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armpirate · 7 months

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Soundleasure || San

pairing: Choi San x fem!reader

w.c.: 4.8k

Aprox. time of reading: 21 minutes

Warnings: Smut, online sex, male masturbation, female masturbation, teasing, dirty talk, mention of porn. If you're a minor, refrain from reading it. Also, if you don't like this content, just keep scrolling.

Summary: Ready to give up on blind dates and dating apps, you were drawned back to the safe place that was his porn channel. Attracted by a voice and his storytelling, and completely clouded by the amount of emotions, you found yourself sending him a private message. He wouldn't read it, and even less answer it, anyway. Or so you thought.

MASTERLIST

You dropped your keys over the dark green sideboard, placed at the left of the entrance to your place, instead of hanging them on the golden hooks that you bothered to hang to avoid dropping your keys over the first place you found. After losing them almost three times -or, atleast, having the illusion that you lost them because it took you almost an hour to find them in the last corner you'd expect in your place-, you thought it'd be a good idea to place a keyholder so you'd be able to hang the keys in a place proper for them.

Today just wasn't the day to use it. You just wanted to disappear somewhere in between your beed and your blankets, and totally erase what happened that day.

Maybe you had been looking forward to that date a little bit too much. Having high expectations of someone you met on a dating app was a bad start, and could only mean that you wouldn't be ready to have those same expectations dashing against the ground at the minimum inconvenience.

Was it minimum though? You always tried to think that maybe you were a bit too demanding when it came to hookups and relationships, always blaming your previous thoughts and ideas instead of accepting the fact that men, in general, were meant to disappoint you no matter what. You'd see it every day on the different dating apps you had installed, thinking that it'd be easier to find someone than just getting out there and hoping Love to find you. Although, lately you weren't even about love. You were ready to settle for a simple dude that'd get his work done with you, and wait for things to go further as a hopeful thought.

That was definitely too much to ask for.

You met Jordan when you were close to deleting your profile. It was the ninetieth dating app you were going to give up on, until you found a cute tanned guy with green eyes that seemed acceptable when he reached out to you after you matched. The conversation was so fluid after two days, that you didn't hesitate to arrange something with him for the weekend.

It was all nice and comfortable until he started to talk about his past relationships. "I don't usually do dating apps", "I'm not a player", "My ex's were all crazy", and a long etcetera that only had you nodding, while you tried your best to concentrate on your food. If you had learned something over your twenty five years was that those who deny something they aren't even asked about, are exactly the image they try to distance themselves from.

You kept undressing yourself as you made your way to your bed, dropping the wrinkled fabric on it while you were only in your underwear. Only bothering to check your phone when the sound of a notification reached your ears while you put on some comfortable clothes.

Another dick pic.

You didn't know if it was the way this new guy thought a dick pic would turn you on -when you didn't even ask for it, and the conversation didn't go further than a "Hey"-, or the fact that it wasn't even that big of a thing to have you losing it and forgetting about the awful night you had.

It was a failed way to get in your pants. There was no way any girl would get turned on by those kinds of pics unprovoked. If at least it came from a person you actually liked, or were attracted to... But loverboy6577 didn't even give you time for that. And it wasn't like you were planning on giving him a chance after that.

Crawling on the bed, and pushing the dress off the mattress with your feet, you felt your body relaxing over the sheets while you looked at your phone. Another notification popped up on the upper bar, but that one made your heart twitch in your chest with excitement.

He usually never posted videos on Saturdays, but there he was. The thumbnail was completely dark when you clicked on it, and the video description explained how he thought about giving that little surprise to his followers. He spoke generally, but for some reason you felt like he was speaking directly at you. Maybe that night you just needed to believe that he was.

Reaching for your earpods, soon your brain could only focus on his masculine voice setting the mood, while the screen was completely dark.

"Are you okay? I bet today was a long day" you pressed your lips at how perfectly his video fitted with the mood you were in that night. "Let me make it up to you, okay? I promise I'll make it better".

You couldn't avoid giggling, while you cringed, as soon as those kissing sounds came up. It was the thing you least liked from his videos, but you still went through it all because it comforted you somehow. At least it helped you imagine the way his lips might look, slightly moist after he moved his tongue on them to be able to make those sounds loud and clear against the microphone.

"I got you, babe" he whispered again, following more kissing sounds. "Have I already told you how good your skin tastes?" he hummed after that, pretending to be taking off some clothes right after. "Let me undress you, I want to see how beautiful you look completely naked".

And soon those kissing sounds weren't on your lips anymore -at least not on your upper lips. Your core throbbed at the fast image of a pair of sexy eyes peeking over your mound, holding your body gently as he aimed you to your own orgasm.

"Mmm, I'm so addicted to your pussy" he groaned, still making licking sounds.

You didn't know when you slid your hand in your underwear and when you started rubbing your clit. You were only aware of how wet and ready you were when your back arched in a perfect curve after he made a spitting sound. He soon groaned, combining perfectly with your pants as you traced circles slowly.

"You're so tight, hmm" and as he said that, you slid two of your fingers filling you, making you bite your lip as your imagination ran wild. "'Feel so fucking good around my cock".

Your head was unconsciously nodding at his words, pounding your fingers in and out a bit faster as time went by. It was as if his moans were the only thing that set the pace you wanted to follow. The squelching sound of his hand stroking his cock, mixed with his whimperings and gasps made it too vivid for you, almost making you forget you were finger fucking yourself, and convinced there was someone leading the way to paradise, your paradise.

"Cum with me, baby" he sobbed, his voice cracking at the last word.

And it didn't take you too long until shiverings ran over your body, a silenced moan by your lips pressed together making it known you came to one of his videos again.

You found his channel while you scrolled down the porn site. Utterly done with the over staged videos, and the exaggerated moans and faces that made you want to tear your phone against the wall rather than touching yourself. Soon it became a usual thing, as if you were a fan. And, considering the way you behaved and felt at his every post, maybe you were.

It made no sense to you. He was faceless, there was nothing but his voice and the words he used. But it was enough to let your imagination run free, and it worked most of the nights, actually. His content was also quite dynamic, and it felt funny how it always fitted your mood completely, like tonight. Some other times, he would just pretend to be a bit rougher. Or maybe he settled a whole scene, and created a tiny porn scene in everyone's heads. But he always managed to make you feel that good.

Usually, he just seemed so out of reach. Soundleasure was a thing, you forgot he was even a person after cumming. He was just content you consumed, because you felt lonely and needy, and no real man would make you reach your high the way he did with his voice only. But it didn't seem like you thought like that that night.

After cleaning yourself up, and getting out of your bathroom, you thought deep about him. He was a real person. He made you understand your own body in a way that no one else has been able to. And if he was able to do that in the distance, maybe it'd be twice more intense if he ever directed all those words at you only.

Maybe it was your loneliness speaking, or the constant let down by every man you tried to meet casually. Clouded by your own feelings, you went further than just leaving a comment like the rest of women that consumed his content. Your finger scrolled up his page, opening his private messages to write the most cordial text you could think of.

And you forgot about it after sending it. It was too late to delete it. It was obvious he wouldn't answer back, he probably wouldn't even see it -considering the amount of women that probably tried the same thing.

That's why as time went by, you forgot about it.

You kept on with life, focusing on work and still going on dates randomly, keeping your mind focused on finding the man of your dreams. Although it was ridiculous from you to think that man would be in any of those apps.

Until one of those days, a buzz sneakily got your attention. Usually, you'd just check the text later -there was no hurry on reading what most dudes had to say. But that day, you felt curious about it.

Your eyebrows instantly frowned when you realized the notification didn't come from the dating app, but from the pornsite you'd secretly enjoy whenever there was an update. And it was, but not the one you were used to.

You felt lucky when your fingers felt weak, but not enough to drop your phone to the ground when you read his text.

Soundleasure: Hey! Sorry for the late reply. Hope you still think my voice is sexy.

You tried to avoid re-reading your own text after sending it, until you were forced to that night. Your face grimaced as soon as you were aware of how cheeky and desperate you seemed on the text you sent. Saying his voice was sexy? And nothing else? God, your mind was intoxicated by the bullshit you read on those dating apps.

You: Maybe... Or maybe you'll have to work a bit harder to get my attention again.

Soundleasure: Hmm. You answered tho, it seems like I have your attention.

You: Maybe I'm just being polite by replying back.

You: It'd be rude to just leave you on read.

Soundleasure: Oh, so you're considerate. That's nice to know.

Soundleasure: Better reason to work harder so I keep having your focus on me.

You bit your lip, lying on the couch while still holding your phone up high. It seemed too surrealistic to be real. You were talking with him, the man that put your standards on sex above the sky.

You: How are you planning on doing that?

Soundleasure: I don't know... You tell me.

You: I'm good at concentrating, so you probably won't have to do much.

Soundleasure: Hahah

Soundleasure: Ok

Soundleasure: What's your name?

You: Y/n

You: what about you?

You: i doubt soundleasure is your real name.

Soundleasure: haha San. That's my name.

Soundleasure: I'm kinda forced to ask you your age.

You: 25. I've been legal for quite a few years.

You didn't ask him his age, you didn't need to. You knew he was twenty four. It was displayed on the short description he had on his channel, along with the type of content he'd post in it.

It'd been almost a week. And while you thought the conversation would end after that night, the truth was that both San and you kept reaching out to each other, coming up with whatever that came to your heads to keep the conversation alive. You were even surprised when, after two days, he asked for your user on Telegram so you could find a more comfortable way to text -you were close, but not enough to be giving out your private phone number to a stranger.

If you thought San was only attractive in those videos, he proved you wrong by the way he acted so charming and close the more you talked. You always gave up the idea of sending him a text, convincing yourself that you'd lose interest as soon as he seemed approachable enough -or as soon as he felt comfortable enough to show his true colors. But you were so mistaken. It's like he threw a hook on you, and every time he pulled you in, you got more attached.

It was also the way you could go from cackling at the conversation, to being forced to press your thighs close together after he dropped a flirty message, or a suggestive pic as if it was nothing. You obviously played along, surprised by how easily he made that nature flow in you.

That Saturday, you had just sent one of your nsfw pics of your blurry naked figure reflected on the bathroom mirror full of steam. It was clear as day that you were naked after taking your shower, but it was impossible to clearly see what the mist was hiding.

San: Fucking hell, Y/n.......

You saw "Typing..." under his name several times, but it always ended up disappearing and he ended up disconnecting, before he came back a few more times. You giggled as a consequence, thinking that you got what you wanted with that snapshot: triggering San.

San: Omg

You: You liked it?

Your text reeked of fake innocence. He knew, you knew.

San: I hated it

Your heart skipped a beat, stopping completely when you saw that text before he suddenly left the app again. You both had been exchanging that type of pictures almost since you started talking to each other, along with a big amount of spicy texts -especially the days he uploaded content to his channel. It was the cherry on top of a great day for the two of you.

Wearing the bathrobe as the only clothing that covered your body, you sat in the middle of the bed, waiting for his text. You were doubting whether you should text first or not, but your phone buzzing in your palm gave you the answer you were looking for.

San: It's unfair I can't see that in person

His answer made you smile instantly, biting your lip while you thought of the next thing to say. He lived in Los Angeles, on the other side of the country, while you lived in Boston. You were more than four hours away.

You: Maybe we can do something better...

You: are you home?

San: Yeah

San: What did you think about?

You clearly didn't think it through, and you chose to act before you could even process your own idea. Every time you had the idea to do a video call, you'd turn it down with the fear of him not liking you -and, sometimes, not liking him. After talking for a week, you two had high expectations on each other -at least on your side it was like that. More than once you were scared of him being disappointed in the way you looked, and you were also terrified with the idea of ending up upset with him.

But that day it didn't seem to matter to you. You clicked on the video call option, and just waited for him to answer. You held your phone at the level of your face, checking your reflection out while you bit your lip nervously. All the excitement started disappearing when he didn't pick up the call, and you started thinking that maybe you got ahead of yourself.

Suddenly, everything was silent and you got surprised by his face on the screen.

You couldn't believe you were ever scared of not liking him. Not only did he had an attractive voice, and a charming personality, his face also seemed sculpted by the gods. His foxy eyes had a gentle look on them as he stared back at you through the screen, and his dimples made his sharp features look innocent and soft as he smiled.

"So I see you weren't lying on taking a shower" he commented, making one of his eyebrows disappear behind his bangs.

"You thought I was baiting you?" his deep chuckle sent shiverings all over your body, before you chose to keep talking. "It'd have been perfect timing for you to send a picture, too" you pointed out.

You were able to point out that he also took a shower, by the way that the end of his bangs that fell on his forehead -and slightly over his eyes- looked a bit wet still.

"You got ahead of me" he played with his hair, acknowledging your good eye sight with a wide smile. His smile slowly dropped to a smirk, as his eyes concentrated on you for a brief second "You're beautiful".

Taking the compliment the best way you could, you simply smiled and lowered your face enough the moment you felt your cheeks lighting up.

"Don't cover up. That's cute" he giggled.

But you couldn't help it. All the times through messages, you two kept acting confidently, being the sexiest of your versions. But there you were, blushing over the word "beautiful" and the way his eyes shined as he said it.

You clearly weren't used to that type of treatment.

"You also look good" you assured him.

"Better than expected?"

Far better than expected.

While you still were surprised by his good physique, you didn't see his face in either of the pics he sent. Like you, he always ended up covering it with the shape of his phone on the several mirror selfies he took, or he straight up cut off his face. So now that you were seeing him, and confirming he was the perfect combo, your head was struggling to admit San was real and not a person you created out of desperation.

"Maybe" you answered teasingly.

"I already had high expectations on you, but you made sure to break them all off" his mouth was trying to transmit that with appeal, yet his smile and the way he nervously pressed his lips together betrayed him.

Just like it happened whenever you texted each other, the conversation didn't seem to have an ending. And it was the best thing with him, the way you felt you could talk for hours and never get bored. There was always a topic, a situation, an anecdote... always something that had you two engaged for a few more minutes. But you didn't know it'd be even better when you two went silent, staring at each other for some seconds, before you bit your lip and spoke again.

"You said it was unfair you couldn't see me in person" you started, tilting your head slightly, "What exactly do you want to see?".

One of his eyebrows raised at your question, grinning while he rested his back against the office chair in his room. "Your skin. I bet it looks softer than it does in pictures".

Your robe slipped off your right shoulder, exposing your collarbone and the curve of one of your breasts "Can you appreciate it now?".

"Kinda" he sighed, "It looks better than on the pic, but not good enough" he smiled again. "Maybe I need to see a bit more".

Now moving down the robe over your other shoulder, it was hanging on your arms -enough to cover up your nipples, but still showing off your cleavage. It was nothing he hadn't seen before though. You had sent several underwear pics at some point in the night, but somehow it felt different that day.

"Would you be able to handle this in person?" the middle finger of your free hand traced your collarbone ever so gently you felt tickles from your own touch.

"I'd do more than just handle it" he assured, his voice going lower with every word. "But I'd for sure rip that thing off. It's pissing me off".

"You don't need to break it though, just" and with that pause, you undid the knot on the upper part of your belly, allowing the soft fabric to expose your breasts on the screen "open it".

A whimper suddenly came out of his lips, at the same time he tried to find a more comfortable position on his chair. San also rolled it a bit more to the back, showing more than just his torso covered with that gray sweater.

You had never felt the strong need to sit on someone's lap until you saw his legs on the screen, with his hands falling on them lazily.

"Those tits are begging to be sucked"

"Hmm" your right hand kept wandering all over your torso, feeling your nipples tightening at the filth in his words. "I bet they'd look better if they were in your mouth instead".

Just the thought of it got your body working faster than it has ever worked before, as if you were going to take him at any time.

"Of course" he nodded "Getting them hard and stiff until they hurt".

Following his words, your index and thumb rubbed on your nipple, tightening the grip sporadically, ending it with a pinch and pull that got you pressing your thighs at the sudden throb.

"I want to see you, too"

San thought he'd collapse right there when he saw you pouting as you said that, your hand dropping out of the camera vision while your eyes intensely looked at him. Maybe he was too horny, or maybe his lack of experience with any other girl made him so eager for you. But there he was, willing to do anything you'd ask for.

While he took off his sweater, you placed a pillow at the edge of the bed just so you could rest your phone on it and forget about holding it up in the air. You heard him groan at the sight of your half naked body, while your hands still held together the edges of your robe so your lower part wouldn't be exposed.

"I think this is the hardest I've ever been for someone" he mentioned, stroking his growing bulge over his black sweatpants.

"Let me see how hard I'm making you" you asked, kneeling in the middle of the bed.

It didn't take San a minute before he was lowering his pants and boxers enough to let his cock spring free in the air, and ending up resting on his stomach. Your eyes got lost on the shape of his cock, thinking how bad you'd like to suck on its curve, tracing the veins that went from the base to the tip with your tongue.

You could feel your mouth watering at the image, wishing there weren't 2611 miles between you two right at that moment. That man for sure wasn't real. Every inch of his body was perfect.

"Cat got your tongue?" he teasingly asked, stroking his cock while he looked at you.

"I wish that was the problem" you scoffed, bending over, resting your body on your elbows, so you could see his image up close. "I've never wanted to get choked on a cock so bad in my life".

"I bet you'd look gorgeous with your mouth stuffed with it" he groaned.

You smiled, aiming two of your fingers at your mouth. You rubbed the tip of your fingerprints on your flat muscle, just to enclose your lips around them while staring straight at the camera. It felt like your eyes were connecting through the whole thing, because you could hear San cursing as soon as you did that.

"Show me how wet you are while you still suck on those fingers, hmm?"

Biting on your own fingerprints, you smiled. You for sure were leaking at that point, you could fill your juices dripping from your entrance to your clit when you bent over to the camera. Changing your position again, you opened your robe completely with your legs still closed as you saw in front of the camera. And once you made sure everything was seen for him, you spread your legs, having San moaning out loud at the vision of your glistening lips.

Your wet fingers with your spit traveled all the way from your lips to your pussy, moving through your folds for him. Your heart skipped a beat when they reached your clit, finally being taken care of after ignoring it for so long.

"Wet enough to have my face buried in it" his raspy voice added "I bet you taste so fucking good".

And soon those scenarios you planted in your head, with a mysterious man with no face, finally came back to your head with every detail you could add. Your pussy clenched around the emptiness in your walls as your mind went wild and your fingers drew circles slowly.

"I'd love to know if that tongue is good at licking as much as it is at dirty talking" you joked, finding his eyes somewhere on the screen again.

"You can bet I'd have your legs trembling and your ears beeping after you cum" he smirked. "Slide two fingers in. Open up for me".

And just the same way you allowed your fingers to go down your folds and sink them inside of you, you saw San spitting on his hand and wrapping it around his shaft again.

"That's it, honey. Knuckles deep" he encouraged you, making the biggest effort to keep his eyes open through his own pleasure. "Pump them in and out as if it were my cock".

The praise in his words, the way he controlled your movements even from afar had you completely out of your mind. You were sure the sound of his voice was giving you more pleasure than your own fingers.

Managing to open your eyelids, that felt heavy as ever before, you got a moan stuck in the back of your throat as you saw him pumping his cock at a steady pace. The way you were able to see your opened legs through the corner of your eyes, while your eyes were fixed on the porn scene he was pulling made everything hotter. You were sure the temperature rose a few more degrees the moment you started that video call.

"You'd look even better if it was my cock fucking you" he moaned, moving his hand faster on his shaft. "Your tits bouncing every time I pound into you, holding you tight by your hips so you could take it all".

"I bet you'd stretch me out so good" you nodded.

Your brain was close to having a dead short at any time. The naughtiness in his words, mixed with everything that was going on in real life and in your head was too much to handle. Your back arched every time you sinked your fingers in and your palm rubbed on your clit.

"I'm gonna cum" you cried, unable to hold it back any longer.

"I'm so close, too" he groaned, throwing his head back finally. "Wait for me. I'm almost there".

Still moving your fingers in sync with his movements, you found yourself at the edge of the cliff, only allowing yourself to jump from it when you heard muttering he was ready, too. Both of your moans got mixed in the air as you both reached your highs. And, slowly, those moans turned to loud pants while you tried to get some oxygen back to your lungs.

Daring to look at him, you found San with his head falling back to the chair, eyes still closed while he smiled pleased.

