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safetypinxtales · 7 months

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400 years | Azriel

summary: drinking with your best friend takes a turn when you happen upon some of Feyre's art supplies.

words: 3.2k

warnings: steamy 18+ mdni, nudity, sex is insinuated but not described, kissing, alcohol consumption (drink responsibly), reader and azriel are drunk, making out, big dick azriel, fluff, no use of y/n, neutrally described reader/no reader description

notes: happy valentines day, here's some azriel for youuu🤍 I got the inspiration for this whilst reading this fic by @solbaby7 bc who wouldn't want to draw az like one of your French girls?? Frankly there is nothing I would like to do more. Their fic is amazing and you guys should totally check it out if you haven't already! Anyways, I'm sorry for the "shut the door" type ending, but I cannot write smut to save my life so this will have to do. Hope you enjoy!🤍

masterlist

Thud.

The sound of Azriel accidentally smacking his head on the wall as he plopped down on the sofa across from you echoed within the walls of the cabin, and you couldn’t help the laughter that bubbled out of you. Azriel’s own shaking shoulders and scrunched up nose let you know that he couldn’t help it either.

But that was to be expected wasn’t it? The past hour had been filled with nothing but bubbling laughter from the both of you, giggles from Az, and some very graceful snorts… also definitely from Azriel.

The reason why he had brought you to Rhys’ cabin in the mountains was long forgotten after the two nearly empty bottles of alcohol on the table in front of you. The heartache of getting stood up on your date earlier that evening buried under a considerable amount of drinks.

“As long as the glass is never empty in between refills, they don’t count.”

Azriel’s words from earlier came back to you, only fuelling your cramp inducing giggles.

That had always been your motto in times like these. A consistency that had lasted centuries.

“I can’t breathe,” you wheezed out in between fits of hysteria, your arms coming up to wrap around yourself. But your laughter didn’t die down, and neither did Azriel’s. Your uttered words only seemed to fire him on as he tipped over on his side, hand landing a slap on the armrest.

Seeing him like this, so free and relaxed, was rare. You could probably count each separate occasion on your hands. He only really let go like this when you needed it. When the urge to drink your walls down and flush the pain away seemed like the only remedy to whatever situation you were dealing with.

It was a very rare occurrence indeed. But one of your favourites.

Azriel’s carefree giggles, that luminous light in his eyes; you swore it could make budding flowers bloom.

You sat up straight, and the situation stopped feeling so funny as you laid eyes on Azriel’s still laughing frame. The uncontrolled giggles, and the way his wings shook in time with his chest. It was enchanting, the sight of your best friend being so relaxed, so happy.

The shadows that were usually crowding his frame were nowhere to be seen – with the exception of the lone swirl of darkness slowly snaking its way around your wrist, coming down to entwine with your fingers every now and again.

It took a couple more minutes until Azriel’s laughter had finally seized. You both sat on separate sofas, smiles stretched wide and eyes glazed over from the alcohol you had ingested, and as your breathing started to return to normal a thought struck.

“What?” Azirel asked as he leaned forward on his elbows, a curious glint in his eyes.

“What?” You prodded back, more confused than curious, blinking a few times to try and rid the alcohol-induced veil that surrounded you. What was he on about?

“Well,” he waved one floppy hand in your direction, “you just perked up, it was like you grew ten inches,” he exclaimed, before continuing in a slightly lowered, bemused voice, ”and that means you just had one of your ideas.”

The corners of your mouth quirked upwards as you slowly nodded your head. He was right – you had come up with an idea.

“Well, I was just thinking about how Feyre mentioned after the last time she was here,” you stood up from your seat, swaying slightly but quickly finding your balance, doing your very best to not bump into the table separating you. “Something about forgotten art supplies.”

Like a predator sighting a prey, Azriel’s interest piqued in a moment. His razor sharp focus was on your every step as you walked towards the supply closet at the other side of the room.

The closet was unusually dusty, a strange thing for being Rhysand’s property. He was usually very meticulous when it came to things always being spotless and presentable. But you supposed that a small, rarely used supply closet in the family cabin wasn’t a priority of his. Keeping it clean was not a good enough use of his magic.

Luckily for you, that just made your quest easier. You just had to look for whatever was covered in the least amount of dust bunnies.

“Aha!” You whipped around to face your friend, triumphantly displaying the sketch pad and charcoals in your hands.

Azriel’s eyebrows shot up at your revelation, grin still present on his beautiful face.

“That’s your big idea? Drawing?”

“You should know I used to be quite the whiz with the charcoals when I was younger,” you rebutted and Azriel’s eyebrows furrowed ever so slightly.

“I have seen your penmanship, so I will believe this talent of yours when I see it,” he muttered and you couldn’t help but gasp at the sheer audacity in his words. Your penmanship was not that bad.

Taking a few steps back in his direction with a huff, you flipped through the sketch pad in search of an unused sheet of parchment. You were gonna show him, alright…

You couldn’t help but admire Feyre’s old sketches as you went through the pages. Some you recognised as early-version sketches of paintings you had seen around the river house, and some were–

“Oh!” Your fingers froze as your eyes landed on what seemed to be an anatomical study. A very detailed, very beautiful, anatomical study of – oh my Gods. You felt your cheeks heat up.

“Is that Rhysand?!”

At the screech in your voice and the mention of his brother’s name, Azriel shot up off the sofa to get a peek at whatever had managed to pull such a reaction from you.

The warmth of his body radiated into your side as he peered over your shoulder at the drawing of the very naked high lord.

You noticed him stiffening out of the corner of your eyes and then, like a tether snapping, laughter started to boom inside the walls of the cabin. With a steadying hand on your shoulder he doubled over in giggles so contagious it didn’t take long before you joined in with his hysterics.

“No way,” he wheezed, “oh Gods – I can’t wait to tell Cassian!”

The mere thought of how Cassian would react to such a revelation, the look on his face, had you clutching your stomach. Poor Rhys would never hear the end of it.

And by the cauldron, if you don’t wake up with rippling abs tomorrow from the amount of laughter this night had brought….

“You can’t blame her though,” you mused once you managed to get your giggles under control, “I mean, nice job Feyre.” A low whistle left you as you peered down at your clearly blessed high lord.

The laughter quieted down beside you and you raised your gaze to look at Azriel, only to be met with an incredulous look.

“What, I’m just calling it as I see it!” You exclaimed and raised your hands in defence, charcoals and disrobed Rhysand still in your grasp.

His eyes flicked down to the sketch pad, before slowly coming back up to meet yours, that look never leaving his face.

“Oh, please.”

The words fell from his lips with such cool confidence your smile faltered momentarily, eyebrows knotting together.

“You can’t be serious?” He asked, and when you stayed quiet he continued, “that’s nothing.”

Nothing?

From where you were standing, respectfully, it looked like everything.

“What? Like you can do better?”

Your challenge seemed to light a spark in his eyes and time slowed as he took a step backwards, fingers coming down to grip the hem of his t-shirt.

One swift movement and his shirt was off, muscles rippling under his bronzed skin as he tossed the dark fabric on the floor, his eyes not once straying from yours.

He kept backing up, step after torturous step, until his legs hit the sofa. The corners of his mouth tugged up in a smirk as he plopped down, arms behind his head, far leg propped up, large wings casually draped over the armrest.

“Draw me then, whiz,” he challenged, using your word from earlier, “let me be your muse.”

The heat crawling up your neck, scorching the tips of your ears, were not solely from the liquor as you padded over to the opposite sofa.

No, it was from something very different. Something strikingly sobering, yet oh-so intoxicating.

You sat down and carefully placed the pad in your lap, flipping through it until you reached a blank page. You moved some hair out of your eyes and tucked it behind your ear, picked up a charcoal and brought it to the parchment – when you felt yourself hesitate. You took your lip between your teeth as you contemplated your next move. The risk. The absurdity. The excitement.

He was your friend. Your best friend, and yet…

You lifted your gaze to find Azriel’s eyes locked to yours with such focus, such challenge. Like he was sizing up an opponent on the battlefield.

His eyes flicked down to your hand, if only for a split second, as you gently put down the charcoal. He cocked an eyebrow when his gaze once again found yours.

“I just,” you took a deep breath, “I just don’t think it’s really fair on Rhys, you know?” The shadow around your wrist flickered, as if sensing what you were about to do. The lines you were about to cross.

You watched as Azriel’s eyebrows drew together, and you fought the twitching of your lips as you continued, “I mean, you are still half clothed.”

With a slight shrug of your shoulders, you watched as your words sank in. How his eyes seemed to darken, the corner of his mouth raised in the smallest of smirks.

“Is that so?” He mused, and you tried your best to level his stare. To not back down. Not shy away.

With an incline of your head, you nodded. And watched his hand inch closer to his pants. Down past that dark trail of hair, to the laces tied together at the waistband. Watched as he grabbed a hold of the string… and pulled.

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t focus on anything other than his hand. How his fingers untied the font of his pants so slowly, so delicately it felt like torture. You were transfixed by his fingers. Loosening the laces, his thumb slipping beneath the waistband…

You snapped your gaze up to his face, to find him still looking at you – studying you.

Your breath hitched in your throat at the sound of his pants hitting the floor. With your eyes still locked to his, your heartbeat pounding in your ears, you wondered what you had gotten yourself into. Here you were, in front of your fully naked best friend – about to draw him.

Let me be your muse.

His words from earlier echoed in your mind as you tore your gaze from his face and dragged it lower, and lower, until…

Your head emptied. Your tongue felt about as dry as the beaches you had visited in Summer last year. Because the sight that beheld you was breath-taking.

The length between his legs, standing aroused and proud, really did make Rhysand’s portrait look like nothing.

A part of you had almost hoped that Azriel’s confidence had just been for show. That it was just his competitiveness shining through, a feat to best his brother.

The reality?

Monstruos would have been a fitting word had the sight not compelled you so. Had it not caused you to burn for him. Crave him.

Delicious seemed to be a better word to describe your friend. Beautiful. Mouth-watering. A thing of art.

Which is why you picked up your discarded charcoal and put it to the parchment.

You studied the planes of his body, the hard lines, the soft skin. The muscles that could have been carved by the Mother herself. You avoided looking at his face though, instead focusing on the various scars that marred his skin, telling stories of battles and fights. Of brawls with his brothers.

You felt him looking at you, however. He hadn’t stopped looking at you. Not since the sketch pad came into play.

It made it annoyingly hard to focus.

The scratching sound of charcoal on paper stopped.

“How long have we known each other?” Your voice wavered, mouth dry. You cleared your throat and raised your gaze to finally meet his.

Azriel tipped his head to the side, contemplating, “about 400 years.”

400 years. And never before had you seen him naked. Not like this. Not splayed out like a feast, waiting to be devoured. Not with his gaze so burning you were afraid it was going to singe your clothes to ashes.

“Right,” you mumbled, eyes flicking back down to your hands. They were smudged with soot, your thumb and index finger blackened, that lone shadow still curiously snaking around your wrist.

That is a very long time.

Azriel seemed to notice how the little confidence you had faltered, for he straightened somewhat from his leisurely sprawl.

“You okay?” There was only soft concern enveloping his words, a drastic change from the tension flooding the space between you just seconds before.

It was a very long time, indeed. So why didn’t this feel wrong?

You let out a deep breath, “yes, I think so.”

Your answer apparently didn’t settle his worries though, because he raised from the sofa and rounded the table between you.

You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him as he stopped in front of where you sat.

Only when he lowered his hand – fingers coming to rest under your chin, tipping you face up – did you meet his eye.

The heartbreaking concern written all over his face seized your heart. The soft furrow of his brow. The slight dip at the corners of his pouty lips. The brutal softness swimming in those hazel eyes.

It took your breath away.

“Are you sure?” He questioned, voice barely above a whisper.

You didn’t trust your voice, not with the vulnerable proximity between you. All you managed was a meager nod. A small up and down bob of your head.

His fingers tugged on your chin, and as if in a trance, you followed the wordless command and rose to your feet.

“I need you to use your words here, sweetheart,” his voice was soft, but the underlying command was undeniable, “please.”

Your heart was pounding in your chest as you swallowed and managed to breathe out “I’m okay.”

That seemed enough to ease Azriel’s concern, a breath of relief fanning across your face.

“Good,” he murmured, almost as if more to himself.

His eyes left yours, and flicked down. To your mouth, you realised, as his thumb moved from your chin up to graze your bottom lip.

That intensity was back in his gaze, that predatory focus – all directed at you. His thumb pulled at your lip before letting go, and the shudder that overtook your body could have made the earth shake.

There couldn’t be more than a foot of space between you.

So dangerously close.

He was your friend.

Right?

“400 years,” you whispered, eyes flicking down to follow the bob of his throat as he swallowed. “400 years of friendship.”

You felt light headed. 400 years, and all could be thrown away as easy as breathing. All you had to do was take half a step.

“Three,” Azriel’s voice grumbled above you as your eyes trailed down to inspect the shallow rise and fall of his chest.

“Hmm?” Your mumble was absent minded, your thoughts being too preoccupied by the male in front of you. What he would feel like. Taste like. The sounds he would make if you dipped your head and licked up the drops of sweat beading at the center of his chest.

“That’s how long I’ve loved you. Three hundred years.”

You froze.

The thickness coating Azriel’s voice was not something you were familiar with. Nor were the words he uttered.

Your gaze snapped up to his, scanning his features for any sign that he was, for some reason, making the cruellest joke in all of Pythian’s history. But all you found was open, unguarded truth.

Azriel loved you?

Azriel loved you.

The rapid beating of your heart was a stark contrast to just how very safe you felt. How right it seemed to take that half step forward. To cradle his face in your hand, the other coming to rest on that glorious chest – right over his own heart. And as you felt that wild drumming beneath his ribs echo your own, nothing seemed as easy as rising up on the tips of your toes and slotting your mouth against his.

The kiss was tentative, like the two of you were just dipping your toes in – testing the waters. You moved your lips against his, gently, savouring the feel of his pillowy lips. The feel of his body so close to yours. How the scent of him seemed to envelop you. You savoured how easily he took all of your senses hostage.

He was everywhere.

The sound of Azriel’s wings rustling behind him, the rapid beating of his heart in his chest, the taste of liquor on his lips – it intoxicated you in a way you didn’t know was possible.

You stayed like that, gently exploring each other's lips, savouring each other's closeness, until you had no other choice but to break away for air.

You pulled away only a few inches, rapid breaths fanning your faces. The pounding of your heart didn’t seize, and neither did his. You could feel every rapid beat under the hand still planted on his warm chest.

“Your heart is beating very fast,” you whispered, voice shaky from your breathlessness.

He swallowed, “It is.”

“So is mine,” you revealed.

“Yes, I can hear it.”

Oh.

“Will you kiss me again?” Your voice was so low, you wouldn’t have known he heard you if not for the strangled sound he let out.

Or for how he grabbed you by your waist and captured your lips with his.

This time the kiss was less gentle. This time he pressed your body against his as he devoured you. It was all tongues, and teeth, and needy gasps.

His teeth pulled on your bottom lip and you thanked the Mother he was holding you so tightly, for your knees almost gave out. A throaty groan escaped you as his hand cupped the back of your neck, angling your head upwards and deepening the kiss further.

Your own hands found his hair – and pulled. The deep rumbling in his chest and the way he moaned your name into the kiss was your undoing.

This kiss wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t tentative.

It was claiming.

And so you let him claim you.

Your clothes were quickly discarded as you laid down on the sofa, Azriel’s body on top of yours. And as you crashed together, entangled limbs and sworn promises, you let those 400 years of friendship, of tension, of longing dictate the start of this new chapter.

A chapter of what would hopefully be 400 years of something more.

Want to be added to my taglist?

tags: @missus-shadowsinger

#acotar #azriel #azriel x reader #azriel acotar #azriel shadowsinger #azriel x you #a court of thorns and roses #azriel fluff #azriel fanfic #azriel imagine

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jewish-microwave-laser · 1 month

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on the shabbat night of august 23, 1929, and into the following day (18 av 5689), riots broke out in the city of hebron (khevron/al-khalil) in response to disinformation spread that jews in british mandate palestine were going to take over the haram el-sharif/temple mount [1], which was building off a feeling of societal imbalance following the recent influx of ashenazim who had emigrated there to attend the sladboka yeshiva four years before [2]. this disinformation was fomented by outright calls for violence by many religious and bureaucratic leaders of the area [3]. rabbi ya'akov slonim and a sefardic rabbi named franko tried to ask for help in the hours before, fearing the worst, but they were turned away [4]

the massacre began with arab youths throwing rocks at a group of jewish yeshiva students, with the first death occurring that night when some of those youths broke into the yeshiva to find shmuel rozenholtz, age 23, alone and studying, and killed him as he read [5]

the group went house to house, killing and mutilating and raping as many jews as they could come upon. at one point, they approached the son rabbi slonim, eliezer dan slonim, and told him that if he agreed to hand over all the ashkenazi yeshiva students who were sheltering in his house, then they would spare the sefardim from their attacks [6]. slonim, who was well known in the community for being an activist for improving the relations between the arab and jewish populations in the region, responded "we jews are one," and refused [7]. he and about 40 other jews (who had been davening (praying) at the time) were killed in that home [5]

at the end of the massacre, almost 70 jews lay dead (the counts are usually either 67 or 69, depending), and countless more were gravely wounded and raped, and many were left with life-altering mental and/or physical injuries from the event. this event marked the end of the mostly peaceful coexistence between arabs and jews in the city (though it was by no means a utopia) that had gone on for hundreds of years. it is important to remember, however, that "some 400 jews were saved by their arab neighbors" [8]

may the memories of those whose lives were lost on that day, and of the survivors of the massacre who have died since, be for a blessing to us all

[1] https://www.worldjewishcongress.org/en/news/this-week-in-jewish-history--massacre-in-hebron-kills-67-8-3-2020

[2] https://www.jpost.com/israel-news/article-756156

[3] https://www.nli.org.il/en/newspapers/plb/1929/09/08/01/article/11/?e=-------en-20--1--img-txIN%7ctxTI--------------1%5d

[4] http://pdfs.jta.org/1929/1929-09-01_1455.pdf - let me know if you can't read this and i'll transcribe the article for you

[5] http://en.hebron.org.il/history/1270 - oded avisar, who compiled the first hand testimonies written out here, uses some words that would not be considered proper today to describe the arab perpetrators. this source also has some very graphic descriptions and photos of what happened. if any of that is something that may bother you it may be a good idea to look over this source

[6] https://www.jewishvirtuallibrary.org/the-hebron-massacre-of-1929

[7] http://en.hebron.org.il/history/520

[8] yossi klein halevi, letters to my palestinian neighbor, pg 77

#jumblr #חברון #الخليل #טבח חברון #مذبحة الخليل #hebron massacre #sources cited #antisemitism tw #religious antisemitism #עם ישראל חי #היסטוריה של עם ישראל #היסטוריה של מדינת ישראל #היסטוריה של ציונות #היסטוריה של ארץ ישראל #jewish history #pogroms

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thegoldencontracts · 3 months

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What's In A Bird: The Topsy-Turvy Ceremony

Many folks say that the freshmen of Night Raven College grow odder and odder by the year. And, of course, in this year, Riddle Rosehearts, Ruggie Bucchi, Azul Ashengrotto, Jade Leech, Floyd Leech, Jamil Viper, Silver, and one transfer student soon to arrive from Royal Sword Academy - Kalim Al Asim - will prove this notion correct for yet another year.

Length: 2.4k words

Notes: A fic of the sophomores in freshman year like I promised, at last! Here's to hoping this doesn't completely flop. Let me know if you'd like to be tagged!

This also serves as a kind of 400 follower special (not really though), I'm very grateful to everyone who's supported my fics, and feel free to send in any requests for this series! Anyways, on with the fic.

It was a known fact among the students and staff of Night Raven College that every single year of freshmen was odder than the last. For the one-hundred years or so that Dire Crowley had been headmage, he had never once been proven wrong.

And it seemed as if the headmage would be proven right once more.

This year's freshmen were all an odd bunch, it seemed. Divus looked over them scrutinizingly.

"Have any of them caught your attention?" Mozus asked. "I for one find the notion that you've deigned to pay attention to the ceremony and ensure no mishaps occur for once much too good to be true."

Divus merely sighed.

"The ceremony's going wrong either way, no need to be so uptight about 'supervision', or whatnot. The pups'll turn out just fine."

Mozus scoffed.

"Even some of our incoming freshmen have more responsibility than you, it seems," he said.

"Like that one redhead?"

It was so odd how - despite red being a common hair color - they immediately knew which boy Divus was referring to. Oh, Dire was so magnanimous for putting up with all these peculiar students!

"All of you, get in line at once, or it shall be Off With Your Head!" said the redhead boy in question. Threatening to- chop people's heads off? How odd.

Dire knew his name; like the kind and attentive headmage he was, he always cared for his students!

Yes - Puzzle Flowershape. Something like that.

"Riddle Rosehearts, no?" Mozus said. Close enough! "He's a rather good student from what I've seen."

Come to think of it, why were so many of the freshmen wearing clunky looking collars? That was a horrible fashion choice, was it not?

Oh, well. Dire would put up with that terrible fashion choice. The things he did for his students!

"Those things around their neck'll really get in the way of their exercise!" Ashton scoffed. "It looks like I'll have to teach these kids the proper way to dress for maximum power!"

"It looks like those kids have no magical aura! The collar's a curse, now isn't that tragic?" Sam said. "I'll be there if those poor kids need any help undoing that curse of theirs."

"I do hope you'll provide the aid for free?"

"No promises!" Sam said, before looking at the students in curiosity.

A few seconds later, Sam pointed to two of the students in the crowd.

