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davnittbraes · 2 years

Text

Opportunities

The smut scene from Chapter Sixteen of The World Is Light, Embodied.

For context, Reader and Din are in a newly established relationship and find themselves in a luxury hotel for the night. Time to make good use of the rare moment of privacy - and the bed 😉

Pairing: Din Djarin x F!Reader

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 4920

Warnings etc: a sprinkling of anxiety, excessive use of Star Wars swear words, a lot of disgustingly fluffy smut, like that’s pretty much it for this chapter, let’s see we’ve got a some hella skillful fingering (of course,) some restraints, a splash of slightly Dom!Mando I guess, pussy-eating (!!!) and P in V action, a bit of cock-warming to wrap things up

Mando’a translations in the notes at the end of the chapter.

His thumb traces circles over the curve of your waist. “I meant what I said the other night, too.”

Opening your eyes, you flick your gaze along the visor, curious. “What’s that?”

“That I’ve been thinking about this.” His hand slips from yours, glides around the small of your back, sending shivers down your spine, a curl of arousal between your thighs. “Laying you out in a bed like this one, taking my time with you. Pulling out those sweet sounds you make with no fear of interruption.”

You swallow hard, trying to calm your rapidly increasing heart rate. “I mean, it is a pretty big bed. Lots of opportunities.”

“I’ve got a particular one in mind.” His voice drops low, a rasping murmur through the modulator, full of some kind of purpose, a focused determination that makes your thighs clench in anticipation. “Lay back for me.”

You’re moving before your mind registers the request, body reacting instinctively to the firm note of command in his voice. A quick shuffle to get your legs out from underneath you and you lay down, propping yourself up on your elbows to look at him.

The helmet shakes once from side to side. “No, use the bed. I want you comfortable.”

A blend of anticipation and nervousness thrills down your back and you move up the bed, pull the abundance of pillows into an arrangement that cups your body while leaving you sitting up enough to still see him clearly.

He’s still standing there, at the foot of the bed, black visor steady on you, still and silent. Watching you.

What is he waiting for?

Nervousness makes your hands twitch, layers your voice with half-hearted sarcasm. “If I get anymore comfortable, I’m never going to get out of this bed.”

“You deserve this. A bed, a place to be comfortable, safe.”

He says it so confidently, so sure, as if he’s not only thought about this but knows you have, too, knows how you hesitated in the doorway, knows that even now something like guilt turns your stomach, a flurry of anxiety bringing contradictions and arguments to the tip of your tongue.

You bite them back, trying to believe him.

He starts taking off his gloves and your focus shifts, distracted by those broad palms and long fingers and golden skin, a sign of his trust in you, a symbol of his care for you.

Both hands naked, he leans down, gently grasping your ankles, slowly sliding his fingers up the backs of your calves. “Let me take care of you tonight.”

Kriff.

It’s hard to focus on forming a response, the warmth of his hands seeping through your leggings, swirl of arousal spiralling up and out through your body, but you somehow manage to focus enough. “I thought we could take care of each other.”

“Tionas.” The tone of his modulated voice is serious, almost somber, drawing your gaze to the black visor. “You have done so much for us. Returning to a place you’d left behind, caring for the kid like he’s your own.”

His thumbs stroke over your clothed skin, words falling so softly you can barely register them. “Trusting me with your secrets.”

Your throat tightens with emotion, a million protests running through your mind, ready to deflect and insist and justify but he speaks before you can voice them.

“Please. Let me do this.”

Something about this strong, capable man asking - pleading - to let him care for you…

Every protest instantly dissipates from your thoughts, replaced with a flush of need. It steals your words, makes your muscles flex under his hands, your hips shift as the heat in your core flares.

He sees all of that, you can feel it in his unseen gaze, his hands, those well-honed observation skills by picking out each and every way your body is reacting to his request.

But he doesn’t move, silent. Patient.

Waiting for your answer.

Taking a deep breath, you nod once.

Then he’s slipping away, striding toward the door and keying it closed, hitting the lights as he makes his way back to the bed. His movements are quick and precise, like he’s trying not to rush but anxious to get to where he wants to be.

The room is doused in darkness, pitch black and heavy. Your other senses are instantly heightened, ears pricked to the sounds of him nearby - the soft rustles of fabric and clinks of metal that you now know means he’s removing his armour.

Third time. This is the third time he’s taken off his armour with you.

The third time he’s trusted you with something he’s never shown anyone else.

And you trust him just as much.

Heart pounding in your throat, you slip your fingers under the waistband of your leggings, starting to tug them down when the bed shifts, sinking under his weight along your side.

His hand finds yours and pulls it away. “Let me.”

Pfassk.

His naked voice will never cease to pull a fresh wave of arousal from your core.

Long fingers slip under the waistband of your leggings and underwear, and you lift your hips to help him, thighs trembling with anticipation as his hands graze your skin in their descent. They barely leave you, pulling away for just a moment to drop your clothes off the end of the bed before gliding back up your calves, gently pushing your knees up and thighs apart.

Your breath stutters in your chest as the air of the room swirls over your heated core, cunt pulsing at even that slight sensation.

He hums in approval, hands sliding up your inner thighs. “I can smell your need, mesh’la.”

Crikking hells.

You can’t stop the squirm of your hips, conflicting feelings of mild embarrassment and arousal pushing your body both toward and away from him.

He presses a kiss to the inside of your knee. “Fuck, you smell so good. All wet and ready for me.”

The approval in his voice shoots straight to your core. A whine squeezes from your throat, your hands grasping his and tugging, trying to pull him closer. “Yes, please I need you.”

He resists, turning his hands to grip yours tight, a groan rumbling low in his chest. “You know how I feel about you begging. But I have something in mind, remember?”

Right. Big bed, opportunities - great, let’s do that, let’s go.

You open your mouth to say exactly that when warm breath suddenly ghosts over your stomach, the bare skin below the hemline of your shirt shivering at the feeling.

His lips press lightly just above your core, words drifting down into your wet heat. “I want to taste you, cyar’ika. Can I?”

Your mind blanks.

A second passes, then two, then -

A thousand emotions rush into the void of your empty thoughts.

Disbelief and desire and panic and arousal -

Is he -

Oh pfassk yes -

Does he want -

Please -

His chin rests on your stomach, your joined hands on either side of your waist. “I’ve been thinking about it since the first day we met. But if you’re not comfortable with it then I won’t bring it up again.”

The jumble of your thoughts is too chaotic to pick through, words blurting out without examination.

“What?” You cringe at the brashness of your voice. “Sorry, I’m just… I - you’ve been thinking about it since - no, never mind, that’s not - kriff.” Huffing in annoyance, you pull at his hands, trying to guide them to your core. “Can you shut me up before I babble my way into embarrassment again?”

“Gladly. But I need you to tell me what you want.” His voice dips low, rasping, hands holding firm at your waist.

Anxious energy pulls your bottom lip between your teeth, tightens in your throat. Only a couple of your previous lovers had done this, and you hadn’t really enjoyed it, too focused on getting the whole ordeal over with. Your intimate dalliances were always rushed, strictly for the purposes of giving your body what it needed so you could get on with your life.

Until Mando.

Everything is different with you.

The words echo through your thoughts, lending strength.

Swallowing against a dry throat, you squeeze his hands once. “Yes. Please.”

His low groan vibrates against your skin. “Thank you, tionas.”

Then he’s shifting away, down the bed, and he’s pressing your thighs open wide with your joined hands and his breath is swirling over your core and oh pfassk -

A shudder runs through your entire body as his lips brush a kiss just above your clit.

He pauses then, some kind of tension flexing in his fingers. “I’ve never done this before. I want to make you feel good.”

That warm bright thing in your chest flares.

He’s nervous.

Affection quickly shifts to incredulity. “I’m kriffing drowning in want here and you’ve barely touched me, I don’t think it’s possible for you to -“

The flat of his tongue laves over the length of your cunt and every word you know instantly flies from your mind.

Your breath chokes in your throat as he groans long and low, hot wet of his mouth cupping your pussy while his tongue slips through your folds, pushes into your fluttering entrance.

Pleasure sparks down your back, over your hips, arching them into his mouth, and he presses your still-joined hands down on your inner thighs, locking them in place as his tongue laps up over your clit and -

He pulls away and a mangled cry keens from your lips at the loss, fingernails digging sharply into his hands. A soft susurration brushes over your stomach, his lips pressing kisses between the calming sound, his moan buzzing against your skin. “You taste - fuck, so good. Please, tell me what to do.”

Crikking hells.

You are not equipped for this.

How can you possibly think clearly enough to give instructions when he’s between your thighs?

The haze of arousal is already thick on your senses, halting your words as they fall from your lips, rambling. “Your tongue please - just - please lick my clit again -“

The hot swipe of his tongue over your pulsing clit rips the words from your thoughts once more.

His hands keep your hips pinned down and he starts a steady rhythm and the entire universe shrinks, becoming a singular pinpoint of bright pleasure under the firm wet pressure of his tongue.

It’s so good it’s almost too much and kriff you’ve never felt something this good before -

A sound you don’t recognize echoes in your ears, muffled with the rapid pounding of your heart and it takes a moment for you to realize it’s you, a pleading wordless cry vibrating with the tremor of your rapidly building orgasm.

Your awareness shifts and you suddenly hear everything else - the slick glide of his tongue as he laps at your clit, the pant of his breathing and the soft whimpers he’s making, kriff that’s too much, hearing him taking pleasure in giving it to you is overwhelming and your core tightens as your orgasm builds up and up -

He shifts and you panic - you’ve stopped talking, you’re not telling him what to do, he’s going to pull away again -

Words fall from your lips unrestrained. “Please don’t stop please don’t stop just like that I’m gonna -“

His hum of approval hits your swollen clit in a rush of warm breath as he swirls the flat of his tongue over it and every muscle in your body seizes -

Your shoulders lift off the pillows and your back curves up against the onslaught of pleasure, wave after wave pulling a trembling cry from your chest. He works your clit through it all, his tongue buzzing with the sound of his answering groan.

Oh pfassk -

The drop hits you with a snap and your lungs gasp for air, body falling back onto the bed. He immediately pulls back from your clit, dipping lower to lap gently along your folds, tip of his tongue pulling slick from your fluttering entrance.

Aftershocks ripple through your core, and you whine as sensation dances along the border of too much and not enough, pleasure trying to take root and build once more.

Your fingers are aching, clutching at his so tight it hurts, and you loosen your grip to pull them free, slip them onto his curls, fingertips twitching with the need to bring him closer and tug him away at the same time. You can feel the shiver run through him as your nails scrape over his scalp - kriff that’s hot - and he growls low, tongue thrusting deep into your cunt, nose pressing against your swollen clit and that’s too much but pfassk his tongue feels so good -

He pulls away and you whimper at the sudden rush of cool air over your core. “Tell me what you need, mesh’la.”

A pulse of want shudders down your spine. His voice is raw with arousal, edged with desperation, hot and rough and impossible to deny.

You react on instinct, words choking out as aftershocks shift into waves of pleasure. “Your fingers, please.”

He shifts and suddenly two thick fingers are pressing against your entrance, circling lightly to gather your slick before calloused fingertips dip inside your cunt.

Your hips arch sharply, pushing them deeper, your head digging into the pillows to arch even further, hands leaving his hair to fist in the blankets and give you more traction, every cell in your body driven by the primal instinct to have him inside you.

He thrusts his fingers in to the knuckles and your inner walls squeeze tight at the sudden pressure, pulling a moan from both of you. Slowly, he drags them back until just the tips rest inside you, and your pussy clenches once, twice, hips squirming, mewling cries pathetic to your own ears but you can’t find it in yourself to care right now.

His lips press a sloppy kiss to the crease of your thigh. “This needy pussy, fuck, trying to pull my fingers in - “

“Yes please -“ your words cut off as your hips finally find an angle that lets you thrust down, sinking his fingers deep, alleviating the desperate edge of your rising orgasm.

But it’s not enough, not enough even as he pulls them out and back in, curling fingertips brushing over that pleasure centre and making your legs tremble.

You release the blankets with one hand to paw at his wrist - kriff, there’s a trail of your slick, wet on his warm skin - a moan cracking from your throat as he thrusts deep again. “Another please give me another -“

Your hand rushes to grasp the blankets once more as he slips a third finger alongside the others, stretching the walls of your cunt deliciously.

Oh pfassk yes that’s it right there like that -

Another slow drag, a full body shudder that curls your toes, another thick stretch of your pussy around his fingers, and it’s so good, feels so good, pleasure spirals hot and sparking out from your core, your hips rolling with it, taking him deeper and -

His tongue swipes over your clit and you cry out wordlessly, the sensation no longer too much but just perfect and he groans as he does it again, a fresh wave of slick coating his fingers, making them squelch as they sink deep into your cunt.

Your inner walls clutch desperately, ripples of pleasure coursing over your body in waves that rip the breath from your lungs and when the tip of his tongue circles your clit and his lips close around it and press and pull and -

You’re cracking open, sharp pleasure swarming over your skin and quivering through your limbs and shoving a cry from your chest.

It hangs you there, suspended, spread open and full of his fingers and drowning in the hot wet heat of his mouth.

Then there’s the drop.

The orgasm wracks your body, lifting your hips off the bed but he presses them back down with his free hand, fingers and lips and tongue steadily pulling you through it, wringing every last drop from your throbbing cunt until you have nothing left, falling back on the bed, limbs loose and muscles spent.

You register that he’s pulling away, your hands struggling to let go of the blankets to reach for him, pang of desperation squeezing a whimper from your throat but then he’s right there again, warm, broad frame covering yours, a comforting weight that anchors you back in reality.

Senses blink online, the thick haze of arousal dissipating in gentle waves, focus pulling back to the moment.

His lips trail over your jaw, so warm and wet - from you, his mouth is soaked in your slick.

Your fingers are diving into his hair and tugging that mouth to yours before you fully register the sudden urge to taste yourself on him, taste how good he makes you feel.

It’s indescribable, the feeling of his lips, slick and swollen, the flavour of your pleasure on his tongue.

A sigh hums in the back of your throat as he deepens the kiss and you pull him closer, legs parting to let him settle into the cup of your hips, hands sliding around his back and up the solid planes of muscle to grip his shoulders.

Wait -

The cloth beneath your palms is soft and light, his skin so warm, and right there under the thin weave.

Not his flightsuit. His base layer.

Your legs glide along his to feel the same fabric. Kriff, you can feel so much more of him without the thick duraweave, feel his warmth and his muscles shifting as he slips further into your embrace -

Oh pfassk.

His cloth-covered cock nestles right against your naked pussy, hard, thick length of him knocking against your sensitive clit.

You can’t stop the roll of your hips, your body seeking more.

He groans into your mouth, pulling back to inhale sharply when your legs wrap around his waist to provide purchase as you repeat the motion. “Easy, cyar’ika, I’ve been on the edge since I first tasted that lovely pussy of yours.”

The coals of your arousal flare back to life and the emptiness of your cunt is suddenly too much to bear. Rolling your hips up once again, you angle them to push your entrance right over the head of his cock.

The broken moan that reverberates in his chest sends a rush of slick from your core, and your own moan mingles with his as the fabric of his clothing, soaked in your arousal and pulled tight over his cock, grinds against you, almost pressing inside before he yanks his hips away, breaking the hold of your legs.

He sits back, pushing your thighs open and away, clicking his tongue in admonishment. “Impatient.”

Your cunt clenches at the restrained strength behind his grip on your thighs. “It’s been too long since I’ve had your cock inside me.”

“Fuck.” His fingers flex, dig into your flesh. “I’m trying to take my time with you, remember? You can’t say things like that.”

Your words float free, picking up on the light teasing edge to the moment so heavy with mutual want. “You’re the one talking about tasting my pussy. How am I supposed to be patient when you talk that way?”

A rush of motion and suddenly he’s over you again, knees spread wide to lock your thighs open, hands grasping your wrists and pressing them to the pillows above your head.

That same rush, same thrill of being held open by him that you’d felt before swirls down your body, curling your toes. It’s him, only him, something about being so vulnerable to only him - it’s an unnameable feeling, an undercurrent to your need for him.

His voice is a low growl over the flushed skin of your cheek as he leans down to murmur against your ear. “You mean when I say that every time I fucked your cunt with my fingers I thought about licking them clean, but I wanted my first taste of you to be just your pleasure, just you?”

His words sink into the renewed haze of arousal on your thoughts, pushing your words away again with a fractured moan.

His hum of approval shivers down your spine. “And now that I’ve had you, I’ll never stop thinking about how your perfect pussy feels fluttering on my tongue when you come, how your slick tastes filling my mouth?”

Need rushes so quickly through your body it makes you dizzy, trembles in your limbs. All you can do is clutch at the pillows that you can reach, wrists still locked firmly in his grasp, heartbeat pounding in your ears.

His teeth scrape over your bottom lip, nipping lightly, ghost of a moan flitting over your mouth as he grinds his cock down against your cunt. “I’m not a man of many words, but you… fuck, tionas, I could talk this way for hours, tell you everything I want to do to you.”

He presses a sweet kiss to your lips, and it’s disorienting, the gentle intimacy contrasting with the firm grip of his fingers and the forced weight of his thighs holding yours open.

A tiny mewl slips from your lips and he chases it’s source, tongue sliding along yours, kiss growing deep and hot with need before he pulls away. “But right now, I want to fuck you into this mattress until you can’t think any more. And even then I’ll keep going until the dawn forces me to leave your bed.”

Anticipation and need burn through your body, scorching, leaving your lungs gasping for air.

Pfassk you need him inside you right now.

There’s a soft shuffle of cloth and then the head of his cock is gliding through your tender folds, notching into the cup of your entrance.

Yes yes yes yes -

A choked whimper pushes from your throat at the feeling of soft, smooth skin caressing the edges of your inner walls, tempting.

He does it again, slowly stroking over your entrance, pulling more slick from your core and kriff you can feel it coating the fat head of his cock, easing its glide, silken friction against your cunt sending sparks of pleasure up your spine.

You can’t take it it’s too much you need -

Your back arches, the only part of you that isn’t pinned down, desperation so intense that tears prick in the corners of your eyes. “Please I need you inside me please now -“

In one motion he thrusts his cock deep into your aching core and shoves a sharp cry from your chest and there -

Every millimetre of you is pressed open and filled with him and the thick weight of his cock so deep inside of you is everything, all that you need.

His breath pants hot down the curve of your neck. “Fuck, this pussy, so perfect.”

The words slip over your skin to swirl into the undercurrent of your arousal, pulling you higher into the haze of your thoughts.

Then he starts to fuck you.

Your entire body melts into the bed, wrists trapped in his grip and thighs spread wide, unable to do anything but take the long, deep thrusts of his cock, each one pressing against some place inside you that bursts with a bright pleasure, flares in the edges of your vision, sparks of light in the darkened room.

