#the one render of him i keep seeing has his head at an angle so it looks a lot slimmer than it really is | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

loverhymeswith · 7 months

Text

Sweater Weather || Davin McDerby

Day One of the October Dreams 1K Follower Event

Pairing: Davin McDerby x F!Reader

Summary: Summer might be over but your feelings for Davin won’t fade so easily.

Word Count: 2.2K

Warnings: Drinking, language, Davin being tooth-rottingly sweet

A/N: This was partially inspired by the song Sweater Weather by The Neighbourhood and my undying devotion for Davin. Shout-out to @a-reader-and-a-writer for assuring me the opening was ok, and to @runnning-outof-time as I know you love Davin too <3

Coffee, alcohol, cigarettes; the things you desire most are so often bad for your health.

Davin McDerby is no exception.

You met him in the summer. A scrawny kid, thousands of miles away from home. Skinny ankles and pink lips unreasonably delicate for the harsh angles of his face, russet hair streaked with copper and pale skin turning darker by the day. He was far too handsome for his own good.

You still remember the white t-shirt he was wearing that first day on the Montauk beach. How it clung to his lithe frame as he wrestled with Robert in the sand. The silver chain peeking out from beneath his collar daring you to look twice.

And you had looked twice. It was impossible to avert your gaze, even if it felt a little too much like staring into the sun. Like so many beautiful but dangerous animals, the warning you beheld in Davin’s bright blue eyes was undeniable.

Step too close and you might get burnt.

Because while his elegant veneer might have evoked the memory of a renaissance painting, in reality, he was an accident waiting to happen, all wrapped up in a pretty bow.

A self-proclaimed fuck up, Davin McDerby has the world in his hands but his head is firmly in the clouds. Full of overconfidence and bad decisions, he lives like there is no tomorrow. His sole purpose: the pursuit of happiness.

You didn’t want to be just a stop along the way.

He comes to you now after dark, a bottle of cheap wine clutched in his hands and a smile that lights up the October night sky. When he calls your name, you realise with a start that his pleasantly lilting accent has no less effect on you than it did back in the summer.

“Could’a given me the heads up.” Without waiting for an invitation, he drops onto the seat opposite you at the picnic table. “Didn’t know you were back in town.”

Music and chatter from your uncle’s bar drifts out into the cold night air, but you barely notice, so keenly attuned as you are to Davin’s presence. His company instantly drives away the chill and transports you back to the long summer days you’d spent together.

“Hello Davin. How are you?”

Despite your sterile, perfunctory greeting, his grin remains. He seems genuinely pleased to see you. “I’m grand. You comin’ to the party?”

“What party? Aren’t you supposed to be working?”

This summer had been Davin’s first in America, but it quickly became apparent that he would have no trouble fitting in. The locals fell in love with him and it was only a matter of days before he’d sweet-talked your uncle Cormac into giving him a job beside you behind the bar.

And just like that, your vow to keep your distance from Davin had been rendered obsolete.

He’d sidled up to you at the beginning of his very first shift, a dish towel slung over his shoulder and a twinkle in his eye as he’d asked, “do you know how to make a Sex on the Beach?”

You’d rolled your eyes at the cheap shot, but nevertheless had proceeded to watch in fascination as he mixed the drink with excessive flair and a distinctive laugh, his red shirt riding up to reveal a swath of pale skin. Somewhere in the back of your mind, a voice had pleaded, give him a chance.

Perhaps that had been your mistake.

Davin unscrews the wine before taking a long mouthful, straight from the bottle. When he offers you a drink, you shake your head, pretending not to notice how his plump lips glisten under the glow of the patio lights.

“Cormac gave me the night off. Some of the boys are havin’ a Halloween party. You should come.”

“Is it fancy dress?” you ask, though you have no intention of taking him up on the offer. You only came here tonight because you’re a glutton for punishment, knowing very well that Davin was likely to be around.

“Of course,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“So where’s your costume?”

“This is me costume.” He gestures to his dark sweatshirt and pulls up the hood dramatically, his angular face standing out like a pale moon against the darkness. “I’m the Grim Reaper, see?”

It’s fitting, you think. Past experience gives you little doubt that his appearance is a portent of trouble to come.

“Where’s your scythe?”

“Left it at home.” Davin shrugs. “So, what d’ya say? You wanna go?”

You turn your gaze to the ocean, the roaring of the waves echoing the rush of your blood as you remind yourself why going anywhere with Davin is a bad idea. “I don’t think so.”

“Ah come on now. You’ve got to. Haven’t you missed me? I’ve missed you.” There’s nothing in his tone to suggest he’s telling anything other than the truth.

And that’s the problem.

Davin has never been like the rest of the boys with their painfully obvious attempts to get into your pants. In between your joint shifts at the bar, the only thing he ever seemed to want from you was your company, dragging you along from one adventure to the next; pool hopping, surfing lessons, road trips. And now, Halloween.

Waiting for your answer, he taps his fingers on the table and pouts. “You finally grace us with your presence after all this time, but now you don’t wanna hang out? Come on, it’ll be a laugh.” Almost as an afterthought, he adds, “the costume is optional.”

“All this time? Davin, it’s not even been two months.”

“Yeah well, it feels like longer.” He takes another swig from the bottle and you find yourself inclined to agree.

As the Manhattan trees started shedding their leaves and the end of summer bled into the beginning of fall, your thoughts never strayed far from Davin. You thought that after hightailing it back to the city, you’d be able to shake him, that the distance would somehow help you to forget. But like cotton candy caught between your teeth or the last grains of sand stuck in your sneakers, the memory of his rosy cheeks and freckled shoulders followed you all the way back to New York.

Davin lapses into silence, occasionally sipping from the bottle as he watches you intently across the table, the ghost of a lop-sided grin beginning to form across his lips. With every passing minute it feels like you’re fighting a losing battle.

Unable to conceal your unease any longer, you reach across the table and swipe the bottle of wine from his hands. “Would you stop staring at me?”

“Now, why would I wanna do that?”

Before you can offer a suitable response, Davin rises to his feet and rounds the table, pulling you up from your seat. His hand is surprisingly soft and warm as he laces your fingers with his own.

“What are you doing?” Despite your protest, you make no attempt to shake him off.

“I’ve decided.”

“Decided what?”

“That you’re comin’ to the party with me. Won’t be any fun on me own.”

Something tells you that even without you, Davin would hardly be on his own. But against your better judgement, you let him lead you away from the bar, that little voice in the back of your mind traitorously gleeful that he’s managed to draw you in all over again, just like a moth to the flame.

The big, white-stone house overlooking the beach is crowded when you arrive, the party already in full swing. The music, loosely themed for the occasion, is too loud and you have to lean in close to hear Davin over the speakers.

“You want to drink or dance first?” he shouts.

“Drink first, dance later,” you reply, thankful that the party is so busy that no one will notice your lack of costumes. The guest list boasts a colourful array of witches, vampires and monsters; even with his hood still drawn up, Davin looks as underdressed as you.

“Fine, but you owe me a dance.”

The drinks flow freely over the next few hours, but the two of you spend most of your time talking, abandoning the makeshift dance floor to squeeze onto the end of a worn leather sofa, so close you’re practically sitting in one another’s laps.

“I’m glad you came back,” Davin tells you after a while, his warm breath tickling your neck as you battle against the rising volume of the sound-system.

“Temporarily,” you remind him, uncertain of whether it’s the alcohol or Davin’s proximity that is to blame for your current light-headedness. “Why’s that?”

He tugs down his hood, finally, and leans in closer, the lengths of his soft hair brushing against your cheek. “Well, after you left without sayin’ goodbye, I thought I’d done somethin’ wrong. It’s usually my fault, you know. Drivin’ people away. Story of me fuckin’ life.”

You draw back to look at him properly and find his usually carefree expression marred with concern. “It wasn’t about you, Davin. I had to go back to college. And I’m just…I don’t know. I guess I’m bad with goodbyes.”

Lies. Lies. Lies.

He shakes his head, as if he can see beyond your facade. As if he can read your innermost thoughts. “Ahh look, I know I made mistakes. And I feel bad about them. Really, I do.”

There’s no hiding the apprehension in your voice, or the pounding in your chest when you press him for more details. “What mistakes do you think you’ve made?”

Almost absently, his hand moves to your waist, specifically to the patch of bare skin below the hem of your cropped t-shirt. You suppress the urge to shudder.

“Well, for a start I was so busy with the ‘pursuit of happiness’, I never noticed what was in front of me.” His gaze travels across your face.

On bated breath and hyper-aware of his fingers tightening - almost imperceptibly - around your waist, you prompt him to continue. “Which was?”

Davin blinks slowly, his blue eyes even more intense than usual. “You.”

“Me?”

“Yeah.” He laughs, uncharacteristically nervous all of a sudden. “Cause I never got round to kissin’ you, did I?”

You’re certain you misheard him over the music, even as bells are clanging in your head. “What?”

“Kissin’ you,” he repeats with more conviction this time, his lips twitching up at whatever he sees in your expression. “I mean, didn’t you ever think it was funny?”

Your heart flutters, impatient for him to get to the point. “Think what was funny?”

“That we never hooked up?”

Your mouth opens and closes at least three separate times as you search your whirling mind for something to say in response. You’ve given far too much thought to that very question over the last few months. In fact, it’s the reason that you ran away.

Even though you’d been painfully aware that Davin would wind up breaking your heart ever since that first day on the beach, you had been waiting on tenterhooks for him to make some kind of move.

But the summer had worn on and nothing had happened. As far as you were concerned, he’d simply put you in the friendzone and you had no intention of trying to claw your way out, despite how much you were attracted to him. Despite how much it hurt.

You knew he’d slept with probably a dozen other girls, so you couldn’t help but wonder what was wrong with you. What were you lacking? He was content to spend his days with you, but not his nights. Not his bed.

“Umm. Are you gonna say somethin’?” Davin asks tentatively, interrupting your racing thoughts. “Cause if I’m honest, you kinda look like you want to murder me.”

“Don’t tempt me, Davin,” you warn, overcome with the urge to do just that. “Why are you only telling this now?”

He grins, squeezing your waist even tighter, something about your reaction giving him the confidence he needs to continue. “I always thought you were too good for me. I was scared if I made a move I was gonna fuck everythin’ up. But tonight feels like fate or destiny or some other spooky shit. And the way I see it, I might not get another chance.”

“You’re an idiot, Davin McDerby.”

He captures your face in his hands. “Of course I am. Don’t sound so surprised.”

Slowly but surely, he closes the distance, his lips as delicate as petals as they brush over your own. You’re no longer aware of your surroundings, the lights and music fading into the background. The only sound is the pounding rhythm of your heart. The only sight is Davin, wide-eyed as he withdraws to study your reaction, uncertainty cast across his striking features.

You loop your arms around his neck and pull him back in, deepening the kiss that you’ve been waiting for, all this time.

When the two of you finally part, Davin rests his forehead against yours, his eyes soft as they meet your own and his smile warm and gentle. “Now you have it.”

October Dreams Taglist: @zablife @a-reader-and-a-writer

#cillian murphy #davin mcderby #sunburn #sunburn 1999 #october dreams #october #follower celebration #cillian murphy fanfic #cillian murphy x reader

115 notes · View notes

thedragon-and-hisboy · 9 months

Text

Two Bad Choices

Hiccup is aboard a Dragon Hunter ship and afforded two bad choices by Viggo.

The darkness was comforting. It offered assurance that whatever he opened his eyes to would be worse than it.

He opened his eyes anyway, or tried to. It was more difficult than he was used to. He was in a ship’s cabin which swayed gently with the waves underneath. A desk bolted to the floor held maps, charts, and dragon bones. A banner hung on the wall behind it, depicting a flaming fist. No one else was in the room, and, most unusually, Hiccup found that he was not bound in any way. He was slumped in a corner of the quarters, divested of his sword, his leg, and his shoulder armor. His neck ached, both from its unnatural angle, and more acutely on one side.

Footsteps thudded outside the door, then it burst open. Ryker stormed in, glared around, and found Hiccup. His eyes narrowed. “Why isn’t he bound, Viggo?” Hiccup’s fists clenched, but his limbs felt leaden. Why couldn’t he move?

Viggo appeared in a more leisurely fashion behind his brother. He smirked at Hiccup before answering. “No need, brother. The elevated dose of sedative in his system has rendered him quite, aha, helpless.” Hiccup’s face burned. Drugged. Of course, that had to be the reason. No wonder they didn’t have to restrain him, he couldn’t even lift a finger. He could barely keep his head up.

Ryker squatted in front of him. “Helpless, eh? I’m sure my men would like that.” Hiccup’s mind went white with panic and Ryker smiled.

“Now, now, brother,” Viggo snapped, settling himself at his desk. “No need for that.”

