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pickmans-muse · 3 months

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TW: violence, gore, female reader, cursing

When Muzan sniffs the wind, and catches the scent of human, he hisses softly, his lips peeling back from his pointed teeth.

He’s not pleased. He hasn’t seen or smelled a human in decades—and now that he’s managed to carve out a territory, there’s one coming back to the mountain? Hell no.

He jumps between the trees, gracefully leaping from branch to branch. He’s going down the mountain, down to the foothills where the scent’s coming from. There’s a house there, he remembers—humans used to live there, hunters, before he killed them all. So, some foolish human’s moved back in.

They’ll be a foolish, dead human soon, before they get near his kin.

He thinks of Rui, caught in an iron-toothed trap and crying like a fawn. He thinks of Gyutaro and Daki, starving and exhausted, driven from their forest to his. He thinks of Zohakuten, trying to carry his brother’s body through the snow, leaving a black trail of blood behind them.

No human will touch them again.

When he lands on the long bough of an oak that stands beside the small house, Muzan notices the gray car drawn up out front, and the boxes on the porch. His nose wrinkles. This isn’t good. The human’s planning to stay.

He doesn’t see one, so he drops down, and takes out his anger on several of the nearest boxes. His claws shred through cardboard, tape, and everything inside—which turns out to be pillows, blankets, and a few clothes. Irritated, he swipes at another box, intent on finding the traps or guns or nets—and his claws shatter glass. The pieces stick in his fingers, and he snarls in pained surprise. He leans over, and sees a small drawing in a frame. His claws broke the glass covering it, but they didn’t rip the drawing.

It’s simple, black lines on cream paper. He cocks his head, and the lines resolve into a forest, waterfall, and pool of water. It’s strangely beautiful, appreciative of the woods and the water in a way Muzan couldn’t imagine from a human.

“Yeah, I heard something outside. It’s probably just some small animal or something. Don’t they have tanukis here?”

Muzan, startled, scrambles up the side of the house and onto the roof. His hands ache and sting, the glass still stuck in the skin.

A human comes out, a phone pressed to her ear. He can tell she’s female, smell it on her. Usually, humans use phones to tell others to come, to join the hunt—but she’s saying, “No, no, I’m fine. Really. You don’t need to come, Aunt Reese, I’m serious. It’s perfect.”

She slips the phone into a pocket of her clothes, and then she notices the wreckage of the boxes.

“What the hell?” she murmurs, squatting to examine the scattered remnants of pillows and bedding and clothes. “Okay, that definitely wasn’t a tanuki.”

When she sees the other box, she gasps and tears it open, sagging with relief when she finds the drawing unharmed. And then she notices the broken glass, which, Muzan suddenly realizes, has his dark blood on it.

“Oh, wow,” she murmurs. “What are you?”

She starts sorting things into piles—unusable, and usable, Muzan thinks—and sighs a few times. She seems more attached to her belongings than he expected. Maybe if he rips up more boxes, she’ll leave.

But he’s going to pick the glass out of his skin first.

You learned very quickly that whatever it was, it didn’t care for your presence in the house.

Every morning, you woke up to find something broken, scratched to ribbons, or just plain unrecognizable. At first, it was just your car—the tires ripped up, the glass smashed, huge divots torn out of the metal like butter—and then the house. Windows scratched, screens with gaping holes. It was like living in a haunted house, and it always happened at night.

But it hadn’t come inside the house. Until now.

The pen and ink drawing your mother made—the last one before she died, before her cancer got worse again, before everything—isn’t in its frame.

You slowly walk out onto the porch, your gut sinking. The sky is still dark, dawn too far off, and the front door is hanging open—and the drawing is on the wood, torn into so, so many pieces.

You sink down on your knees, and as you sift through the wreckage of the last part of your mother, you burst into tears.

Muzan had tried everything to make the human leave, shy of attacking her. He’d demolished her car, her house—and she still wouldn’t leave. She’s a threat. She’ll bring others, hunt him and the others down.

Muzan can’t afford to let her stay.

She cares about that drawing, so he’s going to destroy that paper tonight. See if she’ll stay without it.

So, when the human’s gone to sleep, he creeps up to the house. He goes in the door, into the first room he comes to. And there it is, on the wall. He pulls it out of its frame.

The thing on the wall, the round white thing with black marks around the edge, suddenly makes a noise. A long, loud noise, like a bell.

Muzan jumps and runs, panicked, onto the porch. Movement inside tells him the human’s getting up, and so, hurrying, he shreds the paper and jumps onto the roof. The human won’t stay. He’s made sure of that.

And then she comes out, and she sees the scraps of paper, and she bursts into tears. Muzan pauses. Something in his chest tightens, oddly, when she cries, trying to gather up the pieces.

“Okay, okay, I get it!” she suddenly shouts, her face still wet. “You hate me! You want me to leave! But I—“ She gulps on a sob, voice breaking softly. “I don’t have anywhere else to go. And this is all I have left. So please, please, just leave me alone!”

He should be happy. He should. But he isn’t. Muzan’s chest clenches. He’s gotten used to her face, her smile, the way she whistles off-key while she does her chores. Seeing her break breaks something in him.

Does he care about her?

She goes inside, drooping, and comes back with something strange. Muzan, curious, watches, and she starts using clear things to put the drawing back together. It stays, so the clear strips must be sticky.

A loud ringing sound. Muzan knows it by now—she uses it to know when to get up. Sighing, she gets up, goes back inside.

Muzan drops silently onto the porch, and pulls a strip of clear stickiness off the plastic thing. And he starts sticking the paper back together. He remembers the drawing. It must have really mattered to the human, then.

He’s sorry, oddly. She doesn’t seem to have any guns or knives or traps, and he made her cry.

He doesn’t like to see her cry.

You switch off your alarm clock, and stand beside the bed for a minute, sighing as it sinks in. You don’t have anywhere else to go, but the creature in the woods has made its opinion very clear. You can’t stay.

Slowly, you make your way back out to the porch, and when you see it, you stop.

The drawing’s fixed.

You hadn’t put more than half of it back together, and now it’s all there in one piece. The tape dispenser is scratched—by long, sharp claws you’re more than familiar with by now—but unharmed.

It feels like an apology.

So you take the drawing, and put it back in its place, and then you go through the fridge and bring out some eggs, some bacon. You fry the bacon, scramble the eggs and salt them, and plate the lot—and carry it outside.

“I think you can understand me, or at least some of what I say,” you tell the woods, the sun still out of sight. “You’re a predator, right? So you’ll probably like this. And, um—thank you.”

You leave it on the porch and shut the door. The creature likes its privacy, so you eat your own breakfast in the living room, humming quietly as you stare up at the repaired paper. The creature’s very intelligent—you can hardly tell the drawing was torn at all, from how well it was fixed.

When you check the plate, it’s been licked clean. Literally.

Maybe things are finally looking up.

Muzan sits on the long, overlooking branch of the same oak, watching the human plant a small garden. He smelled the seeds yesterday, when she left them outside. Edible. Nothing dangerous.

He tells himself that if she ever proves dangerous, he’ll drive her off.

He knows perfectly well that he won’t.

She talks to him now, though he still hasn’t let her see him. When she’s outside, or when she has the windows open, she’ll say things like, “How are you?” Or, “That was a bad storm last night. Hope you didn’t get too wet.” Or even, “I wish I could show you this show I’ve been watching on Netflix. You probably have no idea what that means, do you? I think you’d like it.”

When the fall’s cold snap came, she started leaving blankets out for him. Muzan brought them back to the den, for Rui and Zohakuten and the others. They’ll be warm this winter. When he goes into sleep with them, they’ll be warm until spring.

So he left his human a few birds he hunted, on the porch. She’d laughed, and said, “I—have no idea what to do with these. How about you not hunt for me? I’ve got food, I promise. But thank you!”

Muzan had taken back the birds, and left something from his collection behind. Like all his kind, he’s drawn to bright things, and he keeps the best ones for himself, in his part of the nest. So he left her a silver button, and a red ribbon, from his hoard.

She liked those. Muzan’s seen her wearing the ribbon, using it to pull her hair back.

A few nights ago, he started coming to the house at the same time, around sunset, every day. He’s done it since. She’s noticed—she talks more when she knows he’s there.

Yesterday, she teased him, and he dropped a nut on her head. She laughed until she almost fell over.

Muzan thinks he might like this human.

When your creature doesn’t come back all winter, you realize he’s probably hibernating. Some large predators do that. He’s probably one of them.

You were really worried the first week he didn’t turn up, though.

You’re not sure when he stopped being an it, when “the creature” became “your creature,” but you’ve gotten attached to him. You can tell when he’s there. He visits around sunset every day. Recently, he started interacting with you—dropping nuts and other things to make his point—even if you still haven’t seen him.

You spend the winter wondering what he looks like, if he’s warm enough. If he’s safe and comfortable and happy, while the snow falls outside and you turn up the heating.

When spring comes, you’re excited to have him back. And he comes back.

One night, you hear a knock at the door. It’s still a little cold at night, so you pull a blanket around yourself to answer it, not thinking about who the knock came from.

You pull the door open.

And there he is, letting you see him. Your creature. You let the blanket fall, unable to think of anything else.

He’s tall and thin, but lined with muscle—and he could almost pass for human, except for the dark tint on his forearms shading into black on his hands, or the deep red of his eyes, or the claws tipping his long, graceful fingers. He licks his lips, his eyes dropping nervously, and you catch a glimpse of sharp teeth and a long tongue.

His hair is long and black, but well-cared-for and clean, not draggled. His skin is porcelain pale, and he’s nude—but unlike a human, he doesn’t have any obvious genitals, just a smooth mound. (You immediately kick yourself for even looking.)

Very, very slowly, he holds out a hand toward you. It’s hesitant, almost fearful, so you meet him halfway with your own hand and squeeze his.

He jumps a little, startled, but then he leans closer, his eyelids fluttering. He has long lashes, you realize. Before you know what you’re doing, you lift your hand to his face, cupping his cheek. And he leans into it, turning to nuzzle against your palm.

“You—do you want to come in?” you ask.

It takes some time, but eventually he grows comfortable enough to show himself more frequently. When you’re gardening, struggling to pull a particularly stubborn sweet potato, he’s suddenly there to nudge you aside and dig it up with clawed hands. When you’re making breakfast, he shows up at the kitchen window and hands a few berries though it. He’s always there these days, whenever you turn around.

The first time he speaks, you almost jump out of your skin.

You’re talking to him, telling him about something inane—something you saw on Netflix—without expecting anything to fill the silence.

So when he says, “What is Netflix?” in a low mellow voice, you start, spilling your morning tea all over yourself and your blanket in the chair on the porch.

“Did I scare you?” he says, worried, and your heart jumps.

“I—I’ve never heard you speak. I didn’t even know you could,” you say, shoving the blanket off and rubbing your legs. The tea was still hot, and your thighs are hurting.

He kneels down in front of you, looking at your legs intently.

“It hurts,” he says softly. “Did it burn?”

“I don’t think so,” you manage, almost tongue-tied from seeing him so close to you. “But you—how did you learn English?”

“You,” he says, still intently studying your legs. “I listened to you.”

You huff an incredulous laugh. “Well, I always knew you were clever, but this is—“

He chuckles, and it’s a wonderful sound that makes your heart feel light and warm and full.

“I think you should change your clothes,” he says gently. “And then you can show me your Netflix.”

You do show him your Netflix, and other things around the house—the microwave, the fridge—and every time he sees something new and unexplained, he learns quickly. He adapts too; the television is not a threat, it’s entertainment. He doesn’t like the fridge, but he understands that the microwave makes food warm again, and he likes it better that way.

You learn too, more about him. His name is Muzan. He eats a lot of meat—preferably animals he hunts himself, though he seems to like eating with you—and has incredible senses. Smell seems particularly important to him; he can tell what you’ve eaten hours before, and find you unerringly with just your scent to go on.

After a little while, Muzan gets comfortable enough to visit every day, coming inside the house. He’s very intelligent, and spends a lot of time pouring over your books or discussing what he’s read with you. He likes documentaries or meaningful films, but generally doesn’t care for shows. If you want to watch one, he’ll settle himself beside you, reading silently.

And time passes like that, for weeks and months.

When summer is coming to a close at last, Muzan asks you to walk with him in the forest. He seems almost nervous when he asks, twisting his hands together. You often walk together on the paths, but this seems different somehow.

“What is it?” you ask gently. “Muzan, is something bothering you?”

He huffs a soft laugh.

“I want you to see my den,” he admits. “And meet my family.”

You can’t keep the smile off your face. You’re touched by the clear trust in that gesture. The two of you have come so far.

“Do they know I’m coming?” you check.

“Yes.” Muzan bites his lip. “They…may not trust you as I do right away.”

“I wouldn’t expect them to.” You slide your hand into his larger, dark-tinted one. “You’ve been hunted by humans, so you hunted them. I’m guessing they’ve experienced the same. Trust would be a big ask after that.”

Muzan pulls you into a fierce embrace, nuzzling into your neck.

“Thank you,” he says softly, his voice almost breaking.

The den is a cave, the entrance fairly cramped. Muzan guides you very carefully through it, at one point using his hand to stop you from slamming your knee into a sharp rock. It’s much bigger on the inside, with a pile of very familiar blankets directly in front of you on the floor. There are a few ledges, which seem to be full of bright things—buttons feature prominently, but so do shiny rocks and strips of cloth.

Muzan’s a bit like a crow, actually. Now you know where your button and ribbon came from—you’re wearing the ribbon in your hair today.

Zohakuten emerges first. He has black hair, like Muzan, and they’re clearly the same species. But he’s small, about the size of an 8-year-old. He’s glaring at you.

Muzan slips a hand around your waist. You take a deep breath.

“You’re Zohakuten, right?” you ask, squatting down. “I brought something for you.”

Muzan had explained that for his kind, their collections were very important. New members of a family group usually gave each other gifts, so you’d brought a few things.

Carefully, you hold your hand out. In it is a wooden dinosaur. “My uncle was a whittler,” you tell Zohakuten. “And he made this when I was little.”

Zohakuten sniffs it before he takes it.

“Your uncle ate a lot of cheese,” he says. Your brows rise.

“You can smell that?” When Zohakuten nods, you say, “You must have a really good nose.”

He smiles. Just a little.

Gyutaro comes out next, with Daki behind him. His hair is black; hers is white.

“You’re the one who gave us the blankets,” Gyutaro says flatly.

“Yeah. I’ve got something else for you though. Muzan told me you like knives, Guytaro.” You hand him the little pocketknife your mother gave you when you turned sixteen. “You want this one?”

Gyutaro looks it over. Then he takes it. “Thanks,” he mutters.

“So, do I have something?” Daki asks.

“Yeah, you do.” You give her a piece of embroidered cloth. “My mom’s mom made this when she was little.”

“What’s it for?”

“Being pretty,” you say, and wink. “Just like you.”

Daki squeals and hugs you. As she and her brother go to curl up in the blanket mound, you hear Gyutaro say, “You smell gross now.” Daki swats him, and snaps, “Nice things aren’t gross and she was nice, so she doesn’t smell gross. You’re gross.”

“Your hair’s gross,” Gyutaro mutters.

Apparently kids are still kids, even when they’re creatures in the woods.

When the sun sinks, and Rui still doesn’t come out, Muzan asks if you should go home. He’s worried about you being outside in the dark.

“Muzan,” you tell him, hands on hips, “if it’s okay with everyone, I’d rather stay.”

Zohakuten laughs. When you both look at him, he shrugs.

“I like her.”

Daki runs over and pulls up and down on Muzan’s arm.

“Can she stay? Can she please?”

Muzan looks over at Gyutaro. The boy shrugs.

“She doesn’t smell that gross,” he says, his arms folded. “I guess.”

Muzan sighs. “All right.”

Daki squeals with delight and drags you over to the blanket mound, pulling you down beside her. She curls up next to you like a cat, and starts telling all about everything in her collection. Halfway through, she starts yawning. A bit later, she falls asleep.

Gyutaro plops down next to her, stares at you for a second, and shuts his eyes. Zohakuten leans his head against your knee, looking over his gift again. And very gently, Muzan tucks himself against your other side, smiling.

“You’re smiling,” Zohakuten says, surprised.

Muzan puts a finger to his lips. “Don’t wake your siblings,” he says softly. Zohakuten wrinkles his nose.

“You’re going soft, papa,” he whispers.

Muzan shows his teeth playfully. “Oh, am I?”

“Definitely,” Zohakuten says. “You like her. You like her a lot.” He stares at you in the dark. “You’re all mushy now. You didn’t used to be mushy.”

“I’ll show you mushy,” Muzan warns. “In the morning.”

As Zohakuten rolls over, still holding his new present, he mumbles quietly, “That’s just what a mushy person would say.”

#muzan kibutsuji #muzan x reader #muzan kibutsuji x reader #sub demon slayer #demon slayer x reader #demon slayer #sub kny x reader

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alexsoenomel · 4 months

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Random Dean Winchester Headcanons:

Dean not letting you drive Baby. Too protective over his car. You would beg him but he would always say no. He let you once though – on your birthday – but ended up regretting when you almost crashed into a tree.

He loved drinking coffee with you in the morning in silence. It was your morning ritual. Coffee and then everything else.

Loved discussing music with you, especially during road trips. He would even let you pick the next song, just because he thought your taste was awesome.

Being overprotective and possessive. If someone hurts you – they're dead. If someone flirts with you – they get a polite fuck off. If they continue? They get a punch in the face.

He loved the way you would look at him whenever he would wear a suit. You loved pulling his tie and giving him a sweet little kiss before work, telling him how handsome he looked.

He loved sleeping next to you. He loved the smell of your hair and how it lightly tickled his face. He also loved being the small spoon every once in a while – he felt safe next to you. He would still put his gun under his pillow though; old habits die hard.

Dean loved when you would play with his hair, especially before bed since sleep deprivation was his best friend.

Random dates. He loved taking you out on random free days. Dinners, drinks, star gazing, night drives – he loved spending time with you.

He wasn’t much of a reader, but he loved when you would read him your favorite books. Sometimes he would read it to you, the sound of his voice was like a lullaby for you on bad days when you couldn’t sleep. You would use him as a pillow as he would read to you until your light snores filled the room.

Arguing. You would argue mostly while working. You were both stubborn and impulsive so poor Sam always had to be the voice of reason. He wanted to keep you safe and you wanted to hunt.

Jealousy. You would get jealous. Dean was a good looking man and other women would try to get his attention and of course it never worked. He would just ignore them, but that still didn’t ease your jealousy. You would grow silent, anger written on your face and he would of course tease you, making the situation worse – for him.

“Be careful, she’s going to come and steal your man,” He told you once, after a waitress left her number on a napkin.

“Be careful,” you started as you kicked him in the shin under the table, “next time I’m kicking you where you like my face the most.” He groaned in pain and Sam almost choked on his coffee.

Bickering. Because he was a little shit and you were his little shit. Two sides of the same coin, actually.

Kisses, lots and lots of kisses. He loved kissing every inch of you, taking his sweet time, slow, sensual and tortuous. You would whimper under him every single time.

Holding hands. First time he held your hand was while driving home after a ghost almost took you out. He lectured you after Sam successfully burnt its bones, told you how reckless and stupid you were for jumping in front of him. Then he realized you almost died – the thought scared the living shit out of him.

He was a switch, plain and simple. Sometimes he loved calling you his dirty little slut, making you scream his name over and over, but other times he just wanted to admire your body as you would ride him. He loved when you were in control.

Praise kink. That man loved being praised. “You feel so good, baby,” was his favorite.

He would smile whenever you would call him handsome.

You were his sunshine, darling and sweetheart. He would call you by your name only when he was pissed.

He loved you more than anything, but at the same time he thought he didn’t deserve you.

You told him I love you first, drunk on whiskey after a successful hunt. Sam was sick that day, so it was only you and him. He didn’t say anything at first, instead he kissed you and took you home. He made love to you that night and between kisses the words slipped. “I love you too, sweetheart.”

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laniemae · 6 months

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The sexualisation of Mikoto, stalking, and how the fandom is repeating this.

CW: Stalking, sexual harassment, fanservice, murder

I’ve been thinking a lot about Double’s thumbnail, and especially the stalking theory. And if you think about it a lot basically everything fits up and that his victim was likely his stalker. Although a lot about what happened I never really have seen discussion on the why or how it’s been happening, so I just want to give my thoughts and theories on this all before Double.

The fanservice in MeMe:

The fanservice in MeMe has always felt really off to me. Milgram never has any fanservice-y stuff, minus Yuno in Tear Drop, but it’s only just her revealing outfit and nothing to do with strange camera angles or whatnot, and it’s very important to her character. For me and what I’ve think the consensus in the fandom has been, is it’s nothing more than that. That the fanservice is only there to appeal to thirsty fans or whatever. But I’ve been thinking a lot, and with the music videos extracted from prisoners minds, everything has a meaning in one way or the other. So for the creators to just throw a bunch of fanservice scenes in MeMe with no meaning apart from just plain fanservice feels really counter intuitive to the whole point of the MVs. And especially how this has never happened before makes it really strange to me. And with this idea in mind and going back to the stalking theory I mentioned earlier, I think it’s disgustingly clear what has happened to Mikoto.