Crikking hells he feels so good -

Something almost primal blends into your pleasure, preening under the weight of his broad, warm frame. You can’t move, can’t think, can’t push him for more, to move faster, harder - all you can do is lay there and take it, take whatever pleasure he chooses to give you.

It should be terrifying. You should feel helpless, trapped.

But his lips are pressing soft kisses down your throat and his grip on your wrists is firm but gentle and instead of fear you feel -

That warm bright thing in your chest flares.

Too much too soon not yet -

You shy away from the feeling, letting the sensation of his cock shoving your core open pull your focus.

He groans low against your collarbone as your pussy clenches around him, voice breaking with the force of his movements. “Feels so good, being inside you, please come for me, mesh’la -“

You’re suddenly aware of it, an orgasm building with every drag of his cock along your walls, tightening the muscles of your lower stomach and inner thighs and pfassk it’s right there, blindsiding, and you reel as it crashes over you, cry of pleasure tinged with surprise.

Hot throb slick yes -

Every muscles pulls tight and you can’t breathe can only feel it rippling through your body.

He picks up his pace, grunting at the tight clutch of your cunt as your orgasm breaks. “Yes just like that fuck -“

It shatters, your body shuddering with its intensity, your high-pitched moan quivering with the strong tremors running through you.

Finally it releases you, and your lungs are gasping for air, head falling back limp against the bed.

He buries his cock deep and stills, releasing your wrists and resting his forearms on either side of your head as you both catch your breath. His lips brush over yours with barely-there kisses full of something like reverence.

Your hands find his face, cupping his jaw with trembling fingers, a feeling of raw openness closing your throat, choking your breath.

He’s all around you, inside you, broad chest pressed against yours, cock twitching deep in your core, scent of him in your lungs, taste of him on your lips.

It’s a moment of absolute perfection.

A ripple of aftershocks pulses through your cunt and he trembles above you. “Mmm, I want to come in your pussy so bad, cyar’ika. But I’m not done with you yet.”

A whimper falls from your lips as he moves, hard length of his cock shifting inside you. His frame presses even closer, spread of his thighs lessening to allow your legs to close around his hips, hold him tight.

His sigh is full of contentment as he settles, a sound that melts into the warm bright thing behind your ribs, and your hands on his face pull his lips down to yours, a matching sigh mingling with the end of his.

Then he rocks into you with a slow roll of his hips and you pull away from his lips, head falling back with a cry as his cock grinds over the deepest part of you.

White-hot sensation shoots through your core, pleasure so sharp it borders on pain.

He growls into the curve of your neck. “Right there, feel it -“

His hips roll again, barely thrusting but pushing deep, pressing the head of his cock tight to that spot and it’s so much, your hands fly to his shoulders, nails digging into his skin as another stab of pleasure tears through your body.

That primal instinct roars back to the forefront of your senses.

You want more, want him deeper, want him -

He rocks into you again and the pleasure-pain overwhelms everything else.

It’s slow, deliberate, the way he takes you apart like this, your body poised in a permanent arch, unable to move as every cell is rimmed in light, hands clenched hard over the muscles of his shoulders like he’s the only thing keeping you anchored to this world.

Over and over he presses deep, and you lose awareness of everything including the passing of time. It’s only when his cock pulses hard, and your cunt throbs around the thick of him that you realize you’re coming again, and the warmth that floods your core tells of his own release.

Then he’s stilling, cock still buried inside you, the last pulses of his pleasure pulling a broken moan from his chest.

Your hands release their grip, falling to the bed, every ounce of strength spent from your limbs.

It’s quiet, a heavy almost-silence falls over the two of you.

You’re floating, drifting in a thick haze, senses clouded by fading pleasure, thoughts skittering without taking hold. He moves above you, kisses rain down on your face, lips. Hands caress your skin, smoothing over your shoulders, arms, waist. The feeling only heightens the sensation of weightlessness, embracing you in warmth and safety.

Slowly, piece by piece, you come back, taking a deep breath, reminding yourself that you have lungs, a body.

A very satiated body.

Pfassk, you haven’t felt like this - well, ever.

That warm bright thing in your chest pushes your hands to seek him, legs to press tight to his sides, just in case he tries to pull away. His face is tucked into the curve of your neck, his hum of appreciation as your fingers weave through his curls reverberating over your pulse.

His body is warm and deliciously heavy on yours, the beat of his heart pressed against your chest. The twitch of his cock still buried in your cunt strokes that primal instinct, that desire to keep him inside you always.

*****

Mando’a translations

mesh’la - beautiful

cyar’ika - sweetheart

tionas - question, Din’s nickname for reader

#the mandalorian fanfiction #din djarin x reader #din djarin x f!reader #din djarin x you #the world is light embodied #smutty snippets

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femalethink · 1 year

Text

There are indeed real physical differences between men and women in the kind and limit of their physical strength. Many of the observed differences between men and women in the performance of tasks requiring coordinated strength, however, are due not so much to brute muscular strength as to the way each sex uses the body in approaching tasks. Women often do not perceive themselves as capable of lifting and carrying heavy things, pushing and shoving with significant force, pulling, squeezing, grasping, or twisting with force. When we attempt such tasks, we frequently fail to summon the full possibilities of our muscular coordination, position, poise, and bearing. Women tend not to put their whole bodies into engagement in a physical task with the same ease and naturalness as men. For example, in attempting to lift something, women more often than men fail to plant themselves firmly and make their thighs bear the greatest proportion of the weight. Instead, we tend to concentrate our effort on those parts of the body most immediately connected to the task—the arms and shoulders—rarely bringing the power of the legs to the task at all. When turning or twisting something, to take another example, we frequently concentrate effort in the hand and wrist, not bringing to the task the power of the shoulder, which is necessary for its efficient performance.

The previously cited throwing example can be extended to a great deal of athletic activity. Now, most men are by no means superior athletes, and their sporting efforts display bravado more often than genuine skill and coordination. The relatively untrained man nevertheless engages in sport generally with more free motion and open reach than does his female counterpart. Not only is there a typical style of throwing like a girl, but there is a more or less typical style of running like a girl, climbing like a girl, swinging like a girl, hitting like a girl. They have in common first that the whole body is not put into fluid and directed motion, but rather, in swinging and hitting, for example, the motion is concentrated in one body part; and second that the woman’s motion tends not to reach, extend, lean, stretch, and follow through in the direction of her intention.

For many women as they move in sport, a space surrounds us in imagination that we are not free to move beyond; the space available to our movement is a constricted space. Thus, for example, in softball or volleyball women tend to remain in one place more often than men do, neither jumping to reach nor running to approach the ball. Men more often move out toward a ball in flight and confront it with their own countermotion. Women tend to wait for and then react to its approach, rather than going forth to meet it. We frequently respond to the motion of a ball coming toward us as though it were coming at us, and our immediate bodily impulse is to flee, duck, or otherwise protect ourselves from its flight. Less often than men, moreover, do women give self-conscious direction and placement to their motion in sport. Rather than aiming at a certain place where we wish to hit a ball, for example, we tend to hit it in a “general” direction.

Women often approach a physical engagement with things with timidity, uncertainty, and hesitancy. Typically, we lack an entire trust in our bodies to carry us to our aims. There is, I suggest, a double hesitation here. On the one hand, we often lack confidence that we have the capacity to do what must be done. Many times I have slowed a hiking party in which the men bounded across a harmless stream while I stood on the other side warily testing my footing on various stones, holding on to overhanging branches. Though the others crossed with ease, I do not believe it is easy for me, even though once I take a committed step I am across in a flash. The other side of this tentativeness is, I suggest, a fear of getting hurt, which is greater in women than in men. Our attention is often divided between the aim to be realized in motion and the body that must accomplish it, while at the same time saving itself from harm. We often experience our bodies as a fragile encumbrance, rather than the medium for the enactment of our aims. We feel as though we must have our attention directed upon our bodies to make sure they are doing what we wish them to do, rather than paying attention to what we want to do through our bodies.

All the above factors operate to produce in many women a greater or lesser feeling of incapacity, frustration, and self-consciousness. We have more of a tendency than men do to greatly underestimate our bodily capacity. We decide beforehand—usually mistakenly—that the task is beyond us and thus give it less than our full effort. At such a halfhearted level, of course, we cannot perform the tasks, become frustrated, and fulfill our own prophecy. In entering a task we frequently are self-conscious about appearing awkward and at the same time do not wish to appear too strong. Both worries contribute to our awkwardness and frustration. If we should finally release ourselves from this spiral and really give a physical task our best effort, we are greatly surprised indeed at what our bodies can accomplish. It has been found that women more often than men underestimate the level of achievement they have reached.

—Iris Young, "Throwing Like a Girl: A Phenomenology of Feminine Body Comportment, Motility, and Spatiality."

#iris young #radical feminism #feminism #feminist phenomenology #feminist philosophy #gender #femininity #iris marion young

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alessiopetti01 · 11 months

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snackhobi · 4 years

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min yoongi is the best shot in the business. you’re the best gunsmith in the city and the only person he trusts to programme his tech; to make his gear.

he likes your work. it’s a shame, then, that he doesn’t like you.

pairing: yoongi x f!reader / word count: 14.3k / genre + rating: NSFW (18+), cyberpunk!au, smut, frenemies (?) to lovers

warnings/etc: hitman!yoongi. black market dealer/gunsmith!reader. cursing/explicit language. whole lotta tension, sexual and otherwise. mentions of injury/violence. minor character death (no one important, don’t worry, this isn’t an angst fic). brief hurt/comfort. reader has tattoos. sexually explicit content. oral; fingering; multiple orgasms; overstimulation (f). unprotected sex (please take the necessary precautions irl). rough sex?. choking. creampie. brief mention of aftercare. I think that’s everything but please lmk if I missed any!

a/n: thank you SO MUCH to both @hobi-gif and @morndas for beta reading this and being so supportive, ily both so much and I owe you my life 🤧💕 as always what was meant to be a short fic turned into a huge one. also this is technically for my 1.1k milestone but it’s a billion years late, oops!

Yoongi really doesn’t like you.

You’re loud. Cocky. Arrogant. You needle him all the time, dig your fingernails in and squeeze, revelling in the way he sets his jaw, the muted spark of irritation in his eyes. You bat your eyelashes and tilt your head, throw it back whenever you laugh and reveal the easing column of your throat, dragging each interaction out with a kind of sadistic pleasure that has him gritting his teeth. Because you love annoying him, getting under his skin, tapping your fingers against the soft swell of your bottom lip as you eye him up, taking your time before you speak.

Infuriating. You’re infuriating and you know it.

It’s unfortunate, really, because you’re unavoidable.

Jungkook had asked, once, why Yoongi doesn’t just go elsewhere. They’re more than familiar with the underbelly of this heaving city, underneath all the neon lights and shimmering holograms and towering skyscrapers and legal tech; the scuttling seams of back alley traders and illegal goods, tech or otherwise. There are plenty of black market dealers, after all, plenty of other vendors he could go to to get the equipment he wants. Plenty of other skilled crafters, artificers, artisans, people who would be more than happy to create the things that Yoongi asks for, that he needs. People who can get their hands on anything you want. For a price.

Yoongi’s answer had been short and succinct.

“She’s the best there is,” he’d said, and that had been that.

Because it’s true. You might be exasperating, maddening, laughing in Yoongi’s face where others might cower or genuflect, but no one is as good as you. All of Yoongi’s gear has been crafted by you; each and every single one of his weapons, his tech, the headpiece that fits so perfectly around the back of his skull that Yoongi often forgets that it’s there, hidden in his hair, unfolding across his eyes whenever he lines up a shot to make the kill—there’s evidence of your work across every inch of his body, hidden away under his clothes, day in, day out. Even when he’s not on a contract Yoongi never leaves anything to chance.

(A walking armoury, Namjoon had called him once.)

(You’d phrased it differently.

You’re always packing, hmm? you’d hummed, rapping your fingernails in a steady beat as you’d leaned back in your chair, smiling with teeth. There was laughter in your words and your gaze, no attempt made to hide your amusement, but after your goading you’d made him a collapsible sword anyway. It’s a beautiful thing, this folding blade, bristling with plasma and energy if Yoongi needs it, lethal and deadly. One of his most prized possessions, something that’s gotten him out of multiple corners, and he owes it—you—his life.)

There’s no one on par with you. You’re a Renaissance woman, a fiercely talented polymath who doesn’t need to rely on anyone else to create the things you create. Low-tech, high-tech, no tech—you make everything from scratch, programme things yourself, hunched over each project in your own workshop with nothing but your mind and your own two hands.

It’s the only reason he puts up with you and your antics, the sharp jibes, the shameless flirting; you’re the most infuriating person he knows, but there’s no one else he would trust with the work that you do.

Unfortunately.

Which is why Yoongi finds himself here, again and again, as familiar with this studio as you are—he watches you work, sometimes, watches you sketch up blueprints and drag your fingers across your array of displays, your world cast in shifting shades of cyan and electric blue from all the tech in here, humming and alive. He likes to see how his equipment is made, after all. It can mean the difference between life and death. He takes this seriously.

It’s the one time you might be quiet. Might be quiet, because you still talk even when you work; flick your gaze between Yoongi and whatever’s set in front of you, that ever present smile spread across your lips, smug and amused. You’re only silent during the hardest jobs. Like right now, you’re intense and focused, a furrow dug between your brows as you survey his sniper rifle—almost shorn in two. (It had been the only thing to hand when he’d had to block a blow from a guard he’d somehow overlooked, no time to draw any other weapons before they’d started to brawl.)

You’d been unimpressed. You’d raised your eyebrows with all the severity of a disappointed mother, bitten words out at him with molten snideness, dripping heat and snark.

“It’s a gun, Yoongi. A gun. You know, something you shoot with? Pew pew? Blammo? I’m not sure what sort of shields and body armour you’ve seen in the past but this isn’t either of those things. Do you want me to sketch some diagrams up for you? Or maybe I could write you a book. Baby’s First Arsenal, Chapter One: The Difference Between Things That Are Guns And Things That Aren’t. Would that be helpful?”

No one else talks to Yoongi like that. No one else would dare. It’s only a rare few that know his birth name and it’s not often that he hears it, more used to the sound of Agust D falling off people’s lips. But that had been part of your price, part of the agreement when he’d first met you and asked for your services: his real name.

Yoongi had let it wash over him, had endured your tongue-lashing before putting the gun down with a heavy finality and thrust it over at you, tired of all your talk.

“Just fix it,” he’d demanded.

You’d laughed in his face.

“As always, your bedside manner leaves something to be desired,” you’d said, taking the rifle from him.

The D-2 Shadow isn’t just a weapon. It’s a piece of art, clean edges and slick lines, and Yoongi is grateful to have it back in his hands. There’s no other sniper rifle like it, made of super lightweight alloy and easy to handle; thermal scope, enhanced stabilisers for accuracy; superior kinetic coils for better shot penetration. Yoongi had asked for the best and you’d delivered. Gone above and beyond, crafted a weapon the likes of which no one else possesses, modified in ways other people can’t even fathom.

And you’d fixed it when he'd almost let it get destroyed. Made it better than new, even, layered it in more alloy to make it stronger without making it heavier, a new material of your own design. If he hadn’t known you as well as he does he’d have worried that it was beyond repair, knows that other gunsmiths would have taken one look at its crumpled body and shaken their heads, but you hadn’t.

Of course you hadn’t. You never do.

You charge him a pretty penny for your work, make him pay through the nose for everything he asks of you, but Yoongi is more than willing to do so. More than capable of paying, coffers lined with more money than he might need, one of the best contract killers there is—the real price he pays is with his sanity, worn away each time you open your mouth. He can’t help but rise to your bait, as derisive as you are; it’s only the smallest things, a sharpness to his otherwise even tone, an angry spark in his eyes, but you pick up on it all.

He’s not your only customer. You don’t extend your services to many, only to the people you want to—Yoongi’s not sure what set of harebrained criteria you have that lets you choose who you’ll sell to and who you won’t but he can’t make heads nor tails of it. He knows he’s not part of your clientele because he’s got the credits to pay, nor is it because he’s one of the most highly regarded hitmen in his line of business.

You don’t just choose people who can afford to pay or people who have a level of power and influence in this dark underworld you inhabit. You really don’t care about those things. You just pick and choose on a whim.

(Once, back when he’d first met you, Yoongi had discovered that you’d concocted an entirely new security system—practically incapable of being hacked, crawling with tech, a level of complexity even the richest elites could barely afford—for some small artist who’d worried that their paintings might get stolen. He was an unknown at the time, this V, squirrelled away in one of the dark corners in the lowest levels of the city, and you’d all but given him some of the best work you’d ever done, undercharged him something chronic.

You’d shrugged when Yoongi had asked why.

“He makes me laugh,” you’d replied.)

Yoongi isn’t your only customer but he’s certainly the only one you seem to treat the way you do. There’s a level of irreverence in everything you do, self-confidence settled across every inch of you like the obnoxious stench of a teenage boy’s body spray, but you seem to take particular pleasure in Yoongi’s displeasure. He’d brought Namjoon along, once, inquiring after an imitation greenhouse, how someone might set up the tech to raise tropical plants that wouldn’t survive otherwise (mostly above board, even; Namjoon might grow illicit plants, poisonous and prohibited, but he likes pretty flowers, too). And there had been none of the mocking that Yoongi receives. None of the wind ups. You’d been pleasant, despite your incessant snark, agreeing to take the job with a smile on your face that Yoongi never gets given.

(It had been infuriating, to know that you’re capable of not being an ass, but you just choose not to be. For fun.)

Yoongi really, really doesn’t like you, but he respects your work. Respects you, even if he’d never admit it out loud.

You keep your word. You don’t supply his competitors, although you claim it’s not loyalty to him and it’s only because they can’t pay as well as he does—winnings go to the highest bidder, you’d said sagely, as obtuse and irritating as always.

But Yoongi knows other sellers will provide anyone who’s willing to pay, freelancers who peddle their wares regardless of affiliation or alliances. You’re beholden to no one and yet Yoongi knows you would never double cross him. Never supply anyone who challenges his work, even if they have the money, even if he’s on good terms with them (it’s not personal, it’s business; Yoongi has no issue with other hired killers as long as they stay out of his way). He knows he can rely on you, which is something to be treasured in these back-crossing back-stabbing backstreets.

So when he makes his way to your door, the details of a new contract still fresh in his mind, he instantly comes to a stop.

There’s something off. He can tell immediately, years of instinct causing the hairs on the back of his neck to rise, every part of him on edge. Everything looks normal, is normal, but there’s a burning in his gut that has Yoongi’s finger itching for the trigger even though there’s nothing to shoot.

You’ve granted him the privilege of access to your workshop, to the other rooms, entered the scans of his hand and eye and voice into the security systems, keep him updated on the varying passwords you cycle through, so he can enter whenever he needs to.

(He’s woken you up on more than one occasion, roused you from sleep for last minute supplies before he leaves for another contract, appearing in the dead of night like a spectre of death, clothing dark and eyes darker, overflowing with weaponry. A looming silhouette edged in strokes of cyan and magenta from the ever present, low-level neon light in your room, so much darker than the bright lights of your workshop. Intimidating.

