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mandoinevarro · 4 years ago

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NO APPOINTMENT, NO MEETING

Rule Maker, Rule Breaker: Chapter 4

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3

Words: 9.4k

Rating: E

Warnings: so ok descriptions of blood (it’s only one sentence and I don’t think it’s too bad but just in case), remembering trauma/triggering memories, angst. now for the fun part: SMUT, one (1) thigh spank, a sprinkle of dirty talk, a dash of praise kink, spitting, oral (f receiving), vaginal sex, maybe cockwarming but for like two minutes

a/n: happy 2021!!! only one chapter left after this one so enjoy. for the hornies who only want fun and sexy times: scroll to the bottom and work your way up, smut is like 3/4 in.

……………

In the blue morning light, Nevarro is almost beautiful.

The deserted lava fields spread in flat terrain as far as the eye can see, bumps and dips where magma cooled creating waves like a black ocean. Among the tide, obsidian turtle shells shimmer like dark mirrors, where Din Djarin studies his face. It startled him when he crawled from the tent to take the pram inside; when he glanced at the ground and the ground glanced back. His face cloudy and warped by irregular volcanic rock, he barely recognized it. It’s not rare for his features to blur in his memory sometimes, especially when he’s out working for days at a time unable to catch a glimpse of himself. Vanity is not one of his many shortcomings—hiding your face for decades is a mighty vaccine against it.

But today something’s different. The reflection peering up at him belongs to a stranger. Relaxed eyebrows, a hooked nose (has the curved always been so pronounced?), lips that faintly curl up. Content brown eyes. His mirrored counterpart is a sentient being below him, plump with blood and oxygen. Alive.

He looks happy.

However, morning weighs heavily on Din, he can see it in the bags below his eyes. It stings like a hangover, like the only hangover he ever had, back when he was an eighteen-year-old idiot and used the credits of his first bounty to get a flask of spotchka from some seedy bar. He remembers sitting in his crammed quarters at the old Covert, chugging the bottle on his own, methodically forcing himself to swallow against the burn. Waiting. Waiting for the alchemy to kick in, for the magic toxins that flushed drunks’ faces, lubricant that oiled their scowls into easy smiles. Waiting to feel what everyone else felt, just for a moment.

Lifting his head, Din peers ahead. Shadows of the city’s buildings creep above the horizon like a bad omen. The opposite of a promised land. Hunchbacked buildings stain the blue-gray sky, abruptly interrupt the intricate lava patterns, Nevarro the planet versus Nevarro the city. Din’s stomach crumples. One, maybe two hours by foot. One, maybe two hours, and last night will fade into a distant memory, a collection of ghost sensations.

But not yet. Right now, last night is still real. You are still real.

Crawling back into the tent, he licks his lips for the millionth time today. He can still taste you: that thick, salty-bitter taste, so much better than he could’ve imagined. He hopes it stays on his lips for a long time; or, at least, that he can replace it soon.

Inside, you’re curled up with his cape, a blooming bruise above your shoulder peeking out, the baby’s pram hovering next to you. He sits down, careful not to awake either of you, and runs a finger down your shoulder, feels the skin prickle. He buries his nose on the back of your hair and inhales: rain and earth as usual, but his soap too, a part of him that clings to you. Lips on the crook of your neck, Din smells himself on you, wonders if you’ll want to wash his scent away, or if you’ll want it to stay on you. You stir, your soft exhales gain a rasp. Din smiles. You do snore, after all.

He’ll have to wake you soon. He knows. He knows. You need to talk about last night. You need to have the frank conversation that you’ve both been postponing for way too long, back when you floated in dead space, no deadlines, no rush at all to make decisions. But things have changed, and he knows what he wants now, and he knows it can’t wait. Yet every time his fingers brush your shoulder to nudge you awake, he pulls them back. He’s never seen you so peaceful, not moving except for your expanding and contracting chest, the light fluttering of your lashes. All the fight in your body gone, those tall bridges around you down and inviting. So different from when he met you.

If there’s one thing Din’s good at, it’s sniffing out trouble. He had to be, if he wanted to make it in the Fighting Corps. In the Bounty Hunter’s Guild. He can sweep a room with a mental black light, spot the people who flare up white and bright, the ones he needs to stay away from—or approach, depending on the situation. And that day at the cantina, the first time he laid eyes on you? You glowed with it. Talking big game in Karga’s booth, laughing with your pretty smile and shuffling cards, you beamed with trouble, bright as radiation and just as dangerous. What needed to happen was clear as day. The Mandalorian needed to turn on his heels immediately, strut out of that bounty hunter hive without a second look, and never, ever, ask about you.

He’d been there before.

Mandalorians, despite common belief, are not made of beskar. Not on the inside, at least. They’re all warm blooded organics, burdened with flesh and internal organs and skeletons; pain and pleasure receptors. Older Mandalorians cautioned younger ones when they came of age and finished their training, when they were ready to become providers. Tall stern warriors, his superiors, warned that there would be temptation, situations that would make him doubt the Way. “Even the briefest taste,” Din’s former Alor said with that cavernous voice he had, “can be the point of no return.” And he was right.

Outside the Covert, there was so much…stimuli. Voices and colors and movement, a twenty-four-hour beehive, the galaxy buzzed and vibrated to no end. It was equally wonderous and grotesque, like a circus. The strenuous noises that rattled his ribcage, the strong smells, the different food, his senses had never felt more exhausted. The faces…stars, the faces. How muscles stretched in a big smile, the glint of teeth, the deep creases between eyebrows that signaled anger. Always moving, always changing, Din hadn’t seen so many uncovered heads since he was a child. His first few weeks outside he’d stare at people for hours until they scurried away or tried to fight him. Tried.

Then, when the initial shock wore out, he noticed other details. The way children’s eyes filled with admiration when they’d look at their parents, how that dimpled girl in Alderaan would blush and stutter whenever he bought something from her stall. And Din would wonder, despite all warnings, what it’d feel like to be one of them. To share so much of himself with the outside world. With time, curiosity morphed into obsession, obsession into desperation, and soon enough he found himself with Rand and the others, running rampant in an already chaotic galaxy.

One war, two decades, and a thousand regrets later, the curiosity died down. The helmet helped him tune out the outside world, made it easier to retreat into his memories. The galaxy seemed duller by the day, emptier. Lonelier, though he didn’t dwell on it.

That is, until he met you.

Until his resolve circled the drain and he asked Karga who you were and where to find you, walked into your store without an idea of what he’d say. Behind the counter, eyes shining and that silky voice asking what you could do for him, you reset the galaxy for him. Every time he visited you felt like his first day outside all over again.

But last night—that was stronger, set in stone. It felt like commitment. Something was born last night, something burgeoned in his chest and took root. Din can feel the fullness in his body, like he grew an extra limb, similar to the swell that tangled in his insides when he went back for the kid. He doesn’t have a name for it yet, but it reminds him of the day he swore the Creed. The fresh sense of purpose, the carved-out path in front of him, knowing what needs to be done:

When the siege is over, he’ll take you with him.

“Are you watching me sleep?” you mumble, cotton mouthed. “Kinda creepy.”

Din chuckles, then remembers. Stars, his heart stops beating for a second. Dread and natural reflexes throw his palm whip fast over your closed eyes. Maker. What the hell was he thinking, sitting next to you without the helmet. Maker, one second too late and you could’ve opened your eyes and—

“Didn’t see anything. Promise,” you say with a smile and pull his cape over your face. “Cover up.”

He pats around for the helmet (where the hell did he drop it last night?), finds it abandoned by your feet. When he fits it around his head, the familiar padding hugging his skull, he swears it feels heavier than it did yesterday.

“You decent?”

“Yeah.”

You lower the pseudo blanket, sleepy eyes and easy smile. As if you purposefully want to make it harder for him to strike up a conversation. But do I really need to— Yes. Yes, he does. He has to know where you stand and ask the big question: If you’d be willing to leave with him once the siege is lifted. Stars, his hands are sweating. But he can’t imagine you’d say no. Not after last night.

“Listen…”

As if on cue, whimpers and sniffles float from the closed pram. Great timing, kid. The baby’s ears droop like wilting leaves when Din places him on the ground, and the little bundle waddles with his eyes cast down until he reaches your ankle.

“What is it, kiddo?” you ask softly, your voice gentler than Din’s ever heard, sitting up as you hug his cloak tighter around your shoulders.

“I think…” Din begins, watching the baby sniffle and hug your bandaged calf. “I think he’s apologizing.”

A pair of eight-ball eyes blink at you, shiny with unshed tears, and Din feels an ache deep in his chest. This sweet little kid, all he’s been put through…

“Oh, don’t worry,” you coo, as one of your hands wriggles out the cloak and cradles the baby’s cheek. Your thumb brushes away a fat tear. “I’m tougher than your dad.” You wink at Din: Just kidding. But it’s true. Living in this planet for so long, all on your own. “Tough” is a survival skill for you, not a choice.

Also…dad. He should probably correct you. Din is not the kid’s real father, even though he’s caught himself thinking about the baby as his son once or twice, when he’s not too aware of his inner monologue. But he can’t bring himself to tell you the truth. Actually, he belongs to a race of wizards that I’ve been quested to deliver him to. Can’t adopt him if I’ll eventually give him up. Not when the kid’s shedding quiet tears into your leg and you’re doing your best to soothe him. Nevarro’s not child friendly, and Din can’t imagine you’ve got much practice with baby stuff, but he can tell you’re doing your best. And that’s enough to spread warmth through his chest.

What a troop you must make: Mandalorian bounty hunter, black market dealer, magic green baby. You could set up a three-person circus and retire. Yet the image tugs at a memory tucked away in his mind, something familiar but blurred.

His rumination’s cut short when Din notices the kid’s pudgy hands extending strategically on either side of your right leg, his eyelids beginning to flicker. Shit, shit, shit.

“She forgives you,” he tells the kid hastily as he scoops him and lays him on the open pram. He doesn’t need to be the little womprat’s real father to tell he was about to whip out his favorite party trick: healing witch powers. So far it doesn’t look like it permanently harms him, but it does weaken him, and Din can’t take chances. Plus, he skipped the part about the baby having supernatural powers when he told you his story, and there’s not a hell of a lot of ways one can explain fresh wounds disappearing.

“So,” you say after the baby’s settled in his pod. “What are we going to do,” you start, and Din’s throat knots with dread and excitement, “about the jammer.”

Oh. Stars, straight to business

“You said you have one.”

“I said I might have one,” you answer, grabbing for your discarded skirts. You fumble with them under the cloak, one hand clasped tight around it. It’s funny—after everything you’ve shared, you won’t undress in front of him during the day. “I mean, jammers aren’t picky like motors, they’re more one-size-fits-all.”

“But we still have to rewire it,” Din completes, wiping dry drool from the kid’s cheek with his thumb.

“Right.” Holding the cloak with your chin while you clasp your tunic, you seem to slowly draw your way out of a maze. That restless abacus in your head adding and subtracting. Your brows relax, and Din knows you’ve figured it out. “But I’ve got my equipment in my workshop, and we’d save time not having to remove it from a ship. And, no offense, but the Crest’s jammer was an antique. Way more complicated than newer models.” You finish dressing and hand him the cloak. “Only problem is the potential trooper stakeout outside the store.”

“I’ll take care of troopers.” Din takes the cloak and hesitates. It’s day nine, that time bomb still ticks in his head. Could it be that easy? Could you really do all this in one day? “What if we don’t finish on time?”

“Then,” you say, “we’ll figure something out.”

We, Din thinks, and smiles. Somehow, that’s all the reassurance he needs.

≈

Nevarro couldn’t look more deserted if tumbleweed rolled in the streets. The city’s a populated ghost town, no man’s land that’s filled with men. Well, men is a strong word. How did Viszla put it that time? We live hidden like sand rats. Yes, rats seems more fitting. Packs of them, scurrying around the former Covert, stealing Mandalorian armor to be bartered for scraps. Karga didn’t have to spell it out when he told him about people finding the Covert. Mando is familiar with the ways of the Outer Rim: Anything unclaimed is up for the taking, and beskar’s too tempting to resist. Knowing doesn’t make his blood boil any less, though. If Din focuses, he can almost hear their squeaking echoing from the sewers, the scavengers of this gray rock serving themselves to the abandoned armor of his people.

Movement to the left. The Mandalorian draws his blaster and bars you with his forearm, to see…a tunic. A short tunic. Tiny red lights. A Jawa. He exhales and sheathes the blaster. Stars. With the vembrance turned off, he has to rely on bare eyesight to scan for danger.

The Jawa drags a sleigh behind him. On it lies a dead or unconscious trooper (it makes no difference to these creatures), its gloved fingers drawing traffic lines on the mud and ash of unpaved streets. Red stars below the cowl focus on you for half a second, the bounty hunter’s hand approaches his blaster, and…

…and the Jawa waves at you, says “hello” in its squeaky language. You wave back, smiling, and the lump of shadow continues on its way. A neighborly gesture that in this context is plain bizarre.

“Old friend of yours?” Mando asks, walking again.

“Associate,” you correct, running a finger along the kid’s left ear until it twitches and he giggles. “Jawas scavenge parts straight from the wreckage, eliminate the middle man. And they don’t report to the New Republic.”

You mean steal from the wreckage, Din almost says, but bites it back. He supposes he can’t judge you for trading with Jawas. Prospects on the Outer Rim are bleaker than ever, and everyone’s got to eat. Especially during a siege.

Maker, sometimes he can’t believe he convinced himself to leave you here. Marooned in the type of place Core World citizens only talk about with shaking heads and disapproving voices. The type of place that makes people feel better about their lives, because hey, it could be worse, at least I don’t live in Nevarro. Granted, Din didn’t know then there’d be a siege. After the fight, after he bid goodbye to Cara and Karga, he hovered on the atmosphere for longer than was safe, gazing down at your store’s roof from the Razor Crest’s cockpit. His head a seesaw, weighing his options and unable to make a decision. You were still so close. He could fly back down to the surface, knock on your door, and take you away with him like he did with the kid.

Would you say yes? Reject him?

But most importantly: what about his quest? What kind of life would you lead travelling with him, a fugitive of the Empire and the New Republic? Life for Din has been defined by survival. Every day he’s had to get up and fight; fight to an inch of his life, fight with concussions, frostbite, shattered ribs. Knife wounds, blaster wounds. Personal wounds. He didn’t want that for you. You’re young, clever, resourceful. After that day, maybe you’d decide Nevarro was too dangerous. Maybe you’d pay your passage on a cruiser and start over in the Core Worlds, make your luck own there. Find a good man, if that’s what you wanted.

So he started the thrusters—the same ones he bought from you so long ago—and jumped into hyperspace with a semi clear conscience. This was best for everyone. You probably wouldn’t have accepted his offer, anyway. For five months he lived with his decision. And then he learnt about the siege.

In the sky, a string of river pearls forms a pattern like a necklace. Imperial cruisers, tie fighters, every ship that Guideon commands, solemnly presiding over Nevarro, itching to shoot down runaways. They’re too far up in the atmosphere to make out anyone in the surface, but Mando grabs your arm and coaxes you behind him all the same, his grip on the pram tighter. The memory of that imp’s blaster on your forehead is still too fresh. The dried blood on your legs.

Din glances back at you briefly. You catch his eye and smile—not grin, not smirk—but smile, a pretty, kind smile that would put to shame any of the imaginary Naboo girls you were so worked up about two nights ago. He should know, he’s been to Naboo, and none of the women there had your kaleidoscopic face, those hints of life that send his pulse on a sprint. The Mandalorian wonders what else you could be hiding under that sharp tongue, behind those clever eyes.

“Mando,” you call and point at a blackened mass to your right. “Nursery’s this way.”

All buildings in Nevarro emerge from volcanic rock, pushing away from clumps of hardened magma. They’re half-manmade, half-volcano hybrids—it’s a useful layout that gives their structure grip against constant earthquakes. It also, however, makes the buildings look like tumors growing on the navel of an ill planet. Your store’s the only one that’s never looked malignant, more like a sprouting flower than a parasite.

And now, the cantina too. Burned to a crisp, blacker than night, the former Church of Nevarro seems to have been swallowed by its unwilling host: the volcanic rock it was built upon. It’d be near impossible to know there’s a cantina inside, if not for the wide window peering inside. And it’s far from impossible for you or Mando, who know by heart where all the doors stand. He pushes one open for you, and together you walk inside.

“Thumb on the bottom, middle and ring fingers on the top, index to the side,” instructs Cara from behind the cantina’s crisp black counter. “The other side.”

Greef Karga sits on a stool opposite her, fumbling with a deck of cards. “Got it. Then what?”

“Then…” The veteran moves aside a flask of ardees and places a matching deck on the bar. “Pressure with your index, release the thumb.” She acts out her instructions and creates an arched ribbon spread on the surface. The Mandalorian can’t remember the last time he walked into the cantina and didn’t see the hypnotic patterns on cards, didn’t hear the wing-flapping noise of their shuffle. Although if he thinks about it, it makes sense that sabacc is the local sport around here. Dumb luck is the only god in the Outer Rim, where inhabitants gaze perpetually at their uncertain future and never look back. Tomorrow they’ll get a better hand, yesterday’s lost credits are forgotten. Everyone here seems to shed their past like snake skin.

“Nice spread, Dune,” you call. Greef and Cara follow your voice, realize they have visitors. “You should job hunt at Canto Bight.”

“Oh yeah?” replies the ex-shock trooper with an impish grin, both elbows on the counter and a rag over her shoulder, all bartender swagger. “What do you know about Canto Bight, hot stuff? Heard you’ve never been off this rock.” She spies a sly glance at Mando, enough to confirm that she’s annoying him on purpose, openly flirting with you. He squares his stance, rolls the helmet to pin her down with the visor, but (he really should know this by now) it does little to intimidate her.

“No trash talk before nightfall, ladies,” quips Karga, walking towards the pram. “And certainly not in front of babies. Hello, little one!” Said little one coos and lifts his skinny arms to be lifted by the Guild Leader, who sits back down delighted at having the baby’s favor, the little rascal on his lap. “He likes me!” Greef Karga smiles wide, flashing those white glinting teeth that’ve always reminded Din of a wolf’s. He’s not happy to leave the kid here, but he can’t take him if there’s a stakeout in your store. Beggars can’t be choosers and so on. But Cara’s here, and Din knows he can trust her with the baby. Though not with you, evidently.

“Tell you what, Mando,” Cara continues, apparently not done peacocking around you. “We arm wrestle, just like last time. Winner gets a flask of spotchka and the opportunity to take the lady to Canto Bight after you lift the siege.”

“Help us lift the siege and I’ll consider winning that flask.”

Dune lets out an long whistle, giving you a complicit look. “Big words.”

Your eyes rake along the Mandalorian’s armor slowly, boots to helmet, a dark tint in your eyes. Din flushes, the oppressive heat of his clothes suddenly thicker.

You shrug and answer, “Big man.” Your fingertips dance idly around the nape of your neck, which makes Mando think about last night, about his tongue on your neck and the purple bruises he sucked, the salty taste of flesh, the heady one between your legs. The memory steers blood into…into awkward places. Which, knowing you, was your intention. Maker, he needs to talk to you about teasing him in public.

“Help you how?” asks Greef, lifting the baby into the counter, whose six little claws hold on to two of his gloved fingers.

“Look after the kid, we won’t be more than a few hours.”

“Sure thing!” booms Karga, at the same time as Cara says, “Fuck no.”

You fold your arms at the veteran. “You scared of an infant, Dune? It’s only one of him, and…” you squint at the cantina’s black shell, like something’s out of place in its burned remains, “…two of you. Where’s—” you start, before glancing at Mando and swallowing the second half.

“Duma?” supplies Karga, tapping the corners of the deck on the counter. “Don’t know, probably boiling beskar to make broth. Rumor has it she’s running out of supplies, fast. Did you ever take her up on that deal?”

