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#leave my comms on that wall now :

decayrising · 3 months

Text

So in response to This. I know it’ll just get censored if people arrange it on the site, but I want to know if Flight Rising users are organized. If a mass boycott, whether on in game currency purchases or the site as a whole is doable, or if someone’s already doing it.

I’m a newer player who isn’t entrenched in the community or the history of flight rising, so I don’t know where to find this stuff. I want to.

I love my dragons. I’m invested in my projects. But if need be, I will delete my account. It is unacceptable for Flight Rising to censor these phrases and I refuse to stand by and act like this didn’t happen.

#to clarify #i’m not saying i’m quitting now. just that i will if things go further downhill #if the staff comes out as fucking zionist i will leave a s shaped hole in the wall #for now though my rule is commission fr artists who are doing charity comms #and NOT SPEND REAL MONEY ON THE SITE #free palestine #from the river to the sea #flight rising #fr

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villain-enthusiast · 3 months

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The hero coughed blood.

Fucking shit, they thought frantically, hand pressed over the gaping wound in their side. Their new opponent packed a serious punch, more than what the agency had expected when they sent the hero out to stop them. Somehow they’d escaped, but not without the nasty stab to their stomach.

Class two villain my ass. The hero grunted as they stumbled into an alleyway, nearly slamming their shoulder into one of the brick walls. They slipped into damp corner and sat down gingerly, their breathing shallow. Cold sweat broke out on their forehead.

They shook the sputtering communication device on their wrist. Busted. The hero suddenly realized with disturbing clarity that they would die here if they didn’t get help soon, bleeding their guts out on the floor.

Blinding pain shot through their torso, and they closed their eyes, muscles clenching. They couldn’t stand up, not without passing out. And with their internal bleeding, pressure to the wound would be largely ineffective.

They were so totally fucked.

“Hero?”

The hero’s lids snapped open. The cloaked figure before them dipped and swayed, but they forced themselves to concentrate. No, that wasn’t their assaulter, that was—

“Villain,” they rasped.

“What are you doing all the way out here?” The villain’s tone was mocking, but could the hero hear a hint of concern?

The hero attempted a sloppy smirk as they approached. “Oh, y’know, just decided to get stabbed and die today. Regular hero shenanigans.” Shit, their words were slurring.

The villain didn’t respond, crouching down in front of them. Their fingers brushed over the throbbing cut on their cheek, ghosted over the bruise on their jaw—it was funny, the hero noted, how the villain's first instinct was to check their face—before trailing down to the still-bleeding wound at their side. Their hand paused.

The silence was so thick that the hero could hear their wavering heartbeat in their ears.

“Who did this to you.” The villain’s words were quiet. Deadly.

The hero choked on a disbelieving laugh. “Like you care,” they wheezed, but even they could hear the doubt in their own voice. When the villain continued to wait for an answer, they added, "One of your lackeys.” Their eyes fluttered as a wave of fatigue overwhelmed them.

The villain snapped their fingers. "Hey, stay with me." They gently removed the hero's limp hand from their side, examining the gash. They swore under their breath.

"That bad, huh," the hero huffed.

“This looks like [other villain]’s work,” the villain muttered. “Destroying your comms, letting you escape with a fatal wound, making you think you’ve gotten away when really,” their eyes slid up to meet the hero’s detached stare, “you’re on the brink of death.”

“How kind of them.”

The villain shook their head. “Why were you even fighting them? They’re superhero’s responsibility. You’re supposed to be going after me.” They paused, gaze darkening. “And only me.”

The hero shrugged minutely. “Agency assignment.” Their muscles clenched as white hot pain rattled through them again, leaving them weaker than ever. “Can you just kill me already? That’s what you came for, isn’t it?” They titled their head back against the wall and closed their eyes, feeling their body grow more distant by the second. “Just fucking do it.”

They heard the villain move, and they waited for the knife against their throat or the gun at their temple, but instead, gloved hands slid under their back and legs, lifting them up.

What? The hero shifted weakly, but the villain shushed them and bundled them closer to their chest.

“No questions. I’ve got you,” the villain murmured, holding them tightly as they sprinted down the alley, making sure they didn’t jostle their injury. “You can sleep now. I’ve got you.”

And the hero, somehow feeling safe in their enemy’s arms and too tired to wonder why they were being saved, succumbed to the pull of unconsciousness not a second later.

part two

#this one’s longer than usual sorry #couldn’t help myself with the ‘who did this to u’ type shit #hero #villain #hero and villain #villain and hero #hero/villain #villain/hero #villain caretaker #possessive villain #but they’re kinda nice yk #enemies to lovers #maybe if u squint #my writing #writing snippet #villain-enthusiast

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in1-nutshell · 6 months

Note

How would the tfp autobots and decepticons react to the toy furby

Ooohhh! I remember furby's, granted they were a bit creepy in my opinion. These are a bit shorter than what I usually write, I was trying to get most of the characters in. Let me know if these needed more writing in them.

Hope you enjoy everyone's reactions to the furby's

Autobots and Decepticons reaction to seeing a furby

SFW, mentions of blasters

TFP

How did this all happen? One word to simplify everything: Miko. She thought it would be funny to start leaving these little menaces around the base and to get the bots reaction to it. How did she acquire these furbies, don’t ask any questions. Jack tried to stop her, but she successfully bribed him by promising to send him the video of Arcee’s reaction. Raf promised to edit the videos to be at their finest. Operation: Furby reaction is a go.

Autobots

Optimus Prime

He notices the first furby as it sits innocently near one of the control panels. At first, he thinks that one of those ‘birds’ had entered the base and tried to move the thing.

“Hello little one. How did you get in here?”--Optimus

“SSSQQQQUAAAAKKKK!”--Furby

“I see… Ratchet did you let the creature inside the base?”--Optimus

“Did I do what now?”--Ratchet

Then it suddenly started moving and squawking its native tongue that may or may not have startled the Prime a bit.

He doesn’t mind the furby too much… but does sense something about it.

Ratchet

He notices when he sees Prime slightly startled by something.

He goes to investigate and nearly squashes the Furby thinking it was a scraplet.

“Ratchet! Do not harm the creature!”--Optimus

“Optimus with all due respect, that thing is definitely some sort of scraplet! It might be a different type of mutation but look at it!”--Ratchet

“Ratchet—”--Optimus

“It even looks evil Optimus! I’m getting my wrenches.”--Ratchet

“Ratchet!”—Optimus

He does not care about Optimus’s code on not killing living being. That thing looked at him weird and he is going to end it before it eventually causes trouble.

Bumblebee

Nearly has a whiplash when he sees the little thing. He also thinks it’s a scraplet at first, but slightly calms down recognizing it as one of those human toys he saw on commercial with Raf.

Everything is fine… until it started screeching and moving by itself.

“SSSSSSSCCCCCRRRREEEEAAACCCHHHH!”--Furby

“BBBBBBBEEEEEEEPPPPPPP! (AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!)—Bumblebee

Does not like furby’s at all. Claims that they were trying to speak to him.

Arcee

Her encounter with the Furby is short.

Mainly because she saw something move out of the corner of her optic and blasted the poor thing to bits.

“Huh? What on Cybertron—”--Arcee

“SCCCCRREEECCH—”—Furby remains

Blaster firing intensifies.

She doesn’t know what that thing was, but it started it.

Bulkhead

He is running to see where Bumblebee is after hearing him screaming. He has his wrecking ball at the ready and ready to comm in back up if necessary.

“BBBBBBBEEEEEEPPPPPP! (AAAAAHHHHHHHHH!)--Bumblebee

“What is it!?”--Bulkhead

“BBBEEEPP BEP BEEEEPPP (THAT THING RIGHT THERE!)--Bumblebee

“SCCRRREEEAAACCHHH!”--Furby

“AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH! SCRAPLET! SCRAPLET! SCRAPLET!!!”—Bulkhead

Absolutely loathe those things. It reminds him too much of the scraplet incident that happened. He would be swinging his wrecking ball if it hadn’t gotten stuck in the wall.

Wheeljack

He is running as soon as he hears Bulkhead and Bumblebee screaming. His katanas are out as is ready for some slicing and dicing.

“BEEEEEPP BEEEEPPPP! (PRIMUS ITS MOVING CLOSER!)--Bumblebee

“SCRAPLET! SCRAPLET! SCRAPLET!”--Bulkhead

“Where’s the danger!?”--Wheeljack

“BEEPPP! (ITS MOVING!)--Bumblebee

“SCRREEEECCCHH—”--Furby

“There, its sliced in half. Huh. You two where afraid of this little cute—”--Wheeljack

“SSSSSCCCCRRREEEAAAACCCHH!”--- The two remains of the Furby

Blaster firing and wrecking ball smashing intensifies.

Isn’t a huge fan of the little things. It’s a bit cute in a creepy way. Does remind him of scraplets if they had gotten some mold and gained some sort of upper-level sentience.

Smokescreen

Like Arcee, his encounter with the Furby is short.

He accidentally stepped on one effectively crushing it.

“SCCRRE—Crunch!”—Furby

“Hmm? Hmm.” –Smokescreen

He is completely oblivious to the tomfoolery that is happening all over the base. He is too busy with looking at the latest relic they managed to find.

Ultra Magnus

He finds a Furby near his work area. He tries to speak to the Furby as he would to anyone else.

“Excuse me but you are in classified—”—Ultra Magnus

“SSSSCCCRRREEEEEAAAACCHHHH!”--Furby

“That was unnecessary and—”—Ultra Magnus

“SSSSSCCCCRRREEEEAAACCHHH!”--Furby

“Listen to—”—Ultra Magnus

“Ultra Magnus move!”--Ratchet

Furby is hit with 10 wretches in one go.

He doesn’t mind furby’s like Optimus. Mainly because he was trying to communicate with it and never got to finish his sentences with it.

Decpticons

No one knows how it was done, but the impossible was made possible. After Miko finished getting all the Bots’ reaction to the furbies she decided to do something else. Somehow, she managed to scatter the remaining furbies on board the Nemesis. How did she do this. Not even Miko quite knows how she did it.

Megatron

He finds the Furby on his throne. He doesn’t know what this thing is, but it is on his throne, and no one sits on his throne except him.

“You! How dare you sit upon my throne!”--Megatron

“SSSSCCCRRREEEAAACCCH!”—Furby

Blaster firing intensifies.

The furby would be gone whether he is on Dark Energon or not. Will not admit it but the furby noise sent a little shiver down his struts. Good thing no one saw that.

Starscream

He finds the furby in his habsuite. He is curious in how this weird looking organic thing managed to find his room. He takes the furby to the interrogation room.

“Who are you? Speak worthless organic!”--Starscream

“SSSCCCRRREEEEAAACCCCHHH!”--Furby

“How dare you! I am Starscream, Second in Command of the Decepticon Army! You will—”--Starscream

“SSSSSCCCCCRRREEEAAAACCCHHHH!”--Furby

“Two can play it that game!”--Starscream

“SSSSCCCCCRRRREEEAAAACCCHHH!”--Starscream

“SSSSCCCCRRRREEAAAACCCHH!”—Furby

He ends up staying in the room with the furby for a while. Takes the furby to his room and plays on doing a hostage exchange if it is needed.

Soundwave

Finds the furby on his desk. Lazerbeak deploys and flies around the small thing. Steps a bit closer to getting a good look at it.

“…”--Soundwave

“SSSSSCCCRRREEEAAAACCCHHHH!”—Furby

He immediately groundbridges the furby outside the Nemesis to have it fall and burn on reentry. He does however keep the screeching noise recorded and will use it if necessary… or if he is bored.

Knockout and Breakdown

The pair enters the medbay and finds the furby on the medslab.

Breakdown looks at it and thinks it’s kind of cute. Knockout on the other hand.

“OH, PRIMUS KILL IT!”--Knockout

“Knockout?!”--Breakdown

“THAT IS UNICRON’S SPAWN! KILL IT! BURN IT!”--Knockout

Breakdown smashes the furby to oblivion. Did he regret it? No, it was causing Knockout stress, and he was happy to get rid of it for him. Knockout knows the furby’s horrors, he knows…

Dreadwing

His time with the furby is short. He accidentally stepped on it as he was trying to get some creates to his habsuite.

“SSSCCRR—Crush!”--Furby

“What in the All Spark? Hmm…”--Dreadwing

He does wonder what the weird noise was, but he has other things to worry about, so he quickly forgets about the encounter.

Shockwave

He doesn’t know they exist. There were no furbies in the lab or in his habsuite. The two places he really goes to. He does hear from the others about the furbies though.

“They sound illogical.”--Shockwave

“You’re illogical!”—Starscream

He doesn’t care about the furbies, he has science experiments and war crimes to commit.

Predaking

He finds one near his kennel and does not like it. Sure, the Nemesis isn’t the greatest place, but that spot is his!

“You! Vermin! Who are you!”--Predaking

“SSSCCCRRREEE—”—Furby

Fire breathing intensifies.

Does not like the noises and is quick to end the furby.

Arachnid

She finds one randomly walking in the halls screaming. She just stabs it and puts it on her trophy case. She doesn’t have time for anything else. She has Arcee and Megatron to kill.

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theskit · 1 year

Text

Stickers AU

Anyone linking here from the previous posts or wanting to use the links on this post to go back/forward to the other parts and not wanting to spoil the surprise stickers, after using the link, click on my blog name to go to the actual post, as direct linking takes away the readmore cut. I'll take this out and fix it if I can find out how. Sorry!

Part 6

《Prev Next》

Danny floated along as he caught his breath. Okay, so jump scaring the Red Hood *might* not have been the best plan he'd ever come up with, but man, was it funny!

It was getting kind of late, though. He should probably start making his way back to the hotel. Any more vigilante pranks would have to wait for another time. Good thing the conference was on a long weekend. He had one more night to try his luck before they left Monday afternoon for the drive back to Amity.

Pulling up the map on his phone, Danny started making his way back. Just over halfway there, he jolted to a stop, catching sight of a rippling back shadow. Batman's distinctive silhouette was marked briefly against a building wall before being almost lost again in the perpetual dimness of the city rooftops at night.

Well, well, well, looks like he might have the chance to bag all the bats and birds of Gotham in one night, leaving tomorrow to hunt down in Bludhaven for Nightwing.

Eeeeexcellent. Danny pulled himself straight in mid-air, steepling his fingers and druming them together in classic Evil Villian style, grinning in a manner that would have shown entirely too many teeth had he been visible.

Now, this would require *true* stealth if he wanted to both get a sticker onto Batman's utility belt, as well as help himself to a batarang or two. Because Ellie was right, there would be no greater souvenir from his time in Gotham than a batarang from *the* Batman himself.

Choosing a sticker and prepping it, Danny sidled up to where Batman was staring down at a building that was probably not as vacant as it looked if it called for that much concentration. All the better for him if Batman was distracted though.

Moving by inches, carefully controlling his breathing so as not to make a sound, Danny made it to Batman's side. Batman was... probably? right handed, most people were, so he was gunna make an educated guess that the sharp throwing objects would be on the left side of the belt.

Getting ready to make the grab and stick, Danny nearly jumped out of his skin as Batman moved his arm and draped his cape over the space where Danny was standing intangibly right next to him, in a gesture that seemed more ingrained habit than conscious thought.

O-KAY! Time to go before Batman had a chance to recognize that there was no one where he very obviously expected someone to be. Robin, maybe?

Thoughts to think another time! Moving with all the speed and precision he could muster while his heart was still attempting to leave the city without him, Danny swiped one hand through a series of belt pouches while the other oh-so-gently tapped a sticker to the front buckle.

Not even stopping to see what it was he'd swiped, Danny made a quick exit, stage left, do not pass go, do not collect $200.

Batman was jolted out of his concentration when he felt a nudge at his belt as his cape settled against his side once more. Whirling to the left, he scanned the rooftop but saw no one.

Which was entirely unexpected as his instincts were *sure* a small presence had been snug up to his side, like a young Dick or Tim when they got tired or a bit overwhelmed while on patrol and wanted to hide in his cape.

But neither Dick nor Tim, or even Damian (though Damian had never actually done so) was small or young enough to have done that in *years*.

A quick inspection found his belt pouches missing a handful of batarangs, some candy he kept on hand to help soothe distressed children, and the extra just-in-case comm unit. As well as the addition of a glowing sticker, much like the one currently decorating the batmobile, somehow placed on the buckle despite him neither seeing or hearing anything.

@mygood-bitch99 @stargazer-luna @easily-broken-by-emotion @dolfay @britcision @cyber-geist @is-this-even-relatable @alcorbearson @fisticuffsatapplebees @thegatorsgoose @my-mom-calls-me-rat @some-rotten-nest @crystalqueertea @meira-3919 @wandererofthestars @seraphinedemort

#dpxdc #theskit writes #Stickers AU #danny makes his own stickers :3 #and now danny is running around gotham like a gremlin #with a pocket full of homemade stickers #whatever will he do with them? 😈

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jakexneytiri · 1 year

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hii here are some ideas/deets from my last request <3

- scenario where y/n has like a super rough pregnancy and she’s always sick and vomiting. Lots of fluff but also kind of angst idk??!! the kids are worried abt her and neteyam as well so he takes on all 4 kids by himself and lets y/n rest

- neteyam and y/n have their 5th baby and the details on the birth and all the other kids meet the baby and its just a lot of fluff!! and jake and neytiri meet the baby too as well as loak, kiri, tuk

IM SO EXCITED IF U WRITE THESE OMG AND TAKE UR TIME <3

AWEEE i love your mind! (the second part of your request is comingggg, i’ll post it when it’s finished :D)

in sickness and in health

⊱✿⊰ ⊱✿⊰ ⊱✿⊰ ⊱✿⊰ ⊱✿⊰ ⊱✿⊰ ⊱✿⊰ ⊱✿⊰ ⊱✿⊰ ⊱✿⊰

a sharp jolt of pain surges through your abdomen, forcing you awake as you sit up, wincing. you gently place your hand on your lower stomach, feeling strong kicks right where your hand is placed. you begin to take short, shallow breaths, as another kick lands just below your ribcage.

your mouth begins to salivate as you grab the pot closest to you. you knew the feeling all too well. it’s been happening every morning for the past several months. sweat beads on your forehead, collecting and dripping down your face, while your entire body feels like it’s overheating. that familiar feeling returns to the back of your throat, causing you to gag. you begin dry heaving, which turns into vomiting everything you consumed the night prior.

meanwhile, neteyam is just outside of your marui, peeking through the flap every now and then to keep an eye on you. truthfully, he’s been worried sick about you, especially these past few months. you both are familiar with all the symptoms of pregnancy. you’ve been pregnant four times now. but it’s never been this bad. so, he decided to give neytiri a page through his throat comm, hoping she might have some answers to your worsening symptoms.

“mother, is this normal?…yes, she’s still getting sick. it’s every morning, i thought you said that would stop. i don’t know what to do, how to help her…i feel so useless. i just want to ease her pain, please…” his voice cracks with his last beg. “please help me help h-” his ears perk up to the sound of you vomiting. “i must go. it is happening again. please send grandmother!”

neteyam quickly opens the flap, seeing you doubled over, emptying the contents of your stomach into the pot he set aside for you. guilt courses through him, settling like a rock in the bottom of his stomach as he hastily makes his way to you.

you feel your mate’s warm hand run along your back, attempting to comfort you while his other hand holds the braids out of your face. once you’re certain you’ve thrown up everything in your system, you sit back against the wall of your home.

neteyam goes to move the pot outside, as to not make you more nauseous. he grabs a bowl of water as he makes his way back to you, guilt clawing at his insides.

you slightly pull your knees to your chest, as best as you can with being pregnant, and bury your face in your arms, sobbing.

neteyam kneels beside you, gently placing a hand on your shoulder. it broke his heart in two seeing you like this.

just then, you hear the flap to your marui open, revealing your four children, with jake, neytiri, and mo’at. neteyam looks up, glaring at his mother and father, speaking through gritted teeth. “i thought you weren’t supposed to be back for a few more hours.”

“yeah, we weren’t expecting this either. it’s an emergency, we gotta go.” jake quickly says, holding the flap open.

“what? dad-sir…i’m not leaving her!” neteyam begins to raise his voice, fist clenched at his side as his other hand is still rubbing your back.

“neteyam.” neytiri gently says. “we would not ask if it was not necessary.”

you give your mate’s arm a gentle squeeze, silently encouraging him to go. “it is all right,” you speak, your voice extremely hoarse. “grandmother is here, i’ll be okay.”

“we gotta go, now!” jake’s yelling now, and neteyam stands, quickly grabbing his bow before kneeling to kiss your forehead. “i love you. i’m so sorry, i’ll be back soon, okay?”

Neteyam turns one last time to lock eyes with you, before being yanked away by his parents.

“mama? where’s daddy going?” se’ayl asks, looking at the flap where her grandparents and father just exited.

i want to go with him!” tsantu states, a firm grip on the bow strung around his shoulder.

“mom, i’m tired.” txonuk yawns, stretching his arms above his head and curling up to your side.

nima gently stretches her hands over your protruding stomach, shifting them around a few inches. “wanna feel kicks!”

“children, please!” mo’at exclaims. “let your mother rest.” she begins taking out herbs and plants from her satchel, mixing them with water in a large bowl.

“it’s all right…” you say weakly. “daddy’s going hunting with grandma and grandpa, he’ll be back soon. you can’t go with him, it’s only a trip for adults. you know what, txonuk? mama’s sleepy too. how about we all lay down for a nap, and when we wake up, grandpa grandma and daddy will all be back!”

you shift forward slightly, so your head is resting on your pillow instead of your back. txonuk curls right up to your side, draping your arm over himself like a blanket. se’ayl and tsantu follow, laying beside you comfortably. nima rests her head on your stomach, ear perked up against your skin to “listen” to the baby. mo’at raises the bowl she’s been preparing to your lips. “drink, child. it will help with the nausea.”

you lift your head up, parting your lips just enough for the cool liquid to ease its way down your throat. “thank you, grandmother.”

mo’at nods, setting the bowl aside. “you may rest, i will keep watch until they return.”

“no, no…i can………..stay……………….awake…….” your eyelids droop with exhaustion as you speak, and as you speak your last word, they stay closed. you finally succumb to a comfortable sleep, as you wait for your mate to return.

⋆｡ﾟ ☁︎｡⋆｡ﾟ ☾ ﾟ｡⋆⋆｡ﾟ ☁︎｡⋆｡ﾟ ☾ ﾟ｡⋆⋆｡ﾟ ☁︎｡⋆｡ﾟ ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

#neteyam x reader #neteyam x y/n #neteyam x omaticaya!reader #neteyam x na'vi!reader #neteyam x you #neteyam sully x you #neteyam sully x reader #neteyam sully x y/n #dad!neteyam #dad neteyam #daddy neteyam #dilf!neteyam

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thebigbadbatswife · 8 months

Text

Day 3 - Hate Sex

Pairing - Arkham Knight!Jason Todd x F!Vigilante!Reader

Warnings - 18+ content, if you're under 18 leave immediately! Hate sex, rough sex, table sex, ass slapping, name calling, degradation.

Summary - The Arkham Knight finally gets you right where he wants you.

You’re sure that he is smirking beneath that stupid Batman-esque helmet of his. Why wouldn’t he be? He has you pinned to a desk, on your front, your hands being held behind your back by one of his much larger ones and his thick cock pumping in and out of your dripping cunt. It’s embarrassing, not only because of how wet he has made you, but how much you’re enjoying it. The desk creaks beneath you from the force of his thrusts and just as you start to wonder whether or not it’s going to hold up or collapse beneath you, he gives a particularly hard thrust that hits a spot that finally has you moaning.

The Arkham Knight chuckles and does it again, making you moan louder. Until now you had been doing a good job at holding them back, not giving him the satisfaction. Mentally, you scold yourself.

Your weapons lay scattered across the floor. The condom wrapper glistening in the light of the street lamp pouring into the office, from the window. At least he had those on hand otherwise tonight would have turned out completely different.

“Didn’t know that Batman had started allowing such whores into his ranks,” he taunts. “Wonder what he would think if he was to walk in on us right now. Bet it would piss him off seeing you bent over and letting me fuck this sweet hole of yours.”

