#yet it catchs up. its like; the despair to change things and of having only one last chance;

[darabeatha]

𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓'𝐒 𝐏𝐄𝐂𝐔𝐋𝐈𝐀𝐑 𝐀𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐋?

Your soul is... Volatile .

There is a deep, painful energy harbored within this soul... At its very core festers malice, and a deeply rooted pain that craves nothing more but to inflict itself onto everything around it. Special care has been given to it- to stop examiners from coming into any harm should they draw too near to it. You coil like a serpent, awaiting a moment to strike. To claim your revenge.

It never comes.

[evilvvithin]

silent despair

pairing : john seed x reader (i wrote it as f!deputy!reader but it turned out to be gn too) warnings : blood and injury | implied sex but not detailed | love hate | possessiveness word count: 2,497 summary: What would happen if John was the one to survive the collapse? ➤ AO3 link | masterlist

In the first moments of coming back to your senses, the mix of strong cologne and smoke hit your nose. The air seemed heavy, almost hard to breathe and you felt like suffocating. Taking a deep breath, a sharp pain shot through your ribs and made you yelp out in surprise.  "Finally," a familiar voice filled the silence and ringed inside your aching head.  Stars danced at the edges of your vision as you tried to sit up. As if a restless swarm of bees was inside your skull, causing it to vibrate uncomfortably. Arms and legs numb you had to look down at your limbs to make sure they were really moving when you told them to. They weren't. Your hands handcuffed to the metal leg of the bunk bed, you tried to wrestle against them with no luck. "Still eager to fight despite your situation, I see. Some things about you never change, deputy."

You felt venom in his voice, anger, hidden behind his kind and peaceful mask he called a face. He smiled widely as he walked towards you, squatting down to your level. 

"Where-"

"Shhh sh sh."

His eyes piercing through you, fingers trailing the handcuffs, the stupid smile on his face. The time stopped and your eyes gazed down to his shirt which used to be blue. Just like his eyes. Now it was almost completely covered in dried blood. Pushing away the thoughts of kicking your knee into his stomach for tying you up, you wondered what had happened, looking around the room you were in for any clues.

He noticed how you calmed down, how your eyes jumped across his chest and the walls behind him. Looking for his bunker key at his now bruised chest. Pulling out another key from his pocket, he freed your hands but grabbed your wrists immediately, squeezing them painfully. You hissed in reaction, but got the message - don't do anything stupid. You didn’t even plan to. You just wanted to know what happened as your own memory was failing you due to its fogginess. Checking your ribs for any wounds or source of the pain you felt after waking up, a loud explosion deafened you and the whole room started to vibrate, dust falling down from the ceiling. There was your answer to what happened. The pictures of mushroom cloud, fire and death blinked through your head. All the screaming, pain… your friends… 

"The collapse," John looked up, the same smile on his face still. "Joseph was right, you know? He knew the whole time… my brother…" 

The mask of the baptist started to fade away - he didn't have to pretend anymore. The smile slowly disappeared as his whole expression hardened, jaws clenched. His eyes glowing with rage, but there was something else.

Sadness. Softness.

Cursing through gritted teeth, he grabbed you by the edge of your shirt and forced you up against the wall, hand squeezing your throat right after.

"You killed them. If only you listened to them! We could’ve been - “ 

The pressure built up in your head from the lack of air and vision started to blur, yet you didn't try to fight his hand.

"Doesn’t matter. Tell me one reason I shouldn't do the same to you!" 

His voice was calm but still sounded like a yell to you. You started to half laugh half cough, making his eyebrows furrow even more in fury. He was killing you with his gaze, not his hands. In his mind his hands squeezed your throat hard. Knuckles on his hand white, he’d release the grasp so you could catch a single breath just to cut your wind pipe again.

Oh, he would do so many things to you. 

"Why didn't you? Before?" You coughed. "You had so many chances."

He sighed and let go of you by throwing you further into the wall, though not so aggressively as before to kick air out of your lungs. You knew he had the reply, knew why he didn't kill you when he had the chance. But he wouldn't admit it. 

Would you? Would you admit why you didn’t kill him when you had so many chances?

John knew well you chose to hunt his siblings down rather than him. Playing cat and mouse, but both of you were the cat.  Lots of unfulfilled threats that led only to one thing - the collapse. You being stuck with him in a bunker underground. 

The longer you tried to keep standing against the wall, the more your muscles burned. The desire to lay down, close your eyes again and forget about everything again was overwhelming but you were determined to not show any kind of weakness. Your coughing and laughing filled the room. Have you lost your mind? Are you really gonna be down here with John? It wasn’t like you could change it. 

You didn’t want to. 

The shirt started to stick to your skin where you felt the sharp pain before. Your fingers felt the wetness when touching it and you didn't have to look down to know what it was. 

"Come."

Following John to the table across the room, you were sure your legs would fail you any step you took. He was watching you - was it a concerned look you saw on his face? Your blurry vision playing tricks on you? 

He was in fact concerned, watching every step of yours ready to grab your arm for support whenever you were about to fall. He didn't want you to know, he didn't want you to see his soft side. Not yet. He liked to believe he had none except for his brothers - he was lying to himself the whole life. He always had a soft side, buried deep inside him. Abandoned by his choice. Softness had no place in the life he lived before Eden’s Gate. No place in Eden’s Gate. It was a weakness and he locked everything making him weak deep inside. 

Till you showed up and made him weak. Vulnerable. He hated you for it, but at the same time admired you. You were untamed, wild fire that could make him both weak and strong and he realized rather quickly that capturing you like the others would not help him get stronger, no. You required a different approach. Approach that he thought he would never be able to do - to have feelings for someone, to feel vulnerable. 

The mutual feelings of you two, the connection of your souls and leadership - that’s what he visioned in his dreams. How perfect you two would be for Eden’s gate. At first, it seemed like a great plan, but the further John tried to make you join him, the more he started to care about you. Did he care about you more than about the project? No, he would never… He doubted himself in that question. Nevertheless he’d make everything work in the end. And he did, without even trying to. 

Grabbing bandages out of the emergency box, he waited for you to raise your shirt enough to expose the cut. Starting at your ribcage going down your belly, it wasn't deep but it was bleeding a lot.

"Just do it quick." 

Swallowing your pride, you let him circle you, touch you, wrapping the bandage all around your torso. Feeling his warm touch on your bare skin, you never realized how soft his hands could be. You believed all they could inflict was pain and torture.

"Want it harder?" 

The stupid smile on his face.

"Fuck you, John."

~~~

"You'll get us both killed!" John hissed  and caught your hand that tried to steal the bunker key from his neck. He started to wear it with him at all times since you found the spot where he hid it. And he was way more alert during sleeping than you thought. 

Saving your life and you still tried to get away from him, still fought him. Still… after all the days you two spent in close proximity. Or was it weeks? He liked it at times though. It spiced things a bit here under the ground, but he'd still rather receive obedience from you. Just like his followers in Hope County… but you weren't one of them. The knuckles whitened on his hand and you squinted as his grip became painful. The harder he held your wrist, the more you squeezed the key in your hand being as stubborn as you were usually, refusing to let go of it.

"Go then, do as you want." 

You almost lost balance and fell down at his chest when he released your hand. The tone of his voice was vile but the sparkle of hope that shined in your eye overcame everything else. You looked down at the key and hope was quickly replaced with a darker feeling - reality. John scoffed and murmured something to himself as the key landed back on his chest. 

You didn't want to die. Not today at least.

~~~

Warm breeze locked the naked skin of your upper body. The blanket must've slid down while you were sleeping. 

A breeze of fresh air… in a bunker? 

John's fingertips trailed up and down your arm softly, thinking he was gentle enough to not wake you up. His movements were slow, lazy. Your heartbeat raised a little and you hoped it wouldn't reveal you were awake. Your back turned to him, you laid still and your breath was shallow. His breath was warm against your skin. He seemed to be murmuring something to himself but you couldn't make a single word out. He was humming some kind of melody. 

All kinds of scenarios rushed through your head when he pulled the edge of your shirt down your shoulder. Pretend to be asleep no matter what? Then you'd be allowing whatever he planned on doing. Jump up and slap the soul out of him? Maybe, but you wouldn't know what he wanted to do… and mainly, why. 

Did you want him to stop? 

Did you want him to know you were awake?

The adrenaline rushed through your body as your mind was filling up with certain scenarios, making you change position in an attempt to hide it. John's hand retrieved and his murmuring stopped. You felt his gaze boring into the side of your head. Leaning closer to your face, his hot breath tickled your ear. If you turned around, you could taste his lips easily. Before you could do something you might regret later, the weight on the bed behind you disappeared as John walked away, silent like a cat. 

