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netherfeildren · 9 months

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The Cassandra Complex : Chapter I : Apollo

Series Masterlist

(Din Djarin x F!Reader)

Summary: Enter: A man who is not so much a man, but an effigy, a wound of steel and armor and Creed – secrecy and masked faces, above all else.

Enter: A girl who is not a girl, but a creature helmed in darkness and spit out unto the galaxy broken and unmoored.

Enter: The creation of myth.

Content Warnings: Dominant Din Djarin; Unprotected sex; Creampie;Size difference; Size kink; Rough sex; Overstimulation; Spanking; Brat taming; Touched-Starved Din Djarin

Rating: Explicit 18+

A/N: Hello, friends, and welcome to the new story!

A few notes: We are starting prior to season one’s canon, and I am doing what I want and making it so that Din already knows about the Force and the Jedi. I make free use of canon and the timeline in whatever way I see fit to suit my own horny purposes, sorry. If things aren’t canon or don’t make sense pls don’t tell me. I am naught but a fragile flower who wilts under harsh criticism.

Please note as well, that I do describe the FMC as having two different colored eyes although I do not specify what color they are.

Also, I will be updating the tags as we go along so as to avoid spoiling too much too early on.

Thank you and enjoy!

Word count: 8.1K

Read on AO3

PART I

CHAPTER I : APOLLO

Is it a god inside you, girl?

Anne Carson, Grief Lessons: Four Plays by Euripides

The first time you meet, he’s sitting in the corner of the shithole cantina on the shithole backwater planet you currently find yourself on: Nevarro. Sometimes you were wont to flight – in search of a nowhere place in the middle of a nowhere part of the galaxy to lose yourself. And the barren landscape of the volcanic planet, a broken star of red, the only interruption in the black field of ash, no wind, no life, no sound; it provides the perfect environment for getting lost when necessary.

And then one day, unexpectedly: him. He is a shining, metallic, mountain of a man.

Mandalorian.

Whenever you’d felt too suffocated, strangulated, in need of a moment, a breather, a reprieve from the reality of what you were… what you are becoming – this place is enough of nothing to be just the perfect something. When you’re not busy flitting from planet to planet, sector to sector, looking for something to fill the gnawing void within you. Before landing here, you’d been on Sorgan for a time. It’d been… nice… peaceful, or whatever approximation of peace you could partially recognize after an existence such as that which you were currently trying to run from. A temperate climate, kind people, but after a while, you’d happened upon a community one day, and they’d been so… so together, so familiar. Happy, they’d be so openly, unabashedly, uncomplicatedly happy. It was simple, and it had made a terrible lance of poisonous jealousy roil through you. Jealousy and anger and bitterness and a loneliness so painful that you’d had to flee, as far and as fast as you could from the reflection of all your envy and shame. And so you’d come here instead, to Nevarro. A more barren, emptier sort of place – better suited to your ilk.

“I’ve never met a Mandalorian before,” you croon up at him, smoothly sliding into the booth he’s currently occupying in the furthest dark corner of the cantina, only the gleaming silver crescent of the curve of his helmet visible from the other side of the room.

This is the first of many lies you will tell him.

No response. Only the dark, yawning pit of his visor faced slightly away from you.

The stark curve of his helmet gleams brightly. Beautiful. He looks strong, thickly built. His shoulders, so broad. The armor adorning his torso is beaten and worn, and yet, there’s something so… what’s the word? Lived, perhaps, about the facade of him. This is a creature who has lived – who has seen things, who has battled and survived and most assuredly killed.

Maybe a little like you, but good. For this you know with certainty about Mandalorians – a flash of a pained scream, beskar crumbling beneath the force of you, for not even what could be considered the most endurable alloy in the galaxy could withstand something of your nature, blood, so much blood, and the sound of such defeat as you do the unforgivable– they are good and honorable and worthy – great warriors. But perhaps, on the surface, with a face of shared, painful history, of survival, maybe there are some things between the two of you which could be called similar.

“I’ve always been curious, though… Always wanted to meet one.” You sidle closer to him. There’s something about him, the weapons, the breadth of his shoulders, the silence, which starts a chilled little shiver of fear that flashes and coalesces into something hotter and wetter deep in your belly, the closer you get to him. And the feeling of it – of apprehension, of standing in the presence of something other, something that could perhaps best, even you, it is exciting and arousing and different to everything else you’ve ever encountered.

Still no response.

“You’re hard to come by now. Not many of you left, right?” A curdle of shame and regret hidden beneath your wry tone, “A girl’s got to get extra lucky to find something as interesting as you nowadays… something as pretty too.”

He does react to this, finally, and a little shock of victory fizzes in your belly at the fact that he’s at last deigned to give you even a semblance of his attention, for you are desperately in want of it, as he turns his helmet the fraction of an inch in your direction at the sound of you calling him pretty. So, it seems even a Mandalorian is victim to vanity.

“Oh, so you can hear under there,” you quip, “I was beginning to worry…”

And then his voice, deep, and of potentially the lowest and smoothest baritone you’ve ever heard, comes through the modulator, “I can hear.” Clipped, and even maybe, a little cold.

“And he speaks too!” He flexes open the fingers of the gloved hand that lays on the table. You’re annoying him. “How exciting.” You cross one knee over the other, elbow propped up on the edge of the table and chin cupped in your palm, looking up at him. He’s tall, even sitting. Your joint presses into the hard muscle of his thigh, and you feel him scoot just the tiniest bit away from you. You have the uncontrollable urge to snap your teeth at him. You must surely be at least half his size, especially with all that beskar covering him. Don’t act so scared, big, bad Mandalorian. I’m just a little girl. You don’t know what I actually am.

Helmet now turned entirely in your direction to keep an eye on you, he says, “What are you?” Or… whoops, maybe he does know.

You ignore his question. “You know, I met a whore once – who claimed she’d fucked a Mandalorian. Is it true you just pull out the important bits and get on with it? Seems a bit cold, no? Even for a paid fuck?” He jolts a little at your vulgarity, and you flash him a wide grin, wriggle one delicate eyebrow provocatively. “No game?”

He turns his body to face you more fully now too, his thigh pressing into yours once again as he takes you on directly. Perhaps a warrior's instinct that can sense he is not in the presence of something to be trifled with. The helmet cocks slowly to the side. Silent, silent. Not one for many words this Mandalorian, although, it seems you’ve provoked him now.

“What are you?” he says again, voice measured.

“How do you mean?” You let your voice end on an upward lilt, and he shifts minutely, as if agitated at your uncooperativeness.

“You’re not– I don’t–” The helmet tilts the other way as if inspecting you, and you cut him off before he can finish.

“Oh, so many things.” You roll your hand on your wrist in a fluttering wave, tapping your fingers quickly against your thumb one by one, flexing a muscle you’ve not allowed yourself to use in a while and repressing it, all at once. You’re watching him so closely you see the small pivot of his neck to glance at your hand, and then back to your face. “Who can keep track anymore? So many strange creatures roaming the galaxy after the fall of everything. The Empire. We’re all just madly careening around as whatever the moment requires of us, aren’t we?” He’s quiet, still inspecting you, and you feel his gaze like a brand on the skin of your face. Like fire, like something that you remember from a nightmare, and that you think should be painful, but now only feels exciting. “So, what are you, Mandalorian? What does the present moment require of you?”

He goes silent again, and you watch the subtle downward tilt of his helmet as he inspects the length of you. You wish you could see if he was ogling the tight swell of your breasts beneath your dark clothes. You tilt your head side to side, smile big at him again, and you’re pretty sure you hear an agitated little huff of annoyance slip through the modulator.

And then: “I’m not interested.” He turns back to face away from you, both fists now firmly planted on the table’s surface, clenched into tight balls of clear annoyance. “Go away.”

Oh, he’s funny too. You throw your head back in a quick laugh, “Did I offer something?”

Silence.

