#but I don’t think he quite grasps the real depth of it
james potter smut alphabet
james potter x fem!reader
a/n: that took from 9:45pm-12:pm then 7am-9:20am THAT TOOK SO LONG OMG
i’m sorry if it’s bad
warning: literally pure sex smut all that ￼jazz
A = Aftercare (What they’re like after sex)
that man is the softest dom, literally the DEFINITION. he gives u so many kisses, he praises u, he will shower with you, wash your hair, gives u his clothes LITERALLY THE BEST.
“mhm jamie, too tired” you murmur. your body melting into the mattress as you speak, all worn down. “but, love.” he pushes your hair behind your ears, pulling you up. “gotta get you all nice and clean f’me.”
he pulls you up, his calloused hands gripping onto your thighs, bringing you into the bathroom. the shower already nice and warm ready for the both of you. he’s holding you under the warm water to the point where you might collapse if it wasn’t for his grip.
“you did good love, so so good all f’me.” he says sponging kisses on your forehead, both of his hands on your lower back holding you.
“i love you, my sweets.”
“you’re the only one f’me.”
you were so tired, so vulnerable just allowing james to take care of you because that’s all he wanted to do.
B = Body part (Their favourite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)
his biceps, simple. he does A LOT of quidditch training to get to his strength. he also takes pride in being able to just fuck you against the lockers from his strength. it also inflates his ego when he catches you staring at his biceps. or when he’s taking you underneath him your gripping his biceps like your life depended on it.
“james- fuck.” you moaned into his neck, his lips sucking dark hues into your collar bones and his left forearm resting right beside your head and his other gripping around your waist.
he started going slower, but deeper. he hit a new angle inside of you almost hitting your cervix. you let out a strangled moan gripping his bicep almost digging your nails into the flesh.
his head dipping out from beneath your neck to slot your plush reddened lips with his.
that man and you’re THIGHS. he’s a thigh man don’t tell me other wise. whether ur in your school skirt, jeans, leggings, underwear ;) his legs AND HANDS always divert to the soft plush skin of your thigh.
your ankles insticntly went to lock around james’ head, he had been in between your thighs for hours on end without a stop.
“james- i’m gonna cum.” you breathed out in a moan. his hands squeezing at the flesh on your thigh, they were reddened and begging to lightly bruise from him doing those similar actions for the last hour and a half.
“cum darling, cum for me.”
C = Cum (Anything to do with cum basically… I’m a disgusting person)
so, esentially speaking theres wizard potions to block out pregnancy. so he would be CUMMING INSIDE OF U. not nessesarily a breeding kink but he likes when your full and stuffed with his cum. he also loves to cum on your chest or thighs because he likes the contrast to your skin and he think it makes you so utterly pretty.
the wave of euphoria and stars dancing across your vision had almost come to an end as your boyfriends thrust got sloppy and rigid.
“pretty girl where do you want it, where do you want my cum?” he panted to you, close to his release.
“i want you to cum inside me jamie, please. fill me up.” you let out a small moan at his constant friction when you felt ropes of seed shoot into you, he rode out his orgasam then pulled out. you clenched around nothing as he came face to you cunt.
he pushed his fingers into you, a small moan leaving your mouth as you made eye contact with him.
“gotta keep you all nice and full, yeah?”
D = Dirty Secret (Pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)
there’s nothing he would want more than a lap dance. you in you your lingerie you had just bought giving him a little show after one of a quidditch wins. ￼
“mhm, sit f’me.” you whispered into his ear, placing him to hit at the end of his four poster bed.
“and what have you got going on darling? a suprise?” he said, leaning against his two hands watching you pry at your tie and slip it off.
slowly unbuttoning your school blouse, flinging it on the floor. he lets out a small groan at the sight of you almost naked in your skirt. you walk towards him shuffling onto his lap.
“you did win after all, and winners get rewards.” you said circling your hips onto his clothed cock .
“fuck... the things you do to me.” he groaned into your ear as you continued.
E = Experience (How experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?)
i’m gonna be honest i don’t think that much when you first get together. i mean there’s been ladies he’s a marauder but he’s only ever wanted to you so i feel like he just gets to know your body really well and he sort of just has instincts. like during your first time there’s those little awkward moments but you both make it run all good and smoothly
“s’gonna hurt y/n.” he murmured to you, situating himself in between your legs as you lock your ankles behind his back.
“i know, but i want this. i want you. i need you inside me.” you whisper in desperation for him, needing to feel him.
he slowly started to slide into you, when you let out your first hiss of discomfort, he slotted his fingers between yours and slightly halted his movements.
“keep going jamie.” you encouraged
he slid his way into your cunt until he was fully in.
“move please, i need to feel you.” he did his first pulse, light movements when you let an involuntary moan escape the threshold of your lips.
“mhm- jamie, keep going.”
F = Favourite Position (This goes without saying. Will probably include a visual)
missionary bc he just wants to see your beautiful face, against the quidditch lockers so he can just hold you against them or doggy bc he likes to choke you or pull you up so he can see your back arch for him.
you heard the bang of metal as james took you against the quidditch lockers and you tried to muffle your moans against his lips.
“gotta- gotta be quiet love. wouldn’t want anyone to know what we’re doing in here.” he panted into you ear. he continued as he angled your leg higher, hitting you g-spot as he continued his pace.
“james fuck- so good. so fucking good.”
“you look so fucking beautiful like this y/n.”
“j-james i- i cant hold on much longer. s’too much.” you moaned and whimpered from the back of your throat.
“pretty girl cum for me.”
G = Goofy (Are they more serious in the moment, or are they humorous, etc)
there’s 2 kinds of sex with james, giggly super soft lovie sex. not necessarily making jokes but just giggling because he just tickled your side my accident or accidentally bumping noses. or there’s big dom daddy james where it’s very PASSIONATE but he’s very dominate.
his hand ran down the depth of your curves, a little giggle bubbling through your throat. he looked at you with a cocked brow, repeating his action as his chin rested on your stomach a small smirk on his lips.
you giggled again, your hand running through his hair. you brought his face to your lips as your finger tips danced under his jaw.
he giggled at your actions as well, also seemingly ticklish under his neck.
“you’re so distracting james potter.” you groaned as he continued to pulse through you while giggling at you.
“i’m distractingly beautiful y/n y/l/n”
“quite insuffer- fuck!” you were caught off with a moan as his fingertips danced on your clit. stimulating you.
“hmmm darling, cat got your tongue?”
H = Hair (How well groomed are they, does the carpet match the drapes, etc.)
so james has that thick mangle of tresses on his head, so i feel like he’s quite cleanly shaven, maybe just a bit of a stubble? but i feel like he would shave not only to make it more comfortable for him but for you seemingly easier and more comfortable.
i don’t think he would care if you were shaved or not, as long as you were comfortable your natural body hair is not stopping him from going down on your or having sex with you.
I = Intimacy (How are they during the moment, romantic aspect…)
ROMANCE KING ILL SAY IT ONCE ILL SAY IT TWICE ILL SAY IT THREE TIMES IF HE COULD EVERYTIME HE WOULD SPREAD ROSE PETALS AND CANDLES AND LIGHT FIRE PLACES AND E V E R Y T H I N G. during the whole thing your hands would e interlocked with his, chests pressed against eachother, eye contact, soft touches, soft kisses and mumbles of praise like whew.
“jamie- what’s this?” you asked, your eyes scanning around the room with floating candles and rose petals on the floor.
“well i figured i’d make it special, i dunno.” he murmured shoving his hands in his pockets. you turned towards him with a grin your face.
you grasped his face between your palms lightly kissing his lips before speaking.
“a real sap you are potter, my sap.”
“correct, 10 points go y/h.”
“thanks professor potter.” you teased before leaning in to kiss his lips again.
J = Jack Off (Masturbation headcanon)
i feel like he would A LOT and you would catch him A LOT. somwtimes u aren’t always there but u know what is there, a picture of you and his hands and he makes due when he needs too. but normally he just goes to you because he would rather anyways but sometimes there are bigger priorities then his random hard ons.
“y/n- fuck me...” he moaned, his hand pumping his cock in one hand and the other gripping his bed post, knuckles turning a shade of white.
his only thought being the way you looked under him, on top of him, infront of him, you’re beautiful beautiful body. you were currently occupied helping mcgonagall with extra transfiguration while james was in need... of you.
you had finished early, waltzing into james’ room like normal except you were met with a familiar sight of james pumping his cock in his hand while his head was slightly leant back and his jaw was slack.
you cleared your throat, crossing your arms and a smirk on your lips with an eyebrow raise. “couldnt wait atleast an hour could you?” you teased, walking closer.
“well now that your here, could you lend a hand?”
K = Kink (One or more of their kinks)
james has a daddy kink😐 literally that’s one of his most prominent kinks. i mean your his angel, his darling girl he would do anything for you i mean he just wants to make you happy. and i mean you calling him daddy while withering under him just makes him 😁
“daddy... please.” you begged him.
“ive been a good girl. i promise!” you were almost yelling at him, wanting him to understand.
“sweetheart we’re you a good girl when flirting with sirius?” his face got seemingly close to yours, asking you the question while raising one of his eyebrows.
“no daddy.” you said, embarassed. you had been waiting for james attention all night long but instead he was stuck all up in detention for a prank against snape.
and then when he finally arrived to the common room he barely spared you a word, so you did what you had to do to grab his attention and... it worked.
“so tell me baby, whyd you break the rules?”
“i just wanted your attention daddy! i just wanted you!”
L = Location (Favourite places to do the do)
i think his fave would be the dorms in the bed. but the prefects bath is a very close second. and he surely doesn’t mind the common room or broom closets that are very open to public where you both could get caught in comprising positions.
you heard the slosh of the water beside you, as you moved your hips onto james’ submerged underneath the prefects bath water as u straddled him.
his hands came to steady your hips as your buried your head in his neck, and continuously grinding your cunt onto james’ dick.
“fuck angel... just like that.” he moaned while tightening his grip
“f-fuck jamie-“ you whimpered in his ear, clawing at his shoulders.
“you’re doing amazing pretty girl, keep doing- fuck- you feel so good around me.” he praised you while groaning.
M = Motivation (What turns them on, gets them going)
SO JAMES LOVES HAVING HIS HAIR PULLED IN BED; WHEN HES GOING DOWN ON YOU, IN MISSIONAIRY, WHEN YOUR RIDING HIM JUST ALL THE TIME SO WHEN U PLAY WITH THAT MANZ HAIR HE COULD THROW YOU OVER IN SECONDS AND GET U ON THAT BED.
“so fucking tired.” james muttered walking into the common room after a two hour detention with filch.
he saw your body displayed on the vermillion couch, very opening that his body could just rest on yours while you were in a conversation with remus and sirius.
he quietly sprawled his head on your lap, his arms arranging around your waist as he gor comfortable.
you mindlessly started caressing his hair, and pulling on the tuffs lovingly, that was until you felt a hard pressure pressing against your calf that you remembered james’ small dirty secret.
N = NO (Something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)
i don’t feel like he would be into hurting you? like slapping, knife kinks, seeing you hurt i don’t think he would find that arousing he would more just be concerned because he doesn’t like to see your hurting. i think he would still like spankings but i don’t think he would slap you in the face or anything.
“so y/n, d’you think you’d try it?” sirius asked you, while your eyes paid more attention on the potions text book infront of you.
“try what?” you muttered, clearly disinterested in the conversation.
“knives in bed.”
you brought your head up to look at him, cocking an eyebrow confused at his question.
“um, probably not. i don’t know that’s an odd question pads.” you muttered turning your attention back to your potions book.
“but wouldnt that like... hurt her?” you heard james say in a concerned and confused tone to sirius.
“could if you wanted too, but it’s more of the thrill.” sirius replied to james.
“no, i don’t think i want the ‘thrill’ m’good, thanks.” he agitatedly replied to sirius and looked at his own book.
O = Oral (Preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc)
i feel like he would like both equally but he’s more of a giver at heart. it’s kind of whatever happens in the moment because when your thighs are wrapped around his head it’s like heaven but your pretty lips wrapped around his cock? also heaven.
your hands braced his thighs as your plunged your mouth deeper onto his girth, trying to take him all in while breathing for your knows.
“you take my cock so well pretty girl.” he praises to you, his hand in a makeshift pony tail holding your hair away from your face.
you went back to his tip, kissing and swirling your tongue around trying to catch your breath before pushing your mouth onto him keeping a fast past.
“i’m gonna cum-“ he groaned and his own release shooting ropes of cum down youve throat cut him off.
he slowly rid out his high as you continue to suck and then swirled your tongue around the tip and opening your mouth to show that you had swallowed his release.
P = Pace (Are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual? etc.)
i feel like he changes pace a lot? sometimes it’s really fast, and deep but sometimes very slow and passionate and deep and loving. he’s a man of many talents and whatever the mood is he can keep that pace.
his hand had one firm grasp on your waist as he pounded you from behind and the other gripped the root of your hair.
“you gonna be a messy little girl?” he taunted you through gritted teeth
“y-yes.” you muttered through moans.
he had just lost a quidditch match to slytherin and you offered a solution.
something nice and rough.
and that’s exactly what the both of you wanted.
Q = Quickie (Their opinions on quickies rather than proper sex, how often, etc.)
i feel like they would happen from time to time but i feel like he would be more into proper sex because you are literally his only priority like getting you off is all he cares about so maybe there’s a quick a few times but definitely not all the time.
“shh if you’re not quiet someone’s going to walk walk by and hear.” james taunted you, your legs wrapped around his waist and your head dug into his neck trying to hold back your moans.
“james- i- i cant s’too much, too much.” you said while biting your lip, unable to see much do you the darkness of the broom closet.
“well sweet girl that’s what happens when you get needy during school hm? is my pretty little slut gonna cum all over my cock while anyone could walk in?” he began to mock you.
“mhm- yes.” your lip becoming dry and chapped from all the incessant biting, “please can i cum?”
“go on, cum y/n.”
R = Risk (Are they game to experiment, do they take risks, etc.)
i feel as long as it wasn’t hurting you or it ended up with you or him like getting with other people he would try it?
“are you sure, m’scared i might hurt you.” james murmured while tying your hands up to the bed post.
“m’fine, promise.” you assured him, that night you were trying something new. both of you had previously talked about ties and bondage and you wanted to try it once to see if you’d both like it.
you pulled on the ropes a bit making sure they weren’t cutting off the circulation of your wrists.
“see? m’good jamie.”
“ok but if something happens tell me, i don’t want you to hold back because i might be enjoying it you’re not.”
“james i promise.”
“i love you, y/n.”
“i love you too.”
S = Stamina (How many rounds can they go for, how long do they last…)
that man happens to be a QUIDDITCH PRODIGY. HE IS A SEEKER. WHICH MEANS HE CAN LAST AWHILE. i believe that he would stop when you wanted to stop, like he could fuck you all night if he wanted too.
“one more darling, one more f’me.” his voice hoarse from the previous three rounds.
he wanted to know if you could go any more, ready to stop at any time.
“one more?” you said breathily to him.
“yes daddy, i want you, please.” you plead to your bespectacled boyfriend, you began clenching around nothing feeling empty again.
“mhm please, please i want you.”
“alright darling, no need to fret. m’right here.” he assured.
T = Toy (Do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?)
i think he’s more like “why would you need those when you have me.” type of guy. like i don’t feel like he would have them even for punishments he would rather do it himself, even because he would feel closer to you like he’d rather fuck and tease you then silicone (bruh 😭)
U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)
i feel like you would do more of the teasing because he would automatically become obdient to you. if he was teasing it wouldn’t be for long because he would fuck himself from watching you squirm and tease you.
his palm rested on the inside of your thigh, tracing little shapes as goosebumps rose onto your skin.
“nervous, darling?” he teased in your ear while you were trying to converse with peter about arithmancy homework during dinner at the great hall.
“james. stop. teasing.” you said through gritted teeth, your legs squirming at his fingers grazing your panties.
“but you’re so beautiful like this, about to make a mess during dinner? think that’s polite y/n?” he mocked you, he loved that he had that effect on you.
you turned towards his face that was almost touching the shell of your ear.
“if you keep doing this i won’t fuck you for a month.” you whispered, venom like words leaving your throat.
his sapphire eyes quickly widened as he moved his hand by the cap of your knee. you smirked as he was almost frantic by your words.
V = Volume (How loud they are, what sounds they make)
he wants the whole hogwarts castle to know that you’re his so he is loud. he groans, he moans, he dirty talks, he moans your name like he is EXTRA with it. sometimes you almost have to shush him but he’s not having any of that.
“james, hush! you’re going to get all the prefrecfs scrambling around the room if you’re to loud!” you said covering his mouth, feeling him smirk against your palm.
“but darling, that’s the whole point. don’t you want everyone to know who you belong to?” you flushed and pulled your hand away from his face.
“that’s what i thought love.”
“you know sirius will never let us live this down, bet he can hear from the common room.”
“then let’s give him a show, shall we?”
W = Wild Card (Get a random headcanon for the character of your choice)
cockwarming. if you’re being a brat that’s one of the ways he’s gonna punish you, while he’s working on a prank and his arm is just around your waist to make you stop squirming.
“if you’re going to be a brat angel, i’m gonna start treating you like one.” he murmured to your squirming figure as he tried to figure out a new prank on snape.
you were sat on top of his cock, clenching and squirming almost begging for him to touch you.
“jamie please i need you, please, please please.” you begged him, yet no avail. a determined look on his face as he was scribbling on the parchment.
he swatted your bum, you jolted a bit at the sudden friction of his hand and began to whine.
he looked at you, a dark look in his eyes which shut you up immediately because you knew what that look meant.
“hmm, so you can listen to the rules? good girl.”
X = X-Ray (Let’s see what’s going on in those pants, picture or words)
that man is big and thick and he KNOWS HE IS. i’d say 8inches hard?
you rested your bum on to your calves before scooching up to this belt buckle as he was standing, holding a faux-ponytail of your hair between his calloused fingers.
“are you sure, y/n? you don’t have to if you don’t want too.” he looked down at you, puling your eyes to look in his sapphire ones.
“m’sure james.” you assured him, undoing the buckle and swiftly pulling down his boxers and uniform pants at the same time.
his shirt discarded on the floor earlier, his dick slapping his clenched stomach. he was already hard from your teasing and grinding earlier.
your eyes widened at his size, nervous how you would fit it all in your mouth.
“what’s wrong darling?” he started to get concerned at your frozen state.
“nothing.. y-your just, so big.” you said looking at his cock and hearing a chuckle in the backround.
Y = Yearning (How high is their sex drive?)
i feel like it’s pretty high but it’s always depending on you, he would rather die than force you to do anything if you weren’t feeling it or just didn’t want too. so if you’re up for anything than so is he.
Z = ZZZ (… how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)
if it’s during the day i don’t think he would get that tired, but if it was during the night and he just finished aftercare i feel like you would lay on his chest if he hadn’t worked you hard enough and you guys would just talk about anthing. but if you guys did a lot of rounds and you were on the verge of slumber he would just kiss your hairline and praise you as you fell asleep.
“my good girl.” he said while kissing your forehead. “i love you so so much, you’re the only one for me.” his hand dragging against the arch of your back, the only thing seperating him from your skin was the shirt he put on you.
“my sweets, does everything for me. how could i have gotten so lucky.” he whispered on the shell of your ear.
“hmm, jamie been asking myself the same thing.” you murmured, sleep almost pulling you under but not enough for you to reply to him.
“goodnight james. i love you.”
“i love you more, my sweets.”
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Summary: Andy catches you masturbating and decides to teach you a lesson.
Warnings: SMUT. Degradation. Rough Sex. Dehumanization. Bondage. Mean Daddy!Andy. “Kitten” nickname.
Word Count: 2,258
Author’s Notes: I’d been dying to write this fic ever since the GIF above came out. Credit goes to GIF owner. 💙
📖 Master list
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It was nightfall by the time Andy parked his Audi in the driveway. He pulled at his tie, releasing the tension he was holding all day. It was a constant stream of meetings and paperwork when all he wanted to do was be at home with you in his arms.
The house was dark and quiet aside from the dishwasher running as he set down his briefcase in the foyer. Shuffling his way to the kitchen he spies the note you left for him on the island, smiling as he reads it over.
“Dinner is in the fridge. I missed you. xo”
His head jerks up when he hears a sound coming from floor above, his brow furrowing with worry as he goes to investigate.
He takes the stairs slowly, quiet as a mouse as he treads lightly on each step. His ears perk up at the light moans coming from the Master Bedroom.
Stopping momentarily, Andy shakes his head and smirks to himself when he hears another lewd groan echo into the hall. His Kitten is getting up to no good... he will have to rectify that.
He tip toes to the door as your heated moans get more boisterous.
Andy finds you splayed out on the bed you shared, fucking a rather large dildo into your glistening core. Obscene squelching noises reverberate off the walls as you fuck the fake cock into your heat.
He enjoyed watching you get off… when he allowed it.
What he didn’t enjoy was that you didn’t wait for him. He would’ve given you his cock the moment he got home, but sometimes his Little Kitten got greedy.
You knew better than to touch yourself without his permission. His blood boiled as he watched you break one of his cardinal rules.
The width of the dildo spreads you open deliciously almost to the point of painful, but you keep going. Your orgasm just within reach as you rub your fingers around your clit, spurring the pleasure on.
You think of Andy fucking into you from above telling you how good you take his cock as you climb steadily towards your peak.
Andy notices the way your mouth slacks; your orgasm is imminent. He adjusted his growing hard on and rolled up his sleeves.
Time to be Mean Daddy.
The mounting bliss swarms your body, trailing from your toes to your belly as it clenches hard awaiting the orgasm that was just within reach. The pressure in your core goes taut, seconds away from crashing when you hear a throat clearing itself to your right. It shocks you from the rapture that was just about to tear through your body.
The room was eerily silent. You laid stock still, the dildo still nestled tightly within your core as Andy walked into the room grinning wickedly. He gazed over your now shivering form, anxiety racking your system knowing you’d been caught breaking a huge rule, if not the rule.
“What do we have here?” Andy questioned. His face was stoic but his eyes blazed with fury.
You whimpered beneath his glare, “Daddy, I- It’s not what it looks like!” You yanked the dildo from your heat before throwing it on the bed next to you like it was on fire.
He laughs, “Oh? Then what exactly did I come home to?” He stands at the foot of the bed, hands falling to his hips.
Your brow furrows knowing there was no way out of this. “I just- I was really horny, Daddy. I tried to wait for you...” You shut your eyes in shame, no longer able to look him in the face.
“It’s ok, Kitten.” He says softly. His demeanor changing as he sits on the edge of the bed, “Keep going.”
Your eyes whip open, you couldn’t have heard him correctly. “Daddy?”
“Keep going.” He repeats, eyes hard on yours. “Show me how you fuck yourself.”
You gasp at the swear word, your core twitching with excitement. “Really, Daddy?”
He smirks, “Show me how greedy that pussy is.”
You lick your lips as nervous butterflies swarmed your belly. Something was not right; you were expecting a punishment. Still you were on edge from the orgasm you were so close to having, so you did as you were told.
The large dildo found its way back to your channel, spreading you open and sliding against your walls. Your eyes rolled to the back of your skull as you let out a wanton moan.
“God, your cunt is swallowing that cock.” He grunts, palming his clothed erection.
Your face heats at his words and your belly twists as you drag the fake cock out of your pussy and plunge it back in. Each pass through your wet folds pushes you further towards your peak. Toes curl with exhilaration knowing Andy is watching you.
Your limbs tremble under his heated gaze and the torturous rhythm you set.
“Look at you shaking, so desperate to cum.” He uttered.
He reached out, his fingers drawing circles on the skin of your slick stained inner thighs. “You’re make such a mess.”
You squeal, feeling your orgasm approaching steadily.
He notices the copious amounts of arousal puddling on the bed below you. “You’re going to lick that up after you’re done, Kitten.”
Your body shudders as he growls out the order, the words sending you over the edge. The pressure in your belly ignites, exploding sparks through every nerve as you cum with a shout, finally getting the sweet release you’d been so desperate for.
Glittery bliss fogs your mind as the bed jostles when Andy stands and looms over your spent body, his demeanor grew suddenly dark.
“That was a bit over the top, don’t you think?” Andy jabs, unbuckling his belt and taking his hard, dripping cock from the confines of his black slacks.
“Wha-?” The word slurs as you try to make sense of what was happening.
“You sounded just like a whore, desperate to earn her wage.” He jerks his cock over your bewildered form.
You whimper at his obscene words but your pussy convulses.
“Lick this mess up.” He points to the stained sheets that shine with your cum in the soft bedroom light.
You move onto all fours letting the dildo fall from your grasp. You look up at Andy, sorrow filling your eyes as you beg for forgiveness. He shakes his head with a “tsk-tsk” and shoves your face into the sodden sheets.
Your sticky release presses against your face as he holds your head down, “Be a Good Slit and lick it up.”
You wince at the horrid nickname but poke your tongue out lapping at your spilled juices.
You cry out as he moves your head with a strong hand at the base of your skull when you don’t move fast enough for him. He smears the puddle of cum all around your face, painting your features.
“A real whore cleans up the mess she makes.” He grunts as he jerks his cock, getting off on the torment he’s inflicting.
Muffled sounds come from the sheets as you try to apologize, it was getting harder to breath.
Andy releases his hold, “Present that pretty hole to Daddy.” His eyes are wild and a blaze. Ravenous energy courses through his system ready to rectify you.
You bend over splaying your swollen lower half open to him. His fingers glide over the dewy curve of your ass and stake claim on the puffy lips of your shiny core.
He enjoys watching you cower and whine as he prods at your most intimate parts. His parts.
“This hole looks well fucked. You must’ve been aching for a cock. I’m surprised you didn’t bend over for the Mail Man; he would’ve enjoyed this sweet hole.”
He taps his reddened head on your folds and thrusts in just enough to feel your warmth envelope his crown. You groan into the sheets as he teases your over stimulated core, still throbbing with the intense aftershocks of your orgasm.
Andy bends over your body covering your smaller frame before whispering, “For breaking the rule, you’re not allowed to cum.”
You cry pitifully at his command. There was no way you’d be able to not cum, you were over stimulated from edging all day and now he was adding fuel to the flames.
“You should’ve thought about the repercussions before you let your cunt makes the decisions.”
With a hard snap of his hips he slides home and bottoms out causing you to yelp in pain. He lets out a satisfied groan as he feels you stretch around his girth.
His arm covets your shoulders and pulls you back onto his cock allowing you no reprieve. Constantly full and stimulated.
Andy’s dress shirt rubs against your spine reminding you of how clothed he still was. The tiny act makes you feel even more degraded.
His breath tickles the side of your face with every groan as he fucks into your sopping depths.
“You fucked yourself open.” He grunts, breathing deeply as he pummels his hips faster. “What a sloppy, stretched out hole you are.”
You claw at the sheets feeling the weighty need to cum drawing closer with every thrust. Heavy fog clouds your mind again, dulling every sense except touch.
Your core felt every pull and spear of Andy’s thick, veiny cock as he pushed with hard shoves into your heat, hurling you towards your unwanted peak.
Andy smacks your face when you don’t respond, “Is my Slit getting fucked stupid or did it forget to answer me?”
“What?” You sputter, unaware he even spoke. Too caught up in the forced pleasure you were having to endure.
“I asked” He spits out, voice full of irritation. “If you could even feel my cock.”
“Yes, Daddy.” You reply, raggedly.
He pushes his hips flush against your ass and he nudges your cervix cruelly. You wail from the cramping sensation nestled deep in your belly.
“You’re so loose it feels like you’ve had a quite a few cocks in this cunt today.” He sneers into the side of your face, his beard scratching your cheek before licking at the sweat stained skin of your shoulder.
Abruptly, your flipped over and laid on your back as Andy slots himself over you, driving his cock back into your tight warmth.
The new position allows his cock to smooth over your walls with prowess. Your tiny nub taking the brunt of each powerful ram as his length hits every crucial spot only he knows.
His face was rigged as he held his pleasure at bay wanting to drag out your torture. Your pussy clenched down as you watched him take you from above just like you had pictured moments ago.
“Is my Slit thinking of cumming when she’s not supposed to?”
“No- Daddy. No, please!” You yelped, desperate to hold off and please him.
“If you cum, I’m going to drag you down to the jailhouse and let those men have their way with you.” He spat.
The ominous threat sent you spiraling.
Your mouth went slack as the pleasure began to heighten, the tip of your tongue slipping out from between your lips when he angled his cock, thrusting against your G-Spot with long strokes.
“Leave that tongue out like a real cock slut. Begging to have both your holes filled.” He grunted.
An intense wave a bliss had you shuddering in his grip as you thought of being used by multiple men.
“Oh, you like that, huh?” His hips thrusting deeper.
“You want to be used? Have a cock fuck your mouth and this filthy cunt at the same time?” He growled when you clenched hard around him.
Andy covered your body with his fucking into you with vigor, pushing your body up the bed with every drive. His hands grab your cheeks, pulling them apart, “What about that sweet asshole? How many loads do you think it can take before it’s full?”
“Daddy! Let me cum! I need to cum!” You shriek with frantic desperation.
“Hold it!” He growls into your skin as he chases his pleasure.
Your searing heat fits him like a glove and milks him for all he’s worth. Each plunge into your core drives both of you closer and closer as you claw at one another’s bodies.
Suddenly, just as your orgasm was about to shatter, Andy pulls from your heat and jerks his cock with fervor.
He growls out his release, painting thick ropes of white all over your mound and belly.
You stare up at him dumbfounded. Your body vibrating, wanting nothing more than to cum and to feel his seed coat your walls.
After his breathing steadies, he softly tucks his cock away and reaches for his loose tie before undoing it with a satisfied groan.
His large hands cage yours easily as you lie in shock of what just happened. Before you knew it, Andy had tied both of yours hands to the headboard with little give.
“Daddy, what’s happening?” You whimper, tears pricking your eyes.
“If only you were good then you’d be dripping with me.” He says with a sigh.
He moves around the bed and towards the door before looking back. “You’re being punished. Lay there and think about what you’ve done.”
You huff out a light sob as Andy looks you over with soft eyes, he wants to take pity but you’ve got to learn.
“Bad Slits don’t get Daddy’s cum.”
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Chocolate Chip Pancakes: Part 3
Summary: Ever since circumstances have placed Nanami Kento as your temporary roommate, your feelings for him have grown all the stronger. Will a misunderstanding cause you to finally admit your love? Or will it only drive the man of your dreams away?
Pairing: Nanami Kento x F!Reader, Gojo Satoru x F!Reader (FWB), Gojo Satoru x ?
TW: AND THEY WERE ROOMATES, swearing, mentioned nudity, implied sexual content, mentions of birth control, alcohol, friends with benefits situation (no love triangle I promise!), some angst, pining, mentions of murder, Gojo being a little shit, sending pictures without consent (not nudes).
PART ONE HERE
PART TWO HERE
LINK TO A03 HERE
A/N: AGAIN, THANK YOU EVERYONE FOR READING, REBLOGGING AND COMMENTING. YOU ARE ALL WONDERFUL AND I APPRECIATE EACH ONE OF YOU. Sorry for the wait, I had a combination of writer’s block and real life slam into me. But here it is finally! I hope you all enjoy it, thank you again for your support. Please enjoy, my sweet potatoes!
“Please, don’t go. Stay here with me. Kento, I love-”
“Oya sweets, why aren’t you answering your phone? I need to talk- oh ho, what’s this? Am I interrupting something?”
His mouth stops a hairsbreadth from yours. The anticipation of a longed for kiss dries up like a riverbed under the hot July sun.
Oh, you are so going to fucking murder Gojo Satoru.
You whip around from Nanami, an almost snarl leaving your lips as you face the lanky white haired sorcerer. You feel like your on-fire body has been doused in ice cold water, the almost kiss tingling on your bereft lips.
“What the fuck, Satoru?” You growl, “You can’t just warp into other people’s apartments without permission! Don’t you have any fucking manners?”
The man grins cheekily at you, peering above his sunglasses to rake his eyes over your and Nanami’s entwined bodies. “You weren’t answering my very important calls and messages. I couldn’t fathom why you would be ignoring the great Gojo Satoru, but now I can see why. Finally spill the beans then, eh?”
A heat blooms on your cheeks. You open your mouth to retort, but Nanami beats you to it.
“It’s none of your business,” he moves away from you, stepping around you and the table to get closer to Gojo. You can see the veins bulging on his neck. It looks like he’s about two seconds away from throwing down, and you find yourself suddenly feeling warm again. “Whatever you have to say can wait till tomorrow. Leave.”
The authoritative ring to his voice sends a shiver running down your spine. Oh yeah, you are definitely into angry Nanami.
“Oya oya Nanamin, you’re always so uptight,” Gojo laughs, throwing his hands up in mock surrender. “How do you function with such a rigid stick up your ass?”
Nanami’s face is murderous. “I won’t ask again, you shit bastard. Leave.”
“Whatcha gonna do to me?” Gojo taunts, sticking his tongue out like a mischievous child. “Gonna fight me, salary man?”
You decide to step in before your living room gets turned into dust.
“Satoru, just say what you need to say and get the hell out,” you cross your arms, fixing him with another glare. “Please.”
“Alright, sweets, you know I can’t say no to you,” Gojo winks at you, and you swear you hear Nanami growl. The sound goes straight to your gut, and you want Gojo gone now. “Just wanted to tell you I’m calling our arrangement quits. No need for you anymore.”
That snaps you out of your lustful haze. “Oh?”
“I know you’re devastated,” Gojo continues, “but I have a feeling you’ll be well consoled by your consolation prize over there-”
“Kento is not a fucking consolation prize, you ass!”
“Compared to me, everyone is a consolation prize, sweets,” another wink, another cheeky grin. “But yeah, that’s all I wanted to say. Your access to Satoru Jr has been cut off. He’s moving on to greener pastures.”
You briefly wonder why he’s cutting the cord first, but you decide you really don’t care right now. “Oh woe is me, whatever shall I do? Now, the door is that way.” You wave a hand at him dismissively.
“Yes, kindly fuck off,” Nanami curses, and your insides twist at the filthy word leaving his usually cleaner lips.
“Alright I can take a hint,” Gojo laughs, completely unbothered by the tension (both angry and sexual) in the air. “I’ve said my piece. I’ll see you lovebirds at work. Wrap it before you tap it, Nanamin!”
And with another crack, he’s gone.
Your shoulders slump in relief. “Ugh, I hate him.”
Nanami huffs a dry chuckle, turning to face you. “Not as much as I do.”
A strange quiet settles over the room. You suddenly feel shy under Nanami’s strong gaze, and you find yourself averting your eyes. The weight of what was happening before Gojo’s interruption settles on your chest. Your unfinished confession spreads out before you like a vast canyon, waiting for that final leap across.
“So,” you laugh awkwardly, fiddling with your hands in front of you. “Where were we?”
Soft footfalls move and stop in front of you, and large, gentle fingers grasp your chin. You let him turn your face to his, your knees threating to buckle at the quiet affection written across it.
“Please say it,” is all he says, softly, tenderly- and suddenly it’s like Gojo was never there. The butterflies careen though your chest, their fluttering wings beating in time with your racing heart. The words that were cut off bubble to the surface.
“I love you,” it comes out as a whisper, like something sacred only meant for holy ears. A prayer you offer in full devotion to the man that stands before you.
He sighs, a content sound that makes your very bones ache .”Again.”
“I love you,” you say again, just little louder, a little bolder.
Nanami’s fingers caress the skin of your jaw, and you can’t help but gasp quietly as you watch a full smile bloom across his handsome face. You’ve never seen anything like it before; every feature is drenched in pure joy, like a Renaissance painting bathed in the light of the rising sun.
You want to tell him he’s beautiful. No, you want to tell him he’s ethereal.
But you can’t, because you find your mouth is suddenly occupied with his.
It feels likes a inhaling, like taking a gulping lungful of air after being held underwater. Your head breaking the surface from the dark depths into the clear sunshine, every part of you gasping with pure relief. The fear, the pain, the uncertainty is over. There’s only the bright horizon, stretched out before you in endless possibility.
You clutch the front of his shirt, pulling him closer as he tilts his head to deepen the kiss. Your every sense drinks him in; the taste of his tongue against yours, the smell of his spicy cologne, the sound of his low groans as he grips you to him tightly. Everything is on fire, every synapse exploding with a greedy need to devour and be devoured in return.
Eventually you have to pull back to breathe, but he doesn’t let you go far. The hand on your jaw slides up into your hair to cup the back of your skull, pulling your head back to expose your throat. A soft whine escapes you when you feel the warmth of his mouth press hungrily to the tender skin.
“This better be going where I think it’s going,” you sigh, running your hands over the expanse of his broad chest. It suddenly feels like such a shame he’s wearing a shirt.
“And where’s that, dove?” Nanami murmurs into the hollow of your throat. The loving petname makes your insides turn to goo.
“To-ah!-my bedroom,” you close your eyes as he sucks a bruise against your raging pulse point.
“And then what?” He teases gently, running his nose up the length of your neck before letting your head fall forward to capture your lips in another kiss. This one is more heated, more desperate.
“You know what, don’t be a tease, Kento,” you huff, fingers finding the buttons on his shirt. He doesn’t protest when you greedily undo them, your hungry eyes feasting on the smooth skin being revealed.
“I want you to say it,” he grips your wrists as you slip the last button out of it’s buttonhole. His eyes are dark, lips rosy and swollen from your kisses, some hair escaping out of his usually rigid style. It all makes him look deliciously sexy and wonderfully disheveled. “Tell me, dove. Tell me what you want.”
You tremble in his strong hold. “I want you.”
“In what way?”
“In every way.”
He growls again, low and almost feral. Your knees weaken. “And you’ll have me.”
Before you can blink he releases your wrists and grabs a hold of your backside, hoisting you up into his arms. You wrap your arms around his neck, squealing in surprise, but it’s soon muffled as Nanami crushes his lips to yours. The two of you exchange fevered kisses as he stumbles his way out of the living room and down the hallway.
“I’ve thought about this every night since you let me stay here,” Nanami murmurs into you mouth. “It was complete agony to know you were just down the hall, just out of my reach.”
“Tell me about it,” you say breathlessly, pulling away from his lips so you can press your own kisses to his perfectly chiseled jaw. “I may have....used you for inspiration on many of those oh so lonely nights.”
“Oh? How very naughty of you,” he purrs; you whimper and clutch him tighter. “I will admit I am guilty of the same.”
It’s a good thing he’s carrying you, as you feel your whole body threaten to collapse in on itself at his words.
Why the fuck is your damn hallway so long?
Finally you reach your bedroom, Nanami tossing you slightly too enthusiastically onto the bed. You giggle as you bounce, reaching out for him as he shrugs out of his unbuttoned shirt and climbs over you.
“Kento, hurry,” you beg, gripping his shoulders and attempting to pull him down on top of you. But Nanami resists, one hand planted beside your head and the other resting teasingly on your throat.
“Now, now, dove,” the blonde haired man coos at you, his voice slow and sticky like dripping honey. “Let’s not be hasty, hmmm? I consider myself a refined man; when I’m presented with such a delicious looking feast, I want to savour it. Slowly.”
He smirks down at you, breathless and squirming beneath him. “I’m not naïve, I’m sure that white-haired idiot knows what he’s doing. But I wonder how many times you wished it was me instead. Did you pretend his hands, his mouth, his body, was mine? Did you close you eyes and imagine it was me making you feel good? Did you choke on his name because you almost sighed mine?”
The hand on your throat tightens slightly; your eyes roll back a little in your head.
“Every time,” you gasp, fingers digging into his shoulders. “Every time he touched me, kissed me, covered me- I wished he was you.”
His eyes darken even further, and you suddenly feel like a sheep that’s been cornered by a wolf. But there’s no fear, only rampant excitement and desire.
You want to be ravaged. You want to be taken apart and pieced together again. You want every touch that came before his to be scrubbed from your skin. To know only him, from this moment onwards, until every inch of your very existence has been branded with his love for you.
“No more wishing, dove. I’ll take care of you now.”
You smile up at him, your heart blooming at his words. “I’m all yours, Kento.”
His smile grows softer around the edges.
“I know. And I’ll never make you regret it.”
You smile dreamily to yourself as you sip your coffee, your chin resting in your hand as you watch the scene before you. Nanami stands in your kitchen, gloriously shirtless, humming to himself as he flips pancakes on the stove. Your eyes drink in the broad expanse of his neck and back, littered with lovebites and little red scratches. He’s clad in only a pair of plaid pyjama bottoms and they are sitting dangerously low on his wonderfully defined hips. His hair is messy and his eyes are bright- he looks like a man who is perfectly and incandescently happy.
“You’re staring, dove.”
You snap out of your thoughts, your smile widening
“You’re just looking extra pretty this morning, Kento. The ‘just fucked for half the night’ look really suits you.”
A faint blush creeps up his neck, but he smirks. “I could say the same to you.”
“Mmmm, let’s make it a habit then.”
He chuckles softly. “I’m amenable to that.”
He sets two plates of pancakes in front of his chair. You raise an eyebrow at him in confusion, but it soon melts away when he sits and pats his thigh expectantly. You feel practically giddy as you skip your way around the table, happily surrendering yourself to his waiting arms. He nestles you comfortably on his lap, and you hum blissfully, the comforting warmth of him soothing to your sore body.
“Open,” he instructs, and you obediently open your mouth for a bite of warm, fluffy pancake. It somehow tastes even better than it usually does, or perhaps you’re just experiencing everything through rose coloured glasses today.
The two of you sit in comfortable quiet as he alternates between feeding you bites of your breakfast and eating his own. It’s sickeningly sweet and probably looks silly, but you could care less. You’ve never been more content or happy. And the fact that this can be your reality every morning from now on (well, you think, maybe not the feeding bit) has you nearly bursting with delight. You aren’t even mad at Gojo anymore, and you think you should probably text him and wish him well with whoever he was breaking off your arrangement for.
Or you could give him shit. Yeah, that was the better option.
Sitting up, you reach for your phone across the table. Nanami gives you a look as you settle back against him, swiping open the camera feature.
“What are you doing?” he asks as you nuzzle back into him, adjusting the frame so its your smug face snuggled against his shoulder. You make absolutely sure there’s as many lovebites visible as possible, with your middle finger raised in prominence front and center.
“Gonna send a pic to that white haired bastard. Consolation prize my ass. I want him to know I just had the best damn night of my life.”
“Hmmm.” Nanami doesn’t stop you, in fact you think he’s even smiling a bit as you snap the picture. You send it to Gojo with the caption “You wish you were as good as him. Consolation prize? I just won the fucking lottery, dickwad.”
In less than 5 minutes your phone dings with a reply. You open the message and nearly drop the device as you shriek in surprise.
“What?” Nanami leans over your shoulder.
You tilt the phone so he can see. His eyes widen comically for a moment, then he sighs and shakes his head.
“I truly thought she had better taste.”
“Hey, you’re saying that to someone who’s also slept with him.”
“Yes, but you’ve always been a bit of a loose cannon.”
You elbow him, pouting as he huffs a quiet laugh. The two of you stare at the picture of Gojo sitting in bed, smiling blindingly while throwing up a peace sign. Behind him, curled beneath the blankets and clearly asleep, is none other than Kyoto’s beloved sensei, Iori Utahime. The text with it reads: “My angel would disagree, if she ever wakes up from the coma I’ve fucked her into! Oh and btw, your blow game is WEAK. Kyoto girls do it better!” *wink*
“Blergh, what a prick! She’s gonna beat his ass when she sees this.”
“We can only hope.”
“And there is nothing wrong with my blow game!”
“I’d give you an A+, dove.”
You sigh, slumping back against Nanami. “Well, I hope it works out for them, at any rate. Dickhead aside, he’s my friend and I want him to be happy.”
“Mmmmm,” Nanami hums, pressing his lips to the crown of your head. You feel his hands tighten on your waist. “Enough talk about that idiot. Any morning involving Gojo is never a good one.”
“Oh?” you raise your eyebrows, grinning. “So this morning isn’t a good one then?”