And you always just roll your eyes and sigh and tell him to keep a better eye on his cache of equipment and climb out of bed for him. You’re so at odds to him in your sleep rumpled clothing and mussed hair, still unafraid even when he’s fully geared and ready to kill; shirt slipping off your shoulder, swathes of bare skin in the place of Yoongi's all-encompassing outfit, shimmering black light tattoos visible on your legs and arms and bare skin of your collarbones, geometric lines in the palest of blues and greens. You hand over whatever he needs and tell him the creds he owes you.

“I’ve already given you a key to my apartment and you haven’t even taken me for dinner once,” you sigh—dramatic and melodramatic—even as you hand over a bundle of crossbow bolts. The synthesised toxin inside the darts is your own concoction, of course, courtesy of the plant matter provided from Namjoon’s greenhouse.

“I’d literally rather be shot in the head than willingly spend time with you,” he replies.

“You wanna fuck me so bad it makes you look stupid,” you say, and just laugh in the face of his unimpressed deadpan. As insufferable as always.)

So he doesn’t need your permission to enter. He’s silent, light-footed as he makes his way inside, scanning each inch of this familiar interior; nothing’s wrong, not yet, but Yoongi can sense something in the air. Something heavy, settled bitter on his tongue, coating the back of his throat.

And then he walks into your workshop.

You’re meticulous. Even when you’re overrun with gear, with parts that have yet to be used, everything has its place. You prefer paper over datapads, too, tack sheets of designs and notes up on the wall, have clipboards and stacks of sheets set neatly in their place, a throwback to a time before tech ruled everything. Yoongi knows the layout of this room as well as he knows his own home, a mental map of straight lines and unwavering coordinates with you in the centre of it all.

Upheaval. Those neat lines of organised cartography have been pulled apart. Ham-handed work, to be sure, more of a statement than anything else; intent to instil fear rather than to destroy (although, Yoongi sees now that one of the monitors has been smashed, display sparking white and blue as it bleeds out electricity.). Even in the darkness of the room—overhead lights off and only emergency lighting on, painting things in shades of dark crimson and pink—Yoongi can tell that whichever interlopers have done this are already gone. The room is empty.

Then the sound of a clatter breaks the silence and Yoongi’s already got his pistol out, drawn without a thought as he approaches the sound that comes from the back room, fleet-footed and silent as he raises the gun and rounds the corner—

And sees you at the end of the barrel.

There’s a first aid kit on the floor. Packs of medi-gel and rolls of bandages and other supplies scattered around your feet. You haven’t even spotted Yoongi yet, in despair at the mess in front of you; he’s never seen you like this, never seen anything other than your veneer of enraging smugness and never-ending energy.

“Y/n?”

You flinch even as your head snaps around, eyes wide—but the second you see Yoongi you visibly relax, even though he’s still holding a gun in your direction.

There’s a bruise blossoming across your left cheek.

“Ah, Yoongi.” The smile that paints itself across your lips is almost convincing despite the dark flower that’s unfolding on your skin, blood rising to the surface and painting it in hues of pain; you wince, a little, when the smile makes your wound ache. Soldier onwards as you act as though nothing is wrong. “I know you’re always desperate for my attention but do you mind giving me a second? I’m kind of indisposed at the moment.”

Yoongi’s lips are set in a thin line. He only has one question on his mind.

“Who did this to you?”

Your gaze flickers before you break eye contact, staring at the first aid supplies on the floor. “What, this? Have you never dropped something before?”

Yoongi ignores your deflection. It only takes a few moments to reholster the pistol, to step over to you, to grasp your chin and tilt your face towards him.

“Who did this to you?”

Yoongi’s tone is quiet and low, firm and undeniable. For the first time since he’s met you it seems as though you’re lost for words, lips parted around a silent sound of surprise as you’re subjected to the full force of Yoongi’s gaze, cutting through you; past every layer of self-inflated narcissism you put on, past every deflection you might make.

There's a beat of silence.

And then you slowly but irrevocably fold underneath the weight of his stare.

You let him lead you, sit you down, bowing to his hands and his directions. You’re silent throughout, lips an unfamiliar shape as they’re pulled down into the slightest of frowns. He’s only ever seen you smile, seen you laugh, self-assured. Never like this.

You seem surprised, startled when he sits across from you and cracks open a pack of medi-gel. Yoongi’s surprised too, although he doesn’t show it, lets his instincts take over and settles into auto-pilot as he reaches for your face. He’s never seen your eyes so round, so wide, watching the hand that descends on your cheek with all the single-minded intent of a man about to fillet a fish—careful and practiced but menacing, maybe. (He doesn’t like you but you don’t deserve to have been hurt and Yoongi can’t just stand by and not help.)

And you don’t shy away. You stare at him as he stares at his fingers, layers the gel evenly across the pain of your bruise, cool and soothing.

It’s only when he’s reached for more medi-gel and touched your cheek for the second time that you finally speak.

“It was one of the Tang cousins.”

Yoongi goes still, fingers resting across your skin, slick with purple gel.

“One of the cousins?”

Yoongi doesn’t like you. But—and God knows what he did wrong in a previous life for this to be true—you’re one of his inner circle, one of the very, very few people he trusts. You’re not friends and he doesn’t like you, but he owes you, owes you a hundred times over, owes you for every successful kill, every silent infiltration, every averted detection. All thanks to your tech and the work you put into it for him. He’s indebted to you.

Yoongi always pays his debts.

“I didn’t even catch his name.” You sound dismissive. Normally you’d laugh, deride the person you’re speaking about, but instead you just sound tired. “One of the low down ones. New kid on the block; someone I didn’t recognise, with some lackeys or similar. Trying to make a name for himself, I think. He demanded that I build weapons for him. I said no.”

The Tang family is a big one, a criminal empire that has its tendrils dug in everywhere. You don’t deal with them, have no interest throwing your lot in with them intentionally or not; it’s a big, formidable family, but it’s not the only one around. You’d be dumb to get involved in that mess of generational, cross-family conflict. You’ll sell things to the highest bidder, shift illicit high-tech stock, build generic modifications that people can buy—but you don’t make bespoke weaponry for just anyone.

You don’t even sell to the heads of the Tang family directly, let alone to some back-alley sewer rat who probably barely has the faintest ties to the family, a single vein of Tang blood in his body, just enough to give him an in.

Whoever this cousin was he must be really fucking stupid to not know that. Stupid to think he could demand anything from you. Stupid to think he could hurt you when you laughed in his face and said no. Anyone with half a brain-cell should know not to fuck with you, know that it’s an honour to even be allowed inside your workshop, that to be told ‘no’ by you is a privilege.

Stupid to think that he wasn’t going to pay for that stupidity.

The pack of medi-gel is empty, the deflated pouch forgotten on Yoongi’s knee as he stares at you. The flecks of biomatter in the gel catch the light, sparkling like glitter in the lavender that’s seeping into your skin; all the surprise is gone from your eyes and instead you’re just watching him, stolid and steady. Analytical.

(You’re smart. Yoongi knows you are. For all that you talk shit and play foolish, he never forgets about that fierce intelligence. Never underestimates you or how perceptive you are. He only wonders what’s on your mind right now; what it is that you see in front of you.)

“Next time don’t let someone in unless you’re certain you’re going to sell to them.”

You scoff in his face. “Alright, Dad. Do you want to update my curfew while you’re at it? Make it ten p.m. instead of eleven?”

Yoongi blinks slowly. You’ve got both eyebrows raised, surveying him with a mixture of amusement and disbelief that he’s trying to tell you what to do (because no one tells you what to do; they wouldn't dare). But you don’t pull away, your knees still touching his, body bowed towards him from when he’d coaxed you closer so he could reach your face—so he knows you don’t mind. Not really.

(Knows you don’t care about anyone’s opinions or rules, only sticking to your own. The fact you’d been shaken from that place of confidence by some thug—even for a moment—doesn’t sit right in Yoongi’s belly. That bitter taste is back in his throat and it’s ice cold, icicles prickling through his blood.)

(He doesn’t like you but you’re one of his people and no one fucks with Yoongi’s people.)

The bruise is still there days later, after you’ve rearranged your workshop back to the way it was, sourced a new monitor to replace the one that was broken. You’re back to smirking, already ready for his request, more bullets for his weapons and super-charged plasma to recharge his sword, but the bruise is a stark reminder of what you’ve been through. So is, too, the new blueprint he spies half finished on your open displays: an automated security system that scans thermal signatures, guns unfolding from the ceiling whenever aggressive movement is detected from an unfamiliar person. Anyone who’s not listed as familiar in the security logs.

(Yoongi used to wonder about that. Why you didn’t have security mechs set in place, programming their AI to protect you, but you don’t like to use mechs. Don’t like to use them, even if you could afford to build them, because you compare it to forced servitude. You’ve never needed them before now, anyway. Safe in your reputation, knowing that you’re in a position of power, that people come here because they know you’re the best of the best.)

(But it seems like you don’t trust that any more. Don’t feel safe.)

Yoongi keeps as silent as always, bites his tongue when you cut him off mid-sentence with nothing more than a raised finger.

“Ah, ah, ah,” you tut, wagging the finger back and forth like the slow pendulum of a grandfather clock. “No more crafting requests. I’m still working on the concentration mod you asked for and I’ll let you know when it’s ready. I don't rush for anyone. Patience is a virtue, baby. Did no one ever tell you that?”

“Don’t call me baby.”

“Okay, handsome.” Your reply is instant, unruffled, and Yoongi grits his teeth.

But still. For all that you’re acting like normal, workshop set back into place, white lighting shining overhead, as neat and presentable as always—Yoongi can read uncertainty in the way you move. Discomfort. You don’t feel safe in your own space and it’s obvious, even if you don’t realise it.

“Come back any time,” you say coyly, and Yoongi, as always, ignores you. Transfers the creds he owes you in silence before he takes one last look at the bruise that’s still painted across your skin, dark eyes touching yours for the briefest moment before he turns and leaves.

For the first time since you met, Yoongi buys from someone who isn’t you.

It’s not bad. Well made, decent tech, Predator pistol sitting easy in his hands when he brings it to the light and watches it unfold from its holstered state, the way plasma bursts to life in the barrel; weaker than bullets but easier to reload in the field. It’s no surprise that the Yeom family gets their stuff sourced from here. The body armour, too, isn’t bad, engraved with the family crest and cast in their colours.

It’s not bad, but it’s not as good as it could be. Not as good as Yoongi needs his tech to be, demands it to be—but quality doesn’t matter. Not today. He has a job to do.

It’s easy to find his mark. Scum gathers in stagnant water, in the dirtiest and dankest places, and this is where Yoongi finds Tang Lee. Finds him spilling beer and money in the backroom of some grimy strip club where the holograms flicker from age and the strippers are tired, trying their best to scrape a living from the seething riverbed of filth that runs underneath the bright neon lights of the skyscrapers in the levels above.

Lee isn’t alone but it’s so easy to take them out it’s laughable, men drunk from cheap alcohol; Yoongi catches one in a chokehold, smashes another’s face into the glass table with enough force it shatters, faces Lee once they’re the only two standing. The music outside is too loud and the room is sound proofed for privacy and so Yoongi isn’t interrupted as he brings Lee to his knees, thrusting his face into a smear of blood that drips from his now-broken nose, courtesy of a quick jab of Yoongi’s right fist.

It’s not a quick kill. It could be. Yoongi could have ended this in moments, caught Lee off guard and ended his miserable life almost effortlessly—but he doesn’t. He takes his time, makes it count, teaches him a lesson, has Lee on his hands and knees as he sobs out apologies and snivels for mercy before he takes the pistol and blows his brains out. Yoongi doesn’t feel sorry for the man, eyes the body impassively, not even worth his disgust—he only feels sorry for whoever finds the chaos of the room and the bodies inside, the distinct plasma burns he purposefully leaves in the wall with the Predator pistol, the entire scene he’s created here: a scuffle gone wrong, fast.

You’re not the only person Tang Lee has crossed but you’ll be the last. Yoongi checks the pulses of the other two men, finds one dead and the other still alive, barely, just like he’d planned—and his work is done. It’s the Yeom family’s problem now, any fall out from Lee’s death pointed at them, a repayment of a slight Lee had made to a Yeom supplier only a few weeks ago. (Yoongi wagers that neither family will care, will draw a veil over this moment and let this settle without raising arms, no one important enough to go to war over.)

He discards the pistol and armour once he’s done, incinerates it all, no interest in keeping subpar equipment. It’s not even worth dismantling for parts. Hoseok finds him in their basement, eyeing the blue flames that lick their way around the discarded armaments; he just watches Yoongi, inscrutable and calm as he eyes the blood on the clothing before it bursts into flames.

“Not a contract,” Hoseok says. (It’s not a question.)

“A job.” Yoongi replies, watches the cloth turn to ash through the thrumming display of the incinerator. “Something that needed to be done.”

He doesn’t tell anyone what he’s done. There’s no point in it. Yoongi decides something needs to be done and he’ll do it, whether that’s building a new chair for Jungkook after he broke his old one or killing a man who hurt you.

The next time he sees you your bruise is practically gone, faded into your skin. You’re intent on something on a monitor but when you notice him you turn, swivelling in your chair in one smooth motion as you lean back and put your hands behind your head, cross one leg over the other, dripping self-satisfaction, your smile sharp and full of teeth.

“Ah, Yoongi.” You look so smug that Yoongi has to resist the urge to roll his eyes. “Welcome, once again, to my laboratory. Is this visit for business or pleasure? Either way, you know I'm happy to oblige.”

“I’m here for the mod you promised me,” he says bluntly, and you just keep smiling, even as you hold out a hand for the sniper rifle, handling the D-2 Shadow with as much reverence as Yoongi does as you affix the mod.

It’s perfect, of course. All that Yoongi asked for and more. The software links with his eyepiece, biometric sensors that help him find his target, software to adjust to his pulse and breathing.

“You can even change the colour of the HUD,” you say, as if it’s some sort of buy-one-get-one-free offer, some fun little feature, rather than another helpful piece of software that you’ve created. Dismissive. An afterthought.

(You act like you take nothing seriously. Yoongi is your stark opposite, weighing everything in his hands and treating it with the level of attention it deserves, intent and focused.)

He’s staring down the scope when you speak once more. Light and easy, for once, rather than loud with your usual exaggerated exuberance or silken with unnecessary suggestiveness.

“I hear that they found a Tang family member dead.”

Yoongi just hums in response. Keeps his eye on the scope, wills the colour from dark green to white using the affinity link he has synced with his headpiece, watches the lines of the heads up display of the scope repaint themselves without even a single flicker, transition smooth and effortless. (Perfection.)

“It seems like the Yeom family did it,” you say, tone still conversational.

“Is that so.” Yoongi sounds disinterested, face impassive as he draws the gun away from his face, eye piece automatically folding away from his eyes. “Can I ask about other mods now that this one is finished?”

One of your brows rises, a perfect curve of discontent. “Say thank you first, Yoongi.”

Yoongi’s eyes cut into yours but you don’t back down, watch his blank face as he eventually says: “Thank you. Now I need more mods.”

You throw your head back as you laugh. “You’re insatiable,” you say, but you don’t say no. “What do you want now?”

(It’s not that you never say no to Yoongi. Because you have, and you do, and you will. But never because you can’t make what he asks for—and only because you refuse to make things that might endanger his safety, illicit bio-mods that other hired hitmen use, things that degrade the body from the inside out.)

Yoongi’s just holstered the Shadow, ready to go, when you speak one final time.

“Yoongi?”

He’s never heard you say his name like that, soft and quiet.

“Thanks.” You’re staring at him, regarding him steadily, solemn in a way that he’s never seen. You’re smiling, as always, but the expression is lightyears away from what Yoongi is used to—just the barest hint of an upturn to your lips.

Yoongi stares back at you. “I don’t know what you’re thanking me for.”

Your smile grows, a warm thing, unfurling like a flower. Almost affectionate. “Sure,” you say. “Of course. Silly me. Slip of the tongue.” And then, as if your brain’s only just caught up with what you just said, the smile turns salacious. “On the note of slipping the tongue—”

“Bye.”

Your cascading laughter follows him on his way out, cutting and shining with amusement.

Yoongi’s been getting more contracts. He’s finally buckled under Jungkook’s insistent whining and has agreed to get gear for him, too, to train him how to shoot. Hoseok has more than enough contacts in the underworld to get jobs for them both—he’s the most powerful information broker around, after all, sitting in the centre of a web he’s woven after years of work, all that sharpness and darkness hidden behind his deceptively bright smile.

(Yoongi’s lucky to consider him a friend and not an enemy.)

So that’s why he’s here with increasing frequency. That’s why he finds himself at your door more often than not. To get those orders in place, to make sure they’re progressing as fast as they need to.

You never react when Yoongi steps into your workshop. Well, you do, you lean into your hand and smirk at him, pursing your lips around each snide remark, each suggestive comment—but you never question his appearance. You just go with the flow, unbothered by his presence, even when there are other people there—other customers who eye him with unveiled curiosity and confusion (some Yoongi recognises, some he doesn’t, well-known faces and unknowns alike; none of them know who he is, though, unrecognisable as Agust D without his battle gear on). Yoongi keeps a close eye on their stances, any unchecked aggression or hostility towards you. Keeps a watch on the tension of your shoulders and spine, because of… habit. Battle instinct. Nothing else.

“You know my policy, Yoongi.” You’re analysing something in your hand. It looks like an antique spyglass, something from the decades before technology overtook the world, but it’s jammed full of tech; it doesn’t just magnify to a terrifying degree, it also amplifies sound, connected to an earpiece that’s sleek and easy to overlook. ‘A small project’, you’d called it, as if it isn’t something that people would pay a fortune to own. “If I’m making something for someone I have to meet them first. If you want me to make anything for this ‘JK’ then it’s not happening until you bring him here. Just like with your friend RM.”

Yoongi is lolling by your monitors, half-asleep in your chair (which had moulded to the shape of his body the second he sat in it, designed to be too comfortable for its own good).

“I know you can’t pull yourself away from me,” you continue, glancing up from the scope. “But you have to spend time with your friends sometimes. I know they’re not as pleasing to look at as me—”

“Stop.”

You shift the spyglass to one hand and lean your chin on the other, regarding him with sharp eyes and an amused quirk to your lips. “I love that you think you can tell me what to do.”

Yoongi resists the urge to make a noise at the back of his throat, opting to keep mum instead.

He’s too tired to argue with you. He’d come straight after a contract, blood still on the edge of his sleeves (not his), watched the way your eyebrows had risen when you’d casually taken in the state of him before offering to wash his jacket. You know the reality of this world you both inhabit, operating in the shadows, survival paid for in blood; you might not be on the high ground, lining the shot up to take the kill, but you craft the trigger that Yoongi pulls.

