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morallyinept · 5 months

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A Christmas One Shot follow up to my Joel Miller series, Five Days.

Five Days Series Masterlist

☝🏻It would be ideal for you to read the series first if you haven't yet, as this one shot follows on from this series directly. You can read it as a stand alone, but some things might not make sense.

Summary: Months after the final events in Five Days, you and Joel prepare for the next event in your lives at the commune - your wedding day.

Pairing: Post-Outbreak Joel Miller x MatureF!Reader (No name or physical description of reader. However reader is of a similar age range as Joel; in her late forties/early fifties. Joel is slightly older at 56.)

Word Count: 7.7k

Scoville Smut Rating:🌶️🌶️🌶️ “You tell me I’m doing well, and then, you try to kill me.”

Check out my Scoville Smut Ratings here.

Explicit - Unprotected PIV (wrap up, folks!)/oral M receiving/fingering/angst/mentions of death

NSFW. MINORS DNI! OVER 18’s ONLY. YOU ARE SOLELY RESPONSIBLE FOR WHAT YOU READ.

☝🏻Don’t come at me; you’ve been plenty warned. If this story isn't for you, that's fine. Just slip quietly out the back door. No need to make a fuss. It's just a work of fiction.

Author’s Note: An additional festive part, wrapping up Joel and Reader's journey, with a spangly Christmas bow on top. Thank you again to everyone who has read and enjoyed Five Days. Truly means the world. Happy Holidays! 🎄

Enjoy! 🖤

FIVE DAYS SERIES MASTERLIST

MAIN MASTERLIST

Your breath fogs the pane, a condensed, misty cloud as you breathe, surveying the view below in the main square.

The small commune square is adorned with makeshift festive decorations, remnants of the world that once thrived with the capitalist depiction of it all. Buzzing with a distinct holiday cheer, despite the lees of the post-apocalyptic world surrounding it just outside the gates.

Improvised string lights hang from makeshift structures with a welcome, twinkling glow, despite the sky still being light outside, albeit a little more grey now. The pleasant threat of more snowfall lingers in the distance.

In one corner, a group of children - some of whose faces you can put names to now - their laughter echoing through the air, work together to craft snowmen from the scarce patches of snow that still adorn the ground from the recent flurry.

This winter hasn’t been as harsh as you’d expected yet, but the winter of your discourse still remains heavy on your shoulders despite finding some semblance of daily normality here.

You even have a job now, tending to the horses. It’s basically mucking out and feeding, but you’re keen to learn and prove yourself as someone who can pull their weight. Plus, being parted from the black mare for too long, whom you rode to and from the outpost, leaves you with a sense of unease.

Her big, glassy eyes fill you with some comfort the more time you spend with her; those gentle head butts into your own, when it all gets a bit much, reassures you she feels your pain and shares it with you. You’ve since discovered her name is Ashen.

You watch, curiously, as a trellis of flowers is lifted by several men and settled into place. A graceful arch, fashioned from salvaged and repurposed wood, and built and sanded down by Joel himself as a project over the last few weeks - a gift for your wedding day. It's now decorated in vines and dried wild flowers, preserved in their seasonal beauty and uniqueness.

You remember rubbing salve into his splintered hands in the evenings, massaging around his stubby thumbs and calloused palms as he winced and groaned at the rawness fading away before those hands would grip onto your skin and leave you gasping with fading imprints. He really is so good with his hands…

“Here,” Sal’s voice rouses you from your heated reverie and the view outside.

Turning, her hair is pinned neatly and she looks younger somehow. More at ease, more feminine than you’ve ever seen her. Flaming red hair matches her lips and her eyes sparkle.

You smile, taking the delicate lace that she holds out for you, and you step into it, allowing her to button you up.

“Are you nervous?” She asks you as her nimble fingers work. Your eyes are still transfixed out the window as rows of unmatching chairs are lined up by working bodies.

Seems like the whole commune is involved in contributing to the preparations.

You shake your head. “No. Feels right.” You say, agreeing with the stringent relief that prevents any butterflies from flapping their sickly wings. “Feels like it should have already happened, years ago.” You confess, smiling as you smooth down the lace around your cuffs.

“Joel’s a lucky man.”

You shake your head. “No, I’m the lucky one.” Luck, despite everything, seemed to have had your back all along. Although the paths it led you down to find it, you’re not so sure about.

“Let me get a look at you.” Sal says as she steps back. You turn to face her and she sighs in awe.

“Christy has outdone herself. This dress is stunning.” Sal murmurs, her eyes glistening.

“She really has.” You say, admiring the mid-length, hand-made, gown that sits snugly against your body. Made from scraps of lace, Christy, the resident seamstress, has managed to make a dress that’s perfectly suited for the occasion. Simple, elegant, but meaningful.

“Look,” Sal says, adjusting the mirror and you catch sight of yourself.

The lace is delicate and stitched with love and envious talent, and weaves across the front of your collarbone and down your arms. There’s a slight dip in the back as it hangs a little lower down your spine before cascading into a waterfall of buttons, some mismatching, some with sparkly gems in the centre, but it’s forgiven and actually adds to the charm.

The dress is simply more than you ever thought possible, more than you probably deserve. More than you ever thought you’d have in this lifetime.

“You’re beautiful.” Sal says, dabbing at her eyes.

“Stop. You’re going to make me cry.”

She laughs, a little choke being swallowed down. “I just wish Kelper was here to see you like this.”

“Sal-” You begin with a choking lump in your throat.

“I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t be sorry.” You shake your head. “I wish he could too.”

You spend a moment regarding one another; her eyes wandering into the painful territory of yours as you both recall the eviscerating loss.

Both thriving in it for a few moments, sharing in the grief that has lingered in the marrow of your bones for the past five months or so. Paused, sometimes, in that moment when Tommy relayed over the walkie-talkie the devastation that Kelper had perished in the fight against the infected horde.

It still seems like yesterday and centuries ago. And you were mad, hopping mad with him for a while after your return to the commune; mad that he could be so foolish, so selfish, as to leave you all without him.

But with time, taking each day, each sunrise and sunset, one foot in front of the other, the anger dissipated into raw grief. And it walks alongside you now, linking arms with all the other’s you've lost in your life.

Another name on a chalkboard above a fireplace, another ribbon tied to a tree. Another splinter in your heart.

While the anticipation of marrying Joel fills you with inexplicable joy and pertinent relief, the absence of Kelper, casts a malignant shadow, a blot on the sun.

The glint of excitement in your eyes is tempered by a soft sadness that hovers like a wailing banshee that’s attached itself to your side permanently it feels; it won't stop screaming in your ear. A tribute to the friend, partner, even soulmate, who had been your anchor in tumultuous times of endurance and survival.

Yet, as you stand ready to embark on this new chapter with Joel in a world that still seems so uncertain at times, still so… frightening, despite being safe behind reinforced walls, you find some strength in the enduring gravity of love.

Kelper's memory, a guiding presence now in some ways when he talks to you when you most need it, whispers words of encouragement, reminding you that even in loss, love persists in this broken world and it’s worth finding and clinging onto.

It’s the reason you’re still alive.

And it's something you hold on to, even if your fingers ache from gripping it too tightly.

Even when the grief consumes and you sob unabashed and uncontrollably into Joel’s broad shoulders in the middle of the night.

And he holds you through it, anchoring you and steering you back to yourself as you work through it; a golden compass bringing you home when you lose your way in the dark.

Sal picks up the make-up brush and hands it to you with a gentle smile as you dab at your eyes, and you chuckle.

“I love you,” she says gently, nodding.

You pull her towards you and cradle her tightly.

“I love you, more.” You say, clinging on and wondering if you’ll ever find the strength to let her go again.

“Well, I’ll be fuckin’ damned.” Tommy says, taking off his Stetson as he ambles into the room.

“Don’t ya say it.” Joel warns with a frown.

“Ya don’t know what I was goin’ to say.” Tommy smiles with an adept grin.

“Yeah. I do.” Joel says, turning, his hands fiddling with the tie.

Joel regards his younger brother narrowly as he steps into the room and bounds up to him. “Was gonna say ya look handsome, is all.”

“Yeah, right.” Joel scoffs. ”Help me with this thing, will ya? It’s all fuckin’ knotted up to hell.” Joel gruffs with a heavy sigh, tempting to forgo the tie entirely, lest he strangle himself with it first.

“Ya comb your hair?” Tommy asks, and Joel ducks as he goes to swipe at it.

“Leave off.” He says, checking it’s still in place.

For once, his unruly curls have been slicked down and back neatly, silver streaking through them that appears metallic in the wet gel, and seems more prominent these days.

As Joel dons the smartest plaid shirt he owns, and his standard pair of jeans that have seen better days, a mixture of emotions play across his weathered features despite his hardest at trying to mask them. It’s getting harder these days to keep it up.

The nervous excitement of marrying you, the love of his life, is palpable, but it dances alongside a more subdued undercurrent of opaque reflection.

“Ya nervous?” Tommy asks, as he straightens up Joel’s tie. He sees how his face is pulled tight in that ever present frown.

Joel nods, then shrugs. “Were you? When you n’ Maria tied the knot?”

“Was shittin’ myself.” Tommy admits with a bashful smile.

“Why?”

Tommy shrugs. “It’s forever, man.”

“But, that’s the point, ain’t it?” Joel queries after a moment’s pause.

“Yeah… I dunno. Maybe.”

“Ya regret it?” Joel asks, peering at his younger brother who still seems to be ageing at a much slower rate than Joel; it makes him grind down on his back molars.

Tommy immediately shakes his head, slick oiled curls tousling as he does so.

“No. S’not what I meant. I love Maria n’ I wanted to marry her. Just feels… different now, y’know? Like, to how it would‘ve been back then. Means somethin’ more than just vows now, I think. Somethin’... profound.”

“Profound, huh?” Joel snorts. He never thought he'd hear Tommy say something like that. Didn’t even know he knew the meaning of the word.

“Yeah, like serendipity or some shit. Wasn't lookin’ for it, n’ there she was. She makes me a better man, Joel.” Tommy says quietly.

He glances briefly at his brother’s eyes, the same dark eyes they share from their mother, and then back to the tie. “Ya lady do that for you?”

“Mm. She does.” Joel agrees, his fingers buzzing slightly at the thought.

“Shit, what did ya do with this thing?” Tommy chuckles, as he fights with the knot.

“I dunno. First time I’ve ever had to wear one.” Joel grits.

“Ya tellin’ me.” Tommy snorts.

Joel remains quiet, thoughtfully contemplating. Thinking about back before the outbreak, and what it would’ve been like if he’d married you whilst you were both still young and fresh faced. When he might've known how to tie a fuckin’ tie by himself.

And of course, he had intended to, even brought a ring; spent ages picking it out, but he never got to give it to you.

You’d left.

He briefly wonders what happened to that ring, where it is now on the planet.

A season of what ifs and unanswered scenarios plague his thoughts with spiked edges. Would you have even said yes back then? Would you have lasted, or would a quick divorce have followed?

He knows it’s fruitless to try and unpick it all whilst Tommy battles with the knot that now feels tighter against his throat, but Joel’s always been a brooding thinker, much to his detriment at times.

But he can't help but think about the journey that’s brought him to this day - the years of separation from you, the trials faced, the things he’s done in the darkest chapters of his life. The loved ones he’s lost along the way.

Sarah’s face flashes in his mind, her soft eyes and gentle smile beaming at him, and he bows his head, sighing.

“Y’alright?” Tommy asks.

“Yeah,” Joel mutters.

He takes in a slow, deep breath, steadying himself against the swirl of emotions he can already feel lingering in the dark corners, brewing, flexing their claws ready to tear deep gashes in his skin. They never really leave.

Tommy finishes manipulating the tie and he taps Joel’s shoulder affectionately when it’s done.

Joel turns to the small, chipped shaving mirror to get a better look at it, and hums in a mirthed satisfaction. “It’ll do.” He supposes.

“M’happy for you, Joel.” Tommy says, and Joel glances up at him through the mirror. “Ya deserve it, some peace. A good woman to come home to who’ll rub ya feet.”

“She hates feet.” Joel states rather po-faced.

Tommy smiles, breaking into an airy chuckle and so does Joel. The chortles between them sounding so foreign despite their intensity as they mutate into wheezed laughter.

And then Joel does something he feels like he hasn’t done for a long time, and should probably do more often.

He pulls his younger brother Tommy into a tight, binding hug.

“I love ya, man.” Tommy says.

“You too.” Joel mutters.

“C’mon, let’s get ya married.” Tommy states, clapping his back like thunder.

Tables adorned with scavenged tablecloths showcase a humble feast of canned goods, preserved fruits, and perhaps a few hunted game offerings in the Tipsy Bison.

The survivors of the commune, dressed in their best makeshift attire, share muted stories, laughter, and the precious company of one another, forming a close-knit family that has thrown up two fingers in the face of adversity as they pack out the chairs just outside the bar, some standing at the back of the makeshift aisle as the whole commune comes to bear witness.

The nip in the air has them huddling in coats and scarfs, but the atmosphere is incredibly warm and inviting.

Guthrie stands at the head of the trellis, bible in hand and in his smartest pressed shirt ready to officiate in a world where laws are just spoken words now instead of legal documents.

But it doesn’t matter, because in matters of the heart, it's more than binding.

Tommy and Joel wait in front of him. Maria sits with her baby bouncing on her knee, cooing quietly. Max looks on from the opposite side of the trellis, wearing an excited grin that makes his jaw ache.

Hands clasped in front, Joel’s fingers twitch as he clears his throat nervously.

“Not long now, brother.” Tommy says, clapping him on the back again, and Joel swallows thickly through the heavy wind of it.

As Joel stands at the makeshift altar beneath the trellis arch he’d spent days carving intricately, adorned with the dried flowers collected by good natured souls, the weight of the moment presses upon him.

The air, usually filled with the festive sounds of the commune, now feels dense and stifling around him. The tie feels tight once more at his throat as he swallows with a now dry, grazed windpipe.

The trepidation that’s lingered in the corners of his mind crystallises into an overwhelming wave of anxiety. And he hears that little voice creep up again from behind his shoulders.

She’s not coming, Joel. She doesn’t love you. She could never love you.

His heart races, the sound echoing in his ears like a distant drumbeat. The gentle flutter of muted conversations around him and the soft whispers of the cool, crisp breeze seems to amplify, creating a disorienting cacophony that pierces his eardrums.

Joel's breaths become shallow, each inhale a struggle against an invisible force tightening around his chest. Each breath in seems to scrape against his throat, the air refusing to fill his lungs with ease like it once did.

Joel's hands, usually steady and weathered by years of survival, betray him as they tremble uncontrollably. Eyes fixed on the path where you’ll soon walk towards him, Joel feels the world closing in, seeming to warp and contort, and the edges of his vision blur like a watercolour painting in the rain.

The trellis arch, once a symbol of hope and new beginnings containing his blood, sweat and tears, now seems to loom overhead, threatening to crush him; its shadow dancing with an unsettling rhythm.

The vibrant colours of the flowers mutate into a disorienting palette, dying and crisping before his eyes, and the string lights flicker like lightning, their glow suddenly too harsh, too bright.

Dizzy, he sways as he clutches at his chest, and feels Tommy pressing up against him, like a weighted tackle.

“Joel! Joel!”

His voice is distant, sounding further and further away as Joel spirals, the ground coming up fast; his knees cracking against it.

She could never love you, Joel! Not after everything you’ve done!

Rampant beads of sweat form on Joel's forehead, his hands clammy as they tightly grip on the edges of Tommy’s jacket as he wheezes.

The weight of the moment, the culmination of years of separation and the scars etched into your shared history, bare down on him.

The fear of losing this newfound happiness seizes him in a vice grip until it chokes the life out of him and it all goes black.

Told you Joel.

Told you that you were going to die alone...

He wakes to the sound of continual beeping in his ears.

Beep-beep-beep-beep...

Heavy headed and with a really dry mouth, he sits up to feel a hand pressing gently against his bare sternum.

Following the path of it, the arm adorned in faded lace, he finds your face, pressed tight in its worry and concern.

He did it, he let you down. Completely and irrevocably, just like he knew he would.

“Slowly,” you ease, as he sits himself upright against a pillow that feels like it's barely there.

“Don’t fuss, m’alright.” Joel sighs, glancing down at his chest, shirt open and no sign of his damned tie. “S’all this?” He tweaks at the wires curiously stuck to his chest.

“They thought you might have had a heart attack.” You say, gravely.

“What?” His eyes widen and snap to yours.

“It was a panic attack, Joel.” You say, softly. “You’re okay.”

He frowns, his eyes shying away from yours. He feels your fingers knotting into his hand, thumb stroking reassuringly over the thick gristle of his knuckles.

“I ruined our day,” he mutters through clenched teeth.

“No. You didn’t." You shake your head. "Hey, look at me.” You sway.

“I can’t. M’not supposed to see ya yet.”

“Joel. Look at me.” You press, delicately.

Slowly, he finds the courage to face you, head on, and he can’t believe what he sees. You, staring at him with the same adoration you’ve had etched into your features since the very beginning.

From that moment your eyes met when you were flighty, little things, when the world was kinder and had less teeth.

The same way you looked at him when you bumped into him outside The Tipsy Bison all those months ago, stunting him and making him believe that a bland, beige thing such as a miracle could really exist.

You, looking at him with those same adoring eyes when he made love to you again, after all those years that had passed between you. Decades of swampy regret and missing pieces that no-one else could really fit into or fill; connected with you again on some other level that could only transcend his mere understanding.

And he knows he's undeserving. That even though he shouldn’t listen to it, that insidious little voice is right. He doesn't deserve you looking at him like this.

But he never wants you to stop.

“Ya look… so beautiful, darlin’,” he chokes out.

You smile and pat his stacked chest. “You scrub up pretty well yourself, Mr Miller.”

You lean forward and place a kiss on his temple, just below the spikey, flower-shaped scar.

Joel closes his eyes, savouring the feel of you, your breath settling into his pores. Inhaling the smell of fragrant soap on your skin; the scent of the lavender perfume that’s made in the commune and dessciates the pillows in your bed.

“Ya got all prettied up for me.” He says looking up at you, fingers brushing against the side of your cheek with a dusting of powder to accentuate your skin tone, and a light sheen of highlighter that makes you glow. “Ya glowin’.” He confirms, awestruck.

His lips find yours, tasting the balm on them. Your fingers scratch in the waves behind his ears; his once slicked back hair now ruffled and fluffy again behind his ears.

“Everyone knows? They saw, I-”

You smile, softly. “It’s okay, it’s nothing to be ashamed of, Joel. They were all worried, because they care about you.”

He frowns again and squeezes your hand. “M’sorry. Don’t want ya to worry.”

“Too late. You’re stuck with my worry.” You smile.

“S’not too late, ya know.” He says, tentatively with a small voice.

“Too late for what?”

He sighs heavily. He turns towards the machine that’s beeping annoyingly in his ear and jabs at a button, but it doesn’t silence it.

“If you even think about saying what I think you’re going to say, you’ll be spending months in here, Joel. Multiple broken bones.” You warn and he shakes his head, unable to contain the small smirk that threatens to tear up the corners of his mouth.

“M’not gonna say it.”

“Good.”

“But, it’s not too late.” He reminds you anyway with a gruff peep.

“Is that what you want?” You question, your heart is already trying to make a run for it out of any orifice that will allow its escape.

“God, no.” He looks at you sincerely, eyes deep and reassuring in their richness. "I always want you."

“Then stop being a dork.”

He snorts, rolling his eyes. “Dork…”

You squeeze his hand and he places his other on top of them both.

“What’d we do now?” He queries and you can still see the weight he carries behind his eyes.

“I have an idea. Can you walk?”

Joel nods as he pulls off the sticky patches from his chest, and the infernal beeping finally stops.

Ashen comes to a halt at your gentle command, and Joel helps you off after dismounting the tan stallion that he rode with you up to the outpost those few months ago.

Since then, settling into a gentle sway of life in the commune had been a constant that you never knew you needed, or missed so much, as you began building a new life with Joel by your side.

But there was a mild fidget in you that couldn’t be settled; a part of you that always remained on alert, and Joel sensed it in you because that same sense lingered in him too.

Life experience had taught you both not to rest so easily, to leave a limb out of the tub and not fully submerge; to leave a backpack stocked with supplies by the door in case you had to go quickly in the night.

Old habits die hard.

But shared with Joel made them easier to accept, to shoulder the weight equally instead of alone. It could be left placed and fuzzy, in the peripherals to fade out for a while, but it was always there.

You both walk a few paces up a short incline, your dress is covered by a coat and scarf, and Joel’s shirt has been rebuttoned with a sweater and a coat of his own thrown over the top.

You feel the heavy weight of the handgun in your pocket, knocking against your thigh. Joel’s own is holstered to his waist under his coat.

The wind is a little harsher in its nip up here, but the view is worth it.

Looking down into the valley, the Wyoming mountains spread out in the distance with their snowy caps like shark's jaws on the landscape; the commune seems like a tiny dot in the centre of the horizon.

“It’s beautiful, no?” You say wistfully, as the wind pulls tendrils from your styled hair that stick to your lips.

