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partyporg · 2 years

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the detour (2) (Din/f!reader)

Rating: E (Explicit)

Length: 3.2k

Summary: Your little backwater home is flyover country for most of the galaxy. Galactic Republic? Empire? New Republic? It’s all the same to you. Strangers fighting over your home. At least, it is until a very familiar ship with a not-so-familiar pilot makes an emergency landing, and needs your help. The mystery man, covered in beskar, so desperate to return to the stars, finds something unexpected on his unscheduled detour.

Warnings: SMUT, PIV sex, oral (m and f receiving), helmetless Din, never-been-kissed Din, things escalate quickly u guys, more body warming, soft!Din, domestic things… let me know if I missed something

A/N: A certain Vanity Fair article had me spiraling back into Din-land once again… My beloved @ezrasbirdie came through with the beta help as always. We’re both In Too Deep with our love of this metal man and we’re happy about it.

Previous || Din Djarin Masterlist

Din takes to farm life with an enthusiasm that leaves you breathless.

It starts the morning after your first night together; you wake, cradled against Din’s warm chest, fingers spread over his stomach. It’s muscular and strong, with a layer of softness that feels good under your palm. Din must like the way you’re absentmindedly stroking the flesh, dusted in dark hair, because he makes a little hum of pleasure and kisses your hairline.

“Good morning, mesh’la,” he murmurs. You nuzzle his shoulder and look up, resting your chin on him.

“Don’t know that word,” you say, gazing up at him sleepily.

“Mesh’la. Beautiful,” he says, sliding his large hand all the way down the curve of your back to cup your bare ass, his dark eyes already molten with need. You lean up to cup Din’s face and kiss him, and he responds with delight, his hands pulling you and wrapping you around him for a steamy, naked morning makeout session.

Despite his obvious arousal, Din seems content to explore you slowly, kissing and touching every part within reach. He grips one cheek of your ass in his strong hand while the other slides up to the center of your back, grounding you in a hot, possessive embrace.

“Someone’s feeling better,” you murmur against his lips, giggling as he responds with a hungry growl and squeezes you harder.

“I don’t want to leave this bed,” he confesses, tilting his head to kiss your neck and making you stretch back in pleasure.

“Mm, tempting,” you reply, breath hitching as he slips his fingers between your naked thighs and gives you a few teasing strokes. “But if you’re feeling that frisky, then you’ll have plenty of energy for farm chores, right?” You give him a half-kiss and pull back, enjoying the squinty pout he gives you in response.

“Right,” Din grunts, tracing a reluctant circle over your back before resting his palm on you for a moment and letting you slip free of his grasp. You pick up your robe from the back of the closet, steadfastly ignoring his longing gaze as you cover your naked body and tie the sash.

“Breakfast first,” you say with a smile. “Then I intend to put you to work.”

Din tucks away a bowl of thick, creamy oatmeal topped with spices and chunks of sugar melon before pulling on one of your brother’s tunics and trousers. You’ve changed into your own work clothes and boots and guide him out back, surveying the field. Foz is already crouched at the edge of the field, using a knife to remove the greens without damaging the root, and you pull your own blade from a pocket, showing Din the technique to preserve the root for next season. Din kneels next to you, watching your hands work and nodding. He’s so big and so quiet; you have to coax responses out of him from time to time. It’s almost as though he forgets to talk.

“You don’t spend much time with other people, do you?” You ask, handing over the blade and pulling out a second one as you both get to work on a row of greens.

Din cringes slightly.

“Is it that obvious?”

You shrug.

“Not a criticism,” you say, a gentle smile on your face. “I know how it is. Being alone so much, you get used to the silence.”

Din purses his lips.

“Yeah, I guess I’ve been alone a lot. For a long time. When I’m not bringing in a bounty, that is. But they rarely make good conversation,” he adds. It takes you a moment to catch the spark of amusement in his eyes.

“A joke!” You say, grinning.

“Not a particularly good one, but yes,” he replies, rubbing the back of his hand over his cheek. A small smudge of dirt gets on his forehead. You reach into your pocket, pulling out a soft handkerchief and dabbing the dirt away.

“Don’t want that running down and getting in your pretty brown eyes,” you say softly, tucking the small cloth back in your pocket.

Foz, who walked up moments earlier, snickers.

“Perks of being a new recruit?” He says. “What about my eyes?”

“You know the ropes around here already, Foz,” you say, slightly exasperated. “We go way back, old man.”

Foz worked for your father, and while he can be prickly - and sometimes drunk - he cares about you. You’re sure he could get more money working on another farm, but loyalty to your father has made him stay, and you’re grateful.

Foz chuckles and extends a hand to Din, who gives him a tight nod, shakes it, and gets back to work on the row of greens.

Once you’ve filled a basket, you show Din where to pile them and move on to the next row. He takes to the work quickly, and soon you’ve cleared a large corner of the field leading up to the crash site, where the N-1 left ruts in the ground.

“We got pretty lucky,” you say, peering more closely under the ship. “The ruts missed most of this row. Won’t lose as many of the greens as I thought,” you add brightly. It means more work, but Din looks relieved.

The suns beat down, high in the sky, and Foz has left for his usual liquid lunch when you slip into the house and back out with a pitcher of fresh juice. It’s bright pink, and when you pour Din a glass, he takes a long gulp, the liquid staining his lips. You can’t stop staring at them.

“What is it?” He asks, wiping the sweat from his forehead with one sleeve.

You shake your head, sipping your own drink.

Din’s eyes drift down to your lips, and then his expression turns playful.

“Think I see now,” he says, grinning. “Are my lips pink too?”

You chuckle, nodding.

“Can’t be as pretty as yours,” he says with a soft, low growl.

You bite your bottom lip and Din sets his glass down on the table outside the barn, taking a bold step toward you.

“Never realized how wonderful lips could be before this,” he breathes, leaning in and crushing his mouth to yours. The pair of you are damp all over, clothes sweaty, and you can feel the heat rolling off Din in waves as he plunges his tongue into your mouth, making you whimper in response.

Reluctantly, you pull back, giving his bottom lip a playful nibble before releasing him.

“Naughty boy,” you whisper, and his eyes darken with delight. “Be good and help me finish up, and you’ll get a special treat tonight.”

There are eight waist-high baskets piled high with the greens, tied off in bunches, by the time the twin suns set. Din’s helped you cut the time for harvest to a fraction of what it would usually take, and your mood is buoyant as you heat a kettle for tea before dinner. You showered after the long day’s work (together, taking longer than strictly necessary), and wrapped up in your robe. You pour Din a steaming mug of tea, which he takes gratefully, easing himself into your father’s old chair and sighing.

“Thank you for today,” you say, setting your mug down on a side table next to him and picking your way over his feet to sit in the other chair. Din reaches a hand out, and you rise from it, allowing yourself to be pulled into his lap.

“Been wanting you all day,” he murmurs, leaning to kiss your neck. You shiver with pleasure, arms wrapping around him.

He’s always so warm.

“You just had me in the shower,” you say, a breathless giggle on your lips as Din grips your earlobe gently between his flat, square teeth and tugs, sending tingles through your body.

“Want more,” he grunts, his hands sinking into the flesh of your waist and lifting to allow you to shift in his lap until you’re straddling him.

“Aren’t you hungry?” You ask, the question followed by a sharp intake of breath as Din’s hand burrows under your robe, cupping you between your legs and rubbing his fingertips over your hot core. You’re still puffy from the heat of the shower and the friction of his thrusts into you against the tile wall. He toys with your folds, grunting in pleasure as wetness coats his fingers.

Pulling them free, he lifts his hand to his mouth and gives his fingers a long, slow suck, making you whimper and drop your forehead to his shoulder.

“Think I earned dessert first?” He asks playfully, dipping his fingers back into the robe and teasing you.

“You had a taste, don’t be greedy,” you reply, nipping at his jaw and then swinging your leg off him to stand up. “Come have some dinner and we’ll see about something sweet after that.”

Din stands, towering over you as he follows you into the kitchen, taking a seat at the small table and folding his hands.

You reach into the pantry, retrieving a small bag of spices. After the tea kettle whistles, you pour it over the tea leaves in two cups, then empty the rest of the boiling water into a large dish, adding two packets of noodles and protein, along with a handful of greens, and a generous shake of the spices. Clicking the flash oven on, you open the door and slide the dish inside to bake.

You sit next to Din, who’s sipping his tea and watching you with a look of warmth on his face.

“What?” You ask, cocking your head slightly to the side.

“Nothing, I just— it’s nice to be taken care of a little. Can’t remember the last time someone made a meal for me, uh, more than once.”

His hand dwarfs yours as he reaches for it.

“I know it hasn’t been very long, but—“

The oven beeps sharply, and you shake your head, rising to lift the dish out with gloves and serving the baked pasta onto plates.

“Sorry the protein isn’t better. It’s usually just me I’m feeding,” you say, heat rising in your cheeks. “Um, what were you saying?”

Din shakes his head.

“Never mind. This smells delicious. Really, thank you.”

“Least I can do when you’re helping me so much,” you reply, grinning. “Dig in,” you say, gesturing to him to eat.

Din takes a forkful of the pasta and hums with delight.

“The spices,” he murmurs, “it’s like nothing I’ve ever tasted.”

You smile triumphantly.

“That’s the same mixture my father used. Works on just about everything,” you reply, winking at him. “Maybe I’ll give you a little bit as a parting gift,” you add, feeling a sudden pang in your chest.

You don’t want him to go.

Din looks at you, and you could swear the smile on his face turns a little sad.

After dinner, you clear away the table and Din insists on helping clean up. It’s no use resisting him, and you find yourself maneuvering around your small kitchen shoulder to shoulder with a very large man. He’s eager to help, drying and putting away dishes, wiping down surfaces, and before you know it, the kitchen is clean and Din is watching you cast about for something to do.

He’s so unflinching when it comes to what he wants; and he’s clearly decided he wants you. He watches you like he plans to chase you through the house and mount you, and the look on his face has you feeling simultaneously nervous and aroused; a prey animal face to face with its greatest threat.

He steps close, arms bracketing you against the counter, as you look up at him, your heart beating a staccato rhythm against your ribcage.

“What if I didn’t have to leave for good?” Din asks, his eyes two pools of midnight as they pin you in place. “What if I got my kid and we- we came back?” A light flush colors the tops of his cheekbones. “He’s a little ball of mischief, but I think you’d like him-”

“Yes,” you reply, without an ounce of hesitation. “I want you to come back. Both of you. Come back to me and stay,” you add, and then he’s kissing you again, gathering your body in those firm, strong arms, and you stop thinking altogether.

Within moments, he’s lifted you into his grip, the movement making you squeak with joy as he carries you to bed, one firm hand gripping your ass as you cross your ankles behind his waist. He’s so big. You feel dwarfed by his sheer size and when he rests you down on the bed, crawling over you, looming over you– you feel delicate in his embrace.

He nuzzles his way to the waistband of the soft sweatpants you’d tugged on before making dinner, lips dancing along your belly as he rucks up your shirt to press tender kisses to silky skin.

“Wonder if you’re still wet,” he whispers, urging your hips up and then easing the pants over the curve of your ass and down your thighs and fuck- you can feel the slick at the tops of your thighs, where you’re soaked for him. You have been all night.

He doesn’t waste a moment, his hungry mouth licking up the shiny juices gathered on your pussy, making you whimper aloud.

“Maker,” he grunts, sinking one finger - then two - into your core. “You’re not just wet, you’re-” he prods gingerly, “-you’re all soft and puffy, just fucked out and perfect.” Din presses his forehead to your hip, eyes full of concern as he gazes up at you.

“Are you too sore, mesh’la?” he whispers, lips brushing over your hip. “I don’t ever want to hurt you.”

He’s fucked you more times in the past 24 hours than you’d been fucked in the past five years, and yet – you absolutely do not want him to stop.

“No, you’re just- big. Might take me a bit to adjust,” you whisper, and he shoots you a feral grin, drawing the soft, puffy lips of your pussy into his mouth and licking them generously, like a sweet dessert he wanted to devour.

“I want- I want to taste you, too,” you whisper, and he leans back, grinning.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he replies before his lips and tongue resume their work and you’re screaming within minutes, another wild release coursing through your body.

“How badly is your ship damaged?” You ask, leaning against Din on the porch swing. You can see the outline of the N-1 in the field, illuminated by starlight. It’s mostly intact; the passenger compartment blessedly unaffected by the rough landing.

“One of the engines took the brunt of the impact,” Din replies, his fingers stroking the nape of your neck. “Shouldn’t be too hard to fix, once I find the key parts.”

You pause, looking thoughtfully at the ship.

“Can I see inside it?”

You feel rather than see Din’s answering smile, the curve of his lips rising against your temple where he has you cuddled against him.

“Sure.”

He’s slow, deliberate as he takes your hand, guiding you out into the field as insects chirp loudly. Your feet stuffed into your boots, you plod along after him, curiosity making your body hum as he lifts the door of the ship, letting you climb inside.

“I’m not sure we’ll both fit,” you say, chuckling.

Din seems to take that as a challenge, hoisting his own body up and into the cockpit. You squirm around, settling in his lap.

It’s a tight squeeze.

“You definitely can’t fly like this,” you say, chuckling. “More room down by your feet, though,” you add, scooting off his lap and gazing into the space there. You kneel between his legs, and feel a shot of tension go through the muscles of his thighs as he shifts to accommodate you. Then you’re looking up at him and oh- oh.

You smile, palms sliding up and over his thighs through the sleep pants.

“What- what are you doing?” He asks breathlessly, licking his lips.

“I’m going to suck you off, right here in your ship,” you reply, voice low, steady and direct. “Do you like the sound of that?”

“Yes, f- fuck,” Din grunts as you press your mouth to him through the pants, lips warm on his length. He shifts eagerly, helping you free his cock from the confines of the pants, undoing a convenient button, and then he’s silky and velvety and hot in your hand. You give him one firm stroke, then two, then your lips part and you take him onto your tongue, the head of his cock glistening under the starry sky with a droplet of wetness. Your thumb brushes over his slit and he jerks, whimpering in pleasure as you tease him, tongue swirling around the head of his cock and then taking him deep, cheeks hollowed to suck on him.

“So- so fucking good,” he grits out, his large palms spreading over your head, fingers gripping you and easing you forward; barely restrained thrusts urging you to let him fuck your mouth, your throat, right there in the crashed ship. You nod, mumbling encouragement and letting him do it, letting him claim you with his cock like he had multiple times in the past day. This man was a stranger not so long ago, and now you wanted nothing more than to keep him forever. Taste him forever. Fuck him, and be fucked by him, until neither of you could move or think or speak.

“Perfect, so perfect,” he whimpers, hips stuttering until his balls tighten and you feel his hands grip tighter and then he fills your mouth without warning, his cum hot as he spills inside your lips. You swallow, drinking from his body as you urge him to keep fucking your mouth, his whimpers and cries fading as he finishes at last.

“Are you all right?” He asks, hands gentle on your face as he looks down at you, crouched between his legs on that ship.

“I’m good,” you reply hoarsely, rubbing your cheek against his knee. “Been dying to try that ever since you crashed here.”

Din grunts, his thumb brushing over your sticky lower lip.

“Filthy girl. Fuck. Now you’re really never getting rid of me,” he adds, smiling down at you.

“Good,” you say, grinning. “That’s good to hear.”

Comments/reblogs always appreciated! Let me know if you’d like to be tagged, and if you’d like me to add to this story! 💞

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partyporg · 2 years

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𝒓𝒆𝒖𝒏𝒊𝒐𝒏

summary: Jake Lockley is the most dangerous man in the city and you happen to be his favorite girl

pairing: jake lockely x stripper!reader

words: 1635

New York City is one dangerous city to live in. It’s crowded and 90% of people who live here are either on their way to pursue dreams or to escape from reality. The thing is though about life, reality isn’t going anywhere. It sits there waiting patiently for us to do another fucked up or illegal shit and let the entire world punish you for it. ‘New York is a dream’ is probably what people would’ve said about this big city. What they don’t know is, behind all that jazz and glamour, people are struggling. Surviving. Willing to die for money.

Now y/n loves taking chances. A risk taker that she is and thought to herself that maybe the world wouldn’t be so bad to her and the chance of becoming a contemporary dancer was closer than she thinks. She could perhaps make it big on Broadway or perform at Duane Park NYC. yet faith seems to fucked her up even more.

Being a stripper had its perks. You dance provocatively, showing off your assets for a living and money will go straight into your panties. People adore you and would buy time to spend an hour or two with you. Especially men since they are very easy to manipulate over and will get down on their knees for you the second you promised to suck them off in the back of the room.

However, the downside of it is that being the apple of men’s eye isn’t exactly an easy thing to go through. You’ll make enemies along the way, few girls will try to screw you over and get you in a deep deep shit then take your money. Being forced to do something you won’t like and will have you crying in the dressing room that you won’t be able to continue your performance. y/n had experienced that countless times and she had to shake it off every time a dirty old pervert tried to get her to sleep with them without paying. And another thing, each amount of money you make at the end of the night? You don’t get to bring it home right after the sessions are over. The manager decides how much you’ll be taking. And y/n’s manager isn’t a peach, he’s a total prick.

“Your man candy is here.” Josie informs as she walks into the dressing room. “He’s talking to Brian. Asking for you.”

y/n finishes applying her cherry red lipstick before getting up from her chair. “I’ll be right over.”

