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montammil · 1 year

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Hi there! 🌠

"If anyone wants me to make a side story of drabble..." I mean if you're offering-

Could we get a drabble of romantic yandere Lawrence? I'm interested!

(Also I know it's been a while but please don't apologize for taking a while to post! I love reading whatever you write, regardless of the time it takes! Also I've been totally busy too so I get it-)

Here it is, and thank you for being so understanding!! I'll make this a series if anyone continues to be interested!

CW: Obsessive behavior (romantic and implied platonic for the "kids"), mentioned stalking, mentioned death, kidnapping, violence, broken bones, intimate/creepy whumper, drugging, mentioned alcohol

...

Harper lets out a heavy sigh as they finish off wiping down the bar, glancing at their watch every other minute. With all the disturbing love letters from their "secret admirer" they've been getting, they're starting to feel scared to leave the bar and go home. They spent countless nights awake out of fear.

Some of them could be mistaken for romantic and sweet, but when they got graphic, they got graphic. Harper now feels their heart drop every time they see that familiar red envelope.

They went to the police about it, but they said there was nothing they could do. The letters had no threats, not directly, anyway. It baffled them, considering this was clear evidence they were being stalked, and yet they weren't doing anything about it. Not until they had further evidence.

"You look tired."

Harper gasps and flinches at the sudden silvery voice, only to see Lawrence. They clutch their heart. "Oh my god... hi, Lawrence."

The blond frowns, leaning against the bar. "I didn't mean to scare you, I'm sorry. Are you okay?"

Harper nods, exhaling shakily. "Yeah, yeah I am. I just... uh, I can't seem to sleep lately. Anyway, do you want the usual, or...?"

Lawrence shakes his head. "I'm not getting anything tonight, I actually came over to check on you. You've been acting stressed all week and I just wanted to make sure you're doing okay."

A small smile rises to Harper's lips. "I'm fine, really, I'm just tired."

"I can tell when you're lying, you aren't the most skilled at it," Lawrence laughs softly. He sits on the stool right across from Harper and stares into their eyes. "If there's something going on, you know you can talk to me. I'm not just a customer, you know."

That's a slight surprise to Harper, considering to them, that really is all Lawrence is. A regular who frequents the bar.

"You don't have to worry about me." Harper shrugs. "It's fine. I'm fine."

Lawrence gives a soft chuckle. "If you really don't want to talk about it, I won't force you, but I'm a little worried about my friend."

Harper looks around the bar to see only a young group of friends in the back, seeming about ready to leave. They decide it wouldn't hurt to open up a bit. "I keep getting these... secret admirer letters."

Interest seeming to pique, Lawrence tilts his head. "Really? What did they say? It can't be something so bad to make you this stressed."

Harper blinks, feeling a little embarrassed. "That's what you think. Some of them are kind of sweet, they actually started off pretty romantic, I was almost wanting to meet this secret admirer. Then after about five letters in it started getting... graphic."

"Graphic?" Lawrence raises an eyebrow. "Like... sexual things?"

"Well, yes..." Harper mumbles. "But they weren't all like that. Some of them were just vaguely threatening and creepy. The police said there was nothing they can do so I guess I just have to deal with them and hope they go away, but..."

Lawrence sighs sympathetically. "But you're worried they'll come find you."

"Yeah." Harper rubs their temples tiredly. "It also freaks me out that this person could be anyone. There's no address on the letters so I can assume they come to deliver them themselves. I thought about setting up cameras but they'd probably know if I did. They seem to be following me 24/7 with all the stuff they've put in those letters."

Nodding, Lawrence sighs, "I'm sorry, that sounds awful. You don't think they'd actually try anything, do you?"

"I... don't know. I sure hope not, but the thought is always there."

"Hmm... do you want me to drive you home? I can walk you up to your house."

Harper chuckles. It's a little odd he's offering, but it just seems in character for him. Not to mention Harper had already mentioned last time Lawrence visited that they took the metro to work every day. "You don't need to do that, I think I'll be fine."

"You have a stalker, and you want me to leave you alone to deal with it at 10:00 o'clock at night? That doesn't sound safe," Lawrence argues.

"No it doesn't, but..." Harper trails off when they realize they have no argument. They doubt Lawrence could be the culprit behind the letters, only because this is Lawrence Cross, a pretty well-known celebrity.

They doubt anyone would throw away their career like that, especially over them of all people. Not to mention if Lawrence was hypothetically their stalker, it'd make no sense why he wouldn't have just snatched them away sooner. Hell knows he has the time and money.

Raising a brow, Lawrence repeats, "But?"

"But... nothing. I'll pay you for the ride."

With a chuckle, Lawrence shakes his head. "I'd probably be the worst person ever if I took your money, especially for something like this. Let's go."

Harper feels some relief their shift is over with, glad to be done for the day for the first time in a while. It'll be hard getting to sleep, but they're just happy to get a free ride. They exit the bar after clocking out, smelling the wet concrete beneath their feet. It's calming to smell something that isn't just pure alcohol.

"Where do you live?" Lawrence asks as they both get in the car. His hands rest along the steering wheel, looking at Harper.

They hesitate for a moment, realizing they need to tell a relative stranger their address. However, considering the circumstances and the fact that Lawrence has offered his help genuinely, they decide to share the information.

"I live in the apartment complex on Berkley Street, just a few blocks away," Harper responds, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible.

Lawrence nods and starts the car, smoothly merging into the late-night traffic. The rhythmic hum of the engine fills the silence, creating a sense of comfort within the confined space of the vehicle.

Harper thinks it's a little weird, the fact that Lawrence, a celebrity and stranger, has become involved in the situation at hand. It felt like a fever dream when Lawrence stepped foot in the small dreary bar just a few months back, Harper was sure he was just a celebrity lookalike, and even now they have suspicions.

Considering Lawrence has reserved the entire bar for hours at a time just to watch a stupid football game and sip on whiskey, Harper knows he is the real deal. Probably.

"Soo... how are your kids doing?" Harper asks. Comfortable silence was never a thing for them.

"Pretty good, actually. Nathan's temper tantrums have been improving, I think he's becoming more well-behaved. Sadie and Marshall are doing good, too."

Harper hums in acknowledgement. They turn their head to watch the dimly lit street lights pass by, while also watching Lawrence's reflection in the window. He seems focused on driving, so they decide to stay quiet, just listening to the radio playing quiet 80's music.

Eventually, Harper notices he missed the street to turn on. "Lawrence, you missed it."

Lawrence comes to a stoplight, turning his head to look at them. "Huh?"

"You missed the street."

"Oh, sorry. I was lost in thought."

Harper feels a sense of dread as Lawrence continues driving. They laugh awkwardly. "So are you going to make a U-turn or what?" When Lawrence doesn't reply, the terror really starts to come up. "Y-you know what, I think I'll just get out now, just pull over."

He shakes his head. "I can't do that."

"Why the fuck not? Let me out, Lawrence. This isn't funny." They're about to start hyperventilating, but the sheer adrenaline of wanting to get away from him overpowers every other emotion.

Lawrence clicks his tongue. "You're right, this isn't funny." He's staring straight ahead at the road, completely unfazed.

Harper tries opening the car door, but it's locked, of course. They try to move to Lawrence's side to unlock it, now in a panicked fervor, but Lawrence pushes them and before Harper can blink, a knife goes to their throat. Their eyes go wide.

"I wouldn't do that, love," Lawrence says simply and calmly, like a normal person would say it to someone who was simply annoying them.

The pet name sent shivers down their spine. “What do you want with me?” they whisper.

Lawrence removes the knife from their neck and to his pocket facing the car door on his side. His eyes are still fixated on the road with the occasional glance sent their way. "I want you to be mine."

The words are so simple, yet Harper is still surprised. "Excuse me?" they sputter.

He chuckles. "You heard the news articles? About Nadia?"

Harper shakes their head slowly. "No... I... I mean... I know she…"

"She died, yeah. I grieved for so many years. We were supposed to have a family, y'know? She was the only person who ever really understood me."

"Then she must've been as batshit crazy as you." Harper really didn't expect that to come out of their own mouth that loudly, but luckily Lawrence seems more amused than upset.

"Oh, she was. My point is, she died and left me all alone. Ever since then I've been looking for the right one, but all of them wanted the same thing out of me: money, sex, a status that actually makes them worth something… but then I met you." Lawrence smiles at them.

Harper feels too disturbed to even think of a response.

Continuing, Lawrence says, "You don't care about my fame or my money. We talk just like normal people, just like we are now."

The realization Lawrence thinks this is just a normal conversation makes Harper laugh. "I think we have different definitions of 'normal people'. So what the hell do you want from me?"

Lawrence sends a glare as he drives down the highway. "I want you to be with me."

Harper laughs again. "Yeah... I don't think that's going to happen." They pause, coming to a realization they should’ve from the very beginning Lawrence started acting weird. "You wrote all those letters."

"I sure did. Poetic, weren't they?"

"No. I think creepy and demented would be the best way to describe it."

Lawrence chuckles. "That's pretty harsh, but then again, I knew they'd creep you out. That's why we're here right now, after all."

Harper scoffs. "So you didn't mean any of it?"

He smiles at them. "Oh no, I meant every little word. I just decided to be a bit bolder than I normally would. Did I do a good job?"

They go silent yet again, baffled by this situation. They flinch when they see Lawrence grab a cup from the cup holder, filled with water.

Of course, Harper knows better when Lawrence gives it to them.

"Drink it," Lawrence urges.

It takes all their energy to bite back the snarl in their voice. "I don't feel like taking a nap, but thanks for the offer."

Lawrence looks a little impressed. "I'm glad you've grown a brain, but I wasn't asking. Drink it."

They recoil further away from Lawrence, half of their back pressing into the car door behind them. "Fuck you, asshat."

"Your insults remind me of my eldest. Here's the deal, love, you either drink it willingly, or I force you."

The reminder Lawrence does indeed have a knife ready makes them scared, they'll admit, but not enough to act like this is all fine. Harper stares at the cup for a long moment before looking up at Lawrence. "Fine," they grit through clenched teeth.

Lawrence pats their cheek. "Good, you're learning!"

Harper hesitantly sips at the water. The cool liquid runs down their throat, soothing the dryness. Yet there's not a single doubt in their mind this is drugged, even if Lawrence didn't practically just confirm it for them. They can slightly taste the chalkiness of the crushed pills.

Lawrence watches them closely, and as he comes to another stoplight, he notices Harper is stalling, only having had a few small sips. "In the next five minutes, I better see all that water gone."

It reminds them of a parent scolding their child. They roll their eyes, but obey.

The last thing Harper sees are blurring traffic lights and Lawrence's honeyed voice.

"Sleep well, honey."

...

When Harper awakes, they find themself freezing cold. They have to practically pry their eyes open to see its dark. A basement.

Realization hits them hard. They try to get out of the cuffs around their wrists and ankles, but to no avail. It's hard to make out anything in the basement, but they find stuffed animals, blankets, and chains in the corner of the room. Harper prays that Lawrence doesn't treat his kids like this, at least. Surely not.

The door creaks open. Harper whips their head up to see Lawrence, smiling and descending the stairs. "It's already 1:00. You really slept in. I guess I'm not shocked, considering you haven't been getting any good sleep recently. You went to bed at 4:00 in the morning yesterday, so I can't blame you there."

At this point, Harper doesn't even know why they're shocked. "Right. You've been stalking me, too. How was that going for you? Learn anything else interesting?"

Lawrence seems to really ponder their question. "You did have a pretty dull life. It made me a little depressed just following you around. Even when you'd go out to parties you'd just get drunk and throw yourself on anyone who talked to you."

"Thanks for the observation." Harper's eye twitches.

He laughs. "Anyone can observe that, now that I think about it. But I do know everything there is to know about you. I know your history, your medical and criminal records, your likes and dislikes, and of course, your personality. I'd say I know more about you than your own family, but you haven't seen them in five years now!"

Harper's face burns red and it's becoming more difficult to breathe. "You say you love me and then you just talk a bunch of shit about me. How does that make sense?"

"I do love you," Lawrence says matter-of-factly. Harper can't believe how calm he sounds. "I'm just speaking my mind. Isn't that what partners do for each other?"

"Oh, so we can speak our minds? Okay, here's what I think: I think you're a lonely, crazed lunatic who's out of touch with reality. Here's some news, just because you get handed everything you want doesn't mean it's going to work with people, and certainly not me. And if you think I'm going to act like this is all okay, then you're seriously delusional."

Lawrence narrows his eyes. "So that's how it is, huh?"

Bold as their words may be, Harper doesn't even care. "Yeah, it really is."

"Alright." Lawrence stands there for a moment, cold eyes staring right down at Harper. Anger flashes in his eyes, and in a swift movement, he stomps on Harper's ankle, and the sound of a hideous snap echoes in the basement.

Harper screams shrilly, and soon their screams turn into wails of agony when Lawrence kicks them in the ribs. They try to crawl away, but Lawrence puts his shoe down on their back, keeping them pinned to the ground.

"Normally I'd say I don't want to hurt you, that this is all for your own good, but... I'd be lying if I said I don't enjoy this. I mean, look at you... you're normally so confident and witty, but now you're just a crying mess on the floor. My poor darling." He removes his shoe to kneel down, turning Harper so their back is on the basement floor. He grabs their face to look at him. "Do you want me to stop?"

Cringing from pain, Harper doesn't reply. They lift their head weakly to look at their ankle, breath hitching at the awful sight. It's swollen, already tinging purple. More tears cascade down their cheeks.

"Let me get these." Lawrence swipes his thumb underneath Harper's eyes, and much to Harper's disturbance, licks their tears right off his thumb. "Now you have two options, my love. Either you apologize to me and we can go upstairs and have lunch after I bandage you up, or you can stay down here with your broken ankle and starve for the night."

Harper tries to think logically, as much as the pain is making it hard to do so.

It was cold, they hadn't eaten in a while, and they just wanted this excruciating pain to stop. However, the thought of giving this man any kind of satisfaction left a bad taste in their mouth.

Harper gives him a scornful smile through their tears. "Fu-fuck you."

"What a shame." Lawrence stands back up. "I hope you'll be a little more appreciative by tomorrow, but if not, I have all the time in the world to make you into a more loving partner. See you tomorrow, honey."

With that, the door clicked shut behind Lawrence.

#lawrence oc #harper oc #creepy whumper #intimate whumper #tw parental whumper #not to harper but i still want to put that in the tags because marshall sadie and nathan exist in this au #also harper has no clue marshall sadie and nathan are actually grown adults who have been kidnapped in case i did a bad job implying lol

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tarisilmarwen · 2 years

Text

Whumptober 2022 - “Sinking Worry“

(It's basically Whumptober tradition by now for me to hurt either Ezra or Teen Titans Robin but none of the prompts this year really struck me for Robin so Ezra it was. Not that any of y'all are complaining, lol.

Set early S1, idk sometime before "Rise of the Old Masters".

Prompts used!

No. 23 At The End Of Their Rope: Forced To Kneel/Tied To A Table/"Hold them down."

Alt. 7 Protective)

---

Hera stirred, feeling pleasantly stiff and warm all over. Taking a few moments to blink back into awareness, she realized that she was still curled up next to Kanan in her bunk.

Must've dozed off, she thought. She hadn't exactly intended to, but with Chopper running diagnostics in the cockpit and the other three out on their own separate tasks it was just all too easy to relax for a bit, afterwards, snuggle up next to him and be content under his arm.

Pushing the blanket off them she sat up, bare feet swinging down to the floor. Kanan roused at her movement, shifting, prying eyes open and squinting them.

"Did we fall asleep?" he asked.

"Looks like," Hera quipped with a smile, stretching her arms high above her head. The air unit cycled cool air on her skin. She worked a kink out of both of her shoulders, rolling them, then reached down for the pile of clothes at the base of the bed.

"Must have been more tired than we thought," Kanan mused. "How long were we out?"

Hera tugged on her top and underclothes quickly, mode turning professional and business-like. "Couple hours I think," she said, sliding on her jumpsuit, weaving her arms through the straps. "Chopper's probably still debugging the mainframe, otherwise he would have woken us." She pulled on her boots, tucking her feet into their insulated insides.

Kanan lingered in the bunk as she stood, going to her comms station and switching it on to check over the messages.

She frowned after scanning them for a few moments. She scrolled back up to the top of the entries and searched again. There was their mission briefing from Fulcrum that day... there was her outgoing one informing them of their success... the test pings before she'd sent the "kids" out, to make sure everyone's comlinks were working...

From the bed, Kanan sat up on his elbows, reading the shift in her mood. "What is it?" he asked.

Hera's mouth wrinkled. She checked a third time, opening up individual messages to read the transcripts this round.

"Ezra hasn't checked in yet," she told him. Her eyes scanned through entries, noting with satisfaction that Sabine and Zeb had both finished up their individual errands and met up in the central market to get groceries with the extra credits, but still anxiously searching for mentions of their youngest Spectre. "I sent him to the south district slums to check for that package Jho had sent to us at the usual drop point. He was supposed to comm every half hour to report his progress."

"Maybe he got distracted?" Kanan offered, though a twinge of nerves and annoyance was starting to creep through him as well.

Hera huffed. "He knows how important keeping in contact is, I have told him so many times—"

She stopped her tirade as Kanan shifted forward with a rustle, voice gentle. "Calm down," he said. "He isn't used to this. I'm sure he just forgot." He slipped his legs over the side of the bed. "And he'll get an earful about it when he gets back," he promised.

He grinned, attempting to be playful with her, but it faded when he saw the furrow between Hera's brows, how her features twisted.

"What?"

Hera inhaled through her nose. "He seemed a little nervous before going out. Asked if I was sure of the drop point more than once." She finally stopped scrolling through messages, shutting off the log. "I didn't think about it at the time but..." Her lekku swished as she looked over her shoulder at him. "Does Spiceman's Corner mean anything to you? Ring any bells?"

"Not to my knowledge," Kanan admitted.

Biting her lip, Hera turned back to the comm station for a long moment, considering.

"I'm calling him," she decided, opening the channel, pressing the buttons with a little more agitation than normal.

Kanan quietly began redressing, keeping one ear open and one eye on Hera as she spoke into the receiver.

"Spectre Six, come in. You missed the last three check-ins, over."

There was no response. Both of them strained for several moments, waiting to hear the boy's voice—always too bright, too casual, too sure of himself—but there was nothing.

"Spectre Six, please respond," Hera tried again.

No answer.

"Ezra I know you can hear me," Hera growled, dispensing with pleasantries and codenames. "If you can't answer just give me a couple clicks on the line. Something."

His comm better not be off, she thought furiously, even as her gut began to churn with an ill feeling.

Pushing up straight, Hera stalked to the door and hit the button to open it.

"Chopper!" she barked. "I need you in here for a minute."

Kanan heard Chopper complaining from the cockpit as he finished pulling on his clothes, taking out his own comlink.

"I know you're busy, find a stopping point and get back here!" Hera snapped.

Kanan held his comlink in his hand, rolling it in his palm with agitation, resisting the urge to make his own call to their wayward teenager. Prickles of anxiety tickled at his head; he reached out to the Force for calm but only got more of the same staticy feeling. Which was not reassuring at all.

With a slowly growing squeak of rolling wheels, Chopper made his way from the cockpit, grumbling all the while. The droid stopped in front of Hera's door and Hera stepped out into the hall with him.

"Can you check Ezra's comlink?" she asked, gentler but still anxious. "Make sure it's working?"

Chopper beeped to acknowledge, then extended his dish to swivel for a few seconds.

"WUB WUBB WUB WUB WUUB. WUB WUB."

"His comm is not off," Hera translated. "The line is clear."

"WUB WUB WUBBA WUB."

"It's just being—" Hera's voice hitched as her breath caught, and Kanan caught a spike of fear rising from her. She looked at him with widening eyes. "—jammed," she finished in horror.

Kanan's stomach dropped.

Their fears realized, the two lingered in horrified eye contact for a moment. Then they rushed into frantic motion, Kanan yanking the drawer with his lightsaber open, Hera stowing her comlink and strapping her blasters in their holsters, barking commands to Chopper all the while.

"Chopper, see if you can pinpoint Ezra's last location," she ordered. Her eyes darted back at Kanan as she rushed through the cockpit. "I'll take Block 12 through Block 25," she told him.

"I've got through Block 30," Kanan said.

Both adults slid down the ladder one after another and ran down the open ramp into the long Lothal grass.

***

Ezra pulled back and fought against the hands latched around his arms and yanking him forward down the hall but their grips were firm, squeezing. His feet skidded on the smooth polished floor as he tried to find some traction but it was no use, they had too tight a hold on him, he couldn't break free.