You were left alone with your cheek and ear burning, the gentle touch of his fingers still printed on your skin. It's been so long since you experienced any kind of intimacy, kindness in general. Past few months were nothing but an exhausting fight for your life and the lives of the other members of resistance. The few joyful moments that occurred? You were too tired to appreciate and enjoy them fully. Cursing yourself you didn't do anything when John was creeping above you, you played with the scenarios in your head for as long as sleep didn't take your consciousness away. 

~~~

"What did you do to Hudson?!" Blood was coming out of your mouth from John's punch, but the rage you felt numbed all possible pain. "You bastard!"

Him and his typical maniac smile. 

Everytime you two met before the collapse and fought each other, he had this smile on his face whenever you could've ended him. Laughing. Not really fighting you back. Almost like he wanted to die… or he didn't care if he did at least. Or he knew you couldn't kill him. He knew it and laughed at the absurd power he had over you. You hated him for it, you hated him because he was right.

"Hudson's gone now anyway, isn't she? What's all this about, then?"

Clenching your fists around the edge of his coat, half choking him with the fabric cutting into his throat, you stopped in your rage for long enough to think about what he said. You hated to admit it but he was right. 

He seemed to always be right.

Things that happened before the collapse? They were all meaningless now. What really mattered was this bunker, you, him and the danger levels outside. Were you truly angry about what he did to Hudson or did you just want a reason to start a fight with him? Did he want to start a fight when he told you, out of nowhere? 

Taunting, teasing, getting expected reactions from others just to remind himself he has power over them. Power to manipulate through emotions. Maybe he truly believed he was emotionless and nothing bothered him except his family - he lied to himself the whole time. He cared too much about you. He could've had you at any time before. Yet he didn't take you, no. He didn't want to take you, he wanted you to need him. To desire him. Give up to him. 

John grabbed your wrists to make you let go of his coat, his face unchanged. The smile… he won. He had all the reasons to smile - you were here with him, craving him, needing to feel the warmth of his body. The burst of emotions. There was no need to say it out loud. Letting your arms go limp in his hands, you leaned closer to his face. 

"Fuck you, John." 

Raising one of his eyebrows, the smile only grew bigger. 

"That's exactly what I was thinking," he let your hands go and pulled you closer by the back of your neck. 

You let yourself fall into the kiss - like a boat going down the river you didn't try to go against the stream at all. You still hated him but what you felt for him was growing stronger. Something you could not define with simple words. The iron taste of your blood filled your mouth and your tongue found his. The taste was somewhat hypnotizing, driving you further into the kiss. 

The satisfied grunt from John didn't surprise you a bit. You had an idea he'd like the taste of blood. That it'd turn him on. Violence in general. You heard the stories about Hudson and other Falls End people that managed to escape his bunker. You were there yourself after all, you spent more time with him than you'd like to imagine. 

It was all your choice - to let him live every time, let him get close to you. Let yourself fall for him. Let your lust win.

As the clothes on you both fell down to the ground piece by piece, you weren't bothered by the chilling air. You were on fire, you both were. Fire that needed to be put down and only one way of doing so. Everything about it was rough. Maybe you were still trying to kill each other but then decided not to, over and over again. 

Hate and anger being overcome by love and lust and it made you want to get lost in the moment forever. Get lost in John.

Your fingertips copied the edges of his scars, his skin still rough on touch from all the bruises that didn’t heal yet. The moans resonating within the thick concrete walls sounded like they were miles away from you - silenced by you replaying all your past choices that led you to this moment. 

Your nails clawed into one of his fresh scars causing John to whimper in both pain and pleasure. You didn’t do it on purpose. He knew. He felt the same joy, the same pleasure as you causing him to twitch and grasp onto you uncontrollably. It was like an out of body experience - like a bottle being constantly filled with water for years before finally overflowing and exploding. Exploding and being free. 

You both were finally naked in front of each other - no more lying about your feelings, no more hiding of your thoughts. No secrets. 

Bruises forming on the soft skin of your neck where John buried his head into, the sweat of your bodies becoming one. The jolts of pleasure shooting through your body, heavy panting, trembling. 

"I haven't forgiven you, John."

"I know."

[spontaneousglitterbees]

[DRV3 Postgame AU Masterpost]

Sorry it's taking me a bit to answer asks, I read every one and cherish them -! I'd figured I'd doodle a bit in the answers, but then ah. This one changed course from 'whats up with shuichi' to 'actually we're overdue for exposition'.

Oh, backstory?

Since Class 79 is at Hope's Peak For Real in this AU, Danganronpa can't very well be like canon. Our solution: infighting, sabotage, and plenty of Drama! Discussion under the cut.

I'd call it a non-Despair AU; the world's not over, and I'm currently thinking V3 is the only killing game at this point in the timeline, catalyzed by good old-fashioned envy (and, truthfully, indignation that strangers get to live out your fantasy while you and your friends are stuck in the building next door... the nerve!) Our mastermind isn't exactly a master hacker, but she's also not working alone. This Team Danganronpa isn't trying to physically harm anyone, but showing off their collective capacity to coordinate and maintain a takeover like this is bound to catch the administrator's eye. All press is good press, and there's a lot (of investor funding, mostly) riding on stories of TAPP's success, so HPA is incentivized to intervene ASAP. The team did not account for the aftershocks of making their peers virtually kill each other. Rantaro is having memory issues, Miu has to catch her breath (to her chagrin), Kiibo doesn't have a body, Kokichi has his cane... and that's just the beginning.

Whoops.

TAPP is kind of like "what if instead of synthetically pouring all of the talents into just the one dude, we experimented on some charity cases to see if we can just artificially build an Ultimate from the ground-up". The tech in the flashback-lights is definitely at play here, though HPA proper wasn't planning on a full memory wipe/personality override (but kept the theoretical capability in their back pocket in case things went south as Advanced Gaslighting) but uh. A bunch of highschoolers took hold of the controls, which is how you get a bunch of kids that sound like characters. They still are.

In this case, Team DR is like at least 3 at most 10 disgruntled teens in the Reserve Course tired of being overlooked. More looking for mischief than harm, but hey, if they can convince the interlopers being Ultimates isn't worth it and they should leave the school after all this and free up the floorspace? They won't argue. One of the things that strikes me about DR as a series is how its internal logic is less concerned with logistics than matching the emotional weight of what it can be like to be growing up and going through high school, so I'm trying to lean in that direction. I'm not completely sure what all this means for the THH and SDR2 crews, precisely, but we'll cross/burn that bridge when we get to it I guess!

This comic taught me a lot of new tools and techniques, hence it feels to me like it took forever but I am super stubborn and couldn't work on something else until the script in my head was actualized, which turned into 'the whole thing being done'.

There's a lot of easter eggs and little jokes in the first page in particular, should you seek them! Consider this another 'cut' in case you want to try and read the Small Handwriting on Rantaro and Miu's desks for yourself.

First:

I already brought up some of them in the WIP so I'll try not to repeat too much and just link here

Kokichi could join the toast, but doesn't (and yet he still sits with everyone). Kiibo doesn't drink anything at all but does want to be in the toast, so he gets a bluetooth speaker. Surely he will blast some vocaloid shortly.

That's Kaito's notebook Kichi is doodling in; Kaito draws a bunch of stars, and I tried to sort-of-almost emulate the drawing on Kichis whiteboard and also get across that it lacks line confidence (sketch over and over the same lines) and he keeps creasing the paper because post-press it doesn't take much activity for his hands to hurt. Also kinda wanted to imply that Kaito not only knows Ouma has his notebook, but probably gave it to him because he's learned it's inevitable Kichi will tease him and draw in it and at least being upfront about it he won't manage to hurt himself trying to steal it (phantom thief or not!) Kokichi's pride is a little hurt at first, but it becomes another of their small routines they don't acknowledge out loud that nevertheless are a kind of familiar comfort for both of them.

Space debris at terminal velocity is no joke man even a paint chip won't just crack your helmet (which you'd only survive via cartoon logic and presumably-magic duct tape) but easily crack your skull at least. I did a project on it in high school once, I should really look for it tbh

Rantaro’s To Do

Set up weekly meeting

Check what is up w/ Kiyo

Make sure Kichi goes to therapy this week

Call Rillianne

Rantaro’s Reminders

Blue: Class

Red: Study

Cyan: ‘Council (or w/e)’

Green: ‘Travel Nerd Time >:P’

Purple: ‘Hang out w/ me ~!’

Orange: Group Project

Yellow: ‘Call ur family this week, srsly’

Miu’s Notes (“Polygraph Improvements”)

Before install into K1-B0’s new body, improve algorithm for fig. (figurative) speech.

Consult Ishimaru?

- Gonta can get in contact

ALSO

I really did make some actual charts based on data from the character bios comparing things like height, birthdate, etc. vs. victim, killer, or survivor status (tho that is a gantt chart template and not filled in, oop). TL;DR the most interesting one to me is this:

Where basically when you account for how many students across the games are stated to have each blood type and the proportion of those students in a certain role, things are pretty even (AB has so few students its bars arent really representative of a trend, I just included them anyway) the type Os are disproportionately likely to be killers. For the record, there's one confirmed type O victim, and it's Nagito. I have no idea what this means. But if I am blursed with this knowledge, now you are too!

The code in tsumugis glasses isnt an easter egg bc i was getting tired and frustrated but the pods are roughly (no kiibo shifts things a bit) in class trial configuration, and on the base layer before all the Rest Of The Panel got added you could kind of tell who's who. Not so much anymore, so: Saihara has his hat on, for the record, and Kokichi is on his side while everyone else is on their back. Might even be a little restless, the feeling of underlying unreality playing substitute for some of (only some of, they're still being monitored) the surveillance anxiety. Fun!

And hey, as always, and especially if you've gotten this far: Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed!

[yes-i-write-fanfiction]

What if the "ideal dream world (TFP)" ask but for the Cons?

Megatron's dream world takes place after the war, with the decepticon's emerging victorious. While he's now the ruler of Cybertron, he steps back and allows others to handle the more political aspect of ruling. He rebuilds Cybertron is his own, ideal image and expands restores it back to its glory days.

As he rules Cybertron, Megatron quickly grows bored. He can't get used to peace, to not having to battle, and he finds himself growing restless. In his boredom he starts to think back to the war, back to Optimus, and that's when he realizes that things don't line up the way they should. Quickly realizes that he's in a simulation and becomes furious. Secretly relieved that it's not real because he doesn't know what to do with himself once the war is over.

Similar to Megatron, in Starscream's dream world he sees himself as the ruler of Cybertron. He rules like a king, sitting upon a large throne and surrounded by his adoring servants and court. Everyone he knows from the real world is there, both dead and alive (Soundwave is his court jester, playing that funny monkey gif). They are all his loyal subjects and thanks him for ending the war and laments that they didn't listen to him sooner. His words are law and everyone loves him.

Gets incredibly upset once he realizes that none of it was real. While yes, he quite enjoyed it, the fact that it was all fake infuriates him. Is his dream just that? A mere dream? Can he only ever obtain it in fantasy, in pretend? The mere thought of it infuriates him and he promises that he's going to get revenge on the fool that dared to trick him.

In Soundwave's dream world, it's early on in the war. He's got the decepticon cause, all his cassettes and Cybertron has not yet fallen. His life has a real purpose, a real tangible goal. The deceptions are stronger and more unified than ever, unified by a desire for freedom.

Soundwave quickly figures out that he's in a simulation once he starts to notice that the war is not really going anywhere. It's static, like it's constantly looping in on itself before anything can change. It's the dream world trying to stay consistent. Escapes the dream world with no problem.

Knockout's dream world takes place in a world where the war never happened. Cybertron is still standing and at peace, with no one having heard of neither autobots nor decepticons. He's working at a large hospital and has a high ranking position, not so high that he's got too much responsibility but not so low that people can walk over him and order him around. He's popular, affluent and quite frankly living his best life.

It takes some time for him to start catching on that something is not right, simply because his dream world is so mundane in comparison to some of the others. But eventually he catches on to the fact that things are not what they appear to be. At first Knockout is not quite sure he wants to return to the real world but then he considers what would happen with his frame if he left it unattended and that scares him into eventually leaving. Not that mad about being stuck in a simulation since he had quite fun and was able to relax for a while.

Breakdown's dream world takes place after the war. There's no more fighting, no more struggling for fuel. And Breakdown, no longer a soldier, decides to officially become a nurse. He's used to hurting people, now he can put them back together. Give back to the world, ya know.

When he learns that it was all a simulation, more than angry, he's sad. In his dream world he finally like he could move on from the war, become someone new, someone better. Yet here he is, stuck where he was, fighting a seemingly endless battle. It's thought that fills him with despair. Breakdown doesn't know how to process sadness that well so he eventually turns it outwards and into anger. He's going to hurt whoever did this to him so he doesn't have to feel hurt himself.

Now, Shockwave's dream world is quite complicated in a way. It's not the ultimate fantasy like Starscream's or the domestic dreams of Knockout. Shockwave is too impersonal for that. Instead his simulation consists of never ending work. Him, alone, in his lab, doing what he does best. He refuels and recharges like he would in real life and if he calls for someone they will come and provide him with whatever assistance he needs but otherwise no one's bothering him.

Figures out pretty quickly that he's in a simulation. He recognizes the patterns, the inconsistencies and immediately knows what is happening. The thing is, he doesn't immediately leave. Shockwave stays in the dream world willingly for an extended time, simply because it allows him to work so efficiently and he gets a lot of research done. Eventually he will leave, he's got work to do in the real world after all, but until then he will take advantage of the situation he's found himself in.

The decepticon's have emerged victorious in Dreadwing's dream world. The war is over and Cybertron is being rebuilt and new cybertronians are emerging. Dreadwing is still a warrior but he's also a teacher and he teaches these young sparks the way of the warrior. They may not have to fight in a war like he did but being a warrior is more than just fighting. It's about discipline, it's about focus and honor and he feels like it's his duty to teach them this.

Feels an intense sorrow when he figures out that he's in a simulation. Before he exits his dream world he says goodbye to all of his students. They may not have been real but he still cared about every single one of them. When they ask him if they're ever going to see him again he replies "In a kind world, yes."

Similar to Soundwave's dream world, Airachnid's takes place during the war, though rather than working for the decepticon cause, she's out and collecting alien specimens on different worlds. Every new world presents a new species, new challenges and new trophies for her collection. She leaves behind her a broken world with only a handful of survivors on each one, left to suffer in the agony she's inflicted upon them.

Airachnid starts to realize that something is going on when the words start to exhibit repeating patterns. The simulation is trying to invent new worlds but eventually it has to reuse previous assets and scenarios. Once Airachnid notices this she quickly realizes what is happening. While a bit miffed she's not really that mad since at least she got to play around for a while, even if it wasn't real. After she breaks out of the simulation she's going to make sure to personally thank the kind soul that did this to her.

[blues824]

Good evening! I saw the post you made and was wondering if you got the obey me brothers with an Izuru Kamukura like mc? Where reader is with Junko and planning to led the world in despair not knowing it's messing up the exchange program, having ultimates up in the human world as Izuri kamukura posses all the talents from being experimented on?

Unless it was sent before December, I did not get it… So here it is!

Gender-neutral reader, described as beautiful. Reader is not yet in the Devildom, and you’ll see why.

Lucifer

He was sent to deal with it as it went against Lord Diavolo’s wish to unite the three realms. So, he went under the veil of the night so that no one would catch him. He entered the school using his magic, and eventually found you and Junko plotting to lead the world in despair.

You, with your ability to predict things with surprising accuracy, did not predict this happening. You were actually quite excited about not foreseeing this, which Junko definitely did not expect considering you were usually emotionless.

It was a fairly easy battle, even though you were experimented on and had a bunch of talents. You tried going up against Lucifer Morningstar… with talents. No wonder you lost sorely. So, as payback, he had a deal to offer you that sounded quite enticing. You would come to the Devildom, a realm full of unpredictability, as the human exchange student. It was truly a dream come true for you, so you accepted the hand that he held out to you, and you were pulled into his chest as he flew you both to the portal between the Human Realm and the Devildom.

Mammon

He was sent to put an end to your little plan as punishment for all the bills that were sent to Lucifer, and he thought it totally wasn’t fair. He used his magic to enter the school, and after being disturbed at how much the school changed once he entered, he eventually walked in on Junko convincing you to turn to despair.

You, for once in your life, smiled because you hadn’t predicted a demon walking into the school. Junko was surprised at you being surprised, but also being surprised at the same thing you were surprised by. A bunch of surprised faces.

Again, quick battle. He wasn’t one of the Avatars of Sin for nothing, after all. Once the fighting was over, he (told) asked if you wanted to come to the Devildom with him as a human exchange student. Mans should have gone into sales because the way he advertised it was super appealing. A world full of shocks and wonders… maybe that isn’t so bad. Once you accepted, he hoisted you over his shoulder and started making his way to the portal.

Leviathan

When Lucifer told the rest of his brothers that there was a problem in the human realm that needed to be resolved and gave details about it, Levi volunteered because there might be a need for Hell’s Navy or Lotan (but also because this scenario reminded him of the game I Got Accepted into this Famous School on Sheer Luck, But It Has Its Dark Secrets.)