With a smile, Josie nods and heads back to the room.

y/n looks at herself in the mirror one last time before walking out, opening the bead curtain as the door for the dressing room. It’s quite dark, you can’t easily see things when you’re here but no one could’ve mistaken a black shirt under a dark colored tweed suit with a grey cap securing his head, the overall fit that Jake only specifically owns. It’s his signature style.

He looks extremely good tonight. Really good. y/n knows the second she got involved with him was a bad idea. Considering what his past looked like and what he does for a living. She learned it all yet she couldn’t help herself. She keeps coming back for more, she’s not afraid of how many souls he had taken away or his blood-tainted hands whenever he comes around. It excites her, actually. More than she could imagine. and plus,

How could she ever turn down a gorgeous man like him?

as she walks out, she feels the envy of the girls in the dressing room. they have always wanted to have what she has. and that is to have Jake Lockley wrapped around their little fingers. they're so wired over the fact she is able to tame him, what is it that you had done and made it so easy for him to want her?

a few nights before, she saw how there were girls trying to get his attention. coming up to his table and invaded his privacy and not once did he pay any mind to them. one took it too far and said her name, saying how she could've given him more than what y/n could give him,

and he snapped. looking at that girl dead in the eye she swore she felt her soul leave her body.

'you're not y/n and you will never be her, you bitch. now get out of my fucking sight.'

yes, he's quite a talker when he speaks to other girls that's not her. it's something that she has always admired and loved

She casually walks over to his table and puts her delicate hand on his broad shoulder before whispering on his ear. “Hi, handsome.”

Jake turns around and smiles fondly at his favorite girl. His large hand makes its way on her back before rubbing it softly. “Hi, sweetheart. Was starting to think you bailed on me.” His New Jersey accent is another thing that she can’t ever get enough

She chuckles, settling herself on his lap as he moves his hand lower to give her ass a squeeze. “How could i forget a man like you, Mr. Lockely. No one could run from you. Not even me”

He lets out a laugh, giving her cheek a sweet kiss. “You know I was talking to Joe earlier and he told me you were making over a thousand this week. Must be quite of achievement, eh darling?” he says, taking a sip of the bourbon. “No lap dances though right?”

Jake had made it clear before that she is off limits. He had claimed her as his long time ago and Joe had to apply that rule outside of the club to make sure there won’t be a bloodbath. Jake has a short temper, whoever touches that belongs to him is dead. Especially if a man dares to lay one fucking finger on her. One night, a man disobeyed and tried to take y/n to the red room and before you know it, he’s gone. Dead.

She shakes her head, playing with the chain of his necklace. “Of course not. You know i’m yours. And i like to follow rules.”

“Mhmm, that’s my good girl.” he brushes a strand of her purple wig that’s covering her pretty face. “I missed you. You look so beautiful tonight. Saw you dancing with that pole and I couldn’t take my eyes off of you.”

“Good. I did that for you. Hoping you would notice me and make you hard” y/n jokes, biting on her bottom lip softly and wrapping her arms around his neck, drawing him closer.

He raises his eyebrow, smirking as he watches her bite her lip which he thinks, is the most sexiest thing he has ever seen. “Was that your plan? Just to tease me and get me all uncomfortable with my cock hard? Such a bad little devil.”

“Yet you can’t get enough of me” y/n whispers seductively before giving him a naughty smile. “I’ve missed you too. Were you that busy you couldn’t even meet me?’ she pouts, looking at his gorgeous brown eyes

He sighs, rubbing her soft thigh. “You know I want to, baby. But i’ve had too many shit to deal with the last couple weeks. Few of my men keep messing it up and I had to take the matter in my own hands.”

He won’t admit it but she’s his weakness. She’s the only reason why he goes to this place almost every night. To spend time with this beautiful dove. This is the only place, the only sanctuary that he can get alone time with her. Being out there? It’s far too dangerous and he doesn’t want to put her life at stake. She’s too precious to be taken away

If something happened to her, you bet he’d turn this whole city into a warzone. Kill anything that moves before he gets to see her. That’s how much he adores her. Because as both a mafia boss and a –something he won’t admit– a lover, he doesn’t mind killing everyone for her.

“Well” y/n exhales, softly padding his chest with her thumbs. “At least you’re here now.” she giggles, admiring how gorgeous he looks when he smiles at her like that.

“You know” he starts, changing the subject while twirling a glass of his drink causing his ringed fingers to clad against it. “Haven’t seen you properly up close in two weeks. Mind giving me a dance tonight, love? I’m dying to have you close to me.”

y/n smiles as she bites her lip, she begins to stand up and grab his hand. “Of course, Mr. Lockely. I have a room ready for you and a glass of Cheval Blanc”

He finishes his glass of drink and stands up, drawing her closer to his body so her breasts are pressing against his chest. He puts his lips dangerously close to her ear. “And perhaps we could stay a little while longer so i can taste that sweet cunt of yours? It’s been a while.”

Any form of sexual actions are not allowed. Joe had made it clear from the start, and whoever breaks that rule will have to face a punishment and that includes getting blacklisted. Yet again, it’s Jake Lockely. The most dangerous man in New York City, the leader of the most vicious gang and no one dares to tell him no. be that person, and you will have your head hanging on his wall.

“Absolutely Mr. Lockely. Let me show you how much I’ve missed you.”

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partyporg · 2 years

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The Mand’alor’s Riduur {Mando x F!Mando!Reader}

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 11k

Warnings: Breeding, arranged marriage, sex try outs, Din makes a mold from his cock, sex toys, masturbation, breeding kink, public sex, voyeurism, ceremonial sex, oral (male and female receiving), unprotected sex, cream pie

Comments: As Mand’alor, Din is tasked with taking a wife and breeding her in front of the covert to promote increasing their numbers. As advisor, you suggest have a try out for any candidates that he might want to take as riduur, to make sure he will be pleased with them. Except, you never expected to be on the list on women to come to his chamber to try out. Co-written with @storiesofthefandomlovers

A/N: We have no excuse, we were just horny.

Din sits down at the head of the table, his advisors all standing until he tells them to sit down. He’s still not used to this. Being Mand’alor. He decided to step into his role since Grogu is training with the Jedi and he was wandering around the galaxy aimlessly. He can’t take bounties anymore. Everyone knows who he is. The infamous Mando.

He decided to approach the covert with the dark saber in hand as his claim and since then he’s been thrust into rituals and traditions he had no idea about. Most tend to not take their helmets off around each other. Some are more open to that, others more closed off.

You, for example, he has never seen your face but as the Armorer, he constantly sees you as an advisor. He likes your voice, even modulated. “Good morning Mand’alor. We have much to discuss. The covert is lacking numbers. We need more of our people to breed so we do not slip back into near extinction. We need you to lead by example” His advisor, a stoic older Mando named Orar says.

Keep reading

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partyporg · 2 years

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ANTIGEN

defⁿ - a toxin or other foreign substance which induces an immune response in the body.

A/N: A standalone one shot that can be read as part of the wider Stitches universe (between EA9 and NRA1). This is a long overdue request from the gorgeous @daddydindjarin who has been so patient and encouraging because sex pollen is not my strong suit by any stretch of the word! Hopefully it's unique enough to be enjoyable for your Friday night!

Word Count: 7.7k

Pairing: Din Djarin/Fem!Reader

Rating: 18+ (NO Minors)

Warings: SMUT! (dub!con sex pollen within an established relationship, overstimulation, dirty talking, breeding kink, general filth...)

Stitches Masterlist | Main Masterlist

“Cyborg technology?”

The skepticism was evident in your voice as you examined the unassuming wraparound visor. The Bith merchant had insisted you see them when a hollow ear picked up on the list of items you had requested from his colleague. Items too specialized to be for your run-of-the-mill first aid kit. No, you requested medicinal ingredients, needles and tweezers, bacta-laced suture thread and antiseptics.

You were a medic.

Better yet, you were a medic without a meddroid if those items were anything to go by. A medic like that was hard to come by these days.

“New on the market. New Republic licensed and approved,” he explained first, noticing the sharp mistrust glinting in your eyes at the possibility of being scammed.

The merchant might not have had the cleanest track record, but he learned the hard way that you never got on the bad side of the person who could save your life, and you never messed with their equipment. He would sooner steal from a Hutt than mislead a proficient medic.

To his surprise, you ignored the slim, single lens visor – the black glass opaque and shiny as it stretched across both eyes for uninterrupted vision – to the certificate stamped with the emblem of the New Republic. Expert eyes ran over the initial specs of the device, appeased by the unique identification code listed for this individual piece.

Turning the certificate over, you sent the smiling merchant a warning look – I’m not done yet – and looked down to the small green creature watching the exchange with rapt attention.

“Torch, cutie,” your voice softened, features melting from the guarded stoicism you treated the merchant with. When a clawed hand lifted a small, handheld torch after a few failed attempts – a silver ball, crab leg, and pendant necklace later – you stroked a hand gently over his wrinkled forehead, “thank you sweetheart.”

Flicking the torch on, you held the certificate above it.

Even the Bith was impressed by your knowledge. That striking intelligence that made you look for the hidden watermark of a legit New Republic piece of equipment.

Not just a medic, then. A good medic.

One who didn’t cut corners.

Happy with the authenticity, you handed the torch back to the child distractedly, the end immediately going into his mouth to chew on while your curiosity remained piqued.

“So, what does it do?”

One battle won with legitimacy, the next battle was convincing you to buy it.

“Great for someone of your profession who doesn’t rely on droid assistance,” he pitched, “travels a lot—works under.. less than ideal circumstances.”

Combat.

You copped his insinuation immediately. He meant combat.

How could he not after what the galaxy had been put through during the war? You would be surprised if there was any medic alive today who didn’t have at least some combat experience because of it.

“X-ray, infrared vision with built-in diagnostics, intermittent scans of vitals that remain updated in real time to keep your hands free. It’s a worthy piece for any kit,” he explained, your fingers measuring the weight of the high-quality materials that made up the device.

Can’t be too heavy or clunky, can’t be too big.

Combat medics measured value differently than your average clinical medic. They wanted top of the line technology, but not at the expense of efficiency. No amount of technology would assist in triage if it weighed half a ton.

“Infrared?” you challenged, “Half the goggles on the market have infrared at a fraction of the price—”

“Common infrared only concentrates on healthy temperatures,” the Bith continued confidently, “this variation of infrared focuses on the deviancies from the common body temperature of your patient.”

“So for a human?” you posed, intrigued, “Approximate body temperature is 36.5 to 37.5 degrees.”

“When the initial scan determines you’re looking at a human patient, the infrared highlights temperature vitals above or below that healthy approximation.”

“Interesting…” you hummed.

You had heard of this kind of medical advancement in clinics and medical centers. But this was the first time you came across it in a mobile device. Maker, you could have done with one of these during the Rebellion.

The merchant was obviously taking your silence as a sign of your dissatisfaction. Blinking bulbous, watery black eyes, he held out his hands amenably.

“Here—give it a go,” he encouraged, tapping the left side of the frame to turn it on.

A ripple of red crossed the unwavering black of the lens. Hesitating, you held it up to your eyes; the material adjusting snugly to form over them and latched behind your head with a thin clasp.

“I can’t see anything,” you huffed, impatient.

“Unfortunately, the lens is all technology—there’s no glass to see out of them,” the merchant admitted, “as a first model, you’ll only be able to flick between the view options. Once turned on, the default in infrared—giving you a good initial scan of the patient from temperature to blood pressure to the location of any internal bleeding or wounds hidden under clothing.”

As he spoke, he came into view.

An outline of his form filled in pulsing reds that cooled to yellows the closer to the skins surface it got. A throb of crimson down the length of a thumb – hidden from view by gloves – drew your attention.

“You cut your hand”? you enquired, nodding to the hand in question while his vitals and stats from the preliminary scans filled one side of your vision.

Featureless, with only a mass of heat and color to distinguish him from the surrounding shop, he looked down with a chuckle, “Bit of torn metal nicked me while I was going through deliveries this morning.”

You tapped the left side of the frame, the lens switching to a skeletal view of the merchant in better detail than you had seen on any portable x-ray machine available. One more tap, and your vision turned black again, the device switched off.

Once the goggles were off and placed safely back in their case, you tapped a pursed bottom lip contemplatively. Weighing the pros and cons before a chirp from the bag drew your attention back to the child.

You smiled, “Think so?” to the nonsensical babbles you received in response that made you chuckle, “you’re right—it would help with the armor.”

Looking back at the merchant with an easy smile, his heart settled with a done deal.

“I’ll take it.”

It was a week later that you had the chance to use the visor and certainly not in the way you anticipated.

You spent the week playing with its features, noting with some disappointment that it couldn’t determine the child’s appropriate body temperature as his species was unknown even to the vast central database of the New Republic census.

That disappointment was inhibited however, when Din walked into view with a “what in Malachor are you playing with?” and the infrared diagnostics filled his mass with reds and yellows beneath the armor he wore. The pulsing heat of a heartbeat and the throb of a recent slice across his bicep had you beaming at the warrior, showing him your new toy.

Satisfied that he remained hidden with this device despite his outline being seen, he listened quietly to your excited explanations of how useful it would be and all the ways you could have used it in the Rebellion. You reconciled his easy accepting of you seeing him in infrared with the fact that you saw his shadow often enough and – more recently – his naked back from when he flicked the fresher light on before the door had fully slid closed.

He had infrared in his helmet too, you remembered. He knew the featureless quality of heat masses intimately.

That must have been the reason for how… casual he was about it. He didn’t seem to mind one bit. It still made butterflies swarm in your stomach at the level of trust that required.

Stars… this man, you smiled small – intimate – at the affection you held for him.

The normality of him now removing his armor and helmet to join you night after night on your mat. To fuck and – in your case at least – sleep. The intimacy of a name, the connection of a kiss—you cherished them.

That habit might have been why you struggled to sleep properly whenever he was out hunting. Your small sleep mat seemed excessively large without him and probably why you were left staring up at the dark ceiling tonight.

Another vague lead to the Jedi had brought the Razor Crest to a planet that bordered on Wild Space.

A humid, wet planet that made clothes cling to skin and the air suffocate your lungs with the cloying drag of moisture whenever you inhaled. But as uncomfortable as it was for humans, the plant life thrived.

Thick, waxy leaves that shone under the sun folded down under their own weight from even larger stems of plants that arched overhead in bursts of color. You felt miniscule here. The Razor Crest hidden so completely by the towering jungle trees that – by your estimation – you could easily stack seven or eight additional Crests atop one another before you reached their heights.

Din had left a few hours earlier.

The lack of information on this unknown, unnamed planet prompted the warrior to caution. An hour or two of reconnaissance and then he would return to base – the ship – to figure out how to trace a single watery story about the Jedi to a precise location on this entire planet.

He still wasn’t back, and frustration warred with an inability to sit still inside you.

If he had gone without you… after promising he would let you help—

It was past dark already. The child tucked into his pod in front of Din’s bunk hours before, when the Mandalorian finally staggered up the ramp and into the belly of the Razor Crest. Your initial relief at him being back, however, was stunted by the way his feet dragged. By the irritated shake of his head—the aggressive toss of a bull reek during mating season.

He didn’t look well.

“Din?”

His helmet snapped up from where he had dropped it into his hand. A head wound? Maybe. That same hand instinctively fell to the blaster at his hip before he realized who it was.

A groan – fatigued, frustrated – rattled through the modulator and his shoulders remained tense, pained.

“Waste of time, there’s nothing here.”

The biting growl of his tone – a feral undertone of barely restrained composure – threw you because while he looked injured—he sounded turned on. It warred with your instincts as both a medic and his lover. The stall in your confusion giving him enough time to brush past you – Maker, he was boiling – a stomp of heavy boots through the hold towards the ladder leading up to the cockpit.

Trained eyes honed in on that same hand held against the side of his head again, before disappearing up onto the second level. It was only a moment, but it was revealing. If Din was physically exhibiting signs of discomfort, it meant he was hurt, bad.

As the ship began a rocky ascent out of atmosphere, you made the pre-emptive decision to pull out your medical kit from the crate you kept it stored in and out of the way of prying claws. You huffed a breath of annoyance. You hadn’t gotten a close enough look at him to know what he had done to himself this time. It made it difficult to anticipate what you might need.

You never wanted to make the assumption that it wasn’t serious. Din had a track record of minimizing bad injuries after all. That in mind, it was safe to say you would probably need a few staples for the injuries he usually sustained; open lacerations, blaster burns, even the occasional dislocation.

Saline, bacta, gauze, clean cloth and—

Your eyes were drawn to the unassuming black case, reminding you of your most recent purchase. Excellent. You had completely forgotten about it in the immediacy. Time to find out if it lived up to expectations. Din was a grumpy SOB when he was hurt. He was less than forthcoming with showing you where the injury was and you were usually left bickering with him over it.

The diagnostics visor would be perfect in this kind of situation.

Alas, things never went according to plan—not on the Razor Crest. Not with this Mandalorian who – somehow – was still alive despite being so accident-prone.

Whatever planning you had hoped would help you along the way evaporated when the ship lurched violently. A shuddering rock that tipped the center of balance sideways; medical supplies, crates and anything not bolted to the wall falling along with it. You steadied yourself with a hand to the wall, regaining your footing with some stumbling struggle.

“Wh—”

You yelped as the ship gave an off-kilter jump, slamming to a premature stop and hurling items around the hold carelessly. Throwing a quick glance to the child’s pod that mercifully remained tethered to the bunk, you raced to the ladder with dizzying steps. Instinct might tell you to go to the child, but logic won in telling you that protecting him meant figuring out what in Malachor was going on in the cockpit.

Up, up, up you climbed—the flashing lights and hammering of your heart painting disjointed movements in your vision as you scrambled inside.

