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outercrasis · 3 years

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Maybe It’s A Sign

Pairing: Modern!Din Djarin x F!Reader

Rating: Explicit 18+

Word Count: 9.3k+

Warnings: alcohol, implied age difference, oral sex (f receiving), vaginal fingering, p-in-v sex, unprotected sex, cockwarming

Summary: You and Mando have been driving across America together for months. You're happy to be with him but part of you longs for something more.

A/N: I don’t really know the time period for this, probably like anything pre-2010s. There’s no use of y/n and let me know if I missed a warning :)

Read it on AO3

The breeze from the open truck window is cool against your heated skin. It's your only relief as the sun beats down on you through the windshield, the busted A/C offering no help. You're headed down some freeway in the middle of nowhere America, riding shotgun in an old beat-up truck that's seen better days.

You've been keeping your eyes on the flat landscape surrounding you, watching as field after field passes you by. They really weren't joking when they'd named them the Great Plains. Music filters through the air, some classic rock song you've heard a thousand times before. You still hum along mindlessly, enjoying the small amount of entertainment.

Bored of the vast sameness outside your window, your eyes drift over to your companion, driver, and owner of the truck. Mando. You study him, finding him far more interesting than the fields outside.

His worn baseball cap has been pushed up, presumably from scratching his scalp underneath and not bothering to fix it. Soft brown curls peek out around the edges of the hat. He has his sunglasses on and his eyes are firmly fixed on the road ahead, as they should be. The patchy scruff along his jawline has grown out a bit from your recent days on the road and you can see a few gray hairs mixed in with his darker natural color.

He shrugged off his jacket earlier in the day, leaving him in a worn gray t-shirt that hugged his lean muscles all just right. His faded blue jeans are on and you wonder how he can stand to wear them in the oppressive summer heat. You gave into shorts days ago.

All in all, he was a far better sight than anything outside the truck. As you look him over, you muse how everything he owns seems to be worn in. His rusty truck, his old hat, his distressed clothes. They all carry a sense of being lived in, nothing new and shiny on him. Well, except for his jewelry. His silver necklace and rings always shine brightly, a dramatic contrast to the rest of him.

"Stop staring," Mando suddenly says, breaking you from your observation of him. You're a little embarrassed to have been caught, but you aren't going to let him know that.

"Why? Nothin' else to look at around here."

That rewards you with a chuckle. At least he isn't irritated by your staring then.

"Don't you have a book or something?"

You look over at the book you had thrown on the dashboard. A used copy of Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger that you picked up a couple states back. You aren't sure you like Holden, but it's a good read at least. "Yeah, but I can't read it for long before I start feeling sick. So I guess I'll just have to look at you instead."

"Sure that I won't make you sick?" Mando teases.

You smile. He's in a good mood today. There are days where conversation with him is like pulling teeth, but it makes days like today all the more worth it.

"Nah, you aren't so hard on the eyes." You say it cool and casual, genuine but not needy. As though you don't often think of his looks when you have the time and privacy to satisfy your needs.

Mando shakes his head slightly but you can see the ghost of a smile on his lips. "Sure, sweetheart."

He never seems to believe you when you compliment his appearance. It breaks your heart a little. Sure, he has some years on you, but you aren't blind. You know a good-looking man when you see one and Mando? He was it. If the man wasn't oblivious, he'd notice the looks plenty of women and some men throw him when he strolls into town.

Not sure of what to say next, but not wanting the conversation to end, you take to a habit that's been slowly forming over your months with him. It had begun out of boredom one day, but continued due to a desperate urge to learn anything and everything your mysterious companion will tell you about himself.

"When's your birthday?"

Mando isn't surprised anymore by your random questions. "May eighteenth."

Your eyes go wide at his answer. It was July now, meaning he'd let the day come and go without telling you. You had just assumed his birthday hadn't come around with you yet. "Mando! Why didn't you tell me? I would have at least said something if I had known."

He shrugs. "Birthdays aren't a big deal where I grew up."

"Were you raised Jehovah's Witness or something?" you ask.

"No, nothing like that." His fingers drum slightly on the steering wheel. You noticed a while ago that he did that when you got close to something he didn't want to talk about. His childhood always seems to be a touchy subject.

You want to know more, want to learn all of his secrets, but you don't want to jeopardize his good mood. Mando had shared bits and pieces of those more intimate details with you over your shared months with him, but always on his own time. His own terms. You won't push it now. Instead, you pivot to something more innocuous.

"If you could only eat one meal for the rest of your life, what would it be?"

You're surprised when he barely takes any time to consider the question before answering. "Tacos."

You raise an eyebrow. "Tacos? I took you for more of a burger and fries kind of guy."

"Nothing compares to a good authentic taco from down by the border." He says it with such confidence that you can do nothing other than believe him.

"I wouldn't know," you say.

Mando cocks an eyebrow at you now. "We'll have to fix that then."

A warm flush runs through your body at his words. You know he isn't looking to get rid of you, but hearing him make plans for the future with you, no matter how tentative, makes you happier than you care to admit. Small promises that you know he'll make good on eventually given the time and opportunity.

"What about you?" he asks.

"Easy. A full breakfast. Eggs, bacon, potatoes, and toast. Doesn't matter how they're cooked or the specific options, you can't go wrong."

You stretch yourself out in the cab as you answer, throwing your feet up on the dash. Your eyes close for a moment and you miss the way Mando's eyes rake over your extended frame.

"You're never awake for breakfast," Mando comments. He's right. You enjoy your sleep and when left to your own devices you easily dream through breakfast hours.

"That doesn't matter," you retort. "Breakfast food isn't only good in the morning."

You continue that way for a while, gathering small bits of information about him and sharing your own in return. You learn that he prefers hot weather over the cold, soft pillows over firm ones, showers over baths, and most surprisingly that he has a soft spot for musicals. That fact had made you giggle, imagining Mando singing along to The Music of the Night. With all of his mystery, he wouldn't make for a bad Phantom you think.

As the afternoon wears on, you can feel yourself growing tired. Between the warmth of the sun, the lulling rumble of the truck, and the comfortable environment of the cab, you're fighting to keep your eyes open. Mando notices your struggle and reaches a hand out towards you.

You aren't really sure when this began, but you aren't complaining about it. Mando would hold your hand whenever you fell asleep in the truck, thumb gently rubbing against your skin. His hands were rough, callused from years of work, but they felt nice. They felt strong, comforting. In those moments nothing else in the world mattered. And if you thought about his hands later, touching places other than your hands, then that was your business and no one else’s.

You wake up a couple hours later, Mando calling your name to pull you from your sleep. The sun has moved down in the sky and you guess it’s somewhere close to five o’clock. You’d check the time on the radio, but Mando never seemed to bother keeping it right due to regularly changing time zones with all the cross country traveling.

You’re sitting outside of some 24 hour diner on a random roadside. Mando seems to be fond of these little dives, preferring them to any of the big chain restaurants you always pass. Fast food is the only exception to that rule and even that’s rare, these food stops often being one of few chances to stretch your legs when you’re on the road.

“What do you think? Do they have the best pie in America?” you joke, pointing at the sun-worn sign hanging below the restaurant’s name. You can’t count how many ‘best blank in America’ signs you’ve seen at this point. While you can’t credit their authenticity, it usually did mean there was something good waiting for you on the menu.

“I suppose we’ll have to be the judges of that,” Mando replies.

You tug on your socks and shoes that you pulled off earlier in the day and hop out of the truck. The easy conversation and warm nap have you in a great mood, one that makes you a little bolder than you might otherwise be. Walking into the diner, you grab onto Mando’s arm, smiling at him when he looks down at you in surprise. He doesn’t pull away from you though and your heart beats a little bit faster.

The diner has plenty of open seats and you seat yourselves, grabbing one of the booths. The stiff vinyl isn’t the most comfortable, but you can’t say you’re surprised. The place looks like it hasn’t been renovated in a decade. If the smell from the kitchen is anything to go off of though, the food will be just fine.

A waitress comes over to take your orders. She’s exactly what you would imagine a waitress to look like in a diner like this one. Slightly heavyset, a kind face, and a big smile to offer you. “Hi there, what can I get the two of you?” she asks.

“I’ll take a coke, ma’am,” Mando says. He seems oblivious to the flush on the waitress’s cheeks at his baritone.

“I’ll take a coke too.”

“I’ll be right back, folks.”

You reach over to grab a sticky menu from the end of the table. The stickiness grosses you out a little, but it really does add to the ambiance of the place. Your conversation from earlier drifting back into mind, you immediately look for the breakfast section. Perfect. Their ‘two eggs and more’ option is exactly what you were looking for.

The waitress returns with your drinks and takes your orders, Mando getting himself a burger and fries. You smirk at him, taking the wrapper off of your straw. “I thought you said you weren’t a burger and fries kind of guy?”

Mando watches as you carefully make a wrapper worm, dropping the smallest amount of soda on the paper to make it move. “I just said tacos were my favorite, never said I’m a guy who doesn’t enjoy a good burger and fries, sweetheart.”

“Fair enough,” you say with a shrug.

You fall into a comfortable silence together at the table. Silence isn’t an uncommon occurrence between the two of you. When you first joined Mando you talked all the time. Trying to fill up the empty space, feeling like if someone wasn’t talking then the situation was awkward. Slowly you learned though. The silence was never awkward until you made it that way and unless Mando had something to say, he’d stay quiet. He’s not incapable of conversation, he just doesn’t like to force it.

You softly hum a tune that’s been stuck in your head, looking out the diner window and enjoying the sunset. It’s a gorgeous one today, the sky looking like an oil painting with its gradient of colors. The flat plains allow for a good view of it too, only a small building in the distance blocking any part of the horizon. You kick yourself for not picking up that disposable camera at the gas station this morning. The photo would never do it justice, but at least that way you could have a small piece of the gorgeous sky to hold onto.

Plates being set down on the table brings you back down to earth. You happily dig into your meal, pleased to have been right about the quality of food here. Nothing could beat a good meal at a greasy diner. Mando seems to enjoy his burger as well, scarfing it down well before you finish your plate.

He always ate like that and you aren’t sure why. It’s as though he thinks if he doesn’t eat it fast enough then someone is going to come and steal it from him. Early on you’d tried to speed up your eating, feeling awkward every time he finished and was forced to wait on you. Now though, you don’t care. Mando rarely ever stops moving and a meal with you is a time you can be certain that he isn’t doing anything for once. You hope that eventually it might encourage him to actually enjoy his food as well, but that still seems a long way off.

Mando picks at his fries and sips at his coke while you finish up. The waitress comes by to refill the drinks, another flush on her cheeks when Mando thanks her. There must not be many attractive men who roll through here if a simple thanks has her blushing, you think. Poor lady, she seems quite nice.

“So, what’s the plan?” you ask Mando between bites of egg and toast.

“Plan?”

“Yes, plan. We’ve been driving west for two days now and you seem to have some destination in mind. So, what’s the plan?” What plan, of course Mando has a plan. He always does. Was it always well thought out or complete? No, but there is never a time where he doesn’t have some sort of plan, some idea of where he’s off to next. You’re the one without plans, content with travelling alongside him.

Before Mando can reply, the waitress returns to the table and clears his now empty plate. “Can we get a slice of your pie?” Mando asks.

“Of course, what flavor would you like?” she replies.

“Whatever flavor you think is best, ma’am.” That garners yet another blush on the waitress’s cheeks. Wow. Things must be really bad around here then. One good-looking customer shouldn’t have that big of an impact on anyone, much less a woman who’s clearly made this job her life’s work.

She leaves and you prompt Mando again. “So? Plan?”

“I’m going to meet someone tonight, pick up a new job. Then we’ll go from there,” he finally tells you.

You aren’t pleased by his half-cryptic half-telling answer. He’s always doing this to you, giving you answers but never quite the whole thing. You bet he already knows what the next job is, he’s just being coy about it for some ridiculous reason.

You decide not to push it and slide your plate over to Mando. There are some hash browns left and he won’t just ask for them despite the fact that you’re clearly done. He doesn’t say thanks, just picks up the fork and shovels them in. This by now is routine too so it doesn’t bother you, but it’s still odd. Mando is just weird about food.

He finishes the last of your meal and the waitress returns with the pie. “Blueberry, winner of the county festival five years running,” she tells you.

You grab a fork and dig in, suddenly finding the room in your stomach for dessert. Best pie in America might be a stretch, but you believe their claim to the best pie in the county. It’s delicious, eliciting a small but satisfied groan from you on the first bite. You go to take a second bite when you realize Mando hasn’t moved yet, he’s just watching you with an expression on his face that you can’t quite make out.

“Earth to Mando?” you say, waving your hand. “Try the pie, it’s delicious.”

He breaks from his stare and takes a piece of the pie. “‘S good,” he says around the mouthful.

You laugh at his terrible manners. “Gross, finish chewing before you talk.”

He doesn’t have a witty retort, but he gives you a grin that makes you feel like you’ve won a million dollars. It’s one of the ones that reaches his eyes, making them just shy of sparkling. Now you really wish you had bought that disposable camera.

Finishing the award-winning dessert, you and Mando go up to the counter to pay. He’s left a tip on the table, a sizable one in your opinion, but you aren’t going to say anything about it. Mando is always leaving big tips at places like these.

You take in the diner for one last moment, not paying attention to Mando’s conversation with the waitress until she says something that catches your ear.

“-shift ends in a half hour.” Did you hear that right? Was she really propositioning Mando right now? Christ, things must be downright desolate around here.

Your heart stops as you wait to hear Mando’s reply. He could easily accept. She’s an attractive woman with that classic middle America charm about her. Any other man would probably take her up on the offer. Would it shatter your heart into a million pieces if Mando did? Most likely. But do you have any right to feel that way? Most likely not.

Mando isn’t tied to you, at least not in that way, and he’s certainly still a man. You haven’t known him to chase after any women the whole time you’ve been with him, but surely he has needs and the waitress is beautiful and willing. You wouldn’t be able to fault him for it.

“I’m flattered, but the lady here and I need to be getting back on the road,” Mando says, slinging an arm around your shoulders. You do your best to keep your face neutral, not wanting to come off as rude while also trying not to make it obvious the way your heart swoops at Mando’s reply. You know he doesn’t mean anything serious by it, but the implication is still very much there.

Embarrassment washes over the poor woman’s face. “Oh, I’m so sorry, I just assumed…” she trails off, not finishing her thought. You want to feel bad for her, but you can’t help but feel sorry for yourself.

You have a good idea of what she assumed. You’ve heard a multitude of mistaken relationships by now between you and Mando. Everything from some kind of family relation, to something more perverted that’s assumed by greasy motel attendants who cast odd glances when you ask for a double instead of a single. It’s never any less uncomfortable.

Mando brushes it off. “It’s fine ma’am, no harm, no foul.” The waitress doesn’t blush at his words anymore.

Bill paid, you and Mando leave the diner. His arm leaves you and you climb back into the truck. The radio flickers back to life and neither of you speak. You wish you could know what’s going on inside of his head. Probably just thinking about the next job. That seems like him, always focused on what’s coming next.

You can’t help but be consumed with thoughts of him. Situations like the one with the waitress always left you distracted. There’s no real way to describe your relationship with Mando. You had helped him with a deal and he had helped you with a way out of your one-horse town. Originally neither of you planned on staying together for this long, but at some point Mando stopped asking you where you wanted to go and you stopped asking if he was going to leave.

You’re comfortable around each other, content to drive across America while Mando picks up job after job. At some point your feelings deepened for him, you aren’t exactly sure when, but now you can’t imagine leaving Mando. It’s no longer just about the adventure of it for you. It’s something more, a deeper tie than you’ve ever had to anyone. However, you have no idea if he feels the same way and you don’t intend to find out. Better to love your mystery man from afar then reveal yourself and get left in the dust.

Fifteen minutes into the drive, Mando reaches over and turns down the radio. “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable back there.”

You’re a bit surprised to hear an apology. After all, he had nothing to really apologize for. The waitress had come onto him, not the other way around. You know Mando isn’t the type to flat out refuse and insult someone like that. What he had done was… fine. You had hardly even considered it.

“You didn’t make me uncomfortable, Mando,” you tell him. “If anything she did, propositioning you like that.”

A small, relieved smile works its way across his face. “It was quite bold.”

That makes you laugh. “I’m not surprised, she was sizing you up since we walked in.”

“She was not,” Mando argues.

You shift in your seat to face him. “Are you kidding? You really didn’t notice her blushing every time you spoke to her?” If Mando was this oblivious maybe you didn’t need to worry about him catching onto you.

“Now you’re just lying, sweetheart.”

“Am not. You just don’t pay attention.”

Mando rolls his eyes and turns the radio back up. He mumbles something but you can’t make it out. You let it slide and allow yourself to relax. Your hand falls to the center of the bench seat as you look out the window. The stars are coming out now, another gorgeous sight in the vast expanse of the sky. So far away from the city, it feels like you can see every pinprick of light the universe has to offer. It’s a bit disorienting honestly. Nothing makes you feel smaller by comparison and yet, you don’t really mind.

You startle as something wraps around your hand. Looking down, you realize that it’s just Mando, holding your hand as he does when you’re close to falling asleep in the truck. You look up at him, confused. You aren’t anywhere close to nodding off. He should know that, so why…?

Mando doesn’t look at you, keeping his eyes fixed on the road. His thumb softly rubs against the back of your hand. You relax into his touch, turning your eyes back to the stars. Confusion about Mando’s actions doesn’t compare to the way your stomach flips at his gentle touch. It feels nice, domestic almost, if one can consider a life lived out of the front seat of a rusted out pickup domestic. His hand doesn’t leave yours until he pulls into the pothole filled parking lot of some dive bar.

Mando parks and turns the truck off. You move to get out of the truck with him when he squeezes your hand to stop you.

“Stay in the truck,” Mando says. His hand leaves you and he opens his own door, jumping out onto the cracked asphalt.

You look over at him, incredulous. “Excuse me? You know I am old enough to go in there, right?”

“I know. Stay in the truck.” Mando closes the truck door, giving you no more room to argue with him. It pisses you off.

What is this? Soften you up by holding your hand only to leave you behind? You hate when he does this, treating you like a child that’s just tagging along with him. You suppose you are tagging along, which stings a bit more, but you could be helpful, useful even if he would just let you in. Instead he keeps you at arm’s length at times, treating you like you can’t take care of yourself. He has no right to boss you around like that, telling you where you can and can’t go.

You watch his figure enter the bar, temper rising. If this place was good enough for him, it was certainly good enough for you. A bar like this had been where you met Mando months ago, working as a bartender and server. It didn’t bring back the best of memories, but you can handle yourself. At worst a fight might break out or patrons might get a little handsy. You can avoid the first and as for the second, it’s not as though Mando would need to put someone in the hospital for getting a little too flirty with you.

After fuming in the truck for a couple minutes, you make up your mind. You look yourself over in the mirror, trying to fix your appearance to look like you hadn't just spent the last two days in a truck. Pleased with yourself, you pull your shirt down slightly to reveal a bit more cleavage. The discovery of the power a pair of tits held in dive bars was one you made a long time ago. You flip the mirror back up and get out of the truck.

You practice your walk as you approach the bar door, trying to keep it calm and confident. Mando is going to be pissed at you for this, you already know, but you refuse to be treated like a child. If coming in here without his permission is what it takes for him to view you differently, then so be it. Younger you might be, but incapable you are not.

The moment you walk in the door, you spot Mando. He’s in the corner, talking to someone with his back to the door. He doesn’t even notice as you walk in and stroll up to the bar.

The man behind the counter is old, his white shirt spotted with stains and a towel thrown over his shoulder. It’s almost too stereotypical a look and you want to laugh. The stiff look he gives you though stifles your amusement.

“What can I get you?” he asks gruffly as you take a seat at the bartop.

“I’ll take a whiskey on the rocks.”

Whiskey is not your favorite drink. Not by a long shot. Really, you would have loved to order something fruity that you can’t taste the alcohol in, but whiskey is something you’ve learned to tolerate. You know that appearances matter in a place like this and a fruity drink would mark you as someone lost, not as someone who belongs here. You aren’t looking to get trashed anyway, just something to calm your nerves.

It doesn’t take long before someone is sidling up next to you at the bar. You don’t acknowledge him right away, instead staring up at the small CRT TV that’s playing the local news above the bar. Some murder case from a couple towns over is currently being highlighted. Lovely.

“What’s a pretty thing like you doing here?” he asks you.

You glance over at him, enough to get a look, but you don’t let your eyes linger. Lingering eyes would mean an invitation that you certainly don’t want to give. You have to admit, as far as seedy dive bar men went, he isn’t hard to look at. Not much older than you, clean shaven, bright blue eyes. Another time you might have gone for someone like him. Not now. These days your thoughts are only occupied by scruff, dark hair, and warm brown eyes.

“Came in for a drink,” you reply simply.

He leans in a bit closer. “Can I buy you another?”

You take a sip of your drink. “I think I’m alright, thanks.”

He pushes in even further, placing a hand on your thigh. This guy didn’t take no for an answer apparently. “Aw, come on now, don’t be that way sweetheart.”

Hearing him call you sweetheart makes you want to punch him more than him touching you does. It sounds wrong coming out of his mouth, harsh and manipulative, not the smooth and warm way Mando says it. For a moment, you do seriously consider punching this guy square in the jaw before deciding against it. You came in here to prove a point and not being able to handle a pushy guy would just prove the exact opposite of that.

You turn in your chair to move your thigh away from him. He has the decency to let his hand fall at least. “Don’t call me that,” you tell him.

“Alright then, what do I call you?”

You turn your attention back to the TV. Now they were highlighting a feel good story about an animal adoption from the nearby shelter. Odd shift in tone. You don’t reply to Blue-eyes and hope he gets the message.