When he stumbled upon you and Junko, you smiled because you didn’t see this coming at all. Levi had to admit, you were very attractive. However, this was no time to be falling in love or catching feelings or anything like that. He had a mission.

A mission that he completed within 5 minutes, without summoning back-up. It was pitiful, the way you put your all into the fight only to be beaten in such a short amount of time. As he stood above you, he held his hand out to you and asked if you would come back to the Devildom with him as a human exchange student, and he blushed when you placed your hand into his.

Satan

He was sent because he already knew a lot about the school because he did extensive amounts of research about it. So, obviously, he was the one chosen to do it. He wasn’t surprised, since he believed that his brothers were too incompetent to complete the task.

When he walked in on Junko convincing you to turn to despair, Satan was glad to have gotten there when he did. You turned and looked at him in surprise, meaning that you hadn’t predicted his arrival. That gave him the element of surprise.

It didn’t take too long, since the power of Wrath overpowers any talent that you may have. Sometimes anger can win, and this was one such example. However, as he pinned you to the ground, he got to take in your beauty. He stood up and held his hand out to you, telling you that if you were to accept his hand, you were agreeing you go with him to the Devildom

Asmodeus

He honestly didn’t know why he was sent. It might be because he could use his charm to deescalate the situation without it getting violent, which made sense considering causing too much chaos would put a wrench in Diavolo’s plans to unite the three realms.

You were surprised to see him in the doorway as you and Junko were planning hope’s demise, but what you most definitely didn’t expect was your companion falling for his power. Asmo was really glad that he didn’t put on makeup or acrylics ‘cause he’s gonna fight.

Mans took a little bit since it has been a while, but in about 5 minutes you were down on the ground and gasping for air. Asmo most definitely made a few raunchy jokes, but you just fought without any remarks. Anyways, he totally fell in love with you during the battle somehow (to be fair, he fell in love with us the moment he realized we weren’t affected by his charm). So, he told you about how he would absolutely love it if you came back with him to Devildom, and you accepted his offer. He was overjoyed, to say the least.

Beelzebub

He figured that the reason he was sent to deal with you was because he was the only one probably able to beat you with just his physical strength, but he did have access to his magic if it was necessary. He was pretty confident, though. 

Mans did not hesitate to attack once he located you and Junko inside of the school. He used his Fangol training to tackle you to the ground and stop the plotting. Unfortunately, you used your talents, which provoked him into using his magic to subdue you.

It was fairly easy for him, but as he pinned you to the ground he got an actual good look at you, which caused him to hesitate. This man fell for you hard. Since you were kinda knocked unconscious, he picked you up and brought you back to the Devildom, which in turn started a whole chain of events that we are all familiar with.

Belphegor

Like Asmo, he was sent because everyone thought that he would be able to deescalate the situation without it getting violent. Mans could make you pass out, so he wasn’t too worried. What he didn’t like was that he actually had to go rather than sleep.

He was already grumpy by the time he finally discovered where you and Junko were, so mans just quietly leapt at you and placed his hand on your forehead, making you fall asleep. You were important according to Lucifer, so he decided to let you live. Junko wasn’t as lucky.

Anyways, you woke up in the Devildom, and he gave you the rundown of what was going on, which was where he actually got to see you. He trailed off mid-sentence, occupied with admiring you and the interested look you had on.

[eris090]

Title - Wannabe War Hero

No archive warnings

Ships - Soldier/Spy (Team Fortress 2)

Tags - Anal Sex, Anal Fingering, Oral Sex, Rough Oral Sex, Bottom Soldier, Autistic Soldier, Overstimulation, Multiple Orgasms, Light Sadism, Internalized Homophobia

Description - Spy sees Soldier staring at him and catches on to what Soldier is (🏳️‍🌈) real quick.

Words - 4,642

It was a relatively normal day of ceasefire, as normal as the red barracks got in fact. Scout, pyro and medic were out investigating an unknown creature scout had sworn that he saw but spy was certain was just a vulture or something of the like. Demoman had already passed out and it was only 9 AM, and Sniper was nowhere to be found. This left only the members of the group that spy could actually stand being around in the commons area, most of the noise coming from the polite conversation that Engie was having with Heavy.

Only one thing was out of the ordinary, Soldier.

Soldier was known to be erratic and unpredictable, yes, and Spy supposes that the man's current behavior did fall under those categories. Nonetheless it unsettled him. The man was quiet. The rocket launcher toting, wannabe war veteran was quiet. As far as Spy knew the man only had two modes, fighting, and sleeping. Even off the battlefield he would seemingly always be trying to pick a fight with one of their co-workers. The man was restless, and yet here he was, presumably resting.

The most unusual, and unsettling thing about his behavior however, was the fact that he had been staring at Spy for 10 minutes. Soldier could usually only keep his attention on one thing for a handful of seconds, even less with a sedentary, masked frenchman. At least Spy assumed that Soldier had been looking at him, his head was pointed in his direction, and even though the man's helmet covered his eyes, he could still feel somebody watching him, a feeling that put him on edge despite the ceasefire.

This standoff went on for a solid 15 more minutes, with Spy refusing to relinquish his standoffish demeanor, and Soldier seemingly remaining ignorant to the fact that Spy could tell he was staring at him. Eventually it had to end though. Spy figured if he just approached the man and asked why he was staring at him like he was an introspective art piece, Soldier would finally just say what he was thinking, likely some patriotic drivel about how french Spy was, and the commons area could return to its regular state.

This was not the case.

Spy approached Soldier with his usual arrogant demeanor, the smell of fancy cigarettes wafting off of him and towards the patriot, causing a visible change in his expression. “Soldat!” Spy said in a tone that attempted to be aggressive but would likely be overshadowed by Soldiers' own screaming in a matter of moments. “Could you possibly tell me why you’ve been inspecting me for the past 25 minutes?”

This question brought Soldier out of his lead poisoned head, looking up at Spy with a surprised expression. “25 minutes?! I know time might be different over in the land of bag-ets but-” Soldier began exactly as Spy expected, leading the Frenchman to simply wait out the man's rant, which ended up lasting 2 minutes. “Right…” Spy sighed, looking exasperated at the soldier through his folded hands. “You have yet to answer my question however, soldat...why were you staring at me? I’m sure you have more important things to do with your time.” Spy repeated his question.

“Right!” The patriot replied, sounding sure of himself as always. “I was just admiring your body! Ignoring the fact that you’re French, your muscles are certainly something private!” Soldier finally answered, much to Spys despair and awe. The Frenchman stood frozen for a moment, still processing the words that were just yelled by the most heterosexual looking man he’d ever met. “You- You are such an idiot…” Spy shook his head, his face growing warm underneath his balaclava. Despite his reluctance to ever show it, flattery could get you a long way with the Frenchman.

The grin that was plastered on the soldier's face quickly disappeared at Spys comment, rage now replacing it. “Now you listen here frenchie! I ain't no sissy! Being proud of the fact that I have such strong men on my team just makes me more of a patriot!” Soldier replied, his voice becoming defensive in nature, which made Spy’s intense exasperation fade slightly for amusement.

As much as Spy wanted to retain his pompous (and nonexistent) reputation around the entirety of his team, he couldn’t help but think that Soldier could make for a wonderful distraction from his boredom during this ceasefire. The always self-assured patriot would be marvelous to see fall apart as a part of his sense of self shattered around him. Spy decided to ask a question that would have come off as sarcastic were he talking to anybody but Jane Doe. “Soldier, do you even know what the term homosexual means?”

The question brought Soldier to a pause for a brief moment before his grin returned. “You mean those men that get it on with other men? Those men who have never seen a battlefield in their life? Those men who-” Spy cut him off, lighting his third cigarette of the day in an attempt to stave off his frustration with the lead poisoned lunatic. “Yes, those men.” Spy rolled his eyes. “You do realize most of the men on our team are queer in some way or another right?”

Soldier gaped at the mere insinuation that any of ‘his men’ could be queers, stepping closer to Spy and pressing his finger against the secretive man's chest in an accusatory fashion. “Now you listen here missy, all our co-workers are hard working freedom fighters, all except you apparently, and I will not have you spread unsanitary rumors about them!” Soldier lifted his helmet with one finger to glare at Spy as he spoke.

Spy, in turn, guided Soldiers' eyes over to the Engineer and Heavy, who were sitting slightly too close to each other for it to be considered socially acceptable. It wasn’t the best example, but it was the only one spy had on hand. Soldier scoffed, “Oh please, that's completely normal!” The man defended with complete confidence. This gave Spy an idea as he dropped his cigarette to the floor and stomped it out with his foot, moving closer to Jane in the process.

“So…” Spy reached out and put his hand on Soldier's shoulder, a simple gesture that the patriot likely did not experience often. “Would you consider this normal?” Spy questioned confidently. Soldier did not waver however. “Of course that's normal! Son, I've held men in my arms as they died from their bullet wounds in no-mans-land! Just being close to another man doesn't make men queer! Especially me! Don't test me son, or you'll end up with a mouthful of fist!” The patriot attempted to Threaten, but only ended up amusing Spy due to the odd wording.

The Spy moved closer and draped his arms over Soldiers shoulders, wrapping him in a loose hug. “Hm, what about this?” Spy continued, the smugness in his voice likely obvious to anybody besides the soldier. “Don't push your luck, frenchi-” Soldier was cut off from his attempt to hide that he was beginning to get flustered by Spy taking his chin in his right hand and tilting it slightly upwards to look him in the eyes, or helmet rather. “What about this, démon amoureux du drapeau?”

“Uh…” Soldier mumbled dumbly, making Spy grin as he knew he had finally broken the man's resolve. “For a man who proclaims his own bravery every two sentences, you certainly can't take much criticism.” Spy mocked him, causing Soldier to full on growl up at the man, though he had yet to physically fight back. Spy chuckled lowly at the patriots animalistic behavior, taking a mental note of it. “I've seen the way you look at me when we're celebrating a victory, and let me tell you, espèce de beau fou, they are not looks of comradery, no matter how much you attempt to delude yourself into thinking they are.”

Soldier didn't understand half the words Spy was saying, however he did understand that he, unfortunately, liked them. Spy’s voice was like honey that he would coat himself in before going off to fight bears or robots or any other insane creature, and he hated it. The only thing that should have made him this happy was defending America and freedom, not some wuss of a Frenchman who was too cowardly to ever even actually fight during battles.

Despite everything however, Soldier did not argue when Spy gestured to follow him, waddling after the secretive bastard as he sauntered towards his smoking room. If anybody had seen him following Spy, Soldier hadn’t noticed, he was too transfixed with the flooring of the hallway, originally using it to distract himself from his thoughts, but eventually making a game of only stepping inside the tiles as he walked, a game with which he was so invested he hadn’t noticed when Spy had stopped walking, causing a collision on Soldier’s part.

Soldiers helmet fell to the ground with a loud metal clang, one which Spy quickly silenced by stepping on the helmet to stop it from spinning around before handing it back to its owner. The metal felt surprisingly clean for it to belong to a man like Soldier. It reflected the light that was casted by the mediocre ceiling lights and felt smooth in his hands, no dents or scratches able to be felt on the old piece of armor, obviously an item of importance to the war dog.

Spy became offended when, after being handed back his helmet, Soldier dusted it off as if Spy could have somehow gotten it dirty. Sighing, the frenchman opened the larger than was necessary door to his smoking room, holding it open and allowing Soldier to enter first. By now Soldier had built back up most of his confidence, so he only grinned. “Oh no, please, ladies first!” he joked, causing Spy to give him a glare that could shatter glass. Soldier looked back at the ground and entered the room, followed quickly by Spy.

While Spy closed the door as quietly as he could manage, Soldier busied himself with digging through Spy’s drawers, finding nothing of note and growing bored of the activity as quickly as he had begun it. Rolling his eyes as he strode over to Soldier, Spy lit another cigarette. “I expect even a man of your intelligence knew what I was proposing by leading you here?”

“Sir, yessir!” The patriot responded, his toothy grin endearing spy to his enthusiastic behavior somewhat. “Great, assuming you're ok with this arrangement then get to stripping, I don't have time for your idiocy.” Degraded Spy, Soldier didn't seem to mind at all though, already ridding himself of his clothing.

The man's body was scarred beyond belief. Usually when they respawned, any scarring that would have been received if the wound had healed naturally was nowhere to be seen, meaning these scars occurred outside of the battlefield likely from varying sources. The red team wasn't the safest group of individuals to spend all your time around after all. Hence why Spy spent most of his time in his smoking room.

His upper body strength was probably only second to Heavy's judging by his physique. Carrying around a rocket launcher 8 hours a day would do that Spy supposed.

Stepping towards the man, Spy ran a gloved hand down his chest and, after placing his cigarette in the ashtray on his dresser, pressed his lips to Soldiers, finding them about as dry as he'd expect. As Spys hand continued its way down the patriots body, it turned away just before reaching the place Soldier wanted it and gripped the man's toned thigh.

It was obvious the moment their lips met that Soldier may have not kissed anyone before, or if he had, both he and his partner had been extremely bad at it. Spy attempted to guide the man, lightly biting the patriots bottom lip in a seductive manner while he pressed his fingers deeper into the flesh of Soldiers thigh, massaging it thoroughly. The patriots returning grunts of presumably pleasure were good enough for Spy, however this didn't seem to improve how messily Soldier was returning his kiss, covering his lips with saliva as if he were a man exhausted of any water for days.

As Spy led the two backwards towards his couch, Soldier began undoing the buttons of Spy's jacket, a fatal error brought on by his enthusiasm that would only bring both of them more pleasure in the end. The Frenchman pushed Soldier away, causing the Patriot to stumble backwards until he landed on the couch heavily, looking up at Spy with a grin until he saw the Frenchmans irritated expression.

“What do you think you're doing, espèce de beau fou?” Spy straightened his suit. “Keep your filthy hands off of me. I am in control here and I will give you what you want once I deem you worthy of it, no sooner!” Soldiers grin returned slowly “As if you could stop me cupcake!” The patriot responded, half genuine, but mostly just trying to irritate the Frenchman.

Spy brought his foot onto the couch and stomped down on Soldier's yearning length, grinding his sole down against the flesh after Soldiers initial gasp of agony, grinning as he watched Soldiers head tilt backwards while he let out gravelly noises of pain. “Are you sure, Mon Cheur?”

Soldier responded only with a growl, finding it harder than usual to form words through the fog covering his brain. Spy gave another hard shove against his length when Soldier didn't respond with words. “Answer me, cretin!” The Frenchman demanded.

Soldier wanted to answer, tell Spy that it hurt and he wanted him to stop, but realistically it hardly hurt at all over the immense pleasure flooding his nervous system. He tried to grind up against the pressure Spy was granting him, but he was unable to find any pleasure in the angle, likely intentional on Spys part. Once again all Soldier could respond with was a growl, this time fading into a whimper as Spy cruelly dug his sole in more as punishment.

“With responses like those I believe a collar would fit nicely around that neck.” Soldiers cock twitched with arousal at the threat, finding Spys fingers tracing up his neck until the Frenchman grabbed his chin and forced the patriot to look up at him. “You'd enjoy that, wouldn't you?”

Soldier shook his head with restrained desperation, dejection clear in his posture. The Frenchman removed his foot from him and kneeled down so that he was level with the man's twitching arousal, giving a few weak pumps to the desperate man. “How completely vile, Mon Cheur…” teased Spy while the Patriot writhed weakly above him. “I expect better from a respectable military man. I hope you won't disappoint me any further.”

The only responses Soldier had mustered so far were grunts, which Spy had expected from a man of his intellect, but it was still quite disappointing. He would have to train that out of him.

Inspecting Soldiers length, Spy found it quite small length wise, probably not much longer than his middle finger, but it certainly made up for it with girth. The man's arousal looked to be the width of Spys closed fist, knuckle to knuckle.

Spy took the base in his hand and traced his tongue around the head, looking up at Soldier through hooded eyes while the Patriots head fell backwards with euphoria. Spy leaned back. “I'm sure a man of your background has quite a high pain tolerance, yes?” The question had Soldier perk up proudly. “You bet your ass I can take a beating!” Soldiers grin had returned, albeit a bit more shaky after Spys torment.

“Good, because you had best start responding to me more vocally lest I introduce you to a pain that you'll find quite unfamiliar I'm sure.” Threatened the Frenchman, admiring the way the patriots expression twisted into one of anxious arousal. Spy returned the man's length to his mouth, swallowing around the tip as he tried to take it deeper, managing to force the girth further down his throat before beginning a steady rhythm of bobbing his head.

The loner that Soldier was outside of work screamed at the stimulation that fucking into someone's mouth granted him in comparison to his own lubed up fist, Spys experienced tongue exploring along every crevice of the man's arousal. Soldiers hand fell onto the Frenchmans masked head, searching for something to hang on to but finding only the smooth fabric of Spys balaclava.

Soldier couldn't help himself but to buck his hips into the wet heat of Spys mouth, all but suffocating the Frenchman in the process. “Sweet lady liberty!” Gasped Soldier, finding the heat building in his stomach that made him feel like he was about to explode the most exhilarating sensation he had ever experienced. Spy could feel as the patriot smeared pre on the back of his throat, determined to keep this man waiting as long as he could manage.

Yanking the foolhardy patriots grip off of his head, Spy pulled back, red faced and gasping for air while the Soldier whined at the lost stimulation. “Would you be patient, you moron!? You damn near suffocated me!” Spy scolded, getting to his feet and gripping the patriot by his shoulder.

