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sprout-fics · 2 months

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Oh Muse, Tell me of the Things Done by Golden Aphrodite

(Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F! Reader)

Rating: Explicit Wordcount: 5.6k Warnings: None Tags: Greek Mythology AU, Greek God inspired, Human sacrifice reader, God of death and wrath Ghost, Size difference, Size kink, Praise Kink, (Marriage kink if you squint?), PiV sex, Aftercare, Eros and Psyche inspired, Cliffhanger A/N: Part two dependent on reception

They call your fate a tragedy.

It’s a necessary one, the temple priest says, as you weep at the steps leading up to the grand mausoleum- inlaid with gold and obsidian. You wrap your arms around yourself as they tell you of your duty, inform you of your sacrifice. The statue of the god of wrath and death looms tall and menacing behind him, his bone white mask a single flash of pale amidst the dark, swirling robes that cover his limbs. You shiver as you look upon it, flesh cold as you imagine your final moments pleading at his feet.

A sacrifice, they say.

One to appease the god as death ravages your city, an holy offering innocent, beautiful and pure to quell his anger and rage. Eyes rest upon your trembling shoulders in a mixture of hope and pity, and you know even if you cry out none shall aid you. Your destiny is to die at the hands of a god so that they may live, and if it means your life is called for, they shall offer it for you.

You do not scream or struggle as they take you into the temple, you do not speak as they wash you and smooth aromatic oils into your shivering skin. You do not even look at them when they clothe you in a dark chiton and allow a veil to flutter over your despairing, tear-rimmed eyes.

When they close the altar doors behind you, you dare not throw yourself against them in one last bid for freedom.

The altar is dark, black marble columns stretching high above you and vanishing into a ceiling that the candlelight doesn’t reach. Lanterns litter the steps leading up to the sacrificial altar, with opulent offerings of jewels, weapons, and polished bones stacked high. Shadows dance between them, casting long and sinister against the temple walls. Your bare feet skim the cold stone floor as you ascend, tracing your hand against the frigid, dark mirror surface of the altar. You were not told what to do, only to wait.

So you wait, and you wait longer, sitting upon the edge of the altar, trembling and holding in your cries until they break apart inside your throat. The chamber is silent as the grave, with not a breeze or whisper of warm air to comfort your frigid flesh. Eventually only the sound of your hiccuping sobs fills the emptiness, as you weep for your fate, for the tragedy that has befallen you, for how they shall remember your name in poems, until at last you fall asleep splayed upon the dark altar and awaiting your demise.

As you dream fitfully of the ever after, the candles waver and snuff out with a cold gust of wind. Dark eyes regard your pliant form prone atop the piles of offerings.

and quietly, arms reach forward and cradle you to him as you are taken away.

---

When you awake, it is in somewhere new.

You come to far more gently than you anticipated, soft dreams still clinging velvet to your slumber. It takes a moment for you to realize that you’re no longer curled tightly atop the hard surface of the altar, but rest instead upon silk sheets and soft, plush bedding. The veil still drapes across your face, and as you delicately lift it, your surroundings are revealed to you.

It’s a large chamber, far larger than the temple, but sparsely furnished. You lay upon a bed fit for a man larger than any you’ve ever laid eyes upon, adorned with dark sheets and embroidered with gold thread. Torches flicker with a strange black light against the walls- silver dancing along the outer edge of flames. The blazing hearth does the same amidst a mantle of dark stone, stretching upwards into a ceiling you’ll never reach. A mirror and a basin stands in the corner, and beside them curtains blow in from the balcony, where dawn glows yellow against the horizon.

You’re alone.

You’re careful as you creep from bed towards the balcony, the wind ruffling your gown as you stand at the precipice. Below, a stark mountain valley yawns dark and fathomless without end.

The door groans as it opens.

You flinch away from the sound, spinning and feeling terror pool low and vile in your stomach at the sight that awaits you.

It’s him.

Taller than any man, a being of pure power, the god Ghost stands at the doorway clad in billowing dark fabric, his dark eyes boring into your shivering form from behind the stark white of his skull mask. The sheer size of him is enough to send goosebumps racing down your spine, his immortal stature ensuring you scarcely come up to his chest. The strength of his limbs is curled in tight muscle discernible even with his cloak, and when you meet his eyes you think of the space between stars- a void into which no light escapes.

He takes only three strides to cross the chamber.

You cower backwards until your spine hits the railing of the balcony, and as you glance over your shoulder the valley wind roars from the depths. You wonder if it is a more fitting end to hurl yourself from here than face whatever slow death the God of Wrath has ordained for you.

He stops just at the threshold, regarding you as you look up at him with tearful, terrified eyes. At this nearness you can sense the pure energy that rolls off of him in waves, a strangeness that speaks of something far from human, an unfathomable power that your mortal soul will never fully understand.

“Don’t.” Is the first word he ever says to you, looking past you to the valley. He reaches out his hand, not an inch of his flesh visible beneath his gauntlet of white bone. “Come.”

You stay where you are, heartbeat fluttering as you eye his outstretched palm.

“If I was going to kill you, I would have done it when you were asleep.” He intones, voice deep like distant, rolling thunder. There’s a strangeness to it you cannot place, the tone of it ringing between your ears in a distant echo, otherworldly.

“Don’t hurt me, please.” Are the first words you return to him, desperate as a thing wheezes from your lungs.

Ghost stares at you unblinkingly, and despite the black ichor that paints his gaze, his eyes look almost kind.

“Come away from the balcony.” He tells you, his voice softer.

You cast another glance down at the dark valley, swallowing hard, before at last reaching your hand forward and settling it in his cold palm. He draws you inside, out of the wind, and you find yourself hovering near the hearth with its strange, dancing flames.

“Your name.” He tells you, watching as you hesitantly warm yourself, carefully looking at him out of the corner of your eye.

When you tell him, he repeats it. Slow, purposeful, as if tasting a foreign fruit for the first time. It shivers through you, as if he somehow has wound magic through the sound alone.

“You will stay here.” He tells you under no uncertain terms. “In my palace. No harm shall come to you here.”

You blink at that, face falling open with confusion as you turn to him fully.

“Why...?”

Ghost regards you coolly, but when you focus on his eyes you can swear they crinkle with a wry smile.

“I have no reason to hurt my bride.” He explains simply.

“Your...” You echo, blinking. “I...”

“You were given to me.” He tells you, advancing upon you until he’s mere inches away, one arm braced on the hearth so he bends over your smaller, mortal form. “As a sacrifice. I saved you. Your life is mine by rights.”

Fear pulses bright through you, limbs awash with dread as the blood drains from your face. You had expected death, but the daunting reality of this, of being given to a god as a bride...

Ghost must see the terror in your eyes, for he removes himself from you, striding towards the heavy, ancient door.

“I will not touch you unless you ask.” He states, voice lower. “You are free to roam this palace as you like. There is food in the banquet hall.”

He pauses, observing you as you hesitate near the hearth.

“I will return at dusk.”

and with that, your new husband vanishes.

----

True to his word, no one stops you from roaming the palace.

It’s a massive structure, with towering black columns and high ceilings. Obsidian, marble, and gold accentuates every corner, and you find treasures and trophies displayed at every turn. You are entirely alone as you wander, bare feet skimming against the cold tile as you take in your new home. Each room reveals a new wonder. A bath with glimmering water that billows steam from golden fountains, a garden with dark roses that creep along stone walls, a library with scrolls in tongues you don’t understand, and a banquet hall filled with food that doesn’t seem to rot.

You eat until your stomach is full, and with every bite the food tastes more delicious than the bite before. You scrub yourself in the bath, and when you exit you find fresh garments awaiting you, embroidered with glimmering thread. The finery is beyond anything you dared imagine, and quietly you feel your reservations departing you as the thought of possibly escaping ebbs slowly from your mind.

Dusk finds you back at his chambers, watching the shadows grow long against the walls as slumber slowly descends upon you.

You’re on the brink of sleep when the bed dips, and a bare hand curls gently against your cheek. In your half-dreams, you nuzzle into the touch with a languid sigh, feeling the air fan across his palm. Ghost is silent as he lays beside you, observing your restful face with half-lidded eyes. His mask lays on the table beside him, disposed along with his cloak and armor.

You see nothing when you’re roused by the sensation of him tucking you against him, the world engulfed in darkness. Hypnos whispers across your senses as your eyelids flutter, trying to discern the shape of him as he presses in close behind you. Ghost tucks his legs under yours, his massive frame curling around you and his nose burrowing into the junction of your throat and jaw, where he draws in a heavy breath.

“Sleep, mortal.” He whispers there, one massive arm wrapping across your front.

True to his order, and engulfed in the warm sensation of his body pressed against yours, you find the gossamer veil of sleep draw over you once more.

He’s gone again come morning.

You awake alone, and find yourself missing the presence of him.

The banquet hall is refreshed with food of all kinds- delicacies from far lands you’ve never traveled to. You spend an exorbitant amount of time in the baths, dozing gently as steam billows around you. In the library you find a collection of war poems that you devour with eager eyes until the sun begins to slope towards the horizon, and oddly you do not find yourself entirely bored despite being alone in the massive pantheon to which he has left you.

Yet as darkness descends, you find yourself awake in his bed, waiting for him.

When he at last appears, as the moment where all light has drawn away from the horizon, the dark candles snuff out in a cold billow of wind. Plunged into darkness, the only sensation available to you is a hand caressing your cheek.

“Little bride.” He rumbles as the bed dips before you. “Were you so eager to see me you chose to forego sleep?”

Hesitantly, you raise a hand to press his own against your face, feeling the immense size of it dwarf your own.

“Yes.” You tell him in a scarce whisper, as if you’re revealing a tender secret. Your heartbeat thrums loud in your ears, fluttering inside the cage of your ribs as he draws closer. You try to remember the words you had meant to say- a thank you for saving you? Awe at the splendid riches allowed to you? A quiet plea to leave, one which you don’t truly mean?

You reach forward in the darkness, finding the shape of him broad and strong against your palm. There’s smooth skin of scars that litter his immortal flesh, across the wide breadth of his chest, down to his waist, traced across his arm and shoulders and the massive span of his back. He’s bare to you, and you can’t suppress a shiver at the mere thought that you are laying with a God.

“You’re frightened.” He notes at the shake in your hands, attempting to draw away from you.

“No.” You tell him, a hand gripping tighter to his to prevent his retreat. Words clog your throat, lips parted with breath as you feel his coal-dark eyes bore into you in the inkinesss of his chambers.

“Touch me.” You whisper instead.

When he bends to you, he swallows the sigh that pours past your lips.

Ghost defiles you in the way warriors do- pure strength tempered by careful restraint. You splay under him bare, his hands smoothing over your flesh like admiring a masterful weapon. He memorizes the curves and softness of you, humming notes low and deep into your skin as he drinks in your scent like ambrosia. He spends his time admiring the outline of you in the darkness, fingers dipping between your legs and spreading you over large, calloused fingers until you mewl and grip at the fine silk sheets.

“Sweet little thing.” He rumbles, pleased, as you offer him high, keening moans, head tossed back against the pillows. Wetness dribbles down your thighs, coats his hand just as he licks greedy and hot into your open mouth that chants his name. His towering frame bends over you, hauls you to his waiting hands with hardly any effort. Your hands scrape against his shortly shorn hair as he lays claiming bites across your throat and collarbone and Ghost moans against your skin like the pain and pleasure are twin beings.

“Ghost.” You chant in a hymn as his worshipers do when his clever tongue drinks down your arousal at your entrance, and the answering growl that he responds with sends pleasure fissuring down your spine like the earth split open. His hands hold you still as you buck and writhe with your climax, broken sounds filling the empty chamber so loud you think your shout can be heard at the far reaches of the palace.

He shushes you when at last he sheathes himself inside you, the girth of him splitting you wide enough you whimper into his chest. Yet he holds you to him, noses into your hair and whispers low, soothing words as your legs quiver.

“Good.” He purrs as you go pliant against him with a keening sigh, arms looped around his neck and nails digging into the flesh of his spine. “Perfect little bride. They were right to offer you to me.”

You think the nectar of the gods must taste like the glide of his tongue when he kisses you.

Ghost plays the symphony of your flesh like poets play the harp. His massive frame hunches over yours, the sheets tangled around you and his fingers entwined with your own. Each roll of his hips has you choking on a plea, has him huffing hot breaths and growling filthy praises in your ear.

“Made for me. Just me.” He groans, voice grinding deep in his chest as he ruts into you. Slow, measured, infuriatingly not enough. The drag of him inside you threatens to pull you under into madness as you mewl and squirm, desperately chasing the touch of him. “Made to take me, made to be in my bed, in my palace.”

It’s possessive, almost wild with the force of his claiming you. You go to him willingly, tears watering your eyes as you choke on a sob of pleasure. Yet it’s not enough, as he draws your pleasure higher, higher, burning you alive like the inferno of the heavenly sun but refusing to push you over the precipice. You plead his name, dig your fingers into the dip of his spine, ask for divine mercy that he keeps just beyond your mortal reach.

“Say my name.” He tells you, the sound of your coupling echoing out into the chamber- wet and debauched along with your desperate gasps.

“Ghost.” You sob, clinging helplessly to him, laying kisses upon his bare face in the darkness as an offering to the altar of him. “Ghost.”

In return, Ghost bestows upon you your own name, snarling it wild and feral against your lips as you at last fall apart beneath him. You choke on a cry of his name as something great and tender snaps abruptly inside you, races outwards along your limbs with such sudden ferocity you wonder for a moment if you’re been burned alive. Yet the pleasure itself drowns you like the deep and bottomless ocean- a surrender where you try to claw your way to the surface and instead allow the depths to take you.

Ghost growls as he buries himself fully inside the wet clutch of your heat, emptying inside your heaving form with a long, low groan. You feel the spend on him leak from your joining, collapsing against him as you try to remember how to breathe. Ghost adjusts so you lay sprawled atop his broad chest, rising slow and purposefully beneath you as you tuck your head under his chin. A war-worn hand strokes lazy paths against your skin, and you hear him hum with a deep satisfaction at your consummation. You feel claimed in the best of ways, not as one of his beloved war trophies but as his.

When you finally grow restful against his chest, you prop your chin up and try to find the shape of him in the darkness. He’s absent of his mask, you know, and curiously you try to discern his features in absolute blindness. You wonder if he’s as handsome as you dare to dream.

“Why can I not see you?” You ask in a whisper, and Ghost’s hand stills where it traces along the ridge of your spine. He’s tense, and it startles you when he speaks with his voice pitched low, authoritative in a way he’s never spoken to you before.

“As long as you remain here, you will never see my face.” He tells you, his chest vibrating under your palms. “I will care for you, protect you, and you will be mine, but you never see me. Understood?”

You don’t, really, understand. Confusion wrinkles your brow at the enigmatic declaration, but Ghost eases under you as you nod anyways, and the comfort of his gentle touch resumes, and assuages you of your worries until you fall asleep.

In the morning he lingers in your marital chambers, the pale light of dawn glinting off the armor he has donned before you awoke. He sits at the edge of the bed, a bone white gauntlet stroking with surprising gentleness across your brow. You catch it with your palm, kiss across his ivory knuckles as he huffs a warm breath of affection.

“I will return.” He tells you softly, and steps towards the balcony, only to vanish in a billow of smoke.

You lounge in bed in his absence, feeling the pleasurable soreness of your lovemaking imbue itself in your muscles and limbs. Even after a full rest you find yourself exhausted, and it isn’t long before you curl back into the sheets until the chariot of the sun reaches its zenith. Even then, you wince to yourself as you creep from bed, roused by your empty stomach and the mess between your thighs. You don’t make it farther than the basin at the edge of the room before your legs threaten to fail you, and you resign yourself to a few sips of water and washing what you can before collapsing back into bed.

You’re still there when he returns, and Ghost pauses when he hears your empty stomach, hums with dissatisfaction when you tell him of your troubles. With no effort at all, he lifts you into his arms and walks in the way gods do- only several long strides before you find yourself at the baths. Candles cast shadows against the walls, dancing hypnotically as Ghost deposits you at the edge of the water, pausing to disrobe himself of all but his mask before once more lifting you and walking into the baths with you in his arms.

The moan that bubbles up your throat at the heat that ensconses your weary limbs prompts a laugh from the God above you, who releases you only enough to reach for oils at the tiled edge. Ghost is careful, deliberate as he washes you, and despite your protests he insists, as if the act itself is another means of proving his devotion. Yet he can’t resist grazing a rough thumb over your nipples until you squeak, dipping his fingers between your thighs in slow, lazy circles until your legs tighten around his wrist.

Ghost takes you like that, holding you flush to him as his fingers work deftly inside of you, plucking at something bright and powerful until your voice fills the chamber with gasping, wanton pleas. You grip at him as you gush over his palm with your climax, a whimpering sound caught in your chest as he lauds affections into your slick skin.

When you are at last clean and sated, Ghost wraps you in his own cloak before you find yourself in the banquet hall with grapes being lifted to your lips. You know the tale of the goddess taken to the netherworld and having eaten the fruit there, know it meant forever tying herself to a place of death. Yet as your lips close around his fingers as the morsels are fed to you, you can think of no other realm in which you’d rather be.

and silently, you wish you could see the face of the man who has taken you as his bride.

The days are spent as such. You become accustomed to the palace, teaching yourself its interior so you can navigate it blind. You spend hours in the baths, dozing with your head cradled by your arms on the tiled edge. You devour the poems in the library and write your own thoughts on parchment beside them which you find in boundless supply. In the afternoons before Ghost returns you walk on long strolls through his gardens which seem ever changing, blooming with iridescent blossoms and fragrant lilies bright like starlight. You find a harp which seems to offer no sour note despite your lack of familiarity, and wind beautiful music through the obsidian and onyx halls of his home. You find yourself wanting for nothing- not food or shelter or finery of any nature. In return, you offer your love to the God who has claimed you, and to you he returns the same.

Ghost returns to you at sunset, and most nights find your form tangled with his as he takes you whimpering and breathless against the sheets. He seems to know your body like a swordsman knows his blade, invents new ways to pluck at your desire until the only thing you can offer him is reedy, desperate sounds of his name, reminding him you are his. Afterwards he tends to you, and even then you kiss the other shell of his mask as steam billows around you in the baths as your bare bodies embrace.

You find yourself increasingly nocturnal if only to spend the long hours of darkness in his company, talking and touching in the absence of any illumination. You ask him of the poems in his library, of the trophies that adorn his palace, of the emptiness between these walls and how he bore the loneliness that came before you. You ask him of the offerings given to him by his worshippers, of immortality and all things of a god-like nature.

You never ask him to show his face.

Instead you map it with delicate touches in the darkness, trying to instill in yourself an image of his likeness behind the mask. His jaw is strong, and along it you think you feel the smooth skin of another scar that snakes up towards his ear. His hair is short, and you wonder if it is the same dark color as his ember stare. His lips are soft as they press to your skin, as if he himself is the acolyte to your divinity.

As the weeks turn into seasons, and the high winds of autumn reach the mountaintop, he tells you of how he became a God.

Gods are not born. They are chosen, he says. Those of great valor, of devotion and strength are lifted into the pantheon and blessed with immortality, with divinity beyond that of human comprehension. Outliving those who once knew them as human, their legends are inscribed in the songs and poems, spoken of in many tongues until their following becomes great and loyal.

When you ask him with quiet reverence how he became immortal, Ghost’s form goes rigid with something you think can only be fury.

“I was betrayed.” He tells you, voice filled with murderous intent.

He tells you how he was once a soldier- a warrior that some claimed was already a demi-god. Yet he was mortal when his commander betrayed him, abandoned him on a hill of battle upon which Ghost was buried beneath a pile of rotting corpses, slowly suffocating under the weight of dead men. He had clawed himself free with savage intent, feeling rage become the only emotion known to him. It had taken days for him to free himself of the putrid flesh and decay that surrounded him, and it was only once he stood upon the pile of death that he breathed in his first gasp of immortality. The wrath became him, and he became wrath, or so the legends are said.

When you ask him how long ago this was, Ghost does not answer you.

You try not to think of what will happen when he witnesses your final, mortal breath.

and you try not to wish to see his face before you die.

“Are you hideous?” You ask him teasingly, drawing circles on his bare chest as his fingers idly soak themselves in the spend between your legs.

“Far from it.” He replies dryly, and you place a giggling smile upon his grinning lips.

You try not to dwell on it. There is so much you have to be grateful for, after all. A warm bed, a blazing hearth, clothes, a home, food, endless entertainment, and most importantly a husband who swears his devotion to you every sunset.

Yet in the daylight you find yourself missing him, and in the hollow place of his absence you try not to let temptation take root in the emptiness.

It’s on a cold morning when you find a snake in the garden.

You’re bent over a swath of coal-dark dahlias when you hear it slither behind you. When you turn, you’re greeted with mahogany dark eyes and shimmering green scales. Yet even as you flinch away the serpent doesn’t deign to chase you, regarding you curiously as it speaks in sibilant, seductive words.

“I see the God of Wrath has found himself a muse.” A feminine voice purrs, amused. “Which mortal realm did he steal you away from?”

“I wasn’t stolen.” You retort, shying away as the snake curls closer around your bare feet. “I was an offering.”

Sinister, the snake laughs at you. “And has he refused to let you leave? Are you too afraid to try? He may kill you, hermosa.”

“He wouldn’t.” You manage, tucking yourself up on a pedestal where your dress drapes over the edge. “He loves me.”

“Oh?” The snake asks, curling around the base of the stone, where the light reflects upon its shimmering body. “Are you sure, little muse?”

“Of course.” You reply quickly, even though a shadow casts longer upon your heart with every word spoken by the serpent.

The snake hums thoughtfully, winding itself around the stone slowly, until at last it raises its smooth head to the level of your gaze.

“Then why hasn’t he shown you his face?”

You falter at that, hugging your knees defensively and brow furrowing with dismay. The serpent plucks at the secret doubt inside you that you quietly tuck away at every sunset, that you feel thrum under your fingers as you trace the planes of his face in darkness. You try to conceal it, hardly ever speak of it, but you can’t help but wonder why Ghost refuses to show himself to you.

“Maybe he’s a monster.” The snake goes on. “Grotesque and rotten. The only way he can have your love is if you never see him.”

That can’t be true. Your husband is beautiful and strong, and you know even if he was hideous you would still love him for his fierce protectiveness and tender care. Even if his visage was obscured by scars of battle past, you would still love him.

“He doesn’t trust you, little muse.” The snake hisses quietly, and it sounds strangely pitying, a sadness which you feel plays upon the harp strings of your ribs. “Can you truly be wed to a man who does not believe in you?”

“Ghost loves me.” You repeat in a whisper, mostly to yourself.

“If that were true, he would love you even if you saw his face.” The snake offers, tongue flickering in your ear.

Something dark and viscous simmers in your stomach like tar, and you further hunch in on yourself, uncertain.

“Away with you.” You say at last, refusing to look at the serpent, who laughs wickedly as she winds herself into the bed of dahlias, and vanishes.

That night, when Ghost lays with you, the whisper of his affections feels sour against your skin.

You lay awake even as he sleeps behind you, his massive form curled around you and bracketing you in his warmth. The darkness looms long inside your thoughts, where the words of the serpent echo into the void where light fails to illuminate the face of your husband.

He loves me, he loves me, he loves me.

Yet you know of Ghost’s warning, his oath that you will no longer be his if you see his face. To risk the love he has given you for such a temptation seems sacreligious, a sin for which there is no return.

He doesn’t trust you, the snake whispers.

In the morning, you feign sleep while you hear him depart to realms unknown.

He’ll return after dark. He loves you, he loves you, he loves you.

You do not find the snake in the garden.

He doesn’t trust you.

“You’re mine.” He huffs, dark and deep against your lips in your bed that night, and you shield your cry of desperation behind a moan. You give everything to him, your entire being, lay it bare before him as the offering you are, knowing he will keep you safe and love you with fierce devotion the way warriors love their oaths.

He loves you.

He leaves at dawn.

but he doesn’t trust you.

The wick burns against your fingertips as you light it.

You approach the bed with silent steps, your bare feet skimming across the stone as they did in the temple at the altar as you’d sacrificed yourself to him.

He loves you.

He’d taken you, spared you, made you his bride. He gave you his palace and all the treasures within, and with it came his love.

You see the broad, scarred plane of his back as you draw closer.

He hides behind a mask, refuses to let you see the one thing that nobody else has ever seen. Not even you, his offering, his bride, his muse, his beloved.

The candlelight illuminates his face.

and you feel your breath catch tightly in your chest.

He’s breathtaking.

