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ds-angel1 · 4 months ago

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TEACHERS LITTLE PET

cw: SMUT(18+), teacher x student relationship, hitting it from the back(in the classroom), big age gap(ages aren´t specified), reader is a senior, i´m not american and have no idea how the school system works so please just smile and nod

wc: ~ 5.1k

a/n: tell me what you think of this dynamic and if you want more cause i have some ideas!! also this is the longest fic i´ve ever written, not my best work but atleast i managed to write something?? keep in mind i had a fever when i wrote this

Rafe had no idea how he ended up here.

Well, if he was being honest, he did. He just hated admitting it.

He hated kids. Teenagers weren’t much better. If they weren’t whining about something trivial, they were loud, obnoxious, and bursting with opinions they thought were groundbreaking. And high schoolers? They were the worst of the lot, caught in that unbearable limbo between childhood and adulthood, convinced they knew everything and that the world had been tailor-made to inconvenience them.

He hated his job, too. But after his father had all but shoved him into college, and he had somehow managed to scrape together an art history degree through a chaotic jumble of barely thought-out course selections, he needed a paycheck. He needed something, anything, to make use of the four years he had spent drowning in essays about the Renaissance and lectures on the symbolism of Baroque architecture.

And there it was, a high school history teacher.

He was fairly certain the school had been desperate. Desperate enough to hire the first applicant who could string a coherent sentence together about the American Revolution. And lucky him, that applicant had been Rafe.

The school itself was unremarkable. Small, under 400 students, just two squat brick buildings separated by a weather-beaten schoolyard that reeked of stale cigarette smoke and teenage apathy. Five hours from the Outer Banks, he could visit home whenever he wanted. Not that he did. There was nothing left for him there, nothing worth the drive, and frankly, there was nothing for him here either.

His days were a loop, a monotonous, uninspired cycle of standing in front of rows of disinterested, hormonal teenagers, rattling off lessons about long-dead historical figures far more interesting than any of his students would ever bother to realize. He graded half-assed essays, endured halfhearted excuses about missing assignments, and spent more time than he cared to admit staring at the clock, willing the hours to pass. Then, when the final bell rang, he trudged back to his apartment, a bare, impersonal space that he never bothered to decorate. No photos, no art, and no signs that anyone lived there. Just a bed, a couch, and a kitchen table that mostly went unused.

And then there were the truly miserable days, the ones where he was roped into subbing for freshman P.E., a biweekly exercise in self-inflicted torture. Half the girls refused to break a sweat, acting as if running a single lap would somehow lead to their untimely demise. The other half of the class consisted of cocky, over-competitive boys who treated dodgeball like a blood sport. He spent most of those periods standing on the sidelines, arms crossed, blowing the whistle when things got too heated, and watching the clock even more desperately than usual.

It was a dull, uninspired existence; monotonous, predictable, and entirely void of passion. He lived his life the way his students listened to the outdated documentaries he played in class: half-awake, uninterested, just going through the motions because it had to be done.

Until you walked into his class.

The first day of school after summer break always carried a certain energy; electric, restless, filled with voices overlapping in an unfiltered rush of stories from the last few weeks. As Rafe pushed open the door to his classroom, that familiar wave of chatter hit him like a sudden gust of wind. Laughter, exclamations, the scrape of chairs against the floor—it was all as chaotic as he had expected.

With a quiet sigh, he made his way to his desk, setting his thermos down on the bleached oak surface before picking it up again almost instinctively, taking a slow sip before returning it to its place. His fingers moved on autopilot, retrieving his school-issued laptop from his bag, pressing the power button, and waiting for the screen to glow to life. His gaze lifted, sweeping across the students, his students. The same faces he’d taught last year, now a little older, a little different, officially juniors.

But one face wasn’t familiar.

You.

Rafe spotted you almost immediately, sitting in the third row, right by the window where the morning sky stretched in endless hues of soft blue. You were listening—well, nodding, at least—to Amanda, whose mouth moved a mile a minute. He didn’t have to hear her know she was spewing an endless stream of conversation; Amanda was known for filling any silence, anytime, anywhere. But his attention wasn’t on her. It was on you.

A dark navy skirt draped over your thighs, the fabric shifting in gentle waves with every slight movement. Your top, a delicate white spaghetti strap with tiny baby blue flowers, hugged your frame, lace tracing the neckline, a small bow nestled right at its center. A beige cardigan hung loosely over your shoulders, two buttons left undone as if they had never been intended for use in the first place. Your hair was pulled back into a ponytail, not rigid, not loose, just… effortless. A few strands framed your face, soft wisps that moved when you turned your head, catching the light in a way that made them seem almost ethereal.

And sure, you looked beautiful, undeniably so. But it wasn’t just that.

It was the way your eyes flickered around the room, quietly observing, absorbing. The way your lips parted slightly every so often, murmuring the occasional “Uh-huh” or “Yeah” in response to Amanda’s nonstop chatter, even as your mind seemed elsewhere. There was something in your expression, an almost hesitant curiosity, a quiet awareness, that made Rafe’s fingers pause over the laptop’s keyboard.

He had seen many faces in this classroom. Some familiar, some forgettable.

But yours?

Yours was impossible to ignore.

"Uh— okay, let’s get started. Settle down," Rafe called out to the students, his voice steady despite the chaos. The room buzzed with post-summer chatter, desks scraping against the floor as students found their seats. He rolled his shoulders, forcing himself to exhale. The first day back was always like this, full of energy, distractions, and the struggle to rein everyone in. But today, there was another battle brewing beneath the surface, one he wasn’t prepared for.

He hoped that once the lesson began, he could shift his focus, and force himself to look anywhere but at you. He clung to that hope like a lifeline, but the moment he commanded their attention, he had yours.

And when your eyes locked onto him, he was trapped. Hypnotized. His breath hitched, pulse stuttering in a way it had no right to. For what felt like an eternity, he couldn’t tear his gaze away, couldn’t shake the invisible thread tightening between you. His fingers curled into his palm, nails pressing against his skin.

Shit.

Swallowing hard, he forced himself to snap out of it, dragging his attention back to the board. He took a measured breath, gripping the chalk like it might anchor him. "Alright, I know you’re all still in vacation mode, but we need to get talking about history."

The usual grumbling came, but it was muted, fading as students settled into their seats. Good. The routine was safe. The routine was predictable. The routine wouldn’t let his mind wander to places it shouldn’t.

"Before we dive in, we have a new student joining us this year from the senior class," he announced, keeping his tone even, impersonal. His gaze flickered back to you, just for a second, just long enough to acknowledge you without giving himself away. "Would you introduce yourself?"

A brief silence. You hesitated, shifting under the weight of so many eyes before murmuring your name.

"Great," Rafe said, far too quickly. He cleared his throat, turning back to the board. "So, what do we know about American history from the Industrial Revolution to the modern age?"

The next forty-five minutes passed in a blur of discussion, textbook readings, and writing exercises. Normally, this was when he’d catch up on grading or chip away at whatever administrative work he had. But today? No. Today, his focus splintered, frayed at the edges every time he felt your presence in the room.

His eyes kept drifting.

To you.

It was reckless. Stupid. He knew it was wrong, knew exactly how it would look if anyone noticed. He wasn’t blind, he’d found students attractive before, but it had always been a fleeting thing, a passing thought dismissed before it could take root. A moment, nothing more.

But this?

This was different.

This wasn’t just acknowledging that you were pretty, though you were. Incredibly so. This wasn’t just an absent-minded recognition of beauty. No, this was something deeper. Something that twisted in his gut and settled in his bones, something that made his breath catch when he wasn’t prepared for it.

Something dangerous.

His fingers raked through his hair as he stared down at his keyboard, typing nothing. He could tell himself it was just a dry spell, that he’d been avoiding distractions for too long, that it was simply physical. But that would be a lie.

Because it wasn’t just about desire.

It was about you.

And that was a problem.

The shrill chime of the bell split the air, and the classroom erupted into motion. Notebooks snapped shut, chairs scraped against the tile, and a low hum of voices swelled as students shoved books into backpacks, eager to escape into the chaotic freedom of lunch. You swung your bag over your shoulder, weaving through the shifting maze of desks, your focus locked on the door. The cafeteria was called, an oasis of noise and anonymity where you could blend in, and where no one was analyzing your every move.

But just as you stepped forward, a voice cut through the chatter behind you.

"Hey."

It wasn’t loud, but it had weight, like an anchor dropping into the sea of departing students. Something in the tone made your stomach twist. You turned, pulse hitching slightly, to find Mr. Cameron watching you from behind his desk. His expression was unreadable, calm but not necessarily kind.

"Yes, Mr. Cameron?" you asked, hesitating.

"Can I speak to you for a moment?"

It was phrased like a question, but you both knew it wasn’t. He gave a small nod toward the door as the last few stragglers trickled out, a silent instruction.

With a quiet sigh, you nudged the door shut behind them, the click of the latch sealing you in. The classroom, so full of life just seconds ago, now felt cavernous, the quiet pressing in around you. You hesitated before making your way back to his desk, each step feeling heavier than the last.

Mr. Cameron leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the surface of his desk, fingers steepled together. "So… I wanted to talk to you about last year." His voice was measured, and neutral, but something about it put you on edge. "You were in Ms. Wallace’s class, right?" His eyes flicked to a sheet of paper in front of him, though you were certain he already knew the answer.

You shifted uncomfortably. "Mhm." A simple answer for something far more complicated. Your history with Ms. Wallace wasn’t just a class; it was a long, exhausting battle, a relentless tug-of-war between frustration, unmet expectations, and a sinking feeling of inevitability.

Mr. Cameron studied you for a moment before speaking again. "Can you tell me what didn’t work? Was it her? The material? Her teaching style? Or was it something on your end?" His head tilted slightly, voice smooth, probing.

You hesitated, suddenly hyper-aware of the way your fingers clenched the strap of your bag. "I guess I was just… kind of unfocused last year," you admitted, your voice barely above a murmur.

"Mm." He hummed, eyebrows lifting just slightly. "Just last year?"

Your stomach tightened.

"Because judging by today’s lesson, it seems like you're still a little… distracted. More interested in doodles than in history, huh?"

Heat crept up your neck, shame pooling in your chest. Your gaze dropped to the floor as if looking anywhere else might soften the weight of his words.

"You’d think," he continued, his tone carrying the faintest edge, "that after the school let you pass the year and only required you to retake this class, you'd put in a little more effort."

His words landed like a slap, sharp, deliberate. He knew exactly how unfair that was. Knew how it would make you feel. And yet, for whatever reason, he didn’t stop himself.

The silence that followed was suffocating.

“You want to pass, yes?”

His voice was low, almost teasing, each word curling around you like smoke. He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his desk, dark eyes locked onto yours with something unreadable, something that made your stomach twist.

You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry, and gave a quick, eager nod.

Rafe watched you for a lingering second, dragging it out just long enough to make you shift where you stood. Then, with an exhale that was almost too casual, he pushed himself up from his chair. He didn’t simply stand, he moved. Slow. Deliberate. A quiet display of control as he braced one hand against the edge of his desk, his weight settling into a lean. The aged wood creaked under him, but he didn’t seem to notice, or maybe he just didn’t care.

His focus remained entirely on you.

“And what do you think I could do to help you achieve that?”

Smooth. Measured. But there was something else beneath his tone, something just sharp enough to catch. Playfulness, maybe. Amusement. Or something more dangerous.

His gaze flickered, sweeping over you in a way that felt too quick at first, like a reflex he hadn’t meant to act on. But then, you saw it. The hesitation. The way his throat bobbed, how his fingers flexed at his sides before he rubbed the back of his neck as if trying to shake off whatever had just slipped through the cracks. But it was too late.

You had seen.

And by the way, his jaw clenched a second later, the way his lips pressed together, you knew he realized it too.

Your heart hammered. You didn’t answer him. Couldn’t. Instead, your fingers fidgeted with each other, twisting and untwisting, your bottom lip caught between your teeth. The silence between you stretched, thick and electric, heavy with something unspoken, something neither of you dared name but both of you felt.

Rafe inhaled deeply, the sound filling the quiet space between you. The air itself seemed different now, charged, like something unseen was pressing in, urging one of you to break.

He let the breath out slowly, his chest rising and falling in a rhythm that somehow felt… controlled. Intentional. And then, his eyes moved again.

This time, there was no rush. No flicker of hesitation.

Now, he studied you.

It was slow, almost methodical, th

6e kind of look that made heat crawl up the back of your neck, the kind that lingered just long enough in places that made you second-guess every inch of yourself. When his gaze reached your thighs, a nervous jolt ran through you. Almost instinctively, you gripped the hem of your skirt, twisting the fabric in your fists, your knuckles turning white.

A nervous habit.

One he noticed.

One that made his eyes darken, not dramatically, not in some exaggerated, obvious way, but just enough. Just enough for you to catch the shift, to see the amusement flicker across his face like the hint of a smirk he didn’t fully let through.

“Hm?” The questioning hum he let out brought you back to reality, back to his question, and back to the answer that you had yet to give.

“Um… I- I don’t know…” you stammered out.

His eyes flick down again, taking in your upper body, eyes practically circling in on your chest. As if your body has a mind of its own, you straighten your back, puffing out your chest.

Rafe’s eyes flickered up to yours, and for a second, he didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

The air between you had thickened, dense with something unspoken, something dangerous. His tongue flicked out to wet his lips, slow, almost pensive as if he were considering something he shouldn’t be. He exhaled sharply through his nose, a breath that almost sounded like a laugh but carried no humor, just tension.

“Yeah?” His voice was softer now, quieter like he was testing the waters, like he was trying to figure out how far this would go before one of you came to your senses.

Your lips parted, but no words came. Your throat felt tight, your skin burning where his gaze traced. You felt like you were standing on the edge of something vast, something that couldn’t be undone.

His fingers tapped once, twice against the desk, a steady rhythm that contradicted the barely concealed restraint in his posture. His body language told two different stories, one of hesitation, and another of inevitability. He was too close, and yet he wasn’t moving away.

Your breath hitched as he shifted, his body angling just slightly towards yours. It was a minuscule movement, one that could’ve been mistaken for a simple change in weight, but you knew better. It was deliberate. Calculated.

“You want to pass this class?”

The question was a mere whisper, his voice dipped in something that made your stomach twist. Your throat bobbed as you swallowed, nodding, too fast, too eager.

His lips twitched, almost smirking like he knew exactly what he was doing to you. He leaned in just enough that you caught the faint scent of his cologne, something dark and musky, something entirely him.

“Then you’re gonna have to focus.”

The way he said it—low, deliberate—sent a shiver down your spine. His words weren’t inappropriate, but the way he looked at you, the way his voice wrapped around each syllable, made them feel like something else entirely.

Your knees felt weak, your heart pounding against your ribcage as your grip tightened around the strap of your bag. The classroom, once suffocating in its quiet, now felt electric, charged with a current that neither of you dared acknowledge aloud.

Rafe exhaled again, this time slower, measured. His hand moved, not towards you, not touching, but close enough that you felt the shift in air between you.

“You’re nervous.”

It wasn’t a question.

Your breath shuddered. “I—”

His head tilted slightly, watching, waiting. His pupils were blown wide, his expression unreadable but entirely focused on you.

His jaw ticked, his fingers twitching at his side like he was fighting something. A beat of silence stretched between you.

And then, Rafe moved.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t forceful. It was a slow descent, a moment stretched into eternity. His lips hovered just above yours, close enough that you felt the ghost of his breath against your skin, close enough that your lips parted in anticipation before your mind could catch up.

He paused—just for a fraction of a second, just enough to give you the chance to pull away. Just enough to make it clear that if this happened, it was your choice, too.

But you didn’t move away.

Neither did he.

And before you could let a single other breath out, his lips met yours.

Soft at first. Testing. A barely-there brush that sent a sharp current through your veins, igniting something dangerous and uncontainable in your chest.

He exhaled against your mouth, and in that moment it seemed like something in him snapped.

His hand found your waist, fingers splaying against the fabric of your cardigan as he pulled you just slightly closer. His other hand lifted, skimming along your jaw before his fingers tangled in your hair, tilting your head just so.

The kiss deepened, slow but demanding, every movement deliberate, every touch igniting another spark beneath your skin. He wasn’t rushing—no, he was savoring, taking his time like he wanted to memorize the exact way you fit against him. He knew this was a mistake but couldn’t bring himself to care.

Your hands found his chest, pressing lightly against the fabric of his dress shirt, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath beneath your palms. His fingers tightened slightly in your hair at the contact, his grip on your waist firm but careful, as if he was anchoring himself as much as he was anchoring you.

The sharp sound of footsteps in the hallway shattered the fragile haze that had settled between you two, yanking you both back into reality.

Rafe was the first to react, pulling away, but only just. His forehead remained pressed against yours, his breath still ragged, chest rising and falling in sync with yours. His fingers, warm and possessive, lingered at your waist a second too long before he finally, finally, let go, stepping back just enough to put a sliver of space between you. But not enough to erase what had just happened.

His eyes searched yours, dark blue depths swirling with something unreadable, something dangerous. His exhale was sharp, tension coiling through his jaw as he dragged a hand through his hair, his fingers gripping at the strands like he was trying to ground himself.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, voice rough and uneven. Then, with more force, “Fuck. Fuck.”

His eyes shut tight, his head shaking in frustration as if the motion itself could erase the last few minutes. When they opened again, they were filled with something even more intense. In two strides, he was in front of you again, his hands gripping your upper arms, fingertips pressing just a little too hard, just enough to make you feel trapped between the heat of his body and the reality of the situation.

“This didn’t happen, okay?” His voice was firm, but there was a slight tremor to it like he wasn’t sure if he believed the words himself. His grip tightened before loosening again, as if he was at war with himself as if he didn’t trust his restraint.

You didn’t answer. You just stared at him, your pulse thrumming wildly, your breath uneven. His eyes flickered down to your parted lips, then back to your eyes, and something in him cracked. His hands slid down your arms in a slow, deliberate motion, his touch leaving a trail of heat in its wake. When his fingertips finally settled at your hipbones, pressing in lightly, his resolve wavered even more.

“This…” he exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “I don’t know.”

His voice was different now, lower, more raw. His fingers traced absent patterns along the fabric of your skirt as his mind spiraled, thoughts tumbling into a chaotic storm. Why was he doing this? This wasn’t like him. He had met you, his student, his goddamn student, less than an hour ago, and he had already crossed every possible line. And yet, even knowing that he wasn’t pulling away. He was moving closer.

His hands ghosted up your sides, the touch sending shivers across your skin. His lips brushed against your ear as he whispered, “Don’t tell anyone. Can you do that for me?”

If someone had asked you that morning how you thought your first day of senior year would go, never in a million years would you have said this? Sure, you’d heard the whispers in the halls, and seen the way every girl’s eyes lingered when he walked past. Mr. Cameron was the forbidden fantasy, the subject of countless rumors and stolen glances. But he was also your teacher. And he had just kissed you.

You knew it was wrong. You should run, tell someone, do the right thing. And yet, as your mind battled between logic and desire, only one thought rose above the rest: he had kissed you.

Mr. Cameron, the man every girl in school lusted after, had kissed you. Had he done this before? Had he chosen others before you? Or was this different?

Even as doubt twisted itself into a tight knot in your stomach, you found yourself nodding, unable to speak, afraid your voice would betray you with the high-pitched, breathy sound of a girl who had just been touched by fire and didn’t want to step away.

“Good.”

His voice was barely a whisper, almost more breath than sound. The tension in the room grew, thick and suffocating, but you didn’t want to breathe anything else in. His fingers glided upward again, teasing over your waist, grazing over your ribs, leaving a trail of heat that made your entire body burn with anticipation.

Then, gently, with a tenderness that contradicted the fevered hunger in his eyes, he cupped your face. For one impossible moment, you thought he was going to kiss you again, that he was going to throw every bit of logic and control out the window and claim your lips as he had minutes ago. But instead, he tilted your head slightly, his breath warm against your throat.

Then his lips were on your neck, barely touching, soft and slow.

A sound, something between a gasp and a whimper, escaped you, and his hands tightened ever so slightly, grounding you, making you feel small under his grasp. His mouth moved lower, pressing another kiss, and then another, each one more deliberate, more intoxicating than the last.

You barely registered the moment he turned you around, your back now facing him. Your hands trembled as they found purchase against the smooth surface of his desk, the dark wood cool beneath your fingertips.

Then, with the kind of confidence that sent a shiver racing down your spine, he placed his hands on your thighs, massaging them slowly, possessively.

His voice, low and dripping with something dark and dangerous, ghosted over your ear.

“Stay quiet for me.”

You sucked in a deep, long breath, letting your head fall and your eyes close.

The feel of the Rafe´s fingers slid under the skirt and the pads of his fingers started tracing along your panties, each tiny motion making your body stutter and tremble.

“You´re… you´re real special, you know that?” He spoke from behind you but you couldn’t respond, still holding your breath as if letting out the air would make the situation you found yourself in truly real.

When he had had enough of feeling the warm, twisted feeling in his stomach as he let his fingers glide over your clothed cunt, he pushed your underwear aside with his thumb, letting the tip of his index finger dip into your already quivering hole. The action intensified the feeling and buried it even deeper in his gut.

As if a shock of lightning had hit you, you bolted away from his hand a few inches, clenching your thighs tightly as you finally relieved your lungs of the air they were keeping trapped.

“M- Mr. Cameron…” You started to sputter out but stopped when you felt long, gruff fingers curl around the sides of your panties before pulling the black lace material down tantalizingly slow.

A cold rush of air hit your most intimate body part, making you gasp and pant. When you heard rustling and what you could only assume was the clink of your teacher´s belt, you shut your mouth and froze as you waited for the man´s next move.

