rot 🇺🇦

He calls your name, thinks he can hear you call his back, looks you dead in the eyes while he’s making love to you.

You still take him so well despite how cold you are. You bring him to a spasming, throbbing, white-hot end that leaves his voice straining, crying your name amidst the throes of his orgasm, his head hanging in the crook of your shoulder while he empties his load inside you.

He half expects your hands to card through his hair, for your lips to meet the sweat-soaked skin of his forehead, for your face to light up with a hazed smile when his eyes find yours.

When he looks down at you, though, panting and pushing himself up onto muscular arms, he sees none of that. Feels none of that.

Your eyes are milky and you writhe beneath him, trying to unbind your hands to grab him, scratch him — anything.

He can see you gnawing on the rope about your mouth, no doubt the sensation of his skin between your teeth on your parasite-infested mind.

He knows he’s utterly mangled. His mind won’t let you go.

And neither will he.

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Masterlist Masterlist [Continued] Masterpost Modern Warfare AI Masterlist

He calls your name, thinks he can hear you call his back, looks you dead in the eyes while he’s making love to you.

You still take him so well despite how cold you are. You bring him to a spasming, throbbing, white-hot end that leaves his voice straining, crying your name amidst the throes of his orgasm, his head hanging in the crook of your shoulder while he empties his load inside you.

He half expects your hands to card through his hair, for your lips to meet the sweat-soaked skin of his forehead, for your face to light up with a hazed smile when his eyes find yours.

When he looks down at you, though, panting and pushing himself up onto muscular arms, he sees none of that. Feels none of that.

Your eyes are milky and you writhe beneath him, trying to unbind your hands to grab him, scratch him — anything.

He can see you gnawing on the rope about your mouth, no doubt the sensation of his skin between your teeth on your parasite-infested mind.

He knows he’s utterly mangled. His mind won’t let you go.

And neither will he.

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Masterlist Masterlist [Continued] Masterpost Modern Warfare AI Masterlist

Zombie!Ghost who sees that, much to his lethargic delight, this was the case for you, too.

On many a night had he caught you with something hard between your legs, trying desperately to alleviate the the knots below your stomach.

Zombie!Ghost who, one night, after a long day of running from the undead and hiding in an enclosed space with you, chest to chest as you both waited for the horde to pass, found that palming himself did nothing to rid him of the aching feeling between his legs.

Zombie!Ghost who can sense that you’re the same: all that excess adrenaline and pent-up sexual frustration permeated the air with scent only a creature like Ghost could smell. A scent which he followed to the door of your room.

He knocked. Once. Heard you shuffling, scurrying, before clearing your throat, telling him to “Come in,”

Zombie! Ghost who can see your hasty attempt to cover yourself, your pants pulled up with such speed that you’d neglected to zip them back up, the hem of your underwear showing between the open space.

Zombie!Ghost who sees your eyes flicker to his trousers, widen slightly, before returning to his eyes.

Zombie!Ghost who wastes no time, kicking the door shut behind him and taking heavy, deliberate steps towards you.

Zombie! Ghost whose hand slithers down his front to the bulge between his legs, never taking his eyes off yours as he squeezes it, letting out a guttural groan.

Zombie! Ghost who knows you’re intelligent enough to pick up what he’s putting down. Even if you are stunned into momentary silence.

Zombie! Ghost who feels something in him grow warm when you look up at him with wide eyes, asking him, tentatively: “But…won’t I get infected?”

Zombie! Ghost who shakes his head, for he can do little more to put your mind at ease save for leaving and never proposing such a thing again.

Zombie! Ghost who sees you mulling it over in your mind, though he can tell by the rampant heat coming from between your thighs, the tantalising scent of your hormones thickening in the air, that your mind is already made up.

Zombie! Ghost who approaches with a rabid look in his eyes, coming to stand right where you need him.

Zombie! Ghost who has to bite back a growl when he feels your fingers brush him through his clothes, taking the zipper of his pants between your fingers and pulling it down.

Zombie! Ghost who, after having himself freed of his tactical gear, lies back on the bed, watching your mouth drop open as you see his swollen, drooling, stiffened cock for the first time, blackened veins running up the shaft. Pulsating. Something viscous and almost white oozes from the tip.

Zombie! Ghost who has to resist the urge to buck his hips when you come to straddle him, your pants and underwear abandoned somewhere on the mattress.

Zombie! Ghost who shudders when his tip meets your heat, the first semblance of warmth he’s felt since his un-death.

Zombie! Ghost who, even with his vocal cords having thoroughly decayed, lets out a carnal growl as you take him, sinking down onto his tip and wincing at the coldness — the size — of him.

Zombie! Ghost who can only wait for you to adjust to his girth and his lack of temperature as you sink further, a bulge in your stomach forming.

Zombie! Ghost who can feel you squeezing around him, already coaxing him to forfeit his restraint and pump you full of the stagnant semen all but bursting from his engorged ballsack. The consequence of not having an outlet for weeks.

Zombie! Ghost who gasps, back arching against the mattress, his gloved bands coming to grip your waist while he grinds up into you, desperate to feel more of your warmth.

Zombie! Ghost who can barely hold it together (literally) as you rock yourself on his cock, whimpering and gasping as he fills every ounce of space your body can give him.

Zombie! Ghost who can see that this is the turning point for your relationship — that the two of you have entered something you wouldn’t be able to explain to others even if you wanted to. If there was anyone left to explain it to.

Zombie! Ghost who, the longer and harder you rock against him, lifting yourself and dropping again back onto him, feels himself start to come undone, starts to feel the all-too human tremours and electricity — the tell-tale signs of a release.

Zombie! Ghost who, when he sees you try to pull away, try to stop him from splattering your insides with his seed, tightens his grip on your waist, keeping you flush against him.

