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desirekento · 11 days ago

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GET IT TOGETHER | 七海.建人. Nanami Kento

SYNOPSIS: after the honeymoon phase, Kento became distant - you’re wholeheartedly convinced he doesn’t love you anymore, and that it’s all your fault

PAIRING: fem!reader x husband!nanami

WC: 2.3k words

CW: alcohol use, hurt/comfort | PART II

🌸 DEE SAYS: enjoy my first anime/jjk ff <3

🎧 — GET IT TOGETHER BY 702

Nanami had been distant for a while - snappy, disinterested, working until the late hours of the night. Affection from him felt obligatory: a cold kiss on the cheek before leaving the house and after returning; vague compliments, mostly about your cooking, that never really reached his eyes; a slow deterioration of quality time until it became a wistful fantasy to have his attention for five minutes.

“I’m busy, Y/N. Leave me be.”

Most of your conversations were strictly functional - then again, Nanami had never been one for what he deemed ‘superficial niceties’ (known to others as polite conversation). Had it not been for the fact that he’s mostly holed up in his home office, you’d be inclined to suspect him of cheating.

In all honesty, you had began to blame yourself. If there was another woman, then at least you wouldn’t feel this crushing weight on your shoulders. It felt as if you weren’t enough, that Nanami was sick of you and it was all your fault. He was constantly tired, constantly on edge… constantly unhappy. You were a failure of a wife, playing along with this farce just to feel some form of normality. Just keep swimming, you told yourself. All marriages go through a rough patch, he’ll come round.

Today was one of the rare instances that Nanami had to leave for an in-person meeting at his company, the quarterly report neatly tucked under his arm to read over beforehand. You had made him breakfast, but he didn’t eat, preferring to sip black coffee from the pot. You had tried to adjust his tie for him, but he’d pushed your hand away, fixing it himself. And then, like clockwork, like it was a necessary yet unsatisfactory part of his routine, Nanami kissed your cheek. Cold, brief, and apathetic, accompanied by a murmured ‘see you tonight’.

It had been all too much when the door closed behind him - you grabbed a nearby wine bottle and retreated to the bedroom to cry.

You weren’t one to assume love was like the movies - love for you had never been like the romanticised, fantastical bullshit the media tries to shove down everyone’s throats.

In the beginning, yours and Kento’s love had been quiet, simple even, but boundless. He may have not been the most flamboyant in his gestures, or the most poetic with his words, but Kento ensured you knew just how much he adored you. Stolen kisses when you were busy doing something, a soft inhale of your hair as he cuddled you close, a squeeze of your hand as you navigated through a busy crowd.

Kento didn’t bring you anywhere anymore. God, you missed the man you married.

Retrospectively, wine on an empty stomach at 9am was not a good breakfast, but you couldn’t help it. Your mind swirled around and around in circles as you tried to soothe it with alcohol - a futile effort. The more you drank, the more memories flooded your conscious, reducing you to tears.

Rather than going to do the food shopping, or cooking dinner, or anything of value, you simply sat in bed, drunkenly sobbing. This was only worsened by the wedding album you managed to procure from somewhere, staining the pages as you flipped through, sniffling and hiccuping.

Eventually, after a wasted day of drinking and sobbing, followed by more sobbing and drinking, you had passed out in bed, hugging the wedding album to your chest. The alcohol had numbed your senses rather than the pain, so you were none the wiser when Nanami opened the door in the early evening.

The first thing Nanami noticed was the lack of warmth. The house was freezing cold, the kitchen still had the remnants of his abandoned breakfast, and you were nowhere to be seen. He quirked an eyebrow, confused by your absence - usually you’d welcome him home with a smile, the smell of something delicious wafting through the air as you helped him out of his blazer. That was what he was used to, that was the routine you two had fallen into. Then he would kiss your cheek, compliment you on the food, and sit down for dinner. But there was no dinner, no help - no you.

“Y/N?” Nanami called out, setting down his briefcase with a sigh, shrugging his blazer off and tossing it on the nearby chair. “Y/N, I’m home!”

When he was met by nothing but silence, concern began to gnaw at Nanami. Not even bothering to remove his shoes, he paced to the bedroom, throwing open the door. None of the lights were on but he could see your faint silhouette under the covers, and Nanami rolled his eyes. You must’ve napped and overslept, he thought to himself, slightly irritated that you hadn’t prepared something for him to eat. He paced to the bedside table and flicked on the lamp, voice low and neutral, yet still tainted with a twinge of annoyance.

“Y/N, come on now. Surely being a housewife isn’t that tiring-”

He trailed off when he turned to face you, annoyance melting away as the light revealed your state of ruin. Dried tear stains ran down your cheeks, hair in disarray and your nose visibly irritated. Drops of red on the sheet concerned him, only for his questions to be answered by the bottle of wine now visible on the other bedside table. But the knife through his chest? Seeing you, his darling wife, whimpering in her sleep while clutching their wedding album.

Shocked, Nanami softly sat on the edge of the mattress, taking in the view with both concern and surprise. Now that he was fully focusing on you, he saw the dark bags under your eyes, the fitful sleep you were in clearly not relaxing. A tentative hand stroked the globe of your cheek, the usually smooth texture interrupted with the roughness of the tear stains. Nanami cupped your cheek carefully, as if you were fragile porcelain that would break under any pressure. His thumb rubbed smooth circles into your skin, and his brows were furrowed in concern as he spoke again, voice thick with emotion.

“Oh baby, I shouldn’t have let you get like this.”

Leaning forward, Kento softly tilted your head up slightly, pressing a sweet kiss to your slightly-parted lips. The scent of wine on your breath was overwhelming, and the ripple of unease it caused in his stomach only worsened the guilt gnawing at him. He knew he had been a pretty shit husband as of late, becoming more and more engrossed in work as they continued to up his workload, but this? This was the clearest indicator of just how harsh he’d been on you, and that made him feel more sick than the strong smell of wine.

He had failed you.

As he stared at you, engrossed in the sudden changes he hadn’t seen slowly building for months, you shivered against his hand, snuggling into it. For a second, an emotion flashed across your face - relief perhaps? - before you groggily regained consciousness.

“K-Kento..?”

Your words were slurred, and your eyes unfocused, barely able to hold his gaze as Nanami withdrew his hand from you. His other hand took yours, holding it tight as you groaned, trying to sit up. Kento shook his head, softly pushing you back down.

“Hey, hey. It’s okay, lie down. I’m here, Y/N.”

Tears began to form in your eyes as Nanami began stroking your hair, finger twirling a strand of it, just as he used to do. The care in the action, the comfort, only worsened the pain festering inside you.

“Ken, I’m s-sorry… so fuckin’ sorry Ken..”

Brows furrowing further, Nanami scooped you into his embrace, tugging you closer when you clung to him and began sobbing.

“Sorry? Baby, what happened? You haven’t done anything wrong.” His palm flattened against your back, rubbing in circles as if soothing a child.

“You hate m-me! You fuckin’ hate me because… because I’m so fucking shit at being a wife! You- hic!- you don’t love me anymore!”

Nanami was rendered speechless by your outburst, looking at you with his jaw dropped. You still clung to him, fists crumpling the front of his dress shirt as you gasped for breath in between sobs. After his momentary short-circuit, his free hand cupped the back of your head, pulling you closer as his other hand still tried to calm you with its ministrations.

“Y/N, please don’t say that. There’s never a day where my love for you hasn’t been strong and steadfast. I don’t think I’m capable of hating you, my love.”

Tears welling in his own eyes, Nanami began rocking you back and forth softly, murmuring sweet nothings to you in a desperate attempt to calm you. As your sobs slowly began to subside into sniffles, Nanami tenderly tilted your head to face him, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

“I’m the shit husband, Y/N. I’m the one who made my wife believe I hated her even for a second.”

He sighed to himself when your eyes were still unfocused, silent tears still trailing down your cheeks.

“Okay, I’m gonna get you some food. I bet you didn’t even eat today.”

Nodding sluggishly, you attempted to sit up and was yet again denied, this time with Nanami holding you close. He then set you back down into the cushions, adjusting them for you, before standing.

“I think it’s better if you stay here and I make you something.”

As Nanami turned to leave, your hand quickly jutted out, holding his wrist tight. He turned to you, surprised by the strength of your grip as your eyes pleaded with him.

“Stay, please.”

Chuckling, Nanami took your hand in his and kissed your knuckles, biting his lip after they brushed against your wedding band.

“I’ll be back soon, I promise. You need some food in you asap, and I didn’t have time for lunch today.”

With a drunken pout, you nodded and let your hand drop from his, cuddling the wedding album once again. Nanami hid his smile, leaving the door ajar so he could listen out for you.

While not exactly a Michelin star chef, Nanami was a decent cook, and had whipped up a small bowl of soup for himself and some buttered toast for you in record timing. He brought it back to the room, pausing in the doorway as he watched you flick through the wedding album, eyes finally dry and looking fairly more sober.

“I’ve got some toast for you. If you’re feeling up for it, there’s still soup on the stove.”

You nodded, closing the album and gently placing it on the side before gratefully accepting the plate of toast. Nanami settled down into the nearby armchair, taking in grateful mouthfuls of soup. The silence was calm, even with the slight undercurrent of tension, only interrupted by the crunch of toast and the clink of spoon on bowl.

When everything was cleared, Nanami changed out of his rumpled clothes, slid into bed next to you, turned off the lamp, and wrapped an arm around your shoulders. You allowed yourself to relax into the embrace, brain still a little fuzzy from the alcohol. The silence stretched on, both of you wide awake but reluctant to speak.

“Work has been hell, Y/N,” he finally admitted under the cover of night, finger rubbing circles absentmindedly into your upper arm, “I was taking on so much that I barely felt human anymore.”

Your eyes had yet to adjust to the darkness, but you still turned to look at him regardless. You could just about make out the bridge of his nose, and a few hairs that had refused to gel down properly.

“I know it’s not an excuse,” he continued, “but it’s my explanation for my distance. I was so caught up in trying for a promotion, working my ass off to provide for you, that I didn’t notice I wasn’t providing for you in any other way.”

Turning, you rested your head on his chest, listening to the steady heartbeat pick up a little from the contact. It was true, almost every waking minute Nanami had been working. His grip tightened protectively, pushing you closer to his body, relishing in the warmth your body provided. He sniffed, and you could’ve sworn that you saw a tear roll down.

“You’re my everything, Y/N. I don’t know what I would be without you. You make my black and white world technicolor, vivid with possibilities I never even imagined.”

His lips tenderly pressed against your temple, moving to pepper across the rest of your face, drawing a giggle out of you. This was a side to Nanami you had never seen, and you didn’t interrupt in fear it would dishearten him from continuing.

“Seeing you like this, it really changed my perspective on things. I’m not just here to make money for you, I’m here to love you, protect you, cherish you like I promised in our vows.”

His face hovered over yours, and you could just about see the glint of his irises gleaming back at you.

“It’ll take me some time, but please don’t give up on me, on us. Please never feel like I could feel anything other than unyielding love for you.”