“Dirty mind, Mandalorian.” You drag the vowels out to irk him just that extra bit more. “What? Just because I made one little mention of a whore means that, I too, must be peddling my wares?” And you knock your knee into his beskar clad thigh again. He scoots a smidge away from you, and you follow him, laughing again. Oh, you really should stop provoking him, but it’s just turning out to be too much fun. And you’d been watching him for weeks now, every time he came in here for a new bounty puck. You’d so wanted to talk to him, had snooped around to find out he’s in the Guild, and now you finally are. It was just too much for a girl who had too much time on her hands, and too many ugly thoughts she’d rather forget, roaming around in her mind, to look away from a moment of distraction such as this.

“Stop,” and it sounds like he’s gritting his teeth.

You snicker. “Stop what?” in a sing-songed lilt that you know must be grinding his gears. Poor, shiny Mandalorian.

“Whatever it is you’re doing – speaking to me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you want something from me.”

“What could I possibly want from you?” You bat your eyelashes at him. “Who’s the one peddling their wares now, Mandalorian, hmm?” He says nothing now, and you know you’re pushing him, you can see the vibration of his restrained agitation in the lines of his thick arms, but there is something needling and annoying and obnoxious inside of you that wants his attention, that wants to incite him. And so you make a mistake that perhaps, is not a mistake at all, but a call for something more, for a reaction from him because as you slowly start to lift a single finger up towards the curve of his helmet, you say, “Tell me, what do you have to offer?” At the same time, he pivots and snaps up to grasp the thin of your wrist in a bone crushing grip as you’re about to make contact with the smooth surface of the gleaming beskar helmet. And you know you were asking for it, that you should never have even insinuated that you were going to touch a Mandalorian’s helmet, and that this is only your own doing, but as his harsh strength makes contact with you, so unexpectedly, he’s so fast, that you’re caught almost entirely unaware, you react on pure instinct. A reflex so embedded into the deepest and most poisoned recesses of your mind, that despite the fact that you know this is the last sort of reaction you should exhibit, that above all else you needed to keep this part of yourself hidden and secreted away from the rest of the galaxy, you can’t help yourself when, at the moment that his crushing strength slams your hand back down onto the table, twisting painfully so that you’re crying out in shock and hurt, you weren’t going to do anything to him, you just wanted to touch a little, you can’t help it when you let go of the reins on your power, and you feel the Force snap out of you like a band of rubber, to crack out and wrap around his arm and rip his painful grip away from you. Another inviolable tendril shoves against his chest plate to push him back. His movements, too abrupt, too unexpectedly aggressive to give you a moment to temper your reaction, to give you a chance to remind yourself that this is not one of your painful, dark memories, that you’re free, you’re free, you’re free, and suppress your reaction to not reveal yourself.

The two of you pause for one long moment, him by force, and you in shock and fear and slight nausea as you pant breathlessly. It’s been a long time since you’ve lashed out like this, since you’ve used the Force in front of another person, and the sensation of being perceived, of being seen for what you truly are is disequilibrating and terrifying and sickeningly liberating all at the same time.

One thick arm of his is held up and pinned against the back of the booth the two of you are ensconced in, hidden from prying eyes, at least. His legs start to shift restlessly, seeking purchase or trying to kick out, and you pin him there too, lest he try and hurt you again.

“I do not like to be handled so,” you admonish him, clicking your tongue. You can feel the seething fury rolling off him. “I wasn’t going to do anything to you. I am not going to do anything to you.” He’s got a blaster strapped into a holster at his thigh, and you’re sure his vambrace is hiding several other nasty tricks up his sleeve. You eye them both. “If I let you go, are you going to try and hurt me again?”

“No,” he growls out.

“No,” you mock back, but release him anyway, letting an impenetrable wall settle between the two of you. He immediately goes for his blaster, and you block his reach which has him furiously growling and lurching towards you, only to be met by the invisible Force impeding his attack. He spits a frustrated volley of curses in a language you can’t understand, but that you’re fairly certain is Mando’a.

“Ah, ah, no blaster,” you tut, and he settles, going suddenly, shockingly still, watching you watch him. “You really are quite poorly mannered and surly.” There’s a part of you that is still slightly unbalanced, heart beating painfully against the cage of your ribs, but you’re trying to hide it behind a wry smile and light tone. Echoes of pain and hurt and cruel and unyielding hands molding you into a thing that was just as cruel and unyielding. You cannot tolerate being handled like that anymore, and you feel contrite that you’d provoked him into doing so. Sometimes it is still difficult for you to remember how it is you’re supposed to behave around other people.

And then something you weren’t expecting, for he says, “You’re a Force weilder. You’re a Jedi.”

You let out a barking laugh. “What do you know of the Force?”

“Are you?” He presses.

“Yes, but no, definitely not that, no.”

“Then what?”

“Nothing. Or… whatever the opposite of a Jedi is, I suppose.”

“The opposite?” He shakes his head, “I don’t–”

“Hmm…” you cut him off, turning to make sure the two of you still haven’t been noticed. “Not anymore. I don’t use it anymore.”

“Oh, no?”

“Well… you’ve gone and ruined that now, haven’t you?”

“You started–”

“All I was trying to do,” you interrupt, “Was make nice. I’d always wanted to meet a Mandalorian,” Lie, “Haven’t you ever heard of a little flirting? And I fear, now, you’ve painted them all in a very poor light,” Lie, “Look at how rude you’ve gone and been, when all I wanted was to be friends,” Another lie, “A shame…” you heave a big sigh, “You really are very beautiful.” Truth. That fist clenches again, and you cock your head to the side, getting one last good look at him. You feel suddenly sad, you don't want to go. You’ve enjoyed this brief moment you’ve gotten to talk to him. Even if you’d gone and pissed him off and ruined it all now.

“It was nice meeting you, shiny. Even if you were an abominable beast about it.” You give him a nod of your head, and a quick two fingered salute before you’re sliding out of the enshroudment of the booth and slipping out the back of the cantina, into the dark alleyway, leaving him behind.

The last glimpse you catch of him out of the corner of your eye before the door shuts behind you, is the sight of him scrambling out of the booth and starting towards the door to follow after you.

A glutton for punishment, then, so it seems.

You flit through the dark, dirty alleys, scampering from shadow to shadow. The city streets around you, gone quiet now as the sun over Nevarro sets quickly, and you can feel him hunting after you. He’s strong, and you can almost feel the heavy weight of his life force even at a distance, almost as if the goodness and honesty of his character is a presence of its own, sentient in a way. And he’s angry, and you can feel that too, charging after you, provoked, even if he does it on entirely silent and measured feet. You can sense that ravenous curiosity and frustration at being bested and evaded pressing up against you, chasing after you. As if there were some dark red thread connecting the two of you from spine to rib bone, leading him to you, pulling him along your trail. You tiptoe the lines of the shadows silently, making your way through the winding city streets, feeling him getting closer and closer, trying to confuse him, even as he gains on you anyway.

And then he’s there.

You feel a massive hand, strong and sure, clamp around the back of your neck, but his touch is measured this time – he’d heeded your warning. His other hand wraps around the bend of your elbow, twisting your arm back behind you, and then he’s kicking open the nearest door, what seems to be some sort of storage alcove, the space dark and humid and mildewed, and pushing you inside. He shoves you away from him once you pass together into the darkness, and you catch yourself on the edge of what feels like some sort of table or workbench.

You laugh breathlessly. Overwhelmed by the thrill of the chase, of the feel of his hands on you, the surrounding darkness, the sound of his own panting breath through the modulator of his helmet. You hope he’s just as overwhelmed, disequilibrated, as you are now.

“Oh, you again?” you laugh, turning to face him, bracing yourself back against the table. All you can see of him is the silver crescent of the curve of his helmet, the outline of his wide shoulders in the dim light of the moon seeping in through the cracks of space around the door. He is a steel giant.“Did you forget something? Need me to hand your ass to you again, Mandalorian?”

“You’re a fucking brat. Anyone ever tell you that before?”

You gasp mockingly, “Me? Never.”