Ryker snorted. “What? He’s sunk and killed enough of my men that the rest of them deserve to beat seven kinds of hell out of him.”

“Be that as it may, we have other plans for our guest.” Ryker grumbled and sat down. “Is the Night Fury secured?”

“It was, up until about ten minutes ago,” Ryker snarled. “That damn rider girl blasted a hole in the cell, got on the Night Fury, and rode off. Her Nadder, too. I’ve already punished the lookout on duty for that.”

Hiccup’s heart leapt. Astrid had rescued Toothless! They knew he was in trouble!

“No matter,” Viggo said with a wave of his hand. “It would have been nice to keep them both, but I am more prepared to deal with the loss of the dragon than its rider.” He smirked at Hiccup again.

“Don’t see why this runt is worth more than the last Night Fury,” Ryker grumbled. “For a mug of piss-poor ale I’d’ve shot that girl out of the air.”

“Patience, Ryker,” Viggo intoned. “He is more valuable than you give him credit for. The Night Fury cannot fly without him, for one thing. I need not explain to you why this is a benefit to us. Those other riders are followers, not leaders. They cannot conduct an effective attack on us without Hiccup, especially if we are using him as a bargaining chip.”

“That’s more like it,” Ryker said. “What are we demanding? Gold?”

Viggo laughed. “Don’t be so small-minded, Ryker! Gold and treasure, while nice, are not exclusive to the riders. We can make them catch dragons for us.”

Hiccup’s stomach sank like a sundered ship. Oh, gods. They’ll be forced to capture dragons and deliver them to certain death, afraid they’ll kill me if they refuse. I have to get out of here.

“What about some sort of tithe?” Ryker was musing. “I wouldn’t mind clipping Berk’s wings. A thousand gold pieces a month, do you think?” Already sunk, Hiccup’s stomach clenched. And they’ll bankrupt Berk at the same time. I’m not worth it!

Viggo chuckled. “All in due time, brother. Hiccup, are you awake enough to join us?”

Hiccup didn’t reply at once. He wanted to spit fire in their faces, but the drug still held him down. “They won’t do it,” he managed, raising his head with effort. “They won’t hunt for you.”

“But will they hunt for you?” Viggo asked. “Ryker, bring him.” The other Grimborn approached and lifted Hiccup bodily from the corner. Hiccup hated how his limbs flopped, but he could do little about it. Ryker set him in a chair facing Viggo, one with armrests and a curved back that kept him from sliding to the floor.

“They’ll get me out of here,” Hiccup said. Anger and no small amount of fear was making it easier to function, despite the drug. “You’ll regret all of this. My friends aren’t stupid. They’ll see through your blackmail!”

“Not blackmail, in point of fact,” Viggo said, raising a finger. “The word is ransom, dear Hiccup. We are demanding a ransom for you. It is not something that you or they are in a position to refuse.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be the smart one?” Ryker chimed in nastily.

Viggo permitted himself a smile at the insult. “That being said, Hiccup, hostages are ordinarily kept incapacitated. I see that your dose of sedative is wearing off, and we cannot have that. I will, however, give you a choice: Another dose, just to keep you weak, or restraints. I must say, it’s not as though you could run.” He tapped Hiccup’s leg on the desk. “So, shall Ryker fetch the bottle or a rope?”

Hiccup gritted his teeth and glared at Viggo. Two bad choices. He hated being tied up and helpless, especially without his leg, but he knew that being unconscious and at the mercy of a ship full of dragon hunters was worse. “Get the rope,” he snarled.

#httyd race to the edge #hiccup haddock iii #hiccup!whump #viggo grimborn #my writing

26 notes · View notes

skcirthinq · 2 months

Text

So, did y'all know they changed the Gatorade bottles? Like. Different shape. I didn't.

Anyway, I read @story-monger 's 'by touch, by sight', and the pictures they paint with their words are so vivid! And the characters are so well done too.

Like, the passage from chapter 19, that the rendered piece is inspired by? I had to draw it.

I. Also. Had to draw a bunch of other scenes. Too many, and now I've hit image limit.

Anyway, check out the fic, it's post-movie, dealing with the aftermath. Descriptions under the cut.

Image 1: Fully rendered illustration of a scene from chapter 19. An emaciated and unseeing Leo is stumbling through some of the sewer and access tunnels under New York. He's thin, and dirty, and covered with healing cuts and scars. His one leg has broken, and healed badly, and he's leaning heavily on the other to keep moving. His face around his eyes is blanketed in scarring, and his eyes are pale. Dirty, loose bandages ring his waist, with some fruit snack wrappers and a grape Gatorade bottle tucked into them. Detritus and moss gather in the corners and in the walls and floors around the area he's in. He's stopped, frozen, just under a grate letting in light, and the sounds of New York, above him. The rest of the tunnels are dark. Leo has his face turned up towards the light, and looks confused and shocked.

Image 2: a sketch- Raph, Donnie, and Mikey have just pulled Leo through the portal out of the prison dimension. They are huddled around him, looking at each other in shock and concern. All of them are visibly injured and battle-damaged. Mikey's arms are deadened at his sides. Leo is laid out on the ground, seemingly unconscious, with his head cradled in Raph's hands. He is covered in injuries; a leg bent at an angle, his face and eyes have been burned. He's also extremely thin. I'm sure he's fine, and nothing unexpected has happened at all.

Image 3: sketch- The whole movie cast is grouped together in the lair, treating injuries. They're all in various states of injury. Casey Jr. and April are checking Donnie's back for residual kraang traces, Mikey is crouched next to Donnie, with Raph on Donnie's other side, holding his hand. In front of them all, a crouched, crawling Leo has made his way out of the med bay bed, accompanied by Splinter and a hastily rigged iv drip. Leo doesn't seem to be able to see very well, or communicate, but he's desperately patting his family down to check for injuries. He has a hand on Mikey's shoulder, and is swiping his other hand in Raph's direction.

Image 4: sketch- an emaciated Leo is hissing with his mouth wide open, showing off his teeth, at a shaken Mikey. They are both in profile, facing each other. Leo has a harsh grip on Mikey's wrist, and Mikey's got his other hand up towards Leo's face, trying to use scent to show Leo who he is. A bowl that used to contain broth is sitting empty on Leo's blanketed legs between the two.

Image 5: sketch- a teary and upset Mikey is curled up, and away from Leo, cradling his recovered wrist. The pov is over Leo's shoulder, and so only a portion of Leo's face is visible, but he looks embarrassed and unhappy. Takes place immediately after image 4.

Image 6: sketch- a crying Mikey sits cross-legged on one of Donnie's work tables in his lab. Donnie is holding both of Mike's wrists in his hands, gently, because Mikey has a new ring of bruises around one of them. Donnie is upset and concerned, leaning towards Mikey. There's various items scattered behind Mikey on the work table. Donnie is shown from behind in a three-quarters view. Mikey is shown from the front.

Image 7: sketch- Raph, bandaged and tired, sits with an emaciated and injured Leo in his lap. Raph is cradling his brother as gently as possible, pressing his mouth to Leo's forehead. Leo, in turn, has his arms barely reaching around Raph's shoulders and neck in his best approximation of a hug.

nothing will stop these turtles from hugging each other.

image 8: sketch- An emaciated and unseeing Leo has pressed a visibly upset and teary Donnie to his shoulder, trying to comfort his brother. April has joined in on the comfort, sitting next to Donnie and facing the boys, with a hand on his shoulder. Leo has an almost smile on his face, while April is softly grinning back at him.

The hugging continues.

Image 9: sketch- Donnie is facing the camera, with Leo crawling up towards his lap. Leo has pushed his snout into Donnie's neck and shoulder, and has given the biggest, most wettest, disgusting sniff turtley possible. Donnie is doing an admirable job of not drop-kicking his injured and slightly feral brother into the sun, stimming his hands and making a face of absolute disgust. The word sniff is written in the background, with a wet and slimly font. Both of the boys are injured, and Leo's shell, cracked and weeeping fluids, is on full display.

While nothing can stop them from hugging, I will point out this took place like a minute before the last image, tops, and also nothing will stop a sibling's need to just. wreck their sibling's day.

Image 10: sketch- A battered, but less injured, Leo then we've seen previously sits with his back against a wall. The floor is riveted,- he's in some sort of space ship -type environment. His eyes and face have not been burned yet, and he's curled up slightly, facing the audience, looking at his hands. In his hands, he has a very light sketch of April's hand, as she sits next to him, talking over his shoulder The rest of his family surround him- Donnie and Raph behind him, with splinter and Mikey on his right. Splinter is holding a bowl of broth and a spoon. Leo believes them all to be hallucinations and unreal, and thus none of them are detailed.

Reblog with more coming.

#illustration #rottmnt #rise of the tmnt #rottmnt fanart #if you see any spelling errors or anything. oops. i am. very tired.#i swear i read more than 'leo has a bad time' fics. yall just. really like to put this boy through the horrors.

5 notes · View notes

amywritesthings · 2 years

Text

CHAPTER 13: THE FREIGHTER

The POINT A TO POINT B series.

gif credit: @ scarlet-sky

Pairing: Din Djarin x Female Reader ( Din x You )

Summary: You agree to help Bo-Katan seize Mandalorian weapons from an Imperial freighter. What if things go spectacularly wrong?

Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence and injury, peril, mentions of torture, Soft/Worried!Din, Flashbacks, Minor character death Word Count: 5.2K

A/N: Buckle up, buckaroos, shit just got real. We return after a month hiatus to finally tackle the freighter mission, and things continue to spiral from here.

Previous Chapter. / Next Chapter. | Series Masterlist.

PREVIEW:

You were so close to everything going according to plan.

Stirring against the floor, the rubble scrapes like jagged fingernails along your bare chin. Across the remnants of a fiery hallway, a Stormtrooper and an Imperial officer are engulfed by flashing lights, immobile.

Your wheezing breath causes dust to stir.

Exposed.

Your face is exposed.

“Mand—”

Your lungs seize in a dry cough at the influx of debris before you can finish.

Then it hits you, slowly, as you fight the urge to sleep:

The person who set off the bombs was Mando.

CHAPTER 13: THE FREIGHTER

You were so close.

You were so close to everything going according to plan.

The comms link in your ear is rendered useless by the shrill sirens lining the Imperial freighter walls. A once sterile environment of grays, silvers, and whites disappears from sight, bleeding vivid reds — the perilous aftermath from a bomb somewhere on the upper deck, causing a ripple effect of chaos below.

The pain in your left leg is agonizing, yet your attention locks onto the sight of a soot-ridden helmet in the distance, visor cracked clear up the middle.

Your wheezing breath causes dust to stir.

Exposed.

Your face is exposed.

“Mand—”

Your lungs seize in a dry cough at the influx of debris before you can finish.

The comms link is overrun with shouts and blasters, but you can’t distinguish who is shouting and who is shooting. Yet you are certain of one thing: his voice, the one voice you could never forget, isn’t there.

Then it hits you, slowly, as you fight the urge to sleep:

The person who set off the bombs was Mando.

. . . . . . . . ONE HOUR PRIOR

By now, you hope Mando has made it back to the Razor Crest to sit the Child somewhere safe and secure until you can return. All that remains is you versus them — the test of trust begins long before the mission, setting an expectation between your traveling party and Bo-Katan.

In true Mando fashion, however, he does not leave you empty-handed: the homing beacon on your belt blinks bright red in activation.

A reminder — a pointed warning — that he can track your movements without being here, should Bo-Katan betray the pact.

He leaves nothing to chance.

Keeping to themselves, Axe and Koska angle away in secrecy, elbows pressed into the metal table. Bo-Katan, on the other hand, takes the golden opportunity to maneuver herself to your end of the table, taking Mando’s place.

At first she says nothing, allowing the heavy air to swirl between you. Refusing to break the silence first, you bow your head, attentively focused on the blinking beacon at your hip.

(You don’t enjoy his absence.)

“I appreciate your willingness to see this exchange be met,” Bo-Katan begins after minutes pass, carefully cutting the tension with a sharpened blade. “I’m… sure it wasn’t easy, convincing him, but you did a great job.”

“We need the information,” you respond, adopting Mando’s monotone approach. “I won’t be the one you have to deal with if you break this pact.”

“And you will receive the information you seek as soon as what we want is in our hands,” the Nightowl leader promises with a smile in her voice, allowing a pause to pass. “...how long have you been partners?”

“We don’t work as partners,” you correct, fidgeting with the strap of the belt. “More like employee-employer.”

“Ah.” Unconvinced. Bo-Katan leans deeper into her shoulder, keeping her tone low. “I only ask because he appears to have a fondness for you.”

Fondness.

