#skimming over things in order to cover a lot of ground and time and keep the chapter from getting even longer

[windwardstar]

i think i've reached the point with this chapter where i've stared at it so much that i'm starting to hate it because i'm only seeing the problems.

unfortunately I'm not even done with the rough draft of all the scenes. much less doing an actual editing pass.

[apomaro-mellow]

S01E06: All Bases Covered

“Okay now remember what I taught you boys. Keep it loose but stay tight.”

“What exactly are you teaching my boys?”, Joyce asked as she stepped out into her backyard, arms crossed.

Jim had on a baseball glove, as did Jonathan. Will was holding a bat.

“Teachin’ them America’s finest pastime in preparation for this weekend.”

“The charity game?”

“Yep. Alright Will, get ready”, Jim bent his knees just barely. “Jonathan, don’t go easy on him, put some mustard on it.”

“Why not some mayo and a pickle too, while you’re at it”, Joyce heckled.

Jonathan wound up and pitched to his brother, who hit the ball dead on. His, Jonathan’s, Jim’s, and Joyce’s looks of pride and wonder where all dashed the moment the ball dashed through one of the windows of the Byers house.

“Now boys, here’s another important lesson”, Jim said, adjusting his cap. “If you break a window while playing ball…book it!”

The three of them bolted off, dropping their things and ignoring Joyce’s calls.

---------------------------

Eddie cleared his throat while dusting off the microphone. He got comfortable in his seat, Nancy right along with him.

“Goooood morning Hawkins. It is a beautiful day for baseball on this clear Saturday morning. Most would say this time is better spent watching cartoons. And they’d be right!”

“But what a privilege it is to be here anyway”, Nancy gave him a look. “Remember folks, all proceeds from the concession stand, as well as donations goes to Top of the Mornin’ flower shop on 2nd Street, which suffered a devastating fire recently.”

Eddie grinned. “In addition to the snacks and donations, Steve Harrington is offering dough for kisses. 2 bucks and he’ll plant one anywhere.”

Steve, who was in the middle of jogging the bases to warm up, paused and glared at Eddie. “Buzz off, Munson!”

Nancy made sure her mic was off before reprimanding him. “Need I remind you you’re doing time for last week’s crime?”

“Hijacking the school announcements barely counts as a misdemeanor Big Wheel.”

“It’s only thanks to me that you’re doing this instead of spending all day in detention. So behave.”

“As you wish”, Eddie said with a flourish of his hand.

The two teams were made up by people in the community. Joyce wrangled the kids to represent the store she worked at. The other side was Hawkins Middle School’s actual baseball team.

Dustin watched as other kids his age ran drills with what appeared to his eyes to be militant-like precision while he sat in the dug out.

“So, we’re content with being beat, right? This is just for charity and there’s no shame in losing.”

“That sounds an awful lot like quitter talk”, Jim said, adjusting the cap on his head.

“Yeah, I don’t know about you, but I came to win”, Lucas said.

Steve beamed as he returned from his jog. “I knew there was a reason he was my favorite.”

“How am I not your favorite? I’m your sister”, El challenged.

“You just answered your own question. Sister, ergo different category than these dweebs.”

“Don’t lump me in with the rest of them, I actually know what I’m doing”, Max said while practicing her swings.

“Alright”, Jim clapped his hands. “Let’s stay focused. I’m not gonna lie and say it’s gonna be an easy game, but as long as you keep your fundamentals, we’ll be in good shape.”

Mike, Will, and Dustin looked unconvinced but they were in it now. No denying that. Steve called over Max and El for some batting practice and Jim ordered some laps for Jonathan and Dustin. He told Mike and Lucas to organize the dug out. Mike was propping up the bats when they all fell over, jostling the pile of everybody’s bags and backpacks.

He put the bats back up, then tried lining up the bags instead, when a notebook fell from one of them. The book fell with the pages open on the dirty ground. Mike picked it up and turned it over, dusting it off, eyes just happening to graze over the words as he did.

“Mike and his annoying voice…”

He shoved his face into it, skimming the words. That was his name. And a few lines later, Dustin was mentioned, then Will. He looked to the top of the page and saw that there was a date. He snapped it closed and then went over to Lucas who was just about to leave the dug out for more warm ups.

“Dude!”, Mike hissed.

“Yeah?”

"This is a diary", Mike said, holding it tightly in his hands but also at arm's length.

"And this is a baseball bat", Lucas said, knocking it against his feet. "These are all things."

“You’re not listening. This is a diary. Of someone we know”, Mike kept his voice at a whisper.

Lucas looked around to make sure no one else was watching. “Put it back where you found it before Max kills you.”

“How do you know it’s Max’s?”

Lucas shrugged. “It’s gotta be a girl’s, right? Only chicks keep diaries.”

“It could be El’s”, Mike suggested. “Aaand I can’t put it back into someone’s bag until I find out whose it is.”

“You’re treading shaky ground, friend.”

“Just-just keep a lookout, okay?”, Mike urged while opening up to the first page he had started on.

“I’m going to have to suffer through Mike and his annoying voice. He’s fine I just wish he wasn’t always so quick to argue. It gets kind of old.”

“Is my voice annoying?”

“Who cares? Did you figure it out?”, Lucas asked.

Mike was unable to answer as Nancy’s voice rang out, stating that the game would begin soon and for all players to vacate the field. Mike sat on the bench, putting the diary under him as the others returned to the dugout. 

“It is 9:05, skies are blue, wind is abouuut 2 miles towards the southeast, and it is time for some baseball!”, Eddie announced.

“The Hawkins Middle pitcher is Reggie Ranner and he’s been in the sport since he started t-ball at 5”, Nancy said. 

“And up to bat first is Will Byers. Don’t let the sweet face fool ya, he once called a grown man an idiot. To his face!”, Eddie exclaimed. “Mad respect.”

Reggie pitched and Will waited until just the last second to bunt and get himself a place on first base. While the game was going on, Mike was still reading the diary, trying to figure out who it belonged to. He tried looking at some earlier pages for context.

“We’re finally moving and I’m trying to be excited about it. Jim says we could use a fresh start. I guess I do want to get away from here. But as stupid as it sounds, moving is scary.”

“This is definitely El’s”, Mike said to himself. He imagined her lying on her bed, kicking her feet as she wrote. He skipped a few pages, trying to find something about himself.

“Life is weird here. But, maybe in a good way? I definitely never imagined having dinner with people like Dustin, or Mike, or even Jonathan. My social circle has seriously flipped. And yet it’s not that bad. What is bad is the guy who keeps hanging off these people. His name is Eddie Munson and he’s so annoying.”

Mike looked up as he heard Eddie’s voice, announcing the next batter.

“Coming up to the plate is Steeeeve Harrington. And yes ladies, he’s single.”

“Mike, come on, you’re after Steve”, Jim called out.

Mike put the book under the bench as he got up, grumbling about the futility of athletic pursuits. Steve swung and with his hit the bases were all loaded.

“All Mike has to do is hit and his team could get everyone home”, Eddie said, voice a whisper on the microphone. “Now I only read the manual ten minutes before the game, but even I know a grand slam could be major.”

Jim, Will, and Lucas were shouting encouragement to Mike who was wiping his sweaty hands down. Reggie was smirking him down.

The umpire from behind tapped him on the ankle and snickered. “Enjoy it Wheeler. This is the only time you’ll get to first base.”

Mike didn’t see the pitch. His body just moved and the ball popped right into the air. While the Hawkins Middle team scrambled, Will, Lucas, and Steve all made it home. Mike heard the cheers but all he was thinking was whether or not El would put this in her diary.

“Well we are four innings in and it seems the luck of the first inning has worn off with a current score of 5-3, Hawkins Middle up”, Nancy said. “As the weather heats up, be sure to get a drink from our snack stand. Remember, all proceeds go to Top of the Mornin’ flower shop. My partner Eddie is over there right now, grabbing refreshments.”

Nancy turned her mic off the moment she saw her brother coming up to the booth. Lucas was with him.

“Nancy, we’ve got a question”, Mike started.

“What does it mean when a girl keeps talking about a dude over and over again but only about how she doesn’t like him?”, Lucas asked.

“What are you guys talking about? Jonathan is about to pitch.”

“Can you just tell us what it means in girl-talk?”, Mike asked.

Nancy rolled her eyes. “For girls your age, if she’s constantly talking about him, usually it means she has a crush.”

She shooed them out as they started getting either excited or angry she couldn’t tell. Either way she had to get back to announcing the game. 

“If what Nancy said is true, then that means El has a crush on Eddie!”, Mike hissed in a whisper as they returned to the dugout.

“I mean…she could do worse”, Lucas said.

“She could also do better”, Mike deadpanned. “Like someone actually her age.”

“Maybe Nancy’s wrong. Maybe El actually just doesn’t like Eddie.”

“She talks about his hair a lot. Like a lot. Should I start growing mine out?”

“Mike, I guarantee you his hair is cripsier than a french fry”, Lucas said.

“Let me just see if she said anything else”, Mike began to flip the pages.

Lucas gave him a nudge and Mike hid it behind his back, then tossed it under the bench as the others returned for a switch. Jim tried to give a rousing speech as the innings went on and they didn’t score any more points after the first inning. Eventually he switched gears to ‘winning isn’t everything.’

“We’re at the last bout of the afternoon”, Eddie announced at the bottom of the ninth. “And here comes Steve Harrington and I know what you’re thinking. No, he does not stuff. He just buys his pants a size too small. And there he is giving me the bird. What a class act.”

“Is it because he’s funny?”, Mike asked.

“Is what because he’s funny?”, Dustin asked.

“Mike thinks El likes Eddie”, Lucas said.

“What?!”, Dustin shrieked, getting everyone else’s attention, and making Lucas and Mike shush him.

“And that’s the game!”, Nancy exclaimed from the booth.

Their side lost, of course. But they said good game to the other team anyway. Mike left the diary on the ground near the bags, hoping that El would gasp and exclaim when she found it. Instead, he heard Steve curse and jam it into his duffel bag, looking around to see if anyone was watching.

“So the diary was Steve’s, what does that mean?”, Lucas asked as Jim and Joyce took them all out for ice cream.

Mike shrugged. “Steve hates Eddie. That’s not news.”

[junicai]

ridin’ n rollin’.

| order no. | 8/21

| summary | When the world is already off kilter, should you not free fall down to meet it? 

| word count | 2.4k

| warnings | injuries

| era | circa. April 2020

Aria stumbled into the changing rooms, fist shoved into her mouth to stop the broken cry from jumping out on the wave of tears that threatened to spill from her eyes. Her free hand was pulling at the mic pack, desperately trying to unwind it from where it was tucked in on the waistband of her trousers. 

A pair of hands joined her, unravelling the wires quickly and efficiently. Once the mic pack was removed, it was handed off to someone else - Aria wasn’t sure who - and she was being spun around to face a concerned Renjun.

“What happened?” He demanded, already searching the rest of her body for injuries. 

Aria didn’t know. 

The day had started off on the wrong foot; like god himself had woken up on the wrong side of the bed. 

Donghyuck had stumbled into the bathroom at six in the morning, and his retching woke up Jisung who was sleeping next door. The maknae had sleepily shuffled into the bathroom to see what was wrong, but when he was greeted with a shivering Donghyuck clutching to the toilet bowl like a lifeline, the tall boy snapped awake. 

Aria had been woken up, and then Jeno, and Renjun and Jaemin woke up soon afterwards from all the noise caused by the commotion. 

It took them two hours, but by eight, Donghyuck was curled miserably into the corner of the couch, pale cheeks contrasted by a bright red flush sitting high on his cheekbones. A waste bin was placed on the floor in front of him, and two fever reducers were all but force-fed to the boy.

At first, Donghyuck had adamantly refused to take them; saying that he wasn’t sick, he had just eaten something that hadn’t agreed with him and he was fine now, see? 

Aria all but scoffed at that. She held it in, because she knew she’d be doing the exact same thing, would she be in his position. The broadcast performance was scheduled to be filmed that evening, and no one liked stepping down. Not even for a day. 

It was only when Aria had fixed him with a pleading look, eyes wide and worried, that Donghyuck caved. The two pills were swallowed, and when he was once again comfortably swaddled in as many blankets as they could salvage from around the dorm did the members return to their own morning routine. 

After all; the world doesn’t stop turning for a sick member, although sometimes Aria wished it did. She hated to leave Donghyuck alone; and she knew he’d never admit it to them, but he hated it to. 

All of them did, really. It was visible in the way that Jeno had put the back of his hand up to Donghyuck’s forehead three times in the last ten minutes; in the way Jisung was hovering anxiously, waiting for an instruction to go get a glass of water or another pillow; the way that Renjun had only rolled his eyes a tiny bit when Donghyuck insisted he was well enough to perform but stumbled backwards onto the couch when he attempted to stand up. Jaemin had lunged for his arm, catching the sick boy before he could do himself some more damage. 

The van had pulled up outside the dorms several hours later; and Donghyuck had waved them a sullen goodbye from his position on the couch. Aria closed the door behind her, but not before reminding him again to take another fever reducer in an hour, and to keep himself hydrated.

Donghyuck had rolled his eyes, and told her to stop worrying. “You’ll turn yourself grey, mom.” 

Aria had narrowed her eyes and stuck out her tongue, swinging the door shut. She relished in the bright burst of laughter that echoed through the hall. 

The journey to the venue was quiet. 

As was the changing room - the only noise coming softly from Chenle’s earbuds that he’d put in the second they’d located their room, and the soft bustling of the stylists as they moved around the members. 

Aria was tensed in her chair, anxiety running up and down her spine at the thought of something happening to Donghyuck while they were gone.

What if his fever spiked again? 

What if he fell and didn’t have the strength to get up? 

What if-

“Noona.” Jisung’s voice dragged Aria out from her own head. His larger hand encircled her smaller one, gently but firmly unravelling the fingers that were digging her nails into her palm. 

She took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. “Thanks, Sung.” She whispered, patting his hand lightly. 

Jisung made no move to leave, and instead took up the vacant spot beside her on the plastic-covered sofa in the corner of the room. “You’re worried.” He stated. 

Aria turned to look at him. Jisung had lost a lot of the baby fat from his cheeks that year - accentuating his jawline. He looked older, more mature. It suited him, she decided. Maturity was something he wore like it belonged on him; settling like the sun sets comfortably without fail. 

“We all are.” Aria sighed out eventually, taking a glance around the room. Jaemin was laid back in the chair as a stylist worked on fluffing up his hair, keyboard clicking obnoxiously as he typed on his phone. 

Normally the sound would bother Jeno - who was sitting adjacent, in a similar position - was it not for his phone making identical clicks. 

Aria couldn’t blame them; she’d turned her phone off silent the second they’d left the dorms in case Donghyuck called one of them. 

If the boy knew how frazzled the group was without him there, he’d have a fit. He’d never let them live it down. 

“It’s hyung, noona. He’ll be fine.” Jisung said, nodding resolutely. 

“He will, Sung. He’ll be fine, and then we can all go back to complaining about his presence.” Renjun made his presence known as he entered the room, directing his attention towards the pair immediately. 

“Ari, they’re looking for you for mic check.” He said, jerking his head over his shoulder. 

“Right, okay. Thanks, Injunnie.”

The following thirty minutes passed in a smushed blur of costume fittings, foundation brushes and an uncomfortably suffocating amount of hairspray. Aria was coughing by the time the stylist let up, waving a hand to try and disperse the smell. 

“Ari? We gotta go.” Jeno called, already halfway out the door. 

“C-coming,” She choked out, eyes watering slightly but determined not to wipe at them, less she end up with a streak of black across her cheek. 

By the time Aria had met up with the others in the wings, sliding her in-ears in, her breathing had steadied, and a little knot was beginning to form in the bottom of her stomach. She still got nervous before performing - didn’t think it ever really went away completely - but those were normally excited nerves.

This pit that was slowly growing felt foreboding. 

It went ignored, sliding under the radar as her in-ears began the steady metronome click that she’d become so accustomed to. She zoned out, and zoned back in, body moving in time with the others in flawless unity. 

Dancing without a member always felt off - felt empty, but it was nothing the group hadn’t dealt with previously. They knew the formations, knew who took what lines to fill in, and where their positions changed to keep formations looking slick and clean and not like one of them had been knocked over like a bowling pin; out for the count. 

Aria stepped backwards to let Chenle take her place as centre. Her mind was busy, tracking Jaemin’s positioning and making sure she stayed far enough away to give him space; so when a heavy, piercing sound ran through her right ear, she hardly registered it. 

It took her a moment, but her gasp of pain was heard over the microphones, a both hands coming to clap over her ear as the in-ear continued to bleed head-scrambling sounds into her brain. Aria tilted sideways, knees crumbling beneath her as she lost her balance and went crashing to the floor. 

She didn’t hear the gasp that floated up around the room; skimming right over her head that was pounding like a sledgehammer. Her hands scratched at the floor, trying for purchase and finding none.

Jeno, behind her was already half-dancing his way closer to her, and trying to help her back up without completely abandoning the song entirely. Aria’s breath was coming fast; the tech team having enough sense to cut her mic for the time being. 

When a half bar of silence sounded instead of Aria’s vocals, Chenle stepped in, ever the professional, singing her lines for her as the girl tried to regain her balance. 

Despite Jeno’s insistent push towards the wings, Aria shook her head minutely at the boy, rejoining the second last chorus. She could feel the boys’ eyes on her, burning into her back.

The in-ears bounced around her neck on their chords, having unconsciously tugged them out from her ears. 

Per the formation, there was to be a metre and a half gap in between each member, but Jaemin paid no mind to that, coming to stand almost directly beside her in the final few bars of the song; completely prepared to catch her should she take another stumble.

Aria was the first off the stage, stumbling over her own legs.

She stumbled into the changing rooms, fist shoved into her mouth to stop the broken cry from jumping out on the wave of tears that threatened to spill from her eyes.

Her vision swam like she was sea-sick.

With her free hand pulling at the mic pack, desperately trying to unwind it from where it was tucked in on the waistband of the orange trousers, her breath was coming in heavy, shallow gasps.

A pair of hands joined her, unravelling the wires quickly and efficiently. Once the mic pack was removed, it was handed off to someone else - Aria wasn’t sure who - and she was being spun around to face a concerned Renjun.

“What happened?” He demanded, already searching the rest of her body for injuries.

“I don’t- I can’t- ringing-” Aria gasped, hands coming to clutch at Renjun’s jacket. “My ear, it’s- it’s ringing, I can’t-” 

“Ari, I need you to breath, hold on a second, okay?” Renjun asked, shooting a look at Jaemin, who went to gently pull off Aria’s sweat-soaked jacket. 

She sunk to the ground, knees giving out for a second time. Renjun followed her, Jeno’s arms slipping beneath her armpits to stop her hitting the ground too hard. 

The only sound in the room was Aria’s uneven breathing, coming in irregular pants and choking her. 

The members settled around her, but being mindful to stay a comfortable distance away. Should Aria slip too far into her own mind, too many hands could send her flying into another panic.

“I can’t hear.” Aria whispered eventually, hands still maintaining their tight grip on Renjun’s jacket. He inhaled sharply, turning to face her dead on. 

“What? What do you mean you can’t hear?” He questioned, his own hands moving to gently grip the sides of her face. 

“Ringing,” Was the only explanation that Aria offered, canting sideways in his grip. 

Renjun choked lightly, trying to hold her upright. “No no, Ari, you gotta stay sitting like this, okay? What happened?” 

Chenle and Jeno exchanged a glance. 

“Did she hit her head?” Chenle asked.

Jeno instantly shook his head. “No, I saw her fall. She was clutching at,” he pointed. “Her right ear though.” 

Renjun looked back to him, before returning his focus to Aria. “Hey, Ari? Ari, your ear is ringing, right? Am I right?” 

Aria nodded slowly. 

“Okay, that’s okay. Was the feed too loud, or something?” 

This time, Aria shook her head, lifting a hand to mime an explosion by the ear. “Was like it exploded.” 

Jisung looked frantic. “Did her earpiece blow up?!” 

Jaemin emerged from the doorway, a mic pack clutched in his hand and a dark look on his face. “Feedback.” He grit out. “Mic pack malfunctioned, sent nearly 120 decibels into her right ear.” 

Jaemin held up the offending piece of equipment. “It even fried the voice coils.” 

Renjun was trying to keep Aria from slipping sideways. “What does that mean?” 

“It means, Ari just got blasted with the sound of a fire cracker right in her eardrum. It’ll be ringing for a while.” Jaemin moved to crouch behind Aria, taking some of the weight from him. 

“Permanently?” Jisung asked.

“They don’t know, but probably not. It’s mostly the shock of it, that causes ringing, I think.” 

Jeno swiped a hand over Aria’s forehead, swooping the hair back from her face. She whimpered at the act, nosing her way closer to the hand. Leaning down to her left ear, Jeno lowered his voice to let him whisper gently. 

“Hey, baby,” He began, keeping his voice level. “You’re gonna be okay, alright?” 

Renjun’s arms tightened around Aria’s middle, and it wasn’t long until Jisung and Chenle moved forwards to do the same. 

“The in-ear got a little loud, that’s all,” Jeno continued, hand coming to gently flick at her right ear. “No explosions - your ear is still there. Do you want to try standing up with me?”

At Aria’s mild agreement, Jeno shifted into a crouch and the multiple pairs of arms around her waist loosened minutely.

“You’ll be a bit off balance, baby, but that’s fine. That’s normal, and you’re okay. If you feel like you’re going to fall, then I can carry you, okay?” 

“So, what I’m hearing is, we’re never using in-ears again?” Donghyuck whisper-yelled from his position on the couch; Aria tucked into his chest. 

His fever had broken while they had gone, and their manager suspected it was just a twenty four hour bug.

Aria shifted slightly, whining at the noise, and Donghyuck instantly began crooning at her, whispering soft words of comfort in her left ear to get her to go back to sleep. 

Renjun rolled his eyes. “Jaemin considered it.” 

“Hyung looked like he wanted to murder someone.” 

"I still do."

[gureishi]

Hello~ can you please do a HC NSFW with Jumin based in “Freak” by Doja Cat? please.

Btw, thank you, had a good day.

Teehee! What I'm getting out of this is you wanna hear about Jumin being dominated. An excellent idea.

NSFW below the cut (cw: light bondage, gagging, biting)

Jumin's in charge, so much of the time.

In his daily life, of course, everyone listens to him. He speaks and people fall silent; he enters a room and they stand at attention. It's always been this way, and he's used to it.

And so it's natural that there are certain ways in which he wants to take charge at home, too. He likes to see the way your face flushes when he tells you to strip for him; he loves it when you're pinned down beneath him—or tied up—or blindfolded and writhing as he skims his fingertips over your bare skin.

But it is exhausting taking the lead all the time, and it is overwhelming always having the last word. Some days, Jumin gets a soft sort of look in his eyes, like he needs someone to sit him down and tell him what to do. Oh, and you’d love to.

He speaks all day long—firm and full of gravity—and so perhaps he would like to not speak at all. He'd love it if you gag him with a piece of silk and part his thighs as he sits on the couch, running your hand over the bulge in his pants till he can't see straight.

"Don't make a sound," you'll tell him. He'll groan and then go silent, because he delights in being good for you.

You'll take his clothes off slowly, breathing on his skin and making him shiver. You'll tell him to get on the ground (on the ground) and he'll do it with big, wide eyes because he’s not used to being given orders.

Tie his arms over his head with another bit of silk—or anything soft that will make him feel like he's floating. Maybe he'd like to be tied to the arm of the couch or the base of one of his ridiculously overpriced end tables. Tell him what you're going to do to him in a clear voice and see the way he shudders.

He needs you so badly he doesn't remember who he is.

Tease him—torment him. Kiss all along his length but don't take it all the way into your mouth; nibble at his skin to leave the tiniest little bruises dotting his neck and chest and arms (he'll thank you for it later, because he loves to remember that he's yours).

Remind him to stay silent when he hisses at the feeling of your teeth on his ear—then stroke him with your hand till he's shaking and pull away, leaving him desperate and miserable.

Oh, but it's the kind of misery that makes the whole world go blurry. Take the silk from his mouth and tell him to beg for you: he'll do it, like this—and his deep voice will shake as he whispers your name.

Ask him if he wants you. He is so solid and sure of himself most of the time, but he'll tell you yes in a hoarse whisper that's full of longing. If he doesn't have you, he'll simply fade away.

So you straddle him and set the rhythm: so slow, at first, that he thinks the world is going to end. Pause to bend over and kiss his throat to feel the way it vibrates.

And perhaps his eyes will flash dark, the way they sometimes do—perhaps he'll look straight at you and tell you, in a voice full of certainty, not to tease him anymore. And this command out of nowhere will set you on fire: you'll go faster now, fingers tingling, muscles aching as you try to keep it together.

You'll come at the same time, and through a haze of pleasure you'll see the way his eyes cloud over. He's not here, you think—he's not seeing. He's lost in the ocean of belonging to you.

Afterwards, you will cover his body in tender kisses. He'll clear his throat, feeling a little bit awkward—but you'll give him his clothes and smile and then climb into his lap and he'll feel normal again.

"Thank you," he'll purr, face buried in your shoulder. You'll laugh because it's an odd thing to say.

"For what, darling?"

He'll breathe deeply and hold you tight, and you'll know that he means a lot of things.

"For letting me be soft," he'll say. And you know what he means: he is sharp like ice all day long—but here, in your home, he can bend; he can fold; he can be held.

[coldshrugs]

vacation, had to get away

featuring: rook and rebecca greene + baby alma word count: 2k note: a @wayhavensummer entry for the 7/11 prompt vacation. warnings for suspense/dark tones and imagery/the feeling of being watched. this isn't what i usually write, but it was a lot of fun!

--- ☀ --- ☀ --- ☀ --- ☀ --- ☀ ---

When Rebecca tells Rook she doesn't want to go on this vacation, she doesn't tell him why. The car is mostly packed. The beachfront hotel has been booked for months. They bought the baby a swimsuit, for god's sake.

No, she doesn't tell him why. It isn't tangible enough to be convincing.

"Let's call it off. There are so many things I could get done at work this week."

"Becks, I say this with love: you're a workaholic. We're going to the beach for the week." He punctuates it with a kiss. Rebecca doesn't miss the unmarked beige envelope Rook slips into one of the last minute bags; she's not the only one with work in mind.

The following morning, they pile into the car with a few more duffles and that horribly itchy feeling on the back of Rebecca's neck.

She asks Rook to wait while she double (triple) checks the front door is locked. Of course it is.

The itch lingers as they pull out of the driveway. It sticks with her all the way to the edge of town.

"Tell me something I don't know about you," she beams once they're on the highway, once she can breathe.

Bare feet on the dashboard and sunglasses covering her eyes. The sun hasn't even peaked, but it's scorching already. They roll the windows down, and her hair, free from the usual oppressive bun, whips around her face. She feels like Becks for once. Not Rebecca.

"You know everything about me, B."

"C'mon, there's gotta be something." Her mind spins to the envelope in his bag. "One single thing."

"Okay," Rook begins. Full lips part into a hypnotic smile as he chews on the story. "I had a friend in college, Zack, that taught this contemporary dance class a couple weekends each month. It was a few extra bucks in his pocket and he got a couple dates out of it; a pretty sweet gig, right? One weekend he overdid it the night before his class. He shows up at my dorm, looking like death and practically begging me—" his voice rises— "'Otis, please man. I can't lose this job, can you just go down to the rec center and sub for me?'"

"You?" Rebecca recoils, silent laughter shaking her shoulders. "You can't dance to save your life."

"I know this. You know this. Zack should've known this, but apparently he didn't."

"What did you do?"

"I went down to the rec center, put on some Grandmaster Flash, and did the worst interpretive dance you can imagine."

Rebecca shoves the sunglasses into her hair, helplessly wiping at the tears running down her cheeks.

"Zack still owes me," Rook sighs. "Wonder what he's up to now."

Rebecca forgets, for a moment, the nagging in her gut that tells her this is a terrible idea. This is what they need; a week away from Wayhaven, from the Agency, from whatever is... watching.

A week to be normal.

Yeah, this is good.

They stop for gas about halfway to the coast. Rook fills the tank, while Rebecca throws Alma on her hip and heads into the store.

She and the baby jabber back and forth about snacks, and she holds up packages of fruit gummies and crackers for Alma to choose with tiny hands. It's then that her stomach lurches. The unwelcome fingers of dread, cold and sick, squirm against her scalp. She drops both packages, almost drops Alma too. The doorbell chimes, and her grip tightens around her daughter as she turns toward the entrance.

It's only Rook.

And a man in the corner.

She didn't notice him before. He wears a dark suit, and his face is like a knife, and he rushes toward Rook. His sharp features are unsettling even in his haste. He knocks against Rook's shoulder with a rough thud. Rook, transfixed by the sudden touch, watches the man leave. As soon as he's out of the store, the knot of Rebecca's anxiety untangles.

"Rook?" She calls across the store. He doesn't budge. She picks up the small mess she made and calls for him again. "Rook."

Only when she touches his arm does he snap out of the trance with a heaving gasp. And then... he's back to normal.

"What are we munching?"

"What the hell was that, Rook? Do you know that guy?" Her voice is a harsh whisper as she tries to keep Alma from hearing her fear.