“Why is it that everything you say sounds vaguely like a taunt? Like you’re trying to provoke me.”

And, oh, he sounds just so unbearably serious and put out by you, that you pout, forced to match his serious tone with one of your own. You force the smile to leave your voice, “Maybe because I am,” and your voice goes quieter, softer, because again, truth. There is something about him that incites provocation, you want him rattled, come undone. “Maybe I want to see what happens when a man made of metal loses control.”

“I can’t – I don’t–” His voice, even through the modulator, is its own flavor of foreplay. “I don’t know…” he says again, whispers it, his tone seeping through the helmet, entirely uncertain, or at war with himself.

He takes one menacing step forward, made even all the more intimidating by the vast difference in your heights, the sheer breadth of him, the darkness wrapping around him so that all he’s made into are slivers of gleaming silver flame here and there. You feel the whisper of one leather covered finger skim lightly over the outside of your right forearm, another soft touch to the left side of your waist, and you shiver all over.

“Not a virgin? Your Creed lets you fuck?”

“No.”

“No, what? Use your words.”

Silence. Stubborn, silent, tin can.

“Girlfriend?”

“No.”

“Whores?”

A grunt.

“Aha! Gotcha.” You start to toe your foot forward, bending your knee to make contact with him when you find his leg, tilting slightly away from the table so that you can slide your thigh between his legs. “Is that what you want me to be for you?”

“No.” Fucking monosyllabic–

“Then what do you want from me? Why did you follow me?”

“I don’t know…”

“Don’t lie.”

“I want to fuck you.” Your cunt goes soaked and tight at his words, because yes, yes yes, this is what you were leading him to. Finally, he’s caught on, and then he’s planting a strong, broad hand to the center of your chest and pushing you back into the table, and pressing the hard, unyielding length of himself against you. He’s hard and swollen beneath his pants, you can feel the thick heft of him against your belly as he presses into you, and you bring your palms up to slide against the unprotected sides of his strong waist, sending him into a full body shudder as you touch him, helmet falling forward on his neck as he hunches over you, hands planted on the table behind. You can hear his labored, panting breath huffing through the modulator as you run your hands along the planes of him. He’s huge, pure muscle beneath unrelenting beskar, and if you weren’t the creature that you are, you’d feel slightly frightened at the unbelievable strength he’s made up of. He is a thrumming effigy of restrained power beneath your hands, different to that which makes you up, and you feel the strength of him once again, humming through the Force. His light burns so bright, almost blindingly. He’s strong.

You slide one of your hands up his chest plate, tucking your fingers into the top-most edge to bring yourself up and closer to him as he curves over you, bending you back into an arch over the table’s edge. Your other hand reaches for his wrist braced against the table, wrapping around it, so thick your fingers don’t meet, to tuck your fingertips into the space where his sleeve meets his glove, and at the feel of your bare skin on his, just there, just there, he growls, deep and savage in his chest at the same time that you let out a breathy, warbled moan. His other hand shoots up to grasp at the small of your back and press you into him, his fingers digging painfully into your skin. He’s burning hot, sweltering, and he slides his palm lower, tilting your pelvis into his as you hitch one of your knees up the outside of his thigh to his hip, and then your cunt is rocking against the thick length of his cock, and another breathless, pained groan from the both of you as you make contact there, pushing and pulling against each other. You want to taste his skin, his tongue, you want to kiss him, to feel him licking into your mouth. You pull yourself in closer by the hand tucked into his chestplate to press your face into the warm space between his helmet’s edge and the folds of his cowl. He smells so good, like leather and sweat and metal. Something earthy and musky, something that proves to you that despite the beskar, there is only a man of flesh and blood and want beneath.

His palm slides to grip the lush of your ass, rolling you onto his length harder, pressing deeper as if he could fuck you through your clothes.

“Are you going to let me fuck you, little brat?” he pants, ending on a stuttered groan as you hook your calf around his waist and press your foot into the small of his back to grind particularly sharply onto him, pressing your clit into the edge of his utility belt, “Please, just– just–” you gasp, head falling back on your neck. And then he’s spinning you abruptly and pressing between your shoulder blades so that you're bent entirely over the table, cheek smushed against the hard surface. That wide palm slides down the slope of your spine, squeezes your asscheek harshly so that you’re moaning out in lust or pain, you can’t tell.

“Was that a yes? Who can’t use their words now?”

“I liked it better when you weren’t talking,” you grouch, but then his fingers have somehow snuck their way up beneath your tunic and under the edge of your trousers, and he’s ripping everything down to leave you bare and unprotected from the sudden onslaught of that huge expanse of leather clad palm cracking down painfully on the soft skin of your ass so that you’re scrambling to find the opposite end of the table to pull yourself away from him. A pathetic little screech claws its way out of you, and he wraps the length of your hair around his fist to pull your head back and up, turning you into his own little bow string, head resting back on the hard pauldron over his shoulder.

“Where do you think you’re going? I caught you, you’re mine now.”

“Fuck off–” You try, but he clamps his fingers around your jaw, squeezing the fine bones of your face to cut you off, his other hand in your hair gives a sharp tug that makes the tips of your breasts go hot and tight and your cunt clench around nothing. You can feel yourself dripping down the insides of your naked thighs.

“Open your mouth,” he orders, shoving the thick of his fingers inside to press down on your tongue. You try and moan around him, protest or something, but you can’t help but run your tongue around the digits, tasting the smokiness of blaster residue, the tang of whatever he must use to oil his gloves. “Finally, some silence. I like you better like this,” he taunts you with an imitation of your previous words. He bends his head forward, “Get them wet,” he murmurs, voice soft and sultry through the modulator, and the moan you give him now is all desperation as you let saliva pool heavy on your tongue to coat the leather.

When he pulls them from your mouth, tugging your head back further so that you can look up into the dark tee of his visor as he slides his spit slick gloves between your thighs to press against your throbbing clit, your whimpered little mewl has a chastising tut filtering through the helmet, “Slippery, little thing.” He starts to press slow circles to the aching bundle of nerves, sliding down on every other swirl to press gentle, teasing pressure to your clenching opening. “Did my chasing do all this? Do you like being hunted, brat?”

“Not–” you moan as he presses down hard on your clit, then back to the mouth of your cunt, giving you just the tip of his finger, “Not a brat,” you struggle to get out.

“No?” He starts to press two fingers inside at once, both of you groaning in tandem. “Maker – fucking tight–” He scissors his fingers inside of you, twisting his wrist to fuck you open, making room for himself inside of you. “Don’t know if I’ll even fit in here.”

“No,” you groan, low and drawn out, and then, yes, whispered breathlessly, one of your arms reaching back to hold onto the wrist of his hand still twisted in your hair, trying to find purchase on anything to anchor yourself with. Because the stretch of just his two fingers inside of you – you can hear the slick squelch of your wetness as he starts to fuck them in and out of you slowly – is so unexpectedly obscene. You had not expected to find yourself in this position with any man, especially not one like this – had not thought you were yet ready to be touched by another person. Not so soon after– “Please – m– more. I want–”

“You think you’re ready for my cock, little one? Have I stretched this tiny cunt out enough?”

“Yes– yes. Just do it.”

“Fuck–” You listen to the wet little pop as he pulls his fingers from you, and the clink and shuffle of his belt and armor as he pulls himself out of his clothes, and then he’s shifting behind you as you brace against the edge of the table. The burning hot blunt tip of his cock skimming against the round of your ass, and you feel him spread his feet wide, bend his knees, and then his cock is there at the slick mouth of your cunt, and he’s thrusting up and into you on the downward roll of your hips, and Maker, he’s deep like this. Suddenly, twin strangled groans of pain or relief ripping from your throats in tandem as he grinds deep, deeper, for a moment. You feel the heavy kick and throb of his cock inside of you, and he is too big, too thick – he forces you to take it anyway. Stretching you in a way you’ve never been before, your eyes smart, forcing your body to make room for his inside of you, it leaves your breath to stutter out in a weak little puff of shock.

