance. "i died with a hole through my chest. at least your heart is still intact.”

”i wanted to make it painless for you!”

”well, it hurt like a bitch. so thanks for that.”

gojo pouts, fighting back a smile. he thinks suguru must be doing the same. and it’s juvenile, a little twisted — but then again, weren’t they always?

suguru cocks his head. beckoning gojo into taking action. ”you’ve still got some fight left in you,” he says, and there’s a fondness to it. ”you always do.”

”get up, satoru.”

silence. unbroken, unperturbed. if he focuses enough, he thinks he can hear the distant buzzing of cicadas, the crinkling of soda cans. the whistling of the wind. placebos; memories ghosting his subconscious.

it’s quiet, for a while. gojo stares into space, blinking slowly. then he parts his lips.

”suguru.”

the boy in question turns towards him. but gojo looks up, instead — eyes set on the roof, like he’s trying to see beyond it. into the comfort of the blue sky.

suguru hums, a cue for him to follow. and gojo closes his eyes.

”i think… i might be tired.”

silence. no one says a thing.

”i think i’d prefer to stay here,” he admits, a forlorn look in his eyes. tapping his fingers on his knee. ”in the past, like this.”

the scent of jet fuel and summer lies heavy in the air. gojo inhales it, greedy. as if savouring it. trying to make it a part of his being, filling his lungs with sweet nostalgia so it never goes away.

”we could just stay here. together,” he muses, barely above a whisper. there’s a kind of longing to the tilt of his voice, something soft. ”couldn’t we? never moving forward, or back.”

the words taste salty, on his tongue. an ocean breeze. a whisper; ”we could just stay like this.”

suguru’s gaze trails from satoru, down to his lap. his bangs follow the slow movement, silky strands falling over his eye. the chuckle that drifts from his lips doesn’t have much humour to it.

”haha… you’ve never been the type to stay in one place for too long, satoru.”

gojo clenches his fist.

a moment passes.

”you want me to go back,” he hears himself say, somewhat bitter. ”you want me to go back, and then what? there’s nothing i can do. i’m not the strongest, anymore.”

”you are.” suguru’s voice is firm, decisive. ”you can still win. you know exactly what you need to do. there’s only one way to get out of this.”

gojo sighs. one hand in his hair, tousling it. mildly frustrated. ”… it’s risky.”

”you’re bleeding out.”

”if i do this — i won’t ever be the same.” gojo turns to look at suguru. ”i sure as hell won’t be the strongest, anymore.”

”and would that be such a bad thing?”

silence. the two boys look at each other — one dead, one half-alive, both connected to the other. for eternity. suguru’s eyes are full of understanding, as they look into the blue of satoru’s.

”there’s always been a gap between you and everyone else. that’s what you said, before. aren’t you tired of it?”

a brief intake of breath. gojo closes his eyes.

that’s right. that aching gap. the solitude that comes with absolute strength — a weight he’s borne all his life. doomed never to connect with others, never to be understood. doomed to always live in the sky, far away from the earth and the ocean.

the title of the strongest. a cross he alone had to bear.

(did he ever really want it? or was he just resigned to it, conditioned from the very beginning?)

the feeling of isolation that’s been haunting him for decades seeps into his skin. the cruel knowledge that no one will ever truly know him; even worse, the knowledge that it’s all for the best. you can admire a flower, and help it bloom, but you can’t ask it to understand you.

such a cruel curse to be born with.

suguru’s voice fills his mind, his senses. the flicker of his cursed energy is gentle, like an ocean wave rolling in right before the sun sets. ”you said it yourself, satoru.” gojo can hear the smile in his voice. ”you love everyone.”

love. it always comes down to that, doesn't it? the greatest curse of them all.

(but he could never bring himself to fully throw it away.)

”there are still people waiting for you, out there,” suguru reminds him. and gojo knows that he’s right.

he still hasn’t buried suguru’s body. that thing is still inside his head, doing god knows what. and his students — they must be fighting sukuna, right now. if he’s lucky, no one’s dead yet. if he’s lucky. then there’s shoko, of course. and ijichi, everyone else from the school.

not just that — the world itself is waiting on him. waiting for him to pass on, so it can crumble away. waiting for him to make it, so he can stitch it back together.

dying isn’t a luxury satoru gojo can afford. he knows that, he does, but —

(dammit.)