“Fuck you,” you spit, glaring at him over your shoulder.

“It’s the other way around, baby.” To prove his point his next thrust was even harder, making the legs of the desk scrap against the wooden floor. You mewl loudly, the head of his cock hitting a spot that had your eyes rolling into the back of your head. “Yeah, Batman will be really disappointed knowing his brand new friend is such a slut. Do you think he’s listening in right now? Hearing how much you like having my cock inside of you?”

He wasn’t. Batman couldn’t be. You had switched off your comms before coming here. Not to mention the man in question was currently AWOL. He would have no idea where you are or what you were doing.

He pushes one of your legs up onto the desk, letting his thick cock hit deeper, making your moans louder. He leans forward, trapping you beneath his body so he can lean in. “I bet he is listening, isn’t he? That’s why your cunt is trembling so much around me. You want him to hear us.” He stands up straight again and suddenly the palm of his hand meets your ass cheek. Pain and pleasure from it has a high pitched moan leaving you.

“Hear that Batman? That’s your partner being a complete whore for me! Bet she didn’t even know what a cock hungry slut she was until she saw my cock!” He almost sounds manic as he yells out. “Maybe he should have you fuck the rest of Gotham’s rogues. Maybe you could even set some of them on the right path with this sweet hole.”

“Shut up! That’s not true!” You can feel tears forming in your eyes.

“Of course it is,” he slaps your ass again, forcing another moan out of you, while his thick cock keeps driving into you. “Why else would you be so easy? Moaning and creaming all over my cock? Finally someone who knows exactly what to do with a whore cunt like yours and you’re loving every fucking second of it.”

“I hate you. I fucking hate you.” Venom drips from your voice and your blood boils with hatred for him, but your body disagrees. Your words only drive him on as he keeps fucking each inch of his fat cock into you. Despite your very best efforts not to, your body reacts to his, your walls tightening and stars starting to dance behind your eyes as the only thing your brain can focus on is the feeling of his cock still drilling into you.

Then he pulls out of you and gives your ass one last slap, already stuffing his cock back inside his pants and zipping them up. “I’m sure that we’ll do this again sometime.”

#jason todd x reader #arkham knight x reader #jason todd x fem!reader #arkham knight x fem!reader #arkham knight smut #jason todd smut #jason todd x you #kinktober 2023 #kinktober

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halcyone-of-the-sea · 1 year

Note

i'm begging you for some Keegan angst🙏🏼 like perhaps he and his s/o get split up during an ambush; their s/o goes MIA and when they're finally found, they're badly injured,,, something like that. maybe some fluff/comfort at the end

happy holidays!🎊

Laughing Poets

Pairing: Keegan P. Russ x F!Reader

Synopsis: It was poetic the way the bullet ripped through your flesh – the spray of blood that exploded from you with high velocity. How will Keegan react when he realizes that he has to leave you behind?

Word Count: 10.8k

Warning: Angst, fluff, blood & gore, torture, Keegan calls you 'Kid' a lot, happy ending

A/N: This was supposed to be done about two days ago but I decided I hated it so I re-wrote the last half (might have switched a few things around). Enjoy, Anon, and thanks for the request. Also, not quite sure on the exact characterization of Keegan yet but I'm getting there. Slowly.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

It was poetic the way the bullet ripped through your flesh – the spray of blood that exploded from you with high velocity; so much so that it splattered the far wall of the decrepit house. At that moment, as you felt all the air being expelled from your lungs in a shuttering gasp, you could see poets from the long-gone Romantic Era scratching at thin paper with an ink-stained quill, laughing. Their charcoal-stained fingers would twitch as they write out your life with a furrowed brow, bathed in candlelight, and would smile as they slashed their signature at the bottom.

Would the poem of your life end so quickly?

Your head slams to the ground, white light erupting from behind your eyes as you try and suck back enough air just enough to be able to scream in agony. Molten heat is tearing you apart, peeling back nerves; breaking bone, and slashing past muscle with an inexhaustible surety. Dropping the modified AX-50 from your grip, the black and grey metal slams to the ground with a defining clatter as your ears ring with lightning. In the back of your mind, you hear the glass of its Thermal Duel Power Scope shatter into a million tiny pieces.

Shit, you had just gotten that from Kick a week ago.

It was strange – the repercussions of your actions were happening all around you, but it felt like it was a world away as realization set in. You’d gotten shot? How? You got shot?!

You wished your pitiful existence was worthy of a poem, truth be told; that it was worth more than the crimson that leaks from your left shoulder to the old, cracked, wooden ground. But that was never the case.

Your body writhes and you wail out, head jerking back and forth in a primal display.

You had chosen this life, whether by your own need for revenge or the sense of duty…you knew not. And now you would pay for it.

Nobody knew you were hit, because you hadn’t told anyone through the comms, but there was also the fact that you were never meant to be this far out anyways. Merrick had fucking warned you this would happen if you stalked off on your own again, but as always, you had chosen the stubborn route. When you had seen this run-down shack of a house with a perfect vantage point, it made that predatory part of your brain sing with a need to hike to it – nestled right in between an outcropping of trees and overgrown vines atop a hill. With the threat of Federation soldiers in the war-torn town below, it was a God-send. You controlled it. You were master here.

Like a bird, Keegan would tell you, striding past, you just can’t resist a good perch, can you, Kid?

The thing is, your Ghost Team shouldn't know you’re injured out here, but soon enough as you frantically try and grasp at your decimated shoulder with burning tears in your eyes and a gaping mouth, a stiff voice wavers through the static of your radio. The blood pools from you like an overturned ink well and your face pulls back in a desperate snarl.

The sound of gunfire was still raging hundreds of miles down into the remains of what was once the outskirts of San Diego but is now known as No Man’s Land.

“Kid,” Keegan’s voice plays along your ears, but you’re too busy trying to force yourself up, blood hacked up from your mouth as you let out a strangled, no, “Where’d your scope go? Ajax needs cover fire two clicks to the west. Eyes up. No time for foolin’ around.”

Your skin is peeled back, and your flesh is infected with bits of your shirt and padded vest fabric inside the wound itself – like bugs crawling all over. You don’t want to think about the exit wound. The bullet had come from another sniper farther in the city, and, you knew, you were lucky you had survived the shot at all just on that fact alone. In your case, when you pulled the trigger, you rarely missed a killing blow.

That was probably why Elias Walker had approached you in the first place – your kill count for Federation soldiers was off the charts, even with how young you were. Not quite a Ghost in full, but something in the middle; nearly there but not quite. You had to earn the mask first. Ajax liked to call you Greenhorn, but Merrick was more prone to Rookie. Kick was rarely out of his lab, so he didn’t call you much of anything. But Keegan…

“Blue Jay?” Keegan’s voice once more wafts out into the burning air, “Sitrep. Now.”

“Keegan, push forward,” Merrick cuts through the channel and his heavy tone fills the house just as you begin to drag yourself across the floor. The echoes of the gun battle reverberate over the hills, “They’re boxing us in! Move, move, move!”

You collapse against an overturned and broken coffee table with shaking limbs and tear-stained cheeks, struggling to find a good enough hold to press down on the wound as crimson leaks from between your fingers. A lung-shuttering gasp exits the flesh of your lips right before a burning makes itself known in the back of your throat. Not able to stop yourself, bile is forced all the way from your stomach, making a trail up your esophagus and finally pooling in your mouth. Gagging, you reel forward onto one hand and release the contents of Keegan’s ration bar from lunch back into the earth, watching the liquid concoction pool onto the ground that has grass whisps sneaking in from between the floorboards. Seeing that, and barking out another wail as long ropes of crimson drip down from your limp arm, you throw up once more. Everything is on fire.

“When…when Ajax said getting shot felt like your skin was being flayed,” You groan, head starting to feel light-headed, “I thought he was just joking.”

The sound of your agony-drowned voice brought a sense of urgency into your rapidly fading psyche.

“Apply pressure,” Merrick’s imaginary voice in your head makes you straighten your spine – like he was a little angel on your shoulder hitting you with a newspaper. You call-back the memory of the Ghost as he was going over medical procedures a month back, “If your hand slips, you die, and I'm not carrying your limp body back to the Fort like a fucken’ sack of potatoes. No one can respond better than yourself in this type of high-risk situation, you understand? Panic is not an option in No Man's Land and if you think it is, you have no right being here...Make a tourniquet; tie it off, and wait for backup. Here, Rookie, practice on Keegan.”

Doing the best you can with only one functioning arm, your fingers twitch as you card them clumsily over the pouches on your chest. Finding the velcro of your medical bag, you whine as you rip it open, flesh so sensitive that even the rough fabric of your own property is grating to feel. If you weren’t running on adrenaline, you tell yourself, you most likely would have already passed out.

Ripping out the roll of medical gauze and praying you had enough, your shaking hand travels to your right shoulder, not even noticing the hurried conversations and screaming orders over the comms.

Make a tourniquet, You think to yourself, grunting out into the air when you have to move your arm into position. The entire limb was stained red, liquid dripping off your nonresponsive fingers to the floor. What if you never regained the function of your arm again? Your thoughts were running. What if you could never shoot your rifle all because you felt the need to go too far on your own? To prove yourself?

The thoughts scared you more than you liked to admit. This life was everything to you – pushing back against the Federation, who had taken so much from you, and being alongside the Ghosts. It was what you had worked so hard for.

Then fight for it, You don’t know why Keegan’s smooth voice comes to you at that moment, but as you pull the gauze so tight around your open wound you scream and see stars; nearly keeling over as well, it brings forward a steely determination, Don’t expect everything on a silver platter, Kid. But then again, you wouldn’t be here if you didn’t already know that.

“Fucking hell,” Face contorted with unmatched distress, you suck down breaths and let the gauze soak up your life; blood in deep puddles already seeping through, “I need to move – t-tell the others…”

“Blue Jay’s not responding,” Keegan speaks over the static of the comms channel, “I’m doubling back.”

Your functioning hand latches onto the radio, weak fingers slipping for a moment as your body sways forward. Struggling, you stumble to your feet and steady yourself on the termite-eaten wall near the window. You peak out and try to spot the enemy sniper with wheezing breath and a sweat-flooded forehead.

Pressing down on the radio to speak, you’re appalled by how hard the simple act was.

Am I dying?

“Don’t Keegan – in order to break the line you’ll need everyone to be there,” You have to blink away the blurriness of your eyes, “I’m spotting twelve tangos near the storage facility. Merrick, I’d suggest taking a left and circling the flank.”

Merrick responds, “Good eyes, Rookie. Ajax, on my six!”

Your vision swirls, forcing you to suck in a sharp breath and splay your legs shoulder length apart so you don’t fall forwards. You pointedly avoid look at your wound.

“You want to explain why you weren’t responding?” Keegan’s voice is stern, hiding an edge somewhere in its tone that you choose not to acknowledge, “This isn’t a game!” On a far-off building, you spy a glint, making your attention snap to it like a cat and a mouse—sniper scope.

There’s that Bastard, Your fingers twitch with hatred, glossy and tear-clogged eyes narrowing. If you had the ability to shoot right now…

A bullet nearly takes your head off, splintering the frame of the window before lodging into the floor.

“Shit!” You yell, reeling back; forgetting for a moment you were on the open channel.

“Greenhorn, what’s going on over there?” Ajax finally graces the line, “You doing something stupid again?” You don’t know why you hesitate…why you’re so cautious to reveal to them that–

“That’s it,” Keegan snarls, “I’m going to your position.”

You shake your head, your mind so jostled that you don’t say anything for a moment until you realize that no one can see you.

“I took a bullet to my right shoulder.” You concede, voice low with self-hatred, “Clean through, nothing to worry about, just won’t be able to cover anyone…C-can’t feel my arm.”

The line goes dark for a moment, and as you listen to your own ragged breathing that leaves you more hunched over the longer you stand up, it suddenly explodes. A cold shiver travels down your spine; sweat drips from your nose. Your eyelashes flutter.

“What the hell do you mean you got hit!?”

“Son of a Bitch, Rookie, give us your position, now. We’re pulling back.”

“No!” You yell, growling, and shaking your head, “This is a key location to taking back San Diego – there are vantage points, cover, hell, even weapons caches left over from before the war in one of the military bases. We need to secure this town. I’m fine!” But they weren’t listening, even if everything you were saying made sense.

They can’t ruin the operation over one person, You told yourself, heart pumping a mile-a-minute, No one I’ve worked with has ever done that before and the Ghosts sure as Hell shouldn’t be the first. These guys were Special Operations before ODIN destroyed half the US – they know better.

But you were forgetting one critical detail. The Ghosts aren’t just any other team; they care about their own perhaps even more than the missions they get sent on.

But I’m not one of them, You grunt to yourself, letting your eyes close and knocking your head back into the wall behind you. The fact makes you want to cry, but you’re forced to acknowledge the sore spot later.

God, your arm felt like it was being burned to a crisp. You grunt and grit your teeth as another wave goes through you.

“How long ago did you get hit!?” Keegan barks and the sound of shouting from below your perch momentarily increases.

“I..” You try and think. How long had it been? More than seven minutes couldn’t have passed.

“Answer me!”

“F-fuck, I don’t know! Four-five minutes ago!” Yelling makes your head throb, a deep booming that echoes like a drum in your consciousness.

The door to the house squeaks as it opens.

Eyes snapping to the wall that separates the living room from the foyer, your voice cuts out immediately. Keegan was fast – lethally fast – but the town below your perch was at least a few miles, this was because your AX-50 was specialized at long-distance shots. It would be no good in the heat of an ongoing ground battle. I mean, hell, it only held seven shots; even with the modifications you had added on by yourself.

The person who had opened the door wasn’t a Ghost.

And that meant they were your enemy.

Doing the best you can to move stealthily, you unclip the combat knife from your belt and listen with bated breath as you slink over to the doorway. You hate the way your hand shakes as it holds the hilt but revel in the fact that your left arm is numb enough to not cause you to bellow out. Holding your breath, you lean against the barrier on your good shoulder and bring the blade up near your chin.

There are hesitant footsteps that shake the fragile frame of the building, and you feel the reverberations travel up your feet and make your skin shiver. Goosebumps form along your arms.

Creeeek, crack-clack

The floorboards squeal like a stuck pig, the old boards splintering off as an unseen assailant’s feet cautiously move through the house. The sound of heavy breathing comes closer, nearing the doorway to the room you say stone-still in.

Your radio flares to life.

“Rookie–” It only takes a moment, but Merrick’s voice is the signature at the end of your poem; whatever you would have heard from the man was lost.

A Federation soldier dressed in camo and grasping a shotgun rampages around the corner.

—

Keegan knows he’s too late when he sees the run-down visage of the shack with its front door open.

I taught her never to leave the doors behind her ajar.

The Ghost had been training you for months – taking you somewhat under his wing, albeit reluctantly. Elias was clear when he gathered everyone together, train her to be like us. And they had all done just that, Keegan more harshly than anyone, but that wasn’t to say you were untalented.

The stoic Ghost had yet to see a more talented sniper than himself, but you came in as a close second. You were the perfect asset, able to stay back when everyone else went in. You were the cover, the master behind the curtain that clears a path with a pull of a trigger. The Ghosts owed many missed nicks and scrapes to you and your calls. So when Keegan had heard you stop answering over the comms; not responding to Ajax’s hurried quips…

Keegan’s heart hammers as he ascends the front steps overgrown with weeds and wildflowers, the Honey Badger Assault Rifle held white-knuckled in his grip. As if on autopilot, the man switches the safety off and enters, face behind the fabric of his balaclava. The contorted visage of the white paint over the front created quite the nightmare and paired with the black eyepaint Keegan could only be compared to a beast.

The slight clinking of the rope hook tied to his waist and the metallic bit and bobs in his vest was the only sounds he made, the years upon years of perfection ingrained into the way he breathed; the press of his feet to the floor. Keegan would only allow someone to hear him if he wanted them to, even if he was the size of a boar.

His cerulean eyes flicker down the hallway, but nothing moved beside the stale wind – smelling only dirt and…

Blood, Keegan’s nose twitches, eyes narrowing. The man tries to ignore the way his heart picks up pace.

Had he really grown so attached to you that he would forsake his teammates to come and check on your situation? Perhaps the stupidest thing he could do to himself was begin to enjoy your presence. But that didn’t change the fact that you were his responsibility, and in the back of his mind there was a nagging concern.

He had grown to care for you, and that was unexceptable.

Keegan enters the living room with his rifle held ahead of him, scanning the room for tangos before he lowers it. Empty.

And then he sees the remnants of a struggle. Head going back and forth the Ghost follows a trail of gore along the floor, an explosion of crimson over the wall behind him, and feels his chest rumble in a growl over the image of a broken AX-50. His breath stills.

The metal was dented, and the scope shattered, leaving glass over the ground like marbles. Keegan felt a dangerous heat enter his blood, eyes flashing; a specific type of rage growing in his gut and twisting his intestines.

“Where are you, Kid?” He mutters, fingers flexing over the trigger of his weapon. Where did you go? His throat tightens, lips thin. Merrick’s voice comes over the radio with a hard edge.

“Keegan, sitrep. How’s our girl doing? Evac is on its way and we’re pulling back. Getn’ pretty hot over here.” Keegan takes a moment before rushing over to your signature weapon, letting his own fall against his chest and bounce off his vest. Grasping the gun you worshiped by the blue strap, his eyes go along its long body, spying the custom modifications and intricate detailing over the stock. Tiny Blue Jays are scratched and covered in crimson; the colors faded.

You had painted it yourself when Keegan had taken a liking to referring to you by the callsign, and he had never really had the chance to look at it until now. Staring at it for a moment longer, his thumb lightly swipes away a droplet of blood, letting one of the birds once more be visible. Keegan swings the rifle over his back and feels the heaviness of it – the weight of the customizations and the top-grade material. This was your pride and joy along his back, moving with every flex of his shoulders with the barrel hitting the back of his knee.

He carried it was a sort of reverence; a delicateness that was never connected to his name.

She’d never leave this behind without a fight.

Keegan’s tense fingers go to his radio, eyebrows pulling in and eyes emotionless. But the stubble shake of his hand makes him want to punch someone. Whoever had done this to you would pay.

“Blue Jay’s gone.” He states, monotone, “House is empty with signs of a struggle.”

The man turns back to the doorway, glass crunching under his feet, and walks back out into the hallway.

“What do you mean ‘gone,’ man?” Ajax butts in, and over the comms the sound of bullets hitting metal creates a ringing sound, “She’ll bleed out!”

“Move!” Merrick’s voice sizzles out as a grenade goes off, and the line cuts for a moment as Keegan nonchalantly comments,

“All good?”

“We’re taking heavy fire. Without the girl’s backup, we can’t stay here – Ajax and I are heading to the Evac point and’ll draw their attention into the woods. Find that damn kid, Sergeant.”

“On it, Sir.” Keegan releases the device on his vest and turns his hidden head. He sweeps the rest of the shack with a heavy weight on his shoulders, taking notice of a constant trail of blood throughout the hallway. With every moment passing the weight of the situation settles in his gut.

“C’mon Kid,” He whispers, voice gruff, until he finally goes to the busted-down back door and finds the body.

It was laying face down in a bed of wild grass, a thin breeze moving its shirt sleeves. A shotgun lays a few feet from the corpse, surrounded by old rubble and a small downed treetrunk; it was still smoking, dark metal caressed by dirt. Keegan rushes over, taking in the motionless branches of the forest and the knife still lodged in the Federation soldier’s head.

Tapping the man with his foot, the Ghost goes to grab the blade by the hilt and rip it out. Hearing the shink of metal separating from flesh and feeling the spray of blood over his tactical glove.

Just as he feared, the knife belonged to him. His body coils.

Keegan had given it to you after you lost your own on the last mission, the black blade a perfect match to the one currently sitting on his waist. He had wanted it back, but you had teased and asked what if I needed it in the future with a raised eyebrow and body leaning into Ajax who sat next to you. Begrudgingly, Keegan had deadpanned and said he expected you to return it after you found a replacement. But you had just smiled at him, lips pulling back into a bright display and wrinkled eyes. Your face had glowed in the daylight, shadows disappearing and the heavy bags everyone was sporting under their eyes vanishing on yours. Keegan had felt his chest hitch, even if outwardly he remained as stoic as always, and that was it.

The man had dropped the conversation and had never asked for the blade back. In fact, something had swirled in Keegan’s gut the next time he saw his knife strapped to your waist, the band holding the hilt tight against you and bunching your shirt up. It was pathetic, Keegan admitted when he had frozen at the sight at the time, legs jerking, but seeing something of his own on your body had made his heart go wild; eyes so obviously boring into you that your cheeks had gained a sheen of embarrassment that day. Keegan had stalked away, unable to admit to himself that something was going in inside of him that he had no control over.

That was the point of no return, he realized. The overturned inkwell onto the thin parchment.

You were the poet and him the words in your head, using him without a clue.

“Fuck,” He growls, gripping the knife so tightly it digs into his gloves and hurts the flesh inside. His head turns to the forest, burning eyes roving for any sign of you even as a strike of pride filters through him. Injured and disoriented, you had taken down a man two times your size with only his knife and your wits. Now that really got his blood pumping.

Besides a thin trail of blood drops over the grass, leading far into the tree line, you had all but disappeared. Keegan’s heart was pounding, ready to run in after you.

She couldn’t have gotten far, especially not with a wound like she described. I’ll catch up. I have to.

“Keegan we need you at the Evac point, ASAP!” Ajax screams, voice strained, “Else we’re going to be coming home in body bags, man!”

“I don’t have Blue Jay yet–”

“There’s no time,” Merrick yells out, and Keegan hears the whizz of bullets from over the line, “Federation soldiers are storming us – get here now! Or you’re getting left behind. That’s an order, Sergeant!”

She won’t survive, Keegan tells himself, forcing down the mucus in his throat, not by herself.

Ghosts don’t leave their own behind. Merrick undoubtedly planned to return when the heat was off them; send a recon force to the area to look for signs of life. Keegan clenched his fists, eyes dead as they stare off into the trees and expansive foliage. This area was notorious for its high cliffs and steep dropoffs – one wrong move and everything was over in an instant. The earthquakes were worse. Ever since ODIN was fired the tremors had been constant.

The odds weren’t in your favor even without adding in a possibly fatal wound.

Keegan takes a step forward, inching closer to the treeline unconsciously with firm feet.

“Keegan – do you trust her!?”

“What?” Merrick’s loud comment had shaken Keegan, making him freeze; eyes wide. He was only one step into the wild, perhaps only one step closer to finding you. Did he trust you? What kind of question was that? The woman who always fooled around with Ajax, pushed Marrick’s buttons to a point the man had begun to respect you? Blue Jay, who always made a point to bring Keegan into conversations and try to get him to smile at her – carrying herself with elegant confidence?

Did he trust you? How does one even describe trust? After everything that’s happened, could he place his trust in someone else other than his Ghost brothers? Keegan’s jaw clenches, head looking back and forth before slowly going to sneak a peak at the body behind him. His chest tightened.

He already had an answer, but found that he couldn’t say it aloud.

Apparently, the moment of silence gave his friends what they needed.

“Then get your ass back here! The sooner we have a chance to regroup we’re comin’ back and gettin’ her. Rookie knows what she’s doing…we’ve given her every lesson we could. It’s up to her for a while.”

“Trust in her, Keegan” Ajax chimes, “Just as she trusts you.”

Keegan turns his back to the forest, hearing every step of his feet over the ground as they carry him away from you.

“Copy.”

The words are firm, but the ink of them bleeds.

—

You wake up chained to the ceiling, shoes gone, and socked feet dangling over the floor. Blood from a new gash on your head trails over your right eye and leaves the already flickering movement of your eyelashes more constant as the liquid dribbles to your tense jaw in a steady flow.

It had happened so fast – far faster than your already addled mind could have comprehended. A group of Federation soldiers had been camping out in the woods and had sent only one of their men into the shack you had deemed too far out of the way for any up-close confrontation; the rest had stayed and waited. The minute your back was too close to the tree line after you had lodged Keegan’s blade into the lone man’s skull, they had grabbed you.

Apparently, they dragged me back into town, too, You growled to yourself, how could I be so dumb?!