“Listen,” he whispered your name like it was a sin he committed and you were a pastor, “You understand that this stays between us, yes?” His large hands massaged your ass and thighs, cursing under his breath when he saw how soaked you were.

“Mhm,” you hummed in agreement. You weren´t sure why. He was your teacher and by the looks of it and the feel of his hands on you, apparently a pedophile. But god did you want this; you wanted it, him, so bad.

Before you could so much as even let another thought pass through your head, he thrust forward, burying his cock inside you as deep as he could with multiple rapid movements of his hips. You moaned and practically screamed, the sounds of pleasure from you making Rafe reach around and cover practically half of your entire face.

“Fuck, you´re so tight,” he muttered sharply next to your ear as he started moving inside of you again, dragging his hips back only to snap them back forward less than a moment later.

“You like that, huh? Like being fucked by your teacher. Little teachers pet.”

He knew this was wrong, you were his student, and you probably didn´t even actually want this but for some fucked up reason that made it even better for Rafe, and as the thought crossed his mind it only made him thrust into you faster. At that point, you were damn near choking and sobbing into his hand, his palm making it hard for you to get a deep breath of fresh air in.

With a sense of panic taking over you, you tried to move your hands off of the desk to claw him off of your face but your attempts proved futile when Rafe pushed you flat onto the desk, forcing you to take his cock even deeper.

His free hand which wasn´t taking away your ability to breathe, found its way between your legs, his index, and middle fingers drawing squiggly circles on your clit. At the shock of pleasure that ran through you as he teased your extremely sensitive bundle of nerves, you clenched around his pipe and arched your back. You felt that familiar coil spring up in the depths of your stomach, your body rocking slightly backward against Rafe´s to help you relive the press soon.

Rafe pushed into you harder than he had any of the other time before then, hitting your sweet spot with a force that would have made you cry out, had you had your mouth free. His fingers applied pressure to the shapes they were making on your clit. The mix of heightened attention and force made your pussy squeeze around him and pushed you over the edge, coming with tears in your eyes.

After a few more brutal thrusts into your soppy cunt, he came as well, unloading into you, his thoughts barely registering anything at that point except for you and your body bent over his desk, his cum dripping out of your used up hole and onto your thighs.

Slowly he took away his hand from your face, a trail of spit following. As soon as you got a few much-needed breaths, you collapsed onto the desk, your body falling limp. Rafe pulled out of you, not wasting any time before he pulled his pants back on and redid his leather belt around his hips. He leaned over you, his body covering all of your sweaty skin as he dressed you in your underwear again.

“You did so good, darling. So, so good."

3K notes · View notes

pedgito · 4 months ago

Text

𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑𝐒 | Joel Miller x reader

part one– summary | Two strangers and their internal loneliness attract like magnets. Joel is at a loss, stuck—and you are alone, terrified. In the forced, shared space you find that distraction was the easiest way to cope.

content warning | dddne — DUBCON (this is an ongoing theme for a while), coercion, selective mutism on readers behalf, graphic depictions of violence, injury tw, not quite kidnapping/stockholm but reader has nowhere to go, brief mentions of pregnancy (like literally one line), mentions of starvation due to food scarcity but appearances isn't deeply described, mentions of sa and other relating themes, mean!joel, girthy age gap (reader is 20, joel is 54), joel is riddled with guilt but what's new amirite, oral (m receiving), unprotected piv and creampies, if i missed anything please let me know!

author's note: guys this has been sitting in my drafts finished for almost a year and this new picture has sparked a fucking fire in my docs over this series (another one? yeah i know), this is probably the heaviest thing (for me) i have ever written? so just, be warned. i don't have a timeline for this, i'm literally just vibing it out as i am with most fics lately and if you see a tag you don't like. don't read. you're responsible for the work you consume. a full list of triggers/warning can be found on the masterlist.

word count —10k

part two | part three | strangers masterlist

“She’s a stray, look at her.”

Two pairs of eyes stare back, across the dimly lit room. You’re curled up in the chair, thick leather coat lined with wool draping your shoulders and your toes curled around the edge of the seat, hands balled up near your chest as you savor the warmth.

It was the first time in a month that you’ve seen a fire—sure, you’ve tried to build one. But, you never quite got it and usually ended up burning yourself in the process and added onto the litany of other scars left as memories and reminders on your skin.

Survival—while you weren’t good at it, you did what you had to. Pure, primal instinct. Find shelter, find food, get safe. Don’t die.

Your nose was bloody, lips chapped and cracking, running on a few hours of sleep over the last several days. Place to place, you had to keep running. If you didn’t, they would catch you, surely.

Your muscles ache as they had a moment to relax, legs sore from walking miles and miles, the lingering cuts and scabs that hadn’t healed from your own clumsiness and a mix of being at the end of a blade of a man with too much pride to allow you to damper the moment.

You licked your lips and your eyes flitted away, staring out the window and counting the string of illuminated, plastic orbs hanging on the house across from the one you were currently being interrogated in—the men were still looking at you. Your outer stoic expression hid away the trembling fear you kept inside. They were waiting for you to speak.

That never came.

“You got a name?”

You shake your head, eyes quickly averting in a different direction.

The two men were similar in build—tall and stocky, large and filled out bodies built of muscle and years of hard labor, older based on the grays littering their well-kempt hair and trimmed beards. One has hair that curls just beyond his ears, a warmer brown than the other mans.

They both pull the same expression—complete and utter confusion.

Nearly identical. Oh, they’re brothers.

If not, they sure did bicker like it.

“She’s pullin’ our fuckin’ leg, Tommy.”

Your ears perk up, assigning the name to a face. He seemed softer than the other man, less weathered and guilt-ridden. It wasn’t like you knew anything about these men, but you’ve learned to identify as much as you could within a couple looks.

Figure them out.

What do they want? What can you give them?

Tommy rounds the table separating you from him, a safe, protective distance as he presses his palm into the chair pushed under the table, fingers curling around the top.

“Listen, you’ve gotta give us something.” Tommy explains, “Given the shape of you, I’m tryin’ to avoid the whole vetting process we go through. We don’t take kindly to raiders or tricks or people looking to cause trouble.”

“We ain’t even got space for her—”

Tommy holds his hand up to the other man, eyes still locked on you.

“Look at me,” His voice is solid, demanding.

But, he’s not yelling. You turn meekly, gripping for the jacket when it slips from your shoulders. Your clothes were torn, jagged edges barely hanging on in some places. Garments soiled and unwashed for weeks and god—you fucking reek. You can smell it, you know they can smell it.

You were a stray feral cat that had scurried up to their doorstep and passed out from exhaustion and while one was attempting to take pity, the other was ready to crush your skull under the weight of his boot.

“Can you talk?” He asks, eyebrows raising slightly in question.

Your tongue rolls against the front of your teeth and you switch your gaze between the two men before shaking your head, a barely noticeable gesture if they hadn’t been staring you down.

You were being truthful—you couldn’t speak. It wasn’t like you’d had your tongue cut out and were ridden with the choice, but quiet has been the only thing that has ever brought you peace.

Familiar phrases echo loudly in your mind.

Don’t speak, be a good girl.

Seen, not heard.

Speak and I will rip your fucking tongue out.

So, no—you can’t talk.

“We’ve got families comin’ in—men and women that are willing to be a hell of a lot more cooperative than this—”

“Joel,” Tommy warns with a voice that shakes the room, causing you to jerk in response and this time he is holding his hand out to you, palm raised as if to ease you down, “we can give her a fair chance, just like we do the others. Grab a piece of paper and pencil,” He points toward a desk tucked against a far wall and Joel's heavy boot stomps follow Tommy’s orders before he’s returning, slapping the items back down on the table and taking a similar stance to Tommy.

You were sandwiched between the two men as they surrounded you, shaking as you took the pencil in your hand and gripped it, fumbling for the paper as you used your fingertips to drag it close.

“Where did you come from?” Tommy asks.

You remember the dark room, chains and screams—blood-curdling screams. One meal a day, if you are good. Constant pacing in the halls, a building in the city holding a much darker secret in the quarantine zone you had been kidnapped and forced to take home in.

Bad place, you write in sloppy handwriting.

Tommy leans to look and his brow furrows, subverting toward Joel who shakes his head at you.

“No—state, city. Anything. Bad place ain’t gonna cut it, kid.”

Kid.

They’ve never called you a kid before.

Men like him—he wasn’t them, but they all start to look the same after a while.

Salt Lake? Old QZ in the city.

Joel knows that place had crumbled years ago and quarantine zones were nearly non-existent now. Taken up by people trying to start anew, much like Jackson, but more often than not it was raiders—the filthy kind of people who took without asking and killed first, asked questions never.

He couldn’t blame them, but the handful of years in Jackson has taught him a new approach. It wasn’t his favorite, but it allowed him to sleep easier at night, usually.

“You left on your own?” Joel asks, speaking before Tommy could, likely ready to ask the same question. His insipid tone makes your skin crawl.

You chewed at your bottom lip and your eyelashes touched your cheeks in a flurry of blinks as you scribbled out the one word onto the paper.

Escaped.

The alarm is immediate, Joel’s head snapping up as you push the paper toward the middle of the table and allow the pencil to roll with it.

“Tommy, can I speak to you for a minute?” Joel’s voice is harsh, not nearly the question he posed it as.

Tommy rolls his shoulders and walks around the back of your chair, following Joel into the hallway, hushed voices shocking the tension back into your body as you curl into yourself, crossing your arms over your chest and allowing your eyes to scan the room.

Memorize, categorize—this was one of the men’s houses, of whom you weren’t sure for the moment.

But, it was stocked with personal items and supplies, a bassinet shoved away in the living room and as you turned that way you noticed a pair of eyes peek around the doorframe leading that way.

A girl, young—not much younger than yourself but she is noticeably more child-like, curious.

Her shoes squeak against the hardwood startling you both and suddenly Joel is reentering the room and directing his voice toward her.

“Go on home,” He speaks to her, his expression washed-out and tired, “don’t linger ‘round here, kiddo.”

“I’m the one who found her,” She seems to take an angle of defense, coming into view. Clothes that hung off her body, not well-fitting and clearly second hand but more intact than your own, “I was on watchtower duty with Dina—”

“Ellie, this doesn’t concern you.”

Ellie rolls her eyes, walking closer regardless of Joel’s words and tossing a knife on the table.

Your knife—the black-handled switchblade closed shut. It still had old, dried blood caked on the handle. It could have been your own, but that was just a lucky guess. That thing had been your lifeline for weeks, moments away from a terrible night of near starvation or a desperate attack on you, it helped keep you safe.

You instinctively reach for it but Joel is quick—unnaturally, as he curls it into his hand and gives you a look of warning.

“This,” He holds it up, the switchblade dwarfed between his large, calloused fingers, “ain’t yours.”

Your lips pull into a thin line, eyes falling to the floor.

Tommy’s tongue clicks against his cheek as he rounds the corner, fingers rubbing at his chin as he paces, his face deep in thought and contemplation as he back steps toward the edge of the table near you, leaning into it and crossing one foot over the other. His hands are tucked away in his pockets.

“That place you escaped—” He looks up toward Joel briefly before his gaze lands on you again, “they gonna come lookin?”

You could tell the truth—you weren’t sure.

You weren’t the only girl that was locked away in the central tower of that city, the only person who was being used so inhumanely for the needs of others in the most heinous of ways.

Selfish, sick and demented, men who got off on that desperate need for power and control.

So, instead and out of self-preservation, you lie.

Shaking your head, Tommy takes a small breath and nods.

“Alright—I’m trustin’ you. Still, we’ll beef up security for a bit, and add a few extra patrols. You need a place to stay and we’re gonna give you that. But, we got rules.”

“Rule number one–you earn this,” Joel holds up the knife again before it’s tucked away in his pocket for safekeeping. Your eyes drag toward his pocket, staring daggers into the material.

“You earn your keep—I’m going to give you some time to settle, but eventually we’re going to assign you to a station. You work or you leave, there’s no other way about it.” Tommy continues, “And while I’m more inclined to give you a space of your own, we’re all full up singles and giving you a townhome…well, I’m not so sure that is the best idea.”

You weren’t going to argue—not that you had the will to speak up for yourself now, not when both of their presence were so oppressive. You nod obediently and look over at Joel who is still lingering, like an ugly guard dog ready to bare his teeth at a moment’s notice.

“I’d keep you here, but with my situation I’m not putting anything at risk,” Tommy says and you suddenly realize that this was his home. You weren’t that slow-witted. He had a family, something you were never familiar with.

But, you understood.

“So, you’ll be staying with Joel.”

It clearly wasn’t his choice, based on the way his teeth clench, jaw flexing as he crossed his arms, fabric stretching over broad shoulders and thick, muscled biceps. His piercing gaze makes you shrink into your chair, if that were possible.

Your nose scrunches slightly, in a faint show of disgust but you quickly collect yourself.

“I’m also gonna suggest you see our doctor, get those bruises checked out. Make sure you don’t have any broken bones and they can stitch up any—”

It forces you into a panic, heart beating rapidly in your chest as the jacket drops from your shoulders, fingers reaching out to wrap around Tommy’s wrist—and, like you had suspected, Joel is quick to grab at your own wrist, ready to tackle you to the ground. It wouldn’t take much given your size difference—he was just...massive, threatening in a way you've never felt. Joel could snap you like a twig, but his restraint is there.

Tommy notices the panic in your eyes—you weren’t trying to attack. You were attempting to communicate in a moment of worry, he nodded and waved Joel off, prying your hand from his arm gently and placing it against your knee.

“Alright, no doctor.” Tommy settles, “For now.”

You slump back and blink away the burning sting of tears that filed your eyes.

“Get her settled in,” He tells Joel, “make sure she eats.”

Joel doesn’t nod, but he moves, backing out of your way and giving you space.

You move slowly, shaking the jacket off your shoulders before Tommy is shaking his head and grabbing hold of the lapel, pulling it back up. You jerky slightly, averting your body from his sudden touch.

“Sorry–just…keep it,” Tommy tells you—it was a look of pure pity, his eyes softening around the naturally hard edges, “I’ll have my wife go searching for some clothes tomorrow, get you out of those and into something clean and better fitting.”

You follow behind Joel to the door, a careful distance as you linger, bracing yourself for the cold crunch of snow under your bare feet.

“And brother,” Tommy calls out—there it was. Joel twists the knob and looks over his shoulder, “don’t go scaring her more than she already is.”

You weren’t sure if it was even possible to feel true fear anymore.

The walk is short, but painful. Small winces that get caught in your throat as you quicken your pace to keep up with Joel, a slight limp to your walk from the bruising on your ribs and the tinge of pain in your hips and pelvis—your body has relaxed for too long, it felt brittle.

You hurt all over, but lately, you could will it all to go numb if you tried hard enough. Disconnect, disassociate, and disappear from your own body.

Eventually, you do meet his front door and you’re enveloped with warmth in a matter of seconds, making your way inside hesitantly as Joel holds the door open. He hadn’t spoken a word since you left the other house, fingers gripping hard on the pair of gloves tucked into his left hand. You look around curiously, the house shrouded in darkness aside from the fireplace ignited and crackling in the far room to your left. Joel moves quietly behind you, placing his belongings on the kitchen counter, but the switchblade is still tucked away in his front pocket, you know that much.

He plucks at a note folded under a magnet on the fridge, reading it to himself silently.

“Come on, kiddo,” He mumbles to himself, realizing it must be from the girl—sounding exasperated as he balls up the paper and tosses it in the trash. He favored that word, but you can’t tell if it’s just a habit.

You weren’t a kid, not even close. It felt patronizing when it was aimed your way.

He eyes you carefully, sighing as he presses a hand against the kitchen counter.

“I’m settin’ you up in the basement—none of the other rooms are in good enough condition.” Joel explains, speaking to you in the most civil way he has all night, “nothin’ is off limits except my room. And Ellie’s. She’s out back but you don’t get to go snoopin’ around. Got it?”

You shrug the jacket off but hold it close to your chest, arms crossing over each other as you hug the thick material. You nod slowly.

“Really, nothing?” Joel asks.

All it takes is a look, eyes bleary and sorrowful.

“Go on,” He nods, “there’s a bed down there, a shower, a change of clothes—”

You quickly scurry off, overwhelmed by the intensity of his unwavering gaze and the sound of his voice as it becomes more and more muffled the deeper you trek down the stairs, careful steps on your torn up feet, he seems to finally give up when your feet hit the concrete floor.

It’s still warm here, but not nearly as much. A small rectangular window sits right above the old bed, a mattress on a rusted metal frame that looked like it barely had any life left in it. But, it was an actual bed. Not boxes and a bedsheet, a makeshift pillow made from your dirtied clothes to give the ache in your neck some much needed relief.

There was a small room in the corner, a bathroom that barely managed to fit the necessities you needed—but it was still something. A shower, a toilet, a sink. A mirror that you couldn’t even bother to look in, making your way around the room you find the stack of clean clothes and towels on the coffee table in front of a worn couch, threads pulling apart at the seams on the arms.

You crouch, despite the screaming protest from your body and sift through the pile. A clean shirt, a clean pair of sweats. Underwear—you haven’t had the luxury of clean undergarments in months, often finding that going without was easier. A lump burns in your throat.

You move slowly, tucking the jacket over the edges of the mirror to cover it and placing the clothes on the closed toilet seat as you struggle for a few minutes to figure out the shower, jolting at the touch of hot water when it shoots out from the spout above.

You strip carefully, shirt pulled over your head with a small wince before your fingers are dipping into the waistband of your bottoms, slipping them down your hips and allowing them to drop silently to the floor before you step out of them—the moment the water touches your skin you regret it, the dirtied water pooling at your feet.

You cry, sob under the spray of water and scrub away every inch of dirt and grime and blood from your body–it hurts, it fucking hurts but you can’t find it in you to stop. You could scrub the skin raw, open up old wounds and make the fresh ones worse, but you’ll settle for red and welted skin. A mix of re-opened gashes and cuts flushed out by the stream of water and your maniacal scrubbing, but at least you didn’t smell like the stench of your own bodily fluids and weeks of built up dirt on your skin, nights of sleeping on wet ground in the woods.

There is a moment of running your fingers through your hair that feels nice, hair still slightly matted from the lack of care but it feels cleaner, as much as you could manage before your arms gave out from exhaustion. You savor the warmth until the water runs cold, heavy footsteps above you shaking the dust from the ceilings.

Right. You’re not alone. Not anymore.

But, that didn’t bring you comfort either.

You turn off the water and reach for the towel, allowing yourself to get dressed at a careful pace—they must be Joel’s clothes, a plain white shirt that was soft to the touch but clearly worn and a pair of black sweats that had seen better days, the color warped and faded. You manage to slip the socks of your feet with one stumble, hand pressing against the sink to catch yourself.

The jacket remains hung and you flick off the light before taking space on the bed, palms pressed out against the clean, linen sheet, the comforter tucked away against the wall as you laid down, body protesting the entire way.

Eyes squeezed shut, you grit your teeth and pull the comforter over your shoulders.

You try to sleep that night, but it is futile. The light hanging above your bed flickers occasionally—every fifteen minutes to be exact, it had done it thirty two times that night.

–

It never fails—just as you feel yourself drifting off every early morning, Joel is awaking you with the sound of his heavy footsteps and a bag of food. Sometimes a tray or plate. It varied.

You’ve been here three full days now, not counting the night they had taken you in.

You hadn’t left the room, hadn’t asked for a single thing.

Joel was starting to believe that your tongue was cut out—that you were robbed of the ability to speak entirely, but he knows that isn’t the case when he watches your tongue peek out as you take a bite of the scrambled eggs he had grabbed from the town dining hall for you.

You haven’t seen an authentic plate of food in months, and with proper silverware—having half the mind to dig in with your hands before Joel passes you the fork. It was real, warm food. Your stomach growled with greed as you shoveled the food into your mouth quietly.

Joel watches you with a strange look, not with judgment but a genuine curiosity that he doesn’t act on with questions or crude statements. He waits until you're done, leaning against the door that leads to the rest of the house, only coming near when you press the plate to the floor with a soft clang.

And it continues like that for a couple days—occasional Joel will bring more than food; a book, a magazine, a set of cards. He never explicitly acknowledges the items, but he does leaves it behind. You can’t bring yourself to leave the room, in fear of what you faced outside of here. Even just a few steps into Joel’s kitchen and it made your stomach twist and the bile stir.

Sometimes the food comes in only paper bags, a few at a time and things that didn’t need to be kept cold because when Joel had to go away on patrol he couldn’t watch over you, even if he felt the need to.

He wasn’t sure if you were going to try and make a break for it, escape over the walls.

He wouldn’t stop you, wouldn’t blame you either. But, the state you're in, he can’t see you surviving more than a day. Bruises were healing, cuts were scabbed up and scarred over. He never tended to your wounds, always allowed you to do that on your own. At least, he assumed you were. You’ve learned to not scamper away as much, taking things from him with minimal contact and a small nod, sometimes allowing a small gesture of thanks with a hand on your chin that you bring downwards.

Joel only scowls his brow and looks at you confused.

“You stink.” Joel says one day, out of the blue over dinner as he watched by the doorway.

You stop chewing mid-bite and look at him.

“Have you showered at all since the first day?”

Impishly you look away toward the bathroom.

It felt selfish, to overuse the hot water and indulge in the pleasure of the heat—always used to cold showers and the bare minimum of scrubbing yourself down in thirty seconds. It was routine: in, wash, out. There was no enjoyment.

You shake your head after a while and push your plate aside, feeling your stomach turn.

“Go,” He nods as he steps toward you, swiping up the plate in his right hand and leading the way toward the bathroom, noting the way the coat was still hung over the mirror. He doesn’t comment on it, but he nods his head in the direction of the shower.

You look at him slightly unsure, “If I have to force you in there I will,” He says, but there isn’t any real bite behind, although the look in his eyes tells a different story, “there’s plenty of hot water, use it.”