Mikoto being watched:

I think what’s going on is that Mikoto was stalked for sexual reasons. The constant scenes of him in embarrassing moments (taking of his shirt, having a shower, having a bath) is what the stalker has been seeing and this subconsciously put itself into MeMe from Mikoto’s POV. Camera imagery in MeMe is very prevalent, from at the beginning him grabbing the camera and at the end him picking it up and punching it. I think this is supposed to represent him realising he’s being stalked and trying to hunt down who’s been doing it, and the destruction of the camera at the end to represent him killing the person.

Also around the middle of the song, we see security cam footage of him entering his apartment and crying on his couch, with Mikoto hyperventilating and gasping in the background. I feel like with everything I’ve said before this scene makes it extremely clear, that someone put up a bunch of camera around his house to catch him in those moments, if we’re taking that scene literally.

Then it cuts to him laughing at the screen in darkness, and the aforementioned fanservice scene right after this sequence of events really makes things scary to what was happening in his house. And also like I said before about the hyperventilating during this scene. I could mean multiple things such as him having a panic attack, being actually attacked or worse.

And the imagery of being watched doesn’t stop at just the camera stuff. At the beginning of MeMe in the scene at the train station, the camera moves around from behind a wall to reveal Mikoto sitting there holding a bat, like someone is watching him directly. To further back this up there’s a vignette around the edge of the camera and wee see it blink, like from a POV shot. And after the blink Mikoto disappears, and then we see him outside swinging a bat at the POV (just want to note this is outside and is probably in a different place than the train station, but I don’t know what to make of that right now, and how also the vignette I pointed out before isn’t present here). Then it cuts back to the scene in the train station, now with Mikoto holding a bat and walking towards someone on the ground, attacking them. Noticeably the vignette is still here in this scene, so the person Mikoto was attacking likely wasn’t his stalker, perhaps he just thought they were.

Wait I suddenly just got a theory from this. I just mentioned how the vignette in the scene I just mentioned likely means that Mikoto attacked someone else and the stalker was watching on. Me and basically everyone else has assumed that guy was his victim, but then what about the stalker? I’ve always strongly believed that Mikoto only killed one person but now I’m just starting to doubt that. If MeMe is to be taken in chronological order in this part, he probably killed that guy then realised that he was continuing being stalked. And as I said at the beginning of my analysis I mentioned that Mikoto punching the camera at the end could be representative of him killing the stalker and ending it (also to mention he gets the death card right before hand). And I didn’t think of it when I wrote that but what if he did actually kill multiple people in an attempt to kill his stalker. Hmm.

And going back to what I was talking about before, he probably entered his apartment afterwards and switched to Bluekoto after it was assumed everything was safe now. (Just saying I’m using Mikoto interchangeably to refer to all of the alters as it’s not clear who’s doing what, but this takes the theory of that blue was the murderer and not the other/s into account, because there’s a part of me that feels it wasn’t him attacking those people as red/green has a strong desire to protect blue and hide him from the traumatic events taking place).

I feel like I’ve gone way off track with what I’ve been saying here because while writing this I just keep noticing more and more stuff to write down and I just thought of someone thing again.

Every time it appears that Mikoto killed someone (the train scene, the garbage scene although the bag doesn’t look like a human body just saying), it cuts to a fanservice-y scene right after, maybe implying that the person he killed wasn’t the stalker, and he’s still being watched afterwards. Although this makes the bath scene kinda out of place as it doesn’t take place after a murder I think, and someone mentioned it was before the shower scene which kinda debunks this but I just wanted to mention this because why not.

Mikoto’s mindscape in MeMe:

Another thing I’ve been thinking about a lot is every character’s “mindscapes” as I call them. Yuno has an empty pink void with a tower, Fuuta has a fantasy land, Mahiru has a room inside a birdcage ect. And all of these places represent an aspect of their characters. Yuno’s representing her feelings of emptiness, Fuuta feeling that everything he’s doing is for justice and that he’s a cool hero, Mahiru being trapped and sheltered in an ideal concept of love and stuff like that. I’m going to make a theory on this in the future as it’s very interesting to me but Mikoto’s mindscape is always something that’s confused me.

Mikoto’s mindscape is a parallel of his apartment. Down to the couches, tables and everything, but lacking the bookcase and tv being buried in the water for whatever reason.

(Also I just noticed but there’s a blue thing behind the couch that Mikoto laid his head down on before which could be a bed or whatever. But in the mindscape and this other shot we don’t see it???)

(Actually maybe we do if we squint, oh well)

Okay, okay back to what I was actually going to say. The furniture from the apartment appearing in the mindscape makes sense, but what about everything else? The broken, tiled walls, the mirror, how everything is covered in a thin layer of water, the clear blue sky. There’s a bunch of this stuff I could analyse in my future post about mindscapes but I’ll just say the stuff that relates to what I was talking about earlier. But to say it right now, I think all that other stuff is supposed to be the bathroom we see him in.

Notice here the tiles are exactly the same, and we even see the same mirror he looks at himself in, in real life then Mikoto in the mindscape.

Also to point out how the Mikoto we see looking into the mirror here is wearing a sleeve and likely in the mindscape and as someone mentioned, since the ahoge is backwards it’s likely a reflection. Although it’s strange that it has the same green filter both ways.

After this we see bluekoto (presumably) fall backwards into the water. And another strange thing I noticed is that this mirror is behind the couch, but when he falls down the couch is tipped over.

Don’t know what it make of this but again I’m just constantly pointing stuff out I notice as writing this.

So basically I think the mindscape is a mix of the living room and the bathroom. The furniture from the living room and the water, mirror and tiles from the bathroom. But this makes things confusing, why the bathroom? Why would Mikoto project imagery of his bathroom into his own mindscape? This brings me to what I was saying before. The walls in the mindscape are completely collapsed, providing no closure or privacy to this “room”. The sky is also out, so his mindscape feels very exposed. And what I said earlier about my staking theory. It’s likely that someone placed cameras up in/around his bathroom to record him naked, a complete breach of privacy and that’s why this mindscape is so exposed and has elements from there. Even in this world that he created, he still doesn’t feel safe at all.

The audience and the repeating of Mikoto’s trauma:

Basically to sum it up from what I’ve said. Mikoto was being stalked and sexualised by someone. Cameras were placed up around his house to record him in embarrassing situations and he figured out, and attempted to kill the stalker.

But here’s one thing, that story we likely see in MeMe is happening again. But with the audience.

When MeMe came out everyone went ballistic. Lots of people were very surprised in how violent it was, how compared to the calm preview we saw it instantly started off with death metal and destroyed every idea we had about him, and kept switching between being calm and violent. But what I want to walk about right now is the reaction to the fanservice.

As we all know, when MeMe released a horde of thirsty tiktokers came over and started absolutely obsessing over Mikoto and all the fanservice scenes we see. Things got so out of control that people tried to vote him innocent just because he was hot and even jackalope bought this up. But thinking about this, it’s getting dangerously close to what I think happened in his story. Being filmed in embarrassing moments without consent, and having people obsess and sexualise you for that. The music videos are representative of the prisoner’s minds, and in no way would have Mikoto known how he was shown naked and shirtless for a huge chunk of MeMe. Same as him being stalked and recorded in his story if I’m right.

The fandom here is doing exactly what his perpetrator did to him down to a T. It’s almost like what happened with Amane when people tried to reverse her brainwashing by showing her tough love by not forgiving her, exactly like what the cult did to her to try and make her obey them more. This thing is happening to Mikoto as well as Amane and repeating their traumas. And also to mention how Mikoto has DID which is a result of repeated childhood abuse so it’s likely this has been happening to him alot and just can’t escape from this reality. And for the alters to take in all the trauma and leave the host blissfully unaware of everything’s that’s happening.

This brings into account how the guilty prisoners can hear the voices of the audience judging them. Fuuta completely broke down as he was constantly harassed with strange voices judging him and denying his actions. And he’s mentioned a lot of times how he can’t stand this feeling of being watched and this manifests through the eyes in Backdraft. And with Mikoto from everything I’ve been saying before it’s very likely he has trauma from this. And now feeling like he’s being watched and hearing the voices of the audience, who we know constantly sexualises him. It’s likely he’ll have to relive his trauma once again that he thought he finally escaped…

Conclusion / TL;DR

To sum this whole theory up I believe that fanservice in MeMe actually has importance besides just fanservice. And it’s likely Mikoto was being stalked by someone and recorded in those situations, and he ended up hunting the person down and killing them. And now because of the audience’s constant thirsting over him and how the guilty prisoners can hear everything we say about them, Mikoto will have to relive his suffering again.

Other things I’d like to briefly mention but didn’t have any space to put in, Is how since Mikoto rides a bike instead of a train to work as he said but we see lots of train imagery. And I think what happened is that he was probably being harassed on the train and switched to going to work alone. And the thumbnail in Double we see him looking depressed, on a train surrounded by destroyed mannequins.

#milgram #Mikoto kayano #milgram theory #cw stalking #cw s3xual harassment #After writing this I’m becoming more and more scared for what we’ll see in double #I’ve never really seen this theory talked about in much detail and connecting it to the stalking theory and this is my thoughts on it #I kept getting off track writing this and came up with a bunch of mini theories I just shoved in there that were somewhat related #ADHD brain working again #I also wanted to point out the parallels with Amane on the audience repeating the character’s traumas #I find it really interesting how milgram does something like that which I have never sen in any media before #I just want mikoto to be happy #I never usually write stuff on this topic but the more I kept thinking about it the more likely it seemed #Repost because it didn’t show up in tags #Also for something I want to note after I posted this is that mikoto is always shown sitting with his legs spread out #To the point we never see him sitting normally #I hope this doesn’t mean anything but I felt like it could possibly be related but I don’t want it to #LanieMae’s theories #To note I had to censor the Tw tag because it blocked my post if I wrote it normally sorry about that

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signedeclipse · 1 year

Note

Probably really weird and macabre but I would like to request headcanons for Douma, Hantengu and Gyokko with a human s/o who wants to try human meat for once and is really adamant about it (but not in a fetishizing way, just like 'I wonder what it tastes like'). Like what would their reactions be if their partner saw them eat someone and suddenly ask them if they can have a bite?

(If the request is too gross you really don't need to do it that's totally fine. I know cannibalism makes many really uncomfortable.)

Douma

One interesting fact about his human is that unlike others, they didn't seem all that worried by blood and gore

He was used to the screaming, pointing and running by most that ever tried to get close to him, but at worse you looked away, and it seemed more in a respectful way than a fearful way

But that is where he figured it stopped

Certain people weren't sympathetic, but you were

Others were monsters themselves, but Douma only found that to be partially true about you

"I find it's just the natural order of things" you would say "Like a lioness hunts a gazelle."

Douma didn't need ethics to keep him from feeling bad about it, but he was glad it wouldn't be an issue

But once when you walked in and naw him chewing on a leg, you stared way longer than usual

"Hello! Is everything okay?" His smile had bits of flesh and viscera stuck between the teeth

"Oh! Yeah, sorry, I got lost in my thoughts."

When he pushed to learn more, he was surprised to hear you were wondering what it tasted like, and had always wanted to try

Immediately his claws dug into the thigh and ripped out some of the muscles, tearing into the piece over and over till it was almost a sludge

Then, he shoved it in his mouth and kissed you

Of course his first concern was that your teeth couldn't break through flesh like his could so you might choke, so he broke it down as much as he could with his hands and teeth before pushing some into your mouth and parting

He swallows the majority and lets you try what little you did get

Wouldn't care if you spat it out or not, either way nothing would change

If you do like it he would tell you to hunt your own humans

Gyokko

Gyokko didn't really eat around you ever

Mostly because you spent your time in his studio and he actually tried to keep blood and gore away from his beautiful works unless intentional

But when he did he tried to be quiet about it

Surprisingly you didn't mind the gore, but you really hated mouth sounds and when he ate it was far too much to handle

It isn't beyond the upper rank to offer you to try some, but you always laughed it off or said you didn't want to ruin your clothes/appetite incase you didn't enjoy it

But this time, when he caught you staring he decided to offer for the nth time

And much to his excitement, you accepted!

Of course he wouldn't give you anything other than the best, so he ripped the heart clean out of the freshly obtained body and pressed it against your lips

Of course it was really hard to bite into, but he let you take your time before pulling it away and biting out almost half the heart with his left mouth

"Oh I love the way the red stains your pretty lips darling~"

Would laugh and prod at you for being too weak if you couldn't eat it, but would stop asking if you want any afterwards

Hantengu

Hantengu keeps to himself when eating, but he would usually do it while you eat your own meals because he enjoys the comfort of 'normalcy'

It's actually pretty impressive to him that you can keep food down and talk to him while he is eating a human

The other personalities tend to prod you about it and ask if you are a freak or something, but otherwise leave it be

They aren't out often anyways

One dinner, you were frustrated about forgetting to go to the market during the day and how you'd only have plain rice for dinner

You wondered aloud if human meat would make a good protein which immediately Hantengu was by your side

"Be careful!! Eating blood like that could make you ill,,,or worse!"

Very worried about the potential of sickness in someone's blood getting to you

But when you insist, Hantengu forced you to cook it so at the very least any bacteria is killed

You make a little stir fry with just that and mushrooms on a bed of butter rice

Surprisingly not bad, but Hantengu wouldn't let you have more beyond that one occasion

He doesn't want you to get sick, nor does he want you to lose your humanity

Authors Note - Please do not apologize because I REALLY REALLY enjoyed this request! I was a horror writer for a really long time and honestly kinda feel the romance with this <3 Also tysm for requesting Hantengu and Gyokko I love them sm... Come back soon, Anon!

#demon slayer #demon slayer x reader #demon slayer headcanons #headcanons #kny #kny headcanons #kny x reader #x reader #reader insert #kimetsu no yaiba #douma #douma x reader #gyokko #gyokko x reader #hantengu #hantengu x reader

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mncxbe · 1 month

Note

helloo could you do... spicy prompt 3 (car sex) with fukuchi... possibly... I need him

fav dilf mentioned i'm here to serve😳🫡 hope you like it nonnie♡

3 — Car sex

ღೀ๋࣭ ⭑𝒄𝒘: office dynamics, power imbalance, he's a bit mean, hair pulling

"Come on, darling, I don't have all day" mocked the man behind you, a large hand soothing the globes of your ass. You huffed in response, shifting your hips, trying to lower yourself on his cock.

What on earth made you think you could take him with no prep? God knows, but it sure didn't seem like a good idea now that you were barely able to take half of his dick in. But at least you were facing away from him so you couldn't see the shit eating grin on his face.

"You're almost there, sweetheart. Just a few more inches" he mused, but you could hear him suck in a breath when your hips came flush against his lap, his length fully sheated inside you. "There you go that's it move your hips like that" he instructed, aiding your movements.

You were damn lucky the car had tinted windows and no one could see you fucking yourself dumb on your captain's cock but if any of your colleagues were to come and check why Fukuchi was late for his speech and found you like this...

A harsh tug at your hair snapped you out of your trance as Fukuchi pulled your back flush against his chest. The new angle allowed him to fully hit your sweet spot, making your body tense up in anticipation "S-sir–"

"What's the problem, darling? Worried someone might see you letting me use you like the slut you are?" he taunted, bucking his hips up against yours "Everyone knows you're fucking me already. No need to be shy about it"

Your anxiety spiked at his words. Fuck, this could be bad, the last thing you needed were rumors about you making it to the hunting dogs because you were fucking the captain. Your performace was poor anyway and such a scandal could probably end up with you losing your position. "Did you tell?" you babbled out between huffs and mewls.

" 'course not sweetheart. But it's plain as fucking day. You latch onto me like a lost puppy. Swear you're worse than Teruko, at least she's got some dignity and doesn't let men have her way with her"

Despite his amused tone, his words struck a cord– were you really that bad? was it that damn obvious that you liked him? Before you knew it, Fukuchi lifted you off his lap and turned you to face him, a shadow of concern looming on his features. You really were so damn sensitive, always reading too much into things and taking everything personal. He wouldn't normally mind it, but he had a soft spot for you– he even felt bad for teasing you like that.

Caressing your cheek with his thumb, Fukuchi tilted your chin up, making you face him. "Hey, darling. Don't overthink it, just relax and let me take care of everything, ok?"

You nodded hesitantly, toying with the buttons of his uniform "Promise?" "Of course" he chuckled, his hands finding purchase on your hips again "Now, I can spare a few more minutes, so how about you ride me like the good girl you are?"

𐙚prompts closed

#𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝ღೀ๋࣭ ⭑#bsd #bungou stray dogs #bsd x reader #bsd smut #fukuchi bsd #fukuchi x reader #fukuchi smut #bsd fukuchi #ochi fukuchi #bsd hunting dogs

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hellowoolf · 3 months

Text

electra heart

pairing: din jarin x prostitute fem!reader

summary: with the softness of your body you have bought your piece of luxury, clawed your way to opulence, and wait now on the lustful whims of the rich and powerful. what havoc is wreaked when the only client you've ever loved, your mandalorian, finds you in the golden smoke of a gala on canto bight?

warnings: mention of alcohol, prostitution, reader is literally a prostitute, reader goes by alias "edie", din calls her “edee”, angst, quick mention of killing (bounty hunting), porn with plot, SMUT, soft!dom din, unprotected piv, beskar humping (sue me), tiiiny bit of degradation if you squint your eyes and pat your head and rub your tummy, little bit of begging, fucking in a literal suit of armor, creampie (if i left out any, let me know <3)

word count: 4.7k

authors note: first din fic alert !!! hand on heart i meant to keep this light hearted. and that’s what counts…right ??!!!!

woolfie’s masterlist

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

you had been small, once. a young thing born into the streets of tatooine, conjured by them, slipping dirty like a curse through the city with a beggar's cup. in the day, the sand heated to glass and fire, and you trailed in the shadowed coattails of men the passers by could think your father, but with nightfall came the slow, syrupy suck of warmth from land, and even pressed up against building corners and doorways you shivered in the starlight. and what a cruel thing it was to know—to be, even then, so certain of your own poorness. you stuck little fingers through the holes of your clothes to cork the heat of your skin, and reconciled, in the meanwhile, with your birth as a nomad with no place to journey.

oh, but you loved the ships. with festivals held on the plains came warships and single-seat fighters, great discs of silver settling the baking sand, and you circled the throngs of people to let the gleam of sunlit metal blind you, if only for a moment. with scrap metal and a child’s palms you laid your plans there in the tatooine sand, to seek out whatever precious lavishness was left out there for you. beads of sweat jeweling down your wrists you thought yes, you were fit for that sort of life.

it became clear to you, when you came of age, that your body was your only currency for purchasing such plans. kicking stones while you wound through the cityscape, you supposed the home you could make in a brothel, and the money, too, made for an even exchange, and besides, you’d absorbed worse than man. you tap a manicured nail down your glass and hum with the bellish chime. where had all those girls gone? where were they now? you wonder if they’ve caught wind of you from here, if your perfume has traveled that far. you hope so.

“my edie, how are you honey?”

kel talbot is even blonder than you remember him. with his chest to your back in the sprawling porcelain of his bathtub he’d admitted, along the skin of your shoulder, that it wasn’t real, the color. he dyed it when he went home to naboo, he said. still damp and soapy he’d tipped you an extra 5,000 credits, for your discretion and your loveliness.

“i’m well, kelly. it’s always so wonderful to see you,” you lilt back to him. and because you can’t help yourself, so prone to indulgence now, you add, “have you been off home? i haven’t seen much of you here.”

he’s lovely, really, and delighted that you would ask. “as a matter of fact, i have. my mother’s been remarried a sixth time, if you can believe it. a great big ceremony and all, and i really couldn’t miss it.”

you smooth your free hand down the lapel of his jacket, black silk gleaming between the pillars of your fingers as you drag them. you wouldn’t mind him, for the night. “i really miss you so much when you’re gone.”

he steps closer, flattered little smile, and you look up at him through your lashes. “don’t stroke my ego, edie, it’s unbecoming,” he whispers, so thoroughly pleased with your attention on him, and you tug on the bunch of his coat in your palm.

“do you want me to stroke something else for you, kelly?”

he lets out a shuddered breath across your face. heir to an agricultural fortune on naboo, he is all tradition, brought up on pomp and circumstance and a set of shoulders shaped for the head of a long dining table. your innuendos fall heavy on him, always. he doubles over with them, sinks into you to realign himself upright. edie, edie, someone called you edee once, it means jaws, teeth, he’d told you. when it came time to shed your first name, your real name, it’d come naturally. edie, edie. kel is ripe for biting now.

“i–i have somewhere to be, honey, i can’t.” you pout at him a little. he tips generously. “don’t look at me like that.”

you set him back by your hold on his suit and he brushes himself with his palms, dusting the fabric from whatever coital indecency you’ve smeared on him.

“i’ll let you know when i’m in town again, okay?” and he offers it like a favor, and you suppose he hopes it to be one, so you nod with a gentle sigh.

