#spicelords

[corazondebeskar-reads]

well it's love, make it hurt - chapter three

well it's love, make it hurt series

three: well it's love, make it hurt

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dom!Din Djarin x sub!f!reader

Word count: 4k

Summary: You mess up a hunt and lose the bounty. You panic, afraid you've ruined the tenuous work partnership and blossoming, if unconventional, relationship between you and the Mandalorian.

Warnings: bdsm, bad bdsm etiquette, miscommunication, good intentions, dom!Mando and sub!reader, slightly brat tamer!Mando and brat!reader, protective!Mando, d/s relationship, d/s dynamics, blurred lines, power imbalance if you squint, reader is a badass bounty hunter, pre-purge (and slightly ooc mando), spanking, punishment, discipline, canon-typical violence, wounds, oral (f receiving), explicit consent, aftercare, Din Djarin takes the helmet off but does not reveal his face, playing fast and loose with the Creed

Originally written for Kinktober Day 5 - Body Worship / Facesitting. Inspired by this prompt list from @absurdthirst

also on ao3

3 ABY - Fall

The intel was bad.

You’d been made the minute you entered the cantina, and they even had the smarts not to show it. Playing along, letting you flirt and sweet talk your way to a private room.

The bounty, Skaad Droff, was supposed to be an easy target. A low level spicelord who gambled too much of his profits and got on a few bad ledgers. It was an okay payout, if a bit insulting to a team like you and Mando. You had only accepted it because there were two other bounties here on Kijimi, and it was going to be an in-and-out op. Extra credits for little effort. 

It had been your idea to take the puck. The others were enough to pay your way, but if you were going to keep this deal with Mando, you wanted to buy a hammock instead of sleeping on a shitty bedroll on crates in the hull. To Mando’s credit, he had offered you the bunk on the first night, but neither of you had really expected to continue to work together. 

But you made a good team. And having the Crest was nice. (And the… other part of your partnership was fantastic). 

So. You stuck around.

Droff, like most of the slimeballs you’d met, had a weakness for a sure thing. Mando hadn’t loved the idea but had been willing to defer to you. 

Maker, he was going to be so kriffing unbearable if you messed this up.

Which, given how the two bodyguards hidden inside the room had gotten your primary blaster and commlink, seemed likely. You had already missed one check-in, but that was the nature of undercover ops. Mando wouldn’t be worried yet (would he worry at all?), so you still had time to pull this off. 

So, three to one in a locked room. They make quick work of patting you down and find your other blaster and explosives. They even take your boots off and find your knife. They do not put your boots back on, which maybe pisses you off more than losing your weapons.

One of the guards is trying to pull your arms behind your back, and look, maybe you hadn’t been trained from birth to be a killing machine, and maybe you didn’t have impenetrable armor, but you still knew how to brawl.

And also bite—something dickhead #2 learned very quickly when he went to wrap a hand around your throat. 

Biting really only works the once. It catches them off guard, especially when you have no reservations about going for a chunk of flesh. That’s okay. Once is all you need.

The momentary commotion gives you the opening to yank one arm free, pull the pin out of your hair, and slam it into the guard’s other wrist so he releases you. There's a spray of hot blood when you pull it out. 

Okay, where the fuck is Mando? It has to be extraction time.

You scramble to snag your blaster off the long table in the center of the room, but the second guard had recovered his wits and seemed a little mad about the weeping teeth marks around his forearm. He tackles you, and the compact pistol skitters across the table and onto the floor on the other side. 

Kriff. 

Fine, whatever. 

You have bigger issues now, like the man who has you pinned to the stained carpet, one hand over your mouth and the other around your neck. And then you see it—your comm, having rolled off the table in the scuffle but just centimeters from where your arm is awkwardly bent under the guard’s weight. 

Rather than trying to conserve your strength for a better moment, you seize your whole body against his and manage to wiggle just enough to wrap your fingers around it. The edges of your vision are boxing in. You had gotten the comm, but now what? The buzzing in your brain drowns your thoughts, the last of the air in your lungs punched out in your fight to get the comm. 

If I die here, you think, he’s going to be so mad at me. 

“What’s that noise?” Droff snaps.

The guard looks around, easing just a fraction off you. 

The static isn’t inside your brain. 

It was coming from the comm. In your struggle to breathe, you had tensed, holding down the button and opening the line to Mando. 