The word ‘divine’ does not compare to his likeness, with his eyes closed and his lips parted in sleep. His alabaster skin shielded from the sun is written with scars, but the stories told by them seem like the songs of great poets, wild and magnificent in the way of feral things. Long, blonde lashes swoop gently over his cheeks, still rosy with the exertion of your lovemaking, face slack and open in his slumber.

He’s the most beautiful creature you’ve ever seen.

Even when his dark eyes open, look upon you with despair, he’s still beautiful.

“No.” Ghost speaks in a tone you’ve never heard, full of grief, and it stabs through you like a blade. “How could you?”

“Ghost-” You try, reaching for him as he raises himself from bed, drawing to his full height and towering above you. Yet your fingers are just short as he draws away, towards the balcony.

“Leave.” He tells you, his voice hardening with fury as a cold wind begins to billow around his form, cast in starlight.

“No-” You try, panic bubbling up your throat as you try to move forward to him, pleas for forgiveness upon your lips. “Ghost-!”

“LEAVE.” Ghost bellows as smoke churns wildly about his immortal form, the cold wind slicing against your skin and preventing you from drawing near.

“I love you!” You cry in desperation as tears form, and the mantle of his cloak descends upon his shoulders, bone white replacing his face.

Ghost doesn’t respond, not as he becomes wrath, not as his eyes look upon you with betrayal and despair. You try to move forward, to touch him once more, but when you reach out your hand, skim your fingers against the outline of him-

He’s gone.

As the cold wind retreats, and with it your husband, you collapse to the floor and wail with your despair.

#simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon x reader #simon riley x you #my fic #my writing #call of duty x reader #cod x reader

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tarjapearce · 4 months

Text

Heathens (Pt. 1)

Priest! Miguel O'Hara x Nun!Reader

art by @maxro_art on IG (Her Deliverance AU is ❤️❤️🤌🏻)

WARNINGS: MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. If you're sensitive regarding religion, please don't read this. Masturbation in holy places, explicit language, wet dreams, Female anatomy, oral ( F receiving) Gentle Dom Miguel, Corruption kink, overused tropes cause yeah, a tinge of yandere undertones if you squint, mutual lust, Not Proofread ~

Summary: Father O'Hara had a little lamb ~

A/N: Another for the Miguelverse ~ Reblogs and comments are much appreciated c:

Main Masterlist

From all the places you could've find solace from war, The house of God was the least of lieus in your list. Not that you had a choice.

Family long gone after unsuspected explosions decimated your town, followed by constant tragedies such as losing friends along the way either by enemy and merciless hands or sickness. In the end, it was only you. You had outlived them all despite your short age. And now, they lived crammed up in your memories.

Happy, smiling and very much alive. Sometimes you'd see familiar faces on stranger's bodies. Grief had slowly nested within your soul and when all hope seemed lost, the chapel had saved you from what surely would end up in your premature death.

The blackest of black matched the crispest white you had ever seen, they were all donned in their beatific robes, prayer beads dangling at every gentle step they did. And there it was, epiphany unfolding itself before your experienced in horror eyes. It was your call.

All the answers to your laments and aching heart were sent as them. Nuns of the Mistbourne Parish. A church located in the outskirts of a now rundown by conflict Nueva York. The church that now played a major role in taking in as much people within their sacred walls, before they could be dispatched to a more adequate place.

Without hesitation, you had joined. And now, six years later you still remained with them. Early twenties had settled right for you as a nun. Ever devoted, compassionate, and diligent.

As time went on, the main city was reconstructed, burying it's dark tragedy under freshly built towers, hiding the pain under the rugged carpet full of concrete and wire homes, like nothing ever happened. Like if war had never stepped upon it and gave it a much needed renewal at people's lives expenses.

But no matter how many changes time brought, life in Mistbourne's Parish remained the same. Untouched by the technological advances from the outer world. There was always something to do, as simple as it was. And so far, you've been satisfied with it.

The only alterations worth of mention was your holy family expanding.

A new couple additions to the staff. More sisters, an eighty percent of them were beyond fifty. You were the youngest, their child. After all some ended up raising you within the house.

And him. The new priest.

The tallest and bulkiest man you've ever seen. As much as staring was considered rude and borderline a sin, it was unavoidable to do so, when his rusty brown eyes fell upon you. Their color unique, like he was. Never in your life had you seen someone like him, or another man besides the butcher and the guard. He had definitely been a regular man before coming here.

The soft weary expression lines in his sharp countenance revealed his own fair of lived experiences.

He towered over you, crisp white dot on his black rimmed neck line, parading his status with modest pride, and golden praying beads dangling on his narrow hips, you held yours while asking forgiveness for keep staring.

"Father."

Father O'Hara. In his mid thirties, broken family also torn by war, wearing his vows in the shape of a ring on his right hand.

"Sister"

His voice deep yet gentle, like a lullaby. His steps took him away to his own residence. The rectory outside the church.

It made sense as to how some workers were renovating it in the past few weeks. The parish last priest had been sent off in sacred duties, only to realize later that he had killed a man. Cops and detectives surely made a show out of it.

Dark times, according to Sister Lianne, one of your mother figures. But now, Father O'Hara had taken his place, erasing all traces of the previous man with concise and pithy actions.

He took his role seriously. Said masses on sundays, visited the sick, baptized people; but his most popular feat was to hear the confessions. The most intimate secrets revealed to him by either your fellow sisters or people from the town that came to expiate their sins in hope to be forgiven.

You'd sometimes run into each other, bumping casually in the narrow wooden floored halls, you'd often apologize, only to reciprocate a polite smile on both ends. He'd sometimes help you out by carrying things a bit too heavy, or you'd help him out lighting up the altar for his speech.

Yet, his hands in one occasion took an accidental taste of your body dimensions underneath your beatific robes, while preventing you from falling down the stairs. He'd scold you for being careless and carrying things that obscured your sight.

After many sorries on your behalf, you returned to the cells and went straight to your own dorm, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

His hands felt burning upon remembering the dents of your form, the curve of your waist and certainly the warmth that irradiated from you, so so close from his.

Unexpectedly it had brought memories from his past. His old life where he'd have his lovely and temporary companion for the night impaled deliciously with himself before war and hell broke loose. Before he was forced by the subversives that raided his town to create a new fake identity in the spot as they heard him speak spanish or fight a war he hadn't started, much less would end. And so, his life as Father O'Hara begun.

Odd enough, the sudden and thoughtless choice had granted him peace after witnessing so many terrors his fellow human could be capable of. His need of help has always been stronger than anything and when he finished licencing some sacrifices were required.

Poverty vows weren't an issue since his previous life had been modest yet good enough to go by. Little difference between his current lifestyle.

The obedience vow took him a little longer to fully yield. But he accomplished it to a T, just to avoid more trouble. He faked it until he made it.

His chastity vow had been a quite the challenge to perfect, but no matter how much the temptations paraded before him in the many parishes he was assigned to, he didn't give in. His libido had been sapped out of his body, like a campfire after completing it's useful cycle.

Not because of his brand new sanctity invested by holier-than-thou elders, but rather a broken mind full of grievance and other negatives that always haunted him. The gunshots and bombings too fresh in his mind.

It had been years since he touched someone in a way that wasn't holy. Since he had provoked things in someone else that clearly would make him go under the laicization from the clergy without second guessings.

Until he held you the other day.

Both of your eyes too enraptured in eachother that had sent an igniting spark to his spine. Reviving all those inactive nerves he thought his existencial toll severed long ago. His eyes had gave a brief rake over your face.

Wide and round eyes staring back, both in awe and surprise straight into his soul. Nose flaring softly just like your mouth, whose bottom lip trembled at the little erratic breaths your lungs exhaled upon being in physical contact with a man for the first time in ever, while cheeks bloomed with a not so discreet flush. And your body heat.

Jesus all mighty.

It was dangerously tempting. For a brief moment his past self had taken over, but quickly vanished upon hearing steps. Earning you to fix your crucifix and cowl nervously and him to fist his hands to refrain himself to take another taste and fix his collar and cassock.

To his conclusion, the robes you wore did not match what was underneath. He noted much, but having you wear that loose habit only fuelled his now active and sinful imagination. An opposite from your habits' purpose.

Priest life was hard, and the Celibacy vows were his biggest damnation. Mind often plagued with 'I shouldn't have done this.' 'This is ridiculous' 'Fucking idiot' 'Why did I even lie about this?' But even so, priesthood was better than ending up dead or mutilated by mines somewhere in the battlefield, in the middle of a war he didn't started, much less would end.

Government later was forcibly recruiting all those men, be them widowed or married. It didn't matter. War wasn't for him. Neither Priesthood.

But he'd bear it. He'd bear it until he was put in another parish church full of older and witty ladies he'd definitely wouldn't lust after.

----

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned."

The sweet voice behind the confessional punctured walls, perked up his ears. He had memorized a lot of things, your voice included.

"I... I haven't confessed in weeks. But it grows me concerned that... my mind is somewhere else."

Silence. You were met with silence as expected, it also encouraged you to keep talking.

"A man has flooded my thoughts and no matter how much I try to occupy myself, he's there. Leading me to temptation and sin."

A man?

His brow quirked as he slanted over the little wooden division between you, to hear better and take a peek on your face. The only men he could think of was the guard, the butcher and himself. The only men inhabiting the same area as you.

"How does this man tempts you?"

"He... He visits. In my dreams I mean and..."

A low 'forgive me, God' echoed in your stall. His throat dried and his hands rested on each side of his knees, gripping at the fabric of his pants.

"He does things I know I shouldn't partake in... But, it feels too real."

"You sound scared. Does it frightens you?"

"Very much so. But it is a strange sort of fear, Father."

"What kind of fear then?"

It took you a long pause to muster

"A fear of him stopping his visits in my mind."

He gulped.

Your hands took the crucifix and held it tighter, "For him to stop doing such sinful things to me, even in my dreams."

"Have you sinned in the carnal affairs?"

"N-No. I would never. I've never engaged in them, Father."

His groin twitched, as a hand raked over his scalp. A shaky breath that was forced to come out in silence. Only when he thought you couldn't be more innocent, there you were proving him wrong.

"Ever?"

"I promise to you with my life, I've never."

"I must know" He wetted his lips with his tongue, "What kind of things does this man does to you?"

"W-What?"

Your spine straightened up instantly, eyes wild, staring another hole into the already punctured division. Cinnamon color in his skin, the only brief glimpse you managed to see. But even so, his gentle yet cornering voice brought you down from your initial jump.

"I need to know, so I can dictate a penance."

The flush on your cheeks returned, burning bright upon remembering the all too lucid dream you've been having about your secret man. That, even though visited frequently, you still didn't know his face, just his body as it smothered yours wholy in a constant merciless and scorching rut.

All what you remembered was him feasting between your legs like a starved man. His hands maneuvering your soft mounds to then give a gentle squeeze.

"His hands are the ones that bring the sin, Father."

"Explain yourself"

His voice was sultry, buttery rich and smooth on the other side of the stall. A subtle order. To your dismay, that same demon had a similar voice tone. Alluring, speaking to you in a foreign language it had you mewling and asking for forgiveness every time you remembered, cause you had begged the faceless man for more.

"He touches and... t-tastes places I shouldn't allow no man to delve in." With a thick gulp you continued, "His tongue is... marvelous."

His eyes widened for a second as his hand hovered over his crotch

"Marvelous?"

"I feel the biggest sinner by admitting this. Please, do forgive me."

"Accountability is part of the process."

He tried to sound as professional as he could, but little did you know his mind was torturing his already crumbling resolve with such vivid details. Celibacy wasn't a problem, until now. Hearing such sinful words coming from such a unsuspecting thing like yourself, a virgin that is, made his old self to re-emerge.

Disguising himself as a sheep, while he fought through his holy learning years to tame his wolfish appetite.

There were plenty of ewes in the flock , but so far the only one that made his mouth water was you. A perfect little lamb. And now, this. We're you set to making him break his vows?

No. You weren't. He was reaching his limits to break celibacy and you were just having wet dreams about someone that definitely made him wonder about your past life. A past lover? No. Not even that. A possession? A demon? No. Definitely not.

He had heard things whenever on lunch duty. Mindless talk that revealed more to him from others and you than they intended to. You, a nun. Picked up from a ravaged village nearby and raised within the nuns, meaning, you had zero idea of what pleasure meant.

He believed, but wasn't a complete blinded idiot to faith. Your body was asking for physical and forbidden relief. Just like his.

But again, the golden band around his right hand not only forbid but also was the perpetual reminder of what was a stake.

"I know, Father. But... this man has such power over me that has pushed me to sin. He... he has pushed me to take such vulgar matters in my own hands."

Maker's mercy

His cock twitched harder and he was unable hold back and gave a firm squeeze while biting his lip to quiet himself at the long forgotten and heady pleasure that was drowning his body in an alarming rate.

As if done of being fed lies and a quick and sloppy handjob for ages. It was disgusting how easy was to sin, how well his body ached and reacted to such stimulus. How effortlessly his old habits had caught up to him.

He was the one that needed a penance now, cause he couldn't shake the image of you spread with your legs wide open, naked, sliding your fingers in between your weeping folds. You'd certainly have your mouth shut or lips bitten to avoid having anyone hear you.

He had closed his eyes while his jaw clenched, occasionally sweeping his tongue over his lips to keep them moist.

"Say it. Say your sin."

He commanded in a voice that had your cheeks flustered and your pearly nub a throb. His hand half squeezed half stroked over his clothed groin. Swollen and needy cock begging to be set free and properly taken care of.

"I..." A dry gulp and your hands went to your crotch, begging your nature to behave. Cheeks impossibly red.

"I've enjoyed touching myself after dreaming a man... f-fucks me, Father."

The word 'fuck' coming out your delicious looking yet pure lips, had his teeth gnawing at the insides of his cheek, self control harder to keep under the leash. It barked, howled even demanded for more explicit details.

Instead, he sighed quietly and cleared his throat. The sudden noise had you gripping the skirt of your habit in shame.

Miguel didn't say much besides the prayer of absolution and a couple of more prayers as your penance. The same right hand that was squeezing his cock was now being kissed by you, to confirm your forgiveness. Plump, warm and soft lips caressed his ring finger.

And once you were gone, his hand took control on its own, slid under his soutane to stroke himself. If you felt like a sinner, he was the devil himself.

The vice like grip in his own cock made him shudder, sensation foreign yet so welcoming after years without it. A little whine escaped past his gaping mouth, exhaling pecaminous breaths as he stroked like teenage boy that just discovered masturbation for the time ever. Sloppy, desperate and wet motions echoed in the now sullied stall.

He fisted his hand tighter, thick fingers coaxing a much needed release, hips rutting into his choking hand. Quiet whimpers and an array of curses flew out his mouth.

His flushed tip swayed and shook under his own rough ministrations while his jaw clenched, he clawed at the chair when hot and thick spurts of his cum dribbled down his hand and wrist before time; pooling in the hollow of his palm while earning a gutural growl that dissolved into a shaky whimper, as he curled against the wooden and punctured wall for a brief lapse of seconds to regain his composure.

"Fuck..." He had to lay against his chair to keep the light-headedness at bay, drowning in his own made pleasure, panting like he had run a marathon for hours.

He shouldn't have lied back ago. And definitely shouldn't have become a priest. He was soiling their already tainted reputation. His old self was back to stay.

He cleaned up his hand under his robes to then leave to change. He was given a glimpse as you were picking up some harvest in the orchard while he was making his way back home.

---

Window's glasses echoed with the soft rain. The parish has been quiet during weekdays, but busy for you. As winter approaches the harvest must be picked, the grains sorted and the meats stored.

You saw Father O'Hara less and less, and when you did, they were mere glimpses. He was as busy in meetings with other priests, or preparing for the mass that was now given twice a week.

If you weren't in the garden or the laundry, you were in the choir.

Lingering yet brief gazes chased each other. He had heard some nuns speaking about him, some had wonderful things to say, saying that he had been one of the most efficient priests the church has had.

Others mentioned between hushed and bashful whispers about his physical condition and how they caught him go for runs at crack of dawn a couple of times.

And you, just wanted to go to confession again and ask for forgiveness. Not to spill the advantures you had in your dreams with a man that oddly resembled like Father O'Hara, but to unleash your heart's desires to wonder what was beyond the parish.

It was your life, all you've ever known so far. But one of those trips to the city during a beneful visit to another location, had left you amazed. How could a world so different like yours could be considered bad and straying?

But again, vows. Your vows bound you, and once broken, there was no turning back. But right now all that mattered was to get to the dorms. The rest was out in another visit to the city, you were to stay to finish your tasks in the kitchen.

Weather changed so abruptly that one moment you were taking the last basket of vegetables inside, to then run for the dorms to seek refuge. But they were far and the only thing in sight was Father's O'Hara rectory.

It was either getting a terrible fever from the cold and unforgiving rain or ask him to lend you an umbrella to mitigate the glacial numbness spreading through your body. Another reason you barely went out during these days, rains in the countryside were merciless.

Miguel was tending his own garden when the rain begun drenching. Even more when the thunders broke the peaceful white noise. He removed his soutane and shirt off leaving his inner vestments free, but the desperate knock on his door made his undressing ritual to stop.

While quirking an eyebrow, he approached the door and opened it. Eyes widened in surprise upon seeing you, soaked through your bones. lips blue and shivering from the cold.

"P-Please-"

"Jesus. Come in."

He ushered you in, then rushed to get a towel. A frown in his face deepened upon hearing your teeth clatter, clothes stuck to you like a second skin.

"C-Can I... borrow your... u-umbrella?"

Without much though he smoothened the towel against your face, drying it.

"An umbrella? Really?!"

A vehement shake of your head, while trying to get him off you.

"You're freezing cold, the dorms are too far for you to leave. Don't be stubborn."

"I... I don't h-have clothes."

You mumbled through rattling teeth while your eyes darted hazily over his naked torso. He sighed.

"Unbelievable. You're freezing to death and you're worried about clothes. Get them off, I'll put them to dry."

He grumbled while taking more logs into the fire to what would be his living room. If it wasn't for the glacial and biting freeze that refused to leave your body and the foggy thinking in your brain, your cheeks would be beyond red. Crimson even from such simple act.

A weak nod you gave. Your hands stopped bracing your shivering body to focus on removing the cowl and headdress. Releasing through shaky motions your soaked hair that wasted no time to stick on your face and neck.

The next was your crucifix, and praying beads, the tempo you removed them could make a slug to easily win the race, this alarmed him greatly. He had seen what hypothermia did, way before turning himself into this holy persona.

Without much thought, he peeled off your habit that weighed you down.

"Qué mierda más pesada" (Such a heavy shit)

He held you by one arm as he removed the outer layer off. Your eyes drooped and he gave you a little shake.

"Hey, hey, look at me."

Eyes concerned raking over and it dawned on you. Those eyes, the same beautiful and unique eyes were the same that visited in your dreams.

A difficult gulp rolled down your throat as Miguel kept undressing you while grunting. Wet clothes were a pain in his beatific ass. Shivering dicreased, but your lips remained blue, a new shade of purple drawing over them.

"I-It's so cold" You mumbled through laborious breaths.

"Course it's cold. You're soaked! What were you even doing?"

The way he scolded you felt like someone you've known for years was giving you a lecture. So casual, homey, normal. It was Miguel O'Hara speaking, not Father Miguel. The ever gentle and patient man you've been helping.

"Jesús bendito, con cuánta cosa te vistes." (Holy Jesus, so many layers.)

He murmured while pushing you to his chest as he removed the dress that covered your underwear. It felt like a heatless body had been thrown over him, but the warmth irradiating from him felt heavenly. Your form instinctively nuzzled your head on his chest. He had to stop to gulp at the sensations

Even though his mind slapped itself, His couldn't help but wander over your shivering and weak body.

"W-Wait"

A small dark patch hovered above the joint of your legs. Taut peaks followed by lovely areoles ever standing and shivering under the flimsy white fabric of a short nightgown that proved even harder to remove since it clung to you like a second skin, refusing to abandon your body.

He peeled you off of everything despite your protests, but was sufficiently prude to not look over your naked form. A minute too slow and it would be late. Like the young boy in his arms, that had died out of cold once the subversive groups arrived in the forsaken town, they had forced him and the rest to go through a frozen river. He made it, but the boy didn't.

His mind wasn't in the tip of his cock.

That will come later.

But his brain had only one single purpose right now. To keep you alive but for that he needed keep you warm.

Despite the recklessness of his actions, he pulled a freshly folded duvet around while pulling you ontop of his chest and sat together near the fire. Hands moving to dry your hair as much as he could. Your skin was full of goosebumps, frosty to touch, that relished into any source of heat available. His torso, the duvet and the raging bonfire made your head spin.

It felt like his hands, rubbing some life back into your arms while he shielded your body, embracing your form with his torso and limbs. Like a paramedic on duty. Your cheek smooshed against his solid chest, it made him shudder with your own coldness but eventually the body heat treatment would be effective.

"Sorry" it was all you managed before your teeth shuddered again, and his fingers caressed your neck, placing a new wave of delicious heat on your skin.

"You'll be fine."

Your body was slowly but surely returning to it's temperature. Miguel remained there, basking you within his body, fingers gingerly caressing as much cold skin as he could under the duvet. Even his breath provided a little heat. Your erratic breaths collided against his skin, earning a discreet shudder from him.

You had drifted off to limbo, trying to sleep a bit, but unable to completely do so. Not when a man, the Parish Father nonetheless, was holding and nursing you back to an acceptable temperature with his own.

"Father O'Hara..."

Miguel's ears perked up upon you mentioning his name.

"It's Miguel."

He mumbled while drawing lazy circles on your lower back. The fire and the duvet had kept you toasty to curl even more towards him. Teeth no longer clattering.

"Thank you, Father."

"Stop."

His eyes rolled in annoyance, as his hands stopped caressing your skin to then rub his face.

"Stop calling me that."

"But that's your-"

"I don't like it."

He grumbled while looking down at you.

"Call me Miguel."

"I can't do that. Feels too disrespectful."

"I'm not Father O'Hara here, understood?"

You nodded

"Are you cold?"

"I am. Not as before but yes. Has it stopped raining?"

His own smell was making your mind a puddle, some of that fragrant incense remained etched on him.

"No. Just got worse."

You sighed while resting your head on his chest. Heartbeats a mellow lullaby.

"I'm sorry for all of this."

"You were cold and soaked." He pointed dully and bored.

The duvet was brought closer to your chest while staring at the flames. Fingers tracing a lazy and mindless pattern in his abdomen.

"I was picking up the last batch of harvest when rain poured on me."

Your toes curled in as a soft breeze flickered the fire and he tilted his head to watch you closer.

"Now I'll have to explain why there isn't enough corn."

"We'll go by. It's ok."

"Are my clothes ready yet?"

A snort that would be translated into an 'Are you kidding me?', your brow furrowed.

"You'd be lucky if they get dry during the night."

Another defeated sigh. But a sudden thought however made your cheeks burn faintly.

"D-Did you see me naked?"

"No."

Oh.

There was a silent pause before you spoke again. Curiosity tempting.

"Have you seen other women naked?"

He huffed playfully while pushing your hair away from your lovely and sweet face.

"Yes. I was a regular man before all of this."

His fingers curled up in his hand, morphing into a lazy fist

"Do you miss it?"

"Would be a liar to say if I don't."

"You... You've had sex before?"

He chuckled while with an open palm, took a taste of your skin, deliberately roaming your lower back. You shuddered.

"I did. Plenty of times."

Your audible gasp made his eyes droop hazily in a smirking grimace.

"I was told it felt marvelous."

You looked up at him and he pulled your chin upwards, he really had to keep his restrain under a leash to not take you here and there, instead, he cupped your face and hovered his lips over yours

"Do you want me to teach you, Sister?"

He was the demon. The very same one that visited in your dreams and left you a soaked mess. A little too late you'd noticed that he wasn't wearing his vow ring. It was placed somewhere else you truly couldn't care less at the moment.

You only nodded.

"Use your words, dear"

"Please", you gulped, "Teach me."

It was in that moment that he sealed your lips with his. Your first kiss ever. Chaste and sweet at the beginning that slowly turned into this obscene display of his mouth assaulting yours with his tongue in between gentle licks and bites of his lips.

A shaky whine then a whimper escaped your throat upon feeling his hands skimming down your spine. He only let you go when you tapped out for air.

"How often am I on your mind, pequeña?"

Finally the demon in your dreams had turned into a reality. Eyes were closed, unable to look at yourself melting under his touch. Nipples perked against his chest.

Plump and hot lips caressed yours but they stopped. Hands pulled you upwards, Miguel turned you around so your back was now colliding with his chest.

"You're still cold."

Cheeks grew impossibly red while he slowly peeled off the duvet out of your body, leaving you bare before him. You gulped as he moved your hair to a side and slowly kissed up and down your neck.