His gaze pans slowly, vacantly, from the door to Rebecca. "What guy?"

Like a thick, dry pill, apprehension sits heavy in her throat. She swallows it, along with her growing list of questions. She pays for their snacks and leads Rook outside. Every muscle in her body is tense, prepared for a fight until they're in the car again.

--- ☀ --- ☀ --- ☀ --- ☀ --- ☀ ---

The week rips past them like a tornado through a small town. Their hotel room (a ground floor double-bed setup complete with the usual washed out pastel textiles and white wicker furniture) looks the part. Alma's scattered collection of shells too beautiful to part with, tacky airbrushed t-shirts draped over the chairs, and a healthy sprinkling of sand being ground into the carpet are evidence of that.

They spend the days exploring the aquarium, strolling the worn and salty boardwalk for unusual shops, dipping into local eateries for fresh seafood. Every other moment is spent on the beach; building sandcastles or running into waves with the baby between them and swinging her up at the last second. Salt spray in her bouncing mass of curls and her squealing laugh stolen by the wind.

Between the clutter and sightseeing, even under the blazing coastal sun, there's always something dark shifting just at the edge of Rebecca's vision. Faint shadows twisting out of view at the last second. The wound-wet itch of unease prickling her skin.

Someone is watching—of that, she's certain.

And then there's the envelope.

Rook's made an excuse or two to be alone. Just running out to grab more sunscreen, or picking up takeout because Alma's too fussy for a restaurant tonight. Innocuous things, but each time he goes, the envelope seems to follow.

Rebecca is sure it holds an answer, or at least a lead.

On the last night of their vacation, he leaves again. But this time, it's a trip for ice-cream with Alma in tow.

Rebecca watches them through the blinds, and once she's sure they're not turning back, she goes for his luggage.

It's not well-hidden. It's nestled under his dirty clothes, sealed with twisted thread that takes a few seconds to unwind. God, he's so unorganized, and for once she's thankful for it.

Carefully, she empties the contents onto the bed: hastily folded, handwritten notes; a few polaroids; and Agency documents? The documents are completely uncensored, not one black bar, not a single covered word. That tells Rebecca everything she needs to know—whatever Rook's doing, it's beyond either of their clearance levels. This is dangerous.

Shit.

That knowledge only nudges her curiosity over the edge. She skims over the pages, drinking in the information as quickly as possible. ...modern supernaturals seek reparations... inhumane treatment... would lose valuable specimens... Agency officials refuse to negotiate.

His notes list locations all over the east coast, some underlined, including the beach they're visiting. The photos show imprisoned supernaturals, each noxious gas cloud above them and their faces distorted in silent, exhausted screams. She recognizes some of them, though she's never been allowed to view them outside a transport situation.

But what's he doing with this? How on earth did he get all this?

A pounding knock shakes the door. Rebecca, torn away from this unplanned investigation, loses hold of the papers in her hands. They flutter to the floor.

"Shit, shit, shit." She scrambles to collect the documents and put them in order.

The knock booms through the room again, more impatiently this time.

Rebecca stalks to the door, dipping into her handbag for the Agency-standard volt gun as she goes. No one's there when she presses her eye to the peephole, but a third thunderous knock sends her stumbling backward with a choked scream.

"Agent Rebecca Greene." The voice is icy, hollow, and this isn't a question. They know her. "I would like to speak with you. Now."

The words are more instruction than threat. Rebecca expects any inaction on her part to change that, so she scampers to the door and twists it open.

It's him.

The man from the gas station. She knew it would be, but knowing and seeing—feeling, because every cell in her body tells her that being so close to this man... this creature... is unsafe—are very different things.

His skin (pale, and tight, and plastic-smooth) lacks definition, as if he's bloodless, and his blue irises are just a little too small, mouth a little too wide. He doesn't look real, and she's grateful the shadow of his hat obscures some of his face.

It doesn't hide the jagged line of his pointed teeth when he speaks though.

"That's better. May I come in?"

Against her instinct, she steps aside to let him pass. Careful not to touch her, he strolls across the room as if he's been here before. She wonders if he has, while they've been out.

His eyes fall to the half-opened envelope.

"What do you want?" Rebecca backs up until her legs bump against the bed.

He sucks in a breath and looks toward the ceiling. "I want to know why your husband is meddling . I want to know why he is watching a Watcher, badly. And—" he points to the documents Rook seems to keep with him at all times— "I have been waiting for this."

Without saying another word, he picks them up and starts reading.

Rebecca's presence is inconsequential. She waits in silence, the volt gun half raised. She tries to keep an eye out for sudden movements from the Watcher (and what the hell is a Watcher? Her mind swings through random bits of mythology and something between angel-but-not and urban legend seems to stick), but it's tough to look at him.

Finally, he exhales and, in a whisper Rebecca is sure isn't meant for her, says, "Friend and not foe, then." Louder, to her this time, "You read this. You witnessed."

"Y-yes," she croaks.

"And what did you make of it? What do you think?" His voice is cold, even, judging.

She doesn't know how to answer. A couple minutes is hardly enough time to sort out the ethics of this situation, much less her own standing. She's done no research, but she's never had reason to doubt the Agency. The only truth she knows right now is this man feels like death walking.

"I don't know what to think. I need to speak to my husband. If he's in trouble, I can help. The Agency can help—"

"If you so readily walk the line between advocate and adversary after witnessing an injustice, then you have made a decision, Rebecca. We cannot use you."

He pulls a pen from his pocket and gives it a sharp click (the movement and sound almost make her pull the trigger of her volt gun, almost) and scribbles something on the back of Rook's notes. Then, he neatly returns the contents to the envelope and tucks everything back into the luggage.

He turns to Rebecca, and his mouth, his smile is wide enough that the corners of her own throb. Phantom cracks that make her wince. Impossibly sharp. "I mean you no harm, and you will not remember."

In a blurred rush, he squeezes her shoulder. Her knees buckle as the door slams.

--- ☀ --- ☀ --- ☀ --- ☀ --- ☀ ---

"Becks? Hey. Hey, Rebecca, are you okay?"

It's Rook. An echo of him, anyway.

His voice is caught between the song she's humming and another unnamed voice that floods her mind like ice water. She doesn't want to touch that, so she focuses on the song.

And on Rook's warmth.

Dappled morning light across his rich brown skin. Rook softly snoring, softly singing, softly whispering the ways he loves her. She could stretch those small undeserved moments into infinity, the ones in which Rook smooths the roughest of her edges, turns her in his hands and makes her soft too.

He is the quiet thrill of crawling into already warm blankets, the taste of strawberry pie, the sun and the wind on her skin on a long car ride.

He is endless joy, and he is hers.

Right?

Then the warmth is a real pressure against her cheek.

Her eyes are already open but she sees him, both of them, for what feels like the first time. Rook, chaotically charming even through a cloud of worry. Alma, plump and curious, their brightest star.

"How was the ice-cream? Did you guys bring one back for me?" She leans up for a kiss.

Rook meets her lips, brows knitting in confusion. "You okay? You were really zoned-out for a second—and why is the volt gun out?"

She shakes her head. Not a thing in the world could be wrong. They're on their first family vacation. It's been a wonderful trip.

She doesn't understand why he looks so concerned.

"I'm not sure," Rebecca smiles, "but this vacation was exactly what we needed."

[thekingdomofelfhame]

Jurdan Fanfic: Highschool AU Part 1

Summary: Much to Jude's annoyance and surprise, she and Cardan have been paired for a school project. Cardan's feelings, on the other hand, continue to blossom when he arrives at Jude's apartment only to witness something beyond his comprehension.

Warnings: Mild cursing

This will be an alternative between Cardan and Jude POV just to get a good look at how their feelings develop.

Cardan POV:

She keeps staring at the ring enclosing her finger, her gaze never shifting to the notes scattered on her dressing, her walnut eyes intense with emotion. She kept humming the same tune over and over, her voice as smooth and soft as butter as she traced invisible patterns on her ruby studded ring, its bright red colour magnifying the beauty of her hand.

I had never seen her like this: bursting with emotions. Standing before me was the same girl who lived in impenetrable walls, walls that I had been trying to overcome only to lead us down a path of hatred. She was the girl of steel, no titanium, and yet she melted away like snow in early spring when no one was around.

Her voice echoes in the room which-surprise, surprise- is a mess of pillows and papers. This girl had been haunting my dreams since sophomore year but my foolish imaginations were nothing compared to the beauty that stood before me and when she starts vocalizing, I swear my heart skips a beat.

As she turns to pick up her phone, her eyes find mine and I am robbed of the melodious voice that had filled this room a few seconds ago. I am pretty sure I see her eyes swimming in tears but she immediately blinks them away. She has trained herself well.

I hadn't even realized she was in her bathrobe until she stopped singing and am left with her perfectly masked yet startled cuteness when she becomes aware of her current state.

"Why'd you stop?" I say clearly disappointed, "your voice is beautiful"

"Weren't you supposed to be here at 11 30?", she says completely ignoring what I just said, tightening her robe around her.

"I clearly said I'd be at your place by 11", my eyes skim over her robe and am pleased to see her cheeks flush with colour as I say, "maybe I'll make a habit of coming early"

"How'd you even get in?"

"Your roommate let me in and, oh, she told me to inform you that she will be staying with her boyfriend for a while"

"Wow. She and Van are really speeding things up", there a short pause that feels like eternity before she says, "Okay, now could you go wait in the lounge while I get ready?", she says and something tells me she is not asking. Though I would very much prefer to stay, I obey her orders for she is The Queen of my heart.

Jude POV:

I walk out of the room, no longer dripping, and am utterly surprised to find Cardan lounging on the white sofa, one of his legs draped over the arm rest. He looks...comfy.

I think about the way he was looking at me in awe when I found him leaning against my door, his dark black eyes peering into mine. I had never seen him so captivated. How long had he been standing there?

Your voice is beautiful...

His words ring in my ears and I can't help the faint pink rising on my neck. Cardan Greenbriar had complimented me; that was a first. I was surprised he didn't make fun of me just like he has been since the day I set foot into school. He didn't mock me as he usually would, seeing my emotional outburst. This was Cardan Greenbriar, the most spoiled rich kid who never gave a fuck about anyone.

I had never once let anyone past my defenses, not even my family, foster or not. No one knew about this small world of mine and I liked to keep it that way. That is, until today when I saw a pair of iridescent coal black eyes bewitching me into wanting to tell him everything about this tiny world I had created where I would doze off to whenever I wished. That was when reality hit me and I was reminded of why I had lived in an armour for so long, why I had never let anyone get close to me.

I snap out of my thoughts when Cardan interrupts, "Like what you see, huh?". I scoff and I didn't realize I had been staring at him as he further added, "Should we get on with the project or are you gonna stand there all day, thinking about me?"

"Asshole. You wish", I snap right back at him and he lets out a soft laugh as I go through his notes.

We had agreed on double-checking each other's notes before we started the project, and by the looks of it, we had a lot of work to do. Surprisingly, Cardan's notes were not only correct and authentic, they were thorough and much more organized than mine. He had even used fancy words like serendipity- I mean what does that even mean?

"Jude, I think some of your notes are missing", he says raising his black brows and a book with torn pages.

"Oh, yeah. The torn notes are in a green file right over there", I gesture to the stack of books behind him as he leans over to find it only to frustrate me further when he says, "Uh, Jude. There is no file here".

"It should be there. It cannot go anywhere", I stand up and walk towards the mountain of books.

That was when I realized my foot is asleep and I stumble over a book, covering my face with my hands, ready for impact. Only I don't hit the ground; instead I feel arms slide around my waist and when I remove my hands from my face, the first thing I see are Cardan's eyes partially covered by his black locks.

I almost get lost in the moment. The world stops when he runs his hand through his hair as if he is nervous and he stares back at me. That is, until I remember who he is.

Ughhh....

"Looks like you're falling for me, Jude", he teases.

I abruptly push him off of me and start looking for the notes. Despite my foot still being asleep, I try to walk as if nothing happened but the bastard still notices.

"Here. Let me help you", he reaches for my hand but I stop him with a gesture and he does.

Looks like my defiance all these years really did have an effect on him.

"If you want to help, start by looking for a green file. It is unlabeled, no fancy decorations what so ever"

"What else to expect from the boring Jude Duarte"

"Well, at least I am not like one of those stupid girls who are so easily charmed by you"

"Did you just say I am charming?"

"Fuck off"

"Okay, okay", he raises his arms in defeat and I go to my room to look for the file. My eyes shift to the scattered notes over my bed and my dressing and my carpet.

Shit.

This is going to take longer than I thought.

Cardan POV

As I search through her notes, my thoughts keep drifting to the moment I had her in my arms, her body fitting right into my hands. I battled with the urge to get lost in her deep brown eyes or to drop a kiss on her cute nose.

No, no, no. Stop.

Wine. I needed wine. I needed wine right now.

Jude hated me and I should hate her. She was the one person who had refused to let me get my way and would continue to do so. She could never want someone like me, let alone love. This was just a project and as soon as it would finish, we would go our separate ways.

And yet, I cannot help but think about her all the time.

Jude POV

I return to the lounge drenched in sweat, panting and gasping for air. I had been rummaging in my room for the past hour and had finally found that file.

I slam the file onto Cardan's face and he doesn't dare reply when he sees my tired state. I sink into the sofa, one hand covering my eyes the other blindly searching for the glass of water on the front table.

"What happened to you?", Cardan asks as I open my eyes to find him completely shocked but instead of answering him, I gesture towards the file while gulping down my third glass of water.

"Let's continue. I don't want to waste any more time", my voice is dry as I open my laptop to start typing in the outline and he continues to examine my notes.

"God, your handwriting is horrible", his voice is filled with surprise as he brings one of the papers closer to those haunting, dazzling eyes to get a better look but gives in and throws it back onto the table.

"If you can't read it, why don't you make me something to eat instead?", I say robotically while looking at my screen and had not expected him to actually go to the kitchen in search for food.

My eyebrows furrow together as I walk up to him and say, "I was joking! Come on, we gotta get this done"

"I know you were joking and I know we have to this done but I am hungry and if you are not going to ask me then I am going to make myself", he complains as he looks around, opening cabinets and drawers.

"I didn't know you could cook", I say clearly perplexed by his actions.

"There are many things you do not know about me, Duarte", he continues his search and when I have had enough of his noise I say, "Stop! Okay, stop making noise! God, it's like raising a child or something", I grab the spatula from his hands but he takes it back saying, "Well, I am hungry and I can't work when I am hungry and by looking at you, you should be too"

As much as I would hate to admit it, I was hungry and I felt like I hadn't eaten in ages.

"Fine, you cook and I am going to take a break and watch some Netflix", I say right before telling him about where I keep the food and where the utensils are.

"One more question. Should I make sandwiches or hotdogs?"

"Lilliver usually does the cooking so, whatever you want", I turn on the television and continue to watch Shadow and Bone, each episode more intriguing than the last.

I hadn't realized an hour had passed when Cardan came with sandwiches.

The room is suddenly filled with the smell of freshly made sandwiches and that does nothing to satiate my hunger as I reach out for the dish set in front of me but Cardan quickly grabs the dish before I can get my hands on a sandwich.

"Patience is a virtue, dear Jude", Cardan says raising a long slender finger in the air.

"First of all, never and I mean NEVER call me dear", I glare at him as I grab the dish back, careful not to break it, "And you took so long making sandwiches that I got hungry"

I take a bite of the sandwich and if I am being honest, I had never tasted such sandwiches in my life and Cardan must have noticed me and my increasing craving for his delicious sandwiches that only seemed to make my hunger more insatiable when he said, "Either you like them", he gestured towards the half-bitten sandwich and its cheese dripping from the side of my mouth, "or you haven't eaten all day"

"Hmm. Yeah, I think it is the latter", I lie through my teeth with ease as I take a second one into my mouth.

I would never compliment him to his face, especially since I don't want him spreading the story in school.

"Why are you acting like this?", I ask out of nowhere before I can even process what I just said out loud.

"Like what?", he asks dumfounded

"I don't know, you seem a bit more... tolerable, I guess", my voice almost drops to a whisper as I stare at my third sandwich, suddenly looking for something more interesting in a piece of food that would soon be in my mouth.

He doesn't answer but I am able to see his mood shift as his body language completely changes and his muscles become more stiff. His pupils become dilated and he looks every bit as horrifying as he did when he once threw dust into my food after I had punched him.

All of a sudden, I regret what I had said and cursed my stupid mouth for opening itself.

We don't speak to each other for the rest of the night and though I hated Cardan with all that I had, one small part of me felt that there was more to this person, that he was more than just a bully and that I had missed an opportunity to get to know the real him.

Let me know if you wanna be tagged! Also, I will now on follow a policy of following back those who follow me, just to spread a bit of kindness!!

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[kylorengarbagedump]

Defy Your Authority: Chapter 4

Read on AO3. Part 3 here. Part 5 here.

Summary: David Rose voice: Oh, my god!

Words: 3200

Warnings: dude

Characters: Kylo Ren x Reader

A/N: First: Thank you to @bastila-ren and @elmidol for their beta-kindness.

I'M ALIVE. I got super burned out at my job, took 5 weeks of FMLA, got incredibly depressed, but now I'm back! Very thankfully, my COVID symptoms were extremely mild. Thank you very very much for your well-wishes and your concerns.

I wish I could express enough apology for my lack of activity, but hopefully uploading a chapter is thanks enough. You all have been so supportive and kind to me. I am SO thankful and appreciative of everything y'all offer me!

(as a side note: I know some people do not like dude, that it throws them out. I am very sorry, but in the politest way possible: I am not going to stop using it. I like it too much.)

I also hope you enjoyed the chapter! God I wonder what's going to happen next chapter. I just don't know.

Love you all so much <3

“Piece of shit.”

Growling, you tugged out another panel from the silencer’s dash. At this point, about a dozen slats of buttons boxed you into the pilot’s seat, crowding you in the cockpit. All of them looked flawless upon inspection, and this new one was no exception. Wires were attached and the circuits were complete, every switch was grounded. You’d gone over a handful of systems already, trapped in this cockpit for hours. The silencer’s refusal to function made no sense. There had to be something you were missing. 

The memory of smoke and flames licked at the perimeter of your mind. Yeah, there was a lot you were missing.

Pain burrowed, opened a well in your chest, and you shook your head, rubbing your tired face. There wasn’t time to think about anything else. Sitting forward, you started reattaching the panels to the console. You needed to focus on this.  Even though the answer to where you’d go and what you would do once you were finished remained nebulous. Even though you were now apparently unknown and unloved by almost everyone in the universe, including the one man you’d waited on for months. 

You caught a sigh in your chest, exhaling into your palms, shutting out the urge to cry. Crying right now was a waste of time. You still had about fifty systems to check, and you’d only read through about half of Kylo’s post-flight novella. Swallowing, you grabbed your datapad from the seat and flipped to the report, forcing yourself through the urge to skim.

It wasn’t like you weren’t interested. Normally this sort of thing was like a buffet for your freakish little brain. But you kept tasting embers on your tongue. Kept seeing your crew--completely unarmed, helpless fuel outpost workers--drowning in destruction. Kept hearing Hux’s voice: Multiple Resistance fighters… Heat gripped your neck, clogged your throat. Multiple fighters for a tiny station. Multiple fighters against three soft, fleshy bodies.

The First Order was not your creed; just your employer. The machine of war had always been an inconvenience to the prestige of working on elite starfighters. You knew that the loss of three cogs was nothing to that machine. In the past, it’d been nothing to you too. But you’d never eaten meals or laughed with or supported those lost cogs when they’d cried. This loss wasn’t just to war. This loss was horrifically and uniquely yours. 

“Stop.” You shook your head, tossing your datapad back on the seat. You’d finish putting the console back together, then you’d figure out what to do next.

Jaw tight, you grabbed another panel, and your grip slipped. The sharp edge sliced your palm where the wood had lanced you earlier.

“Fuck!” You dropped it and clutched your hand, seething while you tried to squeeze away the agony. Everything from your fingers to your wrist throbbed, and your chin quaked, tears burning your sight. “Fuck! Fuck!” Snarling, you kicked the panels at your feet. “Fuck!”

The thin cut felt like a sobbing gash. You tore off your jacket and wrapped the sleeve around your palm, wincing when you tightened it to the wound. 

“Stupid fucking panels!” you growled, kicking the panels again. “Stupid fucking ship, stupid fucking Kylo, stupid fucking Resistance!” The final kick dented a panel, popped off a shiny button. “Gods!”

You covered your face in your jacket and screamed until your throat crackled, until your lungs were dry. Head spinning, you drew in a breath and screamed again, stomping the floor until dizziness dropped you into the pilot’s chair. Warmth glowed at your cheeks, leaked down your back. Tremors rippled to your toes as you took in a long, steadying breath, exhaling in reluctant relief. 

You considered sitting there forever. But it only took two seconds for you to remember how Kylo also sat in this chair thinking of and dealing with everything that wasn’t you before you grunted and climbed out of the cockpit. 

The rest of the hangar seemed wholly unconcerned or otherwise ignorant to your tantrum. Wiping your eyes, you hopped to the ground, wagging off the lingering fury in your limbs. Maybe you just needed a walk. You cleared your throat and kept your hand clutched to your chest, the whispering ache pulsing in rhythm with your heart.

In all the hours you’d been in the cockpit, the Steadfast had continued to orbit Orinda. Xi-class shuttles whirled beyond the hangar entrance--probably staffed with crew collecting reconnaissance from whatever the Resistance left behind from the attack. Your feet carried you to the fuzzy blue edge of the magnetic shield’s barrier, meters from vacant space. A quiet hum resonated from its perimeter through your soles. 

You gazed into the galaxy. Orinda was a glimmering grain of sand, adrift in the celestial trenches. A fuel outpost turned graveyard. An acceptable casualty of the Resistance. Another home where you couldn’t return. That whispering ache rumbled to a hiss and cast itself over your skin, raking it over with misery, with exhaustion. Your chin quivered. The only place you could think to sleep was the silencer. Eyes falling to the floor, you turned back to the hangar.

“My quarters.”

You squealed and jumped, clapping your hands to your chest. Feet away stood Kylo Ren.

“Shit!” you said, exhaling in relief. “How the hell do you do that?” When he said nothing, you continued, “Like, sneak up on me like that.” 

“You’re not perceptive.”

You frowned. “Okay, well…” He wasn’t wrong. You sighed, shrugged. “Anyway.”

Kylo stepped forward, assessing you in your tank top, scrutinizing the tourniquet you’d made of your jacket. “Your hand.” 

“It’s fine,” you said, holding it behind your back. “Your quarters?”

His stare lingered on your exposed shoulders, on your neck. “Stay,” he said. “Until the silencer is repaired.”

“That could be as early as next cycle.” 

“Given your skill, yes.”

It was difficult to look in his direction. Every worn nerve screamed for his touch. “And then what?”

“You’ll depart to another station.”

You tried to flush the pain from your voice. “So,” you said, “you want me to stay with you through, like, one cycle, and then leave.” You looked to the ceiling in faux-consideration. “Cool. I think I’ll pass.” 

Kylo’s eye twitched. He moved closer, tone icy. “You have nowhere to sleep,” he said. “I…” He paused. His tongue rolled in his mouth. “You mean to tell me you prefer the silencer.”

“Well,” you replied, “I’ve never fucked the silencer. I never told the silencer how I felt about it. The silencer has never treated me like a stranger who just walked off the plains of Lothal.” You tapped your chin. “So, yeah, I prefer the silencer.”

He grit his teeth. “You’re no stranger.”

“Sure could’ve fooled me!” A couple of heads turned in your direction.

“Quiet,” he hissed. “It apparently takes very little for you to be fooled.”

“Excuse me?” you replied. “Run that by me again, Supreme Leader?”

“Now your hearing fails you.”

“This is great.” You offered a false smile. “This conversation is going really well.”

Kylo snarled, shoulders bunching with restraint. “You speak this way and then question why you’re unwelcome,” he replied. “Deaf and foolish.”

“Oh!” A frustrated laugh escaped. “Okay, then. Talk to you later, Your Excellency. I need a nap before I keep trying to fix your dumbass ship.”

Shaking your head, you folded your arms over your chest and stormed past him, anger blurring your vision. Stupid fucking asshole--

You made it three steps before a warm leather glove grabbed your shoulder, and you stalled, goosebumps shooting to your hands. Kylo spun you, your face inches from his, your breath fleeing and forgetting to return. His lips trembled, his jaw tightened, his gaze boring into you before it met the floor, seeking to stare anywhere else. The pressure of his fingers was firm, then floating. And then he swallowed, grip crushing your shoulder, his eyes finding you again. 

No one else in the hangar would’ve known, looking at him. But this Kylo Ren was familiar to you. 

This Kylo Ren was terrified.

“I don’t…” His voice was a feather in the air. “You are…” He averted his attention, stiffening. “You have a home.”

Your chest swelled. Water stung your eyes. “I do?”

“Yes,” he replied, utterly sincere. “But not here. Not now.”

Hairline fractures crept into your heart.

“Kylo.” Your composure cracked. All of you wanted to melt, to disintegrate into his being and know each word trapped on his tongue. There was a reason you could not find him, that he would not unfold himself to you. “Please. Why do you want me gone so badly?”

His lips parted, as if he were about to speak--and he paused. He drew in a breath through his nose. “Complications,” he replied. “Factors you do not understand.”

You stepped closer, throat tight. His breath brushed your nose. “Tell me, then.”

Kylo huffed, shifting on his feet--and his face froze. His limbs locked, muscles taut. His gaze widened, fixated on something over your shoulder. Air leaked from him, like time was slowing to a close. You blinked, looked behind you. But nothing was there. 

Frowning, you cleared your throat. “Kylo?” He didn’t even acknowledge you. “You’re really just going to leave it like that?” 

His pupils were pinpricks.

It wasn’t like you were heartless. You knew that he was attempting wasn’t easy. But what you were feeling wasn’t a sail on a skiff either. You didn’t just deserve more. You needed it.

“Okay,” you said, backing out of his hold. “This was nice. But I have a TIE fighter to repair. So.” He didn’t respond. Didn’t even move. “Whatever.”

You turned--Kylo’s focus flicked to you. His mouth dropped, like there were words he wanted to and couldn’t speak. Instead, he remained silent, fury simmering in his gaze while you pivoted away. You didn’t say anything either. You didn’t think you had to.

When you arrived at the silencer, you clambered into the cockpit, like it was a hole you could hide in until he disappeared. Shame, stubbornness, or surrender--you imagined one of these was responsible for why he didn’t pursue you, but you didn’t care. This ship repair would be your parting gift to him, and you could take off, probably spending the rest of your life wondering how you’d managed to fuck up your affair with the galaxy’s most ineligible bachelor.

Loose panels still swarmed the pilot’s chair. You sighed and put on your jacket, settling in and throwing your feet on the dash. Your hand thumped with irritation as you closed your eyes.

Just a couple of hours. That’s all you needed. Then you’d keep working like the foolish little--

Clank.

You yelped, flinching in your seat. 

Clank.

Heart fluttering, you scanned the cockpit before realizing the noise came from outside the ship.

Clank.

It was behind you. Someone was messing with the refuel port. Or the solar lines. You couldn’t tell. Grumbling, you scrambled out of the chair and hoisted yourself up the escape. If they were fucking up this stupid ship even further--

Clankclankclank.

“Hey!” You popped your head free. “Will you...”

For a split second, you’d thought Kylo had decided to rip the solar line access open and tear into his own power supply. But then your vision focused. The man crouched over the ship was a different intimidating masked man dressed only in black. Your stomach twisted. It was the one from the Buzzard. The one who’d shoulder-checked you.

“Kuruk.”

His head whipped in your direction, the talons of his predator’s gaze gouging your chest. He pulled his hands free of the solar lines, his gloves greasy with reactant.

“Lieutenant.” 

Previously you’d thought absolutely no one but Hux could spit that word with that degree of acidity. But if Hux spat it like acid, then Kuruk hocked it--dragged it up through his throat and sputtered it like necrotic phlegm. 

You crawled onto the dorsal plane with the coordinated majesty of a blurrg, trying not to heave  and ruin any level of authority you might have tricked him into thinking you maintained. When you’d made it to both feet, you straightened, as if you did this all the time, and moved toward him.

“What are you doing?” 

“Repairing a starfighter.”

You snorted. “Really,” you replied. “Tearing out a power supply is repairing?”

Kuruk jerked his arm, wrenching free another line, spewing collector dust into the air. “Closer to repairing than sleeping in the cockpit.”

Heat rushed your spine, swathed your neck. “Yeah, well…” You examined him, watching as he cocked his head to avoid the blinders attached to his helmet. “At least I can see properly when I work on a ship.” 

“Magnification’s built into the visor.”

More heat, this time crackling in your cheeks, drying your tongue. “Look,” you said, “this is my job. I don’t need amateurs screwing it up for me.”

He paused, turned his gaze on you again. “Amateurs?”

You shrugged. “In comparison, yeah, probably.”

Kuruk leaned on his heels, wiping his gloves on his jacket. “I don’t think so.”

“Uh, I do.” This man looked like a weapon. Not an engineer. “What experience do you have?”