A detonator shatters the exterior wall, sending debris and chunks of stone into the air. The guard leaps back, abandoning you, and you roll to your feet. From the new, more convenient entrance, Mando has his rifle aimed at the guard but hesitates. You were in his only line of fire. 

It didn’t matter. You reach the other pin at the top of your braid and lodge it solidly into the man’s throat. He sputters and chokes before joining his peer on the floor as they bled out. 

“Why didn’t you check in?” he snaps. 

“I had it handled, didn’t I?” you rsay, turning around—not to look at Mando, but to grab Droff. He was already halfway through the door, fleeing for the crowded cantina. 

You lunge but catch your bare foot on a chunk of debris and go down. Hard. Your hand, rather than stopping your fall, gets caught between your body and the debris with a sickening crunch. 

It doesn’t hurt, so you push back up, but before you stand, Mando scoops you by the waist and tosses you over his shoulder like a dead womp rat. 

“What are you doing? Why didn’t you go after him?” 

“Why didn’t you follow protocol?” His voice is sharp and acidic. 

Neither of you speak again. You fume, hot tears of humiliation pricking at your eyes. He lowers you only to plop you down on the speeder, sliding in behind you and locking you in place with his thick, armored thighs. He reaches up around you and grabs the handles. 

By the time you had woven in and out of the tiny alleys and out of the city to the Crest, your rage had waned. The wind whipping at your face had graciously allowed your tears to disappear, and the few errant sniffles were lost in the rush. He dismounts and doesn’t allow you a moment to do so yourself before swinging you up over his shoulder and stomping up the ramp. 

He sets you down on your crate-bed and goes about closing up the ship for the night. You wanted to slink into the fresher and hide until he went to sleep, but now that everything has settled, now that the adrenaline has seeped out and left you shaking, the pain is making itself known.

Your throat is definitely bruised, possibly damaged. You taste blood, but your teeth are all accounted for, and while scraped and bleeding, both of your feet are fine. Your left cheekbone aches from hitting the ground, and a few ribs are sore but not broken. 

Your wrist definitely is, though. 

Bile burns up your aching throat. This was it, then. You fucked up a hunt, and now you're useless. The thought of being alone again, without a ship, scraping up whatever bounties were available on the same planet just to eat and sleep, sends your heart racing. 

Being alone had never bothered you before Mando. It had been such a mistake to get comfortable. 

Attached. 

Mando jumps back down from the cockpit and stalks over, still burning and ready to yell about it. But when he sees you trembling, staring at the floor with blank eyes, and cradling your wrist, the fight slips out of him. 

Medpack in hand, he kneels before you and pries your fingers away from your injured hand. You hiss through clenched teeth as he carefully evaluates the damage. 

“It’s a clean break,” he says, reaching down for a bacta patch. 

You twitch but held back from protesting. He adheres the patch around your wrist and wraps it with gauze before applying the spray that would harden the bandage into a cast. 

“Should only be a day,” he says. 

You still don’t look at him, don’t speak. 

“Where else are you injured?” 

“‘M fine,” you say to the floor. 

He narrows his eyes behind the shelter of the helmet at the croak in your voice. “Lift your head up so I can check, please.”

“I said I’m fine.” What you meant to be a frustrated snap breaks and squeaks, setting your lip twitching into a sneer. 

“I didn’t ask. Lift your head.” 

Somehow still defiant when cooperating, you jerk your head up and to the side, exposing the blossoming black and purple around your throat. He hisses, reaching a gloved hand up to brush against it, but you flinch away. 

“Stop moving. You need more bacta.” 

You want so, so badly to argue. Like a dying loth-cat, you want to scratch and bite and snarl. But it hurts to breathe, to swallow, let alone to pick a fight. So you hold still, looking anywhere but him, as he applies the spray. 

His eyes rove over your body, noting the other scrapes and cuts, cataloging them to check on later, but not pushing you to treat them now. 

Leaving you be for a moment, he moves around the hull to store his weapons. He mixes a bowl of hot water from the steamer with a packet of powder, stirring it into a thick stew, and brings it to you with a spoon. 

“No thanks,” you say. 

“Fine, then we can start talking about what happened.” 

Finally, finally looking up at him, you take the soup. You're glowering, but he takes the win anyway. 

He sits beside you on the stack of crates and waits patiently until you finish eating.

“We have rules—protocols, for a reason,” he says after you set the bowl to the side.