“go enjoy your night, kelly. i’ll be here if you change your mind,” you promise, and with a tender smile his platinum hair filters back through the ballroom.

if you’re honest, you don’t really know the purpose of this event to begin with. canto bight shines bloated with galas and gamblers, and you dance, ephemeral, through the lot of them in search of clientele. scanning the dancing gold and satin of this crowd, collected on the bottom floor of the hotel you work from, you find mostly elderly men, married and elderly. you certainly aren’t above servicing either, though you went out tonight for the delights of it more than anything else. draping yourself in the inordinately expensive wrappings gifted by your previous clients, arms and collarbones dripping over with fine jewelry and precious gems, you enjoy the ritual of it, now. you enjoy the rest of it, too, with the right sort of client. you drag a red gemstone, set in gold, to and fro along its chain, your first little opulence left with the credits on the windowsill. edee, edee. a passing, devastating thought: like the girls from that first whore house you hope he smells you, hope through the filter of his helmet he’s struck with the scent like a sharp ache that sweetens in the middle. and—

you should’ve missed it, really. an inconsequential glimmer in the face of all the light you’ve gulped down these past years, but still you seem to find it, the little silver spotlight convexing through the curve of your glass. it points right on you, the beam, and you tilt the glass back and forth to watch the light twitch along your sternum. your body tenses with the stretch of a memory, of you in the sand on your back with the sterling starships jumping into hyperspace above you. but surely there’s no ship here, you reason, and when you look up, he’s right there. they all wear the same getup, creed driven and plated, but you are certain it’s him. with a cock of his hip and a shoulder leaned up against the wall you are certain, so certain, and he is right fucking there. it’s all coming back to you now, his beskar in the rotting wood of your doorway, little words in mando’a, your name, the first one, in his mouth. your mandalorian.

gliding through the dancing bodies of the ballroom—they part for you, now—you shiver with the breeze of your dress, a great sweeping curtain of red silk. you don’t remember, really, when he stopped coming to see you, only that you were wholly and inappropriately devastated. you missed the stick of him between your thighs, the way he loved you. you were so sure he did, back then, and you find that still, as this diamond sea of people carves a path for you to him, you are still sure. you can feel your own wetness collecting at your seam; you cannot unlearn this want for him.

he doesn’t notice you until you’re inches from his side, and still he won’t turn his head. from his peripheral you are unrecognizable, you suspect.

“which one?”

and you don’t think you’ve ever seen him move the way he does as your voice echoes behind his visor. it’s a startled jump, a straightening, a tip of his helmet to the side. you think he’s frightened, at first, a heavy terror that collects through the tendons of his hands, but the fear leaves easy, sugars into wonderment. he says your name, arced in question and through the rasp of his modulator.

you shake your head, look out at the ballroom. “i don’t use that name anymore.”

“i–you…” he shakes his head, knocks something loose, “...what are you doing here?”

you snort. “i could ask you the same thing.”

“i have someone i’m looking for.” and it should be ominous—i have someone to kill here—but his voice is still soft, airy with the sight of you. you turn back to him and nod to the crowd.

“yes, i ask again, which one?”

“you know i can’t tell you that.” and he says it like a memory, like the sweet juice of nostalgia on his lips, he says it like i remember you.

you shrug. “i hoped maybe the rules had changed.”

“mm,” he hums, “century old creeds don’t seem to, i’m afraid.”

you giggle with the youth he brings you back to. it’s so easy, falling back here with him. the tilt of his helmet leans to his other shoulder, dark visor tipping down your dress, and your skin fizzles.

“what’s brought you here, then?”

you mirror the angle of his neck. you know, you know. he grunts around something thick in his throat, your name, the first one, you think. he remembers what you said.

“what do i call you? now?”

the delight that twists through you is a sacred one. “edie.”

this does him in. his head tips back against the wall behind him, steadying breath filtering out. “edee?”

“not quite. e-d-i-e.” he lifts, with what seems a great effort, his head back up to look at you. you continue, softer, “but almost.”

and because you know your mandalorian, you see in the shift of his boots on the ground that he’s as ecstatic as his metal plating will allow. his hands twitch, and you want them to touch you, need him to touch you.

“come dance with me, mando.”

he does his best to hesitate, really, but then you’re out among the swaying people, one gloved hand at your back and the other clasped between your fingers, closer now than you’ve been since he last came inside you some years ago in whorish darkness. you squeeze him thinking of it, the stick and the smell, and he presses you further against the gleam of his chest, yes, i remember, i remember. it’s only here, molded around him, that you feel how much bigger he is, the broad width of his shoulders cemented out past the lines of him you used to tend to.

“you look…sort of different.”

“is that so?”

maker, you love the sound of him like this, so close in, so insistent on whispering, so incapable of doing so. “mhm.”

“doesn’t hold a candle to the changes you’ve made, cyar’ika.”

“mm,” you hum, “you know, it’s funny, i feel much of the same.”

he bunches his hand a moment in the silk of your dress. “the glamor hasn’t pulled you under?”

your laugh reverberates against his chestplate. “oh no, i’m sure it has. i just mean i’ve always liked shiny things.”

he groans, quiet and tight. “and why’s that? you like your reflection in them?”

he unlatches you from his chest to spin you around before fastening you back to him, and your scoff whips an arched path around you. “please, the vain one between us has always been you, mando.”

he lowers his head, great secret on his lips. “i haven’t shown my face in decades, edee.”

you can hear his tongue on the word, and you know he hasn’t said your new name, similar as it may sound. the lapping scoop of mando’a washes you over again with the memories of him. and laughing, again you are laughing. you love this bit. “yes, i do remember that part. though i find it awfully excessive that you prance about the galaxy in this welded jewel of a thing.” you knock against the beskar with a knuckle.

“welded jewel. you’ve gotten metaphorical while i’ve been gone.”

“this crowd enjoys it.”

he glances over and around your shoulder. “and you enjoy them?...this crowd?”

you suck on your front teeth to think on it. “you know, most of them don’t ask for it. not all of it, anyway. it’s mainly a lot of talking, now.” and it’s true. even above the lust, this powerful lot is lonely, irrevocably lonely. he nods, and as your heart hammers and wails you tilt your head up to his helmet to whisper against his visor, “you never wanted to talk, did you mando?”

the band of his arm around your back constricts again, a gruff admission, “no, i didn’t.”

he never did take anyone else in that little brothel, it was only ever you. the other girls liked to watch him pass by through the hallway, luster of his armor glinting in the low light, but he walked a tight line to your door, knocked twice, soft as anything. even in that wooden box, a bed and a window and an empty dresser, you remember the metal of him grating at the joins as he tried to make you feel something. you remember, too, that so green, so newly wrung out as you were, your limbs went limp before his credits ran dry, but he defected to your will, watched your body and worshiped at its altar. when your spine loosened and your hips unwound, still with time paid for, he stepped back into the sanded stench of tatooine, hand-cupped pile of credits on the windowsill. yes, the windowsill and the i’ll come back for you and the creak of the floorboards, you remember it so well.

“how much do you charge these days?”

you’re tightening your thighs together as you sway with him. “don’t patronize me.”

“i’m not.”

a ribbon of air releases from your nose, be steady. “20,000 credits.”

and he doesn’t flinch, only lets the hand around your back slip along the gloss of your dress, drawing a line above your ass with his thumb, the line he won’t cross without purchase. “i’d pay it.”

you can’t help this now. “will you?”

whatever mark he’s come to kill tonight is slipping through his fingers, but you fill that space just fine. his helmet tilts, and you feel a leather paw come up to retrieve that little red necklace from the hollow of your collarbone. the pad of his glove passes over the gem once, twice, body tightening and buzzing in metal. “this is mine,” he chokes.

yes, it is. you nod. and he’s decided, it seems. with a modulated groan and let’s go in your ear, he’s shepherding you from the ballroom, hand tight at your waist as you find your way to the elevator. and what with the ceremony of your mandalorian, the tediousness of his armor coming off, you fill the elevator shaft with the smell of your drooling pussy and the air thickens with the buzzing glow of you both together again, but you do not move. the tickle of his eyes through tempered glass rubs behind your ears, still a killer, always a killer, you think, just as you are forever what you have always been. the two of you, frozen in blood and sex, the only warmth you’ve ever known. this reality pulls behind your tongue and you gag on it.

ding. the doors slide open.

you press a thumb to the screen on your doorknob and your mandalorian crowds up behind you, lets you feel the cool touch of his body, the heat that peeks out at the corners. with thick fingers squeezing at your waist and the hard curve of his helmet at your hairline, your knees buckle with the thought that you might have loved him, too, perhaps fatally, but as the lock clicks open and he pulls you inside you suppose it doesn’t matter much now.

you’ve worked this room for nearly a year. a window expands from one wall to the other, beams the morning light and warms the bed sheets, and in the drab of afternoon, twinkle of the city just barely cresting over the sunshine, you watch the people below. drunkards and lovers and princes, you scratch their heads with the cliff of your nail, nose against the glass and breath fogging there, drawing up their mythology and smudging it with the skin of your palm. now, though, with the constructed starlight of clubs and casinos shouldering its way through the night’s darkness, the room bathes in polluted light and the faint sound of wealthy indulgence. there is no windowsill for your mandalorian to balance his payment.

“come here, edee.”

he’s sat himself on the edge of the bed, hand running up and down the metal expanse of his thigh. you stalk your way to him, ruck the hem of your dress up passed your knees to straddle his leg, and slowly, so slowly, through honey and slick and years of parted wanting, he brings his hands to your sides. you splay your fingers on his helmet.

“been a long time, mandalorian.”

he hums in agreement, tips of his thumbs just grazing the underside of your breasts over the silk of your dress before running down again, relearning the ends of you. “my cyar’ika,” he whispers.

your cunt clenches, sobs with his sounds and the pressure of his thigh. breath shuddered and indignant you drag your pussy along the plate of armor. throat tight with a whine you ask him, “how do you like it now, cyare?”

his body takes to the slice of mando’a in your mouth like water to sand, something dark and heavy, and his hips tilt up to you as you undulate your cunt along him again. the coil of you both is raveling taut and knotting at the edges, perhaps permanently now, twisting back into the shapes you used to make together. and it was always this way between you, this dancing walk to madness; with the head of his cock he fucked a shard of beskar into you, you think, that first time, and in every meeting since he’s rut his hips to claw the thing back out, but your body has absorbed the alloy of it.

“i want you to fuck me like you missed me.” a shuddered breath, a secret thought, and then: “did you miss me?”

and that question doesn’t come from the metal. no, with your palms warming his helmet you know he’s asking from the fleshy lines between the silver pieces. this is a bloody question. the drag of your cunt against his leg continues still, toes curling beneath you with the cold sting through the fabric of your panties, and perched here atop him you suppose your honesty costs you little in the face of all the rest you’ll give up.

“yes, i did.”

his hands collect your dress like water, silk spilling out between the fingers of his gloves, as he bares you to him, and his visor tips with the sight of you, a feat of topology he memorized so long ago. with a brush of red fabric against your ears you cling to him in only the little scrap of lace that licks along his leg with the wet kiss of your cunt.

“this pussy get wet for me like it used to?”

fuck.

“yes, yeah,” you breathe out, little bites of ecstasy weaving their way from your clit to the nape of your neck.

“oh, my edee, look at you,” and he grips a hand in your hair, pushing your eyeline down to watch the gleaming strip of want brushed and rewritten over on his armor. “you like drenching me like that? fuck cyar’ika i’ll leave this hotel like this and everyone will know i’ve fucked a fucking whore.” fuckfuckfuck. you remember the vein along the underside of his cock, want him to hurt you with it now.

“so fuck your whore, mando, you’ve paid for her,” you plead, but he drops his helmet to your forehead, the both of you still awe struck at the starlit gash of slick you’re dripping on him as your hips gyrate.

“you’re no more patient than you used to be,” he chuckles, but the wobbled rasp of his voice strips him all but naked to you. his hands grind you harder on his body and you wail, neck open as your head falls back. the pleasure sinks its teeth in you now, all hot bloodlust and bubbling open like seafoam.

“fuck, mando, i–i’m gonna come.”

“yeah, that’s it, right here, make that pussy gush for me and then i’ll fuck her open.”

ecstasy knocks through your arteries as your body pulls tight against him, and with desperate hands he grabs at you, around your asscheeks and between your shoulder blades, to feel you jerk with it. he’s groaning something deep and unforgivable watching you move, but already you’re looking for the weight of his cock.

“fuck me, fuck me,” you heave into his shoulder as you slump over, and he’s nodding silently with you, yes, i remember, i remember. the preamble of fingers and tongues is being leapt over, but neither of you seem to mind. he pulls the leather of his gloves off to maneuver you onto all fours on the bed, and after working his pants open with the bared warmth of his fingers the pads are back on you, running down your back and up your thighs. the heft of him pokes at you and you’re clenching with the feeling, the memory, again the memory. from between your open legs you drop your head to watch him pump his length, fingers tan and thick and a little tattoo between them.

his head catches at your opening and a whine spills from between your teeth.

“louder, cyare,” he grounds out. another inch in and you keen.

“fuck.”

his palms find purchase on your side and he anchors himself there, partway within you. you both whistle out whispered breaths listening to the sound of you joined together, him pulling out a centimeter before sinking it back in, fucking you with the head of his cock.

“oh, it’s just the fucking tip and i’m stretching you already, cyar’ika,” he moans.

“more,” you mewl, “i want more.” and really that’s always been your problem, you suppose.

his hips are speeding up now, wretched little humps into the tight clutch of your cunt, but he abstains from the whole of it. “fucking beg me for it, edee, i’ve waited this fucking long.”

into the sheets, bunched by your fingers and your jostling knees on the bed, you moan, “please, please, please, fuck me on your cock, cyare, i need it, please.”

the piece of himself, the metal and his creed’s tongue, that he rutted into you all those years ago comes roaring at him now, is cracked open in the air of your voice, and he stutters with it. he fucks you like retribution, hips slapping against your ass with a wet crackle, and you’re screaming, suddenly.

“that’s it, edee, that’s it.”

the walls of your cunt pulse velvet around him as he punches in and out of you, cock reaching up like he’s trying to touch your tongue with it, run through the length of you with his steel and grunting. your body blooms for him, petals open like it always did. when was the last time fucking him felt like your job? it’s all coming back to you now, crying at the foot of your bed, missing him dearly. you have always been a professional despite the intimacy of what you do, but you feel wholly unprofessional here.

“fuck, you’re so fucking tight, it’s like you’re sucking me back in,” and you can’t help your clenching now, “yes, edee, again for me, again.”

and you do, pulsing and clamping on his shaft, and he nearly wails with the feeling. the hum of his voice through the helmet protects him some, but maker you know him well, years worth of your mandalorian, and so you hear it all clearly, him melting behind the metal and fusing at the edges. you push away the thought that he’ll pay you for this.

“maker your pussy feels so fucking good, i’ve never stopped—ah—never stopped fucking thinking about it.”

the jut of his chestplate bites your skin as he pulls your hips up but you barely feel it. “no?”

“never, never,” he repeats, and his own babbling eggs him on, you think, as he thrusts impossibly faster. he fucks you like he needs it, has always needed it, and you’re reminded again that you loved him before, that you love him again, now, perhaps, but it’s all so hard to see clearly with the tight chain of pleasure running up your spine.

slick seeping from your hole around him you moan, “feel so f–fucking full of it, fuck.”

a frantic hand comes around to your front, pulls the red gem from your chest to lay along your back, and watching the glint of red and gold that he left you bounce on your skin makes him growl and choke. “fuck, fuck, i’m so close, cyar’ika.”

he bends to meet your back and drops the weight of his helmet on the wing of your shoulder and you might not survive the angle of his cock in you now. you’d clasp your hands in penitence if they didn’t hold the both of you up, because this luxury, him greeting your body like it’s his final gutted conquest, is the last you’ll ever beg for.

with both of you sputtering your souls out on the duvet he groans, “i miss your old name, edee, give it to me again.”

the begging makes you pulse, but you shake your head. your name is your first and only born inheritance, and when you grew old enough to realize it you’d had to shed the thing, or rather hide it, stashed away, untouched.

“please cyar’ika, just one more like this, just like this, your real name.”

your moans screech with the tragedy of him pleading with you this way, and bellow because you want to let him. yes, you love him now, and you wheeze, “i don’t know your real name, mandalorian.”

this knocks the wind from him and it blows out along the back of your neck but the piston of his cock in you continues, heightens further, and you’re both on the precipice of something devastating. he groans out breathless “din, din, it’s din,” and then, “maker please let me use it.”

as deep and jagged as the naming cuts you, you have never felt this hallowed a thing. him inside, and knowing what to call him, is unlike any bliss you’ve ever known. “din,” you wail.

he nods at your back. “yes, yes, din. let me use it.”

at last you’re nodding, crown of your head bobbing back on his body, and a torrential downpour of your name spits from his mouth, slides down his helmet and onto your spine. and the coming is unlike all the rest, a slow climb, a painful clawing that rips your flesh from the bone, but suddenly you’re both heaving with it, his warmth pumping through you and your gushing slick sliding out. for a moment you panic, worry for the windowsill, for the way it always ends. but your din. the panic catches on din and smokes away.

your limbs give out and you meet the mattress with your eyes closed, aching and a little empty, but mostly as satisfied as a desperate creature like yourself is capable. you’re reminded of the clank of his armor as he rights himself behind you. it’s so easy to forget it, what with how human he feels.

“din.”

the rattle of beskar stills. he returns your name, the real one again.

i love you, i loved you then, and you loved me. no. no, you think, it’s far too true to say. so instead: “will you come find me again?”

the bed dips as he sits on it and a gentle glove strokes through your hair. “always, cyar’ika. i’ll come back for you.”

and because you believe him, din, you do not lift your head to watch him place the credits and dissolve away. you’ll save the shine of him, you vow, for the next time he arrives for you. your mandalorian.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

#din djarin #din djarin fic #din djarin smut #din djarin fanfiction #the mandolorian #din djarin x reader #din djarin x fem!reader #hello woolf

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lincolndjarin · 9 months

Text

Best Kept Secret

chapter thirteen : lunar interlude : vercopa (RE-UPLOAD)

ao3 link ✿ series masterlist ✩ main masterlist ✧

pairing : bodyguard!Din Djarin x afab!princess!reader

rating : 18+ mdni

word count : 3.5k

summary : the mandalorian does some thinking

warnings, etc. : language, angst, references to sex

A/N : i had to change accounts so this is a re-upload of my ongoing fic bks!!

He did it.

He did exactly what he knew he needed to do.

So why does he feel worse than ever?

The look on your face when he had lied so blatantly to you made him want to collapse in on himself. If someone else had made you that upset he would have caved their skull in, why does he deserve any less?

He did it. That’s what matters, even if he had to lie to get you to believe it, he ended things. He doesn’t bother taking off his armor as he collapses onto his mattress.

His eyes find the plastic flower on his nightstand. It’s a good reminder that he’s a bad person for what he’s put you through. He never should have slept with you.

He never should have loved you.

He deserves every form of torture that would be performed on him if they found out what the two of you had been doing.

He deserves damnation for what he has done.

And he gets just that when he sleeps.

Most of his dreams follow the same theme. You, in his cabin, sometimes he finds himself entangled against your naked form, sometimes it’s just laying on his twin bed, enjoying the warmth of each other.

Something is immediately off about the dream he’s in now.

His first thought is that this cabin is different.

It’s bigger. There’s more dressers, the bed is twice the size of his. His confusion is palpable as he tries to find you.

He knows he will if he looks.

You’re always there when he closes his eyes.

So he stands, and he walks around the house. It’s completely new to him yet so familiar and as he turns the corner and you’re there.

His breath hitches.

You’re sitting at the kitchen table, with a genuine smile, and your hair hanging down across your face. But what catches his eye the most is the little green baby in your arms. You pinch at his cheeks as he makes those all too familiar babbles that used to fill the Crest.

His heart is in his throat.

He can’t move. It’s like he’s staring down the greatest threat of his life and if he moves an inch it will attack.

Maybe he died in his sleep and this is heaven.

That doesn’t make sense, he’s done nothing to earn his place. Or it’s hell, and his torment is knowing he can’t stay here with you and Grogu, that he’ll have to wake up and live with what he’s put you through, and the kid will still be gone.

He’s content to stand in the doorway and watch this alternate reality for as long as he sleeps. His chest heaving as he takes in the sight of everything he’s ever wanted, just a few steps away.

The two most important people in his life, and in his reality he’s pushed you both away.

He could have kept the kid. He hadn’t been sure about leaving, he truly believes that if he had asked Grogu to stay that they could have been happy. But he was just so scared.

What if he got hurt while out on a hunt? What if he changed his mind and years down the road resented Din for keeping him? Or worst of all, what if plain and simple, he just got sick of Din?

And then he did the same thing to you.

He got scared.

He can’t already be regretting it, it’s been less than a day.

The sound of your voice calling him snaps him out of his trance.

You say his name.

His real name.

Din.

Second to the little noises the kid makes it’s the sweetest sound he’s ever heard. He’s not in control of himself as he stumbles towards you. Falling to his knees in front of your chair, scared to reach out to touch you because deep down he knows this isn’t real.

You should be upset. Upset that he’s lied to you, told you that he doesn’t want you, used you. You should be throwing insults into his face but instead you reach down to put a hand on his cheek and he’s vaguely aware of the fact that in this particular dream he isn’t wearing his helmet.

He’s so at ease from your touch he doesn’t care.

You don’t speak. You just use your thumb to rub gentle circles into the planes of his face. Eventually the house is gone, the kitchen is gone, the table and chairs are gone and it’s just you. Standing above him, caressing his face with one hand, holding the kid to your chest with the other.

He doesn’t dare move a muscle as he tries to burn the sight of the two of you into his memories.

He wakes up with a start, sitting upright in his bed, his hands clawing at the helmet as he gasps for air. He haphazardly tosses it onto the sheets as tries to catch his breath.

Wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his flight suit he stuffs some rations into his satchel and locks his helmet back on.

So he can’t stay in the cabin anymore.

He had never even brought you here but it reeks of your absence. And that dream didn’t help in the slightest.