“It’s called the Night Buzzard,” he replied. “You might be familiar with it.”

You paused, brow raising. “You…” It was impossible to restrain your laughter. But he didn’t move. “You’re kidding. Right? That’s a joke.”

Kuruk’s hands tensed.

“Dude, that ship’s the ugliest fucking thing I’ve ever seen,” you replied. “Did you modify it with a boiled chokeroot?”

His head tilted. He rose to stand, so controlled he looked to be fighting gravity. “I can do more work with a boiled chokeroot than you can do with an entire Star Destroyer’s worth of resources,” he drawled. “Lieu. Tenant.” 

The hair on your nape stuck straight, your pulse leapt to the ceiling. But the knowledge that Kylo was within thinking distance abated your fear. 

“Might wanna get one then.” You grinned. “You’re not making much progress here without it.”

He stared, filthy fingers furling into fists--and then relaxed, the tension sloughing like reactor slime from his frame. Silent, he returned to a squat, rending more lines from their channels. For some reason, a tiny, irreverent part of you was disappointed. 

No, that was a lie. You knew why you were disappointed. But this man wasn’t the one you wanted to be taunting into a wild sexual rage. Exhaling, you crossed your arms. 

“It’s still my job,” you said.

“And I’ve been told that once it’s done, you’ll be gone.”

“What?” You gawked. “What the fuck? You, too? I didn’t even do anything to you!”

“Debatable.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re mad because your Master didn’t want you to disrespect an officer.”

“No.” Kuruk’s attention snapped to you. “You’re loud.”

Blood drained from your face. “I’m…”

Moments blinked in your memory like a holodrama. Like how you’d spent the entire time aboard the Buzzard thinking about Kylo slamming you against the dashboard and breaking your pussy open. How you’d mentally undressed him, verbally taunted him, physically ached for him. How you’d blazed with hatred for him and stoked it with longing. And how you’d just noted that you were desperate to wind him into a state of frenzied lust so he’d wreck you entirely.

“Oh, fuck.” You glanced at the hangar’s entrance and wondered how quickly you could hurl yourself into the vacuum of space. Speaking of hurling… “Oh, fuck.”

You couldn’t spare Kuruk another glance. With shaking hands, you fumbled your way to the ground, steadying yourself on your weakening knees. There was no way you were going to spend another minute on this ship trying to fix a starfighter while getting thought-eavesdropped by multiple men, one of whom seemed hell-bent on doing your job for you anyway. 

All you needed to do was find General Hux and get him to reassign you to another station. You’d figure the rest out later when you had time to process your myriad of losses and crippling rejection. You held your breath the entire trek to the command center, only releasing when the doors opened and you spied Hux at the head of the room, briefing someone on something you didn’t care about. 

Wiping your forehead, you trudged over to him. Hux’s gaze darted between you and the other officer, his brow furrowing as you approached.

“A moment,” he said to the man. “Can I help you, Lieutenant?”

Yeah, it definitely sounded worse out of Kuruk’s mouth. “Can I get a new station? I, uh, I need a new station.” The officer peered at you in horror. You coughed, standing at attention. “General. Requesting a new assignment, sir.”

Hux’s lips pursed, his eyes narrowed. “The silencer is already repaired?”

“Uh, no. No, sir, it’s not.” You stared at your shoes. “Still requesting a new assignment. I believe my work here is complete.”

A pause hung in the air. Hux observed you like you were a recently apprehended criminal. He sighed. 

“Dismissed, Captain.” He waited for the man to depart before turning to you. “What do you mean, your work here is complete?”

It was hard to find the appropriate words. “I mean. Uh. Permission to speak freely, sir?”

“No.”

You groaned. “Okay.” A long breath, flooding your lungs with air. “Well. My services are no longer required. My presence is redundant. I cannot return to Orinda. I’m requesting another station.” You exhaled. “Sir.”

Hux’s pink face pinched together. “Something happened with Ren.”

Warmth flushed your neck. “Uh, no--”

“Lieutenant,” he said, like the words were thorns on his tongue, “I unfortunately believe your insight and skill may still be of use to the First Order.” 

“Sir?”

“The TIE project has been approved. You may be just the person to manage it.” 

You balked. “Oh, I don’t know if that’s a good idea--”

“No?” Sharp green eyes pierced you into silence. “I thought you might leap at the opportunity, considering how cruelly the Resistance slaughtered your staff.”

Your heart clenched, your chest speared with pain. Better TIE units wouldn’t save them. But you could at least ensure their loss wouldn’t be in vain. Though you’d never supervised an undertaking of that scale before, the excitement of a challenge glittered in the distance. Glittered, then dimmed under a brooding, Kylo Ren-shaped shadow.

“Well…”

Hux glanced away, gazing through the thick panes of transparisteel, as if offering you any more praise would blind him. “Go to the Supreme Leader. Inform him of my plans.” He offered a slight shrug. “If he disagrees, then so be it. We’ll find you a new station.” The thought was left unfinished--he seemed very confident Kylo would not disagree.

Too bad you disagreed with him. “Yes, sir,” you replied. “I understand. Where might I find the Supreme Leader?”

Hux frowned. “Am I his keeper, Lieutenant?” 

A brief, blissful image of your fist connecting with his chin flashed through your mind. You shook it away.

“No,” you said. “No, sir. I’ll find him. Thank you.”

He nodded. “Dismissed.”

Shooting him a glare, you pivoted on your heel, marching out of the command center. All you needed to do was find where Kylo Ren might be by searching the entirety of this huge Star Destroyer. That would be easy.

[itsthestutterforme]

Miscommunication (Vincenzo)

Summary: Y/N gets killed by a ricochet bullet and Joon woo deals with her death.

--

Tensions between Joon woo and Vincenzo were at an all time high. Joon told me to leave town because thinqgs were starting to get dangerous in town but you refused. If things were dangerous then that means that he was in danger too. And you couldn't leave knowing that he was in danger.

Something in the pit of your stomach told you that something was about the go down. You grabbed the gun that Joon woo kept in the safe and logged into the tracking account he made for me.

Being the girlfriend of a malicious CEO, it is inevitable to be threatened. So Joon had to make sure that you knew where each other were at all times.

Your trackers are in your earrings and and his tracker is in his briefcase that he carries everywhere. He was in an underpass and you grab the keys to drive to the underpass. You find yourself speeding along the highway until you entered the underpass and heard gun shots and bullets richoceting.

You throw the car into park and kept your body small as your travelled around the body of the car. "Joon, where are you!" You yell over the gunfire. "Y/N, what are you doing here! I told you to leave!" "I couldn't, not when you were in danger!" "Damn, baby!" "Why are they shooting at us?!" "Y/N!" Cha young says.

You and Cha young were friends from the university. "Cha young! You're the ones shooting at us." "You knew that Joon was the CEO?!" She yells.

"Yes, I'm sorry!" "You monster." You felt a richoceting bullet skim your ear and you drop to the floor. "Ow, did you just shoot me?!"

"What? Of course not. I'm mad that you didn't tell me but I don't want you dead!" "Y/N, you okay?!" Joon asks. "Yeah, I'll live." You say, touching the top of you ear and pulling back to see blood. You huff before loading the gun and moving to the front of a black SUV and peeking over it. "Can you make it to my car, Joon!"

The next thing you knew, a massive body collapses next to you and you yell before cocking the gun. His pushes the gun downward and that is when you noticed that it was Joon woo. "You scared the hell out of me," he says to you before pulling you in for a hug. "I wasn't leaving," you say into his neck.

You pull away and peck his lips before saying, "Let's get out of here." He nods and you both count until three before scurrying to the car with your heads ducked down. A bullet hits the car and bounced off, hitting you in the neck. You collapse to the ground holding your neck and Joon's eyes widen as they set on you.

"No!" Your breath fell shallow but it's not like you can hear yourself breathing anyhow. The only thing that you could hear was your heart beat starting to slow down. "Baby! Baby," Joon falls to the ground and looks at me. His face was covered in dirt and sweat and he looks down at me with fear in his eyes.

You tried to speak but blood accumulated in your throat and you coughed some up. "Oh God. Cha young! Y/N is shot pretty bad! Help me, please!" Joon's hands are applying pressure to your wound and you wince. "Hold on for me, baby. Don't close your eyes."

You started to nod off and your head turns to the side as you see Cha young and Vincenzo falling to their knees next to you. "She isn't going to make it. She's lost a lot of blood." Vincenzo says and Joon sends him a glare. "Shut up, she can hear you. And don't you dare give up on her." Joon snaps.

You place your hand over his and looked into his chocolate brown eyes. "Be g-good," you managed to utter before the blood completely flooded your lungs and your last painful breath leaves your lips.

Third Person POV

Joon woo cradled Y/N's body as she takes her last breath. His grip tightens on her and a pained yell left his chest. Cha young silently cried and Vincenzo watches with sad eyes. "Enough! Stop this stupidity or I will have you all killed for it!" Joon yells and the shooting finally came to a stop.

He pulls Y/N into his lap and rocked her slowly. "I'm so sorry baby," he keeps repeating to himself.

Two weeks later was Y/N's funeral and Joon was a complete mess but he didn't allow himself to be swallowed up by alcohol. He had a vendetta for finding who was in the shootout that was responsible for Y/N's death.

He's been tracking them down one by one and picking them off by beating them to death with his hockey stick. That gave him a split second sense of relief but it was better than weeping in his room thinking about her. He hasn't been thinking ahead in the time of running out of people to maim.

Vincenzo came over with Cha young to check in on him. Joon woo may have done terrible things, but they could tell that he loved Y/N and that she made him a better man.

Joon opened the door after the ring the door bell. He wore sweatpants, sweatshirt and slides. He has one of Y/N's shirt swung over his shoulder that he was just crying into.

"What do you want?" Joon says. " We.. we wanted to say we're sorry and though we may be on opposites sidees, we cared for Y/N too." Cha young says and Joon's jaw clenches but doesn't.

"I ordered food. We're spending the day in honor of her whether you like it or not because she deserves it." Vincenzo pushes inside and Cha young follows him.

They spent the day talking about Y/N and there were a few times that Joon would smile in remembrance of her. But Vincenzo knows something that Cha young and Joon woo doesn't. Y/N is still alive.

The bullet just nicked her but she used fake blood that was tucked under her sleeve to increase the amount of blood seeping through Joon refused to let go of her 'corpse'. Vincenzo convinced him to let the 'coroners' take her corpse and she could finally breath since she was holding her breath the entire time.

Vincenzo and Cha young left and Joon was stuffing his face with Haribo gummy bears. He was tempted to drink some tequila but instead, he grabbed his phone to call Y/N. He wanted to hear her voice again so he's been calling her phone until it went to voiemail.

But this time, someone answers and he nearly chokes on his gummy bears. "Who is this?" "Move on from me, Joon." Y/N says before hanging up. Joon stares at his phone with wide eyes and says, "Y/N?'

[eunjidrabbles]

YAYYYY your asks are finally open!!! hi hi im the anon may i ask for a hwasa one shot wherein reader is courting hwasa but hwasa doesn't find fem! reader attractive. after one date, hwasa decides that reader isnt really her type which r is bummed about but respects her decision. however, one day hwasa finds r's genuine character and somehow, she falls for r's charms uwu angst to big big fluff please! sorry this is long :3 i really like tropes like this thank youuu!

Just One

(I realized writing hurt/comfort stuff soothes my soul a lot. Probably because I like making it hurt and then I feel bad and try to make it warm and fluffy so no worries. Longer requests help me with plotting out the story.

Edit: Sorry this took longer than expected, I just started my first day of work again and guess who is now a barista? Also Wheein’s solo album just dropped today so go give it a listen ya’ll)

Word count: About 2.4k

-

Ahn Hye Jin is a goddess. Everyone who has seen her either loves her, or hate her because they want to be her. With beauty, fame and charisma that goes off the charts, who could blame when you were to be drawn in like a moth to the light? Of course given the opportunity, you chose to chase after her disregarding the fact there were probably many others like you. It was a chance given, and it would be foolish not to grab at it. Be it getting your manager to buy her favorite drinks so you can drop it off for her whenever she was at the company practicing, leaving little notes with a container of food for her to heat up when she stays back for more practicing on her own or even occasionally popping by the studio when you had some free time off your schedules, you did you best to let your presence be known to her. Management didn't know of your crush, brushing it off as admiration for your senior whose group literally built up the company, and you'd prefer for it to stay that way lest you get kicked out barely a year into debuting. Hyejin however, knew of your intentions. You've made it clear to her when you gathered up the courage to manage to stammer out a "I like you." Before you could hear whoops from Wheein and feel the stares coming from the other two older members directed at you.

Over time, you've managed to also worm your way into the rest's hearts as they realized how pure your intentions were, and how far you'd go to try take care of their strong-headed maknae. Seeing as to how Hyejin has never properly rejected you, they slowly started putting in words for you whenever they spot your gifts for her, planting what they'd hope to be the seeds that will help make their youngest happier. It started from "Look at how thoughtful she is!" To “Hey look, guess who dropped by again today~?” Each time, she would only smile and wave away at her member’s teasing as she accept her gifts with a smile.

The small interactions with Hyejin and the rest of her members were great as you slowly got to know them more, just as friends. Sharing jokes and they would sometimes even invite you up for a meal together. It wasn’t until a few weeks later of skirting around your very obvious infatuation with Hyejin did you actually put up your mind to do something. Nodding to yourself, you gathered up the courage and knocked on the door. Cheers were heard from inside and as routine, Hyejin came to the door to open it for you. Passing over her drink with a smile, she stood waiting accepted it with a small chuckle and thanks. Right before she turned away, you called out to her. Looking back at you questioningly, you took a few deep breath to try settle your pounding heart. “One date. Just give me one date. I’ll show you that I’m serious.” You could see her eyes widen in surprise and slowly cover her mouth with her hand. You shift nervously, not daring to break the eye contact. She was the one who looked away first and her gaze fell to the ground, seemingly deep in thought. Noticing the longer than usual interaction, the rest of the members curiously peeked over one another to observe the situation. Putting the pieces together, Wheein shared glances with the older members and back to her best friend and voiced out her thoughts. “Why don’t you give it a shot?” Slowly looking over to her, Hyejin studied her expression, followed by the encouraging looks Moonbyul and Yongsun was giving before going back to her own thoughts for a bit longer. All the while you stood, head slowly lowering, feeling your throat and chest slowly coiling and tightening on themselves while you prepare yourself for the rejection incoming. “So what do you have in mind?” Snapping your head up, you find her staring right at you. You could almost hear your own heartbeat as you let out a breath you didn’t even notice you were holding. Glancing past her, you see the enthusiastic nodding and thumbs up given to you by the rest of her members and you pulled out your phone. “I’ll text you the details?”

As far as records go, the company only saw this meet up as a nice meal between a member of their top girl group and their solo artist. You’ve managed to book a small table at a café that you were introduced by a few friends. It was a cozy little place near an alleyway, just a little out of the way of where the crowd would usually go. Settling down in the corner, you were both handed a small menu. Skimming over, you decided to place an order of a cup of coffee and a macaron for a sweet treat. Hyejin took a little longer to look through the menu but also ended up with just a cup of coffee. There was an awkward tension in the air as you constantly try to find topics to speak about to engage the woman sitting opposite of you when all you could get in reply was a few words in reply. With a smile, you could only nod and let the silence blanket the both of you as your drinks and snack came. Every time you looked up from sipping your drink, you could see her silently in her own thoughts and decided not to bother her lest she finds you annoying. It was when you were on the last few sips of your drinks did Hyejin finally speak up.

“I don’t want to be harsh but I don’t think we’d go well together.”

The words echoed in your head as they processed into what she was trying to say. You swallowed down the harsh reality that hit you right in your chest and nodded with a small understanding smile. “Thank you for at least giving me a chance, and of course, being honest with me.” Nodding back, Hyejin went back to sipping her drink as the silence once again settled between the both of you, this time for you to quietly nurse your heart. Setting down the empty cups, the both of your stood as you pulled out your phone and texted your manager to pick the both of you up. While waiting outside the café, Hyejin couldn’t bring herself to look at you. A part of her felt that she had led you on, despite it just being that she couldn’t understand of her own feelings. To make everything simpler for everyone, the best choice would be to reject and ignore it. A hand coming towards her in the corner of her eye surprised her, and with that she finally look at you again. “Friends?” Raising your eyebrow, you silently prayed that whatever happened wouldn’t ruin whatever relationship you had between her and her members. “Friends.” Raising her hand to shake yours, a smile bloomed across her face in relief that you held no anger towards her.

You understood that it will definitely take time to get over the fact that you had a crush on Hyejin, so you chose not to avoid it. Instead, you faced the rejection straight on, and went up to Mamamoo’s studio even more often to interact more with everyone whenever you had the time. Every now and again, you’d also have a member or two pop up in your studio to join in the chaos, much so adding up to your manager’s headache of trying to keep your appearance as an idol intact, knowing well fully that the random moments you shared with the group would most likely air out as update episodes in your mini vlog series. It took a while to realize that by taking a step back from pursuing Hyejin, that you got so much more closer to her. The awkwardness melted away and what was left was a healthy friendship.

It also took a while for Hyejin to realized how much more she had been looking to spend time with you. Or that the increasing number of comments in your vlog series were commenting on how much and fondly she looked at you. It became almost a daily thing to exchange greetings from dawn and annoy one another through text till dusk fell. It got to the point where whenever her phone’s notification rang, does she perk up and rush to it and if it was not a reply from you, she would falter and according to Wheein, “Look like a kicked puppy.” If you had a schedule when she was free, she sometimes tag along with an excuse to keep you company but if you could see her behind all the staff, you’d notice her intense gaze as she studies you. The way you moved, the way you laughed, and even to the way your chest rise and fall as you breathed. Part of her knew what was happening, but she refused to act upon it. It wasn’t fair that you were the one who risked your career to chase her only for her to reject you, and now suddenly changing her mind. You on the other hand didn’t seem to notice all the extra attention you were getting from her and it annoyed Hyejin to a certain extend. She wanted the smiles you gave to everyone directed to only her. She wanted the jokes you shared and the laughter you gave to just be shared between you two.

It drove her crazy, the more she explored her feelings for you. It made her feel things that scared her. Scenarios would appear in her head as she watches you interact with others. Your words would race through her mind as she goes about her day. Images and memories of your gifts and notes pulled on her heartstrings. Maybe. Hyejin silently thinks to herself. Just maybe, I might be crazy. Chuckling to herself as she stopped in front of a set of doors, she sighed. That’s still better than letting someone else hold you, right? Looking up at the sign that stated the opening hours, she pulled out her phone to do a quick check of the time and pushed open to step through the set of doors.

The bass vibrated throughout the entire room as music boomed from the speakers in the practice room. Your eyes were trained upon your form as you connected each movement of your body to flow with the beat of the music. Seeing how focused you were on perfecting the dance routine, your manager could only sigh in failed attempt of trying to make you promise to not overwork yourself when your comeback was right around the corner before leaving for the night. At some point through the evening, you had shed your hoodie, leaving you in a cooling sports bra and sweat pants. Despite the lesser layers, you were drenched in sweat, and your hair had fallen from their ponytail, leaving them sticking uncomfortably to your face and body. Your body cried out in exhaustion as you slowed to a halt along with the music and panted to catch your breath. Slowly pushing yourself upright again, you groaned, body resisting the idea of one last run through of the routine. Right as you were about to hit the play button on your phone again, the soundproofed door of your studio swung open.

Your squeak echoed the room and your eyes darted up and widened in surprise to meet hers through the mirror’s reflection. It took a second for your body and brain to relax when you realized that the intruder meant no harm when you noticed both her hands were occupied. Slowly turning and walking over to the back of the studio where she had moved from the door, you look at Hyejin questioningly before your gaze dropped to the contents in her hands. Instead of putting it down onto the table, she waited for you to walk over to her to pass you the warm cup of coffee and a paper bag. Carefully hold the cup in one hand, you opened the bag to see a lone macaron sitting inside. A wide smile bloomed on your face when your body understood that the sweet treat was a form of energy for you to function and you eagerly pushed it up the bag to take the first bite. You then remembered the very person that delivered it to you and with your mouth full, you could only smile even wider to her as you closed your eyes in bliss as the sugary snack awoke your senses again.

“One date.”

Your eyes snap open as your jaw stopped its movement.

“One date. Just give me one date. I’ll show you I’m worth your time.”

Your smile slowly dropped as you processed what you just heard. Looking back down at the bag and the cup of drink, you recognized the name imprinted on its sides. It was from the very café you two went to on your first and last date. Forcing yourself to look busy by continuing to slowly chewing the one bite in your mouth, you subtly turned your head towards the mirror to look at the woman, not daring to risk eye contact by looking directly at her. Even from the mirror, you could see her intense gaze, as she fidgeted her hands behind her, anxiously waiting for your answer. 

“So? What do you say?”

Swallowing the now mushy mess in your mouth, you slowly looked right back at her. Lifting the drink to your lips and taking a small sip, you looked for traces of this encounter merely being a bad joke of the rejection you faced at her hand a few months ago. When you could find none, you slowly lowered the drink and sighed. Even at such mundane actions, you could see her tense up in anticipation.

You chuckle suddenly, breaking the silence and causing Hyejin to flinch. That in return made you chuckle even harder when her look of confusion and surprise slowly melt away as your laughter went on. Finally taking a breath to stop, you smiled and answered her.

“I was hoping it will be more than just one.”

[joel-millerr]

The Change

Chaper Two of We Are One When Together (formerly A Mandalorian and a Smuggler)

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 9.9 K

Warnings: graphic depictions of violence. there is a scene towards the end that isn't exactly torture, but it is pretty graphic so please read with caution!, a bit of angst, and grief (talking about loss).... if there’s anything I missed please let me know so I can update it

Summary: You and Mando on your way to Nevarro so he can collect the bounty on your head but something happens, forcing you to land on another planet, and you begin seeing him in another light

Hope you guys like it!! 

Tagged: @1800-fight-me​🧡 // @tillytheslytherin​🧡

As the Mandalorian’s ship—Razor Crest, climbs higher and higher into the sky, the sun’s beginning to rise over the city. Taking one last look at the capital, you mentally add “getting snatched by a bounty hunter” to the list of things you hate about Kijimi.

Maker, the silence in the cockpit is deafening. The Mandalorian doesn’t acknowledge you at all, his helmet glued to the windshield of the ship. You think about saying something, anything to break the awkward tension that seems to be multiplying in the small area of the cockpit, but from the very short time you’ve been with him, you don’t get the impression that he likes to talk. So awkward silence it is.

Once in the atmosphere, the Mandalorian prepares to make the jump to hyperspace. The stars’ light twinkles off his chrome helmet, and you’re too busy staring at him to notice another ship zip across the windshield, and then within seconds, the radar’s alarm is blaring through the cockpit. The shrill sound is piercing your ears and your eyes wrench shut, as if to try to block the noise out.

Two green beams of light appear out of nowhere, skimming the ship’s hull, and as the enemy spacecraft comes back into your peripheral for just a few seconds, your jaw nearly drops to the floor when you recognize whose ship it is.

It’s your ship. Someone is inside your ship, shooting at you. “That’s my ship!” You shriek, jumping to your feet and quickly making your way to the window. The Mandalorian says nothing in response, just letting out a couple of grunts and huffs. Your ship continues to bombard you with green beams, but the hunter is sharp enough to evade each shot. The jolts cause you to lose balance, and because your hands are still bound, it becomes more difficult for you to keep yourself upright without falling over onto the control panel.

“Get back in your seat,” The Mandalorian says through his visor. His voice is calm but stern. If he was panicking at all, his voice doesn’t give you the slightest suspicion.

You open your mouth to protest, to beg him not to shoot your ship down, to plead with him, but you know it would be a battle you couldn’t possibly win. Fumbling back into the seat to his right, a shot narrowly misses one of the thrusters and hits just above the belly of the ship. It sends you flying out of the seat, and you land on the ground hard, your shoulder taking the brute of the hit.

You hear two more blasts explode against the ship. The Crest is taking a lot of damage right now, but the Mandalorian manages to stay quiet during the entire ordeal.

“Let her go, Mandalorian.” A distorted voice comes through the radio.

Time seems to stop. The sirens still blaring through the cockpit penetrate your ears less and less until they are just a bunch of muffled clamors. That voice can only be from one person. The only other person in this galaxy that knows how to hijack your ship, and actually be able to fly it.

Tye.

Without any warning, the Crest begins a steep incline, and just as you’re finally able to seat yourself back in the chair, pulling the seatbelt across your torso and clicking it into place, the Crest flips upside down. If it weren’t for you being strapped in, you’d be flailing around the cockpit. The ship does a full circle before straightening out right behind your ship. The Mandalorian begins firing, three shots immediately pierce the hull’s integrity. The dark nothingness of space is suddenly luminated by a giant inferno; your ship begins plummeting back down towards Kijimi. You want to scream, to rush over to the pilot’s seat and scream into the radio hoping Tye would respond, but your body feels weighed down, like your limbs refuse to work.

As you watch your ship plummet towards the city, life drains from your body. For a moment, everything is still and fast at the same time. You had come to terms with your fate, you aren’t an optimist—not anymore anyway, but when you saw your ship, a flame—no, a glint of hope started to build in your bones. Maybe the Maker was giving you another chance. You were dead wrong.

Once the blaring alarm quiets, the Mandalorian initiates the jump sequence. The whole thing is over within minutes.

The Crest doesn’t spend much time in hyperspace though, because now the hyperdrive alarm is blaring again and you’re both launched right out, the ship spiraling in open atmosphere. The Mandalorian swears under his breath and begins frantically pressing buttons in an attempt to get you back into hyperspace. Despite his efforts, he’s unable to make the jump.

“Dank farrik,” The vocoder comes out strained.

“One of the shots must have damaged the hyperdrive.” You find yourself saying.

“Yes.” Is all you get.

He changes course and begins descending towards a planet you’ve never seen before. From space, the planet looks mostly swamp green, nothing particularly breathtaking or enticing.

“What is that?” You’re not really expecting an answer, just asking out loud, and you’re surprised because he actually answers you this time.

“Sorgan.”

You’ve heard of Sorgan. Some of your crew had resided on the planet since there was a spice smuggling base located there. Given the fact that Sorgan was a relatively unobtrusive planet, it was smart idea to put a camp. It was mostly covered in thick, dense forest which enabled the camp to be hidden fairly easily. Landing on Sorgan was a blessing in disguise. You could possibly send a message to the base there and maybe, just maybe, get rescued. Almost immediately you could feel excitement tingle your nerves. Okay, maybe you hadn’t lost.

Entering Sorgan airspace, the Mandalorian searches for a forest glade. It doesn’t take long for him to spot a small clearing just at the edge of a foliage of massive pine. He descends slowly, making sure not to hit any trees on the way down. You can’t help but be impressed by his flying abilities. He pilots like it is second nature to him. Always maintaining his cool demeanor, even if he is being shot at. Despite the fact that you resent him for possibly murdering the only person left you considered family and stealing your freedom, that aviator part of you is enthralled by the Mandalorian.

Once firmly landed, he cuts the engine and steps out of his seat.

“Stay here,” His voice is as deep as ever, not bothering to meet your eyes as he walks through the door to the cockpit and begins to descend down the ladder.

You linger in your chair for a few minutes, twiddling your thumbs in your lap. You’re not sure how much time you might have to send a message to your fellow smugglers, but you also don’t want to waste any more time waiting on him to come back. Fumbling slightly with your seatbelt, you all but leap towards the pilot’s chair to get to the radio. You finger toggles over the button to record your message. Why are you hesitating?

Chewing on your lip, and letting a deep breath exhale through your nose, you fight the urge to retreat back in your seat. Just as you’re about to record, you hear footsteps on the ladder behind you.

“Fuck, fuck fuck fuckfuck,” you curse under your breath and you scramble to get back to your seat without the Mandalorian seeing you. You hear his boots hit the metal floor just as your butt hits the chair. The beskar helmet peaks through the doorway of the cockpit as if he’s just checking to see if you followed his orders.

“No, I haven’t moved,” you say to him, annoyingly.

“Come down.” He instructs, turning on his heel and already making his way down the rungs of the ladder.

“Why?”

The Mandalorian stops in his tracks, “Because I can’t keep an eye on you if you’re in the cockpit.”

You really don’t want to go down there. Not because you’re scared he’ll throw your ass in carbonite, but because if he gets you down there, you’ll have no reason to get back up here and send out a message to any smuggler who might want to help you.  

“You can trust me.” It’s a desperate attempt. Usually you can use your charm to bend others to your will, but the Mandalorian is unlike anyone you’ve ever met. You already know it won’t work.

“No.”

Pressing your hands down on your knees, you push yourself to your feet. You eye the control panel one last time and actually consider locking yourself in the bridge just long enough to get a message out. While the idea becomes more and more tempting by the second, you need to be smart about this. If you plan on escaping or getting a message out, it has to be perfectly timed and planned. It didn’t take him long to catch you, and you need to be a lot smarter the next time around.

So you head down the ladder like he told you to. The ramp is down, and your feet irk to run down the ridge and escape into the lush forest in front of you. Every instinct inside of you is screaming to run, to take your chances and hope to lose him in the fog of the greenery, but you have no idea where you are on this planet. You have no idea if the camp is relatively close to you or not. If you ran now, you’d have no supplies, no sense of direction, never mind the fact that your hands are still bound.