Your eyes shoot vibroblades at him, your mouth a flat line.

“What deal?” Mando asks.

“Nothing,” you reply, still glaring warnings at Karga, who sighs, shakes his head, and tickles the baby’s tummy. The kid giggles and kicks half the deck off the counter. “Nothing important. We should get going.”

Outside, you guide the Mandalorian through a maze of back alleys, the ugly underbelly of a planet that’s already the galaxy’s own underbelly. Mando glues a palm to his blaster’s grip, lifting it only as muscle memory to turn on the vembrance and activate the setting to scan footprints, frustrated when he remembers his own piece of equipment would immediately snitch on him. Yet you glade past dark corners that beg for their own knife-brandishing mugger with the grace of someone frolicking in D’Qar’s moorlands, postcard-calm.

Once in your store’s backdoor, the Mandalorian ventures a glance at the front street. Empty. Like the rest of the city, it’s like curfew was declared, not an imp in sight. Certainly not a stakeout in process. Behind him, you push the door open, the busted security panel no more than a prop to discourage robbers.

“What?” you ask when he doesn’t walk inside.

“There’s nobody here,” he answers, studying the connecting alleys like a web of arteries, waiting for a trooper squadron to materialize and ambush you.

“It’s quiet too quiet?” you tease with a lopsided grin. “Lay off the thrillers, Mando. Come on.”

You step inside, he hesitates. “Could be a trap.”

Hands on the doorframe, leaning forward, your face almost touches the helmet. “Then you’ll shoot them and we’ll be back to square one. Not much of a choice here, Mando.” Those pretty eyes, your shining, wet lips. It’s a siren’s call he knows he shouldn’t answer.

The Mandalorian follows you inside.

It takes him a moment to recognize his surroundings.

Your store hibernates in the dark, stale air floating around its vault. Your store, which used to buzz with drills and neon lights and life around the clock, looms like a beast’s hollow belly, crypt-still. Lights off and furniture wrapped in sheets, it looks abandoned, the way all those family houses in deserted villages were hastily vacated during the war. He wonders how long you’ve been out of business because of the siege. Because of him.

You walk across the reception in tomb silence. In the reception signs hang next to the front desk—store policies that gave Mando more than one headache—dark and colorless, like they turned in their badges and no longer preside over this place. Only “NO IMPS” twitches, one or two agonizing flashes of neon green, before it shuts down like its colleagues. Six rules in total, although in Din’s opinion there’s a seventh that foregoes the need of a sign: “NO QUESTIONS”.

That’s a rule that everyone in Nevarro—bounty hunter or not—subscribes to. It’s the rule you followed when the Mandalorian walked into your store, still crafting some half-assed excuse about thrusters when he came face to face (helmet to face?) with you. You never asked about New Republic guidelines or what he wanted them for. Not even for his name. No questions when he came back two weeks later. No questions as weeks passed and then months, as tension thickened between you until his internal barometer cracked.

No questions when his thinning resolve broke one night. That night. He pushed you onto your workbench, you undid each other’s belts, pawed at each other’s sides. No questions when he slid into your wet heat, when he had to stop for a second to avoid a heart attack. No questions when he finished inside you, blood roaring in his ears, your sighs clouding his visor, your hand gently pushing him back.

And then, his question: “Where are you going?”

“Upstairs,” you answered, pulling your trousers back around your hips.

It dropped on his head like freezing water. Upstairs. Upstairs to your apartment, to rest. Alone. Meaning your encounter was a one-night stand, a shortcut to let off some steam. Stars, you were basically swinging the front door wide open for him, putting away a couple of wrenches and switching off the lights to signal the night was over. The Mandalorian didn’t need questions to know he’d overstayed his visit.

But…what if he’d spent the night anyway? Maybe the next morning he would’ve been upfront with you, confess he’d wanted you for so long and that he wanted it to evolve past one furtive encounter, that he wanted it to be real. No, he probably wouldn’t have. As a bounty hunter—as Mandalorian—there are things he simply can’t have. Things that are better off unspoken, better off—

“Tucked away,” you say behind him, making the Mandalorian jump.

“What?”

“The planner.” You walk behind the front desk. “I was saying I don’t remember leaving it here. I thought it was tucked away in some box.”

Oh.

It is strange. A light sheen of dust covers the counter, yet the planner is glossy clean, a painted depiction of the Manarai Mountains on its cover. A souvenir from Coruscant. He wonders who brought you that. It tugs at something sweet but sad in his chest, the fact that you have to rely on others’ cheap souvenirs to explore the galaxy. That’ll change as soon as this mess with the siege is settled.

You flip through the planner, empty for the most part but for a few scribbles on the first pages. It’s dated 5 ABY, four years ago. The Mandalorian knows from experience that your appointment rule works mostly to turn away unsavory clients. Or to get on his nerves.

“Look at that,” you murmur as if reading his mind, your finger pointing at nothing on a page. “You don’t have an appointment, Mando.”

“We don’t have time for this,” he answers, though he knows he’ll make time for it anyway. It used to drive him up the wall whenever you refused to see him using that stupid excuse. But, as with everything with you, it was more complicated than that. It took longer than he’s willing to admit to understand that it was a game. That you liked him riled up, after the push and pull, the hot and cold, the challenge. You had a taste for difficulty. Although it didn’t take as long to figure out that he liked it too. “Just let me in.”

“I don’t know,” you drawl, glancing at the dull signs on the wall. “Rules are rules.”

The Mandalorian has played this game with you enough to know what you want. He thinks of all those memories in this building. You, pinned between his armor and the doorframe; him, sitting on that battered couch upstairs with your hands on his knees. Even those calm nights, when you’d only sit and talk and make him laugh, and sometimes he’d get a laugh from you too, if he didn’t try too hard. All the sweating and the panting and the talking that these walls have witnessed. Maybe there’s time for one last memory before you both leave this planet for good. Not maybe—there’s definitely time. If this were an ambush, you’d be dodging blaster shots by now.

“So bend the rules,” he says slowly, gripping his edge of the counter and dropping his voice to the low register that gives you goosebumps. “For me.”

Your eyes twinkle like copper at the fact that he’s playing along. “And what do I get in return?”

This time, he doesn’t hesitate. “Whatever you want.” Perhaps he’s known for a while, in the back of his head where he could ignore it, but last night the idea rushed to his front lobe. He’ll give you anything you want.

“I want…” you begin, mischief shining in your eyes, before a shadow clouds them. Slowly, your face goes soft, a special kind of longing in your pupils. You swallow, your voice becomes throaty, and the words sound truer than anything Din’s ever heard: “I want you. I just want you.”

He almost trips on his feet when he rounds the counter, his head already swimming. The hunter crowds you with his body, backs you up against the counter until you’re caged and looking up at him, hooded eyes and parted lips. Hot stuff. Cara’s shallow pet name. When he heard it he thought it was inappropriate. But now. As your mouth nestles on his clothed neck and breathes hot, damp air through the fabric—a mild sensation for most people, he guesses, but almost a mating call for him—he realizes it’s not untrue. The name fits you like a glove, hot stuff. It’s just…incomplete. If he’s learnt anything these nine days is that there’s so much more to you, enough sailor knots of emotion and personality inside you to loop around the galaxy if unraveled.

“Touch me,” you breathe, rubbing up against him, searching friction. “Please, please, touch me. There’s nobody here, we—we have time.”

Gloved palms on your waist, down to your hips, lower to your ass, Din tries to fondle you as best he can. He pins you between the counter and his hips, your leg curls around his back and holds him closer. His erection starts to bulge against your belly, your breaths start quickening, your hearts start pumping faster. The tell-tale signs that indicate you’re both ready to go hit all their usual beats. But something’s missing. There’s a step you’re skipping, something…something he’s not doing right.

Tentatively, you press a small kiss on his covered neck, and he can only feel its frustrating whisper, a promise of more.

A lightbulb flicks on.

Mando holds your hips and spins you around, the desk’s edge on your waist. “Bend over,” he grouses next to your ear, his voice sand-coarse. “Don’t turn around.”

Gloves off first. One palm cradles the back of your neck, feels you shiver. His left hand runs down your back and around to your tummy, savoring all those warm, secret places on you, the way your body opens up to him on instinct. The power trip when he cups your heat through your skirts and you moan into the counter. You nestle your hips on his lap, and he stiffens on command, a tug between his legs that he knows is far too insistent for foreplay. Stars, it’s like he’s conditioned to get hard in this store.

“Don’t—” he chokes out “—not so fast. Or I—I won’t—”

“What?” you pant. Din hears the grin laced in your voice and knows it’s bad news for him. He drops to his knees and both hands walk up your bandaged calves, squeeze the tops of your thighs. “You…you don’t…” He throws your skirts over your back. You inhale sharply at the cold air—or at his hands pulling the soft flesh of your backside. When he removes the helmet, your pitch sounds broken up, more desperate. “You d-don’t want…”

It’s a small victory when he parts his lips against your clothed core and it’s you, for once, who chokes on words. Small victory, but he’ll take it, especially after the way his cock twitches in his pants when he smells you. He kisses you again, just a peck over your clit, and your legs shake. Fucking…stars. If this is how you feel when you tease him…well, he gets it. You mewl and push back on his face, but he hardly thinks you want it that easy.

“Stop moving,” he tells you sternly, with a voice he’d use on quarries.

A shiver runs down your spine. “But—” You break into a whine when his open palm slaps the side of your thigh. It’s probably the surprise rather than the sting that makes you inhale sharply, and a combination of both that dampens the cotton between your legs.

“Stop moving,” he repeats, mouth pressed against your core so you can feel the vibration; that, he learnt from you. “Or you don’t get my mouth.”

Above him, you let out a displeased little grunt, too throaty to mean much. But you open your legs wider and brace yourself on the front desk, grant him full access to you. His index hooks on your underwear, moves it aside, and he buries his lips deep into the softest part of you. Din barely hears you gasp. He circles both arms around your thighs and pulls you closer, until his tongue is buried between your folds and you just have to take it. Fuck, it’s just…decadent. The taste, the smell, how soaked you are already, your little purrs and whimpers when he sucks on your lips. They’re not things he ever thought he’d get to feel. He doesn’t deserve any of it.

“Mmm, stars, Mando,” you sob, sneakily rutting your hips like you just can’t help it. He allows it, but only because he’s so rock fucking hard he’s practically doing the same thing. His cock trapped down one pant leg, he squeezes his thighs to try and soothe the ache. “Move—move up a b-bit.”

“No,” he grunts, and licks a slow line from the spot right below your clit to the back of your slit. It wasn’t so long ago that it was your mouth on him, you teasing him mercilessly inside this very store, him moaning and grunting and losing his mind. That’s how he wants you: sloppy, desperate, begging.

“Maker, don’t t-tease,” you moan, but it only encourages him. His tongue slides deep inside you where you’re hotter than sin, enjoying how your walls swell and tighten around it. You’re so fucking wet, he could push into you right now and relieve the pressure building between his legs. But not yet.

“Beg me,” Din groans, mouthing at the inside of your thighs and sucking tiny bruises there. You moan above him, deep in your throat, and he wonders which one of you is more turned on right now. “Put—fuck—put that smart mouth to use. Beg me.”

For a moment all he can hear is your labored breathing, the wheels turning in your pretty head, laying out a plan to make him give in faster. Then, soft and sweet, you hum, “Mando.”

One word. Probably the word Din hears the most, so generic and impersonal that everyone from friends to strangers to enemies call him that. That word coming from your lips makes his heart sprint, his cock pulse and scream at him to hurry up. Stars, but if it was his name—his real name—on your lips, soft and purring like you pronounced his nickname, he knows he wouldn’t be able to hold back a second longer.

“You always make me feel so good,” you continue, arching your back a little to test the waters. “You’re so—so good with your mouth, stars. Want you to kiss me again—kiss me everywhere. Taste me like yesterday—” Your breath catches when he sucks on your inner lips again, closer to where you want him. Maker, if you keep talking like that… “Used to th-think about it all the time, how—mmm—how your—your tongue would feel. Never, ngh, never thought you’d use it th-there, though.” Din laps at your cunt, drinks from it. Fuck, he can’t remember the last time he got this hard. An airy laugh before you continue. “You can be so d-dirty sometimes. I’d let you do—do anything to me.”

Really, Din doesn’t know what pushes him to do it. He doesn’t know what makes him pull back and spread you open with his fingers, stare at your glistening, deliciously swollen folds, and spit at their very top. You moan raggedly above him, a complete mess of sobs and whimpers, as Din simply stares. He watches the trail of spit run down your slit, the lower it goes the more precum he feels sticking to his trousers. Half-drunk on your words and your slick, Din thinks: What did you do to me? Maker, you have him wrapped around your finger.

Saliva trails down until it teardrops on your clit, clings to it, and he doesn’t need another sign. His lips latch on to your bundle of nerves and suck. You sob and whine and cry, rocking your hips hard against his mouth, and he continues sucking through his teeth. Your knees give out, but he holds them before you can hit the ground, holds you in place as he feels you give him everything, your pussy clenching around nothing. Slick trails down his chin, all the way to his neck, and—shit. He’s going to burst in his pants just from feeling you cum in his mouth.

It takes every last ounce of self-control he has left to detach his lips from your cunt and stumble to his feet. You’re still shaking, still panting, but he can’t hold it back a minute longer. Fuck, not even a second longer, he needs to have you right now.

It’s a struggle to get a hold of his fly, fingers trembling and teeth grinding. When he finally pulls the zipper down, the sound snaps your head up.

“Are you—Mando, are you going to—”

“Yes,” he grunts, digging into his waistband for his cock, lining it up against your cunt. Stars, he’s so pent up, it hurts to touch it. “Is it—is it o-okay, can—can, I—”

“Oh, fuck, yes,” you mewl, pushing your hips so tightly against his groin the head of his cock catches against your entrance. Fuck. “Please, please, please, put it inside, let me feel your big, thick, co—”

One hard shove, deep enough that he feels himself poke your cervix, and he’s cumming—hard. His spine doubles over and he grunts and moans into your hair, giving you short, stunted thrusts as he fills you to the brim. You were already so swollen before, now you feel unbearably tight, squeezing his cock so harshly his eyes roll back on his skull. And his balls keep pulling up and giving you more of his load, his teeth grinding so hard they might crack. One last thrust, nice and deep so his cum stays inside you, and his palm presses down on your eyes. Din uses that hand as leverage to turn you around and tilt your head like you showed him, just enough so he can reach your lips. And he kisses you.

Your bodies spasm and throb against each other, you clench around him involuntarily and he flinches, too sensitive to handle the aftershocks of your orgasm. Still, he could stay like this for days. Gently sucking on your tongue, running his along the roof of your mouth, feeling how your lips curve against his in a smile. Then, an alarming thought. Maybe this is the only way to do it that feels right now—sex, he means. With the helmet off, his lips on yours, his nose on your hair. Bare hands drawing circles on your hips. Every sense devoted to you. Even the briefest taste can be a point of no return.

You peck his lips and flutter sweet, short kisses around his jaw, working your way up to his ear, where you whisper, “We’re running out of time.”

The jammer. Those words are quickly becoming the bane of his existence. “I know,” he whispers back, but presses one last, long kiss to your lips that feels inexplicably sad, like a kiss goodbye. Din shakes the thought off his head. He’s too pessimistic sometimes.

You both hiss when he pulls out, slowly so he won’t hurt you.

“Keep ‘em closed,” he tells you before removing his hand from your eyes. For all he knows you could open them right there, and there’d be nothing he could do about it. Somehow, however, he’s certain you won’t. His trust is rewarded when he pulls the hand back, and your eyes are screwed shut beneath it.

It takes an awkward choreography to straighten yourselves. You try to pull your own underwear back on, but in your position it’s near impossible. So Din kneels behind you once more, fishes his helmet from the floor, tucks himself back into his trousers, and lifts your panties until they hug your hips. You push your own skirts down before Din’s upright, which results in the long fabric covering him like your furniture. You share a quick laugh before standing straight and facing each other.

“You can open them.”

Now, he tells himself, watching your sated smile and blinking eyes. The words are on the tip of his tongue: When this is over, would you like to come with me—

“If there’s a jammer here,” you say, before he can get a word out, “it’s in the workshop.”

You walk around him and open a door behind the reception desk to reveal the staircase that leads to your apartment. Din’s still telling himself that he’ll just ask you later, when you climb one step—and stop. You turn around like you can sense he’s about to ask, for the second time in this store, where you’re going.

“Gotta get some stuff from upstairs, but I’ll be down in a second.” Your voice wobbles, your foot hesitates on the step. You’re nervous. “But if you find the jammer before I come back, don’t…don’t leave.”

“Of course not.” Maker, of course he wouldn’t leave without you. Do you really think he would?

The workshop is darker than the reception. A single window, currently boarded up, so he has to use the helmet’s light. The cone of white light creates a sinister effect, like creatures lurk everywhere it doesn’t touch. Rubber tubes hang from the ceiling like lianas, circuit boards glimmer green like leaves, and yellow sensors blink from several components. Your own little ecosystem watches him dig into boxes of clutter to search for a jammer. Stars, he’s never known how you manage to find anything here. It’s probably best if he waits outside; he wouldn’t be able to find his own ship in here without you.

He’s turning to the door when the helmet’s light catches on a dark glint, like it reflected on a mirror. It stops him on his tracks. Din’s not sure what prompts his feet to carry him toward your worktable, where the mystery item lays center-front. He sees himself reflected on the dark T-visor. It’s a helmet. It’s a blue Mandalorian helmet.

At first he’s confused. Surprised to see a Mandalorian helmet here—and is it even a Madalorian helmet? Yes, yes it is. His brain lags behind his eyes, goes through different scenarios, each less likely than the last.

Is there another Mandalorian here? Did the Alor bring this? Is the Alor a client?

And then, truth.

It falls abruptly on his back like atmospheric pressure, gravity that crushes. A hot rush of blood enveloping his head, poisoning his thoughts, a ringing in his ears so sharp he thinks he might pass out. A million thoughts in less than a second—convoluted, scrambled, furious. Then an image, so clear that the Maker himself might’ve played it for him like a holo: Thieves, scammers, criminals scurrying through the tunnels of the Covert, the empty halls where his people built a refuge, where they could feel safe. The pile of beskar armor unguarded—the high price that brave Mandalorians paid to help Din, help the child—served in a silver platter for these scavengers, these fucking honorless lowlifes.

His gloved fingers grip your worktable so hard his knuckles might crack—or the table. But the Mandalorian can’t feel the pain on his joints, not when his bloodstream’s turned to acid, when it feels like somebody jammed live wires into his head.

This fucking place. This planet with its fucking people, their fucking cynicism, this fucking landfill for hazardous waste, this piece of shit skughole—

Above, the Mandalorian hears footsteps. Your footsteps. You.

He looks down at the helmet, the empty T-visor limp and black, dead. You did this. Thinking of you clears the red cloud from his mind, trades it for a gray one. A headache creeps behind his eyes, his shoulders go slack. He feels hollowed out. Like a spoon reached inside his chest and scooped away everything essential, left him a carcass. Like something died here today.

You did this.

And then the helmet is not a helmet, but a severed head. A head with a pool of blood around it, guts sprayed all over, and there’s the corrupt smell of blaster residue coming from his neighbor’s house, the taste of copper after biting his tongue running, the durasteel giants shooting red death, the deafening explosions, his parents’ screams, his school going up in a cloud of smoke, his father holding him, whispering one last sentence that he can’t hear through the sounds of war and carnage, his mother’s cheeks stained with tears and dirt and blood, their blurring faces, the darkness, the fear.