Zombie! Ghost who, despite his lethargy, bucks up into you. Despite your protests, your begging for him to “Pull out — please!” knows it’s far too late as his eyes squeeze shut and his body spasms.

You’re filled with a wet coldness that can’t possibly be mistaken for anything else. And what’s more, there’s tons of it. You’re sure the sheer amount of semen Ghost is pumping you full of is going to leave your stomach swollen for days to come.

Zombie! Ghost who bounces you on his dick until he feels you cum, hears you cry out, sees you go limp, his hands keeping you upright.

Zombie! Ghost who, in the panting, sweating, sweltering aftermath, lays you beside him, his cock still deep inside you, a parasite in its own right as it sought and fed from your warmth.

Zombie! Ghost who brings an arm around you, pulling your back to his front, his face in your hair.

Zombie! Ghost who, tiring now, wonders if you’d have been together like this when he was a human, when he was alive.

Zombie! Ghost who wonders how he’s managed to live without you in the first place. Who knows now he’ll do anything to make sure that never happens.

Zombie! Ghost who can feel that you’ve fallen into a deep slumber, your breathing steady.

Zombie! Ghost who wonders how much of his strength, his load, you can take — where and when you’ll get yourself off on him next.

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Masterlist Masterlist [Continued] Masterpost

“i got you this flower..”

“aww.. thank you, this is my favourite flower.”

“no it’s not. your favourite flowers are daisies.”

carl loves gifting you small things that he finds. one time he gave you an acorn he picked up whilst on a supply run. when you point out the heart carved into it, he gets embarrassed and insists that it was there before he found it. he lied.

he also remembers almost everything you say to him. he’ll forget your eye colour, but he will remember the time you told him a story about your second grade teacher who accidentally broke a chair. carl prefers listening over talking generally, which makes him a very good listener. that doesn’t mean he remembers everything.

“are you a photographer? because i picture us together.”

“um…wouldn’t you be the photographer then?”

bad pickup lines. he found one of those joke books one time and boy did he read it. he even uses some highlighters to pick out and sort through ones that would make you laugh, ones that he thinks would actually work and ones that he found funny. when he first started using them, he was a bit awkward about it. sometimes he’d mess up the lines, or his delivery would be slightly awkward. practice makes perfect though and he gains more confidence eventually.

“do you think we’ll ever have kids..?”

“i think we’re both too tired for that question, carl...”

carl thinks about having a family all the time. he has his fears about pregnancy and childbirth after what he went through with his mom, but he can’t help but daydream about it. when he’s sleepy, he’s a big rambler. it’s the one time of the day where carl is the one who is talking the most and you hold it dear to your heart. sometimes he talks about what he did that day, but sometimes he talks about what’s been on his mind lately and he’ll take advice, or comfort from you. bedtime is usually the only time he’ll open up with ease. something about being relaxed in bed just before going to sleep with you there next to him is a perfect mix. on the odd occasion, carl gets into a mood if he’s sleepy enough, where he just wants to bombard you with affection and compliments. he’s a sweetiepie.

“no one’s even looking, c’mon just a small kiss..”

“carl, daryl is right there! are you crazy?”

carl. pda. Yep. he doesn’t care who is around. he wants to be as close as he can get to you at all times. i don’t mean that he’s trying to make out with you in front of everyone in the world, but he’ll always have an arm around you, or hold your hand and his favourite, around your waist. he likes being near you, it makes him feel safe. he feels safe knowing that you’re safe and close to him. of course with pda comes the occasional tease from michonne and daryl. it always embarrasses him, but not enough to stop him.

“you know, i used to be judith’s favourite.”

“see what happens when you skip out on too many tea parties?”

carl loves LOVES spending time with you and judith. it’s no secret to anyone that carl loves his baby sister. seeing you play pretend with judith makes him feel happy, like everything he’s been through was worth it, because now he gets to see this.

“carl, samantha doesn’t have a boy voice!”

“i’m not doing a girl voice.”

“carl.. do the girl voice please :( ...”

Viktor knew he was fucked the first time he saw you, in tow behind Jackie with a broken arm and a bloody smile that made his stomach clench in the best way possible. He knew he was fucked when you started coming around more often, bringing dinner and gossip from your latest jobs. He knew he was fucked the times you used his gym to train, and he would pretend to work while watching sweat drip down the back of your neck and imagine licking it off with the flat of his tongue.

Yeah, he was fucked.

And it was all on you.

Viktor exhaled a sigh as he locked the clinic door, then tread back down the dim stairwell and back into his cave - at least, that was what you called it. He’d shut up the place early in anticipation of the fight preparing to happen at this moment.

But this wasn’t one of his matches he watched on the network. This was a match taking place in a Kabuki back parking lot, filmed on a cellphone, streamed on an app that forced him to connect his tablet to his television so he could watch it without squinting. This was a winner takes all, loser gets shamed and maybe dies of a brain bleed later kind of fight.

And you were participating in it.

Grabbing the screwdriver he often fiddled with on his mechanical fingers, he dropped into his rolling chair so that he sat backwards and raised his arms to rest on the backrest. Absentmindedly, he began to tinker with his cyber appendages and trained his eyes on the screen.

When you’d come into the clinic last week and told you about this fight, he was wary, to say the least. You would be going up against Simon Shredder - an infamous street fighter known for pulling mantis blades on his opponents when the match wasn’t going his way. You had assured Viktor you’d be fine. You had Jackie there with you.

Viktor had snorted at that. “Like two of you is going to be a match for a half-crazed backstabber and his dozens of fans.”

“You’re always free to come along,” you had told him while you steadied the punching bag. He hadn’t been able to stop himself from glancing at the tops of your sweaty breasts, hidden behind your sports bra. “That is, if you can keep your eyes on the fight.”

Viktor twisted the screwdriver a little too hard and grimaced before shaking his hand out and flexing his fingers.