He swallowed dryly as he was led to a door at the end of the hallway. The room beyond was one he was, unfortunately, familiar with, vials and bottles lining multiples shelves along the walls, scattered and half open on tables, beakers full of the same stuff brewing over flames and being carefully mixed and ground into powders. A lone medical table took up a prominent place of display to his left, spotlit under one of the florescents. A tall figure with tufted ears stood in front of it, hands clasped behind him, back turned until Ezra was dragged in.

The Zygerrian turned his head, slick, oily smile cold at the edges.

"Bridger, Bridger, Bridger..." he tutted.

Ezra shrank under the vaguely hostile stare and the disappointed tone, feeling his arms as very small and skinny breakable sticks in the heavies' grips.

"Boss Irozi," he wavered. "Spiceman" himself, so named for his extensive underground spice manufacturing and distribution network in Capitol City, focusing extensively in the overcrowded southern slums where the poorest were shunted off when they couldn't pay the Empire's increasingly higher rent rates. "It's uh... been a while," he said, grasping for what to say that wouldn't immediately get him blastered in the stomach.

Irozi's demeanor was eerily pleasant, the man turning around and walking up with a casual ease. "It has, hasn't it? Haven't seen you around much, kid."

Ezra tried not to flinch as he closed in, looming tall above Ezra's slight frame.

"Almost feels like you've been... avoiding me," Irozi continued, just the barest needlepoint of sharpness in his voice now, an undertone that sounded alarm bells in Ezra's ears through the Force. Danger, danger, it whispered at him, like it had so reliably many times before.

His gaze flicked briefly towards his trapped right wrist, wondering what it would take to twist free. In the meantime his mouth kept moving, chattering, hoping to keep the drug lord distracted enough for him to slip loose.

"Me? Never. I've just been busy, you know?" A few experimental pulls just seem to annoy the henchmen, who tightened hands on him, painfully pinching. "Things to steal, Imps to dupe. You know how it is. Gotta keep merchandise flowing if I hope to have enough to survive the winter." He wished he could reach his comlink but it was stowed in his belt, and the one time he'd been left unattended long enough to pull it out—back when they'd thrown him in a slaver pen for a bit, in the forward part of the complex—it hadn't been able to get through. He didn't look the drug lord in the eyes, nervously shifting his gaze anywhere else, still babbling, trying to talk his way out. "Had to move away from the area because the pickings were getting thi—"

Boss Irozi's paw snapped out, slapping Ezra open-palmed across the cheek.

Ezra yelped at the pain, fear spiking through him, the Force's warning shrill in his ears. He looked up to see all pleasantry gone from Irozi's face, nothing left but snarling anger.

"Don't lie to me," the Zygerrian growled. "You know why you're here, you little thief."

Dread tightening in his throat, Ezra couldn't help the tremble that ran through him. "I... I don't know what you mean," he stammered.

Irozi's arm snapped out again, seizing Ezra by the neck. The heavies let go of his arms as their boss yanked Ezra across the room, slamming him facedown onto one of the tables. He hit with an uncomfortable crack! The bottles and equipment rattled loudly as he was pinned down, Irozi's meaty hand on the back of his head.

"The creds, Bridger!" the Zygerrian shouted. "You stole a fat 1k from the last package I had you pick up for me." The sharp talon nails of his fingers dug painfully into Ezra's scalp, and he screwed his face. "Don't even bother denying it," Irozi said. "That was the only job I had running that day that came up short and coincidence of coincidences you tucked up and went scarce right after finishing that little errand for me."

Ezra said nothing, holding very still, fear beating a dull rhythm in his chest.

The pressure eased off his head, but Ezra didn't even get to raise his cheek from the table; Irozi grabbed up both his wrists with one paw and pinned them up against his back, in the same motion pulling a nasty-looking, sparking electroknife from his belt and jamming it into the table inches from Ezra's nose.

The boy drew in a sharp hitch of breath, wide eyes watching the blade crackle right next to him.

"I'm gonna give you one chance to tell me the truth," Irozi said, tone oddly cordial again, "and explain to me why—after all the work I so generously gave you, all those times your pal Boss Irozi kept your scrawny hide out of trouble, kept you from starving—you'd go and steal from me, huh?" The knife was pulled out of the table and teased along Ezra's cheek, the electricity buzzing and tingling on his skin. "Why would you do that?"

Ezra gulped. All his right eye could see was the painful blue-white sizzle of the electroknife, too close, too bright. He had to force himself to breathe, panic and terror seeping through him.

He didn't bother to lie.

"I... I got sick that month. Really sick," he confessed, voice small and tight. Saying it immediately brought back the memory of the burning heat, the dizziness, the dread at knowing it was only going to get worse. "I just needed enough credits to buy the antibiotics!"

Irozi snorted. "You didn't look that sick."

Ezra clenched his jaw and fumed silently. The Zygerrian himself had told him he'd looked dead on his feet. Boss Irozi raked in hundreds of thousands of credits from his operation and he was going to hold a paltry thousand over a sick, starving kid?

"I can pay you—" Ezra started to offer.

"Ain't about the money, Bridger, it's about the principle," Irozi interrupted. "Anyone that cheats me gets what's coming to them." The knife withdrew, the crackling tingle pulling away. Ezra almost sighed in relief as Irozi put it down, but then curled in revulsion as the clawed fingers stroked over his face, tracing the line of his jaw. "You remember all those times I joked about selling you off" His eyes were thoughtful, appraising him. "Could still get a pretty penny for you, I bet," he mused.

Ezra felt his throat strangle, the breath clogging inside him, an open expression of dread on his face.

"But first I'm gonna teach you a lesson," Irozi hissed, eyes narrowing sharply.

He let Ezra up and barked something at his henchmen. They quickly came forward, grabbing Ezra while he was still disoriented, hauling him towards the medical table.

"No..." Ezra gasped, voice choked with fear. The panic hit him fully and he struggled, thrashing arms and legs. "No! Lemme go! Lemme go!" He kicked and flailed out wildly as the men lifted him onto the table. "You can't do this!"

"Hold him down," Irozi ordered coldly, and Ezra's breath froze in his lungs as the henchman pinned him heavily in place and wrapped thick canvas straps around his wrists and ankles.

Eyes darting frantically around the room, Ezra tried desperately to think. His breaths were shortening, each inhale seeming thinner and less sufficient. He tried to shake himself; he couldn't afford to panic, he had to get out, he had to get back to the Ghost and—

He wished desperately that Kanan or Hera were here. Surely they'd noticed he was missing by now, right?

The straps were pulled tight and Ezra held back a whimper, biting his lip so hard it hurt. Irozi idly spun his knife, smug look on his face, and Ezra's heart sank.

It just figured that right when his life was looking up something would come kick him down.

He glared at the drug lord through burning eyes as a final strap wound across his chest.

"Aww, are you mad?" mocked Irozi. "That's cute."

Ezra pulled against the straps with a low snarl, determined not to give the drug lord the satisfaction of seeing him quivering and afraid. Irozi approached, knife in one hand, pulling a small velvet pouch out of his pocket with the other.

"Care to sample some of the new merchandise?" The pouch was upturned and emptied over Ezra's face, sparkling red dust coating him, and Ezra coughed as he choked on it, feeling particles lodge up his windpipe. Irozi looked hideously satisfied as he explained, "It's a new type of glitterstim the boys cooked up. Gives a high like no other but also... enhances the user's sensitivity to pain. The Imps seem to like it a lot, prepaid me for two whole crates already."

Ezra tried to breathe past the drug, tried to concentrate on the words, but they already sounded watery, weirdly vibrating. The spotlight on the table was too bright; he felt light-headed and dizzy. A dazed, floating feeling seemed to come over him.

Through blurring eyes he watched Irozi carefully draw back his knife, his heart thumping with fear.

***

Kanan rushed from one side of the street to the other, calling out with the Force, frantically asking after Ezra to anyone he met along the way. He caught a glimpse of Hera as she turned a corner to his left, pulling out of her sweep of the next street over.

"Any sign of him?" he asked anxiously, grabbing hold of her.

"Not yet," she told him, lekku swinging as she shook her head. "I've already commed Zeb and Sabine, they're on their way over. Chopper's working on trying to get around the jamming. Sabine's been monitoring the Imperial chatter but there's been no reports of them arresting or catching Ezra."

His hands tightened around her elbows just briefly, a silent reassurance, and then he turned back with a brief, "I'll keep going down this way."

She nodded and darted back off.

Kanan slowed his pace as he walked past a Stormtrooper patrol, forcing himself to act casual, like his body wasn't clanging with worry that grew every second. He eavesdropped on their conversation, but it was all useless small talk, clock off times and ship specs, nothing that would help him.

Once out of their sight he resumed his frantic scanning through his senses. He just could feel Ezra as a vague presence, something distant and ill-defined, enough to know his padawan was alive somewhere but nothing that would tell him where the boy was, if he was all right. Kanan bit his tongue, kicking himself for not focusing on developing the fledgling fragile training bond.

Breathless, he stopped at the next storefront, really more of an open counter cut into the wall, with a hollow containing the wares on neat shelves behind, to ask the attendant his usual question.

"Have you seen a kid?" He measured out from right below his shoulders with a hand. "'bout yay high, fourteen years old, dark hair, blue eyes? Wears orange?"

Instead of the expected, "Nope, sorry," the shopkeeper looked thoughtful, yellow reptilian eyes pensive.

"You got a picture?" he asked.

"Uh..." Kanan fished around in his pockets and belt. "Yeah, uh... here," he said, finding a small holoprojector. He flicked it on and a flickering blue image of Ezra's face appeared, grinning and bright-eyed. Hera had taken it right after their first successful mission together. Ezra had performed beautifully, worked seamlessly with them as a team. He'd been so excited afterwards.

Kanan pulled himself out of the memory, noticing that the shopkeeper had a stony expression. The man carefully glanced from left to right, checking for anyone who might overhear, and then beckoned Kanan closer.

Pulse thumping, Kanan moved in, almost pressing up against the counter.

"I saw him," the shopkeeper whispered, through his thick cracked lips. "Almost an hour ago. Was with a couple of Spiceman's guys. Big fellas, enforcers I think. One of them had his arm around the kid all friendly-like, like—" He opened an arm out in a pantomime of a side-hug. "—but... kid didn't look comfortable. Had scared eyes. Kept wiggling like he didn't wanna be there. Heavy wouldn't let him go."

Stomach turning over and adrenaline beating an anxious rhythm inside him, Kanan pressed hands against the counter. "Do you know where they went?" he pressed.

"My guess, they probably took him to Boss Irozi's spice compound. Corner of 6th grid and Lothblossom Avenue." The yellow eyes bore into him. "Better be careful. Spiceman doesn't like intruders."

Kanan stowed the holoprojector and fished a handful of credits from the same pocket, dropping them into the shopkeepers claws. "Thank you so much, you have no idea how worried we've been."

"Don't relax 'til you've got him," the shopkeeper grunted, nevertheless accepting the generous gift and fading back into the hollow of his shop to straighten some merchandise.

Kanan scrambled for his comlink, putting it to his lips as he jogged down the street, scanning the aurebesh signs as he went. "Hera, I know where Ezra is. Shopkeeper I talked to says he ran into the enforcers of some kind of crime boss and he's probably at their facility now. 6th grid and Lothblossom Avenue, on the corner."

"'Spiceman's Corner'," Hera said, in quiet realization. "I should have pressed Ezra about that."

"Worry about that later," Kanan told her, veering around a corner. "I'll meet you there."

"Be careful," she implored.

"No promises," he quipped, humorlessly.

He stowed the comm and increased speed.

***

The compound looked admittedly impressive, unmarked buildings facing the street, watchmen on the roof patrolling with laser rifles, a narrow alley running alongside. Kanan crouched down behind a speeder as close as he could get, scanning.

"There's a side entrance that's more lightly guarded," he whispered into the comlink. "I'll clear a path for you."

"All right. I'm almost on top of you," Hera told him.

Taking that as his cue, Kanan extended a hand towards the sentries on the roof, sending a bit of Force trickery into their minds. Both of them swiveled, marching towards the opposite side, checking out the source of the distraction.

Kanan darted forward into the alley, crossing the distance to the side entrance in a few short steps and clotheslining one guard into the door, grappling briefly with the second before putting him down with a heavy punch to the helmet.

Adrenaline surging, ringing in his ears, Kanan slipped in through the door, holding it open and waiting. After a few moments Hera's light footsteps came trotting up. She passed through the open door and joined him, blaster already out and in her hands.

Silent communication passed between their eyes and then they proceeded.

Kanan kept a wary guard out, leading the way as they moved silently through the halls. They avoided detection as they sped through the compound. Now that they were closer, Ezra's presence in the Force was stronger... but there was something fuzzy about it. Slippery. Kanan strained after the thin blue wavering light, using it to direct their path forward.

After a while though, he didn't need it. Ezra's signature flared up with a hot wave of fear and pain, in tandem with the boy's cries ringing down the hallway.

Both he and Hera stopped for a moment in horror.

They increased their pace to double time, running quietly down the corridor until they came to an open doorway. Kanan pulled them up short, flattening them against the frame.

He took a peek inside.

Two large enforcers were standing to the sides of the room, which looked to be a brewery of some sort. A tall Zygerrian was looming over a medical table towards the other end. Kanan's heart clenched when he saw Ezra, strapped down, nearly horizontal on the gurney. His eyes were red and burning at the edges, and chest resembled a bit of a pincushion, tiny rips and tears in the front of his shirt. The Zygerrian was being very careful to make only shallow incisions, letting the electric blade of his knife do most of the work. He jabbed the tip into Ezra's collar as Kanan watched, horrified.

The sparks flared up, sizzling into Ezra's body.

"Nnnnggh!" he cried, back arching and seizing from the shock.

Kanan drew back furiously, a kind of raw parental anger flaring up inside him. He signaled to Hera—three unfriendlies—motioned where she should go, then slipped his own blaster out of the holster and braced against the frame.

Three... two...

Kanan rounded the frame and burst into the room like a gust of wind. One shot, precisely aimed at a thick neck, and the first heavy was down. One, two, three, as the other one was turning around, staggering him, a fourth shot straight to the chest to finally topple him over. Hera slipped into the room behind him as he fired, circling the perimeter, crouched low to the ground and ducking behind the labtables for cover.

The Zygerrian whipped around, thankfully drawing the knife out of Ezra, who gasped and then panted, chest heaving, almost sobbing.

Boss Irozi, Kanan presumed, froze, his expression turning to shock when he saw Kanan there, and his enforcers on the ground.

Kanan leveled his blaster at him. "Get away from him," he growled, voice low.

Over on the gurney, Ezra lifted his head, glassy-eyed like someone had dropped a film over his irises. His gasping hitched. "Kanan..." he whimpered, relieved.

Boss Irozi quickly got over his initial shock. Turning a glare at the older Jedi he demanded, "Who the hell are you?"

"Get. Away. From him," Kanan just repeated.

The Zygerrian didn't move, ears flicking forward with interest. "I'll be," he marveled. The knife crept dangerously back closer to Ezra, and Kanan's finger stiffened on the trigger. "Bridger got himself some friends."

With a pointed glare at Kanan, Boss Irozi retreated—not away from the medical table but futher alongside it—grabbing a thick handful of Ezra's hair and pressing the sizzling blade against his neck. Kanan tensed.

"You made a big mistake coming onto my turf," the drug lord growled. "You've got ten seconds to scram before I—"

Whatever he was intending to threaten, he didn't get to say; Hera sprang out from behind cover and got off three shots.

Irozi dropped the knife, grabbing at his chest with wide eyes before collapsing backwards onto the floor.

Hera came forward, lowering her blaster as she rushed up to the gurney.

"Hera..." Ezra warbled, misting eyes threatening to spill over.

"It's okay, Ezra," Hera reassured him with a smile, cupping his cheeks softly. "We're both here. We'll get you out of here, don't worry."

Kanan felt nerves shudder out of him, his hands shaking as he dropped his arms and struggled to put away his weapon. He joined Hera at the gurney and reached for the straps to unfasten them. Hera checked Ezra over for other injuries, but it seemed mostly contained to the myriad shallow cuts. Nevertheless, Ezra hissed in pain every time he was jostled.

Hera pried open his eyes, checking his reaction to the light. "You here with me okay, sweetie?" she asked.

He mumbled something about glitterstim, then looked up at her pitifully.

"I didn't get Jho's package," he told her, in a quivering, devastated tone.

"Shh, shh," Hera shushed him as Kanan finished undoing the straps. They both pulled him up into a limp embrace. "Don't even worry about that right now. You're safe. That's all that matters. I'm sorry it took us so long to realize something was wrong," she apologized with a slight tremble.

He hiccuped, and then his face fell into her shoulder.

Kanan glanced anxiously towards the door. "We should go before the boss's henchmen decide to investigate all that blasting."

Hera nodded, angling Ezra and carefully lifting him into Kanan's arms. Kanan took the kid awkwardly, like he was fragile glass, clinging maybe just a little bit tighter than he needed to. Ezra felt smaller than he looked, especially curling up against his chest.

"Let's go," Hera said, cocking her blaster and leading the way out.

***

Zeb and Sabine met them in the cargo hold, as they came in from the grasses onto the metal ramp.

"You found him!" Sabine exclaimed, rushing forward.

"So I guess he didn't run off this time," Zeb grunted, though tension seemed to ease out of his shoulders. "Drat. Was kind of hoping to get my room back," he joked.

Kanan cradled Ezra, whose head bobbed and swiveled like a gyroscope as he tried to take in the cargo hold. "'ssat smell?" he slurred. His eyes landed on Sabine and then widened. "Wow, you're really colorful."

Sabine's face pinched with concern. "Is... is he high?" she asked incredulously.

Kanan grimaced. "Disgruntled spice lord ex-employer drugged him with something before we got to him," he explained. "We think."

Hera began ascending the ladder. "Go ahead and put him down, Kanan, I'll get the medkit."

Wearily, Kanan set Ezra down on a cargo crate and began trying to undo his shirt. Ezra giggled randomly, gazing towards Sabine with glazed adoration.

"Hair's really pretty," he said. "Dunno if I ever told you."

"Oh, yeah, no, he's definitely loopy," Zeb commented. He leaned in and took a brief sniff, then clapped a paw over his sensitive nose. "Whew, that's potent! He won't be coming down off that for hours."

Sabine got a mischievous grin, holding up her hands and backing towards the ladder. "Oh man, hang on," she said. She swiveled and tramped up the ladder rungs.

"Sabine—!" Kanan started to call out to her in warning. Ezra had already been snatched off the street and almost tortured that day, he didn't need anyone humiliating him in his drugged state.

"I'm just going to get my charcoals!" she shouted back in loud reassurance. "And maybe a few hair clips," she added. "Gonna need to keep him occupied while he works it out of his system."

Kanan sighed in aggravation, but let her go.

***

Later, after Ezra's wounds were dressed and they'd pried a mostly-coherent story out of him—how Irozi's men had cornered him before he could make it to the drop point, how they'd dragged him along as they completed a couple errands before taking him to the compound, how he'd tried to call out but couldn't get through—Hera and Kanan watched from the cargo room balcony as he and Zeb and Sabine passed pages of scribbles around. All three of them had hair clips stuck various places in their hair and Ezra had even let Sabine give him a little side braid. He was still riding the euphoria from the glitterstim, but seemed to be calm and comfortable even with his pain oversensitivity.

Hera gave a sigh next to him.

"That was way too close," she said quietly.

Kanan nodded in agreement with a frown. "Sorry for distracting you," he said.

"No, it's my fault. I shouldn't have fallen asleep," she countered. "I'll just make sure the comms are on and set to ring next time."

"That wouldn't have helped us this time," he pointed out.

"Yeah, but it'll make me feel better," Hera sighed.

Kanan chuckled. He wrapped a hand around hers, squeezing gently.

They could only do their best. That was what she kept telling him. Kanan pushed down the guilty lump of self-blame, of all the things he could have, should have, done better to protect Ezra, even as they rose up to try and choke him. All his inadequacies and failures, they were irrelevant right now, he told himself. He could let himself get insecure again later.

Right now, Ezra was safe.

And that was all that mattered.

#whumptober2022 #ezra bridger #star wars rebels #star wars #whump #fanfiction #prompt fics #space dad and his precious pumpkin child #kanan x hera

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thedivinevera · 1 year

Text

The morning

Series: to the moon and back

Chapter 2/7 the morning

Xanthus x reader, Xanthus Claiborne x reader, Xanthus x fem!reader, Xanthus x afab!reader, Zsakuva character x reader, m4f

Vampire x reader, Vampire x human established relationship, smut, fluff, angst

Tw : Smut, sex, p and v, talking about mc's death, your death wish, nakedness, bad writing, I'm horny guys

You and Xanthus has a little conversation with each other, and the conversation turns to a bitter outlook of the future to a passionate lovemaking with you beloved vampire

A/n i love this series actually this is probably one of my favorite one I've ever done

“so tomorrow...” silent “the fight, right?” silent “Xanthus please reassure me you would live, i couldn't live without you” you speak as your voice becoming more shaky “of course i would, i promise... but reassure to me too that you would also keep you self safe” he said, calming your shaking hand. He kisses your knuckle—one—two he smiled at you comforting you with his eyes whispering to you, nothing but soft words.