The implication sends your nerve endings ablaze. You look at her before you can stop yourself, eyes meeting eyes, and the smile creeps onto her lips. The reaction is precisely what she wants, so she pushes further.

“Have you ever seen his face?”

You blink twice as your brow knit. “Seen his—”

Face.

Is she really asking?

Although unwise to provoke her, you mirror her movements and lean in, speaking plainly.

“This entire mess started because you insisted on seeing his face. You were so quick to call his clan a cult, you claim to know his clan’s beliefs, but you’re asking me if I’ve seen his face?”

Bo-Katan doesn’t react.

(Unbelievable.)

You roll the tip of your tongue across the front of your teeth and shake your head, temper at a simmer.

“Do you know anything about the people you insulted? He told you, they cannot remove—”

“—their helmets unless they’ve sworn a different kind of oath,” she interjects, slowed and punctual. “I know of their teachings, my friend. I am not ignorant to the Watch in more ways than one, so my question still stands.”

You open your mouth to respond, but the context hits you belatedly in the face: she knows what it takes to see him.

(A different kind of oath.)

With a sputter, you abruptly shake your head. “No — no, we’re not. That isn’t — he hasn’t sworn anything like that. I told you, it’s a working partnership. It isn’t romantic.”

(Your fist clenches against the thigh of your trousers at the memory of what it looks like to be underneath him.)

Brows furrowed with an unspoken doubt, Bo-Katan studies the response before nodding. “My apologies, then. I could have sworn I’d maybe missed something.”

A light ding breaks the interrogation as the sight of shining beskar slips through the front entrance of the inn.

Mando.

It’s impossible to hide the sheer relief alleviating all-too tense shoulders. Bo-Katan swivels her attention to him as well, mouth thin-lipped and prepared. Yet before you rise from the table, you allow a hand to drop lightly on her shoulder guard.

“Bo-Katan?” She responds wordlessly by following your hand to your face with her stare. “I think you would have better luck earning his respect — and mine — if you stopped looking for things that aren’t there.”

Before the Mandalorian clan leader can retaliate with her own advice, you step away from the chair to greet the returning bounty hunter in the middle of the room. Disinterested in the other three, he stalks towards you, helmet tilted with a non-verbal question.

(Are you alright?)

You mirror him, tilting your chin with raised brows as your answer.

(Let’s get this over with.)

Mando nods once, accepting the answer. He reaches between you to deactivate the beacon at your hip. The red light dulls back to black.

“We’re ready to mobilize.”

“Good.”

Bo-Katan is the first to stand from her perch at the table. As if in sync, Axe and Koska follow a breath behind. Mando wastes not a second longer to turn on his heel, exiting without another word. Axe and Koska follow his lead, passing you to file out of the inn and into the midnight air. Bo-Katan gestures you leave next, with her lastly in tow.

By the time you meet the chill of a sunless sky, Mando has himself positioned against the wall across from the inn’s entrance. From his body language alone — standing arms crossed, guarded from others, with his hip pressed into a nearby abandoned crate — he’s not thrilled. His armor gleams in the moonlight. Bo-Katan, Axe, and Koska stand together in a triangle formation.

To avoid questioning, you stand in the middle — not too close to Mando, but no further than arm’s length.

(Do not go far from me — you promised.)

“I surveyed the area,” he tells Bo-Katan. “We should be clear to infiltrate the ship.”

“Were you able to see how many troopers were on the ground?”

“No more than two outside. Maybe a dozen inside.”

Bo-Katan brings her helmet into her hands. Just as they had in the inn, Koska and Axe follow her motions a beat later. Together, they push their helmets over their heads. Bo-Katan turns her owlish face towards you. “Stay on my six and don’t fall behind.”

As if you had any other choice, being the only one without armor.

The three lead the charge out of the alleyway and onto the docks, mindful of their bearings as they near the freighter at the very end of the pier. You can feel the heat from Mando’s body radiating off your back from how close he walks behind you, guarding with his own broad-shouldered beskar advantage.

The other three are too busy executing the plan at full-steam ahead to notice.

“Is the Child safe?” you murmur, keeping the conversation between close quarters.

Mando’s breastplate presses softly into your back. “He is. You should have followed.”

“We need that information. I’ll be fine.”

“You shouldn’t have had to volunteer on my behalf,” he mumbles, but the anger isn’t directed towards you. “This isn’t your mission.”

There it is again.

You pause in your tracks, turning to press chest-to-chest with his armor. He automatically pauses, body tense as he stares over the crown of your head.

“It is.”

“It is what?” he asks, softer this time.

“My mission.” His helmet cants to the right, chin dropping to look squarely at you. “You keep saying this isn’t something I have to do. I know that. I’m choosing to do this.”

“But you’re—”

“This is bigger than a bounty on my head, Mando. I know I’m just… precious cargo and a means to an end for you, but the kid?” Your next words are curt. Final. “I’m not letting Moff Gideon get near him. We help Bo-Katan, we get the location of the Jedi, you take me to Coruscant, and that’ll be it.”

(He appears to have a fondness for you.)

If you take her outside perspective — that hope — then you’ll run too fast with it.

Mando says nothing, but you pretend to ignore the slight jut of his chin back into his neck. A noise fractures along the modulator, but it’s the sharpness of Koska’s whistle that saves either of you from pursuing the conversation further.

From a distance, you see boots of a Stormtrooper slide along the damp docks, disappearing behind a large crate. Mando takes the lead, hovering a glove along your forearm to maintain proximity as you stick to the shadows and reunite with Bo-Katan.

The knocked-out Trooper lays helmetless on the dock floor, stripped down to their flight suit. The three Mandalorians work to assemble the pieces of the disguise as Axe holds out the ivory chest and back plates for Mando to take.

“It’ll be a little big, but it should fit her.”

Again, Mando says nothing. With both large hands, he maneuvers you in front of him and raises the strapped pieces above your head. The weight of white armor settles heavily on your shoulders in more ways than one.

The bounty hunter removes the gadgets, bombs, and Hail Mary weaponry on your belt and places them back to his own for safe keeping. The other three depart from the unconscious soldier to help with the assembly, securing various limbs of armor together for a faster build.

You don’t move against the pressure of their push and pull — all you can do is watch your elongated reflection in the breastplate of beskar, wondering if you really can pull this off. He must notice, because you’re awakened back to the present by a gentle touch of fabric along the outer shell of your ear.

“Take this,” Mando says, urging you to slot the communicator into your ear.

“A comms link?” you ask, pushing it into your ear canal.

“One I kept on the Crest, just in case. Was given to me by an old friend who didn’t know when to stop talking, so I never used it.”

“Did you bring extras?”

“You’re my only concern.” The statement makes your stomach flutter. Mando’s head turns as Bo-Katan cautiously nears. Between her gloves is the final piece of the puzzle: an ivory helmet fit with a familiar, menacing black visor. “Allow me to.”

“Go for it,” Bo-Katan hums, and your once-flighty stomach turns sour from the sing-song nature of her tone. Like she’s solved the mystery of knowing what the two of you are all about.

She doesn’t know anything.

“Hey.”

The gentle whisper of Mando’s voice against the modulator brings your eyes to the chrome visor. The Stormtrooper helmet remains between orange-tipped fingers.

“There will be interference from the comms link inside this helmet, but I will be with you every step of the way.”

“I know.”

Mando raises his arms, hovering the helmet just over your head. “And if it gets too dangerous, you turn on the homing beacon on your belt and run. I will find you.”

“I know.”

“And if this link somehow breaks—”

“You sound nervous.” Your brows cinch, searching his visor for eyes you know you cannot see. He stalls, causing you to ask. “Are you?”

The bounty hunter shifts where he stands. “What you’re doing, Princess, it’s…”

“Reckless?”

“Brave.”

There is gravity to his correction. Your expression softens.

“Thank you.”

With that, your world goes red.

Engulfed by the claustrophobic smush of the Trooper’s helmet as it clings to your cheeks, you’re met with floating metrics and comms frequencies from the previous soldier that occupied this suit. At first the sight is overwhelming — so much is happening at once yet you cannot follow nor understand what any of it means.

“I turned off her comms link,” Koska says, but it’s filtered. Everything sounds underwater.

(Is this how Mando hears you?)

Axe speaks up. “Hopefully they won’t notice a decommissioned Trooper so long as we’re quick about it.”

“Perfect,” you hear Bo-Katan say. “Bounty hunter: get her into position and meet us up there.”

“On it.” Mando’s voice cuts straight through the oceanic vastness and directly into your ear.

Igniting their jet packs, the three of them disappear into the clouded night sky. Mando stands with you, offering the fallen Trooper’s Imperial-grade pistol.

“I’ll be okay,” you reassure him, wincing at the way your voice sounds trapped in the helmet. You reach with your glove to take the pistol into both hands.

“Abandon the freighter if something feels off,” he reminds you, and you nod.

“Go. I’ll find my way to the post and wait for your signal,” you promise, clunking two steps backwards in the Trooper boots. Mando waits a beat, giving you a once-over, before igniting his own jet pack.

And just like that, you’re alone.

Brave.

You could be brave.

With squared shoulders, you take a slow pace to the open landing of the Imperial freighter. No one’s outside — the privacy allows you precious time to get into position the way you assume the original Trooper had been. Every second on this mission counts.

The ship is large, intimidating in its own right. In your uncovered ear, you hear faint voices assessing systems checks on the Imperial comms. Someone mentions how miserable Trask is. Another scowls and promises the ship is scheduled to depart in a few hours.

In a sea of eavesdropped conversation, all you want to hear is Mando’s voice.

“Hey, you, did you hear something?”

That isn't him. The higher-pitched voice behind you causes you to whip around. Another Trooper walks from the belly of the ship with an assault rifle, visor canted down at you.

“I thought I heard voices out here.”

In a brief panic, you shake your head and raise a single shoulder into a shrug.

The other Trooper groans, waving you off with disinterest.

“Keep me in the loop if you hear about anything. This moon’s a dump.”

You fumble with the pistol to free one hand, offering a thumbs up. The other Trooper snorts, disappearing back into the ship and out of view.

And for a while, it’s just like that. Announcements to call signs and signals you don’t understand. Names you do not know. Inside jokes between officers battling about the glory days of the Empire. How they're excited to eventually go back home.

All it takes is a blast from the comms link inside your ear for all of that to go to shit.

From a distance, you can hear several blasters firing off in one ear while the shouts of fallen Troopers simultaneously fill the other.

On your helmet’s visor, a high alert warning is triggered on the upper left corner, flashing in pixelated yellow.

Someone frantically speaks over the Empire’s comm feed:

( Pirates! We’ve got pirates on board! Guard that hall. Seal the hatch and check the exterior door. )

Over and over, the calls for aid on the upper decks of the freighter fill your head. The Trooper that questioned you takes off into a sprint up and into the ship, and a sea of white and black armor rush to stationed turbolifts. Uncertain of where to go — Do you leave? Do you listen to what Mando said to do? — you move into the ship to continue the charade, helmet down.

( What’s going on? How many of them are there? )

The frantic questions only seem to grow louder with every blast.

( Sir, there are only four life forms — wait. They’re Mandalorian! They’re headed to the cargo bay. Close the doors! )

“Mando, they know where you are,” you murmur into the helmet, hoping that Koska effectively muted your Stormtrooper helmet link as you keep close to a nearby wall, hiding in plain sight.

“Bo-Katan, they’re coming,” Mando says, relaying your information.

Over and over, an officer yells to his immediate surroundings — Close the doors! Close all of them! — as rhythmic as the sirens sounding above you.

( Come in. Do you copy? Do you— )

“I copy.”

A voice unlike any of the Imperial guard appears. It’s a voice no longer contained by a helmet.

(It’s a voice dripping with a smug confidence you’ve grown to know all too well.)

“Thanks for packing up all this gear so nicely. Imagine what a division of us can do when we get our hands on what’s inside these shiny little boxes.”

Relief fills your lungs.

Bo-Katan found the weapons.

The mission’s almost over.

( If you think you’re going to escape with those weapons, you are sadly mistaken. Even if you’ve managed to jettison a few of those crates, we will comb the entire area until you are hunted down and killed. )

“Oh, we’re not jettisoning anything. We’re taking the entire ship,” Bo-Katan corrects. “Put some tea on. We’ll be up in a minute.”

“What?” you whisper under your breath, turning your chin to the empty hallway. Against your ear, you hear the breathy anger of the Mandalorian bounty hunter.

“This is more than I signed up for,” he growls.

You can faintly make out what Bo-Katan says through Mando’s helmet. “There is something I need, if I am to rule Mandalore. Something that was once mine. They know where it is and soon, so will I. Regardless, we are taking the ship for the battles ahead.”

“I got you your weapons,” Mando protests. “I have to return to my ship with the foundling.”

Bo-Katan sighs. “If you want my help finding the Jedi, you will help me take this ship.”