It was always something with you - wether it was flirtatious comments like that, or giving him a kiss on the cheek in thanks for a repair that lasted a little too long, or making yourself far too comfortable around him to be considered a friend and nothing more. He couldn’t count on his hands the number of times you’d stayed late to watch a fight and propped your feet up in his lap - dangerously close to his crotch, which he’d shifted to try and avoid your foot with. The last thing he needed was you realizing such a simple act could make him hard as granite.

Besides, what would a pretty little thing like you do with an old man like him? You had other young people chasing after you left and right. Like you’d ever think of him like he thought of you.

Shoving tongues down throats until neither of you could breathe. Grinding against hips. Gripping thighs and releasing small, desperate moans…

Fuck, he was a goddamn pervert. He needed to get a serious fucking grip.

Viktor turned his attention back to the screen. An official - more likely the one who arranged the fight and profited from either outcome - was speaking to both you and Shredder in the middle of the lot. Surrounding you pair were a few dozen onlookers, passing bets back and forth and pointing and assessing.

He didn’t focus on any of them. He was staring at you. Flexible trousers and a tank top, low enough to catch glimpses of the tight pink bra wrapped around your torso. Bandages wrapped around your pretty little knuckles, ones he’d wrapped himself time and time again. Eyes that were stern and intelligent, hard and steely and the most beautiful things he’d ever seen.

The official wasn’t audible over the excited chatter of the crowd, but it wasn’t hard to figure out what he was saying. No hits above the waist. No enhancements, cybernetic advancements, or anything of the sort. Fight until mercy or… well, the alternative.

Viktor’s hand had stilled, his attention focused on your opponent. Simon Shredder was a big guy, bigger than Jackie, even. Muscles the width of tires, a height that would trump even the Animals bodyguards, eyes that had been replaced with cheap optical units that made it seem like his pupils were a bloody red. He dwarfed you in every sense of the word.

He could easily kill you if the desire arose within him.

Viktor found a deep, anxious sensation swirling about his belly. He continued with his tinkering. He’d worked with you for hours just for this fight, learning how to use an opponent’s weight and momentum against them. When Jackie was down for it, he’d watch you kids spar, commenting on techniques and offering critique, and it wasn’t uncommon to end the matches with Jackie lying beneath you, arm twisted behind him and tapping for mercy.

Sometimes, after you and Jackie left, he would drag himself to his apartment upstairs and stroke his aching cock to the thought of you pinning him beneath him like you did. He’d think of you rolling your hips against his, knees digging into the floor at his sides, your fingers curled around his jaw to keep his eyes on you while you raised and lowered yourself on him.

Viktor shifted in his seat as, on screen, the official moved to the sidelines. The fight was about to begin. A sense of pride swirled in his chest when you spoke and stuck out your hand for a shake - something he’d taught you himself to do before and after every match.

“To show you’re a good sport,” he had said.

“Good sport?” you’d asked and leaned back against his shoulder. “There’s winners and losers these days, old man. No more participation trophies, I’m afraid.”

And yet, after that piece of advice, you’d began to shake the hand of every opponent you went against.

Viktor snorted with distaste when Shredder glanced at your outstretched hand, then spat at your feet and readied himself into a fighting stance. Rolling your shoulders, you followed suit.

The crowd reared, shouting their praises and insults as you pair readied to fight. Part of him wished he had accepted your invite so he could be there himself to watch as you handed this guy’s ass to him. Or so he could be there to keep you from getting your ribs caved in.

There came the deafening shot of a blank fired into the air - because no one would be able to hear if the official yelled start - and the hollers of excitement multiplied.

You and Shredder slowly circled one another, footwork placed delicately and confidently all at once. You darted forward first. With a small leap to reach his level, you barreled your fist forward - only to miss as he ducked out of your way. You didn’t even have a moment to land before he landed a blow to your upper spine, sending you staggering forward for balance.

Viktor frowned deeply. Strike to the thoracic vertebrae. Discomfort later. Possible seize-ups and pulled muscles.

The crowd reacted with mixed reactions as you spun around, keeping yourself straight. It would take more than that to put you down. Digging your heels into the tarmac, you surged forward and raised your fist -

Only for your hand to be caught just inches from Shredder’s face. People groaned. People cheered. Viktor stilled. Though the feed was rather shaky, he could make out Shredder’s lips moving, his mouth close to your ear as he murmured something to you. Then he twisted your arm, causing you to bend to prevent it from snapping, and delivered a vicious blow to your face.

Viktor’s heart skipped a beat and he leaned forward, lips parted in shock. Your smaller figure collided with the ground hard, and you flailed slightly, struggling to roll onto your hands and knees. The person streaming the fight moved in the crowd to get a better angle. From there, the camera zoomed in on your face.

Blood trickled steadily from your nose. Your left eye was squeezed shut. Scarlet dripped from your lips as you shakily pawed at your mouth.

Viktor’s breath was stuck in his throat. Possible broken nose. Bitten tongue? Black eye? Bad enough he needed to prepare a replacement?

Fuck, he never should have let you do this. Never should have agreed to help you, never should have let you walk out the door this morning and wished you good luck. He should have kept you here, where he could look after you. Keep you safe. Make you feel good. So fucking good you couldn’t stand it.

Shredder stalked across the lot and towered over you, then crouched so that he could be closer to again murmur something to you. The official was already preparing to call it off.

But then it happened - just like it always did.

You pulled through. You surprised them all. Even Viktor, where he sat in his clinic miles away.

As Shredder leaned down to be at your level, you suddenly turned and cracked him across the face with your fist. He fell back onto his ass, stunned by your abrupt blow, and you took the opportunity to straddle his chest and deliver a series of whiplash-inducing strikes to his startled expression. Blood spattered on the tarmac. The crowd erupted.

“That’s it, kid,” Viktor said. “Fuck him up.”

It wasn’t more than thirty seconds of your incessant beating that Shredder tapped the ground blindly - mercy. The official appeared in view, dragged you off the hulking man, and raised your fist to the crowd.