“The rules don’t apply out there.”

“You know what I meant. We have protocols for hunts. Not orders, not rules, but a system. It’s for safety—for both of us. We check in. We call for backup. We bail if the situation is out of control.”

“I had it handled.”

“You gonna keep lying, digging yourself into that hole?” 

A sigh. “No.” 

“Good. Why didn’t you call? Or leave?”

“I thought I could handle it,” you whisper. 

“Why was this bounty so important to you? We’ve bailed on bigger payouts before.”

Your heart sinks, self-disgust bubbling over. You used two bacta units. The cost of that alone was more than the bounty would have paid. “Doesn’t matter now.” 

“Hey,” he snaps, fed up. He grabs your chin between his fingers and forces you to look at him. At the helmet, at least. “None of this works—not out there, not in here—if you don’t talk to me.”

“Fine. I know. It doesn’t work. Will you at least drop me back on Cantonica since you’ll get the full payout?” 

It was his turn to sit in silence, head spinning. The conversation had gotten away from him very quickly. “You want to leave,” he says flatly after a minute. 

“Oh yeah, sure. I want to leave. That’s why I was trying to save for a real fucking bed.”

“That’s what this was all about? Why didn’t you just ask?” He's furious all over again. “We could have just taken that out of the maintenance budget. Why wouldn’t you tell me you were uncomfortable?”

You wrench your face from his hand, refusing to openly cry, blinking hard at the floor. “Dunno.”

“Stop lying to me.”

“Fine! I didn’t want you to say no. I didn’t want you to say there was no point wasting credits, that I couldn't stay. Okay?”

He clenches and unclenches his hands, gloves creaking, and takes a deep breath. “Okay,” he says, voice softer. Sadder. “This is my fault.”

“Ugh, Mando, that is not—”

“No, it is. I thought I had made myself clear with you, but obviously, I haven’t.” He peels off the gloves, throwing them to the floor before reaching up to unhook his armor, piece by piece dropping. 

You track each one with wide eyes. When he's down to his flight suit and helmet, he hops off your bed and makes room for himself to stand between your legs. 

“Do you think I’d do this with just anyone? You think I take my armor off every time I fuck someone?” He cups your face, sending a full-body shudder through you. “You think I take care of someone else like this?”

“I don’t know,” you whisper, sniffling. It wasn’t a lie, but a deflection this time. 

“Cyar’ika. I told you the only way this was going to work was if you trusted me. I’m sorry I didn’t show you that it went both ways.”

Whatever you were about to say dies between your lips as he lifts you and moves you over, and begins to peel your blood-stained clothes away, seeking the warmth underneath. You raise your arms obediently and bite your lip at how gently he extracts your injured arm from its sleeve. A firm hand pushes on your shoulder until you lie back on the bed, and you lift your hips when he hooks his fingers into your waistband, yanking your trousers and panties off together. 

“I need to know if you trust me,” he say. 

You nod.

“I need to hear you say it.”

You look up at him where he hovers. "I trust you."

“And I trust you,” he said, pulling the roll of gauze back out of the medpack. You hold still, confused, but compliant as he wraps it around your head, closing your eyes as he covers them. “I trust you to leave that on until I say you can remove it.” 

“Yes, sir,” you say, and flinch at a strange hissing sound. You exhale slowly, willing yourself to stay still and good for whatever he’s decided your punishment for all this must be. 

And then he kisses you.

You gasp, but it’s swallowed by his warm, wet mouth, his tongue that doesn’t wait for permission to seek you out. It’s rough and messy, and you reach up to wrap your arms around his neck but get distracted by hair. It’s shaggy, curly, and a little coarse. Your fingers rake through it and he moans into your mouth. 

“Wait,” you pant, but he presses forward for another kiss anyway, “no, wait, wait.” 

He reels back. “Sorry, I should have—I should have asked.” He sounds out of breath and a little broken.

“No, I... it’s just… your Creed—”

“Can you see me?” he asks rhetorically. He knows you haven’t even tried.

“No, I wouldn’t, I—”

“Exactly. Cyar’ika, the gauze isn’t there because I think you’ll look. It’s so you don’t have to worry about it when I’m making you cum.”

Your hips jerk against his where he straddles you. He takes that as an opportunity to dive back, aching for more. He kisses your lips again and moves down your neck, grinning against your breast as you convulse a little when his breath fans over your nipple. 