Soldier grinned wildly, red faced and gasping for breath as he looked up at Spy. “S…hah…sorry maggot.” He wiped drool from his chin and wiped it on the couch, making Spy grimace. The Frenchman sighed before returning to his seductive manner. “You're quite sensitive. Tell me, how often do you relieve yourself?” Spy spoke as he unbuttoned before shucking off his jacket along with his dress shirt.

“A true patriot doesn't give in to needs like those.” Soldier responded, turning his head to the side as he wished he still had his helmet on so he could hide his eyes. “That does not answer my question, Soldat.” Spy sternly returned, having now unbuttoned his pants so that he was left in only his boxers.

The floor had once again suddenly become very interesting to the patriot, his face burning worse than it did when he encountered the Blu Pyro. “I can't remember…” he mumbled. Spy was disappointed but he couldn't say he was surprised. The patriot had trouble remembering simple enemy locations.

As much as Spy wanted to Degrade the man for not remembering, he didn't want to punish somebody for something they couldn't change about themselves, even if the patriot would probably end up enjoying it. Spy sat himself on top of Soldier, straddling his strong thighs and resting his gloved hands on the back of the couch before moving them to the patriots chest.

The feeling of having his nipples rubbed wasn't a sensation Soldier had thought he'd ever enjoy. In fact, he had tried it himself when he was younger but had found no satisfaction in the act. But when it was Spy who was doing it. Sweet lady liberty. Soldier tried not to relish in the feeling of Spys velvet gloves dragging across the sensitive skin of his chest, finding that he couldn't hold back several growls and moans that wanted to escape his throat.

The patriot, to his own surprise, whimpered when Spy stopped rubbing his chest, instead trailing his fingers down Soldiers waist. “Not to worry mon cheur. I will continue.” Spy reassured with a shit-eating, but somewhat comforting smirk. The Frenchman gripped Soldiers waist tightly before moving his head down and taking one of the patriot's sensitive nubs in his mouth, making the man sigh rigidly through clenched teeth.

A soft bite did it to get rid of all of Soldiers remaining composure, Spy squeezing the nub between his canines to make the patriot crumble. Leaning back, Spy admired his handiwork. Soldier was already an absolute disaster of a man, that much he knew, but if he had known about this side of Soldier sooner he would have already taken him.

It was still the rocket launcher toting, stubborn maniac Spy had beneath him, but now he had been stripped of most of his perceived dignity. His face was damp with sweat, and reddened from the heat of the act. His length stood so erect it looked painful and small, barely noticeable tears were welling in his eyes which turned Spy on to no end.

The room was quiet aside from Soldiers panting as Spy straightened his back and cupped Soldiers face with his hand, drawing the patriots attention away from his euphoric pain. “Come now, best save your tears for when I’m fucking you into the cushions.” The Frenchman teased his pleasure bound captive, using his thumb to wipe away the small droplets that threatened to fall from the patriots eyes. Spys' crude words drastically differed in tone from his tender actions, but Soldier was currently too lust drunk to feel at all conflicted.

“Maggot…!” Soldier grumbled before Spy got to his feet, chuckling lowly as he stripped himself of his remaining clothing besides his mask. “Patience is a virtue, Soldat.” The Frenchman responded to Soldiers plea with faux anger as he guided him to lay down on the couch with his ankles hooked on Spys shoulders. “It will prove useful getting through this next part.” Spy grinned evilly as he took a bottle of lube from the table next to the couch and smeared some on his fingers.

The cold sensation of Spys lubed finger prodding against his hole was uncomfortable, but not unbearable. Even if it had been, Soldier would have been the last to admit it. When it pushed in, the cold sensation dimmed, but a new feeling quickly replaced it as Spys pointer finger was up to the knuckle inside of him.

Growling, Soldier squirmed underneath the Frenchman, this sensation proving to be more uncomfortable than pleasurable as his hole clenched around Spys digit. “I assume you have not done this before?” Spy questioned as he used his free hand to massage the patriots chest. “No sir…” Soldier responded in a gravelly sigh, his body relaxing slightly as Spy began his massage. “Relax, mon cheur. It will feel better if you do.” Spy guided the man, speaking somewhat softer now as the man below him seemed to be pacified for the moment.

The ring of muscles that had been squeezing Spys finger recoiled slightly, allowing the Frenchman to add his middle finger. Soldier growled at the sensation, still not finding much pleasure in it but remaining relaxed to the best of his ability. Spy pushed his fingers deeper inside the patriot until they were all the way in before he began to move them around, poking at different places inside the man.

It wasn't until Spy came across a bundle of nerves inside the Soldier that Soldier felt any pleasure. The patriot's breath hitched quickly before he let out a loud scream of pure euphoria as Spy smiled, pulling his fingers back before pushing into it again. “There, private! Right there!” Soldier screamed as Spy began repeating the motion at nauseum. The patriots head fell backwards over the armrest as he took in the sensation, emitting a constant stream of swears and incomprehensible growls.

Reaching over to the ashtray, Spy returned his cigarette to his mouth before focusing his attention back on the man below him. The tears from earlier had returned and were now falling down the patriots face while he tried to hide it by throwing his arm to cover his eyes, which Spy removed with his free hand. “Don't you dare try to hide from me.” Spy scolded as he stared into Soldiers reddened eyes, taking his cigarette out of his mouth with his free hand and leaning down to lick one of the tears from his cheek.

Soldier shuddered as he felt his climax creeping up on him, too lost in pleasure to be embarrassed about how quickly he was about to cum. Spy hadn't noticed the patriots increase in desperation evidently, that or he just wanted to torture the man. Spy met his lips with Soldiers while he continued to finger the man open, his free hand holding the cigarette pressing the butt down onto the patriots shoulder to put it out.

The pain pushed Soldier over the edge, leaving him arching his back to press himself further onto Spys fingers and eyes rolling back as he shot cum onto himself, streaking the white ropes across his chest and face as Spy didn't relent with his movements, continuing to finger the man open.

When Soldier looked back at Spy, the Frenchman was looking at him with an expression of disappointment, behind his eyes an evil plan developing. “I did not give you permission to finish.” Spy stated with concealed anger. Soldier did not respond immediately, his mind still recovering from his world shattering climax. “You didn't say I needed your permission-” Soldier barely finished his sentence when Spy slapped him.

“Regardless…” Spy began. “I'm not finished with you yet, mon serviteur. So you will lay here and take what I give you until I get my satisfaction.” Spy did not wait for a response before he removed his fingers and reached for the bottle of lube that he quickly uncapped and smeared the liquid across his moderately sized length.

Lining it up with Soldiers' now decently prepped hole, Spy pushed inside of the man completely, not offering the patriot the opportunity to adjust to the feeling before Spys pubic hair was scratching against his cheeks. “Agh-! S-sir!” Soldier moaned at the overstimulation, accidentally letting the formal title for Spy slip outside of him saying yes or no.

The Frenchman sighed in relief at the patriots hot, wet hole tightening around him, the pleasure leaving him in a brief state of delirium before he regained his consciousness and pulled out before roughly thrusting back in. “Oh, mon amour, call me that again.” Spy shuddered, fantasizing this man being subservient to him.

A deep blush overtook Soldiers wet face, stained with tears. “Sir…it's so much.” The patriot whined, uncharacteristically submissive to the Frenchman who was determined to fuck his brains out. “You can take it!” Spy growled “You're a soldier aren't you?” he teased as he slowly pulled back out again. Soldier gave a hasty nod before Spy thrust back in, now beginning a steady rhythm.

The tight heat of Soldier around him encouraged him to speed up his thrusts as he stared down at the gasping and moaning patriot below him. Soldiers' cries had long grown incoherent but when Spy unintentionally hit the patriots' prostate head on once again the man let out a string of very understandable swears and curses, pulling Spys head down to his to meet him in a rough kiss.

Spy violently fucked into Soldier as he kissed him. Pulling back, Soldier yelled, “I love you! You hear that m-maggot!? I love you, you french bastard!” The patriot came once again, now with Spys close proximity shooting onto the Frenchman's thighs, though Spy was too preoccupied to notice as he neared his own climax. “Je t'aime aussi, crétin! putain... putain!” He cried as he filled the man below him, rutting into the patriot desperately as he released his load.

The Frenchman panted as he came down from his high, looking down at the man beneath him and finding the moron who tempted him into doing this looking up at him with hooded eyes and a large grin plastered on his face. “What are you smiling for?” Spy questioned, trying to sound annoyed but coming off more amused. Soldier gave a low gravelly laugh. “C’mere cupcake!” He pulled Spy down into a kiss.

[sabraeal]

Keeping Up With the Joneses, Chapter 3

[Read on AO3]

Written for @aeroplaneblues for her birthday! This is our second year of our birthday exchange, for which she made me this delightful piece of Spy x Family AU Obi & Shirayuki, and I was able to make this chapter. This is a little later than originally planned-- I did NOT get to have the easy writing days on vacation that I planned-- but coming in at only a week and change over schedule, I'm beating my usual spread

There is a boy in the cupboard.

Or, at least, there was. Now he’s spilled out on the floor at her feet, lost in the hollow shell of his sweater; the saddest thing to ever claim the distinction, wool so thin and threadbare any grandmother might despair. And yet, against the mess of drab brown fabric and drabber scuffed floors, his eyes shine out like a beacon. Too large in his face, like all these children, hunger and neglect making cheek cling to bone and hang on for dear life. Too bright for a home as hopeless as this. Too blue.

He can’t be much more than four. Old enough that he should know how to speak, how to sleep in a big boy’s bed and turn up his nose at every vegetable. Young enough that he should still be clinging to his mother, a set of too-large eyes peering over a gingham-clad shoulder, but instead he’s here, in a shelter for orphans made by the war, and—

And she’d been nearly the same age when she’d stumbled down the back stairs of her childhood home to find bags packed at the door. Her mother’s old tartan ones, brought out only once before the pneumonia had taken her, just a winter back. Her father had loaded her onto a cart with strangers, wild-eyed and wary, and told her he’d be along soon. Think of it like a big sleepover, he’d said, smile not quite reaching his eyes.

Eyes so different from these ones: a deeper, muted green, against a brighter, paler blue; the sort that shine when the sun catches them. Unclouded, like sapphire. Pale, like topaz. Ones just like her mother’s.

That would work, wouldn’t it? Blue eyes, from her mother. Green was so rare after all. And he was small for his age, the way she had been— still was, though she’d keep that assessment out of her report. A few years of good meals and a steady home life would probably fix that, but then, well, so would a tall father. Boys always grew so much; no one would look twice at a tall one with a small mother. And the dark hair, so thick it mats instead of simply tangles—

Well, another thing to lay at his father’s feet. His absent, tall, dark-haired, no preference for eye color father.

Ah, but…he’s too young. Shirayuki settles back on her heels, smile stiff. It kills her to think that a boy as young as him could prefer hiding in cupboards rather than playing with other children, that she’s close enough to reach out her hand and save him, but she can’t because— because—

Because King Shenezard’s twins are six. And this boy is—

“Six!”

Shirayuki blinks, meeting that steady stream of blue. “Excuse me?”

“I’m six,” he tells her, rolling over onto his knees. “Six years old.”

The warden here— ah, the caretaker, as her contact had so generously called him, despite the lack of care the peeling paint and dusty floors implied— stoops down, a suspicious scowl thinning his already narrow mouth. Mr Fuchs, as his paperwork said, the sole proprietor of Little Day Orphanage since its inception after the war. And yet when he squints down at this child, head cocked so skeptically, Shirayuki wonders if he could even tell her this boy’s name. “You are?”

The boy frowns, mouth a furrowed mirror of his brow. “Of course I am.”

“Oh.” His proportions might say different, but, well, he hardly has a reason to lie to her. Not when she hadn’t even asked. “Are you? That’s a lovely age.”

"Convenient, too.” The old man coughs when he catches her look, scrubbing a hand over his bald pate. “Er, I mean, since that’s what you were looking for. School age. Ready for learnin’. Which is just what this one is.”

He reaches out, one broad palm aiming to clap that small back; a sweet gesture, if the boy didn’t flinch the moment Mr Fuchs lifted his hand. “If you’re looking for a smart kid, then you don’t gotta look at any of the rest of these brats. He’s the brightest one in the bunch by a mile. Can read and everything.”

“Oh, is that so?” It’s an effort not to speak through her teeth; one she manages simply because the boy is watching.  “Do you have a book you like? The ones with pictures are always so nice. Maybe you could read one for me?”

The space between his brow dints, the way it always did before eyes teared and fists shook, but there is no mother to hold and soothe him, no father to convince him to do what he’d told. It’s cruel to test him, to dangle this promise of home and family above him when he still has so much hope left. But Mr Fuchs hardly seems like a man who would hesitate to employ hyperbole, and her mission is clear: she needs a child who can pass Eden Academy’s rigorous exams. And as sweet as this boy looks, as much as she would love to sweep him into her arms and scurry him out from this awful hole…

Well, she doubts if there’s any of Eden’s future bright-burning stars to be found in a place like this. Few minds catch fire without fuel to burn, and every child here is simply embers trying to survive until the next piece of kindling.

The dint deepens into a furrow, turning his expression from anxious child to frustrated accountant. As if a picture book might be beneath his dignity as a professional, er…six-year-old. He does not scramble to his feet, oh no, he rises with all the gravitas of an elder scholar, striding from the room on legs that are barely long enough to hold him steady. It would be sweet, if Shirayuki were not so sure that she had lost her chance to see if he really was the cleverest child in this home.

“Well,” Mr Fuchs clucks, hardly disappointed. “Ain’t that just the way. Boy’s always been a bit big for his britches, though. Might have dodged a bullet, if you ask me. Too smart by half.”

Too smart by a half was the exact sort of child that would fit the brief, the baseline of the Director's impossible standards. Potentially the only one in this terrible place that would have met them

And she had let him slip right through her fingers. Izana would be positively unlivable.

“Plenty of other kids though.” It’s a conman’s smile this man tries to give her, a charlatan’s confidence that she’ll buy his snake oil by the case. “You know what they say. Kid’s true potential is all about a mother’s love.”

That’s certainly not what ‘they’ say, but there’s no point in quarreling with him; only three rooms into this tour and she’s quite certain they’ll never see eye-to-eye on the topic of cleanliness, let alone child rearing. Instead, Shirayuki stitches the corners of her mouth up into a smile, hoping it looks more natural than it feels. “If you say so.”

“I know so.” One of those liver-spotted hands reaches out, skin yellowed with the beginnings of jaundice, and she realizes he means to hold hers. To take her palm into one of his and pat it, as if she were some nervous mother-to-be in a maternity ward, needing assurance no matter what the source.

She tucks both into her pockets. “Then perhaps we should—?”

One moment the door is empty, and the next the boy traipses through it, cutting them a wide wake as he arcs to the center of the room. His head, so large for his body, swings one way, then the other, and with one put-out sigh, sprawls on the floor.

It’s not quite an invitation, but it’s…curious. Shirayuki shuffles a few steps closer, enough that a subtle lean gets a mostly unobstructed view over his shoulder.

It’s a crossword. The one from this morning’s paper, three of the rows already filled by an adult’s unsteady hand. Shirayuki hadn’t gotten around to trying her hand at it this morning, but a quick glance is all she needs to know that they’re wrong. For one thing, Three Across— jewelry that hangs around the neck— was looking for pendant, not necklace; a fact that should have been apparent when the solver had to scratch the ‘e’ into the black space beside it.

Obvious enough that even the six-year-old snuffs when he sees it, carving the correct answer over it in pencil.

It takes him seven minutes to fill the grid. It takes twice that for her to check his work.

“Wow.” It’s a murmur, a whisper, but when she glances up, it’s straight into those bright eyes, waiting for her to finish. “Wow,” she says again, louder, for him. “This is really impressive, er…?”

“Ryuu.”

“Ryuu. That’s a nice name! A strong one.” It would sound natural with Lyon. “My name is Shirayuki.”

Shirayuki is hardly a child; she doesn’t expect the boy —Ryuu— to turn around and compliment her about how pretty it is, or how much he likes snow, but, well…

She expects a little more than a stare. It’s almost impatient, as if she was wasting time reciting facts; the sky is blue, water is wet, my name is Shirayuki. It would have been nice to be able to do something like this the right way, to be able to visit over a series of weeks and form something like a rapport, an ability to trust her, but Izana’s timetable hardly includes the time for paperwork, let alone emotions. Still, it would have been nice if he could at least smile—

Suddenly, he does. One side twitching, then the other, forming around the word, “Shirayuki.”

It doesn’t quite fit on his face, but she hardly notices. “Ah, yes…?”

“Are you going to bring me home now?”

*

“It’s not much,” Shirayuki warns him, her smile as shaky as the keys in her hand. They’d rattled the whole way down the hall, loud enough Ryuu wondered why the neighbors hadn’t poked out their heads. At the orphanage, they would have; every jingle, every yelp, every cough had been entertainment, so long as it hadn’t been happening to you. “I only moved in a few days ago.”

There’s no need to be worried. Her key scrapes right past the lock, bouncing off the door. There’s plenty of room. Another try skids right off the knob. Anything would be an improvement over that terrible place.

He nearly corrects her: there are worse places. Ones with white walls and lights so bright they burn. Rooms where the only furniture is a tray of strange implements and a chair that unfolds to lay flat. A place where there’s one window, but you can only see through from the other side. Where even though you’re alone, you know you’re being watched.

But it’s better that Shirayuki doesn’t know about places like that. Even if she turns out worse than that old man, at least she’ll never think to put him back in one.

Her key finally slots into the lock. He can’t see, not through her back, but he knows, both from the metallic jingle it makes, and the way her mind eases with her shoulders, no longer a crackling static but a faint hum, like the moment before the television turns on.

“There we go,” she sighs, guiding the knob through its twist. “Guess I’m a little excited!”

I should tell him I’ve always wanted a child. He’s never met anyone who thinks as loud as Shirayuki does, as clear. The other children always thought in pictures over words, and the old man had been like listening to a radio with a broken antenna, just a series of fuzzed out voices heard between deafening static. That might provide a more stable environment. This is hardly an ideal situation, but he should at least be comfortable.

Ryuu would be happy enough with another cabinet, so long as he didn’t have to deal with all the other children running around, pulling on his hair and tearing his sweaters and calling him ghost boy or creepy kid or whatever unimaginative insult they could cook up in the moment. He nearly tells her, so, but then the door opens and—