“you will be alright, we will be alright, after all we would get married after this right? Love?” he asked.

“mmhhh, yes then we would adopt a kid—”.

“a vampire one if we're lucky” he interrupted.

“but we can't tease them for a grandchild” i joked.

He laughed “what if we adopt 2, one human, one vampire”.

“if we are lucky” i smile.

“if we are lucky” he reply.

If we are lucky you repeat to your head as you remove you robe, revealing a night gown gifted by him. You both joined each other in bed, he turn of the light and open the lamp taking his currently reading book, "picture of Dorian gray" “you have never read it” you asked as you shift to his side “i did, but i like to read this version” he reply, i hum in response as i fidget his none occupied hand “Xanthus?” “yes, love?” “what would you think happen if i die” silent, you wait a little more but he didn't réponse “if we didn't have the bond, i want you to love again” “even if we didn't have the bond, i would never love anyone else” he said his tone becoming more hard “why?” “is because you are my Heart” silent, silent once again, you couldn't reply to his answer for a moment “Xanthus if i ever die—” “love i think this conversation need to end” “but if i ever die, can you promise me something” he sigh as he remove the book on his hand and shift on your side, now looking at you into the eyes “if i die, i want you to live a good life, i want you to stay intact with your friends—” “acquaintances” “acquaintances so you can not be lonely even without me, i want you to live a life like normal again, like how you live before we met” “so forget you?”

“well not necessary—”

“then one promise broken” i sigh once again, who knows a 450 years old vampire can be this stubborn

“and for you to love again, if possible”

“it is impossible”

“i know but atleast try“

“no”

“ok fine maybe not the love again but if ever you fall in-love again, always remember that i would support you no matter what” i smile

“ oh really, i would really want you to slap and tweak their hair and take them to satan with your bare hand” i pout jokingly as he reply to me with a smirk on his lips “i just realize” “what is it?” i asked “i never see you naked before” “oh really, i thought watching me every night, give you enough chance to see me butt naked” “oh please I'm not a pervert” you both laugh but for a moment you think about it. Intimacy, it's not the best time for it but it's better to do it until you both had a chance it's a idiotic to do, but when you had your life on the front, atleast try to enjoy the sure time you both had on your hands “would you want to see me without clothes” “are you offering” he reply as he shift his position in now towering me and caging me with his body “would you take it?” “gladly” “then take it, it's all yours after all” after you reply he suddenly kisses you neck, leaving hickey everywhere. He remove his shirt and tugging the thin shoulder of the night dress, your breath hitched as he reveal your already naked body to the cold air. He explore your body expertly, fidgeting your nipples and squishing your breast and fats of your body “magnificent” he whisper taking an another bite to your neck drinking your blood, you Moan and whimpers to the stimulation he give to you, teasing you by the breast and giving you pleasure with pain by biting your neck “mmhh Xanthus, dear Xanthus” “thats right love, thats right moan my name”

You both spend the night, enjoying each other body, observing and studying each once body. The night is filled with love and comfort knowing that tomorrow maybe the last day you both can feel each other. It's bad to think like this but you're mature enough to know that there's no such thing as sure in this world.

#fem reader #zsakuva #vera'swork #xanthus claiborne x reader #xanthus x fem reader #xanthus x reader #xanthus claiborne #❦𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐀❦#xanthus smut #smut #vampire x reader #vampire x human #lol

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soupri · 2 years

Text

⤷𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐨𝐨𝐧❣

➸ featuring bakugo katsuki

➸ cw: angst with no comfort; improper letter format; improper grammar; differing from actual anime plot; mentions of blood, death, hospital and illness; female reader; lmk if i missed anything!

➸ pre-note: day two of my [letters for you] event,, enjoy!

march 2, 7:04 pm

suki!

sorry i haven’t answered any messages or calls. i can barely do anything by myself now. the doctor said the treatment wasn’t working. i’ll probably die any day now. nurse una is currently writing this letter for me. i don’t have the strength to do it myself. please don’t cry at my funeral. don’t waste your tears for me. i want you to smile, knowing i was happy. you made my childhood so much more fun. i shared so many smiles with you. remember the happy me, not the sick me, laying in a hospital bed with tubes connected to my body. don’t take your anger out on your friends. don’t blame yourself. it isn’t their fault, nnor is it yours. i was just unlucky to receive such an overwhelming quirk with my frail body.

make sure to pay attention in school okay? i’ll be watching you! so become the world’s number 1! just like you promised me when we were kids. i’m a bit sad, knowing i won’t see it. it’s one of the few regrets i’ll be taking with me.

meeting you was one of the best things that has happened to me. thank you for always being there to protect me. you’ve made my life so much brighter. did i do the same for you? i hope i did.

i love you katsuki, more than you ever would’ve guessed. i love you for who you are, the “angry” bakugo, but also the soft katsuki who’s just like any other person. don’t hate that side of yourself; it’s beautiful. love yourself, alright? i hope you get this letter in time. maybe i’ll be able to see you one last time.

love, [name]

a knock was heard throughout the bakugo’s residence.

“katsuki go get the door!“

“WHY ME?“

“GO DO IT!“

muttering curses under his breath, the boy opened the door.

“whadya wan- nurse una?“

“ah, katsuki! i uh, have something for you.“

reaching into her purse, the woman pulled out an envelope.

“it’s from [name]-chan. i’ll... be going now.“

taking the envelope, katsuki offered a wave to the retreating woman.

“who was it?“ his mother asked, coming from the kitchen.

“nurse una, [name]’s personal nurse. she gave me something from [name].“

opening the envelope, he pulled out a letter. his mother, peeking over his shoulder, read it with him.

the envelope fell to the ground. the letter soon followed.

a boy, followed by his mother was seen running through the halls of the hospital.

“room 213, room 213.“

opening the door, he was met by nurses and doctors surrounding a bed.

“[name]!“

pushing past the small crowd, he looked down. a girl laid still. to the side, the heart monitor flat. falling to his knees with tears falling from ruby orbs, staff silently backed away.

“you idiot, at least let me tell. you i love you too.“

laying on the ground after taking a mortal blow, katsuki looked up at the sky. a soft smile spreads across his bloody features. from a distance he could hear deku calling his name. but, strange, why did he sound so far away when he was right in front of him?

a soft laugh escaped his lips.

“i’ll see you soon, [name].“

[prev] ♥ [letters for you] ♥ [next]

➸ ri’s note

not a big fan, it feels a bit rushed but oh well

my dumbass forgot to link this until 02.03 crying

#mha #bnha #bakugo #angst #misleading title ahahah #letters for you #is there anything else i forgot

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pinktintedmonocle · 2 years

Text

I posted 532 times in 2022

That's 63 more posts than 2021!

92 posts created (17%)

440 posts reblogged (83%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@allvalley100

@lulamadison

@pinktintedmonocle

@pohjanneito

I tagged 502 of my posts in 2022

Only 6% of my posts had no tags

#cobra kai - 107 posts

#daniel larusso - 88 posts

#johnny lawrence - 80 posts

#lawrusso - 80 posts

#terry silver - 68 posts

#cobra kai fanfiction - 52 posts

#allvalley100 - 50 posts

#the karate kid - 50 posts

#cobrakaifanfic - 46 posts

#cobrakaifanfiction - 46 posts

Longest Tag: 112 characters

#and that bobby looks like he's being supportive of dutch while tommy just drips melted popsicle into his hair 😆

My Top Posts in 2022:

A second one for the prompt ‘Foolproof’ - @allvalley100

Johnny’s plan was foolproof. Granted, said plan had been devised at 3am after seven bottles of Banquet, but it was still definitely a good one. So he snuck into Miyagi-Do before the sun had risen and promptly walked into the rock.

Daniel raced outside. “What’re you doing?”

Johnny staggered sideways. “I’ve come to pick up my stuff.”

“You didn’t leave anything here!”

“I did.”

Daniel folded his arms and narrowed his eyes. “Oh yeah? What?”

Johnny strode forward, grabbed a startled Daniel by his hips, and lifted him up.

“You, twerp”, said Johnny, before leaning in for a passionate kiss.

61 notes - Posted March 6, 2022

For the prompt 'Cute as a Button' - @allvalley100

“Holy shit, you’re so hot”, Johnny murmured as Daniel crawled into his lap. He cupped the side of Daniel’s face with one hand, thumb caressing his cheek. “Hot and cute. Cute as a baton.”

Daniel blinked, lust glazed eyes regaining focus. “Cute as a what?”

“A baton. You know, like that nerd in marching band has.”

Daniel laughed. “It’s cute as a button, man!”

“What is?”

“The expression!”

Johnny frowned. “What’s cute about a little round metal thing?”

“What’s cute about a long thin metal thing?”, countered Daniel.

“Just shut up and kiss me, LaRusso”, Johnny growled.

Daniel happily obliged.

85 notes - Posted August 20, 2022

For the prompt 'Ghosts' - @allvalley100

“He’s definitely watching me”, Johnny claims, frowning at the portrait of Miyagi’s ancestor. “I can feel his eyes following me around the room.”

“Probably still mad that you called him Shrimpo”, Daniel replies, grinning.

One night, when he’s the last person left in the dojo, Johnny leaves a bottle of Coors Banquet beneath the picture as a peace offering. Returning the next morning, he finds the bottle gone, replaced with a note written in Japanese.

He gets Robby to run it through a translation app on his phone. The note reads:

You are forgiven, Johnny-san. But next time, bring sake.

88 notes - Posted October 30, 2022

For the prompt 'Handle With Care' - @allvalley100

The first time he and Daniel spend the night together Johnny doesn’t know where to put his hands.

He knows where he wants to put them; he wants to dig his fingers into Daniel’s hips hard enough to bruise, wants to manhandle his perky little tits. But spread out beneath him, Daniel looks so petite, so delicate, so perfectly formed, that Johnny is overcome by the need to handle him with care.

Then Daniel wraps his legs around Johnny’s back and flips him over with surprising ease, and Johnny remembers that, despite appearances, there’s nothing delicate about Daniel at all.

100 notes - Posted May 7, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

For the prompt ‘Lost and Found’ - @allvalley100

Johnny’s junior prom may have been an absolute shitshow, but his senior prom was a significant improvement.

“LaRusso and Ali just broke up!”, Tommy announced breathlessly. “I saw it all go down in the parking lot-”

Johnny rushed outside to find Daniel scowling at a smoking yellow car.

“Come to gloat, huh?”, Daniel asked him.

Johnny stared at his flushed face and full lips, and, at last, something clicked into place. He grabbed Daniel by the lapels and crushed their mouths together, and Daniel melted into his embrace.

After a year of losing, it felt good to finally find something.

107 notes - Posted January 29, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

#tumblr2022 #year in review #my 2022 tumblr year in review #your tumblr year in review

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rosesradio · 2 years

Text

i say a bunch of stuff about sanders sides and its fandom, not all of it favorable, but i’ll say this: it has probably the best fae fic writers i’ve ever read from

#i read 'offer me his lips' no kidding probably 7 times #(coming from someone who never reads fic that's saying something)#and now i'm listening to the loaft series bc podfic and it's just...👀#not only is it enticingly well written but the person reading it is top-tier. they put in these awesome sound effects and i'm just--#--cleaning tables at work and then suddenly stop like 👀 lmao #it makes me wanna write fae fic but that sounds like a lot of research and being good at writing...perhaps i'll just listen lol #sanders sides #not tkk

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sunkissedpages · 3 years

Text

instead of you [part eighteen]

pairing: [best friend’s brother] tom holland x college!reader

summary: you didn’t expect to spend your summer pretending to be your best friend’s girlfriend- then again, you didn’t expect to fall for your best friend’s brother, either.

warnings: swearing, mentions of +sex

word count: 2k

series masterlist

“Sam and I will take the bunk beds.”

The room was a decent size. It was definitely bigger than Sam’s dad had made it sound. A large window on the back wall flooded the space with natural light and offered a view of the city below. By the door was a small fridge and a countertop with a sink and a couple of burners built in so that guests could cook their own meals. There was a queen sized bed jutting out from the western-facing wall and built into the adjacent wall were two twin-sized bunks, one on top of the other, making the room feel... cozy.

Harry and Tom traded looks with each other.

“Kidding.”

The boys visibly relaxed and chuckled awkwardly.

“If I ever have to share a bed with Tom again it’ll be too soon,” Harry sighed.

“Is that any way to treat your big brother?” Tom scoffed.

“I’m taller than you.”

“For now.”

“The fuck’s that supposed to mean? You’re twenty-five, you’re done growing.”

Tom shrugged. “Yeah, but I could always make you shorter.”

“Oh, what are you going to do, cut my legs off?” Harry challenged.

“I never said that.”

“Jesus Christ guys,” Sam said, finally cutting in. “Can we not threaten each other until we’ve had at least a few hours of sleep?”

“Whatever,” his twin grumbled, kicking off his shoes by the door.

Tom slung his backpack onto the top bunk and pulled his sweatshirt off over his head, exposing a strip of his stomach in the process. You looked away instinctively, hoping that you hadn’t drawn any attention to yourself while doing so.

“You always get the top bunk,” Harry whined.

“Yeah, because I’m older.”

“That’s not fair!”

“My brothers are actually ten years old,” Sam explained to you, raising his voice so that you could hear him over the bickering.

“No, I think ten-year-olds know how to take turns,” you said dismissively, not missing the glares from the other two Hollands.

“You’re right,” Sam agreed. He pushed his hair out of his eyes and sighed. “Reminds me of the family vacations we used to take. The six of us used to share one hotel room when we traveled.”

“Four boys... I don’t know how your mom did it.”

“None of us do.”

“I thought we were going to sleep,” Harry muttered from where he was already laying down on the bottom bunk, clearly irritated.

“Give us a minute to settle in, dude,” Sam shot back before dropping into a whisper. “It’s going to be a long week.”

You shook your head, putting your hands on his shoulders. “Everyone’s just cranky because they’re tired,” you reasoned. “We’ll get some sleep and then grab some food and then maybe they’ll be in a better mood.”

“You don’t know them like I do,” Sam warned.

“That’s true, but won’t they tone it down since I’m here?”

Sam snorted. “Wishful thinking.”

You rolled your eyes. “Whatever, I’m going to hop in the shower. I feel gross after being on a plane for so long.”

“I’ll go after you,” Sam replied with a nod. “Let me know if you need anything.”

You thanked him with a kiss under the watchful eyes of his brothers who both groaned in protest.

“Oh, fuck off,” Sam growled against your lips.

“By the way, sharing a bed doesn’t mean you get to mess around because I don’t want to hear that shit.”

“Harry!” Sam and Tom shouted, Tom going as far as throwing a pillow at his younger brother from the top bunk.

“Just being honest! We heard you going at it like rabbits when you had your own room, and I didn’t say anything about it then-”

“Harry.” To your surprise, it was Tom who cut him off, raising another pillow in warning. Thankfully, Harry took the hint that time and shut up, crossing his arms over his chest in annoyance.

You smiled to yourself with the knowledge that your little Easy A stunt had worked, and looked over to see that Sam was wearing a matching smirk. He winked at you before turning to glare at his brothers.

“On that note, I’m going to shower,” you said, mostly to Sam, and made your way over to where you had dropped your suitcase by the door.

You gathered a set of pajamas to change into and then wandered into the bathroom, quietly closing the door behind you. It was one of those rolling doors so you had to be extra careful not to knock it off its hinges or the track and cause even more noise than necessary. You set your change of clothes on the counter next to the sink and began to undress, leaving your worn clothes on the floor.

The shower was kept in a room separate from the room with the sink and vanity, something you had read was common for Japanese washrooms. Inside the second room was a bathtub with a complicated looking panel next to it. With a closer inspection you determined it was used to fill the bath with water and customize the temperature. The showerhead was secured to the wall just to the side of the tub which meant you would have to hold it while you showered, but you didn’t mind. You were used to holding the showerhead for... other reasons.

Your shower was quick. You didn’t want to take too long when you knew other people were waiting for it. You were drained too. Even as you dried yourself off with a towel you could feel your arms start to get heavier.

You wrapped your hair in your towel and put on your pajamas shortly after, trying not to cringe at the way the fabric clung to your still-damp body. Usually you wouldn’t get dressed in the bathroom right after taking a shower because it was always so humid and sticky, you’d go out in the bedroom to do it, but as Sam’s girlfriend the latter wasn’t an option. So you dealt with the discomfort and ventured back into the main room.

It was dark now. Someone, you assumed Sam, had pulled the blackout curtains shut so that the daylight could no longer stream through the window. Harry was already fast asleep, but Tom and Sam were still awake, scrolling through their phones on their respective sides of the room.

Sam was perched on top of your bed, resting comfortably. He wasn’t underneath the covers, probably because he knew you didn’t like to share a bed with someone who hadn’t showered.

He smiled when he saw you and pushed himself up onto his elbows.

“Shower’s all yours,” you said.

“Thanks.”

You watched him rifle through his suitcase for pajamas and then eventually disappear into the bathroom before finally flinging yourself onto the bed. You still needed to take your hair out of the towel and brush your teeth, but you took a moment to just. Lay there.

Tom didn’t acknowledge you, hadn’t so much as looked at you since you came out of the bathroom, but you still found yourself looking over to him.

At the airport he had seemed at least a little concerned that he would have to share a room with you. Even in the cab to the hotel he kept sneaking glances at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention. But now he looked completely relaxed and you were second guessing yourself. Maybe you’d been projecting. Maybe he hadn’t been anxious at all.

You, on the other hand, felt like you hadn’t been able to exhale since Dom had announced that you’d be sharing a room with Sam’s brothers.

It had dawned on you as soon as you stepped into the hotel room that you’d never be able to let your guard down. Before this point you had at least been able to take breaks, retreat to your hotel room with Sam and be yourselves without worrying that one of his family members was around. You hadn’t needed to keep up the act 24/7, but now you had no other choice. It was only for a week, but you knew it was going to be exhausting. You weren’t even sure that your current performance was believable, and that was without all of the more intimate interactions couples had in private. The good night kisses, the cuddling in bed together, falling asleep in each other's arms, the good morning kisses, all things you’d have to take into consideration. Most couples you knew moved in harmony, like they were one person, half of a whole. You and Sam were more like the hands on a clock. You were always moving in the same direction, and once in a while you’d overlap, but more often than not you were facing each other on completely opposite sides of the clock. It was what made you such good friends. Best friends. But what would make you terrible lovers.

To be fair, a lot of people misunderstood your dynamic, which you had been using to your advantage. They assumed that since you were always together you were basically the same person- and they weren’t necessarily wrong. You and Sam spent a majority of your time together. You knew each other well enough to finish each other’s sentences, to voice aloud what the other was thinking before they even said it.

The vibration of your phone next to you disrupted your train of thought. It was a text from Sam.

Can you come here rq? I need help lol.

Confused, you pushed back the covers and stood up. You dropped your phone back on the bed and walked over to the bathroom, keenly aware of the way Tom stiffened in his bed.

You rolled back the door and found Sam standing in his boxers next to the tub.

“What is it?” you asked, shutting the door behind you.

“How did you figure out the shower? I can’t get the water to be hot.”

“This is what you called me in here for?” you said, exasperation dripping from your voice.

“Yes! I don’t want to take a cold shower.” He said it like it should’ve been obvious.

“Did you try messing with the knobs? That’s how I figured it out.”

Sam’s cheeks turned a faint shade of pink as he pursed his lips, thinking about how to answer.

“Not all of them,” he admitted.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Sorry?”

“It’s the one on the left, dumbass,” you said and twisted the knob for him.

“Thanks,” he mumbled sheepishly. “I just didn’t want to fuck up the shower or anything.”

Men, you thought to yourself shaking your head.

“I’m going to bed,” you told him. “Before your brothers think I’m in here giving you head or something.”

“Let them think what they want,” he said, shrugging it off.

“I want to preserve what little amount of respect they have for me, thanks.”

Sam just chuckled and thanked you again as you let yourself out into the room with the sink. While you were there you hung up your wet towel and brushed your teeth with your finger and the toothpaste the hotel provided. You were too lazy to go get your toothbrush out of your bag.

“That was fast.”

You jumped, hand racing to your heart when you realized it was just Tom. He was still in his bed, but had rolled onto one side so that he could talk to you.