”suguru,” he starts, hesitant. voice more feeble than he ever remembers it sounding. almost childlike, in its uncertainty. “what… should i do, from here on out?” a beat. ”where should i go?”

suguru raises a single eyebrow, and then tilts his head. ”do you really need me to tell you that?” he asks, a little teasing. gojo’s reply is instantaneous.

”i do.”

the airport falls silent, again.

”i’ll listen to you,” he elaborates, tapping the edge of his chair, absentminded. eyes shining with a glimmer of something awfully tender. ”so… it has to be you.”

suguru inhales, softly — fresh air wafting through his transparent lungs. breathing out in a meek chuckle, with a soft shake of his head. almost in disbelief. ”well, in that case…”

a smile. he meets gojo’s gaze. ”then i think you should go north.”

gojo looks into his eyes. a moment passes, slow, detached from space and time. a moment that matters more than anything. their eyes meet, and in suguru’s eyes, gojo sees a reflection of their youth.

what a shame.

”alrighty, then.”

placing his palms on his knees, the white haired man gets up from his seat. stretching his arms with a soft groan. a sigh flows from his lips, drifting out into the clear air.

”so much for finally getting a vacation,” he huffs, frowning as he casts a jealous glance at his best friend. ”you dead people have it easy, you know that?”

suguru’s still smiling, but he’s not getting up from his seat. the pa system sounds, again. a little louder this time.

flight to okinawa; departing in six minutes.

a deep breath. air flows into his lungs, and then back out; soaking up the summer air he knows he’ll never quite get a taste of again. no summer will ever feel as warm as this one did.

suguru stays right where he is. young, dead. smiling. the same smile he wore when gojo killed him, framed by the setting sun. the same kind of sunset that’s beginning to form outside the translucent windows of the airport, nostalgic and sweet, dyeing the clouds in a soft pinkish hue.

it’s breathtaking.

”will i see you?” gojo asks, before he can stop himself. eyes still stuck to the setting sun. ”when everything ends.”

…

suguru chuckles, once more. rueful. gojo thinks it sounds just a bit meek, a little like he’s holding back tears. ”maybe,” he breathes, shrugging halfheartedly. not meeting his eyes. ”who knows?”

it’s not the answer gojo wants to hear. but he’ll take what he can get.

and finally, suguru gets up. slowly, methodically. elegant, in the way he moves, the way he brushes non-existent dust off his baggy pants. smiling, hair swaying softly with the breeze. gojo finds his gaze, and that smile shifts into a lazy grin. one so distinctly suguru that it can’t possibly be just a figment of his imagination.

”don’t find out too soon,” he quips, teasingly. ”alright?”

a slap. gojo doesn’t see it coming, and it knocks him forward — he stumbles slightly, lanky legs moving clumsily, sunglasses falling off at the impact. his back stings, a little.

over his shoulder, he looks back at suguru. the boy has a hand raised, and his grin is playful, brimming with warmth. except he’s no longer a boy — now he’s wearing traditional robes, hair much longer, face a little more hardened. but that grin is still the same as ever. gojo thinks he looks almost proud.

”go get ’em, satoru.”

gojo blinks.

the grin that breaks out across his lips, then, is wide. bright, brimming with youth, lighting up every corner of his face. almost overwhelmingly sweet. it envelops his very being, as he stands there, clad in his black compression shirt and baggy pants. hair a little less messy than it was in high school, face a little more hardened — but he hopes his grin, at least, looks the same as ever.

he turns his back on suguru, and puffs out his chest. trying to hide the sappy smile still lingering on his lips, the glassiness of his eyes. his voice comes out loud, cheery, echoing throughout the airport — but still somehow so tender.

”roger that!”

gojo looks ahead. the airport is blurred, a little hazy, but a bright light shines farther up ahead. a beacon for him to follow, one that blinds him if he looks at it for too long. blue, white, golden — the colours of the sky. beckoning him forward, to a familiar place.

he takes one step north.