There are whispers of you in every corner and crevice of his home. He’s not an idiot, he knows no matter where he goes there will always be traces of you. So there’s no sense avoiding it, he makes his way to the castle and stands guard outside your room.

He doesn’t sleep the rest of the night. He stands against the wall opposite your bedroom door. He can’t go back to sleep, he can’t handle that dream again. So he stays up until the sun rises.

He’s a bundle of nerves waiting for you to greet him, but you never do. You stay in your room the entire day, the only change in scenery is when Leo or one of the girls brings you food, he tries to catch a glimpse of you when the door is briefly open but he never does.

His heart hurts.

He doesn’t move. When the hallways are empty he eats his rations just for something to do. Sometimes he’ll turn up the external audio so he can hear you pacing around your room but most of the time it’s silent. He’ll stretch his legs every few hours, pacing the hall. And then he’ll sit and repeat.

He wants to go in.

He wants to tear the door down, kneel before you and beg for forgiveness. But he manages to resist.

He doesn’t sleep when the sun goes down.

When he feels his eyes starting to flutter he’ll chew on a ration.

Sometimes if he feels sleep creeping up on him he thinks of things to say to you in the morning.

He wants to say sorry. More accurately he wants to grovel at your feet and tell you he’s an idiot, that he was lying, that he didn’t mean a word of it and that he’s madly in love with you.

Of course he won’t do that.

He shouldn’t say anything.

It’s better that way. It’s better for the both of you.

Doesn’t mean he can’t fantasize about a world where he begs for forgiveness and you grant it.

Would you want him in that world? All of him, not just moments in secret when one of you craved the other. He wants mornings, noons, and nights. Would you give them to him?

He could take you away from here if you did.

It wouldn’t be easy but when your job is to find people who don’t want to be found you get pretty good at hiding. You could change your names, go get the kid, he could make his dream real.

Would you really want that though?

Of course you wouldn’t. Even if he hadn’t ended things so cruelly, you were a princess and he was just Din.

You wouldn’t want that cabin in the woods, you were too good for that. You deserved castles and gowns, not living in the woods with a Mandalorian.

So he won’t talk to you. He will simply resign himself to loving you from afar. (Or more accurately he will love you from a few steps behind you.) And he will leave you alone because he’s caused enough problems.

Well, if you came out of your room he would. But he can’t properly leave you alone if you won’t let him.

He’s exhausted as he sits against the door, willing himself to stay awake to avoid any more dreams. He turns up his audio for most of the day, listening to you mill about the room.

He wishes you’d give him a reason to come in, the sound of a scuffle, a yelp, for Makers sake, if you stub your toe he could use that as an excuse just to check in on you. But all he hears are the sounds of your muffled footsteps.

And he can’t keep his eyes open forever.

The combination of the flight suit and his armor makes him heat up when he sits still, especially as the sun sets and the light through the windows hits him. He isn’t sure when exactly he falls asleep but he’s back in that big cabin when he does.

He makes the executive decision this time to stay in bed.

He doesn’t want to see you, and he doesn’t want to see the kid. Because neither of you are real, and eventually you’ll be ripped away from him when he wakes up.

Of course his strategy doesn’t work because in this dream you bring Grogu to him. He tries to shield himself from his delusions, even in his dreams he knows it’s pitiful, a trained killer hiding under the blankets from a singular person and a sleeping child.

You still don’t speak. Gods he wishes you would speak, he wishes you would scream at him, shame him for his cowardice but instead you peel back the sheets just enough to put the kid between the two of you and lay with him, Grogu snoring through that tiny nose of his as you lay down with him, giving him that smile that makes his heart melt and his brain turn to mush. You lean forward and your forehead rests on his.

He knows he deserves this anguish but still, it’s ruthless.

Everything he could ever possibly want, under one blanket and it isn’t even fucking real.

He’s startled awake when the surface he’s laying on moves.

He doesn’t have a lot of time to come to his senses before he’s looking up and you’re there. The real you. The dream version could never compare to the real thing. That’s how he knows he isn’t sleeping anymore. You're clearer, confusingly you’re wearing simpler clothing. He can’t really think about that right now though because he’s hit with a wave of embarrassment.

He was the one who had ended things with you yet here he was, sitting outside your door like a dog who got locked out overnight.

You just step over him.

Just like that you’re over him.

Literally and apparently figuratively.

Huh.

He had assumed you had locked yourself in your room because you were trying to process everything, that you were trying to repair the parts of you that had been broken.

He had assumed you felt as terrible as he did.

But you seem fine, like nothing even happened.

He should be elated. That you’re not only fine but seem to be completely over it.

Instead he feels sick. He’s worried he’s going to vomit in his helmet because he can’t stop wondering if maybe you never even cared about him in the first place. It’s wrong, it’s a terrible thing to wonder and he can’t help but think of what an awful person he must be to have such a thought.

He follows behind you, as is his natural instinct but he feels like he needs to sit down again.

Did you ever care about him? He had only ended things with you because he couldn’t handle the idea of you loving him. If you loved him and he still couldn’t be with you he wouldn’t survive it.

Yet you seem perfectly fine.

And he can’t help but think that he ruined everything on a bad judgment call. He hasn’t felt this stupid since he almost got himself stuck in carbonite when he first bought the Crest.

He can’t focus on a thing you’re doing, yet he stays with you the entire time, he knows you grab books and he knows you return to your chambers and he knows that at some point he ended up back on the floor, leaning against your bedroom door again.

Maybe you had never even liked him as a friend.

He had never considered that you might have been exactly what he had claimed to be. Bored and in need of entertainment.

That isn’t possible, you had been so upset when he had ended things.

Of course you could have just been upset because he had been unnecessarily cruel.

He has no right to be bothered by this. This was his choice. His decision.

Maybe he chose wrong.

It’s a little late for thoughts like that.

He can’t just change his mind.

And he’s left to think about everything he possibly could have done differently as he fights sleep.

He doesn’t even know how he’s still standing when the sun rises and he groans as he gets to his feet.

Your ladies in waiting go in, and this time they actually stay in and he’s more awake then he’s been in days because he knows that you’re actually going to come out today. He braces himself to see that fire in you, tells himself that last night was a fluke, that you hadn’t been prepared to see him and now that you are you’ll want to argue and berate him and he can finally sort things out in his head.

But you don’t.

You barely even look at him and you’re already walking to the library like nothing happened.

Like it’s any other day.

He can’t think, he can’t form a coherent thought because you seem perfectly fine. He really hadn’t meant anything to you.

He had hoped that this confirmation would free him. That if it was true he wouldn’t feel an attraction to you anymore and he could finally get off this kriffing planet. But his adoration doesn’t waver for a second. He still feels exactly the same way except now he feels smaller. There is nothing worse than a problem that can’t be solved with a blaster.

He’s got big plans to spend his day trying not to give in to his mental and physical exhaustion while he does everything in his power to not think about how unbothered you look. But those plans are immediately halted when you freeze up right after you get into the library. He’s puzzled for a few seconds until he sees the nook and your voice echoes inside his helmet.

“Why is your favorite color green?”

The kid, the cabin, and you.

He wants to fall apart. He wants to collapse right there on the floor and he’s so tired he briefly considers it until he realizes you’re still not moving. He gives you a second, he knows better than to try and talk to you right now, his helmet has been silenced since the last time he had spoken to you.

He can’t be trusted to not beg for absolution.

Your eyes are glued on the nook and he swears you tremble slightly.

So you did care.

He can’t even take pleasure in that fact because his heart drops when he sees your expression. It’s like looking in a mirror.

What the hell is he supposed to do in this situation?

He’s faced enough deadly challenges throughout his bounty hunting career to know when to just go with your gut, so that’s what he does. He gently guides you away from the nook and sits you somewhere where you won’t have to look at it.

You look as small as he feels, there’s something so intimate about your misery that he can’t look any longer, if he does he’ll give in and all of this will have been for nothing. You’re strong, even though he wasn’t sure for a moment there he knows that you still have your fire so of course you pull yourself together. And when you speak, you address him as you task him with finding Leo and he’s so happy to not only hear your voice but to hear you sound okay that he does it without a second thought.

He desperately waits to hear you say more but you never do. He should have seen that coming. But he’s so weary at this point, he lets himself lean against the shelves and close his eyes, just for a second, the last thing he sees is you sketching something out on the papers Leo brought you.

Of course you’re there when he closes his eyes as well.

There’s no cabin, no kitchen, no bedroom, no kid. It’s just you this time. And he is trapped in a never ending loop of you. Every few minutes he’ll wake up, turning to make sure you’re still there, before drifting back into unconsciousness. You’re there too, waiting for him. It’s a funny sort of hell. To wake up and see you there, to fall asleep and see you there. He can’t escape for a single second.

What else is new?

The dream you isn’t real. He can’t bring himself to interact with her, because even the fantasy of you that he has conjured up doesn’t live up to the real thing. The real you is right there, everytime he slips back into consciousness he turns to see you. He’s never been a devout man but looking at you now he gets it. How people can be religious. The idea that you can adore something so much that you commit your life to it. He shouldn’t be thinking about you like that, at this point it’s unhealthy, but he’s just so tired, and you’re everywhere, and it’s hard to focus on anything but the look of pride on your face as you stare at your drawing.

The dream you is too polished and shiny, she always seems so quiet. This is the real you, pleased with yourself, fighting back a smile because you’ve accomplished something.

The sound of your chair pushing backwards wakes him from his strange middle ground of awake and asleep as he straightens up. He shouldn’t have let that happen, he doesn’t sleep in front of people, there’s too much risk involved but as much as your presence torments him it also soothes him.

You seem like you’re in a rush to get back to your room and curiosity gets the best of him, so he allows himself a glance at your work as you scramble to get your things together.

The table is covered in sketches of weapons and ships, a lot of which he recognizes from his book.

That’s what you had been drawing.

He sees an ink depiction of the Crest and he can’t stop himself as he shoves it into his pocket, careful not to crinkle it.

Why did he do that?

He shouldn’t have done that.

But it’s too late because you’re out the door already which means he needs to be out the door. He trails behind you like always and there is the faintest hesitation from you where he thinks you might just invite him in, he’s imagining things, he has to be. He doesn’t think further on it as you close the door. He can barely stay upright and when he’s sure you’re out of earshot he lets himself slump back down onto the floor.

He reaches into his pocket and holds the drawing out in front of him.

He hadn’t told you about the Crest. This was just a freak coincidence. It’s a nice drawing though, you did it justice.

He puts it into his bag, careful not to fold or crease it.

He stops fighting sleep, he can’t keep this up forever so he lets his eyes close with a sigh.

His vision fading to black as he feels a tap on his shoulder, opening his eyes he’s expecting to see you and the kid but instead of the house he’s still in the hall and instead of you it’s a rather displeased looking Togruta girl.

He recognizes her as one of your ladies in waiting, he’s never learned her name. When she speaks she doesn’t sound even the slightest bit frightened of him like any of the other servants in the castle, she sounds furious.

“What did you do to her?”

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#lincolndjarin #the mandalorian #best kept secret #bks #din djarin #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian fanfiction #the mandalorian x you #din dijarin x reader #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #din djarin fanfiction #RE UPLOAD

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criticallyacclaimedstranger · 1 year

Text

Stonemilker [Joel x f!reader]

Read on Ao3

Fandom: The Last of Us (HBO)

Ship: Joel Miller x you (cishet f reader)

Tags/warnings: Heartache, breakup stuff, Ellie lives and Joel is lying to her, sad sex, you know this is ending sex, Couple fighting, idk what this is folks, it's a sad story with a hopeful ending.

Summary: When Joel returns to Jackson with Ellie, something has changed. Can your relationship survive it? Takes place after episode 9 of season 1.

Words: 3,967

A/N: The title Stonemilker is the title of the first track of Björk's Vulnicura (2015), an album solely about the end of a relationship. Cheers to @rambling-in-purple for reading it before posting <3!

Joel returned a changed man. A younger man. A less hurting man.

Ellie was with him, of course, hugging you tightly in the kitchen of the small house you had been given. You had been setting the dinner table for one when she had burst in and called your name, Joel striding in behind her. You dropped the plate, and the porcelain pieces spread around your feet.

Little did you know that your life was about to shatter in the same way.

Joel gave you a warm hug, nothing more. You wanted to hear everything about their journey, but they were both tired and hungry, so you gave them time to shower and change into clean clothes while you adapted dinner to feed three.

Later that night, when you went to bed with Joel, you saw the hideous wound on the right side of his stomach. He told you what had happened since he and Ellie left Jackson.

He told you everything: the abandoned college, the stab wound, and how close he was to dying. Ellie saving him. The resort. All the dead bodies. The hospital.

His decision. Hallways of dead people left behind. His lie to Ellie.

"Joel..."

He looked at you with shrouded eyes. Where there used to be an iron curtain, there was now a thin veil that showed depths of horrors, but also hope. It scared you more than the hard metallic gaze that you were used to.

You knew why he did it. You understood him. You would probably have done the same.

"You have to tell her."

"One day, I will."

"Sooner rather than later. She deserves to know the truth."

There it was, the unyielding steel in his eyes. He never appreciated being told the obvious. But when Ellie did that, slapped him in the face with inconvenient truths and poignant teases, he grimaced to keep from smiling. When you did it, you received a glare.

You had always thought that that glare was yours because Joel didn't have any other way of expressing his reluctant amusement. And it was, but there was a smile-hiding grimace as well, just not for you.

Something had changed. You didn't realize just how much until a few weeks later, when you were out with the hunting party, and a cougar popped up so suddenly that not even the horses had smelled it. It was a young animal, probably a male looking for a territory of its own, and you were the closest to it. Your horse reared, you fell off, hit your elbow on a rock that just had to be precisely there. As if by some miracle, your head missed it, though. The wind got knocked out of you while your brain was screaming frantically at you to get up and get your gun, but before you could move, a shot rang out over the plain, and the horses neighed in fear.

Deion was by your side a moment later, brows knitted together in worry.

"You okay?"

Breath returning, you began to feel the impact of your fall. Left elbow was smarting, your ass was probably bruised, and your heart was beating a mile a minute from the scare.

"I'm fine," you managed to wheeze. He helped you up, carefully pulling you on your feet. He held your hand as he inspected your face for discomfort. You let him. It's comforting, that big, warm hand holding yours.

"You sure?" He wanted to be certain before he let you go. You nodded and forced a smile.

"I'll have a bruise, but I'm good." You've had worse, so much worse.

The warmth of Deion's hand lingers on your skin long after he releases your hand. As you get on the horse and ride back to Jackson, you find yourself thinking about how Joel never showed such concern for your well-being. And he doesn't do it now, either, when you return sooner than expected, moving like you're in pain - which you are.

"You need to be more careful," he tells you gruffly. You know it's his thing, he doesn't do softness, and yet... he does to Ellie. He speaks kindly to her, laughs with her, talks to her about things beyond mere survival. Tells her about his daughter. That's a new one, he never even mentioned his daughter to you.

It's heartwarming to see him thawed. The glimpses of who he used to be melt together with who he is now. You always suspected he was a great kind of guy before the world went to shit and he was forced to become a version of himself that he himself hated. And it hurts you more than the bruising that he cannot be this new person with you, only with Ellie. She deserves the best Joel, you know that, but don't you? After all you've been through with him?

You argue with him later that night. That's also new. While you may have disagreed with him occasionally before, you have never fought about it. Maybe it's the comfort of Jackson, the fact that a disagreement no longer means the risk of death. Maybe you have just had your fill.

"You could at least say something that doesn't make it sound like it's my fault!" you yell, unconcerned with your voice carrying over to the next room where Ellie is asleep. "You could ask me if I'm okay!"

"I can see that you're okay," Joel replies irritably. "I've seen you take worse hits."

"I am not okay, Joel!" The words are spat into the half-lit bedroom and the silence that follows is heavy from the impact. Joel crosses his arms in front of his chest and looks at you with unreadable eyes. It's not his usual glare, the one he gives you no matter the reason, because it's all he's capable of. It's just... closed. Like he has nothing more to give you.

You sleep in separate rooms that night. Ellie is unusually demure in the morning, looking from you to Joel and back to you, clearly bothered by your fight the night before. You make a mental note to talk to her after breakfast but before you can suggest an activity, Joel asks her if she wants to go out shooting.

Okay, let Joel deal with Ellie.

You go to your chores, which consist of animal care for most of the day. Deion joins you. He wants to know how you're feeling.

How are you feeling? Bruised and annoyed. Sad and confused. Touched and frustrated. Abandoned. Lonely.

"I'm good," you assure him with a light smile. "A little sore, but I've had worse."

All day he sees to it that you rest. He takes care of the tasks that will aggravate the aches of your beaten-up body. He reminds you to take a break when it's nearing lunch time.

He cares so clearly. Is this what it's like, to be with someone who cares?

Ellie is bubbly that night. She and Joel have had fun, she tells you, and you're happy for her. Ellie is a child who was never allowed to be one. She deserves carefree days. She deserves a father figure, a dad. A mom, too, but you have no idea how to be that. Especially when things are so askew with Joel. Whatever things are, were, should be. You and Joel used to be about teamwork, survival, partnership. But life in Jackson is different. What you two had, were, is not needed here. What else can you be?

Joel watches you take your clothes off when you get ready for bed. You turn your back to him, maybe out of misguided, sudden shyness, maybe to show him the bruise that has painted half your back. It was dark red yesterday, now it's turning purple.

His feet are heavy on the floorboards when he walks up to you. His rough fingers are surprisingly soft when tracing the outlines of the bruise. You close your eyes, lean into his touch, sigh softly when he kisses you neck. You lie down on the bed and let Joel take you. He's gentle, more so than usual, but every thrust pushes you against the bumpy mattress, hurting you. Neither one of you speak but when Joel has finished, he cradles your face in his hands and kisses your forehead so softly that it's barely a kiss at all. You turn your back to him when you go to sleep. Your muscles are sore from the coupling, and you quietly love that tenderness like one would a bittersweet heartache. The bruise on your lower back throbs like a young heart in love, and when you turn onto your side, away from Joel, you wish he would kiss the miscolored blossoms.

But he doesn't. He simply turns away from you, just as you turned away from him. With a canyon between your warm, spent bodies, you both go to sleep.

Ellie accompanies you to your chores the next day. After a quiet hour of cleaning the stable, she eventually asks you if you're mad at her.

"No, Ellie, why would you think that?" you ask, immediately regretting your poor choice of words. She shrugs, leaning against a stall door, both hands gripping the handle of the pitchfork, the prongs scraping loudly against the floor.

"You've been weird since we got back. You and Joel have been fighting."

"That has nothing to do with you," you lie, hopefully convincingly. Ellie looks up at you, a hard glint in her eyes.

"I'm not stupid. You never fought before, not for as long as I've known you."

You stop your sweeping but don't know what to say.

"You barely talk to each other," she insists.

"It's complicated," you tell her feebly. "But it has nothing to do with you, Ellie, I promise."

"Then what is it?"

You shake your head. "I'm not going to talk about our relationship with you, Ellie. It's not your problem."

"It is my problem if my - " she stops herself, the word parents hanging in the air for a second, before she continues: " - if you two are going to, I don't know, get a divorce or some shit."

An amused scoff escapes you before you can stop yourself. "We're not married, Ellie."

"I know. But you're, like, together, right?"

"I don't know what we are," you blurt out, averting your eyes so you don't have to see her reaction at your confession. You hear the scraping of her shoe at the floor.

"Did you count on me not being here anymore?"

Her voice is small and sounds so different from its normal curious and teasing tone. A clump forms in your throat.

"Ellie..."

"I'm in the way."

You let go of the broom and focus instead on Ellie, standing in front of her and taking the pitchfork from her so that you can grasp her hands.

"You're not in the way," you tell her firmly. Ellie looks away, and you shake your head to stress your words. "Ellie, look at me."

She meets your steady gaze, and you see how conflicted she is. Poor girl. She is a child. You can barely remember what it was like to be that age and besides, it was another world ago, but you do remember that it was difficult and confusing for so many reasons.

"You are not in the way," you emphasize softly. "But this situation is new, for all of us. This place. This dynamic. We're not just surviving anymore, Ellie, we have a chance to live. And I... I've never had that chance with Joel before. So I'm struggling a little right now. But it has nothing to do with you, okay? You just... be you. You're so good for him, Ellie, you have saved him in more ways than one."

She purses her lips, and you see her throat muscles work as she swallows.

"Okay," she finally nods, quietly. You press a smile, try to look like this problem was resolved.

"Okay." You give her a quick hug before going back to your work. Ellie seems relieved but you can't stop thinking about how you pinned it all on your own back. You are struggling, you are having a hard time of this new way of life. As if Joel has nothing to do with it. As if his broad, once so safe, and reassuring back isn't now turned to you in cool detachment.

You try to bring the topic to him later that night, tell him that Ellie is noticing and worrying. It ends in a fight and this time it's Joel who sleeps on the uncomfortable couch. You lie awake, wondering what went wrong. Is it really you who changed? Are you being a selfish bitch, jealous of a 14-year-old girl? Do you really want life to go on as it did before, in the Boston QZ, fighting for your life with Joel by your side?

Why is settling down so hard?

Nothing changes in the coming weeks. Talking to Joel is like milking a stone. Every now and then the two of you fight, as quietly as you can when Ellie has gone to bed. You still think he should tell her. He refuses to, and you can see the fear in his eyes. Ellie will be furious with him; you both know it. The longer he keeps her in the dark, the worse it's going to be. You find yourself wishing that you'll be far away when the day comes.