"It was amazing" he whispered.

"Yeah" you agreed, sighing.

He finally opened his eyes, and you were mesmerized by how beautiful and genuinely they looked. You saw him getting some air, and opening his mouth, before he got interrupted by a male voice coming from outside the room "Where the fuck is the controller? I need to beat these assholes' asses".

Managing to cover your body with the robe again, you smile at a pissed of San. "It's alright, you can text me later"

"I won't take long" he assured you, before he hung up the video call.

Back in the silence and loneliness in your room, you made your best at holding in the sudden need to jump on the bed and dance away in excitement.

Your bad streak was finally over.

Most probably this will turn into a long fanfic, just like Kalla did. So take this as a snippet of what's to come soon!

#ff #smut #one shot #reader insert #san #choi san #san smut #ateez #choisanxreader #sanxreader #armpirate

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autistictaylorhebert · 9 months

Note

If I'm understanding your post right you'll give a trigger for a power? Got any ideas for a power that allows someone to copy faces (and powers) after prolonged eye contact? Of course coming with massive and intense identity issues.

There are a lot of different options for this, I've had a few different powergen asks that could have definitely led to copy-cat changer/trumps, but I went with less straightforward powers in response (mainly just because I like making up stupid complicated powers lol).

I think the simplest elements to lead to this kind of power include,

The Changer/Stranger, something where there is some positive social interactions and people viewing them in a good way (or there is in theory or potential), but it is now bad? Or imposter syndrome and similar?

Power copying, which weaverdice calls "[positive] Mental or emotional relationship to the powers", but I think anything like jealousy or desire can fit, and situations where the possibility of having powers is a threat/bad also works.

Prolonged Eye contact...!

I've always like the idea of a school like Arcadia being involved in a trump trigger? A school where there's this open secret that some of the kids there are wards, and an unspoken guessing game about who it is.

For the first few months after you enter the school, you aren't noticed. It's not that you're bullied and you have friends, but you're not famous, and you're aware that there is something a lot more exciting happening to other people.

Maybe you make a joke that someone takes seriously, or your schedule matches with a few too many cape fights, but a rumour starts up that you are a specific teen hero.

You encourage the rumour, play it up and drop hints. Things escalate and people start treating you differently, looking at you and nodding at you in corridors, hanging out with you more, and there's an undercurrent of you being valuable and respected.

Maybe this would have been fine. Not a unique experience in countries with the wards system, just teenager behaviour. But then one day alarms start blaring, and teachers yell at you to get to the cafeteria.

If there is a fight that happens, you don't see it, instead you just wait in the cafeteria, until men with guns walk into the room. One of them is holding a phone, seemingly comparing a picture to the faces of teenagers. He stops on you, staring you right in the eyes, and you know with a certainty that he thinks you are the hero you were pretending to be.

#sorry that this is like a week late LOL #powergen

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talisidekick · 1 year

Note

Stop watching so much porn bro and go get a life

This. Is. Hilarious. Cause you're all "you're only trans because you fetishize women". That's what you're saying; that porn made me trans. But the irony is I stopped consuming pornography which is what lead me to figuring out I was transgender.

See, I was trying to be a better man. Which lead me to honestly listen to women who commonly mentioned that most men admit they get ideas as teens from male fantasy pornography. That they as women have to constantly work to break these perceptions of fetishization in order to be treated as equals in a relationship and it's exhausting. So I was like: "well damn, lets stop consuming that kind of pornography" and I got curious if like all porn was detrimental. And it turns out they had a list of good, women respecting romance novels often written by women FOR women, that they considered pornographic light or not even pornographic at all. I decided to literally skip the sex parts because I decided all porn is bad (it's not, but a lot of it is trash, and this was a later discovery).

And that was how I began to understand the importance of passive romance and how not everything I do should be about satisfying my sex drive. That love and sex are different concepts and love can lead to sex but shouldn't have to. I thought: "if I can't control my urges, my desires, then I'm no better than these bad men who exploit women" and "if I try to change now, my current fiance will have less to work on with me" because I was sure I'd fuck up SOMETHING (and I did and learned for the better).

As I went along listening to women more, my co-workers, friends, and my AFAB spouse, I began to kind of ... click more with women than I ever had with men. I became the "guy who gets it" and was told more than once that I had the "vibes of [their] gay friends but was oddly straight" and that they envied my spouse because "guys like [me] aren't common". I learned that my sex-drive didn't need to be the reason I was hanging around women, that being a friend was reward enough and sex was only ever secondary to the feelings of others. Now you might be all "it's easier for you to say that", but for context, I was an absolute nymphomaniac. My drive was strong enough to return full force in an hour and I was operating at a constant peak. You could not make me "more aroused", I was always there. It was always annoying. But being the guy others could feel safe around, even when drunk, was something I prided myself on. I loved the talks, the bitching, the complaining, the fun stories, the emotional connection with my friend group of women.

Queue a SINGLE OneTopic video and I got curious about transgender people. I'd never really given anything queer much thought but hey, lesbians are women too with their own unique issues with womanhood and I gave their forums and resources a look, and this group of people seemed to have some of the same struggles as I do on their path to becoming women so maybe I can learn something in these communities to be an even better man.(Major closeted moment, I didn't know the amazing world I was about to walk into).

This ... was where my revelation hit. I didn't identify with some of the issues. I identified with ALL of them. Granted, the dysphoria didn't factor in the same because I was just passively miserable. I recognize now, and only recently, that my dysphoria didn't rise and fall like most, it was just always there and thats what made euphoria so potent. Things didn't make me dysphoric, I was just ALWAYS dysphoric. Full blast. And that was my normal. It took a single two button meme for my realization to shatter my world. It asked a simple question of two buttons:

Wait until the next life to be a woman

"Why wait?"

I always wanted to know what it was like to be a girl. I'd played women in MMORPG's just to get in with the womens only groups so I could just hang out and talk. Not to get things, or catfish, just to ... be included when questing, farming, doing dungeons. It was less stressful. Less competitive. Less ... like even if there was no competition someone was always trying to prove they were that much better. It was more helping, and advice, and ... friendly. I wanted that more.

And so I asked myself: "with all the problems women face, that I know of, all the trials and problems, including the hatred and danger of being trans, would I trade everything I have as a man? Would I trade the higher pay, the immediate attention over women, the privileges of being a man, for fighting to be equal my entire life, for being treated second class and worth less than dirt by others?"

Why wait?

So no, I don't fetishize women. I'm not trans because I think women are hot and this gives me a "better chance". I'm trans because I've always been transgender. I always fit in better with women. Even my guy friends knew before I did. They knew since highschool. They just waited for me to say it.

So I have a life. It's built on 26 years of slow discovery. Filled with accepting friends. Filled with successes. And I'm about to achieve so much more.

That make you angry? I don't care. I responded to this to give a message:

Being transgender isn't sexual, and isn't about fetishization. It's about self expression.

So thank you for letting me express myself. Next time, ask a question.

#trans #transgender #mtf #my transition story #lgbtq+#lgbt+#queer #2slgbtqia+#trans positivity

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brunitofindshappinessfanfic · 1 year

Text

All the Madrigals had gathered once more for breakfast, waiting on Abuela. They had set up for outside in the sunshine, which they would get less of as the seasons changed. They could see the funny looking traveling cabin in the distance. Abuela emerged, a little puffy-eyed.

"Mirabel, would you go ask Catalina if she would like to join us?" Abuela asked, much to Bruno's horror.

"On it!"

Mirabel was greeted by a snort from Clyde while he grazed. She pet his velvety nose. She walked up to the door of the traveling cabin, knocking gently.

"Mirabel! Just the Madrigal I wanted to see! Please come in!"

"Actually, I was here to invite you to breakfast."

"My curiosity is killing me," the strangest stranger tugged Mirabel inside.

"This will be quick, I promise."

Mirabel took a look around the inside of the small structure. What she thought would be a small structure. But it was massive on the inside. The walls were covered in handmade charms, pictures, paintings, and cooking utensils. Fabric hang from the ceiling, making the appearance softer. There were big pillows, large enough to sit OK, and small ones littering the floor. In the center was a step-down square. Catalina motioned for Mirabel to sit down in front of her.

"So to make a long story short, I saw your... gift ceremony in the eyes of your tío Bruno. In his memory. And how you restored Casita. I have a theory I want to test."

Mirabel sat down, confused. How could someone look into someone else's memories?

She had to correct her glasses.

"Something simple. I've drawn out here a circle with the cardinal points, and in the center a symbol for fire," Catalina pointed out on a sheet of paper, "place your hands here and here."

Mirabel's hands were placed on either side of the paper, on the drawn circle.

"Now what?" Mirabel looked up and asked.

"Look at this symbol, and think of fire. The smell of wood burning, food cooking, the feeling of heat it gives off," Catalina instructed her, "the crackle of a bonfire, the sound of kindle catching."

Mirabel focused and... felt something almost tangible between her hands.

Before she knew it, a fire had blown up between where her hands were placed, right where the symbol for fire was.

"IT WORKED!" Catalina screamed.

"What just happened?" Mirabel could feel the heat, and the sweat beading on her forehead already.

"When I saw what happened, I thought... Mirabel," Catalina looked her in the eyes from across the fire, "you have the ability to wield magic. But it seems it isn't specialized like the rest of your family. You did receive a gift, but because it wasn't painfully obvious, it was missed! I-i-"

Mirabel looked down and removed her hands. The flame went out, nothing more than a scorch mark where it had been. She looked at her hands in amazement.

"Mirabel, I can teach you how," Catalina started. She was so excited she was tripping over her own tongue.

"You have the ability! Do you feel okay? Did you get burned?"

Mirabel was still in shock. All her life, she had to tell herself she was just as special as the rest of her family, even without a gift. The first part was true, but the second had been a lie. For 10 years, she thought something was wrong with her.

"Maybe I should have waited to try thus later, but I was just dying on the inside to see," Catalina began apologizing.

"It's- it's not you. I'm... processing a lot of emotions right now," Mirabel explained, still staring at her hands.

"Please, I think it best that we don't tell anyone else. Not until you've developed a skill that you can do on your own without aid," Catalina nearly whispered, hyper aware that Dolores could be listening.

"I can't tell anyone?" Mirabel was suddenly upset. She could feel tears welling up inside her chest.

"For your safety. And so no one has high expectations you can't meet off the bat," Catalina explained.

"But, I have a small gift for you," She turned around for a second, pulled something out of a drawer, and closed said drawer, "this pendant is made from a particular type of stone called quartz. Quartz is found all over the place, but I've programmed this piece special for you. When you wear it..."

Catalina unclasped the necklace and held it out for Mirabel to bring her head forward. Mirabel obliged.

"You can tap into my knowledge and abilities. It's got a direct link to me. But I also programmed it for safety. Magical safety anyway. There's no rush to begin learning, but I wanted to make sure you'd be safe. You need to learn the protection, defensive, and offensive magic before anything else."

Catalina handed Mirabel a mirror for her to look into. Mirabel was still in shock from the news, and now a beautiful pendant graced her neck.

"Mirabel, I can teach you these things so you won't need the link to me. Or you won't have to wear the pendant to do things. Like... like first learning to walk," Catalina held Mirabel's free hand, "at first you need support while your muscles learn. And at a point you don't need help to stand. And then you learn to walk without help."

She put a hand on Mirabel's shoulder, and Mirabel looked up into her eyes.

"There is no rush, but the pendant will have to be regularly cleansed and charged once a month during the full moon. As soon as you can do things without the pendant, the better."

Mirabel set the mirror down next to her and touched the pendant.

She could feel energy surging like a river. Like with the fire, it felt tangible.

"Whoa now, maybe you should keep that in a pocket so you don't accidentally activate anything," Catalina suggested. She must be able to feel the energy shifting.

"How long do we have to keep it a secret?" Mirabel finally asked.

"Just until you can do something on your own," Catalina reassured her.

Mirabel felt for the clasp at the back of her neck and took the pendant in a pocket of her skirt.

"Mirabel, this waiting will pass. Savor this moment while it exists," Catalina held her by the shoulders.

"Okay," Mirabel smiled.

"Are you alright to return to breakfast?" Catalina tilted her head, rubbing her hand on Mirabel's back.

Mirabel nodded. They got up to leave.

"Oh hell! I need to get dressed. Excuse me a minute," Catalina turned to get dressed. Mirabel touched where the pendant had landed on her chest.

#abuela madrigal #alma madrigal #bruno madrigal #dolores madrigal #felix madrigal #julieta madrigal #la familia madrigal #madrigal cousins #madrigal family #antonio madrigal #mirabel madrigal

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lale-txt · 2 years

Note

Ok and because nobody has asked yet but Rayleigh with a female reader with the very first fluffy prompt, because we both know we need our slice of DILFS today! ❤️❤️

you sweet angel, i am kissing your eyes for requesting our emotional support dilf. loved every request but i was looking especially forward to writing this one. and i swear i wanted to keep it fluff and sfw but it got a liiittle suggestive? I CAN'T HELP IT OKAY

prompt: "it's you. it has always been you." w/ Rayleigh

word count: 1.4k (LISTEN it was the only Rayleigh request and i have no self-control)

It was pouring. Of course it was pouring.

You found shelter from the rain huddled against a big tree, but you still were only halfway there. Shit. Maybe you could run. You hated running. You could wait until it stops pouring. But that would mean less time spent with him...

While you were still debating your options (weaving an umbrella out of leaves, digging a tunnel with your bare hands, yelling at the sky with a raised fist to make the guys at Weatheria stop the rain), when you hear a familiar voice behind you.

"Thought I'd come get you before you plan something stupid again."

You look over your shoulder to see a smiling Rayleigh, offering you a hand. In his other he was holding a big, black umbrella. With the hood from his cloak up, his face was almost hidden, but you would still recognize him in a crowd anywhere, anytime. Your heart would.

You jump up and throw yourself into his arms, making both of you almost fall over into a puddle.

"I didn't check the weather forecast because I was in a hurry. Left my house as if I've just robbed it. I wanted to see you so bad, my mind just blanked.", you mumble against his chest, running your fingers over his collarbone down to his heart. When he invited you over to his place a few days ago, you felt like kissing the sky out of happiness, you wanted to scream from joy and excitement and also panic because what if he realized that you weren't that special?

The dark king laughed and wrapped an arm around you, pressing you closer to his chest. "Then let's get you home and out of these wet clothes quickly before you catch a cold."

Your cheeks were burning up by his comment, but he was absolutely right - your clothes were completely soaked from the rain. Before you could protest, he had already stripped off his cloak and thrown it over you. The two of you hurried home to Rayleigh's place, arms linked together while he was holding up the umbrella for both of you. Your fingers were stroking his bare arm softy. It was somehow romantic, the two of you, being so close in the pouring rain...

Rayleigh unlocked the door to his place, letting you step in first. You've been here a few times before, but only for platonic meetings or to pick something up. This... was new.

"I'll draw you a bath. You can borrow some clothes of mine while we hang up yours to dry."

God. How could he make you blush with so little words? And judging from his little smirk, he knew exactly the impact he had over you. You take a seat in front of the fireplace, warming yourself up while he heads to the bathroom, preparing everything for you. Still huddled up in his cloak, you close your eyes and sink deeper in the fabric that smelled a lot like him. How strange and yet so familiar, to be here with him.

You were almost dozing off when you could hear his voice from the other room, calling out your name. Oh, what a sweet sound. The two of you meet again at the bathroom door, where he hands you a towel and a shirt of his.

"Your bath is ready. Here's also something for you to wear." He grins. "Unfortunately I can't offer you any spare underwear."

"Maybe I don't need any." Now you caught him off guard a little, but he quickly bounces back when his face turns from slightly surprised to knowing... oh. "I'm just kidding. I brought a second pair because..."

"Because...?" Rayleigh leans in the doorframe, tilting his head a little to the side, a smirk on his lips.

"Because I figured I might need them. Now excuse me."

You squeeze past him into the steamy, warm bathroom. The bathtub was filled with bubbles and almost overflowing, it smelled surprisingly nice considering Rayleigh probably was someone who washed himself with a piece of hard soap under a cold shower for training purposes. Though the thought of sharing this warm tub with him surely sounded nice...

After closing the door behind you, you finally strip out of your damp clothes and hang them over the back of the chair standing in the corner. Before you could overthink that you were now standing butt naked in Rayleigh's bathroom, you dip into the warm water, sighing in relief as you could feel your cold bones warm up again. Time seemed to stand still.

Somehow you felt very loved, very cared for. How he picked you up so you don't get any more soaked from the rain. How he drew you a bath without asking, making sure you're warm. How he tickeled out that giggly side of yours, allowing you to just be yourself around him, lowering all your guards.

You wanted to see him.

Now it was you calling out his name, sounding like a poem out of your mouth, a melody you've only heard in your dreams. His name, a promise, a longing.

The bathroom door opened a hand's width. You could see that he was facing the other direction, making sure not to peep.

"Are you okay in there, y/n?", he asks softly, a slight smile on his lips.

"I was wondering if you would like to keep me company?" You almost disappear in the bubbles but gaze upon him eagerly. You blush a little (again) when your eyes meet.

Rayleigh takes a seat next to the bathtub on a small wooden stool. He was so close. And you were still so butt naked. Covered by bath foam, but still.

"Want me to wash your hair for you?"

You look at him in surprise, your heart skipping a beat. Nodding, you turn around in the tub a bit so your back was now facing the dark king. With arms wrapped around your legs you were sitting there, eying how he carefully took the showerhead, testing the water temperature and giving you instructions on how to lean back your head so he can rinse your hair.

He was very gentle and careful, making sure to untangle every strand of hair under his long fingers. They were rubbing soft circles on your scalp, making you close your eyes and hum a little with pleasure. He sure knew what he was doing.

You look up to him longing. He leaned over you, one hand still at the back of your head, a gesture so simple and yet so strong it almost made you cry on the spot. When he leans down to kiss you on the lips, gently, you almost sigh in relief. He put your howling, yearning heart on mute. Held it in his hands and made it melt under his touch instead. You've never felt so warm before. He smiles.

Then takes off his shirt and unbuckles his belt.

OH.

You scoot over in the tub, your back facing him, making him space even though it probably wasn't made for two people to sit there comfortably... your heart was now back on its usual drumming in your chest again. It was one thing, being in the tub covered by bubbles alone, but being in there with him...

Rayleigh lowers himself into the water, gently pulling you closer to him at your shoulders. You shiver a little under his touch, not because you're uncomfortable, but because your skin feels electrified underneath his strong hands. He pulls you into a hug, you leaning against his broad chest, his arms wrapped around your waist. You were surprised how familiar it felt to sit like that with him here, now. But something about him just made you feel calm, protected. You just knew he would never, ever hurt you.

He kisses the side of your neck gently, with love, before he whispers into your ear the words you never dared to dream about.

"When you were calling out for me, it hit me. It's you. It has always been you. I have loved and I have lost, but hearing my name out of your mouth... I wish I could just love this time. If you let me. If you're not afraid of the dark. If we can stay like this forever maybe."

#one piece #silvers rayleigh #dark king rayleigh #rayleigh x reader #rayleigh x you #one piece x reader #one piece reader insert #one piece scenario #one piece x you #one piece x y/n #3amevent #emotional support dilf

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gaiuswrites · 3 years

Text

King of Cups || Chapter 9

Chapter 9: The Hanged Man

Archive: ao3 | masterlist | eight

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!Reader

Summary: After some time apart, new conclusions are met.

Word count: 7.8k~

Rating: Explicit

Warnings/tags: SMUT, fingering, unprotected piv sex, emo emo emo (are we even surprised any more), mature themes, abandonment/family trauma, loss

Notes: Friends, wow. I'm honestly embarrassed by how long this took. Thank you for your patience. I hope you find the reward worth the wait. This chapter is nearly all in Din's POV until it switches and blends in the last chunk. If you’re new to KOC, you’re more than welcome to start at this chapter! Love you guys x (gif credit: @bestintheparsec)

“Din.”

Familiar fingers brush through his hair, a hand he knew once combing over his overgrown locks. He feels the drag of nails across his scalp, tucking a truant curl behind his ear, and the act feels like home— like hearth.

Somewhere beyond his open window a morning bird trills, perched in its roost nestled into the forked branch of the elm.