First things first then; get him to release the shackles.

He’s currently inspecting the damage Tye inflicted on the Crest. The hull of the ship is smoking, and there’s a few new dents on the sides of the ship, but there isn’t any damage that a couple days’ worth of work wouldn’t be able to fix. Luckily for you, that gives you a couple days to think of the best way to take off.

Not entirely sure where to go, you stay by the ladder, standing like an awkward kid waiting to be told what to do.

The Crest is much bigger than you thought it was. Most of the space inside the ship is housing the carbonite chamber with the three other companions you’re convinced you’ll end up joining. Next to the chamber is what you assume is a locker full of armory. You make a mental note to raid that locker before your escape. To your left, there’s a narrow, small cubicle that could only be used for sleep. Even though the door is closed, you can tell that it’s already too cramped for the Mandalorian, and you wonder how he can fit in such a tiny space.

Honestly, you’re more concerned about whether or not he’s ever had anyone in there with him. Surely if the space is too small for him, then he couldn’t possibly have had any lovers in there with him, right? Heat begins to coil in your stomach and the thought of that makes you shift in your stance. You really shouldn’t be thinking of whether or not the Mandalorian’s fucked anybody in his poor excuse of a bed, but you can’t help yourself. It’s been a long time since you’ve had the pleasure of being with a man or even taken care of yourself and it doesn’t help that the Mandalorian exudes this ferocious confidence and control. Does that make you wonder if he’d still as controlling when he’s balls deep inside you? Would be still be quiet like he is now, or would he be a babbling mess?

“Hey.” The voice pulls you out of your thoughts and causes you to jump.

The Mandalorian is standing just arms distance away from you, and stars, he is an absolute sight. Built like a monument—tall, firm and fucking intimidating. In your everyday life, you always walked with your head held high, refusing to show any weakness, but right now? Your head is down, only peering up at him through hooded lids. Something about the Mandalorian scratches a primal instinct in you that you’ve only observed in animals. Predator, prey—you’re giving up control, and what’s worse is that you actually like it. When it came to lovers, you had always been the dominant one. Every run you’ve made since you can remember, you were the one calling the shots, ordering your comrades around, but in the very short time you’ve known the Mandalorian, you can tell he likes control, and order.

You should hate him. You shouldn’t feel this kind of attraction for him, but despite your efforts, it’s there. You areattracted to him—he basically owns you now; it definitely shouldn’t turn you on as much as it does.

“Sorry?” You manage to choke out. Your throat is bone dry and Maker, you swear if he was any closer, he’d be able to hear your heart fucking hammering in your chest. His gloved hand reaches out and grabs the binds on your wrists. It’s not even his fucking bare hand but it has you holding back a moan. You wrench your eyes shut hoping it will alleviate some of the tension building between your legs.

“I’m going to unbind you,” The voice behind the helmet begins to say. “But if you run, I will catch you again and I won’t hesitate to throw your ass in carbonite. Do you understand?” It comes our breathy, almost like being this close to you is affecting him the same way it’s affecting you.

You can’t find any words, now. All you can do is nod slowly because your mind is on fucking fire being this close to him and you want to rip off that helmet and crush your lips together but also you want to drop to your fucking knees and show him how much he’s affecting you.

The grip on your wrists relaxes and he’s taking the binds and tossing them to the floor of the ship. You continue to stand just a few feet from each other. The visor is too dark to make out his eyes, and you curse the Maker for it. You’ve heard stories about Mandalorians. How they never take off their helmets in front of others, how they swear to the Creed to live a life of anonymity. You couldn’t possibly imagine living that way. It sounds incredibly restricting, but you do respect it. Everyone has their own beliefs in this world, and you aren’t one to judge another for the path they’ve chosen. Look at yourself, you were a nobody mechanic and then you became a spice smuggler. The path you’ve chosen isn’t exactly noble, so who are you to judge how the Mandalorians choose to live their lives?

It takes you a couple of seconds to realize he’s no inches away from your face. He’s halfway down the ramp when he calls you.

“Let’s go.”

You stumble for a couple steps and then pick up a small jog to catch up with him. The walk is a little uncomfortable now due to the slickness between your thighs, but you push through it.

“Where are we going?” You ask once you’re by his side. You look up at him but when he answers you, he keeps his attention peeled to the landscape in front of him.

“The hyperdrive was damaged.” His strides are much larger than yours, and you need to trot to keep up the pace. “I saw a town not too far from here. Hopefully there’ll be someone there that can help.”

You spot the town—barely a town, it’s just a couple of huts and then a bigger one at the centre. You wonder how anyone would choose to live here. It’s too quiet, too uneventful. There are a couple merchants selling krill—you know Sorgan exports a lot of krill and is basically the only way farmers make a living here.

You enter the common house—maybe it’s an inn, you’re not entirely sure. It’s nothing like the cantinas on Kijimi or Tatooine or any of the other planets you’ve visited. It’s ridiculously quiet and charming. There aren’t any patrons playing sabacc and screaming at one another when one of them loses, or others getting incredibly intoxicated on spotchka and brawling on the floor of the bar. Just a couple of humble farmers, some making a pit spot, and other locals keeping to themselves. It’s refreshing and also unnerving. You’re used to the commotion of more lively planet cantinas, staying in the shadows and observing, making sure you’d be ready in case someone tried to pick a fight with you. There’s no need for that here. Not only does everyone in this place look completely harmless, but you’ve also got a fucking Mandalorian on your left, and you doubt anyone would be stupid enough to try to fight him.

Unlike your choice to sit in the back of the common house, the Mandalorian chooses a table smack in the middle of the room. That’s the difference between a Mandalorian and a smuggler. You would rather choose a quiet place to sit, not drawing any attention to yourself. He—on the other hand, doesn’t put that much thought into where they should sit. Smugglers are always being hunted. Mandalorians? No one wants to fight them.

Once seated, you tense immediately. There are voices behind you, and not being able to keep track of what they’re saying, or if they move really distresses you. Granted, you doubt anyone here has a mean bone in their body, but you stay on edge regardless.

One of the women behind the counter takes notice of your arrival. Patting her hands clean on her apron, she walks over to you.

“Can I interest you in anything, travelers?” She asks, all smiles.

Her immediate kindness puts you at ease—slightly.

Before you can ask for some spotchka, the Mandalorian’s vocoder cuts through the helmet.

“Is there anyone here that can repair a ship?”

Her brows pull together tightly, pressing a finger to her chin. “Hmm… I’m afraid you’re out of luck. Sorgan is a farming planet, and we don’t get many visitors around here.”

He sighs, and you peek down from the woman standing over you to see his fist ball up on the table. “Fine.” It comes out strained, like it’s taking all his strength not to blow up and scream.

“Would you like anything else?” She asks again. “Maybe something for you, ma’am?” Shifting her body to face you, you open your mouth to answer, but the Mandalorian speaks first. “No, thank you.”

You whip your head to face him. You may be a quarry, but you still have ­some rights.

“Actually,” You point out, still looking at the helmet that burns right into you. “I’d like a bottle of your finest spotchka, please.”

He tilts his head just enough for you to notice, fist still balled up on the table. The lady seems to take notice of the tension, but she says nothing further. She simply nods and retreats to the bar. Returning swiftly with a bottle in one hand—two cups in the other, she places them between you two. You reach into the side thigh pocket of your pants and pull out a handful of credits and place them in her hand. She nods in gratitude. “Let me know if there’s anything else I can do for you.”

“Thank you.” The hunter grits through his teeth.

Immediately you pour yourself a glass and throw it back, a couple droplets leaking from the corners of your mouth. Using the back of your hand, you wipe your mouth clean. You know you’ll probably regret the little stunt you just pulled, but it’s been a long fucking day and you just want to relax for a bit.

Okay, so maybe you’re not entirely relaxed because there’s a Mandalorian just a few feet away from that seems to be getting more and more cross the longer you stay in the common house, but you also want to see how far you can press him before he snaps. Besides, he shot down your ship. You deserve this.

Three more glasses of spotchka later, and you’re feeling warm inside. The kind of warm that lowers your defenses and makes you giggle at everything. The kind of warmth that releases the tension that’s nestled in the deepest corners of your body, and makes your vision a little fuzzy. It’s probably early evening now, because the common house is getting livelier. They must be coming in for a meal.

“Get up,” The Mandalorian orders, rising to his feet.

“So soon?” You pout. You’re definitely feeling the effects of the spotchka.

“We’ve wasted enough time here. Now get up, we’re leaving.”

Normally, you’d fight till your last breath, but with the alcohol swimming in your blood, your inhibitions are lowered, and you’re way too relaxed to actually get your brain to fight back. Besides, there’s barely any spotchka left and you don’t have any more credits to spend.

Getting to your feet is a little bit of a struggle. Once standing up, the room starts spinning. Not enough to completely knock you off balance, but enough to make it difficult to stand without swaying. Turning on his heel, the Mandalorian heads for the door, cape mimicking his movements. Your legs aren’t moving as fast as you’d like them too, and the spotchka is really getting to your head, now. You drank a lot more than you should have.

Luckily you’re able to catch up to him, somewhat out of breath though. He doesn’t say anything to you—no surprise there. As you stumble through the forest, there’s a gentle breeze in the air. Tree branches creak as the wind passes through, and stray hairs from your ponytail brush across your flushed cheeks. You’re too preoccupied with enjoying the clean, fresh air to notice he’s now a couple feet ahead of you. The cape attached to his armour flows in the gentle breeze. Stars, you’re completely captivated by him. By the way he carries himself, like there’s not a shred of self-doubt behind that armor, and you want to know everything about him. Now that you’re pretty drunk, the thoughts you pushed away can roam freely in your mind.  When was the last time he took off that helmet? Why did he—a Mandalorian, decide to be a bounty hunter? How many quarries has he captured in his life? How old is he? Are Mandalorians allowed to have sex with non-Mandalorians? Your mind is coming up with an endless number of questions, but you never find the strength to ask.

“You know, you could have asked me to help with the ship,” The words tumble from your lips before you can stop them. The Mandalorian stops in his tracks and waits for you to catch up to him. Once you’re at his side, he turns his head to look in your direction.

“What?” Deep, rough, and somewhat irritable.

Your shoulders shoot up and down twice, body swaying with the breeze. “I’m a mechanic.”

“Yeah.” He says, brushing off yours words and resuming his tread.

“No, seriously.” Chasing after him, you want to reach out and grab hold of his arm, but you catch yourself before you do.

“Just how much spotchka did you drink?” He taunts, voice condensing like he’s scolding a child.

“I… don’t know.” Holy maker, did you drink an entire bottle to yourself?

The Mandalorian actually scoffs at you. If you could see his face, you’re certain he’d be rolling his eyes at you.

“Okay, well I used to be.” You clarify, still struggling to keep up with his gigantic strides. Kriff how fast does he walk? “Can you just stop walking for a second, please?”

“No.”

You let out a loud, childish groan. At this point you basically have to run to keep up with the hunk of metal heading back to his ship.

“I used to repair ships with my father on Tatooine.” Your tone is breathy, your lungs trying to get as much fresh air as possible.

This makes him pause. Turning around, the ‘T’ of his visor looking directly at you. Stopping at arm’s-length away from him, you bend forward, hands resting on your knees. He gives you time to regulate your breathing.

“I can fix the hyperdrive. I’ve been doing it since I can remember.” You try to assure him. You don’t even know why you’re offering your help. The longer it takes to fix, the longer your freedom lasts, but the alcohol has made you soft, more accommodating. Seeming to come out of nowhere, your vision becomes extremely blurry. You swear there’s now two Mandalorians in front of you. Blinking profusely, your eyesight doesn’t clear. You feel like you’re floating while simultaneously being pulled to the ground. Fighting to keep your eyes open, you feel your limbs cave in, and everything gets dark.

The sound of crackling fire wakes you up. It must be late, because the fire is the only source of light. How did you get here? The last thing you remember was walking through thick forest with the Mandalorian and now you’re laying by a fire, back near the Crest. You can’t remember the last time you actually passed out from drinking so much. The spotchka here has to be stronger than any other time you’ve had it. You can handle your drink, and this is downright embarrassing.

Wait, did he actually carry you back to the ship? Despite the little stunt you pulled back at the common house? He could have easily thrown you into carbonite once you both got back to the ship and you wouldn’t have even known it, but for some reason, he chose not to. You want to ask him—to show your appreciation, but you hesitate. Maybe just letting it slide is the right course of action.

Propping yourself on your elbows, you see the Mandalorian sitting on an old, mossy stump. There’s something between his legs, but you can’t make out its features through the fire. Pushing yourself to your feet, you notice another stump just to your right. He must have put it there for you to sit once you woke up. You have a pounding headache, but the fire’s warmth helps a little.

You can now make out a few more details about the creature sat between the Mandalorian’s feet. It looks like a child, but you can’t be sure. Your eyes must be deceiving you because it appears to be green, the type of green you’ve only ever seen on the plains of Naboo.

Stars, its ears. They’re massive, just like its eyes. Your mouth curls into a smile. It’s adorable. You’ve never been partial to kids. There was never something inside of you that longed for a child, or to take care of one, but this little thing at the Mandalorian’s feet is making you rethink anything negative you’ve ever said about babies.

“What…is that?” You ask as you sit down on the stump he placed for you.

From the embers of the fire, you see the little thing’s eyes find you and it coos. Kriff, he’s so fucking cute.

“He’s a foundling.” Oh, so it’s a ‘he’.

You wait for him to explain, but the Mandalorian isn’t one to talk or elaborate unless directly addressed or absolutely necessary. Continuing to examine the child from a distance, it—no, he, is also looking at you, almost like he’s studying you as well.

“How did he come into your care?”

“He was a quarry,” His voice is quiet, the modulator distorting his tone to make it raspier than usual.

“You haven’t delivered him yet?”

Your eyes shift between the man in armor across the fire from you, and the small green alien-looking child between his legs. The Child’s head tilts from side to side as he watches you, the reflection of the flames glistening in his big black eyes.

“I did.” He deadpans and leaves you to fill in the rest of the blanks.

You want to bore him to death with questions. Why did he go back for him? Does this mean he’s its father? How does he plan to raise a child being a bounty hunter? Does that mean this kid will also become a Mandalorian?

None of these questions actually come out of your mouth, though. Given the circumstances, you don’t think the Mandalorian even has a clue what he’ll do, and it’s not really your place to bombard him with your curiosity.

So, maybe this Mandalorian was different from the stories you’ve heard—not that you’ve heard much honestly other than them being amazing killers, but if he went back for the Child, then maybe there was a soft, kind heart under all that beskar.

“I can do it.” Your voice is just loud enough for him to hear you. You continue to stare into the flames, waiting to see if he’ll respond. He doesn’t, but that’s fine with you.  

You’re not entirely sure when you even fell asleep but when your eyes flutter open, you’re lying on the ground, back against the uneven terrain. Using the ground to push you up to your feet, you shake the dirt off your pants and begin stretching your back by twisting your torso until you hear a satisfying crack. Your mother used to scold you for cracking your back. “You’re going to hurt yourself one day,” she used to say. When you were a kid, you’d roll your eyes at her and then she’d give you a gentle but still stern slap across the arm, the kind of slap only a mother could get away with doing. You were never really one to listen to authority, so it’s a habit you never grew out of.

It’s a beautiful day. The sun is beaming down on your skin, not a single cloud in sight. Sorgan is quite breathtaking, really. On most planets, no matter where you are, you can hear the commotion of city centres or see ships coming in and out of the atmosphere. Not on Sorgan, though. The only sounds you’re able to make out are tress swaying in the breeze, and the occasional bellow of the beasts in the forest.

The sound of the Child startles you. He’s at your feet, little arms extending out to grasp the material of your trousers. When did he get here? You crouch down and wave your index finger at him, little coos emitting from the green baby. His three-fingered hand wraps around your finger. This warm calmness comes over you, putting you at ease. Untensing all your muscles, your aches disappear, and the only thing that exists is you and the Child. You close your eyes, completely giving into the stillness. Maker, you swear you can hear the Child say something. Your eyes are still closed, and you don’t actually hear him say anything, but he is. You hear it in your mind—It’s faint and muffled, and you have to focus all your energy into narrowing down what he’s saying, and then it becomes as clear as day.

Grogu.  

“Good. You’re up.”

The Mandalorian’s voice pulls you out of your thoughts. He’s headed straight for you, just as stoic as ever; the sun’s light ricocheting off the beskar. The Child’s grip slackens, and you straighten out to meet the Mandalorian’s gaze. Your breath hitches as he continues to make his way towards you. Something as simple as a walk shouldn’t make you feel the way it does, but you can’t help the way your body reacts to him. Shifting in your stance, you can’t help but notice the heat building in your lower abdomen. Stars, get a grip. He’s the enemy, you shouldn’t allow yourself to feel this.

Leaning over, he picks up the Child and holds him with one arm. Almost immediately, you observe the way the Child wraps his tiny hand around one of the Mandalorian’s gloved fingers. There’s no stopping the stupid, shit-eating grin that appears on your face.

“The hyperdrive.”

“Right.” You respond, the smile falls from your face and you stand there awkwardly for a few seconds. The Mandalorian turns his back to you and makes way for the Crest. You follow him like a lost puppy, keeping a couple feet distance between you and him.

Once inside, he sets the Child down on one of the cargo crates near the ladder leading up the cockpit. You head up the ladder first, and he quickly follows suit. To your left is a small cubby hole in the wall that accesses all the wiring to the hyperdrive. It’ll be a nightmare to crawl in and out of, but you offered your services to him, so you can’t turn back now.

“I’ll get straight to work, then.” Turning away from him, you crouch down to your knees to examine the damage. There are various wires that are disconnected and thrown around, smoke emitting from one of the panels hidden inside the wall, and looks just about as worse as it can get. You’ve never seen anything this bad, before. How the Kriff was he able to fly this ship in such a horrible state? You start by grabbing a blue and red wire that hang loosely off the wall. A bit of copper and aluminum cords are splitting at the end of the cable which makes you think they might have touched each other causing some kind short circuit. Shrugging off the idea, you start to work.

After working on the hyperdrive for a couple hours, you decide to take a break. Climbing down the ladder near the cockpit, there’s no sign of the Mandalorian or the Child. All of a sudden, you’re aware of how sticky your body feels. Dirty, grimy, and uncomfortable. Now would be the perfect time for a shower. You turn your head to the fresher behind you and consider taking one, but you don’t want to intrude. You’re still a quarry and you assume the Mandalorian wouldn’t appreciate you taking a shower in his refresher. On your walk to the common house yesterday, you had spotted a lake not too far away. Maybe you could take one there. Then again, if you were to venture off, he might think you’ve run off. Your eyes shift between the fresher and the outside.

“You can clean up in the fresher.” Despite his tone always been low and rough, it still startles you. You whip your neck to see the Mandalorian leaning against the wall of the ship. You swear he wasn’t there a second ago so to see him just a few metres away from you not only puzzles you, but sends immediate shockwaves to your cunt. You feel like you’re being stalked, and it shouldn’t turn you on as much as it does. The Mandalorian is built like a goddamn Star Destroyer; one look at him and you’re instantly intimidated, almost scared. You’ve never met anyone who can be so big yet so quiet, so frightening yet also so caring. It’s actually quite impressive. From his demeanor, no one would be able to guess he’s got a fucking kid back in his ship.

At first you want to protest, not wanting to push any boundaries or make either of you feel uncomfortable, but you know he’ll end up winning any argument you try to make for yourself, so instead you give him a quick nod before turning on your heel to the refresher. You don’t turn back to see if the Mandalorian is still looking at you, but your cheeks feel red hot anyway.

The fresher is pretty small considering the size of the ship, but if he somehow manages to fit in here, you have no problem. The water is warm, and cascades over your skin, instantly relaxing you. It feels amazing until it suddenly doesn’t. Your arm is burning, it’s on fucking fire and then it hits you. Looking down at your arm, you see scorched skin and are reminded of your injury from… well you’re not quite sure how long it’s been since he captured you back on Kijimi. It’s maybe been two or three days since. In the same moment, you realize you never got to put any bacta spray on it to stop any kind of infection. The skin surrounding the wound is turning a deep green-purple shade. Not a good sign.

“Kriff…” You whisper. You were supposed to put some bacta on it once you got back to your ship but obviously, things went differently than you expected. You take the bar of soap sitting on one of the ledges inside the fresher and begin washing away the dirt and sweat from the last couple of days, being extra careful when cleaning the area around your injury. Realistically, you could stay here for hours, letting the warm water drip down your figure, completely soothing your sore muscles and calming your mind, but you don’t want to take up more water than necessary.

When you come out of the fresher, there’s a pile of clean clothes resting on the rungs of the ladder. Tilting your head at the garments in front of you, you take them in your hands and smile to yourself. He must have gone out while you were working on the ship and somehow was able to find you some clean clothes. You change quickly, out in the open, hoping he won’t walk in and see you—okay maybe you do kind of hope he’ll see you. Once you’re fully clothes, you’re pleasantly surprised to notice they fit you perfectly. The cargo pants hug your frame like a glove, and you can’t help but notice they make your ass look great. Your tunic snatches your waist and is low cut enough for just the smallest amount of cleavage to pop through.

Taking the ladder two steps at a time, you reach the top in record time. You can see the smooth convex of beskar in the pilot’s chair, so instead of immediately resuming your work, you poke your head into the doorway of the cockpit. The Child’s pram rests on the seat to your left. It’s closed which means he’s probably asleep in there.

“Thank you for the clothes…” You’re not sure what to call him, since neither of us have actually properly introduced yourselves. However, you’re sure he knows your name given there’s a bounty on your head.

He doesn’t turn to face you, just continues whatever he’s doing. “Mando,” He clarifies, somehow answering the question you were thinking. “And you’re welcome.”

You linger for a couple seconds, not entirely sure why. He’s not much of a talker, but you still want to hear his voice. Before you can conjure up with something to say, he breaks the silence.

“When will you be done?” There isn’t any annoyance in his tone, which is usually accompanied by that question. You heard it all the time when you worked back at the hangar. “Hey lady, when are you going to be done?”, “What the Kriff is taking so long?”. You’ve grown to let those condescending questions roll off your back, but the Mandalorian’s tone is surprisingly gentle. Maker, are you falling for the Mandalorian?

“Well,” You begin, taking a few steps into the cockpit. Your hand comes up and latches onto your forearm, squeezing it. “I noticed that the hyperdrive was only functioning at 50% capacity before it broke down completely, and I was going to ask if you wanted it back at 100% before we takeoff because that’ll take—”

“Just fix it enough for us to get back to Nevarro.” He interjects, the baritone coming out dry.

It catches you off-guard, but you’re quickly reminded once again that you aren’t just somebody fixing the ship. You are a prisoner, and he doesn’t actually owe you any more kindness. He was kind enough to let you live, let you clean yourself in his refresher, and give you clean clothes. You’re chewing on the flesh inside your cheek, wondering if there’s something else you should say, but nothing worth saying comes to mind. He must notice your presence still there, because he swivels the pilot’s chair to face you. You swallow the giant lump in your throat and shift in your stance.

“You’re hurt.”

You glance over to your arm and then back to the visor. “It’s nothing.”

Pressing down on his knees to stand, the Mandalorian stalks towards you. Nerves and arousal are pooling in your stomach, now. Your chest is heaving as he gets closer. Stopping just at arm’s length, a gloved hand reaches out and clasps just underneath your injured bicep. The touch makes you pull back, not because it hurts but because it feels too fucking amazing. You’re seeing stars and he’s barely even touched you. Mouth agape, your breathing is so fucking uneven.

“That’ll need more than just cauterizing in order for it to properly heal,” His hand now moves down, ever so gently caressing your elbow. Your head dips down, unable to look at him directly. It’s pathetic really. You’re usually a fairly strong-willed person, who doesn’t bend at the will of anybody. You stand tall, even despite your size. Others in the smuggling game have a huge respect for you and see you as a leader, but now you’re cowering under the Mandalorian. You’d obey every one of his commands if he ordered it. All the power you hold, your bad habit of resisting authority would vanish in an instant if he pushed you.

“There’s bacta spray in the medical kit near the armory. You should take care of that before it infects.”

Your brain is racing, and the ability to form words had completed disappeared. All you can offer is a barely noticeable nod. You want to stay in this moment for as long as you can. Just the two of you standing inches apart, the tension growing thicker and thicker in the small area of the cockpit. You wonder if he feels it, too. If he wishes for this intimate moment to last forever. Swallowing your nerves, your eyes shit from the floor up to the visor. Trying to gauge for some kind of reaction but even if he is affected by this, his body gives no sign of it. Must be all in your head, then.

The Mandalorian’s finally the one to break up your little moment. He lets go of your elbow and you fight back the moan that threatens to escape your lips. You want him to touch you again, anywhere and fucking everywhere. He sits back in the chair and rotates it towards the control panel, so his back is facing you again. You probably linger a little longer than you should before finally retreating back down the ladder to get the bacta spray.

Once the spray mists over the gash, you instantly feel relief. The strain you didn’t realize was still in your body dissipates and you let out a deep breath through your lips. Thank the Maker for bacta spray.

The next few days go by relatively fast. Despite the awkward/sexual tension that clearly exists between you and Mando, you’re able to endure it. The encounters don’t last that long anyway. Usually, he’ll ask you about the progress on the hyperdrive. The conversations don’t last particularly long, but it’s enough to work you up into a sweaty mess.

And if you’re being honest, you probably could have fixed the hyperdrive in two days. You’re a damn natural when it comes to repairs, and you’ve fixed hundreds of hyperdrives in worse shape believe it or not. But you’re were taking your sweet ass time, giving yourself more time to be with Mando. It’s silly and childish, but you truly enjoyed his company, even though the conversations are mostly one sided.

Unfortunately though, the job had to get done. Once Mando noticed the hyperdrive had been fixed to 65% capacity, he was satisfied enough with your work. He decided you’d spend one last night on Sorgan and then leave at first light.

You’re all sitting by the fire. The Child propped up on a stump between the two of you. The night is calm, not a single breeze passing through the trees. A clear sky showered in stars. Forgetting the fact that this is essentially your last night of “freedom”, you’re really loving this.

“Twenty thousand.”

You’re in the middle of sipping bone broth you bought off a merchant in town—with Mando’s credits, when his voice catches your attention. “Hmm?” You mumble, using the back of your hand to wipe the little dripples of soup that trinkle down your chin.

“You asked me how much your bounty was,” His helmet stares into the fire a few feet away from him. The orange hues reflecting off the beskar.

Your lips form a thin line. You didn’t know the New Republic had that kind of money to spend. Twenty thousand is a pretty generous bounty.

“Wow, that’s pretty high.” That’s actually really high. It’s hard to make an honest living, and the New Republic throwing around thousands of credits like that makes you uneasy. Instead of using that as an incentive for other to hunt criminals, it should be distributed to those less fortunate. The thought makes you chuckle to yourself. A smuggler explaining how a government should be run. How noble of you.

“I wasn’t born into this, you know…” Your voice trails off, unsure if Mando wants to hear you or not. The helmet turns in your direction, giving you permission to continue. The Child looks up at you and coos. Your eyes avert their gaze to stare into the flames.

Clearing your throat, you begin. “I was raised on Tatooine. My parents were lucky enough to own a hangar, so my dad worked there, and my mom was a seamstress. Just a couple of ordinary people.” You weren’t particularly less fortunate than anyone else in your town. Your belly was always full, and you always had clean clothes on your back. Most of the residents in your village weren’t as privileged but your parents were generous, offering what little excess they had was given those who couldn’t afford food or clean garments.

Early on, they taught you never to flaunt what you had, always be humble when speaking to others, and to always be respectful. You loved your parents more than you could say, and ever since they died, you shut off a part of yourself. Heartbroken and alone, losing yourself in work seemed like the only way to cope with the loss. The more sorrow you felt, the more work you forced on yourself. If it weren’t for Tye, you’re not sure if you would have been able to get through it.

And ever since then, you vowed never to let yourself experience any kind of love again. The risk was just too high. Not knowing if one day your loved one would come home or not, investing so much of your soul into someone, relying on them only to have it snatched away from you without warning; it just seemed foolish. When they died, you cried every morning and every night for months, until one night you vowed never to cry again.

And you haven’t since.

People called you heartless, scum, cruel, but their words never managed to pierce the iron exterior you mentally built for yourself when your parents died. No one would be allowed to access that sensitive, caring part of you. Not even Tye. You loved him like a brother, but once that loss had punched through you, you could never look at him the same. There was a distance, now. Whether he knew it or not, he never confronted you about it. He gave you space, and when you were ready to let him back into your life, albeit not really back in, he never pressured you or expected your relationship to go back to how it was.

“So when they passed, I just felt like I was lost. I needed to escape.”

“And smuggling was your only option?” There’s a hint of mockery in his tone.

“Yeah, I’m a smuggler and you’re a bounty hunter. We all make choices in life. I’ve made my peace with that.” Your tone comes out a little more defensive than it should, and you think about apologizing, but fuck it. You have nothing to lose anymore. Even if you thought he might not turn you in, the possibility of getting twenty thousand credits is too much of an opportunity to pass up on.