Cupping your cheek, you could feel the cool metal of his wedding band on your skin. You cupped his hand with your own, interlocking fingers, tears forming again. Only this time, they weren’t sad.

“I love you, Y/N. I have loved you, I do love you, and I forever will love you.”

“I love you too, Kento. I couldn’t give up on you if I tried.”

Drawing closer, you could practically feel the smile on his face, just before he pressed his lips onto your own.

“Good. I’ll never give you a reason to try again.”

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collapsedsquid · 12 days ago

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As I’ve said before, the problem with “government efficiency” isn’t that it’s a bad idea per se, it’s that almost always, the cost of doing something is so much less important than the thing that’s getting done. And yet, I have never in my life seen anyone trying to “fully benefit” the things that they are always “fully costing”. Somebody should set up a Department of Government Effectiveness; there are all too many areas of public policy where the cost/benefit ratio is not a number, because the benefits never arrived. (I would also like to see more recognition that you can’t actually save costs by being “conservative” about benefit ratios. The Elizabeth Line in London is used by more than twice as many people as expected, for example. For some reason, this is not being treated as a massive embarrassment , nearly as bad as a 100% cost overrun. Even though it probably points to serious errors in the forecasting process which might have delayed or cancelled extraordinary amounts of necessary investment). Because the benefits are much more important than the costs, and because effectiveness is so much more important than efficiency, I’m sceptical about efficiency drives, even in the best possible case (which I think Mulgan pretty closely describes). You ought to be really, really sure that you’re cutting a useless function, or that centralising procurement is going to deliver the same goods and services at lower cost with no interruption to service. Most of the time, taking a 10% chance of failure in order to save 10% of the project costs is a bad tradeoff.

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geometrygirl · 10 days ago

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There’s an idea that the British monarchy is a fundamentally harmless institution, a national quirk of pageantry and symbolism with little power except the ceremonial; that it’s a “constitutional monarchy,” democratic in practice if not on paper; that whatever its faults in history or superfluousness today, the British people and the commonwealth seem to like it, so who are we to judge? Even setting aside the exorbitant and parasitic wealth of the royals—procured by blood, sustained on public dime—their alleged innocuousness is a classic case of British understatement. For one, the British don’t have a “constitution,” at least not as the term is understood in most modern democracies. The so-called “unwritten” or “ancient” constitution is more akin to an earlier sense of the term: “constitution” being an organic metaphor, referring to the compositional character or makeup of a living creature, with the king as “head” and his realms as the “body.” The constitution is just the way the British (and their dominions) are disposed to do things. As it happens, the way they do things has been, for a few odd centuries, for the crown to delegate the task of lawmaking to its advisors, an arrangement known in the biz as “parliamentary supremacy.” But the king is part of parliament, he retains reserve powers and authority of royal prerogative, and legislated acts become the law only with the king’s assent. The fact that he is “constitutionally” disposed to non-interference doesn’t change the fact that his kingdom and dominions function, ultimately, at his pleasure.

This is the central issue at stake in the question of republicanism. The republican tradition posits “liberty” not simply as the freedom from interference or restraint. Liberty, to republicans, is freedom from arbitrary rule. A slave master, for example, might choose to treat his slaves with leniency or kindness; he might even, as some did, leave them relatively unmolested, granting them a measure of practical freedom. But so long as he retained legal title to his “property,” that freedom was illusory. In colonial America, the king ruled his possessions according to medieval law from the Crusades, treating the colonies as conquered “infidel” lands, subject to absolute prerogative. All of his subjects—natives, enslaved Africans, even English settlers—existed on a continuum of feudal subjectship. The latter had been given, for a time, a level of autonomy and self-governance, but it was liable to reverse; and when it did, the natural result was revolution. (This republican revolution would result in the abolition of slavery in half the revolting colonies, and in the delayed abolition within the remainders, along strictly revolutionary principles. This can be contrasted with the rest of the British empire, which—while abolishing slavery shortly before the Americans, but only because its remaining slaveholding territories were suffering economic and political fallout prompted largely by American independence—took pains to compensate the dispossessed slave masters; monarchy being, of course, the bedrock and custodian of bloodline privileges and property.)

The best that can be said is that the monarchy is kept in check by custom and by the threat that, in the event the king should try anything too shifty, a constitutional crisis would occur. But that’s only a roundabout way to say that what makes the monarchy even tolerable is the possibility of its abolition.

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finnick-odairs-slut · 2 months ago

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Tempting Fate| Rhysand/Illiryan!Reader

Word count: 3.7k

Desc: Rhysand saves a Illyrian woman, his mother helps, and they grow close before the events of Under the Mountain occur. Why was he drawn to you?

P1 of a series :)

Rhysand’s mother had lived a hard life, and even one still that was hard. 3 growing boys under her care, and with her husband occupied with ideas of war, this left her alone most of the time during the day. She was on a visit to the war camp to see the three boys, they had just completed the blood rite together, for this her husband accompanied her. She could barely believe how fast Rhysand had grown before her, as well as Cassian and Azriel. The three of them meant the world to her.

“Mother! Father!” Rhysand calls out to her, and before she knows it he’s hugging her.

“We did it! We made it to the top!” He beams, his father is calm, almost proud of him she could tell.

“You did as I expected of you.” He states, looking at the winged man. His mother smiles back at him.

“You did great, Rhys.” She whispers to him, pulling him in for another hug. Her boy had really done it, he had proved himself. She was confident enough in him to know he could take care of himself but now the Illiryan warriors would respect him. As she pulled away she flinched, screaming entering the town square. The group of them began to train their eyes on who was screaming. A winged female being carried by two warriors, followed by a few more. The girl looked older than average for a wing clipping. Something Rhysand’s mother knew all too well, how girls would try to stop their bleeding, mothers being arrested or even killed for hiding a daughter. Her heart ached for the girl, watching her dirty feet kick at the two men securing her, she let out another wail.

“Please! Please don’t do this!” They struggle to bind her to the post that sits in the middle of the town. Public wing clippings were common too. There was something different about this girl….Rhysand’s mother thought quizzically, she watches as her son eyes the girl, recoiling when she screams. He looks up to his mother, tugging on her sleeve like he did when he was a little child.

He had seen many wing clippings in his time here at the camps, each time painful, but there was something about this girl to him. He watched her desperation, the way she still continued to fight and try to escape. He frowned, he had recognized you, you helped your mother in the kitchens that fed the soldiers. He had always wondered how you had your wings still, your mothers clipped. Come to think of it, he hadn't seen your mother in almost a month.

“Mother, can you get father to save this one?”

She almost chokes on her breath, looking over to her husband. She goes to him, ready to give him the most pleading look she’d ever mustered. For once his father listened carefully, his ears perking up at the notion his son would want this girl saved.

You don’t know who told the camp leader. Your mother had been procuring herbs for you to hold off on your first bleeding for years, years she had kept you safe. You were almost 19 now, and Illiryan leaders were growing suspicious of you, nothing you couldn’t handle. You’d have to blame your poor biology, perhaps you would never bleed, you joked with the battle hardened general. He gave you a look of disgust and motions you out of his tent.

Your mother turns up missing after this conversation with the general and you had suspicions. Your anxiety grew with each week, your mother only ever brought you enough og the herb to supply a month. You hadn’t had any in almost a week, and you could feel your cramps. Of course the herb never took away the pain your uterus would feel, it did stop the bleeding.

You were preparing vegetables in the kitchen, new women had been brought in after your mothers disappearance to make the kitchen function. You looked at the women around you, cleaning your workspace.

“I’m feeling rather ill today.” You feign, announcing to the women of your departure. You hurry from the kitchen, lunch would be fine without you today, you had hoped that with the blood rite still going on you would be able to avoid any warriors in camp and make it back to your cottage. You wouldn’t risk flying, that would spread the smell of you all over the camp.

Snow was slowly falling, piling up on the plethora that fell the night before. You hugged your cloak tight to your body, the chill in the air causing your wings to shiver.

“Hey Y/N!” A voice rang behind you, you turned to see a soldier you were friendly with. One that you had known for years. You let out a sigh of relief and he caught up to you, you still tried to keep your distance as he trailed behind you.

“Where are you going? Shouldn’t you be at your post?” You ask, raising an eyebrow to the man, he shrugged. His hair was braided back, he looked at you and then to the wilderness around them.

“Shouldn’t you?” He asks, leaning into you, panic shoots through you, almost as if you could sense what was going to happen next you took off. The snow crunching under your slippers as you weave through the shrubbery of the forest.

“Come back Y/N! Don’t make this harder! It's just a little clip!” He charges after you, and you unfortunately can’t outrun an Illiryan warrior.

“How did you think you were going to hide the fact you were on your first bleed?” He shakes his head, bringing you over his shoulder, you were kicking, biting, clawing, anything. He brings you back to camp, and all you can do is scream as the men around him congratulate him, other men begin to help him and follow behind him as brings you to the square.

You were scared, and tired by the time you had been bound to the post. The warrior was sure to strip your top garments off so they could get a good view of your wings.

“The girl will get 20 lashes for her insolence.” The general steps up to the post, whip in hand.

“Bad biology, aye girl?” He chuckles, reaching into his back pocket he throws your mother’s necklace in front of you. The dull copper clattering onto the aged wood platform. The aged metal coated in little droplets of red. You struggle on your knees, looking at the man before you as he stalks behind you. You scream, and scream.

“Please! Please don’t do this!” You scream out, clawing at the rope that binds you.

“Now folks, watch as Y/N L/N receives a punishment fit for her smuggling and lying! A grown woman who hid and stopped her first bleed!” The general yells out, bringing the whip behind him, in one swift motion your back lights up with the most pain you’d ever felt. Worse than the beating you got as a child from the shopkeeper for stealing. A skin cutting lash rewarded to you just between your wings. You were still reeling in pain when a second blow came down onto you. You cry out yet again, and you feel your brain go hazy. Silence from behind you and the feeling of having sand thrown at you. An oddly wet sensation.

“She’ll actually be going home with my wife.” A man's voice spoke, clouded in darkness. You barely know what's going on, your ears ringing, going between struggling and being still in order to try to calm the burning sensation between your wings.

You were unaware of the attention you had just gotten from a purple eyed devil, as well as the fact his father had liquified the general behind you. You looked at the shocked crowd in front of you, warriors barring their teeth. You pant, trying to keep your eyes closed, you didn’t quite understand what just happened. You feel the ropes behind you loosen, and your hands are freed. A soft woman's hand touching your own as she goes to lift your dress back onto your shoulders. Blood drips down your back and onto your dress.

“Come on sweetheart, I’ve got you.” She speaks so softly, so lovingly, you allow her to help you up, she holds you to her side. You feel a rush of wind and clench your eyes shut, the feeling of falling while you're trying to fall asleep overtakes you.

“This is my house dear, you will stay with us.” She takes you by the hand and shows you around the house.

From that day on Rhysand’s mother took you in. showing you the Court of Dreams, tutoring you and teaching you skills you needed, she even showed you tricks she had learned while flying. She had taken great care in healing your back and you could not have been more grateful. She had given you the chance at life, a happy one at that free from the social bounds of the soldiers on the mountains. She gave you time before she allowed the boys to meet you officially, you preferred babysitting Rhysand’s sister to socializing anyhow.