He breathes a sigh, the sound thick with sleep, and turns to his pillow, burying himself deeper into the linen.

“Din, honey.”

He blinks— lazily, molassesed— her shape clearing into focus.

Green eyes peer back at him, fine lines framing the corners of them, and crescents crease around her lips, pulled warm into a soft curve.

Small toys— wooden things, baubles and bits, dolls made from scraps of old fabric—litter the floor, spilling from the chest butted against the stone of the wall. A book, well-loved and dog-eared, rests on his nightstand—the one he insisted she read from each night, the story he couldn’t possibly fall asleep without hearing—the images written on the page, dancing in his small mind to the tune of her voice.

It’s all there now as it was then before.

“It’s time to wake up.”

She sits at the edge of the bed—his bed—the weight of her arm draped over his shoulder like a blanket— like shelter. Like never being fearful again. Like never dying. Like summer, forever.

“I am awake,” he murmurs, and it is with his own tongue that he speaks. Not that of a boy, but a man—unfiltered, unmodulated. Stripped of his helmet, he hardly recognizes the tenor of it, of its richness, but he feels the words reverberate against the hollow of his throat and he knows they belong to him.

Light casts through the window behind her—particles of dust, trapped in the tines. Floating there, suspended on strings.

She only smiles, and strokes a thumb across the sweep of his cheekbone, there in the room he last felt safe.

“No, not yet.”

It’s time to wake up. It’s time to wake up. Wake up wake up wake—

“Not yet.”

His eyes blur open with a flutter of his lashes, the lifeless durasteel ceiling coming into view—the jade of her gaze fading, fading. Blowing away.

He shifts a hand through his hair— through the long strands in dire need of trimming— lying on his bedroll, spine knobbing into the thin mattress. The cold metal overhead stares back at him.

His chest rises. Falls.

Din can still feel her, the warmth of her, there on his cheek.

///

There is no part of this that comes easy.

He knows what you’re thinking, he can see it in the guard you’ve encased yourself with— your glass walls, your glass house. Transparent but impenetrable, Din can only look. A spectator, watching as you go about your routines— a stranger on the outside.

And he sees how you look at him.

You think he’s fine.

You think he’s marble. Unbreakable. Impervious to time, to cold, and he does nothing to correct you; no, he allows the belief. He lets you believe the calloused veneer of his beskar— lets you assume he is more machine than man.

Din thought it would be simpler. Convenient. Din thought it would hurt less.

Because how can he tell you? How can he possibly communicate the imprint you’ve left on him— how his mind revolves around the imagery of that evening in vicious figure-eights. How he can’t unremember your heat curling around his fingers, how he can’t unbridle the pulse of his cock in your palm. How he can’t unspeak that which he called you, his virgin tongue flicking new and flighty around the word.

Cyare.

It tripped—in the midst of his pleasure, it sprang clumsy from him how the inevitable always seems to where you are concerned: transport to Coruscant, his past, his history, his identity— it just happens, reasonless, illogically. Some driving magic beckoning him to buckle, wishing him to give.

Your moans, your gasps, how you prayed his name— this is the white noise murmuring through the ship, harmonizing with the tinny mechanical beeps and settling groans of the bulkheads. You churn like smog through his helmet. Ever present, the memory of you is constant— invasive. It’s suffocating him.

He’s been dealt plenty of injuries and contusions— he has the scars enough to prove it— but it’s this. It’s this that’s killing him. It’s you.

All of these paintings, life-like and lurid, and yet it is this wound - untended, uncauterized - that scalds most: the moment Din, that beskar apparition, slipped away from you. You were there, hip under the weight of his glove, and he simply

went, like fog.

He watched your face crest and fall—felt your heart, skipping nervous like a stone over a morning pond, little waves rippling lightly, lightly out and out until it puttered quiet and

sank.

He abandoned you there. He left you before you had the opportunity to convince Din that you wouldn't do the same to him. Because Din has learned this, his suit of armor a trudging reminder of the inherent fact: good things leave.

You’ll be gone soon. You’ll leave him—he’s taking you home and you’ll leave him. His son will leave him.

He’ll be alone again. He’ll have the Crest, he’ll have the Guild—he’ll have the life he once cast in stone for himself, the life he’s worn as proudly as the Mudhorn emblem he boasts on his pauldron. But that was then - before - and he can never find his way back to that now; now that he knows what he knows—of breakfast and bitter caf and laughter like church bells and warmth and goodness and you.

There is no part of this that comes easy.

There in the galley, lamp-lit iridescence caressing your countenance, you asked him once if he was scared of anything and he told you he wasn’t sure— not yet.

Din lied.

As a rule, he doesn’t make a habit out of dishonesty; it doesn’t typically suit him, he is blunted to a fault— earning allies and enemies alike with the very attribute—but he lied to you then. Maybe his fears are the same as everyone else’s, maybe they’re simple. Human.

Maybe he’s scared that you’ll unchain him from his armor, of his shortcomings and tragic flaws and see the pulpy heart of him—that you’ll look and look and look, and you will like nothing that you find there. That he’s just a man.

And perhaps, he’d rather remain unknown than risk the chance of being unlovable.

For there is a certain hollow you befriend in the aftershock of loss—there is an aperture loss gores you with. There are some holes time can never fill; they remain trenched, dug from rusted trowels— left to fester, left to ill.

Sometimes, in the surly vacuum of space, in those dulled moments in which he has nothing but to count the seconds as they tick clocklessly away, Din attempts to conjure the last word his mother gave to him. He didn’t know it then—he didn’t know it was intended as a gift, boxed and ribboned and bowed. He didn’t realize—a child, wide-eyed with naivety, drenched in fright—that he should cherish it. Remember it. Keep it safe.

No matter how hard he tries, how hard he strains, he can’t recall it. He practices the nightmared memory of it, transports himself into that war zone, dodging shrapnel and brimstone just to catch sight of her face— and he can see her lips moving, can feel the fan of the flames as his world is reduced to cinders, but he cannot hear her.

Was it goodbye? Was it I love you? Was it be safe? Was it hide? Hide hide hide for me. Be good and hide, kind boy—

It dogs him. The nothinged mumble, his silent passenger.

There is no part of this that comes easy.

He heard you. There in Valentia, the city buzzing cacophonously like an orchestra tuning their instruments, he overheard the Twi’lek translate for the older woman.

Family, she said. You have a beautiful family.

Din has never in his life considered forsaking his Creed— forgoing the thing that saved him, made him, honed him to tungsten, sharp as a blade.

But he did then.

It was a flash, something fickle and brief— like the flicker of a candle before it diffused to smoke— but in that nanosecond he saw himself ripping off his helmet. He saw himself going to you, pulling you close to his plated chest. He saw the surprise wash over you—the shock that bubbled to elation. He saw you smile, that crippling gorgeous thing, with his own naked eyes and—

And then suddenly you were there before him, snapping Din from his reverie, blanket snug to your chest, the child — his child— slung beside you. He wished he had an explanation, but before he could process his actions his hand was drawing itself to your body, tugged by some unseen force—robbed of his autonomy— and rapturously, he touched you. He felt you.

His knuckles grazed your arm—your warmth, radiating past the aged leather of his glove—and the wisdom that woman uttered, the plain truth only the ancient could learn— only a mother could know— rattled around his mind, unanchored and barreling.

Yearn for the past. Reclaim time.

Hold onto them hold onto them hold on—

Never let them go.

Ready? he asked you, arm resigned to his side, feigning monotony beneath the cover of his visor.

You threaded an even smile to your lips, as if Din were none the wiser— as if he hadn’t catalogued every lick of your expressions, every curve and bow and wrinkle as your emotions sung across your face. As if he didn’t know when you were lying. As if he didn’t know when you were falling apart.

Ready, you replied, swallowing past the disappointment welled in your throat.

Both your hearts broke then. Perfectly—the same.

This is the Way.

///

Din is gone over a week. It’s the longest he’s ever been away for a hunt—it’s the longest nine days of your kriffing life.

The ship feels vacant without him; she’s cumbersome, too cavernous for the likes of only you and his foundling. Her durasteel sidings yawn morose against the wind beating restless against her—her metal stretching like a lothcat in a patch of sun. The doors and hatches complain ajar and gripe shut, as if she’s recalcitrant to go about her standard operating procedures without Din’s presence. The old gal misses him, down to her steely bones and dual ion turbines, and in truth — and despite yourself— you suppose a small part of you feels the same, shares an inkling of that same loneliness.

The rituals and dog-eared routines you’d drawn comfort from are now rinsed in a forlorn wash.

The single bowl of food you prepare looks wrong without its twin beside it.

You scroll a finger over your display screen, flicking through various articles, the faint light from the holopad basking the contours of your face in a lonesome shade of inanimate blue.

Anything good you hear him ask, there in your inner ear— the memory of his voice leaving a nick among the many wrinkles of your brain.

You sigh, quietly— alone. Never.

Even Munch misses him, although he expresses it differently. He’s been a downright terror with Din gone. At first it was a vacation, a luxury retreat; you and the child gorged yourself on crackers and grava berries and dried bantha meat—mindful of sweeping up the crumbs on whichever surface you snacked. You giggled and ran amok and shared secrets in code only the two of you could decipher.

But one day grew to two, and two to three and three to four and by the fifth you were out of treats and your patience too had dwindled to short supply.

The child is special— unquestionably unique. And as much as you adore him, would lay down your life for him if it came to it, Maker he is uniquely qualified to send you round the bend twice over. He’s baffling, infuriating— just like his father. Of all the things he could have inherited from the man, of course he decided to latch on to his vexing penchant for mystery.

You lost him for half a day. He was somewhere aboard the Crest, of that you knew that for certain, but he managed to enact a stunt that could’ve puzzled even the most illustrious of illusionists with how quickly and effectively he vanished, seemingly out of thin air.

He emerged eventually for dinner, babbling wickedly. There was that, at least: you could always count on Munch to — well, munch.

Over a week of this— nine days, sixteen hours, and twenty-two minutes, to be exact… But who’s counting.

The sky glitches with lightning, sparking like a bulb in dreadful need of changing, and veins of violet skitter along the horizon, chased by the clapping hammer of thunder. Fat drops of rain trace down the transparisteel, the metalled drum of their pattering against the Crest lullabying your eyelids to a slumbered close. You drift, weightless, waxing and waning in and out of a reoccurring dream that always blurs to mere suggestion - to shadow - as soon as you wake.

The harsh sound stirs you—the ramp’s gears springing to life, signaling the Mandalorian’s return. Rapidly, you blink clear the slog of sleep from your eye, re-emerging from the forgotten depths of your subconscious and half-roused, you bound from the copilot’s chair. You rally from your stupor, instinct urging you to meet the bounty hunter by the entrance—some tittering, foolish part of you still so glad and girlish just to see him.

Hobbling down the ladder with veteraned coordination - one leg one arm one foot one hand - you hop the last two rungs to land catlike on the balls of your feet, heading towards the stern of the ship and—

You don’t make it three steps.

He’s there. Din is there— nine days later and finally, like a hallucination, he’s here— ominous and backlit by the glow seeping in from the galley. An obelisk, undaunted.

Your gut somersaults, flipping until it dizzies.

Knee-jerked and reflexive, the basest part of you demands you go to him, to cross the threshold separating you— the time and space and uncertainty dredged like a moat between you two. But instead of greeting him as you wish— two arms thrown around him, welcoming him home—back to the Crest, to the child, to you—you stand there, dumbstruck and wanting.

The passage of the corridor is like a strait. It's so narrow you can smell him— his carbon musk, his petrichored sweat—and it furls thick into your sinuses, fogging up your vision, clotting the faulty wiring of your mind. He’s brought the wet in with him, drip dropping from his hulking frame to splat puddled onto the deck.

plop

A beat ferments, hanging ripe from its branch as the tempest rages outside the sheltered hull of the ship. Distantly, thunder booms from above.

“Din— hi.”

“You’re up.” He doesn’t move from the archway. Stiffened, composed from granite, the man hardly breathes. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t,” you offer hastily—untruthfully.

Din scans you: your obviously tousled hair, the drowsy flush kissing your jaw, the tell-tale crinkle of your tunic. Your tongue darts out to skip over your lip and his lungs pull, aching beneath his ribs.

Maker, you’re pretty even when you lie.

“Go back to sleep,” he assures, but you hardly register it; it’s scarcely above a murmur by the time the words hum through his modulator.

“Can I make you some food? Can I—"

There’s a tarred shake of his helm, tiredly dissuading you. “No, you—you’ve done enough.”

“But you must be exhausted, Din. Let me help you,” you urge, sincerity shaping the lilt of your voice. “Please, I—” You falter. Vision finally adjusted in the dimmed hall, it is then that you spot it.

Your mouth runs dry.

He’s dappled in a violent scarlet, foreign red splatters contrasted against all that silvered grey, bleeding with the rainwater to roll sanguined down the rounded edges of his armor.

Blood. He’s covered in blood.

Something pitted—something vital— in you contracts; horror, prickling the fine hairs along your forearm. “Maker, what happened?”

Eyes gaping fearful, you skitter around his breastplate, his vambraces, the paneling of his flight suit, roving meticulously in search for the source of his injury. Thoughtless, consumed with only one concern - is he hurt? - your hand flies to his chest where it rests—solid. Fretting. “Stars, are you—”

He can see it—he can see you, always—how your gaze swells, laced with a surge of adrenaline, of care, and Din lays his broad palm flat over your knuckles, grabbing your frantic attention. “It’s not mine—hey, it’s not mine.”

Your shoulders deflate, relief visibly relaxing the rigidity in your spine, and for the first time in what feels like minutes you release the breath you’d fostered high behind your teeth.

He doesn’t know what overtakes him. Perhaps it’s your sleep swollen lips or the soft petal of your cheek— taunting Din, daring him to feel you again, as he did before— or perhaps it’s the all too apparent fact that you simply give a shit about him— despite everything he’s done, all of that which he has left unsaid. That you worry. That you care.

Puppeted, arm hoisted by some invisible strings of fate—those unseen threads of inevitability—he reaches for you. Din’s thumb roams the slope of your cheekbone, the buttered hide of his glove gliding over your skin. Something rattles flustered in your chest, and you must look pathetic— how your eyes bat at him and your mouth parts, breathy and demure.

“Dala.” He sounds pained when he says it, as if it’s poisoning him; the very syllables like hemlock dripping down his tongue—slowly gradually, ending his life— this life.

This life as he knows it.

You nuzzle into the cradle of his palm, encircling a hand around his wrist, urging him still. You both know he could break away from you without an ounce of strength squandered, but he doesn’t; he listens, he quiets for you. Enchanted, neither of you dare move— neither of you, willing to shatter the profound spell of intimacy you’ve stumbled onto.

He holds you like this, and you hold him to you. His hand on your cheek; yours over the birdcaged throb of his heart— burning - devouring - its entombed aril like the heart of a dying star.

“Where’d you go?” you whisper, heathered, into the heel of his hand. There is something broken in your cadence, like the chipped rim of a fragile cup, and it punctures him just there beneath his sternum.

Where’d you go?

Where’d you go before? When you left— where did you spirit away to?

Why didn’t you take me with you?

A sick wave rots his stomach. He couldn’t answer you then, not when you were wobbly and coltish beneath him—Din can barely answer you now. His digits twine into your hair, cupping the arc of your neck. The gesture is not unkind. It is delicate— urgent, too—and the following hush you share speaks tomes for the both of you, the sob of his leathered fist admitting what he cannot utter.

I couldn’t. I couldn’t.

Maker, if you could see him. See how his face folds for you, grief lined into the shallow grooves that mark him. The cycles of it— how they bend him into something contorted. Something in need - I need you I need you I need - something ugly, he thinks. Leftover. Hidden. Hide hide hide hi—

You turn, pressing a kiss into the rough of his palm. It’s a soft thing— trepid and cautious—too worried you might frighten him away to offer anything more than a chaste brush of your lips—too worried you’ll send him scurrying back into the cratered unknown he crawled out from.

But he doesn’t.

Din doesn’t turn tail and run, he stands firm—weaving his hand further into your scalp, guiding you closer to him with a throaty sound. The forehead of his helm sinks to yours, and through its filter you discern the tremor of Din’s breathing, made fuzzy by the tinny modulator.

This is nothing like before. Din was hot blooded and vicious then, possessed by the infernal likes of some great beast, but he has since been tamed, if only momentarily—coaxed into a certain meekness by the frail ache of his heart—by the grace of your kind mouth, kissing his gun-worn glove.

He groans your name, mumbled and brassy. The two of you so close, so merged, that if it weren’t for his helmet, you’d feel the tickle of the syllables as they sweep over your face. Din repeats himself, repentant—praying for forgiveness on the cross of your name—your kiss, a benediction.

Again, he calls you. I’m sorry.

Again, you kiss him. There is nothing to forgive.

Again. Again.

With a flutter of bravado, you sling a lumbered arm over the span of his neck, notching yourself into his chest, an interlocking piece finding it’s match. Din’s forearm comes to coil around your waist, wide hand spanning the small of your back, and if possible, gathers you nearer— a growl emanating somewhere from under his beskar.

“Tell me to stop,” he breathes, bullet riddled—grating—warring with the countless shards of himself he has yet to reconcile; but his body betrays his intentions as Din’s grasp finds itself lower, filling his fingers with the plush of your ass. “Tell me, please.”

Arousal rushes to pool in your depths—at the proximity of him, the hungered way at which he paws you—and it’s a reaction you feel mimicked by the iron rod straining against Din’s flight suit, pressing into your thigh. You shake your head, gaze colored earnest, and you shift, applying a grind of your hips against him in response.

Din lets out a defeated groan; weak to you, a fabled Mandalorian warrior brought to trembling knees by the guile of a good woman. And suddenly, like striking a match in a room swarmed with gas, you are incendiary.

He’s everywhere— groping and kneading your arms, your ass, your neck and waist. You are malleable beneath him, sculpted like wet clay under his eager touch—as if he is committing your form to memory; the fervor of his grip, reclaiming time.

He hooks a hand under the crease of your knee, yanking you to the column of his armor, sealing your bodies together. Gyrating your hips against him, your clit yearns against his thick outline as you dig into the cowl draped over his shoulders.

Sliding his hand down your backside, he presses his palm into your clothed heat from behind, pads of his fingers insistent as you saddle your spine into his touch, granting him better access. His cock brays, straining beneath his many layers, and a withered moan breaches past your lips.

“Gods, Din.”

Din. He can’t stand that—his name, lush in your wet mouth—and without ceremony, drops your leg from where he’d glued it to his hip. Like a beggar, impoverished and need-stricken, he begins to fight with your clothing, half tempted to rip the damn things off you, leaving you tattered; he’d happily buy you a new wardrobe if it meant having you as he’s wanted for these long months—naked and vulnerable and his.

Your tunic and pants come off in a flurry, your underwear too, discarded hastily in some forgotten corner—and with a hand on your chest, he walks you backwards until your bare ass connects with the durasteel, a jagged inhale tearing through you at the chill. A question knits your brows to meet as Din paces away from you, increasing his distance.

“What are you-”

He interrupts you with a groan. “Just - gedet’ye - just let me—”

His gaze drips like wax down your body—eyes dressing over your clavicle, the supple weight of your breasts, the gorgeous dusting of hair at your mound, the sweet press of your thighs as you clench them together, your pretty knees, your pretty ankles, your pretty feet, pigeoned inward nervously.

Pretty pretty pretty—fuck, all of you. So fucking pretty.

With the cock of his chin, his gaze returns to the heave of your breasts—tracing over your nipples pebbling in the everpresent draft of the Razor Crest— and you rile under him, heart stammering loud—so loud you’re convinced he can hear it with the aid of his helm. And Maker above, the way you’re fucking staring at him—all hooded lids and flushed cheeks. Din wants to fucking ravish you.

Dismantle you.

Pick you apart bit by bit until you’ve come undone completely.

And as if slogging through gravity itself, movements prowled, he steps to you. Din finds your hips, running the whisper of his gloves along the slopes of your sides; a master of patience, commanding time to his will, he crawls up your skin

slow

deliberate.

You’re all but helpless to the shiver that traverses the planes of your body, zipping along your synapses like the fault lines of a quaking planet—cracking you open, exposing your molten core. You’re not proud of the noise you make when he cups your breasts. Starved, you whine as he takes you into his hands, pinching and groping until you’re pert and sore and you drive your pelvis into him, rutting yourself against his frame like some flea ridden slum-mutt in the prime of her heat.