"Those two seem smart," he said, pointing first to a hyena beastman, then to a grey-haired boy. By sharp, of course, Sam was referring to business-smart. There was quite a difference between that, and academic prowess. The hyena boy only seemed to possess the second with those wide eyes of his, and the grey-haired boy, hiding behind two identical twins, seemed to possess neither.

Of course, Dire was a kind man. He'd give Sam a chance to explain his reasoning.

"Are you certain?" Dire asked. Sam merely nodded with a chuckle.

"Clever hawks hide their talons, you know," he said. That was true.

And, come to think of it, the boy's behavior still required observing.

"Hey there," said the boy to the Pomefiore Housewarden. "I got you that makeup you wanted."

How exactly had he acquired that brand? Dire vaguely recalled some talk of how difficult it was to acquire. Truly, he was such a good headmage, always listening to his students!

"Thanks," said the Pomefiore Housewarden in turn, handing the hyena boy a massive wad of cash. How- How had the boy already acquired that much money?

"Those wide, shrunken eyes are likely a product of a lack of access to food," Sam said. Come to think of it, the boy was, well, a hyena. Did that not mean he was from the slums? And, considering the ingenuity required to survive in the slums as a mage, well-

"You're quite right!" he said with a laugh. "But what of the other boy?"

Of an average, unremarkable height, and a frail stature, the grey-haired boy had lodged himself between two twins.

"We should be looking at those two!" Ashton said, pointing to the tall, muscular twin boys. "They'd be great for the basketball team with those athletic reflexes of theirs!"

It would be best to observe first before coming to judgments,

"Dude," said one of the twins, practically shoving the phone into the grey-haired boy's face. "Check out this rare pepe."

The grey-haired boy scoffed, pushing the phone away with a scowl.

"The only thing I'll be 'checking out' is the socials of our peers," he said. "And the picture of the dearest headmage looking at cat photos while a student is attempting to get his attention," said the other twin.

How- How had they even seen that? Dire would have to do whatever it took to ensure that photo for the sake of avoiding bad PR- er, avoiding the entirely false notion that he was anything less than a kind-hearted and diligent headmage who would never ignore his students!

"I think you understand what I mean now," Sam said.

"Indeed," said Dire. "To think, he'd so viciously use photoshop to make it seem as if I'd ever do such a thing!"

"You would," Mozus said. "I find myself more concerned with how exactly they attained that picture."

However, before any further discussion could occur, a shriek was heard.

"Ugh!" said one of the twin boys - the droopy-eyed one. "This is boring."

That was never a good sign. 'This is boring' was the last thing said before the ceremony had gone wrong ten years ago, or twenty-three years ago, or thiry-five years ago, or fourty-two years ago, or fifty-two years ago, or during one of those ceremonies over sixty years ago that Dire had forgetten about.

Out of all the phrases said before ceremonies had gone wrong, 'This is boring' was - by far - the most common.

"Hey!" the droopy-eyed boy said, eyes on that one redhead who was surrounded by students in collars. "You look interesting, Goldfishie."

"My name is Riddle Rosehearts, not 'Goldfishie'," said the redheaded boy, Riddle. "And you'd do well to return to your place in the line."

"Nah," said the droopy-eyed boy, flicking his pen and causing a vine to settle itself on the ground. "Hey, this stuff's pretty cool!"

"I will not stand for this insolence! Off With Your Head!"

A collar wrapped itself around the droopy-eyed boy's neck.

"H-Huh?" he said, pulling at it in confusion. Riddle smirked.

"I warned you," he said. So that was what he meant by 'off with your head'. "You've broken the rules, and now you must-"

And then the fire-bolt was hurled.

It was a terrible, terrible thing, catching fire on the conjured vine and spreading further from there, sending students fleeing.

"Holy shit, dude!" the droopy-eyed boy said, eyes sparkling with glee. "You really are interesting, Goldfishie!"

Riddle had been the one to send the fire-bolt? This whole thing was simply growing more and more absurd!

"I didn't send that!" Cried Riddle.

...T-Then who had?

"Dire," Divus said through grit teeth. "Our top priority right now is ensuring no one gets burned. We can figure out which naughty pup did this later."

That was true. There was a bit of panicking, to say the least.

Which was to say that every student was in a frenzy.

"We're all gonna die!"

"I'm too young for this, Lord Hades! Spare me!"

"Take him instead!"

"H-Hey, don't take me, take him!"

"Are you going to put out the fire, or what?" Divus said, tapping his foot impatiently. Dire could somewhat hear him over the sound of screams.

"What have you done, Floyd?" said the grey-haired boy. "From now on we'll all be labelled as delinquents!" "Hey!" The droopy-eyed boy - Floyd - said. "Don't blame me for that thing, Azul!"

Azul just sighed.

"Jade, was this your doing?"

The other twin - Jade - shook his head.

"I do look forward to seeing the face of the man who disrupted the ceremony in such a manner," he said with a laugh.

Those three were odd. But even odder was the raven-haired boy who seemed entirely calm in the midst of the mess, merely putting out the fire gathering around him.

"Hello there," he said without so much as a glance as the hyena-beastman approached him.

"Heeeyyyy there, bud!" The hyena boy said. "You seem- not freaked out."

"My name is Jamil Viper," said the raven-haired boy - Jamil - almost robotically. "Please do not concern yourself with my affairs. I am but a humble se-"

And all of a sudden, Jamil snapped out of his robotic little monologue, looking down at his hands in shock.

"Nevermind," he said, mumbling a smug "I'm free for now" underneath his breath. The hyena boy blinked in confusion.

"What?"

"Nothing, nothing," Jamil said. "What's your name?"

"Ruggie," Ruggie answered hastily. "And what's got you so calm? Isn't the school on fire or something? Don't tell me-"

Ruggie flashed a conspiratorial grin.

"Did you start it?" He asked. Jamil shook his head.

"I didn't," he said. "This just isn't all that severe an emergency. We'll put out the fire with ease."

With ease? By himself? Was Jamil not a mere freshman? He knew naught but basic magic, certainly not enough to put out a fire as big as this one!

"Uh, putting it out ourselves?" Ruggie said. "Don't you wanna get like, the headmage or something- Oh, hey there, headmage!" Ruggie shouted in an attempt to be heard through the screams of other students.

Ruggie had finally noticed him, it seemed.

"Hello, esteemed students!" Dire said. "My name is Dire Crowley, headmage of Night Raven College, a-"

"Can you put out the fire?" Ruggie shouted. Why did no one wish to hear about his extremely important information?

"Yes, yes, of course," Dire said. "I will put out the fire."

But he didn't have to. Divus was already there, getting the students attention with the crack of his whip.

"Pups!" he said. "No need to panic. The fire will be put out shortly. Next time any such emergency occurs, I expect you all to follow the procedure constantly taught to you during fire drills instead of flailing around like blind chihuahuas."

A thin sheet of water was summoned upon the floor, Divus flicked his magic-pen. The fire was put out. Phew.

Floyd raised his hand.

"Yes?" Divus asked.

"What's a fire drill?"

"Keep quiet, Floyd," Azul hissed to him in what he likely thought was so quiet no one could hear. However, on top of immense magnanimity and diligence, Dire also had impeccable hearing. One of the many blessings of being a fae, before turning to the Octavinelle housewarden. "I apologize for any inconvenience you've been caused."

He knew he was going to be sorted into Octavinelle, didn't he? Azul was most likely correct about that. However, it would be rather comedic if he was sorted somewhere else.

"You'd do well to apologize to everyone, er- Floyd," said Riddle. "I shall take off the collar if you can prove you've thoroughly repented."

"Uh," Floyd paused, before going completely off-topic. "I think the guppy that's under the chair next to me leg should wake up."

Riddle looked at him incredulously.

"What in the name of the Seven are you blathering on about-" A glance underneath the chair next to Floyd's leg revealed a silver-haired boy, a thin shield of water conjured around him.

Smart.

He'd fallen asleep though.

Ruggie creeped over towards the silver-haired boy, shaking his shoulders awkwardly.

"You good?" Jamil motioned for him to stop.

"He likely has some underlying condition," he said. "I'd wager it's magically induced narcolepsy."

All the oddest freshmen, gathered in one place while the others celebrated the fact that they weren't dead. How- quaint.

A few seconds later, the silver-haired boy's eyes fluttered open, as he took a second to process his surroundings.

"H-Huh?" he said, before realizing what had happened. "E-Er, apologies."

"Please prepare yourself for sorting," Riddle said, voice much less snippy than it ordinarily was. "You've managed to wake up just in time."

"T-Thank you," said the silver-haired boy. The quiet sort, it seemed.

"You really ought to get back in line yourself, dearest Riddle!" said Azul, bearing a saccharine grin.

"The same would go for you, I believe," said Jade with a grin even more sickly sweet. Azul groaned.

"Tell Floyd that."

"Yeah, yeah," Floyd said. "I'm gettin' in line."

Azul glared at him. "And I'm sorry," he said, despite the fact that he clearly didn't want to. Azul looked at Riddle expectantly. Riddle merely sighed.

"I wouldn't call this thorough repenting," he said.

"Please remove the collar from my business partner's neck." Business partners? Was that was kids these days callhed their friends? Dire had clearly fallen behind on trends.

Riddle scoffed.

"Have him apologize to me personally first," he said. Floyd rolled his eyes.

"Stop talking' about me like I'm not here."

"I do believe that collar restricts your magic, dearest brother." And all of a sudden, Floyd had become the most positively contrite person to ever grace Twisted Wonderland.

"I'm so, so sorry," he said through sniffles. "I'll never do it again, honest!"

It was only when Floyd conjured a ukelele that Riddle finally backed down, removing the collar.

"T-That's more than enough!" he said. "I do hope you've learned from this."

But Floyd wasn't listening.

"Whoo!" he said, all contriteness gone from sight. Floyd was quite the good actor, thought Dire idly.

"Get back in line quickly, pups," said Divus with the crack of a whip. The students scrambled to fall in line.

Well then, at least the chaotic part of the ceremony was over.

--------

A few hours later, the sorting was over. And frankly, Dire was most interested in the positions of seven particular students.

"The Rosehearts boy was placed in Heartslabyul," Mozus said in the break-room, sipping on a cup of tea.

"No one was shocked by that," said Divus. "The sortings were quite obvious. Bucchi in Savannaclaw, Viper in Scarabia, Ashengrotto and Leech in Octavinelle, and Silver in Diasomnia. And that means-" he turned to Dire. Curses. "I won all the bets. Pay up."

His poor wallet was aching, crying out in pain!

"Fine, fine," said Dire, forced to cruelly rip those precious thaumarks from their home in his wallet. "Here you are."

Mozus sighed.

"This school is known as Night Raven College," he said. "I was under the impression that - despite their mischievousness, ravens are smart. Not foolish enough to start fires before the first day."

Dire merely laughed.

"Well, Mozus," he said. "Do recall the old adage 'What's in a name'? The name of the school won't change the intellect of our students!"

"Yes, yes."

"So tell me," he continued.

"What's in a bird?"

#riddle rosehearts #ruggie bucchi #azul ashengrotto #floyd leech #jade leech #jamil viper #silver #silver vanrouge #dire crowley #mozus trein #divus crewel #ashton vargas #sam #twisted wonderland #twst fanfic #fanfiction

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mediacircuspod · 1 year

Text

AJ Crowley vs Forgiveness

I need to talk about Crowley for a minute so buckle up or move on.

"It’s not so bad once you get used to it” from Season 1 Episode 1 and an early chapter of the book is something of a throwaway joke. But being damned isn't much of a joke to Crowley, even if he makes jokes to cover it up.

The first thing to understand is that damnation doesn’t end after Crowley either saunters vaguely downwards or is dropped into a burning pile of sulfur(conflicting accounts from the demon himself). Being damned is a continuous state of being AND something that could very well happen to him again.

He was too ambitious for heaven—too curious. Something that he now knows is distinctly not a heavenly virtue. It’s just that those traits are also not virtues in hell either. And on top of that—he’s good.

Which in his particular role, is an extremely dangerous thing to be. So he isn’t good, and he isn’t nice and he doesn’t feel trite things like empathy or love. Except that he knows intrinsically that all of that is utter bullshit. And if anyone who isn’t Aziraphale realizes this, he doesn’t really know what falling from hell would be like, but he doesn't want to be the first.

Another thing to remember is that Crowley doesn’t understand why he was cast out. He understands that it was the questions, that it was his ambition to try and suggest improvements, but he can’t understand why. And the shame of that being yet another question is not lost on him.

The resentment there that has festered for millennia is understandable and expected and HES RIGHT TO FEEL IT. And it’s the reason why he has such a negative reaction to the concept of “forgiveness” but has a relatively amicable relationship with apologies. And I know this is going to sound crazy after nearly 400 words, but this is the actual concept I want to dissect.

Because Aziraphale’s “I forgive you”s of the past have never gotten a good response, but they’ve also never gotten a “don’t bother”. Aziraphale uses that phrase specifically against Crowley when he needs to put distance between them. When he knows that Crowley is right. And Crowley knows that Aziraphale uses that phrase for exactly that purpose because they have being playing their parts for thousands of years. And he’s always been willing to wait in the past. The dance begins with Crowley challenging Aziraphale with something tempting.

The Great plan is dumb. What if we just left together? You’re being dumb. (I need to link that one Tumblr post that inspired this, just look at this.) Here.

And finally, desperately, This is what you’re giving up. Because Crowley doesn’t actually think it will work. He may hope it does. But he has played his part for long enough to know exactly what Aziraphale’s next line will be. And it still devastates him. And well, it’s his decision to be done waiting for Aziraphale to catch up. Being “too fast” has been his insecurity for too long, and he’s done slowing down just so Aziraphale can try and forgive him. He still doesn’t know why what he is, is wrong.

(He isn’t)(I mean he certainly makes some unhealthy choices, and he isn’t exactly completely in the right, but he’s NOT wrong.)(Running away together ISNT the right move, but it is the more romantic one so take that as you will.)

The part that makes my brain buzz is that this aversion to forgiveness does not apply to apologies. Specifically it does not apply to the phrase “I was wrong” or "you were right" or the little dance.

This. Is. Interesting.

He doesn’t have a problem with apologizing, and he doesn’t have a problem accepting apologies from Aziraphale if that wonderful scene is to be taken at face value. The fact that the 1941 apology dance wasn’t shown is actually a crime, and you can’t convince me otherwise. And I think this is specifically because he’s not actually averse to forgiveness on the whole. It’s the idea that he needs forgiveness for simply being who he is that actually bothers him. And well. I guess he was tired of Aziraphale pretending that the concept had merit, too.

For four years he's had the freedom to be exactly who he is without the fear of damnation even if he still has the baggage that went along with the first time it happened to him. And even though Aziraphale doesn't realize it, he's asking Crowley to do something impossible for him. He's asking Crowley to admit that he needs forgiveness, and come back to heaven.

Aziraphale assumes that Crowley would not only want that, but that being with Aziraphale would make it even better. But what the angel has actually done, is give Crowley's deepest insecurity wings. And given him a reason to step away from their millennia long dance.

Because Crowley has finally, finally, finally, found something that he can't give up for Aziraphale. It's extremely poetic that that thing happens to be himself.

And okay now I’m done. I’m gonna go scream into a void.

#good omens meta #good omens spoilers #good omens 2 #good omens 2 spoilers #go 2 spoilers #go2 spoilers #Aziraphale #crowley #crowley and aziraphale #ineffable husbands #aziracrow

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hanafubukki · 2 months

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https://x.com/yuanw3i/status/1763617363168006529?s=20

Oh god , this is making me cackle and sad 💖

Cause this means Silver is the calm older child and Malleus is the younger brother who is so spoiled that he is throwing tantrum to save his family! Like he needs someone to slap his senses!!!!

Hello Sayo and Anonie 💚🌺🌸

I talked a bit about the sibling dynamics between Malleus and Silver in this post and I talked about Lilia’s parenting of them in this post (both of these posts were released before chapter 5 and 6 update in twst jp book 7)

So now’s a good time as any to update those posts a bit, though points from there still apply here.

Even if we count Silver sleeping thus making him over 400+, I don’t think their dynamics just equates to one is older than the other thus their actions equate to the “older/younger” sibling dynamic because of age.

I think it’s more based on behavior than anything. Honestly for me, while Malleus’ actions might seem spoiled and seems he’s throwing a tantrum to save his family while Silver might seem the calm one trying to stop him. It’s a matter of perspective 🤔

Malleus who was raised to be king and to be perfect, who couldn’t make mistakes, who saw Lilia change from his young years to now, who taught Sebek and Silver, and who as time went on, closed himself off still gives me the older of the two sibling dynamic. Especially when you consider that Malleus OB can be considered when the “older child” finally breaks after being under pressure for years.

Silver also still gives me the younger sibling vibes. He was raised by Lilia, Malleus, and the Zigvolts. He had expectations that he placed on himself because of this as well. Because of who his father is and who Malleus is. He also is more observant when it comes to Malleus as siblings are.

Both of them are aware of each other, comfort the other, and confide to each other, etc. as siblings do.

They want to help the one they care about. Malleus did OB after all because of how much he cares for Silver. Silver is rebelling against Malleus because this isn’t what Lilia would have wanted plus the fact that it’s literally going to kill Malleus.

Silver, I wouldn’t say is the calm one either, he’s able to hide his emotions (gee I wonder where he learned that from 🤦‍♀️), he also placed these burdens on himself that no one forced on him but because of his own perception.

While I believe that the older and younger sibling dynamic still falls on Malleus and Silver respectively.

I won’t say their dynamic is black and white in that way, in fact, I won’t say any sibling dynamics is black and white but more of a gray scale.

I say this as someone who is a younger sibling who has the responsibilities the “older siblings” usually does.

They both care for the other. Both show their protectiveness towards the other and their family in their own ways. They both have their own perception of their role in the family. They both have their views on certain topics and what they believe they are doing is right or wrong. And currently, those views are clashing. (To say it very simply).

Honestly, it just comes down to siblings being well siblings. They might not say it out loud that they are brothers, but their actions speak more than words will ever do.

They love each other and sometimes siblings clash and need their opinions heard and a few good punches need to be given 🤣

But everything will be alright in the end, because they love each other.

Now, let’s talk about Lilia’s parenting. Lilia’s parenting is…well, he tries his best and honestly, for his boys, that’s enough. (To a certain point)

There’s, of course, traits of the whole “raised the first one perfectly and the second one with more freedom as mentioned in the linked posts.

But Lilia raised them both the best he could with what he knew and his his abilities and what he didn’t? He learned, but that doesn’t mean he changed entirely.

With Malleus, Lilia was young and he raised and taught him what he could with his limitations. He learned to love because of Malleus. His world view changed because of Malleus. He accepted his ability to love and have love be returned because of him.

He also has to help Malleus and teach him how to act like a prince and future king when Malleus got older and more powerful. He was one of the few that Malleus would listen to after all.

But Lilia also learned from Malleus, how to savor food, the joy of spending time with others, and the joy of seeing someone smile. He helped Malleus get dressed. He taught Malleus about humans.

He loved and raised him as much as he was able.

With Silver, Lilia had more freedom, but remember that humans are different from fae. So Lilia had to learn that as well. He read books and what food would be good for humans. He had to learn about the difference in development of a human as well.

But that’s not to say, he did that all perfectly. He has help. Malleus who would make sure Silver was fed adequately and taught him magic and how to dance.

Be it fae or human, Lilia did learn, even though he was more “lenient” in raising Silver.

But what never changed was his ideals, he made sure that Malleus, Silver, and Sebek would be able to defends themselves. They would be able to survive without him. They can fend for themselves. He did what he knew best and what worked for him he did it for them. Because if he could survive and prosper these way, then so could they.

Lilia ‘seem’ to have a nonchalant attitude when it came to raising Silver versus Malleus. But the situations were different for both.

But is it really him being aloof? Or was it for him learning and caring the best way he could? And adapting? After all, like with the bat from the dorm card, Lilia wants his boys to be able to survive and thrive independently and this was his way of doing it.

But yeah 🤣 I still do agree that Lilia did take a more…carefree attitude with baby Silver before being lectured.

Thank you for sending this in Sayo and Anonie 💞💚

I always love talking about them and hearing what others think ☺️🥰

#answered #🌺Sayo🌺#Anonie ask #lilia vanrouge #malleus draconia #twst silver #diasomnia #twst analysis #twst character analysis #twisted wonderland

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philistiniphagottini · 4 months

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congratulations on 400 followers!!! 🫶 sending love from all anons teehee

if domestic bliss was still open, i’d love to make a request since there’s a lack of fem characters. so long as its open ofc!! i was torn between kafka and firefly (and i’m also open to blade).. i was hoping you could choose between whoever you felt most up-to writing with the nail polish prompt :> either female reader doing blade/kafka’s nails, or firefly doing ours please? if i’m too late then i understand ❤ THANK YOU SM even for reading this and considering, i hope your day is going very well <333🫶🫶

Hi! Thank you so much for the love, I appreciate it <3 Not gonna lie, I had trouble choosing because I had an idea for all the characters but I picked Kafka so I can have some practice writing her. Thanks again, I hope to see you around.

cw. fluff, female reader

Domestic Bliss

It was early in the evening when Kafka decided to drape herself over you. You were just simply relaxing on the couch, playing a game on your phone when she sauntered up to you and practically fell into your lap. The couch shifted from her sudden weight as she threw her legs over yours, squishing herself into your side as she peered over to look at your phone screen. You could see her reflection on the screen and the subtle purse of her plump lips told you in an instance that she wanted something. You did not even have to ask, she would let you know what she desired. She idly curled a lock of your hair around her finger, her gaze lidded as her lips parted around a sultry purr of your name.

