#the concerning weakness and general aches everywhere

[xysidhequeen]

Me: The migraines are getting better! :D

The Migraines: No the fuck we are not

Me, in pain: They’re. Getting. Better.

The Migraines: Suffer

Me: If I say it enough, it'll be true

[luveline]

if your still taking requests I would like to request reader scraping their knees and tasm!peter patching her up and it’s a lot of lovely tension:))) maybe r not being used to people touching them without bad intentions.

I hope you are having a lovely time right now and are taking care of yourself<3

thank you lovely! ♡ fem, 1k

Peter's droopy eyed when you knock, less so when he gets a good look at you. Blood leading like twin snakes from the grazed ache of your knees and staining your socks, tears lining your eyes and shiny in the sun, you're embarrassingly sad. He doesn't give you shit for it, the opposite. 

"Fuck," he says, his eyes widening with a familiar concern. "Shit, what did you do?" 

"Uhm," you say, though you know, but you bit your tongue on the way down and everything hurts, "I fell. Someone bumped into me coming out of the subway." 

Peter holds his hands out, thinks better of it and steps down over the door jam to take your hands and pull you forward for a hug. He smells like apple jack cereal and his hair is still wet from an early morning shower, a walking poster boy for brown-haired, brown-eyed sweethearts everywhere, but you still seize at his tight hold. 

He murmurs a sorry and leans back, assessing your gaze, so close that you can see the trifecta of his pinprick beauty marks, one in the shadow of his brow, one under his eye, and one closer to his nose. 

"Come on. We'll clean you up." 

Peter ushers you inside, his fingertips brushing the small of your back. You walk into the kitchen, every surface clean, the wooden dining table decorated by one empty coffee cup and one half full. His cereal bowl has been washed and left to dry on the rack, next to what must've been his Aunt May's plate. 

"May's in work already?" you ask him.

He hums, turned away from you, a slip of his long, shapely back exposed as he reaches for the first aid kit sitting on top of one of the cabinets. "She said to tell you thank you for the flowers last week." 

You panicked so much beforehand. What do you bring for your not quite new friend's mom when you meet her for the first time? You've known Peter for a few months but never had the good fortune to meet May until she demanded it, your bouquet a weak offering. You'd wanted her to like you, because despite your fight or flight whenever he gives you a quick shoulder rub, any ounce of affection, you really like Peter. 

Said flowers draw your attention as Peter helps you up onto the counter. You turn away from him, trembling hands forced under your thighs, and count the petals of a wilting carnation one by one as he washes his hands quickly in the sink beside you before laying out the sterile bandages atop their plastic coverings. "I'm gonna wipe the blood off," he says. 

You're past saying no, I can do it myself. You already let him help you up. The time to protest is passed. 

"Okay." 

He takes your wobbly voice for nervousness, and you are nervous, but not the way he thinks. "I'll be careful," he says. "You don't have anything to worry about." 

Strange but not unheard of for Peter to be so serious. You nod jerkily, waiting for his touch. It doesn't come for a while, and you brave meeting his gaze to find out why. 

His eyebrows are sewn together in concern. His hands land on your thighs, and, to your surprise, you aren't apprehensive. You relax as deft hands draw mirrored lines up and down the outer sides of your legs, leaving a generous distance from the beginnings of your shorts. "Maybe you can take some advil first, if you're worried." He eases your legs apart as he steps into the space between them, his eyes unfailing where they meet yours. "It'll hurt less. I bet I could get some topical numbing cream–" 

"It's not–" You peek down at his chest. "I'm not worried about my knees." 

"Oh. Good," he says, hand coming up to your elbow. He holds it so tenderly you wonder how you ever thought he might have a propensity for anything but tenderness. "You look really nice, under all the blood. Is that weird? That's probably why you fell, you couldn't just walk around looking that nice. Throws off the balance of the universe." 

You laugh softly. "These are my best socks." 

"I can see that!" He squeezes down from your elbow to your hand. You've never been touched like that, half massage, half reassurance, just squeezing you to squeeze you. Laughter livens his tone, "I'll get you new socks." 

"You don't have to do that."

"I want to." 

You struggle to breathe as he cleans your knees. Between his murmuring, It's okay and Almost done, you've no time to feel worried. 

You've time for other things, like this. He turns between your legs and slides a hand under the other, fingertips pressing into the soft underside of your knee as he works a thin layer of disinfecting ointment into your scratches. He continues his murmuring, apologies and lamentation alike. "Sorry. Don't want you catching rabies from the pristine streets of Queens. I mean, fuck, sweetheart, you made a real mess. How hard did you fall?" 

You swallow a lump that feels fit to choke you, worse when he tilts his head ever so slightly your way, face an inch from yours, less. 

"Hard," you say weakly. 

He misses the implication (your first stroke of luck all day), smoothing a large square of gauze over your knee and securing it with medical tape. "It's nothing a day on the couch can't fix. I'll make you breakfast too, free of charge." 

"Thanks, Peter." 

He rubs the skin above your knee. "You're welcome. One horrendous injury down, one to go." 

His touch feels even softer the second time around. 

[ana-lmao]

Out the TV, Back in the world

Generation Loss fic!!! I really wanted to write this so I have been writing it the past 3 days!! Enjoy!! It's a long one! ------------------------------------------------------------------------

The audience… has voted… for you… TO DIE. *Click*  It was over, the pain, the suffering, The Show. He was free, He could feel the pain drifting away as the spikes engraved in his head, if the pain was drifting, why did he feel stitching… he could see while unconscious, wires stitching his head, the pain… it was back.. he wanted to scream but couldn’t, he wanted to move… but couldn’t. He was stuck… was he conscious?.. he didn’t know, all he could feel was stitching, he could only hear his heartbeat increase as his mind gained consciousness slowly, opening his eyes, even a black box was a blur to him, he was dizzy, nauseous, he was supposed to die, he still couldn’t scream. Why were his arms loose? They were supposed to be held up by wires.   He could move his arms, they were free, he was weak but tried to open the box, feeling every spike leave his head as he felt air flow through him, Literally. He fell to the ground, barely holding himself up with his hands, everything was a blur… he wanted to die. He slowly started crawling, somehow without falling, he made his way around, surprisingly there was no security, but what he saw next… made him realize what just happened.   A green blur mixed with red, he shook his head to see… someone laying on the ground, wires sticking out from everywhere… what the..   -C-CHARLIE?!   He could barely scream or even talk, he quickly crawled over to him and started shaking him.   -PLEASE!! WAKE UP!!!

  He stood up quickly, no matter how much it hurt or ached he needed to help Charlie, he ran (With a lot of tripping) to the prop room and grabbed a first aid kit, rushing back. He didn’t have a lot of medical knowledge but he needed to do SOMETHING.   -Ranboo?...  Ranboo quickly turns behind him, he spots a familiar face.   -Sneeg?...    Sneeg quickly runs over to him and looks at him worried.

  -What the fuck happened to you?! IS CHARLIE OKAY?!   Ranboo turns back to help Charlie, Sneeg just watched confused and relieved that they were okay… kind of..    -What are you-   Sneeg cuts himself off as Ranboo starts to bandage him as well.   -Oh uh.. thanks.. let me help you too…   Ranboo nods as Sneeg bandages his head, they both get startled when they hear a groan… then Screaming.   -FUCK FUCK- AH- IT HURTS!! IT HURTS!!   -CHARLIE!!   Ranboo immediately crawls over to Charlie and tries to help him. Sneeg does the same.   -WHAT THE FUCK??... –Sneeg takes off Charlies vest to see his insides showing, he immediately bandages it so he doesn’t lose too much blood.

  -Ranboo?! Sneeg?! WHAT HAPPENED?!?   -Calm down Charlie and then we can talk! –Ranboo looks at Charlie freaking out.   -Alright!! I’m calm! Now- What the fuck happened.   -The stupid TV bitch happened. –Sneeg cringes at the mention of it.   -My head got spiked by a black box.   -WHAT!? –Sneeg and Charlie shout in union, giving a concerned look at Ranboo who said it so casually.   -H-Hetch.. –Ranboo blurts out.   -Hetch?! He didn’t help you?!   -No.. he’s not good…   -Wait, who? –Sneeg joins in on the conversation   -Long story…

A while later after they get weapons and help each other.

   -So what do we do now? –Ranboo speaks up.    -What? –Charlie responds

   - I mean how do we get out of he-

    Ranboo was cut off by a sudden glow from a door.

   -What the fuck?.. –He says while backing up.

They look at the glow eyes wide. Charlie takes a step forward.

  -Charlie what the fuck are you doing?! You could get killed In there!!! –Sneeg grabs his arm

-It could be a way out. If it does kill me, that’s a way out too. –He lets go of Sneeg’s arm and runs to the door opening it.

 Ranboo and Sneeg try to stop him but the light just… sucks them in.

At the other side

They screamed as they fell onto a wooden floor, thankfully, nobody was hurt. They get up to see… a big wooden room?..

  -Okay… what kind of episode is this?.. –Ranboo groans as he starts walking, he trips over something. A giant… nail?...

   Ranboo looks up to see a.. giant table with what seems to be tv on it.

  -Are we.. –Ranboo starts speaking

-Shrunk?... I think so.. –Sneeg adds.

-It’s fine! It’s just another episode! We just have to quickly finish it and we can find a way out then! –Charlie reassures them and keeps on walking, seeing a crack in the walls and signals them to follow him, the two nod and follow.

  -Oh fuck… I didn’t think there would actually be people here… -Ranboo walks out slowly, looking up and sprints, Charlie and Sneeg following after.

 -Quickly! I think these episodes last like 3 hours maxim- Charlie looks back before bumping into something, or rather someone…

  Ranboo and Sneeg take cover while Charlie lies there scared and frozen.

   -What the fuck…? –Charlie could barely tell by his shock but the man had Blonde hair with blue eyes, He crouched down and Charlie could only flinch.

  -Wha- what kind of sick idiot makes figurines of missing people –He grabbed Charlie and he immediately yelped in pain and panic, which made the blonde haired man scream too.

  -WHAT THE FUCK?! –The man screams as he sits down on the floor

  As Charlie was freaking out the man puts his finger on his head.

  -Holy shit it’s real- Wait- Charl-

  -Let him go! –The other two come out of hiding and the mans eyes widen in shock.

  -No fucking wa- Is this where you three been?! Shrunken down?!

  -WHAT KIND OF STUPID EPISODE IS THIS!? LET HIM GO! –Sneeg shouts, every instinct in his body telling him to back away.

  The man grabs the other two and puts them in a bag, not zipping it up.

 -Shit shit shit!! –He curses and starts sprinting home.

At his house

 -Listen I’m going to get you out of there only if you don’t run! –The man warns them.

 -WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?! –Ranboo shouts trying to get out of the bag.

 -You don’t… you don’t remember me…? –The man looks concerned and confused.

 -Ran- Ranboo! It’s me? Phil?..

  Why did that name ring a bell… he recognizes it but he doesn’t remember him.

  -Listen I don’t know what kind of stupid episode this is but-

  -What episode?! You keep talking about that and I don’t understand!!! Why are you small and WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?! DO YOU KNOW HOW WORRIED EVERYONES BEEN?!

  -Stop trying to trick us! Just let us go! –Charlie shouts holding his stomach.

  -Oh my god… I didn’t even realize how badly you are injured- I’ll help you heal and then YOU HAVE TO TELL ME WHAT HAPPENED!! –Phil gently puts the three on the table and stare in disbelief before snapping back and getting medical stuff.

  -How did you three get injured?..

  -Why should we tell you… -Sneeg was being stubborn.

  -So I know what I’m working with here.

  -Lets see… Died 3 times, one to a stupid monster, being crushed by a wall and then dying to a tv monster wired thing I dunno –Sneeg says it casually giving a death stare while counting on his fingers.

  -Might have died way more times but I don’t remember –He puts his hands in his pocket.

  -WHAT?!- WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU MEAN YOU DIED?!- IS THIS A JOKE?!

  -I wouldn’t joke about what we went through.

  -… -Phil tries to help heal most of his wounds but it was hard considering the size difference between him and the medical stuff.

  -What about you Charlie?...

  -Died like four times I think… I was dried up… torn open by Ranboo… died to lasers.. and the TV monster…

  -Wha- TORN OPEN?! BY RANBOO?! WHY?!

  -I NEEDED TO!!! I DIDN’T EVEN REMEMBER CHARLIE AND I WAS UNDER CONTROL BY A BITCH!!- Ranboo adds trying to prove his innocence.

  -Under control…?

  -Yeah… By Hetch.. I died once to my head being crushed in a black spiked box which he lead me to… -Ranboo cringes at remembering it.

  -Jesus fucking- Why are you small then?!

  -I don’t know! I thought this was a new episode style or something!!! It might still be an episode so don’t expect us to trust you yet! –Ranboo backs up

  -Episode… WAIT- Was all of that filmed?! Where?!

  -Uhm.. yeah.. I think streamed- By Showfall media- or something –Ranboo answers.

  -Listen… My names Phil… we met online! I was your friend before you went missing for over a year… well Charlie was missing the longest time… Here I have proof!

  Phil walks out the room and when he gets back he shows pictures of all of them.

  -What..?

[muffindaddystyles]

OH NO BABY!!

Summary: It was Harry who swimmed in freezing ass water but someone else (his lovie) ends up catching a cold, caring boyfriendrry, a mighty bit momrry.

Turquoise chilly waves crashes against the dark coloured stones as Y/N watches her button sized boyfriend; summat all with rosy cheeks and nose, un-tattooed, wearing excessively short knickers (so tiny it shows the curves of his cute bum perfectly), being a cheeky giggly boy while shooting his swimming scenes. 

She wheezes a cold puff of breath winding her brown overcoat closer around to keep her warm but it fails to do so and she might get a scolding from Harry for being silly and waiting outside the whole time just to watch him but she doesn't care, she's extremely proud of him and comes by the sets of My Policemen once a time she gets day off her job early. 

He paddles towards her like a penguin buried into humongous coats and towels, his brows furrowing together trying to recognize her dainty self waving him quite enthusiastically from far and his face softens at that.

Shaking his head when her teeth clanks together from the gush of stinging cold breeze. 

"Lovie'," He wraps his nippy palms around her hands bringing them to his frosty lips to blow warm air, knowing she hates cold and gets real whiny from not being able to bear it yet she stood in it for two hours for him means alot to him because his assistant told him someone was waiting for him but didn't tell it was his actual sweet baby.

"How you're not a frozen chicken yet?" She asks sighing once in the heat of his given trailer and he makes an exhultant purring noise when she cups his face, lulling it left and right playfully, "Are you okay? She queries worriedly looking down at him with batted eyes and he muses a chuckle at her sweetness. 

"Baby 'm fine -- feeling hot by the way now you're inside the van." He grins bashfully tugging her closer with his knees pulled around her legs, "You better go back home .. I don't want your cutesy bum to freeze to death." She squeaks surprisingly when he smacks her ass playfully and drags her down by pulling the lapel of her coat to smear his lips against her's fondly -- heart bigger than it's normal size at her sight making his day 100x better. 

"I brought you lunch, it's on that shelf." She tells him standing at the stairs of trailer and he waves her blowing a heartious kiss her way, "Call me when y'reach, yeah?" 

"Kay, bye!" Her awfully pretty smile covets dimples into his cheeks and he just want to throw himself into the sofa piled with blanket and scream into it like a teenager girl.

Though, she keeps sneezing through whole ride -- eyes teary, nose runny and fingers twitchy not to mention her numb toes making her feel very uncomfy. Her eyes dropping from being too sleepy and lazy. 

She's about to catch a cold. 

Tiredly she drags her feet upto their flat and doesn't even pet their kitten strawberry on the way to their bedroom and when reaches it flops over blankets snuggling into them -- without even changing into comfy clothes. 

Sirens everywhere as she wakes up with a groan holding her forehead to subside the pound in it and it's feeling like blazing alarms are going off in her head making her want to puke. 

It's dark outside. She's been napping for hours. She manages to sit on the edge of bed deciding whether she should stand up to go to washroom or not for that all she could see is floating wooden floor. 

Weakly she trudges towards the kitchen filling a glass of water and pulls out a thermometer from one of the drawers -- she was too occupied in waiting for it to beep  then checking her fever that she didn't hear Harry announcing; he's home. 

She gasps quickly shoving it under her bum, "Don't you hide that thermometer from me!" He squalls rushing towards her in two big strides of his daddy long legs and her eyes widen comically. 

"I was just checking and I don't have any kind of fever!" She squeals not letting him get hold of the thermometer and he glares down at her sternly, "You're burning up, baby." He hisses, the back of his hand pressed to her forehead. 

She stands up and does a twirl for him shrugging her shoulders nonchalantly, "See 'm fine —- " Only to pass out but Harry was quick to take her fall in his arms gracefully squinting his eyes down at her.

"Yeah . . . could see how fine you're." She gives in atlast. Knowing he's going in a severe mommy mode.

"Put your arms around me — Or just fall on me, yeah that works too." She nods and let him slip his socks clad feetsie under her soles to walk them to their bedroom, he sits her down and she wails when he opens their wardrobe to get her something comfy. 

"Nooo." She bunches up into a ball as he fists her vest top to pull it over her head, "it's freezing -- 'm feeling so cold." He frowns because he's sweating his ass off from the heat. 

He sweeps her hair away from her eyes rubbing a hand down her back continuously, "It'd be a sec, pet. Then I'll warm these blankets in the drier 'n make ye' some soup, so you'd be all cosy 'n snuggly … hmm?" She's very unconvincing when sick. Wants him and just him by her side. 

She wipes her nose with her sleeve and sniffs, raising her armpits in air for him and  shivers terribly when he undressed her completely, "Oh me poor baby." He leans in to kiss the corner of her lips but she pushes him away grumpy-ly. 

"You're g'na get sick too, dummy." He pouts childishly helping her to put her legs in her fuzzy pyjamas, plants tender kisses to her ankles once covering her feet in aloe-fused socksies.

When she stands up on wobbly legs with the support of his folded thigh he almost jumps asking worriedly. 

"Where are ye' goin', missy!??" 

"To washroom." Her voice barely audible her throat achy and scratchy, "'M comin' with you." He tells her demandingly and she groans knuckling at her eyes. 

"No."

"You wanna walk by yourself? Alright, let's see that." He leaves her wrist and she gasps tripping forward from weakness -- catching the nearest furniture before the damage. 

"Moppet, stop being so stubborn and lemme take care of you … look at you, an absolute horror –-- never been this frail." He's just so caring it makes her want to cry and have a full on water-works party. He pushes her from waist to himself pecking her sweet smelling hair and takes her to washroom. 

After that he tucks her beneath two fluffy blankets and leaves her to make some soup for her and bring her medicine, "Harry!" She yowls pinching the blankets closer around her round small head and feels bad when he rushes inside in a frenzy with an utterly concerned face, serving spoon in his hand and dish rag on his shoulder. 

"What happened baby? D'ya wanna throw up? Or are you feelin' freezy, should I blow up heat?" He asks in one breath and she blushes murmuring timidly, glossy eyes still very sleepy and exhausted. 

She sneezes loudly, "I just –- achoo!! –- " Another sneeze and she messes her words horribly, " –- you — " Drool on the corner of her mouth. 

"You achoo me?" He giggles softly fetching some tissues for her and wipes her nose with them as she struggles to clean it herself. 

"'M sorry, please come back." She sighs holding in an another sneeze to avoid wetting him with her yucky stuff. 

He strokes her head for a generous moment, "It's almost cooked –- oh fuck is it burning?" He sniffs the air then looks down at her with full on saucer eyes and slaps his forehead when she raises her shoulders, "Maybe?" Thankfully not all of it got ruined and his grin was obnoxious while bringing it inside. Trying to shoo away strawberry who's pawing at the frizzes of his socks. 

She smiles up at him with hooded eyes when he hovers the spoon infront of her waiting to feed her as if she's some sort of lil baby and when she tells him it's hot he blows at it and when she still tries to make excuses he stares at her strictly, "Baby." He warns her and she obliges quickly grabbing his wrist delicately to eat and his heart jumps consciously at the fact she's still burning awfully. 

"Did you even put salt in it? It tastes like nothing."

"Please stop wasting of what's left of ye voice on complaints about soup you can't even taste." He huffs and she giggles only to drive into fits of loud coughs. He rubs her back gently and puts the tray aside when she feels like throwing up from the effect of coughs and moves the bin where she's bended over the edge of bed and his legs. 