Din seethes, mumbling in Mando’a—spitting curses you can’t pretend to comprehend, but that blot warmth along your cheekbones at the oaky depravity of which he utters them.

He seals over your mound, blood pumping at your seam, bundle of nerves pulsing steady against the heel of his hand. Immobile, he waits, hovering stagnant and teasing before his lust to feel you outweighs his desire to make you be good and wait—and parting through your curls, he kisses the tips of his orange gloves into your honeyed cunt.

It’s dirty. He’s dirty, he’s fucking filthy—covered in foreign blood and alien soil—and you feel depraved, unclean. Powerful. You feel, perhaps, as the Maker intended—wild and without shame, to roam his gateless garden and sully the soles of your feet.

You feel raw. Din Djarin sands you raw.

The pump of his wrist is merciless, pistoning in and out in shallow thrusts, knuckles angled to prod at that spot— that piece of primordial heaven sequestered at the channel of your cunt—and he keeps discovering it over and over again with a sharp shooter’s precision—zeroing in on his mark and releasing the trigger. Dead eyed.

You grab greedily at his bulge, at his cock begging for regard beneath the protective fabric covering him, and you squeeze the best you can. The angle is awkward and unweildy and it’s not nearly enough for either of you, but it conveys your intention well enough.

Can I have this? Will you give this to me?

Din growls his reply, leaving your pussy to fumble with the waist of his trousers, fidgeting over the pesky buttons—the final of the flimsy holdouts separating you and the tempered steel hanging solid between his legs. It bobs free from his pants, ruddied tip straining and pining for you, and without spending another moment idle, he rediscovers the warmth of your naked body— molding himself to your form, his grip once more finding the pit of your knee and bracing it to his side.

He ruts the underside of his shaft through your slick folds, his blunt head nudging at the swollen cleft of your center—each pitch of Din’s hips sending bolts of pleasure crackling through your core. He’s stifling a string of moans while he does it, while he undulates against you, the sighs and gasps digitized to near silence as he coats his cock in your gloss—and not for the first time do you find yourself considering how fucking colossal Din is. How fucking virile and engulfing, like blaster smoke and tabacco and cedar. Like coaled smog from a cremulator. Like giving life, like taking it away— like mercy. Vengeance.

Din swipes your standing leg up to match the other in a fluid motion, effectively levitating you off the ground with only his palms secured beneath your hamstrings and your strangled hold around his neck to suspend you.

“Tell me to stop and I will.” He’s practically begging you now, anguish wrecking through the timber of his voice—grasping blindly for an excuse not to lose himself in you completely, not to bury his primal drives and fears into the chasm of your sex.

You’ll leave him you’ll leave him he’s terrified you’ll leave him

“I-I don’t want you to stop— I want this. Din, I want you, I missed you. I miss you.” You miss him. He’s right here, cock streaking through your middle and still, you miss him. You’ll never stop missing him—wanting him. An unscratchable itch at the median of your back, burning for his affection, for his touch.

He releases a husked sound at that, as if hearing it from you hurts— your words, purpling a bruise into the bloody beat of his heart—and like a dipping sun sinking below the crust of a darkening planet, the last of Din’s resolve fades to utter black as he finally - finally - buries himself into where you weep for him.

Oh Maker. Fuck, fuck—

You muffle a relieved cry, forehead collapsing to the slope of his shoulder. Your walls shutter, blinking and gasping around his cock as he rolls up into you, lips pulling taut around his girth with each drag through your cunt. Din fucks you slurred and languid—his pace, sweltering like a summer fever—heavy, punitive. Smothering and thick. You can feel every vein, every silken ridge, as he notches himself inch by inch— the cant of his hips meditated, aiming to melt you open with each wave.

Stuffed to the hilt inside you, he rakes in a ragged breath, calming the race of his bloodstream drumming percussive in his ears.

It occurs to you then that he might be trying to be careful with you, curled around him like this, crushed up against the bulkhead. You think he might be treating you as a jeweler would handle a rarified gem— gentle and tip-toed, afraid of letting you clatter to the counter, of scuffing your facets— devaluing you.

But you don’t want that. You don’t want cautious or considerate or any of those awfully pious things. You want to be owned. Devoured. You don’t want to feel anything else but him. You want him to need you so terribly, so primally, he bleeds. You want to forget your own damn name and replace the memory of it with his—just his, to sit besot like liquor on your tongue. Din Din Din.

“Fuck me— please - please - fuck me harder Din.” Fuck me like you need to. Fuck me like you want me— please just tell me you want me. Tell me I’m wanted. Tell me I’m worth this.

You can see the deliberation span over his mask, the light glinting off the steel there hesitant, wary. Are you sure?

“Fuck me.” I want this. I want you.

He wants to give this to you somewhere soft— somewhere you deserve. With a feathered mattress and molted down pillows and gauzy curtains billowing in a sea breeze as light dapples prismed patterns on your dewy skin. He wants to give this to you somewhere beautiful—perhaps on that planet you once probed him about - Adega - with its red trees and warm nights and friendly natives you’d cherish and keep aloft in your breast.

He wants you to feel safe. Adored.

But what he wants and what he needs are two vastly different things—two opposing extremes at odds with the other. Because he needs to fuck you here— it has to be here. Needs to score your backside with metaled bites from the Crest’s unforgiving interior; needs you crumpled and sloppy, panting out his name to echo shamelessly into the deviled bowels of his gunship.

He needs you charred for him. Scorched earth.

And with your panted pleas, lilting addictive and irresistible, he is all but helpless to deny you— to deny himself. Relenting, resolved, his voice bottoms out.

“I-I’m gonna fucking ruin you.”

He fucks you frenzied. The snap of his hips drives you into the wall; he lifts you off his cock just to spear you on it once more, fucking up up up into you, unleashing all his strength— his neglected need—into the grail of your womb. The salted slaps of skin are loud enough to make a lecher blush. It’s a chorus of beskar rattling, wet and ugly and Maker, he’s splitting you open and all you can do is mewl.

You screw your eyes shut, lost to oblivion—crown of your head shoved back, jugular bared for him like prey before the slaughter.

“No.” Leveraging his mass against you, Din clasps at the nape of your neck to command your focus, forcing your chin. “No, look at me,” he orders, brutal and sinewed and there’s desperation there. Din needs you looking at him — seeing him— the embrace of your gaze like a life raft, tethering him here, grounding him to this plane of existence, the one where he has found salvation—if only fleeting, if only like hourglassed sand sifting through his fingers—within the temple of your body. Struggling and led-lidded, you pry your lashes apart, shivering as you drink in the punishing expression leering across his visor; and as you always do, you peer past the murky T there, meeting his eyes camouflaged in their sockets behind it.

“There you are. There you are, my pretty thing - hnng—” He silences himself with a hoarse moan, the sensation of you clenching firm around him, gripping Din like a man would a rope, dangling some feet above the ground, hiccuping him to stutter. “T-That’s it, dala—fuck, y-your pussy is so godsdamn tight.”

You go boneless at the praise—at how he tongues out those fond epithets, vehement and covetous and brined in sincerity—and your breathing quickens as you soak the coarse weave of Din’s flight suit, chafing your clit to shambles with each bow of his starved sex.

You’re close. Stars, you’re so kriffing close—reach out and touch it and you’re there, a promise fulfilled dancing at your fingertips—and you almost tell him; you wish you could - don’t stop don’t stop please right there Din - but you’ve lost your voice, vocal chords stricken with tension. More than that, you’ve lost the wedge of your brain that recognizes articulation all together. Speech itself. You’re wasted. You’re shattered. You’re being fucked within an inch of your sorry life.

Nimbled, without a word of warning, Din relocates— grappling under the plats of your thighs and bracing you featherlight to his chest—negligible in comparison to the ton of armor he dons cycle after cycle, weightless when compared to that of his Creed, hanging like a yoke around his gullet. You yip in surprise and scramble around him, calves digging into his back, forearms clamped around his shoulders—his cock remaining delved within your pussy with each footfall.

Four long strides and he’s reached his destination: a large crate, stranded just outside the hallway leading to the galley. Stooping at the waist, he lowers you down with astonishing ease until you’re flush on your back, knees flanking his frame. You heave a sigh, petulant and wanting, when he slips from you mid-adjustment, a lewd squelch accompanying the movement. It is to the fervor of your clawing, desperate nails scratching down metal - please please please - that he glides back into you with one deft sweep, a satisfied gasp tumbling loose from him.

He looms over you now— Din, a tower unyielding—thrusting into you rough and hard and perfect. He’s filling you in undiscovered places long gone unrealized, nooks you didn’t know you had—the length of him completing you, making you whole.

“Tell me to stop,” he pants, orange pads of his gloves dimpling your hips.

With a tremor of your chin, you moan—broken and chirping. “Don’t - please - please don’t - shit - don't stop—” Your prayers convulse, dying in your throat, sentence cut short as he circles his thumb over your clit, catching at your slippery bud. Ever the marksman, he’s debilitatingly attentive to you, the hide of his glove snagging against your cleft, and combined with the steady rock of his dick shredding you open, you’re all but defenseless to the dawning of your release, crawling closer and closer and—

“Din,” you pant, ”Din Din Din, I think I—I’m gonna cum. I’m gonna, oh Maker—”

The muscles in your stomach seize, a twisted expression cramping your brow. You scamper to his arms, reaching out for something - anything - a parcel of real estate to clutch onto while you unravel. You’re grappling with his pauldrons, the pulsepoint at your wrist humming over the symbol welded to his shoulder, and you mage into starlight. You’re fizzing. You’re blind. You’re atomic and phasing in and out of realities and you burn— a meteor hurtling through the upper atmosphere crashing crashing crashing and—

Language exhausted, all there is left for you to do is cry, the evidence of your orgasm ricocheting like a hail of gunfire against the Razor Crest walls.

“That’s a good girl, that’s a good girl for me—f-fuck." It’s like taking a jab to his solar plexus, how you cinch around him— the corset of your walls milking his cock until he’s shaking, stumbling. The drive of his pelvis has gone erratic, the throbbing bloom gnashing its teeth in his gut—that rabid thing desperate to be released, uncaged—teeters on the identical ledge you’d just leapt from.

“Tell me to stop - please - tell me to, tell me to stop—” You’re all eyes. Your whole face, swallowed by the sweet, glassy orbs notched below the quiver of your forehead, and you’re looking at him like he could hang the damn moon and it’s too much— it’s too much too much he can’t levee this raging need— and with a hurried gasp he pulls out of your heat to tug at his slicked cock— panting ragged as he gushes onto your stomach, your legs, your pretty pussy made pink and puffy with abuse.

His breathing is labored; you can see it in the mountainous rise and fall of his chest plate as his strokes slow, his other hand digging into your flesh, indenting you. He exhales, scraping clean the fissure between his lungs, and Din tips his head, angling it backwards— granting you a rare sliver of the stubbled swath along his neck. The sightly patch, treasured behind his silvered grotto, shouldn’t be the thing that plays upon your heartstrings like one would pluck a harp— not after he’s burrowed himself inside you, not after he’s carved you to his likeness— but it does. You’re butterflied and cherry blossomed and you grin— not so much on your lips but in your soul, and there is a purring warmth that’s radiating like candle flame from the anima alive beneath your breasts and—

And then, suddenly — like time, like memory— he is gone.

He leaves you. Mirrored, he does as he did that night—laying a squeeze into the meat of your hip, he transpires to atoms, dissipating round the unknown bend of a corner and you’re alone again—alone, with only the citric bile steeping in your insides to accompany you, threatening to rise up your windpipe.

No. No no nonono—

Din’s presence, a beacon in the moonless night, disappears— leaving you orphaned and moored and mortified. He’s done it again— he’s left you, he keeps leaving you— and it renders you sick; viscerally, you’re angered and ill and green-washed with naivety.

Fool you once, shame on them. Fool you twice, and what in Maker’s name did you expect? A declaration? An about-face? As if a Mandalorian could let the beskar from his blood. As if Din could reanimate the cadaver of his past—could slip into that old snakeskin he’d shed cycles before.

It paralyzes you. Immobile, you are chambered flat on your back in the resin of your embarrassment, bereft of your vision as you stare sightless into the steel. You’ve separated—your mind and your body disjointed like oil and water, and you don’t hear it. You don’t hear the tread of Din’s feet, you don’t register his aura, Illuminous in the archway; you don’t see the stray towel fisted in his grip, you don’t feel the clench of a frozen hand around your heart as he does his. For he sees you there—a tick in your jaw; eyes distanced, fogged—and he knows he’s done this to you. The scarring of how he derelicted you then tarnishing the new-leaf flesh of the present.

He steps towards you, closer now, and your alerted gaze pins to him. A surprised expression makes a home there, astoundment freckling your face— and although he hasn’t earned the right, it strikes him bullseyed between his plated ribs because it hurts— the obvious shock of him returning for you hurts. Din is not a good man— not all of him. Sometimes, you and all your heaven-lit gleam, you make him forget that.

But sometimes, you make him remember.

And Maker, if you don’t look good like this. Streaked with his seed, creamy white pearling the maps of your body, the shine of it catching in the cannistered shafts of filtered light.

There’s a word for this—for you, for how you look, splayed and painted with his cum—with him. It puffs up like petals would, there in the square of his center. He’s never said it. His mouth doesn’t know the feel of it, his lips don’t know its shape. It’s scribed in Mando’a, and as native as the language is to him—as fundamental as Basic, if not more so—the word itself is foreign. Gawky. The thought of it alone hobbles through his mind on foaled legs. Din keeps this word barred, its essence clinging to the iron partitions of his skull, its perfume clouding his senses, his better judgement, his confounded rationality dangling precarious by a string.

Beautiful. Mesh’la.

You shift under his watchful eye, knees steepling mousy, and gingerly, he prizes the two apart and you let him.

You let him you let him of course you let him.

Din runs a damp cloth up your seam, up those hypersensitive folds, towards the expanse of flesh leading to your belly, and you hiss—a startled chill icing through your body.

“It’s cold,” he informs you, well after the fact, and you chortle a note in response. He continues to lave you clean, the drag of the material smoothing over your stippled planes and it’s intimate—how he takes you under his care, how he unmakes his mess.

Your heart, silly flustered thing it is, it tells you the act feels worshipful—reverent, maybe—but your head convinces you to look away, to cower, to do anything but address the blaze left in the wake of the rag he’s swiping over you. It’s too much. You feel vase-like— fragile and dainty, for the bounty hunter to either fill with wildflowers or crush under the heel of his boot— and it’s too unbearable. Bringing a hand to your sweat-sheened face, you shadow your eyes, ostriching shyly— if I can’t see him, he can’t see me.

A clipped tone escapes his helmet and it’s a sound you can’t place— it’s short, a blip—and you presume he’ll remain mum until he speaks. “You don’t have to hide from me.”

You don’t have to hide from me. I don’t want you to hide from me.

You nearly whimper at that. There’s something endearing and bronzed about how he says it, something torn, too—and you peak through the curtain of your fingers to watch him perform his ministrations. Almost begrudginly, you remove your hand from it’s shelf, resting it on the swell of your breast while he passes the cloth along your inner thighs, erasing the sticky traces of himself. There’s a quiet pause, a moment of distilled nothing before—

“I didn’t think you were coming back,” you admit, small.

He soothes his thumb into the crook of your hip, voice blunt with guilt. “I know.”

Sighing, you nod a little thing, a half-gesture, practically creeping under the Mandalorian's radar undetectable. Thunder shouts, lightning cracks— the bombastic storm outside apathetic to the lull within. Din clears his throat, rasping. “Was that okay?”

You resist the temptation to snort. Din is such a juxtaposition—one you don’t imagine you’ll tire from any time soon. He’s dangerous and protective and clever and strong and kind, despite his best efforts to snuff his compassion to ash like the butt of a dead cigarette. Lifting your palm from its perch, you extend to him, measuredly sliding your fingers against the crate— stretching stretching until he meets you, dubious and toddling like a child’s first steps, orange-dipped digits touching nude flesh. Your everbright grin brightens all the more— bewitching, back-breaking—as you entwine your hands to mesh.

“More than okay,” you say coyly. “Was that-was that good for you?”

Din huffs out an airy chuckle rich with disbelief, like he can’t fathom you’re even asking him—like you’d even have to ask at all. “That was—that was good. Very good,” he confesses gruffly, never a man for poetry, breathlessness still apparent in the bleed of his vocoder. “Even better than I imagined.”

A feline grin unfurls your lips, boldly quirking the droll corners of your mouth. “You imagine this often, Mando?”

Smirking wry and devastating, Din ushers you up by your woven hands, your body pliable and easy to his will; uprighted, his hips slot between your pretty knees, and he expertly twists your arm behind your back, snaring it there. Spine swooped, breasts brushing against his beskar, your nipples pebble cold. “Don’t let it go to your head, dala,” he gravels, visor tilted down at your dwarfed form, tenting you.

“Well," you tease lightly, "I’ll try my best.”

And you look at each other with all the tender awkwardness of two people standing on the edge of a brave new unknown.

Nervous, girlish, you smile.

Fluttering, pussy-drunk, he smiles back.

///

Nested in the pronged branch of a tall tree spindling up from the graveled soil, Din— a man, a boy too— reclines supine against the bark. His feet dangle like they did then, back when he wasn’t so afraid, and the air is dusted with a rosy haze as dusk settles upon the tired day.

The sun sets. The world twinkles a midnight blue, winking starshine as she spins.

Somewhere, behind him, his mother calls him home for supper.

tags: @girlimjusttryingtoreadfanfics @pedros-mustache @miranhas-art @djarrex @djarinsbeskar @bookloverfilmoholic @keeper0fthestars @misguidedandbeguiled @bookishofalder @helmet-comes-off @grumpymuffinmama @niiight-dreamerrrr @spideysimpossiblegirl @janebby @greatcircle79 @gracie7209 @thatonedindjarinfan @altered-delta @email2ash @stevie75 @shegatsby @onebrownoneblue @uniquebiscuitmongerdonkey @severinsnape @kirsteng42 @justanothersadperson93 @mrsbentalmadge @radiowallet @librariantothejedi @whataperfectwasteoftime @babydarkstar @punkremus @mandobloggin @alma-rt1 @not-the-droids @pedrostories @kylieann0716 @jk7789

#King of Cups #din djarin x reader #din djarin x fem!reader #din djarin x you #din djarin x ofc #din djarin #the mandalorian #mando x you #mando x reader #mando x fem!reader #din djarin fanfic #din Djarin smut #the mandalorian fanfic #star wars fandom

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poguestvff · 3 years

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LIKE A BIG SISTER SHOULD — WHEEZIE CAMERON

in which wheezie cameron finds that blood doesn’t make you family, love and affection does.

taglist | masterlist | 2.5k words | @pogueslandia ,

warning(s): food, she/her pronouns, ward slander, a little sarah slander but that’d include reading between the lines. why’d this make me want to make a series of reader and Wheezie being best friends.

There's always been a heavy feeling of loneliness that rested upon the youngest cameron's shoulders, weighing her down as it seemed to pile over the years. Her siblings were always older, an age gap between them that even if it was shortened by a few years, their worlds would still be two different things. All three of them were in three different stages of life yet somehow it felt like Wheezie wasn't even there at times.

Throughout the entirety of her schooling career so far, everything had somehow been about Rafe and Sarah. Sarah was the perfect one; the paragon who could do no wrong. Even if Sarah tried to disobey, it'd be turned around to be made out as a minute mistake. She'd probably be able to get away with it a second time if she did it a different way. Maybe the same way.

Rafe was quite the opposite. The bastard child who needed a plentiful amount of attention in hopes he can be more like the paragon. With all this attention, his head only grew. It never gave him the space for growth. It minimized the space to stay exactly where he was for years on end.

This left Wheezie to be the ostracized sibling. She wasn't a social butterfly or a poster child like Sarah and she definitely wasn't a loner or the 'damaged goods' child like Rafe. She was just... average. With average grades and an average personality. Just average old Wheezie. She told herself this consistently, watching her father balance his attention between making sure Rafe stayed between the lines he'd drawn for him in a radius such as a dart board and allowing Sarah step out of them, even erasing some of the lines so she could walk on by them without a second thought.