“You scared the shit out of me!” you hissed.

“Sorry.” He didn’t sound very sorry. “What did my brother want?”

God damn it, Sam.

“Why do you ask?”

Tom shrugged. “Just wondering.”

“He needed help figuring out the shower,” you explained.

“Glad he has you for that.”

You narrowed your eyes at the boy in the top bunk. He was trying to get under your skin. Why?

The ball was in your court. You could be the bigger person and let it go, or-

“He has me for a lot of things.” You pushed your tongue against your cheek so that there was a visible outline and brought your fist up to your mouth, moving it back and forth subtly so that he’d get the idea without being too obscene. “But you already knew that, didn’t you?"

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whumpy-arts-and-crafts · 3 years

Text

Bound 7: Consequences

I may or may not have stayed up till 5 am to finish this. But alas, we have whump. A lot of whump. I am sorry it took so long. Hope y'all enjoy!

@equestrianwritingsstuff @epiclamer @itsleighlove @jadeocean46910 @flywhumper @suspicious-whumping-egg @onlywhump @dont-touch-my-soup @befuddled-calico-whump (tell me if you want to be added/removed)

Continued from here

The visits became weekly. Then daily, even twice a day sometimes. Vari told himself it was because Blake needed it. He needed treatment, food, company, and Vari was only repaying the favor he owed him. He knew, however, that deep down, he was starting to need it too. He needed it, perhaps even more than Blake did.

"Hey, Blake?" He half-whispered, the word echoing through the empty hallway, getting the hero's attention.

Blake smiled at Vari's sight, like he always did. It used to upset him, but without realizing, that feeling lessened overtime and was replaced by something else, something pleasant. Vari felt his lips curl into a similar smile.

Blake eyed him as he stood outside the cell fidgeting, with his arms behind his back. "Cookie boy!" He said and patted the concrete next to him. "Come here."

Sheepishly, Vari did. He sat next to Blake and revealed the object he had been hiding behind his back. It was a purple, purple and cream rectangular shape... a box, no... a book.

"You, you always say you're lonely down here," Vari explained, "so I, I thought you would like it."

Taking the book in his hands, the hero studied it carefully. It looked like it had been read over and over again, but by no means was it torn or dirty. It had been handled with care, like a precious item that was worth millions.

"It's the one thing he, he hasn't taken from me." Vari spoke, "It's like a friend. So I thought, maybe it would make you feel less lonely when I can't visit."

"I've never been much of a reader." Blake confessed, turning his gaze to Vari. He stared at the book he had been trusted with, almost scared to open it. Like it would break if he did. "Are you sure it's okay to give me this? It seems pretty important to you..."

"It's okay." Vari replied, "I-I can take it back if, if you don't like it, I just thought it could help you pass your time."

Blake dared to open it to the first page. He laid against the wall, turning it so Vari could see it too. "Read with me." He offered.

Vari felt his pale cheeks redden. He stiffened for a moment, but nodded, making his way to Blake's side. He didn't need to read; he knew what was written in every page down to the last comma. He could probably recite the whole book on a whim, but there was something so calming about being on Blake's side as he turned over the pages, as he explored the world Vari loved so much.

Hours that felt like minutes passed like a breeze, with the two bantering and commenting on the story like little kids discussing their favorite show, completely forgetting where they were, or what time it was.

They forgot, but someone else did not.

Vari shot up, his whole body convulsing and exploding with burning pain. Everything blacked out and the only sensation in his world was agony. He didn't need to look up to know what was happening.

"So that's where you've been dissapearing to!" Aurum growled, hauling him by the neck of his shirt.

Vari writhed in his grasp, tears beginning to stream down his cheeks. "I-I didn't-" he tried to find his voice, "I-It's not- I'm s-sorry, please!"

"Save it." The supervillain replied nonchalantly, "I am tired of you lying to me. I've given everything to you, and this is how you repay me?"

"I'm s-sorry, I-I'm so sorry, please, please don't-" Vari kept whimpering, squirming. He felt like he might pass out from the pain, but Aurum wouldn't grant him that favor. The electricity stopped, and Vari was violently shoved on the hard floor, panting and sweating.

Now that his every cell wasn't screaming in pain, he could hear a voice other than Aurum's shouting. It was still a fuzz, but it slowly became clearer.

"-him alone! He didn't do anything, I asked him to come here!" came Blake's frantic screams, along with the rattling of the cell bars. Vari mouthed a silent "Don't..." but it never reached anyone's ears.

Aurum's attention was now turned to Blake. "And he chose to listen to you, than obey my very clear orders?" He grabbed Vari by his hair, pulling so hard Vari thought he might go bald. "Is that what happened, mutt?"

"I-I... I-I didn't-"

"Stop it!" Blake cried, "It wasn't his fault! If, if you want to punish someone, punish me!"

There was a pause. A pocket of tense silence with only Vari's hard breathing and Aurum's piercing gaze cutting through Blake. Then, the supervillain began to laugh. He laughed and laughed, like he had just heard the best joke in the world.

"Oh, Ignis." He cooed, "Such a hero, aren't you? You'd hate not being able to save someone, wouldn't you? Even him." His boot connected with Vari's ribs, forcing a pained cry out of the villain. Blake clenched his teeth so hard he thought they'd crack.

"You care for him." Aurum continued, "It's adorable, how hurting him hurts you too. You're making this so easy for me."

Then suddenly, Vari was moving, his tired body being dragged across the hard floor. Aurum was mad. Vari could feel it in his grip, hear it in his tone. The last time he had made Aurum mad... the scars still stung, even though they had long since healed.

Blake's pleas felt further and further away, until Vari couldn't hear him anymore. He kept his hand outstretched, even as he was dropped into the dark room at the end of the hallway, with Aurum locking them both inside.

"Now, now." he seethed, grabbing a rodlike object from the wall. It resembled a cane, only its tip was coated in metal. "You grew attached to your new little hero, didn't you?"

Vari cried out when the cane hit his jaw with a sickening crack. "Do I need to remind you what happens when you do that?" Aurum snarled, "Have you forgotten about last time, useless scum?"

Another smack. Another crack from Vari's skull. Aurum's form began to become hazy and unfocused, and Vari couldn't tell if it was because of the pain, or the unshed tears.

Of course he remembered. He could never forget the blood, the tears, the screams, the pleas. He would always remember, and it would always hurt the same, no matter how many years passed, no matter how many of his wounds healed.

"N-No!" He shouted, "No, no, please! I-I didn't- I'm sorry! Please, please don't, don't do this. I-I'll never do it again! I'll forget about him, I swear!"

Aurum lowered to Vari's height to cradle his cheek, his thumb wiping away some tears that had been mixed with blood. "Oh, sweetie..." he cooed, "The fact that you're so worried shows that you still care. If only you would stop lying me."

Crack.

This time, Vari was knocked on his side, clutching his throbbing head. Aurum did not give him time to ease his pain. He stomped over and delivered a hit to his now exposed ribs. Then another. And another, he didn't stop until Vari was out of breath, shivering and crying at his feet.

"Now," he grabbed a handful of his hair, that had now come out of its bun and fallen into his bloody face, "what did we learn?"

"I-I'll n-never..." Vari sobbed, "I'll never d-disobey Sir again. I'll f-follow your o-orders, word for word."

A content smile spread across Aurum's face. He took out a handkerchief and wiped Vari's blood off the tip of the cane, then placed it back onto the wall. He spared him one last glance before exiting, leaving the metal door open.

Vari daren't get up, not then, not for the rest of the night. He remained curled up on the floor, shaking with sobs wracking his body. He was in so much pain he could not locate where it was coming from. Any minor movement made him whimper and cry harder.

He had known there was no other ending for him than this, that the safe place he found in Blake would be snatched from him, sooner or later. He had been expecting it, but it hurt just as much.

There was no safe place, no comfort to be found. He was a fool to think he could get away with this. He had learned now. He would obey, he would obey and he would be good. He would forget about Blake.

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xjoonchildx · 4 years

Text

greedy | myg x reader | epilogue: bases loaded

summary: being a loner has never bothered yoongi until now. until you.

pairing: yoongi x reader

genre: mafia AU, pining, eventual smut

rating: 18+

word count: 1.3K

notes: thank you endlessly for reading, reviewing and sharing this story. i’m so in love with this tough-but-secretly vulnerable yoongi and you’ll never know how happy it makes me that you guys love him, too. i hope you enjoy how the story ends. either way, i’d love to hear from you! please send me an ask here and tell me what you think.

Chapter 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06 | EPILOGUE

*******************

Fuck, it’s hot.

The forecaster called for a high of 91° today, but he must have missed that mark by at least a hundred degrees. There is no breeze and absolutely no respite from the unforgiving sun here in the cheap seats.

The Lions batter connects with the ball -- finally -- and Yoongi winces as he watches it sail right over the foul line.

Beneath his sling his arm feels sticky, itchy.

He’d love nothing more than to rip that sling off and go to town on his arm with his fingernails, but any moment now you’ll be back from the concession stand. You’ll probably hold his hot dog hostage if you catch him.

So Yoongi tries to focus on the game, not the itch. But the game sucks and Yoongi curses under his breath when the next Lions batter flies out on the first pitch.

Nine weeks ago, Yoongi never would have guessed that surgery would be the easy part.

Going to sleep for a few hours and letting doctors cut into his skin and bone turned out to be a breeze compared to everything that’s come after. The physical therapy has been grueling and painful. Simple tasks like dressing and showering, even pouring a bowl of cereal have become a complete pain in the ass.

He’s not sure he could have gotten through any of it were it not for you.

By now, he’s lost count of the ways you’ve taken care of him. Lost count of the meals you’ve cooked for him, the loads of laundry you’ve done for him, the very, very creative ways you’ve come up with to make love to him. He’s probably due for a new couch at this point. The damned thing started creaking last week.

So he’ll buy a new couch.

He’ll buy a hundred new couches if it means you come home to him at night.

The days of arduous physical therapy are long forgotten when you shower and slip into bed beside him. When you warm those forever-frigid feet against his under the covers and curl into his side. When you wake up in the morning and make coffee and tell him wild stories about strange objects you’ve pulled from someone’s strange orifice the night before.

That’s how most nights go. But not every night.

So it’s not enough.

It’s not enough because no matter how much Yoongi gets of you, it’s never enough. He still wants more.

He walked to the drugstore before the drive to Daegu today. He bought you a brand new toothbrush, one of those fancy electric ones with all the bells and whistles. And he’s been waiting for the right time to tell you all afternoon, appreciating your pretty eyes and sunburnt cheeks.

Waiting for the right time to tell you that he really wants you to stay.

***************************

“Wow, that line was brutal,” you mutter, and Yoongi looks up from beneath the rim of his snapback to find you balancing two hot dogs and a basket of fries in your hands. You drop carefully into the seat beside him, grinning. “I thought I was going to have to fight this kid for the last ketchup packets.”

Yoongi can’t help but grin back.

The game sucks and the heat sucks and his arm sucks -- but you? You definitely don’t suck.

“Can’t get arrested for fighting kids at the concession stand, Doc,” he teases. “The lockup here in Daegu is not exactly swanky and I can tell you that from experience.”

He reaches over with his one good arm to steal a french fry but you wrinkle your nose, pulling the basket away childishly.

“The hot dog is yours. These are mine.”

“Wow,” Yoongi huffs. “You’re gonna deny a one-armed man french fries? That’s dirty.”

“I’ve seen your bloodwork, Min,” you shrug. “It’s time to back off the cholesterol.”

Yoongi chuckles, shaking his head.

“So how’s it going?

“Bears are still up by five,” he sighs. “Can’t believe I waited my whole life to watch them play this shitty in person.”

“Poor thing,” you tease, cutting your dark, sparkling eyes at him. You begrudgingly hold a french fry out to him; a greasy consolation prize. “Okay, fine. I’ll give you one.”

Yoongi leans into you, pretending to go for the fry but stealing a kiss instead.

“Sneaky,” you breathe, lips soft against his. “But I’ll allow it.”

“Nothing to allow,” Yoongi smirks, grabbing the fry out of your hand. “I already got it.”

You smile, turning away to look out onto the field.

The stadium is nearly empty by now, most of the hometown fans leaving after the 7th inning when it was clear this game was headed straight into the toilet. A Bears batter hits a line drive that whizzes right past the Lions shortstop’s glove and Yoongi claps a hand over his face.

“Swear to God, they haven’t had a season this bad since I was nine years old.”

You tut and hand him another fry.

“Namjoon offered me a job,” you announce, eyes still on the field.

Yoongi freezes, mid-bite.

He knew this was coming, of course. Namjoon had taken him aside one afternoon and spelled out his plan to extend the offer. Yoongi knowing all too well that the Gajog has never been in need of a full-time doctor. The offer is a gift, an extension of family protection.

“Oh, yeah?”

“Don’t pretend you didn’t know,” you grumble, rolling your eyes. “You’re a terrible liar.”

“Okay, fine,” Yoongi grins. “What did he say?”

“He said he’d set me up with a clinic space,” you murmur, watching another Bears lineman crack a base hit. “Unlimited supplies. Nurses, if I need them. And he said he’d pay me more every year than I think I’ve made altogether since leaving medical school.”

“So are you gonna take it?” Yoongi asks carefully.

You’re quiet for a moment, dark eyes serious before turning to him.

“No.”

He knew that was coming, too.

“I’ve worked really hard for this,” you say softly. “And I want what I’ve earned the right way. This isn’t judgement on you or them, but it’s not for me. You understand, right?”

“Of course,” Yoongi says and he means it. You press your lips to his cheek before resting your head on his shoulder.

Secretly, he breathes a little sigh of relief.

He likes that you’re his piece of peace separate and apart from family business. He likes that you’re his oasis away from the ugliness and bullshit that come far too often in this line of work. He likes that you’re not some hand-me-down from a mothballed church widow or an act of charity from Kim Namjoon.

He’s earned this thing with you all on his own.

“Doc,” he whispers, planting a kiss in your hair. “I need to tell you something.”

“Go for it,” you whisper back.

“I bought you a new toothbrush. It’s super fancy.”

You pull away from him, feigning shock. “How fancy are we talking here?”

“Like, two hundred settings. Video calls. Takes bitcoin.”

“Ooh, that does sound fancy,” you breathe, smiling. “What’s the occasion?”

Yoongi takes your hand into his, laces his fingers into yours.

“I want you to move in with me,” he murmurs. “If that’s what you want.”

You go quiet on him again. Only this time, your mouth quirks into a soft smile before you lean in to press it to his. You kiss him slow and unhurried, lips tasting like peanut oil and salt, and in that moment Yoongi decides it’s his favorite flavor of you.

“So is that a yes?” Yoongi asks, grinning when you pull away.

“Yeah. That’s a yes.”

You both turn your heads when what’s left of the crowd starts to boo. The Bears have just loaded the bases, top of the ninth inning, no outs.

“This game is terrible and it’s blazing hot,” Yoongi groans. “We should go somewhere to cool off. And celebrate.”

“Hmm,” you sigh happily. “What do you have in mind?”

“If you’re up for a walk, I know a place nearby,” he murmurs, planting a kiss behind your ear. “Great milkshakes.”

You smile.

***********************

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#yoongi smut #min yoongi smut #yoongi x reader #min yoongi x reader #ficswithluv #networkbangtan #btswritersclub #ksmutclub

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mortalfaerie · 4 years

Text

Stimulants (S.R)

spencer reid x bau (adhd) reader

word count: 1441

synopsis: reader has inattentive adhd but hasn't brought it up with the team before. after a few on-site assignments that drag into the night, spencer notices the signs of adderall wearing off and asks reader about it.

TW FOR DRUG MENTION AND DISCUSSION

these away assignments could prove to be hellish. it couldn't be helped- the nature of your work meant that you didn't exactly work at normal 9-to-5, and sometimes your team was wracking their mind in a small police station conference room at 2 am on a tuesday, knowing fully well that a killer was still on the loose. generally, you could be relied upon to focused and engaged during cases, providing useful insight or simply making witty banter with your teammates- but inside, you hoped that the case would wrap up timely enough that you wouldn't be blankly staring down into you 4th post-sunset cup of coffee, not taking in a word around you.

however, that's what you were doing at the moment.

"Y/L/N?" you heard Hotch say pointedly.

“Huh?” you snapped out of your haze, embarrassed, and Hotch gave you a sympathetic nod. “I understand, we’re all feeling a little burned out, but we have to focus. The unsub is out there.”

You gave a nod to the table and pursed your lips, then taking a long gulp of coffee.

work, work, work! you chided yourself.

you took your usual dose of adderall around 7 in the morning each day, and you could trust that you’d have a safe 11-12 hours of focus and level-headedness. However, its half-life ran out roughly 7 hours ago, and you were painfully aware of it. you had gotten the short end of the stick mentally, having gotten inattentive adhd as supposed to hyperactive adhd, which most people were familiar with. so, instead of having boundless energy that would have been useful right now, you couldn't stay engaged in the case for longer than 10 minutes at a time, and now your teammates were noticing.

you volunteered to go fetch some back records from the local legal archive next door, needing to clear your head- but with an unsub preying on women alone at night, Spencer was quick to volunteer himself to go with you. you walked mostly in silence to the elevator, but he spoke when the doors closed in front of you.

“Caffeine’s a stimulant.” he stated plainly.

“Uh. Yeah, it is.” you responded, not knowing where he was going with this.

“You know that you probably shouldn't be mixing stimulants.” he added, meeting your gaze in the reflective elevator doors.

you gaped at him for a moment, before loosing a dry laugh. “Are you diagnosing me with addiction, Dr. Reid?”

“Well, no, not precisely. You're evidently dependent on stimulants- I’ll wager that you take them around 7 or 8 each morning before work?”

you just gave a measured nod in response, not in the mood to deny it.

“Ritalin?” he asked, this time meeting your gaze directly.

“Adderall. Prescription, just so we're clear.”

“I figured as much- a normal person on adderall wouldn't have the same decline in ability after the half-life.”

you sighed. “Is it that obvious?” you ask. in the two months since you joined the bau, you had hoped you'd be able to stay on top of late night cases, or that they would be few and far between. as you were learning, the homicidal maniacs of the world didn't obey normal work hours.

he offered you a sympathetic smile. “I don't think anybody else thinks it's anything more than fatigue. I'm just a little more aware of it.” after a pause in which you studied the floor of the elevator, he added “You might consider getting a “bump” pill.”

you looked up and raised an eyebrow at him. “Are you suggesting I do drugs?” you asked, only half sarcastic.

he flushed and backtracked. “Oh, no! I-” and you laughed openly, a good laugh, as the elevator doors opened. You proceeded through the lobby and put into the street with a flustered Dr. Spencer Reid on your heels. catching up to you, he explained, “A “bump” pill is a small amount of a stimulant that diffuses faster than your normal extended release medication, so you get a measured amount of focus for an hour or two after your primary stimulant wears off.”

you nodded, and pulled out your phone to put it on your calendar for your next doctor’s appointment. “Well, thank you, Reid.” you said, tucking your phone back in your pocket. “That would actually be pretty useful.”

clearly satisfied with himself, he gave a quick nod as you continued on to the legal archive. about two minutes had passed in silence before he abruptly said, “Call me Spencer.”

“Hm?” you responded, again forcing your brain to focus.

“Call me Spencer. You keep calling me Dr. Reid or Reid, but you don't have to.” on a more measured breath he added, “My friends call me Spencer.”

at this, you smiled. you had been fond of him since your first day, but were rarely alone to get to know him personally. you could tell the most obvious aspects of his personality and interests that he shared with the team, but all the while, he had apparently deduced that you had adhd and took medication for it by your behavior after hours alone.

“Alright then, Spencer. Then you call me Y/N.” you agreed.

“Y/N.” he said, as though trying out the sound of it.

As you thumbed through files in the archive looking for a specific box of court records, you and Spencer talked more, as he hinted that he knew what it was to be neurodivergent. you had wondered, of course- you were keenly aware of your ability to fixate on things and favor specific sensations over others- you couldn't stand the texture of chalk, and all your blouses were cotton since polyester felt like nails on a chalkboard for you to touch. you had noticed Spencer had similar reservations about things, but they were easily dismissible as him being eccentric.

walking back to the police station, each holding a box of files, he addressed your speculations. “If you wanted to talk about this again, I’d be glad to. I know what it is to have a mind that doesn't run like others do.”

you snorted, and gave you a confused glance. “No, I believe you, Spencer,” you explained. “But it seems to mostly work in your favor.”

he scoffed. “Not always. I have an eidetic memory, but I'd love to be able to read social cues. I'm well aware I can't do that, trust me.”

you smiled. “Well then, I'll trade you social graces for memory. I'd love to actually have a sense of object permanence.”

re-entering the elevator, he laughed. “Then it's a deal, we’ll swap.”