His hands were unable to resist any more and cupped your mounds, like in your dream. Calloused palms, rough against soft breast.

"Qué maravilla. Is this how your dream goes?

Legs smothered together, a little strip of hair etched to your pubic mount. He hummed in appreciation to then part your legs above his. Cunt pulsing at the coolness of air brushing past it.

Both of your legs dangled ontop of his as you remained nested above. Your heart beat at the playful moves his middle and index finger pulled on your nipple as his free hand darted over the joint of your inner thighs. You could feel him trembling underneath, the restrain made his breath hitch.

Your own turned erratic once more as he slid three fingers in between your folds. A shy Ah escaped your lips while he used two of them to part the outer labia

"Look at that, little one. Is that what you touch when thinking of me?"

Drunk eyes darted between your legs and his skillful hand, the engorged and pearly clit peeked out as one of his fingers flickered slowly. Focusing the right amount of pressure in it that had your moans shaky. He paused to adjust his fingers as they caressed and rubbed as much flesh as they could.

Mouth etched to your ear. Deep and needy breaths fanned behind you

"So so pretty. Look at that"

He made a show of his fingers coating themselves in your slick. One of his digits hovered over your entrance, slowly it disappeared inside. A muffled groan echoed in the void space

A wet and shlicking sound came from his ministrations, head unable to move, too enraptured into watching him sliding in and out. Skin bloomed with a new wave of goosebumps as his tongue licked your neck and earlobe, rewarding you for taking one finger deliciously, that he licked up clean before going back to rub at your clit.

"Want to add another?"

A breathless and hissing yes.

You didn't know who was with you right now since Father O'Hara couldn't. Your brain still refused to believe they were the same man. One preached and talked mass every Sunday, the other had your head spinning while his fingers explored your insides with such gentleness it only increased your whimpers and need for something more and bigger within you.

"Does that feel good, Hm?"

A dumb nod while more escaped your mouth repeatedly

"More?"

"Please!"

How could he deny to such petition? Even most when you were gripping him so deliciously and pulsating with every stroke he delivered in, grazing at your sweetest spot.

"Like this?"

He increased the tempo and your breath hitched, hips moving to meet his fingers aiding them to reach deeper and deeper.

Breaths turned into short and shallow pants, blood rushed to your cheeks. One of his digits pushed past between your lips meeting your moist muscle that wasted no time into kissing it. All you could hear was yourself and your weeping pussy that demanded for more.

But they weren't enough. Brain was sent into an override when the climax washed over you. All the pent up need and lust drowned you. Strong pulsations dictated the contractions that trapped and milked Miguel's fingers. Mind split in two in a shattering and core shaking spasm.

Mouth gaped, eyes heady and drunk with blind hot pleasure, body convulsed while an array of mumbles and clumsy curses flew out of your mouth to finally end with a delicious quivering cry.

"It's okay, shh, it's okay, pequeña." He cooed you through it while kissing your neck. Heart pounding in your ears.

It took you a moment to breath properly. How could you have missed this? How could you remain so ignorant to this? Alienated from something you were often told it was dirty and condemning.

He had only touched in the right places and you were melting. But why stopping there? You knew he also wanted you, his hard on pressing over your lower back, begging to set free.

"M-More"

He shook his head with a proud smile

"Can't do that, preciosa"

A capricious whine came through your throat, "Why not?"

"Cause, as much as I'd love to take you until you recite the bible backwards to me, you know what could happen."

"You don't want me, then? Why stopping now?"

"Far from that. And we must be discreet. Wouldn't want you to be whipped by Sister Lianne."

He took your hand and kissed your wrist. While his other limb pulled you closer to him.

"I am the only one that shall leave marks on you, my dear. Is that clear?"

"Yes, but-" He took your chin in a gentle but firm grip.

"Is that clear?"

You nodded with a pout.

"Lay on the bed."

"What? "

"Lay on the bed, so I can taste you."

Miguel could fulfil that fantasy. With Bambi-like steps you pushed yourself up and walked over his bed. Plush surface welcomed your body under a creak.

"Spread them."

Toes curled up for a second before spreading them open. Clit already tingling with a foreign yet needy sensation.

He kneeled before you, like he did every day he worshipped the Lord. But this time it wasn't God, but you. Nose nuzzled over your inner thighs while taking a whiff of your scent. Tantalizing and so alluring for his own senses.

Slow and deliberate kisses were placed above your flesh, the strip of hair that decored your pussy, to finally sink in between soaked folds.

The mewl you gave only made him feast upon you. Hands grope the sheets by instinct as he spreaded you further.

His tongue lapped and curled at your hole, slurping it without refrain and inhibitions. Devouring it like it would be his last meal.

Your dream had felt too vivid, yes, but this was completely different. This was in a whole new different level. His corruption had tainted your soul and it was gladly welcomed into your arms.

Legs twitched and shook while your head was thrown back, chest heaved with shallow breaths, unable to breath properly as his tongue was set into fucking your drooling hole.

The way his tongue fucked, dribbled and guzzled your cunt had you mewling and moaning the filthiest things you didn't think possible you could get out.

Good was an understatement, heavenly was a measly word to compare what you felt like. It was maddening and he gave you no rest.

Have you ascended? No. He just wrapped your supple thighs around his head, preventing you from squirming too much, holding your hips in place as his sloshing and assailant mouth gave you no rest.

You hadn't recovered completely from the other orgasm when a new one had approached. Lurking around your senses.

His name was moaned, over and over and when your hands were done of clinging onto the sheets, you held onto his hair. Silky and smooth chocolate locks slid under your fingers.

Eyes peeked over you, and he had to pause for a moment to squeeze his cock. Aching and weeping for him to let him free and make you his. But that would come later.

That would come much later when he had more leisure time and when he'd get protection. As much as he wanted to wreck your snug cunt, he didn't want you to be whipped and shamed like another nun was when the higher ups found out she was pregnant by an outsider.

"Miguel"

His name on your lips rich and tasty, like him.

Your voice snapped him out of his trance to immediately go for your clit. Plump lips pursed and captured the engorged nub. While his hands pushed your legs up and folded them, giving a complete access to your pulsating pussy.

He slurped and souped while his tongue teased. Wet laps sent jolts through your spine each time he tasted you.

Too much. Too good and too soon, yet he didn't stop. He shook his head like a mad dog subduing it's prey and that move alone had you gushing over his mouth. He quickly gobbled it all down.

You whined, cried and blabbled, even tried to pull his head away but he delivered you a last stroke with his tongue to then lick his lips clean.

"Please"

You mumbled through blown breaths as he watched you with a lust blown glare.

What had he done out of you?

"Greed is a sin, my dear."

What had he created?

"But if you're good enough, the wait will be worth it."

His little lamb was so willing for him, aching to be tainted, corrupted even more. And his task was to banish such whims.

He'd given you a taste of what laid ahead. A promise of a much unholy reward if you followed this path with him. But your resolve had been made the first time you came.

He'd be your first and last. There wasn't any need for another to teach you what he was compliant to demonstrate.

You'd be his to fuck. His to tame and corrupt.

You'd be his.

---

Taglist:

@plumplumpurin

#miguel o'hara #t writes✨#miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x you #atsv miguel #miguel o hara #miguel ohara smut #priest miguel #Miguelverse #spiderman 2099 masterlist #spiderman 2099 smut #priest au #afab reader #Miguel O'Hara x AFAB Reader

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tomorrcwz · 2 months

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✰ POSITIONS, F1 DILFS

[ starring ] sebastian vettel, kimi räikkönen, fernando alonso, jenson button, lewis hamilton, kevinmagnussen

[ tw ] fem!reader, smut (+18), dom!drivers, mention of sex toys and tapes, dirty talking, fem and male oral receiving (+ choking on dick)

. minors do not read .

sebastian enjoys sitting back to watch you play with yourself, be it your dainty fingers buried deep inside your pussy and coated in your juices, or the dildo, the copy of his cock, he had gifted you months ago when he was away; the sight of the grip your greedy pussy has on the plastic phallus and your body writhing in the sheets, whorish moaning his name to pled for relief, thighten his trousers but rather than bouncing you, feeling your tight little satch, he leans forward, breath fawning onto your wet tights, resulting in goosebumps.

you'd cry out silently, legs shaking as you ram the toy faster into your warmth. "what did you say, liebe? (love) care to repeat?", the man would ask, his rough hands grabbing your thick tights. "want my big dick inside you? fuck you till you can't remember your name and see stars no more, huh?", he'd taunt you with a massive smirk on his pinkish lips. "that what you would like, don't you, my dirty girl?"

kimi prefers on being hands on, having you knee in front of him to suck him off. tears have already escaped your eye and stained your hallowed cheeks, while his right hand sits at the back of your head, hair kept in a ponytail to manage the speed and the desired depth. your glossy eyes holding contact with his lustfilled gaze and the choking sounds as well as the moans that send off vibrations around his dick, makes him pull your face against his pelvic bone to deep throat him. the tightness of your wet mouth let's his cock throb slightly, the taste of salty pre cum hits your tongue once again.

slowly, kimi would face fuck you, forcing your lips to touch his pelvic whenever he pulls your head towards him, forcing your jaw to go slack and take his long cock all the way as saliva runs out of the corners of your stretched mouth, trailing down your tits and eventually hitting the carpet. "you love being my good girl, eh? then choke on it."

nando loves to grab your plump ass whilst hugging you whenever it is in public or in the privacy of a room — if his action is made in the later situation, the innocence of his touch quickly turns into nibbling playfully on your ear and neck, leaving small marks to show his claim of you. his finger would dip inside your clothing to touch your already wet pussy, gently brushing past the outer lips to rub your clit, which will transform you into mush against his body. wanting to eat you out, nando would lay you down on the bed if there is one, probing pillows under your hips to get an easy access to your wetness. he's godsend, festing on your pussy as it would be his last time, resulting in leaving you a breathless moaning puddle of a mess. "please don't stop, papi."

jenson would be the guy who'd twirl, pull and nib on your stiff nibbles as you stroke his growing dick whilst watching a sex tape of yourselves to get in the right zone. in his opinion its one of the easiest ways to set the mood; watching a homemade video of him plowing inside you from behind against a hotel wall or having you cuffed on the bedframe, fucking your little hole hard as you cum over and over again — he'll feel your breath stock whenever his recorded self hits your g-spot or lands a spank on your brightly coloured ass, and the slick of your snatch drips on his leg, that's between yours, rubbing over your cunt.

"in another life, you'd be a pornstar, darling", jense would whisper in your ear as he moves above you, running the fat leaking head of his cock against your awaiting pussy.

lewis would have you in sixty-nine, tongue tracing the rim of your snatched hole as you kitten-lick off the precum of his massive dick and nibble softly on a bold vein, chasing a groan out of the fit male. as soon as you reach past the half, he'll push his cock upwards, causing you to choke on his dick — his less dominating hand keeps your head down as his other hand sinks two fingers at the same time inside you roughly, sending you over the edge, a process he continues over again till you tap his thight two times.

"fucked you good, huh?"

kevin likes nothing more than seeing you completely relaxed and giggling during a session of soft, romantic sex; it's his favourite way to return to a relaxed state of mind after a race and running behind his small children. he'll have you ride him though he'd control the pace while pressing your face against his neck to feel you sucking kisses against it. whenever kevin would push hard upwards inside you, he'd hear you purr like a catita or moan, rambling about how he should just throw you down and fuck you, but this will just result in his next pushes slower, teasing you to show you who's the "boss".

POLY/MULTI DRIVERS — SINGULAR DRIVERS

#f1 smut #f1 imagine #f1 x reader #sebastian vettel smut #kimi räikkönen smut #fernando alonso smut #jenson button smut #sebastian vettel x reader #kimi räikkönen x reader #fernando alonso x reader #jenson button x reader #lewis hamilton x reader #lewis hamilton smut #kevin magnussen smut #kevin magnussen x reader #f1

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psychedelic-ink · 4 months

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ㅤㅤㅤ✦ 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐓𝐄𝐒𝐓, 𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐓𝐄𝐒𝐓 𝐏𝐄𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐒

ㅤㅤmodern!oberyn martell x f!reader

genre: smut, minors dni, modern au

word count: 2k

summary: when you accidentally blurt out one of the fantasies that you kept locked up in your head, oberyn is more than eager to oblige to your request.

warnings: piv, anal sex, first time anal, rimming, fingering, lots of lube and praise

a/n: we did a secret santa for our server space sisters and my giftee was @iamasaddie! Happy holidays love! I hope you enjoy this little smutty fic, I definitely enjoyed writing it 🎄🎄🎄

can you guys believe i couldn't find one decent image of a peach being fingered???? a shame really

**stunning divider by the amazing @saradika <333

Everything about Oberyn drives you crazy.

The way he dresses, the way he smells, the melodic lilt of his voice—every part of him you adore and cherish. You’re undeniably lucky to have this man in your life and not only that but to have him as a partner is something you’re in awe of every single day. He satisfies you like no man ever could. He gives you every bit of himself. His tongue, his fingers. . . it’s almost as if the man was solely created to bring pleasure to you.

But, despite all of that, you’re still not as open as you wish to be. You can never be as blunt with him as he is with you. He needs to drag your desires out of you. Tease you until you snap and practically shout at him to make you come. Oberyn doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, he’d said on multiple occasions how much he enjoyed it.

“Look at you so wet around my cock,” he purrs, the back of his tongue hitting the roof of his mouth roughly on the word cock. Oberyn’s right. You are wet. Soaked even. Every time he rocks you forward you feel the wet fabric of the bedding scraping your outer knee. You moan loudly into the pillows, fluttering around him as he fucks, fucks, and fucks himself deeper into you.

You’re not sure where you end and he begins. Sex with him is always like this. Mind numbingly beautiful. Satisfying. You feel the warmth of the Christmas lights framing your window kissing your sweaty skin. Your clit throbs. You don’t think you can hold on much longer.

But just as you’re nearing the edge, Oberyn’s thumb traces the tight rim of your other hole. He slowly pushes in, only a bit, the stretch adds enough pressure for another moan to come tumbling out your lips, your upper body fully falling. Oberyn hums, his hips slowing into a sensual grind. “Does my sweet girl want me to fuck this hole next?” This is something that he teases you about more often than not. He’s never acted on it though. “So fucking tight.”

He pushes his thumb till the first knuckle and it’s like electricity shooting down your spine. Your entire body jolts, the words leaving your throat before you even realize what you’re saying.

“Yes,” you breathe. “Yes yes yes—please fuck me there—”

Oberyn stops.

So does your heart.

Fuck fuck fuck. That was meant to be a secret.

“What did you just say?”

“Nothing!” you answer quickly and high-pitched. “I—I didn’t mean anything by it.”

Oberyn dips until his lean chest is firmly pressed against the curve of your spine. His lips touch your ear, his breath warm and inviting. The hand that was teasing your hole slips to the side to cup your ass. He kneads the muscle tenderly.

“Are you sure?” he hums. “Why would you hide this from me?”

“I. . . wasn’t. . .”

“Ah, so you admit it is something that you want.”

You let out an airy chuckle, “I hate when you do that.”

“Do what?”

“Just trick me into admitting things.”

“I just asked a question,” he says innocently. It’s a bit hard to focus on his words when he’s cock deep inside of you. “Now, tell me why this is the first time I’m hearing about this.”

Oberyn drags his lips down to the base of your neck and kisses you, your body melting into the sheets instantly. You’re glad he can’t see your face right now. You don’t think you can admit this while those observant eyes are looking down at you.

“I’ve never tried it before. And. . . I was nervous to ask about it,” you take a sharp inhale. “I did want to tell you. I just—You’re already so much better at this than I am, I didn’t want to look even more inexperienced.”

Before you know it Obeyn has you by the shoulders, twisting your body enough so that you’re facing him instead of keeping your head buried in the pillows. You chew on the inside of your cheek. He looks serious. Did you say something wrong?

“Better at what?” he asks even though he knows the answer.

“At sex.”

“Sex is not a competition, and for what it’s worth you are good at it. And I love being your first when it comes to intimacy. You have nothing to be ashamed of,” he starts moving again, the heavy drag of his cock between your legs making your eyes roll. “But, if you are still feeling anxious let me prove to you how much I love being your first—and last.”

Your lips curl into a small smile, “Last?”

His smile is sinister. Teeth showing as he dips to your neck, taking a slow, yet sharp, bite. A whimper rattles your throat. “Is it wrong for me to want to humor the idea that I’ll be fucking you somewhere no one has before and that no one else will ever touch you beside me?” Oberyn pulls out, your body immediately aching to be filled again. “Get on all fours.”

You oblige eagerly. Your arms are shaking as you prop yourself up, the inside of your thighs slick. Oberyn reaches for the nightstand and pulls out the bottle of lube. When he disappears behind you again you expect the cool feel of jel, but instead, you receive his mouth—and tongue.

“Oh fuck—”

“Be still,” he growls, gripping your hips. “Let me feast.”

He swirls his tongue around your asshole, hot saliva dripping right against it. You shudder as he pushes it through, teeth grazing the flesh gingerly. Oberyn parts your cheeks with both hands and pushes the wet muscle deeper. Pleasure rakes your body, your core throbbing with need. You’re close. Just a couple swipes of his tongue and you’re already there, ready to burst.

He mouths against you and when he deems you wet enough, he slips a finger inside. Your body tenses around him, the sensation foreign but not unwanted. Oberyn’s one hand cups your sex, fingers starting to draw patterns around your throbbing clit while he thrusts the fingers in and out. Moan after moan rips from your throat. The stimulation against your clit loosens you further. He slips another finger. Both knuckle deep as he fucks you with them.

“That’s it. You’re stunning like this. Beautiful.”

You fist the sheets, hips sloppily grinding back to meet the fast movement of his fingers. “O–Oberyn please. . .”

“Oh you think you’re ready?” he chuckles and for some reason, the sound urges a fresh gush of wetness to roll out of you. “Tell me how badly you want me to fuck this sweet ass and maybe. . .” he groans. “Maybe I’ll give you what you want.”

Your breath catches in your throat, “Please fuck me with your big cock Oberyn—I need it—Need you—”

He hums and something about the way he moves makes you think he’s not satisfied with your begging. And here you thought you’ve been doing a good job. He pulls away both hands and drags them up your back, cupping your shoulders. You’re in near tears when his cock spreads your folds and grazes against your clit. “You want me to fuck you here?”

Oberyn’s a cruel, cruel man.

“N—No,” you whimper, shaking your head. “Not. . . not there.”

“Where then?”

“My. . .” Damn it, your voice is trembling. “My ass.”

You say it silently, barely above a whisper. He hisses through clenched teeth, pulls back his hips, and snaps forward, fucking your thighs instead of where you really need him. “Louder,” he commands.

“Fuck me in the ass—” you practically shout. “Please please please fuck me in the ass—I want to feel you—Been wanting it for so long.”

You sigh happily at the feeling of a generous amount of lube being poured down from the bottle and directly onto your hole. Oberyn pours some into his palm, jerking himself until he’s fully coated in lube. The bulbous head of his cock teases your hole, your back arches for him, urging him to go on.

He fills you inch by glorious inch. The sounds he’s making behind you are downright sinful—your body reacts to his sweet moans, your name falling from his lips. You feel so full. Once again your upper body falls to the sheets, your poor arms too weak to support yourself any longer. Oberyn keeps your ass up in the air, still pushing his cock deeper.

“So big,” you slur, your body feeling aflame.

“Just a little more. You’re taking me so well, such a good girl.”

Your body jerks as he buries himself a bit deeper, has he always been this thick? “Say that again. Tell me how good I am, please.”

Oberyn blankets your shuddering body, holding himself still, he begins to whisper in your ear, “So good. You’re always my good girl, even when you do keep secrets from me. You’re the perfect glove for my cock. I am going to fuck you so good that your inside will be the shape of me.”

Just as you get wetter and wetter at his words, Oberyn fills you to the brim. You choke around nothing, every nerve thrumming with pleasure. Your body squeezes him tight and when you finally loosen a bit, Oberyn groans.

“Can I move?”

“Please.”

He squeezes your hips as he pulls out, the heavy press of his cock making you see stars. Then before you can gather yourself he’s pounding into you, stretching you to your limits. There’s a hum in your ears and vaguely you can hear him moaning your name. Your mouth floods with saliva, his teeth sinking into where your neck connects with your shoulder.

Desperately you reach back and take a hold of his wrist. Your touch only spurs him on, hips deliciously moving in and out. The sound of skin slapping against skin becomes louder and louder.

“Oh god,” you moan, your fingers tightening around his wrist. “I’m gonna come.”

“Can you come like this?” He asks genuinely. “With my cock in your ass?”

You don’t think you can actually. Your close. So very close that you can taste your orgasm on your tongue, but you just need a bit more, just a little touch—

“Do not—“ Your hand stills, you weren’t even aware that you’d begun to move your arm to stroke your clit. “Tell me. Tell me why you want and I’ll give you fucking everything.”

“I—I need you to touch me.”

Oberyn doesn’t make you say it twice. He’s stroking your clit with fast strokes, his hips in perfect rhythm with his thrusts. Hear licks you from the inside out and the pressure between your legs builds, builds and builds until you can’t take it anymore.

It happens all at once, your body shatters into a million pieces as you shudder around him, his cock splitting you open over and over. Between your moans you can hear him groaning your name, telling you how good you are, how perfect.

You feel the rush of wetness running down your thighs and Oberyn’s fingers that were so deftly circling your clit moves to your hip, squeezing the flesh.

“That’s my sweet girl, coming so pretty with my cock in her ass—I’m going to come, fill you until you’re dripping—“

He doesn’t get a chance to finish his sentence. Your entire body clenches, hugging his cock tight. Oberyn comes with a shattered breath and shallow thrusts, he pushes forward, balls deep. Another orgasm washes over you, your body thrumming with pleasure.

“Fuck—“ he rasps, slowly easing himself out. A shiver crawls up your spine as come slips down between your cheeks and down your thighs. He kisses the skin between your shoulders. “You look so good like this. So full of come.”

“Wish I could see,” you hum.

“Next time I will bring a camera.” He collects himself on his fingers and slips them inside of you, a moan deserts your lips. “Or perhaps I should fuck you again.”

There’s a beat of silence before he speaks again.

“Do not ever hide anything from me again. Promise me.”

“I promise.”

#oberyn martell x reader #oberyn martell x f!reader #oberyn martell x fem!reader #oberyn martell smut #modern oberyn martell #game of thrones fanfic #got fic #oberyn martell fanfic #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal character fanfic #space sisters secret santa 2023

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wizard-finix · 5 months

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LU Star Wars AU: Part 1

So I got the idea of what the Chain would be like if they were converted to Star Wars characters, and it's been really fun to play with concepts for all of them?? I have had this idea occasionally rolling around in my brain like a marble for a month and I'm about to make it everyone's problem. let's go!!!

Starting off with everyone's favorite downfall duo, Legend and Hyrule!!

EDIT: here's links to the rest of the gang!

PART 2 | PART 3 | PART 4 | PART 5

Legend

Legend is a traveler and technician that runs a shop with Ravio, who buys and sells any valuables and junk he can get his hands on. He's something of a jack-of-all-trades; if you want something done, he’s got an item for the job. Legend is surprisingly accomplished for his age, and has seen more of the galaxy than most ever do.

Agnahim was the first run-in with the Empire he had, and things haven't improved since; he's had encounters with Empire soldiers more than once. He doesn’t like the Empire or any kind of authority, but Fable is an exception to the latter.

He got his hands on an old saber on his travels and fixed it up, but it’s not the only weapon he has.

Hyrule

Hyrule hails from an unnamed desert planet in the Outer Rim with very little law enforcement. Resources are sparse, and life is hard, but he is determined to do some good.

At first glance, Hyrule appears to be a plainly-dressed kid; however, he is easily the most in tune with the Force out of all the Chain. He keeps his abilities hidden because he’s heard of the Empire’s keen interest in hunting down all remaining Jedi. He’s already had encounters with some bounty hunters that call themselves the Eyes of Ganon.

He’s very scrappy in a fight. He does not own a saber of his own, but his raw Force abilities more than make up for it. His ability to use Force Healing and Force Lighting have gained some negative attention, despite his efforts to keep them secret.