Winner.

They cheered. They booed.

But you stood there, a smug and satisfied smile painted across your bloody expression, basking in the glow. Viktor knew that feeling; when it seemed like the world was at your feet and nothing, fucking nothing, could take it away from you.

He sighed and leaned back slightly, then glanced at the wrought iron doors that led to the stairwell. He was still for a long, long time.

“It’s bad luck to sit on these kinds of things,” Misty had told him one night, when he’d been drunk and let her do an aura cleansing and he’d blurted about his little perverted crush on you. “The fates are going to take this opportunity away from you if you wait too long, you know.”

He’d brushed her off at the time. You’d never go after an old timer like him. But yet… how was he to know if he never asked?

Viktor swore, then brought up his vision screen and called you up. It rang only once before you picked up.

“Hey, Vik!” you greeted on the other end. He watched your face, bloody and bruised, light up with a grin when you saw him. It made his heart melt and his cock ache all at once.

“Hey, kid,” he said and leaned forward. “Great fight tonight. Really. Knew you would pull through.”

“Hah! You don’t have to lie to me, old man. I know it didn’t look good.” Somewhere on the other end, he heard Jackie’s voice. “Sure, Jack. I-“

“Listen, kid.” Viktor paused, took a breath, and let it out. “Feel like swinging by the clinic? I can check out the damage, if you want. And I’ve got a few cold ones with your name on them.”

You smiled. “I’d love to, Vik.”

After you hung up, Viktor caught a glimpse of himself in the reflection of a mirror.

Oh, yeah.

It’s slightly above average in length, but slender. Curved upwards a little at the tip.

He doesn’t masturbate often, given that he’s so busy. Usually, getting home results in immediately passing out, sometimes Carl doesn’t even get his clothes off before he’s out like a light.

But the ongoing war only causes his frustrations to grow, and he’d become snappy and restless. Those peaceful sleeps transitioned into hours of tossing and turning, as Carl felt like a ball of energy that just couldn’t be suppressed.

Months ago, when raiding a library for children’s books to give to Judith, he remembered peaking around the more… adult section. It was purely out of curiosity. He’d flickered through a magazine, but scrunched his nose at the crude images of women. Their lithe physic and pampered appearances wouldn’t hold up in this world, therefore he felt unable to be attracted to them.

But in that same library, in the more evocative section, something else caught his eye… a comic, which was certainly more his speed. It contained a female heroine who had been captured by the villain, her well-built frame and perfectly sculpted muscles restrained by ropes and other… questionable contraptions.

It was lewd and dirty, which caused quite a shock, but Carl couldn’t tear his eyes away. So, he brought the scandalous comic back with him, and threw it deep at the bottom of his sock drawer.

Now was probably the time above all to relieve some frustrations, so Carl dragged himself of bed to retrieve the almost forgotten about article.

He found that he enjoyed the tension, the build up. Laying back in bed, flipping through the pages. When it begun to heat up, he’d palm himself over his boxers, squeezing just enough to feel himself slowly hardening under his hand.

Only when the erotica progressed, with the heroine being tortured in more ways than one, did Carl pull out his cock. He started with slow, leisurely strokes, only ghosting his palm over the hot skin. All that pent up energy built and built until he was able to rub himself faster, squeezing slightly on the upstrokes.

As he got closer, he’d focus on the tip, mercilessly pressing his palm to the reddened skin, the slide only getting easier as he collected up the precum to slide back down his aching dick.

Flipping to a particular steamy page sent him over the edge, narrowly avoiding making any sound by moaning brazenly into the back of his hand, fighting to keep his eyes open and on the evocative image as strings of cum landed on his stomach and bedsheets.

It was the best relief he’d felt in his life, and knew that this would quickly become a new staple within his daily routine.

Lazily, Carl cleans himself up with an old shirt, though has the decency to wash it himself the next morning to avoid any awkward conversations.

Now, he can’t go without rubbing one out. If not every day, then two days at the most. It keeps him sharp, focused, and cool especially within battle against Saviours or walkers.

“What the fuck, Munson! Are you hustling me? I’m - mmm - it’s been like five minutes and I’m already - fuck!”

He perks up at that, using the hand not inside you to pet at your clit. The pressure is irregular but somehow exactly what you need??

“You’re already what?” he asks. Incredulous and eager and way too much like a puppy. “Do you mean you’re gonna cum?”

“Fuuuck…” you whine, dragging a pillow over and covering your face with it, really in order to bite into it. You feel embarrassed about being so easy for him, and for assuming he’d be some lost teenager when it came to your body. Virgin or not, Eddie Munson was playing you like one of his guitars and you were about to snap.

“No no don’t hide! That’s not fucking fair,” Eddie all but whines like a petulant child, tugging at the pillow till you let go of it weakly. His eyes blow wide and his fingers pick up the pace on your sopping wet, clenching pussy. “Are you…are you drooling? Cuz of me?”

You swipe at the errant spit left at the corner of your mouth from biting the pillow and frown.

“Shut up.”

“That’s fucking hot, Princess,” Eddie says with reverent awe. “You’re so fucking hot.”

You go to respond but can’t because he switches the direction of the swirl on your clit and suddenly you’re coming with a soundless moan that has you gasping open mouthed. Eddie waits patiently through your convulsions, staring at you wide eyed till you drop, spent, back into the sheets. Only then does he punch the air with his fist.

“That seemed like a critical hit of an orgasm if I do say so myself.”

“A critical…wha?” you pant, still not fully back to yourself yet. Left fuzzy and dizzy as you stretch your legs and savor the delicious ache.

“So in DND when you roll a natural 20 - ,”

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@adancedivasmom @writeforfandoms

----

It's the little things you notice first.

Din has been...off ever since the fight aboard Gideon's ship. You know this is because of Grogu, know that the child's absence has ripped a hole in Din's heart that can't be filled.