“You’re changing the terms of the deal.”

You’ll never forget the way Bo-Katan answers.

It is malicious. Cruel.

“This is the Way.”

Pushing yourself away from the wall of safety, you trudge down the hallway towards the entrance with your hands tightly clutching your weapon. “Mando, disengage.”

He doesn’t answer. Has the comms link frayed?

“She’s going to keep changing the kriffing deal,” you add louder, pressing a palm into the side of your helmet. “Let her get her own damn weapons.”

“Attention! Why are you not with the rest of your squad, Trooper?”

A voice, booming and furious, freezes every muscle in your body.

Shouts and orders continue to rupture against the sounds of frantic blasts in your one ear.

(He told you to run. You’re too terrified to breathe.)

“Are you ignoring your superior officer?” the voice demands in a slithering snap.

“No, sir,” you answer, disgusted to hear the words leave your mouth.

As you turn in the Trooper armor, your blood runs cold. An officer in Imperial grays stands before you with an accompanying Stormtrooper aiming at your head. Immediately you focus on the officer’s eyes, unable to look away.

It isn’t the cold way he glares at you, however, that has you spooked.

His dark brown eyes almost bleed black. A scar sits under his left pupil, dragging just under his waterline and into his skin.

“What is your TK number, Trooper?” he asks, taking another step forward.

You can’t run, not when he’s holding you hostage with an armed guard behind him.

When you open your mouth to answer, you hear the sudden frantic voice of Bo-Katan as the sound of a door begins to creak under solid weight — Shit, they’re trying to send another wave. Shut it down, Reeves! Keep them out! — from Mando’s comm.

“I can hold them off.” That’s Mando’s voice. “Cover me.”

You abruptly look at the ceiling, fear gripping your heart as you forget yourself and speak to the air. “Mando, what are you doing?”

“Answer me, Trooper!” the officer barks, but the order sounds distant when zeroed in on the way Bo-Katan fights Mando’s insistence to fight the incoming wave of Troopers.

“Are you insane?" she shouts, voice echoing. "You could get yourself killed!”

“We have no other choice, ” he speaks plainly as his boots clip across the floor. The trio of Mandalorian voices soften from the growing distance. “Just do what you need to do.”

Suddenly a hand is on your arm, jerking you forward. You collide with the Imperial office shouting in your face. “Trooper! I asked you for—”

White noise pierces every part of your senses.

Your ears go numb from the ringing. Your eyes see a brilliance of red light. Shrapnel explodes from the ceiling, caving the hallway to the ground.

You feel the dirt. You taste blood. You are airborne and flying until you are not.

And for a while, there is silence.

. . . . . . . . .

After what feels like hours, you come back to the present. The high-pitched ringing is replaced by the ear-splitting sirens calling for aid and attack on the Imperial freighter. The world around you remains red, drenched in a panicked crimson. Pieces of the ceiling continue to drop in sickening thuds.

Stirring against the floor, the rubble scrapes the underside of your chin. The pain in your left leg is agonizing yet dulled, thrumming with your quickening pulse.

When the red lights flicker, you realize the ivory remnants of a Stormtrooper helmet is in the distance, cracked straight up the middle. The drab lifelessness of the Empire on this ship is a stark contrast from the red emergency lights. And when you wheeze for air, dust flutters around your bare face.

Exposed.

Your face is exposed.

“Mand—”

The debris invades your lungs, causing your croak to dissolve into a whooping cough.

The sound jerks the Imperial officer to life from the rubble, his complexion a mixture of pale white and scarlet. The Trooper once holding you hostage lingers lifeless on the floor — his once-drawn weapon now lying in the middle of the hallway, open for anyone to take.

The officer bleeds profusely from the crown of his head down the side of his face. His hat is nowhere to be found.

And he’s staring right at you.

At first he blinks slowly, as if to gain his bearings, but when his sight locks on you the transition is quick — confusion that melts into something far worse than anger or fear:

Recognition.

“You.”

A murmur of awe slips through his lips.

“You’re alive?”

The vivid scent of smoke invades your nostrils as your nerve endings sink with dread. Your fingers drag along dirt-like rubble, looking for something tangible to grab onto as you slip in and out of consciousness.

When you last saw this Imperial officer, you were looking up at him — not across.

A group of people run frantically to the last line of X-Wings as a squadron of pilots fire up their engines. The hope of escaping is diminished with as Stormtroopers encroach onto the base, attacking the legion of blasters on the front lines. One by one, the last line of defense is broken, allowing the Empire to breach buildings for what few survivors are left.

Someone in the distance shouts to you, vocals frayed from screaming. Her silhouette pleads at the cockpit of a ship, hand outstretched.

(Run! Get up and run!)

You try. You try with all your might, but you can’t feel your legs.

The dirt reeks. It burns.

Above you stands an Imperial officer, wicked with glee at his discovery. Behind him the Rebel alliance flag illuminates from the surrounding fire, tattered from wayside gunfire. Each leaf acts as a toppling dominos, igniting the trees and setting the forest brilliantly ablaze.

Your palms push at the ground to scramble backwards, but the officer crouches and places his gloved hand on the back of your neck as if you were a newborn loth cat; squeezing, brutally so, to get your attention.

(So this is where you’ve been hiding all this time.)

You note how the scar in his bleeding black eyes drags down his left cheek. How it warps when he grins, nodding to himself.

(The Moff will be most pleased to finally re-meet your acquaintance.)

When you blindly search for your blaster to strike back, he extends the toe of his boot to crush your fingers, earning a whimper of discomfort. The officer bends further, hissing the venom straight into your cheek.

(You’re special, little one.)

The same man stares back at you now, the streak of blood dipping under his chin.

“I know you.”

You barely recognize your own voice, wasted by debris.

“I’ve seen your face before,” you continue as you press your palms into the ground, ignoring the way chunks of metal dig into your skin.

At first he says nothing, eyes wide as he surveys with distinct interest. “I was always curious if the traitor of Yavin 4 ever survived.”

Traitor.

What does he mean traitor?

“You gave me over to Moff Gideon,” you murmur, nauseated by the way the room swirls as you reach the collapsing wall. He hasn’t noticed the blaster on the floor between you yet. You’re delirious with the hope of taking it before he can.

“They said you… didn’t make it off the bloody ship,” he says in a wheeze. When you blink to regard him, you notice his hand is pressed into his now blackened uniform jacket.

Shrapnel, impaled into his stomach.

He’s dying.

“Which ship?” you ask, swallowing what little spit is in your mouth to coat your dry throat. “Please, I need to know.”

“The only ship he’d keep you on,” he scoffs with a gurgled laugh. “Do you so easily forget?”

With a squeak you manage to stand at full height. Although the pain shoots clear through your leg and into your head, you begin to limp your way through the rubble towards the blaster.

“I have no memory.” The same words you once told the Moff in a dream, far away from here. “Nothing. Shapes and faces, moments in time that don’t connect, but your face — in the fire and dirt, I saw you. You told me I was hiding.”

His stare hardens at your confession. “You truly don’t remember, do you?”

“No, but I need to.”

It’s a plea you wish you could hold back, especially when the realization dawns on his face of what you’ve been stalking towards. You fumble as you lean down to grab the blaster, only to fumble back to the ground. He shifts against the wall to try and beat you to it, but winces as the shrapnel disappears deeper.

The more he moves, the faster his death will be.

The blaster is yours. You hug it to your chest.

“Why do you call me a traitor?” you press on, though your next question causes bile to rise in your throat. “Why am I special to him?”

He smiles, though there is no joy in it. “Because you… took things that didn’t belong to you. You… bested the Moff right under his nose. Never anticipated a… princess to best him.”

The wave his words cause crashes over you like an impending hurricane, flooding your system with unspeakable dread.

So it’s true.

It isn’t an off-handed nickname given to you by a bounty hunter.

(Safely transport a princess of value from this moon to the planet of Coruscant.)

“And now he wants nothing more than to… hurt you,” he adds, gasping for air.

Your chin falls to the curve of the Stormtrooper armor, searching.

(As if somehow his words would conjure the very tangible item you allegedly stole.)

The pieces are fitting, albeit jaggedly so. You stole something from the Empire, something dear to Moff Gideon, but it isn’t here.

(Is it back on the Crest?)

The officer’s pained voice cuts through your panic.

“Kept you on that ship for weeks, he did. Couldn’t get you to answer… where you’d hidden the bloody thing. Tortured for hours. I almost pitied you.”

“Hidden what?” you whisper in fear, but he continues his recount.

“He thought… that pathetic rescue mission ended with your Rebel scum ship being blown to smithereens. Dead. Never to be seen again. But then they caught… word it may not have been so. A cover-up.”

You lean forward despite the dizziness in the back of your head. “I need to know what I stole. I am begging you: tell me.”

His breath shortens, chest convulsing for air, but he finds it in his final sighs.

“Things we… wished to accomplish. The remnant plans of the Empire. A winning blow against scum.”

The gnarled, crimson teeth of the officer gleam as he cackles.

“A princess… volunteering to hide in plain sight. A death wish. Your days… have always been numbered, but he’ll find you soon enough. He always does.“

A chill shoots down the back of your spine.

Closing your eyes to catch your bearings, you breathe through a wave of nausea and dizziness once more. Sweat drips from your brow and onto the thigh of your armor. The sirens still sound. The lights still flicker.

You haven’t heard Mando’s voice once.

Shaken fingertips reach down to your belt, sifting through unfamiliar pockets until they find the homing beacon.

(Run. You need to run.)

When you finally open your eyes, the officer is gone: his eyes stare to the ripped-apart ceiling, lifeless, with his bloodied palm pressed to his decorated breast pocket.

“Mando?" You speak to the open air, hoping the comms link is somehow still functioning. "I need you."

Everything is spinning. Your thumb tabs at the button on the tracker, but it won't illuminate.

“Shit. Mando, answer me. I'm — below you. I don't think I can make it out of here, not on my own."

He does not answer.

Focus. Stay focused.

(Stay alive and focus.)

"We need to — get off of Trask."

The pain in your leg shoots straight through your body when you attempt to move. You cry out and hunch over the curve of the dented breastplate, before your voice falters to a whisper.

"Please, get us off Trask... I can't... It's my fault—”

Your elbow buckles, causing your palm to slip against the floor.

The last thing you remember is hearing the smack of your skull against the hard surface of the freighter floor.

#din djarin x reader #din djarin x f!reader #din djarin x female reader #din djarin x you #the mandalorian #din djarin #the mandalorian fic #the mandalorian fanfic #star wars #star wars fanfiction #mando/you #mando/reader #fic: point a to point b #point a to point b

177 notes · View notes

chiangyorange · 1 year

Note

I really need to reread all the peepaw fics because my brain has trouble keeping them separate, but I'm pretty sure WMAS has the wonderful marigolds scene that is very memorable to me. (I'd double check, but you know, jail!)

MARIGOLDS!!!!!!!!!!!!

(v excerpt taken ch3 v)

Mikey opens his eyes and he sees a city around him. This… is new. The sky is a pale red like the sunrise and as he looks around him, the city is destroyed. It doesn’t scare him somehow. He takes his time turning around in place, seeing the tall battered buildings covered in bright colors of paint. Greenery of plants overtake the sides of buildings, framing the bright formless graffiti, the dull grey of concrete to something colorful. It clings to the bricks in a relentless enduring grasp of life. From the windows of the buildings shine lights through them. Multicolored, like they are the LCD screens from Times Square. It’s bright. There are no people, the city is in shambles, but it’s still alive.

i wanted mikey to be somewhere that is so familiar but not at the same time. in this one, i was thinking "if you were to make a place, a physical plane that defines yourself by you dreams, your hopes, your desires, what would that look like?" and for this dreamscape, the obvious answer was new york.

(and i think that everyone knows it by now that this is future!mikey's dreamscape) i thought, how different would this be from our mikey in the present?

so i added the broken city, the apocalypse feel, but unlike the city we saw in the movie, this is clean. its not overrun by kraang bio-whatever the fuck, and instead with plants, flowers. i took most inspiration from tlou in this because even though THAT setting is an apocalypse, well, fuckin LOOK

and then the graffiti and glowing windows, those are colorful, the proof what was alive, the people of new york, the community, the art.