One early spring day you ride out with Deion to check on the traps. You've spent most of your days with him these past few weeks. He appreciates you, sees you, wants to hear your opinion. He takes you to the movies. He asks you about your past. He shows interest where Joel barely even wants you at night anymore.

The snow has started to melt in the sunshine, and you find a sun-kissed clearing where the ground is yellow with glacier lilies. The air is warm, and you can smell the changing of the season. You dismount and crouch among the delicate yellow flowers, hover your hands over them, smile in childlike delight when you see bees buzzing from flower to flower. You can't remember the last time you saw bees.

In that clearing, you ask Deion to kiss you, and he does, almost immediately. Not until the kiss is over does he express regret.

"You're with Joel."

"No, I'm not."

He smiles, and kisses you again, and you remember those first pre-teen infatuations: the warmth, the excitement, the heart-stopping angst about whether or not the subject of your passions felt the same. You remember all that but only feel it radiate from Deion. The feelings are unrequited.

That night you collect your few belongings into your backpack and leave the house. You hug Ellie and ask her to forgive you. You say nothing to Joel, and he says nothing to you.

You do not go to Deion, but instead to the boarding house where new arrivals are placed while awaiting homes of their own. Deion is kind, and he showed you what it would be like to be with a person who genuinely cares for you, but you don't want to rebuild your shattered life around a man.

A week later you mount a horse and leave Jackson. You have no plan, no light to look for, but you can finally breathe freely. Heading west, you ride at a slow pace all day, enjoying yourself more than maybe is appropriate. Your saddle-sore backside in the evening doesn't put a damper on your joy when you sit by your small fire with a cup of herbal tea. This is the start of something new, maybe disastrous, but definitely different.

The dark woods around you don't scare you, neither does being alone. You realize now just how alone - lonely - you've been these past couple of months, smack in the middle of the warm and well-organized community that Jackson is. Its friendly inhabitants weren't enough: you only wanted kindness from one single person. To be alone out here, by choice, feels a lot better than the time spent in Jackson.

When you prepare to leave the campsite the next morning, a horse emerges between the trees. Instinctively, you reach for your gun before your brain has processed the face of the rider.

It's Joel. Your mouth falls open and your legs feel weak.

"What are you doing here?" you manage when he dismounts. His hunched shoulders tell you clearly that he's uncomfortable and also stalling as he, very meticulously, ties the reins to a nearby tree. You wait impatiently for him to acknowledge you. When he finally does, his nut-brown eyes are clear in the first rays of the sun.

"I'm here to ask you if you would consider returning."

You have to bite your tongue in order not to laugh out loud. Your hard stare tells him everything, and he shifts his weight from one foot to the other.

"I'm going to tell Ellie about what happened at the hospital."

You raise an eyebrow. "Why are you here telling me that?"

"Because when I do, she's going to hate me, and I can't stand losing both of you."

"It's a little too late for that, Joel."

He nods, wets his lips. Looks away and draws a wet breath. Rests his hands on his hips, purses his lips. You realize he's fighting against unwanted yet inevitable tears.

Joel crying. That's a new one.

Moments pass, minutes, maybe hours, days, you have no idea, but you keep staring at Joel as he stubbornly looks to the forest, as if there was an answer or saving grace to be had between the trees. You are relentless in the midst of the rising sun, the singing birds, the soft shush of the wind through the budding treetops. He has to make the first move, show something, say something. Offer an explanation to why he stopped listening. Where did the apathy in his eyes come from? Why did he suddenly decide to show no concern for you?

He brings his hand to his eyes, rubs them quickly with forefinger and thumb. He then turns back to you.

"Ellie misses you."

You stand your ground, implacable as you wait for him to continue. Finally, he confesses:

"I miss you. The minute you left I started missing you."

"Then why did you let me leave?" you ask flatly.

"I wasn't going to stop you if that's what you wanted."

You refuse to engage, even though you want to scream at him: Do you think I wanted to leave?

"Was it Deion?"

"What?" Your eyebrows meet in a surprised frown. "What about Deion?"

"You spent so much time with him. Did you... was there anything between you?"

Unable to play it cool anymore, you take a step closer.

"How fucking dare you? You have no right!" Your horse and Joel's shift their weight, ears twitching nervously.

He's a little taken back with your raised voice, but he doesn't match it.

"Sorry," he mutters instead, and now it's your turn to drop your jaw. For a moment, both of you just stand there, looking at each other, trying to find some common ground to share so that things can be resolved.

It's Joel who finally finds that little patch of soil to sow the seeds of reconciliation.

"You remember how I tried to make Tommy take Ellie to the Fireflies?" he asks, and you nod mutely. Of course you remember. The tension in the house had been so thick you could have cut it with a knife.

"But I took her. And everything that happened after that... happened. I have to live with the consequences. I just had to keep her."

He shakes his head, something desperate filling his features. "If I get to keep her, I can't keep you."

"What do you mean?" you ask quietly, not following. The long look he gives you is anguished, but he stays quiet, as if he has said too much. Your brain is working at full capacity until it has connected the dots.

"Is this some kind of 'can't have too much good shit in my life' bullshit?" you ask hoarsely, almost afraid of the answer. "Because that is just... Joel, you are an idiot."

You're shaking by now, and Joel bristles a little.

"Look, Ellie has nobody else. She's stuck with me, for better or for worse. She's a kid. But you are not. You can have someone better."

"What if I don't want anyone better, what if I happen to love a complete fucking idiot who doesn't deserve me but is stuck with me because I chose it myself!?" you scream, tears filling your eyes and escaping down your cheeks. Joel winces, as if you just slapped him, but when he sees your tears, he closes the gap between the two of you with a few long strides. The next thing you know, you're crushed against his broad chest, smelling his sweat and slightly woodsy scent with leather and horse and melting snow. He holds you so tightly it's almost constricting your breathing, but you don't fight back. You've fought back for long enough.

"Darlin'," he murmurs throatily. "Darlin'. You love me?"

"I did," you sob. "But I don't know if I still do."

He's quiet, his hand moving in slow, comforting caresses over your back. Something is broken in you and the splinters are pressing against your internal organs, making breathing near impossible. Your face against Joel's chest, you think you can sense something break in him as well.

"You're right," he finally whispers. "I am an idiot and an asshole."

Your only response is more tears because now he gets it, now the milk is flowing from that goddamn stone, and it just might be too late. You don't know if you can trust him to handle your broken pieces right, or if there is a second chance for him in you.

There is no telling how long you stand like that, entwined in a sad, desperate embrace. The sun's rays start to feel warm even when you're cold inside. When your tears finally dry up, you shift in Joel's arms, and he releases you. You can't look at him, can't let him see you like this, but he gently places his finger under your chin, and raises your face to his.

"Am I too late?" he asks. His eyes are red and there are wet trails on his cheeks. You swallow hard, try to navigate between your desires and needs.

"What would change?" you finally ask. He places his warm, slightly sweaty palm against your cheek and brushes his thumb just under your eye, catching a lingering tear.

"I would love you."

He has never said that word to you before, and you want to ask for a detailed description of what it entails. How will he love you? Will he listen, help, support, share?

If Ellie decides to hate him, will he hate you in return? Will Ellie?

On the other side is a vast wilderness of no coordinates, the unknown with all its dangers. What are your chances of survival, of finding decent people? Jackson is full of decent people, and now also Joel and Ellie. Joel, who hurt you. Ellie, who is torn between the two of you.

He waits for your answer, and you find that you don't have a definite one to give him. But you know what direction to take.

"We'll talk about it on the ride back."

If that direction is a way forward or a way back, you don't know. You just feel that it would be wrong not to try.

#the last of us fanfic #joel miller fanfic #joel miller x you #joel miller x reader #my fic

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luckbealincoln · 11 months

Text

Best Kept Secret

chapter thirteen : lunar interlude : vercopa

THIS SERIES HAS BEEN MOVED AND RE-UPLOADED TO ANOTHER ACCOUNT. WHICH CAN BE FOUND HERE. THIS POST STILL EXISTS AS AN ARCHIVE BUT THIS ACCOUNT IS NO LONGER ACTIVE!!

pairing : bodyguard!Din Djarin x afab!princess!reader

rating : 18+ mdni

word count : 3.5k

summary : the mandalorian does some thinking

warnings, etc. : language, angst, references to sex

He did it.

He did exactly what he knew he needed to do.

So why does he feel worse than ever?

He did it. That’s what matters, even if he had to lie to get you to believe it, he ended things. He doesn’t bother taking off his armor as he collapses onto his mattress.

His eyes find the plastic flower on his nightstand. It’s a good reminder that he’s a bad person for what he’s put you through. He never should have slept with you.

He never should have loved you.

He deserves every form of torture that would be performed on him if they found out what the two of you had been doing.

He deserves damnation for what he has done.

And he gets just that when he sleeps.

Something is immediately off about the dream he’s in now.

His first thought is that this cabin is different.

It’s bigger. There’s more dressers, the bed is twice the size of his. His confusion is palpable as he tries to find you.

He knows he will if he looks.

You’re always there when he closes his eyes.

So he stands, and he walks around the house. It’s completely new to him yet so familiar and as he turns the corner and you’re there.

His breath hitches.

His heart is in his throat.

He can’t move. It’s like he’s staring down the greatest threat of his life and if he moves an inch it will attack.

Maybe he died in his sleep and this is heaven.

He’s content to stand in the doorway and watch this alternate reality for as long as he sleeps. His chest heaving as he takes in the sight of everything he’s ever wanted, just a few steps away.

The two most important people in his life, and in his reality he’s pushed you both away.

He could have kept the kid. He hadn’t been sure about leaving, he truly believes that if he had asked Grogu to stay that they could have been happy. But he was just so scared.

What if he got hurt while out on a hunt? What if he changed his mind and years down the road resented Din for keeping him? Or worst of all, what if plain and simple, he just got sick of Din?

And then he did the same thing to you.

He got scared.

He can’t already be regretting it, it’s been less than a day.

The sound of your voice calling him snaps him out of his trance.

You say his name.

His real name.

Din.

He’s so at ease from your touch he doesn’t care.

He doesn’t dare move a muscle as he tries to burn the sight of the two of you into his memories.

He wakes up with a start, sitting upright in his bed, his hands clawing at the helmet as he gasps for air. He haphazardly tosses it onto the sheets as tries to catch his breath.

Wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his flight suit he stuffs some rations into his satchel and locks his helmet back on.

So he can’t stay in the cabin anymore.

He had never even brought you here but it reeks of your absence. And that dream didn’t help in the slightest.

He doesn’t sleep the rest of the night. He stands against the wall opposite your bedroom door. He can’t go back to sleep, he can’t handle that dream again. So he stays up until the sun rises.

His heart hurts.

He wants to go in.

He wants to tear the door down, kneel before you and beg for forgiveness. But he manages to resist.

He doesn’t sleep when the sun goes down.

When he feels his eyes starting to flutter he’ll chew on a ration.

Sometimes if he feels sleep creeping up on him he thinks of things to say to you in the morning.

He wants to say sorry. More accurately he wants to grovel at your feet and tell you he’s an idiot, that he was lying, that he didn’t mean a word of it and that he’s madly in love with you.

Of course he won’t do that.

He shouldn’t say anything.

It’s better that way. It’s better for the both of you.

Doesn’t mean he can’t fantasize about a world where he begs for forgiveness and you grant it.

Would you want him in that world? All of him, not just moments in secret when one of you craved the other. He wants mornings, noons, and nights. Would you give them to him?

He could take you away from here if you did.

It wouldn’t be easy but when your job is to find people who don’t want to be found you get pretty good at hiding. You could change your names, go get the kid, he could make his dream real.

Would you really want that though?

Of course you wouldn’t. Even if he hadn’t ended things so cruelly, you were a princess and he was just Din.

You wouldn’t want that cabin in the woods, you were too good for that. You deserved castles and gowns, not living in the woods with a Mandalorian.

Well, if you came out of your room he would. But he can’t properly leave you alone if you won’t let him.

He’s exhausted as he sits against the door, willing himself to stay awake to avoid any more dreams. He turns up his audio for most of the day, listening to you mill about the room.

And he can’t keep his eyes open forever.

He makes the executive decision this time to stay in bed.

He doesn’t want to see you, and he doesn’t want to see the kid. Because neither of you are real, and eventually you’ll be ripped away from him when he wakes up.

He knows he deserves this anguish but still, it’s ruthless.

Everything he could ever possibly want, under one blanket and it isn’t even fucking real.

He’s startled awake when the surface he’s laying on moves.

He was the one who had ended things with you yet here he was, sitting outside your door like a dog who got locked out overnight.

You just step over him.

Just like that you’re over him.

Literally and apparently figuratively.

Huh.

He had assumed you had locked yourself in your room because you were trying to process everything, that you were trying to repair the parts of you that had been broken.

He had assumed you felt as terrible as he did.

But you seem fine, like nothing even happened.

He should be elated. That you’re not only fine but seem to be completely over it.

He follows behind you, as is his natural instinct but he feels like he needs to sit down again.

Did you ever care about him? He had only ended things with you because he couldn’t handle the idea of you loving him. If you loved him and he still couldn’t be with you he wouldn’t survive it.

Yet you seem perfectly fine.

And he can’t help but think that he ruined everything on a bad judgment call. He hasn’t felt this stupid since he almost got himself stuck in carbonite when he first bought the Crest.

Maybe you had never even liked him as a friend.

He had never considered that you might have been exactly what he had claimed to be. Bored and in need of entertainment.

That isn’t possible, you had been so upset when he had ended things.

Of course you could have just been upset because he had been unnecessarily cruel.

He has no right to be bothered by this. This was his choice. His decision.

Maybe he chose wrong.

It’s a little late for thoughts like that.

He can’t just change his mind.

And he’s left to think about everything he possibly could have done differently as he fights sleep.

He doesn’t even know how he’s still standing when the sun rises and he groans as he gets to his feet.

But you don’t.

You barely even look at him and you’re already walking to the library like nothing happened.

Like it’s any other day.

He can’t think, he can’t form a coherent thought because you seem perfectly fine. He really hadn’t meant anything to you.

“Why is your favorite color green?”

The kid, the cabin, and you.

He can’t be trusted to not beg for absolution.

Your eyes are glued on the nook and he swears you tremble slightly.

So you did care.

He can’t even take pleasure in that fact because his heart drops when he sees your expression. It’s like looking in a mirror.

What the hell is he supposed to do in this situation?

Of course you’re there when he closes his eyes as well.

What else is new?

The dream you is too polished and shiny, she always seems so quiet. This is the real you, pleased with yourself, fighting back a smile because you’ve accomplished something.

You seem like you’re in a rush to get back to your room and curiosity gets the best of him, so he allows himself a glance at your work as you scramble to get your things together.

The table is covered in sketches of weapons and ships, a lot of which he recognizes from his book.

That’s what you had been drawing.

He sees an ink depiction of the Crest and he can’t stop himself as he shoves it into his pocket, careful not to crinkle it.

Why did he do that?

He shouldn’t have done that.

He reaches into his pocket and holds the drawing out in front of him.

He hadn’t told you about the Crest. This was just a freak coincidence. It’s a nice drawing though, you did it justice.

He puts it into his bag, careful not to fold or crease it.

He stops fighting sleep, he can’t keep this up forever so he lets his eyes close with a sigh.

“What did you do to her?”

tag list : dm or reply to be added !!

@stagerightlauren - @dins-riduur-anthe - @littleguy-bendy - @rarachelchel - @laurensnotsparkly - @gerardingurway - @reallyidontcare- @clear-your-mind-and-dream - @estoniacobaltpayne - @buckyandgeraltsupremacy - @cookielovesbook-akie - @diabaroxa - @love-the-abyss - @sasakipsposts

#din djarin fanfiction #din djarin/reader #mandalorian fanfic #din djarin x reader #the mandalorian #mandalorian x reader #din djarin

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voraciousvore · 3 months

Text

Hot Chocolate

Ever imagine being a tiny on a freezing cold day, and sitting on a marshmallow in a cup of hot chocolate? :3

Winter-themed g/t vore oneshot below (2.1k words)

Content warning: soft, fatal, willing vore (an unusual combination, I know, but this is my version of comfort vore, as bleak as it may be)

Life was always hard for tiny people in a giant world, but this winter was especially brutal. The snow accumulated on the ground higher than we were tall, turning the landscape into a frozen white wasteland. Food was scarce as the plants withered and died into bare skeletons. The cold was bitter and biting, significantly worse than in previous years. Most of the time, us tiny folk would hole ourselves up in underground shelters with stashes of supplies and hope for the best until spring.

However, this year, calamity struck. A blizzard destroyed our shelter, ripped open our tunnels, and exposed us to the harsh elements. Wild animals raided our stores of salted meat, grains, berries, and nuts, and the flesh-eaters devoured many of our own before we could fight them off with sharpened spears fashioned from twigs. In the aftermath, most of us starved from lack of food or died from exposure. When a gigantic fox attacked us, I was separated from the rest of the group, and I returned to find my entire tribe demolished, their red blood still bright and fresh in the white snow.

I was alone, and I knew no matter how much I struggled, I probably would not survive the winter. I fought my internal despair as savagely as I fought the external world around me. The woods were a severe and unforgiving environment, full of life-threatening hazards and carnivores. My clothes were threadbare from snagging on thorns and branches, and failed to protect me sufficiently from the chill. I was hungry, tired, and cold—so horribly, painfully, agonizingly cold.

Without the support of my family, I realized there was only one place for me to go where I might have the slimmest chance to live. I desperately needed food, as well as clothing and tools that I lacked the skill to fashion on my own. I might be able to find some raw materials in the forest, if I got lucky, but supplies were more plentiful in the giant city nearby.

I dreaded going anywhere near the giants, though. They were extremely dangerous, miles tall, and aggressively hungry for any human morsels despite how ridiculously small we were compared to them. Despite us being no larger than the size of a giant fingernail, they viewed humans as special delicacies, and would typically eat any human they discovered without hesitation, purely for pleasure. They also possessed a keen sense of smell for hunting any humans that attempted to hide from them. Normally, I would avoid the giant city like the plague.

In this case, though, I was desperate. I didn’t know what else to do. So I left the relative safety and quiet emptiness of the woods for the hustle and bustle of the city. On my way there, I rubbed pungent herbs all over my clothes and body in the hopes that they would successfully conceal my scent. The snow would probably wash some of the smell off, but it was worth a try. Fluffy flakes fluttered down from the gloomy gray sky, and I picked up the pace so I wouldn’t get buried under layers of snowfall.

I emerged from the trees to a plain of white and gray. The silhouettes of titantic buildings far in the distance, speckled with yellow lights from the windows, gradually sharpened through the brumal flurries as I approached. When I finally reached the roads, I found them slushy and wet. I was splashed by frigid, dirty, salty water that chilled me to the bone whenever a gargantuan car roared past. The wetness saturating my clothes only added to my misery and made me freeze faster. I shivered uncontrollably as I watched my breath form visible puffs in front of my face.

I was reaching a point of no return: Either I would find salvation here, or perish a heartless death, with nobody to mourn me. As I trudged through the layers of snow and slush, I was having increasing difficulty forcing my legs forward. I kept having to brush piles of snow off my head and shoulders and shoes. My fingers and toes hurt as the winter frost nipped them with its icy teeth. I feared I would soon be frozen in place, like a statue carved from ice.

The fear in my heart exploded as I penetrated deeper into the city and the giant inhabitants stomped past me, bundled in thick layers of winter gear. Not too many of them were out and about, on account of the weather, but every towering colossus that came near me jolted my heart with terror. Their footsteps shook the earth, and their immense shoes splattered me with chilly droplets. While none of them detected the insignificant creature at their feet, I still feared being crushed into a red stain. I sank further into misery with every leaden step.

I had journeyed far, but I spied on the horizon a coffee shop that I believed would save me. If I could slip through the door, I’d be warm. I could find crumbs to eat on the floor. It’d be risky, but I might yet survive. I forced my legs, which were growing numb, to progress in a straight line. My hands and feet were blocks of ice by now, and my whole body was screaming in pain, but I kept moving. Just a little farther.

I was almost to the door, perhaps a few hundred feet away, when I found I could no longer move. No matter how much I internally screamed at my body to proceed, I was overwhelmed with agonizing cold. I collapsed with a shudder, curling up into a quivering ball. My consciousness was fading, but I strained to stay awake. If I passed out here, I’d never wake up again.

A shadow encompassed my vision. At first, I believed I was beholding the specter of death itself, until the looming figure crouched down over me, dwarfing me with its impossible size. A giant. A terrifying, bloodthirsty, man-eating giant. I was doomed. I couldn’t even scream or run with how frozen I was. I could only shiver as I saw in my peripheral vision a massive hand hover over me, until the tips of a gloved finger and thumb closed around me. I had been captured.

I felt a rush of vertigo as the giant stood up, and I ascended at a whirling speed to incomprehensible heights. I was blind, muffled by thick wooly fabric from his gloves. He released his hold on me and I plopped onto something plushy and warm that gently rippled beneath me like a boat in a lake. Heavenly heat radiated from below. I instinctively snaked my hand down, craving the warmth, but was met with a searing heat that made me jerk my arm back with a sharp yelp. My fingers stung with sharp pins and needles. Whatever the heat source was, it scalded me in my current half-frozen state.