The only upside of this situation was that in order to question you they had to keep you alive long enough to get you to speak. Already the heavy padding over your numb left shoulder calls to you like a siren song; the dichotomy of the position you were in almost made you laugh. The Federation soldiers had you hooked up to the ceiling like a butchered pig but took the time to dress your wound so you wouldn’t bleed out.

You wiggle your fingers, the lack of circulation already leaving the top half of your body tingly. Next, your feet. In the back of your mind, you wonder if you’ve been drugged, because the words from your head seem to spill from your lips unprompted and the pain of your situation is dull; muted.

“Hell,” Your voice is loud, tone slurred, and rough. Oh yeah, definitely high off something, “If you wanted to tie me up you could have just asked me!”

Opening your eyes as full as you can, you look around weakly and lock onto rusted metal walls and a set of large warehouse doors.

“You brought me to the warehouse? How stupid could you be?” You say aloud, twisting your neck around before the clinking of chains stops you, “Isn’t this near the old logging company? This is close to the edge of the town! If I wanted to escape I’d be gone in five seconds.”

Your drugged snickering echoes off the walls, bouncing back at you mockingly. Soon enough footsteps sound off from beyond the closed door, many, many feet marching down an unseen hallway. You smile, thinking, finally, and hear the blood from your head drip to the floor every other second. The warehouse door slides open with a shriek and your vision blinks out, black momentary shrouding you before it filters back.

Three men enter the room, all dressed in the black and gray camo of the Federation – straps and combat vest so similar to your Ghosts that in your state you confuse the two. They even wore black balaclavas and the one in the middle is a similar build to your Sergeant, tall, and built like a damn bear.

“Keegan?” You whisper, head tilting to rest on your strained arms as your eyebrows pull in before sparks of pain fly. Was that…you have to shake your head, skull suddenly burning. No. There’s a thin moment of clarity before that haze re-settles.

This isn’t right. That is not my Keegan. Not my Ghosts.

The middle man leads the other two at his sides, nodding his head behind him and the door begins to close; the others peel off and go to guard the entrance, leaving you and the man to have a conversation semi-alone.

He stops a few feet from you, eyes a deep brown and boring into your body. Your lips pull back.

“There are more simple ways to question someone besides stringing them up, man.” Your sentence cracks halfway through, but you don’t notice.

The man just stares, tilting his head to the side. After a moment of eye contact, he speaks.

“You are not a Ghost.” His voice is accented – Spanish is most likely his first language.

“Yeah, trust me,” You groan, head once more pulsing. Your feet shimmy over the ground, toes lightly brushing the concrete, “No one’s more fucked up about that than I am. I train my ass off–”

A sold punch is landed to your gut, tossing your body back as the chains above you squeal. The air is expelled from your lungs in a series of deep coughs, lungs rattling as spittle flies from your lips, you feel your organs shake inside of you. It takes a few moments for you to catch your breath and dispel the sledgehammer blow, but already the man is talking when the bulk of your panting has barely slowed.

“You are going to tell me a way into Fort Santa Monica,” He pulls a knife from his waistband and takes a step forward, putting the blade directly on your right side. Your clothes crease where the tip presses and needle-like sparks fly from your flesh, “Or I will have to ring the answer from you like water in a rag.”

With a pounding heart, your mouth runs unprompted, “Ghosts don’t break, asshat. And I may not be one of them, but I certainly know that I won’t let my boys down.”

What the hell did they give you? Keegan had warned you to never say too much when captured. Don’t make ‘em angry unless you want a reminder of the power they have at that moment. But it wasn’t like you could help it anymore–

The blade sinks through hot flesh, and inside the warehouse, a high-pitched scream flows outside; scattering birds and beasts alike.

This continues for three long days.

—

Keegan was stone-still as Elias bend over the meeting table, a map of the town and surrounding forest where you had gone missing spread out. Everyone was silent, and Keegan has to shuffle his feet to reduce the tension in his thighs and shoulders; his hands tighten over his chest. Ajax is the first to speak over the tense air as Merrick repeatedly itches at the skin of his bald scalp from where he stands behind a chair.

“We have to move,” The Ghost growls, and when no one responds Ajax hits a closed fist to the table, “soon, Elias.”

The slam echoes over the room, bouncing off the walls.

“Ajax,” The man in question shakes his head, “What we need to do is think this through. Form a proper plan and carry it out with more intel.”

Elias pulls back to his full height but Keegan’s eyes stay locked on the map, flicking mutely over the marks and topography.

It’s been three days, He tells himself, She’s probably dead by now. The files already have her labeled as MIA.

Under his balaclava, his jaw clenches in feral denial. Why did the thought of that fact make him want to go out and search for you himself, regardless of Elias’s sound logic? You couldn’t be dead. Missing was better than that – missing meant he could find you.

Perhaps it was the same emotion that had given him a sinking feeling when, two days ago, the entire Ghost Team had gone back out to the forest under the cover of darkness to search for you. All Keegan had found was the footsteps of multiple Federation soldiers and signs of one of them dragging something heavy behind his back.

It was obvious what had happened, and as he had slowly turned his head down to the town lit up by spotlights, the only thing that had stopped him from tracking you down was Elias’s heavy hand on his shoulder. Keegan’s eyes were lit with a dangerous light, glinting with the promise of revenge.

He wanted you back – he would get you back – regardless of the consequences. No one messed with you and lived, whether that meant the revenge was carried out by your own hand or by his doesn’t matter. That town would be purged. Keegan would see to it.

The Federation had made it personal.

“She’s getting tortured!” Ajax yells, insight voicing what everyone already knew, “Greenhorn would rush in if it was one of us out there instead of her!”

“Then it’s a good thing we’re here, isn’t it?” Elias runs a hand down his face, army shirt and cargo pants noticeably wrinkled. No one had slept while they waited for more recent intelligence on the number of tangos in the town, “We can’t be rash. They’ll know we're comin’ for her if we mess this up.”

“Elias,” Merrick finally speaks up, placing his large hands on the chair’s back and leaning into it, “You know we all trust you to make the call…but I have to agree with Ajax on this. We’re practically leaving the Kid behind if we wait any longer.” The stocky Ghost scratches at his beard, “You know what they’ll do to her.”

The older man has a soft spot for you, Keegan realized with a roll of his head and a crack of his neck. All of them had a soft spot. Waiting here was like keeping a group of trained attack dogs from a target – most of all Keegan. Patience was supposed to be his ally, and he had taught you just the same, so how had it left him so stupendously?

Elias grunts, crossing his arms. He looks over to the only person who had thus far been silent and brooding in the corner. A dark cloud was heavy over the Ghost’s head, anyone could see it. A man at the edge of an already fraying rope of sanity.

“Keegan?” Elias asks, gruffly, already knowing the man’s emotions and thoughts, “Do you have anything to add?”

Normally Keegan was one who would wait for a sure answer, but in this instance, the next words he said rocketed out of him before he could fully think over the gravity of what they meant. Always the cautious one, the times he wanted to rush in blind could be counted on one hand and on less than five fingers…but that was before you. Before the hours the two of you spent together training, building trust, and protecting each other in the field with knife and bullet.

All that mattered was getting you back to him. And the words wrote themselves, curved, under the gentle influence of an ink quill.

“I’m bringing my girl home.”

A moment of silence tightens over his throat; the stoic man’s feet move from under him as his eyes slightly widen. If he had the ability his face would have blossomed with a blush, but even so, the embarrassment was visible to those who had known him the longest.

Shit, he hadn’t meant for it to sound like that.

Keegan dares to look back at Elias, only to find the leader smirking, a knowing glimmer in his eyes that leaves him freezing like a mouse under the gaze of an owl.

“Well, then, let’s go get your girl back.”

Ajax snickers and him and Merrick spare glances, amused, nearly saying about time.

—

Your body lightly swings, blood in a pool below your feet and rippling as another drop enters the flood. Your nose is broken; bleeding, just like your ribs. Cuts litter your skin, clothes are ripped and shredded and swarmed with crimson both dried and new. Your combat vest had been ripped off, the rough material thrown somewhere behind you by enraged fingers and ripped apart for any indication of a blueprint of your Fort or useful intel.

The Federation soldiers had left you alone with your thoughts not five minutes ago and to your credit, you have not broken. Not even after everything – the hits, stabs, and beatings that left you sobbing and biting back pleas. Throughout all of it, Keegan’s voice stuck with you; you had drowned in good memories in the small moments you were able to breathe without being slugged in the chest.

The way Keegan would send you soft glances when he thought you weren't looking and how the blank-faced man kept your skills sharp as a way to make sure you were safe. His rare smiles; comforting interactions when you were up late practicing with your rifle. A weak smile filters over your bloody and bruised face, eyes blinking closed as the air is expelled from your lungs in a deep sigh.

“You’re going to get a sore neck if you keep doing this, Little Blue,” The words startled you, eyes widening from where one looks through the scope of your AX-50. Your head jerks back, finger immediately dropping from the trigger you were just about to pull.

“What the actual fuck, Keegan!?” Hair whips around you as your body turns, facing the man leaning against the doorway as a nightly breeze rustles through the outside firing range, “Has no one told you not to sneak up on the person with the gun?”

“I was the one that told you that, Kid.” He raises a brow, strong jawline on display for the moon.

It was rare that the man took off his balaclava when in your presence, and you took a moment to stare from your position on the ground; your heart jerks against the concrete before you shove the feeling in it’s tissue down.

Keegan’s presence made the heat on the back of your neck increase, hands getting clammy over the metal of your gun. You flex them in what you hope looks simply like a resetting method.

“Well, then you’re not good at taking your own advice...” You grumble, huffing and fixing your posture, looking back out over the field and the white target over six hundred feet away, “And my neck is perfectly fine, thank you.”

“It won’t be if you keep getting up and creeping out here every night. I thought I wore you out today?” The memory of getting thrown to the ground more times than you could count during a sparring match made your muscles remember to ache, “Or do I need to ramp up the difficulty? You almost pinned Ajax today.” You suppress a wince and send a quick glance over to the Ghost, who pushes off the wall and sighs, stalking over to you.

“If you think you need to,” Licking your lips, you feel his heavy shadow over your form. You replace your cheek to the stock of your rifle, once more seeking to line up the shot as quickly as possible, “And you did ware me out.” Muttering, you feel yourself get lost in the wave of the sensation of purpose – superiority singing in your veins.

This rifle was your quill, and with it, you signed the signature of death on the poems of others’ lives.

This was your calling, and not a moment later, not feeling the reverent eyes on the side of your face as Keegan stills his breath, you pull the trigger. It lands just a millimeter from the center of the target. Your jaw tightens and you tell yourself, ‘not good enough’ with a narrowing of your eyes.

The action wasn’t missed.

“You’re at this every night, Kid,” Keegan stands by your left thigh, his eyes digging into you, “Don’t pretend like I haven’t noticed.”

You pull back, shame coursing through your veins. You had tried to be stubble, but were you really that bad?

But of course you were, your cheeks head, you lived in the Ghosts’ barracks. They all knew you were sneaking off at night to practice. Your lips thinned at that realization; you really had a lot to learn.

“Blue Jay,” Keegan prods, the authority of his rank now leaking into his tone; it has you straightening unconsciously, “Answer me.”

“...I just need to be better,” You mutter under your breath, going to line up another shot.

A hand on the scope jostles the view, making you pause and tense. Your breath stills in your chest, feeling body heat beginning to leak into your shivering form.

No words are spoken in that silent minute, but you know enough about your Sergeant to tell when he wants you to stop doing something. Keegan’s silence was a mystery that you had only just started to unravel for yourself. Your hands loosen enough for him to take the rifle from your grasp, bringing it up into his grip delicately.

Shuffling up to your knees, you place one hand on your thigh as the other goes to rub at your eyes, feeling the fatigue leak out onto your fingers.

“You’re not going to get better if you keep forcing your eyes open,” Keegan mutters, and his form knees down next to you. The rifle was placed on the ground a few feet away. A warm hand lays on your shoulder and you stifle a hitch in your breath managing to inhale the scent of gunpowder and fresh-cut grass; hickory wood. You have to blink away the sleep that settles on your eyelids.

How was he so warm?

“How do you know that?” You grunt out, itching your eyebrow. You don’t register right away, but a deep chuckle settles warmly on your chest as the man at your side releases it. Reverberations like a purr make you sigh slowly.

“You’re good, Little Blue,” Keegan’s hand goes to your chin, and your cheeks heat as he directs your gaze to his gently, thump and first finger firm. His eyes flicker over your face, taking in every line and imperfection before settling on the black and blue bags that have lived on you for weeks. In turn, you study him – the strong jaw line, usually hard eyes leaning towards soft and caring. You liked when he looked like that; more than anything, you liked when he looked at you like that, “don’t reduce your skill to anything less than what it is. Practice is good, Kid,” Keegan lowers his voice, and your eyes stay locked, “But I can’t watch you ruin yourself.”

Your heart stutters, and your body becomes soft under his touch.

“...but I don’t want to let anyone down.” Eyebrows turning in, Keegan pauses a second at your comment, fingers on your chin tightening for a moment before it begins to travel.

Heart pounding, his touch leaves electricity behind with every scrape of his callouses and healed scars. His eyes stay trapped on yours, watching every minute emotion and movement from you and your hands shock-still in your lap.

“Let ‘em down?” Keegan huffs, the breath ruffling your hair, and his hand settles over your cheek. He continues as his large thumb goes to pet the skin of your undereye, leading your eyes to flicker shut as he mutters your name, “Not a damn chance. You’re a natural, Kid. Hell, you get some proper sleep for once and maybe one day you’ll be as good as me.”

Even with your eyes closed, you couldn’t help the smile that bloomed over your face, feeling his eyes softly fall over your visage.

“Promise?”

You missed the small twitch of Keegan’s lips, “...I promise.”

Shaking yourself out of the memory, your body plays dead as the warehouse door once more opens. A plan had formed, taking root and digging into the small tissue of your brain.

“Why isn’t she moving?” The voice of the Middle Man was enough to make your body tense, toes twitching. No one seemed to notice before you once more went slack, “Get her eyes open!”

Twin pairs of feet slam to the floor, coming closer; soon hands are slamming into your ribs, shaking you back and forth. The bones in your chest move strangely, disconnected from where they were supposed to be. But you hold back your screams, a thin, lip-bitten whine stuck in your mouth.

Your body whines to a stop when the blows halt.

“I said get her eyes open!” Words are yelled in Spanish, and if you were in the right state you would have been able to translate them.

Merrick made sure you were fluent in multiple languages and was one hell of a rough linguistics teacher. Every day you had kept a count of how many swear words he let loose. The undefeated record was fifty-five in one session.

“Let her fall, then! She can’t be dead.” The last half is muttered, followed by a tapping of fingers over palms. Your ears twitch at the sound of receding steps, fast feet, and then the sound of a pulley system and rattling chains.

Your body drops, slamming to the floor, and head bouncing off the concrete like a ball. You don’t have to play dead at that moment, because you’re sure that you passed out, a crack resounding in the bone of your skull and shaking your brain. The chains around your numb arms loosen, leaving your bloodied wrists burning as the air hits them.

Staying still, your body lays sideways, but small trails of water dribble out from your tear ducts.

Just a little longer, You try and tell yourself as circulation comes back to your arms. Shadows dance behind your vision, people moving by you and circling like wolves. Your limbs want to writhe back and forth, help make the needle-like stippling in your nerves go away if only for a millisecond. It was a battle of will. Move or don’t. Be a Ghost, or be helpless.

Well, when you put it like that…

A hand grabs your shoulder just as you clock the two others standing behind you, waiting silently for any signs of life. The gloved hand moves to the pulse point on your neck, heavy fingers digging into the sensitive flesh. One breath. Two.

And then you jerk up and headbutt one of the soldiers right in the nose. Pushing back the black dots that nearly swallow you whole your hands rip out of the lost chains and throw your body at the man. Grabbing his shoulders, curses and sharp barks fly out over the air, and just before the bullets from their guns rip through you, your broken figure twists to shove the man in front of you.

Shots make your ears ring, but the spray of blood comes from the Federation soldier you used as a human shield, screams playing in your head like a symphony. Quicker than a switch, you grab the pistol strapped to the now dead man’s waist, and the minute the body ahead of you stumbles and hits the floor, you fire.

The twin soldiers drop like flies, and the recoil of the gun leaves your weak hand flying back. Clattering to the floor, the weapon stays stationary as you pant and gasp down deep breaths. Blood stains the floor as well as the chains still on the cracked ground, and the vile substance flows from the three men that release death rattles.

Your shattered mind thinks of a snake’s hiss before the sound divulges into a deep gurgling as you stare with blank eyes. Their forms twitch and jerk, brain dying or already dead.

But there was a spark of pride in you that stayed as your hands slap to the floor, pushing your body up with muffled wails and gritted teeth. You shimmy up to your feet and grab the gun on the way up, looking around as you stumble before righting your shaky legs.

Looking around dumbly your limp arm pulses, and your mind runs so fast the festering wound on your head feels like cigarettes are being put out on it.

Someone had to have heard those shots, You reason, and gasp as you walk forward. Your bones don’t feel right. They aren’t supposed to move like that – like they were just floating inside of you not attached to anything.

Blinking rapidly, your vision blurs as the first shouts spring up from outside.

Gotta move, Limping heavily you go as fast as you’re able to the warehouse doors, pushing on the metal as sweat falls down your nose.

Your body aches, muscles constantly tightening and then loosening within seconds of each other. It was getting increasingly harder to push back the need to scream in agony as the adrenaline in you seemed to disappear. Taking to breathing out of your mouth to help out your broken nose, you nearly fall onto your face as you shimmy out into the dirt perimeter surrounding the building.

First, you see the town. Your eyes widen, focus suddenly less on yourself as you take in a sheen of smoke rising up. The raging shouts hadn’t been coming from Federation men rushing to the warehouse – in fact, they were rushing past it. People zip from the corner of your eyes into the treeline, abandoning the houses and buildings with screams of, fantasmas, fresh in the burning air.

Ghosts.

“They came back for me?” Rough and broken, your voice makes you flinch when you finally hear it. Your vocal cords were damaged.

And they torched the whole fucking place! The gun is like iron in your grasp, heavy and cold. Or maybe it was your hands that were the cold ones? You couldn’t tell, but as you lean back into the metal of the warehouse exterior you smirk, blood breaking out from your chapped lips.

Vision once more peeling out, you drop the pistol and slide down, mind floating far above your form and doing jumping-jacks in the clouds. You don’t know how long you’re slumped like that, neck compressed against your chest as your lungs fight for air, but the next thing you remember is panicked shouting.

“--Found her! Warehouse! Blue Jay, open your eyes!” Your eyebrows furrow as strong hands grip you tight, manhandling your body to the ground so you’re laying on your back, “Open your damn eyes, Kid!”

There’s a sound of frantic breathing before the tearing of velcro. Pressure is put on your shoulder.

“Ah!” You scream, bearing your teeth and raging at the sensation of firm hands and an unrelenting weight.

“That’s right,” The smooth voice says, “Keep responding, keep making noise for me.”

“Kee?” You ask, only able to half-open your eyes and call out his nickname that you had never actually used aloud before. If possible, the weight is ramped up ten-fold, and you have to wonder if the Ghost is putting a knee up on you to try and stop the bleeding.

“Yeah, it’s me,” Keegan grunts, and his body comes into view as your eyes clear, though one is more muddled than the other; like a body of water filled with mud. Afternoon light shines off the man’s combat vest and back attire, his signature balaclava looking like it had been messed with and run over with rough hands. His black face paint is patchy and in places streaked. Keegan looked tired, you numbly realized as a chill made you shiver, “Look at me.”

You were.

His eyes snap to meet yours, and you’re taken aback by the creases around them; the wrinkles straining his forehead and nose bridge. The color is darker as well, no longer a calm and blank blue but a fiery shade, burning and boiling water. They flash when they already see you looking at him, and his high-hackled shoulders minutely lower as they soften to give you that look that you love. You pray only you’re privy to that look because it makes your shaking hands heat up.

“You have reall–really pretty eyes,” You whisper, voice cutting out, “You know that?”

“I’ll have to take your word for it,” He says, eyes flickering away and scanning your body. Behind the fabric you see his lips pull back in a soundless snarl, “But If you think they’re so pretty you’ll have to trouble keepin’ yours locked on ‘em, right?”

You can’t laugh, so the small exhalation from your mouth will have to do. Your eyelids flicker.

“Hey,” Keegan’s hand goes to your cheek, jostling your head so hard you groan, “The hell did I just tell you, Blue?”

“...Hurts,” You whimper, tears gathering as your lips twitch.

You can only do so much to push back the inevitable, and every breath feels like someone’s shoving your chest into a table saw.

Keegan moves one hand from your shoulder and sets it on your cheek, tilting your head to the side, “I know it hurts, Blue, but you gotta keep lookn’ at me, okay? You’re doing good.”

It was the softest you had ever heard him speak. His finger brushes your undereye and makes your eyelashes flutter open.

“There she is,” He grunts, and with a start, you see he’s pushed up his face covering, the fabric a bundle on top of his head. Your face heats at his handsome visage, roaming his lips and cheekbones, “there’s my girl.”

“I didn’t know if you were going to,” Fluid pools in the back of your mouth, and you cough before you can continue, sprinkles of phlegm and blood spraying Keegan’s attire. He doesn’t seem to care, “come back for me,” Uttering the words weakly, you feel yourself speak as if separate from your own body, a willing participant watching just beyond the way of sight.

Keegan’s eyes narrow, face pulling closer unconsciously as if he were trying to shield you with his body from the gunfire far off behind him. Across the field, familiar voices had started to ring out.

“Why the hell would you think that? What kind of dumbass made you–” He stops when your eyes sneak away in shame, numb lips pulling down as tears make your sclera red. A pause ensues before a deep sigh falls from his lips; Keegan taps his thumb on your cheek until you look back at him. His face is tense, but a blatant surety is in his tone, “I would never leave you behind. If you had trouble figuring all that out until now, then you don’t anymore. Got it?”

“Copy, Sarge,” Your eyebrows soften, body going slack and loose. Keegan’s hand is so warm, “You know...I really would have liked to go out on a date with you.”

Eyes going out of focus, your head lulls before Keegan can rip you back to the present with his deep words just as the ground reverberates under you. They say the sense of hearing is the last to go, and that rings true, because the last thing you remember is Keegan’s voice yelling your name so gutturally that you almost miss Merrick’s voice.

“Blue! Shit, Elias, we need Med Evac down here, now! She’s down!”

—

The Med Ward was just how you remembered it, but the man sitting in the chair near the window was new. You were no stranger to the alcoholic scent of the rooms, the blinding overhead lights, and the coarse bed sheets. Around your body, the tight bindings restricted you from sitting up and walking, so for upwards of ten minutes you had stared at Keegan’s figure.

He was sleeping, in nothing more than a black T-shirt and cargo pants. His head was tilted to the side and his arms crossed over his chest; legs out and crossed at the ankles as his combat boots rest on the tile. You should wake him up. You should, but you haven’t and probably won't. Keegan’s dark hair is glowing in an early morning light, making it glow amber and cover him like a halo.

The pillow under your head is hard, uncomfortable, and stinks of bleach, but instead of worrying about it, your mind was running over what you had said before you passed out.

“You know...I really would have liked to go out on a date with you.”

Fuck me, Cheeks heating, your eyes flicker down his body, catching his veiny arms and watching his chest steadily rise and fall. Had you really said that?

Your head begins to hurt, and not only from the tight bindings and the gauze pad around it.

“You’re staring, Little Blue.” Gasping, your eyes widen in their sockets at the sleep-dipped tone.

Keegan’s eyes slide open fluidly as if he were never asleep in the first place. His head moves to right itself and stare directly at you, blinking slowly. Locking gazes, you freeze as your jaw goes slack – it was a good thing you were on pain meds because otherwise, your ribs would be aching at the way your breath halted. Stuttering, you let the room lapse into silence as he watches you. Keegan’s lips flicker into a smirk.

Standing he stalks over to you and drags the chair behind him. Getting about a foot or two away, he stops and flips the chair forward carefully before sitting down once more. Keegan leans forward and puts his elbows on his knees as you watch.