(v excerpt taken from ch1 v)

Uncle Michelangelo said that the old New York could be really pretty. There were so many lights that made the fog glow a brilliant color that makes everything magical. Quieter, he told Casey that there was always a person behind those lights. Someone was always adding to the beauty.

and then we come to mikey's exploring

(v excerpt taken ch3 v)

Mikey looks through the streets as he walks. He sees something move in the periphery and his eyes catch onto an overgrown patch of marigolds from a window’s flower pot bobbing from a breeze. His eyes follow as the flowers seemingly grow in pathways, falling out from the pot, down the walls, and to the streets. He follows the trail. The path of marigolds becomes denser and denser, but the petals slowly recede from the flower heads until the floors are simply just the leaves and plucked stems. Mikey finds himself at an intersection, the metal poles of lightstops fallen over at angles around the area like fencing. In the middle of the intersection is a massive patch of marigolds with bursting orange petals. The rendering petals from before cover the concrete of the street like a carpet. The patch of marigolds in the middle looks like a bed, how the orange flowers pop out of the ground into a perfect circle like a mattress.

i chose marigolds specifically because 1) theyre orange and 2) to continue that life, everything that's sprawling but in a good way. (and maybe in a smaller, but no less important way, tie back to donnie's passion to botany)

mikey is fire, that much is true, but more than that, its a wish to go back. back to the time where people COULD have planters on their balcony rails of bursting flowers, back to when spray paint breathe life to dull concrete walls.

its a dream, its a hope.

its planting marigold seeds in a pot and nurturing it to brighten your home.

#wmas asks #we'll meet again soon #wmas creator commentary

27 notes · View notes

fourseasonsfigs · 1 year

Text

Firefighter Huo Yan

This brave little fireman is the third in this series of Gong Jun figs - I posted about Ice Cream Cutie and Cute Nezha before.

Huo Yan is the character that he played in The Flaming Heart. Have some wonderful behind the scenes photos of Gong Jun in this uniform:

I put this shot first because I love it so much. This is just gorgeous. The pose, the angle - never would I think a firefighting uniform could look so much like high fashion. Spectacular.

Living in fire-prone Southern California has made me incredibly grateful for the unbelievably brave firefighters there and all across the US. True heroes indeed. That being said, I've never been into the actual fire uniform look, although I know plenty of folks that are. I will say Gong Jun and Zhang Zhehan's firefighting shows have made me see the error of my ways.

I don't know how I was wrong about so many things before I fell into this fandom, but it has opened my mind! Dog and cat attributes on figs/dolls/art, bright colorful patterned clothing, all kinds of clothing and styling, etc etc. It's nice to be wrong sometimes, and then suddenly be gifted with a whole new world of things to enjoy out there. It would be like me going through life thinking lilikoi is just not something I'm into eating, and then trying it, and then suddenly the whole world of passionfruit flavors is opened up to me! Incredible. (Except maybe passionfruit-flavored coffee, we all know that's just not two combinations that go together well)

Like the other two figs, our brave little toaster arrived snuggly packed in a protective polystyrene cut out box.

This time Gong Jun's patented Very Serious Model Face is now the Very Serious Firefighting Business Face, and I respect it!

Love this fig angle! He looks so stern and resolute! The Very Serious Firefighting Business Face has now taken on distinct characteristics of I'm Saving That Cat No Matter What, Sir

I'm really enjoying the cowlick of hair in the back of his head. This is a nice angle to see the details on his gloves too, which is not visible in the tunnel pics above but is visible in the pic of him with his coffee on his phone.

Lot of lines going on in this top with the reflective bands and the belt. This angle always distorts lines (like how I pin that on the angle and not on my rudimentary photography skills?), so you'll see in the next picture how the factory actually did a pretty good job of keeping it all fairly clean.

See what I mean? The lines look great here. They also actually modeled the belt to be 3-D and slightly bigger than the jacket, which is a great detail. Same with the jacket sleeves being larger than his gloves.

His little arms are so cute here. I really like when the fig makers model detailed little hands with fingers, but I'm also weak for more stylized hands too. You know it.

SPEAKING of cute, I just now noticed the little smiley face on his right shoulder badge. AHHHH! I had to go back and zoom in to the badge on his other shoulder to see if it was the same, and it is. Too cute!

You can see in this pic and the one above that he has the Fig Forward Lean going on, which helps to offset the weight of the head so the fig can stand up well. He does stand securely - it also helps that his legs and boots are close together, which actually forms one solid and more stable unit.

Which you can see better here. I upped the exposure on this so you can hopefully see the adorable fact that his helmet is hollow in the interior! The over-bright exposure does wash out the deep black of his uniform, but the little helmet detail is too cute to miss. It's clearly way too small of a helmet to fit on his big ol' serious head, so it must be for the Jiangxi cat he's rescuing.

Hehe, I like the suggestion the slightly spiky-topped hair Gong Jun has here. Always delighted by the way fig makers render the many, many varieties of short hair for both Zhehan and Junjun.

Adorable art here on the box card, which matches the box here - yes, it's the same box on all three of these figs so far!

I will note for those following this post from the other two figs in this series, that despite significant effort combing Xianyu over the last week, I still have seen not a single fig that could be anything approaching that Pokéball Jun there on the side of that box. I still can't believe I had no idea that this existed and I MUST HAVE IT. It's adorable!

Material: Resin

Fig Count: 253

Scene Count: 18

Rating: Someone needs to stop climbing trees!

[link back to Master Fig Index for more posts]

#junzhe #gong jun #word of honor cast #woh cast #shl #shl cast #huo yan #the flaming heart #jzeu #figthusiast

4 notes · View notes

partyinthemysterymachine · 2 years

Note

I'M CURIOUS AF WHO ARE THESE TWO MONSTERS NEAR POOR SCARED HARRY? 😳😳😳👀👀👀

SHAKES AND VIBRATES

oh!! oh you wish to know my monsters?? u wish to hear GOOMT's monsters?? WELL!!!! ha ha ha OOOHHH

OOH I'M GLAD YOU ASKED!!!

(no rly bless u, ilusm, thank u for asking and ur vested interest, i'm REALLY SUPER appreciative ❤️❤️❤️💖💖💖🥚🥚🥚🥚🥚)

and ofc, since u know i gotta, here is the obligatory link to my Harry/James glacial slowburn, Get Out Of My Town, and GOOMT’s corresponding blog for updates, aesthetics, art, and all that jazz!

NOW KEEP IN MIND: these are only descriptions of the monsters in the full picture i did here. there are others in the monster cast too, that are LOTS of barrels of fun, and VERY intricate and intriguing in their own way, just as the ones mentioned/following.

(the picture itself is a part of the GOOMT actor AU, where it’s all just a show, folks! (consider it to the likes of the Silent Hill blooper reel, which we were ROBBED OF in later games >:( 🔪 @ konami 5ever) and you can find its tag here.)

CONTENT WARNING: descriptions of child death, James Sunderland

JAMES SUNDERLAND

James Sunderland is a stupid little idiot weasel and conduit of Silent Hill. he has so many problems and is not going to do anything about it because he’s a stupid and depressed little wanker who doesn’t have any rights, not that he ever did in his life.

after the events of Silent Hill 2, James pitched himself into the lake but the town wasn’t gonna let him off easy. it had plans, and needs, for James. our boy here crawled right out of Toluca Lake after haphazardly (and illegally, but whatever; who’s gonna give him a ticket? .. yeah that’s what i thought) parking it in its depths and has remained in South Vale ever since. James sure darn well tried, but he cannot escape through death at his own hand, or otherwise. in fact, the monsters he (and we) have come to know and love have gradually become disinterested in him.

(as for Pyramid Head? huh! well, it’s weird; James hasn’t seen him around in quite a while.. hrm.. really gotta wonder what’s up with that.. ;3c )

what it means to be a conduit of Silent Hill, however, is a little complicated; but the baseline is that he’s Silent Hill’s little battery pack. it needs him and through fun time psychological (and physical, now and again.. but the monsters don’t wanna play anymore, for some reason..) torture, James does what he does best and wallows a sure hell of a lot, thus accumulating nutritious and scrum-diddily-umpious negative power for the town.

oh 👂 you ask, “and for what does it need it, and why James?” great question!

wouldn’t you like to know, weather boy?? ;) but you can read about it all riiight here, babey!!

ok ok jk jk (sorta lol) (bc i mean come on. ISN’T he a monster, tho......? ....hrrmmm hmm hmmmmm........ sources point to yes, if SH2 has anything to say about it, LOL)

let’s ACTUALLY start with my HONEST personal favorite:

THE MEMORY OF HARRY

(this monster was very aptly named by a good friend of mine - hi Gospel! - and so credit must be given where credit is due.)

ART BY capitán solsikke

(uncertain of where solsikke is keeping their public art contacts/social media now, so solsikke, if u happen to see this, pls drop ur deets so i can link back to u pls :< pls..)

FURTHER NOTE: to reduce the long post scrolling and bc tumblr’s image insertion format is horrid, i’m going to put additional art/links to the GOOMT blog posts for Memory of Harry, bc y’all REALLY gotta see the actual faithful renderings of him i also commissioned from capitán solsikke

the Memory of Harry first appeared at the end of GOOMT’s Chapter 27: Yeah, Me Neither. his description is as follows (and ADDITIONAL NOTE: Harry is, GOOMT-canonically, left-handed):

A lean man teetered on exhausted legs. Because his entry only allowed them to view him from the side, from that angle they saw he wore a brown leather jacket discolored by smoke stains and was torn at the shoulder. The jeans on his legs were tainted and ratty, and his shoes only held together by determination.

From what could be told of his profile, this man’s face had retained most of its features, despite the crusty, black skin covering every inch. His dark hair lay flat on his head, save for a wispy few strands that fanned loose over his brow. Misshapen scarring created a thick, blinding patch over his visible eye. And lastly, the reason his nonstop weeping was muffled was due to a mouth sewn shut so many times that it was replaced by nothing but a bulky, knotted mask.

But this visage was nothing compared to his cargo. In his hand he held a smaller one attached to a thin, tiny arm, of which was connected to the raw and burned corpse of a little girl. She was on her belly, her head hung like a sack of sand between her shoulders, obscuring her face, and her stringy, oily black hair dangling and swaying with every move the man made. On her body was a tattered blue dress, perhaps once long-sleeved as suggested by the remains of ripped fabric at her elbow, and black shoes over white socks patched by dried orange blood and char. Wherever she was forced to go, she left a wet streak of black and crimson in her wake.

James scrutinized this gruesome new monster hard while it shuffled directionless and wracked with demoralizing sobs. It didn’t seem to know they were there and moved at such a slow pace that James figured they were in no immediate danger. He looked at Harry for guidance.

Harry, however, was in no state to do anything but remember how to breathe. His face was contorted in grief and oddly, recognition. James eyed him, somewhat disturbed by it but moreso uncertain, then took his stare back to their visitor.

The victim of a fire unknown changed his direction, somehow having noticed they were there and faced them. Wherever it could be seen, his skin was indeed blackened, cracked, and flaking like bark, and revealed that both of his eyes were blindfolded by the scarring. Beneath the leather jacket, which sported a broken replica of their flashlights, was a sweater vest that bore a royal blue color somehow notable under the charcoaled damage. It was frayed at the hems and layered over a shirt that was once white. But now that he had confronted the resident and veteran full on, James could have never been prepared for what brought it all together:

The bereaved’s left hand which, until now, had been hidden on his other side, was not empty - and never could be. His arm hung lifeless and his fingers welded, forever clutching, a long, rusted, and bloody steel pipe.

James’s lips parted, and his heart dropped like lead straight through the floors.

Neither moved, and the man, at his snail’s pace, sought to meet them. The next garbled cry caused Harry to twist his bludgeon so hard in his white-knuckled fists that his arms briefly trembled. Each step drew the walking corpse a little bit closer, and still, they couldn’t find their feet. With the pieces having fallen together, the implications of what was before them pulled the ropes in James’s stomach tight enough to make him vaguely nauseous.

James heard himself utter a whisper of his companion’s name. His voice seemed to shake Harry out of his stupor, and in time to choke back sob of his own before it began.

He didn’t even feel his vocal cords nor his tongue move when he spoke again. “Is that..”

“It’s me,” Harry said thickly. “Yeah. That’s me.”

===

he was, considering his importance, intended to be used sparingly - and he is. this monster is (thus far, and understandably,) Harry’s least favorite monster, lmao. Harry would really rather this guy Didn’t, but hey - ain’t nobody here that’re gonna let HIM call the shots any time soon!!

the Memory of Harry is an extremely foreboding warning and tale on two legs. he is also 100% capable of ruining Harry’s day in a pinch, just by existing.

(Harry really doesn’t like to think about him.)

CRYING, BURNING WOMAN

(who is taking a moment out of her day to T-pose to get her point across; and of whom has not yet been properly rendered in art form BUT I’M WORKING ON FIXING THAT 👀 @ all local artists with commissions open)

this monster tends to travel in packs of two or more. she’s first seen alone, and is the debut monster in GOOMT’s story, in Chapter 5: Stop Stopping

From the fog emerged a staggering, loose-limbed creature that was closer than either of them had anticipated. It shuffled on buckled legs, its ropey arms swinging carelessly in the momentum. The head drooped on its neck, masking its face from everything but the asphalt, and they ought to be grateful for it. The entirety of this abomination was ravaged in sickening swirls of exposed muscle, black rot eating away at its flesh, and raw, peeling skin. Like most of the hell creatures in Silent Hill, it was an impossibility. The thing moved as though it was treading through tar, but these two were wise to the fact that that shouldn’t be undermined.