“It’s been the best one,” he leans down and places a warm kiss on your lips. You melt into it, humming happily as you press yourself against him. “But it would be even better if you would let me have you again.”
“What, the three times last night didn’t satisfy you?” you tease gently, nipping his bottom lip playfully.
He pulls back, and that predatory gleam returns to his eyes. You feel excitement curling up your spine.
“I will never have enough of you.”
His words spear through your heart. This fucking man, you think giddily as you cling to him, I love him so damn much.
Your unfinished pancakes lay cold and forgotten as the two of you stumble off towards the direction of your bedroom, kissing and laughing and shedding what little clothes you were wearing. It doesn’t matter though. You know after you’ve satisfied your cravings for each other, he’ll make you more.
For the rest of your life, however long it may be, you’ll wake up to coffee and chocolate chip pancakes and Nanami Kento.
You can’t wait to start.
Taglist: @mediocrityexpert @ghost-party @my-child-gaara @pterolycus7 @scarysquadmother @nshoyo @getbehindme-satan @momorina @xreemie @ms-munchkin @ilhy2003 @bmthevick @chococroissant @outpyked @sillykittt @meri-soni-meri-tamanna @proherotheflamehashira @adolescentwerewolves @cj-sparkss @malinq-ashida @brokencoinlocker @pjofics @destructive-memories @babierin @cosmins @pastelsweaters-and-bubble-t @overly-khr-obsessed @multifandomcat @ydontuslytherin @savantsoulfinder @dok-ja
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Day 5, Story #1 is by @accio-broom
Title: For Good
Pairing: Ron & Harry
Prompt: Brother from another mother / Song Fic
Trigger Warning(s) (if any): A small amount of peril
They should have known the fight wasn’t going to go their way when they entered the warehouse, but determined to prove their skills as newly graduated Aurors, Harry and Ron barrelled ahead anyway. And now, only ten minutes later, the chaos of the fight is overwhelming them.
Five rogue Death Eaters have backed them into a corner. The rest of the Auror team are here, somewhere, but despite Harry’s loud pleas, nobody comes to save them.
Harry’s heart pounds in his chest as he clutches hold of his best friend. Curses whoosh above their heads, crashing into the stone wall behind them. The taste of dust from the rubble dries his mouth. There has only ever been one other time he’s felt like this, desperate and out of his depth, and he died then, too.
He is expecting the outcome of this fight to be the same.
There’s so much Harry still has to do. He doesn’t want to die yet. Harry wants children and the chance to have a family with the woman he loves. He hasn’t waited nervously at the top of an aisle for Ginny’s appearance in a white dress to take his breath away. Heck, he hasn’t even had a chance to propose. There are still rooms in their new cottage that they have yet to christen.
It’s too soon. The redhead beside Harry cringes against the wall. Ron still has his whole life ahead of him too.
A purple curse hits Harry square in the chest, stealing the last of the breath from his lungs. His body grows rigid, but his cry echoes around them.
Ron calls out, shielding his friend with his own body as he clutches Harry’s dirty robes. “Harry! No!”
“Ron,” Harry croaks. “What’s happening?”
“Stay with me, Harry. You’re going to be okay.”
The room around them is growing dark. This is the end.
“I just want to say thank you, Ron. For everything. You didn’t have to be my friend that first day on the Hogwarts Express, but you took me on and let me be a part of your family. And then, you even allowed me to date Ginny.”
“I don’t think—”
Harry can’t let his best friend interrupt this, not when there are so many important things he needs to say before he breathes his last breath. “I just want you to know.” He inhales deeply, coughing as a cloud of dust fills his lungs. “B-because I knew you, I have been changed for good.”
A hack takes over his body, burning his throat as he fights with his last grasp on consciousness. The light dims, so Harry chooses to focus on Ron’s deep ocean blue eyes staring back at him, concern pouring out of them as they sparkle with tears.
And then Harry sees no more.
Warmth shines on Harry’s face. Nothing hurts, and none of the usual thoughts troubles him.
Everything is good.
When he first opens his eyes, he expects to see King’s Cross station and Headmaster Dumbledore waiting to ask Harry if he wants to move on or stay behind. Harry’s not sure if he’d like to be a ghost. He hasn’t had much time to think about it, which is quite peculiar for a man who always seems to be on the edge of death. He hopes Dumbledore will congratulate him on a good job again. Harry quite liked that before.
But instead of the beautiful Victorian arches and pale green benches hidden behind a light smattering of ethereal fog, all Harry sees is white. No kindly old mentor waits to greet him, and there’s no squawking corpse of his enemy there to help him ponder the real meaning of life.
So this is what dying is really like?
At least it’s cosy wherever he is. The bed he lies on is comfortable, and crisp, white sheets envelop his body. A steady beep fills his ears, and it smells clean. He’s going to like it here. Harry is about to close his eyes and drift back off to sleep for a while longer—he has all the time in the world now, after all—but a long, black blurry shape appears in front of him. As he grows more awake, he can hear other things, like the shuffle of papers and the scratch of a quill against parchment.
With a frown and a groan, Harry tries to sit up, but the action hurts, and he gives up before he’s even given it an honest try.
The blur speaks to him. “Stay there, mate. You’ve had a bad few hours.”
“Glasses?” Harry manages to croak through dry, chapped lips. “Where are my glasses?”
If he’s still alive, he at least deserves to be able to see correctly. The shape presses a familiar metal into his hand, and gingerly, Harry lifts them to his face. Forms become sharper as the world finally shapes into focus.
“Welcome back.” Ron beams down at him. “You’ve been out for a couple of hours.”
Harry’s confused. “W-what happened?”
“Ah, mate.” Relief floods Ron’s face. “It was awful. Selwyn and his buddies cornered us, and I thought we were done for, especially when they hit you with that curse. Fuck knows what that was—the Healers were utterly stumped. You were fucking paralysed, Harry.
“They were about to hit me with the same thing when Smythe and the others finally found us, the lazy gits. They arrested everyone. Otherwise…” The redhead trails off with a sigh. He pauses, a mournful look crossing his face. After a moment, he shakes whatever thoughts are haunting him out of his head, and his usual lopsided grin reappears. “Anyway, I managed to grab you and Apparate us out of there. Brought you straight here.
“The healers are still running tests, but I think you’re going to be okay.”
Harry nods, memories of the fight roaring back into his mind. He scrunches his eyes tightly closed, trying to ignore the throb of pain. Maybe he bashed his head? Then with a groan, his final words to Ron echo, like the final moments of a love film.
Because I knew you, I have been changed for good.
“Paralysed, was I?”
“Yeah, I was trying to get you to move your fingers and your legs and stuff but nothing. Although it, uhm, it didn’t shut you up. You couldn’t stop talking.” Ron’s ears turn pink, and he takes a sudden interest in the top left corner of Harry’s sheets.
Harry’s not sure he wants his friend to repeat whatever he said. The memories are cringe-worthy enough. “Oh?” he questions anyway, inwardly kicking himself as the word falls out of his mouth.
A silent nod confirms Harry’s suspicions that whatever he thinks he said was actually spoken. Ron doesn’t say anything else. A flicker of movement from a diagnostic charm distracts both their attention, and Harry’s best friend glances up at the door with glassy eyes. He clears his throat before finally looking back at Harry.
“So, I owled Ginny and Hermione. And Mum, of course. Now I know you’re not going to die, I think I’ll go and wait outside for them. They’ll want to see you, and I don’t think Mum will do well trying to battle the Welcome Witch for an answer this afternoon. Plus, if anyone hears that the famous Harry Potter is in here, we’ll never get a moment’s peace.”
“Sure, thanks, mate.”
Harry closes his eyes again, letting the sound of trainers squeaking against the linoleum track Ron’s movements towards the exit. To Harry’s surprise, a surge of disappointment tugs at his heart. He confessed his true feelings to his best friend, told him how much he means to him, and got nothing back.
“Oh, and Harry?”
Ron’s voice breaks through Harry’s brooding, causing the wizard’s eyes to shoot open as he lifts his head from his pillow just enough to glance at his best friend. “Yeah?”
“I love you, too.” Ron’s grin widens, and there’s a cheeky glint in his eyes. “Just wish you didn’t wait until you were on your deathbed to say it.”
The ginger git’s glowing pink ears disappear before Harry can even reply. Harry sinks back into his bed, a small smile crossing over his lips.
He knew it.
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Pairing = FO! Poe x reader
Words = 6k (don’t look at me)
Summary = You watch your husband throw a knife, sparking 18+ thots
Warnings = SMUT (18+ only!) KNIFE PLAY, reader masturbation, fingering (f receiving), violence, like one non-graphic sentence of imaginary blood, but no actual blood (PLEASE message me if you wanna know more before reading and I’ll answer any questions you might have :) )
A/N 1 = This is basically pure smut and I’m sorry, it’s all from that training video
A/N 2 = You and Poe are married in the fic, and love each other. There is also discussion of the scene involving the knife. In real life, this discussion should be much longer, and less one-sided, going through details with much more depth. If you ever try knife play in real life, please never use the knife during actual sex in case of injury. You should also always have a first aid kit, and certain places of the body (the neck, inner wrists, groin area) should never come into contact with a sharp knife because of the high risk of lethal injury. In this fic they do it because it’s fiction. Please always do your research and make sure your partner does too, make sure you keep communicating and also that you trust the person you’re with.
If you have any questions about the content of this fic before you read, send me a message, if you have questions about knife play, send me a message, I’ll be more than happy to talk about it!! (Actually I’ll talk about anything to anyone if you ever want to chat! ☺️)
Also PLEASE let me know if I missed any warnings!!
Posted to AO3
“What do you think … Captain?”
You pause for effect before pulling out Poe’s rank. It’s a little too tough and impersonal for your tastes, usually preferring the purr, the rough and ready of ‘Sir’, but you know that Poe enjoys the rare occasion when you do use it, and if it means you get what you want, you’ll call him every name under the sun. Your husband’s brown eyes darken as you pout, giving him your best puppy dog eyes.
You’re sat on his desk, far enough back that you can swing your legs a little, hands tucked under your thighs, while Poe relaxes in his seat, looking like work, all sharp angles and dark looks. He trimmed his beard in the refresher this morning, emphasising his jaw, and that perfect, pink mouth. You can’t wait to get him home so he can relax properly. He works far too hard for a thankless job in your opinion.
Anyway, in your defense, it was Poe who planted the seed of the idea in your head in the first place.
You knew Poe was proficient at fighting, and weaponry, and that his skill in a TIE fighter was unparalleled in the First Order, but you’d thought that his particular area of expertise was constrained to blasters and other long-distance weapons.
You were supposed to be the best at knives. After all, Poe had recruited you to work for the First Order after watching you take down some disrespectful asshole who had been twice your size in close quarters, a small hidden knife strapped in your boot being the deciding factor in your victory. All over a dispute of cheating.
It was a shame, really.
All that loss of life … for nothing. All that chaos, just breeding more chaos, and who was the real winner?
Poe had shown you how nice it felt to bring order. He’d shown you how nice a lot of things felt.
So you’d just assumed that Poe wasn’t as good with knives, and therefore wasn’t as disposed to use them. You’d never asked, merely enjoying the way his eyes lingered on you when you practiced your skills in training, and really enjoying the sex afterwards. And even after a year of marriage, it had never come up.
But last week, you and Poe had been among a larger group of officers fighting your way out of a Resistance base after blowing their central intelligence systems. You’d shot once, twice and then a third time at a particularly stubborn oncoming Rebel, finally hitting them in the stomach, causing them to double over in pain.
Stars, your new job had made you rusty. You’d have to practice using your blaster more.
You’d stood over the rebel to deliver a final shot to their face, taking them out of their misery and turned just in time to see Poe throwing his blaster to one side, smoke issuing from it, and pulling a small knife from a holster on his thigh. Your mouth dry, you’d continued to watch as, almost in slow motion, Poe had thrown the knife with deadly accuracy, the small silver flash burying itself into the Rebel’s exposed neck.
Fuck that was hot.
Why was that so hot?
The rebel had stood there with an expression of surprise, cocky bastard, blood already dribbling, a bright red stream running down their throat, but you just had eyes for Poe. You’d ignored the way the Rebel’s body slumped to the ground with a heavy finality, and moved forwards, suddenly desperate to feel Poe’s lips on yours.
Damn the Resistance, and damn the rebels.
You would kiss your husband, and you would kiss him right now.
Poe had turned, his eyes automatically sweeping for you, surprise in his eyes at first at how close you already were, but he’d allowed you to push him into the dusty wall, one of your hands looking for his and twinning your fingers together.
Your deadly hands, spun together for eternity.
Your other hand is automatically reaching for Poe’s neck, fingers grasping at his hair, pulling his lips towards yours. You can smell his sweat, the familiar scent pooling under his cologne, filling you with a sense of safety, even amongst the very-real danger the two of you are currently facing. His free hand is already gripping your hip, pulling your body towards him as if you weren’t as close as you could possibly be.
It’s moments like these that you think the two of you are made for each other. You couldn’t imagine needing to kiss anyone else in the middle of a mission, couldn’t imagine anyone else letting you do such a thing, couldn’t imagine anyone else wanting you the way Poe wants you. The way you want - no, need - him.
The way he needs you.
Even though your eyes are closed, you can still see how Poe’s fingers moved, causing the knife to fly out of his hands, even as they grip your hips, one of his legs pushing nicely between yours, canting upwards slightly towards the ache you’re already feeling.
The movement is replaying over and over again behind your eyelids, and you never want to forget it.
Poe’s mouth slots perfectly over yours, and he gasps into you when you pull on his hair slightly. He’d had it cut recently, and it’s still a touch too short for your liking, unable to properly tug unless you hold the curls on top of his head.
You take the opportunity to taste him, dipping your tongue into his mouth, and he lets you, lets you bite his tongue, as his beard tickles your skin, scratching deliciously. And then you bite his lip as you pull away, and he groans deep, hitting your body lower, warming you up.
But you don’t let yourself move against his thigh. Not now. Not yet. Not even as you move your mouth to his throat, where his salt and pepper beard gives way to tan skin, kissing him desperately. You don’t stop, even as your hands untangle, and Poe reaches for your holster, raising your blaster and letting off a shot in your ear. You keep kissing him, following the line of his beard up to his ear, nipping lightly at his lobe, ignoring the sounds of a body falling behind you.
And now he’s plastering kisses to your skin, wherever he can get his mouth, on your forehead, down your cheek, along your arm, only separating from you as he delicately kisses each of your fingers. There’s further swooping low in your belly as you look at him, kiss swollen lips, hooded eyelids, dark eyes.
And then your gaze is broken, other members of the First Order catching up to you, whooping and hollering in success. Their shouts are enough to make Poe reach for your hand again, holding it as he pulls the two of you back to his TIE fighter, back to safety and freedom.
But the image of Poe throwing a knife didn’t leave you, even after the mission, taking up most of your brain during the debrief, and even popping into your mind later that evening, before Poe joined you in bed, where you found your hands trailing fire over your body, pinching your nipples, as you imagine Poe pressing a cold knife into and around the flesh of your breasts.
You’re naked, and the room is cool, goosebumps prickling along your flesh despite that familiar heat spreading through your veins, slowly burning you up from the inside. You can feel sweat gathering despite the chill, along your hairline, your upper arms, your stomach.
Once you’d started you couldn’t stop, pressing your thighs together as you worked yourself up, fingers teasing your skin as you imagined Poe walking in, still in his uniform. He’d stop at the end of the bed and just watch you.
And then he’d lean over you, still watching you with those dark eyes, and take out that knife, just tracing it up your leg, gently pressing it into the inside of your thigh, dangerously close to your pussy, and you pause, with your head tipped back on your pillow, mouth open, eyes closed, imagining the feeling.
Letting out a small whimper, you’d lowered your hand, dipping your fingers between your folds, and delicately traced around your clit, spreading the wetness that had gathered throughout the day around.
You’d settled into your familiar rhythm, slowly building the speed and pressure of your fingers on your clit, letting out little gasps when you hit the spot just right. And then your fantasy Poe opened his mouth, and you imagined him playing carelessly with the knife. “Put a finger inside yourself.”
You remember letting out a noise of agreement, not quite a word, inching your fingers further down, when your imaginary Poe clarified. “Just one, baby.”
You’d immediately lifted your head in protest, even though he wasn’t actually there, and you could have done what you had wanted to, but you’d obeyed. It’s part of the fun. You’d slid your middle finger in with little resistance, and closed your eyes in pleasure, your head falling back to your pillow.
You’d bitten your lip, muffled any quiet sounds that escaped you, imagining again and again and again how Poe would look holding that knife, ready to use it on you, carve the cold metal into your skin, not hard enough to hurt you, but enough that you can feel cool trails over hot skin.
Your single finger was slowly pumping in and out of you, and you were so wet you could hear it in the silence of your bedroom, your small gasps gradually increasing in volume. When you thought you couldn’t bear it anymore, you’d imagined Poe telling you to “Insert another one baby.”
So you had, letting out a small moan as a second finger joined the first, and gasped out Poe’s name. It was easier than when Poe did it, your fingers being smaller than his, but you could still feel a slight stretch.
You’d kept moving your fingers, gradually circled faster, ground your hips down so your clit caught on your palm, curved your fingers inside yourself. Your breaths were coming faster now, shuddering through your chest as you imagined Poe trailing the ice-cold knife up your legs, getting closer and closer to the juncture of your thighs.
Just when you thought you couldn’t take any more, you imagined locking eyes with Poe, and he opened his mouth. “Cum for me, baby.” His voice was velvet, soft, but commanding and familiar as your toes started to curl. You couldn’t hear the noises coming from your mouth anymore, only dimly aware that you were moaning, the sound drowning out the squelch between your legs.
Your orgasm was a slow builder, and you remembered the last time Poe brought you to orgasm, how he whispered filthy praises in your ear as his cock dragged slowly in and out of you, coaxing you through it then as his imaginary doppelganger does now, watching you gush and spasm over your fingers, legs shaking in pleasure.
After you’d come, you’d lain there, panting on your bed, sweat cooling your skin. Languidly, you’d raised your fingers, cleaning them off with kitten licks, the tangy taste coating your tongue and wishing Poe would come to bed, he always enjoyed watching you clean up.
Your fantasy confirming just how into the idea of playing with a knife you were, you’d stewed over the idea a little further for a couple of days, imagining how it would actually feel, sure that in real life it would be different. You’d curiously pressed the blunt side of a knife on your inner forearm one day when you were alone in the kitchen, sending furtive glances towards the partially closed door. Technically it was nothing special, technically nothing exciting, not in that way, and it was the blunt side, but it had still sent a delicious shiver through you. You could feel your heart rate increasing as you trailed the cold metal up your arm, biting your lip as heat pooled low in your belly.
You even went so far to press the sharp point into your skin, stopping short of making yourself bleed, but enough you could see a small indentation in your skin. Your little ‘exercise’ cemented the idea further into your brain, the idea of something so dangerous being used in such a vulnerable position was intoxicating.
You’d taken your time, thinking over the idea, and carefully considering. You wanted to be sure of yourself before bringing the idea to Poe. He wouldn’t judge you for changing your mind, but still, it would be a little embarrassing to change your mind. Poe was careful with your boundaries, always checking in when the two of you went a little further than normal, and you knew that this would be no different.
All this had led to you coming to Poe’s office on your break and asking what he thought. He was considering it, as you knew he would, leaning back in his chair. His eyes are raking over you already, but you give him time, even though your palms are sweating and you’re sure your heart rate is through the roof.
It’s only when he moves, fingers twitching in their grasp of the chair that you react, leaning forwards, your feet swinging slightly at the motion.
“Ok,” he nods, and before you can fling yourself at him, he holds a hand up. “But. We have to establish some rules, like what kind of knife are we going to use?”
You nod, already pulling up the bag that had been resting on the floor, slumped over and forgotten in your excitement. You rummage around for a second, trying to find-
“Here!” You hold the knife out for Poe to take, grinning at the amusement in his eyes. “It’s blunt on both sides, you’d have to apply some pretty serious pressure if you wanted to do any damage.”
The knife is - and there’s really no other word for it - pretty, with a black blade, and decorated handle. It’s small, about 15 cm long, but the metal is heavy, and one that will stay cold for a long time. It had raised a few eyebrows when you’d asked for a pretty knife with two blunt edges, but you were a Dameron, and had some sway of your own. If you told those lower than you to obtain a specific knife discreetly and with no questions asked, so it happened.
Poe takes his time examining it, admiring it from all angles, shooting you another look, this time filled with pride.
“I did my research.” You flip your hair as if it was nothing, omitting how expensive the final bill had been, and how you’d charged it to your work account.
“That’s my girl,” he praises, still looking the knife over. Then he rests it in his lap, so he can roll up one of his sleeves, talking all the while. “Now tell me what you want me to do to you.”
So you do, explaining you’d quite like to be blindfolded but not restrained, to keep your colour system as the safeword, all while Poe is pressing the blade at different angles into his forearm, testing out different pressures.
When you pause, watching him, Poe glances up at you. “Go on.” Is all he says, and you nod, swallowing.
“I’d quite like it if you pulled the knife along my legs.” Your voice is quiet, but sure. “And maybe the same with my arms.” You pause, feeling nerves rising inside you and reminding yourself that this is your husband.
“I think… pressing the blade around my breasts would be sexy.” Poe pauses as he presses the flat edge of the blade into his forearm. “Just tracing around,” you continue, slightly braver now you have piqued Poe’s interest. “Maybe you could hold it against my throat? I don’t… I don’t know when, exactly, but I think it would be hot.”
You take a second, breathing deeper and you raise your chin to meet Poe’s gaze, feeling more confident as you continue. “Maybe you could hold it against my throat when you fuck me.” Poe’s gaze is fire, burning through you as he loosely holds your knife in his hands. “Maybe you could blindfold me and tell me that you wish the knife had a sharp end so you could carve your initials into my skin, showing that I belong to you.”
“And,” you start to move now, hopping off the desk so you can straddle Poe, easily plucking the knife from his hand, and looking down at it. “Maybe one day I can use it on you, and I can tell you how much I want to carve my initials into your skin.”
“Because we belong to each other,” Poe murmurs, his voice low. You nod in agreement, mouthing at his pulse point, and trailing sloppy kisses above the cut of his uniform. “I’d love that, sweetness.” His hands are running up and down your sides. “I love you.”
You just hum happily, content to be breathing in Poe’s scent, to feel surrounded by him. You’re interrupted by a knock on the door, and you just sag into Poe, the knife pressing slightly into your stomachs as you nose at his throat, unwilling to face the inevitable departure.
“What is it?” Poe’s voice is once again hard and forceful, impatient with whoever dared to interrupt.
“Sir?” The voice is young and you turn slightly, just enough to spy a young recruit in your peripheral view, not quite brave enough to enter the room, instead choosing to dither in the doorway, holding a number of files. “I’ve got these for you to sign.”
Poe just huffs, not bothering to address the recruit. You know what’s about to happen so you untangle yourself, before leaning over to grab one last kiss from Poe before the evening. It starts off innocently enough, a small peck on your husband’s lips as a goodbye, but then you back for another. This time his mouth is open as it meets yours, and you happily deepen it, despite the awkward angle that you have to hold yourself at. Your earlier conversation has fuelled your desire, revving you up, and the idea of waiting is hellish.
You taste all of Poe, moving one hand to his face, moving to feel the slight scratch of his beard underneath the pads of your fingers. His hand moves to cup your jaw, and you forget about the recruit standing in the doorway until there’s a slightly awkward shuffling in the corner.
So you break away, slowly, unwillingly, Poe’s mouth following even as you stand to your full height. “See you later,” you murmur, leaving your blunt knife in his lap, and pressing one more quick kiss to his cheek.
His hand catches yours as you leave, and he lowers his lips to your knuckles, soft lips juxtaposing with the harsh strands of his beard. “I love you.” They’re commonly said words between you, but they never lose their power, especially not when Poe says them, like you’re a goddess on a pedestal and he’s an unworthy sinner who wants nothing more than to worship at your feet. Said reverently, like it’s a privilege to love you.
The recruit is forgotten again as you look back down at Poe, still unable (or maybe unwilling, you’re not entirely sure) to tear yourself away. This time it’s a small, almost involuntary clearing of the throat that makes you duck down again for a kiss on the other cheek. “I love you too.”
Poe flashes you a quick smile, before all softness leaves his face and he turns to the files the recruit is holding out for him. You admire him for a second by the door, proud of the terror that Poe can instil in those below him so easily.
You’re lying on your bed when Poe enters the room. He’s already taken off his shirt in the refresher, exposing his chest, the warm glow of small lamps around the room making his chest look more golden than usual, as though he’d been touched by Midas. The belt holding his trousers up is slung low around his hips, and you can just see where his snail trail mixes into a darker bush, just peeking over the top of the fabric.
You’re wearing some of your favourite lingerie, bra matching your panties, straps criss-crossing your hips, and outlining your breasts. It’s soft against your skin, the satin material outlining your curves, allowing your nipples to poke through the flimsy fabric. Part of the reason that it’s your favourite is because Poe loves it so much.
You’d heard him enter your rooms, so the book in your hands is just for decoration, more concerned with the way you look resting among the pillows, upper body raised artfully against the headboard as you wait for your husband.
It still gives you a rush to call him that, and you idly wonder if it’ll ever fade.
He’s put his holster on, the one he wore on that mission, the strap doing nothing but emphasising his thigh. You recognise the handle peeking out of the shaft, and your mouth goes dry with excitement.
And Poe’s only looked at you, silent as he takes you in. Just his presence can have such an effect on you. When he does speak, his voice is hoarse, and your eyes flick down, admiring the already large bulge in his trousers. “Fuck baby.”
You swallow, your breath already coming faster, you look at Poe like it’s the first time, tracing the outline of his shoulders as if you don’t already know them by heart. He’s wearing his necklace, a familiar sight, the only change being that the ring that used to hang on his breast bone is now on your left hand, but Poe still never takes it off.
You plan on moving to Poe, plan to blow his mind before he can blow yours but before you can he’s already crawling on top of you, holding his weight on his forearms either side of you, dipping his head down to kiss you.
This kiss isn’t like the one in the office, more hungry, more urgent. There’s none of the calmness simmering between the surface, Poe’s let go of his control.
You automatically hook your legs around his waist, already canting your hips upwards as you grind on the seam of Poe’s trousers.
You separate your lips from Poe’s, moving down his throat, kissing, and biting as you go, beard scratching the skin on your face, pleasurable little bites of pain. When you can, you grab hold of his chain between your teeth, tugging on it slightly.
You move your hands up to bury your hands in the neat curls on top of Poe’s head, pulling in tandem with the chain.
And just like that, with a flash of fluid movement, the knife is pressed dangerously against the column of your throat, pushing your head back onto the pillows, forcing you to release the chain. It’s cold, and feels sharp, and Poe’s using it to force your chin back and up, pressing into your skin.
“Are you going to behave?” His voice is a growl.
You just grin at him, ignoring the thrills shooting up your spine, and the way your legs are tingling with excitement.
“Maybe you should use that knife and find out.”
Poe just rolls his eyes in response, fishing into his pocket as he leans back. “Put that on, sweetheart,” he instructs, tossing you a small square of black silk, your blindfold. “And lie back.” You do as you’re told, putting the blindfold on carefully, adjusting it around your hair for comfort, before scooting down the bed and lying back.
You close your eyes behind the blindfold, never enjoying the sensation of seeing darkness, and instead feeling like you’re floating as you wait for Poe to do something.
Stars you can’t tell where he is.
“Green!” Your voice is embarrassingly desperate but you want to start and what is taking Poe so long? Why isn’t he touching you yet? You can hear him moving around the bed, feel the slight disturbances in the air, but you’re still not entirely sure where he is.
The first thing Poe does is pull at the waistband of your underwear. You lift your hips, helping him pull them off, and then you wait. You can hear Poe breathing, but he doesn’t do anything for a moment and you’re free to let your imagination run.
Has he discarded them, and he’s just watching you? Admiring you? Or is he holding them up to his face, still in awe of how wet you get for him, smelling you, tasting you, without you even knowing? You’re wet, you can feel the heat gathering between your legs, but has it been enough to leak onto your panties?
And then the foot of the bed dips, Poe travelling up to straddle you, coming to a rest on your thighs. He sits there for a moment, not moving, and you keen for him, desperate for him to start doing anything.
You can’t see the look on his face, can only imagine his expression, and it’s driving you wild.
When the knife first touches your skin, it’s a shock, cold thrills shooting up your arm from where the knife is resting lightly on the inside of your wrist. You giggle, releasing some of the tension building in the room, causing Poe to lift the knife from where it’s resting, instead leaning over to bite the skin under your ear, his chest brushing yours. “Concentrate,” he admonishes you, but you can feel him smiling against your skin at you, that softness that comes easy to him when it’s just the two of you.
You arch your back towards him as he stays there, enjoying the feeling of his chest against yours, the way his warmth spreads through you. You can feel his chain trapped between your bodies too, a warm, comforting presence, at such odds to the knife in Po’e hand.
You giggle again, his beard tickling your neck when he drops a kiss, when you feel the knife turn on your skin and curve up your arm. It’s cold, and sharp, and if you didn’t know it was blunt, you’d be worried about the amount of blood running into the bedsheets. The sensation is enough to stop your laughing, and you take in a breath, short and barely audible.
Poe’s sat up now, away from you, and you arch your back towards where he must be, desperate for contact as he travels the knife slowly up your arm and across the front of your shoulder.
You struggle to press your legs together, already attempting to relieve some of the pressure building. Poe doesn’t miss your subtle squirming, kissing the soft underside of your jaw, before talking. “That feel good?”
You nod, whining out a “Yes Poe, it-it feels so good, don’t stop, don’t stop, stars.” Poe adjusts himself, bringing one leg over your thigh so he can fit a knee at the junction of your legs. One of your hands flies down to grab Poe’s thigh, clumsy fingers looking for him before spreading across his warm skin. Your other hand is already fisting into the sheets at your side.
It’s a whine, high-pitched and a bit pathetic, even as you shift your hips down, feeling the delicious grind of Poe’s uniform catching on your bare pussy, imagining the mess you’re leaving on his uniform not for the first time, feeling oh so good when you angle your hips in a certain way to press your clit. You’re soaked, you can already feel it slightly on your inner thighs and you dimly remember a time when you were embarrassed at how easily Poe aroused you.
He uses the knife to push the straps of your bra down your shoulders, cold and slow and achingly painful, but Poe doesn’t slide them all the way down your arms, even as he allows you to keep grinding your hips down against his leg.
He lowers his mouth to your breasts, mouthing at your nipples through the thin fabric, a wet heat pooling and you mewl in protest, impatient and wanting more. Always more.
More, more, more.
You don’t think you could ever get enough of your husband.
And his beard. The skin on your breasts is soft, sensitive, and you can feel the burn already, even through your bra. Each scratch sends a thrill up your chest, settling in your throat as you let out small noises of enjoyment for your husband.
Poe moves under your breasts, kissing and nipping at your exposed skin, and you move your hands to his head, fumbling a little at first, your knuckles accidentally knocking into the side of his face when you misjudge the distance, until you find his thick curls.
They’re soft under your fingertips, and you tangle your fingers in, tugging every now and then. Poe’s moving at an excruciating pace, and you want more now. Your arms are caught slightly in your bra straps and you impatiently push them down, not liking the restraint.
“Please, Poe.” You struggle to find his head again, before giving him another, harder, tug, and now it’s Poe’s turn to moan against your skin.
“Baby,” He sounds just as broken as you feel, even as he keeps his hands on your shoulder, the knife resting gently against the column of your throat.
Poe peels your now-wet bra from your breasts, undoing the centre clasp and allowing it to fall to the bed at your side. He kisses somewhere on your stomach, moving his free hand down, slipping through your folds easily, and dipping in his fingers, spreading the slick that’s gathered there, and you widen your legs further in an automatic attempt to make it easier for him.
You can’t help it, lifting your hips when he slides in one finger, gasping in pleasure. Poe gives you a second to adjust, before stretching you with a second finger, and you can feel his smirk as he kisses your stomach, crooking his fingers towards your sweet spot a couple of inches inside you, moving slowly as he teases you.
His chain just touches your skin when he kisses you, each movement jostling it a little, and you giggle, pulling at it in a futile attempt to control Poe’s movements.
Warmth is spreading all over your body despite the cool knife, and you can feel droplets of sweat beading, on your face, your neck. You’re sure there’s sweat on your breasts and stomach and legs too, but you don’t care.
Poe moves the knife from your neck, and you’ve lost your concentration, unable to figure out how he’s lying, lost in the sensations of the cold glide of the knife over your sweaty body as you moan, Poe working magic with his fingers. You can feel his weight on top of you and you allow yourself to float further, willingly losing yourself in the sensations.
Poe’s voice is hoarse, even as he keeps moving his fingers inside you, building you up and up, the knife hesitantly pressed on the underside of your breast.
Your arch your back towards him enthusiastically, gasping out, “Green! Poe, it feels so good!”
The knife starts to circle the flesh of your breasts, pushing in the side of one, before Poe moves it to the other, and you’re sure your nipples are hard. You’re trying to push your body up, Poe making you feel light and airy and like he’ll raise you above such mundane things as lying in a bed.
His fingers are moving in and out of you now, and this is so close to your fantasy from the other day that you come close to your peak embarrassingly fast.
“You really like this, don’t you?” Poe’s purring in your ear, and you tip your head towards him, mouth falling open in response. You do. You do really like this.
The only sound you can make is a strangled moan, and you hope Poe knows what you mean, his fingers speeding up with your confirmation. He keeps talking, as though you’re going to be able to answer, his voice only spurring you on. “I bet you can’t wait to do this to me, my filthy little thing.”
“Do you want my cock? I can’t wait to get you bouncing on my dick again.”
“You’re so wet for me, you’re dripping around my fingers.”
And stars, you are wet, Poe’s fingers sliding in and out with a practiced movement, his thumb flicking at your clit, and you can hear the squelching of Poe’s fingers in your pussy, even as blood starts to roar through your ears.
“Fuck,” you swear, panting, your body hot. “Fuck, Poe. Poe.”
It’s like his name is the only word you can remember, the only word allowed to pass your lips, a prayer, a chant, repeated over and over again as he lifts you higher.
And then the tip of the blade is on your nipple and you’re going to come, you can feel it, your legs tensing even as your hips writhe on the sheets below you, keening for Poe, still desperate for more.
You cum with a breathless gasp of Poe’s name, hips bucking upwards into Poe, your pussy clenching around his fingers which don’t stop moving as he works you through it. He moves to kiss you, noses bumping as he adjusts his position, slowing the movements of his fingers as you continue to spasm helplessly below him.
And this is better, because as you come down from your high, your heart beating like a drum in your chest, you can feel Poe’s chest against yours, his heart beating nearly as fast as yours as your lips move slowly against each other.
Your hands come up, pushing the blindfold onto your forehead, preventing any sweat from dripping into your eyes and you take in the sight before you. You’re unintentionally giving Poe your bedroom eyes, you know, unable to open them fully, still giddy from pleasure. There’s a lazy smile on your lips as you drink Poe in.
His hair has become disheveled from your hands, errant black curls flopping everywhere, including his own forehead, which is gleaming from a thin sheen of sweat. His eyes are dark, that lovely brown colour almost swallowed whole by his pupils and his lips are pinker than usual, swollen.
He’s straddling your thighs, one hand resting on your hip with glistening fingers, the wet catching on your sticky skin while his thumb idly draws patterns into your skin. Poe’s other hand is holding onto the knife, and you let your eyelids dip, unable to keep them open for much longer.
Poe gives you a minute of rest, allowing you to catch your breath, before he moves. You don’t think anything of it, until you feel the knife on the inside of your thigh, scraping up your leg like an old-fashioned razor.
You slowly lift your head, opening lazy eyes and watch as Poe slowly moves the knife up. There’s slick liquid on your legs, proof of your release, proof of how much you enjoyed Poe, how much you enjoyed the knife, now collecting on the edge, white and shiny on the blade.
Your mouth’s dry and you can’t tear your eyes away, you and Poe concentrating on the same spot.
And then, oh maker, Poe closes his eyes, and fuck, he lifts the knife up to his mouth. There’s a flash of white teeth, pearly and sharp, then a swipe of his pink tongue, and your cum is gone, Poe swallowing, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat.
Stars, he’s going to kill you.
There’s a drop stuck to his beard, but you can’t move, frozen as arousal courses again through your body.
Your heart is hammering in your chest as though it’s trying to escape. This time it’s your turn to move, pushing Poe down and straddling him, settling into his lap.
This isn’t the end.
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Claws of Carnality | jjk (6)
Pairing: alpha jungkook x omega reader
Genre: smut, fluff and angst, abo/werewolf!au, soulmate!au, fantasy!au
Rating: 18+ / nsfw
Word Count: 6.7k
Summary: Lust lives to consume and in the woodland, it damningly devours in the separation that had hellishly torched you amid the agonizing absence that the bringer of your sin had wrought upon you.
Warnings: alpha!jungkook, possessive!jungkook, jealous!jungkook, dom!jungkook, sub! reader, omega!reader, mentions of breeding/ruts/heats, mentions of a mark, mentions of female masturbation, slick and pre-ejaculatory production, scent marking, scenting, fingering, begging, cursing, praise kink, muscle kink, size kink, hair pulling, sucking, marking, licking, biting (it’s a little nip), cock worship (just a really small smidge), manhandling, pinning down, grinding, edging (if you squint), thigh riding (let’s be real here I am a hoe for his thighs as my url implies)
A/N: My fingers ACHE after working literally all day to complete this chapter. In any case, part six of this series is here after quite a journey that its author had to undergo to create it. As some of you know, I had originally written this chapter on Friday of this week and was just about to post it that night when a heartbreaking incident happened. I had left my computer to go have dinner with only the edits that had to be made, but upon my return when I opened the document, the entirety of the chapter that I had spent my day writing had been wiped.
Sickened with grief, I didn’t sleep at all Friday night as my stomach churned violently with it and kept me awake all night. The following morning, because I am a bull headed and stubborn creature, I got back on the document and started on a rewrite of a new version of what I’d originally created. It was tough on me due to the recency of which the unfortunate circumstance occurred, but I did not want to let the emotion that ransacked me tear away my passion for writing. Thusly, I woke up a day later with determination that twined itself around every bone in my resolve to completely finish the rewrite.
I lost a lot of sleep (and tears) over this chapter, so I hope you guys will like it! As always, please leave me feedback or let me know that you like what I do. It sounds cliche, but it is literally the balm to my soul to know that you all find entertainment through what I create, so you will make me a very happy author if you could be so kind as to do that for me! Oh, and if you’re someone that likes listening to music while they read, I wrote this to Ariana Grande’s “positions.” It really sets the mood (if you know what I mean). Without further preclude, please enjoy part six of COC!
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9
“Alpha,” your breath hitches when a warm pair of lips slowly skid over the shred of skin along the sliver of exquisitely exposed flesh lining your isthmus that your necklet fails to crudely conceal, “We can’t,” your eyelids are drawn closed despite what your high-strung voice stutters out as a hot tongue dances over you,” We shouldn’t do this…the c-ceremony-“
Jungkook only rumbles out, “To hell with the ceremony. I care not, my omega. You are to become mine forever in only a short while, still and all,” his words are muffled through the heated mouth that he suckles you with as your head falls back only for his waiting hand to wrap wantonly around your nape, “Only you can be blamed for my esurience, pretty, for I am an insatiable creature that longs to taste the sweet fruit of his mate. Forgive me if I am too forward, but I cannot stave off my hunger for you, pretty. You look so very delectable right now.”
Your cheeks may just be at their boiling point in the redness that coats them at that while both of your own hands sink wateringly into the seabed of his luscious locks as you struggle to stay afloat amidst his current that coasts you under it so effortlessly as you encourage him closer.
When you take in the salacious scent of him that swells like an all-encompassing wave over you, the pungent patina of it is quick to trickle past the logic that you let him draggle down through the depths of dismissal at the very heavy consequences that could have him tied up and bound for daring to defile a newly presented omega that was meant to remain untouched and unsoiled until claimed by their mate.
You could forever swim in the ocean of him, lost as you are in his undertow, so that’s why there is no real anchor weighting your tone as you tell him, “The elders will not be forgiving if they find us here like this, my alpha,” you whimper when his dewy lips drift like a tide to spray themselves amidst the underside of your jaw, “Not to mention that Taehyung still ogles us. Do you wish him to be privy to our affairs?”
Your alpha nips at the tender skin of your own that he has collected between his lips at the mention of the very name that causes his canines to drag dangerously against you as he growls, “Let him watch us, pretty. Let him drink in the forbidden essence of you that he will never taste while your alpha feasts upon it.”
“Jungkook, please,” you whine when one of his hands dribbles downward to well around your hip as he pulls you doggedly against him, the furs that chiefly cover you doing little to deter him as one of your hands soon splays against his nakedly thermic chest.
His eyes narrow with interest as he blows a puff of broiling air that spreads scathingly along the sensitive juncture just under your ear to whisk a flurry of desire all the way through you to your core, a fresh deposit of slick lathering itself between your recently cleaned thighs.
When your alpha winds in the scent of that, he groans, “Fuck, look at you, pretty. You’re already losing yourself to me and I’ve hardly even done anything,” he mutters before he attaches his wet lips to your mastoid muscle only to have your breath catch in your throat as a scorching tongue slides spiritedly amidst the tender skin that all but throbs for him in yearning as he husks, “You like this, don’t you? It excites you to know that you’re being watched while your alpha desecrates you, doesn’t it, pretty? I can smell it on you. Fuck, that’s so hot, my omega.”
You moan in answer as he laves at you like a dehydrated man, a familiar numbness threatening to steal your ability to stand as your mate’s head dips down to leave a wet trail of saliva in his wake as his lips caress you in eager earnestness. In response, your fingers impulsively tighten under the need of necessity within his locks as your blood sings for him.
Beyond you, the badly bleeding alpha that Jungkook had distantly disregarded in favor of you barks in anger, but it goes ultimately unnoticed by both you and your alpha as adrift as each of you are in each other’s sea of pheromones that demand your rapt receival of one another.
He slips away with a sneer set on his features, turning back only once with envy souring his tongue as he watches the way that you readily relinquish yourself to the alpha that coaxes you back until you’ve neared the bailey brimming with boisterous bines near one of the thick stumps within the woodlot and pleadingly permit the victorious alpha to bear himself over you before Taehyung turns away with the emotion poisoning his every cell with vicious venom.
All of it is flouted faultlessly in the ardor that saturates your alpha’s irises as he carefully emplaces you along the rock that has been covered by the limbs of emerald green vines that reach for you in the stagnated slumbering daylight.
Once you’re ensconced on the living lianas, that’s when your alpha’s hands plant themselves in the solid soma on either side of you while conflagrant heat licks desirously up your spine as your alpha stares succinctly at you with eyes that glint zealously at you before his tongue darts over his lips to rasp, “Gods, you look like a fucking dream, pretty. I could gaze upon you for hours and never tire of the sight of you,” he leans over you to flick a brow, “Did you get all dolled up just for me, pretty? Was that what you did the whole time I was gone?”
“I…” The words are stolen from you under his piercing glare that simmers with sultriness behind it, your skin pebbling when you watch him draw his lower lip between his teeth as febricity’s fever that is only exacerbated by your pre-heat flares fiercely within you as it wracks you.
“You what, omega?” Your alpha urges as he inches impossibly closer, “I expect an answer when I ask a question, pretty.”
You turn your head to the side to chew at your lip as embarrassment energetically dashes around within you only for two of his fingers to grasp your chin and pull your attention back to him so that you have no choice but to look at him. There is no escaping his unyielding ubiquity and, swallowed whole by it as you are, the words are dislodged from under your tongue in your shyness that caves quickly under his precipitous pressure.
“I,” you gulp through a throat that has been constricted under mortification’s hold,” I missed you, alpha. All I could think about was you while you were gone. I longed for you and my body could not resist you despite our separation that tore at my being in how I yearned for you.”