“Playing hard to get, that’s fine,” he says. You take another sip of your whiskey. The news shifts to the weather. There’s more warm weather on the way for the next week, no storms in sight. That’ll be nice to drive in you think.

Blue-eyes’ hand returns to your thigh, creeping up higher than it was before. “I don’t mind hard to get, sweetheart.”

That one garners a slap. You do it before you even give it a real thought. It’s a good one at least, making a very solid sound as his head spins. It’s a testament to the bar that no one even spares it a second glance. Blue-eyes turns back to you, furious.

“You’re going to regret that, bitch,” he hisses at you, roughly grabbing your arm.

“You’re going to regret it if you don’t take your hand off of her.”

You’ve never been so happy to hear Mando’s voice in your life. Could you handle this guy? Probably. Do you want to? Absolutely not. You know on your own there's a near certain chance you'll end up with bruises before this guy gives up.

Somewhere in your mind you register the very real possibility that Mando is pissed at you right now. You shove it down, choosing to focus on the fact that he did just come to your defense.

Blue-eyes is more stupid then he looks and doesn’t read the very obvious threat Mando poses. Instead he doubles down and tightens his grip on you. “Oh yeah? And what are you going to do about it, old man?”

You can't say you're surprised when Mando punches him in the face instead of answering the question. You also can’t say that you feel bad about it either. The surprise and hurt of the sudden punch makes Blue-eyes release his grip on you, giving you enough time to move out of the way as Mando moves in. Mando grabs a fistful of Blue-eyes' shirt and pulls the guy in towards his face.

“Do you regret it?” Mando grits out. Blue-eyes sputters something that sounds like an apology and pushes himself away.

Satisfied, Mando now turns on you. You were right, he's pissed. His typically soft, warm eyes are hard on you now as he pulls you away.

You flounder to tell him you haven't paid for your drink but he just ignores you, dragging you out of the bar. If you were smarter, you would think to be a little scared about making a man like Mando mad at you. Instead, your thoughts are occupied with how he's barely even trying to overpower you and yet you couldn't break free of his grip if you tried. You wonder if there's something wrong with you for how much it's turning you on.

Arriving back at the truck, Mando releases his grip. "Get in," he demands.

You do as you're told and climb into the passenger seat as Mando goes around. Nerves finally settle in. Mando would never hurt you, you know that, but he could decide to ditch you somewhere. Whatever this situation is with him, it's far from formal. He has no obligation to you and could easily choose to end it. With the trouble you’ve just caused, you wouldn’t be surprised if this all comes to a swift and sudden end.

As Mando climbs into the cab, you stare down at the floorboards, terrified that he's going to tell you he's dropping you off somewhere and leaving you behind for good. You can't imagine your life without him now. There's nowhere for you to go, nothing for you to do without him. Right back to square one.

He doesn't speak right away, which only makes you more nervous. He peels the truck out of the parking lot, headed back in the direction you came from. You still don't look at him. It's obvious you fucked up and there's nothing you can really say to fix that. Your only hope is that he forgives you.

You're headed back through the small nearby town when he finally speaks. “I told you to stay in the truck.”

You don’t say anything in response. Anything you can come up with sounds childish in your head. The exact opposite of what you'd been trying to prove. Thankfully, Mando takes your silence as an answer.

“Why would you even do something like that? Do you know how stupid that was?” His hands are tight on the wheel, glancing between you and the road as he yells.

You mumble back to him.

“What was that? I couldn’t hear you.”

“He called me sweetheart,” you say a little louder.

“What?” He isn't going to let you off the hook with this and it gets under your skin. Some part of you thought he might be proud of you for smacking that creep and here he is berating you for it.

“He called me sweetheart, alright?” you half-shout.

Mando gives you a confused look, clearly not the answer he was expecting. “Do you- do you have a problem with that?” The heat is still present in his voice, but you can hear a little worry in it now. Shit. This is not what you wanted out of this whole ordeal.

You've never wanted the ground to come up and swallow you more. Why didn’t you just say that you smacked him for touching you? That would have been simple. How do you answer this without making everything weird? No, Mando, I don’t have a problem with that. I smacked him because I only like it when you call me that. Sure. That won’t be weird or awkward at all.

After cursing yourself for a few seconds, you manage a response. “No, I- I just didn’t like it when he said it.”

"Oh." That's Mando's only reply.

You know he's still angry about you coming into the bar, but apparently your answer has sidelined him. If it wasn't so embarrassing, you might even be rejoicing at his reaction. Instead you just feel like a fool.

The silence remains as you pull into a little local motel with the vacancy sign lit up. Mando hands you forty dollars, way more than you need, and tells you to get a room.

Okay. So he isn't getting rid of you… yet.

You barely even listen to the attendant as they tell you they only have one single available for the night. Now is not the time to be arguing about sleeping arrangements. You take the key, room 104, and make your way back to the truck.

You grab your bag from the flatbed and let Mando know the room number. He nods and goes to pull the truck around. You kick yourself as you walk over to the room. Why didn’t you just stay in the truck? Why didn’t you just lie to Mando about your reasons? He’s smart and it won’t take long now for him to put two and two together. Especially if he asks anymore questions.

You have no idea how Mando might react. If learning about your feelings towards him combined with what happened in the bar might be enough to leave you. He’s certainly not cold with you, but you’re not sure you’d call any of his actions romantic either. Holding your hand after the diner today is the closest he’s ever come. You wish you knew what that meant to him. You know what it meant to you.

Mando parks the truck outside of the room as you unlock the door. It’s not a fancy room, just one big square with a bathroom attached. There’s a full bed, a dresser with a TV on it, and a small table with a couple chairs. You toss your bag on the table and sit down on the edge of the bed. There’s no point in pretending you aren’t upset, Mando can always see through your lies. Might as well just get this over with.

Nervous, you hide your face in your hands, leaning forward with your elbows on your knees. You’re ready to deal with it, but not while actually looking at him. You can’t handle seeing his face as he figures things out; the way he might look at you while he rejects you. Suddenly you feel a wave of sympathy for the waitress earlier today. You hope Mando will let you down easy like he did for her.

You don’t look up when Mando comes into the room. His boots enter your line of vision and you close your eyes. You can’t look at any part of him right now. It’s too painful.

Mando says your name softly and you can sense as he kneels down in front of you. You don’t reply. Gently, he moves your hands away from your face. You still refuse to look at him and he cups your chin, lifting your head up to his.

“Look at me, sweetheart.” You wish you could resist, but you can’t. Not when he speaks to you in that soft tone. Not when he calls you that.

You meet his eye and see all the concern and worry he holds there. “I’m sorry, Mando. I should have listened to you.”

His hand slides up to hold your cheek. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have treated you that way. I could have at least told you why I didn’t want you coming in with me.”

You’re surprised at his apology. Two apologies he didn’t need to make in one day. This isn’t something you ever expected. You assumed he would still be full of heat and anger, not this careful kindness.

“Why didn’t you want me to come in?” you ask. You need to know the reason, need to know why it is he told you to stay behind. No matter how much the reason might hurt.

Mando sighs. “I didn’t want you to come in because I didn’t want anyone else looking at you.”

You pull back out of shock. “What?” Did you hear that correctly? Could that mean what you thought it might?

He takes off his baseball cap and runs a hand through his hair. “What can I say, sweetheart? I’m a jealous man.”

A thousand thoughts run through your mind. There are so many things you want to say, so many questions you want to ask, and yet none of them can find their way out. As a result, you do the only thing you can.

You lean in towards him, slowly, giving him enough time to stop you if he so chooses. He doesn’t though, instead following your lead and moving in closer. You carefully search his eyes for any answers they may hold. Your noses bump and you both pause. “Mando, I-”

He cuts you off. “Din. My name is Din.”

You close the gap and kiss him. The kiss is careful at first, as though you’re both still looking to confirm that yes, this is what you both want. Mand- Din’s lips are soft and sweet against yours and you melt as it’s everything you could have imagined and more. A small moan escapes you, one that you’re embarrassed about until it causes Din to deepen the kiss. Caution evaporates, quickly turning into passion as your tongues meet.

Din moves, getting up from the floor and pushing you back against the bed. His lips never leave yours, devouring you as though you might slip away at any moment. He gives your bottom lip a small nip, quickly soothing it with his tongue. You pull away, needing a moment to catch your breath.

“Is this okay?” Din asks, his voice low with desire. You respond by pulling him back down into another bruising kiss. Your positions shift as the kiss continues, Din’s knee finding its way between your legs as his arms wrap around you. Both of your hands have worked their way into his hair, something you’ve been fantasizing about for months now.

Din begins to kiss his way down your neck, leaving little love bites along the way. You gently tug on his hair, pulling a heavenly sound from him that only intensifies your pool of desire. Desperate for more, you move a hand down, seeking the hem of his shirt and slipping your hand underneath. His skin feels remarkable under your fingertips.

Din pulls away from your neck and quickly divests himself of his shirt. He allows you a moment to take him in, his lean physique flexing as he holds himself above you. Scars litter his body in various shapes and sizes, but you think they look beautiful against the glow of his honeyed skin.

Taking the opportunity, you remove your top as well, leaving you in your basic everyday bra. You wish you had worn your other bra, the sexier one, but with the way Din is looking at you, you’re not sure it matters. His lips return to your body, working his way across any and all of your newly exposed skin. One hand splays on your waist, holding you, grounding Din against you.

“You’re so soft, sweetheart,” Din murmurs against you. His lips find their way up to your chest, placing careful kisses against the globes of your breasts. He pauses and looks up at you, seeking your permission. You arch your back, allowing Din access to slip a hand beneath you and undo the clasp.

He pulls the bra away from you and you flush under the intensity of his gaze. “Perfect, you’re perfect,” Din says before reoccupying his mouth with your breasts. It seems that he has a real oral fixation, not that you mind in the slightest. His warm mouth feels heavenly against you, licking and sucking wherever he can.

Din takes one of your nipples into his mouth, his fingers playing with the other. It’s the best thing you’ve felt in months, better than any of your late night fantasies when you would try to satisfy your growing want for the man currently giving you so much pleasure. As though your attempts could ever come close to the real thing.

Din releases your nipple with a pop and returns to your mouth, licking his way inside. His kiss alone is enough to make you see stars. It makes you forget any other kiss you’ve ever shared, enveloping you in him and him alone.

You pull back slightly from the kiss, unable to take more without further relief. “Din, please, I want you,” you pant into his mouth. Din growls, actually growls, at your words. It's a far hotter response than it should be.

“Yeah, sweetheart? What do you want me to do to you? Tell me.” His knee comes up and presses his thigh against you where you want him most, causing you to moan out his name. “Use your words, sweet girl.”

He’s trying to kill you, you think. Calling you a name like that. Sweet girl. It loops in your mind until Din’s fingers ghost over your nipples again. “I want you to touch me,” you tell him.

“I’m already touching you,” Din says. He’s a tease, you think, growing slightly frustrated with him. His thigh moves against you again though and he’s immediately forgiven.

“Please, Din,” you whine, hoping he’ll take pity on you. Thankfully he does, moving his leg away and quickly removing your pants. You already know you’re soaking, your panties feeling cold against you with the loss of the other cloth barrier.

Din pauses for another moment to take you in before moving. You’re nearly bare before him, almost entirely on display.

“You’re so beautiful,” he compliments, his hands parting your thighs. “So perfect, so beautiful, and all mine.” You can feel yourself clench at his words. No one has ever made you feel this way before. His stare only relaxes you more, his words feeling like a warm blanket wrapping around your fears and quieting them.

Din’s fingers brush against you through the thin cotton. “Is this all for me, sweetheart? I can already feel how wet you are.”

He continues to tease you, only leaving you capable of nodding your head back at him. His eyes catch yours, watching your reaction as he pushes the near useless fabric off to the side and pushes one finger between your folds. Just the small touch sets you aflame, pushing yourself down onto his hand, wanting more.

His finger leaves you and you frown until you watch as he brings it to his mouth and licks your slick off of it. Din moans at the taste. “You taste better than you do in my dreams.”

He leans down to kiss you, sharing the taste of yourself while he pulls your panties off completely. They’re thrown haphazardly into the room, lost to be found for later.

Din then moves himself between your legs, slowly working kisses down your body as he slides back onto his knees on the floor. He grabs your waist and pulls you to the edge of the bed with ease and starts nipping and kissing your inner thighs. Your hands wind back into his hair, while you lie in disbelief that this is really happening right now.

Gentle kisses are placed along your folds, Din moving back as you try to grind your hips down onto him. His eyes catch yours again, mouth hovering over your clit as he speaks. “I’m going to taste you until you cum on my face and then I’m going to fuck you, okay?”

This time you manage a response, frantic to let him know that’s exactly what you want. “Yes, please, I want you so badly, Din.”

It’s all he needs to hear. His mouth comes down on your clit, carefully playing with the bundle of nerves, making you cry out and clench around nothing. He pulls away slightly and then licks a long stripe from bottom to top, pausing again at your clit to give it a teasing suck. Your hands pull at his hair from the attention.

He moves back down, teasing your entrance with his mouth. He moans, lapping up your pussy, acting every part a man dying of thirst who’s found oasis at your core. You buck into him and his hands quickly wrap around your legs, holding your hips in place. Din wants to pleasure you, but on his own terms, at his own speed.

You can’t make a coherent thought as he continues to eat you out. Small snippets of words make their way out of you, none of them making any real sense in conjunction with one another. It’s not until his thumb finds your clit as he continues to lick, suck, and nip at you that you find complete words to shout. “Din, oh god, yes, right there, I’m so close...”

Moments later you feel the tension within you snap, crying out as your body shakes from the overwhelming pleasure. Din continues to work you through your orgasm, only stopping when you physically push his head away from you. He trails hot kisses along your inner thighs again, telling you how beautiful you are, how good you taste, how perfect your pussy is.

As you come down from your high, Din removes the last of his clothes, finally freeing his stiff erection. Your breath catches as you take him in, your Adonis in the flesh. He’s gorgeous, you think, wondering what you did to get so lucky.

Then he’s back over top of you, kissing and sucking at your skin. Some of those are bound to leave marks for tomorrow but you don’t mind. You want everyone to see, for everyone to know that you’re his. No more mistaken assumptions about your relationship, you want it on display for the world.

You look down to catch a better glimpse of his cock, satiating the curiosity that’s plagued you for so long. He’s big. More than enough to fill you, possibly even more than you can handle. As wet as you are, you know you’ll need him to go slow, to slowly stretch you out before he can truly fuck you.

You tilt your hips, bumping against him, letting him know that you want him. “Do you want my fingers first?” Din asks. You know you should say yes, but you can’t imagine another moment without knowing what he feels like inside of you.

“No,” you tell him. “Just go slow.”

Din places a quick searing kiss against your lips and positions himself. The head of his cock presses against your slick entrance and you feel like you’re already seeing stars. Din is muttering in your ear, holding you tightly against him as he pushes into you.

“Fuck, you feel so good sweetheart. So tight and wet for me. I can’t wait to fill you up, to feel every inch of your sweet pussy.”

You nearly forget to breath as he slowly pushes in further. You can feel every inch of him and you only want more. Din’s stream of compliments are interrupted when he finally bottoms out in you, holding himself still as your walls clench and stretch around him. “Fuck, sweetheart.”

You turn your head and pull him into a blazing kiss, loving the way he feels filling you up. You wonder how you were ever satisfied with your fingers before when this had been next to you for so long. Din is apparently thinking along the same lines, whispering to you, “I’d have done this long ago if I knew you felt this good.”

You don’t even have time to consider the words as he slowly begins to move in you. The pleasure borders on agonizing as you begin to move your hips, encouraging him to move faster. Din responds quickly to your urging, setting a furious pace as he begins to lose all control. You know you’ll still be feeling him tomorrow and the thought makes you smile. You never want to go another day without a reminder of how he feels.

His thumb returns to your clit and you don’t have time to warn him before you’re thrown into another orgasm. Your walls clench around him and you lose yourself in the feeling of cumming on his cock. Din quickly follows, pulling out of you just in time to paint your stomach with ropes of his spend. You mourn the loss of him, but once Din finishes he buries himself back inside of you, causing another shock of pleasure to zing through your body.

Din rolls the both of you over, keeping himself sheathed in you, and allowing you to collapse on top of him. You’re both sweaty and panting, trying to come up with words. Din’s fingers lightly trace along your back, causing goosebumps to erupt across your flesh. You lift your head up from his chest in order to look at his face.

He’s completely debauched, sweat causing hair to cling to his forehead, the rest completely wild from your hands. His eyes are still blown wide, happily looking back at you. His lips are pink and swollen from all the kisses and licks he’s pressed into your skin. You know you can’t look much better than him.

You give a small clench around him and smile at the expression that runs across Din’s face. “I love the way you fill me,” you tell him. Din presses a loving kiss against your sweaty forehead.

“I never want to leave this perfect pussy of yours.” You can tell he means it too. If he could, he would stay buried in you forever. You love the way that sounds. His eyes flutter closed, reveling in the feeling of having you surround him.

“Din,” you say.

His eyes pop back open and refocus on you. “Yeah, sweetheart?”

A smile blooms across your face. “Nothing, I just wanted to say it. Din. It suits you.”

His name suits him in a different way than Mando does. Mando is the rough exterior, the front he puts up to the world. The one who punches men in bars for touching you and calling you pet names. The one that strikes fear into others, knowing that if he’s hot on their trail that they’re screwed. Din is the soft inside, the place where all of his ‘sweethearts’ originate, the cause for the hand holding and sparkling smiles. The man behind the armor that he presents to the world, the one who kisses and fills you up just right.

Din’s arms wrap around you tightly, clearly intent on never letting you go. You’re fine with that, letting it sink in that you’re finally laying in bed with the man who’s consumed your thoughts for months. A small, joyous giggle escapes you.

“What’s so funny?” Din asks.

“I thought you were going to leave me earlier. Now here I am, laying on top of you with your cock still inside of me.”

Din chuckles and you can feel it rumble in his chest. “I’m never letting you go sweetheart, no matter how much you piss me off.”

You fold your arms across his chest, letting your chin rest on your hands. “I am sorry. I just wanted you to notice me. I felt like you were treating me like a child,” you confess.

Din’s eyes widen a bit at your admission. “I always notice you, mesh’la. I never meant to treat you that way. I only want to keep you safe.”

“I know that now. Honestly, I feel so silly about it all.” He reaches up and pushes a strand of hair back from your face.

“Next time, I’ll take you in with me. I’ll show everyone that you’re mine.” He grinds his hips up into you to prove his point. It makes you squeal, causing a smirk to settle on Din’s lips. You give his cheek a small flick in retaliation but make no attempt to move.

You lay there for a little while longer, laying your head back down against Din’s chest, listening to his steady heartbeat beneath you. His hands trace anywhere he can touch on you, intoxicated by having you so close against him. Eventually though, you feel the call to use the bathroom and can no longer ignore it.

Din is almost painful sliding out of you, but you’re more upset about the loss of having him buried in you. Your legs are shaky as you stand, managing to make it to the bathroom on wobbly knees. You take a moment to clean yourself up, running a damp cloth across your body. Exhaustion hits as you return to bed, crawling under the covers and into Din’s arms.

You begin to drift off when Din asks, “Why’d you get a single? Not that I’m complaining.”

“All they had left. Maybe it was a sign,” you mumble back.

Din chuckles and presses a kiss against your head. “Yeah, maybe, sweetheart.”

#din djarin x reader #din djarin x female reader #modern!au #modern!din #din djarin fic #pedro pascal x reader #din djarin x you #the mandalorian fanfiction #mandocrasis fic

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himbowashington · 3 years

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Please, Daddy?

NSFW: Smut Loki x Mobius

It begins quite innocuously, things had been tense between them for a while but something was different about this time they could both feel it, settled into their bones.

Mobius dealt with the feeling by knocking his walking pace up a notch or two forcing Loki, despite being the taller of the two, to struggle behind him. He exhaled deeply trying to clear his mind focus on the variant. Don’t get distracted.

“Slow down!” Loki calls forcing Mobius to face him by stopping his stride. Just as Mobius is about to turn to start walking again, Loki pushes him running for the elevator door which is trying to close. Mobius thinks many things, the chief one of them being, that bastard.

Another thing he notices is that Mobius is faster than he looks, and stronger too, Loki thinks as he hears the older man barreling behind him. He throws himself foward in a way that seems almost reckless even to Loki.

And then everything stops.

He feels rather than sees Mobius slam into his trying to restrain his hands behind his back, pressed up against the wall. There is a quiet struggle between them before Mobius gains the upper hand pushing in hard up against the wall, angry with him, Loki realizes. The feeling is exhilarating.

Maybe it was frustration, or rage, or exhaustion or a mixture of three but regardless something in Mobius, made him lean foward his mouth close to Loki’s ear as he stilly firmly presses the other man to the wall. “Gotcha.” He says simply.

“What’re going to do to me?” he asks in a probing voice. Mobius noticed, but brushes it off as Loki trying to be his typical theatrical self.

“What’re you doing to me?” Mobius retorts roughly shaking the younger man a bit to try and shake him out of it.

The door dings closed.

Loki gasps.

Mobius’ mind reels trying to process the two events. Mobius is angry and overwhelmed with the feeling of betrayal, full of rage. He pushes Loki harder, almost too hard, back against the wall. “You like that?” he taunts, voice lower than loki had ever heard it, gruff, strained.

Loki makes a noise deep in his throat, a whine. “Please, Daddy.”

It’s Mobius’s turn to gasp. He leans his forehead against loki’s shoulder blade “What’d you say?” Mobius says in a startling clear voice. Loki panics. He must have miscalculated somewhere.

Loki starts to collapse in on himself, face beet red in embarrassment. Fuck Fuck Fuck, how to get himself out of this one? He goes for the traditional walk back approach. “This is a mindgame isn’t it, leyfeyson? You think you can move me around like your little puppet but i’m not your dog!” he says in a somehow angrier voice than his earlier one. Loki closes his eyes. “S’ not a game.”Loki says quietly. “ I don’t trust you.”