The stench of it reached them as soon as they saw it, triggering bile washing up Harry’s throat, and gritted disgust on James’s face. It smelled of charred meat forgotten in an industrial oven fueled by sulfur and was heavy with the unmistakable odor of wet, moldy clothes. Every breath it took sounded labored and painful, and vaguely feminine. In its wake were slicks of thick blood, and if they dared to be any more observant, flung drops of blood from its stiff fingertips as the arms swayed.

she’s seen again, in Chapter 10: Turn Around, Look At What You See

The smell reached them. It was the same they’d experienced before: burnt flesh and moldy clothes. Harry remembered what she looked like, how her arms swung and her spine could barely support her. Her flesh had been peeling, burnt to the bone in some places, and her head hung to conceal her shame. It sounded like there were more than one of these tortured women - perhaps two or three.

and in Chapter 11: The Pocket Travel Guide To Silent Hill, James reflects upon them - and one other.

There were the crying, burning women, and the creature made of static and fumes. The former were forever smoldering, blighted by singed holes in their baked flesh, and dripped black, acidic ichor. Some were bald, their scalps incinerated, and others had long black hair that was both wet and decorated with kindling flames. When they staggered, their faces were obscured by the way their heads hung on broken necks, and when dead, Harry and James rolled them over to unearth the fact that their eyes were blinded by melted skin and their mouths silenced by a red square made of steel. How their screams were audible from behind the plates, they didn’t know. Their bodies reeked of gasoline and scorched wood.

===

(sensing a pattern, here? >;) )

now in that, there’s mention of a “creature made of static and fumes”. she is not pictured, and has a different appearance - and she’s a radio mimic. the radio (huh.. radio..... what’s going on with that radio.....? is it broken...?? hrm. better take it anyway) mimic.

as you can imagine, she’s also one of Harry’s beloved favorites. ;3c

and finally, however quite (so far) unfairly depicted and appearing MUCH later into the story:

THE LOST BOY (1 of 2)

his (and his better(?) half’s) first appearance comes in Chapter 54: Touché

And before one could say “knife”, galloping, meaty claps on vinyl tile heralded the proper, and fashionably late, introduction of the quadrupedal couple. Upon emerging into the artificial headlights, however, they recoiled. At once, and reminiscent of their earlier behavior on the security monitor, Harry and James watched them volley apart. Furthermore, their emotions seemed to be unchanged from the scene with the girl in the corridor.

Demonstrating that behavior in person sowed the seeds of interest, for as intimate as they seemed to be, they also showed signs of having a mysterious, innate fear of being seen together. The predators chose their quarry and took sides on an archer’s bow. During their slow, deliberate advance, they verified the surmised size discrepancy as correct - and the larger made James its target.

Its hunched skeleton made it hard to decipher its entire build, but anyone could see that it boasted the hallmarks of an athlete: lean, sturdy, balanced, and if it stood on its legs, would probably surpass the six foot mark. In contrast, its partner, who had business with Harry, posed an all around average height and body type. As far as fitness went, this was one that strongly hinted it preferred the bleachers, as there was barely any muscular definition on it at all.

Other than that, the pair’s bodily design was nothing special. Moist and raw burns covered their unpalatable topography from head to toe, mapping out ice cream swirl streets hued in apricot and ripe peach, and pronouncing the sewage brown lagoons dotting them like Dalmatians. Their figures were ugly to be sure, but they weren’t the focus - their faces were.

At one side of the mouth, a necrotic, flat, fabric string vertically secured the starting base of a pattern. It was a simple motif, too: laced shoes. Criss-crossing over the lips and tunneling north and south through septic punctures ringed by crystalized pus eyelets, the strings wove impenetrable diamonds all the way to the other side, triple-knotted in gunky yellow paste, and the uneven ends left dangling. Once upon a time, these mouths must’ve had something to say, or needed to say; but none were permitted to listen. They, like all other fiends, were victims of silence.

Harry and James didn’t much care for the trendy, stringent enforcement of ‘silence is the best policy.’ A while ago, Harry, at least, began to suspect that there was significance behind each individual, unique means; granted, the allegation seemed like no-brainer. All aside, the two here helped build his case.

He’d chew on it later.

Two slanted holes pretended to be a nose, and above them sat two anomalous eyes. One visualized the world through an eternal squint, the eye semi-obscured by a grafted skin bandage. The second, in juxtaposition, told further tale of torture. Stapled to brow and cheek were the upper and lower lids, stretched beyond capacity to plate the living, twitching centerpiece netted in spider silk threads. Firetruck red painted the inverted inner lids, and by merciful grace of the monster’s exotic biology, the socket and orbit glittered from moisture that preserved its functionality.

===

RUBS NASTY LITTLE FLY HANDS

ooh, this pair - OOOH, this P A I R. i LOVE this double trouble. i was VERY excited to introduce them, because they are A TREAT. these boys are a first for GOOMT’s story for being boys, so gosh..... gosh, ho hum hrmmm hmm mmmmrmmm hrrrrmmmm, wonder what that could mean???

>;3c

but yeah, as you can see - their details are quite immense and uhhh.. all we got up there right now is zombie Orange Julius lookin’ out for his next big orange to squeeze. soon, buddy.... don’t worry, my guy; soon.....™️

aaaaand THAT is THAT ON THAT!!!

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR YOUR INTEREST IN MY MONSTERS OF GOOMT, AND GOOMT ITSELF 😭😭😭😭 WORDS CANNOT DESCRIBE MY THANKS AND JOY (despite the 232,398 of them in GOOMT so far but eh, who’s counting)

forreal tho THANK YOU so much for your ask and your curiosity, it means the absolute world to me and i’m shoving it into my mouth and storing it in my cheeks. GOOMT is the love of my entire life and also my bane of existence and i LOVE talking, and sharing aspects of GOOMT* for all that will listen :3c

*except for lore, future planning and scenes, and things not otherwise already published because i am a VERY superstitious writer and VERY cautious of what, and to whom, i share. i won’t answer questions or talk about GOOMT’s lore and planning to anyone - not even Ren, my best friend and patient editor since ch10, who doesn’t even go here. so rest assured, it’s not (the royal) you; it’s me. 😔

AND NOW since you’ve either made it or scrolled to the end, the detailed depictions of the Memory of Harry by capitán solsikke under the cut, and their original posts from GOOMT’s blog:

POST FOUND HERE

AND BONUS ROUND: ACTOR AU

POST FOUND HERE

#silent hill #long post #goomt #ches writes #YEEHAW BABEY!!!!#THANK U TUMBLR USER HEATHERCHASESYOU YOU ARE SUCH A FUCKIN LEGEND #i s2g u make the world go 'round...... ur a total and undeniably genuine soul 😭🥚❤️❤️🙏🙏❤️🥚🥚🥚🥚🥚❤️❤️💖💖🥚🥚🥚 BLESSINGS ON U FOREVER

16 notes · View notes

nokwisi · 2 years

Note

Can make a Viktor go back to his room to get some sleep and find a corset-only reader? (NFSW)

redress (in a state of undress) — viktor x fem!reader warnings/tags: nsfw, 18+, masturbation, teasing, oral sex, vaginal sex, edging, powerplay, dom/sub dynamics (dom!reader, sub!viktor), marking, viktor + whining note: I took some serious creative liberties with this one, and just kinda went with the flow of what I felt like writing. totally went off the rails of the request, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless, anon! wordcount: 4.8k

Viktor has been scarce, as of late.

With the rapid and exciting development of Hextech, he'd been holed up in his lab more often than not. Long days bleeding into late nights, sometimes spilling into the morning after, ignorant to anything say for prospect of furthering his work. You understand. He and Jayce are on the cusp of discovering something truly life-altering, holding the future in their hands; obsession was inevitable.

But, you'd be lying if you said you aren't feeling a little neglected.

You'd never outright tear Viktor from his work, however. The process of separating the scientist from the creation is a tedious one, and being involved with Viktor has taught you that patience is indeed a virtue—but the goal you're working towards is anything but virtuous...

The first day, it's nothing but a look.

Viktor gathers his belongings—journals, schematics, his well-worn pen—his other hand leaning on his cane, rendering him incapable of effectively hugging you before he departs to the lab. He offers a rushed, apologetic look. You gaze up at him through the fan of your lashes, teasing, "go on then, man of progress."

He goes to leave, hesitates in his step, then gives a soft chuckle. The glint he tosses your way is one of endearment, and gratitude.

The second day, it's a touch.

To his credit, he leaves his blueprints and myriad of notes until after he embraces you. It's intimate and lingering, as though silently apologizing for the day prior; enveloping you in his arms with his chin resting atop your head. You can feel the fluttering pulse of his heart where your lips ghost against his pale throat.

He draws a line up the curve of your spine, following it to the nape of your neck to languidly twirl the wispy hairs there. When his eagerness and your understanding inevitably tears you apart, you reach up and cradle his face in your palm; gliding your fingers along the sharp line of his jaw as you pull away completely.

You admire him fondly all the while.

He blushes—you shoo him promptly after.

The third day, it's a kiss.

You haven't kissed him in days, and it takes a conscious effort to not simply drag him back into the bed and have your way with him, absconding his time for your own selfish desire. Instead, you opt to leave him yearning, chasing down the taste of you; tantalized and hungry.

He holds your head in his hands, his long fingers combed through your hair as he glides his tongue along the seam of your lips, silently begging for entrance. You resist the temptation of opening your mouth, denying both of you that electric sensation; feigning obliviousness to the way he steps closer, seeking more with the press of his slender torso against your own.

Gently, you pry yourself free from him, holding his wrists in your hands as you drink in the lust that twists his angled features. He's always looked so ethereal in his desire, painted in hues of ivory and rose; eyes at half-mast, glassy with the haze of yearning. It nearly pains you to step back, effectively snuffing out the flame that flickers between you two.

"At this rate, Jayce will start work without you." You tell him, keeping your voice light and airy. "You should go."

Viktor's lashes flutter, resurfacing from the moment. He gives a small nod, swallows thickly, and clenches his teeth hard enough you can see the ripple of sinewy muscle in his gaunt cheeks. "Right, yes, I...I should not keep him waiting."

His words hang in the air like a double-entendre; neither of you dare pluck it into fruition, and instead Viktor leaves with a touch of haste.

You watch him go with a knowing smile.

The fourth day, you are gone before he wakes.

He's grown fond of your warmth beside him, the tangle of your limbs and the wild splay of your hair, tickling his face feather-light long before he opens his eyes. The damp heat of your breath against his sternum has become a normality, the drape of your arms around his waist a comfort.

Viktor wakes that morning with an ache that digs far deeper than any physical ailment. The note you'd left on his bedside table does little to slake that feeling:

Vik,

Prof. requested my presence at the apprenta auditions. It seems there's still work yet for those of us not unraveling the mysteries of the Arcane. All teasing aside, I wish you great progress in your endeavors today.

Viktor returns the note to the table with a delicate touch, before promptly falling back into the overly plush comfort of his bed. He runs a hand through his tousled hair, sighs, then drapes his forearm over his stomach.

He thinks of you. He envisions your soft features; the sinuous dips and curves of your body; the feverish way you wrap yourself around him when he's above you—inside you—holding him close, lips and tongue loose with praise for both him and the gods alike.

His hand ventures downwards, over the flat plane of his abdomen, gliding between the apex of his hips.

Viktor knows what you're doing. He's aware of your methodical seduction. Conscious that you not being here is meant to make him feel this ache, this yearning that needles it's way into the very marrow of his being. He is a flustered concoction of longing, lustful, and repentant, and he gasps out loud when his fingers wrap around his stiff length.

He tries to keep his touch fleeting—teasing, reminiscent of the way you do it. It isn't the same, he is painfully aware of that fact. Left to his own devices, neglected in the very same manner he's left you these recent weeks; the message is certainly not lost on him.

Still, Viktor can't help but wonder if you're thinking of him in this moment. The image of him frustrated, blushing red as he digs his head into the pillow and bucks his hips into his fist. You're familiar with the way he grits out your name when he's close, breathless and desperate—are you hearing him, now?

He imagines you with a knowing smirk on your beautiful lips.

He arrives precisely when you expect him to, early enough in the night to confirm your efforts haven't been in vain. You feel light and giddy with excitement, despite the unyielding tightness of the article constricting your upper-half.