Neither of you speak for the rest of the night.

You’re awakened by Mando nudging your feet with his. You snap out of deep sleep, rubbing your palms against your eyes. Sitting up, you moan softly and begin trying to adjust your vision to the Sorgan darkness. The only light that the night offers is the moonlight reflecting off Mando’s armor. The helmet’s looking directly at you, and a finger comes up to where his mouth would be, signaling to be quiet. Still half-asleep, you nod.

Ever so slowly, you rise to your feet and quickly brush the dirt off your pants.

“Get to the ship,” He orders, voice low and gruff.

“What’s going on?” You whisper, still standing in place.

“Hunters.” He says. “Get to the ship.” Mando orders again, his tone becoming much more assertive. You want to fight. You’ve never run from a fight before, and you’re not about to start now.

“I can help.”

Before having the chance to respond, red blasts come flying through the trees in the distance. Mando grabs you by the waist and shoves you behind him, shielding you with his body. “Get to the fucking ship!” He yells.

You want to argue with him, really you do. Realistically, you know he could probably take care of this himself, but that doesn’t mean you want to cower away and hide in the ship while he takes care of business. Then panic swarms you.

The Child.

Your head whips back and forth, and the relief that comes over you when you catch sight of his pram just your left, the gloomy night shielding him from sight, instantly calms your nerves.

The shooting stops all at once, becoming eerily quiet. Mando pivots, trying to keep eyes all around him. Your body mimics his movements, even though you’re completely defenseless. Twigs snapping, bushes rustling—not from the breeze, but from intruders trampling over them, coming closer. One, two, three, four hunters come into view, flanking you from all angles.

Okay, so this worse than you thought.

“Ah, Mando!” One of them calls out, blaster pointed directly at Mando’s chest.

“We don’t want any trouble, Mando,” Another pursuer taunts. “We just want the girl.”

Fuck.

They begin drawing in closer. You don’t want to underestimate Mando’s ability to fight, but with four hunters closing in, and having only one blaster, you’re not seeing how he can win this. You’re conjuring a plan inside your head and praying that he’ll catch on. If someone’s going to get credit for your capture, it sure as hell isn’t going to be this gang of thugs.

“Fine.” You throw up your hands in defeat, stepping aside from the shield that is Mando. You face the man directly in front of you, assuming he’s the one who’s leading the charge.

“What are you doing?” Mando’s voice is fucking low, somewhere between a whisper and a growl.

“Trust me.” Your tone gentle, eyes pleading with him.

You begin taking slow footsteps towards the blaster pointed now at you. “I can assure you, I’m more valuable alive, so why don’t we put our blasters down before someone gets hurts?” Arms still up, hesitating to take any more steps forward.

“You think we’re stupid enough to listen to you?” One of them shouts behind you. You flinch on impulse. Your chest is heaving, but you need to a grip if you plan to walk away from this alive.

You can slightly make out the hunter’s features. He looks somewhat familiar, like when you see a stranger in a dream, but you can’t pinpoint where you’ve seen him before. You’ve encountered plenty of hunters before, maybe they’re just all starting to look the same to you. Only Mando stands out, now.

The moon’s mellow and radiant reflection is starting to make out the hunter’s features. He doesn’t look entirely human, but you don’t manage to get close enough to actually see what he is.

“Hi, sweetheart.” The hunter sneers, his mouth curling into a malicious grin.

Stopping dead in your tracks, you remember who this is—but how? You shot him in the chest. You saw him fall. Sure, you didn’t actually check to see if he was dead but how could anyone survive being blasted directly in the chest? You must be remembering wrong. No, he shouldn’t be here. He can’t be here.

“Surprised to see me?”

You refuse to show your disbelief, keeping your jaw tense. “No, it’s just more target practice.” You spit.

Eerie laughter erupts from deep inside the man opposite you. Never slacking on the grip on his blaster, he shifts the barrel from your chest to directly between your eyes. Okay…what the fuck do you do now?

Mando and the kid are still a few feet behind you. You’re running out of ideas, fast. If you went to attack your pursuer, he’d definitely shoot you before you got close enough to him, and the three behind you would shoot Mando down before he even had time to react. You need to play this out smart, maybe you could—

Before being able to finish your thought, you hear whistling, and bodies hit the ground. Instinctively, you want to look over your shoulder to see what happened, but there’s still a blaster pointed at your face, and you’d be dead if you wasted even a second to turn around. Charging at him, you narrowly miss three blasts as they come flying by your cheek, shoulder, and neck. Once you feel close enough, you lunge at him, knocking you both to the ground. Your body lands on top of his, the blaster rolling a few feet away from your conjoined bodies. Grabbing hold of the lapel on his jacket, you wind up your fist and connect it with his jaw. He cries at the pain, retaliating by slamming his knee into your abdomen. The air is completely knocked out of your lungs, but you stifle the wail that threatens to spill you. You refuse to give him the satisfaction.

You reach out aimlessly for the gun, and the joy you get when you feel the gun in your hand is unmatched. Scrambling to your feet, and clutching the gun in your hand, you point it at him. Mando wastes no time rushing to your side, blaster also on him.

“Don’t.” You tell him. No, you want this kill to be yours.

For a moment, you think he’ll ignore you and shoot him anyway. The man on the ground, now resting on his elbows spits, droplets of blood landing on the ground, a small trail dribbling down his chin. It shouldn’t bring you this much satisfaction, to see him bleed and completely at your mercy, but reason has escaped you. You want to hurt him; you want him to feel as much pain as any person can take. He threatened you, Mando, and the kid. He’ll pay for it, you promise.

“Go ahead, kill me.” The man swears. “But know that we’re only the beginning. You think you’re the only one who got a tracking fob, Mando?” A smile curls up on the corners of his lips. Your body is hot—it’s actually scorching. This surpasses any emotion you’ve ever felt before. The scalding need for blood and pain engulfs you. You’re not even sure why you feel so angry, but you are.

“Hunter scum,” You spit, kicking him hard in the stomach. More red fluid punches out of his mouth, causing him to cough aggressively.

“Hey,” Mando’s free arm grasps on to your bicep. “Stop.”

Your head’s shaking violently. No, he needs to suffer. “No, I’m gonna savour this.” You swing your leg back to kick him again, but Mando’s voice rips through the vocoder. “Stop!” It comes out aggressive, like he’s giving you an order.

Your jaw is tight, every fiber in your body is telling you to shove Mando out of the way so you can wreck this hunter scum that lies at your feet.

“You g-gonna let him order you around like that, sweetheart?” His last word cuts through you like a vibroblade to the chest. Your free hand balls up into a fist, white knuckling so hard, you’re sure you’re breaking skin with your nails. The man on the ground laughs, he’s fucking laughing at you and that’s the final straw, the thing you needed to push you over the edge. Unclenching your fist, your hand shoots up and flexes around what you imagine is his neck. He coughs, and starts gasping for air. Shaky hands shoot up to his own throat, as if he thinks that’ll somehow relieve the pressure you’re creating. It feels good, seeing him fucking struggle for breath, watching the light behind his eyes becoming dimmer and dimmer. It’s happening all too fast, and you want to take your time.

“Fuck this,” Mando shouts, his blaster coming up and shooting the man in the heart. Your grip slackens, and you drop to your knees. Struggling for breath, one hand on your chest and the other on your knee, you feel like you’re going to pass out. Mando’s drops to your side, a big, gloved hand resting on your back. Your body shudders at the touch and you pull away from him. Determined to put some space between you two, you straighten out, and take a couple steps back.

“What the hell happened there?” He tries not to startle you; his voice comes out a rough whisper.

Feeling your breathing evening out, your palms come out, trembling. You stare down at them, then to the corpse lying near Mando’s feet, desperately trying to understand why you couldn’t stop, why you couldn’t control your anger. The words aren’t forming, you can’t bring yourself to understand how it happened.

“I-I don’t know.” How could this happen? How could you let this happen?

A distorted sigh comes through the helmet. “Where did you learn how to do that?”

“I didn’t,” Your voice comes out as gentle as you can, given the circumstances. “I’ve just always had it.”

Mando takes a step closer to you and halts; he’s asking for permission to get closer. You give him a barely noticeable nod and within seconds he’s towering over you. His hands twitch at his sides, and you wonder if he’s going to touch you, but he doesn’t, and you start to believe that maybe a jail cell is exactly where you should be.

[panda-noosh]

Enemies by Association {Draco Malfoy x Reader}

Words: 7.6k

Summary: Sometimes you don’t really know what you and Draco are meant to be. 

Genre: angst (?)

Notes: support my writing or ask me about commissions! - what the FUCK is this, Aticus?! 

----

  “What the bloody hell are you doing here? 

   The voice strikes you almost immediately like a blow to the back of the skull. Already in a gruesome mood, the shrill tones of Draco Malfoy does nothing to make this night any better.

    Slowly, you turn to face the pale-haired boy now standing before you. It was only seconds before the forest was completely empty, nothing more than you and it’s usual spooky atmosphere, and where once you craved the comfort of another human being suffering alongside you, you now wish for nothing more than a tree to scoop you up and devour you.

    Draco, as per usual, stands tall and bold, even in the most embarrassing of circumstances. He’s wearing his Hogwarts robes, the Slytherin crest unavoidable upon his chest alongside his very undeserved Prefect badge. His basically-white hair still manages to glisten even in the pitch black of night, and that stupid scowl of his is, of course, still very prominent on his features.

    “What does it look like?” is your response to his dumb question. “I got a detention.”

    Draco raises a brow, visible only beneath the torchlight cast upon his lower jaw. “Y/N Weasley getting a detention? Colour me surprised.”

   You scowl and swivel back to face the path you had previously been staring into; still dark, still scary, still very unappealing, but it’s better than dealing with Draco’s sarcasm.

    He steps up beside you, folding wiry arms over a flat chest. “Are you not even gonna ask why I’m here?”

  “I can genuinely say I don’t give a shit.”

   “Watch your mouth, Weasley, or I’ll give you another detention.”

    You roll your eyes. “Fine then. What are you doing here, Malfoy?”

    He’s quiet for only a moment, and during that moment, you can feel his ice-like eyes burning into the side of your head; you want to punch him, desperately and with the force of a thousand waves, you want to punch that smirk off his stupid face.

    “Apparently part of the job of being a Prefect is overlooking detentions.”

    You gasp over dramatically, clapping your hands to your face. “You’re a Prefect? Why didn’t you say?!”

   “Oh, ha ha.” He nudges your arm, nods into the darkness ahead. “Get walking, then. We’ve got a long night ahead of us.”

   “An hour,” you correct, walking forward with him following close behind; you have to admit, he’s grown an awful lot since the last time you had been cursed with a shared detention with him. That was way back in first year after the two of you had been too loud during an argument in the hallways - hallways you were not supposed to be in that late at night. Filch had come sprinting down the corridors, and it was an instant sentence to the forest. Back then, Draco had basically been trembling in fear as Hagrid led the two of you through the trees, giving his usual promises that everything would be okay. You love Hagrid, would trust him with your life, but you’ve never been able to take his word on what he deems as okay.

    Now, however, Draco walks with his spine straight and his eyes narrowed, looking for the dangers you suspect he thinks he can fend away. 

    “You haven’t even got your fucking wand in your hand,” you point out.

   “Language, Weasley. I won’t tell you again. Even that twin brother of yours doesn’t use such foul language.”

   “Such foul language. Alright, Umbridge, I don’t remember asking.”

    Draco purses his lips. “It’s like you want a second detention.”

  “If it means having to walk through this bleeding forest with you again, I’ll pass.”

    The conversation dips after that. Draco keeps his wand in his hand, seems utterly concentrated on the path ahead; neither of you know where you’re going, but that doesn’t seem like such a bad thing when the tension is so high. 

     And the thing is, you don’t even think you dislike him.

   Draco just has the kind of personality you’re meant to clash with. He’s Slytherin, you’re Gryffindor. You’re a Weasley, he’s a Malfoy. You’re best friends with Harry Potter, and he’s got some kind of vendetta against him, so hating him is just kind of expected.

    But you talk to him a lot more than the others do.

    It’s mainly arguing, yes, but you’re still communicating, and you still go out of your way to sneer at him, and he goes out of his way to sneer right back. You insult him, but you spend ages coming up with those insults and you get excited when you see him and can finally hurl them at him from across the hallway, and you get excited when he throws his own set of insults right back at you. It’s been like that from day one, and you’re not sure what your day would look like without it.

     These thoughts never settle well with you, of course. You take one look at Ron and immediately feel like a traitor, because if he was to hear what was running through your head, he would be most incredibly displeased - and rightly so. The way him and Malfoy get on, it wouldn’t surprise you if Ron turned and ripped your head off for ever expressing even a single hint of fondness for the blonde boy currently strolling alongside you.

     “What are you in detention for this time, then, Weasley?”

   His voice breaks you from your reverie. You glance at him; he’s still looking dead ahead, tracing those ice blue eyes along the ground in search of danger. Part of you is surprised; the fact that Malfoy even showed up tonight is a big deal, considering you wouldn’t be surprised if he simply left you for dead in the Forbidden Forest.

    “McGonagall got mad at me,” you mumble in response. 

   Draco raises a brow. “For what?”

    “For nothing.” You fold your arms over your chest, letting your wand peek from your sleeve to keep the light illuminated on the track ahead. “In my defense, it was entirely Ron’s fault - if he had just let me get on with the Vanishing spell, that table would still be in her classroom and I wouldn’t be here.”

    Draco nods like he understands. “I always said two Weasleys in the same classroom would be dangerous.”

    “Ha.”

    “So why didn’t Ronald get a detention?”

   You scowl. “I bloody covered for him.”

   Draco almost seems to stumble. Your head snaps round to look at him at the exact same time he whirls around to look at you, eyes wide beneath his wand light, his footsteps a little heavier.

   “What’s wrong with you?” you demand, struggling to hide your laughter.

    “You covered for him?” 

   You raise a brow, grin spreading slow across your face. “Of course I did. He covered for me during Snape’s last class, and Snape is ten times worse than McGonagall - I owed him one.”

    Draco continues to stare at you in puzzlement.

   “Malfoy, close your mouth before you attract flies.” You glance into the darkness and shudder. “Or something worse.”

     Draco shakes his head, fumbling to return to his previous pristine posture. “You’re an idiot.”

   “Would you rather be walking through this hell-hole with Ron? Because I’m sure he’d be flattered to hear it.”

   “Absolutely not,” Draco snaps. “I just. . . I don’t understand why you’d get yourself in trouble for the sake of somebody else. Surely you have better things to be doing than a late-night detention with me.”

    “Aw, give yourself more credit, Malfoy.”

   He raises a brow.

   You grin. “Although, to be fair, I would much rather be chewing on leather shoes than walking beside you right now.”

    Draco rolls his eyes, nudges your arm in his attempts to make you speed up. “Say that again and you’ll be back here tomorrow night.”

    And that is enough to shut you up immediately.

   ----

    Professor Dolores Umbridge.

    The new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, a small woman doused in pink, ruffled with feathers and other fluffy accessories. A woman with a smile and a sweet voice. A woman hiding behind a mask that almost everybody has seen past at this point.

    She’s only been at Hogwarts a handful of months, and already she’s decided she owns the place. You, Ron and Harry scowl when you walk into her classroom to see she has yet to fall into the Hippogriff dens. As per usual, written upon the board in white chalk is the next chapter the class will be forced to read in utter silence whilst their wands are stowed away in their backpacks.

    “I hate her,” you whisper to Ron as the two of you take your seats at the back of the classroom. “Hate. Her.”

  “Keep your voice down,” Hermoine hisses, leaning back so she can talk to you. “You’ve seen what she did to Harry when he spoke out of turn - she won’t let you away with it either, Y/N.”

    You scowl, glaring at the back of her head. “She’s just got something against Harry.”

  “Exactly,” Harry whispers. “And you guys are my best mates, so she has something against you lot, too. By association.”

   “To hell with that. McGonagall surely won’t let her give us a detention just for being your friend.”

   Harry raises a brow; he’s already been through this once with you, but you were too busy arguing with Fred and George about their Nosebleed Nougat to really listen. Nonetheless, you’re aware that Harry went to McGonagall in his attempts to weasel out of his last week of detentions with Umbridge and was told - plain and simple - that she could and would do absolutely nothing to help him out.

    The lesson starts as per usual - with Umbridge reminding the class which chapter they left off at, ordering everyone to open up to the page beginning the next one, and reading everyone that they did not - under any circumstances - need to talk.

    You lower your head to your textbook, skimming the same sentence over and over again. It’s so easy to lose concentration when even just sitting in this room - in silence or not - makes you angry. You don’t want to read, don’t want to learn, don’t want to listen to her stupid, squeaky little voice. You just want to-

     The seat beside you is pulled from beneath the desk. Your head shoots up, eyes widening when you see Draco Malfoy sitting down, pulling his textbook from his bag without so much as a glance in your direction.

   You look up; Umbridge has spotted the latecomer, but merely gives Malfoy a smile that tells you she is in close cahoots with the blonde demons father. You look back up at Malfoy and narrow your eyes.

    “You don’t sit there,” you whisper.

   Draco glances at your textbook, nudging his arm with your own. “What page are we looking at?”

  “Not my problem you were late, Malfoy.”

  He tugs your textbook closer, leans a little further forward to read the page number, and it’s when he does that that you can feel his breath on your lower arm, can feel the warmth of his skin as he gets so close. Your eyes widen for a fraction of a second - you never once believed Malfoy would have warmth. The boy looks too much like a corpse for you to think he has any kind of body heat whatsoever.

   But it’s nice, and he’s very close to you, and you don’t think you like it that much.

   You don’t move away.

    “Half these bleeding chapters don’t even make sense,” Draco mumbles, eyes still scanning the glossy page of your textbook. “I’ve learned nothing since she got the teaching job.”

    You raise a brow. “I could have sworn Umbridge was one of those teachers your head was shoved up.”

    “What made you think that?”

  “Well, she’s a bit of a bitch, isn’t she?” you reply, motioning to the woman sat at her desk, too busy humming away to herself to hear you and Malfoy conversing in the back of her classroom. “I just assumed you liked all the bitchy teachers.”

    “You really do have a foul mouth, don’t you?”

   “You’re avoiding the subject.”

   Malfoy purses his lips and glances at you through the corner of his eye; you, on the other hand, shamelessly stare right back at him, tracing your eyes along his sharp side profile. He really is a pretty boy to look at; the sharp jawline and pointed nose. You always thought he was fairly attractive, despite the amount of times you called him a weasel in your lifetime.

     “I think she’s a lousy teacher,” Draco concludes. “Her policies aren’t too bad-”

  You grunt.

    Draco rolls his eyes. “You only don’t like her because she yells at you all the time.”

   “All teachers yell at me all the time - but at least I deserve it in their classes. She just yells at me because I’m friends with Harry.”

    Draco shifts. “Don’t really blame her.”

  You yank your textbook back to your side of the table, fury suddenly building in your chest. “Oh, go to hell, Malfoy.” 

    This is how it always goes with him - things will be going so well, so smoothly. For a short period of time, you convince yourself he’s a good guy and maybe - just maybe - you’ll be able to get on with him. But then he goes and says something like that, so unnecessary and unjustified that it reminds you how much of a rat he really is. 

     Draco is quiet for the remainder of the lesson, one hand tucked against his cheek as he scans the pages of his own textbook - one he miraculously found just a few minutes after you downright refused to share yours. Although the whole class is silent, it feels a bit more tense where you and Malfoy are sat. He shifts every now and then, and the constant glances shared between you are enough to drive you insane.

    Sometimes you just want him to speak to you, which is weird considering you were the one who shut down the conversation in the first place. Arguing with him, throwing insults back and forth is better than sitting here in this anger-infused silence.

    Class finishes with no slip-up’s between you and Umbridge. She tries to claim you were too noisy when standing up, but whatever punishment she was about to fish out to you is washed away by the crowd of students happily making their way out of her classroom.

     “What did Malfoy want?” is the first thing Ron asks when you finally find each other in the crowded hallways. 

    “Nothing,” you reply. “He was just late and needed a seat.”

   Ron scowls, shooting a glance over his shoulder to where Malfoy and his cronies are standing. “He better not have been causing you any trouble.”

    “No trouble at all.”

   “He wasn’t insulting our parents or anything, was he?”

  “I said he was no trouble at all.” You aren’t sure why you’re snapping; you’re mad at Malfoy, for crying out loud. 

    Ron hauls his bag a little further up his back, still scowling even as he turns away from them. “He winds me up. He’s constantly staring at you. Makes me want to punch him right in his ugly little-”

    “Okay, Ron. I get it. You and Malfoy are sworn enemies.”

    Ron glances at you. “You better be on my side or I swear to god-”

   “Of course I am.” But you’re talking so fast, and Ron knows you better than anybody else. His steps falter, letting you know immediately that he’s picked up on the rush of your tone, the heat in your cheeks, the uncertain lilt to your statement.

    You glance at him through the corner of your eye and quickly mumble, “I’m on your side, Ron.”

    Ron pauses. And then, “Wait till I tell Harry about this. He’s gonna crack up.”

   You grab Ron’s arm when he quickens his pace. “What are you talking about? Ron, stop. Stop right now or I swear to-”

   “You fancy Malfoy!”

    You wince, heart dropping. You nearly stumble over your own two feet in your attempts to slap your hand over Ron’s big mouth, his grin widening beneath your hand. “Shut the hell up, Ronald Weasley!”

    He pries your hand away. “How long has this been happening? And why him? Of all bloody people!”

  “I don’t - I don’t fancy Malfoy!” you hiss, trying your hardest to keep your voice down - Fred and George have a habit of appearing out of nowhere, and this is the absolute last thing you want them to overhear.

    Ron raises a brow, still grinning manically. “Your face right now tells me differently.”

   “He’s a rat. I’ve hated him since first year. Just because I can’t be bothered listening to you rant about him every few minutes doesn’t mean I have a bleeding crush on him!”

    “And here I was thinking you didn’t have feelings.”

    You close your eyes, running your hands through your hair. “Oh, please be quiet, Ron. Don’t make this into a big deal.”

  “It is a big deal. If he tries anything-”

  “He won’t.”

  Ron pauses, clearly unconvinced but too smart to continue his teasing. You open your eyes, shoot him a pleading look to which he simply rolls his eyes and continues walking down the corridor towards his next class. You take a moment to recompose yourself before jogging to keep up with him.

   “I’d rather you didn’t tell Harry or Hermoine,” you mutter.

   “Of course not.”

  “You’re going to tell them, aren’t you?”

   Ron shrugs. “I won’t for a while, but if anything happens between you two, they deserve to know.”

   “Deserve?”

    “They both hate him as much as I do. Just because I’m supporting you doesn’t mean they will.”

    You purse your lips; he has a point, whether you want to openly admit it or not. Your feelings for Draco Malfoy have never been crystal clear to you, and even now as you refuse to deny them in front of Ron, they’re still not crystal clear. He’s attractive, and you enjoy talking to him, teasing him, but saying you have genuine feelings for him does nothing but make you anxious.

    But at the end of the day, nothing can happen anyway. Draco Malfoy is one person who is completely out of bounds to you, too different from you to even think about anything beyond a friendship.

     --- 

   That night, you can’t sleep.

   Your head hurts. Attempts to tackle your mountain of homework failed immensely, giving you nothing but a migraine and a sense of frustration that teachers are still insisting on giving you piles upon piles of work to do after class hours.

    So you do as you always do, and break the rules by getting out of bed and parading the hallways.

    You’ve gotten good at hiding from Filch throughout the years; with the help of the Marauders Map, it’s not difficult to keep tabs on where the little man is. With the help of your older brothers, you’ve also been able to pinpoint all the decent hiding places, one for each corridor, so you’re safe for now.

     You walk, clutching the map in one hand and your wand in the other. In the distance, you can hear Peeves singing to himself, but you don’t worry too much about him - he likes you, says you’re more like Fred and George than Ron is, so he’ll let you off with a lot more things.

     The corridors are always a little spooky at night; already spooky enough during the day, the cloak of darkness and the eerie silence that comes during the night makes it even worse, but you’ve found yourself enjoying it. The feeling of the unknown has always intrigued you; you get it from your father, you think. He’s forever looking into random little things, things he knows nothing about it, risking it all just to gain a little extra knowledge on a topic nobody else cares about.

    You saunter through the halls tonight, running your fingertips along the bumpy wallpaper. You sigh when you turn the corner, eyes nearly closed with the migraine pumping through your skull, hands gripping-

    “Lower your wand right now.”

   You nearly scream. If not for the shock that takes over your body in an instant, you would have bellowed out for help. But you’re left frozen, mouth open in shock, knuckles turning white with your suddenly enhanced grip on your wand.

   Standing in front of you is Professor Dolores Umbridge, a pink dressing gown wrapped round her shoulders, a beady glare on her face. All that is left to top the ensemble is a set of curlers upon her head.

    “What are you doing out of bed?”

  It seems like the most obvious question, but you struggle to find a response. All you can do is stare at the short woman with your mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. She raises a brow, tilts her head and motions to your wand.

    “Do you plan on using that against me, Weasley, or will you put it down before I’m forced to take lethal measures?”

    You quickly stow your wand beneath your bed robes, giving her an uneasy smile. “Sorry, Professor.”

   “No, I don’t think you are.” She shakes her head, tutting as she looks to the ground for a reason you cannot pinpoint. “Again, Weasley, with the misbehaviour. Has my message not gotten through to you a thousand times by now?”

    “I have a migraine,” you reply. “I was going to the infirmary-”

    “You should have a note,” she says quickly, not giving you a chance to properly explain your situation; and yes, your explanation would be sprinkled with little lies, but she wouldn’t need to know that. “I’ve gone so easy on you since the start of term, Y/N, and it seems like you’re taking it for granted now. Being out past curfew is just a step too far.”

     You blink. “Uhhhh…”

    “A week of detentions with me it is,” she says, and your heart drops. “I’ll see you-”

    “There you are! Did you get that thing I asked you to get?”

    You spin around. Approaching is no other than Draco Malfoy, and you silently curse whatever deity is looking over you right now.

    He’s got a grin on his face unlike anything you’ve ever seen from him. Usually adorned with a grimace or a scowl, seeing Draco genuinely smile is like seeing light for the first time. Although unusual, it fits his face perfectly and you very nearly have to grab Umbridge’s fluffy arm to stop your knees from giving out beneath you.

    “Malfoy!” Umbridge gasps. “And what are you-”

  “Oh, you got caught,” says Malfoy, sidling up to your side. “Bloody hell, Y/N - I give you one job.”

  Umbridge blinks. “What are you talking about, Mr Malfoy? Y/N here was parading round the hallways of their own-”

  “I asked her to get me something from the Ravenclaw common room,” Draco says. Your eye twitches, mouth opening, but Draco oh-so-subtly pinches your palm before you can speak up and ruin whatever little deception he’s got going on right now. “You’re not giving Y/N the detention, are you? I asked them to get it for me, and I’ll gladly do the detention with you, Professor.” He beams even brighter. You bite your lip, glancing at Umbridge who seems to be growing more and more shocked as the conversation progresses. 

    “This behaviour is - is - it’s ludicrous!” Umbridge exclaims, stamping her foot on the last word to really drive her point home. “Mr Malfoy, what on earth possessed you to think doing such a thing would be wise? You’re usually such a well-behaved student!”

  You snicker. Again, Draco pinches your palm.

    He looks down in faux shame. “I know, Professor. I deserve a detention.”

    You subtly raise a brow, glancing at Malfoy through the corner of your eye; he’s not even looking at you. He’s got his eyes to the floor, a little frown on his face. He’s being awfully convincing.

    Umbridge sniffs, clearly torn at the idea of giving a Slytherin a detention - not her precious Slytherin. You want to draw back and punch her.

     “Very well, Mr Malfoy,” she says. “I’m afraid that’s a week of detention for you. I’ll see you in my room at ten o clock tomorrow night.”

    Malfoy just nods, the two of you watching as Umbridge turns on her heel and starts marching back up the hallway, too flustered to even bother telling the two of you to head back to your dormitories.

    You whirl on Draco as soon as Umbridge is out of ear shot. He’s already grinning at you, putting his hands up in mock surrender as you slap his arm.

    “A thank you, Draco would do the bloody trick,” he hisses, stumbling back at the force of your abuse.

    “What the hell did you do that for?” you bark. “I didn’t ask for your help.”

    “Again, a simple thank you, Draco would do-”

    You groan, whirling on your heel. A noise escapes the back of Draco’s throat as he leaps forward and grabs your hand, forcing you to turn back and look at him. His blue eyes bore into yours, a stampede of butterflies erupting in your stomach; you try your hardest to ignore those, but it’s difficult. Getting more and more difficult with each passing day.

    “So you’re not even gonna tell me what you’re doing out of bed at this time of night?” he asks, raising a brow. 

    “How did you even know I was awake?”

  “It’s my job as Prefect-”

  “You’re a Prefect?”

   “Shut up! It’s my job as Prefect to make sure nobody is out of bed past hours - technically I should be giving you a detention right now.”

  “Oh, look how that’s turned out.”

    “You owe me one.”