“You don’t have to.” he replies giving the agent pause. “why?” he says, and loki can’t help but smile, mobius’s curiosity was one of loki’s favorite things about him. “Let me turn around, I’ll show you.” “I’ll kill you if you try anything. i mean it.” Mobius threatens. The agent turns slightly before slamming on the red emergency stop button on the elevator, the cart abruptly stopping and a faint red lighting replacing the LEDS turn on. Loki wants to see the older mans face cast in that red light, study it like a dutch oil painting, but instead he waits. “Not having you get away this time. If you try to fuck me over again.” Mobius says in tired explaination, then begins to step back a pace or so to free Loki slightly from his grip. “Alright, show me.”

loki considers all the ways this could go wrong before deciding to as always do it anyway.

He shifts to facing Mobius, and Mobius scans over him quickly, looking for clues like he was trained. His eyes reach Loki’s pants and then he does a slight double take. Loki’s pants look painfully tight and strained on him, tenting up in a way that left nothing to the imagination. Mobius entire jaw goes stiff for a second, the bone perturbing. He is silent for a moment. “This is a trick.” he says finally, because it feels like one in the same way that people don’t leave there brand new cadillacs running with the keys in them because that’s a trick, it’s a set up, plain and easy.

“No tricks, Ive got my collar on, remember?” Loki retorts and Mobius blinks, because it’s true.

Then the world feels like it’s shifting off its axis for the too of them staring back at one another. “Loki-“ Mobius starts in a pleading voice, a desperate one, Loki thinks as a chills runs up his spine.

“You are handsome. You shouldn’t sell yourself short, you know.” Loki adds suddenly making Mobius freeze.

“The grumpy silver fox thing works for you.” he says and the elder scoffs.

He turns back to face Loki, his eyes getting darker and shaded by the moment.

He takes a step closer. There foreheads almost touch.

“Say it again.” Mobius says breathless.

“Say what?” he asks coyly, reaching up to snake his hands through Mobius’s short grey hair.

“You know what!” Mobius replies quietly, equally parts frustrated and embarrassed by his own addition.

Loki reaches out to pull at his tie, yanking the older man forward.

he leans forward and kisses the other in way that could only be described as lewd before pulling away, panting slightly, the god of mischief smiling back at him with swollen lips and a blush on his cheeks.

“Daddy, please.”

The statement stops the other man’s brain for a moment, short circuiting.

Mobius knows what he’s doing, where normal human life spans were a hundred years at best, Mobius had been around for thousands, and he really had been around, learned all the tricks of the trade, studying them with the same intensity with which he studying every detail about Loki.

He moves foward quickly shucking off parts of Loki’s jumpsuit easily. Loki reaches foward and starts to clumsily undo the other man’s dress shirt. Mobius laughs, in a breathless, panting sort of way that drives Loki insane before collecting both hands in his own to kiss them softly. Loki spreads his fingers out flexing, before tentatively popping one in the older man’s mouth. He sucks on loki’s finger for moment before letting go with a wet pop, still holding the hand in question. “Mobius.” he moans and the older man turns to him gaze sharpened to watch him squirm.

“What is it, baby?” he asks softly, gently, in his comforting voice like it’s the most natural thing in the world for him. He presses kisses to Loki’s palm and forearm. “what, my kitten?” he absolutely purrs, and Loki stops breathing. “If you don’t fuck me right now, I’m going to come standing right here like this.” he says all at once words flowing into to one another. Mobius groans pressing his face into Loki’s neck before dragging his teeth against the soft expanse of skin there.

“Please, Please, No ones coming. There’s no next stop, you pressed the button it’s just us.” he reasons frantically, and that when he hears it for the first time. It takes him a moment to realize what the sound is and even longer to realize it was coming from Mobius, a low growl, deep, vibrating his whole chest cavity in a way that reverberated off Loki’s.

“I shouldn’t.” he says in a voice the sound unconvinced even to himself

Loki shrugs his shoulders rolling his eyes and then drops to his knees.

Mobius takes a pace back, blinking rapidly. “Oh Jesus Christ.” he lets out as he realizes what’s happening. He feels a hand slide up his torso but does nothing to push it away, it settles at his belt buckle, “Fuck,” he lets out as he feels a finger dip between the waistline of his pants to touch skin underneath. “Loki-Loki- you don’t- you don’t have to do this if -“ Mobius pauses, out of breath, his statement strikes him as ridiculous. Without breaking eye contact with him Loki nuzzles forward ever so gently before mouthing wetly over the crotch of the older man’s freshly pressed slacks. Mobius throws his head back so hard, there’s a slight noise made when it connects to the wall behind him. “Jesus christ,” he pants, “Look at me.” Loki commands and Mobius snaps his head back to face Loki, Loki whose mouthing at his dick, Loki, that’s going to blow him. Mobius groans looking away again. It’s too much. “Be a good boy, do what I say. Look at me.” The world now is spinning at even faster dizzying pace, in circles. All Mobius can do is obey. He looks down and Loki does the unthinkable, he looks up at him with green doe eyes, nuzzling the throbbing dick of the man in front of him, and then extends his arm up again dragging it across Mobius’ torso without breaking eye contact. Mobius latches onto the arm like a lifeline. Both breathing hard, the air of the elevator humid and thick. Mobius rests his arms out against the side railing of the elevator. Maybe there is a heaven he thinks for a few moments as he watches a literal god unzip his pants with shaky hands. He must had done something right was the second thought and then he felt Loki reaching down his boxers and begin to jerk him off and he thought nothing but of Loki and blinding hot pleasure. He bucked as he felt the wet mouth accommodate him, licking up the slides, Loki’s mouth was warm, and he instinctively moved a hand to cradle Loki’s face delicately like glass.

“Perhaps another prince” Slvie had said. She was right. Mobius was so gentle and mannerly with him, almost courtly galant, a prince he should be, Loki thought as Mobius very lightly started to shift his hips into the others face, keeping his hand around the jaw that expanded around his cock. Mobius groaned at the thought if it. His cock in loki’s mouth. Loki stared up at him at him in a way that made him feel like he were the only person in the world. “Don’t you need to stop and breathe for a second or something?” he asks ever concerned about loki’s condition at all times.

Loki answers this by speeding up causing Mobius to hiss reaching with both hands to tangle in Loki’s hair. He pulls and scratches at the scalp appreciatively, almost petting him at times. Loki moans around him and suddenly Mobius’ ears were ringing.

Mobius is properly fucking into his mouth now as he’s figured out that the pleasure Loki gets is far worth the danger to him. Loki wants to be loved, to be claimed, Mobius knew that from studying him, the stories of a second best prince and outcast, craving connection. So he had decided to claim him, to let himself fall into the moment. So he did, digging a hand into Loki’s hair with one arm and cradling the face with the other. “Good boy. Good boy.” he repeats thoroughly debatched and desperate. “Fuck, you’re such a fucking good boy aren’t you? Even though you play words games youre thinking about your lips wrapped around my cock, is that what you like? To be my good boy? To suck my cock, baby?“ Mobius’s voiced is more high pitch now, whiney almost. He groans as he feels Loki slow, and eventually let off with another lewd pop. Mobius panted. His eyes never leaving Loki’s as he watches the man kiss the way back up his chest, “Yes, Daddy.” He said in his ear before turning them around to use the pressure of Loki’s back against the wall to ride him. As Mobius turns to realize what he means for them to do two things happen, one Mobius hauls Loki’s tight little doll body up slightly to line himself up with the younger man’s entrance and the thought that there most definitely was a heaven. He pauses a moment looking into the others face, cast in the red light, concerned, careful of him, “Are you sure?” he breathes out and Loki starts to settle him self lower onto Mobius in response. they both gasp when Loki bottoms out, Mobius growls again shaking both of their chest the vibration comforting to Loki. “I’m gonna fuck your brains out, Leyfeyson, think you can handle that?”he asks gruff. “I’m gonna fuck you so good your legs shake for a week and you’ll be sure I introduced myself as daddy and didn’t give you any other names. All you’ll be able to think is Daddy please,” Loki gasps grasping desperately at Mobius’ head. “The fucking mouth on you, christ, I wished have done this sooner.” Loki says, nose to nose with Mobius as he pounding into the other. Mobius takes advantage of the situation by reaching down a giving a heavy stroke to Loki’s leaking dick. Loki moans, head back, where Mobius places kisses and bites, making him squirm even more, pulling at him. “You’re beautiful. You’re beautiful god you’re so fucking tight you’re such a good boy.” He rambles in Loki’s ear. “Daddy please, Daddy please fuck me harder, fuck me harder- yeah like that just- fuck keep going-“ Loki rambled back, reacting to Mobius switching speeds, pumping the others cock deftly driving him wild. Mobius fucks up into Loki as obediently as in any other task, with a tireless dedication and a chase of pleasure, his mouth is slack open, they’re both close, panting bodies slick with sweat. “make me belong to you.” Loki says brokenly and mobius hips stutter he shifts so that he can go deeper into loki getting lost in where one body began and the next ended “Come on fuck me like you mean it.” Loki teases but secretly still hopes for a reaction out out of the older man, which he gets, Mobius starts snapping his hips in a way that must have taken at least a millennia to perfect. “I mean it” he says licking a stripe down Loki’s neck whining. “I fucking love you - I love you.” Loki gripped at the nape of the other man’s neck. “Say it again, please -“ I love you i love- i love you fucking love you - Christ.” Loki came and when he did He kept riding mobius, “i’m yours make me yours, daddy” Mobius came with a cry tensing for a moment.

and so it all really went back to that phrase, the way he’d moan the word out, almost purring like a cat “Please, Daddy?” And how could mobius ever deny him with such a pretty face like loki’s, humans were meant to worship gods, It was natural, Mobius thought as he looked at Loki’s face, peaceful, relaxed.

#my post #loki x mobius #mobius #agent mobius #loki series #loki series fic #wowki #lokius #loki show #mcu loki #loki laufeyson

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guiltysecretpasttime · 3 years

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Linzin Week 2021: Day 3 - Stargazing (part 2)

WIP Pre-Canon AU Lin x Tenzin Rating: Eventual M To the Linzin week 2021 organizers: Is it fine to post a WIP - a serialized contribution? Will post it in AO3 as well once completed ✌🏽 Read part 1 here.

Republic City, a couple of months ago

After another one of their shouting matches, Tenzin gripped the edges of the dining table tightly. Lin, at the other side, stood up as well, breathing heavily.

Their arguments were becoming more frequent in the past few weeks. It started with small things in the household and soon escalated to the more Serious Stuff.

To be honest, Tenzin was no longer quite sure what their argument tonight started with. He watched warily the earthbending drinking water in front of him. Whatever they started with, tonight’s fight ended with both accusing the other of not being as committed to their relationship as the other.

Lin put down her glass of water. “We can’t resolve this in one night, can we?” There was resignation on her expression.

Tenzin ran a hand on his face. “No, we can’t.”

“What do we do now?” Lin toyed with the fringes of the tablecloth that his mother had gifted them with as a housewarming present. When they had informed their parents that they will move in together at this quaint apartment at the edge of Republic City, Katara was excited to hear that they were taking their relationship seriously and had immediately turned to sewing them something for the house. “We can’t continue like this.”

He let go of the table, moving backwards to lean on the counter behind him. Tenzin felt tired suddenly. It was as if all the stress from the past weeks dropped on his shoulders.

His father has started to unload more responsibility of the Air Nation to him. Lin, meanwhile, had been promoted recently. Not to mention, the city council had been hounding him to convince his mother to allow a statue to be erected in her honor. Katara hated that.

“Maybe we should -.”

“You’re right.” He interrupted, causing Lin to look up at him. “We can’t go on like this. I agree - we should break up.”

“Break up?” Lin was taken aback. “What are you – that wasn’t what I -.”

Tenzin backpedaled. “That wasn’t what you were going to suggest?”

“No!” Lin worked her mouth, opening and closing. She was at a loss for words. She decided to sit down. “I was going to say take a break, get back to it later, just not…” She gestured her hands to the food on the table. “Now. Let’s have dinner first.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “But, Tenzin, really, be honest – is that what you think? How long have you been thinking… Do you think we should break up?”

---

Lin worried her lip between her teeth, forcing herself to control her feelings as Tenzin, after saying a few choice words, left the house to cool off.

She wanted to swipe her arm on the different dishes on the table. The night started so innocuous; she had gotten home early to prepare a special dinner for them.

Somehow, it had gone sideways quickly. All their previous arguments were unearthed and until they ended up with a mutual agreement. One that, she hoped, would not bite them in the ass.

It was a shame to let the food go to waste.

Even if her appetite had all but vanished, Lin was not one to throw food away. She piled a little bit of everything on her plate and poured herself a glass of wine. She carried the plate and glass outside to their small balcony. She started eating, balancing the plate and glass on the railing, and was drawn to the stars that were visible from their balcony.

Admittedly, it was one of the things that attracted Tenzin and her to renting out this apartment. It was far enough for their privacy, near enough to be accessible to their workplaces and high enough that the city’s artificial light does not obscure the view of the nighttime sky.

The earthbender chewed her food contemplatively. It would be shame to move out, wouldn’t it?

---

City hall

“Good afternoon, Captain! Councilman Tenzin is in his office right now.” Tenzin heard his assistant from the other side before his office doors burst open.

Enter Captain Beifong of RCPD, who strode purposefully in, stopping only when she was right in front of his desk. The doors swung shut behind her.

“Tenzin!” She leaned on the desk and Tenzin could see the vein on her forehead.

“Good afternoon to you too, Captain Beifong.” He played dumb to prolong the inevitable.

“You know why I’m here.” Lin rolled her eyes. “Would you care to tell me why did I just have lunch with your parents and that they, oh, that they were booking a room for the two for us in the next family getaway?”

“Listen Lin – .”

“No, you listen. Why didn’t you tell them we’re done? That we’ve broken up?”

“I can’t, okay? They’re both so pleased for us. I’m looking for a good timing.”

Lin scoffed. “Is there ever a good timing to break up?”

“Well.” Tenzin scratched his beard.

“Don’t – answer that!”

“And I can’t disappoint Dad right now.”

“Of course, that’s the reason. After all that’s exactly why we -.” Lin cleared her throat and Tenzin could see how she visibly tried to control herself. “Well, alright then. As long as we’re on the same page.”

---

Neither one had gone public about it, but it was fairly obvious at their respective workplaces.

Interestingly, no one dared ask about it. It was probably because there were more infinitely important issues that took residence on the news headlines. The Triads were acting up and the construction of the Southern Water Tribe cultural center had finally started. There was also something about Fire Nation colonies in the Earth Kingdom that newly crowned Queen Houting was declaring Earth Kingdom subjects.

The city was preoccupied with other things, his parents were away, and her mother has relinquished her position in both the metalbending academy and the police department.

She had to hand it to Tenzin, now that Lin thought about it – it was a good time to break up.

---

They were practical.

They were responsible.

They were the smart ones.

And yet, Tenzin questioned if they were really intelligent – given their decisions as of late.

He lightly fingered the small bright yellow piece of paper that Lin left on their corkboard. It had been their practice to leave notes as needed; sometimes to leave sweet messages or to let the other know where they would be during the day.

The airbender crumpled the paper in his palm.

Now that they have broken up, the corkboard mainly contained reminders for their bills, a grocery list or a chore schedule.

Tenzin snorted.

Yes, they were real smart, deciding to continue sharing a living space with their ex.

Close quarters, close contact – heck, even one bed (“Not gonna matter, airhead, we’re barely home at the same time anyway.”).

He had been revisiting their decision in the past months.

He started to see the little things that he had taken for granted.

And, what he initially thought was a sense of relief was starting to taste like regret.

Meanwhile, Lin, as he saw it was quite able to adjust to their living arrangements.

She was more subdued at home the earlier part of their break-up. But, resilient as she is, she started to go back to normal.

He kicked off his sandals and padded towards the balcony.

Which building, he wondered at the blinking lights, was she in now?

What was she doing right now?

Or who – his mind added nastily.

The crumpled note in his hand said: “Roommate – I’ll be out late. Don’t wait up.”

Roommate. He almost sneered. That’s what they’ve been reduced to.

TBC

#linzin #linzin fanfic #toccatina wip #linzin2021r18 #lin beifong x tenzin

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leo-interactive-fiction · 3 years

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Maybe a cliche, but let's say someone cloned MC and made them evil, and they're fighting and get mixed up, so it's not possible to tell the difference between Evil Mc and MC. RO has one bullet. What happens? (haha bet we can guess R and Ra's)

Haha, let’s see...

E: They call for immediate silence, “Only the true MC knows the answer to this question! Where did we have our first kiss?” “In Hearth?” “We kissed?” E stands triumphantly, “That’s right! I haven’t kissed you yet!” You watch as the imposter is apprehended, though the means left a hole in your heart where you may as well have been shot.

R: You watch them point the gun and fire, the imposter quickly collapsing beside you. “How’d you know?” “Hm? Oh, I guessed.” “You what?!” R waves it away, “It was a 50-50 chance!” “I could’ve died.” “Well, you didn’t. Thanks for the gratitude.”

L: They take a silent moment to contemplate a solution before returning, “Would you be available to take a blood sample?” “What? We’re in the middle of a life or death battle here.” L crosses their arms, “Should I take your refusal as an admission of guilt?” The other MC shakes their head, “Actually, I’m with them. I hate needles.” “Hey, same.” “I-Is that so,” L watches confoundedly as the two of you come to a somewhat mutual agreement, and you find you’re not so different after all.

V: They load the single bullet, dashing to the side and lining both of your heads in the shot. “My commander will dodge.” You’re hit with collateral loose blood spatter as the bullet whizzes past your head. You quickly wipe your face clean. “How’d that not hit me.” V raises the smoking barrel, “I shot the one who tried to run away.” “You didn’t think I’d try to run?” “No, but your reaction time is bad.” “Ah,” you feel a subtle sting in your heart and for a moment you think V had another bullet stored away.

P: They grow rapidly annoyed, “Great, there’s two of them. I’ll just beat the fuck out of both of you.” “Hey, aren’t you supposed to be on my side?!” “Right? Who’s side are you on?” P waves the gun, “I’m on my own side! Now shut the hell up before I fucking murder you both.” “You wouldn’t shoot--” The imposter’s words are cut short by a bullet passing straight through their mouth. You do a double-take. “How did you--” “You’re a fucking dumbass, but even you wouldn’t be stupid enough to think I wouldn’t shoot you if I had the chance.”

M: They fold their arms, “Hmm...You could...take your...clothes off...” Both of you look at each other before turning to M. “What?” “Why would we do that?” M expresses an innocuous confusion, “What...? Aren’t you...curious how...accurate...this cloning process...is...?” “You’re just looking for a peep show, aren’t you?” “At a time like this...” M gives a thwarted huff, “Fine...then...you...” She shoots the imposter square in the chest, a look of shock spreading across their face. “What...?” “You looked... eviler...” M explains nonchalantly as the imposter collapses from their wounds.

Ra: A ghostly smile spreads across their face as they toss the gun aside and retrieve their knife, “Of course I’d know! I’ll always be able to tell...” They rapidly approach you with a drawn edge, a look of murder darkening in their eyes. The razor-sharp metal avoids your neck by a hair’s breadth before Raven turns it around and throws it at the imposter, catching them in the eye. Raven turns to you with a contented smile, “It’s always good to catch them by surprise!”

S: They scratch the back of their head uneasily, “Ehhh, so...Which one of ya is the real one?” You both point to each other. “I am.” “It’s me.” “Well it can’t be both of ya!” S fumes in thought, “What’f’I just...shoot one of ya in the leg or somethin’?” “What is that gunna do?!” “Hell if I know!” S responds exasperatedly, “I wasn’t really plannin’ on seein’ double today! Ya think shit’s just gunna fall from the sky an’ tell me which one’a ya to blast?!” The other MC turns to you, “What exactly do you see in--” “I don’t know either.”

F: They lean back, spectating both of you with a conniving smile, “Well, don’t let me stop you. Good or evil will matter little when only one of you is left alive. Consider this a kind of...culling process. I look forward to seeing which one of you holds more worth.” “I hate you.” The other MC nods, “I’m starting to hate them too.” You both turn to F, a dark intention across your faces. The royal gives a venomous smile before shooting the imposter and tossing the emptied weapon away like spoiled fruit. “You’re an easy one to goad, Mutt. What providence that a clone be made with the same simple mind. Consider yourself grateful.”

Thank ya for the ask!

#triaina academy #romance options

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aceofspadegrass · 3 years

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Hair Day

Characters: Niragi Suguru, Chishiya Shuntaro, Hatter, Last Boss

Genre: Crack. Niragi stole Chishiya's hair.

1.7k words

I did it. I have made a fic based on the cursed Niragi pic. It's.... very chaotic, @niragis-right-hand-rabbit.

Do I know how hair works? Barely, but hey, it's gotta work somehow.

Also look, I did it. Yes I had to slap normal bean on top of cat bean but I tried. A real shame the strand is on the wrong side though I forgot to edit it out and it's too late for me to put it on the correct side.

Oh yeah, and there's a little hint of sleep drugging. Just a tad.

Niragi stares at the empty container with pure disdain in his eyes, hair loose after a couple of days without his beloved hair gel. Sure, it’s left his hair decently soft enough and nobody has really noticed the distinct lack of shine when he pulls his hair up every morning, but he missed the smell and feel.

He runs his hand through his hair, still a little knotted after he slept, but nothing a brush couldn’t handle. Niragi squints at himself in the mirror, his hair falling in front of his face and framing it in a way that reminded Niragi of a certain someone. He tries to tuck one side out of the way, but it falls back inevitably like a stubborn thorn in his cheek. Pausing, Niragi stares at himself in the mirror, thinking to himself as he leaned closer before he got a rather ridiculous idea.