“Not as beautiful as you,” Joel says, his arms wrapping around you. You feel him plant a kiss on the side of your cheek and it warms you, from your toes up.

“Look,” you say to him, and you pull him gently with you towards the shelter of a large tree, its branches, almost shed full of its leaves, swaying rhythmically in the breeze.

Under the canopy of the majority of its stripped branches, your fingers place Joel’s onto the rough ridges of the bark, trailing them towards some carvings.

“What's this?” He asks as he studies the letters.

“You made the trellis for me, for us in our garden. Well, this is my wedding gift to you.” You say with a warm smile.

Joel runs his fingers over the letters, a familiar S as he reads the name Sarah carved into the wood. Underneath, another name is carved. Kelper.

“This is what ya did with my “missin'” tools, hmm?” He queries with a cocked brow.

You grin coyly. “If I told you my evil plan, you'd have put the kibosh on it.”

“S’like ya know me so well,” Joel nods. “Ya came out here by yourself?” He frowns.

“I’m a big girl, Joel.” You remind him and he reluctantly nods after gritting his teeth.

He glances up to see ribbons fluttering in the breeze, and reaches up to feel their silkiness between his fingers.

“Ya did this, for me?”

You nod. “This is the highest tree in the valley. I’ve been all over this valley the past few months trying to find the perfect one. I was safe… Sal was with me.” You assure him when you see his nostrils flare.

You turn to look at the names on the tree. “They’re both looking down on us, Joel. From all the way up here. Sarah and Kelper.”

“Darlin’,” he says, as your eyes mist over.

He reaches for your hand and pulls you in close. He looks at the names on the tree, smiling into your hair as he imagines Sarah indeed looking down on him and smiling proudly.

At least, he hopes he’ll be able to make her proud going forward - the past, he’s doubtful about that.

“Ya amaze me every day.” Joel says.

“I just wanted a place that was ours, to remember them. They should both be here today. And this way... it’s like they are.”

Joel nods. “Marry me, here.”

“Right here, now?”

He nods as he strokes your arms. “Yeah… feels perfect. With them.”

You smile at him, wondering how you made it. Wondering how life, despite it's cruelty, had given you this perfect morsel of happiness.

“Have you got the rings?” You ask him.

He fishes into his jeans pocket and opens his palm to reveal two gold bands. Both a little misshapen from years of wear.

“I wonder who they belonged to,” you say, smiling at the metal hoops looking so dainty and small in his gargantuan palm.

“Two people that were very much in love, I reckon.”

“Yeah. They were. Utterly mad for each other.” You agree.

“Probably drivin' each other mad too,” he smirks.

“You like it when I keep you on your toes.” You remind him starkly and with a brewing grin.

“Mm-hm.” He murmurs. “Like a hole in the head.”

You reach into his palm and take the bigger ring and take his opposite hand in yours.

You glance at the tree for a moment, smiling, remembering. Then you look up at Joel. Look at the man who carried you on through this world, even if he wasn’t physically there for most of it.

“Joel,” you begin, letting the words flow freely. “I never thought in my wildest dreams we’d be here. I never thought that all those years of fighting, surviving… enduring. I never thought that they’d lead me back to you. Fate sure is a funny thing, isn’t it?”

“I sure as hell ain’t laughin’.” He says and you smirk.

You place the ring on his thick finger, sliding it all the way down. “I love you.” You say looking at him. “I’ve always loved you. I will always love you, until I die. And even then, I’ll still love you, Joel.”

Blushing, he smiles. Then he takes your hand, the remaining ring poised at the tip of your finger.

“Darlin’... I don’t think there’s anythin’ I could say that would make it feel truly real. Still feels like a dream sometimes. But then I wake up, and ya there beside me. And I don’t know how that happened, not really. It’s somethin’ I just can’t even wrap my head around, y’know?” His voice carries a blend of warmth and sincerity.

“I know.” You smile.

“Two lucky son’s o’ bitches. But you’re real, you’re here. I found ya. God willing, I fuckin’ found ya again. And I promise to cherish ya, darlin’, in all ya strength n’ vulnerability. Your stubbornness-”

You giggle and he smiles, tucking a wisp of wayward hair behind your ear.

“You're my home in this unpredictable world… I love ya, darlin’. Not just for who ya are, but for who we've become together." He gulps, holding back a choke as you watch his eyes glisten.

"Ya make... ya make me a better man. The kind of man I wanna be for ya. M'bound to ya. Ya have me bound to you, forever.”

“Joel,” you say as your own eyes water, and he bends to kiss you, taking your lips in his as the wind whips around you both, and pulls you tight into his warmth. Pulls you deeper into his heart.

I knew he was a good man, Goose.

You glance over Joel’s shoulder to see Kelper standing there leaning against the tree grinning at you.

You smile, nodding gently at your old friend before closing your eyes, tears falling from them like tiny diamonds scattered over Joel's shoulder, and clinging on tighter to him.

Joel inhales the scent of your hair, holding you hard in his arms as the breeze billows around you both and he swears he's never been more elated, more satiated in his bones and flesh.

If he were to die now, he would die happy, and it's a thought that now comforts him, whereas for so long, it's been one that terrified him.

He lets himself bask, lets himself wander further into this pastel dream and stay there, ruminating for a few more moments in the calm bliss of your arms.

Dad.

He’s roused, eyes snapping open as he hears the familiar voice; a voice he had thought he had forgotten, and then a face he was convinced had slipped his mind also is there, smiling at him.

Familiar eyes, that scent of coconut shampoo filling his nose, and frizzy hair that he could never tame in the way she liked when she was smaller, billows in the wind.

Sarah, his daughter, is smiling at him, clear as day, a few feet in front, and he feels it lurch in his chest.

So do you, as you feel his body stiffen under your embrace, and he steps forward, confused to be met with nothing again.

“Did you…?” Joel murmurs out, his voice lost on a confused gasp.

You turn to see what he’s looking at so intently, but there’s nothing there except the whisper of the wind.

“You alright?” You ask, pulling away from him to look at his face, eyes staring a little way down the hill and filling with water that he frantically blinks away.

“Yeah.” Joel turns to you, stunned and speechless for a few moments. The familiar, expected stab in his heart rearing its ugly head fails to ice him over.

Instead, he feels awash with a sincere warmth, from where it emanates, he’s not entirely sure.

“Y’know what? For the first time in a hell of a long time, I really think I am.” He says.

You smile at him as you nuzzle into his neck.

“Jesus…” he mutters as he wraps his arms back around you. “Thought I saw I fuckin’ ghost for a minute there.”

You smile, knowing that he saw what he needed to. The same as you do when you need it.

He rubs at your back. “S’getting a little cold, we should head back soon.”

“Can we stay up here, just a little while longer?” You ask gently, as you both watch the winter sun setting slowly behind the mountains.

“We can do whatever ya want, darlin’.” Joel murmurs, smiling into your shoulder.

By the time you and Joel made it back, the celebrations had moved into the Tipsy Bison as the expected snow started to billow from the sky.

Candles flicker on the tables, creating an intimate atmosphere that contrasts with the harsh wilderness beyond the commune's borders. Handcrafted Christmas decorations and salvaged ornaments add a touch of festivity to the surroundings, creating a unique blend of the old and the new world.

As the night unfolds, Joel and you move through the crowd, your smiles radiant with the joy of your unity as everyone wants a piece of you both.

The celebrations carry on with a mixture of traditional and improvised festivities - a dance floor, a communal song led by Max and a beaten guitar, with a surprisingly melodic voice which awes you at his secret talent. Guthrie dances with you, twirling you around as you smile and clap.

The large Christmas tree in the corner twinkles with gold, glittery lights that reflect in your eyes as Joel looks into them as he sways gently with you.

Impromptu speeches that celebrate love, survival, and the strength of the human bond follow with laughter, and Tommy leads a toast to the both of you with minimal embarrassment for Joel, much to his relief.

But despite the laughter, the warmth, you catch Joel’s face a little later, and the familiar need for a moment of respite creeps over his features as the frown tugs further at his smile somewhat as the night moves on.

His smile hides years of pain underneath it, convincing you he's fine when you ask him. Some days, he believes it himself.

But he doesn't want to spoil this for you, drag you away, but he also wants to have you to himself; be selfish and attenuate that need that flourishes hot in his veins.

He searches you out as you’re engaging with Sal, Max and Guthrie, and catches your eye, quelling everything loud around him.

In the middle of the chaos, there’s you.

You know him too well, even after three decades of separation, you can still read him without words, and you decide too, that you’ve had enough of smiles and wine.

You both slip out, leaving your expanded family and friends to celebrate as late as they want without you both.

In the secluded corners of your home, away from the festivities, you and Joel allow the weight of your tumultuous journey to fall free from your shoulders and leave it outside.

The echoes of the after-party seem distant, drowned out by the heavy thrumming of your heart in your ears.

Once inside the warmth of your shared home, the safety and privacy of the walls Joel had built once upon a time with his bare hands, those hands of his take to your waist and pull you towards him as he attaches himself to your lips.

He dips and slants, moaning softly against your mouth; pulling your head closer to his with a giant, swamping hand, slipping his other around you and drawing you closer against his taught body that always has a slight tremble to it.

Behind him, the lock on the door clicks shut as you reach for it. Your heart rate speeds up as you melt into him, skin melding together like melted candle wax.

You and Joel are very alone and very close, pushed up tight against one another; bodies reacting and heating up. His broad chest crushes into your own as you feel the increase in his heartbeat against your own rib cage.

You run your hand down his chest towards his groin, searching out that thick hardness you can already feel pressing against you.

Then, you feel him lifting you; arms swooping under you and pulling your feet off the floor.

“Joel!” You squeal as he heaves and steps forward.

"It’s tradition.” He says, stepping forward quickly towards the bedroom.

"Your back!" You wail, giggling.

You cling on around his neck, and he clumsily falls with you onto the bed laughing.

Your hands find his face as he lays on top of you, staring intently into his deep brown eyes.

“What?” He questions as you trace his lips with your fingers, watching as he kisses the tips of them.

“You’re so fucking strong. Do I ever tell you that?” You say with awe.

“Sometimes… not nearly enough.” He chuckles.

“Lay back, old man.” You say, winking at him.

“Oi, less of the old.” He says as you shuffle out from underneath him.

“It’s hot.” You say.

He watches you crawl over him. “Ya wanna be in charge do ya, darlin’?”

“Mm, is your back gonna let you lead?”

He scoffs, and then nods in defeat, retreating hastily backwards on the bed as you straddle him.

“Didn’t think so…” You smile, as you kiss him.

He slips his tongue inside your mouth, the remnants of a few whiskeys in celebration lace his gums.

His hands slide down your waist to cup your ass, squeezing it; pressing you against his crotch as you kiss him deeply, leaning over him. He breaks off, burying his face in the soft column of your throat that feels clammy already with anticipation.

He licks the salt of it, scraping his teeth against the soft perfumed flesh there, licking and nipping, sucking it between his lips hungrily.

"Ya too good to me, darlin’."

You keep your eyes on his face, noticing the way the tip of his tongue teases the middle of his upper lip as he looks hungrily at you. How his Adam's apple bobs with each thick swallow in anticipation.

How those deep, trusting eyes lance at you as you unbutton his shirt.

Joel watches as you trail wet, lingering kisses over his skin; skin mottled with freckles and silvery hairs, a liver spot here or there.

How you kiss and lick each scar delicately that he bears; the one on his hip from where he was shot at on outbreak day. The one where he was gutted trying to save Ellie from raiders.

He shivers as you explore every weak spot he’s ever had, birthing new life into the dead skin.

Watches keenly as you run your tongue around his nipples, sucking over them gently as he hisses in response. Shudders as you kiss down the centre towards his navel, swollen with age around his tummy that you lavish more affection and desire all over, running your cheeks against it.

Joel hitches his breath as you unbuckle his belt and free him from his jeans.

He’ll never get tired of watching you do that, of taking his throbbing, thick cock so slowly and hungrily into your mouth; hearing you whine in satisfaction as you taste him again.

Feeling how it tingles down to the root of him as he slides down your throat and packs you out until you can’t breathe.

He’s moaning like a dying man as you suck him with eyes that meet his with unspoken praise and worship.

He reaches down, weaving through your hair, letting it fall free of the pins that held it precariously in place all day. Combs through it as you lick up the length of him and suckle on the head of his cock, feeling it throughout your own body, the heat travelling in the streams of your arteries.

“Take this off,” he says tugging at the hem of your dress, and you’re soon naked on top of him, bodies growing warm and slick together as you kiss deeply and grind subtly against one another.

“Too long since I was inside ya.” He laments into your ear in a hot whisper.

“It’s only been a couple of days, Joel.” You smirk.

“Too fuckin’ long.” He corrupts.

He runs his thumb over your stiff nipple and cups your breast gently inside his warm palm. "Ya so beautiful, darlin'." He breathes.

He reaches down between your legs and slides his finger against your clit, watching as you jolt with the gentlest of brushes.

“So sensitive, aren’t ya?” He cajoles.

“Mmm,” you nod, hands on his chest as he slips in; finger stroking inside your wet folds.

He pulls out and slips another one in, marvelling at how you arch and mewl above him as he pumps slowly.

You wind you hips, pushing against his fingers as he fucks you keenly with them. Pressing deep against the right spots and stroking you closer with each curl of them.

“Look at you, so fuckin’ beautful.” He groans. "All for me, all mine."

“Joel, I’m gonna come,” you moan, fingers gripping into his chest meat as you feel yourself bunching tight already.

Grabbing his cock, he guides his engorged head between your puffy, wet pussy lips in place of his fingers.

“If ya gonna come, ya come on my cock, darlin’.” He pushes in gently, thick head notching into you slowly, letting you suck him in. Sliding slowly and purposefully so you can feel all of him.

Savouring, appreciating, falling further with you.

“Joel!” You gasp, the pinch of him still present as he enters; a sensation that’ll never falter.

He reaches up, mouth grazing over your breast, nipple between his teeth and gently sucks as you slide down the full length of him, taking him in deep, where he belongs.

Joel belongs inside of you.

He pulls you up, large hands crossed around your lower back as he lifts you up and down on his cock, sliding almost the full way out, leaving just the head precariously lipped inside you, until he brings you back down onto the full hilt of him, bottoming out each time he does it.

He grunts with you; warm breaths pelted into your skin like ink blots where they spread, staining you with him.

He begins slow, measured thrusts up into you; you push back, grinding with him, the tightness of your hole now slickly wonderful around his thick cock. He draws out a few inches at a time before pushing in deep, to the sound of plentiful, needy whines from you.

“Fuck, ya feel so good around me, darlin’,” he groans into your chest.

Laying back, giant hands caressing your breasts, he lets you work, lets you take control. Watches keenly, as you ride him deeply, with a heated fever as the sweat starts to slick down your back.

His hips push up to meet you when he senses you’re losing it, losing your control as your gasps pitch higher, becoming more frantic in their raspiness as your cunt tightens around him.

“Joel!” You gasp like you’re sobbing; the cadence stripped from your throat as he grunts in agreement with you at how good it feels, how good it feels to have you on the end of his cock soaking him with all the pleasure that he feeds you.

And it’s something he’ll never tire of. He’ll never want to stop giving you this, giving you all of him.

“There ya go, darlin’...” He ushers. "Ya close, ain't ya?"

“Mmm, yeah…” You can feel it, that glitter starter to gather under your eyelids, the bones in your spine pulling tight and ready to crack open the moment that hot bolt travels down it and into your core.

He winds you tighter around that spool, the slack almost unbearable. Your toes curl inwards, your thighs shake and your whole body tenses up.

"Come for me!" Joel growls, encouragingly.

Over and over he fucks into you, his fingers digging into your hips where they’ll leave bruises that he’ll kiss later.

Your voice is shaking as you stutter incoherently, a babbling mantra of his name. “Joel, Joel, Joel…”

“Ya keep sayin’ my name. This cock s'makin’ ya feel really good, hmm?” He grunts into your face.

“So good, Joel… Oh my God, don’t stop!”

“Are ya gonna come for me? Ya gonna come all over my cock, darlin’?”

“Yeah… I’m coming. I’m coming, Joel! Fuck!”

A warm, desperate shudder pours out of you at his command; your entire body convulses, fingers gnarl around his skin. You cry out, your lungs disintegrate into mottled dust as it leaves you; punching that glitter out of your back once more into the air for you to breathe in and choke on the metallic fragments.

“That’s it. Give it to me… All over me. Like that. Don't stop comin’."

His lips chase yours, brushing sweetly against them with a peck and smooch to remind you he’s still there; your tether, no matter how high you fly above him.

You clutch onto his shoulders, nails digging into the tanned skin as he pushes you back down on his cock, filling you up again. The constant symphony of his pants fill your ears, that subtle weakness in them; that tremor at the back of his throat as he draws closer to his finish.

“That, right there… fuck,” he grunts.

“That feel good?” You groan as your hips swivel intently.

“Yeah… s’way ya look at me like this.” He moans.

“How do I look at you, Joel?” You breathe.

“Like ya love me.” His voice cracks at the sound of it in the air. The realisation, the acceptance, The finality of his being.

“I do love you. I love you so fucking much.” You gasp.

“I love ya too, darlin’. Fuck, do I love you! Shit!” He strains, his muscles pulling tight, the tension in his jaw locking.

“Come for me, fill your wife up, Joel.” You urge.

"Fuck!"

He yanks you towards him, face tumbling into him as he catches you in a kiss as he whines against your lips as he comes deep inside you. Soft whines flow from his plush mouth into yours as he twitches and empties.

His thrusts gently still to an eventual stop, feeling the warmth of his spend flooding around his cock inside you.

He kisses you intently and for what feels like a lifetime, just connected to him; breathing him in down into your respiratory system where he'll always stay.

You stroke away the sweaty, grey curls from the sides of his face and temples, and he smiles at you; a smile he saves only for you, with glittery eyes.

You glance at the clock on the bedside table reading just after midnight, and smile excitedly at him.

“You know what day it is today, right?” You query with a grin, resting your chin on your hands as you lay across his chest, still connected with him inside you.

“Right now, I don’t even know my damned name.” Joel breathes with a heavy chortle.

You feel him slip out as he laughs, the wet warmth of him dripping out of you. “Jesus, ya kill me.”

“It’s Christmas Day.” You whisper to him, and he runs his thumb against your lower lip, watching as you kiss it gently.

“Well then, Merry Christmas, Mrs Miller.” He smirks, crushing you further into his chest.

You beam back at him, finally understanding your place in the world.

Finally understanding why you endured and survived as you take his hand in yours, the glint of your mutual wedding rings reflecting in the dim glow from the string lights outside the window.

You know it was to get to this exact moment, right here, where you're in Joel’s arms again, and nothing can get you anymore. Nothing.

Smiling, you lean up to your husband’s face and kiss him gently on the lips.

“Merry Christmas, Joel.”

The End

Main Masterlist | Series Masterlist

Thank you for taking the time to read my story; it really means so much to me. I'd love to know your thoughts, and I'd really appreciate a re-blog so others can enjoy this story too. Thank you so much 🖤

MAIN MASTERLIST

TAGLIST: If you'd like to be removed, please let me know.

Tagging everyone who was tagged in the original series.

@secretelephanttattoo @morgaussy @darkheartgatita @sp00kymulderr @survivingandenduring @sin-djarin @lilmizmoz @yazsos @ryangoslingstanktop @barbellpedro @givemeth @anavatazes @alwaysmicado @the-blind-assassin-12 @kirsteng42 @missredherring @gasolinerainbowpuddles @millennial-teenybopper @maggiemayhemnj @harriedandharassed @stevie75 @mysterious-moonstruck-musings @chaoticfestninja @reddedmiller @doughmonkey @sonderosa @magpiepillsjunior @chronically-ghosted @pedroswife69 @regalwhovianbrowncoat774 @marisemonteiroo @everythingiwanttoread @jjhayhay20 @nerdieforpedro @perennialdoll247 @casa-boiardi @joeldjarin @sscorpiiio @untamedheart81 @srmacaroni @violinchick @orcasoul @lucyeyelesbarrow @mandrillusphinx @loveisacowboyyy @suzmagine @disassociation-daydreams @anoverwhelmingdin @within-the-depths

#joel miller x reader #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal #joel miller #pedro pascal characters #joel miller tlou #the last of us #the last of us fic #joel miller fic #joel miller smut #joel miller fluff #joel miller angst #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x female reader #christmas stories #five days series #jett's writing

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neontokyoo · 10 months

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Hi! May I request some kunikida x reader angst? Where reader is the other woman? To make it easier, imagine reader fits not all of his ideals as a partner and then a new girl shows up at the agency and everyone's attention is on her, everyone is making plans to hang out with her and kunikida is enamored with her and has his attention on her. And to make matters worse? She fits all of his ideals. He slowly starts making plans with her but everything reader and kunikida used to do? (Ex. Go on dates, hang out with each other and just spending time together) is no longer happening. And then one day, he comes home late and when he gets home he drops the bomb and breaks up with reader. Then, not even a week later he gets together with the new girl. It makes reader think they were never good enough so they just keeps to themselves after that.