You were in the kitchen, pinching the dough of the loaf of bread you were trying to perfect. You heard them before you saw them, his mother, like a mother goose, walks in with the men following her. All three of them are handsome, your cheeks flush and you brush your hands on your apron, untying it and setting it on the counter. You approach them, a nervous smile on your lips.

Rhysand could hardly believe his eyes, from the battered girl he asked his mother to save to seeing you in front of him was a complete difference. You were so…ethereal. It was different to him, he couldn’t place it. The call to save you was something he’d never had before. When your eyes met his, he melted, your eyes so full of life. The dress that his mother had made for you hugging you in such a way, the grey fabric tailored to your curves. The way a streak of flour ghosted your cheek. He just wanted to brush it away himself.

He controls himself, with his mother and his brothers by his side.

You were weary of the boys, his mother had told you how Rhysand urged her to save you, but you still couldn’t quite shake the fact they were warriors. Ones that had completed the blood-rite. It terrified you, but you didn’t let it show as you attempted to warmly greet the trio.

“Y/n.” You say with a nod, the three introduce themselves and you somehow get trapped in a conversation with the boys, his mother chiming in here and there as she pleases. The boys seemed to take a liking to you. You guys were quick to get to know one another, and they were quick to accept you. It felt nice to feel accepted by a group of winged men, not to just serve them.

They visited you at least once a week after that, coming to raid the kitchen after one of your evenings baking or even just to sit with you by the fireplace. You appreciated the company of the men when they came, and then slowly over time they came less and less.

“This is the best thing that's ever been in my mouth, unless you want a turn?” The mischievous prince of the Night court licks his lips, and sucks his thumb free of the jam of a pasty you’d made.

You nearly choke on your tea, putting the saucer down as you nudge the raven haired male's shoulder. Your cheeks turn red, the warm feeling creeping up the back of your neck

“Rhys, shut up!” You shook your head at him, looking away. God, you loathed how he flirted with you, or did you really? The idea of Rhys coming home and finding you engrossed in one of your hobbies, perhaps perfecting a new recipe. His hands slipping around your waist, fingers tips digging hungrily into the flesh, his breath hot against your neck, crawling down your shoulders and tickling your wings. You could imagine the words he would whisper ‘Y/N, my sweet dove’, his lips attaching to your neck. You go stiff, clearing your throat as you look back at Rhysand. His sweet features, you smiled at him, but he went cold. He stands up,

“Thank you for lunch Y/N.” He says and then he winnows away. You can’t help but frown as you throw yourself back in frustration. Rhysand was being so short with you lately, you couldn’t tell what you had done wrong. By the time he visits you again, the thought is weighing on you heavily. You guys walk through the court of Dreams, shopping around and just enjoying the warm air.

“Rhys, what do I keep saying wrong? I feel like every time you come to see me, you leave while in such a cold mood.” You frown, turning to look at the man. He acts surprised for a moment, as if he was actually taken aback that you would question his behavior.

“You don’t say a thing wrong, dove.” He responds, hurt that you thought you were doing something wrong. You ice over, he had never– He had never called you that actually, only in the fantasies in your head. Simply you continued on the conversation but the look of a startled woodland creature had been enough to amuse the Illiyan man.

“So… how's the war?” You ask quickly trying to move on, but Rhysand understood more quickly than you did, the way you tugged at his heart. He wanted nothing more than to kiss the woman he had wanted saved all those years ago. He thinks that's when it happened, or perhaps when he watched the way you fit in with everyone in his life, the way you would argue with him and never let him have the last words. There were so many times he could count when he was sure the bond had snapped for him. He knew how you felt but he didn’t want to do anything until he was sure the bond snapped for you too. He promised that to himself.

You understood that Rhysand’s father had split the trio up to lead their own sections in the war, and at one point they stopped coming all together.

One last visit with Azriel really put your last interaction with Rhys into place, you were unaware of the fact that the prince was looking into your mind as you guys spoke. You felt too embarrassed that Rhys hadn’t told you. Daemati were rare, and you now knew you needed to watch what you thought around the dark haired man.

Still if you chose so, when his mother went to the camps to visit when one would stop in. You however couldn’t find it in yourself to go to the cabin with his mother and sister. It terrified you to be so close to the camps. So close to where everything happened so long ago, you were sure some of the men were bound to remember.

This continued for years, you grew better at your hobbies, baking, sewing as instructed by Rhysand’s mother. She truly was such a good person.

There really was no way you could repay the family for saving you and taking you in with no questions asked.

The fateful day still came about though, Rhysands mom and sister went to the cabin as per usual for the weekend, but they never came back.

It wasn’t until Rhysand returned to the mansion, that you learned the events of what had happened. Tamlin’s father had murdered them both, and when Rhysand and his father had found out they went to the Spring court for vengeance. Rhysand’s father falls as well. He had made it back home though. That's all that kept him going, there was no warm mother to greet him anymore, just you.

When he broke the news to you, you had collapsed into him, fitful sobs escaping your lips. He felt different, the way the power radiated off of him. It comforted but also terrified you as you pressed closer into him. You broke into him, curled into him for most of the night as you both took turns crying and remembering. You both tell stories about his family, how silly his little sister was when she was away from his mother. How his mother was always watching them. You guys discuss what is to come next, as Rhysand was now the Highlord of the Night Court. You were just an Illiyan woman, and you didn’t know what he had planned yet, but he wanted you in his inner circle. You spend the night in Rhysand’s room, waking up curled into the satin sheets. You look around slowly, Rhys is sitting at the edge of the bed, he’s looking at you.

“I am going to be gone for a while. Not a very long time, but I have to meet with someone in the depths of Pythian. I will have Morrigan stop by and check on you. I promise, I’m coming home to you. You’re not losing me too. I’m not losing you.” He says as if trying to convince himself, as if he were nervous of what was going to happen next.

Still laying down you revel in the ability to just look at Rhys in the silence, he's been so busy for so many years with his training and the war. Your meetings had grown more random, and you grew to miss the raven haired male. You knew you were going to get lonely in this house, you would have to venture out into the town and actually make friends at some point.

“Thank you, Rhys. I really mean it. For everything you and your family have done for me. I really thought my life was going to be living in that village for the rest of my life, married off to one of the men. I wouldn’t have a choice, I would have to carry his child, and pray to the cauldron that its a boy and not a baby girl. I don’t know why you gave me a chance, I’ll never forget it.” You smile, you sit up and stretch out, you are able to stretch your wings out as well, taking a large breath and letting it out as a sigh. You could find strength in the power that Rhys’ mother left you, the freedom.

“You don’t have to thank me. You deserved more than that. I couldn’t keep my eyes off of you as they brought you into the square. I had seen you around before, never got the courage to talk to you, but I knew how sweet you were. I remember the extra portions you would give the boys and I. You are kind and cunning. I watched them try… I watched them try to take what little freedom you had and I couldn’t bear to see you in that pain.” The words flowed through Rhys, unable to stop himself.

“Something in me just snapped.” He gives you a half smile and stands from the bed, he runs his hands through his hair. He was already dressed, definitely in a hurry for sure.

You stand as well, still wearing the dress from yesterday, your hair slightly tousled.

“I really have to go dove, I don’t want to keep these people waiting.” He gives you another sad smile, opening his arms. You step forward into his embrace, his arms holding you strongly. You take a deep inhale, taking in Rhysand’s scent. A gentle salty sea breeze, mixed with a creamy lemon smell. Kind of like a tart? You could get lost in his embrace, it was the first time in many years you weren’t rushing downstairs to try to help with breakfast for everyone.

You find yourself stroking his arm, pulling away you meet his gaze. Your head felt heavy, it felt like you could barely keep your own head from toppling off your neck, the warm feeling spreading across your back. You keep your eyes on Rhysand and he looks at you quizzically. You felt like you were frozen in place by his gaze, and then you felt the tug on your heart. All at once something happened to you, the way you were looking at each other, the way you felt. Every emotion swirled in the air and crashed down on you, and pulled you closer to him.

“Rhys, I think-”

He leans down and places a kiss on your forehead.

“I know.”

He says and the entire planet feels like it freezes. You knew what you felt for him, what he had felt for you. You realized he probably felt it far before you did.

“I’m sorry.” You sigh

“Don’t be.” He grins, cupping your cheek as he leans down to kiss you. The kiss is slow, soft, and passionate, as if you could sense his relief in the way that you connected with him. You both were at peace, it would be hard, but you would have each other. He pulls away first.

“I’ll see you. I owe you a meal the next time we meet.” You marveled at the idea of cooking for him, for him to accept you.

“Of course. I will make it home to you. My precious dove.” He turns and looks at the window and looks down at the city. He pauses for a moment before pulling away, he hugs you and kisses your forehead before he's gone in a blink of an eye. You were always jealous he could do that. You giggled to yourself and crawled back into Rhys bed. The smell of your mate almost setting the room on fire. Your mate. He was your mate, and you were his. It excited you to no end, you weren’t sure of the concepts of mates beforehand, but looking at him you knew everything was going to be okay.

Although, Rhysand wouldn’t come home for another 50 years, and you were completely unaware of that fact as you drifted off to sleep.

#rhysand x reader #acotar #a court of thorns and roses #rhysand #azriel #cassian #acotar series #acosf #acomaf #xreader

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ddarker-dreams · 1 year ago

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Lock I need you to share something about Gojo. Jjk is getting worse with no hope in the future. Plis just a tiny part is god. 🙏🙏🙏🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺

Detour.

Gojo Satoru x F Reader x Geto Suguru.

Warnings: Mild not SFW implications, Gojo and Geto are Not normal about you, exhibiting possessive behavior. Word count: 1.2k.

-Index-

"—Excuse me, miss!"

The exclamation barely registers amidst the crowded street's ambiance. Everyone has a destination they're eager to reach, and you're no different. Unlike those native to the area, however, you're more likely to get lost; hence your current conundrum.

You examine the mess of squiggly lines, blocks, and patterns intended to function as a map.

Kagurazaka, Kagurazaka... c'mon, I know this one... it starts with the kanji for god or something, right?

While you scrutinize the map, the same voice from earlier calls out again, this time beside you. You glance around, not wanting to respond if he’s trying to flag down someone else. In doing so, it becomes increasingly obvious that you’re who he’s been trying to grab the attention of.

From the looks of it, he’s a man in his late thirties, wearing a suit that could use a good ironing. You can’t recall meeting him before. Then again, you’re not privy to everything that happens back on campus. Meetings with influential figures frequently occur without your knowledge. You only ever find out about them later when Satoru loudly voices his critical view on everyone who attended. You are wearing your uniform, it’s recognizable to those in Jujutsu circles.

You’d rather not stir up a scandal by unintentionally snubbing a Zenin or someone equally important. With this in mind, you politely inquire, “Can I help you?”

“That uniform… you’re a high schooler, right?”

You nod, figuring that this confirms your hypothesis.