Craving is what takes your alpha’s mantle as his eyes darken while he croons, “Oh, is that it, my omega? Did desperation become you?” One salacious thigh boons beseechingly against you as he embeds it between your legs that you part all too easily for him while satisfaction surges within your alpha at the way your skin now glistens with the spittle he’s slavered over every inch of that isn’t clandestinely cloaked by his furs as he warns with a devastating flash of his eyes, “Did you try to pleasure yourself in my absence because that beautiful little body of yours couldn’t bear the absence of its mate? Did you touch yourself while you thought about your alpha?”
One of his hands drips away from its place next to your head and pools around your pelvis only to draw you down and over his leg as he sweeps you in his undertow and, helpless to resist the ceaseless current of him that carries you forth, you let him guide you amidst the sea of potently pungent pheromones that wash over you in a provocative concoction of gardenias in bloom, black vanilla and the earthly tinge of freshly matured pears.
It is a trying task to form coherent thought as you begin to slip under the stream of his virile vim, but your alpha only smirks upon how swimmingly you seat yourself atop him as you suck in a breath at the way that the brazen brawniness of him avows its breadth amidst your sex.
A plethora of passels boast the profound musculature that lines his leg in the way that they beckoningly brim over you as they catch along every contour of your womanhood, a splutter tumbling from your lips as your fingers twitch and, in their mission to procure something to hold onto, they dig into the tautened thew of his leg.
All you can do is susurrus the only word that your mind can possibly find in the all-encompassing ocean of him that is sustainedly surrounding as you whisper, “Alpha.”
Your alpha grins, pleased to watch your damned descent by his own doing as he clucks his tongue, “Say it, pretty. I can scent your onanism off of you, my omega. Admit to your alpha that you tried to sate that beautiful body of yours in its hunger for me. I want to hear it from those pretty little lips before I do anything more to you.”
As if to reinforce this, his grasp on your side gruffly halts you and, in response, you whine as desperation’s seedlings begin to take root within you. The spores of them incubate under his torrid glare into a rapturous desire in the deprivation of him as he tauntingly pushes his thigh further into you, your legs closing around him as you mewl with need as your fingers close like a vice over his thigh.
He pulls your voice out from the pit of your body where it lingers under his heady hook that he holds you with as you quietly confess, “Yes, alpha, I did. I touched myself to thoughts dominated only by you, my alpha. You commanded me to and so I did,” you whimper when the crus he’s placed under you is suddenly flexed as the sinfully swollen muscles lining his thigh jump in their receival of you while his digits dig into your hip to caution you when your body involuntarily tries, and fails, to buck over him as his irises dip low to your lips, “You induced me, alpha. I couldn’t cage my need that you crushed under your claws. It was you that made me come undone in the agony that wracked me after you left me, Jungkook.”
Your alpha groans at the confession, his cock stirring in his trousers as your voice wraps wantonly it and in the appetition for you that hikes its way through him, he utters, “Gods, you’re going to make me go insane, omega,” his other hand encircles your dainty wrist to slide it sensuously along his proffered limb as simmering golden irises radiate the burning eros that kindles an awakening fire within you while he drags your hand over the massive bulge that palpitates against you, “Do you have any idea what you do to me?”
Your eyes widen in the mahoosive monstrousness of him as you gasp in surprise at his size, a wetted patch greeting your fingers where he cries in want of you, your own sex shedding its own tears for him as you tentatively skim your fingers over him to earn a hiss from him as you blink innocently up at him while you blurt, “Alpha, you’re so…so big.”
Carnality scintillates in his eyes as he allows you to fondle him, your digits exploratorily stroking his robust rigidity that is solid as a rock while he husks, “This is for you, my omega. No other bitch in the pack could do this to me,” his brows pull together under your ministrations when you deeply depress your palm on top of him, “Do you feel how hard I am for you, pretty? Do you see how much I ache for you?”
“I do, alpha, stars above, I do,” you quietly say as appetency buds within you, your salivary glands energetically producing spittle within your mouth while his member excitedly excretes more of its secretion under your enthused, experimental touch. You allow your digits to run over him as your curated curiosity guides you under his hand and it is when you begin to stroke him that he grunts, his cock hardening impossibly more underneath you as it throbs ever exigently along your fingers.
His eyes sear into your own through it all to beset your body in his ravenously ravaging heat as your fingers sink slowly down over him to give his member a light squeeze only to elicit a rumble that rolls from his lips in warning.
When you tightly tense your fingers around him with innocuous intent to discover him, the sharp sound flares into a dangerous growl before, all in one motion, your hand is thrown off of him and precipitately pinned above your head as he warns, “ Keep going on like that and I’m going to tear that gown to shreds and fuck you right here in the middle of the forest where anyone could find us, omega,” he drives his thigh into you with promised purpose to elicit a whine from you as his eyes narrow, “ Is this what you thought about in your little fantasy, pretty? Let me hear what I did to you, Y/N. Your alpha demands it.”
“You,” you swallow with some effort around the dry throat he’s left you with through the drought of desire as you try,” you used your mouth on me, alpha.”
You’ve barely gotten the last syllable out of you before his head descends to the tender notch between your collarbones, his warm lips firmly enclosing over you in an open mouthed kiss that devours you under its avid attention in the way that his wet warmth simmers into you amidst the cinching grip he has on your waist that unmercifully halts the impulsive impetus of your hips against his thigh as his titillating tongue draggles itself over you while you shakily sigh under his succor.
He busses you with febrile fervidness in the engrossed elan that beckons him to you as he constellates you with osculation over both clavicles and, in his ardent assiduity, there can be no deterrence of the released raindrops that your sex rains down to douse and ruin the cloth of your panties.
At the inebriating incense of you that wafts plushily under his nostrils, your alphas eyes roll to the back of his head as you coax him under your spell while his lips dangerously dare to journey upward along the column of your neck as he takes care to darkly cloud his lips over the thick neckband that eclipses you from him until he takes your earlobe between both teeth to utter, “Gods, you’re dripping with prurience, pretty. Your body wishes so badly to receive your alpha with the slick that falls freer than a fucking waterfall from that little cunt you’ve hidden away from me under all these layers,” his eyes glister greedily with lasciviousness as he presses his swollen thigh against your core that drizzles for him while his vehement vision smolders you as he prods, “Tell me you want this, my omega. Divulge to your alpha the need for me that I know swelters within you.”
The flint of lecherous lust conflagrates within you as your folds find the rounded ridges of him that invitingly inveigle you as you whimper out in longing.
Under his rapacious restriction, there’s little you can do but slowly surrender under the razing glare that sets alight every fiber of your being as you yield, “I need you, my alpha. Please, quell the thirst that has left me so parched in our separation. Do what my fantasies could not and quench me.”
When your alpha releases you from his mouth, his eyes flash with lethality as he pierces you with frenetic fervency to husk, “What a needy little girl. You want your alpha that badly, pretty?” His hand bunches your gown into his fingers that curl around it into a fist as his pupils sharply dilate when he declares, “Then ride me, omega. Fuck yourself on your alpha.”
His words fan at the flames of desperation within you and, without thought, your hips undulate with emblazonment over him as he permits your movement amidst a devastatingly pernicious ply of the tautened, corded muscle beneath you as your head falls back with a stuttered sound falling from the lips you part in pleasure amidst the friction your clothed core grants you as you rub yourself against him back and forth.
Your alpha watches entirely enrapt in the sight of you, his cock twitching in the yearning that effluxes him while a deluge of libidinousness floods his being as his eyes percolate with them both before he growls, “That’s it, pretty. Surrender to the sweet solace only I can offer to you.”
You moan as you roll your hips over him, another ankylosed arc of his thew into you stealing your breath away as your body now moves of its accord, the fingers you’ve rooted into his thigh tightening as you leave crescent marks on him through his trousers. You tug your lip between your teeth as you gluttonously gyrate yourself atop him to drink in every inch of him that you can as your folds salivate for him. In your wake, there’s a sheen of slick that your alpha licks hungrily at his lips for as he watches you with interest.
“Look at you,” your alpha croons, “you’re making a mess of me because you can’t handle yourself, pretty,” his digits constrict around your hip as you whimper when he incurves his thigh into you only for it to push insistently at your core as you buck over him, “Do you want everyone to know that I’m yours, pretty? Are you fucking imprinting on me because you wish to stake your claim on me?”
Driven by your wolf that claws at you to brand him in an act of devoted declaration that will not go unnoticed by any, you do not resist its decree to bedeck your mate with your mark in a pervasive possessiveness that will not quiet unless you do its bidding.
Your breaths strain to heave themselves out of you as you try, “Yes, alpha…I want every single wolf to see that I’m the one who is to become yours,” you swirl your hips over him as you offer your neck to him like your omegean blood demands of your wolf for its alpha, “I don’t wish for anyone to doubt who you’re going to choose as your mate, my alpha, for you hold the highest rank in the pack and because of that, you may select any she-wolf that you desire.”
Your alpha’s eyes darken at your admission as his digits constringe around the wrist he’s still constrainedly captured you against the vined bailey with as his irises rove raveningly over you to husk, “Fuck the other she-wolves, my omega. You are to be mine. The moon has chosen us for each other and I will have no one but you, pretty, who calls so bewitchingly and beguilingly for me,” his head lowers with larghetto until hot breath sears over the garden of your neck amidst the radiant rays of calefaction that eagerly emit off of him to caress you while he descends to the tender spot along your collarbones that is rooted with the flower of the fragile notch betwixt them to utter, “You want my mark, omega? Do you want everyone to know who you belong to? I’ll fucking give one to you, then.”
Anticipation seeds itself amidst the blooming, burgeoning lust that is dangerously close to the fires of desire that threaten to consume them as you grind yourself against him deliciously while you answer without hesitation, “Adorn me with your mark, alpha. There is no one that I’d rather bear the blemish of.”
With a growl and pernicious gleam of his eyes, your alpha’s lips attach assiduously to you as he imploringly imbibes you as a shaky sigh of satisfaction drips from your mouth while you tip your head back in invitation to him as a surge of gratification fills your alpha at your act of presentation to him like the perfect omega that you are.
He syphons you between his lips as if drunk off you, the lecherous libation that is you an incomparable instillment as his hot tongue flattens itself against you before he sucks your skin succulently between his teeth like you’re a life-giving elixir that he guzzles with unabating urgency.
He draws onto you a temporary symbol that will proudly display his intent to claim you as his, for it is forbidden to bestow a mating mark before an alpha and their chosen omega have been approved by the elders to become an official pair.
You whine as he continually cacoethes you, your hips canting over him with fervor as he sinfully slews his tautened muscle beneath you while he laps at you with a tongue too long to possibly be anything but debauchedly diabolical in the way that it flicks animatedly against you while he succulently suctions you between his lips until he bids your blood to the surface of your skin.
“Jungkook, please.” You breathe, your fingers tightening in his hair as he lewdly laves at you while you rut yourself along his leg like a rabbit in heat.
You don’t even know what you’re asking for, but amidst the pillaging phlogiston he stokes within you, there’s something missing that would instigate an inferno of pleasure within you and so you curl your fingers tellingly into his thigh as make a sound of frustration when your alpha’s attentions to your neck villainously vanish.
Your alpha smirks knowingly against you as he pulls away to peer proudly at the reddened petal marring your skin before his irises rake over you as he watches you with interest in the way that you oscillate ostentatiously over him as you chase the bliss that he dangles too high over you for you to be able to reach without his aid.
He had noticed your need for more long ago, but had so enjoyed the salacious show you were putting on for him. It was only a matter of time before your need overwhelmed you and he would willingly gift it to you with your sweet songs of raptness for him.
“What is it, pretty?” Your alpha prods as his he fillips his knee even higher up to impel you with the thick thew of him that you work yourself over as you cry out while he coos, “What do you wish for your alpha to do to you, pretty?”
You draw your brows together in concentration, the wheels in your mind refusing to turn under befuddled, muddled grounds of your alpha that have materialized there.
It’s when your alpha’s grin deepens in absorbed amusement that, from the fist he holds your gown away from you with, his middle finger stretches to straighten away from the other digits that are bent into a fist as he slowly sidles it down to torturously slide just above the neglected bud of your clit that pleadingly pulsates for him even through the layers of clothing that enshroud you from him.
He spectates with zest the way that your breath hitches in your throat as your movements lilt languorously as he plays with you like you’re his favorite toy.
You whimper, “More, alpha. I beseech you for more. Please.”
Your alpha only pulls his luscious lip between his teeth to urge, “You wish for the satisfaction only I can give to you, don’t you, omega? If you want it that terribly,” his eyes flash darkly as he wracks you with a sharply slewed flex of his thigh underneath you, “Then beg. Beg for your alpha and perhaps he will let you have that which you desire.”
You are reduced to a sopping mess by now upon your alpha’s leg as desperation entrenches its sprouted sprigs deeply within you while golden irises fossick their foraging trowels into you to uproot the words that are buried there as you plead, “Please, alpha. Please use your fingers on me. I want it so much. I want you so much.”
Your alpha groans at that, his finger finally felicitously pressing down and over the button of nerves that yield to him as your mouth falls open in an ‘o’ shape, your head tilting back against the bed of bines while your eyelids flutter closed as deliciously warm tingles effervescently enwrap themselves through you as your alpha superciliously schleps you down and over him with an enraptured moan that is pried from the radicel radix of your being.
Your alpha doesn’t know if he’s ever seen anything so enchantingly enticing as the view you engage him with now, his balls bloating with glut in the needful nimiety to release their captive creation of life-giving seed into its rightful place amidst your heated hearth that is rich with the wood that will light itself under his ire to birth him pups.
“Fuck, pretty, you look so beautiful like this, all desperate for your alpha while you fuck yourself over me,” he licks his lips as his gaze meanderingly maunders over the swell of your covered breasts that push themselves in and out in the laboriousness of your efforts, “I bet you looked even more exquisite all spread out and bare for me when you concocted your little fantasy that could never hope to amount to the inescapable ecstasy I bring to you in the flesh.”
Your cheeks redden under his bluntness, your fingers pulling at his hair as you take a stuttered breath when his middle finger dares to descend over your clit with more force as he sweeps his digit upward and then back with a devastating rigidity that solidifies his thigh under you in the conniving contractions of his muscles.
Involuntary impulsiveness has you clamp him between your legs while your mouth falls open even more to permit the escape of drool born of craving that trickles across your chin lewdly in the shrinking shreds of sunlight that reach you.
“Tell me, pretty,” your alpha leans forward to fervidly frisk a hot, titillating tongue in an ascending trail along the left side of your lips as he lightly circles his middle finger languidly over the bundle of nerves that not even the thin layers of your dress can stop him from devoting his attention to as he orders, “Tell me how much better I feel than that illusion you conceived in want of me, my omega. Let me hear how incomparable it was to the pleasure I bestow to you now.”
You suck in a breath when the tip of the wet muscle laps up your spittle, a stammered breath dripping from your mouth to whisper, “Y-you make me feel so good, my alpha. You’re so much better than anything I could have ever imagined,” the words spill like water from you as you continue, “Stars above, nothing could ever tempt me the way that you do.”
Your alpha hums, “Mmm, of course I do, pretty. I am your mate, my omega,” he pushes down on your clit in a sapid spherical motion as he damningly draggles you down over him with the other digits that cling to your hip to have you whimper as he proclaims,” There isn’t a wolf or person in this fucking realm that could lure you to me as beseechingly as I do, for we are fated to each other as lovers until the end of our days.”
You are a sight that is pretty as a picture to him in your vivacious vignette that he could forever stare upon in the simulacrum he’d study for an endlessly eonian infinity. You inspire the artist in him with the way that you magnificently match the ideal painting of mesmerism whose colors beckon his eye under every iota of the portrait that you illustrated with.
Jungkook’s baser creature demands that you take him in as wholly as he has for you and that every fiber of your being recognize him as the bringer of your bliss as he memorizes your canvas with a burning passion that singes every vein in the want that paints itself within him.
His finger brushes over the bundle of nerves comprising your clit that your tarp curtains you with as he commands, “Open your eyes, pretty. Look at me while I make your body sing for me in the desire that has only ever been my own to grant to you,” He watches with delectation settling low in his stomach at the way that you lids flitter innocently open only to reveal glazed over irises that are lust’s work as he husks, “You’re mine to please and mine to fuck, omega. The only alpha I want those lovely little irises of yours to ever seek is myself and here, while I let you ride me, you’re going to keep them on the only one who can make you feel this good, yeah?”
“Yes, alpha, yes,” You babble, utterly hexed under his incantation as your legs begin to tremble in the strenuous strain of your efforts for so long as he charms your climax nearer to you as you unswervingly undulate your hips whilst your end suspends in its sway over you as your alpha holds it above you too far for your smaller hands to reach.
You look as fucked out as you’ve made your alpha feel and he relishes in that as his ministrations invigoratingly ravish you.
You whine as the tautened string of tension within you is pulled effortlessly easily by your mate as he plays your body like a violin, it’s strings strummed to the beat of your alpha’s whims as you near impossibly closer to your perfect peak that will come under his melody.
Your alpha smirks when you shift your movements so that you’re gyrating atop of his leg and when the sinewy thew of him dangerously rubs against you with perfect precision through your folds as his digits constrict around your hip, that’s when you shakily breathe, “ I-I’m close, Jungkook. Let me finish on you, please,” you beseech him as your fingers tangle through his hair with the palm that isn’t still bound by him as you implore with doe eyes, “Give it to me, alpha. Only you can satisfy me. Only you can deliver me to my end that belongs solely to you.”
Jungkook growls at that as he releases your wrist only for his newly freed hand to dive down and plummet into the sea of fabric along your waist as his digits tread heavily through it to anchor you to him as he peers at you through a hooded gaze to utter, “That’s right, omega. Your orgasm is mine, your body is mine and you are mine. Say it. Tell me you’re mine.”
“Yours,” you manage when his middle finger strikes your clit especially viciously as he drives you down on him while the thin fiber of tension within you threatens to snap under his ministrations as you moan for him, “I’m yours.”
Your alpha groans at the admission before he descends to the angered skin along the sensitive notch betwixt your collarbones as you draw your head back for him in silent submission while his lips ghost over your tender skin as he orders, “Come on, omega,” golden irises storm with the dark sin that dims them as he monsoon of his lips tempestuously wrack you as his teeth, with lightning speed, gather you between them to sharply nip you in a bite not strong enough to break skin, but enough to hint at it before he commands, “Cum all over your alpha. Use me to get yourself off, pretty. Drench us both in your sweet nectar so that everyone will know you got fucked by your alpha.”
The thin twine of tensity within you is blazingly burned under the torrentially scorching downpour that Jungkook eagerly extirpates on you and it only takes one more cataclysmic calamity to bring you to your climax after that.
Your alpha insistently impels you with this thigh, a purposeful ply of the muscle beneath you causing a catastrophic convulsion of your walls around him as your cunt closes around nothing while his muscles tensely tighten as he flexes them with finality at the same time that he presses his middle finger in rapid rhythm to the heaved pants that leave your lips.
Your legs quiver around him in the intensity of your end as you come with a shriek of his name while you pour your juices all over him to leave no part of his limb untainted of your essence as he attentively helps you to ride your orgasm out on him through the thousands of tiny waves that crash through your core all the way up to your belly.
Your alpha watches raptly as his cock weeps with want in how easily you’d succumbed to him and utilized him as a means of pleasure.
Despite the ache of his painfully hard member, Jungkook waits patiently until your labored breaths even out, watching with interest the way that you come down from your high as a satiated silvery irises swell with appreciation as you fondly run your fingertips down the bare mountainous planes of his chest with a tender touch as you tentatively whisper, “Thank you for taking care of me, alpha. You were, well, you are so good to me.”
Your alpha tucks a strand of stray hair behind your ear to rumble, “It is my duty to attend to all the needs of my omega as the one who is meant to protect and provide for you. Think nothing of it, pretty. Besides,” He arches a dark brow with mischievousness glinting in one eye, “I enjoyed every second I spent taking care of you, omega. You gave me such a beautiful show, pretty.”
Your cheeks redden with the embarrassment that that colors them and before you can say anything else, the blaring of a blowing horn breaks the bubble of pheromones and sex that has billowed bawdily around you as the shrilly shrewd voice of an elder boisterously booms through the woodland.
Your heart sinks through your chest as your shoulders sag in the realization that tugs them down.
Both sounds signal the damned disunion of you from your alpha as they bid omegeans to assemble for the initiation of the Offering Ceremony and, not wishing to leave your alpha yet, a whine tumbles from your lips as you wrap your arms stubbornly around Jungkook’s neck to enclose him in your hold.
You know what you have to do, but that doesn’t mean you want to bear the absence of your mate so quickly after your riveting reunion.
“Must you leave me so soon after we’ve only just had our rendezvous? Please, alpha, I don’t want to be without you again. It was agony to be deprived of you when you left me last,” you entreat with enlarged, pleading eyes.
Jungkook only smirks at your adorable naivety as he nuzzles you while he straightens your mussed furs before he says, “As much as I wish for you to remain here with me, you must go on without me, pretty,” your alpha lays a hand along the side of your cheek to coax, “You know what will happen if they find you here with me, my precious girl. I will not be far from you. This, I promise to you.”
After many years of dwelling with the lead elder who was also your grandmother, you had been explicated many times by her on the traditions and practices of the compound.
You had been told before that if a newly presented omega were found in the presence of an alpha before the commencement of the Offering Ceremony, it would be cause for consequences to befall the both of them in the heavy offence of tarnishing the coveted purity of an omega under the alpha’s antics.
In punishment, the alpha would be bound in confining chains and made to watch other candidates vie for their chosen consort while restrained through restricting tethers. As for the omega, they would suffer the ridicule and chastisement of the elders and be the last to be presented to potential suitors.
You had once thought the sacred laws set by the compound to be so faultless, but now all you can see is the err that such rules demand in stealing your alpha away from you once more.
You could hide the evidence of your illicit indecency your alpha had wrought upon you in the greenwood under the furs he had bedecked you with, but you would not be able to conceal yourself if you were discovered with him here.
The voice bellows for you in the distance and you whimper when Jungkook extricates his limb from between your own as he utters, “Go forth, my omega. I will return for you,” he brushes his knuckle along your cheekbone before it lowers to trace the underside of your lower lip, your fingers enclosing around his wrist to keep him there as he pierces you with a confident conviction that gleans within his irises, “And when I do, I will make you mine forever. No one will be able to keep us apart the next time that we meet, pretty. You’ll be all mine for eternity.”
“I’ll be waiting for you,” you vow with emotion saturating every word.
His oath rings true in your ears in the sincere surety that coats every word as they settle over you warmly amidst your pelt, the truth that lathers over it comfortingly cladding atop of you as your knees knock against each other in the quiver to them due to your recent acts that are entirely your alpha’s fault in how easily he’d melted away the pith of them.
Longing is quick to take your reins when he ushers you backward, your weakened knees threatening to give way and when you stumble in the numbness that robs you of your stride, his strong hands are there to hold you up.
The foreign and unwelcome voice grows in annoying pitch and when your alpha tells you he can no longer steer you forth through the underbrush, that’s when you stop, not wanting to continue on without him.
Gold irises delve deeply over you from behind you as your alpha squeezes your intertwined fingers together before withdrawing them to order, “Go now or they will find us, pretty. If you do as I say, I shall be merciful to you later when it is just the two of us where no one will be able to stop me from doing to you what I wish. If not,” his tone dips deliciously as your skin pebbles under its brusqueness, “It won’t just be your legs that ache in my wake, pretty.”
A shiver that is not unpleasant races down your spine as you will yourself to move and your alpha watches with intrigue at the subtle shake of your ligaments that try to bear your weight under you, his muscles tautening in preparation to catch you should you fall.
You look back at him only once, the unyielding yearning swimming in your eyes as you soak him through with it as his own heart beats just a little faster within his chest before you turn away draped in the sky’s palette of glistering white that shines brightly under the darkening dusk that tries, but fails, to engulf your light.
Like the moon above, your brilliance emanates gently outward in its caress of all in your vicinity as you dazzle the earth in your luminous lustrousness that softens all that it touches.
It is only when you’ve disappeared through the long line of trees ahead that shade you from him that your alpha retreats to return from whence he came, devotion to the heavenly body that had turned his world upside down constellating him anew.
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Now i would like to see prompts of a curious benevolent eldritch being coming to visit Amity Park and coo at the baby eldritch (Danny) and tech him how to access his eldritch powers.
I know this is probably supposed to be about some more traditional and tentacle-y eldritch abomination, but this is essentially what I’m writing Grandfather Clocks as (not to mention assorted other oneshots and everything happening in Mortified). I’m too invested in Lost Time to clearly imagine anyone but Clockwork in the Adult Eldritch Abomination role... at least from a more general prompt like this one.
... on the other hand I now have Vague Ideas (tm) about a full AU where Danny has eldritch abomination powers instead of ghost powers and all the eldritch abominations he’s ‘fighting’ are just coming to play with the baby.
WARNING this is for real written as horror, since it’s from Danny’s perspective.
Time seemed to congeal as the shadow in Danny’s soul stretched backwards. This one had a name. It skittered between the dark and the part of Danny’s mind that still resembled a human’s. He breathed in, slowly, then out, tasting it on his tongue. Once, it had been two.
Finally, it coalesced into something he could actually speak. “Skultech,” he said.
“Relative of Skulker?” asked Tucker. “Or Technus?” He didn’t look at them or at Danny. He had protections, but they weren’t perfect, and he’d already taken a step away from the light.
“Yes,” said Danny, internally translating the vibrations of air into something with meaning and weight.
Skulker. The hunter, fleshless and tireless. A pursuer of the mind more than the body. Almost sporting in his own way. The library with all its labyrinthine but immaterial paths was the best place to lose him.
Technus. A horror that lurked in the depths of the internet, luring in deep-web users and more than a few unluckly click-bait and phishing victims. Technus didn’t kill them, did very little to them, really, but there was a reason there wasn’t a computer club at Casper High anymore.
They had been two. Now they were one. Part of Danny was fascinated. Another was thrilled, happy, as it always was when these dark things manifested themselves in Amity Park.
His shadow stretched, whispering over his features. He could feel curl over the texture of the ground beneath him, grasping at grass and bark and soil as if it were possessed of a thousand thousand tiny fingers. It wanted to open up and play.
(’It,’ Danny said, as if it weren’t him, an extension of himself.)
“What do we do?” asked Sam. She, unlike Tucker, looked directly at him, even half-shrouded in shadow as he was. She always did, even if she averted her gaze from the likes of Skulker and Technus.
Near the beginning, Sam had made the connection between the others, especially ones like Ember, who were as beautiful as the were dark, and cults. She had started a joke about making one for Danny. Over time, it had become less of a joke.
Danny tried to ignore the pleasant buzz of his skin as he imagined a cult attempting to do something as sweet as bind him to their will.
Because, really, he shouldn’t be thinking of something like that as ‘sweet’ at all.
“It’s still Skulker and Technus,” said Danny, even if he had never seen them like this. “I think... the same type of thing should probably work. I distract, Sam gets people out of the way, Tuck, you get the computers at the library ready and tell me when to lead them there?”
“Do you think it’ll really work when it’s both of them?” mumbled Tucker. “I don’t know if I can even do both of the things at once...”
“The alternative is not doing anything,” said Sam, “and considering that they seem to be after Danny...”
Tucker made a face, the glow from his PDA reflecting from his glasses. “Yeah, I know,” he said. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t try.”
“Remember,” said Danny, “don’t give me the go-ahead until you and everyone else is out.”
“Yeah, I remember, I remember,” he said.
“Go do your thing,” said Sam.
Danny nodded and left the shelter of their hiding place. He did not stand up, or walk, or move. He simply stopped being there and started being in front of Skultech.
From a distance, he probably still looked human.
It was hard to describe how they fought, exactly, in human terms, but they did. Right up until one of Skultech’s three-fingered hands wrapped around Danny’s ankle and his shadow vanished.
He, breathing hard and falling, remembered what it was to be human. To be vulnerable. His shadow came back to him, flickering. He came back to himself.
There was a darkness that was himself, and he was so relieved. Why? How often had he wanted this gone? But he was whole, and like that he was half, and-
He’d gotten distracted.
Skultech had surrounded him, a hunting ground strobed with lightning. This kind of fight was an oddity to both Skulker and Technus, this kind of movement, this kind of strategy. Danny began to doubt that his earlier plan would work.
What was a library but another kind of forest?
With only enough warning for his self to wrap around him protectively, Skultech yanked him down into the Dream. The pale seaweed threads of human consciousness gave way to the dark and the other. He fell to the floor of a midnight palace and rolled to his back, coughing up not-water from the idea of his lungs.
Here, said Skultech, in something that wasn’t quite language. The True Voice. Danny had seen people fall to their knees when the others used that. Had seen sane men turn into blind faith worshippers. Had heard lies that became true in the speaking, or near enough that it didn’t matter.
He had never quite managed to speak that way himself, no matter Sam’s cajoling.
Danny managed to open his eyes. He did not come to the Dream often, no matter how much it called to him. Both his halves agreed, here, where every place was also a person, it was dangerous even in the shallows.
The ceiling was covered in layers upon layers of spiderwebs, and he did not like what that meant. Skultech was nowhere to be seen.
He pulled himself up and got to his feet.
The floor beneath him was glass. Beneath that was clockwork, but the gears were galaxies and solar systems, the springs were entropy and enthalpy, and the chains were the laws of physics themselves. Clockwork. It was... It would do, as a name.
The distant sense of amusement was disturbing.
Danny looked around. He needed a way out, a way back up, to where he could leave the Dream.
Why did Skultech bring him here?
Spiderwebs and gears. Symbols of control, of interconnectedness, of carefully laid plans. Was he stuck in a web he couldn’t see?
He spun, slowly, trying to see if he could see any doors or other openings. Something flashing, moving, in the distance caught his eye. His first instinct was to move away, but...
But it was like he was being drawn in. Like he couldn’t turn away. It was a mirror. A window.
It showed him himself. At first, a hundred paces away, just himself, as he was, but then at pace ninety-nine it changed. Mirrors did that, in the Dream. Everything did that, in the dream.
Time sped up. The mirror reflected not just light, but sound and feeling. He could see himself, his shadow, and-
He felt it when all the little Loves that kept him tethered to his humanity snapped, the lives they were anchored to burning up as they met their deaths. He screamed and heard it echoed back to him a thousand times over.
He could not stop walking. He could not stop watching. Ninety steps away.
His shadow in the mirror was wild. Unbound and grieving. Flesh and blood and bone existed, but his two part mind was unbalanced and divided from itself. He sought aid from the only other like himself and received a knife, received Hate to replace love and at seventy-five steps he watched as what he had once been embraced Vlad and devoured him whole, eating and becoming everything that made him him.
The shadow unfurled, hungry and seeking. The memory Love it once had and the Love it had desired for so long driving it onward and outward, the center pulsing like a diseased star. Seventy steps. It had eyes like constellations.
The mirror showed the Dream, now. Veins of sickness wound through the garden of human thought, through the tangled vines and twisted paths. What it found did not satisfy, and it sought more, and more, delving deeper. Sixty steps, then fifty.
It ate at the best of people, of others. The singers fell silent. The doctors could no longer heal. The kind became cruel.
Darkness fell. Then war. The shadow ruled all from its misery.
It was not enough.
Forty steps. It’s eyes met Danny’s. It knew he was here, knew he was watching. It began to speak in its True Voice, and Danny could not cover his ears to keep it out.
It spoke of the things it had done, of the things it would do. Danny watched as it carried out its plans, and even more. It spoke of how it, he, was Danny, and all this destruction, all this suffering was wrought by his own hands. It spoke of Love Danny did not cherish sufficiently, of fragility, of how it was determined to Be rather than Be Not even though its every moment was loneliness and Hatred to the point of agony.
Danny’s ears were bleeding.
It spoke of how it would hurt Danny, in particular. How it would rend his shadow, wound so there was no hope for him to escape his fate, even with foreknowledge of it. It spoke of how, with Danny watching, the mirror was a window, was a door it could reach through and Danny saw it reaching.
Saw it reaching out and in and towards now and those that he Loved, those that he cherished and Danny would have pushed himself to run but he couldn’t stop walking.
Twenty steps. It could make itself look like Danny, and even though it was wrong, Danny was wrong too, he was so, so, so, wrong and his wrongness was going to get them killed. It was going to get everyone killed.
They were looking at it, not him, speaking with it, not him. His darkness was covered. With it, these things were like staring at the sun.
It tore away the protections he had so painstakingly layered over those he Loved.
He saw his parents with a bomb made by their own hands, one that would devastate the Dream for miles around, killing anything that dared to imagine, the culmination of their work. Nine steps. He saw Mr. Lancer writing lesson plans with his own blood, each sentence less English than the last. Eight steps. He saw Sam with the ritual knife, her smile full of blood and sacrifice. Seven steps. He saw Tucker clawing out his eyes, surrounded by computer screens flaring with symbols humans were never meant to use. Six steps. He saw Jazz-
He saw Jazz notice.
He could have wept.
She armed herself with stories and legends and saltwater and truths that made Danny seize and the fact that this thing was not her brother. Four steps.
He watched her confront it.
He watched it toy with her, her machinations only delaying her doom.
He watched it k-
For the first time, he screamed in his True Voice. His fist snapped out, striking the mirror dead center. It shattered.
Was that enough? Was he in time? He- He couldn’t feel them. He couldn’t- They couldn’t be dead. They couldn’t be gone.
He dropped to his knees. The shards of the mirror glittered up at him, calling him. His hand shook as he reached out and picked one up. Slowly, he raised it to his lips. He opened his lips and as soon as the shard was even with his teeth, he bit down, the glass crunching like thunder.
Already, he was reaching for another piece. He swallowed. His hands went out, nails scrabbling along the floor in his hurry. Mirror shard after mirror shard was shoved into his mouth and choked down.
There was something around his neck. With one of his many hands he reached up, feeling up his chest to throat. There was a collar there. It felt like control, like ownership, like Love.
Something liquid dripped from his eye.
Even as he gagged on glass, two of his hands, his human hands, explored the circumference of the metal piece. There were delicate fractal patterns on the surface that had double on the interior. As his fingers pressed down on them, they in turn pressed on the skin of his neck, sending pleasant curls of thought down his limbs.
His questing fingers found the collar’s lead. It was at the same time, like the spider silk above and the clockwork chains below. Flexible. Strong. Indelible. It was as inevitable as gravity that he should Be Loved and Love in return.
He licked the last powdery pieces of mirror off his fingers and his extra arms slowly evaporated back into the Dream as if they never were.
Who would Love him like this? Love him to the point that it manifested in the Dream like this? The answer was all around him, was inside him, as his heart echoed back the Love as best it was able, but he could hardly believe it.
The sound of footsteps on the hard floor jolted him out of his reverie. He looked up and met the red eyes of Clockwork’s avatar.
It had the appearance of a blue-skinned man wearing a cloak and festooned with symbols of time. A few long white hairs peeked from beneath its hood, and a painful-looking scar laid over its eye.
For a moment, Danny was stunned, because this was a true avatar, an extension of Clockwork himself, not a human hollowed out for use as a vessel. For someone as powerful as Clockwork had to be to be so vast in the Dream to bestow such attention on Danny-
He opened his mouth to say something, anything, but the only thing that rolled off his tongue was blood. Shame crept up his cheeks. He didn’t know if it was his use of his True Voice when destroying the mirror, or consuming all those shards afterwards, but his normal voice was gone.
Shh, soothed Clockwork’s avatar, gloved hands cupping Danny’s cheeks and forcing his lips closed. You need not speak, child. Those who love you will know your intent.
Danny nodded slowly, beginning to feel dazed. He remembered the scenes in the mirror. Remembered what the shadow-him had done. His fingers bent around the lead- it was almost as thick as his wrist- and looked up at Clockwork’s avatar.
Clockwork could strike him down, now, could destroy him so completely that even the merest memory of him was gone, and he would not care, because he would know it was done out of Love.
The lead shivered against his palms and grew.
No need, said Clockwork’s avatar. You have devoured your destiny and become free of it.
That sounded reasonable. The avatar brushed a thumb across Danny’s lips and smiled.
You have given yourself fangs.
Danny blushed again. He hadn’t meant to.
The avatar released Danny’s cheeks to reach for his hands, arranging them in Danny’s lap and rubbing circles into his palms. Then the avatar gently brought Danny’s attention to the door in its chest.
The door was glass. Beyond the glass laid an approximation of a heart made of the same elements as what laid beneath the floor. A metaphor for Clockwork’s heart, Danny guessed, though what laid in the avatar’s chest couldn’t be anywhere near as grand as the real thing.
The avatar nodded, and then leveled a gloved finger at Danny’s own chest. He looked down.
There was a door, there, too.
His breath caught in his throat and he tried to scramble away, some still-human part of him objecting strenuously to whatever was going to happen.
All at once, the whole of Clockwork’s attention turned in on him, and for an infinite moment of time he was held in a perfect embrace. His thought from earlier returned. Anything, and he would not object, because it was done out of Love.
His edges, usually so sharply defined, even in the Dream, went fuzzy, almost blending with his surroundings, those surroundings being Clockwork.
The avatar reached for Danny’s door and opened it. It hurt, but not as much as he thought it would. Within, laid his heart.
The surface, the shape, of it looked human enough. The veins and arteries were all in the right places. The atria and chambers all looked to be the proper sizes. It beat an even rhythm.
But inside it was as black as night and something like a star twinkled in its depth.
It was... odd, how closely it resembled Clockwork’s galaxies while being at the same time so different.
Clockwork’s avatar opened the door to its own chest, pinning it to his cloak, then he reached into Danny’s chest.
There was the pain he had been expecting, radiating from his core to the very tips of his fingers and toes. If he were not held immobile by the sheer force of Clockwork’s regard, he would have arched backwards and screamed.
Methodically, the avatar cut and tied off every one of arteries, veins, and nerves that led from the rest of Danny’s body to his heart. Finally, the heart excised and cradled in its hands, it drew back.
Danny should be dead. The Dream did not follow the same rules as the reality he had been born into, but his mind would not let go of the fact that he had no heart. He should be dead.
The avatar inserted Danny’s heart into its chest, next to its own, and closed its door. Slowly, the image of Danny’s heart faded into metaphor as it sunk down into the deeps to nestle next to Clockwork’s true heart.
Danny understood, then, that from this moment on, Clockwork would decide the direction of his heart, would determine who he Loved and who he Hated. If he should Love or Hate. Danny rather doubted Clockwork would let Danny do anything so damaging as Hate.
I shall keep it safe for you, said the avatar, something more profound behind its words that might have been Clockwork himself, until you are old enough to protect it on your own.
Danny understood, too, that although this promise was not a lie, he would never be old enough to reclaim his heart, no matter how much time passed or how powerful he grew. Clockwork’s Love and protection would keep both him and it safe, young, fragile. How could it do otherwise, when time itself would flow around him? When Love would keep him anchored to one form?
Clockwork’s attention relaxed, then, and Danny could move again, curling around the gaping hole in his chest. The avatar ruffled his hair and, with his other hand, held something out to Danny.
Six paired sets of life and death glimmered against the lavender of the avatar’s glove. Danny recognized them. They belonged to the people he Loved. He had not realized he Loved Mr. Lancer, but he could see now that it was true.
Moving slowly, as if underwater, Danny held his cupped hands beneath the avatar’s. His breath caught as the avatar tipped the lives and deaths into his hands.
So precious. He brought them down to his lap and, with painstaking care, began to peal the deaths away from the lives. Each death he ate, consuming it and breaking it down into nothing. Each life he placed in the hollow that had once housed his heart.
Like this, they would not die, they would not leave him. They would be with him, always, just as he would always Love them.
Exhaustion hit him all at once, and he slumped forward to rest his head on the Avatar’s shoulder. It laughed, lightly, and helped him close the door in his chest. Then, it took a heart-shaped padlock from within its cloak and threaded it into the latch of Danny’s door. The click as the padlock closed echoed off the floor and distant walls.
With a kind of detached curiosity, Danny watched as the edges of the door, latch, padlock and all, melded into his skin and vanished as if they had never been there at all. He knew that he would not be able to find the door again without help, and that, even then, to open the door he would need the padlock’s key. A key he had not yet seen.
But what reason did he have to open his chest? Others might have cause, those who wanted to hurt him, or those that he Loved. This was another protection, another way to keep him safe.
This time you devoured your destiny, said the avatar, petting him. The sick futures have been cut away. Next, we shall remove the presents where you Are Not. After that... The sentence trailed away in a buzz that made Danny’s thoughts go quiet.
The avatar began to do something that could only be described as singing even though neither voice nor sound were involved. It was a lullaby, and Danny felt himself become even heavier and softer than before. He curled into the avatar’s side, feeling small. The pain of his missing heart eased itself into something more bearable. The threads of love that kept him from becoming a monster wound tighter around his limbs and sewed themselves deeper into his skin.
His eyes drifted closed.
When he woke, he was in his bed, in Fentonworks. He blinked several times at his ceiling, and leapt to his feet only to be waylaid by dizziness and static across his eyes. He brought a hand up to his neck, half expecting to feel metal.
He shifted, pressing two fingers against an artery. No pulse. He switched his grip to his wrist. Nothing.
Right. No heart.
No heart but six lives and-
He stumbled out of his room and started banging wildly on her door. Jazz threw it open and froze.
“It’s really you?” she asked, voice quivering.
Danny opened his mouth to answer, but no sound came out. It didn’t seem like Jazz really needed a verbal response, because she threw herself at him, enveloping him in a hug.
“I was so scared,” she whispered. “The- the not-you-” She sucked in a shuddering breath. “Everyone was dying, and then- and then it was just- It was like a dream. Like it didn’t happen. But you were gone.”
Danny nodded, even though she couldn’t see him.
“I’m so glad it’s you,” she said. “I’m so glad it’s you.”
Her love, so tenuous and slender compared to Clockwork’s, but no less genuine, wound around his wrist. He hugged her back.
If he had been able to speak, he would have said, Me, too.
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Summary: Every NHL champion gets a single brush with ice magic. When Jack takes his first cup with the Falconers, he accidentally undoes the wish that brought him back from the brink of death in 2009, and Bitty becomes hell-bent on lifting the cup himself for a chance to set things right.
A/N: Finally posting some concepts I’ve played around with that aren’t 100% complete massive fics, but still pretty solid, just little things that might be enjoyed. Yet another cup-wish-gone-wrong-au with monkey-paw components. Also inspired by discord convos about canon!Jack meeting an older, veteran NHL!Bitty and having a lot of feelings. Also mentor/father-in-law!Bob trying to help Bitty navigate the NHL. There’s more to this floating around but this is the meat of it
Bob can sense when it happens. A shift of something monumental that he’s only felt on a handful of occasions his entire life. A quick glance across the ice finds a number of the celebrating Falconers looking around curiously, unsure of the sensation; for so many, it’s their first brush with ice magic. A pleasant novelty. The vets, though, they look to each other.
Bob turns and doesn’t have to look far to find his son, one hand clasped around the cup, the other around Eric Bittle’s waist, smiling from ear to ear. Something about the moment is wrong, but Bob can’t quite determine why as he’s overcome with a wave of nausea. The stadium lights are too bright and he blinks hard, face scrunching, trying to force whatever wrongness he’s feeling out of himself.
Someone’s made a wish.
The moment passes. Bob’s vision clears. There, veiled in a shower of blue and gold confetti, is Eric; alone at center ice, face twisted in confusion as he looks around for the man who only moments earlier had been in his arms.
“You take the cup, you get one real wish,” the decades old, bourbon-lacquered voice of his first coach reminds him. “But only the one. Can be something small, like an empty cab in the rain, or it can be something big. World changing, even. The one thing, the most important thing — ”
“No,” Bob breathes. “Please, no.”
“— You never use your wish on another player.”
They don’t know exactly what Jack wished for, but the next time Bitty’s blades touch the ice, it’s as if he’s stepped into the body of a new man. No more slurs. No more targeted chirps. He’s just one of the boys.
He plays. He wins. Then, the offers start to come.
NHL teams looking for fast wingers, team players, leadership material; not one of them mentions diversity, or Eric’s status as the first out NCAA hockey captain. No one cares. No one remembers Jack, and no one cares about Eric.