Not only did reader lose their friends that they considered family, they also lost their one and only. So, ever since that they just hates anything related to couples and what not. Hell, they even hate love itself. So they end up working for the port mafia instead. And they also went from a nice, loving person to a mean, cold person?

Man why do I love breaking my own heart 😭💀 gn neutral reader please if that's possible. Sorry if this is too detailed and what not, I just wanted to make sure you understand and see my vision to be able to make this 🧍

Have a good day/night! 🫶

Man, screw the ideals. My heart broke just reading this and it's giving me the twisted Disney princess/Descendants 3 vibes where the protagonist somehow becomes the antagonist. Also really reminds me of my ex. Seriously making me wanna burn every single notebook that I own. 😭🤧

Pairing: Kunikida Doppo x GN!Reader Genre: Angst Summary: It's all fun and games until you become "the other woman".

The sun had set, casting its warm glow over the agency, but the once vibrant atmosphere felt tainted with unease. You and Kunikida had shared two years of cherished memories, laughter, and passion, but a new presence disrupted the delicate balance. Akiara Ishikawa, with her enchanting presence and seemingly perfect allure, had captivated not only the attention of the agency members but, more notably, Kunikida's heart.

As days turned into weeks, you tried your best to maintain composure while the weight of insecurity gnawed at your soul. Each time you caught Kunikida exchanging glances with Akiara, a pang of jealousy tore through your chest. You wanted to be everything he desired, but reality dealt you a hand that fell just shy of perfection in his eyes.

One evening, you stood together in the dimly lit living room, the air thick with tension. The flickering candlelight cast haunting shadows upon the walls as Kunikida struggled to find the right words. "We need to talk," he finally said, his voice strained.

Your heart clenched at the premonition of his words. "What's wrong, Kunikida?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

He hesitated, the internal conflict evident in his expressive eyes. "I can't ignore how I feel, and it's not fair to you," he confessed. "Akiara, she's everything I've ever dreamed of in a partner. I can't help but be drawn to her."

The admission hit you like a crushing blow. Tears welled up in your eyes, threatening to spill over, but you fought to maintain your composure. "So, what are you saying?" you managed to ask, your voice quivering.

"I'm saying… I think we should end things between us," Kunikida said, his gaze dropping to the floor. "I don't want to hurt you, but I can't deny this connection I feel with Akiara."

It felt as if the world had crumbled beneath your feet, leaving you standing on a precipice of heartbreak. "But, Kunikida, we've shared so much together," you pleaded, trying to salvage the love you believed was still worth fighting for.

His expression softened, and he reached out to touch your cheek gently. "I know, and I'll cherish those memories forever. But sometimes, love isn't enough," he whispered, his voice laden with regret.

Days passed like a blur as you tried to navigate life without Kunikida by your side. You distanced yourself from the agency, unable to bear the sight of him with Akiara. The pain of losing not only your love but also your best friend left you feeling hollow and isolated.

Seeking refuge in the port mafia, you buried your emotions deep within, embracing the darkness that now consumed your heart. The kind, loving person you once were retreated behind a cold and distant facade.

With time, your heart hardened, bitterness taking root against love and the notion of couples. You buried yourself in work, dedicating your energy to the darkness that now surrounded you. Yet, deep down, a small part of you longed for the happiness you once knew, wondering if love could ever heal the fractures within your heart.

But for now, you remained guarded, keeping your emotions under lock and key, afraid of the pain that came with vulnerability. As you treaded through the shadows of your new world, you couldn't help but wonder if there would ever be a chance for your heart to mend and love again.

#I don't love nobody #i'm dead inside #that's a lie #but sometimes it do be like that #bungo stray dogs manga #bungo stray dogs x reader #bungou stray dogs #bungou sd #bsd #bungo stray dogs #bsd anime #bsd x reader #bsd headcanons #kunikida doppo #bsd kunikida #kunikidazai #kunikida x reader #armed detective agency #kora's anons

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emeritus-fuckers · 4 months

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I dunno if I’ve asked but could you do some headcanons on young Nihil finding out he has a child with a fan (not inserting my oc at all) and it’s a daughter

I may have got slightly carried away XD - Nyx

Young Papa Nihil finding out he has a daughter with a fan

He's terrified. Completely terrified.

He just kinda stands there looking shocked and then asks how much you want for child support.

You don't really see him much, but he does support you financially, whatever you need.

He visits after she is born to leave a ring past down the Emeritus line. When I say more visit, more like he turns up late in at night in the hospital when no one is around. He doesn't want to see anyone who could talk into staying. He leaves the envelope with the ring next to her crib. He can't even look at her, she seems so small and tiny it makes him want to stay so he runs.

He visits again when she is two. He only accepts a cup of coffee and watches her from a distance, you can see him pale slightly.

Her eyes... she has his eyes... fuck. Her beautiful black hair is now down to her shoulders.

He leaves far quicker than he should, he sits in the car barely able to control his own breathing. He knows deep down he is becoming an even bigger fuck up.

He tries to distract himself, but he can't help but think about her, wonder how she is. He starts to realise, he misses her. But no, he can't get involved, he detroys everything he touches and she is too precious.

He keeps reasoning that she is better off without him, he can see that she is clearly well cared for by you.

He came again when she was 3 and then when she was 4. That visit really got to him.

She seemed so happy to see him, that innocent gaze broke something in him. He lifted her up and held her tightly in his arms.

She was so fascinated with his facepaint. Tracing the lines of it with her delicate fingers. He told her that he was Papa, he didn't know if she knew he was her father, but Papa was his title so he stuck with that, it worked.

From then on he visited once a year, but that was it.

When she gets older and starts to wonder a little more she finds his songs and finds out about the band.

Now that really gets to him, one day he goes to visit and she is singing his songs. He smiles to himself saying she has his gift with music, and she does her voice is beautiful.

There is a phase when they don't speak, when she realises he is her father and that he pretty much completely abandoned her.

But Nihil asks for the chance to explain, he would have failed her as a father, he really did do his best, he didn't want to mess her up like his father did to him. He just wants her to be happy.

Their relationship imrpoves, he is still distant but he takes an interest in her life. As she becomes a young adult and beyond she writes letters to him and as Nihil ages these become the most precious things to him. He always writes back and visits her when he can. He hopes she will always turn to him if she needs his advice on stuff.

He just wishes he hadn't been such a coward when he was younger. He knows that thankfully he salvaged it somehow and that at least he has one child happy to call him their father. He deeply regrets the way he went on with his own sons, but his father wasn't a good person and the scars from Nihil's childhood run too deep.

Written by Nyx.

Taglist: @charlie-is-a-menace @copias-fluffy-asscheeks @randodummy @tuttifuckinfruttifriday @calliedion-dungeon @randominstake @callmeicaro @thecuriouss @dio-niisio@firefirevampire @mybotanicaldemise @emo-mess @natoncesaid @ouijaboardemo

#ghost band #ghost bc #ghost #ask #papanihilsimper #ghost band x reader #ghost bc x reader #ghost x reader #papa nihil #papa emeritus zero #papa emeritus 0 #young papa nihil #nihil emeritus #papa emeritus zero x reader #papa emeritus 0 x reader #nihil emeritus x reader #young papa nihil x reader #young nihil x reader

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lostsunlight · 2 months

Text

CHAPTER 12 - BREACH THE SURFACE

childe x reader, wc: 3.5k, masterlist, Ao3

cw: nsfw, violence, murder,

Somehow, he survived. You dragged him into the apartment not caring who saw you - it seemed everyone was too busy recovering from the attack to notice anyways. Childe was still coughing and retching. He doubles over and throws up into the sink, black flakes with an odd purple sheen mixed in. You scrunch your nose and flick your hand to wash it down the sink.

The Abyss, the very thing that had plagued Mondstadt, now it was coming back to haunt you in a new form. Memories of Mondstadt seemed to follow you like a shadow. Another thing to add to the list of why you should hate Childe.

“Feel a bit better?” He swallowed and nodded, still panting

“Yeah, I think I got most of it out. I’m just cold and soaked now”

You had never seen him look weak, you could almost understand why he wouldn’t want his underlings to see him like this. What a contrast it would be to see their fearless leader look like death had given him a slap on the back.

You couldn't see any visible cuts on him at least but he still smelt like the rot of the abyss, still had the singe of electro on him. It was strange, he had been slashed clean across the chest again but in that wretched form he sustained no permanent injury.

He was freezing to the touch. Eventually you managed to drag him to the bathroom, slowly you peeled his damp clothes off along with yours. Neither of you cared about the nudity at this point just wanting to move away from the edge of being frozen.

You used your vision to fill up the bath with warm water. Steam curling off it in delicate tendrils instantly making the air feel a little less frigid. He sighed deeply as he relaxed into the water. You followed him in, curling up at the other end, letting the warmth seep into your rain-soaked bones.

You let out a small sigh before turning your attention to him. Deep bags underneath his eyes were still there but his skin seemed a little more pink now. You had never seen him look so out of sorts, despite the lack of fresh wounds on his body he radiated malaise.

“How are you feeling?” You tucked your legs up to your chest, squinting as your shoulder twinged in pain.

He massages his neck, tilting it from side to side. “Not great, I overused my Foul Legacy. The abyssal energy took too much from me this time. At least I'm not coughing it up anymore”

“How long does it take to recover” You asked, trying to gauge what you needed to do

He shrugged “Generally the longer and harder I use it the worse the recovery is”

“How many times have you used it then?”

“Only sparingly, I don't exactly want the world to know about it. Takes away the surprise” A small smile tugs at the edge of his lips as he says that

“Ever the tactician. So, what now?”

“We keep on going. I don't have long, maybe a few hours but I need to get back to Northland. Having a Harbinger missing wouldn't be a great look”

He looked exhausted, but underneath that there was a troubled look. He stared up at the ceiling, brows knotted together

“There's something else on your mind”

“I didn't get the gnosis, I did all of this and still failed. I failed the Tsaritsa” The water around you started to feel like a current, flowing just under the surface and Childe’s anger grew.

“I nearly drowned a whole city, nearly lost your trust and for what? A fight that I lost anyway. It wasn’t worth doing all of that. All this harm for no good, nothing to show for it. My chance to prove myself to Cap- The other Harbingers, gone ”

“There has to be another way right? You can still salvage this and prove yourself? This can't be the end.” You said, trying to coax him away from spiralling

Childe sunk into the water and flung his arm across his face “You’re right, A Harbinger doesn't get knocked down that easily”

“There he is” You softly say, at least he's getting his bite back.

Turning your attention to your shoulder you could see a purple bruise blooming, acutely aware of Childe’s gaze you drew up some water using your hand and formed it around your shoulder. You let out a little huff and bit your lip, letting the pain flow into the water. After a few minutes the bruising eased.

“Your getting good at this” He comments, leaning in to inspect your injured shoulder

“Thanks, I learned it from Baizhu. I still can't fully heal something but I can ease it a little, take the edge off”

“How did you manage that impressive bruise?”

You flushed and looked away in embarrassment “I crashed into the Golden House when I saw Osial, I got spooked when I saw it and lost control”

“How on Teyvat did you managed to crash into the Golden House?” He sat back with an surprised look on his face

“You know that night by the campfire when you first taught me to fight?” He nodded “You mentioned some vision users being able to turn into pure elemental form. I saw you do it at the Golden House to escape, I followed you. I lost track of you because of the rain and the battle though”

“I didn’t know you could do that, especially without training”

“I don't think I could do it again if I’m being honest, at least not on command. I was so blinded by rage and fear that I just… let it take over me. That and the storm helped me draw some power”

“Rage? Fear?” He tilted his head “There are better ways to channel elemental energy” He said jokingly

“I-I don't know” you hug your head “Everything just happened so quickly, there's a lot you didn't tell me you know. The delusion, the gnosis. Then there's the second god I’ve seen abandon their nation”

“You finally have reason for your doubts huh?” He prompted you on

“I suppose. When you summoned Osial to draw out Rex Lapis, Some part of me hoped that he would show up, but he didn’t. He all but abandoned his people. Its sad that I had to see you nearly drown a whole city to see that”

A flash of guilt came across his face “I only did it to draw out Rex Lapis, I also thought he would show up. I only went that far for the Tsaritsa. Guess we both learnt the same lesson”

“I still don’t know if I can follow any god… but maybe” You paused and took a breath “Maybe the Tsaritsa might be a good choice. What exactly does she plan to do?”

Childe reaches out and grabs both your hands “I want a new contract, Rex Lapis isn’t dead yet.” You slip your hand away from his, falling back into the water, shaking your head.

“Why tell me these things in the first place if I have to swear to keep them a secret? Wouldn’t you be breaking rules”

“I-I don't know, I just want to keep you around for a little longer. Maybe if you join the Fatui you can do that”

Of course the contract, it had been fulfilled, you were now free of your obligation to him

“Childe, The whole reason I made a deal with you in the first place was to gain my own freedom. How can I be free if I'm chained to another Archon?”

“Because she will bring freedom to all of us, this I can swear. If you follow the Tsaritsa to the end of her plan you will never have to swear loyalty or serve another god again. Plus isn’t it freedom to choose what you want to do with your life? You can choose to join us”

“...You make a fair point.” You reach out and grab his hands again, hoping your blind trust might lead you somewhere. Despite all he had done, the sins he had committed you wanted to stay by him for a little longer as well

He squeezes your hands “Swear you’ll never tell a soul that I told you any of this. You’ll never tell anyone about the Tsaritsa's plans”

“I swear” Another twinge up your forearm, a small golden glow around your hands and forearms that sunk into your skin.

Childe bites his lip “I can’t tell you absolutely everything but seeing as you know about gnoeses…”

“That's the thing that every Archon has, right? You told me that was what you were after when we first got to Liyue” You move a little closer towards him and lean in ever so slightly, interested to hear what he has to say

He nods “She wants to collect the power of the seven gnoses of Teyvat and use their collective power to bring down the heavens and create a new world order, one where man could rule freely without the eyes of Celestia gazing down upon them at every turn”

He paused and pulled you closer “Dragonspine wasn’t always eternally cold you know, they hit the top of the mountain with a nail that wiped out Sal Vindagnyr, the civilization that thrived on Dragonspine before. They had their favour until they didn't, one little thing and an entire city is wiped out on a whim”

Your eyes widened and he continued “The Cataclysm that happened five-hundred years ago, That was Celestia wiping out every remnant of a nation without gods. They will cause untold destruction to maintain their iron rule of Teyvat”

You swallowed trying to take everything he just said in and process it.

“So what you're saying is that Celestia wiped out these civilisations and in turn the Tsaritsa wants a world without gods and to do that she wants to wage a war against the heavens? What about the Tsaritsa isn’t she a god herself?”

“I don't know, her true plans are for herself and only herself to know”

“And the delusion, is that a mockery of Celestia? An attempt to imitate a god's blessing?”

“Something like that, I’m not too involved with that side of things, its more Dottore’s realm”

You looked down and swallowed, now considerably closer to Childe than you were at the start of the bath. He reached out and cupped your face, you lifted your gaze to make eye-contact with him. His eyes still had no shine, but his smile showed something genuine.

“Y/N, stay, even if it's just for a little while longer.” he said softly “I can’t figure out what I feel for you let alone put it into words, I swore to love nobody else but the Tsaritsa, but you’re making me begin to question it”

This man who had stood for everything you opposed. On that fateful night where you had first met at the bottom of Starfell Lake. His role was to harm and yours to heal, he was a creature, at least in part, of the abyss. Everything dictated that you should hate him. Yet, deep down, you knew you were falling ever so slowly for him, even if you never wanted to admit it but maybe, just maybe you could bury it down and remain with him for a bit longer.

You pressed your forehead to his and closed your eyes “OK, I’ll stick around”

He sighed “Thank you”

He angled your head slightly, eyes half lidded. You made the first move and gently kissed him. It was unlike the other time you had kissed him, that had been an outburst of desperation and pure willingness to avoid talking about the problem. But this, this was soft and sweet with no intention of it being anything else. A kiss for kisses sake.

Breath intermingled with one another's, you opened your mouth a scant inch and he took every advantage of that. He curled his hand around the back of your head and your hands found his shoulders.

Eventually, you broke apart. “C’mon the waters getting cold and you have to be at Northland”

“Yeah, your right” He chucked against your lips

✧

You sprinted up the giant flight of stairs to Bubu pharmacy. Debris was strewn across Liyue Harbour. It had only been hours after the storm had ended but people had begun to crowd the streets. A few shopkeepers cleaning up outside their stores.

You came to a stop, slightly panting, at the top of the stairs. Looking around Baizhu and Qiqi were mulling around inside. Qiqi was mopping the front and Baizhu was taking stock of herbs. He turns around to see you

“Y/N, I’m glad to see you safe after that whole ordeal”

“As am I, I came as quickly as I could. Of course this would happen on my day off” You half joke

“No need to worry, we're ok. Aside from some water damage to some herbs everything's alright. It is your day off Y/N, you don’t need to stick around” Baizhu said, turning back to continue taking inventory of the soaked herbs and medicines

“I just wanted to check in. That and I assume some people would have been injured in the storm, I came by to help”

Baizhu frowns for a second and nods “I guess you're right, there are a few people upstairs. Most of them are minor injuries, thankfully. I believe a troupe of local emergency healers have been dispatched by the Qixing for the more severe cases we couldn't effectively treat here. I'll keep you updated if anyone else comes in”

You nod, “Thank you, I'll start right away”

✧

Childe dried off and made his way to the bank, he still felt awful but at least he didn't like he was on the brink of death anymore. People stared at him as he strolled the streets to the bank, He didn’t take much notice of it but the closer he got to Northland the more he could feel their eyes burning a hole in the back of his head. Nodding at Vlad he stepped into the opulent interior, only to see Signoria and Zhongli conversing.

“Signoria, what are you doing here?” He said in a tense tone, even just being near that woman made him want to rip her to pieces.

“Finishing what you started Childe” She snarked, looking up up and down with disdain and crossing her arms

“You call this "cooperation between Harbingers"? Cooperation involves communication, you know” He snarled, He wouldn’t let her take another victory from him again.

Signoria laughed, smirking at him “Don't take it to heart, Childe. Besides, weren't you happy that you got to skip the formalities and bring chaos to the land? I'm sure you must've enjoyed that” She said in a soft, drawling voice. She paused as the doors opened again to reveal the Traveller and Paimon

“Oh, it seems that some of your friends have arrived.” She snapped her head toward him and then back at the new arrivals “It's you two. I believe we've met once before... In the City of Bards, was it? I imagine that it must have been rather hard to forget watching helplessly as something precious was snatched away from your friend.”

Aether looked at Signoria the same way Tartaglia did, with nothing but pure molten hatred. Paimon flitted to Aether's side and mumbled something, Aether seemed to visibly calm down, coaching his expression into one of mild annoyance.

“Well, if it isn't Aether. This is our first time seeing each other since Liyue was nearly wiped off the map. This is certainly a bit... awkward, wouldn't you say?” He said, desperately trying to lighten the mood after the battle that had happened a mere few hours ago

“Hmph, Paimon knew that we should never have trusted a Fatui Harbinger.” She crossed her arms and floated a little lower, glowering at him. Childe was glad that all of the people that could say that it was Paimon.

“Aw, now don't say that. Sure, I may have misled you, but I never had anything against you personally. Besides, I thought we were getting along quite well together, didn't you? Except for that little tussle we had at the end.”

“You deceived us! Used us!” The Traveller snapped

“The real deceivers here are Signoria and Zhongli.” He retorted

“Stop wasting time, Childe. There'll be plenty of time to chat once I'm through here.”

She turned to Morax and held her hand out “You remember the agreement, Morax. Now, if you would be so kind... The Gnosis please.” The voice dropping into something more sinister

Agreement? That bitch! Signoria had swooped under his nose yet again to steal the glory that was so rightfully his. And the gnosis? That means Zhongli isn’t just an adeptus but the Archon himself. He clenched his fists.

Zhongli paused for a little while “The contract is fulfilled. That which thou seeketh is now bestowed unto thee, for my promise is solid as stone”

“Hmph, how sanctimonious” She retorted, a sneer on her face. Zhongli drew the gnosis, it took everything from Childe not to reach out and snatch it from him as he passed it to Signoria.

“Why fake your death Morax? You could have cut the chase and given us the gnosis at the very start” Childe asked, anger rising at the second deceiver

“Gathering all the forces that had been bubbling behind the scenes, and then stirring them together in a pot that was bound to boil over... That's what he wanted to see, am I right?” Signoria said in a mocking tone, inspecting the rook-like gnosis, now solidly in her grasp.

She was deeper in on this than he thought, she must have been plotting to take this from him the moment she tipped him off about the Sigil at Yangsheng Teahouse.

Zhongli intervened “Perhaps it's best that I explain. As you know, I've dwelt upon this world for more than six thousand years. It is now 3,700 years ago that I founded Liyue together with The Adepti. Even boulders that can withstand whirlpools will erode with the passing of time. I kept convincing myself that cracks had not begun to form and that the end of my time had not yet come.”