And you moan, using the palms of your hands against the edge of the table to grind yourself back onto him while his hands clamp tightly around your hips, his fingers so long they almost meet at the center of your belly beneath your navel.

Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck. That’s so good.

You can’t tell which one of you is speaking. You can't even tell if you’re still breathing. And then he starts to move.

You knew he’d fuck hard, from the first moment you’d seen him, you knew.

He pulls his hips back, the slick wet, the grasping walls of your cunt trying to suck him back in, and then the scorching slide of him pressing back in, in, in, grinding again, those long fingers pressing down on your belly so that you feel him from the outside too.

“Harder,” you beg, because of course you want more. You are a creature made of greed and hunger. You always have been.

“Quit. You’ll take whatever the fuck you’re given,” but his hips slam back in, a savage growl punctuating the movement.

He gives it to you almost brutally, without pause or thought, fucking punched out breaths and whines from you.

“Shut up,” he spits on the end of one particularly deep, harsh thrust that’s followed by a high pitched mewl from you. “You want every piece of shit on Nevarro to find you split open on my cock like this?” Your head lolls back limply on his shoulder, the wet slap of his heavy balls against your clit overwhelming the sound of your thoughts. You can’t speak, your brain is currently being jostled within the confines of your skull by the force of his cock splitting you open. “No? Then be a good girl, and be quiet,” his voice, rough, even through the modulator is almost drowned out by the wet, obscene sound of him pounding into you.

He brings one of his hands back up to your jaw, turning your head slightly so that your nose is almost smushed up against the chrome of his visor. He wants to look at you. The hard beskar of his chest plate rubs harshly against your back on every push upwards of his hips, and you’re sure that’ll hurt later, but right now you just can’t seem to care. You can feel the humid, warm air of your panting breath, foggy against the gleam of his helmet, and you bring one of your hands up to the wrist holding your face, holding on for dear life, sanity, you’re not sure what. Your other hand twists back into the hanging fabric of his cloak so that you can pull yourself more tightly back into him as he slows his thrusts, making them longer and more drawn out. “Yeah– like that. Settle… good girl.” Your eyes flutter shut. Too much, too much. It should hurt. You wanted it to hurt. Not gentle, you don’t want it gentle.

“Harder,” you whine, plead.

“No. How I say.” He rolls his cock into you over and over, your slick sliding down your thighs, the backs abraded by the plates of beskar over his own legs. He’s so deep, so big it hurts so good. Even if you want it harder, it still hurts so good. The hand at your face slides down to rip open the fastening of your high necked tunic, reaching inside and under your breast band to pull out the heavy aching weight of your tit and pinch your nipple, rolling it between his strong leather clad fingers – more high, desperate mewls that have him groaning deep in his chest. You’re sure if your face wasn't so close to his you’d never be able to hear them through the helmet, low and rumbly and so delicious.

“Fucking beautiful,” he murmurs low, cupping your breast to plump it up, massaging it in his palm.

“What? You can see?”

“Yeah– fuck yes, I can see.”

“Not fair,” you whine. It’s so dark in the little room he’d pushed you into, you’re not even going to get to take a good look at his cock before this is all over.

“You don’t need to see. You just need to be good and take it.”

“Do you ever kiss?” you ask him suddenly. Irritated by the fact that you’ve not gotten to ogle him – or kiss him. If he even does that.

Another deep roll of his hips, a tight squeeze to the swinging globe of your breast, “No.”

“That’s a shame.”

And he responds immediately, voice subdued and even, underneath the helmet, despite the fact that you feel like he’s cleaving you in two. “Maybe next time,” he says. His palm slides down to your belly then, the other pressing down between your shoulder blades to fold you over the table, hands moving to wrap around your hips and lift you up and back onto his impaling cock so that the tips of your toes are left skimming the ground beneath, your fingers scramble and claw for purchase against the wood of the table. You can feel the wide tip of his cock punching against your womb on every thrust in and stars flash behind your eyes, mouth hanging open pathetically.

There is nothing gentle about the way he fucks you. Like he wants to split you in two, like he wants to make sure the shape of him is branded into the center of your body so that you’d never forget this. The sticky sweet coil of your orgasm starts up low in your belly, and you feel molded in his image for one second, pushed out of yourself to stand on the sidelines and look upon the sight of your much smaller form draped over the table and being fucked into so savagely by this silver blade of a man.

And then: they’re fucking bare, they’re fucking raw, and it has been so, so long since he has felt the touch of another person, someone else’s skin on his that was not bestowed upon him in violence or with the barrier of a sheath between. It is an almost overwhelming feeling, that of your hot, soaking wet cunt pulsing around him, you’re about to come for him, he can feel it. The fluttering of your inner muscles, delicate thing that you are, your thighs shaking as you struggle to push yourself back on to him to get it harder, deeper. He is, almost, made faint with the feeling. And those eyes… you’ve got the strangest multicolored eyes. One enshrouded entirely in darkness compared to its bright counterpart – as if one had forgotten to take that last step into the light. You’re fucking beautiful and–

You snap back into yourself. No, no, no, stay out of his head. Stay out of his head. Focus. You push yourself up again so that your back is against his chest, and he bands one tremendously strong arm around you, gripping your breast tightly. You feel him bend his knees framing your thighs to change and deepen the angle, and then he’s pounding right into that tender, devastating place inside of you, and your cunt twists and floods with your orgasm, electric shocks of pleasure numbing your fingers and toes. You can do nothing more than let him do with you what he will. Your toes aren’t even touching the floor.

He presses as deep as he can, grinds for a moment, and then he folds you over the table once again and presses down harshly on the small of your back with one heavy palm as he pulls his cock from you and finishes himself off. You listen to the wet thwack, thwack, thwack of him pulling on his cock, and then the searing hot spurt of his come is hitting your ass and the exposed seam of your fluttering cunt, a savage growl ripping through the modulator as he squeezes all of the air out of you with that unyielding hand. You’re like a pressed flower between the pages of a book – wilted and frayed, but still held in the image of that which you once were. At the last spurt from his cock he brings his hand to your ass, spreads you apart to rub his spend into the tight furl of your ass, and then further down into your throbbing, overly sensitive clit. All you can do is cry and whimper weakly, still trembling from your own orgasm. “T– too much, nooo,” you whine pathetically.

“Easy – easy, settle.”

You feel him fall to a crouch behind you, pulling you apart with both hands by the meat of your ass to look upon the sight of your blushed, fluttering hole. Messy, little cunt, you hear him whisper. He rubs his come into your trembling thighs, over your swollen clit again, inspecting every vulnerable inch and crevice of your sex, and then he’s pushing two of those thick fingers back inside of you, the passage made slick and fucked open by your mingled come. “Just one more, little one. Want to see it up close,” he murmurs. You try and wiggle away, tears of oversensitivity brimming beneath your lashes, I can’t, I can’t, you think you whisper, but he’s inescapable. He clamps one hand painfully over your asscheek, keeping you spread apart for his inspection, the other one buried deep inside of you so that his fingers are hooked against your g-spot where he presses over and over, quick and relentless, his fingers almost vibrating inside of you until your vision is going white hot and a buzzing sound rings in your ears, and you’re crying for what you think might sound like mercy or something equally despeerate. “Yes, fuck, yes. Just like that.” Your answering sob does not prompt him to abate, for he keeps his fingers pressed against that spot inside of you until you’re leaking an embarrassing amount of wetness down your thighs, until the rippling throbs of your orgasm have finally settled. You feel his head fall forward, the beskar of his helmet pressing against the space where your asscheek meets your thigh, and he holds there for a second against your burning hot skin, the scorching soothed by the cool metal.

You can’t stop shaking, you feel, suddenly, like you might cry. You were not prepared for something of this intensity, to be touched like this, and now that it’s happened you’re left reeling. You don’t even know his name. And now you’re sure he’ll go away to wherever it is that Mandalorian bounty hunters run off to, and you’ll never see him again, and you’ll have to live with the memory of this forever. And something like this… amidst all the other horror that lives within you, you’re sure that the intimacy, the fervor of this, will make it hurt all the more, even compared to all the rest.