But Wheezie was stuck in that tiny little circle in the middle, the bullseye as if scared to move out of those lines. The one place that was the hardest to pinpoint specifically by her father. But there was one thing Ward Cameron always said correct about his younger daughter. That he wouldn't be able to pin point his little dart of control into the middle of the board because she was misunderstood and misunderstood she was.

Though one person had been able to pick up on every single one of Wheezie's emotions.

Y/n Y/L/N was a pogue who had done tutoring on the side for a little extra money and when John B had recommended Y/n for help with Wheezie's homework, Ward was quick to say okay. He hardly even asked a thing about Y/n, just telling her to help Wheezie pass eighth grade and that was all. It was made very apparent to Y/n that was Wheezie was not as much of a priority to Ward as other things were.

Their first tutoring session, Wheezie was awfully dismissive. She didn't care for any of Y/n's efforts as they sat within the comfort of Wheezie's bedroom. She just wanted the entire hour to be over with the second she'd entered her room but Y/n was insistent, knowing that by the end of the school year she would have something instilled in Wheezie's brain. She just didn't know what that something was yet.

The second time they met, Y/n was more passive aggressive in hopes of breaking down the brick walls Wheezie had stored between her and everyone else in hopes of not disappointing them like the way she thought she'd disappointed her father. Y/n sat her down in her desk chair, swiveling her chair to her as she rested her hands on the younger girls shoulders. "You are going to have a really awkward couple of weeks if you and i don't become friends so no work today. We're playing 20 questions."

That night, Y/n learned a lot about Wheezie Cameron that she never thought she'd learned. Wheezie hated the color purple, she just painted her room that color because Sarah liked that color. Wheezie loved to paint and to draw, it was her favorite activity, she just rarely showed it bevause she hadn't believed in herself. Though, when she showed Y/n the canvas' that were shoved at the back of the closet, Y/n marveled at them. But Y/n's favorite fact, and the same one that almost made her hug Wheezie on the spot, was that she was never taught to swim and Y/n made her a promise that she would teach her.

As the weeks went by, Wheezie waiting anticipatingly for Y/n's beaten down, green ford bronco to pull up on the driveway and she'd leave the house with a giant smile on her face. It’d be early in the morning, a little less than an hour until school started, just like how Wheezie liked. She'd jump in the driver seat, embracing the smell of vanilla from the scented item hanging from the rear view mirror. She’d toss her bag to the back as Y/n would ruffle her hair, just like she had every morning. "And beloved was set in... late 1856!" Wheezie answered excitedly as Y/n drove down the final street towards her school after the two had gotten breakfast together.

"Perfect! You're gonna do so good on your test, Wheeze, I promise." Y/n told her ecstatically as she pulled into a parking space. Just before Wheezie could get out, Y/n held her upper arm just to gain her attention before she got out. "Tell Rose she doesn't have to get you after school. I'll leave school early and you and I are having a girls day. No studying, just me, you and a shit ton of sweets."

Wheezie smiled, she could feel the muscles in her jaw begin to hurt from how wide she had. She tilted her head to the side out of curiosity, eyeing the look of excitement on Y/n's face. "But why?"

Y/n shrugged, adjusting in her seat and fixing her rear view mirror. "Cause, you deserve it. I'm so proud of you, Little W." She told her, looking back towards the girl and seeing her smile slightly drop. "You okay?"

Wheezie couldn't remember a time where she was genuinely told that. Yeah, sure, Ward said it a few times but it'd be in a lousy tone before he'd wave her off, saying he was busy with whatever office work he had to attend to. Sarah may have said it a few times but it was rushed before she'd run after her friends with a quick goodbye to Wheeze, leaving her alone in the sand. It was never sincere. Not in the way Y/n had said it.

She rubbed her hands against her jean clad thighs with a sharp breath before nodding. “Yeah. I've just never really been told that before. Like—Like genuinely." She said, lowly, in hopes Y/n would understand and wouldn't push it.

Y/n had known Wheezie long enough to know her tells and avoiding eye contact was one of the biggest ones. So she didn't indulge further in the conversation, brushing it under the rug but knowing she'd have to go diving back in for that little tidbit later on. Instead she wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her into a tight hug from over the console. "I'll tell you i'm proud of you everyday if i have to." Y/n muttered before kissing the top of her head. "Now go, if you're late to first period, your dad will kill me." And Wheezie was able to leave the car with a smile on her face, already looking forward to the day planned later on.

Y/n was overall consistent, it was one thing Wheezie enjoyed knowing that when she made promises she tried to keep them as best as she could. Sometimes things slipped her mind but Wheezie could recognize that Y/n didn't forget a thing when it came to Wheezie. Like she made sure to engrave bits and pieces of her into her mind like a data chart. But it showed she cared and that was enough for Wheezie.

Y/n cared enough that when she entered her car after school, the smell of her favorite cinnabon's filled the car that made her look in the backseat, seeing a picnic basket. There wasn't a chance, right? You could only get them on the mainland. She turned her body swiftly towards the elder girl who sat with a smirk on her face. "You didn't?"

"I did. Second I left fourth period, got on a ferry just for you to have those overly sweet treats." Y/n said, tapping her nose with a 'boop'! "And I almost got stuck on the mainland because of it so you better enjoy the hell out of them."

"I will, I promise." Wheezie said dramatically as Y/n smiled, pulling out of the parking space to head down to the beach. Wheezie had said she didn't have a bathing suit, not prepared for the outing, though Y/n already said she had ransacked her room for clothes for after. Y/n was the only person allowed in Wheezie Cameron's room without Wheezie being there and the elder girl took pride in it.

As Y/n set up their small area for the few hours, she noticed Wheezie standing just where the water and the sand met. She kicked around the water with clear disinterest causing Y/n to huff, hands on her hips, before tossing off her hoodie to get in. The splash she'd made by pushing herself into the water made Wheezie jump, a laugh falling from the two's lips. "Come on." Y/n said, standing and holding her hands out to Wheezie.

"Y/n/n, I can't swim."

"Y/n/n I can't swim, well, obvi, i know that, little W. But, you have your amazing best friend to keep you afloat. I won't let you go, i swear." Y/n said, holding up her pinky.

"Swear?"

"On my life." She reassured with a trusting smile before Wheezie walked further in. When the water had gotten to her above her waist, it'd freaked her out a bit though Y/n talked her through it, coaxing her further in slowly. Wheezie was kept above the water as Y/n held her hands as the buoyancy was used to their advantage. "See, not as bad as you thought?"

Wheezie shook her head though still nervous. "Not as bad, not my thing though."

"Why don't we try actually swimming? I won't force you if you don't want to and we can get back to shore right now but maybe just try?" She asked as Wheezie had to think about it for a moment. She almost felt guilty, remembing just a few months ago when Sarah had asked her if she could teach her but she refused. Though maybe, just maybe, it was because of Y/n being a bit more trust worthy that Wheezie said yes this time.

It took a while, Wheezie was frightened by letting go even as Y/n would say she was okay. Wheezie would tighten her grip on her shoulders before trying again and again until she eventually got it. She finally was able to keep herself above the water without flailing, recognizing that she was okay. Y/n cheered as she watched, not caring for the stares of others around them. "See, dude? You just have to start applying yourself! You did it!"

"I did it!" Wheezie said as Y/n hugged her, the two laughing before Wheezie screamed making Y/n's laughter die fast. "Something touched me!"

"Wheeze, it was seaweed." Y/n said softly before turning and letting her place her hands on her shoulders. "Yeah let's get you out of here before a jellyfish gets you."

Wheezie widened her eyes. "Jellyfish?"

As the sun had began to set and people had packed up their things and left, Y/n and Wheezie stayed. Wheezie was on her fourth doughy treat, even though Y/n told her to slow down two treats ago. Towels were wrapped around each of their shoulders as they watched the pretty colors fade in to one another, a mixture of pink, blue and orange array of colors combining to make a cotton candy sky. Wheezie watched as Y/n got up, accepting a phone call from Ward, the only phone call she hadn't silenced since they'd left the car.

In the time she'd left, Wheezie took advantage of it to recognize how appreciative she was of all that Y/n was doing for her. She came in as a tutor and, to Wheezie, was to stay as a friend. As family. Wheezie was more then ecstatic to have someone who would be there to rant and rave about the other Cameron's, someone she could trust with her secrets and the contents of her always running brain. Someone who was just there.

"Hey, your father would like us back in thirty so we should leave in ten." She said coming back and sitting beside Wheezie as she caught sight of her face, the lack of the smile that was there previously concerning her. "Tell me what's wrong."

"Nothing, really. Just... I really enjoyed today, Y/n. It really lets me know you're not just here for like... like the money or something."

Y/n let out a scoff. "Are you kidding? I enjoy nothing more than watching you freak out over the existence of jellyfish." She joked as Wheezie pushed her to the side with a laugh. Y/n recovered, letting out a content sigh as she tossed an arm over Wheezie's shoulders. "You're stuck with me now, Wheezes. Can't wait to record you falling at your next soccer game."

Wheezie couldn't help the laugh that slipped past her lips, leaning into Y/n's embrace as her head rested against her clavicle. "And I'll be looking for you in the stands, Y/n/n."

Y/n and Wheezie had both found out something about the other that night. Wheezie found that she didn't want to be like Sarah and she was glad she wasn't like Rafe. She was content with her own little circle on the dart board but maybe she could take a bit after her newest role model. And Y/n found that she was able to instill several things into the youngers mind including To Kill a Mockingbird, Inca Civilizations, and that she now had a true and present big sister to look up to.

#outer banks x reader #outer banks #outer banks imagine #jj maybank #wheezie cameron #wheezie cameron x reader #rafe cameron #sarah cameron

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athena-is-a-chaotic-lil-shit · 3 years

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Let the Stars Witness

Okay okay holy— omg I did it! My first request and from an admired writer of mine no less!

From @kim-monsterlings : Hi and welcome!! Really looking forward to seeing your work! ~ If you would, could I request some form of friends to lovers with an orc? (Prompts maybe like, "you deserve better.") Thank you! <3

Since it wasn't specified on what their genders are, I hope your okay with what I went with! And I kinda trailed off from the prompt (or rather it's different but similar)

Anyways you'll know when you read!

•

Pairing: Male Orc (Duruk) x Human Fem!Reader

Word count: 2.2k

Warnings: None.

•

"You know, I never thought I would be friends with anyone here, especially with someone other than my, well, species," you tell your companion, your eyes not leaving the cloudless night sky as you lied on your back on the roof of his house. The stars were out tonight.

If you told your younger self that you'd be having great escapades (if running away and getting into a series of trouble fall under that) with an orc, you would most definitely cry your eyes out because you thought were being teased, taking it as a hurtful comment. You were sensitive like that. Part of the reason why no one would even go near you, afraid they might hurt you with a pat on the shoulder or with one word alone. You became the prime target of bullies, finding twisted amusement at your pathetic reactions. A crybaby, they called you. But it wasn't your fault you didn't have much control over your emotions. You were weird, asocial, timid, maybe even depressed. Having a neglectful family didn't help either, it just worsened.

•

The morning you met Duruk was after the orientation. And it was not so good for a first impression.

Long story short, you cried.

But since you're perhaps curious as to what happened exactly, let's elaborate.

You had your headphones on, the melodic sound of gentle rain played in a 3-hour loop and blocked out other noises, your eyes glued to the path you were on. You took long and hurried steps, wishing you could teleport to your classroom and hide in the back, disappear or become invisible.

You were distracted, or should we say, focused on the ground and expecting everyone to step aside and let you through.

Well, except for the one who had his back on you.

You crashed—not an exaggeration— into something- someone massive. You stumbled back and landed on your bum, wincing from the impact. Luckily, your headphones were safe (ah yes, priorities), detaching from your ears and landing on your shoulders. When you looked up to see who it was, you thought your eyes were gonna fall off, grow little legs, and scamper away.

Before you stood an orc, halfway turned to glance at whoever it was that tried to push him, his sharp tusks jutting out from his maw. His brows were furrowed as he looked down on you. Sure, he wasn't as tall as the orcs you've seen around the city and campus but still was over 6 feet, with muscles thicker than your thighs, easily hulking you.

You tried to get out an apology and run as far as you could go, but you just sat there, frozen as you strained your neck to meet his gaze, you couldn't look away. Your heart was trying to claw its way out into the surface.

Then you felt the tears swell up.

They cascaded down your face before you even could stop them.

The orc's eyes widened at your reaction and crouched down to your level in an instant that he almost fell over. His hands hovered, not sure what to do.

"Hey, hey, please don't cry. Please don't—"

"I-I-I'm re..really s-sorry p-please don't hurt m-me..." You managed to choke out pathetically, hiccuping in every word.

"Shhh now hey, it's okay. It was an accident— what? No! Why would I do that?" he replied. The orc peeked over his shoulder and to the sides. "Let's get you to somewhere, uh, less crowded," he added. You turned your head and saw that you had an audience, whispers went around as they sent pitiful and disgusted glances in your direction, only making you cry even more.

He proceeded to unceremoniously lift you into his arms, bridal style, and dashed away. You gripped the front of his shirt and shut your eyes. You were trembling now, scared of what he might do to you. How could you even fight back with your small stature?

It wasn't long until you felt him slow down and placed you carefully on a bench. The orc knelt in front of you, brows scrunched up as he studied your face.

"You okay? I didn't hurt you, did I?"

You didn't reply, only staring at him through your glassy eyes as you heaved.

You flinched when his hand started rubbing your back, his other hand placed on the side of the bench to balance himself.

He continued to caress your back and murmured soothing words in hopes of calming you down.

Your tears didn't stop falling until moments later when you came down from your initial fear, the warmth of his palm leaving your back once you did. All the while the orc remained where he was, at a loss of what to do next.

You rubbed your sticky face with the collar of your pale and blotchy crimson sweater, sniffing and taking slow, deep breaths before you spoke.

"I... I'm sorry for causing you trouble. E-Even going as far as to take me somewhere quiet. I...appreciate that." You thought you'd pass out with the way people gathered around you, it was suffocating. "Thank you..."

"I panicked," he started, "Sorry—I mean, it's okay, you didn't do anything wrong. I get that a lot of people run away from the sight of me, but you didn't, and just froze there on the ground so..." he shrugged and rubbed the back of his neck.

You shook your head. He was such an imposing figure to many, their first thought was most likely to get away or scream at him.

"You looked angry... When I bumped into you." You slammed into him actually, but he didn't budge an inch. Guess it was one-sided.

"Oh, that? Well, my brother scolds me a lot for having such a grumpy face, scaring humans away. Like he was the one to talk when he's taller and bigger than me! People would faint on the spot when they see him, I bet!"

The image your mind conjured up tore a laugh out of your body, two orcs arguing about how not to terrify people at sight was damn hilarious. When was the last time someone made you laugh like this?

The orc grinned, your reaction a contrast to that of earlier.

You opened your mouth to say something but the ringing of the great bell resounded, cutting you off. The two of you stood up as you realized you were late for your first class of the school year.

"So, uh, what now?" you asked.

"How about we go to our class, then maybe meet up later? Oh, fu— my mother will gut me— I haven't introduced myself!" He blurted out, his voice making you yelp with the sudden outburst.

Clearing his throat, he reached out, "I'm Duruk."

In turn, you gave him your name, taking his hand and smiled. "Hello, Duruk."

•

True to his word, you met again later when lunch came. The cafeteria was packed so you settled on getting the convenience food they offered and eat somewhere quiet.

Your conversation that day spiraled when you found out the two of you had a lot in common. From your favorite rock band to your favorite flavor of ice cream.

You both strongly agreed that vanilla ice cream was superior.

You agreed to meet up during breaks, always having something to chat about.

Eventually, you became inseparable.

He even changed and transferred to your class just so the two of you could be together at the start of the day rather than walk half of the campus to see each other every time.

You became best friends, sharing each moment in school, may it be helping the other stay awake in a boring class, or copying homework when one of you forgot to do it. Soon enough, Duruk started inviting you to his house to hang out. He did mention he had four other siblings, but he lived alone. You came by almost every night and on whole weekends to escape from home, only a few miles in between. No one would notice you gone anyways, but you returned around midnight, not wanting to impose on Duruk no matter what he says, so he walks you back instead.

You basked in each other's company. The odd and scrutinizing glares didn't go unnoticed when you two were together, but you shrugged them all off.

It didn't take long before you started having feelings for the orc, a little wishful thinking that you could be more than friends. You noted lately that his touches would linger seconds longer than usual, hugs and even a hand on your shoulder and back seem to be warmer and —you dare say— affectionate. It weighed heavily on your heart, your simple crush turned into something else, and it only grew with each passing day, and every laugh you shared.

But of course, you swatted those away, buried them deep inside every damn time they climb back up. Who could even love you? Yes, you have Duruk, he likes you, you think. But that's the end of it. Just close buddies. You can't take the risk of ruining your friendship with him and make things awkward with the only one you had! What if he stops talking to you, weirded out by your confession? You don't want to go back to being alone again, your heart can't take the rejection that came with it.

So you endured.

•

A little over five months ever since the embarrassing accident, here you are now, stargazing with your best friend.

"Well, good thing you didn't watch where you were going that time then," he says, chuckling beside you. His hands cushioned his head against the hard surface. "I wouldn't have..." he trails off.

"Hm, what?" you ask. Duruk went silent and didn't answer you for a time. You were about to let it slide but then he breathes in audibly.

"I wouldn't have met an angel if you did. Should've caught you in my arms, but sadly I didn't move fast enough." He replies, his voice deep and mellow.

You straighten up and turn to face him, your brows shot up, incredulous to what he just implied.

"W-Wait. What?" you squeak, your heart thumping hard in your chest, your skin warming up even in the chilled night air.

Is he—

"You're so cute, y'know that? Fuck it, it's all or nothing," he whispers under his breath as he sits up to face you. His expression was unreadable, but you see in his mahogany eyes a familiar glint of determination. "I'm not good with long-ass speeches so I'll make this short," he breathes in before he continues, "I feel something for you, for a while now, more than a best friend does, like...in a romantic sense. I want to cherish you and hold you in my arms every time I see you, I- ah fuck- damn it I just—" he growls, "I love you, so much and if you don't love me back then please re—"

You shut him off with your lips against his, Duruk's tusks pressing against your cheeks as you held his face in your hands. He was stunned for two solid seconds before returning the kiss, his arms snaking around your waist and pulling you close and into his lap.

You feel something wet roll down your hand and you immediately jerked back to see his face. The orc was crying.

Did you do it wrong? Were you so terrible at it—

"I don't deserve you... A monster like me doesn't deserve an angel like you."

Where was this coming from??

"Say that again, I dare you."

"I don't de—"

This idiot!

You pecked his lips to cut him off.

"You big dummy," you begin, "I love you too, idiot. You may be a monster but not what everyone else defines you as. I love you as you are. You're my best friend, and dare I say my l-lover now. Is that right...?"

Duruk gives you a small, gentle smile, "If you'll have me, then yes, for as long as you want me to be." He says, sniffling a sob as a couple more tears tumbled down his rugged face.

You never thought you'd see him like this. He was the one who kept making you laugh with his stories and terrible jokes. Before you, in your hands was someone vulnerable, his eyes soft and fond as he gazed into yours.

It made your heart pound and it hurt.

You leaned in and he met you halfway, kissing once again, deeper and more intimate this time. Real. You brought your arms around his neck, your tears spilling out and he tightened his grip around you. It felt like a dream, too good to be true, but the way he hugged you like you were the only thing that anchored him in this world made you believe it wasn't. All of this was real and you couldn't be anymore happier.

From above, the glittering stars, the light gentle as they shone, bear witness to two freed hearts, bottled up feelings gushing out like a broken dam as you embraced one another and lost yourselves in the moment of bliss, cheeks stained and clothes lightly damp from the tiny rivulets of liquid that dropped down.

It's a lovely night, isn't it?

#athenawrites #my writing #exophilia #monster lover #orc lover #orc x human #monster boyfriend #orc boyfriend #orc x reader #monster x human #requests #fiction #terato #romance #monster romance #orc

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darkacademicfrom2021 · 3 years

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The Dark Team (part 8)

<<Previous part Masterlist Next part>>

Join the taglist in here (Taglist: @lucywrites02, @louieboo87, @the-departed-potato, @jesuswasnotawhiteman)

Warnings: violence, near death experience, suicidal consideration.