He took a pause and glanced at everyone there, Paimon and Aether looked on in interest and Signoria looked bored, as if she already knew all of this

“Until one drizzly day, as I was strolling along the harbour, I heard a merchant tell one of his workers, "You've finished your duties, go ahead and call it a day." I stood motionless among the crowds, asking myself, Have I already finished my duties? But as I began to consider relinquishing my divine role, I soon discovered that many reasons still remained to not hastily depart. Was Liyue, the city I had dwelt in for so long, already prepared to enter its next age? I decided that a test was needed in order to reveal the answer.”

Of course this was going to be a long winded explanation, he couldn’t just get to the point

“So I approached Signoria. I knew the Tsaritsa wanted my gnosis and I was willing to give it for a price. But before I was content to leave Liyue in mortals hands I wanted to set up one last test. So, we gathered the cast of Tartaglia, The Adepti and The Qixing”

‘Oh and each played their role so beautifully” Signoria laughed, hiding her smile behind one hand

“Were you satisfied with the finale?” Childe snarked, growing more and more pissed by the second. All this time he thought he had the reins only for them to be so cruelly cut away. Zhongli and Signoria had wanted him to lose that fight and summon Osial.

“Indeed, I was. The Gnosis I had kept for so many years suddenly seemed to have lost its meaning.” His face never changing from his pensive expression.

“Let me guess — you had another plan in case it all burned down.” Aether remarked flatly

“That's right, which is why I continued to safeguard the Gnosis until now.”

“So you mean that if the chaos ever reached the point of no return, you would simply appear and use your divine powers to bring Liyue back under control?” Paimon questioned

Signoria spoke for Morax “Of course. And it would have been all too easy for him, too. Just as a child quickly matures after losing their parents, so has Liyue matured when faced with the death of its deity”

Zhongli continued, “In the end, the resolution to all that has transpired was even more satisfactory than I could have hoped for. Credit is also due to Signoria, the emissary dispatched by the Cryo Archon to fulfil our contract. At my request, she kept everything she knew in strict confidence — this despite the eavesdropping ears of her colleague, Childe.”

Childe was about to beat this man into the ground, god or not. And The Tsaritsa had dispatched Signoria and not him, how long had she been plotting this for?

“All of these things turned out as I had planned. There is only one thing that I had not anticipated... and that was the conduct of the Liyue Qixing. I had expected them to do no more than The Adepti. To come to the defence of Liyue. But when all was said and done.

They seized the opportunity to supplant Liyue's divine protectors, and used the subsequent power vacuum left by my death to quickly gain complete control of Liyue.”

Rage boiling over he snapped “Hey, what about me? Doesn't anyone feel the least bit of remorse for deceiving me? You've practically kept me in the dark!”

“Hah! I think that thanks would be more appropriate. You certainly played no small part in all of this... Wreaking havoc and turning the city upside down. You must have delighted in it. The Lord of Geo ought to thank you for your performance, if anything. If you hadn't created the pressure of a battle between mortals, adepti, and a god, the lump of coal resting in the hands of the Geo Archon, Liyue would never have been able to become a dazzling diamond of a city.”

“What? Just whose side are you on, mocking me like that? Are you itching for a fight? You've come out of this as the hero of Liyue. I, on the other hand, will forever be proscribed as a disturber of peace” The faintest hint of electro singed the air

“The cards fell where they did. Well then, with the Gnosis in my possession, I have no use for such idle chatter. We should return to Zapolyarny Palace and seek an audience with Her Majesty, the Tsaritsa. Come, Childe.”

“Ugh, fine... I'll meet you there later. I'm not sharing a boat with the likes of you.”

“Hmph, do as you wish.” She turned her nose up and strutted out of the building towards the docks. Childe followed a few seconds later, avoiding Signoria he headed straight for the apartment.

He threw open the door and slammed it behind him. Fuming, he smashed a vase on the ground relishing in hearing it break. He stepped forward crushing the porcelain under his boot.

All of this work just to be a puppet strung along by Signoria and Zhongli. He had been sent on this mission to prove himself only for The Tsaritsa to have planned for Signoria to step in from the very start. What did he have to do to prove that he wasn’t a child?

And Zhongli, Childe was just about ready to tackle him to the ground and face his godly wrath for that act of deception. He always knew he wasn’t a human, but for him to be a god under his nose? Childe screamed and let out a strike of electro, it hung in the air, cracking.

On his return to Snezhnaya he would be humiliated in front of the other Harbingers. He took his mask that lay perched on the side of his head and looked at it, it was the representation of himself as a Harbinger, the mask seemed to laugh back at him. Another burst of electro jumped forth just as the door opened.

“Hey! Calm down, you nearly electrocuted me!” He saw you register his state, his back turned to you standing above a shattered vase and your expression changed to one of concern

“What happened at the bank?” You asked softy, the residual electro energy in the hair made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

"What didn’t happen” he huffed, pacing around the room, you stepped into the apartment fully and closed the door behind you. He was still gripping his mask

“ I was never meant to get the gnosis, I was a mere pawn for Signoria and Zhongli to move around as they pleased. I did nothing to prove myself to the other Harbingers and now I look like an impulsive fool! Not to mention Zhongli gave the gnosis directly to Signoria, the bastards had it planned from the very start” He yelled, waving his hands around, his cape flowing behind him like a wave.

There was a flash of confusion across your face as you processed exactly what he had said, piercing together that Zhongli was the allegedly deceased god. You sat down and patted the spot on the couch next to you, reluctantly Childe sat down beside you, letting the mask fall and clatter on the floor.

“All of this was for nothing” He said, voice quieter than before. He rested his head on your shoulder, the rage that had been burning gave way to exhaustion, his body catching up to his over use of Foul Legacy.

You carded you hand through his rusty locks “Let's get you to bed, we can talk about this tomorrow, but right now you've reached the end of your wick”

Childe sighed and got up “Yeah… Yeah you're right. I’ll tell you everything tomorrow”

As Childe left for bed you hung around for a second longer, picking up the mask, you looked into the face of Tartaglia.

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suchawrathfullamb · 6 months

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prettily requesting the jewelry maker will prompt! thank you lamb!

Hmm, I feel like that would be a whole fic, and I’m too overwhelmed with writing to write something else now, but I’ll give you a something since you asked prettily.

When I thought about this, I thought about them trying to start a new life somewhere, maybe in a very small village in Europe. They’re living in a place that used to be a bridal boutique, they had dresses and jewelry, but that was a long time ago and everything was kind of rusted and old. They moved to the house upstairs and the boutique space was just sitting there without use. One day Will finds an antique rolling mill somewhere in the house and because he loves to repair things and has a general understanding of it, he decides he’ll do it, at first just to fill in time.

Eager fingers traced the contours, assessing the damage, and he retrieved some tools—a set of wrenches, grease for lubrication, and a drawn blueprint of the machine, salvaged from an old manual.

With focused determination, he set to work. Carefully, he dismantled the outer casing, revealing the intricate network of gears, he cleaned away the rust and meticulously alignined their teeth, ensuring a seamless interaction between each component.

Next were the rollers—misaligned and immobile. Guided by his expertise, Will delicately adjusted their positions, aligning them with precision, ensuring they ran parallel.

Hour after hour, he toiled, a symphony of clicks and rotations accompanying his efforts. As dusk tiptoed into the room, the final moments arrived. The repaired machine sat before Will, a testament to his dedication. With a mix of apprehension and anticipation, he turned the crank.

Silence.

Then, a hesitant creak—a gear caught its neighbor, setting off a chain reaction. Slowly, the rollers began their rhythmic dance, rotating in perfect synchrony. With a grateful smile, he wiped the sweat from his brow.

I think Hannibal would be so fascinated, too. He’d bring Will snacks and drinks, but would ultimately leave him alone to work. When it was finally over, he’d be amazed and of course would encourage Will to try and use it. At first, Will was hesitant, thinking he could never make something so delicate and beautiful like jewelry, that his craftmanship was for more rustic things. But eventually he decided to try it out.

He ends up really enjoying it and finds out he has a natural talent for it. He feels as if he found a way to design his inner life and experiences and pour them into something tangible and beautiful, in a way nothing else truly permitted before. Of course Hannibal is enchanted by his designs and of course Will usually makes them for Hannibal. He wears them proudly and his heart swells every time he adds a new one to the collection. Each with such deep meaning etched into the designs and patterns, the colors and stones. It’s like Will is adorning him with pieces of his most intimate parts.

People (he'd meet on random walks, at the grocery store, shops) started asking Hannibal about it, and he’d proudly say “mon mari l'a fait pour moi” my husband made it for me. They’d ask him if he could make it for them. At first, he was reluctant but he knew how Will wanted to feel useful somehow and was craving the “work life”, so he thought he might as well keep him at home this way, they could build an atelier. And that’s what they did. Hannibal would be the vendeur, at the front desk, handling all the “people” part, of course, and Will would be in his little nest making the pieces. They’d soon become a very exclusive atelier for the upper class of their little town.

Something that also begins to occur are clients commenting on the scent on the atelier, “délicieux!”, they’d say. That was, of course, Hannibal’s own creation, as he’d always made his own perfumes and ambient fragrances. Will suggested he’d offer them in the atelier, and that’s exactly what he did. So they just made this little place of beauty and pleasure, combining their skills and infusing their work with their essence.

#no need to steal #if u want to use this just tag me i'd love to read your work #hannigram #nbc hannibal #hannibal #will graham #hugh dancy #murder husbands #hannibal lecter #mads mikkelsen #fanfic #headcanons

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eriexplosion · 1 year

Text

IDK I've made jokes about being in denial but the more I think about it the more resolute I become that Tech isn't gone, the way that it's set up is too easy to have him come back somehow.

The only person to see the body was someone that has every motivation to lie, the only part he could 'salvage' was the most delicate part of Tech's kit. It was a high drop but Tech was wearing 50 pounds of armor, and all of that was too mangled but his goggles are still recognizable? And the only part of anything that we see?

OUR ONLY CONFIRMATION COMES FROM FUCKING DR. HEMLOCK?

Something more is up. I don't know when they'll pull that plot string again, though I'm hoping season 3, but somewhere along the line it's getting pulled.

#the bad batch #the bad batch spoilers #I cried it out and came back to it with a fresh head and it just looks more suspicious than it did the first time #the writers are familiar enough with star wars Tropes that if they wanted this man to be categorically 100% dead we would know

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birdmenanime · 2 years

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6. dumb little writing please?

The premise for this is actually that Karasuma goes on dates with Takayama to try and teach him how to be a good boyfriend for someone (Aka Karasuma trying to help out Umino) but it ends up just becoming a fake dating AU sprinkled with Karasuma pining at max level. :)

…

“Aren’t you ever going to get a haircut?”

Takayama stills, blinks.

“It’s gotten very long, you know.” Karasuma continues.

“Your hair has gotten long, too.”

Karasuma instinctively brushes a lock behind his own ear. The back of his head is probably getting shoulder length now, but he’s been keeping it in a ponytail too often to check.

“I’m growing it out.” He may need to cut it soon, though. Sagisawa said it looked like a mullet. “But my hair isn’t bad.”

“My hair’s not... bad.”

“It's pretty bad.” Karasuma states bluntly. “If you don’t trim it soon it’s just going to topple on top of itself like a mop. Just a trim won’t hurt!”

“...Okay.”

“Here, sit down.” Karasuma gestures to the floor near his bed, before picking up a comb and scissors. Takayama obliges.

“You don’t use products or anything, right?” He states, as he climbs onto his bed and positions himself behind Takayama.

“No.”

“See, that’s so weird to me.” He grabs the comb. ”Like, how does your hair even stay up-“ The comb immediately hits a knot. “Whuh.” Okay, he should have expected a knot or two. But that’s okay, he can deal with that later. He moves to another section, and somehow is greeted by another, larger knot. He tries tugging it gently, but Takayama lets out a slightly pained grunt. “What the fuck.” Maybe it’s just on base of his spikes, surely his whole head isn’t-

His whole head is matted. He has maybe a few inches near the base of his skull that are free, but the rest is unsalvageable and Karasuma is pretty sure saw a twig lodged in there.

“Takayama.”

“...” The younger teen refuses to look at the other.

“We probably need to chop off most of this.”

“.......”

“Takayama.”

“.............”

“Hey. Speak.”

“Do what you have to.” He sounds dejected.

“I’ll try to salvage what I can.” Karasuma promises. He grabs the scissors and lines it up to the first matted spike, hesitating before snipping it off in a fell swoop. It lands in Takayama’s lap. He tries not to give Takayama the time to grieve (or back out), working his way from the outside of his hair towards his scalp, trying to comb out and keep as much hair as possible.

Minutes later and Karasuma finally gets to a point where there are no more knots. Takayama’s hair is now very mismatched in length, so he sets to work, delicately grabbing locks and trimming. Occasionally he musses up Takayama’s hair with his fingers, sees where it lands and checks for spots of excess length. He thinks he hears Takayama hum during those moments, but waves it off.

Once satisfied with his work, the older teen glances at the floor to take a peek at the hair massacre.

“I had a lot more hair than I thought.” Takayama states.

“You still have hair, you’re not bald like Kamoda.” Takayama’s hair was still very noticeably short. Definitely shorter than Karasuma’s, and probably considered a buzz cut. Still, there’s enough hair that Takayama’s hair can still spike sporadically in the air. Takayama turns around to look at him, and Karasuma has to think really hard about not blushing. The haircut definitely works on him. He grabs his phone and flips the camera so Takayama can look at it himself. Takayama stares a bit, pats the top of his head a bit, before letting his hand drop.

“Does it look okay?”

“It looks fine.” Karasuma says it a bit too fast, and he thinks he’s failing at the whole “not blushing” thing.

“I can’t remember the last time my hair was this short.” Takayama says, grabbing a strand from his head and attempting to look at it. His “bangs” (if they could even be called that) were sacrificed in the hair cutting process.

Karasuma’s hands still tingle from cutting Takayama’s hair, and the memory of his short spiky hair bristling against his palms lingers. Lifting up from where it rests on a knee, his right hand somehow ends up back in Takayama’s hair, ruffling it slightly. “It’ll be easier to take care of this way, anyways.”

“Mm.” And he’s staring at Karasuma, again.

#my writing #birdmen #gah I should really finish this wip

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pulli3 · 11 months

Text

Storm

I wish the sun made me as happy as the rain did.

I think to me the sun serves as a reminder of hurt but for a glimpse in my life the sun felt like the sun.

And now that I’m away from it- what the rain is to most people is what the sun has become for me again.

I think I’m a sad person at heart, maybe too much has happen to me in my life that happiness seems to be the rarity not the commonality, maybe I attract chaos, maybe I ruin peace, I’m not sure, but it seems as if I things just don’t want to play out in my favour, that maybe good things don’t necessarily happen to good people, that maybe the world is a cruel place for someone with a soft heart.

Because of those experiences, I feel as if my heart, soul, mind has become so lured to idea of happiness, of stable, of calm; of good.

when I feel happiness, I get really attached to it, bc for me it’s as if I’m feeling something outside my “common”. Something “new”, which is enticing, it’s almost captivating. Yet, when it’s taken away from me, I feel as if Im stranded back in my head, where isolation seems to be the only thing I know how to do. Like a little bear hiding in a cave waiting for a storm to pass.

I think my heart has been so hurt, I’m scared to feel the slightest of hurt. my soul has become so delicate, I don’t know how to navigate hurt anymore, so I close of any possibility to it, and I try to convince myself I’m protecting my inner peace, when it feels as if it’s hurting me more but I don’t do anything to stop it because I don’t know how to.

When it is okay to take the first step out of the cave, how can u be certain the storm has passed?

Now I feel as if, no matter how much I try to salvage a broken situation all outcomes still lead to ones that cause strain on my heart, are troublesome and are not amicable.

I wish I could just take a step back from it all, somehow get the answers to everything and come back with solutions or at least resolutions to make things feel okay, cause I feel as if I’m losing to my heart, and a loss of my heart is a loss of everything. How much patience do I need for someone to finally be as gentle with my heart as I am for theirs, when will love finally treat me right.

So who’s gonna show the little bear it’s okay to step outside again?

I wish I could just feel at peace again because I’m clearly not, I’m making fucking bear analogies what the fuck

0 notes

offwilds · 1 year

Note

❛ what’s that smug look for? you think you can do any better? ❜ from umaia

The sorceress sits down, languidly stretching out her shapely, black-stockinged legs in front of her as magic thrums and flows around them. She tosses her head and her dark eyes blaze, a cold, unemotional, deep violet. She casts her gaze over at the younger mage, feeling a prickling of annoyance at her tone, at the assumption, the growing, dramatic accusations hurled her way from the very first day of their acquaintance, too banal for her. She sighs softly.

In truth, it's not Umaia that sets her teeth on edge; far from it. If anything, this daughter of Chaos brimming with primal, violent power, has been since first she saw her to the last, an everflowing source of intrigue to her— an intrigue she means to further unfold, and knowing that Aldric is rather fond of the lass too, makes her all the more, not dear to her, but something somehow akin to it. A thing of wild, unbridled Chaos, with teeth that gnash and gnaw at the world around them, bright and terrible, refusing to yield; fascinating. Nereinne likes her.

Since first thing that morning, though, everything has been spoiling her mood, making her irritable and angry, a cold, hard shard of ice: the cold, wet wind soaking the silks of her skirts as she had made her way to the Grove that morn; the black, scorched ruin of the Grove when she arrived, a reminder of everything they've been unable to salvage, all the death that lays dark and bloodless in their hands; the injustice of it all, the hollow, empty lies, the violent hypocrisy. She is irritated by the absence of Aldric, who had left before she woke up and she has neither seen nor heard from him since. She is worried about Fjandi, too, the long, dark road that lies ahead of them, now, full of devastating choices to be made, paths to be followed, steeped in darkness, in uncertainty. It wreathes itself, a heavy, cold thing, upon her shoulders, its weight, annihilating, unbearable.

And yet, she refuses to be overcome by such petty, pathetic emotions; she musters her self restraint with all the grace she can presently collect, and allowing a slow, languorous smile to drape itself over the curve of her mouth, she draws herself up into a simulacrum of her usual haughty self.

“ yes. ” she asserts tartly, a slow shrug rolling off her delicate shoulders as she bestows her piercing gaze upon the lass.

@inkerlock

#& umaia #<3 #This....got too long idek.

0 notes

jadedvibes · 2 years

Note

📖 drabble request for some florist!ari 🥺🥺🥺 pretty please <3

something about this giant of a man handle something as delicate as flowers just makes me🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺

Soft Blooms

Pairing: Florist!ari x reader

Warning: Crazy fluffy meet cute

Word Count: 1k

A/N: Thanks for making this adorable moodboard! I hope you like the spin I put on this drabble! Jade's 6 Month Blogiversary 💜

Like, comment, and/or reblog to put a giant smile on my face ♡

You hummed as you finished boxing up a small pack of cupcakes for your next special order, careful not to mess up the frosting you meticulously piped to perfection. After placing your store’s sticker on the edge of the box to keep it sealed, you heard a shattering of glass outside your shop door.

Looking up through your glass windows, you saw a tall man standing on the sidewalk staring at the ground with his hands on his hips. Curious as to what that was all about, you went out to see if you could help.

“Crap,” Ari mumbled to himself, as he bent down on one knee to see if he could salvage the flowers. Somehow the red dahlia’s were still intact, so he carefully picked them all up, and just as he was about to stand up and set them back in his delivery truck, he heard a bell jingle behind him.

You walked around him to see what was going on and he turned to look up at you, smiling shyly.

You couldn’t suppress your smile at the broad-shouldered gentleman with the pretty flowers in his hands, even if you wanted to. “Do you need some help?” you beamed at the blue-eyed man kneeling before you.

Ari matched your bright smile, “Now what makes you think I need help?” he asked playfully, peering up at you through his thick lashes. Finally standing up to his full height, “Maybe, I just wanted to dramatically give you these flowers,” he joked, gesturing to the little bouquet in his hands. He towered over you, but there was something about him that put you at ease.

You let out a laugh, “Well that’s one way of getting my attention,” you teased. “But before you do that, maybe we should clean this glass up,” you gestured at the broken vase. “I’ll be right back with a broom,” you said, rushing back to grab the sweeper.

Ari ran his hand through his hair as he watched you walk away — you were too cute, with your adorable pink apron and that radiant smile. He quickly made sure that there was no glass on the flowers then pulled and cut out some extra ribbon he had in his truck. After ensuring they were perfect, he tied them up beautifully with a black bow.

The bell above your door jingled again, and he turned back to see you with the big broom and dustpan. “Thank you so much,” he said, grabbing the items from your hand. “And these are for you,” he mumbled shyly, handing you the small red arrangement.

Heat rushed to your cheeks as you smiled at him, taking it from his hands. “That wasn’t necessary, but thank you,” you said coyly.

He nodded his head with a grin before moving to sweep up the glass.

“Um, I’ll be right back,” you turned to head back to your shop.

Ari spent a few minutes cleaning up, making sure that he didn’t leave a shard of glass behind. He didn’t want a woman as lovely as yourself to run into any trouble because of his mistake.

While he did that, you quickly went inside and grabbed a spatula and changed your piping tip to make a little something just for him.