Standing up proud and straight, he ties it back as he always did, making sure to brush extra well so no hairs would fall out of his bun, even sliding a few pins in the back to properly secure it. With a pleased grin, he leaves the bathroom and grabs his rifle from where he left it on the bed, positioning it over his shoulder and heading out for the day for a quick patrol.

The hallways themselves were fairly empty, with the only real instances of noises being from within a few rooms, but Niragi didn’t bother to check inside every single one. He makes it down to the stairs and heads down with a whistle, flashing a smirk at a pair of women who were chatting in the stairwell. The girls stepped out of his way as he made his way down, their conversation halting until Niragi was at the bottom, their whispers rampant and echoing from above.

Niragi walks around until he makes it to the cafeteria, people already grabbing and eating breakfast. He doesn’t bother with sitting by any of the residing militants however today, his mind on something else. He instead grabs a bottle of strawberry milk from the fridge and some rice balls that one of the current kitchen workers handed him before rushing out with a sort of excited fire in his eyes.

Niragi slips into the medical bay whilst cramming a rice ball into his mouth, ignoring the nurse on duty as he goes towards the medicine cabinet. Sliding it open, he pushes aside bottles until he finds what he was looking for, shoving it into his pocket and running out, nearly knocking over the same nurse without so much as an apology.

Niragi shoves yet another rice ball into his mouth as he walked back to his room, pill bottle and milk in one hand and rice balls in the other. He sets the bottles down on the nightstand and takes a brief break to finish breakfast before starting on his silly little switcheroo mission.

Niragi quietly hums to himself as he makes his way to Chishiya’s room, hoping the man was still in there. If he wasn’t, Niragi would just hunt him down anyways and drag him back in here whether the fried egg wanted to or not. Opening the door, he peeks inside.

Bingo.

Chishiya was sitting at his desk, with the only sounds being the scratching of pencil on paper. Niragi slips inside and shuts the door, coming over to the desk and setting the perfectly innocuous bottle of milk on the corner of Chishiya’s desk. The man barely even acknowledges him, Niragi staring at Chishiya in silence. One glance to the paper only showed Chishiya drawing a bunch of squares in a distorted array, with exactly one circle inside in red pen. “ What the fuck is that.”

“ Why are you in my room.”

“ Why do you care, hm?”

Chishiya slowly turns his head and shoulders to look up at Niragi blankly, and Niragi really wanted to just say fuck it with the drink and choke the little bitch until he was unconscious by his own hands.

“ ….. Do you need something?”

“ Yeah. Drink this.” Niragi taps the cap to the milk, Chishiya not even taking a single glance.

“ And if I don’t?” Chishiya blinks, cracking a lazy smirk. Niragi leans down and turns Chishiya’s whole body around until their noses and legs were nearly touching, Niragi licking the top of his lip as he grins.

“ Then I’m gonna make you drink it by force. So how about you use your brain and figure it out.” Niragi responds, Chishiya staring directly into his eyes without so much as a flinch. Chishiya clicks his tongue and flicks Niragi’s forehead, Niragi recoiling as Chishiya takes the bottle and inspects it, letting a small puff of air through his nose.

“ Strawberry, how quaint.” Chishiya twists the cap, the safety lock cracking without an issue. Chishiya looks back up at Niragi, who was watching him now with a blank expression, and toasts to nothing before turning back around in his chair and taking slow ample sips. Niragi backs away and heads into Chishiya’s connected bathroom, digging through his cabinets as he hears a soft thunk noise from the main room. Niragi preens internally with his plan working as he pulls a box out from the cabinet and sets them on the sink bench, along with a second box that he was hiding behind his back. Sure, it was now warm because of Niragi, but he didn’t think it would affect anything.

The local blackberry heads out and comes over to the table, Chishiya slumped over the desk unconscious. Never the wiser really, Niragi hoisting him out from the chair with not too much trouble as he drags him into the bathroom. Niragi leaves him in the bathtub and stares at his prone form for three whole seconds maximum before going back to rummage through Chishiya’s bathroom cabinets.

He finds a sizable plastic bag rolled up under the sink, as well as scissors and gloves, Niragi pleased that Chishiya kept them in reach so he didn’t have to go anywhere else.

Turning to the unconscious cat, Niragi’s grin grows wider as he approached with the bag.

The man dutifully makes sure to leave the surfaces decently cleaned despite no real reason to do so, his hair covered in aluminum foils and plastic wrap. Chishiya remained completely and utterly unconscious in the bathroom, a plain plastic bag tied over his hair as the dye set in.

Niragi didn’t feel like staying around, itching to go take his shower and tone his hair as soon as he could. He slips out of the room without a sound and makes his way down the hall to his own room, not caring who saw him. The path was thankfully empty the entire way, Niragi ducking in and heading to the showers.

By the time he got out, put toner, waited got back in to finish, and got back out again, Niragi could tell Chishiya was probably going to find him sometimes soon. He’d be ready of course, Niragi quietly humming as he checked his hair in the mirror before leaving.

He passes by a few of the other militants, who stare at him in confusion. Niragi glances over at them and sticks his tongue out with a proud smile, striding past them before they could even get a word in, back on his mission to Chishiya’s room.

That is, until Last Boss approached him from buttfuck nowhere and dragged his now blond ass to the meeting room.

“ Hey what’s the rush?!”

Last Boss doesn’t bother with a response as he pushes the doors open, Hatter standing there as Chishiya slowly turns to Niragi with eyes of murder. Hatter, who apparently was dragged into this at some point, claps his hands together. “ Oh, I see now! Well then, if I may be so inclined to ask: What in the bright fuck is this.”

Niragi just runs his fingers through his hair, which he managed to style somewhat close to Chishiya’s normal hairstyle. “ I stole Chishiya’s hair because I ran out of hair gel.”

Hatter slowly nods, and Chishiya continued to stare directly at Niragi. Last Boss had dipped out completely the moment he completed his mission. Hatter turns to Chishiya, and brushes a finger through the shortcake’s newly blackened hair. “ And this?”

“ I stole Chishiya’s hair.” Niragi repeats. It wasn’t that hard to understand, really.

“…. I see. Well then, it certainly is something! If you had just told me I may have been willing to help, but the job here is rather phenomenal.” Hatter muses, then looks back to Niragi. “ Do you have a tie?”

Chishiya was already trying to move away when he knew something was up, but Niragi and Hatter were faster as Niragi tosses him a hairband, Hatter grabbing Chishiya’s shoulders and forcing him still, his other hand reaching up and brushing Chishiya’s hair back. Chishiya continues to look directly at a now grinning Niragi as Hatter tied Chishiya’s upper hair into a bun, and then patting said bun once he finished.

“ There you go you! You look…. better, in a way!” Hatter chirps

“ So! Chishiya, what where you doing with him, huh? Were you trying to complain to the manager?”

“ Don’t word it like that. And no, I was merely talking to him when he mentioned my apparently sudden hair change. So, Niragi, how did you do it.”

Niragi slowly rolls his head to the other side, repositioning his weight onto the other leg. “ Do… what.”

“ You slipped something into that milk, didn’t you.”

Niragi scoffs, rolling his eyes. “ Course I did.”

“ Yet the bottle was unopened.”

“ I’m not stupid, stupid. I have thoughts. I can problem solve.”

“ Sometimes.”

“ Oi, you take that back!”

Hatter chuckles, and puts a hand on Chishiya’s shoulder, pushing him forward until he reaches Niragi. Putting a hand on his shoulder as well, he pushes the both of them out of the meeting room. “ Ladies, ladies, no fighting~ If you need to, take it outside, maybe have a good martini or whatever. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to mentally process this look. Okay byyyyye!” Hatter shuts the door on the both of them, Niragi and Chishiya continuing to stare at each other.

“ You give me my hair back or else.” Chishiya whispers.

“ Or else…. what.” Niragi leans forwards, smirking. Chishiya just smirks back, eyes narrowing. “ You’ll see.”

#aib #alice in borderland #aib fanfic #alice in borderland fanfic #niragi suguru #chishiya shuntaro #hatter #takeru danma #last boss #takatora samura #ah yes fresh chaos #niragi really took one look in the mirror and decide to steal a man's hairstyle good golly #in case anyone is wondering niragi inserted sleeping drug through a syringe and poked a tiny hole into the milk #last boss just so happened to oversee chishiya talking to hatter and thought niragi would want to see it #niragi really went all out #i like watching them bully each other using absolutely trivial methods it's hilarious #i like to think niragi has practice dying hair for reasons unknown #i don't know what chishiya was drawing either

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asscandles · 3 years

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Hello !!! I really liked ur writing (also the fandoms you do are chef's kiss) and i wanted to request for Mondo, Togami and Fuyuhiko (separately of course) with a very touchy (short 👀 I'm like 5'0") reader, who likes to squish their cheeks, hug them and give lil smoochies, sit or have the boys sit on her lap and other stuff like that? (It'd be cute if it were a mutual crush situation but I don't mind platonic either) Thank you sm in advance if you write it !!

ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ ꜱᴏ ᴍᴜᴄʜ!! ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴀ ʀᴇᴀʟʟʏ ᴄᴜᴛᴇ ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ɪ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏᴇᴅ ᴡʀɪᴛɪɴɢ ɪᴛ. ɪ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɪᴛ ʟɪᴠᴇꜱ ᴜᴘ ᴛᴏ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴇxᴘᴇᴄᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱ!

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ʟᴀɴɢᴜᴀɢᴇ + ꜱᴜɢɢᴇꜱᴛɪᴠᴇ

Mondo Owada

Honestly, he never thought he would ever be in this position.

Him? The Ultimate Biker Gang Leader? Receiving a constant supply of affection?

Ridiculous. Improbable. Impossible.

Oh, but don’t get me wrong. It’s not like he doesn’t enjoy the attention. But after he accidentally shouted at you in embarrassment when you complimented his eyes, reflexively crushed a pencil and consequently showered you with the splintered wood when you ambushed him with a hug, and fled from the premises after you innocuously offered to massage his shoulders… the idea of you sticking around in his life seemed unfeasible.

But here you are.

It doesn’t take him long to grow accustomed to the attentiveness and devotion you always treat him with.

“So, we should close off this area and tighten our control around this neighborhood. Oh, and maybe--”

“Uh, sir? What’s… um… What’s..?” One of his men tentatively pointed to where you were clinging to Mondo’s back, legs constricted around his waist and arms looped around his neck, blinking blankly at the man standing before you.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Mondo didn’t even flinch. “Anyway, as I was saying--”

Mondo really doesn’t mind when you cling to him in public. In fact, he appreciates the warmth of your body and the unexpected sense of security that holding your hand gives him.

But, he starts to draw the line when you stand in front of him while he’s sitting, smiling sweetly as you squish his cheeks and giggle about how adorable he is. He always flushes a florid shade and averts his eyes from yours. He would never tell you, but whenever you do that, he feels so defenseless, something that the rest of his crew should never know about.

That’s why he tells you to keep such intimate actions private. When you two are alone, you can squish his cheeks and pepper his face with kisses as often as you want. You understand this, and you’re always ecstatic whenever you walk in on him somewhere he’s alone.

You’re so short he loves it omg.

He thinks that watching you struggle to reach his face with your lips is so funny. He will often poke fun at you by either pretending to not see you or lifting his chin even higher. When you finally give up and try to storm away with a huff, he captures you in his arms and lifts you off the ground while you grumble indignantly.

Okay, but when you press yourself against him and wrap yourself in the loose fabric of his jacket so that it covers both of you? BITCHHH he melts.

Due to your short stature, you often find yourself seated upon his shoulders. At first, Mondo was taunted by his friends for quote-on-quote “having his head buried between your thighs,” but Mondo easily dismissed their teasing. He knew that your intentions were nothing less than pure…

Even if he initially was nervous and sweaty at the idea of being so… so close to you.

Mondo always treated you as if you were made of glass. Since you’re so small and he’s so muscular and tall, he always feared that a single bump or scratch would absolutely eviscerate your bones and pulverize your internal organs. For a while, he had been worried that he would forget about his own strength and accidentally hurt you. So, it did take him a little longer to reciprocate your affectionate.

That being said, he nearly flipped his shit when you nonchalantly asked him to try sitting in your lap. His brain was pumping out ideas at ninety miles an hour, but his lips could only communicate half of them, leaving him stuttering and nearly choking on his saliva. He was certain that he would crush your body beyond recognition if he tried.

No way. No. No. Absolutely not.

He’s cool with having you seated on his lap, though. In fact, he even encourages it. Having such a stunning gem to show off to his men during meetings stokes the flames of confidence within him, often resulting in a shit-eating grin and a protective hand on your shoulder or around your waist.

You get unlimited access to Mondo with his hair down, you lucky bitch.

You’re absolutely bewitched with how soft his hair is as it slips through your fingers like rivulets of water, the opposite of how it feels when it’s gelled into his usual hairstyle. You spend a lot of time combing your fingers through his hair and lightly scratching his scalp. Mondo finds it extremely relaxing, and he often comes to you whenever he has a headache or needs an extra push that will lull him to sleep.

Byakuya Togami

Before you appeared in his life, he had never been subjected to genuine love and sentiment. In his world, it was either surpass or be surpassed. Mercy was not an option, and competition was all he knew. As a result, he views everyone around him as inferior and lesser creatures.

When you first started to show kindness to him, he thought that you were merely pitying him because he spent so much time by himself. This led to him holding you at an icy distance and shooting scathing remarks in your direction.

However, you were steadfast in your determination to make Byakuya a part of your life. It took some time, but soon enough, you had earned a place in his heart.

He wished that he didn’t know how it was possible for you to have become such an essential part of his life, but he did. No matter how many times he told you that you were annoying, a distraction, or disgusting, it was clear that you were absolutely unaffected by it. You knew that his dislike of you wasn’t personal. Your tenacity is what caused his harsh words to dissipate in his throat and him to surrender to the prospect of developing a relationship with you.

You were strong, and he understood that now.

It definitely takes him a long time to accept your clingy nature, and even then, he sometimes feels suffocated by the surplus of affection.

It doesn’t mean that he completely brushes you off. It just means that you have to be more sparing with your ministrations.

He sees nothing wrong with allowing you a quick hug or to hold his hand in public. If anyone says anything about it, he will deadass act like nothing is happening. He knows that if he acknowledges it, the chances of him becoming openly flustered will skyrocket.

He would never be able to live it down.

Anything else you would like to do to him, he prefers to keep it private.

Wow, that sounds suggestive.

Whatever, let’s proceed.

He’ll gripe and complain about you being heavy, but he never pushes you off or directly tells you to get off when you burrow your way beneath his arm and curl into his side while he reads. He’ll just sigh and settle his arm around you with the tiniest, most discreet smile.

He can’t help but chuckle to himself when you remove his glasses so that you can wear them instead. His chuckle flourishes into a genuine laugh when you promptly yank them off, your stomach churning in protest of your warped vision.

When you hold his hand in private, you pay a lot of attention to his fingers. You toy with them, marveling at how strong they are despite their slender appearance.

So, kisses are a thing.

“What was that?”

“Uh, a kiss.”

“Revolting… Do it again.”

A common thing, actually.

You plant kisses everywhere that you can: his fingertips, his cheeks, his shoulders, the back of his hand, his nose. He never fails to blush red as a rose, often pulling away and pressing the back of his hand to his mouth.

If you want him to complain in mock disgust, press a sloppy, prolonged kiss right in the center of his forehead.

If you want him to squirm, brush the softest kiss you can manage to either his collarbone or the shell of his ear. Biiiitchhhh…

ANYWAY, THAT’S NOT THE POINT--

Surprise, surprise. He loves poking fun at your height. How shocking. How absolutely unbelievable.

Like Mondo, he finds amusement in watching you balance on your tiptoes as you try to kiss him. You, however, combat his devious snickering by seizing his crossover tie and yanking him down to your height, catching him off guard. Then, all he can do is inwardly grumble about his blunder while you press a kiss to the corner of his lips

He once actually sat on you to trap you after you tried (and failed) to tickle him. He wasn’t expecting you to laugh gleefully and wrap your arms around his waist to anchor him to you. Since you were enjoying what he deemed a punishment, it was no longer pleasurable for him. He finds it embarrassing to voluntarily sit on anyone’s lap--let alone the lap of someone remarkably smaller than him. He sees it as a role of submission. Need I explain more?

He won’t complain if you sit on his, though. Well, I lied. This bitch complains about everything. It’s more like… he won’t reject you if you end up on his lap.

But about a half hour into whatever the hell this “cuddling” thing is, Byakuya discovers that the combination of your weight and body heat is an interesting catalyst for the onslaught of fatigue that he’s been procrastinating for the longest time.

You happen to doze off first. But upon awakening, you notice that Byakuya’s head is resting against yours, his arms loosely wrapped around your waist. His book is closed beside him.

Ngl, you thought he was actually going to rock your shit the first time you squished his cheeks. His frosty glare was enough to make you draw back in shock, but it soon disappeared, accompanied by a sigh from him.

“You have one more opportunity to do that. Don’t waste it.”

Oh, you definitely don’t.

Fuyuhiko Kuzuryu

Someone is???? Smaller than him???

!!!!

That one inch of height makes him feel so powerful omfg.

Because of his job, he would rather keep any kind of affection hidden behind closed doors. The only people who he would let PDA slide around are those in his immediate circle, like his family, Peko, and whoever else serves directly under him.

He just wants to keep you safe, and he feels that the best way to do that is to not make it known that he has a soft spot for you.

You smile at the way his aloof, callous demeanor switches to a gentler, more amicable one when he sees you waiting for him to finish whatever job he’s been tasked with. His perpetual scowl melts away, the wrinkles of irritation blemishing his forehead smooth, and his distrusting, narrowed eyes round with an almost childlike, innocent delight.

You enjoy the latter side of him so much that it isn’t uncommon for you to cling to his waist and drop like dead weight, forcing him to drag you with him across the floor if he wants to return to work.

“Hiko… You can’t leave..!” You whine. “I’ll miss you..!”

“I’m sorry…” He huffs, taking another step while you’re dragged behind him like some ragdoll. “But I have things I need to take care of!”

You eventually sink into a heap on the floor when he reaches the door, making a half-hearted attempt to hold on to his ankles.

He chuckles and squats down in front of you. “I’ll be back later.” You sit up and sharply turn your head away with a pout. He gently yet firmly seizes your chin between his thumb and forefinger, directing you to look at him. “Promise.” His eyes are gentle, but you know he’s serious. You reluctantly release him.

“Okay,” you mumble. “Please, be safe.”

You know the, “When I was your age…” thing?

Yeah, Fuyuhiko does that shit. But, he does, “When I was your height…” instead.

A fucki.ng pO w e R trip.

He really likes the feeling of having you on his lap. It makes him feel like he’s actually capable of offering security to someone. Bonus points if you straddle his lap and hug him close in return, resting your chin on his shoulder.

Back-hugs? Back-hugs.

The first time you snuck up on him and embraced him from behind, he almost knocked you tf out. But over time, he’s gotten used to it. That doesn’t mean you don’t manage to catch him off guard from time to time. Feeling him jolt and hearing him yelp in shock when you wrap your arms around his waist never fails to make you laugh. One time, you laughed so hard that your legs gave out and you tumbled to the ground, accidentally dragging him with you.

Whenever he’s stressed, kisses always seem to be the cure. Sprinkled across his cheeks, tracing the edge of his jaw, following the shell of his ear, pressed to his fingertips--you name it. Whatever you have to offer, he’s more than happy to let you have your way and shower him with love.

You pay special attention to his freckles. Whenever he’s had a taxing day, you vow to kiss each and every freckle on his face. When you’re lulling him to sleep with his head in your lap, you smooth a feather-light fingertip over his cheeks, playing connect-the-dots with his freckles.

But there are just some days where he needs to be the baby, y’know? On those days, he likes laying with his face pressed into your stomach and his body curled into your embrace. You watch over him lovingly, tracing the designs shaved into his hair with a curious finger and slowly massaging his scalp.

He needs reassurance every now and then, verbal or otherwise. You are always more than willing to oblige, filling whatever role he needs at the moment.

He always takes necessary precautions, such as locking the doors and drawing the curtains, before he allows himself to strip his soul bare and lay all of his impurities before you. This is a side of him that no one else must know about. Otherwise, his reputation would take a massive blow.

Speaking of “baby,” it’s no secret that Fuyuhiko positively despises his baby face. You, however, adore it. You like to squish his cheeks and coo about how cute he is. He never resists you, and will even play along by puckering his lips at you if he’s in a good mood. It doesn’t change the fact that he doesn’t like his face, but if you seem to be fond of it, then maybe it’s not all that bad.

But if anyone else even thinks about touching him in such a manner, then that’s it.

Their ass is grass.

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canyouhearthelight · 3 years

Text

The Miys, Ch. 144

After much demand, Kink Night at the Undine has arrived. This chapter is really fun, was informative to write, but if you need to skip it, you won’t miss out on the overall story. So, trigger warnings on this chapter for:

- Bondage (mentions of)

- Pegging (possible mention of?)

- Impact play (discussed, both done wrongly and demonstrated correctly)

- Topping and bottoming

To be clear: These are all mentioned from the perspective of a non-participant, non-voyeur. I would probably overall rate this chapter appropriate for 14 years and older, but your mileage may vary. However, kink in general can be very healthy if done correctly, and this chapter was double beta-read, not only by @baelpenrose but also by @charlylimph-blog for accuracy of the scene. This actually prevented a PROFOUND mistake from making it to queueing, so I am super grateful for their help.

Once I was released from medical after an unnecessarily long lecture from Noah, I found I had a message waiting from Charly with a date and time to meet at the Undine. Right below that was a message from Sebastian with a uniform-slash-dresscode of sorts.

Aw nuggets. I had forgotten what night it was.