But…

The word lingers in your head.

“I’ll have Ellie grab you some new clothes, somethin’ that fits better.” Joel tells you, “Just get in the goddamn shower.”

You brush past him quietly, beginning to undress yourself without warning which alarms Joel.

“Oh—well, shit. I mean after I left.” Joel turns away and his descending footsteps eventually fade and despite how hard it is to get your body to work, or even move, you shower.

You grab the unused towel hanging over the barely clinging metal rack nailed into the wall, wrapping it around your body securely, bare feet pressing against the ground and for the first time in a while, it doesn’t hurt. It’s sore, but it doesn’t sting as harshly as it did.

There’s a suspicious lack of clothing—your dirty ones nowhere in sight, no clean ones either. In fact, the room was practically bare of all trash and old clothing. You ignore the dull pain at your hip, a wound still on the mend and step around the corner of the doorway carefully and hear the sound of footsteps above you, the soft hum of voices until one fades, a door closing following in the wake of the newly discovered sounds.

The door is open. Joel left the door open.

You stop several feet away, staring out into the hallway, the house was dim aside from the bright glow of flames burning in the fireplace. You feel so strongly to run toward the door and slam it closed, clamber back into bed—fearful that if you left the room then this bubble of safety and protection would be broken. But, there was the small voice in the back of your mind screaming to take a step forward, and then another, until your fingers were lingering over the doorknob and pushing it open further.

You take a step out, only to be met with the chest of someone else running into your arm clutching at the towel wrapped around your body—it couldn’t be anyone but Joel, and of course, you’re right.

He’s staring at you emotionless, aside from the subtle acknowledgment that you had listened to him.

“Got you a couple sets—something to sleep in, something to wear during the day.”

He doesn’t elaborate, handing the clothes over into your empty hand. You’re halfway in the process of dropping your towel before Joel’s hand is wrapping around your wrist, forcing you to stop.

“Stop doin’ that,” Joel commands, nodding toward the bathroom behind you, peeking over your shoulder in that direction before looking back at him with wide, startled eyes, “privacy—do you understand that?” His voice is slow, almost patronizing.

Privacy wasn’t lost on you—but it had long been a foreign concept.

You nod.

“Then go, get dressed.” He reprimands, pointing down the hall, a different bathroom then you’ve seen before.

You scurry away with the clothes clutched to your chest, catching a quick glimpse of yourself in the mirror as you step inside the room—it was startling, having not seen your appearances in weeks, days and days of constant guessing, wondering how the time starved in the Wyoming forest had damaged you.

Physically, mentally, emotionally.

It had taken a toll and it was even more visible than you expected.

You looked rundown, eyes tired and sorrowful. It was pathetic. You tried not to linger for long, noting the appearance of your body and moving on—having to look back at yourself in the mirror was far worse than being attached to it.

The clothes Joel gave you were thin, fleece pajamas that felt soft to the touch and kind against your still sensitive skin. You exit the bathroom quietly and Joel is nowhere to be found in your immediate vicinity, half-expecting him to be waiting outside the bathroom door. You edge back toward the basement door before you spot him on the couch in the living room, the back of his head and broad, stocky shoulders the only glimpse of him you have.

He seems relaxed, staring off into space as he looks down.

You don’t know where the pull comes from, but it wraps around the ache in your chest and pulls you closer, toward him. The creak in the floorboard gives you away.

“Don’t sneak around,” Joel says, “makes people anxious ‘round here.”

Makes him anxious, clearly.

After a moment of silence, he extends the invitation to join him.

“If you’re cold, sit—got room if you want to sit somewhere closer to the fire.”

He did have quite the sizable living room, a couple couches and a few arm chairs surrounding the otherwise bare living space.

You can see the softness on his face under this light, his eyes drawing up to look at you while his head is still tilted down, his hands rubbing away at his stiff knuckle joints. He keeps flicking his eyes between the two—his hands, you, then back again.

If he has something he wants to ask, he doesn’t.

You’re silent as you avoid each piece of furniture all together and quietly make your way between his outstretched legs, a perfect place to tuck yourself between as you kneel.

Thank him, he deserves it.

He didn’t strike you as a shy man, but you’ve done this plenty of times before—it was really no different, but this was more of a silent offer than the usual demands you were faced with.

Joel doesn’t move right away, doesn’t even react.

Until you touch him, your hands gliding over his knees, his thighs, leaning forward to nuzzle your face against his thigh as you pull at his zipper—again, his fingers wrap around your wrist. But, no words follow. You make eye contact with him then, feeling at your most confident and bold when he looks so worried, frightened—the deep feeling of intrigue buried underneath it all.

You pull away from his grip and wrap your fingers around his waistband, pulling slowly until he moves, wordlessly he responds by using his thumbs to push his jeans far enough down that you can comfortably press your hands over the obvious bulge in his boxers—it wasn’t hard or straining, but the touch of your hand against his cock had it growing to that point quickly, his eyes downcast and half-lidded.

It was like he didn’t want to look, but couldn’t look away. You took it in stride and pulled at his boxers until you could tug his cock free of the confines, watching it spring up against his stomach—thick in every sense of the word and large, much more than any man who’s ever claimed you. Pretty, almost, if you could consider it that. He’s well-kempt and clean which was nice, unusual given the time you lived in now. More importantly, you feel your mouth watering at the prospect of taking him inside, pressing your tongue flat against the tip and swallowing him down.

That has never happened before.

You settled between his legs more comfortably, raising up on scabbed up knees and dragging your fingers delicately along the shaft and down to his balls, watching them tighten at the attention you showed before you’re leaning down to take his cock into your mouth without much of a warning. Joel shifts slightly and you ancitpate him to push you away.

But, really, you just wanted to thank him. It was the only way you’ve learned how.

He breathes out softly, the first sound you’ve heard since you touched him.

You drag your tongue from base to tip, hand pressed his cock flat against it as you circle around the tip before dipping back down, slipping back into the motions so easily it feels mind-numbing.

Your eyes flutter as you force yourself to take him as deep as possible, nearly gagging before you pull away, catching a slight glimpse of him behind bleary, wet eyes.

His own are wild, hands pressed flat against the cushion, mouth only slightly ajar. But, he won’t look at you. Only the action, your hand wrapped around his shaft, the other pressed against his thigh and he fights off that urge to touch you, tilting his head back against the couch as you continue with a sudden fervor you didn’t have before.

You bob effortlessly, taking him just near the point of impossible before you’re pulling away, repeating that until you can feel that faint throb, that familiar pulse as his balls tighten with his impending orgasm and just as he reaches for your hair, ready to pull you away, you fight against it. He comes in your mouth with a low groan, gripping onto the surface of the couch in desperation.

When the pulsing finally calms you pull away, wiping at your mouth with the back of your hand and standing slowly, adjusting your clothes where they had shifted out of place slightly before taking a silent seat on the couch beside him, laying down and curling up into yourself.

You hear the dull sounds of him readjusting his pants, zipping them, shuffling slightly as he clears his throat and suddenly there is a throw being draped over you—a soft, sherpa lined blanket that immediately bathes you in warmth.

Joel catches your gaze as you blink up at him, pausing briefly to acknowledge how lost you seem—in need of guidance. It settles in him then, dawns on his mind that this was what you were used to, wherever you had escaped from was far worse than anything he’s ever suspected. He tucks the blanket in gently and double checks the locks on the door. You’re already asleep by the time he passes by, leaning over the back of the couch to check on you.

Joel feels the guilt creep in slowly.

He should have stopped, he knows he should have. But, he didn’t.

Why? He couldn’t explain it.

The walk to his bedroom seems miles away and when he finally reaches it he’s closing the door with a dignified sigh, immediately making his way toward the en-suite bathroom and undressing his clothes—it was his second shower that day but he didn’t give a shit.

He needed a moment to reconvene in his mind…or escape.

Really, he just needed a distraction. It was selfish need.

The clothes pile up on the tile floor as he turns on the water, the stream shooting out of the shower head in quick spurts before it levels out and Joel steps inside, head first as the water soaks his hair, face, traveling down his body.

It wasn’t the first time he’s allowed his hand to travel to his cock within the privacy of this bathroom—a man with no one to keep his bed warm at night, or morning–or ever, really. He’s learned to cope, release some of the built up anger and frustration even if for a brief moment.

But, this was different. Because the only thing he could think of was you. The meek looks you offered, dumb-founded and lost, like a young gazelle lost in the woods. He can only imagine, suspect what you’ve been through, but the look you had given him while you took him into your mouth was something Joel couldn’t describe.

There was no clear acknowledgement, no hard line of yes and no. The lines were blurred and he doesn’t know why, but he was okay with it for a moment. Truly, you’d had all the power in the moment anyways—Joel was helpless under the touch of your mouth, a goner the second your hand touched his skin.

He tugs at his cock lazily and with no real purpose, knowing if he tried to come again so soon it wouldn’t happen, but for the brief moment of peace, he imagines you there, kneeling before him with the spray of water over your face and his cock buried in your mouth, puffing out your cheeks and how you would be so willing to do whatever he’d ask.

Obedience—that was the one thing that stuck out. You always listened when he spoke.

He could help you, he thinks. Heal you.

Or, he would fuck up and make it far worse.

He wasn’t sure if it was even worth the trouble.

The next morning you wake to the startling clang of pans behind you, shooting upright on the couch and snapping your head toward the kitchen to catch a glimpse of Joel’s back, shoulder blades stretched and outlined under the thin material of his shirt, clinging to his back snuggly. There’s a savory smell that breaches your nose–meat, potatoes, something of a near feast as you spot the few plates on the table stacked with various other foods.

Joel seems to sense your eyes, turning his body slightly to look behind him and your gaze quickly averting down, playing with a loose thread on the blanket as he plates the remaining food.

“Beginning of the month,” Joel explains, “usually the only time we get to eat like this.”

Joel swiftly decided that taking the route of pretending nothing ever happened was the easiest, brushing off the events of the previous night with a point to the seat near the kitchen island.

“C’mon, dig in,” He invites, “Ellie should be up soon and lord knows that kid doesn’t care about savin’ enough for the rest of us. Fill up while you can.”

Your footsteps are quiet and slow as you approach the island, the long sleeves tucked under your fingers mid-palm, crossing your arms over your chest as you look at the cacophony of items. Not sure where to start or end. Joel reaches for a plate and points to the items in order from left to right, plating a couple items with every nod you give him.

He was an enigma of a man—so brute and intimidating at a glance and he was when he needed to be, but this was a soft crack in a hard exterior, years of built up trauma intertwined with a rough world dependent on the strongest to survive. It had to level out at some point–and here that big strong man was, making up your plate and plopping a piece of bacon down before you impishly nod your head toward the pile of bacon.

“More?”

You nod quickly and Joel feels a subtle grin tug at his face, nodding in agreement with your choice as he gives you another piece.

You eat in silence—chewing slowly and methodically as you listen to the quiet, roving chatter of people outside, neighbors readying for their day. It was a community, a town, well-oiled and rare in this world.

“Are you done hiding down in the basement?” Joel asks eventually, peeking up from his plate as he leaned against the counter adjacent the island, “Eventually you’re gonna have to talk to Tommy, get you set up with a job.”

Right. Work. Sustenance. You had to carry your own weight.

“You can talk here, you know?” Joel tells you, “You can talk, can’t you?”

Your eyes flick away briefly, avoiding the question.

“Let me try that again,” Joel clears his throat and tosses his empty plate behind him in the sink, fingers curling around the edge of the counter beside him, “Can’t?”

You shake your head.

“Won’t?”

A jerky nod as you push your own plate away.

“I’m not tryin’ to pry or force it—jus’ think it may cause problems eventually.”

You make a motion of writing with your hand shyly, hoping he’ll understand.

Joel nods jerkily and turns to rummage through a drawer in the kitchen, filled with a miscellaneous amount of junk, finding a pad of paper and a pencil and handing it over to you.

Not scared. Of you.

Joel watches as you scribble the words down and furrows his brow.

“No, I’m not sayin’ you are—”

You scratch out the words and start a new line.

If we talked, they hit.

They?

Joel doesn’t voice the word but you see the confusion on his face.

They do nice things and we thank them. The men. If we didn’t, they would hurt us. Or kill if they were angry enough.

You scrunch your nose up slightly, looking disgruntled. Joel watches your hand shake as you continue—it didn’t help to be vague, but that fear they had instilled in you lingered like a dark, suffocating cloud.

I grew up in that place.

Bad place, Joel reminds himself. That was what you had told him and Tommy.

“People—they ain’t like that here—” Joel says, but you’re already scribbling before he can finish.

You don’t know that.

Ellie disrupts the quiet conversation with her loud entrance through the back door, looking tired as she tugged her jacket over her shoulders, pack already slung over her back.

“You’re up early,” Joel notes, preemptively handing Ellie a slice of bacon.

“Jesse wants to get an early start for the patrol since that big storm is supposed to hit tomorrow.”

Joel nods, noting how you looked between the pair curiously.

Ellie seems to notice you’re staring too, offering a casual, “Hi,” around the bacon her teeth tore into.

“Right, shoulda remembered to tell you,” Joel looks over at you, “we’ll both be gone for a few days, longer patrols with all the extra ones Tommy’s pushing at.”

“Seems pointless,” Ellie shrugs, “but…whatever.”

“You get goin’,” He tells Ellie, “I’ll catch up.”

Ellie chews at her breakfast indifferently, nodding in response as she departs, the front door closing gently behind her.

Joel gathers the dishes quietly but you feel the urge to move, helping him gather the rest of the dirty dishes and pile them into the sink. You don’t ask and he doesn’t either, but as he washes, you dry, and it feels normal.

Maybe the only normal experience you’ve had since you ended up here.

You couldn’t place your finger on him, though—Joel. One moment he was kind, talkative and curious, willing to take his time to figure out what he could about you. But, other times you felt like you were a stray dog that popped up at his doorstep and refused to leave. So, now he was forced to house you, feed you, take care of you.

So, obviously, it only made sense to take care of him.

He’d enjoyed it the first time.

Joel’s drying his hands on a towel you hand him before you’re reaching for his belt, metal clinking against metal and you tug, but you’re stopped short, his hand wrapping tightly around your wrist.

“The fuck are you doing?” Joel asks, shoving your hand away forcefully.

But, it’s the clipped, peaking anger in his tone that forces you back further.

You blink away the quickly forming tears in your eyes and retreat quickly, mouth hung open slightly in shock, frightened at the almost instantaneous shift in Joel’s voice. His face. His entire demeanor—you’ve crossed into dangerous territory, like mindless prey.

You’re amiss to the way Joel’s jaw clenches at his sudden outburst, internally shaming himself for the strain in his jeans at even just the thought of you touching him again—the willingness and eagerness of your actions, how long you’ve been conditioned into this.

He doesn’t call after you, though—only stopping by the house later that afternoon before he left to set you up with enough meals and changes of clothes to last you those three days. A knock on the door startles your timid heart, forcing you to your feet and by the time you reach the door he’s nowhere in sight. You’re thankful for that, actually. You weren’t sure if you could even look at him, fearful of the disappointment.

There was a small note folded on top of the pile placed on the floor, unfolded with a careful touch, it read—House is all yours.

Three days, all alone.

You couldn’t bring yourself to leave that basement once.

–

When Joel returns home it’s late and he’s toeing his boots off at the door the moment he steps inside and notes the lack of warmth—a fireplace unused and the door to the basement closed shut. Ellie had already wandered off with Dina for the night, one less thing he had to worry about. He was more appreciative that she’d finally broken out of her shell and actually made a few good friends.

He ignites the fireplace, looking over his shoulder every few seconds waiting, wondering if you were waiting in anticipation—those curious eyes tracking every movement he made. He’d picked up some dessert from the mess hall on the way to his house, selfishly wanting to keep it for himself but he feels that tug, that push to extend the olive branch.

He needed to clear up this…confusion. Try—he could try, at least.

“Sorry, I actually didn’t want you to suck my dick.”

“I enjoyed it but we shouldn’t do that again.”

“I know it’s wrong, but I didn’t want to stop you.”

Joel knows he sounds ridiculous in his head, but he was at a loss.

He’d stopped you because it was wrong–but not because he didn’t want you to.

Joel doesn’t even consider the idea that you may already be asleep for the night, pulling out the small box of dessert and a fresh pair of clothes he’d picked up alongside the food when he checked his horse back in at the stable, picking up a few other spare supplies.

You hear him before you see him when he opens the door, those heavy boot steps thunk, thunk, thunk against the floor and you lie still, staring at him meekly as he approaches the couch adjacent to the bed in a near corner, resting the items on the table and taking a seat silently.

“You hungry?” He asks casually and your stomach growls on command despite your unwillingness to move, blanket tucked under your chin.

He can see you shake your head slightly, easy to miss if he wasn’t staring you down.

“We need to talk,” Joel says, your eyes jolting to him suddenly, “about the other night.”

He jerks his head over, silently asking you to join him on the couch—he’s leaned back but not comfortable, his hands resting in his lap, much like the position you caught him in that night.

When you don’t move, he sighs. A deep, soft sound that has you turning over in bed to face the wall.

“I’m not asking.”

Heavy footsteps follow, the sounder closer and closer, his boots scuffing against the ground before they stop and you can feel him at your back, the whole of the bed shifting as he rests a hand on a decorative knob of the arched bed frame, creaking under his weight.

“Sit up,” He says again, “come on.”

There’s an irritation in his tone that tells you he isn’t leaving until you do, pushing up slowly and crawling to the side with your hands. The last lingering wound stings as you move, a gash on your lower back, toward your hip that you had haphazardly sewn up a few weeks ago with some sewing thread and a needle. It still hadn’t healed like the rest of your wounds. The last remaining physical memory of that time, aside from the scars.

Joel tilts his head to the side and back, noticing as you squeeze your eyes shut in pain and irritation.

“You’re still hurtin’,” It's a statement, he knows it—he can see it on your face.

You shake your head unconvincingly.

“Let me see.”

You shake again, backing into a corner but Joel is quick, he follows and leans down, pulling at the edge of your shirt that was already riding up your back, noting the red and fussed up wound by your hip—it was infected, there was no doubt in his mind.

“Does it hurt?” He asks now, “Don’t lie to me.”

Your eyes lock for a long, lingering moment before you nod, shifting away from his touch as it presses featherlight against the skin.

“I got some supplies upstairs,” He tells you absently, eyes examining the festering wound, “you need that cleaned and stitched up properly before you end up septic.”

Not that it sounded like too bad of a prospect anymore, you square yourself away as he retreats without another word, his figured disappearing out of sight as he turned the corner outside of the basement, your eyes following the sound of his footsteps and noticing the soft rustle of dust above—it took a while for you to realize his room was above yours at first.

He’s back swiftly, a trove of supplies in one arm and a wooden chair in the other, hauling them like they weighed nothing, sleeves already rolled up at his elbows. The chair skirts the ground, squealing loudly as Joel brings it near the edge of the bed and motions for you to turn around and face the wall.

Again, not asking.

With shaky hands and fingers you move, slowly until you back meets Joel’s fingers at your shoulder, curled up into a fist and pressing gently into your skin.

“Lift your shirt,” You grab the edges, ready to strip it over your head before Joel grabs your bicep and stops you, “—that’s—that’s fine, alright? Just hold it there.”

Joel slowly cuts away the old thread and removes the old stitching with a careful hand. You bite at your bottom lip until it draws blood. It unsettles Joel with how quiet you are, even now. Not a word or a single sound or expression of pain, just white knuckles gripping the shirt bunched under your chest and your head tucked down as you shake with a silent cry.

“Stop movin’,” He says brutishly, cleaning up the wound with an antiseptic that makes you squirm away slightly, “I’m almost finished.”

He cleans, re-stitches and covers up the wound with minimal effort, like he’s done this a million times before. And you hear the shake of a pill bottle behind you, whipping your head around quickly.

“S’just antibiotics,” Joel explains, “we picked away at a pharmacy a few months back that had a decent supply,” He pours one into his hand before it rolls to his fingers and he’s handing it off to you—as he suspects, you eye it wearily, “look, your choice. I got enough here to clear that up within a week or you can continue to suffer, not my problem.”

Reluctantly, you take the pill from him and dry swallow it down with a small, nearly silent wince.

There was no reason to trust Joel, but you did.

At some point between the walk from your bed to the table, Joel realizes he’d bypassed the entire reason he had come down here–to talk. About it. That instance you were both dancing around, the one he’d fended off the second time with a barking, heavy voice.

His lingering presence is hard to ignore and you grip the edge of the bed, standing on your own two feet with his back turned to you.

He’d helped you again. Maybe you wanted to thank him.

Or you just wanted a distraction from the pain, the creeping loneliness.

He’s so distracted he doesn’t hear your footsteps approach him, a newly found vigor as you pull at his forearm and turn him with a sudden strength Joel wasn’t expecting, sending him tumbling on his heels to the couch. He sees it in your eyes then, the task you’re focused on, already undressed from the waist down, the length of the shirt reaching a few centimeters short of mid–thigh to cover your naked down as you climb onto his lap and Joel allows it.

He doesn’t yell or scream, there is no apprehensiveness there. Not now.

He could sit in your eyes—this was coping with whatever you couldn’t bring yourself to face, unspoken trust that you didn’t want to voice. This was a distraction for him too.

He could fight this off, but Joel never considered himself a great man. Or, really even a decent one. And, as you work at his belt, he finds his hands joining your own, struggling for a moment before he’s yanking the leather from the belt loops and unbuttoning his jeans as you pull at his zipper, lifting slightly off his lap as he pushes his jeans down to his calves—there was a beauty to how easily your bodies worked against each other, your push to his pull.

Wordless, he knew what you wanted. And you knew exactly what to give him.

He was like the bad men, but wholly different.