You heard him close up the back of his delivery van’s door, and then the familiar bell rang again. Swiftly packing up the small pastry in a box, you sealed it with your store’s sticker just as he came up to the counter.

“Thanks again for letting me borrow this. Where would you like me to put it?” He held up the broom.

“You can just lean it up against the wall,” you nodded towards the wall behind him, as you scribbled on the box with your sharpie.

He did just that, then returned to the counter. “Sorry about the disruption, but I’m glad it led me to this bakery. You’re really close to my Flower Shop,” he smiled, his eyes soft and warm as he looked at you.

“Well you’ll have to stop by another time, in a less dramatic fashion of course,” you joked, meeting his stunning cerulean gaze. “Here, I um packed this up for you. You can see if it’s worth it to return,” you handed him the box.

“I don’t need to open the box to know that it is,” he smirked, taking the box from your hands. “But thank you.”

Staring into your brilliant eyes, Ari felt himself fall just a bit.

He took a deep breath, “I do have to get going though, I have a couple more arrangements to make and drop off since my delivery guy is out today. I’m a little out of sorts with this side of things, but will you be here tomorrow morning?” he asked hopefully.

“I will, yeah,” you nodded with a soft smile.

“Great, I will see you then, um?” he finally realized he had yet to get your name.

“Y/N.”

“Right, I’m Ari. And I’ll see you tomorrow Y/N,” he beamed before turning to leave, glancing back just once as his hand touched the door.

The bell chimed again upon his departure, and you exhaled a deep breath. What a man.

You couldn’t wait until tomorrow when you’d get the chance to see that gorgeous being again.

As he got in his truck and buckled up, Ari thanked his clumsiness for bringing him to you. You were so kind and enchanting, he couldn’t believe his luck.

Curiosity got the better of him as pulled up in front of his shop. He picked up the box that he’d set on his passenger seat and saw that you had scribbled your name and number on the side. A bright smile graced his lips, but then he gently broke the seal and opened up the box to see what you made for him.

Ari’s heart nearly leaped out of his chest as he took in the little cupcake, flawlessly frosted in the design of a beautiful red dahlia.

Part 2

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heich0e · 2 years

Note

If u r still accepting prompts, can u write a fluffy college roommate oikawa short (if u want) 👉👈

oh oh OH roommate tooru who is absolutely hopeless but is Trying His Best™

shrunk oikawa tooru/reader (haikyuu!!) warnings: a little itty bit en ess eff double yew, mostly chaos

"Oikawa?" you were almost scared to call out his name into the quiet apartment, the stillness settled over the quaint two bedroom not far from your university campus too delicate to fracture with a noise too loud.

It was never this quiet, save for late at night when Tooru would sit on the floor of his bedroom and watch game footage on his laptop, noise cancelling headphones snug over his ears. Sometimes he'd watch in the living room, you'd caught him once or twice on your way back from a midnight trip to the kitchen for some water, but usually he holed up in his room when he got this quiet.

But his bedroom door was open.

His shoes were at the door, his coat on the coatrack, his slippers gone from their usual perch just beside the mat that demarcated where entryway met hall.

He had to be home.

Low and behold, a familiar mop of brown hair peeked around the corner, remorseful eyes on you.

"Hey," you smiled in greeting, dropping your backpack on the ground as you stuffed your feet into your slippers. "How was class this morning?" you asked him. He always got home earlier than you did on Tuesdays.

"It was good," Tooru responded, looking away nervously.

You froze.

Tooru 1) was never nervous, and 2) never responded to any question you asked him in less than 200 words.

"Is everything alright?" you asked him, taking a step further into the apartment.

"Wait!" he said, holding his hands up to stop you -- and you paused again.

You looked at him blankly, your stomach dropping.

"I, uh, got home from class this morning and had some free time to kill, so I decided to do some cleaning," Tooru said, reaching up and ruffling his already tousled hair even further.

You held your breath.

"And I happened to notice that you had..."

Not laundry. Not laundry. Not laundry.

"... some laundry that needed to be washed."

You groaned.

"Tooru!" you whined. "We've talked about this!"

And you had talked about it. About a million times, in fact, since the two of you had moved in together four months prior.

Moving out of his family home had been a real leaning curve for Oikawa, who had been doted on by his mother and older sister for most of his life -- and had been too busy with volleyball to, apparently, learn any practical life skills that didn't involve smacking a ball really hard -- and had been forced to adapt quickly to taking care of himself. You, as his roommate, had suffered by extension.

Burned dinners, broken dishes, clogged drains, and endless issues with laundry.

Clothes flying off the drying rack on the narrow balcony that Tooru hadn't pinned down safely enough, leading to the two of you having to go door to door to collect the various garments that had landed on your neighbour's balconies thanks to the wind (and kissing a few of your favourite pairs of socks goodbye.) A single red towel thrown into a load of lights that led to every white piece of clothing either of you owned being tinted a light shade of pink until you got your hands on some bleach and salvaged what you could. And countless articles of clothing fitting you a little bit worse because they had somehow found their way into the dryer.

"What is it this time?" you asked sombrely. You'd already lost more than a few good men (garments) to Tooru's laundry blunders, and you shuddered to think about what might have happened.

"Well, I was doing a load of darks..."

Bleach?

"...and my clothes weren't enough to fill the machine so I just thought that maybe you might have something that needed to be washed..."

Did he overfill it and floor the apartment with soap suds?

"...and I happened to notice your work dress hanging up on the back of the bathroom door..."

You froze.

"Tooru," you said quietly. "You didn't..."

"I swear I checked to see if it said not to put it in the dryer, just like you told me!" Tooru threw his hands up in defence, his expression pleading.

You slapped a hand over your mouth.

"Show me," you said quietly, the word muffled into your palm.

Oikawa sighed, shoulders slumping defeatedly, waving you down the hall to follow him into the living room.

The slinky black cocktail dress you wore to work as a restaurant hostess (that already toed the line of being indecent at the best of times) was haphazardly laying over the arm of the sofa, beside a pile of neatly folded dark laundry. Clearly he'd been examining the damage when you had first walked through the door.

You picked it up.

It had shrunk, that much was clear. But the extent to which it had been affected would be impossible to tell until you actually put it on.

"Tooru, I have to work tonight," you said, shooting him a miserable glance.

"I know, I know," he said apologetically. "That's why I washed it! I was just trying to help."

He pouted, wringing his hands as you examined the dress. It was too late for you to call your manager and tell her you'd need a new one -- it usually took at least a few days to get a replacement. And if you showed up in something else they might send you home, which you couldn't allow because you needed every dollar from your paycheque to go to your bills.

You sighed.

"I'll go see how bad it is."

You shuffled off to the bathroom, dress in hand.

And oh, it was bad.

Your eyes scanned your body as you stood in front of the bathroom mirror, mortified.

The hem hit only a few inches below your ass, the material clinging to every curve and line of your body like a second skin. To make matters worse, you were wearing one of your more padded bras that day, and the girls were making themselves very well known as they spilled out over the top of the plunging neckline.

A soft knock at the door pulled you from your misery.

"How is it?" Tooru asked from the other side of the thin door.

Your throat was dry.

"Bad," you replied quietly.

"I'm sure it's fine," he assured you, "just let me see."

You paused. Maybe he was right. Maybe you were just being hard on yourself because it was your own body, and it wasn't something you were used to seeing.

You turned the handle of the door, pulling it open slowly.

Oikawa's eyes widened immediately when he saw you, his gaze tracking down down down your body, before slithering all the way back up -- catching on certain parts of you as he went.

You watched him swallow hard.

"You can't wear that." Oikawa shook his head, covering his face with his hand.

"Is it that bad?" you asked, shifting your weight from one foot to the other.

He turned away from you for a moment, letting his hands drop to his sides where they curled into fists.

"You can't wear that," he repeated again.

"Tooru, I have no other option!" you groaned. "I know it looks awful but I can't just-"

"You don't look awful."

You paused, your sentence cut short.

Tooru turned to face you again, a fierce blush burning across his cheeks. "You can't wear it because I'm gonna go insane knowing that you're out there, looking like that, with a bunch of strangers looking at you."

You blinked.

"What?" you asked him quietly.

He sighed.

"You really don't get it, do you?"

"Get what, Tooru? That you're bad at doing laundry?" You were utterly lost at what he was alluding to.

"That I like you!" he replied exasperatedly, and both of you froze after he said it -- staring at each other with equally wide eyes.

"You like me?" you asked him quietly, perplexed.

Tooru's brown eyes watched you carefully for a moment, his jaw setting firm. The blush on his cheeks was still present, but it had settled slightly -- though he was sure to keep his eyes on your face.

"Yeah," he took a careful step forward, as though waiting to see if you were going to slink back. "I like you."

His hand reached up, resting against the curve of your neck. You wondered if he could feel how hard your pulse was racing under his palm.

"And I'm gonna have a heart attack if you don't take that dress off soon."

You blinked. Once, then twice. Two slow flutters of your eyelids as you processed the events of the past few moments.

"I have to wear this to work tonight," you said after a moment, and Tooru deflated slightly, stepping away and letting his hand drop with a somber nod.

You caught his wrist as it fell, and Tooru's eyes snapped to you curiously. He watched as you guided his hand down to the (shortened) hem, pressing it against your thigh.

"But how about you take it off me first?"

#oikawa x reader #oikawa drabble #oikawa fluff #oikawa tooru #liv got mail #writing #hq drabble #hq writing

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beyondspaceandstars · 3 years

Text

“We Go Way Back”

Relationship: Yelena Belova x Reader Warnings: angst, attitude, possible vague Black Widow spoilers Summary: Your and Yelena's date night takes an unexpected turn when a surprise guest shows up at your shared apartment. A/N: So. I saw Black Widow on thursday....i loved SO much.......maybe even found a new comfort character..........and now here we are :) please enjoy

Masterlist

You were just finishing up dinner when two arms snaked around your waist. You giggled, staring down at the sautéed vegetables, as you leaned into your girlfriend’s touch.

"Smells good," she mumbled against your neck. Light kisses were beginning to litter your skin.

You sighed. "Thank you, love," you said, giving everything a final stir before turning off the burners. You went to start carrying items to the table, thinking your girlfriend would let up on her hold on you, but that ended up not being the case.

With a joyous laugh, you playfully scolded her, "Yelena, please," you smiled. "Do you want to eat or not?"

She hummed. Her hands drifted now to your sides and began creeping their way to your hips and thighs. "Depends on what you had in mind."

You let out a faux surprised gasp. "You’re shameless." You shook your head and peeled her hands away from you. She let out a little defeated sigh but you just shot her a playful look and continued with your initial mission of setting the dining table.

Thankfully, this time, Yelena lent a helping hand as opposed to lending her hands…elsewhere. The latter was a common occurrence, especially before date night dinners, such as ones like these. There had been one too many meals you were forced to reheat everything after you let Yelena get carried away.

After the food was placed — a nice spread of local meats, fresh produce, and bakery bread — you began working on getting plates and cutlery. Yelena had taken it upon herself to start breaking out the wine. She brought out two bottles you had just bought that morning based on the recommendation from the butcher. You maybe took cooking and dinners a bit too seriously, hoping everything was right especially when it was for your love.

You set out the cutlery just as Yelena finished pouring two (hefty) glasses of wine. You shot her a smile in thanks and began filling each of your plates. You did have to pat yourself on the back a bit, everything smelled wonderful.

Once you two had full plates and eager stomachs, you sat down and dug in. Yelena immediately let out an exaggerated moan as she practically devoured the meat. You blushed at her enthusiasm.

"This is wonderful, dear," Yelena praised and took a sip of her wine. "Very reminiscent of my momma’s cooking."

Your ears perked up at your girlfriend’s mention of her family. She did that every now and then, slip in random comments about them. You liked trying to explore it but knew the topic was a delicate one. You trod carefully.

"Yeah?" You asked, moving some vegetables around on your plate. "Did she cook a lot?"

Yelena shrugged. "We’d have dinners together, all of us, pretty much every night."

All of us. You had heard so far of a mother and a father but could there be more? Or were you reading too much into it?

Eventually, you settled on, "Family dinners sound very nice." That was enough, you thought. Just safe but still engaged. You eyed Yelena as she continued to eat. She hadn’t noticed you stalled or, well, she probably did, but wasn’t saying anything. You took large gulps of your wine, impulsively.

Just as your liquid courage was getting to you to maybe inquire further about your lover’s family, a hard knock at the front door disrupted the entire dinner. Both of your movements stopped abruptly. You looked between the door and your girlfriend.

"Were you expecting someone?" You asked.

Yelena shook her head. Her fork dropped with a loud clang as she pushed away from the table. In quick, determined strides she collected the gun kept in the side table in the living room. You watched her, quite stunned by her response. You don’t think you ever actually saw any of her guns come into action. When you first moved in, she just explained they were a precaution. You never asked what kind of precaution. You feared you were getting your answer now as Yelena walked to the entryway.

Gun drawn, pointed dead on with the wooden door, she called out, "Who is it?"

"You can put the gun down." Surprisingly, that was a female voice answering your girlfriend’s demand. Your brows furrowed in curiosity. You watched for Yelena’s reaction but she was still so stoic and intense.

Yelena scoffed. "Are you sure?"

Probably a bit foolishly, you decided to chime in. "Love," you said, "is everything okay?"

The female on the other side of the door spoke again, this time with an element of shock in her voice. "Love?"

Yelena let out a dramatic sigh as she relaxed her stance and surrendered her gun, placing it on the little table in the foyer. What seemed to be a bit reluctantly, Yelena opened the door forcefully.

Despite the mystery woman finally being revealed, it answered approximately zero of your questions. There, in the doorway, stood a redhead whose unamusing expression mixed with a slight smugness matched your girlfriend’s. The two just stared at one another, neither dared to move, as if they were challenging one another to try it.

Curiosity finally getting the best of you, you stood from the dining table and slowly made your way to the front door. Your fingers fumbled in nervousness as you stepped with caution.

"Hi, there," you said with a weak smile and gentle wave. The redhead’s eyes flicked over to you only briefly. Still, you continued, "Are you alright? Do you need something?"

"Oh, do I."

Yelena shook her head. "The only thing she needs is to leave."

You turned to your girlfriend, "Who is she?"

"Natasha," the redhead explained. "Me and your love here," she nodded towards Yelena, "we go way back."

You didn’t know how she had the air in her but Yelena let out another ridiculous sigh and stomped away. Like some defeated child, she took her seat once more at the dining table. You had never seen her like this before, so unattached and dismissive. You wracked your brain on how to mend this.

You turned back to Natasha. "Please, come in." Natasha took the offer quite well and gave you a nod of thanks before entering the apartment. You followed her into the dining room.

"We were just starting dinner," you explained as you raced for the kitchen, grabbing Natasha her own set. "Sit, have some food."

Natasha mumbled a "thanks" as you began filling her plate now with food. You even offered up some wine despite Yelena’s weird look she shot you when you reached for it. You ignored her odd behavior and took your seat once more. Somehow, the tension from the situation just got worse. Neither woman was eating now.

You cleared your throat as you prepared to dig into your meal once more. "I hope it’s still warm. If not, I can pop everything in the oven to warm."

No one said anything.

"Alright then…" You shrugged. "If I may, how exactly do you two know each other?"

That was the question that opened the flood gates. Yelena turned to you abruptly. "She’s my sister."

"Sort of," the redhead quickly retorted.

Your jaw went slack. Your appetite completely abandoned you now as your interest was greatly piqued. "Your sister?" You asked and looked between the two women. Well, they didn’t really look alike…

"Not biologically," Yelena explained. "We just kind of…lived together for a while."

"I see," you nodded. You scraped your fork against your plate, awkwardly. "If I may again, what brings you here, Natasha?"

The question certainly made Yelena perk up as she stared down her sister — or, whatever they considered each other. You resisted the urge to grab her hand under the table, unsure of what level of affection she was comfortable showing in front of this woman.

"Some business to attend to." Short and sweet. You felt these two were definitely related on some level.

"This couldn’t have waited until the morning?" Yelena gritted.

Natasha shrugged. "I guess it could’ve but then, apparently, I would’ve missed out on this lovely dinner with you and your… your, what? Girlfriend?" She took a bite of food. "Hmm, tastes close to someone else’s cooking." A shrug. "Anyways, I didn’t know you dated."

"You don’t know a lot of things."

"Okay!" You explained, trying to salvage whatever was left of this civilized conversation. Natasha and Yelena shared a look before turning to your flustered state. "We’re very happy you dropped in, right, love?" You glanced at Yelena. "And you’re more than welcome to stay, Natasha. I’m afraid all we have to offer is the couch if that would be okay."

Natasha glanced behind you at the living room before nodding. "That would be great," she smiled.

***

It wasn’t until you were standing at the kitchen sink cleaning the dishes from dinner that Yelena approached you to talk. Natasha was off getting ready for bed and your girlfriend hopped on this opportunity.

"I’m so sorry," she said as she stood beside you, taking on the role of the dryer in your little dishwasher assembly line. "I-I don’t even know where to begin. I’m sorry she dropped by, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about her—,"

"Love," you shook your head, giving her a sympathetic look, "it’s okay. I’m not really mad you didn’t tell me or that she’s here. From what I gather, it’s a complicated relationship."

Yelena let out an annoyed huff. "You have no idea." A beat. "But, still. I shouldn’t hide these things from you. She was a big part of my life and now you… you’re a big part of my life. It’s only fair."

Your heart warmed at her admission. She could be quite the affectionate one when she wanted to be. Quickly, you leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. She tried hiding her blush but failed beautifully.

"For what it’s worth, she seems very interesting," you shrugged. "I think she could be fun to get to know. Probably has a few embarrassing stories about you as a child."

Yelena gasped. "Don’t even think about it."

"Too late," you giggled, mentally marking that down as a subject for conversation. A brief silence passed over you two as you finished up with the dishes. Reaching the end of the chore, you said, "So, should I be on the lookout for any other siblings?"

Your girlfriend chuckled. "No," she admitted. "Natasha is it."

You let out a content hum in understanding. "One day we should have them all over."

"Them?"

"Yeah," you nodded, "your whole family. A nice, big family dinner. That could be exciting, right?"

Yelena rolled her eyes. Whether it was playful or not, you couldn’t quite tell. "That’s certainly one way to describe it."

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haadeswrites · 3 years

Text

Elysium

god this fic took forever i’m so sorry!! but hey, first fic on the new blog! <33 also y’all should really thank @iwaasfairy who listened to me complain about this fic for a solid month, she’s the reason it got finished

Cult leader Oikawa Tooru x female reader

tw: indoctrination, extremely dubious consent, blood, yandere themes, religious themes, minor character death, implied abuse & drug use, mild smut, nsfw

The island itself is breathtaking

Pristine beaches with gleaming white sand, vast swathes of lush, green rainforest and waterfalls that cascade into shimmering pools of crystal clear water. Untouched, undisturbed; a paradise. At least, that’s how Ryuji had described it.

Paradise, but only in the sense that a gingerbread cottage in the middle of the woods is paradise to a lost and hungry child.

He hadn’t been wrong. Bare feet sink into soft, white sand as you climb from the boat - the warmth just toeing the line between pleasant and burning. Gentle waves ebb and flow behind you, and there’s a light breeze that kisses your skin, the taste of seasalt carrying in the wind. Home, it seems to sing.

A laugh sounds somewhere in the distance, yet the only other figure on the beach is a man walking steadily towards you. He smiles when he sees you’ve noticed him; friendly, non-threatening. It’s a far cry from the swarming welcoming committee you’d been dreading, and you wonder if that’s somehow intentional as well.

As the boat pushes back out to sea he comes to a stop before you, “I’m Makki,” he says, pushing the fringe of his hair back and giving you a not-so-subtle once over. Whatever he sees must meet approval, because his grin only widens, “Welcome to the Commune.”

Ryuji wasn’t wrong; the island is a beautiful, deadly thing.

—

You’d never heard of the Commune before the phone call.

And maybe that shouldn’t be so surprising. You’ll be the first to admit you’re hardly an expert, but from what you do know, groups like the Commune – cults – don’t spring up out of thin air and start broadcasting their mistreatment and systematic abuse.

They’re not the kind of people that have sweet old ladies clutching their pearls and mothers shepherding their children away – at least, not in the beginning. Not entirely. They’re not out to recruit extremists to further their cause, they choose to prey on the vulnerable, the lost and the disillusioned. Those easily manipulated. You suspect that’s why when you google the Commune, all you find is a website for what essentially looks like a long term luxury wellness retreat.

‘The Commune is about healing and harmony, about returning to nature, supporting one another to forge a brighter, more holistic future together… a self-sufficient community living apart from technology and other evils of modern society.’

You fight the urge to roll your eyes as you scroll through. There’s a whisper of philosophical teachings woven throughout, a page dedicated to their founder, Oikawa Tooru – smiling handsomely in every single picture, because what would a burgeoning cult be without a charismatic leader – but there’s not enough.

So here you are, on an island hundreds of miles away from home living amongst strangers; because Ryuji wouldn’t have sounded so terrified if this was just some alternate, free-loving bunch of hippies.