#linked universe #lu legend #lu hyrule #LU star wars AU #star wars au #star wars #my art #yeah thats right im posting doodles on this blog now #living free and unhinged #excited to eventually doodle time and sky's concepts #hope yall dont mind me being slow about these au posts

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gffa · 1 year

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Laughing my ass right off at Bo-Katan’s never ending terrible, horrible, no good, very bad time, like in the span of about a fucking week, she has:

Din Djarin come knocking on her door and she has to deal with his quest to find the living waters as he prods every emotional bruise she still has about all the Mandalorians abandoning her

Din gets himself snared by some weird eyeball in a jar in a robot body so the weird green baby has to come tell her to rescue him

Which she does and then falls into the Living Waters with him and possibly sees a Mythosaur making her question her sanity

Then her fucking childhood home gets blown up by Imperial remnants, just one more reminder that everything she was gifted she has lost, that she has failed her family’s legacy one more time

So sure why not, let’s go join the group she doesn’t actually believe in and called a cult just last season, but they’re reasonably nice to her and she’s good at fighting, so actually they’re pretty cool

But she’s still quietly freaking out that she may have seen a mythical legendary creature like is she LOSING HER FUCKING MIND HERE???

And how the fuck do you eat without taking your helmet off??

Suddenly she’s being pushed into leadership of the war party, but it’s not bad, she got to stay by the fire, and it’s nice to be useful, even if she still feels out of sorts.

And then even more suddenly she’s being told she walks both worlds, that she needs to unite Mandalore one more fucking time

LET’S GO KICK SOME PIRATE ASS!!!11!

So sure why the fuck not. WHY THE FUCK NOT. Let’s go to some decked out vacation planet in the middle of Bumfuck Outer Rim

Let’s take a stupid as shit detour into finding some malfunctioning droids with a guy who has unresolved droid-related trauma and literally KICKS THE DROIDS just to be a dick so they’ll react,

Like Bo-Katan Kryze doesn’t have enough shit to deal with, every time she has to stop and deal with some absolute clown buffoonery, she’s reminded that she’s in full clown wig and makeup herself, this is her fucking life now and I was LAUGHING MY ASS OFF ABOUT IT THE ENTIRE TIME, Bo-Katan’s life is just one long string of, “Life is already so goddamned weird, this might as well happen.” I love you, babe, but I also love your long suffering face as you have to deal with being in a Star Wars show.

#the mandalorian #the mandalorian spoilers #bo katan kryze #i make myself laugh and that's all that's important

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anakin-skywalker-always · 7 months

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Fluffy 🌸 with Clone Wars Anakin please? 🥺🥺 with maybe Ahsoka and Obi-Wan shipping them?

The Long Game

Pairing: Clone Wars Era!Anakin x Jedi!Knight Reader

Requested: Yes | No

Warnings: Nothing too bad, but due to the nature of the Clone Wars obviously there is potential mentions of death/loss/wounds etc. I am Australian and therefore swear words aren’t worth a warning for me, but I shall place a warning here regardless. As always, let me know if you think there should be something listed here.

Words: 1.5k - sorry its very short, I'm hoping a part 2 will be requested <3

Author’s Notes: ahhhhh! Thank you for the request @darthgloris I hope this is okay I had a brief idea and I ran with it, hope its still fluffy enough for you! 🥰 This was requested via my Emoji Request Prompts

Anakin was nothing if not arrogant, egotistical and, surprisingly talented to boot. As a youngling he excelled, as a Padawan learner he saved Senator and friend Padmé Amidala’s life more than once. Now, as General Skywalker, Anakin felt like he had grown into himself, grown into his power. It felt limitless, he was limitless. Anakin often had dreams of spreading himself thin, extending his power across the galaxy like a blanket, keeping everyone and everything safe.

He thought highly of himself, it wasn’t a secret. And, he didn’t think it was particularly a problem. He was the Chosen One, was he not? If anyone in the Jedi Temple was allowed to peacock a bit, it was him.

Well, that’s how Anakin rationalised it to himself anyway. Besides, Anakin did not like playing the long game. What was the point when he could sieze everything he wanted now?

Regardless, he had a sharp learning curve when it came to his own Padawan learner, Ashoka Tano. The snippy young girl challenged him more than most. He saw so much of himself in her, the power, the strength, the raw talent. Frustratingly, Anakin saw his faults in her too. Occasionally, the arrogance being something that Anakin couldn’t ignore. Like right now for example.

“Please Kestis the only reason you were moved from youngling to Padawan,” Ashoka paused, pointing her spoon at her young red-headed friend. “Is because the council wanted to try and mellow out your Master with the responsibility of a child.”

Anakin cringed as the young boy - Cal Kestis - pouted at the breakfast table. Anakin could sense Obi-wan’s displeasure from beside him, he saw his old master holding his tongue, allowing Anakin to take the floor in order to berate his Padawan.

Unfortunately, she had a point. And, embarrassingly enough, Ashoka’s argument came straight from the kitchen, so they say. Well, his mother, Shmi, used to say. Anakin remembered expressing the same frustration only a few weeks prior. Jedi Knight, Jedi Master, Council member and friend, Y/N L/N, was unable to join Anakin and Ashoka on a crucial mission in the outer rim, due to the passover of her new, young apprentice: Cal Kestis. It perhaps wasn’t the most fair or patient thing for Anakin to do, but he blamed the boy and focused all of his frustration on the twelve-year-old.

Fuck it, Anakin thought. He had to admit to himself, he was a little jealous of the boy. He could not help but want to be the center of your attention, at all times. Which isn’t a very Jedi thing to want. But Anakin wanted more. He always did. He always felt distracted, like he was slipping away from his mental fortitude the more he thought of you. You were playing some kind of long game with him, and he didn’t like it, the guessing, the pining - it all kept him up at night more than the war had.

Anakin supposed he was ought to be worried about it, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. He pined after you, and all he wanted was for you to maybe, even consider him more than a work colleague.

“Ahsoka.” Anakin said sternly, as he pushed his Jedi mandated food around his Jedi mandated plate with his Jedi mandated fork, not bothering to look up at his young charge. “Watch your snippy mouth.”

“She’s not wrong, Master.” Meekly, Cal Kestis mirrored General Skywalker across the table. Anakin felt for the young boy then. Anakin looked up, finally taking in the boy. With his fiery hair and splattering of freckles across his face, he seemed inherently sad, with his lips held tight in a line. Anakin couldn’t help but remember the same expression on his own face as he made his way around Watto’s junkyard.

“Do you not like your Master, young Kestis?” Obi-wan sensed Anakin’s mind was far, far away, the anxiety rolling off him in thick waves.

Cal looked up, quickly, at the two Jedi knights in front of him. He felt like he was in shock, as if the air had been torn from his lungs. Of all the questions he expected to be asked, that was not one of them.

“No!” Cal defended, adamantly. “No! Well yes!” The young Padawan could feel the heat rise to his pale face, heating the back of his neck. General Kenobi quirked an eyebrow at the boy, urging him to continue. Kestis sighed, gathering his thoughts once more. He was embarrassed. “I am afraid I am too attached to Master L/N.” He started. Anakin felt his lip twitch, fighting a smile at the honesty from the young learner. Cal continued, “I don’t want to let her down, but my lightsaber skills are not where she wants them to be, I need more training but I am afraid to ask.”

From the corner of his eye Anakin watched as Obi-wan opened his mouth. He knew what his old master would say: Just ask, Padawan. That is what the master is there for, to teach. But Anakin knew what it felt like to want more.

“I would be happy to provide you with additional combat training, Padawan Cal Kestis.” Anakin leant back in his chair, both hands happily resting behind his head, left ankle at home on his right knee, lips comfortably in a smirk.

Long game it was.

Your eyes scanned the meals room in the Temple for your Padawan learner. You knew that you could use the force to locate him, if you wanted. But, your relationship with Cal was still so new, and somehow that felt like encroaching on the young boy’s privacy.

Besides, there was another presence in the large dining hall that almost overwhelmed you. Anakin Skywalker.

Arrogant, talented, intelligent, calculated, The Chosen One, handsome, flirtatious. You weren’t sure where you stood with Anakin. You longed to call him friend, but you were ultimately convinced he saw you little more as a colleague.

Despite all that though, he was a hard man to escape at the best of times. And now, since Cal and Anakin’s Padwan, Ahsoka Tano, were friends, you knew that Anakin would always be around.

You couldn’t help the schoolgirl flutter that it striked into you. It was exciting, you supposed, to finally have something a bit easy on the eye about constantly. It certainly made the war a little easier, to do missions with Jedi Knight Anakin Skywalker.

Eventually, Cal’s beautiful bright hair shone like a beacon for you. You began to weave your way across the room. You couldn’t help to admit that you’ve become attached to him, you deeply cared for him, his wellbeing. As much as you loved the Jedi, you often thought of Cal playing, running free with kids his own age. Not becoming a soldier on the front lines of an intergalactic war. Perhaps that was why you slacked on Cal’s training. You simply wanted him to be loved, to be happy, to be a child.

All of the fondness you held so tightly quickly got packed away once you realised who Cal was sat with. Approaching the breakfast table you clocked Anakin’s relaxed figure. The effortlessly beautiful set of his lips, the way that his eyelashes curled upwards, you were convinced his demeanour was larger than life. And, maybe, perhaps, you let your eyes wander for a beat longer than what was socially acceptable.

Gently you placed your hand on Cal’s shoulder, perhaps it was because you were his Master, or maybe it was something deeper, something maternal, but you always felt more at ease when you had him close. With a slight bow of your head, you opened:

“Morning to you Master Kenobi, Ahsoka.” You took a moment to lick your lips, your whole mouth had gone dry, but you tried desperately to save yourself from Anakin’s piercing gaze. “General Skywalker.” The rest greeted you verbally, but Anakin said nothing, just a simple tilt of his head. You held Anakin’s gaze, his blue eyes held something else in them, you felt like he was playing some kind of game. You didn’t mind game, but only if you knew the rules, and Anakin was one to make up the play as he went along. You felt Cal clear his throat, his body lurching under your hand.

Finally, you broke the contact with Anakin, ruffiling Cal’s hair, and placing his braid behind his ear. “If you’d excusae us, my Padawan and I have much to do.”

Anakin waited for at least 30 seconds for you and your Padawan to start walking away before he turned in his chair to follow you out with his eyes.

Ahsoka watched as her usually oh-so-clever and suave and calculating Master watch Cal Kestis and his Master leave the dining hall like a Lothal Cat waiting for its owner to return. She couldn’t help but smile, Anakin’s pining was hilarious, and Master L/N was a good choice. She turned to share a look with Master Kenobi, and to Ahsoka’s delight he was chuckling softly to himself, coving his smile with his hand, playing it off as if he was simply stroking his beard.

Ahsoka knew Anakin thought he was playing some kind of long game, but it was going to be a painfully long pining. Not if she was going to have anything to do with it.

------

P.S This is a side account, my main is @mayhemories, so I will be answering any comments with that account but rest assured it is still me :) <3

Much love, El.

#anakin x reader #star wars #anakin skywalker #anakin skywalker x reader #anakin skywalker x reader smut #anakin smut #anakin x y/n #anakin skywalker angst #anakin skywalker fluff #star wars x reader #anakin skywalker smut #anakin skywalker x you #anakin x you #cal kestis #the clone wars #star wars the clone wars #anakin skywalker clone wars #general skywalker

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reynawonders-art · 1 year

Text

Lady Gaga's "Just Dance" fading in, playing

Basically how 3x01 starts, change my mind

#Or if you want #the mandalorian #the mandalorian season 3 #how it started #life in the outer rim #star wars #digital art #art from the outer rim #din djarin #star wars fan art #the child #baby yoda #mando #Yes it's another the office reference #the mandalorian spoilers #the mandalorian season three spoilers #the mandalorian s3

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undercoverpena · 8 months

Text

see me in a vest

cod ghost x f!reader | ghost masterlist

Summary: “You gonna keep lurking in the corner like a ghoul?” Straightening his spine, he lets his narrowed eyes cut into you. Gliding them up and down your face—from the top of your hairline to your arched brow, to the lips twisted up into a smirk. “Hilarious.”

Warnings: Brief mentions of smut. Mentions of a wound, blood (Ghost's but he's obv fine). Flirting. Feelings. FWB to something - they're a mess, but yeah. And, maybe unedited writing? AN: I don't know if I'm on the Ghost train again, but I'm at the station. Wordcount: 3k (this was meant to be 500 words).

Eye contact is a dangerous, dangerous thing. But lovely. God, so lovely — Hedonist Poet

It’s a sight watching you laugh, how it blooms like wildflowers in a wasteland. Your lips are parting around the sound—neck exposed. He can faintly spot the sight of bruises from when his hand last became your necklace.

He shouldn’t be looking your way. Most definitely not be thinking about how he wishes to press your cheek against the tiles of his shower. Ghost really can’t be considering how to ask you to come to his room tonight.

Even if it’s all he thinks.

His fingers brushing against his thumb, rolling and rolling as he tries not to grind his teeth or glare with any more intention.

All about to move his glare, try to find a spot on the table or the wall, but his eyes latch with yours.

The room silences, pausing. Just the two of you, breathing, living—blinking. Or, it feels like it does. Like some poetic bullshit from some film, a scene he’s sure you’ve tried to explain to him when you’ve attempted to fill the silence.

He thinks you smile. The edges of your lips twist further into your cheeks. But it never quite lands, never sticks.

Ghost shouldn’t be thinking about you. But all he does is think about you.

In another life, where he wasn’t dressed in scars or his belief in happiness and thereafter’s hadn’t been stripped from his remaining soul, Ghost suspects you’d be the one he’d want to keep around.

It’s the only reason he clenches his fist, watching you through the outer rim of his mask’s eye sockets and always watching, never intervening. Not even when soldiers below your rank let their eyes drift to your rear—or worse, from your face to your chest.

He lets them.

Allows them to ogle you because he knows they won’t ever be fortunate to see any more. Not just because he’d have their heads but because you’d turn them inside out before you’d even let them touch you. Plus, you ridicule them enough when you catch them—tongue all poison and razor sharp, a thing not to be messed with, something which barks as bad as it bites.

“You gonna keep lurking in the corner like a ghoul?”

Straightening his spine, he lets his narrowed eyes cut into you. Gliding them up and down your face—from the top of your hairline to your arched brow, to the lips twisted up into a smirk.

“Hilarious.”

Sighing, you roll your lips. “You gonna keep boiling everyone alive with your eyes whenever they talk to me?”

“I’m not.”

“For someone who has likely been required to lie for their work, your pretty awful at it.”

Grinding his teeth, he bites the inside of his cheek. Not wanting to rise, to give in—to fucking begin this tedious game of bickering. Instead, he allows a heavy breath to escape through his nose, long and slow, pushing the fabric out before it clings back to the tip of his nose.

Hoping you hear it, take note of it.

But from how you shift your stance, playing with your water bottle—crunching it in your grip—as you tap your boot against the floor, he doubts you have.

“You think too highly of yourself, princess.”

”Princess, ay?” you grin, far too wickedly to be innocent. “Thought you preferred seeing me in a vest, than a crown.”

Clamping his mouth shut, you take a sip of your water—letting the droplets hang on your lip, only wiping them from your chin at the last moment—a knowing look, all telling and haunted with lust and something else.

“Let’s walk.”

And, somehow, against all better judgement, he follows.

The first time it happened, your eyes had been shimmering. A softness to your features aided by alcohol bought by Price in celebration. It allows him to see his reflection in them—finding he’s all cold eyes. Around that though, he’s confronted with something stitched, carved, into the usually hardened expression he’d come to respect. Then it all shifted. A sound, one that was similar to how droplets of watercolour change a plain piece of paper, fills the air. It spreading shades in front of him that filled the scenery—the one the two of you were admiring as the others continued to be loud inside. Ghost can’t recall what he said, but he remembers what you’d said the moment you’d laughter had died: You’re funny for a skeleton. It was stupid. Foolish. Barely funny—in the grand scheme of things. But then, the building next to them had begun counting down, and you were looking at him—stars shimmering above the tips of the Siberian cypresses. There was just you, and him, and a crack of amber light across crisp, disturbed white snow. “Be rude to not kiss at New Year, wouldn’t it, Ghost?” ”Suppose so.”

You didn’t ask for his jacket immediately.

Even if he’d spotted you fighting off a shiver in your two’s awkward ‘walk’. No, you wait until the two of you are far past your usual building, and even then, you don’t ask. As usual, you pulled—tugged, and practically dragged it down his arms—until he surrendered it.

It was easier to bite back a groan. To look at you. Stick his pupils into your unbothered appearance. Allowing, instead, for his displeasure at your insistent but silent demand to show through his body language.

Not that you fucking care.

Chin all tipped up, meeting his stare boldly. Practically egging him on, pushing him, goading him.

Because you do that well. You like to push—not for a reaction, but to crack him.

Cause a break in him that you can slide through and make yourself at home. Somehow, against his better judgement—and usual practice—he lets you.

Each and every time.

Because even if he’d never admit it, he would—and could—go as far as to say he likes that you’re wrapping his jacket around your arms, head tilting up to look at the sky—observing how the stars are flickering. Because he rather enjoys seeing you coated in something of his.

Not possessively. Not because he needs some unhealthy confirmation that you want to be in something of his over anyone else. But because it's nice. A niceness he won’t ever admit. A confession that’ll never be spilt, not even under the most difficult of tortures. Not even if you sunk down on him, buried him inside you and refused to move until he did.

His resolve was stronger than that, something you’d learnt.

“Love it when the sky is clear,” you mumble.

Blinking, he looks up, realising the night looks so similar to the night in that small Canadian town.

When you’d offered to kiss him over his mask but eventually retrieved his lips—front sitting just under his nose, hands splayed across your lower back, pinning you flush to him. Because if he only had one chance to do it, he was going to milk it. Not that it was ever just that once, hence this—the two of you outside, close to an abandoned barrack under a flurry of stars and a half-gleaming moon.

He’s aware of the parallels.

How you’d been wearing his jacket that night, too. Albeit then because he’d given it to you when you’d come looking for him, rather than yanking it from his arms and burying yourself in it.

Ghost should mind.

Should find the idea unbearable, just like he should find you intolerable.

You sigh, not softly or sweetly, but difficulty and loud. “I don’t belong to you, Ghost.”

Ghost. Not the name you called him a few days ago when his fingers were curled inside you—his breath hot on your throat. Your pulse hammering against his tongue.

In a way, he thinks he should find you annoying, insufferable. Instead, he just finds you’re odd.

Odd in the sense that you stick around—not questioning his mannerisms or demands. That you fight everyone out there when sand tries to find places it shouldn’t, snow makes you shiver and blood stains skin—including him, on occasion.

But, when it’s the two of you, you bend so easily—all submissive, desperate. Mouth wrapping around his fingers, tongue swirling, before he’s so much as touched you.

It is why he snorts—and for a multitude of reasons.

Finger and thumb stroking his bare jaw, letting his eyes cast to the ground before looking in your direction. “Bet if I stick my fingers in your knickers, your cunt will say something different.”

You stare. Blank. Unreadable.

Something which makes his jaw tense, and his spine straighten. Because there aren’t many expressions he finds unbearable about you, except the unreadable one—the one you’re so skilled at pulling out across your face, hiding your thoughts and opinions.

He watches as you unfold your arms, displaying the hardest, squinted stare imaginable as your nose scrunched and your lips thin out. Leaving it there, hanging between the two of you—it not swaying as the seconds tick on, to the point he wonders if you genuinely expect him to be the one that cracks.

Then, you shift. You allow the lightest smirk to spread across your mouth into your perfect, soft, unscarred cheek. “Most likely. But, then again, on a base with a bunch of men, my underwear doesn’t tend to be dry.”

He has no retort, no initial thing to say.

So he says nothing.

Because everything he could say wouldn’t land in jest, would likely have his jacket thrown back in his face. And, the one good thing he has waiting (but not waiting) for him when he comes back—from fuck knows where—would be gone, vanished.

Not that he ever wanted this. Never mind needed it.

“Guessing that wasn’t the answer you wanted, Lieutenant?”

Keeping his mouth clamped, he remains silent. Lets it smother, wrap itself around the two of you and embed itself into the silence. Because no, that wasn’t the fucking answer he wanted.

There hadn’t been a reason as to why he knocked on your door, or why he had stuffed a nicer loo roll under his arm and brought you a bowl of soup. He could ration that you were a good solider, a solid member of his team. A reliable force that would get the job done. Someone who questioned and also obeyed. If needed, he could likely list a bunch more reasons why you were integral to whatever operation he was next sent on. But even he knew that wasn’t why he was outside your door. Why he turned the handle when you coughed and spluttered a weak ‘come in’. Whatever sight he’d expected, wasn’t close to what he saw. Your door closing behind him, your hand trying to cover your chapped lips as you splutter half a lung up, allowing him the chance to take in the rest of you. How your eyes were hollowed out by tiredness, your skin tacky and shining in the low light from a cracked curtain. ”D-did I miss a meeting or ‘sumthing?” Shaking his head, he placed the soup down by your bed—using the bowl to nudge several used tissues from its path, as he manoeuvred the roll from under his arm to hand it to you. Your eyes lighting, ever so slightly, by the softer—more nose-kind tissue. ”Jus’ came to check on you.” Blowing your nose, you offer a half smile. ”Because my aim is better than MacTavish’s?” Smirking, he watches as you shuffle over on your bed—allowing him room, something he takes without thought. In the same way he doesn’t need to think about lifting his mask now, how you’ve seen him—bruised, bloody, broken and so much more. An answer in itself as to why he’s here. One he could say with relative ease if the words would form. Instead, he throws his legs up—feels your eyes take him in as you try to clear your throat. “’cause you’re sick.” ”Oh.” And because I care. The latter not leaving his tongue, never mind his lips. Instead, he slides his arm around you, pulling you to lie in the crook of his arm and chest. Hoping that said enough. Explained it adequately. Incase it didn’t, he offered: ”Brought you soup, too.” ”Tomato?” Snorting, he rolled his eyes. “Chicken.” ”Guess that’ll do.” Your head tilting, staring up at him—and he hoped you couldn’t hear how loud his heart was hammering. Because even if this is what he wanted—to be there for you. To have you curled against him for reasons he couldn’t articulate, he hadn’t expected it. Even less the whispered, simple, ‘thank you, Simon’. Never mind that you barely finish the soup before you’re asleep against him.

Kicking at the ground, it’s a stone which pays the price for your annoyance with him. It rolls off, grating against gravel and grass before it came to a sad stop.

“What I was going to say,” you continue, huffing—in that way you do when you’re interrupted by lesser people and idiotic souls. “I don’t belong to you, but you don’t need to worry about every person who makes me laugh. I’m yours. Have been for a while.

“And before your strategic, get-out-alive brain begins firing on all fucking cylinders, I don’t… don’t need a declaration—didn’t need a menial question being asked to certify it. Don’t need you to tell me shit. I’m just telling you that I don’t—well—fuck around lightly.”

Lifting your arms, gesturing to you in his jacket—his clothing. Face pulling into an expression that makes him feel like he’s got a fucking egg on his face. As though he’s a fool, a fucking imbecile for not seeing what it was in front of him.

Maybe, he is.

Which is why he steps closer. Boots crunching gravel in the quiet, you stare at him—gazing through the cutouts and scorching your glare into him, scratching another line on his soul. Marking him. Like you have been doing since the first time he lost himself in your iris’s as your tongue curled out his name.

“I don’t… I don’t do this with others. What we do—is just what we do, Gh—”

“Simon,” he interrupts.

All sharp, like he’s stabbing you with his name, rather than handing it to you. Even if you’ve called it him before—you never have out here. Outside the confines of four walls, with your skin bare and his mouth latched to some part of your body.

“Jus’ mean, if y’gonna talk to me about it just being you and me, should at least call me my name.”

Slowly, you lower your arms, lips spreading into a line before they slide into a smile. “Simon. I don’t do this with other people.” Your eyes look up as you sigh. “Mainly because I don’t think anyone has a bigger cock than you.”

He brings you flush with him in one tug, watching your lips purse—a smirk attempting to grow behind it.

It’s more a grunt than a murmur how he tells you to ‘behave’, gloved fingers in the loops of your belt—a warped noise from the back of his throat beckoning to come out when your hand presses against his abdomen. Right against the clotted scarring of an old bullet wound—the one you’d pressed your palms into when he’d earned it—vermillion staining, clinging to your fingers and arm. Tears hanging from your lashes that you’d attempted to blink away, staring anywhere but at him.

Don’t die on me, Ghost. We’ve not done the wheelbarrow just yet.

When he’d been stitched and released, he finds your hand always goes there. A place you always seek, always find. You never touch his heart—never the thing that beats. You choose the pain embedded in tissue, the one he wonders if you hope to heal whenever you get the chance to brush your touch against it.

Rising on your toes, you roll your lips, softening your smirk into a smile. “It’s just you.”

“Because of my cock?”

He grips you tightly, not allowing you to descend to flat-footedness or move from being against him.

“Oh, a hundred percent. But you’re also a lot funnier than most people we meet, and I really like a man who makes me laugh.”