The wonder and admiration in his eyes told you so, even if they were quickly clouded by desire and lust, his face suddenly stoic as you grab at his cock, tugging it to full hardness within seconds before you’re dragging the tip of his cock down the center of your cunt before sinking down harshly—and the hands stilled at his sides finally act.

He’s careful of the wound on your hip, dragging his fingers over your ass and to your thighs, fingers curling around the back of your bent knees to pull and tug you in, groaning quietly into the thick, thready material of your top as you curl into him.

He couldn’t bear the idea of looking at you, watching you as you moved so eagerly against his cock, soft breaths at his ears that made him wanton for the sounds you couldn’t make, the terrible vocal paralysis like a vice anytime someone looked in your direction, especially him. Your palms press into the wall behind him, dull fingertips clawing at chipped paint as you bounced your hips fiercely, quick and efficient in the process. It was clear you’ve done this before—detached and just a means to an end, a device of pleasure.

And Joel uses it, selfishly. One hand falling to the back of your neck to curl you in further, the other at your ass as he squeezes, guiding your hips down to the sharp, pointed thrust of his own movements and Joel can already feel that familiar cole in his groin—days of staving of his own need for release from the sheer amount of guilt he felt over this, somehow ending up here again.

Using you—and maybe you could admit it yourself, it was just as much a distraction for you as for him, but the sudden warmth in your chest is startling. You could come like this, the drag of his cock hitting so deep inside of you with every thrust that your visions starts to white—a mix of delirium and pure euphoria, the gasp that leaves your mouth is broken and barely audible but Joel can hear it, feeling you tip over that cliff with a hand tangled in his hair, needing an anchor and finding that it was him in that moment.

But, you don’t stop either. Working through the crest of your orgasm with a reflexive squeeze of your cunt as you came apart and pulled him in, his balls tightening in warning as they slapped against your cunt with each drop of your hips and Joel tries to warn you, pushes gently at your hips but you don’t move—won’t. And he comes inside of you with a muffled, tired grunt as he pants into your shirt.

Whatever mutual agreement was made had become void.

“Get off,” He says after a beat, but doesn’t push.

You listen, moving off of him and turning away immediately, arms tucked around your middle as you eyed the fresh clothes and still uneaten slice of dessert, one that Joel had offered to share.

A peace offering, an act of forgiveness. But, that was all shattered and swept away now.

“You stupid, girl?” Joel asks suddenly, turning to him at the harsh words and finding him re-dressed, brow drawn in as he snatches his belt in his right hand, gripping it tight. “That your master plan, here?”

You’re confused and Joel’s eyes drag to your legs, unseen but you can feel his cum dripping down your thighs, pushing out of your cunt as it pulses from the comedown of your own orgasm.

“Gettin’ knocked up and hopin’ that a baby will keep you safe here?”

You were safe nowhere and you knew that.

Joel had no idea, but you couldn’t even begin to explain how wrong he was.

Babies, even the prospect of that idea made your skin crawl.

So, with frustration evident on his face and already anticipating your answer, you shake your head.

“You try that shit again and I’ll—”

You brow raises in anticipation and Joel opens his mouth slightly before he clenches his jaw.

“Knew it was a fuckin’ mistake taking you in.”

And it feels like a gut punch, but he was right.

Joel tosses the pill bottle on the table and you watch as it lands, rolls before hitting the floor and stopping just at your bare toes.

He departs with a deep scowl, door slamming behind him and you wait, count the steps until you hear his footsteps above the basement and you wander over toward the table.

The remnants of the items he’d brought with the intentions of a one-sided conversation, a lecture, really.

It was pointless now.

Opening the container to the uneaten dessert, you sniffed it testingly before swiping a single finger over the icing on top, pressing the sweet, sugar cream against your tongue and letting your eyes drift closed at the flavor, giving yourself a few seconds to enjoy and savor before you’re ripping into the thing with your bare hands, a fuck you the peace offering Joel was trying for.

There was no peace to be had. You would never find peace here, either.

A new emotion floods your body—not anger or rage, but jealousy, greed. You wanted him, and deep within, you knew he wanted you too. Even if just in a primal way, a means to distract.

And in your sudden, newfound boldness and curiosity you linger toward the kitchen in a fresh change of clothes for that night, snatching up the notepad Joel had left out from your previous conversation before scribbling the rest of that out and ripping off a jagged piece of paper.

It was a thank you.

Flipping it over, you continue the message.

There is no plan. I trust you.

You fold the paper up and wander down the hall, counting the steps until you land at a closed door, one that you can only assume and hope is Joel’s and slip the paper under the gap at the bottom of the door.

There was a chance, the anticipation that Joel could convince Tommy to strand you out into the forest again, forced back into harsh survival, but something tells you Joel doesn’t have it in him, not anymore.

Joel catches the sight of your departing shadow as he retreats toward his bed, the paper flying across the floor with the sudden draft and landing right at his feet, he picks it up and readies to trash it without a thought before he catches sight of that simple phrase.

thank you – no plan —

Joel pauses, reading over the final set of words with a dangerous tug in his heart.

I trust you.

That tug was guilt and the creeping sensation of doom.

Trust. You.

He’s really fucked up now.

divider creds: @/cafekitsune

#joel miller #joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x y/n #the last of us #tlou #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fic #the last of us fanfiction #tlou fanfiction #the last of us fic #my writing

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digitaldaydreamm · 6 months ago

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unspoken claim

rafe cameron x childhood friend!reader

| summary | rafe obviously has the keys to your house...

warnings: none! just pure fluff :)

a/n: kinda short but i hope you like it!

masterlist

⋆｡𖦹 °.🐚⋆❀˖°

The sun dipped low over the Outer Banks, spilling streaks of orange and pink across your bedroom window as you curled up on your bed, a tattered paperback forgotten in your lap. You had been home for hours—quiet, predictable hours spent catching up on assignments, rearranging your room for the third time this week, and baking just for something to do.

That’s when you heard it: the telltale jingle of keys against the front door and the muffled creak of it opening.

You didn’t bother to flinch. You didn’t need to.

Rafe never knocked.

And why would he?

He had the spare key to your house—one you’d given him years ago when you were still kids. Back then, it had made sense. You’d sworn it was just for emergencies, but Rafe Cameron being Rafe Cameron, he didn’t see boundaries the way other people did.

“You’re letting me in anytime I want, right?" he’d told you at fourteen, grinning as he spun the little silver key around his finger.

“Yo,” his voice floated lazily down the hallway as he kicked the door shut behind him. You could hear the casual thud of his boots as he crossed the living room.

“I’m in my room!” you called out, shifting slightly on your bed and dog-earing the page you weren’t reading anymore.

Rafe appeared in your doorway seconds later. He leaned one shoulder against the frame, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his joggers as he surveyed your space. Your eyes flicked up from where you sat, taking him in: dark sweatshirt hanging loose over broad shoulders, tousled blond hair that made him look boyish, that signature half-smirk sitting lazily on his face.

“You baking again?” he asked.

You sighed, tossing the book onto your pillow. “Why do you think I bake every time you’re not around?”

He arched a brow, stepping fully into your room. “Because you’re lonely without me?”

You threw a pillow at him.

He caught it effortlessly, shaking his head with a quiet laugh. The sound made something stir in your chest—not quite unfamiliar, but you’d gotten good at ignoring it.

“Kitchen smells good,” Rafe noted, dropping onto your bed like he belonged there. He flopped onto his back, folding an arm behind his head while the other flipped through the book you’d abandoned.

You rolled your eyes. “Yeah, you’re welcome for the cookies on the counter.”

“Atta girl.” He flashed you a grin, only half paying attention as he thumbed through the pages. “Bet they’re for me anyway.”

You shot him a look. “They’re for me.”

“Sure they are, sweetheart.”

Rafe made himself comfortable there, feet kicked up on your neatly folded blanket, flipping pages of your book despite your protest. You were used to it—his easy presence, the way he drifted in and out of your life like he belonged in every corner of it. He never asked, never waited for an invitation.

And the thing was—you didn’t mind.

Not really.

#rafe cameron x reader #rafe x reader #obx #outer banks #outerbanks rafe #rafe cameron #rafe obx #rafe x childhood friend!reader #obx kooks #obx pogues #drew starkey #unspoken claim

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mephisto-reporting · 1 month ago

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Dinner's Ready - Caleb Version

About: After a long and exhausting day filled with chores and responsibilities, the reader finds unexpected comfort and support from someone unexpected

Pairing: Reader x Caleb

Other men versions: Link

It had been one of those days.

Not just the kind that wore you down, but the kind that gnawed at your bones — the kind that made you feel like you were being pulled through molasses by invisible strings of responsibility, one painful inch at a time.

It started with a backlog of reports at work — documents you were sure you had submitted last week that had somehow disappeared into the void of a shared server. Your manager wasn’t accusatory, but the disappointment in their voice stung like a slap. Then came the broken office printer, followed by the passive-aggressive email thread from the finance department, and a series of back-to-back meetings that bled into your already overdue lunch hour.

By the time you wrapped up, your head was pounding and your muscles were stiff from sitting too long. But it wasn’t over. You still had to stop by the grocery store, where of course the one item you really needed was out of stock. The walk home felt twice as long as usual, even though it hadn’t changed in distance. The weight of your laptop bag pressed hard against your shoulder, the straps digging into your skin, and your feet dragged with every step.

Living alone had its perks, sure. Independence, freedom, the luxury of decorating your space just the way you liked it. But on nights like this, when the exhaustion from work melted into the ache of loneliness, it felt like you were shouldering the world with no one to lean on. And of course, Caleb was off-planet again. Some assignment on the outer rim of Deepspace Tunnel that required his presence as Colonel. He always promised to check in, but transmissions were often delayed, and more often than not, all you had were old messages and fading voice notes to fall asleep to.

Your apartment complex greeted you with silence. The lobby lights flickered, and even the elevator seemed to groan as if sharing your fatigue. When you finally reached your floor and unlocked your door, all you could think about was collapsing on the couch, laundry be damned.

But as you pushed the door open, something… strange happened.

Instead of the stale, slightly musty air of a home that had been empty for days, you were hit with warmth. Not just physical warmth, but the inviting kind — the kind that curled around you like a soft blanket. And there, threading through the air like a gentle whisper, was the most tantalizing aroma.

Spices.

Cardamom, clove, cinnamon — rich, earthy cumin, and the savory tang of turmeric and ginger blending together in a melody that made your stomach growl on instinct.

Your boots hit the entryway mat with a dull thud, your breath catching. The apartment, which you’d barely had the energy to tidy in recent days, looked pristine. Shoes neatly lined up. The living room throw folded just right. Even your desk, usually a chaos zone of papers and snack wrappers, was cleared.

And then you heard it.

A familiar voice humming low, off-key but unmistakably comforting, drifting from the kitchen.

You blinked as you stepped inside, and there he was.

Caleb.

Tall, solid, dark haired haired and still in his uniform—though his jacket was thrown over a chair and his sleeves were rolled up. He stood at the stove, spoon in hand, carefully adjusting the seasoning in a simmering pot of chicken curry. Beside it, a small pot of cumin rice steamed gently, the grains fluffy and fragrant.

He looked up just as you stepped fully into the doorway, and his face lit up like a kid on Christmas morning.

“Hey, princess,” he said, voice soft, eyes scanning you with immediate concern. “You look wrecked.”

You opened your mouth, but no words came. The sight of him—here, impossibly—hit you harder than anything else that day. You felt your body tilt toward him as though magnetized.

Caleb set the spoon down and crossed the kitchen in two long strides. He pulled you into his arms without hesitation, holding you in his warmth.

And suddenly, everything snapped. The dam cracked. The tears you’d been swallowing for days welled up and spilled silently into his chest as he ran a hand over your back, slow and grounding.

“You’re home,” you whispered, voice hoarse.

“I am,” he murmured into your hair. “Got back early. Thought I’d surprise you.”

He leaned back just enough to look at you, brushing your hair from your face. “You’ve been doing too much,” he said simply. “I could feel it, even when you pretend over the phone that everything is fine.”

You let out a shaky laugh that turned into a sob. His hold tightened.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered. “You don’t have to do everything alone. Not tonight.”

The words cracked something open in you. For the first time in weeks, the ache in your bones eased. The heaviness didn’t disappear, but it shifted—no longer yours to carry alone.

“Oh,” you whispered, shoulders sagging. “Caleb, I’m so tired…”

“I know,” he murmured “I know, princess.”

You buried your face in his shirt, inhaling the scent of spices and Caleb — warm, earthy, home. His fingers threaded through your hair, one hand rubbing soothing circles into your back.

“I cleaned up, too,” he said softly into your ear. “Ran a load of laundry, changed your bedsheets, and cooked something familiar. Chicken curry — with cumin rice. Just how you like it.”

You both settled onto the couch, plates balanced precariously on your laps. Caleb’s leg nudged yours, a small but grounding contact. The chicken curry steamed on both your plates.

He scooped up a generous bite of the chicken curry, the sauce clinging to the spoon with all the richness you craved. “Here,” he said, voice low, teasing, “try not to make that face again. It’s the one I love the most.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled, opening your mouth for the offered bite. The spices danced on your tongue, comforting and familiar. Caleb grinned. “Like it, princess? Only the best for my favorite.”

The scent of dinner lingered in the air long after you’d finished, but for the first time in weeks, you didn’t feel the crushing weight of being alone. Not tonight.

Tonight, Caleb was here.

And that made all the difference.

AN: reblogs, feedback and opinions are appreciated!

Taglist: @cordidy, @natimiles @leighsartworks216 @notisekais @raining4food @fallthelong @pomegranatepip @juliuscaesarsstabbedback @krystallevine @lemurianmaster @nenggie @loverindeepspace @sinsodom @lucifers-silhouette @sunsethw4 @kthehoeforfictionalmen @mentaltrouble2201 @seris-the-amious @cheezeandkrackers

#love and deepspace #lads #lads drabble #l&ds #oneshotswithlina #lads oneshot #love and deep space #caleb fanfic #loce and deepspace caleb #caleb lads #lads caleb #love and deepspace caleb #caleb love and deepspace #caleb oneshot #Yizhou #caleb x reader #caleb x you #caleb comfort #caleb

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jinx-xxed · 9 months ago

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Supreme Leader

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆ .。.:*

A/N; The motivation for this one legit came out of nowhere but I can’t even complain 🫶 this is the best smut I’ve done to date I think

Part of Written in the Stars

Summary; You come back to find Snoke gone… and Kylo Ren has taken his place.

Content; NSFW 18+, AFAB reader, Supreme Leader Kylo Ren, Commander Reader, aftermath of TLJ, angst to sad fluff, original characters, you get promoted!!!, Kylo’s mean, Kylo gets a lightsaber pulled on him, you have a saberstaff, throne room confrontation turns into throne room sex, fucking on the throne, tension, you’re still not Kylo’s biggest fan lol, helmet on, gloves on, calling Kylo by his proper title, orgasm denial, overstimulation, inappropriate use of the Force, very dominant Kylo, fingering, unprotected piv sex, riding Kylo, humiliation, degradation, praise, talking about feelings

Wc; 6.2k

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆ .。.:*

There’s a sharp ping that comes from the device imbedded into your metal arm cuffs, overriding the silence mode you have it set on and making you startle. You grumble to yourself, pausing your work to tap a few things on the screen and project a smaller screen above it. There it reads the message: all troops involved with mission-76653 cease operations and return to base immediately. There’s coordinates to the Steadfast attached and not the Supremacy, you note.

“Are you serious?” You snap to yourself. The members of Fleet 74 who came along with you on this expedition stop at your voice, looking back at you curiously. You sigh, lifting a hand and making a circular motion with a finger. “We’re heading back to base, I guess. Direct orders.”

Jaharah begins to protest. “Now? But we haven’t finished-“

“I know. I’m not happy about it either.” You say, a scowl settling nicely onto your features. You traveled all the way out to some planet in the Outer Rim to basically have to go right back. You turn, starting the journey to the speeders you’d left behind that’ll return you to your ship that’s even farther away. The others reluctantly follow. “I hope whatever bastard demanded this realizes we’re still two weeks out.”

Lyra’s hands wring together nervously. “Do you think something bad happened? Maybe the resistance-“

You scoff sharply. “The resistance couldn’t hope to do anything against Snoke’s ship, not as things stand now. This is something else.” Or you’d think so.

You won’t admit that you’re worried about what that ‘something else’ could be.

» ☆ «

The trip back to base was just as annoying as the trip out to the assigned planet was. Traveling in a cramped transport ship for two weeks isn’t the most pleasant thing in the world. But finally, there’s a familiar beeping of the sensors and the filter of hyperspace fades away to reveal the massive Star Destroyer that is the Steadfast sitting amongst the blankness of space.

The ship is brought into the hangar and you immediately get the feeling that something is off. A tension in the atmosphere, a shiver running up your arms beneath your uniform. Stormtroopers stand about in a more stiff manner than usual, and the lower workers of the Steadfast seem to have become as meek as mice. There’s also a tinge of leftover smoke in the air, like something blew up within the Star Destroyer. You glance back at your Fleet members as they exit their ships; they feel it too, but Jaharah shrugs, just as lost as you are.

“General,” comes a sudden voice. You snap back around to see a trooper standing before you. “Your presence is requested in the throne room immediately. And the Fleet’s.”

The throne room? What would Snoke want with you now? And what would he want with your Fleet?

You nod, following the Stormtrooper as he acts like some guide through the Steadfast. You’re sure you could find your way faster than he ever could, but you follow along to be nice. The walk there is long, of course, since the ship is so ungodly huge. The hall turns colder as the throne room doors come into view, and it’s like the tension you felt in the air before becomes about ten times heavier, threatening to weigh you down and prevent you from going forward. There’s Sith Troopers guarding the doors, and you see the members of Fleet 74 who stayed behind waiting there as well.

You look to Chief, your second in command. “What is this about?” You demand in a whisper.

“You’ll see.” She mutters. You don’t like that.

The Fleet gets in to a close formation with yourself at the head. The doors open and you’re led inside. You nearly freeze in your tracks with the sight you’re met with.

Snoke is no more. Instead, sitting in a newly made, imposing throne, is Kylo Ren.

He wears his full uniform, hood pulled over his helmet adorned with the red veins that stick the shattered pieces back together coursing through the black metal. His Knights fan out on either side of the throne, still as statues with their weapons held tightly in their hands. Kylo himself is clearly trying to be every bit as intimidating as Snoke was, with his boots firmly planted on the ground, gloved hands clutching the arm rests, back straight as a board.

You kneel before he even gets the chance to tell you to because somehow, initiating it yourself is less humiliating. You hear the Fleet follow suit behind you. The cold, reflective metal of the floor bites into your knee as you stare at it.

There’s an unnerving silence and you feel his eyes on you. Then, “welcome back, Commander.”

You perk at the title, your head shooting up. “Commander?”

“It seems we’ve both gotten promotions.” Kylo drawls. “Snoke is dead, killed by the Jedi girl in his own ship.”

Liar.

He knows that you know, and he also knows that you know it’s better to keep your mouth firmly shut. The discussion you’ll have later should be interesting.

“I’ve taken his place, and I believe it’s most logical to make you my Commander. Fleet 74 will remain as it is. I’m sure you can handle the extra duties, correct?” He asks.

You dip your head again. “Yes, of course. I’m honored, Com-“ you clear your throat, correcting yourself, “Supreme Leader.” It feels wrong.

He taps a finger against the arm rest. “Then you’re dismissed. You and I will talk later.”

You nod. “Yes, sir.”

You rise with the Fleet, leading them out of the throne room with tense muscles. As soon as the doors close behind you, a few of them clap you on the back, congratulating you on the new position. You can’t share in the celebration, unable to ignore the itch in the back of your mind that you can’t quite get rid of.

What the hell happened while you were gone?

» ☆ «

You’re called back to the throne room an hour later.

You know you don’t have a choice in the matter, the message was very clear in that sense. You either go willingly or you’re sure someone will come along to drag you there. So you put away the report you were filing on your forcefully failed mission and push yourself from your chair. You walk down familiar halls, you try to ignore the tremor in your hands by clenching them into fists.

The path to the throne room is void of life, as if it’s a radioactive zone that nobody wants to enter. The description isn’t far off; it feels like you enter into a cloud of smog that chokes you when you get near and it sends a shiver down your spine. The Dark is heavy, threatening, and thick in the area. It parts for you when you pass through, ever so willing to obey your commands even if it doesn’t belong to you, but you feel it pressing in on every side. You take a deep breath when you see the doors leading into the throne room finally appear around a corner, looming like a beast waiting to pounce.

You push them open without pause, steeling yourself and the nerves that buzz beneath your skin. Your face is set with hard lines, your brows slightly drawn over your eyes and your lips positioned with a small downturn. Cold air and the sharp tang of polished metal hits you when you step inside, the click of your heels against the ever-so shiny floor the only sound.

You quickly take note of the fact that the room is empty. There are no Guards, no Stormtroopers, no Knights. Only him.

There is only Kylo Ren, sitting on a false throne.

You feel his eyes behind that mask trained on you as soon as you enter, crawling along your form and taking in every bit of you. He looks as he did before, his body cloaked in black robes with his hood framing his helmet, hiding it from the light. The throne isn’t the same as Snoke’s, this one has had to be built from scratch like many things after the utter obliteration of the Supremacy. This new chair has clearly taken inspiration given its size, but the energy surrounding it has changed. It isn’t as Dark as people would believe it to be.

You stop a healthy distance away from the dais, your perfect reflection along the floor mirroring your movements. “You requested me, Supreme Leader?” The title feels wrong and foreign on your tongue when referring to him and you struggle to hide the mockery in your tone, though he hears it all the same. There’s a seed of unease that burrows itself in your gut, eager to bloom into something bigger as you stare at the man you’ve worked with for most of your life. All of this was unexpected, and that’s where your problem lies. Kylo did this, he got himself to this position—and you don’t understand it.