And even with all that he’d told you, everything you thought you’d be prepared for, the Commune is like nothing you could’ve imagined.

Makki introduces you to Asuka, a woman only a few years older than yourself, dark haired and stunningly beautiful, and winks as he tells her to take you under her wing. She smiles brightly, eyes twinkling, and pulls you into a heartfelt hug – as if you’ve known each other your whole lives.

“We’re so glad you’re here!” she beams.

You’d like to hate her.

It feels like you're supposed to, sometimes; when she gets that dreamy look in her eyes and starts talking about Oikawa and the Commune and how lucky everyone here on the island is. Yet there’s something about her – the genuine warmth she emanates maybe, or the kindness in her eyes – that makes it difficult for you not to like her.

“You should come to the gathering tomorrow,” she hums idly one afternoon, maybe a week or so after your arrival. The two of you are sitting on the edge of the pier, legs dangling down into the water, tangled fishing nets to be repaired strewn between you.

“I always go,” you reply.

She laughs, fixing you with a knowing look, “And sit right at the very back, all but running off the moment we finish?”

And your traitorous heart skips a beat.

“It’s okay to take things slowly,” she says. “We understand that being a part of the Commune is a big change from the life you knew, and that not everybody is able to see what we see and embrace those changes.”

Asuka sets down the knot she’s working through and reaches for your hand, a gentle smile on her face, “But you shouldn’t be afraid. You’re meant to be here, I can feel it. You just need to stop fighting against it; surrender yourself to us, to the island, and everything’ll make sense, I promise.”

It’s dangerous territory. One wrong word could set off alarm bells, yet you can’t help pressing just a little.

“Do you ever miss it, then? Life outside the Commune?”

Your family. Friends. The life you left behind before you came here to be brainwashed like all of the others.

“Why would I?” she answers without missing a beat, and it’s hard to ignore the bitter flicker of disappointment you feel at her answer. “The island provides for us, we don’t have to spend our days selling off tiny pieces of ourselves just to make ends meet. It’s paradise here, and we have Oikawa to thank for that. Why would I ever want to go back?”

Silence falls between you as you struggle to think of something to say to salvage the situation. Yet Asuka isn’t even looking at you, instead staring out at the water with a strangely pensive expression.

“Did you know I was married once?” The words seemingly out of the blue, you can only shake your head. For a moment, she doesn’t reply, watching as the waves rise and crash offshore. And then;

“I was young, eighteen or so, fresh out of high school and he was a small town cop.” Her eyes flicker to yours, and your heart clenches at the sadness and pain echoing there. “I thought he was a good man, once upon a time.”

A chord strikes deep, your chest tightening involuntarily at her words. It’s not the same, of course it’s not the same, and yet…

No. You stop the errant thought in its tracks. Groups like the Commune prey on the vulnerable, you know this. People like Ryuji, like Asuka, like–

Her fingers squeeze around yours, pulling you back to the present. “Come to the gathering tomorrow. Listen to Oikawa, it’ll help.”

—

She doesn’t give you a choice in the matter – dragging you by the hand to sit right at the front of the gathered crowd that very night.

Oikawa’s handsomer up close; tall and dark haired with pretty eyes and long, sweeping lashes that frame delicate cheekbones, it’s not hard for you to see how a man like him has amassed such an impassioned following.

Once he starts actually speaking, however, you realise that his good looks and charming smile are just the tip of the iceberg. Oikawa’s utterly captivating as he preaches about the cycle of life and death and the paradise that awaits his faithful. Passionate and engaging, he speaks like he truly believes every word of the lies he’s spreading.

And Asuka, her friends, the others gathered, they eat up every word like it’s gospel truth, resounding cheers and thunderous applause deafening around you. In the midst of the rapturous din, Oikawa’s eyes flit to yours.

Slowly, he smiles – a dazzling grin that makes your stomach flip – and everything; Asuka, the noise, the others swarming around you, it all fades away.

For one electrifying heartbeat, you’re frozen in place. Just you and Oikawa, trapped in the pull of each other’s gaze.

—

You can’t forget the reason you came.

But it’s… difficult, in a way you struggle to understand. You only have one purpose for being here, one goal; find Ryuji and bring him home.

And yet, some days it’s like there’s a fog in your mind, and you have to focus to remember why you’re here at all. You catch yourself laughing with Asuka and her friends, the days passing by in a blur of endless, easy distractions.

It barely feels like work when you’re sitting under the shade of the trees, eating the fruits you’ve picked by hand – ripe and sweet, unlike anything you’ve ever tasted – diving off waterfalls into the crystalline water and meandering down the shore collecting seashells. Even when you are working, mending clothes or cooking with the others, it fills you with a sense of contentment you can’t quite explain.

Like you’re a part of something bigger. Like you’re doing something that matters.

Ryuji becomes a distant thought. A whisper in the back of your head, a niggling in your gut, easily brushed aside and ignored until there’s a moment of quiet. In the dead of night, the balmy summer night’s breeze kissing your bare skin, you lie awake, lost in memories of the last time you’d seen him.

Fists angrily pounding at your door, the yelling that gave way to sobs and the hoarse, desperate pleas that followed. Ryuji’s face; pupils blown wide and eyes rimmed in red, darting restlessly around as he held you too tight and begged–

Rolling over in bed, you gaze out your window at the star flecked sky, the shadows of the forest that lie at your doorstep, and wonder what it is that scares you more; that you’ve lost track of the days you’ve been here, and saving Ryuji is starting to feel like an afterthought, or that you could so easily forget all of it, find a place here in the Commune and be happy.

‘The island, it–it fucks with your head.’

Ryuji’d told you that, and you’d brushed it off as paranoia. You need to find him. Find him and get the hell outta dodge.

You can deal with the fallout later.

—

Kiyoshi.

He’d mentioned the name a few times amidst his rambling – a friend of his on the island. You’re annoyed with yourself for not thinking of it sooner, however much like Ryuji himself, trying to focus and remember the name is like wading through thick mud.

Once you do, though, finding him amongst the hundred and fifty or so inhabitants is the easy part.

There’s no strict division between genders within the Commune, however Kyoshi, despite his somewhat lean stature, is among the builders of the island and his path doesn’t often cross with yours.

From Asuka you find out that he’s been a part of the Commune for years now, before even she joined, and that he mostly sticks to himself, though you’ve seen him chatting quietly to a few of the other men, a perpetually angry looking blonde in particular.

It’s the last part that piques her interest, “Why’re you so curious, anyway?” she asks, her face lighting up as a sudden thought occurs. “Do you want me to introduce you two? To be honest, I didn’t think he’d be your type, if you’re interested, though…”

Cheeks aflame, you’re quick to shut her down. “No, no, nothing like that. I’ve just… seen him around and we’ve never really spoken, I guess.”

A lame excuse, though mercifully she lets the subject drop without too much prodding.

Therein, of course, lies the problem. Walking up to Kyoshi and casually trying to drop Ryuji into the conversation without raising red flags is risky, but what other options do you have? You’ve already spent too much time on this island.

Although, maybe Asuka has the right idea.

While you hadn’t been lying when you said you weren’t interested in Kyoshi in that way, nobody else knew that. Who would really look twice at the shy newbie striking up a conversation with the quiet, easygoing man? He wasn’t unattractive per se, and from the brief interactions you’d seen of him, he seemed kind enough.

You have enough patience (barely) to wait for dusk the following night. There’s a celebration, something about the full moon and a blessing on the island and the Commune– you hadn’t really been paying attention when Oikawa had spoken about it. Still, it’s too good an opportunity to pass up. With the fire pits crackling, and the dancing and music and the sweet honey wine flowing freely, nobody will be paying too much attention to what you’ll be doing. Hopefully, the alcohol will also serve to lower Kiyoshi’s guard, and perhaps if you’re really, really lucky, loosen his tongue as well.

Of course, you’re not banking on him telling you exactly where Ryu is or what happened to him– and that’s assuming he actually knows – but at this point you’ll take anything over the nothing you currently have. A tiny slip up, that’s all you’re asking for.

As the sun descends beyond the horizon, you play your role well, laughing and chatting amongst friends, sipping carefully at the cup of wine in your hand as you wait for an opening. And perhaps it’s your nerves working against you, but you find that it’s not just Kiyoshi your attention is drawn to.

Up on the shore, away from the rabble, Oikawa lounges back with a cup of the same honeyed wine you’re pretending to drink. For the most part he seems deep in conversation with Iwaizumi, his right hand, but every once in a while he glances up, letting his gaze roam over the crowd of his followers.

Every inch a king and his general.

And it would seem benevolent, if not for the strange smile he wears – the one that widens when his eyes catch yours.

Swallowing tightly, you force yourself not to dwell on it, to ignore the odd sensation curling in your gut and the way your skin prickles under his attention. Now is not the time to lose focus.

Pushing all thoughts of Oikawa aside, you subtly scan the beach once more, only to find that Kiyoshi’s moved, sitting now on a piece of old driftwood near the bonfire. Alone for the first time tonight.

Your legs are moving before the thought even fully registers.

“Do you mind if I sit?” you ask, gesturing to the empty space on the log beside him.

Kiyoshi smiles, the laugh lines at corners of his eyes crinkling pleasantly, and shakes his head, “Not at all.”

“Thanks.”

Taking another sip of your wine, you will your shoulders to relax, your racing pulse to slow. This has to seem natural, and so you force yourself to hold your tongue, let your head loll back and breathe deep, soaking it all in. You can hear the others in the distance, the music and the dancing, the happy laughter and shouts that beckon – you want to go join them. Even your blood seems to hum, a call of something other pulsing through your veins.

But you pay it no mind. There are more important things to worry about tonight.

Indeed, steel blue eyes have been appraising you curiously for a while now. “This is your first Lunar blessing, isn’t it?” Kiyoshi asks after a moment.

You nod, humming in agreement. Less than a month; you’ve been here less than a month. Is that a good thing?

“Are you enjoying yourself?”

A harmless enough question, and again you nod your head. “Yeah, it’s…” you pause, searching for words that won’t sound hollow. “It’s paradise. I feel like I need to pinch myself just to make sure it’s real.”

He smiles gently. “But?” he probes.

Grimly, you wonder whether Kiyoshi’s usually this perceptive, or if you’re just a really terrible actor. In a way, you suppose it really doesn’t make a difference; you’ve come too far to turn back now – at least not without raising suspicion.

So you lie with a truth, and pray that it works.

“I had a friend I was supposed to meet here,” you confess quietly, gazing not at him but the crackling flames of the bonfire, the burning embers carried off into the night. “He was the one who said I should come, but now I’m here and he’s not and every time I catch myself enjoying this–”

“You feel guilty,” he surmises, cutting you off. “Because he’s not here to enjoy it with you.”

Wordlessly, you nod – and maybe it isn’t so much of an act when your eyes begin to glisten, your smile wavering.

Kiyoshi’s silent for a moment, and you take another sip of the honey wine to hide your nerves. “You shouldn’t, you know,” he says eventually. “Feel guilty, I mean. You belong here, with the Commune. You’re happy here. Paradise… isn’t for everybody.”

He doesn’t say it to be cruel, more like he’s simply stating a fact, and somehow that makes it all the more unnerving. And it’s nothing you haven’t listened to Oikawa preach about time and time again. The Commune is for the devoted, the faithful – the lucky few – and you’ve never thought too hard about what he’d meant by that.

The Commune’s small, maybe a hundred and fifty or so people on the island. There’d been no initiation, no test of faith or trial period you’d had to pass when you arrived – at least, none that you’d been aware of. You simply stepped off the boat and they’d welcomed you with open arms.

An uneasy sensation settles into your gut, goosebumps prickling at your skin despite the heat of the midsummer night.

That… doesn’t make sense. It can’t. Absolute control’s too important in groups like this, they couldn’t just let anyone–

Kiyoshi speaks again, his calm voice pulling you from your thoughts. “What was his name?”

You blink at him slowly – stupidly. “Sorry?”

“Your friend,” he clarifies. “What was his name?”

“Oh, um- Ryuji.”

Kiyoshi’s brow furrows in thought for a moment, but he merely shakes his head, “Doesn’t ring a bell, but like I said, not everyone who arrives stays with us for long.”

He looks you right in the eye as he says it.

You don’t understand the cold, foreboding that seeps through your veins, because he’s lying. He has to be.

Ryuji was here. They were friends, Ryu’d told you that–

Why did you think this stupid plan would work anyway? That he’d tell you anything, much less the truth when this whole fucked up island is full of liars and those too indoctrinated to know the difference?

“You alright?” he asks when abruptly, you shoot to your feet beside him.

And it takes every ounce of willpower you have left to force an easy smile to your lips, raising your cup just a fraction, “Yeah, just gonna go get a refill. Thanks for the talk, Kiyoshi.”

Whether he notices that your wine’s barely touched or not, you don’t care – not as you turn on your heel without another word and head back up the beach.

Your head is pounding, your body trembling – you don’t hear the call of your name until a hand reaches out and grasps at your wrist, spinning you around.

Asuka greets you with a wide grin, Makki and a tall, broad shouldered man you think is called Mattsun standing either side of her – the former’s arm slung casually over her shoulder. “There you are! I’ve been looking for you,” she says. “Come on, we’re gonna go swimming, it’s so pretty out there!”

You glance out towards the ocean. Moonlight bathes the inky blue water, light shimmering off the rippling tide; some of the others are already out there, splashing amongst the waves.

“Clothing optional, of course,” Makki laughs, and Asuka tugs on your wrist once more.

“C’mon, it’ll be fun!”

But you shake your head, slowly pulling your hand from her grip, “I’m not feeling great, I think I’m gonna head back.”

Asuka frowns, concern marring her pretty features. “Are you okay? Do you need us to call Mizo–”

“No,” you say, cutting her off. Healer Mizoguchi is the last person you need to see right now. “I just– I just need to go lie down for a bit. You guys go have fun – enjoy the blessing, I’ll be fine.”

Makki and Asuka share a fleeting look, but it’s Mattsun who interjects before either one of them can speak, “I’ll walk you back, then.”

Your stomach churns. It doesn’t sound like a suggestion.

And the smart thing to do would be to accept his help; the walk from the beach to your villa isn’t far, and while you’re not as familiar with Mattsun as you are with Makki or Asuka, it’s not like he’s going to hurt you or anything, but–

“Really– you don’t need to, it’s fine,” you smile weakly, shuffling back as he reaches to offer you his arm. “Go swim, I’ll see you guys in the morning.”

Mattsun shrugs easily enough, falling back into line with the other two – yet there’s something in the way he grins and holds your gaze for a beat longer. A glimmer of amusement, as if there’s some joke you're not a part of. “I’ll hold you to it, sweetheart.”

The heat that floods your cheeks clashes uncomfortably with the cloying heaviness in your stomach, but somehow you manage to stutter out one last goodbye before turning back to scamper off in the direction of your room.

–But not to lie down.

There’s not a cloud in the sky, and the full moon’s bright. No need for a torch, not unless you decide to venture into the heart of the forest.

You’ve been a fool. Kiyoshi, Asuka, Makki, Mattsun; you can’t trust any of them to help you, even unwittingly. Ryuji’s here on the island – somewhere – and every second that slips away, every second that you allow yourself to forget puts him in further danger.

And so you cling to your discomfort, ground yourself in it. The prickling sensation at the back of your neck, the tightness in your chest as you slip past your villa, keeping low and quiet – they’re a reminder that there is something insidious here on the island, that you have to get out.

You and Ryuji.

He’s here. Away from the others, kept under lock and key as punishment, or maybe being forced to undergo whatever kind of glorified brainwashing they’ve got going on, but here. You need to be smart about this, because while you don’t intend to stop until you find him, tonight will be your best shot – while everyone’s distracted down on the beach.

For the first time in a long time, it feels like you have a clear head.

Creeping through the underbrush, you steer clear of the well trod pathways that lead towards habitation. You’ve been there, and to the docks, and the river.

If they’re still keeping him here (and they are, you refuse to entertain the possibility that it could be otherwise) then it’s not somewhere out in the open. A bird cries out in the distance shattering the calm of the night, and you flinch – but it only serves as another reminder that your time tonight is limited; you cannot afford to delay. You wrack your brain, trying to dredge up memories of the last few weeks, surely you must have seen something–

“Lost?”

The single word, spoken in a deep, gruff voice has your blood running cold.

Slowly, you turn.

Iwa stands behind you in the thicket, his face utterly impassive. Briefly, you contemplate whether it’s worth trying to bluff your way out of this, but Iwa’s eyes narrow, flashing in the dim light and you think better of it.

A sigh escapes you, your shoulders deflating. “Where is he– Ryuji?” you ask; a whisper rather than a demand.

Iwa’s expression gives nothing away. Did he know, or have you handed him the smoking gun of a crime that’d fallen through the cracks? Does it even matter anymore? You’re just–

You’re tired.

Exhausted. In the space of a few moments all of that shining determination and resolve; it fled, leaving a gaping hole in its wake. This has to end, you can’t keep fighting against them forever. You can’t keep drowning in this guilt, feeling torn every second that you spend here on this stupid island. You just want to find Ryuji and go home.

… Right?

A tense beat passes as Iwa appraises you, and then; “Come with me.”

The hand he places on your shoulder doesn’t give you much choice. His grip isn’t what you’d describe as gentle, yet he’s careful enough to make sure you don’t trip or stumble as he marches you north.

In the thick of the forest away from the beach, it’s eerily quiet. Every twig that snaps underfoot, every ragged breath you draw; it feels too loud. Out of place amongst the stillness of the midsummer night.

And isn’t it ironic, that for the first time since you set foot in this paradise, you feel like you’re trespassing?

A bead of sweat trickles down from your temple and your mind unwittingly drifts back to Mattsun and Makki. Are they still swimming with Asuka? Probably, you reason. It’s hard to pinpoint exactly how long it’s been since you left them on the beach, but surely no more than an hour.

And strangely, like water drawn from the depths of a well, an image comes to mind; the four of you standing in the waves, you perched atop Mattsun’s shoulders, screaming and giggling in delight as Asuka tries to knock you down again, two sets of eyes watching from the shore…

You should have stayed on the beach.

“Can I ask you something?”

“You can ask,” he replies drily – humouring you, you suppose.

Your lips quirk upwards for the briefest of moments. “What happens on the Lunar blessing? Asuka, the others– no one told me what it was.”

Iwaizumi doesn’t answer you immediately, but you feel his fingers reflexively tighten on your shoulder. Likely it wasn’t the question he was expecting; surely there were others that you could have asked – but you don’t really want the answers to those.

If you’re being led like a lamb to proverbial slaughter, what good would it do you to know it?

And yet as the seconds pass and no answer seems forthcoming from your captor, you resign yourself to the fact that your curiosity will remain unsated. You don’t even know what prompted you to ask in the first place; knowing Oikawa it’s probably some grand, meaningless spectacle. Pretty, hollow words spoken only to–

A heavy sigh draws you from your thoughts, and you falter in your step, almost tripping over your own feet in the process. Iwa’s quick to right you, urging you forward with a less than gentle nudge. “Walk straight,” he grunts, yet it lacks any true heat. Anticipation flutters through your veins, and he mutters a soft curse behind you. “Fine. It… it’s an exchange.”

An exchange? What the hell was that supposed to mean? Your eyebrows draw together, mouth opening to press the matter, but Iwa beats you to the punch.

“You’ll find out for yourself soon enough, now shut up.”

You have no response to that, so you do.

—

The two of you walk in silence for what feels like hours. Eventually, the terrain becomes steeper, the worn path you’re treading twisting and winding, and you realise you must be close to the mountains at the heart of the island.

As your breath comes in heavy pants, your legs beginning to ache, you can’t help but be lost in the beauty of it all.

The flora’s different here, unlike any you’ve seen before. Flowers bursting from the bark of towering trees, blooms of vibrant hues; reds and purples and soft, baby pinks. Even the vines at your feet curl amongst pretty white buds that gleam invitingly under the moonlight. Your jaw falls open as you gaze around in wonderment.

You forget why you’re walking, where it is that you’re heading. Iwa’s grip relaxes as a quiet gasp escapes you, and he doesn’t stop you when you stray from the path to take a closer look. You can’t resist reaching out to touch the silken petals, leaning in to smell their perfume. Soft and light and sweet, your eyes flutter shut, a smile creeping across your visage.

It reminds you of home. Not your actual home – the rundown, tiny shoebox apartment you gave up before you came here – but something deeper.

Home, like the long summer days spent playing in your parents’ backyard. Home, like afternoons curled up by the window, watching the rain come down in sheets outside.

Home, like the comfort of arms wrapped around you; two hearts beating in sync.

“C’mon,” Iwa interrupts after a minute or so, his voice a touch less gruff. “We’re almost there.”

Dazed, you find yourself nodding, allowing him to guide you back to the path. This time, he doesn’t grab you by the shoulder, seemingly content enough to walk by your side.

True to his word, it’s only another few minutes before you see it; a wooden villa, four times the size of your own and far, far grander, set amongst a clearing of trees on the mountainside. Confused, your eyes flicker from the villa to Iwa and back again. Gossamer curtains billow lightly in the breeze, a warm, inviting glow spilling from the open windows. Surely this cannot be where he meant to lead you… and yet he merely stands at your side, arms folded across his broad chest, watching you expectantly.