You miss Grogu, but you know Din misses him more. You know Din saw himself in his foundling- a child lost at sea in the midst of war. Both of them were ripped from their families by forces beyond their control, cast into a galaxy full of enigmas and unknowns until, somehow, they had found each other. You saw their bond, felt it fill the cracks in your own heart like a salve.

Grogu is gone now, back where he belongs, and Din in turn doesn’t know where he belongs anymore.

Every attempt on your part to console him seems to bounce off him like blaster bolts off beskar. Din shrugs you off far too easily, shutting down and refusing to bare his grief to you. He doesn't even seem to notice your words, meant to console yourself as much as him.

He is distant in those first few days.

More often than not you find him alone in whatever accommodations you are staying in, be it a rundown inn, camping out beyond town, bunking overnight in a star liner. You see him standing and staring out at something you can't see. He sits in silence, his palms open as if he's looking for answers. Din has always been reserved, contemplative. Yet this is unlike him, this brooding behavior of his. When you question him on it he stays silent, refusing to let you see the inside of his heart and letting your concern slide off him like water, just like the words you attempt to soothe him with.

You’re lonely.

There’s an emptiness inside of you at all the things that have happened, at the sudden axis shift in your lives and the way Din seems to be unable to right himself. Yet when you reach for him, when you seek his comfort he seems distracted, unable to fully see you.

At last, Din speaks at some point of trying to find the other Mandalorians. He gets a tip from the man who helped you in your scheme of rescuing Grogu- Fett, you think is name was. Something about a secret enclave somewhere on Ferrix. So you go, ever by Din's side, his partner, his lover, his friend, his confidant, and his support. Traveling with him now, however, feels less like the exhilarating adventure it once was and more like an aimless pilgrimage as you both wander to an unknown destination.

He doesn't sleep much.

More than once you wake in the night, with him still wearing all his armor, as if to remind him of what he is despite breaking his creed, despite removing his helmet. He stares at nothing, into the darkness as if it somehow stares back at him, whispers to him in a language you can't understand. When you whisper his name, concern tinting your voice, he always turns back to you. Din clings to you on those nights like a child, shivering and wide eyed under his helmet. It makes you wonder what he sees in the shadows.

When you ask he merely shudders, doesn't answer.

You’re just happy he seems to see you again.

---

Din is...jumpier now. You see it during your travels. Every snap of a twig and startling noise has him spinning on his heels, bending and reaching for his blaster at nearly every opportunity. It startles you, this agitation of his. You almost feel his anxiety bleeding out of him, seeping past his armor and smearing against your fingers with every touch, every word you lay against his skin.

You think it’s the lack of safety your travels bring. The Razorcrest is gone now, your small stronghold that you had all created so many memories in. You found yourself longing for it often, less so for the convenience but for the imprint of safety it brought. Now you both sleep with one eye open, expecting the eyes that traced over Din’s armor to follow you into slumber, to ambush you while you are unaware.

Din’s hyper awareness extends beyond the cities and towns you stop in. More than once you find yourselves in the wilderness, seeking out a remote village where a Mandalorian may have passed by. Din seems even more on edge in the absence of other people, as if the lack of noise only amplifies whatever shadows lurk in his thoughts. His eyes are constantly scanning, fingers twitching, shoulders drawn tight and breathing stifled.

More than once he flinches at nothing, as if he’s been scalded by the mere brush of air against his body.

He's scared you realize far too late, and the knowledge of it is jarring. Din was afraid of very little. Losing his creed, losing you, losing Grogu, afraid of things being taken away from him despite all he's done to avoid it, perhaps. Yet Din faced far too much to be afraid of his opponents. His years as a hunter seem to form a second armor around him, padding his senses and holding back whatever snarling terror with teeth from seizing his throat. That fear is replaced by a calm surety, a confidence that has him able to conquer any and all challenges thrown at him.

In the face of this, whatever this is, you see him falter.

"Keep the light on." He murmurs to you, on a night where you two are able to afford an inn. His voice is frayed, broken, and underneath you can hear just how tired he is. The time spent traveling with his sense on high alert at any given moment are wearing on him, pulling at his seams and letting the threads of him slip loose.

When you turn to look at him he's sat on the edge of the bed again, his back to you and shoulders hunched. You wished you could see his face, could see what expression is drawn there as if it would give you any indication as to what he's feeling, to what he’s so scared of.

"Please." He croaks, voice cracking.

You sleep in the light, and Din buries his helmet into your chest as if he's hiding from whatever is haunting him. You hear him mumbling in his sleep, hear the sharp consonants of Mando'a clicking against his teeth. Yet when you twine your fingers with his he stills, falls deeper into sleep with a shuddering sigh.

Sleep doesn't come easy to you that night, and you peer into the shadows cast by the lamp as if somehow they can show you what he's so afraid of.

There's nothing there.

---

Trouble finds you about a week after your search has started.

It's the usual case. Someone has given you faulty info, has led you into a trap so they can kill you both and steal Din's armor. The numbers aren't ideal, but together you've been in worst scenarios, so you fight your way out.

That is, until a blaster bolt goes straight through your arm.

You scream, the burn so radiant it hurts, and your veins sing a song of fire all across your shoulder and down to the tips of your fingers. You drop your blaster automatically, but before you have the chance to duck down and fetch it a hand secures itself across your throat and suddenly all your oxygen disappears. Your body is hoisted up, slammed against a nearby wall and you feel something threaten to snap inside you. The sensation makes you wheeze, lose the precious air left in your lungs.

Vision swimming, you try to use your hands to claw at the grip depriving you of air, but find your shot arm hangs limply, uselessly at your side. Still, you try and kick ad squirm to freedom, all while trying to sound Din's name on your lips and staring up into the snarling face of your assailant.