"It's okay, hmm just let it out." He caresses her back and holds her hair away from her face -- though nothing comes out since she hasn't eaten anything from morning. 

"I hate this." There comes the first sniffle and he instantly cradles her face in his soft hands, "I know dovie' you're feeling very icky right now but it'll be better in the morning, I promise." She shakes her head coughing into her elbow. 

"I don't want to eat anymore." Her voice groggy and hoarse, he lifts her gaze up towards him scolding her with a stern frown. 

"Hey, now none of that -- you're not allowed to sleep until your belly isn't full." She groans nodding at last and he kisses her shoulder as a little reward. She isn't very bratty. Infact she's Harry's polite girl. Though, When she's he makes sure to tug her back on line but at the moment he understands that how much she's suffering. 

How much she needs him to take care of her.

Taking care of her medicines and her cough syrup he turns on the lamp laying back into heap of pillows against the headboard and spreads his knees to bunch her petite weak body against his chest and closes them when she's properly snuggled on top of him, it's one of her favourite positions to sleep in when she's sick --- clinged and cuddled to him. 

Like babies on their mommy's chest with their bums sticked out.

He tightens his arms around her hiding his face into the crook of her neck and smooches tiny kisses to her sweet spot, "You're so cute baby makes me heart-ache." 

His tranquil heartbeat never fails to lull her to sleep and his hands loving on her sides always makes her feel very warm, "You shouldn't have come to beach -- moppet. Knows your immune against cold is terrible." He whispers cheek squished over her head and she murmures sleepyly —- hands bundled up between her and his front, "Just wanted to make you feel ….. loved." Her words jumblish but full of affection and drool sticks to his sweatshirt when she mumbles against his chest. 

//

Harry didn't sleep whole night making sure she's okay, making her sip her cough syrup in betweens and massaging her head but when his eyes barely dropped and the clock hit 4 in the morning whimpers and wails started slipping out of her lips as if she's in very much pain. Which infact she's. Her body shivers vigorously in his arms and even though she's sweating her fever didn't lower down a bit. 

He has never seen her in such a bad condition. 

He perches on his elbow immediately cupping her hot rosy cheek and gives it few pats crying out worriedly, "Hey baby -- wake up." When she doesn't listen his lungs felt suffocating themselves bile forming in his throat. He throws the blanket away sitting up fully and rests her head in the nook of his elbow.

"Y/N!?" He tries not to panic when she gives him no-response and before his anxiety driven self could duck down to press his ear to her heart her eyelids fluttered barely -- blue chapped lips moving slowly. 

"'M okay, bub. Don't worry ….. " 

"Bullocks. You're not okay! You can't stop shivering!! Looks almost dead." He growls angry at her and himself for not taking her to clinic soon, "You're so fucking stubborn, pet." He mutters rageously laying her gently down on the mattress and climbs down the bed to bring their coats. Almost stomping his way all around the bedroom to collect stuff. 

This time doesn't ask her if she could walk or not and glides his arms underneath her shoulders and knees to haul her firmly against his chest -- blanket still wrapped around her shivering body. 

"Shh, shh my baby. You're g'na be okay, 'm so sorry you're in so much pain." He tries to soothe her while walking down stairs of the building. 

Turns out she caught pneumonia. They had to stay two hours at the clinic for her drip and some injections for which he had to hold her down from wiggling and squirming her way out. 

Made her rest till the fever was gone temporarily then drives them back home when assured that her condition isn't worsening and right now when she's cuddled up into his side with strawberry sleeping on his thighs he nudges her lightly.

"Dovie' I love you so much but that doesn't mean you can scare the shit outta me like that." She just mewls sinking deeper into his side.

"No more set visits fo' you." He tells her seriously and she perks her head up coughing mildly and he raises his forefinger in a demand for her to stay quite, that there's nothing to argue, "You could watch me for once 'n all at the big screen." 

"Harry……" She whines tugging the hem of his sweatshirt.

"No, Harry." He pets her head down back on the pillow. 

Without saying anything she distance herself from him like a grumpy shrimp and fusses under her breath. He supresses his amused chuckles noting the silliness of this girl and drags her back by her ankle towards him.

"Come back here, you little betrayer." He gasps dramatically and squishes her in his embrace till she gives up and herself nuzzles up into his homely scented neck. 

[glimmerglanger]

maybe not the most inspiring of prompts, but for a potential spicy sunday, could we see some codywan with Obi-Wan’s manhandling kink in full force? I know you’ve mentioned it a few times but I’d love to see Cody pick him up and hold/pull/twist/carry Obi-Wan around in all kinds of ways without breaking a sweat 🥵

!!!!!!!!!!! I am so very, very weak for Obi-Wan’s manhandling kink. ALSO this decided to be about a lot of FEELINGS in addition to the spicy.