“You gonna make me carry you up there?” he asks, not unkindly.

Swallowing tightly, you shake your head.

Another glance, and you catch a shadow lingering by the window. Your heart skips a beat, apprehension curling in your gut as you begin to walk, every step feels less steady than the last. You’re almost glad when Iwa takes you by the arm; if only so that you have something to focus on other than the growing tightness in your chest. The villa, with its pretty flowers and airy, elegant grandeur is far from the isolated cell you’d been afraid of, yet the uncertainty of what you’re walking into eats at you all the same.

Is this where they’ve been keeping Ryu, or has he brought you here for another reason?

Nothing, however, can prepare you for what you find inside. Warm light emanates from lanterns that bathe the room, and your eyes widen as you stare around you.

Strange, gold carvings inlaid with mother of pearl decorate the thick, woodens support beams, a pot of incense burns on a table overflowing with fresh fruit. There’s a jug of the same honeyed wine you’d drank earlier in the night and two cups set on an ornate stand nearby – just within arms reach of one of the chaise lounges.

Iwa affords you little time to gape, drawing you further in. Silken tapestries hang from the walls – you’re pulled along too quickly to truly take note, but the brief glimpses you get hint at a story; a divine being cast from his home, lost and wandering.

It tugs at something buried within you, and uncomfortable, you tear your eyes away.

The two of you reach a closed door at the end of the hall, and Iwa pulls you to a stop, knocking once.

“Come,” a familiar voice calls.

You stiffen, though perhaps you should have foreseen this outcome. Who else would Iwa bring you to but to him? Distantly, you register his grip relaxing, the sound of the door sweeping open and his voice at your ear.

“Go on.”

And it’s funny, you think, how two halves of yourself can be so at odds with each other. Because while your stomach twists itself into knots, goosebumps prickling at your skin, your legs stumble forward of their own accord.

Two steps forward, and your breath catches in your throat.

It’s a bedroom, that much you can deduce from the decor, but that’s not what captures your attention. Nor is it Oikawa, leaning against the bureau with a genial smile – at least not at first.

No. In place of a back wall, there’s open space, not so much as a panel of glass obstructing the view before you. And what a view it is; from this height you can see the sprawling forest below, the coastline dotted with bonfires and the moonlit ocean shimmering beyond. Where the floorboards end, there are steps, you realise as you unwittingly inch closer, leading to a cascading spring – likely fed from the waterfall you can hear rushing nearby.

How easy it would be to brush aside your worries, you think, to shed your clothes, slip into the cool, calm water and lose yourself entirely. Even amongst all you’ve seen and experienced on the island so far, this is incomparable.

“Stunning, isn’t it?” Oikawa murmurs, coming up behind you.

His voice startles you, yet when you turn, you find him not gazing out at the scenery but rather at you, that same strange, knowing smile curling at his lips.

“Some days, I admit, it’s hard to tear myself away,” he continues, unbothered by your stunned silence. “But even I can’t neglect my duties for too long.”

You swallow, tongue darting out to wet your lips. Confusion twists through you at the conversational tone, surely he hasn’t brought you here just to chat about the impressive views, yet there’s no hint of disapproval on his face, no indication that he’s anything less than pleased with you.

It’s unnerving to say the least, but you’ll play along with his game if that’s what Oikawa wants.

“Beautiful,” you say, though the words feel woefully inadequate even as you speak them.

He hums in agreement, something akin to pride flickers in his eyes at your assessment, “A labour of love, I suppose. But… everything you see here, everything I’ve built, it comes with a price. You understand that, don’t you?”

“I-I’m sorry?” you stutter.

“Paradise,” he elaborates, his smile widening. “There’s no give without take. Those people down there,” he nods down at the beach, the tiny, ant-like figures still milling about, “the lost, the beaten, the abused – I gave them what they so desperately sought; a sanctuary. A life without struggle, without suffering.” He pauses for a moment, reaching forward to take your hand. You almost flinch, almost skitter across the room to put as much distance between you as you can, but you don’t–

His palm is warm as it envelops yours, a pleasant heat that seems to spread through your veins, easing your tense muscles. There’s nothing to fear from him, you’re safe with Oikawa.

“Aren’t you happy here?”

Yes.

“What about the price?” you ask instead, though it takes more concentration than it should to force the words out.

Oikawa’s thumb sweeps along the back of your hand. “I never said it was your price to pay,” he soothes.

There’s something wrong with that sentence, but another sharp knock at the door draws your attention before you can think too hard about it. You turn out of instinct, barely aware of the way his hand tightens fractionally around your own.

A single finger at your jaw coaxes your attention back to him. “If you built a paradise, wouldn’t you give whatever necessary to ensure it flourished?”

Oikawa stares at you expectantly, deep brown eyes searching your face as he waits for an answer. Agreement would be the logical choice – the one he seems to want from you – but even as your lips part, the only sound that escapes is a breathless, confused noise.

When you were a kid, maybe six or seven, your parents took you to the beach one day and you waded too far out into the water. The waves were bigger than you expected; all it took was one mistimed jump and you were dragged under.

It wasn’t for long, probably only seconds, and ultimately you were fine – but you remember those few seconds so vividly. The feeling of helplessly tumbling through the water, fighting to break the surface but not knowing which way was up. Your lungs crying out for oxygen, the disorientation and dizziness, the panic.

It feels like that now – like the floor’s dropped out from beneath you and you’re just hurtling through empty air, desperately trying to slow yourself down with nothing to grab onto.

None of this makes any sense. Your emotions are shot to pieces, too many parts of yourself being pulled in different directions and you’re not sure which ones you can trust anymore. How can you be? Oikawa’s still holding your hand, smiling at you, and you just want everything to stop for a second so you can right yourself and breathe–

The door opens.

Iwaizumi appears in your field of vision, dragging a bound, hooded figure behind him. And because this is all some big, cosmic joke, you get your wish. Both of them, actually.

Time slows.

Even with a burlap sack pulled over his head, you recognise the man Iwa shoves to the floor and sneers at.

Hundreds of miles, weeks of uselessly traipsing around this fucking island, and finally–

Finally, you’ve found Ryu.

There should be relief. Fear, considering his current state, yes, but Ryuji’s here and he’s alive and as the hood is ripped off his head Oikawa squeezes your hand and the only thing you feel is… anger.

Not a heated flash that surges through your blood. It’s slow and seething, insipid. You look at him, locked in place as empty, pleading eyes meet yours and all you can think is that all of this – everything – is his fault.

“Asuka told you why she came to me, didn’t she?” Oikawa asks.

Your brow furrows, why–why is he asking you that now, how did he even–

He slips closer behind you, letting your hand go in favour of your shoulder, his spare dragging lightly along the bare skin of your arm. “She was lost, in so much pain. The physical wounds, they heal after a while,” his voice is right in your ear, a low murmur that sends a shiver rippling down your spine.

It isn’t an unpleasant feeling.

“But the scars inside, well… sometimes those fester.”

Gagged and bound, kneeling at your feet, Ryu doesn’t even try to make a sound.

He’s thinner than you remember. Face gaunt and bruised; there’s a half healed, mottled yellow one painted across the left side of his jaw, one eye purple and swollen. You glance at Iwa, standing stoically behind him, muscular arms folded across his chest. His work, you wonder, or others as well? You notice the tear tracks running down his face, catching the light of the lanterns, but it’s as if you’re seeing it all through a thick pane of glass. None of it reaches you, there’s nothing but that simmering, ugly feeling in your gut.

Oikawa hums, “I told you that Paradise wasn’t for everyone. It’s a haven, yes, but there are those who simply… don’t belong.”

His body’s so warm, pressed up against yours. Fingertips graze along your side, and this time you don’t bother biting back that tiny, breathless moan. Iwa briefly smirks at it, but there’s no embarrassment. Why should there be? Your eyes flit back to Ryu, bowed on the wooden floor.

Another memory resurfaces; A sharp crack and a ringing in your ears, Ryuji, eyes bloodshot and glazed, falling to his knees, clutching frantically at the leg of your pants as endless apologies spill from his lips.

It wasn’t him. It was never him.

“He hurt you,” Oikawa purrs. “He kept hurting you, I saw it.”

The words wash over you like waves breaking on the shore, but you find yourself nodding anyway. It was the truth, wasn’t it? A thousand tiny hurts, piled up on one another until you finally broke.

And you’d still come when he’d called.

Listened to him when he’d begged you not to hang up the phone.

“Iwa.”

The brunet moves towards a grand chest of drawers pushed up against the western wall. An ornate dagger sits atop, strange and beautiful; the blade isn’t steel or any metal you’ve seen before, but some kind of black stone, the handle intricately carved ivory. You hadn’t even noticed it before, Oikawa’s room filled to the brim with odd trinkets and treasures, but now that you have, it’s hard to tear your eyes away.

Iwa takes it and carries it over towards the two of you, holding it with the utmost care.

“Obsidian,” Oikawa informs you as he accepts the blade from his friend, bringing it in front of you both to show it off. “Pretty, isn’t it?” And while you can’t see his face, you can hear the smile in his tone.

He isn’t wrong though.

Ever so carefully you reach out, the soft pads of your fingertips running along the obsidian surface, surprisingly cool to the touch. The razor sharp edges – wavy and asymmetrical, leading to a tapered point – you’re careful to avoid, almost positive you’d draw blood with the slightest touch.

“Take it,” he urges, his breath ghosting over the shell of your ear.

Obediently, you turn your hand over, your fingers wrapping around the hilt when he presses it against your palm. And as long fingers curl around yours, you idly wonder how old the dagger is – there’s not so much as a scratch on it, yet there’s something about the weapon in your hand that feels ancient. It thrums under your combined touch.

Oikawa jerks his chin at Iwa, and with a short nod and one last, lingering glance cast your way, the latter exits once again.

Leaving you and Oikawa alone with Ryuji.

“It’s almost time,” he remarks – though time for what, you’re not entirely sure. His lips press against your hair, his arm dropping from your shoulder to your waist, drawing you flush against him. “I know why you came to me, the lies that led you here.”

Both of you turn your attention back to Ryuji at that, the bound man now shaking with the force of his muffled sobs, snot dripping from his nose. That bitter resentment rears its ugly head again, soothed only by Oikawa’s pacifying hum, his thumb now rubbing slow circles at your side. “Shh, I’m not angry – none of that matters now. You’ve found a home here, no? You want to stay on the island with me.”

You swallow, nodding your head rapidly. The thought of having to leave now, of being forced out after everything you’ve seen and felt and experienced here, you– you can’t fathom it. You don’t want to.

Ryuji’d wrought so much damage, but even before he’d swept through your life… had you ever been happy? Were you ever truly accepted – or loved, for that matter?

You can’t go back to that life. You won’t; he’ll have to drag you kicking and screaming from the shore. The Commune is your home, this is where you belong. Here, with Oikawa.

“Good girl,” he croons, another kiss pressed to the crown of your head. You beam at the praise and Ryuji crumples a little further. “Death begets life, you understand now, don’t you?”

You glance at the obsidian dagger in your hand and then at Ryu, beaten and bruised, bowed in forced supplication before you, and nod.

His fingers tighten around yours, “Then do it.”

Leaning forward, you reach for Ryu, fingers lightly trailing down his ruined cheek, curling at his chin to coax his head upwards. He squeezes his eyes shut, pain and regret etched over every inch of his face, but he doesn’t fight you.

Baring his throat to your dagger, Ryuji’s pleas take the shape of your name.

Muffled, thanks to the gag, but unmistakable. And for one single moment, you falter.

This… this is wrong; for all his faults, and god knows there were plenty, Ryu didn’t des–

A wave of calm washes over you, allaying your fears, your doubts. Your breath leaves you in a heavy gust, taking with it the tension in your shoulders, and Oikawa’s voice, smooth and honeyed, reaches your ears once more, “Nothing comes without a price, doesn’t he deserve to be the one to pay it?”

With your hand still tucked inside of his, your arm moves with a will of its own; slashing with inhuman grace.

The dagger cuts deep, Ryuji’s eyes snapping open in shock as a spray of warm blood hits you both. He chokes – a horrid, wet, gurgling sound – wide, pleading eyes frantically shifting between you and Oikawa. Every beat of his failing heart sends fresh blood spurting from the gaping wound. It drenches his front, splatters across your dress, your face, crimson pooling at the wooden floorboards at his knees. His mouth falls open and shut, trying and failing to form coherent sounds and you just stand there and watch, the dagger hanging limply at your side.

It doesn’t take long; seconds at the most.

Ryuji’s slumps to the floor, his body finally growing still as the light fades from his eyes. There’s a beat of absolute silence, and then–

Oikawa shudders behind you, a strangled, drawn out moan leaving his lips. You try to turn, but his arms lock around you, every muscle tensing, his back arching. The dagger in your hand grows hot, burning the soft skin of your palm, but with his fingers still tightly entwined with yours you can only whimper and endure it.

With a hoarse, guttural roar, a pulse of pure energy surges through the room like a shockwave. Every cell in your body lights up, electrified, buzzing; a dizzying euphoria unlike any you’ve felt before coursing through your blood.

Across the island, voices cry out in delight, a symphony of life. The trees tremble and shake, invigorated and renewed, fresh buds bursting from the forest floor, blooming under the light of the full moon.

The harvests flourish, even the river swells in response to the call.

Death begets life, just as he promised.

And with every inch of your body alight and singing with pleasure, you can barely think much less protest (and why would you want to?) as Oikawa roughly yanks you around, hungry lips crashing against your own as his fingers pull and tear at your bloodstained dress. He wastes no time with foreplay, and you suspect only begrudgingly takes a moment to hoist you up against him and carry you to his bed.

There’s nothing gentle about the way he hauls your hips to his, sheathing his cock inside of your warm, tight cunt with one savage thrust, but you don’t care.

Not as you cling to him, fingernails raking along his shoulders as he presses your thighs further apart so he can fuck you deeper. It’s hard and rough and brutal, yet you moan for him all the same, his name a prayer swallowed up by feverish, claiming kisses.

Tonight, bathed in blood and the soft glow of moonlight, you offer your god everything.

—

“Look, look!”

A small hand tugs at your skirt, and you glance down to find a little girl with pretty, dark curls holding up a crown of woven flowers.

“Do you like it?” she asks.

Carefully, you take it from her, bringing it closer to examine. She watches you intently as you study it, lifting it this way and that to appraise her work, humming thoughtfully for good measure. “I think it’s beautiful work,” you tell her after a long enough pause, and you can’t help but smile at the way she lights up, preening under your praise. “Why don’t you go show your mama? I’m sure she’ll be very impressed.”

The girl nods rapidly, thanking you before skipping off in the direction of her parents. The sun’s hanging low in the sky, the fires already being readied for the night ahead. You’re not unaware of the watchful gaze that carefully monitors your every move, and the moves of anyone who ventures too close by. Soon enough, you’ll return home to the heart of the island – anticipation fluttering in your belly at the thought of what awaits you – but for now, you let your feet sink further into the sand, closing your eyes as you bask in the lingering warmth of the setting sun.

At least until the sound of your name being called draws you back to the present. Yet it’s not Iwaizumi approaching, but rather Makki, two strangers trailing along behind him.

“Thought I’d find you here,” he grins, throwing a casual arm over your shoulders. “This is Kaneo,” he gestures to the man, “and his wife Manaka. They arrived this morning, I’ve been showing ‘em round.”

You turn to the couple, smiling sweetly as you extend a hand, “Welcome to the Commune.”

#yandere haikyuu #yandere oikawa x reader #yandere oikawa tooru #yandere oikawa #yandere oikawa tooru x reader #cult au #tw: religious themes #tw: dubcon #tw: blood #tw: minor character death #tw: abuse #hades.dark #oikawa x reader #oikawa tooru x reader

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jangofctts · 3 years

Text

Bloodsport (din djarin x fem!reader) (part one)

rated: 18+

word count: 5.4k

warnings: smut, knife kink (no blood is drawn and consent is clearly given), blowjobs, vaginal fingering, din is sorta a virg duDE, alcohol, mentions of violence (reader punches someone in the face kwejrkejh), some gambling (sabaac) also please let me know if I missed anything!

a/n: oOf this is the first fic in sO LONG IM SO SORRY YALL KEHJRKEJH BUT ANYWAYS I HOPE YOU ENJOY

It’s been a couple months since Din’s stepped foot on the sandy nightmare of a planet. Went through hell and back and kriff—it feels like a lifetime ago. But the landscape before him hasn’t changed an inch, Mos Eisley same as always—busy with all sorts of scum and villainy he turns a blind eye to.

Din hopes it’s not the only thing that’s stayed the same—selfish as it is. Someone as volatile as you is bound to catalyze and shift, so is the nature of life. A lot can happen in a month or two and it’s ridiculous to think that you would ever push your life to the side and wait for him to return.

Turns out, you are here, still working as the resident mechanic. Though in the same elated breath of hearing that tidbit of news, it’s equally dissatisfying when he somehow misses you completely. You’re off planet, looking for power converters and electrical wiring—back in few days Peli promises. Maybe by the time his wild goose chase is over, back from the butt fuck middle of nowhere, he’ll get to see you—

Nothing goes as planned—naturally. All Din finds is a man playing dress up, an oversized lizard, planetary drama he’s forced to resolve and—to top it all off—an attempted stickup. Maker—he’s not even worried about anything save for the kid and your speeder. The very same one now scattered over the sand in miserable heaps.

At least some of it is salvageable…

By the time Din reaches the outskirts of Mos Eisley, the binary suns are smearing across the horizon like molten puddles of magma. Deep aches amass in his shoulders and back from the weight of the speeder parts, his gear, and the second pair of armor. Maker—it feels like his arms are going to be ripped off.

The baby babbles something incomprehensible.

“Almost there, kid,” Din responds, sparing a quick glance down the baby. “How does soup sound?”

Instead of trudging back to the hangar, Din wanders to the cantina. Call it a hunch or just you and your aunt’s tendency to lurk around the premises, he’s certain he’s going to find one of you here.

Din is right.

The moment he steps inside, he spots your mess of hair, the low solar lights illuminating the rich colors with a soft orange. The baby coos and blinks up at Din, his tiny clawed finger gesturing in your direction.

Din hums. “Good job—you found her.”

The child’s little teeth peek out, pleased with his discovery. Din steps into the doorway, down the carven stairs and over to your table. A older man—a ship rigger by the looks of his uniform—sits across from you, a game of Sabaac spread across the table between you. You’re winning.

“Hello, Shiny.” You greet, dipping your chin in his direction. “Your armor is looking a tad ripe.”

It’s true. The layer of slime coating his armor had baked and crusted under the suns—probably doesn’t smell too good either…

“I killed a Krayt dragon.” Din states it with a twinge of smug satisfaction despite knowing how little something like that would mean to you. He could conquer three dozen planets and shower you in all the precious metals in the world and you’d still turn your nose up at everything.

“And I curb stomped a centipede today—you aren’t special.” Your eyes never leave the set of worn cards you hold between your fingers, acutely ignoring him like you would an overly enthusiastic puppy. You inhale and scrape your right thumbnail along the edge of the hexagonal cardstock—it’s a subtle tell, one Din would more than likely miss if he were the unlucky bastard brave enough to sit at the other end of the table.

“You playin’ or what?” Your opponent gripes. He scratches his unkempt salt and pepper stubble and quirks a furry brow.

You lift your chin in scorned defiance and lay your hand down—full Sabaac. The man hisses through his crooked, clenched teeth and utters a curse as he shoves his winnings towards your end of the table.

“Peli promised me information.” Din pushes, hearing the kid coo in curiosity as you begin shuffling the cards with practiced flare. “About others like me.”

“Do I look like my aunt to you?” You grumble. It’s the first time your eyes leave the perimeter of the game to look at him. They settle on the kid first with a guarded version of compassion, then leap to the faded green armor clipped to the heavy luggage, and then his visor. Your lip twitches at the green slime still coating the beskar. “I’m assuming my speeder didn’t make it.”

“A technical difficulty.”

You roll your eyes and snort, dealing out the cards then setting the stack in the middle. “Right…”

The background ambiance of the bar and the quiet rasp of cards fill the brief lull in conversation. Any other rational person would take the blaring hint to leave, but Din is just as stubborn as you are.

“I don’t remember where the hangar is,” Din lies, cocking his head to the side in mock innocence, “could you show me?”

The tip of your tongue peaks out of the corner of your mouth. The unconscious tic is not one of irritation—not yet. Though before you’re able to respond, your opponent beats you to it.

“Yeah—I know where it is. It’s between fuck off and take a hike.”

Din turns his head, the cool, even tone of his words sharper than shrapnel as he address the man. “I was speaking to her.”

This is funny to you Din realizes—one of the tiny mysteries of your entirety clicking into the place of the puzzle map he’s conjured for you.

“Well, I don’t have the time of day for cowards who wear shiny buckets over their head.” The man gripes into his drink, dark eyes flicking over to Din as he sizes him up. “What’s a Mandalorian doing out here anyway? Thought your planet exploded or something.”