“...You feeln’ alright? Need me to get the nurse?” He has black and blue under his eyes, colored iris’ strained. Keegan was a man of few words – his actions always spoke louder; like how he let you keep his knife, or told you to go to bed when you were up late shooting.

At that moment the cold Ghost’s hand went to your arm, lightly brushing over the bandages and pauses to see if you register any pain. When he doesn’t see any discomfort, he settles his grip and runs his fingers over your skin.

You blink.

“I’m good.” The words come out breathlessly, and where his touch continues to rove, sparks light under the skin.

Keegan’s soft sigh enters the cold air, and his gaze flickers to the floor for a moment. His jaw clenches, like there was something in his head that refused to come out of his lips. The man’s scream still haunted you – how he yelled your name so raw and vulnerable. You had never heard something like that from him, not even when he had to have you stitch him up one time during a mission.

I’m never letting you anywhere a needle again, He had said with his face flushed of color. You really were bad at sutures.

Smiling to yourself, you lift your hand with every bit of cotton sticking to your brain and shimmy it out of his delicate grip. Not wanting to hurt you he pulls back and looks with wide eyes at what you were doing.

“Kid, I don’t–” His comment is halted when your fingers graze his cheek, just the tiniest hint of stubble making your fingers itch perfectly. Freezing like a bird, Keegan’s sights are set on you, confusion bleeding into this expression as his lips pull into a line.

This was stepping a line you hadn’t crossed before, but you didn’t really care all that much.

Caressing his jaw, your hand cradles his face. To your surprise, Keegan leaned into you, tension leaving and body going slack like putty in your grip; a second later, his hand comes and encompasses your own, molten heat radiating into your bloodstream. Your heart skips a beat when his eyelashes flutter closed.

“Tired?” You ask, slightly amused.

“No,” Keegan grumbles, face blank, and you flinch as a laugh barks from your lips. Not a good idea. Weaving his fingers so he can grip your hand more tightly, he peels you from his face and opens his eyes.

Watching you and clocking your emotions, he lays your hand to his lips and lays a gentle kiss, lips moving over your skin as he places another right after. You’re surprised you don’t catch on fire – especially with that look on his face.

How could a man so cold be as gentle as he was with you?

“You worried the boys,” He says when he pulls back but still holds your hand close, “Ajax nearly strangled Elias to get him to hurry up and go after you.”

Smirking, you hum, “And you? Were you worried, Kee?” Teasing with the nickname, you watch as a small smile forms over his face, eyes lingering so beautifully on your visage.

“No,” You raise a brow at the bare answer, but he wasn’t done, “I was damn near terrified.” Licking your lips, you watch him track the motion, and he rises and leans closer to you, “What gave you the right to make me feel like that, Kid,” His breath fans over your cheeks, and your eyes flutter when his nose caresses your own. You can feel his eyes bore into you, unrelenting as they look over every pore and mark.

Keegan’s lips whisper over yours.

Yes, Your mind sings at the contact, and a small whimper falls into the air.

“...Who gave you the right to make me want to be yours?” All but growling the words out, his lips descend onto yours, firm but still gentle. He would never hurt you, even if he wanted to feel you against him. You were injured, and that reality never failed to leave his head.

So for now, he would kiss you as if you were the most delicate of glass; worship your skin and bestow on it everything he couldn’t say.

As you both move together, his hands come up and grab at your jaw as your own travel to rest on his chest that looms over your own, mapping out the dip of his muscles and the way he shivers when your nails rake into the fabric of his shirt.

This was what you had wanted, to feel him move over you and flex as your fingers go to grip at his hair.

Pulling back, the man pants in breath with you, lips were swollen. It was quite the sight, and you swore you felt your pupils dilate just by staring at him. Keegan hums deep in his chest and then places his forehead gently to your own – careful of the bandages and, most likely, stitches that live under there.

“I lost your knife,” You whisper out, and almost cringe at the needy tone of your voice. Were you really this infatuated with the man? …You already knew the answer to that question.

“Don’t worry about it,” Keegan grunts, and keeps the knowledge of the fact that the blade was already paced back in your room by his own hands to himself, “I’ll make sure you pay for it when you’re well enough to be discharged. Can’t have my Blue Jay leaving weapons behind, now can we?”

It’s safe to say you prayed for a speedy recovery, just like how poets of days long past wished for a gentle rain or mist-filled morning – if only to have something to quietly worship.

#keegan p russ #call of duty keegan #keegan x reader #call of duty #cod x you #cod x reader #cod #cod: ghosts

2K notes · View notes

nickfowlerrr · 9 months

Text

always.

pairing: bucky barnes x reader

warnings: angst (with a happy ending bc duh, it’s me). fluff. uh i think that’s all but if something important needs to be mentioned here, pls lmk!

words: 3.5k

notes: REPOST. this was not at all what i intended to write when i first got my aesthetic photo inspo but here we are lol. this is my fic submission for @pupandkisasaesthetics’ challenge and i hope you enjoy it. and a special thank you to @fandoms-writings for reading over the first draft of this for me and helping me out! i appreciate you so much, remi!! 🥰

thank you in advance for reading and as always, comments and reblogs are more than welcome and so appreciated! please let me know what you think. 🖤

The floorboards creak under your feet with every step you take. Your eyes are red and your cheeks puffy. You ran out of tears a while ago. Your head throbs still, the headache lingering from the stress, and as you catch a glance of yourself in the mirror hung on the wall of the safe house, you know you look as dead as you feel.

You’re numb and yet your insides are aching, screaming at you.

That wasn’t it. He isn’t gone. It isn’t over.

It can’t be over.

As you pace the empty living room, back and forth, nonstop as you had been since you got back to the safehouse hours ago, the only thing you can do is torture yourself by replaying in your mind each and every step you took and every single word that left your mouth leading up to the explosion.

The explosion.

The deafening boom.

The ringing in your ears.

The shaking of the ground beneath you and of the walls around you.

The gripping fear when you realized where the bomb emanated from.

The neverending silence over static as you tried uselessly to get through to him.

The strong grip on your arm that pulled you from your stupor, that same strong hold that kept you from heading straight to where he was.

Your throat was sore from your yelling. From the cries you couldn’t hold back as you found yourself being urged into the jeep as they started back to safety. Just leaving him.

You couldn’t tear your eyes away from the window as you raged.

But you couldn’t focus on the cruelty of the words you threw at the team, your supposed family, in your attempt to get them to stop. To do their jobs. To save him.

No.

Instead, the loop started right back over.

Walking into the base with Yelena at your side, Bucky in your ear with Sam on his six on the opposite end of the site.

It wasn’t meant to be dangerous. Not more than the usual. Just a simple search and clear of the abandoned base. You’d all done this a hundred times over.

You’d meet in the middle and give the go ahead when you were done.

But that didn’t happen.

You were smirking as you heard Bucky and Sam’s never ending back and forths over the comms as you and Yelena cleared out the east wing of the site.

“East wing clear, heading south. You two plan on doing your job or should we take out the west wing for you, too?” you joked lightly as you made your way down the long winding hall.

“Ya know I’d feel a lot better having you on my six than this stupid fucking robotic bird flying around my head,” Bucky groused.

“Yeah,” you laughed as your eyes scanned yet another empty old computer room, “well give me a minute and I’ll be right there to save you,” you simpered playfully.

“West wing clear and secured, heading south now. Think I’ll get to you first, but I-”

His voice was cut off simultaneously by the static and the boom of the unexpected explosion going off. You and Yelena both ducked, protecting your heads as the ground shook and a wave of vibrations from the blast moved around you. You popped your ear as you tried to orient yourself through the ringing, slowly standing after everything else went still. Your breaths heavy as confusion clouded you both. You checked each other, ensuring you were both alright before your heart skipped a beat. Yelena was talking on her comms with Steve as you were pressing on your own, you tried to communicate with Bucky despite the static still ringing over..

“Buck, you okay?”

Nothing.

“Bucky?” you asked again, growing more frantic internally though you tried to remain as collected as you could.

Still no response.

Your eyes shot to the hall across from you leading to the west wing. To where the explosion came from. To Bucky. You were frozen still.

You pressed on the comms, over and over, trying desperately to get through to him.

“Bucky?”

Silence.

“Buck, can you hear me?... Bucky? James?!” your voice only grew louder and more harsh the longer the silence stretched on. It was like you were stone, you couldn’t manage to move, couldn’t do anything other than try to call him. You hadn’t noticed when Steve and the others came in until Steve took hold of your arm, his touch pulling you from your spot.

You looked to him, eyes wide and blown, feeling like you’d just been kicked back into your physical body.

“What are we doing?” you asked harshly. “What am I doing?” you said, frenzied before you turned and tried to make a move down the hall no one else seemed to be heading toward. His hold on you tightened, keeping you from going, stopping you easily.

“You need to go, we have to get you guys out of here,” Steve said sternly, concern swimming in his gaze despite his levelheaded presence.

“Are you- are you fucking kidding me?” you struggled in his hold. “Bucky is over there, what the fuck are we doing?! Let go of me! I know you have no problem leaving the people you claim to love to suffer and figure it out for themselves, but I can’t do that,” you seethed. “I’m not leaving him, get the fuck off, someone needs to go get him!

“And you and that stupid fucking camera, letting him go in by himself,” you turned on Sam, “where the fuck were you?”

You didn’t realize how much you were struggling to breathe as you fought against your friends to get past them, you didn’t realize how easily you were unraveling as you spiraled quicker and quicker the more time stretched on. It hadn’t been more than a minute or two but it felt like an eternity.

“He’s not answering, okay, he’s not answering so someone needs to go find him. We need to get him! Why are we just standing here! He could be hurt, or trapped, or - fuck!”

“I know. I’m not going anywhere. I’m not leaving. But you are. You and you,” he eyed Yelena, “you two need to go. Bishop and Torres are at the first jeep - you guys need to clear the area. The less of us around to get hurt the better and there’s not much you can do.

But I promise you, I’m not leaving him. Okay? I swear,” Steve said as he stared into your welling eyes.

“You’re the last person I’d trust to keep a promise,” you bite harshly before being pulled away by Yelena. You didn’t fight her, though. A part of you knew Steve was right. There wasn’t much you could really do and the more people there were the more likely someone else would end up hurt, too.

Even still, when you got to the jeep, you couldn’t stop yourself from trying to make a break for the west end of the site. How could you possibly live with yourself if you didn’t even try to go in and help him?

Your attempt was futile, though, and soon you were sobbing into your hands as Joaquin drove you all back to the safe house.

As you stood there now, still pacing aimlessly, guilt washed over you. You could clearly recall the subtle recoil from Steve, the pain and regret in his eyes, at your words.

You knew he’d never forgiven himself for leaving Bucky, you knew a part of him could never, and you knew it was a low blow to bring up, but you just couldn’t bring yourself to care in the moment. You wanted him to remember. You needed him to. Because he couldn’t do it again. He couldn’t just leave him there to.. No. He wasn’t.

That wasn’t even a possibility.

He couldn’t be.

He wasn’t.

You kept repeating it over and over again in your head as your eyes threatened to well anew.

He wasn’t.

He couldn’t be.

—

It was past midnight when you had finally taken a seat on the lumpy sofa.

Kate’s earlier attempts at getting you to sleep were useless and only ended with you growling at her to leave you alone.

She, of course, ignored your snarling and stayed on the couch, just watching you. Her sympathetic gaze was as irking as it was easing.

She didn’t really say much, knowing not to push you, but just her being there had you feeling less like you were drowning. She grounded you a bit.

But she couldn’t take the fear away.

You felt her shuffle closer to you when you finally sat down but didn’t turn until her arms were around you, pulling you in.

You let out a broken breath as you turned into her and returned her hug.

“It’s gonna be okay,” she murmured as she hugged you tighter. “He’s a supersoldier. And he has a vibranium arm. Odds are definitely in his favor,” she tried to lighten the mood.

When you didn’t respond, she pulled away slightly.

“Seriously,” she said as you pulled away from her, looking her in the eye, “we were watching surveillance while you guys were inside. Redwing, we think, set off whatever motion detector was set. He was a bit ahead of Bucky, so we know he wasn’t that close to the blast. The feed cut out, obviously, but.. I don’t know, I thought that’d maybe..help you.. feel better? I just-”

“No, I appreciate knowing that. Thank you. But honestly, I don’t think anything’s gonna help until I know for sure. Until he’s back here.”

The front door creeping open had both of you standing and turning at attention. You could almost feel your heart in your throat as your breathing stalled.

It was a perilous few seconds of nothing before Sam stepped inside.

He looked exhausted and worn and.. Solemn.

“Sam,” Kate edged gently.

There was a pit in your stomach as he looked between you and Kate for a moment before his gaze dropped and he shook his head.

A stunted gasp left Kate’s lips as your heart stuttered, eyes wide, your stomach dropping before the door was shoved open even more.

“Please, don’t get him started on that stupid bird again, for the love of god,” Bucky huffed as he walked in, trying to hide a slight limp before a smirk graced his face as he met your eye.

Everything seemed frozen in the moment you registered his voice and when your eyes met his you honestly thought for a second you were dreaming.

He was leaning against the open door, a relaxed smirk on his lips before he nodded to you, “What happened to you coming to save me, huh?”

You didn’t even register yourself moving until you crashed right into him, almost toppling Bucky over as you did. Your eyes were bleary with tears of relief as you sighed heavily, shakily in disbelief.

“I’m sorry,” you breathed as you crushed yourself to him even further, his solid arms holding you right back as you felt him press a kiss to your head.

“I was kidding, sweetheart. Don’t say you’re sorry,” he chided.

You pulled away from him, taking his face in your hands.

“You’re okay?” you asked.

“Always,” he answered, leaning closer to kiss you softly.

“I wouldn’t say that,” Steve challenged as he came in behind Bucky. “But give it a few days, I’m sure you’ll be good as new.”

You swallowed thickly as you looked at Steve, shame again coming over you, even more now as Bucky’s arms were around you.

You looked away, taking a steadying breath as you took Bucky’s hands in yours.

“You should sit,” you said as he let you lead him away from the door, allowing Steve to close it. “Or shower, maybe?”

“You gonna join me?” he asked, his flirtatious nature never faltering.

“Have some decorum, some of us are in mourning, jackass,” Sam gruffed as he walked through the living room.

“Oh, Sam,” you called, stopping him. You walked up to him, as sincerely as you could, “I’m sorry,” you offered gently before punching him as hard as you could manage in his arm.

“Hey, what the hell?” he said incredulously as he held his arm.

“You deserved that one,” Kate said as she came to stand next to him. “I really thought Bucky bit the big one for a second,” she chuckled, “I am sorry about Redwing, though.”

“Why are you sorry for a robotic bird, I’m the one who almost got blown up,” Bucky interjected.

“Almost being the operative word there. Redwing, on the other hand, did get blown up.”

“I’m not doing this with you again,” Bucky groused, walking past the living room to the bathroom on the other side of the stairs. “I am gonna shower, sweetheart. Would you grab my bag from upstairs?”

“Yeah, of course. I’ll bring it to you in a minute.”

You watched Sam and Kate go upstairs but you were too caught up in your own mind to really pay attention to their conversation. You saw Steve about to make a move to follow them, looking tired and ragged himself.

You followed him, pulling his hand before he could make it up the steps.

“Hey,” you started. “Can we talk?”

He looked a little nervous, unsure, but nodded anyway.

“Sure,” he said, turning around to follow you.

You walked into the living room that was now empty before you turned to meet Steve’s eye.

“I am so sorry,” you apologized, voice thin as you tried to keep your emotions in check. “I don’t know why I- it doesn’t matter, you didn’t deserve that. It was uncalled for. And not true. And I am so, so sorry, Steve.”

“Tensions were high, it’s okay-”

“No, it’s not. It’s not okay. You’re his best friend, you would do anything for him. You love him. I know that, we all know that, and I never should have.. You did everything you could have,-”

“I didn’t—.”

“You did,” you insisted. “You did. And you and I both know he definitely wouldn’t be here today if it wasn’t for you. You’ve put your life on the line for him countless times, and even if you do hold yourself accountable for the train - which you shouldn’t - your slate would’ve been wiped clean about six life saves ago,” you smiled lightly, earning a small smile from him in turn.

“He’d do the same for me. He has done the same for me,” he laughed softly. “‘M just glad he’s alright.”

“Yeah. Thank you. For getting him out. For being there for him. I went a little crazy when I thought he was hurt,” you looked down, ashamed at yourself.

“I can’t blame you. Been there before. But he’s okay. You’re okay. I’m okay. We’re all okay.”

You nodded, meeting his eye once more before you hugged him tightly, his own arms coming around you to return the affection.

“He’s more banged up than he’s letting on,” Steve said as he pulled away, “you should check on him. I’ll throw your bags down, you guys can take the room down here.”

“Thank you, Steve. Really,”

“Don’t mention it,” he smiled before heading back for the stairs.

As you made your way to the bathroom Bucky was occupying, you heard a low grunt followed by a hiss of pain. Knocking lightly, you gave him a second before you let yourself in.

The deep purple bruises that littered his torso had you grimacing for him sympathetically.

“Don’t look at me like that, sweetheart, you know they’ll be gone this time tomorrow.”

“That’s not the point,” you argued, stepping in further, shutting the door behind you.

You walked up to him, lightly running your hand down his torso while pouting mindlessly.

His thumb found your lip as he pulled it down, getting your attention. “I’m fine,” he assured you.

“You could’ve gotten really hurt, Bucky. You could’ve died.”

“But I didn’t. I’m right here. Right where I want to be,” he said as he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close.

You let your head rest against his chest as he held you, your arms finding their way around him.

“I was so scared,” you whispered pathetically, “I don’t think I’ve ever felt that kind of fear before. I hated it.”

“I’m sorry, baby,” he murmured into your hair. You shook your head, brushing off his needless apology before you took a heavy breath.

“I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you,” you confessed.

“You’re not ever gonna lose me, sweetheart. I’ll always find my way back to you,” he said softly, still holding you against him, “Always.”

A part of you wanted to argue the inevitable. One day, hopefully not one so soon, one of you would lose the other. That was life, wasn’t it?

But you couldn’t bring yourself to challenge him. It was nicer to believe that he was right. He’d always find his way back to you, and you would always find your way back to him.

Always.

You reached your hands up to gently rake your fingers through his hair. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Never been better,” he simpered easily, enjoying the feeling of your affectionate touch.

You dropped your hands to his shoulders before sliding them down his solid chest, your fingers soothing comfortingly along his skin.

“The truth?” you prodded quietly, flitting your gaze up to meet his brilliant blue eyes in a request for his honesty.

He was quiet for a second before he took a heavy breath, his hands finding and holding yours before he lifted one to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your hand. “The truth is, I’m gonna be okay,” he responded in earnest.

You allow your hand to cradle his stubbled cheek as you keep his loving gaze, finding comfort in the warmth of his eyes.

“Should we talk about it?” you ask, a little hesitant to bring it up, not wanting to let show how unnerved you were still feeling. And it wasn’t that you didn’t trust him when he said he was alright, but still you wanted to know exactly what happened, you wanted to know what he was going through back there. And selfishly, you knew you needed to know everything before you’d start feeling any kind of alright, either.

Bucky’s gaze softened even more at your question. Sam and Steve had told him you were worried, but he hadn’t realized how upset you really were while they were back there. Aside from being banged up by the blast and being trapped in the hallway he’d been in for a good while while Sam and Steve worked to get through the wreckage of the site to get him out, he really was okay. Especially when he knew you and everyone else were safe.

He didn’t feel the need to talk about it, but just from the look in your eyes he knew you did. So he didn’t have to think much at all before he answered.

“Yeah, we should talk about it,” he said, his hand on yours as you caressed his cheek. “Shower first?” he prompted, pulling you from your ever anxious thoughts.

You nodded, “Good idea.”

You turned to leave the slowly steaming bathroom as the shower continued to warm, but were stopped by Bucky the moment he realized you were going for the door.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“I’m gonna grab your bag,” you laughed lightly, but not pulling away from his hold.

“You’re coming right back?” he questioned. “I was away from you for more than long enough already tonight, you can’t be gone too long.”

“I’ll be right back,” you tittered, a lightness returning to you the longer you were around him.

“You better be. If you take anything away from tonight, it should be that you’re not gonna get rid of me that easily, doll,” he smirked playfully as he let you go.

“I wouldn’t dream of even trying,” you said before leaning back in to kiss him softly. “You know I love you, Bucky, right? More than anyone, or anything, ever. You know that?”

“I do. But I don’t mind the reminder,” he smiled into another gentle kiss. “You know I love you more?”

You kissed him deeper at that, not realizing how much desperation was fueling you until you finally pulled away, leaving both of you a little breathless.

Your eyes were pinched shut as you tried to keep hold of yourself, pressing in close to Bucky once more.

“You can’t ever leave me. You can’t,” you whispered desperately.

Bucky’s light grip on your chin had you looking up at him, bleary eyes and a soft pout on your lips as you met his intent gaze.

“Look at me, sweetheart. I wouldn’t ever dream of it. I’ll always get back to you. I promise. Always.”

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x curvy!reader #bucky barnes oneshot #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes angst #bucky barnes x avenger!reader #bucky x reader #bucky x curvy!reader #third times the charm? pls 😭

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saradika · 1 year

Text

— only if for a night

[series masterlist]

din djarin x f!reader

Rated E - 6.5k

Tags: spoilers for 03.01, neighbor!din, established past encounter, flirting / mutual yearning, hot springs makeout, soft dom!din, outercourse, fingering, oral (f receiving), multiple orgasms, dirty talk, PiV

A/N: based on that little line from s03.01 about the hot springs. Many liberties taken with the creed.

When it appears the droid repair will take longer than expected, Din finds himself taking Karga up on the offer for the parcel of land.

And when you go to give your new neighbor a warm welcome - you never imagine that it would be the very man you haven’t been to stop thinking about.

He’d never been all that great at saying no.

It was easy when he was on the job - dealing with strangers. Questions rarely came when the saw him as just a symbol. Something to be feared.

A Mandalorian.

When it was a friend… well, that was a different story. Somehow, Karga had gotten under his skin. Twisting words around until he found himself agreeing to that parcel of land, out by the flats.

His stay was only temporary. That, he made sure of to mention. More than once, each time more firmly.

“Ah, but you always come back.” Karga had smiled, while they overlooked the city, “I know you have your business to attend to.”

Glancing down at Grogu, still spinning in the chair, “But wouldn’t it be nice to have a home to return to? To know you have a place, here?”

“I’ll think about it.” He had hedged, hands braced on his hips.

Somewhere along their walk later - their path had changed. Through the center of town, past the now deconstructed monument.

Before he knew it, he was in the middle of the tidy hut - Grogu wandering through the back door and into the sizable yard, as he found himself signing the deed.

“We’ll worry about the details later.” Karga had winked - and then he was gone.

Leaving Din alone, in his new space. Half-exasperated as he checks through the rooms.

A living space that flows into a small kitchen. Smoothed stone walls, a hallway that leads to a bathroom, with a full-sized sonic. The sharp right curve as the building continues back - a master bedroom taking up the last third of the L-shaped unit.

It might be nice to have a private place to sleep for a few days, while he waited for IG-11 to be repaired. His legs and back aching from sleeping in the starfighter.

And he’s never loved inns. Never trusted them completely - not even on Nevarro.

A small head peeks around the doorway, as he stands in the middle of the bedroom. The cotton curtains fluttering with the breeze, a view of the hot springs and the thick line of trees visible from the open window.

“What do you think, kid?” He finds himself asking.

Grogu coos happily, and his lips curve underneath his helmet.

“Yeah.” He hums. “I think so, too.”

———

“Finally sold that place, next to yours.”

You frown, glancing up from your datapad. Feet kicked up on the desk in your office, catching up on comms.

The news is unexpected, you hadn’t known anyone was looking at the property. Karga hadn’t pressed for you to put out any advertisements in the past couple weeks. Acted like he’s been saving it - but for what, you didn’t know.

“Would say I’m glad, but I was getting used to the private hot springs access.” You smile, removing your feet, pushing yourself up to greet him, “You need me to get the paperwork together?”