The tepid warmth that did reach me wasn’t enough to thaw out my insides, but it helped to bring me back to full awareness. I opened my eyes and sat up, trembling, only to see I was sitting on a big, soft, white mass, surrounded by other identical fluffy cylindrical shapes, bobbing in a hot brown sea of sweet-smelling liquid. The realization hit me like a truck. I was sitting on a giant marshmallow, in a thick pile of other marshmallows, that were floating in a great big mug of hot chocolate.

I nearly fell backwards off my marshmallow perch into the boiling lake when the giant’s enormous face, like a mountainside, loomed over the lip of the mug and stretched high above me and outward in all directions. I had never seen a giant’s countenance up close, since their heads were usually so far up in the sky, so the sight was quite a shock. His skin was pale from the wintry bluster, but his nose and cheeks were flushed red. He was clean-shaven and looked to be in his 20s.

“Hey there, little one,” his voice boomed, like the voice of a god, making me flinch. “You look cold. Want me to help you warm up?” He spoke through a pair of vast, plushy, pink lips easily the length of six men. The steam of his breath felt divine on my icy skin. I was so miserably cold, to the point where I feared I may never experience a comfortable temperature again. I was sorely tempted. Without concern for the consequences, I nodded. I would do anything to be warm again, to not freeze to death.

His lips curved into a devious smirk. He tilted the mug as he touched the edge to his mouth and took a small sip. I couldn’t help but squeak in fear as the heap of marshmallows rushed towards the edge, carrying me with them.

“Are you sure this is what you want?” the giant teased. Raw terror pierced my heart as his mouth opened slightly, showing off massive white teeth that beckoned into an unfathomable darkness beyond. Even so, I was so, so fatigued from the unbearable cold that even now burrowed through my worn clothes, tearing at me with icicles for teeth. I couldn’t take it anymore; I just wanted to give in. The heat from the beverage, from the giant’s body, was so close, so tantalizing, yet just out of my grasp. I nodded again, sealing my fate.

The giant raised a thick eyebrow, curling his mouth into an amused smirk again, but obliged. The immense lips parted, showing a glimpse of the forbidden depths, yet the warmth of his internals drew me in like a moth to a flame. The mug tipped forward, and before I could regret my decision I was swept inside in a deluge of marshmallows and chocolate.

The mouth closed, cutting off the chill from the wind. The space within, encircled by walls of teeth, was easily as big as a living room. The warmth kissed me in a loving embrace like stepping into a sauna. The marshmallows dissolved underneath me into a sticky puddle, and the liquid from the beverage flowed down the gullet yawning in front of me, yet the giant kept me in his mouth. I lounged back on the huge fleshy tongue, soaking in the heat like a jacuzzi. It felt so good to finally give in, to give up, to no longer have to struggle through miles of snow. I should’ve been terrifed, but I was desperate for heat.

The tongue curled around me, massaging me against the rows of teeth and the roof of the mouth as it explored my flavor. As wonderful as the physical sensations were, my body tingled with prickles of pain as the numbness from the cold wore off and blood circulated to my extremities. Even with the heat flooding over me, along with a bath of saliva, I was still frozen in my core. I shivered violently. I needed more; the mouth couldn’t provide me with enough. I was greedy for heat.

In that moment, I stopped caring about anything else. I had nothing left in my life anyways; everyone I knew was dead; I just wanted to be warm and comfortable in my last moments, above all else. I crawled alongside the row of craggy white molars, sidling up to the red meat of the gums, sensing the pulse of hot blood through the flesh. Deeper inside, it would be warmer. I crept over the curve of the slimy tongue as I descended toward the throat. I slid down into the squishy chute, and it gladly received me, flexing tightly around my tiny body as the giant swallowed.

The throat squeezed tightly around me in a tender hug as it dragged me down to the internal depths. The pressure was strong, yet pleasant, kneading me down through his immense chest. His heartbeat throbbed in my ears, and the expansion of his lungs compressed me further as I slid down. I fell deeper and deeper until I eventually splashed into his stomach.

The infernal heat felt divine, enveloping me to the point where I was smothered. At long last, I was warm, blessedly warm, in gurgling heaven. I curled up and allowed the shifting walls to churn me up in the boiling fluid. Like a marshmallow in a cup of hot cocoa, I melted into the larger whole, blissfully free from my tormented existence.

28 notes · View notes

tremendum · 11 months

Text

twin suns ; come in under the shadow of this red rock

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pairing: au (canon-divergent), western-inspired Din Djarin x fem!bounty!reader (afab, w use of woman, girl, etc)

rating: eventually explicit in future chapters. (18+. mdni.)

word count: 0.3k

warnings: fear, being hunted (obvs), reader has a backstory that will be revealed eventually :)

synopsis: an outlawed smuggler; a stoic bounty hunter. a cartel plaguing the rolling planes of the desert, and a Diamyo with a few favors to call in.

notes: hii here’s a prologue/teaser for my new series! it’s canon divergent but will eventually include several other characters from the series. pls pls let me know what y’all think, feedback is always appreciated!

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you’ve always resented twin suns.

growing up on a planet with no more than one sun was plenty for you; your childhood cradled with temperate weather from the one sole star which you orbited until you were old enough to sling a blaster from your hip.

your disdain for them comes not from kicking up some dust of resentment - you've been around this part of the galaxy enough to know them like your own hands.

two is excessive, though. and you’ve always said, ‘lone is better.

a pair of anything is excessive, in fact. twice the pain, twice the heat- but worse, twice the exposure.

your boots move quick through the dust, sand sliding under your footsteps in short strides and padding a soft beat along your lonely trek.

sweat drips into your eyes; you bat it away irritably, craning your head to glance behind you in a fit of paranoia.

but to your misfortune, the vision of glinting beskar, silver and sharp against the reflection of the suns stabs your heart with an icy panic. not a mirage -

but the Mandalorian.

fear licks up your spine.

despite the spell of heat that impends upon you, you wear what you always do: a mask to the world (a mask from yourself). it covers your eyes like those bandits did in all those old HoloVids you watched back in your youth.

black, smooth, and plain. perfect to conceal the bottom half of your face.

sweat slides down the back of your neck as you kick your pace up a notch, toes barely hitting sand before pushing back off again. your hood flows in the stale heat, your speed pushing against the static of the desert ahead of you.

the light cloth is draped over your head; the sweat soon trickles down your forehead in one line, its salty greeting to your eyes once again forcing your brows into a squint, fighting against the squirming vision of mirages dancing on the horizon line.

he follows you; the glint of beskar beats upon your head like an aim against a target.

a tumbleweed blows by on your right, rolling lazy, forgettable.

you envy it.

blisters itch on the back of your heels, nipping at you like the cold used to back on your home planet during the terminal quarters of the year - as the Mandalorian closes in like a predator to his prey, you bitterly regret the hours you spent taking the cold for granted - because it's not cold on this miserable planet.

(it's never cold on Tattooine).

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taglist. @silkiers @leithatnight @totallynotastanacc @afandomidiot @bbyanarchist @clear-your-mind-and-dream

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#din djarin x reader #din djarin x reader smut #din x reader smut #din djarin angst #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian smut #the mandalorian x reader smut #mando smut #mando x you #mando fanfiction #star wars fanfiction #star wars smut #pedro pascal x reader

91 notes · View notes

kallie-den · 3 months

Text

Hunting Hound Part Two

As Leinth's captivity continues, Handler's techniques erode her identity and push her to breaking point - and another visit from Sartha threatens to push her over the edge

A direct sequel to Hunting Hound

If you enjoy my work and are looking for more, or you want to support me, I strongly encourage you to check out my Patreon! I write erotica full-time, which means I need your patronage to keep creating, and my Patrons also get benefits like early access to my stories, extra stories, and the ability to vote on what I write next! So, if that sounds good to you, head over and join the couple hundred patrons I already have :)

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Who are you?

“Leinth Aritimis, pilot.”

The question burns a hole in Leinth’s brain. She hears it, every single day, from Handler’s lips. It’s been like that ever since the escape. The doomed escape. Sartha Thrace - or Hound, Sartha’s other half - dragged her here, to a new cell, where she’s been kept ever since. Here, she is subject to Handler’s personal attentions. And each session begins and ends with the question.

Who are you?

“Leinth Aritimis, pilot.”

It’s an answer. The only one Leinth has to give. It’s not exactly wrong, but it’s not exactly right either. And it’s not the one Handler is looking for. Leinth can tell that much from Her expression. She’s tried giving other answers. She could pretend it’s to amuse herself, but really it’s because she’s hoping she’ll hit upon whatever answer Handler wants to hear. Once, Leinth even answered ‘hound’.

Handler didn’t like that. She made the measure of Her disapproval plain. She wants the truth. Only the truth. So Leinth gives it to Her. She’s not sure why. Handler’s approval shouldn’t matter to her. But it does.

Who are you?

“Leinth Aritimis, pilot.”

Leinth’s new cell is nicer, she supposes. Brighter. A touch more comfortable. She thinks it’s close to Handler’s quarters, but that’s just idle speculation. She’s given up on trying to make a mental map of this place. No point. She’s never getting out. She knows that now.

There’s also a mirror. They couldn’t have picked a worse torture device. What can Leinth do but spend hours staring at herself, letting her self-loathing ferment in her belly? The mirror asks the same question Handler does. Who is she? She doesn’t look much like a pilot anymore. Too skinny. Pilots always get the good rations and they always stay in good shape. Leinth just eats whatever they give her, and she doesn’t have the strength to exercise. She looks more like a corpse than a pilot.

Her eyes don’t help with that.

It’s tempting to break the mirror. That’s what Leinth knows she should do, if she still had the will. What stops her is knowing that Handler wants it here. Leinth can’t seem to bring herself to deny Her. Not anymore. It’s impossible even to imagine it. Like trying to imagine the sun moving backward across the sky.

Leinth has been down here too long. She knows that. Knowing doesn’t help.

Handler is more skilled than Her creepy, dog-hooded menials. Her personal attention is overwhelming. That’s like if the sun froze in the sky, and it was shining just for you. She touches the threads of Leinth’s mind as skillfully as a musician playing the strings of a harp, but She always leaves them fraying, twisted, undone. She takes - time, memories, moods. Whatever She wishes.

It doesn’t always hurt. But it is always torture, whether it’s drugs, electricity, lights, strange devices, or even just talking. When it does hurt, it’s not so bad. Leinth can give herself to the pain. It’s better than the gnawing guilt she feels when it doesn’t.

It’s never an interrogation, though. Leinth refuses to give up any secrets that would endanger her fellow rebels. That’s a barrier within herself she’s determined not to relinquish. Maybe the very last one. But Handler doesn’t ask, not about that. She asks about other things. Personal things.

When did Leinth first know she’s a woman? Who was her first crush? What was the first time her parents were ever disappointed in her? And it’s always so easy to tell Her. It always seems like a good idea in the moment. Like it’ll feel good. Like it’ll be a release.

It never is. It feels awful. Each time, Leinth is left feeling like she’s lost something. Like the memory she’s told belongs to Her now. Leinth is hollower for it. Less herself. Handler, by contrast, seems magnified by each secret shared. It’s like She’s feasting on them, as ridiculous as Leinth knows that is. But the impression persists. She can’t remember how much of herself she’s given away. What doesn’t Handler know about her, now? Is there anything? She must understand Leinth better than any other living soul could. The way only a god could.

But She keeps asking. Every time.

Who are you?

“Leinth Aritimis, pilot.”

At this point, what does it even mean for Leinth to call herself a pilot? That it’s her true self, somehow? Leinth wonders about that. If she could again sit in Genetor’s cockpit, if she could ride it to battle, would it fix her? Would she feel whole again?

Or would she throw up over the controls? That feels more likely. More true. Leinth may never be able to pilot Genetor again, but even if she could, it would be wrong. Sacrilegious. Genetor is a good thing. It does good. Leinth doesn’t. Not anymore. She’s unworthy of it. She always has been.

Because of Sartha. Because of Sartha Thrace.

If there’s one genuine kindness to being under Handler’s personal care, it’s that Sartha Thrace no longer comes to visit Leinth. Seeing her now would be unbearable. Thinking of her is unbearable; all Leinth can do is try to keep thoughts of her pressed against the far walls of her mind, there to scratch and itch as she lies down on the bunk to sleep.

Sartha Thrace is a hero. And Leinth ruined her.

Not just Leinth. But yes, her. She ruined Sartha with her praise and her wishes and her expectant, hopeful eyes. She knows this to be true. She feels it in her soul. Leinth has tried blaming Handler, a little. It doesn’t stick. Doesn’t have the same ring of dreadful truth to it. No; it was Leinth.

If only she’d just stopped and thought about how all that hero worship must have felt to Sartha. About what a burden it must have been to bear. Then, at least, Leinth would be innocent. But she never had. She’d always assumed Sartha could carry all that weight.

And why couldn’t she? Why couldn’t she just carry it? Isn’t that what heroes are for?

Leinth can’t blame Sartha, though. It’s her fault. She did this.

Those thoughts chase each other’s tails in Leinth’s head, round and round, over and over. Guilt and anger. They never settle. She can’t make peace with how she feels. There are, as they say, two wolves inside her.

That phrase seems so much more sinister now.

Leinth is grateful when the drugs they put in her food give her simple oblivion. But just as often they do the opposite. Especially lately. They’ve added something particularly obscene. Some kind of aphrodisiac. It’s potent. It leaves Leinth at odds with her own body, pent up, pacing her cell, filled with base urges that leave her disgusted with herself.

She can’t even blow off steam the way every soldier does when they have the barracks to themself. When she tries, there’s only one face that comes into her head. And Leinth would never forgive herself if she soiled her hero even more than she already has.

How long has that drug been in her food now? How long has she been down here? And how long until she knows the answer?

Who are you?

Leinth Aritimis? Pilot? It feels worse and more absurd every time she says it. It drools from Leinth’s lips, weary from overuse, becoming just a set of sounds she barely remembers how to say.

Lay-inth. Lee-inth. Ah-ree-ti-mis. How is it that Handler says it? She always speaks like She’s wielding a scalpel on Her tongue. Dividing up the syllables. Clipped. Precise. That’s Handler’s way. She knows. She always knows best.

Is that one of Leinth’s thoughts, or one She gave her? Does it still matter? It won’t for much longer.

Leinth is too smart not to know that she’s about to break into pieces.

A sound drags Leinth from the spiral of her own mind. Scraping. Metal on metal. The door opening.

Leinth looks up, and sees Sartha Thrace.

And she gags. It feels ten times worse than she’d guessed it would. Nausea. Blind panic. Fuck. The guilt swells like a tide. But the look on Sartha’s face isn’t accusatory. It’s worse than that. It’s apologetic.

At least now there are no pretenses between them. Not with that sick fucking muzzle on her face.

“Hey,” Sartha says.

What is Leinth supposed to say to that? What the fuck is she supposed to say to that? Absolutely no words could match what had passed between them the last time they saw each other, and so Leinth just sits there on her bunk, mouth open, staring stupidly, until finally she musters up enough of herself to say:

“Hey.”

Even her voice doesn’t sound like her own at this point.

Sartha seems to take that one little word for permission. She enters the cell. Doesn’t close the door behind herself. Doesn’t need to - she knows Leinth won’t run. She moves cautiously. Timidly, even. It doesn’t suit her. Sartha Thrace shouldn’t tiptoe around Leinth like a mouse in a lion’s den.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t come to see you sooner,” the former hero says. “I wanted to. But She said… well, She thought it would be best.”

A line of thought presents itself for Leinth’s consideration. She could try to reason out why, exactly, Handler would want to keep them separated for a time. Figuring that out could help Leinth understand what Handler is doing to her. Understanding could help her resist. Mind games don’t work as well when you know the rules. At least, she hopes not. Leinth doesn’t have all the pieces of the puzzle, of course. But she could at least try to figure it out.

Leinth decides not to bother. She’s just too tired.

“She did, huh?” she says instead, voice heavy. “And why does She think it would be best to come talk to me now?”

“I asked to,” Sartha replies. “I’ve asked a few times. I wanted to make sure you were OK.”

Does she really believe it was her own idea? Pointless to ask. That delusion strikes Leinth as absurd, but less absurd than it might have at the start of her captivity. It’s impossible not to believe that, sometimes. Maybe Sartha’s even telling the truth - but as soon as that occurs to Leinth, another voice in her head tells her different.

She’s lying to you. Betraying you. That’s what she does, Leinth.

“That’s a little hard to believe,” Leinth says through gritted teeth. She adds, belatedly: “Traitor.”

Instantly she regrets the insult and her anger ebbs. She’s not even sure where it came from. It’s beneath her. No, she’s beneath it. And it’s her fault, isn’t it? She helped ruin Sartha Thrace. Leinth has no right to any righteous fury. The wounded look on Sartha’s face only adds to her guilt.

“I did,” Sartha promises, rising above the taunt. "I’ve been worried about you. I… know how it is, right now. I’ve been exactly where you are.”

“I doubt that,” Leinth mutters. It’s not the same. Handler’s made that clear. There is a terrifying specificity to the way She dismantles people.

Sartha isn’t to be dissuaded. “I want to help you, Leinth. A shoulder to cry on. Someone to vent to. Someone to… to take out your frustration on - anything.”

Leinth has trusted those words before. Sartha isn’t here to help. She’s part of something, and Leinth can’t let herself be drawn in. But that doesn’t make them any less enticing. How long has it been since she’s had company? Outside of Handler, anyway.

Not that She counts. The gulf between them is just too great.

Company sounds like salvation, but Sartha’s company? That would be like a mosquito biting her skin over and over. It’s too loaded. Leinth can feel it, even now. The cocktail of emotions she’s barely been able to keep repressed. Admiration, loathing, attraction, admiration, hurt, guilt. She’s never felt more on edge - not once, not even in the heart of combat. What’s Sartha doing to her?

“Can… I at least sit down?” Sartha ventures.

Leinth really doesn’t want her to. Having her here just feels wrong. Like she’s doing to get kicked again. But something keeps her from refusing. She doesn’t want to be alone either. And more importantly, perhaps, she knows Sartha’s presence is Handler’s will.

So, Leinth just gives her a stiff nod.

“Thanks.” Sartha’s still cautious and slow as she approaches. Moving that way is so wrong for her. As she perches on the other end of Leinth’s bunk, it’s almost like she’s afraid. “First of all, I wanted to say this, straight-up: it’s all going to be OK. This will all make sense soon.”

Leinth looks at her uneasily. “You said something like that the first time we met down here.”

“Yeah.” Sartha nods. “That was the worst part, for me. Not knowing. Not having any… any faith.” She smiles at Leinth. Tries to smile, anyway. “I thought you might need to hear that again, right about now.”

“Faith.” Leinth feels nauseous. Faith - Sartha is all but overflowing with it. There’s a light buried in her eyes, a light she can always see. It’s wrong. “Faith in Her.”

“Yes,” Sartha says hopefully. “In Her.”

Sartha’s voice trembles with awe as she says that. Leinth tries to pretend hers doesn’t too.

“She wants what’s best for us,” Sartha adds. “Maybe you can see that better now.”

Leinth just snorts. How can this be best for Sartha? It seems absurd. But she knows now, of course. What Sartha was going through before. When she was a hero. Leinth knows what all that did to her. So it doesn’t seem as crazy as it should.

But, this? How could this ever be better? Wanting to run is one thing. Wanting to betray everything you held dear and break your own psyche into two halves is another. Leinth will never, ever understand that.

At least, she hopes not.

“Just trust me, OK?” Sartha promises. “It’ll get easier. She says you’re doing very well.”

Leinth twitches. That’s not good.

“Fuck Her and fuck you,” she manages, although her heart isn’t in it. “She can waste her time with me forever. She’ll never get what she wants.”

The boast rings hollow to them both. Sartha doesn’t even look offended, just pitying. Leinth knows why.

This is passive resistance. Not active. She’s not fighting anymore. Not really. Just betting that whatever Handler’s rooting around in her head for isn’t actually there. She’s not denying that Handler can take her apart, brick by brick.

“It’s normal to be angry,” Sartha tells her. “You can be angry at Her, for now. She won’t mind. She’ll forgive you.”

Leinth just hates that a part of her brain lights up with relief at that. She tries to suppress that pleasure, to shove it back down in the dark where it belongs. She can’t. It’s hard. Too hard.

Why can’t she think? Why’s it so hard to just fucking think?

Sartha’s to blame, Leinth.

It’s Sartha’s fault. It’s like she’s doing something to Leinth just by being here. Being on edge doesn’t even begin to cover it. It’s deeper than that. Atavistic. Like being prey in the presence of a predator. Or… the opposite? Leinth’s not sure, she just knows it’s itching at her all over. She can feel Sartha in the air. On her skin. It’s consuming. Leinth has never been more aware of another human being before.

And there’s something else. Something weirder and worse.

Leinth is unbearably fucking horny.

It’s more distracting than it has any right to be. The arousal has been present for at least a dozen sleeps, since they started adding that aphrodisiac to Leinth’s food. It’s been a constant buzz that keeps her from finding any center or inner calm. But now it’s turned up to eleven. It’s thunder in Leinth’s veins.

And it’s all directed at Sartha.

Every stupid, embarrassing, idol-struck wet dream she’s ever had is now throbbing at the forefront of her brain. Leinth just has to avert her eyes and pray it isn’t showing. But it must be - she can feel herself sweating and drooling and tenting the coarse pants they gave her. Gods, it’s like being a teenage boy all over again. More intense though, and there’s something else. She can hear a heartbeat, pounding in her ears. It must be hers. But it feels like Sartha’s.