Holding the helmet, Din feels tears sting in the corners of his eyes, then hot on his cheeks. Nobody understands, why can’t anybody understand? The warrior that owned this helmet is lost forever, condemned to live like a phantom, empty without the Creed, without the Way. It’s worse than death. It’s the curse that most of the Covert was forced to carry, to walk this galaxy like living dead, violently stripped of everything that mattered. And the relic of their sacrifice sits in your workshop next to the rest of your junk, ready to be sold off to the highest bidder, somebody who’ll want to hang it in their wall like game they hunted, and how could you do this to him, how could you, how could you do this—

“Find anything yet?”

When the Mandalorian turns, his helmet’s white light locks you in place like quarry. Like guilty quarry.

You squint and raise a palm to shut out the bright beam. “Stars, Mando,” you laugh. “Are you trying to blind me? Turn that off.”

Your words are muffled by the rushing blood that wraps around his ears, loud as a waterfall, but he can understand them. The Mandalorian grips the helmet tighter between his hands and keeps the light on so you can see what he found, what he knows about you. The ugly, festered truth about you.

Once your eyes adjust to the bright light and they’re able to stay open for more than three seconds, you give him a quizzical look. The visor gives you nothing, so you drop your gaze to the hard evidence between his hands.

And you have the nerve to look even more surprised. Furrowed eyebrows and everything to add to the performance.

“Where did you get that?” you ask.

A thousand responses climb into his head in a savage, foul clutter, like army ants. I should ask you the same, where do you think?, how much are they giving you?, was it worth it?, what’s wrong with you?, what’s wrong with this fucking planet? He opens his mouth, but they swarm in his throat all at once and tie a knot around his windpipe. More tears on his cheeks, another attempt at words—nothing.

Finally, quietly: “How could you do this to me?”

The crease between your brows digs deeper, and there’s genuine worry in your eyes. Of course you’re worried, he just caught you red fucking handed. “Mando, I really don’t understand—”

“Me neither,” he hisses through his teeth, “because this is a Mandalorian helmet, and you’re no Mandalorian.” The first insect out, the rest follow like a waterfall, crawling out his mouth. “How long did you wait after I left to steal this from the Covert? An hour? Five minutes?”

Trapped under the light, where you can no longer hide in shadows, you look stricken. The harsh light shines on circles under your eyes, creases where you frown. Bleak features he never noticed before.

Your voice is low and icy when you say, “I never stole anything from the Covert.”

“Scavenge, loot, I don’t care what you people like to call it.” How could you, after everything, how could you.

“Listen to me,” you say steadily, but your eyes are hot coals and your jaw is set, your own anger rising. Good. Masks off. He wants to see who’s been hiding under his noses these nine days. All those fucking months. “I didn’t take a thing from the Covert. I have no idea where that helmet came from.”

The Mandalorian is barely listening. He’s heard more than enough lies for two lifetimes, he sure as fuck doesn’t need yours. Instead, he focuses on the one thought that manages to float in the red sea of anger and despair. He holds on to it like an anchor, clutches it until his palms bleed, but truth hurts.

“Duma.” He doesn’t ask this time around—he tells you. He knows and there’s nothing you can do about it—nothing he can do about it. Greef Karga’s words shine painful light on fog. Boiling beskar…did you take her up on that deal? “You’re selling it to her.”

“Stars, of course not.” The stoniness of your features melts for an instant, hurt revealed underneath those layers. You look devastated, tired. Maker, you’re good. Those hours of sabacc are sure paying off. “Why won’t you believe me?”

“How can I believe you?” he snarls, his head suffocating in dark quicksand—grief, anger, betrayal all clogging his nostrils, making his head throb. How could you how could you how could you. “When I know what type of people sprout from this planet, I make a living hunting them. I know you—” his voice breaks, but the words keep flowing and he hardly hears them “—I know the kind of company you keep, I know you have no principles, I know you can’t commit to shit—”

“Commit?” you snap, face hardening cold and twisted like the magma outside, but he knows too well what lies beneath the surface. Lava, hot and bubbling, your anger as raw as his. Rawer. “You wanna talk about commitment? I waited for you for five months!” The light from the helmet no longer makes you squint, but it turns your eyes red and watery. “You left. You left me here to starve through a fucking siege that you caused—”

“I came back for you!”

That gives you pause. Then you shake your head. “No, you came back because that piece of shit official asked—”

“He asked to meet me in Belderone.” Belderone, same sector as Nevarro, not even ten minutes away in hyperspace. “Told me Nevarro wasn’t safe because there was a siege, so I insisted we meet here.” The memory drains him. How worried he was about you, the type of worried that stirs bile in the stomach. How guilty he felt. “To see you again. Make sure you were okay.” The Mandalorian looks down at the helmet in his hands, a strange mirror staring up at him. Harsher than the one from this morning. His ears ring, his mouth tastes sour, his rising headache plateaus into an unbearable, incessant throb. A ghost limb aches somewhere in his body, all over it. He wants to leave your store, your planet.

How could you?

Mando doesn’t raise his head to look at you when he walks out the workshop. You don’t stop him when he reaches the main door. You don’t stop him when he walks out to the street.

The sky is jaundice-yellow when he steps outside. Gone are this morning’s blue hues, suffocated by the sickly coughing of a million volcanos, by their fumaroles and their sparks. For all the Mandalorian cares, this planet can burn.

On his way to the cantina to pick up the kid, he stares at the marker that identifies the entrance to the city: that crooked, arthritis-ridden arch. Beyond it, he spots the outline of a ship. A sleek civilian shuttle, probably a rental. The official isn’t stupid enough to fly a Republic starship past siege lines, so if the tiny shuttle fooled Guideon’s platoon in the atmosphere, well, it’ll have to do it again. Tomorrow, they’ll just have to tempt fate and avoid tempting the batallion of Imperial cruisers. Or fly out in the Crest and hope they can jump into hyperspace before imps pulverize them. All he wants is to put as many lightyears between him and this planet.

Din’s head pounds when he walks inside the cantina. The only thought hammering against his skull: How could you.

…………

Edit: Chapter 5…’tis the end

Taglist: @rosetophighlander @hellomothermoon @newyorksins @leo-moon @benedrylcumbersnatch @corrupt-fvcker @seratoninforyouseratoninforme @multifandomlife22 @justanotherblonde23 @abysshaven @equalstrashflavoredtrash @16boyfriends-and-me @ihaveashield @dinispunk @bananaagurl @mstgsmy @absurdthirst @cowboy-kylo @roxypeanut @heyitmelexie @readsalot73 @krazykatkay456 @elusive-danger-noodle @lola-wolf @nikkiparthena @lifeisapitch15 @teaofpeach @auty-ren @anewrule @hyp-oh-critical @pascaliprincess @geannad @coaaster @frietiemeloen @yourbucky084 @brynnstudies @elfwoodfae

im pretty sure i forgot someone so please message me if i did!

#the mandalorian smut #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x you #din djarin smut #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #mando smut #mando x reader #mando x you #mywriting #rule maker rule breaker

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thecousinsdangereux · 4 years ago

Text

the land of race car ya yas

A short little ficlet for @corvophobia who has drawn a bunch of art for the bees racer au of my dreams. This is ALL based on her drawings, so make sure you check out her stuff. Happy birthday, Amber! You are one of my two favorite British children. <3

(Please note that I know nothing about street racing. I've only watched the Fast and the Furious movies. Forgive me....)

“How’d you do that?”

Blake’s used to the question or some version of it, and maybe that’s why she takes in the words before she notices the tone, imagines a scowl (a lowered brow, hands curled into fists, the flash of teeth as the scowl turns into a snarl) with the same instinct that has her shoulders tensing. It’s only mid-turn that she realizes the question is laced with wonder rather than anger, but even this awareness doesn’t prepare her for the sight that meets her. It’s a woman, her smile wide and unrestrained by pesky things like self-consciousness or insecurity, and her eyes are nearly glowing in the low light, purple and bright and full of open admiration. Her black leather jacket, classic in cut, has the sleeves rolled up mid-forearm, revealing a prosthetic of black and yellow, and her grey jeans are tight, showing off a body that Blake has to work to avoid following the curves of. Her hair is long, blonde, curling around her shoulders and down her back, artful in its disorder, down to the single, stubborn cowlick at the top of her head.

In short, she’s beautiful, and Blake stares for longer than she should, feeling heat in her veins.

“Do what?”

She manages a response, but it’s absent minded. She’s just noticed the light dusting of pink on the woman’s cheeks, coloring the spaces in between her freckles, and it has her re-evaluating, pulling her thoughts to the effort she’s put into her own outfit that evening: a cropped and sleeveless hoodie with blocked colors of white and purple, tight leather shorts, and clunky boots that hit just under the knee. Blake looks good and this woman knows it, which makes them even on this particular front, and that's a settling sort of feeling.

“Win,” the woman says simply, her smile growing. “And don’t just say NOS.”

“NOS,” Blake drawls, just because she can, and she’s rewarded by the woman’s laugh, rewarded even more when she steps closer.

“No, but what’s your delivery method? Direct port, obviously, but you had to have used a custom kit, right? I’ve been telling you, Yang, I need to recalibrate yours. Can I look at your car? Would you mind if I just took a tiny peak just to see what you’ve done with your injection site? We really need to upgrade, Yang. A nozzle with less back pressure will give you a better squeeze. I’ve been telling you!”

She hadn’t noticed the other woman, but blinks at her now, a red blur waving her arms about, hoping from one foot to the other, firing out words faster than Blake — an aficionado of all things fast — can keep up with. The woman (Yang?) seems to find the act familiar and reacts with affection tinged with a false exasperation (put upon for Blake’s benefit or maybe as a means of gentle chiding), sighing and placing a hand on the smaller girl’s shoulder.

“And I’ve been telling you, you can’t just ask people to look at their shit!” She turns to Blake now, and this time her eye roll is definitely for Blake. “Sorry about that, I swear we’re not trying to steal any of your trade secrets. Ruby just… really likes cars.”

“It’s so pretty too,” Ruby coos, batting away Yang’s hand and taking a step towards the vehicle Blake had used to push past Yang at the last moment, a fact neither of these women seem to hold against her. “The purple stripes. But I bet the engine is prettier.”

It’s unprecedented, really. Blake’s been on the scene for a while — longer than she would admit to anyone here — first as a tagalong and now as a driver, but she’s never had an encounter quite like this. The unexpectedness of it all has her feeling off-balance, has her reacting without any of her customary cool anger as Ruby stares at her hood (as though if she focuses hard enough, she’ll be able to see through the metal to the parts underneath). Maybe that’s why Blake responds in a way that’s decidedly unwise, without any further thought at all.

“You can take a look. I don’t mind.”

“Really?” Ruby squeals, but doesn’t wait for Blake to confirm, darting around her and flipping open the hood in the span of three seconds.

“Really?” Yang asks, and the word sounds wildly different coming from her, sliding out from behind her crooked lips like thanks or maybe a challenge (or maybe both). “Not worried about my mechanic figuring you out before the next race?”

Blake should be, of course. But.

“Can’t say I am.”

“Maybe not the smartest move.” Yang crosses her arms; the chrome of her right glints under one of the flickering street lights. For the first time, she looks away from Blake’s gaze, eyes darting over to check on Ruby (who’s leaning so far into the front of Blake’s car that her feet nearly lift off the ground) and then to another group of drivers, a good distance behind them, but clearly watching in curiosity. It’s never wise to gather after a race, but everyone always does when it goes well, and for the first time, Blake’s glad for it. “She’s pretty vicious about giving me an edge. I wish I could say it was familial loyalty, but really, she just wants to make the fastest car in the city.” Yang pauses, tilting her head in thought. “Or country. Or world. Not sure when she’ll be satisfied, to be honest.”

“Sisters?” Blake asks. She can’t really see the resemblance, but then again, she hasn’t spent as much time looking at the younger of the pair, even though she should probably be less focused on the elder (the one not pouring over her engine. Sun and Ilia were going to kill her).

“Yeah.” Yang probably doesn’t realize how much her smile grows in the confirmation, saturated with pride and love. “Scary brilliant too. Give her five minutes with a car and she’ll take it apart, put it back together, and it’ll run better than it ever has. But all that means she always thinks it’s the car that puts a driver ahead.”

Blake arches a brow. “And you think she’s… wrong?”

“Well, yeah.” Yang’s closer than Blake remembers her being, maybe because her legs are long, her strides somehow longer, and it only takes a step before she’s close enough for Blake to feel the heat radiating off her body. “I know it’s only the driver that puts a driver ahead. That’s why I’m here talking to you instead of looking at your car.” Her lips twitch and she amends her statement quickly. “Part of the reason, at least.”

The other part of her reasoning is made pretty obvious when Yang’s eyes trace up Blake’s form once more. It should probably bother Blake, but it doesn’t, maybe because she’s done the same to Yang during this conversation (more than once). Still, there are things better avoided, and Blake knows this better than anyone. She does her best to get back on track.

“It wasn’t me,” she says (almost blurts), and then feels her neck warm when Yang looks at her quizzically. “Before, you asked how I won. But it wasn’t me, not really. You could have had it if you hadn’t fired your nitrous early. You were impatient.”

It’s too blunt, Blake knows this as soon as the words leave her lips. She’s backtracked too much, retreated into aloofness as she was wont to do, but Yang only laughs, and the sound cracks through Blake’s go-to defense, a corner of her lips curling before she can stop it.

“You’re right. I used to be way worse, back when I started out, but I’m a lot better now. Usually.”

“So what happened today?” It’s the question Yang wants her to ask, of this Blake is sure, but it hardly feels like a chore.

“Ah, bad luck, I guess. I took one look at the driver next to me and all that impatience came rushing back. All I wanted to do was finish the race and meet her properly.” She winks. Combined with the cheesy line, it shouldn’t work as well as it does (but it does). “I’m Yang.”

“Blake.”

They don’t shake hands, and Blake’s glad for it. There’s something buzzing between them, a tingling sensation at the tips of her fingers, the build up right before a lightning strike, and Blake’s not entirely sure what the contact — however brief and friendly — might do to her.

“Next time, maybe I’ll be a little more prepared.” Yang’s eyes roam across her face, settling once more on gold. “But probably not.”

“Immersion therapy,” Blake quips. “Give it time.”

Yang whistles sharply, and it takes Blake a moment to realize that she’s called her sister back over. (Blake had forgotten about her entirely, though the grease on her hands and face leads her to believe that Ruby had done a thorough dive under her hood, the sort Blake ought to be worried about.)

“Time is exactly what I plan on giving it. A lot of time, if you’ll let me.” Yang nudges her sister back in the direction they’d come from. Ruby waves, offers a wide grin of thanks, but Blake’s stuck on purple.

“Well. Let’s see how you do in the next race,” she murmurs.

“Looking forward to it.”

And Blake, who started racing to get away, who started racing to run, who started racing so she never had to stay in one place for long, finds that she is too.

—

“What the hell is your problem?”

Blake’s used to this question too, or some form of it, and this time, the tone is exactly what she expects. The small, white-haired woman in a vest and tie, however, is not.

“Listen, I’m sorry I hurt your boyfriend’s feelings by being a better driver than him, but you’re only embarrassing yourself now.” Blake takes another look at the woman’s attire; her sleeves are rolled up to her elbows and — despite the country club hairstyle and the heels — the hint of a tattoo on her pale skin, just under the fabric makes up Blake’s mind for her. “Or… Girlfriend?”

“Not quite,” says a familiar voice.

Today, Yang has decided to show off her abs (and she most certainly does have abs) with a cropped jacket of black and gold checks, and Blake can’t quite bring herself to look beyond that for too long, though she catches the black driving gloves, the oversized and gold sunglasses, the oversized cargo pants. In the seconds it takes for Blake to wind her brain back up, Yang grins, cocksure, and continues.

“Though you were right about the gay thing. I mean, look at her.”

“Look at you,” the other woman sniffs, actually physically turning up her nose. “Could you be any gayer?”

“Yeah, I could be wearing a vest and tie,” Yang fires back, but it’s clear the banter is familiar, it’s obvious these two know each other well enough for their back and forth to not contain any real barbs.

“I wouldn’t mind that,” Blake drawls, before she’s able to stop herself, and Yang turns back to her with an arched brow. “Good to see you again, Yang.”

“Oh, is it? Could have fooled me!” The other woman’s ire has been refocused, and it’s seemingly stronger than before, the pitch of her words higher, more dire. “Given you nearly killed her just now.”

“Weiss,” Yang sighs, but Blake winces, feeling the sting of the words despite Yang’s quick glance of reassurance sent her way.

“I didn’t realize you’d pull off when I drifted. I thought you’d… lean in.”

It’s not an excuse. They’d been neck and neck towards the end of the race (again), and when she’d nudged the side of Yang’s car — far gentler than she would against anyone else — she’d assumed the woman would give as good as she got, like most every other racer she’d gone against. But Yang hadn’t taken any chances, and it’d cost her the race.

“We don’t do that here,” the woman — Weiss — says, lips pursed to the point of contortion, but Yang only laughs.

“We do that here all the time. I did way worse to Mercury last week.”

“Yes, but Mercury is a creep.” Weiss pauses, considering. “We only do that to creeps here.”

Blake’s hands lift, a show of peace. “Hey, no one handed me the Beacon Street Racing Etiquette Guide when I joined up the other week. Maybe you could loan me your copy.”

This doesn’t exactly smooth things over with the woman, especially not when Yang snickers, but Weiss can clearly see the writing on the wall, and tosses her hair over her shoulder with a huff.

“Whatever. I’m telling Ruby about this,” she warns Yang (or maybe Blake, or maybe both of them), before stalking away, her last words called over her shoulder. “She’s not going to be happy.”

There’s no concern on Yang’s face as she watches her go, if anything she looks amused. “Sorry about that. She’s… protective.”

“I can see that. I guess that’s what happens when you’ve been friends with someone for a while.” It’s a guess (and a probe), but Yang doesn’t correct any of her phrasing, so it must be close enough to the truth.

“Yeah, but I didn’t mean protective of me.” Yang’s grin shows a flash of white teeth. “Weiss bet on me tonight. You lost her money. And that’s the real sin.”

Blake’s surprised at how easily her laugh comes (more surprised how easily the fondness slips through the cracks in her chest). “Oh, I see. So I can kick your ass up and down the streets as long as I convince her to bet on me in the future? Good to know.”

“I’m not sure that’s the message I want you to be taking from this,” Yang drawls, but still smiles, flicking her glasses up to her forehead. “Besides, like she said, Ruby’s the one to look out for. She seemed all sweet and innocent yesterday, but gods help the person she turns her disapproving stare on. I’ve seen people break into tears on the spot.”

From what Blake had seen yesterday, Ruby isn’t the sort that loses her chipper bounce very easily, so despite Yang’s teasing tone, she files the information away as useful. If she were being a little more self-searching, she might question the action, given her tendency to not stick around in any one place for long. (Surely Beacon isn’t any different. Surely she couldn’t know now if it were.)

“Lucky she missed the race today, then.” Her lips curve, a sharp corner that would require a drift. “What, she couldn’t bear to see you lose again?”

“Oh, ha ha. No, she had class. And she knows there’s no skipping for racing; that’s the only hard and fast rule for our household.” It’s not what she expects, the straight answer backed with genuinity, but it strikes Blake as endearing, somehow, especially when Yang continues. “I started racing here so we could pay for those classes, so I think it’s only fair.”

“That’s — ” Kind. Authentic. Surprising. Blake’s not sure which word to use so she disgards them all. “I wouldn’t have pegged you as the type who was racing for the money. Not that… there’s anything wrong with that. Especially in your case.”

Yang laughs. “Hey, don’t mistake me. I started racing here for the money, but it’s not why I race in general.”

“So why do you?” Blake asks, even though she suspects she knows the answer. (It’s not wise to take your eyes off the road, but she’s done it in both of her races with Yang, eyes darting to the side to find the woman speeding alongside her: eyes wild, grin wide, the fervor of the moment all over her face. There’s freedom there, more than there is anywhere else, and Blake thinks she sees that in Yang as much as she does in herself.)