“No need, I handled it.”

That makes your eyebrow raise. Karga had certainly done a lot for Nevarro. The green trees outside - the expansion of the city - was more than enough proof.

But you had never seen him handle any of the minute details. Never had been his style.

No, that was your job.

“I’d like you to stop by though.” He says, fingers stroking the white bristles of his beard, “Make sure he’s doing alright. Explain about the expansions, I didn’t get a chance to cover that part.”

“Sure thing.” You nod, already collecting your things, “You know I would anyways, since he’s my neighbor and all.”

But Karga’s focus on this new buyer nudges at your attention - a beat passing, before you add, “Is it someone high profile? Should I know them?”

His answering look is knowing. And cryptic, as only he can be, “Something like that.”

Leaving your office with an amused smile - and you more curious than ever.

———

Your fist raps twice on the closed blast door. A hand smoothing down the front of your tunic, wrinkled with your brisk walk over from the office. The basket tucked under your arm, filled to the brim with goodies hand-picked from "the stash".

A crate stored in one of Karga's many rooms, filled with gifts from shops in town, potential business partners, visiting travellers.

Anything expensive he accepted for himself - the rest you collect, with the dual purpose of handling it for him, and finding a use for the item.

Creating welcome kits for all those who are new to the city, things to make their houses feel more like homes. Blankets to fend off the evening chill. Vouchers for a warm meal at the local cantina. Dried meats and fruits - trinkets for the children if there are any.

Fingers crossed that your new neighbor is someone nice. Not like that Weequay you had roomed next to when you had lived downtown - keeping you up late with their band practice. Chords loudly strum on their hallisket, somehow always off-key. Overly rude, whenever you had gently tried to bring it up.

Back then, you woke with the dawn, due down at the new school just after daybreak. Rough did not even begin to cover it.

Moving out here, the change in your duties, had been nice. Certainly a walk every morning, but the privacy was well appreciated.

Quiet nights after spending the day keeping up with the whirlwind that was Greef Karga. Soaking away the stress in the small clusters of hot springs that make their way along the flats.

No one answers, so you inch around the side of the building to check the back. One of the many bonuses about being this far out - the large yards and extra space. Past the narrow landing pad - the shining chrome ship that rests on it.

Your nose wrinkles at the sleek lines, the overall ostentation.

Stars, if it's another 'Karga'...

Pushing the thought aside as you call out, ahead, "Hello! Anyone home?"

"Back here." A voice replies, sounding muffled.

You’re rounding the corner of the hut, when you freeze. Only the vice-like grip on the handle keeping the basket from tumbling across the stone patio.

Because you do know him.

Intimately.

Though it’s been a while. Over a year, maybe two?

But there was no mistaking the shine of his silver armor. The little friend that’s still by his side.

“Oh.” You greet him, intelligently.

His helmet turns at your voice, his own form going still for a long moment. The child lets out a coo, his small head turning as he leans over the edge of the water, splashing the surface.

“Hi. Karga sent me over. I mean, I would have come anyways.” You clear your throat as you find your voice - hiking a thumb over your shoulder, “Seeing as we’re neighbors, and all.”

“Neighbors.” He repeats, his voice a low monotone.

It’s so strange to hear it again.

You’d spent ages thinking about it. About that night. It wasn’t supposed to be anything more than blowing off steam.

Back then, you had still worked at the school. Filling in as the teaching droid became accustomed to the class - still developing the emotional intelligence part of its AI.

You had been an aide, making sure things ran smoothly. And it had, until those few days that the Child had been in attendance.

It still makes you smile to remember the bits of blue cookie smeared on his face.

That’s when you had met the Mandalorian, picking up his child. And then running into him again, later at the cantina.

Ending up in his ship, even later after that. Staying longer than you meant to, until the indigo sky was streaked with pink and grey.

You still think about the cold bite of his armor against your bare skin. The low rasp of his voice, lips forming around rough words of praise that had burrowed into your brain.

Just one night, but it had stayed in your memory for the hundreds that came after.

“Uh, yes.” You snap back to reality, as you jiggle the basket. Walking over, because it was too late to flee - setting it down on the low stone table.

Your face heats - you're not sure how to word this. Unsure if it was more awkward to get out with it, or pretend like this was the first time you’ve met.

After a moment, you make your decision. Better to just be honest.

Your hand extends, as you give him your name. A small cringe of a smile, as you hedge, "I don't know if you remember-"

His answer cuts you off, as his hand takes yours, "I do."

Oh.

The vocoder makes it impossible to tell the exact tone of his response. If it was a good memory, or if he was disappointed in this strange reunion.

You’re saved from the awkwardness of not knowing, when the child toddles over. A wide grin spreads over your face, plucking a treat out of the basket.

“Just look at you!” Sinking to your knees - you glance up, before handing the piece of candy over, “Is this okay?”

The Mandalorian’s head dips in a nod, a heat in your cheeks as you turn back. Placing it into the little outstretched hands, as you marvel.

“You’ve really grown!”

His ears wiggle, the peek of his teeth as he smiles.

Not bigger, but certainly more confident. A sweetness shining, more certain of the steps he takes. A tightness in your chest, as he shows it to Mando - clutched tight in his fist.

“That’s right.” He replies patiently, “Tell her ‘thank you’, Grogu.”

Grogu makes a sound that could pass as a thanks, making his way to the rock border of the small garden.

Leaving you looking up at the Mandalorian. The angle doing something to you - all that shining armor. You on your knees.

His head, still tilting down. Cocked, your way.

But then, you’re remembering why you’re there. Pushing yourself to your feet, burning with embarrassment.

“Uh, right. The details.” You rush, turning away. Back towards the border of the property, your finger pointing, “The hot springs runs through your back yard and mine. Some huts are lucky enough to have their own.”

A shrug, as you turn back, “But most have to share. It’s great this time of year, it gets chilly at night. He’ll love it.”

Your head tilts towards Grogu, still munching away. Mando nods, slowly walking over to stand beside you, looking out at the natural springs. The thick trees above, making a sort of barrier to the huts behind it.

“Oh, and your house.”

The last detail.

“They’re built so you can add on. It’s a good size for one right now. But if you need more space there’s room on the sides, or add another floor.” You gesture to the spots, so he can picture the expansion.

“Should be pretty easy. You would just tell me or Karga, and there’s a couple droids that have it down to a science.”

His head tilting to look where you point. A beat, before he asks, “Have you added onto yours?”

Your eyes meet his visor, surprised.

Lips pressing together as you think about it, your head shaking. Smiling sheepishly.

“No. Like I said… it’s uh, good for one.”

He hums at that, but doesn’t ask anything else. Nor does he look away, his hands resting on his hips.

A dozen questions on the tip of your tongue. Holding them back because you’re not sure how to ask them. Not wanting the answer to be different from what you’re hoping.

So instead, you just smile.

“The last step is usually a tour, but I’m sure we can skip that part. Wouldn’t want to take up any more of your time.”

There’s a beat, while he seems to think about it. A hesitance, before he nods.

“Right. Thank you, we should be fine.”

Almost a reluctance.

But you’re certain you’re imagining it.

———

It’s lucky that he didn’t take you up on the tour. You barely make the walk back to your house before your comm is beeping - an emergency that has you running back into town.

A no-show from a contractor, for a job that needed to be done today. The afternoon is spent with your sleeves rolled up, helping out yourself, the work bleeding into the evening.

The morning becoming a blur, as you drag yourself home. Just thinking about sinking into the springs for a couple minutes, resting your aching feet.

Grabbing a ration bar as you change into one of your suits, your robe and a towel thrown over your shoulder. Leaving the door open, letting the cool night air into your house as you head towards the back.

Your things dumped on a low wooden bench, as you stretch - arms high above you head. A low, throaty groan as you step into the hot water, finding your favorite nook to rest in.

It’s only then, in the water with the skies above, that you think about the Mandalorian. A thrill at seeing him again, even if it didn’t go anywhere.

With his line of work, you can’t pretend you weren’t worried. Hadn’t been thinking about him, hoping he and his son were alright.

Hoping for other things, as well.

When your eyes finally open - you freeze.

The object of your affections sitting a few yards away from you, supplies spread out on the stone table. In the middle of cleaning a long rifle, a piece of cloth in his hands.

Seemingly frozen as well, his helmet tipped your way. The moment stretching out, until you’re letting out a little “oh”, dipping down into the water.

“Sorry,” You give him a little wave - unsure what else to do, “Didn’t see you out here.”

Moving closer to the edge, your hands bracing on the raised lip, “I can go. Long day, just needed a minute.”

“No.” He shifts then, a gloved hand going flat, “Please, stay.”

You’re pleased. To continue soaking, and to continue taking him in. Your chin resting on the curl of your fingers, watching him work.

It’s quiet - the rustle of the leaves above. A chirp of the crickets, the summer days starting to tip into autumn.

“What happened today?” Mando asks you, your head lifting.

Frowning - the question loaded. Did he mean earlier? Like, when you first rounded the corner into his backyard?

He takes pity on you, “You said today was long.”

“Mmm.” You sigh, now understanding. Biting back a smile, pleased that he’s asking about you, “I guess it wasn’t too bad. Just putting out a few fires for Karga.”

He hums, like he understands your implication.

But then, you’re remembering that he’s friends with him. Your nose crinkles, “Not that I am complaining. He’s done a lot for this city, we’re all grateful.”

“You can be honest with me.” His tone sounds amused, and you relax.

The tools set down, as he moves closer. The slow creak of his armor, the overhead lights glinting as he lower himself to one of the chairs that rest close to the edge.

Close enough that he could step into the water, the steam that rises up in the chilly evening air. His helmet tipping down to where you sit.

Your eyebrow lifts, “You thinking about coming in? I can close my eyes for you.”

Remembering what he said, before. The reason why he stayed wrapped in his armor, his helmet always firmly fixed in place.

His head tilts, considering. A long moment - as you hope - before he answers.

“Not tonight.”

The disappointment pools in your belly - but you move on quickly as he asks, “How long have you been working for him? I didn’t see you at the school.”

He had looked. That moment when he walked through town - later, when they ran into the pirates. A worry, fueling him to act when they had threatened to take that drink in the renovated building, where the old saloon used to dwell.

The disappointment melts into fondness, “A while. Close to a year? It’s fun, he can just be a lot, you know?”

He makes a sound of agreement, knowing full well.

“Very convincing and influential. I find myself doing all kinds of stuff just because he asks,” You laugh, your chin cupped in your hand, “He’s got his eyes on some big prizes. High Magistrate. Mining and trade routes.”

Your gaze drifts, going far away, “It’s great for the city. The expansion, all the money coming in. He loves it. The job, the finery of it all. But, personally… I’m not sure it’s what I want.”

The words trail off, as you get lost.

“What do you want?” His voice brings you back.

You blink, looking up at him, “I just want a place to call my own. Something just for me.”

Head tilting towards you little hut, as you start to feel a little self-conscious, “I’m sure that sounds stupid.”

His helmet stays focused on you, as he answers.

“No. I think I understand.”

———

When it came to this hut, he had floundered. Finding himself agreeing, even though he knew he’d be gone again in days. Now, there’s a question that lingers. Heavy on his mind and heart as the hours bleed into the next.

But this time, he knows what he wants. When the question comes, he’ll have the answer.

The next evening, he’s waiting for you.

Surprising you, seeing him in just the flightsuit, as you exit your hut. Pausing mid-step when you see how he lingers. Self-conscious now, in his own way.

Your question comes, again.

“You coming in?”

This time, he nods. Fingers lingering at the zipper on his chest - the anticipation curling in your stomach as you watch.

His hands going still. Wanting this, but the sting of his betrayal to the creed is still a fresh, aching wound. Letting someone see his face. Even though it was the only way.

You head inclines towards a spot in the back of the springs. Where the trees are thick, blocking out the twinkling stars above.

“I can wait there.” You tell him, “I won’t look.”

It’s the last assurance he needs.

He nods.

Making you way to the back, sinking down into the springs. Nervous and excited and thrilled, as you find the spot - where he joins you soon after.

Helmet still on, you can hear the buzz of his groan as the hot water hits his skin. Easing the aches in his back, from the hours of flying.

It’s a little narrow for two, but you fit together - facing each other, under the trees. Where the night and the shadow of the branches weave together - until you can only see the soft, loose outline of his shape.

You can’t believe he got in. Fingers itching to reach out and touch - but you hold back. Still not knowing how he feels, if he wants the same thing as you.

Instead, you fill the silence with soft questions. About him this time - where he’s been, what’s happened since you last saw him.

Some of the tension easing.

And slowly, he tells you. How they became separated. How he had gotten him back, only for the reunion to be cut short. Never saying how the absence effected him - but after seeing their bond today, you knew it had to be hard.

Finally, about their reunion.

With each story, each confession - you find yourselves moving closer. Inching along the natural stone seating until the feet of space dwindle down to mere inches between you.

You wonder if he can hear your heart. The way it thuds in your chest, as his knee brushes yours.

It’s quiet now, other than the ripple of water as your leg stretches out - foot resting on the outcropping of rock he sits on.

"I'm not staying long. Just a few days." The rasp of his voice breaks the silence. His leg brushes yours again.

A soft warning. Letting you know that this would be like last time.

But it’s not the same. Not really.

Your lips press together - the peek of your tongue as you wet them, "You'll be back. You just bought a house here."

"Yes.” He acknowledges, “But I don't know when-“

“I don’t mind”. Your own confession comes easily, in the dark. Leg shifting until your foot taps against his thigh, against bare skin, "Stop overthinking things. When was the last time you had some fun?"

There’s a low breath at your question, a buzz through his vocoder.

"Not since I last saw you."

You know he doesn't mean yesterday. The tickle in your stomach turns into full-on butterflies as your fingers drift - bridging the small gap between you. Finding his on the stone.

Fingertips dragging across knuckles, the back of his hand. Against smooth, bare skin. Before he moves - his hand curling around your wrist, tugging you forward.

A startled yelp as he hauls you into his lap, your thighs bracketing his - shins pressing into the bench beneath you.

Hands steadying themselves on his broad shoulders. His own slowly sliding over your thighs, up to your hips. Fingers kneading soft flesh as you shift, fitting yourself snug against him.

Feeling him.

The clothed, thick curve that’s pressing against your core. A soft sound in your throat as you rock your hips unconsciously against his cock, finally putting pressure on the spot that has been aching for him.

“Maybe you can remind me how.” He rasps, his own hips tilting up, grinding.

Your laugh is strangled as you meet him. Relief in many more ways than one as you brace your hands on his shoulders. Moving more purposely this time as you roll your hips.

Finding the spot that makes you shudder, nails sinking into his skin. His own hands grasping at you, the sharp hiss of breath through his helmet.

It’s too dark to see more than outlines, but you still find his visor. Trying to imagine where his eyes would be, before yours drop down - admiring the rare glimpse of his neck.

His shoulders, broad and strong. Fingers touching features you can’t make out - the coarse, peppered-grey curls on his chest. Decades of scars, each with a story. His form slightly softened by age, but still moving you effortlessly.

The grip on your hips loosen, a hand drifting up. Leaving droplets of water on your skin as his fingers skim your waist, then higher.

A knuckle brushing your breast, over the top of your suit. Teasing at the edge.

“Gods, yes.” You sigh, leaning back to give him room.

To watch him tug the cloth to the side, then down. Baring a breast, and then the other. Fingers dipping down to the water, dragging a wet thumb over the pebbled peak.

You’re clenching, your pace picking up. Leaning into his touch, grinding your pussy against him.

That low voice of his, encouraging you, “Keep riding me, mesh’la. Fuck, just like that.”

It makes you shudder. Pleasure coils in your head, the build-up making your thoughts hazy. So close to what you need, but not quite enough.

A frustrated whine slides through your teeth, your eyes lifting to his. A hand letting go to dip down, between your thighs - but he catches it with his own.

Bringing it back up to his shoulder, before his dips below the waistband. To where you’re wet, slick with arousal. Whimpering when his fingers circle your clit, making you mindless. Prone to babble, the words hushed in the quiet night.

“Stars, I missed you. Feel just as good as I remember.”

A beat, where his fingers linger. Just for a second, before he’s shifting beneath you - increasing the sweet pressure.

“You thought about this?”

Your eyelids flutter closed, your chest crushed against his. Feeling the slick slide of his fingers, exactly the touch you needed.

“Mhm. All the time.” The confession come easy, drunk as you are on pleasure, “How hard you made me come, how fucking good you are with your fingers.”

The praise sinks into his skin, smoothing over the thin cracks of insecurity. He had thought of you, too. Often.

Fucking his fist to the memory, so like the way your hand worked between your own thighs at night.

Just a night but it had felt like so much more. A connection.

He has you close. It almost feels like time is ticking down, each press of his fingers bringing you towards the end. An arm wraps around you, pinning you against him as you gasp.

More praise falling, just for him.

“Oh, you’re going to make me come. Just like that, please-”

His breath harsh as he concentrates, as your face buried into his neck. Muffling your cry as you’re brought over that edge, going stiff in his arms.

Gasping against his skin, as he coos in your ear. The words muted through the haze, buzzing against your skin. Finding bliss, in this dark corner of the springs.

A long moment of silence, as you find your limbs again.

“Did you mean what you said?” He asks, as your cheek presses against his helmet.

Cool against your hot skin, a soft sigh as you relax against him. Embarrassed, now your head is a little more clear, “What, that I fantasized about you?”

Mando makes a sound, a low laugh, “When you said you’d close your eyes. Did you mean that?”

Your head tilts back, so you can see him. Where his face would be, your palms skimming down his arms, “Yeah, I meant that.”

He stands then, taking you with him - your legs still hooked around his waist. Walking you to the side of the springs before your feet touch down, fingers curling around your wrist - tugging them up until your hand covers your eyes.

“Is your house the same as mine?”

Helping you out of the pool as you answer, his hand around your other wrist, “Mirrored.”

Guiding you to the back door, taking a second in the dark to wipe you both down with the towels you left.

Before he’s pulling you deeper, through the kitchen. Back to your bedroom. It’s still dark when your back is pressing against the matress, his hips between your thighs.

The light is low here. A string of ambient bulbs twinkling above your bed, casting the room in a soft glow. He pauses, as you shift below him.

Looking debauched, where you lay against the mattress. Bare legs, you core just covered by the cloth bottoms. The peek of flushed, tight nipples where he has tugged your top aside.

Practically begging for his mouth, the brush of his tongue.

He had been planning to take you in the darkness. Now, he can’t bear the thought of not being able to watch you fall apart with his own eyes.

“Can I blindfold you?” He husks, fingers trailing up your thighs.

You don’t know why he’s asking, but you agree, “Sure. If that’s what you want.”

“Yes.” The tips changing course, tracing the cut of your swimsuit, along the inside of your thigh, “Do you have something I could use?”

Already, the lack of sight has you on edge in the best way - your legs inching further apart. The hand not covering your eyes reaching up - searching beneath the nest of pillows.

Fingers catching on the elastic of the sleeping mask, as you tug it down. Another gift that Karga had discarded, one that found its way into your pocket, along with the matching silk robe, the jar of bath oils.

He helps you fit it into place, his thumb smoothing over your cheek - as your sight dissolves into true darkness.

Gasping, as he tugs at the ties of your top - baring you. A pneumatic hiss that you don’t recognize - ears straining as something heavy is set down on the side table.

The wet swipe of a tongue against the curve of your breast, flattening over your nipple. Wrapping around to suck, teeth just barely scraping the sensitive bud.

“Fuck.” You hiss, reaching for him. Grasping strong shoulders that hover over you, as his knuckles trap the other, gently pinching.

His helmet. He took it off, for you.

The weight of his actions crash into you, a tightness in your chest that has you gasping. His groan sounding pretty as presses an open-mouth kiss against your sternum, the sound unfiltered.

Another, as he moves down.

“Wanted to fuck you in the hot springs,” Fingers catch on the waistband of your suit bottoms, your hips lifting as he pulls them down, “Tug these off of you, just like this. Would you have let me?”

You moan, unable to help it - your answer eager, “Yes. Anything you want.”

He hums in approval - broad hands nudging under your thighs, another tug as he pulls you towards the edge of your bed.

Even with the mask your eyes close, a thrill of excitement as you wait for the press of his cock. Aching for him to fill you, your mind taking you back to last time.

How he had sunk into you. The sweet stretch until the cool armor on his thighs pressed against your skin from behind.

“But there’s something else I wanted more.” His voice breaks into your thoughts, bringing you back.

And it’s not his cock that kisses your cunt. It’s his lips, pressed against the slick, swollen flesh. Your hips flex as you whimper, his hand sliding to press against your stomach.

Pinning you down, as he groans against your pussy. Tongue pointing to flick against your clit before he pulls back. The scratch of facial hair against your thigh as he presses a kiss there.

“Thought about you, too. Dreamed about tasting your sweet little cunt. Making you come on my tongue.”

His mouth following his words, warm where the rest against your skin. Taking his time as he spreads you open with his fingers. Tongue tracing from the tight bud of your clit, down.

Pressing the tip into you. Tasting your release, your slick arousal, as you reach for him. Fingers sinking into soft curls - another realization, another small detail about him that you tuck inside your heart.

You tug on them as he sighs against you, fucking you with his tongue. Slipping back up to wrap his lips around your clit and suck, while his fingers nudge at you.

Sinking the tip of one inside, teasing. Knuckles deep in your greedy cunt - first one, and then another. A low hum against your slit as you whine. Fingers crooking against the spongey spot that had you keening last time.

The combination is too much. Senses heightened to an extreme - each messy flick and press of his tongue sending sparks down your spine to collect and pool low in your belly.

Hearing each and every groan he makes, the rough timbre of his voice. Your own moans joining his, twisting around each other like your fingers in his curls.

The words panted out, achingly desperate.

“Oh, fuck-”

“Please, right there-”

Each breath shorter than the last. Your hands scrambling, leaving his locks to grip onto the pillow, as your hips flex against his mouth.

His fingers pounding steadily against a spot that makes you see stars. Chin and lips smeared with your slick as he coaxes you over the edge.

“Osik. I can feel you clenching around my fingers, mesh’la.” He groans, eyes fixed on where you take him, the silky shine of his fingers.

Flicking up to your face - wanting to watch you fall apart for him with his own eyes, “Want you to come for me, want to feel you gush on my fingers.”

And with a gasp, you do.

Your senses fading to a buzzing, white noise as your hips lift off the bed. Coming hard, pulsing around thick fingers as he watches, tilting his head to press his tongue against your clit. Feeling you there, each little thud where he’s pressed flat against you.

Leaving you gasping, loose-limbed. The sound turning warm and happy with the elation that spreads, settling over your limbs.

His hand swipes across his chin, as he pushes himself up. Arms wrapping under your thighs again, scooting you back onto the bed.

Achingly hard as he peels off the bottoms he still wears. Slick-stained fingers wrapping around his cock, the rough groan of relief as he jerks from base to flushed tip.

More than pleased by the way he has you smiling. Contented and floating, just from his fingers - the inexperienced swipe of his tongue.

He’d learn, for you. Let your fingers twist in his hair, tug him to the right spot until it’s all that he knows.

For now, he soaks you in. His knees pressing into the bed, hoisting your thighs over them. Angling his cock down, to tap against your pussy - a string of your slick clinging to the tip.

“Fuck, just look at you.”

Feeling it’s wet heat, the way you’re arching into him already. Eyes greedy as he presses into you, watching the tip sink in.

How the tight grip of your cunt chokes him - inching in further, before he’s retreating. Pulling back, sliding the soaked tip across your folds again.

Your teeth grit, your hands searching for him. Curling around his wrists, as his hands hold your hips in place.

“Mando, please. Don’t tease me.”

He sucks in a breath through clenched teeth. Tonight, you’re his. Days of uncertainty - wondering if you had thought of him the way he did of you, culminating in this moment of desire that burns through him.

Not wanting to hear the name that follows him like a shadow.

“Din.” He grits out. Something tight in his chest loosening, “My name. It’s Din Djarin.”

Your lips wrap around the gift, making him throb when you parrot it back to him. That need making itself known, as he sinks into you again.

“Want you to stay it when you come.” His hands yank your hips, as his snap forward. Seating himself fully as you moan - as he buries his cock in you.