“Dearest” she said, her voice barely above a breathy whisper. “Would you so kindly do my nails for me again? I adore how you paint them.”

She kissed the wisps of your hair that weaved around her slender fingers, her nails sharp like daggers as she playfully wriggled them in your line of sight. A soft hum bubbled up your throat as her cloying words sank deep into your bones, ringing in your ears like a chime from a shimmering bell. You nodded in response to her words, head already feeling giddy at the thought of painting her nails again.

“Sure, just let me go get my kit.”

You leaned forward and pecked her on the cheek, a soft chuckle breezing past her lips as she purred like a contented cat. You put your phone to the side and gently tapped her legs. She moved and allowed you to wriggle out from underneath her so you could fetch the nail polish. You were only gone for a moment before you wandered back to her, a small box in your hands and a beaming smile stretching your lips. You dragged a small, wooden table in front of Kafka, getting her to rest her hand upon it as you sat down on the other side. You started to rummage around the box, bottles of nail polish softly clicking together as you dug around.

“What colour do you want?” you inquired.

Kafka hummed in thought before she shrugged. “How about you decide.”

You nodded as you picked up a few bottles of purple and pink from the array of colours littering the box. A small noise rumbled in your chest as you brought the different bottles close to her face, trying to best match the magenta colour of her lipstick. Once you were satisfied that you found one you put the others away only to pick out one of bottles of bright, glittering polish.

“I think I'll do two coats” you mused as you started to shake the bottle of nail polish. “I'll put the magenta as the base and the glitter as the top coat. How does that sound?”

“Suits me just fine.”

You smiled in response as you popped the lid of the bottle and set about your task. Kafka's nails were always immaculately manicured, not a single chip in her long nails and always sharpened like the claws of a predator. They were the perfect canvas to paint as you started to apply the coat of nail polish. She sat perfectly still for you, eyes shimmering in amusement and a coy smile tilting her lips as she watched you concentrate. She could paint her own nails if she wanted to, but it wasn't the same as when you did it. You were always so delicate with her, not a single mean bone in your body as you applied the nail polish with such a softness that she barely even felt a thing. She offered you her other hand when you asked for it and continued to watch you work with mild fascination. You were good at what you did and it was obvious with every single stroke of the brush. You were wearing a bright smile once you were done with applying both coats, allowing Kafka to have her hands back.

“Done!” you exclaimed.

Kafka held her hands up to the light, admiring the way her nails shimmered and sparkled like jewels.

“Well done” she praised.

Before you could put the nail polish away she snatched both bottles off the table, an expectant look in her eyes as she gestured to you.

“Now, it's your turn. We need to match” she cooed.

#my writing #request #follower milestone #hsr #honkai star rail #hsr x reader #honkai star rail fluff #hsr kafka #kafka x reader #hsr kafka x reader #x reader #fem!reader

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whatsnewalycat · 1 year

Text

Passenger / Chapter 2

Pairing: Trucker!Din Djarin AU x OFC Charlie Wanderlust

Chapter Two: NY -> IL

[ Previous Chapter ][ Series Masterlist ][ Next Chapter ]

Series Summary: In her time tramping across the United States, Charlie Wanderlust has found life on the road to be challenging, but rewarding. When she makes enemies with a powerful figure, a bounty is put out for her capture. Din Djarin, a long-haul trucker and occasional bounty hunter, takes the job as a means to gain financial stability. Their paths cross, and as a result, the winding route of their lives are forever altered.

Rating: Explicit (18+ only)

Word Count: 4.7k+

Content / Warnings: modern-day au, alternating pov, second person pov, slow burn, vagabond ofc, dog grogu, enemies to lovers, bounty hunting, selling drugs, being held captive, handcuffs, swearing, lack of privacy and autonomy, food mention, urination mention, death threat, knife mention, gun mention, passive and massive aggression

Notes: Let me know what you think, thank you for reading!!

If there’s one thing you’ve learned about this guy in the day or so since he abducted you, it’s that he’s quiet.

Now, when you say he’s quiet, you don’t mean he shuts down your questions with one word answers, or that he’s timid, or anything like that. You mean he has not acknowledged your presence since locking you into the bucket seat in his sleeper cab yesterday.

He ignores everything you say. It’s not for lack of trying on your part, either. So far this morning, you’ve attempted:

“Is there a toilet in here?”

“I’m hungry.”

“What’s your name?”

“Where are you taking me?”

“It’s Portland, isn’t it?”

“I have to pee.”

“Do you have a radio?”

“Like a music radio, not the CB.”

“Don’t you get bored in here?”

“I’m thirsty.”

“What’s your dogs name?”

“Can I pet him?”

“I’m gonna pet him.”

“Seriously I think my bladder is gonna explode.”

In response? Nothing. Radio fucking silence. He has talked to his dog more than he has to you.

To be fair, his dog is very cute and lovable. Probably a better conversationalist than his human, too. The white French Bulldog has been your only source of entertainment and socialization since coming onboard.

Meanwhile, all of your other needs are being pointedly rejected.

You think that him keeping you locked in this five-point harness without access to food, water, or a bathroom might be punishment for your vitriol yesterday. At that point, you were still in the “anger” stage of grieving your freedom, and may or may not have spit at him after calling him a fascist fucking bootlicker.

In your defense, he fucking abducted you. You’re 99% sure he’s bringing you to Portland to collect a bounty on your head. What did he say yesterday?

“I can bring you in warm, or I can bring you in cold.”

Dead or alive.

If he doesn’t murder you before your arrival, that will come shortly after. You know it. All the people you went into that warehouse with are now unreachable.

The last one you talked to was Cheese, and that was over two weeks ago. They told you everyone else was gone. Plucked off, one by one. Some of them turned up dead of an overdose a few days after disappearing. Others are still missing. Probably in the lost and found bin of a morgue or rotting under a bridge somewhere.

If you don’t get the fuck out of here, that will be you.

The truck rapidly drops speed as your captor hits the brakes and starts downshifting gears. Only a small slice of the outside word is visible from your place behind the passenger’s seat, but you see signs off the exit he’s taking. You recognize one as New York State Route 400.

“Please tell me we’re stopping to use the bathroom.”

He doesn’t respond, so you stare daggers at his ear and cross your arms over your chest. Relief quickly melts your frustration when you see a Marathon gas station sign.

The man parks his rig on the furthest edge of the parking lot. When he swings his legs into the aisle between the driver and passenger seat and rises, your whole body tenses. His eyes are concealed by the mirrored lenses of his aviators, but you can feel his assessing gaze.

He takes a few steps towards you and crouches down, pulling the handcuffs from their case on his belt, then holds his hand out to you.

“What?”

His head tilts to the side. Like he’s fucking annoyed or something. A flash of red burns your vision.

“Oh my god I can’t with you,” you roll your eyes, then blink at him, “Just use your words, tell me what you want me t—hey!”

He wrestles your wrist away from you, closing one handcuff around it, the other around a bolted-down grab bar on the wall beside you. All you can do for a moment is stare at your wrist and think: He is going to kill me.

Before you can fully comprehend the thought, the man slides a key into the base of your seat and unlocks the harness, then stands.

“Latrine under the seat,” he advises while clipping the dog’s leash onto his collar.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

He doesn’t react. Just plucks his dog off the passenger’s seat and leaves, slamming the door behind him.

The second stillness settles in the cab, it dawns on you that you’re alone.

You jump to your feet and pull your weight against the handcuff, trying to yank yourself out. The metal ring crushes the bulk of your hand, digging hard into your skin. It refuses to budge.

If you break your hand, it could be possible, but you don’t want to resort to that just yet. You dig in your pockets and run your free hand through your hair, looking for bobby pins you could use to pick the lock, but don’t find any.

Next, you wrap your hands around the cool grab bar and pull as hard as you can. Nothing. Even when you prop a foot on the wall and yank violently, using your weight, it holds solid to the wall.

Your bladder aches from neglect and sends an urgent notice to you brain. With a frown of disdain, you open the drawer under the bucket seat. Just like he said, there’s a shiny metal latrine. An old-timey piss pot.

If you don’t relieve yourself soon, you’ll have to pee your pants or pop a squat in front of the fucking lunatic keeping you captive.

So… you piss in the pot.

When he returns, he wordlessly trades the dog for the latrine and empties it on the asphalt, then slides it across the floor to you and slams the door shut. You put it away and plop down in the bucket seat with a huff.

The pocket knife in your bra pokes into you, as if to remind you of its presence. It’s a fucking miracle he didn’t find it while searching you. You could try to pick the handcuff lock with its blade, but don’t know where he is and when he’ll be back.

If you’re going to make it out of this alive, you have to play it smart. You have to be patient and wait for the right opportunity.

The dog, who was busy whining for a bit after his person left, eventually joins you in the sleeper cab.

“He’s kind of a dick, isn’t he?”

His big satellite ears perk up. He jumps on the bed and looks at you.

“You seem nice, though,” you smirk, holding your hand out to the little bug-eyed pup, who sniffs you enthusiastically, “What’re you doing with a maniac like him?”

He lets out a huffy sneeze, then stretches his hind legs out behind him, flopping down onto the the thin mattress.

“Are you being held against your will, too?”

He grumbles and rolls onto his back. His floppy jowls sag from gravity, pink tongue hanging out the side. You snort at him and scratch his belly. His hind leg start kicking and his eyes squint with delight.

You fawn over him for a few minutes before the driver’s door swings open. Upon seeing him, the dog flips over and springs into the passenger’s seat, spinning in circles, letting out little sneezes of excitement.

Your captor pulls himself up into the truck and swings the door shut. He makes his way back to the sleeper portion of the trailer and drops a grease-stained fast food bag on the bed. While he moves about the cabin, rummaging through overhead storage for a gallon jug of water and a dog bowl, you eye his broad frame.

Sure, he’s stronger than you and faster than you, but if you had the element of surprise on your side, you might be able to take him down and escape. Maybe you could hit him in the head with the piss pot and knock him out. Or stab him.

Your skin tingles where the pocket knife is hidden, and you think: I really could stab him.

RULE #8: Take care of yourself.

The idea makes you shudder. It goes on the back burner for now.

The dog jumps down to the floor and starts lapping at the water his person pours into the dog bowl. You stare at the water and suddenly remember how fucking thirsty you are.

“Can I have some?” you ask.

The man rises and looks from you, to the gallon jug, then holds it out to you.

You raise an eyebrow, “Straight outta the jug?”

He doesn’t acknowledge the question, so you shrug and take it from him, muttering, “You know, usually when someone says something to you, it’s customary to respond. That’s how conversations work.”

Once again, he ignores you.

You roll your eyes and bring the jug to your lips with your free hand. The water is tepid and stale, but you guzzle it down like it’s the most refreshing beverage you’ve ever encountered. It streams down the corners of your mouth, but you don’t care.

Panting, you hand it back to him. His dark eyebrow raise from over the frame of his sunglasses as grabs it from you. Before twisting the cap back on and returning it to the overhead compartment, he takes a few deep swigs.

“Not afraid of my cooties?” you joke.

Nothing.

He snatches the fast food bag off the bed and lowers himself onto the mattress, pulling out a stack of napkins, then a few cheeseburgers.

Another thing you’ve noticed about him is the way he carries himself. His rigid posture and concise movements. Everything he does seems practiced, competent, and strangely… proper, almost?

It’s fascinating.

The dog hops up next to your captor and stomps unceremoniously across his lap, diving headfirst into the crinkly bag.

“Hey!” he tucks the dog into his side like a football and chastises him, “Just wait.”

He pulls two boxes of fries out of the bag, slides one towards you, followed by a cheeseburger, then places the dog on the ground, “Sit.”

The dog perks up and complies, his little tail stub wiggling against the rubber mat.

Your captor unwraps a cheeseburger, gives it to the dog, then takes his food and moves to the head of the bed, leaning against the wall opposite you.

“I don’t eat meat,” you inform him, “So if you want my burger, go for it.”

The man seems to consider this for a moment before he leans forward and grabs it, splitting it with the dog while you eat a few fries and try not to be completely obvious about your watching him. The dog whines while watching him eat.

“Do you have dog food?” you ask.

He looks up and says, “Dog food has meat in it.”

You jerk back, shaking your head, “For the dog, not for me.”

He stares at you.

“Oh,” you blink, then scoff, “You’re trying to be funny. That was a joke. Hilarious. Ok. Well, your dog probably shouldn’t just eat cheeseburgers, it’s not good for him.”

This is, predictably, met with no response. He raises his eyebrows and returns his attention to his food.

When the man finishes eating, he opens the overhead compartment, pulling out a bag of dry dog food and another bowl. He makes a point to look up at you as he pours the kibble into the bowl. Your cheeks burn and you deflate for a moment before crossing your arms over your chest and muttering, “Good.”

He moves up to the driver’s seat and starts tapping the screen of a tablet mounted to his dash.

Din selects a southbound pickup approximately 30 miles out, drop off Nebraska. Off-course, but it pays enough.

“Can I sit up there?”

His jaw clenches.

That’s if he can stand being in the same vehicle as you for that long.

Normally when he picks up bounties, they’re either too scared to talk to him or get the hint after the first few unanswered questions.

But not you.

No, you are tenacious.

And noisy. So noisy.

It’s irritating enough that you ask him a question every five minutes, but on top of that, you make all these other sounds that never seem to cease. Toes tap-tap-tapping on the floor. Fingertips thrumming against the wall or the grab bar or your body. You hum and sing to yourself constantly.

It is driving him crazy.

He sets course for the pickup site and pats the passenger’s seat, “Come on.”

“Are you talking to me or him?”

You’re sitting there with this smart aleck look on your face, one arm dangling from a handcuff, the other splayed out on your thigh. Two fingers alternate pat-pat-pat-pat against your leg like you’re some kind of human metronome.

The dog hops down off of Din’s bed and climbs into the passenger’s seat, spinning around a few times before curling into a ball with a hmph.

“Buckle up,” he tells you.

“How do you propose I do that, big guy? I have one hand.”

Din sighs, then gets to his feet. While he’s hovering there, fastening you into the five-point harness, your breath scatters across his face. Your intense gaze burns his skin.

He reaches for the buckle between your legs and you spread them further apart. Heat flickers at the base of his spine when he goes to snap the belt in place and his knuckles brush against your thigh.

You say nothing.

You don’t move.

For once, you’re still.

He clicks the seatbelt in place and locks it, then unfastens the handcuffs and returns them to their place on his belt.

You wring your wrist, cussing under your breath, and ask, “Can I have my guitar?”

“No.”

“Why not?” you stare up at him, chocolate brown eyes flicking around his face. Your sharp, almost boyish, features pinching up into a fierce expression.

Din bites his tongue and returns to his seat, while you let out an exasperated huff of, “Fucking asshole,” and cross your arms, scowling at the headrest in front of you.

He stomps down on the clutch twice and shifts the truck into first gear. Tension melts from his muscles when he realizes the cab is finally quiet. Just the comforting roar of the engine struggling to generate torque as he slides from one gear to the next.

When he gets to the highway and hits a sweet spot to cruise, the truck calms to a purr. Then he hears it.

Tap tap tap tap tap

The next exit your captor takes comes much sooner than you expected.

You crane your neck to get a better view out the massive windshield and frown, “Where are we going?”

Silence.

You glare at the side of the man’s head and exhale a big sigh like you’re annoyed by his lack of response.

But the truth is, your insides are humming. This is it. Your opportunity to get the fuck out of here.

He’s picking up some kind of freight, you’re sure of it. Which means he’s probably going to get out of the vehicle to hook up the trailer. On the off chance that someone might peak into the cab, he likely won't handcuff you. You guess he’ll issue some kind of threat once the destination draws near in an attempt to intimidate you into not causing a ruckus.

You check to make sure the blade hasn’t somehow disappeared and release a quiet, relieved sigh when your fingers rub against the hard object. The metal presses into your skin. That will stay put until you’re sure he’s occupied.

You scratch the woven polyester of the harness strap. Throughout the years, you’ve found yourself in a variety of precarious situations, but have never needed to cut a seatbelt. Your mind buzzes with excitement.

Do you stab it and let it rip? Or saw through the material? If you go with the saw technique, is it more effective to slide the blade against the flat plane of the strap, or go in at the edge?

The truck drops a few gears in rapid, but smooth, succession, then turns into a factory parking lot.

“It’s in your best interest to keep quiet while I do this.”

So predictable.

Out of curiosity, wanting to see if he has the balls to make his implicit threat explicit, you ask him, “Meaning what, exactly?”

“Meaning if you talk to anyone, or try anything, I will kill you.”

There’s no hesitation.

You raise an eyebrow and scoff, but your mouth goes dry. Your throat gulps on its own accord. For a moment, you try to talk yourself out of this. Bargaining to try another route of escape. Another more concrete opportunity might present itself. Something that could give you more wiggle room.

But a not-so-gentle reminder trickles down your spine: he’s delivering you to a fate worse than death. Under no fucking circumstances will you go there without a fight. This could be the only chance.

You rub the knife through your clothes and eye the handle of the overhead compartment, mapping out where your pack and guitar are stuffed, contemplating whether or not you’ll even have time to get them before you bail.

The man makes quick work of backing the truck up to the facility. He flips a few switches and shifts into park, then turns to face you, “Are you going to behave?”

His voice is low and serious. The question, regrettably, makes something flutter at your core. Part of you wants to tell him no, just to see what he’d do.

“Yes,” you lie.

He tilts his head and stares at you for a moment, then holds out his hand, “Give me your knife.”

Fuck.

“What knife?”

“The pocket knife in your bra.”

You snort and shake your head, “Pocket knife in my bra?”

“I’ll give it back to you. But for now, I need you to give it to me.”

You clench your jaw and cross your arms.

“Do not make me take it myself,” he warns, “Neither of us want that.”

Blood rushes to your head with a hot wave of anger.

“Fuck you,” you spit, “Do you know what they’re going to do to me? Do you have any fucking idea what kind of a death march you’re leading me down? If you kill me before we get there, I’ll consider myself fucking lucky.”

The man doesn’t even flinch. His outstretched hand holds steady. Expectant.

“Fucking piece of shit goon,” you mutter, but slip a hand under your shirt, under the elastic of your sports bra, and fish out your blade. With a flick of your wrist, you toss it on the floor, “I fucking hate you.”

He picks the knife off the ground, slides it in his front pocket, then turns and opens the door.

For what it’s worth, he returned the knife like he said he would.

And the next time he stopped for food, after handcuffing you to the grab bar and giving you some private piss pot time, he brought you protein bars, french fries, and a chocolate milkshake.

It’s not enough to make up for your complete lack of autonomy, but it’s more consideration than you were expecting.

The sun set a while ago. Your sense of time is totally fucked, so you’re not sure exactly how long it’s been dark out, just that it feels like forever, and every time you try to look out the windshield or side windows, all you see is a a black void or the red glow of taillights. Sometimes you spot signs that give you clues to your location: Cleveland, Toledo, Chicago.

The last one you saw was Davenport, shortly after you were ripped from sleep when the 18-wheeler hit a rumble strip off the road’s shoulder. Your captor jerked the wheel, then regained control, steadying his course.

“Did you just fall asleep?” you asked him.

He didn’t respond.

“Hey,” you called, tossing a protein bar at his shoulder, “If you’re tired, you need to pull over and sleep.”

“I’m fine.”

“Bullshit.”

Silence.

So now you’re wide awake, unable to move or do anything about the fact that the mad man driving this giant fucking machine might drift off into dreamland at any moment. All you can do is watch him.

It’s hard to be sure, with the cab being so dark, but eventually you swear you see his head drooping.

“You know, if you’re really insistent on driving, I have some uppers in my bag,” you tell him, “Rather have you a little too alert than falling asleep at the wheel.”

“If you wanted me to get you your fix, you should have asked at the last stop.”

You snap your head back and scoff, “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

He doesn’t respond, but you see his backlit hands gripping and releasing the steering wheel.

“I don’t need a ‘fix’, jackass.”

“So, what, you just deal speed out of the goodness of your heart?”

His tone is snarky. You bristle even more.

“I deal speed because, as you probably know, I happened upon a fuck ton of speed back in Oregon. I sell it for dirt cheap, just enough to get what I need, never in large quantities, and only when I have no other options for money. I rarely even—” you stop for a moment, tempted to drive into this man about the obvious flaws in his moral compass, but shake your head, “No, you know what? I don’t owe you, of all people, an explanation. So fuck you, man. Get off the fucking road and sleep before you hurt someone.”

Silence falls over the cab, except for a brief stint of whining from the dog.

When the man comes up on the next exit, he takes it.

Din finds a place to park for the night.

After giving everyone a bathroom break, he secures the cabin by fastening a ratchet strap to each door’s hand hold, tightening until the strap is taut, then locking it in place. He tucks the key in his front pocket and turns to face the sleeper cab.

The dog is laying on the mattress, propped up against the back wall with paws curled up in the air. Din looks at you, only to find you already staring at him. Well, actually, glaring might be more accurate.

Between that and the way you’re strapped into the five-point harness, arms crossed tight over your small frame, you remind him of a sulking child.

He approaches the overhead storage and pulls out your backpack. For a moment, he considers handing it over without further investigation. The bag is plumb full, and it’s apparent from a glance that you developed a particular system to get all your equipment to fit inside.

But he has a hunch you’re carrying more than a pocket knife. The road can be ruthless to pretty women like you, regardless of how ferocious you actually are. Considering how adapted you seem to be to this lifestyle, he’s positive you know that and pack accordingly.

As Din sorts your green rucksack’s carefully organized contents into two piles, he sees you out the corner of his eye, shifting in your seat and pursing your lips. Your rage is palpable. It’s mildly amusing.