“Same as you, I think,” Yang murmurs, closer now, sliding in when Blake’s distracted once again.

“I’m not sure you know me well enough to say that.”

A bluff, of course, but it gets the intended result.

“Not yet.” From this close, Yang looks taller, and Blake has to tilt her chin to look into her eyes. “But I’m still looking to fix that.”

Blake wets her lips. It’s too much, and she’s not sure she can tack on ‘too soon’ to quantify the thought, make it less tame. If she had to guess, Yang will always be too much, like sunlight after coming out of a room. Blake’s not sure she’ll ever adjust to the rays, or if she wants to.

“Let’s see how you do in the next race,” she says again, and Yang laughs again, totally unabashed.

“Okay, I’m sensing a trend here. What, you’re not going to let me take you out unless I win a race again you?”

“If I say ‘yes’, what are you going to do?”

It’s not cockiness that overtakes Yang’s face then, not exactly. It’s confidence or want or determination or maybe just the flush that comes from the thrill of a challenge. Blake’s setting herself up for something here, she knows, failure or disappointment or something like it, but right then, she doesn’t care. There’s a freedom in this sort of race too, and that she’s come to love.

“Oh, that’s easy, Blake.” Yang leans in a little more, and Blake knows it’s audible, the way her breath is cut short. “I’m going to win.”

#bumbleby #writing #rwby #bees racer au #for #corvophobia #<33333 #just a little something for a birthday treat

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maddmuses · 4 years ago

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Madonna “Donna” Redgrave

(Art Credit)

Age: -.6 DMC 5 (Born roughly 8 months after events of DMC 5) Occupation: Devil Hunter, Bartender/Bar Owner Aliases: The Legacy of Power, Demon-Slaying Bartender, Date of Birth: August 13 Species: Cambion (Demon-Human, with Umbran Witch and Priestess descent) Ethnicity: Anglo-Italian-Romani Possible other Asian heritage (Umbran Witch Heritage)(Based on HCs of Lady and Dante ethnicities) Affiliations: Devil May Cry (Main Branch/Lover’s City Location) Theme Song: Takedown by Blue Stahli (XINA cut)

Personality Donna strongly takes after her mother, being both business-minded and serious about her demon hunting activities. Through this, she was compelled to converting the original Devil May Cry shop into a more sustainable bar to fund ongoing day-to-day, as demonic incursions dwindle in numbers. Ultimately, though, she still had a deep love for killing demons like her father. She often uses it as a means to seek an adrenaline high, which will result in her fighting stylishly, in the same way that Dante has.

As a result of her almost nonexistent relationship with her father, Donna prefers to distance herself from Dante’s brand as owner of Devil May Cry, even converting the signage to use a lit silhouette of her mother, and never being seen wearing red. When fighting, she remains calm and cool, preferring to take her foes out in as few moves as possible, only getting more loose and flippant as she loses herself in the rush of an exciting battle.

Though she was largely raised alone by Lady, Donna has a strong familial bond to Nero and Kyrie, and paradoxically looks up to her uncle Vergil as the ultimate peak of “cool”.

Like her father she often takes jobs pro bono, though she often feels vindicated in doing so, due to her otherwise solid profits in the business with high-paying jobs, taking on extra work from Nero’s branch, and the bar component doing fairly well. Though she often pretends to be intent to take payment, Donna will disappear altogether when payment is due, in the case of such jobs.

Biography Madonna Redgrave was born a little over half a year following the events of Devil May Cry 5, with Lady having been pregnant for about two weeks during the events of the game. About 7 months into term Donna was born premature to her mother, though she ultimately was born and grew successfully. Though her early childhood was largely uneventful, by the metric of a child to two devil hunters; being largely taken care of by her mother, who had taken to residing in the Devil May Cry shop, and staying with her cousin Nero when Lady took a job to create a financial windfall.

Never having met her father, Donna is only regaled with stories of his various heroics and endeavors growing up, largely with a more positive energy by Nero than Lady, who retains her somewhat annoyed energy when remembering her child’s father. Though Donna would take somewhat more to her mother’s perspective on many of Dante’s exploits, these stories still would ultimately motivate the cambion to become a demon hunter, though initial training she sought out was without Lady’s knowledge.

As a young adult, she would eventually take over Devil May Cry, after having built a small following in the underground as a capable, and affordable, hunter for hire. Though she preferred to keep the business as one that would maintain operation consistently, rather than simply taking on commissions for various demonic incursions, especially in the post-Dante era where it had grown even more infrequent, with numerous hell gate operations being taken down by her predecessors. Thus, Donna’s field of work is both more diverse, and more steady, in addition to maintaining a bar.

Donna’s ongoing fight against demons and the mysterious “angels” (demonic entities from a counterpart realm that claims itself to be paradise, but is in fact simply the highest positional level of hell) is defined as her unique struggle as the defender of humanity.

Abilities and Skills -Combat Proficiency: Donna is highly skilled in both armed and unarmed combat. Without relying on her superhuman abilities, Donna is able to take on swarms of demons with little incident. --Swordswomanship: Though capable in a number of styles of sword, Donna prefers curved weapons, especially favoring her nodachi, though she has shown a capacity with more straight-edged swords, she prefers to solely manifest them for her ranged mirage blades, though she has used them as shortswords in a pinch. --Martial Arts: The majority of Donna’s combat is hand-to-hand, fighting in a sort of mixed style, often depending on the Devil Arm she uses, she has been known to manifest copies of them when without one, switching style accordingly. --Gunplay: Prior to the manifesting of her ability to create weapons out of her demonic energy, Donna was fairly capable with firearms of various make, and is even still a user of Kalina Ann Mk IV after this revelation. In the earlier days of her demon hunting she was known to use a broad variety of firearms, before tightening up her arsenal after learning to manifest weapons. --Mirage Blades: Developed after gaining access to Devil Soul, Donna became able to create Mirage Blades, like her uncle though red in color with a somewhat thinner design. Through this power she also works up various weapons on the fly, including recreations of various Devil Arms she has seen or used (though usually not at full power or including their inborn abilities), including a recreation of Rebellion that she called Revolutionary Memory.

-Acrobatics: Though possessed of natural agility, Donna is capable of various technical feats reminiscent of her mother’s. Often she was able to easily move with Kalina Ann, and often still utilizes the weapon’s recoil while in Gunslinger to move with a great speed, and charge towards enemies.

Superhuman Powers and Abilities -Cambion Physiology: In part due to her descendance from Sparda, but also due to her mother’s brief transformation into a demon (Artemis), Donna is a powerful demonic entity who possesses physical abilities that far exceed that which is possible for a mortal human; disregarding any degree of training they may have. Her potential and ability are in a similar realm to that of Nero, Vergil, and Dante, though due to inexperience and a lack of similar caliber opponents she currently trails. This additionally grants the following specific abilities: --Superhuman Strength --Superhuman Speed and Reflexes --Accelerated Healing --Superhuman Endurance --Demonic Power Manipulation: By imbuing her demonic power into objects, and otherwise focusing it in the air, Donna is able to enhance various items and create blades of pure energy from her willpower. --Teleportation: Much like her father, uncle, and cousin, Donna is able to teleport various distances. Biasing more towards Vergil’s side, she is able to teleport much more quickly, with more versatility, and a further range than her father and cousin. --Devil Soul: The counterpart to Nero’s Devil Bringer, Donna is able to channel demonic energy into a projection-like construct. At a lower degree of use she is able to create large arms to enhance attacks and defenses, as well as conjuring a torso around herself to defend from attacks that hit an area, or break through other forms of defense. By further focusing she can actually create a fully-formed doppelganger that appears to be a red semi-transparent recreation of her father’s devil trigger form. Donna’s Devil Soul wasn’t unlocked until she was defeated (and nearly slain) by Azazel through his power of scapegoating. She counteracted this through the use of Devil Soul’s doppelganger. --Devil Trigger (Not Unlocked)

-Style Powers: A natural progression from her father’s abilities, Donna is able to harness her mixed umbran-demonic heritage into a force of power commonly referred to as “Styles” which permit her to more effectively and efficiently focusing her demonic powers in a conduit to optimize her combat output. Styles were her original primary method of combat prior to gaining Devil Soul. --Royalguard: Functions identically to Dante’s --Swordmaster: Initially functions identically to Dante’s, though following the unlock of Devil Soul, and thus Mirage Blades, it takes to allowing Donna to manifest and conjure various weapons and devil arms, while swapping between them rapidly because of their energetic nature. --Dark Avenger: A focus and conduit of her power, allowing her to become motivated and fight in a style almost identical of her uncle. This style quickly consumes her Devil Trigger gauge, as well as her Style Meter. --Ranged Fortress: Essentially Gunslinger, though once she has unlocked, and begins to use Mirage Blades, this mode will greatly enhance them, making the blades longer, able to fire many at the same time, and utilize multiple techniques specifically with these, such as firing large, Rebellion-like, blades, as well as pinning targets to a specific position to be unable to escape her.

Weaknesses and Limitations -The forces of Inferno and Paradise: Demons and Angels, as well as pretty much any supernatural force, are more capable of injuring Donna in a more significant way than mundane means. This is shared with her fellow cambions.

-Styles: The use of a style requires not only her demonic power, but also a type of energy that she often refers to as “Style Energy”. By consuming her style energy to swap, or utilize any of her styles’ specific powers, she steadily becomes more fatigued than other abilities of hers.

Arsenal -Akaja (Portmanteau of Red and Monarch/king): A nodachi-style sword that Donna almost always has on her person, worn across the back of her waist, and a devil arm that represents her own demonic power. Like Rebellion, it serves as a physical manifestation of her devil trigger power, though she has yet to unlock its true power. Once a mundane sword, Donna was able to imprint her demonic power into it (unknowingly) when Devil Soul was unlocked. Using her sword much like how Vergil uses Yamato, she often relies on an iai-style, converting into combos after the draw, before resheathing when her sequences are completed. -Mirage Blades (Various): Donna, at one point, used various devil arms in a similar fashion to her father, though upon unlocking Devil Soul she has largely abandoned this methodology, relying on her own power to recreate the various fighting styles of weapons she wishes to use. However, like Vergil, she most often uses them to conjure blades in the air to fly at opponents. When using her Swordmaster style she is able to emulate different weapons, costing Style Gauge when doing so, and in Gunslinger her ranged blades become longer and more wicked-looking, with the ability to perform various abilities by further consuming her Style Gauge. -Kalina Ann Mk IV: The 4th version of the Kalina Ann, and counterpart to the Mk III that her mother owns. A lightweight rocket launcher, the recoil has been intentionally exaggerated to allow combat recoil.

#My Lady of Sparda (Donna Redgrave)

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toliveanddieinstarlight · 4 years ago

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Season 5, Episodes 5 and 6

Episode 5: Learning Curve

Hmmmmmmm, who could she possibly be referring tooooooooo

OMG someone brought up ol N'Grath! Total throwaway line, he "went down" sometime in the last couple of years. RIP in peace, Mantis Man.

Garibaldi's losing his damn mind over Lochley, can't figure out why Sheridan would tap her for the job, wants Zach to discreetly pull her private, classified data. Never occurs to him to … ask Sheridan…

The Rangers treat PTSD on Hard Mode. Someone should let them know that there are effective methods that don't involve risking the patient's life in a fight they're barely able to stand for.

This episodes teases us a couple of times with Lochley's Secret, but not the Reveal. Sure would suck to have to wait a whole-ass week or more to find out what that Big Secret is (sorry, y'all, I'm watching WandaVision right now and remembering the Good Ol' Days before streaming).

Episode 6: Strange Relations

Garibalid's still sus after listening to the whole convo between Lochley and Delenn. "Hmm, now Delenn knows the Secret, and she's cool with it. I don't like it. Can't be anything good. I'd better keep pushing."

The fucking DREAD in Zach's voice.

Smooooooth line.

ILY Lyta

Hell yeah, girl.

I love how good Bester is at getting under peoples' skin. It's the writing and it's Koenig. But it's so good.

Lochley keeps harping on how fucked up this station is and she's not wrong.

It's a throwaway line that Zach has, but he makes a reference to Ms. Connelly - it's nice to know she's still around from Season 1.

I love how funny Delenn and G'Kar are finding this Very Serious Business of protecting Londo's life. It's certainly a measure of what a massive pain in the ass the Centauri are, and the massive stick up their own collective asses WRT the court.

#babylon 5 #babylon 5 spoilers #elizabeth lochley #lyta alexander #byron #londo mollari #zack allan

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flowercrown-bucky · 5 years ago

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The Adventures Of Frosty The Hitman And The Chocolate Milk Bandit

Fandom: Marvel

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: Swearing, mentions of stabbing

Summary: The newest Avenger is truly the golden girl of the team. She might even be sugary enough to sweeten a hundred-year-old ex-Assassin..

Authors Note: A lil’ bit’o Bucky to break up the Loki spam.

The team watches fondly as you and Sam sprint down the corridors of Stark Towers. You and Sam got along like a house on fire, but you were always winding each other up, playing pranks on each other, and occasionally teaming up to play pranks on the rest of the team.

From the second you set foot in the tower, they all fell in love with you. And who could blame them? You were adorable. Everything you did warmed the hearts of others, from washing Tony's suits for him, to plaiting flowers into Steve's hair, to crying hysterically whilst binge watching Doctor Who.

You burst into the room, squealing "hide me!" at the top of your lungs. Laughing, Thor pulled you behind his body, draping a blanket over your giggling form. Sam stalked in, a look of thunder in his eyes as he scanned the room for you. The only person in the room who was not laughing, was Bucky Barnes. No matter how hard you tried, you could not get Bucky to like you. Nothing worked. You had baked for him, fixed his jacket when it tore, made him coffee just the way he liked it, but he was just as cold and aloof. You didn't get it. Why didn't he like you? Tony had told you not to worry about it, that 'Frosty the Hitman' didn't really like anyone, except from Steve. But he didn't really seem to actively dislike anyone, except you.

Bucky grunted, standing up and stalking out the room. Sam pulled a face behind his head, making Y/N giggle through the throw blanket that concealed you. Instantly, Sam leapt on you, tickling you as "punishment for your sins", rendering you oblivious to the communicative looks your teammates were exchanging.

From an outsider's' perspective, it looked very much like two simultaneous seizures, but the series of eye rolls and flinging hands were over the welfare of a certain angry soldier. None of the team had any idea what had gotten Bucky so riled up, but they intended to find out.

Eyes squeezed shut, you pulled the comforter up to your face, your hands clenched around the soft cotton. For the last twenty minutes, a constant stream of loud noises, largely consisting of crashes and expletives, had come from directly beneath you. You weren't stupid; you were fully aware of the risks of being in Stark's tower and it had been ambushed overnight before. The last time someone broke in, you had gone to investigate and ended up with a knife in your thigh. It had been excruciatingly painful, and you were in no hurry to endure either the stabbing or the many, many stitches you'd had as a result again.

However, Stark had upped his security game and the voice was strangely familiar. You guessed it was Steve, seeing as he had proved himself quite the insomniac. Like you, he had awful nightmares and you would not wish to let anyone suffer through them alone

You crept down the stairs, taking utmost care to tread lightly as you did. You would hate to wake anyone.

"Steve?" You whispered, pushing open the door to the kitchen. "Stevie, are you okay?"

You were met with silence, no sign of the person who had been making such a noise not five minutes earlier. Your shoulders dropped, your eyes scanning the kitchen just in case you had missed them.

Well, seeing as you were up, you might as well get yourself a chocolate milk.

The little tub of powder resided on the top shelf in the cupboard, roughly a foot too high for you to reach. Ordinarily, you would get someone to reach it for you, or climb on a chair. However, you did not fancy your chances of wrestling with furniture at 3am.

So you climbed.

You had done it many times before, so it was practically second nature. You balanced yourself on your knees on the countertop, reaching up for the chocolate powder. Your hand found it in the dark, and you triumphantly wrapped your fingers around the little jar, sliding it off its shelf.

"What the hell?" A voice made you jump.

"I can explain!" You squeaked. "I came down looking for a burglar but they went and I couldn't find anyone and I wanted chocolate milk and I couldn't sleep and Steve has nightmares and I couldn't find a chair but I can climb so...."

"Yeah, you can shut up." The person came closer, the light casting their figure as a silhouette. "You're givin' me a headache."

"Bucky, is that you?" You asked, squinting at the tall male. His metal arm glistened in the dim light, giving him away. "Are you... Crying?"

"No." He hastily wiped at his eyes with his flesh knuckles. "There was somethin' in my eye, thas'all."

You leapt off the counter top, flinging yourself at the super soldier and wrapping your arms around his abdomen, feeling his muscles tense at your touch. Only then did you realise he was shirtless, his golden brown skin hot against your tshirt, his sweats soft against your bare legs. He pulled away from you as you slid your hand up his torso, relaxing a little as your hand cupped the back of his neck.

"Do you want chocolate milk?" You mumbled, muffled by his chest. "It always cheers me up when I'm feeling down."

You looked up at him, concern clear in your earnest eyes. He nodded uncertainly, and you beamed up at him. He watched as you turned, scooping powder into glasses, your hips swaying gently as you stirred. His mouth ran dry as his eyes trailed the length of you, lingering on the curve of your legs and the soft curls that had escaped the knot your hair was twisted into. He tried very hard not to look at your ass, barely covered by your batman underwear, but it was proving difficult.

"Y'okay?" You asked softly, holding the glass out to him. The two of you drained your glasses in silence, you hopping from foot to foot as you often did in awkward situations. You smiled at him, but he just grunted in response. Once again, you wrapped your arms around him, pressing your face into his chest.

"Wanna tell me why you were crying?" You asked innocently. Bucky's heart swelled. He was so awful to you, and you were still just as sweet.

"Wasn't crying." He muttered, shifting one arm to loosely return the hug, making you beam against his stomach.

"Sure you weren't." You bit your lip to stifle a giggle at Bucky's indignance. Seeing you relax, Bucky allowed himself to wrap his other arm around your lower back. He couldn't help it, his metal hand dropped to touch the lace of your underwear. As the cool metal met your delicate skin, you squealed, leaping out of his arms.

"I'm sorry!" He yelped, hot footing it out the room. He had intended to explain himself but instead opted to run from the situation, leaving you alone and confused.

There was nothing you hated more than mornings. As always, you were sat on the sofa, an enormous mug of coffee in your hand as the team teased you. You had long since been branded the 'innocent one' and would surely never live it down. Natasha had begun the days' round of Y/N teasing upon glimpsing the size of your mug, asking if you 'liked them big' through hysterical laughter. Sam had soon joined in with something about finally putting your mouth to good use, with Steve rounding it off on you 'being tired after a long night. This had resulted in you storming into the kitchen to strop, yelling about cocky super heroes as you went. It was there you had remained, legs crossed on top of the kitchen counter as you pondered the easiest method of constructing a voodoo doll.

"Alright, Frosty?" Sam grinned, swaggering into the kitchen, accidentally revealing the blushing super soldier as he did. Bucky had been waiting outside the kitchen for some time, attempting to build up the courage to explain his actions to you.

"Another big one, please." Sam winked at you as he handed you the cup. "After all, that is how you like 'em, right?"

You scowled as you took his cup, hopping off the worktop to pour in more coffee from the pot. Bucky's mouth once again ran dry as he took in a glimpse of soft skin. Why did you have to look so damn irresistible all the time? It was seriously distracting.

Sam swaggered out of the room, whistling obnoxiously, a grin on his face almost as big as Y/N's cheeks were red. You smiled briefly at Bucky.

"Morning, soldier." You said, climbing back up onto the counter. Your dress slid up your thighs a little, revealing just enough bare skin to make Bucky's heart hammer.

"Mornin'." He grunted, making to leave.

"Don't go, Bucky." You said softly. "If you want, I'll leave, but you shouldn't have to go."