He takes it in his mouth, practically salivating to taste you, to make you cry for him. The moan that punches out of you when he sucks hard on the bud goes straight to his cock, and you can feel it grow against your bare cunt. 

He laves attention to your tits, alternating bites and kisses and murmurs of affection. “You’re perfect, cyar’ika; how could I not want you? Look at you; so sweet for me.”

His words and his mouth make you cry out. He kisses down your stomach and hips. 

Then he abruptly stands. “Sit up, sweetheart.” 

You do, cautiously, fumbling to hold on the edge of the crate. He helps you to your feet and makes quick work of his flight suit before hopping up on the bedroll and laying down. His hands tug at your uninjured wrist, pulling you over until he can lift you by the waist.  You scramble to slide your legs over him and move to grab his cock, beyond ready to welcome him inside you. 

“No,” he growls. He grabs your hips and tugs, lurching you forward. “Come here.”

“What?” 

“Get up here and give me your cunt. Now.” 

You hesitate, and he cracks a hand over your ass, albeit softly. You yelp and scoot forward, balancing precariously. He puts one hand firmly on your hip to help you stay steady. 

“Listen to me,” he orders. 

You hum, setting your hand against his chest to feel the rumble of his uninhibited voice. 

“I want you to stay. I want you to stay and be mine. But if that’s going to happen, I need you to be sure. And if we’re going to forgive each other, if you’re going to forgive yourself, then two things are going to have to happen.”

“I want to,” you cry immediately, “please, I don’t want to leave.”

“Good. Then here’s how this is going to go. You know you need to be punished.”

“Yes, sir.” The sob behind your answer threatens to waver his decision, but no. He has to, or you’ll hold this doubt in your heart forever.

“Why do you need to be punished?” 

“B-because I didn’t do what you said.”

“No, sweetheart. Hey.” He reaches up and strokes your cheek. “I promise. Nothing—ever—outside will affect you here. But if, and only if, you really want to be mine like this, then I have to punish you for lying.”

“O-okay."

“Why do you need to be punished?” he asks again, soft. 

“I lied to you about being hurt and upset.” It’s barely a whisper, but warm pride brings a smile to his face.

“Good girl.” He rewards you by pulling your hand to his lips for a kiss. You shudder again. 

“It’s been a hard day. So what I’m going to do is give you your punishment and reward at the same time. You’re going to scoot over here and let me eat your cunt. You remember your words, if you need me to stop?”

“Yes, sir.” 

He takes a moment to look at you, really look at you, bare before him for the first time with no visor in between. Your hair is a mess, half your braid fallen out with the loss of your pins. Your cheeks are splotchy and swollen from crying. “You’re so beautiful, sweet girl. You going to let me take care of you now?”

You nod, and he grasps both hips to settle you over his mouth. He can’t help but lick up into you right away, relieved to find you dripping. You cry out and waver, so he wraps one hand back around your hip and holds tight. 

He dives back in. You know he’s never done this before, and he’s certainly sloppy and fumbling, but the voraciousness of his tongue and the almost desperate way he digs in more than make up for it. It’s better than any of the men who’ve bothered to try before. 

He keeps going, licking, sucking, nipping at your thighs and lips, and though you’re tense with apprehension, waiting for the first strike, you find yourself on the edge of an orgasm very quickly. 

“Please,” you whisper.

You feel his lips curl into a smile, and he breaks away only long enough to grant permission before he’s wrapped back around your clit, sucking hard enough that you see stars as you fall apart. He moans, sinfully loud, and it pushes you into a second, smaller orgasm in quick succession. 

His licks get softer, backing off to let you breathe. When you’ve come down, pleasure warming your whole body, he pulls away.

“How many times did you lie to me tonight?”

You try to think through the haze. “Um.” You don’t want to be bad; you want to suffer for your sins and be redeemed through his will. You especially don’t want him to think you’re trying to lessen your punishment. “Um. Maybe six? Or seven? I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I don’t know.”

His thumb rubs soothing circles on your hip, and he raises his other hand to cup your cheek. “That’s okay, cyar'ika. Thank you for trying.” He strokes your cheek. “It was five.” 

“I’m so sorry.” You don’t want to cry yet; you know it’ll be harder if you do. You’ll cry in the end, anyway. But you want to be brave.

“I’m going to give you five for each. You know the rules.” 