The best and worst case scenarios rolled into one. If this is the reality Jack unknowingly traded his existence for, Bitty has no choice but to walk through the door his partner opened.
Bitty swallows, trying to force the words out on one of his now nightly calls with the man who would have been his father-in-law in another world, if the shared connection between them hadn’t been interred in a Montréal cemetery almost a decade prior.
“I think . . . I think he wished for acceptance.”
“No one remembers anymore.”
Eric scuffs his skate against this ice, building up a small pile of shavings before scattering them again, focusing on the soft white as if somehow he’ll be able to transport himself bodily to somewhere cool and quiet. Jackson Hole. Banff. Tremblant. Anywhere but here. Anywhen but now.
“Saw Tater last week at a press junket. Blank stares all around. Some days, most days, I wake up and I don’t know how I got here. I can go without thinking of him.”
Weeks. Eric doesn’t say aloud. Months. Those hideous mornings when he wakes up beside a warm body and forgets they aren’t him. They aren’t supposed to be him. Was there ever even a him.
Jack. Eric mouths silently, just to remind himself. His name is Jack.
The details always slip. The universe constantly trying to correct the fallacy of Eric Bittle remembering a man who died before they technically ever met. Faded photographs and corrupted memory cards. Selfies that used to have two people in frame. Vlog posts with cosmic ADR, swapping Jack’s name for someone else’s like a hastily rewritten script. Eventually, even Eric’s memories turn traitor. First times lost to reshoots and post-production magic. Blue eyes are brown. Black hair is blonde. Jack becomes Phillip. Eric’s first love recast. In desperation, he pulls a page from Memento, finds a tattoo parlor and has ‘Jack Laurent Zimmermann’ inked in dark, unmistakable letters on his inner thigh. Adds a cup, the Falconers’ crest, and the date they lost everything. It works well enough until the name fades; there are still days where a hook up will ask why Eric has a championship tattoo for a team he never played with.
Now, all he has is Bob.
“That’s why I’m here.” Bob reminds. “That’s why we talk.”
“But what happens if we don’t.”
Bob’s familiar assurances rumble through the phone. Constant. Refusing to acknowledge the harsh realities of the passing of time. The ever-present doomsday clock moving them both toward disaster — Bob aging, Eric aging out. He’s good, but he isn’t great, and the only offers coming his way are single-season contracts with teams that haven’t sniffed a championship in years. One day very soon, there will be no more chances for Eric to undo what’s been done. No more favors to ask of teammates that have long since forgotten a world where Jack Zimmermann was a college graduate and a rookie MVP. Not just an addict. Not just dead at nineteen.
Eric listens to Bob ramble, asks him to tell him a story, to tell him about the Jack that Eric never really got to know. The Jack he can barely remember. A man that Eric has dedicated his entire life to honoring, to bringing back — from where he cannot fathom — and Bob obliges in a soft tone Eric imagines is not dissimilar from how he must have spoken to his son as a child.
Eric ignores his teammates rushing around him — tossing chirps and gentle insults about his ‘Sugar Daddy’ — and focuses on the accented voice in his ear; grasping desperately at the memory of a man who doesn’t exist. Pretending. Hoping.
Across the ice, Eric sees Kent Parson watching him. When they lock eyes, the aging star glides toward him, under a guise of one amicable captain greeting another. He’s pushing 37, and while the years of competitive play are starting to show, he’s just as viciously handsome as the day they first met. At least, Eric thinks he is. He can’t imagine a life where Kent Parson strolled onto a college campus and played beer pong at a frat party, but there’s a folder of old photos on Eric’s computer. Jack is in none of them, but there’s one of himself and Kent. Smiling.
Eric can’t recall why the image bothers him so much.
Parson used his wish years ago on something that he’s never bothered to share — and Eric’s far too much a gentleman to ask a man who was once a rival what he wasted his golden ticket on — but now, he’s slowing down, and this is supposed to be his farewell season. Going out with a bang, riding the high of his fifth cup win. He’s worked hard, and he deserves to shove the Penguins back down into obscurity for another season. Deserves it far more than Eric, with his selfish, single-mindedness that’s ruined god knows how many careers in the last decade between his own ruthlessness and Bob’s meddling.
Except. . . this is also likely Eric’s last season. His last chance to undo the great tragedy of his life, and Parson knows it.
“How you feeling, Peaches? You ready?”
Eric hates the nickname in the same way he hates when his father calls him ‘Champ’.
Eric fights his own shame because he wants to be honest, say, ‘No, I’m not ready, I’ll never be ready,’ but Eric can’t ask for what he wants, anymore. He wants the Aces to balk on a power play. He wants Parson to flub a pass and throw the game — he even knows the man would probably do it, too — but Eric needs to come by a win honestly. They learned the hard way in 2022 when Eric hands were wrapped around the cup, wishing, praying, crying, pleading . . .
Clear eyes, full hearts, or some such bullshit.
Cheaters don’t get wishes.
“I can’t remember, anymore,” Eric admits as they square up across the face-off circle, the resigned terror of an inescapable end creeping upon him like the burn of an old injury ignored for far too long. “Kent. Please.” Parson leans down, rests his stick against the ice, and holds Eric’s gaze as if to say, I’m here. Trust me. Just play.
The puck drops.
There’s someone watching him, young, handsome with dark hair and the kind of bright blue eyes that scream ‘notice me’ with all of the biological bluntness of neon plumage and a mating dance. The man weaves through the crowd, unnoticed by Eric’s teammates, and comes close enough that Eric can’t help but assume familiarity. He must be a fan, the way he’s flushed and excitable.
Eric’s drunk enough on the moment that he’s happy to indulge his baser instincts. He also literally can’t remember the last time he brought company home and if there’s ever been a night to get laid, it’s this one.
“Crisse, look at you, Bits.”
The man is caught between being awestruck and simply struck, reaching out to touch Eric’s arm but not quite making contact, like his depth perception is the tiniest bit off. He drops Eric’s old nickname so easily, so earnestly, that for a moment Eric thinks they might already know each other — but that’s impossible. Eric would remember someone so handsome, so very much his type.
“Only my friends call me ‘Bitty’.” Eric cautions, raising his half-empty champagne bottle in a mock toast and flashing his best ‘you’re coming home with me tonight’ smile. “But I’m more than happy to to get acquainted with you, Sugar.”
Eric isn’t usually this forward, this unrestrained. Tonight, it doesn’t matter, he’s celebrating: another championship, the end of a career, a life well lived. It’s to be expected. What isn’t expected is how the man’s relieved smile falters; as if Eric’s unbridled joy is somehow misplaced.
“Bitty? It’s me.”
“And ‘me’ is called . . . ?”
On very few occasions in Eric’s life has he been able to witness true devastation first-hand; and those instances were related to deaths, hockey losses, or blackout morning afters.
“Jack.” The man says softly, face slack with surprise. “It’s. . . Jack. Bitty, you know me.”
“If we’ve met before, I’m sorry,” Eric apologizes, hating to see the kid look so defeated. “I meet so many people — ”
Over Jack’s shoulder, Eric catches sight of Bob Zimmermann and waves, delighting in the way Bob’s face lights up when he catches sight of Eric, practically going supernova when he notices Jack as well, crossing the ice like a man possessed; Bob moves to pull them both into a hug but Eric’s new friend holds up a defensive hand and Bob stops mid-gesture.
It’s extremely apparent something is off, and between the reporters, the confetti, the champagne, and the fans, Eric is missing all of the context clues.
“Just won my last cup,” Eric singsongs, gesturing with the bottle between his mentor and the man Eric would very much like to fuck — who look very similar now that Eric can see them side by side. “Everyone’s super excited, right? Yeah? So, what’s going on. Did someone die?”
“No.” Bob says quickly, eyes flicking between Jack and Eric warily. “No. Not . . . that.”
“. . . Non.”
“Okay, then, we should be celebrating!” Eric throws his arms wide and nearly clocks a passing teammate. “No more party pooping, Bobbert. Speaking, this is my new friend, Jack. Jack, Bob, Bob, Jack. Though, I’m getting the feeling you two might know each other. Or might be . . . related.” Eric gasps and smacks his free palm against his forehead. “Oh my god, the Tremblant retreat? Is that where I know you from? Listen, I was fucked up on pain meds that whole weekend, I am so sorry if we’ve already met.”
Despite Eric’s continued attempts at clarifying their shared mystery past, Jack keeps looking at Bob with that same wounded expression and it’s really killing Eric’s buzz.
“Bob.” Eric redirects. “Help me, here. Cutie’s nervous.”
“Eric, this is my, ah, well,” Bob’s smile is so forced, so tense, it looks more like a grimace. “Well, this is my son, Jack.”
There is only one ‘Jack’ Eric has ever known in relation to Bob Zimmermann, and he is not someone to be mentioned in polite conversation.
“Your son?” Eric echoes slowly. “Your son, Jack.”
Bob realizes what Eric’s tiptoeing around and casts a furtive glance toward the younger man, lifting two fingers to his cheek conspiratorially to imply ‘it’s a long story, not meant for public ears’. Eric knows how to play along.
“Wow, okay, did not expect that, but now that you’re saying it, I can one-hundred-percent tell. You have the same, well, everything.”
Eric takes Jack’s hand for an obligatory shake, not missing the way Jack’s features twist up into something caught between flattery and misery, before staring down his pseudo-mentor.
“My question is this, where have you’ve been hiding him — because how long have I know you, Bobby? Shame.”
“I’ve been . . . away.”
Jack’s tone is weighted with context Eric absolutely does not possess, but can definitely read into. Given the age difference and Alicia’s conspicuous lack of attendance this evening, Jack’s definitely a love child from some 90s Zimmergroupie. Or, original Jack didn’t actually OD and Bob spirited away his kid to keep away the prying eyes of the public; but that wouldn’t explain the age difference or the shared name.
“Couldn’t wheel him out too soon,” Bob jokes, but Eric can tell the man’s heart isn’t in it, reinforcing Eric’s suspicion.
“Well, I’m happy you did,” Eric says graciously, trying to smooth over the awkwardness. “He’s very handsome, when he isn’t doing this Eeyore impression.”
“Just like his father,” Bob says reflexively — defensively — as Jack goes pink. “Eric, will you excuse us for a moment? Back in five minutes, tops.”
Eric offers a gracious wave, gaze lingering on Jack’s retreating back — and backside, bless — watching Bob rest a firm hand on his son’s neck, gripping tightly to lean in and furiously whisper something. As Eric watches, Jack looks back over his shoulder; it’s not the fond glance of a potential paramour. Regret, maybe? Grief, definitely.
He must be as disappointed to be cock-blocked by his father as Eric is.
Across the ice, Kent Parson has rushed Jack, gathering him into a crushing embrace that the younger man returns easily — burying his face against Parson’s pads; pulling back only when Parson grabs Jack’s shoulders to push him away, taking a long look at him, holding his face between his hands briefly before pulling Jack back into his arms.
They don’t just look like old friends, it’s a reunion of desperation, like the videos his mother sends of soldiers coming home from war, but before Eric can think better of it, a teammate fists a hand in the collar of Eric’s sweater and pulls — away from Bob’s forlorn love child and forgotten first meetings — and the night goes on.
Bob doesn’t return. Neither does Jack.
Eric doesn’t even notice.
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pockets full of stone
A mer-may collab with @miranhas-art 💙 See below the cut for another gorgeous Mari illustration! ... and my fic
Din Djarin nearly dies (again) and meets someone from the stories he heard as a child. He didn’t expect them to be so sassy, though.
Word Count: 2.8k
Warning: Description of drowning, thoughts of death, vomiting (water)
A push, grunt, then a large splash into the lake’s dark and chilled waters.
This was the last time Din was going to talk business on a pier without his jetpack. He knew the bounty was desperate, and for Maker’s sake, the Quarren had thrown his body weight around earlier on the Crest trying to piss Din off by scaring the kid. He should have known better.
Din pulls himself back to the present and away from any blame. He could worry about that later. Or never, and he supposes he’ll find that out soon. His whole body feels incredibly heavy, much more than what he has grown used to over the years. Where metal meets man, he is dragged down; the weight of his padding and armor applying an inescapable pressure as the moonlight fades to black above him. He tries pulling at the water with his arms while kicking with his legs, grasping for anything, but still he feels himself sinking deeper.
Wait, the… Who would take care of the baby if Din can’t....
His breaths are coming fast as he tries and fails to calm himself. Keeping his body upright means that the water still hasn’t crept into his helmet, which is something he can work with. But only for a short few moments. Din realizes he’s probably going to run out of breathable air before he reaches the bottom of this icy lake, much less walk out of it, as he continues to sink.
Din’s mind begins to fog as he figures he might be able to save himself if he loses some of the beskar. He doesn’t have the luxury to dwell on this, as close to his heart and soul the beskar may be. The armor will be at the bottom of the lake whether he succeeds or fails, so he gets going. His normally nimble fingers are cold and difficult, and they fail to find purchase on the slippery latches of his pauldrons. The cape wrapped around his chestplate in such a way to make it nearly impossible to remove without being able to look down and see it. His head lolls forward, allowing water to rush into his helmet and the dwindling air pocket. Din’s mouth and nose are full of water, his throat contracts, his chest stutters, his lungs burn. He can’t focus on the latches to his armor or removing his belts, all he can feel is the cold depths rushing all around and within.
The Mandalorian reflects for a moment. He’s done his best, but his best wasn’t good enough. This is it. He’s flirted with this for years, and it's finally here. Is it honorable? Probably not. Is it what he deserves? Most likely. What’s his legacy? A lifetime spent trying to be worthy of being saved, only to waste it. Figures.
Before Din lost consciousness, two glowing blue lights rushed towards him, but he was too far gone to care. He was finally warm.
Death is a funny thing. No one really knows what happens in the instant before it actually happens. Everyone says they know, but obviously they don’t. There’s no certainty in death, just like in life. What happens to someone when they cross the veil, from one world to the next? If it's anything like traveling at lightspeed, Din knew that like the back of his hand. A shudder felt through the hull, a pause, and then that’s it. Silence and flashes of stars, except perhaps these would fade to black before long. What would he see in those stars? A story?
If Din was to see a story before he died, he knew plenty of them. He had once been fond of the stories that came from strangers. He would beg his father to take him to the cantina, to let him sit in the dirty booths and eavesdrop on the travelers talking about their recent journeys to Coruscant or to any number of exotic planets in the outer rim. The idea of being totally free to do whatever Din wanted in the whole entire galaxy was so thrilling, especially compared to his reality of being tied down to his father’s shop in the bazaar forever. What kind of story would that make for, compared to what was out there in the stars? There were dashing pilots, gunners and soldiers, merchants, bounty hunters, peacekeepers, missionaries. Stories of war in far off places, of mysterious species unlike anything he’d ever dreamed, of personal loss, of unexpected love. Whenever he asked to go -- before, that is -- his mother would give his father a look, one that was always angled so that Din couldn’t see, and then his father would relent and take the young boy out for the afternoon. But eventually, both of them would shush him when he asked. They stayed inside, ‘it’s not a good day’ his mother said, and kept the store closed. There were whispers of war, a real war. The whispers were exciting to Din at first, they reminded him of the stories. The heroes were going to swoop in to stop the bad guys and put everything back to normal. But then the whispers grew into screams, explosions, shooting. Where were the heroes? All the thrilling things he had heard in the cantina, but terrifying and happening to him with no one here to--
Stop. Din’s dead, and yet he continues to torture himself. If he gets one last laugh, it should be at himself.
Din didn’t want a story, or to relive his life. What about something he never got to do? He had always hoped that he could live in a fantasy, if only for a moment, where he could have a simple life. A moisture farmer on some backwater planet, or a working class mechanic for a Mid Rim starport. Although that was never a life he would actually want for himself, a simple life was always a nice thought for a different Din. One who wasn’t so…. damaged.
So here he is, a man on the brink of death. Is he seeing his life flash painfully before him again, is he living in a dream, is he nowhere at all?
A kiss. He’s being kissed.
Now, Din had never kissed anyone on the lips in life. He knew the steps, the basic mechanics, but he imagined that it was a much different experience to be kissing an actual active participant and not just the skin on the back of his own hand. There was a certain give and take that he was looking forward to -- a dance, a battle of will fought with plush lips and soft tongues. Even beyond the direct battlefield, there was the periphery of where one’s hands would be, knees intertwined, legs weak and swaying. His arm wrapped around their waist and his fingers brushing tenderly over their cheek, while they pull him in by the shoulders until they melt together.
He would have much rather died in a kiss like that.
In this brief moment of purgatory, however, he can settle for this one chaste kiss. This ‘kiss’ he is having now, if it’s to be called that, is… Hmm. It isn’t what Din imagined. Everything is dark, and it's not anything like a dance. This person seems to be gasping into him with their mouth wide open, like a fish out of water. Whoever he’s kissing has clearly never done this before either, otherwise why in Maker’s name would anyone want to kiss again? He strains his arms to reach forward at whatever is capturing his lips, but he can’t find his strength. He had never known that kissing would need to be so rushed, or involve so much blowing of air? He --
Din grunts around a cough, finding himself on his back and in quite a bit of pain. His insides feel like they are saturated and about to burst. He rolls over onto his hands and knees on the muddy banks of the far side of the lake so that he can proceed to throw up an obscene amount of water, which only makes the burning in his lungs more and more painful with each heave.
A sigh of relief, a soft voice breaking through the silt caked in his ears which seems to speak only above a whisper. “I-I’m so glad you’re okay.”
Din freezes. The discomfort and pained heat in his chest is nothing compared to the inferno under the bare skin of his face. He continues to stare at the ground, but shifts his eyes up so that he is looking in the direction of his savior.
A human, scantily-clad with only a dark cloth wrapped around their chest and some sort of leather skirt, sits in front of him on the rocks, their legs still partially submerged in the murky lake water. They thumb at their wet lips as they smile at him, and he feels a blush creep from his face all the way down his chest. Those glistening, smiling lips had been on his lips.
Despite a sensible voice in Din’s head trying to remind him that they had saved his life, despite the weakness that pervaded every inch of his body, a flare of anger rises in him. He is dar’manda now, because of them.
He pulls himself up into a seated position on the lakeside and puffs out his chest, only to find the pain evaporating his anger. “What did you do….” he asks himself.
Their smile fades as their brows furrow. “I think that’s pretty obvious. I saved your life.”
“I didn’t mean-- My life?” Din sighs around a laugh. He’s done this before, hasn’t he? Why’s this different from the cantina? Because this person isn’t made of metal? He knew going along with anything less than what the Creed requires of him would become a slippery slope. The tears come easily and he does nothing to stop them. “No, my life is over.”
They set one of their hands on the rock beside them, leaning their weight onto it and towards him. They open their mouth around a smirk, then pause. They start again, but with a blank sincere expression. “Why’s that?”
It’s probably the adrenaline from nearly dying and being unmasked again, but for a moment Din considers grabbing their arm and pulling them in for a real kiss. What does it matter now? His body shows no signs of his thoughts, not a single twitch of muscle, but his face must be betraying him as he watches their eyes train in on his as they purse their lips and smile with their dark, shimmering eyes. Whatever blush he still had on his face grew a shade darker.
“You’re a bold one.” They say around a smile, their long fingers twisting through their hair.
Din squeezes his eyes shut and turns away from them, towards the dark sky full of stars. His voice cracks as he gives weight to the words running through his mind, to the feeling of emptiness inside. “I’m dar’manda.”
They snort, and Din can’t help but whip his head at them.
“Can’t be that big of a deal if I’ve never heard of it.”
Din expected them to not know, but not for them to be so arrogant about it. He had an explanation ready, but since he was caught off guard and doesn’t want to get lost in the weeds with this person, he summarizes the summary as, “It means I’m done. I can’t wear the armor anymore.”
“Because I saved you?”
“Because you’ve seen me,” Din explains, finding the familiar words of his Creed. “No living thing can see me without the helmet. That’s… that’s the one rule. And I broke it.”
“But I’m the one who broke it.”
They blow a raspberry and wave at the air with their free hand. “You humans really can be so dramatic.”
Din pauses, squinting up at the twinkling stars as he absorbs their words. Well. Now he’s curious. He brings his gaze back down at his savior. It's dark and he’d just drowned, but he didn’t see anything… off.
“You seem human to me,” he says as he turns over and sits back on his haunches.
“You seem duller than I hoped.” They bite their lips around a smile as they laugh softly. They pull their legs out of the water; the skirt seems to shine iridescent in the moonlight, like facets of a precious gemstone. Their feet were…. Hm. Their skirt, their legs, are covered in leather? No, scales….
Din finds his mouth gaping as he stares at a tail, the fin slapping wetly against the rocks in step with the drum of their fingers against their thighs -- singular, thigh?
As he struggles to think of a good first question, they purse their lips in thought. “Let me go get your hat,” they say before quickly slipping back into the lake.
“W-wait, it’s not a...,” Din calls out stupidly, launching himself slowly and awkwardly from his haunches and reaching out in the empty air where they once were.
This can’t be real. Mystical, intelligent beings with the head and upper body of a human, but the fins and tail of a fish. He was more than familiar with the stories, but such creatures were just children’s tales. Although, what was fiction now that he is taking care of a fifty year old infant with telekinetic powers? The galaxy was a big place, he supposed.
The mer-person seems to come back just as fast as they’d left, setting Din’s helmet on the shore at his feet before pulling themselves back up to sit their colorfully-scaled behind on the rocks.
Din reaches down and fumbles for a moment with the beskar, checking the inside before placing it back on his head. The pads are damp and uncomfortable, but not any more uncomfortable than feeling so exposed. “Thank you.”
“It's no problem, hat boy,” they prod as they casually clean their fingernails. Din bristles.
“It’s not a hat.”
“And I’m not alive,” they say seriously, looking at Din’s eyes through the visor somehow. The jovial tone fades to a comfortable yet tense silence. He tilts his head, waiting for them to continue their thought.
“Why get yourself all worked up? No one would believe you if you told them about me anyway.”
“I would know,” Din states softly. The tension dissipates but the two stay motionless. Din contemplates and shrugs minutely in defeat. He would know, yes, but he already knows. This isn’t the first time he’s failed when his Creed has been tested. Yet, who would argue whether droids or mer-people are ‘living beings’? The line is blurry, so it's up to Din to decide when the line is crossed. Considering his responsibility to his foundling’s care, he pushes the thoughts of being dar’manda far from his focus, into hiding in the recess.
Ripples from the lake, bouncing moonlight off of its surface, catches his attention. Save for a brief fading view of two blue lights in the dark water, nothing. They are gone, and Din is alone. His wet lungs wheeze as he reaches down, patting along the areas where they had been, searching for any remnants of their existence. An imprint, a misplaced item, a loose scale. Not a trace.
After a moment, Din pulls himself to his feet and trudges up through the pocket of trees surrounding the lake to a small path leading back to the pier. It had only been ten minutes or so since he had been pushed into the lake, but the bounty and his client were gone. Din assumed they both left giddily, since the bounty could think he was dead and the client didn’t have to pay the back half of his premium. Wasn’t the first time, after all.
The Razor Crest’s security lights flickered to life as her prodigal son returned, the side bay ramp welcoming him inside with a flick of the wrist. As Din walked up the ramp, he was faced with an empty carbonite rack -- and more accurately, what amounted to an empty coffer. He wondered if he still had some of the murky lake water swimming through his brain because he couldn’t bring himself to care.
The beskar helmet quickly pivoted away from the carbonite chamber as he heard a grumble and the shuffling of blankets. The baby stirred from their shared cot, chirping and cooing to be held. Din crossed the hold with long, swift strides and obliged, removing his damp and filthy gloves to thumb over the baby’s warm cheeks.
Din sucked in a breath to speak, but paused. No one would believe you if you told them about me anyway. He would always know, but… He had nothing to hide from his sweet little foundling.
Din sat on the floor below the cot, leaning against the wall as he cradled the sleepy babe in the crook of his legs. The lake water dripped off of him slowly, glinting in the safe yellow glow of home as Din told a story.
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Misconceptions |Loki Laufeyson
Summary: Loki stumbles across you in the Avengers Tower library, and when he senses a threat that isn’t really there, he launches into an attack, only to have unexpected results.
A/N: First Loki piece, and I gotta say, it’s hard to write for the god of michef. But let me know what you thought!
Likes, reblogs, follows are always appreciated!
Loki Laufeyson was a man of mystery, someone who kept secrets so close to their chest no one else ever had any hope of knowing them. He was someone that made everyone around him act as if the universe was on a knife’s edge, his every word tipping the balance between fabricated and short-term peace, and chaos and destruction that would leave the world fractured in its wake.
And while he stayed in the Avenger’s tower on a peace keeping trip from Asgard, he hardly came out of his room, instead preferring to be tucked away with his books and remain isolated from the Avengers and yourself. But sometimes, when he thought the tower was empty and he had free reign, he would come out and peruse the large library that was in the building, staring up at the shelves stacked with books until he was bored. Normally he got away with it, no one even knowing he had left his room during the time you were gone, but this time, he didn’t even think that someone might have stayed, preferring to cosy up on the most comfortable armchair with a blanket over their lap and favourite book in hand. He nearly jumped out of his skin when he saw you.
“Well, look who finally came out of their room. And I thought I would be the only one using the library today.” You looked up from your book, watching the god closely as he edged around the room, trying to stay away from you but not drop eye contact at the same time.
“I thought you had gone out with the rest of the mortals. I thought I would finally have some peace.” The words that left his mouth were cold and barbed, but you didn’t take any offence, instead rolling your eyes at him as you picked up a mug of hot chocolate from the table beside you and took a sip.
“Trust me, there’s no way I’m going out in that weather, I don’t have a death wish for freezing like the others do. Besides, Tony finally got a book in I’ve been asking for.” Loki was running his hands along the spines of the various books, finger tips tapping a fast rhythm that only he seemed to know and for a moment you were enchanted, watching his every move as if he was some sort of work of art. But then he was speaking again, and you remembered why everyone was so wary of him, with his barbed tongue and icy personality.
“Hm, is the little mortal afraid of the cold? Would rather stay here with the evil and deranged god that everyone is scared of? So brave.” You knew his words were meant to anger you, to put a fire in your stomach that would push you to fight back, but you just waved him away, unaffected, more interested in your book than Loki.
“Careful, Laufeyson, you’re gonna have to do better than that to intimidate me. You’re as scary as a small kitten without your large armies, and even then you still look tiny to me.” Loki’s fury spiked up then, heat running through his veins as he turned to you in a whirlwind of rage and shock as he noticed your attention was once again on your book. And of course, being Loki, he only reacted with power, flinging out his arm and urging his magic to rip the book from your grasp with you only able to watch it skitter across the wood floor.
“Big words for such a puny mortal. I doubt you’ve ever been in a real battle, let alone seen the death and horror I have.” He was storming up to your chair then, face right in front of yours and features covered in a cold fury that only he could muster. Though it might have intimidated others, all you did was scoff and push past him to leave the chair and collect your book.
“Hm…that’s actually quite funny that you say that. Because as I recall, the last big battle I was in was the one in New York, remember that? When you waged war on the innocent people of the city just because you didn’t get what you want? Trust me Loki, I have seen enough death, destruction, cruelty and horror to last a lifetime, and I’ve fought enough enemies and spilt enough blood to know what it’s like to put everything on the line for something you believe in. So if you want to keep calling me a mortal, or puny or any other insulting name you can think of, that’s fine, because I couldn’t care less.” You stopped for a moment, walking back towards him until you were toe to toe with his eyes widening slightly and his knuckles clenching tight. “But it would be wise of you, Prince Loki, to never underestimate me just because I am a mortal, and just because I’m not some all-powerful and self-righteous god like yourself, because you might just end up with a knife in your back before you can even say the word ‘Asgard’”.
In all your life, you had never seen Loki looked as shocked as he did in that moment, Adams Apple bobbing up and down as he swallowed nervously, which was quickly and weakly hidden by a strong scowl, before you were picking up your book and perching yourself back on the chair, attention drifting away from him again.
“I…I didn’t mean to insult you, Y/N.” Loki’s voice went soft suddenly as he turned to leave, not wanting to meet the anger in your eyes that he knew would be there. “When people get acquainted with me, it is so easy for them to only see the cruelty and hatred that others think I possess, and they struggle to see the real prince of Asgard. I expected you to lash out as soon as you saw me…I think in truth I wanted you to lash out so I could fight back. But you didn’t, so I pushed harder, and I’m sorry I went somewhere I shouldn’t have.” You didn’t respond to his confession, even as he looked back at you with a look of deep sincerity, because you couldn’t be certain if it was real or not. But then you saw a flicker of something warm in the depth of his eyes, something you swore had never been there, and then he was opening his mouth again. “I really do apologise, Y/N, and I understand that you would probably like me to return to my chamber to give you space.”
“Stay, Laufeyson. Pick a book and sit. Maybe being in the presence of a mortal for more than five minutes might help you change your feelings about us. And what’s the point of coming into a library if you’re going to leave empty handed, anyway?” You stopped him, a hand motioning to the empty chair across from you and the large shelves, cautiously accepting him into the space. Though he was wary, Loki went and sat, picking a copy of Homer’s Iliad and opening it slowly.
That was how the rest of the group found you when they came back from their excursion, bringing home take out pizza and tubs of ice cream that would hardly last the night. For once, Loki sat with you all as you ate, next to you but still far enough away that he was comfortable, and suddenly something felt as if it had shifted, suddenly it didn’t feel so cold in the presence of the great god, or that everyone had to watch their backs and be wary of secrets to come out of the dark. For once, it seemed relatively normal, and you hoped it stayed that way.
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SOMETHING MORE (the mandalorian x reader)
CHAPTER 29: We Don’t Scare Easy
RATING: Explicit (18+ ONLY!!!)
WARNINGS: sexual content & descriptions of violence
SUMMARY: There’s a war coming,” he continues, and you feel the heaviness of his confirmation, “and I think the only way we’re going to win any part of it is if we work together.”
You smile down at him, strangely emotional. “I thought you liked doing things alone, Mandalorian,” you manage, voice high and breathy.
Din’s eyes flutter from your own and your lips, and you inhale sharply as he stares at you like he’s about to devour you. “Not anymore,” he answers, finally. “You’re proof that it’s so much better to be part of a team.”
AUTHOR'S NOTE: HELLO MY LOVES HAPPY SOMETHING MORE SATURDAY!!!! this chapter is quite the whirlwind, i hope you love it! more notes at the end as always <3
Bo-Katan steps forward again. You narrow your eyes, straightening up as high as you can to try and match her intimidating, perfect posture. Her gaze locks on the Darksaber, once, twice, then she squares her shoulder, staring at Din. Even though the helmet, you can tell he’s staring at her right back. “We have a problem,” she says, lowly.
“Who’s we?” Din asks, voice cool and level.
For the first time, she looks over at you, not the Darksaber, not trying to size you up. You raise an eyebrow. “I said I’m not here for that,” she continues, pointing a slender finger at the weapon hanging from your grasp, “and I meant it. As much as I hate it,” she sighs, crossing her arms, “you won it in battle, Mandalorian. And it’s not really in my best interest to try and take Mandalore for myself again.”
Something about the way she says it makes your stomach flip over. You don’t know what she’s done in the past, you can barely string two events in the history of Mandalore together, but the way she insinuates another plot to take the throne puts you on edge.
“Then what do you want?” Din asks. His voice, through the modulator, is so even. There’s a sharpness to it that you don’t entirely understand. You glance over at Cara, her arms bulging from where they’re crossed against her chest. She shakes her head, almost entirely imperceptibly, and you inhale sharply, looking back at Bo-Katan like she’s a venomous predator, ready to strike the second you show her any weakness.
“You gave me Gideon,” Bo-Katan continues. “I took him back to Mandalore. We have facilities. Prisons. Holding cells. But I can’t get anything concrete out of him, and there’s something dark behind his eyes whenever we question him. Smug. And…” she sighs, “I would have no quarrel with killing him, but he seems to still be a part of something bigger.” On this last sentence, her gaze shifts over to you, and you swallow, feeling your heart flip over in your chest.
Din regards her. “What’s your point?”
“Well,” Bo-Katan says, looking back at Din. You can feel the way she’s steeling herself, pressing her lips down in a thin line like she’s driving a bargain she doesn’t think is fair. “My point is that I know Gideon’s the tip of the iceberg. And I know all you’ve wanted for months is to see him dead. I’m saying that if you come back to Mandalore with me and figure out what he’s planning…” she trails off, looking own to the blue armor of her boots, “then I’ll turn both him and Mandalore over to you. For real.”
You badly disguise a gasp. Din looks over to you, then the visor slides back to Bo-Katan. You’ve become an expert in reading his body language, knowing what he’s thinking from his movements alone. But right now, you feel entirely and completely out of your depth. You can’t get a read on him.
“If you’re looking to double-cross me,” Din finally says, voice icy, “then just fight me right here and win the saber back. If you want Mandalore, you can have it.”
“You’re telling me,” Bo-Katan starts, and you can hear the anger in her tone, “that you seriously don’t want the throne?
Din looks back at her. “Look at your helmet in your hands.” She does. “You can take yours off. You have no—no issue with showing your face. From what it sounds like, you know how to be a leader. I don’t have to understand, or like what you’re doing. I—” he cuts off, just for a second, and then he regains his vigor, “I don’t want to put more of a target on my back. I’m tired. There’s something darker out there that we’re only just now seeing. I’ll question Gideon,” he continues, “but if I do, then you take the Darksaber. You rule Mandalore. I’ll be too preoccupied helping my fiancé and the rest of the Rebel Alliance wipe Gideon and the evil he’s hiding off the face of the galaxy.”
Bo Katan’s eyes narrow. Your heart sings a tune of pride in your chest, fiercely and brazen. “That’s not how it works.”
“It is now,” you finally say, lifting your chin. “There’s something out there. Something that wants all of us to either become pawns for their evil cause or for us to die and stay dead. You want Mandalore to be taken care of?” you ask, stepping forward. Bo-Katan’s still guarded, but she nods, just slightly. “Then take care of it. We have to make sure that the rest of the galaxy survives, not just one planet.”
Bo-Katan stares at you, then at the Darksaber, then to the new Alliance symbol hanging from your throat. You bite down, hard, and you pull your hair to the side. In your palm, the Darksaber vibrates, and, immediately, her eyes refocus on the weapon. You wince, realizing you’re holding it there with the Force alone, your grip empty. “You can use the Force,” she says. Her voice sounds poisonous, and your heart starts thumping again, but then you remember that she’s the one who led you to Ahsoka, so she doesn’t seem to have any particular distaste for Jedi, even though you know most of the galaxy does.
“Do you know anything about the Order?” you ask. Beside you, Din sighs, thick and heavy, and you realize that asking someone who may not entirely be an ally about a mysterious collection of people trying to use you as a weapon might not be a good idea.
But in Bo-Katan’s face is a flicker of recognition. She swallows. “Come interrogate Gideon,” she says, finally. All the fire that was there a minute ago seems to drain out of her backward, and Din steps forward, just an inch, but you know he feels it too. “Figure out what he wants. Then, if you’re so adamant about not being Mand’alor, we can fight over the Darksaber. But you’re not allowed to go easy on me,” she continues, stabbing a finger at Din midair. “For me to retake the throne, it needs to be a real fight. Understood?”
Din nods, sharply and intently. “Don’t worry,” he says, and because you know him so well, you can tell that there’s a small smirk etched across his face under the helmet, “going easy isn’t really in my job description.”
There seems to be something ceremonial about boarding Kicker. The two of you are going to follow Bo-Katan to Mandalore. If needed, Cara will follow the both of you, but the rest are starting on their own missions, to try and track down any more information about this mysterious Order so that when you regroup, Wedge and the Alliance included, you have a fighting chance. Parting ways, though, seems to come after making sure you get back to Kicker safely, a small ensemble of bounty hunters and experienced fighters flanking both you and Din as you make the trek back to the ship. Everyone says their goodbyes as Bo-Katan boards her own ship. It’s sleek and newer than Kicker by far, but there’s an emptiness to it. You sigh, slinging yourself down in the cockpit, flipping all the necessary switches and preparing for takeoff.
“What exactly should we be expecting?” you ask, finally, breaking the silence. You’re jittery, chilled from something much stronger than the Nevarro night. That keyed-up, wired, electric current running through you matches the same one back on Khubeaie, after the strange, blaring messages, after thinking you saw Luke Skywalker. It’s unsettling.
Din sighs from behind you, low and heavy. You startle, just a little, because you weren’t expecting him to have moved, but his gloved hands find your shoulders, and you sigh happily as his fingers start pressing a familiar pattern into the sore muscles, coaxing them to release. “I don’t know,” he answers you, and you can tell he’s being genuine. “I can’t shake the feeling that we’re walking into a trap, but Bo-Katan also helped me try to get the kid back. I don’t think she’s being entirely forthcoming, but I don’t think she’s trying to harm us, either.”
You nod, too preoccupied with the feeling of Din’s thumbs on either side of your neck to really care about whatever’s coming next. “I don’t think she’s going to hurt us,” you manage, voice much more blissed out than his is. “She’s—resentful. Angry. But I truly don’t think she actively means us any harm.”
Din’s quiet behind you, just moving his expert fingers up and down your shoulders, digging into the tension. You watch as Bo-Katan’s ship powers up, eyes squinted to try and see where she is in the cockpit. As she lifts off Nevarro’s molten surface, you power Kicker up and do the same, following closely behind in her stream as she jets towards the atmosphere.
“Whatever’s waiting for us on Mandalore,” he finally says, grimly, “I don’t think we’ll make enemies, but I also don’t think we’ll be met with that warm of a welcome.”
Despite everything, a small smile moves across your face. You punch the thrusters, eyes still locked on Bo-Katan’s ship. “Sounds about right on par,” you manage, “don’t you think?”
Din sighs again. You put Kicker on autopilot, slowly turning around your chair to look up at him. Even shrouded in the dark, even entirely armored, you can feel him underneath. What used to be so intimidating is barely anything anymore. It’s just Din, the man you love, standing over you. He tucks a loose lock of your hair behind your ear, and you smile up at him, leaning into his palm. “You really think I would be a good ruler?”
You blink at him, astounded. “Yes,” you enunciate. “I don’t…I don’t exactly understand what you’d be doing. But I’ve seen the way you lead, how you somehow bring people with huge differences together. I know you want to go back to before,” you say, softly, taking his other hand in yours, “but honestly, Din, I don’t think we can.” You swallow. “I think we’re meant for something more than bounty hunting and babysitting.”
He stares down at you, through the visor, and then his hand pulls out of yours so he can hook his fingers under the rim of the helmet and yank it off. You pull him in closer, staring at his tousled hair, his lips still pink from fucking back on Nevarro in that back alley. He looks guarded, unsure, but when you hold him, the tension seems to leave his eyes just a little. “I don’t want to do it,” he says, finally.
“That’s okay,” you interrupt gently, “if you don’t think it’ll be good for you—”
“No,” he says, suddenly, and you stop talking. “I don’t wantto do it. It seems like this giant responsibility that I’ve never been prepared for. But I would,” he continues, voice low and urgent, “I would, except that taking the throne means breaking my promises to you.”
You stare down at the ring on your left hand, then look up back to Din, who’s holding hesitancy in every tense muscle of his body. “What do you mean?” you ask, voice wavery.
“I mean,” he sighs, stroking his gloved thumb over your cheekbone, “that there’s Gideon to deal with, and we have so much work ahead of us with the Order, and we’re in danger wherever we go. This would be so high-profile. And, Nova,” he continues, and you swallow, “I’m not going to be the one to take you away from the Alliance. You deserve to be there, fighting. And I meant it when I said I’d follow you anywhere, and I don’t even want to be…” he trails off, lips contorting around the word Bo-Katan used earlier, “…Mand’alor. I want to stop the Order. I want to be with you. And I want our kid back.”
You stare at him. “Din—”
“I’ll let Bo-Katan take it,” he interrupts, his voice steadier, “and then we help the Alliance. And then,” he continues, stepping closer to you, between your splayed legs, “then, we find Luke Skywalker and get him to train you, too. We’ll give the Order everything we’ve got. When it’s safe, you and Grogu and I will be together again. For good.”
Your heart is hammering a staccato rhythm on the left side of your chest. You don’t know if this is what you want—him giving up everything to stay with you, in the same way he doesn’t want you giving up everything to stay with him—but the two of you have more pressing matters at hand. Bo-Katan’s ship ahead of you slows down, and you pick the controls back up in Kicker to move accordingly.
“We can’t have everything, Nova,” Din says, and you know he’s being logical, and even beyond that, you know he’s right. You both owe it to the Alliance—and the galaxy—to stop the Order, to wipe clean any Empire leftovers that you can find. It’s a battle you can feel is only beginning, not one that you’ll be able to tackle and finish within a few weeks’ time. More than anything, though, more than stopping the Order, more than figuring out your Force sensitivity and visions or even becoming a full-fledged Jedi, is for you and Din and Grogu to settle down someplace, at least for a little while, and soak in as much happiness and peace as you possibly can before yet another war inevitably rears its head.
You swallow, and as you follow Bo-Katan down into Mandalore, you turn to face him, forcing an edge of determination into your voice that you don’t know if you entirely believe. “Don’t be so sure,” you whisper, and even though you don’t really have a plan, something inside of you knows that there’s a way that you can have everything, even if it’s an uphill battle. Because what you said to Din, way back on Nevarro, back before your life really started, still stands true. You don’t scare easy. And you’re more than ready to fight back.
Mandalore is not at all what you expected. It’s clearly been through the ringer, down to hell, and back again, but the city you follow Bo-Katan to looks rebuilt, fortified. It used to be glorious. You can tell. There’s elements that remind you of Naboo—not its natural beauty, but its serenity. Even though you know that the Mandalorians born and raised here have been trained into warriors, there’s an odd, peaceful way about the planet that you weren’t expecting.
Especially not arriving with Bo-Katan. She walks strong and tall, and as you pass handfuls of people walking away from the building she’s leading you towards, they lift their hands in greeting. Whatever your own feelings are toward her aside, you can tell that she’s well-respected. Fierce, but loyal. Kind of like Din. Kind of like you. As she smiles back to people who grin at her, your eyes track the back of her head, finding a kindness there you didn’t see before.
Din’s quiet. It’s a keyed-up, anxious kind of silence. He doesn’t take his helmet off, and his back is rigid and taut. You glance your hand off of his, and he squeezes it once before he drops it back to your side. Immediately, you understand. He’s trying to be proactive in his defensiveness, so that if some sort of opposition descends out of nowhere, he can fight them off without having to think twice about it. You’re not quiet. You don’t say anything, but your breath is heavy in your throat, and your eyes roam over the outcroppings of buildings and peer down the narrow alleyways between them. It’s not as eerie as you were expecting, but there’s something sad and lonely here hidden under all the rebuilt infrastructure and architecture. Even if you didn’t know how violent Mandalore’s history was, you would bet your last few credits that you could figure it out just by the energy of this place.
Bo-Katan leads you up the steps of a large building. The whole way up, your focus shifts from being perspective of your surroundings. The strange, haunted feeling here reminds you of your screeching radio, of the visions of a Jedi back on Khubeaie, you and Din and Boba Fett all seeing Luke Skywalker. And then, you remember Wedge saying he heard from Luke, right before your commlink went haywire, and something dangerous and anxious leaps up in your stomach. You’re breathing a lot heavier than either of the Mandalorians around you are, and you try to regulate how much air you’re taking in, but you give up when the staircase keeps going. Large, shiny marble slabs of stone stack up on top of each other, and the pattern swims before your eyes the higher up you get.
Finally, you speak. “Where exactly are we going?” you manage. Your voice comes out all breathless. You wince as your aching legs carry you up the last few steps, your head lolling back to see the grandiose ceilings in the building.
“I told you I’d take you to Gideon,” Bo-Katan answers, voice clipped but much steadier that yours is. You scowl at her behind her back, looking at her streamlines, athletic figure. “I’m making good on my promise.”
“Shouldn’t we…” you trail off, glancing up at Din’s stoic, silent figure, “I don’t know, plan what we’re going to say? I don’t think we should go in there blind.”