In one side pocket, there are dozens of small ziplock baggies, each containing 6 blue tablets. They go into the things he will keep for now pile. Everything from the other side pocket goes into the things you can keep pile: a few guitar picks, a pen, and a wallet. The wallet contains $54, a faded photo of a little girl and boy hugging each other, and an Iowa Driver License. He’s surprised to see the name Charlie Wanderlust printed on the ID.

From the main compartment, he puts the following in the things you can keep pile: a tightly-rolled tent and similarly condensed sleeping bag, a few changes of clothes, a small bag of personal hygiene items, two notebooks, camping supplies, a tarp, and a bundle of dirty nylon rope.

All the way at the bottom of the bag, he finds a pistol and some 9mm clips. He holds the gun up to examine it. GLOCK G19, semi-auto. It looks to be in good condition and well-maintained.

Like he was with much of the rucksack’s contents, he’s surprised you’re carrying something so high-quality. The few hitchhikers he has encountered seem to be living off threadbare, secondhand equipment. But not you.

It piques his curiosity.

He releases the loaded magazine and tosses it to the side, along with the clips, in the things he’ll keep for now pile. The gun itself goes in the things you can keep pile.

Once satisfied with his search, Din crouches down and puts the ammunition, pills, and ratchet strap keys in the safe under his bed, then slams it shut.

He turns his attention back to you and finds your gaze still locked on him, dark eyes narrowed to slits.

In his experience bounty hunting, he exclusively deals with men.

Most bounties put out on women in the private sector are malicious in nature. Posted by jilted, often violent, men, looking to take back what they think is theirs. Even when there seems to be a morally acceptable reason for the bounty, it rouses his suspicion and leaves a bad taste in his mouth.

He supposes there’s always an exception. From the information he was given, you are that exception. A lucrative one, at that.

Some of the things you told him today are nibbling at the edges of his mind, though.

“Do you know what they’re going to do to me? Do you have any fucking idea what kind of a death march you’re leading me down? If you kill me before we get there, I’ll consider myself fucking lucky.”

Granted, bounties tend to make a number of outlandish claims while trying to negotiate their release from custody. He has heard almost every sob story in the book. Lame attempts to appeal to his sense of humanity.

He’s trying not to lend it too much credibility, but you seemed so genuine, so righteous, in your anger.

Then there was the outburst that preceded him stopping for the night.

Part of him feels guilty for making assumptions about you. Another part of him knows you might be lying, given the circumstances. But it seemed to come from deep within you, dredged up with a sense of disdain, like you didn’t even want to tell him.

It was contrary to every experience he’s had with bounties trying to talk their way into freedom.

After taking everything into consideration, he determined you are not likely a threat. A flight risk, sure, but not a threat.

He unlocks and unbuckles your harness, then goes about his nighttime routine. You narrow your eyes and watch him.

“What are you doing?” you ask eventually, the question bursting out of you like you can’t hold it in any longer, “What is this?”

Din squeezes a line of toothpaste on his toothbrush, “Take the bed.”

“I’m keeping my knife.”

“I know.”

He thrusts the toothbrush in his mouth and starts scrubbing in vigorous, concentric motions.

You huff, then turn to your pile of worldly possessions and dig out the toiletry bag, asking him, “What makes you think I won’t stab you in the middle of the night?”

Din spits blue foam into an empty bottle, then says, “You don’t seem like the type.”

“Hell of an assumption,” you raise an eyebrow as you unzip your toiletry bag and fish out two elastic hair ties, sliding them around your wrist, “What if you’re wrong?”

“If you try to kill me, you won’t succeed,” he stares you down to make sure he’s understood, “But I will.”

“Ok, pal,” you snort in condescension, pulling half of your white blonde hair over one shoulder. As you start to weave the long strands into a braid, you say, “I don’t want to kill you. But,” your eyes snap to his, “If you try to touch me while I’m sleeping—or at any point in time, for that matter—I will sink that fucking blade into your eyeball without hesitation.”

He nods.

“Good,” you smile, “Then we understand each other.”

#passenger #din djarin x you #din djarin #din djarin x ofc #the mandalorian fanfiction #the mandalorian #pedro pascal #pedro pascal character #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal character fanfiction #pedro pascal character fanfic #din djarin fanfiction #din djarin x reader #din djarin fic

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wild-karrde · 1 year

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Part 2: The Pillar

Series Master List | Previous Part | Next Part

A/N: ALRIGHTY THEN. Did I intend to write a part 2 for this little ficlet from my 400 follower celebration? No. Did I do it anyway and use it as an excuse to introduce my OC Crater? Yes. Will there be a Part 3? Also yes. I REGRET NOTHING. The biggest of thank you's to @teletraan-meets-jarvis, @sleepingsun501, and @rexxdjarin for helping me make sure my boy gets the best intro and that all of the thoughts/thots about him in my head translated well onto paper! If you'd like a little more info about Crater, you can find his character sheet here.

Pairings: OC Crater x f!Reader, mentioned Gregor x f!Reader

Rating: E (18+ MINORS SKEEDADDLE)

Warnings: language, dom/sub dynamics, spanking, fingering, rough sex, anal play, oral sex, PiV sex, marking, anal sex, sex toy use, cum eating, mention of foursome

Word Count: 13.5k words (I'm sorry... it got away from me so fast)

“KARKING HELLS, CHUCK! Do you have mynock shit between your ears instead of brains?”

You’re angry. Angrier than you’ve been in a while. And Chuckles isn’t backing down either.

“I don’t know who the kriff you think you’re talking to, Bolts, but you’d better take a walk before we both say something we’ll regret,” he grits out, teeth clenched and a fire in his eyes.

But you’re not about to be told what’s what. Not when he’s on your turf.

“It’s my fucking garage. You don’t like what I’ve got to say? You take a walk.” You jab your finger into his plastoid chestplate threateningly. His nostrils flare as he glares at you, and you can see him teetering on the edge of control.

You’ve gathered a bit of an audience as you and the mohawked clone pilot go nose to nose, some of which are snickering and “ooooh”-ing.

“Your garage?” Chuckles snarls.

“Yeah, in case you missed it, I run shit around here. And I’m telling you I can’t get your fucking fighter fixed until next week.”

“That’s not good enough.”

“You should have thought about that before smoking your stabilizers flying like a fucking hotshot.”

“You sure you wanna tell me how to fly my ship, Bolts?”

“Since you don’t seem to have an idea how to, sure.”

The vein in his neck is bulging now, and the scar at the corner of his mouth is pulled tight. You’ve known Chuckles long enough to tell that you’ve pushed all the right buttons to get a rise out of him.

Good. Asshole.

“I thought Gregor fucked the grump out of her,” Strike mutters from his seat on a crate, which garners more snickers. You whirl on him, brandishing a wrench and waving it menacingly at the pilot.

“You want me to fix your face next, shithead? Got the only thing I need for that right here.”

Strike scowls, pushing himself to a standing position. “You’re out of line, Bolts.”

“I’m out of line? Fuck you.”

“That’s enough.”

The jeers and laughter grow silent and the crowd parts as the commanding officer of the 28th Combat Wing strides forward, carrying his helmet under one arm. Crater’s voice is gruff as he steps in between Chuckles and you, glancing back and forth between the two of you.

“She’s right, and you know it Chuckles. You’ve been told before not to fly in that config. You know it burns out the stabs faster. Now, I’m sure you’ll get your fighter as quickly as Bolts can get to it. Isn’t that right, Bolts?”

You glare at him, but his eyes demand a response. “When I get the parts.”

Crater watches you for another moment before nodding. He seems to understand that’s as much of a concession as he’s going to get out of you right now.

And then he whirls on Strike. “And you will learn to hold your fucking tongue. We don’t do that shit here. You want to air other people’s business out in front of everyone? You go run for the fucking senate. Until then, you keep the scuttlebutt you hear to yourself.”

“Didn’t hear anything. Just not hard to put two and two together,” Strike mutters under his breath.

Crater strides forward until he’s looming over Strike. They’re the same height, but somehow, the captain towers over the other pilot. His tone is low and dangerous, his voice dropping to a gravelly octave that makes you shiver. “I know you haven’t been off of Kamino long, but around here, you don’t speak to a commanding officer that way. Especially when you don’t have a single scratch on that shiny fucking armor.”

Strike swallows slightly but says nothing else.

Crater glares down at him for one more second, pinning him with his gaze before he turns and addresses the rest of the onlookers. “Now all of you get to the fucking barracks and get cleaned up. You stink to the seven hells.”

The squad departs, some of them still shooting dirty looks over their shoulders at you, especially Chuckles.

He’ll get over it.

You turn on your heel, heading towards your private office in the corner of the garage. The door’s been off track for a while, so you slam it open unceremoniously and stride inside. Just as you go to slide it shut with a grunt, a gloved hand slips around the edge, keeping it open. You glance up and meet Crater’s eyes.

“Can we talk?”

You shrug, stepping away from the door and plopping down on the creaky chair by your desk. The joints protest as you lean back in it, threatening to finally give out and dump you on your ass. Crater shuts the door behind him before setting his helmet on your desk and leaning a shoulder against the wall, crossing his arms as he studies you. He looks tired, and you’re not sure if it’s the campaign he just got back from or his men or you. A small pang of guilt shoots through you as he meets your eyes, raising his scarred eyebrow at you.

“You wanna tell me what the hell that was all about?”

You sniff, shrugging as you pick some lint off your jumpsuit. “Nothin’. Just a scuffle.”

“Seems like you’re getting into more and more of those.”

You and Crater have always gotten along just fine, finding a mutual respect and trust almost immediately. He always seems to have everything figured out, and you’ve never seen him fly off the handle like some of his brothers. In fact, the incident in the garage just now is the most upset you’ve seen him, and even that was hardly more than a growl and a few threats. You admire his leadership. He always seems to find the right thing to say to each of the various personalities on his squad, but sometimes you dislike when he deploys the same understanding on you. It unnerves you to a degree.

Now, you roll your eyes at his observation, astute as it is. “Your boys don’t listen, Crate. Neither do any of the other flyboys that come through here. Everyone’s shit is broken because they can’t be bothered to fly with an ounce of sensibility, and then they’re all pissed when it takes time to get repairs done.” You wave your hand at the stacks of datapads and flimsi that are stacked on your desk. “I’ve got backorders on backorders, out-of-date maintenance logs, you name it. But I’m one person. And there’s not exactly a line to come work down here.”

“You’re stressed,” he notes.

“No shit.”

“Overwhelmed.”

“Tired of giving orders and making requests that are ignored.”

“Tired of being in charge?”

“Sometimes. Yeah,” you admit. “But someone has to be.”

He nods. “When’s Gregor planetside again?”

You glare at him, but he gives you a knowing look. You sigh. “Who the kriff knows? That’s not a regular thing, by the way. Just a way to blow off steam. But it’s been months since I saw him last. Seems he’s being kept busy.” You worry about the commando sometimes, but you’re not about to admit it. Judging by the look Crater gives you, you don’t need to.

“And you were more tolerable when it was happening,” he teases.

“Yeah, yeah. Well, I’m on my own in that department for the foreseeable future.”

You don’t know why you feel comfortable talking with him about Gregor. Probably because it felt less like an accusation and more of just a concerned observation, not like he was looking to get more gossip at your expense.

Because you trust him. Maybe too much.

Crater is quiet for a moment, watching you carefully, clearly weighing something.

“What?”

He smirks.

“Well, if you’d ever like to blow off some steam, let me know. But you can’t keep taking it out on my men.”

You snort out a laugh. “Crate, I don’t think you can help with that.”

“Oh, I think I could.”

“How so?” Your curiosity is piqued, particularly with the way his grin is playful but his eyes have darkened considerably. You’re in denial internally about what he might be implying, but that only lasts for another second as Crater huffs a quiet laugh before closing the distance between you. He puts one gloved hand on your desk, leaning over you as his other hand comes to rest just above your shoulder, gripping the back of your chair. Your stomach flutters as he stares down at you, tilted back in your chair so far you feel as though you’d tip over if he let go. The chair creaks, but you hardly note it over the sound of blood rushing in your ears. You can feel his breath on your cheek and your cunt throbs at the realization he’s standing between your knees, your toes barely touching the floor with the way he has you tipped backward. You feel as though you can’t breathe. He’s studying you again, clearly making a final judgment call before he speaks.

“I think you’d like someone else to take charge for once. So you can let go.”

His voice is so low, it feels as though it rumbles every organ in you and sends shivers down your spine. He’s so close, you can smell him, see the tattoos on his neck that just barely poke out above the collar of his black undersuit, and the greys that are beginning to dot his dark chestnut beard and hair. You’ve always thought Crater was attractive. You’d have to be blind not to, but you’d never anticipated having him lean over you like this, so close that you can feel the heat radiating off of him while he suggests things like that.

At least, you think that’s what he’s suggesting.

You can’t help but tremble slightly at the thought as his eyes bore holes into yours. Your thighs clench together subconsciously, and his eyes dart downwards, watching you squirm. He laughs in a low rasp that promises trouble, straightening and picking his helmet up off the desk. You haven’t moved, but he’s already at your door, pushing it open again.

“Remember what I said, Bolts. All of it.”

And with that, he’s gone.

—

Weeks pass. Nothing gets better. If anything, things get worse. A major supply hyperspace lane gets shut down by Separatist forces, meaning parts are even harder to come by, causing even more delays. At least the clone pilots seem more understanding, the 28th Wing in particular. You aren’t sure if Crater privately met with his men, but they have been suddenly more lenient with you. The natborns, however, make up for it by being infinitely more terrible.

“THIS IS COMPLETELY UNACCEPTABLE,” one particularly surly human admiral rants, spittle flying unchecked as you don’t even bother looking up from your datapad. “You are to have those fighters ready to go within a rotation. That is an order.”

“Well, unfortunately for you, Admiral, I don’t take orders from the GAR,” you mutter. “And unless you’ve got a stash of converters, stabilizers, hyperdrive capacitors, and power couplings in your back pocket, no, your fighters will not be ready to go in a rotation.”

“I’ll have your job for this.”

You’re exhausted, but can’t help but give him a smug smirk, nudging him even closer to an explosion. He’s easy prey in that respect, hardly sporting, but it’s been a miserable week, and you’re ready to have some fun. He’s not the first officer to try to intimidate you with unemployment, and you know he’s unlikely to be the last. But you also know it’s an empty threat. No one else could handle this work. If that person existed, the GAR would already have hired them since you’ve pissed off everyone else.

“I have work to do, Admiral. So if you’re done bloviating, get out of my office and try to have a lovely evening.”

The man is practically purple with rage, veins bulging from his throat above his tight Republic collar. He clearly isn’t used to having people check him, and his response is even more telling.

“I’d heard you were challenging, but really, you’re just a frigid little bitch.”

That does it.

You stand, kicking your seat away from you. It rolls into the back wall with a loud crash. “You wanna try that again, Admiral?” you ask, charging towards him with anger heating your cheeks. He’s taller than you, but that’s never stopped you, and you certainly aren’t going to let some washed-up asshole that reeks of stale caf and cheap cologne talk to you like that in your own office. His fists clench, and you almost hope he swings first so you have an excuse to pummel him right there.

“Problem in here?”

You both whirl to look at the doorway. There stands Crater, helmet on and cocked to the side as he studies the both of you. His posture is completely relaxed, as if he didn’t just walk in on the start of a physical altercation.

It takes all of the wind out of your sails.

The admiral turns and smirks down at you, clearly convinced he’s won by your reaction. “I was just leaving.” He pushes past Crater, exiting the office. Crater’s visor never leaves you, but you can’t look at him.

You’re fuming. Angry that nothing’s going right. Angry that your garage can’t run efficiently and the reasons are completely out of your control. Angry that you didn’t sock that admiral in the jaw. Angry that he got the best of you and he knows it.

Crater says your name, but you don’t look up, trying to slow your breathing. He sighs and turns to leave.

You make a decision.

“Captain.”

He turns back.

Your tongue darts out to wet your lips as you plunge into uncharted territory.

“I’ll take you up on that offer you made a few weeks back.”

He doesn’t move for a moment before, clearly making sure you won’t change your mind. Some of your fire returns at his hesitation, and you jut your chin out defiantly.

“Chickening out on me?” you challenge.

In an instant, he’s closed the distance between you and has backed you up against the wall. Your breath fogs his visor as he stares down at you, resting his hand against your throat.

“You certain you want to be a brat right out of the gate?”

You swallow hard, feeling the gloved palm of his hand press against your neck.

“Might want to pace yourself. Otherwise you’ll be in for a long night,” he warns.

“What makes you think that isn’t what I was hoping for?”

He chuckles darkly, and the helmet’s modulator seems to make it even more intimidating.

“What are your hard no’s?”

“You’ll be hard-pressed to find them,” you reply. Your mouth is dry, but other places are already soaking. You’re almost glad he has you braced against the wall because your knees suddenly feel gelatinous beneath you.

He tilts his head. “Think on it a bit more. Have an answer when I come back from my briefing. Then we’ll begin.” He releases your throat and steps back. “Be ready.”

He once again leaves you alone in your office, shivering in his absence.

How the fuck do I get ready for this?

You brush your hair out of your face, catching a glance at your reflection in the small mirror you have stuck to one wall. You’re covered in grease and sweat, and your hair is sticking out at odd angles.

A shower then.

You’re glad the day’s over as you slide your office door closed. It would be hard to concentrate on anything else right now. You push through the door that connects to the small apartment and refresher that have become your home away from home. It had been one of your few stipulations when you took the job, knowing you’d rarely make it back down to your lower-level Coruscant apartment. It had originally been a large storage closet, but with some work, you’d converted it into a decent-sized bedroom, stacking a few changes of clothes in an empty crate in one corner. The bed was at least comfortable, tucked up against one wall with a small bedside table next to it. You quickly shove the dirty clothes strewn on the floor in a corner before shucking off your jumpsuit and hurriedly showering. You don’t have any sort of lingerie or anything remotely alluring here, and you’re considering what to wear while wrapped in a towel when you hear a soft knock at your door.

You turn and find Crater’s silhouette looming there, blocking out the dim light of your office.

“That was a quick briefing.”

He shrugs as if he’s used to coming upon you in only a towel.

“You shut the office door?” you ask.

“Yes. And you should really get that fixed.” His helmet is off, and his dark eyes are roving over you and your towel-covered body.

“Add it to my list,” you mutter, trying to maintain some sort of confidence under his stare. “I’m sure that admiral will be so pleased to hear it takes priority over his fighters.”

He snorts in amusement as he steps into the room, shutting the apartment door behind him. He sets the helmet on the ground before he starts peeling off the top half of his armor, one piece of plastoid at a time, and neatly stacking it in the corner.

“Did you think more on what your hard no’s are?” he asks.

You’d come up with a few and rattle them off.

“Those are fairly extreme. Don’t think you’ll have to worry about that,” he rasps. The top half of his armor is completely off now, and he rolls up the sleeves of his black shirt as he approaches you, circling you slowly. “But I’m glad you put serious thought into it and came up with something.”

“You got anything I need to avoid doing?” you ask, trying not to nervously rock on your heels. You’d rarely had issues with people seeing you naked, but for some reason, Crater’s gaze has you feeling timid, even with the towel still hiding your body.

“I don’t think you’ll get there, but I’ll let you know if you get close,” he replies as he comes to a stop in front of you. His sleeves are rolled all the way to his elbows, and you can see the tendrils of the other end of his tattoos poking out on his forearms. You’d never realized how far his tattoos stretched, only ever having seen the fine lines that poked out of the collar of his shirt. Now, you find you want to know how much of his skin is inked and how far the pattern stretches.

“My eyes are up here, gorgeous.”

You flush, but raise your eyes to meet his steady gaze. He’s watching you carefully and fuck, you want to squirm with him looking at you like that.

“So you respond to praise then. You prefer that?”

You shrug. “Could go both ways.”

“Where would you like me to cum?”

You can’t help but smirk at that question, but his expression is stern. “Wherever you like,” you reply. “I’ve got an implant.”

He hums, gently brushing some of your damp hair out of your face, a tender gesture that contrasts sharply with his next question. “May I mark you?”

“Nowhere the jumpsuit can’t cover.”

“How rough would you like me to be?”

You think for a moment. “Breathplay is good. Impact too. Bruising is fine. Nothing that would draw blood.”

He smirks. “Good girl.”

Your thighs rub together, and he notices, huffing a quiet laugh.

“Toys I can use?”

You point to the bedside table. “In that drawer.”

“You know the color system?”

You nod.

“Give me your definitions.”

“Green is good. Yellow is slow down. Red is stop.”

“And if you can’t verbally communicate?”

“Three taps.” You reach out and demonstrate on his chest, letting your fingertips rest there.

He catches your hand. “I want to be very clear here. You are under no obligation to do anything with me. And if you say red, we stop. No debate, no questions. This is for your benefit, so I’ll push, but when I hit a limit, you have to let me know. Deal?”

You can’t help but smile there. “Deal.”

“Any other last requests?”

“Ruin me.” The words fall out of your mouth before you realize you’ve said them, but you don’t regret them. You need this, and he can see it. Crater’s eyes darken even more, and he grins wickedly as he pulls your wrist to his lips. You feel his beard scratch your skin, and you shiver at the thought of where else you may feel that sensation before the night is over.

“With pleasure.” He cups your jaw, running a thumb over your lower lip. “You will refer to me as Captain or sir. Understood?”

A thrill shoots through you, and you push your luck, shrugging. “Sure.”

His nostrils flare and his grip on your jaw tightens. “You are such a fucking brat,” he whispers. “I'll fix that.” He grips the towel, giving it a firm yank and tossing it in the corner. He steps back and studies you. You shiver again, although you can’t be sure if it’s from the chill on your damp skin or his piercing gaze. He circles you again, inspecting every inch of your body. You feel yourself tremble slightly as he leans in, his breath hot against your ear. “On your knees.”