Din’s voice sounding tight, as he adds, “You got that?”

“Yes, Din.” You sigh dreamily, clenching around him as he moans.

Letting him set a rhythm that starts slow - lets you feel each inch as he drags himself out, before snapping in. Picking up as you cling to him, shifting until your legs are wrapping around his waist.

Hovering over you, tucking you beneath him as his hips snap against yours. Your hands wandering - sliding across his shoulders. Thumbs sweeping over the hollow of his throat, down through the coarse hair across his chest.

So much skin, bared for you to touch. You want to know every inch. Wish you could see - but you’re not that greedy. Happy to take this reunion for every ounce that it was.

But he leans into it. The warmth of your hand, the way your thighs wrap around him. That stiff hold of his shoulder and back loosening, as he lowers himself further.

Unable to resist the urge to see what it’s like. To press his lips against your cheek, feeling the bite of your fingernails when you sigh in surprise.

The whimper as he moves closer to your mouth, until his lips are ghosting over yours. Your head tilting up to chase him in the dark.

His name, once again.

“Din.”

There’s a snarl that rises in this chest. Muffled by the time it reaches to his throat, as his lips finally press against yours.

Starting slow, like the rut of his hips. Just a soft brush, before he draws back for a breath. Coming back for another, as you sigh and arch into him. Lips parting as his tongue brushes the seam, his hand slipping up to cup the back of your head.

He tastes like you. The sweet tang of your pussy on his tongue. Delving into your mouth as he fucks you, as you can do little more than just cling to him.

Soft moans and the needy press of your mouths layering with the wet sound of your joining. The angle stroking his cock against the spot that his fingers found, stealing your thoughts.

Not even realizing it’s your own voice, the panting “please, please-”. Each breath after a soft “oh” that gets sharper, higher, with each gasp.

“Fuck, that’s it.” The voice in your ear sends a thrill down your spine. Joining that familiar fire that pools in your belly, “You’re taking me so well. Are you going to come for me again?”

His lips press against your throat, where your heart flutters. Feeling the bitten-back whine, as your legs clench around him.

Bracing yourself for the pleasure that’s about to tear through you, the spark that starts down low before it races down your limbs.

“Give me one more, cyar’ika.” He rasps, and you can’t help but obey.

That strung-tight string snaps. His name a sob on your lips as the orgasm crashes over you. A pleased hum against your skin as his thrusts snap harder - the rhythm sloppy as you tremble in his embrace.

Din’s breath is hot against your neck, his forehead pressed to your cheek. Feeling the tight clench of your wet cunt around his cock - his fingers biting into your hip as he seeks his own end.

“Where do you want me?” He grits out, “I’m not going to last, feel so good-”

Your legs tighten around his hips, pushing him deeper. Fingers lacing around his neck, the tip of one finding his curls again.

“Come in me.” You beg - hearing his rough groan at your words, “Still have the implant.”

“Fuck.”

He had felt it, last time. You had guided his fingers to the ridge beneath your skin, in that moment where you waited with baited breath for his cock to fill you.

Emptying himself the first time from behind, bent over some crates in the hull. The second, hours later. On your back, like this - but he had been armored then, your bare skin reflecting off the beskar as he stood between your thighs.

But now, your limbs are tangled. The heel of a foot pressed against his ass, his body rolling against yours. The messy press of his mouth against your skin.

A hiss, as he inhales.

Hands gripping onto you, as that breath is released in a rough groan, your own name on his lips. A sharp thrust as he buries himself deep, a shallow rock of his hips with each flex of his cock as he spills into you. The warmth flooding your walls, as he moves until you’ve taken all of him.

Until the aching, burning need is extinguished - as he relaxes like you did. Your nails scratching up his back and into his hair, a rumble of contentment as he shifts onto his side, and then back, pulling you with him.

Reaching down with one hand to pull the plug of the lights from the wall, blanketing the room in darkness. Fingers gentle as he lifts the mask. The brush of his lips against your eyelids.

Your cheek pressing against his chest, as his fingers trace patterns on your skin.

“I’m really happy I got to see you.” You yawn - blissfully limp, as you curl against him, “Even if you have to go.”

Sighing, as you arm drapes across his waist, “I’ll keep an eye on things until you come home.”

Home.

He can't pretend he hasn't already thought about it. What you had told him earlier, about these huts.

How the structures could change, evolve.

Spanning the space between your properties - expanding the walls and connecting hallways until the two houses become one. Truly a haven, a place where he could see himself growing old.

Not now, but... maybe someday.

Once this final quest was completed. Once he was redeemed. A true Mandalorian, once more.

But, that would be some time away. He has no idea what he will find on Mandalore. How long it will take to find Sundari, uncover the mines. It was no use to dwell on that future, when everything was uncertain.

So, instead… he finds himself silently hoping that the Anzellans will take just a little while longer.

Thanks for reading! Would love to know what you think 💖

mesh’la - beautiful / osik - shit / cyar’ika - sweetheart

#just a little something fun - I’ve missed writing for him #din djarin x reader #din djarin x f!reader #din djarin x you #din djarin smut

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orbitalmirror · 1 month

Text

Grand Days and Small Gestures

Pairing: Hunter x Reader

Word Count: 9152

Warnings: Language, canon-typical violence.

Prompt: “Why can’t you just be normal?”

Summary: You didn’t expect to end up in Separatist prison cell. You definitely didn’t expect to be accidentally rescued by a squad of clones.

A/N: This fic is a gift for @ladyanidala, who gave me SUCH a fun prompt!! I’m gonna be honest with you, this got rather out of hand…I’m not used to writing romance, and then this pesky little thing called plot got involved. It’s not the most traditional reader-insert fic, but I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it! It was my first foray into a second-person POV, and it was so fun that it inspired me to start dreaming up a (possibly fluffier?) sequel. Thank you so much to @cloneficgiftexchange for creating this event!

Today isn’t the worst day of your life.

Granted, the bar is pretty low; the worst day of your life was probably that time you were undercover in a sect of fascist insurrectionists on Brentaal IV, and you discovered that your encrypted comm was irreparably fried. You were stuck in that hellhole for nine weeks before somebody back in the Corellian intelligence HQ thought, “You know, maybe she didn’t suddenly go dark on purpose.” By the time they came to rescue your ass, you had finally decided to quit this job and go become a baker or something. Then you got back to Corellia and…didn’t quit. Didn’t even draft your resignation letter. Nothing in the galaxy makes you feel quite as alive as espionage does—what else could you do?

So now you sit on the concrete floor of a detention cell, your tailbone aching and your fingers stiff from the chill, and you remind yourself, today isn’t the worst day of your life. The idea spins itself into a sort of mantra: It could be worse. It could be worse. It could be worse.

Your stomach growls in dissent.

Hours have passed since the battle droids caught you, and you don’t know why it’s taking so long for a real Separatist officer to arrive for an interrogation. Clearly there are no living beings in the compound, which means clearly your intel was wrong. The datapad you’re after is too valuable to leave in the clumsy, three-fingered hands of droids. The B2s guarding your cell left about twenty minutes ago, and you’ve spent the past ten minutes trying to pry open a panel on the wall with your little transparisteel knife, the only weapon of yours that wasn’t found by the droids and their metal detector.

The panel finally pops off, and you almost groan in dismay. The only things visible in the wall are a thick bundle of electrical wires and some pipes. The pipes look too sturdy to be damaged by you and your little knife, and anyway, flooding your cell probably wouldn’t do anything except electrocute you. Cutting the wires might cut off electricity to your cell door, but that’s just as likely to leave the door locked as it is to open it, and it also might electrocute you. You’re no technician. It isn’t worth the risk.

It could be worse.

The passing of time is almost visceral now, like the ticking of an analog clock in your ribcage. You shove the panel back on the wall. Time for the ceiling. The cell’s metal bench—you can’t even call it a cot—is just tall enough that you can reach up to pry around the edges of the ceiling tiles. You start on the one in the corner, hoping that there’s a ventilation shaft above it. The left edge is just starting to come loose when—

Click.

Darkness.

That definitely wasn’t your doing.

Half a second passes, and then a loud pneumatic hiss heralds the miraculous opening of your cell door, and the adrenaline really kicks in. Has someone finally come to collect you? But why…

You listen. No footsteps.

You hop down from the bench to peek out the cell door. Nothing to see, either.

Another hiss startles you, and you dart into the hall just as the door suddenly closes again, deafening in the eerie silence. The overhead lights are still off, and only the weak blue emergency lights lining the corridor offer you any sense of direction.

You’re free, and nobody is around.

Well, this just got interesting.

~~~

As you make your way through the base, you quickly realize that something very strange is going on. That something strange is probably best exemplified by the droids lying in scrap heaps all over the place, most of them burned through with blasters, but some of them dismantled in a way that you can’t even identify. Whoever or whatever is in this base with you, you do not want to meet them.

So, of course, you meet them less than ten minutes after escaping your cell.

You’ve picked up a blaster from a fallen B1, and are carefully scouting out the control rooms, looking for anything that can help you find your confiscated ship. Unfortunately for you, the walls and blast doors of the compound are so thick that they’re effectively sound-proofed, making it difficult to tell what lies behind each door before you open it. Despite the fact that you haven’t yet run into any functional droid or living being, you feel a spike of adrenaline every time you enter a new room or hallway.

The next one, you think, opens into the hallway where the main control center is housed. If you were paying enough attention while the droids frog-marched you through the base.

When it opens, you don’t find droids.

You find clones.

There are four. Their armor looks different from the clones you’re used to seeing on the major core planets: all of it is painted a dark grey, their helmets heavily customized. Two of them immediately turn to look at you. One is holding a pistol. The other is holding the scariest sniper rifle you’ve ever had pointed at your face. (And you’ve had quite a few sniper rifles pointed at your face.)

Nope, you think. Not happening.

Immediately, you dart around the corner and slam the button to close the door. Shouts ring through the hallway. You shoot the access panel for good measure. Corellia may be a member of the Republic, but that doesn’t mean you want anybody working for the Senate to know what you’re doing here, least of all soldiers.

Time has suddenly become far more pressing.

You abandon some of your previous caution and take off at full speed through the compound. A few active battle droids wander the halls, their tiny electronic brains seeming utterly flabbergasted by whatever turn of events lead to a group of at least four clones carving through an entire Separatist base. You pick them off with ease. They’re not the enemy you’re worried about.

Where are the rest of the clones?

There’s no way in hell a squad of four men could do this much damage…right?

But there are more pressing matters. There’s no signage in the base, which means you’re relying on memory and educated guesses to make your way to the airfield where you know a wide array of starships are parked. You’ve finally made your way up to the ground level of the base, only minutes away from where you think the airfield is.

Unfortunately, the stars are not on your side today.

Footsteps—organic ones, by the sound of it—are coming towards you down the hall.

You duck into an alcove in the wall and press yourself as deep into it as you can, hoping desperately that you’re hidden from view. A few moments pass, and then a clone in that strange grey armor sprints past you. Then a second, and a third, and a fourth.

A few seconds pop by, and you’re about to peek out of your alcove when a grey helmet pops back into view, startling you so badly that you bang your elbow against the steel wall.

“Who are you?” the clone yells.

“Who are you?” you retort, for a lack of any better things to say.

“Sergeant CT-9901. Call me Hunter.”

You blink at him. He tilts his head at you.

You say nothing.

“Hunter! We need to go!” a voice shouts.

“Are you a Separatist?” the clone called Hunter asks you.

“Absolutely not.”

“Then come on!” he exclaims, motioning you to follow him.

“Where are you going?”

“We’re escaping.”

“You’re going the wrong way!” you exclaim. “The airfield is in the direction you came from.”

“Yeah, and we just rigged the airfield to blow. Now come on!”

Well, shit. What other choice do you have?

Hunter takes off running, and you follow as closely as you can. The tall clone with the sniper rifle is waiting for you at the end of the hall, and he says something to Hunter that you can’t quite make out. They’re probably talking through their helmet comms, you realize. The three of you make your way away from the airfield, through a part of the base that you don’t recognize. Here and there, you catch glimpses of the other two clones up aheads, but they don’t seem to be slowing down at all. Metal carcasses of battle droids are strewn around you.

Finally, you break out of the compound and into the sunlight. It seems to be early afternoon, if you’ve been tracking both the passing of time and the cardinal corrections correctly. The base is located in a valley between rolling mountains, surrounded on every side by thick forest and strange rock formations. You follow the two clones to a large boulder, where the other two clones you saw earlier are standing. One is tall, with goggles in his helmet. The other one is even taller, so tall that you could reasonably call him a giant.

“Who is this?” asks the one with goggles.

“Not a Separatist,” says Hunter. “Which is good enough. Wrecker, are we good to go?”

The giant—Wrecker, apparently—gives Hunter a thumbs up, and hits a button on his vambrace.

The airfield behind you blows up. Somehow, it’s one of the most normal things that’s happened all day.

“That should keep them distracted for at least thirty minutes, which is long enough for us to escape the range of their scanners,” says goggles.

“I don’t want to take any risks. Let’s get moving,” says Hunter. He turns to you. “Alright, Miss ‘Absolutely Not a Separatist’. You coming with us?”

“Is that an option?” you ask.

“As long as you don’t shoot us.”

“Didn’t even occur to me,” you say, honestly. “But where are the other clones?”

“What other clones?”

…you’re joking.

“You did all of that yourself?” you ask, utterly incredulous.

“Sure did!” Wrecker exclaims. “It was fun, too.”

“We specialize in smaller operations,” says Hunter. “Wrecker’s our munitions guy. Tech is pretty self-explanatory. Crosshair’s our sniper. We’re Clone Force Ninety-Nine.”

There’s so much information to be taken in right now, you don’t even know where to begin.

“Alright,” you say, because really, you’re completely out of options here. “I guess I’m in.”

~~~

Cool air burns in your lungs. Everything hurts. Everything hurts. Keeping up with the clones’ long strides has forced you to jog in places, and even then, you’ve fallen to the back of the group. Twenty minutes have passed since the airfield was blown to bits, and in that time, you’ve finally made sense of the incredible influx of information you’ve been given. You’ve also developed a veritable laundry list of questions. Chief among them:

“Where are we going?”

Crosshair turns around, and though his helmet covers his face, he’s definitely glaring at you. “To our cache. Keep up.”

“How much farther?” you ask, trying—and mostly failing—to keep the despair out of your voice.

Crosshair says nothing.

Such a conversationalist.

“What’s going on?” calls a low voice—Hunter’s. All four clones are looking at you now, peering through their unreadable masks.

“I asked where we’re going.”

Hunter pauses, tilts his head. Then he starts making his way back down towards you, his posture tense even as his steps are light and fluid. You eye him closely; despite Crosshair’s rifle, and Wrecker’s size, and Tech’s explosives, you’re getting the feeling that Hunter is the dangerous one here. You just haven’t figured out why, yet.

You straighten as he approaches, expecting him to size you up. Instead, he walks right past you, and sits on a fallen tree.

“When was the last time you drank something?” he asks.

…what?

The question sounds downright concerned. You say nothing. The duration of your imprisonment is not information you’ll give out willingly.

Hunter is unclipping something from his belt, now. It’s a small bottle with a colorless, slightly cloudy liquid inside. He holds it out to you, and says, “Drink.”

“What’s in it?” you ask.

“Water, a mild stimulant, electrolytes, and sugar,” Tech rattles off.

Helpful.

Hunter shoves it towards you a little further, and you push it back. Poisoning is not on today’s agenda…not that literally any of this was on today’s agenda.

“You, first.”

Hunter nods, and pulls his helmet off of his head. His face is…not what you expected. His skin is a light brown, dotted with a few faint freckles on the left side, and dominated by a dark tattoo of a skull on the right. His nose is aquiline, his jaw is strong and rounded, his cheeks ever so slightly hollowed. Dark curly hair falls in a tangled mess to his shoulders, held back only by a red bandana tied across his temple. A few flyaways have escaped its hold, as if yearning for freedom.

You’re a professional. You do not ogle the handsome soldier. Instead, you watch closely as he lifts the bottle to his lips and takes a small sip. Swallows. Your eyes follow the motion of his throat.

Satisfied, you nod, and take the offered gift. The liquid is sweet and a little salty, but otherwise bland. A faint bitterness lingers on your tongue when you’ve finished taking a few gulps.

When you hold the bottle out for Hunter, he waves you off. “All of it.”

It takes you a minute, but you finish the bottle, and thank him as you hand it back to him. He nods silently in response. What a repartee you’ve established.

“You feel better?” Wrecker asks.

“Sure do. Thanks.”

“We stowed the rest of our gear at a spot fifteen klicks away,” Hunter says. “Can you make it that far?”

Now that’s the real question. The fluids and the short rest have certainly helped, but your legs still ache, and the mountain in front of you is only getting steeper as you climb. Fifteen klicks is just a very long walk over normal terrain. Fifteen klicks now…

“Definitely,” you say, with confidence. “Shall we?”

Hunter motions the group forward, and you fall in behind him.

What a day.

~~~

Time starts to blur, after that. Your world reduces itself to the diffused ache of exhaustion in your legs and the tree roots under your feet…and Hunter. More precisely, the mud-splattered heels of Hunter’s armored boots, as you follow close behind. The clones’ pace is almost punishing; you start to worry how long you’ll be able to keep up, as the soldiers plod along without complaint. Well…almost without complaint.

“I’m hungry,” Wrecker groans, only for the fourth time in the past ten minutes.

“With only three ration packs left, protocol dictates that we reserve our food supply until we restock, or until nutrition becomes an immediate concern,” says Tech.

“This is immediate,” Wrecker insists.

“Your appetite has been an ‘immediate concern’ since we were three years old,” says Crosshair.

Your own stomach growls in affirmation, as if feeling left out of the conversation. When was the last time you ate? Hours have lost their shape. At this point, you feel like time is being measured by the number of feet you’ve climbed.

Abruptly, Hunter halts. Without saying a word, he swings his rucksack to his front, pulls out a foil ration pack, and tosses it over his shoulder. It sails through the air in an elegant arc, right into Wrecker’s waiting hand. You try not to be too impressed.

(You fail, because it was impressive. Actually, you’re not even sure how it was possible.)

There’s a pause as Hunter’s hand hovers over his rucksack.

Then: “Catch.”

The warning seems only an afterthought, delivered as the ration pack is already airborne. You manage to catch it anyway, and you turn it over in your hands. It’s cold-start, the kind that’s mixed with water to form a vaguely edible mush. Hunter is already moving forward again.

“Do you have any more water?” you ask.

This time, he doesn’t even bother with a warning as the metal canteen comes hurtling at your head. It stings your hand as you catch it. You tuck the ration pack into your belt so you have a hand free to open the—

To open—

To—

What the hell?

“Is this sealed?” you call out, even though the canteen is clearly half-empty, and you remember him drinking out of it just minutes ago.

Hunter turns and starts to make his way back down to you. Not for the first time on this bizarre trek, you wish that you could see his facial expressions. His body language betrays little, his movements as elegant and efficient as a supersoldier’s should be. When he reaches you, he holds out his hand. You drop the canteen into his palm with a little more force than is really necessary, but he doesn’t react, simply twists open the lid without any visible effort.

“The ration,” he says, holding out his hand again.

“I know how to mix a ration pack,” you grumble.

But you’re tired, and your hands are stiff from the cold, and you’re starting to wonder whether this is an elite super-soldier’s equivalent of kindness. You won’t bite the hand that feeds you. With a nod, you hand over the ration pack. Hunter mixes it with the sort of automaticity that betrays a thousand repetitions of the motion. Your fingers brush when he hands it back.

One swig of the stuff makes you wonder if it’s not too late to go back to the Seppie prison.

“Urghh,” you groan.

Hunter makes a sound that’s almost…oh stars, he’s laughing at you. You’re dying of hunger and thirst and trying to drink what tastes like cardboard in puréed form, and he’s laughing at you.

“Never had GAR rations before?” he asks. “They’re not like what you civilians get for your backpacking trips.”

“That was…rude, I’m sorry,” you say, kicking yourself for reacting that way when he just offered you help.

“That’s the usual reaction,” he says. He swings his rucksack over his shoulder and turns back up the mountain. “Come on, we’ve got a long way ahead of us. Drink it while we walk. You’ll get used to the taste.”

“Stars, I hope not,” you mumble.

Hunter’s rumbling laugh floats back to again, and you smile despite yourself. For a moment, you wonder if you’ll get along after all.

~~~

It turns out rations for six foot tall super-soldiers are really energy-dense. With a stomach full of food—if you can call it food—the day starts to feel a lot less like a catastrophic mission failure and a lot more like a strange little side quest. Wrecker seems to feel the same, a bright levity emerging in his booming voice.

“Did I ever tell you about the time Hunter took on three regs at one time because they were picking on Crosshair?”

“When would you ever have had time to tell her that story?” Crosshair asks.

“There were only two,” Hunter corrects, “and they were almost a year younger than us.”

“What are regs?” you ask.

It’s a can of worms that you’re glad you’ve opened.

Wrecker seems to delight in having an audience, and the other three can’t help but contribute to the conversation. Their stories are all out of chronology, and the discussion is frequently derailed by your complete lack of knowledge about the Grand Army of the Republic. The Senate wants it that way, you know. Honestly, it’s incredible how much intel you’re getting right now…not that you feel like you could use it for anything productive. It paints an ugly picture that the clones don’t seem to realize is ugly, a tale of forced conformity and a brutal life.

The landscape goes by. You learn that most clones like them are considered defective and relegated to maintenance duty. You learn that, although the clones as a whole view themselves as brothers, there’s nasty people in any group. You learn who “regs” are, and about the ones who picked on the 99s—Crosshair especially, who grew up tall but unusually thin, unable to develop the impressive muscle mass that most of the clones possessed. You learn that Hunter, the only one not visibly defective in some way, learned to bridge the gap between his squad and their other brothers.

(You learn that, when his diplomacy failed, he was always willing to throw punches in their defense.)

A story unfolds, of four boys who turned into four men, all so different in temperament that it seems impossible for them to be held together by anything except circumstances. Wrecker starts fights because he thinks they’re fun, but cares far more about what other people think of him than he’s willing to let on. Tech simultaneously lives in his own head and is inextricably steeped in the world around him, every phenomenon looking more colorful through his goggles, every system of nature a machine that can be disassembled. Crosshair is a cynic, through and through, but his loyalty to his brothers runs so deep that you wonder if it might be affection, rather than a sense of duty, that drives him. Hunter…

In all of their stories, none of the other clones truly describe Hunter to you. There are no off-handed compliments that he’s brave, or that he’s kind, or that he’s level-headed. Wrecker tells you, “Crosshair is the best lookout in the entire galaxy.” Hunter tells you, “Wrecker has this habit of offering to help people at very inconvenient times,”—an amusingly brotherly way to say that Wrecker is a generous soul. Crosshair tells you, “Tech saved our mission because he read a book about karking butterflies.”

But still, in between the tales of rescues and hijinks, you weave together the threads, and you find yourself looking at a very different person than you thought you had met when your day began. Hunter’s facade of gruffness is hastily constructed and easily chipped away, and beneath it he is not a complicated man. Above all else, he is singularly devoted to protecting others, and everything else about him seems inconsequential in comparison.

Evening falls, and you make it to the place where the clones have stored their gear. Their ship, Hunter explains, is another twelve klicks away, near a small outpost that they initially investigated, and then decided not to infiltrate.

After you’ve finished your dinner—which includes some real food this time, even if it is canned—you find yourself sitting by a tiny brook, too small for anything to swim in it. A day’s worth of stories tumble around in your mind.

You only hear Hunter coming when he’s a few feet behind you.

“I won’t ask you what you were doing in a Seppie detention cell.”

Smart man, you think.

“But,” he continues, “whatever it was you did, they’re going to be after you as much as they’re after us. You need to be able to protect yourself.”

You resist the urge to respond with a dry, “Yeah, no shit, Sergeant.” Instead, you offer a non-committal hum.

“I’ve got a spare DC-17 pistol. You should learn how to use it.”

You turn to look at him. He’s standing with one hand on his hip and the other holding his blaster, empty of a power cell. He looks very serious.