“You’re not going in there,” Bo-Katan interjects, and you stare at her, coming to a full stop. You fold your arms over your chest. Sighing, she turns around to face you and Din where you’ve stopped in unison. “What? That wasn’t part of the deal.”
“It was implied,” you say coolly, staring at her. “Everyone in this galaxy associated with that monster of a man is after me. Not D—Mando. Not you. Me. I think I deserve the chance to figure out who I’m up against.”
Bo-Katan’s gaze flicks from yours to the visor, her eyebrow raised as if to ask Din for permission. You track the way his helmet tilts over to you and back to her. Eventually, he sighs. “She’s right,” he confirms, lowly, stepping forward so that he’s equidistant between you and Bo-Katan. “Besides, she did a better job holding him off than either of us did before he took the kid.”
You press your lips together, trying to look as intimidating as Bo-Katan does. You fail spectacularly, but when her eyes find yours again, she gives you a short, curt nod. Silently, the three of you fall into line. It’s a maze in here, cool blue and grey interior seemingly going on and on for miles. You swallow as you keep watching, weaving deeper and deeper into the complex, until the greyness of everything fades off into anesthetic, stark white. You walk down multiple hallways with holding cells, all empty, their lights blinding and too bright. You squint. You’re exhausted, and even though you don’t want to admit it to the two people around you who grew up in a community where fighting—and winning—was just a simple sixth sense, you have no idea what to say. Gideon doesn’t scare you, anymore—you’ve gotten so much better at staving him and his slippery evil off—but something about talking to him, milking him dry for information, in a place that’s not your typical playing field—well, it makes you anxious. Your stomach worries with an entire menagerie of butterflies as you follow Din and Bo-Katan into the belly of the beast, trying to plot out an even line of questioning in your head.
The door to where Gideon’s being held comes up out of nowhere. It’s menacing, thick, intentionally indestructible. You swallow again as the three of you buzz into the facility, eyes worried on the door when it swings shut, trying to not internalize the heavy click that signifies you’re all stuck in here, too. Bo-Katan is the only one who holds the keys.
She stops short in front of you, and you have to skid to an abrupt halt to avoid colliding into Din’s beskar as he stops walking. Bo-Katan turns around, looking at both of you. “I want to remind you,” she says, and there’s something complicated in her voice, “that he’s restrained. He—we have a strict protocol when it comes to dangerous prisoners,” she continues, staring over at you. “It’s just what we do here. But you need to know that when I turn him over to you, he’s yours. Completely. To do whatever you want with him. But I get to question him first, and only when I’m finished can the two of you start.”
You nod, slowly. Din doesn’t move at all. “And after?”
Bo-Katan looks over at Din, who’s still standing perfectly still. “You really don’t want the throne?”
He’s quiet. You hear him sigh through the modulator, so small that you don’t think she recognizes it. “I don’t think,” Din starts, voice measured and even, “that Mandalore would accept me as their leader. And I have responsibilities outside of this planet.”
Bo-Katan’s eyes narrow. There’s still something strange behind her eyes that you can’t quite quantify. “That doesn’t answer my question.”
Din moved forward a half-step. “I’ll make it a fair fight,” he says, finally. “When we battle for the Darksaber. I won’t just give it to you. But you’re going to win, because this responsibility isn’t mine to bear. It’s yours, no matter what happened back on Gideon’s cruiser.”
Bo-Katan smiles, but it doesn’t fully meet her eyes. “You have no idea,” she says, finally, all the venom in her voice distant and faraway. “I question him first,” she reminds the both of you, and when she steps forward to rap on Gideon’s holding cell, all the nervousness that was fluttering around your body metabolizes in your diaphragm.
Gideon looks awful. He’s been stripped of his black robes, his cape that billow out like the personification of darkness. His hands are clasped in what looks like beskar handcuffs. There’s grey in his hair and the scruff on his chin, and he’s wearing pale blue scrubs that don’t do anything for his usually menacing exterior. When the three of you stand in a line in front of him, he looks up without a single glimmer of evil in his eyes. You swallow.
“How lovely of you,” he says, voice bracing and booming, “to come visit me.”
“You look great,” Bo-Katan spits at him, and even though the three of you have the upper hand, there’s something in Gideon’s face that starts glinting with that same wicked steel he used to hold. “Really taking to being in captivity well. What did you take that baby for?”
Gideon makes eye contact with Din. “He was important to me. Invaluable.”
“Important,” Bo-Katan says, evenly, stepping forward towards him, “right. Important why? Is Mandalore important, too?”
Gideon lifts both of his shackled hands, extends one long, menacing pointer finger in your direction. “She knows. Don’t you, Novalise?”
“Don’t say her name,” Din snaps, moving forward in a flash of beskar. You extend your hand as a barrier, and he stops behind it, even though you can feel him seething. “I should have killed you back there.”
“You should have,” Gideon agrees, with a sharp incline of his head. “Or you could have let me take her instead of the baby. Both would have been very useful. But the child served his purpose, already,” Gideon sighs, leaning back against the stark white bench he’s settled in on, “the girl has yet to serve hers.”
This makes the blood run white-hot through your veins. You clench your teeth together, narrowing your eyes.
“Why Mandalore?” Bo-Katan cuts in. “Why take the Darksaber? Why siege—”
“Why me?” you interject, stepping forward. You can feel Bo-Katan’s fiery glare on the side of your face, but you don’t dare take your eyes off of Gideon. “What value could I possibly bring to something that I hate so intensely?”
He smiles. It’s horrible. Even though he doesn’t show his teeth, you can still feel his venom lurking underneath. “You know the answer to that.”
“I’m not done—” Bo-Katan seethes, but you take another step, closer to Gideon. You can feel yourself shaking, and you clench your hands at your sides to not show him a single drop of fear.
“There’s not a thing in this galaxy you could do,” you say, inhaling sharply, staring down at the man in handcuffs in front of you, “that would make me join you. Ever. I’ll die before I let you take anything from me.”
Gideon smiles again, this time baring his teeth. “Oh, but you won’t,” he says, eyes roaming over you. You think you’re going to be sick. “You’re meant for great things. Far greater than being a Jedi. Far greater than being a silly little Rebel. The Empire didn’t die, girl. We only moved back into the shadows.”
You stare at him, shaking. “What’s the Order?” you ask. You want it to be direct, as sharp as Gideon is, but it comes out all wobbly. You cross your arms over your chest, trying to stand as menacingly as you can over Gideon, even though you know that even while he’s handcuffed, he could terrify an entire planet. You, for better or for worse, do not have that power. “What do they want with me?”
Gideon, for the first time, looks on edge. You track his eyes as they flutter; notice that his shoulders droop just a little under the weight of your question. Just as quickly, though, he recovers. Your heart is pounding a staccato rhythm of blood in your ears. “You think you’ve seen death and destruction?” he asks, and you hear Din sigh, angry and heavy, behind you. It startles you, and so does the sound of Bo-Katan’s boot on the floor. You were so preoccupied with Gideon, you forgot the both of them were there. You step back, towards the slight safety net of having two Mandalorians flank you, waiting for Gideon to continue. “You haven’t. We are going to rid the entire galaxy of opposition and build a bigger empire in its place. You will play quite the role. I’ve seen it,” he says, and even though the words terrify you, you catch a glimpse of a bluff.
“You don’t have the Force,” you retaliate, voice much more measured than you thought it would be. “There’s nothing special about your evilness. You haven’t seen a damn thing about what makes me up, but let me get one thing clear.” You squat down in front of him so you’re eye-level with his dark, malicious ones. “If the Order wants me, they’re going to have to catch me first. And even if they do catch me, I’ll die before they can corrupt a singular thing about me. I don’t know if you got the memo,” you continue, tilting your head to the left in the same way Din does when he’s bargaining, taking something in, “but I’m stronger than you. And however many members are in this Order, this new empire, know that each person resisting you and your tyranny is ten times the person that yours are.”
Gideon grimaces at you. You bare your teeth right back. “You have no idea what’s coming—”
“Tell me,” you interrupt him, jetting your chin up to match his menace, “or don’t. Either way, you’re going to rot in captivity, and your colleagues will be found. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but the Empire lost the last war we had. I don’t think they have the power to win another one.”
Gideon’s anger melts away as you stare at him. Finally, you push yourself back up to a standing position, ignoring the way it strains your tired, sore knees. Silently, you turn and nod at Bo-Katan, who steps forward and immediately starts interrogating Gideon like she was never interrupted at all. You tune out of most of it, trying to register and metabolize every single thing that Gideon just told you. Frustrated, you blow a chunk of loose hair out of your eyes. You’re no closer to figuring out who the Order is and what they want, and all you know is that the Empire—or whoever’s growing in their place—is going to try to exploit you, experiment on you, use your sensitivity and power for their bidding. You thought this was going to clear something up, or at the very least, give you a lead to go on to share with the team on Nevarro and the New Rogue Squadron, but you’ve got nothing. You clench your fist, wracking your brain, trying to find any hidden clue, anything you can steal and get the upper hand on. Tiredly, as Bo-Katan and Gideon go head-to-head, your own drifts off to the Alliance, to Wedge and the rest of the team scouring the galaxy for information. Wedge, who keeps saving you. Wedge, who brought you back into a team that you had given up on a lifetime ago. Wedge, who—
Wedge who heard from Luke Skywalker. You gasp, making eye contact with Din under the mask. You can feel his gaze on you, and you offer up a small, crazed smile, indicating that you have something. You spin to look back at Bo-Katan, whose tone is just as even and scary as Gideon’s is.
“Wait,” you say, loudly, stepping forward. Everyone stops, staring at you. “You,” you seethe, eyes locked on Gideon, “you tried to put a gun to your head back on the cruiser once you realized who was coming to save them.” You look back at Din for confirmation, which he gives you by way of his swift nod. “You would have accepted death over meeting Luke Skywalker. You’re a coward,” you say, evenly, looking down on him. “You have no plans. You have no next moves. You’re just as much of a pawn in the Order’s plans as I am.” You cock your head to the side, mind racing a million miles a second. “This is bigger than you are,” you finish, finally. “You aren’t in charge of the Order. You’re scared of them.”
“Everyone should be!” Gideon snaps back, violently. There’s hatred burning in his eyes. You can feel the intensity of it even from a few feet away, and you try your best to keep your face expressionless, steady. “If you don’t turn for them on their own, they’ll make you. All the powers in the world can’t stop them from taking control. And no one can stop them. Not you. Not your Mandalorians. Not me. They’ll keep coming for you,” Gideon rumbles, jumping forward so that his shackles rattle. You try not to jump, but you take a half step backwards, trying to escape the sound. “They’ll come for the child. And they’re going to win.”
Something inside you breaks. You stride forward again, glaring down at him. “Not a chance,” you hiss, voice low and angry. “They’ll have to get through me first.”
Gideon curls his lips at you. “The First Order will strike you down or use you for your powers,” Gideon says, evenly, and your eyes slide open a tiny bit as his admission. Until now, you’ve only heard of the threat as the Order, and the addition of the word first pings something intentional. “All Jedi will be exterminated or turned.” You bare your teeth back at him, trying to match his evil smile.
“Yeah?” you say, staring at him, heart doing backflips in your chest, “well, I highly doubt that. Because Luke Skywalker sends his regards.” On that, Gideon’s malicious face turns ashy and grey, and you turn on your heel, rapping on the door for the guard to get out of the holding cell. Bo-Katan calls your name sharply, but you keep moving. Behind you, you hear Din tell her she can keep questioning Gideon, and then you feel the weight of his footfalls down the hall, catching up to you.
“I have to tell Wedge—”
“Nova, slow down—”
You sigh, turning around. “He gave us something in there,” you say, earnestly, looking up at your own reflection in Din’s visor. “The First Order. That’s something specific. That’s a name. I need to call Wedge, and Boba Fett, and tell them what to be on the lookout for. I don’t care how powerful they think they are,” you continue, as you step closer to Din. Your voice almost sounds like it’s pleading, but there’s something volatile and huge building up to a crescendo in your chest, “we’re just as strong, and we can fight back.”
Din stares at you. Even under the visor, you can feel his eyes on yours. “Okay,” he says, finally, “what’s our game plan?”
Your knees sag under you as gratitude and relief spreads through your body. You open your mouth, but then there’s a horrific scream from the holding cell, and immediately, Din turns around and sprints back there. You follow in his footsteps, slower but intentional, heart racing as you fly down the corridor to the holding cell. Somehow, Gideon has overpowered Bo-Katan, his chained wrists both anchored around her throat, tugging her body back with all of his might, trying to choke the life out of her. Immediately, Din runs toward them, but Gideon lands an exceptionally well-placed kick on the still-injured part of his leg, and Din stumbles back, winded. You panic in place, eyes fluttering back and forth between Gideon and Bo-Katan. His are evil, lit with a fire that you know he’s draining out of her. This is the most helpless you’ve ever seen her, this great Mandalorian warrior who could cut anyone down when they were standing. She stares at you, and it takes a half-second, but then the Darksaber is out of its holster on your belt, and the blade ignites, dark and electric. Gideon’s grip lessens, just for a moment, and you move to his side, positioning the humming, electrical current right at his left side, angling it so you can sink it deep into his chest without hurting Bo-Katan at all.
“You’d save her?” Gideon says. He looks like he could kill you with his gaze alone. “She wants to take this planet back from the two of you. She’s double-crossed you both before.”
“I’m not you,” you answer, simply, glancing at Bo-Katan, who looks like she’s seconds away from losing consciousness, and you level the Darksaber at Gideon’s neck instead. “I have something you don’t.”
He releases his grip. Din pulls Bo-Katan out from Gideon’s grasp, and, slowly, you point the blade at his Adam’s apple. Nothing in you is wavering. “What’s that,” Gideon spits at you, glowering. He’s unhinged. You offer him a smile, listening to where Bo-Katan is inhaling raggedy breaths in the corner. You feel Din step forward, and for a second, just for a fleeting moment, it’s you and your Mandalorian.
“Belief,” you say, simply, shrugging your shoulders, relaxing your grip on the saber. “Belief that there are far more people in this galaxy that will fight against evil rather than joining it. Belief that even if the Order does rise, it will inevitably fall the same way that the Empire did. I’m just a rebel girl,” you say, simply, “but I believe that when the First Order comes for me, they’ll be sent packing.” You hold his eye contact, just for a second, and then you straighten up. “I learned from the best. Luke Skywalker would call it hope.”
Gideon stares at you. You stare back. He doesn’t open his mouth, so you sheath the Darksaber, stepping back. There’s something that feels like a dove in your chest. You know this isn’t over. You know that this is just the beginning, that the battles you’ve been fighting all of your life are a precursor to the terror that the First Order could wreak on the galaxy. And you aren’t naïve enough to think that they won’t come after you or the people you love. But you know that you have everyone you need by your side, you know you’re going to marry the love of your life and be reunited with your kid, and you know that whatever the First Order holds, the Alliance has it tenfold. You turn on your heel, letting a small, genuine, tiny, fleeting smile slit across your face, revealed to no one except the heavy door of Gideon’s cell. This is how we win, you think, by fighting them with peace in mind.
But before you can get out of the door, you feel the Darksaber being seized from your belt. You whirl back around, horrorstruck, hands in the air to convey the Force to come forward, but it’s Bo-Katan. You lunge toward her, trying to stop her, but she isn’t trying to steal it out of your grasp. She moves forward, too swiftly for Din or you to stop her, and she ignites the blade, swings with intention, and plunges it through Gideon’s chest.
“What are you doing!” you scream, running towards her as that wicked light fades from Gideon’s eyes, “we could have kept him alive for bargaining—”
“No,” a voice rings out, and you spin around, distressed gaze landing on Din, who was the one who spoke. “No, we couldn’t have. If we took him out of here, Nova,” Din says, staring at Gideon’s freshly skewered body, “he would have escaped or hurt one of us.”
You stare at him. “Was this the plan all along?” you ask, voice wobbling. You look over to Bo-Katan, who’s still struggling to breathe, short red hair sticking out from her normally very neat bob. “Were you just going to kill him?”
“No,” Bo-Katan manages, “but he’s right.” She raises a pale finger to Din. “He gave us what we needed. The more of the members of the First Order are dead,” she says, pausing to wheeze, “the better chance we have of winning.”
You blink at her, shaking your head. You move away from both of them, closer to the open door. “Your sister tried to lead this planet with diplomacy and peace.”
A small smile snakes across Bo-Katan’s face, but you can see the sadness in her eyes. “I,” she sighs, moving towards you, “am not my sister.”
You watch, stunned, as her and Din make their way out the door, and you follow them, wordless, out of the maze of holding cells. The door to the cell Gideon’s being kept in buzzes to indicate when it’s swung closed, and you can’t shake the knowledge that he’s dead in there, that the evil you thought you were fighting for months is finished, but that darkness is nowhere near gone.
None of you have said a thing to each other when you resurface from the labyrinth of holding cells, or when Bo-Katan leads you down a new hallway. You’re drained, and you have no energy even to argue. Slowly, you trod after both of them, and the corridor opens up to a large arena. The seats aren’t filled, but you gape at how large this place is. It seems that the entire population of the planet could fit into this amphitheater alone. Finally, Bo-Katan stops, turning to face Din. “I broke my promise,” she says, finally, and there’s a weight to her voice you haven’t seen before. “I told you I would turn Gideon over to you, not that I would kill him. You have the saber,” she says, eyes glancing briefly off your figure, staring at where the Darksaber had hung from your belt, tossing it back across the air to Din, “it’s yours. I don’t have any grounds for dueling you. You’re the rightful leader of Mandalore.”
Din stares at her. Slowly, he shakes his head at Bo-Katan, taking a step forward. “Fight me for it.”
“I’m saying,” she sighs, and you can hear the exhaustion in her voice, “that I don’t have any reason to duel you. You’re the rightful owner of that thing now, not me. Take it.”
Din throws it across the arena to you. “Fight me for it.”
Bo-Katan looks over at you. You gape, looking back and forth between the two of them. “I can’t.”
“Bo-Katan of the clan Kryze,” Din calls, voice booming and commanding, “as the rightful Mand’alor, I order you to fight me for this Darksaber.”
Bo-Katan looks over at you. You shrug, tossing the saber back through the air to Din. “He ordered you. I don’t think you have a choice.”
“Stop enabling him,” she grumbles, but she steps forward, squares her shoulders, preparing for a fight. You move to the edge of the ring in this giant, stone colosseum, sending a plea to the Maker himself that one of them doesn’t kill the other. They’re strangely on the same side, even after all of that, but you’ve seen how these two Mandalorians interact, and usually, every battle ends with the opposition on the ground.
Bo-Katan lunges. Din sidesteps her, quick and easy. He lets her jab and swipe and punch at him, pull at his beskar, and he just swirls around like they’re in a strange, choreographed dance. He’s good. He’s the best you’ve ever seen, quick and intentional, not pulling a single punch. But Bo-Katan is good, too, and she’s fast and fights with a specific vigor that Din somehow doesn’t match. You hold your bated breath in the hollow of your mouth as you watch the two of them lunge and toss the saber around, trying to knock the other to the dust.
For someone who claimed she had no legal or official standing to become the ruler of Mandalore, Bo-Katan fights like she’s in charge. She’s an expert, and her training outshines even Din’s. Her eyes aren’t even blazing with adrenaline. She’s just fighting like excelling is an extension of her body, like this is what she’s born for. Half of Din’s blows don’t even land on her, and neither of them are speaking or grunting. If you didn’t know better, you’d think they weren’t even breathing, just inhaling and exhaling punches and kicks, like that alone could sustain them.
You lean back against the ring, staring at them. Your hair hangs heavy in the braid it’s fallen out of, and exhaustion starts to leech in from the corners of your eyes, punishment from the sleepless night you had. It seems impossible that hours ago, you were being proposed to again. All of this feels a lifetime away from your real one, the strange, nomadic family unit you had on the Crest with Din and the baby. And you let your heart yearn for Grogu, which you haven’t dared to feel in months. It hurts too much to think about him, to remember that you didn’t even get to say a proper goodbye, that he’s off somewhere else in the galaxy and even if you could find him, you’d be terrified of the danger you might bring him. You uncross your arms over your chest and bring the pads of your fingers down on your shoulders, trying to eradicate some of the ache. Your eyes fall back on Din and Bo-Katan. She has the saber now.
You stare at her, watching her swipe the blade expertly at Din. You don’t know how much you trust her—you have faith that she won’t actively try to kill your Mandalorian—but the way she plunged the saber expertly into Gideon’s heart a few minutes ago is still a blazing image imprinted on the back of your eyelids. She catches the beskar, once, twice. You stand up straighter. You know Din said he’d let her win, but seeing him this much on the offensive is starting, jarring. It’s unlike him. She strikes, again and again, and right when you see him about to admit defeat and topple over, it’s like something ignites inside of him. Swiftly, he twists around, slides through the dusty ground, and lands his boot firmly against the plate of armor covering Bo-Katan’s stomach, knocking the wind out of her, pushing her into the dirt. You feel your eyes widen. Hers do, too. Din’s standing over her, triumphant, the flickering pulse and thrum of the Darksaber safely in his hand.
He hauls her to her feet. You’re expecting to see a bruised ego, to have to step between the two of them to play peacemaker, but there’s this intensity in Bo-Katan’s eyes that isn’t malicious or conniving. Impressed, you register after a few seconds of staring, she’s impressed. Her mouth is pressed in an even thin line, and she looks from the Darksaber to Din. “Told you,” she finally says, and there’s almost no edge to her voice, “it belongs to you.”
For what feels like the first time in this whole battle, Din looks down at the ignited Darksaber in his hand. It’s a wicked weapon, the outline spitting black and white sparks. It’s menacing and it’s scary and it doesn’t match the energy of Mandalore at all.
“Don’t tell me you still don’t want it,” Bo-Katan says, and there’s a spark of disbelief in her voice, “not after all that.”
“I want the weapon,” Din says, finally, his voice faraway. “But I don’t want the responsibility.”
Bo-Katan sighs, agitated. “You—”
“I won’t do it,” he interjects, looking from the blade to her. “Not unless you help me rule.”
You stare at him. Bo-Katan’s eyes bug out, and she furrows her eyebrows in confusion. “That’s not how it works,” she starts, and Din holds out a hand, stopping her.
“I’m Mand’alor now,” Din says, and the word, the regality of it, sounds like it tastes funny in his mouth, “I get to choose how I rule, right? I don’t want to do it without either of you.”
You step forward, looking at him. “D—Mando,” you start, catching yourself just in time, “we have—a war that needs to be won. We have evil all over the galaxy chasing us down. We—” you stop short, inhaling, “I don’t have—I—”
“Mandalore will be our home base,” Din interrupts. “We move the Rebels here, and this is where our hub of operations will be. For the time being, at least, until we fight back against the Order or someone else fights me for the throne. I said we can’t have everything,” he says, and you can feel the weight of his eyes on yours, “but maybe I was wrong.”
You stare at him. “This is a big deal—”
“I gave you my life, Nova, and my word. I’m never leaving you again,” Din interjects, looking back to Bo-Katan, “and I know no one will take my leadership seriously if you aren’t a part of it.”
Bo-Katan’s eyes narrow into slits. “I’m stubborn.”
“We’re going to butt heads ninety percent of the time. More, probably.”
“I know that, too. But I can’t—and won’t—do it without you.”
“Mandalore hates Jedi,” Bo-Katan continues, and you shrink when she looks over at you. “And they’re not the biggest fans of the Alliance. Not me. But most of our planet were purged by people who wielded the Force, and they’re not going to take kindly to her. And, in turn, they’re not going to take kindly to you, either.”
“I don’t,” Din starts, “hear the word no in there anywhere.”
Finally, something lights up as Bo-Katan smiles. “This is going to be hard.”
Din looks over at you, lacing his fingers through yours. You feel warmth spread through your entire body as he’s about to speak. You know exactly what he’s going to say.
“Well,” Din says, pulling you in closer, flicking the Darksaber off and tossing it through the air to Bo-Katan, “good thing we don’t scare easy.”
You’re fully expecting to spend the night on Mandalore back in Kicker, the place where you’ve made your home, and your bed, but Bo-Katan offers you a room at the inn attached to the main building, and sleeping in a real bed—not half-made ones in hostels and Rebel hideouts—is a luxury you can’t refuse. You spend what feels like hours just laying spreadeagled on top of the comforter, trying to take in everything from the last few days. Most of you is still shell-shocked in complete disbelief that you’re here right now, that Din will be ruling a planet, that Gideon is dead, and that you’re nowhere even close to figuring out what the First Order is or what they want with you. Power, maybe. Midichlorians, definitely. But so much of this is completely obscure, so hidden in darkness, and you have the sinking feeling that you’ve only won one tiny battle. The war isn’t here yet. And when it is, it’s going to take everything out of you.
You need to train. You’ve been so preoccupied with being on the run with Din, and just trying to stay alive as you move from place to place, that you haven’t spent enough time practicing your hold on the Force. You’re not sure where Din is—probably finding food for the two of you—so you sit up, looking for anything small and movable enough to practice with. There’s no little metal balls in the room, and your heart seizes with how much you miss the baby, but there’s small glasses next to the small food bay across the room, so you close your eyes, clear your mind, and let everything run out of you.
It should be easier by now. You’ve held Moff Gideon at bay. You’ve knocked down an entire regiment of soldiers. You’ve been able to do the impossible, by sheer energy alone. But there’s something preoccupying the rest of your mind, something pulsing and nebulous and just beyond your grasp, and you don’t know what the roadblock is. It takes almost all of your energy to move the glass across the room, and you sink back against the bed, depleted. You try to chalk it up to exhaustion, fatigue from running yourself ragged all over the galaxy the last few days, and there’s still that awful nagging feeling that you’re forgetting something, that you know what obstacle is in your path, even if you can’t visualize it.
It’s hopeless. You punch a fist into the soft down pillow and immediately settle your head down in the dent you created, letting your hair pool out of your braid and onto the bed. You sigh, watching night descend on Mandalore outside of the window. The planet plunges beautifully into darkness—it’s a slow, steady blueness. There’s nothing sharp about this planet itself, you realize, even though its people are. It’s fighting. Tired, but fighting. And something about that makes your heart ache in recognition in your chest.
There’s still a haunted part of you that needs to decipher the visions you’ve bene having—huge, symbolic clashes that are nearly impossible to figure out. Your visions and premonitions have always been hazy, but they’ve also had discernable elements—Ahsoka’s lightsabers, the expression on Grogu’s face, Din with his beskar staff. The only recent premonition that seems to have a directive is the one of you looking straight into Luke Skywalker’s face when he’s old and grey, his mouth twisted up into one word. Go.
The memory of him alone makes something frenzied catapult to life inside your chest. You push yourself off on the heels of your hands, ignoring the blissful way they gently sink into this mattress, digging through your stuff for your commlink. Hailing Wedge, who’s in the same sector as you are, shouldn’t be that big of a deal, but your commlink is impossible to connect. You curse, loudly, and you grab your blaster and strap the comm back on your wrist, about to run out the door to see if you have any better luck at a connection outside, until you collide straight into a full armor of beskar instead.
“Ow,” you remark, rubbing your forehead. “You know, having the skill of stealth is super useful when it comes to hunting bounties, but when it makes your fiancé run straight into indestructible armor, it’s not the greatest.”
Din sighs, airy and light, resting his hands gently on your shoulders. “Do forgive me,” he rumbles, and something wet and hot inside you ignites, “I couldn’t stand to be away from you a second longer.”
You grin up at him, all the frustration and urgency from the moment before slowly running out of you. “Where were you?” you ask, walking backwards, leading Din towards the big bed that swallows up most of the room. “I was getting worried.”
“Food,” Din says, and then he dumps a bag full of rations on the bed. You watch as he rotates around you, sitting on the bed. “We needed to stock up.”
You stare at him. There are weeks’ worth of food on the bed. “But—” you start, eyes tracking the massive bundle to his visor, “I thought we were staying here? On Mandalore?”
Din cocks his head to the side. “We will be,” he allows, sighing again, “but we still need to meet the rest of the team to fill them in on what we learned. And I have a feeling that Fett dug up more evidence than we did.”
You swallow. “Did you mean it?” you ask, and there’s a wobble in your voice you weren’t intending. “When you said that you’d take the throne, but only if the Alliance was able to operate out of here too?”
Din looks up at you, and then, before you can say anything else, he unlocks his helmet with a hiss, and you’re staring into his beautiful face. You step forward, hungry, trying to soak in every centimeter of it. Lightly, you press just your fingertips against his bare skin, landing between his open legs. For a minute, all you do is stare at each other in the silence.
“Yes,” he says, finally. His voice sounds so much freer out of the modulator. You nod slightly at his affirmation. “I don’t know how long it’s going to take to ensure that this is our main base of operations, but I meant everything I said back there. There’s a war coming,” he continues, and you feel the heaviness of his confirmation, “and I think the only way we’re going to win any part of it is if we work together.”
You smile down at him, strangely emotional. “I thought you liked doing things alone, Mandalorian,” you manage, voice high and breathy.
Din’s eyes flutter from your own and your lips, and you inhale sharply as he stares at you like he’s about to devour you. “Not anymore,” he answers, finally. “You’re proof that it’s so much better to be part of a team.”
Before he can say anything else, you bridge the gap between the two of you and kiss him right on the mouth. Everything in you is rushing and colliding, wet and hot. It feels divine. You’re dying for him. Every time the two of you have had your hands on each other since reuniting, it’s been quick and to the point, trying to inhale the other person longer than a handful of minutes. You sink up against Din as you kiss him, as slowly and worshipfully as you can, feeling his lips melding and parting yours. It’s fully dark, now, and you can make out the identifying features of his face only because you’ve spent so much time cataloguing it. His hooked nose, his plush mouth, his deep, devout brown eyes. You kiss him, and you keep kissing him, as you step closer and closer. He still has all the beskar on, and you don’t rush to yank it off. You press the flesh of your thigh up against his crotch, and you intake a sharp breath as you feel him harden against your touch. You don’t say anything. Neither of you do. You don’t need to, not right now. Your bodies can do the talking for you.
You’re sighing back and forth into each other’s mouths, like you’re kissing for the first time all over again. There’s something that feels ceremonial about this—so real, so far away from desert planets and back alleys and old haunts. This is the kind of love you made back on Naator, the pulsing warmth you shared on Yavin. There’s something more between the both of you, a nebula of energy and passion and knowledge that you’re equals, that you’ve been to hell and back together. As you slowly start removing beskar plates, letting the metal clatter to the floor at your feet, Din tugs at your outfit, removing the trousers he bough from you, his big hands lingering on the curve of your back, thumb pebbling over your tits, coaxing you closer and closer. When you’re both basically undressed—stripped down to everything except your underwear, you sink down on Din’s knee, and he moans into your mouth with the feeling of your slick on his bare leg.
“Stay,” he breathes into the hollow right under your ear, and a shiver of pleasure rockets white hot through your entire body. You obliged as his knee starts thrumming up against you, pressing that sweet vibration right into your clit, and between the intensity of that feeling and the way his mouth is mumbling kisses all the way down the slope of your neck, your orgasm comes quick and fast. You’re loud. Embarrassingly loud, the kind of loud you only ever feel bold enough to let loose when the two of you are alone on a singular starship in the crush of space. You don’t care enough to be ashamed as he keeps pulsing his leg up between your thighs, pulling at your hips to grind yourself down harder and harder on that same spot, your whole body shaking from the glorious impact.
“I’m not—” you choke out, voice laden with pleasure, “—going anywhere.”
Just as intensely as he started, Din’s mouth vacuums off of you, and the absence of his warmth is jarring. You gasp in the dark, feeling his scruff travel down the other side of your face. He stops right up against your ear. You wait with bated breath for him to speak. “Cyar’ika,” he whispers, “that’s my line.”
So quickly that you don’t have a singular breath to inhale before you register the movement, he’s throwing you back against the bed. You let out a gasp, and then you feel his teeth sink in lightly to where your panties are riding high up on your hips. He uses his mouth to pull them all the way off of you, and then he stands over you, staring.
“Open your legs.”
Shaking, you do. “Din—”
He looks up at you. You can barely make it out in the dark, but you know what his eyes on you feels like. You gulp. “This is my apology for not letting you fight your own battles back in Canto Bight,” he says, and then his mouth is between your thighs.
You should probably be used to this feeling by now. He’s an expert, his tongue swirling and flicking out hours of devotion on your clit, but somehow, he gets better every time. You cum again, then again, and then he pushes a finger inside of you, and you can’t even be embarrassed about the sucking, squelch of a sound that your pussy makes to let him in because it feels so fucking good. Then you’re on the edge again, and again, and then he’s pushed you over for the fourth time.
“Let—” you start, raggedly, “stars, Din, let me taste y—you—”
“Not done,” he murmurs from licking out his name between your legs, and you size the top of his soft, dark hair and pull him upwards.
“Didn’t say you had to be,” you breathe, licking a slight layer of your orgasm off his lips, “just that I wanted to even out the score.”
His moan is just as breathy and high as yours usually are, and you scramble off the bed to fall at his feet, wiping off the small bead of precum from the tip, trying your best to maintain eye contact as you take every single inch of him down your throat, not caring about the tears it makes your eyes spring up, and caring even less about the lack of oxygen. You just want him to feel as divine as he always makes you feel, and as his fingers clench in your hair without abandon, you gasp around the force of his cock pounding your mouth into the next universe. “’M close,” he rasps out, and, reluctantly, you pull your mouth free, marveling at how hard and swollen he is for your tongue alone.
“I can keep going—”
“No,” Din interrupts, and then he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, spinning you around so you’re facing away from him, staring at the wall. You have no idea what he’s going to do, so you gasp when he pushes the head up against where you’re soaking, rubbing it up and down your slit, teasing you. Teasing both of you, really, by the moans emitted from his mouth mixed with yours, and when you bounce down to take a few inches, just a little bit, neither of you can control the rhythm. Din takes your hip with one hand, pressing the other flat against the small of your back, and you feel stars explode behind your eyes as his hand comes down to spank against your ass. It’s surprising and raw and when he takes his thumb and lightly drags it down the slit in your ass, you gasp, wet and hot.
“Do you like that?” he whispers, and you toss your hair over one shoulder, nodding vigorously. “Do you want me to play with this?”
Before you do anything but moan, he drags a clean finger through your slick, pushing just the tiniest bit against the hole.
“Fuck—” you manage, and as he wriggles his pinky inside you, you cum again. “Did—did you turn me around so you could do that?”
“Yes,” Din answers, one hand slinking over your shaking legs so he can rub at your clit again. “Moan for me, cyar’ika.” You do. Loudly.
“What?” he murmurs into your ear, “use your words.”
“When you take over the throne,” you gasp, blinded white-hot with desire, “I want you to fuck me like this on it.”
Din stands up. You aren’t expecting the movement, and you gasp as he walks you over to the wall. Before you can say anything else, his mouth is buried in the crook of your neck, telling you he’s about to cum. When he does, the feeling of him squeezing and shaking inside of you is enough to push you over the edge again. Slowly, slicked in sweat, both of you sink to the ground, still entwined, breathing heavily.
It’s so much like your normal position—up against the wall, staring at each other—that you start smiling.
“What?” Din asks, you can tell he’s wearing a grin, too.
“If you can lead just a fraction as good as you are at sex,” you breathe, “you’re going to be the best Mand’alor this planet has ever known.”
You hear him sigh, a tiny indication of a snort, and then his hands are on you, pulling you closer. “I can’t do it without you.”
You touch your fingers to his face, still warm. “Well,” you start, happiness flitting through your voice, “good thing I’m not going anywhere, remember?”
Din, suddenly, just pulls you closer. “Marry me.”
You blink up at him. “That is the plan,” you remind him, gently, and he shakes his head and starts redressing, throwing odd articles of clothing back over at you as he snaps the beskar back into place. “What are you—what are you doing, exactly?”
Din strides over to you, swallowing your face in his hands. “No. Right now Let’s go to the ship and say our vows.”
You stare at him. “I—”
“Do you not want to?”
The anxiousness in his voice nearly splits your heart in two. “Of course I want to,” you say, earnestly, closing the distance between the two of you, “but I—I’m not a Mandalorian. I want a ceremony. Somewhere—important to us. Like Yavin. Or Naator.” Your heart wrenches. “And I really want Grogu there.”
Din looks down at you, thumb stroking over your cheek. “Then we have a ceremony. With whoever you want. But I want to be able to take my mask off and kiss you as my wife, and I don’t think I can wait any longer.”
Your heart flips over. “Just the two of us?” you breathe, blood pumping in your ears.
“Just the two of us,” Din confirms. “No one has to know but us.”
A smile lights up your whole face. “Deal,” you answer, and then you’re being pulled from the inn by your Mandalorian, both of you racing back to the edge of town where Kicker is parked. Giddy, the two of you board, and once you’re in the cockpit, Din pulls off his helmet. You look around the ship for something light to wear in lieu of a vail, and you find a cream-colored shawl that you drape around your head.
“I love you,” you murmur to Din, staring up at him, taking in every inch of his face. “Ni kar’tayl su.”
“Darasuum,” he agrees. “I’m—I’m going to say my vows in Mando’a. You can, too, or you can say whatever you want.” He inhales, sharply, finger tracing a pattern over your cheek. “Mhi solus tome, mhi solus dar'tome, mhi me'dinui an, mhi ba'juri verde, Novalise.”
Your heart turns over in your chest. “What—what does it mean?” Your heart is beating so fast.
“We are one whether together or apart,” Din recites, sounding dazed. “We will share everything. We will raise our children as warriors.”
“We are one,” you echo, softly. “We do share everything. But I think our child is plenty good at being a warrior on his own.”
Din lets out a laugh. A real one, unencumbered and free. “You have a point.”
“I love you,” you whisper again. “You’re the other half of my soul. You make me quiet when it’s loud; you make me bright when it’s dark. There is no other person I would rather fight this battle with.” You inhale, breath shuddering. “I know you. For an eternity, I’ll know you. And I’ll love you even longer.” You pulse up on your tiptoes, staring deep into his eyes. “This is only the beginning.”
Din cups both sides of your face with his big hands. “It better be,” he agrees, pulling your makeshift veil away from your head, “considering we have forever.”
You beam back at him, step one foot forward, and meet his mouth in the middle. The two of you kiss, in silence, in love, for what feels like an eternity. Only when your commlink starts bleeping do you break apart.
Your eyes find Din’s. He nods. “Hello?” you manage, voice an octave higher than normal.
“Rebel girl,” Wedge’s voice floats through. The both of you sigh, relieved. “I’ve been trying to reach you for over a day.”
“Bad signal,” you say, glancing back at Din’s. “We were—uh, preoccupied. With Gideon. We’re on Mandalore. It’s a long story—”
“Nova,” Wedge interrupts, “I heard from Luke again.”
Your heart accelerates, then floats down to nothing. “What did he say?” you manage, breathily, voice quavering.
“He said,” Wedge sighs, “that you keep showing up in his visions. He wants to talk to you. No,” Wedge adjusts, “he needs to talk to you.”
You turn away from Din, pressing the comm against your mouth, bracing yourself against Kicker’s sturdy wall. “About what?”
“Something called the First Order,” Wedge says, and you whirl back around, making eye contact with Din. “And—and he said your kid wants to see you.”
Din grabs at your wrist. “Is he okay?”
“They’re both fine,” Wedge says, “but—uh, he gave me—a way to reach him. You can send him a hologram. I would do it now. Whatever he else he wants, I think he needs it soon. Did you—did you say that you interrogated Gideon?”
“Long story,” you mumble, brushing your hair impatiently out of your mind. “I’ll explain everything after I send a hologram to Luke.”
“Call me back,” Wedge agrees, and then he’s gone, with the address of where to send Luke Skywalker a hologram bleeping on your comm. Shakily, you inhale, and Din stands behind you. You project your two figures into your commlink, silhouettes blue and faded.
“General Skywalker,” you whisper, and then stronger, “My name is Novalise Djarin.” You inhale, exhale, looking straight into the light. “I hear I have something you want.”
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I HOPE YOU LOVED IT!!!!!! it's with such a bittersweet heart that i'm writing this message to all of you. it truly has been the joy of my entire year to write this story for myself, and then for all of you! we have one more chapter left (don't worry, it's going to be PACKED and likely extra long), and i cannot wait to share it all with you.
the sequel is coming! i promise! i might need a few weeks to prep and get all my thoughts in order, but i am so stoked to let this baby bird of a story fly free and start working on the next one. i've decided that i'm going to write it in third person, with Nova as her own character, so for all of you who typically enjoy OCs/third person POVs, this one is for you! it means the absolute world to me that you all care about Something More (and have come to love Nova) so much. SM started as something for me to write for my own sake, and when i decided to share it, it changed my whole life. i consider each and every one of you my friends, and i am so, so lucky to have shared this journey with you!!!
more details will come of course on tumblr (amiedala) and tiktok (padmeamydala) about the sequel and what the last chapter of SM is going to entail. i've also been brainstorming ideas for a new series of novels, so if you're interested in my writing outside of SM, i'll eventually post about that on tumblr and tiktok too!
CHAPTER THIRTY (the grand finale) WILL BE UP AT 7:30 PM EST SATURDAY, JULY 17TH!!! sending so much love to you all, let's do this fabulous thing one more time!
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“little garden” implications
starting to think that “little garden” = fandom elain and this was sjm’s way of subtly tackling how she has been reduced to her hobbies and overlooked by characters & the fandom for her traditionally feminine characteristics. this has even led some people to determine her possible endgames (ex; lucien and tamlin) for the series just because she likes gardening. not because she has expressed interest in them, but because she likes gardening so that automatically means she must end up with someone associated with flowers.
im not opposed to elain somehow taking over spring court or ending up with lucien (if the story convinces me lmao) but there’s an issue with sticking her there just because it seems like it works. like elain residing at spring court has been a popular fan theory since the beginning of the series but every book that has been released only seems to disprove it even more? she has never explicitly said she wanted to live there, even chosen a life for herself at night court, but fans and the inner circle just took this idea and ran.
“But Elain.... The Sprint Court had been made for someone like her.” (Nesta)
“Elain in black was ridiculous. Yes, she was beautiful, but the color of her long-sleeved, modest gown leeched the brightness from her face. It wore her, rather than the other way around. And he knew the cruelty of the Hewn City troubled her. But she hadn’t hesitated to come. When Feyre had offered to let her remain home, Elain had squared her shoulders and declared that she was a part of this court—and would do whatever was needed. So Elain had let her golden-brown hair down tonight, and pinned it back with twin combs of pearl. He’d never once in the two years he’d known her found Elain to be plain, but wearing black, no matter how much she claimed to be part of this court … It sucked the life from her.” (Cassian)
i’d say that it’s arguable whether or not nesta truly has an accurate depiction of elain now that we have a more in-depth portrait of nesta’s mind and childhood. of course this was not cultivated by nesta herself, with much help from her mother, but elain is still a child to nesta. a child who is a bartering tool between her and her disfigured dynamic with feyre. a child who is a reminder of her own insecurities. essentially, this quote from acosf sums it up, “nesta made her own choices, but our mother laid the ground work.”
“Elain is pleasant to look at, but she has no ambition. She does not dream beyond her garden and pretty clothes. She will be an asset on the marriage market for us one day, if that beauty holds, but it will be our own maneuverings, Nesta, not hers, that win us an advantageous match” (Mama Archeron)
“It doesn’t matter what I think. Go back to Feyre and your little garden.”
Elain, sweet and oblivious.
Elain was like a dog, loyal to whatever master kept her fed and in comfort.
But to let Elain involve herself, jeopardize her safety—
“Look who decided to grow claws after all. Maybe you’ll become interesting at last, Elain.”
“Always defending sweet, innocent Elain.”
Challenge filled each word. Challenge—from Elain, of all people.
Elain stepped closer, brown eyes wide. Undoubtedly wholly convinced of her own innocence, her innate goodness.
Elain had accepted his death as inevitable. She hadn’t bothered to fight for him, as if he hadn’t been worth the effort, precisely as Nesta knew she herself wasn’t worth the effort.