You nod, and he pulls his hand from your face to cup your ass. You jolt in surprise when you feel his tongue again instead. As he licks deep into you, he pulls his hand away and lands a firm spank. 

“One,” you gasp. It wasn’t a hard hit, just past tingling, and the combination with his ministrations is making you dizzy. 

The next one is harder, as is each subsequent strike. You count, none of the hits reaching the point of real pain yet. 

He cups your ass and rubs it soothingly. “Cum, baby,” he murmurs before sinking his teeth in around your clit. 

“Fuck, oh fuck.” Your hips jerk against his mouth and he chuckles, kissing and licking you through it. 

“Good girl,” he croons into your cunt and brings his hand down hard on your ass. 

“S-six,” you sob a little. It definitely stung more, but then immediately, he’s drawing cries of pleasure from you. 

He pauses again after the next four, soothing you and bringing you to the edge. He teases a little this time, withholding permission while you squirm, before telling you to cum. 

The next hit hurts. You choke back a sob, trying to spit out “eleven.” He delivers the next four rapidly, not allowing each hit to sink in before the next one. When he pauses again and refocuses on your clit, you realize what he’s doing.

It’s working. You’re so dazed from the pain bleeding into pleasure, you’ve started to moan with each strike. The way you burn from each slap makes the orgasm he rips from you more intense than you’ve had before. 

It makes you start to cry in earnest. You’re bawling and he freezes. 

“Check in, please. Are you okay?”

You nod frantically. “Yes, please, I’m okay, I can take it. Please.” You don’t have the words to tell him you’re only crying because you have no room left in your chest for your feelings. 

Later, you’ll ask him if you’re broken. If you shouldn’t feel so safe, so cared for, when he hurts you. He’ll tell you he doesn’t know, but then he must be broken too, since the way you cried for him, the way you gave yourself over and trusted him to catch you, is how he feels safe, too. 

The last two sets, the last two orgasms, are a blur. You feel faint, and delirious, like you’re floating away but also being held down tight. Anchored.

When it’s all over, he carefully slips out from under you and lifts you up, setting you up on your knees with your hand against the wall for support. He checks you over to make sure he didn’t go too far, that none of your wounds have reopened. When he goes to get a cream to ease the burn, you whimper.

“Don’t, please. I wanna feel it.” 

He hesitates. He just wants to take it all away. “Cyar’ika, you don’t need to punish yourself further. You took it so well; you’re such a good girl.” 

You sniffle but nod, and hold still while he takes care of you. He digs around and finds himself clothes, slipping the helmet back on, before gently tugging one of his tunics over your head, mindful of your wrist, and peeling the gauze from your face . Then, he helps you to your feet and opens the ramp.

You open blurry eyes, looking up at him. “What’re you doing?”

“We’re going to get a room for the night,” he says firmly, brooking no argument even though you know it’s not in the budget. “And tomorrow, we’ll go to the market before we leave and look for a bigger bed for the bunk. If you’d like.”

You can’t think of anything you’d like more.

*title from "Bonus Mosh, pt. II" by Taking Back Sunday.

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[deafilosophy]

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[viridian-angel]

Less than two hours spicelords

[willowishstudios]

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[insufficient-focus]

I love all of the favorite 2017 swtor screenshots. Oh holy moly I could fill pages with my favs <3 Here are a few (ok more than a few.. I had to force myself to stop at one point). Thank you so much for thinking of me @consular-sevasy <3

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[wyrm-wolf]

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[naberiie]

8 + arcmaiden or sabédala (OR - IF YOU WANT - BOTH. BOTH IS GOOD.)

I’ll ABSOLUTELY write the sabédala one, too - but I’m saving it for the femslash week ;) this one is also on ao3 ! its Time to start spreading that Good Arcmaiden Content across platforms…!

8. Kisses that travel from the person’s face down to their neck (heightdifference)

Rabé stifled a huge yawnas she lugged her bags down the narrow apartment hallway. Though she’d beencareful to pack only the essentials, it still felt like she was struggling withdense lead. Like someone had amped up the gravity just to annoy her. Frombehind one door, she could hear a large family having an argument over dinner.Someone else was watching a holodrama, the dramatic music rising and falling intime with the action. Sabé had somehow managed to acquire the block of threerooms as a semi-permanent rest house for the trio of handmaidens. And Rabéappreciated how casually her sister had mentioned Coruscant would be anotherbase of operations now. “Closer to the action,” she had said, but the spark inher eyes told Rabé it was not the only reason for choosing Coruscant.