And none of Shirayuki’s careful warnings could have prepared him.

“Go on.” She steps back, one hand splayed to keep the door in place. “Make yourself at home.”

It’s him that trembles now, taking one large step over the jamb to stand in some— some entryway? There’s a kitchen to his left, just big enough to fit two of him across, with room for another if they squished together enough. Plenty of cabinets too, but it’s hard to tell without looking—?

“Can I take your coat?”

He’s been clutching it, he realizes, hands fisted around the cloth at his belly so hard they’re beginning to ache. Not even at the pockets, but just above them. “Oh…okay.”

It takes effort, thought, to work his fingers loose. One at a time, uncurling, until the hem drops to just above his knees. Takes longer still for his clumsy hands to unbutton, but Shirayuki waits patiently, a smile on her face he’s already coming to like.

He’s barely shrugged it off his shoulders when she thinks, loud enough for the neighbors to hear, He needs new clothes. Those are too big. Everything’s falling apart at the seams.

These were also the only ones he could wear. Ryuu’s shoulders hunch, brushing the tips of his ears. Everything his size had itched, sitting so close to his skin he could feel each scratchy coil of wool. The old man never cared what they wore, so long as they were covered; it’d been one of the few nice things about living in the home.

“Your shoes can go here,” she says, pointing to a corner by the door. “If you’d like, of course.”

He watches her take off her own, revealing small feet covered in what looks like the end of a sausage casing. Stockings, he guesses. Nylons, like the ones he sees on TV, sandwiched between Bondman’s cliffhanger and resolution. For a modern woman! they would profess, showing a lady at a typewriter. That’s what Shirayuki must be: a Modern Woman. One that’s saving the world.

His shoes slip right off, barely tied tight enough to stay on anyway— needs new shoes too, something that fits— and it’s strange to have just socks on. The old man hadn’t been a stickler for much beside silence, but shoes had been one of them. So no one says I’m making you lot run around wild and barefoot like dogs, he’d grunt. The faster I can get ‘em out the door, the less time any nitwit who wants to take ‘em home has to have second thoughts, is what he meant.

Flat against the floor, his foot feels wrong. Like there’s something worming beneath it, right under his arch. He lifts his heel, just so it clears the wood slats, and oh, that’s better. Natural even.

“Go ahead,” she tells him. “Go look around.” It’s your home too.

Ryuu blinks. His home. “Oh. Okay.”

Stepping out past the entryway, he can see more of it: not just a kitchen and mudroom, but a living room too, with a couch and everything. There’s a dining table too, with chairs. Another hallway with— bathroom and bedrooms, Shirayuki supplies, just a few moments before she echoes it out loud. ‘Not much’ she’d called it, but— but—

It’s the nicest place he’s ever lived.

“Did you want to watch TV?” Shirayuki thinks mostly in words, but this time it’s a picture: the always-on box in the orphanage, sound set just above a whisper. The old man had kept it running all day, everyday, hoping it’d keep them entertained. Quiet. It worked, sometimes. Most times, the kids found their own way to occupy themselves. Picking on each other, mostly.

“You’re welcome to,” she says. I don’t know what kids watch, she thinks. “If you have something you like.”

Bondman is the only thing he bothers with— the only thing worth chancing a run in with the other children. It’s not on until after dinner, right before everything switches over to news. But…

But Shirayuki keeps thinking about his smile. About him traipsing over to the carpet and hunkering down, having one on his face. She wants him to be happy.

Or at least look happy.

He tries out one of those smiles again, still strange on his face. “Okay.”

*

It’s four in the afternoon when Obi discovers that his bedroom shares a wall with 5B’s living room. Something he probably could have figured out months ago, when he thinks about it; 5D’s always knocks hard enough to shake the rafter when he plays a nice victory record or two after work. Only makes sense that at three AM that might be coming from a bedroom.

In any case, he finds out now: through the pap-pap-pap of a cap gun. The recorded kind, like from those stupid kids shows they put on now. New neighbor must have one. Which means Obi the Office Worker is going to have to get more creative about catching up with z’s on company time if the Thorn Prince wants to show up to his gigs all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

Obi sighs, wrapping the pillow around his head. Or the Thorn Prince is going to have to start taking on less overtime. Not an option, if he wants to keep himself the way he’s become accustomed. Government workers can’t afford apartments in neighborhoods this nice.

Company sponsored nap time it is. He’s just got to worry about tonight. Last thing he needs it to slip up because some kid couldn’t miss Zorro winning the day or whatever. Probably gonna cost him another shirt; dry clearing never really gets all the blood out. Maybe he should go over there, give this kid a little talking-to--

The pap-pap-pap cuts off. All at once, like a power outage.

Obi frowns, lifting his head out of the pillow. No sound at all, not even a villain’s growl. TV’s off.

Huh. Must have been a rerun.

[fivveweeks]

i am so crasy abt ur tweet abt verdante being a tragedy its like in my mind at all times. like ,,, im rotating it in my head, im so ruined, this idea consumes me u do not understand i am opening up google docs and writing a fic im morose im captivated i am making an ao3 account

like ur so right 4 that one banger

KYAAAA ON MY KNEES... i have so much feelings on it u have no idea. twitter doesn't let me go ham but since we are on tumblr let me write a goddamn essay on this

the thing is that yes i enjoy both verdante being a romcom comedy or a tragedy or anything in between. ofc we'd like them to be happy but part of me like to explore what would happen if we really stayed canon-compliant

and like. let's take a look at them both. Vergilius is canonly someone who's weighed down by his past sins (killing and assassinating and orphaning children), who fully well accepts that he deserves the karma that comes for him (like this man literally is expecting it and doesn't fight it), yet he chooses to drag himself forward bc if he doesn't he will sink into despair. he is full of guilt and shame. verg also seems reluctant to form new bonds which is understandable considering that he lost everything prior to limbus, and how he doesn't want to drag people down with his karma, at the same time it would be extremely hard for him to trust people due to the risks of betrayal and manipulation in the city. he KNOWS that kindness and empathy will be consumed by the city if they don't adapt (see leviathan and his thoughts on garnet) therefore anyone would be wary bc there's always a catch. vergilius is also extremely duty bound to restoring garnet and lapis and it weighs down on him a lot

now i dont see Vergilius as oblivious bc the man would obviously recognise signs of attraction from Dante. but vergilius, despite his harsh exterior, is also kind deep down or at least practical, so taking the above into account, in this scenario he would probably outright address it to dante that he has... personal goals. maybe dante will be sacrificed at the end for limbus company as a whole, maybe not, but Verg makes it clear that he WILL choose lapis and garnet over dante bc that is his responsibility. what he owes to them.

executive manager, he doesn't say, do not be a fool.

and to his surprise, dante just nods and writes him, "I'm aware. It's ok, I understand."

bc dante respects him. they respect his space and not push anything at all (alongside how they probably feel that they are not worthy yet, or that they don't want to burden Vergilius, bc c'mon they're stumbling through their responsibilities after losing their memory, work is more important than personal interest now), i also like to think dante isn't say, self-depreciating, but more like they've accepted that they have so much to live up to and Vergilius has something to achieve and they will not stand in his way, so they're content to just spend time with Vergilius as manager and guide.

and there's that. they don't talk about it after the day. nothing changes between them. they continue on as manager and guide.

the only exception is that now Vergilius is aware that Dante fully accepts that he will sacrifice them for his own goals. yet Dante is content to spend time around him and vice versa (he doesn't admit it)

and isn't that the tragedy?

vergilius, to be aware that something could have sparked between the both of you, yet you cannot afford to cross the line due to circumstances. occasionally imagining what it could had been if the both of you were actually allowed to. how should you feel when the other person still seeks you out and befriends you despite knowing that you will never pick them

and dante, getting the confirmation that you will never be picked and will be the third or fourth or whatever choice but that's okay. manager and guide is enough, you WILL enjoy whatever there is between the both of you without asking for more

personally, unrequited love as a tragedy is not effective to me bc it's not that hard to respect another person's feelings and not make yourself the victim.

the REAL tragedy here is being aware of the lost potential and what-could-had-beens, yet IN SPITE OF THAT theres the quiet acceptance and humble enjoyment of whatever there is between the both of them bc that's all they can afford. how fate and the city fucked them both up. yet they stay professional because they respect each other too much (to the point of suppressing their personal feelings for the other) to make this into a hassle

maybe dante dies at the end of limbus and verg would reminisce on what it could had been. maybe verg dies and dante occasionally recalls the little moments they get to spend together. maybe they both die. maybe they both live but they walk a too different path to ever converge again. maybe we slap canon in the face and let them survive or meet up again in the future.

whatever it is, i just really enjoy the sweet sweet pining between the both of them throughout limbus company. the horrors of Knowing. i'm going to bite something

[viacursecasting]

Sonadow Scenario #68

{ Requested by anonymous }

The ominous sky flashed with bolts of crimson lightning, rumbling with a tumultuous thunder that racked one's core. Infinite was likely in the eye of the storm, bending reality to his twisted will.

On land, Sonic closed his eyes in concentration, feeling energy surge through his limbs like a rush of wind. Gold painted his fur, making him shine like a star against the blanket of night.

Shadow watched in awe—the transformation took his breath away no matter how many times he witnessed it. Yet as magnificent as the sight was, he wished it weren't under these circumstances as the hero's golden aura reflected against his shimmering ruby eyes.

Just as Sonic was about to take off into the void, he felt something grab his wrist, holding him back. He looked toward the source in bewilderment. "Shadow?"

"Don't." Shadow's tongue was dry as a bone. He recalled the last time the speedster fought the jackal, thinking it was the last time as he also recalled his disappearance...

The image of the hero chained up, beaten and bruised, invaded Shadow's mind. He shook it away. "What if he captures you again?"

Sonic turned to face him, his voice a reassuring melody. "I won't let that happen." He cupped the lifeform's cheek. "Not when I have something to fight for."

Shadow desperately folded his fingers over the hedgehog's. "Then let me come with you. It's my fault Infinite is the monster he is today."

Sonic was already shaking his head, clutching both of the agent's hands in his. "I need you here, to help the others fight his army. You're the only one powerful enough to stop your clones."

Shadow hated that his counterpart had a point. "If anything were to happen to you because of me..." He shut his eyes. He couldn't bear the thought.

"Hey." Sonic urged him to lock gazes by lifting his muzzle with a curled finger. "None of this is your fault." He gave his trademark grin. "I'll be fine, Shads. I promise." He then craned his neck to give the agent's forehead a gentle kiss.

Though it was a lovely gesture, Shadow felt numb to it. "I expected you would say that, but please..." He took a deep, shuddered breath, tinting slightly. "At least give me a proper farewell."

Shadow was glad the hero seemed to catch on. He let Sonic take his chin and tilt it, feeling the hedgehog's warm breath on his lips, feeling life radiate from his ethereal aura. While the storm that raged was deafening, it was nothing compared to Shadow's racing heart.

When Sonic read the lifeform's scarlet eyes, he saw a broken being, which made the pit of his chest ache. The last thing he wanted was to cause pain to the person he cared about more than anything, more than life itself. He could only think of one thing that could ease the pain.

Sonic closed his eyes, that shattered expression burning the back of his eyelids, as he leaned in for a—

Suddenly Shadow gave Sonic's gut a bruising punch, knocking the wind out of him as well as his Emeralds. Sonic gasped from the force as well as the shock of the blow, crumpling to the concrete, but not before Shadow caught him, gingerly setting him down.

Sonic clutched his abdomen in agony—Was it possible for organs to be bruised?—as he struggled to catch his breath. "Shadow—! The hell—!"

Shadow picked up an Emerald, its glow illuminating his solemn face. "Apologies, Sonic. But I can't have you pay for my mistakes."

Sonic watched helplessly as Shadow's fur faded from ebony to platinum, a refulgent aura trapping his flowing quills. The lifeform was a beacon, yet Sonic was still lost in a sea of despair, confusion, and betrayal.

Sonic weakly propped himself up on one elbow, seething as the agent turned his back to him, preparing to take off. "If you leave..." Sonic warned, "we're through."

Shadow seemed to hesitate, but he glanced over his shoulder without meeting the hero's gaze in fear of changing his mind. He stated plainly, "So be it."

The lifeform then shot toward the heavens like a bullet, heading into the depths of the malevolent storm, leaving Sonic to wonder if that would be their last exchange, to wish he had the chance to savor that last kiss.

[littleperilstories]

The Prince of Thieves: If It's Not Right, You Have to Put It Right

Mood Boards | Chapter Titles | Also on A03!

Warnings: Fantasy-esque prison setting, painful wound cleaning, restraints (shackles), severe power imbalance, nasty law enforcement/abuse of power, aftermath of flogging, mention of wound infection, lady whump

Previous | Masterlist | Next

Word count: 3917 || Approx reading time: 16 mins

If It's Not Right, You Have to Put It Right

Teaser: Is there no one around here with any kindness in their heart? Or any goddamn sense in their head? “But…no one’s looked at his back since yesterday.”  I point at Fox, letting my voice quaver. “Those cuts will get infected if they don’t get cleaned.”

Bree

The night passes in unsettling quiet. There are no howls of despair from other cells, no angry bellows from the constables. In fact, little noise at all breaks through the darkness, save for the scraping of hobnailed boots when the patrolling guards stalk through the halls.

Fox, too, is quiet—no moans or whimpers from pain-induced dreams. He sleeps, silent enough that I catch myself hoping he’s not dead.

Sleeping, when  it’s my turn to sink into its elusive mists, brings no rest. Waking, which happens enough that I’m not sure I slept at all, brings only grief and uncertainty.

Hatchett first said I would hang, then changed to not necessarily. Was that part of the game? Was he simply trying to confuse me? If I am not taken to the gallows, but left here to rot instead, what then? Or perhaps…perhaps that’s it? Maybe it’s enough for him to watch me suffer? He’ll get his long-awaited vengeance for running away from him  four years ago, and I’ll get to die cold and alone.

A hoarse moan from the other cell jars me from my thoughts. “Am I still alive?”

I don’t know whether to muster up tears or laughter. Pressing as close to the bars as I can, I squint through the dark. “Seems you are.”

“Shame.” He draws a slow breath, punctuated by a wince.

“Does it hurt?”

“Like hell.”

He hasn’t moved much from where he fell asleep last night—probably couldn’t. His wince echoes through the darkness as he slowly starts to rise.

“No one’s come to take a look at those yet.” I can’t see his lash-wounds, not while his face is turned toward me, but I was awake for enough of the night that I’d have noticed if someone visited.

“That asshole medic will come around when he wants to,” Fox mutters. “Or maybe never. He hates my guts.” After he’s pulled himself upright, panting slightly, he adds with a dark laugh and a vague gesture around us, “Like everyone else.”

I don’t understand. Why take care of the shoulder wound, but not these ones? “But they might get infected—”

“So? What do they care?” His words run together, so it sounds like, Whatta they care? “Aren’t I gonna die anyway? May as well make the lead-up painful.”

I can’t think of anything to say to that, so I say the first—and most inane—thing that comes to mind. “I don’t hate you.”

Something flashes across his face. Amusement? Gratitude? Confusion and discomfort he’s too polite to acknowledge? “Uh. Thanks.”

I don’t respond. I’m too busy wishing I could die right about now.

Long, dragging minutes prompt the realization that I haven’t eaten since my last meal at the Smith house, nor have I had any water since my interrogation.

Tell me what you know about IA. Its leaders. Its methods. Everything.

With the sound of the whip still ringing in my ears, I was not inclined to give Baden Hatchett a single word, let alone any goddamn details about running for IA.

Speak, Miss Cooper, or you will find your stay in this prison less than hospitable.

You realize it is in your best interests to cooperate, do you not?

You think I won’t go to any lengths imaginable to take them down? Do you really want to be on the wrong side of that battle?

You’re a fool, I finally told him. I already am.

“Please, sir. When is the medic coming?” The constable who delivers water and bread appears genuinely surprised when I scramble to my feet and address him. “Will it be soon?”

He gives me a look one might give a worm, squashed and bloody beneath their shoe. “You sick?”

“W-well, no, but—”

“Then sit down, girl. Mind your own business.”

Is there no one around here with any kindness in their heart? Or any goddamn sense in their head? “But…no one’s looked at his back since yesterday.”  I point at Fox, letting my voice quaver. “Those cuts will get infected if they don’t get cleaned.”

Scoffing, he asks, “Is that supposed to be my problem? Take your fucking meal and worry about yourself.”

This time, when I answer, impatience slips through, and I press myself against the metal. “I’m telling you, he needs to come look at—”

“‘I’m telling you’?” Reaching through the bars, the constable shoves me back. My stocking feet and tired limbs struggle to keep balance, and I sink to the floor. “Who do you think you are? Mind your goddamn tongue, you hear? He’ll come when he’s available.”

Fox lurches forward when the guard shoves me, spitting venom—the only weapon he can wield. “Look what we got here. Another big man who likes pushing people around.”

I cringe. It’s nice of him to speak up, but he’s already saved me once. I don’t need him to do it again, certainly not now. For once, even if neither of them realize it, I’m the one in control of the conversation. Keeping my eyes on the constable, I reapproach. “What the hell’s the matter with you? Infected wounds kill people all the time. Don’t you care?”

The constable glances at Fox and guffaws. “About him? Not particularly.” He tugs out his baton. “Seems you still need a lesson in respect.”

Although I step back as if cowed by the implicit threat, I say, “I give respect to those who earn it.”

His eyes narrow. “Is that so?  Rest assured… I will let Constable Hatchett know.”

Fox leaps back into the conversation, contempt upon his face. “Going to run right to mommy and tell her, are you?”

The constable slams his baton against the bars of Fox’s cell hard enough to echo. I barely suppress a startled squeak. “You and your mouth. You just don’t learn, do you, you stupid fucker?”

Based on the look on Fox’s face, I can only imagine what he’s thinking: Well, you better come in here and teach me a lesson, then, or something equally ill-advised. But he grits his teeth and says nothing.

“Huh. That’s what I thought,” the officer says, and he stalks away.

Fox turns his glare on me. Once the constable’s footsteps have faded, he says, “So much for not doing that anymore. Didn’t you promise just last night you wouldn’t try to piss them off for my sake?”