It was inevitable, Nesta supposed, stomach churning. She was the monster. Why shouldn’t the two of them band together and shove her out? Even if she’d foolishly believed that Elain had always seen every horrible part of her and decided to stick by her anyway.
now onto feyre, who has always had a softer but different opinion of elain. this doesn’t mean it’s accurate to how elain is or was, but it’s safe to say that this was an opinion that wasn’t stemmed out of their mother’s mind. this is not to villainize nesta, but merely explain how elain was never made out to only be a “pretty face” to feyre. but of course it’s important to remember that she isn’t scotch free for how she acted in their childhood.
It wasn’t that Elain was cruel. She wasn’t like Nesta, who had been born with a sneer on her face. Elain sometimes just … didn’t grasp things. It wasn’t meanness that kept her from offering to help; it simply never occurred to her that she might be capable of getting her hands dirty.
Perhaps buried it a bit, but she was generous, loving, and kind—a woman I found myself proud to know, to call sister.
Elain mouthed my name but kept cowering, kept her head down.
Elain, who had been gentle and sweet.
I had not painted in years at that point, had not dared spend the money on myself … But Elain had.
She had looked at that cottage with hope; I had looked at it with nothing but hatred. And I knew which one of us had been stronger.
“She loves her garden. Always loved growing things. Even when we were destitute, she managed to tend a little garden in the warmer months. And when—when our fortune returned, she took to tending and planting the most beautiful gardens you’ve ever seen. Even in Prythian. It drove the servants mad, because they were supposed to do the work and ladies were only meant to clip a rose here and there, but Elain would put on a hat and gloves and kneel in the dirt, weeding. She acted like a purebred lady in every regard but that.”
nesta and feyre both have two different feelings regarding elain but they are similar in that they both believe she needs to be protected. it’s pretty clear when elain reminds them of how they only thought of her trauma when it affected them.
“Elain was right. We’ve become so focused on how her trauma impacted us that we forget she was the one who experienced it.” (Feyre)
quite honestly, it’s the inner circle members who are aware of elain’s potential and look at her as not defenseless compared to her sisters. this of course makes it’s quite ironic that she’s used as “pawn” to get nesta to stick her neck out. moving on, it’s specifically azriel, who is someone she chose to create a bond with and probably knows her best. cassian also may be someone who considers elain to not truly belong to night court but does shift his opinion on her overall character.
“Including Elain, who is more than capable of defending herself against the darkness of the Trove, if she chooses to. Don’t underestimate her.” (Amren, oops)
“Nesta was wrong, Cassian realized, to think of Elain as loyal and loving as a dog. Elain saw every single thing Nesta had done, and understood why.” (Cassian)
“I think she’s kind, and I’ll take kindness over nastiness any day. But I also don’t think we’ve seen all she has to offer.” (Rhys)
rhysand is also someone who slowly begins to see elain in a different light as well as feyre by the end of the book. in fact, it takes rhys expressing his opinion of elain, as someone who didn’t grow up with her, for feyre to see things differently. it takes rhys, who brings back up the first description of elain in the series, for feyre to recollect another element of elain.
“It wasn’t meanness that kept her from offering to help; it simply never occurred to her that she might be capable of getting her hands dirty.” (Feyre, ACOTAR)
“Don’t forget that gardening often results in something pretty, but it involves getting one’s hands dirty along the way.” (Rhys, ACOSF Bonus)
“Have you ever seen Elain act like that before?”
“No. I mean, she’s been brave when she had to be, but she’s never been confrontational.”
“Maybe she’s never been given a chance to be that way.”
“You think I stifle her?”
“Not you alone. But I wonder if everyone has spent so long assuming Elain is sweet and innocent that she felt she had to be that way or else she’d disappoint you all.”
in conclusion, elain is a character who’s journey is yet to be complete. the first real choice she had was to not hunt for the family but essentially, she’s been deprived of real choice and independence her entire life. besides being pretty and marrying well, not much has ever been expected of her until she left the garden of her childhood and planted her own. while she may have been turned against her will, elain found solace in dedicating her attention towards the garden in the archeron mansion, night court and all those who resided there. gardening and growing things is something she chose; not something that was inflicted upon her (such as a mating bond.)
elain does not belong somewhere or with someone because she gardens. we have seen countless times over that she can make her own place anywhere but she chose to make a home at night court.
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So Much Like Stars - Part TWO
Pairing: Boba Fett x Female Reader
Part TWO (Read Part One HERE)
Rating: Explicit (18+ ONLY)
Summary: During a trek through the mountains, you discover new things about both Boba and yourself.
Warnings: Explicit sex, p-in-v sex, hand feeding, breathplay, choking kink, power dynamics/power play, royalty kink (?), dom/sub dynamics, pool sex (kinda you'll see), unprotected sex, coming inside (do not do this in real life), age difference, dirty talk, spit kink, offscreen oral sex, AFAB reader, safe to read if triggered by pregnancy
Word Count: 10k+
A/N: Major apologies in order for the delay on this one! It's been up on AO3 (here) for a hot minute but it took me a bit longer to get around to posting it here. Anywho... here it is. Let me know what you think! I love to get reblogs/comments/messages so very much. As always, no use of Y/N, and please heed the warnings. <3
The early hours of the following day fly by like ash in the wind.
You and Boba leave as soon as you are able, gathering necessary supplies into packs and preparing for the grueling trek ahead of you. You notify your father of your departure - he is not happy about it, but he learned long ago that he has little sway over the decisions you make.
You also find Boba a cloak that fits over his armor and that doesn't hinder his ability to reach his weapons. It's thick around his neck, which is why you'd insisted he wear it.
He'd stopped complaining once you were about a kilometer out from the village gate.
The howling wind swirls around the two of you, snow and ice collecting on your clothes. The journey is not an easy one, but with Boba's natural strength and your knowledge of the terrain the two of you handle it better than most.
Boba's steps are always audible behind you, even when the air around you seems to be screaming. You appreciate his closeness, because far too often people have been lost and never found because they fell too far behind.
It's easy to become lost in a place like this. Being found tends to be a matter of life and death.
The sheer cliff faces and shifting dunes of snow present the most hazardous challenges on your journey. One single misstep could have either of you tumbling down, and as you walk you only gain elevation, increasing the distance between you and the ground below. It's terrain that you've traversed plenty of times, but you don't know how well-suited Boba is to such harsh elements.
You glance back at your companion when you come to a turn, sheltered from the biting wind and driving snow.
"Faring alright back there?" You have to yell to be heard, but Boba nods.
"I'm doing just fine, princess. Seen worse than this."
You raise your brows, even though he can't see your face through your mask. "If you say so. We'll be on this trail for the rest of today and most of tomorrow. Then we'll turn off and find the source."
There is, of course, the risk of encountering an ongrol. The idea of it looms over your journey like a dark cloud, and you keep alert to any shift in the wind or in the landscape ahead. The constant drone of air around you would typically mask the sound of any movement, but your ears have become attuned to listening for things outside the wind. Footsteps, especially those of a creature larger than yourself, will be obvious. The ongrol are not known for their stealth - if they want to attack, they'll do it with a thunderous leap and a swipe of razor-sharp claws.
You'd been telling the truth when you told Boba it was rare to escape an encounter with one alive. Boba had shown you the fire-blaster on his arm, and the two of you have no shortage of weapons, but still you worry. You keep alert, listening to the world around you.
Though your focus has a tight hold on your mind, you can't help but let your thoughts wander to Boba, and to the events of the previous night.
In all your life, you've never met a man quite like Boba.
Not only did he sense your needs intrinsically, it seemed as though he saw right through you the moment he laid eyes on you. You recall seeing his visor tilt toward you in the meeting room; you hadn't known it then, but now you can imagine what he'd been thinking. Boba saw your presence at that table and immediately knew what kind of girl you are.
It doesn't speak well to your sensibilities as a village leader, if you're being honest with yourself. This is the first foreigner to visit your people, and you let him into your home, between your legs? You suddenly feel rather guilty about it, but a small voice in your head reminds you how good it felt.
How good he felt.
Maker above. Nothing in your life could ever compare to the things he made you feel last night. Armor against skin - ice against fire, rough edges against smooth curves. The smell of him in your nose as he pleasured you, unkempt and raw. The splay of his hands on your hips as he took, and took, and gave you so much in return.
Boba knew exactly how to take you apart. And you'd only met him that day.
You didn't delude yourself into believing this could continue. He does not belong here, and you certainly can't leave. Above all else, your people need you, and to leave the planet would be to abandon them.
You steel your heart into acceptance. You'll enjoy Boba's company for as long as he's here, and then things will return to normal. You'll figure out how to hide the kyber and no one will bother you. Your people will live on in peace.
Whether you will ever find peace after knowing what it is to be with Boba Fett is another matter entirely. But you can't dwell on that, or you might decide to do something drastic.
You let that thought slip from your brain quickly, replacing it with memories of last night. Despite yourself, you smile beneath your mask, surely blushing as well. Though your steps forward are certain and sure, your center heats up at the thought of his hand around your throat, of his thick cock moving wickedly inside you.
From the depths of your mind float up a few words he'd said, a phrase you'd forgotten until just now.
Come for your king.
Odd, his choice of wording. It sends a shiver down your spine, but then you give it a moment of thought. Surely he didn't mean king in the context of you, of your village - that wouldn't make any sense. But then again, he couldn't mean --
You furrow your brow. Yes, it was the heat of the moment, but he still said it.
There's a possibility of something more there, something much more than just a bounty hunter in search of a handful of credits and some relief for the night. You remember how he'd asked if you knew his name, like he'd expected you to.
Do you know the name Boba Fett, princess?
Boba Fett. No, you have no knowledge of that name outside the armored man trekking behind you.
Who is he?
You frown, but decide to keep your questions to yourself for now. You're nothing if not careful - keeping your cards close to your chest is a skill you've more than mastered.
Boba Fett, no matter who he is, will be none the wiser to your doubts.
That night, once darkness begins to envelop the air around you, you lead Boba to a small, secluded, empty cave safe from the cold wind. There's a dark scorch mark on the ground, evidence of a past campfire.
"I've used this cave a number of times," you explain as you take off your pack, setting it on the ground with a groan. The weight on your shoulders never gets lighter. "The cold shouldn't reach us here, especially once we get a fire going."
Boba hums, unrolling his bedroll, which is a collection of mats and blankets identical to yours. "I know a few other ways we could stay warm, princess."
You look over at him. His back is turned to you, large and imposing in the dim light.
"Do you?" you ask, light with a hint of a sly smile in your voice. You lean your staff against the cave wall and crouch to begin extracting your own bedroll.
Behind you, you hear a gruff chuckle. The deep, rumbling sound of it makes your breath hitch. Boba Fett may be an enigma to you, but that doesn't mean you feel any less strongly for him now than you did last night.
In fact, the close quarters of this cave mean his words are more than just teasing.
You turn and spread your bedroll out beside the spot where you'll set up the fire, and you see that Boba has set his up so that it's perpendicular to yours, the corners overlapping.
Next you take out the meat and bread you brought along, as well as flint, some firestarter, and a few bricks of coal that will burn through the night. You prop yourself on your knees to get the fire started, and once the flames have sprung to life, you lean forward to set up the small spit to cook your meal.
You're just arranging the cut of meat on the metal spike when you feel movement behind you. The fire beneath you is searing, so hot that when you feel hands on your hips, you lean back into them to escape the heat.
Boba's hands grip your hips tighter and you yelp as he drags you backwards. His fingers land on your thigh, grasping at and arranging you until your back is flush with his chest. Your legs are tucked in between his, which are spread out in front of the two of you.
You look up at him. You're seated in his lap, but the layers of clothes and metal between you prevent you from feeling anything distinct.
He reaches a hand up to tug at your face mask.
"Let me see you," he murmurs.
You let him remove the cloth covering your mouth and nose, and then he slides your goggles off of your face. You're sure you've got marks around your eyes from wearing them for so long, but Boba doesn't seem to mind.
In return, you place your hands on the bottom of his helmet, fingers curling under. He allows you to press the small latch beneath your index finger and slide his helmet off, the warmth of his breath ghosting across your face as soon as you can see his mouth.
You lift Boba's helmet all the way off and set it to the side. He puts a hand on your waist, firm and grounding, fingers curled tightly into your ribs.
"I've been many places in my time, but I admit I've never met anyone quite like you, little one."
His words are smooth as silk, soft and tender in your ear. You smile and raise your brows, glancing from his eyes to his lips and back again.
"Surely you've met more than a few pretty girls in your travels," you reply.
Boba scoffs. His grip on your thigh tightens, pulling you close.
"I have. You…" he shakes his head, and you watch as his gazes slips down to land on your mouth. You bite your lip and your heart races at the way his pupils dilate at the sight of it.
"You're different, sweetheart."
The new pet name makes you shiver, subconsciously pressing closer to him. "Is that right? I can hardly believe I'm much different from anyone else."
You're baiting him, goading him into saying something more. You've never been one for compliments - they've always felt forced, almost disingenuous. Not with Boba.
"The girls I've known either want my head on a pike or can't look me in the eye," he tells you. You chuckle softly - you don't blame them.
"Is that 'cause you'll shoot them if they do?"
Boba grunts and pinches your side, making you squeal. You laugh, full-bodied and silly, at your own joke, spurred on by Boba's tickling.
He leans down, large body curling over you. Your giggles peter out as his lips press against your ear.
"What if I said yes, little one?"
You blink. Slowly, you turn to face him, so close that your noses are brushing.
"If you said yes?" you whisper into the air between your lips.
You take a moment to study the scars on his face before grinning, soft and lazy. Your hand, resting on his knee, gives a gentle squeeze.
"Then I'd tell you there's more than a few men in that village who can't look me in the eye."
Your words seem to take Boba by surprise for a moment, from the way his eyebrows bounce up. It's true - when you were younger, boys in the village would try things, stupid dares and pranks you took none too lightly. There's one in particular who, if he looked at you funny, would get a blaster shot to the knee thanks to the shit he's pulled in the past.
They've learned their lessons.
"Is that so?" Boba's voice has gotten slightly deeper. It rolls through you like thunder, filling the small cave with its resonance.
You nod, a smirk playing at the edges of your lips.
His eyes flit down, gaze following the subtle movement of your mouth. It's too much - the closeness, the heat of the fire and of his body and of the way he's looking at you. You bring your hand up to rest on his shoulder, gripping his armor.
And you kiss him.
You press your lips against his, open and pliant, unable to save yourself from how much you want him. Boba groans and returns the kiss, tongue sweeping into your open mouth, licking into you like he's a man starved and you're his next meal. You savor the taste of him, because you can't pinpoint exactly what the flavor on his tongue is, and you know that must mean it's something uniquely Boba.
He shifts his hands to rearrange you, placing your legs on either side of his own so you're straddling him. Your palms come up to rest on his neck and jaw as his land on your hips, pulling you down so you're sitting right on his codpiece. You gasp at the feeling of it through your clothes. Boba bites at your bottom lip, pulling it between his teeth, before releasing you.
You open your eyes, not having realized you'd closed them. Boba is staring at you, but you can't read the look in his eye.
"What?" you murmur, searching his expression for any hint of what he might be thinking.
He hums, hand on your hip flexing, squeezing. "Nothing, sweetheart, just…"
You wait for him to finish his thought. His brows furrow ever so slightly as he looks back at you. Behind you, the meat sizzles from the heat of the fire, filling the space with its aromatic scent.
Boba shakes his head. "Nevermind."
Before you can respond, he presses forward to kiss you again. You want to encourage him to share what he was going to say, but it only takes a swipe of his tongue against your own to have your eyelids fluttering shut and your thoughts quieting.
He kisses you like the sun - hot and insistent, reminding you how fleeting it all is. You've only ever seen the sun a few times in your life, but its brightness seared your mind in a way not dissimilar to the way Boba's laying his mark on your heart.
You let him kiss you deeply, unhurried, until your brain clicks on long enough to remind you that there's food cooking behind you.
You extract yourself from Boba's hold, which makes him grunt in displeasure until he sees what you're doing. In your pack there's a plate and a cloth, both of which you retrieve and bring back to the fire. Carefully you take the meat off of the spit and put it on the plate, along with the bread.
Boba watches, legs still spread as he sits, leaning back on his hands. You take the plate and sit between his thighs again.
You make to tear a piece of the tender meat off, but you feel a hand on your arm, preventing you from doing so. Confused, you look up at Boba, who simply rips off his own bit of meat. But instead of bringing it to his lips, he raises it to yours.
Wordlessly, you lock eyes with him and open your mouth. His stare is hot, intense, as he feeds you, your lips closing around his index finger and thumb, tongue licking the excess juices off his skin. You take a moment longer than is strictly necessary to taste the pads of his fingers, hollowing your cheeks and sucking his digits like you might something else of his.
You chew the meat once he's pulled his fingers from your mouth. He watches intently until you've swallowed, and then he takes a piece for himself.
As he eats, you find yourself full to the brim with curiosity about him. Once he's finished with his bite, you ask the first question you can think of.
"Last night you mentioned your father. I'd like to hear about him."
Boba raises his brows. He tears off another chunk of meat, offers it to you, and you take it. He speaks as you chew.
"His name was Jango. I -" he seems to consider his words, eyes darting down to the ground as he thinks "- he wasn't technically my father, but he raised me as his son. I traveled with him as a boy, until he was killed by a Jedi."
You frown. "What's that?”
Boba looks at you funny, tilting his head. "You've never heard of the Jedi?"
You shake your head no. "Are they human?"
"Some are," he explains. "They're Force-users, claiming to fight for peace and justice in the galaxy."
His voice is bitter, but you don't blame him, if what he says is true. "But they killed your father."
Boba nods. "They will tell you they fight for what's good and right. But they are no worse than those they call enemies."
"Who are their enemies?"
"The Empire. Dark users of the Force." Boba studies you as you take in this information. You've heard of the Empire, and the Republic, but clearly some information was omitted from your village's records.
"And the Force is…?"
Boba shifts, grabbing some more meat for himself, which he eats before replying.
"I've never fully understood it myself, but from what I gather it's an energy present in all things. The Jedi and the Sith can manipulate it to their will."
You have so many questions, but you know asking them will only make you more confused. Energy in all things? That sounds… well, it sounds overwhelming, to be truthful. It sounds like magic, which your father always told you was the stuff of fairy-stories.
Boba feeds you another morsel and you eat, thinking.
"Can they 'manipulate' blaster fire?" you ask once you've swallowed.
"I don't think so. They tend to deflect it with their lightsabers, which are swords powered by kyber, coincidentally."
You wrinkle your nose. "Swords? I'd take a well-timed blaster shot over a sword any day."
Boba laughs, hearty and full. He wraps an arm around your shoulders and pulls you close, pressing his lips to your temple.
"That's my girl," he mutters. His words send a shiver down your spine.
Boba continues to feed you as he tells you about his father and his own travels. You learn about his time on Kamino, where Jango's DNA was made into clones, and that Boba himself is an unaltered clone of his father. You learn about Obi-Wan Kenobi and Anakin Skywalker, legendary Jedi who proved difficult for both Boba and Jango at various points through the years. He tells you about meeting Fennec Shand on Tatooine and about another companion of theirs, a man who just goes by the name Mando.
He doesn't tell you about the scars, so you don't ask.
When you're falling asleep, eyes drifting closed as your head rests on Boba's chest, you wonder at the life Boba Fett's led, how such excitement and pain ultimately finds him here, holding you close.
All you've ever known is this planet, your people. Perhaps the universe, in its vast, unknowable expanse, is really here beneath you, in Boba's stories and his scars. You think maybe it's okay that you aren't meant for more than your cold village, because at least you can travel through the galaxy just by listening to him.
At least you can know the taste of the stars just by kissing him.
The next morning is decidedly less relaxed than last night. You and Boba pack up hastily and you're on the trail when the first light of the morning is just beginning to show.
Hours pass in much the same way that they did yesterday. Snow and wind beat at you, but you press on until you reach the area you're no longer entirely familiar with.
You see the map in your mind's eye as you lead Boba across the rocky terrain. You're sure of your path, even though it's beyond any place you've been to previously. Somehow you just know, like the trail is programmed into your feet. Everything seems normal until the wind shifts and you catch the sound of something else on the air.
Throwing an arm out, fist closed, you immediately come to a halt, and Boba follows suit.
You're in an open expanse of snow and ice, still trekking upwards, but now a good distance away from any sheer cliff faces. You tighten your grip on your staff and listen, ears drowning out the howling wind to pick out the other you'd just sensed.
Something's ahead of you. Something large. You can hear the shifting of its weight, the silence of the space it takes up.
You glance back to Boba and nod. Carefully, quietly, he walks up to stand next to you.
"Up ahead," you tell him, voice as low as possible so as to not be heard by anyone - or anything - other than him. "Something big. It has to be -"
Your mouth snaps shut when you see it. Up ahead, a pair of glowing blue eyes emerge like beacons out of the fog, looming over you even before you can see the rest of its body. The ongrol moves forward, massive steps fading in and shaking the ground under your feet. You clench your jaw and ready yourself for what you know is coming.
You look over at Boba, and when the visor turns to face you, an unspoken agreement passes between the two of you, perfectly clear despite lack of words and facial expressions.
The ongrol doesn't allow you a moment longer, though. Its massive form is now visible through the driving snow - white fur with glowing blue stripes, pointed ears with long, flowing tips, and massive fangs.
You draw your blaster.
The moment it senses the two of you, it looks down and roars. Immediately it's charging forward and you fire off a volley of shots, though they don't seem to do a whole lot of good. Boba's hand comes down like durasteel on your arm and he jerks you back, positioning himself between you and the monster. He aims his fire-blaster at it, hosing it down with a torrent of flame. The ongrol yelps, then snarls, and you watch as it raises its massive paw, claws extended, piercing blue gaze zeroed in on Boba.
In that split second there's a feeling that comes over you, a gut instinct that pours over your body like warm water. It fills your skin, your nerves, your bones, so fully that your mind goes quiet in the wake of your body taking control.
As if you'd done it a thousand times before, you plant your feet and thrust your hand towards the beast, palm open. A feeling like electricity surges through you - not painful, but equally powerful and all-consuming.
The ongrol flies away, launched through the air, as if pulled by some invisible force.
Its cries echo against the mountainside as it falls, tumbling and rolling down a cliff face you can't quite see.
Boba whirls around to look at you, and the last thing you see is his visor coming closer as you collapse and the world goes dark.
The first thing you notice when you wake up is the warmth surrounding you. It's everywhere, like you're lying in front of a fire, and your immediate instinct is to turn over and fall back asleep. Your tired brain wants nothing more than to bask in the heat and enjoy it for as long as it will last.
But then your eyes flutter behind their lids, and you catch glimpses of something glowing, bluish-green in a way you've never before experienced. With considerable effort, you open your eyes wide, and the sight before you brings your mind to full awareness. You struggle to tuck an arm under yourself and push up slightly, getting a better view of where you are.
You're lying atop your bedroll, your staff on the ground next to you. Immediately in front of you is a pool of water, still and steaming, that glows a bright, shimmering combination of blues and greens. No, wait… the water itself isn't glowing - rather, it's reflecting light from the walls.
Walls lined with crystals.
You still feel exhausted, despite having just woken up, but the sight of the kyber makes you jolt to a sitting position. Your head swims, dizzy and drained.
From behind you, you hear Boba's voice.
"Woah there," he murmurs, a hand coming to rest gently on your shoulder. You squeeze your eyes shut to block out the rocking motion of the world around you.
When you open your eyes again, Boba's sitting to your left, facing you.
"What happened?" you ask, your memory of the events of this morning still foggy and distant.
Boba hums. "Well, you tossed that cat across a mountain with your mind."
You frown and look up at him incredulously. His helmet's off - in fact, he's also taken off the rest of his armor as well as the top half of his flight suit - he's left in his pants, undershirt, and boots.
His arms are bare. It's the most of him you've seen - his biceps bulge, large chest straining against the tight shirt he wears.
Your thoughts circle back to what he just said.
"Run that by me again," you mutter, searching his face for any hint of a lie. Boba blinks, raises a brow, and stares back, keeping the eye contact.
"You used the Force to kill that lion, princess."
His face is stone-straight. He's not lying to you, not that you can tell.
You groan, squeezing your eyes shut and rubbing the heels of your hands across them roughly. Stars erupt on the back of your eyelids, and for a moment, your nausea abates. It comes back to you in flashes - the creature's eyes, the sound of its roars on the wind, the feeling that overcame you when you watched it raise its deadly claws at Boba.
It's nothing you've ever felt before in your life.
"So…" you pause, trying to sort through the situation. "So - does this mean… how is that possible?"
Boba puts a hand on your calf, firm and grounding. "You want my theory?"
Hands still pressed to your eyes, you nod.
"The water. It's infused with kyber, which is what has healed your people, but it must have also awoken a Force-sensitivity in you."
You take a few deep breaths, the exhaustion and nausea slowly leaving your body with each exhalation. Boba's thumb rubs your skin softly, a simple back-and-forth motion that brings your racing mind back down into your head.
Carefully, you take your hands from your eyes. The world has finally stopped spinning. You look over at the pool to your right, into its calm, tranquil waters. Steam rises from its surface and dissipates before it can reach the cavernous ceiling above you. Kyber dots the walls, green and blue all around you, mesmerizing and radiant.
Sweat is beginning to gather under your eyes and on the back of your neck and between your breasts. You belatedly realize Boba has undressed you to your undergarments, so you sit there in little more than your underwear and a sleeveless top.
You stare at your hands, fidgeting between your thighs, and look up at Boba again. A million questions are floating through your mind, but you're not sure he'll be able or willing to answer them all. You bite your lip, brow furrowed.
"Does this mean I'm a Jedi?" It's the most pressing question on your mind, because if what Boba says is true, you're not so sure you want any part in your newfound gifts.
Boba shakes his head. "No, little one. All Jedi are force-users, but not all force-users are Jedi. Or Sith, for that matter."
In your lap, you turn your hands so your palms are facing up, cradling one another. Nothing has changed about them - still the same jagged patterns of lines as always. Still the same, but with this new… sensitivity, they feel foreign.
The Force feels like a new limb, a new sense that's now made your body a stranger to your mind.
"What do you remember from yesterday?" Boba asks, rough voice a soothing balm to your racing heart.
You tilt your head, trying to gather your memories together. "I remember walking up the mountain, and then there was the ongrol. I tried to shoot it, but that didn't work, and then you pushed me behind you. You threw your fire at it, and then it -"
Suddenly, you feel yourself getting choked up. It washes over you like a gust of cool air, returning to the emotion you felt in that moment on the mountainside. You blink a few times, swallowing down your panic and fear at the thought of it.
"And then it raised its paw, and I thought you were going to die."
Boba says nothing, just waits and lets you continue.
"All of a sudden this feeling came over me, like an instinct, and then there was this… this buzz that I felt. I just did it. I don't know how I knew how to."
Boba nods. He's looking at you with an expression you can't quite place, soft and severe all at the same time. It makes you shiver despite the heat that surrounds you.
You avert your eyes, instead focusing on his hand where it lay on your leg. His fingers nearly encircle your calf. You reach out and take his hand in yours, drawing it close to you, running the tips of your fingers over his knuckles, his wrist, the silvery scars that interrupt his tan skin.
"From what I understand," Boba murmurs, curling his fingers into yours ever so slightly, "it's supposed to take years of training for a Force-user to wield that sort of power, princess."
You glance up at him. He's smiling at you now, dark eyes sparkling.
Something about his expression, combined with what he just said, hooks into your brain and sours the taste on your tongue. You recall your doubts from earlier, doubts about who he is. Why would it matter if you - a village girl from a desolate snow planet - have more of a gift than most? Why would he care?
Your immediate reaction is that he's flattering you, like he did the other night in front of the fire. For some reason, your instinct tells you this is different, that he's got motives beyond those he's revealed to you.
Instinct has proven to be on your side lately, so you follow it headfirst.
"Why did you call yourself a king?"
Boba's smile vanishes, and the tension between you grows tenfold.
You grasp his hand firmly. Your faces seem so much closer now.
"What?" he asks, even though you know he heard you perfectly well. You narrow your eyes, not liking whatever game he's playing at. Boba Fett doesn't seem to be the type to play dumb, and you're certainly not the type to fall for it.
"You heard me," you say, voice calm and monotone. "Why did you call yourself a king when you were fucking me?"
Boba chuckles, a deadly sound that would have unnerved you if you were anyone but yourself.
He raises a brow. "Interesting question. Didn't you like it?"
"I liked it a lot less when I realized you had no reason to say it, bounty hunter."
Your voice is acidic, like venom hissing out from between your teeth.
"Or am I mistaken?"
Boba hums, but it feels more like a growl with your close proximity to him. "You sure you want to fall down that sarlacc pit, little one?"
You clench your jaw, giving your answer in the way you stare unwaveringly into his eyes.
His eyes flit down to your lips and back up again. You lean back slightly in response, refusing to let him distract you.
"It's not an official title, if that's your concern," he says.
"What sort of title is it, then?" you ask, guarded heart racing once again.
Boba tilts his head to one side, taking a long moment to look at you. His breathing is slow, steady, and you try to match your own to it, but his next words throw you off balance.
"A stolen one."
You blink, a fluttering sensation erupting in your chest - and not in a good way. It's as if your heart has tripped over itself in an attempt to flee him.
He brings his free hand up to cup your cheek, tender and authoritative as he runs his thumb along your lower lip. "I killed the man who last sat on my throne, so the title is now mine."
You frown, despite the digit near your mouth. "What's your kingdom, then? Who are your subjects?"
"Those like me," he responds, without hesitation. "Hunters. Mercenaries. People who are willing to do most anything for some credits."
The dots are beginning to connect in your brain, and you're not sure you like the picture that's forming.
"Criminals. You're - you're a crime lord," you mutter.
Boba chuckles again, a smirk forming at the edges of his lips. "Something like that."
A conflicted feeling rises in your chest. You twist your chin out of his grasp, looking away and into the waters beside you. Had you known this was the man you were dealing with, would you have let him between your legs that first night? You'd like to think not. But then again, a voice in your head reasons vehemently, you knew he was a bounty hunter, and how is that any better?
You purse your lips. At the moment you're not entirely sold on what your conscience is telling you to do, which is to cut him off now and end whatever it is that exists between the two of you.
In your lap, you're still holding his hand in both of yours.
"I want to trust you, Boba," you admit. He puts his other hand on your thigh as you turn back to face him. "But I'm not daft."
He opens his mouth to speak, but you aren't finished. "I know it may not be in your nature, but I would appreciate some clarity here. What does this... this Force sensitivity really mean? I'm not some spoiled, naive princess, either - despite what you may say."
Boba is silent - his brown eyes are as intense as they are unreadable as they look at you. It drags on long enough that you get restless. You let go of his hand and turn away, tucking your feet up under yourself to stand.
The water has been calling to you each time you’ve looked at it, and you can no longer resist its draw. Tentatively, you touch a toe into the shimmering pool, marvelling at its warmth.
You walk forward. With each step, you feel as though you're gaining life, absorbing energy you hadn't known you'd lost.
The water is up to your thighs when Boba finally speaks.
"The Force will die in you if you remain here for the rest of your life, princess."
That gives you pause. You turn around. Boba is shirtless now, but he's still reclining as he was. It takes a major effort not to let your eyes drop down to his abdomen, enticing like a beacon in your periphery.
"You want to know what I’m thinking, is that right?” He asks the question like he half expects you to say no.
You nod. Around you, the warm, steaming water is rippling with your movements, but it shimmers in a manner more than can be described as distinctly natural. Almost without thought, you step backwards, submerging yourself further in its enticing warmth. Your fingers and palms skim the surface.
"I wanted to ask you to join me. To come back with me."
It almost makes you laugh, the way he says it so seriously. A disbelieving smile crosses your features.
"You know I can't leave my people," you reply. "You've known that since the start."
Boba sighs. "I have. I was still tempted to ask, regardless. Ever since the tavern."
That's interesting. This whole line of conversation is peculiar - you get the feeling he rarely needs to explain himself in such a way to anyone.
"Why? What use am I to you?"
He stands, but does not follow you into the water. Instead, he walks over to another part of the cave and leans against the wall, observing you.
"It's always been selfish," he admits. "At first I just wanted you as a crew member. You have a way for negotiating, or at least the type of negotiating that would be useful for my sort of operation.
“But then you revealed yourself to be this needy little thing, so desperate for me to fuck you, and I could just picture you in my ship, or in the palace, spread out and wanting me wherever I am.”
Those words, low and promising, cause a certain sort of wetness to pool in your underwear, one that can’t be blamed on the water that surrounds you. By now, you’re up to your collarbones in it, hands no longer visible to him as they remain at your sides.
You hook a thumb under the waistband of your panties and slide them off, slowly floating down as the water pulls them from your form. When they get low enough, you tuck them under your heel to hide the garment away.
Boba gives no hint that he sees, so you assume he cannot tell.
“You wanted to bring me back as a rare specimen, to show off to the criminals who work for you,” you retort, though something deep within you preens at the idea.
Something hidden and unknown until that night in front of the fireplace.
He just hums. “Yes.”
You can’t decide if his blunt honesty is a fault or a virtue. Right now, it’s mainly serving to bring heat to the space between your thighs. To hide your arousal, you narrow your eyes, trying to focus on why exactly he thinks he can just… whisk you away to some strange planet.
“And now,” you reply, “what's your reason for asking me to come back with you?”
He shrugs. “As I said, without training, the Force will die in you. I have connections to nearly any type of creature in this galaxy, Force-users included. I am your only hope if you want to keep your gift. If not, we go back down this mountain and it’ll be as though I was never here.”
That does present an interesting twist. The gears in your mind turn a bit faster, thinking on what exactly this may mean for you.
You consider where you are in the present moment - the reason Boba is even here in the first place. You consider your duty to your people, and you consider the long life your father has ahead of him.
How much time you have before you'll need to take his place.
How little time you might have if someone else realizes what this mountain holds.
"You said this kyber puts out some sort of signature, one that others can pick up on."
Boba raises a brow, and you see that he catches on to what you're proposing.
You continue, because if you don't, you'll convince yourself the idea is foolish. "This Force-user could teach me to hide the signature, no?"
"I don't see why not," Boba replies. In his eyes you see a glimmer of humor, like he thinks he's got you wrapped around his little finger. The way you're talking, you're on the verge of agreeing to return with him. He's got it in stone - his negotiator, this girl who needs him so strongly.
You see through him, though. He's tough to read, but you're learning to look between the lines.
Boba Fett is a criminal. For your whole life, you've studied law and order, learning the diplomatic ways of other planets and societies. To go with him would be to align yourself with everything you should hate, everything you should fight against.
But you are, after all, more than just a meek princess. You're a leader, a role model, a strong woman and lover of your people. Are you willing to dispense with your morality in favor of this Force training? In favor of following this man who has stolen your heart like he stole his throne?
"Say I did go," you start, and he doesn't even bother to hide his small grin. "Say I go with you. What does that look like for me? I will not be reduced to some pleasure slave, hidden away in your palace."
Boba shakes his head. "You will be free, my dear. You and I will work together, for both of our benefits. When I need a kind, unrelenting negotiator, you will speak on my behalf. In return, I find your training."
It sounds too good to be true, especially considering the major aspect to your relationship he has not yet mentioned.
Your eyes finally flit down to his chest, broad and thick in a way you never knew you'd like so much. His arms and shoulders are equally as enticing, the knowledge of how strong he is only serving to make his body more attractive to you. He is scarred, long-healed gashes across his skin the echoes of unimaginable pain and fire. As your gaze drops lower, tracing the skin of his abdomen as it disappears into the waistband of his pants, you feel something tighten in your chest. In the space between your hips.
Seeing him like this is intimate, almost more so than that very first night, and he hasn't even touched you.
"And what else might I expect, traveling with you?" You ask it knowing he sees the way you're looking at him.
Boba hums, as though he's giving the question some thought. He pushes off from the stone wall he was leaned up against.
"You know where this will go, princess."
His hands drop down to hook into the front of his pants, fingers toying with the clasp there. Your eyes follow the movement, entranced. The tendons and muscles in his arms flex and ripple as he works his hands, movement capturing your eye like a mouse to bread.
"I do," you reply, "but I want you to tell me."
His gaze darkens at your words. You watch as he deftly unfastens his trousers and pushes them down, stepping out of them and towards you. He moves unhurriedly, but with clear purpose.
You feel like you're one of his bounties, caught in the crosshairs of his rifle. Trapped.
Excitement courses through your veins.
"The first place I'll fuck you will be the ship," Boba says as he walks forward into the water, his thick thighs flexing with each step. You're too caught up in watching him approach to think to respond.
"Before we even leave this planet, I'll have you screaming against the durasteel, begging for my cock."
Your brain goes a bit fuzzy at his words, at the force of the arousal that hits you. It's like the moment he starts speaking to you like this, all higher function in your mind shuts off, full only of the images he conjures with his voice.
Boba's getting closer, and before you know it, he's within arm's reach.
All at once his hands are on you, rucking up your top to search out your bare skin, warm under the water. You reach up and put your hands on his shoulders, savoring the heat of his skin on your own.
"Once we get to Tatooine," he continues, pressing his lips close to your ear, voice like honey flowing over you, "I'll get you the most expensive dresses credits can buy, and we'll go to the clubs and cantinas and everyone there will want what's mine."
Your grip tightens, nails digging into his flesh. Boba finally pushes your top all the way up and off. He absentmindedly tosses it behind him, landing with a wet smack against the stone floor of the cave. His palms find your breasts and he squeezes them, kneading, flicking his thumbs over your nipples.
The feeling of it, like sparks shooting through your chest, makes you gasp, light and breathy.
"You'll sit on my lap at the sabacc table, and all those filthy criminals will know exactly how much you love getting fucked."
Boba runs a hand down your side, the other still toying with your breast, and you watch his face as he realizes you're no longer wearing your panties.
His jaw clenches as his fingers curl into the meat of your hip. He dips his head down so his nose brushes against yours, his breath cool compared to the heat of the water.
"You're a temptress, little one."
You can't help the small smile that floats across your lips. "What was that about how much I love getting fucked?”
He hums, dark and deep, the sound nearly a growl with the way it reverberates around you. Boba slides his hands down beneath your ass, and then he's hauling you up and pressing you against the wall to your left. You squeal at the sudden movement, legs locking around his waist and hands gripping his shoulders even tighter to keep from slipping away.
You feel the heat of a cloth-covered bulge against your burning, most sensitive skin. The sudden pressure of it makes you gasp, smiling, breathing in the air he's just exhaled with how close your mouths are.
Boba holds you with such ease. It's as though you're floating, featherlight in his arms.
"Watch it," he mutters, leaning in to graze his lips against the shell of your ear, the broad plane of his chest covering your own.
It’s clear that Boba is more turned on than annoyed by your teasing, despite his words. He adjusts his grip so his broad palms fit even tighter around your hips, pressing his erection solidly into your bare core once again, rolling his hips wickedly. The water enhances everything - the throbbing in your cunt is amplified tenfold and you can hardly contain yourself.
His words only serve to drive you madder, lips and teeth pressed against your neck.
“Or I’ll make sure every last man in that village sees the limp in your walk before I take you away,” he growls.
You moan at the thought of it, at the thought of walking past your friends and fellow townspeople in such a state. The things they'd say - the whispers - would never get back to you, for you know they respect you too much, but oh, would they talk.
Boba shifts, reaching down to finally free his cock from his underwear. Almost immediately, you feel the hot length of it pressed up against your pussy.
“Yeah,” he mutters, moving his hips and torturing you with the drag of his dick. “They’ll all see how well I’ve fucked you - how good their little princess takes a bounty hunter’s cock.”
Your eyes slip closed as you cry out, shaking with how much you need him. “Please, Boba!”
His shoulder muscles ripple under your palms and he groans. "I need to get you ready for me, little one --"
"No," you cut him off, voice little more than a whine, pulling him closer as best you can in your desperate state. "I can take it. Right now, I need it, I need you, Boba--"
With a grunt, Boba lines himself up, hands like durasteel on your hips as he pulls you close in tandem with the thrust of his cock. You moan, high-pitched and uninhibited, when you feel his hot member pierce your cunt. Your folds part easily for him, the head sliding into your pussy like it was built just for this.
Your legs tighten around Boba's waist as he starts fucking you, dirty promises and filthy imaginings rolling off his tongue. His voice strains with each thrust, and it all just feels so divine.
You think you could live like this, if he'd let you. Get addicted to the way his cock moves inside you and never spend another day without it.
"That's it," he mutters, teeth bearing down on your neck, surely leaving marks that'll turn black and blue in a day or so. On a particularly sharp thrust, you're jolted back, legs trembling in his hold.
"Maker, Boba." You open your eyes and see the way he's looking at you, teeth slightly bared and brows furrowed. He looks vicious as he uses you.
"You're so tight, princess. My fat cock fits in your little cunt so well," he grits out, your body still jostling with each thrust. Your eyes are fixated on his face, on his mouth, watching the words spill out from behind his lips.
For a moment, your brain provides a sliver of sass, making your eyes sparkle with mirth, even as your tits bounce against Boba's bare chest.
"You fuck pretty good for an old man."
Boba growls, a deep chuckle combined with a moan sounding from somewhere deep in his chest. His thrusts slow and he leans back, taking in the way your body is wrapped around him. Your hands fall to your breasts, pressing them together and flicking your thumbs over your nipples.
He snaps his hips up, hard, slamming his cock into you and forcing a whine from your throat. You can feel his balls smack your ass, even under the water. "You're desperate for it, princess. Desperate for this old man to fuck you like you need."
He rolls his hips again, rhythm slow and steady and deep. The air around you seems to rock in tandem with him.
"Yeah, you'll love Tatooine," he drawls, exhaling through his nose. "I could take this sweet pussy right on the throne and no one would say a thing. They'll all watch their King fuck a woman young enough to be his daughter."
You moan loudly, silken walls clenching and fluttering around his cock as it pounds into you.
He hums. "You like that, huh, little one?"
Despite yourself, you nod, squeezing your eyes shut again. Boba's left hand comes up to grip your chin, fingers like iron against your jaw. His thrusts get shallower, lazy, like he's become distracted from the fact that he's currently balls-deep inside you.
Your hands find his chest, getting your fill of his searing hot skin against your own.
"Open," he demands, and you do, tongue resting on your bottom lip.
Boba hesitates for a moment, and in that split second, the world around you is still once again. "This mouth," he murmurs, "is just begging to be filled, isn't it."
The words make you clench around him, an involuntary reaction to the thought of putting his cock in your mouth, of laving it with attention and worshipping it like it deserves.
Your eyes are still closed, so you can't see as he closes his mouth and works his jaw for a moment, gathering saliva on his tongue. You only feel the jarring sensation of spit landing in the back of your throat, filthy and debasing.
"Swallow it, little girl."
Eyes fluttering open, you do as you're told, and you know you'd do it a million more times if it means he'll look at you like he is right now, eyes dark as space itself.
"Thank you, my king."
You don't know what compels you to say it, other than the fact that it just feels right. Boba smiles, a sly thing that makes his dark eyes sparkle with something dangerous, and he begins fucking you again.
His hand slips down to your throat. Not tight, just resting there, a reminder.
Boba Fett licks his lips before speaking, the steam from the water around you making his face look almost eerie in the glow of the kyber. "You take me so well, my queen."
He picks up the pace again, and soon he's jackhammering into you with the same fervor as before. Your mind melts into a puddle inside your skull, only able to focus on the push-pull within you and the building crescendo that accompanies it. Boba's fingers tighten ever so slightly on your neck, and you respond in kind, curling your nails into the meat of his pecs like claws.
The fire within you is licking up your legs, winding through your ribs, and you gasp when it feels so close it's unbearable.
"Boba, I'm gonna - I need --"
He cuts you off with two simple words: "Touch yourself."
And so you do, the fingers of your dominant hand flying down to rub your clit and draw your orgasm to its inevitable peak. You press the pads of your middle and ring fingers to the bundle of nerves and frantically work to bring yourself off.
The sparks that shoot through you at the feeling of your own touch, combined with Boba's continued movements within you, force you up and over the edge of your climax in rapid succession. You cry out, the sound of it echoing far above your heads.