You think about pushing him further, but decide against it, at least for the moment, slowly sinking to your knees and gazing up at him expectantly.

“Open your mouth.”

You narrow your eyes at him. He squats down in front of you, balancing on the balls of his feet, watching you. You start to giggle from nerves, but his hand rockets out, catching your jaw again and squeezing until your lips part from the pressure.

He slips the tip of his glove into your mouth.

“Bite,” he grits out.

He loosens his hold just enough for you to do as you’re told this time, gently taking the tip of the fabric between your teeth. His fingers slip out of the glove, and he takes it from you. He repeats the exercise with his other glove, tucking them both in his back pocket. Warm tan fingers press on your lower lip, and you open your mouth, allowing him in. Two fingers slide in, pressing on your tongue. Saliva pools in your mouth, but Crater keeps your jaw pried open until you feel some drool slide down your chin.

“Messy girl,” he rasps. “Suck.”

You close your lips around his fingers, sucking gently on the pads. You can taste his sweat, slightly salty against your tongue.

“Oh, come on, gorgeous. With a mouth like that, I expected more. You’re going to have to do better than that if you want me to let you suck my cock later.”

You feel your cunt throb and you inhale sharply as warmth floods between your legs. You’re certain you’re dripping onto the floor by now, and it’s only been a few minutes.

“You like that thought, don’t you?” Crater asks, shoving his fingers into the back of your throat. You gag, and he starts to withdraw, but you catch his wrist, pressing his fingers deeper while you run your tongue over his knuckles.

Crater’s brow furrows and his lips part slightly as he watches you gag again on his fingers, but you keep going, obediently sliding them in and out of your mouth. You hum around him, and you can see he’s fighting to maintain control. You grin.

“Something to say, pretty girl?” he asks, shoving another finger into your mouth. “Go on.”

“Having fun, Captain?” is what you try to ask, but it comes out garbled around his digits.

“Try again, gorgeous. I can’t understand you.”

You glare up at him and he smirks before withdrawing his fingers.

“I was always told it’s rude to talk with my mouth full, sir,” you snark.

“You’ve had no problem being rude up until this point,” he murmurs, letting his damp hand trail across your collarbone before grazing your breast.

You clench around nothing. It's been months since anyone touched you.

He notices your response, raising his eyebrow as he pinches one nipple between his fingers and tugs it gently. You whimper quietly.

“Needy,” he observes.

“Been a while.” He pinches your nipple harder. “Sir,” you gasp.

“Hmm.” He releases you, pushing himself to a standing position. You shift, trying to gain some source of friction, but he slips a knuckle under your chin, tilting your head upwards. “None of that. You take what I give, and nothing more. Understood?”

You bat your eyelashes at him. “Yes, sir.”

Crater stares down at you with an unamused expression for another half a beat before releasing you. He crosses your room to your nightstand and pulls open the drawer, rummaging inside. You can see his eyes raking over the contents, carefully cataloging everything before he holds up your plug, glancing over at you.

“You stretch yourself on this?”

“Yes, sir,” you say quietly.

“Anyone ever taken you there?”

“No.” It’s something you’ve always wanted to try, but you’ve never had a partner you felt bold enough to ask. And those that have asked have always seemed too eager. So you’ve resorted to toys, stuffing your ass full with the plug as you fucked your cunt with another toy. But no matter how many times you came, teeth clenched around the fabric of your pillowcase, your curiosity about the real thing still wasn’t sated. You always knew it would have to be with someone you trust completely, someone you know won’t push you or your boundaries just to lay claim to you.

Someone like Crater.

He stays silent, clearly expecting more from you.

You try to stutter out a more thorough response. “B-but I like to feel full when I…”

“When you what, pretty girl?”

“When I fuck myself.”

The corner of his lip curls. “Filthier than I thought. Good.” He takes out a bottle of lube, your dildo with the remote, and the plug and sits on the bed with them next to him. He leans forward on his knees, crooking a finger towards you.

“Come here, gorgeous.”

You grin, falling forward on your hands and crawling towards him, allowing your ass to sway back and forth. His face remains neutral as you slide between his knees, running your hands over the plastoid that still covers his thighs. You’ve always been good at finding the right buttons to push with people, but Crater has largely remained a mystery to you in all the time that you’ve known him. Now, you watch carefully as you scrape your fingers closer to his inner thigh, watching for any telltale twitch. You want to see if you can make him crack.

He’s immovable.

“You seem to think this is some sort of competition,” he says quietly, as though he can read your thoughts. “You won’t break me, sweetheart.”

You pout your lips. “You’re no fun.”

He slips one hand into your hair and grips tightly, pulling your head back as he leans over you again. You can feel the roots of your hair tug sharply, and it sends another thrill through you. Crater leans forward to whisper directly into your ear. His beard scrapes your cheek, and his breath is hot against the shell of your ear. “You’re still being a brat.”

“I thought pilots enjoyed a challenge,” you manage to gasp.

“I do.” He releases your hair, and you sit back. He shifts back on the bed and pats his knees. You start to straddle one, but he places a hand on your hip, stilling you. “No, love. Over them.”

Your legs quiver at the realization of what he’s asking, and your mouth falls open slightly.

“Tick-tock, pretty girl. The longer you stand there and waste my time, the longer this’ll be.”

You drape yourself over his thighs slowly, shuddering at the chill of the plastoid and how the edges of it bite into your skin. You rest your elbows and knees on the mattress on either side of him, balancing as he pushes down on the small of your back to arch it to his liking. Your ass is in the air, and it feels so exposed. Crater rubs small circles in your spine before allowing his hand to drift downward, lightly passing over the curve of your ass. You feel your skin explode in an array of goosebumps as a jolt shoots through you. You unleash a shuddering breath.

“You are needy. So eager to be touched,” he teases as he traces down the curve of your ass, curling his fingers on the inside of your thigh. He’s so close to where you want him, but he steers clear of your dripping cunt. For now.

“I think fifteen is a good start considering how you’ve behaved the last few weeks,” he rasps. “And if you’re good, I’ll let you have my cock.”

“Fifteen, huh? Can you count that high, Captain?” you ask, earning yourself a sharp pinch to your nipple with his other hand. You inhale sharply, biting back a curse.

“Twenty then. And you’ll be the one counting. I’m sure you can do that, can’t you, smart girl?”

You open your mouth to retort, but the first smack lands hard, biting into the skin of your asscheek. Heat floods through you and your mouth falls open.

You’re already craving another.

“Count for me, or we start over.”

“One,” you pant.

He continues, landing some blows over the same area, and you can feel the heat and redness bloom there. Other times, he moves onto an untouched patch of skin, and the shock of sudden pain makes you squirm, desperate for some sort of friction against your neglected clit. It feels as though electricity is licking up your spine with every strike, the pain giving way to a euphoria you’ve never before experienced as his warm palm soothes your stinging skin in between each blow.

But you keep count.

“See, I knew you could be a good girl for me. You’re doing so well,” he whispers as he rubs the place you’re certain he just left a handprint. “Halfway there.” One hand curls around your thigh again, and you feel fingers finally brush against your folds, slipping along them with ease. “I see you’re enjoying yourself,” Crater observes. “You’re soaked.” He lifts his fingers to his lips, sucking your taste off of them before he lets his hand slip back between your legs, sinking two of his thick digits into you. You fist the blankets as the next blow lands at the same time Crater curls his fingers inside of you.

“Ah fuck! Eleven!”

Crater pulls out slightly out before pressing back into the knuckle, driving into you. He finds the spongy place inside of you and bears down on it as he spanks you again in the same place. Your eyes roll back into your head.

“T-twelve.”

“Good girl.”

SMACK.

“Thirteen,” you whine. The plastoid is so cold against your heated, sweaty skin as you writhe in his lap, trying to press back against his hand. He adds a third finger.

“Who would have known all it took for you to be nicer was a few spanks and some fingers in your pussy?” Crater chuckles. “Such a desperate girl.”

“Please,” you whisper.

“Please what?”

“More.”

“So polite all of a sudden.” He presses against your asshole with his thumb, and you arch your back, pushing against him. “Oh, you want me to take you there, don’t you? Want me to claim your ass tonight?”

You do. You want him to, and he knows it. You mouth a silent “yes” as you glance back at him, and his eyebrow raises at your muted admission.

Crater hums as he pushes harder against the tight ring of muscle and you gasp. Your knuckles are white with how hard you’re gripping the sheets.

“Color?”

“Green. Fuck. Green.”

SMACK.

“FOURTEEN.”

Your breath is coming in short pants as he rubs at the raised, tender flesh of your ass. You hear the click of a cap, and suddenly his thumb is pressed back against your asshole again, slicker than before. He pushes forward, breaching the tight ring of muscle as he curls his fingers in your cunt again.

“Oh, Maker, yes. Right there, Crate-”

SMACK.

“It’s Captain or sir,” he reminds you in that same gravelly tone he used on Strike, sending a shiver through you. “Now what do we say when someone gives you what you want?”

“Fifteen! Thank you, sir,” you gasp, tears starting to pool in the corners of your eyes.

“Good girl.”

You clench around his fingers at the praise, and he huffs another laugh, pressing his thumb deeper into your ass. He lands the next few blows in rapid succession.

SMACK.

“SIXTEEN. THANK YOU, CAPTAIN.”

SMACK.

“FUCK. SEVENTEEN. THANK YOU, SIR.”

You can feel the coil tightening in your stomach as he lands two more, nearing the end. After nineteen, you’re babbling in his lap, desperately pressing back against his hand, trying to fuck yourself on his fingers.

“You think you deserve to cum?” he asks.

“Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease,” you whimper.

“Not yet, pretty girl.”

SMACK.

“Twenty,” you sob.

He removes his fingers from you, and you immediately feel painfully empty. His other palm rests on your back, rubbing soothing circles as you feel your pulse in your fluttering, empty cunt.

“You did so well,” he praises. You quiver under his touch. “Are you still green?”

“Still g-green,” you stutter.

“Louder.”

“Green,” you declare more firmly.

“Good. Lie down.”

He helps you stand on shaky legs, carefully moving you to lie on your back on the bed. You feel the softness of the blanket rub against the inflamed skin of your ass and thighs, and you shudder at the thought of the marks that’ll be there tomorrow, a reminder of your night with the captain.

But he’s far from done with you.

“Wait here,” he commands. “Don’t touch yourself.”

“Yes, sir,” you sigh with a hint of a whine.

He retreats to the refresher, washing his hand before he comes back, his head tilted as he watches you, laid out for him on your bed. He quickly removes the rest of his armor and boots, grinning smugly as your eyes follow every new part of him that’s exposed to you. You want him, and he knows it. Reaching for his waist, he tugs his shirt up and over his head, tossing it next to his armor.

He’s fucking stunning. You knew he would be, but somehow still weren’t prepared. The tattoos you’d seen evidence of curl from his elbows over his shoulders, weaving in geometric patterns across his collarbone and shoulder blades before reaching up his neck, where they end. Each line seems to flawlessly frame a muscle or tendon, perfectly accentuating it. His body is littered with small scars, with one larger one visible on his hip, dipping below the waistline of his pants. Without his codpiece, you can see the pronounced outline of his cock, straining against the black fabric. Your mouth waters, and you lick your lips, meeting his eyes.

“Not yet,” he teases.

You’re huffy now, having recovered slightly from your denied orgasm, and he glowers at you as you pout.

“Hands under the headboard,” he orders. You glare at him for another moment, and he raises his eyebrow again in warning. You concede, slipping your fingers under the wooden edge and gripping it tightly. “Good. Keep them there,” he orders as he slowly approaches the bed. “Or else I’ll get some binders.”

“Probably the most use they’ll have gotten,” you snicker.

“You really want to make this difficult?”

“Got a reputation to keep up.”

He snorts before climbing onto the bed and straddling you, lowering his body onto yours slowly. You can feel the warmth of his chest against your skin, and your body is screaming at you to wrap your legs around him, but you really aren’t that interested in the binders that he threatened you with.

You’re more interested in getting his cock inside of you as quickly as possible.

Crater is infuriatingly patient and precise in his motions, but then again, you suppose that’s why he commands an entire combat wing. He slips his hand into your hair again, gripping but not pulling. He tilts your head slightly, exposing your neck to him. “If I remember correctly, your jumpsuit collar goes to about here,” he whispers, nosing at the perceived boundary on the skin of your throat. His beard is tickling you, and you’re shaking with anticipation. “That seem right to you?”

“Yes, s-sir,” you stutter.

“Already a mess and I’ve hardly started,” he rasps, an amused smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “I’ll have you begging soon enough.” He kisses your neck, and you let out a sharp exhale. You’ve tried to play it neutral, but somehow, he’s zoned in on the exact spot you like to be kissed, the spot that drives you wild. And he notices the way you respond, bearing down on it with his teeth and tongue. You start to grind against him, desperate for any sort of friction, desperate to feel his cock. You manage to catch the head of it on your clit through his pants, rubbing for a millisecond before his unoccupied hand locks firmly on your hip, holding you still.

“You’ll take what I give, pretty girl,” he snarls in your ear. “And the longer you’re greedy, the longer you’ll wait to have me fill that pretty pussy.”

You whine but relent, letting him resume his attack on your neck and collar bone. He works slowly and methodically, marking you as he works his way to your breasts, where he seemingly spends an eternity lavishing them with attention. He sucks bruises, he bites gently, and he takes your nipples in his mouth, paying special attention to what makes you writhe and gasp.

And then he moves lower, slipping between your legs and kissing just below your navel as he spreads your legs wide with his hands on the back of your thighs. His breath is so warm against your dripping cunt, and you spasm in his grip as he blows on you purposefully.

“Asshole,” you grumble.

He bites the inside of your thigh hard, and you yelp. Looking down, you can already see the bruise blossoming where his teeth caught your skin.

“Only nice girls get to cum. Now, remember, keep your hands where they are.”

He nuzzles against the flesh of your unmarked thigh, placing warm kisses and gentle bites. His beard scrapes the tender skin just before his teeth graze you, threatening to mark you where only you’ll see. You close your eyes, tipping your head back as you try to fight the way your legs are trembling, but that earns you a sharp slap to the inside of your thigh.

“Eyes on me, pretty girl.”

You catch your lip between your teeth as you obey, your eyes finding his brown ones, which seem to be practically glowing. He keeps his gaze locked with yours as he nuzzles your clit, blowing on it gently. You whine, and your legs try to close, but he firmly holds them open.

“I’m going to break you,” he whispers. “By the time I’m done, all you’ll know is my name and the word ‘please’.”

You tremble again just as he dives in, driving his tongue and eating you ravenously as you gasp and thrash in his grasp.

Crater is a master at pulling you apart slowly, and he takes his time, working you to the edge with his tongue and mouth and then chuckling as he pulls away, leaving you trembling and crying out in frustration. He’s a quick study and eventually adds his fingers, thrusting into your cunt as he suckles at your clit in the way that he now knows will have you clenching and gasping. The third time he deprives you, you unleash a frustrated growl, and he laughs quietly at your frustration.

“Please, Captain,” you whine. “Please.”

“Not yet.”

He goes at you again, alternating with his tongue and his fingers, and it feels as though it only takes seconds for your body to begin to tighten, begging for the release that he’s robbed you of.

“Knew you’d taste good,” he mumbles into your skin as he presses his fingers back inside of you. “So sweet and warm.”

“P-p-please. Please.”

He nips at your thigh and you cry out, tears leaping into your eyes as droplets of perspiration dot your forehead. Crater bears down on the spot inside of you, watching you as you babble.

“Please, I'll do anything you want. Please, sir, please. I need it.”

“Tell me what you need, gorgeous.”

“I need to cum. Please. Do anything you want to me. Please just let me cum. PLEASE!”

“Not yet.”

You sob.

He keeps working you, disintegrating your resolve with every pass of his tongue and his fingers. The scratch of his beard is delicious, contrasting sharply with the warmth of his mouth and the soft press of his tongue against you as he laps at your heat.

“Captain, please. Gods above, I’ll let you have anything.”

“Anything?”

“Yes. I’ll suck your cum out of your cock. You can have my ass. I’ll give you anything.”

He chuckles. “At the bargaining phase, are we?”

The tears are streaming from your eyes, and you unleash a choked sob.

“Ask me again.”

You’re gasping now, teetering on the edge.

“Please, Captain. Please let me cum.”

“Good girl.” He kisses your clit, and you moan, your knuckles aching from how hard you’re holding the headboard.

“Cum for me.”

You do, screaming his name as your body spasms with wave after wave of your orgasm. He holds you in place, working you through it until your body finally sags into the bed, slick with sweat and wrung out. Your mind is hazy as you feel him crawl up next to you, pressing his fingers against your lips. You let your mouth fall open, welcoming them in as you clean your release from the pads of his fingers. When he’s satisfied, he leans over you and kisses you, and you can feel how wet his beard is from your release. He reaches up as he kisses you, pulling your hands from the headboard. You immediately bury them in his dark curls, running your fingers over the back of his head, relishing this new touch he’s permitted.

The way Crater kisses you feels as though he’s stealing the air from your lungs. His tongue gently finds its way inside your mouth, running along your lower lip as his hands wander your body, gently rubbing and caressing. After what feels like an eternity and not long enough, he relents, resting his forehead against yours.

“Are you ready to continue, my gorgeous girl?”

“Yes, sir.” You’d been determined to make this harder for him, but he’s broken you, and you’re more than ready to bend to whatever his will may be. You trust him implicitly, just like you always have, but somehow, it feels deeper now. You know as rough as he may be with you here, he’ll never hurt you in a way you don’t ask for. His eyes are staring directly into yours as he strokes your cheek tenderly.

“So good for me,” he whispers. He kisses your cheek, moving along your jaw until he reaches your ear. He gently takes your earlobe between his teeth as he grips your thigh, coaxing you to wrap your legs around him. You do it immediately, quivering again at the thought of finally being filled by his cock.

Crater is kicking his pants off as he whispers into your ear. “Now that you’re being good, I’m going to fuck you until you’re boneless. You’re going to cum exactly as many times as I want you to, and no less. But you have to ask me first, and ask nicely. Do you understand?”

You nod.

“Use your words, love.”

“Yes, sir. I understand.”

“Color?”

You can feel the head of his cock resting against the puffy, soaked lips of your pussy. Crater is stroking himself against your slit, coating himself with your release. You look down and see he’s as big as Gregor, but with a little more girth, and Maker above you’ve never wanted anything more.

“Green.”

He grunts as he notches his head at your entrance. “Good girl.”

Crater enters you slowly, watching your face as he breaches you. Your release makes it easier to take him, but not easy. You feel your walls stretch to accommodate him as he slowly thrusts shallowly into you, pressing a little deeper each time. Every time his head catches your entrance, you whimper, and he responds with a thrust. You can feel how tightly you’re stretched around him, every ridge apparent as he takes what you’re more than willing to surrender.

“Fuck, you’re so beautiful like this,” he whispers.

You reach up to touch his face, and he catches your hand, pressing a kiss to the inside of your wrist before he leans forward and captures your lips again. He groans into your mouth as he bottoms out, pressing his hips against yours, and the feeling of him inside of you is bliss you’ve never experienced. He stays still, but his entire body is tensed, a taut spring waiting to be unleashed. He strokes your cheek.

“Are you ready?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I won’t be gentle.”

You raise your head, grazing his lips with yours. “I don’t want you to be.”

He chuckles darkly. “Good.”

His hips draw back before slamming against yours, and you see stars as the head of his cock finds the perfect place inside you. He starts off at a steady but hard pace, knocking the wind from you with every thrust of his hips. His hands wander your body, squeezing your breasts, playing with your clit, finding every place that makes you unfurl more underneath him.

At one point, he sits up, placing his hands at the back of your knees and pushing them towards your chest. The angle of his next thrust has you screaming to religious entities you don’t even believe in as he reaches impossibly deeper inside of you. His thrusts are deliberate and perfectly timed, his fingers bruising, and it’s not long before you’re pleading with him again.

“Maker, I’m gonna cum again. Please let me cum, Captain. Please.”

“Yeah? Already? You’re not making this very difficult.” He sheathes himself to the hilt and holds there. It feels as though he’s rearranging your insides, and you’re shocked you can’t see an outline of his cock through your stomach.

“Gods. Please, Crate. I’m so full.” Tears are leaking from the corners of your eyes as he drags himself out again, leaving just the head inside of you. His thumb presses against your clit with a feather-light touch, and you jolt at the contact, whining desperately.

“Not yet, you’re not,” he rasps. You feel his fingers prod at your asshole, and you fist the sheets, arching your back as your mouth falls open. You hear the click of the lube bottle opening again.

“Color?”

“G-green.”

His cock slips from you, and you want to scream, but he holds your legs where they are, and you feel the blunt head of the plug nudge your other entrance.

“Relax for me, pretty girl.”

You do, inhaling and exhaling deeply as you quiver with anticipation. The plug slips inside you, and it’s bliss you’ve never experienced. Crater watches you for a moment before he slides his cock back inside of your pussy, folding you back in half again.

You’ve never felt this full before, never this pleasured, and you’re not sure you’ll ever feel this way again.

But you need it.

“Fuck. Don’t stop.”

A hand settles on your throat, firmer than the last time he grasped you like that.

“Eyes open for me, love.”

You didn’t even realize you’d closed them, but your eyes flutter open and find Crater’s in the dim lighting. They’re piercing. Your tongue darts out to wet your lips, and his gaze follows it.

“Do as you’re told, yeah?” he groans.

“Yes, sir,” you gasp.