“What year?”

This question makes less sense. Maybe he wants to know your proximity to Suguru, or, far likelier, Satoru. These types always have their own designs for the pride of the Gojo clan.

“I’m a second-year.”

“I see, I see,” he begins rummaging through his blazer’s inner pocket. He procures a business card and holds it out. “How about a job? From the looks of it, you’d make a good fit.”

You blink.

Are you… allowed to do freelance work? You’ve heard of specific sorcerers being requested for jobs, but that’s always been through the school. Besides, as a Grade Three, you don’t think you can go on unsupervised jobs. Not wanting to seem rude, you reach out to accept the card—

—Only for it to be intercepted.

“Sorry, she’s completely booked,” a voice that sounds the furthest thing from apologetic chimes in.

Gojo Satoru stands to your right, adorned with his circular sunglasses and trademark grin. He rips the card in half without so much as a second thought. You stare at him, incredulous. Questions swarm around your head. When did he get here? How didn’t you notice him until now? Why does his cursed energy have such an unnerving quality to it?

He bends down and hangs his arm around your shoulder. “You’re somethin’ else. Ignoring Suguru and I’s calls, chatting up strange men in Kabukichō… I swear, we can’t take our eyes off you for a second.”

“Wh— I’m not chatting anyone up!” You whisper yell. His infinity nullifies enough for you to jab a finger at his chest. “Why can’t you give better directions?! ‘West of the Edo Castle’ doesn’t tell me anything, it just sounds like a TV drama!”

Satoru shrugs. “Should’ve just asked an auxiliary manager to drop you off.”

“You might treat them like a personal taxi service, but I’d rather not. Taking the train’s fine.”

The man finally overcomes the shock inflicted by Satoru’s audacity, taking a step forward. “What are you, her boyfriend or something?”

“Bleh, no!”

“Future husband.”

Yours and Satoru’s responses come out simultaneously.

“In that case—”

“Excuse me,” A new presence interrupts the increasingly irritated man. Suguru wears a friendly smile which somehow comes across as more menacing than Satoru’s wolfish grin. He places a hand on the man’s shoulder. “You are aware that it’s a minor you’re trying to recruit, correct?”

The man flushes at the accusation. “Listen, I dunno what you’re trying to accuse me of—”

“I’d hate to see you get in trouble for a mistake like that,” Suguru cuts him off again, raising his voice ever so slightly. This attracts the attention of some bystanders. “Who knows what consequences that’d result in, especially for a married man like yourself…”

Huh. You hadn’t even noticed the gold band on his ring finger. Suguru’s nothing if not perceptive.

Nearby commuters whisper amongst themselves while eyeing the scene. The man’s gaze flits between a self-satisfied Satoru and an overly polite Suguru, eventually settling on an escape route. Wordlessly, he departs, although you swear you overhear him muttering ‘crazy kids’ and ‘doomed girl,’ along the way.

“Yo, Suguru. Took you long enough.”

“Unfortunately, not all of us can teleport.”

“Your curse did a better job at tailin’ me than you.”

Ignoring the jab, Suguru dusts his hands off while honing in on you. “You alright? You weren’t answering our calls.”

“And you’re late,” Satoru whines. He helps himself to searching through your purse, taking your pink Razr hostage. “Huh. Battery’s dead.”

Suguru appears content. “What’d I tell you?”

“If she’s blocked me before, the same could happen to you.”

“I wouldn’t block Suguru.”

“She wouldn't block me.”

This time, it’s you and Suguru who speak concurrently. Satoru pouts, putting his hands up like he’s under attack (which he probably believes himself to be). You snatch your phone back without issue, unlike when he last stole it. He unblocked himself and dangled it above your head until you promised you wouldn’t do that again.

“And here I was, about to treat you both to pastries,” Satoru sighs, melodramatic as ever.

“While we were waiting for you, I noticed creampuffs and macaroons on the menu; which would you recommend?” Suguru inquires, not bothering to acknowledge Satoru’s complaints.

“That depends on what you want from the experience,” you mimic his decision. “Creampuffs tend to be one flavor, whereas macaroons come in multiple, so the variety’s nice. When I get a variety pack, I always end up disliking one of the flavors and wishing I’d just gotten my favorites instead.”

Satoru sighs as loud as he can. “Right, right, I’m just a walking wallet. Let’s get going before someone else solicits [First].”

“Eh?” You turn your head to face Satoru. “‘Solicits?’ As in…?”

“Se—”

Suguru slaps a hand over Satoru’s mouth. “What he means to say is that this isn’t the best area for a high school girl to linger.”

“W-Wait, hold on! I thought he was like a… er, how would you say that… sorcerer employer?”

They both stare at you.

“You do know what Kabukichō’s famous for, right?” Suguru tentatively asks.

“Hm? ‘Kabuki’ is a type of traditional theater, isn’t it?”

“...”

“Let’s just show her what we mean,” Satoru bends down, picking up two halves of the business card he split in half earlier. “It’ll be a good lesson. I’d rather not have to come fetch her in this place again— oh.”

Suguru inspects what has the power to shut Gojo Satoru up. You watch as his eyes move back and forth, his face shifting while he does so. His lips narrow into a thin line when he pulls back. Curious, you stand on your tiptoes, hoping to catch a glimpse yourself. Thankfully, there’s yomigana above some of the kanji you don’t recognize. This eliminates any possibility of you misreading the card’s contents.

‘Oh’ indeed, you think. That poor guy…

It’s a business card for the company that oversees AKB48.

#this was so fun to write LMAOO #gojo x reader #satoru x reader #geto x reader #suguru x reader #gojo x reader x geto #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #reader insert #golden girl #my stuff #answered #cecii22me

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bathroomcryptid · 4 months ago

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The Real Housewives of the Imperium: The Scoop on Step-Mothers??

A/N: Sorry for my long absence, life sucks sometimes. But here’s some more bullshit from the Real Housewives universe I’ve cooked up in my head.

Warnings: None

The Dark Angels: When approached for comment on the Dark Lady, two members of the Dark Angels said, and I quote, “Who?”. After explaining that the entire Imperium knows the Dark Lady exists and that they can’t keep pretending that she’s still a secret, they both ran. They’ve been put down as ‘refused to comment’.

The Emperor’s Children: “She’s exemplary in every way. Truly, she is the only one befitting of our Primarch and the title of our Legion Mother. Here look at this painting I did of her.” It was a beautiful painting.

The Iron Warriors: “We’ve only had her for five minutes, but if anything happened to her, we’d kill everyone in the Imperium and then ourselves.” The commenting Iron Warrior was so passionate he broke our microphone and we had to purchase a new one.

The White Scars: After barely catching one, he simply had this to say: “Our Lady Mother is the best.” Before we could ask for further elaboration, the White Scar had run off and we were out of vehicles to pursuit them in.

The Space Wolves: The commenting Space Wolf initially tried to eat the microphone, but after explaining its function and the reason we approached for comment, he had this to say: “The Wolf Mother is unmatched in every aspect. She can fight and drink with the best of them.”

The Imperial Fists: We weren’t able to get a comment as they asked us to leave as Lady Dorn had plans to walk through that room later and they had to fortify it. Apparently, this happens frequently.

The Night Lords: “The Lady has made great progress when it comes to the flaying of our enemies, she no longer faints at the sight of blood-“ The commenting Night Lord seemed to have more to say about Lady Curze, but we here at Imperial News™️ were too scared to find out what and quickly absconded. In the future, we have made note to exclusively ask for comment from the Night Lords via mail.

The Blood Angels: Initially, both commenting Blood Angels looked as if they wanted to kill us for simply mentioning the Mother Angel. After assuring that we ment no harm, they had this to say. “The Mother Angel is our legion’s life blood and the most sacred treasure of our Primarch. In the future, you should be more careful about arbitrarily throwing around the name of our legion mother.”

The Iron Hands: The four commenting Iron Hands were stopped exiting a hardware store. “She’s nothing but a temptress that serves to turn our Primarch’s eye away from far more important and pressing matters.” Commenting Iron Hands confirmed that they were procuring supplies for a glue trap they were going to set up outside the Lady of the Iron Hands’ bedroom apparently in retaliation to her booby trapping the bathroom a few days prior.

The World Eaters: “She doesn’t impede our cause.” After discussing the comment from the World Eater with several experts, we’ve come to understand that this is very high praise.

The Ultramarines: “Lady Guilliman stands without equal. Her mind and wit are unparalleled…she’s also very good at paperwork.” The commenting Ultramarines were very serious about how great Lady Guilliman is.

The Death Guard: Were marked ‘refused to comment’ as they looked like they might kill us after simply uttering their legion mother’s name. We’ve made note to seek future comment regarding the Lady of the Death Guard elsewhere.

The Thousand Sons: “The Red Lady has earned her name. She’s an unparalleled mind, a fierce warrior, and the only person befitting our Primarch. Also, she made us cookies.” The commenting Thousand Sons did share his cookies and they were in fact delicious.

The Luna Wolves: “Lady Lupercal? She’s the best!” “Yeah! There’s no one better for our Primarch!” “She’s the best at everything!” The three commenting Luna Wolves were very enthusiastic when asked to comment on Lady Lupercal.

The Word Bearers: Initially approached us asking if we had heard about our lord and savior, The God Emperor. Upon confirming, yes, we were aware of the Emperor and his feats, we asked about Lady Aurelian. They simply handed us a brochure titled ‘The Goddess of Colchis’ and upon opening it, simply had ‘she’s perfect’ scrawled inside. They said that if we needed more information, they were glad to read to us from the holy texts about her and proceeded to pull out a book the size of two human heads. We informed them that was alright, we had all we needed, and left as quickly as possible.

The Salamanders: Due to the length of the comment as the commenting Salamanders probably sang the praises of the Mother of the Salamanders for actual hours, we were forced to condense it in editing, but in summary: As far as the Salamanders are concerned, their mother pinned the very stars in the sky. She is the best at everything and is unable to do wrong. She is the kindest, gentlest, and most fiercely protective woman you’ll ever meet. She is literally the best and the God Emperor weeps at her feet. - a paraphrasing by Imperial News.

The Raven Guard: After searching for a Raven Guard member for months to make comment on the Raven Mother, we finally found one. After asking about the Lady of the Raven Guard, the Raven Guard member gave a thumbs up before disappearing again.

The Alpha Legion: [REDACTED]

#💚babs.yaps #warhammer 40k #primarch #space marines #The Real Housewives of the Imperium

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xenosagaepisodeone · 6 months ago

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sorry if ur tired of hearing abt the uber twitter stuff, but reading ur post reminded me of another tweet where someone was like "really shows what u really think of service workers [or smth, referring to delivery drivers] when u call them servants," as if the person they were qrting was using that word as an insult to the delivery drivers' status and not as a more accurate word for their relationship to their employer than 'employee' or 'worker' 😭

It's frustrating how people do not understand what it means when you point out that uber drivers are not employees. Getting uber eats is functionally closer to asking a random person on craigslist to pick up your food for you than procuring a delivery service staffed by people who are trained and compensated to be held to certain kinds of conduct. The entire existence of these apps is made possible by cutting corners in worker labor, safety and liability, and as a result are reliant largely on economically disenfranchised people who cannot acquire many other means of employment and can be disposed of at a moment's notice! These apps have barely existed for a decade and the disproportionate amount of entitlement they've generated is crazy!