There wasn’t time to grab clothes from my quarters, but my office was on the way to the bar, so I stopped by to change. Socks and shoes were a bit of a challenge, since I generally didn’t wear either, so I had to find a vendor to help me fill in the gaps. Granted, shoes weren’t specified in Sebastian’s list. However, there was exactly a zero percent chance that I was going to lend a hand at a kink party while barefoot. Just… no. Nope. Not happening.

I wiped my palms nervously against my slacks when I arrived, not sure exactly what to expect. Charly and I had talked about it, but none of that knowledge wanted to make its presence known at the moment, apparently. Instead, my mind kept drifting to what in the actual hell she had roped Arthur into doing. The door opened entirely too soon to reveal a smiling Charly, who grabbed my arm and dragged me behind her to the small group already gathered.

All of my nerves were forced from my body by the sputtering laughter I fell victim to when I saw Arthur - I still had no idea what he would be doing, but he looked like someone took a post-apocalyptic movie hero and hit a button labelled ‘make him a villain’ a few too many times. The leather jacket and motorcycle pants were fairly innocuous, since I knew he actually owned both and neither were terribly uncommon on the Ark. Same thing held for the boots - they were just practical in the After and several people held on to that preference with a death grip.

“Cloak’s a nice touch,” I snorted, trying desperately to ignore the campier bits of his outfit.

I was dangerously close to losing it when he scowled and adjusted the laurel crown - I mean, really? - resting on his head. “I knew I shouldn’t have cut my hair this morning,” he muttered. “Damned thing won’t sit right anymore.”

Charly clapped her hands to get everyone’s attention. “Okay, one more run through of what everyone will be doing!”

Sebastian nodded seriously and flicked a towel over his shoulder before handing me an apron. “Sophia has kindly agreed to prep the snacks, while I serve and clean behind people. She’ll clear any dishes in between batches, and one or the other of us will do a lap of the floor every fifteen minutes to ensure everyone is hydrated and there’s no need for medical attention.” He winked at the relief on my face.

Cooking, clearing plates, and momming people into staying hydrated. I could do that.

Arthur brushed off his pauldrons, only forcing me to confront the fact that they were shaped like skulls again, before straightening with aplomb. “I will be Dungeon Master, keeping an eye on everything from there,” he pointed to a scaffold that had been put into place over the bartop, “And intervening as needed if things get out of hand.” Without so much as a twitch of question from me, he explained. “Charly and Coffey can’t be everywhere at once, so I get to perch on high, look ridiculous, and play bouncer if Coffey can’t get there first.”

“Yep,” Charly nodded seriously. For all that she normally seemed built out of chaos and energy, this was Boss Lady Charly. “Let’s keep it safe, sane, and consensual across the board. Speaking of!” She pulled two badges from seemingly nowhere. “Soph, Bash, these are for you.” I took one and immediately grinned when I read it. Staff Only - I Do Not Consent. “If either of you want to play, go for it, but otherwise, probably wear those. Sexy librarian and millionaire CEO are tropes that exist, so ya know - no confusion for anyone. Any questions, concerns, cries for help?” When we all shook our heads, she clapped again. “Okay, off you go! Thanks everyone.”

Sebastian tilted his head toward the kitchen and I followed, wiping my hands on my legs again. “Thank you for agreeing to help with snacks. I know Charly already told you, but I am not the greatest at finger foods that don’t make a mess or won’t be too heavy.”

I hummed for a second before making a few suggestions. “Macaroni and cheese bites, they’re about this big.” I made a circle about an inch and a half across with my fingers. “Just pop and go. Pigs in blankets, the kind with cocktail sausages… meatballs, but probably with lamb instead of beef. Dumplings.” I shrugged. “Charly swears people actually bring food to these, so once that stuff starts coming in, it would just be portioning it and sending it back out. We shouldn’t have too much actual cooking to do.”

He nodded and started grabbing ingredients. “So that leaves drinks, plates, and utensils.” When I reached for a rack of glasses, he stopped me. “No. If one of us drops anything that can break, people can get injured. I’ve been stocking up on fiber-based plates, forks, and spoons. Drinks are going to be in those corn-starch gel pouches.”

“Dude,” I groaned. “Those things get so gummy.”

“Straws are real and do exist.”

“Besides, I can already tell someone is going to find alternative uses for those,” Arthur called from behind us. I swear, I could hear him smirking. “You can’t put humans, sex, and flavored liquid in the same room and not expect that.”

I shook my head with a smile, but he had a point. Once we shooed him away, work on the snacks went pretty quick. Judging by the sounds coming from the main room, it was a good thing, too - furniture being dragged, then Arthur’s voice ringing out to welcome everyone. Soon, Sebastian was swinging out of the kitchen door with the first trays, and true to Charly’s word, he came back carrying a plate of neatly stacked fudge, followed by Arthur carrying a covered container.

“Scratch the meatballs, someone brought an actual mountain of sausage balls,” Arthur grunted as he slammed the container on a flat surface before retreating.

“Not even a joke?” I mused.

“Must be slipping,” Sebastian grinned. “I mean, he said ‘balls’ twice…”

“Low hanging fruit!” a voice called from the main room. It must have seemed entirely out of context to the crowd, but Sebastian and I were laughing as we started plating so he could carry more food out to the spots Charly had designated.

A timer went off, so I took the mac and cheese bites out of the oven, snagged a tray of drink-blobs, shoved a fistful of straws into my apron and took off to do my lap of the event. There were already people taking a break, reaching gratefully for hydration. Several times, someone would reach for one and pour it in a partner’s mouth, and on one occasion, a woman offered it up like a gift to a bound man, both biting into it and drinking greedily.

I almost stepped on someone before I realized there was an actual pile of people on the floor. I diverted my eyes quickly from what I thought was an all-out orgy before my brain registered that I wasn’t hearing sex noises - just whispers. Snapping my eyes back up, it took a moment to figure out that I had nearly stepped on the largest cuddle pile I had seen since my apartment on Insert Winter Holiday. Crouching, I balanced what was left of the drink blobs on one hand while holding out the straws with another. In no time at all, the tray was empty and I was heading back for more.

This time, food on one hand, drinks on the other, I exited the kitchen to see Charly wrapping up her rope-bondage safety lecture before starting to demonstrate different knots on a volunteer, with Charly in the role of the top for this scenario. Watching her calmly contort and restrain another human being while calmly explaining the psychology behind it was… kind of terrifying. I had to constantly remind myself that this person volunteered and that Charly was experienced on both ends of the rope.

One more sweep of the room landed me with only a dozen or so drinks left on top of a pile of empty trays. I backed into the kitchen to sanitize and re-load the trays, only to hear Sebastian swearing. “Who the hell brought chili!?”

“Apparently someone thought it was a good idea,” I shrugged, baffled. I mean, it didn’t seem like a good idea to me, but this wasn’t exactly my area of expertise. “Maybe we put it in bowls, set up a little station in one of the break areas, with toppings? Let people help themselves?”

“Bondage potlucks and chili…” He shook his head. “Trying to remind myself that I’ve seen weirder things, but…”

“I can promise you, they are having fun. And they’re hydrated!” I shook my mostly empty platter of blobs at him.

Sebastian went out to retrieve more food from the people who brought it, and I kept rolling sausages in dough. “More fudge!” he crowed. “I snagged a piece of the first batch, and it was amazing.”

“You clearly do not see the irony,” I muttered where he couldn’t hear me. “Oh, heavens, no chili! But fudge… fudge is fine…”

The next time I was able to break free and take my designated lap, a slight bit more chaos had descended as everyone had gotten more comfortable. Several of the more experienced were examining and complimenting each other on their knots and arrangements of their subs. Ivan and Jokul were doing…. Something… that involved Ivan in a gorgeous evening gown and Jokul with a gag in his mouth. I was almost done with my circuit when a thud reverberated behind me and a black cloak whipped by.

“For the love of…” Arthur growled. I thought he was going to dribble the cowering man he was glaring at like a basketball, but instead he brandished a marker and made two quick X’s on a bare pair of buttocks. “Here and here. Only here and here.” With an irritated flourish, he wrote NOT HERE across the small of the attached back. “This will give someone kidney damage. Specifically you if I catch you doing it again.” Ducking around to the face of the person he had just used as a whiteboard, he shook his finger. “And I’m not even going to apologize, because you have a safeword and you need to use it. First, last, and only warning, you two. If that hit had been any more than a nervous first tap, you wouldn’t even be getting that.” Without a word, he snagged the cane sitting on the table nearby and took it with him. “They aren’t getting anywhere near the cane, fucking idiots. Gotta talk to Charly about those two…” he muttered as he blew back past me, so angry he didn’t even acknowledge that I was standing there.

I almost dropped the stack of empty platters when the Imperial March started playing while Arthur stomped back into his position over the bar. “Attention, Deviants! Courtesy of some poor practices I’ve seen, I would like to invite Sir Coffey and his pet fae Charly to give us a tutorial on safe and proper impact play!” Applause started as he beckoned them forward, Sebastian theatrically adjusting the lights to center in front of the stage.

I ducked back into the kitchen as Coffey’s voice rang out over the crowd, explaining yet again safewords and consent before launching into what toys were used how and where. A little public humiliation never hurt anyone, I joked with myself. At least not for some of the people out there.

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#the miys #found family #humans are weird #science fiction #aliens #apocalypse #humans are space orcs #humans are space fae #earth is space australia #post apocalypse #post post apocalypse #original science fiction #original sci fi #original writing

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kjack89 · 3 years

Text

Impasse (Pt. 3/3)

Part 1 here, part 2 here.

E/R, Modern AU, former relationship. Being stuck together leads to the more or less inevitable conclusion.

Given the sheer quantity of alcohol the man had managed to drink, Enjolras wasn’t at all surprised that Grantaire slept through dinner and all the way until the next morning. He was also, frankly, a little relieved by it. He wasn’t entirely sure that he was ready to have the conversation with Grantaire about what he had said.

Or, worse, ready to pretend to ignore it because Grantaire couldn’t remember it.

Enjolras honestly wasn’t sure which would be worse.

But all too soon, the early morning quiet was interrupted by a prolonged groan from the futon, and Enjolras sipped his glass of water with only a small amount of sympathy as Grantaire rasped, “Holy fuck, why?”

“Bourbon,” Enjolras told him dryly. “That’s the answer also to who, what, when, where and how, in case you were planning to ask those next.”

Grantaire cracked one eye open to glare at him. “Why did you let me drink that much?” he managed.

Enjolras just gave him a look. “Have I ever once successfully stopped you before?”

Grantaire groaned again and flopped over onto his back. “No,” he said. “But you still could’ve tried.”

“Maybe I did, and you just don’t remember it.”

At that, Grantaire sat upright, and Enjolras had to bite back a laugh at the man’s hair sticking up in a million different directions. “Oh God,” Grantaire said, eyes wide. “Whatever I said, just remember, in vino veritas is more a guideline than a hard and fast rule.”

“So I’ll take that to mean there are some parts of yesterday afternoon that you don��t fully remember?” Enjolras asked carefully.

Grantaire waved a dismissive hand. “Some parts, the entire thing, something like that.” His expression tightened as he glanced at Enjolras. “I’m sorry for absolutely everything I said or did, by the way, especially if it was, uh…” He trailed off. “Untoward.”

Enjolras arched an eyebrow. “Untoward?” he repeated. “You’ve been hanging out with Courfeyrac too much lately.” He paused. “Besides, you’re fine. It was nothing I haven’t seen before.”

He meant for the latter to come off as a joke, but Grantaire’s expression didn’t change. “If you say so,” he said instead, not sounding remotely convinced, but luckily, he changed the subject instead of making Enjolras convince him. “But you should still let me make it up to you.”

“How?” Enjolras asked, curious.

Grantaire looked pointedly at Enjolras’s midsection. “Well, for starters, you can let me take a look at your ribs to make sure they aren’t actually broken.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “I think I’d know by now if they were broken,” he huffed.

“Says the man who walked around for over a week with a broken wrist that you kept claiming was just a bad sprain.”

Enjolras considered it for a moment. “Fine,” he finally allowed. “If it’ll get you to drop the topic, at least. Not that there’s anything that either you or I can do if my ribs are broken, but…”

Grantaire patted the futon next to him and Enjolras rolled his eyes but reluctantly perched on the edge of the futon, hesitating for only a moment before lifting his shirt up so that Grantaire could examine his side. He avoided looking at Grantaire, well aware that the bruises certainly looked bad, and he flinched only slightly as Grantaire lightly pressed against the bruises. “Sorry,” Grantaire said softly. “I know my fingers are rough.”

“That wasn’t—” Enjolras exhaled sharply as Grantaire increased the pressure. “Ok, that doesn’t feel great.”

Grantaire hummed in agreement before looking up at him. “Well, the good news is, based on my own fairly extensive experience with a variety of rib-related injuries, I’m fairly certain they’re just bruised and not actually broken.”

“Pretty sure I said that, but…” Enjolras trailed off, suddenly very aware that Grantaire’s fingers were still lightly pressed against his skin, and he flushed, tearing his eyes away. Grantaire dropped his hand as if he had been scalded, and Enjolras tried not to flinch again at the sudden loss of heat. “Anyway, uh, thanks,” he said gruffly.

Grantaire cleared his throat. “No problem,” he murmured, and for a moment, they sat there, side-by-side, in silence, every fiber of Enjolras’s being acutely aware of Grantaire’s thigh pressed against his, of how he could reach out and tangle their fingers together or rest his head against Grantaire’s shoulder, or— “You’re lucky that it wasn’t worse,” Grantaire continued, as if he was entirely unaware or unaffected by their proximity, and it took Enjolras a minute to even realize what he was talking about.

“I know,” he said after too long a pause for such an innocuous comment. “The police were even more violent than usual, and everyone in the crowd was getting bruised and bloody, and…”

He trailed off, sudden realization hitting. “Hang on,” he said slowly, and as if knowing what Enjolras was about to say, Grantaire quickly got off the futon, making his way over to pour himself a glass of water while conspicuously avoiding Enjolras’s eyes.

As if he knew he would see the accusation there.

“Everyone was getting hit,” Enjolras said slowly, watching the shoulders in Grantaire’s back tighten as he drained the glass of water. “Everyone was getting injured. But there’s not a scratch or bruise on you.”

“You don’t know that,” Grantaire muttered, still not turning around to look at him. “You haven’t seen me naked. At least not recently.”

Enjolras ignored the obvious attempt at what could have been either a joke or a come on (or, knowing Grantaire, both). “Why weren’t you injured?” he asked instead, struggling to keep his voice steady.

Grantaire jerked a shrug. “Luck, I guess,” he said, his voice sounding equally strained.

“Grantaire.”

Grantaire sighed. “Look—” he started, but Enjolras cut him off.

“Don’t you dare lie to me. Not now, not after—”

He broke off, but Grantaire’s eyes flashed to his for a brief moment before he looked away again. “I wasn’t injured because I wasn’t there,” he said flatly.

Even though Enjolras had put it together, it somehow still shocked him to hear Grantaire admit it. “What do you mean, you weren’t there?” he asked, almost mechanically.

Grantaire shrugged again. “I mean, I didn’t go to the protest.”

Enjolras stared at him. “I thought you were calling it a riot,” he said, the words popping out of his mouth almost without thought, but it was enough to get Grantaire to finally look at him again, his own face flushed a dull, mottled red.

“Whatever you want to call it,” he muttered. “I didn’t go. I came here instead.”

“But – why?”

“I figured you’d show up here eventually,” Grantaire said, as if that even began to answer Enjolras’s question. “And before you ask me how I knew which safe house you’d go to out of the, what, five we’ve got sprinkled throughout the city, give me some credit.” Enjolras had not even thought of asking that, and wisely kept his mouth shut. “This one was furthest from the action, which means it would take longest to get here, making whoever came here most vulnerable. There’s no way you would ask anyone else to take that risk.”

That had been Enjolras’s exact thought process, but he wasn’t going to give Grantaire the satisfaction by admitting that, and besides, he had a far more pressing question. “That’s not what I meant,” he said quietly. “I mean, why did you come here?”

Grantaire just looked at him. “You know why,” he said. “I came here for you.”

“But I thought—” The words stuck in Enjolras’s throat, because he knew what he had thought, knew that he had done what he thought at the time was a kindness, but now… “We broke up.”

“I know.”

“So then—”

“Just because we broke up doesn’t mean I want you to bleed out in some safe house,” Grantaire snapped, uncharacteristically sharp.

Enjolras wet his lips, trying to figure out what he wanted to say next. “I didn’t realize you still felt that way,” he said, which wasn’t even remotely true, and probably justified the look Grantaire gave him.

“You and I broke up for a lot of reasons, some valid, some bullshit,” Grantaire said impatiently. “But none of them were because I stopped loving you.” He met Enjolras’s eyes, something defiant in his expression. “And I don’t think it was because you stopped loving me either.”

“Grantaire—” Enjolras sighed, but Grantaire didn’t let him finish.

“I don’t remember everything from last night, but I remember enough.”

Enjolras swallowed. “What do you remember?”

“I remember this.”

Grantaire closed the space between them, kissing Enjolras fiercely, hungrily, but this time, Enjolras didn’t hesitate before pulling away, just a little bit. “And do you remember me telling you this was a bad idea?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Grantaire said, his nose brushing slightly against Enjolras’s as he shifted. “But I don’t remember you telling me you didn’t want to.” He hesitated, his eyes searching Enjolras’s. “Just like I don’t remember you telling me that you don’t love me anymore.”

This time, it was Enjolras who surged forward, unable to stop himself, unable to remember just why this was such a bad idea in the first place. He cradled Grantaire’s face in both his hands, Grantaire’s hands falling automatically to his hips, the two of them slotting together perfectly like they always had.

Like they had never stopped.

They stumbled backward until the back of Enjolras’s knees hit the futon, but before he could even attempt to sit down, Grantaire had picked him up, and Enjolras automatically wrapped his legs around Grantaire’s waist. Grantaire laughed lightly against his lips. “Fucking Christ, did you gain weight?” he asked breathily.

“Shut up.”

For once, Grantaire seemed only too happy to do so, depositing Enjolras onto the futon before following after him so they could finish what they had started the night before.

----------

“Well,” Grantaire said, his voice a low rumble against Enjolras’s ear as his head was pillowed on Grantaire’s chest. “That’s a helluva way to cure a hangover.”

Enjolras huffed a laugh, tripping his fingers up the coarse hair of Grantaire’s happy trail. “That explains why you seemed to have less hangovers when we were dating.”

Grantaire carded his fingers through Enjolras’s curls. “It’s one reason, anyway,” he said quietly, before bending to press a kiss to the top of Enjolras’s head. “So now what?”

Enjolras twisted his head to look up at him. “What do you mean?” he asked.

“I mean…” Grantaire sighed, and Enjolras felt his contentment slipping rapidly away. “Fuck, Enj, please don’t make me spell it out for you. What does this mean for us? Where do we go from here?”

Enjolras sat up slowly, avoiding looking at Grantaire as he felt around, trying to find his boxers. “We don’t go anywhere.”

“Oh.”

The single syllable somehow cut Enjolras more than any of the screaming fights he and Grantaire had had, and he closed his eyes for a brief moment, steeling himself. “I love you,” he said finally, not really seeing the point in continuing to deny it. “If I’m being honest with myself in a way that I’ve been avoiding, I probably always will.” He forced himself to look at Grantaire, to meet his eyes. “But we broke up for a reason, the biggest of which being that we don’t have a future together.”

“We could,” Grantaire blurted, his eyes wide, pleading.

“Grantaire—”

“No, listen to me,” Grantaire said, his tone turning urgent. “I know that I will never be everything you want me to be. But I'm not completely useless, and at the very least, I'd like a chance to try.”

Enjolras shook his head. “It’s not about that,” he said. “It’s not about you.”

Grantaire’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…” Enjolras took a deep, steadying breath. “My die has been cast, so to speak. And where I'm going when we finally get out of this godforsaken apartment...you can't come with me.”

Grantaire went very still. “What are you talking about?” he asked, but before Enjolras could answer, he recoiled, the blood draining from his face as he finally understood. “You're not waiting for the heat to die down, are you?” Again, he didn’t wait for Enjolras’s answer. “You've been waiting for Combeferre and Marius and whomever else to make all the necessary legal arrangements.”

Even though that part wasn’t a question, Enjolras still nodded. “Yes.”

“You're planning on letting yourself get arrested.” Grantaire’s voice sounded strangely hollow, his expression impossible to read. “And not just on a minor charge that keeps you in county lockup overnight.”

“Yes.”

“So, what, you attacked that cop on purpose?” Grantaire asked harshly.

Enjolras shook his head. “No, that actually wasn't part of the plan,” he said, because he owed Grantaire the truth. “But when I saw what the cop was doing...well, let's just say it accelerated our timeline a little.”

“Do I even want to ask why you're letting yourself get arrested?” Grantaire asked.

Enjolras lifted his chin defiantly. “Because once I'm arrested, my defense team gets access to body cam footage, arrest statistics, everything they've been stonewalling us trying to get via FOIA requests. Marius will have a hundred plus subpoenas ready to go the minute I'm arrested on the grounds that my arrest was retaliatory. And if all that happens to get leaked to the public, well…”

He shrugged, and Grantaire just stared at him. “And if, God fucking forbid, you’re actually found guilty?”

“Then I'm prepared to do my time in service of all the people who are unjustly doing time for crimes they didn't commit.”

Enjolras had prepared for this moment so many times before he decided to just end things with Grantaire, prepared for Grantaire to yell and rage and tell him what an idiot he was. The breakup had seemed the easier route to take, but he should’ve known it would come out anyway, that he’d have to sit through it anyway, and he squared his shoulders, ready for anything.

Anything except Grantaire swallowing, nodding, and telling him simply, “Ok.”

Enjolras’s automatic defense of the Cause died on his lips, and he stared at Grantaire. “What?” he asked, his voice cracking.