He pinches lightly—right on your side as you tip your head. “Y’know, don’t you?”

Ghost watches, waiting. Flicking from one of your eyes to the other.

And then you nod. “I know. Don’t worry, won’t make you tell me that you love my company as much as you do my tits just yet.”

He’s close enough for you to kiss the edge of his chin if he doesn’t move. But he does. Squeezing your hips, dropping his head enough, allowing your mouth to brush over his mask-covered lips.

It's enough for now, as you lower back to the ground. Feeling you turn in his hold—back to his chest and stomach as you wrap his jacket around you tighter.

Because he’ll kiss you better later.

A promise he makes silently, feeling your fingers take his, tugging his arm around you. He doesn’t need to see you to see that you’re smirking.

He can sense it.

AN: huge thank you to G. this wouldn't be possible without you nudging me, and making me accountable. dedicated to @theashfallx because she says she'll devour more of this man if I write it, so i had to finish it for her too.

#simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley #simon riley x reader #ghost cod #ghost riley #cod ghost x reader smut #simon ghost riley x f!reader #ghost x reader #ghost x reader smut #simon riley x you #cod ghost x reader #cod ghost smut #cod ghost x you #cod x reader #ghost cod x reader #cod mw x reader #call of duty fic

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webslinger-holland · 2 months

Text

Best Pilot in the Galaxy | Tech from The Bad Batch

Summary: During a mission, Tech has a hard time allowing his ship to be driven by someone else.

Warning: slight angst and argument

Pairing: Tech x Fem!Reader Pilot

Type: Oneshot

The Marauder was sitting on a world in the Outer Rim called Cassander. It was a lush, green planet with a few major bodies of water. However, most notably, the planet was growing in population and had recently become Ord Mantell's most competitive trading rival.

The ship was nearly empty, except for a singular pilot sitting in the cockpit. She was not the rightful owner of the ship, but had been assigned this mission with the group of rouge clones that did own the ship. The squad was located somewhere in the capital city nearby, attempting to steal the package in which they had come for. The pilot waited patiently for the pickup call.

Now, the pilot had been waiting for nearly two hours for the call to come through the comms. She did everything she could think of to pass the time, which included rummaging through the squad's belongings. Though she didn't find anything of value.

The gonk droid made a noise as he waddled into the cockpit. The pilot went through the ship's log, seeing all the planets the squad had recently visited. Their last stop happened to be Ord Mantell where they were assigned this mission in particular.

"Y/n! Come in," Hunter's voice sounded desperate over the comms. She quickly jolted forward in her seat, pressing the button to relay a message back.

"Read you loud and clear," Y/n responded. She began clicking buttons on the control panel, preparing the ship for liftoff.

"We need a pick up. We've been compromised," Hunter explained. He was panting on the other end of the line, which probably meant they were running.

"What part of stealth mission is so hard to understand?"

"Just hurry. We don't have a lot of time. They're sending air support," Hunter warned her.

"Oh great," Y/n scoffed sarcastically.

"I'm sending you our coordinates," Tech interjected over the communications.

As the Marauder departed off the ground, the landing gear retracted back into the ship. The wings moved downwards as the ship was angled towards the sky. The engine roared to life; the ship began flying towards the rendezvous location.

The workers from the trading post were shooting their blasters at the criminals running away from them. They tried to keep up with them, firing relentlessly as they got away with some of their own goods.

It was Wrecker, Hunter, and Tech who were carrying the heavy cargo in the form of a shipping container. Normally, it would take four guys to carry the cargo, but since Wrecker was so strong, he was able to carry the left side without help. Behind them, Echo and Omega fired shots back at the workers. They covered them as the rest ran as fast as they could.

"Whatever is in here, it better be worth it." Wrecker grunted, dodging the blaster fire.

"As long as we get paid," Hunter responded.

The small squad continued running through the vast forest, maneuvering around trees in hopes of using its coverage to their advantage. They came into a clearing with the workers getting closer each second. All of the sudden, a cliff came into their view which caused them to halt in their place.

"Where's our ride?" Echo asked desperately. He peered around his shoulder with his gun still raised.

"There!" Omega pointed into the sky.

The Marauder rounded the corner of the mountain, coming into their line of view. It flew over to the edge of the cliff to meet them. The ramp lowered to hover right by the cliff, allowing the squad to climb aboard the vessel.

The blaster fire was beginning to hit the sides of the ship. The squad fired back, striking a few of the workers down. Once everyone was aboard, Hunter slammed the button on the side of the wall so the ramp was lifted.

"That's everyone," Hunter shouted. "Get us out of here!"

"Roger that," Y/n said.

Pulling a lever, the thrusters sent a powerful volt back which propelled the ship forward rapidly. By steering the ship, Y/n directed the ship back into the mountain range. She could hear the air support coming up behind them. She took a sharp turn to deter them.

The sharp turn caused each member of the squad to loose their footing and grab something nearby to steady themselves. Carefully, Tech quickly made his way into the cockpit. He leaned over the back of the pilot's seat, resting his hand on the panel for support. He hadn't taken the time to remove his helmet.

"That is sufficient," Tech announced to the pilot. "I'll take it from here."

"A little busy here," Y/n stated instead. She turned the wheel to the left, taking another sharp turn which made everything in the ship turn that way. And Tech ended up leaning a little into her.

"Wrecker," Tech ordered. He moved to sit in the co-pilot seat which was where Echo usually sat. "Get to the tail gun."

There were at least six smaller ships following them at this point, firing as many rounds as possible. The Marauder swayed to the left and right, expertly dodging each blast aimed at them. In the tail gun, Wrecker got into position before firing back at the ships. He managed to hit one of them, but it wasn't enough to bring the ship down.

Back in the cockpit, Tech began pressing a few buttons on the control panel. The pilot glared at him through the corner of her eye, knowing exactly what he was trying to do. She maintained her grip on the sides of the wheel.

"Transitioning controls back to co-pilot," Tech announced. He went to press the final red button, but she swatted his hand away. "What are you doing?" Tech demanded an explanation.

"I know how to fly," Y/n said through gritted teeth. Her eyes were still facing forward as she focused on the task at hand.

"I never said you didn't," Tech informed her. "I am simply stating that I am ready to transition controls back to me as I am more capable of flying this vessel than you. It is my ship after all," Tech said as a matter of factly.

Hunter rolled his eyes in the background. He knew it was pointless to argue over the comment.

"You weren't hired to be the pilot for this mission," Y/n argued back. "I can get us out of this."

With that comment, one of the blaster fires struck the right wing which caused it to catch on fire. The two of them peered out the window, spotting the trail of black smoke falling behind the hit.

"You were saying?" Tech replied. He gestured to the damage done to his ship. She rolled her eyes at him.

A few more ships began trailing behind them. They began firing more shots towards them. There was no way one ship could take the whole fleet down.

"Uh guys," Wrecker announced from the tail gun. "We've got more incoming."

Ignoring the comment, Tech quickly transitioned controls back to his wheel before the other pilot could protest. He gripped the wheel harshly, moving the wheel to take a sharp left hand turn. The ship was forced to swerve around the side of the mountain; a few of the enemy ships crashed into the sides as a result. She switched controls back to her wheel, taking a right hand turn. The ship weaved around another mountainside.

Behind the googles of his helmet, Tech squinted his eyes in slight irritation. He changed controls once again. He quickly grabbed onto the lever, pulling it backwards so the thrusters gave another jolt of energy. Now they were flying a little faster.

Nevertheless, another blaster hit managed to strike the back of the ship. The Marauder jolted forward from the force of the blast. The two pilots lurched forward in their seats. The others continued to hold onto things for support.

"You aren't doing much better," Y/n replied snakily. She reached forward to press the button once more. She turned the wheel as far as she could, which caused the ship to completely turn around. She pulled the lever for the extra push.

"What are you doing?" Tech exclaimed. "Are you trying to get us killed?"

Down in the tail gun, Wrecker began firing at the ships flying directly in front of them. With his expertise, he struck down three ships. Those ships exploded into a million pieces, fierce flames erupting around them. The Marauder flew through the fire without taking damage.

The enemy ships needed to turn around before continuing their chase. They quickly swerved their ships. Once the ships were facing the right way, the thrusters kicked in for that extra power. And the enemy continued their pursuit.

"I will only say this one more time," Tech's modulated voice spoke through his helmet. He turned to face her in his seat. His eyes looked angry behind his googles. "Relinquish controls now."

"Over my dead body," Y/n challenged him. She didn't take her eyes off him.

In the background, Hunter and Echo seemed to raise their eyebrows at the two pilots. They looked between them, half expecting one of them to cave in and go back to flying the ship. But neither of them faltered.

"Uh guys," Omega interrupted them.

Both of them directed their line of attention back towards flying the ship. With a quick maneuver, they managed to dodge the mountain they were heading straight for at the last second. A few more ships crashed into it.

"You're both going to get us all killed if you don't figure something out," Hunter shouted behind them.

Reaching forward, Y/n went to press a few more buttons, but Tech swatted her hand away this time. He went ahead and pressed his own buttons. He was punching in the coordinates for their destination.

"You are not the best pilot in the galaxy," Y/n claimed. She glanced at him through the corner of her eye. He kept putting in the coordinates.

"Hardly a measurable cause," Tech said with a roll of his eyes in annoyance.

"You haven't made the Kessel Run in fourteen parsecs," Y/n added. It was like she was insisting that it could be measurable.

"I have a theory that it can be done in twelve," Tech stated as a matter of factly.

"I highly doubt that," Y/n chuckled at the comment.

Suddenly, Y/n pressed the wheel forward with all of her might. The ship began to descend down at a rapid pace, shifting into a nose dive position. The ground was growing closer and closer with each second. The enemy ships following right behind them, firing non-stop.

Both Hunter and Echo were holding onto panels behind them. The force of falling forwards was pushing them back. They were unable to move.

"You have to pull up--" Tech ordered in a slight panic.

"Oh for the last time," Y/n shouted over him. "I know what I'm doing!"

At the last possible second, the wonderfully skilled pilot pulled the wheel into her chest so that the ship was pulled up. It was so close to touching the ground, but it missed it by a hair. The last two ships crashed into the ground, exploding suddenly and sending debris flying.

Now that the threat of the chase was finally over, Y/n could relax in her seat a little. The rest of the squad was completely silent, realizing that she had managed to get them out of the situation with little damage in the end. Beside her, Tech kept his eye on her since he was still angry with her.

The Marauder started to climb in altitude, shifting towards the edge of the planet's atmosphere. It finally passed through the atmosphere, flying through space. The stars throughout the galaxy sparkled as the planet grew small and smaller. It was now all behind them.

"Are the coordinates to Ord Mantell in?" Y/n wondered. Her voice was so much calmer now. Her shoulders slumped at her sides. But she refused to make eye contact.

"Yes. They are in," Tech informed her softly. His eyes softened behind his helmet. He studied her carefully, trying to figure out what she was thinking in that brain of hers. He quickly shook it off, directing his attention back towards the void of space in front of them.

Without thinking, Tech and Y/n went to reach for the lever to send them into hyperspace. Their hands grazed each other's with neither of them being any closer to the lever than the other. They both awkwardly pulled their hands away upon contact.

"I'm sorry," Y/n muttered under her breath.

He wasn't sure if she was apologizing for the situation they just came out of or the situation that just occurred with the lever. Nevertheless, she reached for the lever once again, pulling it back to send the ship into hyperspace.

Back at Ord Mantell, the Bad Batch went back to Cid's Parlor. They stood on the other side of her desk, having just delivered the cargo that she paid them to retrieve. She peered into the package, checking to make sure everything was there.

Behind the group, Y/n stood there in total silence. Her eyes were trained on the floor as she shifted in her place awkwardly. She waited for their boss to address them.

Beside her, Tech stood about an arm's length away. He glanced at her through the corner of his eye, taking note of her odd demeanor. He raised his finger and opened his mouth to say something to her, but he was rudely cut off.

"Looks like everything is here," Cid announced. She closed the cargo container. She began rummaging through her drawers, collecting the correct amount of credits to pay both parties.

Now Y/n went to take a few steps forward and made her way through the members of the squad. She stood in front of the desk. Her boss went ahead and placed a handful of credits in her hand.

"That is your cut," Cid told her. She handed the rest of the credits to Hunter. "And here is your cut. I'll call you when I have another job," Cid claimed.

There was a brief moment of silence in the room. Cid went to cross her arms over her chest. She narrowed her eyes at the company of six standing in front of her.

"You guys work well together," Cid said honestly. "You should work together more often."

In response, Y/n breathed a scoff under her breath. The boys turned their heads to look at her, slightly surprised at her reaction. She shook her head in denial.

"Yeah. Like that's ever going to happen," Y/n rolled her eyes at the notion.

Without hesitation, she spun around on the heels of her feet in order to head towards the door. She purposely bumped into Tech's shoulder a little too harshly. She left the room with the door closing behind her.

"What's wrong with her?" Cid scoffed. She looked at the rest of the squad for some form of explanation, but none of them said anything. "Fine! Be all quiet and mysterious. See if I care," Cid said.

By the time the Bad Batch left Cid's office, Y/n was nowhere to be found in the bar. They went to sit down at the bar so they could order drinks to celebrate another successful mission. They sat in complete silence, thinking about what transpired during the mission.

"Where do you think she's gone?" Echo wondered.

Though they never pulled missions together, the Bad Batch knew that the pilot worked for Cid and was stationed at Ord Mantell. They had seen her quite often over the past few months. They had grown familiar of her. And now they worried about her.

"The odds are that she returned to her flat," Tech explained. He pushed the bridge of his googles up to be more secure on his face. He kept his focus on his data pad.

"Probably," Hunter shrugged his shoulders. "But it's late. Which means it's dark out."

"Astute observation," Tech claimed sarcastically. He gave a single nod, but didn't take his eyes off his data pad.

"And she's walking back to her flat...at the edge of town...late at night," Hunter further explained.

"She will be fine," Tech stated. He knew where he was going with this. "She is always saying how she can take care of herself and doesn't need our help. Why would that change now?"

The other members remained silent. They turned their heads to take quick glances at one another. With a silent agreement, Hunter rose to his feet and went to stand by Tech. He roughly grabbed his shoulders and hoisted him out of his seat, much to his dismay.

"Go find her. Make sure she gets home safe. And apologize to her," Hunter ordered.

"I do not see why I have to be the one to apologize when I did noth--" Tech began. He was quickly cut off.

"Tech," Hunter said in a warning tone of voice. He crossed his arms over his chest, showing that he meant business.

"Fine," Tech said in defeat. "I will apologize."

With some hesitation, Tech grabbed his helmet and fitted it over his head. He began making his way towards the door of the parlor, leaving the rest of his crew behind. He walked through the deserted streets of Ord Mantell, passing a few shady people in the process.

Now Tech knew that she lived near the edge of town because she had once mentioned it during a conversation. Besides that, Tech really didn't know where to look and simply hoped he'd bump into her before she got home so he'd know she was safe. He passed by a few alleys, peeking through each one briefly.

The Marauder was parked in a hanger bay only a few blocks away from the parlor. Just as Tech passed by the hanger, he heard a familiar voice coming from his very own ship. He backtracked by taking two steps backwards. He peered into the hangar bay to glance at his ship.

Stepping into the bay, Tech tilted his head to the side in slight curiosity. The right wing of the ship began to move downwards until it lay completely horizontal. A few seconds later, Y/n began descending down the ramp with a toolbox in hand. She walked over to the wing of the ship.

Upon seeing her, Tech sharply inhaled. He felt the back of his throat close up and his shoulders tensed at his sides. He hesitantly took a few steps forward, fiddling with his fingers nervously.

Reaching upwards, Y/n placed the single toolbox onto the flat surface of the ship's wing. She proceeded to grab onto the wing before hoisting herself up onto it. She climbed to the center of the wing to assess the damage inflicted in the crossfire.

At this point, Y/n had no idea that he was also in the hanger bay with her. She opened the toolbox, rummaging through to find the right tool. The damage done to the right wing was a massive gaping hole with burnt edges from the fire. It would eventually need a panel welded to cover it up again. But for now, she focused on the internal repairs.

Thankfully, from the assessment, nothing major had been hit. A few bolts had gotten loose and a few parts needed to be replaced. She focused on that for now.

After grabbing a socket spanner, Y/n leaned down to place her arm into the gaping hole of the wing. It went so far down that her chest was practically pressed against the surface of the wing. She used the spanner to tighten some bolts.

"What...are you doing?" Tech decided to finally announce his presence. He stepped forward until he stood in the light coming from the opening of the hanger bay.

Upon hearing that familiar voice, Y/n only rolled her eyes to herself. She continued her work as she preferred to focus on repairs rather than on him. She grunted softly, making sure that first bolt was nice and tight.

"What do you want Tech?" Y/n wondered. She pulled her arm out of the hole to assess her work. She didn't even bother to glance towards him, knowing he would have sent her a look of disapproval for working on his ship.

Slowly, Tech began to lower his gaze to the floor. He contemplated his next words carefully, fighting the urge to lash out at her for meddling with his ship. He liked things to be a certain way and would have much preferred if he did the actual repairs. Now Tech didn't want to fight with her so he changed his approach.

"I analyzed that you left the parlor on your own and thought it would be better if I accompany you back home," Tech explained. She huffed at his answer.

"I've told you before," Y/n began. "I can--"

"Take care of yourself," Tech finished. He adjusted the lenses of his goggles though he still wore his helmet. He noticed how she fell silent. "Yes, I've gathered that much."

"Why are you really out here?" Y/n wondered. She went to lean down again in order to tighten more bolts.

"I...could ask you the same," Tech replied slowly. He honestly felt like this was the first civil conversation they had ever had.

"I wanted to make some repairs on your precious ship since it was apparently my fault," Y/n claimed. Her tone sounding a little harsher now. She tightened two more bolts in the process.

"That is not what I meant," Tech interjected. He took a step forward. He gazed up at her figure perched on the wing, attempting to reason with her. "I was...caught up in the moment. Shouldn't have said those things," Tech confessed quietly.

"Well, don't worry. As soon as I finish up these repairs, I'll leave and you'll never have to see me again," Y/n responded.

For some reason, Tech couldn't combat a response to her comment. He simply nodded his head understandingly. He lowered his gaze to stare down at the ground and allowed her to finish her repairs in silence. He thought for some time how he could fix this relationship since it wasn't his strong suit. Fixing things was more his style.

"Blast," Y/n's voice pulled him out of his train of thought. He glanced up at her.

The sleeve of her blue flight suit had gotten in the way of her repairs. She had rolled her sleeves up to keep the material out of her way, but the sleeves continued to fall back down to her wrists every time she placed her arm in the hole. She pulled back and rose to her feet.

Without hesitation, Y/n's hands flew to the top button of her flight suit. She began to undue the buttons in which she revealed the black tank top underneath. All the while, Tech studied her carefully as her nimble fingers worked steadily. His pupils dilated behind those goggles of his.

Upon reaching her waistline, Y/n had stopped unbuttoning and shrugged the suit off her shoulders. She tied the sleeves around her waist. She dropped to her knees to continue working without the distraction of her clothes getting in the way.

Slowly, Tech raised his hand to the side of his head and clicked the bottom to save the recording to the drive. He records everything and he was certainly glad he recorded that. He wanted to revisit the recording later for his own 'research' purposes.

"There," Y/n sighed. She sat back on her knees, wiping her dirty hands on the pants of her flight suit. "Repairs are finished."

Naturally, Y/n began to pack away the tools she used and placed them back into the box. She closed the lid of the toolbox, tossing it over the edge of the wing for it to land on the ground with a thump. She then proceeded to jump down off the wing of the ship, landing a little hard so her knees buckled slightly.

Just like she promised, Y/n had every intention of leaving the hanger bay so that they'd never have to see her again. She went to walk away, but just as she passed beside him, Tech reached out and grabbed her forearm. She halted in her steps.

Neither of them could look at each other. She felt his gloved fingers digging into her bare skin, but not hard enough that it would leave marks. She slowly turned to look at him, but he kept his head down.

"I...really came here to apologize," Tech confessed. When Tech lifted his gaze to meet her face, he saw how her eyebrows went up in slight surprise. It definitely caught her off guard.

"I see," Y/n thought about his words carefully. She shifted her balance from one foot to the other. "So all those things you said back on Cassander where just...what?"

He closed his eyes, seriously regretting everything he said. "Like I said earlier, in the moment, I was incredibly frustrated with you."

"Because I wouldn't give up the controls?" Y/n said flatly.

"No, because I recognize that my levels of dopamine are elevated when I'm around you and I distance myself from you in order to prevent that from happening,” Tech confessed before he could even stop himself.

But now, hearing what he just said, Tech quickly averted his gaze away from her. He was thankful to be wearing his helmet so she wouldn't see how bright his cheeks had gotten. He released his grip on her arm, letting it fall back down to his side.

For once, Y/n actually understood what he said. Her eyebrows rose in surprise at this sudden confession. She definitely did not expect him to blurt out his emotions that night, especially after their fight on the ship. She knew better than to tease him at a time like this.

"I-I don't understand why," Tech said rather sadly. That was the first time that he'd spoken those words out loud.

What broke her heart was the tone of defeat laced with his words. It told her that he'd been wrestling with these foreign emotions and thoughts for some time. He didn't know how to react around her and so he acted with defense. He pushed those feeling away, fighting against it.

Hesitantly, Y/n lifted her hands to the sides of his helmet. She went to remove his helmet slowly, revealing his face to her for the first time today. She tossed the helmet to the side without a care in the world, but he still refused to meet her gaze.

"You are probably repulsed by me," Tech began. "From the way I treated you and the words I said to--"

But Tech wasn't able to finish that sentence. Because Y/n had taken his face in her hands and leaned upwards to press her lips against his own. He froze in his place.

His eyes were wide open in surprise. His hands were elevated on either side of him because he didn't know what to do with them. He could feel the softness of her lips still against his own. Before Tech had the chance to process what was happening, Y/n pulled away from him.

The two of them were standing so close together; the chests being pressed against one another's. Their breath mingled as their noses bumped together once or twice. He glanced down at her lips because he wanted nothing more than to taste them once more.

His hands found their way down to her hips with one hand sneaking around her lower back. He pressed that hand into her back which brought her body even closer to his. She released a small gasp.

"Apology accepted," Y/n whispered to him. She played with the edge of the plastoid armor on his chest. "And I'm sorry for the way I acted towards you."

"Why cyare?" Tech wondered. He raised his hand to the side of her face, tucking a single strand of hair behind her ear. He held his hand against her cheek.

"I should have given up the controls. You are the better pilot and it is your ship," Y/n explained with a shake of the head.

"I am not the better pilot," Tech stated firmly.

There was a moment of silence between them. "I can't make split second decisions and calculations like you do when you're flying."

"Well, I've never done the Kessel Run." Tech argued back playfully. He smiled down at her. "At least, not in twelve parsecs."

"Fourteen," Y/n corrected him. "I did it in fourteen."

"Fine. Fourteen," Tech caved in.

Slowly, Tech tilted his head to the side and began to lean down with every intention of kissing her again. But the two of them were interrupted when someone cleared their throat over by the entrance of the hanger bay. The two of them quickly pulled apart and turned to face whoever had interrupted them.

The other members of the Bad Batch stood looking at them near the entrance of the hanger. It was initially Hunter who had cleared his throat to garner their attention; he stood with his arms folded across his chest just as a disapproving father would. Beside him, Wrecker and Omega were practically squealing with each other. They couldn't contain their excitement. And Echo averted his gaze in an awkward manner.

"Care to explain yourselves?" Hunter hinted. He glanced between the two of them with a playful smirk on his face.

"I think they finally confessed that they like each other," Wrecker interrupted. His words coming out louder than anticipated. He nudged Echo who stood beside him.

"You think?" Echo glanced at him.

"It's exciting, isn't it?" Omega smiled at them.

Meanwhile, Tech quickly collected his helmet off the ground and placed it over his head once again. He hoped it would cover the blush creeping up his neck to his face. He knew he wouldn't hear the end of the taunting from his brothers anytime soon.

"Well boys. It looks like we got another member on our crew," Hunter said slowly. "Welcome to the Bad Batch."