Have some post-war (everyone lives, nobody dies) Codywan fic this fine Tuesday morning. NOT SAFE FOR WIZARDS. Very Spicy. Happy domestic times. Soft and sweet, for all the spicy.

~~~~~~~~~

Obi-Wan knew he was heavier than he looked. Years of training - of war - had turned him mostly to muscle and bone. Which made it something of a surprise, the first time Cody bodily hauled him along in the middle of a fight, without any apparent signs of difficulty.

Obi-Wan had gone down hard when a shell detonated only a few feet away; he’d been more worried about deflecting the force of the blast away from his men than remaining on his feet. He’d been prepared to scramble up when Cody just grabbed him - hands gripping tight at his arms - and yanked him back to his feet, dragging him along until Obi-Wan’s legs started working again.

And that was...interesting, he registered through the dizzy haze in his head.

But there hadn’t been time to consider it more than that. And he didn’t allow himself to consider it, later, after the campaign, when he was back in his quarters on the Negotiator. That would have been...inappropriate.

He didn’t allow himself to think about it, even though it kept happening. As the war progressed, Cody developed a habit of shoving or pulling him out of the way of a hazard, as though that were - somehow - simpler than just yelling at him to move. 

It grew more difficult to ignore after Ventress threw Obi-Wan off of a building and Cody - somehow - caught him on the way down, yanking him out of a freefall with little more than a grunt and setting him down again.

But ignore it and set it aside Obi-Wan did, focusing on keeping his voice steady and his heart from racing inappropriately, clear through his defeat of Grievous, through receiving word from Coruscant that Anakin had discovered that Palpatine was a Sith lord, and fought him, and--

And the end of the war.

And it was a surprise - a delightful one, to be sure - when Cody showed up at Obi-Wan’s quarters in the Temple, one evening, after the Senate declared the war over and said, “General, Obi-Wan--I wanted to--”

Cody kissed him soft instead of finishing the thought. Unsure, that first time. Obi-Wan wasn’t sure that Cody had ever kissed anyone before and eased into it. They went slowly. They had no reason to go quickly, and, afterwards, Cody asked, “Should I...go?”

And Obi-Wan tugged him back to the bed and said, “You should stay.”

They fell asleep like that, woke up like that, and Obi-Wan expected, when they woke, that perhaps Cody would pull him closer and--

And Cody pressed close, indeed, after he woke up. But he was ever so careful with each movement. He handled Obi-Wan as though his bones were wrought of spun glass, as though the thought of leaving a bruise or a mark was not even to be considered.

Obi-Wan felt his warm joy, his pleasure, his contentment, and so he ignored any of the itching little desires that had lived in his head for years, by then. He, too, felt overfull of joy, leaning closer and kissing Cody’s mouth, taking him apart and putting him together again.

#

Perhaps they would have gone on like that indefinitely, if Obi-Wan never took an injury while handling a simple mission on Ryloth. He was still hurt by the time he made it back to the Temple, aching all down his left side, even after the healers looked him over and released him.

Cody was waiting for him, outside the door to the healer’s wing, a frown on his face. He said, “I let you go on one mission alone, and look what happens,” tone full of worry and chiding concern.

Obi-Wan gave him a smile and said, “Oh, it’s nothing, really.” 

Cody flashed him a disbelieving look and dragged one of Obi-Wan’s arms over his shoulders - soft and strong and warm - turning him towards their quarters without another word about it, and Obi-Wan’s gut kicked over, hard.

He felt like he was buzzing in his bones by the time they made it back to their rooms. Part of it had to be the pain-killers the healers had given him. It didn’t help that he missed Cody terribly. They’d been apart for the better part of two weeks.

Obi-Wan had gotten used to waking up beside him, going to bed curled against him.

It made his breath catch when Cody tugged him through the door and said, “Come on, let’s get you cleaned off,” and just headed for the fresher. 

Obi-Wan had been perfectly willing to pass out in his current condition. But he said nothing in complaint when Cody brought him into the fresher and then leaned him against a wall, reaching for his belts with a determined look on his face.

“You’re quiet,” Cody said, after a beat, shoving Obi-Wan’s outer tunic down, dark eyes glancing up, some worry reflecting in them.

Obi-Wan shrugged, shivering when Cody’s hands skimmed over his skin, over bruises and aches. He said, half out of his head, “Just thinking I need to get banged around more often.”

Cody went still, hands on Obi-Wan’s belt, expression freezing into place. He said, confusion making his voice gruffer, “What -- why?” 

Obi-Wan hummed. He was beginning to think that, perhaps, the healers had missed a concussion. It happened, sometimes. He felt as though he were floating and had definitely lost some measure of control over keeping his thoughts from spilling out of his mouth. “So you drag me around,” he said, breezy, and Cody just--stared at him, before something darkened in his eyes.

Cody looked to the side after a beat, hands still so close to Obi-Wan’s cock. Obi-Wan wished he could enjoy that state of affairs properly, but he didn’t think he’d be able to get hard. Not with the way his head felt. Cody cleared his throat, while Obi-Wan was thinking about things they could do even if he weren’t hard, and said, “You want to be dragged around, Obi-Wan?”

“Mm,” Obi-Wan said, leaning against the wall and feeling content to stay there as long as Cody desired. “Yes. But don’t worry. You don’t have to.”

Cody sucked in a little breath, held it, and then swore quietly before shaking himself. “You need to get to sleep,” he said, and started moving again, dragging down Obi-Wan’s slacks and turning on the fresher.

Obi-Wan groaned softly when Cody tugged him into the fresher. He let Obi-Wan lean against him as the hot water came down, as he rinsed off Obi-Wan’s skin, and, eventually, dried him off. And, somehow, they ended up curled up on their bed. Obi-Wan was starting to fade out, losing track of time, but that was alright.

Cody was there to keep track of it, for him. He could just...ease down into sleep. 

He was almost there when Cody asked, soft against his shoulder, “Why?”

“Why what, darling?” Obi-Wan asked, so drowsy the words blended together, nearly a slur.

“Why do you want dragged around?”

Obi-Wan hummed, pushing back a little against Cody’s warm, welcoming form. He almost shrugged but lacked the energy for it. “Just like it,” he said, yawning so wide that his jaw popped and then closing his eyes. “The way you do it.” And he didn’t know if Cody asked any further questions, because he fell asleep.

#

By morning, Obi-Wan vaguely remembered that Cody had insisted he take a shower and that they had spoken about….something. The details were a smeared blur, but he was used to that sensation. There were entire days he barely recalled, his memories all faded away from injury or exhaustion.

He noted it when Cody pulled him close to kiss him, before they left their quarters. It put a shiver down his back, but they had things to do, and so he set that aside. Cody watched him, though, gaze searching Obi-Wan’s expression before they stepped from the room.

And, later, when they were finally finished and able to snag some time to themselves, Cody tugged him through the door to their quarters, kissing him, hands everywhere. Obi-Wan groaned, pleasure jolting down into his gut, falling into the embrace.

And he groaned, unintentionally loud, when Cody pushed him a step back and then another, until his shoulders hit the wall. Cody made a thick sound in response, pulling his clothes off, and sliding down.

Obi-Wan swore, already hard by the time Cody tugged down his pants and stroked a touch over his cock. He bit his bottom lip, staring down, and then made a strange, ragged sound when Cody purposefully licked across his cock and slid his hands out to Obi-Wan’s hips, pressing him hard against the wall, staring up the entire time.

Obi-Wan shifted, as best he could, and gasped when Cody just tightened his grip, holding him just so. He could have used the Force to pry Cody off, if he wanted. But, fuck, he didn’t want. He wanted to just - just be held tight, to squirm fruitlessly while Cody bobbed his head and sucked and rolled his tongue and--

And swallowed, when he brought Obi-Wan over the edge.

Obi-Wan clenched fingers into his hair, breathing hard, groaning when Cody slid his mouth off slowly. “Like that?” Cody asked, and Obi-Wan jerked out a nod, pleasure still throbbing within him, feeling Cody’s desire still pulsing in the Force.

“Good,” Cody said, and shifted, and Obi-Wan made a startled sound when Cody put a shoulder against his hips, wrapped an arm around his legs, and just stood, hefting Obi-Wan over a shoulder as though he weighed nothing.

Obi-Wan gasped, “What?” because it was so - so unnecessary. Their bed was hardly a dozen steps away. Muscle shifted under him as Cody crossed the floor, one of his hands closed on the back of Obi-Wan’s thigh, before they stepped through the bedroom door and--

And Cody dumped him down onto the mattress, so hard he bounced, gut getting tight again despite the fact that he’d just come, because, Force--

He started to reach for Cody, wanting him closer, immediately. Cody’s eyes were so dark. He was radiating lust through the Force, so thick that it made Obi-Wan shiver. He brushed a hand over Cody’s side, and then Cody was leaning over him, grabbing his shoulder and yanking and--

And rasping, “This what you want?” as he pulled Obi-Wan over onto his stomach and crawled onto the bed, pressing down over him, solid and warm and steadying, sliding his hand down Obi-Wan’s body to grip his thigh, pulling his leg to one side.

Cody settled closer against him, and Obi-Wan gasped back, “It’s very nice,” unthinking.

He had no idea what had brought any of this on, but that was a puzzle to solve at a later date. Sometime when Cody wasn’t humming and shifting, grabbing Obi-Wan’s hips and pulling them up, just moving him where - where Cody wanted him to be, his voice thick when he said, “Oh, I think we’ve got to do better than ‘very nice.’” He heard the click of a bottle opening and shivered down his back, his cock twitching already, Force-- 

“Cody--” Obi-Wan strangled off when Cody brushed slick fingers over him - once - and then pressed the tips of two fingers inside of him. He jolted, groaning, and Cody tightened his other hand on Obi-Wan’s hip, gripping hard and sure.

“Fuck,” Cody panted out, working his fingers in and out, going a little deeper each time, spreading them inside, stretching-- “Fuck, do you know how long I’ve wanted to - to hold you just like this? To just--” He twisted his fingers, pulled them out, came back with a third--

“How--” Obi-Wan gasped, looking for enough air to speak, feeling -- dizzy and good and -- “How long--?”

“You were--” Cody broke off, swearing, fucking his fingers in only once, perhaps twice, before dragging them out, his hand making a slick, wet sound when he stroked himself. Obi-Wan made a ragged sound in anticipation, trying to shift his hips to be more encouraging, and Cody tightened his grip again, panting out, “You were--on the bridge of the Negotiator. Bent over. Some star chart. And I wanted to - to push you forward--”

“Cody,” Obi-Wan panted out, wondering, fleetingly, exactly how long ago that had been, it could have been at any point during the war. It could have been the first time they met, that had been on the bridge of the Negotiator, but surely--

“And hold you, just like this,” Cody went on, leaning forward, the head of his cock pressed slick against Obi-Wan’s body, and-- “Get my cock in you,” he panted, rocking forward, Obi-Wan just stretched enough that it didn’t hurt but, oh, fuck, it ached. He felt it, each inch driving into him. “Just like this,” Cody panted, bottoming out, as Obi-Wan’s cock twitched against his stomach, hard so fast against it almost hurt.

“You want -- want me to fuck you like this?” Cody asked, apparently deciding to wait for an answer, buried so deep, holding Obi-Wan just so, letting him feel how full he was, how-- “However I want?”

“Yes,” Obi-Wan gasped out, trying to shift forward enough to fuck back on Cody’s cock, and Cody grunted, putting his other hand on Obi-Wan’s shoulder, pressing down, holding him, and--

And Cody didn’t make him wait, after that, fucking into him hard and deep, breath punching out across Obi-Wan’s back and shoulders. Holding him just so, just how Cody wanted, and Obi-Wan was stuttering out nonsense words by the time Cody finally lost his rhythm and swore.

Obi-Wan expected Cody to fuck him harder, to shove him down, to come like that.

Instead, Cody leaned over him, curled an arm around his chest, and - with a grunt - rocked back onto his heels, dragging Obi-Wan along and--

And it drove his cock in deep. Obi-Wan felt speared open, crying out dazedly, Cody’s arm a band around his chest, Cody’s other hand sliding down his stomach, fingers curling around his aching cock, Cody grinding out against his ear, “Give it up for me, then, come on.”

Obi-Wan yelled something - it might have been Cody’s name - when he came, head dropping back on Cody’s shoulder, feeling his body squeeze around Cody’s cock and shivering when that was what brought Cody off, feeling the hot spill of him and hearing the noise he made as they sagged there together in the middle of the sheets.

“Force,” Obi-Wan rasped out, eventually, boneless in Cody’s hold. Cody made a thick sound against his shoulder and nodded, shifting so they collapsed sideways onto the mattress, just holding one another as their heart rates slowed down.

[fairestwriting]

1k followers raffle prize for @twstedkyu​! a little something with their oc and riddle, i hope you like it!

word count: 1254

pairing: riddle x oc

content warnings: none!

Riddle steps into the emptied Heartslabyul lounge, looking around. The pillows on the couches are scattered around the floor along with the party supplies, some flowers tossed about, even. From the window, the darkness of the evening seeped into the brightly colored room.

He takes a good look everywhere, mostly towards the hallways, searching for white uniforms with splashes of black, red and gold. He sees none.

Finally, Riddle exhales heavily, taking steps towards one of the couches, and he lets himself collapse there, sitting down slumped — Awareness of the poor posture ticking at the back of his mind, a quiet you shouldn’t do this, someone might walk in and see you looking so tired. That’s just not right for him to do, not at all.

But he’s not breaking any rules, and he’s that, so tired.

Unbirthday Parties were one thing, birthday parties were another. Especially when it came to one of these troublemaker first years who seemed to just be friends with anyone in school, gathering such a huge, rowdy crowd in the same place. It’s his duty as a dorm leader to make sure those events are completed properly, but some were just so taxing to do.

He’d been on his feet all day, enough that he gets the urge to pull his boots off and toss them, legs aching all over from the heels. He rushed back forth from morning to evening, fixing an issue that had happened in the kitchen first, along with Trey — The troublemaker birthday boy’s friends deciding to make him a surprise, and that very idea going awfully — then fixing problems during the party, one of the tables in the garden having broken, plus all the general mess from all that energetic people being in the same place, letting their excitement fester…

Riddle rubs at his own temples, feeling a headache bloom in his head. He’d barely eaten all day, even, feeling too sick with stress to stomach much more than a bite or two of his beloved strawberry tarts. Now he feels sick with general exhaustion and weakness. Great.

“You doing alright, Riddle?”

...suddenly hearing a voice, he almost jumps out of his skin, his guard up again in an instant, posture straightening back up — Until he turns around and sees it’s just Joker, his girlfriend, leaning forward with her usual smile. Some of the tension quickly melts away.

“Of course.” He responds, quick, clipped, and tries to keep his back straight, even when that achy feeling starts making its way back into it. “I’m just the same as always. Why the sudden question?”

Joker’s expression shifts, painted over with concern. “You just don’t look like you’re in a very good mood.”

Riddle blinks at her, averting his gaze for a moment. He scolds himself for not hiding it better. He must look straight up unsightly now. If anyone else had walked in on him like this—

“The party might have been… ahem, difficult to carry out, so I’m a bit tired.” He responds, trying to keep the same poise. Joker narrows her eyes, he knows she’s full on studying him now. It’s hard to just lie to his girlfriend, especially when he knows she means well, but Riddle can’t just give in and admit his exhaustion. It’s not what he’s meant to do, being in his position. “It’s nothing you have to worry about, you know. You already helped a lot, so you should go rest.”

“Don’t push me away like that, Riddle, that’s mean.” She says, exaggerating her pout as she pokes him on the tip of the nose — He notices her other hand behind her back, is she holding something? “You know I can tell you’re not doing good. You were super stressed all day.”

Blue eyes pin him in place, staring him down. He really doesn’t want to step out of his supposed image, but…

“So I brought you some of those strawberry tart leftovers!” She chimes, the hand behind her back uncovered, she presents a slice of Riddle’s very favorite food, smiling widely. “If you don’t wanna talk about stuff it’s alright, but you can rely on me a little bit, yeah?”

Riddle feels warmth spreading over his face. Joker tilts her head and smiles at him.

“Do you want the tart?” She asks, like she didn’t know the answer to the question already. Riddle reaches for it, shyly, but she pulls it away a bit. “Y’know, you should let me feed it to you!”

“T-That’s…!” He stutters, his face heating up further. Joker continues to look at him with a smile all over her face, cheerful.

...the thought isn’t that bad, actually. But it’s still embarrassing, he looks around like he’s doing something wrong. Presses his lips into a thin line. The tiredness doesn’t hesitate in making itself known, and the air around Joker itself felt lighter.

“...fine.”

She chuckles, takes a couple steps towards the couch, sits by his side with a hop.

“Say ah!” Joker chimes. Riddle stares at her, narrow-eyed, for a moment. She keeps chuckling, clearly amused.

Riddle sighs. “Aah—”

With a clink, Joker stabs at the tart with the fork, getting a piece to feed to Riddle. He closes his mouth around it, tasting strawberry on his tongue.

Yeah, it’s just as embarrassing as he’d thought it’d be.

But Joker seems happy to do it. The first bite goes by more or less on quiet awkwardness, and… well. He really doesn’t hate it. He knew he wouldn’t, but it’s always hard to admit things like these.

The taste of the sugar always does some work at melting Riddle’s nerves away, he sighs and lets his shoulders drop as Joker gives him a second bite. The furrow of his brow relaxes.

“You should let me take care of you more often.” Joker says idly as he chews, smiling at him with a mellowness to her face. “You do all this work for everybody, but who’s gonna do stuff for you? And don’t try to tell me you don’t need any help, everyone does.” She huffs.

“Right, right…” He sighs. “I just don’t want to worry anyone. Plus it’s not right for the dorm leader to be—”

Riddle yelps when he feels her flick him on the shoulder.

“Wrong! Everyone needs to rely on someone else every now and then.” Joker shakes her head, looking into his eyes as she talks. “And you can rely on me.”

Riddle stares quietly. Joker’s smile never leaves — Even if they weren’t talking, it never really did. She cups his cheek with one hand, thumb swiping near his lips to catch some crumbs that had escaped him. He stares at the hand too.

Isn’t it hard to accept those sorts of things he’d never quite been used to? Even as the dorm slept away, Riddle still felt the need to stay awake a little longer, make sure things are where they’re meant to be just one more time. He knows it’s not good for him, feels it every time he takes a break, really, but the need is just stronger than the want.

Joker’s hand on his cheek invites him to take a breather. He leans against the touch.

“Right. I’ll… do it. Thank you.” He repeats, but this time quieter, softer. “I love you.” He mutters, feeling his own face burn, but a nervous smile makes its way into his expression either way.

Joker chuckles, fond smile widening.

“And I love you, too.”

[marnz]

what was the starting point/inspiration for stay close to me? also I'm so curious about the Esen pov fix-it, what was the general plot?

Ahhh thank you for these great questions, because stay close to me actually arose out of me unable to figure out how to make the Esen pov fix it (a longing that's killing me) work. I find Esen so hard to write because he is such an asshole lmao, and I also find mirroring SPC's prose super difficult because our prose styles are opposites.

The Esen Fix It was basically me trying to fix the almost kiss. It starts off after the almost kiss and basically is about Esen realizing he's been a huge dick and trying to be better/less offensive so he can be with Ouyang while also trying to figure out how it's physically possible to be with Ouyang...but I was concerned it was very OOC. Esen never apologizes in the book, even when he knows he's very wrong, and the way I had Esen justify his own behavior to himself felt weak. I have almost 7k of this fic but due to my concerns about characterization I abandoned it. It's unfortunate, the dramatic irony was delicious. I would love to figure out how to finish it :( Later I started what would become stay close to me from Esen's pov but ran into the same problems.

For stay close to me's inspiration, 1) I love horses 2) I think what makes Ouyang such a complex character is not just the gender stuff but also his identity as a disabled person, and I wanted to explore his relationship with his body 3) I think the opening scene in stay close to me is the part of the novel where Ouyang would be most compelled to turn back or deviate from the path he must walk, and the perfect opportunity for Esen to realize Ouyang is actually not happy. 4) when I was rereading I was struck by Esen's dialogue...almost every time he talks to Ouyang he's hinting at having feelings for Ouyang, it's insane. I can't decide if Ouyang subconsciously knows this and is not acknowledging it because of his duty to his family or if he seriously missed Esen's blatant flirting attempts. Like the first time we meet Esen he's literally staring at Ouyang and playing with his hair. Give me a break! The text supports both theories, unfortunately.

But not all is lost, as I am cribbing my fav elements from this fix it and adding them to my ouyang pov fix it, which has turned into a monster :(

I've added a snippet of the Esen pov fix it below the read more for funsies.

That night it rained. The cold crept in through the window paper and Esen, thinking of Ouyang, ordered a fire lit, and then had to strip off some of his layers. The fire hissed and recoiled when Ouyang entered his quarters, as it always did. Ouyang had never commented on it so Esen never had either, but now Ouyang looked at the fire and then at Esen.

“I was cold,” Esen said. He was sweating.

Ouyang, who wore his usual surfeit of layers, said nothing. A servant brought airag; Esen dismissed him and all other servants, as was custom for any military briefings. Ouyang settled in and gave his report on the replacement cavalry, their integration, and how the army was utilizing the extra funds. Esen, playing absently with his jade hair beads, let Ouyang’s low, raspy voice wash over him. It all felt normal, absurdly normal. Yet everything had changed.

“My thanks, General. I’m not surprised training the replacement forces is going well despite Altan’s absence. I knew you would not fail me.”

Ouyang gave a thin smile. “Shao has chosen Zhao Man for Altan’s replacement.”

“Not Jurgaghan?” Esen asked, wrinkling his nose. His third wife would be displeased.

“As his father is not the father of the Empress, no. Shao likes Zhao Man.”

“I don’t care about Shao,” Esen said impatiently. Truthfully he didn’t like Shao, who always seemed contemptuous no matter who he spoke to. But he trusted Ouyang to have good reason for promoting Shao to Senior Commander. “Do you not like Jurgaghan?”

Ouyang’s look was sardonic. “I do not know him well.”

Yes; Ouyang had always avoided Esen’s wives for some reason. “He is a strong fighter. His archery is good; he rides well.”

“Would he be related to you if he did not?”

“Flattery will get you everywhere.”

“There is nowhere else I want to be,” Ouyang said quietly.

A tender ache spread through Esen’s chest. It felt like it was pressing up against his lungs and heart, overwhelming them. He felt, as he often did, a longing to keep Ouyang close, but now he wanted Ouyang physically close. It wasn’t enough for Ouyang to sit next to him. He wanted Ouyang in his arms. He wanted them skin to skin. Whenever he had felt such an unmannish sentiment before he had buried it or, if it were particularly strong, imagined what Chaghan would say if such a thing got back to him. But now his longing for Ouyang was so powerful that it was as unending as the steppes.

Ouyang was watching Esen’s face closely. He was very still, his hand clenched around his cup of airag. It was exactly like the night when Esen had horribly insulted him, except this time Ouyang had sought him out. Esen felt the pull of fate again, a pull that seemed determined to bring them into contact. What sort of contact, he could not say. For a moment, him being impaled by Ouyang’s sword or undone by the slow press of Ouyang’s mouth seemed to be equally possible. But Esen knew Ouyang would never hurt him.

“Ouyang,” Esen murmured. Again came the thought that Ouyang was beautiful, but it was a proud and remote beauty, a beauty that was forbidding. And so Esen dared not reach for him.

A shadow passed across Ouyang’s face. He bowed his head and let go of the cup. “My Prince?”

“Do not call me that. Please.”

Ouyang’s throat bobbed. “Why not?”

“I have asked you a thousand times not to.”

“And I have told you a thousand times that I must. Nothing has changed.”

“Everything has changed,” said Esen.