The grip on your throat tightens slightly, pressing on the sides. “Squeeze for me.”

You focus on contracting your muscles even though your mind feels like a blur. Crater grunts as your cunt tightens around him. “Good girl. Good fucking girl.” His cock slams into you, and you relax, letting him fill you.

“Again.”

Crater releases your legs, fucking you with his hand around your neck. You’ve never tried spice, but you imagine this has to be what it’s like. You’re floating, you’re moaning, you’re sweating, all while wave after wave of pleasure washes over you, more intense with every thrust of Crater’s hips as the head of his cock continues to stroke that perfect place inside you. The grip on your throat tightens when he wants you to flex your muscles, and after a few cycles of it, you tighten around him without having to be asked. Crater’s fucking you in earnest now, the hand still around your throat, and your head is swimming. He releases you for a second, watching you.

“Color?”

“Green,” you whisper.

“Louder for me.”

“Green,” you say more firmly.

He’s still watching, and you see a flicker of something, concern maybe.

“I said I’m green, Crater.”

He takes your hand, placing it on his side. “Tap if you need.”

“I will. Now please fuck me.”

The grip tightens again, and you’re back to floating, and before you know it, you’re begging him again.

“Cum on my cock, pretty girl.”

You do. You cum hard, clawing at his back as he bites your shoulder. Your vision whites out as you writhe underneath him, clenching around his cock until the orgasm subsides, leaving you panting.

“Good. That’s two.”

“How many you shooting for?” you gasp.

“As many as it takes. Now on your knees for me, love.”

You roll over onto your knees, bracing yourself against your elbows. You feel exposed like this, back arched and presenting yourself to the captain. You feel him staring at your dripping heat, and you shiver under his gaze. His fingers trace along your lips as he positions himself behind you, nudging your knees apart as he presses his cock back into you. Your back arches almost by instinct, and he groans as he bottoms out, leaning over you. You feel his abdomen press against the plug in your ass, and you try to push backwards to drive it in deeper, but a sharp smack to your ass makes you freeze.

“What did I tell you about being greedy?” he rasps. “You take what I give you.”

You squeeze around him in the only act of defiance you can muster, and he chuckles darkly before he leans forward, pinning your arms behind your back with one hand while fisting your hair with the other. The roots of your hair creak again under his grip, but the pain is beautiful as he slams into your cunt again with a wet slap that makes your face burn.

“You talk a big game, but I know what you really crave,” he grunts as he fucks you. “You want to be told how filthy you are. You want to be used like this, to surrender to someone else. You want someone else to take charge. Your dripping little cunt tells me everything I need to know.” He’s got his weight tipped forward onto the small of your back, arching it even further as he snaps his hips into you again, accelerating the pace with each thrust until he’s pounding you into your mattress. Your head is pulled back and forth by the grip he has on your hair, and you allow yourself to go limp as Crater drives into you again and again. You’re more than happy to let him use you, especially as he strokes your insides deliciously, stretching you around his cock as your ass relaxes around the plug. It’s bliss.

After a few minutes, he adjusts again, tipping further forward, and suddenly, he finds the deepest part of you again, and he knows it when you moan loudly under him. He slows, dragging himself out of you before thrusting roughly back in, and you try to bury your face in the sheets to hide the obscene whines that are falling from your lips. But a rough tug of your hair turns your face outward, and you gasp and moan, some of your saliva leaking onto the sheets as Crater fucks you.

“None of that, love. I want to hear every noise you make.”

He pulls you apart, piece by piece, yanking another orgasm from you in a matter of minutes before he flips you back onto your back, pulling your ankles up to rest on his shoulders and gripping your hips as he pistons into you roughly. You lose track of how many times you’ve orgasmed, and each time, Crater only allows you a moment to catch your breath before he’s moving you again, gripping your body roughly and taking what he wants from you. You’re boneless and malleable, and he’s seemingly insatiable.

He’s fucking you on your back again, with one leg extended between his with the other on his shoulder as he drives into your soaked cunt. Sweat is trickling down his neck, trailing along the lines of his tattoos. His dark curls are glistening with moisture, and one drop falls from his nose, landing on your abdomen as he snaps his hips into you relentlessly.

“I’m almost there, love,” he gasps. “Gonna fill this pretty pussy up.”

You’re panting with exertion, trying to hold your orgasm at bay as he grips your hip, driving himself into you impossibly deeper. You worry that his orgasm will mean the end of this night, and he seems to notice your concern.

“Ask for what you want, pretty girl.”

You’re suddenly shy, even with his cock buried inside you, even wearing the marks of his teeth and his hands on your flesh.

He slows, whispering your name. “Tell me what you want.”

“I… I want you to fuck my ass. I want you to have me there, Crater.”

His eyes search yours for a second before he resumes his relentless pace. “I’m going to cum in this pussy. Then you’re going to clean my cock off with that smart mouth of yours. And once I’m nice and hard again, I’ll claim you there. That what you want?”

Heat rises in your cheeks. “Y-yes.”

“Yes what?”

“Yes, sir. Please sir.”

“Good girl.”

He leans forward, adjusting to the angle that he knows will rip another orgasm from you, and sure enough, you’re pleading with him again in a matter of seconds. This time, he’s merciful.

“Cum with me. Right now. Do it.”

You’ve never been so responsive to a lover, never felt as though your body was perfectly calibrated to follow their commands, but Crater’s words send you hurtling over the edge, and you feel him twitch as he empties himself inside of you. It takes several thrusts, and you’re certain you’re full of his cum, dripping with it.

His final thrusts make obscene sounds, and you feel the warm stickiness dribble out of you. Crater pushes himself up on his hands and knees, reaching for the dildo and gently nestling it inside of you, replacing his cock. It’s cold and not enough compared to him, but your disappointment only lasts a moment as he crawls to the head of your bed, sitting against your headboard with his legs spread. He reaches for the remote on your nightstand and beckons you forward.

“Come clean me off, love. Get me ready to take you again.”

You feel as though you’re drunk as you roll yourself onto your hands and knees, clumsily crawling towards him on wobbly limbs. He watches you with a slight smirk as you drop to your elbows between his knees, nuzzling at his abdomen and kissing the scar on his hip. He gently brushes your hair out of your face, gathering it in one hand.

“You want this, love?”

“So much,” you whisper.

His cock is still half-hard, glistening with your combined releases, and you gently wrap your lips around the head, swirling your tongue around the tip. The taste is salty and tangy and warm, and you can’t believe how quickly you crave it, slipping him further into your mouth. He grunts in surprise as you suddenly feel a second wind overtake you, making you eager to run your tongue along every inch of him. You clean him until your saliva replaces the slick cum on his shaft, tracing veins and flicking the head of his cock with your tongue. You hear a dull thunk as his head falls back against your headboard, and he gathers your hair in one hand, applying pressure to the back of your head.

You want him to use you. You want him to bruise the back of your throat. You want him to make your voice rasp in the morning as a reminder of this night.

His cock hits the back of your throat, but you hold yourself there, fighting your gag reflex and the tears that are blurring your vision. You can see his abdomen heaving as he experimentally thrusts into your mouth, testing your limits. You swallow around him.

Crater moans.

“Good fucking girl. Maker, I knew that mouth would be incredible. Gonna have to be careful or else I’ll cum down your throat, love.”

You hum and the grip on your hair tightens as you feel his cock swell and pulse against your tongue.

“Oh, you want that do you? You want me to fuck your mouth?”

The sounds as your saliva squelches around him are obscene, but he begins pistoning up into your mouth, moving your head to meet his thrusts. You rest one hand on his thigh in case you need it, and you feel his muscles tense with every snap of his hips.

“So fucking good. I should come by more often just to do this. Shut your office door and fuck your throat when you get mouthy with me. You love this, don’t you? Love being put in your place. Love being used to slick my cock, you sloppy little thing. Relax your throat for me. Oh, fuck, yes. Just like that.”

You’ve never heard him this vocal, and as you manage to glance up, you see how his lips are slightly parted. His brows are furrowed, and you can tell you might finally have him knocked slightly off balance. A new wave of arousal shoots through you at the thought of making Crater crumble. With renewed fervor, you bury your nose in the curls at the base of his cock, inhaling his scent just before your airway is cut off, and you gag. But you hold yourself there, and his hand rests heavily on the back of your head.

Suddenly, you groan as he clicks the remote for the dildo in your cunt. It vibrates to life, pressing against your stretched walls, making your legs quiver.

“Good girls get rewarded,” he rasps.

You become ravenous, eager to taste his cum, desperate to have this man fill your throat. You want nothing more than to pleasure him, to submit to him, and you let him take what he wants from you. Crater drops the remote, burying both hands in your hair as he lazily thrusts in and out of your mouth, giving you instructions occasionally, which you follow without question. The dull buzz between your legs combined with the pressure in your ass and the throb of Crater’s cock on your tongue brings you to the edge again, but this time, you can’t beg with your mouth full.

He notices.

“Do it. Cum for me. You’ve been so good.”

He clicks the remote again, and you scream around his cock. He presses your head all the way down, groaning as your shrieks vibrate around him. Just as you’re spent, he pulls you off of him, turning the vibration off. He’s almost painfully hard, you can see that. His cock is fully erect and twitching, glistening with your saliva in the dull lighting of the room. You rest your cheek on his thigh, and he strokes your hair.

“Tell me what you want, pretty girl.”

“Wanted… wanted to taste… you,” you pant.

He strokes your hair. “Another time. I promise.”

You whine. “Please fuck me.”

That was apparently the answer he was hoping for, not wanting to expend himself too early if that’s what you really wanted. He’s read you again, but you can’t be bothered by it as he asks you “Where?”

You know he’s making sure this is what you want, so you meet his eyes with as firm a gaze as you can muster. “Please fuck my ass, sir. I need it.”

“How could I refuse such a polite request?”

Crater eases out from underneath you, crawling around behind you and guiding you onto your stomach. He folds a pillow in half and helps you raise your hips to stuff it under them, raising them to his liking before he straddles you, enclosing your legs with his. He pushes the vibrator in your cunt a little deeper, you having squeezed it out slightly during your last orgasm, and then he clicks the low vibration back on. Your muscles tighten around it, and you grip the sheets, arching your back and moaning as he presses it further in and clicks the button again. The vibrations ramp up, and you writhe beneath him. He taps the end of the plug in your ass, and you turn to look over your shoulder at him.

“You gonna let me have your ass, sweetheart?”

It’s one last check. And you’re so grateful for it. But you’re also so impatient.

“Yes. Please fuck my ass, Captain.”

His eyes leave yours to watch as he plays with the plug a little, tapping and moving it in and out of you before he removes it completely. You feel achingly empty and wiggle your ass, hoping it will entice him to fill you faster. You’ve never been taken there before, but right now, you want nothing more.

“I’m going to go slow. Use your colors.”

“Please, Crater.”

The lube bottle clicks open, and a few seconds later you hear the sound of him slicking his cock. Coolness hits your asshole, and you gasp as fingers slip inside of you, working you even more open.

And then you feel it.

Crater uses one hand to spread your asscheeks as he notches the head of his cock at your entrance and slowly begins to ease in. So slowly. Tears leap into your eyes as your muscles stretch to accommodate him. It’s slightly painful, but the pleasure outweighs it as he gently thrusts just the head in and out of you. It feels as though your cunt is stretching too, and the vibrations inside of you suddenly become more intense.

You need him deeper.

“More,” you plead.

Crater sinks a little further into you, moving his hand to the small of your back instead to brace himself. And that’s when it hits you: he’s inside of you completely, not having to hold himself there, in a place no one else has ever been.

The realization drives you wild.

And then he taps the vibrator again. You gasp loudly, fisting the sheets.

“More. Please!”

He sinks deeper, but it’s too much too fast this time. You gasp out a color.

“YELLOW.”

He backs off quickly, but your hand rockets around to keep him inside you.

“Just a little slower. I’m sorry. I thought I was ready,” you choke out.

“Don’t be sorry. Not at all. I’m glad you told me.” His voice is tight. You know he’s holding back. And that’s why you want to keep going. Because you trust him like you’ve trusted no one else.

“Don’t stop. Just go slower. But please don’t stop.”

“You’re sure?” he asks again.

“Yes. Please. I’m green.” You thrust back slightly, just to your breaking point, and he takes your lead. You feel your body relax around him, and this time, you’re positive when you ask him for more. He’s slow and patient, working his way inside you. The stretch is delicious, and Maker, you’ve never been this full. Nothing you do with your fingers or toys after this will be enough. Not with the way his hand is rubbing comforting circles in the small of your back as he destroys you one centimeter at a time.

“More.”

He sinks deeper, and now you’re babbling as he slowly drags himself back out of you before sinking back in. You reach between your legs to press the vibrator against your clit.

“Fuck, Crate. You’re so big. It’s so big and perfect. Fuck. I fucking love the way you feel in my ass.”

“You gonna let me cum in this tight ass, pretty girl?” he grits out. He doesn’t correct you on his title, but you’re pretty sure he’s almost as far gone as you are.

“Gods, yes. I want you to claim me there. Paint my walls where no one else has. I want to feel you leak back out of me.”

His hands grip your hips so hard you’re certain there’ll be a perfect set of fingerprints there. He’s doing everything in his power to go slow, and you can’t wait to turn him loose.

“More, Crate.”

You feel his hips come to rest against your ass as he bottoms out. He’s panting against your shoulder blades, attempting to keep his composure. The realization of how deep he is inside of you has your cunt fluttering around the vibrator, and you almost orgasm from the thought alone. He stretches his legs out, lowering his weight on top of you. One set of his fingers interlaces with yours, and the other hand comes around to cup your throat. He doesn’t squeeze this time, just cradles your jaw, holding your head up as he nuzzles against you.

“You’re so good for me,” he whispers against your skin. “So fucking good.”

You look over your shoulder at him as much as you can, watching a line of sweat trickle down his temple.

“Fuck me, Captain.”

He does. He’s slow at first, but the drag of his cock all the way back out and all the way back into your ass makes you mewl, and before long, you’re pressing back into him. He ramps the vibrator up to its highest setting, and your eyes roll back into your head.

“Harder. Please.”

He obliges, snapping his hips deeper and putting more of his weight into each thrust. Your toes dig into the sheets as your whole body begins to tighten.

“I’m so full. It’s so good. So good. Fuck.” You can’t stop babbling as he pounds into you.

“You’re so fucking tight,” he gasps. “You take my cock so fucking well. Like you were made for it.” He groans loudly as he bottoms out again. “You love this, don’t you? Being stuffed in both holes?”

“Yes,” you sob. “It’s so good.”

“I bet you’d love to have Gregor’s cock in here too. Maybe he takes your sweet little cunt while I pound your ass.” You moan, clenching at the thought. Crater doesn’t stop. “But that still leaves your mouth. Maybe I get Chuckles in here to fuck that smart little mouth while Gregor and I take you. Would you like that, pretty girl? To be ruined by three men at once?”

You whine and spasm around him, and he feels it. “Fuck, you’re such a dirty girl. Who would have known the smart-mouthed mechanic would let me do this to her? Let me ruin her in the backroom of her office. I want you to always remember this when you’re out in that office working. How I took you back here and made you scream my name. How you begged for my cock. Maybe I’ll take you over that desk before I go in the morning so you think about that for the rest of the day while my spend leaks out of you.”

“Crater, I’m gonna cum.”

“Not until I say you are,” he grits out. “Not until I’m ready to.”

You inhale sharply, trying to keep your body from toppling over the edge.

“Don’t you cum yet,” he snarls.

“I’m trying,” you whine. “But I’m so close, Captain. So close.”

“Keep talking.”

Your mouth runs on autopilot, desperate to find the words that will yank him to the edge alongside you so that you can both tumble off together.

“Your cock is so fucking good, Crater. Gods, nothing will ever be enough after this. You fill me up so perfectly. I need it, Crate. I need to feel your hot cum in my ass. I want to feel it leak out of me. Fuck. Please give it to me, Crater. Please cum in my ass.”

His thrusts grow more erratic, and you know you’re about to get what you want.

“G-gonna fill you up,” he growls. “Gonna be the first to claim you here.”

“My ass is yours, Crater.”

“Yeah it fucking is.” The grip on your throat tightens, pulling your head back again, and that last little pinprick of pain has you teetering on the brink. It’s like the first day when he had you tipped in the chair of your office, your toes barely touching the floor. All it will take is the slightest push to send you toppling over the edge.

Just a little further. So close.

“Pleasepleasepleasepleasepleaseplease,” you sob.

“You’re so cute when you beg,” he rasps directly into your ear. And with a loud groan, his hips stutter as he cums in your ass, gasping.

“Now,” he moans.

And your orgasm rips through you. He drops your head, and you scream into the sheets as wave after wave washes over you in the most intense orgasm you’ve ever had. Tears stream from your eyes and your body spasms again and again. You feel like you’re floating somewhere between consciousness and some other plane of existence as you come out of it, barely aware of what day it is or what your name even is anymore.

When the waves of your orgasm finally stop battering your wrung-out body, you collapse limply against the sheets of your bed. They stick to you, but it feels as if you’ve sunk halfway through the mattress somehow. Your mouth feels dry from screaming. Your tongue darts out to moisten your lips, and you’re aware Crater is laying on top of you, panting against your neck, but trying to hold the majority of his weight off of you.

“Get it out,” you mumble.

He’s already slipped from your ass, but he quickly turns off the vibrator and eases it out of your cunt. You feel yourself start to shake uncontrollably. You’re not sure if it’s due to the orgasm, the sudden chill on your sweat-soaked body, or something else. Regardless, Crater lies next to you and pulls you close to him, being careful to keep his sullied hand clear of you. His nose grazes yours as he gently cradles your head.

“Breathe with me, Bolts.”

You do, and the shivering begins to subside after a few cycles. You finally open your eyes and find Crater’s steady gaze watching you, a comfort as always.

“I’m going to go get something to clean you off with. I’m going to be right back. Alright?” You nod, your mind still hazy, and he leans forward and presses a gentle kiss to your forehead before moving off towards your ‘fresher. The sink hisses softly, and a moment later, you feel your legs gently being parted and a warm, damp cloth moving over your body, thighs, and between your legs as Crater carefully cleans you. Once he’s done, a dry towel runs over the same areas, soft and gentle, before he rolls you onto your back, removing the pillow from beneath your hips. You hear the mini-fridge in your outer office open and close, and a straw is placed at your lips. You drink greedily as he strokes your hair, draining the water packet in a few seconds.

“Good girl.” The words are softer now, carrying no heat. “Do you need more?”

You shake your head and open your eyes just in time to see him toss the spent water packet into the rubbish bin. He slides into the bed next to you, pulling the blanket over the two of you before wrapping his arms around you and pulling you close. You snuggle into the crook of his shoulder in a daze, inhaling his smell and draping one of your legs over his thigh. His fingers stroke your cheek, and he presses gentle kisses to your forehead and cheeks. Strong, gentle hands trail over your skin, caressing tenderly in a way that so sharply contrasts with how he touched you just moments before. He searches for sore muscles or tension left untouched but finds none; you’re completely relaxed in his grasp. His fingers graze over the bruises and bite marks he left, pressing gently and watching for your reaction, ensuring you’re not in too much pain. It’s sweet, but not something you’re used to. You know this hardly counts as being pampered by most people’s standards, but you’re not used to the doting tenderness. Even if you do find yourself melting into him more with every passing second, allowing your eyes to drift shut again as you release a satisfied sigh.

“I’m alright, Crate,” you mumble after a few moments, growing shy under his attention.

“I need to be sure,” he says quietly. “That was intense for you.”

You smile. “It was, but it was so good.” Your eyes flutter open, and your heart melts at the way he’s looking down at you. You were worried about how this moment might go, concerned about how your friendship might shift after allowing this to happen.

But you should have known better. Crater is a pillar but also a soft place to land, someone you’d confide in without hesitation. His men fall in line because he’s someone to fly into battle with, someone you know will keep you safe. He’s proud but humble. You know he won’t tell a soul about this night. He doesn’t need to. He knows what he did for you, how you begged for him, and that’s enough. And if you’re honest, you think he got as much out of it as you did, enjoying watching your walls come down and you relaxing with him, enjoying the process of helping you.

“Just didn’t realize this was an all-inclusive sort of encounter,” you joke. “You’re starting to make me feel like royalty with all the attention.”

His expression grows serious as he looks down at you, pushing some of your hair out of your face. “You shouldn’t be accepting any other kind of encounters, Bolts. Do I need to chat with Gregor when he gets back?”

“Nah. He’s fine for what he is. And he does take care of me. It’s just… different.”

He grunts noncommittally, pulling you closer. You feel his thumb graze your spine.

“You jealous?” you ask, tongue poking out between your teeth teasingly.

“Not at all. We’re different people giving you different things.”

“That makes it sound like you don’t intend for this to be a one-time thing, Crate.”

“That is entirely up to you.” His thumb caresses your lower lip, and you kiss it.

You pretend to consider it for a moment, as if this night won’t have you craving his touch seconds after he’s gone. “Well, I can’t be getting cranky with your men again, now can I?” you murmur, snuggling deeper into the crook of his shoulder.

The corner of his mouth twitches into a smirk. “Definitely can’t have that. And I’m more than happy to do my part.”

“More than happy?”

“Yeah, Bolts. I wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t think I’d enjoy myself too.”

“You do this with a lot of people?”

“Nope. Only ones I trust. And that trust me.”

You twist one end of your hair nervously, the mention of trust bringing a question charging to the forefront of your mind. He can tell, taking your fingers and carefully intertwining them in his own.

“What is it? You having second thoughts?”

“No, not at all. This was great. It’s just… have you heard if Gregor’s talking about him and I? I didn’t think he would, but what Strike said a few weeks back stuck with me. I don’t want to be the Battalion Babe of the week.”