Also on a separate note, I feel like everyone a decade ago knew how dangerous occupations like taxi and delivery were for drivers, but ever since these services became affordable for most people there's been a huge shift in this sentiment...?!

#asks #anonymous

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bigtreefest · 11 months ago

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Chapter 1: The President’s Son

From: Guardian Angel Series

Pairing: (future) Mafia! Stucky x Bodyguard! Reader

Summary: A longtime client snubs you, causing you to leave the life you know

Word Count: 3,629

Content/Warnings: swears, patriarchy, weaponized incompetence, borderline mansplaining, yelling, fighting, mentions of nose picking, misogyny, secrets, explosions, mentions of weapons, strong female characters, no Steve or Bucky yet

A/N: Okay, here’s the start of something long-anticipated by me. I hope you enjoy! Your feedback is greatly appreciated, can’t wait to hear what you guys think!

Dividers by @firefly-graphics

Main Masterlist | Series Masterlist | Next >

You stood in the back of the banquet hall, eyes surveying the room like they did any other, as you tried to appear as nonchalant waitstaff for the function. That was your specialty: blending in to the background, and you were damn good at it. Tonight’s job was to do so as your were protecting the most important individuals entrusted to you: the First Lady and her son.

You moved with ease throughout the evening, keeping mobile with your head on a swivel, eyes never leaving your two clients for more than a couple seconds. After a cocktail hour, everyone had sat down for dinner and a round of awards and speeches, leaving you here for a relatively easy period.

You didn’t work alone, no. You were here as part of a group. Part of a company, actually, and it belonged to your father. He ran a security conglomerate which focused heavily on government contracting, ranging from secret service duties, to vehicle brigades, to protection and procurement of goods, virtual and physical, and you knew every single part of it. You loved your job, and you loved working with your dad. For as long as you could remember, you would spend all of your free time in his office with him as he went through schedules, and escape plans, and all sorts of strategies to keep his patrons and their assets safe. You were always flitting around, learning new things, earning you the nickname ‘tweety bird’ from him, which correlated to your codename Redwing.

You’d picked it all up so easily, you were a natural, which earned you your first presidential-adjacent gig much younger than anyone else around. Sure, it started as you going to school and posing as another student to protect the president’s son, even thought you were a few years out already, which wasn’t necessarily glamorous, since you were meant to fly under the radar, but it was an independent job. One that was coming to a close, though, as this was your eighth year of doing the same. Soon, the president would be out of office, and the security detail on his family would be greatly reduced, likely no longer requiring your services.

Even as you let your mind wander, blocking out the droning speeches and rich people backstories, you remained on high alert. If anything bad was going to happen, you had a feeling it would be at an event like this one. An event where everyone had their guard down because it was for a universally agreeable good cause. But for some reason, heading into it tonight, something was churning in your gut.

After not being able to ignore the way your stomach twisted and turned, you had gone to speak to your father about tonight, requesting backup in addition to your other two friends, Natasha and Daisy, who often accompanied you to guard shifts associated with larger crowds.

Usually he was on the same page as you, but lately, your requests had been met with more protest, likely due to your little brother’s input buzzing in your father’s ear.

Your brother, Dylan, had just freshly turned eighteen, and with it came more responsibility in the agency. For being so much younger than you, your father was giving him mountains of control, including this event of your two most important clients. With your request of a team came the the caveat that your brother would be leading it.

Dylan was, to put it nicely, an oaf? Incapable of performing a task without crashing and burning, which made your blood boil. Probably from the fires he created and you subsequently had to put out. You had no room to complain, though, as your father dismissed you from his office.

So Dylan ‘led’ your team this evening, packed with his twerp friends who were more capable, but just as reckless as him. They’d listen to some of your orders, but not without the confirmation of your brother, who knew better enough sometimes to listen to your input.

You let him think he was in the lead tonight, executing a plan you had essentially spoon fed to him in your meetings leading up to the event. There were several backup plans and exit strategies that had their own code names, made by you, of course. All Dylan, or ‘The Chief,’ as he liked to go as over coms, had to do was keep an eye out on the cameras for any suspicious activity around the venue, and be prepared to drive away if he called for extraction due to suspicious activity. That was it. You and your two trusty companions would take control of everything inside the banquet, while two of Dylan’s friends surveilled the outside. Should be easy, right?

Dylan had been instructed to give an update through your earpiece every three minutes, on any action seen in the camera footage. Every time he did, though, it was accompanied by music blasting in the car, and the increments kept getting further and further apart. Almost like he was forgetting about his responsibilities and the importance of this event on your shoulders, should something go wrong. You rolled your eyes and kept a watch of the room. If you had such little backup, it was on you now to do this job, without the team you had specifically requested.

Dylan’s friends seemed to go quiet, too, which you were hoping wasn’t due to capture or something worse, but when you heard conversation about a fantasy football draft in your ear, you knew they were at least alive, although not helpful at all.

You were sick of running blind, though, so you casually made it look like your were scratching your ear and turned away from the crowd.

“Chief, status report.” Nothing. You waited thirty seconds. Silence.

You turned back to the room, the gnawing feeling in your stomach growing as you looked out at the crowd. Natasha, code name Widow, was making her way around with a tray of champagne flutes. Daisy, codename Blossom, sat in a vent somewhere, watching from above and monitoring everyone’s trackers. The three of you sighed and continued on, hoping this night wouldn’t be every eventful, but that’s never how life goes, is it?

“Blossom, report on coms. Is everything working?”

You waited a second for the response.

“All is good, Redwing. It’s a human, not technology error.”

You rolled your eyes for the thousandth time that night, but were pulled out of your annoyance by a searing sound. In the next moment, just as you were about to ask for any other possible news from Daisy, a crackling took over your ear.

You fought the urge to wince and draw attention to yourself. It was probably Dylan finally getting back to you, but the voice that came through was one you’d never heard before. It was low and urgent.

“Get them out of there.”

You couldn’t help the way your eyes went wide and you whisper yelled, turning into the fake plant you found yourself nearby.

“Who is this? This is a secure line! What’s going on?”

You were surprised by the warning firmness of the speaker, it was menacing, who did this person think they were? Was that a threat?

“This is Bootleg. Your clients are in danger. What’s about to happen isn’t meant for them. Find a way to get them to leave.”

You sighed and nodded, although the disembodied voice named ‘Bootleg’ wasn’t reassuring. You knew to never turn down a tip, though. You weren’t going to risk it with clients like this. So you let out a sigh and made eye contact with Nat across the room.

“Execute plan beta sixteen alpha.”

She gave you a curt nod and increased her pace in a way only someone with your type of training could pick up. She was circling to make her movements seem undetectable, but she was ultimately going towards the First Lady and her son. Nat tripped, spilling the tray of champagne on their laps, causing them to gasp and look down. You could tell they were ready to yell, but they looked to your face and you nodded, signaling them to get up, brushing away anyone with apologies or offers for help, saying they were just going to clean up. The rest of the rich party goers didn’t pay it a second thought besides whispers of clumsy waitstaff. It’s not like they would bother to remember the face of one of them, though, and were too busy watching a fumbling Nat to see your approach to take your clients out of the venue. You did your best to move slowly to the same exit as them, and as soon as your bodies were behind the closed ballroom door, you were rushing them towards the back service door to get in Dylan’s getaway vehicle.

You ducked their heads under your arms as you rushed them out, and shoved them into the back of the town car, only giving a quick, breathless word to your clients and your brother.

“Take them home, Dyl. Fast. Don’t let yourself get tracked. I’ll take the decoy car. Go, now!”

He nodded like a bobble head, shifting the car in gear and peeling out of the lot as you jogged over to the other vehicle where Daisy and Nat were already waiting in the front seat for you. They moved fast.

You hopped in, Daisy expertly backing out until she hit the street. Just as she put it in drive, you flinched at a sudden noise and looked out the back window to where an explosion happened in front of the venue and soldiers dressed in all black rushed in through the cloud of smoke. This would definitely hit the news tomorrow, but you were sure your father would commend you for the safe delivery of two of his most important packages.

Daisy and Nat had been by your side for as long a you could remember. When you were in elementary school, you remembered a brooding girl sitting at the end of the lunch table, arms crossed and eyebrows furrowed, with the angriest pout you’d ever seen. You walked over and plopped down with your tray.

“Hi.”

She looked up from her meal and to your smile and simply gave a blink of acknowledgment, face unchanging.

“Are you okay? Something wrong with your lunch?”

She shook her head and took a deep breath, sitting up to eat a tater tot.

“No. Something’s wrong with my shirt.”

You tilted your head to the side. “What about it? I think it’s beautiful. I love Daisies.”

She shrugged and continued to pick through her food. “Yeah, I guess they’re alright. But my mom forced me to wear this. I had a plain black shirt picked out and she gave me this. I don’t wanna wear daisies.”

You giggled and looked down at the plain black shirt on your body. “Trade?”

For the first time, you watched the corner of her lip reach a smile, your new friend who would soon earn the shirt flower as a nickname. That little grin was huge compared to the tight line her lip previously held. That was the start of a bunch of mini smirks and teamwork.

Nat had been around since you were in diapers. Her parents had worked for your father’s organization their entire lives, so when they passed as she was in her teens, your family took her in.

She was always incredibly smart, her wit challenging you and Daisy, but the two of you would hit her right back. The timeline of her moving in with you, too, was a few years before the presidential gig started, but she rose through the ranks with you, through every single job, the two of you bringing Daisy on board who caught on quickly. Your grouping was nearly unrivaled. Nearly.

Daisy and Nat physically stood by your sides as the three of you looked on to your father talking on a podium. Your best suits were pressed and tailored perfectly for the special occasion. It was his retirement party in your family’s backyard garden where he was noting the successes of the company under him, including the recent incident from which the two important clients had been saved.

The three of you lightly nudged each other’s arms in commendation for the quick act despite your lack of backup, a small smile on your face, a smirk on Nat’s, with Daisy looking as composed and stoic as ever. You father continued in his speech, noting the valiant effort that needs to be maintained in a generational business like this, one that should be rewarded and carried on for the generations to come. You stood straight, chin up with pride at your hard work and dedication finally paying off.

“I was a young pup, only in my early twenties when I took this business over from my father. He deemed me most fit for the job, so it is my pleasure to do the same, keeping this line of work led by my family. I’d like to name my replacement, someone who valiantly saved the president’s son and wife. Someone who the son has raved about for returning them home to the White House safely. My wonderful child…”

You were ready for the culmination of years being under his wing. He gestured his arm out to the side and you braced yourself for the good news, except the arm wasn’t outstretched towards you. It was directed towards the other side of the stage and everyone’s eyes followed. “Dylan.”