Ouyang did look up at that. He held himself with the high, wavering tension that preceded a lightning strike. It was dread. The pain of knowing how badly he had failed Ouyang over and over again made Esen speak slowly.

“I can never apologize enough for your family’s death--”

“I do not wish to speak of it.”

“Then at least let me apologize for being an unrepentant ass. Please.” There seemed no other apology he could make that was not insipid.

Here came that close gaze again. “Apology accepted,” Ouyang said at length.

Esen looked down at the table, at his abandoned cup, and chose his words carefully. “For a long time all I cared about was making my father proud.” Again, that tension. Perhaps Ouyang was right to worry; Esen did run a risk of offending him with his next statement. “I made certain sacrifices to that end. It is the job of a son to do so.”

“Yes,” Ouyang’s voice was almost soundless.

“But my father is dead.”

“Your duty to him remains.”

“Of course it does, but I don’t--” Flustered, Esen forced himself to stop and think. How like a woman he felt, unable to be forthright. “The ways I must make him proud have shifted since I became Prince of Henan. Given that, given that--everything has changed--I am not willing to continue making this sacrifice. It would be unbearable to do so.”

Ouyang hardly seemed to be breathing. When Esen finally gathered the courage to look at him, Ouyang was staring at him with such intensity that Esen felt himself flush.

“Esen,” Ouyang whispered.

The deep pleasure of hearing Ouyang say his name made Esen temporarily shut his eyes. He knew immediately they could never go back. But words seemed particularly treacherous, so instead of speaking he held out a hand to Ouyang.

[whenisitenoughtrees]

i picture it, soft, and i ache

He cannot love Patton.

But god, does he want to.

It doesn't take Janus very long to fall in love with Patton, when it comes down to it. It takes him far longer to accept it, and to allow it to grow.

Content Warning: brief, non-graphic depiction of a panic attack

(ao3 link)

(podfic by @titheinironside)

It’s unbelievable, how fast he falls.

He prides himself on his rationality, his pragmatism. He’s no Logan, of course, but it has been a very long time since he allowed his emotions to get in his way. Over the years, that has cost him so much-- his relationship with Virgil, his ability to trust and be trusted, any moral compass that he may once have possessed, among other things. But he has never regretted it, not once, because his primary directive is to help Thomas, and if he has to play the villain to do so, so be it. Lord knows none of the others see the world for what it is, are willing to do what it takes to ensure Thomas’ success.

But the scene is like this: time passes, Thomas begins to listen to him, and one day, Patton smiles. He doesn’t know at what, doesn’t know why, because he wasn’t paying attention until now, but Patton smiles, wide and bright, and in that moment, Janus would do anything for that smile to be directed at him.

In the next moment comes realization: oh.

In the next few days comes denial: no.

Because above all else, he knows himself, knows what he is built for and what he is not. He is not built for this love, all-encompassing and brilliant, not built for this depth of devotion. His very being is defined by his loyalty to Thomas and Thomas alone, his ability to use and discard the others at will as long as Thomas will benefit. He is a snake and a liar, cunning, selfish, cowardly, and he has spent his entire existence pushing away the possibility of anything else.

He cannot love Patton.

But god, does he want to. Patton burns like the brightest star in the sky, moves like the gentlest breeze on the warmest summer day, laughs like the freest dancer on the greenest field, and Janus is caught in his orbit, hopelessly entranced, hanging off his every word. The first time Patton touches him skin to skin, a graze against his forearm, causally, in passing, he has to excuse himself and stand in the center of his room for hours to catch his breath. His heart races too fast, and his entire arm feels as though it has been set alight, and all he wants is for it to happen again.

He is in too deep, sinking too quickly. He is at the bottom of the ocean, and even as the pressure of the water overhead crushes him, even as the darkness swallows him whole, he cannot bring himself to fight for the surface. If this is drowning, then he will drown and be grateful.

He cannot love Patton. But it is far, far too late for that.

“Wow,” Remus says, impressed against all odds. “You are a gay disaster.”

He groans. “I don’t know why I expected you to help me,” he mutters, and Remus shrugs, entirely unapologetic.

“You know I don’t do the whole romance thing,” he says. “Not my department. Have you tried, uh--” He scrunches his nose, and Janus knows that whatever comes out of his mouth next will be truly ridiculous-- “telling him, maybe? With, um, roses? That’s romantic shit, right? But you gotta take all the thorns off so that he doesn’t prick his thumb and blood doesn’t go spurting everywhere--”

“Please stop,” he groans, and that is the end of that.

Tell Patton. Absurd.

And he cannot tell anyone else. Cannot ask for help. He can tell Remus because he trusts Remus, to the extent that he trusts him to be exactly what he is, no more and no less, and Remus trusts him in the same way. But in general, trust is a foreign concept to him, once known but long lost, like returning to an old favorite book and realizing that the words have faded beyond all recognition.

But that’s alright. He is used to being alone. He has been alone for so long that he barely remembers what honest companionship feels like, and that is part of the problem, isn’t it? He has built so many walls around himself, walls that only he is ever allowed to breach, but here is Patton, waiting outside the gates and asking to be let in. Not demanding, not threatening; he brings no battering ram, no armies. Just himself, and his smile, and flowers in his hair, and that has more effect than twenty armies could.

He wants to open the gates. But the chains are rusted, the keys long lost, and that does not even take into account the danger of it, the danger of allowing himself to love another. Thomas is his priority, but what happens to him when that changes? What does he become? And what does that say about the worth of every action he has taken to lead him to this point?

Can he love? Is he capable of that unique vulnerability? He doesn’t think so. Love and trust go hand in hand, and if he cannot manage one, the other will evade him. He’s dancing a waltz meant for two on an empty stage, stumbling over his own feet because he has no one to catch him.

“You need to stay away from Patton,” Virgil tells him, eyes dark and clouded over with years of betrayal.

“Oh?” he asks. “Why is that?”

Virgil snorts, kicking away from the wall he’s leaning on. He approaches him slowly, deliberately, and the threads that hold Janus in place are invisible, intangible, but there all the same. A spiderweb capable of holding a serpent fast.

“Don’t think I don’t see the way you look at him,” Virgil says, and fear lands heavily in his chest. “I know everyone’s all eager to accept you and have you around these days, but I know what you are. Whatever you’re planning, leave him out of it.”

“Ah, yes,” he replies. “You know what I am, just as I know what you are, Virgil. I wouldn’t throw stones.” He pauses. The words fall from his lips bitter-sharp, and he doesn’t want to be saying them, not like this, but it’s a habit formed from years. There was a time when they were happy, once, but they spoiled each other, and nothing is left of that shared past but a handful of wilted promises and bridges burned beyond repair.

Virgil snorts and shoves past him.

“Out of curiosity,” he says, and Virgil stops, “how do I look at him?”

Virgil turns and stares. “What?” he demands, and Janus knows that it was a mistake.

“Nevermind,” he says, and moves to walk away, but Virgil grabs his arm, hard enough to bruise, and holds him in place. For a minute, he says nothing at all, and Janus is left to search his face, the anger in the tightness of his lips and bewilderment in the tilt of his head.

Then, realization dawns, and Janus wants to be anywhere but here.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” Virgil says. “You… I can’t believe you.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” he says, tightly, coolly. 

Virgil laughs, and it’s the sound of a predator pouncing. “Yeah?” he challenges. “I don’t give a damn what you feel, or what you think you feel. You’re a fucking liar, and a fucking liar is all you’ll ever be. You’re not capable of giving him what he deserves.”

They are standing so close to each other, a distance of inches, but he has never felt farther away from him. What they once had is lost, but in the space between breaths, he allows himself to mourn its death, hating himself for the weakness all the while.

“I know,” he says.

Virgil scowls, dire warning in the shadows on his face, and releases him, stomping away. Janus watches him go, and he aches.

A moment later, Patton pokes his head around the corner.

“Is everything okay?” he asks, eyes pinched with concern. “I thought I heard arguing.”

I want to kiss you, he doesn’t say. I want you to hold me and never let go, he doesn’t say. I want to love you, and I want you to love me, please, would you love me? he doesn’t say.

“It was nothing,” he says. “We’ve sorted it.”

Patton doesn’t seem convinced, but he lets it be. Janus watches him go, and he aches.

No one ever told him that love would hurt. He supposes he should have guessed it. Nothing that is worth having ever comes easily, and even though his breath catches every time Patton walks into a room, even though his heart tries to burst from his chest every time Patton deigns to glance his way, he doesn’t think he would trade this for anything. He can barely remember a time before this, before this love crawled into his chest and took up residence.

He takes whatever Patton will give him, laps up the crumbs like a starving dog. He accepts every offer of dinner, every invitation to watch a movie or play a game, even though all the rest of them barely tolerate him at best and openly hate him at worst. He’ll endure Virgil’s scorn, Roman’s enmity, Logan’s dismissal, as long as it means he can stay by Patton’s side. And Patton, at least, seems to like that he’s there, and most of him screams that it can’t be trusted, that there must be an ulterior motive, because that is the way he has thought about other people for nearly three decades and it’s so hard to try to change that. But he also knows that Patton doesn’t work that way. No matter how foolish it may be, he is genuine and true. Everything that Janus is not.

He entices smiles from him, teases laughter, and rejoices in the fact that it is him that draws these responses. It is all he will ever have, all he will ever be brave enough to take, and it is more than enough, more than he ever expected he could receive.

He cannot love Patton. But he does.

Roman corners him one day, and he lets him, because he has no idea why Roman of all people would seek him out. Things are better between them, but not by much, and Roman himself is still fragile in an odd way, as if saying the wrong thing one more time will prompt a total collapse. Janus has wanted many things from Remus’ twin, but never that.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” Roman says, through gritted teeth. “But, you and Patton.”

He blinks, taken aback. He told Remus, but Remus wouldn’t tell Roman. Virgil figured him out, but even after everything, Virgil still knows him well enough to read him, so that is no shock. Roman, though, barely manages to make eye contact with him on a good day, so he couldn’t, shouldn’t know, unless he is being far more obvious than he thought he was. That thought alone is enough to send an icy tendril of fear down his spine.

“What about me and Patton?” he asks, and hopes that his voice doesn’t shake.

Roman sighs, and his next sentence comes out as if it takes him a great effort to say. “Look, you make him happy, alright?” he states. “I don’t get it, and mostly, I’m scared that you’re just manipulating him, but for some ungodly reason, he actually likes having you around. So what I’m here to say is that if you hurt him, if this all turns out to be for some kind of scheme of yours, I will stab you through the heart and leave you pinned to the ground for the crows to eat. Do you understand me?”

His mouth goes dry. “Perfectly,” he rasps.

Roman looks at him, and then nods. He walks away without a sound, and Janus tries in vain to steady his nerves.

What was that?

You make him happy.

You. Make him. Happy.

Happy happy happy.

His face feels odd. He brings a gloved hand up to feel his cheek, and he realizes he’s smiling, wide and unrestrained like he hasn’t in years.

He makes Patton happy. He makes Patton happy.

He makes Patton happy.

He doesn’t know why, doesn’t know what he does. He can coax out smiles with a bit of smooth talk, bring out laughter with a well-placed pun, but those are both momentary, fleeting things. The idea that he makes Patton happy implies something that goes far beyond moments, implies a lasting fondness and a desire for his company, and he doesn’t know why. He doesn’t know why, and that is a problem, because if he doesn’t know why, he doesn’t know to keep doing it.

Eventually, he works up the courage to ask, and Patton stops in the middle of rolling out his cookie dough.

“Why do I like to hang out with you?” he repeats. His eyes are very blue behind his glasses, like the vastest sky. “It’s because you’re you, silly.” He grins, bubbly and vivacious, and dabs a bit of flour on Janus’ nose. He sticks out his tongue instinctively, and Patton coos at what he calls a ‘blep’ and what Janus calls ‘something that he will deny ever happening so please stop bringing it up.’

“Besides,” Patton adds, more thoughtfully, “we’ve spent so long not being friends, and that was mostly on me. Now that I know how great you are, I don’t want to waste any more time. You’ve been trying so hard all along, and I couldn’t see that.” He grabs Janus’ hand, and he has to stifle a gasp. He can feel the human side of his face heating up, and hopes against all hope that Patton will not notice what must be an obvious blush. “I want to know you better now.”

“Oh,” is all he can say, all he can squeak out between teeth that are too tightly clenched. Even through his glove, Patton’s hand is so very warm, and his hand is tingling at his touch. “Um, I suppose I want to know you better, too,” he adds, stumbling his way through sincerity, and it must be the right answer, because Patton beams.

It’s like standing in sunlight, squinting up at a cloudless sky, in a instant of warmth and light that will last forever. Night will never fall and rain will never come down, and the sun will burn bright until the end of time, and so will he.

That evening, he has a panic attack in Logan’s room.

It starts in the hallway and comes out of nowhere; one moment he is walking to his room, and the next, he is leaning on the wall for support, doubled over and gasping for breath for no reason that he can see. But he happens to be standing near Logan’s door, and he must be loud enough for him to take notice, to come out and lead him somewhere safer, less exposed. He would be more grateful, if his lungs would cooperate.

Logan counts and measures his own breaths, and eventually, he finds himself able to follow the rhythm. He is shaking and sweating and crying just a bit, but the panic eases little by little, leaving him pressed up against the wall, Logan sitting nearby but not touching. He is familiar with the motions; he walked through them for Virgil, once upon a time. He has never been on the receiving end.

“Would you like to discuss it?” Logan asks, when he no longer feels as though his lungs are being constricted by iron bands.

He contemplates what triggered it. He thinks it was nothing in particular, really, nothing but a sudden sensation of being overwhelmed by everything all at once, his feelings and the endless possibilities open before him, a looming, uncertain future. It is as though he is walking a tightrope over a precipice, and the slightest mistake will send him tumbling into darkness. The thought makes his chest clench up again, and he breathes out slowly and deliberately.

“Not particularly,” he manages, and Logan accepts the answer with a nod.

“Very well,” he says, standing and walking to his desk, where he sits down and opens his laptop. “You are welcome to remain here for as long as you would like.”

He considers the offer. It’s far more generous than he expected. He didn’t think that Logan liked him very much. And it’s a nice room. Calming. There are stars painted on the ceiling, an accurate representation of the night sky bathing the room in a soft white glow.

“Thank you,” he says, and for a long while, the two of them sit in silence, Logan typing at his laptop and Janus just breathing, existing. He appreciates it, this comfortable silence, carrying no demands or expectations.

Could Logan help him, he wonders? Perhaps not; Logan barely ever bothers to recognize his own emotions, much less those of someone else. But then, Logan is calm and rational and most importantly, capable of respecting privacy, and perhaps that is just what he needs.

He needs something, of that, he is certain. Panic attacks are a new development, and not one that he wants to continue.

“Logan,” he says, “may I ask you a question?”

Logan swivels in his chair to face him. “You just did,” he points out, “but yes, go ahead.”

He takes a deep breath.

“What is love? If you had to define it, that is.”

He tries to keep his voice level, to reveal none of the importance that the question holds. It is the most open he has been about the subject, besides ranting to Remus, and he trusts Remus in a way that he has not learned to apply to anyone else. But he needs to know, needs to understand, and Logan is his best option for a definition. He will answer, and he will not push. Emotions are not his department.

Logan frowns at him, eyes oddly piercing. “I may not be the best side to go to if you are experiencing difficulties with this matter,” he says. “However, scientifically speaking, love is the emotion produced when certain neurochemicals, such as oxytocin, are released in the brain. I do not generally concern myself with the intricacies of the topic. Emotions are hardly my area of expertise.”

Janus sighs, leaning his head back against the wall. It is just about the answer he was expecting. He’s not sure that it helps. He doesn’t think he can reduce his feelings to chemicals. Not when he thinks he would do anything to keep Patton happy, save putting Thomas at risk.

“Is… there anything else I can answer for you?” Logan asks, and Janus meets his gaze. He seems oddly hesitant, and Janus is certain that he has overplayed his hand, but he is too exhausted to regret the decision. Something needs to give, something needs to change. 

“No, that’s all,” he says. He makes no move to leave, though, content enough to linger in a place that sets order amongst his disordered thoughts, realigns the nonsense into reason. 

“I am no expert,” Logan says, “so you are certainly free to disregard this advice, but I have been informed that… discussing one’s emotions with their object tends to be helpful in alleviating stress, if nothing else.” He is floundering, grasping at straws, but the clumsy attempt at help is genuine, and rather than annoyed, Janus finds himself endeared.

“Thank you,” he says, smiling slightly. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

And he does. Oh, how he does. Once considered, the possibility won’t leave him alone. He watches Patton, spends time with Patton, and wonders what would change if he let the words slip past his lips.

The trust that Patton has extended him is extraordinary. No one has ever looked at him like Patton does, like he cares about him because he is himself and not because of the function he provides. Patton uses his name so easily, like it means nothing, and he knows that names do not have the same significance to those in the light as they do to those in the dark, but he still feels a thrill every time he hears it, because Patton was the first to use it. Was the first to accept the hand that Janus offered, in desperation and the burning need to be heard for Thomas’ sake.

He threw himself off a cliff with only the impossible hope that someone would catch him. And Patton did. Janus can’t go back to the way things were before. He won’t risk losing all that he has gained. And if that is selfish, well. That much is expected of him.

“Do you wanna help me cook dinner tonight?” Patton asks.

He’s in the common room. It’s still a novelty, the ability to be here. Depending on who sees him, he garners the odd distrustful glance, but no one ever demands he leave. It’s refreshing, and more than a little delightful, not that he would ever admit it.

He shrugs. “Absolutely not,” he says, rising. “I despise cooking. Why would you even ask that?”

Weeks and months ago, that would cause Patton to withdraw, would send hurt flashing across his face.

Weeks and months ago, Patton wouldn’t have asked at all.

But now, Patton giggles. “Great,” he says, and from anyone else, Janus would take that to be sarcasm, but as always, Patton means it. He always means it, when he says these things.

Janus follows him into the kitchen, staring at his back and thinking about how different they are. How Patton is good and he… is not. It’s an oversimplification, of course; he knows that very well, better than anyone else, knows that morality is relative and painted in swatches of grey, but still. It never used to bother him.

Patton is making a stir fry, evidently, a new recipe, and sets Janus to preparing the rice as he chops vegetables. He chatters on about everything and nothing, about a dog that Thomas saw yesterday, about the cute barista that Thomas managed to hold a coherent conversation with, about how he managed to beat Logan in Scrabble the other day to everybody’s shock, how he thinks he’s almost got Roman convinced to take him on a quest in the Imagination. A lot of it, Janus already knows, but he is happy to listen to Patton talk, interjecting with dry comments at appropriate times to draw out a laugh or teasing scolding or an exaggerated gasp and a swat at his arm.

And all the time, Patton smiles. Brightly and genuinely.

He’s so caught up in it that he almost doesn’t catch the slip in time, almost doesn’t see Patton’s knife waver too close to his finger as he relates his adventures with a puppy that Roman conjured for him (“--and it almost peed on Logan but I stopped it before it could. Logan still wasn’t happy, though--”). But he does, and his hand darts out to grip Patton’s wrist, halting the knife’s motion before he can give himself a nasty cut.

“Careful,” he murmurs.

“Oh!” Patton says. “Thanks, Janus.” He laughs. “Guess I wasn’t being sharp enough.”

He smiles at the pun, and for a second, he lingers, feeling Patton’s wrist under his fingers. He’s wearing his gloves, but the warmth shoots up his arm regardless.

Then, he realizes that Patton’s face is red.

Ah. He’s made him uncomfortable.

“Apologies,” he says, and pulls back. He expects the incident to fade into the background, forgotten, expects them both to move on without comment.

He doesn’t expect Patton to drop the knife on the cutting board and take his hand in his.

Janus stares. Patton’s face is still red, red like a tomato, and he refuses to make eye contact. Janus feels like he’s frozen, feels like his heartbeat must be audible to the entire Mindscape and probably Thomas too, feels like he wants to run and feels like he never wants to let go.

What is happening?

“You don’t need to apologize to me,” Patton says. He looks at him, finally, and his blue eyes are shining with an emotion that Janus dares not name.

He opens his mouth to reply, but his throat is dry. He clears it, several times, and he wants the ground to swallow him a bit, because surely his infatuation is obvious, is written all across his face. Surely, Patton will see it now, will release his hand and let him down gently, kindly, because that is the type of person that Patton is. Gentle, kind, someone that he loves helplessly and hopelessly and will continue to love until the stars go dark.

“I’ve been thinking,” Patton says softly. “Could I hug you?”

He is wordless, powerless, breathless. He nods. Patton releases his hand, but he only has a moment to mourn the loss of contact before Patton’s arms are wrapped around him, before he is tugged against Patton’s chest, held tight and safe and close, and it is as though every nerve has been lit on fire. He gasps, and his own arms latch onto Patton’s back and do not let go. It is an effort to keep it down to only one pair.

He is so warm. He doesn’t think he has ever been this warm. Even half a dozen heat lamps couldn’t compare to this, this heat and this pressure and this security.

He is trembling, too, and hopes that Patton doesn’t notice.

“I realized that I hadn’t ever done it,” Patton says. “I didn’t know if you would want me to, or if you would like it? But I wanted to see. Are you… you’re shaking, are you okay?”

He moves as if to pull away. Janus doesn’t let him.

“Please don’t let me go,” he rasps. It is too raw, too vulnerable, too honest, and it gives far too much away. And it’s selfish, too, wanting to take so much of his attention, his affections, when he cannot possibly feel the same way that Janus does.

But he doesn’t care.

“Oh,” Patton says, something new in his voice, something like surprise but not quite, and Janus can’t place it but he doesn’t care as long as Patton will keep holding him, because this is all he’s ever wanted, even if it can’t last. “Oh. Oh, honey, I won’t. I won’t, I promise. I won’t let you go.”

Janus buries his face in Patton’s shoulder. Patton rubs soothing circles into his back, and he thinks he could melt.

“You wanna tell me what’s wrong, sweetheart?” Patton murmurs.

He was never built for this love, never built to hold it. Against all odds, he has, though, has held it and nurtured it and allowed it to grow. And perhaps that means that he is not what he has spent so long thinking that he is, that perhaps he can be more. He has held this love and now it is spilling over, seeing the light for the first time, and perhaps the light will reveal it to be ugly and twisted and dark, but he will take the risk if it means he can touch the sun.

“I’m not meant for this,” he says softly, and Patton hums.

“Not meant for what?”

“Caring.”

His voice breaks. Patton makes a small, choked sound and steps back. Janus is forced to let him go, and already, his body is yearning for the contact again. There is only a foot or so between them, but it might as well be the Grand Canyon.