Irritation flares inside me. “I promised I wouldn’t put myself in harm’s way. There were bars between us, in case you didn’t notice.”

“Didn’t stop him from trying, though, did it?” Fox gestures toward the door. “And you do realize, right, that he could have come in if he wanted to? That’s how jail works. They’re the ones with the keys.”

“Sure. But I’m the one with this.” I brandish the flask I unlatched from the constable’s belt while I was distracting him with my complaints. “Let’s hope it’s just water.”

How satisfying it is  to watch his eyes widen. Ha. Weren’t expecting that, were you? “When’d you pinch that?”

“There’s a reason Spider recruited me.” I unscrew the top and inhale, praying the pungent smell of alcohol doesn’t assault my senses. “I’m not half bad.” With a sigh of relief, I return the cap. Just water. Exactly what I wanted.

“All right, well, good job, but…why do you need that?”

“I don’t need it.” I drop the flask and scan my clothes, seeking the least soiled stretch of fabric before I tear a strip from the skirt. It’s far from sterile, but it’ll have to do. “You do.”

He frowns. “What?”

“If that dumb fucking medic,” I say, “isn’t going to do his job, then I’ll have to do it for him.” Waving the torn cloth, I gesture toward the water flask. “Come closer.”

He’s staring at me with a mix of astonishment and something I can’t place. Suspicion? Confusion? “Why?”

“Because just hurry up.” I beckon him with my hand. “Before he figures out his flask is missing and comes back. I’m going to clean your cuts.”

He blinks. Flinches. Is he…embarrassed? Is the prospect of me touching him more horrible than being whipped in front of the entire prison? “Bree, you don’t need to—”

Bitterly, I say, “I do if he’s not coming.”

He barely moves a muscle. “We just met.” His good hand rubs anxiously at the nape of his neck. “You shouldn’t have to…”

We just met. His words sting more than they should. “We’ve met before.”

“That night doesn’t count.” For the first time, he looks at me with something akin to pity. “It was awful. For both of us.”

“You saved my life.” No point in bringing up the first time we crossed paths. Why would he remember? He’s probably helped Spider recruit dozens of runners.

“Right, but…” Wide and uncertain, his eyes are still fixed on mine. “I don’t expect nothing from—” A pause. “You…you don’t owe me anything.”

I huff out an annoyed sigh. “Will you just get over here? Or was st—taking this a complete waste of time?”

For a moment, he remains a statue—then hauls himself across the floor, stopping with his back to me. “This…good?”

I reach through the bars to test the distance between us. “Yes.” Hovering my fingers over his back, terrified to touch him until we’re both ready, I scan for any inch of skin that isn’t pocked with lash-marks. “I’m…I’m sorry again. He wouldn’t have flogged you if not for me.”

“Not your fault.” Fox’s voice is bitter, but I believe him. “For a miserable bastard, he’s fucking creative when he wants to be.” He puts on his best mimicry of Hatchett’s low voice. “Consequences.”

Surely he’s trying to be funny, but a shiver runs down my spine. Father was cruel and quick to use his fists, but dumb as a rock. Baden Hatchett is cruel but sharp—clever and quick to use his wits. Had I gone through with the marriage, what awful consequences might I have met when my actions brought him displeasure? “Yes.” You will call the count. “He is.”

Banishing Hatchett from my mind—as much as I can when I’m staring directly at his handiwork, embroidered in blood across Fox’s back—I reach for the flask. “I’m going to run water down your back first. I imagine it will hurt.”

“I expect so, yeah.”

“Are you ready?”

“Do I got a choice?”

I pause, not sure what to do. “I mean… You do, but…”

He snorts. “Just say no.”

Swallowing an uncomfortable laugh, I open the flask.

At first, the water runs rust-coloured to the floor, pooling between us and mingling with the filth crusted there. Fox hisses.

“I’m sorry,” I murmur. “Just breathe.” What did Mother used to do, when I was young and Father got carried away? Tell me about the story you read today. How were your lessons this morning? Let’s go through some arithmetic facts. “What’s two times two?”

He jerks his head back to look at me, brows pinched in confusion. “What?”

“My mother used to try and distract me,” I say, “when she had to, um… When I was hurt and she didn’t want me to cry.” Didn’t want me to cry too loudly and bring him storming back. “Stories, arithmetics, and such.”

“Listen. I’m not doing any maths right now. This fucking hurts enough as it is.” He winces again as another flood of water drips down his back. “No need to bring school into it.”

“All right. That’s fine.”  Inexplicably, my heart is pounding as I lift my makeshift washing cloth. “I’m going to start, um, cleaning.” Why are my hands shaking? “May I…?”

If he was embarrassed before, he’s gotten over it. “You’ve already started. Might as well finish it, yeah?”

I grit my teeth as if I’m the one who’s bracing myself for pain. “Tell me a story, then. Something about you.”

He barks out a laugh.“You think that’s a good idea? Who knows who’s listening in?” After a pause, he adds, muttering into the darkness, “Fuck you, whoever you are.”

“You needn’t tell me your life story,” I say, chuckling, though my stomach twists. “A happy memory or something.”

He gives a soft yelp. I’m doing my best to be gentle, but the wounds are still raw, and my dress isn’t made from the softest material. “About. What?”

“Anything.” Reaching through the bars is awkward, and my back and arms already ache from the awkward position. Perhaps his story will distract me, too.

To my relief, he acquiesces. “I…used to have…this dog.”

The cloth is already stained pink. “How sweet.”

“She w—” He breaks off, choking back a gasp. I’ve reached one of the deeper cuts. “She really was. And my br—”

His words halt so abruptly, I wonder if I’ve somehow killed him.

“Fox?” I murmur. “Your…?”

“Nothing.”

He is quiet, his breath stuttering as I wash the dried blood from his back. Some of the wounds have already scabbed overnight; I pray there’s no grime trapped inside.

“I was a little shit in school.” I’m puzzled by the change in subject, but I don’t pursue the dog story. “The schoolmaster hated me. He loved to give me the strap.”

Perhaps Fox and I differ in our understanding of something happy. “This doesn’t sound like a good memory.”

“Well, every time I put crickets in his desk, it felt pretty good.”

I bite back a laugh.

“Once, I put a baby snake in his hat.”

“You didn’t.”

“And I broke—ah—” The cry only deters him for a moment. “—into the schoolhouse one night and wrote a rude story on all the slates, pieces of it on every single one. It took hours.”

I’m giggling now, helpless as I imagine the look his shenanigans must have brought to the schoolmaster’s face. “You were a wicked little boy.”

“Yes. Very.” He pauses to wince and jerk away from me as one of his cuts splits open at my touch.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’m trying—”

“I didn’t make it easy for myself.” He’s rushing now, shoving his words together as if that will somehow keep the pain at bay. I di’n make it easy f’r m’self. “I could never sit still, and listening to him droning on and on was so boring. All I ever wanted was to go out and play. I’d get in trouble for talking to the other children, daydreaming, fidgeting, talking out of turn, generally being insolent…” He laughs. “Once, I just ran outside because I decided I wanted to go for a walk.”

“How old were you?”

“I dunno. Young.” There’s a wistfulness to his voice now that makes my heart ache. “Ma almost killed me when she found out.”

“And you were, of course, very sorry when you got in trouble.”

“No!” His laugh wraps around me like a cloak, a snatch of childish joy that has drifted from the past to offer us comfort for these precious, fleeting moments. “I remember enjoying my stroll very much. How could I be sorry for that?”

Another cut dribbles fresh blood down his back, and the spell is broken. With a hiss of annoyance, I tear another strip from my skirt to soak it up.

“Was it a happy one, then?” I keep my voice soft. “Your childhood?”

His unkempt mop of hair bounces with his nod. “Yeah. It was.”

Why am I suddenly blinking back tears?

“All right,” I say, hoping he can’t hear the tremor in my voice.  “I think that’s the best I can do.”

A dark stain, wet and rusty, glares up at me from where bloody water dripped onto my skirt.

“Thank you,” he says quietly.

I drop my hands in my lap, trying not to dwell on how my hands, too, are stained. “It was nothing.”

“Won’t be nothing if—when—we get busted. Give me the flask.” He turns so we can face each other once again. “So they think I took it.”

“No.” I place it behind me, where he can’t reach. “You’re not taking the blame for me. I’m not afraid of them.”

The look on his face tells me he knows I’m lying. “They’re gonna figure it out.”

“No,” I repeat. “I’m the one who took it, so—”

The sound of hobnailed boots scrapes through the air, too quickly, so quickly I barely have time to think.

“Bree, please,” Fox says through gritted teeth.

I tent my legs and sweep the empty flask beneath the canopy of my skirt.

It isn’t the same officer from earlier. Rather, the junior constable from yesterday appears outside our cells. What’s his name? Michaelson.

Shit.

“Please,” he begins, his voice doused in sarcasm, “please tell me you two crooks are continuing your thieving ways in here.” The torchlight gives his eyes a maniacal gleam. “Because I would so love to find out that you’re bold enough—stupid enough—to steal from a constable.”

My earlier confidence disintegrates under Michaelson’s searing gaze.

“Where is it?” he asks softly.

How likely is it he’ll believe anything I say? “What are you talking about?”

“The flask that mysteriously disappeared from Officer Lenton’s belt. Where. Is. It.”

I frown. “Flask?”

Would it be better to confess? Give it back? His face gives no indication that either scenario would result in mercy.

Michaelson flips his attention to Fox. “Where is it?”

Fox just shrugs, silent.

The constable looks back to me, and I can tell—impossible though it should be since he wasn’t even fucking here when I took it—he knows. “Stand up.”

How foolish I was, believing I was ever in control. Sighing, I pull the flask out from underneath my skirt and toss it toward him. It clatters against the bars and hits the floor.

“Well, well.” Michaelson studies the flask for a moment. “And why did you take this, girl?”

Before I can even open my mouth, Fox speaks. “I made her do it.”

What the fuck? I shoot him a furious glare. “No, he d—”

“I…” The idiot next to me is racking his brain for a story as he speaks. “I… I wanted to see how loyal she still is to IA. To me.”

After a long pause, Michaelson pierces me with his gaze. “And? Are you?”

Great. Fox tried to help and ended up throwing me into a net. No matter how I answer, we’re in trouble—either he’s a liar or a manipulative bastard gang leader. Either I’m the thief or a stupid little girl following orders. Swallowing hard, I stare back. “What do you think?”

Michaelson smirks. “And did the fox-thief force your hand? Did he make you take it?”

“Yes, I did,” Fox says quickly. If I ever get my hands on him, I’m going to slap him for being a self-sacrificing moron.

Instead of reaching through the bars to retrieve the flask, Michaelson unlocks the door. I realize how egregiously I overestimated my abilities to run this fucking water-flask heist.

“You know what I think?” He steps inside. I scramble to my feet, unsure how that will help me—but I’ll be damned if I’m going to be sitting passively on the floor while he goes through with whatever he’s planning.

“Jesus Christ.” Fox is getting to his feet, too, pain written across his face—violent poetry inked into his skin, sweat glistening on his brow. Sit down, for fuck’s sake, I want to say. But he’s still talking, clinging now to the bars with his uninjured arm. “Leave her alone. She didn’t—”

Michaelson ignores him. “I think,” he says, grabbing my arm and yanking me toward the back wall, “that he’s as much a liar as he is a thief, and a bad one at that. And you? You’re a little bitch who was happy to let him take the fall for you, yes?”

“Get off me.” Trying to wriggle from his grip is useless. What am I supposed to say?

A bruising grip digs into my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze. “And not even a word of apology. Incredible.”

Is he serious? “Apology? You think I’m going to apologize?”

Michaelson smiles, as if this is the answer he was both expecting and desiring. “No.”

My back is pressed against the wall now, heart thundering in my chest. “I didn’t take it to drink, I took it to—”

Why am I even bothering? He doesn’t care. “You two want to play games?” His voice slithers into my ear. “Better understand the fucking rules.”

When he lets go of my arm, I try to jerk away, only to feel a sharp sting across my cheek.

“Don’t.” Fox’s voice cracks.

“Rule number one. Don’t forget it.” Michaelson closes a ring of cold iron over my right wrist. “It’s us who make the rules. Not you.”

I glare up at him, every thought  unintelligible except for one. “Fuck you.”

He slaps me again.

“Constable Hatchett says you two can cry in here together while you wait for your turn in the square,” he says, dropping my arm, making the chain rattle. “I don’t understand it, but fine. Try to rig the game in your favour—even think about stealing from one of us ever again—and I’ll fucking make you wish you’d never been born.” His gaze slides to Fox. “Both of you.

I can see the way Fox is shaking, and I have a feeling it isn’t from fear.

Unlike me.

I watch Michaelson stalk out of my cell, unable to follow, tethered now to the wall. The chain allows some freedom—but not enough to reach the door or the wall I share with Fox.

Michaelson doesn’t even look at me when he lets his foot, no doubt on purpose, knock over my untouched cup of water. I flinch at the tinny sound, at the sight of the liquid—that I should have gulped down while I had the chance—transforming into muddy sludge on the floor.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Fox is still clinging to the bars. “How was that necessary?”

The clang of the locking door echoes through the corridor.

“You really think you’re some kind of hero.” Michaelson pauses in front of Fox’s cell, making no effort to go inside. “You’re not. You’re nothing. The sooner you get that through your thick head, the better.”

“That’s not true.” I shuffle forward, trying to ignore the pull of the chain on my wrist. “Don’t listen to him.”

Michaelson laughs, turns on his heel, and walks away.

My knees give out on me the second he’s gone. I kneel, gasping softly, waiting for Fox to say the words I deserve to hear—I told you so.

Instead, once he, too, is on the floor, he asks quietly, “Are you all right?”

Nodding—all I can do.

“Did he hit you hard?”

I shake my head.

Surely, tears should be streaming down my face, carving ravines into my skin, burning my slapped cheek. But there’s nothing.

Once I can form words again, I ask him, “Are you all right?” He shrugs in answer. “Your back?”

“Still hurts like hell.” The tiniest flicker of a smile. “But it’s clean. Thank you.”

Maybe it’ll be enough to stave off infection. Maybe it will mean his last days here carry a smidgen less suffering.

How could I be sorry for that?

Previous | Masterlist | Next

Tagging: @starlit-hopes-and-dreams, @gala1981, @kixngiggles .

[Banner ID: A narrow horizontal, rectangular banner featuring a barred archway. The bars and the stone walls evoke the feeling of a dungeon or prison. There are burning candles on either side of the archway. The title of the story, The Prince of Thieves, appears in white text in the centre of the image. The author's username, abbreviated to LPS from littleperilstories, appears in the bottom right corner in partially transparent text. End ID.]

[animentality]

I read "We Were Made For These Times" by Clarissa Pinkola Estes again and always tear up, but at a different part, every time.

If you know the piece, here it is. If you don't, please read it because it's beautiful and it's applicable now, more than ever, but really, it's timeless.

Then pick a quote.

"Yet, I urge you, ask you, gentle you, to please not spend your spirit dry by bewailing these difficult times. Especially do not lose hope. Most particularly because, the fact is that we were made for these times."

"I grew up on the Great Lakes and recognize a seaworthy vessel when I see one. Regarding awakened souls, there have never been more able vessels in the waters than there are right now across the world. And they are fully provisioned and able to signal one another as never before in the history of humankind."

"Look out over the prow; there are millions of boats of righteous souls on the waters with you. Even though your veneers may shiver from every wave in this stormy roil, I assure you that the long timbers composing your prow and rudder come from a greater forest. That long-grained lumber is known to withstand storms, to hold together, to hold its own, and to advance, regardless."

"Ours is not the task of fixing the entire world all at once, but of stretching out to mend the part of the world that is within our reach. Any small, calm thing that one soul can do to help another soul, to assist some portion of this poor suffering world, will help immensely. It is not given to us to know which acts or by whom, will cause the critical mass to tip toward an enduring good."

"What is needed for dramatic change is an accumulation of acts, adding, adding to, adding more, continuing. We know that it does not take everyone on Earth to bring justice and peace, but only a small, determined group who will not give up during the first, second, or hundredth gale."

"One of the most calming and powerful actions you can do to intervene in a stormy world is to stand up and show your soul. Soul on deck shines like gold in dark times. The light of the soul throws sparks, can send up flares, builds signal fires, causes proper matters to catch fire. To display the lantern of soul in shadowy times like these - to be fierce and to show mercy toward others; both are acts of immense bravery and greatest necessity."

"Struggling souls catch light from other souls who are fully lit and willing to show it. If you would help to calm the tumult, this is one of the strongest things you can do."

"There will always be times when you feel discouraged. I too have felt despair many times in my life, but I do not keep a chair for it. I will not entertain it. It is not allowed to eat from my plate."

"The reason is this: In my uttermost bones I know something, as do you. It is that there can be no despair when you remember why you came to Earth, who you serve, and who sent you here. The good words we say and the good deeds we do are not ours."

"When a great ship is in harbor and moored, it is safe, there can be no doubt. But that is not what great ships are built for."

[insomniac-dot-ink]

Light from Unseen Stars

What are you so sad for?

Lori hated that question, almost as much as she hated team building exercises on Monday and people who walked too slowly on the sidewalk. She wasn’t sad, mind your business. There were off days. But everyone had off days when the lights didn’t quiet seem right.

Lori was an avid jogger. She liked the way her sneakers beat against the concrete and the impact vibrated up her bones. During those long, burning runs the world would blur together in a perfect fuzzy mass. Sometimes, the world would blur and burn and her eyes would unfocus, she would catch her shadow in the corner of her vision. The shadow had long flowing hair and a sharp chin and one hand outstretched while its dress buffeted in some unseen wind.

Lori didn’t have long hair. She didn’t own any dresses. Still, if she curled up on the sidewalk shaking to pieces, sobbing at the skies, and struggling for breath, that wasn’t any more unusual than what you see on the average Friday bus. Mind your business, she told the other passing joggers.  

She was so sick of that question– like there was something wrong with her face. A coworker would see her spacing out in the breakroom, staring up at the lights and would clear his throat, “Are you alright?” An even worse question.

Lori would snap to attention. “I’m fine,” she returned dully. The coworker was one of those tall marketing-types with rolled-up sleeves and shaggy hair. She tried for a smile. “Come on, we’re at work. Is that not enough to be sad about?”

Geoffrey or Gregg flashed her a pained smile in return and Lori wondered if that’s how she looked. No wonder he asked me that.

“Just checking in, have you clocked out yet?”

Lori would realize, belatedly, the sun had gone down and she had been there since lunchtime. Oops. Another great way to get fired. Instead of answering, she tilted her head back to the impossibly bright fluorescent lights and she breathed in an apple-sweet smell.

“Do you smell that?”

Her coworker wrinkled his nose. “Right. No wonder you look like a funeral.”