There must be something about the water, because the sensation is unlike anything you've ever experienced before. Your whole body seizes, straining against the hand that's wrapped like durasteel around your neck, and a tingling sensation shoots down your arms and legs to your toes. You've heard tales of the afterlife, of nirvana, of pure euphoria, and you think this must be it, because you can hardly comprehend the full-body pleasure that engulfs and drowns you.
When it passes, you go limp in his arms, head draped against his shoulder.
Boba finishes not long after, spilling into you. His spend is hot where it fills you, hotter than the water, and it's like an ancient lock has been fastened shut inside your cunt.
Your king carries you back to the dry stone floor. He lays you down and kisses you softly, heatedly, passionately. He kisses you as a lover should, like you're consummating a bond. A contract, signed in the twist of his tongue against yours.
The two of you do not leave that cave for a long while, taking the time to explore one another's bodies in every way you can dream up. You finally taste his cock, swallow his cum and find you love the taste, and Boba likewise licks and eats your pussy like he's a man starved.
When it's time to depart, you do so a changed woman. Boba Fett's body has left its touchmark on your soul. Now that you know true pleasure, the gratifying gift of submission to him, you couldn't imagine not going with him for at least some time. Leaving with him has become a need more than a want. You'll return someday, to rule and guide your people as you should, but not before you explore life with Boba for a while.
He promises so much, so many experiences and pleasures and truths. You can't let those promises go unfulfilled.
When Din enters the throne room, he surveys the space, as he always does when he walks through a doorway. Little is out of place.
Boba is seated upon the throne, conversing with a supplier, helmet betraying exactly as much emotion as Din's own does. From the grip Fett has on the arm of the throne, however, it's clear the negotiations aren't going to turn out well for the snivelling merchant.
Shand is leaning against a wall, jar of spotchka clutched in one hand, gesticulating with the other. She's smiling, which is rare for her, as she speaks in a tone Din can't quite hear.
Next to her is a girl Din's never seen in the palace before. She's dressed rather strangely - a thick cloak with fur trim over dark clothes, pants tucked into leather boots and some sort of shirt-tunic on her torso.
Certainly not suitable for the weather on Tatooine. In fact, Din would wager that's the clothing of someone from a snow planet.
He walks further into the room and catches the attention of Fennec and her friend. They both look at him; Fennec only for a second, but her companion's gaze lingers. Din thinks he sees something akin to curiosity - perhaps surprise - in her eyes, but it's hard to tell.
Her head turns to look directly at Boba, eyebrows raised. The other bounty hunter dips his head in acknowledgement.
Din stops in his tracks, unsure of the dynamic he's just walked into.
"You're excused," Boba barks, waving a hand at the supplier, who yelps and scurries out of the room.
He then rises from his seat and makes his way down to where Din's standing. He removes his helmet - an action that still makes Din tense up, even with everything that's happened - and tucks it under an arm. He sticks his other hand out and Din shakes it, nodding once.
"It went well, I assume?" Boba's almost smiling, which is a rare sight to see on his usually sullen visage.
Din nods again. "Yes. He's doing… he's doing great."
If he took his own helmet off, Din's smile would be clear as day.
Boba claps his hand against Din's shoulder, an amicable gesture that Din must remind himself is a sign of friendship, not posturing. Old habits die hard.
"I've got someone I'd like you to meet, Djarin," Boba says, turning towards the women who stand, watching them, not too far away.
They walk over. Fennec takes a sip of her spotchka, while the girl glances between him and Boba. For the life of him, he can't figure out where she might have come from, or what her role will be here. She's pretty, that much he will readily admit. Her eyes are bright and alert in a way that tells him she sees more than she lets on, and her stance is simultaneously relaxed and braced for conflict. He knows it well - it's as easy as beskar to spot.
She holds herself like a warrior.
She’s also young - certainly the youngest in the room.
Boba's voice pulls Din out of his thoughts. "This is our newest crew member. She'll be helping us with our… over-the-table dealings, in exchange for training."
Confused, Din tilts his head. "Training? What kind of training?"
"That's where I'd hoped you'd be able to help," Boba tells him. The girl looks from Fett to him, eyes focused right on his own through the visor.
"I need guidance in the Force. Boba said you have connections to people who could help me master my Force sensitivity."
Well, he supposes that's at least somewhat true. Ahsoka may be willing, but given how it went with Grogu, he wouldn't count on her.
"I'll see what I can do," he responds. As is his habit, he props his hand on his belt, hip jutting out just so.
The girl's eyes flicker down and back up again.
Boba clears his throat. "In the meantime, the princess and I have other matters to attend to."
He reaches out to her, and at first Din thinks he's going to grasp her shoulder in his firm grip like he tends to do with all of his close acquaintances.
Din quickly sees that this girl is much more than just a close acquaintance.
Boba’s hand finds its place on her neck, thumb tucked under her jaw and fingers wrapped around the base of her skull, tangled in her loose hair. As if they’ve done it a million times before, they lean towards one another. The girl’s eyes flutter closed, a soft smile on her face, while Boba’s study her unabashedly.
Their lips connect, heatedly, and Din knows his surprise shows in his movements. He glances over to Fennec, who just smirks at him.
The couple in front of him kiss one another completely without shame. Boba’s grip tightens to the point it looks almost painful, but the girl simply presses closer in response. She brings a hand up to rest on his chestplate, the only bare skin visible besides her face and neck.
Despite how warm his cheeks feel, Din can’t look away. He feels a rush of blood out of his head at the sight in front of him.
Boba and his lover kiss for another long moment before pulling away. He slides his hand to her hip, casually pulling her along as if he’d simply taken her by the hand.
She falls into step beside him, looking more comfortable than Din’s ever seen anyone next to Boba Fett. As they walk away, the girl glances back at Din, her observant gaze piercing right through him. Right through the beskar of his helmet.
And then she turns back, content in the embrace of the most feared bounty hunter in the galaxy.
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Description - The Hammer proves to utilize surprising ways to settle down after a rough assignment.
Pairing - Black Male Reader x August Walker
A/N - This is my first male reader insert and AW fic! I wasn't sure how I should write the man but I found my August to be a little unpredictable, maybe hard. (Maybe he has some feelings, but he won't tell you what kind.)
Word Count - 2.4k
Warnings - descriptions of blood, wound tending and cleaning, anxiety, surprise fluff and maybe pining? Just partners being partners.
(no real proofreading this time y'all sorry 😅)
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What he applied to your hand forced a pitiful sound from your body, something like a whimper subdued poorly by you.
By the sickly fluorescent light you can see it, the split that was the palm of your hand. Crimson upon crimson flooded the tissue, renewing again.
Your insides overturned, and for the first time in your career you averted your eyes. You had to. For a reason you couldn't place your finger on, you knew you shouldn't stare.
The way your pulse was working more warm liquid out of your hand, his fingers stained and slipping back and forth to tend, you felt unsteady.
The spaces in your mind were gradually being occupied. So there was no shortage, no problem taking your mind off of it.
You went back to that first mistake, back to where you foolishly under-packed. This assignment was far, but a swift turnaround. Accordingly, you thought it good to keep the amount of bags you carried to a minimum.
A good number of things were left, a tool here and there that didn't stand out. You had done it before. One notch carved into the wood and you were null of any mistakes up until this point.
What you couldn't grasp was that these absent devices were the key to this assignment. It hit like a ton of bricks the moment you were met with the complex screen of a security lock.
You were deflated when your eyes met the empty space of what could have been the bypass key. There you spent upwards of an hour working through the perimeter of the place.
The next one could have happened regardless, but it didn't make you feel less inept.
Where you went right when you should have gone left. The opponent you met was just as trained as you were: blank, unrelenting and practiced with a blade. You fell to a place where you were at a strident disadvantage.
Would you have picked your jugular or your hand? There had to have been something better, a third choice? You should have been faster than that.
You could have.
Still, your hand caught the edge and it wasn't until much later, long after you were walking away that you could feel heat trickling down your fingers.
It's like the movies until it isn't. You've got yourself thrumming, high from the situation. You're locked in and can take anything to your vessel, then you're coming down slow. All the little details enter your mind, focusing and you notice. He noticed, actually.
With the most austere set of eyes you had ever seen, he did.
Before you were given the chance to sit down he was standing over you, breath hot and charged from the brawl. On the top of your head you could feel it. The fabric of his suit was torn and twisted over his chest, rising and falling with his loosened tie.
He'd backed you to one of the steel tables, squinting through the dim and the dark. You had in mind that you were to be spit in the face, condemned for dragging the job to left-field. The glower had already been there.
You were bracing for it, balling both of your hands. The blunt object in your fingers collided with the brick floor. And it rang out, filling the empty spaces with a loud echo. Soon there was nothing.
That's how it was seconds after.
A pair of boots brushed against yours before there was a hand capturing your right arm. He'd brought your dripping palm up and opened your curled fingers. Your wound was inspected with cautious eyes, the extent picked apart.
His calluses dragged around the edges of your sticky palm. You sucked in a breath when he had gone a little too close, but he ignored it. There was a drilling leer into your face before he spoke, "You were sloppy."
The back of your throat had grown bone dry. You took a second, swallowing then pulling your eyes from his hardened face.
That had been the first time that you'd been told that. Knowing in the very depths of you that this was the beginning to many months of second guessing, wishing you could have done better.
You don't know why you had let this one go. Everything seemed feasible in the documents, from the time requirement to the objectives. You expected to have gone above and beyond.
That is close to what you told Sloane all those weeks ago,
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"This one looks like it's going to be less of an issue."
She had her arms crossed in her crisp sleeves, her hip propped against the hardwood of her desk. You were called in to provide an updated report over your assignment, your feelings and projection.
It had gone to the point where you could no longer count on your fingers how many jobs you'd been on. The second anniversary from your first day recently passed, the bouquet still sitting on your dining room table.
You recall being introduced to your boss, the gratification in seeing someone like her in such an esteemed position.
(Someone who reminded you of your mother at times.)
Right then, the woman appeared to be getting ready to give a critical reply. Her brow was curled sharply but you could see the corners of her lips begin to upturn.
"You have been assigned an associate with this task, agent."
This was of no particular issue. It was not every mission that you collaborated with another. Be that as it may, you've grown accustomed to this practice, it evolved into something that you improved with. This was your dream, and you intended to flourish.
You were sure there was no one you wouldn't be able to work with.
When your superior uttered the name, 'Walker,' you had asked her to come again.
"You're up and coming, still figuring things out in this line of work. I'm placing you with my best on this one," Sloane announced.
You withheld any signs of protest in front of her, flashing professional countenance and a nod. She dismissed you with a lingering gaze, most likely holding the same thing in her mind as you were. You kept up the front until you were situated at the chair by your desk.
Upon your back touching the seat, a sigh was released, one that you felt in the pit of your stomach.
You wanted to smile at how comical his name sounded. One would have thought you were speaking about an exotic dancer, The Hammer. You didn't think it fit at first.
He's just a man, but he is the kind that exceeded the weight behind his title. He had discharged far more in his profession by the time you were approaching yours, taking the limits of what an agent could do to the stratosphere.
You could wax poetic about those stories, try to recount those details. But, truthfully there had been such a divide in your experience when compared to his. You could feel the pricks of uncertainty in your chest.
Perhaps you were only afraid.
He'd never once acknowledged your existence until you met on the tarmac the following Tuesday morning. The moon was leaving the twilight sky. Under an orange colored light, shining on the side of his face you could see him check his watch.
And then those eyes flicked over to you, sizing up your bags, your clothes. You think you may have even caught those blue slits drag along certain parts of you.
Your voice was weak, coughing low in your throat you tried to press out, "It's nice to finally meet, Mr. Walker."
(Ah, Mr Walker? You wanted to flinch, but you found no time.)
Then you provided him your name with a reluctant hand. It took far more composure on not showing the tremor in your limb but when the man peered down at you, securing your hand with a firm shake you knew.
He'd felt how clammy your skin was.
That mustache made a microscopic twitch, "Call me August, and, ditto."
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You allowed your hand to remain elevated, but your period of self-loathing was eventually disturbed.
The sensation of his large hands appeared, firm and wrapping around your waist before hoisting you on the surface of the steel table. There was a soft thud from your good hand landing to bear your shift in weight.
It was then that you froze, ears pricking to that steady footfall departing from the table.
You listen and—what?
What crosses your mind is maybe you hit your head back there, sometime during taking that grunt to the floor. Yet, you don't feel anything, no pounding in your skull. The musing is washed away the moment the flicker of a pale-green light shines above.
The room is revealed to have been an abandoned kitchen of sorts. Pots and pans layered in a thin veil of dust with more grime to compliment. With your good hand you wipe at the sweat falling down your temple, you'd become a little hot.
Glass crumbles underneath his boots, he rotates his back around to you with a small kit that strongly resembles the one you stored in your bag.
The white plastic had your name scrawled on there in your handwriting. While you could sit there wondering how August retrieved that, you are still processing the way the man picked you up. How he brought you up like you were made of feathers. Why he…
He comes in real close, your vision floods with a view of his chest, his gloved hands shedding away the garment and laying them on the metal surface.
The soft click of the first aid box click echoes out, and under the hum of the lights above August murmurs down to you,
"At least you had enough sense to pack this."
His tone is the same, puncturing only not quite as breathy. The rise and fall of his chest had slowed far more, the dark curls on his chest soaking in the sweat running down his skin. And you blink, not realizing how enthralling the sight is.
Your pulsing hand is taken again, gingerly, by a pair of rough hands. You brace yourself on the edge of the table upon seeing the clear liquid bottle.
He's cleaning your wound throughly and you're trying not to take it like a kicked puppy. Through grit teeth, "You think I could skip stitches this time?" They never were your favorite.
"No dice," he breaths out, placing the bottle of alcohol down next to your thigh.
"You about had your hand sliced in half, Agent. You're lucky anyway. But,"
The needle and thread is pulled out, more cleansing and draining. Rinse and repeat. Walker was moving quickly, probably sensing the adrenaline in you draining by the minute.
Your communication devices buzz in unison, you don't have time to check your screen for any updates before he reaches with one hand in his pocket to retrieve his.
He sets your hand down on your own thigh and you listen to his voice shift to a formal tone. The female voice on the other line, (Sloane most likely) sounds curt and questioning.
Your stomach begins to roll in circles. Your fingers wrapped around the table's edge tighten around the metal, almost enough to leave marks.
Through those training sessions all those months, you learned to properly squash any threats of anxiety, distraction. You could feel yourself slipping, your body seizing up in front of the man. Walker seemed to have been approaching the height of his conversation with your boss, shifting so the phone rests between his ear and shoulder.
In the meantime, you were breathing. That familiar rhythm, flowing in and out, counting. You fall into the headspace that you became acquainted with all too well.
You lost yourself in it, not realizing that Walker was dissolving Sloane's interrogation. Every syllable. The way in which his voice formed the words was unknowingly steadying your brain, calming your heart rate down slowly.
All the while taking your wounded hand was taken in his, he set about cleaning it one more time before starting to close it with the thread.
"Yes ma'am. No, he had everything in his detail under control...Yes. That's correct. The only slip up had been breaching the security wall but we successfully infiltrated."
You could feel the sharp pricks in your skin, your arm tensing after each pull to the string when closing the wound. Eventually Walker drifted, and your eyes landed on the semi-clean criss cross stitching in the palm of your hand.
The man's eyes were dead set on his handiwork, narrowing on the lines before clearing his throat to part ways with your boss. There was a, "We will report back upon leaving this location."
He hung up the phone, and slid the device next to your thigh. You didn't think anything of it, only Walker's hand didn't leave where his phone was sitting. And you were encircled, the fabric of his shirt practically enticing his body closer to yours.
It had been a number of seconds before you could bring yourself back. The same exercise was reaching its tail end, and maybe, just maybe you could believe Sloane would not chew you a new one when you return.
Those words, It's okay, you tried your best. Everyone has bad days. You said them once again, inaudible and only in your mind. The room at this point only held the echo of the cars outside, Walker's heavy boots shifting before—
His fingertips were cold against your jaw, you almost jumped away from him. You should have, what was he doing? His thigh brushed so light against your knee, and when he guided your eyes up, you saw him already peering at your damp face.
Everything about the man's face was blank. Thick brows, lips hidden under a bushy trail of hair, all set in a firm line. You made no attempt to divert, you weren't sure he would let you. You had been planted there, decided by him your next move would be included.
Then those words fell silent.
His fingertips pushed up your jaw, against the grain of your facial hair growing there. Then you felt him cup your cheek, strong hands dragging along your skin.
Walker used his thumb to brush against your temple, wiping away something sticky. Red tint coated the little grooves in his skin and he pulled away, wiping his digit on the material of your pants. His tone was far more entertained then,
"Looks like you hit your head back there."
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Taglist - @mansaaay @hope-to-hell @feralrunaway @thetaoofzoe @luclittlepond @madbaddic7ed @brandycranby @emyearns
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VALERIE - Part IX. (Harry Styles)
yall are gonna hate me for this but it needed to be done IM SORRY! also, i can’t believe valerie is ending this week, just one more part to go! can’twait to read your reactions and thoughts on this part, even though i know yall gonna be upset lmao
word count: 5.6k
Some days it truly feels like the universe has plotted against you to make every possible thing go wrong. As if it wants to see just how much you can take before breaking, experiment how long it can dance on your nerves before you end up one of those crazy people who shout at random strangers on the bus for no actual reason.
Starting the day you overslept awfully leaving you only ten minutes before you had to leave. In your hurry you ended up putting on socks that do not match and you were forced to buy a sandwich on your way as breakfast, but you promised you wouldn’t buy packed sandwiches for a reason, this one tasted like it’s been sitting on the shelf for weeks. Maybe it really has been.
You made it to work successfully, but then you realized that you’ve left your notebook at home, the one that had quite a lot of important information you need for your work, so you spent your first hour at work emailing different people for things you should now, explaining that you just left your notebook at home. Some didn’t really give a fuck and just answered you normally, but others didn’t shy away from commenting that you should be more responsible and careful.
This alone gave just the perfect foundation for the day. It was all downhill from then. Your boss loaded twice as much work on you than usually, everything with close deadlines, throwing even more anxiety into the mix as if you didn’t have enough already.
You met up with Marcus at lunch, but that didn’t go as planned either. It’s been getting more and more frustrating with him, the two of you have already had at least five fights this week and it’s only wednesday. It seems like even the smallest things push you over the edge these days and you easily pick a fight over anything. It didn’t happen differently this time either and by the time you got back to the office you were fuming. Worst part is that you always have a hard time ending a fight and tend to continue it through texts, the same thing happened today as well.
Now it’s a few minutes past five and you’re getting ready to go home, get changed and head to family dinner since today is Valerie’s first birthday, but even on the bus you’re still furiously typing away on your phone, sending a reply to Marcus, wanting nothing more than to throw the device right ot the window.
At one point you decide you’ve had enough. Turning your phone off you sink it into the depth of your bag and just try to focus on breathing, because even the smallest things seem to be hard tasks in such an upsetting state of mind.
These past few weeks things have taken an absurdly wrong turn between you and Marcus and you don’t know what to do about the whole situation. Every night you go to bed thinking that you should just let go of him, would do a favor for the both of you, but then that stupid little voice in the back of your mind tells you that if you break up with Marcus it’s game over for you, you’ll spend the rest of your life alone. It all ends up with you violently holding onto the pieces of what’s left from your relationship and you’ve been trying to figure out where it went wrong, but you have absolutely no idea.
After you changed into a pair of light washed jeans, a bright orange sweater and your black leather jacket it’s time for you to leave, though you already know you’ll be late. With a sigh deep you decided to turn your phone back on when you were sitting in the Uber, immediately deleting the notifications about the messages Marcus left you and going straight for the few ones from Rosa, your mom and Harry. They all arrived not too long ago asking when you’d be arriving, so you quickly typed your sorry and told them you’re on your way, you just got caught up at work. For Harry, you add something else too:
“Save me a seat and order me a tequila.”
His response came quickly.
You let out a chuckle seeing his message. He knows you too well.
Walking into the small restaurant you don’t have a hard time spotting your family, three tables have been pushed together to make enough room in the back, taking up the small, kind of separated area of the place. Rosa smiles widely when she spots you, Valerie standing on her thighs, hands on the table as she is trying to snatch one of the glasses away, but her dad is pushing it further from her grasp.
“Sorry for being late,” you huff out and take the seat right next to Harry who watches you with a smile. “Well hello there, birthday girl! You’re so big now!” you babble at Valerie who giggles at you before her attention is averted once again.
You feel Harry’s elbow poking your side and turning to him you see him nod at the two shots on the table.
“Oh, fantastic. You’re drinking too?”
“No, I’m driving. Both for you.”
“If I didn’t have such a shitty day I would question what kind of alcoholic you think I am, but I kinda need both,” you sigh, taking the first one and downing it faster than ever. From the corner of your eyes you see your mother’s disapproving look, but you decide to ignore it for now.
“Wanna talk about it?” Harry asks, eyebrows furrowed in worry, but you shake your head, the alcohol still burning your throat.
“Not now. Can you give me a lift home tho?”
“Sure,” he nods, turning back to the conversation at the table.
You somehow succeed in putting everything that happened today behind and just focus on the time spent with your family. It helps that seemingly Harry works hard all evening to tell you about random things, just occupying your thoughts as much as he can. It’s nice to relax a little and forget everything that’s been weighing down on your shoulders recently.
“It’s so crazy she is one already,” you sigh when you and Harry are walking to his car.
“Right? It makes me feel incredibly old,” Harry huffs as he fishes his car keys out of his pocket.
“How old are you even?” you ask laughing, realizing you don’t even know how old he exactly is. There are quite a few things, small details you’ve just never gotten around to find out about Harry.
“I’m turning 27 in February. Wild, isn’t it?” he chuckles.
“Yeah, you’re basically a grandpa,” you tease him and he narrows his eyes at you, but you can’t miss the little smile hiding in the corners of his mouth.
“That makes you a grandma, because you’re turning 25 in April, don’t you?”
“You know when my birthday is?” It takes you by surprise, you don’t remember ever telling him when your birthday is.
The two of you reach his car and he clears his throat unlocking it. Seems like he doesn’t really want to answer, but your burning gaze on him kind of forces him into it.
“Uh, I do. I wanted to meet up with Steven last year the day you had your birthday party, but he said he had plans already. Tried to lure him into cancelling, but he didn’t even want to share where he was going. Then he admitted that it was your birthday party, but you told him and Rosa not to even mention it to me so I don’t show up.”
Your stomach drops hearing his version of a story you’ve only known from your own point of view. You remember that you indeed told them not to tell Harry about it, but now it seems like such a hate crime, when in real life, it was still when the two of you hated each other with passion.
“I’m… Harry I’m sorry. That was--”
“Don’t worry about it,” he smiles at you, starting the car. “We left it all behind, didn’t we?”
His smile seems genuine, but you still feel guilty for being such a bitch. It reminded you how much time and energy the two of you wasted for years hating each other when you could have been just like you are now. If only things happened in a different way…
Arriving at your building Harry parks the car and stops it. As the engine stops, the silence that’s been thickening the air just becomes even more obvious. He is waiting for you to say something about what’s gotten you so upset today, you know that, but you don’t feel like sitting around in his car.
“Want to come up for a little bit?” you ask and it’s a hidden message that you want to talk in the comfort of your own home. Luckily, Harry understands it right away and nodding he tells you to lead the way.
You make some tea and the two of you sit on your couch, Harry is sitting sideways so he can see you while you bring your knees up to your chest, staring down at the mug in your hands.
“I had a fight with Marcus,” you quietly start.
“And… it wasn’t the first time. We’ve been constantly fighting lately and I’m just… so tired of it.”
Saying it out loud for the first time, having someone listen to you brings you an odd sense of relief, and it doesn’t feel weird that you’re talking to Harry about all of it. He has proven himself to be a great listener.
“We’ve been fighting constantly, over the smallest things and my… my patience is running short, at this point.”
You’re talking slowly, carefully putting your thoughts into words, trying your best to interpret them for Harry after boiling them only in your own head for so long.
“I just… I have no idea what I should do.”
“It seems like the relationship is not making you happy anymore,” Harry softly speaks up and you have nothing to bring up against what he just said. “So why are you trying to continue it?”
You were expecting the question, you just knew he would ask it, but it still brings a painful, stinging sensation into your chest as you try to find the words to answer him.
“Because…” you breath out and slowly turning your head, your eyes meet his gaze. “If I can’t make it work with him… then… who is it gonna be? There’s this voice in my head that keeps telling me, that he is literally my last choice, that if I mess this up it’s gonna be over for me.”
“Y/N, you know that’s not true,” Harry tells you tilting his head.
“Do I?” you chuckle bitterly, turning your gaze to the ceiling before you look back at him. “Because I don’t think I do. I’ve been literally feeling so miserable for weeks, yet I still can’t get me to move on, because I think I’m gonna die alone.”
“That’s not gonna happen, don’t say that. You’ll find the right person for you, you just… have to be patient.”
“But that’s the thing. I have lost my patience. I’m done, over it.” The tears form in your eyes in just a few seconds and the next thing you know is that you’re crying. “I’ve been trying so hard in my whole life, but somehow I always ended up… not being enough, or thrown away, stepped over, left behind. No matter what I did, I always ended up alone and I can’t help but notice a pattern in it. It has to be me, what else?”
“It’s not you, okay? You just had a few bad experiences.”
“Not a few,” you huff closing your eyes. “All of them are bad. I was… I was never enough for anyone and now that I found a guy that seemed to be just perfect… I’m ruining it.”
“I don’t think you’re ruining anything.”
“Then explain to me what’s happening, Harry!” you snap in despair and Harry stares back at you at a loss of words at first.
“Do you have feelings for him?” he then asks. You can’t answer right away and it tells him a lot.
“I… I’m not sure.”
“That sounded more like a no.”
“Okay, alright. No, I don’t. But… I could develop feelings eventually, couldn’t I?”
“That’s not how it works, Y/N. You can’t just torture yourself hoping that one day you wake up and you’ll be in love with him. It’s not gonna happen and you’re just wasting your time.”
“How do you know it’s not gonna happen? What makes you so sure of that I will not end up alone?”
Harry stays quiet, her green eyes are staring right into your soul and for a moment you forget about your misery. This man alone holds such a power over you, it’s starting to scare you.
“I know it, because… I know you. And I see you. You’re literally the funniest girl I know, so easy to talk with, you always know when to crack a joke and when you have to be serious. You have so much love for others, you care about your loved ones and you’re always there for your friends and family. You make it so easy for others to get comfortable around you and you make everyone feel safe around you.”
You listen to him intently, drinking up every word that leaves his lips. Harry looks down at his hands as he continues.
“And you’re beautiful. So fucking beautiful, it always baffles me when I see you.”
“What?” you breathe out.
“It’s the truth,” Harry chuckles lightly, he brushes his knuckles together nervously. “Every time you walk in, you just… make everyone turn their head at you, and I always wonder if you even notice that. The way you walk, your smile, your laugh, Y/N, you make every man go crazy about you.”
“You’re just saying that because you are trying to cheer me up,” you sniff, wiping a few more tears away from your eyes.
“I’m definitely not,” he chuckles and his eyes finally find yours. “I remember when we first met.”
“When you walked in on me changing,” you sigh, the memories living vividly in your mind.
“Yeah. I remember how… breathless I felt when I saw you standing there, your dress handing a little on your frame because of the zipper. I forgot my name for a moment. I offered to help with the zipper because I just… wanted to touch you in any kind of way. So I knew that you were real.”
“I know this sounds made up, but I’m telling you, this is the truth. And I know I didn’t act like that for a long time, but I always thought that you were an amazing person and I know that any guy would be so lucky and incredibly happy to be with you. I hate the thought of you thinking otherwise of yourself, when you are literally such a delight and… just a gift to all of us. I don’t know what’s really been going on between you and Marcus, but if he can’t see your worth and can’t make you feel like you deserve… he is not worthy of your time.”
You feel your throat closing up, but you’re not sure Harry knows the reason behind it when the tears start rolling down your cheeks again.
Because it might look like his words touched you and made you tear up, but in reality, a bittersweet feeling has taken completely over you. If this is how he thinks about you, why did he act like that when he had the chance to be with you? Why didn’t he want you to stay? What did you do that made him want to throw you out?
It’s a spiral straight down and you can’t stop yourself from falling. Harry has always been the biggest mystery of your life, and now you’re just even more sure it was something you did or said that made him want to run.
He reaches out and easily scoops you into his arms and you let him hold you tight, face buried into his chest. You hold onto his shirt as the silent cries escape your lips. You want him to want you. You want him to mean all those things he just told you, but you just can’t seem to move on from the past even though you’ve agreed to forget about it. It keeps bugging you in the back of your mind that no matter what he says, you weren’t good enough to make him want to stay with you when he had the chance.
It doesn’t get better after that night. Harry stayed until after midnight, made sure you got into bed and told you he’ll check in on you the next day. And so he did.
You felt guilty for loading all of it on Harry, so you decided it was the last time you ever talked about Marcus or your love life in general with him. You easily made yourself believe that he didn’t really care about it and he just listened to you because he was trying to be nice. It seemed the best to just try and forget about it all.
For a while you were contemplating breaking up with Marcus, but you didn’t have the strength to do it, telling yourself you have to give it another chance and some more patience. However it’s ending up to be quite draining, you gotta admit, but you are starting to get used to feeling numb every day.
Rosa invites you over, because she went through her closet and found some stuff she thought you’d like, so you head over not long after you get home from work. She mentioned that Harry would be over watching some kind of football game with Steven, so you are not surprised to see his car parking on their driveway.
“Hi guys!” you greet them when Rosa lets you in, the game is already on so they just wave in your way, intently watching the TV.
“Come on, I have everything in the bedroom,” Rosa nods in your way and you follow her upstairs. Valerie greets you with a loud shriek as you walk in, she is sitting in her crib, surrounded with a bunch of toys, seemingly having a great time.
“Hi there, Princess!” you coo at her, caressing her cheek before you sit on the edge of the bed that’s filled with piles of clothes. “What’s the big sorting?” you ask, grabbing a cardigan and taking a look at it.
“I just have way too much stuff, can’t fit new stuff into my wardrobe, so I needed to sort it all out.”
The two of you go through everything and just catch up while you try on what you like. At the end, you are just sitting on the bed playing with Valerie. You can tell there’s something Rosa wants to share, but she seems reserved about saying it out loud.
“So, the other day we were talking with Steven about how crazy it is that Val is over one year old,” she starts, eyes glued to the little girl, handing her another building block as Valerie works on… whatever it’s going to be when it's finished.
“Yeah, that’s what we talked about with Harry after her birthday dinner. Makes us feel old,” you chuckle.
“Exactly,” she sighs chuckling. “So then we talked about, maybe… having another kid sometime soon.”
You perk up and looking at Rosa you see the shy smile on her lips and you gasp, but she shakes her head.
“I’m not pregnant,” she assures you, but then adds: “Not yet.”
“Oh my God, so you’re trying for another baby?” you whisper, even though there’s no chance of the guys hearing the two of you. You can hear the sound of the TV up here, they have no clue what you’re talking about.
“I mean, it can take some time, so we thought we could… start now.”
“That’s fantastic!” you breathe out, truly happy for your sister. You just know Valerie will be such a good big sister. “Val, you want a baby sister or baby brother?” you ask her and she looks at you with a serious expression, holding out one of the blocks.
“Baba!” she exclaims.
“Yes, baba!” you chuckle. She’s been learning kind of real words lately and it won’t take too long before she’ll be bossing around everyone in the house.
When it’s getting late you pack the clothes you choose and head down to leave. The guys are still on the couch, but Harry’s head perks up when he hears your footsteps.
“You want me to give you a ride?”
“Um, I’m fine, don’t want to bother you while the game is on.”
“It’s ending in five. If you can wait a little it’s alright.”
“Okay,” you nod smiling so instead of going to the front door you stop in the kitchen to wait for Harry.
Rosa puts Valerie into her high chair and gets a banana for her while you check your phone just when Marcus calls you. Hesitantly, but you answer it.
“Hey, what’s up?”
“Hi, just wanted to check in if the weekend is still on.”
“Uh, sure. It is.”
“Great. I’ll have to check again with my boss, but I think I’ll be able to pick you up.”
“Great. Talk to you later.”
The call ends and you find yourself facing a curious looking Rosa on the other side of the kitchen island.
“Marcus?” she asks and you nod. “How are things going?” You’ve only mentioned it to her that it’s been hard between the two of you, but you definitely didn’t go into details. Harry was the first and last person to hear the whole story.
“Um… neutral, I guess?”
“That doesn’t sound promising.”
“I know, but I’m just trying to figure it out. We are spending the weekend together, I hope it’ll help us to get a little more… settled? I guess, I don’t know,” you stammer, nervously fidgeting with your phone in your hands.
“That’s nice, was it his idea?”
“It’s good to know that Marcus is making the right attempts to smooth things out.”
“Attempts?” Harry’s voice makes both of you look in his way as he stands at the door, seemingly confused about what he just heard. “You’re still with Marcus?”
“No, don’t try to explain it. I thought I talked sense into you last time.” He is clearly pissed, not holding back how upset he is to get the news that you are still dating Marcus. But on the other hand you can also feel yourself getting angry how he tries to control your life.
“You did, but I never said I’ll break things off with him.”
“Well, it surely sounded like you made up your mind,” he huffs.
“Well, I didn’t,” you scoff, crossing your arms on your chest.
“What the fuck, Y/N! You can’t keep doing this to yourself!” he snaps gesturing in your way. “I thought we were over this!”
“We? What do you mean we?” you grimace and now you are raising your voice as well. “Harry, there’s no we! This is my relationship and it’s nice that you care, but you can’t tell me what to do!”
Harry is vivid. He needs everything in him not to burst right then and there and for a moment you think he’s gonna just explode. But when he speaks up again his voice is quiet, however you can feel all the anger and frustration behind it.
“Get in the car, we’re leaving.”
“Get in the fucking car, Y/N!” he barks making you jump. Rosa and Steven, who arrived to the kitchen in the middle of this madness, are just watching the scene unfold, completely unable to even say a word.
Slowly, you slide off the stool and grabbing the bag filled with clothes you turn to Rosa.
“Thanks for… these,” you mumble before walking out, Harry following you right behind.
Nothing is said as the two of you get into the car, Harry is clearly on the verge of anger outburst, but you’re pretty upset yourself. The drive back to your place is painfully quiet, but you can’t stop staring at his hands gripping the wheel. HIs fingers and knuckles are turning white from the way he is basically crushing the wheel in his hold. You wouldn’t be surprised if it had his grip’s imprint on it by the time you arrive to your building.
“What the fuck, Y/N?” he snaps once the car is parked.
“Would you stop pretending like you have a saying in what I do?”
“I do have a saying in it! Because when you break again I’ll be the one picking you up from the ground!”
“Well, sorry it’s such an inconvenience to be my friend. But don’t worry, I won’t come to you again,” you snap back with a grimace and try to open the door, but it’s locked. “Let me out, Harry!”
“Fuck no, not until we talk about this,” he scoffs and it’s the last straw for you.
“There’s nothing to talk about! It’s none of your business, Harry! Stop pretending like you care!”
“I do care!” he shouts back so forcefully you are taken aback, sinking into your seat. “Of course I fucking care! How would I not?! I care about you so fucking much, how do you not see it?!”
At this point, you’re certain Harry has lost all self control and he is about to load he has been holding back out on you, while you’re just sitting there, staring at him completely speechless over how his whole being is filled with anger and fury.
“Stop fucking telling me that I don’t care when all I think about is you! Every damn day! I can’t fucking stop thinking about you, because every time my mind snaps right back to you when I’m trying to think about something else! Do you know how fucking painful it is?! See you fucking waste your time with that dickhead when I want to be with you?!”
Eyes widened you forget to even breathe as the words leave his lips and soon enough realization hits him hard about what he just said. His chest is violently waving, eyes staring straight ahead. Next time he speaks up the shouting is over, he is clearly shocked at his own behavior.
“Y/N, I-- what you told me last time, about ending up alone, that wasn’t the first time you told me all of that.”
“What?” you gasp.
“You broke down the same way at the wedding. Told me all about how you think you are just simply unlovable and will probably die alone.” His eyes snap down at his hands on his lap as he continues. “I was shocked how you’d ever think that way about yourself, because I was… I was already falling in love with you and I barely just met you that night. I couldn’t imagine what happened to you that made you believe that nonsense. I never felt like that with anyone else before and it was so fucking scary. Every time you looked at me or touched me, I could feel… the sparks. The fucking sparks, Y/N,” he lets out a bitter chuckle. “I never believed in that, but you made me feel that way. Then… one thing happened after the other and we were up in my room. I saw the way you looked at me, like I was your fucking everything and I have never experienced that. You fell asleep in my arms and I told myself that this is exactly how I want to spend the rest of my life.”
Tears roll down your cheeks as you listen in complete shock as Harry is still avoiding to look at you.
“I wanted to be the person who shows you how lovable and amazing you are, how worthy you are to be loved. Like I found my mission all of a sudden.”
“Then what the fuck happened in the morning?” you ask choking out the words. Harry finally turns to face you and you see his watery eyes. He was crying.
“You fell asleep and I was just watching you… and I realized that… sooner or later I would do something to hurt you. Because that’s what I always do and I didn’t want that. You didn’t deserve that, but I just knew I won’t be able to give you what you wanted and needed. And you told me all about how you just want to be loved and… I didn’t want to disappoint you in any way.”
He rubs his eyes turning back to look straight ahead and you see his lips tremble before he speaks up again.
“I said all those stuff so you’d have a reason to hate me and you wouldn’t try to stay with me.”
“This is literally the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” you chuckle bitterly as the tears keep rolling down your cheeks. “Do you have any idea how fucking horrible I felt after that? I felt so ashamed for fucking weeks, Harry!”
“I-I know. I mean, I figured.”
“You made me feel unwanted and dirty, it took me so long to build my confidence back and be able to think of myself as more than just some used rug that was thrown out!”
Harry sits there in complete silence and just lets you load everything out on him, because he knows that’s what he deserves. He has tried to punish himself in so many different ways for what he did to you, but he knew he had to face you someday. Now the time has come and he is done trying to run away from the consequences of his actions in the past.
“I was blaming myself all this time, thinking that I must have done something wrong, when in reality it was you! It was fucking you!”
“I know, I’m so sorry, Y/N. I didn’t mean it to end like this.”
“You didn’t mean it to end like this?” you snap. “You literally continued to treat me like shit for years! If it wasn’t for Valerie, you’d still be a complete dick to me! And what was your intention with this now, huh? Why did you tell me all of this now?!”
“Because I couldn’t stop… seeing you be so unhappy with someone who clearly doesn’t deserve you in any way. I’m selfish and I realized that I made a mistake, but I now know what I should have done, because…” He finally turns to face you again, you see a tear roll down his cheek as he takes a deep breath before continuing. “I love you. I love you, Y/N, and I’m fucking done pretending like I don’t.”
You stare back at him, breath caught in your throat and it’s the breaking point. You reach over to his side and unlock the doors so you can open yours and you jump out of the car wanting to get as far away from him as possible. He can’t just throw all of this on you after everything the two of you went through, that’s not how it works. Does he even mean it? How are you supposed to believe him after years of hatred?
You try to get inside the building, but he is quick to catch up with you, he grabs your upper arm and pulls back, but you yank his hold away.
“Where are you going?!” he snaps towering above you.
“Home. And don’t fucking touch me!”
“But I literally just told you I love you, you’re not gonna say anything about that?”
At first you plan on not even answering, you make your way towards the door, but then you change your mind. Turning around you unload on him once again.
“You don’t have the right to tell me you love me! Not after all the shit I took from you! How am I supposed to believe it when you literally made me feel like shit for all these years, saying the meanest stuff to me every damn time we met! I was avoiding you like the plague because I can’t even count how many times you made me cry calling me names and treating me so fucking horrible! No, you are not just gonna waltz in here, tell me that I have to break up with my boyfriend because you’ve been in love with me all along. I don’t fucking believe you, Harry. So stay the fuck away from me,” you tell him and push your way inside. This time he doesn’t follow.
By the time you reach your front you’re sobbing, barely seeing from your own tears. With shaking hands you unlock the door and get inside shutting the door behind you before you collapse on the floor.
Harry lives in delusion if he thinks he can just unload all of this on you and make everything right magically. Not after more than three years of the shit you took from him. How are you supposed to believe that he is telling the truth? If he loved you all along, how could he treat you like that? That’s not what love should feel like. All those countless times when you came home after seeing him and you couldn’t help but cry after some of his meanest comments… and now he is trying to make you believe he did it all to protect you from him? Bullshit.
It doesn’t work like that and now he is gonna have to face the consequences of his actions.
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Broken Souls Chapter List
“Please, be strong for me.”
The words found their way through the barriers of sleep and dreams, and Alastair heard them in the heart of a marvelous storm, and in a fire that burned through everything it touched. In the depths of an ocean that would drown him if he jumped in, and on a mountainside where an avalanche destroyed everything in its path. Dreams of a world he knew, of a broken world just beginning to heal.
The ghost of a man stood before him, features barely visible in the darkness. The night was calm on the mountain, the crescent moon hung low in the sky.
“Esfandiyār, my son. What is it that worries you?”
Alastair tried to respond. He tried to say that this was not right, that it hadn’t happened like this. They’d been in their house, not on a mountainside. But he could not speak, not as himself. Not as he was now.
It was a young boy, too young, who answered his father’s question. “Mâmân says you are sick. But you don’t seem that way now. Why are you sick sometimes, but not always?”
He is not sick at all, Alastair thought, he is drunk and any love you think he holds for you is a lie. Still, it hurt to see his father this way, before he knew about his drinking, before he lost all respect for him. It hurt to know that this was a man who he still believed had a bit of good in him, if not much. It hurt to know that this was a man who’d been dead to Alastair a long time before he’d really died.
“Perhaps you should ask your mother about that,” Elias said, suddenly seeming angry. “I do not think I am sick. But if she does, you should definitely ask her. She might know better than I do.”
In reality, he’d ran through the house to find his mother, and she’d told him then about his father’s drinking problem. In the dream, he heard something behind him, the faint sound of rushing air, as if it were trying to escape something. The ghost of his father disappeared. He turned to see a wall of white several feet taller than him, and before he could react the snow had reached him.
He was knocked off his feet by the force of it, by the shock of the cold it brought. It came so quickly he had no chance to get back up, and though he fought to stay on the surface of the icy tsunami, he was soon buried deep under the snow. Darkness surrounded him and he knew there was no escape from his terrible fate.
Or so he thought. Someone, above him, was digging through the snow. Alastair did his best to reach out, and another hand grasped his. The touch was familiar and welcome.
“I love you, Alastair, and I know you’re stronger than this.” Thomas’s voice was painfully gentle, loud and clear despite the barrier between them. “Please, be strong for me.”
Slowly, the cold went away, the snow around him melting. It was no longer night; the sun shone brightly overhead. Thomas was there, looking more beautiful than he ever had, if such a thing was possible.
Suddenly, the mountainside was gone. Thomas was nowhere to be seen. Alastair stood alone for a moment in Broceland Plain, before others appeared around him. The boys who’d said such horrible things at school, who’d hurt him in more ways than one. He knew, immediately, what was coming. The dark clouds overhead confirmed it.
“Isn’t your family always moving around, Carstairs? Why is that? Are you hiding something? Is your murderess of a mother running from the law? They’ll catch her eventually, you know. What happens then?”
That was it. That was the final straw. They could say whatever they wanted about his good-for-nothing father, but a word against his mother was too far. She’d done nothing wrong; she certainly hadn’t murdered anyone.
“My mother is not a killer,” he said as the rain came down, lightly, at first. “You know whose is, though? James Herondale, with his warlock mother. I’ve met that demonic woman, and she is hiding more than her ancestry. I suspect there are several skeletons in her closet, and at least one of them is real. The ghost they say haunts the Institute, perhaps.”
He didn’t know why he said it. He didn’t hate James, and he quite liked Tessa. It was an involuntary reaction to their words, the instinct of fight or flight finally worn off to throw someone else under the bus. Still, the words he said were baseless, having only heard others say horrible things about Tessa, though none of them were true.