He shook his head in protest.

"Why do you hate me, Bucky?" You cocked your head to the side, fingers absent mindedly sliding up and down the side of your coffee mug. Bucky's gaze was transfixed, watching your digits caress the white porcelain. How he would love to feel the gentle touch of your fingers, to feel your hand heavy in his. To feel your palm slide against his, or your fingernails scrape against his scalp.

"I don't hate you." He mumbled. Words did not come easily to Bucky.

"Then why do you act like you do?" You seemed hurt by his lack of response, tears threatening to spill from your eyes. Bucky's heart throbbed, wanting to pull you into his chest. To hold you tight and never let you go.

"I .... " He spluttered. "I have to go."

With that, he dashed out of the room, once again leaving you, confused and alone.

You hated the gym.

You had never, ever enjoyed exercise. How something that made you red faced and out of breath could be good for you was beyond you, but you had to keep in shape. On more than one mission you had found yourself running ridiculous distances, and Steve had coerced you into working out. To 'make it easier'.

You had done a single session with Steve, vowing never to do it again as you left.

Between the two of you, you had reached a compromise. Yoga was something you had long since enjoyed, so Maria had sought out an instructor for you. Along with your twice - weekly sessions (the instructor was a ridiculously attractive Brazilian, so naturally Natasha had joined) you went out for a jog every day, using the treadmill in the gym on rainy days, and partaking in Steve's more "experimental" training methods.

That was how you came to be suspended in mid air, supported only by a worryingly aged bungee, attatched at one end to your ankle and the other to a ceiling beam, flailing your four limbs in the direction of the wall. Should you be able to reach the wall, you hoped you would be able to kick off it and turn a somersault, before beginning the heinous process again.

You made a mental note never to listen to one of Steve's "brilliant ideas" ever again.

A sudden jolt made you start. Panicked, you looked up, only to find notice the aforementioned worryingly aged bungee had in fact frayed, leaving you falling to the floor in what promised to be an ungainly heap.

As you gathered your senses, you realised your ungainly heap had grown a few limbs.

"Easy, sugar." The mouth, presumably belonging to the limbs, grunted.

You scrambled to get up, only to find yourself thwarted by a knee that had found its way into your lower back.

"Sorry, sorry!" You squeaked.

"Can you get off a' me?" The limbs flailed, inadvertently jabbing you in the ribs in the process.

"I'm trying!" You wailed. Your scrabbling at the floor was proving fruitless and the limbs seemed to be becoming more agitated.

"You can say that again." The unnamed person finally seemed to be detaching themselves from you. This was good, you thought to yourself. You had been beginning to wonder if you were doomed to be stuck with them forever.

As you gradually untangled yourselves, the limbs gradually revealed themselves as belonging to Bucky. You wished you'd got a few extra "accidental" jabs in for good measure, the "trying" comment having not gone amiss, despite being remarkably on-brand with Bucky's attitude.

"Thanks for landing on me." He grunted.

"I didn't mean to!" You cried, indignant. It wasn't like it was your fault that the bungee had snapped, and it definitely wasn't your fault he'd been under you when you fell.

He said nothing in response, getting to his feet and stalking off, his cheeks slightly flushed from your ordeal. Dressed in sweatpants and an old grey top, he had clearly been intending to work out, maybe spar with someone. A few stray hairs had escaped the bun he'd scraped his hair into, falling softly around his face, the shirt he was wearing riding up as he walked, revealing a strip of golden brown abdomen. His grey sweats were riding dangerously low, something you noted with a furious blush.

How was it fair for someone so grouchy to look so good?

There was nothing you liked more than rainy days. Curling up on the cushy sofas under a blanket with a mug of hot chocolate while watching Serena van der Woodsen gallivant round New York in increasingly ridiculous plot lines was your idea of a perfect Sunday morning.

Bucky was not having a good morning.

He'd gotten up early to train to find the gym already in use, and gotten in the shower to find the hot water out of circulation. So, after a freezing shower, he was heading for the kitchen to get some toast and coffee. Maybe some bacon.

He padded into the living room, spotting you on the sofa. You stretched your legs under your blanket, lazily stretching your arms with a small yawn.

You turned towards him as he drew closer to you, flashing him a brilliant smile.

Oh lordy, he thought to himself. Here we go again.

Bucky adored your smile.

He trudged on past you, heading for the coffee pot.

"I made some not long ago." You glanced up at him. "Coffee, I mean. Should still be warm."

"Thanks." He grunted, pouring himself a large cup. He leant on the worktop as he sipped, largely ignoring your attempts at making small talk.

It wasn't that he didn't want to talk to you. Quite the opposite, in fact. He wanted to spend time with you, find out every little detail. Hear about your day, the pets you had when you were younger, your favourite movies.

You absolutely melted Bucky, and he wasn't really sure what to do about that. Every time he saw you, his body froze and he felt the strong inclination to behave like a complete asshole.

"Why do you hate me?" Your voice snapped him out of his train of thought.

"What?" He asked, bewildered.

"Why do you hate me?" You repeated, hurt and confusion clear in your voice.

"I don't hate you, I..." His voice trailed off. "I jus', I don't..."

"I've been nothing but nice to you." You continued, anger clear in your voice as your volume raised. "All this time, I've tried to help you, go out of my way to do things, and you're nothing but awful to me."

"I'm sorry, I..." He found himself lost for words.

"I just don't understand." Your eyes became glassy. "What have I ever done to you to make you hate me so much?"

Your bottom lip quivered, and Bucky felt as if his heart might explode as your eyes brimmed with tears.

"'M sorry." He scrabbled to find the right thing to say. "Wait, no, no, don't cry. I'll, I'll find you a tissue. Or somethin'."

He searched frantically for something to dry your eyes with, snatching up a napkin and hurrying across the room to where you were curled on the sofa, placing the crumpled tissue into your hand.

Bucky's experience with women was plentiful, but largely occurred roughly 80 years prior or whilst brainwashed. And they were largely not crying. He was not good with crying women.

He reached out, awkwardly patting your shoulder. How did Steve do it?

"Please, don't cry." He begged. "I'll cheer you up. I'll get pizza, I'll, I'll - I'll do a dance, if you want."

You laughed, bringing your hand up to your face and gently wiping a tear away with a knuckle.

"There now, sugar." He said, gently dabbing under your eyes with a tissue. "You're too pretty to cry."

Your cheeks flushed violently as he wrapped his flesh arm around you, resting his hand lightly against your back. Hugs, he knew, were comforting, and he could easily get used to the feeling of your soft skin.

"I'll make you chocolate milk if you stop cryin'." He murmured softly.

"How's a girl to refuse an offer like that?" You looked up at him, rubbing your nose with the back of your hand.

Those eyes got him every time. Bucky thought he might give you the moon if you asked for it.

Climbing to his feet, he padded across the kitchen to where he remembered the small jar to be, overly aware of you just two steps behind him. You nodded gratefully as he handed you the drink, taking a long sip.

Suddenly, Bucky jerked forward, smashing his face into yours.

For a second, you thought he was going to headbutt you, but his lips found your and you realised.

The super soldier was not, in fact, attempting to attack you, but he was kissing you.

And once you'd gotten over the initial shock, you were really quite enjoying it.

You pushed yourself up onto your tip toes, kissing him fiercely. Your little fingers wound their way into his hair, pulling him down towards you.

All you could see, all you could think, all you could feel, was Bucky.

And finally, everything felt like it made sense.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #sebastian stan #sebastian stan x reader #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes x you #soft bucky is my kink #james buchanan barnes x reader

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aethelflaedladyofmercia · 5 years ago

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Lessons and Lamentations

Crowley has been alone for so long, he doesn't remember any other way to be. And then an angel in a tavern tries to tempt him.

A lesson in music, and what it means to not be alone.

Another Good Omens fic for @bingokisses - this one for the prompt “Learning Guitar/Piano together” (well, lyre, close enough) which on my card was paired with “Over-the-shoulder kiss.”

Available on AO3, with detailed history notes for those who like that sort of thing.

Crowley still wasn’t sure what had happened.

“Start by placing your hands like this,” Aziraphale instructed him. “The lyre goes against your thigh, here.” The curve of the tortoiseshell pressed into Crowley’s leg, partway between knee and waist. The angel’s arms wrapped around him, lightly holding the instrument. “Go on. I can’t show you how to play if you don’t take it.”

Five hours ago, he’d been sitting in a tavern, looking forward to getting comfortably black-out drunk and sleeping off the rest of his assignment. Five hours ago, he’d been just about ready to write off the entire ridiculous planet and all the useless beings who inhabited it. Five hours ago, he’d been alone, as he’d always been alone, for so long he couldn’t remember a different way to be.

And then an angel had tried to tempt him.

“Good. Now, when you actually play, you’ll have both hands on the strings. One behind, one in front. But for now, just keep it tilted just like this, so you can see what I’m doing.” One soft hand stayed on the back of Crowley’s helping him cradle the instrument. The other, the right, brushed across his skin as fingers reached to pluck a few notes.

It wasn’t that Crowley had wanted dinner. He ate, when he wanted, but not oysters. If he was going to put something in his mouth, it wouldn’t be a slab of barely-cooked meat that smelt of salt and had the consistency of a particularly phlegmy cough.

But, bless it, that angel was so determined to be friendly and how could anyone resist that? Crowley’s specialty was the irresistible. He knew when something was a lost cause.

“Now the simplest method is plucking, like this, and you’ll notice if I press down here,” his left hand shifted to rest on the strings, “the note is – is sort of abbreviated. Muted and quick. But if I leave the string free…” A soft note reverberated through the atrium. “Then it holds for quite some time. So you can combine several of those to make a chord, like this.” He plucked three strings rapidly, and their sounds combined into a single, rich note, warm, almost liquid, flowing together into something even better.

It had taken some time to warm up to each other. They disagreed on everything. Politics. Morality. Whether or not Caesar had deserved to be stabbed quite so many times. All the big questions, really.

But then, Aziraphale had taken a mouthful of the sharp red wine and spat it back out. This is no sort of wine! My dear fellow, how can you stand it?

S’Rome. You drink what they have. Not any worse than that beer in Uruk.

It absolutely is! My word, how your standards have fallen.

“Now once you have that down, you can start strumming – and you have to make sure your fingers are exact, or it won't work. Hold down all these strings from the back, here and here and here…like that. Then, instead of plucking, you just run your thumb across them all like this—” Seven notes all rose through the air, one sound that was everything together, pure and clear. Crowley gasped and, without thinking, leaned back a little against Aziraphale’s chest. “Mind your legs,” was all the angel said, shifting his knees and feet to hold Crowley’s legs in position.

The argument about wine had turned into a long digression about the drinks of a hundred different cultures. They agreed the pear wine to the north had been the lightest, smoothest of all, that Egyptian beer was superior to Sumerian but really the whole concept needed work, that the plum liqueur drink of the far east was simply delightful, though they disagreed on whether or not it should be drunk by the jarful.

From there they moved on to the decoration of the jars – the simple patterns of the northern cultures compared to the elaborate (and often erotic) scenes of the Greeks. And then to art generally, to paintings, to sculpture, to the general agreement that the emperors’ enormous monuments were rather on the gaudy side. After some discussion, they determined the best work in the city to be a simple but beautifully carved statue of the goddess Hygieia stepping from a pool, located by one of the city’s many baths. Crowley particularly liked that she carried a snake, and Aziraphale had laughed at that.

“Do you want me to play a song for you? So you can see how it goes?” Crowley nodded, not trusting himself to speak. “Alright, let me think.” Aziraphale leaned closer, resting his chin on Crowley’s shoulder, arms absently tugging at his waist to pull them more firmly together, before returning his hands to rest on the backs of Crowley’s. Now every part of Crowley pressed against a part of Aziraphale. It should have felt like an intrusion – Crowley hated to be touched, hated other people in his space – but somehow it felt the most natural thing in the world. “I’ve got one. Now watch.” He rested his left hand against the back of the strings, and with his right lifted a wedge of tortoiseshell, which he used to pluck one string after another, a slow and stately rhythm.

Speaking of art had brought them to talking about the theater, which they both confessed to enjoy. They’d discussed whether the current plays could ever be as good as the classics – a difficult conversation, as apparently the angel preferred slow-paced bore fests whereas Crowley liked the ones with good jokes and fast dialogue. Eventually Aziraphale conceded that Plautus was one of the best playwrights in recent memory, and Crowley agreed to go see Seneca’s take on the Agamemnon story.

Are all angels so obsessed with tragedy? The restaurant had brought a bowl of figs, which were much more to Crowley’s liking. Makes sense, I suppose. Predestination and the plans of the gods and all that. Humans learning to accept their fate.

Oh. Aziraphale’s face had fallen. No I…I rather think I’m the only one. He’d shifted uncomfortably. That is…theater isn’t considered a particularly angelic pursuit. Nor is sculpture, or food or…well…really any of the, you know, human arts.

Crowley had cocked his head, rolled over to lie flat on his couch and stare at the ceiling. Makes sense, he had started in his usual cool, detached manner. They’re very demonic pursuits. All those, you know, delicately carved ladies, that just inspires lust and…and envy and all sorts of sins. And the theater! Comedies about sowing confusion and throwing the entire world into disorder. Mocking power structures. Tempting young men into lives of romance and – and fun, instead of duty and war and whatever else? Yes, very demonic.

He had grinned to himself, satisfied with his explanation, until a glance at Aziraphale’s face had made his chest ache. The brilliant smile had vanished completely, leaving the angel looking downcast. Hopeless. And alone, so blasted alone, in a way that resonated deep in Crowley’s soul.

So, thankful for the glasses that hid his eyes, Crowley had sighed with as much drama as he could muster. Least, that’s what I tell my superiors. Don’t think they really buy it, but I keep trying. Aziraphale blinked at him in confusion. Don’t think I’ve ever had a chance to, you know, talk about it properly, not with anyone who understands. So. S’nice. A look of understanding dawned on the angel’s face, with an entirely new kind of smile, and Crowley had to turn away before it burned him alive. Yeah. So. That’s theater…nh…what do you think of music?

Which brought them here, to the villa of the family Aziraphale had been assigned to, and the lyre, and a music lesson that so far had been an education in something very different.

Each note fell like rainwater, gliding up and down the scales. His hands began to move independently, sometimes plucking notes from the front and back of the instrument, sometimes gliding across the strings, sometimes one finger would rest on a single string, making it quaver and reverberate. Every time Crowley thought he knew the pattern, it would change, faster or slower, higher or lower, a sweeping glissando to bring a chill up his spine.

It was a lament, infinitely sad and alone, and yet filling the air with a bright rhythm of undeniable, unremitting hope.

Crowley couldn’t keep up with the movements of Aziraphale’s fingers, dancing up and down in an incomprehensible pattern. Instead, he half-closed his eyes and leaned back, resting his head more comfortably against the angel’s shoulder. Aziraphale said nothing, intent on his music, but he tilted his head so that their cheeks rested together.

Nobody liked Crowley, not really.

They tolerated him, or were impressed by him, or flattered by his compliments, or drawn in by his intrigue – all the tricks of a tempter. He could roll into any city or village in the world and have the locals eating out of his hand in a matter of days. But once he’d done his job, once he’d accomplished his goal and could drop the pretenses…nobody ever stuck around, and it was on to the next job, the next temptation, the next act.

He didn’t miss the company. He didn’t need it. He had passed four thousand years on this planet quite happily alone, and could do the next four thousand the same.

And yet.

And yet here he sat, on the floor of a fancy villa, surrounded by Aziraphale, wrapped in his arms and his legs and his music. Welcomed. Accepted. Wanted.

Just for the length of a song, nothing else needed to exist. No Heaven, no Hell, no sides, just two beings enjoying each other’s company, just the smell of Aziraphale’s perfume and the brush of his toga against Crowley’s arms, just two heartbeats dancing to the sound of the lyre.

The song wound to a close.

Crowley tipped his head back, trying to meet Aziraphale’s eyes, but could only see a round cheek, a pursed mouth, a snub of a nose.

He wished the song could go on forever. He wished…something. He didn’t know what, but he wanted it more than anything.

Aziraphale plucked the final notes.

And, as the last chord reverberated through the room, their lips met.

Quick as an echo, just as soft and mysterious. An unmistakable brush of lips, the slightest parting, a hot stream of breath. A greeting. A thank you. A promise of…something, someday, Crowley couldn’t imagine what, but he would gladly wait ten thousand years to find out.

And then – the last note faded, and Aziraphale pulled away.

“Well. There you have it. Quite a tidy little instrument, isn’t it? Quite – quite clever, I really prefer it to the cithara, you know.”

“Yeah, um.” Crowley turned his face away. He didn’t actually remember starting the kiss, but it must have been him, the eternal tempter, always pushing for whatever he could get. Pushing too far. Already, he could feel the tension building in Aziraphale’s stomach.

“Perhaps that’s enough for one night?” Crowley’s heart fell. “Yes, I – I rather think…yes, probably sufficient…”

“Can you—” Crowley gripped the instrument a little tighter. “Can you show me a few notes? While you’re here. While I’m here,” he corrected.

“I…you still want to learn?”

“S’why I came, isn’t it?” He shifted his hands and tried to pluck a note; it came out more sour than sweet. “Something like this?”

“Nearly.” Aziraphale’s fingers came around to nudge his, but they hesitated. “Perhaps I should, er, sit facing you? That might be less…”

“You don’t have to,” Crowley said, far too quickly. “I mean. S’easier this way. Facing it the same way, hands on the same side, all that. You don’t…you don’t have to move.”

“Ah. If. If you’re sure.” Crowley nodded. “Right then. Ehm. When you pluck, you should pinch your fingers like this…”

The lesson went on until the early hours of the morning, Crowley nestled against Aziraphale, as the warmth and the music filled him.

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hasegawasosise · 5 years ago

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In Numbers We Trust

Summary:

Prompt master: @outoftheframework

I like the concept of each of the kids having a number or having a thing where they count off. Not in a demeaning or dehumanizing way at all, just more so to use in dangerous situations. For example, a bomb goes off on patrol, and to quickly see if everyone is okay, the kids (including Steph and Babs) automatically start counting one at a time. Bruce can breathe again once the count reaches eight. This tradition begins to carry over to civilian life when the kids yell numbers across a crowded gala after the power goes out.

Beta Agenthandler

Bruce never planned on starting a family. He made a vow to live for justice. He would be the force Gotham needed. He would be the forever bachelor. Justice was his Lady Love.

But 90% of life’s plan was just that—a plan. Bruce would never have guessed he'd end up taking in a boy who called himself Dick Grayson. Technically his ward, but Bruce suffered a mid-life crisis every day from thereon, wondering whether it was the right choice for him to adopt a kid—or why anyone sane would let Bruce Wayne adopt any kid in the first place. It was a testament to Dick’s own awesomeness that he grew up to be a mostly functional adult—Bruce definitely wasn’t.

After Dick, he recruited an amazing girl named Barbara Gordon as another sidekick. She was not officially his adopted daughter, but by day two of working together Bruce registered her in his little hind brain as “my kid.”

Then another. Jason Todd not only stole the Batmobile’s tires but also Batman’s heart. The little boy taught Bruce more about street-smarts and how to be a better person right until his death. His realized depth of parental love made him wonder why he ever adopted anyone in the first place—and ended up losing them that way.

After what he thought was the last, another one came into his life without invitation. Timothy Drake was a genius detective. Out of his first four—yes, Bruce could still count—Tim was the most similar to Bruce. They had the same kind of upbringing amidst the Gotham Elite, they were both highly focused and detail oriented individuals. Tim was even smarter than Bruce, and he was the sole reason Bruce could continue functioning after Jason’s death. Tim was also the only one to believe he was still alive and brought Bruce back from when he was lost in time.