Something would nag in the back of her memory. It would tickle and pry and feel very much alive in her head. What was she sad for? “I’m not,” Lori repeated under her breath, because everything comes from somewhere-- even despair has a source.

And she was fine.

“Well,” Gre-offrey slowly edged around her to the coffee maker. “Be careful. Mrs. Dessin is handing out punishments like candy for forgetting to clock out. . .”

Punishments. Right.  

Lori talked to her parents three times a week. She went to work in her tiny mini cooper and wore her sneakers to the office before changing into heels. And when Kris the delivery woman asked, “What are you so sad for?” she waved her off. Why would she ask such a thing? Lori was buying a condo soon. She had almost paid off her student loans.

But there were more questions of course. She left a red carnation on her desk each Friday. Who are leaving flowers for? Lori would shake her head. Every November 3rd she’d wear black from head to toe and paint her nails a deep crimson red. Who are you dressing up for? No one.

And of course, there was a song that would play on the top 10 throwback radio stations, at parties, and over the load speakers in grocery stores: You are my sunshine, my only sunshine, you make me happy when skies are blue . . . 

The song played. The smell of apples lodged in the roof of her mouth. Lori was rooted to the floor, like a deer waiting to be hit, and her eyes would widen until they couldn’t widen anymore. The people in the grocery store or where she was would puzzle at her. 

“Why the weeping, dear?” an old woman held her wrist. Lori asked herself this same question in the mirror. “What are you so sad for?” She would shake her head and plug her ears until the song was over. Her apartment was tidy and well-furnished, she owned an espresso machine, she wore her sneakers to work before changing into heels.

She called her parents three times a week and they told her she would be okay. They were here for her and everything would be okay.

The tears didn’t stop. In some dim corner of herself, she knew why–it wasn’t just sad. It was heavy. It was nail-deep. It was black outfits and bowed heads and an ache that never stopped carving out canyons. She would sometimes push her palms hard against her eye sockets, press and press until the darkness lit up with white spots.

She saw a face in the white spots. An outline of someone with long flowing hair and a sharp chin. A ringing tin sound echoed through her memory. And how it ached that bottomless ache.

Lori ran that night–she ran every time she saw an outline of a too-tall shadow or a face in the bright white spots. She put on her joggers and went as far and fast as she could possibly go, heaving and sweating and lungs burning coppery. This was her life. Lori ran until her lungs were on fire and she had to crash to her knees, white spots popping like fireworks in her vision.

She closed her eyes, but here was no face there this time, only the black of her eyelids. A long whimper escaped her throat. When she stood back up under the streetlights of an unknown park, they flickered. The streetlights flashed and there was a second shadow across from her own. A threadbare wisp of a thing which cast in the opposite direction of how it should. The shadow stretched via some other unseen light and reached for her own shadow’s hand, delicately passing through.

A shadow and a shadow, and the apple blossoms scent clogging her throat. A thought struck Lori hard enough to force her down to her knees: Silly girl, playing in dimensions.

Pain shot through her frontal lobe and she crumpled forward. Oh, how Lori wept, knees hugged to her chest, tasting salt, and staring at the light--begging for it to eat her whole. What are you sad for? No, not that.

“What am I being punished for?” She rasped to the uncaring Above. The pain her frontal lobe shot through like a needle and there was no second shadow. There were no apples. And Lori was staring up at the all the stars and all the light which was not her light. 

She called her parents and was told that number was disconnected. She checked her text messages and there was only one line repeated over and over again from her mom: Everything is okay. Everything is okay. Everything is okay.

Reality is a tricky thing. Perhaps even normal girls from normal lives had a deep well of despair hidden away. Perhaps you grow mad slowly, and then all at once. Perhaps there’s a good reason to be locked out of your own dimension. And sometimes there’s more.

Sometimes you return from another day of crying over songs that should be happy and wearing mourning clothes for no reason. And there’s a carnation at the door, and a note that reads: Find me.

Lori starts breaking light bulbs and goes looking for shadows.

[trans-masc-kuromi]

Short story<33

TW: DESCRIPTIONS/MENTIONS OF SEXUAL ASSAULT AND DEATH

Sarah walks beside her best friend,

 watching the cracks of the cement separating the gray slabs familiar to her,

 like legos pressed together, 

leading the duo to her house for their planned event,

Dark ringlets of hair tumbled its way over her shoulder jolting slightly as each step forward was made, 

her brown eyes catching the sunlight like honey from a jar.

 Max had always been envious of his best friend,

 the way she caught everyone's view immediately with her natural appearance of beauty, 

her jokes that always landed at the perfect time that always seemed to make her funny to everyone,

Making fruends wuth ease.

Oh. How he wished to be like her,

No,

Not like her but to be viewed as how many viewed her.

But ff all people she could have,

 Sarah wanted Max.  

Not in a romantic way,

 maybe, not even in a platonic way,

 Instead, in a way unlike a child who wanted others,

simply because they didn't have it or rather,  there was a conflict between them and achieving it. 

But Max? 

He wasn't abnormal,

 not even in the way that he was alone, 

but absolutely one hundred percent normal, 

The only difference between him and his peers was that he was academically motivated and that he was expected to be perfect when it came to success. 

The burnout,

 walking alongside each other with the pretty girl who never lacked any beauty in her appearance and always was present with laughs and a touch of awe surrounding her!

But Sarah?

 She was not as pleasant as she seems;

 Max had even been warned but if she wanted him, that's what she would get.

 Afterall, he already knew what was going to happen, 

but as he walked closer and closer to what was going to occur, a deep dark buzz began to fill every inch of his head, not fear but numbness because who was he to fight back?

Hands and eyes,

 That's the first thing he remembers when he thinks about what happened when reviewing that.

 That, being the blur of the assault,

 like seeing through fogged up glasses but knowing what was happening while you couldn't move, 

your body so stiff that aches fill your muscles as they clench around bone, 

your words,

 screams not yet reaching your mouth, 

caught in your throat so hard like a ball of wound up pleas blocking any ounce of possible reassurance, that maybe,

 maybe it wasn't his fault. 

He knew it was going to happen and she knew that he held that knowledge,

Like a secret key intertwining their souls together, like a twisted lock and key of despair and fear lined to connect with one who had a desire,

And that desire? 

That desire fueled the actions of that,

The remnants of layers of her skin under his fingernails; his fingers latched onto her forearms as if his body couldn't decide on how to react,

 but knowing,- 

Wanting,-

That

To

Stop. 

He remembered that night with severity and numbness to it all, 

anger even,

 that she had done that to him. 

That despite the objections he held it was ignored for her desire,

Anger that the scratches that covered her arms and back weren't enough to satisfy his fear that he didn't fight back enough,

To be claimed as a survivor.

Which meant,

In his mind? 

Well, that must mean that he needed to show 

That she wasn't a survivor either.

Not even a little bit. 

He walked with unnerved confidence,

No jitters or regrets coming to his mind as he replayed how she would meet her fate in a matter of minutes,

Maybe even,

Seconds. 

He didn't watch documentaries or research what the other people did to merely eliminate someone,

He didn't want to get away with it,

He wanted her to know that with every fiber of his shrewd being, that he would have made this decision,

Every single time if faced with a choice to change it. 

He could imagine it,

The different headings on the channels,

“Seventeen Year Old Girl That Left Us To Soon”

Seventeen but still assaulting him,

Seventeen but still spoiled beyond content by her peers,

Seventeen,

But seventeen was enough.

Enough for someone lacking the compassion to realize the mental damage of her actions, 

His brain had too many thoughts rattling in the interior of his skull,

Seeming to make a loud clatter,

Not to hurt but just,

No silence,

No guilt or nervousness,

But not quiet.

Her screams were the first thing that silenced these thoughts,

Morbidly satisfying to him,

The way tears streamed down her face,

Begging,

Pleading

As if she had not ignored his,

And as he continued to rip her hair out of her scalp,

Leaving it tender and sore,

“I mean, it's not like she’ll use it after she's dead.” he thought

He hummed

He... hummed?

As if he was simply washing the dishes,

As if killing his assaulter was simply,

A chore. 

One that undoubtedly was a lot of work,

 Ripping off her fingernails as she screamed at him obscenities,

Unintelligible between the sobs and muffled coughs,

Kicking in her legs with a dull thud until a faint crack would occur,

A glowstick holding slight comparison to the sound,

He wondered for a moment, how he came from a child,

Twelve,

Snapping glow sticks in the dark exclaiming with glee at the sight, 

To

Seventeen.

Seventeen and watching the blood seep out of Sarah's pores.

Seventeen and watching her eyes glaze over.

Seventeen and watching mucus come from her mouth,

As her breaths,

Finally,

Stopped. 

But after all, she wanted him at seventeen, 

He simply did not want her back, 

And for her doing the gruesome harassing of his body without his consent?

Well there was a price for everything after all, 

Maybe it wasn't a fair price to pay,

But now he's seventeen.

Seventeen,

And a murderer.

Tysm for reading much love 💞

[diarybot]

i get tired of the criticisms towards women. it’s a nuisance at this point. 

am i minimizing myself. 

i need a change.

But being a glutton for drama could also make you intolerant of the value of stability, and might lead you to unconsciously precipitate situations in which others generate the crisis you yourself secretly crave.

i secretly crave crisis. 

am i getting depressed? 

SOREN KIERKEGAARD

is there nothing in me that i can make go outside of me? it’s all trapped up and zipped. permanence and posture. emanating the kinds of things that will never get me money on this earth in this year. the poison of desiring delicious objects and complete selfish beauty. will he ever understand me? do i need to be understood? where does it go? the feeling and idea? what is it for? what could it be headed to? am i so naive to believe i could be great? knowing im nothing? why does the memory of school hurt so much? is grief the only lasting emotion? i cant stop crying. it comes in batches, increasing over time. i once spontaneously cried at work in front of el and then maz. terrible people to have seen my cry. why did i cry then? there was nothing going on. no obvious pains or troubles. why do i cry now? there is nothing bad i can see. but i can feel the old pain. its obscure and disperse nature. these big feelings would scare him. sometimes i look at him and it seems like he’s never had to overcome a great pain. i shouldnt assume. but i do catch myself wishing he were older. that something hard had the time to wear him down and change him. i catch myself wishing i could say more to him. but he is also so good, and so solid. he has boundaries and is disciplined and fair and kind. he is simple and present and gentle and he helps me untangle the big things with his simple advice. i never even really want to talk with him, i just want to be with him. i want him around, just there, not much to be said. when he is around, things are taken care of, no matter the dyings and despairings in my head. he kisses me softly. holds me gently. he commits to his word. he is cold to everyone but me. i wish he were older. i wish my college life had been different. i wish my career would start. i wish i didnt feel so worn out by work. i wish i had something, some skill, that people needed. i wish i had purpose. motivation. maybe im not taking care of myself in the simplest of ways. eating and sleeping. my body is tense. i can feel it. how do people formalize ideas..?

RALPH WALDO EMERSON

could i be brave? yet even frodo failed in the end. it wasnt self-determination or strength that succeeded—strength fails, determination wavers—it was mercy and companionship which ended it. dogged hope and relentless mercy. maybe im looking at my life all wrong. i havent visited the trees enough. my fear, in general, is incompetence. 

DOM/LILCOWGIRL4/DRUNKWHENIMADETHIS

if i write for work will i hate it? can i actually pull from within and mentally overcome with intense clarity the undeniable strength of truth and writing and that i must do it or else i die? if i dont write, i die. but i know the kind of writing that sustains me is this, this headfuck, this terrible yarn of emotion and melodrama.

[kat-holden]

Gray Hound

A story I wrote a long time ago, but I deleted it and now I regret it. I will probably not be going to be able to recreate it but here goes nothing.

I have been here for days. The outside never changes from the wet, smeared city streets that race side by side with the gray hound as it makes its way to eternity. Nobody has cleaned the windows of this bus and I am offered a dusty view of the never-changing scenery. I huddle in my seat slouching even more. There were more people a few days ago but I seem to be the last one remaining. He has tried to make me leave. All the tricks he had up his sleeves did not work. And here I am on this roller coaster of despair. I refuse to meet what awaits me on the other side of the door.

The bus suddenly jerked to a stop and I almost flew off my seat. The rattling rusty doors opened and another person stepped in. Another passenger to keep me company? I doubt it. It was one of his ploys to scare me and make me leave.

"You will have to do better than another faceless man to scare me!" I yelled at the speaker that announced the stops and who should leave. The faceless figure stood there not moving. The speaker crackled and I heard his voice. Low and velvety, almost like a cat purring.

"Or you could just leave the bus and face what awaits you." He said his voice was void of any emotion.

I sat back in my seat and did not grant the voice a reply. I will not, I could not face what I did. Not yet, not now. "You can tell the driver I am not getting off. I don't mind the faceless horror you torture me with. They are as mindless as furniture."

Then the voice laughed. No warmth or joy, but a very methodical almost rehearsed laugh as if he learned it from a manual.

"I think you should look closer this time, child." the speaker crackled again then was silent. I raised myself a little bit from my seat and peaked above the seats. I felt my breath catch in my chest. It wasn't possible. It couldn't be him. His face was hidden under his hood but I couldn't leave his clothes anywhere. The way he looked that night was burned into my brain for eternity. And just like then, they were soaking wet.

For the first time since I woke up in this seat, I felt scared. All the bad decisions I made in my life personified. Guilt, shame, sadness all hit at the same time. When he outstretched his hand, I could not refuse and in a split second I was on my feet running towards the bus door. I heard it creak open and before I touched his fingers, he was gone only to appear a few paces in front of me. I had no choice. I had to leave.

I did not expect to find myself in a long endless corridor, but that's how fever dreams go, right?

"Follow me" his voice but a whisper. The soft carpet drowned our footsteps. The hallway was never ending. Behind each door I could hear voices, some laughed hysterically others, cried uncontrollably, but none were quiet. "How long must I walk?" I tried to ask but my voice faltered.

Time did not pass. Nor did I feel tired, all I could do was follow the boy I ruined. I could not turn back, not even if I wanted to. Was this my punishment? Always one step behind never being able to catch up or even apologies. Did I want to apologies?

After days or hours or maybe minutes we stopped. A door with a number. "Open it, this is your room."

A single light bulb illuminated the linoleum floor. Tacky, but I deserve less. One chair and an old tv set. "Sit." The chair creaked under me. I felt like a schoolgirl again waiting to be scolded. Static and then a picture formed.

It was a hospital room. People gathered around a white bed. A tiny girl laid on it. A monitor beeped faintly. A woman was crying. Was that my mum? A tube was coming out of the girl's mouth. The only thing that made her breathe.

"I won't make it right?" the boy shook his head. "Where did they put you?"

"They already buried me. It's been a few months. They don't want to stop the machine."

A doctor came into the room. The woman stopped her sobs for a bit and then continued with more vigor. "They told her they will stop my ventilator, right?"

"Yes."

I could not hear the beep anymore. "Is that it? Am I dead?"

"Yes."

I stayed quiet for a bit. "I'm sorry I did this to you, to us."

"I am not him. I just look like him. I cannot give you closure" I nodded and blinked away tears. "What am I supposed to do now?"

"You will stay here and watch the people in your life suffer your death and see them move on. Or not."

The light never went out and the tv never stopped showing me the pain and devastation I caused. My eyes were glued and I could not look away. This was eternity.

[lavendertales]

Tempter: Chapter 4**

pairing: Din Djarin x mechanic!f!reader

summary: following an unexpected realization, you and Din grow much closer.

word count: 4.5k

WARNINGS: cunnilingus, helmet comes off, piv, doggy, feelings all over the place of course. watch out for extra soft!Din.

AGELESS/EMTPY BLOGS & MINORS WILL BE BLOCKED!

gif: @javi-gutierrez​ 

series masterlist | AO3

The following days had been uneventful work-wise, but when it came to taking care of a grumpy, eager-to-leave Mandalorian, plenty were to be said and done.

While he refused help with doing his daily laps, he settled for you bringing him food and water and letting him stay in your suite.

You wouldn’t tell him this. You could barely admit it to yourself. But having him so close to you, in the privacy of your own place, so intimate and cozy, was making you visualize a potential future with him, a future filled with hope, happiness—

And love.

You realized one evening as you changed his stitches and he was thanking you in his usual low, sweet tone, it was surely love. You were just a random girl on another planet with little to no life experience that was madly in love with a bounty hunter. There was no denying it anymore, no concealing it. It was building its nest inside your heart, flowing in your veins and bubbling just above the skin, ready to be detonated.

You didn’t tell him this. You could barely say it to yourself.

But Maker, you loved him. That was the only explanation that made sense for the way you were feeling, for the way you were burning for that man.

Lucky for you, you could always count on Peli to share some weird stories about her dating life to distract you. Somehow she managed to attract the most questionable partners but it was all in good fun for the both of you.

“So get this,” she started, polishing one of the rifles in the back of the shop, “he said, ‘I’ll call you’. How on Tatooine is he gonna call me? I got no transmission for that, pal!”

“Sounds like it was a pretext.”

“Tell me about it! Every time I think I meet a decent guy, he’s a womp rat.”

“Let me ask you this. Did you really think things were gonna fall into place with the frog guy?”

Peli hesitated, and you tried your darn hardest not to burst out in laughter.

“It was worth a shot,” she shrugged. “What’s up with you and Mando?”

“Me and—? What do you mean?”

“You guys look chummy.”

You snorted. “Chummy? He was injured, I’m just taking care of him till he’s back on his feet and then he can go back to doing his job.”

Hands on her hips, Peli stared at you judgingly. There was no escaping her investigative glare.

“Please, I see the way you look at him.”

“What way? There’s no—“

“Sweetheart, I told you already. Mando ain’t a bad catch at all. He’s got a stable job, he’s strong and resourceful—“

“There’s nothing going on, okay? I don’t—even if it was, it wouldn’t matter. He’s… we’re different, and—no matter how sweet and protective and kind he might be, or—“

You stopped on account of her shocked face and huffed in despair. “What?”

“Holy smokes! You’re in love with him!”