Fuck, fuckfuckfuckfuck—he was hurt worse than you imagined, he—

Labored pants filled the small space. The cockpit thick with heat and as humid as the planet you had just left. Din was completely unaware of the warning lights and alarms that lit up the dashboard like a tree on Life Day, his hands frantically clawing at the buckles of his chest plate. Hands that should be on the controls of the ship that had taken a tumbling nosedive back towards the planets’ surface.

“Din, the ship!”

Fear lodged in your throat when he didn’t respond. Only pants of “hot—too hot,” saturated the air as the beautifully crafted beskar fell forgotten to the textured sheet metal of the floor. Bandolier of ammunition already tossed carelessly over the co-pilots chair, you had never seen the warrior pull his armor off so haphazardly. Dread chilled you at the thought of a nerve agent or chemical attacking his system.

Maker, there would be no saving any of you if that was the case—ventilated air would make sure of that.

Steeling your spine, you stalked over to the pilots seat. Contagion or not, crashing would assuredly kill you if you didn’t get this ship flying back in the direction it was supposed to.

You weren’t nearly strong enough to make Din move. The brutal strength he hardly needed to tap into to keep you under him night after night would be a waste of time to go up against in trying to get him out of the seat. His mind was completely absent of the immediate danger and that frightened you more than anything.

Slipping between him and the console, you sat down on his lap and ignored his groan of pain – thigh injury too? – as you grabbed the controls to pull the Razor Crest up and away from impending doom. She was old, pre-Empire and solid. She needed a much firmed hand to guide her against the resistance of gravity and her own weight. It was a struggle just to get her level again when…

“Mm, fuck… kitten—”

What?

You hardly had time to look over your shoulder incredulously at him, when two gloveless hands wrapped around your middle, pulling you back closer against his chest. The rough fabric of his flight suit teased along the thin material of your sleep shirt while your ass settled over the prominent bulge concealed and straining at his crotch.

“D-Din, what are you—the ship!” you gasped, your grip on the controls tightening as his hands fanned up heavily over your ribcage to cup your breasts.

Nipples pebbling – the adrenaline of trying not to crash tangling with the arousal he always inspired – you gritted your teeth and leaned forward to engage the thruster to take you up higher out of atmosphere.

“Wanna… wanna fuck you so bad—can’t… can’t stop—”

The forehead of his helmet dropped between your shoulder blades. Restraint – paper thin and tearing – straining in his voice even as one of his hands abandoned your breast to drag your hips along the solid outline of his cock, his own rocking up against your ass desperately.

“S-something, fuck—in that jungle, kitten… too—too hot—”

His words even sounded pained, edged. The gasp of mute relief when he led your ass over his crotch fleeting, haggard breath making his chest rise and collapse in violent drops. The heat rolling off him feverish and clammy. But fuck, your hands were tied—all your strength used to keep the Razor Crest climbing up and remaining steady in the air as indigo bled into the black of space.

“What happened, talk to me—” you tried.

“Don’t—shit, dunno.”

He thrust up against you. A whimper of your name laced along his tongue and distorted in his vocoder, pulling your hips down to meet him.

Your body was helpless but to respond.

How could it not?

Wearing only a sleep shirt and panties while waiting for him to return, you felt every solid inch of him in addition to the rasp of rough duraweave rubbing up against the soaked seam of your underwear. Your cunt throbbing with an instinctive clench to hold him deep inside you and lamenting its emptiness.

“Let me, just—just let me get us into hyperspace,” you breathed, propelling the ship away from that Maker-forsaken planet, “just a little more.”

“Want you…always want you ner baar’ur,” he growled into your back, one hand dropping between your bodies to try unzip the pants of his flight suit. A stilted tug at the metal tongue to release himself forced a sweet smell to waft from his hands to fill your nostrils, tickling the inside of your nose and making your eyes water, “it burns, kitten—burns… need—”

C’mon… you begged the ship in your head, your brain hazy with a growing – untimely – lust, sparks of clarity zapping across the synapses over what might have infected him. Poisoned him? Not raquor’daan venom this time, that’s for sure. You snorted in misplaced humor over the circumstances of your first meeting with the cantankerous Mandalorian you now shared your bed with.

His head fell back against the leather headrest in the reflection of the viewport, panting through every exhale as you finally input the co-ordinates of some far-flung planet to enter hyperspace. You had no idea how you managed it. Combat training hadn’t accounted for this sort of distraction. What with his rutting and filthy mouth and the hand that spread your leg wider over his thick thigh so he could press his fingers along the soaked fabric of your panties with a growling moan,

“Can smell you from here, all wet and ready for me—"

You whimpered, sensitive. Awash with heat rushing down the length of your body when he pressed the pads of his fingers against your covered clit with determination. You bowed forward with a jolt of pleasure, trapping his hand. Too much. Gripping the console, you clamored for support—for something as the intensity of his touch tore through the wooden battlements of your composure with devastating precision.

“Fuck—”

The position pushed your ass harder against his cock. Your stomach flipped at his size – still dazing you after months of being his lover, his paramour. It twitched with anger when you moaned, his hand picking up traction in rubbing your clit, his strength alone guiding you faster to dry hump him.

How did you always end up in positions like this with him? It would be almost comical if the burgeoning pain of emptiness wasn’t consuming you with jagged rows of beastly teeth.

You wanted more. You always did.

Stars, this would be so embarrassing, how horny you were—had Din not been more undone than you were.

Moaning your name, panting through the pain-streaked pleasure caused by an unknown agent—he rutted up against you, not even attempting to enter you. He was too needy, too desperate for anything that he could hardly see past the immediate gratification – the relief – of humping you. When he came against your back a few moments later, the release sounded… brief.

Struggling to clear the impossible, cloying fog that filled your mind—you turned in his lap and cupped the side of his neck. The seal was feverish and wet. Hot from the skin burning beneath it.

Something was definitely attacking him from the inside.

You might have thought it an infection, scepsis even. But the steadily growing symptoms you were displaying, the prickling discomfort that only found a modicum of respite in his touch spoke of a different affliction altogether.

It was in you too.

You tried to strategize in your mind. Figure out what was on that planet.

Wild Space, unlikely to be synthetic or lab-grown—probably a natural substance.

Wet, humid—fuck he was still hard—a fungus of some kind? Fungi preferred more temperate climates, didn’t they? Couldn’t rule it out.

His hand found yours atop his neck, covering it in its size and moaned at just that touch.

Maker, still? Still so sensitive?

But of course… because his hand felt so fucking good on yours too—so hot but in its’ inferno, it was a balm to the torrid hurricane brewing inside you.

Focus, girl.

For the sake of probability, it was likely a plant. Some sort of nettle or spore, perhaps.

You lost your train of thought, the weak attempt to concentrate fluttering dandelion light in the gentlest of breezes.

You glanced down to his cock – swollen and messy with his cum – trapped against your thigh and his navel told you yes, still.

“I’m going to get my kit—”

Maker, your throat was dry. Did your voice really sound like that? So damned breathless and inviting? It echoed in your head, muffled—submerged.

He groaned his disapproval and you sighed, your resolve wasn’t strong enough for this. By some harrowing inner strength you didn’t know you possessed, you managed to extract yourself from his lap. Belied by wobbly legs, you steadied yourself on the back of the co-pilots chair.

“W-wait here, I’ll figure s-something out—”

“Kitten—” he rasped.

He tried to catch you, the heavy swipe of a paw. But you knew once he did, there would be no escaping him—not until he had fucked you within an inch of your – and his – life. That commendable strength had already been depleted, you wouldn’t be able to resist if he got his hands on you.

Din snarled as you side-stepped out of reach. His hand found nothing but thin air and the threat of a predator losing his prey filled the air.

A desperate hunger.

A need for survival.

That was what you felt filling the cockpit the moment you eluded him, and it awoke every single instinct you possessed as a living organism to flee or yield to his intoxicating dominance.

It was a bloody miracle you made it down into the hold at all.

And Maker, it was a mess.

Crates lay strewn across the floor. Anything loose had been thrown into complete disarray when the ship tumbled. That included your medical kit. Fuck. It had been open too—fucking bantha ball sucking nerfherders.

Falling to your knees where it had been laid out, you went onto your hands to begin grabbing whatever was in reach. Forced to fall further onto your elbows to reach into awkward slivers of space beneath the carbonite chamber, the black case of the diagnostics visor blessedly found its way into your hand.

Finally, something that worked out.

And it was a good thing too. You had just managed to fumble the visor on, fingers more like clubs in their dexterity in an effort to get a diagnostic reading on what had transferred from Din to you when his hands found your hips. A powerful lift and he had your ass snug against his naked body.

Naked.

Din was naked.

He hadn’t turned off the lights.

Shit.

“Think you can escape from me?” he slurred hotly, breath disturbing your hair and painting your neck with a wet claim. Your nerves tingled with desire despite your better intentions. The bright red heat signal of your arms told you he wasn’t the only one burning up.

“D-Din, the lights—” was all you managed to exhale.

Your eyes slammed shut before they could read the scan and despite the fact that you could only see in infrared. It was a long established habit difficult to break, and the lack of sight left you at his mercy on all fours.

Cunt slick and exposed to him in such a prone position, the furnace of his body – hard and big – made you positively clench with a push of arousal soaking your passage and making your panties sticky. Damning evidence in the case against your mental capacity.

“Caught you,” he growled, biting into your shoulder and spreading one of your thighs wider to pull the seam of your underwear to the side. The chill that immediately licked through your folds was combatted by the head of his cock nestled between your cheeks and you keened.

You should have protested.

Should have demanded he let you examine him to figure out what was wrong with both of you now. But all sensibilities and logic fled your mind at the siege of chaotic desire. A painful need that only the man behind you could satiate. One you knew on some primal level, you would suffer without.

That weak protest of his name was cut off on a moan, sheer bliss escaping you when he lined himself up and slammed into you. He gave you no time to adjust, no time to stretch—forcing your walls around the girthy fat length of him until you could feel him throb in your throat. Words lodged in your throat, your eyes crossed and even the stars that dotted your vision blurred when he filled you.

He groaned, sweaty forehead falling to your shoulder and the relief that flooded out of him was nothing short of infectious. Your lips parted, frozen on the shape of his name—the flavor of his pleasure. Biting scores of possessiveness into your shoulder, his cock withdrew. Dragging along soaked walls, it grazed every hypersensitive nerve that had pleasure bolting to you clit and your arms trembling.

Your head bowed between your shoulders and you saw down the length of your body – flushed red and aroused – to the pulsing heat where you were joined. White hot. How fucking affected you were by each other. How it only served to turn you on more.

He was brutal as he fucked you, mounted like a bitch and keening for his cock.

That same sweet smell entered your nostrils when he gripped your jaw to drag your head back—his mouth slanting over yours with a hungry passion. Tongue molten, it swiped across yours, fucking your mouth the way his cock was hammering into your pussy.

It was filthy.

There was no other way to describe it. Half-dressed on the floor, the shredded exhales of your Mandalorian met with every willowy moan he punched out of you with his thrusts. The sweat and arousal leaking and mixing and making a mess of you both.

The floor bit into your knees, but you could hardly spare a thought for the unyielding cut of metal curling up into your soft skin. He had your upper body forced down onto that same inclement floor a moment later, wrists pinned behind your back that he used as leverage to ram into your harder.

Slap slap slap interspersed with feral growls and pitiful whines for more filled the hold. The squelch of your wetness soaking his cock, your thighs, the damn floor itself didn’t abate—it only grew as your desire did.

Heat pulsing, a torturous stab of unbearable suffocation straddled you the moment his cock slipped out of you. The whimpers of please please Din—fuck me, quick—only registered as your voice seconds later. A blanket of survival—of fuck fuck mate mate mate covering anything and everything else.

Your lips split around a throaty moan, tongue swiping across desert dry lip and you tasted it—that acrid sweetness you had smelled on his hands. Something… something was in that substance. Making you both horny, making you both slaves to that primal urge to mate and fuck and breed.

Your eyes flew open for the diagnostic scan to confirm what you suddenly realized as you begged him to fill you.

Contact copulation.

An evolutionary trait of certain plants to encourage the wildlife around them to search for a mate. The pollen spores clung to fur and skin alike as the secondary symptoms of the pollen consumed the affected organism. Made it blind to anything else—and forced it to movein search of a partner. In doing so, spreading the spores far and wide to take root.

All semblance of abstract thinking abandoned you. Replaced with only the base desires you had as a living organism. Survive and reproduce.

You fed into it as much as Din did. Pushing your ass back into his thrusts, walls tightening around him greedily as soon as heavy balls slapped against your clit.

Keep him in. Keep him deep.

His snarls danced with your moans, your pleas—and when he filled you with his fat load, buried to the hilt in your quivering pussy—you felt the heat subside momentarily, following him over the edge. His semen the milk to the fever of this infection, cooling it—giving you an instance of repose before that too subsided and you were plunged into the inferno once more.

“More—” he rasped, sandpaper roughening his throat to a jagged ring of fangs. He moved his hips again, elbow braced by your head as his size swallowed you whole.

Rutting into you with hard, fast strokes—he pushed all of that delicious cum out of you before it even had a chance to cool. Every wet slip of his cock into your full hole shoving dribbles of it down the backs of quaking thighs.

“More, please—” you agreed, words airy and impossible.

Lifting your head as much as his restrictive hold would allow, you met his lips sloppily. The red hot infrared showing he was still as affected as before, throbbing with need and you were no better.

Your temperature climbed alongside your arousal. Horny as though edged for weeks and an instinctual fear that you would die if he didn’t fuck you again right now climbed up your windpipe. Fear you might die, or fear he might find another pussy to bury his cock into—you couldn’t be sure, but you were determined; yours would be the only one he needed, the best.

You arched, tightening around him to a choked moan of the warrior above you. Mutters of “fuck kitten… so fucking tight—” dripping honey thick into your ear. A swollen heat made your skin feel too tight—too restrictive, it was uncomfortable. But you couldn’t deny the feminine pride you basked in as this massive warrior took you.

Your agreement – so easily given – was met with his cock moving in and out in and out – fuck yes, Din – while he released your wrists to paw at your shirt. Ripped it down the back to pool around your elbows and buried his nose in the flushed skin behind your neck.

“Can smell you, baby—” he growled, “can smell how fucking fertile you are for me.”

His words spread wet and scorching over your neck, cooling against the damp strands of hair at your neckline. Lips moving down, he planted open mouth kisses down your spine, inhaling your scent and leaving teeth marks and bruises of rabid claim along your back.

It made you gush. A primal claim like this; to be taken by the strongest, the smartest, the most dominant male you had ever encountered. Logic and reason had no place at this table of instinct, and your base desires thrived on the virility of your partner.

“Take me, want y-you to…”

“Want me to what, kitten?” he growled, cock swelling and hips snapping into you brutally that you sobbed his name, “Want me to fuck you so full, it won’t be just my cum making your belly big--?”

“Yes—yes, Din—"

You mewled—in agreement or just at the fact that he could get you off with his voice alone. The floor slippery from your combined sweat and heat and release that fogged glass and condensed on the metal surfaces of the hold. His frame kept you prisoner though, safe from being pushed up too far away from him, his powerful forearm a paddock of muscle in front of you.

You dropped a hand to your clit and began rubbing at it frantically, it was all too much and not enough. His length splitting you with ever flush roll of his hips, the head bumping against nerves you had never known to be erogenous before. Every touch the tug of puppet strings in making you arch, making your fingers curl into the metal, making your mind empty with the white light of eternity.

Like the waves on Pamarthe, your orgasm ebbed the flaming tides for a blissful moment of relief, lasting just that bit longer than the first. Squeezing him in a vice, a shudder wracked through the large warrior as he emptied himself inside you once more.

As copious as the first time, you were soon swollen—distended with cum leaking out of you around his base and trickling down semen-heavy balls onto the grate flooring cutting your knees.

“Maker,” you panted, swallowing large gulps of air to try regain some semblance of control.

Your pussy twitched with fatigue when he pulled out, contracting with the loss of his size. Kneeling up, his mouth refused to part from your skin even as he struggled to regain his breathing. It had suddenly turned manual, you could commiserate.

Was it in for two, hold for one, out for three? In through your nose out through your mouth, you remembered that bit. But it all seemed rather unnecessary when you could be kissing him instead, his tongue invading your mouth when you turned to face him. Kneeling before him, his size had you craning your neck up to meet him, mewling into his mouth and squeezing your thighs together to stay full of him longer.

Your hands ran over muscular shoulders, down pillowy pectorals where his heart hammered under your fingers and pulsed rapidly on the infrared. Down the broad strength of a stomach softened with age and dusted with a happy trail to the heft of his cock jutting with insatiable need, his hips canting slowly into your hand while you stroked him.

Chafed, he groaned at your touch. Overly sensitive but still wanting more more more.

He whispered as much against your lips, the pollen evidently having a worse effect on him. In some secluded part of your brain – the part where reason was held captive – you figured it had something to do with exposure levels. Maker, if you were this horny from secondary exposure, Din must have been in agony having had primary exposure.

“Want you, want you—” he mumbled, repeating the confession like a mantra as you pushed on his chest, guiding him to sit on the askew mat—his temperature stabilized but still too high on the infrared.

The kiss you gave him was long and deep, stroking his cock until your wrist ached from use. You didn’t stop. Not even when your hand became messy with cum once more. You used it as lubrication to slick your movements. No one could ever say you weren’t resourceful. Your own mind was gradually succumbing to the haze once more, but you still managed to lower your head nonetheless to take him into your mouth.