(You might be aware of this reality but you’re far removed from it, shaken by violence on your own door. You never should have been faced with it. You’re an inventor; a creator. Not a killer. Not like Yoongi is. He’s not going to let that happen again. He doesn’t like you but you shouldn’t have been subject to pain—shouldn’t still have your motions edged with a held breath, as if you’re waiting for it to repeat itself.

No matter how well you hide it, Yoongi knows that there's a part of you that's still scared.)

“I know you think you’re too important to need to remember things, but we’ve worked together for long enough that you know that I’d ask to meet JK first, Yoongi,” you say. “Did you really have to come straight after murking someone just to be reminded about that? Not complaining—you know I love seeing that pretty scowl of yours—but I just figured you’d rather be resting right now. Don't tell me the infamous Agust D missed me and decided to come here instead.”

“You were on the way.”

(He’d circled around, taken a longer route, descended into the familiar maze of the lower city. To throw off the scent of any potential pursuers. You just happened to be nearby, pure coincidence and convenience.)

You retract the spyglass, collapsing it in your hands. “Either you leave right now and go to your own place to sleep, or you’re going to sleep in my bed. Your choice.”

(If Yoongi took the time to think about it, really think about it, he’d notice that the words aren’t shrouded in suggestion or insinuation. Your brows are raised and you’re looking at him expectantly, waiting for him to decide what he’s going to do—unimpressed at how tired he is, how he’s come here instead of sliding into his own bed for the rest he so clearly needs.)

Of course, Yoongi leaves. He returns home without his jacket, strips his shirt off as soon as he’s in this safe place, this base, sheds pieces of his body armour as easy as anything (you’d designed it to be lightweight and easy to don and doff, the perfect defence for someone who relied on stealth and speed); he’s just removing the last greave when Hoseok appears, rapping his knuckles against the open door.

“You’re finally back.”

Yoongi looks up. Hoseok is dressed for work, Hope Broker persona in place, tailored suit that sits perfectly with the lines of his body, handsome and stylish and entirely put together. He oozes poise and power. Elegance.

“Yeah.” Yoongi lets the greave drop, silent as it falls to the floor. “Job’s done.”

Hoseok smiles. It’s a genuine one because it’s for Yoongi. “I know,” he says, even though scarcely any time has passed since Yoongi put a bullet in the back of the target’s skull. Nothing happens in this world of theirs without Hoseok finding out about it, always sooner rather than later. “Just wanted to check in and make sure you were okay.”

“All good.”

“Good.” Hoseok is used to Yoongi’s blunt nature, his short responses when he’s tired. “Get some sleep.”

Hoseok’s elegant even as he adjusts his cufflinks. It’s just the briefest of moments, the crisp edge of his perfectly white sleeve contrasting with the shining silver, the design inlaid in them—but Yoongi recognises that design immediately.

Because it’s yours.

It’s the same emblem on each piece of his gear, small and understated, hidden away, easy to miss—but Yoongi knows it intimately. He doesn’t say anything. Lets Hoseok leave without a word. Each one of the men that Yoongi considers family, the tiny collection of people that stay in this same home as him, know that he only gets equipment sourced from you—but Hoseok had never mentioned that he’s been in contact with you, too.

It’s not important. Hoseok might be his friend and a staunch ally but there’s plenty that he gets up to that none of the others are privy to, trading information to the highest bidders, head of a huge network that Yoongi can use to his advantage but isn’t technically a part of. The people Hoseok deals with—buys his information and resources from, keeps perfectly balanced in comparison to his own power—is his own business and not Yoongi’s.

Yoongi moves to gather his armour, the hardsuit he wears like a second skin, and spots that insignia that he knows so well branded into it. To have Hoseok wearing it at his wrist—the Hope Broker, renowned trader of secrets—is a statement. You could have made the cufflinks plain and unadorned. But you hadn’t.

When Yoongi climbs into bed that night, he finds that his sleep is restless.

The smile on your face fades. “You know I don’t talk about business with other customers.”

Yoongi’s staring at you across your workbench, the light from its surface going dim as you take your hands off it, disassembled stun mine forgotten.

No one knows about his genuine friendship with Hoseok, but they do know that Agust D and the Hope Broker have an agreement; a professional working relationship. “I know the Hope Broker,” Yoongi says.

Your eyebrows rise so far they seem to threaten to ascend into your hairline, you’re so incredulous. “Everyone does. What’s your point? Do you expect me to give you information about everyone you ask about? I get paid to keep people’s privacy, Yoongi. Do you think I sell the information of your equipment, how to dissemble every defence you have? Do you think I give your name out to everyone who asks?”

There’s no touch of amusement to the line of your lips, no sparkling irreverence in your eyes. You’re genuinely displeased.

“He’s wearing your symbol.”

You scoff. “You wear my symbol too. Why, are you jealous? Your armour has exactly the same technology. Better, even, because I can fit more tech in there.”

The cufflinks generate a kinetic barrier, then, a layer of invisible shielding that lays just atop Hoseok’s skin. But no one sees Yoongi’s armour; no one sees the workmanship of your weapons, no one except him. Your insignia isn’t emblazoned on his wrist for all to see.

Yoongi isn’t jealous.

“Hope is a powerful man,” you continue. “Everyone knows that. Even people who haven’t met him know that. Even people who aren’t sure he exists know that. If I want to sell to him then that’s my business.”

Everyone who’s anyone recognises your logo, no matter how rare it is to spot it (you only craft for a select few, after all). And Hoseok’s influence is far reaching and powerful; no one would dare cross him, dare to cross anyone who’s associated with him.

“I’m looking for a new workshop.” You rise, moving away from your workbench to your monitors, touching a display with your fingers to bring it to life. Ignoring Yoongi’s presence, not even looking at him. “I haven’t got the space to modify the systems in this one as much as I want to. The walls are already full enough as it is. Do you know how hard it is to find somewhere with the specifications I need?”

Yoongi realises, then, why you’re doing this. The bruise is long gone and your skin is unmarred but you still don’t feel safe. You’ve always worked alone. Until now. Now you’re making moves to settle down, settle in, make a statement of allegiance to someone who can offer you a level of protection with their influence.

Someone who can offer you somewhere new, away from this inadequate place you’ve outgrown.

Hoseok laughs lightly when Yoongi asks about it, mentions it in passing as the two of them drink soju side by side, Hoseok in his suit and Yoongi girded in the armour under his unassuming clothes, both in the upper city for work; they stare down at the myriads of tall buildings and huge holo-boards and rainbow array of neon lights, far above the place they call home.

“Oh, yeah,” he says, utterly relaxed (and faintly amused). “I know you respect her work so I thought I’d reach out. I’m surprised she can make the things she does in that tiny workshop. You’re right; she’s very good.”

You are. The next time you meet, you give Yoongi his usual shipment and more besides, more than he’d ordered, reflected in the amount of creds he has to pay—because he won’t be able to just drop in for a while, your workshop dismantled and scraped empty in preparation for the move. Where to, he doesn’t know, but you say you’ll pass on the information once everything is up and running again.

“If you break any of your gear while I’m gone then you’re on your own,” you say. “I’m not shipping anything before my new workshop is finished.”

Two days later, Yoongi spies a new watch on Hoseok’s wrist. It looks low-tech, old style, metal strap and round clock face—but he sees the silhouette of your logo under those ticking hands and knows there’s more tech in there that meets the eye.

He looks away.

It takes a week for the message to appear, encrypted: your new location. Levels above your former workshop, one of the higher strata of the lower city—still hidden and out of the way but away from the dirt and darkness.

Yoongi goes. He finds the door panel, scans his palm, leans forward for the light to flit across his eye, murmurs a word, watches the door slide open. He’s already programmed in. New workshop, new security system, but he’s still allowed in, still one of the people you consider familiar, trustworthy.

(He doesn’t know of anyone else who fits that category. Has only ever seen you manually allow people inside, granting your permission each time, rather than giving them free run of the place. No one has as many complex orders as he does, he’s certain. It’s for ease and practicality’s sake.)

He’s unfamiliar with the layout of this new building, first corridor already longer than he’s used to; he pauses for a moment but then hears something, faint—your laughter. Follows that sound, makes his way forward, through polished corridors with lines of light underfoot, leading him down some stairs and towards the sound of you.

Your new workshop is beautiful. There’s enough room in here for everything, no need for a backroom: a central worktable, benches lining the walls, tech displays built in, everything edged with lighting, dark surfaces shining bright, large floor panels underfoot emitting a low glow. Your former home had been that underground workshop and a locked door to a ladder to your micro apartment up top, tiny kitchen and single bed in a small room with a shower cubicle in the corner. Yoongi already knows that this building is far, far bigger, and you have more space than you’ve ever had before; you’d never been discontent with your smaller home, comfort from familiarity, until that comfort had been stripped from you.

You’re smiling. The snark woven into your words that Yoongi is used to is muted, light comment falling from your lips as you sit on that central table, perched on its edge. And Hoseok, he laughs, grinning so widely his teeth are on show—he’s wearing a suit but his jacket is resting on his shoulders, tie undone and cast around his neck. A stance of relaxation, one Yoongi’s never seen from him, not when he’s working. Not when he’s The Hope Broker and not Hoseok.

He’s still smiling when he notices Yoongi, the two of you looking over when the hitman speaks.

“Didn’t expect to see you here, Hoseok.”

That ever-present smirk freezes on your face for a split second, eyes widening at the sound of Hope’s real name. Hoseok just takes it in stride, his smile not dimming even for a second.

“Hey, Yoongi.” His greeting is as warm as it always is. “Just checking in. Have to make sure everything is up to scratch. What’s the verdict?”

You’ve hidden your surprise, wiped it off your face, eyes on Hoseok as you answer him. “It’s perfect.” A pause. “I take it you two know each other?”

“Sure. Yoongi is an old friend of mine.” Hoseok is still smiling, looking at Yoongi with creased eyes. Unafraid of revealing this information to you, still at ease despite the tension that’s bubbling in the air, Yoongi’s impassive face. Hoseok is always an unshaken pillar of positivity. “I didn’t realise he was coming. Am I interrupting an appointment?”

You stare at Yoongi. “No, you’re not. I wasn’t expecting anyone.”

(You’d sent the message less than an hour ago. Yoongi had taken one look at the address, memorised it, pulled on his jacket and headed out; clearly you hadn’t anticipated how fast his arrival would be.)

“A happy coincidence, then.” Hoseok sounds like he genuinely means it, is pleased to see Yoongi here, his smile unwavering. There’s a languid set to his body, the easing line of his spine, hands in his pockets. A glittering in his eyes. (No one ever gets the drop on Hoseok, never surprises him, catches him off guard, no matter what they do.) “But I’ll let you conduct your business and we can catch up another time.”

He takes a hand out of his pocket as he walks past Yoongi, pats his shoulder amicably. His palm is relaxed against the tense set of Yoongi’s shoulders before he ascends the stairs and disappears out of sight, the sound of his polished shoes fading until he’s gone, one of the monitors on the wall flickering to indicate the front door is shut once more.

You’re still staring at Yoongi. The atmosphere had been heavy, even with Hoseok there—and now that he’s gone there’s nothing to alleviate that pressure, nothing to dissolve the strange twist to the air.

“Who,” you start, measured but sharp, “do you think you are?”

Yoongi returns your stare, looks back at you with his dark eyes. Doesn’t respond to your question; an unnecessary, unprompted thing, razor-edged for a reason he can’t discern.

“Can’t you hear me?” You slide off the table, stalk towards him. “I said—” you raise a hand— “who? Do? You? Think? You? Are?”

You emphasise each word with a sharp jab to Yoongi’s chest, driving your finger forward with so much force it must hurt. You keep it in place, keep it dug into the centre of his ribcage. There’s no laughter hidden in the corner of your lips. He’s annoyed you again, somehow, a familiar guest turned unwelcome interloper.

“You say that you know Hope and yet I just watched you treat him like dirt.” Your eyes are piercing, cutting through the soft frame of your curled lashes, boring straight into him. “You come into my workshop as if you’re meant to be here; like there’s something you’re owed. Do you want me to treat you like a child, send you to your room? Not let you back in here? Because I will.”

“You sent me your address,” Yoongi points out.

You let out a bark of laughter. “Please.” Your hand drops back to your side and you turn, stepping away. “I’ve sent this address to all my business associates. I can’t sell or buy unless people can find me. You’re the only one who’s taken this as an invitation to just turn up and waltz in. At least when Hope turns up he warns me beforehand. Oh, and he doesn’t say stuff like he’d rather blow his own brains out than be forced to see me. I know you just love being contrary but has it ever occurred to you to be more polite to people? You’d make a terrible waiter. You’d get fired on your first day.”

You’re in front of one of your cabinets. You reach inside for something, hefting it in your hands before returning, handling it in a way that’s completely unceremonious, dropping it to the bench at his side like you want to be rid of it. Like you don’t even want to hand it directly to him, to interact with him. “There. Nothing but a pleasure doing business with you, Yoongi, even if your customer service still needs improving.”

It looks like a flat, hexagonal panel, the same colour and material as his armour. Something to be locked into it, wired in, trailing veins of unattached tech spilling from it. He’s seen you working on this for a while, seen you draw up blueprints with a bruise fresh on your cheek, seen it turned in your hands as that mark had faded and left your skin.

It’s not something he ordered.

“What is this?”

You wave a dismissive hand. “Auto medi-gel distributor. It syncs with your armour and senses when you’ve been hurt and disperses gel in the affected area. Your armour’s always been too lightweight to have extra mods on but I’ve been working on this for a while.”

It’s an astonishing piece of tech. Usually one that’s reserved for heavier armour, restricting and hard to move in but easier to mod—but this thing is slim, compact, the same technology crammed into a smaller package without losing any of its punch. He doesn’t know what materials you’ve had to use to circumvent this, the level of tech you’ve layered into this, the amount of time and thought you’ve put into this.

“How much is it?”

The wrong thing to say. The smile that spreads itself across your lips is an echo of its usual curve, brittle and flaking around the edges, a baring of teeth.

“It’s a gift, Yoongi. Usually when someone does something for you, you return the favour.” Your lips are still upturned but your eyes are unsmiling even when your tone seems whimsical and light. You’ve got on your usual flippant façade, but there’s a pointed undercurrent to it. “You know, I don’t understand you at all. You remind me that you don’t like me but then you always hang around. You kill someone who threatened me and pretend that you didn’t do it. You say you don’t like me, but I thought you at least respected me, and yet here you are. Lying to me and treating me like I'm a fool.”

“I do respect you,” Yoongi says.

(Because he does, and as much as he would hate to inflate your ego, he doesn’t shy away from telling the truth.)

“Sure you do.” An unimpressed eye-roll, cutting under his words, knocking his feet out from underneath him. You don’t care to believe him. “This is my fault for not treating you the same as all my other business associates. Next time you come in you’ll have to have an appointment, just like everyone else. It’ll minimise the amount of time we have to spend together.”

Yoongi doesn’t like you. He finds, though, that he likes the sound of this even less; finds it pulling at his brows, his mouth, impassive expression turned to one of disapproval.

And his mouth opens. The word falls from his lips before he has a chance to think—years of battle intuition, years of following instinct, moving as he needs to in the moment.

“No.”

A raise of the brows. A purse of the lips. Incredulous. “No?” you parrot it back, mocking. “Oh, okay, sure. Never mind. You’re welcome to come in whenever you want and act like you have free rein of the place. There’s nothing I enjoy more than your scowling presence.”

Sharp tongued, sharp eyed, narrowed at him: a confrontation. For all that you needle him you never mean it, really (even if it’s still infuriating, aggravating). But right now? Right now each of your words is barbed, your sarcasm a defence, an offence. You’re running your mouth not just to rile him, but to ward him away.

“You’re really not as smart as you think you are, Min Yoongi.” You wield his name like a weapon. “You tell me right now why I should listen to you. What do you come here for? And don’t say it’s for my work because it stopped being just that a long time ago. And if it is just for my work then take it and go. Then I’ll take you off the security system and we’ll only see each other as much as is strictly necessary. In fact, you could pass your orders along via Hope—then we won’t have to even see each other at all. ”

“And then he’ll be the only one allowed free rein?”

It comes out before he’s even really thought about what he’s saying, which isn’t like him at all. Yoongi is two parts: pure, honed instinct, and careful, wary vigilance. He’s not like you, saying the first thing that comes to mind—not normally, anyway—but the words jump from his lips, from some near-silent part of him that balks at the idea. Of Hoseok stepping into your space the way that Yoongi does, appearing without warning, to be greeted with a curled smirk and glittering eyes.

“You’re a fucking idiot if you think that you’re not the only person with security clearance. My God. You’re infuriating. Seriously? I didn’t realise you were genuinely this dense. You’re the only one I’ve ever allowed in without prior agreement.” You emphasise this statement with another jab to his chest, your finger a sharp knife that cuts into him as you stab it forwards.

He catches your wrist. His grasp is firm but there’s no pressure to it; doesn’t squeeze, doesn’t tighten his fingers, just holds you in place. You’re staring at him with a challenge in your eyes, one that he finds himself rising to match, never one to back down.

“Is that so?”

Your hand unfurls, fingers splayed across his chest; he’s still holding your wrist, shifting with your movement. “Don’t be obtuse.” An irritated exhale. “Normally you complain whenever I talk and now you’re trying to get me to repeat myself. Again with the inconsistency, Yoongi. Make up your mind.”

He could do what you do whenever you’re feeling particularly aggravating. Play dumb, ask more questions, drag out the interaction until you’re bordering on snapping—but he doesn’t. He looks at the set of your jaw, the way you’re staring at him. Unflinching. You’ve never been scared of him, and you aren’t now, not with how he’s got a hold of you, how close he is to you.

He toes the line. Shifts closer. Notes the way your pupils dilate, how the tips of your fingers dig into the fabric of his shirt; how the air grows heavier, a frisson of electricity crackling through it. Yoongi doesn’t like you, but he likes that feeling—how the tension in the air shivers from indignation into something different.

Because you’re still staring at him, and there’s still that hard set to your jaw, but there’s not just anger in your eyes. There’s that warm thing he’s grown used to seeing, smouldering in near silence until he’d coaxed it to full flame, thrown gasoline onto the coals when he’d shot plasma into the back of Tang Lee’s skull. He’d protected you even though he hadn’t needed to, doesn’t need to, but does anyway—because he trusts you and there’s no one else he trusts to keep you safe.

And there’s no one else you trust, either.

“You talk too much,” Yoongi says, like he so often does—but there’s no irritation in it, touched instead with a simmering heat, the faintest edge of a bite.

You tilt your head. There’s a provocation etched into the twist of your mouth, the way your lips lift. Because no matter how much you needle him, dig your fingernails into every crack of his armour and twist—no matter how annoying you are, how angry you make him—you know that he’s not mad. Not really. Not in a way that makes you afraid, but in a way that thrills you, makes you want to see him snap, to wipe away that level facade he maintains.