His gloved hands brace against the armrests as he stands. You watch him intensely, your body feeling like it’s pulled taut as a bowstring, ready for something that you don’t know about yet. Your breathing stutters in your chest, it quickens with your heartbeat. He walks down those steps, one after another with the grace and power of a leader that knows his strength. There’s a brush against the shields in your mind, a familiar Force signature that’s taunting you, playing a game that you’re not interested in. You recoil from the touch, quickly forcing it away from you and out of your head. It can’t be trusted.

He reaches the same level you’re on but when he tries to take another inch of the space between you, you find your lightsaber in front of you. It screams to life, red beams of plasma coming from either end. It lets out a steady hum through the handle clenched in your palm—a threat, a promise. Kylo pauses where he is and you glare at him over the weapon, the red bouncing off the silver on his helmet.

“What did you do?” You demand, words spat from between your teeth.

“Don’t be stupid.” He sneers, deep voice crackling through the vocoder.

He moves towards you again, unfazed by the deadly lightsaber you have pointed directly at him. His pace is unrelenting and you move yourself backwards, eager to keep the same distance. You bare your teeth, twisting to follow him as he circles you like a predator. “What happened to Snoke?”

There’s a minuscule shake of his head as he observes you. “I told you-“

“Don’t fucking lie to me, Kylo. What did you do?” You say again. You want a straight answer, you want to know what the fuck happened when you were gone. You want to know what happened to the man you were beginning to trust. You remember the hunger he’d had in his eyes when you’d first met him, the insatiable desire for power and to prove himself to whoever dared doubt him. You wonder how that young man would feel seeing himself now like this, standing at the top of the galaxy. And you wonder how much farther he’ll go, if this is where you make the stand for your life because you’re a threat.

“I did what I had to.” He says coldly with nothing but conviction. “You’ll understand.” He got himself behind you, now forcing you to walk in the opposite direction to stay away from him. There’s ripples in the Force, the darkness swirling around you both. You feel him at the shields you keep up, but he’s not trying like he should be to get in. He’s basically just sitting there, occasionally reaching forward to remind you that he’s waiting. It’s a silent plea to be let in, but you won’t listen.

“Snoke was a worthless coward. He was incapable of fighting his own battles. Why do you feel such remorse for him when he’s the one who’s caused you so much pain?” Kylo demands, so blatantly angry at the idea of you sympathizing with Snoke. You don’t. You never would. You’re glad to see that he’s gone, that you’ll never again have to experience dread when returning back to base. Snoke tortured you both but after knowing of him ever since you were a child, hearing him in your head, that seed of unease blooms into fear. What will happen now? What kind of leader could Kylo Ren possibly be?

You don’t have the chance to ponder it further. The backs of your legs hit the seat of the throne after having been forced up the dais by Kylo who now comes so close it causes you to fall unceremoniously into the chair. Your lightsaber is still active, poised at his throat even as he slams both hands on either armrest, caging you in. “I saved us,” he snarls, “and this is how you thank me?”

Even as Kylo’s presence threatens to rob you of breath, his darkness trying to choke you, you don’t cower. Your lightsaber reflects in your eyes in the same way it does his helmet, the heat from the plasma an uncomfortable presence between you. “How am I supposed to trust you?” You practically throw the words in his face, and you can see the way they make him recoil. It’s barely there, so very slight, but he draws back just a fraction of a centimeter and you hear the creak of his gloves as he grips the armrests tighter. It hurts him, it brings you satisfaction. You feel the flinch in the Force, betraying his true emotions to someone like you who’s more attuned than he realizes.

And then it’s gone. He brushes it aside and replaces that emotion with bristling anger. He reaches past your arm, past your lightsaber without a care, and he grips your chin. You want to thrash against him, want to fight against his hold; it would be so easy with the saber you have against his neck. But you can’t bring yourself to. You let him hold you there as he makes sure you’re looking at him, his fingers digging into your jaw.

“He was going to have me kill you.” Kylo says, tone quiet and blunt as he brings forth information he’d been holding inside of himself for so long, letting it consume him. “That’s why I sent you away.” Scenes flash in your mind, brought to you by Kylo so that you can see exactly what terrified him, to see what caused the sense of fear he had that day he gave you your mission.

Snoke would’ve had you both come to the throne room, and you would’ve thought nothing was amiss. But then he would reveal that he wished to further Kylo’s training after his recent failures, and that you were the key to making him stronger. That key was your own death. Snoke would admit as such, that he wants Kylo to kill you. You could feel it—the rage inside of you, the despair. Snoke had always favored Kylo over you because Kylo had a name behind him, he had a legacy. You were just a kid with a meaningless family that he picked up off a worthless planet that turned out to have more potential than anyone could’ve ever dreamed. You’d surpassed Kylo in more than enough trials to prove that and yet… it didn’t matter. You were to die to push someone else forward.

“You would’ve fought,” Kylo murmurs, briefly breaking you from the vision, “but you would’ve lost.”

You see what he means. You turned on Snoke, you lashed out with everything you had in you as the Praetorian Guards advanced. You killed all of them, your will to live greater than their own strength, but it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough against Snoke, who forced you to your knees even as he struggled to do so from your protesting. You could’ve been something, you could’ve been more, but you were just fodder for the machine. You at least looked Kylo in the eyes with your chin held high when he lifted the hilt of his lightsaber. The vision cut out directly after that, and you find yourself heaving for breath.

Your own lightsaber is gone, taken from your grip by Kylo while you watched your death play out. The anger that boils in your gut almost feels misplaced because that future never came to pass, and it never will. Because of what Kylo did. He sent you on a convenient mission to the Outer Rim, as far away from Snoke as possible. Then he took his chances back here, trying to figure out some way to save you, and then the perfect opportunity was laid at his feet.

He keeps his hold on you, forcing you to watch through his own eyes and learn of what he’d gone through. Rey had shown up. The young Jedi girl actually had the gall to deliver herself right to her enemy. She definitely has guts, you’d give her that. She tried and failed to get Kylo to turn away from the Dark Side, trying to make him see the Light. But it didn’t work when his thoughts remained on you and keeping you from Snoke’s grasp. He was too focused on the fact that if the future he saw came to fruition, he knew he’d lose himself entirely. He wouldn’t be able to bear it.

So he used Rey in his schemes, used her as a distraction of sorts. He used her to finally kill Snoke, to free himself and you from his reign. He couldn’t believe it actually worked, that Snoke was truly lying on the floor severed in half. It was like a weight was lifted off his shoulders, a ghoul finally banished from the corners of his mind. It was peaceful, but only for a moment. Him and Rey fought the Guards, and then he tried to get back his grandfather’s lightsaber once more to no avail. The memories from then on are bright flashes, fuzzy images, and explosions—nothing you can make out.

You’re pulled from Kylo’s memories, your jaw slack and your heart racing. It feels unreal, something you can’t believe because you weren’t here to witness it. But if you had been here, you would’ve died. “Now you see, don’t you? I told you that you’d understand. Yet you still can’t bring yourself to trust me. It just disgusts you, doesn’t it?” He says lowly, jabbing at you. “How could you ever bear to trust someone like me?” Someone who saved your life, he wants to add with his mocking tone.

There’s a moments pause where you stare at each other, unsure of what to think or say. You wish you could see him, could see his eyes and his face. Your nervous hand reaches up, attempting to get the latch on his helmet to take it off, but he stops you abruptly. He grips your wrist firmly in a leather-clad hand. You try and fumble for words. “Kylo, I-“

“No. You’ll address me as Supreme Leader. You need to get used to that title.” He snaps, forcing you all the way back into the throne as he comes even closer, his boot sliding between your own and forcing your legs apart. Your breath hitches when he takes both your wrists in one hand, pinning them above your head so you can’t do anything stupid like trying to shove him off or drawing your lightsaber on him again.

The rise and fall of your chest quickens when cold air kisses the skin of your stomach, your layers shoved up by his free hand. The leather of his glove is rough as it skates along the newly exposed area on its way further down. His fingers catch on the waistband of your pants and they don’t hesitate to slip beneath the fabric. Your body feels like it’s been set on fire, your spine pressed so firmly against the back of the throne that there’s nowhere else for you to go, even as you try to scoot away from his burning touch.

You jolt when he grazes your clit, your teeth digging so sharply into your lip that you think you taste blood. He’s moves slow and with purpose, knowing exactly what he’s doing when a low groan rumbles from the back of your throat. You can tell by the way he’s so willing to taunt and tease, by the way his huge body covers your own and boxes you in, that this isn’t going to be good for you. The pad of his index finger traces slow, tortuous circles around your entrance while the heel of his palm makes occasional, light taps against your clit to keep you aware, to keep you anticipating.

“You love to say how much you hate me, and yet you’re always so eager for me.” Kylo spits, his voice guttural when it comes through his helmet, struggling to get past the vocoder as more than just lustful static. He can feel how wet you are, how easily the dark leather of his gloves slides between your folds. His finger finally plunges into your waiting cunt not a second later, a gasp rattling your body. It’s a welcome feeling, one that finally gives the throbbing of your walls something to focus on instead of just aching, empty space.

The thrusts of his finger are lazy, staying at the same easy pace even as you squirm. He’s more generous to your clit now at least, his palm staying firmly against it, providing the friction of rough leather and stitched seams with each in and out of your hole. You whine in pleasure when he finally adds a second finger, the thick digits filling you more completely. They go farther, sink deeper into your heat, finding and pressing against the spot you’re never able to get on your own. Your hands struggle against the hold he has on them, your attempts at freeing yourself as your body writhes having been unsuccessful. You know you’ll have bruises in the shapes of his fingers across your wrists from the strength of his grip.

Kylo enjoys seeing you like this, completely under his mercy and so, so very compliant. It’s rare when he gets what he wants from you—your submission—so he’s relishing in it now while it lasts. His enjoyment is obvious from the erection creating a tent in his pants. You have to avert your eyes from it, trying not to think of the way he’d use it, the way he’d ram into you again and again and fill you with his desire. You can feel your own mounting, a knot in your gut that grows bigger with his ministrations, threatening to come undone.

You’re almost there. You’re standing on the ledge, leaning over the side, ready to fall off into bliss. Just a few more thrusts of his fingers, a few more circles around your clit, and your orgasm will be washing through you. But it never comes despite the way he continues to fingerfuck you, despite the way you can feel it right there and so ready to burst. It’s like something’s blocking it on purpose, a dam built with the sole mission of denying your release. Your eyes snap open, finding Kylo. He huffs a laugh. “What, you think I’d let you cum that easily?” It pisses you off how much he’s liking this. “I’ve barely even started.”

You practically growl at him, lip drawing up to reveal your sharp teeth, but you know he just finds it amusing. Especially when you try to grind your hips down onto his fingers as if that’ll be enough to break the Force hold he has on your body. You can’t move much beyond that with the way he looms over the throne, his legs pinning yours and your hands still stuck above your head. An involuntary whimper rips from your throat when he moves his thumb to your clit, rubbing at it with more purpose and ferocity and a third finger managing to slip into your eager cunt. Your feet scrabble against the floor, trying to find some kind of purchase as the denial of an orgasm makes you dizzy. You try and swallow the drool pooling in your mouth, the breath of your panting fogging the metal panels on Kylo’s helmet from your proximity.

You give in to begging once tears prick your eyes. Your words are barely more than a whisper. “Please- please, Kylo, just-“

There’s a harsh thrust up into your cunt that has your words falling silent, instead replaced by a sharp, high pitched yelp. “What did I fucking tell you?” He demands, pressing even harder against that spot along your walls that has you seeing stars. You feel like you’re about to explode from the built up tension in your body. “What did I tell you to call me?”

You glare at him, your eyes full of all the fury you can’t manage to get out with your voice. You don’t want to say it. You don’t want to bend to this man who’s held such a ridiculous amount of power over you for what feels like your entire life. Your teeth grind together in defiance, even as your face burns. He hums at that and seems almost happy that you’re going against him. He does love a good fight.

His fingers stall and begin to slowly slide out of you, ready to leave you completely empty and with a simmering need that won’t be taken care of. You jolt, eyes widening. It’s in that moment you find you don’t actually give a fuck about defying him, you just need him to stay in you. “Supreme Leader!” You practically shout, so sudden it even startles yourself. Your next words are quieter, more restrained. “Supreme Leader, please..”

You moan in relief when his fingers take back their positions deep inside your cunt, the sounds of your slick sloshing around filling the empty throne room. “Good,” Kylo says roughly, clearly struggling himself. Your obedience is music to his ears and it does nothing to soothe the ache of his cock still restrained by his pants. It just makes it worse. “Say it again.”

You hate him. You’re probably going to kill him. “Supreme Leader, please-“ you have to choke back your humiliation and death threats, “please let me cum.”

This time Kylo groans, the desperate sound crackling through his helmet. He thrusts his fingers one more time, swiping his thumb along your clit, before he lets you go. The release is instant. Something akin to a scream comes from you with your orgasm, the world around you feeling like it’s shattering. You can barely breathe, pure pleasure wracking your body and sending lightning through your limbs. The dam finally broke, and it feels so fucking good. The unbearable pressure is gone, bliss washing through you like a wave from the ocean as you cum around his hand. “See how nice I am?” Kylo says with heavy breath, barely able to contain himself. His eyes are locked on to where his hand disappears into your pants; he can feel your cum pooling on his glove. “How well I reward you when you’re good?”

It’s all you can do to nod dumbly, too blissed out with your ears still ringing to really comprehend what he’s saying. You don’t resist when your pants are pulled off, your underwear entirely soaked through and baring your sensitive, wet cunt to the cold air. You shiver. Your cloak is tossed aside, your top layers undone to reveal your upper body. You’re barely more than a rag doll when Kylo braces an arm against your back, using it to scoop you out of the throne so he can take your spot. His zipper is pulled down, his boxers lowered so his cock is finally freed, painfully erect and dribbling precum.

He sinks you down to the hilt without hesitation. All the air is punched from your lungs, your body tensing as his length fills you to capacity. Kylo’s appreciative groan is loud and throaty, his fingers digging bruises into your hips. You have to pause for a moment to adjust to the sudden intrusion, feeling so full it’s like you’re not allowed to breathe. Your lips are parted, your nails digging into the ribbed sleeves on his forearms for purchase. His body is warm and muscular beneath your hands.

You struggle to move, still feeling the after effects of your orgasm, your limbs weak and trembling. Kylo makes no effort to help you, his helmet instead tilted up towards you expectantly. “If you want it you’ll have to work for it, Commander.” He says with some twisted amusement. You briefly consider how easy it’d be to reach forward and wring his neck.

But you put that aside, swallowing your broken pride. You unfortunately want his cock more than that. The first thrust is bliss, pleasure filled shocks coursing through you like a live wire. You and Kylo moan in tandem, both of you finally getting some form of relief. Your movements are slow at first, trying desperately to get used to the feeling of his cock splitting you open. His hands travel up your sides, his left glove still soaked in your juices and leaving a trail along your skin. He finds your breasts, encompassing them with large, warm palms that have your head tilting back and your eyes closing. He pinches your stiffened nipples between his fingers, rolling them experimentally as you whine and arch into his touch. Your pace on his cock is steady now, finally having figured out a rhythm.

“Touch yourself.” Kylo orders suddenly, words sounding choked.

Your gaze snaps to him, brows furrowing slightly. “What?”

“Touch yourself.” He snaps again. “If you’re smart, you’ll listen to what I say.”

You glower, your face burning even hotter. He knows you don’t enjoy doing it, which is giving him all the more reason to make you. You hesitate, both not wanting to do as he demands and also not wanting to see whatever repercussions will come if you don’t. Your shaking fingers reach down and find your clit, the bud still sensitive and aching from Kylo’s earlier abuse. Your lip is between your teeth, trying to keep back your moans as you run circles over your clit. The stimulation quickly builds and you can feel that familiar knot forming in your gut again.

Kylo’s helmet tilts up and you can feel his eyes on you. You try not to meet them. “You look pretty like this, you know? Finally fucking listening to me.” He rumbles, giving your nipple a particularly hard pinch and making you writhe in his grip. “Say my name.”

You try to ignore him, ignore his stupid power trip and ego boost. But then he makes his move—one hand comes down to grip your wrist and the other is firm on your hip, completely stalling your movements and messing up your concentration. Your climax steadily begins to fade, a loud and frustrated groan coming from you. “This is stupid.” You snarl at him.

He doesn’t back down. “Say it.”

A harsh breath blows through your nose. You move your head so you can look past him, not wanting to admit that this is what he’s bringing you to. “Supreme Leader.” You mutter, your hips shifting to try and get friction with his cock still hard inside your cunt. He puts a stop to that quickly with a harsh squeeze.

Kylo lets go of your wrist to instead grab your chin, forcing you to look at him. “Again.”

“Supreme Leader.” You grit out.

“One more time.”

You grab his forearm, your nails digging deep enough and with such fury that they’ll leave marks. It’s the least you can do. “Supreme Leader.”

“Good girl.” He murmurs, thumb running along your lower lip. You want nothing more than to sink your teeth into it until you taste blood. “You’ve done so well.”

His following thrust up into you has you forgetting what insult you were going to say. Both of his hands rest on your hips now, keeping you steady as he fucks you mercilessly. You bend forward, gripping his shoulders as some kind of anchor, punctuated moans spilling endlessly from your mouth. His helmet is downturned, the forehead of it resting against your sternum as he watches his cock disappear inside of your cunt, slick smearing along the front of his pants. He uses his Force to swirl against your clit, creating a sort of buzzing sensation that quickly brings that knot back and sets your blood ablaze.

“A commander reduced to a fucking cocksleeve. So good for my dick, aren’t you?” He breathes, words made even more gravelly by his vocoder. “Fuck.” You can only nod along and whimper, your brain fucked into useless mush.

You grip him tighter when your second orgasm finally bursts, your walls spasming around his cock and making him curse even louder. Cum gushes from you, dripping along your folds and making a further mess of Kylo’s pants. You cry out when he keeps thrusting into you, everything throbbing and overly sensitive for his harsh pace. You can’t think straight, you can only dig your teeth into the padded armor of his shoulder as tears well and threaten to fall.

His cock twitches, his hips stuttering. He gets in a few more thrusts before he’s cumming at last, a slew of cusses mixed with grunts and groans falling from his mouth. You hum in pleasure when you feel his warm spend filling your cunt to the brim, effectively coating your walls white.

Neither of you can move for a couple of minutes after. You don’t know how long you sit there for, your body finally relaxing and your eyes closing. He doesn’t pull out, his cock softening inside you and making sure you stay plugged full of his cum. You’re tempted to fall asleep before Kylo’s hands are leaving your hips and instead coming up to undo the latches on his helmet. There’s a hiss of air as the mechanisms slide out of place and he’s able to take it off. His black hair falls around his face, sweat drenching the ends.

You struggle to lift yourself up, but you want to see him. Your hands shake from exhaustion when they reach forward, taking his cheeks in your palms. He looks so tired. His sigh tickles your skin, his eyes closing at your touch. He seems significantly more relaxed now, his body letting go of its tension and his Force signature becoming something calmer. You can feel the weight shift as he leans into your right hand. His arms circle around your back, somehow pulling you even closer.

He swallows before speaking. “I was… afraid.” He mutters. “Afraid without you here… and yet I had to do it. Otherwise I’d lose you.”

He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his lips gentle as they brush along your collarbone. “I was afraid that I would fail. That it would’ve all been for nothing.” He continues. He sounds so quiet, quieter than you’ve heard him in a while. You run your fingers through his hair. “I just… I’m glad I sent you away.”

“Me too.” You mumble, your eyes trained on the back wall as your mind runs. You’re finally coming to terms with the fact that your death had almost been set in stone at the hands of Snoke. Coming to terms with the fact that your lifelong teacher was going to have you executed by his star pupil, and the fact that Kylo decided to save you and possibly get himself killed instead. The fact he did everything he could to make sure you wouldn’t come back to a death sentence. You swallow thickly. “Thank you.”

He stills at those words. They’re the last thing he expected to hear from you and it makes him uneasy. He doesn’t say anything, and that’s okay. You know he can’t. Besides, it’s easy to gather what he wants to say from his Force in this moment of vulnerability. An apology is at the forefront; an apology for taking things out on you again. He doesn’t regret it, but he didn’t mean for it to happen. Then underneath that there’s longing that’s still lingering from when you were gone. He wanted nothing more than to see you, to know you were okay. He’s more than happy to have you in his arms now.

You pull yourself out of his thoughts, blowing out a tired sigh and resting your head on his shoulder. He wraps his cape around you to protect your mostly-naked form from the chill of the throne room, his warmth bleeding into you. You’re content to just sit there in his lap, and he seems content to let you. He relaxes back into the throne, cradling you against him with his soft breathing ruffling the hairs on the top of your head.

You’re together. You’re alive. That’s all you need in this moment.

#insane behavior #writing mean Kylo is kinda new so 🙏#sorry if it’s wonky or anything lmao #star wars #star wars fanfic #star wars x reader #original characters #kylo ren #kylo ren fanfic #kylo ren x reader #kylo fanfic #kylo x reader #kylo #kylo x you #Kylo ren angst #Kylo ren fluff #Kylo ren smut #smut fic

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skyguytoast · 3 months ago

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OMG, I love your writing!! 😭💖 I was thinking about this idea and knew you were gonna kill it—so hear me out: You’re a Sith, and Anakin is sent to capture you… but what if, instead of a fight, you seduced him instead? 👀 Like, imagine all the tension, the power struggle, the way he knows he should resist but just can’t. Ugh, I need this in my life, please!!