With all the information you needed in your head, you ran up to the hotel room. Loki and Bucky were wandering around the neighborhood, handling the “incognito” part of the mission very poorly. But you’d be soon back with them, you just needed to grab the suits, some more information and a scribbled map, and you’d be back on the streets, fighting criminals or… whatever the Hell those two were doing.

It was just a matter of time until you finally got the stick. What did it have that Tony Stark feared so much to be in the wrong hands, you would never know. Unless you grabbed the stick before giving it to him and found out yourself, of course (but no, that would be irresponsible, an invasion, all levels of illegal and probably would result in getting you in jail, or maybe even assassinated).

It sounded good, though.

After what felt like a thousand stairs later, you finally arrived at your room. Grabbing the doorknob while inserting the key, you realized it was already open. You stopped. Was anyone in there? You weren’t the last one to come out that morning, so you weren’t sure you closed it well. Bucky was; and he was generally distracted on those details. He would sleep on them because he can take anyone, he’s a supersoldier, after all.

You didn’t let go of the doorknob, and opened very carefully as to not make any noise. Damn, if I just had my gun with myself this would be much easier, you thought for the hundredth time on the mission. You made a mental note on not leaving the room without a gun ever again.

If it wasn’t bad enough, you didn’t bring any communicators with your teammates on. What for? The last part of the mission was done with all of you together. It made sense you’d sleep on it too.

You stopped the self-loathing on your last few decisions and thought about who or what could be on the other side of the door. It couldn’t be someone who wanted the information you’d already collected, because you informed absolutely no one about it. Not even Stark. And you had made sure nobody followed you or heard your steps. So, it had to be someone from the Hydra base. Someone who would think you had the stick with yourself, and wanted it back.

Basing your actions on that speculation, you calculated the time and risks to get to your gun and suit before you’d get attacked, if the agent was still in there. You could only assume it was an agent. What else would Hydra have, in the middle of 2021?

Alright, you thought. Maybe it’s empty already. I only get one chance.

You slammed open the door and ran to your suit and gun as fast as you could, suiting up with a button, and, in a matter of seconds, you were against a wall with your Beretta 92 pointing at whoever could come and attack you.

Silence and adrenaline filled the room. You looked around, and nothing moved. Not a single sound. Not even a fly.

“Whoever’s here, I don’t have it. I swear, I don’t have it”, you said, still with your gun up. “And I don’t know who has it, yet”.

No answer. You looked around a little, opening some doors and looking under the beds, but it really seemed like you were alone now. Someone had definitely been there; your papers were all disorganized and some chairs were on the floor. The window had a gunshot. But whoever went there, saw there was nothing they wanted and left, not long ago. Maybe you could even seek them with the street cameras.

You walked to the window and traced the gunshot with your fingertips. You recognized the bullet; Bucky had used them before, as the Winter Soldier. Looking outside you recognized in the distance, about three blocks away, the unmistakable figures of your teammates.

A cocking gun in your nape brought you back to the room. You didn’t turn around just yet, waiting for some talking (they usually talk, they don’t want you dead; they rather want your information. Quite difficult to take from if you won’t be able to answer). After some more silence, you turned around violently and tried to kick the (huge, even bigger than Thor) man’s gun off. Instead, he grabbed your leg and pushed you to the floor.

Maybe you weren’t exactly awesome when it came to hand-in-hand combat, alright?

Pointing your gun at him from the floor, you tried to get up, and as soon as you felt him get closer to grab your gun, you shot. You made sure to not actually shoot him; just close enough for him to think you were going to shoot him if he got close. He didn’t get fazed at the shot; didn’t flinch, didn’t even blink. Instead, grabbed your gun and bent it as if it were melted plastic.

Holy fucking shit.

Good news were, now you knew what exactly was in that stick. Bad news, it was already in the wrong hands.

“Chemistry works in mysterious ways, doesn’t it, fella?”, you asked the supersoldier standing in front of you. “When did they serum-ed you? You might be experiencing some side effects”, you chatted, waiting for your teammates, hoping they’d walk a little bit faster. Hopefully, they’d heard the shooting and realized you were in trouble. They didn’t know exactly how much trouble you were in, though.

“You do realize the more you talk, the faster I’ll have to kill you, right?” said he, finally.

“What’s your name? Can’t see you with your weird mask on” you said, standing up slowly. “Let me guess… you must be familiar with James, right?”.

The supersoldier blinked in confusion, and charged his gun, pointing it directly at your forehead.

“You have exactly ten seconds to tell me how you know about James. Ten”.

“Must be a very difficult experience”.

“Nine”.

“To be so close, yet so far away”.

“Eight”.

“You know, it’d do you wonders some therapy maybe. To process the whole James thing”.

“Seven”.

“You sound like Monica Geller”.

“Six”.

“You’ll get bored of counting, eventually”.

“Five”.

“Alright, pack it up”.

“Four”.

You sighed and rolled your eyes.

“Three”.

“I don’t know anything about that James, it was a wild guess. Everyone is called James these days”, you explained. He stopped counting but pressed the gun harder against your head.

“Quit the mocking. Give me the stick and I’ll let you live”.

“There’s no way you’re letting me live. I already know Hydra has some more supersoldiers, and I guess the thing in the stick is the formula, isn’t it? Give me the secret formula, spongebob, right?”. The man realized you were just making time, and tried to grab your wrists. “Took you long enough to notice. Soldiers are not the brightest, let me tell you”.

As he tried to lock your wrists, you used all your body weight to push him out of the window. Terrible idea. He was at least five times stronger, and instead of your original plan, the one getting thrown off a nine-floor window now were you.

Bucky and Loki were a block away, and all they saw was a tiny speck on the sky, getting rapidly closer to the street. It didn’t take them much thinking until they realized that speck was you, flying off the hotel room. Loki took impulse and teleported himself as fast as he could to the nearest floor you were currently passing, and grasped your arm and hand with his both hands, holding himself with only his legs from a balcony.

Hanging from just one arm, with seven tall floors behind your feet, you tried your best to not look down. Oh, heights weren’t your best friend, much less the possibility of a bad movement and instantly dying right there. You could only think in how lucky you were your teammate had quick reflexes, and how idiotic you were to think you could’ve possibly taken that man by your own. He bent your gun with his bare hands, for God’s sake. You looked down, and saw the supersoldier already fighting with Bucky on the streets. Your face turned even paler as you observed how tall you were. Everything was tiny below you.

“Look at me”, said Loki, with a calm voice. You redirected your gaze to him. His eyes. There was a glimpse in his eyes, showing something. Your own emotions weren’t allowing you to actually concentrate on his face expressions, anyways. He sensed it, and repeated. “Look at me, don’t look down. I’m here”.

You met his eyes once again and this time you didn’t leave them. There it was. His eyes irradiated pure and raw panic. Fear. No, not even fear; terror. What was he terrified of? Terror of losing you? Why would he care so much? Why would he care that deeply? It didn’t matter now, for you were definitely dying. His grip was strong, but your hand was starting to numb and you were losing strength. You were dizzy and sweating, frightened. He gripped harder and it pained you.

“Hold on to me. Do not let go, I'm here”, he said. His words were tranquil and reassuring, trying to keep it as undisturbed as he could, but a drop of desperation cracked his voice. “Hold strong, I’m lifting you up”.

“Don’t. You’ll fall down. You can’t take this height either” you said without hiding your dread. Your tight throat did the job and your eyes watered. That was it, you thought. And it was. There was no way Loki could lift you without him falling down too. And even if there was a possibility, why would he risk his long and meaningful life for the sake of yours? “Let me go, Loki”.

“I’m not letting you go”.

“You’ll die”.

“No, and you won’t either. Hold onto my grip”, he assured you without leaving any room for discussion, trying to lift your body and almost tripping in the process. He gasped and you left out a whine.

“Loki”.

“Stop it, I’m not letting you go”, he said, less calm than he’d have liked to. “I’m not letting you go”, he repeated, almost in a whisper.

In a struggle, he brought you into the balcony he was hanging from. Your legs were shaking, as you laid on the marble floor by his side. Both of you breathless, looked at each other without saying a word. After a brief moment, you took his hand and squeezed it gently, not ever breaking eye contact.

“You saved me. Thank you”.

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mimisempai · 3 years

Text

Do you really care for me or is it just a trick?

Summary:

Loki, destabilized by the versatile behavior of Mobius, can't figure out if the man really cares about him or if Loki is just a means to an end for him.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/32050993

1392 words - Rating G

"Look, I know you have a soft spot for broken things."

Loki, with his head pressed against the door, managed to hear a few fragments of the conversation between Mobius and Ravonna, the judge of the TVA who seemed to be his superior.

"But Loki is an evil, lying scourge.

Loki couldn't even blame her for saying that, she was just one in a long list of people who thought they knew him.

"That is the part he plays on the Sacred Timeline."

Especially since for this "world" -he didn't even know what to call it- it was apparently his destiny. So here even less than anywhere else, no one would try to find out if he was someone else.

"Maybe he wants to mix it up."

Until this particular odd man.

The first person to question his destiny.

Loki didn't understand Mobius. He seemed convinced that Loki was someone else and yet believed hard that the Time Keepers and all that crap was real.

Mobius was to Loki a strange mixture of candor and trickery.

He had never met anyone like that.

"Sometimes you get tired of playing the same part."

If he only knew...

Hearing nothing more distinct, Loki returned to sit where Mobius had left him.

He had to admit that once again the man had read him perfectly, and that scared him a little. No one until now had really been able to see beyond his antics.

He had to try to take control, he couldn't let anyone see his flaws. The other man had already seen too much.

So when Mobius came out of his superior's office, Loki went straight on the attack.

He jumped around the advancing man and tried to lock him in a stream of words, "You're probably wondering what happened out on the mission. That was your first lesson in catching a Loki. Half the fun of being a trickster is knowing everyone knows you're a trickster, and then, many of your tricks can come from exploiting the fact that you know that they know..."

Mobius raised his arms to stop him, "Okay. Just… just shut up!"

Oh, this was getting interesting, for the first time, the man was breaking out of his smile and showed an uncontrolled emotion.

Oblivious to what was going on in Loki's head, he continued, "Please. What happened to the guy I met on the elevator? Who didn't like to talk. Remember him? Now I'm stuck with this guy who won't stop yacking away about what makes a Loki tick!"

What a hypocrite, he was the one who had told him that he wanted to know what makes a Loki tick. And now that he had it, he didn't want it anymore?

Loki asked him, "What? Isn't that precisely why I'm here?"

Mobius, annoyed, replied, "No. I don't care what makes you tick. You're here to help me catch the superior version of yourself."

This was it.

Loki should have known better.

It had been another smoke and mirrors. Mobius had only told him that, made him think he was interested in Loki, to achieve his goal. Loki was only a means to an end.

He wouldn't show him. Loki wouldn't show him that he was troubled.

Mobius added to make his point,"That's it!"

Loki tried to stop him, "Hang on. I'm not sure 'superior' is actually quite the right word."

They stopped in front of the elevator, face to face.

Mobius got even more annoyed and retorted, "See? There it is. Right there. I believed, stupidly, that insecure need for validation would motivate you to find the killer. Not 'cause you care about the TVA mission or bein' a hero, but because you know this Variant is better than you and you can't take it."

Wow, talk about a low blow.

Loki smiled, deceptively of course and replied, "Very nice."

Then he approached Mobius, and adjusted the man's tie as he spoke, "I mean, it is adorable that you think you could possibly manipulate me. I'm ten steps ahead of you. I've been playing a game of my own all along."

If Mobius believed that he was Loki as the world saw him, willing to whore himself out to get what he wanted, well, he'd let him believe it.

Mobius replied, that familiar smirk on his lips, "What, charm your way in front of the Time-Keepers, hustle them, and seize control of the TVA?"

Well done Loki. Mobius has proven to you once again that men and gods are all the same.They don't care who you are, they just want to fool you. You are not disappointed.

"Am I getting warm? A double cross by history's most reliable liar." Mobius added while going to call the elevator.

However, in spite of all this, something didn't add up. If Loki was just a means to an end for Mobius, then why bother defending him like that in front of Ravonna?

Loki couldn't help but ask him, "Okay. Why are you in there sticking your neck out for me?"

Mobius came back to him and replied vehemently, "I'll give you two options, and you can believe whichever one you want. A, because I see a scared little boy shivering in the cold. And you kinda feel bad for that ice runt. Or B, I just wanna catch this guy, and I'll tell you whatever I need to tell you."

Wow, when Mobius was pissed, he didn't mince words. But no matter how much it hurt, no matter how condescending it sounded, Loki wanted to believe in answer A. To believe that, as Loki thought just before, Mobius was the person who was able to see who Loki was.

But that meant doing something Loki had never done.

Trusting.

As the elevator doors closed, he couldn't help but make another brash statement, "I don't need your sympathy," because he wasn't going to be pitied.

Mobius replied in a tired tone, "Good, 'cause I'm runnin' out of it."

Loki continued on, "I have a tendency to provoke this reaction in-"

"Oh once again, shut up!"

Loki replied with a mocking smile on his lips, "Make me."

And it was as if a dam broke in Mobius.

He grabbed Loki's tie to pull him to him and before the god had time to wonder what he was doing, Mobius leaned in and placed his lips against Loki's.

The kiss was sweet but messy, their lips moved together repeatedly, both coordinated and chaotic. Just like them.

Mobius didn't pull back until Loki grabbed the front of his shirt and squeezed the fabric in both hands. Mobius looked at him and couldn't help but laugh as they bumped noses together, a flush spread across Loki's cheeks and nose, which contrasted with the paleness of his skin in the dim light of the elevator.

Loki stared at him with wide eyes and a stunned look.

It seemed that Mobius had succeeded in silencing him.

Mobius let go of him, smiled, and went out the doors that had just opened.

Loki held him back by the sleeve.

"Wait, what was that for?"

Mobius put a finger over Loki's mouth before telling him, "Well, you asked me to make you shut up, mission completed."

Loki lost his smile and asked in a lower voice, "Was it just for that reason?"

Mobius pushed a strand of Loki's hair behind his ear, then as he walked back, he replied in a mysterious tone, "Who knows?"

Loki ran behind him until he was walking beside him, closer than before.

"You know that's not going to stop me from talking, right?"

He knew he was trying to hold on to a twig, but he couldn't help but hope.

Mobius turned his head towards him and said, a playful sparkle in his eyes, "I sure hope so, the more you talk, the more I'm going to want to shut you up, and now that I know how, I'm not going to stop myself from doing it."

"And that' s me the God of Mischief...?!!"

Loki rolled his eyes, but his smile wouldn't fool anyone, and it didn't fool Mobius, who just gave him a little nudge with his shoulder.

So for now, Loki decided to let go, just a little, to let hope take a little place in his heart.

________

The whole serie here : The story of Loki and Mobius

Not beta'd

I hope you enjoyed it 🥰

#loki #mobius m mobius #lokius #loki x mobius #getting together #sort of #shut up - make me #loki spoilers

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gyucore · 3 years

Text

to reach a happy ending

pairing: beomgyu x reader

tags: fluff, childhood friends to lovers

word count: 1.6k

warnings: beomgyu swears like once

prompts:

017: "A fairytale with a happy ending always brings a smile to my face."

023: "Do you believe in love at first sight?"

— requested by ⛅ anon! sorry this took so long to make. i hope you like it!! ♡

"Ew, look at this." You hand the dusty old photo album to Beomgyu who's sprawled across the floor by your side.

"Wait—" He stops you, rolling away before letting out a sneeze so loud that it managed to echo off the dusty untouched walls of his old room. The poor guy couldn't help it, his room hadn't been cleaned since he moved out in the middle of high school, and his mom preferred to keep things as they were— dust and all. You wonder if it was simply an excuse to clean one less room.

Beomgyu did say he had dropped in yesterday without notice. You'd think he'd want to spend some quality time with his parents first, but he'd decided to invite you over after spending a single night under this roof. Having heard nothing but radio silence from your best friend in years, you were thrilled to get to see him again. And what better way to shed off the ever present awkwardness in the beginning than to go through old photo albums?

"Okay, show me." Beomgyu rolls back to your side, scooting in closer to rest his head on your lap.

You turn the photo album, pointing at one photo in particular of you and Beomgyu dressed as a knight and damsel in distress— Beomgyu playing the role of the latter. Contrary to the roles, you were pummeling Beomgyu to the ground as if having caught a thief, and Beomgyu was shoving his handkerchief to your face, blocking your eyesight. The context behind the photograph alludes you, but this might just be a case of seven-year-olds doing whatever they want whenever.

"The fuck you mean ew? I look great in that dress!" Frowning, Beomgyu grabs the album to stare longer at his past self's glory.

"Lying to yourself isn't good for you, Gyu." You jokingly disapprove. It was fun seeing his reactions right after.

"Oh, look at these."

Beomgyu points at a photo of you and him on stage, wearing the same costumes as before. You figured it was for a play back in first grade when you two had been classmates. The next series of photos included one of you holding out a sword towards a kid in a cheap dragon costume, one of Beomgyu holding back his tears after tripping over and ripping his dress, and ones of you rushing to Beomgyu and kissing away his tears.

"This takes me back." Beomgyu lights up with a smile, failing to notice the surprise on your face. "Remember when your mom made us believe that kissing any injuries we had would make it go away? I knew you wanted to help me back then but I couldn't stop crying and tell you were it hurt, so you started kissing all over my face hoping it'd go away."

You find yourself laughing at your past self's foolishness. "But did it work?" You ask in between laughs.

"Well," Beomgyu chuckles, getting up from his position on your lap. "I don't think it would've worked if another person had done it. But since it was you— Wait." He takes one last look at the album, letting slip a wheeze before placing it back in its box. "Mom wrote something right below the photo."

"What did she write?" You ask, holding out your hands for Beomgyu to grab.

"A fairy tale with a happy ending always brings a smile to my face." Beomgyu tells you as he helps you up, trying his best to keep a straight face after delivering that line.

The two of you burst into laughter at his mother's words. You knew she'd been fond of fairy tales all her life but the caption was taking you out. Beomgyu was literally crying in the photo yet somehow this, to her, was a happy ending.

You eventually take notice of all the photos plastered around his room, some framed, and some simply stuck to the walls— memories of happier times. Most were of you and him, and in some, just you. He'd shown off the Polaroid camera his mother bought for him in seventh grade, proclaiming he'd only take photos of moments he'd want to keep in his memory forever. It never actually crossed your mind that a lot of them would be of you.

Beomgyu notices your wandering eyes and chuckles, placing an arm around your shoulder. The distance between you shrinks as he holds you closer. And at that moment, you take note of everything that's changed.

He'd gotten taller since the last time you saw him. Gone was the lanky boy you knew, evident in the way his muscles flexed with every small movement you wish you hadn't noticed. Beomgyu had grown his hair out; the thick, wavy locks tucked behind his ears, covering the back of his neck. The deepness of his voice had been a surprise when he greeted you at the door earlier, but you held back from pointing it out.

You feared that if you acknowledged all the changes, you'd be forced to face reality. That things weren't the same anymore, no matter how hard you tried. After all, Beomgyu wasn't the only one who changed. You had quite the few character development arcs yourself, and experiences which Beomgyu remained oblivious of. And somehow despite that, in his presence, you started to feel like your old self again.

Beomgyu's invitation had come as a surprise last night. You thought he'd forgotten about you, what with all the silence these past few years.

Life continued on as it should even without Beomgyu by your side, but you could argue that all the amazing experiences you've had on your own would've been better if he were there to experience it with you. And now here you were in his old room, pretending everything was the same as he'd left it.

You look up at your old friend, wanting to tell him what had been plaguing your thoughts the entire day but find yourself tongue tied when his dark eyes stare back into your own. And you wonder, how many times had it been that you'd stared into each other's eyes just like this? How many times had he pulled you close into his arms all those years? And just how many nights had you spent wondering if your feelings for him had grown into something more?

"I missed you." Beomgyu speaks first, his gaze never faltering.

Hearing his voice, you swear you could've melted right then and there. Part of you had wished he'd tell you those exact words, confirming that it hadn't been just you who'd been wanting to see him all these years.

"I missed you too."

Beomgyu could only smile at your response.