It's an intricate thing, perhaps a touch ostentatious for the moment, but Viktor has always appreciated the complex.

The corset is a rich, mahogany brown; gold designs of cogs and gears threaded meticulously into the fabric, accented with glimmering bronze fastens that steeple down the middle of your torso. The deep line of the bust is embellished with black lace, frilled to tickle the sensitive skin of your breasts—pushed up and together, nearly spilling over the top. Contrastingly, you're wearing nothing but sheer, voile panties.

You sit on the edge of the bed, prim with your knees tucked beneath you, resisting the urge to fret over yourself. Through the door, you can detect the distinct thump of Viktor's cane, announcing his approaching presence in a manner that corresponds with the anxious flutter of your heart.

Here we go.

The door opens, and immediately, his golden eyes are drawn towards the corset. A lovely blush dusts his cheeks promptly afterwards, and for a moment, he is genuinely stunned—standing inert in the doorway of your shared bedroom, staring.

It's quite the accomplishment, really. You can count on one hand the amount of times Viktor's been stunned speechless. You can't help the victorious smirk that threatens your composure, tugging your lower lip between your teeth as you wiggle your hips a bit; baiting him.

"Welcome home, Viktor." You purr.

"I..." He starts and stalls in the span of an instant, reaching up to sweep the flat of his palm over his mouth with a steadying exhale. "I can't help but feel like I have missed something important." He murmurs.

You quirk your head curiously, gracefully sliding your legs off the bed to stand. "Is this not to your taste? I had you in mind when I picked it out."

He's quick to shake his head, gripping the notch of his cane tight, steadying himself as you approach him with all the grace of a feline stalking prey. There's a glint of apprehension in the way he looks at you, and a swelling sense of accomplishment brews in your lower belly; he's as keen as ever.

"No! It's beautiful—you are...beautiful. Alarmingly so, to be honest." He swallows, "if I weren't so distracted, I might even realize that this is a trap."

You giggle; it chimes elegantly in the air. Innocuously, you say, "a trap? Why would you think that?"

Breeching the space between you two, you cup Viktor's cheek in the warmth of your palm, lovingly stroking your thumb across the beauty mark beneath his eye. He leans into your touch with a wry, knowing quirk of his lips.

"Will admitting my faults be enough to please you? No—I cannot imagine you went through such great lengths for something as meager as an apology."

You hum, "they don't call you a genius for nothing."

Viktor reaches up, daring to cradle the back of your head in his large hand, pulling you close. You indulge him, but stop just shy of his eager mouth; his breath, carrying a sweet piquancy, blooms hot against your face.

"Nonsense. I am nothing but a fool for you, my love."

You inch closer, letting your lips graze his, your tone slipping into something sultry, "let's put that to the test then, shall we?"

And then you pull away, silently reveling in the way Viktor physically leans forward, as though chasing you down. "A test? Hm. I've always done well with those." He muses, playfully—but the breathy quality there betrays him.

You drop your hand from his face to his tie, pulling it from his vest with a neat little tug. He follows the movement eagerly, like a man hypnotized, tracing your steps until the backs of your knees touch the bed. He pushes his hips against you, willing you to tumble onto the plush at your back.

"Is that so? This is a bit of a pop quiz, y'know." Slipping out from between him and the bed, you saunter around him, using his tie to guide him until your positions have flipped.

"I happen to be intimately familiar with the subject matter." Viktor remarks; but no matter how he clings to his clever banter, you can see urgency etched clear in his eyes.

Good.

"On the bed." Keeping your voice saccharine, you let the tie slip from your fingers like sand, giving a firm little push against the middle of his sternum with two fingers. "And no touching."

The corners of his mouth threaten to turn up again, "a fitting punishment, I think."

Letting himself drop down, he abandons his cane at the foot of the bed in favor of fisting the duvet in either hand. Your initial goals of asserting yourself wavers just so at the sight of him. He's rapt with you, following every single movement you make as you step into the open space between his splayed knees. Having been denied his attentions for so long, you can't help but revel in having it all, now.

Still—you've been planning this for days. However fulfilling it is to see that lustful ardor in Viktor's eyes, you want to see a glimmer of something a bit more...desperate.

"Did you think of me?"

Your fingers dance along his knees, upwards. Viktor's breath grows shallow with anticipation, his grip on the duvet tightening as you near dangerously close to his groin; paying special mind to avoid the stiffness of his erection straining prominently against his slacks.

"Perhaps you should be more specific." He exhales; you feel the sinewy cords of muscle in his thighs twitch beneath your palms. "I think of you quite often."

You playfully strike your tongue against your teeth, removing your hands from his legs in favor of pushing against the thin shelf of his shoulders. Viktor falls back on to the bed with a punched out sigh, his hair splayed out around his head as he peers up at you; awed, enthralled, anxious.

"Could've fooled me." You quip, deftly sliding up and over him to settle with your knees astride his slender waist.

"I've no problem with you investing all your time in the pursuit of a better tomorrow, Viktor." You roll back onto his erection with a purposeful little wriggle.

Viktor hisses with a combination of discomfort and utter need, tugging against the bedspread to keep from reaching out and grabbing your hips.

"But, I thought you were above placating me with lies."

"Never—I would not lie about that." He grits out, becoming increasingly distracted as you let your movements fall into a repetitious grind; rubbing your cunt against the hard line of his cock.

He stumbles through his next words, tacking them on in haste, "I do—I think about you frequently. I sometimes wish that were not the case—mmmph!"

You ground yourself with your palms pressed flat against his chest, rocking back against him hard, enamored with the way he's crumbling beneath you.

You haven't even gotten to the best parts, yet.

"Tell me, then."

"You make it difficult to focus." Spilling the words, his face has taken on an opaque blush, eyes half-lidded as he gazes up at you in a dazed need. "I cannot think properly on the best of days because of you."

"Strange attempt at a compliment, Viktor." Listless, slowing your movements, you start working on the intricacies of his clothing.

Pulling his tie loose; working the buttons open on his vest; the undershirt beneath that, you move in a manner that almost appears bored.

"You misunderstand." He's quick to say, "before you, I have never been so continuously deterred from my work. There was nothing interesting enough—nothing else capable of distracting me the way you do."

Your heart sings at the praise; but you keep that glee concealed as you split open his clothes, exposing his chest. Working downwards, you reveal more and more of his alabaster skin to your hungry gaze.

His chest rises and falls with his labored breathing, and you skim your fingers down his torso, bisecting him tenderly. His taut stomach twitches, hips jerking upwards to jostle you. A small noise in the back of his throat, bordering on a whine, makes a shiver dance like firelights across your skin.

"You are..." he says, breathy, "you are my biggest distraction."

"Such a romantic sentiment—" dipping down, you nuzzle your face beneath his sharp jaw, letting your fingers skirt back up his stuttering chest; nails gently dragging against him. Goosebumps raise in the wake of your touch, and you inhale discreetly, reveling in the familiar scent of him.

Viktor is eager to angle his head back, allowing you to press your lips against the slender column of his throat. His pulse gallops, and you nip him just hard enough to earn a tangible moan. "—coming from a man with such indomitable focus."

It's heavy with sarcasm. Viktor remains astute as ever, an impressive feat, considering his current state of being.

"What...what is it you want to hear?"

He's pushing against you, now, rocking his hips up to steal friction. You let him have it, if only to hear the needy little noises that manifest in his throat.

"Details, Viktor." You crane your head, whispering against the soft palette beneath his ear, "how do you think of me?"

He shudders at the sound of your voice, the little vibration it echoes into the tender flesh. His head turns to the side as you start sucking against his neck, painting the ivory canvas of his skin with dense mottles of purple and red. Below, you keep a languid, undulating rhythm of your hips, panties growing damp from your own arousal.

"I—ah—I think of your eyes." He stutters, you hum; coaxing him on as you follow the tendon of his throat, downwards. "I think of how you look at me. It is intoxicating, being the subject of your desires."

You continue your venture down the unyielding plane of his chest, dipping your tongue into the divot where collarbones meet, grazing your teeth against the hardness of his sternum, tracing the ladder of his ribs, made exceedingly prominent with his stilted breathing. Your gaze flicks to his hands as you pay tribute to the stretch of skin between his navel, and the hem of his pants. They are clenched still in the duvet, knuckles bled white, the tendons protruding with the vigor of holding himself back.

"Do you wish to see that look, now?"

You shimmy your hips cattily, dragging your heat against his painfully hard cock as you slink downwards, off his lap completely. Laying open mouthed kisses against his flexing stomach, you pay mind to his bad leg whilst peering up at him—and what a sight he makes.

Viktor is the embodiment of disheveled: his chestnut hair is absolutely wild, wayward strands falling over his darkened eyes as he watches you, mesmerized; desire softening his sharp features. A flourish of color blooms on his cheeks, dusting his love-bitten throat and chest.

"More than anything." He admits—although that may be too strong of a word. Viktor lets the confession roll off his tongue, as natural as breathing. "I...I can achieve orgasm by just envisioning the look on your face when I am fucking you."

Oh.

The swear sounds unexpectedly sharp on his tongue; as equally unexpected as the effect it has on your body, cutting straight through you with a swathe of heat. More of that, you note—you wish to hear him debauched.

"And have you?" You prod, feeling a little breathless yourself.

Viktor squirms a little, swallows, then nods quickly.

He's growing sheepish alongside impatient, and you place a single, open-mouthed kiss against the blade of his hip, darting your tongue out quick to taste the heat of him, before finally touching him where he needs it most.

"When?"

You whisper against his skin, mercifully palming his hot, achingly stiff cock, making quick work of the fastens of his pants with the other. His breath catches in his throat. You feel the jittery, uncontrollable tremor in his legs.

You almost feel bad.

Almost.

"This morning," He rushes out, his head thrown back in such a way to pronounce the length of his neck, the prominence of his sharp Adam's apple and the splotches of color you'd adorned him with moments earlier, "this is torturous—"

"You think this is torturous? Imagine how I felt." You say casually, as though you're not sliding your hand into the confines of his pants, wrapping fingers around the steel-hard base of him; as though he hadn't just admitted to masturbating to the thought of you, that very morning.

But he did, and that knowledge is enough to feed the flame that's growing within you, arousal twisting the insides of your belly like a rag. Viktor opens his mouth to reply, but his voice snags in his throat when you envelope him in the softness of your palm. He is throbbing, and as you pull him free, you take silent pleasure in the pre-cum that pearls at the ruddy tip of him.

"I admit—I've d-done a poor job of conveying my affection." He stumbles over his words, his accent growing thick. "It has not been my i-intention."

You hum thoughtfully; a display of indifference that juxtaposes the rapid fire of your heart. Of all the times you've been with Viktor, you don't think you've ever seen him as disordered as he is, now.

Laying your cheek against the hardness of his hip, you give him a slow, listless stroke from the base, all the way to the tip. You can feel his entire frame pull taut, wound up tight in anticipation for a rhythm that fails to begin. Stopping at the head, you sweep your thumb over his slit, spreading the pearlescent slick there.

Viktor whines, "oh—please, my love—" one hand pries free from his death-grip on the duvet to drag through his hair, gripping it, pulling it with a grit of his teeth.

All his sharp verbosity is shattered on his tongue, bleeding out breathy pleas and gravel-pitched groans. The tendons of his throat are rigid, the rise and fall of his torso like that of a tumultuous wave. You can feel tension pull on every nerve in his body; and you wickedly wonder, still caressing the head of his cock, squeezing him intermittently, how much more he can take before he snaps entirely.

You tell yourself that you are feeling merciful, that it has nothing to do with your insides twisting and writhing behind your mask of salacious indifference. You say instead, softly; affectionate and forgiving, "I know."

And then you take him into your mouth, and the sudden wet heat there makes Viktor's responding groan break in the air. The sound curls high with need as you give a teasing suck, swirling your tongue around the tip. It's a bitter, heady taste, but familiar in a way that makes arousal pool between your thighs.

"Yes—yes, please—" Viktor breathes, and then he nearly jolts upright entirely when you suddenly sink down unto him, letting the weeping tip of his cock slide just so into the tight channel of your throat.

He whispers a sharp swear in his mother tongue, propping his chest up with an unsteady arm behind him. His other hand tears from the bedspread, and you can see as you gaze up at him, gently bobbing along his throbbing cock, how he nearly takes the reign of your hair through sheer instinct alone—

It makes the action of him slapping his hand over his mouth exponentially more gratifying.

You hum praise for him on the downstroke. Viktor's eyes screw shut, his own sound of pleasure muffled beneath his palm. A heavy pulse on your tongue tells you he's already close, as he has seemingly lost the ability to do so himself: bucking his hips on the offbeat of your rhythm, chasing down the tight heat of your throat as his fingers dig into his gaunt cheeks.