He uncoils behind you, rising up to his towering height. You listen to the rustling of his clothes, and then he’s smoothing a large palm over the slope of your trembling back and reaching down to pull up your trousers, tucking your breast back beneath your tunic, righting your clothes for you without commentary. When you think you’ve finally caught your breath, or can at least pretend you’ve done so, enough to push yourself up from your position over the table. Your eyes feel pinched and hot, your heart beating so hard, almost painfully, within the confines of your ribcage that it feels as though your bones are rattling beneath your skin, knocking together in the imitation of a death rattle so that he’ll surely know that you feel two paces away from falling apart entirely.

“You’re… Are you okay? I didn’t hurt you?” Voice stilted.

“No more than I wanted you to.”

He’s silent for a moment, uncomfortable. You can feel the sensation of him pulling away, getting ready to make a run for it. “That’s not–” he cuts himself off. “Do you– do you spend much time on planet?” He’s awkward, uncomfortable now with this unnecessary notion of seemingly required small talk.

“No.” Lie. You like Nevarro, you spend more time here than anywhere else.

“What’s your name?” It shocks you that he asks, for you know he’d not give you his if you asked it of him in return, but for one infinitely painful, insanely uncharacteristic moment, you want to tell him. You want to give him your real name desperately, tell him who you are. But if you were to do that, then you might tell him what you are. And then he’d hate you, and the memory would be ruined, and you have so few good ones, that this one must be protected at all costs.

So instead you say that which you have no real desire to say, do what you have no real desire to do, and make sure that he thinks you’re not interested, that you have no desire to ever see him again. Maybe next time. Your heart gives a surprisingly painful pinch, your eyes growing hotter by the second. “This was just a fuck, don’t get all sentimental on me now.” Your voice is so cold, so uncaring. You hate the way you can make yourself sound sometimes. You sense him snap with tense shock, and he nods once, succinctly. “Very well. Thank you… for this. I suppose.”

You lean back against the table, trying your hardest to appear as unaffected as you can. You turn your face to the side, roll your cheek over the hill of your shoulder. “It was my pleasure.”

He turns to go, his cape snapping with the sharp abruptness of his movements, and he pulls open the door of the little storage room letting a flood of moonlight sweep in to shed light on the construction of this memory you’re assembling brick by brick to preserve in your mind for as long as you possibly can. Your eyes sweep over the length of him ravenously, trying to catalog every single detail of him, the incredible breadth of his shoulders, the silver gleam of his beskar helmet, the sweep of his cape, the arsenal of weapons strapped to his body, lethal. He turns back to look at you for one moment, the yawning darkness of his chrome visor, “Don’t get killed, Mandalorian. There are so few of you left now.” And truth, truth, truth, for it would be a shame beyond imagining for a creature such as this, something so strong and beautiful and other, to perish when so few like him remain. He pauses to take you in, as well. You wish you had the courage to ask him what he sees when he looks at a thing like you. The tears are right there, and you hate them and feel weak and disgusted, but also relieved, and you could fall to your knees, in this moment, to thank the Maker that you still possess the ability, the heart, to cry, to succumb to something as trife as tears. You hope he cannot see them. The helmet cocks to the side for one second, perhaps he too is cataloging you to his memory. He nods once, and then he’s turning and gone away into the night. The door snicks shut behind him, and you’re alone once again.

You pause for a moment, hoping that relief will come. He’s gone, you got what you wanted from him. You should be glad. But there is only the screaming thought of wait, there was still more, there was still more that I wanted from you.

You let yourself sink slowly to the ground, hand braced against the edge of the table he just fucked you over, lest your shaking legs give out and have you planting face first into the dirt. You fold your legs beneath you, tuck your wild hair gently behind your ears, your movements measured, trying to breathe deep and slow, in through your nose and out through your mouth. Don’t cry, there’s no reason to cry. But shouldn’t we be glad we can still cry? Isn’t it a sign that not all is lost? That there is still a part of us that feels enough to shed tears? This should be a good thing. And so you let the tears fall. You fold yourself over as small as you can, one hand pressed over your hot, leaking eyes, another over your mouth to keep your sounds contained, and you sob as quietly as you possibly can. It was so good and you’re crying and you’re alive and you’re free. You are free, and you should be glad of this. Cry, cry, but cry for your own victory, for your own freedom, for the chance to cry. This is what victory feels like. This is what it is to be alive.

And so, here is your truth: It is a difficult thing, to shed the facets of the dark side after you’ve lived with it for so long. To be a Sith is to forsake all connection, all peace. There is only passion to strength to power to victory to the Force, but it is always alone. Always against someone or something else. So, yes, it is difficult to shed the facets of the dark side that have made you the thing you’ve been for more than half your life, since the time you were stolen from your cradle, your parents slaughtered, and spirited away into the shadow of a cruel and unforgiving master. What is it to know exactly how your life will play out, to see everything, to be so aware of what you will be – and to still be lost? Part agony, part madness. The pieces of you that are secretive, that like to hide, to run, these are especially difficult to let go of, and you are so, so interminably sad, you live in it. It’s all you feel you are now, after the dark, after the fall of the Empire and the Sith, after escape, after freedom, after you’d so forcibly ripped its claws, that were so deeply sunk within you, out by sheer force of will, by sheer force of desperation, you worry that it’s taken a piece of you with it, your soul. That it had eaten a piece of you. That you don’t have one anymore.

You don’t even know his name. And even if you’re certain he would not have given it to you, for one moment, you feel an incredible lance of regret that you did not give him yours.

But then: a person without a soul could not cry.

And so this must only be proof of the fact that you must still possess yours, as shriveled or weak as it’s been made, you must still have one. You must. You must.

And you think: I am not unfamiliar with this half life – there is a wound inside of me – dark and putrid and festering. But perhaps my tears will heal me. Seal the wound closed.

You feel lonely – worse, you feel strange. Once, you were terrible – now you are only yourself. So you cry for the passion of the moment, for the way he made you feel, for the loss of a name, for the truth of freedom.

Chapter II

Netherfeildren's Masterlist

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#TCC fic #din djarin #the mandalorian #din djarin x you #din djarin x reader #din djarin fanfiction #din djarin smut #the mandalorian fanfiction #din djarin/reader #din djarin/you #the mandalorian smut #star wars fanfiction #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal fanfiction #the Mandalorian

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bruhman745 · 8 months

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Do you need a new Hermicraft fic to read? Do you love unseen horrors and unknown pasts?

Well, my friends, look no further than my fic, vertitatem dies aperit! (It's got a Latin title, that's how you know it's good.)

It has all you could ever want and more! Including...

Past lives!

Past loves!

Nature symbolism!

Dreams that can't just be dreams...

Alternate dimensions!

Seeing things that aren't there!

Hearing things that aren't there!

An eldritch horror forest monster!

A charming 1900s aesthetic setting!

References to music and books that actually tie into the plot!

A love triangle that (spoiler!) ends up in a polyamorous relationship! (FINALLY!)

AND SO MUCH MORE!

The only warnings for this fic include the nongraphic death of an animal (a bird), hallucinations and unreality, and violence (no heavy gore, but I can't promise it won't get graphic).

If that isn't enough to convince you, here is a short snippet from Chapter Eleven: Chord. (Oh, by the way, each chapter has a name derived from something important in it. Just another easter egg for you!)

Some sang, some yelled, some cried. They sounded as if They held every emotion all at once, yet nothing at all. They were everywhere, bouncing off nonexistent walls and floating through the fog. They were in his head, yet incomprehensible in his mind. “We are proud of the progress you have made. You are doing well.” The air was warm, then freezing, then burning. It hurt. “You will return to your divinity in no time. Come back to your senses.” Grian tried to draw in air to speak, but he could barely keep his breathing steady. “Go back to the forest.” Voices weaved in and over one another, braiding noises in the thick air. “Leave behind this inferior realm. Find your purpose and be reborn again.”