“Maybe you should shut me up, then,” you reply, a murmur. A challenge.

A beat. Yoongi’s fingers tighten around your wrist. A warning.

And in response?

You just smile.

The way your eyes widen just seconds later is delicious, though, when Yoongi lets go of your wrist—because he’s moving faster than you expected. Your surprise melts into delight, a spark of glee that says you’ve gotten exactly what you want when Yoongi threads his fingers in your hair, tilting your head back to bare the column of your throat. He holds you firmly in place, crowds you back against the workbench so hard its edge must be digging almost painfully into your back but not once does that glee dim, written over every line of your smile, eyes bright and teeth sharp.

Yoongi likes to take things slow. There’s the part of him that never steps into a situation without knowing every angle, every escape route, each one of his kills planned meticulously. But, he thinks, the two of you have been waiting long enough, and he’s never been patient around you—has found his composure worn thin faster than anywhere else, by anyone else. It’s this part of him, frayed into non-existence by you, that rises to the surface now, makes him move as quick as he does.

And you respond just the way he knew you would. When he presses his mouth to yours you kiss him back like you have a point to make (you always do), fast and almost reckless, all lips and teeth and tongue. There’s no finesse to it. When he presses his tongue into your mouth you part your lips so prettily, let him take his fill, slide your tongue against his and tilt your head to get even deeper—and just like always, you're vocal, letting out small noises that are caught and muffled in the kiss, lust filled. But when you try to nip at his lip with the edge of your teeth Yoongi tightens his grip in your hair and swallows down your gasp before he pulls away, holding you in place so you can’t chase after his mouth. Your lips are kiss swollen and under the bright lights above they shine, slightly parted, pupils blown as you stare at him.

(You look good like this.)

Your eyes slide shut when Yoongi lowers his lips to your neck, across your throat. There’s nothing gentle about it. He moves with single-minded intent, lips and teeth harsh against your sensitive skin—and you take it all, little sounds falling from your lips as Yoongi drags his teeth towards the hollow of your neck. And when he takes his hand from your hair, takes both hands and digs his fingers into your waist and lifts you, you go so easily; a mimicry of your earlier position when he’d stepped in, perched on the edge of the table. Legs spread so Yoongi can stand between them. He’d be surprised at how pliant you are if it wasn’t so obvious that this is exactly what you want: lifting your hips so he can strip your lower half bare.

Your bare thighs press against the surface of the workbench, tech displays coming alive under your body heat. You’ve shrugged your cropped jacket off and you’re just reaching for your top when Yoongi stops you; splays a hand in the centre of your chest and presses you back, slow but undeniable. You’re not the one setting the pace. He is. He’s the one in control, with you spread out in front of him, only a thin layer of fabric keeping you from being completely bare—thin cotton underwear, dark and damp between your legs, betraying your arousal.

“Wet,” Yoongi murmurs.

Your retort stutters on your lips when he drags his fingers upwards over your slit, barely dulled by the material in the way. “No shit,” you say, and then suck in a breath when he presses the pad of his thumb across your clit.

It’s no good, the fact you’re still talking. But that’s okay. Yoongi’s planning on changing that.

It’s lewd, the way your legs are spread, parting further at the urging of his hands. Your hands slide across the bench, papers scattering, palms flat on the work surface and white light shimmering on dark blue in reaction to your touch; an unnecessary distraction that you both ignore. There’s nothing graceful about this, the peel of underwear away from your core, already slick even with the barest of attentions; he drags his fingers down the inside of your thighs, all that soft skin, and then under, urging your hips up and towards his mouth. No foreplay to this foreplay, no dragging out this moment—he bites at that soft skin of your inner thigh, sinks his teeth into it and listens to the way you gasp in surprise—and before you have a moment to ground yourself, he presses his mouth to your cunt.

You’re wet and warm under his tongue and the smell of you surrounds him, musky and heavy, and he feels how your entire body goes tense as you arch your back. He’d normally take his time with this, have you strung out and begging, but he has different plans today—knows exactly what he wants from this, sucking your clit between his lips and feeling your thighs tighten around his head, legs slung over his shoulders as he listens to the way you moan. Each sound shudders out from your mouth like you tried so desperately to keep it in but couldn’t help it. Yoongi loves eating pussy anyway but this is even better, the way all your witty ripostes die in your throat before you can shape them on your lips, turned into breathy gasps instead.

The taste of you fills his mouth and it’s so fucking good. You’ve been watching him, how his head moves between your legs, but he can tell you’re close; you’ve given up, eyes shut as you lean into the sensation building up in you, and Yoongi thinks he likes you better like this. Forced into speechlessness under his hands and tongue. Your pretty mouth softened from sharpness into urging noises of pleasure. He slides one arm across your stomach and holds you in place, a hard line that you can’t overpower and you’re left squirming in place, hips trying to kick up each time he draws his tongue over your slit, every part of you sloppy with your own arousal and Yoongi’s spit, flushed and lovely. One of your hands is in his hair and you’re pulling, pulling hard, unaware of how tight your grip is as you try to buck your hips and sob.

You’re so sensitive, and it only takes one, two fingers pressing into you and curling just right as Yoongi slides his tongue over your clit before you’re cumming, hot around his fingers as you come apart all wet and messy. He’s never seen you so undone, back arched as you ride out your orgasm, hair swept away from your forehead as you throw your head back. Keeps his mouth open on you, feels you under his tongue, until you’re flopped on your back and your chest is heaving, legs untensed and loose over his shoulders.

You shift an arm. Your fingers barely brush the medi-gel mod you’d made him, a loose sheet of paper sliding away and joining the others on the floor.

“Just moved in and it’s already a mess,” Yoongi says, and he doesn’t just mean the paper; fingers and chin and mouth covered in your slick, your core soaked. He’s still knuckle deep and when he curls his fingers again your entire body jolts, your mouth parting almost wantonly before you seem to struggle back to reality, surfacing from a haze of arousal and post orgasmic bliss.

“That’s your fault,” you say, voice weaker than usual. “I’ll send you the cleaning bill.”

“Mm. Not my fault you’re a messy girl.”

“Fuck you.” The blunt words are softened by your breathlessness, your bonelessness; the way your breath catches in your throat when he calls you a messy girl, even if you try to hide it. Trying not to let him in on exactly how much power he holds in this moment.

“I was planning on it,” Yoongi says, as calm as ever, even if arousal is simmering through his veins and gathering in his gut—has been this entire time, the taste of you on his tongue and the heat of you under his lips and the sound of you in his ears. “Want to make your workshop even messier?”

You dig your balls of your feet into his back, legs still over his shoulders. His fingers shift inside you and you shiver. “I don’t think so,” you say. “Bedroom.”

“So you’re giving me a tour, then?”

You don’t dignify him with a response, although the noise you make when he finally pulls his fingers out of you is more than enough to satisfy him. He’s still fully dressed and you’re only half so, and it would be comical if the sight of your bare legs and slick on your inner thighs wasn’t so hot, barefoot on the glowing and pristine (papers notwithstanding) floors as you reach for his hand and lift it to your lips, sucking his fingers into your mouth and licking your arousal off his fingers with your tongue, warm and wet, before you grab his wrist and pull.

He watches the movement of your hips as you lead him, your bare ass. Shameless as ever. Confident in yourself, even now. It’s not until you’ve stepped over the threshold and into your new bedroom that your tattoos become visible, as bright as the low lights in the room, those geometric lines and stylised circuitry on your legs shifting as you step forwards.

Even with the relative darkness Yoongi immediately notices something. Cast over the back of a chair near the bed, there’s his jacket, blood stains at the edge of the sleeves gone. Cleaned. Yoongi shifts his hand so you don’t have your fingers wrapped around his wrist any more. Instead he’s the one shackling you, holding you in place as you look over your shoulder.

“Were you ever going to return that to me?” He tilts his head at the chair.

You pause. Glance over. Look back at him, all amusement and provocation, recovered from your earlier breathlessness. “But Yoongi, I get so cold.”

There’s something about the idea of you in his clothes, clothes that you know he’s worn when he’s been getting his hands dirty—he ignores the curl to your lips and moves you towards the bed, ignoring the sound of your self satisfied laughter when he reaches for your shirt and pulls, with you lifting your arms to help him, grinning at him the whole time. Even when he’s thrown your bra aside and kicked his boots off and pushed you onto the mattress, trapped you underneath him, completely naked against his completely clothed body you’re still smiling, like the cat who got the cream.

You’re stunning. There’s no doubt about it. You always have been, annoyingly so, even when Yoongi’s wanted to wring your neck; not just because you’re pretty but because you’re intelligent and confident and in control, staring up at him without a lick of fear or concern, even now. Never with him, never. He can see your tattoos in all their glory, nothing hidden away from his gaze; he sees one he hasn’t been able to see before, a sunflower bursting across your ribcage, curved under the swell of your breast, glowing red and orange in the midst of all your other cyan and teal lines, glowing in the black light. He’s pressing you down, trapped under his body, and you’re just waiting. Waiting and still smiling, smirking, letting him take you in, preening under his attention.

He wants to eat you alive.

So he does just that. Shifts back down the mattress on his knees, keeping his hands on you, pulling his hands down the easing lines of your ribs and waist and hips, before a firm tug has you lifting up—your smug facade shakes when you’re left with only your shoulders and head against the bed, the rest of your body pulled towards Yoongi’s waiting mouth once more, held in place with fingers that dig into your hips, thighs soft against his ears, your hands scrabbling at the linen underneath you when Yoongi’s lips press into the crease of your thigh, off balance.

“Safeword?” He murmurs into your skin, and you pause.

“Hoseok,” you answer, and Yoongi responds by biting into your thigh again, soothing it with his tongue when you squeal.

“Shameless.”

You’re still wet from before, slick with cum, and Yoongi doesn’t hesitate before he dives back in. He can hear more than he can see the way your fingers curl into your sheets and rumple them in your hands, anchored helplessly into place by Yoongi’s mouth and the fingers cupped under your ass, digging into the soft skin, undignified and at his mercy.

“Yoongi!” You gasp, almost a whimper as a breath gets caught in your throat. “Y-Yoongi—”

You’re so helpless like this. It’s a little hard for Yoongi to breathe, your legs tightening around him, but it’s worth it for the way he can see you shaking apart. He presses his tongue as deep into you as he can, sucks your swollen pearl between his lips and circles it with his tongue, notices the way you jolt at those wet kisses, still sensitive from before, and he doesn’t let up. Keeps going and going and going until you’re gasping for air, sensations rippling through your body as you buck and writhe; you’re trying to keep yourself together, he can tell, but you’re unravelling, smirk wiped off your face and your mouth in a pretty little circle whenever you choke out oh, oh.

You cum faster than he expects, shoulders lifting away from the mattress as you arch your back so far it must hurt and tighten your legs and he feels the way your pussy throbs under his tongue, practically gushing when you reach your peak. Your eyes are unfocused when they flutter back open but you’re reaching for him, for the waistband of his trousers, trying to touch the hard length of his cock—he’s been ignoring it, how he’s leaked so much precum he can feel how wet it is in his boxer-briefs.

He keeps ignoring it now. He catches your hands, stops you in place, stares you down with an unimpressed tilt to his brows.

“What,” he says levelly, “do you think you’re doing?”

“Want you in my mouth,” you say. You seem almost desperate for it, fingers flexing in his hold, letting your tongue linger against your lips longer than necessary. “I want your cock in my mouth, Yoongi.”

He tightens his grip around your wrists. And then, for the first time all night, he smiles.

“No.”

You look stunned. Just for a moment. Then you’re squirming in his hold, but you’re trapped, nowhere to go. “What do you mean, no?”

Yoongi’s still smiling, mirroring the self satisfaction that had been written all over your face earlier. “I mean no. You don’t get what you want. You get what you’re given.”

There’s nothing he’d like more than to sink into that wet heat, to see your smart mouth put to good use, lips spread over his cock, but this is better. Seeing the genuine frustration and disbelief written across your features.

He doesn’t give you time to line up another angered retort on your tongue. Doesn’t give you time to breathe before he’s flipping you over, the wings of your shoulder blades and curve of your spine emphasised by the lines that are traced symmetrically and shining across your skin. They shift when you move, hips lifted from the mattress by Yoongi’s hands, on your hands and knees as he fumbles his waistband and zipper and pulls his cock free. He’s painfully hard, flushed head with precum that beads at the tip, and when he tugs you back he watches the way the head drags across the curve of your ass, leaving a shining line of wetness on your skin.

And when he sinks into you he barely gives you time to adjust, barely has time to adjust himself, to all this hot tight wetness after his cock’s gotten no attention at all—you let out a moan that almost sounds like you’re singing, long and high with pleasure, the slide eased from all your cum.

You take it so well, always so good to him no matter how irritating you are, so lost in the sensations that you don’t say anything about the hard edges of Yoongi’s clothes whenever he drives his hips forward and it presses into the soft skin of your thighs. It’s messy and choppy and fast and you slump onto your elbows, entire body shaking as you take everything Yoongi is giving you. Caged underneath him when he follows you forwards, presses his front to your back, feels the way the sweat on your skin is caught against the fabric of his clothes. Grinds his hips deep and feels the way you gasp, sucking in a shaking breath, your entire body lost in it. He bites his lip and keeps his own sounds caught behind his teeth, not letting you know how you’re pulling him towards his own edge.

He’s not done with you yet.

Your clit is slick under his touch when he lifts his fingers to touch you, to layer another sensation on top of the cock inside you, and you’re sobbing. You don’t ask him to stop, never know when to quit, face every challenge thrown at you—and Yoongi can tell that you love it even if your body is crying out, that you love this oversensitivity, pulled taut and strung out. You’re beyond speech, words slurred, barely recognisable as his name and pleas of more, please, more. He can feel when you’ve crested the wave of too much sensation and fallen back into that rippling sea of pleasure, and when you cum it’s with a soundless moan, mouth wide open but no noise escaping. No more sharp retorts, no smart words, fucked into incoherency, trembling and quivering as you go tight around him and Yoongi struggles not to lose himself then and there, in your scorching, wet cunt, fluttering around him.

The noise when he pulls out is slick and lewd, just like all the other noises that have been filling the room, the slap of skin on skin temporarily halted when Yoongi rolls you onto your back. There’s sweat beading on your skin, shimmering, tears gathering in the corner of your eyes and glistening like tiny jewels in the multi-coloured low light of this room. Your lips are parted and your gaze is bleary and you’re everything Yoongi has never seen from you before, fuzzy and quiet, entirely pliant. When he reaches for you again, runs his hands over the rise of your hipbones and down the side of your thighs, you whimper.

“One more,” Yoongi says. “One more, you can give me one more.”

You’ve never known when to quit, and now is no different, even if you’re on the verge of being entirely fucked dumb. Those tears pool in your eyes and stream down towards your hairline, but you let Yoongi move you, try to help by lifting your hips but almost too gone to move at all. Yoongi almost cums when he sinks into you, your willing body; he thinks you’ve never looked better than you do now, smelling like sweat and sex and so soft under his hands, taking his cock like you were made for it, and you’re so gorgeous when you’re falling apart.

The attitude you wear normally—the one that chafes at Yoongi’s nerve-endings—has been entirely wiped away, forced out of you by mindless pleasure. But still, you know what you want, even now, even when you’re barely coherent—Yoongi feels your hand slide across his and pull weakly, guiding it across your chest and up, circling his fingers around your neck.

He swears. Snaps his hips forward hard, watches the way your eyes roll back when he gives an experimental squeeze around your throat. Yoongi’s choked people before, knows exactly how much pressure to give, how much it takes to cut someone’s airways completely or how to just leave them reeling; he lets you linger on the edge of breathlessness, feels the way you go tight around him. When you orgasm it rips through you, your thighs tightening around Yoongi’s hips as you hit your peak and cum hard, and the feeling of it has Yoongi cursing and bending forwards to shove his face in your neck and kiss the salt-sweat taste he finds there as he falls off the edge. He cums wet inside you, keeps rolling his hips through it all, lets his cum mix with yours and watches the way you just keep taking it, even when your whole body is trembling from how much it is.

And when Yoongi calls you a good girl, you don’t snap back like you normally would, don’t deride his praise. You bask in it, as tired as you are, letting out a soft noise when he pulls his softening cock out of you, unbothered by the wet patches on your sheets and how the whole room stinks of sex. When he moves to lift you, to get you clean, you go easily and without argument, every one of your honed edges dulled, and you make no move to sharpen them again, to drag them over Yoongi in the way he’s so familiar with by now. Even when you’ve lifted out of your haze and you’re back in the moment, the way you watch Yoongi is no less calm than normal, but still different.

“Stay.”

He’s in the middle of reaching for his boots, discarded on the floor, a discordant note on the clear floor. You’re wearing clean underwear and a loose t-shirt and you’re looking at him with something verging on surprise, like you hadn’t expected to see him moving to pull his shoes back on to leave.

He hadn’t been planning to.

“Just moving them out of the way,” says Yoongi, putting them upright by the base of your chair, and then he makes his way back to you. You don’t attempt to hide your pleasure that he’s listened to you, pulling him onto the bed despite the fact he’s still dressed.

“I don’t cuddle,” he says, even as you tuck yourself into the crook of his arm, and he shifts to make it more comfortable for you.

You press your face into the hollow of his neck, touch your nose against his throat, breathing in the smell of sweat that still lingers—because you’re shower soft and fresh but he isn’t, and weirdly enough, you seem to enjoy it. Seem to enjoy that contrast, the one that’s always existed between you, Yoongi immersed in blood and sweat and tears while you’re away from it, one degree of separation from it all. “You know, I like it when you do things for me.”

Normally he’d protest, say that he doesn’t do things for you, but the truth is that he does, even if he’s only just admitting it to himself.

“Like that time you killed someone for me,” you say, and Yoongi’s fingers tighten, soft skin of your waist yielding under his touch.

“I kill a lot of people.”

You let out a laugh against his skin, quietly amused. “Just admit it. You like me, Min Yoongi.”

A pause.

Then: “Against my better judgement, I do.”

And he does. Even if you’re irritating and maddening, he does like you, and not just because of the work you do for him. He thinks that even if you weren’t so good at your job that he’d find himself here anyway, caught in this push and pull you have, magnetised.

“No need to sound so begrudging,” you say, but there’s no real annoyance behind your words.

Yoongi finds that he likes that note in your voice, like you’re indulging him and his stubbornness and you’re unmoved by it. He hums in response. Feels the way you shift back, lean on your elbows to look down at him, lips curled up at the corners.

“Kiss me.”

Not a question. A demand. Yoongi stares you down, just for a second, before he lifts a hand and weaves a hand back into your hair, tilting your mouth against his. He can feel your self satisfied smile against his lips and he doesn’t mind it at all, sees it spread across your face when you eventually pull back, all flushed lips and warm eyes.

You’re still sharp, a weapon in your own right, but you willingly hand yourself over to be held in his skilled hands, let yourself be worn smooth by his touch. He weaves his fingers between your own, your palm soft and warm against his, and he likes this. That you’re unafraid of what he is, that the fact he’s a killer isn’t something that scares you or thrills you.