Grantaire arched an eyebrow. “Do you need me to repeat myself?”

“No, I just—” Enjolras shook his head. “I sort of expected you to try to stop me.”

Grantaire snorted. “I learned a long time ago that I can’t stop you from doing anything.”

“Maybe not, but…” It was Enjolras’s turn to have a sudden realization, this time seeing the stubborn set of Grantaire’s jaw, the resigned lines that braced his body. He knew what Grantaire was planning, because he’d threatened it before, during one of their fights, when Enjolras had said he was leaving and Grantaire had pinned him down and told him that if he did, Grantaire would follow him.

(“You’d follow me?” Enjolras had repeated, his anger seeping out of him. “Even if I went all the way to Timbuktu?”

“Firstly, I have no idea what you think you’d do in Mali, but yeah, even all the way to Timbuktu.” Grantaire had leaned in and kissed him. “Face it,” he had whispered, “you’re stuck with me.”)

And Enjolras could see it on Grantaire’s face – he intended to make good on that threat.

“No.”

“No, what?” Grantaire asked.

“No,” Enjolras repeated. “I know that look, and Grantaire, you cannot—”

Grantaire shrugged, nonchalant. “Well, unfortunately for you, you are going to be in police custody, so you won't be able to stop me.” He leveled a look at Enjolras. “Will you.”

Enjolras shook his head. “Don’t be an idiot,” he snapped. “I’ve made my choice, and I know it’s not one you agree with, but it is what it is. But you—”

“If you think there is any world in which I would not follow you, you're out of your damn mind.”

Grantaire said it easily, pleasantly even, but his words were edged with steel. Enjolras shook his head and stood, grabbing his clothes to give himself something to do besides sit there and stare at him. “So, what, you’re just going to commit some crime so you get arrested, too?” he scoffed. “You don’t exactly have the kind of arrest record I do. Drunk and disorderlies don’t exactly hold the same weight as inciting domestic terrorism, so it’s not like you can guarantee you’ll get sent to jail.”

“Sure I will,” Grantaire said cheerfully. “Mandatory minimums are a bitch, haven’t you heard?”

Enjolras knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Grantaire would figure out a way to pull it off. Even if it took him multiple arrest attempts, or doing something unbelievably, irredeemably stupid.

Just like he knew that he had to do everything in his power to stop him.

“I can’t let you do that,” he said sharply. “Not for me.”

Grantaire just cocked his head slightly. “Don’t you understand?” he asked, something almost gentle in his voice. “If you were in there and I was out here…” He trailed off and shook his head. “I couldn’t live like that.” His expression tightened. “I won’t live like that.”

“That’s insane.”

Grantaire shrugged. “Maybe,” he said. “But like you, my choice was made a long time ago. Whether we’re together or not.” He looked up at Enjolras. “You jump, I jump. Simple as that.”

Enjolras’s throat felt tight. “You can’t—” he repeated, but Grantaire just smiled at him, and the words of protest died on Enjolras’s lips.

“I would love to see you try to stop me,” Grantaire said softly, and he stood, crossing to Enjolras to kiss him once more.

Enjolras caught Grantaire’s hand. “You’re asking me to choose you over everything I have worked for,” he said, his voice tight.

Grantaire shook his head. “I’m really not,” he told him evenly. “I learned a long time ago that the outcome of that choice would not be one that favored me.”

“But I can’t let you do this.”

“No more than I can let you go to prison without me,” Grantaire said, leaning in to kiss the corner of Enjolras’s mouth. “6 to 30 years is a long time. And I…” He shrugged, something catching in his voice. “I mean, I’d probably survive that long without you. But I sure as shit don’t want to.”

Enjolras couldn’t stop himself from kissing Grantaire again, a searing kiss that he could only hope captured everything he couldn’t bring himself to say. “What if I broke up with you again?” he asked when they resurfaced for air, his lips so close to Grantaire’s still that they were practically sharing the same breath.

Grantaire laughed breathily. “You tried that once already,” he whispered. “And yet here we are.”

“Here we are,” Enjolras repeated, the reality of it hitting him, the magnitude of what they faced hitting him. “So where does that leave us?”

“Pretty sure that was my question originally,” Grantaire told him with a smirk, though his smile faded slightly when he saw the look on Enjolras’s face. “Same place we’ve always been,” he said with a sigh. “At an impasse.”

“An impasse.”

Grantaire shrugged. “Your choice has been made, and so has mine. You jump, I jump.” He hesitated. “And even though I know I don’t need it, I’d still like your permission.”

Enjolras took a deep breath. “I don’t know if I can give you that,” he said.

Grantaire just smiled again, a little crookedly. “Maybe not,” he agreed. “But thankfully, we’ve still got a few days of being stuck in here for me to try to convince you.”

“I love you,” Enjolras said, a little desperately, even though he knew repeating it wasn’t going to change Grantaire’s mind, any more than the opposite would.

“I love you, too,” Grantaire said, taking Enjolras hand and lacing their fingers together. “After everything. Despite everything. Because of everything. And as much as I wish it were enough – as much as I wish I were enough – I get why you’re making the choice you’re making.” He squeezed Enjolras’s hand. “I just hope you understand the same.”

Enjolras wasn’t sure that he did, or that he ever would, but he knew that it didn’t matter. Not anymore. “So we’re at an impasse.”

“Yup.”

Enjolras nodded slowly. “Well. At least there’s no one else I’d rather be at an impasse with.”

Grantaire half-smiled. “Yeah,” he said. “Me too.”

#exr #enjolras x grantaire #enjoltaire #enjolras #grantaire #fanfiction #les miserables #modern au #reconciliation #former relationship #that's not so former anymore

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norcumii · 3 years

Text

The Alpha 17 Supplemental

We all deserve something a little nice. So here’s a rough draft preview of the Star to Steer By Alpha 17 supplemental. (Please note, this is unbetaed, subject to change, etc.)