You grant him one more thrust, swallowing around him for good measure—and it sounds like he shouts against his hand—before you suddenly pull off completely. You give a kittenish little, 'ah', feeling slick web between your lips, stroking him with a shallow pressure.

His hand drops from his mouth back into the sheets, curling them in his fist as he inhales sharp enough it cuts the air. He looks at you like you've betrayed him; you draw back slow enough to not break the gossamer thread connecting your tumescent lips to his cock.

And then you smile.

"Vixen." He wheezes it like a curse, sounding devastated and awed all at once. He fixates on the way you reach up and daintily swipe the corner of your mouth with a finger.

"Tease." You counter, crawling your way back up the length of his body. "Besides, I am a bit of a mistress, aren't I?" You grind against the hot shaft of him again, your slick dampening your panties enough it translates to a smooth glide.

Viktor drops back with a moan, the motion aided with your hands on his chest. Wisps of hair stick to his forehead and temples, eyes flooded with the black of his dilated pupils.

"Temptress, more like."

"Hmm. Is that what I do, then? Tempt you into straying from your first love?" You tease, and it's meant to be rhetorical, but Viktor nods his head in response, regardless.

"Yes," his attention flits from your face, down to where you are rubbing against him. His breath is labored, his whole body flushed a wanton pink.

"Yes, you tempt me in ways that drive me to madness. How could I ever focus on anything else, when I am privy to what you feel like?" His tone catches gravel, his eyes sharpening as he slants his gaze back up to lock with yours.

Your hips stutter, a scintilla of raw lust igniting within you at the sudden shift of his demeanor. Drawing your lower lip between your teeth, you dip a hand between your bodies, raising your hips just enough to hastily tug aside that drenched layer of fabric.

"Details." You echo your words from earlier, but the deviance in your tone is washing out with the wave of need that rolls through you.

You lower your hips to press your slit against the underside of his shaft, rocking short and choppy, slicking the length of him, and Viktor sighs sharply. "You curse me, I can hardly work because I am constantly thinking of your mouth, of how beautiful you look with my cock between your lips—my name on your tongue."

You shiver, widening the breadth of your motions until the head of his length rubs teasingly against your hole. Viktor groans, "and here," he dares to bring a hand to your mound, sweeping his thumb over your clit, and you shiver and whine against your will, "where I fill you with my cock, and you take it all as though you were made for me."

It feels like heaven, the lazy way he presses circles into you, but you are not so lust-drunk that you can't perceive the shift of power he's vying for. You score your lower lip with your teeth, reach down and steal his hand away with your fingers laced together.

"It's true, moya lyubov. If you knew the extent to which I think of you, you would never question where my affections lie."

It's genuine in a way that juxtaposes the scorching heat his earlier words left behind, and a part of you is aware of the way it whittles at your resolve, a gentle seduction that Viktor has always been apt at demonstrating. You cast a heavy gaze upon him, tightening your fingers around his hand, and he mirrors the action.

"You don't need to fantasize, Viktor." Pressing your hips down hard on the forward stroke, he flinches and moans, "I am here, I want you just as much...and, I'm willing to share you." You say the last part with a light, jeering tone.

Viktor huffs out a strangled chuckle, "then please, indulge yourself—!" He is cut short with a choked out moan as you slide back, the head of his cock catching on your hole, before sinking into the tight clutch of your heat; stretching you out too quick, filling you until you're settled flushed against his angular hips.

"Fuck."

It's a sharp, poignant swear, slipped out from his grit teeth, and you shiver, a wave of static pleasure lancing through you, from your curled toes, all the way to the tips of your ears. Delighted at the sound of him, you squeeze around him purposefully. Viktor's grip on your hand tightens enough it aches, and you use him as leverage as you begin to sway atop him, grinding your clit against his pelvic bone hard enough to catch flame.

"I hope you don't mind, Viktor." You pant, thrilled at the absolutely wrecked expression on his face. His length spears you deep enough that there's an intoxicating twinge of pain each time you settle fully back unto him, a torrent of your arousal punctuating the action with an obscene, wet slide. "I said I would share, but I'm feeling greedy."

He breathes out a string of words in a foreign cadence, sprinkled within are fragments that catch your ear; most enticing being that of, "—yes, please—use me."

His free hand, unable to remain at his side, snaps out to grab at the crescent of your hip, pressure felt even through the dense fabric of your corset. You're quick to pry his grip from you, clumsily entangling your fingers with his before falling over him, pinning his hands down on either side of his head.

You are close enough that his breath puffs out heavily against your mouth; and he cranes his neck, tries to steal your lips in a kiss you quickly deny—contrary to how badly you wish to. His lashes flutter against his sharp cheekbones, eyes opening to look at you with a combination of desire and delirium.

Your voice is sweet, "I plan to."

#viktor x reader #viktor x you #arcane viktor #arcane #arcane fanfiction #my writing #listen i know i went wayyy off track but this is just how my mind works dsadsa

1K notes · View notes

superstition13 · 3 years

Text

So I have a University assignment due at midnight, which I have absolutely zero motivation to do, but it did inspire this little piece.

Distractions

//AKA Dabi Distracts You From Your Work 💙

Dabi x Female Reader (NSFW)

Genre: smut, porn with very little plot involved, fluff

Includes: biting, unprotected sex, hair pulling, cock warming, teasing, pet names, fingering, crying (pleasure), after care, Dabi’s piercings

You can’t tell me that Dabi isn’t the type of guy who would gladly use sex as a means of distracting you from your work

Especially if he feels as though you’re paying too much attention to it and not him

And if you’re a university student, he would definitely fuck your brains out instead of letting you finish an assignment that he knew you had due

Maybe you make the mistake of letting him sit in your desk chair while you sit on his lap, so at least you can be close to him

He’d start off with his chin resting on his shoulder and his arms wrapped loosely around your waist, but it wouldn’t take long for his hands to begin to wander

One hand would drift down to your inner thigh, and begin tracing feather light patterns along the exposed skin he found there with the tips of his fingers, teasingly close to where you really want him to touch you

Meanwhile, his other hand has slipped under your shirt and is now toying with your nipples

And while all this is going on, you’re still desperately trying your best to concentrate, but it’s becoming increasingly harder for you to focus on typing out an essay when your boyfriend’s hands are doing sinful things to your body

It’s when he starts trailing his lips along your neck, nipping, sucking, and leaving tiny bruises behind that you give in to his touches

Dabi’s hand leaves its place on your thigh and his thumb hooks around the waist band of the skimpy pair of gym shorts you’d decided to wear around the house that day

You raise your hips, just enough for him to slide them down to your knees, where they fall and drop to the floor

He pops open the button on his jeans, and you swear you can feel yourself getting just that little bit wetter at the loud sound his zipper makes in the otherwise quiet apartment

His hands go to your hips, and he lowers you onto his achingly hard cock

A small gasp escapes your lips, you’d been careful not to brush up against his dick while you were working, not wanting to encourage Dabi’s teasing

You’d known he was horny, obviously, but you hadn’t realised how hard he truly was

The two of you moan when he’s fully sheathed inside your heat

You expect him to start bouncing you up and down on his cock, but when he doesn’t you figure he wants you to be the one taking charge

Instead, his hands tighten around you warningly, and he keeps you seated firmly in his lap

“Don’t you have something to do, princess?”

“But I thought-”

“You thought wrong angel.”

You can practically hear the smirk in his voice, knowing full well that if you turn your head to look at him, you’ll see one on his face

“Consider this your punishment for ignoring me.”

Part of you can’t believe Dabi is making you finish your assignment instead of fucking you, especially when his cock is buried inside you

Another part of you can totally believe it, knowing all too well what a tease your boyfriend can be

He sits back and begins drawing lazy circles around your throbbing clit

Somehow, you manage to type out a paragraph, and you think that maybe you can do this

Until Dabi decides to flex beneath you, the seemingly innocent movement making his dick twitch inside of you, driving you crazy from the stimulation

You could have tears rolling down your cheeks as you beg him to bend you over your desk and just fuck you already

Instead, he’d have the audacity to coo softly in your ear:

“Come on baby girl, I thought you needed to concentrate?”

But the moment you finish that assignment and submit it to your Professor, he’s pulling out of you and standing up so fast that the chair he’d been sitting on falls over backwards

He quickly manages to get rid of the few articles of clothing the two of you have left between you

Before you know it, Dabi has you bent over the desk, one hand tangled in your hair and the other at your hip in a grip so tight that it's bound to leave bruises. He thrusts into you rapidly, setting a brutal pace. The sounds of skin on skin slapping together, and the obscene noise your cunt makes as he fucks into you fills the air of the studio apartment you share with him.

It takes an embarrassingly short amount of time for you to cum around Dabi’s cock, already pent up and overflowing from almost an hour's worth of Dabi teasing you. Your thighs are glistening as you let go, screaming his name so loudly that your neighbours are sure to file another noise complaint against the two of you come the evening. He releases his grip on your hair, trailing his fingers down your body until they rest between your thighs, and begin to draw circles around your clit once more. Gone are the slow, teasing touches from earlier his only focus is on making you scream out his name out for a second time before he cums. Dabi leans forward, his chest pressing flush against yours back, practically laying on top of you as he rails you without mercy. You realise that you can feel the cold metal of his nipple piercings pressing into your back, and the mental image it conjures makes you clench around him. Dabi lets out a soft groan, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“Fuck sweetheart, you have no idea how good you feel wrapped around me,” he pants, his voice breathy as it caresses your neck. “So good and tight for me, fuck. Come again angel, one more time, I wanna hear you scream my name.”

“God Dabi, yes! Yes! Yes!” You whine, trailing off into a hiss at one particularly hard thrust. “Right there baby, I’m so close, fuck!”

Without missing a beat, he shifts himself slightly, angling his cock in a way that Dabi knew would have you seeing stars and hurtling over that precipice you were dangling from. You were convinced you could feel the tip of him pounding against your cervix, dragging deliciously against your walls in all his pierced glory as he brushed past that sweet spot hidden inside of you with each and every punishing thrust. This new angle, abusing your g-spot while his fingers danced over clit, your nipples being teased as they were dragged and pushed across the surface of your desk; All of it was proving to be too much for you. That coil deep inside of you winding tighter and tighter, rendering you all but incoherent. Your tipping point however, was when your boyfriend sunk his teeth into the junction of your shoulder and neck. It wasn't quite hard enough to break the skin, but you knew without a doubt that he would leave one hell of a mark. The pain from his teeth sends pleasure arcing through your body like waves of electricity, going straight to your pussy, causing that tightly wound coil to snap as you threw yourself from the edge you had been hanging onto for dear life.

"Fuck Dabi, I'm coming, FUCK!" You sobbed, cheeks feeling suspiciously wet. The way your pussy fluttered around him was exactly what Dabi needed to find his own release, his pace becoming more and more erratic as he continued to thrust into you, working you both through the shared orgasm. Your name left Dabi’s mouth in a loud moan that was practically pornographic. He came inside of you, painting your walls with his seed, your combined release already beginning to seep out of you from the sheer amount of cum he was pumping into your cunt.

Eventually, his thrusts come to a halt. Your face was pressed uncomfortably against your desk, and you were pretty sure there was a pen trapped beneath you, but at that moment you didn't quite have it in yourself to care. Your mind was pleasantly fogged over from the post orgasm haze, and had someone asked for your name in that given moment, it probably would have taken you a few minutes to recall.

The first thing you became aware of, was Dabi pressing a series of gentle kisses to your neck, paying particular attention to the large bite mark he had left in the heat of the moment. It throbbed slightly, but not unpleasantly so, soothed by the delicate pressure of his lips. Slowly, he pulled out, a small noise of displeasure escaping you at the sudden emptiness you felt with the absence of his cock. He pulled you up, and guided you gently over to the bed where the two of you collapsed together. His arms encircled your waist, gathering you up against his chest. Fingers began to play with your hair as your awareness slowly began to return, Dabi's lips now pressed gently to the top of your head.

"That was..." you trailed off, still slightly breathless.

"Yeah." He agreed, tracing patterns along your skin.

"I'm going to need a shower," you winced, feeling his cum already beginning to dry on you. You already dreaded the idea of getting up to leave the bed, knowing that by the time you did, your limbs would be feeling like jelly and there would surely be an ache settled between your thighs.

"Not yet," your boyfriend breathed. "I'll get up and get us a towel in a minute. Just, lie here with me for now, okay?"

"Okay," you murmured against him, not needing too much convincing.

"Maybe I should help you with your work more often, princess," he suggested, but was met with no reply. Dabi craned his neck to look down at you, only to realise that you had managed to fall asleep in his embrace.

Here’s that tag you asked for lovely, hope you enjoyed my first attempt at writing smut.

@simpforsadbois 💜

528 notes · View notes