Yoongi likes your work. He likes that he knows he can trust you. He likes that he knows of your loyalty, to the people you choose and to yourself, your unwavering principles, as unpredictable as they might seem. He likes that you’re unashamed to be yourself and to be confident, no matter how people react to that cockiness.

What he likes even better than all that is this, though: the way you’re pressed against his side, evidence of his touch written into your skin. The feeling of your hand in his. Despite all the odds, all the months of drawn out and simmering exasperation and tension coming to a head like this, Yoongi likes you.

“I’m not going to give you a discount, you know,” you say suddenly, and for the first time since you met, Yoongi allows himself to laugh at you.

“I’d be offended if you did.”

(You’re loud. Cocky. Arrogant. You love to irritate him just for the hell of it, because you think it’s funny and you love knowing that you can rile him up—but he can rile you up too, and you both know it.

Yeah. Yoongi likes you.)

tagging: @beyoncesdragon @vensulove @gyukult @swinginpicklesuitcaseapricot @kpopheart2 @loveyoongles @muzikabijou @katbonv @jaxx-7 @yeojaa

#btswritingcafe #houseofddaeng #magicshopnet #btswriterscollective #btsguild #yoongi x reader #suga x reader #yoongi x you #bts #bts x reader #yoongi #yoongi scenario #yoongi imagine #yoongi fanfic #bts fanfic #joy.masterlist #let's see if this appears in the tags this time! fingers crossed!#wow can you believe I wrote like 4k words of smut or something close to that

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littlepadika · 3 years

Note

Hi!! Can I please request 💕Din, 🔥enemies to lovers, 💅dom!reader ??? Thank you!!☺️☺️☺️

OOOH I love dom!reader with Din mwahahaha this one is hot and takes a nosedive into soft. Your fave @axshadows?

500 follower celebration

Warnings: Male receiving oral, Dom reader

Din despised you. Whenever he'd be close to catching a bounty you would swoop in and finish the job yourself, stealing his thunder. You didn't do any work yourself. Din tried everything to shake you from his trail. He tried to lay a trap, he tried to split the reward, he even tried to kill you once. Nothing worked. You always slipped through his grasp.

Your conflict was coming to a head as Karga was tired of the constant bickering.

"Work it out you two or no pucks."

"Find someone else to steal from." Din glared up at you from his seat.

"But I like annoying you, Mando." You smirked. "Fine..." You groaned dramatically. "How about a deal? We both go after the same bounty. If you get him first then I'll leave you alone."

"You'll just come and steal it at the last second like you always do." Din shook his head.

"I'll play fair. I'll even give you a head start."

"I don't need a head start." Din leaned forward menacingly only you weren't scared at all. In fact you smiled.

"Let me finish." You held up your hands. "If you win, I leave you alone. If I win, things proceed as usual and you can't complain. Do we have a deal?"

"If I win, you should give me all the credits you stole from me."

"No way. Finders keepers."

Din grit his teeth under his helmet. Your little grin made something inside him ball up tight and sometimes he just wanted to throw you over his lap and-and- he didn't let himself think those things right now.

"I want a better deal." He folded his arms.

"You're not exactly in a position to negotiate. I'm perfectly happy with our current arrangement."

You loved playing with Mando, making him stutter and sigh. It started off as a power trip, making a Mandalorian putty in your hands. He tried to kill you once but he hesitated at the last moment. You realized his hatred for you wasn't pure, it was tangled with need. You knew he would miss you if you just left him by himself and you sure as hell would miss him too.

"How about..." You saunter over to him, perching yourself on the table in front of him. You saw him stiffen immediately, clenching his hands into fists on the seat below. "If you win... you can do whatever you want to me. You could try and kill me again, but something tells me that's not what you really want." You watched as the visor of his helmet turned towards you. You felt your heart pound faster knowing you had him in your grasp. "See... you could shut me up with a bullet in my skull or with your cock in my mouth. Decisions decisions, Mando."

With you left him dumbstruck at the table.

"Karga- We've reached a deal. One puck and we'll make it a race."

"One puck huh?"

"And don't make it an easy one." You hold your hand out. Karga rolls his eyes shoving two pucks into your hands.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ It was a close one. Both of you were at the same cantina spying on the target. You happened to have more natural assests that drew the targets attention. What an idiot, you smirked ready to drop the sedative into his glass. What you didn't expect was for Din to blast the idiot to hell from across the cantina.

"I win." Din cheered, strolling up to pull the lifeless body off the counter.

"We said bring him in warm!" You glared at Mando.

"We never agreed on that."

"Didn't we?" You frowned.

Mando shook his head. He lugged the body over his shoulder with ease. "Come on, let's get out of here before the imps are on us."

Outside on the street it hit you that Mando won the bet technically. This would maybe be the last time you saw him if what he asked as reward was for you to leave him forever. The warmth in the pit of your stomach hoped that he'd ask for something different.

"You won, Mando." You stopped at the end of the street. He turned, the bounty still on his shoulder. "My ship is that way. Shall I take off never to return?"

The breeze made his cape flutter, but otherwise he was a statue. Conversely it made you squirm where you stood, tugging at your shirt which now felt too tight for some reason.

"No." He said quietly, so quiet you almost missed it.

"Then what do you want?"

"Will you let me put the bounty away before we talk?"

"Fine." You shrugged nonchalantly though you were still nervous. "Lead on."

You had never been on Mando's ship before. It was dirty and breaking down but it softened him. Gave him some personality. He was less intimidating. The clutter and dusty knick knacks made him so human.

"So..." You place your hands on your hips trying to project confidence though you were becoming more and more anxious. "What'll it be, Mando?" Was this the end?

Din was freaking out. He stood on a shaky pedestal he had built to stand up to you. He had only pretended to be arrogant and capable. He played into his appeal towards you but now the game had ended. He was proud of his abilities to catch bounties, track targets, to kill, but his confidence ended there. He had no skills when it came to sex let alone with pretty women like you. You expected so much from him from the way you teased and talked crudely. Din knew he’d never live up to that. He didn’t even know where to start. His desire was bottled up in him with no clear outlet. Just a general direction towards you.

"Mando?" Your gaze softened a little. You realized perhaps he wasn’t going to send you away. You almost smiled as he rocked on his heels. The nervous tick was strangely endearing.

"I'm not going to kill you. I want-" Din struggled to find the words. "What you said in the cantina. You said I could silence you..."

You furrowed your brow in confusion. What did you say? You couldn’t remember-

"When you said I could put my-my cock in your mouth." Din felt his cheeks heat up. He felt himself harden in is pants just at the dirty word.

"Did I say that?" You chuckled. “I guess I did. Is that what you want?"

Din nodded. He waited for you to take charge, tell him what to do, but for some strange reason you were waiting for him.

"You've never done this have you?" You realized, your smile falling off your face. You felt bad for how you treated him this whole time. Maker, you probably made him uncomfortable.

"No." Din looked down in shame. "Fuck-This was dumb. Just go away."

"Mando..." You stepped towards him placing a hand on his arm. The first time you've really touched him. "I'm sorry. I wasn't judging. Most guys don’t like me to be in charge.”

Din cringed further at the mention of your copious previous experience.

“Mando… look at me please-“ and he did feeling some of his dread subside. Your warm reassuring hand felt so good. “I'm happy to show you everything. I want to make you feel good. If that’s what you want.”

“I’m sorry.” He grumbled. He hated feeling so vulnerable. He wanted to explain himself, give excuses for his lack of experience, but the truth was he hadn’t found anyone he was interested in until you.

“There’s nothing to apologize for. Now will you let me do this for you?” He looked at you, searching for honesty. There wasn’t a hint of disgust or doubt on your face.

Din nodded, feeling his stomach lurch in excitement. He felt safe with you which was another completely foreign feeling for him.

“Thank you, good boy.” The word shot through him, making him stand up straighter. You chuckled. “You like that?”

Din nodded shyly.

“Go and sit down.” You pointed at the crate against the wall. Din obeyed looking at you again for acknowledgement. You smiled kneeling down below him. “Good boy. See you’re a pro already.” Din blushed at your praise wanting to continue pleasing you. You slid your hands up his thighs slowly. “You can stop me at any point. Just say stop. My only rule is you have to tell me if I’m making you feel good. I wanna hear you.”

Din nodded his understanding. You raised an eyebrow. “Okay.” He said.

“Good boy. I know you can’t remove your armor which is fine. But can I take your cock out?”

Din nodded biting his lip. His dick was already straining against its confines. He exhaled sharply as you tugged down his waistband just far enough to pull him out. The only piece of skin exposed.

“You’re beautiful, Mando.” You cooed, stroking the warm length gently. You couldn’t wait to feel him in your mouth. A low broken cry cracked the voicecoder. “That’s it… feel good baby?” You stare right into his visor. Din swallowed harshly and nodded rapidly trying to keep from blowing his load.

“Tell me.” You reminded him of the rule.

“Yes!” He huffed. “It feels good. Please more.”

“We’re just getting started.” You promised opening you mouth and letting a dollop of saliva hit the head of his cock.”

“Oh Kriff…” Din pounded his fist against the crate. You continued your slow movements. You didn’t want to push him. He seemed lost in pleasure and you felt yourself warm at his trust in you. You slowly lowered your mouth on him, keeping your suction soft. He whined above you, his thighs flexing under your hands. You flicked your eyes up to him. His head was thrown back. You could see just a small slice of golden neck. He was sucking air between his teeth. The edges of the crate groaned under his grip.

“So-so good.” He mumbled between shallow breaths. You chuckled. He was trying so hard poor thing.

“It’s okay if you cum, Mando. I want you to.”

“But-“ Din’s hips jerked up into your hands. “What about you? I want to- I want-“

“Shh I know baby boy.” You chuckled at his eagerness. Already wanting to jump ahead. “We’ll get there but first you’re going to cum in my mouth.”

And almost on instinct he did, hunching over as ropes and ropes slid into your hot mouth.

“Oh fuck…” He croaked. It was better than anything he had done on his own. Your hot mouth and tongue had brought him so high only to let him plummet into his pleasure with no safety net. He was totally out of control. He didn’t hate it though. He loved it. He wanted more.

He came so much it made your pussy tighten longingly. His groans and sighs were gorgeous. You moaned, getting the last drops.

“Good boy…” You started stroking him back to full mast again. Surging with control and pride.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

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#din djarin smut #din djarin x y/n #din djarin fanfiction #din djarin x you #din djarin x reader #sub!din #mando x you #the mandolarian #mando smut #padika's request game #follower celebration #ashley #pedro pascal fanfiction

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mandoalorian · 4 years

Text

Din Djarin NSFW Alphabet

Notes: 18+ only. AFAB reader. Reader discretion advised. As always, reblogs mean the world to me. If you want to support my writing there is a link to my Ko-Fi in my bio!

Word count: 2500 words.

Masterlist

**NSFW content under cut!**

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

He’ll stay with you and hold you tight. He’ll ask you if you’re okay and if you need anything. It’s only a short walk to the refresher. He might get you a glass of water, and always, he’ll bring a wet washcloth out to wipe you down and clean you up. He can get quite intimate after sex and he’ll wrap his strong arms around your body and pull you close into the heat of his chest. He’ll whisper sweet nothings into your ear until you both inevitably fall asleep.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

You love his back. He’s broad shouldered, lean and muscular. You love gliding your hands over his skin and squeezing him. When he’s on top, you dig your fingers into his back, subconsciously scratching and clawing at him. In a way, he likes the pain. You nearly always leave a mark on him and it’s nice to come back to, day after day. In the mornings he covers himself up and goes out to complete bounties, but there is something extremely satisfying about knowing that the esteemed and intimidating Mandalorian hunter is marked by you.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Din cums a lot. Although he wasn’t a virgin when you met, he didn’t really have the luxury of getting off with others. He was always too busy, out doing bounties or travelling the galaxy with Grogu. This changed though, when he met you. Now, you’re pretty aware of how large his load is. You love it when he cums inside of you and you feel his warm seed fill you up completely. It can stay in you for the entire day. Din will fuck you in the morning and then pull your panties back up, forcing you to keep his cum inside of you until nightfall. When he takes your panties off in the evening, it’s always a pleasant surprise to see his cum still dripping out of your pretty hole.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

He wants to face fuck you. You give him blowjobs on the regular but he always lets you take your time. It’s nice when you’re in control, and it makes a difference from his usual hectic day-to-day lifestyle. But he dreams of thrusting into your pretty little mouth and tracing the bulge of his fat cock in your throat. He wants you to gag around him and see a mixture of his cum and your saliva mess up your face. He knows you can take it deep, he just hasn’t found the confidence yet to talk to you about it.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Yeah, he has experience. He hasn’t had many sexual partners but he’s done it before and he knows his way around your body. He will spend a lot of time with you, practicing how to make you moan and cum in different ways. He’s probably the least experienced with giving oral but that’s okay because he’s proficient and always been a quick learner.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

He likes to pin you against the wall and take you from behind. When he’s not too tired, he can go for a while, standing up and fucking you. He also likes it when he’s laying down and you're on top, riding him. You’ll notice he tilts his head up, just ever so slightly, so he can get the best view of your tits bouncing up and down as you grind over his manhood.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

He’s serious for the most part. He can crack a smile now and again, when he’s lost in the moment. Especially during sensual sex, when he’s on top and looking down on you. But you can never see it anyway since he’s face is always shielded by the beskar helmet.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

No, he doesn’t groom himself. He often forgets to shave his face, hence the patchy stubble he dons most of the time. Shaving foam can be quite pricey and credits are hard to come by these days, so, grooming his pubic hair is probably the last thing on his mind. And that’s okay, you don’t mind the dark brown curls down there. He’s not a naturally hairy guy, so despite him having a little pubic hair, it’s not too overbearing. You love kissing the little trail of hair from his navel down to the hem of his underpants.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

He’s very romantic. It takes a lot of going backwards and forwards to develop a romantic relationship with Din, and it takes a lot for him to trust you. But when he does, he’ll be completely open with you and he’ll make it known how much he loves you and appreciates you. He does this through the whispering of sweet nothings in your ear, caressing and nibbling your skin in the most tender ways.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Before he met you, he jacked off whenever he got the time. Just because he didn’t have sex on a regular basis, didn’t mean he was immune to sexual desire. It got pretty messy too. After he met you, you began to consume his every thought and he was completely smitten with you. Every night he’d lock himself in the refresher room of the Crest and get off to the thought of you, even getting into the habit of moaning out your name right before he spilled his seed along the shower wall.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

He’s actually quite into BDSM. He wants to tie you up with rope or his binders, and blindfold you. He likes to bend you over his lap and give you a few harsh spankings, enough to leave a mark.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

Most of the time, you both do it on the Crest. And it’s okay. His bed is small and the floor is hard but he doesn’t mind it either way, as long as he can be with you. He does, however, like it when he’s in the pilot seat and you sit on his lap and warm his cock. One of his favourite memories was saving up enough credits and taking you to the luscious greens of Naboo. He paid for a suite in one of the most beautiful hotels and you went at each other the entire night. The bed was so soft and warm and he let himself get tangled up in the satin sheets without a care in the world. It was unlike anything he’d ever experienced and he hopes that one day, he gets the opportunity and the credits to do something like that again.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

This one time, you were joking around. You grabbed his cape and clipped it around your neck and even fitted his beskar chest plate onto your own body. You walked around the Crest holding his pulse rifle like you owned it. You only did it out of desperation to get Din to laugh, or even just crack a smile, but seeing you in his clothes ignited something primal in him and all he wanted to do was pin you against the wall and fuck you without mercy.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

He would never, ever want to hurt you. You coming into any kind of danger is one of his biggest fears and he will dedicate his whole life protecting you from uncomfort and injury. Because of this, he could never be the one to cause you said injury or uncomfort. He wants the experience to be pleasant for both of you, with no lasting effects. He likes it when you struggle to walk the day after, and he likes seeing you bruised up from love bites or the firm grip of his gloved fingers, but that’s really the extent of it.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Truthfully, you give more than you receive. Obviously, Din can’t take off his helmet. However he loves the taste of you. It just means he has to do it when there are no lights on, or he has to find you a blindfold. When he gets the chance, he absolutely loves going down on you but it just doesn’t happen all too often. Surprisingly though, Din is great at oral and he is sure to give you an experience you’ll never forget. He always has you yearning for more and he loves to tease and edge you with his tongue.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

It varies! Sometimes all Din needs is a quick fuck -- and he’s a very busy man so it’s just something you have to accept. But recently, sex has been lasting a little longer. He’s been taking his time and made a habit of becoming more intimate with you. He is definitely capable of showing his compassion during these private times and you like seeing the softer, more sensual side to him a lot.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Before bounties. After bounties. Whenever he has to leave and there is a risk of harm or danger, you’ll give him a quickie so he for sure has something to remember you by. He could be gone for a few days, or weeks, so by the time he returns, you’re often both riled up and filled with sexual desire. So it’s another quickie just to satisfy that burning need. He’ll take you against the wall and rail you until your knees feel weak and you can’t stand. He’ll growl into your ear and tell you how much he’s missed you and how glad he is to feel the heat of your cunt clench around him again.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

He risks his life every single day. So during his downtime, and the moments he’s in the bedroom with you, he prefers to not take too many risks. Like I mentioned earlier, he doesn’t want to endanger you in any way possible. But if there’s something in particular that you’ve been longing to try, Din will be pretty game to do it. All you have to do is vocalize it and tell him how much you want it. He will always put your safety first.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

He can go for quite a while. Sex with Din, when it’s not a quickie, can average at around an hour each time. He loves to take his time with you and he wants to get as many orgasms out of you as he can. He sees it as a challenge.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

Vibrators, mostly. He even has a small silver one that he likes you to use on the tip of his cock. Also you managed to pick up a butt plug from one market a few weeks ago and he’s been aching to try it on you. You haven’t tried anal yet but it’s something Din is definitely interested in. You agreed to try out the plug as a little teaser before you feel like you can take his whole cock. He’s had dreams of stuffing both your holes and watching tears prick your eyes as the sensation overwhelms you.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

He likes to tease you a lot, and you like to tease him too. It’s a little game you both have going on. He adores foreplay and edging you. In the moment, when all you want to do is cum, it can be quite frustrating, but you love it nonetheless. He engages in cunningless, rubbing your bundle of nerves until your legs are shaking and you can’t take it anymore. And then he’ll pull his fingers away and watch you squirm as he deprives you of an orgasm.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

He’s not too loud, just like in usual day to day life, Din Djarin is a man of a few words. He moans and whimpers a lot, especially when he’s close. He pants pretty heavy and he’ll definitely make sure you know how good you make him feel. Not so much with words though. When he’s going down on you or pleasuring you he talks a little more. He asks you questions like, “you like that baby?” or “you want more sweet girl?”, and gets a thrill knowing that you’re so into it, you struggle to answer.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

He loves to fuck you standing up. He loves to press you against the cool metal wall of the Crest and ruthlessly hammer you from behind. He’ll pin you there, grabbing your wrists so you quite literally can’t move, and he’ll dirty talk in your ear as he rails you. He’ll go fast and hard and it won’t take long at all for you to cum around his cock.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Oh he’s big. I’d say a solid 8 inches, and thick too. It’s the girth of him that gets you the most. The feeling of him stretching you open and filling you up is possibly one of the best feelings in the world. You wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Pretty high, and it always has been. He can get hard pretty easily; and whenever he feels like he wants to go, he can go. If you’re horny and let him know that you want it, he’ll be ready to take you almost immediately. He yearns the most when you’re not there. Sometimes he’ll be out on a bounty, alone at night. He’ll be thinking of you back on the Crest, alone too. He’ll imagine you laying in his bed, masturbating, and whimpering out his name. He just can’t help himself.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

He zonks out pretty fast. He’s a busy man, and if the bounty he went on earlier in the day didn’t tire him out, the sex sure will have. He will pull you into his strong arms, plant a sleepy kiss into your shoulder or the crook of your neck, and fall asleep. Din is for sure a big spoon.