“Fantastic! I've always wanted to know what it's like to be a genius.” you exclaimed on a laugh.

“You don't think you are one?” he asked, more pointedly than you expected.

“I- no? Why would I?” you asked, a little shocked.

“Why wouldn't you?”

“Because I'm impulsive? I can be oblivious to the things right in front of me? Oh, and I have an executive function disorder? That doesn't really sound like Einstein to me.” you listed off, as though it were obvious.

“Impulsive, sure, but you're knowledgeable beyond what anyone would expect. You should see the expressions of the others when you told them the history of the ferris wheel on the last case- you even beat me to it. You see patterns that others don't, and you understand emotions on a level that the others can't imagine, because they've never been in your shoes as a kid with a learning disability.” he countered as the elevator ticked up and up the floors.

“You flatter me.” you said flatly, clearly skeptical.

“No, I'm being honest. You're incredibly intelligent. But if you only ever measure yourself by your perceived shortcomings, you'll never see that for yourself.” he said, matter-of-factly.

As the elevator doors opened again, the two of you were surprised to see the team suiting up in kevlars with Hotch on the phone with the local sheriff.

“Finally!” Prentiss exclaimed. “We’ve got a hit on the unsub, Morgan and I are heading over now- Hotch and local law enforcement are meeting us on-scene. Go put the boxes in the conference room and get back here.”

“Uh- of course!” you said, and you and Spencer exchanged a bewildered look as you rushed to go put the files away.

The clock back in the conference room told you it was closing in on 3 am. You huffed an exasperated sigh. “Does evil ever consider a good night’s rest might be pretty fulfilling?” you asked rhetorically.

“No.” Spencer said, setting down his box. “No, it never seems to do.”

#criminal minds #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #criminal minds oneshot #aaron hotchner #emily prentiss #adhd #adhd reader

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gaiuswrites · 3 years

Text

King of Cups || Chapter 7

Chapter 7: The Fool

Archive: ao3 | masterlist | six

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!Reader

Summary: It all spills over.

Word count: 8.8k~

Rating: Explicit

Warnings/tags: SMUT (WE MADE IT FOLKS), thigh riding, fingering/hand job, very brief breathplay/choking, cum eating¿? Angst/emo shit (I'm so sorry i have no self control)

Notes: HI FRIENDS, wow it's been a minute. Sorry for the massive delay. For anyone wishing to start KOC, now would be the perfectly spicy chapter to do so! This chapter was Herculean. idk why. Love you guys, enjoy! x (gif credit : @djarinsgf)

“Maker,” you bemoan, shielding your face from the heavy beat of the suns.

You’ve known warmth—you were raised in warmth. This is beyond it.

It’s not just warm, it’s sweltering. The heat is oppressive, congealing the air to mist; you can barely see through it what with the sweat running into your eyes. Tall, craggy dunes line the valley of desert, trapping the planet’s hot pulse within their walls. Your steps crunch along the dry, pebbled earth as you swat at the gnats buzzing in ribbons around your head.

A muffled gurgle sounds from behind you and you slow to a halt, boots gritting into the cracked top soil.

“You doing alright back there, Munch?” you ask, craning your head to the child nestled into the carrier fashioned onto your back. A green ear pokes free from the top, and you can see the jewel of his black eyes peering at you through the gauzy cloth you draped over it. He grunts, and you give a small shrug—shifting the pack by the straps, eliciting a giggle out of him. “We can always turn back, okay? I’m not going to be mad.” Another noise, a happy coo this time, and you shimmy your shoulders again, jostling the bag playfully.

“Well, you just let me know.”

Your conversations usually unfold this way. They leave much to be desired, but you’d like to think you understand one another—in fact, you probably understand the kid more than you understand his dad.

You’ve grown close with him, you’ll be the first to admit it. You’re attached to each other. The little one has been your constant companion for these months and in some ways, you suppose he takes care of you just the same as you take care of him. The chamber of space can be lonely; it’s cold and unkindly reflective, stranding you to the echoed chain of your thoughts—but when he tugs at your hair or slobbers spittle down the front of him or crawls up into your lap to nestle into your tunic, it feels like you belong there—there on the Crest, streaming through the galaxy.

And maybe, simply, it feels good to do right by a child—as if you could make up for it somehow, within yourself. To do better than you were given.

Squinting, you raise your wrist to check the coordinates on your comm and shade a hand over the screen, blocking the glare cast onto the display. “Almost there,” you mumble, resuming your stride as you begin the last leg of the trek to the settlement you and Mando discussed that morning.

“What?” he asked, planted some paces away from you.

You hummed a curious note, glancing to him.

“What is it?”

You were trying to be small all morning—shrunken and shy, avoiding the thought and avoiding him all together. You quieted yourself, as if to not take up space, but the attempt was fruitless; of course he picked up on it – you get good at reading people on the job, he’d said – and of course he called you out on your behavior. You took a big gulp of your caf, gaze flickering down—increasingly more and more invested in the scuffs marked into the table you sat at.

“Dala,” he said pointedly, arms folding over the breadth of his chest.

Shit. Who did you think you were fooling? Playing possum with a Mandalorian?

Worrying your lip, you stood. You couldn’t bear to look up at him, just looming there across the table from you, so you paced around the deck as you rambled. “Okay, so you know how I’m still connected to the RRM channels? Well, I’ve been checking the message boards and I—there’s a settlement here out in the Wastes. It’s small and new and they’re looking for volunteers and—”

You whistled in a breath. Fuck it.

“And I want to help.”

Like the toggle of a switch, you went from having a career—having a purpose—to having nothing. And all your gratitude for the transport he’s offering couldn’t fill that empty lull that’s settled inside you.

“Would you be comfortable with letting me take the kid? I know I’m probably asking a lot—and I will fully respect whatever you decide—but I can keep him by me the whole time, I swear, I just—” You shook your head, pinching your eyes shut before sighing, “I need to be doing something. Anything.”

There was a long pause. You scratched at the torn skin around your cuticle, nervously searching the pitch of his wordless visor. He didn’t move a muscle. He didn’t even twitch.

“That’s fine,” he finally remarked, graveled.

You blinked, taken aback at his agreement, and all at once your fidgeting ceased and a bright grin broke out over your features in its place.

It nearly brought him to his knees.

“Wait, seriously?” you asked, bouncing on the balls of your feet and he nodded, a subtle tilt to his helm. “Maker, thank you,” you exclaimed, and without thinking you flew towards him, flinging your arms around his neck and sealing yourself to his armored frame. His arms escaped out from his chest in surprise, suspended and stiff, before falling measuredly to his sides. You could’ve been imagining it, but you swore you heard the distinct grit of his teeth grinding together under his helmet.

“Really Mando,” you beamed, pulling back to lay your eyes on him, to let him see the earnest there: you have no idea how much this means to me. “Thank you.”

You gave his shoulders a squeeze, thumbs brushing along the scratchy fabric of his cape before tearing yourself away. Swiping up your mug of caf, you wound down the corridor - airy, buoyant - back to your makeshift quarters to prepare for your outing. It took him another minute just to get his damn feet to move from the spot on the durasteel you welded him to.

Din told you to be safe.

You smiled, and promised you would.

You left the Crest before him and it was strange, surreal. For the first time, you stood in each other’s shoes, leaving Din there on his own while you set off into the world. He watched you go—you and his boy—watched you walk away into some great unknown without him.

And he didn’t like it.

He soured, somewhere in the deep of him—within that pit he called a gut, he twisted sick.

Your feet hit the ramp, dull and tinny, and it sounded like goodbye—it sounded like you leaving. It’s what it will look like when time and fate touch, and inevitability catches up with him. It’s what it will look like when he takes you home. You’ll walk out of his life, down that same ramp, and your steps will echo those same beats. You won’t look back.

And Din, with all his strength, all his unshakeable resolve—Din will let you go.

///

The encampment is settled into the shadow of a cliffside, seeking respite there from the blazing suns, the taupe of the canvas shanties camouflaging into the arid landscape. Some crawl their gaze up as you enter the village, and you offer them smiles they do not return. Others do not acknowledge your presence at all— unstirred as your footsteps sound past, their heads bound heavy towards the earth. It’s not long before a decisive voice cuts through the hush that’s claimed the settlement.

“Are you with the RRM?”

You turn and are greeted by a woman ducking out of a tent—the grey of her woven tunic browned with sand, heat collecting in her black, coiled hair.

“Yes, I’m with the Movement.” It’s not a total lie. Sure, you’re on leave, but that doesn’t discount you completely. What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.

With a sharp exhale like a prayer of relief, she makes her way towards you. “Where’s the rest of your division?” Her eyes narrow discerningly, flitting behind you as if expecting to spot the rear of your party trickling in.

“It’s, uh—it’s just me,” you confess, pressing your lips together in a thin smile.

She rakes a hand over her hair, over her face. The skin around her knuckles is split, the beds of her nails chalked with days of unwashed grime. “Alright,” she concedes begrudgingly, without any better option presented. “And who is this?” She nods to the child, emerging from the pack and staring curiously at her.

“This is—” You take a moment to consider it—consider the secrecy around the child, the bounties, the life on the lam. Less is more, you decide. Again, it’s not a total lie. “I’m babysitting.”

The kid grunts an emphatic patu.

You both share a look—a quirk of her dark brow, an apologetic heft of your shoulder—and she sighs. “Well, I’ll take all the help I can get,” she quips dryly with a wave of her hand, leading you into the settlement.

///

She’s coarse, this woman—Arlaani, she told you—matronly and effective. She has a calculating gaze and powerful shoulders that she holds steady as she shows you through the camp. There are lines around her eyes, carved into the curves of her mouth. She knows what you know—what all women learn: sometimes you must be hard in order to keep others soft.

You walk shoulder to shoulder, matching her long strides with your own.

“The Black Sun has taken the southern hemisphere; their numbers have only grown since the Battle of Yavin. Pirates, mercenaries, spice runners—they’ve ransacked one half of the planet and have the officials of the other half in their pocket,” she scowls. “They have stolen our land, our homes—we’re moisture farmers, mechanics, mothers and fathers. We are simple people and we have been forgotten by our government—by those who vowed to represent us, protect us.” Arlaani draws in a long breath. “We’re on our own out here in the Wastes.”

You survey the area; the lifeless ocean of rock and sand, the few scattered trees that have died on their feet—roots withering bone dry in the suns. “Why settle here if it’s so uninhabitable?”

She huffs a humorless laugh. “Because, it’s uninhabitable,” Arlaani explains. “No one robs a beggar. There is nothing in the Wastes the Black Sun wants.”

There are no buildings, no structures; the whole area is undeveloped and raw. Tents are dotted sporadically in clusters, crates of supplies and water canteens stationed every other one. Children dawdle idly, tired and overheated, leaning against boxes and posts—their bellies distended and skin parched taut. Flies land on their shins, on their cheeks. They do not go to shoo them away.

“The Movement supplied those for us when we landed,” she comments, nodding to the crates. “That was two months ago.”

“No one has come back to check on you since?” you ask, brows notching together.

She shakes her head solemnly, jaw set rigid. “Our little ones go hungry, our elders are sick with red fever. We will run out of water before the week is through,” Arlaani says before she turns to you, holding your gaze—the seriousness evident in the stone of her eyes. “I thank the gods you are here.” She presses a palm to your shoulder. You feel the weight of it, the weight of her—of the lives she carries on her back.

“I thank the gods.”

///

You stop by each tent delivering what little food and medicine you brought with you from the Crest, and after each encounter—the people so grateful, so weary—your mind strays further and further to Mando.

Din, you scold yourself. Not Mando, Din. Din Djarin.

You still can’t bring yourself to say it.

He spent that whole fateful day nearly two weeks ago bristling at the very sight of you, going out of his way to limp to the other side of the ship just to ignore you better, only to do you in for one final head spin and give you his name.

Two weeks, and you still haven’t said it. There’s no other excuse: plainly - pitifully - you’re scared. You’re scared he regrets it.

Because how horrible of a truth would it be? To be offered something out of carelessness or guilt; to be the product of pity, or even worse, a mistake that cannot be unmade, cannot be rectified. He can’t take his name back, can’t unspeak it any more than you can unhear it, and this fear, picking at you like an old scab—it’s so painfully human, so terribly universal:

what if I’m not worth it?

And isn’t it easier to neglect the answer, then it is to ask the question.

So you’ve buried his name for both of your sakes, keeping it somewhere secret and private, there to garner dust in the quiet of your mind.

You’re brushing through the draped entrance of a tent when you spot him: a small boy hiding behind a supply crate, the top of his dusted head poking out over the ledge. You catch him peering at you, and he ducks down shyly. A honeyed grin blooms across your face.

“I think we’re being watched Munch,” you coo. The little ball of robes blinks up at you from your arms, earning his nickname tenfold as he crams his mouth with a flakey cracker. “You want to say hi?” He hums in response and you crouch, letting him wiggle free from you to toddle over to the other child. With small steps, he eventually makes it over to the other and immediately, without hesitation or provocation, extends one of his crackers to him.

Your heart swells until it bursts, proud and beautiful in your chest.

Munch leads him out from behind the box, the two boys shuffling slowly through the dirt back to you. He can’t quite meet your eyes—his gaze lands somewhere around your chin, your collarbone, and you fold forward, bent at the knees to meet his height.

“Do you have a name, sweetheart?” you ask kindly.

He nods, nibbling quietly on the cracker, and you breathe out a chuckle. “Not much of a talker, huh? I can respect that,” you say, eyes crinkling fondly with a smile. “Well if you want to tell me, you can—or not. That’s okay, too.”

He nods again, and you fish out more salty treats from the sleeve in your pack, gently handing them to the other—a gesture he nervously accepts, dirty fingers trembling as he plucks them from your open palm. This boy is precious—sweet faced and cherubic, he must not be a cycle over the age of seven.

And the realization comes so suddenly that it blindsides you—struck by it, there between your lungs: Din was his age when it happened—when life happened to him. When this could have happened to him.

You can’t help but think of it—think of him and everything he told you that night he came bleeding through the Razor Crest. You can’t stop imagining him; Din as a little boy tucked away, his people—his parents—decimated overhead. He is a Mandalorian by proxy. Displaced from his home, from his past, saved by a sect with an affinity for orphans—to protect those who cannot protect themselves. The irony of it all is not lost on you:

Din is a refugee too.

You see him in this boy, and in all the faces here—in every set of eyes, young and old alike. Each are individual - idiosyncratic - but they each wear the same qualifiers. The same exhaustion. They each fight the same tired battle, leaving them with identical sets of marks.

Does Din? If you were to see him, truly see him, would you find them there? You’ve seen the scars he’s earned from being a Mandalorian.

You wonder if he has any from simply being a man.

Pushing yourself to stand upright, you cradle Munch back into your chest, his teensy claws riddling your shirt, and offer the boy your hand—outstretched in front of you.

He’s cautious. Too cautious for a boy so young, for a child who should know nothing but abundant love and fearless imagination. He shouldn’t have had to learn this lesson: that some hands should not be taken, that some people should not be trusted. He studies you, hesitant but hopeful, and you smile softly—cycles of hard-won patience and empathy curving the corners of your lips.

He lays his small hand in your own. You walk on together.

///

The day blows by like hot desert wind, chafing at your skin. Minutes have ripened to hours—morning has crawled to midday.

The three of you finish your rounds— distributing rations throughout the camp, pitching tents, taking stock of the dwindling supplies for you to relay to the Movement once you return to the Crest and have access to your holopad.

It’s then that you notice Arlaani again. She’s speaking in hushed tones with another man, the both of them hunched over a large carton. You see the concern ticked clearly along the man’s jaw, the dread grooved into her brow, her crossed arms. With a frown, you plop the child down onto a nearby petrified log and the other boy joins, hopping up next to him, all too happy to get off his feet. You tell them not to wander off— a kiss to Munch’s forehead, a ruffle of the boy’s hair— before making your way to the couple.

“Hey,” you call, jogging over. “Is everything alright?”

Arlaani wheels around as you approach. It hasn’t been long since you’ve seen her, but somehow she looks older. Hollowed, drained— like there’s less and less in her. “It’s the water,” she grits out, “sand mites have gotten to the crates, to the canteens.” She tosses you one of the flasks. It’s littered with holes, porous and leaking— the remnants of water splashing out of the orifices bitten into the sides.

Arlaani dives through the crate, rifling through the supplies. She’s tense, upset, her voice is rife with it. “They’re all like this. Ruined, fucking—” She heaves out a hissed exhale and props herself up on the edge of the box, neck bowed between her shoulder blades. “This was the last of it, and now—now…”

The man tries his best - how do you comfort marble? - as he places an arm around her, his thumb drawing patterns there, reassuring and calm but she wants nothing of it; she gruffly shrugs it off as if stung, weaseling out of his hold. “I can’t— I need to think,” Arlaani bristles, as she paces away from the settlement, receding deeper into the Wastes.

“I’m sorry,” he stutters, “I have- I have to—” His eyes follow her shrinking form, worry apparent in the shape of them. It’s so obvious. He’s terrified of that woman—probably loves her, too.

“Go,” you say, and with a knowing expression, he turns and trots after her.

Heavy footed, heavy hearted, you trudge back to find the children exactly where you left them. Once there, you collapse to the hard ground, dust and dirt puffing up as you recline onto the log. Your palms run over the earth—scooping up sand and rock and letting it slip through the cracks of your fingers, gaze trained out onto the encampment—the people milling about, the miasma of helplessness stifling the air.

This isn’t enough. You’re not doing enough— these impermanent little nothings, your measly good deeds. It’s not going to matter. They’ll be bones by the time the next wave of volunteers rolls through. They’ll be grain.

You need to do something that lasts, that outlives you when you leave.

You glance over to the kid and his new friend, their little legs swinging off the edge of the trunk, heels thumping against the old wood. They look to you, two pairs of big eyes—crackers in their tiny fists.

“You boys ever dig a well?”

///|||///

The suns roast into his beskar, blistering him from the inside out.

The day has been long and it’s only half over. It took him longer than it should have to gather himself— his fob, his rifle, his fucking head—and depart the Crest. Longer than it should have to hunt the bounty here—some marauder scum who’s number is up and luck has run out. Longer than it should have to set up his sniper’s nest, sculpted into the mountainside.

Din is distracted, has been all day— has been since you left.

He can’t stop feeling you. Your warmth pushing against his chest, your arms looping around his neck, the heat of your palms searing through his flight suit. Din can smell you on him still— like citrus and moss, you cling to his cowl from where you buried your head.

It’s intolerable. It feels like an infection with how it’s been building, how this has spread— slowly but surely rearing to an unignorable head. Serpentine and insidious as it crept through him, this growing affliction— this morbid curiosity that spoiled like rotting stonefruit into infatuation— slipping along his bones and organs, blemishing Din in faint little licks— imperceptible to the naked eye but there all the same.

How did this happen? How did he become this?

You’ve been more relaxed now, bolder in some ways. Transparent. Sometimes, you’ll touch his arm as you walk by him or sweep your hair from your neck when you sit by his side in the cockpit, star shine on your jaw. You’re quick with a laugh, lips pulling back into a pretty grin. He’s even caught you staring at him, there out of the corner of his eye—from where he steals those same glances under the safety of his helm.

He spied you once, just a glimpse of your backside, padding quietly away from the shower with only your underwear on, drops of water tracking down your spine. It was brief, you were fast—you must have forgotten your shirt in your bunk—but he had to lock himself in his quarters and fuck his hand before he could even think about piloting the Crest into the stratosphere.

Din is a lot of things, but he isn’t daft. A part of him knows. A part of him is aware that you are two very human people with very human needs—and that you’ve been ignoring these primal aches with premeditated dereliction for months now.

And you can only dance around each other so long before one of you snaps.

And Maker, he’s so desperate to be rid of you—to get you out of his fucking system; to let him sleep without dreaming of you, to let him wake without plunging into his briefs and jerking himself off. You are everywhere. In his ship, in his galley, in his thoughts. He has no privacy, he has no sanctity— he has no idea how you have managed to worm yourself so deep into every living part of him. Others have tried and they have failed, and you— you did it in your sleep. From that very first fucking night, curled up in his chair, gore and ash stained tunic rising with your slumbered breathing. You snored.

You fucking snored.

And now you’re killing him— just as the suns above, you are blistering him from the inside out.

His level-headedness has all but evaporated. He’s peeved. Not only is Din distracted, but he's angry— has been since he plodded up this damn hill, waiting for his quarry to pass through the ravine between the valley of mountains—because instead of performing his job, he’s consumed with you. All of you.