After Time was Stephanie Brown. A cheerful ray of sunshine that had her own worries, but could function the best out of all his children. She had the kind of light sarcastic humor to brighten up Bruce’s darker days. He gained a third daughter, Cassandra Cain, the most accomplished amongst his children in terms of stealth and combat, also his one darling princess.

Then Bruce was introduced to his—one and only—blood son, a little baby assassin who had the unfortunate tendency to stab first ask later. By this time, Bruce had a better handle on raising children highly susceptible to raising hell and violence (read: still an incompetent parent, but he knew how to tune out their nagging) and had no choice but to assign Dick with Damian’s education on humanities and socialization.

He also had Helena, Terry, Matt, Duke, and Harper.

Bruce lost count.

It was the ultimate testament to Bruce’s parenting skill. He sometimes couldn’t remember how many kids he had. He could lose them in a Walmart and forget he was missing one. But thankfully, he had a secret weapon.

Since Jason, he assigned them all numbers. Dick was one, Barbara was two, Jason three, Timothy four, Stephanie five, Cass six, Damian seven—although he always said he was the first—Duke was eight, Harper nine, Terry ten, Matt eleven, and little Helena was twelve.

Imagine that. Bruce had twelve kids. What was his vow again? Lady Love Justice? Don’t know her.

It became sort of a tradition. When the kids entered the Wayne manor, each of them wrote their number on the info board down in the changing room. They were also listed on a desktop note of the BatComputer. It became a ritual in which the last child would add their newest sibling into the list, so they knew who the next number was supposed to be, and that next child would be who they were responsible for. Well, except Dick who accepted all of them as his baby chicks. The number also became a little part of their identity—each of them would put their numbers on everything they owned from their doors to their batarangs to the containers in the fridge.

Bruce, most importantly, used the numbering system to check in on them. It started when Penguin detonated a bank and his robins were scattered fighting all the hundred thugs Penguin hired to keep Batman busy. The blast stopped the fight and Bruce’s heart dropped when he realized his coms were damaged and he immediately couldn’t keep sight of them. He immediately tried to think what he could do, and when he did, he shouted at the top of his lungs.

“KID COUNT!”

“One!” Nightwing shouted from the top of the next building. Apparently he flew off the bank’s roof when he realised it was going to burst.

Oracle was two but he knew she was safe in the clock tower.

“Three,” Red Hood drawled. Bruce wondered why he joined in, but was thankful nonetheless.

“Four,” Red Robin shouted from the opposite direction, because he was the sensible one who directed the civilians and police to safety.

“Five!” Spoiler laughed and flew to his side. “That was a doozy!”

“Six,” Black Bat said as she appeared beside Spoiler where they shared a hi-five.

“Seven,” Robin pulled out his swords from a thug’s leg. “Father, I need to clean my sword immediately.”

“No stabbing, please.” “Too late.” Bruce groaned.

“...Eight?” Signal. He was still new to the numbering system.

Batman let go a deep relieved sigh.

The police and civilians who were fortunate to witness the scene, collectively said ‘Oh’. It became a trending twitter before Tim deleted the topic as much as he could.

********

The counting continued though. Citizens who have lots of children (such as parents, teachers, sometimes even the Police teams), realised it was a quick method to ensure update of their progeny/students/teams condition. So they The counting became sort of a Gotham Trend and eventually enlisted into Gotham’s Emergency SOP. Imagine that, having too many kids to count gave birth to a crucial disaster first-aid first responder procedure.

In all actually, maybe that was one of the top major contributions Batman has given to his city.

********

The kids themselves slowly embraced the importance and fun of the numbers. It created a sort of camaraderie-- even when the numbers didn’t correlate with their height. It used to be a nice isoquant curve when they stood side by side. But after Jason’s growth spurt and Tim naught growth spurt, Steph finding high heels and Cass love for Anti-flood Boots, the nice isoquant curve just became a jagged line not unlike a heartbeat rate.

That aside, the numbering also slowly bled into their civilian lives:

All of them counted before they entered the GothMart -- Alfred was there too, and suddenly Bruce became number 0. He was there to help Alfred because herding the kids was a massive job.

Dick was back for the weekend to spend time with his “babies” and refused to stay at home, because he wanted to sneak in his grocery list (gummy bears and cereals) into Bruce’s list so he could bring it back to Bludhaven and not spend a dime on it.

Jason was there because Alfred asked him for help--he was the only one out of the brood with cooking talent and generally all responsible in the kitchen, i.e. Alfred could trust Jason to use his kitchen without blowing it up (shoutout to Tim and Duke who blew the kitchen for the fifth time this year).

Barbara stayed at home, watching over their base, but she was ready with her surveillance just in case they lost one of the broods.

Tim was half dragged, because he had spent the last 30 hours awake doing Bruce-knew-what, and only agreed to be dragged with the promise of sweet, abominable GothMart coffee with pink glitter (a cheap imitation of Starbucks, really) because Tim was fabulous especially after thirty hours of no sleep. And the surprisingly awesome coffee was a dollar--what kind of frugal millionaire didn’t appreciate a dollar of drinkable coffee?

Steph was the one who dragged Tim, with the help of Cass who just returned from Hong Kong for the weekend. Steph wanted to buy some new bras for Cass, something cool and sexy she could enjoy immensely. Bruce was not privy in this knowledge.

Damian was there to ensure his embarrassment of siblings didn’t kill themselves or humiliate the family. Wayne was his legacy afterall, and all of them reflected on his legacy, whether he liked it or not. Duke, the only one whom he could tolerate outside Cassandra (Grayson was mother) just poked his cheek and grinned. Duke might be tolerable, but it didn’t mean Damian didn’t want to stab him sometimes (Drake, on the other hand, looked like a nice pincushion to stab his sword into).

They counted 0 to 8 before they entered, orchestrated by Alfred.

When they were ready for the checkout, 4, 5, and 6 were missing. Bruce finally found them at the children section, where Tim was busy defending his virginity from a Superboy Plushie, while Steph convulsed with laughter on the floor and Cass video-ed the entire thing.

Bruce refused to buy the cereals (Dick) / sexy lingerie (nope, nope, nope) / kitchen knife collection in black (Damian, as they didn’t need another stabby collection). But Bruce ended up buying the superboy plushie because it had been tainted (the store manager glared at him the whole check out time). At least Tim looked ashamed enough when he was handed the superboy plushie.

The gala was in full swing, full of important people and not-so important moochies. Bruce was entertaining a group of usual donors (important and fun people!) while he saw Tim seriously discussing the stock exchange trends with several old, serious men. Dick was charming the usual group of ladies and young men, while Cass seemed to be hiding behind the potted plan.

Then, just like usual in Gotham, the lights went off. The room suddenly became dark and people started to scream.

“KID COUNT!” Bruce shouted. “Zero,” he added because of habit.

“One!” “Three!” “Four!” “Five and Six!” “Seven.” “Eight” “Nine.”

Wait, did he bring Harper with him? Harper was allergic to this kind of gala--and that was why he never fully adopted her into his Wayne name.

Oh well. The more number he got, the better.

Justice Lady love who?

#bat family #batman #bruce being a good dad #bruce is a bad dad #bruce is a bat dad #bruce wayne #dick grayson #jason todd #timothy drake #damian wayne #cass Wayne #harper #barbara gordon #prompt by @outoftheframework #prompt fill #numbering system #Alfred is the leader #bruce is one of the kids too

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imaginedhaven · 5 years ago

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Rules of Engagement: Chapter Five

Link to Masterpost

Another few days, another chapter! I’ve written well ahead of where I thought I would be (I’m about halfway through chapter 7 now!), so y’all can have this one a bit early. I hope you enjoy!

~*~*~

Rowan scowled into a glass of wine in the Great Hall of the castle as guests in finery milled around him. Likely anyone who noticed the gesture would simply attribute it to discomfort in such a situation, and that much was partially true. However, he’d had centuries of experience in politics both on and off of battlefields. The dark surcoat he wore now was as much a weapon as his magic, or any of his blades. While not his preferred environment, he could adapt.

No, if Rowan was honest with himself his discomfort was actually rooted in concern. The hour had been sounded several minutes ago, and Aelin had yet to make an appearance at her own event. On any other night he would’ve assumed she had simply made a decision to be fashionably late. Even just a few short days ago, the most he would have thought of it was mild irritation at her apparent lack of concern for the people around her. It was amazing how quickly that had all changed.

For years—centuries, if he was being honest—Rowan had developed a reputation for being a soulless bastard, second in ruthlessness only to his commander. It wasn’t something he had intentionally sought, but he’d had a difficult time finding any reason to change it. His soldiers feared and respected him, and while those he’d trained probably had problems with his methods they had learned. The results justified the means, or so he’d thought. Not to mention the fact that if his heart was enclosed in ice of his own making at all times he wouldn’t have to think of all he’d lost through his own actions.

Aelin Galathynius had taken only moments to shatter that wall, and he’d been struggling to maintain it ever since.

Rowan had little patience for romanticizing magic, as those with less experience of it were prone to do. Magic was an ability he had honed into a weapon, and nothing more. But since coming to Terrasen he was increasingly beginning to feel as though embers from the wildfire that burned inside of Aelin had crept underneath his skin. Every minor irritation, cause for a swift correction and nothing more in any other pupil he had trained, burned and lingered for hours or even days. It was part of why he had spent days screaming at her about control—if she could only tame that fire, and keep it to herself, perhaps everything could go back to the way it had been.

Rowan was no longer certain that was what he wanted. There was a lot that he was no longer certain of, if he was being completely honest with himself.

It had been exceedingly uncomfortable, especially at first, existing around this girl—this woman, though by comparison she was still so terribly young. Where he had held himself to the strictest measures of control for so long, aided by the structure of being a warrior and the terms of the oath he had sworn, Aelin was wild and as free as the stags he sometimes encountered on his morning flights through the mountains of her land. He wasn’t certain if it was her example, her wildfire magic and personality to match, or if being so far from his own home had loosened the constraints that had bound him for centuries, but he found himself beginning to resent the conditions of his own existence.

That was fine. That was normal, even. Rowan had hated himself for two hundred and three years, ten months, and twenty-nine days. Resentment was no stranger to him, and he could hold it at bay long enough to do what must be done, kept under a wall of ice and only examined when it was absolutely necessary.

Then he had learned that the fire burning inside of her was fueled by the same pain and loss that had driven him to the point of madness, and all of that changed once again.

It was no longer possible for him to ignore the harm he had unwittingly and uncaringly caused her, belittling her troubles with no thought or care for what they may have been. It didn’t matter that she had done the same to him. As a trainer and a mentor he had set the tone for their interactions, and any harm she had done to him he had invited and welcomed. Gods knew he deserved it.

That was why he had refused treatment for the burns she had given him, if he was being honest with himself. He was still irritated with her for her loss of control, but it had hardly been unprovoked. Gods, he had bitten her in a misguided attempt to provoke her into shifting, and the physical marks she had given him were nothing compared to the taste of fire that still burned through his memory and his senses. She may have reacted, meeting his ice with her wildfire, but in the end it had been his fault.

Now, though, after a few short days that should’ve changed nothing and somehow had changed everything, she was absent from her own event. It concerned him more than he cared to admit, and part of him wondered if perhaps the blame lay at his feet.

He scowled at the stairway to the living quarters again just as her warrior cousin—Aedion, he remembered, and that was a whole other knot he would have to untangle—passed by on one of his rounds around the perimeter. The other male grinned at him, so very like another male Rowan had known for so long that even without his scent he would’ve suspected a relationship of some sort, and when he spoke his words were warm with a friendship Rowan didn’t deserve. “I hate dressing up for these things too, don’t worry,” he said lightly, before dropping his voice low enough that someone without Fae senses would have missed his next words. “I sent Lysandra—my mate—after her. She’ll be all right.”

Rowan counted to ten as he took a long, slow breath to steady himself. “I don’t know what you mean,” he replied, hoping he sounded cool and distant instead of as unsteady as he felt.

The other male smirked. “Oh, so you’re not worried about her at all. You’ll have to try harder than that, Whitethorn, she told me you gave her the day off to recover from whatever the hell you did that had her burning down the fixtures in my training grounds.”

Rowan allowed himself a moment of relief that she evidently hadn’t mentioned the lengthy discussion they’d had the previous night, though he still couldn’t meet Aedion’s gaze—so unnervingly like hers, turquoise ringed in gold that came from their shared Ashryver lineage, if he recalled. “There was no point in training today,” he finally said. “Fire is a difficult element at the best of times, and she would’ve been impossibly distracted today.”

Aedion snorted. “Whatever you say. I won’t tell anyone you’re softer than the stories let on,” he teased.

Rowan was going to respond to that with exactly as much venom as the accusation deserved, but at exactly that moment a door opened and she arrived, and the words died on his tongue.

Even at first glance it was obvious that she knew the same thing he did. Appearances were a weapon to be wielded as carefully and as precisely as any other, and hers was stunning. Vaguely, he recalled that the impetus for his being sent to train her was an event where she had lost control of her powers and burned down a palace gate. Though several months had now passed, it was likely still fresh in the minds of her court, and it would have been natural to present herself accordingly.

If her regent, savvy as he was, had had any say in the matter Rowan knew she would have been presented as soft and demure and apologetic, every inch the perfect princess. The woman who strode into the hall was no princess, though. No, she was a queen, and the authority she commanded was making his knees alarmingly weak.

Her golden hair, trimmed back to her shoulders after she had singed the ends of it in their fight, flowed neatly and unbound, broken only by the deceptively delicate points of her ears. Gods, she had shifted just to prove a point, and Rowan grudgingly admired her for it. The circlet she had chosen resembled the flames she could conjure with a moment’s thought, and for a dizzying moment he wondered if she was actually crowned in fire or if it was just a trick of the light.

The gown she had selected had a white bodice and sleeves, and as she turned to say something he couldn’t catch to her friend he noticed the lacing along the back that allowed it to cling to her every curve. The skirts, though, were a swirling assortment of orange and red silks that trailed along the floor behind her and shimmered in the firelight with her every movement.

Aelin of the Wildfire, he heard someone whisper, and he couldn't help but agree.

He was still staring when her turquoise-and-gold gaze met his, and he didn’t have to know her nearly as well as he did to read the challenge in her eyes and the tilt of her chin. You thought I would break, didn’t you? she seemed to ask.

He shook his head wordlessly in response to the question he was reasonably certain she hadn’t actually asked. No, her struggles and the pain she hid so well had forged her into the woman who stood before him today, stronger than ever.

Her gaze shifted to someone else and Rowan could finally breathe again, heart racing as though he had just stepped off of a battlefield. Control, he reminded himself, and he reached inside himself to feel the swirling ice that lay at his core. To feel anything that wasn’t Aelin’s fire.

The ice became much easier to reach as a dark-haired man approached her, offering his arm with a gesture toward the dance floor. Dorian Havilliard, he vaguely recalled. Crown Prince of Adarlan, and one of her possible matches according to Maeve’s intelligence. What her spies hadn’t yet learned, though, was the strength of the raw magic he could feel running through the man’s core. He supposed that made the prince a better match for her, as someone with strong magic himself would be able to face her with less apprehension.

Aelin laughed and nodded, and as they moved to take the floor he felt the ice rush back in. He had been hoping that he wouldn’t have to act on this part of his mission so soon, but it appeared Aelin had other plans in mind. “I have to go,” he muttered to Aedion, and he quickly strode away from the hall before he could see anything else.

He had already seen enough that he would have to report her likely choice to Maeve, and the less he knew the better.

As he strode out of the palace and into the grounds, he carefully ignored the part of his mind that was asking, Better for whom?

~*~*~

Dorian Havilliard, Crown Prince of Adarlan, was many things, but naive was not among that list. He had been able to tell from the moment he’d been reintroduced to Aelin that she had an agenda in mind, though she hadn’t yet shared it and he had yet to ask. Her selection of outfit for the evening only solidified that thought in his mind, though he indulged her by inviting her to dance regardless.

As they danced, Aelin moving with an almost feline grace around him, Dorian allowed himself to look back on their interactions. It had genuinely been pleasant to have such insight into the famed Library of Orynth, and he knew she had used their time together as an escape from learning to use her magic, but there was another layer to how she was acting as well. It was as if she was testing him, though he couldn’t guess the nature of the test. Her regent was openly watching even now, studying their every move as he had through their reunion upon his arrival to the palace.

As he watched, Aelin glanced over at the regent and then smiled, turning her attention back to him as the song drew to a close. “I don’t believe I ever followed through on showing you our gardens,” she mused. “Perhaps you’d like that tour?”

As an opening it was far from subtle, and if it were anyone else offering Dorian would have immediately been looking forward to a pleasant ending to the evening. With Aelin, though, he was positive that it was as much a test as it had been for her to inquire as to his taste in literature. Still, Dorian let himself smile in response. “I could certainly use the fresh air,” he replied, “and I’m certain you could as well.”

Aelin hummed a wordless answer and drew him away from the crowds. As she mentioned little facts about the trees and shrubs they passed, Dorian began to piece together the information he had gleaned from their meetings.

He had heard the reports of her incident at the palace gates, of course, as he suspected many rulers had. Could she be assessing his opinion of her? It would stand to reason that she would want to know if he viewed her as a potential threat, given the powerful magic she possessed.

Dorian allowed himself a smile at that thought. His own magic, formless as it was, was one of Adarlan’s most carefully-guarded secrets, and only his father and the captain of his guard were aware of its depth. While she had likely guessed that he had the gift, he doubted she had guessed the full extent of his own abilities. While Aelin was powerful, he was reasonably certain he could contain her if he had to, if only for a little while.

She finally led them to a corner of the gardens and turned her turquoise-and-gold gaze to him, and Dorian turned his attention fully to her in turn. The smile she had worn as they walked had faded, and he had a feeling this next conversation would be one of the most important ones during his visit.

“I want to thank you, for visiting,” Aelin began carefully. “It has truly been a pleasure to become reacquainted with you.”

It was time to dig a little deeper, then. Dorian considered his own response, then said, “I agree, though I hardly think you wanted to get me alone simply to thank me.”

A brief flash of guilt in those eyes confirmed Dorian’s suspicions. She was after something from him, and it was up to him to discover what that was. “Perhaps I was simply tired of dancing,” she drawled.

“Perhaps you were,” he allowed. “Or perhaps you wanted to explain why I feel as though my every word has been examined and weighed by you throughout our time together.” It was bold of him to say, certainly, but he had a feeling she appreciated boldness.

A flash of a grin revealed her pleasure in his observation, and he awarded himself a point for gambling correctly. “Oh, good,” she breathed. “This would have been dreadful if you were slow on the uptake.”

It should have been an innocuous phrase, and yet immediately Dorian was relatively certain of her intent. He had been measured after all, but not because she was trying to ascertain how big a threat he perceived her to be.

It was no secret that people of their status rarely formed unions for anything other than perfectly political reasons. His own mother had begun forming lists of eligible ladies and leaving them on his desk months ago, though he had not yet given any thought to settling down. The continual silent interaction between her and her regent made slightly less sense, unless…

There had been rumors, after her incident, that Aelin’s regent had invoked additional stipulations before she could be crowned Queen of Terrasen. Adarlan’s spies had not been able to glean the full details of her situation, but a requirement of marriage was not entirely out of the question. It would appease the lords she would come to rule, to know that her internal fire could be tempered and soothed by another. It would also provide a sense of stability outside of her kingdom as well. Truly, if that was the card her regent had played Dorian could only respect it.

Aelin’s next words confirmed his realizations. “I’m going to be perfectly honest with you out of respect for the friendship I believe we’ve been building during your visit to Terrasen,” she began. “Regent Darrow has invoked a terribly archaic law requiring that I marry before I can inherit my throne. It hasn’t been enforced for generations, and I believe I can talk the other lords around. Theoretically, with their support I could overrule it. But in the meantime, I need to be seen making a good faith effort to comply with his requirements.”