Is this where it ends? Has he broken their friendship?

God, he’s become so melodramatic.

But no, Patton reaches out, caresses his face, caresses the left side of his face, his hand cupping his scaled cheek as if it’s no different from human skin, and Janus feels as though the ground has dropped out from under him because no one, no one has ever touched him there, like this.

“You deserve all the care in the world,” Patton tells him fiercely, passionately, and… he meant it the other way around, meant that he’s not built for caring about others, but to see Patton like this, so determined to defend him even from himself…

Janus kisses him. His lips are as soft as he always imagined they would be. 

He only gives himself a moment before drawing away. Patton is staring at him, face slack with shock.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. His lips are tingling, his body on fire, his emotions bared, and he can’t stand it.

He isn’t built for this, and surely, Patton can see that.

But then, Patton steps closer.

“You don’t need,” Patton says, “to apologize to me.”

And Patton kisses him. Gently, but insistently, asking for an answer but not demanding. And it takes a few seconds, a few long seconds in which he comprehends nothing and too much all at once, can barely wrap his head around the concept of Patton kissing him, but he answers. Answers, and answers, and answers. Answers, and pours everything he has, everything he is into the answering.

They pull back, eventually, and Janus opens his eyes. Patton’s lips are red and swollen, his eyes bright.

“Not unless you didn’t mean it,” Patton says, and it takes him a moment to figure out what he’s talking about.

“I don’t think I’ve ever meant anything more in my life,” he replies, and swallows. “It terrifies me.”

The honesty is excruciating. Is this what love does?

He already knows the answer to that.

“Then let’s be scared together,” Patton says. He reaches out and takes Janus’ hands in his, intertwining their fingers. His yellow gloves stand out against Patton’s skin, and for the first time in a long time, he wants to remove them, to take them off and have skin to skin contact, regardless of the vulnerability that will bring. Not tonight, maybe, but soon?

Patton kissed him.

“That is,” Patton says, “if you want to.” He pauses, and when he speaks again, his voice is even lower, even softer than before. “I really, really like you, Janus.”

He looks at him. Really looks. Patton is nervous, fidgeting, unsure of his answer despite the fact that Janus kissed him first, despite the fact that Janus has been pining, has been burning so long that he has forgotten how not to. But his words ring clear with honesty, and Janus doesn’t think he has ever been this happy, nor this scared.

He can love Patton. All he has to do is say yes.

“Not at all,” he lies. “Why would I?”

And he tugs Patton back in. The kiss is tender, sweet, and Janus doesn’t know how to do this, doesn’t know how to allow another in, doesn’t know how to open up, to trust, to let himself love unabashedly and without restraint. For Patton, though, he is willing to do anything, anything at all. It’s a waltz meant for two, and perhaps the stage isn’t so empty after all.

Against his lips, Patton is smiling at him. So, he smiles back.

He can love Patton, and Patton can love him, and maybe, just maybe, he can believe that everything is going to be alright.

[supersilversleuth]

This Pain Isn’t Real (Because I Couldn’t Handle It Alone If It Was) by SuperSilverSpy

Fandoms: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics)

Rating: General Audiences

Category: Gen

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Dick Grayson & Damian Wayne, Dick Grayson & Jason Todd, Jason Todd & Stephanie Brown, Dick Grayson, Damian Wayne, Jason Todd, Stephanie Brown, Dick Grayson-centric, Dick Grayson Whump, Hurt Dick Grayson, Hurt, Whump, Hurt/Comfort, Comfort, Dick Grayson Needs a Hug, Whumptober2021, touched starved, Bruises, Starvation, SuperSilverSpy, SilverGrayson, SilverWhump, Dick Grayson is Damian Wayne’s Parent, I think I might have attempted, Fluff, in this

"I'm telling you, brat, Goldie is probably fine. It wouldn't be the first time he'd run off without telling anybody. Besides, it's only been..."

"Tt, something doesn't feel right, Todd. He would have answered my calls by now, if he were oka—"

Jason saw him first, then Damian. Both of them freezing in place, staring at him with wide eyes.

OR Dick&fam in the aftermath of his kidnapping (comfort-ish fic)

No. 6 - TOUCH AND GO bruises | touch starved | hunger

Part 6 of 2021 Most Whumperful Time of the Year - Dick Grayson-centric

Language: English Words: 1,410 Chapters: 1/1 Collections: 1

It’s fine, Dick thought, it’s fine.

Your fingers are bruised , said that incredibly negative voice in his head, so are your toes, and your back and your bu—

Shut up , Dick thought back firmly, I’m not bruised, see? He looked down at his arm. No bruises. I can’t see them so they’re not there.

Liar, hissed the voice.

Memories flashed through his mind, courtesy of the crazy witch lady that had captured him two weeks—no, two days ago.

Just because it felt like two weeks and she said it was two weeks and my body is missing two weeks worth of breakfasts and lunches—doesn’t mean it was two weeks.

Afterall, the newspaper and his phone and the nice old lady across the hall said it’d only been two days.

So, Dick concluded, he had no right to be acting as he was. Kneeling on his living room floor, barely clothed, holding his weak and shaky arms out awkwardly as if keeping them from touching anything would make them hurt less.

Which, he thought, it might.

But it was all in his head, the bruises weren’t actually there. It only felt like they were. Just because he’d seen them with his own eyes didn’t mean they hadn’t gone away when he’d escaped.

Even so, Dick couldn’t bring himself to move, let alone stand up and actually do something productive. Any time any part of his body so much as touched something, it would hurt. Not to mention, his muscles were sore and achy, and he was very thin and malnourished. Stupid witches and their pain-in-the-a** magic. Dick smirked bitterly to himself at the pun.

You’re pathetic, said that incredibly motivational voice again.

Fine, Dick thought back, I’ll get up.

So he did. Well...he tried to at least. He made it to his feet, staggered a bit, and collapsed against the side of his couch. Progress.

Oh but how it hurt . His feet couldn’t handle the pressure of his body weight--lessened though it was--and when he hit the couch, it was as if every breath of air left him at the pain.

Dick groaned.

—

He didn't notice it at first, through the agony, but a couple hours later he could really feel it.

The cold.

Oh, f*** his life. The one time when his skin felt so tender he felt like a mild breeze might send him crashing to the ground—and now he was feeling cold.

It was ironic.

His blankets were heavy and soft, but it was the heavy part his brui—body didn't agree with. Dick dragged himself onto his couch, pressing against the cushions. Stars seemed to spark in his vision, pain radiating from his shoulder and arm, where he was putting the most pressure. His legs sank into the scratchy fabric as well, creating a sharp ache in his shins.

Dick shivered.

It felt as if he were trapped in a freezer. He breathed heavily, trying to control his breaths, looking ahead of him as if he might see the product of frosty breath in the air.

Relax, it's nothing, it's all in your head. He thought to himself.

Dick shivered again, tried to keep his teeth from chattering. It wasn't a very successful attempt. Against his better judgement, Dick rubbed harshly at his arms. He felt as if he was tearing through his own skin, though he did feel a very brief flash of warmth.

When was the last time I had a hug? It was three weeks ago—no, just a little over a week.

Dick sighed into his couch. He was a grown adult now, there was no reason for him to be sitting there, wishing for a hug as if he were some hopeful, naïve child.

Just as he was in the process of making himself pass out from pain, the door opened, and in walked two of his younger brothers.

"I'm telling you, brat, Goldie is probably fine. It wouldn't be the first time he'd run off without telling anybody. Besides, it's only been..."

"Tt, something doesn't feel right, Todd. He would have answered my calls by now, if he were oka—"

Jason saw him first, then Damian. Both of them freezing in place, staring at him with wide eyes.

"Hey, hey Dickie?" Jason asked slowly, "You alright?"

Damian burst into movement, hurrying towards Dick's side. He knelt on the floor, hesitantly putting a hand on his shoulder.

Dick held perfectly still, trying not to flinch away or show any kind of pain. But Damian knew him better than that.

The kid's warm palm against Dick's skin felt wonderful, and there was hardly any pressure behind it.

Dick felt his eyes water at the relief.

Behind them, Jason scoffed, shuffling his feet as if uncomfortable. Finally, he began heading towards Dick's kitchen, muttering curses under his breath.

Not long after and there was a loud exclamation from the kitchen, Jason had probably found out just how much food Dick...didn't have.

"Richard?" Damian asked him, completely ignoring Jason in the background. "What happened to you?"

"It's—it's nothing," Dick stuttered out, "N—Nothing happened."

He shivered, instinctively clutching Damian's arm, bringing it up to his face.

Damian's expression was solemn, yet concerned. "It's alright, Grayson. You needn't have to tell us."

"You're so warm," Dick shuddered, running tender fingers along Dami's arm.

"Richard? Where are you injured?"

"Everywhere." Dick felt the words slip through his usual defenses. He would've felt surprised, but all he could feel was numb except for that one spot where his little brother's hand lay on his cheek.

Baby Bird pulled back, and the previous warmth was gone, taken from him. Dick whined at the loss. Damian froze yet again, startled expression trained on him.

"Dami..." Dick whispered, drawing out the "e" sound. "Come back."

His arm flopped out, reaching out half-heartedly for the kid. It hit the edge of the couch, sending a wave of pain through his arm and back to his chest.

"What is wrong with you, Grayson?"

Dick closed his eyes, muttering tiredly about physical touch and feelings of cold--likely caused by starvation, he might add. Not because he needed a hug or anything. He hoped Dami would get the hint without him having to actually say it.

"You...of all people..." Damian stared at him in disbelief. "I consented to such physical atrocities just last week!"

Sighing, Dick turned his head away. "It's a long story."

He opened his arms as wide as they could go (which wasn't very), and tried to look inviting.

With mild grumbling, Damian stood, slipping onto the couch to join Dick there.

He sighed, content, wrapping his arms around the boy and burying his face in the kid's hair.

—

"Geez, what happened here?" Steph took in the disorganized mess before her.

Jason scowled. He wore a stained, ugly-yellow apron around his waist, and looked like he'd been in the middle of cleaning up something nasty.

"Dickface went and got himself starved in the two days he went missing—how is that even possible? And he seemed to be all drugged up on some sort of cuddle concoction. He was in the middle of snuggling the demon spawn when his fever started."

Steph winced. "How bad is it?"

"He's been lucid exactly twice since the first time he woke up and spat out parts of his stomach that I'm pretty sure should still be in there. The little sh** there though," Jason nodded to where Damian was adorably curled up within Dick's embrace, "Somehow Dick doesn’t splatter him every damn time he expels little bits of his organs. And he won't let go of the kid. I swear the universe is getting back at me from the last time I flipped it off..."

Steph cracked a smile, "So why am I here then? You're obviously being overdramatic about Dick's health, I can tell you're not that worried, you know."

The man just chuckled, tossing her the mop that had been in his hands before. "The next time Goldie wakes up, I'm gonna have some soup all ready for him. You, young lady, are here to clean up the rest of this mess."

Steph looked around, opening her mouth to argue.

Jason just raised his eyebrows, shooting her a pointed look as his phone seemed to materialize between his fingers.

Crap. That's what she got for letting blackmail material fall into the wrong hands.

[himbodjarin]

LUNAR; CH12

18+ EXPLICIT Content: Unprotective sex, vaginal sex, oral sex (female receiving), cum eating, DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE UNDER 18. MANDO'A TRANSLATIONS AT THE END Chapter Word Count: 14,704 aah im sorry no im not Pairing: Din Djarin/F!Reader - no y/n

The Mandalorian is a driven warrior — traversing the galaxy in search of the ancient Jedi — but everyone has their weaknesses, and he’s no different. The Bounty Hunter possessed three in fact. One he’s discovered—The Child. The remaining two, though, he wasn’t aware of their existence. At least, not until he meets a valorous Sharpshooter underneath a moonless night sky; then he’s plummeting down a dark mission of self-discovery, questioning his morals and his Creed while the moon taunts him, the phases of the satellite corresponding to his personal revelations. However, the Girl has a dark past that may come to inflict hardships on the Mandalorian and the Child; it's up to the Bounty Hunter to decide her fate. Read on AO3 / Series Masterlist

CHAPTER TWELVE: LET ME SHOW YOU

“So about that break…”

One simple sentence is all it took for the two of them to silently agree to their departure of Tatooine and to seek refuge somewhere quiet, secluded and undisturbed by baleful bolts of shimmering reds. It escorts them to the moss-green planet bedecked by marshland and chirpy fauna—its atmosphere crisp and welcoming to that of Tatooine’s sand-choking airspace.

“So you’ve been here before?”

“Yes. There’s a village nearby. They took me in for some time.”

“So you’re thinking they’ll let us crash there for a while?”

There’s a click on the vambrace and the Razor Crest’s hatch closes behind the trio. “If all goes well. Are you sure you have everything? It’s a bit of a walk.”

A tap on a blaster holstered to her thigh, a finger trailing across a wrinkly green forehead, the faint touch on a steel pauldron. “Blaster, kid, Mandalorian. Check, check, and check.”

The Mandalorian chuckles and takes the lead through the woods, heading towards the unnamed village of Sorgan—its inhabitants surely awaiting his emergence the moment the Crest snapped through the atmosphere and swooped low among their needle-point rooftops. It’s selfish, he knows this, returning to the haven he once envisioned himself hunkering down at—having the opportunity of a joyful life, a family, a love—with a different woman matching his stride is destined for failure; for tension. It’s wishful thinking to pretend it’ll produce anything but, to pretend this could be normal.

Sorgan hadn’t changed one bit, except for the lack of invasive Klatoonations, thanks to yours truly. It’s still so green, so wet, so clean and fresh. Its air could regenerate the deflated lungs in his chest from decades-worth of smoke, dust, and discipline, its waters purify his blood, its pacifying ambience replace the void he reserved for quiet nights in space, its company fill

the vacancy between his arms—that last one wasn’t entirely Sorgan’s doing and he gazes at his companion treading alongside him, feet generously lifting over an undisturbed one-eyed aqua frog in her path.

He sighs and places the flat of his leather against the back of her shoulder. “I trust them, they’re good people, but my name can’t be spoken here.”

She twists her neck to look at him and dips her head in a nod. “I know that, Mando.”

Mando. A name that once sounded like shiny credits falling from the clouds now so bleak and rusted. It’s mere corroding steel in comparison to her moaning his name in such a broken voice it heats his abdomen and increases his blood flow. The Girl is like a spice, a strong dose of alluring desires that he’s incapable of acting upon—the inquisitive little alien in his care interfering with his white-knuckled primal impulses.

Idling in hyperspace, confined and carnal, with a toddler and the woman who made his knees weak, heart leap, fingers itch, was dangerous. There he was thinking the atmosphere back on Tatooine was tense; how wrong he was. If that was tense, this had been downright torturous. He could cut the tension with his vibroknife; reduce it to tiny physical pieces he could chew on and grind his enamel down to the gums.

Sorgan is their opportunity to explore their unspoken relationship further—to disassemble the barricade of panels in place and analyse the circuitry underneath. Mando downplays the increased pumping of his organ to himself, masquerading his excitement with faulty breathwork.

“I can take him,” Mando gently tugs on the rucksack strap situated across her shoulder, the child cooing at her hip. “Those slashes haven’t healed.”

“They’ve healed enough.”

He insists, “They reopened, you’re going to strain them with the weight. Let me carry him.”

The Girl grumbles under her breath and picks up her pace, tenacious to prove she’s more than capable to carry the toddler despite the ache the satchel strap is producing; burrowing its residency in the pads of her shoulders. The Mandalorian remains at his tempo, allowing her the distance she incessantly pursues. “Atin,” he breathes.

Their shared moment back in the abandoned cantina seemingly sectors away—so out of reach and untouched it almost never occurred.

All though there had been times, dead in the middle of hyperspace when the kid was napping in his hammock, where the Girl would join him in the cockpit to share a few soft spoken words and purposeful touches he couldn’t begin to dissect. The sensations of her hands running along his shoulders still so crystal in his mind, her knuckles brushing against his cowl as he’d tip the helmet back against the headrest simply to get a little glimpse of her. She knew what she was doing when she’d administer feathery kisses against the surface of his visor—sheer seduction on her part—and it took all of his fizzling restraint not to bend her over the controls and fuck her until her thighs are burning, calves trembling, her skin star-kissed.

Believe him, he’d imagined it. On many occasions in fact. He’s pictured taking her anywhere and everywhere—against the walls, on the floor, in his bunk—but nothing, nothing, was more appealing than the thought of having her in his lap in the pilot’s seat, her back smooshing the buttons of the navigational controls until the Crest whined in agony.

Needless to say, the circumstances didn’t allow the rise for many opportunities; the kid often waking the moment his glove makes contact with her. Mando had to settle for small glances here-and-there, the occasional stroke of her arm as she passed.

But he needs more—needs her.

The Girl is an additive through and through—functioning as a pricey flask of spotchka sedating his muscles and justification and in exchange stimulating his appetite for her; flesh, muscle, tissue, whatever his nails could dig themselves into he wanted.

Mando’s teeth grit together and his eyes scan her back ahead of him, nursing the heavy eyelids on the curve below. The cockpit had been too electric, the recycled air too thick with his desperation; the projection of the Girl naked—because he knew what that looked like now—never far from his mind. But he hadn’t seen her bare from behind; a view he can only imagine - for now.

A throaty grunt slips past his lips as he stumbles on a grounded root in his trance. She doesn’t notice, thankfully, but the Child’s peering eyes stare straight past the visor as though he could sense the disgrace radiating off his guardian, his eyes squinting. He tenses his shoulders in embarrassment and joins the Girl as she slows to a halt on the village’s border outskirts.

“This it?” she asks, shifting the satchel to the opposite hip between herself and Mando, shielding the kid from potential threats.

“It is,” he confirms.

Their heads twist in unison, observing the environment laid out before them; high-spirited and brimming with energy. In the distance children run through riskless fields playing a game of tag, adults conversing and labouring the krill ponds, the croaking of frogs echoing around their feet. Subdued and isolated from all the destruction—preserved from everything they are down to their cores.

The Girl hums and fiddles with the strap slung across her chest. “I don’t want to intrude. They look…”

“Happy.”

She’s concerned for the villager’s safety, as is he—jeopardy seemingly overhanging them like an aura; tethered and indestructible. Returning without a notice felt deplorable to the Mandalorian’s morals as though he was trespassing on their sanctuary and sabotaging their chance at true tranquillity.

Shuffling beside him reminds him why he’s here, why he chose Sorgan rather than any other planet in the Outer Rim with a half-decent field. Mando wags a gloved digit ahead of the Child and anticipates his claws to latch onto the leather, tug and whine until he’s content in his beskar, but not even a grunt of acknowledgement slips through his lips.

Mando huffs a deep exhale and returns his hand to his belt, hooking his thumb in the centre and taking the lead. “Let’s go,” he directs.

The Girl adheres to his side, elbows brushing with each swing of their arm, their footwork synchronised as they cross a narrow mound of land between two krill ponds—the vibrant blue critters easily perceptible with his visor’s enhanced vision. She shrinks her shoulders inwards as the path withers to his wingspan—too binary to admit defeat against Sorgan’s elements and saunter behind—her feet sliding against the bank, but Mando’s reflexes are sharp and he snakes a hand around her waist before she tumbles off the edge.

She straightens herself out, checks on the baby, and exudes an embarrassed smile. “Thank you.”

Mando grins and shrugs his shoulders nonchalantly. “Couldn’t let the kid fall in.”

“Oh, that’s how it is, is it?” Her eyebrow cocks and eyes squint. “What about me, huh?”

“Wouldn’t want him stirring up a disturbance, would we? We need to make a good impression,” he teases. “Besides, you’re a big girl, you’d be fine.”

“Sleemo,” she insults lightheartedly, placing a firm palm against his pauldron and shoves—not so lightheartedly. Mando’s smile falters as his boots lose their traction in the slippery, squelching mud. Descent incoming, he reaches out for the Girl’s arm but stops himself at the reminder of the baby attached to her hip; her own personal lifeboat.

If he wasn’t so cautious for the Child’s current state he’d clasp her wrist and force her to take the brunt of her actions, instead, he accepts his fate and collapses into the krill pond—the water soars higher than the village’s roofings with the added weight of beskar, the sloshing reverberating and drawing the inhabitants attention their way.

Mando finds his footing in the waist-deep waters, hands on his hips as droplets streak down his armour, the over-absorbed fabric of his flight suit clinging to his muscles. There’s dark brown coagulated mud muting his shiny beskar, plastering the warring steel with Sorgan’s serene elements.

“Think you’re so funny, don’t you?” he questions, head tilting.

She bellows just as loud as the initial crash, her gasped amusement echoing among the hushed quiet; the villagers watching from afar. “You’re a big boy, you’ll be fine,” she mocks. “Funny. I don’t hear much commentary coming from you now.”

“I could’ve drowned.”

She jabs an eyebrow upwards and gestures to the water level. “That’d be very embarrassing.”

He grumbles with feigned anger, splashing her lower-half with a mischievous thrust of his hand.

“Oi, watch the kid!”

The Child’s ears perk down at his guardian submerged in the filthy waters, a soft tight-lipped grin donning his face in replacement of the frown he’d been suiting prior—Mando’s muscles lax, his stoic demeanour withering away.

This was good. Right. Both the kid and the Girl deserve to reside in a haven like this, somewhere they don’t need to look over their shoulders—somewhere blasters can retire from holsters.

Miniscule cobalt crustaceans summon up the courage to investigate the intrusive limbs in their occupancy, grasping against the fabric of his flight suit and scrambling underneath the rim of his beskar cuisses. Mando attempts to shake off the meddlesome critters but they’re persistent in driving him away; the Girl steps forwards to aid him out of the waters—after she’d finished laughing so hard tears were brewing in the corners of her eyes—but stammers in her footing as a shadow casts over him from beside her.

She instinctively reaches for her blaster’s hilt and shields the Child, but a delicate hand outstretches for Mando below and she carefully drops her hand, clenches it beside her in doubt. Mando inclines his helmet to follow the hand, travelling up the grey fabric of their tunic and settling on the familiar kind hearted brown eyes welcoming him to the village without needing to speak the words.

He nods as thanks and slips his leather into her hand, hoisting himself to the ground with a boot in the bank for stability. Mando humorously nudges the Girl enough for her to panic and seize his elbow for safety—his vocoders unable to catch the light chuckle in his throat but she feels the tremors in his limb and playfully slaps his bicep.

“It’s good to see you again,” Omera says, a bright smile as she eyes him up and down. “I see you’ve made yourself a friend.”

“Yes.” Mando glances at the Girl beside him, tucked into his side plenty that she looked tiny. “I hope we’re not intruding, we-”

She interrupts him, shaking her head and gesturing behind her to the gathering inhabitants. “The community will forever be grateful for your endeavours. Stay as long as you like—we’ve established additional lodges since you were here. Take your pick.”

“That’s very thoughtful. Thank you.” Mando follows after Omera, irrigating the grass in his wake, and the Girl stealths behind him so she’s unseen from the watching eyes; his beskar performing as her protection. She engrosses herself with the ball of abrupt energy fighting against the confines of his satchel, his claws eagerly tearing at the fabric to rid himself.

The villagers have queued themselves along the banks of the krill ponds, distanced enough for their visitors to pass through without bumping shoulders but close to exchange friendly greetings—welcome back’s and thank you’s—their proximity allowing them the opportunity to examine the Mandalorian’s new partner on the heels of his boots, her eyes cast down in an attempt to stave off unwanted attention though it does very little.