His head fell back against the closest crate, a hiss of sensitivity from overstimulation while his girth filled your mouth almost instantly. Breathing through your nose, your tongue lathed attention to his tip while you stroked his base, circling the head and cleaning him of his prior release.

He tasted divine. A salty tang of addiction that made you want another taste…and another…and another. Until he was completely clean and only your drool and saliva soaked him as you took him deeper and deeper down your throat.

“Fuck, kitten—that’s it, deeper—” he groaned, sinfully deep—thick with a growl at your actions, “good girl.”

You purred at his praise, damn the man for knowing your weaknesses. The noise was muffled on a gag when he leaned up. Crunching his stomach and pushing his cock deeper down your throat so he could reach a hand over your back to smear the mess at your pussy that sat exposed to the air as you sucked him off.

Crystal tears blurred your vision through the infrared, the weight of his cock on the back of your tongue making your throat convulse. You gagged properly when he shoved two digits deep into your sore cunt, whimpering in sensitivity. The squelch of arousal and cum pushing out around his digits would normally embarrass you, the sheer amount that filled you—but you were too far gone to care.

Pushing your ass back into his hand – more – he fingered you. Pistoning his fingers into you fast until you were dangling over the precipice once more without your clit even being grazed. Maker, you were so raw and wet and swollen that his fingers felt massive inside you.

A fondle to his heavy balls – still so full, must be the pollen – pulled up tight to his body with his imminent climax and he came down your throat in hot, thick spurts.

You choked, struggling to remember to swallow it all down as he channeled his ecstasy into fingering you harder, blinding you with pleasure. It wasn’t enough though, you were so edged—so so edged, it was too painful without him inside you.

You told him as much, warbled words babbled around his cock as you licked him clean. His response was simple and immediate. He coaxed you to crawl up onto his lap, muscles weak but you managed the seemingly endless stretch to him. He helped you. Big hands forming under your thighs to straddle him, eager for your touch, your mouth, your pussy.

Cut up knees not registering in your urgency, you lined him up, rubbing the leaking tip between your folds and sitting down onto his cock with a cry of blissful relief.

You came instantly. A chokehold of pleasure that required no movement on either of your part as shivers wracked your body. You chased that initial crescendo, grinding yourself on top of him. Frantic, sloppy—wild.

A chorus of yes yes yes—rang out from you as he dug his fingers into your ass, guiding you faster. Your clit brushed constantly against the small smattering of a happy trail, prolonging your climax. Pants mingling, they ceased when his lips captured yours—your fingers buried in his lush hair, soaked from exertion. Biting, licking—it was more teeth and tongue than a kiss, both too far gone to follow through the brains design with the body’s action.

“Din—” you babbled, digging your nails into the back of his neck while your sweaty foreheads met.

“I know, kitten—”

You weren’t sure what it was he knew, but you trusted he did—because you hadn’t a clue. Distracted by him still fucking up into you with shallow thrusts from beneath, the ache of him filling you was nothing to the agony of being empty. Each orgasm was giving you that little bit longer of a reprieve and you could only hope that was a good sign.

“I-It’s on your hands,” you struggled to explain, mind somewhat clearer even as your body kept bouncing on his cock.

He didn’t seem to understand.

“You are all over me,” he growled, smacking your ass hard. Spreading your cheeks wide, he kneaded them—encouraging you up and down, up and down.

You lost yourself for a moment, hungrily kissing him until he cupped your jaw once more. The sweetness had faded, but you could still smell it vaguely.

“Listen to me, Din—listen,” your head fell back with a moan—walls fluttering with the kindling of your arousal once more, “we need to wash it off.”

“I need to fuck you,” the Mandalorian snarled, bucking up into you punishingly, forehead feverishly hot and the only thing you clung to in order to keep your sanity, “need to see you nice and round, need to breed you.”

Yes please. You wished you could slap your brain sometimes.

Your pussy clenched – dammit, slapping that turned you on – and you cursed your responsible nature. A lesser woman would say to Malachor with it and continue to fuck this god of a man for as long as she could. But knowledge screamed the dangers, everything that you were risking the longer you let this continue.

So, you stood—his cock falling heavily from inside you, strings of slick and release dripping from you as you did so. And Din roared. Denied his female, he rampaged to get to you again. At least, that what you hoped he would do.

“This way…” you tempted, walking backwards through the junk and crates and little things that made up your life on the Razor Crest towards the fresher door.

His body, even in the featureless heat signal, was an intimidating sight to behold as he stood. Shoulders tense and lifting with fury. All he was short on doing was exhaling steam—he was that close to a rutting reek. Or a dragon.

“Kitten,” he warned and it was the only one he was going to give you.

You continued to back up until you could press open the door to the fresher. The tug of pain low in your navel from the pollen reigniting with a vengeance the longer you went without him. The hydraulic door slid open with a hiss much too loud for the silent threat brewing in the hold.

He stalked you. Prowled closer and closer—into the fresher where you waited for the door to close and plunge you into darkness before removing the visor and turning on the water. Ice cold, freezing—it didn’t even bother you as his bulk crowded you against the far wall when he followed you under the spray.

“Nowhere to run, kitten—” he whispered against your cheek, his hands running possessively down your body.

You let your eyes roll closed, succumbing to the pleasure with the assurance that he would be okay. You turned your nose into his cheek, stubble grazing your skin with miniscule pricks of pleasure. You failed to meet his lips, your own parting against his when he cupped your mound,

“This is mine, understand?” he growled with a undertone of command that made you simultaneously want to protest and concur.

When you failed to say anything, mind short-circuiting at his dominance and the heft of his cock pressed into your belly, he gripped your jaw. Pressing his fingers into your cheeks, he practically forced your mouth open. As though he could physically form the words on your lips himself.

“Yours,” you admitted, much more easily than you would ever be proud of in your younger years. But Maker, you wanted to be his. His and no one else’s.

He rewarded you with a hard kiss, the heat under his skin cooling with the pollen washing away and the icy water on his back and hair. It didn’t stop him hiking your leg up around his hip though, nor his hand that rubbed his cock through your folds slowly, teasing. It didn’t stop him from pushing all the way inside you so that you could feel every inch of him throbbing as he forced your walls apart.

The pollen had completely washed away as he fucked you, slower but with no less desperation.

Clarity returned to his thrusts and he seemed to thank you with his body—pouring those words he struggled to articulate into confident strokes of his cock inside you. In the honey laced drags of his tongue in your mouth. In the whispered secrets shared in darkness and passion filled confessions hidden in desire.

Your nails tore into his shoulders and back when you came this time, wrapped around your Mandalorian and completely reliant on him to keep you standing. All your strength sapped, you sagged against him. Spasms of pleasure and twitches of overstimulation wreaked havoc on your body while he soothed you through your release.

Your muscles ached from being held up so high over his hip, but you remained flush tight to him.

“Come for me, Din—” you whispered into his jaw, kissing over the small patch where hair refused to grow, “it’s all gone now.”

Whether you meant all the pollen was gone or indeed, all the cum that had been inside you remained to be seen. He didn’t ask, you didn’t tell. But only one of those statements was proven false as he spilled inside you again. Making your lower body feel inexplicably heavier with the fullness and you wondered briefly, what being pregnant would feel like.

Chasing away the thought by sucking a mark into his straining neck, you couldn’t prevent the belying clenches of your pussy milking him. Din Djarin’s baby… fuck. That was a dangerous road you wouldn’t—couldn’t go down.

He came down from high slowly, shallowly thrusting his – finally – softening length into you. Still not wishing to be parted from you, even after the… however many hours it had been.

“K-kitten—”

You hummed in question when his head dropped to your shoulder, the shower water finally heating a little and battering over his scar speckled back.

“I—” he strained, eyelashes fluttering against your skin—trying to blink his thoughts into focus, “what the fuck was that—”

You laughed, a rough-hewn husky noise after what your voice had been put through.

“Did you touch some flowers?” you asked, dragging your fingers through his soaked hair, the ends curling around your digits in a way you were absolutely addicted to.

He was silent. Grumbled something into your skin but the words were too low for you to make out. You let him finish his rumbling sulk into your neck, his grumbles turning to purrs as he settled, inhaling your scent with the deepest inhales.

“I didn’t hear a word of that,” you snorted on a laugh, running your nose along his temple—a rarity when he stood so much taller than you, and only accessible when he bent down for you.

“Said I might have…tripped over something and uh—”

You blinked in the darkness, his body humming with embarrassment under your hands

“You fell into the flowers?”

“I’m not saying it again,” he huffed, put out.

You tried not to laugh, you really did. But it still shadowed your words as you cupped his cheeks to lead his mouth back to yours for a smiling kiss.

“You’re a walking disaster, did you know that?”

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partyporg · 2 years

Text

Through the Looking Glass

Summary: “I knew who I was this morning, but I’ve changed a few times since then.” —Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland

Pairings: Steven Grant x reader, Jake Lockley x reader, Marc Spector x reader

Word count: 9.2k

Warnings: Rough non-con, panty kink, violence, blood, gunplay, glove kink, asphyxiation, murder, creepy behavior, kidnapping, discussions of mental health

Note: the wait is over! writing this one hit a little too close to home lol. i want to thank my wonderful beta @nephilxterra for everything she did to workshop this. love you to pieces!

The first time you saw him was in the early morning.

Everyone was waiting for group to start when the big double doors marking the entrance to the psych unit swung open. Two paramedics wheeled a gurney right across the white line on the ground you weren’t allowed to cross with a man strapped to it. The unit you were in constantly saw people coming and going, so no one else paid him any mind. However, even at the risk of seeming rude, for some reason you didn’t understand, you couldn’t stop staring at him.

He looked tired, like he hadn’t slept in weeks. He had dark circles under his eyes, and the hollows of his cheeks were sunken in and sallow. The patients who were brought into the unit were normally calm (usually due to whatever anti-anxiety meds that had been given to them at the emergency room they were transported from), but there was something different about how resolute he appeared, like he was preparing himself for what was to come.

Suddenly, his gaze shifted, and his eyes locked with yours. Your breath hitched in your throat. You felt rooted to the ground by his eyes on you, as if he’d turned you to stone with the weight of his gaze alone. You couldn’t tear your eyes off of his. There was something impossibly dark about them, like they were two cold, empty voids you could fall into and get lost in forever. It made the hair on your arms stand on end.

You thought you saw his lips curve into a hint of a smirk before he was wheeled out of your sight.

You didn’t see him again until dinner time.

He was considerably more groggy, trudging into the rec room where the other patients waited while the nurses passed out trays of food. One of the nurses called out the name ‘Marc Spector,’ and he moved forward, clutching one of the unit’s standard issue blankets close around him.

By the time you got your tray, you spotted him sitting alone at one of the tables, picking at his mac and cheese absentmindedly with the tongs of his fork. Your heart wrenched in your chest with pity for him. You were lucky you’d been brought into the unit late in the night so you’d had time to process the situation while you slept. You could only imagine how overwhelming it was for him to be thrown into the middle of it all.

You mustered your courage before walking over to him. He raised his head when he saw you approach. “Do you mind if I sit with you?” you asked, plastering a smile on your face.

He looked up at you through droopy eyelids. “No, not at all.” His voice was weak, but you could just barely make out the lilt of a British accent.

“Thanks.” You slid into the chair across from him and introduced yourself. “You must be Marc.”

“Actually, my name is Steven,” he corrected you.

You blinked at him. You could’ve sworn the nurse said Marc, but you must’ve misheard. “Oh, my bad.” You shifted in your seat. “Is this your first time in a psych unit?”

He tilted his head, his face drawn up in a pensive expression. This close, his eyes weren’t hollow like they seemed before. Maybe it had been all in your head. “I’m not sure.”

You furrowed your brow. How could someone not remember being institutionalized before? Maybe whatever drugs were in his system were still wearing off. You didn’t recognize him though, which meant it was at least his first time in this particular unit. “That’s okay. I just wanted to let you know that you don’t have to be afraid. Everyone here is really nice.”

He perked up, some of the fog clearing from his gaze. “Really?”

“Oh, yeah. They’re all easy-going. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. Groups are optional, and most of the time they’re just fun stuff like games and arts and crafts. It’s not like you’ll be forced to spill your deepest darkest secrets or anything.” You playfully rolled your eyes. “Honestly, the most annoying part about being here is the nurses waking you up at six a.m. to check your blood pressure.”

That managed to earn a wheezy laugh from him, and you’d be lying if your stomach didn’t flutter a little at the sound. “That’s good to hear.”

Your face heated up under his gaze, and when you smiled at him this time, it was genuine. “Don’t worry. You’ll be in and out of here in no time.”

From then on, you and Steven were practically attached at the hip. He told you everything he knew about Egyptian mythology, reciting all sorts of stories about the gods Osiris and Anubis and Taweret that were better than any trashy romance novel you could find in the unit’s bookcase, and in turn you showed him the ins and outs of the unit. You took turns seeing who could solve a Rubik’s Cube the fastest (which Steven always did in an unprecedented short amount of time). You played long running games of Golf with the other patients, keeping score of who was in the lead until someone went home and then you’d start all over again.

You couldn’t remember smiling as much as you did since Steven had arrived there. You felt more yourself when you were around him, like you’d been sleepwalking through life and suddenly you were wide awake for the first time in months. Which made it even more heartbreaking when you discovered that he wasn’t real.

Steven Grant didn’t exist.

You were sitting in the rec room with the TV turned to a channel running a marathon of old B movies. The one that just so happened to be playing was Tomb Buster, a film whose main character was a British archaeologist who excavated Egyption tombs and just so happened to be named Dr. Steven Grant.

At first, you were worried that you’d imagined him, that you’d somehow seen this film before and it’d snuck into your subconscious, creating Steven as a way to cope with being stuck in the unit for so long. But it turned out to be very much the opposite: Steven was a coping mechanism for Marc Spector.

Steven fronted consistently since coming to the unit as far as you could tell. You figured he must be a protector, and the stress of the situation was too much for Marc to handle. You hadn’t actually met Marc, but Steven told you plenty about him, though it didn’t always paint him in the best light.

“He can be a real bugger,” he huffed. “Honestly, it’s better off if you don’t meet him. He’d probably just brood you to death.”

After a couple weeks, you’d finally worked up the nerve to ask him how he ended up in the unit, but he told you he didn’t quite remember. He said he figured Marc must’ve brought them in. All he could remember was waking up in his room before being called to dinner where he met you.

You didn’t care that Steve was an alter. You’d met plenty of people with DID before. After all, you were in a psych unit. You were just happy to have a friend. It almost made you selfish enough to wish that he wouldn’t leave.

You couldn’t sleep, not that that was new to you. You had long grown used to fitful, restless nights where you tossed and turned in bed, jolting awake from nightmares you couldn’t remember.

You were also used to feeling eyes on you at night. After all, the nurses completed their rounds every hour, peeking in on each patient through the little window in the door. But recently, something felt off. You could feel someone watching you, and no matter how tightly you clutched the thin hospital blanket to your form, you shivered at the chill that settled deep in your bones.

You burst awake for the umpteenth time that night, sitting up tangled in sheets soaked through with sweat. Your chest rose and fell in rapid succession as you sucked in big gulps of air, and your heart pounded against your ribcage. You reached for the cup of water at your bedside, hoping to get rid of the dry, sour feel in your mouth, only to find it empty.

You grabbed the cup and slipped out of bed, creeping out of your room. You padded down the hall in sock-covered feet, squinting against the fluorescent lights that were on all hours of the day. The faint noises of a commotion hit your ears, growing louder the closer you drew to the rec room.

When you got there, you saw Steven was awake too. His back was to you, and he was pressed up against the doors to the unit, slapping his palms against them. There were two nurses with him, trying to get him away from the doors and coax him back to bed.

“Please, please! You’ve gotta let me out of here!” he yelled. His voice was deeper, and lacking the usual intonation of his British accent. “I’m gonna hurt someone!”

You nearly crushed the plastic cup in your hand. That wasn’t Steven. That was Marc.

“Marc!” you rushed towards him. “Hey, Marc, it’s okay.” You told him your name. “I’m a friend of Steven’s.”

He went still, dropping his arms at his sides. He slowly turned around to face you. His dark hair was wild, and his eyes widened when he saw you. He pressed his back against the doors as much as he could. “Get her away from me!” He pointed at you, his finger shaking. “Stay away!”

Your heart sank to your stomach. You’d been looking forward to meeting Marc, only for him to be so scared of you that you couldn’t get a chance to talk to him.

You felt a hand on your arm and nearly jumped out of your skin. Your head snapped to see a nurse at your side. She must’ve snuck up on you. “Come with me, let’s get you back to bed.” She patted your arm. “You don’t need to be here for this.”

You let her guide you away, craning your neck to see Marc for as long as you could before he was out of your sight.

You didn’t see him for a couple days after that.

When he returned to the unit, you were ecstatic. As much as you wanted to hug him though, you resisted the urge and approached him cautiously with your tail tucked between your legs like he was a wild animal that might spook at any moment.

“Hi,” you said timidly, a small smile on your lips. “How are you feeling?”

His eyes were barely open again, the same way they’d been when you first met him. He was probably still recovering from whatever calming meds the nurses had given him. “I’ve been better, love,” he said, his voice thin.

Your heart thumped a little faster at the pet name, though you reminded yourself he used it often and now was especially not the time to get hung up on little things like that. “So I finally met Marc…”

His face fell. “You met him? When?”

“The night before they locked you away from everyone.” You chewed on your bottom lip. “He didn’t seem to like me very much…”

He furrowed his brow. “Are you sure?”

“Oh, trust me. He was very adamant about making it clear,” you said.