Dylan was jerkily shoved forward by one of his friends, having been zoned out for the entirety of your father’s speech, but at the sound of cheering and clapping, a smile grew on his face. He waved at the crowd, walking over to the podium to shake your father’s hand and give a word of his own.

Meanwhile, your face fell. It was dragged downward in defeat. You quickly pulled yourself together, though, at a squeeze to your arm. You couldn’t even tell which side it came from. Your body was going numb. Shifting to plant your feet and fighting the burn in your eyes, you looked straight forward, no longer at the podium, although you had no way to shut off your ears.

“Wow, wow. Thank you. This is such an honor. At eighteen years old, I will be the youngest to ever run this organization.”

It seemed like he’s was at least doing well and presenting a strong face. That was rare.

“Haha, I beat ya, gramps! Okay, let’s party!”

You outwardly cringed, but your legs were paralyzed as his friends let out a whooping cheer and the party erupted in confetti. It was getting caught in your hair as Nat and Daisy dragged you away and inside, up the stairs to your childhood bedroom, jostling you like a rag doll. You felt almost catatonic.

As soon as you flopped down on your bed, though, you turned over and screamed into your pillow before sitting up, realizing this act of melodrama was going to wrinkle your suit.

You sat up and sniffled, rubbing your eyes and taking a deep breath to give yourself just a moment to think. You looked between your best friends and started pointing.

“Daise, can you pack up anything you think I might need from here? Whatever I can’t live without.”

You then looked to the redhead who was peeking out the window, watching your father enter the outdoor entrance of his home office.

“Nat, can you gather some home essentials? Food, first aid, some of the hidden and spare weapons. Only the ones they won’t sense are missing, okay?”

She nodded. “Yeah. We better do it quick. Your pops just came in.”

You bit your lip and your nostrils flared in anger and thought, rubbing your hands over your face. “Okay. That’s fine, I need to talk to him anyway. That should give you enough time to grab everything. Then we’re heading back to the apartment to get some essentials.”

The three of you were roommates in the city, renting out a place Daisy’s distant uncle owned, which allowed you some freedoms, as well as independence from the possible tracing of your location on government records. Even under a security conglomerate, you could sense things were going downhill, so it was a good choice to move out and detach yourself. At this point, you were barely traceable. Only one thing tethered you here on a paper trail: the company.

You stormed out of your room and down the stairs to the hall that held your father’s office. You were furious. You had no patience left for formality or kindness, this was all rage. You kicked in the strong oak door, splintering the wooden frame, and were met with the view of your father and brother clinking whiskey glasses, an old celebratory reserve poured in them.

You stomped over to the filing cabinets where your file, thick as a novel, was stored. Next to it, you pulled out two more, no less impressive. Your dad, even though he possessed several methods for tech security, still kept employee information on paper in case he accidentally hired a mole. Everything was under lock and key and 24 hour surveillance.

You dug around in the left side drawer of his desk until you found the cigar lighter, hitting the edge of the folders until they caught and throwing them into his metal trash can. It was only then that he and your brother let words come out of their dropped jaws and awestruck faces.

“Tweety Bird, what’s the issue, kiddo? Didn’t wanna celebrate with your old man and little brother?”

You scoffed as you put your hands on your hips.

“Celebrate!? Celebrate what!? Being snubbed? Overlooked for something I’ve dedicated my life towards!?”

Your father’s bushy brows furrowed in confusion, your brother’s face mirroring it in a mini version. “What do you mean? You haven’t been snubbed. Dylan and I agree you’re meant to run teams and operations. You wouldn’t want to be in charge. Plus, it’s tradition that the first son takes over.”

You threw your hands up in exasperation. Smoke was filling the room, but partially getting swept out the cracked windows that pointed toward the back yard. “You didn’t think to ask me, the one keeping your business afloat, to run it!? No one knows it better than me, but it’s so ridiculous. Just because I’m an older sister like Aunt Kay, doesn’t mean I don’t wanna be in charge! She wanted to leave this life, but I don’t!”

You heard a chuckle rise behind you. “What, Dylan?”

He shrugged with a smug smile on his face. “Aunt Kay didn’t want to leave this life. She wanted the company, too. But Gramps gave it to dad. That’s why she fucked off to who knows where and started that bank vault company.”

You gasped in shock and looked to your father but he seemed unaffected. You turned to him now, disgusted with the sight of your little brother. “What!? Do you hear yourself right now!? Just because we aren’t men!? That’s insane!! I’m the one who saved the president’s family. Not Dylan, me! He was too busy sitting on his ass and picking his nose to be of any help. Maybe we would’ve seen the team coming to attack the venue sooner if he would’ve done his job!”

Your chest was heaving and your face was warm from the yelling. Your father still calmly continued. “Dylan returned the family safe and sound. You were nowhere to be seen. He deserves this step of responsibility, but I have no doubt you can guide him like an invisible hand.”

You shook your head, moving back towards the door between the leather couches of the sitting area, pacing on the Persian rug. “No, no. Absolutely not. I refuse to keep performing thankless service. You’ve made a mistake. I no longer want to work for you and I no longer want to be a part of this family. This whole thing is fucked. I’m out.”

Your father sighed, about to speak up. “Bird, we-“

He was cut off by the arm of your brother, though. “No, dad. If she wants to leave, I think she should. I don’t want anyone here questioning my leadership. The president’s son will back me on that. He’s upset the extraction ruined a designer suit and thinks that I’m the best fit, too. I can run this without her.”

Your dad gave a hmph of affirmation, which sent you over the edge. After all those years of service, both your father and the president’s son still didn’t credit your work. You couldn’t stand this anymore, especially not when Dylan was fabricating lies in his own head about the greatness you performed.

“You know what, Dyl? Yeah, let’s have it your way. You guys will never need to see me again. Good luck not running this thing into the ground.”

You turned on your heel and marched out the door. When you turned the corner, you saw both Nat and Daisy waiting for you, double fisting duffel bags. You motioned for both of them to head to Nat’s car, walking quickly, but they were more than capable of keeping up. You heard Daisy speak from over your left shoulder.

“Bird, where are we going?”

As you barged through the glass front door and put on your sunglasses, you took a breath in of the air that marked your new life, outside the stuffy patriarchy of what you thought would be your legacy.

“Somewhere far. And don’t ever call me that again.”

Next >

Bonus A/N: Bruh, could you imagine being betrayed by your own father like that? Also, we’ll be seeing more of Daisy as the reader for Jake’s storyline in the future.

Taglist: @hawkeyes-queen @ronearoundblindly

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all-theabove · 2 days ago

Text

𝑃𝑎𝑦𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑡 𝑎𝑐𝑐𝑒𝑝𝑡𝑒𝑑 - 𝑀𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑜 𝑥 𝑓𝑒𝑚!𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑟

𝑃𝑙𝑜𝑡 𝑖𝑠 𝑝𝑒𝑎𝑘 (𝑎𝑏𝑠𝑜𝑙𝑢𝑡𝑒𝑙𝑦 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑙)٫ 𝑙𝑜𝑟𝑒 𝑎𝑐𝑐𝑢𝑟𝑎𝑡𝑒 𝑚𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑜 𝑖𝑠 𝑝𝑒𝑎𝑘 (200%)٫ 𝑠𝑚𝑢𝑡 𝑖𝑠 𝑝𝑒𝑎𝑘 (𝑐𝑎𝑛 𝑔𝑢𝑎𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑒) 𝐼𝑛𝑠𝑝𝑖𝑟𝑒𝑑 𝑏𝑦 "𝑅𝑢𝑙𝑒 𝑀𝑎𝑘𝑒𝑟٫ 𝑅𝑢𝑙𝑒 𝐵𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑘𝑒𝑟" 𝑠𝑒𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑠 𝑏𝑦 𝑀𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑜𝑖𝑛𝑒𝑣𝑎𝑟𝑟𝑜

𝑇𝑊: 𝑔𝑟𝑜𝑝𝑖𝑛𝑔٫ 𝑏𝑟𝑎𝑡 𝑡𝑎𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑔 (𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑑 𝑜𝑓?)٫ 𝑠𝑢𝑠 𝑡𝑜𝑢𝑐𝘩𝑖𝑛𝑔 (𝑓 𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑒𝑖𝑣𝑖𝑛𝑔)٫ 𝑠��𝑥

𝑤𝑐: 5.1𝑘

Your assassin droid, IG-11, kept up, sending blaster shots towards the Mandalorian whenever you stumbled on your steps, reminding you of just another business deal you'd made with the man. He’d traded the droid to you after a piece of the Crest had malfunctioned, all since you'd refused to take his credits, determined on acquiring a bodyguard instead. People knew not to trust you and what you sold. Half of the time it was broken, or defective, you being too lazy to fix it. But you were one of the only people in the galaxy to have certain parts, so they landed on faith. It didn't get many of them too far. It made you hated, and a couple of unlucky sales later, it made you wanted.

You managed to evade the bounties thanks to Mando’s IG-11, but you knew it was he, himself, who’d come after you if you ever did such a thing to him. But you needed the credits, and a functional engine capacitor was just not in your cards when he came asking.

A quick turn of your head revealed a green blaster shot heading straight for the droid, hitting the coolant pipe on his left arm. Fuck, you thought to yourself as thick gray liquid began to pour form the punctured pipe. IG-11 wouldn't last long without it, especially not in the Naboo heat.

And you were right, nearly 10 seconds later, it crumbled to the ground, leaving you no backup and a shitty aim to hold the bounty hunter off. He was relentless. No wonder he was so notorious. Notorious was not what you wanted after you right now.

“Mando,” you yell without looking back. “Ill fix the fucking piece for cheap,” you try to reason with him, though you’re quickly shut down by a blaster hitting your close right, shuffling dust and debris on the ground, making you yelp, “for Maker’s sake, Mando!”

“Free,” he gruffed, you not realizing just how much he’d gained on you without IG-11 holding him off. “Yes, fine, fine- just put the blaster down,” you say, slowing down, turning around to see him slow to a walking pace as well. You back up, keeping distance between you.

But he doesn't set his blaster back in its holster, rather pointing it directly at your temple and saying, “get on the ground.”

“What?” You practically blubber. Did you just fall for a false promise?

“On the ground” He repeats, his voice a bit louder now through the modulator in the helmet.

Without much of a better choice, you do as asked, lowering yourself to your knees, your hands up in surrender, eyes where you'd imagine his own were under the visor.

Approaching you, he pushes your shoulder down into the dirt, removing the cloak off you and tossing it aside.

He looks down your body, searching for any weapons, the useless blaster you'd been trying to shoot at him having been dropped somewhere along the way.

With one hand, he pats down your sides, your legs, the edges of your boots. You wished you’d stored that knife in the footwear today, even if you knew it would make no difference against him.

With a pleased grunt, he cages your hands with cuffs, which you knew better than to question where he procured from.

“Mando, please,” you utter as he pulls you to your feet, though keeps that insolence beneath the mask, straight backed and not bothering to look at you as he practically paraded you down the street.

Heads turned and whispers shared, some of the men you’d stolen from, and some you’d sold to, cheering.