His arm leaves your shoulder— hands slowly finding their way to your own. His hold was gentle as he slowly guided you to face him.

"Don't laugh, but," Beomgyu starts. "Do you believe in love at first sight?"

"Love at fir—"

The question throws you off.

"What?"

"I heard you the first time!" You cut him off, wanting so bad to cover your face from the secondhand embarrassment. "I can't believe you just said that. What even happened to you in college?"

"Hey! At least hear me out before you make fun of me." Beomgyu bursts out laughing at your reaction, his thumbs caressing the back of your hands to help you calm down. "Judging from your reaction, I'm guessing your answer is a no. And I honestly felt the same too until a few hours back."

"Okay, you lost me there."

"Shut up. What I'm saying is," Beomgyu squeezes your hands, leaning in closer. "I'm sorry I haven't been in touch the last few years. I had a lot of trouble adjusting, and it took a while for me to really get the hang of living alone. I wanted to talk to you as soon as I got there but then I thought that maybe it would've been better for you if I left you to live your own life for a while too."

"Beomgyu.." You squeeze his hands back, sensing the sincerity in his eyes.

Beomgyu shakes his head. "I know this sounds silly and all, but I didn't want you to feel the emptiness I felt when I left. I wanted you to go and make experiences of your own without me."

You frown, refraining to speak until he's done.

"But then I couldn't stop thinking about you. Everywhere I went, I'd think of you and how the place would've been better if we got to hang out there together. Every time I had fun or ate something that tasted good, I wanted you to share the experience with me."

Beomgyu sighs. "Honestly, I thought I could make it through my visit home without seeing you but I passed by your house on my way home yesterday and I just.. I couldn't hold back. And when I saw you for the first time in years at the front of my doorstep.. I knew I had to tell you."

Half of you knew what to expect, and the other half doubted the reality of the situation. But all the doubts instantly melt away as soon as Beomgyu closed the distance between you, pressing your foreheads together.

Face flushed, you stare at him in awe and notice he had his eyes closed shut. "Cute." You thought.

He whispers in a voice so quiet you could barely hear.

"I like you."

You couldn't hold it in any longer, the rush of emotions crashing into you like raging waves against a cliff. The next moment, you find yourself inching closer and closer, face heating up even more as you press your lips against his as a reply.

Beomgyu's eyes widen, body freezing in place. He hadn't exactly expected you to respond so soon, especially not like this. And he couldn't be happier.

You feel Beomgyu returning the kiss, his hands going up to cup your face— his hold gentle. The two of you wanted nothing more than to stay in this moment for as long as life permits, because for once, you could finally see the path to your happily ever after slowly unraveling.

This was just the beginning.

#txt #txt imagines #txt x reader #txt fic #beomgyu #beomgyu x reader #beomgyu imagines #beomgyu oneshot #beomgyu scenarios #beomgyu fluff

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eleanorbloom · 3 years

Note

I'm sincerely curious - how will Eleanor reveal to Bryce that she's pregnant?

I've missed Elle and Bryce so much 🥺🥺🥺 Glad to have you back!!!

My dear Conch! Thank you so much for asking this question! You have no idea how much joy you brought me when I had to think about an answer.

The thing is, I've always imagined it's not really a big surprise, but man, that doesn't mean it's not precious.

Eleanor and Bryce knew they'd had kids since they early stages of their relationship (once Eleanor make up her mind about certain attending, of course). It was just a matter of when.

Here's a litle ficlet. Hope it fills your curiosity, my darling ❤️

This is my submission for @openheartfanfics event Meet My MC: About The Future. Tagging @choicesficwriterscreations for Fics of the Week.

----

Little Blooms

Book/Pairing: Open Heart / Bryce Lahela x F! MC (Eleanor Bloom)

Word Count: 1.2k Warning/Rating: None/Teen

When Eleanor and Bryce proposed each other, they agreed to marry when they felt sure about taking the big step in parenthood. So, after they got married, Eleanor stopped taking the pill and hoped for the best.

Bryce noticed the changes since she stopped being on birth control. She wasn't regular in her period, she was way more horny than usual but also moody.

However, four months since she was off birth control, he noticed the morning sickness, how could he not if right after Bryce put a plate of omelette in front of her, Eleanor ran to the nearest bathroom and couldn't swallow anything that morning.

Completely oblivious, she blamed it to the churros she ate the night before.

Bryce was suspicious. He couldn't remember the last time she got her period, but it was a lot. But as they days passed and nothing extraordinary happened, he attributed it to the her body still adjusting to the lack of hormones.

Until he arrived home one night, late, after a massive surgery.

Eleanor wanted to tell him the moment she found out, early that afternoon, but Bryce would be on surgery for several hours, and this moment had to be private. The proposal and wedding had been so public, that she wanted this moment to be only theirs.

Bryce opened the door of their apartment around midnight and found Eleanor sitting by the couch in a lilac nightgown.

"Hey babe, you're still awake?"

"Yeah, I was waiting for you," She said softly.

When she got up from the couch, he saw an unusual glow on her face, in her eyes. It made his stomach flutter.

"Oh yeah? What for?"

She smirked, ignoring the question, "How did the bypass go?"

"It went well. We had some complications with an artery, but nothing I couldn't solve myself," he winked at her, with his usual confidence.

"That's awesome. Congrats, my love," she said leaning to kiss him on the lips.

There was a different softness in her kiss that night.

"How are you?" he asked with evident curiosity. He wasn't sure where this was going.

Her eyes lighted up.

"I'm great. I'm..." She sighed, as if she had been contianing the air for hours.

Maybe in a way she had been.

Then, she bit her lip and shook her head with her eyes full of wonder.

"Mi amor..." she whispered.

And he knew. Before she told him he knew.

"Mi amor, I'm pregnant," she confessed, releasing a long breath, "We're going to have a baby."

The world stopped right at that moment. Just like the moment he saw her walking down the aisle, beautiful like a goddess, ready to be his wife.

And this, this moment, this life-changing moment would be ablazed to his memory just like the moment he told her he loved her, or when she told him she had finaly fell in love with him. Or when she asked him to marry her, and right after that he asked her the same question.

They had lived so many life-changing moments together and he was sure they'd live a hundred more.

But this. This was different. This was something else. It felt surreal.

Their love had grown so big, it was enough to create another human being and bring it to this world. To overflow their lives with love and happiness.

"Elle, love. My love..."

He saw the tears spilling down her cheeks. Tears of joy, of utter happiness. Of that happiness just Bryce makes her feel.

"We're going to have a baby, my love. A baby from you and me."

Her words were pure sweetness. The most beautiful thing he could've ever heard from her.

He couldn't say anything. Even if they've been preparing for this moment, it was a whole new thing processing the reality. They would be parents. He would be a dad. They'd have a little bean made of their love. It wouldn't be just them, Bryce and Elle. It would be them and the new family they were building. Their kids. Their kids who would turn their lives upside down.

So Bryce kissed her. At his -unusual- loss for words he just kissed her and then laughed and laughed until a single tear spilled down his cheek too. He didn't know if the tears were of emotion or laugh. Either way, he didn't care, it was his most genuine reaction.

"Babe. My princess. My love," he whispered with utter tenderness, peppering her with kisses all over her face, starting on her forehead and down her cheeks, jaw, nose and finishing in her smiling lips, "My koala. We're gonna have little koala?"

Eleanor couldn't help but giggle. At the image of a little koala hanging in her arms, but also because of the tenderness in his voice.

"Or a little Goldie. Or maybe a Koldie."

Both snorted, a mixture of complicity and incredulity.

"It's gonna be a koala. I want him or she or they to be just as beautiful as you are."

"Ummm hello, where is my husband and what did you do with him?"

"Have I never told you you're the most beautiful creature in the universe?"

"Mmmm.... Multiple times."

"What's the surprise there, then?"

"You wouldn't want our kid to be like you? To inherit your beauty?"

"I do. But the second can be like me."

"Oh, and there's gonna be a second?"

"Well, yeah, we talked about two, at least."

"Well, yeah, but that depends on how the first one goes."

He nodded, chuckling, "I respect that."

Then, he slowly slid a hand to her side until his palm reached her belly. It was as usual, flat, but he knew there was something there. A little bean that in less than nine months would be with them to change their lives completely.

It already had changed his life completely.

"You know what?" he added, caressing her cheek with his knuckles, "They can all be like you, I don't care. That way every time I see them, I see you and they remind me of how happy you have made me."

"That's not fair," she giggled. "I want one looking just like you so I can see you when you're not close."

Bryce bit his lip and shrugged, "I guess we have no choice but have at least two so we're both happy."

"Two little Blooms," she said in a tiny voice, fighting the tears. It was moving how contemplative he was. But she knew, she knew that once the amazement was over, he would be ecstatic, and cheery and noisy, just like the Goldie he was, so Eleanor wanted to relish in that moment.

"Our little Blooms," he repeated softly, and he crouched down until his face was inches away from Eleanor's belly. "Hey baby, are you there? It's dad."

Eleanor couldn't help but sob as she saw Bryce talking to their baby for the first time, "I know you can't hear me, you probably don't even have a nervous system for now, but I want to tell you I already love you, and I'm so freaking happy you're coming."

Eleanor rested her hand on his head and caressed his silky hair softly, then she wrapped both arms around him and pulled him close.

"Te amo."

He enveloped her in his arms and looked up at her.

"And I love you. Once again you have made me the luckiest man on this planet."

That night, they barely sleept. The plans for the future and guesses about how their baby would be and look made them lost track of space and time.

They were immersed in their own bubble of love and happiness.

#bryce lahela #playchoices #open heart #open heart fic #open heart fanfic #choices #choices stories you play #open heart choices #oh choices #bryce lahela x mc #pixelberry #oph meet your mc

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writer-ish · 3 years

Note

Hello there! 🙂 Could you please do number 10 from the "Touching" prompts, for Mason and the Detective please? 😊 Thanks!!

prompt: spooning at night pairing: mason x detective (grace bennett) word count: 2.4k | rating: T cw: panic attack, mention of trauma (book 1 related) author note: write a prompt less than 2k words challenge? failed. thank you @silma-words for the prompt! hope you like it. ☾☾ touching prompts

It had started with a light pattering of rain against the window panes.

Light rain is okay. Grace can handle light rain.

She doesn’t love it - especially not at night - but if it’s not torrential, if there’s no lightning or thunder, she can usually force herself to drink some tea, grab a book, and ignore it before falling into a restless sleep.

Light rain is okay.

The problem arises when, halfway through reading the same page for the fifth time, her tea already cold and missing only a sip or two, the rain picks up.

She gets up and pulls her curtains together tightly, but it doesn’t help. Even if she can’t see it, she can still hear it, the heavy slap of rain against the windows, steadily increasing in its ferocity.

Her hands begin to feel clammy and her breathing picks up.

You’re being so stupid, she tells herself, even as she feels deafened by the pounding of her own heart.

This visceral response to thunderstorms - rain, she reminds herself, it's just rain for now - is yet another fun side effect that has lingered since her encounter with Murphy all those months ago.

She tries not to dwell on those moments - the ones where she was certain she was going to die, the ones where she was dying - where the rain pounding on the roof of the warehouse, thunder splitting the sky, was the only discernible sound amidst the chaos.

But at home, alone, with only the rain and a tepid, useless cup of tea to keep her company, it’s difficult to think of anything else.

She paces a bit. Tries to get ready for bed. Lies down on top of the covers, hugging one of her decorative pillows close - the one that has a soft pink fabric designed to look like flower petals all over it, the one Mason hates probably the most - and the entire time the rain beats harder and harder against the few window panes in her small apartment until she feels like the glass might shatter from the force of it.

Her breath is coming in short, quick gasps now and no matter what she does, she can't get her heartrate to slow down. A numbness has begun to spread from her hands upward.

Am I having a heart attack? she wonders, semi-hysterically. Her chest feels tight, painfully so, but she can't tell if it's because of her breathing or not. The scar on her neck tingles sharply and her pulse feels like it might actually burst out from that spot.

At that moment, a clap of thunder reverberates through her walls.

Grace lets out a short scream and the pain in her chest intensifies.

Thunderstorms have been bad for her before, but never this bad.

Oh shit oh fuck, she thinks, it is a fucking heart attack. I'm having a fucking heart attack. Shit shit shit.

Her hands have gone completely cold, the tingling numbness persistent and all-consuming.

She staggers out of bed, black spots flashing in front of her eyes as her breathing worsens, all intakes and almost no exhales, while her sense of dread increases.

I'm going to die, she realizes in dawning horror. I'm going to die here, alone.

The thought is untenable. A collection of faces flashes before her eyes—Tina, her mom, Nate, the rest of Unit Bravo, Mason, Mason, Mason—

She staggers to her nightstand and grabs her phone, pressing the contact for the most recent number she'd called.

He answers on the first ring. “Hey, Gracie, we were just—“

“Nate,” she wheezes out, a sob caught in her throat.

She hears a clatter on the other end, maybe the sound of someone standing up abruptly. There’s a ruckus—voices clamouring.

“Gracie, what’s wrong?” Nate’s voice is urgent, inflected with a ribbon of steel that she barely registers as unusual. “Where are you?”

The voices behind him are getting louder.

“What’s happening?”

“What’s she saying?”

“What the fuck—”

“I’m—home,” she rasps, her heart feeling like it’s about to beat out of her chest. The room is spinning. “I don’t know—what—” What’s happening to me, she completes the thought in her mind, her ability to speak slowly dwindling.

“Something’s wrong with Grace,” she can hear Nate say to whoever he’s with. “I don’t think there's anyone else there, but something has happened—no, Mason, just wait—”

The phone clatters to the ground from Grace's numb fingers and she squeezes her eyes shut tightly as she sinks to the floor. The sound of Nate's voice coming from the receiver feels far away now. She's experiencing an odd sensation, like she's floating above her body, witnessing what's going on down below, and she wonders if that means she's dead.

Minutes pass, and suddenly there's a massive commotion at her front door. She startles, her whole body jerking in horror as she imagines the thunder and lightning from outside entering her home.

A dark figure suddenly appears in her bedroom doorway and swoops towards her and she lets out a pained gasp, her throat unable to emit anything louder than that.

"It's me," the figure says, its voice gruff and familiar, and she's so relieved she almost sobs. "It's me, sweetheart."

She feels herself being lifted up easily, gently, and cradled tight against a recognizable chest. Her heartrate decelerates ever so slightly, though her breathing is still ragged and short.

Mason carries her back to her bed, placing her down gently. His hair and his clothes are wet and the cold feel of his sleeve, the drops of water on her neck and arms, help as she settles.

She briefly registers the way he flings her pillows until each one smacks against the wall in a satisfying thwack of dismissal. When he goes to remove his other hand from her, she grips his arms tighter.

"No—" she wheezes, feeling the tears in her eyes spill over belatedly onto her cheeks.

"Hang on," he responds hoarsely, disentangling himself as he runs his hands over her arms, torso, legs, "I'm just checking you for—"

She shakes her head. "It's not that. I'm—okay." Not injured, she means, though she can't convey that to him because she can't control her breaths.

Her lungs begin to ache with the effort, her body trembling, although the overwhelming sense of dread, the certainty that this was the end, that has faded.

"Hey, hey, hey." He places his hand on her upper chest, his palm large and warm, a steady and comforting presence. "Just breathe."

She shakes her head, gulping air, the tears coming faster now. "Can't… can't."

"Hey." He leans forward looking at her intently and a sense of calm begins to permeate her body, starting from her head and working her way down. Her lungs expand fully for the first time in what feels like hours and she's able to release the entire breath in a motion that's not entirely shaky.

She grips his damp forearm tightly, his hand still resting on her chest as she takes a few other deep breaths. The feeling she had before, the lack of control, the fear, slowly fades until it's just a whisper of discomfort behind her eyes. Even the rain feels distant now; maybe it's passing.

"Is she okay?"

A new voice comes from the doorway, deep and resonant. Grace recognizes it immediately, even in her haze.

“Nate?” she asks, hoarsely.

“Yeah. Nate.” There's something odd in Mason's tone and Grace's eyes snap to his face. He's looking away, his expression indiscernible, but his thumb still strokes the bare skin under her collarbone gently.

Turning to the other agent in the doorway, he says, "She's okay. Tell the others. I got this."

Nate nods briefly, catching Grace's eyes with a warm smile, before turning and leaving the room. She can hear muffled conversation in the other room before the front door opens and then closes again.

She looks back at Mason. "You all came?"

He shrugs. "You called."

Her eyes well up again, her emotions too close to the surface to properly withstand the news that the entirety of Unit Bravo all came rushing to her at the first sign of any trouble.

Mason tsks, bringing his hand up to the base of her neck and applying the barest of pressure before removing it completely.

"Stop."

She closes her eyes and nods, lips quavering only slightly. She brings the heels of her hands up to her eyes and grinds them in, willing the emotions back as she continues to take deep, bracing breaths, in and out.

"What happened?" Mason asks softly after a moment.

Grace, heels of her hands still in her eye sockets, shrugs.

"I'm an idiot?" she offers, voice slightly watery.

He's silent and she can't even see his expression to determine whether or not he agrees.

The silence stretches and she recognizes that he's giving her time to sort through her feelings. Taking a few more deep breaths, she removes her hands from her eyes and looks at him, blinking until he's no longer blurry. He's sitting on the edge of her bed, one hand braced in the soft, quilted duvet, the other resting on his black jeans. His long sleeve tee is the same familiar deep red it usually is, his top buttons undone as though he'd dressed hastily. The crystal he always wears seems to glow with its own preternatural light, coming from within.

"It's the rain," she says finally, softly. "I can't…" She takes a deep breath. "I have a hard time when it's stormy out, ever since everything that happened with Murphy."

Mason stares at her assessingly, eyes narrowed in a grumpy concern that was so characteristic of him she wanted to cry again.

"It's probably rained over a dozen times since then," he says eventually, eyes still narrowed, the silver-grey highlighted by a thin sliver of moonlight peeking in through the blinds she hadn't managed to close all the way.

She nods, understanding what he's getting at. "I…have always found it difficult. But I can manage it by myself, usually." She sighs shakily. "This time was…different."

"Why?"

She shrugs. "I don't know. Maybe the news about the trappers. Maybe just stress, I—"

"No," he interrupts her, waving away her words. "Why do you manage it by yourself?"

"I—" She looks at him in surprise, unable to form an answer. Because I always have? Because I don't know how else to manage things? Because I don't want to bother you, when we haven't even defined what we are. Instead of saying any of that, she simply shrugs.

"Call Nate sooner next time." He gets up and stretches and her eyes are immediately drawn to the band of freckled, umber skin that is revealed as his shirt rides up. "Are you going to be okay?"

"Wait—" She looks at him perplexed. "You're not—staying?" His other words register suddenly. "And why would I call Nate?"

He shrugs, hands in his pockets as he looks down, a dark lock of hair tumbling over his eye.

Understanding dawns slowly. Nate had been the person she'd called when she'd been in the midst of—whatever that was.

She'd called him because he'd been at the top of her call list.

He was at the top of her call list, because earlier that day she'd had a research question and she'd called him to chat for a bit.

Nate is easy to talk to on the phone. Nate is easy to talk to, period.

Her and Mason, on the other hand—

Her and Mason communicate mainly in their silences.

Through touch, through knowing glances, through all the things they don't need to say. A quirk of an eyebrow or a smirk is all it takes sometimes for understanding to pass between them.

Phone calls aren't really in their repertoire. Grace isn't even sure he knows how to text.

She reaches out suddenly, grasping his hand, warm and rough between hers.

"Stay," she says quietly. "I want you here."

Not Nate, she clarifies in a way that she hopes he understands, her lips pressing together apologetically.

He narrows a glance at her, his expression softening almost unwillingly and in small increments.

With a quiet sigh, he allows her to pull him closer. She kneels on the bed and he looks down at her, hands cradling her jaw and his thumbs stroking her cheeks. He draws them over her eyelids, traces the sensitive skin under eyes, passes them gently over her lips.

“No more storms alone, got it?”

She nods. “I promise.” She places her hand over his heart and looks up at him.

He nods as well, briefly, understanding passing through them once more in the silence, as his eyes take in the room before meeting hers again.

"Let's get you to bed, yeah?"