Gods but she was exhausted. A four-week mission in the Outer Rim had leftRabé and her sisters dirty, disheveled, and testing the limits of theirpatience – both with the mission and each other. There was nothing more shewanted to do than shower and then fall into bed. Fives wasn’t due back untiltomorrow, at the earliest (she’d memorized the rough outline of the 501st’sschedule weeks ago) and she was planning on spending every second fast asleep upuntil the moment he arrived. But the thrill at the mere thought of seeing him,of being able to hold and touch and kisshim again, made her second guess her plans.

They hadn’t even been able to talk that often for the past four weeks. Sabé had gotten the signalfrom her Underworld contact much sooner than they had been expecting, and Rabéhad just barely managed to send Fives a regretful apology before Eirtaé cut thecomms. She knew he had seen it, because as they flew into Coruscant not even anhour ago, her recently-revived datapad hummed with dozens of messages:

What, you think ‘goingundercover’ and ‘dealing with the Hutts’ and ‘other major crime organizationsinvolved in a massive drug war’ are good enough excuses to get me to stoptalking to you? You underestimate my powers of annoyance, Rabé – and unlike that one time when I underestimated yourskills in the sparring ring, this time it’s for real! I’ve been practicing, youcan ask Rex or Echo. Nah, girl, I’m afraid you’re stuck with me. Being a badassundercover spy isn’t going to scare me away (in fact, it’s safe to assume that’sgonna have the opposite effect) ;)

She’d giggled out loud at that one, and the first fewmessages after it, too. Fives always made her laugh – he always said how goodit was to finally have someone other than Hardcase as an appreciative audience.But then, after the second week, the messages became simpler, more sincere –single lines that embraced Rabé’s heart, the closest thing she could get to hisarms wrapped around her again.

I understand. I miss you.

I love you.

Pleasestay safe.

He’d sent them all,dozens and dozens, at roughly the same time – 0700 and 2300. When he woke, andright when he went to bed. Every day. As much for his sake as it was for hers.Of course, there were multiple occasions where it was the opposite – when he wasunder ordered radio silence, she had technological freedom – and then the roleswould switch.

Please stay safe.

Their mantra to each other, to themselves, for themselves.Stay safe.

Rabé keyed the lock, shoved the door open withher hip and pushed her things in with a quiet grunt of frustration.

It was a testament to the level of her exhaustion that it took her a fewmoments to notice the lights were already on.

Sabé and Eirtaé had gone to meet with Padmé and give her their reports.They wouldn’t be back for hours. Rabé was alone.

She immediately cursed and dropped into a crouch, twistingher wrist so the slim vibroblade she kept strapped to her forearm slipped outof its catch. Images of angry Hutts, or spicelords, or any of the dozens ofslimy underworld figureheads they’d just made a mockery of raced through hermind. She tugged the rest of her luggage through the door and slowly closed itas she peered around the foyer. She couldn’t hear anything in the rooms beyond,not an impatient scuffle of feet, or a quickly hushed cough. Her breath stilledin her lungs as she slunk forward. Slowly, slowly, any remaining exhaustion inher blood driven out by pure adrenaline, Rabé gripped the handle of hervibroblade and pressed herself into the wall opposite the door. All she couldhear was the steady drone of Coruscant traffic, but she counted out three slowminutes – enough time that any intruder would shuffle in discomfort. They hadn’tcome to investigate the sound of the door, which was good. And bad. Maybe theintruder was waiting, just around the corner, counting down the seconds, justas trained, just as patient as she.

Fuck this, Rabéthought, her frown deepening in annoyance. Iwant to take a shower.

She sprang up, rounded the corner, blade at theready, and –

Fives was fast asleep on the couch. Flat on his back,snoring away like a Wookie, in his blacks and belt and leg armor, as casuallyas you please. Her heart jumped and leapt and her wrist flicked and thevibroblade slid back into its hiding place as she stared at him, half in lovingwonder and half in horrified realization she had almost just stabbed herboyfriend.

Fives? Rabéblinked, rubbed her eyes, made sure she was not hallucinating the ARC trooper onthe couch, before her face split into a massive grin. Joy lit a fire in her bellyand she could barely gasp out his name before dissolving into breathless,delighted laughter.