You try to resist the urge not to laugh. You’ve had a blaster in your hand since you were twelve years old.

Instead, you say, “Sounds like a good idea. Now?”

“No better time,” he says.

He makes his way over and sits down next to you, and you find yourself leaning in to watch as he turns the blaster over in his hands.

“So we’ll start with assembling it…”

You’re only half paying attention to the actual words tumbling from his lips. Like a sweater catching on a bush, your mind catches on the low, rumbling timbre of his voice. The sound buzzes in your ears. The sun is going down, but you could swear it’s getting warmer. Was he always that—

“Were you paying attention?” he asks, breaking your reverie.

“Yes,” you lie. Well, half-lie, because you were paying attention…to other things.

“Repeat back what I just told you.”

Well, that definitely isn’t happening. In lieu of an answer, you pluck the blaster and its power cell from his hands. Your conscious mind is barely engaged as you assemble it with steady hands, as quick as you reasonably can without jamming it. A DC-17 isn’t your preferred style of pistol, but the principle is the same.

And if you’re not mistaken, the subtle arch of Hunter’s brow means that he’s impressed.

“Good. Now, this blaster handles a little differently than the ones you’ve probably used…”

Maybe it’s the smooth confidence in his voice, or maybe you’re just desperate to learn more about the man, but you find yourself going along with it. You nod as he explains the kickback of the weapon, its effective range, its possible styles of blaster bolts.

Finally, he stands behind your left shoulder, and quietly instructs you to aim the weapon. It’s as easy as breathing. His hands come up to adjust your grip; his fingers are warm and rough, heavily calloused by his own use of weaponry. The heat lingers even as he pulls away, apparently satisfied with the positioning of your hands.

You immediately slide your grip back to where it was.

“My hands are smaller,” you explain, even though you don’t owe him an explanation, because you’ve been doing this at least as long as he has. You almost tell him that, too, but it would reveal more about you than you actually want him to know.

“Mmm,” he hums, his face now tantalizing close to your ear. “See if you can hit that hollow tree.”

The tree is maybe thirty feet away. Half of you is wildly offended by the suggestion that you couldn’t hit such an easy target. The other half of you is ruled by the pounding of your own tyrannical heart, Hunter’s mere proximity throwing you out of your disciplined calm.

You breathe in. Breathe out. Aim. Squeeze.

There’s now a burning hole in the center of the dead tree.

“Good!” Hunter says, and good heavens, could he not stand so close? “Now—”

Fweeoo.

Maybe you should feel bad about cutting him off. You don’t, at all.

Fweeoo.

Hunter is silent, now, just standing there watching you draw a neat little line of smoking holes in the tree. The petty part of you is winning your internal war, so you line up a sixth shot, turn your head to meet his gaze, and pull the trigger. His dark brown eyes flicker away, then back to yours.

“You’ve made your point,” he murmurs.

You glance at the tree, where a wisp a smoke rises from a knot in the bark. It’s not a perfect bullseye, but a victory nevertheless.

“I’ve made better points,” you retort, smiling. Four precious seconds pass before Hunter finally steps away.

“So, no target practice for you, then. I set up your bedroll. You should get some rest.”

“Which watch should I take?”

Hunter frowns slightly. “None of them. I’m going to scout out the area for a bit longer, then I’ll take first watch. Crosshair and Tech take second and third.”

“Do you want a second pair of eyes?”

“Don’t need them.”

You nod, and suddenly realize what an awkward thing that was to say. “Well then, I’ll head back up to camp.”

“Goodnight,” says Hunter, softly.

You don’t manage to summon a response.

(Your heart still pounds against your ribs.)

~~~

Despite the food, rest, and water, the morning’s trek is harder than yesterday’s. The terrain turns rocky and the foliage becomes sparse, leaving you exposed to the cold wind. The group’s pace slows as you make your way down the mountain, carefully stepping around loose stones that could send you tumbling. Your eyes are once again trained on Hunter’s heels. You trust him more than you trust yourself to pick out a safe path on the treacherous slope.

Still, the difficulty of the endeavor doesn’t seem to dampen the squad’s mood. Hunter’s helmet is off, strapped to the top of his pack, and he often tilts his face towards the sun. The wind blows his curly hair in every direction, until the bandana is only keeping half of it out of his face. Tech is delivering a detailed lecture about geology. You have no idea what he’s talking about. Wrecker seems as confused as you are about the subject, but while you simply let the words wash over you, Wrecker eagerly interjects with questions and commentary. Their dialogue is far from socratic, but it starts to intrigue you, and you can’t help but smile at the exchange. Every once in a while, the conversation is punctuated by a comment from Crosshair, dripping with sarcasm and yet received with good-hearted laughter. Hunter’s contributions, frequent at first, begin to taper off. The other three don’t seem to notice, but then again, it’s not their job to study people. It’s yours.

You’re about to ask him what’s wrong when he answers your question preemptively.

“Someone’s in the ship,” he says, turning around to face the group.

“Clankers?” Wrecker asks.

“No. I would have felt them if they were droids. I’ve been sensing something else: comms, or another type of small electronics. But just now, they turned on power in the ship.”

The cogs in your head are turning. Did you hear him correctly?

“How do you know?” you ask. “What do you mean, you felt…”

You trail off as Hunter holds up a finger to silence you. His brow is drawn into a tight scowl and he closes his eyes, tilting his head as if listening for something.

Tech makes his way over to you. Quietly, he explains, “Hunter can feel electromagnetic frequencies. He can sense droids, or the electronics that people carry on them if they’re quite close. When the electrical power on the ship is turned on, those frequencies change, so he can feel those, too.”

“How could somebody turn your ship on without a key fob?” you whisper.

“The ship has no key fob. It would be dangerous to rely on a small object, which could easily be lost or damaged during a mission, to access our only means of escape. One can enter the ship and activate some systems with no restrictions, and the engine can be started with a key code.”

“And somebody just got on your ship?”

“Apparently, yes.”

You glance up at Hunter. His right thumb is rubbing absently at the scuffed paint on his vambrace.

After a long moment, he says, “There are definitely no droids. I think there are locals here, and we didn’t realize it. We need to move. The ship is only a fifteen minute run from here.”

“Should we leave the packs?” you ask.

“Leave everything except weapons and combat gear. We’ll put the explosives and grappling hooks in Wrecker’s pack.”

“Aww, yeah!” Wrecker cheers, albeit quietly. The rest of the group is in motion immediately, rearranging their burdens and leaving all by the necessities tucked under a rocky outcrop. You have no rucksack, so you help Wrecker in carefully repacking the explosives into his. You’re almost finished when you feel a gentle tap on your shoulder.

“You’ll want these,” Hunter says. He hands you two spare power cells for your blaster.

“Two? But you only have three spares.”

“I’m hoping we can reason with the locals,” he says, “or scare them away. But if things got really bad, I’ve got this.”

There’s a metallic hiss as he slides a vibroknife out of the sheath on his forearm. He twirls it in his fingers a few times, a display of skill so casual that it feels almost unreal.

Wait.

“Back in the base, did you stab those droids?” you exclaim.

Hunter grins, a full smile that seems so out of place in your current situation. And yet, you find yourself mirroring it right back at him.

“Let’s go get our ship back.”

~~~

Jagged rock digs into your skin as you lie on your stomach on a ridge, peering out at the clones’ ship. Hunter was right; you can vaguely make out the shapes of at least three humanoids milling around it. From where you are, though, you can’t see any more details than that. The group’s only pair of binoculars is currently in Crosshair’s hands.

“Three outside the ship,” he says. “Armored, helmeted, and carrying blasters. These might be more than just locals.”

“Anything else?” Hunter asks.

“They’re waving their hands at each other.”

Hunter holds out his hand for the binoculars, and Crosshair hands them over.

“Sign language,” says Hunter. “Either they don’t want to be heard, or they can’t hear. I can’t feel how many there are. The ship is interfering too much.”

“Are they doing anything to the ship?” you ask.

“Not from the outside. Who knows what they’re doing inside of it.”

“I have encrypted all information present on board our ship,” says Tech from next to Crosshair. “It would be nearly impossible for them to elicit any intelligence from its databanks.”

“I’m more worried about them gutting it,” says Hunter darkly.

To your surprise, he does not hand the binoculars to Tech next—he hands them to you. Nodding in thanks, you take them, and try not to think about the way his shoulder presses against yours. You fine-tune the focusing knob until you have a clear view of the people standing in front of the ship.

Then you almost drop the binoculars.

Hunter notices the jerk of your hand immediately. “What’s going on?” he asks, alarmed.

What’s going on? What’s going on?

What’s going on is that you are never getting that ship back, and you’re all in deep shit, and you’re starting to wonder if you really will quit your job this time.

Kark. This.

“Those are Third Hand,” you say.

“Third Hand?”

“Mercenaries. They’re…” you trail off as you watch one of the distant figures make a wide sweeping motion with his right arm. You wrack your brain trying to remember what it means, but it’s been years since you’ve encountered one of the Third Hand. Usually, the correct response to encountering one is to run very fast in the other direction and pray to anybody who will listen that they don’t follow you…and not to ask them for sign language lessons. The only reason you even recognize them is because their appearance is so distinctive: Ubese filter helmets and cortosis-weave plate armor, painted in swirling multicolored hues with jagged black symbols on top, studded with spikes. The effect is like a monstrous creature emerging from a beautiful supernova. These ones have relatively few spikes each—a good sign, but not a great one.

“What?” Hunter asks.

You refocus yourself. “They’re Ubese mercenaries. Very good ones. Usually contract with the Spice Cartel.”

“So what are they doing out here?”

“Nothing good. If there are six here, there are probably at least twelve in the area.”

“How do you know there are six? Can you see them?”

You’ve mentally catalogued everything you’ll be able to learn from looking, so you hand the binoculars back to Hunter.

“Third Hand always travel in groups of threes. There are three outside, so there will probably be three inside.”

“Six is manageable,” he says.

…manageable? He’s joking. He has to be joking. The man who used to start fist-fights to defend his brothers would not turn them into target practice for the Third Hand.

But his voice is deadly serious.

“Six against four?” you ask, incredulous.

“Six against five.”

“I’m not wearing armor. I’m not a soldier. I don’t count.”

“I’ll still take those odds. We need to complete the mission, which means we need to scout the other large bases on this moon. And for that, we need our ship.”

“They’re armed to the teeth and don’t shy away from killing people like you do.”

“We’ve had worse. We need to complete the mission,” he repeats.

“Hunter, what is wrong with you?” you whisper-scream, utterly furious but fully aware of how exposed your position is. “Do you actually think it’s a good idea to take on six extraordinarily well-trained mercenaries just for a ship? Any sane officer would turn his men around right now and send for evac!”

“We don’t need an evac!”

“Stars help us, Hunter, stop trying to be a hero! Why can’t you just be normal?”

Hunter goes deathly still.

Silence falls upon you; the air seems to turn brittle. You glance between the men. Crosshair is staring at you coldly. Wrecker is fidgeting, his eyebrows raised in alarm. Tech is glancing between you, Hunter, and the display on his Hud, his fingers still tapping against his wrist comm.

Hunter isn’t looking at you.

“We have never been normal,” he mutters.

The word seems laced with poison, and your chest clenches. Of course you had to go and put your foot in your mouth. Of course you picked the one adjective that would feel so personal to him. His expression is angry, but somehow you get the feeling that it runs deeper than that.

“Hunter,” you say, softer this time. “This is a suicide mission.”

“Then don’t come.”

Stubborn man! “Has it not occurred to you that I don’t want you to die? Any of you?”

Hunter does look at you now, his face a mix of so many emotions that it’s become unreadable. You meet his dark eyes and hold his gaze, willing him to understand. Willing him to trust you.

“We’ll be going home with one less ship and no information,” he says. Damn him. “We don’t even know where the datapad is, now.

Something about that sentence catches in your mind. You don’t even know where the datapad is. You don’t…

…no, you do.

It all clicks together.

“Yes, we do.”

“What?” the men chorus, sounding more alike than they ever have.

“You told me that there’s a small outpost near here, right?”

“That outpost was far too small and poorly-manned to contain the datapad we’re looking for,” says Tech. “The Separatists would never leave something so valuable so vulnerable.”

“But what if it is well-guarded? Just not by droids.”

Hunter shifts, turns to look at you for real now. The anger hasn’t entirely faded from his face, but there’s something else there now, a new glint. “Are you saying that the outpost is guarded by these mercenaries, and the datapad is actually being kept there?”

“It’s the best explanation. How much do you know about the outpost?”

All four men glance at each other. Wrecker grins.

“Well,” says Tech, “when I sliced into the Separatist servers…”

~~~

The plan is insane.

The plan is so utterly insane that you wonder if it wouldn’t be better just to take on six mercenaries in a firefight to get the ship back.

The outpost is less than an hour’s hike from the ship; the clones were able to land close to it because it lacks the long-range ship detection system that the large base had. The mercenaries have only been at the ship for twenty minutes or so, and based on what you know of the Third Hand, they will pick it apart piece by piece before they’re satisfied. That takes six men out of the running, but the second the alarm sounds at the base, your countdown will begin.

Hunter and his bizarre superhuman abilities prove invaluable. From this range, he can tell you that there are somewhere around forty droids, and that they’re remotely controlled. Tech has been able to override certain models of remote-control battle droids in the past, and he’s confident in his ability to do so here.

Crosshair will set up on the hill overlooking the outpost and cover Wrecker, who will launch an artillery attack against the east end. You, Tech, and Hunter will sneak in through the north entrance, where Tech will slice into a terminal and take control of the droids to attack the mercenaries. You and Hunter will look for the datapad, and once you have it, you’ll steal a ship and escape.

So, just normal Taungsday things.

“If anything goes wrong,” you say, “we scrap the mission. If their scanners are strong enough to detect us, we quit. If the droids are the wrong model, we quit. If there are more than fifteen men, we quit.”

Tech, Wrecker, and Crosshair agree.

Hunter just glares at you.

The trek to the base is made in silence. Your trigger finger is itchy, and you startle at things that shouldn’t bother you: small animals darting between the rocks, your foot sinking to deep into mud, Crosshair clearing his throat. The group walks in single file: Hunter, Tech, Wrecker, you, and Crosshair. You can’t see Hunter from here. It’s better that way.

At one point, Wrecker falls back a little to walk side by side with you. He leans down a little, as if to whisper conspiratorily. The effect is comical—he really just ends up hovering far above your head.

“We, uhh…we failed our last two missions. It was bad. The Admiral said that Hunter made a bad call, and if we couldn’t do the next one, we’d be sent back to Kamino. Said if we couldn’t function like a normal squad, we shouldn’t be here.”

“So if you fail…”

“Tech and me go to maintenance. Hunter and Crosshair have to teach the cadets. Hunter doesn’t mind it”—you remember his careful instruction with the blaster, and a smile flickers across your face—”but he’d rather be out here.”

“Well, then,” you say, shoulders straightening. “We better not fail.”

~~~

The first ten minutes are a dramatic, spectacular victory.

There’s more firepower packed into Wrecker’s rucksack than you could possibly have imagined. The ground shakes when he begins his assault, and a small part of you worries that he might do his job too well, and send the outpost crashing into a pile of rubble. But, though Wrecker might not always come across this way, you spent much of yesterday listening to stories about him: the man is brilliant with explosives. What you wouldn’t give to be watching the display through Crosshair’s scope right now.

Tech, Hunter, and you manage to sneak into the base with little issue. All of the alarms in the base are already going off, so your illicit entry adds nothing new to the cacophany. Quick as a flash, Tech slices into the outpost’s computer system, and then the real fun begins.

The droids are only B1s, but the great strength of B1s is their numbers and their complete disregard for their own safety. Through the outpost surveillance system, you watch the Third Hand mercenaries scramble to deal with the chaos wrought by explosions on one side and traitorous battle droids on the other. There seem to be nine of them here, and before you and Hunter even set out to look for the datapad, four are already dead or seriously wounded.

(Although you know that they’ve all killed more people than you could count, you still wince at the carnage.)

When all of them seem sufficiently occupied, you and Hunter set out, blasters locked and loaded. After three turns—right, left, right—Hunter motions down a narrow corridor.

“You go that way, look on the west side. There’s nobody there, and there’s a communications room about fifty feet down. I’m going south, this way.”

You resist the urge to argue with him, as much as you want to. He took a chance, trusting you, and now you need to do the same for him.

“Comm me if you find anything,” you say.

“I will.”

You’re sprinting down the hallway when you hear him call out, “Be careful!”

One by one, you sweep the rooms off of the hallway. Most of them are small storage rooms or engine rooms, with one small dormitory. At last, you reach the communications room. Knowing that this is the room most likely to have people in it, your heart pounds as you open the door as fast as you can, blaster raised. It’s empty.

Adrenaline keeps coursing through you as you search the entire room, looking for the datapad. There’s nothing. On your way out, you notice a box of empty data sticks. It’s not what you’re here for, but you shove one of them in the nearest console and wait for it to download the basic schematics of the computer. There’s no time to go searching through the computers for information—there’s probably nothing useful on them, anyway—but you’re hoping that knowing what kind of tech the Separatists are using might help somebody back at HQ.

Bzzz. Your comm goes off.

“Hunter?”

“I found the datapad. It’s at the end of the south corridor I went down, at the very end on the left.”

“On my way,” you say.

In the privacy of the empty room, you allow yourself a sigh of relief. This is not your standard sort of operation. Explosions are still shaking the compound, though they’re beginning to slow down, and you eject the datastick even though it’s not quite finished. You’re here for one thing, and Hunter has found it. Only a few more minutes. Then you can all get off of this planet.

Luckily, you encounter no mercenaries during your sprint to where Hunter is. When you arrive, you find him leaned over a datapad that’s been detached from the main console, a strange-looking datastick plugged into its main port. Hunter glances back and nods a greeting at you.

“Almost done,” he says.

You fiddle with one of the datasticks that you swiped from the communications room, ready to switch yours with his the moment that his download is finished. The next twenty seconds feel like eternity.

Then: green light.