Omera stops short of the newly-installed structures, three identical huts to match with the theme of the others strewn throughout their lands and Mando, not being one to concern himself with impractical decisions, chooses the first one his eyes lay on; his hand vaguely gesturing to the open door of the middle hut.

Omera nods her head and orders a flock of children to prepare their quarters. “We can organise your friend next door.” She flicks her attention past his shoulder and he follows, acknowledging how stiff the Girl looked as though she could be blown over with a docile breeze; her eyes silently pleading to him through his visor.

It’s unusual looking at her this way, as though he’s violating her with just his eyes. She’s typically so snarky and talkative, but her lips are bonded together and her eyes bounce from his visor to the speculative crowd; nervous and uncomfortable.

She assures, “You’ll only be a few metres away from each other.”

Mando has no intentions of letting her occupy a separate hut, not after he’s been so distanced from her all this time. “That’s okay. We don’t want to take up more space than necessary.” The Girl relaxes somewhat, shoulders flaccid, and her hands return to fight against the Child’s tantrum.

He notes how the villagers share some questioning glances towards each other, their prying prompting an unsettling weight on his shoulders—Omera shares a hasty gander between the two of her visitors as if assembling a deconstructed blaster from scratch, gears turning in her head.

It’s too much attention for him—too much visibility for a Mandalorian clad in ancient shiny Beskar steel.

His shoulders tense, his fingers flex into fists; they know, they have to know.

His throat bobs underneath his cowl, mouth dry and cheeks warm, though he’s learnt to conceal it through his mannerisms—the constant tension between him and the Girl training him over time—he remains stoic, statuelike, displaying no visible signs of confirmation to their silent queries.

It’s none of their business; nobody’s other than him and the Girl’s.

“If that’s what you wish,” Omera breaks the silence. “I’ll leave you to situate yourselves.”

Mando inhales sharply and nods his head, walking past her to their new residency. The cluster of children straighten upon his arrival, organising themselves in a single file to allow their guest to investigate their work. It’s a small cabin, less spacious than the barn he occupied last time but more secluded—the windows sturdy and the door possessing a lock—with a bed fit for three in the far-end of the walls; it’s been too long since he’s slept on a mattress, too long since he’s been allowed the privilege of stretching his limbs rather than compact them.

Alongside a comfortable mattress comes the Girl’s warmth as they’ll indeed be sharing a bed. Mando will make certain of that.

There’s hushed whispers behind him, helm capturing some of their words—baby, ask, play—and he redirects his vision to the rucksack resting among the Girl’s hip, the children bursting with excitement at the sight of their playmate. He’s just as psyched as they are, his little claws outstretching for Winta in the middle of the group.

“It’s okay.” Mando nods his head towards the children. “He can play.”

The Girl nods and transfers the kid to the floorboards carefully, stepping out of the stampede of children excitedly taking themselves outside.

Tarrying presences now gone, the Girl joins him in the examination of their cabin. “Good thing the Crest isn’t far,” she jokes.

“It’s not that bad.” Mando twists his body to follow her, pauldrons clashing into her harshly. “I suppose it could be a little bigger.”

“Or you could be a little smaller, tin-man.”

He cocks his head to the side, visor leering. “You’re looking for trouble today.”

“Oh, am I?”

“Yes,” he grumbles in his throat, sweeping his vambraces around her to hug her arms against her sides. “You are.”

She struggles against his grip, well aware of her impending justice, but he’s too sturdy—too determined to seek revenge. “Don’t,” she warns.

Mando simply smiles, a large toothy grin that makes his eyes crinkle.

What little gap remained between them abruptly narrows as Mando compresses his build into her, squeezing out the krill water from his flight suit and into her garments. Beskar wipes itself clean on her shirt, caking the textile with heavy mounds of sludge.

“Mando!” she gasps and rolls her shoulders back in false hope it’ll aid her escape. “I don’t have a change of clothes!”

He chuckles, deep and throaty that makes his shoulders bounce. “Neither do I, but you didn’t think of that when you pushed me in,” he growls, the vocoder filtering the sound as a crackle that reverberates in the structure and through her bones; she shudders, her shoulders and chest twitching against him—his blood pumps hot.

“I was doing you a favour. When was the last time you hit the ‘fresher?”

“Need I remind you I have you trapped, mesh’la?” Mando presses the curvature of his helmet against her cheek and rubs the excess droplets onto any surface area he can manage, her cheeks, forehead, jaw, staining the pretty skin she’d been blessed with.

She tries to disguise her laughter with anger, but it comes out through her voice—light and airy; Mando hums at the delightful sound, like a lullaby to his ears. “Okay, okay. You win!”

Unwilling to wrench his grip from around her, he continues pressing himself against her and inches forwards until her back is flat against a pillar—his vambraces slipping around sandwich her between two sturdy foundations, one of splintered log and the other a living, breathing tower of a man coated head to toe in steel.

He’s breathing hard, filters whistling with each exhale.

“Mando--” she purrs, teeth nibbling at the soft insides of her lips.

Eyes bore into the cushiony flesh, his tongue swiping across his own in the thought of them against him. Soft and warm—he knew that much when they were around him—but that’s as far as his understanding reached; were they gentle and sweet or rough and hungry?

Would they be addicting, like every other part of her, or simply satisfying; something to pluck as a treat here-and-there?

He grunts and squeezes his vambraces against the wood, his chest following suit against her. “We’re alone,” he murmurs, head tilting to the side as if to silently voice his thoughts.

She’s not as convinced, searching the cabin for eyes infused into the walls, the floors.

“Mesh’la, it’s safe.”

Her head twists to the entrance, a rush of heat tagging her cheeks in soft hues of pinks. She quietly squeaks, “The doors open.”

“Nobody is looking.”

He’s pushing boundaries he put in place decades ago; parading around a relationship—or whatever this is—like some big achievement, which, to be frank, was pretty extraordinary for the Mandalorian. Flings and casual partners—sure—they weren’t feats but this...He’s never encountered someone so remarkable, so special, so necessary; she’s squirmed herself into his life and now she won’t ever be able to leave without causing a disturbance in his lifestyle. He needs her.

She composes herself at his odd comment and brashly collects a batch of his cowl between her teeth to tug him closer—arms still inoperable against her—and uses the newfound angle to assault his neck with a tauntingly hot breath.

“Clean yourself up first,” she tempts. “You’re grimy.”

“To be fair,” he grumbles, “I don’t recall you having a chance at the refresher in a while.”

She pulls away, eyes squinting at him. “Tread on your words very carefully here, Mando.”

He chuckles and loosens his grip moderately. “I mean—you could join me.”

Mando’s growing confident—too confident, it’s the first signs he’s setting himself up for disappointment—and he slides his hands from the pillar to the curves of her hips, his leathers slipping underneath the oversized shirt to explore the bare flesh; her torso being the only place he hadn’t been given the pleasure of researching—all the chalky scar tissue, the slopes of her abdomen, the contours of her chest.

Pair that with the suds of soap cloaking her skin, her hair, it’s every man’s dream to be the one to apply it to a woman, to feel and pull on slippery skin in such a personal way—to scrub her spic-and-span only to ruin her until she needs another.

“Join you,” she repeats mulling for a moment but she shakes her head with rejection. “That’s too conspicuous.”

She doesn’t voice her concerns regarding his helmet—how in the hell do you clean yourself with me there?—and he himself is uncertain, he just knows he wants to be the one to wash the grime off her. He’ll fix himself up after he’s tended to her, if need be.

“Everybody already has their suspicions.”

She sighs. “Guess I wasn’t very discreet earlier, huh?”

“No,” he confirms, his digits stroking leisurely lines to-and-fro. “you weren’t. What happened? I’ve never seen you look so uncomfortable.”

“I...don’t do well with crowds.” She casts her eyes between their feet, examining the size difference of their boots. Mando removes himself from her to allow her to breathe, to continue without feeling pressured. “That face mask I wore… It was a layer of me. It helped me deal with spying eyes. When Tika destroyed it, I dunno, I guess a piece of myself died with it. It-it doesn’t make sense.”

You’re talking to the expert of masks, he thinks.

“I understand.” he says. “It mustn’t be easy having to deal with the lack of something so integral.”

Mando has yet to experience that fear—that overwhelming sensation of uneasiness; people’s eyes so effortlessly studying him without the disguise of his armour to protect him—it’s something he’s appreciative of everyday.

She sighs, hot and heavy and laced with exhaustion. “Well, life continues either way and I can’t exactly hide away here forever.” She initiates a stare-down with the ajar door, scanning the wilderness that reached her vision; a couple of women standing among the pond waters scooping for krill, a pair of children on the banks assisting with their catch. “I’m not one for fishing but I guess I should help out a little, as thanks.”

He grunts as a reply, lacking the confidence to trust his voice—stay here, stay with me—and lamely takes a few steps back, assigning his amban rifle to a nearby flat surface, some storage units, and sinks to a rustic chair.

She considers him, eyes bouncing from his helmet to his lap where his cloak is pulled between his hands. Mando rings out the sopped material, murky water seeking refuge in the crevices of floorboards.

“You’re making a mess.”

“I need to dry,” he retorts.

“Take it off,” she says.

Mando’s shoulders stiffen, his back straightens. “I can’t.”

“I won’t look.” The Girl turns on the heels of her feet and shuts the door ahead of her, casting the room into darkness except for the timid rays of sunlight shining through the narrow gaps of the window—not enough for somebody outside to see, but plenty for him to undress himself without a hassle. “Just put in my hand when you’re done. I’ll find somewhere sunny to hang it up - shouldn’t take too long to dry in this heat.”

There’s no movement on either of their sides, their hut as though it was in suspended animation or the Crest on one it’s many malfunctions just idling in the vastness. She shifts on her feet restlessly in wait for the sodden garments to weigh her hand down.

“What, so I just sit here until it’s dry?”

She shrugs her shoulders. “Unless you want to walk around the village naked with a helmet on, yeah.”

Mando grumbles under his breath. It’s not really a choice. It’s not as though he can just remain drenched all day until the air inevitably dries him off. Still, it’s not easy to remove himself from his armour somewhere other than the Crest; it provided security, a reassurance that nobody will see him so exposed.

Both boots are dismissed from their positions and come to lay rest beside the chair while he works on the beskar platings riddling his body—the steel branded to protect him now nothing more than a nuisance as it resists against his efforts and continues to cling to the suit against his wishes. They’re slippery and contain no traction on behalf of the clumpy muck, his leathers sliding out from underneath each time. It’s like a suction seal against his chest, inconceivable of success, but he’s just as stubborn and lures the rim underneath a stitch of his glove and plucks the guard off harshly.

One down, too many more to go.

The other platings put up just as much of a fight as the first but, with a few tugs, they withdraw from his body and reside on the ground alongside his boots. He’s practically naked without his beskar—the air light and crisp as he breathes without the weight—practically naked in front of the Girl. It’s the most he’s been so revealing and, even though she’s not looking at him, his cheeks grow warm, his stomach pulled taut.

He dabbles in intolerable concepts—thoughts he shouldn’t act on for the sake of his Honour, his Creed—the overwhelming suggestion of standing behind her and letting her feel his bare heat radiate off in potent waves; like a strong glass of spotchka, irresistible but ultimately an unhealthy decision.

There’s a deep shudder that runs through the base of his neck down to his coccyx, goosebumps brandishing him and refrigerating him far greater than the krill waters could. Underneath his helmet, he casts his eyes low to devour the curves and slopes of the Girl’s body, his teeth grinding against each other until there’s an ache in his temples.

His Beskar is gone, solely a clump of shiny steel that serves as a warning of what he could be throwing away—everything he’s risked his life for, everything he’s spent decades consuming, altering his physical attributes to suit that of a stoic, emotionless pillar of flesh and bone fortified with not just his armour but his code. His faith.

The Girl precariously shifts between either foot and cocks her hip out, sighing dramatically that pulls his thoughts back into the present.

“Patience,” he instructs.

The air is thick, hot, or maybe it was just him—his filters rendering inoperable when confronted with the foreign bashfulness; it’s not often he encounters such a outlandish emotion, so unknown and disorienting, and it’s quite possibly the worst fucking issue he’s faced with. There’s no shooting or piloting his way out of it and his brain only works in a handful of matters at a time—none of which included addressing the electricity in his chest, the bubbling in his stomach, the clenched muscles throughout his anatomy.

The Mandalorian—if he could still be considered a Mandalorian without his armour, his essence—stands, prompting a squelch from the pool of water he formed underneath, and reaches around his neck to unclasp the heap of his cloak; it’s nothing new, she’s seen him without it before. The shirt is a different story. That’s new. That’s untouched boundaries. His build is infrequently subjected to the perched star in the clouds let alone another lifeform.

Fingers dip underneath the hem of his shirt and bundles the material, his second knuckles sweeping against his abdomen that leaves his jaw tight. That famished growling in his chest is utterly pathetic—his own touches manage to provoke such a humiliating reaction, he could only fathom what the Girl would do to him with those soft hands of hers, her gentleness as she nurses the bruises with her thumbs.

Mando hoists the shirt over his head and slips free from the sleeves and drops it to the floor with a displeasing schlup and neglects the choking in his throat, the rise of his heart rate. Are your eyes closed, he seeks answers to voiceless questions, or are you staring at wood, counting the twigs? Why aren’t you looking at me? There’s another sigh that fills the quiet, whether it’s from her or himself is uncertain; his heart is pleading for a moment’s break.

It doesn’t come.

Next is his trousers—something she had seen before, but under different circumstances, totally contrasting. Perhaps it was all that Tatooine heat that got to them or the severity of the events catching up—Mando nearly dying, nearly stranding her and the kid—that caused them to collide with desperation, their hands working at whatever little article of clothing they could eliminate from the equation to feel each others warmth; the indication they were both alive, safe.

Mando takes pity on her restlessness and forces his reflections to the dark recesses of his mind for later, stripping out of the trousers adhered to his thighs, his calves, noting how the temperate air licks his legs dry. It’s too exposing, too public for his comfort, and he swiftly bundles the cot’s blanket around his shoulders to conceal himself from eyes that weren’t even aimed at him. She wouldn’t go undermining the trust they’ve built, but it’s his Honour, his code—at least that’s what he tells himself.

The Mandalorian tells himself he’s weary because that’s how he was brought up, he was trained to be cautious. To prohibit connections that’d tie him down and crush what little valour remained within him.

He ignores the pestering inkling at the back of his brain telling him that’s not why he’s so high-strung.

There’s scars tainting his flesh, painting the tan skin in slithers of off-whites, bruises on his knees and shins, thick callus paddings on his fingertips. He can’t help but imagine what the Girl might say if she saw him so bruised, so broken. Would she still want to touch him, or is it the shiny beskar that allures her—a mere status symbol.

Securing the blanket around his frame, Mando shimmys a hand out between the folds and grabs the pile of drenched cloth, striding across the room in three steps and gingerly placing it in the Girl’s outstretched palm.

“Is that all?” she asks, her fingers tightening around the stack of black. “I won’t be able to come back for more.”

Mando swallows, his throat bobbing against the air rather than his cowl; it’s such a bizarre situation, being so bare before the woman he struggles to contain himself around, his thoughts jumbled in his head—turn around, please don’t turn around—and he finds the strength to back away from her. “That’s all.”

She won’t—turn, that is—it’s too overbearing, too unlike her. No matter how easy it could be for her to witness him so vulnerable, so human-like, she won’t fiddle with the bindings of their mutual loyalties. Won’t stick her hand in the wet duracrete because she knows it’ll leave a permanent mark, a stamp of her backstabbery.

“All right.” She inches backwards so she can open the door ahead of her. “You out of sight?”

“Yes.”

She nods, her fingers wrapping around the handle and twisting but it stays firmly against the frame. “Get some rest. I know you didn’t sleep on the way here. I’ll get these tended to and then you can hit the ‘fresher.” She opens the door and takes a step outside. “Don’t forget to lock it.”

He watches her leave, observes how the sun swallows her in a breathtaking glow, watches the room be cast into darkness once more—isolating him from the outside; if it’s not beskar or the Crest, there’s always something between him and the natural beauty of the planets he frequents.

The sonic detectors pick up her departing footsteps, light and reluctant, until her boots make contact with the grass, dulling their resonance until he’s left with the laughter of children and hushed gossip concerning himself. He sighs, clicks the lock into place and precariously removes his helmet—cold, dirty with mud and silence leering through him. It’s insides are comforting, a shelter he’s incomplete without, but it’s exterior is the polar opposite; sinister, an insignia for his kind to instill fear into their enemies—the Girl never displaying that trepidation he’s so accustomed to.

Mando is endowed with the sight of the Girl’s beauty, how her eyes crinkle when she smiles or how she chews on her lower lip when in thought, her hands never static for more than a minute at a time, there’s not a detail in his sight he hasn’t engraved into the forefront of his mind.

She’s not as fortunate as him, stranded in the cold surrounded by steel rather than warm skin, unable to pursue the comfort of another without the constant reminder that he can never provide her with anything more than a slab of metal servicing as her shield. And yet, despite those factors, she remains beside him—voluntarily puts herself between him and danger—looking past the visor, all the walls he put in place, and into his eyes.

The helmet expires atop of the chair he’d been seated on, positioned away from him as he sinks his weight onto the mattress—bouncy and cottony, feeding his aching muscles with some much needed attention. For the first time ever, the bed is too large, too empty—she should be here.

Mando’s head stoops against the bundle of organised pillows, cushioning the healing wound underneath the thick of his curls. Curls her fingers nursed. He groans, deep that resonates through his chest, and distorts his head towards the door in wait for her return, his eyelids heavy as they fall shut.

Sleep doesn’t come to him easily in territories he’s been deprived of conquering; the nooks and crannies of each aisle between the huts unaccounted for, the instability of wooden walls establishing minimal security. It’s not optimal in contrast to his Crest but it works enough to achieve a couple hours of sleep. When he wakes, the orange tint leaking through the cabin has evolved into a blend of soft pinks and purples that blush against his tan skin as he paces the room, the blanket wrapped around his build dragging along the flooring with each lengthy stride.

He’d discovered a small refresher deposit in the shack and decided to clean himself up best he could—despite his hormones advocating against the idea, begging for him to wait it out until the Girl returns and he can share the space with her—which now leaves him stranded with his thoughts. A dangerous game he’s not prepared to dabble in presently. Fortuitously enough, he doesn’t need to—a steady knock on the hut’s door pulls him from his thoughts.

“I’ve brought your clothes,” Omera says from the outside, Mando quietly hums to himself and slips his helmet on before speaking.

“Thank you,” the vocoder crackles to life.

“I’ll leave it at the door for you to recollect.”

Mando enables his thermal vision, outlining her body through the door as she bends down to place the garments at the foot of the entrance and turns away for him to steal them. He does so, swiftly and with such minimal sound she doesn’t hear the door open or close behind her.

She’s unmoving, her hands clasped behind her back in patience for him to dress himself.

Assuming she wishes to commune about their sudden arrival, Mando doesn’t leave her waiting long—the flight suit smelling of soap and hugging his muscles with a pleasant residual warmth from the sunshine, his beskar, boots, gloves, and cloak following suit; electing to disregard his bandolier and holsters.

He’s not as hesitant to make noise now that he’s back to donning his layers and widely swings the door open indicating his decency. Omera turns to face him, her eyes casting over his clean clothes and offering a smile. “I was wondering if you’d like to take a walk before nightfall,” she asks, gesturing to the stairs below. “It would be nice to catch up with you. It’s been a while.”

“Where’s-”

“She’s out in the ponds with our finest catchers and your boy is with Winta and the other children.”

Mando doesn’t object against her proposal. Perhaps it’ll do him some good to get some fresh air, to clear his thoughts of the Girl, the wavering uneasiness of his Creed.

They leisurely stroll beside each other following the gravel paths of the village, the sinking sun ricocheting off the front of his helmet as they draw nearer.

“The ponds, huh?” Mando thinks aloud.

She chuckles. “Quite talented at fishing at that. She’s made a name for herself. We can swing by on our way, if you’d like.”

He faintly nods, his helmet inclining to the path as he walks. “Has the village encountered any issues recently?”

“You mean the raiders? They’ve kept their distance and the villagers know how to fight if that changes.”

“And what of you?” Mando asks. “How have you been? Winta?”

“Better, because of you, thank you,” she says, her feet coming to a halt among a cluster of krill ponds. They’re all empty, the inhabitants packing up for the remainder of the night, though his eyes land on the Girl in the distance. She’s switched her tarnished trousers and shirt for a village dress, hitched up to her mid-thigh as she dries the limbs coated in krill water.

The Mandalorian’s stomach contracts, his throat narrowing as he rakes in the image—the fluidity of the material in the wind, her skin lambent from the sunrays, the unclothed legs tormenting his self control. She hasn’t detected his prying, too concentrated on communing with a flock of women thanking her for the assistance.

It’s almost...domestic; Mando can imagine them settling down in a place like this, rough hands that manipulate blasters and spacecraft dedicating themselves to lenient chores like a regular townsman. Gummy blood that sticks to his leathers washing away in a tranquil stream. Their nights spent witnessing the stars emerge from the vastness of the sky above.

The weight on his vambrace suffocates his daydreaming with grungy splotches of soil and he reluctantly returns his attention to Omera, who’s studying his inattentive stance.

“The offer still stands.”

“Offer?” he asks.

“To settle down here with your boy.” The bothersome weight snakes along his beskar and to the thick of his flight suit, her fingers working their way into the strained bicep. She lowers her voice to a dainty murmur, “There must be a reason for your return.”

The weight on his arm is unnatural, forced—so unlike the unfiltered gentleness of the Girl’s—he refrains from shrugging her off, not wanting to appear ungrateful for her hospitality, but it’s like venom seeping into his veins and numbing him from the inside.

Their little game of tooka-and-womp-rat from the last time he was here starting to catch up with him; this is what he was afraid of. She’s a kind woman, she’s great with kids and can handle her own, but she’s not the Girl. She’s not who he wants to see right now.

“You like it here, don’t you?”

“It’s-it’s not an option. We can’t stay still for long.”

“It’s safe here.” Fingers dig in, feet inch closer, eyes dusky.

Mando finally pulls away, unsettled, and shakes his head. “The Child is still being hunted by the Guild. We may only last a few days here before needing to move on. They need a break, is all.” He shies from mentioning he requires a break as much as them; the Girl’s initial idea stimulating the selfish desires that influenced his return. “We’ll be out of your hair before you know it.”