“Are you alright?” Sartha says. Out of the corner of her eye, Leinth can see concern on her face. It hurts.

She doesn’t deserve concern. She’s the one who ruined Sartha. She’s still doing it even now, in her mind’s eye. Leinth is the worst. The lowest it gets. She can feel control slipping out of her grasp. Like an animal in heat - but that would be a hundred times easier to deal with. You don’t blame an animal for being in heat.

“I’m fine,” Leinth grunts.

She’s not. She shifts a couple of inches down her bunk, hoping distance will help. It doesn’t. It just makes the yearning that much more intense. Sartha Thrace is right here, still within arm’s reach. Her warmth. Her skin. Her body. Fuck. It’s so damn hard not to think about it when Handler’s demonstration keeps flashing through her mind.

Her lips, yielding and kissing. Her mouth, open, wet, willing. The way she licked Handler’s boot like it was a lover. And, above all, the promise Handler made.

Why not enjoy her, if it pleases you? Many have.

Leinth reaches up and clutches at her head. Fuck. She’s so disgusting.

Suddenly, a memory forms. Not of Sartha. Of Handler. Leinth remembers being in the sweet embrace of Her tools and instruments, in some secret room of these sinister kennels. She remembers herself being opened and Handler pouring words into her, sweet as honey, bitter as cocoa. It’s the same voice she can hear even now, at the back of her own brain.

All of its words are about Sartha Thrace.

Before Leinth can fathom the meaning of that. Sartha catches her attention.

“There’s something else,” the hero says, with palpable reluctance. “I… wanted to apologize.”

Leinth might have laughed. “Apologize?” she chokes out.

What does Sartha have to apologize for? Much, of course. But not to Leinth. Those scales are tipped firmly and irrevocably the other way.

“Yeah,” Sartha says earnestly. “For what you saw that day. I’m sure it’s been weighing on you.”

Leinth’s hands have started shaking. It’s really bad. “Did She tell you to say that?”

“No,” Sartha replies, although there’s no knowing if that’s really true. Not even for her. “I swear. This is all me, Leinth. I’m sorry. Really sorry.”

“For what?” Leinth’s voice cracks.

“For laying all that on you.”

“You didn’t,” Leinth croaks. “She did.”

“That’s different,” Sartha shoots back quickly. She’s defensive of her mistress, of course. “She was just telling you the truth. That’s all. It was kind of Her, Leinth. You just don’t see that yet.”

Kind. Leinth’s hands shake worse. Listening to Sartha talk about this is so twisted. Her head is nothing but a seething mass of insane contradictions, and Leinth is fast losing the ability to sort them out as she hears them.

“I meant… in my head,” Sartha explains. “I put it on you by letting it get to me. My status. The way people looked at me. Shit like that. You shouldn’t have to feel bad about it.”

Leinth buries her face in her palms. No, no, no. This is so wrong. Sartha shouldn’t be apologizing. She’s a hero. She was a hero. Whatever.

“Everyone needs people to look up to.” Sartha’s still talking. Why won’t she just shut up and go away? “I sure as hell did in my day. Even if I never thought I’d become… well, it just comes with the territory, I guess. If you survive long enough. I should have known. I should have been ready.”

Leinth wants to stop her, but her blood is boiling and her tongue would loll stupidly out of her mouth if she tried to speak. Her passions are up and they leave no room for words. She just wants this torture to end. Compared to this, Handler truly is kind. Leinth just wants to be free of this feeling. This guilt. But even by listening, she’s making it worse. Why can’t she stop violating Sartha this way?

“I wish…” Sartha pauses, considers, corrects. “Part of me wishes I’d just been stronger. That it hadn’t come to this. Then I wouldn’t be such a disappointment to you. But it’s for the best. I met Her, and she saved me. Fixed me. Made me a hero again.”

That self-pity. It’s disgusting. As disgusting as Leinth is. A hero shouldn’t feel that. Speak that.

“You deserved better.” Sartha seems to settle on that thought. “You deserve a hero you could really look up to.”

And then it roars out of Leinth, furious as the report of Genetor’s guns.

Shut her up, Leinth.

“Just shut up already!” she screams, in a voice that barely remembers how to speak. It comes out raw and ragged. “Don’t you have any fucking pride?”

She’s on her feet, even though she doesn’t remember standing. She can look down at Sartha now. That feels good. It feels right.

“I ruined you!” Leinth screams. That confession is a balm for her soul. Letting it out, an unspeakable release. “I’m part of what broke you! But you can’t even be mad at me? Even now it’s out in the open? What’s wrong with you?”

Sartha doesn’t reply. She looks surprised, but not hurt. Not afraid. She’s serene. That pisses Leinth off even more.

Why isn’t she angry? If she was anything more than a broken mutt, she’d be angry.

“Why aren’t you angry?” she rages. It’s not right, Sartha’s strange tranquility. Sartha Thrace isn’t like that. Her Ancyor is a furious machine. Sartha Thrace always fought with an avenging anger in her heart, for anyone who ever hurt her comrades. “You’re a hero! Stand up for yourself. Stand up for something. Aren’t you tired of taking it all lying down? Me, Handler… fuck, if you’re a traitor, at least be a traitor. Not… not this!”

Still, no reply. Why not? Why won’t she talk? What’s she hiding? Leinth needs to see. She needs to see closer. She grosses the gap between them in a stride and grabs Sartha’s collar up in her fists. Hauling the broken woman to her feet is easy; maybe the anger is making Leinth strong. She puts her face close to Sartha’s, as close as that ridiculous muzzle permits. What’s with that anyway? Why won’t she just take it off?

“Look at me!” Leinth roars. She needs to see into those eyes. Sartha obeys, and for a long moment Leinth just stares and stares, searching for an answer. Searching for a feeling, for any feeling. For something real.

In Sartha’s eyes, she reads validation. Sartha is validated by Leinth’s anger.

That feels like an even greater betrayal. Leinth’s rage flares hotter still - but there’s something else, too. Being this close to Sartha is a mistake. Her scent is overpowering. Leinth can feel her heat under her hands. It’s too much. She was horny before, from the drugs; there’s no words for what she is now. It’s too much. It becomes all of her, flooding her senses and her limbs, flooding even her anger, becoming one with it. It’s all one feeling now, violent and restless.

“Did you…” Leinth growls. Words come hard and slow. She’s beyond them. “Did you ever really mean it? Did you ever really believe in something?”

Even Sartha looks a little shocked at the accusation behind her words. “Yes!” she cries. It’s a prayer. A hope. “I did - I do - I… I’m a hero. I’m a hero.”

She’s trying to make sense of herself. It’s useless, of course. She is only what Handler allows her to be. Handler’s the one to be angry at. But Leinth can’t imagine that anymore, and in any case, Handler isn’t here.

But Sartha is.

She’s lying to you, Leinth.

“Stop lying!” Leinth yells in her face. There’s no stopping the strange alchemy happening inside her as her feelings fold and merge. Something deep within her is being forged and dredged up. It defies reason and reality, but that doesn’t matter. It’s primal. Atavistic. “Stop… stop pretending! You lied to us! To all of us! How could you do that?”

“I didn’t-“

Make her pay.

Leinth just hits her.

Right in the gut. A hammer blow. Sartha is taken by surprise mid-breath and doubles over, gagging and choking. Only Leinth’s other hand, firm on her collar, keeps her on her feet. She looks like she’s in agony.

And it feels good.

Better than anything Leinth’s felt since she first came down here, that’s for sure. It’s a revelation. She’s never before thought about what a simple joy inflicting pain can be. It’s power, and power is so precious. It’s a tiny little release valve for what’s boiling inside her.

Leinth is no sadist, of course. Just the opposite. She’d never want to hurt anyone who deserves it. But Sartha does. She absolutely does. That feels too right to be wrong. Which means there’s nothing to stop Leinth from making Sartha as bruised outside as she feels inside.

She deserves it.

“You can-“ Sartha begins to choke out as she recovers.

“Stop talking!” Leinth snarls. She pulls close, overwhelmed with a craving for greater savagery. She means to bite; she can imagine her jaws clamping down, and skin breaking, and blood in her mouth.

Instead, she finds herself clawing the muzzle away from Sartha’s face and kissing her.

The kiss is no gentler than a bite. It’s ugly and messy. Leinth bites Sartha’s lip, hard, and invades her mouth with her tongue, claiming her, soiling her face with blood and drool. The kiss makes Leinth euphoric. It’s vindication. She can do this. She can cross this line with Sartha. And that means she wasn’t really such a hero after all.

Plus, Sartha Thrace is kissing her back.

Leinth lets her, for a moment, but then pulls back and shoves her to one side so hard she goes sprawling across the floor. She can’t let Sartha think this is a coupling of equals. It’s not. Sartha is nothing. A pretender. A traitor. A dog.

Sartha, perversely, looks up at Leinth with stars in her eyes. “You can hit me,” she pants, “if you want. She said that you could.”

Permission. What does that mean? It implies anticipation. Did Handler plan this? That should trouble Leinth, but she’s far, far too fixated on Sartha to devote any thought to it.

Sartha wants this. Whatever guilt Leinth made her feel has transformed into sheer masochism. That disgusts Leinth. The Sartha Thrace she once believed in would never have looked at anyone like that. She’s not disgusted by herself anymore, though.

She’s not like Sartha. She’s one of the good guys. That’s why she can do whatever she wants with a piece-of-shit liar like this.

Sartha looks Leinth up and down. Her eyes settle on the tell-tale mark of Leinth’s arousal. Those stars in her eyes don’t get any dimmer. “You can fuck me, too. I-if you want.”

Her eagerness is pathetic. Leinth wonders how she ever saw anything good or heroic in the brainwashed woman slumped on the ground before her.

But she’s willing. And Leinth is horny. That’s simple enough.

“That’s what you do for all of them,” Leinth growls as she advances on Sartha. “Isn’t it?”

“I… that’s…” Sartha struggles. She’s trying to make that agree with her sense of self. “W-when She wants me to… when they need…”

Leinth snorts. “Why am I even talking to you?” she spits. “You barely even know where you are. What side you’re fighting on. You’re nothing. Why did I ever think you were a hero? You’re just a warm body.”

“I ju-“

“Shut up!” Leinth snaps. “Get up.”

Sartha does what she’s told - or tries at least. That’s both intoxicating and aggravating. A hero shouldn’t - but Sartha isn’t a hero, Leinth knows that now, and it’s fucking hot that she does. It makes Leinth feel like she can do anything she wants. And she wants so much. It’s burning in her veins. Leinth feels powerful as Sartha fights to her feet, and she feels powerful as she decides she’s moving too slow. Leinth reaches down to haul her to her feet and toss her roughly onto her bunk.

“Take your fucking clothes off,” Leinth orders next. Even Sartha’s clothes piss her off, she’s realizing. It’s still her old rebel garb. “You don’t deserve to wear that.”

Once more, Sartha is too slow. When she fumbles a little with her jacket, Leinth intervenes and starts ripping it from her body, popping buttons and tearing fastenings. It’s as easy as tearing paper. Leinth has never felt so strong. And she doesn’t stop there; she makes her hands into claws, hooks them into Sartha’s vest, and pulls apart until the whole thing comes to pieces in her hands.

The sight of Sartha’s tits spilling out is a hot rush of pleasure and satisfaction. This is exactly the defiling that false idols deserve.

Leinth keeps going - not until Sartha is naked, just until she’s naked enough. Until Leinth has access to everything she wants.

But she takes a moment to reach down and fix the muzzle back into place. It suits Sartha. Leinth sees that now.

“On the bunk?” Sartha pants, with a filthy eagerness. “Or I could su-“

“Shut up.”

Leinth hits her again, this time a hooked punch to her side that collapses Sartha onto the bunk like a stack of bricks falling over. She doesn’t want Sartha to talk. It’s wrong when she talks. Hound doesn’t talk, not unless She tells her to, and maybe that’s the real Sartha after all. Maybe Leinth can bring Hound out to play. That’s what Sartha wants. She wants the blissful surrender of sweat and heaving bodies.

Fine. She can have that. As long as Leinth gets to prove she’s not a hero. Just a body.

She deserves this too, Leinth. Fuck her. You want to. And so does she.

Leinth kneels on the bed behind Sartha as she scrambles to her knees. Leinth’s need is bursting out of her at the seams. She wants this. And so does Sartha. Leinth starts undressing herself, furiously and frantically, shucking her pants to her knees so she can free her cock and press it against Sartha’s cunt.

Sartha is clearly wet, and Leinth can see the bruise on her side already beginning to form, blossoming blue and purple where she planted the tip of her fist. Leinth grins.

And starts fucking her former hero.

Their sounds are animal. Sartha’s whining moans, the way Leinth growls her every breath, and the feral slap of flesh on flesh. There’s absolutely no art to it. Leinth is no stranger to good sex. She considers herself more restrained than most, but she gets just as much pussy as every other ace pilot and she likes to make sure the girls she brings back to her quarters go out and spread the right kind of rumors afterward.

But Sartha isn’t like them. This is barely sex. More like jerking off, only the long-held fantasy of Sartha Thrace isn’t just in Leinth’s head anymore. Admittedly, she didn’t want Sartha this way. But now that she has her, it’s almost as good.

Leinth feels free, in a way. There’s nobody to look up to. Nobody to disappoint. She can simply be this.

And this is what you are, Leinth.

Her pace is furious. Desperate. The lust-drugs have been in her food for weeks, and Sartha’s face in her mind’s eye has been an aching curse, keeping her from release. Now the curse is broken. Now it’s a red rag to a bull, and Leinth just wants to see that face soiled and bruised and made hers. She has her hands on Sartha’s hips and pulls back on them hard with each thrust. Whenever Sartha doesn’t match her enthusiastically enough, she digs in her nails, grown uneven and sharp from her captivity. Every stupid, pathetic puppy-whine from the woman on her knees in front of her just drives Leinth onwards. To make her louder, she rakes her claws hard enough to draw blood.

This is ascension. Better than piloting, better than victory. This is the best she’s ever felt.

Leinth doesn’t care if it lasts long. She just wants that one moment; the release, the moment she truly makes Sartha hers. She’s frenzied for it. Leinth reaches forward and puts her hand on the back of Sartha’s head, and pushes. Hard. Hard enough that Sartha’s elbows buckle and she crashes forward, face planting awkwardly into the hard mattress. Leinth pushes forward and down, mounting her and keeping her there. The position lets her thrust longer and harder - and more importantly, it’s even more degrading. Leinth likes that she can make Sartha take her whole weight, crushing her, making her bend her neck and brace on her shoulder. She’s practically contorting herself.

Because Leinth is making her.

This is all she is.

“This is all you are,” Leinth growls. She’s so glad she gets to be the one to show her. “Not a hero. Just this. Understand?”

It’s all personal now. She’s the one Sartha betrayed. Not the rebels. Leinth’s comrades are all but forgotten now. In reply, Sartha just gurgles. Probably, she can barely breathe. Leinth doesn’t care. Let her choke.

A stupid, broken dog.

“Stupid. Broken. Dog,” Leinth huffs, voice cracking as her pleasure peaks. “I… I… fuck!”

Good dog.

She cums, hard as hell. As she does she slumps against Sartha, drugged-up limbs finally permitted to release the last of their strength. Her mind goes blank from the pleasure. It’s everything that’s been building up in her for weeks. Maybe months. She lets it all go, driven by raw instinct.

Her marks on Sartha. Her cum in Sartha. Her furious words, thundering through her ears. Her satisfaction - her domination - feels complete. This moment is the culmination of Leinth’s entire existence. The satisfaction is infinite.

Until it isn’t.

When her orgasm dies, it’s not just Leinth’s need that fades. It’s her anger. It’s the wound of betrayal and resentment, pressing on her brain like a cancer sore. It all goes, all at once, everything that’s been animating her. Leinth collapses back onto the back, legs splayed, her face aghast with dawning confusion.

Then, slowly, horribly, as Sartha draws weak, shuddery breaths, Leinth becomes aware that they are not alone in the cell.

“My,” remarks Hander, from where She’s been watching. Leinth didn’t hear or notice Her enter, but she must have seen the entire filthy thing. “Leinth Aritimis. What have you done?”

Leinth hadn’t realized just how fucking cold it was in the cell. Shivering, she meets Handler’s gaze for a moment, and that’s a mistake. In Handler’s eyes, she doesn’t see smug glee or victorious scorn. Her eyes are just impossibly cold, like the winter sky. They are a mirror, and they are perfectly truthful.

Under those eyes, Leinth can’t keep it together. Not even for a moment.

“I d-… I didn’t…” Leinth’s voice sounds absurdly small compared to those growls from just moments ago. She’s grasping for something. That voice in her head. Was it Handler’s? Or was it her own? How can she possibly hope to tell? “Y-you… made me…”

Handler just tilts Her head. “Is that what you think?”

She doesn’t, not really. Leinth doesn’t feel like anyone made her do anything. It was all her. Every ugly feeling and every blackened thought. Her decision to… what? Fuck Sartha? It feels worse than that, although Leinth can’t tell if it really is or not. This is all too twisted, and all she knows is that her chest is ripping itself in two with guilt. Even if it was Handler’s voice, she must have chosen to listen to it. Surely she had a choice.

But there’s something. There has to be something.

“You put d-drugs,” Leinth babbles, “in my food.”

“Of course,” Handler replies.

She doesn’t need to deny it. She knows it’s not enough. Leinth can already rehearse argument and counterargument in her own head. How does she know the drugs aren’t showing who she really is? Why would drugs absolve her responsibility?

And it’s not like she can pretend she didn’t want it. She’s always wanted Sartha Thrace that way.

No. Leinth knows what she chose. She felt herself chose it.

But acceptance is still a bridge she can’t cross. “But…” Leinth splutters. She glances at Sartha in half-panic. “No, but…”

“Why are you so worked up about this?” Hander asks her. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”

At that, Leinth goes very, very still. Her eyes fix on Handler again. She can’t believe she just heard that. She never even considered that. The thought is foreign. She hasn’t… but of course she has!

“No,” Leinth shakes her head. “How can you say that? I… she…”

“She wanted this.” Handler is the kind of calm that makes her easy to believe. “Every part of her. I’d know.”

Leinth knows poison when she hears it, but she can’t stop herself listening. “That’s n-not true. Sartha wouldn’t.”

“She would,” Handler tells her. “I’ve been telling you, Leinth. Sartha isn’t what you hoped she’d be. She’s not a hero. She is my hound.”

The dreadful memory of what happened smothers any retort Leinth might have. She wants to insist that Sartha didn’t want it, but she knows in her body the way Sartha hungered for her kiss and welcomed Leinth inside her. Fuck, the eagerness in her voice. She was practically begging for it.

Would a hero ever do that?

What Handler offers isn’t right. Leinth knows that. But it’s so tempting, and she’s struggling to remember why it’s wrong.

“Don’t worry,” Handler says softly. She sounds so kind now, or maybe that’s just in Leinth’s head. “I sent her in here, you know. If you need to blame someone, you can blame me. I won’t hold it against you.”

Now that’s irresistible - especially when Hander extends her hand and touches her fingertips to Leinth’s cheek. She means to pull away; she almost does, but Handler’s touch is perfectly cool. It feels like the only thing that can soothe the pounding heat inside Leinth. So, she lets herself be weak for a moment. It’s just a touch, she tells herself.

“Right,” Leinth breathes. “It’s your fault.”

Handler nods. With that permission, Leinth bundles up her guilt and gifts it to the woman standing over her. In her mind she recites all the reasons she should blame Handler, not herself. It works. It helps. She feels lighter for it. Handler, conversely, is unchanged. Untainted. She’s not like Leinth. She can swallow all that guilt and culpability effortlessly. There’s too much of Her. It can’t leave a trace.

Leinth is just grateful, in a sad, pathetic way, that Handler isn’t throwing it back in her face. That would be the perfect way to twist the knife. There’s no way Leinth could handle it. She’d break. She’d shatter. Leinth doesn’t know the meaning of this kindness, but she’s still grateful for it.

She feels, unfathomably, at peace.

And she feels like she could stay that way forever, but for one thing: Sartha. Sartha is still there, still next to her, drawing weak, shuddery breaths that remind Leinth of her presence. Sartha seems contented, in a way. Leinth figures she got the oblivion she was craving. But now Leinth can’t even stand to turn her face in her direction. It makes everything too raw and it makes her remember; remember that ugly, false reality, the one she’s trying to push away.

The one where she’s guilty.

“Can you…” Leinth begins quietly. She’s hoping Handler’s mysterious kindness will stretch just a little further. “Can you get her out of here?”

“Oh?” Handler’s still stroking her cheek. “Are you done with her?”

Leinth whimpers. She wishes She wouldn’t put it like that, but she can hardly hold it against Her. And she desperately needs Sartha gone so she can begin to regroup. “Y-yes. I just… I can’t…”

Handler interrupts her with a disapproving, tongue-clicking noise. To Leinth, it’s as loud as thunder.

“No, that’s no good,” Handler says, in a ghoulishly affectionate way. “That’s guilt talking, isn’t it? Don’t listen to that feeling, Leinth.”

“O-OK,” Leinth says sheepishly. She feels stupid now that Handler’s lecturing her. What else can she say but ‘OK’? Her head is still splitting in two. She can’t think. Still can’t think.

“Look at her,” Handler instructs firmly.