He nods, pulling your knuckles to his lips. “I can assure you that I haven’t heard anything and I don’t think Gregor’s like that. I think Strike was angry and lashing out. I know several of the men did see you leave 79s with Gregor, so the conclusion wasn’t too far-fetched. But Gregor’s not feeding the rumor mill.”

You sigh. “Dammit.”

“For what it’s worth, you haven’t been a topic of conversation within my earshot. I had a chat with Chuckles too and asked him to make sure it wasn’t happening when I’m not around. He said he would, and I trust him. As much of a pain as he is at times, he’s a good man. I trust him.”

You nod appreciatively, melting slightly at the thought of Chuckles doing that for you, but the mention of the mohawked pilot brings another question to the front of your mind. “Were you serious about you and Gregor and Chuckles?”

He shrugs. “It was something I said in the moment, but not a thing I’d approach them about without your express consent. No one needs to know about this if you don’t want them to. And I would only bring in people you and I trust explicitly. Gregor and Chuckles are two of those people. But again, it was said in the moment and doesn’t have to be a serious thing ever.”

Your mind is whirling at the thought of having three of them at once. You can’t lie, it does pique your interest. You smirk up at him. “I’ll let you know.”

He huffs a laugh. His eyes are gentle as he leans down, pressing his lips to your forehead. “Thank you for trusting me to do all that for you.”

You snuggle further into him, absently tracing his tattoos with your fingertips. “Thank you for doing it for me in the first place. I’d have never asked.”

A quiet laugh rumbles through his chest. “I know. You’re too stubborn. That’s why I offered.”

“Glad you did.”

“Me too.”

His steady heartbeat lulls you to sleep only a few minutes later.

—

When you wake in the morning, Crater’s still there, but he’s in the process of getting dressed. He’s snapping his vambraces in place as you stir, sitting up and stretching. You ache deliciously in all of the right places, but seeing him standing there reawakens your hunger. He smiles at you as you sit up in bed.

“Morning. Figured I should get out of here before the droids start powering on. They’re not known for gossip, but better safe than sorry.”

“I suppose you’re right.” You can’t keep the disappointment out of your voice, and even if you had, you’re confident he still would have picked up on your cues. He pauses.

“What’s wrong?”

You wonder if you’re overstepping, but after the night you just had, you figure it doesn’t hurt to ask. You get out of your bed, opening the door to your office. Despite you being completely naked, covered in his marks, Crater’s eyes are firmly locked on yours. You lean against the doorframe, glancing over at your desk.

“You mentioned a parting gift last night that involved my desk. That offer still on the table?”

He huffs a laugh, his hands falling to your waist and gently guiding you out into the office. The cool edge of the desk presses against the front of your thighs as he leans down to speak directly into your ear.

“Elbows on the desk for me, pretty girl. And try to be a little quieter this time.”

You shudder as he nudges your feet apart, placing his codpiece on the desk next to you.

“Yes sir.”

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accol-fics · 9 months

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Happy holidays to @momecat ! Here's your gift for HBOWarSanta23!

Up 1200 and Up

Summary: This wasn’t just a stress response. There had been seeds of this in Nate’s psyche long before things had gone to shit here in the desert. Since that first meeting, Nate always kept Brad in his line of sight. His situational awareness always included Brad’s position.

12 stories about finding meaning in a meaningless war.

Brad/Nate. Rated E. 7800 words.

100.

Day 1, Oceanside. Nate was stiff from the flight. Deep purple bruises earned at jump school ached on his hip and shoulder.

He checked in with Command, dropped his duffel at his temporary bunk, and was out the door in his PTs. Under the 5 and down to the beach, he ran until his body was loose and hot.

Later, in the showers, a tall, blond man nodded approvingly toward the fresh, raw marks along Nate’s left clavicle, tapping his own faded scars. Nate’s jump school pinning hadn’t yet healed. A thin trickle of red washed away under the spray.

200.

“That's a low priority to pass on?”

The muscles of Nate's forehead and brows bunched into a scowl. His frustrated words about his CO’s ineptitude were out of line. He knew it, but saying them aloud was a pressure-relief valve that kept his sanity intact.

“Personal feelings, sir,” Brad said, echoing Nate's chastisement of him only minutes earlier. His smirk was audacious.

The commiseration and, indeed, Brad's sass were appreciated. Peak comedy, Nate thought, was an inside joke revisited at just the right moment. Brad grinned broadly at the eyeroll Nate failed to fully suppress.

Speaking of safety valves. Turns out Brad is an effective one.

Still, it took a while for Nate to realize how tense his fingers were on the butt of his M16. Bravo Two was tight, competent. They could handle the lack of armor crossing the breach point. They'd be alert. They were trained to adapt to the unexpected.

He flexed his hand, loosening his grip. Nothing good comes from perseverating.

“Hitman Two Actual, this is Two One Alpha. Interrogative.”

Brad's voice came over the radio. Nate blinked away the unproductive tension in his gut and picked up the handset.

“This is Two Actual. Send it.”

300.

It was not surprising in the least.

From behind Two-Three’s vehicle, Nate saw it clearly: Brad apologized to Baptista for overreacting on comms.

It was an olive branch extended to repair a relationship. It was for the morale of the platoon. It was to put things right between himself and a colleague. And it was obviously what Brad Colbert would do in this situation. Of course he would apologize.

He continued to both surprise and not surprise Nate. Absent in him was the typical Marine hypermasculinity that dictated the posturing of other men. Brad had elevated himself above all of that. Nate wondered if it was a conscious decision. Probably not. Calm efficiency fit him too well. The intensity of the emotions in his eyes, however, showed the respect he had for their men and the Corps.

Nate watched him walk away and he wondered what Brad’s internal voice sounded like. Was it a stream of excerpts from the Art of War? Maybe it was Kierkegaard stripped of the religious aspects. Or was it simply staccato bursts of necessary info on the ROE? It was fascinating to imagine the way Brad’s mind worked.

Nate would never truly know, of course. Just like Nate’s own inner voice was unknowable to anyone else. They held their thoughts too close to their flak vests here. An icy veneer was mission critical (as evidenced by Dave’s cracking front and crumbling command of his team). It was impossible to imagine either Nate or Brad releasing their tight hold on their thoughts and verbalizing them, even under the blanket of night, even in the safety of Oceanside.

Nate blinked. He realized with a jolt where his thoughts were taking him. He drank from his canteen and shook it off.

He was glad Brad was his TL.

400.

“We're 30 klicks west-northwest of Basra, and 30 klicks south of Al-Kurna.” Nate gazed north over the marshy lowlands.

Brad was at his shoulder on the low berm. Nate had no doubt Brad had their map coordinates committed to memory. He had a natural eye for that kind of thing. An admirable skill.

Nate continued with his voice hardly over a whisper. The history of this place deserved that gesture of respect.

“Al-Kurna sits at the confluence of the Tigris and the Euphrates. It's the cradle of civilization. Sumer, Assyria, Babylonia. All of them right here.”

The reeds moved in the low breeze. Christeson was tapping out a beat on a fuel can while Stafford and Garza took turns sing-rapping verses of hip-hop songs Nate didn't know the names of.

“How many wars has this place seen over the millennia?” Nate mused.

“And now we perpetrate one more,” Brad observed.

Nate felt Brad's eyes on him momentarily. Or perhaps he imagined it. He didn't look to verify.

“Has Poke been proselytizing within your earshot?” Brad asked. He sounded amused. “He was saying something similar back at Matilda.”

Nate grinned. He hadn’t heard anything from Espera on this topic, but it didn’t surprise him that he would have opinions on the matter.

“Did you know the wheel was likely invented in this area?” Nate asked.

“Humvee tires leaving tread marks in the wake of donkey carts. A noble legacy.”

“Noble.” Nate tried the word in his own mouth. A week ago it would have tasted better.

A few moments spent in the dusk’s dwindling light. The history here weighed heavily on him. They owed this place a debt of gratitude.

“Brad, we just waved them off,” Nate breathed. “Trucks of armed men and we waved them off because they weren't uniformed. The whole of our observations… the trucks, the weapons, their posture. They were irregulars, but they were combatants.”

Now Brad’s gaze was definitely on him. Nate hazarded a look and found Brad studying him.

“Clearly Command hasn't heard your history lesson, sir,” Brad said with a smirk in his voice. “Or they did and were distracted by the Whore of Babylon analysis I assume you included.”

Nate looked down at his feet to obscure his grin. “Al-Kurna has an old jujube tree that is purported to be the Tree of Knowledge from the Garden of Eden.”

“Like I said: whores.”

500 .

“Hey, LT,” Gunny said, rousing Nate from his sleep.

Nate had no idea how long he’d been asleep for. He was lucky to grab an hour of shut eye per day. It wasn’t sustainable, but it was what he got.

It was still dark. The moon was up. That was Nate’s only gauge of the current time. He’d sat down in his victor after the 2100 Zulu briefing with Trombley and the rest of Two One Alpha.

“Sorry to wake ya,” Gunny said softly.

Nate rubbed his hand across his face. “It’s fine.”

“That’s the thing. Not sure everything is fine.”

Nate jolted upright and started opening the door. Adrenaline took its accustomed place in Nate’s veins. “Did the boy not make it to shock-trauma?” Shit.

“Whoa, whoa,” Gunny soothed. “It’s not like that. We don’t have that word.” His face was soft, concerned.

Nate sat back in his seat. The tension hadn’t fully left his body. “What is it?”

Gunny clearly was parsing his words before speaking. He took a few moments to respond. “This is weighing on Brad. I haven’t seen him like this before.”

“Like what?”

“Less than mission ready.”

Nate’s eyebrows went high. “Thanks, Mike.” And he meant it.

Brad was on watch while the rest of his team slept under the cami net nearby. On the perimeter of the airfield tarmac, Nate walked over and stood next to him.

“I thought you were sleeping,” Brad eventually said.

“Your fairy godmother woke me up.”

“Hm.”

He left it at that for a long time. In the far distance, soundless flares of smoky explosions were a constant reminder of where they were. Above them, the night sky was cloudless. The platoon had gone to red lights at sunset for security, but it had the added benefit of making the stars vibrantly visible. The Milky Way angled from horizon to horizon. It was a momentary escape to take it in.

“Mars is up,” Nate said eventually, looking toward the faintly red planet twinkling up there.

“Hm?” Brad said. He appeared to try to follow Nate’s line of sight in the dark without success.

“Here,” Nate said. He moved to stand behind Brad, and he pointed over Brad’s right shoulder so he could sight off of Nate’s arm. “Do you see it?”

Brad’s body radiated warmth in the night air, a fraction of an inch from Nate’s. His cheek was close to Nate’s exposed wrist.

“I’ve got it now. Apt.”

“I thought so too,” Nate said, moving away to stand alongside Brad again.

“If we were living inside your history lecture, would Mars be a harbinger or a boon?” Brad asked.

Nate smiled. “I suppose that’s in the eye of the beholder.”

“Then I say it’s neither. Too superstitious. Can’t deny the poetry of it though.”

Silence surrounded them again. Nate thought it was less heavy than when he’d first joined Brad here.

“These are the moments I hope I remember from here,” Nate said quietly.

“Mm,” Brad concurred.

600.

“Sir,” Pappy asked, “has any thought been given to destroying the weapons and ordnance that are sitting over there?”

Nate nodded. “Actually, that did come up, but it seems the battalion's supply of C-4 is now unaccounted for. The battalion supply truck we left last night? It is a smoldering heap of twisted metal and failed hopes in the trustworthiness of the Iraqis we are striving so hard to liberate.”

Patrick’s left eyebrow rose, and then he shook his head in exasperation.

As Nate and Gunny walked away, he thought he heard Pappy say something to Lovell like, “The LT is starting to talk like Brad.”

“Espera,” Nate called. “Have Two One Bravo start resupplying the platoon from that cache.”

“On it, sir,” was the response.

“Mike, would you enlist Two Three to help on that? I need to make a pit stop.”

On his way to the designated latrine area behind the dilapidated hangar, Nate replayed his words in his mind. A smoldering heap of twisted metal and failed hopes. He had zero trouble imagining them coming out of Brad’s mouth. Maybe Pappy was right and Nate was taking on Brad’s cadence. Or maybe they’d always had this in common.

Nate came to a stop in the shade of the building, his thoughts sapping the momentum of his body.

He wondered suddenly what it would have been like to meet Brad at Dartmouth. It’s strange to imagine Brad anywhere without the sun beating down on him, let alone in the misty north end of the Appalachian Trail. But the idea of him in a rugby shirt or coming in from the cold of the ski slope wasn’t too hard to conjure up. Maybe Nate would’ve passed freshman chemistry if Brad had been in it with him, challenging him and mocking him with puns that included both Arrhenius and Aeschylus.

Or perhaps Nate would have met Brad in California instead. Nate in his early ‘90s Saab and Brad on his motorcycle, both parked at the climbing gym.

It’s fortunate you’re about to ascend this wall, Brad would have said, because the only option your liberal ass has when showing up in that piece of shit, socialist welfare state, pile of scrap, so-called car is to go up and out of the miserable existence you’ve clearly fallen pitifully into. And then he would have complimented Nate’s climbing form and how the harness framed his glutes just right.

“Deep thoughts, sir?” Brad appeared next to him in the Iraqi shade.

Nate had been so deep in his fantasy he hadn’t seen or heard him approach. His cheeks burned like he’d been caught saying all of those things aloud. It was like he’d been interrupted in the middle of a combat jack, the thought of which made him cough awkwardly.

Brad handed him his canteen, and then leaned his shoulder against the wall. He waited until Nate had taken a drink and handed the water back.

“Thank you, sir,” Brad said.

“For what,” Nate asked, a rasp of embarrassment still in his throat.

“Joining me and Mars on watch last night.”

Brad’s blue eyes were intense when Nate met them. Pale brows and lashes. Sun-reddened skin along his nose and cheekbones. The five o’clock shadow that Sixta would ream him out about if it didn’t get taken care of. A flicker of a thought of how it would scratch against Nate’s palm was shoved away before it fully formed in Nate’s mind.

“Did it help?”

Brad held their gaze intently. Nate’s heart thundered in his ears.

Finally, Brad gave a nod. “Very much.”

700.

“Where’s the line between insubordination and trying to manage upward?”

Nate asked the question rhetorically. He knew how the regulations defined insubordination: Willful disregard of a superior officer’s lawful order . Every Marine knew that definition. It was taken out of their hides from day one of boot camp and reminders of it happened every single day. Particularly in theater like they were now, the pecking order was clear.

When Captain Schwetje had invited the enlisted men to share their opinions with him, the only one with the fortitude to say what he was thinking was Doc. He got away with it on the technicality of the Captain asking for candid feedback, and on the fact that every Marine protects and respects their Corpsman, especially one as competent as Tim Bryan. No one else was going to feel safe from being NJP’d for disrespect of a commanding officer. Especially not when Schwetje asked for feedback in front of Griego’s opportunistic eyes.

But no one had asked Nate’s opinion on anything. Nonetheless, he was exerting his will in contradiction to his Captain’s orders again and again. In his core, Nate felt like he was making the best and safest choices for their platoon in their constantly non-ideal situations. But the Corps’ system wasn’t set up for Lieutenants to defy their Commanders. Not even in Recon, with its need to be nimble, where decisions were made on the fly, was flagrant insubordination ignored. Not even when one’s superior was arguably incompetent and the lawfulness of their orders could be questioned. Not even then.

Brad leaned against the front bumper of Nate’s humvee, contemplating Nate’s question. He bumped his shoulder against Nate’s and left it there.

“Fretting is unproductive,” he said reasonably. His directness was what Nate needed. “You can’t unfuck Encino Man, and you’re doing what this company needs you to do.”

“Tell that to Godfather.”

“I will if I have to.”

“No,” Nate said sharply. “This is my situation. I’m not getting the rest of you… I’m not getting you, Brad, mixed up in this. Let me take care of it.” Even broaching this topic with an E-5 was inappropriate, but this was Brad.

Brad exhaled, annoyed. After a thoughtful pause, he told a story.

“When I was a teenager, I took a job with the grounds crew for the county. Mowing lawns, planting flowerbeds, painting municipal buildings. It was mindless, but it paid well in a seventeen year old’s opinion. There was a team of us that worked together. Me and a couple of guys who went to the other high school in town. Our manager was this blustering, self-important guy in his thirties, constantly on a weird power trip. Spent a lot of time reminiscing about being a star football player.”

Brad gave Nate a meaningful look that was readily interpretable as Schwetje.

“At one point, both of the mowers we usually used were down for maintenance at the shop across town. Some guy on the county board had a shitfit about the baseball field’s grass being too long, ruining his runny-nosed brat’s T-ball game. Instead of getting between us and that board member, our manager let all of that stupidity roll down on us. All of us got fired the next day.”

Brad’s body was a long line of support next to him. Nate could hear the moral of the story coming.

“You, sir, are not that guy. You are shielding us from the worst of Command’s inanity. Hitman Three doesn’t have an LT like you, and they’re the worse for it. Every one of us will have your back because we know you have ours.” Brad’s voice crescendoed to the end of his parable.

Nate turned to look at Brad. They were too close, and Nate’s eyes flicked down to Brad’s mouth. It was only for a fraction of a second, but Brad caught the motion. Of course he did. Nate leaned back, turning to look forward again. Safe. Appropriate.

Brad didn’t chase him. How could he here? It was impossible. Nate wouldn’t compound his issues with Command by engaging in conduct unbecoming with his Team Leader.

Brad pressed his knee against Nate’s and left it there.

800.

“New map sheets,” Gunny called out to the team leaders.

Nate was already waiting for them at the hood of his victor. His flashlight was trained on the paper spread across the flat surface, tracing out the route they’d take at dawn.

The men arrayed themselves at Nate’s sides for the briefing. Brad stood furthest from Nate’s position and met his eyes with an intense look. The tiny hairs at the back of Nate’s neck prickled. It was fear, yes, but not fear of Brad. Rather, it was fear of what the look meant for them here.

Nate looked to the map for respite.

“Later today we’re pushing forward to here.” Nate put his index finger on the location on the map. “Goal in the 24 hours after that is to assault through to here.” He extended his middle finger to the second location.

Brad shifted. Nate glanced up. Brad’s focus was entirely on Nate’s hand and the map. His expression was unreadable in the low light.

“Take your copy back to your teams. Make sure your drivers know the route inside and out.”

Pappy, Lovell, and Espera grabbed their copies and headed back to their teams. Gunny went with them, quietly discussing tactics with Pappy as they walked.

Brad, however, lingered.

“Sir, a few questions about the AO,” he said.

His words were cover. Nate knew it. Nate responded in kind.

“Yes, Brad? Your team will be on point, so now’s the time to get any concerns addressed.”

Brad moved around to the front of the humvee, standing close to Nate’s right side.

“Here,” Brad said, pointing at a position near the MSR. “Am I to understand we’re pushing past this town without stopping? There is a school marked on this map, and Fedayeen has been holing up in schools. Should we recon it, sir?”

Nate slowly moved his own hand back to the map, placing his finger a hair’s breadth from Brad’s.

He cleared his throat. “I like your idea, Brad. I’ll run it past Godfather.”

“I have other thoughts I’d like to ask you about.” Brad’s voice was barely above a whisper.

He closed the distance between Nate’s finger and his own. Nate knew the touch was coming. Brad had telegraphed his intent. Still, the electric jolt of it cascaded unexpectedly through Nate’s entire body. He exhaled sharply.

“I’m open to that line of questioning, sure.”

Nate gently squeezed Brad’s index finger between his first and second fingers, scissoring around the length of it. Brad pressed his hips firmly against the front grill of the humvee, body taut.

“Is it our wisest option, sir?”

“Reconning first is always the wisest option.”

Brad’s thumb and forefinger felt the perimeter of Nate’s fingertip. The side of his thumb ran over the smooth flat of Nate’s nail. Nate clicked his red light off, throwing them into full darkness.

“As you say, sir, it’s good to be thorough.”

They stopped short of entwining their hands fully. Even here in the dark, there were constraints. Nate didn’t want constraints. He wanted his hands on more than Brad’s fingers.

Then Brad’s mouth was near Nate’s ear. His breath tickled Nate’s cheek when he said, “I remember when we first met. The showers at Pendleton. That bruise on your hip.”

Nate inhaled. Brad smelled like shaving cream, like he’d just done his daily ablutions. Nate imagined the feel of Brad’s smooth skin against his own, how it would feel against his neck. He was so close to that target as it was.

“It’s gotten me through many a dark night,” Brad rasped.

“Fuck,” Nate breathed. “Brad. I don’t know how to do things by halves.”

Brad chuckled. “I’m counting on that particular trait.”

Frustration lanced through Nate. He couldn’t touch Brad how he wanted. He couldn’t run his platoon how he wanted. He couldn’t trust his commanders like he wanted.

Was this a combat stress response? Shit.

No.

No, it wasn’t just a stress response. There had been seeds of this in Nate’s psyche long before things had gone to shit here in the desert. Brad was right. Since that first meeting, Nate always kept Brad in his line of sight. His situational awareness always included Brad’s position.

“Fuck,” Nate breathed again. He yanked his Sharpie from his vest and uncapped it with his teeth. Shoving up the cuff of Brad’s blouse, he scrawled an N on Brad’s right forearm in the dim light. It was barely recognizable as a letter.

They both knew it was a mark to stake a claim.

“Now you have my marked skin in your mind’s eye, and I have yours,” Nate hissed. “My initial will be there every time you touch your cock from here until the end of this fubar-ed op.”

Brad swallowed thickly. “Aye aye, sir.”

900.