#the bad batch #the clone wars #tech bad batch #tech x reader #tech x y/n #tech x you #star wars #the marauder ship #tech oneshot #tech fluff #tech angst #tech imagine #hunter #crosshair #omega #wrecker #echo #tech

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kiwisbell · 8 months

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Told Before and Told Again [din djarin]

One time you saved Din, and one time he saved you.

series masterlist

pairing: din djarin x f!reader

rating: 18+ (mdni)

tags and warnings: established relationship, dubious consent due to sex pollen, unprotected piv (no following the leader), the helmet stays on, actually everything stays on, but reader gets nakey, animal handler!reader, grogu being a good kid, protective din, dirty talk, fuck or die, creampie, fingering, rough sex, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, thighplate riding, masturbation, top din, soft din, din fucking the babysitter, extreme amounts of fluff, allusions to animal abuse, din djarin being actually the biggest mess to ever inhabit the galaxy, happy family, din is in love, mando'a pet names

word count: ~ 7k

this is installment one of my din djarin series entitled told before and told again. please enjoy din being very bad at his job, a mysterious pouch of pink powder, and din coming to your rescue. emphasis on coming.

Told Before and Told Again

You’re getting sick of staring apprehensively into pitch-black tunnels, waiting for your warrior to emerge from the darkness.

Next to you, a worried gurgle emanates from the floating pod. You press your lips together. “Yeah. I know, sweet one. He’s going to be okay.”

He grumbles his disagreement, reaching out a three-fingered hand toward you. You shuffle closer to him and let him clutch your index finger. “How long has it been?” you ask him. “It can’t have been that long. Right?”

Lothal is about as Outer Rim as you can get. It's a pretty planet, when you aren't trudging through a wind-blown desert to find the mountains. Not that the mountains were hard to find: they erupt from the earth in the west, snow-capped and bridged by rocky plains. The air is temperate, but you shiver, waiting for him. Always waiting for him.

Never get brave for me. Understood?

Something clatters to the slick, rocky ground and lands on your foot. “Ow,” you gasp, picking up the blaster and pinning Grogu with a stare. He stares back, owlish and yet somehow stern. “You know I can’t shoot this for the life of me.”

“You're holding that thing like you want to choke it out.”

You huffed, trying to loosen your grip around the blaster. “Like this?”

“You're not supposed to be scared of the weapon you're holding.”

“Unbelievable.” You closed one eye to home in on the target: the severed head of his latest bounty, a raper and pirate. “My last boss never micromanaged this much.”

The air behind you shifted. A rough, gloved hand slipped around your waist and pressed on your belly. It was an adjustment of your posture, straightening your spine, but you knew, and he knew, that he had pulled you just a little bit closer to him. His voice, modulated and raspy in your ear, knocked your knees together. “I'm not your boss. Open your eye.”

“What if it kicks back?”

“It won’t. It’s a blaster.”

“What if they take it from me?”

He covered your hand with his, shifting your fingers to tighten around the grip. “Hold onto it,” he said plainly.

You rolled your eyes and levelled the weapon at the raper’s head. The shot missed by a foot. “Better,” he said after a beat.

“Now you’re just being mean.”

“My job is to keep you safe,” he said, “not play nice. Now try again.” He placed his hand on your lower back, tightening your posture, his armour cold on the back of your thigh through the thin material of your dress. You held your breath to keep from visibly trembling against him, but he noticed. Of course he noticed. “You’re allowed to breathe.”

“You’re making me nervous.”

“Good. You should never be relaxed in a fight.” He lifted your elbow slightly. “Shoot.”

“You just said I was allowed to breathe. Now I can't relax.”

“They're not the same thing, and you're stalling. Don't be difficult.”

You fired a shot at the severed head, and it blew past the target by a wider margin than the last one. You huffed, “Some people aren't meant to fight, you know.”

You sensed that he was amused. “And what were you meant to do?”

“Look pretty. Give moral support.”

The noise that rumbled out of his modulator definitely seemed amused. “Then I’ll be the fighter. You just need to know the right time to shoot.”

You turned in his grasp, forgetting wholly that you were holding a blaster. “And what if you aren’t there?”

A glimmer of sunlight blinded you as his visor shifted, tilting downward. “I’ll be there.”

You relented, firing another shot, then two, three, at the pirate’s head. Only the second one managed to graze the greasy, wily strips of hair that sprouted from its ugly head. When it was over, you slumped, pouting, against your firm warrior.

“This is hopeless,” you told him.

For a moment, he said nothing, and you wondered if he'd finally snapped with impatience.

“You are, you know,” he said.

“What?”

“Pretty.” He nudged your finger back onto the trigger. “Now go on, dangerous girl. You're not done until I say you are.”

You try to peer into the tunnel but it’s so shrouded in darkness you would have to peel it aside like a curtain. When you take a step forward, the cave wails. Or, more accurately, someone inside the cave wails, howling with pain. It’s not your Mandalorian’s voice, which makes your body deflate. “See?” you say to Grogu. “He’s fine.”

But a roar erupts from the depths of the cave, followed by the telltale echo of your warrior’s pained groan, and you decide that it’s best to intervene. You’ll chew him out later. “Stay behind me, cyare,” you tell Grogu. He gurgles worriedly, but you grip the blaster firmly in your hand and press your back to the wall of the cave.

“This is stupid,” you tell yourself. “This is very… very stupid.” You skirt along the wall, its jagged rocks catching the fabric of your shirt as you keep your blaster up near your shoulder, pointed away from your body.

Never point the bad end toward you.

Don’t patronise me. I’m holding a deadly weapon.

Well, I’m holding a dozen. And I’d prefer if you kept your face.

My pretty face?

Shoot properly and I’ll tell you.

“Mando?” you call out, cursing the way your voice trembles. You cannot call him by his real name while he pursues a bounty. You cannot give them a weapon to wield against him.

No one answers your call. You don’t particularly expect him to, but it still makes your stomach plummet as you navigate the darkness until the light is barely a pinprick in the direction you came. Grogu coos to signal that he is still floating behind you, but you lift your forearm and press a button to close the roof over his pod. You hear a faint clank as he pounds a fist against the door, but you will risk the consequences of his tantrum when this is over. You will not risk his life.

You come to a fork in the cave, but another deafening roar makes the decision for you. You leap to the other side of the cave and keep your back flush to the damp, cool walls as you shuffle past the narrow opening. Grogu’s pod scrapes along both sides as it floats along, making you grimace. Another cry from the creature in the depths of the cave, something mammalian, high-pitched, screeching. It grates your ears and makes you wince as it gets undeniably closer.

This is so stupid. For some reason, the acknowledgement of it makes you feel better.

The cave yawns into a wide opening—one that drops precariously into blackness after two steps. You gasp, jumping backward to avoid toppling over the edge. It seems deliberate, this pit: you can see a platform skirting around the gaping width of it, and your stomach churns as you peer into its depths. You fumble for a match and strike it against the wall. When it falls, it bounces off another wall and illuminates that it's really not all that deep…

But there's something curled up inside, and it's covering the body of your Mandalorian.

Behind you, Grogu’s pod wedges itself into the narrow passageway. You keep your body square in front of him. All you glimpse, before the match bounces against the thing’s coiled horns and fizzles out, is a pair of black, glowing eyes. Covered in coarse black fur, breathing like a charging rancor through its large nostrils. It's got four legs and it's purposefully pinning the Mandalorian down on the floor of the pit with one wolf-like paw. You wonder how it even managed to squeeze inside this cave and squeeze back out to hunt its food. When you strike another match and catch a pair of legs out of the corner of your eye, you understand.

The legs connect to the immobile body of the Lothalian bounty you'd come all the way to this planet for. You aren't sure if he's dead, but it doesn't matter. He keeps this creature as a pet, and it's got your warrior in its clutches.

“Mando,” you hiss. It's a complete wager: one that doesn't pay off. He’s clearly unconscious, and the terror of it throbs in your chest. The creature’s head tilts in your direction.

Shit.

You think back to your days as an animal handler. The first day a Mandalorian warrior appeared on the doorstep of your facility. Your first day of adventure.

“I need a babysitter.”

You looked up from your embroidery—you wanted to hang it up inside your newest ward’s cage; he was a runt-of-the-litter loth cat who didn’t know any better, but you wanted to make it special for him—and peered around your boss, who was speaking with a man dressed in silver armour.

You don’t remember thinking much of him. You do remember looking down at his feet and gushing over the tiny, green, big-eared thing at his feet. You fell over yourself to introduce yourself to the little guy before you even looked up at the warrior. Your boss had been humiliated (“That is a Mandalorian ,” he later scolded you with a firm grip on your ear), but you think it’s exactly why the Mandalorian hired you.

“I can pay you well. Just… protect him with your life.”

The little green thing was nestled in the crook of your arm, cooing happily and twisting your hair around his three fingers. You looked up at the masked warrior and said, “I don’t care how much you can pay. I’ll keep him safe all the same.”

To your credit, you did. Over and over again.

You don’t remember how or when your job description began to include keeping his father safe, too.

You spent your days handling small creatures left out on the street. You don’t know how to handle this gargantuan, snarling beast. Skirting around the pit in the ground, you point your blaster at the monster’s head. It growls, lashing out with one giant paw, and you yelp, jumping backward and pressing yourself up against the wall. It backs away when you turn the blaster away from its face.

You take in your surroundings. The Mandalorian’s blaster, smashed to pieces in the pit with him. The Lothalian bounty does not carry a blaster, but you spot a plasma rod strapped to his belt. It’s the sort of tool an animal handler recognises: the length of a forearm, white as the heat of a flame, the hilt cold steel, built for a strong grip. It’s similar to an Imperial baton, but you could pick this weapon out anywhere. You were used to confiscating them from clients.

The realisation sparks to life in your head. You lean down and set the blaster on the ground. Confirming your suspicions, the creature’s gaze follows it.

There’s a large rock nearby, so you pick it up and begin to smash the pieces to shrapnel. The beast watches you all the while until the job is complete, and your hands lifts into the air to show it that you’re unarmed.

It shifts off the Mandalorian as it rises to all four feet and approaches you. But you aren’t afraid when it sniffs your hands. “Hello,” you say softly.

It snorts, the smell of its breath like death in your nostrils. “That’s my friend you’ve got there.” You indicate with your head the Mandalorian, stirring slightly out of unconsciousness. You doub the creature understands you, but you keep talking. “If we take your master away and let you free, will that make you happy?”

The beast snorts again, and there’s some spittle on your clothes, but you smile. “That would make me happy, too.”

In the pit, the Mandalorian awakens with a star, rolling over onto his back and pointing the flamethrower on his vambrace at the beast. “Stop!” you cry, your hands flinging out. “Don’t hurt it!”

“Don’t hurt—” The helmet turns to look your way. “What?”

“We are going to take our bounty, and we’re going to free this creature.” You pin your warrior with a glare. “Got it?”

For a moment, he says nothing. The beast sits back on its haunches and waits patiently. Finally, the Mandalorian scrambles to his feet and lifts himself out of the pit. The first thing he does is point his finger in your direction. “I’ll deal with you in a minute.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re welcome.”

Just because he’s in a grumpy mood, you let him drag the unconscious Lothalian out of the cave. He takes a different route than you did, though: it’s much larger, big enough to fit the beast if it were to squeeze through. If you had only taken a left, you would have had a much more pleasant journey into the cave.

“Come on,” grunts the Mandalorian, pulling the Lothalian by the ankles.

You shake your head. “I won’t leave it. It might think I’m abandoning it.”

His helmet levels you with what you guess is an incisive glare. “You—”

He stops himself and seems to decide it isn’t worth it. Next to you, Grogu opens his pod and gurgles curiously at the creature. The beast lumbers out of the pit once his master disappears and sniffs your fingers some more. “Look at that,” you coo at your green companion. “Our new friend.”

Grogu lifts his head toward the entrance of the cave and you can feel the Mandalorian’s presence behind you before you hear his voice.

“C’mon. Time to go.”

The beast follows dutifully as you depart, though it struggles to fit its great width through the cavern passageway. Once you see light again, you're so blinded by the shift that you trip over a rock while shielding your eyes. A firm gloves hand steadies you at your lower back.

Once your eyes adjust, you find yourself staring up into those giant black gems in the beast’s head. For good measure, it stomps over to its Lothalian master and gives him a firm kick in the ribs with its paw. While the Mandalorian manhandles the bounty onto the Crest over his shoulder, you turn to the beast. It bends its head low to your face and nuzzles as gently as it can against your cheek. Grogu coos next to you, and the beast turns to lumber back down the cliffs.

You follow the Mandalorian into the ship and find him already in the cockpit, polishing some blood off his pauldron.

“Are you hurt?” you ask him.

“No,” he says.

With that settled, you stalk toward your warrior. “You’re a complete and total mess.”

He cocks his head to the side. A challenge. Oh, you’re willing to challenge him right back. Your ears are burning and your chest is heaving.

“You're clumsy.” To punctuate your point, you poke him in the chest. “You're a great warrior in an ancient line of great warriors, and you're clumsy. Why do you have to be so… so… ugh!”

You can only throw yourself against him and wrap your arms around his neck. It's metal and cloth, cold and smooth, and the faint grunt of surprise you can hear from the helmet. His arms steady you, gloved fingers on your back, cradling your head, a warm assurance. He’s alive. He’s a moron, but he’s alive.

“Look at me.”

He gently guides you away from him. You feel rough, cracked leather swipe away a frustrated tear from your cheek. “Dangerous girl,” he says, whisper-quiet. “I’ve told you to never get brave for me.”

“It wasn’t brave,” you say firmly. “That Lothalian was just a coward. He enslaved that poor creature. You were too big and dumb and impulsive to stop and think that it might not be fond of plasma.” Your fingertip comes to rest on the barrel of his blaster. “It’s a damn good thing you have me, Din Djarin.”

His thumb and forefinger hold your chin in place, looking up at him. “I know that. Next time—” He slips a hand around your waist and digs each finger against a rib. He knows every breakable part of a body; you wonder if he finds those parts of you on instinct. “I’ll send you in first.”

When you both strap yourselves into your seats and he begins to flick switches, you find you aren’t quite finished.

“Five minutes.”

He pauses with his finger on a switch, his helmet turning to the side. “What?”

“Five minutes, Din. I left you alone for five minutes. How can you manage to get your life so fantastically endangered in five minutes?”

He swivels in his chair and folds his arms over his broad chest. “Are you hurt?”

You purse your lips. “No.”

“Then everything’s fine.” And he swivels back around. Neither of you speak again until the ship lands.

“No.”

“I haven’t even—”

“But you’re about to, and the answer is no.”

“How do you know—”

“Because I know you. You stay.”

“I’m not your dog, Din.”

“No. A dog listens.”

“Oh, my sweet, charming warrior. Remind me again why I like you?”

“I’ll let you know when I find out.”

The bounty was already dead when Din finally managed to track him down on some backwater skug hole in the Otomok system. It took a day of tracking the fob through a waterlogged forest. The bounty is propped up against a tree. Something seemed to have struck him like a sickness: he's human, but a shadow of one, sallow and ashen and stiff as bone. Din curses, checking the bounty’s pockets for anything of use. All he can find is a small pouch, one Din doesn't open. He pockets it himself and leaves the body behind.

You're dozing in the cockpit when he returns, Grogu tucked away in his compartment. Din watches you for a moment. You're peaceful when you sleep, so unlike the whirlwind he's come to know. Your smiles and your zeal and your beauty: it all knocks him off-kilter. It's distracting. It's always been.

Your heart is something he sometimes has trouble contending with. It's so big. It spills through his fingers. He cannot comprehend how a soul like you can settle for blood and space and silence. Selfishness defies the Creed, but it is this one thing that he indulges in: you.

You stir, mumbling, your eyes peeling open. His footsteps are quiet, but you sense him nonetheless. Your sweet voice makes his name sound like something to be loved.

“Din?” You rub the heel of your palm into your eye. “‘Dyougetthebounty?”

He shakes his head and produces the pouch from his pocket. “Just this. Bounty was dead.”

You frown, taking the pouch and squishing the contents around over the canvas. “Feels like powder. Was he a spice runner?”

“Gambler,” corrects Din. Your fingers begin to untie the twine that keeps the pouch closed, and his gut rolls with instinct. “Don’t—”

But there’s a small opening at the top once the knot is loose, and a cloud of pale pink powder bursts in your face.

In your shock, it drops to the floor, but Din lurches forward to catch it, hastily tying the knot that will keep it closed. You begin to cough, standing up and backing into the wall as you try to hack out the powder in your lungs.

“Shit,” you rasp. “Shit, Din. What the hell was that?”

He shakes his head, crowding you with his body. You know he's assessing you, but the heat of his closeness lights a fire that licks at the ceiling of your brain. “Din,” you croak, blinking hard, “I’m… fine.”

His hand closes around your wrist, and the fire spreads. It's napalm where he touches you, the flame coursing throughout the rest of your body until it singes your nerves. “‘Fresher,” he commands. “Get it off you. Could be dangerous.”

You know it’s the right thing to do, but your body disagrees. A whine slips out of your mouth when he releases you. You’re hot. Your bones are candle wax, your blood lava flowing from molten rock. You need…

You don’t know what you need.

You break away abruptly from Din and hurry out of the cockpit, scrambling out of your clothes before you can even lock yourself in the ‘fresher.

You scrub and clean and stick your face in the stream of hot water, but when your hand glides idly down toward your cunt and swipes the washcloth over your clit, your knees buckle.

Oh.

You cover your mouth with your free hand when you abandon the washcloth and press your fingers to your clit, rubbing in slow circles that ease the slow drag of flames over your skin—

“Din.”

The fire only roars when you buck your hips in a desperate attempt to deepen the friction. It isn't what you need. It isn’t good enough.

You need—

“Din.” It's a pathetic, wrecked whisper. One that rattles your brain long after it's left your lips. The ‘fresher dries you off, but your forehead is cool with sweat and your core turns and tightens with the cloying, sickening need you have.

The powder. It’s the powder. It will not leave your skin. It's infected your bloodstream. You stumble out of the ‘fresher and rush to find Din. Your gut churns with the trembling of alarm bells. You're sick.

Something is wrong. He knows it the instant his eyes take their fill of your face. You're paler, swaying on your feet, your pupils engulfing your irises. You hold onto the doorway to steady yourself, as if Din isn't already there, catching you around the waist. As if he isn't the only one who can truly right you.

“Hey.” It's soft, a little panicked, his hand brushing your hair away from your face. “Tell me what's wrong.”

“Don't…” You swallow, trying to look at—or maybe look through —his visor. Your eyes are glassy, unfocused. “Don’t know. I feel…”

He sees the minute shift of your body toward him, your chest pushing out and your hips seeking contact with his, weapons and all still strapped to his belt. He grasps your hip, kneading the bone gently with his thumb, and the soft whine that slips from your mouth makes him squeeze his eyes shut behind the helmet.

“Din…”

“Cyar’ika.”

Between you—neither of you are sure when—a game starts. Your voice is thick, raspy, desperate when you say his name. “Din. I… I think—”

Your eyes flutter shut and he winds an arm around your waist, picking you up and depositing you in his pilot’s seat. You’re hot to the touch even through his gloves. It strikes terror inside him: your lively eyes dark and shrouded, your body quivering, your sweet smile twisted into a grimace of pain as sweat springs to life above your brow.

He thinks back to the bounty he found dead. Powder in pouches, passed discretely from planet to planet. A drug, most likely. They can dull the senses or heighten them. This one seems to have the latter effect on you, and if your heart continues to beat at the pace it does now to keep time with the rest of your body, it could give out.

He kneels in front of you, and your eyes meet, your lashes spidery on your flushed cheeks. “Am I sick?” you ask him.

He nods, honest as ever. “The powder,” he says, surprised by how weak his voice sounds. He needs to be strong for you. He needs to help. His fingers brush your hair out of the way. It’s matted with sweat. “Tell me what you feel.”

Your hands grapple for his shoulders. “I feel hot ,” you whimper, squeezing your thighs together. “I’m—fuck, I’m so hot, Din. Need to…”

When you pull your hands away and tearfully grab at the ties on your pants, he goes blind. “Wait,” he tries, barely above a whisper, but you're pulling off your shirt, shucking off your pants, and your lashes stick together with tears as you pull your panties down your legs.

He rears back, his cock stiffening in his pants at the sight of your wet cunt, unabashedly bared to him. You're lost in the haze of desire, your entire body trembling and perspiring with the lust that rapidly floods your senses. And yet, it feels senseless and desperate as your fingers dip to your clit and press down. Your hips buck, and he hasn't once torn his eyes away from your core since you presented it to him.

“‘M sorry, Din,” you cry, one hand squeezing your bare tit as your fingers frantically rub your clit. You're so drenched that you spill onto his seat. His seat. “I can't… I feel like I’m dying.”

You've said things like that before in times of mild inconvenience, but he's always called you dramatic. Now, he's certain you don't have enough of a mind to hyperbolise. You may very well be dying, and his cock is so hard in his pants that he has to refrain from reaching down and squeezing his length to relieve the tension.

Why can't he move?

A moan, pathetic and mewling, slips past your lips. He's never been more frustrated that he can't kiss you. He needs to grab you everywhere, melt your body into molten steel and shape it the way he wants, burn his lips on your scalding softness. He needs to possess your body. He needs it to take all of him, a shadow swallowing flame.

And you're reaching for him, the way he now reaches for you. You do not understand what is happening to you. But Din will be good to you. That isn't his job—his job is to keep you alive. But he can do both. He will.

He thinks he’ll die if he doesn't touch you, too, and he hasn't been assaulted by a faceful of pale pink powder.

Your body is bare, confronted with all of his armour, and then it’s the cold press of beskar steel to your chest, your stomach, your thighs as he drags you out of the chair and turns you around, replacing you in his seat. You're on his lap, pushing your tits against his chest plate and breathing hard. His visor fogs up when you rest your forehead to his. He keeps you there with his hand cradling the back of your head, cooling you down with his body.

“Feel me,” he tells you, and it feels like a command, even as his voice comes through the modulator like a prayer. It's soft as your name on his mouth. “You’ll die if you don’t move, cyar’ika.”

Your arms wind around his shoulders as you begin to grind down on his thigh guard. “Din,” you whisper, your brow furrowing in the pleasure of your clit sliding up against that cold steel. “Always… always feel like I’ll die if I don't touch you.”

“Now you're being dramatic,” he huffs, his helmet tipping back to get a better view of you. You're a vision, the movement of your hips mesmerising as you take pleasure in his warrior’s steel. Your lips are parted, a perpetual picture of desire, your body heat spiking in his thermal reader.

He cannot grasp enough of you in his hands, so he holds you in place around your ribs while his other hand brushes over your hard nipples. You gasp at the touch, back arching and chest pushing toward him. Your cunt soaks his thigh guard, your body heat blurring the clear reflection in his armour as you burn and writhe on top of your Mandalorian. He’s so hard it aches, but watching you take pleasure from him is worth delaying his own gratification. The Creed propounds patience.

And yet, his fingers dig into the spaces between your ribs, watching your lungs expand beneath your skin. He watches you as if he wants to dissect you, spread you open, display your delicate bones for him to see. He needs to know that they are unbroken. He needs to ensure that you never know pain again.

“Oh, Din,” you moan, grinding hard and fast on his thigh, your voice syrupy and breathless. He pinches your nipple and you gasp, the air pushing out against his visor and expanding your ribs beneath his hand. It's fascinating: knowing he can make you feel like this without shedding a scrap of his armour.

You want all of him, all the time. You don't need skin to find it. He is this . The warrior beneath you, connected through generations to the steel he wears, unwavering in his beliefs and his strength. He is the armour as much as he is the man beneath it, the face you've never seen. You're just fine with that.

“Take what you need,” he says, his voice pitching up a little through the modulator. Your mouth drops open and your head falls back, your chest pushing out even more. His cock twitches in his pants. “That's— nnh, that’s my girl.”

Ice water douses you as you come. Your body is electric; every touch, every wisp of air caresses your body like cold fire, sensitive and overstimulated even as the pain returns. Your scent envelops him. It's sweet and tangy. Your cunt has soaked his thigh guard, dripping over your own thighs, making a mess of yourself. Your lips find a spot just above his visor and rest there in a half-kiss, panting his name.

“It hurts,” comes your soft cry.

His heart cleaves in two. “I know. I know.” He’s grabbing at you desperately now, gritting his teeth when he kneads your ass but can't feel your soft skin behind his damned gloves.

“You have to…” A shudder racks you, and you begin to clamber off him. “I’ll go. I’m… I’m sorry. Never should have—”

“Stop.”

And you do. His command washes over you like glass, sharp. It cuts incisions into the doubt that creeps in until all that's left is the debilitating need for something to satiate the fire.

“You’ll die,” he tells you, his hands firm at your back, keeping you close. You’re straddling him, your thighs bracketing his. “If you don't take…”

His forehead finds yours again. “Take. I want you… to take.” At his last words, his fingers slide leisurely down your body and two of them drag through your slit.

“Oh.” You can only moan, clutching his pauldrons as he stokes the flame with his fingers pressed firmly to your clit. The scrape of the leather is delicious when he begins to rub them in circles. “Can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he urges. “Just look at me.”