Dorian smiled. “And so you need to go through the motions of a courtship, and you wanted to judge if I would be amenable.”

Aelin responded with a confident grin that he was certain would have shaken a lesser man. “I wanted to judge if I would be amenable,” she corrected. “This would have been truly awful if you were some brute of a prince who couldn’t think his way around the simplest of problems. I don’t think I could have managed to pretend if that were the case.”

Dorian pretended to consider her words for a moment, though he had made up his mind as soon as she had admitted her problem to him. Just as she opened her mouth, likely to attempt to convince him, he relented. “Truth be told, you may have offered the solution to a problem of my own,” he admitted. “Though my parents have given no such requirement, they’re… beginning to talk about possible matches. I had no intention of settling down at this time. However…”

A series of calculations flew across Aelin’s face, and she finally grinned back at him. “If we were to court…”

Dorian nodded. “It would please my parents to learn that I’m at least trying to think of my future, and it would satisfy your own needs as well. We both gain a companion we can at least be friendly towards.”

“And honestly, we could both do worse even if such an arrangement were to stick,” she finished.

“So confident in your own merits,” Dorian laughed.

Aelin grinned, tucking a strand of golden hair behind a pointed ear. “Please,” she replied. “I know who and what I am. Why should I pretend I don’t?”

“I suppose you have a point,” he allowed. “So, since I have no interest in pretending you haven’t planned this down to the last detail, what happens now?”

“Now, we go back to the festivities and start showing interest,” she said. “I’m reasonably certain the next move your parents would want to see is me visiting Adarlan, and I’m absolutely certain I can convince my regent to allow such a visit for the sake of fulfilling his requirements. In the meantime… we act as though we genuinely have an interest in seeing this through.”

Dorian nodded. “I’ll make the arrangements for your visit once I’m back home, and send word once everything is ready. In the meantime, feel free to inform your regent that we’ve agreed to seriously consider your offer.”

Aelin smiled and took his arm once more. “Then you have my thanks. Now, let’s get back to the hall. We have an impression to make.”

As they made their way back into the palace, Dorian wondered if he truly understood what he had agreed to do. At least his life was likely to be less boring, for the next few months at the very least. And even if this had to last…

Well, he could think of worse fates.

~*~*~

Aedion Ashryver breathed a sigh of relief as the evening drew to a close and the guests began to leave. He hadn’t truly believed there was any greater threat to his beloved cousin than there usually was, of course, and he knew she could take care of herself if need be, but it was always better when everything ran smoothly.

Moreover, he couldn’t recall the last time Aelin had smiled this easily and this often in two years, and whatever the reason, he found himself grateful for it.

His cousin hadn’t told him what it was that had come to pass, but he was no fool. Something had happened to her two years ago, some profound change, and for the longest time thereafter her smile had grown dim and she had thrown herself into training. Where she had learned to wield a knife was another mystery he had yet to solve, but he wasn’t about to be the male to tell Aelin Galathynius what she could or couldn’t do. He'd seen what had happened when Whitethorn had tried, after all, he thought with a grin.

While it concerned him that she felt she had to keep whatever had happened a secret from him, he knew she would tell him if and when she was ready. But he didn’t need to know exactly what it was to see that something had changed for the better over the last several weeks, or to be grateful for the change.

As he pondered everything that could’ve contributed to such a change, Aelin came up beside him and punched him in the arm. “I win,” she declared.

“I wasn’t aware there was a competition,” he replied as he carefully massaged the spot she had hit.

“There’s always a competition, whether you know it or not,” Aelin grinned. “But that’s not the point, the point is that I win.”

Aedion laughed and began walking with her back toward her rooms. “All right, all right, stop teasing. What did you win this time?”

As he watched, Aelin put on a show of considering her answer. “Oh, only everything,” she drawled. “You can stop worrying about me and Rowan killing each other during training, first of all.”

Aedion whistled. “I’m impressed,” he admitted. “How’d you manage that?”

“I’m afraid it’s a trade secret,” his cousin replied. “I can’t just tell you how I keep Fae males in line, or it’ll never work on you!”

He shook his head in response, leaning against the wall as they reached the stairway to her rooms. “You said first of all,” he pointed out. “What else did you do?”

All traces of humor left Aelin’s face, and Aedion could feel himself tensing in preparation for her next revelation. “We have a journey to prepare for,” she finally said.

“Cryptic as ever,” he grumbled. “What journey? Where?”

She finally looked up at him, and he fought back a shiver at the fire gleaming in the gold and turquoise of her eyes, so similar to his own. “We’re going to Adarlan,” she revealed. “Well, I am, and I know there’s no stopping you from following me.”

Aedion scowled, knowing and hating that she was right as always. “And why, pray tell, are we going to Adarlan?” he pressed.

“Oh, a few reasons,” she said breezily. “I hear it’s warmer there than in Terrasen, and I wanted to see it for myself. Dorian tells me that their Beltane celebrations are lackluster, and I wanted to mock him endlessly for it. Oh, and he’s agreed to a courtship, so Darrow will be pleased.”

Aedion had been preparing to respond, had had a teasing reply at the ready, only for the words to shrivel and die in his throat at her revelation. “He’s agreed to what?” he managed.

“A courtship, Aedion, do try and keep up. I’m supposed to go to Adarlan and meet his family, so it at least looks like I’m trying to find a husband.”

And there it was. “You aren’t actually going to marry him, then,” he said.

Aelin sighed. “I’ll consider it if I must. He’s not exactly keen on settling down, though. I’m hoping the appearance of a good faith effort will convince the lords to overrule Darrow on that.”

“And the prince knows that’s the plan?” he asked.

“He does. I believe he actually put the pieces together before I asked him, and he says it’ll please his parents as well to see that he’s trying to plan for a future. Then we realize we’re terribly incompatible, we end things, and no one needs be the wiser.”

Gods, but his cousin was devious. It made Aedion grateful that they were as close as they were, and that she didn’t seem to feel a need to manipulate him into compliance. While he had a feeling that she had only told him part of her plan, he knew that he was only one of a trusted few who would know even this much. “I’ll prepare a small team,” he finally said. “Darrow won’t let you go unprotected, but I know it would be in poor taste to march an entire squad of the Bane into Rifthold.”

“You have my thanks,” she murmured in reply. “I know you’ll be there. I’m going to ask Lysandra to come along as well, so I won’t be the only female traveling. You’re all too aware of her ability to defend herself, I believe,” she grinned, and Aedion did flinch that time.

“Very well,” he ground out, though truly he wasn’t sure if he was glad or fearful for Lysandra’s presence on the journey. “And I’m certain Whitethorn would just follow in his hawk form if you left without telling him, so he might as well be invited. Beyond that, we shouldn’t need but one or two more.”

“We would travel faster as just the four of us,” Aelin countered. “And I believe two magic users, a shapeshifter, and two soldiers should be more than sufficient for my protection, don’t you?”

It was a painfully loaded question, and Aedion knew Aelin knew it. Rather than answer, he playfully shoved at her shoulder. “Very well, but you get to be the one to sell it to Darrow. And you have to ask Whitethorn yourself,” he added.

“Why?” she asked, a playful gleam in her eyes. “You said it yourself, he’d only follow us anyway.”

Aedion snorted. “It won’t be me he brawls with for that decision,” he pointed out. “If you want to provoke him, that’s on you.”

The grin Aelin gave him then was nothing short of feral, and he took a moment to ponder the utility of prayer on Whitethorn’s behalf. Ultimately he decided the warrior would likely only be insulted by Aedion’s lack of faith in his abilities, but when she finally answered he wondered if perhaps he ought to rethink that conclusion. “Provoking him adds excitement to his dreadfully dull immortal life,” she declared. “He ought to thank me for my thoughtfulness.”

And before Aedion could offer any words of caution about provoking Fae males in general and Fae warriors in specific, Aelin darted up the stairs that led to her rooms, out of his sight. He turned with a sigh, one hand running through his golden hair as he walked away.

He could’ve followed her, certainly, and continued to argue his point. However, he had long since learned that when Aelin made up her mind about something she was very unlikely to be convinced otherwise. Asking her to consider not antagonizing Whitethorn would simply be a waste of his breath.

He did have to wonder, though, why she was so much more excited about needling an immortal soldier than she was about progressing further toward meeting the conditions to inherit her throne. Aedion sighed and shook his head. That would have to be another problem for another day. Right now, he evidently had a journey to plan.

#rules of engagement #rowaelin #haven writes

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tarithenurse · 5 years ago

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Stolen - 21

Pairing: Loki Laufeyson &/x fem!gifted!reader Content: “Getting the most of it”, jealousy. Oh...and smidgen of smuttiness. A/N: After 2 night shifts from hell I finally got time to write a bit again. Ask or reblog for tag ;)

21. A Place in the Dirt

... Reader ...

If you had had any hope of getting off the hook lightly on your first day in Asgard...well, those hopes have been crushed, ground into dust, mixed with oil and pigment, and painted onto the wall to spell out the words ‘HA HA’.

Loki had given you all of half an hour to chill and explore the room – surprisingly granting you ownership of the gorgeous suite and the fairy tale-esque bed – however his return had brought a storm of preparations. Maids and tailors (he called them seamstresses) had flocked around you, insisting to prepare a bath for you (as if you weren’t capable of that yourself) after having taken your measurements and tested a gazillion different fabrics while you stood like a mannequin until your body hurt. Admittedly, the bath had been worth it, but you weren’t gonna tell the schemer that when you’d appeared from the bathroom in a cloud of steam.

Allowing a maid to usher you behind a screen, Loki had busied himself with a servant – a good thing too as you were afraid getting physically near him would ruin you and the cleanliness. Still, you were happy for the help as the clothes presented to you were new, styled to match what you had seen the Asgardian noblewomen wearing earlier. Several layers of gossamer-thin silk in greens and sandy colours were almost magically draped across your shoulders, tugged and crossed into a smooth, shimmering haze before the piece-de-resistance was applied: it looked like a bodice of metal scales, the coppery kites woven together unseen without desisting the subtlety of any other thick fabric.

“Lady [Y/N], it is hard to believe you are not Asgardian,” a blond man greets you, breaking the dreamlike (or nightmarish) state you’re in.

Smiling politely, you recall he has been hanging out with a small group during the beginning of the feast. With a woman on each arm, the Asgardian has been drinking and laughing with a bear of a guy with red hair and a beard befitting a Tolkien dwarf (he even has roughly the same shape and table manners as one); at least the second friend – although short of words – knows how to behave himself in court if Loki's directions are to be believed: his face is happy and eyes sharp, never stopping the careful watch of everyone in the room. You don't mind when he looks your way because he will move the gaze to the next person soon enough. The woman, however...brilliant eyes have taken in your every twitch even after Frigga officially welcomed you, explaining to the court how the plan was for you to be tutored by the queen herself. Sif. Apparently, she's quite a warrior and still, she isn't coming to save you now.

"Thank you."

Rather than leaving you alone again the blond sits down, grabbing a glass of golden liquid from a tray of a passing servant and taking a sip. Eyes the colour of forget-me-nots twinkle over the brim.

"Please indulge my curiosity, fair lady." With that melodious voice you might forgive him everything. "How come you travel alone? Save for a single servant..."

You know the answer because it's been drilled in it by Loki: “Travelling without an agenda set in stone, it would be presumptuous and unkind to any host if I arrived with the customary retinue. My servant, as you call him, may not attend precisely the same tasks as a maid...but his allegiance is unwavering. I trust him with my life.”

Brows half cocked, the man next to you drains the glass lazily only to signal for more. The tip of his tongue wipes the last drop of his lips, eye contact unbroken. A shiver runs down your spine and you’re not entire sure it’s the good kind even if there’s an inkling of admiration for his confidence. Player.

“If ever you find yourself in need of...other company,” the man leers, “you can always come to me.” Two full glasses are set between the two of you and he immediately scoots one towards you. “I am Fandral, of the Warriors Three. At your service, m’lady.”

Simply raising your glass in return, you decide life will be a lot nicer with some friends around especially with Loki’s recent teasing. And either way, what harm can a polite gesture do?

...

Someone stop the floor. Your entire world seems to tilt and spin as you walk down the grand hallways – not uncomfortably so, just enough that keeping on a straight path requires more concentration than you’re willing to spend at the moment when you’d much rather enjoy the warm buzz in your body.

“The floor’s steady, silly pet,” a cool voice admonishes beside you, “I told you not to drink the mead.”

Turning to face Loki, his face bobs in and out of focus until something cool readjusts it’s grasp on you. Some sort of answer is brewing in your brain, but it’s not quite ready yet, it seems, and so you let him lead you the rest of the way to your room.

Aha! “Buttit tastsss good! And Fandang...Fanran...Fannnn-”

“Fandral.” With a sigh, Loki plops you onto the huge bed.

“Tha’s’e’one!”

For a moment the trail of thought escapes you while you wiggle around the soft, bouncy surface in an attempt to figure out the method to get out of the bodice. When your companion swats away your hands, you hum with delight at the delicate touch freeing you. Yay! Cool down.

As the feast had progressed and your new, blond friend had coaxed the glass of mead into you (an easy feat considering the deliciousness) your body had begun to heat up, making you miss Loki’s soothing temperatures.

Shrugging off the layers draped over your body, the air is like a balm. “Orh, that’s be’er.”

... Loki ...

Nothing but a delicate shift shields [Y/N]’s curves, the silk still unable to hide the darker nipples puckering as she throws herself back into the pillows with a delighted groan. If only...Loki’s imagination grants him flashes of scenes where each sound falling from the woman’s lips are a testimony to the bliss granted by him. Shifting to ease the discomfort brought on by too confining trousers, the Jotun allows his hands to move slowly as they pull the covers over the Midgardian’s body.

“Sleep now, I’ll open the balcony door to let the cool air in.”

It’s a simple order and [Y/N]’s eyes are already closing, still she manages to capture one of his hands and lead it to her forehead. “This works too.”

He can’t pull back, only stare and try to breathe evenly as the woman guides his hand as though it’s a cool cloth. Along the jaw, down the throat to send shivers racing towards the hairline at the neck. Knuckles brush delicately back and forth over the clavicles before she allows his palm to flatten over the upper sternum – the heartbeat beneath strong and rapid – only to drag further until nestled between her breasts while the silk is pulled taught by his wrist.

I...not like this. Snagging the hand back, Loki ignores the whimpers and turns away to discreetly readjust the painful tightness of leather again.

...

Lying in the darkness of the servant’s room, he can still smell the dampness of [Y/N]’s skin on his hand and the memory of soft heat guides that very same hand’s strokes upwards, twists, and down again in the hopes of relieving some of the tension and frustration that have build up within.

A flicker of magic, and a rendering of her face glows dimly, smiling softly at Loki as he ups the tempo. Though the heat is lacking, at least he can mimic the tight hold she would have on him as he thrusts into the fist repeatedly. Although wavering, more of her body appears, completing the recollection of the sight of [Y/N] splayed on the fourposter. The god’s breath hitch and his hips stutter, but the euphoria only lasts mere seconds before the unquenchable need returns. Sweet doom. There is a way to sate the hunger, but it has to be done right or not at all.

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fang-wolfsbane · 4 years ago

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Boku No Hero Academia/My Hero Academia: Inked Feathered Flame: Chapter 02: Tests

“Right. You’ll all be tested on how well you can control your quirk. There will be seven tests in total. The one with the lowest score will be expelled, so make sure you don’t fail.”

Akuriru’s stomach should have sunk. He should have been terrified the moment their homeroom teacher said that they would be expelled if they were in the bottom number of the added up results, yet for some reason his pulse wasn’t beating half as hard as he thought it would have. He felt for it against his neck like he had been taught to do in middle school, just to ensure that he was actually still breathing and not in some kind of coma like he originally thought himself to be.

One of the girls, Ochaco Uraraka, had questioned Mister Aizawa’s method, giving up her protest the moment he made a valid point of life as a pro hero not being fair in the first place.

He didn’t really care if he stayed in the hero course or not, at least not as much as he should have, but he had made a promise to Momo that he would try nothing less than his best after she had first admitted to him what she had done behind his back to get him into the course in the first place.

The tests themselves were rather basic, allowing the students to use their quirks to help them along. He had done fairly well, all things considered. Better than Izuku Midoriya was doing anyway. Neither of them had used their quirks to help them along, both relying on their bodies to naturally participate in the tests. He would have bet that they would have continued that way if it wasn’t for the surprise final test.

A simple ball toss with a modified distance meter belt wrapped around it. The blonde that had originally ‘disrespected the desk’, Katsuki Bakugo, was the first to demonstrate his throwing arm, earning an impressed crowd of admirers. One by one they each took the test, everyone earning a fair number of points.

When it was Akuriru’s turn, he stepped into the circle, holding the ball between his hands. He knew there was a probability that he was in the bottom three to possibly get expelled, so with a silent apology towards Midoriya, Akuriru rolled up the dark blue fabric around his right leg, enough to reveal his ankle and a black inked tribal tattoo of a bladed double-tipped scythe.

The collective number of gasps brought a smile to his lips. Fifteen years old and already sporting a tattoo. Almost like clockwork, stiff-armed glasses boy, Tenya Iida jumped in headfirst.

“Mister Aizawa, surely having tattoos is against school regulations! You cannot possibly permit a student to have something such as that visible on their body!”

Mister Aizawa had a hand resting on his hip whilst the other held a small device to track the distance the balls were thrown. His eyes slid over to Akuriru, tilting his head some like a predator sizing up his prey. For a moment Akuriru felt uneasy, thinking that he should rather lower the clothing back down and try to throw the ball normally instead.

“Your quirk is called ‘skin deep’, correct?” Mister Aizawa asked after a moment’s silence, long enough to make Akuriru feel a bit uneasy. Akuriru nodded, listening to the explanation Mister Aizawa gave his other students. “It’s alright Iida. When Iro was recommended to the school, he filled in an application to get his tattoo. His quirk allows him to manipulate tattoos of both allies and enemies by changing their form and making them physical objects for a short period of time. It’s almost like Aoyama’s naval conductor. Since there’s no guarantee that there will be someone with a tattoo nearby when Iro needs one, the principal himself has given Iro permission to get one so that he can actively participate in physical classes like the rest of you.”

“That may be, but it isn’t as flashy as my conductor though,” Yuga Aoyama hummed, holding his chin as if inspecting something that merely bored him as a courteous action for someone of the same class as he.

“Ah! My apologies Iro! I didn’t mean to assume you to be a delinquent!” Iida apologised, bowing in the traditional Japanese method. Akuriru waved his hand in response, trying his best to keep the twitch his face felt back. Showing irritation towards a classmate’s assumption wasn’t going to get him anywhere. He was only too glad that Mister Aizawa had explained how his quirk worked for him so that he wouldn’t have to.

“D-Don’t worry about it,” Akuriru reassured, turning his body forward in the direction he wished to throw the ball in. Taking a breath to calm himself, Akuriru focused on the shape of his tattoo, biting into his bottom lip in response to the stinging sensation that focused itself along the outline of the image itself.

Ever since gaining his quirk at age five, Akuriru had practiced on his father’s tattoos, the ones he had let him practice on. Those were all smudges on his father’s skin now. What Mister Aizawa hadn’t told the other students was that although Akuriru could physically manifest the tattoo, once it returned to its owner’s skin, the ink would start to distort some, losing shape the more he used the same tattoo. That’s why he had gone with a simple, easy to hide design for his own ink.

From the distance, Akuriru could hear some of his classmates discussing how cool they thought it was that he’d gotten permission to get a tattoo at his age. He smiled to himself, glad that the others at least thought he was kind of cool in a way. Not as cool as Bakugo, but close enough to earn even his curiosity.

Loosening the breath, Akuriru focused on the space before him, feeling each inch of the tattoo as it stretched itself to appear directly before him until it came clean off the skin, leaving a soft pink, almost lightly burned outline behind to go home to. The next step was easier, mostly due to years’ worth of practice finally being put into play.