I hope y’all have a good day. <3

~~~~

Alpha 17 was a good soldier. He knew from a very early age that he was good at combat, loved it, and he pushed himself to be the best that the GAR could produce.

He knew some of his brothers thought that made him a bit simple, limited, unambitious.

He didn’t care.

The trainers worried, concerned that he didn’t seem to pick up outside hobbies or interests. He could practically hear ‘there’s more to life than fighting!’ every time he got that look, the doubt screaming in their eyes. He knew that meant another psych eval was in his near future, and it was frustrating because they didn’t get it.

He liked fighting. He liked the simple math, how goal plus obstacle equaled a straightforward picture. He could break that down, take it apart and rearrange the bits for more carnage, less causalities, different outcomes depending on the goal. Some brothers liked painting, or reading, or whatever. Alpha 17 liked taking a battlefield to pieces, and the addition of life’s chaos and unpredictability just made it exciting.

It got worse as he got older, signing up for the ARC program the literal minute he was able to. His batchmates only rolled their eyes a little – they at least didn’t poke at him about it – but everyone else? The whispers just got more annoying.

ARC training was serious business, was he sure he wanted to? ARC training meant learning the ropes for hosting - like that would ever matter - and that didn’t seem to be the kind of thing he’d like. ARC training had a ridiculous wash-out rate, required a steady temperament, often led to a much shorter lifespan, blah blah blah.

ARCs got into the middle of the most interesting shit, were given command and solo missions in equal measure. They didn’t stick to any one thing, historically they were the ones getting shit done, and if there was trouble, they were liable to be at ground zero.

Of course Alpha 17 wanted in on that. So he did something else he was very good at: he kept his head down and worked his shebs off.

Didn’t stop the occasional complaints. He brushed off the ones that he could, went through all the usual psych evals (and the bonus ones too), and kept learning what he could. He trained, he excelled, he fought.

The attitude didn’t stop coming either, but that was no surprise. He might be stubborn, but so was the rest of the GAR. Came with the job description. Not that he took more than he had to, of course. After one instructor complained about excessive casualties, the next exercise he took an absurdly round-about approach which resulted in record low casualties for the sim exercise.

The next day he handed in a complaint against himself about incompetence, excessive caution, and an evaluation about how taking that fucking long would have resulted in a campaign that was far too high in cost, time, and resources.

The instructor quit bitching after that.

Alpha 17 started his ARC training as the youngest in his class. ARC trooper Alpha 17 went into his cryo stint as top graduate of his class, having already had a successful and noteworthy acclimation stint all around the mid- to outer-rim.

*****

Three years after his thaw, Alpha 17 returned from a mission totally-not-exploding some wildly unpleasant slavers’ headquarters to find the usual stack of correspondence waiting for him. He kept his holo-mail down to a screaming minimum as much as possible, because everyone and their classified dog preferred to send secured intel via datapads or datasticks or whatever data-things they could secure to biometrics and ident scans. He grabbed the box for incoming shit and hauled it off to his quarters, because it’d been almost four months away and even he would admit to needing a real godsdamned shower in his own fucking apartment.

He might’ve ignored the pile long enough for a decent meal from the commissary and a few hours of rack time out of sheer spite. When 17 finally sat down to sort it, he wasn’t too surprised that almost a quarter of the pads had the glossy red endcaps indicating highest priority. It took a second glance to register that one of those had further detailing, the Jedi Order’s symbol embossed on the center of the red caps.

That was different. 17 set down the two pads he’d grabbed at random to pick it up instead. The metal shell wasn’t new, but it held few of the dings and scratches any correspondence gained traveling through the courier system. Recently made or rarely used.

“The hell?” he muttered, powering it up. Official Order business of some sort, but what kind of mission could –

17’s brain stalled out as he finally read the simple, clear message.

Simple, clear, and about as unlikely as him sprouting wings and flying to Corellia without a ship. “Potential host.” Nope, sounded even crazier out loud. “Like hell.” He tossed the pad down and slumped back in his chair, staring at the datapad in confusion. How the fuck was he a potential host? What kind of Jedi could he possibly have a match with?

In some kind of vain hope that the message would change to something that made sense given enough time, 17 mechanically went through the rest of his mail. Several innocuous messages regarding hazard pay; five potential missions, two of which had a time window long past; one message rescinding one of the other potential missions; one airworthiness directive and recall about a jetpack model he hated anyways; somehow even more questions about his deposition for the fucking Cato Neimoidia cluster because lawyers were never truly done.

All the usual bullshit, really.

Didn’t change the potential host message, though.

*****

Alpha 17 answered the call, of course. He sent a reply message off, confirmed the trip to Coruscant via the usual GAR channels, and then he tried to lose himself in post-mission paperwork.

It didn’t help that if anything was less likely to occupy his attention, it was paperwork. Even the usual joys of finding new and ridiculous euphemisms for ‘killed a bunch of assholes’ and ‘blew up a lot of shit’ were empty and useless.

The question of what kind of Jedi could possibly consider him a match dogged him all the way to Coruscant, and only got worse when he walked into the changing room with the other two candidates. One was a quiet, well-dressed Zeltron who was the most unassuming being 17 had ever laid eyes on. Short red hair, heading towards middle-age, and 100% unremarkable – he wouldn’t call them “bland,” but he wouldn’t argue the point if someone else did. The other one was an older Wookiee who sauntered in with all the trappings of an AgriCorp member, cheerfully growling observations about everything with an air of nervous excitement.

Sure, he knew the matching was probably on different quadrants, but what the hells could he have in common with these two?

The Jedi deposited on the fourth side of the table was a bit on the small side – maybe fully grown, maybe just younger but with their mature coloring. It was hard to tell with Jedi, even for someone who was good at that kind of thing.

That was not in 17’s skillset.

It was no help whatsoever that the Jedi turned towards 17 first. He felt ridiculous, stretching out his hand like he was inviting someone’s pet to take a whiff, but somehow this was worse than in training. Training meant everyone had to be there, and was going through the motions, but this –

This was the real deal. What the fuck was 17 doing, really applying to be a host?

The Jedi curled around his wrist, warmer than expected. He could feel the faint buzz in his mind of the Jedi’s mental probe – nothing that could be strong enough to read actual thoughts, but enough to give them a decent impression of 17. He had to stifle down a snicker, imagining what it might be like to feel his mind. I like fighting, blowing shit up, and doing my job. Sorry to waste your time, Jedi.

The pulse of amusement – real, and not his – was a bucket of ice down his spine. Shit. Shiiiit, he hoped that hadn’t been somehow broadcast. It probably hadn’t, but that was awkward. Meanwhile, the Jedi let out a quiet hiss, sharing some kind of emotional nudge to pass them along.

It was hard not rubbing at his wrist where the Jedi had been as the other two host-potentials went through the ritual. 17 was sure that some of the discomfort was due to being out of armor, but a quiet part of him wondered about the strange reaction anyways.

Hosting wasn’t a thing. He’d never given the faintest shit about hosting, he just wanted to be an ARC.

He was paying enough attention to do all the bowing and whatever that was called for, but it took the amused chuffing of a Wookiee to pull 17 all the way back to the matter at hand.

Literally at hand; the Jedi was back near his wrist, looking up at him with those four bright eyes and a body posture that might indicate concern.

Wait, WHAT? 17’s head jerked up, and he looked at the other two in the room. The Wookiee was grinning, while the Zeltron was hiding their amusement almost well enough that they just looked a little bored. He couldn’t help but feel that it was intentional that he could read the body language at all. 17 looked back down at the Jedi, who weh-ed at him.

“What are you doing?” 17 asked right back, because there was no way this could be happening. The Jedi scooted a little closer to him, making another hissing noise. With the continued sensation that this could not really be happening, 17 held his hand out to the Jedi.

They sauntered right onto his palm, still giving him that look. Another glance at the other host-potentials confirmed the impossible, but 17 was still slow enough lifting the Jedi that there was plenty of time for someone to declare that this was some ridiculous mistake, or prank, or something.

Nobody said anything as 17 opened his mouth and let the Jedi in. There was that feeling of movement that wasn’t (except it really was), then there was a new voice in 17’s mind.

#Hello there,# the Jedi declared. They sounded male, young, good natured. Not at all like what 17 would have expected. #I’m Obi-Wan Kenobi.#

#Well that’s a mouthful,# 17 couldn’t help but think, bemused and not quite sure what the hell was going on.

There was a sound of muffled laughter, accompanied by something not-really-a-flash to how that was a pun given how the Jedi – Kenobi – had just entered. #From a certain perspective, yes.#

17 smirked, enjoying the feel of a fellow sapient in spite of himself. #Alpha 17. ARC-17017.#

*****

It was always easy to tell the difference between Qui-Gon and Tahl. She moved with thoughtful purpose, feet planted solid on the ground and shoulders aggressively square. Jinn flowed more, confident and feline, certain of himself in a sometimes arrogant way that could piss off even the most serene being, let alone Alpha 17.

He liked and respected them both, more than he or Obi-Wan figured most people understood. He hadn’t expected that, when he’d first met the Jedi and host that were to be Obi-Wan’s – and his, in a sense – primary trainers. He’d resented that at first, not that he’d admit it. He was no youngling, for all that Obi-Wan was a shiny. Obi-Wan also had inherited memories, and since 17 was a well-trained and skilled soldier, they should be good to go in short order.

Then they had their first training session with Obi-Wan’s brand new lightsaber.

The less said about that fiasco, the better.

It took time to learn how everything fit together; 17’s blaster and fighting skills, Obi-Wan’s genuine talent for the lightsaber and acrobatics that thanks to the Force were well outside the normal bounds for a clone, and how the Force integrated with it all.

The first time 17 dodged away from a sparring partner only to reach and yank their legs out from under them, dumping them to the floor several meters away, he’d been stunned. It was one thing to know Jedi – and thus their hosts – could use the Force, it was totally another to see it in action, and it was a far different beast to do that impossibility himself.

He liked it, though. It was interesting to find there was a whole new area and styles of fighting he could apply himself to, and as always he did so with excessive diligence.

With the comforting glee inside his head of a Jedi just as eager to learn, and to fight, he no longer questioned why the hell he’d been the one to host Obi-Wan.

~end section

#star wars #our writing #star to steer by #star to steer by 2 #alpha 17 #Hugs #hugs for everyone

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julek · 4 years

Note

9 & 45 Geskel + Jaskier in some unnamed town

#9. “you really thought i was dead?” + #45. foreheads pressed together, breaths intertwining, slow, content affection.

Winter had been unforgiving.

The cold had come much earlier, the biting winds and violent blizzards making their way across the North with insistence, leaving little hope for the travelers that dared to venture the snow-covered roads. Geralt had endured his way up the path to Kaer Morhen, keeping his grip on Roach’s reins steady as he allowed his mind to wander, thinking of the months to come, finally reunited with his brothers.

Geralt knew the way up the mountain like the back of his hand. The trees and shrubs that coated the path —pines, azaleas, firs— and the small, innocuous creatures that inhabited the crevices and nooks of the forest. He’d grown used to the sight of the covered peaks of the Blue Mountains looming on the horizon, moonlight reflecting on the frozen surface of the Gwenllech.

He’d been the first to show up at the keep. Days passed, and soon enough, Lambert rode in, his stallion stomping his feet on the cobblestone. Coën followed, his cart loaded with provisions, and more importantly, Redanian wine.

The snow kept falling, unrelenting, and in the third week, Vesemir announced the pass had been covered, meaning no one would be able to go out or come in. Fear clawed at Geralt’s throat, much more palpable now with clear confirmation — Eskel wasn’t coming home.

The months passed idly by, and Geralt kept busy — repairing the roofs, going out for hunts, sparring with Lambert and Coën under Vesemir’s attentive gaze. He could sense the rest of the witchers were as uneasy as he felt —could see the look in their eyes when they sat at the table for supper, the empty chair burning at the sight— though no one uttered a word. There had been no letter, no medallion to bury, but they all knew. They were very well acquainted with the risks of the Path, how precarious a witcher’s life became once they set foot in the Continent, the perpetual recipient of human hatred. Geralt knew.

He thought they’d have more time.

As the days grew longer and flowers started blooming, Geralt left the keep. He hugged his brothers goodbye, maybe held them a little tighter than before, nodded to Vesemir, and led Roach out of the grounds. He moved down south, deep into Kaedwen, walking the path he knew so well. It was as inviting as it’d been every spring, greeting him with bright colors and days full of sunshine, but Geralt felt different. His world had shifted, tilted off its axis, his sight askew and suddenly colorblind, his intent wavering.

Geralt ran into Jaskier in Murivel, summer looming close. The bard had had a terrible winter in Oxenfurt, and for a second, Geralt was glad he hadn’t been the only one. They moved along the Pontar, Geralt chasing after monsters and Jaskier chasing after him, falling into their usual rhythm. He couldn’t bring himself to talk about Eskel, even though he knew he could trust Jaskier — hurt wrapped itself around his stomach and smothered his lungs, leaving him gasping for air.

Some days, the winds would carry the faintest scent of magic mixed with smoke, and Geralt would stop dead in his tracks, waiting to see Eskel emerge from the forest, his scar twisted by a grin and his armor intact. Safe. He’d roam the woods at night while Jaskier slept soundly on his bedroll, looking. What for, he wasn’t sure — a body? A sign?

“How do witchers deal with death?” Jaskier asked him one afternoon, quill in hand. “I promise it’s not for a song.”

Geralt shrugged, his amber eyes somber even in the sunlight. He didn’t answer for a while, carefully thinking about it.

“We’re not… we’re not usually together, when one of our kind dies.” He frowned. “We’re lucky if we even get confirmation that they’re dead.”

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier said, sincerity burning through cornflower blue. “You don’t even get a chance to say goodbye.”

Geralt shook his head, pressing a hand to his forehead, feeling the knot on his throat tighten.

“Our medallions are buried when we pass,” he said after a while. “It’s the only time we go home, I guess.”

It was a half-truth at best, but it was all Geralt had to offer. Jaskier nodded almost knowingly and turned back to his lute, but Geralt could smell the faint scent of sadness lingering on the bard. He said nothing, half-fearing he’d try to comfort him with empty words only meant for himself. How could he reassure Jaskier that it was just the way things were for witchers, that it was rooted in years of discipline, and endurance, and tradition, when he couldn’t believe it himself?

They moved on as they were wont to do, passing through Ellander and Hagge, avoiding the fork in the road that led to Vengerberg. Jaskier filled the days with his chatter and music, still singing of Geralt’s feats and heroics at any tavern he could find, Geralt’s eyes trailing after red gambesons, disappointed when their owners turned around, no carved medallion on their chests.

“Thank you, my good men and women, for listening to my tales!” he heard Jaskier exclaim from his corner in the tavern, “Please, direct your applause to my muse, Geralt of Rivia!”

The patrons turned around, their eyes bright and their cheeks flushed with ale, and cheered at him with genuine enthusiasm. He raised his tankard at them, and went back to keeping out of sight—brooding, as Jaskier liked to call it—while the bard finished gathering his things.

Geralt swirled his watered-down ale in his cup, the rain pattering hard against the window. He remained seated, watching Jaskier flirt his way through the tavern, an oddly comforting sight. He enjoyed nights like these, easy and undemanding, where he could just sit with his thoughts, a pastime severely frowned upon by Vesemir.

He let his mind wander, inevitably reaching his fondest memories, the few he prized the most. He and Eskel sharing a bowl of stew, sitting on the furs he’d pulled down from his bed, in front of the hearth. Eskel on hen duty, stubbornly letting the coop door ajar, then chasing all of the chicken across the courtyard as Geralt laughed and refused to help. Long, cold winter nights, legs intertwined under the blankets, Geralt’s head resting on Eskel’s collarbone. Whispered secrets, stolen kisses, yearning glances.

He thought they’d have more time.

“Does my singing bore you that much, witcher?”

Geralt opened his eyes, Jaskier coming into view. His lips were curled into an easy grin, his sweaty hair sticking to his forehead. He was holding two tankards of ale, and passed one to Geralt.

“What’s on your mind?” he asked quietly, meeting Geralt’s eyes.

Geralt wrinkled his nose slightly, looking away. The creases of his forehead were deeply set into his skin, the lines under his eyes more prominent now. Feeling Jaskier’s eyes on him, Geralt hummed a reply.

“I’m exhausted,” Jaskier said after a moment, leaning his arms on the table. “Think I’m gonna call it an early night. Feel free to stay down, though.”

Geralt nodded, sipping at his ale. He’d probably have some more to drink, before falling into another night of restless sleep.

His eyes followed Jaskier’s figure climbing up the stairs, a force of habit. Slumping in his seat, his back to the door, Geralt watched the tavern. The barmaids moved diligently with trays, mugs, and plates, making their way across the floors. He could hear the faint sounds of a heated argument between the cook and the barkeep, could see a young couple sharing a meal in the dim candlelight, their eyes glowing with infatuation and the promise of a life together, waiting ahead of them.

Geralt rolled his eyes at the sight, his ale suddenly tasting bitter. He heard the tavern door swing open, the wind howling outside, and a strong scent filled his senses. Smoke and spices —rosemary and basil— and the kind of oil Geralt used on his blades. There was an underlying scent Geralt couldn’t quite pick up on, something that barely scratched the surface.

Turning around, Geralt was met with broad shoulders sporting a deep oxblood gambeson with crisscrossed yellow stitchings, spikes covering the pads of his armor. Dark hair fell in curtains on his face, the scar on his side a dark maroon in the firelight as he gesticulated wildly, bargaining with the innkeeper.

Geralt remained still, his hand frozen on his tankard, as he closed his eyes, his mouth twisted into a pained grimace. He felt the man move closer, his scent becoming stronger, making the tip of his tongue tingle. Geralt placed his hand on his medallion and felt it vibrate faintly.

Magic.

“The Great White Wolf, napping in some shitty tavern in the middle of nowhere,” a deep, quiet voice rumbled. “Whatever would Vesemir say.”

Geralt opened his eyes, expecting to stare into emptiness, like many countless times he’d drunk himself into oblivion. Instead, he found a curious amber gaze looking down at him, brows arched.

“Eskel,” he breathed.

Before he knew it, Geralt was standing tall, arms wrapped around Eskel. He found the nook of his neck, just below his jaw, and breathed in deeply, his scent impregnating Geralt’s senses. His body felt warm, enveloped in the first rays of sunlight after a cold, dark winter. He felt safe.

After a moment, he pulled back, pressing his forehead against Eskel’s, his hands on each side of his face. They breathed in slowly, looking into each other’s eyes, and a choked noise escaped Geralt’s throat, betraying his composure. He buried his face in Eskel’s shoulder, his breath unsteady and his eyes stinging. He couldn’t bear to look at his face, not after months of convincing himself that death had finally ripped him away from his heart.

“You really thought I was dead?” he heard Eskel murmur, his lips pressed against his temple.

Geralt said nothing, doubting his voice wouldn’t falter. Instead, he held Eskel tighter, pressed all his love into his hands, hoping he’d feel it, too. He’d try using his words later, when they were lying down, knees pressed together, Geralt murmuring against Eskel’s collarbone, the firelight illuminating his medallion, unburied.

They had all the time in the world.

#hope you like it!!! sorry this took ages #mywriting #geralt/eskel #geskel #geralt of rivia #eskel witcher #permanently-exhausted-witcher #answered

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thoughtsonhurtandcomfort · 3 years

Text

12C

Synopsis: A janitor at a research facility is just doing her job when she comes across a type of test subject she didn’t expect.

Content Warnings: immortal whumpee, lady whumpee, nudity mention (non-sexual), captivity, lab experiment, implied torture for science, cuts, lacerations, blood

Author’s Notes: no idea where this came from. It features my immortal lady Emmeline~ and a new character, apparently. Liv is short for Olive and she will never forgive her parents for that. But also, according to the internet, “Liv is a Nordic female given name derived from the Old Norse "hlíf", which means "shelter" or "protection”. Maybe I’ll do more with her, maybe not. Anyway, enjoy!

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After two years working as a janitor on the three upper levels of the research facility, Liv finally got promoted. Promoted meant the night shift, which she preferred. The fewer people around, the better. It meant a pay increase and better benefit options, too.

It also meant being trusted to work the highly classified basement level. The secured area where the facilities’ most important projects take place. The one accessible by only a single elevator which requires an ID badge, a fingerprint and a retinal scan to board. She had to sign so many confidentiality forms she lost count.

Liv has no particular interest in the work the company does. She is happy to pop in her earbuds and lose herself in the comforting act of wiping away the day’s residue.

It’s Monday evening, the first day of her new shift. All but a few stragglers and security guards have left for the day. It’s quiet and calm. Liv loves it already.

The basement is laid out in a T-shape of three long hallways, each branching off into a myriad of lab rooms. The first hall of rooms on her list she must clean under supervision. This, they tell her, is for her own safety. Highly volatile test subjects, was how they put it. Two security guards stand watch as she mops, wipes down surfaces, collects used instruments and dirty linens, in the rooms of unconscious or heavily drugged...subjects.

Liv can’t make all of them out; some are in shadowy corners, or cages or tanks. Some are fully or partially covered by sheets. What she does glimpse is barely human, or not human at all. This doesn’t necessarily surprise her; she knew from the beginning that the facility does a lot of important work using many species. Research of Some to Further The Wellbeing of All was the slogan plastered on the elevator doors on the way down. Until now she had never laid eyes on the ‘some’ in question. Curious as she is, she remembers the stack of papers she signed and minds her own business.

In the second and third hallways she is on her own. There is a single guard at the end of each hall, security cameras line the ceilings, and she has a radio she can use if she needs it.

She doubts she will, though. The second hall is terminated and inoperative subjects. This, she learns, is a fancy way of putting ‘dead or getting there’. It may as well be a morgue. Fortunately for Liv, and part of the reason she got this job: she has worked cleaning in hospitals and funeral homes. She has a strong stomach, and the presence of the dead does not bother her.

The third and final hall contains innocuous or docile subjects and has a threat level of mild to none. Its rooms include a humanoid aquatic creature floating in a tube-shaped tank connected to tubes, a sleeping bird-like creature in a hanging cage, and a room full of interconnected boxes with scratching and scurrying sounds from inside.

As instructed, she taps softly on each door and then enters slowly, so as not to startle or disturb the subjects. It goes as smoothly as the second hallway did. As her shift nears its end, she approaches one of the final rooms in the hall.

Liv taps on the door, waits a moment, unlocks it and enters, pulling her cart behind her.

Once the door clicks shut, she is met with two sounds. One is the occasional beeps and blips of a machine hooked up to the subject on the table at the center of the room.

The other is breathing. Slow, labored breathing.

The room is nearly pitch black, and Liv has to turn on at least some lights if she’s going to do her job. Still, mindful of the subject, she feels around for the dial on the wall and chooses the dimmest setting. Small lights across the ceiling cast a pale, eerie glow over the equipment, the machine, and the table.

When Liv turns back to the room, her breath catches in her throat.

Lying on the metal table is what appears to be a young woman about her age. She is held down by metal cuffs around her wrists and ankles and one metal strap across her stomach. Apart from a sheet draped over her hips and upper thighs, she is completely naked. Because of this, there is nothing to hide the nothing-out-of-the-ordinary about her. Unlike every other subject Liv has encountered, this one looks entirely human. But then, she thinks, what do I know? I’m just here to clean up the mess.

And there certainly is a mess. A rack of bloody utensils, a pile of bloodied sheets and towels, and even blood on the floor beneath the table.

There is no question as to the source of it. The body of the subject lying on the table is covered from head to toe in cuts. Some small and thin, others longer, some wide enough to be considered gashes, scattered about her in no discernable pattern. The worst of them litter her torso before fading across her arms and legs, and there are even a few on her face. Some still bleed sluggishly while others have stopped. Barely any skin is left unstained.

The ragged breaths continue. In, out. In, out. Slow and stuttering. Each inhale shifts the torn skin while each exhale comes out in a shaky puff. Occasionally she will flinch or moan.

Somehow none of this is the most unsettling thing. No, the most unsettling part of all of this, is that when Liv entered the room, the subject’s eyes opened. And now she is looking right at her.

Feeling pinned by the sorrowful gaze of the uncomfortably human-like subject, Liv grabs for her clipboard and flips through until she gets to the room she’s in. The information they gave her is sparse; only enough for her to have an idea what to expect and little more. She skims over the page.

12C - humanoid, self-healing, death-resistant Sex: Female Age: ? Place of Origin: ? Trial week: 17 Notes: Generally calm and harmless. Speaks English. Clean surrounding areas, collect tools, linens, waste. Do not disrupt bed or machinery.

Liv glances up. It’s a stretch to call the metal slab beneath the subject a bed, but okay. She looks back down and finds no further notes. She sighs and tries to regain her bearings. This is no different than any other room. You’re almost done for the night. Just get it over with.

She pulls on gloves and shovels the bloody pile of cloth into a bin. The waste goes in a separate bin marked with a hazardous waste warning. The tools go into a third full of water, to be brought upstairs and thoroughly sanitized. She wipes down the equipment table and anything else that isn’t the machine or the bed.

All of it would be much easier without the soft, pained sounds of the subject. It takes considerable willpower not to keep looking at her. She can feel the subject’s eyes on her, and it’s unnerving. She feels the urge to snap at her to stop it and go to sleep, but that seems harsh. She may not be much of a people person, but she isn’t cruel.

Almost done, Liv tells herself. She begins mopping. The area requiring the most attention, and the one she wants to get far away from, is the floor beneath the table itself, so she starts there. In her hurry, the handle of the mop bumps the table, jostling the subject. The young woman draws in a sharp gasp.

“Sorry,” Liv says automatically, without thinking. She freezes. She isn’t supposed to acknowledge the subjects, let alone speak to them. It takes remembering that the cameras are video only to calm her nerves. It’s fine. Everything is fine.

The subject’s breathing calms and she once again fixes her gaze on Liv. Liv frowns and, figuring if no one can hear her there’s no harm, asks the first question on her mind.

“It says on the paper you’re self-healing. So why don’t you, uh,” she motions over the clearly painful wounds that cover the subject’s body. “You know. Self-heal?”

The subject stares at her, clearly surprised at being addressed. She blinks slowly. She looks tired, Liv realizes. Tired and, if she’s being honest, unwell. Her face is flushed with fever and heat radiates from her skin. Up this close, Liv can even see tear tracks down her temples, disappearing into her hair. It stirs something uncomfortable inside of her.

Slowly, the subject turns her gaze towards the machine. Two electrodes, one on her head and one over her heart, connect to it with wires. Lower down, there is an IV in her arm, connected to a bag hanging from a hook on the machine.

Whatever is in the bag, Liv reasons, must be what is keeping her from healing. From the looks of the subject, it doesn’t contain much if anything in the way of anaesthetic.

That uncomfortable feeling stirs again. There must be a reasoning for this. A logical explanation to cut someone up and then leave them to suffer. Liv mind races to find meaning in it. A creature or - or person - who can heal themself would be a medical miracle. It could produce cures and solutions to all manner of ailments…

Liv meets the subject’s eyes. Glazed with pain, defeated. Trial week: 17. That’s just over four months. Has every day of that time been like this? Liv feels sick at the thought.

None of my business. Just finish the work.

She turns away sharply and continues her mopping. The subject seems to take the hint; the next time Liv glances over at her, her eyes are closed, though she seems to be in too much pain to fall asleep. Her breath hitches and her body trembles.

As Liv makes her way through the room, her eyes land on the outlet where the machine is plugged in, and an absurd, reckless thought enters her mind.

Don’t do it. Do you want to get fired? Or worse?

From the table the subject whimpers and twitches up against her restraints briefly. “Hahh…”

…fuck it.

Liv makes no sudden moves, no obvious gestures. She continues mopping, approaching the plug inch by inch. Though turned off, her headphones are in, and she nods her head a little so it appears as though she’s listening to music.

It takes a few subtle but targeted nudges of the mop handle to bump the plug loose from the socket. Not all the way out. That would be much too difficult to pass off as an accident. But enough regardless. The machine powers down, its beeps cut off abruptly.

Liv continues mopping as though nothing has happened, stepping over the cord and continuing past it. The subject is still breathing raggedly and Liv begins to worry that she was entirely wrong about the purpose of the IV. What if it was providing some pain relief, and she just took that away?

With the floor complete, Liv returns to her cart to wring out and put away the mop. Only then does she hazard a glance at the table.

The subject’s breathing is starting to calm. That’s a good sign, right? Her eyes are open again, too.

Then, for just a moment, pain crosses the subject’s face, and Liv is convinced she’s done something horribly wrong, made everything worse…

Then, a cut across the subject’s cheek slowly knits itself up as though it was never there.

Liv is fascinated. She wants to watch more than anything. But it’s too big a risk, to be caught on camera seeing what her own "accident” has done. She quickly pushes the cart towards the door and stands there with her clipboard, checking off her to-do list.

From the table the subject squirms and moans, but soon a moan turns into what sounds like a sigh of relief. Liv swears she hears a tearful, whispered, “oh, thank god…”

“12C, all done,” she says aloud to herself, eyes fixed to the clipboard no matter how badly she wants to look. She makes a show of making sure everything is on the cart before unlocking and opening the door.