”ah, satoru. one more thing.”

the sound of suguru’s voice stops him in his tracks. ”hm?” gojo turns on his heel, white hair tousled by the soft breeze. a little confused. ”what is it now?”

suguru grins. the whole airport smells like spring.

”—, — —.”

…

one long, tender moment passes by. gojo doesn’t even breathe, mouth falling open slightly, in a way that must look comical to the man in front of him.

the airport glimmers like a marble in the sun. transparent, blurred, but still somehow so real. suguru’s words echo in his mind.

then gojo laughs, the sound bubbling up from his throat like seafoam on a scorching summer day. hearty and deep, coaxed out from the very bottom of his gut — genuine. a little breathless. he can’t wipe away the grin on his face, wouldn’t do it even if he could. his blue eyes crinkle, as he looks at suguru, showing off his dimples and teeth.

”so corny,” he teases. suguru rolls his eyes.

”hey, don’t blame me. this is your imagination.”

a huff slips from his lips. ”yeah, yeah…” gojo waves him off. then he meets his eyes, again, still grinning boyishly. ”i’ll hold you to that, okay?”

”got it,” suguru chirps. ”good luck out there, satoru.”

”pssh. who do you think you’re talking to?”

the men exchange smiles, one final time. funny, how that’s always how their story ends; with a heartfelt smile. even if it’s coated in blood, or nothing more than a figment of their imagination.

then gojo turns around, again, and takes a step forward. not looking back this time. trusting suguru to still be there, watching over him. like always.

the bright light at the end of the airport glimmers, tantalizing, mesmerizing. suguru is right — there’s only one way to get out of this. only one way to make it back alive.

and it’s risky. very much so. it’s a gamble, the greatest one gojo’s ever made, even worse than that time twelve years ago with the reverse cursed technique.

it’s a gamble, all or nothing.

binding vows are dangerous, fickle things. built on equivalent exchange. give something and get something, of equal value. sacrifice and gain.

gojo’s thought about it, before. a morbid curiosity.

what could he possibly gain by offering the greatest treasure of the jujutsu world?

he lifts one hand up, to caress his face. lingering over the skin of his eyelids, now closed. but he can still see the cursed energy around him. burned into his retinas.

the six eyes. the blessing of sight.

a blessing. a blessing he never once asked for, one he was simply born with. born with all this power, doomed to live above the rest. all for a pair of eyes that never seem to see the things that really matter.

and, really, it’s a gamble.

gojo takes a deep breath, and then one large step forward.

(buddha left the royal life behind him at 29 years of age, he recalls. and then he sought out enlightenment.)

the light comes closer, and closer. lotus flowers bless his path. he takes seven steps forward, and his path blooms out before him; one flower blooming by his feet for every step he takes. seven steps north.

i’ll give you everything, he speaks to the someone watching the world. a god, a natural order, himself — it doesn’t really matter. i’ll give you all six.

in exchange —

the light is close, now. so close he can almost touch it. it burns his skin, but he doesn’t falter. he doesn’t look away, eyes seeing through the blindness and reaching out for something. something alive.

don’t let me die, he bargains. give me enough of it to kill him.

i still have things i need to do.

one more step, out of the airport —

(and satoru gojo makes a sacrifice.)

a binding vow is made.

the six eyes dissipate, like vapour drifting off into the darkness of a never-ending cosmos.

when gojo opens his eyes, he’s met with a cold, gray sky.

the world shifts on its axis before him.

everything looks different. he can’t see, but he can, it’s just not the same as before. it’s naked, and raw, and surface-level. not enough to sink his teeth into.

he can still see cursed energy, feel the flicker of it all around him, but it’s hazy. it’s not clear enough, not enough for him to get a good grasp on — like the world lost its saturation. like everything got tilted slightly to the left. an eerie feeling that something isn’t as it should be.

and wow, okay. this is new.

but gojo parts his lips, weakly, and breathes in — and the air tastes the same as ever. cold, crispy. it fills his lungs and he exhales it through his nose. a human act. a breath of life.

i’m still alive.

it’s an odd feeling, like someone took a heavy weight off his shoulders. like someone stripped him of everything that makes him him. an strange sensation, heavy, entirely impossible to ignore. however —

the gain after the loss hits him almost immediately, embracing him with a burst of cursed energy so violently overwhelming that his sight becomes entirely irrelevant. it devours his very being.

everything becomes a blur.