He scoffed. “How could he not like you? I find that hard to believe.” He crossed his arms over his chest, shaking his head. “I swear, and he thought he was the more sane of the two of us. Bloke must be out of his mind,” he muttered under his breath.

You bit back a smile. He focused his attention back on you. “What did he say to you?”

“He told me to stay away from him.” You frowned. “He seemed like he was scared of me, Steven.”

His hand shot out and grabbed yours, gripping on tight. “Well, don’t listen to him, alright?” He looked down at his hand and, realizing he was holding you too tight, let go. “I don’t want you to stay away. I’d dislike that very much.”

You couldn’t help but smirk. “You would, now would you?”

“Aw, bug off.” He knocked his shoulder into yours playfully. “I’m sure he was just freaked out to be fronting after weeks of being dormant. It probably had nothing to do with you. Besides, what reason would he have to be scared of you in the first place?”

You pursed your lips thoughtfully. “I don’t know, Steven. I don’t want to make Marc unhappy.”

“But have you stopped to consider what’d make me happy?” He raised his brows. “And since I actually know you, I figure that’s more important, yeah?”

He batted his lashes at you, his bottom lip jutting out in a pout. You heaved an exaggerated sigh. “Fine. But if Marc gets mad, that’s on you.”

His face broke out into a lopsided grin. “Puppy dog eyes work wonders, don’t they?”

You rolled your eyes. You couldn’t suppress it anymore and threw your arms around him, pulling him into a tight embrace. “I missed you, Steven.”

He went still for a second before tentatively wrapping his arms around your middle. “I missed you, too.” He let out a breath, the tension leaving his body as his shoulders sagged. “Don’t worry, I’m here. I’m back now.”

You rested your head on his shoulder and closed your eyes, clinging to him like your life depended on it. You didn’t want to ever let him go again.

You rummaged through the little cabinet in the corner of your room that held what little belongings you were allowed in the unit, a towel wrapped around you. You frowned when you couldn’t find your favorite pair of underwear, though you didn’t think much of it. Things tended to get misplaced when the nurses did the laundry all the time.

You huffed and grabbed for a pair blindly. You knew it was stupid to be upset over something so miniscule, but when you were required to wear a hospital gown and pants the unit provided for you everyday, getting to pick what underwear you wore each day gave you a little bit of freedom back.

Once you were dressed, you walked out into the rec room. You felt ten times lighter when you saw Steven sitting on the sofa by the TV like a weight had been lifted off your shoulders. You skipped over to him.

“‘Ello, governor,” you mimicked his accent as you plopped down on the cushion next to him. “What do you feel like doing today? Maybe some coloring, round up the others to play some Golf? Or do you just wanna zone out and watch TV all day?”

He didn’t respond, too busy trying to stare a hole into something over your shoulder. You cocked your head at him before glancing behind you to see a nurse rolling out one of the patients into the rec room.

“Oh, him? That’s just Arthur Harrow.” You folded your arms over the back of the sofa and shrugged. “You haven’t seen him before because he hardly ever leaves his room, and when he does, he’s usually out of it.”

When he didn’t respond, you looked back at him and froze. His eyes were rolled back into his head, and his body was trembling all over, like he was convulsing or having a seizure. You were about to call a nurse over when he stopped and blinked, his eyes returning to normal.

His gaze fixed on you, and you felt paralyzed. His brows were drawn together, and the features of his face were set into a stern expression. His lips were pressed together in a taut line. You knew in an instant that this wasn’t Steven you were looking at any longer.

“Marc?” you asked tentatively.

He said your name, his voice grim. “You have to listen to me very carefully. I need to get out of here.”

“Marc, I know this must be confusing for you,” you spoke in an even, calm tone, mirroring the way the nurses had talked to you many times before. “But you’re safe. You’re in a psych unit. You checked yourself in at the emergency room, don’t you remember?”

A crease formed between his brows as they knitted together. “That wasn’t me.” He shook his head.

It was your turn to look confused. If he couldn’t remember coming here, and Steven couldn’t either, then who did?

“You’re not listening to me.” He latched onto your wrist, his fingers digging into your skin. “Something very bad is going to happen if I stay here.”

Alarm bells rang in your head, and your muscles locked into place. “Marc, you’re hurting me,” you whispered, gritting your teeth.

“Do you hear me?” He shook your wrist, baring his teeth. An errant curl fell down his forehead. “I need to get out of here before something bad happens!”

You glanced over at where the nurses sat across the room. They were looking over at you, taking notice something was wrong, and started to stand. “Marc, you need to calm down or you’re going to get locked away again,” you hissed. You couldn’t handle even a few more days without seeing Steven again.

“You’re not safe.” His voice rose in panic. “He’s going to hurt you.”

Your lashes fluttered. “What?” He wasn’t scared of you, but for you? “Who’s going to hurt me? Is it Steven?”

Before he could answer, two of the nurses were on him. “Too much excitement for the day, huh, Marc?” one of them cooed in a sweet tone.

They each grabbed him by the armpits and hoisted him up, escorting him towards the hall. “Why don’t you take some time and rest in your room, all right?”

“Stay away!” Marc shouted after you as he dug his heels into the ground, his voice bouncing off of the walls. “Stay away!”

They dragged him out of sight. You stayed where you were, the sudden silence that had fallen over the room making the tension even more palpable.

He once again disappeared for a couple days, and when he returned, he was the same old Steven you knew well. You didn’t mention the encounter you had with Marc. You figured there was no point talking in circles with him. But you never could quite get Marc’s words out of your head.

You and Steven were the only ones still awake in the rec room. The TV had long been switched off, and the nurses were gone for the moment, most likely trading off shifts.

“What’s the first thing you’re going to do when you get out?” you asked him, curled up in the recliner and hugging your knees to your chest.

He pursed his lips in thought. “I’m going to look up at the sky,” he said, his voice almost reverent with awe. “That’s what I miss the most about being in here: being able to look up at the night sky and see all the stars forming constellations that were there long before us and will be there long after us, too. Reminds me that in the grand scheme of things, we’re quite insignificant.”

You snorted. “Yeah, that’s real uplifting.”

He rolled his eyes. “I mean that compared to the billions of years the earth has rotated around the sun, our lifespans are like a blip in comparison.” His face was tilted up like he could see the stars through the ceiling. “So we shouldn’t waste time worrying about the little things and make the most of it we can.”

You rested your head on the back of the chair and admired his profile. The longer you’d known Steven, the more you started to look past the under eye bags and appreciate just how disarmingly attractive he really was: the strong curve of his nose, the sharp line of his jaw, his long lashes brushing against his cheekbones, the crinkle by his eyes when he smiled. How thick and soft his dark curls looked, just tempting you to reach out and run a hand through them–

Your runaway train of thought was cut off when he turned to look at you. You sat up, hoping he hadn’t noticed you ogling him like a freak. “What about you?” he asked. “What’s the first thing you’ll do when you get out?”

You cast your gaze down to the floor. You were finally confronted with the sad truth, and you still couldn’t stare it in the face. “It’s not really a matter of ‘when,’ moreso an ‘if.’”

His brows drew together. “What do you mean?”

“There’s no point in me going out there when I’ll just end up right back here.” You blinked away the tears that welled in your eyes. “I don’t think I’m meant for the real world, Steven.”

He started to rise from his chair. “Hey, don’t say that.” He scooted closer to you. “Don’t talk about my best friend like that. You’re the most amazing girl I’ve ever met.”

You wheezed a laugh, a tear dripping down your cheek. You went still when he cupped your face in his hand, gently brushing away the tear with his thumb. You couldn’t help but lean into his warm palm like a cat nuzzling his skin.

He dipped his head to stare directly into your eyes. “You’re going to get out of here, okay? I promise you will. And when you do, you’ll have me by your side.” The corners of his lips tilted into a small, fond smile. “I’m not leaving here without you.”

Your heart leapt unevenly in your chest. You thought back to what he said earlier, about making the most of what little time you had on this speck of dust hurtling through the infinite abyss of the universe. If that was the case, there’d been something you’d wanted to do for a long time, and you didn’t think you could hold yourself back any longer.

All it took was for you to slightly lean forward to close the space between your lips. Your nose bumped against his, and your teeth clacked together, but you made the most of the clumsy, fumbling kiss that you could. He froze against you, and when he didn’t ease up, you pulled away.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured. You could already feel your skin heating up in embarrassment and started to shrink in on yourself. “I just thought–”

Before you could finish your sentence, his other hand came up to frame your face, and his lips crashed against yours. This time, the kiss was like something out of a novel or like what you’d seen in the movies, passionate, sparks going off and fireworks erupting. All the cliches and interchangeable love songs had been right.

You broke away at the same time, both out of breath. Your gaze flickered down to his lips to see they were swollen, a lovely shade of red.

“Don’t worry,” he whispered, his voice soft like he was afraid speaking any louder would disrupt the peace that enveloped you both like a warm blanket. “I wanted to do that for a long time, too.”

It was like he could read your mind. He caressed your cheek, and you melted into a malleable ball of putty in his hands. You sighed and closed your eyes, a dopey smile on your lips.

The bubble that had encapsulated you both popped when someone cleared their throat behind you. You pulled away from each other in an instant and turned your heads to see a nurse looming over you.

“Time for bed,” he grunted and didn’t say anything more.

You both crept down the hall like schoolkids who had managed to get away with something naughty, giggling to yourselves. You stopped in front of the door to your room, and he paused in front of his a couple doors down from you.

“Good night.” You bit back a smile. You wanted to kiss him again, but knew better than to risk it. The nurses would be on their rounds soon.

He leaned back against the door to his room. “Parting is such sweet sorrow, that I shall say good night till it be morrow.”

You raised a brow. “Did you just quote Shakespeare to me?” You shook your head. “Wow, you really are a nerd.”

You pushed through your door without saying anything else.

You slept peacefully that night for the first time in ages.

Finally, your unconscious state wasn’t plagued by nightmares, by shadow creatures chasing after you while your legs felt like lead. Instead, you dreamed about laying in a wide open field with Steven while staring up at the night sky. He would point out all the different constellations to you, rambling about each one at length, while you’d be preoccupied looking at him like he was the one who hung the stars in the sky. You’d much rather stare into his eyes than at the night for hours at a time any day.

When you woke, your eyes fluttered open, and you stretched your limbs with a groan. Remnants of your dream started to come back to you, and you grinned like an idiot, hiding your face in your pillow. It was still dark in your room, and you half-rose to glance over at the alarm clock on the bedside table to see it was still the middle of the night.

You huffed, though you supposed you should still be grateful. You couldn’t remember the last time you got that many hours of sleep in a row. Maybe kissing Steven wasn’t the cure-all to everything right away. Or maybe you’d have to go farther with him next time to get even more shut eye…

Before your thoughts could veer off into dangerous territory, the skin on the back of your neck rose to stand on end, and you shivered despite the covers on top of you. You looked over at the door, and sure enough, you could see a shadowed face peeking through the window into your room.

You were about to shrug and write it off as one of the nurses checking in on you when the face’s features struck you as odd. Your blood ran cold through your veins when you realized who you were looking at.

It was Marc. At least, you thought it was him. The lines of his face were too stern and the pitch of his eyes too dark to be indicative of Steven.

You managed to break from the paralyzed trance he caught you in and reached up for the light switch on the wall. You flipped it, flooding the room with light that had you wincing. You looked back at the door, but the little, square window was empty, showing nothing but the blank wall in the hallway.

He was gone.

The next day, you ran over to Steven’s room first thing after you dressed. His door was wide open, though when you scanned inside, he was nowhere to be found. You heard the telltale sound of running water from the adjoining bathroom and deduced that he was in the shower.

You took the open door as an invitation to come in and took a seat on his bed, deciding to wait for him. You tapped your foot against the floor as you smoothed your hands over the covers. His bed was perfectly made, and you couldn’t help but chuckle to yourself. You imagined him tucking in the sheets to your shared bed when he got up in the morning while you grumbled, pulling the comforter closer around you.

Your cheeks burned as you thought of how many times you’d imagined messing up his bed with him. Now that your feelings were out in the open, would that be a possibility? It’d be tricky with the nurses doing their rounds, though you supposed an hour was enough time to sneak in at least a little bit of fun.

You were drawn from your salacious thoughts when you looked down to see something wedged between the mattress and the bed frame. You furrowed your brow at the piece of fabric. Normally, you would’ve minded your business, but the pattern looked oddly familiar…

You yanked it out from where it was stuck and held it out in front of you. A pit formed in your stomach when your sneaking suspicion was confirmed: it was the pair of underwear you’d lost a couple weeks ago.

You blinked as all the blood drained from your face. You pinched them on both sides between your thumb and your forefinger. You looked inside to see that they weren’t clean. In fact, there was a dried substance crusted over the crotch.

You flung your underwear across the room. At the same time, the door to the bathroom flung open, and your underwear smacked the bare chest of a fresh out of the shower Steven before falling to the floor.

You both stared at each other for a moment, neither one of you daring to speak. You were too consumed by your recent discovery to be fazed by the fact that he had nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist.

He said your name, his hair straight and plastered to his face like a wet rat. “What are you doing in my room?”

You ignored him. “What’s that?” You pointed to the underwear on the floor.

He looked at you in bewilderment. “How the bloody hell am I supposed to know?”

“Well, I found them in your room tucked into the side of your bed.” You crossed your arms over your chest.

“I didn’t put them there, I swear.” He stumbled over his words as he spoke. “It must’ve been Marc.”

“Marc, huh?” You clenched your jaw. “I’m guessing it was also Marc who was peeping at me last night?”

His brows drew together, and his upper lip curled in confusion. “What?”

“I woke up last night and saw you staring at me through the window.” You’d thought maybe you were still dreaming when it happened, but now you knew it had very much been real. “Originally I thought it was Marc, but now I’m not so sure…”

“What are you implying?” he asked.

“I talked to Marc a couple weeks ago, before you were secluded again,” you said.

His mouth fell open. He looked hurt. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I didn’t think it was important at the time, but now that I know you might be creeping on me…”

“I am not creeping on you!” he interrupted.

“He told me I wasn’t safe and that ‘he’ was going to hurt me.” You stared him dead in the eye. “Who else could that be referring to, Steven?”

“Why are you taking his word over mine?” he fired back. “You don’t even know him!”

You stood up. “Why don’t I talk to Marc then and get this all sorted out?”

He looked disgusted. “That’s not how it works. You can’t just summon one of us like a dog waiting at your beck and call.”

“Well, that’s very convenient for you to blame everything on someone who can’t even defend himself,” you spat. “It must be nice to never have to take accountability for your actions.”

He stumbled back a step, like your words had slapped him in the face. You softened a little bit at his pained expression, but your blood was boiling hot in your veins with fear and anger and embarrassment, urging you to keep going.

“Is everything alright in here?”

You both looked over to see a nurse hovering in the doorway, her eyes flitting back and forth between the two of you.

You stepped away from Steven. “Everything’s fine. We’re finished here.” You looked back at him, sneering, “If you see Marc, tell him he got what he wanted.”

You stomped towards the hall. You paused in the doorway and glanced back at him over your shoulder. “Oh, and you can keep those by the way.” You gestured to the underwear still on the floor by his feet. “They’re ruined now.”

And then you left without turning back.

Today was the day Steven was finally going home.

You stood in the corner of the rec room, watching him. He sat at one of the tables near the double doors, his leg bouncing up and down impatiently. It was the first time you’d ever seen him out of a hospital gown, and you didn’t even get to tell him how adorable he looked in his jacket and flat cap. You wondered if those were the clothes he’d worn when he checked in all those many months ago.

You were surprised at how quickly he managed to recover. It only took him a couple days to be discharged after his fight with you. You wondered if you’d been what was holding him back all along, and now he was doing better without you.

Your whole body ached with guilt over what you’d said. You wished you could take it all back, to suck up all the venom you had spewed so easily. You wished you’d heard him out and hadn’t been blinded by rage. Maybe you’d reacted too quickly. Maybe it’d all been a misunderstanding.

But it was too late. He was leaving now.

You watched as a nurse came over to him and told him something that made him stand up. He started towards the double doors, and your heart pounded in your chest. Before you knew what you were doing, your feet carried you over to him.

“Steven!” you called out. “Wait!”

He stopped right as his hand rested on the double doors. He turned around, facing you with a blank, unreadable expression. You stood on the other side of the white line on the ground separating you, shifting your weight from foot to foot and toying with your fingers.

You hadn’t even thought of what to say before you went storming after him. All the things you’d wanted to say to him for weeks rested on the tip of your tongue, just waiting to spill out: I didn’t mean what I said. I miss you. Please don’t go. I love you.

But there was one thing above all the rest that you wanted to say to him more than anything.

“Steven, I’m…” Your voice sounded impossibly small. “I’m sorry.”

He stared at you, long and hard for a moment. You could feel your pulse throb in your wrists as you waited anxiously for his response.

“I have to go.” There was something off about his voice. It didn’t hit your ears right. “My ride’s here.”

Then, he turned and pushed through the double doors without looking back.

You stood there, watching the doors swing on their hinges while your heart cracked in two in your chest. You swallowed down everything else you desperately wanted to tell him, and all your unspoken words sank in your gut like a stone.

You went back to life before you met Steven.

After living in color for so long, it felt strange to see in black and white again. You withdrew into yourself, not going to groups, eating meals in your room, skipping out on games of Golf with the other patients. You were no longer content with the meager friends you’d make who’d leave in a couple of days. You wanted him.

You’d had hope that maybe there was a chance you’d leave and stay gone once, but now you were sure you were never getting out.