There's also an official playlist for this fic that I'm still updating and plan to make a web-weaving type of post later! Feel free to check it out and send me song suggestions in my inbox!

You also get an author who is VERY happy to entertain theories in his inbox, and will always at least acknowledge your questions (because xe obviously can't spoil what happens) and give updates under the #TCC update tag below!

And if all of that is exactly what you're looking for in a fic, then you should check out chapter one here!

CHAPTERS POSTED AS OF AUG 23: 11/18

Feel free to reblog if you have any mutuals that might be interested in reading!

#tcc update #mumscarian #grumbo #scarian #hermitcraft fanfic #hermitcraft #hermitshipping #hermitcraft au #hermitcraft fic #watcher grian #grian fanfic #told from Grian's POV #my inbox is open if you have any questions or want to rant at me!

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michiganmerchant · 1 year

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duuuude no way, i also got into hockey through virtuemoir 😭 the pipeline is real real huh

i regret to inform u it is very real and i cannot look at morgan reilly normally because i'm like oh. boy you're the villain in every single virtuemoir fic ive ever read. ANYWAYS vm and specifically their pc 2018 olys roxanne free dance ALTERED my brain chemistry and turned me into the narrative enjoyer i am today so! it's all about the narratives baby. always has been. they're the OG narrative enjoyers if u really think about it.

#anon i am curious what made u get into hockey after getting into VM #because like. the pipeline is real. but it's also very niche #i know more people have gotten into hockey via... idk bandom 1d adjacent era or even another sport but not necessarily FS #anyways there is a REALLY GOOD 1634 fic where alternate universe auston is a figure skater and it cracks me up everytime #because TCC gets name dropped and im like. WELL. hi yuzuru hanyu

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starmxnn · 1 year

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"And thinking back upon those days

Way way back when I was young

I was such a little shit 'cause I was always on the run

Well, you know just what they say

That "just like father than like son"

Don't delude me with your sympathy

‘Cause I can do this on my own”

Or a fic in which we follow Albus and Scorpius through their seven years at Hogwarts, including the Cursed Child plotline and beyond.

Hi all! I have posted the prequel to my Scorbus fic which can be found here - it’s going to be slow burn and long but I hope you join me for the ride as we watch these two best friends fall in love.

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freshmanyearhistoryteacher · 2 years

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hi, i love these

could you possibly write a female student, female maths teacher where like the student goes to her after class because she thinks the teacher looked sad and then they like talk about struggles and about life and the teacher asks if she's gay, that she's seen her looking at her often and you know, kind of thing?

thank you so much

I am answering a few requests here so

Word count: 1, 193

Contains:

crying

descriptions of anxiety and slight hyperventilating

coming out themes (as gay)

this was kinda sweet and i tried to write it very vague but also idk it was cute to imagine.

You knew it was a bad day when getting out of bed felt like you were dragging your body ten feet behind you and when the mere thought of having to catch the bus to school was too much. But you did, you always did. It didn’t matter how heavy the lead in your blood seemed to be that day or how much your throat constricted the second you stepped into your first class.

On this particular day, the first class didn’t seem so bad. It was normally calm and never too difficult, and the teacher was always nearly too understanding of what you went through. Even the sprint sun streaming through every window you passed couldn't lift your moods, the chirping of birds and laughter of friends only seemed to get on your nerves. Usually, you could appreciate the way the halls spiralled around like a spider web of classes or the way the outdoor paths were lined with luscious green grass but it all seemed greyed out.

You went in with eyes burning from the lack of sleep, your head hanging low to hide under the veil of hair you’d let out of your usual ponytail, and textbooks a mess in your arms. You looked like a mess and felt worse. You swore the second she saw you she audibly gasped but remained standing at the front of the room, smiling and waving at each student who entered until the entire class was seated and the lesson was well underway. She was sending you glances of ‘are you ok?’ and ‘do we need to talk after class?’, all of which you guitily ignored because the thought that you had caused her stress was bad enough to tip your worsening anxiety into a full blown panic attack.

Your breathing was harsh, too sharp for your lungs which protested with every quiet gasp. Your lips were chapped and cracking from the forced ventilation and your eyes were gradually filling until the occasional tear slid down your cheek, hidden only by the hair strategically curling in front of it. This was such a fucking mess and you were just going to cause a scene and the class had so much longer to go and the work was all too hard and … why does it always have to be this way? Your leg shook uncontrollably under the desk. It made the entire frame jump and your writing to become scribbles but the care you would have normally poured into your work required too much effort in the midst of your break down…. yet another break down. You sighed, not realising the close proximity of your teacher who had stopped to watch your half-assed work.

“Are you ok?” she whispered, running her finger under each line of work as she read. You nodded but her lips pulled into a thin line and the slight wrinkle on her forehead deepened. “Ok,” she conceded, “just come say hi after class.” You knew you weren’t in trouble and honestly the conversations always helped yet, you felt as if you were her burdan. You were just something she couldn’t get rid of fast enough and she only pretended to care so she didn’t get fired for letting a student killt- you really weren’t ok.

To your shock, the class passed by relatively quick considering your half zoned out half frozen with panic state. The students around you shot to life and launched across the rooms to grab friends and begin loud conversations without care for what class may have needed the room in the next lesson. Their books had been packed 10 minutes before the siren even sounded and their bags were empty enough to show that their education was more a social experience. The teacher was waving them out with a strained yet permanently kind smile that they rolled their eyes at or smiled in return before rushing away and through the winding halls.

“Tell me then,” she said appearing in front of you. You shook your head and attempted a smile which fell flat and instead resemble some half cringe, half cry. “Don’t lie, I know you too well for that.” She was joking but it was true. Out of everyone, she was the person you knew the best which at this point was just sad.

“Honestly, I promise it’s nothing,” you said as you cleared your swollen throat and battled through the lightheadedness left from oxygen deprivation. “Just an early morning.” You smiled more convincingly this time but she still held the concerned and unwavering look of worry.

“I felt like that once,” she said, standing to sit against the desk in front of you, “when I was around your age.” You tilted your head, questioning and jumping at the excuse to avoid your own feelings. She nodded and leant back, studying the roof before looking back at you. “The whole anxious, depressed, alone feeling. Heck, I still do.” she laughed a bitter laugh. “It feels like the entire world is crashing down around you all at once, huh?” you nodded, avoiding the eye contact she attempted to catch before continuing. “I mean, I’m sure your reason is different than mine was but god, if i don't get it no one will hah.”

“What was your reason?” you asked before you thought, but she didn’t look taken aback or offended. She’s too nice. It was probably some boyfriend.

“I was gay, or well.. I am, that doesn’t really change you know? I wished it did, when I was in highschool. It’s hard in a small town,” she said it so simply you almost didn’t realised what she was actually saying. Mentally, you scrapped the boyfriend drama and began spiralling in your own thoughts. You were more similar than she realised… The anxious pressure of expectation and the world, the depression… the sexuality crisis.

Her hand landed on top of yours. “It’s ok, you know… if you are gay,” she smiled like it was easy to say and you felt the oxygen begin to leave your body once again, but in a different way. It was comforting, like the oxygen had been too heavy and keeping you stuck to your chair. You wore a genuine smile now.

“Yeah, I know,” and you didn’t but you said it anyway and believed it for that moment. “Honestly, that’s not even half the issue. Sometimes I just, just-” you couldn’t even begin to describe it.

“Feel like everything is too much effort? Like giving in to the darkness and laying in bed would be easier than showing up in this hell every day?” she said, laughing but with an overtone of seriousness. You nodded again. “I get it,” she repeated. “But trust me, we would miss having you here. And your bed is only so comfortable for the first day… after that the sheets get too hot and the pillows are never right.”

The second bell rang and the next class filled in as the two of you rushed away, your bag only half closed but your mind so much lighter. Even her smile, as you looked back, was brighter.