Just when black specs begin to form at the corner of your eyes, when you wheeze out the remaining air in your lungs in an effort to summon Din, something strange happens. The man holding you up arches backwards, and a dark, humming light pierces straight through his chest. It crackles like lightning, the sparks threatening to climb from inside the man’s chest outwards, engulf you both.

A wet, gurgling groan pours past the man's lips, his glassy eyes wide and unseeing before he ultimately releases you, slumps backwards, dead.

It's only after you've coughed and caught your choking breath that you see him, that you see Din.

He's standing over your assailant, shoulders heaving and breath echoing raggedly through the filter of his helmet. His hands are clenched at his sides, and it takes you a moment to notice the thing he's holding in the grip of his right hand.

The Darksaber.

It glows with a strange aura, bright on the edges yet a void black in the center. The blade hums loud, as if singing out to the Mandalorian wielding it. The sparks crackle along the edge like a strange, exotic electricity that reaches out for its next target. For a moment it seems to yawn wide like a black hole, seeking to devour any and all in its path, including the Mandalorian who wields it.

Din sheaths it the moment he turns to you, and at once your face is being gripped by his bloodied hands, and his voice is shaking. You try to reassure him you're okay, just bruised, but Din merely bends into you, his touch frantic and voice petrified at how close he had come to losing you. He’s shaking as he takes you into his arms, ushers you both to safety.

That night, after you both have set your wounds and found a safe place to sleep, he reaches for you across the cot. You go to him willingly, happy to indulge in the simple comfort of his loving touch once again. You missed this, missed him, missed the intimacy between you that had been swallowed by the strange series of events that had caught you both.

Yet when Din touches you, the shake in his hands has yet to abate. His breath is caught in his chest, and when you press a hand lightly to his chest you feel the drum of his heart fluttering there like a caged bird. When he whispers your name in the darkness as he ruts into you it sounds desperate, frantic, as if he's trying to remind himself that you're still there, that you're alive.

You can only hold him closer and whisper soft reassurances to him, but he doesn’t seem to hear it.

It’s almost as if he hears something else.

You wake that same night to him gazing into the darkness again. Yet this time he's talking, whispering words in Mando'a that you don't understand to someone you can't see in the shadows. There’s nothing there, no shadows, no figures, no voices. He so absorbed by whatever…it is that he doesn’t even notice you pull yourself closer, resting fingers across his bare thigh.

"Who are you talking to?" You ask him quietly, uncertainty. Din stills, turns to you. He's absent of his helmet, and you swear his eyes glint in the darkness.

"No one." He whispers mysteriously and reaches for you once more.

You can still taste the lie he spoke on his lips as he kisses you.

----

He uses the Darksaber more frequently after that. You start to never see him without it. It's always attached to his belt, always within reach when he sleeps, tucked beside his helmet as he eats.

You don't like it.

Call it superstition but you can't shake that image of the blade, of it like pitch black maw trying to swallow you down the longer you stare into it. You try not to look when Din uses it, feeling that, should you look too long, you might go mad.

The smallest part of you whispers that perhaps that's what is happening to Din.

You ignore it.

Din seems to be going back to his normal self, after all. That should be a positive indication. He's brooding less, he's talking more, he's more confident in his strides. He begins to actually listen to you, to hold you like he used to.

Yet the nights are long between you both. You try to sleep despite his mumblings, his habit of sitting up in bed and speaking to the shadows. Sometimes, if you listen long enough, you swear you can hear voices other than his.

It unnerves you.

A part of you tries to deny that there might be something...off about Din's behavior. He still refuses to speak to you about his midnight conversations, and when you try and pressure him he simply changes the topic.

“What do you see?” You ask him again one midnight, words barely a whisper, an emotion that feels oddly like anxiety rising in your chest.

Din turns, hauls you closer. His lips are brushing against your temple, fingers roaming down your ribs and past your stomach, knee slotting between your thighs.

“You.” He whispers in reply, ignoring your question and instead focusing his attention on you, on the way your back bows off the bed under his touch. You try to argue, to refute this sudden change in topic, but your only reply is a shuddering gasp that pours past your lips.

You know he’s distracting you, trying to get you to stop asking your repeating concerned queries. Yet his hands are tracing constellations against your bare skin and when he fills you all your thoughts stutter into a vacuum of silence as you succumb to him.

You find that you don't mind this.

---

There's a sharpness, an edge to him now that wasn't there before.

Din is easier to provoke with the people he is talking to, his patience easily wearing thin. Din has never been particularly patient, but sometimes you swear he's trying to pick fights. You sometimes wonder if this is the case just so he can pick up that strange artifact again, hear it hum and sing in his veins.

You have to intervene often, lest you both lose a lead on the Mandalorians you are so desperately seeking, on bounties needed for credits, on information, supplies, boarding, any of it. Din’s voice is often nothing more than a growl, like a prowling Loth-Wolf looking down at another predator. You can always tell when he grows taut, when his muscles coil and he goes silent that he’s about to pounce, snarling with his fangs on full display.

Yet Din always eases under your touch, his helmeted gaze seemingly captivated by you, words softer and touch gentle. The abrupt change of it startles you, the way he can go from being ready to tear someone’s spine out to almost syrupy sweet with you, hands reverent with his touch and yet still somehow firm, always dragging you closer to him.

One time you step in too late and the vendor you're talking to seizes you by your arm, hissing something in Hutteese. You barely have time to jab a retort before Din is already reaching for it, for the Darksaber. Even though you gasp, try and reach for him he barely seems to see you, eyes locked on the Toydarian who’s three clawed grip has wrapped itself around your arm.

It ignites with a crackle, the Darksaber, electricity dancing up and down the black glowing blade. The darkness of it seems to bleed past the hilt and trace like a vein up Din’s arm, his shoulders, and for a moment you almost see your Mandalorian engulfed in a black flame, glowing and glinting at the edges.