It took more than a comfortable amount of walking to reach the Razorcrest, parked in Pell Motto’s workshop, and seeing the hunk of metal it was truly made you wonder what it would feel like to be frozen alive.

You spot her, pit droids chirping at the sight of you restrained, and she gives you a solemn nod, greeting you before your imminent death. She was one of the only few people you purely sold undamaged goods to, so she had no problems with you, though she knew interrupting a Mandalorian from a bounty was not a good idea.

As you pushed towards the door of the Crest, he instead threw you off to the left, towards the engine, which he’d needed the piece for. “Fix it.” He commanded.

Your eyes turn to him for a moment, and you let loose a breath you didn't know you were holding. You felt like rambling of your thankfulness and extensively cussing him out at the same time. Instead, you settle on offering him your hands to remove the restrains.

It took hours under his intense gaze, sweat and grease on your face and clothes and hands by the time you finished, an assortment of tools and metal scraps all around you. Turning back to him finally, silently commanding him to run it.

He simply nods, the helmet dipping as he walks towards the hull’s entrance and disappears inside, a roar in the metal making you jump and retreat away from the ship.

After a moment of steady humming, he turns it off once again, standing at the top of the ramp and saying, “Come here.”

You're conflicted wether trying to run again or actually following direction. You knew that if you tried to escape him, you wouldn't get far, not without IG-11.

So with slumped shoulders, you stride, ever so slowly, into his ship.

He doesn't make move to restrain you again, leading you through the cockpit, past the carbon freezing chamber, and towards a small cot, him resting his back on a storage container.

“Like to play with your food, or..?” You ask, clearly a bit intimidated but not afraid enough to not poke at him as you usually did.

“You pull some bullshit like that again, y/n, and I swear-- a bounty won’t be why I kill you.”

The words make you sink back into the wall a little bit, his helmet fully trained on you, all dirty and disheveled after being chased, pushed, and forced to work.

“You need to work better on who you trust then,” You respond through the clenching in your gut.

You could tell immediately that he did not like that. As he takes a step forward, you raise your hands up in surrender for the second time today.

“Business is business, Mando, and unless you think I’m pretty enough to be a working girl-- money is made however it needs to be made.” I say with a shrug of my shoulders. “I fixed it, didn't I?"

“After I wasted my time on you.”

You scoff. “That was a great chase, im not sure what you’re referring to.”

He took a long pause, not to agree, but also not to disagree. “You better get IG-11 before the Jawas get to him first.”

You took that as the last free pass you'd get to leave the ship alive.

──────────═━━━┈┈━━━═───────────

It only took him a few weeks to return to your shop, if one could even call it that. It was a small hut set up near the outskirts of town, near the landfills, so that anyone passing by would think what lay surrounding your home was nothing more than scraps. The assassin droid had let him in, though his blaster had remained trained on a joint in the armor as the Mandalorian approached your work bench. You were hunched over the droid’s broken temperature regulator, a worn welding mask over your face, stick welders on either hand, melting a tube to the side of the device to replace the one Mando had broken.

Right now, IG-11 had some scrap piece you knew would break down within weeks, something to hold him off while you worked on his actual replacement.

“I need a landing foot.”

Not hearing his words over the buzzing of the wands or noticing him from the blocked view of the mask, he hunkered behind you, gripping the wire running power to the equipment and pulling it. As they shut down, you look back, confused, and catch a glimpse of the beskar on his thighs, letting out a sigh that made him aware of your resignation.

“Landing foot. Now.” He repeated as you raised the mask, your only response being, “1400 credits.”

He let out what sounded like a smug chuckle. “Ill give you 400.”

You twisted your face in slight offence “Are you insane?” your tone a lot more disrespectful than you knew you could afford to be to him. “400 or I take you in.”

Huffing, you say, “With his gun on you? I don’t think so,” gesturing towards IG-11.

“Oh, please, he makes one move too sharply and that haphazard tube will pop out of his arm.” He replies just as fast. “Don’t think the helmet is too thick for me to realize what a coolant device looks like.”

Watching him for a long moment, you get up and walk towards a pile of opened boxes, unorganized scattered pieces inside. “1050,” You finally say as you pull out a piece of clean metal, wide in your hands, the strip to support the ship the size of your abdomen alone.

“600”

“1000”

“800”

“900”

The mandalorian pauses for a moment. “850”

“Fine.” You utter, tossing the mask hovering over your head onto your desk, placing the foot in front of him, stretching out your hand.

“Ill transfer you after it’s installed into the ship.” He says as he looks down at your palm, calloused and covered in cooling liquid.

“Its a fucking landing foot, Mando, how could it be defective?”

“You always manage to find a way.”

“Maybe you just like me,” You shrug, knowing better than to tease him but unable to help yourself.

A scoff from under the helmet and a shift in the cape around the skin of his neck, “Don’t start.”

And so, he made you come back with him to the ship.

Kneeled under the raised hull, you twisted the wrench with a push to loosen the heavy screw, the muscles in your arm aching with the resistance of old metal. You gritted your teeth, finally feeling the bolt give, and reached back without looking.

“Smaller one,” you muttered, hand blindly searching.

He let out a grunt, clearly unamused by your tone, but passed you the thinner screwdriver from the box beside him. The thick fabric of his gloves grazed your palm, the contact hot despite the barrier. You felt it. You knew he did too.

“You're breathing on me,” you muttered, annoyed, but not enough to actually shift away. He was close. Looming, really.

“I’m not leaving you unattended,” came the low, flat reply.

You snorted softly. “Afraid I’ll sabotage it again?” “No. Just know you like to test people when they’re not looking.”

Your hands paused.

You twisted your head over your shoulder to glance at him. He hadn’t moved. Still standing solid behind you, close enough that if you pushed back even slightly, youd hit hard, cold beskar.

“You always assume the worst,” you say, fingers still moving as you twist the next piece into place.

“I’m usually correct.” His voice dropped slightly. It wasn’t harsh if it was a simple fact.

You felt heat curl up the back of your neck. Maybe it was the sun. Or the proximity.

Still working, you asked, “Get tired of watching me yet?”

A long pause.

“Not yet.”

“Fuck,” you yelp suddenly, bumping back as a hinge from the top of the rusted landing foot almost lands on your stomach, making you drop the screwdriver, your back now pressed hard against the armor.

He reached his hands under your arms to catch you from stumbling back further, his visor trained on you, as if silently asking if you were alright.

“I’d bet all my credits this is the closest you’ve been to a girl in m-”

“You don’t want to finish that sentence.”

The stern words made you swallow whatever smart-ass remark you’d tried to make, his commanding presence practically beckoning you to never speak again. But his hands remained on you, one splayed across your ribs, the other just a fraction lower, right above your waist. His fingers had a firm grip on your shirt, as if you'd just fallen, as if he wasn't quite ready to let go.

Still, you swallowed whatever begged you to just shut up and finish the job.

“Didn’t take you as the handsy type,” You say with a mocking smile, head tilted up to be able to meet the helmets view.

“I’m not,” he replied, though it was low and cut short.

He still hadn’t moved. The beskar pressing into your spine, the silence thick enough that you could hear the faint hum of the ship behind you, the sound of your own breathing. You were sure he could hear it too.

You twisted slightly in his grip, just enough to glance over your shoulder. “Then let go.”

His hands didn’t budge.

“You’re reckless,” he said simply like it explained everything.

“And you’re still here,” you shot back, barely a whisper.

Silence.

“Turn around.”

Your heart jumped. It wasn’t loud. Wasn’t threatening. But something in the way he said it, unreadable with that authority of his made you move before you even realized what you'd been doing.

You turned. Slowly, hesitantly, rotating in the tight space between him and the hull, until your chest brushed the curve of his chestplate. You had to look up to meet the black of his visor.

He didn’t step back.

The space between you felt too small now, filled with dust and tension.

“I’m not going to run,” you said, voice quieter than before.

“I know,” he replied.

His helmet tilted, just a fraction, as if scanning you. His gloved hand lifted and hovered near your jaw. Like you were a malfunction he couldn’t fix, just had to keep coming back to.

He didn’t touch you. Not yet. Just traced the air near your face like he was deciding something.

You didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.

Then, his voice came again, no less sharp.

“You think this is a game.”

You blinked once, slowly. “No,” you said. “I think it’s a job.”

His hand lowered to your side, settling at your hip, possessive in its stillness.

“I should lock you in the carbon chamber,” he muttered.

You smirked. “But you won’t.”

Another beat. Another breath.

“No, I won't."

You raised an eyebrow, heart thudding loud in your chest. “Then what?”

His hand slipped down, enough to curve around your lower back.

“You fix things with your hands. Break them, too.”

A pause.

“I’m still trying to figure out which one you’re doing to me.”

Your mouth opened, but you didn’t have a witty comeback for that. Not when his hand stayed right where it was, not when his body was a wall of heat and beskar mere inches from yours.

“I’m not doing anything,” you murmured.

He leaned in just slightly, visor inches from your face, voice sharp and quiet through the modulator, “Exactly.”

Then his hand shifted once again, curling tighter on your waist, the leather of his glove warm now from your burning skin under your shirt. He leaned in, not enough to touch, but close enough that you felt the air shift when he spoke again.

“Inside. Now.”

It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t even a threat.

It was a command.

You swallowed hard, smirk twitching at the edge of your lips. “You ordering me around on my own sale?”

“You're not selling me anything.”

His voice was measured, dangerous. You didn’t push further as he took a reluctant step back, his hand falling to his side.

Stepping out from under the ship towards the ramp, you became aware of his steps behind you. The ship loomed, a dull silver in the afternoon sun. The air felt heavier with each footstep.

By the time the Razor Crest’s ramp closed behind you with a few clicks on the control panel at his wrist, your breath was shallow and your palms were sweating.

You turned, maybe to tease, to ask what the hell this was, but he was already a breath too close again.

“Don’t play dumb now.” His voice was a rumble at your ear, the modulator not doing much to mask the timbre in his voice.

You tilted your head up at him, biting back a smile. “I thought you didn’t come back for second rounds.”

A beat passed.

“Neither do you.”

The words between you sparked the memory; oil-stained hands on your hips, the sharp edge of your workbench digging into your stomach, biting back moans because his hand was over your mouth. The fact that you hadn’t spoken of it since made it burn hotter.

“I figured you were too proud to admit you liked it,” you murmured, stepping back toward the wall of the hull, letting it catch you, letting him corner you again once again.

He didn’t take the bait. Of course he didn’t.

Instead, he just stared. Helmet angled slightly, like he was assessing damage, or weakness. With a scoff, he took a step forward, knowing he was letting you win. His gloved hand came up slowly, dragging two gloved fingers along the underside of your jaw.

“You talk too much.”

You smirked, chin lifted. “You do too little.”

His hand moved in a blur, catching your wrist as you attempted to pull him closer, pushing you back, your spine thudding gently against the wall behind you. His other hand was already sliding down your side, trailing across waistband.

“Still remember how to beg?” he asked, tone flat, unbothered, his hand dipping under the pants and palming your ass roughly.

You refused to flinch. “I didn’t beg last time.”