Your eyes slide up toward his visor, peering through your lashes into that black nothing, picturing eyes staring right back at you. He is watching you. He's breathing just as heavily from the aphrodisiac that is touching you. Just touching you.

“Pretty,” he grunts, his helmet sliding along your cheek. “You're so— pretty.”

You mewl, warm water he can cup in his palm. His fingers work your clit until you seize, your body shattering. He does not relent when he feels the gush of warmth from your cunt, because he knows it isn't over. His gloved fingers, soaked with your wetness, make a squelching noise when they disappear inside your needy hole. You suck them in eagerly, your moan long and low as his palm drags against your too-sensitive clit.

If it were any other person on the planet grasping at his cowl the way you do now, he would shoot off their fingers. But it is you, and you're just trying to hold on, to keep him close as he helps you through your sickness. He's stunned by the affection in your eyes, the reverence in your gaze despite the poison dancing atop your pretty skin. You want this as much as you always have. The circumstances are different, but it's you: the same woman he gets to indulge in. You're sweeter than the first breath of air when he finds solitude and takes off his helmet. You're the last gulp of freshness before he puts it back on.

“Please,” you gasp, not sure what you're begging for. More of him, probably.

He understands. His thumb rubs your clit until you come again. Your cry is delicious and clicking with saliva. “Easy,” he says softly as your hips buck against him, your body listing in pleasure before he steadies you. Always steadying you. “Take it easy.”

“Need more,” you gasp, your eyes falling to where his fingers pull out of you with an obscene sucking sound. “Din. Please.”

“Take me out,” he grunts. “Go on.”

You’re hasty and trembling in your rush to unbutton his pants, and it would be endearing if not for the constant reminder of the sweat on your brow, your skin that’s scalding to the touch. He's a firm and guiding hand. Always. He's there to catch you.

You reach into his pants and pull out his cock, stiff and leaking. Spurts of precum stain the polished steel of his breastplate. Your mouth waters with the need to taste him but it's his hand squeezing your thigh that reminds you, through the haze of desire, that you need to take him.

Clutching his cowl, you lift your hips and sink down on his cock.

Din’s whole body jerks with the swiftness of your movement, how easily your hot, wet cunt sucks in his whole length in your desperation. He groans, cracked and high-pitched, bruising your hips with his thumbs. Your head falls forward at the first roll of your body, pressing yourself so tightly to him that your thighs tremble with the effort of holding yourself up. “Relax,” he whispers into your ear. The cold steel nudges your cheek to rest on him, and you do.

Having his hard, twitching cock buried inside you is a balm to the fire licking your skin, but it isn't enough. You need to move, you need his fingers, you need him everywhere, all at once. It won't stop until—

You don't know.

Maybe you will die here, knowing nothing but the need for him. But he's lifting his hand to your face and cupping your cheek, and you know he will not let it happen.

“Hold onto me,” he says.

What else can you do but obey?

He moves with your cunt still swallowing his cock, depositing you on your back on the floor, hard and cool and uncomfortable. The show of strength makes you whine his name. Din manhandles your thighs around his hips and shoves his cock so deep that the tip pummels your cervix.

Your cry is sharp and tears are filling your eyes with the relief of having him buried inside you. Your fingers wrap around the bars of the grate on the floor as he establishes a rhythm, fucking you into the metal without a shred of mercy. It's exactly what you need.

“Yes, yes, yes,” is vaguely what he hears from your mouth over the roar of blood in his ears. His eyes dip to where you connect. Your cunt seals around his thick cock, your slick leaking out around him and forcing filthy noises from your joined bodies with every smack of his hips into your thighs.

“Din, oh, yes.” It’s bright and blinding when you say his name, your core tightening as your head tips back and your cunt clenches down around him.

He doesn't once stop fucking you into the floor even when your orgasm wreaks havoc on your entire body. “Din!” you sob, grasping for his shoulders and failing, your hands falling back to the grate underneath you.

Your chest is beautifully flushed, the colour returning to your skin, but you aren't finished. Neither is he.

He pulls out only to turn you around, forcing you onto your hands and knees and swiftly sliding back inside your hot, tight cunt. “Nnnhh,” is the sound you hear through his modulator, rough and coarse as he fucks you from behind. You aren't much more articulate, but he's perfectly content to hear you moan in the shape of his name.

His grip on your body is relentless, the pounding of his hips against like small shockwaves as he sucks the fever from your marrow. At some point, your hands slip, crashing onto your elbows. Your knees scrape against the grate and your body is shoved into the floor. You smell the tang of metal and your own arousal smearing against him. He tears another orgasm from your body without even touching your clit and continues to fuck you hard, your cum making it easier for him to slide inside you.

Your throat clicks and your mouth will not close, a pleasure-touched frown perpetually creasing the space between your brows. Your eyes try to find his visor, but they slip to the back of your head when he grinds deep, the leaking head of his cock prodding your spongy front wall.

“Din,” you croak, ruined even as your body still seeks him in your feverish need. “Wish… wish I could—”

“Me too.” His hand finds your shoulder blades, pushing down, pressing and insisting until your upper half lowers to the ground. Your cheek slides against the floor panels and it's humiliating and filthy, but it’s cool. Relieving.

“Need…” You swallow around your groan, your hips wriggling in your need to be impossibly closer. “Need to come.”

You're so pliant and keen on this position, your cunt soaking him over and over as he bends you to satisfy the merciless demands your body gives you. It's working. So well, in fact, that he's so close to coming he can barely see through the blur of tears in his eyes. You look so beautiful, the shape of your body something made to be worshipped as your ass arches up toward him. Your hair is a mess and your body is rubbed raw from the wandering of his gloves. He gets to have you. It’s him, and no one else, who sees you like this… who makes you like this.

“I know, cyar’ika. I know. You feel—ngh, you feel so good. My pretty girl.” He’s the only thing holding you up now, one strong arm snaking around your waist to rub your clit. “Give it to me. C’mon, save your life.”

You begin to shake from the overstimulation, your thighs squeezing together. Din shoves them apart with his own and bears down harder on your body, covering you with it as his fingers work you faster. You can't think, speak, see, hear. You can't do anything but reach blindly backward to hold onto something as you come harder than you knew was possible.

Your fingers find his utility belt and hook into one of the loops, burying your face into your other arm. Din groans behind you, you think. You're clamping down on his cock with the force of your orgasm, gushing around him and sucking him in so deep he wouldn't dream of exiting your body.

And he doesn't. His helmet is slick and cool between your shoulder blades as he makes a cacophony of raspy groans in your ear, his cock twitching and pulsing as he drowns your cunt in thick cum. It's that rush of liquid heat which finally douses the flames. Your body melts, your thighs so weak that even he cannot hope to hold them up.

You both slip to the floor together, his arm shooting out to stop himself from crushing you. He rolls you into your side, his cock slipping out of you. He lands on his back, panting loud enough for the modulator to pick it up, and hastily tucks his spent cock into his pants. You hear the intermittent splatter of his cum onto the floor. Neither of you move, but he watches the gleam of sweat on your chest as it heaves. The haze in your eyes finally clears.

“Cyar’ika.”

“Mmmmdin,” you mumble, your eyes closing.

He holds your chin and turns your head to the side to look at him. “Give me your name.”

You tell him.

“Now mine.”

Your blink is slow and sleepy. “Din Djarin.”

“Good.” He rests his forehead on yours, caressing your cheek with his thumb. “You're okay.”

You nod faintly. “I’m okay.”

You try to cling to consciousness by staring into his visor, picturing the eyes he's told you are brown. You picture his brown hair, you picture his mouth, and you picture it producing the sound of your name. Your body cools, the pressure uncoiling, the sweat dissolving. There's colour in your face and he can see the map in your irises again. He loves to trace the shapes inside them with his eyes.

“I never thanked you.”

In your heavy-lidded, half-asleep daze, you draw shapes over his breastplate, where his heart is. “Hmm?”

His hand covers yours. “For saving my life.”

You manage to prop yourself up on your elbow and capture his visor in your gaze. “You should try things my way sometime,” you tell him with the wicked grin that he thinks about when he closes his eyes. “You always say to know when to shoot. I know when not to.” Your brows lift expectantly. “So tell me.”

“Tell you what?”

“How grateful you are.”

Din chuckles, his helmet making a faint clank against the floor. “You're my hero.”

You roll your eyes and tuck yourself back into his side. “We’ll work on the attitude.”

#pedro pascal #kiwisbell's fics #the mandalorian #din djarin #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #din djarin x f!reader #din djarin x female reader #grogu #the mandalorian fanfiction #din djarin smut

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lil-ace-of-spades · 4 months

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Filled an OTP meme sheet for DinLuke ( o˘◡˘o)

I based Din's age on the child actor's actual age (10yrs old) when he filmed the flashback scene when we assume that the event is near the end of the Clone Wars/Revenge of the Sith.

I think Din is in the ace spectrum, specifically demisexual. He's never really been interested in forming intimate relationships and is content with the familial/platonic relationships he made in his life. The thought of settling down came to mind when he saw how happy Grogu was on Sorgan but he knew deep down that isn't the life he wants for himself. It's simply not him. Then he meets Luke and falls in love for the very first time. He didn't know what these feelings mean at first so it took some time for him to process that the affection he feels for Luke isn't platonic. He eventually does settle down in the sense that he owns a cabin in Nevarro and a home he shared with Luke on Ossus but he still works as a bounty hunter.

Most of Luke's clothes in his Rebellion days were hand-me-downs since he arrived at the base with just the clothes on his back. He never really bothered with shopping for his own clothes, since he was busy and his friends were more than happy to dress him up.

Din likes to have his alone time. He can't relax in crowded places even when his friends and allies are around. He survived being a bounty hunter in the Outer Rim because of that. So it's usually Luke who does the mingling and the talking, whereas Din prefers to listen and chimes in with a few words when he has something to say or he's been addressed. It helps Din's social battery from running out too fast.

They're both great pilots and often race around each other with Grogu on either of their ships. The little speed demon of a son loves it.

Neither of them are the jealous type. For Din, he's never really fallen in love with anyone to feel that sickly green pull in his stomach. When he sees Luke getting along with people (some clearly flirting), he thinks it makes sense because Luke is a very attractive person but he's firm in his belief that HE is the man Luke will always come home to. For Luke, he's never had a partner that lasted long with the life he led in the Rebellion. He doesn't feel possessive of his partners because he knows he cannot own them. Those first 19 years spent on Tatooine (where he bears the name of generations of slaves and he is the first freeborn Skywalker to carry on living) taught him that no being deserves to be owned by anyone. He also knows that he fell in love with a man who would never break his vow to him. Also, they're both adults that went through so much before they met each other. They're both just glad to have met and fallen in love at a time when their paths crossed at the perfect moment in their lives.

Luke would cook Yoda's soup recipe and Grogu would finish the whole cauldron if nobody stops him. Din isn't keen on the taste so Luke has a version that's easier to stomach for non-green gremlin beings like him.

Whenever they're in public together, they act professionally (except when they're handling Grogu between them). When alone, Din allows himself to be vulnerable with Luke. His burgeoning inner romantic emerges and Luke reciprocates with all the love he feels for his husband.

#star wars #the mandalorian #din djarin #luke skywalker #grogu #star wars art #dinluke #lukedin #grogu djarin #tbobf #the book of boba fett #mando #art #skydalorian #dinluke art #din x luke #clan of three #meme

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beskarandblasters · 1 month

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Immortal By Design

Possessed!Din Djarin x F!Reader

Main Masterlist | Din Djarin Masterlist | Story Playlist

Author’s note: I originally had this posted as a mini series, but I decided to make it a one shot instead! (｡◕‿◕｡) To see what this Din looks like, click here! ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

Summary: Din Djarin picks up a mysterious job at the Bounty Hunter’s Guild from a high paying client that specifically requested him. Once he tracks down the bounty, he discovers two things— you tracking the bounty for different reasons entirely and a lot more than he bargained for.

Word count: 8k

Warnings: reader is able-bodied, canon divergent (long live the Razor Crest), no Grogu in this universe, possession, cursed object, dark!Din, monsterfucking (I think), Din has heightened capabilities, dub con/noncon, restraints, reader gets captured, oral sex (M and F receiving), rough oral sex, fingering, vaginal sex, unprotected sex, creampie, mir’sheb = smart ass, character death, no use of y/n

Fic notifs: @beskarandblastersfics Fic recs: @kelbellsficrecs

Part One: Possession of Another Kind

It’s a typical day on Nevarro. Din walks through the marketplace, heading towards the Bounty Hunters Guild to pick up another job as part of his normal routine.

Typical. Normal. Ordinary.

That is unless he steps into the Guild.

“Mando!” Karga shouts, beckoning for him to come to his booth. He seems frantic… urgent. Before Din even has a chance to speak, Karga continues, pulling out a tracking fob and setting it on the table.

But for once there’s no bounty poster hologram, no flickering blue lights.

“No poster?” Din asks, cocking his helmet to the side.

“No… But the reward is quite large.”

“How much?”

Karga scans the room, eyes bouncing from person to person. He leans forward, lowering his voice and saying, “A million credits.”

Din can’t believe his ears. There’s no way this is legit. No one on Nevarro or in the Outer Rim for that matter has that kind of credits.

“Sounds like a scam,” Din says, leaning back in the booth.

“It’s not. Droid came here this morning and dropped off the fob. Said they’d back with the reward once the bounty was captured.”

“You know I don’t care for droids.”

“You can’t pass up this reward.”

“…No one else wanted this job?”

“The client specifically requested you.”

Din’s hairs stand on their ends. A shiver runs down his spine. The fact that someone did their research… Someone who knows who he is and specifically chose him for the job is suspicious but also intriguing. And the reward is too prosperous to pass up. This bounty must be dangerous if the client is willing to pay this much.

“Fine. I’ll do it,” he sighs. He takes the fob from the table and slips out of the booth.

“Good luck,” Karga says with a strange look in his eye.

Din isn’t one to get scared, but the circumstances here are undeniably ominous. Between Karga’s strange behavior, the missing bounty poster, and the absurdly high reward, Din has an unsettling feeling coursing through his body. He heads back to the Crest, his mind wandering with the possibilities of what exactly he just got himself into.

He plugs in the coordinates from the fob into the control panel of the Crest. And the location is an immediate red flag…

The bounty is located on Malachor of all places.

Malachor is a barren wasteland of a planet. Din knows the planet means bad news but he doesn’t know why exactly. Something about the Empire or the Sith. The Empire he’s well acquainted with but the Sith? The Jedi? Not so much.

At least if it’s a barren place, the bounty shouldn’t be too hard to find, right? He’s not too worried about the potential Sith connotations just yet. Din’s a capable warrior, raised by the best of the best in the galaxy. He should be able to hold his own without too many troubles.

He sets a course for Malachor and takes off. Nevarro gets smaller and smaller underneath him and the unsettling feeling returns. He just keeps reminding himself of the life-changing reward he’ll receive if he succeeds.

Not if but when.

It doesn’t take too long to get to Malachor from Nevarro. Both are Outer Rim planets. So thankfully, the journey there was rather uneventful.

But when he lands on Malachor? That’s a different story.

He lands the Razor Crest on the desolate surface, grabs the fob, and heads outside. Barren would be an understatement to describe this planet. It’s empty. There’s not a single soul around for miles. It feels like the planet is absent of all light sources. Thick, gray, clouds coat the sky above him. The ground beneath his feet is a rocky wasteland. It’s not hard to understand why there’s no life here; why no one comes here. All of this begs the question; what is the bounty doing here?

He follows the signal of the tracking fob, feeling like he’s walking in circles for ages. His surroundings are the same, with no identifiable landmarks or features around to let him know he’s making progress. He feels his sanity start to slip. The tracking fob keeps beeping monotonously, showing no signs that he’s getting closer to the target. It’s driving him insane. For an uninhabited planet, this bounty is a lot harder to find than he originally thought. He starts to wonder… Is this even worth it anymore? Is it worth his time and frustration?

He interrupts his own train of thought.

Yes. Yes, it is worth it. For a million credits, you’ll spend however long it takes to find the bounty, he tells himself.

Good things come to those who wait. In the distance just over the horizon line, he spots something odd. As he gets closer he can slowly make out what it is– four top-heavy, pyramidal stones situated in a square formation. The tracking fob beeps faster and louder as he gets closer to the stones. Once he’s up close and personal with them he sees just how massive they are. They tower over him and etched in the stone is a language he can’t understand, written in bright red. One of the stones is surrounded by an opening in the planet, a deep hole descending below the surface. The tracking fob only goes crazier as he draws closer to the crater. Only way to go from here is down.

He uses his jetpack to carefully lower himself into the hole, using the lamp attached to his helmet to see where he’s going. Once he feels the ground beneath his feet, he looks around and can’t believe his eyes.

A vast field of stones is buried underneath the surface, each of them etched with the same red lettering he saw up above. And in the center of the field is a black stone pyramid, the tip of it glowing red. He looks beneath him and he’s standing on a cliff. He lowers himself deeper into the field of stones, his hairs standing on their ends. This is unmistakably a bad place.

Something ominous looms in the air, a feeling of dread brewing in Din’s stomach. But he persists, following the trail the tracking fob is taking him. He inches closer and closer to the temple? The tomb? Whatever that pyramid-looking thing is. As he gets closer to it, a disembodied voice calls to him.

Come closer.

…Is it the bounty? The voice didn’t sound like it was speaking out loud… It sounded like it was inside Din’s head.

But how is that possible?

He’s at the opening of the pyramid and it all happens so fast. The tracking fob is ballistic, beeping, and flashing lights rapidly. Everything is a blur around him. It’s like his mind isn’t in control of his body.

All he can hear is the fob going off and the voice talking directly in his ear.

Come find me.

A large box stands before him, blackened stone etched with red, just like everything else in this strange place. He’s not sure what this place is exactly but he feels like he has to be standing in some sort of temple. The box looks more like a tomb, long enough for Din to fit inside of it lying down. This place definitely belongs to some sort of religion. Maybe even a cult. Could this place belong to the Sith? What is he getting himself into?

Open the lid, the voice commands.

He does as he’s told, lifting the heavy stone lid and revealing… an amulet.

Put me on. Don’t be shy, the voice says.

He looks down at the fob in his hand, the beeping is incessant. It can’t be any clearer that this… this thing is what he was sent to look for.

Put me on, the voice commands again.

He takes the silver chain in his hands, the red pendant glowing red just like everything else here. He really shouldn’t put this strange, seemingly bewitched object on but he feels compelled to. The voice is convincing, talking to him like this is what he’s supposed to be doing.

He lifts the chain above his helmet pulling it down around his neck.

Protect me. Keep me close to your heart.

Without thinking he tucks the chain into his flight suit, feeling the cool metal contrast against his warm skin. All of a sudden he feels… different. He’s not really sure how to explain it but he feels better, like he’s more in tune with himself. He feels stronger, more alert, almost like he’s on another plane of existence. It’s exhilarating like someone just gave him the best drugs in the galaxy.

The beeping on the tracking fob finally subsides. Could it be that he was after all this time? That doesn’t make sense. He was sent to track down… an object? No, that can’t be right.

But it does make sense why there was no bounty poster. It makes sense why the client was so mysterious.

Another question crosses his mind…

Why was the reward so high?

His mind swirls with questions and possibilities as to what this all means—the voice buts in, interrupting his train of thought.

It doesn’t matter how or why. It happened for a reason.

He decides the voice is right and revels in his newfound heightened state. Listening to this voice that seemingly comes from nowhere feels right, almost like he’s complete.

As he exits the pyramid a shout rips him from his bliss.

“What have you done?!”

He turns around to find a woman. That woman is you, your brow furrowed and your face aghast. You storm over to him, your eyes looking past him and into the pyramid; into the open tomb.

Din’s speechless, unsure of what exactly your problem is. He was just completing a job. What’s it to you? Mindlessly, his hand gravitates towards the chain under his flight suit, almost feeling the need to protect it.

“You didn’t put it on, did you?” you ask, turning your gaze back towards him.

“What does it matter to you?” he snaps.

“You have no idea what you just did.”

“It’s a necklace. I put it on. It’s not the end of the world,” he deadpans.

“You don’t know what that is?”

“…No?”

You sigh and pinch the bridge of your nose. Din doesn’t understand what’s going on, he doesn’t understand why you’re so pressed by this. It’s just an object. It can’t hurt anyone.

“That amulet is cursed by one of the Mortis Gods… the Son.”

“…Who?”

“You don’t know who the Mortis Gods are? The Ones?”

“It sounds familiar?”

Don’t listen to her, the voice chimes in.

“The Mortis Gods were a powerful family of force-wielders. The Son embodied the Dark Side. The Daughter embodied the light side. And the Father held the balance between them until the Son grew too powerful. And then- Actually you know what? I’m not here to give you a kriffing history lesson. The bottom line is the Son cursed that amulet you’re wearing.”

DON’T LISTEN TO HER.

“Why is that a problem?” he asks, getting defensive.

“You don’t feel… different?”

Deny. Deny. Deny.

“No.”

In one swift motion, you’re grabbing a dagger hidden in your boot and reaching for the cowl of his cape. You rest the flat side of the blade against the fabric, glaring into his visor.

“So you don’t mind if I cut the chain off of you?”

Some innate instinct comes over him, the primal urge to protect what is now his. He swats the dagger from your hand, his arm looping around your neck and placing you in a headlock. His other hand reaches for the handcuffs on his belt, grabbing them and enclosing them around your wrists.

Good. This is good.

“What the”

Leave her here.

“What’s stopping me from leaving you here?” he says, tightening the headlock.

“Be my guest. But I’ll just say this– You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into.”

“And you do?”

“Yes. I’ve been researching this for many cycles now. You leave me here? You sabotage yourself.”

His grip around your neck softens and he slowly releases you, grabbing your upper arm.

What are you doing? I said leave her here. Stop-

“Fine, but you’re coming with me.”

He bends down and wraps his arms around your thighs, hoisting you over his shoulder. Din’s always been a strong man but everything he does feels so effortless. His senses are heightened. His reflexes are swift. He feels like he’s at his peak; the best version of himself.

You protest, banging your fists into his back but it doesn’t matter. He’s drowning out your angry shouts and listening to the voice.

Fine. Take her back to your ship and keep her as a prisoner. She’s nothing but a loose end.

He makes his way out of the underground cavern and back up to the surface, completely tuning out everything you’re saying. When you try to wiggle free he just tightens his grip, keeping you firmly pressed up against his body.

Once he’s on the surface again, he sees what must be your ship— or what’s left of it anyway. You crash landed here. In actuality, without Din, you’d be stranded here. And he doesn’t miss the opportunity to remind you that.

“Quit complaining,” he says, cutting off your shouts of protest, “Without me, you’d be rotting away here.”

You sigh and Din feels like he could almost hear you roll your eyes. His comment worked, though. Because for the rest of the journey back to the Razor Crest, you’re silent. Only muttering a few words under your breath as he sets you down on a crate in the storage area.

His helmet snaps towards you. He acts like he can’t hear what you said but the truth is he did. You muttered something about how he only cursed himself in the end.

“What was that?” he asks, crouching down in front of you.

“You have no idea what you just did to yourself.”

“And you do?” he counters, “Why is this necklace such a big deal to you?”

“Like I said before, it's cursed.”

“Cursed how?”

“It makes the wearer immortal. But if they were to take it off, they’d die.”

Don’t listen to her. It doesn't matter. No one is taking me from you.

“Did you say… immortal?”

“Mhm.”

“But… how can that be?”

“You really don’t know anything about this? You didn’t mean to put it on?”

“No. I was sent here to track down a bounty. I was expecting a person, not a piece of jewelry.”

“Who sent you here?”

“The client was anonymous.”

You lean back against the metal wall of the Crest, eyes wide and lost in thought. Din’s had enough of your questioning, though. Who are you exactly to question him while he’s just trying to do his job and get paid?

“Who are you?” he asks.

“Does it matter?”

“It does. Clearly, you know what this is. Were you after it for yourself?”

“No! That’s not it at all. I wanted to destroy it. I-”

She’s lying. Silence her.

Surely the voice isn’t telling him to kill you… Right?

Even if that’s what the voice is insinuating, he doesn’t do it. Instead, he grabs you by the arm again and hauls you to the carbonite freezer. You beg and plead for him to reconsider his actions but he doesn’t listen, drowning out your voice and following his instincts again. Soon enough, you’re encapsulated in the carbonite. Without a second thought, Din climbs the ladder to the cockpit and sets a course back to Nevarro. He sends a transmission to Karga, letting him know that he secured the “bounty” that way the mysterious droid will be back with the credits. There are only two things on his mind; collect his reward and learn more about his newfound power.