“What—‘in love’? Now you’re losing it.”

Peli followed you around the store, still unable to believe her own theory. She knew very well you had a big heart and the chances of you falling for a kind stranger were high in her opinion, yet somehow she hadn’t seen this coming.

“You’re smitten! Look at you! Cheeks blushing, avoiding my eyes—“

“Because it’s nonsense! In love with Mando? Come on, I—what do I even know about that? I’ve never been in love with anyone, I don’t even know what that’s like.”

“It’s exactly like what you’re doing right now. You’re the textbook definition of it.”

“It’s not like that, I…”

“Denial. Right on time.”

You rolled your eyes, still avoiding Peli like the plague.

“It’s no big deal, you know?” she tried to make amends. “It’s good to love.”

“I don’t—I’ve never had this feeling, I don’t know the first thing about it. Love? In love with a Mandalorian, a bounty hunter, no less?”

Peli said your name, but you paid her no mind this time as you began to pace around, anxiety filling your every pore.

“Yes, I think about him all day every day, I—I want to see him, I am happy when he stops by the shop and… yes, I thought about kissing him countless of times, but love… love is a big word and—“

You stopped, stunned at your own words rather than at Peli’s callout of your name over and over again. Her eyes were locked behind you while yours were lost in space, lost behind the reality that only began to sink in.

“Oh Gods,” you whispered, utterly wrecked by your own realization. “Oh—Gods. You were right. I know nothing about love but I… I’m in love with him. I am in love with—“

Peli grabbed your shoulders, forcing you to turn around. Your eyes widened.

“Mando!” you said, shook as you could be.

“Well this is awkward,” Peli muttered under her breath, taking several steps back. “I should go. Lots to do, lots of business.”

“How long have you been standing there?” you asked him breathless, barely noticing Peli sneaking out in the back.

“A little while,” he confessed. “I was… taking a little walk since most of the pain is gone.”

His throat felt like sandpaper, closing up with each breath he drew. As he looked at you, he felt a crushing urge to advance towards you and, oddly enough, hold you in ways he hasn’t allowed himself to do with anyone else.

“So you—you heard what I—?”

Suddenly you felt like cussing yourself out with all of the foul words you knew, but instead, nothing came out. You felt the crimson burn of your cheeks go all the way to your ears, your body going numb and your extremities going cold.

“You… cannot say those words,” he told you.

The shock slowly wore off, leaving you flabbergasted instead. “Cannot say them? What—why?”

“You can’t feel that way about me,” he seemed to warn you. “You can’t love me.”

“It frightens you. Doesn’t it?”

The Mandalorian replied with silence. Earsplitting, crushing silence that spoke volumes now more than it ever did.

You inched closer to him, gulping.

“It frightens me as well,” you confessed. “I never felt anything like this, I never—“

“You just… you can’t. You can’t have those feelings for me. It’s just not going to work.”

Then you felt anger vanquish you.

“So everything that happened was…”

You could not finish the thought. All that anger was now entangled with sadness and disappointment and in that moment, you knew Peli had been right just as much as you were.

You had been foolish and selfish to think a Mandalorian would wish for anything beyond carnal pleasure.

Casual is better. No strings attached, Peli told you.

“Then I think it’s best if we pretend this never happened,” you said sharply. “Just like everything else.”

“I didn’t mean—“

“You were quite clear, Mando. I cannot say those bloody words because you’re afraid of them, of the pain. I get it. I am afraid of them too. I didn’t even realize I felt them till a moment ago, but I found comfort in thinking I could tell them for the first time in my life to someone special. Someone who makes me feel safe and cared for. I now see that I was mistaken. You’re not that someone.”

You walked past him, unwilling to steal so much as a single glance back. Your heart was racing, and not like the kind it did whenever you saw him in the past. It was now aching, bleeding even, burning for the one person you could not fully have.

Restlessness didn’t even begin to cover the sensation Mando had.

He felt no hunger, no thirst, nothing but shame at his reaction mere hours ago.

He froze. He was always capable and strong, yet when he had you right before him, saying that you…

He froze. He could not rummage your words no matter how hard he tried, and he did. He tried for every second, every minute of the past several hours to process your words, spoken out of pure shock rather than confessed. But they were just as real as they could’ve been.

I think about him all day every day.

I’m in love with him.

I thought about kissing him countless of times.

I’m in love with him.

I thought about kissing him—

Love was, indeed, a big word. He had loved before and he had lost. Twice. His parents first, then Grogu… a third time might just kill him. He could not bear the thought of anything happening to you. A single scratch harming you, a cut… unconceivable. It was true that all he did was think about you too and wonder what it was like to kiss you, for hours on end if possible, but—

Kriffing hell.

Holy stars.

Love was a big word after all, one he finally felt properly for the first time in his life.

He found himself striding throughout your room, every single detail of it adding an extra piece to the puzzle he had no clue he was making in the first place. Your scent, that of metal, wood and lilies was in his nostrils and in his brain, recreating your image in his mind when you were not there by his side. It was torment and pleasure alike.

For a skilled hunter, he sure lacked the key observation for mundane matters. Though granted, it was the first time he was put in such a situation.

His nerves were getting the best of him as he continuously roamed around your room. His wounds were well and almost healed thanks to your care, and he only felt mildly sore from his rib cage. You had insisted that he remained in your suite until his recovery was completed, which meant that all he could do was walk around and… think about you.

When he heard footsteps, he nearly jumped like an excited pup waiting for its master to return home. He held his breath in anticipation.

Your eyes locked on his beskar figure, but did not linger. You looked away, still shaken by the day’s events.

“I just came in here to check on you,” you said lowly. “I see you can still walk, so that’s good. I’ll see you when—“

Mando lunged forward and grabbed your wrist, holding you in place. Your breaths hitched inside your chest, your lips seemingly glued together in order to preserve whatever air you had left in your lungs.

“How can you feel that way?” he asked. “How can you… feel those words for someone you don’t even know? Someone you can’t even see?”

“Do you doubt me?”

“Never.”

He sounded just as winded as you were, voice coarse and thick with plenty of emotions you had yet to figure out.

“I’m just curious,” he continued. “How can you say you… care for someone you don’t even see?”

“Do you honestly believe I need to see you in order to care for you?”

Mando replied with silence. You managed to take his breath away each and every time without fail, and now he figured out why.

“I don’t need a face,” you said, unaware of the moment where your fingers intertwined with his gloved ones. “It’s not… I know what I need to know. That you are kind, and good, and protective and… warm.”

The two of you were getting closer and closer until you were convinced you stopped breathing altogether at some point.

“And you… you make me feel so…”

“So… what?”

“So… full. When you’re inside of me.”

You gulped again, trembling with anticipation and fear alike.

“It’s never felt that good. With anyone, ever,” he said.

Then you remembered his words from before, the way they angered you and you shook your head, trying to dismiss the tingly feeling prickling at your skin having him in your vicinity.

“That’s all there was though, wasn’t it? Just a rush, a—a tingle.”

“No.”

“It was just a thrill, a way to blow off steam, which… is casual, and I get it.”

And then, something inside of him detonated. A little push that triggered so much more than he himself was aware of.

“My name… is Din Djarin, I was born on Aq Ventila. I am a Mandalorian, a bounty hunter, but now, here, in front of you… a man. Just a man. Desperately in love with you, with… everything that makes you, you. The only reason I told you not to say those words is… you were right, I am… afraid. It terrifies me because it’s so powerful that—“

“Is it? Is it really?”

“Why do you think I kept returning to your shop? Why do you think I always want you around, why I always come back?”

His voice, albeit its rasp, was restless and desperate just like him.

“You were right,” he repeated. “I am afraid. I lost my parents and I lost the kid, Grogu… Grogu was his name. And I loved them. Caring for someone when you do what I do is not an option. I thought it would be easier, that I wouldn’t get this close but…but I did.”

“Mando—Din—“

He gasped, unable to contain the sound. “Say—say it again.”

“What?”

“My name. Can you – it sounded so good when you said—“

“Din.”

He didn’t think twice before he moved even closer to you, his heart frail and yet stronger like never before. He didn’t think even once when his hands went to the sides of the helmet and practically tossed it on the ground, leaving you in a high state of shock.

“I am yours,” he told you, too caught up in the high ecstasy that your mere presence brought to him. “I’ve been since the moment I set foot into that shop. All of me, all yours. If you—“

You smiled, blinded by the surprise and his handsomeness. “If I what? If I want you?”

It was far easier to read him now that his face was bare before you, stripped of any mystery. The brown eyes, chestnut locks of hair, stubble and mustache, all conspiring against your rationality.

Din nodded, visibly eager to receive your answer.

“Was it not clear before, Din?”

He shivered and nearly moaned. It was verging on insanity how the mere pronunciation of his name brought him so much pleasure.

“Was I not clear before?” you asked again, eyes locking with his for the very first time. “I want you as you are. You didn’t need to… what about the Creed?”

“It was broken before. And it is not considered broken when shared with someone you love.”

“See, you said the words, it’s not fair. I should—“

“Say them. Please.”

“I love you. I love you so much it almost pains me to say it. It scares me, it—it’s bigger than anything I could’ve ever imagined… but I love you. I do, I—“

Din drew in a sharp breath and grabbed your waist, gluing your body to his armor. You could see every little detail of his face and it thrilled you beyond measure: his nose, his stubble, his lips, so full and tempting, much like the man himself.

“Din, can I—“

“You can do whatever you want. Anything. Everything.”

His permission slipped past his lips with so much ease it felt like he had been holding onto it for years. And perhaps he has, from even before he met you.

Perhaps you were just the thing he had been unknowingly waited for.

Within seconds, your lips were on his, at long last, a gentle press turning heated in an instant. It was so easy to get lost into his eyes, his warmth and his scent. His tongue waltzed with yours as you breathed each other in.

Your hands worked side by side with his to remove the clothes that were standing in your way. It was rather funny to see the Mandalorian wear his trusted armor at all times, even when he had been injured and now recuperating. The beskar turned out to be quite the challenge to remove in all of the haste, but you both persevered.

Off came the gloves, and his calloused hands, the one that could bring so much pleasure to you, were now working against your clothes, top to bottom. The bed sunk under your weight, with Din falling atop of you, kissing you like he had been deprived for who knows how long. And perhaps he has; you fleetingly wondered when the last time he removed his helmet was.

Though it wasn’t all that obvious he hadn’t kissed anyone before, you could clearly tell he had been deprived of one of humanity’s simplest yet most incredible gifts; he kissed you like it was his last day, like you were the finest cuisine he had ever tasted and he had been starved for weeks. As you laid beneath him, Din slowly began to grind in between your legs, his wants getting the best of him. He was no longer a calculated hunter, but a mere man, ate alive by his own feelings towards you.

Din broke the kiss to catch his breath, staring at you in awe. He looked absolutely ravishing that way: messy hair, lips swollen and red, soft, brown eyes wide and pleading. He seemed to be asking you for something, and you already knew the answer will be yes.

“Can I taste you?”

Mouth agape, you gazed at him. You hadn’t done that before, and you had the feeling neither did he. It was a big step, a big moment that made you shiver with excitement.

You shook your head, half-convinced this was all real and not another one of your peculiar fantasies.

Din pressed kisses on every portion of skin he could see, earning little gasps from your side as he marked his way lower and lower, until finally –

You tensed under his dutiful touch spreading your legs for him. First, he pressed more kisses on your clit, listening to your reactions closely. When your moans got louder and your hands wandered to grasp onto something, he smiled to himself, thinking whatever he was doing, it was working. He was new to such pleasures, but he was more than willing to explore and give you everything you wanted and needed.

Then, he truly began his mission.

He buried his face in between your legs, licking and sucking like his life depended on it. You moaned more audibly, hands reaching his hair and tugging, unintentionally yanking even, which made Din raise his look and stare at you as he ate you out. The rush you felt having him treat your most sensitive spot so intimately and warmly was driving you well past the edges of sanity. It felt as if he was carving something immortal out of you, drinking straight from your cunt, hands wrapped around your thighs to keep them in place.

You kept your eyes on him as you moaned relentlessly. The only sounds you heard were your own throated gasps and the slurps coming from in between your legs, both of which could easily be deemed as filthy and forbidden in a way.

“Din—ohhh—“

You felt him say something; the vibration traveled fast from your cunt through the rest of your body, and it set you afire. You could only breathe in small sequences, falling apart right in his mouth. You palmed your breasts as your lower belly seemed to catch on fire and finally, a little while after, Din’s tongue became the key to your ignition.

You squirmed as you came, but his strong hands held you in place to the best of his abilities. He didn’t stop eating you, not even as you were melting, feeding him every droplet of your arousal for him. He moaned as well, just like he would at the end of a very satisfying meal.

“Maker, you taste heavenly,” he said, eyes back on you as he climbed atop of you again. “Was that good? Did you like it?”

There was hesitation in his voice, even a little insecurity. You cupped his cheeks, caressing them sweetly as you smiled, still feeling the effect of the earlier climax.

“It was amazing,” you reassured him, smiling as he did the same. “You—you are amazing. You are… so easy to fall in love with.”

Flustered, Din lowered his head, only then realizing how achingly hard he was, how his whole body seemed to weep and beg for you.

“Can I—can I go inside you? Please?” he said, almost brokenly so. “I want to feel you.”

“Yes,” you replied almost instantly.

Though you saw no need for him to ask, it baffled you how he maintained his manners. You bit your lip as you remarked Din guide himself to your entrance and you held your breath. It felt as if this was the very first time he took you, as if you’ve never felt his presence so deeply before, and you supposed it was true to a certain extent. You never felt him so close, and it was beyond your wildest dreams.

He slid inside of you with ease, the feeling of your warmth surrounding him in an instant. You both gasped simultaneously, and your hands went to his shoulders for support as he began to thrust. He gave an experimental hip roll, to see if you were ready for him, but you were more than ready. You pulled him in, encouraging him to move his hips at his own desired pace as you kissed him.

You couldn’t contain the moans that escaped your throat and traveled right into his cavities. Your body moved to the rhythm imposed by his hips, uniting your bodies as one in the most intimate and passionate dance known to mankind.

“I love you,” he muttered in a trance. “I love you—I’m sorry I didn’t—I shouldn’t have—“

“Shhhh, don’t. No apologies. Just you and me—now.”

Din picked up the pace, allowing himself – perhaps for the very first time in his life – to lose a little control. He couldn’t help it; you were the sweetest nectar ever, and there was no way he could ever get enough of you. No amount of you would ever be enough for him. He will always come crawling back to you, on his knees, to beg for more of you.

He only slowed down to look at you with concern and care alike, struggling to compose himself for a brief moment. You clenched around him, feeling him throb inside you, and he froze.

“Don’t do that,” he warned, voice raspy. “I—I can’t handle that.”

“Din—“

“I… don’t think I can go slowly, I need—“

Words were losing themselves on the tip of his tongue, but you needn’t hear them. All you needed was him, all of him.

“Then don’t,” you told him.

You moved your hips to feel him again, and Din moaned brokenly.

“Fuck,” was all he could utter.

He began to move again and you gasped as you felt him reach for the deepest spot inside of you. Your nails were digging into the flesh of his back as he slammed his hips into yours, lips messily tasting yours. Your breaths grew more unsteady with each hasty thrust Din made inside you, aiming to please as best as he could.

“Oh you’re—s-so good—“you whispered to him. “So good—“

“Fuck, I’m—I’m not gonna last—“

Again you clenched around him and it sent Din into a manic frenzy. He willed himself to keep it together till he felt you cum first, but it wasn’t easy, not when you were moaning and digging into the flesh of his back.

“Din, I’m gonna—oh—“

“Fuck—fuck—“

He grunted your name and thrusted a few more times as you came a second time. “Shit, you get—so tight when you cum—so good—“he said.

His own climax overwhelmed him, hitting unexpectedly. Waves of pleasure surrounded him and you cupped his cheeks again, pressing your forehead on his.

“I love you,” you breathed, ecstatic at the feeling of his release inside of you. “I love—“

Din pulled out, hands on your hips to maneuver you at his will.

“Turn around. On all fours.”

Still reeling from the pleasure and with wobbly legs, you did as Din told you. You moaned loudly when you felt him inside once again. This time, however, his thrusts were no longer testing the waters. They were determined and rough just like the primal desire lingering in between the two of you, though still filled with great care and passion.

Din slammed his hips into yours as his hands grabbed the flesh on your own hips, guiding himself faster inside of you. He knew you could handle it, he knew you would not break. He knew you needed this just as much as he did.

One hand snaked its way around your throat, curving your body conveniently to his touch. He pulled you enough to kiss your earlobe and your cheek, his cock still hitting the deepest, most concealed spot within you.

“You own me,” he told you, breaths ragged in your ear. “I’m yours—to do with as you—fucking—please.”

He held you in place by your throat as he came a second time, beads of sweat dripping down his temples, neck and chest. Sometime amongst the filthy whispers, the passion-fueled words and the sweet kisses, you came for the third time that night.

When he pulled out, he could barely breathe. He gently laid you in the bed, searching for something to clean you up with. But you took his hands into yours, staring at him at last the way you truly wanted to all along.

“And I am yours,” you told him. “If this is what you want.”

Din smiled faintly, still flustered. “Have I not been clear before?”

To which you chuckled.

“Quite clear,” you smiled. “Whatever happened to ‘you cannot feel that way about me’?”

“It’s… scary.”

“I know.”

“But it does more damage than good to not hear them.”

You kissed his cheek, caressing it after.

“I tried not to think about it. I thought… what does a simple girl from Tatooine who fixes things know about love? I thought… it’s stupid and foolish because I’m just me, I’m just – “

“You’re not ‘just’. You’re… you’re everything.”

You could think of nothing else to say, so instead, you kissed him. You kissed him like he hadn’t been kissed before, like you longed to do for what felt like years.

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