You were lying on your side, staring at the blank wall in your room. You were thinking about the time Steven tried to teach you French (which you had failed at miserably, but you really just wanted to hear him speak the language of love) when you noticed how eerily silent it was. In the middle of the day, there was always some noise in the unit, but now it was so quiet you could hear a pin drop.

Footsteps cut through the quiet drawing closer to your room. You twisted around to watch as a figure passed by. You caught a glimpse of them through the window in the door, their face shadowed by the flat cap low on their head.

Your heart rate spiked. It couldn’t be…

You threw the covers off of you and jumped out of bed in a hurry. You peeked your head out of the room just in time to see him turn the corner. You slipped down the hall, following in his tracks. You wondered if you were seeing things, if you’d finally truly lost it. Only one way to find out…

You rounded the corner and noticed the door to Arthur’s room was open. You furrowed your brow as you crept forward. You peered into the room and saw the figure with his back to you, his broad shoulders straining against the fabric of his jacket as he hunched over.

“Steven?” you asked, hopeful. Had he come back for you like he promised?

The man stood up straight and whirled around to face you. Your face fell. The man you were looking at had Steven’s face, but his eyes were cold and dark without the usual twinkle in them. They made goosebumps rise on your arms.

You stumbled back a step. “You’re not Steven.” And judging by the harsh, grim lines of his features, he wasn’t Marc, either.

He swayed to the side and something behind him caught your eye. Arthur was sprawled out on his bed with his mouth open in a silent scream, his wide eyes boring into you. A red stain bloomed in the middle of his white hospital gown.

He was dead.

The man smiled. “Aquí tienes, querida.” He took a step towards you. “Esperaba que te presentaras.”

That’s when you noticed the gun he was gripping in his gloved hand.

You opened your mouth to scream, but he was on you in a second, clamping a gloved hand over your mouth. He wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you back flush against his solid chest. “Silencio,” he hissed in your ear.

You writhed against him, kicking your legs, but his hold on you remained strong. Your screams came out muffled against his hand. He dragged you down the halls like you weighed no more than a feather, even as you struggled. You tried to dig your heels into the ground, but that did little to deter him.

As he carried you, you noticed the carnage he’d left in his wake: patients and nurses alike, some you’d known for months, slumped over on the floor and painted scarlet. You were oddly enough thankful for his hand over your mouth as you gagged, your stomach contracting in on itself.

He pushed through a door and yanked you outside. You squinted against the harsh light assaulting your eyes to see you were behind the hospital. You sucked in a breath of fresh air through his hand covering your nose and mouth. You had no idea your first time outside in months would be like this.

He pulled you over to a white limousine that was parked behind the hospital. He wrenched open the door and threw you inside. You landed on the plush seats, and he slid in after you, closing the door behind him and shutting out the light behind the tinted windows.

You instinctively reached for the door handle, but before your fingers made contact, you heard the lock click into place. That didn’t stop you from tugging on it anyway. “Let me out!” you yelled, slapping your palms against the glass. “Help! Somebody, please!”

He sneered as he grabbed hold of the back of your hospital gown, ripping you away from the door. His other hand holding the gun came up and brought it down on you, smacking you clear across the face. Your head fell to the side, your cheek already blazing. The inside of your mouth was cut from where metal had struck against teeth, the copper taste of blood flooding your mouth.

You clutched the side of your face, your cheek throbbing under your palm. Your skin stung and was already starting to swell. You backed away from him and pressed yourself against the other side of the limo, as far away from him as you could get in the confined space.

“Are you going to kill me?” you asked, your voice barely louder than a whimper.

He chuckled, and the sound made a chill run down your spine. “Si quisiera matarte, ya estarías muerto.”

You wrinkled your brow. “I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “How’s this, princesa? Better for you?” he asked in a thick hispanic accent.

You swallowed hard around the lump in your throat. “Who are you?”

“My name’s Jake Lockley.” He tilted his head, eyes trailing over you in a way that made your skin crawl. “I’ve been waiting to finally meet you for a long time, querida. It’s a shame you had to behave the way you did.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “You kidnapped me.”

“I could’ve done way worse. You saw what I did to your little amigos back there.” His lips split open into a grin. “You should be thanking me right now.”

You gritted your teeth, thinking about the corpses littering the hallways of the unit at this very moment. “Why did you kill them?”

“I didn’t want to,” he said, though he didn’t sound apologetic in the slightest, “but they were in the way of my target.”

You furrowed your brow. Target? The image of him hunched over Arthur’s dead body covered in blood flashed unbidden in your mind, and you had to keep from retching again. He’d been after Arthur the entire time.

“Why?” you asked. Was he some kind of hitman or something? “Why did you kill him?”

He leaned back in his seat, his lips tilted into a lopsided smirk. “That’s for reasons far beyond your understanding.”

“Then why didn’t you kill me?” you snapped. “Or is that also too far beyond my understanding?”

He wasn’t fazed by your temper. In fact, he seemed impressed by it. “You got quite the mouth on you, querida.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “That’s one of the things that drew me to you.”

There was an intensity in his eyes, an almost sort of fondness he held for you. Your eyes went wide. The underwear. Marc’s warnings. The face in the window. They’d been him this entire time.

Steven was right, and you had called him a liar to his face.

“I’ve been watching you for a long time,” Jake continued. “I was worried you’d become a distraction that’d I’d have to get rid of, but that was before you proved yourself useful to me.”

You curled your upper lip. “Useful?”

“You knew all the exits and entrances to the building, when the nurses would be on rounds and change shifts, all the blind spots on the security cameras.” He spread his arms wide. “I have to hand it to you. If it weren’t for you, I don’t think I’d have been able to pull it off.”

The world started to spin around you. You’d known everything there was about the unit and told it all to him so freely. He’d taken advantage of the knowledge you’d acclimated after being there for so long and your loneliness. You’d practically served Arthur to him on a silver platter.

“No…” you muttered under your breath. You shook your head, your breath accelerating to the point where you were nearly hyperventilating. “No…”

“Think of it this way: without you, a lot of more people would’ve potentially died.” He shrugged nonchalantly, like he was discussing the pros and cons of buying a new car. “Consider the fact that I’m sparing your life as my repayment for your help.”

You squared your jaw. “Thank you,” you spat.

He hummed, his eyes sliding over you. “I can think of some other ways you can show your appreciation.”

He reached forward and cupped your face in his gloved hand, stroking your skin with his fingers. Your muscles locked into place, your pulse thrumming at the pace of a hummingbird’s wings. You tried to shirk him off, but he tightened his grip until he was squishing your face, the leather of his gloves painfully digging into your skin.

“Steven,” you tried to say, but it came out garbled. “Steven, I know you’re in there. Don’t let him hurt me.”

“He already told you that’s not how this works, remember?” He leered at you. “But don’t worry. He’ll be watching everything I do to you.”

You were thankful he was holding your chin so tight, stifling the sob that threatened to come out of you.

He tilted your head this way and that like you were a pet he was appraising. “I meant it when I said you have quite the mouth.” His tone was menacing. “But I think I have a better use for it.”

He pinched your cheeks closer together, forcing your lips apart. “Open.” He pushed a gloved finger into your mouth.

A fire burned in your eyes as you prepared to bite down. He must’ve felt your jaw tense, because he started tutting. “I wouldn’t recommend that.”

You felt the metal silencer on the gun in his hand press against the side of your head, and your body went stiff. “I’d hate to blow your pretty brains out all over the inside of this limo.” He smirked. “It just got cleaned.”

He slipped another finger into your mouth, parting your lips even further. He thrust them in and out, feeling around the wet cavern of your mouth. His fingers were so thick, they filled the entirety of your mouth, pressing down on your tongue and pushing against the roof of your mouth.

You squeezed your eyes shut, hot tears rolling down your cheeks. You didn’t want to see his face, the same face you’d admired and adored for so long, twisted into something so cruel and ruthless and menacing.

“Open your eyes,” he hissed, pressing the gun harder against your head. “Look at me.”

Your eyes snapped open, staring up into his unforgiving ones. He pulled his fingers out of your mouth, the leather shiny and glistening. He shifted his grip on your chin, and your saliva felt cold and tacky against your skin.

“I wanted to see you like this from the first day I saw you.” His voice was low. “On your knees for me like the putita you are.”

His hand shifted on the gun, and then he was pushing it into your mouth. Your eyes nearly popped out of your skull, and you made a noise of defiance, pushing against his knees. He didn’t ease up, sliding it further into your mouth. You stilled when it hit your uvula, your throat constricting painfully around the metal.

The gun retreated, and you sagged in his grip a little bit, exasperated. But then he thrust it all the way back into your mouth, forcing you to gag again. “Come on, putita. Treat it like a cock,” he taunted you. “You know how to suck cock, don’t you?”

You looked at where his finger hovered over the trigger and knew what he would do if you didn’t comply. You hollowed your cheeks and bobbed your head in time with his thrusts despite the way you trembled in his grip. Your mouth squelched each time the gun sank to its limit.

“That’s it, cariña,” he purred. He let go of his grip on your chin to pet the top of your head condescendingly. “Isn’t it so much better when you’re a good girl for me?”

The gun was massive, thicker than his fingers and even longer due to the silencer almost doubling its length. And he insisted you took all of it, shoving it down your throat. Your jaw ached from how wide it was pried apart, and your dry lips cracked around where the gun slid into your mouth. Your tears mixed with where your drool collected on your chin, dripping onto your lap below.

He pulled the gun out with an impatient growl. You sputtered, coughing for air. Your lips were swollen and sore from all the abuse they’d already suffered.

“Turn around,” he demanded.

You froze, fear seeping deep into your marrow. You stared up at him with wide, unblinking eyes like a deer caught in headlights.

“Turn around,” he repeated, gritting his teeth. “Now.”

You still didn’t move. He got fed up and grabbed you by the hair. You cried out as he yanked on your scalp, forcing you to turn around. He pushed on your head, and you crumpled to your hands and knees in front of him.

Alarm bells went off in your head when you heard the jingle of his belt behind you. “I thought you were done with this.” He undid the buckle lightning fast, tugging it loose through the loops on his pants and whipping it off. “What happened to my good girl?”

“Please, don’t,” you croaked, your voice hoarse. “I’ll do anything, but not this.” Not like this.

“Don’t pretend you don’t want this, querida,” he sneered, pushing up your hospital gown. “You may not want me, but I know you’ve wanted this body for a long time. I saw the way you looked at Steven.”

You wailed as he pulled down your pants, your underwear going with it. He leaned down and pressed his nose against your folds, inhaling deeply. Your body tensed, your face flushing with embarrassment.

“I love your scent.” He sighed dreamily. “I used to jerk my cock late at night, smelling your panties, but the real thing is even better.”

He retracted from you, and you went lax under him until you felt him position himself at your entrance. “I can’t wait to get inside you any longer.”

Panic flared in you. “Wait–” you started to beg but were cut off as he pushed into you.

You wheezed, jolting forward as he thrusted into you to the hilt. You fell to your elbows, arching your spine as his grip on your hair kept your head up. Each time he thrust into you hard, it felt like a punch to the gut. His hold on your hair was so tight, you thought he would rip the strands straight from your scalp.

You tried to scramble away from him until you felt the gun pressed against the back of your head. “Don’t test my patience, putita,” he grunted.

You went still and squeezed your eyes shut, your chin wobbling as you held back sobs. Even without the gun, you knew you’d be helpless against him. He could overpower you easily. At least now you weren’t forced to look at his face anymore.

“Fuck, you’re so wet,” he groaned. Sure enough, there was a telltale squelch as he fucked into you, every ridge and vein of him sliding against your sensitive walls. “Is this all for me?”

You yelped as he sped up the pace, the clap of flesh against flesh filling the interior of the limo. He let go of his grip on your hair, and your head fell forward against the seat. He brought his hand down on your ass hard, eliciting a squeak from you. You were sure you’d have an imprint of his glove on your cheek for days afterward.

“Do you think Steven could fuck you this good, huh?” He leaned forward to growl in your ear, his hand slipping down to rub at your clit. “‘Cause I don’t think he’d last more than thirty seconds in this warm, tight pussy.”

You bucked against him involuntarily as he rubbed light, fast circles over your clit, the fingers of his gloved hand sticky with your spit brushing against the bundle of nerves just right. Your vision went white as pleasure spread across your whole body. You clawed at the leather of the seats, leaving scratch marks as you convulsed around him.

“Mmm, yeah, that’s it.” His voice was husky as he didn’t let up on your clit. “Come for me, putita.”

You mewled from the oversensitivity as you came down from your high. The guilt and shame set in, heavy like a stone in your gut, and you felt sick to your stomach getting off on this man forcing himself on you.

“Do you think Marc could make you come that hard?” He pressed the gun harder into your head until it dug into your scalp. “‘Cause I think he would finish before he could get to feel you squeeze his cock like that.”

He hammered into you at a frantic, rapid pace. He shoved your head into the cushions until you couldn’t suck in a full breath of air. You scrambled, trying to push yourself up with your hands pressed against the seat, but his hold on you didn’t budge an inch. Your screams came out muffled, and your lungs started to burn from lack of oxygen.

“Fuck, just like that.” His voice started to rise in pitch, and his thrusts lost rhythm. “You’re gonna make me come, putita. I’m gonna fill you up, have you dripping with me for days.”

You were too out of it to try to protest. Your head swam as you felt him thrust into you as deep as he could. He stilled as he came inside of you, flooding your insides with his hot seed.

He pulled out of you and flipped you over. You gasped for air, greedily sucking in sharp intakes of breath. The fuzzy, gray dots clouding your vision started to clear just as his lips crashed into yours, stealing what little breath you’d manage to inhale. He forced his tongue into your mouth and ran it along the cut on the inside of your cheek, making it sting all over again.

He pulled away from you and licked his lips, painting them red with your blood. You slumped back against the seat, overcome with exhaustion. He looked down at where his come mixed with your juices trickled out of your abused hole, pooling on the leather cushions beneath you.

“Khonshu is not gonna like that,” he muttered to himself. He took off his hat to rake a hand through his sweaty locks before putting it back on. “He’s not gonna like where I’m taking you either.”

He rose, ducking his head as he climbed into the front seat. You mustered enough strength to lift your head. “Where are you taking me?” you rasped.

You caught his dark gaze in the rearview mirror. He twisted around in his seat to look at you over his shoulder, raising the gun still clutched in his hand as a reminder of his power over you. (Not that he needed to. You were too weak to fight him now, anyway.)

“You’re coming with me.” His lips parted in a smirk. “Steven said he wouldn’t leave without you, and I intend to make good on that promise.”

Translations:

Querida - Darling

Cariña - Sweetheart

Princesa - Princess

Putita - Little bitch/slut

Silencio - Silence

Amigos - Friends

“Aquí tienes, querida. Esperaba que te presentaras.” - “There you are. I was hoping you would show up.”

“Si quisiera matarte, ya estarías muerto.” - “If I wanted to kill you, you’d be dead already.”

2K notes · View notes

partyporg · 2 years

Text

(I Want You To) Stay

Notes: Partially inspired by 'Lost In The Fire' by Gesaffelstein & The Weeknd. Written between the airing of episodes 3 & 4, so I don't even know if this will eventually fit into the canon timeline.

This was written entirely for myself and all my favorite kinks, so this fic feels a lot truer to my personal experiences and tastes than most others I've read. Enjoy?

Warnings: threesome, oral (fxf), fingering, choking, hair pulling, voyeurism, guided sex (Layla and Reader guide Steven), unprotected sex (fxf & mxf), slight angst, use of she & her pronouns for reader

Pairings: Marc Spector & Steven Grant x Reader x Layla El-Faouly, vague mention of Jake Lockley

Word Count: 5,165

The past few days - weeks? - have been hell. You miss your bed back in London, your flat and the foggy mornings and the museum where you and Steven should be. But instead, you're in Egypt with a man who isn't Steven but wears his face, and the most gorgeous woman you've ever met, who also happens to be not-Steven's estranged wife. Not-Steven's name is Marc and he's all rough and jagged edges and castle walls built up to protect himself. Marc's wife is called Layla, an archaeologist with the fierce yet unassuming spirit of the desert dunes burning inside her. You miss Steven; the two of you had spent nearly a year getting know each other on lunch breaks and half-rushed outings for tea and book shopping, had spent nearly a year building up to something, only for it all to disintegrate with the arrival of Marc, Jake, Khonshu, and the Ammit cult. Now you're caught up in the midst of it and you're not sure if you regret it or not because the three of you are bruised, bloody, and intoxicated, and Layla's looking between you and Marc like she's furious. Or ravenous.

You throw back your fourth shot of the night as somebody's phone blasts a heavy, electro-pop beat on the kitchen counter of a borrowed flat. Your head is swimming and your fingers and toes are starting to tingle. Your eyes sting from holding back tears because the more you drink, the more you think about Steven and how much you miss the tender glimmer in his eyes and the shy dance he does around his feelings for you every time you're near, and the more you think about how Marc looks everything and nothing like him. Marc is confident and suave and strong, he's brave and bloody, and if Steven is handsome, then he's gorgeous. He's almost scary, but you know he's safe somehow. You know he'd never hurt you. In fact, you're pretty sure you remember seeing him once or twice before in stolen glimpses at a suddenly tense and stern looking Steven. Has he always been around? You wonder what he thinks about you. You wonder if it matters.

"So is either one of you going to finally tell me what's going on?" Layla asks.

You swallow nervously as Marc stops fidgeting with his empty shot glass. He leans back against the counter with his one elbow supporting his weight; he's trying to act casual, you think.