As she is guiding the cart ahead of her through the doorway, she hears another whisper. This time, it is unmistakable. Liv freezes, her hands on the cart’s handle, her back to the room.

“Emmeline,” comes the soft, weary voice. “Not...12C...Emmeline…”

Heart racing, Liv steps out quickly and lets the door slam behind her. She locks it, turns away and doesn’t look back.

----

Additional Author’s Note: By the way, I hope it didn’t come across as like...she doesn’t have any sympathy for the less humanlike test subjects? I think Emmeline’s humanity helps for sure, but also until she comes across her room, all her other observations were of subjects that are yeah in captivity but otherwise not mistreated. Maybe she even thinks they’re being helped. It isn’t until she sees the condition Emmeline is in that she considers there is harm being done. There is probably still a certain level of apathy, but if I write more that will start to go away.

#immortal whump #lady whump #captivity #lab experiment #immortality #healing factor #cuts #gashes #lacerations #blood #nudity #whump #whump writing #my writing #my ocs #emmeline #liv #olive

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waveypedia · 3 years

Text

geez, you’re something to see

Rymin Week Day 2: Love Song

1 4 5 6 7

Ao3

tw for a small amount of implied homophobia and miscommunication

As the late afternoon sun pours in through the van’s windows, Ryan scribbles frantically on the piece of paper spread on the dashboard in front of him.

He’s crouched on the driver’s seat, the heels of his feet digging into the back of the chair. It’s not the most comfortable position, but after a long day of driving, Ryan can’t stand to stay sitting like he was the whole day. Besides, he needs to focus on the task at hand. On the paper, so innocuous and unassuming, that consumes his waking thoughts.

It’s creased and crumpled from days of hiding it away as fast as possible whenever Min comes in the vicinity (which is often, given how small the van is). But now that Min is away, out fetching his and Ryan’s dinners, the paper lays pressed open painstakingly.

I’ll rewrite it to look nice once I’m done, Ryan promises himself. Min will like it better that way.

That begs the terrifying question of whether Min will like it at all.

Ryan drags a hand through his messy hair, tugging on the ends. It’s growing out much more smoothly since Min started trimming it every month or so. Ryan pretends to complain that it ruins his rough-and-rugged rockstar look. But in truth he’d sacrifice much more to keep those nights where Min sits behind him, so close Ryan can feel Min’s breath on his neck. Ryan can’t lose the nights where Min cards his hands through Ryan’s hair oh-so-gently. He can’t lose the nights where Min holds his hair like he’s holding something valuable, instead of strands of hair his family members would disapprove of in length, rife in split ends. Ryan revels in the closeness, the domesticity, of it all far more than he should.

Ryan takes a deep breath and shakes himself out of it. Now is not the time to zone off, to find himself lost in his daydreams of Min (though heaven knows he’s good at getting off track - his parents had been sure he knew). Back to the task at hand.

Ryan picks up the pen he’d subconsciously lost when he started dreaming of Min (again). He twirls it. He caps and uncaps it. He taps it against the wheel.

Nothing new comes to mind. Of course.

Ryan’s never had this much trouble with songwriting before! As he’s famously said before (read: Min constantly teases him about), “You just gotta make it rhyme.” Out of the duo, he’s always been the songwriter of the two, although, like in every aspect of the band, they do their best work when they’re collaborating contributing equally. Hell, he’s been writing songs since he was five. (Whether the lyrics consisted of simply “I’m gonna dress my dog in a toque / I’m gonna dress my cat in a toque” is irrelevant.) Regardless of how nonsensical and wacky his lyrics can be at times, Ryan Akagi is an experienced songwriter with a touring band playing songs he composed for small to medium venues. Writing one single song should not be this hard.

Except he knows exactly why this particular song comes so difficult. While Ryan would never dream of putting anything less than his all into all of the music he writes for Chicken Choice Judy or even just Gage, he’s never held them to the same literary standard. Ryan’s performative music is wild and free, just like himself. It’s his way of expressing himself, of quite literally putting everything he has out into the world and letting it run free.

While Ryan and Min have both been consciously working to reach a middle ground since they got off the train, Min has always been the more reserved of the two. Ryan knows he can’t give Min the same unrestrained beauty in chaos he puts into his band. If Min’s been trying not to limit himself as much, Ryan can compromise. This is his way of not letting himself go so far he’ll leave Min in the dust.

This song is all about being honest with Min, after all. Miscommunication has always been their greatest enemy, and Ryan is loath to fall into the same trap yet again. Past issues aside, Min just… deserves to know. It’s too big of a secret to keep to himself. Ryan is many things but he isn’t a secret-keeper. Not when it comes to big issues.

He just needs to tell Min. It doesn’t matter how it’s received. He just needs to let him know.

It doesn’t matter.

Ryan lets out a frustrated groan, dropping the pen again to tug at his hair. If it’s not already messy, it’ll be positively cluttered by the time he’s finished. His mother would have a field day if she saw him like this.

The door handle jiggles.

Ryan’s head snaps up. He’d been completely caught up in writing (or more accurately, thinking about writing) he hadn’t noticed Min walking back to the car.

Through the window, Min waves sheepishly and holds up a bag of food. Ryan leans over the second seat to let him in.

Min slides inside and sets the bag in the space between the two seats. “Sorry about that,” he says, scratching bashfully at his beck with his free hand. “I forgot my keys.”

Ryan smiles mechanically, waving him off, and shoves the paper into the pocket of his leather jacket. At this rate it’ll be creased beyond recognition by the time he’s finished, even by his own standards. “It’s fine. I do that all the time.”

He will definitely need to rewrite it in a nicer script when he’s done.

(That is to say, if he ever feels confident enough in his work to call it done. Ryan’s sister had called Min a “perfectionist” once, citing his need to keep working on their school projects right up until the deadline because he never felt satisfied. Ryan didn’t understand the sentiment until now.)

Min gives him a curious glance, but says nothing otherwise. He’s likely written it off as just one of Ryan’s quirks. “Yeah, well.” He unhooks his keys, complete with the Dumpy keychain from his days before the train, from the dashboard and tucks them safely in his pocket. “It won’t happen again, I promise.”

Ryan frowns at him. “Min, it’s fine. I know it’s not something you usually do, but everyone messes up sometimes.”

“Yeah.” Min digs around in the bag for their meals, avoiding his gaze. “Right.”

“Are you okay?” Ryan asks, slightly worried. For a minute, all thoughts of the paper burning a hole in his pocket are forgotten in lieu of caring for his best friend. “You’re acting weird, man.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.” Min slips his hand into his pocket, but pulls it back out empty-handed after a minute. Odd.

They eat in silence for a couple minutes. Without the distraction of talking to Min or worrying about Min (although he’s doing plenty of that, don’t worry), Ryan is right back to worrying about his love song.

Well, it’s a good thing Min seems so nervous tonight. Unless he asks outright, Ryan has an excuse not to give him the love song tonight. He won’t add stress to… whatever has Min so worried (and Ryan, by extension).

“So…” Min fists his hands in the fabric of his shorts as if he’s nervous, except that can’t be right, because he has no cause to be nervous. Ryan is the nervous one here, obviously. Except it’s not obvious, because Min can’t know.

Min glances at Ryan, biting his lower lip. “Have you written any new songs lately?”

Ryan chokes and fumbles with his food, nearly spilling it. He knows. He knows. He knows. How could he possibly know?!

Well. It looks like he asked outright after all. Only one thing to do now, no matter how much Ryan would rather dump his food onto the seat, ruining the upholstery beyond what he and Min can pay for cleaning, and run away into the night. Never to be seen again, leaving behind only his precious guitar, van, and a confused friend.

As dramatic as Ryan is, that’s unfortunately out of the question. He wouldn’t do that to Min.

“Min, I…” Well, Ryan is a man of his word. He knows all too well how badly a lack of communication has messed them up before. He can’t keep this secret any longer.

With shaking hands, Ryan pulls the crumpled ball of paper out of his pocket and presents it to Min in a gesture that he hopes is put-together and elegant but is likely more akin to shoving it ungracefully in Min’s face. “Here.”

Min’s face had been glazed over with a sort of set determination, but that mask shatters as soon as he notices the paper. He blinks, mouth slightly agape, hands hovering near his own pocket. “O-oh. Um. Thank you, Ryan. I bet this’ll be totally rad.”

Slowly, as if unsure or confused (or maybe even disappointed? Oh man, that can’t be it, can it? Ryan’s fully prepared for Min’s disappointment, hell, he’s had the same experience with his parents, but Min doesn’t even know the context of his lyrics yet), Min takes the paper and unfolds it.

Time seems to pass much slower than normal, seconds sludging by, as Min reads the lyrics. Ryan tracks his eyes darting across the paper, his mouth opening wider and closing again as he reads and processes the meaning behind Ryan’s grand gesture.

Ryan twists his fingers together. It hurts, but not as much as watching Min read his writing. “Sorry it’s so messy. I was going to rewrite it when I was done, but…”

“Ryan.” Ryan’s mouth snaps shut as soon as Min speaks, and he jerks his head up. Min is staring at him as if he’s a new person, in a new light. “Is this… a love song?”

Ryan nods mutely, his heart pounding in his chest like the drums of an established rock band at a sold-out concert.

Min takes a deep breath. “For… me?”

Ryan nods again, sharp and jerky.

Min stares, frozen in shock, for a moment before bursting out laughing.

Ryan chokes, surprised, and whips his head away. He curls up (or as much as he can manage while sitting in the driver’s seat of his van), pressing his side against the seat and fisting his hands in the seam of his jacket.

He’d been prepared for a negative response, but deep in his heart he hadn’t expected Min to react this badly. Even after his parents had reacted worse.

Of course.

“Ryan,” Min chokes out between peals of laughter. “Ryan, Ryan, oh man. I’m not laughing at you, I promise.”

Ryan turns around slowly, hesitantly. Hope is already building in his chest before he’s even processed Min’s words.

When Min comes into his sight again, Ryan can barely meet his eyes before a piece of paper is thrust into his face. Puzzled, Ryan takes it and reads it over.

It’s… a love song.

It’s a love song, penned in Min’s neat handwriting, with classical notation instead of chords because Min learned music through his viola teacher and not as a self-taught guitarist like Ryan. Min was worried it would be a problem when they started collaborating, but their combined skills in multiple disciples has become one of their greatest assets as a musical group.

But Ryan can’t focus on the notes, however beautiful they may be, because the lyrics are telling a story he’s only dared to fantasize about in his wildest dreams.

“Sorry for laughing,” Min says, still chuckling quietly. “I just… I was trying to create a natural segue into giving this to you, and I… Wow. We’re idiots, aren’t we.”

Ryan doesn’t realize he’s crying until a teardrop lands on Min’s songsheet. He wipes it away and starts to giggle. “Yeah. We are.” He glances up, meeting Min’s eye for the first time since this whole debacle and gives him a wide, teary smile. “But I wouldn’t have it any other way. I don’t think we’d be us if we didn’t pull some convoluted scheme to get our feelings out. Y’know, seeing as it took getting kidnapped by a magical death train the first time.”

Min snorts and rubs at his eyes. “Don’t remind me.” He crawls across the middle of the van and curls up next to Ryan, wrapping his arm around him. “So, are we good?”

Ryan lets out a wet laugh. “Oh man, we’re better than good. Do you have any idea how long I’ve been hoping for this?”

“Not as long as me,” Min says, grinning mischievously. “I’ve been pining since high school. Take that!”

Ryan lets his head drop onto Min’s shoulder, relishing in the affectionate closeness and warmth of him. “Man, we were such repressed nerds in high school, huh?”

“Yeah, maybe so.” Min leans his head against Ryan’s, chuckling softly. “I’m glad we’re okay now, though.”

“Me too, dude.” Ryan lets out a contented sigh. He still can’t quite believe they’ve gotten here, after all that worrying and stressing over every little detail. “Me too.”

They stayed like that for a little while, half-eaten plates of food forgotten in the back of the van. Through the open windows, the sunset lights up the sky in a fiery glow, with colors gradually shifting from pink to fiery red to deep blue.

Min hums contemplatively. “So, what now? Should we perform these onstage or what?”

Ryan toys with the paper between his fingers, absentmindedly tearing off a corner. “No, I think… I think these should be kept between us.”

“I agree,” Min says, intertwining his fingers with Ryan’s. Ryan’s heart leaps into his throat, and he’s sure his face is burning up.

“I think it would be nice if we… if we maybe wrote a love song together,” Ryan says, a little nervous.

Min smiles. “I’d like that too.”

day 2 is in the books! this one is half me projecting my experience with writer's block while writing this fic and half exploring the love they feel about each other. in their own words, what repressed nerds. love them

a whole lotta headcanons in this one c:

i didn't mean to bring sunsets back again, even for just a small detail, but i guess it's a rymin motif now. maybe i'll try to stick it in the rest of my rymin week pieces, but i won't try to shoehorn it in if it feels unnatural. god i love sunsets this is just more projection isn't it.

title is from home by edward sharpe and the magnetic zeroes! this song, just like its title implies, feels like home. it was a stigma of the songleading group i was in at camp a few years ago so it's very special to me. i'm happy to pass its lyrics on to rymin and give it a new significance for me personally!

i've been really enjoying all the rymin week content so far! good job, everyone! it's so nice to see everyone come together in support of these lovely characters

if you ever wanna talk infinity train, writing, these amazing characters, or really anything hmu here on my tumblr or my twitter! thank you for reading, and please leave a like/reblog/comment if you enjoyed it!

@ryminweek

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thevioletjones · 3 years

Note

I’d love to see you tackle 5 or 44! Congrats on the Kudos!

Thank you! 5 was included previously, so just 44. 🙂 This one is explicit, FYI.

Prompt 5: “I still remember the way you taste.”

Cell Date

Getting smart about how he acted behind bars was really starting to pay off for Mickey. Not only was he staying out of trouble so that he’d have a chance of making early parole, he was also forging advantageous relationships, mostly with the guards and the old-timers that liked to do good deeds like helping other inmates get an education or decent legal representation.

Little things like that, plus abstaining from shanking for pay or cold-cocking bitches who got mouthy, were making this Mickey’s most pleasant and drama-free stint in prison since his unceremonious induction into juvie ten years previous.

Along with his cooperation and best behavior came some quality perks: first pick of audiobooks from the dude he helped in the library; extra jello, pudding, and french fries from that dude’s kitchen husband; extended yard and gym time when the guard he had people doing favors for on the outside was on duty; and the holy grail, his very own recently acquired smartphone, which he could keep with him in his cell whenever the right people were working, and otherwise stow with a friend when sweep checks were imminent. All he had to do to get safekeeping was provide phone privilege favors. Gave him an extra source of income too, when he sold video call time to inmates on the side.

Tonight, though, he was finally gonna have the damn cell to himself all night long. His bunkmate had just been released, no one else had been assigned to his bed yet, and the overnight guard was a friendly. That meant that at long last, he’d be able to have some kind of sexual escapade with his boyfriend for the first time since he’d gotten locked up nine months ago. As a bonus, they could maybe stay up shooting the shit too. But really, Mickey was horny as hell, and he imagined that Ian was too.

They had a kind of ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ policy when it came to banging other people while they were apart, but as a rule, they weren’t allowed to do it more than once a month, or with the same guy twice, blowjobs included. That meant a lot of lonely masturbation sessions on both sides of the prison walls.

It was cruel that the only relief they could get from each other was by proxy of their own hands anyway, but at least now they’d be able to watch each other and egg each other on. It wasn’t the most ideal situation ever, but it was way better than having to stick to innocuous topics on the prison landlines that ran out at the ten minute mark.

This was going to be a treat.

He waited ’til 30 minutes past lights out just to be sure the coast was clear, counting down the minutes like a fucking schoolgirl waiting to make an illicit phone call after her parents fell asleep. As soon as the digital display hit 9:30, he was eagerly punching in the memorized number, smirking as he selected the video option.

He actually felt nervous as it rang, irrationally worried that Ian would be indisposed despite their agreed upon time and date. It took almost four whole rings before the display lit up, and a buffering vision of Ian appeared.

Mickey’s smile couldn’t help but mirror the cheerful redhead’s, and it only widened when he heard his deep, familiar voice.

“Hey, Mick.”

“Gallagher,” he replied softly and full of affection.

“I can barely see you,” Ian said with a chuckle. “That's not really fair.”

“Oh, shit, yeah. Forgot. Hang on.”

He’d managed to get his hands on a clip-on reading light through the library contraband network, so it would have to do. He dug it out from the hole in his thin-ass mattress pad and clipped it to the bar of the lower bunk, angling it toward his face and flipping it on. It wasn’t exactly super-bright, but it was good enough.

“Happy now? This is the best I could do on the after-hours lighting.”

“Yeah, I am. You look good.”

“Shut the fuck up. You look way better. Like a free man.”

Ian ran a hand through his hair, and Mickey wished it were his hand. “It is a nifty advantage, but it’d be a lot better if you were next to me.”

“Yeah, no shit. I’m getting the rawer deal here.”

“Who’s fault is that?” Ian challenged with a raised brow.

Mickey licked his lips, humming. “Didn’t realize the purpose of this call was to get on my ass about gettin’ locked up. Thought we already did that fun routine.”

Ian sighed. “You’re right, I’m sorry. I just miss you.”

“I’m doin’ what I can, gingerbread. Might get lucky in the next few months. Been playin’ the game all nice like. No demerits on my scorecard.”

“I appreciate that. You know I’ll be waiting.”

“Mm.”

“So… what’s new?”

Mickey laughed. “You want me to recount the thrilling tales of the jailbird jerk-offs? How would that be interesting or entertaining?”

“I’m pretty sure you witness more random acts of weirdness than I do everyday. You want me to talk about my job and coworkers, or my niece and nephew? I’m sure you’re dying to know on all counts.”

“Yeah, you got me figured out, Gallagher. That’s exactly why I wanted this dimly lit video call with your pale ass.”

Ian snickered. “Is this the part where we jump straight to the sex?”

Mickey shrugged and scratched his balls. “I mean, if we were in person without that fuckin’ glass between us, we woulda already been bangin’ by now.”

“Can’t argue with that.”

“So?”

“What?”

“Show me your dick.”

Ian snorted, and it was nice to see him laugh unrestrainedly. They usually didn’t do too much laughing during his visits.

“It’s not hard yet.”

“Well, what the fuck you waitin’ for? Shoulda started before I called.”

“God, Mick, you really know how to romance a guy on his first date in nearly a year.”

“If this is a date, you got a really low bar, man.”

“Haven’t I always?”

“‘Ey! Fuck you.”

Ian laughed again and it made Mickey smile wide. He was gonna get addicted to these phone interludes, he could tell.

“Which reminds me… I expect you to take me out a few times when you get sprung, Milkovich. Restaurants, clubs, movies, the works.”

Mickey rolled his eyes. “Exactly how many acts of penance are on your little atonement list?”

“As many as I want. You got a problem with that?”

“You know I didn’t get locked up on purpose, right? Cuz I think you maybe don’t know that.”

“I think that I want you to stop putting yourself in situations where one of the possible outcomes is getting locked up. Cuz then we’re forced to resort to one sad long-distance video wank every nine months, which kinda fuckin’ blows, and not in the good way.”

“First of all, as long as I don’t get this shit confiscated by one of the asshole guards, we can keep doin’ this pretty regularly. Secondly, we haven’t even gotten to the wank part yet, so don’t call it sad. Also, is sex all that matters to you?”

“Says the guy who just told me to shut up and get my dick out.”

“Like you said, it’s been a long time.”

“And I’ve already told you that I miss you and want you beside me. I thought you wanted your dick stroked, not your ego.”

“Good one,” said Mickey, reaching down to fondle himself. “So how we gonna do this?”

“The only way we can, I guess.”

“Fine. Do I get to ask you to start touching yourself now?”

Ian giggled. “Yeah, yeah, let’s get it over with.”

“What kind of attitude is that? Get the hell on board or this ain’t gonna work.”

“Calm down and get your cock hard, convict boy.”

Mickey didn’t need to be told twice. He slipped his hand under the waistband of his boxers, rubbing and squeezing gently.

“You gonna give me somethin’ to look at or what?”

“Gimme a minute, fool. It’s not gonna be very pretty in its current state.”

They both went non-verbal for a while as their arms started working, the only sounds being stray gasps, rustling noises, and slick skin against skin.

“‘Kay,” urged Mickey, “lemme see it.”

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

“Fine, just flip the camera.”

Mickey pressed around and activated the rear camera with flash, licking his lips when the screen filled with Ian’s lower half, hand jerking his big dick in that perfect rhythm he remembered so well. It forced out a moan before he could catch himself.

“Mick,” Ian whispered, and he suddenly missed the feel of his boyfriend’s breath blowing hot against his skin as they fucked. And that just reminded him of the way he’d nip and lick at Mickey’s neck, or pinch his nipples at just the right time.

“Ian,” he groaned, his strokes getting faster and more deliberate now that he was fully hard. “Miss you.”

And that was definitely the lamest shit to say when you were supposed to be talking dirty for the purposes of video sex, but it’s what came out of his mouth on account of all the memories surfacing, coupled with the regret of not being able to put his hands on Ian or have Ian’s hands put on him.

Mickey had never wanted to suck a dick so badly in his entire life, simply because he was being denied the opportunity. He’d almost forgotten how delicious Ian’s cock really was. It could wreck him all night long, or Mickey could worship it a little on his hands and knees when the urge overcame him. He wanted it in him one way or the other. Keeping him away from it was cruel and unusual punishment.

“Wanna fuck you, Mick.” Ian was still using this soft, breathy voice that was making him crazy. “Wanna see your ass.”

Mickey’s hand faltered for a moment as he snickered. “How the fuck am I supposed to get you that camera angle right now, genius?”

“You really didn’t think this through enough first,” chided Ian.

“Suck my dick, Gallagher.”

“Mmm, I’d love to get my mouth on you right now. I still remember the way you taste.”

“Oh, shit.”

Mickey’s jerks got tighter with that fantasy egging him on, and silkier with the ease of the pre-cum oozing from his slit.

“You got something to stick up your ass?”

Mickey whined. “Fuckin’ wish. Don’t exactly got a dildo permit, and that’s the kinda contraband no one tries to smuggle or sell.”

“A finger or two will do, right?” asked Ian, pausing for a moment to squirt some lube into his hand.

“‘Ey! What the fuck? No fair! You want me to try and prop this thing somewhere so you can watch me finger myself without lube, and you’re gonna casually use some to jack off with right in front of me? Read the room, fuckhead.”

Ian chuckled. “Sorry, Mick. What happened to the mayo packets?”

Mickey grimaced, regretting ever having told Ian about sometimes using that condiment as lube when he wanted to spice up a solo sesh. “Shut the fuck up and just help me get a damn orgasm.”

“What else am I supposed to do?”

“I don’t fuckin’ know! What am I, the video sex expert?”

“You’re not a sexpert?”

“Now is not the time for your lame jokes, okay?”

“Yeah, okay, but I’ve never done this before either, jackass. I already made my request and you’re ignoring it. You do that for me, I’ll do something for you.”

“Fine, but if I do this for you, I won’t be able to see shit while it’s happenin’, so you have to fuckin’ wait to blow your load, or I’ll never do this with you again.”

“So is that your request? To see me blow my load?”

“Bitch, do I need to explain how porn works to you? You know how at the end of the video, you get to see everybody come? Jizz flyin’ everywhere?”

“Oh, believe me, next time we’re actually together in bed, I will cover you in jizz from head to toe.”

“That’s a lofty goal. Could take a while.”

“I’m willing to put in the hours. Now… get to it.”

Mickey sighed and let his cock fall out of his grip, glancing around to try and figure out how he could set the camera up in a decent place to where it would actually get what Ian wanted in frame.

“You’re gonna have to tell me if I need to adjust it, but I don’t have a lot of options, so just tell me when it’s good enough. Don’t need to get all Scorcese with the precision.”

It took a couple of minutes to figure out something that worked, his erection flagging to half-mast as he concentrated on the task Ian had given him. He was pretty sure that Ian should be the one going out of his way to give Mickey a nice show, but he figured if he let Ian have one first, he could make requests for their next long-distance fuck date.

Once Ian said it was good, Mickey kneeled and sat on his haunches, body remaining upright. He could only imagine what his asshole looked like through that badly lit phone camera, but whatever. At least he didn’t have to look at it. Ian could go crazy for it if he wanted to, and apparently he was if the renewed moaning was any indication.

“Get it wet,” Ian directed.

Mickey licked his palm and gave his cock a few tugs to get it back into the game, then spit in his hand and did what he could to work it around his hole. He was crouched with the damn top bunk rubbing against his bent head, with no view other than stiff white sheets and his own thighs and dick.

Yes, Ian was going to owe him a nice fucking show for this crap.

“Well?” the cocky little prick demanded. “Play with it.”

“Hold your damn horses, I ain’t a cam boy,” retorted Mickey.

With a deep sigh, he emptied his mind of the discomfort of his position and the embarrassment of his actions, and just went for it, wetting his finger with his mouth, then shoving it in as far as he could get it on initial entry. It wasn’t very far, but he wiggled and shimmied it as he slid it in and out, until eventually it was in as far as it could go from the angle he was in. He could faintly hear Ian going to town on himself, and he once again longed to be the one doing it to him. Pressing his ass back onto Ian’s cock instead of his own measly finger. Getting Ian’s big hand around his own dick while he did it.

As it were, he had to use his left hand to get some action on his dick, and as soon as he got back into the swing of things on that score, he set about trying to hit his prostate with his right hand.

“Add another one,” rasped Ian.

“You’re gettin’ real mouthy, ain’t you,” Mickey complained, wetting his hand again before sliding in two fingers to the knuckles.

“Oh, sorry, am I supposed to just remain quiet during this phone sex?”

“Stop sassin' me while I try to hit the spot. Some of us don’t got long-ass E.T. fingers.”

Ian chortled. “Jesus, Mick. Can you not bring my favorite childhood movie into this? Plus, you don’t need to go that deep. Just flip your hand over and crook your fingers. You’ll find it.”

“You think you know my ass better than I do?”

“Probably.”

Mickey did as suggested, even though it was the weirdest combination of body angles. It didn’t do anything at first, then all of a sudden, “Oh.”

Both hands got fast and furious as he felt that familiar tingly throb building up inside. He let himself get lost in it for a few minutes, then came to just enough to realize that he wanted a visual of Ian to orgasm to. It’s what he'd been looking forward to all week.

All at once, he stopped, flipping onto his back and grabbing the phone. All he could see on screen now was the damn ceiling, which was annoying, but also hilarious, since it meant that Ian was probably holding the stupid phone a few inches from his stupid face.

“Why’d you stop?” asked Ian breathily.

“Cuz I wanna see you, numbnuts. As fascinating as your ceiling is, it'd be great if you got the main attraction back onscreen. Please and thank you.”

Ian tittered and angled the camera back down, pushing it past his sternum. “‘Kay, where’s yours?”

Mickey pointed his phone back toward his crotch, eyes extremely focused on Ian’s impossibly hard red dick and large pale hand, sighing when he touched himself again. He needed a finger or two back in his ass, though. He always came harder with something up his ass, and it reminded him more of Ian too.

But there was no way to film himself and still get a view of Ian, plus use both hands to get himself off. He had to choose one type of orgasm to have, and since he wasn’t entirely sure he could pop from anal only, he stuck with the jerking off.

Maybe Ian was right. He hadn’t thought this through enough. But he knew exactly what his daydreams would be scheming up until their next interlude.

“You gonna come all over yourself like I asked?” said Mickey.

“Just a sec,” Ian replied with a grunt.

Mickey’s hand synced up with Ian’s, flying up and down his length on the phone screen. “Wanna see it on your stomach and in your pubes.”

Ian’s moans and groans got louder and closer together, building Mickey’s excitement up to the edge.

And then of course his gay-ass boyfriend had to go and say some gay-ass shit like, “I love you!”

And then he was shooting jizz out the tip of his dick, letting it get everywhere.

And the effect was the same as a quality porno scene in that it made Mickey come too, eyes squinting shut as the sensations overwhelmed him. He wanted to throw the phone across the room, but he somehow managed to keep it resting against his chest and filming everything.

As soon as the last of it gushed out, he did let the phone drop next to him for a short time, and Ian must’ve been recovering too, because he didn’t hear any complaints. He reached for the toilet paper roll and wiped himself down as best he could, not bothering to put his shorts back on when he was done.

He flipped onto his stomach, picked up the phone and went back to the front camera, leaning it up against the wall as he burrowed a pillow under his chin.

“That was halfway decent, Gallagher.” He grinned in relaxed satisfaction.

Ian flipped his camera back too, lying on his side, and propping the phone up against what was probably the empty pillow next to him that Mickey should be on.

“You’ll get the real thing soon enough,” Ian replied with a sleepy smile.

“Fuckin’ hope so…” he trailed off in thought. “Sorry I can’t be there. It is my fault.”

“Nah, just forget about all that, okay? All we can do now is get through the time that’s left. But if you think I’m not gonna ride your ass the non-sexy way when you get out, you’re dead wrong. Not gonna let this shit happen again.”

“You want me workin’ some minimum wage bullshit legit job?”

“Yep. We know how to be poor, Mick. Tired of getting the shitty end of all the risk.”

“Your pillow talk could use some work, Red.”

“I know. Thanks for showing me your asshole earlier.”

Mickey laughed. “No sweat. Well, probly some sweat.”

Ian snorted and shook his head. “Shut up. I’m glad we get to do this. It’s nice being with you at bedtime.”

“Be nicer if it included your dick in my ass, but I guess it’s alright.”

“Want me to tell you about the boring shit now?”

“Might as well.”

“As long as you don’t fall asleep before you tell me you love me, bitch.”

Mickey frowned. “Normal people don’t shout that shit as they’re coming, you freak.”

“I don’t care when you say it, just fit it in.”

It wasn’t really something they could comfortably say to one another on their regular taped prison calls and visits. It was better for Mickey's orientation not to be common knowledge to the wrong people around the joint.

“I love you, you silly bastard, now tell me about your dumbass day.”

Ian smiled brightly. “Franny did the cutest shit…”

Mickey half-listened, content to be in the distant presence of Ian’s face, voice, and manner; imagining a day soon to come when they would be reunited for good in the great wide open.

#ian x mickey #fanfic #gallavich #fanfiction #asks #answers

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