Leinth whimpers again. “No, no, I-“

Her head jolts and everything flashes white, and she realizes Handler has slapped her. Tears well up in her eyes. Stupid. It wasn’t even hard. Certainly not as hard as she hit Sartha. Just a shock, to get her attention and stop her rambling. But for Handler to lay a hand on her like that…

“Look at her,” Handler repeats. She touches Leinth again, guiding her. Leinth doesn’t resist. She’s puppy-weak. She looks at Sartha

Really looks. She has to, because that’s what Handler is telling her. It’s not easy. Sartha is a fucking mess. If she was a hero twenty minutes ago, she isn’t now. Her clothes are ruined. She’s bleeding from at least three places. She’s drenched in both her own sweat and Leinth’s, and the expression on her face is something truly inhuman, a fucked-stupid look of gratified, delirious masochism. It hurts to think that Leinth put it there, and it hurts just as much seeing how Leinth’s cum is spilling out from between her legs to stain the bunk.

This is the ruin of a hero.

“Look,” Handler urges. “Isn’t she pathetic?”

Her words pull at the string of Leinth’s heart. They make her twitch. Yes, Sartha is pathetic. There’s no use in denying it now. But the guilt is roaring back and forces a choked whimper from Leinth’s throat.

“It’s OK,” Handler soothes. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Leinth.”

The head-splitting pain is worse than ever. Unfathomably bad. Leinth has felt her own mech being split open while she’s inside and that’s the only thing she can think of that comes close. “B-but… I… to her…”

“She wanted it,” Handler reminds her. “She asked for it.”

Leinth shakes her head violently as the ache grows. “No. No, no, no, no, no.”

“Yes.” Handler sounds so firm. So sure. How is it so easy for Her? “She’s a traitor, Leinth. Remember that. She betrayed you.”

Her words aren’t helping, however kindly they’re meant. If anything, they’re making it worse. It’s like Leinth is seeing double. There are two versions of Sartha in her head. One a saint, a hero, faultless, suffering for her struggle until Leinth ravaged her and left her like this. The other a traitor, a deceiver, someone who pretended she could bear the weight of the world until she gave up and decided to indulge in whatever sick fetish Handler satisfies.

It doesn’t make sense. Sartha can’t be both. And Leinth can’t hold onto both versions at once. It’s too much.

“She tricked you,” Handler says. “All of you. She pretended to be more than just a woman. She let you believe in her, and hated you for it. And now she’s making you feel guilty, too. All for giving her what she wants.”

“Please stop,” Leinth gasps. She’s about to pass out from the pain. “Make it stop. Please.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Handler reiterates. “Say it for me.”

“I d-didn’t do anything wrong,” Leinth repeats. She’d do or say anything now, if it helped.

“That’s right.”

It did help, a little. Or maybe Handler’s approval does. But only a little.

“B-but.” Leinth can’t stop herself saying it. She wants desperately to fall into Handler’s abyss. The pain is that bad. But guilt is still her ankle. “I d-didn’t have to… that’s not me, I… even she doesn’t deserve…”

“Yes, I see,” Handler says. She seems to understand perfectly. “Leinth, listen to me: whatever you did wrong, I forgive you.”

“You…”

Leinth looks back to Her. Handler’s eyes are still the sky. Cold. Pure. Free of both compassion and accusation. As always, they make Handler’s words ring true. Leinth hadn’t even thought about forgiveness. She hadn’t imagined anyone could award her forgiveness. But when Handler promises it, she believes.

She believes so much she doesn’t stop to ask why Handler’s forgiveness would matter, or what she’s being forgiven for if she did nothing wrong.

And Leinth feels it. Absolution.

She implodes from it. Leinth crumples over and inward, wracked by dry, silent sobs of sheer relief. The pain is gone. It’s like it was never there. She’s free. Before she can stop herself she finds she’s clasping Handler’s hand. It was on her cheek but she brings it to her lips, kissing, praying. This is more unburdened than she’d ever dared hope to feel.

How can Handler do this? How does She have this power? It’s like She’s the first real person Leinth has ever met - and for once, she’s simply grateful to have met Her.

“Good,” Handler pronounces. She sees the change in Leinth. And She’s pleased, which is another wonderful gift. Handler glances at Sartha. “Wake up,” She says. “Come along, Sartha.”

Sartha is trapped in some kind of daze, but she obeys without hesitation and rises to her feet as if oblivious to her bruised, cum-drenched state. She looks wretched - Leinth can say that to herself now, she learns, without guilt - but when she starts following Handler out of the cell, Leinth is almost jealous.

It would be a blessing to get to follow Her around. To spend a little longer in Her presence. Especially since Leinth is so very afraid that as soon as She leaves, all that fearful doubt is going to come right back. Handler might be the enemy, but Leinth’s inner voices hurt worse.

Hander, as always, knows what’s in her soul. “Don’t worry, Leinth,” She says over Her shoulder as She departs. “You’re doing very well. I will be with you again soon.”

Leinth just nods. She can hold that praise tight to her chest. It’ll keep her warm.

Once Handler leaves, the cell door closes and locks. Leinth is alone again. The loneliness is more uncomfortable than ever. Her head is clouded over, but she’s starting to realize that’s not so bad. It’ll keep her from dwelling on the things that don’t fit right.

There’s something she can’t help dwelling on, though. Something unsaid between her and Handler. The question Handler doesn’t need to ask, because She always asks.

Who are you?

Leinth still doesn’t have an answer for Her. But she’s closer, perhaps. Leinth stands up and walks to the mirror. As she peers into it, searching for clarity, it happens again. That strange double vision. Like the whole world is fracturing. But not around Sartha, this time. Around Leinth.

First, Leinth sees herself. Or what she’s always taken to be herself. A woman who still looks a little like a pilot. A rebel. The person she’s always been, and who can she live with being.

But then she sees something else too. Something deeper. Truer. Something who is barely a person at all. Something feral. It’s whatever came out of her when she was on top of Sartha, hitting and fucking and growling. It must have always been there, in the corner of her eye. Leinth just couldn’t see it before because she was too afraid. The thing she sees is abominable. Unforgivable - except for Handler. She can forgive it. Only Her.

It’s a hound. A hound of Leinth’s very own.

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#story #Warhound

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miasmaghoul · 10 months

Note

Favorite headcanon for every ghoul! Go!

Two each, one horny and one not!

Aether

Was deeply affected by Terzo's deposition, and as a result developed a distrust of the higher-ups in the church. Sister Imperator bears the brunt of his ire. He's very protective of Copia, and his retirement was predicated on the fact that it's become obvious that he won't be Papa much longer. He can't go through that pain again.

Huge into mindfuckery. Will use his magick to manipulate his partners in many ways, some much worse than others. You'd never guess it with his sweet demeanor, but just beneath the surface lies a truly depraved individual.

Dew

Never felt comfortable as a water ghoul, so when he was presented with the opportunity to transition to fire instead he leapt at the chance. It was incredibly hard on him, but he doesn't remember much besides the pain afterwards. Once it passed, he finally felt like he was settled in his skin. Like things were finally right.

He and Aether are deeply, incomparably connected. He's not sure how it happened, or when, but it's true. Dew would do anything for Aether, and Aether for him. They push each other's boundaries behind closed doors, far beyond anything they do with the rest of the pack. The few times Dew has had to call mayday have been with Aether. He only remembers one of them - Aether made sure of it.

Rain

Fascinated by human death. Has the highest body count of all the ghouls, uses his vessel's natural charm and good looks to his advantage in that regard. Lures siblings to the lake, the woods, the mountains, whatever he's in the mood for that day. Likes to play with his food, never makes it easy on them. Lives for the moment the light fades from his prey's eyes. Has an arrangement with Sister in regards to who and how often he hunts.

The most willing to experiment when it comes to kink, has the fewest hard limits of the ghouls. Basically down to try anything twice, and has helped awaken myriad kinks in the others. His favorite partner, though, is himself. He's a narcissist through and through, no one can get Rain off like Rain can.

Swiss

Two words: shadow magick. I hc him as a fire/earth hybrid, but he carries just enough quintessence within him to manipulate shadows. To melt into them and hide in plain sight. Swiss knows many things he shouldn't because of this. Thankfully he's very good at keeping secrets.

Has a different dynamic with everyone, and holds the title of switchiest ghoul. However, it's very, very hard for him to be truly submissive. He'll follow instruction, to be sure, but he always maintains some modicum of control over himself. The only ones who have managed to get Swiss into subspace are Aether and Cirrus, and he required a LOT of aftercare.

Mountain

I am a huge proponent of Mountain being able to grow things on his body. Flowers and other small plants, nothing major. Will grow fresh herbs on his head when he cooks, and if he sleeps really well he'll wake up patchy with moss and lichen. Has a plant associated with each member of his pack, and before he got a solid hold on his magick it was very easy to tell who he was thinking about by what sprouted up around his horns. He can control it for the most part now, but in moments of emotional intensity he sometimes loses his ability to keep it in check.

The subbiest. You wouldn't know it to look at him, but literally anyone can dom Mountain. He especially loves it when the smallest ghouls put him in his place. If he's in a more dominant role, it's because his partner requested it. He just wants them to be happy, to please them. Whatever it takes.

Aeon

He's not as new as people think, summoned before the beginning of the Imperatour and living in the lower levels of the abbey with the other service ghouls. Ended up becoming Aether's lead tech in short order, thanks to being a quintessence hybrid. His other element is fire, which made it hard for him to get close with Dew at first. They get there eventually.

Has a crazy intense breeding kink, and it goes both ways. The first time he takes a knot is accidental, and it really awakens something in him.

Cirrus

Has moderate OCD, which manifests itself in excessive organization and strict scheduling. This proves to be a huge asset when it comes to planning tours, Cirrus spending a lot of her time with Copia and Sister Imperator to help put together itineraries and book hotels. She also organizes the chore sheets for the ghouls, making sure everyone is put where they fit best.

Has a very hard time climaxing, even on her own. It takes a lot of work and focus, so she doesn't really try most of the time. She gains the most pleasure from working her partners over, from providing whatever it is they need to reach that peak. Defaults to hard dom, but is somewhat flexible.

Cumulus

Has what I affectionately call grandma hobbies. She crochets, knits, does cross stitch, puts together jigsaw puzzles and bakes with regularity. Has tons of creative energy and needs outlets for it. Also leads the abbey's choir. (Cirrus plays the organ.)

Obsessed with having her tits played with. Always wants them touched, kissed, licked and sucked on. It's her favorite, and few things get her wetter. One time Dew made her cum just by toying with her nipples, and it took her by such surprise that she cried.

Sunshine

ADHD personified, always full of energy and going a thousand miles an hour. She has more control over it than she lets on, but the others enjoy her playfulness and lack of inhibitions.

Huge exhibitionist, it's nearly impossible to keep her clothed. She'll be shirtless any time she's outside, basking in her namesake. Her pants most always follow, and more often then not she can be found naked as the day she was summoned up on the abbey's roof. Loves to fuck outside so she can be as loud and feral as she likes.

Aurora

Makes jewelry for the others - matching lockets for Cirrus and Cumulus, a fine silver ring patterned after fish scales for Rain, a bronze ear cuff decorated with small leaves for Mountain, a corded crystal pendant for Sunshine, a set of jewled horn charms for Swiss. She's proudest, though, of the simple pair of thin sterling chains she made for Dew and Aether. They wear them always.

ENORMOUS size queen. She's the tiniest now, even smaller than Dew, but the first cock she took was Mountain's. Cirrus had to buy a new toy for her strap just to please Aurora's insatiable need to be stretched. It's never enough.

#miasma has ghoul thoughts #nameless ghouls #theyre all here im not tagging all of them #ghoul headcanons #it was so hard to pick these omg

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tanglepelt · 7 months

Text

Run Ghost Run 16

prev master

Ellie and Constatine meet and plot with Lady Gotham, while Jason hunts for the child with someone else

Danielle wasn’t sure what to do in this situation.

She could handle ghosts and other supernatural beings. The solution is to punch first never asking questions, and gain dominance. If they can’t get up, you win! Sure fire way to get away. Jazz’s number one rule for her had always just been don’t get caught.

Which she never had! Well... never for long.

Fighting her way had always been the best and her personal favorite solution.

Humans and protection spirits though. Punching first made things worse. Humans just couldn’t stand it to quote it’s plain rude. Listen it’s not her fault humans are squishy. She never had that problem with her template. Protection ghosts and spirits. They fought back hard.

They were annoying to deal with.

Ugh. She had some bad fights in her history.

And whichever city ghost was in control here just dumped her. It was a good thing. Maybe? Hopefully. Ehh, she didn’t know. It probably wasn’t at least a bad sign.

The spirit wassss in discussion. And didn’t instantly deny her entry. Another good sign! While city protectors weren’t too common, they did pop up here and there. Some cities she couldn’t even enter without a fight. Apparently, she was too much trouble. They said shed cause more problems for those cities.

Getting in. First step of her not planned plan conquered. Now to find Danny!

Now she was dumped in front of this guy. So, there was a chance he was someone she trusted??? Tolerated?? Dealt with? She wasn’t too sure. This was new. Grand old time.

Time to face this one head on. Figuring out where to go next. Cause she could not for the life of her find Danny’s signature. The whole bat and bird’s thing on the note means Danny should be here.

Not many other people are known by that. Super easy to find on social media. Tons of conspiracy theories. The butts matched apparently. So obviously he had to be in Gotham. Why else would she be entering the territory of Batman?

He was a detective, right?

If Danny was there, Batman would know.

Hopefully the lack of a signature was some tech or something. The only other time she had heard of a signature just not being traceable was with dire health. AS in DEATH health. It takes a lot for a ghost to pass. Danny couldn’t feel her and she nearly destabilized.

It HAD to be tech.

Right. She had a guy to question! She should do that rather than just stare him down.

The man with the trench coat! He had to know something.

Now she couldn’t keep staring at him with her head to the side like a confused dog. Cause a sad man in a trench coat was not what she expected. He looked very much like he needed a nap. But that wasn’t important. She needed answers. And she needed them now!

Then again, the man seemed off. Human for sure but definitely off? Messed up? Incomplete?? She didn’t know. He was another new thing. But she still needed to question the man!

Danielle was about to begin her detective work and huh?

She didn’t even get a chance to say a word and poof the man was cussing. She didn’t do anything. This man now is a target. When he reached for a lighter clearly ready to smoke. Which was very bad for the man. Obviously, she could help him out. It was totally not out of spite for cussing the minute he saw her. She chose chaos. She didn’t know this man.

Clearly, he had bad coping methods. Even if they weren’t. This was too much of a fun opportunity to pass up. Maybe she was a problem.

Freezing the lighter “you know those are bad for you right, any chance you know who the spirit of this city is

Cause I need info. Either you or her?” Yea, she thinks the spirit was a girl. Just a feeling. “Need to answer my questions!

“Your worse than the bat” the man grumbled

“As in the birds and bats!! Like Batman??? Please say you know where that one is at least”

“Th-“

Danielle interrupted the man “cause like. I have a sticky note! Green and glowing saying to find my template with the birds and bats!!! And the weird eyeball drawing. That’s a future me problem!”

She couldn’t help but wave the sticky note in his face. She needed to find at least something out. It would get her in the right direction.

The man backed away from her. Which rude. All she did was get up in his space. Danny and his friends never minded. “That’s bloody coated in ectoplasm.”

“Duh. I’m like 90% positive it came from clockwork. Danny complains about him giving him tasks via green sticky notes.”

The guy’s face seemed to go several shades lighter. The spirit dumped her in front of him. Shouldn’t he know this stuff?? Who else communicates green glowing sticky note?

“Seriously tho Danny? Batman??? Even the spirit would be great. I gotta go stab my template” time to get them back on track.

The man taking a deep breath got something useful out of his mouth. “Lady Gotham stepped away, right in the bloody middle of a deal.”

“Ewww. Deals aren’t a smart move. They like to tick ya!” she just had to inform this guy. Clearly, he didn’t understand the risk.

The man seemed to think about something. Hopefully taking her advice to mind. “Well. Gotta find the prince as she’s been putting it. Heard he was in right trouble. More than happy to make a deal to help the kid.”

“You’re looking for Danny two!!! The note told me to find him and had the ecto dejecto on it” now she knew why the spirit dumped her here. She had to help him! Trench coat man might just be useful after all. The other ghost she meets always talked about how the new king was more of a prince. “If he’s in trouble we gotta help him. I knew something was wrong! The weird dreams and other ghost being yoinked back to the zone!”

“Exactly. Unless ya got another way to find him deals got to be made”

Hmmm. Well, that made some sense. Danny was untraceable. Of this lady Gotham had my clue of where he was. She’d have every right to enforce some deal. But. Should Mr. trench coat do it.

Or.

She did have the thing that was likely to help him. Most ghosts wanted Danny not dead. That’d leave a gap or something. Politics not her thing. Soo. She had a bargaining chip.

Well. There wasn’t much time to think about it anymore. She felt this lady reaching out with her ecto. Trench coat also noticed. “I’ll take lead. No deal making for you. Its awfully stupid for a human” she could always just freeze him or something id he tried anything.

The man looked ready to say something but never got the chance. The ghost was done!!! Most of been a quick unimportant talk then. She let the darkness overcome her.

Emotional sensing? Manipulation?! Wow this spirit is strong.

Indeed.

Mind reading!! Cool. Imma cut to the chase. Where’s Danny? I gotta stab him per clockwork.

As I informed Constantine, I had a deal with the prince. I will not help my knight, by extension those working with them. A deal had to be made.

Well, I’m no knight. Frighty is the only knight I know!!! I could care less about trench coat. Boot him and tell me!!

That may work.

Danielle felt the annoyance from the man.

He was injected with bloody blood blossoms. Which should have killed the kid. Ya need someone who can flush them out. I’m well okay ta not tell the bloody bats where he’s at.

Wait what?!?!?

The young prince is not well. He needs help yet refuses what has been offered. Refuses to see past surface level misunderstandings.

Okay okay. Danny needs help. We all need to deal with this. I need trench coat man. So how about this. You tell me where Danny is located. I stab him trench coat scans him. You ensure his safety, and we don’t tell the birds and bats.

It favors us all. Do we have a deal?

He can’t believe he lost the kid.

Jason blames Bruce’s. 100% all his fault. He just had to insist on a call. Had to bug him and get in the way. Something spooked him.

Danny looked terrified as he fled. Like he was expecting him to hurt him or do something to him. He had managed to get him in. Room.

Got him out of the street.

Something set him off. He overheard something from the phone conversation. So, kids definitely got enchanted hearing. That’s 1000 % confirmed.

Taking the call had been his worst decision yet.

All Bruce’s fault.

For now. He had to play hunt the child. Kid had the backpack, he got that going for him.

There were some medical supplies there. Which is a good thing. He didn’t see any supplies to go out in the wilderness. That was also a good thing. Kid couldn’t just disappear into the swamp or something. Then the tracker he planted. Never be too paranoid it seems. All he had to do is pull it up and find the kid yet again.

Keep a farther following distance and hope he hasn’t high tailed it out of Gotham. That would make things more complicated.

Nice simple plan. By all accounts it should have worked. Should have been the best method. He followed all the standard stalking guidelines. Get a tracker on the subject.

But the program.

The way to track.

Absolutely glitching out. Pinging randomly. At one point at the library the next second a café. Could the kid teleport? Or was it a glitch?? But Barbara had set up that program.

The picture was glitched.

Could that be a part of this?

Brnng brnng

Bruce was back to calling.

Which was the problem in the first place. Yea no. He ain’t getting him involved. Kid absolutely wanted nothing to do with the weird vigilantes. Batman was the biggest one.

He’d just follow the tracker and hope for the best. One had to be right.

Nope. Not. Signal one. They just went nowhere and everywhere. What was up with this. Pictures were glitchy, videos were a mess. Mind. Simple tracker wasn’t working at all.

Maybe since the tracker was staying in Gotham he was still here.

If he were to map out every location the tracker was pinging. He could check the center of where it was. That’s a supernatural thing. Right?

The acts did see them as ghosts. Supernatural may just be the key.

He’d have to put a pin on that plan for a second. He’d make the next conversation quick. He had a kid to find. Again.

“Little wing.”

“Something spooked the kid; I blame the bat. Trackers don’t seem to do jack except bounce everywhere.” At least Bruce wasn’t the one bugging him. “Unless you have any leads got a kid to hunt down.”

“New theory. Oracle has an inkling he was unknowingly looking for us. Bats and birds are our thing. Then being in Gotham. Kids clueless about heroes. The research paper just didn’t track.

But there is a bigg-“

Both him and dick turned to. One of his goons.

“Ummm” the goon he thinks it was mark “there’s been sightings of men in white suits approaching your territory”

Crap.

He was off. Dick close behind.

“Have a lead yourself.”

“An idea” hoping the middle point works.

“There is reason to believe kid can sense those around the pits. I was able to watch him on the roof about 5 minutes, no issues. Minute robins in the area. He’s aware.

Red Robin. On a prohibited coffee run was clocked at the doorway.”

Huh.

Maybe it wasn’t just general like he thought. Danny always seemed to track him. Knew where he was.

“If the location pans out. "You can take lead” kids' safety was more important at this point. “He’s against you vigilantes adamantly.”

“Two eyes are better than one still.”

“A single agent gets close I ain’t staying back.” They weren't getting ahold of the kid again.

“Wouldn’t expect anything else little wing.”

#dcxdp #dpxdc #run ghost run

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