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bigfatbimbo · 3 months

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any fics of fucking Vox so hard the power completely goes out in the making? i looove what you've written for him already, would be really cool if the glitches were visible in the writing too!!

warnings — Pegging, small use of ‘mommy’, Vox being a whiny bitch

summary — Vox takes it in the ass so hard Hell has a power shortage because he’s just a whore like that.

a/n — OMG I LITERALLY LOVE THIS !! god any excuse to write Vox getting absolutely wrecked is a YES.

“Fuck,” Vox’s back arched and his hands went to grip the top of his screen, “Fuck ju—zzs—st like that.”

His voice buffered as you pushed your strap deeper into him. He was on his back with his legs wrapped around your torso so your plastic dick would have easy access to his ass.

You had to hold your hands on his chest to keep him from squirming too much.

“Needy tonight, aren’t we, Vox?” you snickered as you moved the strap inside him.

“God, fuu—ck you, bi—tcc—tch,” he hissed before you cut him off by aggressively forcing pushing deeper into him.

He yelped and moaned, throwing his head back on the pillow.

“You’re in no position to be saying that, sweetheart,” you start moving the strap faster and rougher.

He let out a glitched out whine and stared up at you with pure hatred, and desperate arousal.

Your hands that rested on his hips now dug into him hard enough to break skin.

“A—ah,” he whined, “What’s wr—oo—ong with you? S—slow down.” he whined at how rough you were being but then followed it up with a long drawn out moan.

“Aw baby,” you leaned down and caressed his screen, “Your going to have to learn to be nicer if you want me to slow down. For now you’ll just have to take my cock like the slut you are.”

He surprised himself by whining at your harsh words. Your fingers glided down and brushed over his nipples. He then shocked himself even further with the fact that, despite this humiliating position, he arched into your touch, craving any and all attention he can get from you.

You noticed how desperate he was, and smirked. He looked pathetic, sweaty and panting, covered in markings from your teeth, and looking up at you with a dark clouded expression, waiting to see what you do next.

To his delight, you continued to roughly ram into him, going at a rapid pace, nails once again digging into his hips.

“ohmygodohmygodoh—tsk tsk,” he moaned loudly as his hands clung to the sheets. At this point he couldn’t get one sentence out before glitching.

“Wow, look at you” you remark, rolling your hips, “what a little attention whore you are.”

He whined and threw his head back. At this point, there was a low static-y humming coming from him.

“‘m not—bzz— ‘m not a whore,” his protests were weak at this point. If he wasn’t being interrupted by malfunctioning mid-sentence, he was being cut off by his own whimpers.

“Oh, but you are, sweetheart. Only a whore would be taking mommy’s cock so good,” you coo down at him.

The implication that he was doing good, especially because that meant approval from you, made his brain feel funny.

“See?” your hands move up from his hips and caress the sides of his screen, “your so pretty when you don’t argue with me, baby.”

Oh, that did something to him. He wasn’t around a lot of positive people, so the idea that your attention could be shown with something as kind as praise, made his throat tighten.

His moans turned into choked out broken sobs and all the brattiness from earlier drained out of him. You were sure that if he had tear ducts, he would be crying right now.

You hammered into him harder than ever, leaning over him to occasionally pepper kisses on his neck and screen.

“Nngh— mommy ‘m— bzz— ‘m sorry,” he moaned out, slinking his arms around your neck, trying desperately to bring you closer to him. To make sure he was the only thing catching your attention at the moment.

Your hips rolled fast and rough inside him, and he could feel his climax approaching.

“Sorry for— wait, you’re sorry?” You were sure you knew what he was talking about, his attitude earlier. Still, for a moment you were thrown off by the idea that this cocky, power-hungry asshole was apologizing unprompted to you.

After a moments consideration, you came to the conclusion that he must have been slowly easing into subspace. He was probably apologizing because he wanted you to, what, praise him?

All though it seemed slightly out of character for the usually pretentious, bratty man, his half lidded desperate eyes seemed to convince you.

Your grip on his hips once again tightened as you drilled into him, rougher than before.

“You’re so perfect, baby,” you panted, earning a loud whimper. His arms tightened around your neck and his nails started to dig into the skin of your back.

“So good for me, taking mommy’s cock so well, looking so pretty for me too.”

He whined loudly and the frequency coming from his head started to get louder. You were ramming into him with such concentration that you didn’t notice the lights started to flicker around you.

“c—ccl—close—,” he tried to speak but only uttering a glitched out moan. Luckily, you picked up on what he was trying to say.

“Of course, sweetheart, whenever you want,” you said, rolling your hips once more to make his orgasm even more pleasurable.

“So good for me, Vox, apologizing for being a brat, telling me when your about to cum,” you speak softly into his ear, except you don’t think he comprehends a thing except for ‘so good for me.’

He let out a choked pathetic sob and whined for more. His audio was glitching out more than ever, making him almost unintelligible.

Now the flickering of the lights around you was undeniable, even producing a low buzzing sound reminiscent of the one Vox’s head was currently making.

“So perfect, my pretty baby, ‘m so lucky to have such a good boy.”

All of the praise sent him over the edge. With one loud moan, he came.

But in a moment, the buzzing light bulb beside you exploded, and all the illuminated buildings outside your window went dark, causing a full blackout all across the city.

Vox was still clinging to your neck, breathless, panting against you.

“Shit. Was that, like, too much, Vox?” you ask, clearly concerned as you go to pull out of him.

He pulls back slightly from your neck but stops you from moving your strap out of him.

“Please— tsk tsk,” he breathes, still buffering slightly, “Please more.”

a/n — I was too nice to him at the end of this fix but DONT WORRY GUYS I got another sub!Vox request that will literally destroy him

also, i saw someone say that since vox is around so many toxic people, an actual compliment would fuck with him super hard.

so as you can see i agree with them

#hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel vox #hazbin vox #vox x reader #vox hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel x you #dom reader #hazbin hotel smut

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fanfiqueiraquenaoescreve · 1 year

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DON'T IGNORE. I'm asking YOU a super important question: Forgert Enemies to Lovers. What is a good Lovers/Friends to Enemies arc?

NÃO IGNORE. Eu estou Te fazendo uma pergunta muito importante: Esquece Enemies to Lovers. O que torna um arco Lovers/Friends to Enemies bom?

#Books #movies #series #fanfiction #fic #enemies to lovers #lovers #This is for my thesis #é para o meu TCC #writing tip (but for me)

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netherfeildren · 9 months

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The Cassandra Complex : Masterlist

Pairing: Din Djarin/The Mandalorian x F!Reader

Summary: Enter: A man who is not so much a man, but an effigy, a wound of steel and armor and Creed – secrecy and masked faces, above all else.

Enter: A girl who is not a girl, but a creature helmed in darkness and spit out unto the galaxy broken and unmoored.

Enter: The creation of myth.

-OR-

the dark sider/mandalorian au no one knew they needed

Rating: Explicit 18+

Content Warnings: Canon typical violence; Graphic depictions of violence; Canon divergence; Themes of redemption; And forgiveness; THE RAZOR CREST LIVES BITCH!!!!; Soft!Dom Din Djarin; Protective behavior; Possessive behavior; Unprotected sex; Creampie; Breeding kink; Size difference; Size kink; Rough sex; Spanking; Overstimulation; Brat taming; Touched-Starved Din Djarin; Angst with a happy ending; Hurt/comfort; Fluff and smut; Inappropriate Use Of the Force; Discussions of infertility; References to Greek Mythology; Past abuse; Not safe to read if triggered by pregnancy; Violence as a metaphor for desire and intimacy; Other additional tags to be added

Read on AO3

PART I :

Chapter I: Apollo

Chapter II: Prometheus

Chapter III: Psyche

Chapter IV: Aite

Chapter V: Morpheus

Chapter VI : Sisyphus

Chapter VII : Hysminai

Chapter VIII : Melpomene

Interlude : Tartarus

PART II :

Chapter IX : Persephone

Chapter X: Geryon

Chapter XI: Lethe

Chapter XII: Venus

Chapter XIII: Eros

Chapter XIV: Dionysus

Chapter XV:

⚡️Din and Sithy art by the wonderfully talented @dirtysouvenir

⚡️Updates Blog : Follow and turn on notifications for new writing!