REQUEST: GENERAL!ANAKIN X SITH!READER

WARNING: fighting and flirting

WORDS: 1.7k

A/N: hii, love, i hope i made justice to your request, i love how creative you’re, hope hearing more amazing ideas 😉😘as always i love requests, they literally give me goosebumps and save me from my writer block. anyway, comments, reblogs are appreciated. kisses and good reading 🥰🤩

One of Anakin’s favorite things about being a general was the freedom to carry out missions however he saw fit. The Jedi Council dictated the assignments—the what and where—but the how? That was his decision. No matter how reckless or unconventional his methods were, the 501st followed him without question. He had earned that trust.

This mission, however, was a little… different.

A Sith hiding in the Outer Rim wasn’t unheard of, but the location certainly raised some eyebrows. A brothel. The last place anyone expected to find a dark side wielder. It wasn’t a battlefield or a Separatist stronghold. There were no enemy starfighters to chase down, no tactical sieges to command. And yet, if this Sith was dangerous enough to warrant his attention, then maybe—just maybe—it wouldn’t be a complete waste of his time.

He had left Ahsoka in Obi-Wan’s care, deeming this mission too complicated for her. Not because she couldn’t handle herself, but because—stars above—he couldn’t drag his Padawan into this. The war had already taken so much from her, forced her to grow up too quickly. But a brothel? That was a level of exposure even he had to draw the line at. Not that the Jedi were strangers to hypocrisy.

Disguised—or as much as someone like him could be—he stepped inside the establishment, his black robes swallowing him whole, his lightsaber hidden beneath layers of fabric. It wasn’t his typical battlefield attire, but he had learned early on that walking into enemy territory without announcing himself as a Jedi had its advantages. He’d let the Sith reveal themselves first.

The air was thick—smoke, perfume, the low hum of conversation, the occasional flirtatious laugh curling through the dimly lit space. Bodies moved languidly across the room, draped in silks and shadow, the sound of music threading through the walls like a heartbeat. A den of sin, the Jedi Council would say. But Anakin?

Anakin had never been one for their rigid philosophy. Still, he reminded himself why he was here. Find the Sith. Capture them. Bring them in.

Simple.

Or at least, it should have been.

But then he saw you.

You weren’t like the others. You weren’t draped across someone’s lap or whispering sweet nothings into a client’s ear. You were watching him, eyes sharp, posture deceptively relaxed, as if you had expected him all along.

Sith.

He knew it instantly, the way the Force pulsed around you, dark and intoxicating. But what unnerved him more was the way you smiled. Slow. Knowing.

Dangerous.

And damn it all—his breath hitched in his throat.

“Jedi.” Your voice was smooth, honeyed darkness. “I was wondering when they’d send someone.”

His muscles coiled instinctively, fingers twitching near his hidden saber. “Then you know why I’m here.”

You hummed, tilting your head. “Oh, I have an idea.” You uncrossed your legs deliberately, the shift in movement drawing his gaze for half a second too long before he snapped his eyes back to your face. You noticed, of course. That damn smirk of yours widened.

Anakin clenched his jaw.

The smart thing—the right thing—would be to demand your surrender. To drag you back to Coruscant in shackles before you had the chance to do whatever it was you were planning to do.

But you just… stood there. Gazing at him with the kind of confidence that made his stomach tighten in something uncomfortably close to anticipation.

“Aren’t you going to arrest me, Jedi?” you teased, voice dipping lower as you leaned in, just enough for him to catch the scent of spice and something wickedly sweet.

Anakin swallowed hard. The Force between you crackled like a live wire, the dark and the light colliding in a storm of heat and tension.

Something told him—warned him—that this mission would be anything but simple. And as your fingers barely ghosted over his arm, a whisper of contact, a silent dare—

Anakin should have known better.

He should have seen the trap the moment you looked at him like that—like you knew him, like you had already won. But he wasn’t one to back down from a challenge.

His fingers tightened around the hilt of his hidden lightsaber. “I’ll give you one chance to surrender.” His voice was firm, but even he could hear the thread of something else lurking beneath it.

Interest.

Amusement flickered in your eyes. “How generous of you, General Skywalker.”

His name rolled off your tongue like silk, and damn it, why did that make something hot coil in his stomach?

You took a slow step forward, deliberately closing the space between you. He should have stepped back. He should have drawn his weapon and ended this before it even started.

Instead, he let you get just close enough for your breath to ghost over his skin as you murmured: “But I don’t surrender, Jedi.”

Then, faster than a heartbeat, the Force slammed into his chest, sending him skidding back across the polished floor. His robe billowed around him as he caught himself, planting his feet firm. The room had gone eerily silent, the patrons watching with wide eyes as reality dawned on them—this wasn’t a show.

This was a fight. Anakin exhaled sharply. “So that’s how you want to play it?”

With a snap-hiss, his saber ignited, blue light spilling over the darkened room. The hum of energy vibrated in the air as he steadied himself, eyes locking onto you. And Force help him—he had never been so tempted by an enemy before.

You ignited your own saber, crimson light clashing with his blue, casting you in a dangerous glow. “Afraid you’ll lose, Chosen One?”

His smirk was sharp. “Not a chance.”

Then you struck. Your saber clashed against his with a crackling snap, sparks flying between you as you twisted, your movements fluid, dancing. You weren’t just fighting—you were playing with him.

And damn it, you were good. Anakin parried, spinning his blade to block an incoming strike, but you were already slipping behind him, pressing close, your voice a purr against his ear.

“Not bad, Jedi. But I expected more.”

He growled, spinning to elbow you, but you ducked, laughing, your saber swinging up toward his side. He barely deflected in time, the force of it sending a shudder up his arms.

“Distracted?” you taunted.

Anakin grit his teeth. “I don’t get distracted.”

“You sure?” You twirled away, the hem of your dark robes brushing against his legs like a whisper. “Because the way your heart is pounding tells me otherwise.”

He exhaled sharply through his nose. “Maybe I’m just excited to finally shut you up.”

You grinned. “Promises, promises.”

Then you surged forward again, but this time, Anakin was ready. He caught your wrist mid-strike, twisting you around, trapping your arm against your back as he pressed his saber just close enough to your throat to make you pause.

“Yield,” he murmured, his breath hot against your cheek.

Your laugh was breathless, but victorious. “Not yet.”

And then, his lungs seized.

A choked sound tore from his throat as invisible fingers curled around his neck, the crushing weight of the Force squeezing the air from his lungs. His grip on your wrist slackened just enough for you to twist free, stepping back as you held out your hand, your fingers curling like you were holding something.

Something like him.

His knees threatened to buckle, but the fire in his eyes never dimmed. If anything, the struggle—the pain—only made him angrier. Made him want you more.

“Look at you,” you cooed, tilting your head as you watched him fight against your hold. “So strong. So stubborn.”

He gritted his teeth, clawing against the invisible vice squeezing his windpipe. But Force, if your voice wasn’t making it worse. You stepped closer, your other hand ghosting over his chest, fingertips barely brushing over the fabric of his tunic. His breath hitched. You felt it.

“I could kill you right now,” you murmured, tracing a slow, burning path up to his jaw. “But where’s the fun in that?”

His lips parted, a strangled inhale rattling from his throat. His vision blurred at the edges, but he could still see you. The smirk on your lips, the wicked gleam in your eyes.

“You’re enjoying this,” you whispered, your thumb grazing over his bottom lip. “Aren’t you, Jedi?”

His heart slammed against his ribs.

And damn him to the depths of the Force—

He was. But Anakin Skywalker was nothing if not unpredictable.

His hand shot up, fingers wrapping around your wrist as the dark vice around his throat shattered. He sucked in a sharp breath, twisting your arm just enough to throw you off balance before slamming you back against the nearest wall, your saber clattered to the floor.

His hand was around your throat now, not squeezing—not yet—but enough to tilt your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze. His blue eyes burned, his chest heaving with each ragged breath. For a moment, neither of you moved. Neither of you spoke.

The only sound was the hum of his still-lit saber, casting your faces in flickering shades of blue. Then—slowly, deliberately—he leaned in, his lips hovering just over yours, his breath fanning over your parted mouth.

“I think,” he murmured, voice dangerously low, “you like this just as much as I do.”

Your pulse thundered beneath his fingers. Your lips parted, but whether you meant to speak or close the last inch between you, but he didn’t give you the chance.

Because then, Anakin Skywalker did something he shouldn’t.

He kissed you.

You were so lost in the kiss—so utterly consumed by the heat of his mouth, the way he devoured you—that you didn’t even notice the cold metal snapping around your wrists until it was too late.

The click of the binders echoed between you, the unmistakable hum of energy-nullifying cuffs sending a sharp realization down your spine. Your fingers twitched, instinctively reaching for the Force—only to find nothing.

Dank farrik.

You barely had time to process before Anakin pulled back, his breath ragged, his lips still ghosting over yours. His grip on the cuffs tightened, tilting your bound hands upward, forcing you to meet his gaze. Blue eyes dark with something almost feral.

“You were saying?” he murmured, his voice dripping with wicked amusement.

Oh, you gonna be so fucked. And not just in one way.

TAG LIST: @ihearthayden @anakinstwinklebunny @sometimescharlolette @awhhayden @dessxoxsworld

#anakin skywalker #hayden christensen #anakin x you #anakin skywalker x reader #anakin x reader #star wars #anakin star wars #star wars anakin

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liannnn77 · 2 months ago

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“First Time” - Kaijou Summer Event 💙💛

We’re planning to hold our (third!) Kaijou Summer Event this year and this time the theme will be “First Time Experiences”!

How to participate:

Please leave me a reply or send me a DM if you’re interested in joining! There are two options to choose from depending on what you prefer:

Option 1 Random prompt lottery

Participants who choose this option will enter a lottery and be randomly assigned one of the existing prompts (see “List of Prompts" below). You'll create a work based on the prompt you receive and publish it on the event date. Details about the lottery will be shared later.

Option 2 Choose your own prompt

Participants who choose this option are free to come up with their own prompt, as long as it relates to the theme of “first time experiences.” Please try to avoid duplicating the prompts from the existing list if possible.

Content criteria

- The pairing must be Seto Kaiba x Joey Wheeler/Jounouchi Katsuya

- Can be in any format you prefer (fanfic, comic, illustration, music, etc.)

- Must be your original work; please do not trace or re-post works created by others

- R18/mature content is allowed but must follow platform rules/guidelines

Registration Deadline : June 30, 2025 - please leave a reply or DM and I will reply to confirm your participation - please also let me know which option you prefer! (see “How to participate” above)

If you choose Option 1, we will announce the lottery results on July 5, 2025.

Event dates: August 29-30, 2025 (tentative)

List of prompts:

(Read more)

First meeting

First time eating... (type of food)

First fight

First date

First kiss together

First time dressing up

First time being apart

First time catching a Pokémon

First time going to outer space together

First trip/travelling together

First time teaming up/collaborating

Meeting family for the first time

Sleeping over for the first time

First time having a pet

First time holding hands

First time heart skipped a beat (fell in love)

First time dreaming of…

First time waiting

First time being alone together

Feeling jealous for the first time

Crying for the first time

First time being gentle

First time meeting the past/future version of you

……

————

Special thanks to

Illustration @eyunle

Translation @deepbluedescent

#puppyshipping #seto kaiba #violetshipping #joey wheeler #jounouchi katsuya #kaijou #kaijou summer event

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hx4x4enthusiast · 5 months ago

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Optimus realising he is a dad (PART 2)

HAHA your god has heard your prayers my followers. I finally wrote part two. *I am running on energy and spite excuse the god complex*

Part 1

“Oh, man I missed the bots so much. I can’t wait to go dune dashing with Bulky and Jacky again.”

“I agree, I love my family but I missed Bee, playing games with my cousins isn’t the same as with him.”

“Yeah I can’t wait to go on a long ride with Arcee.”

Despite exhaustion tugging on the kids, the prospect of seeing the bots again filled all of them with excitement. They collectively agreed to wait at Jack’s house for their guardians to pick them up or a Ground bridge to open. The roar of a powerful engine captured the attention of the children. Which promptly turned into confusion as well as curiosity, when they spotted a very familiar blue and red truck instead of their respective guardians vehicle modes.

Grabbing their bags and locking the door behind them the group walked over to the truck parked on the curb. Jack reached the Prime first and opened the door for Miko to crawl into first, afterwards he helped Raf before climbing into the drivers cab.

“Uh hello, Optimus uhm where are the others?”

“Did something happen to them?”

“Greetings young ones. I can assure you Raphael everyone is well, the lull in Decepticon activity, allowed for an increase of free time, which was as far as I witnessed well used. To answer your question Jack the other are at base, receiving a standard medical examination Ratchet insist upon.”

“Yeah no disrespect OP but why are you picking us up.”

“A valid question Miko, while all of you were on vacation a discovery was made. We… I didn’t plan would…could happen.”

Silence encased the small space of the cab as the truck started moving and pulling out of Jasper, never have the children witnessed Optimus so unsure. Even without really knowing the depth of the position of Prime. Optimus was always a pillar of strength knowledge and confidence, witnessing him being so unsure was concerning.

“As you know due to the war the birthing place of all Cybertronians the Well of All Sparks has stopped working. One of the consequences was a stop in the creation of new sparks, the human equivalent to a child. When a New Spark is created it outer protective layer is still soft and easily damaged, so they have to rely on a protector to help them. These protectors are called Foster additionally they makes sure that all of the Sparklings basic needs are met. When the outer shell has hardened the new spark is referred to as a Youngling and enters a mentoring program for their assigned task. Once they gained the basics and graduated the Youngling program, they are recognized as full Cybertronians.”

“Why are you telling us this, Optimus?”

“Yeah I mean didn’t really wanna have a lesson in school free time.” “MIKO.”

Jack snapped at her, but still he was just as curious as Raf about the answer the Prime would give. While Optimus wasn’t necessary a quiet wallflower, he also wasn’t the most vocal bot.

“Your question is reasonable Raf, to explain what happened in your absence and not shock you I deemed it reasonable to explain Cybertronians relationships as they differ in aspects to human concepts. So allow me to continue, through the entire prospect, you would refer to as “growing up”, no emotional relationships are formed. You are one in many as you start life, opening your spark to someone is in every sense a deeply personal and vulnerable experience on Cybertron. Hence such bonds are sacred and them shattering will negatively impact all parties of the bond. One of the strongest bonds known is the Carrier or Sire bond. To ensure the survival of our species every Cybertronians has a set of coding typically referred to as the Sire/Carrier Protocol. Though it’s activation differs for every bot, the programming makes us protective of our own it typically happens when we form attachments when they are young before they are recognized as Cybertronians. It is a bond the same as the ones you form with your parents at birth. To answer your question Raf, in the absence of all of you my body displayed most unusual behaviors. A scan from Ratchet revealed that nothing was wrong with my frame physically. After another analysis it was revealed that my Sire Protocol was running and my frame acted upon the missing of my Sparklings.”

“OMG DOES THAT MEAN THAT YOU HAVE KIDS, WHY HAVE WE NEVER MET, OMG THEY GOTTA BE SO CUTE-“

“MIKO-Jesus keep it down would you I appreciate not losing my hearing yet.”

“Wait guys, Optimus said that he didn’t know he was running this protocol so he didn’t knew he had children. And if his body acted because his Children were missing. And we were all gone. Then…then we are…”

Optimus came to a stop, opening his door allowing the children to exit his cab. Though none of them moved, realization now also displaying on Jacks and Mikos face. Optimus carefully transformed back into his bipedal form positioning the children in his servos. Carefully he sat down his back against the wall of the small cave he once found patrolling. Slowly the kids, one by one looked up at him. Countless battles a millennia of war and still never was the prime this nervous and unsure as in this moment.

“So does that mean I get to call you Dad?” “Seriously Miko?” “What, I get an alien space Jesus as a dad that is cool as hell.” “Omg why am I friends with you.” “Because you love me, Jackie Boy.” “Shut up Miko.”

All of his fear and stress left his frame as he saw the children bickering with each other like always. A fond huff escaped the prime as his intake stretched into a small smiled, his faceplate shifting into something soft, something loving. For the first time in a long time he was at Pease, his Sparklings, with him, safe and happy. Slowly as to not jostle them he raised his servo to his Chest right by his spark. The movement interrupted the little argument between Jack and Miko, both focusing back on Optimus. This time Raf stepped forward holding onto the Primes thumb for support before speaking.

“Optimus we kinda already saw you as a father figure.” “Yeah you always help us when we need us and y’ know have really good advice.” “Thank you I am truly grateful to have already fulfilled such a role for you.”

With fondness in his optics observed he his two youngest, but as his gaze met with the oldest of the three, Jack looked away. Noticing the avoidance of his gaze Optimus send a commlink to Ratchet with his location, a second later a Ground Bridge opened up, turning to the other two.

“Raf and Miko this Ground Bridge will bring you to base Bumblebee and Bulkhead are already waiting for your return. We will join you later”

Before Miko could start to argue Raf took her hand and shaking his head. Optimus carefully lowered his servo back onto the ground, allowing Raf and Miko to hop down. Turning around to meet Jacks gaze he gave them a nod, sharing a look between them a silent conversation happened. It always fascinated Optimus how human managed to communicate without speech, ERP fields or commlinks. The silent conversation ended with Miko and Raf turning around and disappearing into the ground bridge, which promptly disappeared afterwards. Leaving the cave empty and silent except for the Prime and young human. Optimus lifted his servo back up to his chest allowing the Jack to not have to make direct eye contact with him. The silence continued neither of them making conversation.

“I…I never had a dad. I mean I do he is somewhere probably, obviously otherwise I wouldn’t exist. Mom said he was still there in the beginning but then one day he just left. I don’t really remember for me it’s always been just Mom and me. But then I met Arcee and you and the others and there where so many people there. And I am not alone anymore but everything changed so fast and what if this isn’t real and everything will be gone.” “Change is never easy, but change is also a chance. It forces open doors and shows us possibilities we couldn’t see before. Sometimes that means that we are met with harsh pain and suffering. But it can also push us, it makes us grow and without it we cannot go forward. Sometimes it is fast and happened in the blink of an eye and sometimes it is slow and happens in the span of millennia. Go this way in your own time Jackson, the door is open but it is your step to take.” “Thanks Optimus.” “You are welcome, Jack. Would you like to stay here a moment longer or do you wish to return back to base.” “I…I think I want to stay here a bit longer with you if that’s alright? “I do not mind.”

Relaxing against the Primes chassis, the two beings of different species stayed like this until the sun bid farewell and the younger one fell asleep. Protected by the millennia old titan with the war worn spark which found peace and love in three small humans.

Masterlist

#transformers #transformers prime #maccadams #tfp #miko nakadai #jack darby #raf esquivel #tfp optimus #papa prime

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hannyoontify · 8 months ago

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i love you - lee seokmin

member | best friend!seokmin x reader

genre | college!au, best friends to lovers!au, fluff

word count | 1.3k

synopsis | you're sick and stuck at home during halloweekend. you were planning to spend the night wallowing in self-pity and tissues, until a certain ray of sunshine disrupts your plans.

warnings | none? js food? and pining ig lol pls lmk if i missed anything

notes | i don’t rlly like this fic 😭 this was a horrible attempt at a sick fic please forgive me. not proofread

seok: heyyy seok: how’s the cold?

[name]: like death warmed up, actually

seok: oh wait i know this one seok: THE DEVIL WEARS PRADA REFERENCE!! RIGHT??

[name]: LMFAOO NICEE

seok: i do my homework :3

[name]: i’m proud of you, my pupil [name]: how’s the party?

seok: boringggg boo boo boooooo it’s boring without you seok: i was actually thinking about leaving

[name]: why? you’ve been looking forward to this party for weeks

seok: yeah but it’s not fun without my wolverine. we’re supposed to be deadpool and wolverine. me being deadpool is js. plain. boring. seok: so i’m leaving rn. wanna binge watch gilmore girls and eat pumpkin cheesecake bars that i stole from mingyu’s kitchen?

[name]: oooo yes please [name]: … and maybe some sinex? i lost mine :<

seok: no need to ask twice. i’ll be there in 20

[name]: you’re the best

The door to your apartment closed shut just as you had finished setting up your living room to the ‘BatCave’, as Seokmin liked to call it. It was something the two of you started since your freshman year when you were assigned to the dingy, tiny campus dorms and you had to make do with the small space the two of you had. There was no specific shape or structure to the BatCave. It was a discombobulated heap of pillows and blankets thrown atop an air mattress that you and Seokmin salvaged from an elderly woman’s yard sale during the spring semester in your sophomore year.

“Here, here! I’m here!” Your ears perked up at the sound of your best friend entering the foyer and Seokmin quickly made his way to you with two big plastic bags in hand, pressing a quick kiss to your head that made your heart flutter. “How are you feeling?”

You scrunched up your nose and spoke in a nasally voice. “Sick.”

Seokmin gave you an empathetic smile and reached into his coat pocket before handing you a box of Sinex. “Happy Birthday and Merry Christmas. Didn’t I bring you one this morning too?”

“I don't know where it went! I lost it!” You sniffled.

Seokmin busied himself with making a big show out of taking off his outer jacket, revealing his Halloween that he spent $180 on. The Deadpool costume was originally your idea, suggesting that he should buy a Deadpool onesie and call it a costume, but your best friend insisted on going full out. You thought it was ridiculous that he spent almost 200 dollars on a Halloween costume, but Seokmin thought otherwise.

‘Go big or go home.’ Was what he had said.

… At least, that’s what you think he said. He was way too drunk to form a coherent sentence at the time.

“Well, it’s gotta be somewhere.” Seokmin emphasized with a wave of his hands. “I’m going to change. You still have my clothes, right?”

You nodded and waved him towards your bedroom. “Second drawer on the right. It should be on the way top.”

“Thanks, this suit keeps giving me a wedgie and it doesn’t feel really…” He paused to adjust himself with a pained look on his face. “Nice.”