Part Two: Purge the Poison

Din lands on Nevarro with adrenaline coursing through his body. This is what this treacherous journey has been leading up to– the reward. He takes one last look at you frozen in the carbonite before leaving and heading back to the Guild. He’s not sure how this is supposed to work. He doesn’t have a bounty to deliver. He just has an object, bound to his neck that he allegedly can’t take off. He should be able to collect the credits, right?

Wrong.

The droid never returned.

“I don’t know, Mando. The droid never came back.”

“So what am I supposed to do?” The voice is noticeably quiet for once…

“All we can do is wait. I don’t have a way to contact the client,” Karga sighs.

Din leans back in the booth and closes his eyes. He’s not just angry– he’s enraged. But he keeps his cool, not snapping here in the Guild.

“You know where to find me,” he says, irritation heavy in his voice. He slips out of the booth and storms out of there, heading back to the Crest where you’re waiting for him, still encased in carbonite.

He’s filled with so much pent-up rage that he doesn’t know what to do with himself. It’s bursting at the seams. It’s threatening to bubble up over the surface. It’s about to let itself loose and out into the world. It’ll tear him apart if he doesn’t do something about it.

I know what you can do about it.

He internally winces at what the voice is about to suggest.

Kill someone. Kill her.

He can’t and he shouldn’t. For the time being you’re valuable to him. You mysteriously have much information about the strange item he found on Malachor. Where did you come from? How do you know so much about this amulet? Were you lying when you said you wanted to destroy it?

Once he’s back inside the Crest he gets to work on unfreezing you. He watches as your carbonite slowly melts away, revealing your damp and shivering form. He catches you as you fall forward, keeping you upright. You’re blinking rapidly, searching your surroundings.

“Your vision will return,” he says curtly.

“I know,” you snap.

He forcefully grabs you by the shoulders and drags you to a crate. He sits you down but leaves your cuffs on. He walks to his bunk and grabs his blanket, draping it around your shoulders before crouching down in front of you.

“You’re going to tell me what you know about this,” he says, pulling the amulet out from under his flight suit but never taking it off, “And you’re going to tell me who you are.”

“I already told you what I know about it. You’re immortal until you take it off.”

“And then what? I’ll die.”

“Yup. I’ve been researching it for a long time.”

“Why? What put you onto this?”

“I’m a history professor at Coruscant University. My thesis was on the Mortis Gods which led me to the Son’s Amulet. I spent many cycles trying to figure out if it even existed and where it was hidden,” you explain, looking past his helmet.

“What were you going to do with it once you found it?” he asks, tucking the amulet away.

“Destroy it,” you say, meeting his visor.

“Beat you to it.”

“I know but now you’re the one who’s screwed.”

Don’t listen to her. Think of all the untapped potential you have.

“Whatever, mir’sheb.”

“Huh?”

“Smartass.”

“I’d rather be a smartass than a dumbass,” you retort.

“I am not-”

“You put on a creepy haunted necklace all because the voice told you to.”

He physically feels the blood drain from his face.

“You know about the voice?”

“Mhm.”

Silence her.

But he can’t kill you.

“I bet that voice is telling you to do all sorts of nefarious things,” you tease.

His fists clench and unclench at his sides. You and your smart mouth. If only he could take out his frustration on you. If only you weren’t so valuable to him. If only there were another way to relieve his tension…

“I’d stop talking if I were you.”

“Oh yeah? What are you gonna do about it?” you counter, mouth forming into a smirk.

“Wipe that smirk off your face,” he answers.

“I’d like to see you try.”

You irritate the hell out of him but he can’t deny how attracted he is to you. Between the sly smirk on your face, the mischievous look in your eye, the little droplets of water beaded up on your skin, and how you don’t seem to be afraid of him even though you should be– Maker, it all makes his cock twitch with arousal.

It’s almost like the voice takes over with the way he swiftly rises from the floor, grabs you by the waist, and throws you over his shoulder.

“What the-” you start.

“Talk a big game, get punished,” he says nonchalantly, setting you down on his bunk.

You open your mouth to speak but you’re at a loss for words, face to face with his massive bulge. He undoes the fly of his flight suit, his cock springing free. You stare at its intimidating size, it's rock-hard and directly in your face. It leaves you speechless.

“Think you can handle it?” he teases.

Maker, he wants to grab your face and shove his cock down your throat– completely fucking your face. He can tell you want it, too, from the way you ogle it with wide eyes.

It’s not gonna suck itself.

He hooks a hand around the back of your head and wraps the other around the base of his cock, forcefully thrusting himself in your mouth. He lets out a deep, guttural moan at the feeling of your warm, wet mouth encapsulating his cock.

His hands move to each side of your face as he thrusts in and out. Your mouth stretches open even wider to accommodate his girth as tears spring in the corners of your eyes.

“Not smirking now are you, mir’sheb,” he says, your tear-filled eyes locked with his underneath the helmet.

You moan in response and he fucks your face even harder. Tears are rolling down your cheeks now and the sight has him ready to bust. With one last thrust into your mouth, he spills his cum down your throat, holding your head in place as he finishes. Once he’s done he pulls out and to his delight but your horror, he’s still hard. It’s the voice, the curse, or the amulet– whatever this is that has him so feral.

He has to see your body, he has to feel you underneath him. But you’re still wearing your cuffs. If he takes them off will you bolt? Will you make a break for it, leaving him here with his cock still wet?

He leans forward and unlocks your cuffs, anticipating your next move. He expects you to run but you don’t, instead you’re sitting here with a wild look in your eye. He reaches for the hem of your shirt, lifting it over your head. He pushes you down on the bunk and hooks his hand around the waistband of your pants, sliding them off along with your underwear.

Look at her. She’s lying here so patiently, so obediently for you. Use this opportunity to claim her as your own.

He’s not thinking. He’s following whatever the voice tells him to do. He takes off his helmet, not even thinking about the repercussions he’ll face. He’s got two things on his mind; marking up your body and being inside you already. He sets the helmet down on the floor and takes off his gloves before hovering over you on the bunk. Your eyes widen when they meet his and a shocked expression washes over your face. But why? How do you know he’s taken the creed? Surely a history professor would know that there are all sorts of Mandalorians; ones that walk both ways. It isn’t until he looks over at the small mirror he has hanging on the wall of his bunk.

His eyes. Maker, his eyes. They’re no longer their usual shade of warm brown. His irises are a pale purple shade, eerily glowing. It startles him for a split second before his attention turns back to you, writhing underneath him.

He brings two fingers to his mouth and moistens them, spreading your legs apart and sliding them inside you. You gasp at the sudden girth of his thick fingers expanding your walls. He curls them against your g-spot repeatedly, your pleasure continuously building. In no time, he pulls your first orgasm from you, feeling the way your cunt flutters around his fingers. Your release soaks his hand and once he feels that you’re done, he pulls his fingers from you and soaks his cock with your wetness. In one swift motion, he thrusts inside you, giving you no time to adjust to the newfound length and girth. He plants his hands by either side of your head, locking eyes with you as he fucks you relentlessly, driving his hips into you at an unforgiving pace.

He leans forward and marks up your neck with his mouth, nipping and biting at the soft skin. He moves up and down before switching sides, licking where his teeth just marked you. You gasp and moan at the repeated pattern of biting, licking, and kissing. Once he feels his work is complete he pulls back and locks eyes with you once more.

You fall speechless, unable to form any real words besides deep moans and mangled sobs. Tears continue to roll down your cheeks, your mouth falling open into a soft O. He’s going to cum if he keeps watching you become reduced to a complete mess underneath him. Your walls tighten up around his cock in anticipation of a big release. He feels the way your cunt grips and releases his cock rhythmically. It draws his own orgasm from him, his cock spilling his warm cum with the head nestled by your cervix. He groans while letting out a string of Mando’a curse words that he himself can barely understand, not in his blissful state.

He pulls out and collapses on top of you, his head resting in the crook of your neck. You’re both panting against each other and once the endorphins finally settle regret sinks in. No, not because he had sex with you. Because he took his helmet off.

His chest heaves for a moment and he does his best to hide it, not wanting to seem weak after the power he just showed you. For some strange reason, he’s worried about what you’ll think of him– you who’s so irritating, who gets under his skin like no one else. Yes, he’s worried that your perception of him will change.

“Mando?” you ask, voice soft and concerned, “Are you okay?”

“I… I’m not supposed to do that.”

“Cum inside me?” you tease.

“No,” he says, pulling himself off of you and sitting at the foot of the bunk, “Take off my helmet.”

“Oh,” you say, sitting up and moving beside him, “Then why did you do it?”

“The voice told me to,” he says, placing his head in his hands.

You bring your hand to the back of his neck. At first, he stiffens up, not used to the feeling of someone’s hands there. But once your hand travels up to his hair, rubbing small circles against his scalp, he relaxes.

“You didn’t know? That the voice could make you do things you never thought possible?”

“No,” he sighs.

“You really had no idea what you were getting into, didn’t you?”

“Did you think I was lying?” he asks, turning his head and glancing at you.

“Honestly… yes.”

“I wasn’t. I was sent to Malachor for a bounty.”

“And the tracker led you to the amulet?”

“Mhm.”

“But why would someone send you there?”

“I’m not sure. I should’ve never taken it but the reward was high.”

“How much?”

“...A million credits. I know it sounds too good to be true.”

“Did you go to collect the reward yet?”

“Yeah. The client never showed up to pay.”

You fall silent for a moment, lost in thought. His eyes search your face for some sort of answer and once again, the voice is noticeably silent.

“Do you still have the tracking fob?”

He gets up and grabs it off a shelf in the storage area, sitting beside you on the bed and handing it to you. You activate it and study the mysterious absence of a bounty poster. You turn it off and hand it back to him, asking, “Was there anything else… weird about the job?”

“The client supposedly requested me specifically.”

“Strange…” you trail off.

Both of you sit in uncomfortable silence, trying to put all the pieces together.

“Why would someone want to make you immortal?” you wonder out loud.

Din’s guess is as good as anyone’s. He’s been trying and failing to wrap his head around what he got himself into.

“Mando… I think you were set up.”

“What?! By who?!” he asks, his purple eyes locking with yours again.

“I can’t answer that…”

“...Will you help me find out who?”

You pause, looking at him with a sort of pity in your eyes. Without saying a word, he pleads with you, his strange-colored eyes begging for help, something to save him from this impossible situation he’s found himself in.

“I really don’t want to but… You did save me from being stranded on Malachor,” you sigh, “But fine. I’ll help you.”

The two of you have to start somewhere.

Part Three: Legends Never Die

“If I’m going to help you, I think I deserve to know your name,” you say.

Do not tell her.

For once he can’t listen to the voice. This amulet, this voice told him to take off his helmet. Something he’d never do. His creed is the most important thing to him. And this… whatever it is overpowered his respect and devotion to his creed. That just won’t do.

If he’s going to get rid of this thing, he has to learn to trust you.

“Din Djarin,” he says with a sigh.

You tell him your name and the both of you feel like you’re finally starting somewhere.

“What do we do now?” Din asks.

“Well, we’ve established you were set up but we need to figure out why. What does this person have to gain from doing this to you?”

“I don’t know.”

“I know. I’m just thinking out loud.”

“You said this amulet is from one of the Mortis Gods?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know much about them.”

“They were just an extremely powerful family of force-wielders.”

“Where were they from?”

“Mortis.”

“Oh,” Din says, feeling kind of stupid.

He’s not familiar with this kind of stuff— the Jedi, the Sith, the Force. As far as he’s concerned, he’s just a regular person, trying to make a living in the galaxy by bounty hunting. He didn’t piss off anyone important that he can recall.

“Can you take me somewhere?” you ask, snapping him from his thoughts.

“Where to?”

“Coruscant. I think we need to make a little trip to the university’s library.”

He grabs his helmet off the floor and replaces it on his head.

“Let’s go,” he says, reaching for your hand to help you out of the bunk.

He helps you to your feet, letting you get dressed while he puts on his gloves. You follow him to the cockpit, sitting in one of the passenger seats while he prepares the Crest for takeoff. It’s silent between you two, an awkward silence. He’s unsure of what your relationship is exactly. At first, you were his prisoner. Technically, you still could be. And then he had sex with you and he feels awful about the implications in which it happened. You were handcuffed in his ship and at not only his mercy but the voice’s mercy, too. And now here you are, helping him when he’s been nothing but an asshole to you.

Don’t think like that, the voice tells him.

He can’t listen to it now. His own guilt is louder than the voice.

Once you’re in hyperspace he turns to you and says, “I just want to say… I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what?”

“For capturing you. For… what we did earlier.”

“You’re apologizing about the sex?” you ask with a smirk.

“I wasn’t sure if it was okay.”

“It was.”

“It was?”

“Stop overthinking it.”

“…Really?”

“You’re acting like I didn’t enjoy it.”

“You did?”

“Was it not obvious?”

“Yes. I mean no. I just…. I don’t know anymore.”

“Hey,” you say, leaning forward and grabbing his hand, “I know you have a lot going on in your head right now. And I’m sure a lot of it is confusing but I’m here to help in whatever way I can.”

“But why? Why do you want to help me even after I was so terrible to you?”

“I just… I feel bad. You had no idea what you were getting into. You didn’t deserve any of this.”

“Thank you,” he says softly.

“Of course. But don’t get sappy on me.”

“Got it,” he says, spinning around in his seat and facing the control panel again.

It doesn’t matter what you find, or what you research. You’re stuck with me.

All he can do is close his eyes and try to drown out the voice.

He’s walking side by side with you towards the university, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. He’s anxious about what you’re about to find. But what’s his place from here on out? Is he supposed just to drop you off and reunite with you when you’re done? However long that will be…

Standing in front of the library, he prepares to bid you goodbye, confused about why he’s got a pit in his stomach.

“I guess I’ll see you when you’re done?” he says, mentally wincing in anticipation of your response.

“What? Why?”

“I just assumed-”

“You can stay.”

“I can?”

“If you want. I’m not sure how long it’ll take and it might be kind of boring but… you’re more than welcome to stay here with me.”

He pauses, thinking about what you said. He’s welcome to stay but do you want him to?

“Do you want me to?”

Kriff, he didn’t mean for that to actually come out.

“I do.”

“Okay then,” he says, walking into the library with you.

The library is packed with students and as you walk through the aisle picking books off the shelves, they turn their heads when you pass them by. He’s used to it but for some reason this time it makes him self-conscious, as if they’re piercing into his soul and aware of the secret he’s harboring.

After you have your collection of books you bring him to one of the study nooks in the back of the library away from all the prying eyes. He watches how your brow furrows when you’re lost in thought, scanning the pages for anything to help him out of this mess. He feels a bit useless, watching you pour yourself over book after book for hours on end while he sits and does… nothing.

You put your elbow on the table, resting your head in your hand. As you lean to the side, your neck becomes exposed and Din’s eyes settle right on a spot that looks like the perfect place to sink his teeth…

Stop, he tells himself.

But he fears the voice has taken over and he’s no longer looking at you with adoring eyes, but lusting ones instead.

Take her here, now. Bend her over the table. Who cares about anyone who sees?

His cock twitches in his flight suit and he doesn’t think he can take it anymore.

“Din?” you ask softly, setting down your book.

“Hm?”

“Do you want to go somewhere else?”

“What do you mean? I thought you had to do research.”

“Well, yes but I can just continue researching in my office,” you say, eyes looking past Din and scanning the library.

“Why? Are you worried about people looking at us?”

“No! No, that’s not it at all. I just wasn’t sure if you were-”

“Who cares? But if you want a little more privacy then why not?” he says, standing from his seat and gathering the books.

He shuffles them to one arm and grabs your hand, proudly leading you out of the library without a single care in the world about who may be looking at him.

“Where to?” he says, turning to look at you once you’re outside.

“Across the quad in the North Tower.”

He nods and grabs you by the hand again, not caring about the people stopping to stare, many of whom are your students. You keep your eyes on Din, on the sunlight bouncing off his helmet, watching as his cape billows in the wind with his confident stride.

He lets you take the lead once you’re inside the building, walking up a grand staircase until you arrive at your office, a large room with high vaulted ceilings and towering bookshelves. Floor-to-ceiling windows draw natural light in and a long wooden desk sits in the center of the room. He sets the book down on one of your chairs and grabs you by the waist, setting you on your desk. He grabs the waistband of your pants and practically rips them off of you.

“So much for researching,” you say smugly, looking up at him with a grin.

“Gonna have to do something about that smart mouth of yours, mir’sheb,” he says darkly.

His hands gravitate to the bottom of his helmet. A look of realization flashes in your eyes and you reach your hands out, trying to stop him. But he’s stronger than you, grabbing your hands and forcing them by your sides. He pulls off his helmet, revealing the same matted curls and piercing purple stare. He spreads your thighs apart and kneels on the floor, face hovering over your cunt. He licks one slow stripe up your cunt before flicking his tongue around your clit. His strong arms lock around your thighs, keeping your cunt flush against his face. His eyes don’t leave yours, looking up at you as he slowly eats you out. The eye contact is intense, almost too much to bear. But when you try to look away he stops, starting to pull his face away until you look at him again. With one last swirl of his tongue around your clit, you cum against his face, thighs shaking against the desk. He laps up your release, moaning at the taste until you’re done. And now he just has to have you.

He stands up and pulls out his cock from his flight suit, stroking it a few times before gathering some of your release with his fingers and slathering his cock with it. He reaches forward and swipes away the contents of your desk, pushing you down so you’re lying against the wood. He thrusts into you in one slow motion, staying still inside you for a moment before drawing his hips back and slamming into you repeatedly. He pulls off one glove, tossing it on the floor and bringing his thumb to your clit. One hand grips your hip while the other rubs circles around your clit. He glares down at you, his body towering over yours as he rails you against your desk. You cum around his cock, eyes locked on his once again. The sensation of your cunt gripping his cock pulls his orgasm from him, warm cum spilling inside you with a grunt. He pulls out of you and sits in your desk hair, holding his head in his hands. You scramble off the desk and reach for his helmet, kneeling in front of him and lifting his head. He looks at you with the same look in his eye like last time, like he just let himself down. You replace his helmet on his head, cupping the hollow part where his cheeks would be.

“It’s okay,” you say softly.

“I know,” he sighs, “I would just like to do… that without feeling bad.”

“About the helmet,” he quickly adds.

“I know,” you chuckle, “I’m not offended. I get it. But I can’t lie and say that the eye contact wasn’t hot.”

“It was?”

“It was. But it would be hotter if it were your choice, not the other way around.”

“Right… Thank you… for understanding.”

“Of course,” you say, rising from the floor and grabbing your pants, “But back to business.”

“Back to business,” he agrees.

Months go by with Din glued to your side, helping in whatever way he can with the research. You think you might have found some sort of motive behind why someone would do this to him but the question of who is still a mystery.

“To travel to another galaxy?” Din asks.

“I think so. It’s just a theory.”

“There are other galaxies?”

“You think we’re the only one?”

“I guess not. But why?”

“That I still don’t know. And I’m just assuming about the traveling to other galaxies thing, too. The planet Mortis was said to be in a different realm.”

“Interesting…” he trails off. “How much longer do you think?”

“I’m not sure. If you think you have to get back to Nevarro, I understand.”

“I don’t want to leave you. But maybe I’ll go check the Crest for any transmissions.”

“Okay, sounds good. I’ll be here,” you say, looking up at him from your desk.

He caresses the side of your face, his gaze lingering on you before he leaves, walking through the campus and back to the docking yard where the Razor Crest is parked. On the way there, he thinks about his time here and how one good thing came from this… you. If he’s forced to be a monster all his life, at least he has someone that understands. But then there’s the other thing… He’ll be a monster all his life, until the end of time, outliving you and anyone else he may care about. He tries not to think about that.

Once he’s inside the ship he sees that he has a transmission from Greef Karga, which could mean one of two things; Karga’s got bounties and he’s wondering where Din is or the droid actually returned.

He presses the button for the transmission to play and listens;

“Mando! I’m not sure where you’ve been but the droid from that strange bounty returned… It didn’t bring the reward, though. It said his client will meet you where you captured the bounty in the first place. Strange request, I know. But supposedly the client will have the credits. Just be careful.”

Back to Malachor, it is.

He bolts from the Crest, anxiously heading back to you to tell you the news. You’re where he left you, of course.

“I have news.”

“Oh?” you ask, looking up from your book.

“I received a transmission from Karga. The droid returned. It said to meet the client on Malachor.”

“Really?”

“Yes… So what do you want to do?”

“We go to Malachor,” you say, rising from your chair.

“Let’s go,” he says, with a tip of his helmet.

As you’re sitting in the cockpit of the Razor Crest, you grab his hand as he’s preparing the ship for takeoff.

“Whatever happens… I love you, okay?”

He stops, turning to look at you, stunned by what you just said. He feels it, too, but it breaks his heart knowing that this love will end in one of two ways; he’ll outlive you or he’ll choose to take off the amulet. And both choices make him unsettled.

“I love you, too,” he says, squeezing your hand before turning to face the control panel.

This is it. Months of research have led up to this.

The familiar sight of Malachor comes into view. He lands the Razor Crest by the same pyramidal stones he saw months ago. So far, no sign of anyone. Surely they’re waiting for Din in the Sith temple, ending this where it all started.

He takes you by the waist, holding you as he lowers himself down to the temple underground. He gave you a blaster before you left the Crest, turning to make sure you have it drawn before proceeding further.

As you head towards the pyramid, someone from behind you clears their throat. You both spin around, blasters drawn and ready to aim at whoever’s there. It’s a man, someone neither of you recognizes. He’s wearing all black and his hair is gray. There’s a lightsaber attached to his belt but he hasn’t drawn it… yet.

“I’ve been expecting you,” he says, glancing at Din, “It seems you brought a friend.”

“Who are you?” Din asks.

“A Sith,” you say in disgust.

“Not a Sith,” the man says, looking over at you.

“Then why did you lead us here?” Din asks.

“Din Djarin,” the man says, “Do you know the significance of that amulet you’re wearing?”

“It belonged to one of the Mortis Gods.”

“Very good. And do you know why I sent you to find it?”

“You want to use him to travel between the galaxies.”

The man looks at you again, taking a step closer.

“Clever girl,” he says, “But do you know why?”

“I know you,” you say, looking at him and the way his face is illuminated with red light from the temple behind you.

“Do you?”

“You’re… You’re Baylan Skoll.”

“Clever, clever girl. Look at the two of you, both so smart. But neither of you have answered my question… Why?”

“I don’t… I don’t know. What could you possibly be trying to find in another galaxy?” you ask.

“Mortis?” Din adds.

“So close yet so far,” Baylan tuts, “Forget about Mortis. I’m searching for Peridea.”

Din looks at you, searching for answers but the truth is… you don’t have any.

“What do you want with Peridea?”

“To bring Grand Admiral Thrawn out of exile,” Baylan says.

“...Who?” Din asks.

“You’re funny,” you snort.

“I’m being serious. With the Mandalorian’s immortality, nothing is going to stop me.”

“Why Din?” you press.

“He doesn’t have the reputation of being the best bounty hunter in the Galaxy for no reason.”

“I can’t let you bring Thrawn back to the Galaxy,” you say, raising your blaster.

Baylan draws his lightsaber and ignites it, a vibrant orange hue emitting from the blade. Din raises his blaster, too, and a fight ensues. It doesn’t matter how much you shoot at Baylan, he just deflects all the blasts with his saber. He inches closer towards you, deflecting your blasts faster and faster as he corners you against a stone. He knows he doesn’t have to do anything to Din and he just assumes the voice will take over, forcing Din to join Baylan’s fight against you.

Join him and kill her. Join him and kill her. Join him and kill her!!!

But Din doesn’t.

Instead, he raises his blaster at the back of Baylan’s head. Baylan turns around, getting ready to defend himself against Din but it’s no use. With one blast to the head, Baylan falls to the ground. It turns out the urge to protect you was stronger than the voice’s pull to get him to join Baylan.

Din rushes over to you, putting his blaster back on his hip and pulling you into his arms.

“It’s… over?” he asks, feeling your racing heartbeat.

“I think so,” you sigh.

“But you’re stuck like this,” you say, pulling back and looking at him.

He knew it could end like this, with him living out his days without you once you pass.

Or… There was a third option all along.

“What are you going to do?” you ask, snapping him from his thoughts.

He fiddles with the chain around his neck before saying, “Take this off when the time is right.”

You nod, leaning against him just a little bit longer before leaving the temple together, hand in hand.

Mando dividers/support banners by @saradika-graphics !!!

Thank you to @pedgito for beta reading, reassuring me that this was any good, and helping me plot this all out 🖤

@pedrostories

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