When you blink, however, it’s gone.

Though Din doesn't try and swing the blade against the vendor, the sight of it alone is enough to send the man careening back, away from you.

Instantly you step forward, winding your arm around Din's, hoping and praying the gesture is enough to soothe him, to temper his fury. For a moment he doesn't even seem to notice, and you feel his weight shift as if he wants to step forward.

"Din." You whisper his name like a call, trying to lure him back to you. It works, for his gaze darts to your own, wide and full of terror. After a long, dreaded moment the saber powers down, though it stays in his grip.

Yet it’s the words that he speaks next that have goosebumps racing up your arms, sinking deep into you with the knowledge that this is something else.

"This is the way."

---

Din starts being...different after that incident.

He never seems to let you out of his sight. When you walk in step with him he seems to crowd into you, his broad frame looming over you like a tall shadow, keeping you beside him, always within reach. In a market, on a walkway, in the quiet parts of the cities you visit, it doesn’t matter. He’s always there, a shadow of yours that is larger than yourself, ever present. When you try and talk to others he crowds behind you, staring over your head or dragging you against his side, as if his proximity alone can keep you safe.

He's protective, possessive in a way you don't recognize on him.

He's less gentle too.

Love making with Din has always been a soft, tender affair. He's a hesitant, careful lover. Din has been deprived of touch for so long he seemed to not know his own body and was in turn endlessly fascinated by yours. Every touch of his was designed to worship you, whisper love into your hair, against your flesh, confessing his adoration and treating you as if you were something sacred.

“Mesh’la.” He’d whisper against your collarbone, his breath tickling your bare skin as he drank in your scent. “Beautiful. So beautiful.”

Now, when you find yourself under him, which feels often, his touch feels less like a caress and more like a claim.

It's good.

His gentle, almost shy advances have turned into something more primal, a desire to devour you. His affections for you are twofold. His words are a sickly-sweet purr, his grip on you firm and possessive, afraid that if he lets you go, you’ll evaporate like smoke. It scares you at first, the way he will hum low in his throat and maneuver you to a nearby crate in the new ship he bought, fingers dancing along your spine and teasing just below your stomach.

He always waits for your signal, waits for you to reach for him in turn before he’ll flip you over, yank down your pants and fill you in one easy stroke that has you gasping and clutching at him as he punches the air from your lungs. His lips will fasten around a piece of skin at your throat, and he bites as if he wants to leave a mark there, as if he’s brand you as his, only his. Forever his and his alone.

“Good girl.” He purrs in your ear, and you shudder. “So good for me.”

Din can go at it for what feels like hours, wring orgasm after orgasm from you until you think there's nothing left- only for him to somehow find brightness lurking further down in you. He chases after it like he's trying to drown himself in it, to let it chase away the shadows that seem to nip at his heels with every step.

"Please don't leave me." He whispers one night against the nape of your neck as he smothers you into the mattress under him, rolling his hips in a way that makes you burn alive from the inside out in delicious, unabating pleasure. His hands are everywhere, seeking, touching, delving into the depths of you and drawing out sensations and sounds you didn’t think you had within you. “Please.”

You can only whimper in reply, voice rising in your throat and then choked off into nothingness before your climax drags you out to sea.

You don’t admit to yourself how cold to the touch he feels.

---

This strangeness in him seems to sharpen as the weeks pass by, honing into an edge that feels all too similar to the blade constantly in his grip. He uses it to carve open his opponents as if he seeks the blood their death bring, drown himself red in it as if it will quench whatever untamable desire seems to pull at his strings like he’s a marionette.

You've stopped searching for the Mandalorians. You’ve run out of leads, so it isn’t too surprising, but the way Din simply shrugs it off as if he never really cared to start itches that doubt within you. It’s peeling away that denial that there’s nothing wrong, that this is fine, that Din is still just finding himself, that this isn’t the fault of the blade that hums under his hands.

Instead, Din seems to chase after every bounty he gets his hands on. The more dangerous the better.

You’ve stopped going on hunts with him, putting one more thing between you and that thing he carries, trying to absolve yourself from looking at it. You feel like the longer you see the crackling void of the blade it makes that part of you sink further into something that feels dangerously like compliance, submission.

He’s stopped coming back with captives, even with bodies. The only indication he ever found his victims is the blood sprayed across his armor, painting it a strange abstract of violence. He seems to wear it like a trophy, and you find it harder and harder to dismiss the thing that feels like fear at the man he’s becoming.

Din will come to you after his hunts, pent up and wound far too tight. It’s like the hunt makes his blood go mad, and his only way to release himself is with you, with your body coiled tight in pleasure under his, writhing and whimpering and arching into him. You let him, worrying that if you don’t that madness in his blood might boil him alive, choke his breath from his chest like smoke. Yet you can’t deny that you enjoy the way he’s just so rough with you, leaving you trembling and aching but so fully, undeniably sated afterwards.

A part of you almost begins to look forward to his hunts, achingly anticipating his return so he can jut between your legs again and drink you down, down, into the void inside him like it might fill the emptiness there. The pleasure almost prevents you from remembering that something is wrong.

Din is relentless. With you, with his prey, with his inability to sleep and little desire for food or water. He hardly rests, and when he does it’s only after he’s had his fill of you, as if you are the ice to cool his blood that runs too hot inside him, like it’s scorching his insides. It feels as if something has possessed him, and always your mind wanders back to the shadows he whispers to in a language you can't translate.

It’s that thing, you know it is. You wish you could just find a way to get rid of it, could toss it overboard or somehow destroy it, rid Din of the shadows that bleed from it and dye him in darkness. Yet Din is never without it, and part of you knows that even if you did manage to separate him from it the saber would only call to him again like a siren’s song, drawing him back into its grip once more.

“Come back to me.” You whisper to him once, as he sleeps with his head on your chest.