You watched with a smile as he disappeared into your bedroom, adjusting himself under the suit on the way. “You should demand a refund.” You called out to him.

“Oh, you bet I will!” He called back and you barked out a short laugh.

You don’t know how much time has passed since Seokmin first came into your apartment. The glass container that once held Mingyu’s famous pumpkin cheesecake bars was void, not a single crumb leftover. The ceramic mugs that were once filled to the brim with hot chocolate were empty, and the popcorn bowl resting in Seokmin’s lap was half empty.

Everything was perfect. The congestion in your nose had disappeared, thanks to the Sinex Seokmin had bought you, your fever was gone, and you had never felt more warm in your life, nestled into Seokmin’s side with his arm wrapped around your shoulder. Your favorite fleece blanket was pulled up into your chin and you were positive you had reached the most optimal comfortable state possible for a human.

“You okay?” Seokmin asked quietly. You felt the low hum of his voice reverberate in his chest where your head laid and you nodded.

“Yeah… just tired.” You responded quietly. “I think the Benadryl is in my system; I’m sleepy.”

He hummed and wrapped both arms around you, pressing his lips against your temple. “Go to sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

You nestled yourself further into his chest and nodded again, taking note of the faint scent of his cologne mixed with his shampoo and the calming effect it had on you. Your fingers searched for refuge in Seokmin’s embrace and you let out a small sigh as he began to stroke your head, his gaze still fixed on the screen, where Rory was dying Lane’s hair purple.

Your eyes fluttered closed in resignation, a battle lost against sleep and fatigue. The last thing you remembered before falling asleep was Seokmin’s finger lightly tracing indiscernible patterns on your shoulder.

The gentle pitter patter of the raindrops against your window jolted you awake and you shifted under the blanket, cozying yourself closer into Seokmin’s embrace. The movie on your laptop was paused, and Seokmin had his arm under your head, his eyes closed and lips slightly ajar as he took shallow breaths in his sleep.

The clock on the wall told you it was way too early–or late–to be awake, and you groggily rubbed at your eyes. The lights outside casted an eerie shadow on Seokmin’s sleeping face as his lashes fluttered ever gently against his skin, drawing your attention to the mole he had under his eye.

You reached out, lightly tracing the small freckle with your fingertip. There was a familiar fluttering in your stomach as your eyes scanned Seokmin’s face, your hand lightly resting on the side of his face. He nuzzled his face against your palm, humming quietly as he tugged you closer to his chest with the arm he had resting underneath you.

Heat rushed to your face as Seokmin rested his chin atop the crown of your head. The two of you remained like that, basking in each other’s warmth and comfort as the hand on the clock endlessly ticked by.

With every tick of the clock, you felt yourself falling harder and faster for the man who was currently holding you in his embrace. Seokmin was your best friend, your other half. The two of you met during freshman year move-in day, and you had known him as the smiley boy who lived across the hall. But now, you were in your senior year and he was Lee Seokmin, an irreplaceable and undoubtedly, the most favorite part of your life. Without Seokmin, you were missing a part of yourself.

“I love you.” The words tumbled out of your mouth before you could register what they were. It was barely above a whisper, spoken into the darkness where it would remain a secret between only you and the shadows.

Your words hung heavily in the air and you sucked in a quiet breath, nervous that you might’ve woken Seokmin up. There was a moment of silence, like the world was holding its breath to wait for his response, if he had one at all.

Seokmin’s eyes fluttered open and his warm, brown eyes stared into yours. Under the pale moonlight, his eyes sparkled, like pools of warm and enticing honey, drawing you in. Your eyes flickered to his mole, then the hand you still had resting on his cheek.

“Sorry, I–” Fumbling, you tried to draw your hand away but Seokmin stopped you, resting his hand atop of yours.

“... I love you too.”

reblogs and feedback is always appreciated ^-^

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gotta-winwin · 1 month ago

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day one | w.jh

⭐ starring: wen junhui 💌 genre: angst | wc: 2.2k 💬 preview: you and jun are all too familiar with goodbyes paired with the slight chance that you’ll never see each other again. it comes with his job as an astronaut, and when jun’s assigned to a mission that might take a whole lifetime to complete, you have to accept that this goodbye might be something else entirely. permanent and forever.

cw/tw: astronaut!jun x researcher!reader, inspired by interstellar, set in the 2060s where Earth is all farmland and weeds, the war against time, long distance relationship taken to the max, so many goodbyes, butchering of astronaut terms

🪽fic rating: pg ☁️ masterlist & a/n: angst. ha. this one is a gift to @lovetaroandtaemin mwah <3

now playing: forever star by 张洢豪

this is an addition to my 500 followers event: click here to read the masterlist!

A rocket flies into the sky, taking your lover away from you.

It flies fast, filled with power and speed, perfectly designed by the research you had supplied the space team with.

You had been tempted to burn the notebook that contained your life's work, if only as an attempt to keep Jun with you, yet the whole discovery was too tempting to give up.

You and Jun would make it into the history books. Names written next to each other in mankind’s greatest achievement. Physical bodies nowhere near one another.

You figured you’d be okay without him. After all, you and Jun were all too familiar with goodbyes. You stare at your calendar and realize you’ve lived longer without him than with him.

The realization burns.

You remember sending him off on his first flight into the universe.

“I can’t believe I actually made it.” Jun shakes you with both hands in excitement. “We made it.”

You can’t help but smile through the tears threatening to spill down your face. “I’m going to miss you.” You blink, and they slide down your face like waterfalls.

He presses the pads of his thumbs to your cheeks, wiping the droplets away. “I’m going to miss you too. But I’ll be back very soon.”

You were both so young, so clean and untouched by the suffering the next few years would be. So naive. So stupid to think it’d ever work out.

Jun presses a feather light kiss to your forehead, stooping lower to brush against your lips.

The first goodbye is always the easiest. You’re yet to learn the detrimental toll loving someone a universe away would put on you, and Jun was yet to learn the loneliness of outer space.

You throw a kiss into the wind as the rocket containing your lover takes off.

You only find solace in the fact that you’ll see him again in a couple weeks or so.

Jun comes back with a plethora of stories to tell your nieces and nephews.

They gather around him after dinner, eyes wide as they listened to him detail what meteor showers looked like from millions of miles away. He draws the Milky Way on a napkin. He tells them about showering upside down while bouncing your youngest niece on his leg.

You serve the kids orange juice in a glass jar and Jun his beer in a can.

The patio lights gleam in the night sky around you. Jun catches your eye in the middle of a particularly funny story and he breaks into a dazzling smile.

“My star.” He pulls you closer to him by the hip.

“My moon.” You respond back, pushing his hair away from his eyes. It’s a delicate play on his last name and his love for all things outer space.

It’s the last day either of you are incandescently happy.

The next few goodbyes are much harder than the first.

Jun cradles your head in his hands as he whispers his goodbyes, pressing his forehead against yours as your tears drop and mix together.

He doesn’t want to leave.

“I’ll be back very soon.” He states once again, but it’s not true this time. The mission calls for at least a year on the International Space Station, and Jun knows that’s longer than anytime he’s ever been without you. “I’m sorry.”

The worst part is that it’s no one's fault. “I’m sorry too.” You don’t know on whose behalf you’re apologizing for. You. The space team. The government. The universe.

Jun pulls you in for a hug, and he savours it like it’s his last.

“I’ll be back.” He promises. “I’ll be back.”

You blow the sky a kiss as the rocket takes off once again. You watch until it becomes a speck of dust in the sky, disappearing behind the murky clouds and into a place you cannot follow.

You restart the countdown.

Jun had dreamed of becoming an astronaut for as long as he can remember. He still finds drawings of himself in astronaut gear from kindergarten, scattered in the boxes up in his parent’s attic.

Jun used to love anything to do with space. The stars, the moon, the orbits. Jun used to love everything.

He didn’t anymore. Not when it cost him his time with you.

He found himself longing for a way back into the past, when times were simpler and traveling to space was just a dream too far away to even comprehend. It was an odd thing to think about when he used to long for nothing but the current position he was in now.

Jun stares off into the distance, watching as the stars blinked fire into the nothingness around them, and thought of you.

“Moon man, your commander’s looking for you.” Your heels clack against the marble floor of the compound.

He looks up from the files in his hands and relaxes upon seeing you. “My star.”

“Your commander’s been looking for you.” You repeat yourself, flipping the lights on in the room. “What are you doing sitting in the dark? You’ll ruin your eyes, reading in the dark like that.”

“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “It’s too loud in the main space.”

You kneel down to sit on the floor beside him, glancing at the papers in his hands. You spot the words: time, barrier and travel. You think nothing of it. “Between Commander Choi barking orders and Soonyoung throwing paper planes at the back of Mingyu’s head– I understand.”

“You’re still somehow able to calculate g-force and interdimensional shit in that ruckus though.” Jun points out, and you laugh at his lack of knowledge behind the mathematics that went into sending him and his comrades to space.

“I’m special.” You state simply.

His eyes turn into crescent moons when he smiles at you. “Yes. Yes, you are.”

If he concentrates hard enough, Jun can almost feel your body heat radiating against his arm, as if you were right there next to him. He doesn’t dare turn to look beside him, fearing that if he did, the feeling of you would dissipate away.

“Jun!” Mingyu calls him from the other side of the pod, floating with his legs crossed. “You’re on dinner duty today.”

He turns to respond quickly, but by the time he returns back to his bubble of solitude, you’re already gone.

The worst news is always delivered through an unassuming phone call.

Jun’s limbs are tangled with yours in bed as you both enjoy a rare day off from work. It’s quiet, a peaceful and welcoming contrast to your usual hectic schedules.

His phone rings and he groans to pick it up.

You don’t hear the conversation, but you can tell from his face that it’s Commander Choi on the other end of the call.

“Right. Are you sure? Okay.” Jun mumbles a quick goodbye before ending the call, a tight expression on his face.

“What?”

Whatever it is, he doesn’t want to say. “Work stuff.” He waves it away, curling his arms back around your waist and dragging you back into bed.

Your phone rings a few minutes later.

“We need you to come in.” It’s your own department head, Dr. Yoon, on the other end of the line.

“What’s going on?” Your voice is rushed, you can sense the strain in the lead researcher’s voice even through the terrible connection your cabin house has.

Jun’s watching you, equally on edge from the side of the bed.

“We’ve been ordered to prepare the necessary calculations for the next flight.”

Your shoulders relax. It’s a mundane thing. “It’s my day off, boss.”

“Not anymore. They wanted my best researcher, Y/N. It’s a big deal, this next flight. Come in and I’ll tell you more. Your boyfriend will have to come in too, he’s the one flying.”

You can feel your heart drop into the pits of your stomach as Dr. Yoon hangs up.

You and Jun later learn that the trip is for some government threat too confidential for you to know. They brief Jun on the whole mission, but your lover’s sworn to secrecy and doesn’t offer much.

All you know is that he’ll be gone for a long, long time.

“Time works differently in space.” Jun tells you.

“I know that, dumbass.” You reply back, already agitated by the news. “I was the one that discovered the formula for it.”

He covers your hands with his, eyes patient despite the glare he was receiving. “I know, my star. But I’m going much farther. A year on Earth will only be a couple hours to me.”

You don’t need to do any calculations to figure out what he’s trying to tell you.

“I’ll be dead when you come back.”

He winces. “No. Just– old.”

“And you’ll still be young.”

He nods. “I will be back. I promise.”

It’s a promise that isn’t his to give, but he gives it anyways.

You and Jun had become familiar with goodbyes, practiced and seasoned veterans in the art of parting. The ritual was always the same: a tender kiss, a prolonged hug, whispers and promises of a quick return, quiet declarations of love. He always walks away first. You blow a kiss to the sky as you watch him leave. It’s practiced. Memorized.

But this time it’s different. You both fumble, clumsy, knowing it was the last time for a long time– maybe forever.

“I can’t walk away first this time.” His voice breaks as he admits it, fingers gripping yours for much longer than usual. “Please don’t make me.”

You wipe away your tears and pull yourself together. “Okay.”

It takes everything in you to turn and walk yourself back to the car. You watch him hesitate for a beat before leaving himself.

You throw a weak kiss towards the sky as the rocket takes off, taking your lover away from you for the final time.

The scientific community calls it takotsubo cardiomyopathy, or broken heart syndrome. The astronauts call it a shift so long it broke the guy.

Jun calls it missing you.

His comrades see it too. His bones are showing more than his skin. Food no longer agrees with him. His eyes are void of light and they no longer turn into crescent moons when he smiles, or rather, he no longer smiles.

There are many names for the disease Jun suffers with.

Mingyu prefers a more straightforward term.

“He’s dying, commander.”

Commander Choi knows he is, but there’s no way back home for any of them. Not where they had found themselves in– planets away and in a completely unknown part of the universe. “I know.” Is all he says. “I know.”

They watch as Jun stares out the circular window of the space station, eyes transfixed on the blue terrain around them. A new ecosystem entirely, yet he showed no sign of excitement or curiosity.

He hums a lonely tune to himself as he runs a finger across the groove of the glass. His eyes glaze over and he smiles– it’s a painful one, filled with sorrow and grief.

“Y/N.” He whispers your name and his breath fogs up the glass.

Commander Choi and Mingyu can’t help but think he’s not just missing you anymore.

Jun’s mourning you like you’re already dead.

MANY YEARS LATER.

Your nieces and nephews have all grown now, heading into their adult years or bordering on the brink of graduating high school.

They still ask for stories of the moon man, of the uncle they remember in blips of childhood memories.

You tell them all about the early years with Jun. How he used to swat away Mingyu’s paper airplanes whenever they got too close to your face. How he used to pick you up from your house for work even if it was on the opposite side of town. You detail his adventures with the stars in the vast universe above where you stood.

Your nieces see him as the perfect example of what they should have in a future lover. Your nephews see him as who they should become.

“Why did you never marry?” Your youngest niece asks, her eyes brimming with tears from the last story you had just finished retelling. The story of how you got so good at goodbyes. She’s much older now, but she still idolizes Jun as if he were the moon itself.

Your lips quiver into a weak smile. “I don’t know, honey. I guess I could never see myself with anyone else. And I just kept waiting.”

“You’re still waiting.” Your oldest nephew observes from the edge of the armchair. He pokes the crackling fire in the firepit with a stick. “For Uncle Moon.”

“Yes.” You blink away the sudden tears appearing in the crevices of your eyes. “I suppose I am.”

“Why?” It’s an innocent question, reminding you of the wide-eyed innocence you once had, years ago.

“He has been with me since day one.” You explain. “It won’t be fair if he’s not with me till the end.”

You see in their eyes that they don’t really understand. They will, once they’ve met their own moon.

You send them off to bed one by one before you’re finally left alone, sitting out on the patio overlooking your farm land.

You raise your head to greet your lover in the sky.

“Hi, my moon.”

It glows in the center of the dark sky, crescent shaped like his eyes. The stars wink at you from around it.

Your wrinkled and weakened fingers shake as you raise your hand to blow a kiss to the moon and you picture him reaching out to catch it– wherever he is now.

MISSION LOG:

Mission success. Entering Earth’s atmosphere in T-Minus 10 hours. Mission length: 124 Earth years. 17 years in orbit.

Commander Choi logging in.

Pilot Kim logging in.

Mission Specialist Kwon logging in.

Fuel at 23%.

Welcome home.

78 notes · View notes

lincolndjarin · 2 months ago

Text

hollow star ⊹₊⟡⋆ ch. one

chapter one : when flesh meets steal

ao3 kofi main masterlist (series masterlist coming soon )

pairing: din djarin x scientist!reader

rating: 18+ mdni - check chapter tags for cws

word count : 6.1k

summary: Din agrees to help you when he's sees the credits you're offering in exchange for protection, after all, it's a simple mission. Artifact retrieval and data collection.

That's what you told him.

And why wouldn't he believe you?

tags: strangers to lovers, horror, non-consensual voyeurism, slowburn, psycological horror, fear

70,000 CREDITS - PRIVATE ESCORT DETAIL : FREELANCE OPERATIVES ONLY

SERVICE TYPE: Discreet Escort / Protection Detail

DURATION: 2 weeks (approximately)

LOCATION: Classified - Outer Rim, unregistered planet (coordinates provided upon meeting)

COMPENSATION: 140,000 credits, 70,000 upfront, and the remainder upon completion of the job. (an additional 10,000 credits will be provided for every day of service required after the initial 2 weeks.)

BONUS: Hazard pay negotiable based on situational escalation.

REQUIREMENTS: Combat experience, (soldier or soldier adjacent is preferable) must be familiar with navigation and willing to travel through hostile terrain. Preferably a ship that does not require a crew and has a solo operator. (negotiable) Must not be affiliated with the New Republic, or any Jedi-aligned factions.

Private client requiring an armed escort for the purpose of a personal research trip. The objective being artifact retrieval and/or data extraction. No combat is anticipated but the client requests protection against potential scavengers or environmental threats. Client will not be armed. No questions asked, no answers expected, discretion is non-negotiable.

There’s several blocked lines of text at the bottom of his monitor, encrypted information about the client that makes him furrow his brow. The black screen flickers a bit, his thoughts accompanied by the quiet hum of the space that surrounds the Razor Crest. 140,000 credits is nothing to scoff at, it’s the type of payment he’d expect on a high risk job, or something far more sinister than this. That kind of money is often offered up for jobs that most people wouldn’t choose because of its morality. Hit’s put out on children, or the defenseless. Or at the very least something that would take well over a few months.

Not this, not a simple in and out escort job.

The redacted information is concerning. Too concerning, even with the payout promised. His fingers type into the system for a few moments, trying to push through what he knows to be simple defenses put up by the guild before the screen blinks and the text is easily revealed to him. With a pleased sigh he sits back in his chair and reads.

Client shows signs of previous Imperial affiliation, though not flagged for war crimes. Known history with a classified archives division. Linguist, no combat personnel history. Last known activity listed as an unexplained incident with a vault located at Station Mourna 2. (now sealed.) Was assigned to the Imperial Historical Recovery Taskforce, or I-HRT, division 12. No last known location. No existing warrants or bounties on head.

The Imperial affiliation stands out to him but it reads like they had very little to do with anything more than their history department. Which seems benign enough and would explain the exorbitant fee. They can simply afford it.

But there’s just something off about the listing.

It should be so simple, it’s a clean cut job, a bit clinical, but nothing of the sort would be required of him. It’s the top left corner of the screen that makes him the most hesitant.

36 applications received, 0 accepted.

The client clearly requires someone experienced, it can’t even be seen by anyone without a certain guild clearance level but 0 acceptances out of 36? It’s unheard of, even with the pickiest clients. Anyone who would have applied at this point would have been more than qualified.

Maybe the client is particular about certain things, or maybe they already found someone and forgot to remove the listing. Either way it’s simply too tempting to resist any longer. He needs the money, or at the very least he needs the distance.

He can’t just keep waiting here, burning through fuel, for something that is never going to happen.

He enters his guild code, fingers lingering above the send button before finally clicking it. Rocking back in the pilot's seat he lets his head fall back. Accepting the fact that he won’t be receiving a response before the message has even been fully sent out.

So the immediate chime made by the ship's notification system is more than a shock as he sits back up.

Congratulations! Your application has been accepted! The client will be waiting for you on : CORUSCANT

Attached you will find the message provided by the client, best of luck!

I would like to be retrieved as quickly as possible from the Kaelen Memorial Travel Port. Payment will be exchanged immediately after boarding. Your haste is appreciated.

Dr. Thorne

The response makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He can’t place the sense of dread this all fills him with but unfortunately his mind is made up. A lot of things fill him with dread these days, so he might as well make a little money.

It’s not like he has anything left to lose.

⊹₊⟡⋆

Sleep doesn’t come easy to him.

It never has, but especially not these last few months. Almost always it’s just simple restlessness, a refusal to turn off the hunters instincts and relax. Waking up in a sweat after a dream of just barely snagging a bounty, or finding himself at the end of a blaster being wielded by one of the many nameless faces he’s turned in over the years.

Tonight is different though. Tonight he sinks into sleep slowly, but deeply.

When he wakes up he’s met with a feeling he hasn’t felt in decades.

The wind.

Cold, and sharp against his face as he cautiously gets to his feet. He’s standing in a field of ash, no visible sky above, only more grey and smoke.

He manages to pull himself together enough to realize he’s dreaming but it doesn’t make him any less disoriented. His hands find his face, scratching at the unfamiliar sting of air on his flesh. Looking around and trying to take in his surroundings proves fruitless until something slowly slips through the smoke above him. Swaying back and forth in the breeze until it gingerly lands in his open hands.

A feather.

A dainty, black feather.

When he shifts his gaze upwards to find the source he finally finds something else in the endless expanse of space around him. A star.

Although it’s barely that at all.

Hanging from a mess of wires is a poorly made steel outline of a star, desperately trying to stay together as a few sparks twitch out of the exposed cables within. It tries to flicker, to turn on but all it manages is a pathetic glow from the hollow space within. It isn’t a normal light it emits either, he immediately recognizes it as the same glow made by the darksaber, instinctively he reaches for his hip to find it but only grabs air. Looking down in search of it forcefully makes him drop down a foot into the ash.

Before he can find his footing he sinks again, another jolt down so that he’s up to his knees in ash. Frantically, he tries to hold onto something, anything, but there’s only more grainy ash, he finds no purchase as he sinks, quicker, and quicker, unable to hold on any longer he takes a deep breath, preparing for the punishing lack of oxygen he’s about to be faced with.

And then he wakes up.

Gasping, and clawing at the single sheet that lines the mattress in his bunk.

It’s a tight squeeze when he leverages himself out, falling to his knees in the cargo hold of the ship, wildly ripping his helmet off before the air can properly depressurize, giving himself a sharp pain in his temples. He’s too desperate for air to care about the headache he’s gonna have for the rest of the day.