"What's going on with what?" he counters tiredly.

"Between you two."

Your head snaps towards Marc as his gaze flies and locks onto you. You feel your cheeks heat up and that angsty feeling from earlier start to rise up in your chest. There's something in his eyes that reminds you of Steven, something tender that's reaching for you.

Marc looks away first. "There's nothing going on with us, Layla."

She looks at you with an eyebrow raised. "Is that true?"

You nod and feel a tear slip down the side of your cheek. You manage to wipe it away by pretending to rub your eyes, like you're so tired you can barely keep them open. "Yes," you frown. "I never met Marc before all this, it was just Steven. But we never-. Nothing ever happened. We didn't-."

"Didn't you?" But she doesn't sound accusatory or angry. Just curious.

"No," you reply.

She hums thoughtfully. "Did you want to?"

The liquor betrays you and you admit the answer easier and quicker than you would have liked. It's a blatant, simple "yes", not hesitated or fumbled or unsure. And you're a little embarrassed, but your blood is also thundering through your veins and Marc is eyeing you a little closer than he ever has and your heart is starting to race.

Layla nods and throws back another shot; you're not sure what number she's on now. "Well," she begins with her hands on her hips. "We made it out alive, didn't we? All in one piece?"

You and Marc share a look and nod, albeit hesitantly. Where is this going?

"I say we celebrate."

Marc shakes his head. "No, Layla-"

She spins and puts her hands on his jaw to draw him in, plants a kiss right on his lips so quickly that he doesn't even react. He stands there and takes it, but doesn't move. She pulls away, eyes flitting across his face and they seem to say something, but you try not to interpret it. You know it will only hurt. More than this situation already does.

And as you turn back to the counter to either get another shot or lock yourself into the bathroom and cry your eyes out for the next hour, Layla catches you by the wrist and jerks you back. You can feel the Earth crashing into you as she descends on you, all tongue and wet heat and fingers grabbing at whatever soft, pliable flesh she can reach. You shatter into her and fall apart with wanton, needy moans that rip you apart from your navel to your nose.

When she finally pulls away, her mouth is damp with your saliva and her eyes are throbbing, if such a thing is possible. She's a warm, lithe streak of want dotted with constellations in the shape of freckles and if it weren't for Steven, she might be everything you've ever wanted. You look past her at Marc, whose mouth is parted as he watches your lips like it's his first time discovering them.

Something shifts in the air and you know beyond any shadow of a doubt that this is happening, and not even the gods themselves could stop it. Your heart hammers in your chest as Marc takes a step forward, almost timid, then another and another until he's filling up the entirety of your vision, blocking out the world like an eclipse. The skin of his hands is rough and they smell like sweat and whiskey, but they brush against you all the same and you wilt like a flower in his heat. His tongue sweeps across you, molding into the cavern of your mouth and you feel like flying.

A hand rolls over your hip, wrinkling the fabric of your thin linen skirt, then tugs at your shirt. Oh my god, you think, this is happening. This is really happening. Because your shirt is untucked and loose and his hands are on your skin, seeking out your breasts and massaging his fingerprints into them. You moan and it's vulgar. Your shirt is gone in a flash and his lips are latched onto your neck, sucking bruises into your skin and your panties flood with arousal at the thought of him marking you. Even if he isn't yours and you aren't his, you're still intrinsically linked.

Marc finally reels himself back, satisfied with his work as he looks you over. You gaze up at him and you can hardly breathe. The corner of his mouth lifts into a smug little grin and it makes your thighs clench.

"Maybe we should continue this somewhere else," he suggests as he looks to Layla.

She is bright and radiant as she slips her bra off from underneath her shirt. You can see the peaks of her breasts poking through and it unlocks something wild deep inside you. You nod absently at Marc's suggestion because a bed sounds fantastic right now, but you're more focused on the fact that Layla has never looked so ready to be devoured as she does in this moment, so you grab her by the end of her shirt and tug.

Your name bubbles out of her with a laugh, but she goes still almost immediately as you wrap her hair around your fingers and pull. The sound she makes is so obscene, so rich that you can feel it in your own body as you latch onto her earlobe, her jaw, the vein pulsing blue in her neck.

"Fuck," she breathes, low and whiny, and you can't stand it anymore.

"Need you," you say through your teeth as you start to stumble backwards, still attached through her hair and your mouth. "Both of you."

Marc is right beside you and breathing into your hair, and you break away from Layla long enough to turn and kiss him. "You gonna be good for us, sweetheart?" he whispers, his eyelashes nearly brushing yours. You nod.

His thumb rubs over your bottom lip and he lets you take him in your mouth for a moment. He feels heavy and it's perfect. You need more of him, need him inside you any way he wants, just so long as he's there and Layla's there and you're all a mess of limbs and lust and liquor.

A shock of pale brown skin comes into view as your eyelids flutter up and down. You see a hand drift across Marc's shoulder, then up his neck, over his cheek, and into his hair. Layla pulls hard to expose his Adam's apple, and your stomach churns as the scattered streetlamp lights and faint glow of an old digital clock illuminate the length of his neck. He chokes on his own pleasure and rocks between the two of you, all solid planes and muscle, and he's stunning. You take this moment as a chance to explore him, lift his shirt up his abdomen and admire the way his skin glistens and the hairs trailing from his navel down below the line of his jeans.

When you lift your eyes, you see that he and Layla are still tangled together but her hand is around his neck and he looks like he's about a minute away from dropping to his knees, and you're caught between feeling like an intruder and wanting to take what's yours. So you stuff his shirt up to his armpits and kiss him, let your tongue wander over his chest and down to the valleys between his muscles. You keep going until you're kneeling near his hips and then you pause and just, look.

His stomach is firm, yes, but it's also soft. He's fit, but he hasn't lost the gentle squish padding his lower stomach and the very top of his hipbones. He's malleable in your hands and he trembles when you touch him. He shuffles a little and his shirt goes flying over your head, meanwhile Layla's pants and his belt fall to the floor with a gentle thump.

You feel a hand at the back of your neck, then another cupping your cheek, and you're slowly guided back to your feet. Someone tells you to sit on the bed and you didn't even realize the three of you had made it to the bedroom, but you do as you're told and let them follow you. Denim pants and mismatched socks and black underwear litter the path from them to you until Layla's just in her shirt and Marc is in his boxers, and your mouth is watering at the sight of them.

Marc points to your bra and huffs. The magen david around his neck glimmers in a whisper of clock light. "Take it off." It's gone in an instant, and you take your underwear off as an afterthought, but you're too dizzy with want to think about removing your skirt. Doesn't matter though, not when he's looking at you like that.

The world is swimming as you shuffle yourself up to the head of the bed. Layla crawls up after you and you reach for her, mouth open and panting, desperate to feel her, to taste her. Your arms wrap around her thighs like its instinct and push her down on top of your face. She smells hot and salty, her hair is rough on your cheeks, but she tastes like heaven and she sounds even better. You steal a glance at her thrown back head, her wild curls, the movement of her breasts beneath her shirt and feel yourself clench. You're so wet that it's starting to trickle and smear onto your thighs.

Marc initially comes into view as just a hand on her throat, dark olive against her cool sandstone, but then you see him at her ear. She moans so loudly that you feel it reverberate into your mouth. The wetness of her cunt floods over your tongue and you grunt as your stomach twists again. You close your eyes; they're too beautiful to watch head on, too in love to witness for longer than a heartbeat.

Layla's skin is impossibly smooth. You can't keep your hands off her thighs, you can't stop wondering if she'll push herself inside you later and make you see stars. You want to keep your face between her thighs for the rest of your life. Her clit trembles and twitches under your tongue as she does the same above you, and you smile.

You can hear Marc mumbling something to her and it's too difficult to make it out over the sound of the bed rustling and Layla whimpering and your heart thundering in your ears, so you don't try. The bed dips down by your legs. You feel a knee between your calves and a hand on your thigh, and you start a little, but he's so warm and you're so eager for his touch that you melt for him anyway. Then your skirt is shucked up around your hips and his hands are burning paths up your thighs, to the creases in your legs, ghosting over the wet patches.

"Fuck," you hear him growl and then his finger comes between your lips. You choke on the moan you rumble into Layla's clit and arch up beneath her, and she shivers and laughs. Marc traces a finger in little circles just around the edge of your clit. Your hips are starting to buck, you feel unhinged and wild and parched, but he just laughs and drops his finger a little lower. It slips inside you with vulgar squelch as his other hand pins your hip to the bed to still you.

"Marc," you moan into Layla's heat, although it comes out muffled, and she moans back with a hand at her breast. His thumb rubs haphazard motions over your clit as he adds a second finger, thrusting and curling them so deftly that you know you're not going to last very long.

You nip at Layla's clit in response, work a hand out from under and around her thigh to move it over her breast. Her nipples are large and pebbled, and you want more than anything to take them into your mouth, but your thumb will do for now. You alternate between soft little strokes around the areola and firmer tugs and pinches on her nipple. You wish for a moment that you had double of everything so you could have them both in every way possible all at once.

Your name tumbles from her lips breathy and rough and strained as she bucks into you. "I... I'm close- fuck!.. Almost."

You flick you tongue across her clit a certain way and she makes a little oh! sound that almost makes you orgasm on the spot.

Marc grunts behind her as he starts thrusting harder and faster into you. "You got another one in you, babe?" Her curls bounce. Marc's mouth spells out the shape of your name and you whine in response. "You think you can cum twice for us, sweetheart?"

You pause for a moment. It sounds wonderful, but you're not sure you can manage it this time. You swallow some of Layla's wetness, savoring the taste as it goes, and finally shake your head. She translates for you and Marc's thrusting slows. His thumb fades from your clit, but he stays inside you still.

"Sit up," he instructs after a moment.

The alcohol swirls in your belly and you're confused until you realize that Layla is moving and you're getting pulled with her. Marc is moving her so that she's on her hands and knees, and she's bringing you along so you're sitting in front of her. She stretches her neck as far as she can to kiss you.

The sudden slapping of flesh on flesh draws you apart just as Layla jolts forward. You look over her shoulder to see Marc braced with a knee and a foot on the mattress, and he's inside her. His head falls back, his curls drifting across his face as his mouth breaks open and contorts in pleasure. He's beautiful. You look at Layla and she's beautiful too.

They take a moment to adjust to each other and it feels too private for you to be intruding upon, but it passes soon enough and then Marc is fucking into her slow and hard and steady. His fingers grip her waist hard enough to leave red and white marks on her lightly freckled skin. Then his eyes flicker and lock onto you, and your stomach erupts into butterflies.

"You gonna watch, sweetheart?"

You nod dumbly.

Marc grunts, his mouth caught in an almost smirk. "She's gorgeous, isn't she?"

"Yeah," you somehow manage to say through the dumpsterfire of inebriation and sex that is your brain.

He wraps a fist in her hair and tilts her head back, her jaw slack and her eyes screwed shut. Her shirt hangs low enough that you can see the outline of her breasts as they jiggle in time with Marc's hips snapping against her. You reach a hand between your legs and shudder, but the look in Marc's eyes pins you in place.

"You wanna cum like that?" he asks. "Or do you wanna wait for me to bury my face between your thighs?"

Your back literally gives out. Your catch yourself and land on your elbows, but you're still reeling. All you can see is Marc pistoning into Layla like she's his only lifeline and all you can think about is Marc, almost-but-not-quite-Steven, lapping at your arousal until you scream. Your nails dig into the soft skin of your upper thighs, but you don't touch yourself. You watch and you wait, and you let your eyes drift shut every now and then so that Layla's choppy moans and Marc's needy grunts sink into the very deepest spot in your belly.

It's a beautiful eternity later when Layla finally cums, her voice raw as she yelps and strains against Marc's hands. He finishes soon after her, inside her, and keeps thrusting and thrusting until she collapses beneath him and he slips out with a pop.

They're both breathing heavy. The skin above Marc's heart is moving ever so slightly in time with the pulsing of the vein in his neck. He's sweaty and spent, and you feel something spark in your chest instead of your groin. Layla squirms on the mattress, her face twisted in pleasure, and the room smells like her sex and his sweat. Marc leans down and presses a kiss to her spine; she hums, and your heart aches because you miss Steven again, because he should be here with you.

Layla turns and rolls to the other side of the bed in a tangle of hair and sheets, and she splays her limbs out around her while she catches her breath. You expect Marc to maybe do the same and you think maybe you missed something, maybe the evening is already coming to a close, but then you feel the bed shift and you see him moving in the corner of your eye and you suddenly feel very shy.

You look up at him from under your lashes and the dark, brooding, sensual expression on his face seems to pause. He looks at you, then at the window above the bed, then back at you and suddenly everything is different. The deep lines in his forehead unfurrow and loosen, his eyebrows shoot up, and the corners of his mouth ghost along the idea of a smile.

The voice that sighs your name is English and tenor and familiar. "Steven!" you cry. Tears are tracing wet streaks down your face. It feels like there's been a war and a lifetime since you last saw him, even though he was there on the sands with you and Layla earlier, turning back time like a god.

He smiles, brilliant and sad, and takes your face in his hands to press a tender, toothy kiss to your lips. It hurts, but it's everything you've ever wanted. You pull him into you, let yourself fall back onto the bed, hook a leg over his hip and press him close enough so that everything from his chest to his groin is flush against you and you can feel his length rut and rub against you, blind and needy and so close.

There's so much you want to say, so much you shouldn't say but it'll drive you mad if you don't, so it comes out in jagged fragments. "Missed you," you breathe as he rocks himself against you. "Gone too long," you say as you card your fingers through his hair. "Fuck me," you beg with your nails in his back. "Love you," you croon when his hand fumbles between your legs and he half misses your clit. You think Layla pretends not hear or understand you.

She sits by your hip with a strange look on her face. She's enamored by Steven and the gentleness of his movements, wary of him but enticed, and her eyes water when they land on his face. You want to pretend not to see it, but you know that she knows that you know anyway. You stretch out a hand and smile when her fingers twine with yours. 'I understand,' you promise, and she nods.

"Steven." Her voice is like a wave in the dead of night, crashing over the both of you. His hips stutter to a halt and he looks over his shoulder at her with wide, uncertain eyes. "Have you done this before?" she asks.

His mouth tries to form words, but no real sounds come out other than an embarrassed "no". Layla smiles and places a hand on his elbow. "Let us show you?"

Steven nods, then freezes. He looks at you in a panic and he looks worried. "I-I mean-. I'm sorry, I didn't mean-. Only if you want!" he squeaks.

You nod. "Yes. I want you to. Both of you." You stroke a lock of hair back from his forehead with a lovestruck smile. "It's okay, Steven."

Layla leans forward so her hair falls over her shoulder and the scent of jasmine follows her as she moves. "Look between her legs," she prompts and Steven does it. He shifts back a little so your thighs are around his waist and he is sitting on his knees. His pupils are blown so wide they're nearly black.

"God, you're so wet," he gasps, and your entire face flushes with heat.

You instinctively move to close your legs, but Layla's hand shoots out and grabs your knee. She waits until you go still and runs her hand down the inside of your thigh to the patch of damp curls that has Steven so transfixed. Then she grabs hold of Steven's right hand and places her hand over it.

"You want to find her clit," she whispers into his ear. Their hands fall just out of sight and you can feel Steven's finger find it first, undoubtedly guided by Layla's touch. Your body jerks and your eyes roll back into your head, your back arches and your toes curl, and you almost swear you rocket off into another universe for a moment. Her voice rumbles deep in her throat. "That's how you know you found it."

"Oh," you moan. It's all you can manage.

"You're so soft," you hear Steven murmur, awestruck. His fingers are awkward and clumsy, but you can feel his adoration all the same. It's like being worshiped, you think. "Blimey."

"Figure out what she likes," Layla continues and you feel yourself grow wetter and wetter by the second. Her voice is rich and sultry, and there's humor twinkling in her smile. "Does she like it rough and fast? Or slower? Does she want you to draw it out of her?"

He's overwhelmed at first, but Steven's smart. You've always known that. He's a fast learner. He follows Layla's advice and he listens well, watching the way you arch and squirm beneath him when he twists his finger just so or dips it lower to gather more of your wetness before swirling it around your clit again. You watch his expression evolve from panicked arousal to a more confident, eager glimmer that makes you want to grab him by the hair and beg him to break you.

"You build her up until she's squirming, Steven, until she can't take it anymore." She considers you and smirks. It reminds you of Marc. "What d'you think? You think she's ready?"

Steven blinks. He looks a little more out of his league than he did a minute ago, but he still looks eager. He still looks like he wants to be buried between your legs, he's just unsure of how to get there. You decide to help him out a bit.

"I want you," you tell him. "Please."

"How?" he asks.

His fingers flick just right over your clit and your body erupts into shudders. "I-Inside," you stammer as your mouth suddenly stops communicating with your brain. Your eyes are opened, then closed, then half blinking as you rut against his and Layla's hands. "Please, Steven, baby, inside me. I need you inside me. I'm so- I need-."

"Say it," Layla demands as she presses down on Steven's fingers.

Your throat is suddenly dry and you're grinding against them like it's the only thing your brain was hardwired for. "I'm gonna cum, I'm so close. Please, I need you inside me!"

Then, Layla shifts and the light coming in through the blinds catches the movement of the muscles in her forearm and the ones in Steven's bicep as they move two joined fingers into your heat. Your muscles have been aching for ages and they finally clench around something solid, drawing your lovers in deeper and deeper, as far as they can go. Your orgasm is close, you can feel its pressure building up somewhere below your stomach and behind your clit, and you're so desperate for more of him, more of them, that you'll do anything at this point. Their fingers are curling into your g-spot so expertly that you know it'll be a miracle if you last another thirty seconds.