Hunter yanks his datastick out of the console. Then, wiith a flash of movement so fast you can barely processed what just happened, he sinks his vibroblade into the datapad and tears it down the center, splitting the machine into two sparking hunks of ruined metal.

~~~

Here’s the thing:

You’re a spy. Spies have rules. Perhaps chief among those rules is, “Don’t trust anyone.” Especially, “Don’t trust foreign special operatives who you just met yesterday.”

Here’s the thing:

That intel was kept on an encrypted datapad that could not be accessed remotely. It was not backed up. And Hunter just destroyed it beyond any hope of recovery. While his mission is safe and secure in his pocket, yours is a complete loss. And he did that on purpose.

Here’s the thing:

Until five seconds ago, you actually liked him.

It takes a moment before your brain truly catches up, and by then he’s moving towards the exit.

“Let’s go!” he calls.

You hate your traitorous legs for the way they heed his order without question, pounding against the concrete floor as the two of you sprint through the halls of the compound. You hate your traitorous hands for firmly gripping your blaster, not once reaching out to grab him by the shoulder and stop him. You hate your traitorous voice for not crying out in protest, for not calling him a liar and a cheat and a terrible excuse for a human being.

You hate yourself for doing as he says, even as his betrayal lies in a smoking heap behind you.

Your body moves automatically, dodging behind a corner when you see a mercenary. Hunter strafes in the opposite direction and takes a few shots at the man. By the thump you hear, you presume that one of them landed.

“Bet you’re glad you don’t have a ‘normal’ soldier with you right now,” Hunter quips.

Anger rises in your throat. Is that really what he’s hung up on? Your single comment, that’s what made him destroy that datapad, ruining your mission? Maybe you’d understand better if he’d done it for the sake of the Republic, but this just feels like a low blow.

As you round the next corner, Hunter pulls off his helmet and tilts his head, apparently listening for something. Briefly, his eyes flicker to yours, and he gives you a cocky half-smile.

Asshole, you think. It’s a petty word and a petty thought, but your anger is pulsing through your body with every beat of your heart, every memory you’ve formed in the past day suddenly tainted. Quieter, but just as poignant, is a deep feeling of shame. Were you really fooled by a handsome face and a few acts of kindness? Is this the man he’s been all along?

You shake your head to clear the thoughts away. Right now, you need to focus. This is the final leg of the plan: you and Hunter have to get to the far north-east side of the compound, where three ships are kept in a tiny hangar: two fighters, and one shuttle.

Hunter is yelling at Tech through comms: “Tech! Open the door into the hangar and get over here!”

You can see the door slowly open up ahead.

So close.

You’re nearly to the door, making a beeline for the nearest fighter, when you hear Hunter shout.

Then something slams you into the wall. Heat envelopes you, carried on a strong gust of wind. You struggle to take a breath.

One second passes.

The sound of blaster fire rings in your ears.

Two seconds pass.

You finally realize what’s happening. Hunter is pressed against you, his arms held up to protect your head. It wasn’t a something that threw you against the wall just now; it was him, pushing you out of the way of what seems to have been a grenade.

“Got ‘im!” Wrecker yells over comms. The sound rings in your ears, tender from the sound of the explosion.

“If my counting was correct, that was the last of the Third Hand,” says Tech.

“Not the last,” says Crosshair. “I see the other six. They’re on their way here. Four minutes.”

Hunter shifts away now, and you try to take a full breath through the smoke.

“Are you alright?” he asks.

You nod. Your voice feels too raw to work right now.

“Come on, we don’t have much time.”

Emotions are bouncing around your head like a damned pinball machine, and you push them all away, focusing on the task at hand: you need to get to a ship. You need to escape. So you follow Hunter through the door and into the hangar. The wind has changed, blowing the smoke of Wrecker’s explosions away from you, and you breathe deeply as you run.

To your surprise, Hunter doesn’t make for the shuttle. He makes for the nearest fighter, instead. Across the hangar, you can see Wrecker wave.

“Wrecker!” Hunter yells. “Start the shuttle!”

“On it!” Wrecker calls back.

“I thought you were all going together,” you say.

“We are. I need to give you this, first.”

Hunter takes your hand and presses something small and hard into it. The tips of his fingers are warm and calloused, and though you could count on his hand the number of times you’ve touched, he feels as familiar as a home.

“Here,” he says. The warmth is gone as quickly as it came as he pulls away, ducking around the fighter to look around the hangar, scanning for enemies.

All you can think to say is: “What?”

“You can access it with the code 223-228-24!”

“What is it?”

“The datastick. Don’t access it until you’re in a secure position.”

“I don’t understand. You destroyed the datapad.”

Hunter turns to look at you and cocks his head. “I got a copy first.”

“Just one, though.”

“I downloaded it to my wrist comm. This is the original.”

Oh.

Oh!

You want to sigh-laugh-sob with relief. Hunter was never leaving you out to dry. His comment about being a normal soldier…that was teasing. You were running for your lives, being shot at, and he was teasing you.

“Thank you,” you whisper, because your voice can’t be trusted in full.

Hunter only shakes his head. “Don’t thank me. We’d have been dead men without you.”

“Not…not the datastick. I just…”

Words stick in your throat. There’s an ocean between you and Hunter that you can’t seem to cross, the crash of its waves inaudible over the pounding of your heart. There’s an ocean between you, and it’s only an arm span across. Words stick in your throat, but your feet…

Your feet are as light as ever, and you find yourself standing in front of him, looking up into dark eyes that finally seem readable. Hope and fear flicker across them in equal measure.

You move slowly, telegraphing your movement to give him a chance to pull away, but he doesn’t. The world stills, and you brush the gentlest kiss on his left cheek, where ink meets blank skin.

(If it were quieter, you would hear his delicate inhale as your lips touched him.)

“Thank you,” you murmur.

You start to step away, hoping—praying, maybe, to all the stars that will listen—that your message was received and decoded. Then a warm hand, calloused from war and gentled from compassion, takes yours. This time, there is nothing for him to give you; there is only an affection that feels so out of place and so, so right. His other hand tilts your chin up.

When he kisses you, all you can think is, finally.

It’s everything that the past two days haven’t been: slow, unsure, and tender. You feel yourself smiling despite yourself. You feel him smile back, and the kiss is broken in the best way possible: with soft laughter.

Time is slipping like water between your fingers.

You kiss him again. And a third time. You’re starting to wonder whether you’ll ever tire of it when the rumble of a ship tugs you from your bliss. It’s Hunter who pulls away first.

“You’ll be okay?” he asks.

The ghost of a smile still lingers on his face, but his brow is knit together with concern.

“I’ll be fine,” you reassure him. “Really. I’m a professional.”

Hunter snorts. “We found you in prison.”

“Occupational hazard!”

Hunter’s laugh is brighter than you’ve ever heard it, and sadder all the same. You brush a finger along his jaw, as if you can catch that laugh in your hand and tuck it in your pocket.

“I’ll see you around, Sergeant,” you say.

Hunter nods. “I’ll see you around.”

The way he turns is abrupt, as if forcing himself to move before he changes his mind. You waste precious seconds watching him sprint across the tarmac and up the ramp of the ship,

Hunter doesn’t look back, but as you watch the ship’s engines ignite, you can almost feel his gaze still lingering on your face.

Time to go.

Somehow, it doesn’t feel like a goodbye.

#clone fic gift exchange #sergeant hunter #tbb hunter #hunter x reader #hunter x you #the bad batch #the bad batch fanfiction #TBBE24

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virgincels · 3 months

Text

RIGOR MORTIS !

ft. og4 leon s. kennedy x fem!reader

tags. las plagas!reader, he kills you, technically snuff ig but wasn’t intended oops, gore, canon-typical violence, reader is infected and out of it so she can’t really consent, dub-con, non-con, p in v, choking/asphyxiation, strangulation

note. god im plagued by writers block and it’s killing me it’s like walking on shattered glass rn. umm please ignore any mistakes, not very fond on this but haven’t posted in a bit :3 um it’s quite short. rbs are always appreciated :3 instead of asking for a part 2 please just tell me something nice.. feedback is really appreciated <3 comms are open! info in my pinned :3

Leon seeks refuge in what looks to have once been a humble abode. Now only a shack wearing a shroud of all things dead and rotten remains. Foetid water has soaked him to the bone, it seeps into the thick leather of his combat boots, leaves his socks soggy. He really hates that. Leon can handle cerebrospinal fluid leaving a sticky film on the toe of his boots, the blood caked beneath his fingernails is something he considers normal, but wet socks are a total inconvenience, it’s a shortcut to trench foot.

The hollow skulls of small critters occupy the corners, the cobwebs have cobwebs, the air is stagnant and stinking. Not of rot, but of sickness. A gaping wound crawling with infection, bacteria settling in the crevices of his mind, squirming like fat, juicy maggots—

Crack!

It’s a man, he was a man, now he’s a boneless lump of flesh, his spinal cord snapped under the weight of Leon’s boot. His yellowed teeth glisten under the golden warmth of a single lantern. Leon’s defence is choreographed at this point, a swift kick to intercept an impending strike, then his boot makes mincemeat of their brains.

When he takes a step back to review his current affair, it’s not so bad, certainly not Raccoon City. Leon would take a million murderous Spanish grandparents over a single zombie. Zombies are plain nasty, not a single limb intact, oozing pustules that peel back to reveal purpling flesh infested by larvae. They’re fuckin’ ugly. Slow and bloated and ugly. A sight no human being should see.

On the wall, there’s a shattered, grimy mirror. Leon sees the ghost of a boy staring back at him. Unwashed hair hanging limp, cheekbones carved out, his skin alabaster like the blocky lettering stitched into his uniform. R.P.D. it reads, muddied by blood and guts and chunks of vomit. All the good shit. He hasn’t grown into his body yet, the steel of his gun is cool on his temple and he’s young and these are all important things to know. In his arms is something small and lightweight, a bloodied little girl, leading him to a pyrrhic victory.

The floorboards groan under the weight of a pair of feet that don’t belong to him, the threat isn’t imminent. You don’t charge at him, no, it’s shambling he can only describe as zombie-like, dragging your bare feet like it hurts to lift them off the ground. Like you’re waterlogged and ready to pop.

You were pretty, he’s sure, a real looker. You’re pretty now, just not in your entirety. Strings of reddish muscle keep the fatty flesh of your right tit hanging on for dear life. Like an Amazonian woman. There’s no rot, no sign of decay, simply an act of self-mutilation.

Now, some might call him a pervert, but Leon’s a self-proclaimed iconoclast. And you, swaying from side to side in your torn linen nightdress, the skeletal pendant of Los Iluminados around your neck like a disfigured cross, draped in a veil of white that’s close enough to holy - it’s worth ruining. Santa Maria di Plagas or whatever.

He realises a few shattered bones have you walking funny, circles you easily and heads into the room you exited. The bed sheets are rumpled in unrest, he sits, there’s a hairline fracture between the two of you. The lantern light bares all, the white of your dress becomes gossamer-thin, he makes out your shape beneath the blood-soaked cloth that moulds to the shape of your torso, the smooth dip of your waist, a soft sinkage where the fabric clings to your belly button.

Leon has seen far worse. Can you blame a guy for getting hard at the sight of a real girl? In his line of work, he’s neck deep in pounds of flesh that spew pus and gore from each virus-clogged abscess. The layer of dirt on your skin does not deter him, that tit hanging by a tissuey thread, swinging back and forth like your necklace is child’s play to him. ‘Cause Leon’s a real man. The princely type.

(He’s anything but. One girl’s knight in shining armour is a monster under the bed for another. It’s not like you can complain, you’re quite the monster yourself.)

Hang in there Ashley. He’ll be there soon, but he’s got to do this. This is completely and utterly necessary. Hunnigan doesn’t need to know why he’ll be unreachable for a good thirty minutes or so. Less probably. ‘Cause your body is hot, clammy with fever, and that means your pussy is even hotter.

Something… Something… Plagas… Something… Lord Saddler…

Your mumbling is constant. Leon will have to do something about that. You gnash your teeth at him when you approach, held back only by the sluggishness that comes with, like, brainwashing cultish parasites.

“Sorry, sweetheart, no entiendo.” Leon loops a worn piece of rope around your neck. Ain’t that handy? Found it hung on your assumed-to-be father’s tool belt. Used for leading curly little lambs to the sacrificial altar. He strokes the underside of your chin, and you bare your teeth like a wild dog, albeit slowly. A late reaction. No fair, it’s like someone’s knocked you around already, who got here before him?

Getting his dick out at a time like this in a place like this, it’s not smart. Sneaky bugs could use his urethra as a water slide. A menacing minibeast might latch onto his balls pincher-first. However, needs are needs, and nothing gets in the way of Leon’s dick, not even a kidnapped First Daughter could stop the force of nature that is his boner.

With ease, he pushes you onto the ground. Not the bed. If you behave like an animal then he’ll have to fuck you like one. Plus, Leon’s not quite sure he trusts those sheets, at least the rusty nails on the floorboards are visible to the naked eye. Tetanus won’t be a nasty surprise, just a momentary lapse in judgement.

Your body contorts when he pulls the rope, back taking on a feline shape, spine bending inwards and your hips up. Puppetry is easier than it looks. The hem of your dress lifts to reveal your leaking chasm of a pussy. Better than nothing. Not like he’s eating it either way.

One hand on the rope, the other on his belt buckle, he lowers his jeans enough to pop his dick out. “Stay still, honey.” He instructs, but it’s like talking to a brick wall, or to a person who doesn’t understand a lick of English.

Leon chokes you with the rope. “I’ll only be a minute, sweetheart,” he coos, a tender kiss that he regrets merely seconds later placed on your shoulder.

He grips the base of his cock, the fat tip is red and leaky, precum bubbling like your foaming mouth. Leon’s too hard. His dick is totally upright, the soft curve pointing towards the ceiling, a thumb comes to press down on the tip, using it to guide himself into your pussy.

“Oh, there you go, honey, yeah, there you go.” His hold on the rope loosens, still firm enough to keep you in place, but now at least there’s oxygen flowing to your parasite-addled brain. “You feel that?”

Leon’s dick stretches you to the point of no return. He’s broken you in. Better off him than any of those grotesque old men. You’re a virgin surely, so it’s very considerate of him to fuck you before you die. No one should die a virgin, that’s cruel, it’s inhumane.

You thrash wildly, grunting each time his hips smack into the fat of your ass, he can’t tell if you’re enjoying it— You better be fuckin’ enjoying it. Know how risky this shit is? Fuck, what if you had a mutated cunt or something. Jagged teeth waiting to clamp down on a big fat dick and tear it straight off. He really needs to start thinking with his brain and not his cock. The thing just doesn’t shut up.

When he cums, the rope is tight around the column of your neck— It would be your hair, but he fears it might fall straight from your scalp in nasty, matted clamps. Your body rears like a wild Mustang, he gathers the rope and it wraps around his fingers until your back is flush to his chest and you grasp for something, anything— Eyes rolled so far back he can see the milky whites, and then he gives one last tug to make sure you’re stuck in that state. Mid-orgasm. Eyes in the back of your skull, back arched, pussy dripping with his load. Cute. He wishes rigor mortis set in right now so that you don’t fall slack into a heap of red and white when he lets go.

Leon leaves by barrelling out of a window like a true gentleman, the microscopic shards splinter your skin. He takes that pendant with him, tucks it in his back pocket, could be useful at some point in time.

It’s only when the blood in his veins runs black and viscous does Leon notice something is severely wrong. His blood flow slows to a halt, clots forming in every important artery. Mucousy black sludge leaks from his nose. An intense pain cuts through his senses with deadly precision, a surge of discomfort that has him kneeling over, hands on his knees in a clumsy attempt to steady himself.

His hands clasp around Ada’s neck— The rope. He pulls it tighter and tighter to get closer and closer. Her voice is distorted by the fog that clouds his brain, it creates a hazy barrier, mutes the world around him. A knife lodges in the meaty flesh of his thigh, he topples backwards when her knee makes contact with his groin.

“That bitch gave me crabs.”

“What?”

“Nothing.” He brushes her off. “I said, uh, Lord Saddler almighty.” Leon’s heard that enough times to repeat it back to her rather fluently. Nice save.

“Right,” Ada says, unconvinced.

#leon kennedy x you #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy imagine #leon s kennedy x reader #leon s kennedy x you #leon s kennedy smut #leon kennedy smut #resident evil x you #resident evil x reader #resident evil smut #dead dove do not eat #dead dove fic

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riverbutghost · 11 months

Text

All Alone (Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley xGN!Reader)

Summary: After an unsuccessful mission and you getting scolded by your lieutenant, you’re left all alone by yourself feeling depressed for the first time.

A/N: This is my first post ever on Tumblr lol I’m excited.

Categories: this is Angst / Hurt Comfort and the ending isn’t sad but isn’t happy either.

Warnings: graphic language, wound, blood, getting shot but nothing fatal, slight sexual themes, also the readers nickname is Scout.

You were exhausted.

The mission had gone wrong, making all of you to take a step back. And it was probably your fault.

“I’m going after that guy!” You yelled through your comm. Then Ghost’s voice was heard.

“Don’t do something stupid, Scout.”

But you had already done the stupid something.

You didn’t see it. You didn’t see the guy who was holding a gun to you from behind. It was Soap who saw it and informed you but it was too late.

You turned around quickly while pointing your gun, but the guy shot you in the arm. You gasped loudly at the sudden pain. You could’ve shot the man too, but a stupid little mistake was made. You couldn’t shoot him, you couldn’t move your arm. He ran and called for reinforcements.

And boom, the mission failed because of you.

On other circumstances, you wouldn’t mind being yelled at, but you weren’t feeling yourself. You weren’t Scout who would tell everyone to fuck off.

Even before the mission, you weren’t yourself. You didn’t know what was wrong with you, but you weren’t there. You didn’t mind it, but it costed you a whole mission.

You didn’t see your lieutenant after the incident, only seeing his back where he was sitting in the front of the truck. He didn’t say a word and it was painful. You were scared because that happened before too.

You had done something reckless again, almost getting shot at the head.

But you were lucky.

“You’re so fucking reckless, Scout.”

You rolled your eyes.

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever. I’m not sorry Ghost.”

“You shouldn’t have done that.” He hissed through clenched teeth.

“But I did, and I take the blame. So fuck off-“

In two steps, he was in front of you. He pushed you against the wall. Your breath hitched.

“When will you shut that stupid mouth of yours?”

Your lips parted involuntarily. Ghost’s eyes flicked down to your lips.

You closed your mouth and swallowed everything down. Every little witty remark.

Your eyes went back and forth between his eyes and his mouth.

He looked at your eyes again and his gaze softened.

You licked your lips. He took a breath.

“Don’t tempt me, Scout.” You gulped again. His voice was hoarse, his chest rumbled. Your skin was suddenly burning.

“I’m not trying to, Ghost.”

Your breaths were shallow, unorganized. You wanted to see his face, see his mind. What was he thinking?

You looked deep in his eyes. Suddenly, you found another emotion, sadness. Then there was guilt maybe. He swallowed whatever he was going to say.

You kept quiet. He was quiet too. You were just staring at each other, not feeling any discomfort even though you weren’t in a comfortable position.

“You could’ve fuckin’ died.” His voice came out as a whisper. His gaze dropped for a second. You shivered.

“Ghost, Price is calling for you!”

A sudden call from Gaz was the interruption you didn’t want.

“Comin’” He called to Gaz, still looking at your eyes. He cleared his throat. He took a step back and turned around, leaving you in the kitchen. Breathlessly, you cleared your throat too.

You felt something down on your abdomen, tensing slightly. You thought it was something sexual.

And that night, you had your first wet dream about your lieutenant.

Right now, you were sitting on the bed the medic told you to, and waiting for her to start patching your arm up. She had already took the bullet out, which was a really painful experience you might add, and she told you to wait for her to patch you up.

She was washing her hands and talking to you at the same time, not knowing her words were entering one ear and leaving from the other.

Suddenly the door swung open, Ghost came in.

“Get out, Stevens.”

The medic, Stevens, gulped and got out immediately, leaving you alone with him. You were screwed.

No need to be scared, you told yourself. He is my lieutenant, my friend-

“What the fuck was that?”

He snarled, looking at you with disappointment. You swallowed the lump in your throat. Not now, simon. Not after I fucking blowed up a mission by myself.

“Ghost I-“ He cut you off with a growl. You shivered.

“Didn’t know you were that, stupid.”

You licked your lips, trying so hard to come up with something witty. But no, you felt something else coming up.

You didn’t say anything, only looking at the floor. You were hoping for him to leave now, but no. Simon fucking Riley didn’t know when to shut up or speak.

“I can’t fucking believe you. You’re a fuckin’ failure..”

Ouch

You looked up.

He was still wearing his gear. He didn’t even wait to change, because scolding you was more important.

He took a deep breath, averting his eyes from yours.

“Are you done?” You asked with no emotion behind your words. You were exhausted, and your arm was still bleeding. You tightened your hand over it.

“No, I’m not fuckin’ done, Sergeant.”

You gulped when your eyes met. He was waiting, waiting for you to say something, anything that would set him off. He wasn’t looking at you though, you knew it. He was just here to scold you. He wasn’t seeing the bigger picture.

“My arm needs stitching.” He closed his eyes for a second.

“Fuckin’ hell,” He grumbled, the noise would make you feel things in other circumstances.

He looked at you one last time before getting out.

You got up and left the room after waiting for your doctor who didn’t show up.

You were out of the shower, still drying your hair with the towel.

You had stitched your arm by yourself, but it looked terrible as before. At least there was a gauze on your wound. You hoped it wouldn’t open.

You took a deep breath. You were going to bed after a long and hard day. Finally, you thought. You really wanted, no, needed to cry.

You could’ve literally cried after your lieutenants scolding, but you didn’t want to seem even more stupid and childish .

You’re a fucking failure , he’d said.

It was so hard, so hard not to cry and you were proud of yourself in that moment. Because if you cried in front of him, you would’ve showed him a vulnerable side and that was something you didn’t want.

Because you knew he didn’t like you.

You thought about your feelings towards your fucking lieutenant. He was your lieutenant, your superior. It wasn’t ethical, and you knew he wouldn’t look at you like that. It was almost painful to watch him interact with rookies like it’s nothing, but when it came to you he would shut off. He would scold you in a second if you did something wrong.

But you couldn’t forget about the little moment you had together in the kitchen too.

You wanted to take a breath, but you broke down instead.

You let the tears fall freely, not wiping them or anything. You knew you needed this. From the start of the day, you were waiting for that moment. And you finally had it.

And there was a knock on your door.

You sat down on your cold bathroom floor, not even suppressing your whimpers. You put your hands on your face, breaking down bad.

I need this, I need this, I’m worth it, I’m not a failure -

Then your door swung opened. You didn’t get up, you couldn’t. You couldn’t clear your vision. There was a nonstop battle between your eyes and your heart.

“Scout, hey.”

Then you heard him. You cried harder. You knew you were humiliating yourself , but you didn’t care for now.

“Scout, you’re okay-“

You harshly pulled your hands from your face and pushed him hard.

“Fuck you, Ghost. I’m not a-a failure and you know it. I’ll shoe you one day.” You were hiccuping between words and Simon cursed himself.

“Stop crying.”

You stood up, using both of your hands. The movement causing your arm to ache, and you whimpered.

Simon got up, looking stressed and angry at the same time.

“Let me look at your wound.”

“No, just leave me alone.” You answered him while rubbing your hands over your face. You didn’t sound angry for a second and that made him concerned.

“I don’t want you to fuckin’ bleed out and die, sergeant.”

Your face scrunched up, and you felt nauseous.

“Funny, lieutenant. I’m sure you want me to fucking die instead. Don’t need to be nice, we’re all alone.”

He was looking at you so confused. You wanted so hard to yell, to scream. But you were tired.

You closed your eyes and leaned on your bathroom door. You

“Listen to me fucking carefully, Scout.” He spoke harshly. You didn’t open your eyes, not ready yet to hear more scolding from him.

He took a deep breath.

“Please, Scout. “

You nodded your head, still wanting him to leave. He took a step towards you. His voice suddenly softened.

“Open those pretty eyes first, yeah?”

Your breath hitched a little and you mentally cursed yourself. You opened your eyes, finally meeting his’.

“I don’t know how to do…this.” He swallowed.

Simon took a careful step toward you again, and you let him. Your crying had already stopped, but you were looking like ghost now.

“To do what? Be nice to people?” You asked him harshly.

“Yeah, I don’t know how to be nice to people who I care about.”

You were startled by the sudden comment. He continued.

“I don’t know how to open up to people who could just die in an instant. Because If anything happens to them, I would be a real Ghost.”

You pressed your lips tighter now. You were shocked to hear those from him. But he still needed to work on his language.

He lifted his hand and put it just above your cheekbone, wiping under your eye. The sudden touch making your insides scream. you

“I don’t know what to do, to say, Scout.”

He leaned towards you, your breaths mixing with each other’s. You wanted to take off his mask now. Instead, you leaned your forehead in his forehead.

He leaned in, hand still stroking your cheek.

“Let’s figure out what to do, hm? Together .”

Your lieutenant closed his eyes and hummed. His other hand sneaked behind you to rest on your hip.

“I’m scared.” He confessed in a whisper. You licked your lips.

“Me too, Ghost.”

“Simon.” He interrupted you. You couldn’t even be happy that he told you his name.

He pulled back, his hands still resting on you.

“But that doesn’t mean you can talk shit to me, Simon.”

He swallowed the lump, nodding his head. It was hard for him, hard for him to suddenly feel an emotion. It was the worst fucking pain when you almost got shot in the head, but he couldn’t do anything other than yell at you, then fucking it up by almost kissing you. He couldn’t sleep after that night, seeing you on top of him was a sight worth dreaming but he couldn’t risk it.

He couldn’t fall in love with you. But he did. He wasn’t ready, for whatever feeling he had for you.

“I don’t think we should,” He called your real name at the end of the sentence. Your eyes suddenly shot open.

“Why? Simon fucking Riley is suddenly scared of some feelings?” You asked him harshly .

“Yes, he is.”

He was staring right at you, and you were starting to feel sleepy.

“You should probably go now.”

You said while looking anywhere but him. He sighed, looked at you one last time before grabbing the door handle to open the door wider for his massive form.

“I,” He sighed. “You’re not a failure, Scout. You’ll never be a failure.”

He got out of your bathroom, leaving you all alone once again.

“I’m not a failure.” You whispered to yourself, knowing fully the actual meaning behind his words.

He cared. He cared for you.

I hate this, this was rushed and also my first so please bear with me lol.

#simon riley angst #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon riley #ghost x you #simon riley x you #call of duty #cod mw soap #cod mwf2 #call of duty modern warfare #light angst #new author

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batwritings · 5 months

Note

Hi Bat! Merry Christmas, if you celebrate! I feel like it’s been a while since I’ve seen you do group headcanons; can I get Keegan, Ghost, Gaz, Konig, Horangi, and Soap (if that’s too many, I completely understand! you can just pick a few.) on a mission alone with their lover, maybe infiltrating a facility of some sort, when their darling simply just pulls them aside declares they want to give them a quick handjob/blowjob, out of neediness. Maybe the reader’s just a little too into the thrill of them possibly getting caught, or maybe they just can’t wait until they get back. Thanks!!

-Hybrid

Okay but like...I'm fairly certain I would be said reader. >.> Not that I like thrills, I just have ZERO shame. /hj Also, Merry Christmas for those who celebrate, as well as a blessed Yule and a Happy Hanukkah and holidays! Enjoy!~

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Keegan P. Russ Keegan normally took missions as a ghost VERY seriously. He knew communication was essential during these missions, especially when dealing with Rorke back on the loose. So when you pulled him into a nearby closet for a quick little thrill, he was quick to ask what the actual fuck you were doing. Unfortunately, Keegan is weak as hell for you, so the moment you get your hands on his member, his eyes roll back a bit. "Make it quick kid," he growls, switching the channel on his comms so the both of you aren't heard, even on accident. You're true to your word, making sure there's no evidence of your little stint. "Pull something like that again, and you'll regret it once we're home."

Simon "Ghost" Riley Simon Riley is a no nonsense man, even more so on missions. But even you could see how his anger was affecting him and the decisions he was making. As an intervention, you pulled him aside while the team was switching positions. "You need a quick destress," you tell him, getting on your knees and pulling his member out before he can protest. Any argument Simon tries to make is muted the moment you get his cock in your mouth. He's finished as quick as it started as you help him straighten his appearance. "Not a word of this later." He threatens, despite his soft brown eyes telling you that he was thankful.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick Gaz, albeit serious about his work, is much more impulsive than the rest of the task force. Which means he's a bit more amenable to following you when you pull him aside for a moment. He's genuinely confused until you get on your knees, which he gives you a smirk in response to. "Cheeky thing aren't you?" He groans when you get your hands and mouth on his cock. He's so tempted to ask you to leave the cum splattered on your lips and cheek but Gaz knows better. "Next time we should take care of that before we go yeah?"

Kim "Horangi" Hong-jin Horangi has become a lot more at ease with himself over the years, and in that knowledge comes learning when to give into urges. He's never been one to let his relations with you interfere with missions for KorTac, but even a man as strong as him had a weak spot. He'll contemplate if the quickie is worth it before inevitably following you off. "씨발," Horangi would curse, trying his best to cover his noises. He felt lowkey bad for slightly abandoning the mission in exchange for pleasure, but the smile on your face made it worth it. "There'll be more where that came from if you can be good and patient."

König The normally reserved König you knew in closed quarters was gone on missions. As a colonel, he had a bit of a reputation to uphold. And yet...here he was, getting pulled to the side by you for a quick blowjob. "Scheiße, quickly now schatz," he'd groan, head knocking against the metal wall behind him. You hit all the right spots, all the points that normally made him sob in pleasure, whining quietly as he comes across your face. "Good pet...now, let's rejoin the others. We'll talk about this later in my quarters."

Johnny "Soap" MacTavish Probably the riskieset of this group of people. Soap is the type of person who would do it while doing recon and still respond to comms calls. He wants to see how far the two of you could go without getting caught. "He's moving LT," The Scotsman would report to Ghost, immediately groaning when you lick over the head of his cock. Moments after he comes, he'd be on the move, helping you up as he messily puts himself away. "More later yeah?"

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