Omera’s eyes stall downwards, her hands clasping together ahead of her. “I understand,” she says. “Since you’re on a break, how about I take in your boy for the night? It’ll allow you some rest and I’m not sure if I can separate Winta from him.”

“I don’t think-”

“We’re only a few huts down from you,” she reassures.

It’s not that he doesn’t trust Omera, she’s demonstrated her loyalties before, but they’ve spent so much time apart since Tatooine. What happens if the kid latches onto someone and Mando can’t stomach meddling with their bonding? What happens if he no longer wishes to journey with him? The Mandalorian is responsible for him—he can’t just abandon him, but who’s he to insert himself in places he doesn’t belong?

Then again, devoting time to other children his age—well, about as close they’ll reach to his age—could be beneficial; it’s one of the reasons why he had chosen Sorgan.

Mando exhales and seats his hands on his hips. “Okay, but if he’s too much to handle let me know.”

“Of course,” she whispers, clasping a hand on his tricep as she passes him, the burden slinking down his elbow until he’s too far from her reach and it falls away. He cranes his head to look behind as she strides back towards the village, his eyebrows crinkling as he studies her.

“You two are real chummy,” the Girl says from ahead of him, brushing her shoulder against his pauldron as she continues towards their shared hut. He releases a grunt as he’s pushed out of her way, the confusion inscribed into his brows only multiplying—what the fuck is happening?

“Hey.” Mando stalks her, towering and threatening that induces the locals to pitiful onlookers, silently wishing the Girl her best as she enters the hut with him not far behind, the door slapping closed. “What’s gotten into you?”

The Girl scoffs and shakes her head with disbelief, her hands working at the fastenings of her dress to loosen it from around her thighs, framing her legs in wrinkled tapestry. “Me? You’re the one changing around all your little rules you put in place. Should’ve seen the two of you out there. What happened to privacy?”

His legs don’t operate with his wishes, the boots cemented in a debating stance with his arms crossed against his chest. “What are you talking about?” the vocoders buzz.

Baring her teeth like a tooka, she hisses, “She likes you.”

She likes you—he mulls it over, sifting through the dust for the underlying meaning—do you like her?

Mando’s muscles sag and his feet bound across the room to near her, needing her warmth; needing her. He can’t believe she’s skeptical of their connection. He can’t believe she’s doubting how he feels. It burns him. Leaves a searing scar where his heart belongs.

He wants to reach out for her, feel her pliable tissue underneath his gloves, but there’s a meek hesitance; a miniscule drops-worth of concern he’ll incur further stings that eat at his flesh.

“I--”

“Turn around.”

He tilts his head. “Why?”

“Need to get out of this stupid dress.”

Does she not realise what it’s doing to him?

How his fingers are clenched into fists against his sides. How his breathing is heavier. How his shoulders are hunched and his head is preoccupied with images of that blasted skirt hitched up to her thighs with him between them. Does she not see that?

“Keep it on.”

It’s almost an order. Almost.

“It’s hers,” she spits.

Oh. That makes sense.

“I get it, all right. I don’t...have you, Mando. I’m not allowed to-to be jealous when another woman touches you, but—” She unzips the top unconcerned of his peeping, furious and desperate to rid herself of the confining garment. “I won’t wear her clothes. I won’t dress up as another one of your flings. That’s - that’s…”

Mando’s features soften, his fists unclenching, shoulders slacking, and—wait. Back up. Is she that clueless?

He carries his feet towards her, heavy and laden with purpose.

“You’re wrong.”

“What?”

“You’re wrong, mesh’la,” he repeats. Another step.

She’s no longer concerned with the dress, the fabric that once felt like acid against her skin now nothing more than the means of coverage. The Mandalorian isn’t radiating any expressions that she’s learnt to pick up on—he’s completely unreadable.

“About what?”

“I don’t have you,” he recites. “That’s what you said.”

The Girl’s quiet, too quiet, as she stares him down. There’s a falter in her movements as she recedes from her own nerves reflecting off beskar. Finally, ever so slowly, she breathes out another, “What?”

His modulator thrums, his boots clink, his flight suit rustles. Their radius is shortened, Mando’s beskar brushing against the material of her dress as he closes her in like he did before. His leathers stroke against her cheek, bulky and unsatisfying; preventing him from the intimacy he seeks. It’s not fair. He can’t remain like this—so quarantined from her, so fucking removed.

There’s no thinking, no self-interrogating, as his hands fumble against the beskar plate strapped to his chest in haste—concerned that if he slows down even a second he’ll lose the confidence building up inside him—his fingers curl underneath the boundary and tears the steel off his build, clanking to the flooring beside them. The impact causes her to jump, her eyes widen as she inspects the vacant space of his torso.

“Your Creed,” she whispers.

Seizing her hand in his, he compresses it against his pectoral and breathes in deep—lungs inflating against the appendage, his heart stammering at the unacquainted sensations of her nails digging into the flesh underneath. Inconsistent palpitating of his organ travels from the surface of his chest, through her fingertips and to her core, tightening and coiling as her own beating soars to unhealthy speeds.

It’s an adrenaline rush in itself, her fingers so temperate and alive abutting his dense suit—he conceptualises them slithering underneath to nurse the ache of his organ.

He’s not afraid of being burned. He told her that back on Tatooine and he fucking meant it.

Mando is durable; he can take a few burns if need be.

“You make me do foolish things, mesh’la.” The beskar slides across the room with a kick of his boot and he takes another step closer, her back forced against the walls of their dinky cabin. A gloved forefinger hooks the thread perched among her neck and lifts, the steel pendant revealing itself from beneath the top of her dress and he rubs a comforting stroke on the face of the skull. “This is the only part of me I never removed.”

Her face is hot, her lungs heavy. She’s listening, though she makes no effort in concealing how her fingers insistently grasp at his shirt to develop an understanding of the unfamiliar territory.There’s a gentle squeeze across the back of her hand and she tears her eyes away to glance at the visor, tilted and lenient. “This-” He absentmindedly fidgets with the necklace. “-means more to me than my beskar. It was a...beacon of light, hope. It was my compass when I lost myself in my commissions—reminded me of why I chose this life, why I chose to isolate myself—I’m not sure if I need it anymore.” He hopes he’s exhibiting the connotation inside his head as successfully as he believes—I don’t need it when I have you and you have me.

“Mando…” she exhales.

He chews on the gums of his cheeks, his lips, until they’re sore and tender.

“Not -- not good with words,” he confesses, his thumb massaging circles into her cheekbones. “Let me show you.”

Her head angles to the side in consideration. “Show me?”

It’s not an exact approval of his request but it’s enough for him to act—enough for him to demonstrate his devotion to the Girl—and he sinks his hands behind her thighs and hoists them around his waist, pressing his chest into her for stability against the wall. Her hands find their place on his pauldrons, quizzing eyes searching his visor for assurance. Baffling, how she’s so precarious for his Honour’s sake despite him being the initiator; his toes absorb his weight as he lifts himself to insert the face of his helmet into the crook of her neck, his modulator eliciting a grunt as his arousal awakens and rubs against the bottom of her thighs.

“Tell me to stop and I will.”

She doesn’t—Thank the Force, as Peli would say—and he transitions them to the cot, her legs tightening around him with each step he takes. He deposits her onto the mattress on her back with his body hunched over hers, though his feet refuse to tear from the floor, either hand on the cushions beside her head.

“Take it off.”

She doesn’t need a stupid dress for him to look at her that way.

The Girl whirs melodically like a comforting warble from his Crest welcoming him home and she carefully slips her limbs from his shoulders down his chest and out from their sleeves, the dress supported by nothing but gravity and her fingers bundle the skirt, impishly stripping the garment inch by slow inch.

Mando rids himself of his gloves, hell-bent on pursuing the pillowy flesh and engraving his fingerprints. Her stripping wavers at her abdomen and he takes the opportunity to slip the rough pads of his hands along the tops of her thighs to beneath the cloth, fingers blindly studying the miniscule scars puncturing the smooth skin. They find the most recent one, still tender but glossed over with rough tissue, and he circles it like a tooka with its prey.

She’s otherworldly, all soft curves and smooth skin in contrast to the dead of steel.

The weight on his chest, or lack of, evokes shameful thoughts.

“Come here,” he whispers, catching her hands and placing them on either of his pauldrons, her fingertips hooking underneath the rim. “Drag it down and then up.”

“I can’t.”

“You can, pretty girl.”

The nickname pulls a shudder out of her bones and her fingers tighten around the steel, heeding his instructions until the layers unclasp from their fastenings—protection he’s bonded with now nothing more than inanimate alloy in her hands. It’s a physical weight off his shoulders but it reaches so much deeper than that, as though he could finally breathe for the first time in years even with the blockade of a helmet.

He repositions her hands to his vambraces. “Curl your finger underneath-” She follows, either forefinger arching beneath the rim and finding a small shrouded dial, the plates slackening around his wrists and she carefully peels either off. “That’s it.”

That ugly trepidation from before isn’t even a consideration—his eyes glowing and fingers stiff as she shucks him from his beskar piece by piece, her own garb partially removed and covering the last portion of her body he’s yet to see bare. He won’t undress her further, not until they’re equal and she’s more comfortable.

Mando slips free of his boots, nudging them to the side, and ascends to the surface of the cot to sit on his knees between her legs. Their hands shift to his tassets resting among his hips and he aids in her attempt to dislodge them from their joints, tossing them to join the growing pile of steel below the bed. She stops with her hands sprawled across his cuisses, the last of his armour; the last physical manifestations of his essence.

“Is this what you want, Mando?” she asks, the tips of her fingers caressing small strokes into his thighs above the steel.

“Say my name,” he pleads. “No one will hear.”

She repeats, “Is this what you want, Din?”

Dank Farrik. He’s no longer The Mandalorian, Mando, but instead reclaiming a long lost name and wearing it with pride, ingraining the sound of it slipping through her lips into his bones. Din. A name he’ll only ever hear come from her. His name.

And the Girl was no longer just the Girl—she’s His Girl; all his and he’ll brand her body to prove it, label her skin with his crescent nails if he has to. They deliberately dig into the meat of her thighs, skin raking underneath his fingernails, and he nods his head in response to her question - this is all he wants. To be suspended in time right here and now; triumphing buried insecurities with her unwavering support.

Her fingers progress independently, hitching underneath the borders and tugging the final two pieces of pesky beskar from his body, sans helmet of course, and languidly drops them to the flooring with a clank.

She stifles her breathing, reducing it to a slow wisp that flees her mouth and circles around them dragging them against each other. “You-you can touch me, mesh’la.” He expresses his covet for her touch by depressing his hips into hers, rocking once and twice rhythmically until she wads a fistful of flight suit to draw him in—her breath fogging the visor as she analyses his build with her hands; trailing along the front of his chest and around his sides, the featherweight touches tickling the body parts scarcely disturbed.

“Smell so good,” she moans and tucks her face into his cowl. “Much better than before.”

Din chortles. “Should’ve joined me.”

“Next time.”

He’ll take her up on that.

There’s a hand on either hip and he observes from the clouds as she aligns their pelvises together, her heat bucking against the emerging bulge.

“Show me,” she alludes to his previous proposal, eyes swallowed with inky lust.

Din fucking growls—the modulator contributing very little to the deep crackle—and his hands return to soft flesh, shoving the galling dress up, up, up and over.

“S’pretty.”

The garment is discarded across the hut, finding its home somewhere among the clutter of beskar trailings. She’s faultless, something he already had an impression on but seeing her so bare, so unguarded and trusting beneath him, is record-breaking.

Trauma lesions encompass her skin, little choppy lines of faded tones splotched across her abdomen, her chest, shoulders, waist—mimicking his own—and he returns to the healing wound on her abdomen to brush a tender stroke along the surface; an injury he was there to witness, the blade tucked into her flesh still so fresh in his mind.

“Din.”

The vermillion slipping through his gloves as she faded out of consciousness. Those dreadful cries of pain each time he touched her. The unyielding environment of Tatooine attacking his muscles and composure as she bled out in the arms of a stranger.

A prodding at his back plucks him from reliving the memory, crumbling it into miniscule debris fragments upon the revelation that she’s here with him, breathing and safe and alive. She’s poking at the wound he garnered all those days ago, when she took the first step to progressing this little thing they have going—all of their intimate milestones triggered by one or the other inflicting a wound of sorts; Din seemingly the culprit in both instances.

But not this time.

This time is different. Spurred on by passion and a necessary need to show each other themselves defenceless.

“Sorry,” he whispers and compensates for lost time with a gentle grind of his bulge into her sex, her feet digging into the matress behind him and holding him stationary against her.

She raises to her elbows, seizing a clump of his cowl in one hand to stabilise herself and uses the newfound leverage to rut against his lap. “Shit, Din,” she moans.

It’s so fucking lewd; she’s just using him to get herself off and fuck if he doesn’t like it—the pressure around his neck with each tug, the warmth against his lap, how light and freeing each movement is compared to last time.

“Supposed-” He’s cut off with a tumbling grunt, fleeing out of his throat and into the silent cabin as she quickens her pace; stroking the underside of his length raw. “I’m-I’m supposed to...fuck.”

“Taking-” she breathes, “-too long. Fucking--taking off your beskar, what’re you thinking? I need you, Din.”

She’s forced back onto her back beneath him with a hand flat against her abdomen, his figure looming over her exuding lust and desire and pure dusky thoughts he’d be ashamed of admitting. “Wasn’t done,” he declares, a hand grasping at the hem of his shirt to eradicate the article from the equation. Din needs to feel his skin against hers, more than just roughened hands, he wants her nails in the muscles lining his back, her teeth retreating to the skin above his collarbone, lips and tongue labouring at his neck.

The weight around his neck and shoulders commands him to cease his stripping—fuck. Why’s he got so many fucking layers for? Din rips the cloak from around his neck, bundling it into a tattered ball and tossing it across the room impatiently.

His hands return to his shirt’s hem, elevating the fabric until a sliver of his abdomen is assaulted by frigid air. The downwards dragging is unexpected, quaint, and he stops to heed her interruption, “Only if you want to, Din. Don’t - don’t force yourself for me.”

“Sweet girl,” he muses and removes his hands so she’s left clutching the fabric alone. “Take it off for me.”

It’s too intimate, too liberating; so much more than just sex and a means to receive relief from each other’s bodies. This is something they’ve both been denied for far too long—the meek touches of another to lull each other, reassure themselves events that have yet to unfold will be okay so long as they’re together.

She discards the shirt beside them and runs her nails along his spine gingerly, recording the bumps of bone buried underneath the flesh and muscles. His front is in her face, on direct display for her eyes to collect the slithers of off-whites; her lips brushing his pectorals.

“Been through so much,” she whispers against his skin, her breath prompting a layer of goosebumps in its radius. “Too much.”

“As have you, mesh’la.” His fingers trail a slash across her shoulder.

The time she contributes to identifying each scar, memorising the feeling and positions, is staggering—as though she’d be content with just studying his body for the next week alone—those impressions of her only wanting him for his armour and protection, not for what else he can bring to the table, are lit in unforgiving flames.

She’s not in it for the reputation he withholds, but simply for him.

There’s a tightness in his chest, an ache, something new and terrifying—a word to an emotion he’s not acquainted with circling his mind, bouncing along his tongue in jest towards his confusion and uncertainty.

He doesn’t entertain the thought; the thought that maybe, possibly Din is having his initial encounter with something bigger and more dangerous than any commission he’s dealt with before. It’s not possible. He’s not that fortunate. He can’t process those emotions—he’s not built for that.

Din needs a distraction, pronto, otherwise his head will be so clouded with the thought that—

She banks a wet stripe across the front of his throat, the groan oscillating through his flesh and onto her tongue and she rewards him with a benign kiss—his throat bobs and he ruts against her pelvis unquestionably eager.

Yeah, that’ll do.

Din’s hands surrender behind her back and blindly unclasp the hooks of her undergarment and yanks the blasted barrier off, his hands working the soft mounts before his eyes gain a chance to rake in their appearance.

“So soft,” he murmurs, palming the tissue vigorously. “How’re you so soft?”

The Girl opens her mouth to utter something snarky—he’s beginning to sense her incoming sass—and he devilishly clips a nipple between two fingers to disrupt her train of thought, her fingernails raking against his shoulder blades in an attempt to stifle the rising noises in her throat. It’s hypnotic, like watching electricity react against metal, her back arching as he flicks a thumb over the hardening peak sparking her nails to bare down into the meat of his slackened deltoids.

A hand trails down to his abdomen, digits soaking through the hairs of his happy trail but she doesn’t stop in her endeavours and sinks lower, past his bulge and buries her hand underneath her undergarments so that he can only see the outline of her hand working away at her crotch.

Din exhales, one of his hands fleeing from her breasts to remove the garment so he can watch her. She plunges three fingers inside of herself, stiffly pumping her hand in and out—preparing herself for him; it’s so fucking vulgar.

“Gods,” he groans. His final piece of clothing retires to his ankles, too overzealous to put in that extra effort to be completely free, and instructs her hand to his cock, using the slick on her fingers to lubricate himself. “Flip over for me, pretty girl. Let me take care of you.”

She enthusiastically obliges and squirms underneath his weight to lay on her stomach, he uses the pillows to prop her ass up to avoid her overstraining herself and reserves a moment to consider the view—far greater than his mind would conjure up. There’s additional scar tissue across her back, lengthy slashes and the remnants of blaster bolts, but those only highlight her features; the dip between her shoulder blades, the arch of her lower back joining the curves of her ass perfectly.

“Beautiful.” He adjusts himself between her folds, rubbing the tip to amass more of her slick, and eases inside her gradually; his hands never leaving her waist, eyes refusing to tear from the scenic sight.

“Shit--”

“So beautiful.”

“--Din, please-”

Din hums and thrusts inside her, pulling moans and gasps from her lips like music to his ears. “Beautiful...mesh’la.” It doesn’t require further explanation, the connotation straightforward with two simple words.

She asks, nonetheless, words muffled with bedspread and moaning, “That’s what you’ve been calling me all this time?”

“Do you like it?”

“Do I like it—you’re… you -- Maker. Shut up and fuck me.”

Fucking her, that he can do. Shutting up, on the other hand, was a little more difficult. It’s worthy of a comedic performance, how contrasting Din is in bed to in his armour; usually so stoic, a Mandalorian-of-few-words, now so whiny and talkative underneath the Girl’s charm.

Even if he wanted to stop murmuring dulcet words—and he really fucking doesn’t want to; the pent-up statements flowing from his throat so smoothly compared to earlier, like a tender creek current—he can’t stop.

Din applies his weight onto her back, uses his knees to continue his thrusts, and dips his helmet to mutter filth into her ear, “Gar jatnese be te jatnese-” He grunts, a hand squirming it’s way underneath her body to snatch a breast - just to have his hands against parts of her reserved for him. “Gar ani ni, vaabir gar suvarir?”

Of course she doesn’t understand—-Mando’a isn’t a well-known language, with few aruetii capable of articulating the speech. It’s no surprise when she doesn’t respond to his comments but the quiver reaching her shoulders and toes is a clear indication she’s savouring the sound of his voice manipulating a foreign language—whispering endearments only he can understand.

He’s touching her everywhere, running along her sides and across her shoulders, fingers dipping to draw lines across her cheeks and forehead where sweat is beginning to accumulate. Din’s inquisitive, it goes against his nature—habitually so cautious and attentive—and he sweeps two fingers across the cushioning of her lips, tapping against the flesh until she parts and immerses the digits within the pocket of her mouth.

There’s no sense of direction, no suggestion for what she should do cause he’s fucking splintered like a log; he’s had her fingers in his mouth before but he’s never felt the warmth of her saliva without a leather barrier. The helmet tucks into the crevice of her neck and shoulder as she bobs her head on the fingers, performing identically to how she had at Tatooine on his cock—sultry and slow, simply exploring the body he’s honoured her with sharing.

It’s an overload of sensations. Being rooted so deeply within her it’d be best to pitch his residence to refrain from laborious movement, their lungs synchronised against each other, his bareness, his withering Honour, so apparent and she’s focused on serving him with anything he desires; fingers in her mouth, weight crushing her, a hand grabbing at her chest, she doesn’t care so long as he’s satisfied and touching her.

Din can’t handle it. He’s a fucking Mandalorian. A warrior. He’s killed thousands of lifeforms in his lifetime. He’s survived wars. None of those even came close to shattering him like she does—a pretty girl is the cause of his skeptical questioning of his Code. A pretty girl is the sole motivation for his fingers to dip underneath the beskar rim, floundering for the feel of a fastener -- click!

There’s a hiss that interrupts her pace, the gears in her head turning, and she pulls away from his fingers to stare off into oblivion. Her body’s tense, the cushiony flesh abruptly hard and taut underneath him. “What’s the matter, Cyar’ika?” he mulls, stopping his movements to console the change of attitude.

“Din—you can’t.”

She doesn’t need to explain herself. Doesn’t need to clarify she understands that sound, having heard it twice before now. She understands the reality of the situation he’s pushing themselves into; quite possibly more than Din himself.

She inhales and inclines her head, sealing off any possibility of catching a glimpse of something unforgivable. She murmurs, “You’ve shown me, I get it -- I understand. The pendant, the beskar, the flight suit... It’s too much—I can’t reciprocate. You can’t give all of this to me, Din.”

The beskar is slack, mobile, as he shifts so he’s directly behind her. “Oh, Cyar’ika, you’ve given me plenty.” he hums, the vocoder continuing to operate. It modulates his vocals into staticy droid-like sounds; it provokes a rise in his chest, a tightness in his abdomen, and he rips the steel from his face—as though he’s submerged in krill water, drowning and in dire need of the Girl—and his mouth latches onto the back of her shoulder in one foul swoop. There’s no time to consider it, his actions overcoming his rationality and faith to his Creed.

It’s all teeth and tongue. Biting and tugging, licking and lapping.

The Girl springs at the sensation, the contact so heavenly she’s uncertain whether it’s real.

“Din, you...fuck, shouldn’t-shouldn’t…” She struggles for a deep inhale with the weight on her back, her face swallowed by blankets for his Honour’s sake.

The enamel works out the knots in her muscles, his warm tongue lulling the skin to relaxation after he’s finished abusing it. It’s fucking surreal. Dreamlike. Who knew something so small could elicit such a primal feeling inside of him. She’s even softer in his mouth than his hands—how is she so fucking soft—all warm and salty from sweat that attacks his tastebuds, leaves him thirsty for more.

He marvels whether the beating in her chest is as fast as his, whether he’s spurring on some deepened arousal like she’s doing to him; his cock hardens like that of his beskar, tight and sturdy to the point of ache and he’s compelled to grind his pelvis against her ass to relieve some of the pressure.

“Pretty girl,” he coos, voice rounded and deep and alive; goosebumps rise to the surface of her skin, which he nurses with delicate pecks. “Should take a look at yourself.”

She bites back, “Should listen to yourself.”