— i’ll give you everything.

so, in exchange…

give me enough cursed energy to go on a good rampage.

the cursed energy within him spikes, so sudden and violent that gojo fears his skin might break open. buzzing like flies inside his veins, a vibrant burst of life, every colour in the universe. all the power one can expect from willingly casting away the greatest jewel of the jujutsu world.

gojo moves his fingers. he can feel them, finally — all limbs intact. positive cursed energy flows from his brain, no longer exhausted beyond comprehension. enough, more than enough to give him access to every possibility within his soul.

belatedly, he realizes that his sight isn’t the only thing that’s been weakened. the control he’s grown so used to having over his cursed energy is dwindling, and fast; that firm grip seems to have left with the six eyes, replaced by a set of shaky hands. gojo has experience, and for now, it’s enough. but he still has to concentrate to contain the nearly overwhelming flicker of his cursed energy, stinging his skin as if it can’t fully be contained by his body anymore. prickling his veins. it feels a little like trying to keep water from running through the gaps between your fingers.

and he feels naked, in a way, suddenly living without something that defines his very being. a little hollowed out. a little wrong, like someone reached a hand through his ribs and pulled out his heart.

but damn, does it feel good.

his cursed energy output is all-encompassing. his mind feels more clear than he ever remembers it being, and it’s like the world is at his fingertips. something similar to what he felt twelve years ago, but still so different.

it isn’t ascension, not even close. quite the opposite. but that feeling of freedom is still so abundant. it’s all he can see before him; endless possibilities.

twelve years ago, satoru gojo faced a certain man, and rose to the skies. he will never, ever forget it. that flicker of eternal solitude, the burst of overwhelming euphoria. that sense of everything being just right.

twelve years of living in the sky, and now his feet meet the ground, at last.

everything feels different. everything looks different. things won’t be the same, ever again — but maybe, suguru was right. maybe that’s not such an awful thing.

to be reborn. to be given a choice.

gojo opens his eyes, and finally takes in all the sights before him. everything happens in a blur, so fast he can barely catch up — his body acts before his mind, and suddenly he’s face to face with sukuna.

not megumi, but sukuna. fully incarnated.

and he looks displeased. almost frustrated.

”how?”

the look of pure shock on his face is more satisfying than gojo could ever put into words; the satisfaction of seeing a king fall to his knees.

somewhere in the background, he thinks he hears a cacophony of voices, awfully familiar in a way that has warmth blooming in his chest. the students, he assumes — voices of shock, and something he tentatively recognizes as relief. but he doesn’t have the time to let his guard down, just yet.

(no matter how much he’d like to look back at them and give them a self-assured peace sign, bask in their smiling faces.)

instead, he answers sukuna. ”a binding vow,” he grins, and he thinks he must look a little manic, gesturing towards his eyes with his thumb. ”gave these puppies away. didn’t expect that, did’ya?”

sukuna looks at him, for a second.

then he laughs, loud and ugly, grotesque. taunting. he looks at gojo with something that almost resembles pity, something bordering on disappointment.

”pathetic,” he spits, all teeth. ”what good is living if it’s not at the top?”

gojo simply smiles.

he recalls that one question. eleven years ago, somewhere close to the ruins of the very street he’s standing in now. the question that flipped his entire world upside down.

(are you the strongest because you’re satoru gojo? or are you satoru gojo because you’re the strongest?)

a grin breaks out across his lips. his cursed energy pulsates inside his veins, eager to be let loose, and he takes on a fighting stance. parting his lips to speak, unsure of whose question he’s answering.

”well, we’re about to find out.”

the sky is gray, grayer than ever. even so, all he can see is that familiar shade of blue. as clear as it’s always been, even without the six eyes.

gojo smiles.

just keep watching, suguru.

this time, i definitely won’t lose.