  “I owe you fuck all.” You pry your arm from his grip, but instead of walking away, you fold your arms over your chest. “I didn’t ask for your help.”

     Draco rolls his eyes. “You’ve always been such a stubborn one, haven’t you?”

    “And I’ve also always been able to hold my own.” 

    “I never said you couldn’t.”

  You narrow your eyes. Draco narrows his right back at you; there’s so much going unspoken right now, and it makes you uneasy. There’s a tension that you both clearly feel but neither of you want to address because neither of you are completely sure why it’s there in the first place. 

    Draco breaks first. With a huff of air through his nose, he turns on his heel, though he doesn’t start walking until he says, “Get back to bed, Weasley, or else you will get a detention off me.” Then he’s gone, and you’re too tired and too flustered to call after him, to give back some kind of insult.

    So instead you do as he said, heading back to the girls dormitories. Hermoine is still awake in the common room, hunched over a desk with her homework spread out before her; she looks content, smiling down at a book on Hippogriffs with multiple quills laid beside her. You give her a tiny smile as you walk past,  but her bleary eyes and lack of acknowledgement tells you she isn’t really paying too much attention to the fact you’ve just walked in from the hallways past hours.

    You tuck yourself up into bed and sigh into the air; Draco Malfoy will truly, utterly be the death of you.

     ----

    The next time you see him is at lunch three days later.

   He’d disappeared. You tried to keep yourself calm. You pretended you didn’t even notice his absense, laughing along to jokes at the Gryffindor table, joining Fred and George in even more michief just to get your mind off the fact that Draco wasn’t sitting at the Slytherin table, and he wasn’t insulting you, and he wasn’t making you feel special.

    But three days pass, and you finally corner him.

    He’s got his back turned when you approach, but Ron, Harry and Hermoine went down to visit Hagrid, leaving you on your own; if there’s any time to talk to Draco, it’s now. So you take your chance, moving across the hallway with swift steps before you reach out, tap his shoulder, and-

    He whirls around, eyes wild. His hair is sticking up on end, and as soon as he sees you, he stumbles back into the wall and tries to make a break for it.

    Panic erupts in your system for a reason you can’t pinpoint. Your hands snap out, wrap around his arm and tug him back before he can escape.

   He groans, throwing his head back. “Weasley.”

   “Let’s not do this today,” you hiss under your breath. “Where have you been, Malfoy?”

   “Why do you care?”

  “Because-” You falter; you hadn’t planned a response to that question. You shake your head instead, tightening your grip on his arm. “Just tell me where you were. Have you been going to Umbridge’s detentions?”

    Draco’s arm tenses. You glance down, raise a brow. He tugs his arm back. “Yes, I’ve been going to Umbridge’s detentions. No thanks to you.”

   “I never asked you-”

  “You’ve said.” He turns, grabbing his bag as he does so. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a meeting in Professor Snape’s office in regards to-”

    Your eyes drift down. You’re not sure why; maybe the mention of Professor Snape immediately switched your attention span off and the sight of Draco’s hands curling round the strap of his bag was more exciting. But it’s this simple action that helps you see what Draco is clearly trying to hide.

    A small gasp escapes your lips, and he freezes because he knows. He knows you’ve seen them, knows there’s no way to hide it any more. His eyes squeeze closed, his teeth biting together as he whispers, “Please don’t make a fuss.”     Scribed on the back of Draco’s hand are the words I must not break rules. 

   Your mouth runs dry in an instant. Anger claws at your throat. You slowly reach down and grab his wrist, bringing his hand up to your eyes, and he doesn’t even try fighting you off because he knows there’s no point, it’s too late now, you’ve seen the damage.

    “Draco.” Your voice is a whisper, hoarse and clogged with emotion. “Draco, what did she do?”

  He looks to the floor and says nothing. For the first time in the five years you have known Draco Malfoy, he does not have words. No insult, no snide remark, no cocky little statement to make himself feel better in times when the world is ganging up on him - he’s completely silent, mouth open as if the response is hovering on the brink but not quite reaching the surface just yet.

     You flick your eyes up to his face. “Draco, tell me what she did. Please.”

   “It’s my punishment,” he mumbles. “That’s all.”

  My punishment. His. Like he was the one roaming the hallways when he wasn’t supposed to be, like he’s the one who always thinks he can get away with things, like he’s the one who genuinely deserved the punishment. 

    You drop his wrist and spin on your heel. “I’ll kill her.”

    Draco grabs you round the waist and drags you backwards. You grunt, anger flooding your system, released after months of torment from Professor Umbridge. “Let go of me, Draco. Let go!”

     “Stop,” he hisses in your ear. “Look, the damage has been done, alright? There’s nothing either of us can do now-”

    “I’m telling Dumbledore,” you exclaim. “He can’t just let this continue. Malfoy, let go of me!”

    He tugs you even closer to his chest. “You’re acting out.”

    “Oh, I’ll show you what acting out looks like-”

    “Please.”

  It’s that word coming from his mouth that floors you. Your body goes limp. You collapse against his chest, your head dropping, like all the energy you once possessed has been sapped from your bones all because of Draco’s voice whispering that oh-so-fragile word in your ear.

    He gently spins you around to look at him, taking you by surprise when he cups your face and tilts your head back and forth, giving you a little smile that does not reach his eyes but makes your heart clench nonetheless. 

   “Don’t ask me to ignore this,” you mumble. “This is . . . This is just. . . “

    His thumb traces your lower lip; it’s no longer just a casual gesture between friends. Even you - in all your denial - are able to notice this; the way he’s looking at you, the affectionate way he trails his circular nail against your lower lip. There’s no way it’s friendly.

    “It’s nothing I can’t handle,” he replies softly. “I know what kind of temper you’ve got on you, Weasley. It’s much better if I take Umbridge’s punishment than you, or else god knows what’ll end up happening to that poor woman.”

    “Poor woman.” You reach down, winding your fingers through his. “How many more detentions have you got with her?”

    “One,” he replies, running his thumb along the back of your hand. At the raise of your brow, he rolls his eyes and says, “It’s not too bad, Y/N, honestly. I’m braver than you seem to think I am.”

  “You’re a wimp, Malfoy. You probably go back to your dorm and cry after every single one.”

    He scowls. “I’m always so close to giving you a detention.” He leans forward, lowers his voice. “Detention in the library, Weasley.”

    His tone of voice startles you. It’s reflex when you jump back, taking your hand from his and stuffing it inside the deep pockets of your robe, awkwardly coughing into your shoulder. Draco continues to stare, one eyebrow raised, a tiny hint of a smile playing on his face. It’s that same smile that, once upon a time, would have made you want to draw back and punch him, but now does nothing more than make your stomach erupt into butterflies.

     “I have to go,” you say hastily. “I was meant to call Bill a few minutes ago to let him know about all that family drama - you know the stuff with Percy? What a git. Still very mad at him.” You glance over your shoulder. “Uh, so I’ll see you around, yeah? Nice talking.”

    Draco simply nods. You spin on your heel and dart in the opposite direction, heart hammering at a million miles per hour.

   And you’re not bloody stupid - you can recognise flirting when it’s shoved in your face like that. The hand-holding was innocent at first - at least, you thought it was. Yes, it gave you butterflies to feel his skin pressed against your own, and yes, his eyes make your heart melt every time you look into them, but none of that truly means anything at the end of the day.

    However, his tone of voice when giving you a detention was - quite simply - past the point of dishing out a simple punishment, and those are boundaries breached that have been up between you and Malfoy for as long as you can remember.

    You’re not sure whether you want them breached or not.

    ---- 

     Once again, you can’t sleep that night.

   It’s not a migraine keeping you awake this time. It’s not the stress of homework, the dread of seeing an disliked teacher the next day; tonight, sleep evades you because you can’t stop thinking of Draco Malfoy sitting gloomily in Umbridge’s classroom right this very moment, being tormented with a pain he does not deserve, a pain inflicted upon him because he took the fall for a rule you broke.

     You tell yourself that’s the reason you’re getting out of bed; you want to make things right. You’ll go down to Umbridge’s classroom and you’ll tell her the truth, and then you and Malfoy can pretend none of this ever happened. You can go back to insulting each other. You can go back to disliking each other.

     You pull your dressing gown on, quickly check the Marauders Map and head out, ignoring Hermione’s exhausted grunt of “Goodnight” when you pass her in the common room. You double check for Filch or Umbridge herself before heading straight to her classroom, not caring about the noise, or Peeves souring about you, crying out, “Where’s the fire? Where’s the fire?” 

     You reach Umbridge’s door and wrack your knuckles against it. It only takes seconds for the door to swing open and for Umbridge herself to be stood in front of you, her eyes widening.

    “Weasley,” she says, voice high with surprise. “What on earth are you doing here?”

    Malfoy’s own voice drifts from behind Umbridge. “Weasley? Please tell me it’s one of the twins, o-or-”

    “You shouldn’t be out of bed at this time, Y/N,” Umbridge exclaims. “I’m holding a detention right now. Whatever you want to inquire about can surely wait until-”

    “You are one evil little toad, aren’t you?”

    You don’t even know where it came from.

     That wasn’t what you planned on saying at all. You’d approached her door tonight with the intention of telling her it was you roaming the hallways of your own accord the other night; Malfoy had nothing to do with that decision and he has no reason to be sat in her grubby little classroom right now.

    But looking down at her, hearing Malfoy’s voice, knowing what she was doing to him behind closed doors - something just erupts, and you can’t hold it back, and suddenly you’re pushing past her into the classroom where Malfoy sits, straight backed and gaping.

     “Y/N-”

  You march towards him. “Let me see your hand.”

   “What do you-” 

   You snatch his hand up and gaze at the fresh cut scored into the back of it. A fresh surge of anger spears itself through your chest, and suddenly you don’t care about expulsion, or Umbridge’s wrath, or prison - you just want her to pay. You want her to feel pain like the kind she is inflicting upon Malfoy right now. You want her to feel shame for what she’s-

    Draco flips his hand around in your own, grabbing your fingers before you can whirl around and jinx the teacher standing dumbfounded behind you. Your eyes snap to his own, breath leaving you in one clean swoop when you see that foggy essence covering his irises; a silent warning for you to not do anything stupid right now.

    “Draco…,” you whisper.

   He just nods. You don’t know what he’s nodding at, what he means by it, don’t even know if he really knows why he’s doing it, but it creates a sense of calm in your system. You bite your lower lip, trembling slightly as you turn back to Umbridge and say, “Draco didn’t make me leave the Gryffindor dorms the other night.”

  His grip tightens on your hand. “Professor, they’re lying. I told them-”

    “I had a migraine,” you reply. “I leave the dorms all the time to go roaming the hallway - Draco just came across me that night and took the blame. Why, I have no idea.” You shoot him a glare. He glares right back. “But it should be me in here getting them words carved into the back of my hand. Not him.”

    Umbridge’s nostrils flare, truly angry right now, but you can’t bring yourself to care. Draco is running his thumb along the inside of your wrist, this small reminder of his presence being enough to keep you from pulling your wand out and pointing it at Umbridge right this second.

    She flicks her eyes between you and Draco, clearly trying to calm her breathing. You’ve never seen her so angry; part of Umbridge’s “charm” is her ability to say the most hurtful, terrible things in a completely sweet and innocent tone. It’s one of the reasons you hate her so deeply.

    “This is. . . This is . . . unbelievable.” She pulls her wand out. Draco freezes. You closely follow her movements. “Never in my thirteen years of teaching have I come across a Prefect who would lie to clearly to my face.”

    “He was lying for me,” you bark, stepping in front of Draco. “I’m the one who deserves the punishment, okay? Keep him out of this.”

    “DON’T talk to me like that, Weasley, do you understand me?” She thrusts her wand towards you, gritting her teeth. “This is unacceptable. You must think you can get away with everything, do you? Well, not whilst I’m here.”

     She marches past you, snatches the pen from Draco’s hand and flicks her wand; she says nothing, but you can clearly see something shift within the pen. It sparkles a little differently, and when she presses it against the page and starts writing, it’s not her own hand that feels the effects of the spell - it’s yours.

    A sharp pain suddenly sinks into the back of your hand. You gasp, more from surprise than the pain, but the pain sinks in shortly after. Draco stands up immediately, head flicking back and forth as he tries to figure out what’s happening.

     And then he growls, pulls his wand out and yells, “Expellirmus!”

    “Draco, no!”

    Umbridge’s hand snaps backwards so fast you’re almost certain her shoulder has dislocated. She cries out, stumbling back as the pen goes flying through the air, crashes into the wall behind her and splits right down the middle. Ink dribbles down the wall, burning a trail in the paint.

     Draco pants. “Touch Weasley again, Professor, and I’ll have my father in here quicker than you can blink.”

    Umbridge stares. No words. No retort. No decree to pass. She simply stares, and as if the mention of Lucius Malfoy has paralysed her, she does not make a single move. You stand behind Draco, watching the unusual scene unfold until Draco finally snaps, stows his wand back beneath his cloak and grabs your hand instead. He drags you from the classroom, still breathing heavily, cheeks still flushed with adrenaline.

    As soon as you’re both far enough away from Umbridge’s classroom, he pushes you into a side alley and lifts your hand to his face. “Does it hurt?”     “What just happened?”

   “Y/N, does it hurt?”

  “It’s okay.” You glance down at the words carved there: Blood traitor. “She could have been a bit more original.”

    Draco groans, and before you can register what he’s going to do, he’s leaned forward and is pressing his lips to yours. 

    You’re confused and your hand hurts and you still have no idea what you have just witnessed, but there’s something in the way Draco’s mouth fits perfectly against your own that stops you caring for a second. You melt into him, wanting to cry and scream at the same time as the exhaustion and the nights events overtake you, but Draco’s arms around you keep you from completely buckling.

     He pulls away and presses his forehead against your own. “You are the stupidest git I have ever had the pleasure of interacting with, Y/N Weasley.”

    You close your eyes. “Go to hell, Malfoy.” And then you kiss him again, because you can.

   ----

    “I am in love with Y/N.”

    Ron blinks. You keep a close eye on him, one hand placed in Draco’s, the other gripping your wand in case you have to zap Ron backwards last minute.

    Despite Draco’s previous insistance that he doesn’t care what Ron thinks, his palm is sweaty and his cheeks are bright red. He stands straight backed, as if he’s addressing some member of the Ministry, and he’s talking with a formal little lilt that makes you want to laugh.

    Ron’s eyes flick between you and Draco, waiting for a punchline he will not be receiving.

    Carefully, you say, “And I am in love with Draco.”

   Ron’s shoulders slump forward. “So that’s it then? I owe Ginny a fiver?”   It takes a minute for his words to settle. When they do, you reel back like you’ve been slapped. “What?”

   “You two couldn’t have held it off for a little bit longer, could you? At least till after Christmas, for Christs sake.” He shakes his head, stands up and fishes five galleons from his back pocket. “That’s my lunch completely ruined. I’ve only got enough for three chocolate frogs out of the vending machine, and they won’t keep me full through Divination, will they?”

   Draco tilts his head. “Is this serious?”

    Ron points a finger in Draco’s direction. “Whilst we’re on the topic, yeah, you don’t mess about with Y/N, alright? I don’t want to have to comfort another one of my family members; Mum’s enough as it is.”

    “So you’re alright with it?” you say, stepping a little closer to Malfoy; despite having claimed that nothing between you and Draco will change if Ron has a sour attitude, you still stood a little bit away from him just to give Ron the chance to ease into the news. 

     Ron shrugs. “Obviously I’d prefer someone else for you, but I’ve seen how happy this git makes you.” He points in Draco’s direction. “I don’t get it, personally, but that’s none of my business.”

     “You’re right there,” you say, before softening your voice and giving Ron a smile. “Thanks, Ron. I appreciate it.”

    Ron scoffs. “If you really appreciated it, you’d buy me lunch.”

   “No. Get some sweets off Fred and George.”

  Ron looks at you like you have two heads. “And risk suffocating? I don’t think so. I’ll starve, thank you very much.”

[caiminnent]

and you said, kiss me [kylux, rated M]

PROMPT(S): First Kiss (@kyluxpositivity, Day #: Past Prompts Revisited) & Surprise "Kiss a Ginger Day" Kiss (from YearofKylux on Twitter)

SUMMARY: The Master of the Knights of Ren shifts on his feet like a cadet. “I brought you a gift,” he says lowly, through a strange static. “One best enjoyed in private.”

Hux’s brain stutters.

“It’s food,” Ren elaborates before Hux’s overtaxed mind can conjure up any embarrassing ideas—around a mind-reader, no less. “Messy to eat. You would appreciate the ease of cleaning.”

Or: Ren returns from Gelda with a honeyfruit for Hux. Things get out of hand.

FANDOM: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy

TAGS: Kiss a Ginger Day, Pre-Star Wars: The Force Awakens, Mutual Pining, Getting Together, First Kiss, Hand Feeding, Insecurity, Armitage Hux Has Feelings, Kylo Ren in Love, Love Confessions, If You Squint - Freeform

Photo by Alice Pasqual on Unsplash

3.5K || ALSO ON AO3

One last meeting and Hux can finally retire for the day.

With three dozen floors between him and Conference Room 11-E, he strides past the stairs without a glance, skimming the meeting objectives on his datapad on the way to the turbolifts. They will never cover all of these—not in the time they set. Sniping at each other and bickering make up half of every High Command meeting; they’ll be lucky to touch upon the important matters within the first hour.

How tragic, that the people tasked with deciding how to spend the First Order funds can’t even make effective use of two hours.

The turbolift finally stops on his floor. Hux puts his datapad away as the doors slide open, revealing only Ren inside.

Hux’s foolish heart soars. When the notification of Ren’s arrival wasn’t followed by a summons from Snoke, Hux assumed he would see Ren once—more likely, if—Ren deigned to write and drop off his mission report. After several weeks without even a status update, he will take thirty seconds in a turbolift.

“General Hux,” Ren says as Hux enters, dipping his head.

The button for the officers’ deck is lit. Hitting the one below it for level 47, “Ren,” Hux greets back. A fresh, light smell that reminds him of a forest hits him in the next breath. Odd. He’s more used to smelling ash and ozone on Ren after a mission. “I see you’ve returned.”

“Try not to sound so disappointed, General.”

The corners of Hux’s lips twitch, an errant smile quickly suppressed. “These missions of yours mean more work for me. How many of my troopers did you lose this time?”

“None.”

“Truly?” That must be a first.

“Yes,” Ren says, pride booming in his voice even through the vocoder. “The inhabitants responded favourably to a show of the Force. Your exceptionally trained men scarcely needed to fire a blaster bolt.” Arse. “The rest was ensuring a smooth transition of power.”

A smooth transition of power. Since when does Ren care about keeping things diplomatic and orderly when he could slaughter his way through a mission and call it done? Who is this man and what did he do with Hux’s co-commander?

Not that Hux is complaining. Any cause that means Ren will stop using his troopers as cannon fodder is good in his book.

In the small screen above the buttons, 45 flashes, switching to 46. “Well done, Ren,” Hux says with a nod as the turbolift slows around them. Ren straightens to his full height. “I’ll look forward to your report.”

Level 47 is a maze of offices and meeting rooms lined around endless corridors, which are empty enough this time of the day. The walk to 11-E stretches in Hux’s mind’s eye as he steps out of the ‘lift. Part of him wishes for Ren to accompany him to the meeting, to remain a solid presence by his side while Hux endures yet another bout of pointed looks and snide comments that all say he wouldn’t have been here if he weren’t Brendol’s son.

“I could brief you in your quarters,” Ren calls out after him.

His heart skipping a beat, Hux pauses mid-stride, glancing at Ren over his shoulder. Ren is keeping the doors open with a hand on the frame, one foot in the corridor. What Hux wouldn’t give to read his bare face right now.

“My quarters?” Hux asks carefully. In all their years of sharing the command, they’ve never done something so personal as to visit each other in their chambers. Does Ren even know in which section Hux resides?

The Master of the Knights of Ren shifts on his feet like a cadet. “I brought you a gift,” he says lowly, through a strange static. “One best enjoyed in private.”

Hux’s brain stutters.

“It’s food,” Ren elaborates before Hux’s overtaxed mind can conjure up any embarrassing ideas—around a mind-reader, no less. “Messy to eat. You would appreciate the ease of cleaning.”

Perhaps Ren has been replaced on Gelda after all. The idea doesn’t sound more far-fetched than Kylo kriffing Ren bringing Hux gifts and considering his comfort.

“Very well,” Hux’s mouth says with little input from his brain. “2100 hours. Don’t be late.”

-----------------

The meeting drags on.

Sixty-five minutes in, Hux caves and lets his attention wander. He’d calculated half the figures Lieutenant Mitaka is delivering anyway; he’s sitting at this table more out of duty than necessity—not to mention, to keep the High Command somewhat civil as they, quite inevitably, gripe about Starkiller Base. Simple-minded fools. Two more years—he will show the lot of them what his pet project can do.

As Captain Canady starts his own tirade about how strategically unsound putting such a sizeable portion of their resources into a single project is, Hux pulls up information about Gelda on his datapad. A tiny, nondescript system of no import besides falling on a trade route. Two high-ranking officers accompanied by three squads of Stormtroopers would have accomplished the same goal, freeing Ren up for matters which actually require his… unique skill set.

If only Canady knew how strategically unsound Leader Snoke’s missions can be.

Scrolling down, he reaches the Culture section—only to find it empty. Kriff. For the son of a kitchen woman, he’s woefully uncultured about galactic cuisine, much less that of a castoff planet in the Outer Rim. Although he doesn’t expect Ren to show up with a seven-course meal, the idea of being unprepared for the visit—which certainly isn’t a date, even if it carries the characteristics of one—leaves Hux cold.

It’s going to be all right. He’s survived countless diplomatic dinners at his father’s side, smiling politely as his throat swelled and the contents of his stomach threatened to rise; he can handle whatever Ren might bring.

-----------------

He makes it to his chambers with six minutes to spare. So much for changing into something casual and presentable before Ren comes.

Not that he’s sure he owns such an outfit to begin with. His few sets of civilian clothes were picked more for practicality than appearance. Although that green pullover and the dark pair of trousers that Phasma had wolf-whistled at should still be somewhere in his dresser, Hux doesn’t have time left to check thanks to Admiral Brooks’ desperate need to be the loudest person in every room.

Kriffing nothing goes according to plan today.

Exasperation pulling at his chest, he leans against the door and closes his eyes. There’s still time to salvage the situation. He’s lost his composure about this… private meeting; it’s his failing to face in due time. For now, he needs to make sure Ren won’t find out about the tizzy Hux worked himself into.

Taking a deep breath to ground himself, Hux pushes off the cold durasteel and goes about setting the stage. His greatcoat carefully draped over the coat hanger. His gloves carelessly thrown over the side table. While the water heater works, he unfastens the top handful of the hidden latches on his jacket and artfully dishevels his hair in the mirror. When the access panel chimes with a request for entry, everything around him communicates high-ranking officer unwinding in private after a long day.

As he opens the door, he can only hope it’s good enough to fool a mind-reader.

The ever-present helmet and gloves aside, Ren certainly pulled off casually presentable. Instead of his regular rags, he’s put on a shirt that outlines his form nicely and leggings, holding a bundle that’s tied off with an orange ribbon on one hand.

Relief courses through Hux at the sight. The fabric most likely holds a small fruit or vegetable. Unless Ren picked the weirdest harvest available to bring back, this should go without an issue.

Hux welcomes him, stepping aside to let him pass. Before closing the door, he checks for unwanted eyes in the hallway. All quiet, thankfully. An underdressed Commander Ren paying an after-hours visit to General Hux’s private rooms—Hux couldn’t hope to snuff out the rumours.

Ren is standing awkwardly in the middle of the living area, his free hand clenching and unclenching at his side. Gesturing at the sofa, “I was about to make caf,” Hux says. The water heater clicks off right then, as if backing him up. “Would you like some? I’ve only got the instant kind, but it works in a pinch.”

“Sure,” Ren says.

Hux doesn’t have a clue how Ren takes his caf, which matters little as he doesn’t keep milk or sugar in his kitchenette anyway. Palming two coasters, he brings the mugs to the living area. Ren, for his part, already made himself comfortable: unmasked, leaning against an armrest with an arm over the back of the sofa and a leg folded under himself. As if he belongsthere.

Hux knows, with the same certainty as the Starkiller’s future success, that he will make an arse of himself in front of Ren before the evening is out.

Talking about a planetary takeover with warm beverage in their hands and Ren’s gift on the table feels wrong somehow. Mirroring Ren’s position at the other end of the small sofa, Hux catches him up on what little happened in his absence instead. Shitting on the High Command and incompetent officers—which overlap—is always an entertaining pastime, and they do so unabashedly until the caf is gone and the conversation comes to a comfortable lull.

He waits for Ren to mention the gift first. Ren came here for a reason; now would be the perfect time to bring it up. Ren, however, is more interested in his own hands on his lap.

Hux suppresses a sigh. He’s got to do everything himself, as usual. “You mentioned a gift,” he says, tilting his head at it. “Am I to receive it before it spoils—or is it merely decorative?”

Face lighting up, Ren nearly knocks over Hux’s mug on the table in his haste to get to the bundle.

“There you go,” Ren says, offering it on two palms. It looks bigger in Hux’s hand; not big, but not as bite-sized, either. The binding unravels at the gentlest tug, the fabric falling away to reveal a round, orange fruit barely held within its tight skin, so bright it looks dangerous.

“I hope this isn’t an attempt to poison me in private,” Hux says, only half-jesting. He likes to think they are past the bitter rivals stage by now, but one never knows with Ren and his infamous mood swings. “That would make a poor end for our pleasant evening.”

Ren chuckles. Will wonders never cease? “Rest assured, General, I wouldn’t have resorted to poison if I wanted you gone.” He extends a hand for the fruit. “Here. I’ll help you with it.”

“I hardly need instructions on eating,” Hux points out, rolling his eyes. His curiosity is piqued enough to hand it over, though. Surely Ren doesn’t plan to play any Force tricks on it?

Appears not. Ren produces a pocket-knife like a regular person, flicking it open as he turns the fruit in his other hand. The skin parts easily under the sharp blade, a clear, glittery liquid oozing out of the thin cut and onto Ren’s gloves.

Ignoring the ruined leather, Ren cuts out a slice, offering it to Hux between the blade and his thumb. Hux reaches for it—Ren pulls it away, looking at him with open disapproval.

Hux pins him with a look of his own. “You can’t expect me to literally eat out of your hand, Ren.”

Ren gives the fruit a pointed squeeze. More liquid leaks out, dripping down the side of his hand. “Would you rather dirty your uniform?” he asks, catching a drop with the back of his other hand before it can fall on the sofa.

Absolutely not. The idea of dripping food all over himself with Ren watching turns his stomach. Still, letting Ren feed him feels shameful—in a thrilling sort of way, which only adds to the embarrassment. Tell-tale warmth has already spread across his neck, crawling up to his ears.

Ren extends the offering again, uncharacteristically patient. That alone should be suspicious where Ren is concerned. Nothing in his bare face hints at deceit, though; if anything, Hux reads nerves in the line of Ren’s shoulders, his sharp gaze walking the line between anticipation and trepidation.

Steeling himself for Ren pulling the fruit away at the last moment or mocking him for his eagerness, Hux leans forward, taking it with his teeth.

The fruit is predictably sweet, leaving a line of juice over his mouth as he sucks it in. Its flesh practically melts into a thick nectar on his tongue. Although he doesn’t normally prefer his food soft—if he can’t bite down on it, it’s not worth eating—he would gladly make an exception for this.

Resisting the urge to lick his lips, “What is this?” Hux asks. It reminds him of the birthday cake his officers tried to surprise him with once, creamy with a surprisingly dark aftertaste.

“Geldan honeyfruit,” Ren says. “It’s a rare harvest—takes nearly four standard years to grow. We were lucky to come across it.”

“And your infamous sweet tooth couldn’t resist it,” Hux throws back, mostly to see Ren pout.

Ren smiles instead, an unfairly appealing curl of lips. Curse him for making Hux feel like a cadet instead. “I don’t hear you complaining, General,” he points out. “Would you like more?”

Unwilling to seem too eager, Hux makes a noncommittal hum. Ren’s smile grows.

“On Gelda, honeyfruit is worth its weight in gold,” Ren says as he feeds Hux piece by piece, his naked voice washing over Hux. Hux keeps expecting the next piece to be one too many, for the light tingle over his skin to become overwhelming, for his pride to finally rear its head. “Their entire culture is based around it. The food. The folk tales and remedies. The calendar. Hell, if I don’t see another wedding in a forest for as long as I live, it will be too early.”

Ren places the last bite in Hux’s mouth with his fingers—that newfound, desperate part of Hux longs to chase after them, to lick Ren’s shining gloves clean.

What the everliving fuckis wrong with him?

Putting the knife aside, Ren strips his dirty gloves from the wrists up, rolling them inside out. Hux does not watch the obscenely slow reveal of skin. “And it might be just a superstition,” Ren adds, throwing the gloves next to Hux’s own pair on the table. “But Geldans strongly believe that not sharing a honeyfruit brings bad luck until the next season.”

The food sits heavy in the pit of Hux’s stomach.