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everafterkeiji · 4 years

Text

Song: Cheater by The Vamps

Summary: Kuroo's skills in reading a game has been expanded when he meets your boyfriend.

Pairings: Tetsuro Kuroo x fem! reader

Word count: 3.3k

Content, tags: mentions of cheating, a few cuss words, childhood friends to lovers!

A/N: this was such an impulsive moment🧍 Kuroo has been consuming my brain so here ya go fellow simps

“Am I obligated to?”

“It was his request, Tetsu.”

Kuroo groans while you stare at him wondering what’s so wrong about meeting with your boyfriend. He sees your clueless reaction but he sets it aside knowing you wanted this to happen in the first place. Although you didn’t push him, your boyfriend insisted. It was a sweet gesture because he took the time to understand that Tetsuro to you is just a friend and nothing else. Disregarding his jealousy of the intimidating volleyball player, he initiated the hang out.

Meanwhile, the proud captain was loathing the hours before he could even step into your boyfriend's house.

If you could pick one of the words to describe Kuroo, obviously one of them is self-aware.

Which is the antonym of what you have under your own dictionary.

Kuroo always puts his best during a match and he wasn’t looked upon for no reason. Of course, he’s observant out of the court too. So, when that boyfriend of yours came in to the picture—he wasn’t exactly keen on befriending him. All he can do is accept whatever that decision was because he did catch multiple glances where you were smiling and maybe seeing that put him at ease making him less worried with your relationship.

But his intuition is stronger than the actual belief that your boyfriend is all too good.

Besides, as a best friend, it was technically his job to be suspicious of the boy.

“I’ll go over there after practice.” You smile at his words before linking your arm with his as you both walk to your class.

“Hey, by Saturday can we play again?” You asked him while he looks down on you with a chuckle, loving that you had to ask even when you didn’t need to do.

“Why’d you ask anyway? Of course.”

It was admirable that your path of being with each other actually started with volleyball. At the age of 9 after a ball fled into your yard from the Kozume residence, Kuroo had knocked politely on the wall asking if he could get the ball back. Seeing that the wall felt like a building to you, you took the ball out of curiosity before going over to the place next door and handing him the ball.

Wherein Kuroo had to pause when he saw you.

Ever since then, you played volleyball with the two. You three joined Nekoma’s volleyball teams, even practicing together. You were thankful to have them not only they were tremendous at play but also, they were your most trusted friends and their judgement is always important. So, when you got into a relationship—it was a mix of everything.

Kenma was subtly supportive. He knew you were capable of picking what you deserve and if that boy doesn’t cause any trouble, then the setter is all for it. Kuroo, on the other hand, was hesitant.

If only he wasn’t in love with you—then maybe he could’ve given the poor boy some sign of approval.

After years of falling, his chances were already taken the moment you said your feelings were growing for a certain boy from your class. Though you were classmates with Kuroo, he eyed every boy that could be the suspect. At first, he was just curious because he hasn’t seen you interact with them before but then the second time was more on the worried side when he wondered what could’ve been missing from him that he had to find in another guy for answers.

Kenma had to assure him at some point. The blonde noticed Kuroo’s feelings ever since he saw the older boy teach you volleyball without him. He could evidently see the blush on his friends face whenever you’d land a compliment to Tetsuro. It even surprised Kenma when he knew Kuroo was still attached to his feelings after years of knowing you. He at least needed to say something before it takes a toll on him.

“You’re actually going, it’s funny.” The setter mocks though the blocker knew what he meant. How can he agree this easily anyway? He knew it’d make you happy but making room for someone after a practice instead of resting isn’t really a good circumstance.

“I know, I know. I’d be home in the next five minutes.” Kuroo jokes but when the practice finally ends, he kept his attention to his phone when he received the message for his location. He sighs tiredly while Kenma stifles a laugh.

“Don’t go then.”

“As if that wasn’t my plan beforehand.” Kenma rolls his eyes but bids goodbye to Kuroo knowing they’re not able to walk home together.

God, he was irritated.

It was rather a small thing to be pissed off about. Who knows? It could end well with the two of them but that stupid intuition is what’s dragging his feet. How could he ignore it anyway? Murmurs were like rumors that spread like wildfire when gossip has never been this good so when he heard a tiny conversation of a certain girl meeting with your boyfriend—he doesn’t know what held him back from throwing a punch to him right then and there but perhaps it was because you can’t judge too quickly. Rumors were rumors. If he believed it right away then it meant he was feeding off of the possibility that you’d be single again but he doesn’t think like that. His main reason was that he couldn’t bear to see you cry over a guy who simply didn’t deserve an ounce of sympathy—especially from you.

And right at the front of his door, a pair of a cheerleader's shoes were there.

You being a volleyball player and the shoes didn’t exactly connect.

“I’ll see you next time then?”

“Saturday?”

“I can’t. My— Y/N is making me play with her and that captain Kuroo.”

“You said you broke up with her!”

“Look- I will just wait will ya?”

And he’s heard enough.

Go inside, Tetsuro.

Defend Y/N.

Beat him.

But I can’t act on my own.

Gritting his teeth with a tight grip on the sling of his bag, he makes a forced decision.

Kuroo doesn’t even hesitate to walk away now. His pace is way heavier and faster compared to his slow ones before. He wished he carried a volleyball so he could directly throw it to his conniving face. He would’ve hit it like Oikawa during a power serve and scream incoherent profanities as he lands a punch or two. Without Kenma, the possibilities were endless when he couldn’t be held back.

The moment he enters his room, he immediately reaches for his phone and calls for Kenma since the rage was getting out of hand and he can’t focus on anything else apart from beating the heck out of your cheater of a boyfriend- well soon to be ex considering that he could never let you stay with him for another second. He walks around his room wondering which one was the best options to let you know as the setter has yet to answer his call.

“Fuck.” He mutters at the exact same time that Kenma finally picks up.

“What-”

“He’s cheating on Y/N.”

“Well shit.”

Kenma pauses his game once the words ring in his ears. He too feels the anger bubble inside him but soon it was replaced by worry when he realizes how unfortunate it was for Kuroo to be the one to witness it and actually be the person to face you with such a heavy topic.

“How are you gonna tell her?” He asks but Kuroo bites his lip at the question he’s been wanting to avoid. It was inescapable though. You were closer to him—too close that you two relied on each other to no end and would be each other's comfort at needed times. It was difficult for the both of you.

“He’s planning to break up with her on Saturday and she- fuck I don’t know what to do.” The troubled boy admits while Kenma sighs not finding a win in both situations or any of the options he and Kuroo thought of.

“Y/N will believe you. You just have to give her time when she denies it at first, I guess.” Kenma suggests while Kuroo runs a hand to his hair.

“God, I fucking hate him.”

“Who is it?”

“A fucking cheerleader— how low.” Tetsuro couldn’t sit straight. Every inch of his body was telling him to find your boyfriend and show him what a waste of energy he was. It had been three months since you introduced him and how does he gain that much of a confidence to cheat at such an early stage of your relationship? Was three months a normal pace to be bored? Too bored that he chose a cheerleader to make up for that ‘blandness'. God, if Kuroo was in that relationship—cheating could never be an option. How could he? He loved you too much that having a chance wasted like that is too big to risk or experience.

“Talk to him tomorrow.” Kenma says while Kuroo held his breath when he realizes how the tension would reek between him and your boyfriend.

“Yeah but-“

The notification sound on his phone echoed through the room and when he slides up to see whose it from, he sighs when it was from you.

Least annoying: how’d it go???

“Y/N messaged me.” He updates the blonde as his fingers hovered the keyboard wondering what lie was the most believable even if he felt guilty to do so but after deleting multiple answers, he just couldn’t t do it.

“We just have to talk to her tomorrow. I feel like she needs us more now—fucking prick of a boyfriend.” Kenma comments with spite in his voice. It wasn’t the first time where he cared too much that he too wanted to join Kuroo in a fit of rage to beat your boyfriend but Kenma is cautious of your emotions and thinks that when he does join in on the fight, it’d only bring you more stress.

But he can’t lie and say throwing a punch to the lying boy wasn’t going to bring him satisfaction.

“Okay. I have to go and think this through.” He bids goodbye to Kenma before hanging up and lying down on his bed with his mind racing nonstop—forgetting to text you in the midst of panic and rage. You didn’t mind the lack of reply, you knew he wasn’t really interested in going in the first place and he must’ve been exhausted from practice as well so you took a nap early.

Meanwhile, your best friend faced a sleepless night.

Kuroo and Kenma were caught off guard when first period ended and you were yet to arrive.

Does she know?

The break came in and there still wasn’t a sign from you but as they ate, a certain hand falls on Kuroo’s shoulder making the anger between him and Kenma ignite once they see your boyfriend.

“Hey, you didn’t stop by yesterday.” Your boyfriend informs him while Yaku and the rest of the team wonder what’s got their captain looking like he radiated flames around him. Kuroo then removes the hand from his shoulder while Kenma nudges the tense boy from losing control out in the cafeteria.

“I was tired,” he pauses to find words that wouldn’t just expose him right then and there, “I couldn’t make it.”

Your boyfriend nods, a sign that he was thankful that Kuroo didn’t come to destroy the time he shared with the cheerleader.

“Well, we got Saturday to catch up. I’ll see you then!” He leaves with a sigh of relief while Kuroo stands up from his table, unable to contain it anymore but two hands held him back. He turns to see Yaku and Kenma holding his arm as he hesitates to follow what they want him to do. He then takes a deep breath and sits down while the two sighed that Kuroo managed to stop.

“I don’t know what’s happening but you can’t just do it here.” Yaku says making Kuroo remain silent. Kenma agrees but he too felt the urge to follow his furious friend.

“Sorry.” Kuroo whispers and Yaku nods not pushing the topic any further but he’s got a clue on what could’ve happened. Seeing their captain in this state certainly was more than a duel between him and your boyfriend. Of course, they knew about his feelings for you so connecting a few dots, Yaku realizes how bad it was.

Classes went on and still no sign of you making the worry rise more between the two. By the time practice came on, the two expresses their frustration through volleyball and the rest of their teammates wonder why their play that night felt like they were in a serious match.

But they were playing a difficult role of being honest with you.

When Saturday rolled in, Kuroo was already at the place you told him to meet. Beforehand, he warns Kenma not to come knowing it’s more on his responsibility and the blonde obeyed him because he too wasn’t ready to face a confrontation like that but Kenma is more than ready to comfort you once the terrible news was given to you.

“Hey!” You greeted him with a smile while he stands up from his sit and hugs you immediately catching you by surprise. With a laugh, you hugged him back wrapping your arms around his neck as he pulls you closer hesitant to let your smile fall.

Then he notices how you were unaccompanied making him pull away seeing the opportunity to tell you while he wasn’t there but he still wasn’t ready.

“Y/N-”

“Hey babe, didn’t know you were already here but let’s play some volleyball!” He shouts with a façade of excitement. You smile at Kuroo before staying by his side instead of teaming up with your own boyfriend.

“One versus two huh?” Your boyfriend taunts while you serve the ball as he receives, initiating the start of the game. Every spike or receive had Kuroo send knives to his way with his sharp and accusing eyes. The lonesome of a player envied the way Kuroo caught the ball effortlessly and because you chose to be with the opposing team making the rally last longer due to Kuroo’s rage and your boyfriends' jealousy.

Once you managed to spike a ball strong enough to make your boyfriend fall from the failed attempt of receiving it, you cheered.

But with the course of happiness, you pulled Kuroo in from the collar of his shirt before taking your lips in his while your boyfriend remains frozen as the boy who was stupidly in love only made the rightful choice which was to kiss back and cherish the way he’s waited for this to happen. Getting a little too lost in the kiss, he cups your cheek bringing you closer and tucking your hair behind your ear with his free hand snaking around your waist, gripping it lightly to make sure it was actually happening.

You pull away softly, flushed cheeks and a smile on your face.

“What the hell Y/N!” Your boyfriend shouts but then he couldn’t exactly move because of how Tetsuro would react once he actually takes a step forward. Kuroo had his arms crossed in front of his chest staring at the boy up and down while desperately trying to act like his knees weren’t just about to give out after what happened.

“What’s wrong? If you need some kisses babe, why don’t you call that cheerleader of yours?”

Kuroo’s jaw drops to the floor—almost in sync with your boyfriend's similar reaction. The sweat rolls down his forehead, obviously intimidated by the two of you catching him in the act while Tetsuro protectively wraps his arm around you once again and as he watches for your features to fall, he was stunned.

You were smiling.

You leaned on Kuroo’s side while he registers how you knew with questions multiplying with every second.

“I want you to leave me the fuck alone and if you even try to deny it—I'll let Tetsu do the talking for me.” He smirks while your boy- ex boyfriend- scoffs making the two of you raise an eyebrow at his reaction.

You removed your position from Kuroo, taking a few steps to be in front of the cheater with a smile as you land a deserving and powerful punch to his cheek, making him stumble at the impact while the other boy was left speechless but nonetheless his heart races with the scene replaying in his mind. You shake your hand as Kuroo crouches down to meet your boyfriend with a smirk mocking the pain he was in.

“Have fun with her— she's a bore anyway.” You look at Tetsuro who let out a laugh as he pats the head of the fallen loser.

“No problem then. I’ll enjoy her as much as I can.” He then walks away, which turned down your expectations of Kuroo landing a punch as well. As the frustrated boy slowly stands up, Tetsuro pulls you against him with a finger to your chin raising it to meet your lip with his as your eyes remained on him while the boy had his eyes do the taunting who were fixated on your ex.

“After all, she’s always been mine.”

With the end of his sentence, he shifts his attention back to you before taking your lips again as the two of you smile. Your ex then walks away with a scowl as he throws his phone in frustration that he lost to Kuroo.

“Mind telling me how you knew, kitten?” He asks when he pulled away with his voice low, taking your heart by a storm.

“I got sick yesterday and when I came to school to get all the work I missed— I overheard you and Kenma talking about it.” He frowns when he realizes how bitter that must’ve been but he continues to ask, though you really couldn’t concentrate when his hand was caressing your waist.

“So, you knew all along?”

“I knew about it a few weeks ago when I read the messages on his phone. When he asked you to hang out, I figured you’d find out about it too.” Kuroo sighs of disappointment before speaking.

“I’m sorry you had to meet an asshole like that,” He says while you shook your head before he continues, “Why him though?” which made you blush.

“I couldn’t get over a certain boy and simply thought it would work but you obviously saw the outcome.” With your previous statement, he lets a smirk fall on his lips now that you couldn’t even look at him straight.

“And that certain boy is?” He edged on, his heart pushing him to confirm if it was actually him— that all the years he spent loving you might actually have you reciprocating those feelings.

“It’s you.” You confessed while your heart sets on fire that you finally admitted it. It was an awful attempt to cover your feelings in the first place. In all honesty, it was your fault. If you could’ve just admitted it right away then you’d end up with him instead of the asshole of a man you wasted time on but then again—the kiss was worth it to ever change your decisions.

“No no I wanna hear the full name.” He teases more making you roll your eyes. He then plants a kiss on the crown of your head with a satisfied smile as he internally cheers to not embarrass himself with the overwhelming glee. You also mirror the same state that he was in. Hearing Kuroo at the gym say how much he loves you was enough of an evidence that you should’ve picked him in the first place.

“Well then, should I make my previous statement official now?” You blushed but muttered a yes making Kuroo smile and take your hand, landing a peck on it as he intertwines them with his.

“All yours, Tetsu.”

#haikyu x reader #haikyuu!!#kuroo x y/n #kuroo x reader #kuroo x you #hq kuroo #kuroo testuro #tetsuro kuroo #haikyuu kenma #kenma kozume

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ambivalence-and-torpor · 2 years

Note

💥💤☕️🌺📸👑❤️🌠🌈 forrr El one of my favorite fruits

El is indeed very FRUITY!!!

Putting it all into a Readmore because lots of text!

💥 COLLISON - what emotions do they have trouble dealing with?

This ones a little hard, not gonna lie, but I think it might be feelings of inadequacy. Elraik themselves is pretty self-confident. They love their skills. They love their looks. They know they are a rather capable Troll in many aspects and they work hard for it.

Where things get complicated is in relation to their father, who views them as a mere tool for his own future plans, and well... being treated like nothing more than a pawn by technically the most important person in their life has left quite a few scars and trauma.

As a stranger it's not easy to make El feel inadequate, but it's not impossible. As El's father... well... he doesn't have to do a lot to make El feel small and weak and stupid and whatnot...

💤 SLEEPING - do they fall asleep easily? what helps them sleep?

They don't particularly have troubles falling asleep, but they definitely sleep a lot better when they've been physically active! A nice pole dancing workout, a good round of swimming, or a fun little romp with somebody followed by a nice hot shower or bath afterwards always helps them sleep pretty well.

☕️ HOT BEVERAGE - do they prefer hot or cold drinks? what is their favourite drink?

They usually prefer cold and refreshing drinks, but their favorite is sparkly water. Their second favorite is coffee.

🌺 HIBISCUS - do they have any allergies?

Nope!

📸 CAMERA - do they enjoy having their picture taken? what’s their go-to pose? do they like taking photos? what do they take photos of?

OH YES! They love taking selfies! And their 100% have a thirst trap troll instagramm. They love getting attention for their hot body~

👑 CROWN - what does your oc want to be remembered as? why?

Elraik wants to be remembered as somebody who became successful through their own hard work. They want to become a top fashion designer with their own brand, and they want to earn their way to the top, prove that they are worth it! They want to others to see them as an inspiration, not because of their blood, not because of their status, but because of their skill.

❤️ RED HEART - their love language(s)?

Elraik tends to give love by acts of service. They are a very generous friend and lover, though they try to hide it because they've been tricked and used in the past for exactly this reason. As for what kind of love they like to receive? Words of affirmation does a lot to make them feel all warm and fuzzy and gooey and vulnerable.