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cottoncandyseah · 6 months

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hello everyone! 🏹

i’m bee! i made this side blog to promote my ever after high fanfics that i’ve posted to ao3! my writing is my biggest passion, and i love using the ever after high kids as my muses.

my first full length fic, the charming curse, can be found here! i completed this in june of last year, and it really is my baby.

i also have started writing a sequel to that fic, which can be found here! i’m putting as much time and care into the sequel as possible, because i want to deliver a story that’s better than the first.

finally, the next two links are to small fluffy fics. the first is a dappling drabble, with a non-binary darling and a very adhd coded apple. the second is my most recent, which is a small drabble about how i think raven confessed to dexter. i really hope you guys enjoy these, and i’ll make sure to update everyone when i update tcc #2! ♡

#ever after high #eah #ever after high fanfic #dappling #darling charming #daring charming #dexter charming #raven queen #apple white #wlw #nblw #mlm #ao3 fanfic #cottoncandysfics

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grey-edges · 6 months

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Scorbus Fic Snippet

I’ve been going through some of my old wips as i’ve been writing scorbus again and found this scene and thought i’d share it since i’ll never actually post the fic

context: it’s their 7th year and they’re sitting in the quidditch stands watching gryffindor’s practice

After several moments of comfortable silence between the couple, Scorpius broke it. "I don't mean to ruin your mood, but I can't help but think about it," he sighed and Albus pulled away slightly in order to see Scorpius' face while he was talking. "When do you think you'll be ready to tell your parents about us?"

Albus frowned slightly and sat up properly, fiddling with his hands in his lap, "I dunno... When the time feels right, I guess?"

"But when is that going to be?"

Albus was quiet as he thought about it. He knew it was harder for Scorpius. He had always been sure of his sexuality, it was never really a question for him. As soon as he had heard the term bisexual, it had stuck with him and he'd proudly tell anyone who asked. Albus on the other hand had battled with his feelings and attraction for a few years.

It started around fourth year when he realized how much he needed Scorpius in his life and how little he actually liked any other girls. That's when Scorpius came out and told Albus all these new terms. He did a lot of searching and fighting with himself and nearly two years later he was able to come out to Scorpius who was completely understanding and accepting. It didn't take long after that for them to start dating. January would be the mark of their one year anniversary.

"Maybe this next holiday I will, in person," Albus shrugged.

"Really?" Scorpius perked up, "You would tell them that soon?"

"I mean I'd have two months to think about it, but maybe. If you want me to."

Scorpius sighed, "I mean of course I want you to - I want you to be able to be yourself around your family - but I don't want to force you out of the closet if you're not ready. I saw how you reacted this morning to the possibility of being outed..."

Albus ducked his head into his hands out of uncertainty, "I don't know Scorpius. Part of me just wants to stay in the closet the rest of my life. It seems so much more simpler, I wouldn't have to be the ultimate disappointment that my family already believes me to be."

"You're not a disappointment, please don't say that," Scorpius reached out a comforting hand and rested it on Albus' back. "You don't mean that - staying in the closet, I mean..."

"I do though," Albus sat back up, looking at Scorpius with a pained expression, "I'm not brave enough. Maybe if I had just been a Gryffindor like my parents had wanted..."

"Stop," Scorpius said sternly, "You don't have to be a bloody Gryffindor to be able to be yourself. Slytherin can be brave too. Albus you have to be brave. You'll be miserable for the rest of your life if you aren't true to yourself." He gripped Albus' arm with one hand and gently turned his face towards him with his other. "Is this your anxiety talking?"

Albus avoided eye contact, looking down at Scorpius' chest, but still nodded somberly.

"Look at me - listen to me," Scorpius practically begged, both of his hands going to Albus' cheeks. Albus finally looked up at him, making eye contact. "Your family loves you, Albus. All of them do even if you don't think so. I can't tell you how they'll respond, but I know they'll love you regardless of your sexuality." Scorpius paused, making sure Albus was listening, which he was.

"If that doesn't mean anything to you, then I want you to know that this version of Albus - whatever he is doing," Scorpius gestured to Albus wildly, "Is not the Albus I fell in love with." Albus frowned deeply, realizing how he was hurting Scorpius with what he'd said. "The Albus I fell in love with would not want to live the rest of his life in misery. He's a selfish prick who will do whatever he wants to be happy," he smiled fondly and Albus chuckled at his selfish comment softly.

"He is ambitious and brave - brave enough to travel backwards and forwards in time in order to save our friendship - that is who I fell in love with. If telling your parents that you happen to fancy guys over girls is scarier than getting stuck in the past, then you've got your priorities mixed up," he finished teasingly.

Albus couldn't help but chuckle and lean into Scorpius' hold on his cheeks, "I'm sorry. You're right. I get irrational when my anxiety is high..."

Scorpius sighed and dropped his hands, his arm slipping around Albus' neck and pulling him close again, "I know. That's why I'm here to keep you in check."

Albus tilted his head up, to look at Scorpius, "Thank you," he pouted his lips slightly, asking for a kiss. Scorpius smiled and quickly pecked his lips and pulled away before anyone else across the pitch could notice them.

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imninahchan · 2 months

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oiii nina! confesso q eu n leio fanfic já faz muitos anos mas mds você é muito talentosa sua escrita é muito bonita~ (pfvr escreve meu tcc pra mim) tava olhando nas tags de sociedade da neve procurando gif e fiquei curiosa, inclusive você escreve o Enzo igualzinho meu primeiro namorado q se mudou pra outro país então eu sinto um dejavu maluco lendo suas coisas ksksk mas enfim você é presidenta das enzettes e tô esperando sua próxima fic 🩵

gnt scr kkkkkkk desculpa pelo deja vu

no meu governo enquanto presidente das enzettes eu digo q todo mundo vai namorar o enzo

#[💌] fala comigo bebê #enzo vogrincic

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peptobismolchuggerhabitlover · 11 months

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My spotify playlist https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4DSiy4QYVogQAMMnqWsO5O?si=x3JWWAsoQp60hbTeYna9xg

My Wattpad (updating all my past fics into there! Check it out!):HABITSRABIDRABBIT

☆Intro post☆

Hey! I'm Silas/Isabella (pick one, idc, or use both, fine by me) , and I'm a writer, I usually write for EverymanHYBRID, Marble Hornets, and Creepypasta, I'm still watching TribeTwelve so those asks are on hold until I understand the characters better! I don't support Adam Rosner at all and hope he dies, I'm a minor and go by he/they/she pronouns, I've been into Slenderverse for about three years now, and Creepypasta eight years, Habit is my favorite person, yes I'm aware he's fictional, I don't support his actions at all, He's just silly and I love him

My DNI list is under the cut!

PEDS/MAPS DNI I AM A MINOR!!!

ZIONISTS/ANYONE PRO-ISRAEL

TERFS (I HATE YOU BITCHES PLZ KILL YOURSELVES)

PROSHIP/COMSHIP DNI

TCC DNI (the stupid ones trying to justify irl murder, the normal ones are fine)

GENSHIN IMPACT/HONKAI STAR RAIL PLAYERS DNI (bad memories with a player and whenever I see it I think of them)

ZIONISTS (U BITCHES)

Rules!!!

I won't write:

Pedophilia/ageplay

Anything involving human scat/urine

I'm not comfy writing furry stuff other than werewolves

Zoophilia

I also kind of fucking despise crybaby comfort so no on that too bc irl I can't stand crybabies

Things I will write

X readers, I'll put my Fandoms in the tags

Smut/fluff/angst

Heavy gore

Porn without a plot

porn WITH a plot

Any kinks really except the ones stated in the above categories

Somnophilia

Murdery stuff

And oc x reader

Asks/reqs/matchups open

#marble hornets #creepypasta #everymanhybrid #black butler #slashers

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