He kneels, flattening himself against the rocky sand— your hands, so small and soft against him— and unclips the rifle from the strap on his back—how good you’d feel on his skin—he aligns his sights— the weight of your breasts in his palms—

His helmeted head clunks to the ground and he loses his aim, a frustrated growl emanating out from him. Focus, Mando. Fucking focus.

Din reorients his crosshair, training it on the gang of pirates in the gorge below. They lean haphazardly over their speeders, their cargo nets packed full with different wares and spices, jeering loudly and chugging from the jugs of spotchka they undoubtedly looted earlier that afternoon. He inspects the rabble, searching for his target and—those pretty lips that smile so easy for him, stretched around his length.

Fuck. He pinches his eyes shut.

You whispering husky into his ear as you ride him, you bent over the pilot’s chair begging for his cock, you sprawled out over the deck while he laps at your sweet cunt.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck— he can’t do this. He can’t fucking do this. You’re everywhere everywhere everywhere— you buffer his vision, his senses, his sight. He’s blinded with you. You’re blinding him.

With an infuriated heave he shoves himself off the ridge of the dune, bounty-less, and reverses his course back to the Crest—heart beating furious and bloody against his ribs.

///

The settlers surround the trench, peering down at you as you work. Hours ago, when you originally proposed this idea to Arlaani, they insisted on helping— to which of course, you insisted they didn’t. And so they watch— the refugees, Din’s foundling, the nameless boy— mangling their hands restlessly, animated with an inkling of that all too lethal substance long sought after by those of all species and creeds: hope.

You sink the shovel into the dry earth and your muscles burn with the effort—the skin on your palms stings from the rough grate of the wooden dowel and the yawn of your back strains as you pitch forward.

You’ve missed this.

You’ve been so distracted. You’ve grown comfortable in your routines, you’ve let yourself go listless—living in blissful ignorance—all because of a metal man in his metal ship with the most impossible and darling child you’ve ever known. All because your body reacts at the very sight of him, all because your belly flips when he speaks, that modulated purr rumbling loose from his beskar, all because, because—

You like him.

You wish you didn’t—you hardly know why you do—but you’ve soaked your fingers enough times in your rack to realize that this thing residing within you burns.

You can’t even see his face, and you don’t have to. His presence alone— that raw, vacuous energy that surges from him—it’s addicting. It's engulfing. It makes you whimper into the night, massaging your pearled clit as your other hand muffles your moans and you come over and over and over again, chasing after the fantasy you so dangerously harbor for this man. The man who’s piloting you back to Coruscant—the man who sleeps just down the hall.

But that isn’t real. That’s not real life— that’s not your life. This is real—the fuchsia of the setting suns blazing through the horizon, the sweat on your brow. You’ve missed this— Maker, you need this. Working with your hands, making an impact. You’re wanted here and kriff, does that not feel so unabashedly right. To be wanted. To be important.

Your back groans, the sinew woven over your spine aching in protest and you know, without a doubt, you’ll feel this for the next week. Half of you dreads it—being cooped up and sore, lactic acid compacting your joints— while the other excites at the prospect; the memory of a good deed lasting long after it’s finished. That reminder always there, always present: see, there’s still hope in the galaxy. We can still do good. There’s goodness where you look for it.

You fling dirt over your shoulder as you burrow lower and lower. With each shove, the soil changes hue, changes density—the striations darker, more definitive. It’s less dry now, thicker too—turning from sand to clay the deeper you dig. Again, you drive the spade into the sod with a taxed grunt, when you hear a distinct, wet squish.

You pause, stilling your shovel in the dirt. Everything - everyone - freezes.

Adrenaline thrums through you as you drop to your knees, using your hands to brush away loose silt piled atop the loamy floor, excavating what lies beneath.

Prayers and hollers erupt above you and you lurch your focus up to the sound, a feverish grin plastered to your face. The little boy jostles the child excitedly, and his green talons rumple the other’s tattered tunic. Your head falls back, cushioned by the dirt wall and you laugh - gargled, relieved - as water begins to seep through the tired ground.

Bubbling up, bubbling up—unearthing.

///

The promise of ridding yourself of your soiled clothes was the singular thought that fueled your trek back to the Crest. Every inch of you was filthy, caked in dried mud and gritty sand and you wanted nothing more than to strip from those dirty layers and melt into your bedroll. The kid, that lucky little bugger, had passed right out; sun drunk from his long day, he’d slept the entirety of the return trip—stirring only once when you placed him in the hover pram and sealed it shut.

Your bones are worn. Your tissue, your tendons— every little scrap that keeps you stitched together craves sleep. You reckon you should feel miserable, what with the tell-tale stiffness already burdening your spine and the fresh callus from the shovel’s handle reddening your palm.

But you’re not miserable, not even close. No, you’re happy—you’re glowing; fulfilled and serene, humming as you wash your pants in the basin, kneading at the sopping fabric. You wring out the article, shaking free the excess droplets before draping it on a metal rung overhead. You peel off your shirt and bra band next, leaving you only in your underwear as you plop them into the bowl and begin to scrub at the stains, concentrating on a particularly dirty patch at the sleeve.

The grating mechanics of the Crest’s great jaw unhinging sends your stomach bounding frantic to your lungs.

Kriff—shit shit shit, he’s back early.

Clutching onto your modesty, you cover your breasts and scramble to your quarters, quickly shimming a loose tunic over your head. Its hem barely covers the curve of your ass and you tug long at the cloth before peeking cautiously from the doorway and tiptoeing out of your room.

“Hey,” you warble, rounding a corner as solid feet pound up the ramp—you can feel their reverberations in the floor under your own. You pad into the galley, pulling at your shirt as you go, to tidy up the washing you left unattended. “Sorry, I wasn’t expecting you so—”

You falter.

He’s there at the mouth of the ship, the ramp drawing slowly up behind him and he’s fuming; you can practically see the steam lifting from his armor and his breathing is labored—chest rising, plummeting violently. You both stand immobilized on opposite sides of the hull—you, bare-legged and exposed and Din, all but anonymous under the steeled fury of his armor. Finally, the sound dampens, ship shuddering as she seals shut—sealing you in—and the leather of his fist creaks in the silence hanging dense like smoke around you.

“Mando...?”

He doesn’t grace you with a response. Instead he begins to stalk forward, stripping weapon after weapon from himself with every thundering step—rifle, blaster, vibroblade—he sloughs it all, metal clanging against metal as they clatter to the deck.

“Hey, what’s wrong-”

He’s not stopping. Fuck, he’s getting closer and closer and instinctually you back up—staggering until you’re pressed against the bulkhead—his broad frame crowding you until all you see is the silver polish of his beskar. You jolt when his hands fly up and slam into the wall behind you, framing either side of your head, fencing you between his forearms. Your lips part, wide-eyed and confused, and you gulp around the nervous lump threatening your voice.

“Do you have any idea,” he seethes, “what you do to me?”

“W-What-” Your stammering is cut short as he slots his thigh between your legs and you have to tilt your chin to meet his visor, a gasp finding itself on your tongue.

“Strutting around my ship, putting your hands on me, that kriffing smile…” Din ruts his knee into your heat, and you’re practically hoisted onto your toes. Your core pulses against the blunt pressure, blood racing to the throb at your center.

Maker, you could fucking faint.

“Do you know how long I’ve thought about this—about you?” His voice is tar black—smooth like obsidian—and you succumb to it. You can’t speak; any and all language evaporating from the forefront of your mind, because he’s everywhere. He’s inescapable and smothering and his scent floods over you, intoxicatingly wild—like iron and sand and something dangerous. Something heady, carnal.

“Is this what you want?” he hisses.

You’ve gone dumb. You’ve imagined this, you’ve dreamt of this, but now it’s actually happening—here, in the flesh, it’s finally happening and you’re trembling with the reality of it. All you can muster is a shaky nod, tongue darting out over your lip.

“Tell me,” he orders, scanning your face behind the guise of his helm. You feel his gaze rove over your eyes, your cheek—fanning across your lips.

Your breath hitches.

“Yes,” you whisper, “yes I want this.“

It’s all it takes.

Din is rougher than he means to be. He wears this as he wears his armor, plating the soft parts of himself he doesn’t want anyone touching. He doesn’t know anything else. He doesn’t know how to be anyone else but this.

He grabs a handful of your waist, rooting you still as he rolls his thigh against you. You inhale an airy noise, grappling onto his other arm stationed by your head and you bite your lip, sucking it into your mouth. Your cunt spasms for him as he presses up into your mound, fightless against the groan that seeps through you.

“You like that?” he pants. ”You like fucking my thigh?”

Din manhandles your hips, his hold on you vicious as he rocks you back and forth on his plated leg, your clit catching on the cold edge of his thigh guard with each motion. It sends hot sparks down your spine and you trap a moan behind your teeth, letting the sound rumble there before you swallow it. His hand weaves up from your waist, the drag of his glove setting fire to your skin as he passes over the swell of your clothed breast, and you arch into his palm as he swipes a thumb over a nipple. “You want more?”

He splays his large hand, groping at your plump flesh, and pinches your nipple hard until it pebbles through your shirt. With each sharp twist, his intention becomes clearer: it won’t be enough to skate by on moans alone.

“I asked you a question.”

Din slides his other hand to the small of your back, drawing you flush to his front, and you can feel him— the outline of his firm length twitching under his flight suit against your hip. He cranes over you, intimidating and menacing and achingly devious. The panel of his visor has never looked darker.

“Use your words, dala,” he husks.

You should be embarrassed by this—by your need made evident through the soaked lining of your underwear—but you aren’t. The heat that stipples your cheeks isn’t born from shame, it’s sprung from lust—pure and primal—and you can’t afford to give it any further consideration because all there is is this man wrenching sounds from you like an animal— and he’s scarcely even touched you yet.

“Your fingers,” you whimper, “I want your hands."

He learned this lesson within those first weeks—relearns it every fucking day. You could ask him for anything - everything - and he would oblige.

He can’t say no to you.

He shifts out from between you, hooking into the elastic of your panties and tears them down your thighs to rest just above your knees, the spread of your legs keeping them from dropping to your ankles.

Patiently - tortuously - he scrapes up your legs, leaving embers in his wake as he trails higher higher higher to where you need him most. You’re shivering—nerve endings fried and frayed—and every atom inside you hums with anticipation, with unbridled impulse.

The orange tips of his gloves dimple your inner thighs - squeezing, massaging - before he tilts his helmet, angling himself to see you better, and paws your swollen lips apart.

Your pussy is drooling for him.

He moans something indecipherable— a curse in Mando’a—at the sight of you glistening for him under the dimmed lights like this, and immediately you buck your pelvis to him, hungry for his touch—and the pathetic noises babbling out of you prove too much for him to bear.

“Fuck this,” he snarls, ripping a glove off and tossing it aside, “I need to feel you.”

Your eyes have dilated with want, blackened as you watch Din retrace his bare hand—that gorgeous thing you’ve never seen, only ever fantasized about—back to your heat and slowly - so fucking slowly - pass a finger through your slit.

You throw your head back, knocking against the durasteel. The mewl that escapes you is inhuman.

He’s so warm. His tan skin is molten—it’s like he brought the sun in with him, as if he’s burning that star straight into your sex. You’re slippery with arousal; you can feel how glossed you are, you don’t have to look. You can hear it—hear the obscene squelches he’s stroking from your seam.

“Maker, you’re - shit - you’re wet,” he groans loudly, reveling in the way you pitch your hips—seeking his warmth, his friction. He’s been toying with you, drawing patterns along your pussy and playing with your puffy folds, but he hasn’t even come close to your clit. You know it’s no accident. Din is methodical in all things, he doesn’t make mistakes. This is a decision—it’s intentional. You think, perhaps, he’s looking to break you—some sort of retribution for these months you’ve spent swimming in circles around each other—and you think, perhaps, you’d let him.

That you’d like it.

When Din grants you mercy, finally gliding his index along your neglected bundle of nerves, reflexively you fist into his cowl, knuckles going pale.

“Stars-” you exclaim—just like that.

He handles your body like he does one of his pistols - practiced, unparalleled - encircling your clit with precision, his finger on your trigger—blinding, perfect agony swiveled into your sweet cleft.

When he pushes himself inside you, all the oxygen gets punched out of your lungs.

“Fuck, and so tight,” Din growls, bending at the knuckle to curl over that spongy spot of your walls that makes you gape, makes your brain go slack. Your arms scamper around his pauldrons, nails scraping sharp over beskar. The heel of his hand presses into your clit and you grind against him, each roll of your hips pleading a filthy please please please as you chase after the orgasm he’s baiting you with.

He responds to that, bourboned praise dripping smug from his smirk. “Fuck, look at you, so desperate—gonna cum for me already?”

You don’t have the wherewithal to formulate a response. He’s fit another finger into you, fucking up into you hard—fucking you exactly how you need him to. It feels like you are about to shatter right there on your feet. It’s almost unbearable, this mounting tension that’s climbing within you. You’ve been so starved for this, so deprived of a kind touch and a good fuck, and within no time at all he’s coaxing you to the ledge of your release.

“Mando,” you sob, entwining your fingers into his cape, grinding grinding grinding into his palm when suddenly, without warning, his ministrations cease—that burning coil abating to a simmer. You let out a rasped pant, collapsing forward onto his shoulder— your climax ripped away from you at the last, pivotal second.

Your eyes are screwed shut, you don’t see the movement—you can only feel it once it’s already there: the bounty hunter’s glove grating over your neck. You sputter out a gasp as he forces your jaw up to align with the chill of his visor, trapped in the unrelenting strength of his grasp. Your eyes clamber around the chrome boxing you in, gulping back the fear coalescing in your mouth.

“You say my name,” he gravels. “You say my name when I’m inside you.”

Your cunt spasms around the fingers still seated within you—aching for movement, aching to cum—and your lower lip quivers as he leers. “I gave it to you—say it,” he commands.

For a fleeting moment, in the remaining rational corner of your brain, it occurs to you that you’re terrified—that there may be no going back once you speak it. There’s no unmaking this choice. Like a door—a door that swings both ways—once it is cracked ajar, it cannot be closed again. Because you know yourself, you loathe to admit it, but you know his name will crumble you; that you will bend—that you will want to give and give and give to him— and still, despite, you lay onto the handle and fling that door wide open.

“Din.”

“Fuck,” he seethes. His reaction is visceral—the whole of him stiffens, leathered pads of his fingertips searing into your throat. “Again.”

“Din,” you whine as he rocks his fingers into your walls.

He moans, wanton and guttural, at the way his name tumbles from you like velvet. “Good girl—fuck, that’s good.”

He vanishes from your neck, bringing his hand down to cup his cock bulging painfully against the fabric there and your gaze snaps to it, saliva pooling in the well of your mouth. You slither your hand down his breast plate, over the paneling of his flight suit, trailing south until it lands on the hide of his glove. You stop, waiting there - breathless - until he nods curtly.

His hand falls away. You mold your palm to his length.

“Din,” you give freely, high-pitched and girly, and his cock brays under your hand. Fuck, he’s big—you can feel his mass through his pants and your pussy flutters around his fingers moving deliciously lazy inside you. Your eyes latch onto his, the brown of them hidden somewhere under the helm, and you can feel his own bore into you, weighing leaden there—

before you both simultaneously rupture.

Din’s fingers slip out of you to fiddle with the hem of his pants, unbuttoning in a clumsy flourish until he springs free with a groan of relief.

Maker.

He’s fucking divine—long and veined, with a patch of dark curls padding around the base of him. Din weeps for you already, frustrated and pent up from the confines of his restraints, beads of arousal dappling his head. He hisses as you swipe a digit over his cock, smearing his precum down the silken slope of him. You’re transfixed—the both of you staring as you wrap your hand around his shaft and he shudders, keening in to your touch.

“Mm, fuck you’re soft- kriff-”

Din dwarfs you—you barely fit around his girth—and he can’t help but buck into your palm as you begin to move in tandem. Din flicks at your clit, mirroring your pace as you get each other off. It’s awkward and lewd and perfect—both of you, a tapestry of woven limbs and sweat and you pump him harder and harder, choking his cock with your fist. You fuck him raw, the dry drag of your satin hand ripping curses from his mouth.

“Fuck, dala,” he pants, “I-I’m not—” I’m not gonna last. His words are snuffed out as you circle your wrist and brush a thumb over his leaking tip, forcing him to shiver. He doesn’t have to finish his thought, you understand plenty well. You’re dancing along that same precipice, flirting with the fall.

“Stars, yes,” you plead. Fuck, you want him to cum— you need him to. You need to make him feel good, to let him know that you’re here - you’re right here - and that he means more to you than you care to admit; that you want him—have since you first laid eyes on him, since he rescued you, since he took you back to the Crest and gave you the last of his bacta to heal all your splintered bits. That he deserves this—with all that he’s done for you, all that he’s doing for you—

with all that he his.

“Din—please.” Fuck, you don’t even know what you’re asking for—more of him, all of him—and a groan tears through his modulator at the sound of you begging his name—like he’s wounded, like it pains him to hear you say it.

It’s a race now—the two of you hurdling headlong towards this terrible, messy collision. You’re both sloppy—wet sounds and slaps of skin—as you stumble closer to the brink of release. He’s been rendered incoherent, chiseled down to the basest of grunts and broken words you don’t recognize. His thumb finds a devastating pressure on your swollen nub and your legs begin to vibrate, nearly unable to stand on your own two feet with how fucking perfectly he’s working your pussy.

This thing inside you feels giant - monstrous - and that slow wave that’s been building and building and cresting is here, upon you. You’re trapped in the barrel of it, and it’s going to crash at any moment and sweep you out to sea. Drown you—happily, gladly. “I’m - oh fuck—"

“That’s it, good girl,” he praises, tightening his circles on your clit. “Cum for me, cum on my hand-”

A crack of lightening streaks up your middle, the whole of you shaking as your orgasm rushes through, a sputtering cry let loose into the ship. You feel yourself gush, dripping past his thickness stuffing you full, dripping down your inner thighs. Din pulls out from you and you whimper at the loss—his absence leaving you gaping, leaving you bereft. You’re siphoning down air, dizzy from your release, when he raises his hand, glistening with your fluids, and traces your bottom lip—asking for entrance.

Fuck.

You part for him, eager and pliant, and he snakes two fingers inside—tasting your own tang and the leather residue left there, stamped into the whirls of his fingerprints. Your tongue swirls around them, laving him clean, and you drag over the ridges of his shaft— still hard and throbbing and waiting in your grasp. He bobs his fingers in your mouth, matching you thrust for thrust, and you let out a depraved little moan, humming around him, and all Din can do is watch.

Watch as he disappears between your lips—his skin pulling and catching on your plush flesh— watch as you suck on them, watch as he practically fucks your throat. And Maker, you take him so fucking well, letting him do what he pleases with your all too supple body.

He can’t even begin to imagine what his cock would look like—what it would feel like nestled in the hot cavern of your mouth, hollowing your cheeks to suck him like hard candy. Din doesn’t let himself—can’t. If he did, fuck, that’d be it. He’d be done for. He knows he’d cum in a flash and he wants to make this last—to hold on to this - onto you - for as long as he can, allow himself this singular concession. The only time, he convinces himself, the last time.

He won’t think about you again.

You quicken your rhythm and Din bucks wildly into your palm, his seizing and twitching alerting you to how close he is. He slides from your mouth, a string of saliva trailing along after as he clasps onto the back of your neck.

“I’m gonna cum, I’m—” Din knots into your hair, gripping you rough, panting frantic. “Fuck. Fuck, dala— cyare-”

With a hoarse shout, he slams his gloved fist into the durasteel and spills over himself in hot, thick pumps, spurts shooting out to splatter on your tunic, on his flight suit, on your knuckles. You ease him through it, his cum glazing down his cock before you slow to a languid stroke, his seed sticky under your palm. You’re panting, the both of you, spent noises reverberating ugly and loud against the metal sidings.

Din sinks his helmet to your forehead while you catch your breath, his cold beskar kissing your flushed skin—the density of it comforting, grounding. Your eyes teeter shut and you let yourself lean into him, a dazed grin tugging at your wet lips. This is— nice; so much gentler than the pace he drove not minutes before. Head to head, his hand buried in your hair, your arm slung over his hulking shoulders; your fingers thread into the askew fabric behind his neck to discover a sliver of skin treasured away underneath. You trace there - lightly, whispered - earning a fizzle of static sent whirring through his vocoder.

“Fuck,” Din mumbles, before unweaving himself and separating from you. Your legs have gone useless and rubbery—you almost face plant forward without him there— and by the time you blink open, he’s already tucked himself into his pants and picked up his glove, slotting it over those skilled fingers that had just filled you to the brim. He turns back round to find you staring at him through the haze of your afterglow, eyes glassy and fucked out; your fluids dribbling down towards your underwear still bunched above your knees, hair tangled with sweat and saliva and cum—his and yours.