Your hands reach out for something solid and warm, and they land one on Layla's knee and the other on Steven's left hand where it's braced by your hip. You're grabbing and pinching and pulling, desperate to bite into flesh, to draw out the same pleasure they are inflicting on you, but they're too far out of reach.

"St-... Ste...ven," you croak between thrusts. His eyes dart up to meet yours and his tongue steals across his lips. Your stomach flip flops. "Need. You."

"More?" he asks, his brows furrowed in concentration. "D'you need more, love?"

"Need your... hands on me." Layla smirks again and when their fingers curl hard inside you, you know it's her. You wail and thrash and buck into them, and you're so, so close. "Now."

Steven leans forward as much as he can and the angle of his and Layla's fingers moves slightly. It feels alright. Layla's thumb brushes against your clit and you wail again. You're almost there, almost, if you can just feel him-.

"Where?" he whispers into your breasts, his tongue stealing a quick taste.

You sigh and arch into him, but it's rushed. "Here," you say as your hand reached for the base of your throat. "Please. Need you."

"I don't want t' hurt you," he starts, but his hand is already on you. He's cautious and there's no weight behind his grip. It's almost enough.

"You won't," you huff. "Promise. Just... squeeze."

He worries over it for a minute, chewing at his lip, but then he feels Layla slip another finger inside you and hears you mewl and watches you roll beneath him like he's dreamed of for so long and Marc is encouraging him from the sliver of window above the bed, so he squeezes like he does when he touches himself thinking of you and you burst like a dam. You yell so loudly that he's sure the people two streets over can hear you. You gush around him and Layla like a river, warm and wet and heady. His cock twitches and his heart races so fast that he wonders if it'll stop.

"Fuuuuuuuck!" You can't stop. Your legs are trembling and your cunt is clenching and you can't see anything. The bed is squeaking and they keep curling and thrusting inside you, and it's awful and intoxicating and it hurts and you love it. You never want this to end. And for a while, it doesn't, even as you're overstimulated and shaking bad enough to make your teeth chatter. Still they work at you, pull as much pleasure from your body as they can until there's nothing left of you but muted bliss.

It's all a blur as Steven checks on you to make sure you're alright. He and Layla have pulled out already, and everything is damp, but it's nice all the same. Steven watches transfixed as Layla works her way up the bed and offers you her fingers coated in your pleasure. You let her press them against your tongue and suck them clean. Steven looks like he's about to implode. Layla fixes him with a knowing look and grins.

"Want a taste, Steven?" she asks sweetly. You almost have a mind to make a joke about it being the fruit of his labors, but you figure his mind is already reeling from his first threesome.

When Steven nods, Layla runs a hand down your mons pubis and slips a finger between your lips, and your spine tingles when he takes her fingers into his mouth, careful and determined to find you in every crevice of her skin. You watch the muscles in his jaw flex and tense and strain, and you hazily think that next time, if there can even be a next time, he ought to frame his face between your legs until you forget your own name.

For now, though, you're happy. As happy as you can be, all things considered. Eventually, the aftershocks and hypersensitivity fade, Layla retrieves her underwear and Steven finds his boxers and your shirt, and you take turns cleaning each other up. You fall asleep with your head on Steven's shoulder and Layla pressed up against your back. The moon rises over the nearby skyscrapers.

1K notes · View notes

partyporg · 2 years

Text

POKER: 3RD HAND

Steven Grant x Reader x Marc Spector

word count: 3.2K

genre: angst, dark-ish themes, fluff, suggestive themes

warnings: angst, blood, religious allusions, jackal

summary: A person from your past puts you and Steven in a problem you don't ask to be in.

author’s note: Internet has been acting a bit strange so that's why this is a few minutes late. Also, I am extremely sick so, yay~

MINISERIES MASTERLIST

Sometimes you want to scold yourself for not having the worst of luck but instead never understanding when to say no. Only you would offer to work an extra shift after spending the evening prior donating blood at a drive you were invited to. And Steven didn’t need to comprehend much about health to understand that was a horrendous idea.

“Can you call off? I don’t think they would mind.” he cradled the plates as he stood next to you with your green blanket draped over his head. His dark curls were peaking out as if they were stuffing.

“Hey, turtle boy,” you smiled as you glanced his way. “Could you pass me the plates?” At that gentle request, he was already separating the animal themed children’s plates. The way he and you spent so much time playfully bickering about which creature was the best caused the compulsive buy to have a fixed place in your grocery store receipt.

“Do you want the crocodile one?” he asked.

“That might make a certain someone jealous. So you can have that one.”

He nodded at your confession. “I still feel bad that you had to spend like 5 pounds on this.”

“I get out of washing dishes tonight and maybe tomorrow night, so it’s a win-win for both of us.” You weaved past him to set the table, but not before giving him a quick kiss on his cheek.

“I guess so,” he paused as he watched you moved things about. He was spacing out like he sometimes did. You were ready to pull him back until he spoke again. “You never answered my question.” He pressed as placed the morning food onto the party plates.

“I was hoping you wouldn’t notice,” you mumbled.

“Y/N—”

You could already sense he was getting ready to plead his case and reprimand you a bit in the process. “I know, I know. I should be resting, but I already took an evening off and I feel fine.”

“Would it be so wrong if you put yourself first this time?” he asked as he sat down across from you. “Benny calls off like all the time—It’s a wonder he hasn’t been fired yet.”

“Well, one man’s trash is another man’s treasure.”

“You can’t honestly be using that to describe the closing shift.” He saw the way you nodded to tease him and in any other circumstance he would have laughed, but it hadn’t been the best two weeks for you and he knew a thing or two about things piling onto one another so far up that it became turtles all the way down. “Stay home.” he took your hand and pleaded more with his eyes than his words. It was the look on his face that had you choked with a warmth all over your neck. “Please.”

You wished you could admit to him why you rather spend time anywhere that wasn’t the sheets of your bed. There was a simple explanation as to why every night after the incident, you pleaded for him to crawl into the bed with you. It was easier to pretend that the growing tightness around his torso from your hold was just you missing him. It certainly wasn’t you placing an anchor as you hoped to outrun your own dreams.

You invited him over as much as you could, since the echoing silence of your room was much too daunting to face in solitude. Steven would fill up the deadly space for you. Letting him ramble until his heart’s content was how you liked things. All while you were busied by the revelation of how you hadn’t seen Marc in two weeks. Or how you wondering if you were trying to love a man who seemed inconvenienced by the suffering of those who you believed were innocent.

“—Y/N”

“Yeah,” you went running back into your body.

“I was saying that you should eat up just in case your lunch break is late,” he repeated as he poured more of the contents of his food onto your plate.

“Steven!”

“Don’t fight me on this, please.”

“Half your food is gone.”

“I’ll be fine, but you need as much energy as you can get.” He then turned in the direction of your bed on the other side. “Right, Cleo?” he slightly raised his voice.

“Don’t bring her into this.”

“You’ve forced my hand.”

The journey to work was as mundane as it could ever be. Yet, you held his hand all the way to your bus stop. As you disappeared onto the bus, Steven’s smiled falter for a few seconds. He was attentive, and that was one of the things you loved about him. However, that’s what made him just as restless as you were. He knew those nights when he’d wake up from your hold around him; you were reliving everything. He knew you didn’t like to be alone much recently. It was evident that anywhere was better than alone, but you're running from it all would cause you to trip, eventually.

The day was spent as it always was as you tried to avoid to any thought of Marc and how his hands found no doubt in marrying cold bodies with bruises. It was all a game of running from the white rabbit until you were pulled aside for a moment during the evening.

“What do you say to leaving a little earlier?” your manager said. “It’s a bit slow.” It had been slower than expected, but you would have never considered it was enough to shorten staffed.

“Um, I don’t mind still closing,” you said.

“Don’t worry, we have enough tonight. Besides, someone came in asking for you.”

That’s what piqued your interest.

“Who?”

You should have pieced together that someone in your workplace had to be a follower of Ammit. It was only logical that things never went your way, especially when it came to distance yourself from your past and all the overlapping tree like memories that came along with that. Murphy’s law was sometimes what you lived by, especially more recently.

“Should have known that they’d be the type to get involved with you and all your followers,” you sat at the cafeteria table as your skin stretching more over your knuckles.

“It’s not me they follow,” a sincere smile lifted his thin lips as he spoke. As always, he found amusement in your frustration.

“You forced me to come to this,” you gave the place a brief look around, “neighborhood. Why?”

He knew you didn’t mind making things difficult for him. “Can’t your old man get to see you?”

“It’s only been a year.”

“A year and a few months, but who’s counting?”

“Dad,” you groaned, as you were already preparing to find a way home. When you saw him standing outside of your workplace, with a look on his face that you couldn’t decipher and a posture that seemed to be worsening, you thought it was an emergency.

“Okay, okay,” he held up his hands. “I’ll get to the point.” His sky colored eyes gazed at you the only way you had known for most of your life. A mix of sincerity for what had happened and a drop of asking for forgiveness for what was on its way. All of it was mixed with love. You don’t remember anything from before you were adopted, but everything after was how it was in that moment under the moonlight.

“So, I heard you’ve been seeing someone.”

You snickered. “Privacy isn’t really your thing now, is it? You know you could have just texted me this,” you would have kept going, but he didn’t seem amused or patient by your near childish rambling this time around.

“Honey, I have been giving you your space and privacy.”

“And that includes flying out of the country just to tell me this.”

“I didn’t come here to pester you, but imagine my surprise when yesterday Victor told me he saw you at the grocery store with Steven Grant.”

While before you were finding some nostalgia in the bickering between he and you, your eyes were entirely focused now

“He’s not who you think his is,” he said.

“I think you’re underestimating how much I know,” you countered as you leaned closer to him from across the table were seated with. “What does that have to do with you?”

“He has something that I need, that’s all," he said.

The way he calmly spoke made you feel more frustrated than you would have liked. “You know, for a while I really thought that you would have learned to leave well enough alone, but you can’t seem to help but drag me into this with you after I told that I didn’t want to be involved anymore,” you spoke quietly but there was no mistake in your confidence although it was laced with trepidation.

“I’m not asking you to join me in anything. Not anymore,” he swallowed. “I’m asking you to stay out of it and stay away from him. Please.”

You got up from where you stood without a word. “Okay.” You had no intention of listening.

“It was nice seeing you,” he said as he brought himself up from where he stood, and that’s when you got a good look at his cane again. It ushered memories of moments that you weren’t meant for you to see.

“Do your followers know you’ve never used that on me?” you whispered as you looked around at the others that occupied the surrounding area. Your dejection was now leaking out of your pores while puppetting you to say things you rather keep to yourself.

His lips fell into a line that resembled wary snaked. “I haven’t told them yet.”

“Omission of truth is still lying,” you warned. “You should know that more than anyone.”

“I’ll have someone take you home.”

He wasn’t ready to comfort anymore inevitable ideas that evening. “It’s fine,” you shook your head to no longer notice how much he hadn’t changed. “I already called a ride.” You knew he’d try to help. It was always the one thing you could be sure of.

You were prepared to go on in silence all the way to your flat but he stopped you once more.

“Y/N,” he called, and you turned around to face him to make up for how you hadn’t the last time you saw him. You didn’t need a reminder of how you walked away facing the moon to the cries of your father tainting your spine. “Please,” he hadn’t seemed this desperate since you left.

“Yeah,” was all you said before you left.

It seemed right that just as you were entering the cab, you realized the pin you had been gifted by Steven was no longer on your bag. After spending a few minutes waiting for transportation with your what-if’s on the bench along with you—you hadn’t actually called the cab yet—you were relegated to doing it once more after sending off the first cab to catch another one. You couldn’t return home and forget about what had happened or even block your father’s number from your phone to let off steam. Instead, you were shamefully making your way back with your eyes to the ground as you searched for the scarab pin that decorated your tote bag.

That was when you heard it, “Then don’t.” His voice was never roaring, but it’s cadence was something that you had learned to memorize.

“I can’t help you.” From around the corner where you hid, you saw how Steven retreated along the same path as those who lived there. They were all stepping backwards as the cane emitted purple.

“Yes, you can,” your father said. “I need to know, where is the scarab?” The shuffling noises of shoes stopped entirely as he continued. “Where is the scarab?”

“No.”

“Where is the scarab?”

A voice that was neither Steven’s nor Arthur’s cut through the conversation and made space where there wasn’t any. “I have it.”

It was a woman who, when she walked and parted the crowd, a few of her curly strands bounced in stark contrast to her angular features. She held the pin tight as her eyes held many warning signs. She looked entirely more calculated than anyone else in the room.

“You couldn’t possibly understand the value of what you’re holding.”

You wanted to see more and craved to discover the pieces that you hadn’t been given. There were a lot of things you weren’t being told, whether it was by your father or it was Marc. Your feet carried you to begin circling around to make your way to a higher place to see more of what was happening at a greater vantage point.

“Let me have that. I’ll keep it safe.”

“Summon the suit,” she said.

“Summon the what?”

Words of many were blending into too much to process until tensions were high and the atmosphere came at a standstill. You could hear the faint whispers of bickering, but before you could even begin to climb the steps while remaining hidden, you watched the stillness snowball into struggle immediately.

Layla had taken Steven’s hand before he could even realize he had gone up a flight of stairs and was being cornered by Harrow’s disciples. She fought one after the other while they only went higher.

The ground was trembling as if a god was rising. A violet hue was slowly swallowing the cobblestone walls.

“Left, left!” he heard her say behind him. He kept running to find some place to hide. Any place would have done well. Eventually, he was pulled into a large room without a word from who had done it.

His hands were already waving about in a panic as he tried to get a few licks at whomever it was that separated him from Layla.

“Hey, hey, it’s me!” Your presences was only comforting for a brief wishful second before it became something that filled him with dread.

“Wh-what are you doing here?” his shrill voice bounced about the hiding cave as Layla came rushing in. Only one glance towards you and Steven she was already beginning to bolt the doors shut.

“Can I get some help over here!” she said.

You didn’t know what was coming, but by the way Steven was already falling into line to secure the door, you could only follow along to make sure everyone was well.

“Oh, my god,” he stepped back as he frantically looked about for an exit as Layla was already halfway across the entire room. "We’re going to die in some evil wizard’s cave.”

You were already running to soothe a panic you could already tell was coming in full force. But you didn’t know how to tell him that who he was running from was someone you had known for most of your life.

“No. Hey,” you held his face just as the door began to violently shake like the first warning signs of a natural disaster. “Steven, look at me. Look. Breath.” You met his gaze and could already tell he was descending by the glassiness of his eyes and the cracks in his cries.

Layla was standing across the room as she stopped looking for a way out and said. “There’s a suit and I’ve seen you use it. You bring it out.”

“I don’t know how to, Layla.”

“Then summon Marc!”

“You don’t think I’ve tried that!” His body was shaking even as you tried to steady him. What he had confessed was already burying six feet under once and was preparing to do it twice.

“Then you need to fight. I can do it! We need you to!” Layla said.

“No, I can’t!”

You did the only thing that you could do as you watched the doors rattled from the wrath of a horrible mistake. You brought yourself down to where he crouched down.

“Steven,” placed your hand on his shoulders.

“I can’t. I can’t.” His guilt tightened his jaw as he shook his head. “I’m sorry I can’t do it.”

The wood was splitting and giving to whatever it was on the other side giving it utter hell.

“It’s okay,” you whispered it his lips as you drew closer.

“Alright, we’ll find another way,” you heard Layla announce as she frantically searched for an escape.

That’s when the wood had finally yielded to what it could never understand. The light from the outside came flooding in to break the ark. He and you rose as Layla held her breath under water. Heaven’s gates were now closed and Steven’s face fell and went cold almost instantly.

“J-jackal. Jackal!” His words spilled out like blood.

“Wh—”

“Get out the way!” He enveloped you with his figure from what you couldn’t see as he tried to make a distance between the creature with a jaw that snapped and made thunder. However, his efforts were much too late.

The jackal’s muscles contracted just to relax as it lept and sent you and Steven plummeting through glass and falling from heaven. You couldn’t see anything but you could feel Steven as he made a cacoon around you. Falling from such a great height wasn’t how you ever expected it to be.

It was like shooting through the sky at first, but the journey down was like swimming, as nothing but love felt real for a moment.

“Suit! Suit!” you heard Steven in your ear but it sounded like he was light years away.

His body hit one metal piece, and that heavy impact caused him to loosen his grip around you. It never separated two warm bodies, but you went spilling out of the cacoon once Steven’s body met the ground like an asteroid. The glass that was broken and went swimming along with the both of you came down like rain and one piece found a place in your stomach while the others made cuts all over.

You were gasping for air the moment you met the ground. Your vision was just as shattered and scattered as the shards around you as you tried to find Steven. You could hear him calling your name, but you had no inkling of where to look.

“Steven.” you croaked.

You were bleeding out all over the concrete while the jackal was busy tossing Steven about like it was sport. The blood began small and, like all lies and false promises, it was threatening to spill everywhere. The vermillion fluid hadn’t even made a puddle the size of a fist, but time was unforgiving.

“Marc! Marc! Can you hear me? She’s bleeding!” Steven cried as he ate hit after hit as he bit the metal of a nearby car. He could still see your body from where you originally were. You were laid across the floor like you were waiting for white chalk to outline your own crime scene.

You didn’t have enough blood left to spare, and that’s what had Steven screaming out the name of the person who refused to come out since the night you told him to stay away.

a reblog for a part four ^_^

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