⊹₊⟡⋆

It’s late.

The port you’ve requested boarding at isn’t one he’s familiar with. Coruscant is a large planet though, and there’s plenty of places in the galaxy that he’s never been to. As he approaches the first thing he notes is how dark it is. The entire planet is lit up, especially from a distance. The mass of cities and the vibrant nightlife keep the planet well lit. Unfortunately for him, it seems you’ve chosen the only dark patch on the entire planet. It isn’t easy to calibrate the landing because of the lack of light, he can’t see anything clearly but it appears to be completely empty so he picks a random spot and prepares himself.

The ship hovers above the crumbling refueling station, slowly descending before landing with a hiss of air. For the price attached to the job he certainly wasn’t expecting to dock in such a shitty spot. Unsure of what to expect he makes his way to the loading dock and lowers the ramp, before it even reaches the stone pathway a pair of boots land on the edge.

Instinctively his hand twitches to his blaster as he assesses the figure.

Alone, cloaked, and calm. Before him stands who he is certain must be his client. He was expecting a stony faced doctor, someone older, someone that looked like they’d spent plenty of time out in the field.

Which is why he’s taken aback by the sight of you.

Doe-eyed, looking out of place in the dark robes that adorn your body, the only out of place thing about you is the small pale scar along your jaw. In one swift motion you drag a large suitcase up onto the platform behind you.

“Worn, but efficient.” Are the first words out of your mouth as you take in the sights of the ship, as if he isn’t standing directly in front of you. “I suppose this will do.” Nodding to yourself you finally let your gaze settle in him, a smile that doesn’t quite meet your eyes adorns your face. “Hello, Mandalorian.” It’s almost posed as a question, you want confirmation that you’re in the right place despite the fact that he’s standing before you in full beskar armour.

He isn’t sure how to respond. The client information section of the listing flashes through his mind as he stares.

Imperial affiliation.

Your outfit surely suggests that but the rest of you screams inexperienced. He hasn’t ever seen someone who looks so unprepared for a field job. And he finds himself experiencing a feeling he’s only ever felt a handful of times in his life.

Surprised.

But you can’t know that.

He’s supposed to be the seasoned bounty hunter who can handle anything thrown his direction. At least that’s what you’re paying for. Convinced his voice will betray him, he only nods at you.

“Good, I’m Dr. Thorne, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” Stepping further up onto the ship you hold your hand out towards him. With robotic movements he gives you a quick and firm handshake before immediately withdrawing. Even through his gloves he can feel just how cold you are.

With every passing second he’s regretting this decision more and more.

“I appreciate your punctuality.” You rock slowly, back and forth on your heels as you size him up, making no attempts at being subtle. “And you’re taller than I expected. Not an issue, just something of note.” You force a laugh but he still doesn’t speak. Partly because he isn’t the chatty type but also because he just doesn’t know what to say. Your tone is too clinical, like he’s a patient and you’re his doctor. “And you haven’t interrupted me once, which is… polite, I suppose.” He can’t decide if you’re joking so he continues to nod.

Everything about you is odd, it gives him a queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. This is why he doesn’t usually take escort jobs. They require too much talking, it’s been so long since he’s had someone aboard that wasn’t a bounty he can’t even discern if this is typical conversation. You’re too clinical, too detached from your words, if it weren’t for your constant twitching and unpredictable muscle spasms he’d have thought you were a droid. He has to remind himself that you’re just a person, and he’s met plenty of people, some over twice your size, and never once felt intimidated.

With an indiscernible shiver he shakes off the feeling, after all there is no direct threat here, just discomfort, and he’s more than well equipped to handle a little discomfort.

“Would you mind directing me to my chambers so that I might deposit my belongings before we proceed?” The naivety of your statement makes him scoff, and briefly his walls break down. You’re about to be in for a rude awakening as he tilts his head to the left, the airlock doors open on a small storage compartment. Clearly a space used to store weapons or fuel, that has been cleaned and haphazardly refurbished with a cot, a steel dresser, and a storage trunk.

But you are completely unshaken.

Despite your neatly kept robes and hair pulled back is a strict tie you show no signs of distress at the tiny living space.

“Well this is easy enough.” You grunt a little, dragging your large bag forward, tossing it into the compartment before turning to face him once more, riffling around in your robe pockets and presenting him with a large satchel that jingles with the sound of credits as you hold it out politely towards him.

“You don’t seem up for conversation so I suppose we should just get on with it then.” You click your tongue, softly, it doesn’t seem like you even realized that you did it. “Perhaps I should try speaking your language. My plans are as follows; I would like safe and comfortable transportation to my desired location. When we arrive I would like you to accompany me as I conduct my research. It is nothing of great importance, more of a personal project of mine, I’d like to retrieve an artifact for my personal collection. It isn’t considered particularly valuable by any means, it’s just something significant to the niche of research that I’ve devoted my life to. While I am willing to share more information on it I’d rather not and I’d be willing to bet that you don’t want to hear it anyway so I think it would be for the best to keep it that way. I am not anticipating a need for protection, the site was condemned ages ago, but I find that preparing for the worst case scenario is best. You will accompany me. I will examine the ruins, collect samples and data, and when I’m done, we will board the ship and you will bring me back here.”

Your eyes dart down to the credits and then back up to his visor.

“70,000 credits, as promised upon arrival. With another 70,000 to be transferred electronically automatically at the end of the two week period along with a bonus for your discretion.” The end of your sentence drifts off to a whisper as you wait for him to accept.

You barely breathed during your ramblings and his brain is fighting to process everything at the same speed as your voice.

A moment of eerie silence swallows the space around them, something of significance that he can’t quite place, nor can he discern if you feel it too. A sour taste in his mouth and the feeling of bile rising in his throat, a feeling of being watched, all eyes on him. Waiting for him to make the choice, the right choice.

And as he thinks it over you react with enough tiny tells to finally let him know that you’re just as nervous.

You’re in a constant state of motion, even when you appear to be still, as if there’s something under your skin keeping you going.

But it was foolish of you to even think you could hide from him, he was trained to do this, to read a situation like this with deadly precision, despite how low stakes it might look to an outsider he can feel the weight of the situation, heavy on his chest as his eyes roam the oncoming storm that is you.

The way your jaw ticks, the subtle flex of the muscles in your cheek as you fight the urge to grind your teeth. Your nails chewed down to the quick, and the skin around them red and angry from nervous scratching and picking. The color of your undereyes is just a little too bright, you’re covering up something with makeup, almost certainly dark under eyes. The scar that runs along the bottom of your jaw is barely visible when you’re facing forward but he can tell it’s old, it healed long ago but everytime you look in the mirror you’re reminded of whatever it was that gave it to you. Oddly enough, the culmination of all of this is enough to finally relax him a bit. It’s what finally makes you human in his eyes.

You put on a good show.

At first glance he was entirely convinced that you were this mysterious, calculating Imperial doctor, but he can see through all of that with a closer look. You’re a survivor. You’re scared of whatever mission it is that you’re about to embark on, but you’re not the threat you try to discreetly present yourself as.

“Trust is expensive out here.” The stare of wide eyed innocence you give him makes up his mind as he holds his own hand out and accepts the credits. You visibly exhale when he does. “I just hope that with this, I’ve earned yours.”

The nod he gives you provides no promises, you’d be stupid to think that he trusts you, but at the very least you’re putting some trust in him.

And that’s enough to make him speak his first words to you. The question that’s been on his mind since he saw your listing.

“Where are we going?” He can immediately tell that how ragged his voice is from disuse is startling. He can’t seem to recall the last time he had to speak.

Politely, and anticipating this question you reach into your robes once more before producing a small slip of paper with coordinates neatly written on them.

“I don’t know the name of the planet, it’s old and I haven’t been able to find many records of an official title.” He’s quickly realizing that you speak like you rehearsed this all, it’s an odd, robotic, tone. It makes him want to ask more but he knows that he probably wouldn’t like any answer you gave him, the way you speak unsettles him. Instead of dwelling he tries to map out in his mind how long the trip will be from here to this mystery planet based on the coordinates.

“Should be about two days of travel, is there anything else you need before we leave?” He has rations set aside for the two of you but with the possible end date of this job being ambiguous it’s troubling to think that all you have is one bag. “I have enough rations stored away for four weeks worth of travel, with four days total in round trip travel time I’d advise you to make sure you’re properly equipped.” You aren’t looking at him anymore, instead your eyes wander and begin to study the ship around you.

“I have everything we’ll need.” He watches as your temperature rises, just a degree or two, wondering if it’s your nerves that are causing this reaction. “I’d like to leave as soon as possible.”

There’s no reason to draw this out any longer than necessary, with his pockets weighed down with his payment he makes a beeline for the bay door panel, with a deafening groan the steel doors slide shut. Ignoring the feeling of your eyes on him he pushes a series of buttons, ensuring a proper seal on the airlock. No going back now.

“Shall I join you in the cockpit? Perhaps I could properly brief you on the mission and we could exchange pleasantries.” You give him a polite smile but he shakes his head. The last thing he wants right now is more conversation with you.

“Get some sleep, it’s gonna be a long trip.” He tries to control his tone, attempting a cordial manner of speaking.

He can’t get to the cockpit quickly enough. Careful to lock the hatch behind him he starts to set the course. It’s a fifty hour trip there, fifty hours until the unknown. Setting the ship for an auto pilot trip he leans back in his chair, taking deep breaths until the blinking light on the control panel breaks him out of his silent meditation.

The ship's motion detectors.

He’s never used the security system, he’d had it installed as a sort of baby monitor for the kid but he’d never needed it. He so rarely has anyone on the ship to monitor.

He fiddles with the controls briefly until the monitor to his left hums to life with the grainy image of you, standing alone right where he left you.

As you look around the room, taking your time to note everything around you he finds himself fascinated by the sight of you. Being able to watch you from the outside makes you much more interesting.

When you finally move it isn’t too rushed to your chambers.

Instead you move slowly, drinking in the space. You lift your hand and your robe flows like water around you, and you touch the closest wall. Pacing, circling the room you brush your hand up against everything, not searching or scheming, just feeling. Mapping out the space. You pause in front of one of the many supply lockers crammed in against the interior wiring of the ship, tilting your head as if you’re listening for something. A small, private smile tugging at the corners of your mouth before you move on.

His gloved hands flip through the switches, cycling through the different feeds until you’re back on the screen, stepping lightly into a cargo hold.

You’re so careful. You don’t pry or rummage through his things, instead you just do a lap around the room, fingertips dragging along the seams of the walls that conceal panels, the cold steel of storage crates.

You linger over things like the emergency oxygen masks and the first aid kits, like you’re memorizing their placements. Everything in the room feels your featherlight touch as you slowly trace every edge and curve. He feels like he watches you move from room to room for hours until you finally make your way into your quarters. Instinctively he changes the feed again only to be met with static. A frown forming on his face until he realizes why.

When he’d purchased the ship he had to calibrate the system to his liking, and he’d marked any rooms used as sleeping quarters as private. He didn’t normally have guests on the ship but he wasn’t a creep. His thumb hovers over the manual toggle anyway, and a thought crosses his mind.

He shouldn’t be watching you, you clearly have no ill intentions. It would be wrong to keep watching.

But you’re wearing all those layered robes.

A concealed weapon isn’t just a possibility, it’s smart. And with your intelligence it should be expected.

And of course he hadn’t searched you upon boarding, you’re a paying customer, it would have been rude and might have lost him the job.

He flexes his hand.

Something about you was off, even the listing had been strange. The wise decision here would be to make sure that everything appears typical. His mind argues back and forth with itself as he tries to justify this, eventually his curiosity gets the best of him.

Just until you’re done changing, he tells himself. Just to be sure.

The feed cuts to an unblurred view of your room.

For a moment you just dig through your bag, and his jaw tightens. You pull out a few notebooks and pens, tossing them onto the cot. Your movements are so much more fluid now, without rush, more natural looking than you’d been in front of him.

Standing with your back to the camera your fingers find the ties at your waist, loosening them, the fabric falls off your shoulders. Slowly and methodically you slip off each layer, catching them before they hit the floor, and folding them neatly. It’s a long and arduous process as you go layer by layer until you’ve got a stack on your dresser and you clasp your hands together, finished.

Now revealed is a thin underlayer, a close fitted tunic and pants that end just above your knees. Clothes meant for sleeping, nothing else. Tight enough to make it obvious that you’re concealing nothing.

He tells himself again that this is all just a precaution

His throat feels terribly dry.

He should turn it off. But he can’t.

Reaching up, you undo your hair, arching yourself back in a stretch that makes his entire justification for watching you suddenly feel twisted and dirty.

There are no weapons. Nothing hidden.

Nothing but you.

And then, you froze in place.

Halfway through a groan of relief as you stretch, you turn towards the wall.

Head tilting up until your gaze is facing the camera.

Not just towards it, right at it.

Your eyes are calm, not accusatory, not shocked.

That somehow makes him feel worse. A bead of sweat sliding down his forehead and over the bridge of his nose.

And you tilt your head to the side, just a smidge. Like you’re staring right at him. Like you’re the one observing him.

He cuts the feed.

Turning the monitor off entirely as the cockpit goes silent and he’s staring at his own reflection in the now blank screen. Helmeted, emotionless, guiltless.

He certainly doesn’t feel that way, as shame is starting to set in like cement in his chest.

Leaning back in his chair he exhales slowly.

He certainly isn’t going to sleep soundly tonight.

��₊⟡⋆

The familiar scent of the motel room fills your head as you rush back in, slamming the door shut behind you with a panicked breath, scrambling for the lock before relaxing.

It’s a shitty place to stay, with even shittier neighbors. Your research is too important to be kept here, you know that, but you don’t have any other choice. This was and continues to be the cheapest option. Just as you’re setting your bag down your tablet across the room chimes. For the last three months you’ve felt your heart race at the sound of that notification dozens of times, only to immediately be disappointed. Tonight is no different. Your breath quickens immediately, almost to the point of hyperventilation as you dart across the room, kneeling in front of the bed as you type your password into the device.

[ YOU HAVE : 1 NEW APPLICATION - WOULD YOU LIKE TO REVIEW IT? ]

Out of habit you’re tapping the space where the “yes” icon is going to appear before it’s even there. The screen changes to the applicants guild code, but that’s not the information you’re after, your eyes skip over it the redacted information portion, you’ve already put a system in place that reveals it and you desperately search for the one word you’ve been waiting for.

And for the first time since you put out this damn listing, you find it.

Mandalorian

It feels like your heart stops, you know you shouldn’t get your hopes up, but this could be the one.

Male, 40 years of age, (estimate) combat capable, well experienced, specialties in location and extraction of bounties, Mandalorian, solo operation.

He fits all the parameters, even if they’re vague. It isn’t a guarantee that he’s the one you’ve been waiting for but you don’t even think about it as you type in your response, signing it with the name you were given during your time serving the Empire.

Dr. Thorne

You hurriedly pack everything you can into your bag before laying down, heart racing, the moment you get a response you’ll be checking out of this hell hole. If the guild member arrives and isn’t the Mandalorian in full silver with a mudhorn signet on his pauldron you’ll just turn around and try again.

…

In the morning you have an estimated arrival time and it’s all finally coming together. You tell yourself over and over again to not get ahead of yourself. It’s more than likely that you’ll be checking back into hotel hell tonight.

There’s nothing left to do at this point but wait. So that’s exactly what you do, you sit by the small window and wait for the sun to set, your eyes locked onto the clock on your tablet. Until finally, a little after ten o’clock there’s another notification chime and you know he’ll be landing soon.

You dress yourself in the only nice clothes you have left, your robes, and travel to what you know to be an abandoned space port. Pulling your cloak more tightly around yourself as the cold settles into your bones. You aren’t standing in the dark for long, soon enough there's a rush of hot air as a ship materializes out of the darkness, landing directly in front of you. You’re absolutely wired at this point. It feels like there’s an electric current running under your skin as a loud hiss fills the quiet air around you and a large ramp lowers itself to the ground and you can see the soft golden light within.

You’re too fired up to wait for it to hit the ground, careful not to lose your balance you hoist yourself up. Taking in the sights of the ship, forcing a smile, preparing yourself for the wave of defeat that will wash over you when you see him.

And then you do.

And he sees you.

And the weight of the world is lifted off your shoulders.

Your brain stops working but thankfully your mouth doesn’t, you’re on auto-pilot, introducing yourself, shaking his hand, greeting him.

Him.

Standing before you just as you’d dreamed. In a full suit of silver armour, the signature Mandalorian helmet adorns his head. He’s taller than you thought he’d be, more menacing. You aren’t scared of him though, you couldn’t be. Your eyes drift to his shoulder, the mughorn symbol visible from where you’re standing.

You finally manage to shake off the sense of awe and ask him where your chambers are and he scoffs, how odd. He nods to an open room to your left and you drag the bag carrying your entire life over, tossing it in. It’s a palace compared to the types of places you’ve been living in. It’s clean. It’s safe.

He doesn’t seem to want to talk to you yet, that’s fine, he needs to warm up to you. You just need to get him to accept the payment and then there’s no going back. You grab the credits, the precious compensation that’s going to be your salvation and hold it out towards him. When he doesn’t react, panic starts to rise like bile in your throat.

He’s just staring at you.

Suddenly you’re terrified.

Terrified that he’s changed his mind.

Terrified that he’ll want to negotiate for more money, something that you can’t afford.

Terrified that you’ve said something that’s convinced him that this isn’t going to work.

And most of all, you're terrified that he sees right through you.

That he can see this facade you’re putting on solely for his benefit, this image of a weak and helpless girl, desperately in need of help. You’ve worked too hard to look broken, like a damsel in distress, you’ll be damned if this crumbles now.

“Trust is expensive out here.” The words tumble out of you before you can stop them. Stupid! He just needs a little time, if you keep pushing him you risk losing everything before you’ve even begun.

Your heart flutters as he closes his hand around the bag.

Of course he accepted. He’s going to protect you now, you knew he was the one.

“I just hope that with this, I’ve earned yours.” You give him a much more relaxed smile. Of course he doesn’t trust you. That’s why he’s perfect. None of this would work if he trusted you immediately. It needs to be slow, gradual, and earned. It needs to be real. And with what likely awaits you at the station you know you will need that trust soon.

You know you shouldn’t push it, you should go to bed now and leave him to his work but you want him to trust you now, you want him to be everything you know he can be.

But he doesn’t want that.

He isn’t ready.

He tells you to get some sleep but you aren’t tired, how can you be expected to sleep at a time like this? You don’t argue though, and you don’t follow him when he retires to the cockpit. You know you likely won’t see him until you land so you familiarize yourself with the ship.

Taking deep breaths to ground yourself.

You can’t remember the last time you felt at ease like you do now.

You’ve spent the last decade in and out of highly hazardous working conditions, and then for a few years after that, you were in and out of the worst hotels in Coruscant. Always running from the thing that just won’t leave you be.

It’s a breath of fresh air to enter your chambers and know that you can sleep soundly tonight.

Careful not to wrinkle your only presentable clothing, you fold it all neatly, setting it aside for the days to follow. You’re ready to get into bed when the hair on the back of your neck stands up mid stretch. The all too familiar feeling of being watched.

That can’t be right, not here, not now.

Nothing should have been able to follow you here, turning and scanning the walls of your room you don’t see any obvious signs of danger.

A patch of discolored paint in the corner catches your eye. It vaguely resembles a shadow and your blood runs cold, ever so slowly you tilt your head, trying to see if it’s a trick of the light. Slowly, the feeling of being surveilled eases. It’s just paint, dark patches of paint.

It’s normal to be nervous. That’s what you tell yourself.

Good things don’t happen to you.

They never have.

You deserve to enjoy this fleeting sense of peace, for however long it lasts.

After messing around with the buttons near the door you manage to turn the lights off. Leaving you in complete and total darkness as you slide under the wool blanket that’s been left on your cot.

You have no control over the smile that creeps across your face as you deeply inhale the air on the ship, allowing yourself to savor it.

Oil, iron, gunpowder, sweat.

With the lights off and your vision completely obscured, your other senses are enhanced. You don’t just smell his sweat, you taste it. The distinct and metallic tang. Him.

A combination of flesh, and leather, and something deeper, something so uniquely him. So familiar.

Something that lit up that sharp and all consuming fire inside you. It started as a quiet hunger but has been growing for days, for weeks, for years.

You feel your pulse quicken and fight to keep your breathing steady. How are you supposed to maintain your composure when you aren’t afraid? When was the last time you didn’t feel a constant underlying sense of dread? Unable to contain yourself any longer, you whisper into the silence of your cabin. The name that you’ve been repeating in your head for ages.

“Din Djarin.”

The name that has lived only in your mind reverberates around the small space, as if the galaxy itself was whispering it to you. You’d never spoken it aloud before now. You’d been saving it for a special occasion, it had taken time to learn it, patience, a deep dive into records, and rumors. It had taken quite some time but it hadn’t been hard. Not for someone who knew where to look, not for someone who was meant to know it, not for you.

You’ve spent nearly a year on his trail, your studies, your life's work, they'd all lead to this moment. To him.

You don’t have to be afraid anymore.

He’s real, he’s here. You can feel his presence here, taste him, smell him, feel him. All of him, as he fills the space, you bury your face in the blanket and deeply inhale. The stress and the panic that have been building in your chest for Maker knows how long, starts to melt away bit by tortuous bit.

You found him.

And he’s going to save you.

a/n : I'm super super rusty so if this is bad let's blame it on that and hope it gets better lol, love y'all and thank you for reading if you made it this far <3

follow @lincolndjarinnotifs for updates!!

#lincolndjarin #hollow star fic #the mandalorian #the mandaloria/reader #the mandalorian fanfiction #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x you #din dijarin fanfiction #din djarin fanfiction #din djarin x reader #din djarin #slowish burn #eventual smut #strangers to lovers

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