The man’s ignorance irks him—sure. How could it not? But with years of harsh words and jabs at the foundation of Din’s very being, he’s learned to adapt. It’ll always sting no matter how many layers of beskar he wears but you on the other hand…

Your eyes spark, molten and bright like the last solar flare on the surface of a decaying star. Each encounter Din’s had with you, he’s bared witness to the deep well of your anger that fuels your being like the auto-mechanical heart of a droid. He’s felt the bite of your rage firsthand, but this anger—this is the tragedy of the delicate mayfly wings trapped between the black teeth of misfortune—the story of the boy who rammed a spear into the flank of an ancient beast that bites before it barks and gnashes its yellowed teeth in warning.

Din’s hand inches towards his blaster. He’s not willing to weigh the safety of the kid against your rash decisions, despite it being on his behalf.

Though, just as quick as it appears, it recedes like the cool drawback of a tumultuous ocean. Din’s arm relaxes at his side as you release a puff of air.

Your scuffed up fingers, stained with years of engine grease, scars and dirt, curl around your half finished drink. You stand, lay your cards face down onto the table and flash the stranger a feral grin.

Without a word, you toss your drink directly into the man’s unsuspecting eyes. In another breath, the pointed edges of your knuckles fly forward and hook beneath the point of his chin with a meaty thunk. The man’s head whips backwards and connects with the gravely wall—

Out like a light.

Jaw clenched tight, you shake out your bleeding knuckles and gather up the strewn credits over the table. You shove them into the pockets of your jacket and side eye Din. “Restitutions for damages,” you mutter.

The other patrons keep their eyes to themselves as the three of you hurry out the door. Only an apathetic glance from the bar tender serves as proof that something did, in fact, occur. No one wants to dirty their nose sniffing about where they shouldn’t be when they have their own business to safeguard.

The crisp night air rustles the stray strands of hair that escape from your ponytail. Ghostly moonlight carves the shape of your cheeks into an almost ethereal sight—one of those deep space creatures with pointy teeth and hellfire for eyes. Stuff of legends you’d never think to look in a dingy bar for.

But he knows—Din knows that cool mask is just a front from what you hide. It is a hungry ghost that hounds your thin stretched shadow—what ifs and the glories of war you never really escaped. You forget that you are flesh and blood and ghosts are only air and echoes, nothing more.

Din is sharp edged steel. A stray fragment of a shattered mirror, the lacerated reflection of a nameless purpose and a faceless existence. He’s torn edges and cracked glass but his heart beats within his chest with the blood of a thousand suns. Two souls under the umbrella of the word damaged but entirely different in nature.

“No one—“ you growl, your voice a steady and lethal timbre that terrifies a part of Din’s unconsciousness, “—speaks that way to my friends.”

Touching.

“Don’t look at me like that, Creature,” you huff, staring down at the child who gurgles in return. “He deserved it—“

The reunion certainly wasn’t the one Din imagined, though it’s a relief to find that there’s no roughened edge like sandpaper over skin wedged between you. Picked up right where you left off—no questions asked and no inglorious retelling of how Din nearly died on the floor of a shitty cantina. There’s not a doubt in his mind that you'd laugh at him for it—it is sorta funny…

The rest of the evening is spent walking back to the hangar, arguing over the fact that yes Din should take the couch instead of that miserable little hovel he calls a bed, and spend the night. He’d have to find some other mechanic to work through the night if he wanted to leave in the morning, because you certainly did not want to volunteer for that. And so—Din reluctantly takes the couch and agrees to let you tackle the monstrosity of fixing up his ship for tomorrow.

He has to admit…the couch is a bit smaller than the length of his body, but it’s comfortable…maybe he’d buy a better blanket while he was here. As a treat.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

You purse your lips and whistle. “I swear each time I see it, it gets worse. Y’know, I know a couple guys selling—“

“Can you fix it?”

You fold your arms over your chest and roll your eyes.“Yeah I can fix it, jeez—no need to get your undies in a twist.”

You try not to take offense, because hey—you’re offering him the info on the good deals on new ships (and at this point anything would be better than this old rust bucket). But if Din doesn’t want anything to do with that, then whatever. His loss.

When you wander onto the ship, toolbox in hand, the Mandalorian tags along. Unsure if he doesn’t trust you with his things or just wants to hang out, it blankets the space with an air of uncertainty. Turns out it was neither of those guesses. All he does is throw open his stash of weapons, collect his pile of vibroknives, and set them on a table to polish and sharpen.

Makes sense, you suppose. Everything has to be as shiny as his armor.

You drop to your knees near the closest wiring panel you find. You wrench open the paneling and frown at the disarray of sparking wires and tangled cords. You organized these perfectly last time he was here. “Who the fuck junked up my rigging?”

Mando sits at the little table tucked away in the corner, brooding over his cache of weapons. He shrugs. “Could’ve come loose when I landed.”

You roll your eyes at his half assed excuse and mutter a foul string of curses under your breath that’d make even Peli wince. It’s fine. It’s cool—no biggie. You can sort through this in a couple hours, maybe three.

But of course rarely anything goes as planned. As time ticks away, arms deep in wires older than the kriffing Clone Wars, the distractions begin. The scrape of metal on durasteel makes the hair rise into little pricks all up your arms—you shoot a glare over your shoulder. Din tilts his head, your kneeling self reflecting within the ever dark visor, features scrunched into an obvious tell of annoyance. Huffing, you bury your head back into your task at hand.

The second distraction arrives in the form of a quiet hum of curiosity originating from the Mandalorian. Out of the corner of your eye you see him bring a vibroblade up to his visor, inspecting the notch in the blade that disrupts the electrical current that flows through the weapon. Din then rubs his thumb over the handle of the vibroblade in a slow, sensual circle. You lick your lips and tear your eyes away. That shouldn’t be hot.

You furrow your brows and tear apart another wire, but the metallic tap, tap, tap of Din bouncing the tip of a different blade over the table is bothersome. You swing your head to your left, mouth parting to snap at him, but his hand—sans glove—brings you to a halting stop.

It’s alluring, the way his long, weathered fingers twirl the knife with practiced ease—like silk through water and followed by the low hum of electricity meant to slice through flesh. Din tosses it in the air, watching it spin three rotations then catches it by the handle. Your lips purse when his visor meets your eyes. He spins it between his fingers.

“Am I bothering you?”

Fucker.

You scowl. “It’s fine.”

The soft rasp of his thumb sliding along the flat of the blade entices the eye and damnit—he’s doing this on purpose.

“Doesn’t seem fine,” he hums.

“Well, it is.” You retort hotly. You snatch up your pliers and imagine you’re pulling his teeth out in place of the crooked paneling. “I’m currently thriving in my element.”

Din hums, the sound buzzing with grainy distortion. “Do you want a closer look?”

You chew your bottom lip. He’s playing with an open flame and you with volatile jet fuel.

“I don’t know, seems kinda lame from here.” You scoff, busying yourself by pinching and twisting another set of frayed wires between your fingertips. “A toothpick if anything.”

Din snorts behind you. The deadly whisper of beskar against the durasteel tabletop makes the hair on the back of your neck prick into points. You tense as heavy boots shuffle along the floor, the near silent rustle of armor tinkling behind you as Din steps closer. You’re slow to stand, even though the presence of the Mandalorian is no less than overbearing. You wipe your grimy hands onto a spare rag, continuing to face the paneling. You then turn, a coy smile threatening to break across your face.

Stars Din is broad—and close enough you swear you’re able to see the perspiration of your breath fog the beskar plating. Your eyes follow the seams of the cuirass, across the leather bandolier and up to his helmet that’s fixed in an impassive glare of tempered steel. Your back bumps into the wall as Din takes another step forward, boxing you in. To escape you’d need to duck under his arm and yet…you refuse to move.

Your breath catches as he languidly lifts his hand and taps the flat side of the vibroblade over your collarbone. The sharpened point tickles up the column of your throat, a crackle of nerves and your pounding pulse following in its wake. Din turns the blade to flat edge and pushes into the space right below your jaw—you squirm when he chuckles, the sound low and deep.

“You like this…”

Din grunts as your hand reaches between his legs, squeezing the growing hardness there. “So do you.”

Din circles his hand around your wrist with his free palm. Moons above his hands are warm. He murmurs your name—you shiver. “Tell me you want this—want me.”

A blush, hotter than the surface of Tatooine in the midday sun, rushes up your neck and pools into the apples of your cheeks. Maker you want him. With a shuddering sigh you nod—braving the scathing shrapnel of vulnerability. “I need you, Din—please.”

A low chuckle rumbles through Din’s chest. “Don’t think I’ve ever heard you say please before.”

Din drops his hold on your wrist as you roll your eyes. “Shut up, Bucket Head.”

The Mandalorian snorts and dips his head—gesturing towards the blade still lightly pressed against the base of your throat. “This ok too, Skitter?”

You flash him a wolfish grin. “Gonna fuck me with it?”

Din swears under his breath, crowding his body closer to yours. You hear his strained sigh as he dips his head closer, the beskar a chilly whisper against your cheek. “You’re depraved…take off your pants.”

You smirk, tear off your belt and shimmy out of your pants and underwear, bottom half now bare. His visor dips, entranced.

Your heart leaps into your throat, your pulse roaring in your ears as he settles one of his bare hands over the swell of your hip while the other trails the blunt edge of the handle from your clothes collarbone, and down your belly. From your mid thigh he skates the handle up your bare thigh and then rests it over the crack of your thigh. Heat flushes through your entire body, a stark contrast to the cool metal of the handle. A shiver races down each vertebrae when he drags it over the swell of your cunt and then carefully pressing it against your clit. You gasp and arch into the light touch, your thighs involuntarily jerking as he increases the pressure. It’s cold, rigid and filthy. Who knows where that knife has been—how many lives it’s taken or severed through muscle and skin.

You don’t find it in you to care all that much.

He trades his hold on your hip to slide his hand into your shirt, palming and kneading your breast through your bra as you roll and whine against his fingers. The tight circles he's drawing over your clit burns through your abdomen, drags you closer to the precipice that you’re all ready so close to. Fuck—it’s been so long since you’ve indulged in this sort of pleasure.You whine his name as wicked heat licking up your body and spreading to each limb. You arch into him, the handle of his knife slipping through your folds as arousal drips from your cunt.

Your groan as you tilt your hips into the handle, craving any lick of pleasure he’ll give. Your breath hitches as Din pushes the hilt closer to your throwing entrance, murmuring praise as he sinks the first couple inches inside of you. It’s cold—the knobby feel of the handle not too much thicker than one or two of your fingers combines. You huff and grab at his cowl, the warmth of his hand grazing your pussy each time he rocks his wrist forward.

“You’re so quiet,” Din goads, pulling the handle free from your aching center. “You usually have plenty to say.”

You shoot Din a glare, tongue weighed down by arousal to come up with a god retort. You lean your head back against the wall of the Crest and with a chuckle, Din’s hand leaves your shirt to pull you against his chest, the vocoder rumbling against your ear. The blade clatters to the floor and instead brings his calloused fingertips to your cunt. He softly rolls your swollen clit between his forefinger and thumb, delighting in the way you shake. “Be a good little thing and cum for me.”

Shit, you didn’t think it’d be that easy. Your body seizes as white hot heat ripples through your core. Stars, brighter than a dying sun burst behind your eyes, a high pitched cry filtering past your lips as shake and fall apart in his arms, your cunt clenching tight around the thick fingers he slips inside of you.

You whine as he pulls out, little aftershocks of pleasure wracking through your body in wake of your euphoric high. You groan as he lifts your head and pushes his digits, coated in your juices into your mouth. You lick them clean, tasting the tang of your own arousal and the salt on his skin. “Fuck—that was good.”

You can only imagine that Din rolls his eyes. He takes a step back but before he can escape—

You drop to your knees, a wicked smile curling over your lips. The muscles in his thighs jump as your palms smooth over the outsides of them, then up to his narrow hips, your thumbs lightly massaging the ligaments that protects the fragile joints. Din sucks in a sharp breath when your fingertips hook around his trousers.

“What are you doing?” Din asks, brushing a thumb over your jaw.

You pause and glance up at him. You quirk a brow. “Was gonna suck you off, but if you have something else in mind…“ He hisses and tips his head back, flashing the underside of his chin as your hand leaves his hip to cup the heavy bulge tenting in his trousers.

“Maker—“ He looks off to the side, inhales a choppy breath and then snaps his head back. “You’d…you’d do that?”

You nod and flash him an encouraging half grin. “Wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t want to.”

Din mumbles an incoherent string of words under his breath and shifts his weight onto his right leg. His fingers touch your cheek again then tuck a loose hair behind your ear. “But—“

Moons above this man is straight out of some kind of fucking fairytale—arguing about getting his dick sucked—or not.

Whatever.

“Din…” His breath hitches at the sound of his name. “I’m asking you kindly to fuck my mouth—it’s cool if you don’t wanna, but my knees already kriffing hurt and—“

He cuts you off with a hasty nod. “Yes—stars, please.”

Fuck yeah.

You smile and slide your eyes past Din’s legs to the cargo crate shoved up against the wall. “You should sit—easier that way.”

He nods and shuffles over, lightly perching himself on the edge and ready to flee at the barest hint of well—anything.

Din’s knee jumps when you place your palm over it. You assume his nerves are from the nature of his occupation—trouble always strikes when you least expect it—and what better time would that be when his pants are around his ankles. “Relax—I’m not gonna bite—maybe.”

He makes a wary sound low in his throat as your fingertips hook into the waistband of his trousers and pull. Din lifts up as you tug the fabric further down his legs, tan skin and solid muscle following in its wake. Fuck…

You swallow, mouth feeling quite dry when your eyes drift between his legs. Din is thick, a rosy brown color, flushed at the tip and curling towards his bellybutton. Beads of liquid shine at the tip, dribbling down the underside and pooling into the dark patch of curls at the base. Din’s fingers hook over the side of the crate, squirming under the weight of your stare.

Yeah—that’s gonna leave your jaw aching.

You hear his breath hitch, magnified by the crackle of the vocoder as your lips descend over a silvery scar on the inside of his right knee. You pepper a trail of wet kisses and light nips up his thighs, and by the time you reach the crease of his leg, his hips mindlessly rock with need.

The second the wet warmth of your tongue brushes over the tip of his cock, his hips jolt off the crate, a load groan echoing through the empty ship. It’s like striking a match to an open line of kerosene—devouring and explosive that’ll leave your delicate skin singed. You’re not nervous playing with fire if this barest scrap of wild heat is anything like burning to a crisp.

Emboldened by his initial reaction, you wrap your hand around the base, pulsing and achingly hard beneath the velvety flesh. You flatten your tongue over the tip, lapping up the sticky liquid the slip the head of him into your mouth. His hands fly to your hair, tightening into fists as he throws his head back. The beskar scrapes over the durasteel with a sharp squeal, but you don’t find it in you to care about the abrasive sound—eardrums be damned.

“Fuck—kriffing hell—“ Din snarls, arching his hips to seek more of your warmth. “K-keep going.”

Your own rekindled arousal blazes hot in your core hearing his stuttered pleas. You pull away to catch your breath, feeling almost guilty for doing so at Din’s low whine of protest. He picks his head up, watching as you languidly jerk him off—entranced with the way your hand rolls over the leaking tip, back down to the base, then up again. You could keep him like this—tease until he cracks under the pressure and begs you for whatever iota of pleasure you want to give but—

You’re not that mean.

Wetting your lips with your tongue, you part your mouth and slide nearly half of his length into your mouth. Din mutters something garbled, his hips jolting as you hollow your cheeks and bob your head.

Din shifts, arching his back and stuttering out broken whispers of encouragement. Placing your hand over his thigh, you can feel his pulse thrumming beneath your fingertips, wild and alive—something real beneath all that heavy armor and unforgiving helmet.

“You—you look…” He grunts as you hum around around his cock, swallowing him down further. “Shit—you look so p-perfect like this.”

You groan and squeeze your thighs together, attempting to ignore the gnawing hunger snapping at your insides.

Rolling your tongue along the underside of his shaft, your fingers slide over what your mouth cant reach—squeezing and gently coaxing him towards his high. He seizes up tight—yet, just when you think you’ve got him skidding off that precarious edge—

His hand fists your hair at the base your neck and yanks you off his cock. He huffs, breathy little pants as he folds into himself like he’s been punched in the gut, his head rolling forward onto his shoulder. Din shivers as he scrambles for control, beginning to loose that slippery foothold he’s so intent on maintaining. His cock, flushed an angry red and still slick with your saliva, twitches and throbs for the release so cruelly wrenched away.

You let him catch his breath. The fingers tangled in your hair go lax and drop away to rest at his sides. You swallow, his previous skittishness suddenly clicking into place. “Din, are you…?” A virgin. Your question tapers off, unsure if it’ll embarrass and scare him off.

“No,” he answers—not in a sharp way like you’d hear with a bruised ego—just stating a fact. “Just not—not this. Never had someone—stars—“

Your teeth roll your bottom lip between them, forcing your face to remain neutral despite the stroke of pride blooming singing in your chest. You’re his first—lucky enough to make this the best goddamned oral he’ll ever have. Something he’ll remember for years.

“Do you want me to stop?” You ask, praying to the Maker he’ll say no.

He shakes his head, sucking in another calming breath and unfurling himself. His fingers clench into fists then relax, crackling with pent up energy and unsure nerves as to where he should put them. You solve it by threading your fingers through his and placing them around you head.

Your lips quirk. “You’re allowed to cum in mouth—don’t worry about it.”

His cock twitches as a quiet moan fizzles through the modulator. “You su-sure?”

“Oh, yeah.”

With a smile you bring your mouth back to his cock, tongue swiping up the entire length of him. Din groans as the soft warmth of your mouth slips over the flushed tip of cock, his thick length twitching as you hollow out your cheeks and suck. You bob your head as you slowly work him in further because even like this, hardly halfway into your mouth, you feel your lips stretching a bit too much around him. You groan and part your mouth wider, letting him sink into the soft warmth of your throat. Din inhales, the sound shaky and unsure as his hips twitch with a few tentative thrusts.

You take it slow—lifting your mouth nearly all the up to the tip then back down to the base. Din rolls his hips, helping you ease into the gentle pace. Saliva drips down his cock and over your knuckles making an absolute mess you have zero intentions of cleaning up. It’s his ship after all. Din swears as his hips stutter, your hand squeeing around him, trying to push him off that edge he so deserves. Din gasps your name, the pitch of his words knocking up to a lighter, more airy tone, warmer than melted butter.

“Ca-can’t believe, it—ah—it fits.” He groans with astonished reverence. You preen under his praise.

You swallow around him and grunt at the abrupt jolt of his hips. There’s no distinctive rhythm you can follow as you let him rock his hips into your mouth—seeking out his pleasure without a coherent thought in sight. Just a cacophony of gasping breaths and rough moans.

You can feel is cock twitching over you tongue—he’s close—and when your eyes roll up to meet the darkened visor, he’s gone. He shouts your name and knots his fists around your hair as he spirals of that edge. You nearly gag from the force of his release hitting the back of your throat—cock throbbing and jerking in your mouth like he’s been denying himself release for months. His moans, fragile and gasping, filling the quiet space as his hips grind his cock deeper down your throat, his hands threaded into your hair acting as an anchor—the sole tether he has to the waking world.

Din’s grip relents as the last few catastrophic waves tear through his body. He doesn’t move his hands, just lets them rest over your skull as his chest heaves for precious air, a harsh crackle through the vocoder. You pull his still twitching cock halfway out, dragging the tip of your tongue below the frenulum while one of your hands circles the base of his length. Maker—he’s still going—

Last little dribbles of his cum spurt onto your tongue and drip over your knuckles still securely wrapped around him. His legs and lower abdomen flex when your hand falls lower to carefully knead at his balls, milking out his pleasure for all its worth. You let his softening cock slip from your mouth when he swears and mumbles your name.

When you rest your back against the wall, he slips himself back into his trousers and joins you. You take a risk and rest your head over the chilly beskar pauldron. You’d never call this love—the word is much too harsh for this delicate string of seconds. Love means giving pieces of yourself to others like martyrs give their hearts to the sky—or risk fragile skin against the rays of an unforgiving sun. Broken ribs and clenched fists, immensity beyond comprehension—

“You should come with us,” he says with a hesitant mumble. Love is formidable—but you know that somehow, here, pressed against Din’s side, that this is right. In a golden way, a honeyed way, a path that tastes of blood, freedom and blaster smoke that will leave your lungs stained with blackened soot. Cowardice has long made a home inside of your soul, and he’s offering you a chance to shake off the layer of frost clinging to your bones and step into the gentle merciful dawn.

“Yeah—alright, Din. I will.”

tags (only tagging some moots for now bc i have no clue what’s going on in this fandom anymore dbdndn): @goldafterglow @jango-fettish @djxrxn @blsmjoon @spookoofins @krissology @steeeeeeeviebb @teaofpeach @comphersjost @gummiishark @delusionsxfgrandeur @pettyprocrastination @huliabitch

#well it aint that good but it honest work wkerkjehr #my writing #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian #fanfic #star wars #sw #star wars fanfiction #jangofctts

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