He laughed, not much more than a sharp huff of air through the modulator, and bent forward, voice low.

“You know you did.”

You opened your mouth, something defiant on your tongue, but it turned to a breathy curse when his gloved hand raised back up, hooking on the loop of your pants and pushing them down, just enough to see your simple black underwear, expecting you to do the rest.

Which you gladly did, hastily removing them and tossing them god-knows where while he removed his gloves and discarded them as well.

His warm hand ran slowly down your thigh, hooking on your knee and raising it to give him access to your cloth-covered cunt.

Once raised, you knew, placing your thigh on his hip, calf wrapped around the back of his thigh as his hand traced back up, thumb kneading the soft flesh.

But he just kept going up and up, thumb pressing into sticky fabric, tracing slow circles over your already throbbing core.

“Already soaked,” he murmured. It wasn't a compliment, more like a confirmation to suspicion.

“You gonna stand here narrating it, or—”

His fingers wrapped around your throat, gentle but not soft, thumb pressing into the edge of your jaw. He leaned in close again, visor nearly touching your skin.

“You’re not in charge here, mesh’la.”

You shivered. It hit you harder than it should’ve: the nickname in that voice, underlined by steel. You remembered the first time he used it, gritted out under his breath as he fucked you from behind, fingers tangled in your hair. You’d asked what it meant, and he’d told you it was the word for “beautiful” in his language. You hadn’t been able to forget it since.

Now, his hand slipped between your waistband and skin, calloused fingers dragging rough over you as he pushed further down.

“You remember how to say thank you?” he asked.

Your breath only hitched.

“No?”

Two fingers pressed your clit teasingly, refusing to give you what he knew you needed as you practically dripped precum.

“Then I’ll make you remember.”

“Mando,” You utter, eyes lowering slightly, refusing to show him how good he made you feel without even being inside you. You knew he could tell anyways, skin burning and heartbeat pounding southward.

You can practically hear the smirk in his voice when he responds, low and demanding.

“Say it.”

“Come on,” It’s an annoyed tone you take with him, and it makes him squeeze your throat just a bit tighter, dip the tip of one finger into you then remove it just as quickly to let you know exactly what you were missing.

“God- Please,” you beg, whinier than intended.

“Please what?” His voice was silk over steel, a rasp because of the modulator that somehow made everything worse. Or better. You couldn’t decide.

You tried to shift your hips against his hand, chase the friction, but his arm locked around your waist and held you still.

“Use your words.”

You scowled, even as your breath trembled. “You’re such an—”

He slipped two fingers into you, sudden and deep, and your insult died as a strangled moan instead. His other hand held you firm, pinned with nowhere to go but onto him.

“Don’t start something you can’t finish, mesh’la,” he growled, voice low and amused, but there was a warning in it too.

You clenched around his fingers, hips rolling instinctively. It wasn’t enough, not with how slow he moved, not when he deliberately avoided that one spot you needed most.

“I didn’t know you were such a tease,” you gasped.

“I’m not teasing,” he said, curling his fingers just slightly, dragging a delicious moan from your lips. “You’re the one who begged last time, remember?”

Your head remained tipped back as you bit into your bottom lip to keep from groaning again. You hated that he remembered that. You loved that he remembered that.

Still, your voice came out sharp, defiant. “And what? You think I’ll beg again?”

His hand withdrew entirely, leaving you clenching around nothing. Cold air hit your slick skin.

Your eyes flew open. “Wait- !”

He tilted his helmet. “You were saying?”

“Fuck you.”

“Eventually,” he said, tone maddeningly casual.

You tried reaching for him, grab his wrist, to drag him back where you needed him so desperately, but he caught both your hands in one of his and pinned them to your chest. His other hand dipped back down slowly, so, so slowly, and you squirmed against the wall, practically panting.

“You don’t get to take,” he said, pushing your thighs wider with a knee, “until you give.”

You let go of your lip with a slight pop. “Fine.”

A pause. Then, “Please. Touch me.”

And Maker, he did.

His fingers worked you open with ruthless control, stroking slow and deep, your whimpers caught against the inside of your teeth. The sound of your slick was obscene in the silence of the ship, each motion dragging you closer to the edge.

“You’re gonna come like this,” he said, helmet pressed right at your ear now. “Just from my fingers. And next time…”

His hand slipped lower, thumb grinding over your clit, puffy and pink as you bucked against him.

“You ask nicely from the start.”

Your hands curled against his chestplate, nails scraping the cool beskar, desperate now.

“Say it again.”

“Please—fuck—please, Mando, don’t stop—”

“Good girl.”

That did it.

Your legs shook, body clenching tight as the orgasm hit you sharp and fast, his fingers never slowing. You gasped his name again, louder this time, barely caring how wrecked you sounded.

He didn’t stop until you were twitching, breath gone, head falling back against his shoulder.

Then, finally, he eased his fingers out and wrapped both arms around you from behind, holding you steady.

“Are you going to be good now?” he murmured, voice still dark, still in control.

You were already nodding, a little too fast.

Your legs still felt weak when he pulled you toward the back of the ship, your shirt pushed halfway up your abdomen. He didn’t give you a chance to fix it, only guided you forward with a hand firm on your hip, thumb stroking once through the fabric as if to remind you who put you in this state.

“Box,” he ordered simply, nodding toward one of the metal crates bolted down along the wall. You recognized it; some forgotten supply locker you’d helped him dig through once, heavy with scrap and spare parts. Now it looked like an altar.

He turned you around, hand on the back of your neck, pushing until you were bent over it, the metal seeping cold onto your chest flush against it.

“This feel familiar?” he asked, voice thick through the modulator as his fingers hooked onto your panties, pulling them off this time. “Last time it was a workbench.”

“Yeah,” you muttered, breathless. “You didn’t even buy anything.”

“Didn’t need to.” His hands ran down the curve of your back, stopping to grip your ass in both palms. “You offered.”

“I didn’t—fuck—”

He cut you off with a sharp slap to your ass, making you jolt forward with a gasp.

“Offered,” he repeated. “And begged.”

Your fingers dug into the edges of the crate as he spread you open with both hands.

His thumb slid between your folds again, spreading the mess you’d already made. “Still soaked.”

“You gonna keep stating the obvious?” you shot back, trying to regain some control, even with your knees trembling and your spine curved just right.

Another slap. This time lower. You cried out.

“You gonna keep talking?” he said.

Then you heard it: the sound of his belt unfastening, that familiar shift of armor plates as he freed himself just enough.

A rough hand wrapped around your waist, hauling your hips back slightly, angling you where he wanted.

“Stay still.”

You barely nodded before he pushed inside—slow at first, thick and long and unrelenting, stretching you until you could barely breathe.

“Fuck—Din—”

He didn’t answer, only groaned low behind the helmet, hands tightening around your hips. His thrusts started slow, controlled, brutal. Every motion shoved you harder into the crate, the joining of your stomach and your thighs hurting from the sharp edge, but you didn’t care. All you could feel was him.

You could hear the restraint in his voice when he finally spoke again, his voice rough with strain. “You act like a brat just to get fucked like this?”

You moaned, louder than you should’ve. He snapped his hips harder.

“Answer me.”

“Yes—shit—yes.”

“Good.” His hand reached up, fingers tangling in your hair, yanking your head back just enough to see your face as you moaned for him.

Each thrust hit deeper, timed with the curve of your spine and the helpless gasp you let out every time his hips slapped against the backs of your thighs.

You couldn’t find words anymore. You just breathed, shuddering and barely holding yourself up on the crate as he used your body exactly how he wanted.

“You like being taken like this, huh?” he muttered. The modulator distorted his voice just enough to make it darker, more guttural. “Bent over. Obedient.”

You whimpered. Nodded. That was all you could do.

He fucked into you harder for that. One sharp thrust that had your toes curling inside your boots.

“I didn’t say nod.” He let go of your hair just long enough to slap your ass again, the sound echoing off the hull. “Use your voice.”

“Yes,” you choked out, teeth sinking into your bottom lip as your neck gave out, forehead now resting against your crossed forearms. “Yes, fuck—yes.”

“Good girl,” he growled, and you felt the shiver that rolled down your back like he’d pressed a cold blade there.

Then his hand returned to your hip, anchoring you in place, while the other found your clit again, fingers still bare, working quick, tight circles that had your thighs shaking.

“You’re gonna come like this,” he ordered. “Just like last time.”

You remembered last time. The mess. The way you’d been too dazed to speak after. And now, with his body pressed so tight behind yours, with his cock filling you just right and his fingers coaxing every bit of sensitivity from you, you were close, too close.

“Din, I—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can.” His voice left no room for argument. “You will.”

Your body snapped.

You came with a cry that wasn’t a word, wasn’t even a thought. He didn’t stop, kept fucking you through it, letting you tremble, fall apart around him, squeezing tight, soaking his cock as you pulsed and gasped under him.

And only when he felt you start to come down, did he finally taper off. His hips slowed to a halt, body tense, hands gripping you hard enough to leave marks.

The air was thick with heat and the scent of pleasure. The only sound was your breathing, rough and shaky, and the low mechanical hum of the ship.

He didn’t speak. Just rested a hand on your upper back, slow and grounding, tracing along your spine with the pads of his bare fingers like he was checking that you were still whole, still alive.

You stayed like that a moment, bare and used, before finally murmuring, lips curved against the crate:

“So... do I get a bonus?”

But he moved. Stepped back, adjusted his armor with a quiet huff through the modulator. A moment later, something soft landed beside you on the crate. Your pants, folded haphazardly. Then your underwear.

And then the jingle of credits. A small handful of them, tossed down casually onto the same box you were still bent over.

“Keep the change,” he said flatly.

You turned your head to glare at him, but he was already walking off. Composed again, like nothing had just happened.

He paused at the threshold of the cockpit.

And with just the tilt of his helmet over his shoulder, voice low and dry, he added, “Next time I won’t let you overcharge me.”

Then he disappeared into the piloting room, the door sliding shut behind him.

Leaving you half-dressed, a little wrecked, and already thinking about that “next time.” 𝐼𝑓 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝘩𝑖𝑠٫ 𝑝𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑒 𝑐𝘩𝑒𝑐𝑘 𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑚𝑦 𝑝𝑎𝑔𝑒٫ 𝑖𝑚 𝑡𝑟𝑦𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡𝑜 𝑔𝑒𝑡 𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑐𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛 𝑜𝑛 𝑚𝑦 𝑜𝑐 𝑥 𝑜𝑐 𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑟𝑦 "𝐶𝑙𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑒"٫ 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑖𝑡ˊ𝑠 𝑏𝑒𝑒𝑛 𝑖𝑛 𝑡𝘩𝑒 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑘𝑠 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑎 𝑙𝑜𝑛𝑔 𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑒 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑖 𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑚𝑖𝑠𝑒 𝑖𝑡𝑠 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑦 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑦 𝑔𝑜𝑜𝑑٫ 𝑠𝑜 𝑎𝑛𝑦 𝑟𝑒𝑏𝑙𝑜𝑔𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒𝑠 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑔𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑡𝑙𝑦 𝑎𝑝𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑖𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑑!

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