The other boys laughed. “Maybe you’re not so bad, after all, Carstairs. Why don’t you tell us more about those awful Herondales, the demon-lovers.”
The rain was pouring now, and Alastair fought to hide the anger he felt at hearing them speak so badly of a family friend. He went along with their game of lies and rumors. Wind swirled around him and the other boys disappeared. He was alone, the glass towers of Alicante rising on the horizon.
Lightning struck only a short distance away. Suddenly, there were shards of glass in the air, the wind lifting them up and whipping them around him, cutting his skin. He crouched down close to the ground, bringing his knees to his chest. It was as if he was a child again, hiding in his room when his father was in a particularly bad mood. If he could just wait it out, it would all be fine.
“Make it stop,” he whispered, though there was no one there to hear him, “please make it stop.”
When the storm cleared, after what felt like forever, a new boy stood before him, as young as he was at the time of the memory. Seeing Thomas as small as he’d been at school was strange, like an image of a familiar building before its last remodel, years ago. Thomas smiled at him, and Alastair wondered how he’d never noticed his beauty at school, for it had always been there, even before he’d grown.
He said something, five words, before it all faded again.
Waves crashed far below, against jagged rocks like spearheads jutting up from the ocean floor. Someone stood at the very edge of the cliff, not quite far enough off to fall. A shock of red hair told Alastair exactly who it was.
“You’ve nothing to be afraid of,” Charles said with that horrible smile, a smile that hid more pain than Alastair could’ve imagined at the time. Not Charles’s pain, but his own. “We’ll be careful, and we won’t get caught. You say you’ve never been in love before? I can show you all there is to know about it.”
To his sixteen-year-old self, the idea was appealing. No one had ever truly loved him, not even his family, he thought. Maybe Charles would. Besides, the thought of hiding such a secret was thrilling, a risk that seemed as if it would fun to take. He thought little on the fact that he’d never truly wanted to hide, even when it was wrong to be what he was. He’d had quite enough of hiding, after his time at the Academy. Not that that mattered, in the heat of the moment.
Charles was so much older, more experienced, more confident in himself. He always seemed to know exactly what he was doing, when Alastair didn’t have a clue. Every move he made was calculated, every word he said was the right one. Even when he kissed, he was so much better at it than Alastair, who’d never been brave enough to kiss anyone before him. It should’ve been a warning sign, for someone to seem so perfect at first. He never thought of it that way, though, because he was young and naïve and he wanted to believe Charles would not hurt him, the way everyone else in his life had.
Now, years later, he knew how wrong he’d been. He knew Charles had never loved him, for love and desire were not the same thing. He knew it was possible to have more than just one. He knew, when Charles pulled him too close to the edge and he fell into the water, that it’d been bound to happen from the start.
The waves were too powerful for him to fight, so he didn’t even try. He let himself sink, and the light above him slowly faded. The air left his lungs.
Just when he thought he had no hope, his feet hit the bottom. From there, he pushed back up, finally finding the strength to make it to the surface. At first, there was no one there to help him swim to shore. The only one who had been, had abandoned him. So through the waves he swam with no lifeline, the riptide trying to pull him back. Occasionally the waves would stop for a moment, like someone had forced them to calm, to let him go. It wasn’t enough, but it helped.
When a lifeline did appear, he ignored it at first. He was fine on his own. Even when he started to sink again, he could not use that lifeline, because Thomas was on the other side, and he was off-limits. Still, he could not stop himself from drowning without help.
He took the lifeline, and everything faded once more.
The boy who stood before him was familiar, too much so. Brown skin, dark eyes, and bleached-blonde hair. There was a sadness in his eyes that Alastair wondered about. Was it still there, in his own, or had he finally let go of the weights that held him down? Something told him he hadn’t.
All around him, brilliant flames lit the earth, the smoke rising from them nearly choking him. But that didn’t quite seem to be the purpose, for once. All the other dreams had been meant to hurt him, pieces of his past that he wanted to be rid of.
Maybe, that was what this was. He saw himself as he’d been only months ago, and it was not a pleasant sight. He saw himself with all his pain, with all the horrible memories and trauma. He saw himself, standing in the fire, unharmed.
Voices behind him, the sound of movement, prompted him to turn. There, he saw his mother, as he’d last seen her—weeks away from giving birth. He saw his sister, Cortana sheathed at her side, a marriage rune on her arm. He saw Thomas, with sleeves rolled up to show his compass rose tattoo. All three of them stood away from the fire, not as if it hadn’t reached them yet, but as if it never would.
There was only one way to reach them, to reach the place where the fire didn’t burn. It surrounded him, after all, so he had to go through it. The smoke didn’t bother him, but the flames licked the air, rising higher and higher. At first, they were painful, but eventually, the pain became normal, less noticeable. By the time he reached the other side and it went away, he’d almost forgotten how bad it was.
He knew he must’ve been badly burned, because when he let himself melt into Thomas’s embrace, it hurt him to do so. Still, the pain was not nearly as bad as it had been. Burns could heal, eventually. To stand in an endless fire was to deny them that chance.
Looking back at the fire, Alastair was shocked to see it had grown even bigger. The other boy, that earlier version of himself, was nowhere to be seen. That was a boy who let himself drown, because he thought it was better than to die of thirst. That was a boy who did not hide from a deadly storm, when he so easily could’ve avoided it. That was a boy who didn’t know the warning signs when an avalanche was coming. That was a boy who’d never learned to survive.
Alastair had. He’d learned what it meant to push too far, to get in over his head. He’d learned what it meant to say the wrong things, to hurt someone else for his own sake. He’d learned what it meant to love the right people, to be loved in return. He’d learned what it meant to live, not just to survive. Others had been there, guiding him, but he’d always been the one to teach himself those things. He knew that now, and he realized, maybe, he was worth more than nothing. More than he’d ever thought possible.
Thomas spoke, finally, and he remembered the dream he was in. “I love you, Alastair,” the taller boy said with a kiss to his forehead, “and I know you’re stronger than this. I need you to wake up, okay? Not now, but whenever you’re ready. Magnus said you would be all right. I need you not to prove him wrong. Please, be strong for me.”
He knew, now, that Thomas was right. He was stronger than this poison. For all he’d gone through, he was still alive, and he didn’t plan on dying any time soon. Whatever the point of these dreams, he was ready to wake up.
He opened his eyes.
Tag list: @alastair-esfandiyar-carstairs1, @zmaragdinae, @zosiaenrique, @foxglove-airmid, @anarmorofwords, @andreils-bitch, @fictionally-fantastic, @jennyleedream, @3-1415ilovethehelmet, @panicatwallmaria, @ohcoolnice, @alastair-and-will-my-life, @voidmalecstydia, @livingformyself, @shadowgays2006, @wannabe-warlock, @galacticbookshelf, @stairs-carstairs, @the-tempest-and-the-fire, @yozinha-z
If you want to be added/removed lmk
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pairing: kix x reader
word count: 1.137k
warnings: references to the clone wars, references to canon typical violence, dealing with an injury, angst, pining, fluff (at the end), cursing
a/n: this is the first time writing for kix! the prompt comes from this post, which lists the schedule for my upcoming fics! let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist. i hope you guys enjoy! :)))
prompt: “i think i’m in love with you and i don’t know what to do.”
“is she going to make it?”
“not too sure. her vitals are lookin’ fantastic but she needs to keep fighting this infection. it’s a pretty nasty one. she took quite a bit of shrapnel, all over.”
“she’s strong, rex. one of the strongest jedi i’ve ever seen. she’ll make it.”
“i know she will. fives, where’s kix?”
“he administered the ebacta shots and the spray, but i’m not sure where he went after that. he seemed pretty distraught, almost white as a ghost. he had me wrap her up. i think it has somethin’ to do with his emotions. he tends to let them get in the way when it comes to her.”
“perhaps we should bring him in. give ‘em some space.”
“not sure if that’s a good idea, captain.”
all around you, voices swirl around, seeping into your ears. stirring, your mind reels as a piercing pain racks your skull, temple throbbing. lashes fluttering, you attempt to cough, but the stark dryness in your throat produces a hacking sound instead. immediately, gentle arms wrap around you, elevating your back.
“you’re awake,” rex murmurs, pressing a hand to your shoulder, “do we need to get kix?”
“he’s real worried about you,” fives chirps, “worried sick.”
“w-what happened?” you sputter out, finally allowing your eyes to open.
sterile, bright white light floods your vision, the shapes of rex and fives a blur. yet, they come into focus, their images sharpening by the second. rex’s eyes are vast golden pools, glittering with concern as he squats, at eye-level. fives hovers by the bed, his brow furrowed, lips drawn together in a solemn frown. rex draws in a sharp breath, glancing at fives momentarily before speaking.
“separatist forces were a little heavier than we expected.”
“how many losses?” the question tumbles from your lips.
rex exhales, his eyes darting to the shiny floor, “heavy losses on both sides. i want to say that we wiped out more clankers, but i don’t want to give you any kind of false hope, general. the damage on our side was extensive.”
“there’s always hope, rex,” reaching out, your fingers brush his cheek, wiping away a tear, “you always have to remember to hold onto hope. especially during times like these.”
“we almost lost ya,” rex murmurs, his voice weary and worn, “we almost lost our favorite general.”
“but i’m here now,” a dry chuckle blossoms in your throat, “i’m still here.”
“barely,” fives snorts, “we were all a mess hours ago, kix included.”
“i think you need to speak to kix,” rex states, “he’s in shambles.”
“he’d like that,” fives adds, shifting his body towards the exit, “i’ll go grab him.”
squeezing your eyes shut, you muster up the strength to sit up straighter, wincing as your leg sears, “rex, how close was i--”
“don’t worry about that right now,” he counters, shaking his head, “like you said, you’re here. and that’s all that matters right now.”
“are you going to stay in the bay with me when kix comes in?”
“i believe it’s best if i give you two some privacy,” rex’s lips twitch into a tiny grin, the hint of a tease dancing in his depths, “however, i’m sure fives will be lingering around, trying to listen in. i’ll be around though, reining him in if he gets a little too nosy.”
just as the words trail from his mouth, you sense another presence in the room.
he stands in the doorway, accompanied by fives. your heart sinks as you take in the sight of him: the dried tears staining his cheeks. the exhausted expression plaguing his features. yet, there’s one aspect that tugs at your heart.
the hollowed look in his eyes.
eyes that were once alight with joy whenever you were in a room were now broken, bleak and dark.
“kix,” you utter his name, in a vain attempt to lift his spirits, “you can come over here. you don’t have to stand in the door.”
“we’ll leave you two be,” rex clears his throat, placing his hands on a very intrigued fives, nearly pushing him out the space.
there’s a beat of silence that consumes the air, the only noise the whir of machines.
he’s still, almost frozen. once again, you lift a hand, fingers extending, “kix, come here.”
kix blinks, trudging to your side. taking your hand, he bows his head, his voice barely a whisper.
“i almost lost you.”
“you didn’t,” your free hand cups his cheek, thumb caressing his cheekbone, “i’m right here, kix. you’ll never lose me.”
“i can’t bear that thought,” he stumbles over the words, “you’re far too important to me.”
“i couldn’t just leave my boys. and stars, i couldn’t even imagine leaving my favorite medic.”
his head lifts, tears pooling in his eyes as a weak smile stretches across his lips, “i’m your favorite medic?”
“always have been and always will be,” you nod, affirming the statement.
the weight of your words lingers in the air for a moment, almost hanging above your heads. kix clears his throat, shifting his weight so that he’s as close as he can be to you now, head nearly centimeters away from bumping against yours. hands grasp your cheeks, pulling you in close.
“kix,” you manage to giggle, “you know you don’t have to--”
“i think i’m in love with you and i don’t know what to do.”
you let out a shaky breath, mind buzzing, attempting to process the words that fell from his mouth. he pulls away, biting on his lip, gauging your reaction. he speaks up once more, pain lurking in his gaze, threatening to overcome him.
“i-i’m so fuckin’ sorry, i shouldn’t have said that. it was--”
“kix, you know what you should do?”
his brow furrows in confusion, lips parting, “huh?”
“come here,” you pat the bed, “come hold me.”
“no,” his voice is firm, “i’d hurt you.”
“but i want you here,” a whimper laces your words, “i want you here beside me.”
“look at you,” kix rolls his eyes, scoffing, “got me bendin’ the rules and shit. just for you, cyar’ika.”
carefully, kix clambers into the bed beside you, wrapping an arm around you. his thumb brushes against your waist, sending your heart all aflutter. a sleepy haze ripples within you as his head rests on top of yours, free hand finding yours and squeezing it gently.
“hey kix,” you begin, eyes drooping as the ebacta sends you spiraling into sleep.
“what does cyar’ika mean?”
the query earns an exhausted chuckle from the medic, throat rumbling, “you can learn what it means when you’re feeling better.”
“would you tell me if i told you my secret?”
“and what’s your secret?” lips brush your head.
“i think i’m in love with you too.”
taglist: @fandom-gal44 @dexthtoyounglings @xcertaindarkthingsx @idiotonanadventure @pinkwhorecrux @letitrainathousandflames @maiaofmischief @laorme34 @vinciwolf @starflyer-104 @catsnkooks
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"Rescue" with Duncan?
(*chanting* mer may mer may MER MAY MER MAY-)
The ocean was wholly unfamiliar territory, as far as Duncan was concerned. Growing up smack dab in the middle of Kansas, the biggest body of water he’d ever seen was the lake near his hometown...and he was fine with that. Why be stuck at the beach, he’d often thought, where sand got in your ass and the whole place smelled like a fish left to rot in the boiling sun? Why go to the ocean, when it was just a thousand miles of absolutely nothing? He much preferred grass between his toes, trees swaying in the breeze, sitting in a tube on the gentle waves of freshwater...
Unfortunately for Duncan, a family vacation was a family vacation, and no amount of arguing or pleading his case would get him out of it. A cruise was his worst nightmare made manifest, a week of nothing but ocean and beaches and his mother hounding him for group photos. His only solace was that the alcohol was free and flowed like a fountain.
Duncan was a messy sort of person as it was. Crass, tactless, selfish...His drunkenness only served to exacerbate the worst in him. He leaned against the ship’s railing, head swimming after another night at one of the cruise’s many bars. The cold sea wind lashed against his skin, whipped his clothes around, and he figured he should probably go back to his cabin...but he stayed put, gaze pointed downward to the swirling, dark abyss below.
Something bumped into him, a man with a girl on his arm. Annoyed, Duncan spun around.
“Y’gonna apologize?” He grunted at the man, who looked at him like he was a particularly annoying fly.
“Maybe don’t stand there like some kinda jackass, kid.” He replied, very quickly stoking Duncan’s ire. He straightened up as best he could, crossing his arms against his chest. Maybe he was trying to look bigger...maybe he was trying to be intimidating. It was hard to tell, because it failed miserably in both regards.
“Maybe if you weren’t so distracted by that slut over there you’d actually see where you were walkin’...” Duncan slurred, in more ways than one.
He can’t really remember what happened after that. Perhaps it was the ungodly amount of alcohol that caused a brief blank, or perhaps it was the fist that connected so hard with his jaw that did it. It was hard to tell. Either way, all he knew was that his face hurt and that he was falling. Falling. Falling.
The impact hurt worse than the punch. Landing right on his back forced all the air from his lungs and then some...it felt like he’d smashed his body against concrete. When he finally regained use of his body after the shock, his first gasp of air was marred by salty, freezing water. His second attempt was no better, and soon, he felt his body submerge beneath the waves.
It was dark and cold...but oddly peaceful. Quiet, serene, despite the horror of his situation. What little air he managed to procure quickly bubbled out of him as he sank, body growing limp from pain and fatigue.
Until it wasn’t dark and cold. Until it was warm, and...dry? Duncan felt something, some sort of force, push against his chest, forcing him to cough up seawater. Warmth spread across his limbs, leeching away the horrid pain he’d felt before. He croaked in a breath, a real breath, and blearily opened his eyes.
He felt like he was in an aquarium. Surrounding him was some sort of bubble, shielding him from the water that had nearly consumed him. Fish swam by, briefly curious by the odd air pocket that sat in their waves...
Something dark and long would occasionally pass by his view. Duncan, shivering at the brief sight of it, was content to pretend it was the light or some large pieces of kelp.
“There we are...” Said a voice. It was a gentle sound, echoing around the bubble like a melodious song. Duncan couldn’t figure out where it was coming from. “You took quite a tumble there, my darling.”
Backing up against the walls of the bubble, Duncan found his voice. Cracking, broken, and sore--but his voice nonetheless.
“Who...who are you!? What the fuck is this!?”
Laughter settled around him, beautiful and terrible all in one neat little package. It certainly didn’t help Duncan’s already frazzled nerves.
“Temper, temper...No need to have such an attitude with the man who saved your life.” The voice said.
“Get off your fuckin’ high horse.” Duncan snapped, flinching as another one of those large pitch-black tendrils went past his little bubble. “Where are you?”
“Nearby, don’t you fret...Merely out of sight. You wouldn’t be so keen on seeing me, I think.”
Duncan snorted derisively, trying to see past the darkness of the sea to find his supposed rescuer. Nothing...Nothing but the tendrils swimming in and out of the corner of his eye. “Try me.”
“...As you wish.” The voice said, mirth drenched deep in his tone. Through the darkness, something shimmered. It was like Duncan’s vision was finally clearing, giving way to what truly lay before him...The first thing he saw were the eyes. The massive eyes that were focused so intently on him he felt like a mouse cornered by a cat. They shone brightly in the dark, red as rubies and blood and bright wine. Enormous eyes, in an equally enormous face--that of a man, no older than himself if he had to guess...A man of dark skin and hair pale as milk that flowed in a halo around his head.
He would have been beautiful. The most beautiful thing Duncan had ever laid his eyes on, really...had he not looked closer at him. A smugly smiling face gave way to a viciously fanged grin, webbed hands big enough to grab him up in a single fist, tipped with sharp claws--and then there was the rest of his body. The top half was man, and the bottom...anything but. Dark tentacles flowed from his lower half like a dress, or a skirt, moving in time with the ebb and flow of the waves...a few even went so far as to gently stroke the outside of the bubble.
“My name is Maddox.” The creature said, leaning forward so that he could more closely inspect the human. “Before you ask--no, I am not a mermaid. In fact, ‘mermaids’ as you know them aren’t even real. I am a cecaelia. Now...this is the part where you start screaming.”
Duncan wanted to. He wanted to scream bloody murder and rip and claw at this damn bubble until it let him out, as if he thought he could swim faster than this seabeast could...but, he was nothing if not spiteful and the alcohol hadn’t yet been entirely burnt out by his adrenaline.
“...Hi, Maddox.” He began, uncertain. “I’m Duncan. Uh this...this was nice and all, thank you for saving me, all that but uh-” He coughed, fists clenched tightly, trying not to feel so exposed under the other’s gaze. “Can I go back, now?”
That laugh again, it threatened to burst his eardrums, and it only became more terrifying now that he had a face to the sound. Maddox reached forward, cupping his protective bubble in his hands and bringing it close to his chest.
“No, my darling. You’re not going anywhere, I’m afraid. You see, my people, we’re...rather particular about favors. And I just did you a rather large one, didn’t I? It’s only right that you repay it.”
Duncan didn’t like that. Duncan really didn’t like that. He gazed up at the cecaelia, trying not to let the creeping fear he felt leech into his voice. He was going to stand his ground...somehow.
“...What in the fuck is that supposed to mean? Let me out of here, you goddamn calimari!”
“It means...” Maddox began, a flash of annoyance passing over his face. “I’ve been following that wretched ship of yours for days until one of you pitiful little things finally fell overboard--you always do. I need a...oh, what is the word for it. I need an assistant for something, and a landwalker like yourself is perfect for it. Now--are you going to be difficult, or are you going to work with me?”
Duncan fell silent, considering his words...and ultimately found them wanting, apparently. He promptly gave Maddox the bird.
“Go fuck yourself, fish sticks.”
“Right. Difficult it is, then.”
And then the cecaelia sped off further into the ocean’s depths, far away from any ship or even a sliver of civilization. In his grasp, the bubbled human screeched angrily at him, spitting threat upon useless threat...and Maddox instantly knew he was in for a long few weeks.
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Pairing: Ransom Drysdale x Conwoman!Reader
Warnings: smut, 18+, unprotected sex (do not recommend, pls be wise) Ransom's hurt ego/pride.
A/N: I love Ransom so much. I'd probably let him get away with murder, which is probs wrong since I'm a law student. Anyways, hope you enjoy!! Also the writing is crap and not at all intelligent, I just needed to let off some Ransom steam. ^_^
I post my stuff here and on AO3, nowhere else.
You took a sip of your martini. Perfect. The one thing about these high end resto-bars was that they never went wrong with their martinis. Always the right balance of sweet and intoxication. If only you could always afford these places.
You didn't mean to sound bitter, oh no no. Life has worked out better than expected. Your way of life got lonely sometimes, but survival of the fittest was the way of life, right?
In your experience, doing what you did, you realised that men were very literal creatures, always thinking linearly. Most of them lacked any depth to their thoughts, their way of life. The rich ones? They were as deep as an above ground pool. Throwing money every chance they got, flaunting their first row seats at the operas, trips to their villas in the French Riviera and what not. Their wives had no idea, always doting after their perfect husbands, with their Himalayan Birkins.
Imagine the surprise these men felt when you took what was most precious to them; no, not their families or children, but their money. A woman, no less. A woman who they had considered a damsel, in need of pearls and diamonds, and their strong strapping arms and care. And they didn’t dare report this. How could they? As far as their wives were concerned, you didn’t exist. You snorted. Good riddance, and all that.
That’s why you chose him.
Hugh Ransom Drysdale.
He wasn’t a different one, that's for sure. A pretty boy with arrogance dripping off of him like he had just stepped out of a swanky prep school. He screamed rich kid, with his perfectly coiffed hair, right to his buffed fingernails.
This should be easy, you thought to yourself.
You walked passed him, swaying your hips ever so slightly. Your look for tonight was carefully calculated: bait for a good, prize catch. There were many men there, sure, ordering crates of champagne for their "business associates".
But this one was different. He didn't pay heed to you as you made your way towards him, placing yourself next to him at the bar, nor did he check you out like most men did. He simply took a swig of his drink, focusing hard at something in his phone. Weird. You chose to give him the benefit of the doubt, calculating his next move. Surely, he'd ask to buy you a drink. He was just playing hard to get, you were sure. His next move stunned you, however.
He got up, slid a 100 dollar bill on the counter, and walked away, his jacket slung over his arm. You blinked, not really understanding what had happened. You ordered a red wine, quite perplexed. This was perhaps the first time something like this had happened, and it quite perturbed you.
You didn’t have time to dwell on your thoughts, however, as the bartender slid a coaster towards you.
“Mr. Drysdale sends his regards.”
You frowned. Drysdale? The famous real estate mogul? Man oh man, this was gonna be good.
You smirked as you read the scribbles on the coaster. To think you thought that he was gonna be different. Oh well. Room 537 it is, then.
You made your way to the room, checking your makeup and spritzing on a bit of perfume on the way. Standing outside his room, you knocked three times before the door swung open to reveal a treat.
Mr. Drysdale, sans shirt and his tight dress pants. Yum.
You composed yourself and entered the room, remembering the fact that you had a job to complete.
“So, that’s your game?” you asked, setting yourself down on the settee by the minibar.
“I don’t play games.” he said, pouring an amber liquid from the crystal cut decanter.
“Then why bother giving me your room number?” you drawled, accepting the glass.
“I know you wanted me to chase you. Knew it from the moment you entered. But that’s not how I work. I get what I want, and I wanted you.”
“A real charmer, aren’t ya?” you said dryly.
“Let’s cut to the chase sweetheart. You want me, I want you. Simple.”
“How can you be so sure that I want you? I could have just come up to confront you or something.”
“Yea, right. That dress says differently. You know what you want and you were going after it. I just skipped a few steps along the way. You’re welcome.” he smirked, raising his perfectly shaped eyebrow at you.
“So now that your plan has come into play, what do you suggest we do?”
He grinned and took a swig of his drink. Placing his drink on the counter, he took your hand in his and pulled you up, pulling you tightly to him.
Leaning towards your ear, he rasped, “I’m gonna fuck you till you can’t walk.”
With that, Ransom didn’t waste any more time. He picked you up bridal style and tossed you on the bed, without any preamble.
“Last chance to leave, kitten. Whaddaya want?”
You gulped. You wanted this, you needed this. You didn’t bother answering him as you pulled him down by his tie, lips melding against his as you held onto his collar. He was surprised by your sudden attack, but reciprocated equally, if not with more ferocity.
Lowering you onto the bed, he yanked the thin straps of your dress down, sucking at your pulse point, his hands caressing your body. You moaned, feeling his actions go straight to your core, lighting you up from within. He pulled the dress down with urgency, freeing your breasts from their confines.
Taking a hardened nub in his mouth, he swirled it around his tongue as his hands wandered lower. He was about to pull your dress up, when you stopped his wandering hands, pushing him off you, as he looked at you, bewildered.
“What the-!” he began but you quickly silenced him with your lips, your hands working double time to undo the buttons of his shirt. You deepened the kiss pulling him by his tie, while grinding against him ever so slightly. He broke away from the kiss, panting; his eyes wide, an unknown emotion swirling in the midst.
“Oh sweetheart.”he growled, “You’ve awoken the beast, now.”
With that, you were lost in a frenzy of movements. He nearly ripped your dress off, throwing you on the bed, caging you underneath his body. Lowering himself, he nipped and sucked at your neck, your collarbone, your breastbone, his voracious tongue leaving fire in its wake. You gasped, fingers making their way to his messy locks. What had started off as a game, a new target, was quickly becoming something more, and that thought scared you.
Eyes on the prize, sugar. Let him lead.
His tongue was drawing circles on the tattoo at your abdomen, while his fingers were at your core, his thumb lightly nudging your clit. Jesus. Your hips moved of their own accord, tugging at his hair in silent plea. Looking up, he saw your need and whispered lasciviously,
“I’m gonna make you scream till all the other floors know my name, sweetheart. Just need to get you nice and ready for me. Wouldn’t want to break my promise now, would I?”
With that, you felt your entire focus shift to your core, as his intrepid tongue drew patterns on your clit, his digits moving within your wet channel. You groaned, tugging on his hair, bringing him closer to where you wanted him. You felt your walls tightening, the coil in your belly ready to unwind. He withdrew his fingers, moving up swiftly, gazing into your indignant eyes.
“Only time you’re gonna come is on my cock, sweetheart.”
With that, he thrust himself inside you, your walls engulfing him. Luckily for you, Ransom didn’t do sweet, slow thrusts. He set up an unrelenting pace, spearing into you, his shaft reaching places which no man had been able to reach before. You groaned, closing your eyes, your head jerking to the side, unable to handle all the sensations he was invoking.
Grasping your chin, he turned you to face him. “Eyes on me, sweetheart. I wanna see how good you feel while I’m taking you apart.” he rasped.
Something in his voice made you break; making you almost feral. You pushed on his shoulders, catching him off-guard for a minute, enough to push him on his back and straddle him.
Leaning down and catching his lips for a kiss, you whispered, “You should have the best view for a show like that, then.”
You sunk down on him, moaning loudly as you engulfed him to the hilt. Holding onto his hands for support, you began riding him for all your worth. Ransom watched on with awe, his eyes mesmerised by the sight of you; your eyes closed, mouth slack with arousal and your breasts bouncing with each bob.
You were quickly reaching your peak and Ransom could feel that too. He planted his feet down on the mattress, thrusting upward, meeting you thrust for thrust. Your thighs started quivering, an intense pressure building up with each thrust.
“Come on, come for me, kitten.” muttered Ransom, through gritted teeth.
You threw your head back, screaming as you reached your peak, raking your fingernails across Ransom’s chest. As your walls clenched around him tightly, Ransom grasped your waist, holding onto you as he thrust upwards, chasing his end.
Leaning down, you took one of his buds into your mouth, swirling your tongue around as you met his eyes.
“Come for me, tiger.” you said huskily, tugging on his lower lip.
Ransom grunted and cussed loudly as he poured himself into you, his grip on your waist tight as he held you in place till he filled you with every last drop. Rolling off him, you watched him catch his breath, slowly drifting off, his arm encircling your waist as he went deeper into slumber.
After a few minutes, you checked on him, just to be sure. He was out cold.
You smirked. Alright.
Time to start Part 2 of the Plan.
Ransom woke up, feeling satisfied and smug. Yet another conquest down. He didn’t understand why women played these games women loved to play with him. Smirking, he looked over to look at you, but was surprised to see your side empty.
He frowned. Getting up, he checked the bathroom. Empty.
She left without even giving her name. Ahh, well, not the first time this had happened. Moving to check his phone, he noticed his wallet open, with all the cash missing.
Oh, so that’s why she left. Wow, what a surprise, he thought. Good thing she didn’t leave a name, for she was no more than a common whore, he thought, puling on his pants.
He was sorely mistaken though.
As he walked past the attached common area, he saw something which made him stop in his tracks.
The safe was wide open, with all of its contents gone. Every last thing.
He stormed into the area, his anger surging with each passing second. He couldn’t give less of a fuck about the goddamn valuables that were missing. But she had taken something which had taken him 3 fucking years to get.
She had stolen the documents; not just any documents, but the very ones which would have bought the Langleys’ silence and their company, making Ransom a very, very rich man. All gone, because of a quick fuck.
The bitch had stolen his ace of spades. And he would make sure that she would suffer.
Ransom would make her pay. By hook or by crook.
A/N: Eeeeek, I was too nervous to put this out ughhhhh. Also, I have a taglist now, if you’re into that sort of thing. 😅 (link is also available in my bio)
Tags: @donutloverxo @ozarkthedog @chris-evans-indian-fanfic @readermia
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Royai prompt: They get caught gettingiton by all of Team Mustang, pre frat rules being lifted. (Or making out, if you wanna keep it PG~ honestly I just wanna see the members of Team ‘We-All-Share-The-Same-Braincell’ finding their very professional bosses not being very professional.)
Hello sorry this took so long!! It's here now! This is also a lot more tender than what I think you were expecting haha
Title: flash flood under my bed
Read it here or on AO3
Riza feels herself stretched between the realm of consciousness as if her body is being hauled through a swamp. Sticky and lethargic, her eyelids flutter and fall as her mind claws at the mud. Each time she resurfaces from its depths she can take the world in for only a second—a burning light above her, a white ceiling tile, thin sheets beneath her arms—before she is submerged once again, dragged into the grime.
Her mind wakes before her body does, kicking at the shallows to keep her eyes open. Fear creeps up the back of her neck at the foreign bed under her, the unfamiliar room. She wills her body to move, to secure her surroundings. Her eyes drag to her right, blinking sluggishly at the figure there.
Black hair. It’s messy. Who is that again? A small part of her asks.
Silly girl, a larger part supplies, rattling through her entire body, that’s your Colonel.
She finally blinks awake, eyes wide. Her body feels like it’s been dumped in ice water after being in a hot spring. She turns her head.
Roy does not acknowledge her movement, he sits on a borrowed hospital chair at the side of her bed, head bowed, fingers twisted in the bedsheets. His eyes are closed.
Her memories catch up with the rest of her—the tunnels, Bradley, Pride, the transmutation circle—she swallows back a choked noise. Her throat is rubbed raw from both the exertion and the yelling, her tongue feels like it’s been turned to cotton, and when she swallows again she tastes iron.
“Colonel…,” she rasps, but it comes out more of a cough than a word.
He hears it, though, and his head shoots up, eyes opening to reveal foggy pupils as he looks in the direction he thinks her head is. “Lieutenant—” he gasps, a quiet noise. Maybe he’s been swimming in a swamp, too. “Lieutenant, are you awake?”
Riza nods. Realizes he cannot see her. She hums an answer instead.
A grin splits his face, and it is a look so utterly relieved that she feels her eyes misting, “I’m so glad,” he whispers, breathless, “I’m so glad you’re okay.”
She wants to answer, wants it more than anything at this moment. To reach out and reassure him with words he’ll need now that he cannot see, to talk, finally, now that the battle is over. But her throat still tastes like metal, and she desperately needs a drink.
“Water,” she croaks, reaching feebly for the table at her bedside.
“Oh, right.” Roy traces the edge of her bed until his hand hits the table leg, brushing upwards until he closes his hand gingerly around the full glass. She meets his hand halfway, closing her fingers around his bandaged skin as he moves the cup to where he thinks her head is.
Riza sits up, the wound in her shoulder smarts as she does so, but she ignores it in favor of guzzling the water, only stopping to gulp down air.
When the cup is empty, and her throat feels less like it’s full of copper cenz, she opens her mouth. “Thank you, Colonel,” she starts, she almost says I’m glad you’re okay, too. But he isn’t okay, his hands are wrapped in gauze, and he’s still blind. What a poor excuse for a bodyguard you are, her mind spits.
“How long have you been waiting here?” She asks instead, an innocent question, a safe question.
“A couple of hours, I think. Though I really can’t tell,” he laughs, but it sounds strained. A string pulled taut. “You’ve been asleep for longer, It took the medics a while to bring me here. How is your neck? Your shoulder?”
“Sore, they itch a little, too. Mei Chang did a fine job, it’s not as bad as it could be.”
His mouth creases in a thin line at the memory of her, the blood, the gold-toothed doctor. “I suppose you’re right. It seems I am indebted to her for saving my precious subordinate’s life.”
Precious. Riza ignores the warmth in her chest and eases back onto her pillow with a heavy sigh. “How are your hands, sir?” She doesn’t ask about his eyes, she knows Amestrian medics don’t have the means to restore his sight from the other side of the gate.
Roy’s head tilts down as if to look at the bandaged limb before he catches himself, snapping his head upwards like it was pulled by a hook. “The surgery was quick, and the doctor said they’ll heal fine. The cuts were clean. Neat, even.” He shoots her a lopsided smile, “still hurts like a bitch to move, though.”
Riza doesn’t have the energy to laugh, her lips quirk instead. “That’s good, Colonel.”
There’s a lull, a tension settles in the air like lightning is about to strike the very room they sit. She hasn’t felt this uneasy in his presence since Ishval. Riza takes a breath, “sir—”
“I am very sorry, Hawkeye.”
Riza freezes, staring at him. She doesn’t speak, she senses he’s not quite finished.
“I apologize for… for everything that happened in those tunnels. For losing my head fighting the homunculus, for yelling at you, for my… attachment to you getting you hurt,” he looks up, and despite the blind gaze, she feels his eyes bore into hers. “I was reckless. Arrogant to think they’d never hold you against me and a fool for thinking I was a good enough man that you would never have to pull your gun on me.”
“Please,” he begs, bowing his head. “Please forgive me, Hawkeye.”
She inhales slowly, turning his words over in her head. She remembers the terror in his voice as he watched her get dragged to the transmutation circle. “You don’t have to apologize for what happened with the doctor. That wasn’t your fault, sir. It was never your fault that they decided to use me against you. You could never have prevented that.” Roy looks like he wants to argue, she forges on, “do not apologize for being a human, Colonel. You are bound to have people close to you. Any one of those could have been used against you, to drop them for any potential threat is a foolish paranoia. Our…” relationship? Partnership? Friendship? “...proximity is nothing to apologize for. I will not have it.”
She pauses, clenching her hands against the pristine sheets of her bed. The battle with Envy flits through her head like an old film, her Colonel’s savagery seems branded in her mind. Riza takes a deep breath. “You lost yourself against Envy. You lost yourself in your anger, and you said horrible things. You almost did horrible things. You pushed me away, Colonel. But…,” she looks at him, his fingernails are digging into the fabric of his pants, knuckles white.
She remembers what he had said to her months prior, before she had been reassigned. I’ve been called a human weapon, a monster, but it’s only when I’m fighting a real monster that I realize I’m just a human. She rests her hand on his, his fingers relax under her touch.
“You didn’t go past the point of no return. You didn’t lose your humanity, Roy.”
Roy sucks in a breath, the sound rattled and hollowed. It makes him look fragile. She curls her fingers around his palm.
“So…,” she begins, her voice no more than a whisper, he leans his head towards her. “I forgive you, Roy Mustang. I’ve already forgiven you.”
Roy turns his hand upwards, slipping his fingers between hers. His eyes are closed again, and there is a small, shaky smile on his face. “I don’t know why you’re forgiving me so easily. You shouldn’t.”
“Well, I’ve never listened to everything you have to say, sir.”
Laughter bubbles from his lips, the sound warm. The knot of stress in his voice seems to have unwound. He bows his head, his forehead nearly touching hers. “Thank you, Ha— Riza.” She can make out the small, newly healed scratches on his face from this distance. “Truly, for everything, thank you.”
The hand he has clasped in hers untangles their fingers and reaches up to trace along the inside of her wrist, up against the length of her arm, her uninjured shoulder, the side of her face, until he sweeps the loose hair that falls over her eyes behind her ear. The movement is slow, tentative, cautious of her injuries and his own blindness. Riza leans into his palm and hums, a soft encouragement. She pushes up on her elbows as his finger traces her cheek, her jaw.
Riza reaches up to hold his hand in hers once more, grasping at his knuckles, brushing against the bandages on his palm. The tension that had crackled before isn’t vicious now. It is still there, palpable in the air, but it doesn’t threaten a flashover, lingering instead with the promise of summer rain.
Roy leans in and pauses a breath away from her, unsure if he’s welcome or unsure where she is, Riza can’t tell, but she huffs a laugh nonetheless. Still useless in the rain, I suppose, she thinks with a smile, and closes the gap for him.
Warmth blooms in her chest and she feels a rush of lightheadedness. This. This is what had been building in them since before the Promised Day, before the homunculi, in the budding years of their partnership. The kiss says a million things, it is the culmination of a thousand stares, a thousand late-night dinners, a thousand confessions buried under propriety and mumbled words. Roy’s palm flexes against her cheek, his other hand moves to grasp at her waist, the heat of his grip searing over her thin hospital gown. Her own hands reach up to tangle in his hair, pulling him closer. Now that she has allowed herself to touch him, she never wants to stop.
Roy has the same mindset, the hand on her waist traveling up and down her side, never quite stilling even as it moves to her lower back, pressing gently into her spine as he tilts into her. His lips are soft, unfairly so when hers are still chapped, and when he opens his mouth to scrape his teeth against her bottom lip she lets out a noise that makes her flush spread to her chest.
They break away only for a heartbeat before meeting again. Roy leans over her now, and a reasonable voice in the back of her head whispers that, maybe, she shouldn’t let her commanding officer press her into a creaky hospital mattress in a crowded building with a door that is, presumably, unlocked.
Riza ignores this thought in favor of pulling down his collar so she can kiss the length of his neck. He grumbles low in his throat, and she feels the noise against her tongue.
She’ll be damned if they stop this now, after years of nothing, she wants nothing more than to lie with him here forever. The bed dips where Roy props up his knee, and she leaves his collarbones to seal their lips again.
And— yes, yes. She refuses to let this go— not when Roy squeezes the skin of her outer thigh, not when she allows herself to rub the wide expanse of his back through the thin hospital shirt, not when he presses his tongue between the seam her lips and makes that noise—
Someone in the room coughs.
Roy freezes just as Riza wrenches herself away from him, face flaming as she whips her head to look for the source of the noise.
Breda stands at the door, looking thoroughly unimpressed. Fuery and Falman flank him, the former of whom has turned a dangerous shade of red and has cast his gaze downwards to lock eyes with the suspiciously Hayate-shaped lump under his jacket. Falman is thin-lipped and tense, his shoulders pressed up against his neck, he averts his eyes to a space in the far corner.
Rebecca stands behind them, body halfway through the door, with the smuggest grin stretched across her face. Riza feels a headache coming on.
“Apologies for the interruption, sirs,” Breda deadpans, raising an eyebrow and shooting her a look that says, really? Riza clears her throat self-consciously. “We just came in to visit the Lieutenant.”
“We can leave if you’re… preoccupied,” Rebecca says, trying, and failing, to stifle her laughter with a cough.
Roy had settled back into his chair as soon as they spoke, his back straight. “That’s quite alright, Second Lieutenant. I’m sure Hawkeye would enjoy the company.” The professionalism in his voice belies the red of his ears. She’s sure the team doesn’t notice, far away as they are, but the attempt amuses her nonetheless.
Breda strolls in, determined to pretend that nothing abnormal has happened, Falman follows in his example, although he has yet to meet her eyes, and Fuery avoids the dilemma entirely by pulling Black Hayate from his jacket and placing him on the floor. Her puppy bounds across the floor, his entire body moving with the wag of his tail.
“Hayate!” Riza cheers as he leaps onto the bed with her, tilting his head as she scratches behind his ears. She pulls him to her chest, pressing her face into his fur, “I’m so glad you’re okay, Braha. You’re such a good boy.”
Hayate chuffs in response, leaning into her hold as his tail whacks her arms. She lays a kiss on his head.
Rebecca sidles up to the bed, brushing the fur between Hayate’s shoulder blades. “It was the Sergeant Master’s idea to sneak him past the staff,” she supplies, nodding back at the man in question.
Fuery rubs the back of his head, meeting her eyes for the first time since he’s entered. “Well, they probably saw him and just ignored it, really. He couldn’t keep his tail still.”
“Maybe a nurse should’ve stopped us. Then you two could have continued with your catch-up time,” she cackles, failing to smother the noise into her fist, and shoots Riza an exaggerated wink.
Roy huffs, his arms crossed over his chest, “I think we get the picture, Catalina.”
“Oh, I’m sure you’re thinking up quite the picture, Colonel—”
“Thank you, Fuery,” Riza cuts in before the bickering could devolve further, “I appreciate it.”
Fuery gives her a nervous smile, “It was no problem at all, Lieutenant, really.”
“Still,” she looks over the rest of the group, “I’m glad you all visited, and that you’re all uninjured.”
Breda waves his hand dismissively. “Yeesh, I didn’t know you were such a sap, Lieutenant. Of course we’d visit,” he cups a hand to his face like he’s about to tell a secret, “It would be cruel for us to leave you here alone with the Colonel for God knows how long.”
“Har har,” Roy mocks as the rest of the room snickers, “if you’re going to be a pest, Breda, you should have at least brought some food with you.”
Breda rolls his eyes, just as Falman pulls a paper baggy from his coat pocket. “One monte cristo and one turkey, lettuce, and tomato sandwich from Zullo’s Deli,” he states in the same tone of voice he delivers his mission reports.
Riza thanks him as he hands her the baggy, she slides Roy his monte cristo as she unwraps her own sandwich. Hayate watches the food curiously while giving her a particularly pathetic look. “No begging,” she tells him, and he lowers his head to her lap once more.
Roy nearly groans as he manhandles his food, “Falman, you are a saint.”
Riza takes a bite of her food, savoring the taste. It tastes like liquid gold on her tongue, but, she supposes, even food from the trash would taste impeccable right now. She nudges Rebecca with her elbow, “did you bring anything for yourselves?”
Rebecca shrugs. “Nah, we already ate about an hour ago. We plan on staying here to chat while you two eat, assuming that’s fine with you.”
“Of course it’s fine, as long as you find your own chairs,” she responds, scanning the room for seating. It’s relatively barren, with there only being two guest chairs in the room, one of which Roy currently claimed. Rebecca took the other chair, pulling it closer to Riza’s bedpost while the other men in the room piled onto Roy’s empty bed.
The team recounts their friend’s whereabouts as they finish their sandwiches. The Elric’s had been admitted soon after she had, and Alphonse currently resides in quarantine, with his only visitor being his brother. Reconstruction of the Central Command building had begun as well, led by Grumman and his men.
They keep the conversation light, they don’t talk about the death toll, or the injured. No one mentions the clouded sheen over Roy’s eyes.
Riza brushes her finger against Roy’s knuckle while the rest of the room laughs at something Breda said. She taps twice, lingering a second before pulling away. His hand chases hers as it retreats, catching it and curling his pinky finger around hers. He taps back, once, twice, thrice. Repeating the motion in sync with the steady beating of her pulse.
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