Irritation rises in him, that pleasant stirring deep in his belly giving way to churning agitation in a heartbeat. Of course there was a punchline to this whole evening. “Ren, you kriffing—”

Ren slowly, purposefully, slides closer until his knees bracket Hux’s, a new weight to his dark gaze as he leans in. “Hux,” he mumbles, glancing at Hux’s mouth before meeting his eyes again. Hux feels a new tension coil between them, the air getting harder to breathe in. “May I have a taste?”

Words stuck in his dry throat, Hux nods.

The kiss is little more than a brush of skin, followed by a firmer peck on his lips. His lips stick to Ren’s as they part. Ren huffs out a low laugh before catching Hux’s bottom lip, sucking it between his own.

Hux flounders. There’s no kind way to describe it. He’s got a general idea what he should and shouldn’t be doing with his mouth, but reading up on the technicalities hadn’t prepared him for the kisses Ren peppers on and around his lips like straying too far would hurt him, mixing it up with the occasional nip. It definitely didn’t prepare him for the way Ren angles Hux’s face to his liking, parts his lips with a gentle tug and kisses him like he wants the air in Hux’s lungs.

The honeyfruit still coating Hux’s tongue is too thick to taste Ren through no matter how hard he tries. Inhaling sharply through his nose, Hux buries a hand in Ren’s hair—soft, how is it so soft—and slides the other underneath Ren’s shirt, just high enough to rest a thumb over the burning skin. Ren makes a sound low in his throat, palming Hux’s thigh and moving higher with that same, purposeful drag.

Stars. Stars, what are they doing?

Lightheaded, Hux pulls away, putting a hand on Ren’s chest to keep him from following. Ren stops without protest, sitting back far enough that they aren’t touching anymore and not an inch further.

“Is everything okay?” Ren asks, similarly winded. His hands are clenching and unclenching on his own spread thighs, his back a rigid line.

Hux nods again, focused on keeping his breathing regular and getting his heartrate back to normal. Some deep kisses, barely any contact and his body buzzes with want anyway, long starved for touch. He would have been ashamed of his enthusiasm, had Ren not been in the same state.

Once he can find his words, “That was… rather unexpected,” he says. Ren’s face falls. “I don’t mean unwelcome,” Hux amends, keeping his tone gentle. “I merely wonder, what brought this on?” Why now, after years of not even hinting at this sort of interest?

Ren runs his teeth over his bottom lip. “Are you familiar with Kiss a Ginger Day, General?”

Hux might as well have jumped into ice water for how effectively his leftover desire is doused.

Right. Right, it was today, wasn’t it. He hasn’t dealt with lewd remarks since he became a captain, long enough that he stopped dreading the date. How foolish of him to let his guard down. Of course Ren, the only one high enough in rank to dare, wouldn’t miss the chance to make a practical joke out of it.

The taste in his mouth turning bitter, “Leave,” he hisses.

Ren frowns, his expression caught between hurt and confusion. “General,” he says. “Hux. I didn’t mean to offend you, I was—”

“Let me guess,” Hux bites out. “You were trying to flirt with me.” It’s always one or the other. Does Ren think himself so clever, putting two and two together? Does he believe he’s the first person to make the connection?

A younger, softer Hux may have found the attempt endearing. Present-day Hux has been relocating obnoxious officers for calling him General Ginger behind his back since the effective day of his promotion. The attention stopped feeling flattering long ago.

“No. I mean, yes, I was trying to flirt, but your hair colour was irrelevant. Mostly.” Ren licks his lips. “Let me explain?”

Wasn’t that what Ren was trying to do? “You’ve got two minutes.”

Ren runs his fingers through his hair and grips it at the base, tightly enough that it must hurt. “I found out about this day last year,” he starts, the words practically tumbling out of his mouth. “Four days after the date. That was also the day where I realised, um. That I had feelings for you.” Breath catches in Hux’s lungs, his stupid heart quickening. “So I suppose I took it as, a sign? That I should do something about it. I swore to myself that I would, by that day next year.” He shrugs, stiff and jerky. “A year went by fast.”

A—small but loud—part of Hux can’t shake off the thought that Ren is having him on, that any minute now Ren will laugh at him for being foolish enough to think he might have any interest in Hux. The rest of him is captivated by the blush high on Ren’s cheeks, the way Ren keeps licking and sucking in his kiss-reddened lips.

“I didn’t come here expecting to kiss you, Hux. The fruit was just an excuse to be alone with you. If you regret it—” Ren takes a shuddering breath, gazing at Hux imploringly. No one deserves such earnest eyes. That’s simply unfair. “If that’s what you want, we can pretend it didn’t happen. It’s okay. Just don’t hate me for it.”

Hux’s heart clenches at the thought. “That’s not what I want,” he confesses, the words coming easier than he would’ve expected. He feels emboldened in the face of Ren’s evident uncertainty, of the hesitation colouring his words. “I want it to have happened—as long as this means it can happen again.”

“It can,” Ren says, a smile blossoming on his lips. Hux is quickly growing addicted to the sight of it. “Whenever you want. As many times as you want. And, um.” His smile turns wicked, a new glint in his eyes. “The honeyfruit. I brought back a small crate of it, if you wanted to try the other thing again, too.”

A small case, stars. Hux had never appreciated the man’s greedy nature until now. He will have to make sure they properly preserve it; four standard years is a long time. “You’re a menace, Kylo Ren.”

“That’s how you like me,” Ren says, a question lingering in his tone.

“Yes,” Hux admits. “Yes, I do.”

[darkisrising]

Five Times, by DarkIsRising,pt5

Previous parts here on ao3

Five Times Din and Luke Met (and one time they never parted)

5.

Somehow it’s Boba Fett of all beings that gets Luke in touch with Grogu’s dad again.

Fett doesn’t want to help him, of course. Not after all the bad blood that’s been spilled between them, especially with the sarlacc pit thing from a few years back, and there’s a lot of the holocomm where the blue flicker of Fett’s image is silent with his arms crossed while Luke has to practically crawl on his belly to get him to take the call, let alone listen to Luke, let alone relent enough to give Luke a name.

Just a name.

“Come on, Fett, that’s all I’m asking for.”

“Wow, Skywalker. You really fucked up this time, didn’t you?”

And Luke has to agree that yes, he did indeed fuck up though in his defense he was riding high on the Force at the time, but that’s not something that’s likely to sway Fett one way of the other so he goes the meek route, saying quietly: “I really did. Will you help me?”

Fett’s helmet tilts to the side, like maybe he’s finally considering it, and Luke is a deft enough swordsman these days to press an advantage when he sees one.

“Not even for my sake. For his son’s.”

Fett’s sigh is loud enough to be picked up on his voice modulator on Tatooine, travel through the shared holocomm connection—in one end of the outer rim and out the other—to finally make itself heard in the communications room on Yavin IV’s moon.

“Din Djarin,” comes the terse reply before the connection is abruptly cut off from Fett’s end.

Which isn’t much to go on, considering all he knows is his name and that he’s a Mandalorian, but it is a start.

As it turns out, it’s more than enough because not only is Din Djarin a Mandalorian, he’s the Mandalorian.

“I didn’t realize you came from royalty,” Luke says to Grogu not a little bit stunned as they wait for someone to find the Mand'alor and patch their comm through.

After that it’s a lot of back and forth to strategize a time when he’s able to fly over between all the things he’s gotta do as a king trying to reunify his home sector.

The ship that finally settles down in front of the temple is more of a junker than Luke would expect from a king. The paint is peeling, some of the stabilizer flaps are slow to retract, and there’s a groan when the ramp extends that makes the spacerhead in Luke itch to grab some oil and go to town on those hinges.

Instead Luke stays where he is and when he spots the shine of pure, silver beskar coming down the ramp he falls into a bow which he’s only mastered thanks to extensive holocomming with Leia as she berated him over his pisspoor form while he yelled back that he grew up a farmer for druk’s sake when was he supposed to learn this sithspit king-greeting nonsense?

“You don’t have to do that,” comes a soft voice and Luke looks up in time to see that Grogu has raced ahead with his arms raised to be picked up. In a clean motion that speaks of a body honed for movement he sweeps down and takes Grogu in his arms. “Hey, kid. You have no idea how much I’ve missed you.”

Luke intends to make himself scarce for this reunion which has been a long time coming, but is stopped when the Mand’alor starts asking Luke questions about Grogu’s training, about how he spends his days, what he’s been eating, how he’s been sleeping, if he’s been behaving…

“He’s been a joy to have here, Lord Djarin,” Luke says and it earns him a long, silent look.

“I think you can call me Din, all things considered,” he says before setting Grogu down so that he can dig into his belt’s pouch. “Anyway, I brought presents.”

Grogu’s face turns incandescent when he sees the silver ball that Din plucks from his hip. The sound he makes is nothing short of pure elation and Luke has to laugh alongside the gentle chuckle that comes through Din’s helmet.

“Ah, yes. The famous silver ball,” Luke grins. “I hear Grogu thinking about it all the time, I’m happy he’s finally reunited with it.”

Grogu insists on dragging Din around to show his father his favorite places around the Temple’s grounds, and his enthusiasm is catching. Luke trails along, offering commentary that this is the boulder Grogu had managed to lift through the Force two weeks ago, there was the meadow where he’d been able to deflect his first training droid bolt with Luke’s lightsaber, here is the lake where they’ve been watching the tadpoles gradually grow legs. Settling on a log to watch as Grogu chases a pair frogs along the lake’s muddy shoreline, Luke can feel the weight of Din’s thoughts even if he can’t see their exact shape.

“And you don’t worry about that?” Din asks, voice so withdrawn it could almost be mistaken for shy. “All these attachments he’s got going on? The ball and, well, me? You don’t think it’ll get in the way of his training?”

Luke can only shrug.

“I guess it could, but seeing as I talk to my sister and my brother-in-law nearly every other day it would be awfully hypocritical of me to stop Grogu from forming attachments, himself.”

Din is silent at that, considering, as Luke continues on: “I’ve read some of what the Jedi used to believe, and honestly I have no idea if they had the right idea or not. Their way led to the fall of one of their own who in turn brought down the entire Order. Would things have been different if he’d been allowed to love more freely?” He breaks off to watch Grogu, now bored with the frogs, float the silver ball through the air in a lazy curling pattern.

The last afternoon sun catches at the smooth surface and turns the ball gold along the edges.

“I’d like to think it would. So I’m not planning on holding myself away from that sort of love on the off chance that it might actually be the thing that maintains balance in the Force, and I could hardly hold my student to a different standard. That wouldn’t be fair.”

“I see,” Din says and the simple words lay between them in a complicated tangle. “Well, if that's the way of it, then, here: I brought you something, too,” he says at last and reaches back to his belt.

Years of politeness pressed into him by Aunt Beru at the moisture farm have Luke saying “You didn't have to do that” before Din has so much as taken his hand out of his belt’s pouch, which is just as well since the moment he gets a look at what’s in Din’s hand his heart stutters to a halt in his chest so that it can jump into his throat.

“No,” Luke says, eyes wide, while a cold, dawning understanding creeps across his skin and he can only stare at the bounty puck that glints silver in Din’s gloved palm.

“Oh, no,” Luke whispers sickly “What—”

No, no, no. Oh, sweet Force no.

His voice, Luke realizes. He should have known him from his voice. Even if the beskar is different, his voice is still very much the same.

“I can bring you in warm...” Din is saying and Luke can’t hear the rest because he’s blushing so hard now that the blood is landing in his ears, making a high-pitched, tinny whine that drowns out the words he knows by heart because he’s spent the better part of the last few years thinking about them with his hand on his cock.

“You really didn't recognize me?” Din asks when Luke’s hands come up to cover his face, for all the good it does to hide him from the Mandalorian.

The Mandalorian.

Mando.

Din.

Luke laughs helplessly. Horrified. “I wasn't myself on the cruiser,” he whispers at last.

“Yeah no kidding. I didn't realize who you were until you'd left.” Din has clearly had longer to sit with this revelation because he sounds amused, fond even, while Luke is still reeling. “I don’t think I've ever seen you that serious, not even when you were in carbonite.”

“I wasn’t myself,” is all Luke can say again. Din takes pity on him and lets Luke breathe through the worst of it without saying a word, his helmet turned toward Grogu while Luke sorts through the shattered mess this has broken him into.

“You've changed,” Luke says when he starts to feel whole enough to think in such things as words and sentences.

“I’m still tired,” Din says with a huffing laugh.

“Maybe.” Luke feels braver now. He raises his face to look at Din and in the beskar reflection of Din’s helmet Luke can see his cheeks are now only slightly pink. “But not nearly so lonely.”

“Ah. Yeah.” Din concedes with a nod. “I was different, back then. Grogu changed me, I think”

“Yeah,” Luke nods along with him. “Yeah, I think he did.”

Sensing that they are watching him, Grogu toddles back to Din and lifts his arms to be picked up. This time when he gets close enough, Grogu’s hands come to the sides of Din’s helmet. It isn’t a demand, more of a wide-eyed question, and Din doesn’t need the Force to sense what is being asked of him.

Luke hadn’t known, before, that Grogu had never seen Din’s face until that moment on Gideon’s cruiser. He hadn’t known how much that act of quite literally laying himself bare for Grogu had cost Din. Luke knows it now, from all the times he’s seen the flashes of Din go by in Grogu’s memories and he realizes it now, with a rekindling of his blush, from the memory that Din hadn’t removed his helmet in that hour they two had spent in a water-stained room on Tatooine.

“Let me leave the two of you alone,” Luke offers, clambering to his feet, gaze averted.

“It’s okay,” Din says. “You've seen it already.”

“Oh. I mean,” he stammers, staring at the green foliage, the insects that are curling through the dappled oranges of sunset, the ripples of water that skim the surface of the lake... really at anything but Din. “Yeah, I have, but--”

“Unless you'd rather I keep it on.” Din’s voice is different now. Softer, for having taken his helmet off, and the sound of it does something to Luke. It makes him shiver, this transformation from hard-shelled warrior to someone far more human. “Some people have a thing for it and I know how much you liked it on before.”

His eyes are nearly black in the fading day’s light when Luke snaps his face around to meet them. They harbor a glint that Luke stares at suspiciously. “You're teasing me aren't you?”

Somewhere among the rugged stubble on his cheeks and the dark lines of his mustache a smile quirks at the corner of Din’s mouth. “Yeah. I am.”

Luke’s heart beats triple time as he stares at Din’s mouth before letting his gaze skim along the vulnerable curves of Din’s face. Luke’s fingers yearn to stretch the space between them until he can trace the kindness of Din’s expression. He wants so badly to run his fingertips through the fall of Din’s hair where it sticks to the sweaty skin of his forehead.

“Because if you would want to do—you know—that again.” Luke is very aware that there is a child present that is taking in what they are saying with big, green ears and huge, shining eyes. “With or without the helmet. If you’d like to do that again. I would be...you know, I'd like that.”

“Yeah,” Din smiles, and this time it is a true smile, one that stretches across his face, casting a glow that Luke can’t help but reflect back with a hopeful, happy, probably somewhat idiotic grin of his own. “I'd like that too.”

[thero0ks]

The Ghost of You <Miche Zacharius>

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t hurt my own feelings while writing this. 

TW: Death/Grief, Brief discussion of wounds

Blades of grass slipped through her fingers as she watched the stars blanket the sky. Wishing on shooting stars and birthday candles had left her feeling empty. Perhaps the cosmos would send him a message. 

Her eyes held the universe, and Miche felt insignificant in her presence. One hand propped behind her head, the other resting at her side. His large hand slipped into hers engulfing it. Always too cold as of late. He didn’t care for the stars in the sky. The only thing he wished to do was observe her, and he had all the time in the world to trace out every little detail. 

“You’re so beautiful.” He murmured as his fingertips skimmed across her skin. To describe her as a goddess would be an insult. She was so much more than that. Divine, perfectly sculpted, and the only thing that gave meaning to his existence. 

Longing eyes flickered over to him, and his breath caught in his throat. He would rip apart kingdoms for that gaze alone. “Miche,” his name fell from her lips. He wanted to hear her saying it like a prayer in his ear as he made her see stars while he brought her to a state of euphoria. 

Instead he simply cupped her face. “I’m here,” he assured. “I’ll always be here.”

A known hard ass to the cadets, he watched them all mutter curses when she ordered them to start their exercises. Walking amongst the cadets she commented on their form, gently adjusting them until it was perfect. 

“We’ve lost so many of the veterans,” Erwin sighed, as he observed the training. Levi nodding in acknowledgment. 

How many veterans were left Miche wondered. Nanaba? Gelgar? The loss of the Levi squad was a major blow to the scout regiment, but they had a lot of young blood. More cadets then Miche had seen in years. Erwin had entrusted their learning to the person he had spent hours training. The Commander had made a wise decision.

“Remember cadets, as long as we keep fighting, we haven’t lost.”

Pride swelled in his chest. “That’s my girl,” he said softly, arms crossed on his chest. She’d stepped into the roll of captain seamlessly. He recalled her being a wide eyed cadet when he first saw her. Earning his respect with her headstrong determination. She never ran from hard work, and she was the kind that would pick up the slack promising she could shoulder the load.

Miche was by her side as soon as the cadets were dismissed. Pressing a kiss to the top of her head, he slung his arm around her shoulders. “I’m so proud of you,” he exclaimed. The training grounds were empty and he heard the small sigh that escaped her body.

“I’m not you Miche. I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing,” she groaned. Fingers running through her (dark/light) locks. 

His heart dropped at her insecurities. She was her own worst critic. Miche knew it was a coping mechanism she’d developed in her childhood. If she said those hateful things then no one could hurt her with their criticism. Perhaps one day she would see how brilliant she was. Miche hoped that day would come soon.

Her voice surprised him as he turned to see her holding a white mug. The liquid steaming in the chilly room. Floorboards creaking under her feet as she approached Erwin’s desk. 

“I brought you some coffee Commander,” Y/N said, placing the ceramic mug on his desk. 

“I think you’ve earned the right to call me Erwin,” his blue eyes sparkled. Putting the pen down he leaned back in his chair. Eager for the prospect of conversation with the (petite/lean/curvy) woman. 

The smell of coffee engulfed Miche’s senses. He knew that look in the Commander’s eye. The prospect of attention from the divine creature seated in front of him had stirred excitement within the intelligent man. Miche kept his distance a dull ache in his heart as he observed the two. 

Dainty fingers tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “You shouldn’t stay up so late Erwin,” she softly chastised. 

Miche caught the upturned corner of Erwin’s mouth. Knowing he was in her orbit of concern made the Commander happy. No one cared as much as her. She would do anything within her power to help those she loved. The balance she kept between a strong heart, and a caring heart was mesmerizing, and Miche never could pinpoint how she did it. 

“You are the one that brought me coffee,” Erwin stated, taking a sip of the bitter beverage. 

An amused smile played on her lips. “I knew you wouldn’t listen to my advice.” 

“Tell you what,” Erwin said leaning forward, placing the mug on the edge of his desk. “Let’s go for a walk.” 

Miche watched the gentle exchange of words. For once she didn’t look like she was carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders. 

Her hand slid into Erwin’s as he pulled her out of her chair. Leading her out of the scout headquarters they walked along the pond. Erwin recounting stories from his cadet days pulled harmonic laughs from her lips. 

Miche followed a few steps behind. Eyes fixed on the way the moonlight danced across her skin. Biting back the jealousy when Erwin took her hands in his.

“Your hands are cold,” he commented, trapping them between his large palms.

“They’ve been cold for months,” Miche commented, sadness coating his voice. 

Doe eyes blinked up at the Commander. He was so gentle with her as if he was worried one miscalculated step would leave her heart shattered. “Can I kiss you?” Erwin’s voice came out in earnest. 

“Yes,” Miche’s voice was just above a whisper. “Just say yes.”

He never thought he’d find himself pushing the love of his life into the arms of another man, but he couldn’t bear to see her go another day with cold hands, or a smile be a rarity that crossed her lips. Not when she had the most beautiful smile. He watched her hesitate, and he felt the hope shatter within. 

“Miche,” it was only a name, but it was an answer. Erwin leaned back a sad smile gracing his lips. He could handle her sad heart, but she wasn’t ready for him. Years he had waited for her, and a few more wouldn’t hurt. 

“I wish I had found you first,” he admitted. Tracing her cheek with his thumb he grabbed her hand to lead her back inside. 

Miche stood still watching their retreating forms. He wanted to scream until he was hoarse. If letting her go would make her happy he was willing to do that. He would fight every selfish desire that arose in him just so she could be free. Love was painful, and this was a burden he was willing to bear if it meant seeing her happy once more. Loyalty is what drew him to her, and he knew that it was something she refused to change. It was him, it was always him. Just like she promised. In this life or the next she would always choose him. The greedy part in him danced with joy, but the selfless part ached at her agony. Her happiness is what mattered most to him, and he just wanted to see her smile. 

She sat between his legs. Her back against his chest as she flipped through a novel. Miche rested his chin on her shoulder, arms loosely wrapped around her. 

“Miche look at this,” she said with a giggle, as her eyes flickered up. 

The haze of the fantasy world she was wrapped up in faded from her eyes, and reality slowly settled in. Her hand covered her mouth at the sight of the empty room. The book was long forgotten as it fell to the floor. Miche gripped her tightly in attempts to ground her.

“I’m here honey,” he said softly in her hair. Desperate to stop the tears that dropped down her chin. “I’ll always be here,” he promised, as he felt her body shake with sobs. 

Helplessness filled him. He would follow her to the ends of the earth but she would never have a clue. The promise he made to her he had made certain to keep. He would always be there, but she would never know it. Was he living in his own personal hell he wondered.

Ghosts surrounded him on the battlefield. The blood soaked ground made the earth spongy under his feet. Lingering smoke settled in the air, and the debris that flew past him was nothing more than a nuisance. Cries of death echoed all around, but there was only one person he hoped to find. Erwin would forgive him for not meeting him. There was one last thing his soul had to take care of before moving on.Trapped under the buckskin horse, her breathing was labored. Miche ran to her desperate to catch her in time.  

“Miche?” His lanky frame filled her vision. Tears of joy dripped down her cheeks as she reached for him.

“I’m here baby,” he said softly grabbing her hand. “I’ve always been here,” he assured placing a kiss to her open palm. 

“I know I should fight, but I’m too tired Miche.” Y/N confessed, as blood passed her lips. 

Miche took in her broken form. The Cavalry charge Erwin had led left the scouts completely slaughtered. Including his celestial being. A tragic death to match his own. Her white uniform was covered in so much blood he couldn’t decipher the origins of her wounds. 

He watched the light slowly dim in her eyes, and Miche wanted to weep at the sight. Uncertainty plagued his mind. Where would they both go from here? He didn’t know what awaited them on the other side. He had refused to move on without her. He had one promise left to fulfill, and as her body grew cold he knew the end was nigh. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so scary if he traveled the road hand in hand with her.  

A small hand on his shoulder startled him. “Miche?” 

Her voice was like honey in his ears. Turning to see her, the joy that filled him at the sight of her soft smile was abundant. He eagerly took her hand to tower over her. Cupping her face he brought her into a passionate kiss. It felt like an eternity since she looked at him. These past months she had only looked through him. His one sided affection was worth it as he held her in his arms. 

Home. She felt like home. He wanted to get lost in her kiss for eternity, but she pulled away. The kiss was too quick, and he craved more as he chased her lips. He felt the smile that crossed her lips as he kissed her. Fingers buried in her hair as he kissed the hurt away. 

“It’s time honey,” she said softly against his lips. 

“What’s going to happen to us?” He inquired, gazing into her (e/c) eyes.

Her eyes softened at his uncertainty. “I don’t know, but whatever it is we’ll be together.” She assured him. “I promise.” Her fingers stroked his face, her eyes full of adoration. “Thank you for being there.” 

“Always.”

[collecting-stories]

Christmas Eve - ep. 07 - Georgia

Summary: Christmas in King County and a hint at what lies behind the All-American girl persona that you wear. 

A/N: Hope you guys are enjoying the rewrite so far!

Georgia Masterlist | The Walking Dead Masterlist

☼ ☼ ☼ ☼

Christmas Eve in King County, like everything else, was marked by the church. There was the Christmas Eve midnight service that Hershel led, the living nativity set up in the middle of the square, for the days leading up to Christmas, and, of course, Annette’s Christmas Eve dinner at the farm for all the church congregation to gather together. It was more of an open house and you always ended up ‘working it’ though it was really just a glorified dinner, no need for servers and no one got paid for the shift.

“Are you busy on Thursday?” You asked the question innocently, leaving out the part where Thursday was also Christmas Eve.  

“Dunno,” Daryl shrugged, wiping his hands on the rag hanging out of his pocket as he turned to face you. A welcome distraction, having you around had prolonged the work that Daryl could’ve easily completed in two months. He was always stopping and starting when you came over though, more interested in you than in the car. Before he might’ve denied it but after Thanksgiving, he knew it was true, Rick had been right about him having feelings for someone. It wasn’t something he was used to but it was something.  

“It’s Christmas Eve.”  

“I got a calendar.” He replied, smiling when you pouted at him.

“Well if you’re calendar isn’t too booked maybe you’d come to the dinner Annette’s having at the Greene farm?” You replied, “it’s always a lot of fun.”

“Wouldn’t know, ain’t never been invited to it before.”  

“I’m inviting you now.”  

“Dunno,” he walked the short distance to the fridge and grabbed a beer out, “I’m not exactly a participating member of the community.”

“Dale will be there,” you offered, skimming over his last sentence. You knew he wasn’t anyone’s favorite person and you’d heard a good deal of Dixon stories from everyone who had heard that you were getting your car fixed by Daryl but that hadn’t dampened your opinion. Just because a bunch of people thought they knew him didn’t mean they did. “I’ll be there.”

“Ya want me ta spend Christmas Eve listening ta yer yammering on?” Daryl asked. You caught the hint of a smile and you knew he wasn’t as opposed to the idea as he was saying.  

“Maybe...beats me showing up here to interrupt your night.”

-

“So you asked him to come to Christmas Eve dinner?” Maggie asked, standing beside the wooden structure meant to represent the manger, white and blue cloths and headdress covering her jeans and thermal shirt. It was chillier than either of you would’ve liked tonight.

“Yeah, thought it’d be nice, he’s never been.” You pointed out. You had been sent over with thermoses of hot chocolate and cups for the manger volunteers, standing a short way off so that you didn’t ‘break the illusion’.  

“I highly doubt that Patty sent you over here to chitchat. You girls need to be better stewards of your time and your tongues.” Jacqui called, beckoning Maggie over as she spoke. You frowned, watching as Maggie rejoined the nativity cast. You weren’t a fan of King County’s holiest member of the community or her perception that she was better than everyone else.  

Jacqui was a central member of the church, a ward against gossip though she had a tongue for it herself, and a general know-it-all. She had been managing the 7-11 in town since the owner had franchised his small business to them, before you were even born. She even rented the house that sat just to the left. There was a picture of the original business hanging behind the counter at the 7-11, the house with two gas pumps in front of it, an older man and his wife standing on the porch. Somehow all that deemed Jacqui a sort of unspoken ‘elder’ member of the community. A gossip but an important voice in the town. On par with Patricia, Annette, and Hershel though she was younger.  

Her voice was important to everyone but you.  

“I heard you were in again the other day with that Dixon fella, buying cigarettes.” She mentioned when she came over, claiming to want some hot chocolate.

“The cigarettes were his, I don’t smoke,” you replied, watching the nativity scene. Having a job this Christmas had saved you from having to participate with all the rest of the youth group and you were more than thankful for that. “Besides, he’s working on my car, like I keep saying.”

“I’d said you’re spending a little too much time in his company. Might not’ve picked up his smoking but you picked up his need for talking-back.”

You fought the urge to roll your eyes as you smiled at her, “sorry Miss Jacqui, didn’t mean anything by it, must be the cold getting to me.”  

“Must be.”  

When she walked away again to reign in Joseph and a Wise Man you capped the rest of the hot chocolate and left it by the church table that was set up for donations. You weren’t lying about the cold, it was nearing forty at night as it got closer to January. Nothing you liked but you made due as long as you weren’t outside for too long. It was only when Patricia made you do ridiculous things like walk hot chocolate across the street to the living nativity that you really had to brave the weather.  

“Oh good you’re back, you got a table. I was gonna take his order but he said he didn’t ‘want nothing yet’ figured he might be waiting for ya.” Amy said, bumping her hip against yours as you took your coat off, whispering and glancing over her shoulder to your section as she spoke.  

You looked back, biting your lip to stop the smile on your face at the sight of Daryl sitting there reading over the menu. You grabbed your apron from the rack and tied it around your waist, “I got it, thanks.”

“He’s some trouble ya know.” Amy mentioned.  

“He’s Just fixing my car.” You replied and even as you said it you knew it sounded like a lie. You walked over to his table, smiling when he looked up at you.  

“Heard ya were bringing hot chocolate ta baby Jesus.” He said, grin in place.

“Yea course, haven’t you read that bit in the bible?” You teased. “Can I get you anything? Coffee? Your own hot chocolate?”  

“Coffee’s fine.”

“What brings you in?” You asked, hovering at the table, thankful for the slow night.  

“Figured yer always showing up ta harass me while I work, ain’t fair I don’t give ya the same treatment.” Daryl replied.  