Time expanded to infinity.

Nate could see every tracer like it was taking a Sunday stroll. A bullet ricocheted off Two One Alpha’s victor a mere foot from Nate’s shoulder, and it felt like it crawled past him. Every rivet in the tan armor was visible to him. Every round from Hasser’s Mark-19 put out a tongue of fire that lingered in front of the muzzle, each like a miniature dragon dancing in the moonlight. Strangest of all, the long, slow moments were silent, like Nate was living in a space beyond the speed of sound.

Time compressed into a second.

Faster than Nate could comprehend, an RPG exploded into the berm at his 6, and then another up ahead almost at the humvee wheels. A blinding cloud of dust came up and Nate had no idea if microseconds or minutes had elapsed.

“Back up and over the berm, then hard right. Clear a path,” he had yelled to Two Three.

He had dodged around shrapnel in the road to Two Two and had yelled the same. He knew he must have done it, but the slinky of time expanding and contracting had wiped it from his short-term memory.

It was seconds ago, minutes ago, years ago that Brad’s voice had calmly come over comms: “There are men in the trees.” It had been followed by the snap of his M4 firing, and by the sharp drop of Nate’s stomach. Brad’s vehicle was on point in an ambush.

The comms had awoken with yelled commands. All of them overlapped and became garbled in the firefight. Nate’s rifle was in his hands, against his shoulder, looking down the sight, finger pulling the trigger. The cacophony was profound. Training took over for every single one of Bravo’s men.

Two Two had a man go down. Nate couldn’t wait longer. They had to retreat. He ran into fire and lost time to the adrenaline.

Breathing took too long. Running took too long. He had to get to the vehicles in front and get them turned.

Finally, pressed against the side of Brad’s victor, time normalized. He had no idea how long it would stay this way, so he called out.

“Brad!”

“LT?”

Brad’s M4 paused. Through Reporter’s window, their eyes met. The look was anything but silent, but no words were exchanged. It was beyond language. Simply a feeling that said “ I had to…” or perhaps “Not before we...” or perhaps simply “This is my duty.”

A bullet pinged off the doorframe. The casing spun into Reporter’s lap and he yelped.

Nate awoke from the momentary hypnosis of Brad’s gaze. It had only lasted a millisecond.

“Go! Go! Ray, back and hard right. Go now!”

Nate sprinted after them, chasing the pop pop of Brad’s M4.

Gunny’s face was ashen when Nate returned to his vehicle. “Sir, that was fucking stupid. Thanks for doing it, but don’t do it again.”

Mike was right. It was stupid to run out into live fire. Stupid, but fully and completely necessary. Nate regretted nothing. He knew, though, that he’d crash from this flood of adrenaline eventually. Perhaps an hour from now, maybe two, Nate would feel nauseated or like his muscles were all jelly. He hoped they were through with this push when it happened. He couldn’t afford to be less than 100%. There was no way he was letting these guys down.

With Bravo Three between them and the bridge, Two regrouped.

Brad stepped out of his humvee, back rigid and fingers still tight on his rifle. The muscle in Nate's jaw twitched involuntarily. Overuse. Too much clenching of his teeth. They'd just survived an ambush. Muscle spasms were a victory.

“Why are you bleeding?”

Nate shone his red light at Brad. He clicked it again to make the light white. It was too bright, like a muzzle flash at midnight. He tugged Brad next to the canvas side of the supply truck.

“I’m not–” Brad looked down at his arms and legs, trying to spot evidence of an injury.

Nate pushed him upright and swiped a dusty thumb over Brad’s cheekbone. It came away red.

Brad’s fingers shot up, touching the place and looking at his own reddened fingers in the flashlight beam.

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing. Your eye is an inch from there, and I’m not planning on cas-evacing you today,” Nate said, annoyed.

“Doc,” Nate called, snagging the medic as he hurried by. “Hand me some gauze.”

“I’ll handle it, sir,” Doc replied, starting to divert to Brad’s aid.

Nate held out a hand to stop Doc’s change of direction. “Give me the gauze, Tim.”

Doc looked hard at Nate, and then at Brad. Brad’s eyebrows rose as Doc handed over the medical supplies.

“Clean it good, sir. It would be a shame if we had to amputate Colbert’s pretty face.”

“Copy that,” Nate said, setting to work cleaning the blood away from the scratch. He was making a mountain out of a molehill, yes, but this was his best TL.

For the second time tonight, time stood still. Brad let Nate tend to his wound. Nate used the time to forget about how fucked up the last seconds, minutes, hours had been. The feel of Brad’s cheekbone beneath his fingers was calming.

“Game face?” Brad asked when Nate smoothed an unnecessary butterfly bandage over Brad’s cut. “You ready?”

“Let’s go.”

1000.

“From an armchair in Iowa, assaulting that bridge would've seemed foolish. From where we stand on this roadside in Iraq, the lunacy of it will eat away at our confidence until we’re ineffective,” Nate said in a low voice.

Frustration oozed out of him. Saying these things aloud was necessary. He wished there were other lieutenants to vent with. His men shouldn’t have to bear the burden of Nate’s frustrations.

Gunny, Brad, and (surprisingly) Kocher stood in a tight cluster with him.

In his Texan twang, Gunny said simply, “It’s a goat fuck.”

Kocher spoke up. “You’re saying what we all think, sir. You’re just doing it in a measured way. Expressing legit concerns is a helluva lot different than…”

Clearly Kocher was reluctant to invoke Dave’s name in front of Nate. But Nate felt Dave’s unhinged panic hiding in himself too. The deeply buried urge to yell and break things to make it clear to someone, anyone how fucked up things have gotten.

“Look, I’m not here for you guys to blow smoke up my ass,” Nate said. “I’m not fishing for compliments.”

“In that case,” Brad grinned, “are you open to insults?”

Gunny pointed over his shoulder back toward their humvee. “I’ve got a whole list I’ve been making,” he said with a lopsided grin. “First on it is: Knows too goddamn many Dave Matthews songs.”

“Fuck all of you,” Nate chuckled. “And thanks. Have you guys eaten recently?”

“Have you?” Brad retorted. Brad’s righthand fingers tightened and released. Nate imagined his sharpied initial stretching and relaxing as Brad’s forearm muscles flexed.

“Good. Just what I need,” Nate replied with an eyeroll and a grin. “First Mike nags me about everything under the sun. Now you?”

“It’s because we both disrespect and despise you, sir,” Brad said with a wink.

The group broke, going to find their rations. Brad strolled back a few minutes later eating a makeshift peanut butter sandwich.

“What do you suppose Alexander the Great ate while he was conquering vast swaths of this fair country?”

“Figs. Flatbread. Fish,” Nate responded while he rummaged through his MRE. He pulled a bean and rice burrito out of nondescript brown packaging and ate it cold.

“Ah, yes, the Three F’s.”

“I’d be happy for anything fresh with a capital F,” Nate said. His MRE contained a fruit cup that reminded him of elementary school lunches. He hadn’t liked the texture of them then either. Still, the Vitamin C beckoned.

Brad chewed contemplatively. “Tabling the discussion of our presence here as a reflection of America’s imperialistic undertones, it’s interesting to think about how much territory Alexander the Great conquered in a matter of a few years.”

Nate wondered if Brad would be open to a discussion of American imperialism at another time, because Nate had thoughts on the matter.

“I read that priests told him not to enter Babylon that last time. Bad omens. He died there shortly thereafter,” Nate said.

“So, like ol’ Alex, we should’ve listened to our prognosticators? I prefer to think he disregarded their advice because it was superstitious bullshit.”

Nate nodded. “Agreed. Having Aristotle as one’s teacher effectively guarantees becoming a lover of logical thinking.”

Brad tipped some trial mix into Nate’s palm.

“I’ve always been more of a Plato fan,” Brad said. He popped a cashew into his mouth, followed by a raisin.

“What appealed about Plato?”

“ Logos , thymos , eros . Logic, spirit, desire.”

Nate raised his eyebrows in question.

Brad shrugged and ate another nut. “Feels like an Occam’s Razor explanation for the way humans work. Shit gets messy when the three get imbalanced.” He gestured around them to the barely armored humvees. “Case in point. This place is 99% thymos, and 0% logos.”

“And the other 1%?”

Brad looked intensely at Nate and didn’t answer. He tossed the remaining nuts in his mouth, smirked a little, and walked back to his team.

That was the most fulfilling meal Nate had eaten since California.

Later, after dark, Nate called Bravo Two together for a briefing. Schwetje’s message from Godfather had been received by Nate loud and clear: Both of them better get in line before they both got court-martialed. Nate cared more about his men's safety than his own, but he did have some level of self-preservation. And he still believed in the principles of the United States Marine Corps. He'd joined up because he wanted something transformative, something that might kill him, or leave him better and more capable. Nate was getting the message that this included humility.

Nate swallowed his misgivings and toed the line.

“What we did, running and gunning through those towns, was all part of the plan. Of all the Marines in the First Division, the General selected us to be the instrument of long range strategy. We led the feint to Al Kut. We tied down two Iraqi divisions, saved untold numbers of US soldiers. You should be proud.”

As the men parsed Nate's words, several skeptical looks were directed at him.

“Why didn't we go into Al Kut?” Garza asked. He wasn't the only one with the question. He was just the first to ask it

“The General's plan wasn't about taking the city. It was about making the Iraqis think we were going to take it. To be clear, the focus has always been Baghdad.”

“We did all this shit because we took a wrong turn?”

Grumbling was starting up

“Gabe, that's not what I'm saying.”

When he dismissed the meeting, he felt like he'd betrayed them. It was one thing telling Godfather a white lie about exploding espresso makers. It was another thing entirely feeding his platoon a bunch of psy ops.

Brad left with a scowl.

Later still, thymos won over logos when Griego usurped Nate's command and fucked with Two’s men. Nate had never thrown a punch out of anger, and here he was, on the precipice.

Brad's wolfish, hungry smile at Nate as he walked away was much more validating.

1100.

Baghdad was as much of a clusterfuck as anywhere else they’d been.

Entering the city, civilian life looked strangely normal. Produce sellers, tea drinkers, and cigarette smokers just watched as the company drove through their streets, like circus wagons had just rolled into town and Recon was the strange sideshow. A day earlier, Nate would've been apoplectic with so many people so close to their vehicles. Muwaffaqiyah was too fresh in his memory.

They were billetted at a cigarette factory formerly owned by Saddam’s sons. The concrete structure gave a sense of safety, like they’d entered the walls of a fort. Castle towers reached to the sky around them. But Navy sniper rifles cracked every few minutes, a car bomb sent smoke billowing up by the front gate, and One Five was shooting helicopter-deployed missiles into nearby highrises.

The city looked normal at first blush, but SNAFU was a better description. Situation Normal: All Fucked Up.

When night soon fell, Brad circled around to Nate’s vehicle.

“Sir,” he said quietly, tapping Nate’s shoulder to rouse him from the early stages of sleep.

“Am I dreaming?” Nate asked groggily.

Brad huffed. “Of me? Not this time, sir. May I have a word?”

“Sure,” Nate said, opening the door and stepping out. He rolled his shoulders to stretch. “What is it?”

“In private, sir?”

Nate was immediately alert. He searched Brad’s face in the low light. All he could make out were the downturned corners of his mouth. This wasn’t a flirtatious housecall. Brad needed something serious.

“Of course,” Nate replied.

They walked inside the factory, away from where the humvees were parked and away from the sleeping Marines, away from the perimeter surveillance. Nate led Brad into the room he’d briefed the platoon in, up some stairs to what appeared to be a manager’s office. Blinds on the windows and a lock on the door were useful. Nate engaged both and then clicked his flashlight to red mode and put it on the desk.

Harsh shadows turned Brad’s furrowed eyebrows into deep black lines on his forehead.

“I am requesting mast on behalf of Eric Kocher and Daniel Redman,” Brad said formally. His shoulders drew back until his back was perfectly rigid.

“Fuck,” Nate breathed. “OK. Yes.” The ramifications started spooling through his mind.

“I’m sorry for bringing you into this, but I can’t let this go. What’s happening to them is not right.”

Nate rubbed his forehead, squeezing his temples. “It’s fine. We’ll figure it out. We’ll read Gunny in, then take it up to Schwetje as a unified front. It’ll work.”

Nate looked back at him. Brad’s face bore too many expressions to fully interpret. Gratitude, anger, regret.

“Goddamn it,” Brad said, clearly frustrated. Not at Nate, but at the situation they found themselves in. “I did not sign up for the Marines to get wrapped up in politics. How did we get here? Two fucking incompetent COs and an Ops Chief who spends every waking minute stirring the pot. This is Recon. We’re 0321s. Nate,” he exhaled hard, getting himself under control. “Sir, if this will endanger your position, I’ll go directly to Schwetje for mast.”

The thought had indeed crossed Nate’s mind. Putting himself into the middle of this even as a nominally neutral party was a sticky situation. Schwetje would throw all of them under the bus at Griego’s urging just to keep his own head above water. Loyalty among officers felt… like it should be real, even though Nate felt more loyalty to the enlisted men he commanded than he did to the command structure.

“I honestly have no idea how this will play out. Every time I think I know which way the wind is blowing, it switches. It’s like pounding in tent stakes during a shamal.”

They locked eyes then, remembering the dust storm that ripped through Matilda. Their shared memory of Schwetje digging his rucksack and bedroll out of a foot of yellow sand was too amusing to ignore. Both of them snorted, and then laughed, and then were doubled over with guffaws. These were the laughs one has when there is nothing left to do but laugh.

Brad clapped Nate on his shoulder as they gasped for breath.

“I needed that,” Nate said.

Brad nodded. “Me too.” His hand remained on Nate’s shoulder.

Nate wished he could see Brad’s face this close without hiding in the dark. He put his hand on Brad’s arm.

“I don’t know if I can solve Kocher and Redman’s problem, but I’ll try.”

“I know,” Brad said quietly. “You’re the only thing here that I have complete faith in.”

Nate stepped closer. “That’s a tall order, Brad.”

“Not for you it isn’t.” Brad’s breath whispered along his skin.

Fractions of an inch separated their lips. Nate’s fingers curled into Brad’s sleeve. His other hand gripped at the webbing of Brad’s belt at his hip. One of Brad’s fingers had found the skin at Nate’s collar. The feel of his skin on Nate’s made him gasp and push into the touch.

This position was compromising, but it gave plausible deniability. They weren’t so entangled that discovery would mean credible evidence for a DADT discharge. Nate hated that regulations were front of mind now of all times. But he couldn’t deny that the added tension made this feel so much more intense.

Brad panted hot and damp across Nate’s lips. Nate pushed his thumb inside the waistband of Brad’s pants and rubbed circles into the firm flesh he found there.

Their noses bumped together, but never their mouths. The air gap between them heated from their proximity, but they didn’t let themselves advance. It was their Rubicon.

Nate slid his hands around Brad’s body, pressing against Brad’s lower back, feeling the curve descending to his ass. He imagined the flex and push of those muscles if they fucked. He imagined the long expanse of Brad’s pinked, sweat-glistening skin.

Their cheeks slid together. The faintest hint of stubble grabbed on stubble. In the crook of Brad’s neck, he smelled of baby wipes and dust and musk.

Below, in the warehouse, voices rose up. A patrol.

Still they didn’t push apart. They held onto each other more firmly for another heartbeat, and another, and another.

Finally, Brad stepped back. Even in the red light, his cheeks were clearly burning as intensely as his eyes were. He slowly and conspicuously adjusted himself in his pants and hungrily watched Nate do the same.

Nate didn’t know if he could have this – have Brad – but he was sure as hell going to try.

1200.

The human mind’s quest for equilibrium will smooth the edges off threats and thrills alike.

Nate wasn’t an adrenaline junkie. He knew people who skied backcountry trails, free climbed, dove with sharks. He simply joined the Marines, a wholly different type of thrill-seeking. By the time they had Baghdad in their rear views, Nate’s body and mind were strung out on too much adrenaline for far too long. The edges had been smoothed off everything. He felt thin and papery and beyond ready to be done with the frustrations of this place.

He was glad to have his feet back on Californian soil. The safety of home meant some of the excitement of living could outcompete OIF’s ever-present thrill of death via ambush.

He gave himself a week before he knocked on Brad’s apartment door.

Brad was barefoot and in board shorts. His left hand curled over the top of the door and he grinned broadly in welcome.

“I was wondering when you’d come to finish the job.”

Nate smiled. “Finish it? I’m here to get it properly underway.”

“Don’t let me interfere with a well-conceived plan.” He stood aside and gestured Nate inside.

Nate could feel Brad’s eyes on his ass as he toed off his sandals and walked into the kitchen, depositing a grocery bag on the counter.

“You did a supply run? Let me guess: no adult diapers or baby wipes this time.”

“Very astute assumption.” Nate began pulling every vet’s luxury – fresh fruit – out of the bag. “I brought the F’s.”

“Nutrition is of utmost importance for stamina.” Brad pulled two beers from the refrigerator and handed Nate one.

Talking would be required at some point. Nate wasn’t going to re-up (which he hadn’t revealed to anyone yet), but Brad was a career Marine and Don’t Ask Don’t Tell would be a part of his professional life for the foreseeable future. Nate didn’t know if Brad wanted a one-night stand or a quiet relationship. Either way, the conversation would happen later.

Nate took a long drink of beer. Brad watched him, and Nate watched him right back.

“Shower?” Nate asked, by way of starting the proceedings.

Brad reached out slowly for Nate’s hand. This was something they’d skirted. A touch like this would bind them to each other. Clearly he was giving Nate time to divert if it was still off the table. The opportunity for an out was appreciated, but Nate was here for a reason. No flinching at this point. Brad’s fingers hooked around Nate’s and tugged.

“This way,” Brad said.

In the last week, Nate had spent hours in his own bath. The dirt of war needed time to fully wash away. Perhaps that’s why he suggested this as their first encounter. It would feel like a luxury, and it might feel like a clean start, free of all the shit that made their time in Iraq hard.

Brad pulled his shirt over his head in a smooth motion, abandoning it on the bathroom counter. He reached into the shower to turn on the water, letting it warm. The glass of their beer bottles clinked when Brad took both and placed them on the high windowsill inside the shower.

As he did, Nate began unbuttoning his shirt. Some day, Nate hoped, he’d undress for Brad and it would be an intentionally slow tease. Now Nate’s pace was slow simply because it felt good to be unhurried.

Brad’s keen eyes drank in the motion of Nate’s fingers. As the collar spread wide and Nate’s clavicles were visible, Brad’s eyes traced their lines and the healed jump pin scar there. As the placket fell open, Brad’s pupils widened as he took in Nate’s chest and the hair that descended below his beltline. Nate continued downward to the button of his shorts, and to the zipper.

Brad cleared his throat when Nate thumbed his fly wide. “Commando. Very efficient and somewhat presumptuous.”

Nate pushed his clothes to the floor and stood before Brad in the steam. Both of them had dropped weight in Iraq. Their cheekbones stood out more sharply. The hint of ribs framed their chests.

He stepped closer to Brad. Like in Baghdad, their lips were a breath apart. Now, however, Nate could read every expression in Brad’s eyes in the daylight. The blue of his irises was a thin ring. His lashes fluttered when Nate slowly laid his hands on Brad’s hips. Without the bulk of Brad’s uniform in the way, Nate felt greedy. He took his time, moving his hands at an achingly slow pace just to feel Brad’s exhale stutter. When Nate found the drawstring of Brad’s shorts, they both had begun to harden.

The instant his shorts hit the tiles, Brad surged forward. He crossed their point of no return with enthusiasm and purpose. The kiss was crushing and desperate. Brad looped a strong arm around Nate’s waist and walked them backward into the shower spray. Heat and moisture surrounded them, drenched them in a way that couldn’t hold a candle to the way they kissed. Physical. Claiming. Seeking and finding.

Brad’s palms flattened against the wall beside Nate’s head, caging him in. Forehead to forehead they panted.

“I want…” Brad began and then paused. He changed his inflection and repeated himself with finality. “I want.”

Skin was slick beneath the running water. Nate used it to his advantage. He explored the curve of Brad’s biceps and the gentle roll of his abdominal muscles. The N he’d heatedly scrawled on Brad’s forearm was only a memory now. Nate nipped at the skin there, and followed it with his tongue. In return, Brad sucked the lobe of Nate’s ear between his teeth. He slid his thumb across Nate’s erect nipple. He found the round of Nate’s ass and groaned as he squeezed.

The sound of Brad undone was something Nate was sure he’d never tire of. He wanted to learn every iteration of it starting now.

He took handfuls of Brad’s hips and pushed their pelvises together. Their cocks slid and bumped and caught on each other as they thrust. Nate inhaled every one of Brad’s gasps. He bit and took and gave and gave and gave everything to this man in his hold.

Brad tensed in his arms and came with Nate’s name a whisper against his lips. Nate gasped and followed Brad into that ecstasy.

Later, in the bright daylight of the California evening, they lay together in the clean sheets of Brad’s overly soft bed and shared a very fresh, very juicy, very crisp apple. Nate studied the curl of pale hair on Brad’s chest. He made note of how the ink of Brad’s tattoo crept around the left side of his waist. He scratched his fingers through Brad’s short hair and watched Brad’s eyes drift closed at the sensation.

Eventually, Brad joked, “This is some Tree of Knowledge shit.”

Nate laughed, “Which of us is the Whore of Babylon in this relationship?”

“Hard to say, but you do have those very fuckable lips.”

“Well, Brad, you do have a point there,” replied Nate, licking those very lips and sliding down the bed to respond to Brad’s challenge.

#hbowarsanta23 #momecat #generation kill #brad x nate #bradnate #my fic #click through to ao3 #hbowardaily

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