She nods, suddenly feeling how overwhelmingly tired she actually is. Her whole body sags, sapped of whatever frenetic energy was fueling it before. Despite her exhaustion, she still takes note of how he made a bed reference with no innuendo whatsoever. Simply the soft, gruff tone she's come to understand as his concern.

Still, she can't help but joke, if only to ease the awkward-borne tension of their poorly defined relationship: "Sorry if I'm not up for the usual—"

"Shut it." He cuts her off swiftly, pinching her chin with his forefinger and middle finger gently. "I'm not in the mood for your nonsense."

She leans back to look up at him indignantly, only to feel her ire fade away as she sees the teasing smirk on his lips.

"Only sleeping," he confirms. "Come on."

He throws back her covers and she snuggles under, watching as he removes his boots and jeans before joining her.

Immediately, he yanks her towards him, the curve of her back and her bottom fitting perfectly into the concave line of his chest and thighs. She feels the hair on his legs tickling the backs of hers and she tucks her cold feet between his ankles.

He hisses at the feeling and she laughs softly, already yawning. She clutches his hand in hers and brings his arm, wrapped around her stomach, higher up her chest until she's cradling it against her, his knuckles skimming her chin. He smells clean, like soap and fresh tobacco, and it's a smell that is so uniquely Mason she can't help but sigh contentedly.

She feels him kiss the top of her head. "Sleep."

His low command puts her even more at ease as she feels herself sinking deeper into slumber.

The rain still patters against the window, picking up again in its intensity.

She snuggles deeper into Mason's embrace, revelling in the warmth of his skin and the comfort and security of his arms.

The storm doesn't bother her again that night.

☾ feel free to send me a prompt

tags: @utterlyinevitable , @ethansramsey , @otherworldlypresents , @aworldoffandoms , @raleighcarrera , @ejunkiet , @starrystarrytrouble , @terrm9 , @openheartthot , @octobereighth , @campsearchlight , @coldshrugs , @kelseaaa , @homeformyheart , @intothestrawberryjar , @magebastard , @kodysteach (if you don’t want to be tagged for twc, mason x detective, and/or prompts, please let me know!)

#the wayhaven chronicles #twc fanfic #mason x detective #twc prompts #twc mason #specialist agent mason #agent m #mason x grace #soft mason is soft #thank you for the prompt!#i really need to try and make these shorter #like damn #if I tagged you more than once I apologize

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kiribakuficrecs · 3 years

Note

hello!!! im going on a very long trip at the end of april and I'm looking for some very long fics to download to keep me entertained! i dont care what they're about as long as there's no major character death or mentions of non-con. ur blog is a godsend ilysm and you do such a good job thank you so much 🙏

hi there!! i definitely have a lot of good lengthy fics i can recommend to you!

quote love unquote by newamsterdam

Sero nods. “It’s the chance of a lifetime, really,” he says. “We want you to date Bakugou, for the sake of his reputation with the press. Some public appearances, a few ‘candid’ photos. For at least a couple of months.”

“Bakugou sent you to ask me to date him?” Kirishima asks, baffled.

“Of course not. We, his people, are asking you to date him. He’s going to have to get on board, if he wants his career to survive. And in the bargain, Riot will get all sorts of publicity, because their lyricist will be dating one of the industry’s hottest stars. A win for everyone.”

When Kirishima Eijirou's band hits the big time, he's not prepared for his newfound fame. He's even less prepared to meet the actor he's been crushing on for years, or to start dating him as a publicity stunt. The closer Kirishima gets to Bakugou Katsuki, the more he realizes he's in over his head. But it's hard to stop, once his heart is in it.

acceptance and denial by poteto

It all goes okay when Kirishima decides to come out to his friends and it all goes wrong when decides that Bakugou is the best fake boyfriend material.

cause the darks not taking prisoners tonight by imatrisarahtops

“Are those soba noodles?” Kirishima asked.

Again Bakugou’s only reply was a grunt. He offered no further explanation—not that Kirishima honestly expected one—as though making soba noodles from scratch at half past four in the morning wasn’t at all a bizarre occurrence and made complete and total sense. For a fleeting moment, Kirishima even wondered if maybe he was the odd one here. Besides, he’d already decided it was generally not in his best interest to question these types of things with Bakugou, especially when it was something essentially harmless.

When Kirishima has a nightmare and is unable to fall back asleep, he accepts defeat and decides to study in the common area of the dorms. What he doesn't expect to find is Bakugou, also very much awake, and Kirishima can't help but think that maybe they're both having the same problems with sleeping. If he's worried, it's just because they're friends. (Right?)

the weight of your hand by kamin

That night, to the citizens, the explosions were a jolt of fear at every blast, but to the heroes and the students of UA, they were punches and swings, fierce fighting and loud strength. The explosions were the pulse of the battle, and the power of a boy that would never back down.

One after another, explosions set a chorus through the shuddering city.

And then, suddenly—the explosions stopped.

(In which Bakugou’s kidnapping goes a little differently, and just a few seconds could change so much.)

so take my hand (your life will be brighter) by multiclassmaps

When a stranger shows up at the ice rink during Bakugou's usually private training sessions, Bakugou expects to hate him. He doesn't expect to develop feelings that become increasingly difficult to deny, or for them to help each other sort through their emotional baggage. - Bakugou really didn't like Kirishima's smile. There was something about it that made his stomach hurt, something about it that made it difficult to focus. He definitely hadn't thought about that smile on his way to the ice rink that day. He definitely hadn't.

distance makes the heart grow fonder (false) by dragontrappedinhumanskin

When Bakugo and Kirishima get hit by a quirk that forces them to literally stick together or face the less then desirable consequences, how the fuck is Bakugo supposed to keep his crush hidden?! Well, turns out he never needed to.

-- “Well, this fucking sucks, how are we supposed to train?!” "Really closely?"

perihelion by tauontauoff

Bakugou was a comet, blazing out of reach. Kirishima knew he was stupidly lucky that his furious trajectory went by close enough that his fingertips got to graze the cowl of fire. It was enough.

During Christmas Class 1A and 1B spend a laid-back week learning about extreme environment hero work in the Alps. Kirishima was used to keeping part of his feelings for Bakugou hidden, and had every intention of keeping it that way, but things don't always go according to plan.

fight me by mr_todoroki

Bright red, spiky hair. Annoyingly bright smile. Clothes that radiate ‘look at me’ vibes. Neon yellow tank top with black shorts. And those were definitely crocs on his fucking feet.

Yeah, Katsuki hated this guy.

Bakugou gets a new roommate.

quietly by chezka

“We’ve been taking the same way to and from school for weeks,” Kirishima grinned, and then when Bakugou frowned at him he put on an affected pout, tilted his head so that he was looking at him through his thick, long lashes, “you never noticed? Am I that easy to miss?”

He could barely finish the sentence before a laugh escaped his lips, and Bakugou rolled his eyes, hit him with a shoulder a little more violently than necessary.

“You stick out like a sore thumb, broom-head,” he grumbled, promptly ignoring Kirishima's whining about his hairstyle when it started coming, “I didn’t notice ‘cause I didn’t care.”

“And now you do?”

everyone knows that cats are independent by purplepersnickety

Eijirou enjoys his job, working the graveyard shift at a 24/7 coffee shop. His daemon Riot is always there to keep him company, and he likes meeting the early-morning patrons and giving them the best possible kick-start to their day. It's been his routine for about a year now.

Then one day, a grouchy guy with a daemon in the form of a lion walks into the shop in the dead of night, and Eijirou decides to strike up a conversation with him.

punks not dead by wrunic

“So you want to use me to piss off your mom?” Kirishima summarized, raising one pierced eyebrow at Katsuki.

“Look, if you want to be all fucking judgy about it, I take cash,” Katsuki said, dropping his hand palm up on the table.

“Hey now,” Kirishima said, raising his hands in surrender, “I didn’t say I wasn’t doing it. I’m always down for a little chaos.” He flashed a grin, showing off his ridiculous shark teeth.

“Good,” Katsuki said. “We start tomorrow."

sent, delivered, read, loved by kiribakuhappiness

Kirishima E. [6.49pm]: ur okay for such an angry dude bakugou! :)

Bakugou K. [7.12pm]: FUCK YOU!

Kirishima E. [7.14pm]: haha! :D ttyl!

Bakugou K. [7.48pm]: FUCKING WHAT DO THOSE DUMB LETTERS MEAN???

Bakugou K. [7.52pm]: I JUST LOOKED IT UP DONT FUCKING TALK TO ME LATER!

Bakugou K. [7.52pm]: STOP TXTING ME!!!

- OR -

Bakugou's and Kirishima's relationship develops from classmates to friends to more, as told through their text conversations.

flicker by mr_todoroki

He was starting to feel depressed. Life was so uninteresting. It was so mundane and forgettable. He had no one to hang out with besides Kota, his family didn’t even live in the city.

He grew his hair out as some sort of rebellion, some sort of stand to make his life the slightest bit more interesting. But he could already feel himself giving in to the pressure of cutting it. He needed to work to live. Without a job, he’d truly have nothing.

Kirishima never applied to UA, therefore never became a hero.

let’s get down to business by kjelfalconer

Katsuki Bakugou, one of the brightest rising stars on wall street, is in need of a new personal assistant. Again. Could Eijirou Kirishima finally be the one to last more than two months?

Katsuki's long suffering HR department sure hope so.

something about us by bigstupidjellyfish

nothing like being in highschool and having no idea how to deal with emotions

fireproof by inkbender

Four years after a classmate nobody seems to remember is kidnapped by the League of Villains, Kirishima drags an amnesiac hobo he found washed up on the beach into his apartment, attempts to teach him how to adult (with varying degrees of success), and discovers along the way that the line between heroism and villainy is quite fine indeed. Plot-divergent after episode 45, the Forest Training Camp arc.

blood riot by magicallee (alternatively)

Kirishima from a universe with no quirks is mind-swapped with an alternate universe version of himself where there are superpowers.

And in that universe he’s a super villain.

And Bakugou is the superhero who caught Evil-Kirishima and put him in prison.

blindside by drowclericpelor

“You’re the first guy friend I’ve had that I can just like, be friends with. You’re either the most unthirstiest boy ever...” Camie shrugged and made another wobbly illusion appear between her hands. It looked like a sparkly rainbow with the word ‘friendship’ beneath it, accompanied by what Bakugou assumed was supposed to be a twinkling sound effect, but it had a tinny quality to it and sounded far away. “...or I just ain’t got the kinda straw you like to ssssip.”

Carefully, Bakugou considered the strange turn this conversation had taken.

He had never been asked, point blank, if he was gay before. And he honestly had never thought about how he would respond. Lying about himself didn’t sit right with him. But he’d always wanted to wait until he was the number one hero - when he stood above everyone else - before coming out. Though he’d had times when he’d thought about doing it before then and had almost gone through with it once. But being the number one hero came first. It wouldn’t matter what people would say about it then as long as he’d risen to the top.

Bakugou knew his lack of a response would give Camie all the answers she needed.

flour power by wingsonghalo

“I’m telling you now, Shitty Hair,” the blonde growled, “I am not gonna play house with you. We will cart this stupid flour around for a week like the assignment says. But some of our idiot classmates are naming the thing and setting up ‘playdates’ and dressing it and I am not doing anything that stupid. Got it?”

Kirishima and Bakugou are paired up to take care of a flour sack for a week. It would be so simple, except nothing with Bakugou is ever simple. Also Kirishima might be kinda sorta completely head over heels for him.

sunchaser by chonideno

that feeling when you suddenly want to jump off a cliff for no reason but instead of a cliff it’s your best friend and instead of jumping it’s growing feelings out of nowhere

or how Bakugou has to try really hard not to throw everything to the wind, and Kirishima doesn't help

i also have a tag specifically for fics that reach somewhere between 30k-70k words long if you wanted to check that out as well! i hope you enjoy the fics here and that i was able to help, ily enjoy your trip!!! :D

#kiribaku fic rec #kiribaku #answered

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everyhowlmarksthedead · 3 years

Text

❛ TWO COFFEES ❜

✨ REQUEST: Oh can I have a Nestor imagine where Miguel ends setting the pair of you up??? 💜♥️💜♥️💜

✨ MADE BY ANON.

Gif credits: to the author.

WORDS: about 1.6k.

❚❙ A/N: this writing hasn’t been edited, you may find some grammar mistakes, I’m sorry about that. If you find a description about body or a word out of place or something that makes you feel uncomfortable / unrepresented, let me know by a private message and I will change it delighted ❤ — this work also includes sentences in Spanish, as reader can speak it.

❚❙ NESTOR OCETEVA MASTERLIST.

❚❙ MASTERLIST.

❚❙ JOIN MY TAG LIST.

“Two coffees, please”.

You were with your back to him when you heard his husky voice and a soft latin tone in it. You couldn't help but raise an eyebrow with some kind of confusion at his order. Who comes to a Starbucks just asking for two coffees? Turning at the man with your lips pressed in a funny smile, you took a second to look at him behind the counter.

He is familiar to you. You know him from somewhere.

His black braids were the first thing that caught your attention, before focusing on the red and black shirt under the jacket of his suit. His hands were hidden inside the pockets of his pants, but you noticed his nervousness in the way he had closed them in two fists.

“Normal or decaf? With or without milk? Normal milk? Lactose-free? Soya milk? Almond milk? With sugar, saccharine, or mocca? With or without cream? Do you want it hot or do you want it iced?”

“Normal, no milk, no sweetener, no cream, no ice. Just two coffees”.

You were about to laugh until you heard him talking again. A tone more firm letting you know that he wasn't in the mood for jokes. You could see him gulping a little ashamed when you changed the gesture in your face, but you didn't say anything else. The order was easy and ready in less than one minute. Closing the cups and offering him, you tried to show him another gentle smile but you couldn't. Offering you ten dollars, you waved a hand between the both of you.

“It's on me… Sir”. You told him, an instant before he threw the money inside the tips jar.

Watching him leaving the cafeteria made you feel strangely bad, not knowing exactly why. Sighing as the black car, parked in front of your workplace, disappeared from your field of vision in a jiffy. You hadn't seen that man before, but you wouldn't mind seeing him again. To apologize for being so stupid, of course.

—— NESTOR POV ——

“I fucked up”.

“Yeah, we all have seen the face of that poor girl. I bet you scared her”. Miguel laughed in the back seat of his car, taking a sip from the coffee.

“What the fuck you told him, man?” Vargas stopped the vehicle at a red light, turning at his boss.

“I asked for two coffees, and she started to… give me a lot of options, like milk and sugar and I just got nervous”.

“You? Nervous?” Miguel leaned forward, placing his forearms in both seats, sticking his head out of the gap between both. “The fearless Nestor Oceteva feeling nervous?”

“Fuck off, Mickey! I've been trying to talk with her for a week”.

“Yeah, and you scared her. Did you forget you only had to scare people while you're working?” The other man raised his eyebrows, making his boss laugh behind them.

When the night came and the cafeteria had emptied of customers, you turned off most of the lights inside and locked the main door, to count the cash and write it down in the account book. Playing some soft music on your phone, you took off the green cap and the apron of the same color. It was a long day and all you can think about was in that mystery man with two braids, and who made you feel frustrated for some reason. It wasn't like you wanted to make him smile or to know his name, or maybe get his phone number. Of course not.

Knocks on the crystal door claimed your attention, turning your head towards it and interrupting your task. Gulping nervously finding two suited men with his hands tangled in a big fist, respectively, under their abdomens, you stepped out from behind the counter to lead your feet to their position.

“Are you alone?” One of them asked without any doubt in his words.

Simply nodding, the other man walked to the car parked behind them. Then, you watched Miguel Galindo coming out from it. And now, you were fucked. Of course, you knew the man who came that morning. Licking your lips, freaking out, you unlocked the door to let him walk in.

“Buenas noches”.

“Buenas noches, se—señor Galindo”.

“Are you occupied? May I come in?”

With your heart racing, you gave him enough space to pass you away to the inside.

“I'm sorry if… he tho—thought I was making… fun of him. I didn't me—mean to be disrespectful”.

Your hands were sweating, rubbing one against the other behind your back. Barely breathing. Praying anything you knew.

“Tranquila, it's okay. Do you think I came to… make you something?” His calm attitude gave you shivers. The kind of ones that put your body to tremble. The laugh that echoed all around the empty cafeteria provoked your nausea. “The truth is… you like him. He has been some days trying to encourage himself to ask you out, but my brother is a little dumb”.

Tilting your head with confusion, just like a dog would do, you narrowed your eyes not sure if he was being serious or he was teasing you to have some fun.

“I do—”.

Miguel raised a forefinger to stop you, as soon as his phone rang inside his jacket. Grabbing it from the pocket and reading the name on the screen, he answered the call with the speaker on.

“Are you fucking kidding me, Mickey? Emily just told me you went for two coffees. The fuck you have? Five fucking years old? Leave the waitress in pace!”

Feeling like shit, you bowed down your head because of his words, recognizing the voice at the instant. The man in front of you watched the gesture frowning his brow.

“Nestor, the speaker is on”.

Pi, pi, pi. He had hung up.

“List—”.

“Can you, please, leave? I think you have had enough fun. And you should be ashamed of using your position to do this kind of bullshit to someone humble, who only wants to live her life without being a target to your free time”. Trying to be polite, you pointed at the door with a hand.

“No, no, lis—”.

“If you don't leave right now, sir, I'm calling the cops”. You ruled, taking a step forward with your eyes glued to him, about to cry because of rage. The rage that helped you to lose any fears about confronting the dangerous Miguel Galindo.

In silence, he nodded only one time, turning around to leave the cafeteria. After locking the door, you let the tears fill up your eyes and run down your cheeks. Needing a little break before finishing your work and going home.

A few days have passed since then, not being able to stop thinking about it and why you. Why they decided to play that prank. It wasn't funny. At least, it wasn't funny for you. But you were sure that, later, they commented it and laughed about your gestures. Turning the filter holder of the professional coffee maker, to fit it into the gear, you can't help but look through the reflection on it over your shoulder. Your heart jumps when you find Nestor bent over the counter with both forearms, waiting to be attended to.

“What would you like, sir?” The question comes out from your mouth with a cold tone of voice, not even looking at his eyes, ready to take his order in the TPV.

“Two coffees”. He replies trying to not show any kind of emotion, taking off the sunglasses covering his dark eyes. “One like… just coffee. And another of your choice”.

Filling up the cups with the drink and securing them with the covers, you put them over the counter to grab back the money and give him the change. Holding one with his right hand, the man offers you the other with his left.

“Do you have a moment?”

“No”.

“Por favor”.

“I said no”.

“I'm going to stay here, till you say yes”. The smile curving his mouth, showing you two perfect rows of teeth, convinces you somehow.

Rolling your eyes and tapping your co-worker's shoulder, you make him a gesture to cover you to take a short break. Nestor follows you then to the back alley, not saying a word but trying to prepare a monologue to apologize. Stopping your track and facing him, having a sip from your coffee, you wave your hand waiting for something.

“I told him to not do it”.

“So… was it a bet, or what? Were you bored and thought that could be fun making me feel stupid and ashamed?”

“None of that”. His jaw tensing calls your attention, bowing his eyes to the drink between his hands. “I really wanted to ask you out, but I wasn't sure if you were going to accept. I was nervous and… Miguel thought that he could help me”.

“He didn't”.

“I know”.

“And you, shouting through the phone, either”.

“Yeah, lo siento por eso”. Looking at your eyes again, with regret, he keeps his free hand in a pocket. “If you don't want to hang out with me, it's okay. I came to apologize for what happened”.

“Thank you”. You just whisper.

He tilts his head, pressing his lips and forcing a smile. Nestor waits one second, hoping that you add something else like you would like to have a date, but you don't talk again. Giving up, he nods turning around disappointed, walking out of the alley.

But actually, you're just making him suffer a little. It's called payback.

“I'm free tomorrow night”.

With a brow raised, the man turns around, facing you some steps away.

“We can meet at Jin's chinese restaurant. At seven”.

His smile appears again, infecting you with the same gesture.

“I'll be there at six”.

“Why?” You chuckle, not understanding him.

“To not make you wait”.

“Todo un caballero…”

#lemme know what you think in a comment! ✨#mayans mc x reader #mayans mc imagine #mayans x reader #mayans mc #nestor oceteva x reader #nestor oceteva imagine #nestor oceteva

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