You bit your bottom lip, preparing for a comeback when you heard Patricia call your name from behind the counter. She’d come out of the kitchen to see you standing at Daryl’s table, smiling at him like he just hung the stars and she’d almost had a heart attack. Patricia had seen him come in and had known, the moment he sat himself in your section, that he wasn’t moving anytime soon. She’d listened to you tell her the same story over and over again, that Daryl was fixing the jeep and that as soon as he was done so would your seeing him be.  

“I only see him to pay him for the job.”  

But Patricia wasn’t some naive young kid who you could pull the wool over. She’d been around the block a time or two and knew exactly what kind of temptations you were wading into hanging around Daryl Dixon.  

“I’ll be right back with your coffee.” You promised, turning away from him and walking back to the counter. Patricia looked passed you, eyebrow raised in disdain as she watched Daryl fiddle with his laminated menu.  

“Are you out of your damn mind?”  

“What?” You asked innocently, “I was talking to a customer.”

“I have half a mind to call your mother and tell her you been hanging around Dixon on your off time.” Patricia said.  

“I don’t know what you’re talking about Patty,” you insisted. If she called your parents then it was over. Your car would be in Woodbury, you would be grounded worse than Maggie could imagine, and you’d likely never see Daryl again.  

“You watch yourself, you’re in dangerous territory.”  

“He’s just fixing-”  

“Your car. I heard.” Patricia replied.  

“Can you hand me a coffee?” You asked, changing the subject.

She went to the other side of the counter to grab you a cup of coffee for Daryl while you turned back to look over at him. As if on some cue he looked over at you and you smiled. He looked away, rubbing the back of his neck and you caught the faint pink the blossomed over his cheeks.  

“One coffee.” Patricia said, setting it down and catching your attention again, “charge him this time.”

“I’ll make sure to get the dollar from him,” you replied, taking the cup and walking back over to Daryl’s table. Patricia shook her head, despite her friendship with your parents and the Greene’s she’d kept plenty of secrets for you and Maggie over the years. She hadn’t told them about Glenn and Maggie dating, she hadn’t told your parents about your tardiness over Thanksgiving or Daryl dropping off the pie plate when you’d claimed you were bringing the apple pie to Tara. She just wasn’t sure if she was doing the right thing not telling them you were falling deeper and deeper into something with Daryl.  

It was unspoken knowledge the way Will Dixon treated his kids. While Daryl’s mother hadn’t been some innocent girl getting taken advantage of she had loved her kids, Daryl a little more than Merle probably. She’d never hit them but she never stayed sober passed three in the afternoon and Patricia could still remember the senior Mr. Grimes coming in after the fire burned down the old house telling them about Daryl arriving home in time to see the place ablaze.  

Losing his mother, watching his brother leave, enduring years of abuse from his father, Patricia couldn’t help but worry that the apple hadn’t fallen far from the tree with Daryl. She’d been watching for any sign of abuse on you but she hadn’t seen any. If anything, you seemed happier than you had been in a while and it was that Patricia relied on to make herself feel better about not telling your parents that you were occupying your time with a Dixon.  

“Ya working late?” Daryl asked as you idled by his table.

“I’ve got thirty more minutes then I’m free to trudge home in the cold.” You replied, “I’m going to Maggie’s...we’re setting up the barn tomorrow for the Christmas Eve party.”

“Ya need a ride?”

“Do you mind driving Maggie too?”  

He shook his head. Daryl had come to the diner tonight just to see you. Aside from going to Dale’s for work or 7-11 for a pack of smokes he didn’t frequent too many places in King County. He was far from an active member in the community but he’d been turning up more often. The diner for one, the Winter Fest where Otis had spied him at the church table talking to you. He’d come tonight because he definitely wasn’t planning on going to the Christmas Eve party dinner that you had invited him to but he did have a present for you. Stupid, he was sure, but a present nonetheless.  

You paged Maggie to tell her to meet you at the diner and finished out the rest of your shift while Daryl drank his coffee, paid, and left to smoke out in the parking lot. He was there, toking on a cigarette, when you exited the diner with your backpack.  

“I really don’t like closing. I hate having to clean up.” You confessed as you came out to meet him.  

“Shifts a shift.” He shrugged and you rolled your eyes at his words. “Here, ‘fore Maggie comes over and I gotta hear the two a ya bitching about the Nativity or something.”

“You don’t have to drive us.” You replied, taking the box wrapped in newspaper that he had handed you, “is this a present? Did you get me a present?”

“Ain’t nothing special...don’t get so excited.” He said, chewing his thumb as you opened the gift he’d bought. Sitting in the little box was a keychain. A leather strap folded over and fastened onto a thin metal plate that attached it to the key hook. The leather was embroidered with clumsy little flowers in yellow with green leaves.  

“This is so pretty.” You smiled at Daryl, holding the keychain close as you gave him a one-armed hug.

Daryl tensed and pulled away, huffing as he tried to appear indifferent about the keychain, he’d made himself, “none a that, it ain’t nothing expensive. Just thought ya’d like it.”

“I love it, thank you.”

“I’m here, I’m here.” Maggie’s voice cut through your conversation as she came around the side of the truck, brushing out her hair from being pinned back in Mary’s head covering. Daryl dropped his cigarette and stubbed it out with his boot to distract himself from the blush that had started warming his cheeks when you hugged him. “Hi Daryl.” Maggie greeted.

“Hey,” he nodded to her before heading around to the driver’s side of the truck. You climbed in first, taking the middle seat, while Maggie climbed in second. You slipped the leather keychain back into the box and held it on your lap as Daryl pulled out of the diner with the two of you, heading toward Hershel’s farm.  

The ride was quiet, a lull of conversation as Maggie complained about Jacqui and the other youth group kids that had been roped into the nativity. You stayed quiet, knee pressed against Daryl’s and hands gripping present he had given you, unable to contain the smile on your face. The truck drove the dirt path up to the farm and Daryl cut the engine, Maggie already opening the door and slipping out.

“Thanks for the ride.”

“No problem.” Daryl replied, huffing out smoke as you slide across the seat, suddenly cold from the loss of touch. He was gripping the steering wheel with one hand as he watched you get out of the truck, lingering in the door like you always did.

“I do have a present for you, by the way.” You mentioned, spying the newspaper wrapping crumpled on the floor of the truck.  

“Ya don’t have ta waster yer money.”

“Too late.” You teased. You met his eyes and your smile widened. On the other side of the truck  you could hear the front door clatter open, the familiar squeak of the springs on the screen and footsteps bounding down as Beth ran across the headlights to engulf you in a hug.

“I missed you!”  

“Hi Beth, I missed you too!”

Still holding your waist she caught sight of Daryl for the first time and twisted, moving her body behind yours and peeking out at him. “Hi.”

“Hey,” Daryl dropped his cigarette into the ashtray in the truck as he nodded his head to her, “yer Beth I take it.”

“I am.”

“I like yer braids.” He mentioned, watching the sweet smile she offered as she moved further out so he could see the blonde french braids clearer.

“Thank you! My mom did them for me so that my hair will be wavy tomorrow for Christmas Eve.”

“I’m sure it’ll look beautiful.”

She giggled and you bit your lip as your eyes met his. “I’d better get inside, thanks for the ride.”

“Sure thing, see ya ‘round.”

You walked Beth inside, her gaze wandering back to the pickup as she climbed the porch stairs with you. “Is that your boyfriend?”

“No. Daryl’s not my boyfriend.”

“She wishes.” Maggie teased, waiting at the door for the two of you.  

-

The barn at Christmas was arguably one of your favorite sights in the world. Hershel took great pride in outlining the entire building with lights, he hung a oversized wreath on the side with a large spotlight and the whole thing felt like you were walking into a Hallmark movie or a Thomas Kincaide mural. Georgia didn’t a lot of real winter weather but the barn made you feel like you were in some New England town.

“I was sorry to hear your dad couldn’t make it.” Jacqui came up behind you, her voice returning you to the reality of the evening. Hershel’s barn decorated at Christmas was your favorite but the people who filled it weren’t.  

“Yeah, he wishes he could be.” You shrugged. “Working.”  

“That’s what your mom said. At least he’s a good worker right? Must be where you get it from.”

Just passed Jacqui you could see your mom talking to Annette. Her eyes met yours and she straightened up, pointing to her mouth and indicating for you to smile. You straightened your back and offered Jacqui a closed lip smile before answering her, “yeah. Must be.”  

When Jacqui left to talk to another church member your mom made a quick beeline for you, wrapping her hand around your arm and guiding you outside, away from the party. “What did Jacqui want?”

“She was just asking about dad-”

“What did you say?”

“I said he was at work. God, mom we went over this in the car...I’m not stupid.” You crossed your arms in front of you, looking away from her.  

“You didn’t say anything to Maggie?”

“No.”  

“Hey!” She grabbed at your jaw to make you look at her, nails scratching against your cheek, “look at me. Did you tell Maggie?”

“No. I didn’t say anything to anyone mom.” You replied, pulling away from her and stepping back, “can I go back inside or did you want to assault me some more?”

“For Gods sake stop being so dramatic.”

“Dramatic? You dragged me out here to ask if I told some random person that my dad is in rehab for the billionth ti-”

“Keep your voice down!” She snapped, “you want everyone to hear you?”  

“Sorry mama.”  

She smoothed back your hair, pushing stray pieces away from your face and fixing your headband for you before leading you both back inside for the continuation of the night. Neither of you spoke to each other the rest of the evening. Not in the car on the way to the service at church and not once you’d gotten home. You went in your room to change and listened to her in the kitchen, trying to throw together a lunch as she prepared to work through the holiday. A knock on your bedroom door was the only thing to signify that she was leaving and would likely work the whole of Christmas.  

The Greene’s would be confused if you went to theirs too early in the morning and you didn’t want to disturb Daryl any more than you already did by showing up at his. Tara was spending the holiday upstate visiting her sister and seeing her niece. The diner was closed. You opted for going straight to bed once your dress was off and your face was clean…hopefully you’d be lucky and you’d sleep through the holiday.  

-

Taglist: @hopesxxhigh @coffeebooksandfandom @jodiereedus22 @tehfabbooty @thecaptainsgingersnap @of-storms-and-sadness @twdeadfanfic @alwaysadreamingoptimist @mainokutan @sabertooth-potato @qrangr @bucky-barnes-babies @ly--canthrope @daryldixonandfrogs @jaycc7983 @easnuppa @imaginecrushes @tonystarkismyboy @watchmeaspire @harpersmariano @cbarter @onemorebeautifulnightmare  @mainokutan @gigilame @sabertooth-potato @enrapturedbythemoon @cathwritestragediesnotsins @siren-queen03

[madlymiho]

To celebrate my comeback, here’s a little something a few of you were... highly expecting... 👀

words: 3948

warning: heavy NSFW - M/M/F

part 1

Zoro x Law: Poker Night Part 2 (read after the cut)

She feels her heart heavy while she keeps walking in the direction of the women’s bathroom, still deeply wondering if all of this has been a good idea. She still feel undoubtedly sore after such a night of passion, but it seems that she can’t get off this mesmerizing sensation she just experienced with the two of them. And they are following her. She doesn’t need to look over her shoulder to sense their poisonous stare on her rear, nor that electric aura surrounding the both of them, promising for more, even if they are silent at the moment. None of them are the most talkative person in the first place, but somehow, with the heat, the lust, everything floating around them like an invisible veil, she’s not surprised they are keeping their mouths shut. Perhaps are they also reconsidering her proposition? She offered a shower, somehow at first to clean down all the mess they did, but also a way to continue whatever they have started in the kitchen… just because of a poker night. Things really did escalate. How odd… She wouldn’t believe they could be so eager to explore her body like this.

When she enters the bathroom, for an instant, she can’t even make a single move, her fingers clenched on the handle of the door, hesitant. It’s so wrong… They are all slightly drunk - she’s more than merry and she knows it - and this is probably the moment one of them should call it off. It’s not safe to entertain such a lusty relationship, and if Law ever becomes the Straw Hat’s enemy one day, she wouldn’t be able to forgive herself. So many thoughts are harassing her mind, shivers traveling down her entire spine, until she feels a powerful forearm wrapped around her waist. 

“Overthinking?” Zoro asks in a husky whisper. He’s observant, even if he’s always napping on the deck. He knows his crew mates quite well, she sometimes forgets it. “We’re doing nothing wrong. Shut your busy mind for once and live the moment fully.” 

To illustrate his words, he begins to thoroughly explore her skin, his warm lips disappearing in the crook of her neck to leave nibbles all the way down, expert tongue suckling on her already sensitive flesh. It’s enough to alert the other companion entering the room, Law stepping forwards, placing himself in front of her with a deep frown on his face. If he wouldn’t have this particular gleam inside of his golden irises, she would have been sure he could be mad right now. 

“Should I teach you, Roronoa-ya, that’s it’s not all the time about you?” He growls impatiently, his slender fingers coming up to brush her collarbone, until he eventually catches Zoro’s chin to stop his ministrations. “You’re fucking greedy.” 

Zoro smirks to the insult, both of his hands now gripping her waist, his thumb gently digging into her skin, enough for her to feel how strongly he wants to possess her. She’s wearing only her thong and Zoro’s shirt ; she could have walked naked to the bathroom, but she preferred to keep a bit of decency. The two of them, though… are practically entirely naked. Law has his underwears on, but thanks to the bulge pressed against her rear, she knows that Zoro didn’t even bother to put something on. She bites her bottom lip to the very thought of a possessive and naked as the day he’s born Zoro behind her. Perhaps to see how Law would react and tease him, she eventually lifts her stare her, her teeth still attacking her lips, while her eyes can’t look away from his half-aroused and half-pissed features. 

“Why aren’t you trying to claim me if you want to have me for yourself, Trarao?” She muses, her voice betraying the goosebumps covering her spine and her state of deep arousal. Fuck it. She really wants to have the both of them one more time. “You’re talking a lot for such a moody captain.” 

Zoro chuckles behind her, both of his hands coming up to harshly squeeze her breasts between his large palms, as he moves his head backwards to free himself from Law’s grip, his tongue immediately playing with her earlobe. 

“You tell him, Name.” He approves before one of his hand falls down to cup her hip, pulling on it slightly enough for her to arch her back, his proud and fully erect arousal rubbed against her rear. If only he could push that thong aside one more time... “He doesn’t deserve to have you, you’re a Straw Hat after all. You should only be fucked by my dick, and leave that asshole wanking in his Polar Tang for the rest of the night.” 

“Fuck you both.” Law snaps impatiently, closing the distance between them, his tattooed fingers eager to cup her face. He looks at her in the eyes, serious, imperious. “She wants me too, marimo.” 

The smirk which just cracks his features could have been honestly the end of her at this particular moment, Law exposing his most confident and unbearable side. His thumb begins to describe slow circles on her cheek, exploring her features, until he eventually starts to rub it against her lips, watching her with the most intense eyes she has never seen before. She feels completely mesmerized, swipes away in another world, while he continues to press the pad of his thumb against her half-opened mouth. He doesn’t even have to say anything, she already offers him enough space for his fingers to explore it. Yet Law doesn’t dig in, he controls his desires, that same smirk growing in his lips like a poisonous flower, until she almost forgets that Zoro is growing impatient behind her back. A buck of his hips is clearly enough to remind her that he’s needy too, one of her hand immediately wrapped around his wrist, encouraging him to be greedy if he really wants to. Law raises an eyebrow to the desperate call, his golden irises shifting for one second, enough to see Zoro harshly bites her neck, his fingers on her hips moving south to pull on the waistband of her panties, digging inside of them, digits finally skimming her soaked area. She closes her eyes for a second, shivering to the sudden touch, his hips answering to the brush with a conniving roll. 

“How is she down there?” Law smirks, his thumb playing with her bottom lip, but never entering her mouth. 

“She’s completely soaked.” Zoro hums as she can feel his damn cocky smile plastered on his lips. Two of his digits gently parts the petals of her sensitive flower, his index rubbing her overly abused clit. “She really wants the two of us.” 

“Good.” Law nods, his other hand pulling on her chin so she wouldn’t dare to look away from his face. “I always knew she’s a good girl anyway. Now suck it.” He orders, his thumb pushing inside her mouth. 

She doesn’t need to have any other kind of requiries, her tongue eager to sense Law’s thumb. It feels so erotic… The way he controls the entire situation, preventing Zoro to act like the demonic beast he could be sometimes. She feels her heart throbbing within her chest, already so aroused as she’s barely touched by Law, and timidly explored by Zoro’s fingers. The rhythm is perfect for her to follow, mind on fire, body needy and desperate, but Law makes sure she wouldn’t melt too quickly under their ministrations. 

“Spread your legs a bit more.” Zoro growls, his digits still pressed against her already swollen clit, his request enough for her to let loose a desperate muffled moan, Law’s thumb making sure she keeps working good to please him. “Yeah, like this.” 

As she finally takes a step aside to grant him a better access to her already dripping core, Zoro’s digits make their way inside of her. At first the intrusion is soft, controlled, Zoro himself adjusting to the sensation, and somehow having a slight of control on his gestures, perhaps because he doesn’t want to rush things. But soon enough, as she bucks her hips to deepen the sensations, his palm on her breast becomes greedier, his digits adopting a quick pace, coming in and out of her core, scissoring his fingers sometimes to stretch her soaked hole. He moves his hand for his thumb to caress her clit in the process, extracting another beautiful melody from her busy mouth. 

“Do you like it when he touches you like this?” Law whispers, his other hand quickly pulling on his own underwears to free his trapped cock, completely hard in front of such a lusty show. “But you have been a glutton earlier. You wanted more in the kitchen.” He pushes his thumb further into her mouth, her wet muscle immediately sucking harder on his flesh, her eyes calling indeed for more of their sweet ministrations. “Don’t you want his tongue, name? Don’t you want to suck something else than my finger?” 

“You just have to ask for it…” Zoro adds, the sinful sound of his digits exploring her wet echoing in the room. He makes sure that his free knuckles slap against her dripping core each time he enters her, his expert thumb describing intense circles on her twitching clit. She grips his wrist intensely, somehow for him to control himself, but also, by need and desire, she also pushes his fingers further down. “Greedy.” Zoro only chuckles behind her, while he thrusts his hips, his cock fucking her thighs in the process. 

“Zoro, why don’t you lay down on that bench while she sits on your face? Prepare her well, she’s going to take the both of us since she’s so greedy.” Law states, his voice calm, but severe. She immediately looks back at him with desperate eyes, as he withdraws his thumb, his devilish smirk growing wider on his lips. “Now it’s the time for you to stop everything…” He circles his cock, his underwears falling on the ground, as he gives himself a few pumps to express his fantasies. “I’m sure you want to feel the both of us like this, don’t you, Name-ya?” 

“Ah…” She only manages to answer, Zoro’s thumb so intensely pleasing her clit that she can’t even think straight anymore. They are demons, the two of them, teasing her enough to even forget her name at the moment. “Fuck… Yes!” She cries desperately, Zoro one more time increasing his pace, adding another finger to encourager her soft plea. “I want the two of you like that!”

“Roronoa-ya.” Law calls the other one, and Zoro almost spits some insults while he releases his grip, withdrawing both his cock and fingers at the same time. The sudden emptiness makes her dizzy for a moment, as she definitely believes she couldn’t stay away from them any longer. 

Zoro presses an urgent kiss on her neck while he eventually abandons his position, sending another dark stare to his companion before he eventually lays down on the bench in the middle of the bathroom, the very one the women of the Straw Hat use to change their clothes before they would take a shower. Apparently… They are all so greedy, they can’t even make it to the cubicle. Fortunately, the bench seems large enough for Zoro to feel comfortable, resting on his elbows, while he points at her with a motion of his nose that he wants her to come closer. She doesn’t waste anymore time, remembering what Law imagined before. She joins Zoro, standing by his side, his needy hands already coming up to pull down her thong, throwing it somewhere in the room. As she appreciates his caresses on her thighs, his digits come up to tease her core one more time, Law finally decides to join the party as well, walking behind her to greedily catch her chin, turn her head, and kiss her intensely. She didn’t expect him to be so indigent, yet she gladly obliges, opening her mouth to grant him a proper access to her tongue. His kiss is precise, dedicated and expert, somehow allowing her to have a moment of passion before things would escalate one more time. For once Zoro doesn’t seem to be jealous of the particular attention, while he moves his body, straightening himself up to press his mouth against her inner thigh, his own wet muscle sliding up to finally meet her clit. The position isn’t the easiest, yet Law encourages the whole process, his left foot pushing on hers so she eventually opens her legs more. Law parts his lips, observing how her owns are more swollen after such an intense kiss, his usual smirk back on his features. 

“Sit on his face.” He whispers passionately, both of his hands fondling her body, up and down, digits sometimes cupping both of her breasts under her shirt. “Be a good girl.” 

She hums to express her agreement as Law pushes on her hips, inviting her to finally take a seat on Zoro’s face. The swordman obviously doesn’t complain ; he lays back down, his hands cupping her hips to adjust her position as she swings her leg above his head and lower her body onto his mouth, his face eagerly disappearing between her thighs. He laps her juice for a moment, before he eventually begins to suck on her clit, thoroughly making sure that he wouldn’t miss any sensitive spot in the process. His hand abandons her hip for a moment, helping him to have more of her if it’s even possible, teasing and playing with her core, already eager to see if she’d be able to handle the two of them at the same time. Meanwhile Law skirts the bench to kneel on it, right behind Zoro’s head, facing her while she has the perfect height to start her succions on his own proudly erect cock. He can’t wait any longer, his digits toying her hair for a moment, inviting her to come closer. Eager to continue their silly little game, she gently wraps her knuckles around his shaft, opening her mouth one more time to welcome his cock inside. He’s already oozing with pre-cum, but it has the effect to deeply satisfy her, a soft hum escaping her throat while she takes a moment to play with his head. She rolls her tongue to spread more saliva on his cock, her hips bucking from time to time, when she feels those pleasant electric salvo traveling through her body thanks to Zoro’s tongue. She closes her eyes, her wrist starting a soft movement to jerk Law’s cock, before she eventually accepts more of his manhood inside, sliding her tongue down to moisture it and ease her succions. She remembers what she learns through her former sexual experiences, breathing through her nose while she relaxes her throat, until she even dares to deepthroat Law after a timid bob of her head. 

“Fuck! you’re really good at it. You’re amazing, Name-ya.” Law whimpers when his cock meets the back of her throat one more time.  “Zoro-ya, what are you waiting for to give her a reward?” 

Law, completely driven by lust, eagerly begins to fuck her mouth, pushing his cock to her limits while Zoro immediately sucks harder on her clit, adding another fingers to the already two digits already exploring her core, his other hand spreading her cheeks to harass her butthole. He coats his index and spreads her own juice on her virgin cave, circling it for a moment, just enough for her to adjust to the new sensation. When she relaxes and feels ready to take things further, the green-haired man begins to push one digit inside her butthole, thrusting with a very cautious pace, his mouth still giving her enough sensations to forget about the other intrusion. Even though, she really enjoys what he’s doing down there. She feels one more time at their mercy, abandoning herself to the various sensations she’s experiencing, swept in another world of passion, sweat dripping down from her forehead, shivers traveling down her spine. She rolls her hips to increase Zoro’s ministrations on her clit but also inside of her butt, feeling how passionately he eats her out, her own movements also increasing on Law’s shaft to please him even more. Her beautiful moans finally invades the room, legs shaking while she feels that overwhelming warm sensation growing inside of her lower belly, before she eventually bursts into a prodigious and deep orgasm, her hips dancing on Zoro’s mouth to rid out that wonderful nirvana she’s experiencing one more time thanks to them. Her nipples erected under her shirt, Zoro’s fingers give a break to her sensitive core, sliding up to her breasts, pinching thoroughly those little bulges under the shirt she borrowed earlier. 

“More, please, more!” She whimpers as she withdraws her head from her intense blowjob, breathless, her lips swollen thanks to her ministrations on Law’s cock, her eyes like a plea. “Please, I want you…” 

“How can we resist this prayer? It would be cruel to say no.” Law smirks and nods, putting himself back on his feet. 

Zoro doesn’t have any difficulty to lift her from his mouth, his own breathing erratic for a short instant, despite the fact that he’s used to have some intense training on the deck. He eventually places her above his cock, as he intimates her to take off her shirt, his digits helping her in the process. He puts himself back on his elbows for a moment, one of his arm circling her waist, as he presses her chest against his, his mouth skimming hers sensually. 

“You’re so beautiful.” He hums before he leans to kiss her, controlling his eagerness despite his throbbing cock twitching against her core. 

Slowly, his other hand guides his cock to enter her, a soft moan escaping his throat while he doesn’t break the kiss, inch by inch filling her, until he’s completely buried inside. For a moment, he allows her to adjust to his size, his hips adopting a controlled and easy pace, until he’s certain she would be able to handle his passion. As he lays down one more time, his mouth still sealed with her, he begins to thrust with a new intensity, his pace still slow for someone like him, but terribly harsh, hips bucking strongly against her rear each time he’s filling her completely. Despite the sensation, she feels at ease with his pace and the way he sensually fucks her, her fingers brushing his grassy hair, somehow forgetting that there’s someone else behind them. For perhaps a minute, Law doesn’t make a single move though, his fingers brushing his cock, teasing the head, as he jerks off in front of the show, enjoying the way Zoro has decided to fuck her. 

“Are you ready for him?” Zoro eventually growls when he parts his lips, his fingers cupping her cheek, as he presses his mouth one more time on her neck. “Can you take the two of them?” 

She feels the concern in her voice, but she doesn’t hesitate anymore. She nods fervently, rolling her hips to escort his thrusts while Law eventually kneels behind her. He only caresses her arms and breasts for a moment, before he spits on his fingers to coat them with his own saliva, guiding them to her other hole. He tests the water for a second, using her own juice as a natural lubricant, his slender digits caressing her unexplored area, until, like Zoro before, he eventually pushes one finger inside. He thrusts slowly, while Zoro adopts a new pace, making sure that she wouldn’t get hurt in the middle of this incredible madness. When he’s certain she’s able to handle a bit more, Law begins to push another finger inside, bending down to spread kisses all over her shoulder. 

“You’re doing great.” He encourages, Zoro fucking her enough to forget about any uncomfortable feelings right now. “I’ll be gentle with you, you have my word, Name-ya.” 

Adding another finger, she intensely moans when he starts to scissor them, preparing her hole to the future intrusion, while Zoro keeps bucking his hips to encourage her. The stretching is intense, almost unbearable... but like the glutton she has been called earlier, she can’t even imagine to stop at this particular moment. She feels ready to experience new things with them, as she understands they would be careful and would never harm her. 

“Law…” She calls with a short breath, her fingers brushing Zoro’s chest. “Law I can… You can…” 

He only growls as an answer, his golden eyes looking for Zoro’s approbation. When he’s sure she’s ready, he places himself right behind her, chest against her back, guiding his cock to her other hole, as the swordman entirely stops his thrusts. She clenches her fingers on his torso when Law begins to push the head of his cock inside, the sensation way different than before. For a moment, she believes that she wouldn’t be able to do it, but slowly, inch by inch, Law proves her wrong. His gestures are cautious, attentive, and before she could realize, he’s already entirely inside. He allows her a moment to really adjust to the both of them, her breathing quite erratic and unsettled, while her eyes are strongly shut, fingers still clenched on the marimo’s chest. The both of them gently brush her skin, Law peppering her neck with soft kisses and nibbles, while Zoro fondles her thighs and hips. None of them are able to make a single sound, overwhelmed with the various sensations harassing their bodies and mind. 

“I think… It’s okay…” She whispers gently, her voice shaking. “Try to move, you idiots.” 

They both nod, growls and groans filling the air while their hips adopt the same very slow and easy pace for her to experience having two men inside of her. They are ready to pull out if she really can’t bear both of them at the same time. 

“Oh, fuck!” She cries desperately, louder than she has ever been before. “Oh fuck, fuck, yes!” 

The stretching sensation is perfect, their two cocks providing her so much pleasure that she almost wants to come one more time, her clit rubbing on Zoro’s happy trail while they thrust. It encourages them to increase their pace, Zoro and Law letting loose desperate whimpers themselves. 

“Dammit, she’s really tight now…” Zoro growls. 

Even for Law it seems unbearable, the narrowness of her hole quite something for the captain of the Heart. They both increase their pace, because they both sense that they wouldn’t be able to last long in this situation. Even her is reduced to a pill of burning pleasure, her clit brushing on Zoro’s hair, each time extracting another whimper as she doesn’t even remember how to breath properly. She digs her fingernails into his chest, their growls and their erratic breathing sending waves of goosebumps down her spine. 

“I’m gonna cum!” Zoro eventually snaps, as she clenches her wall around his cock to encourage him, Law immediately moaning as well. 

They continue for a few seconds, thrusting erratically, until the three of them come all together, their bodies covered in sweat. The two boys ride out their orgasms with a few thrusts until they pull out cautiously, collapsing on that bench to catch their breath back. 

“I really need a shower now, please.” She chuckles, feeling at ease trapped between the two of them. 

“Yeah we all deserve it.” Law approves, while Zoro gives a fervent nod, already at the edge of falling asleep.