As if he was never asleep at all, Din turns his head to you, his pupils fully blown, eclipsing the brown of his irises. They’re too dark, hungry, and for a moment you think you’ll drown in them, let them drag you down into the darkness that’s already consumed him.

“I’m right here, Cyare.” He whispers, reaching up to kiss you once more.

---

He scares you.

It takes far too long to admit that, and by the time you do it’s far too late. The grip he has on the Darksaber, the grip that the Darksaber has on him, is something beyond your control. You think still about trying to somehow get rid of it, but you’re afraid if you do that now it would be like ripping an organ from him. You’re afraid he’d simply die from the shock of it all, of this now inherent part of him being torn from him like flesh and bone.

More than that, you feel like you yourself are slipping, the edges of you being dyed dark and blurring into the pitch black of the blade. It leeches away at your sanity with every passing day, and more than once you find yourself almost serene with the way things are, with the way Din carves a path of carnage on his hunts, of the way his voice melts you from the inside out, of this strange farce you two are living like lifeless things trying to find something to inhabit in a mockery of existence.

You feel it like a specter, the whisper of the blade, prickling at your back and waiting for the moment your guard lets down so it can seep past your skin and dye your bones black with shadows. It takes all your strength and resolve to constantly remind yourself this isn’t right, that Din needs help, that you can’t just sit by and watch this happen.

You start seeing them too.

Asleep at Din’s side, you see the spirits of the blade dance along the hull of the ship, their eyes watching you from the darkness. It’s only ever for a moment, for the second your heart beats too loud, that you try and wake Din -to what end, you aren’t sure- they’re gone. You hardly sleep, haunted by the way those eyes seem to watch over you like you’re prey, waiting for the perfect moment to descend on you and squeeze the last bit of sanity from you.

You jolt, one evening, when your eyes stare unblinking into the darkness, waiting for the shadows to return. Din’s nose is freezing against the junction of your shoulder and throat, arms snaking around you from behind and drawing you into his frigid form. You shiver, from fear, from the cold, you aren’t sure. Yet that’s nothing compared to the iciness that washes over you with Din’s words.

“Don’t worry.” He mumbles drowsily, lips skimming over your flesh so you can feel his teeth. “They won’t hurt you.”

---

You leave him.

You do it when he’s away on one of his hunts, pack all your things away in a single bag and start hiking in the direction of the nearest spaceport. All the while your heart seems to hum too loud, each step feeling like you’re walking through water. You hate this, you hate that it’s come to this. It kills a part of you inside to leave him, abandon him against your word. You don’t want to leave him. You love him, but this- this is too much for you to handle. You know the longer you stay the more you run the risk of simply succumbing to the sweet siren’s song of the blade.

You flee.

You flee in hopes that maybe your absence might somehow startle him enough to realize that something is wrong, that the blade is slowly eating him alive. If you can somehow jolt him enough to question himself, then maybe you can try and talk to him, convince him to get rid of the thing, to come back to you as the man he was before.

A part of you is just scared. Scared for him, scared for yourself, scared of that dark, magnetic blade that hums even in your dreams.

Your walk starts off as a slow march, the steps becoming easier the more distance you put between yourself and the ship- as if doing so releases you of the hold the blade has started to wind around you. Yet as you do you feel a different type of shadow lurk over your shoulder, the knowledge that you’re running from a hunter, from a man who tracks down people for a living, if only to kill them. The thought that he might arrive at the ship before you get off planet- might discover your absence and begin giving chase is terrifying.

By the time you reach the edge of the city you’re running, skin feverish and eyes wide, darting through the growing throngs of people towards the spaceport. They seem startled by the apprehension that oozes off of you, and you wonder if they can somehow sense the lingering shadows of the Darksaber as well, can sense that there might be something wrong with you too.

You purchase a ticket for the first star liner off world, and as the planet begins to grow small through the window beside you that tension in your chest finally, finally seems to release itself. Yet it doesn’t disappear, not with the knowledge that you left Din, left the man who you had promised yourself to, alone with that thing.

You curl up in your seat, trying to remind yourself of him, of the way he echoed your name before he won the artifact, gentle, tender, and reverent, as if you were the stars themselves. Already you feel that same wound in your heart placed there by Grogu’s absence reopen in the absence of your beloved, of Din.

You miss him.

---

It’s only just before the third ship you get on, trying to dull your scent as much as possible just in case, that you finally message Din.

You weigh your words carefully, trying to find the best way to try and persuade him of your love, of your fear, of the desperate, inherent, dreaded need to rid himself of the blade. You all but beg him, saying you’re scared, saying you want him back, that you’re terrified of what the blade is doing to him.

“Please, Din.” You write. “Come back to me.”

You hold your breath as you send the message, skin cold to the touch and heart beating too loud, too fast. You pray Din will respond in kind, that he’s already come to his senses, that he’ll surrender and plead with you to come back, saying he’s already gotten rid of the blade. Maybe he’s tossed it into the void of space, rid himself of the shadows clinging to him like a shroud and instead seeking the brightness still within you.

Yet there’s a darker part of you that you aren’t sure is entirely the whisper of the blade. It almost wishes Din would chase after you, burn worlds to find you, to bring you back to his side. He is relentless, and you know this. He could find you if he wanted to, track you through the stars. If the blade has him within its embrace still, you know that no matter where you go, no matter how you run, no matter which star you try and hide behind, he will find you. It’s only a matter of time.

When your comm pings, your heart leaps in your throat, and you read the single sentence Din has sent you in reply.

Yet then you shudder, too cold and too hot at the same time, something within you twisting with fear and also something else. You let your eyes linger over the words before you drop the comm, let it crack against the durasteel walkway and crunch under the force of your boots. Even as you walk away you feel your ears ringing, hear Din’s message whispered in that silky-sweet tone of his as if he were leaning over your shoulder and murmuring against the shell of your ear.

"Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll come find you.”

----