You look wrecked—disheveled. You’re so fucking pretty it makes Din want to scream.

He picks up a stray rag from a crate and offers it to you, before silently sliding your panties back up to your hips in one dexterous swipe. He lingers there but for a moment, savoring the touch of you—grazing a digit into the crease of your hip. You’re rendered mute— your brain can hardly string a sentence together— but finally you manage, your voice weak when you find it again.

“Thank you,” you croak, wiping away the traces of him off your knuckles, and you smile coquettish, delirious. “That was… that was, uhm—I really enjoyed that.”

A quiet beat slogs by.

And then, everything shifts.

Din’s hand descends from your waist, holstering it to his side, and he moves away. He moves away from you.

You can feel it immediately—like a gust of chilled wind, the change in the air nips at you. Din’s armor is anything but warm—his presence, his aura, anything but inviting—but now, he seems farther from you than ever before, his visor tempered and steely.

You know him. You know this man. You’ve travelled with him, you’ve mended his ills, you’ve taken care of his son, you’ve spoken his name, you’ve laid prints on his skin and deeper still—

And here, before you, Din is white noise. Indiscernible. Unreadable.

Nervously, you twiddle with the frayed edge of the stained cloth, worrying your cheek. You swear, just for a second, that you see him inch towards you— you think you sense him, some part of him, breaching the chasm that’s formed between you. But it’s only a trick of the lowlight—a trick of your cruel heart, winged and errant beneath your ribs, misconstruing your thoughts to fancy.

Because he doesn’t. He doesn’t come to you like you want. He doesn’t touch you again, he doesn’t hold you like you need.

It feels like you’re withering—your legs too bare, your tunic too short, hair too mussed, eyes too bleary—everything feels wrong now, misplaced. “Din,” you start, you try—you try to keep attached to this tether, to this thin strand you’ve sewn between your bodies, but he shrinks back. He severs it. He is as you first met him. Rigid. Distant. A Mandalorian bounty hunter— the best in the parsec. He is as he was months ago, when you were strangers.

When you were nothing.

“I—” He silences himself, teeth clenching shut around the unspoken sentiment you so long to hear, and instead takes another step backwards. Farther away. Farther from you.

He stands straighter, impossibly taller, and you feel

small.

“Goodnight,” Din gives, his voice shrouded and cloaked by his modulator. He pivots on his heel, retreating into the depths of the Crest and leaves you there, the ghost of his hands on your neck, on your breasts, in your heat— still tingling from where they haunt you. Exhausted, you thud back into the bulkhead, unfocused and unseeing.

“Goodnight Din,” you murmur, but it falls upon deaf ears. He’s gone, and the empty hull swallows your words—burying them.

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#din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #din djarin x fem!reader #mando x reader #mando x you #mando x fem!reader #din djarin #the mandalorian #pedro pascal #star wars fanfic #the mandalorian fanfic #king of cups #mandalorian smut

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azertyrobaz · 2 years

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Vortex Chapter 11/12

Concussion, he immediately thought. Not the first time he had one of those, and it sometimes took a few minutes for his mind to clear. Nothing to worry about.

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Din loses some of his memories. How will he decide to get them back? And should he get them back? Thankfully, he has friends to help him figure it out. Amnesia/Memory loss fic.

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Chapters: 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10-11-12

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Read below or on ao3.

“What’s the last thing you remember clearly?”

It hadn’t been easy to get a conversation going at first, but eventually the spotchka had helped, and Omera had stopped looking so hesitant to stay. This particular question, coming from Cara, who’d been doing most of the talking, was clearly one she’d wanted to ask herself.

Din exhaled slowly and slipped a little further on his armchair. He wanted Grogu to rest as flat as possible on his chest to be more comfortable while he slept, but it was no easy feat. Every time he shifted, the boy would grip his clothes with his sharp claws, consciously or unconsciously making sure he wouldn’t remove him from his spot.

“Letting Grogu go to the Jedi,” he replied softly.

He wondered at his choice of words. But he remembered his conversation with Skywalker so strikingly well. To his confused mind, it had only taken place a few days prior, not two years back. And now he was back to asking himself more questions. Had the Jedi actually been wrong?

“He said the boy wanted my permission to go,” he uttered out loud. “And yet he’s back. I still don’t know what happened.”

“You’ve never made the wrong choice? Or realized it was a mistake after the fact?” Cara pointed out, when she knew very well that he had. Many times over.

He’d come back for the kid. And now the kid had come back for him. Full circle. Fitting, somehow.

“Grogu decided he wanted to be with you,” said Omera, and Din nodded, not trusting his voice. It was one thing to have come up with this conclusion on his own, but to have it spoken out loud was something else. He hugged the boy a little tighter and he thought he saw a small smile forming on his lips as he slept on.

“I’ve been taking him for granted,” he admitted once he felt he had a better grip over his emotions. Was it the spotchka loosening his tongue? Or the fact that it was now dark enough that he wouldn’t be able to read judgement in the women’s eyes?

“I know it’s a strange thing to say given your condition, but you seem to be the most like yourself right now. I mean, the most like you used to be when we first met,” Omera amended.

“Yeah,” Cara agreed immediately. “It’s like your concussion returned you to your original state. Your good state. Don’t get me wrong, you’d been making progress lately but…”

“You became different,” Omera commented. “More distant. Harder to reach. And Grogu felt it, too.”

“You mean after my injury?” Din made sure, when he already knew the answer.

“After you were attacked and almost died, yes,” Cara added, banging her empty glass against the wooden side table with almost enough force to break it. “You didn’t give yourself enough time to heal, you were a mess. Everybody suffered, but you most of all. You’re your own worst enemy.”

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled. It was pointless, but he still wanted to say it.

“That kid is probably the only reason you’re still here.”

“He managed to reach out to you when we couldn’t. When no one could,” Omera confirmed. “But it almost wasn’t enough.”

“Seems like I’ve got a lot to make up for,” Din said, and he wasn’t only talking about Grogu.

“Just the fact that you’re acknowledging it is a big step, you hadn’t reached that stage yet. But we were definitely hoping you’d get there in time.”

“I would have helped if I’d known you only needed to get your bell rung, happily,” joked Cara with a hearty laugh. She offered them more spotchcka but he and Omera declined. She shrugged and poured herself a shot.

“Last one,” she assured them.

Sure, it was good to know that he was more aware of what he’d done wrong and how he could fix things, but it didn’t change his current reality: he was missing two years’ worth of memories. The fact that Omera hadn’t found Cara’s statement funny told him she was of a similar mind. He wished he had the right words to ask her if she’d agree to start again. Was it too late, he wondered? Would she even consider it, when she knew so much about him already and he didn’t?

“How did it make you feel when you learned about what that Mandalorian did to you?” Omera asked with no hesitation in her voice – she expected a truthful answer.

And consciously or not, her question was worded like a test. He remembered failing those before. He was convinced he was going to fail this one again, especially when his scar started burning, and panic rose inside him. And then, just as fast as they had materialized, the feelings were gone. He’d acknowledged them – the terror, the pain, the guilt – and that was it. He inhaled slowly, expecting their return. Nothing.

At first, he attributed it to Grogu’s presence in his arms: he always seemed to emanate such calmness and peace. The he started wondering if maybe it was something in the air here. Something that could only be found on Sorgan. It would certainly explain why he’d been so afraid in the past to stay for long. The thought gave him pause – was that it? Was that why he’d been such a stranger? He’d been too scared to discover things about himself? Things that he wasn’t supposed to wish for? Like being Grogu’s father? Or letting people love him?

“Din?”

No more lies, he’d promised himself. Maybe it was something in the air. Or yet another side-effect from his concussion. Maybe it was just the liquor. But one thing was for certain – he’d changed. He still needed to determine whether it was for the better or not.

“I was horrified at first. About what he’d become and what he did to me to get the Darksaber. About what he forced me to do to protect Grogu. About who I became afterwards. But now…”

He let his eyes rest over the scant torches that people had lit around the village. Watched old couples go for an evening stroll. Parents calling their children to bed and the answering complaints. Laughter from farmers who’d also taken to their porches to enjoy a nightcap. So much life. So much joy.

“Now it almost feels like it happened to someone else. I can’t really explain it. It’s like I can look back on what happened differently, more clearly, because I’ve been through all of it once already. Does that make any sense?” he wondered, fearing he’d completely lost them. He’d only started realizing it as he was saying it – the shock of it all now hurt differently.

“You’re saying because you can’t remember things directly, it’s less painful?” Omera tried to understand.

“Like you’re detached from it?” suggested Cara.

“Yes,” he agreed, even if that wasn’t it exactly, because it had definitely felt painful enough at first. “I can understand how and why it changed me but I can also not let it define me completely because… Well, because it’s over. It already happened. Nothing I can do about it.”

“That sounds – ”

“Amazing!” Cara interrupted Omera, toasting them with her empty glass. “And surely that deserves another round of – ”

“No!” they both said in unison, and the former shock trooper grumbled.

“Maybe you really have changed,” Omera uttered after a beat, and he tried not to imagine the hope in her tone.

“So how long are you staying then?”

Din bit back a groan – trust Cara to always know where to strike first.

“I was thinking a few days if that’s okay?”

“Of course,” Omera replied immediately. “You’re always welcome here.”

“I guess it’s a start,” agreed Cara.

“There’s still one thing I need to take care of.” Well, two, he acknowledged, to himself. “But I do intend to spend more time here next time, I promise. And now that I know you’ve got a hololink here, I can reach out more often as well,” he reasoned. If Greef could comm Cara, then surely he could do the same.

“Would you look at that? It’s like you’re actually using your concussed brain!” Cara mock-praised.

“Winta would love it if Grogu and her could communicate,” Omera said more levelly.

“And maybe I could call sometimes too,” he tried, and yes that was definitely the spotchka helping. Omera was kind enough not to take note of Cara’s guffaw and hummed in agreement instead. At least it wasn’t a no, Din thought.

As if the kid had somehow heard they were staying for a little while, he didn’t grip his shirt quite as hard when he shifted on his chair, and even offered him a contented, sleepy coo instead.

“That thing you still need to take care of… It’s what to do with all that Beskar, huh?” Cara guessed.

“Yeah,” he mumbled.

“I’ve been telling you for almost a year to do something about it already, but you won’t listen.”

“It’s not that easy…” he hedged.

“It is that easy. Forget where it’s coming from, your people need it.”

It wasn’t just the fact that it was coming from the Empire. Mostly, it had to do with how he had come across it. And what it had cost him to get it. What it had cost his friend.

“If you ask me, losing my sight but knowing that it means a bunch of highly skilled warriors will get virtually indestructible protection is a fair trade. Soldier to soldier, that armor is the best one could hope for.”

Din was amazed by Cara’s eloquence despite the quantity of liquor she’d absorbed. What she said made sense, and it was obvious she’d tried to convince him with a similar speech before, and he wondered why it hadn’t worked then. Because she was definitely making a compelling case to give it all to Wren for forging now.

“And what about that huge scar? Gonna do something about it too? Agree to go to Tatooine for treatment at the Palace like Fennec and Fett have been begging you to?” she added, undeterred – it was like she was ticking off items from an invisible list. But he guessed he deserved it.

“I don’t know, I kinda like that scar. Gives you character.” Din wished it wasn’t so dark and he could see Omera’s face. Her tone sounded playful and mildly inebriated but was there some truth to it? Sadly, before he could come up with a smart reply that would hopefully clue him in, Cara beat him to it.

“Forget it, then. Keep the scar, Djarin.”

They moved on to safer topics after that and Omera and him managed to convince Cara that they could get one last round of spotchka before calling it a night if she agreed to eat the food Omera had brought. Head pleasantly spinning – as opposed to concussed, for once, although Din wondered if it had been such a good idea to drink so much so soon – they left Cara on her porch and tried very hard to ignore her parting shot.

“Are you going to make him sleep in the barn, Omera?”

“We’ll sleep in the barn,” he assured her in a whisper – he didn’t want Cara to hear and make further comments or Grogu to wake up as he carried him.

“Compromise, sleep on the sofa. Your boy can share Winta’s room, she’ll be thrilled to find him next to her when she wakes up tomorrow.”

Din decided he was too tired and too tipsy to fight her on this. Also, it did sound like a pretty good compromise indeed.

He surprisingly didn’t have too many regrets come the next morning – he’d gotten used to pounding headaches after all – but he still gratefully accepted the caf Omera had brewed and Winta’s offer to give an overexcited Grogu his breakfast.

For the next three days, he agreed to the child’s every request. They swam, they hiked, they napped, they read stories, they ate – too much – and went on several jetpack rides – too fast. When he had time to himself, namely when Winta or her mother or Cara or other villagers requested their turn to make the kid laugh, he’d spend it fine tuning the rescued N-1 or daydreaming about a future where he’d be able to come here more regularly. He commed Karga in Nevarro and promised to visit soon. Peli in Mos Eisley who swore to him she had the right convertor this time and he should come pronto. Kryze on their base who urged him not to rush back if he wasn’t all better.

Din wondered if he’d ever be ‘all better’. During the quietest moments of the day, he’d sometimes get a flash of memory. More missing, disjointed pieces to add to his growing collection. Did it mean they would all come back eventually? Or should he assume most of it was lost forever? The idea used to terrify him, but here on Sorgan, not so much. There was nothing terrifying here, apart from his growing suspicion that Cara had been right all along: he definitely hadn’t forgotten falling in love with Omera.

When it came time to say goodbye, he was the one who reached for her first, wrapping his arms tightly around her shoulders.

“Come back?” she mumbled against his chest. “I’ve never asked you that before. But I think from now on we should tell each other things. We shouldn’t just assume. That’s the one thing to learn from all this.”

“I promise,” he vowed, and still wouldn’t let go, nose buried in her hair, captivated once more by what that fragrance allowed him to remember just for an instant.

“You’re sure you’re okay?” she asked, sounding a little worried.

“It’s your soap, I really like the way it smells, it’s nice,” he tried to explain.

“Oh well in that case, I can give you one to take with you,” she quipped, and pretended to let go.

“No, wait – ”

“The hug is nice, too?” she guessed.

“Yeah,” he admitted.

“Then just say so.”

“Alright,” he acknowledged with a smile, and was finally able to release her.

Once Grogu had also been hugged by virtually everyone in the village, they made their way to the N-1. The boy attempted to convince him he could do the take-off sequence, but this time he didn’t let himself be fooled.

“You can do the landing at the base,” he suggested instead, since it had a docking port, and the child didn’t stay mad long. There would be no stopping on the way this time: he was due a long and serious talk with a purpled haired Mandalorian armorer. He’d been putting it off for much too long. And he also had a Jedi Togruta to track down.

#the mandalorian #din djarin #grogu #cara dune #omera #sorgan #clan of two #baby yoda #amnesia #memory loss #star wars #vortex #my fics

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boldlyvoid · 3 years

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ain't it fun? | Part five

Summary: reader just needs an NA meeting before they have a meltdown, they end up with the best friend they could ever make.

Warnings: pregnancy, chronic illness, spencer's career chance - he's a high school teacher now, they have a 1-year-old, smut at the end but not graphic.

word count: 2.8k

a/n: I imagine this is in season 10, so they've been together at least 7 years-ish now, I just jumped well into the future because I wanted to! also, Cordelia's nickname is Edie and pronounced Ee-dee !!

P1 P2 P3 P4

“No.”

Spencer sighs, “are you going to like any of my suggestions?”

“When you give me a baby name that isn’t from some weird old male book character, then yes, I’ll take them into consideration,” she replies, hand on her stomach as she lays back against the pillows.

She was huge, 9 months pregnant and so, so close to the finish line. She was swollen and in pain and exhausted. Going off every single medication and recreational drugs to make a life was a commitment and a half, she was doing well but she was so ready to be done. To do a few more months of breastfeeding and then go back on her medications.

Spencer was terrific. He was googling and asking Penelope to research things, he had called doctors he knows and friends and did everything in his power to find a way to ease her pain even before they got pregnant. He’s taken the last 3 months off of work and he doesn’t know when he’ll go back. He has just been so, so incredible the whole time.

Naming a child was hard. You had to not only think about all the nicknames and what their initials spell, but you also had to think about how they’ll like it; if it’ll fit their personality and spirit. And most of all, is it going to get them bullied? There are some terrible kid names. Like Richard… how do you name a newborn Richard?

“I want something meaningful with a nice nickname and works with our names and her siblings,” she whispered towards him. “They need to all work together.”

“What are some of your favourites?” He asks, moving in closer and finding a way to cuddle in with her and her pregnancy pillow who has all but replaced him lately.

“I like earthy names, like Lennox, Juniper, Aspen, Elowen,” her voice is really soft, she bites her lip at the end as she thinks them over again. “And old things like Cordelia and Winnifred.”

“Which one sounds the best with Reid?”

“I like Cordelia Reid the most, and then we can call her Edie and I was thinking you can pick her middle name?” She’s been thinking about it for a while, but too afraid to know his opinions.

“Cordelia means core in Latin, which makes sense cause she already has my heart,” Spencer teased, he has made it very clear that their little girl is going to be spoiled, loved and a daddy's girl.

He took all his fears of being a bad dad and threw them out the window. He knew that just being there was all he wanted from his dad, and so that’s what he was going to do. He left the BAU for the time being, he was doing the odd lecture at the academy and answering calls for cases. They couldn’t just stop using his brain, there were some things too pressing to not ask the walking computer, but other than that, he was done.

He was looking into other jobs for when he finally decides to go back, he was unsure how long of a paternity leave he wanted. He was really content with just staying home all the time now, but he did miss going out and being useful during the days. The job he was most interested in, however, was a high school teacher.

A prep school in DC is looking into adding an Anthropology, Psychology and Sociology course to their curriculum, and they wanted Spencer. They thought he would be perfect for the seniors, he is fun and young and attentive, he can control a room and keep them entertained, and he’s probably the best teacher a kid could get.

It was going to make him a good dad too.

“I think Jade is a nice middle name,” he adds after thinking it over for a few minutes.

“Cordelia Jade Reid,” she says the full name for the first time and it just feels right, like they already know her.

—

She was very calm for a newborn baby.

She liked to just look around and blink, she licked her lips a lot and she was constantly breaking out of her swaddle. She was always happy to have cuddles with her dad and she pooped every night at exactly at 3 am, without fail. She didn’t cry a lot, but when she did it was still wonderful to hear.

They were so in love with her, she was absolutely perfect for them. She fit right into their sleeping schedule and their life, she ate like a pro, she slept most of the night and she was growing way too fast for their liking.

One day they’re crying over the fact they made a life in a tiny little hospital room, and the next thing they know she’s about to turn 1.

She’s sitting in bed with Y/N, she’s sitting in her lap with two handfuls of hair and a story to tell. She’s been babbling so much lately, she hears them talking all the time and she wants to join so badly. They indulge her, asking her to continue her thoughts and gasping at her gossip.

“No way, and what did you do next?!” She asked the little one sat in her lap.

Edie babbled on once more, smacking her tongue on the roof of her mouth as she pushed air past her vocal cords, humming and making the funniest sounds. She went on and on, she was so enthusiastic, like her father, as she waved her arms around to make her point.

“That is so fascinating, you are so cool, little Edie,” Y/N hyped her up, smiling at her as she leaned in close and pressed their noses together.

Cordelia laughed and it finally made Spencer giggle too, he had been watching from the doorway as his ‘wife’ and daughter talked in bed. They were best friends already, always talking and snuggling, learning or reading together. She was always happy when she was with one of them, she was needy and snuggly and very co-dependent but they didn’t mind, they preferred all the attention from her.

“Look who’s home,” Y/N whispered and Cordelia shot a glance towards the door, she smiled and screamed as she saw him.

“Hi Edie!” He waves at her with a smile, he takes his bag off and places it by the dresser followed by his blazer.

He gets into the bed and she instinctively reaches for a hug. He wraps her up and she snuggles right into his neck, with a fistful of his shirt, she just holds him there. She didn’t understand why he wasn’t home all day anymore, she missed him for lunch and at nap time but she loved the new routine of a snuggle when she woke up and he got home.

Spencer leans back against the pillows beside Y/N, turning his head to capture a kiss from her lips. They always just spend a quick second kissing when he gets home, even if it’s just a peck or a full-on passionate make-out, he always kisses her when he comes home. He smiles at the end of the kiss, pulling her into a hug too.

“I love Fridays,” he whispers, “Edie do you know what Fridays mean?”

She pulls away and sits up, she loves to listen to him. “Friday is the last day of the school week, which means I get to spend 2 whole days with my favourite people now.”

Edie smiled, almost like she understood what he meant, and then she was talking again, it was completely incomprehensible but they imagined she was telling him about her day.

“You forgot the part where we went to the park,” Y/N added.