Staring at the scythe, Akuriru watched as the ink stretched itself until it was as long as his arm, curving in on itself to form a baseball bat made of a solid form of pure black ink.

“Whoa, that’s so manly!” Eijiro Kirishima chirped in, causing heat to rise in Akuriru’s cheeks. For years he hadn’t shown his quirk to the people around him, mostly because there wasn’t someone with ink injected into their skin for him to use as a demonstration, so to him, receiving this much attention because of his quirk was something else. Something new. He wondered, was this how Momo felt whenever someone complimented her quirk? No wonder she was always so confident.

Trying not to let his newfound confidence show, Akuriru tossed the ball up into the air, holding the bat steady until the ball returned within a reachable distance. Swinging both arms in unison, Akuriru heard the satisfying clunk of the bat hitting the ball and sending it off into the distance. When Mister Aizawa announced that his throw had hit close to Tsuyu Asui’s attempt, Akuriru let his shoulders drop with relief. That meant he should be safe from last spot, if his mental calculations proved on point.

Holding the bat close to his ankle, Akuriru bit down a pained hiss as the ink re-joined his skin, and he his fellow students. Momo gave him a high five once he was by her side again.

“Next, Midoriya,” Mister Aizawa called, causing everyone to focus their attention on the last remaining student. Watching Midoriya approach the same circle he himself hadn’t occupied that long ago, Akuriru couldn’t help but feel bad for his classmate. Sure, the hero world was difficult, but to be kicked out simply because he was in last place, was just too unfair.

Muttering to himself, Midoriya lifted his arm and got ready to throw. A decent toss, or it would have been if the ball didn’t drop to the ground like Midoriya had simply let it go. Shared gasps echoed through the gathered crowd of students before their attention was dragged back to their teacher who was staring straight at Midoriya, his shoulder-length black hair weaving towards the sky like a hypnotised snake. A very hairy snake.

Midoriya echoed his classmates’ shock. Akuriru stood too far in the back to properly hear their discussion, but what he could make out was that like him, Midoriya wasn’t as used to his quirk as he should be at his age. Whatever the rest of their discussion was, Akuriru could only watch as Midoriya tried to throw a second time, this time hitting it far further than his first attempt. When he turned to face their teacher however, his right hand’s index finger was a dark, burned colour, like he had placed his finger on a warm stove plate and just left it there for a couple of hours.

The shared look between him and Mister Aizawa was enough to say it all. ‘Look at me. I did it.’ Grins of admiration, even a cheer from Uraraka, sounded through the gathered crowd. Everyone seemed happy for Midoriya, except Bakugo, who was storming straight for the freckled boy.

“What the hell?! You damn nerd, when did you-!”

Just like that, Mister Aizawa’s scarf flung out, capturing Bakugo within an instant, holding him back from beating the living daylights out of Midoriya. There was a quick scolding for Bakugo, and an admittance of lying to his students from Mister Aizawa.

As it turned out, the tests had been just that, tests. No one was to be expelled, something that came as nothing more than a relief to everyone, especially Midoriya, who seemed to be on the verge of tears. Akuriru couldn’t blame him for the relief he felt. If it had been him, he’d probably be wailing like a new born baby around the corner by now.

The purpose behind the tests had been to see how well class one-A had control of their abilities. Iida in turn lectured Mister Aizawa about the possibility of losing the trust of his students if he continued lying to them about things as important as possibly getting expelled for failing to perform. Mister Aizawa didn’t seem all that bothered as he ordered them to get dressed in their school uniforms again for their next class.

Akuriru bit down on the urge to rush after Mister Aizawa and asking him if he was aware that Akuriru hadn’t exactly earned his place amongst his fellow students, not really. He sighed to himself at the thought. Surely if the school faculty was aware of his crime, they would have done something about it by now, wouldn’t they?

Well, if nothing else, no one seemed to know how Akuriru had really gotten into the school in the first place, and from what he could see, Momo wasn’t planning on telling anyone either.

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icyharpy · 4 years ago

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An Interested Disinterest (Law/Monet)

@medicus-mortem ( Me just out here literally forgetting that I promised to tag you in these kinda things I write... Big OOF :))

It was a strange thing for Monet to experience. As after her operation and resulting recovery was complete, he started to show up in her dreams at night in full force. Something that never happened even whilst they were engaging in mutual acts of carnal satisfaction.

Only on occasion might she of had a few fantasies here and there about the dangerous man who visited the labs for his own undisclosed reasons. Reasons Monet was trying to figure out for herself by watching him herself.

But what she hadn’t expected though, was the distraction these visions would cause her even during the day. Never had these dreams ever been as lucid as they seemed to persist anytime she gazed at his stoic features from across the room.

Occasionally she swore that she could still feel the delicious phantom caresses of his rough palms on her curves walking around even when the dreams ended. She was at her wits end by the end of the week with little rest and constant visits to the showers to calm down her temperature to what it should be, cold rather than the inferno that he still seemed to have a subconscious hold over her with.

Perhaps being confrontational about it rather than the evasive methods she had been using would clear her mind of these pesky thoughts. After all, surely it couldn’t be worse than the knowing smirks he just started to shoot her like he knew her body still craved the touch she had indulged in. An addiction Monet was afraid of falling into and was determined to get out of.

This decision she came to completely regret as soon as she had made the decision to engage him. The bastard.

And seemingly knowing what she was trying to do, this time the smug lil shit decided to play cat and mouse with her and only this once did he decide to be the mouse, and oh how she loathed his abilities now more than ever. It was great to use for removing clothing, but now it was simply a hindrance.

Finally he caved in and allowed her to corner him in one of the labs more unused lounging areas. a singly couch was all there was to the much small space along with a small coffee table and basic cabinet fixtures nearby.

It was on this couch where he finally plopped down to rest as though he wasn’t making her fly around the labs like a mad woman, even going so far as to casually rest his sword to the side before patting the space next to him in invitation to sit.

Like hell she was just going to obediently listen to him after all this wasted time.

“Oh? are you going to finally stop running away? Or should I use one of our many sea stone shackles to tie you down?”

The smirk he gave just made her want to freeze him solid whilst also kissing those features off of him. The confliction was off-putting and Monet didn’t dare look further into any deeper meaning that it could be.

Why did he have to be so alluringly beautiful and so like her in demeanor? Monet really should just send him off with one of her hypothermic hugs.

“ If I had known you were that into bondage Monet-ya, I would have been more than happy to let you live out that fantasy of yours, though it’d be with you being the one tied up, as you know all too well I don’t do submission well. However as you know, your new form isn’t exactly my type”

Finally having enough of him playing these games with her and toying with her words, she firmly strutted up in front of him before leaning down to rest her wings on either side of his shoulders, this pose ultimately forcing her to kneel on either side of his lap as she did so in order to cage him in.

She growled out “ Like hell I care that you want nothing to do with me anymore, what I want to know is why you seem to haunt my mind when I should be spending my precious time thinking of more important things.”

She really shouldn’t of done it, but she was at the point where she could careless if she was only adding fuel to his fire. If doing this finally made his touch leave her body so she move on what she most certainly didn’t miss, the better for her.

His golden eyes seemed to glow from their previous feigned disinterest at this admission. So he haunted her dreams did he? Oh he could only imagine how ‘dreadful’ those had to be. Surely she wasn’t serious, right? He’s had his fair share of wet dreams of her in kind that occasionally he jerked off to when he felt particularly frustrated, but that was all it was, slaking built up sexual tension.

But for her it seemed to be something else entirely, and those implications gave him so many spots to tease at he was spoiled for choice.

Shooting out a hand to wrap around her waist to rest above her tail, Law pulled her down to rest in his lap as he maneuvered the woman slightly to the side so that her talons were a none issue for his safety.

The other hand gently reached up to grasp her by the chin to force her own golden auburn gaze onto his highly amused one.

“ Oh? Do tell me these lovely dreams of yours, they don’t sound that bad to me. In fact, it sounds like your under quite a bit of frustration Monet-ya, too bad I’m no longer interested in lifting a finger to help you out.”

At this, he began to trail the hand just above her fluffy up over her back to occasionally play with the feathers of her wings before ultimately decinding the back of her head was where they should lay. Not once did he look away from her, but neither did she, neither seemed willing to back down at this juncture. An odd tension settling around the two.

Monet was the first to physically react, reaching down to rest her forehead to his in mockery of how sensual the motion usual was, hooded eyes regarded Law as she leant close enough to tease his lips with her cool breathe.

That was one aspect of her he was going to miss if he was intent on keeping his disinterest of her as after all, he could never resist how addictingly comforting her chill usually was but now it carried a hint of threat as well as a seductive lilt as she spoke in a honeyed tone to him.

“ You first Law, as in control as you like to pretend to be, I can’t imagine you being able to turn your bodies reactions to me off as easily as you say.”

To test this, Monet gave a slow grind down on his crotch, a wing tip simultaneously brushing their soft cool tips over his cheeks in a far too sweetly manner.

A light gasp escaped him before he could stop it and a small grin of victory appeared on Monet’s face. Well if she’s trying to prove a point here then... Why can’t he return the favor? It’s only fair after all.

“ What a dirty move, if it’s going to be like that then...”

With one hand, Law reached underneath her green tank-top, trailing teasing touches as he went before finally cupping a breast in his palm, his thumb occasionally teasing the void where her heart once laid as well as grinding the center of his hand on her hardening nipple. Humiliating enough, that simple bit of friction was enough to ignite a fire in her lower belly, and though she remained stubborn in her silence, the crimson painting her pale cheeks red was a different indication of her arousal that he read like a book.

“ Why don’t I remind you of what you’ll be missing too since as I recall, we both agreed to putting a stop to our little affair.”

Abruptly, his attentions stopped before her body could foolishly react and instinctively lean into the touch.

Rudely shoving her aside and off him, Law stood up before brushing imaginary dust off his lap and turning to retrieve his sword.

And on his way out to, he turned towards her to once more irritate her with that damned smirk of his as she moved to regain her composure.

“ Sorry about that Monet-ya, hope this doesn’t give you more of those ‘dreams’ to look forward to.”

Unapologetic Bastard.

And unfortunately it only ended up adding to her general frustration of him.

#Frozen Hearts [Law x Monet]#[drabble]#Here have a little thing #A product of my brainrot #and honestly this gives me ideas...#for um things...

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namelessthirst · 5 years ago

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Hunting Grounds

[ When the hunter of eggs becomes the hunted.

Might actually do a part two to this at some point, i just really like the au, and didnt get to fit in all the story in this part.

Easter bunny!Izuku Midoriya/Reader

1k words and some change

Predator/prey themes, noncon/dubcon (mostly dubcon, transitions to con), creampies, overstimulation, Hybrids(kinda), animalistic behavior, reader decides “fuck it, adult life is already so goddamn weird” and bangs the bunny man, semi public sex, uhhhhhh bunny hot]

You couldn't help the gleeful squeal as you spotted another vibrant egg nestled against the underbrush, nor the roll of pleasure as you heard it plop into your basket after giving it an experimental shake, eager for what treats could be inside.

The staff had to skimp out on the larger eggs this year, but you knew everyone would be happy even without the occasional gift cards. Still, it was a shame, and you knew people were frustrated to be out bid by some church in renting your usual cheap grounds. It was true that there had been quite a bit of rain lately, and it made other locations usually used for kids too muddy, but it was hard to not feel as though it was a jab at a bunch of grown adults wanting their own Easter fun.

This new land wasn't bad, it did have more foliage to work with while hiding eggs! But it was also more expensive than what your group usually aimed for.

Still, you were just glad you got to still hold the event at all.

Even with the unknown area, and it's marked off hunting grounds being different than year's past, you kept on with your surefire plan to get a good helping of eggs.

Many people liked the scramble in the middle, to dive and hurry for anything they could spot alongside the others, but you liked a more peaceful method- it just also happened to yield you a good profit.

The staff liked to hide eggs along the rim of the grounds, and the bright pink flags marking off the limit made it easy to find and figure out where they'd put things.

Plus, it was just so peaceful. The cool breeze, warm sunlight peeking through the trees, and the sounds of nature close.

You didn't peg yourself as much of a nature-lover, but this was nice.

Perhaps it was the lulling effect it all had, that let you ignore the quick trampling of feet, assuming there were deer somewhere nearby.

Maybe if you hadn't been pressed to the ground, tee-shirt brushing with dirt as you peered under a bush where a dark green egg was nested between the branches at its base, you would have heard the snap of a twig merely a few feet away.

You didn't make it but a few inches from under the brush before your rump pressed into something firm, and warm.

With a shriek you jerked away, landing on your side as whatever it was that'd touched you followed suit.

When you peered back, you tried very hard to rationalize.

The man had no ears-no human ears, at least.

Forest green curls tickled what could only be the base of perked and alert rabbit ears- they flicked and turned; doe eyes trained on you with pupils blown far too wide to be normal.

There were marks in the ground where he'd leapt back from your startling outburst.

But movement caught you eye and sped your heart as the man crept forward, hands and toes stretched out slowly. But even the most trepidatious approach couldn't distract you from the sudden realization that this man was completely bare.

The flick of your eyes over the stranger’s semi seemed to only encourage him.

He paused, nose twitching quick before the barest movement of your leg had him hurtling onto you.

His land was graceful, you only felt the pressure of his weight in ways that kept you still.

You could feel strong nails dig into the jean fabric of your shorts; hips being pulled up away from the ground.

On your belly, all you could see was the dewy grass and dirt, heartbeat thunder in your ears and breath found lacking despite the deep gulps you pulled.

There was the sniffing again, nose ticklish over your soft body. You felt a lighter touch, almost curious, before a solid thump came from your side.

You twisted uncomfortably, trying to get a look even if the action had something far too warm and soft brushing your side in a way that made you a bit dizzy.

"What the hell are you on?!"

Your words were paid no mind, only earning the distinct sensation of someone trying to chew through your shorts.

When your hips were dropped back to the ground, you got what could have been a lovely and enticing view of a perky round ass, plush balls shifting ever so slightly behind a weighing boner. A pretty pink hole staring back at you, topped just a bit above with a busy and raised tail.

Were you hallucinating? The ears could have been a trick of the eye, but, that tail was suspended by nothing. Moving, with nothing.

The sound of fabric ripping brought you back out of your hazy thoughts.

Nails you were sure imprinted on your skin even through your shorts dug at the seam that sat over your pussy.

It didn't take much work, teeth and claws ripping through to soft flesh after mere seconds.

The spring air was cool on your once hidden core, trembling as you watched the fluffy tuft at the man's rear flick about, an almost squeaky noise escaping his throat.

Tentative flicks of his tongue sent shivers down your spine, uneasy tickles of pleasure raced up from your clit, warm flesh prodding in as your walls clenched.

With each grind of wet texture beyond what a human could provide, you could feel your heartbeat speed for a different reason.

His sudden shift was quick, almost frantic, as he tried to keep his weight and grip firm on you while he repositioned himself.

You didn't have enough focus to ask yourself why you hadn't tried to bolt as he moved, your mind preoccupied as his warm chest pressed to your back.

Calloused hands patted along your hips, thighs, petting over the mound of your pussy as that tantalizing tongue wetted your neck, nose twitching noticeably against your skin.

It was kind of uncomfortable, being pressed down to the ground like this. Even with the fresh spring grass, you could feel twigs poking your chest and arms.

Yet, as you felt what was unmistakably the flushed cock you saw earlier leave ripples of promise where it ground against your fresh slit, you couldn't pay much mind to anything else.

Seconds dragged on in a way that lost you, a tapered tip pressing over your clit with each roll of oddly curved hips feeling almost like torture.

A frustrated groan was the first sound you'd made in a bit, as you pressed insistently back against the wanting flesh that teased you.

You were almost tempted to yell when everything stopped, tongue gone and hips leant away.

The heat didn't have much time to leak away before you felt the man, the bunny, shift against you, and a long, weeping prick, slide the first couple inches inside.

With the first buck, teeth clamped down on the nape of your neck.

He didn't give you a chance to breathe, every retreat met double in the taking.

Hot, breathy grunts of pleasure rumbled into the pinched flesh of your neck as his tip pressed tight against your cervix. An aim with purpose and need.

It was hard to just keep up, his grip tight and disallowing of you to even meet him halfway, leaving you to choke out encouragement weakly.

Even through the fire of nerves in you, one thought was clear.

You were letting this...this inhuman man, this rabbit man, fuck you.

And with the sudden stilling, arching of his back off you, leaving dents of teeth in your skin, you realized you wanted more.

His cock slipped free when he suddenly fell back on his ass, panting with his cock still tall and twitching, one leg raised and kicking down at the ground every other breath.

Your pussy ached, you hadn't even cum yet. The peak he'd built with speedy thrusts already dissipating.

Laid back ears perked anew at your irritated scoff, and back on he climbed to your dripping hole.

He didn't move from you again, not for a good while.

With each short orgasm of his, he slumped against you, and on you begged for more. And more he gave.

When you finally managed to turn over, you gripped green curls as tight as you had your legs around his hips, unwilling for him to leave until you were well satisfied.

Your greed earned you well at last, even as he whimpered with overstimulation at each plunge into your crushing core, your first orgasm, wet and heavy, had you leaving teeth marks of your own in his shoulder.

The whines of pleasure only grew as you pressed on, cunny trembling on too much. Too much friction, too much stretching, too much filling.

Balls that weren't even big enough to tap against your ass at his best had dumped so much inside you, and only had more to give when your peak spilled liquid renewal on his libido.

Your wispy gasps that tapered off from overstrung moans only fed the new high of your stranger.

You could only wonder his intention as he pulled his sputtering cock from you to rub as much of himself as he could against the sticky wet you'd given him.

The smear of your mixed release didn't last long before he was back inside, feverishly taking you with the heavy clap of a foot against the dirt.

The daylight had been fading for a bit now, and you were sure everyone must be gathering for the cookout.

You were more than satisfied, and he'd finally deflated, both of you laying limply together, the stillness only disturbed by distant sounds of revelry and the occasional nudge of his nose to your cheek.

This time, you heard the snap of the twig, despite your exhaustion.

Someone was near, and at the call of your name, you knew you had to flee.

They couldn't see him, couldn't catch you both like this.

What you had decided was yours, was already sat up alert. A footstep closer had him poised tightly over you, brows furrowed and teeth bared through low grunts.

It took a few nudges, then shoves, at his chest to get him to move off you.

Your legs wobbled as you stood, seed rushing fresh from you to join the spill that had long since cooled on the ruins of your shorts.

The eyes of your bunny were wide, confused, ears turning constantly as he watched you move and listened to the unknown approach.

He followed when you pulled.

'Sore' did not cover how you felt the next day. It did not cover the awkward ache of your spine from sleeping on the floor. It did not cover the scratches of nature, or the headache you had from trying to process everything from the day before.

The stranger you'd brought home last night hadn't woken yet, falling asleep after a heavy meal of cabbage and kind of ruining your couch cushions by chewing and digging at them. Once you'd eaten something, he hadn't let you up until he was unconscious at long last.

Every car that had driven past your house had him awake and peering into the dark.

"Yeah, yeah I'm fine! Sorry..."

"Okay, I just...We couldn't find you, just your basket, last night. We were all really worried."

"I know, sorry. I should have said something before heading off. Thanks for finding my basket, though!"

"Its fine. We saved you some leftovers too! We just assumed you were being meticulous like usual, so we packed some away for you. Ribs, biscuits, some cake, and some salad and coleslaw. Sound good? You're welcome to whatever."

You looked over at the lump of green that lay on your living room floor, tucked between torn pillows and cushions, and felt up the stinging mark on your neck with the hand not cradling your phone.

"Yeah, salad sounds great."

#izuku midoriya x reader #izuku midoriya #bnha x reader #mha x reader #mha #bnha #my hero academia #boku no hero academia #lemon

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