His eyelids cracked open and his grin was instant, deep warmlove in his umber eyes. “Hey, you, welcome back,” he murmured, his voice low andhoarse and absolutely the loveliest sound in all the universe. Fives opened hisarms, beckoning her to him with a single, unspoken word. She almost tackled himover the back of the couch.

“What are you – you weren’t supposed to get in until tomorrow-” She tripped over the words asshe took his hands in her own, their fingers intertwining as she straddled hislap, pressing her face into the crook of his neck. Her entire body molded overhis own, her knees melded to the outside of his thighs. Her words drifted offinto small noises of pleasure when his arms wrapped around her, when his handsstarted to draw circles over her dusty travel robes.

He smelled like sweat and blaster ammo, like sharp metal and stale air,like fierce, unabashed, brilliantly white-hot life – she thought, as his handstraveled over her back, cupping her closer to him, he smelled exactly like astar.

“Ah, are you that disappointed to see me?” He teased, hisbreath maddeningly warm on her head. He shifted slightly on the couch to lether settled into a more comfortable position, the slight twitch of his hipsending tiny sparks of electricity racing through her blood. “I wanted tosurprise you.”

She didn’t want to tell him just how well he had surprised her, though.

Rabé hummed into his neck, “I missed you,” and then, asif literally straddling him on the couch wasn’t proof enough, she reluctantlypulled away, just enough to brush her lips over his, as she whispered it again,“I missed you.”

Fives groaned, softly, as she up a little straighter andcurved her body over his, giving a full, deep kiss. His lips were slightlychapped, but they were soft and warm and Rabé didn’t ever want to pull away.She would happily spend the rest of her life on this couch, with this man. Herarms were locked around his neck, just as his were fully embracing her tinyframe into his chest.

She broke the kiss, reluctantly, and pressed her foreheadto his. He was grinning madly, and she was sure she was, too, but she wasn’tyet finished. She gently pulled his face down, his breath coming quicker now, distractingand maddening and wonderful on her throat, and she pressed her lips to histattoo, the simple ink of the simple number that now made her heart flutter everytime she saw the number ‘five’ anywhere.

It was her favorite number in the entire galaxy, so shekissed it again, and again, and then, deciding she couldn’t very well leave therest of his face so unadorned, reacquainted herself, relearned the shape of hischeekbones and nose and eyelids and jawline with her lips. Fives’ grip on herhad tightened, his eyes shut, a smile hovering on his lips that sometimesslipped into a soft gasp, a small desperate noise, begging her to continue.

And so she did, kissing his ear before her lips traveleddown his throat, peppering it with kisses – sometimes gentle, mostly not. Fiveswas rocking under her touch, low groans of pleasure escaping his throat withevery kiss.

She’d just made it to the edge of his blacks when he hoisted her up andkissed her full on the mouth. Fives leaned back against the couch and murmuredagainst her lips, “So, I’m confused – did you miss me?” He started to laugh athis own joke, just as she knew he would, as Rabé groaned good-naturedly and pressedforward to kiss him again, to get him to stop teasing. “It’s just – a little – unclear-”

“Fives,” she groaned, alsolaughing under his kisses. “You talk too much.”

[flaminjoeuk]

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[feverwildehopps]

Hey spicelord, do you mind telling me how Spicy Nick Day came about and why you chose it to be on June 14th?

@im-zero-fox-given (sorry for the late answer there's just a lot to explain lol)Spicy Nick Day came about way back in like, May. @mattnyc816 and I were messaging and I says to him like, yo this whole fandom loves it when Nick is all sexy in fanart 'n stuff right? (aka Spicy Nick) I know we do ^^, so I pitched the idea of Spicy Nick Day to him bc I just thought 'hey what if there was a whole day dedicated to Nick Wilde and all his spice?! A holiday where the Zootopian artists draw up a contribution and post on that specific day or days?!' Because I as an artist would SO be into that! Sounds like a lot of fun! I asked Matt what he thought about it, and he totally supported the idea 😁 so then I asked the fandom for their feedback and poof! Spicy Nick Day became reality :D I wanted this to be a monthly thing so us artists could have time to come up with something and draw it also I didn't want it to be like, yearly bc that's just crazy. We want Spicy Nick sooner! Ultimately it was @sgt-debones who suggested the 14th of every month bc actor Jason Bateman, the voice of Nick Wilde, has a birthday on a 14th and tada! It's official :D