🌠 SHOOTING STAR - if they could make any wish with no repercussions, what wish would they make?

They'd wish for the strength and skill to prove everybody wrong who would doubt them or belittle them.

🌈 RAINBOW - what advice would they give to their younger self?

"Don't trust easily... don't give your heart away without thinking about it... And even when things go wrong, I know you'll persevere... "

Send me some Emojis from this Ask Game <3

#Elraik #Fantroll #OC #ask meme #oc emoji asks #yaebloom #goldenguillotines

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littlemisspascal · 3 years

Text

The Last Mandalorian

Chapter One: The Warrior in Carbonite Part 2

Fandom: The Mandalorian / Pedro Pascal

Eventual Pairing: Din x Togruta!Female!Reader

Word Count: 3,400

Rating: G

Summary: A series that is a mixture of Mandalorian, Star Wars, ATLA, and my own imagination. The Imps have seized control of the majority of the galaxy, including your homeworld Shili. You and your sister Ahsoka have developed a daily routine despite the stormtroopers keeping your village imprisoned. One morning you make a startling discovery that will change the course of your lives forever.

Warnings: plot plot plot, mild descriptions of violence, worldbuilding, dialogue heavy, sloooooooooooooow burn – seriously, we’re just getting started so it’s gonna be a bit before feelings are involved, reader is 17 and Din is 19 so I’m going to warn this as underage even though nothing sexual or even vaguely romantic happens in this chapter.

Author Note: The plan right now is for there to be 3 parts of Chapter 1. Tumblr isn’t doing a good job notifying my taglist, so I apologize if I bother anyone reblogging this a few times trying to get it to work. Thank you everyone out there for each like, comment, ask and reblog! The support means the world to me 🥰

Part 1 Part 3

Cross-posted on AO3

The village is a small community with less than a hundred citizens living there total, yet it is visible from miles away due to the bright paints used to decorate the houses. Murals depicting the village’s history and its residents adorn every house with details added by each new generation so that no one is ever forgotten. Back when visitors would pass through, they would always compliment the village’s beauty, but there is nothing beautiful at all about the electric fence the Imps erected shortly after seizing control, emitting shocks harsh enough to kill.

Originally the stormtroopers said it was to protect the village from threats, but nobody believed the lie. The only threat to the community was the Empire. They don’t bother making up excuses anymore, now they like to remind everyone the whole village is their prisoner, usually by a show of violence so unbelievably malicious it stuns everyone into compliance.

There are some horrors time will never erase from your mind.

Juni trees grow beside the fence outside the perimeter, the only species of tree amongst the shrubbery and turu-grass, and they are tall enough for their thick orange branches to extend over the uppermost wire. In the mornings, Ahsoka climbs out your bedroom window, slides down the sloped roof of the house and leaps onto a nearby branch. You follow after her, trusting that she won’t let you fall when you stretch out your hand for her to catch you and lift you up using a bit of Force to give you a boost. The two of you sneak back inside the village using the same tree, only instead of leaping at the house, you drop the short fall onto the ground beneath. Five years and the stormtroopers haven’t caught onto your trick yet.

Except now the tree isn’t an option. Not when you both are half-carrying, half-dragging two-hundred pounds of flesh and metal.

Hiding behind a clump of coyal bushes, you and Ahsoka scout the entrance booth where a pair of stormtroopers dressed in their characteristic white armor stand guard, holding blaster rifles. There are others on patrol, walking along the fence and checking its integrity, gradually stepping further and further out of view, but they will be back eventually. Your window of opportunity is limited.

You adjust the warrior’s arm over your shoulders, quietly groaning when your muscles protest the heaviness. “What are we going to do? Stormies might share one brain cell, but they’re definitely going to notice this heap of metal we’re carrying. And as soon as they find out we don’t have passes, they’re going to start shooting.”

Passes are only given to a handful of the community’s traders each week. It is a three day ride on a repulsorlift speeder to the capital where they have a short span of time to sell their goods and then return home within the week with essential supplies. To ensure no one tries to run away, the Imps set up strict rules. If the traders are late, even if only by a few minutes or due to reasons outside their control, the rest of the villagers pay the price. Usually the punishment is a public beating, but sometimes the stormtroopers get creative and tie their chosen victims to a pole overnight by their head-tails.

Nobody, not even the younglings, sleep those nights.

“We’ll be fine,” Ahsoka answers, firm and confident, gaze fixed upon the gate. “Just follow my lead. I’ve got an idea.”

She doesn’t spare you a second to protest, stepping out into the open and forcing you to follow or else drop the warrior’s body.

The stormtroopers spot the three of you immediately, relaxed postures stiffening with alarm, and you have to remind yourself over and over to breathe, to not let them see any hint of the anxiety buzzing beneath your skin.

“Hold it right there!” One of the stormtroopers orders when the distance between you and them has shortened to a mere three feet. You freeze at once, heart pounding as fast as a thimiar’s seconds away from being eaten. A quick glance at Ahsoka reveals no fear in her expression. She stares at them indifferently, as if she is about to talk about the weather.

“Explain yourselves.” It is not a request.

You squirm, nearly knocking your head against the warrior’s bowed head, on the verge of losing your composure, when you notice Ahsoka lifting her arm.

“You will let us pass,” she says, adopting a suggestive tone while waving her hand in front of their visors.

They respond in unison, seemingly entranced. “We will let you pass.”

You bite your lip as you and Ahsoka pass between the stormtroopers and through the gate, not wanting to break the spell by letting loose the barrage of questions forming on your tongue. What your sister had done was as amazing as it was frightening. She had manipulated them with such confident ease you are certain this isn’t the first time she has performed the trick on someone.

“When did Aunt Shaak teach you that?”

“She didn’t,” Ahsoka replies lowly, casting a quick glance around. “I taught myself.”

Your skin prickles as you also become aware of the increasing number of eyes staring at you. With the sun fully awake and bringing morning light with it, several villagers are carrying on with their daily routines outside of their homes. Most of them seem a mixture of confused and concerned about the stranger, but you spy the Elders looking displeased by the new addition amongst their ranks.

You are not looking forward to being inevitably summoned and interrogated by them.

“How?” you ask, copying her hushed cadence. Then, a pulse of panic blooms in your chest. “Have you ever—?”

“No, I haven’t messed with your mind before. Never even considered it,” Ahsoka interrupts, sensing your worries. “I don’t practice often, but when I do it’s just harmless little suggestions. Like convincing Huno to give the younglings an extra sugar biscuit when he has some to spare or persuading Jaelee to go to bed early when I know she’s been overworking herself. To tell you the truth, I wasn’t really sure the trick would work on those bucket heads since I’ve never tried it on two minds at once before. Lucky us, right?”

You nearly trip over your own feet. “What?”

Is she being serious right now? They would be dead right now if her gamble hadn’t paid off.

Ahsoka pretends not to hear you, nodding her head towards the blue-painted house up ahead. “C’mon, Maar probably already knows we’re coming.”

Maar Vashee has been the village’s healer for a little over fifty years. The purple-skinned Togruta helped deliver you and Ahsoka, and was considered by your mother when she was still living to be a dear friend. Her connection to the Force is especially sensitive due to her intricate relationship with the flora of the planet, using various herbs and plants to create remedies, and as such she developed a type of sixth sense where she instinctively knows when her skills are needed.

Entering her home that doubles as her clinic, you find Maar had indeed anticipated your arrival and set up a cot to place the warrior upon. Once he is laid down, you roll your aching shoulders, biting back a wince as the movement irritates the headache lingering at the back of your head.

The warrior hadn’t made one noise the entirety of the trip bringing him here. Even now as he rests on the cot, his breaths are so quiet you would fear he wasn’t breathing at all if not for his chest moving. You touch his hand impulsively, laying yours over his gloved one. There is no response, not a twitch or spasm.

A sharp gasp of surprise has you whirling around, eyes landing upon Maar standing in the doorway between the clinic and her living quarters. She clutches a glass jar of spotted red herbs labeled nysillin against her chest, staring at the warrior like she is looking at a ghost.

“Maar,” Ahsoka calls out softly, coming to stand by your side. A long moment of silence passes before the older Togruta manages to drag her gaze away to focus on you and Ahsoka, green eyes a bit too wide-eyed and haunted. Your sister’s gentle tone remains when she inquires, “What’s wrong? Do you...do you know him?”

Maar chokes out a brittle noise sounding like a cross between a dry laugh and a derisive scoff. “Personally? No.” She moves closer to the cot, the white circular markings around her eyes softening with what you confusingly identify as sympathy. “I’ve heard stories of his kind though. Years ago, many considered the Mandalorians the only ones capable of defeating the Imperials.”

“Holy frak,” you gasp before you can stop yourself.

As a youngling, your mother used to tell you stories about the fiercest fighters in the galaxy known as Mandalorians. They lived on Mandalore and had a special connection with their weapons, a bond nobody else could understand or mimic, trained to handle guns and knives as soon as they could walk. They defended the galaxy from unlawful rulers and the threat of enslavement, unafraid to spill blood when they knew peace would follow. Your mother told you they never lost a battle. Defeat was a word unknown to them.

At least until—

“Mandalorians were wiped out during the Decimation of Alderaan,” Ahsoka interrupts your thoughts, voice pitched high with disbelief. “And the few who lived were hunted down shortly after. The Imps made sure there weren’t any left to challenge them.”

As if triggered, you recall a detail from your brain glitch, a thought that had crossed your mind when you were flying through the storm. You had been looking for Aldera, the capital of Alderaan.

It’s just a coincidence, you think. But a voice in the back of your head that sounds suspiciously like your Aunt Shaak counters, there are no coincidences.

And as much as you loathe admitting it, that voice is right. Having the image of a mudhorn slip into your brain shortly before you find a warrior—no, a karking Mandalorian of all people—with the same creature on his armor? It is too precise to be a coincidence. Your paths were meant to cross each other.

If only you had the slightest clue as to why.

Maar sets the jar down on a nearby table, then picks up the Mandalorian’s wrist to check his pulse. “That is what we all thought,” she agrees after a minute of counting has passed, dropping his hand. “His armor is characteristic of their kind. Nothing in the galaxy is as strong or valuable as their beskar. Let’s pray to Ai our beliefs about the Mandalorians’ extinction are mistaken,” she nods towards the unconscious warrior, “especially for his sake.”

Realization creates a sickening pit in your stomach.

Regardless of the status of his kind, when he wakes up his whole world is going to be flipped upside down.

Three hours later, not much has changed except the room is brighter, afternoon sunlight pouring in through the window, and smells sweet due to the bowl of herbs Maar left simmering on the table near the Mandalorian’s head, explaining the aroma will cure him of his hibernation sickness as he breathes it in.

“He’ll wake up when the marg sabls open tomorrow,” Maar told you with a gesture towards the potted red-and-pink flowers in the windowsill. They grow all over Shili, popular because they open their petals in a sunburst shape every morning.

Ahsoka comes and goes, blessedly not criticizing your decision to sit at the warrior’s bedside when you have a list of chores to complete—doubled now that you lost your bet with Ahsoka earlier. She intercepts curious younglings hoping to sneak a glimpse of the Mandalorian whose presence has become known throughout the village. Nothing stays a secret long in the community. Gossip spreads as quickly as colds and takes twice as long to get over.

If the stormtroopers catch on, the consequences will be disastrous. For once, Ahsoka shares your fears, admitting she isn’t capable of tricking a whole platoon.

“The Elders aren’t happy,” Ahsoka says in-between sips of bone broth. “They think it’s too dangerous having him here.”

You swallow your mouthful, shaking your head. “I think it’s the opposite.”

“What do you mean?”

Averting your gaze towards your lap, you scratch at an imaginary stain on your leggings. “Just a feeling I have.”

Ahsoka leans forward in her seat, pointing an accusing finger at you, causing your head to jerk back up. “The Force connected with you again, didn’t it? I knew you were acting weird before we found him.” She frowns, hurt flickering in her eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I never wanted to be special, Ahsoka,” you reply honestly. “I never wished or prayed to have visions, to have these random details pop into my head, to feel others’ emotions so strongly it’s like I’m trapped inside their bodies. There is nothing cool or entertaining about it. It’s…” Your voice cracks embarrassingly, forcing you to take a pause. You inhale a shaky breath. “It’s terrifying.”

“I had no idea you were struggling so much,” your sister murmurs, voice soft with contrition.

“How could you when I didn’t even want myself to acknowledge that I was?” you counter, feeling as if a weight has been lifted from your shoulders as the truth sinks in. “I tried to ignore it all as best as I could. If not for meeting our friend over here,” you tilt your head in the Mandalorian’s direction, “I’d probably still be in denial. But I can’t ignore the Force this time. Not when the message is this important.”

“What is it?”

“We were meant to find him. To bring him back with us. I think—I believe he’s important. Remember what Maar said? About how people used to believe Mandalorians would beat the Empire?”

Ahsoka’s brow furrows incredulously. “You really think one warrior can defeat Emperor Gideon’s army? The rebels have been trying for years and the Emperor is always one step ahead.”

You can’t help deflating a bit, shoulders slumping. “Well when you put it like that…”

“Have you considered an alternative reason why he’s important?” she asks. When you don’t answer right away, she takes it as a cue to continue, “Maybe you’re right and he is going to change the galaxy for the better. But he could also be a warning. The Imps wiped out his kind, what if they plan to do the same to us?”

Your lips part to respond, only to close again wordlessly. You thought by accepting your brain glitches as messages from the Force they would become clearer, easier to understand. A lantern guiding you through this maze of darkness epitomizing your life.

But you have never felt more lost.

Falling asleep is a mistake.

You didn’t know this when you rejected Maar’s suggestion to head home and sleep in your comfortable bed instead of curling up on her spare cot that squeaks whenever you move. The prideful side of you believed it was best if you were the first face the Mandalorian saw when he woke up because he would remember you and the promise you swore. He would trust you to explain everything to him.

Within a second of waking up, you realize how naive you were to think you had even a shred of influence over him.

The sound of something shattering has you nearly tumbling off the side of the cot, jerking awake with a sudden burst of fear. You blink rapidly to clear the haziness of sleep from your vision, struggling to make sense of what you are seeing.

Pieces of Maar’s ceramic bowl litter the floor along with bits of charcoal and ash. Ahsoka and the Mandalorian stand on opposite sides of the room, staring each other down, poised to fight. The Mandalorian has a vibroblade clenched in his hand, while your sister crouches low, fists raised. You know Ahsoka can hold her own in a fight, even without the advantage of a weapon, but fear winds its way down your spine, cold and slimy, when you can’t help but notice how small she looks compared to him. Not only because he is a few inches taller, but because he also exudes an undeniable aura of intimidation: his unwavering silence, the skilled manner he wields his knife, even the sharp gleam of his beskar pieces reflecting the pale morning light has your chest tightening with dread.

The clinic’s lights flick on right as Maar announces her presence by cocking a blaster pistol. It is the Mandalorian’s own weapon, removed from his holster when Maar examined him earlier. “Alright,” she says to the room at large as she fully enters, dressed in her sleeping robe. “Let’s all settle down. Blood isn’t an easy stain to clean and I’d prefer it if none was spilt.”

You see the moment the Mandalorian decides to comply, shoulders loosening beneath the pauldrons and stance shifting from defensive to neutral, as he processes he doesn’t need to fight his way out of here. The vibroblade is sheathed within his right boot in one fluid motion and it is startling, truly, how quick he transforms from a dangerous threat to a potentially dangerous threat.

Ahsoka is reluctant to yield, staring him up and down for a drawn out moment that does little to soothe your frayed nerves. Only when Maar pointedly clears her throat does your sister finally obey, straightening to full height with a hand propped on her hip, the picture perfect image of nonchalance. In another life she would have made a fantastic actress in a holovid drama.

“That’s better.” Maar nods, satisfied. “Now why don’t we—”

The Mandalorian moves so quickly that you jerk in anticipation of attack, eyes widening to the size of moons as you watch the pistol fly out of Maar’s hand and straight into his outstretched one. Your lungs seize up, a single thought flashing through your mind. This is it, the moment we all die.

Except instead of shooting, he re-engages the safety mechanism and promptly holsters the gun at his side where it belonged. Without saying anything.

Ahsoka’s slack-jawed expression would have been comical if it hadn’t matched your own stunned face. Even Maar, who has witnessed over fifty years worth of shocking spectacles, looks awed by the unexpected display.

You recover first, somehow managing to piece together the right words to ask a coherent question. “Are you a Jedi?”

It is only because you are staring directly at him that you notice the virtually imperceptible tilting of his head. “I’m a Mandalorian,” he answers bluntly, oblivious to how your heart skips a beat. “Weapons are part of my religion. It’s important to earn their trust.” He addresses Maar then, adding, “Especially if they’re stolen from us.”

His baritone voice has changed from when he spoke on the ship. Without the exhaustion wrapped around his vocal chords you are able to hear his normal timbre. Due to the modulator in his helmet, it has a husky quality, an intriguing mix of smoke and honey. But that is not what has your montrals prickling and your spine straightening.

“I disarm all my patients,” Maar replies, back to being her cool, calm, and collected self. “I would have given it back—”

“How old are you?”

You don’t realize you have spoken until two pairs of eyes and an expressionless visor look at you.

The Mandalorian’s fingers curl and uncurl at his sides once, twice. “Nineteen,” he answers after a few seconds of lapsing silence.

“Oh Ai,” Maar murmurs, vocalizing your own thoughts.

All this time you have been thinking of the Mandalorian as a man beneath the amor. A hardened and seasoned fighter who has seen a lifetime of bloodshed and violence. But the reality is he is only two years older than you. Standing right on that thin, blurry line between being seen as a teenager and being considered an adult.

“Who are you?” the Mandalorian asks, glancing first at you then your sister and back to Maar. Frustration and wariness blend together, sharpening his voice. “Why am I here? What happened?”

Ahsoka meets your eye with a question in her gaze, one you don’t have the answer for: where do we even begin?

Series Taglist: @pedro4ever

Permanent Taglist: @promiscuoussatan @vintagesaph @sylphene @over300books @chibi-yuki @theocatkov @oh-no-a-whovian @absurdthirst @freeshavocadoooo @you-and-i-deserve-the-world @lin-djarin @happiestsparkleofall @randomness501 @gallowsjoker @coaaster @captain-jebi @leilei-draws @disgruntledspacedad @melobee @stilllivindue2spite @pointy-sharp @artsymaddie @waywardmando @thisshipwillsail316 @mylifeofcalculatedchaos @grogusmum @asta-lily @rogertaylorsfalsettogivesmehives @sherala007 @mejswho @uncle-kenobi

#Din Djarin #din x you #din x reader #din djarin x you #din djarin x reader #din djarin fanfiction #mandalorian x reader #mandalorian fanfic #togruta #ahsoka tano #the last mandalorian #my fic #my writing #pedrostories

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