Cordelia looked at her with wide eyes, “dada,” was the only word she said before babbling on again and they both stopped.

“Did she just?” Spencer was shocked and frozen still after asking.

Y/N sat up and looked right into Cordelia’s eyes, “who is that?” She pointed at Spencer.

“Dada!” She said it again and they were suddenly all squealing, even Cordelia was suddenly excited as she kept screaming dada over and over again.

“Can you say, mom? Or mama? Mummy?” Spencer tried his hardest to find an easy way for her to say it.

“Mumm,” she pushed her lips together to hum her M sound and Spencer was floored, he bounced her up and down a small amount as they cheered.

“Smartest girl in the world!” Spencer cheered her on before pulling her into another hug.

Y/N was crying softly, little tiny dreams that she didn’t even know she had were coming true every single day with them. She knew she wanted to be a mom when she was growing up, all those dreams died when her illness got worse and they all warned her that having kids would put her at risk of being moneyless and that working wasn’t an option to even support them. Let alone the threat of them taking them away just because of her autism or depression possibly being considered ‘too bad’ to care for them.

Spencer took all those fears and he kicked them out. Every day she got to experience the most precious gifts the world had to offer, her daughter was perfect and her husband was incredible. Together they were a perfect little family that ran on trust, love, and communication. Always talking, always hugging, always there for each other.

—

They crawl into bed much later than they expected to. Cordelia didn’t want to go to bed, she was trying her hardest to keep staying awake to spend time with them but eventually, sleep won. They finally placed her in her crib with her white noise and her complete darkness and closed her door for the next few hours of peace.

They both let out a deep sigh before rolling to face one another. “How was your day?” He asks, like always.

“Good,” she smiles, “I think having a kid and getting on her schedule was the best thing I’ve ever done actually, cause I’m sleeping on time, I’m eating when she does and I’m outside a lot more. She’s given me this purpose and it’s rewarding on my body.”

Spencer moves in so he can kiss her nose, “I love hearing that.”

“How was your class today?” She asks back, loving his little stories about all the 17 and 18-year-olds that were fascinated by him. As well as the kids who thought it was cool to try and pick on him before getting the shit verbally kicked out of them in front of the whole class.

It was interesting seeing him in a form of authority, he never really took charge at the BAU, she’s never seen him yell at his friends and he’s never really yelled at her either. He’s been incredibly calm, so to see him verbally tear someone apart by acknowledging their biggest flaws to make sense of why they feel the need to bully, it was pretty intense.

“They were a lot better today, they enjoyed the lesson and the kids that were giving me trouble skipped, I guess he really didn’t appreciate me calling him out that bad on Tuesday,” Spencer smirked, rolling his eyes like he cared.

“I still can’t believe that he thought it was okay to call you names in front of other students, where is the respect these days?”

“Well,” he’s about to do what he always does. He can never be truly mad at someone because he knows why everyone does what they do and that they can’t help it. “In his file, it says his parents are newly divorced, we get a list of all the kids information on the attendance like allergies and things, but also small info like life changes in case they act out.”

“Doesn’t mean he can call you the f slur,” she whispers, “all because you wore a purple shirt?”

“If I met his father I’d probably get an answer for that,” he adds, “if he’s afraid to show his emotions around his son, it’s probably why his son thinks colours are gay.”

It makes her laugh, “you look hot in purple too so I don’t see the problem?”

“Do I?” He teases, getting in even closer and pressing their bodies together.

She rolls her eyes before wrapping her arms around him and leaning forward for a quick kiss, “I think you look sexy all the time.”

He kisses her as a thank you, “I think the same about you.”

“Even when I haven’t showered in 2 days because she cries if she can’t see me and she cries if she gets wet?” Y/N laughed, annoyed but in love with their little monster at the same time.

“Always,” he reminds her. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” she kisses him again after.

There are probably a million more things to share from the day, but they spend their time kissing instead. It’s been too long since they’ve just rolled around in the sheets making out like they did in the beginning. Before they ever had sex, before they had kids and a house and a love as strong as they do now.

A part of them missed the early days when everything was new and exciting, but she also loved the fact that they knew each other so well that they didn’t have to communicate anymore. They ran like 1 unit, always completing the other person's thoughts, needs and wants. They were so unbelievably happy.

She wants him badly and he wants her just as much, and he’s about to take her when she pulls back. “Nope, as much as I love her I can’t get pregnant again for at least another year.”

It makes him laugh as he pulls away and rolls over to look through his nightstand for a condom, “it wouldn’t be that bad?”

“You carry it then, seahorse it up,” she teased. “I like being back on my medicine, I need some time to be okay before I go through all that again.”

Once he’s all situated in the latex and back between her legs, he hovers over her, so close that their lips are touching ever so slightly. “I am fine if it’s just the three of us forever.”

“I’m not,” she smiles, “there will be 4 of us one day, just not today.”

With that, she’s pulling him into another kiss as he pushing inside. It’s a feeling she’s accustomed to but will never be used to, it’s a stretch that shouldn’t be as intoxicating as it is. She holds him closer as she plays with his tongue in her mouth.

He was so good at everything he did, especially the sex. He knew every single part of her body now and exactly how to push all her buttons the right way. She could live in the moment of his pumping in and out of her while his thumb circled her clit and his other hand groaned her breasts. Eventually, he kissed down her throat and she was a mess of breathy moans and low gasps.

Writing in the sheets, her legs wrap around him as she tried to pull him in even closer. It was impossible to get closer but he was still too far away, she wanted to absorb him and live in him forever. He was her safe place and she never wanted to be anywhere else.

As her orgasm bubbled, so did his. The both of them gasping and panting, she whined as she breached the edge and gripped his back, “Spence!”

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he whispered before fucking into her harder and faster, pushing her through it as he reached his own.

His movements on her clit never stopped and suddenly one felt like two and she wasn’t sure when the rush was going to stop and she didn’t care when it did. It was powerful, soothing and euphoric. A high she could live in for a while and return to it without problem as long as she had him.

He came with a small moan, trying to keep quiet as he muffled it into her neck, stilling his hips on his last thrust and dropping onto her more. Her hands were all over his back as she pressed kisses to his forehead, coming down but not wanting the love to stop there.

The love was never going to stop there for them. Their love was never-ending, and somehow as she held him there in her arms and felt his breath on his neck, she turned to see the baby monitor with their peaceful child sound asleep down the hall, she loved him even more now somehow.

Loving Spencer Reid was like falling down a bottomless pit. She never knew when she was going to reach the end, but she was content with falling.

smut taglist: @g0lden-cth @doctorspenceryeet @samuel-de-champagne-problems @reiding-recs @shemarmooresfedora @spencers-dria@reidsfish @manuosorioh @mochionly @jswessie187 @k-k0129 @calm-and-doctor @blanchardsbk

#spencer reid #spencer reid smut #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you #spencer reid self insert #spencer reid request #criminal minds smut #criminal minds imagine #aint it fun

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kirschteinsj · 4 years

Text

Pinky Promises

Nanami x fem! reader

Warnings: nothing too much! maybe language but overall just a bunch of fluff and lovey dovey stuff

Word Count: 2.9k

Summary: Domestic Nanami and reader, just thinking about how much they love each other. sappy and cute stuff.

A/N: Hi! ^_^ Second time posting, I’ve had this one shot saved for a bit now! finally posting it lolz. I've noticed a lot of people have written domestic Nanami pics or drawn art, very glad society as a whole has this perception of him. it truly heals the soul I think. anyway, I hope u like this and sorry if there’s any grammar errors I wasnt able to catch U_U im thinking of doing a hc post next.... unsure hm, we’ll see ^_^!!

“I’m hooooome.” He says loudly as he steps through the apartment door, setting his briefcase down and taking off his beige coat. Putting down the grand kitchen knife she was using to chop up spinach, she rushed to the door with a smile and engulfed the tall blonde into a tight hug, saying hello. She took a deep breath, inhaling the soft scent of his cologne, the smell of something sour and musty soon taking over. Her face scrunched up and she let out a giggle.

“Oh god, Nanami, you stink, what did you go against today?”

“Nothing too bad. Just a grade 3,” He sighed “A smelly grade 3.” He sounded disappointed, probably because he knew he stunk too. Though the smell was horrendous, she still remained in his arms and he still held on just as tight.

“Are you tired? I was thinking of making dinner with you tonight but if you’re too tired I can-”

“No no. I’m fine. Just let me wash up and I’ll help out.”

“You sure?” She asked looking up towards him, questioning once more to reassure. He looked down and pressed a gentle kiss to the top of her head.

“I’m sure, dear.”

While he showers upstairs, she gets back to readying the ingredients so they could begin cooking their masterpiece as soon as possible. Tonight she had chosen chicken alfredo with a tossed salad; One could say it was her favourite, but saying that would imply that she would eat it when cooked and served by whomever. But to her, she would only eat it when it was him who had made it for her.

Y/n adored him. He adored her. To her, he was her light. She could simply not imagine life without him, not after he had come in and changed her in such a way. She never in a million years would have thought to be so in love with someone. To have known someone who cared enough to hear all about her day or listen to all her tangents, whether they made sense or not. Who listened to her talk forever about anything just so he could see the faint glow of passion in her eyes. Someone who remembered the small details in regards to the things she loved and the things she despised; Like how she hated the feeling of peanut butter on her fingers and how she absolutely admired the scent of fresh pages in a new book. Sometimes, she felt undeserving of him.

He admired her like no other. Never did he believe he’d be capable of opening up to anyone in such a way, at least not until she walked into his life. He could write a million lists, all full of everything he loved about her. The way she smiled cheekily at him after a witty remark, how she'd give every hug as if it was the last, the way she was oh so patient with him. It took him time to become vulnerable in the slightest, he just didn’t know how to do so without burdening her. She knew his job was hard, he’d told her. But rather than running away like he expected, she stayed with him right by his side. She refused to leave him over that. If anything, it made her want to stay more since she felt the need to be there for him. It felt like a punch to the gut but a good one. “So, is this love?” He had asked himself then. Nanami had someone who brought out the much more joyful side to him. At the end of the day, he knew he’d walk through the front door only to see her, arms wide open and with a big smile offering a cozy hug. She was his home. Sometimes, he felt undeserving of her.

Putting the final piece of broccoli into the container, she tidies any clutter and went back to their shared bedroom. Sinking into the bed and falling on it with a plush thump, she lets out a deep sigh mixed with some sort of a groan. She herself was exhausted from work too to say the least. She didn’t deal with curses or anything like that, but she did teach a class of 9 year olds which one could consider just as frustrating. Yawning, she checks her phone to read the time: 6:15 PM. Nanami hadn’t been in the shower for too long, a small nap wouldn’t hurt. Quickly, she settled for a little 30 minute nap. That way, she could get up soon enough to help him out in the kitchen and not abandon him to do everything on his own. She turns her phone off and slowly, her eyes shut.

…

Y/n slowly opens her eyes and notices a grey throw blanket placed on her, something that she doesn’t recall going to bed with earlier. “Must’ve been Nanami.” Grabbing her phone, she turns the screen on, wincing at the incredible blue light piercing into her skull. “Fuck.” she mumbles. Once her eyes adjust, she glances back at the screen for the time: 7:30.

“FUCK,” she says, voice croaking “I overslept.” With the speed of light, she leaves bed and runs down the hall to the bathroom to freshen up. She soon makes her way over to the kitchen silently, slightly ashamed and guilty. Y/n mumbles a whine with a frown, “He’s probably done making things now. I could have helped.”

The kitchen is filled with the delicate scents of sauces, cheese and herbs. She watches him from the door frame, admiring her boyfriend. He stood in front of the stove mixing at the sauce for the alfredo, which scent alone made her mouth water. Nanami seems to be in his own world, as he stands humming to himself softly, stirring the pot of sauce and adding in the broccoli and spinach, not seeming to notice y/n. With a final stir, he carefully sets the lid and turns to rinse his hands. Her gaze sits upon his figure, how his grey oversized shirt slightly clings to his shoulders and loosens as it goes down his body. Looking down, she noticed the bright red christmas pyjamas he had on, the ones with adorable little reindeers all over them. Grinning, she remembers how she had bought those for him. She purchased a matching set for the two of them and insisted on wearing them all day on Christmas last year. Nanami had responded to the idea with a stern “No” which left y/n in shambles. She didn’t expect him to agree, but hey, a girl can dream. However, on Christmas day, lo and behold, she had woken up to find Nanami sitting on the couch, watching the news with his reindeer PJs on. Immediately, she had attacked him with hugs and kisses and all Nanami did was sit there and accept them, secretly loving it the whole time.

A deep voice throws her out of her thoughts. “You know, it’s rude to stare, right?”

Y/n chuckles quietly and makes her way over, wrapping her arms around him from behind, snuggling into his back.

“I like to stare at you, you’re cute,” she breathes in his scent once again, “ah, you smell so much better now. Like the nami I know.”

“I am not cute. I am a grown man.”

“C’mon, you can’t possibly be saying that right now. Not while you’re wearing these pants.” She coos, gently patting his butt. He goes silent, refusing to rebuttal knowing that he’s lost. He leans against the counter, his front facing her. Though he didn’t say anything, y/n sees this as an open invite to his arms. The rope of his arms finds her waist this time, her arms in an embrace around his neck.

“Whatever, tell me, how was your day, hm?” He posed, changing the subject.

“Same old, yenno. The kids and I had a discussion today about drugs and safety. It was cute, hearing them rat out their neighbours for smoking cigs and talk about how yucky they thought alcohol is. It was… sweet. How was work for you, hon?”

“Shit.” He retorts, closing his eyes, “Work is shit.”

“Oh come ON, I’m sure it’s not always that bad, right? Say, how’s your friend doing, you know, the one who kinda looks like one of my makeup brushes! Isn’t he good company?”

“Yeah, if good company means having to deal with a nuisance to society on a daily basis then by all means, yes, Gojo is wonderful company.” He joked, loosening his grip on her and making his way over to the stove to check on his sauce. She follows, opening the first drawer and pulling out a silver spoon, “You’re so mean sometimes. I think he’s a great guy to be around! I met him once, such a flirt.”

He teases calmly, “If you love him so much, why don’t you get with him?”

Taking her spoon, she lowers it into the pot and brings it back up to her face, blowing on it carefully before she puts it to her lips to taste. “Hmm, I would. But I don’t think he’s as big as you. I’ll have to pass.” She smirked, putting the spoon into her mouth as he watched and sighed in disappointment.

He glares,“God, you’re something else.”

“I’m just kidding, babe.” Bringing her spoon down for another taste. He swats at her hand and she retreats it with a whine. “Don’t do that. You’ve tried it already, and will again when we get to eat.” He scolded tenderly, “Plus, you shouldn’t be given these privileges anyway. It’s not like you helped out or anything.” He smiled, teasing her.

“Nanamiiii, I’m sorry,” she whines, half laughing, “I promise, I was going to help! I just got a little bit sleepy and sort of lost track of time…” He turned over to her and lifted her face with a finger under her chin. Laughing, he delicately caresses her cheek, tapping it admirably with a curled finger. The blonde chuckles and looks her in the eyes, “I’m just joking with you, love. I know you’ve been tired lately, I can tell. Why haven’t you been resting?”

Her smile falls and she sighs. Y/n wrapped her arms around his waist and brought him into her, hiding her face into his chest. It was true, she was exhausted but she didn’t deem it to be anything so serious. Work was just heavy this past week from having to grade her students’ work in time for report cards. All she wanted was the best for her kids and was finding ways to get the kids out of their comfort zones enough to do well in class. That reminded her, Nanami also mentioned having a student of his own.

She takes her face out of his chest and glances upwards. “It’s just this week of work, I promise I’ll be back to normal soon. I’ve just been busy with lesson plans and activities, yenno. Anyway, speaking of students, how’s the one you’ve been assigned to?” She posed in a soft tone. Half smiling, he turned around to add the strained pasta to the sauce, scattering it into the pot.

“He’s special. Quite lively. And cheerful. He reminds me of you sometimes,” his voice strains as he stretches to grab the bowl of cooked chicken to finally add into the pot, finishing the meal, “He’s got potential.” Y/n beamed with happiness. Nanami really seemed to like this kid and if he thought you had potential, then it sure as hell meant you had it.

She lets out a squeal, “EEEEEEK!!! That sounds amazing! I’m so happy for you!” Nanami suppressed a laugh and rolled his eyes, “It’s not that-”

“This calls for a drink, don’t you think?” She babbled with excitement, “We should have some wine! Right?”

Grabbing her wrist as she skipped her way over to the bottle, he reminded her, “You have school tomorrow. You always end up having more than needed and struggle to wake up in the morning.” Y/n frowned at his words, to which he noticed and tried to fix, “Tomorrow’s Friday, you can drink plenty tomorrow, hm? I’ll drink with you.”

“Ugh, fine. You’re right. But you have to promise.”

“I promise you ca-”

“No! You have to pinky-promise.” She demanded, pouting as he stuck out her pinky finger.

His heart skips a beat. Was she always this cute? Her angelic eyes stare into his tired ones. Bottom lip poking out, awaiting Nanami’s pinky to interlock with her own. He knew she took pinky-promises very seriously despite her grown age. It was among one of the many petty details that he cherished. Something about this pinky-promise was enough for her to ensure trust onto someone, it made him laugh. Her naivety is what made her so kind hearted, what allowed her to see the best in people. He felt that this naivety is why they’re together to begin with. He didn’t ever think she’d give him a chance. He reminisced of their first few encounters. The way she did her hair back then, the way she dressed, her shy smile and how she’d look at the floor whenever she’d blush. Maybe it was her timid nature that made him fall head over heels for her. Or maybe it was her generosity. Perhaps her beauty. He was unable to simply confine the reasoning for his infatuation with just a few traits. She grew overtime, more comfortable and less shy, she was more confident around him but he knew he could still make her blush so badly that she’d have to hide her face from him. He enjoyed their banter, her company. He felt it was luck. Or maybe it was fate. Who knows. He didn’t want to think so much about it. He wanted to live in the moment, adore her in this present time. In that instance, he felt the strong urge to kiss her. And so he did.

The kiss was short and sweet, yet full of an unfathomable amount of love. It took her aback, she didn’t quite see it coming. She too stood in the present moment, then and there, cherishing the man she loved.

His lips leave hers and he extends the smallest finger on his hand, declaring, “I pinky-promise.” And a ginormous grin washes over her face. In a whisper, she squeals and scoops her arms around his torso, resting her head onto his chest. They stay like this for a while, not too long really, but to them it felt like an eternity being in each other’s affectionate embrace. He goes to speak and she feels the vibrating boom of his voice make his way up from his chest.

“I love you.”

She sighs, “I love you too.”

Turning her head, y/n smoothly gets on her tip toes and clasps her arms around his neck, giving it a tender kiss and attempting to make a trail leading up to his sharp jaw. Catching onto her tactics he laughs, putting his big hand against her face and pushing her back.

“Seriously?” He chuckles, “You couldn’t wait till after dinner? Come on, take out the plates.”

“Wait for what? I was just kissing you! You’re so dramatic, Nami.” She lies, playing innocent. She knew damn well what she was trying to do. She wasn’t going to admit to it though. Taking out the plates and utensils, she readied the table.

…

After dinner and meaningless conversation, the two lovers tidied and headed towards their room. “Do yo wana wah a mohee tomowwow nie?” Y/n proposed from the bathroom as she brushed her teeth. He perks his head up, confused, “Do I want to what?” She spat into the sink and rinsed her mouth, repeating her question.

“I said, do you wanna watch a movie tomorrow night? Like at home? There’s this documentary I saw on Netflix, it looks really good! It’s crime related.”

“That sounds fine with me. Though, that’s only possible if you don’t end up drinking too much. I always have to get you to sleep early when you drink.” He states nonchalantly, nose poked into a thick book. She rolls her eyes and smiles, “I promise I won’t drink all that much.” Shifting his book to the opposing hand, Nanami silently takes his pinky finger and holds it out to y/n. She snickers and reciprocates.

“You’ve now pinky-promised. Don’t break it, y/n.”

“I never do.”

The nightstand lamp illuminates the room with a soft yellow glow. Shadows of objects on the nightstand hang on the walls. Laying in bed on her phone, y/n turns over to Nanami, who was still reading his book. “Nami, come lay next to me, I wanna cuddle. Please?” Her voice faint. He looks down at her and puts his book away immediately. He could use a cuddle too. Bringing himself down, he lays on his back, y/n closing the gap between the two. Their legs intertwine, her arm and head resting on his chest while one of his hands rested on her bum, the other dotingly playing with her hair. Neither of them spoke a word for a while. Until y/n broke the silence.

“So, were there no other pairs of pants you had left to wear or-”

“Please, be quiet.”

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