It encourages him, welcomes the husky tone from the depths of his throat as he nears her ear and deliberately exudes a hot sigh to assault the cartlidge, “Kaab jate, Cyar’ika? Is that what you like? My voice?” He pokes his tongue at the base of the side of her neck and slides upwards to the bottom of her ear. “Or—ner uram—my mouth?”

It’s not a question needed to answer; she makes it apparent that yes, his mouth, his voice, his vulnerability, his sacrifice, is what she likes—she likes him.

“Ke-ep talking like that and I’m gonna-”

“We’re not done,” he rumbles. “I wanna-wanna taste.”

“Ta-st-e…” she stumbles. He can’t see her face from this angle but he imagines a tint of pink across her cheeks, her teeth chomping away at the bottom lip.

Din buzzes against her ear in confirmation. “Want you in my mouth. Is that okay?”

“Oh fuck. Yes. Where - how do you want me?”

So fucking eager—he swallows the opportunity to assuage her appetite for his tongue by flattening the organ against her spine unloading a thick stripe of saliva in substitute for the sweat that nestles its way down his throat. “Not yet, sweet thing, let me take care of you first.”

Din lacks experience utilising his mouth to get someone off, isolating yourself in a layer of steel tends to do that to a man, and he’d be unable to reveal himself from his beskar again if he humiliates himself like that—he’ll just exploit what he can and swoop in to lap up the remnants between her thighs.

It’s greedy wanting to experience the flavour not for her pleasure but his own. That aftertaste that’s so highly spoken about so unidentifiable on his taste buds; he can’t continue living not knowing what that’s like.

But first; he’ll make her scream his name and come on his cock until she’s leaking down her thighs.

His helmet idles beside them, lopsided visor leering at him from it’s position—he scowls at the heinous thought jostling around his mind and repositions it ahead of the Girl, the steel weighing down the blankets. He verifies it’s perspective and slithers a hand around her throat to pry her face from the depths of the blankets and mattress.

She’s rigid as she finds herself in the reflection of the visor, sweaty and flushed and practically drooling with thirst for his thrusts. “Fucking——look at yourself,” Din moans.

“Shit, your face-”

“S’okay,” he slurs, “can’t see me from your position.”

The Girl relaxes somewhat, her shoulders still taut but her neck melting into his hand and moulding her flesh around his digits as he continues to incline her head—look how gorgeous you are—and his teeth latches onto the skin of her throat, twisting and pulling to leave a mark for later.

His hair is thick and unkempt, subsequently flat and jungly from the helmet, and his wild curls wash against the bays of her jaw; strands peering into her field of view even though her eyes are almost at the back of her head. She obliges with her eyelids requests, respecting his Creed, and seals themselves together to submerge her vision with black—it’s all sensory, all touches and gentle kisses against her neck to counterbalance the unforgiving thrusts he’s gifting.

Din labels her with his teeth indentations, breaking the blood vessels in splotches across her throat, painting crescents into her shoulders with his nails. He mouths her name but the word refuses to vocalise, latching onto the tonsils and taking residence there; in his mouth, where it belongs.

“Din--”

His response is nothing short of filth; muffled moaning pressed against the back of her ear as his hand captures the swelling nub of her clit to draw eager circles.

“--Din, fuck. Din, Din, Din...”

“That’s it,” Din croons, his lips curling at the over abundance of his name spewing from her gullet. “Let go.”

There’s a quaint delay, her body working overtime to comprehend all the sensations without overloading her brain, then she’s writhing and twitching underneath him; his hand and thrusts never-ending as he pulls every single quake out of her involuntarily. Her walls tighten around his cock, that unmistakable warmth engulfing his length to attract his own undoing like a magnet—he could keep going for hours if not for that fucking warmth.

“Din! Di-”

“Shh,” he advises, setting his palm against her mouth to blunt the ecstasy cascading from her vocals like a waterfall—a downside to being so close-quartered to others; he wants to hear those whines, the unstoppable call of his name at her peak, but he’ll settle for rewarding muffles.

Din works her down from her orgasm, pecking soft kisses against her healing slashes and softening the fingers against her clit until she’s no longer twitching underneath his weight. She lays there for a moment, simply memorising the tingling between her thighs and how his pelvis compresses against her ass with every delicate thrust.

Energy recovering, rather quickly, she meets with his lunges, sloppy and trembling on her knees but he appreciates the effort—not that he needs it. She doesn’t need to do anything special to aid his high; Din could just come if she asked him to.

He’s reaching deep, the tip of his cock nudging against her cervix, and they stagger in unison. “Fuck. Vaii, Cyar’ika. Where-where do you want-”

“In,” she mewls between his fingers. “Don’t stop.”

“In.” Din fights his conscious for a breath, his windpipes narrow and clogged. “Dank Farrik. You’re sure?”

“Definitely.”

In, it is.

Din’s cock anchors in her warmth, his pelvis rocking back-and-forth lightly, and he savours how her walls contract with each flick of her sensitive nub—edging on his orgasm by the inch starting from the tip and sliding down to the base like vine tendrils wrapping around him and encouraging him to just fucking let go.

He heeds his own advice and relaxes, allowing the overwhelming pulsations to pump strings of softening whites inside of her, her name falling out his mouth in broken moans. Their warmths mix together within her walls and stick to his length with vengeance as he numbly extracts himself until only the tip is concealed. Cock still semi-hard, Din irresistibly thrusts into her one final time—pathetic ego reaching new heights when she mutters a final bleat.

Din runs rough fingers up the backs of her thighs and to her shoulders, palming the flesh tenderly until she’s nothing but a pool of lax muscles beneath him. His mouth delivers delicate kisses across the back of her neck to provide a break for her to regain her breathing.

“Can you continue?”

She nods her head, a simple response he holds close to his heart as he carefully readjusts himself behind her.

She’s poetic from this view, a body crafted with wise hands the greatest bards would struggle to write about, but there’s nothing that comes within range of outstanding like her face does.

He needs to see her.

“Think you can hold your eyes shut while I go down on you?” Din groans in desperation while she mulls the question over. “Please, Cyar’ika, I need a taste.”

It’s a big ask and if she can’t ultimately gather up that courage to comply he won’t pressure her, no matter how much his mouth salivates from the thought of finally consuming a piece of her.

It’s the greatest test of trust; she’d easily be able to slip open those pretty eyes and pulverise his Creed to molecules—he wouldn’t trust himself if he was in her position.

It should terrify him; should render him into a solid beam of sturdy beskar.

It doesn’t. Din’s paralleled to that of the Girl, soft and warm, not an inch of him cold and solid.

His Mandalorian helmet contains a blackout setting and, if it comes to it, he can slip it over her head so he can sate his cravings without the paranoia in either of their heads—no.That picturesque face of hers shouldn’t ever be covered up again; that stupid face mask stole too many moments from his vision.

There’s enough concealment behind beskar to provide for both of them. Too much concealment.

The Girl gasps, “Okay. Okay.”

The stretched lips across his face is disgraceful; finding pleasure in something so filthy. Din couldn’t give a fuck. Who wouldn’t be smiling in his position?

They silently reorganise themselves with her on her back, eyes firmly shut, and Din planted between her thighs, quite possibly his favourite place in all of the galaxy.

Din doesn’t rush things; he’s not that kind of man. He works her up with ribbing kisses across her sternum and tooka-licks on either nipple simply to hear her breathing hitch and her hands fist the blankets underneath them. She white-knuckles the fabric when his teeth collect the sensitive skin and brutally sucks his markings into her, red and blemished that’ll welt nicely by morning—the only form of bruisings her body should be subjected to.

The hand assaulting the blankets transfers into the thick lock atop of his head with his guide, the digits snaking through the curls for leverage and tugging as he makes sloppy open-mouthed kisses around the pendant resting between her breasts.

“Cyar’ika.” The newly-adopted nickname floats through the air and into her core. “What’d I do to deserve all this?”

There’s no sarcastic comeback this time, not even an attempt, though he knows what she would say—destroyed my rifle—and he makes route lower and lower and fucking lower.

She’s straining to keep her hand in the mess of hair, his head lowered between her thighs where she can feel his breathing against her heat.

There’s a trail of translucent along the insides of her thighs and he follows the streak with his lips, digits digging into the meat while he collects it onto the cushiony brims. His tongue doesn’t delve out for a taste—not yet—until he’s made a path directly to her sex to place a final kiss against the peak of her clit triggering a miniscule buck that nudges against his nose.

“Tell me to stop,” Din pleads; fucking pleads because he knows if she doesn’t he won’t be able to stop himself.

His scalp burns as she stiffens her grip. “Please.”

There’s an experimental lick at first, nothing short of the tip of his tongue running through her folds, but once he’s obtained a taste of her there’s no end in sight—the finish line sprinting so far away from him he doesn’t even want to make an attempt to reach a conclusion. He’s happy to sit there and lap up everything until she’s dried out.

The Girl was spot-on. They’re a combination of sweet and salty—sweet on the account of her, salty because of him—and its so fucking addictive. His tongue flattens against her to collect as much slick onto the muscle and retracts, swallows, and repeats.

The bump of his nose stimulates her oversensitive clit for a second round, his fingers deviously slipping inside her canals to accumulate what his tongue can’t reach, his eyes spying on her face for every reaction he plucks.

Din can’t prevent the famished growl that slips out of him when his fingers plop into his mouth, shiny whites blending with his salvia to slide down his throat and lay rest in his stomach.

“Sweet girl, you really are sweet.”

For someone so inexperienced, Din sure knows what he’s doing. His tongue is in hyperdrive, working at her clit and suctioning every last drop of her out from within.

“O-o-h,” she moans and writhes on the mattress. “Gods, Din... Right there. Sh-it.”

The mewling words of encouragement boost his ego, as though he’d been replaced with his younger self; overly-enthusiastic and mindless, but possessing far more maturity—nurturing quirks that go against his amour propre youth.

Din heeds her commands, unrelenting licks jerking against her clit while his fingers get to work pumping in and out of her.

He’s not trying to make her come again, he didn’t think he had it in him, but fuck she’s right on the edge—he can feel it. Maybe it’s the over-sensitive nub collapsing into her core prompting her to tremble and twitch, or maybe he’s not giving himself enough credit; regardless, he’s working overtime to quench her needs.

When her thighs pinch the sides of his head, he really loses the plot—a heavy grunt expelling from his throat as he angles his head to the side and quickens his pace, poking and prodding at the spot she likes best.

“Din, Din-fuck.”

Thrumming journeys through his mouth and onto her clit, stimulating it just that extra mile to cross the finishing line. Her thighs stabilise his head in place while she violently bucks into his mouth, her second orgasm much stronger than her first.

There’s a surge of slick coating his fingers and he sinks to hoard it in his mouth, tongue-fucking her up till she’s a whimpering mess beneath him. It’s all her—his saltiness long gone—and he revels in the warmth; focusing on it slipping down his throat and sheeting his taste buds with a sweet syrup that immediately destroys the memory of those pitiful pancakes.

“So fucking delicious, Cyar’ika. You deserve a taste. You want some?”

Her head nods faintly, the exhaustion catching up to her; thighs trembling and fingertips taut in his curls.

Din accumulates a mass of her slick on his fingers and reroutes himself for her mouth, but stops himself. It’s glistening at him, taunting and just begging to slip into his mouth—he fulfills it’s wishes and plunges his digits inside for his tongue to lap up the remnants before hastily ramming his lips against hers.

It’s too authentic, too nerve wracking, as though he’s being initiated into the Creed for a second time; all butterflies in his stomach and outpaced blood flow through his veins. His hands quiver as they find her face, cupping her jaw as he deepens the kiss with a flick of his tongue across her gums.

The Girl’s eyes nearly slip open from the initial shock but she’s mastered her self-control, slinking into the mattress and pulling him with her.

It’s not like the kisses you’d see in holoplays, where it’s all soft and delicate but rather hungry and needy, a lot of teeth clashing against each other as they attempt to find themselves.

They exchange flavours, Din offering up her slick on his tongue in return for her saliva; tasteless in itself but it’s hers—his favourite flavour.

It’s all over him. In his mouth, on his chin, his fingers, his cock. It’s where it belongs.

Breathing is essential to life: they’re reminded as they reluctantly pull from each other's seals. Din’s not done just yet, then again, he’ll never truly be quenched of her. There’s just not enough of her. His lips disturb every speck of visible skin on her face, pecking her chin and across her cheeks all the way up to her eyes and back around the opposite side.

He’s much more gentle now, having gorged himself on her lips and taste, and is mindful of the scratchiness of the scruff along his jaw as he runs the pillows down her throat to come to rest in the cavern between her shoulder and neck.

She’s so bouncy, so padded, Din could rest his head on the bare tissue and sleep for centuries; recuperate for all the decades of blood and sweat he’s put his body through, replenish the colour underneath his eyes, permit his muscles and bones to be reborn.

His eyelashes brush against his cheekbones as he rests his eyes and evens out his breathing.

“Din,” she breathes, hands sketching idle lines across his back. “Hate to ruin the mood but your helm-”

“Don’t worry about it. Just rest,” he mumbles against her flesh, a hand blindly reaching out for the blanket to cover themselves; he doesn’t plan on moving from this position. She’ll have to pry him off herself. The beskar pendant is wedged between their chests, the skull's tusks digging into his muscles but it’s somehow fitting, comforting.

She is worried, though. There’s a crinkle between her eyebrows that he heals with the padding of his thumb. “What if I wake up-”

“I’ll be awake before you.”

“But--”

“I promise.” It’s not a pledge Din should initiate. She’s too comforting and he might never wake if he remains in her arms. His stubble pricks against her collarbone as he finds an abode among her chest, the beat of her heart against his eardrum.

“Please, Cyar’ika, don’t make me put it back on.”

How can she oppose that?

“Oh——okay.”

This is bliss.

This is his Manda, his paradise.

Her, not the location, though Sorgan will always sit somewhere special within his heart.

His Girl is all he needs.

If Din didn’t have a mission, a green mischievous baby, to tend to he would spend the rest of his days nestled into her body, pampering precious skin made of the elements themselves with sentimental kisses and delightful touches.

If she was to ask him to retire his blasters to their weapons unit, he would do it in an instant.

“Din?” He placidly drones in feedback. “Thank you.”

“Hmm? For what?”

A hand lazes on his head, tufts of ungroomed curls separating through the gaps of her fingers considerably slow as to not lug a knot. “Believing in me. I don’t ask much about Mandalorian culture ‘cause I figured you get asked a lot; I only know of that from Legends, but I can see it’s a part of you. Trusting me with your Creed...after everything I’ve done… Thank you.”

She’s still beating herself up about previous events. He could just wedge open her eyelids so she can look into his eyes; maybe then she’ll realise he’s already forgiven her. Instead, Din exhales a low-toned sigh and pecks what skin his lips can reach from his position.

“We agreed to a cin vhetin, remember?”

“Yes, but-”

“Sweet girl,” he shushes her. “In Mandalorian culture we use that term in initiation; it’s to clear all previous debts. Everything that occurred before is erased. Only what will happen in the future will be considered.”

Their cabin falls silent as she mulls the significance over. Din can hear a fire crackling somewhere nearby, children laughing, and adults toasting each other to another successful day; lively and euphoric-sounding but he’s content laying atop of his euphoria, to feel each expansion of her lungs, each tardy investigative stroke on his bare form.

“Does that mean I’m not getting your rifle?” she jests.

Din laughs, a full-on throaty bellow that resonates through her. It’s so humanlike it shocks him, leaves him wiping at the corners of his eyes from the onslaught of tears he’s producing.

The Girl’s hand runs from his head to the back of his neck, her thumb and forefinger massaging out the taut stone into flexible cloth. She quietly murmurs, “Wasn’t that funny.”

Laughing gradually subsiding, he basks in the comfortable silence between them. The Girl was never overbearing, even before all the tension arised, never stepped her foot out of line purely out of respect for his wishes and now she’s breached obstacles that’d make him hang his head in shame in the presence of his elders.

“Didn’t you propose a challenge or have you already forgotten?”

She smirks with cocky confidence. “Gambling with your weapons, huh? That’s so unlike you.”

“As I said; foolish, foolish things, Cyar’ika.”

___________________

"atin" - stubborn "sleemo" - slimeball "mesh'la" - beautiful "gar jatnese be te jatnese" - you're the best of the best "gar ani ni, vaabir gar suvarir?" - you complete me, do you understand? "auretii" - outsider "cyar'ika" - sweetheart/darling "kaab jate?" - sound good? "ner uram" - my mouth "vaii" - where

A/N: Sorry this one took longer than the others, it lowkey beat my ass up. In other news, I am currently planning my next series that'll be a Mandalorian!Reader if any of you are interested in that. If you wish to be added to either the LUNAR taglist or the upcoming series tags, please send an ask or a message!

tags: @ohhersheybars, @greatcircle79, @northernpunk, @tanzthompson, @djarrex

[kittyprincessofcats]

She-Ra S5 E09 - An Ill Wind

In which the Best Friend Squad’s back on Etheria and I’m back to writing up my thoughts about it. (The real question is whether I’ll manage to finish these posts before season 5’s one-year-anniversary.) I probably really don’t need to say this anymore, but there might be spoilers for the rest of the season in this post.

- I think it’s funny how Catra can’t stand teleporting, but what’s even more important is how visibly concerned for her Adora is each time. Have you seen how she touches Catra’s shoulders and looks at her with such a worried expression? D’awww.

- “Wow, you don’t trust the princesses? I am shocked.” No Glimmer, Catra’s 100% right. This has nothing to do with trusting the princesses; you really don’t know who’s chipped and which places are occupied by clones. Perfuma literally told you the rebellion was compromised.

- “Catra’s right.” THANK YOU, ADORA! (Also, I love Catra’s satisfied little smirk in the background when Adora says this.)

- I just paused the episode when they arrive in Erelandia and counted the Horde flags you can see hanging all over the town: 14, plus one giant Horde sign in the sky and a spire not too far away. Prime, are you compensating for something? (Also, Adora has an arm on Catra’s back again. Cute.)

- Is it a little disappointing that all the rebellions against Horde Prime on other planets got reduced to one brief exposition scene where a clone mentions they’re happening and a few quick images? Yeah. But I also get why the show just didn’t have the time for more and wanted to focus on Etheria.

- Speaking of, are those the magicats we see in the second image? Interesting… I’m not sure how I feel about the idea of Catra potentially being an alien as well. But then again, the show never clearly answers it one way or another, and there’s no reason magicats couldn’t have existed on multiple planets.

- Also, am I understanding this right: The Star Siblings started the intergalactic rebellion after meeting the Best Friend Squad? And now there are already rebels on several planets? Nice job, Star Siblings!

- “My heart aches for these misguided children.” I’m not sure if I’ve ever properly addressed the heavily religious symbolism around Horde Prime and his cult, but… that right there is *such* a Christian-extremist-coded line, holy hell…

- So Prime says he wants to use the Heart of Etheria “to bring peace to all the universe” and at this point I’m not entirely sure what his exact goal is. Does he just want to destroy all the planets with the Heart? Because I’ll be honest, I tend to find “I just want to destroy everything” a bit boring as a motivation in villains. What’s the point of him ruling the universe if there’s no one left to rule over? I mean, I know Prime had his whole “If there’s no one left, there are no wars, etc.” speech in an earlier episode, but that’s also just so dumb.

- Where did the Best Friend Squad even get those cloaks? Either way, Catra looks adorable with the outline of her ears showing under the hood. 🥺

- “I hope you, too, are full only of love for Horde Prime… and have no crippling doubt eating at your soul.” / “Brothers, there is nothing to see here!” Like I said in an earlier post, all of Wrong Hordak’s lines are absolute winners. Also, I love how the other clones just keep falling for his very obvious bluffs.

- Wrong Hordak learning to wink so quickly makes me jealous because I can’t wink. (No, I really can’t; I’ve tried. Whenever I try to only close one eye, I always end up closing both. If anyone has good advice on learning to wink, let me know.)

- I love the character designs of the mushroom people.

- Catra wasn’t wrong about the locals selling them out and not telling them anything useful. The others should listen to her more.

- Bow posing as the “average traveler passing though” is especially funny because I’m pretty sure there are no “travelers passing through” in times of Horde Prime.

Catra: “A town that hates princesses? Should I buy property here?”

Everyone else: *glares*

Catra: “Is what I would have said before I joined you. Go, team.”

😂😂😂 Catra’s quiet little “Go, team” in the end is what gets me most about this moment 😂. She’s adorable and trying her best, okay?

- I love how Wrong Hordak just calls everyone “brother” regardless of gender. Also, Adora’s little “Did you just wink at me?” / “That’s not how winking works!” moments are hilarious and adorable.

- “You’re wearing hooded cloaks, it’s highly suspicious.” Okay, mushroom lady’s not wrong, though. And I love how someone finally points this out, since hooded cloaks are so often used as “undercover” disguises in shows like this.

- That said, both she and mushroom guy earlier did try to sell the Best Friend Squad out super quickly. Like, I get that the locals are scared, but still… They could have tried to stay safe without running towards the clones to tell them everything right away.

- I’m just noticing that Erelandia has mushrooms everywhere. Obviously the people are mushrooms, but there are also mushrooms growing outside in the streets everywhere, and the shop they’re in is selling mushrooms and clothes with mushrooms on them as well.

- Both Bow and Glimmer blowing their covers almost immediately and Adora just quietly shaking her head at both of them in the background is amazing.

- Love Catra (and Melog) just casually stealing a mushroom from a mushroom lady.

- So Catra’s just chilling in a tree and eating stolen mushrooms and Entrapta wants to analyze samples that’ll be ready in 4-6 weeks – neither of them’s really helping right now. But then again, Catra wanted to leave in the first place because she thought the locals would sell them out (and she was right about that), so she probably thinks it’s not worth the effort.

- Also, you know who this scene with Entrapta and Catra is missing? Scorpia. If there is one problem I have with season 5, it’s that we didn’t get any Super Pal Trio reunion / moments with all of them on the same side now. (Or just in general, that we didn’t get to see Scorpia and Catra properly talking things out.)

- “That’s the windy one, right?” Okay, am I the only one who finds this line weird? Spinnerella literally has Adora, Bow and Glimmer trapped in a tornado as Entrapta says this. Obviously she’s “the windy one”? Entrapta can literally see that??

- “Lord Prime has given me peace.” Oh, I’m just realizing that’s just what Catra said when she was chipped. That’s got to be awful for Adora to hear again.

- Glimmer grabbing Bow and Adora’s hands and teleporting them out of the tornado was badass.

Adora: “How are we supposed to fight our own friends?”

Catra: “It never stopped you before.”

OMG. I love that Catra still considers their time as enemies as “being friends”.

- I really love Netossa’s entrance. What makes it really cool to me is that at that point the Best Friend Squad didn’t even know if there were any unchipped princesses left, so Netossa jumping in there with a casual “Welcome back, guys” was just an amazing moment.

- Also, I don’t know if I’ve said this before, but I really like that this season finally made Spinnerella and Netossa more important characters. (And I wonder how much network censorship of LGBT+ storylines had to do with them not being that important earlier on.)

- Hordak getting flashbacks of Entrapta again (while Prime looks at his older body’s memories) is just 🥺. I like how Prime talks about Etheria while Hordak slowly remembers more and more about his own life on Etheria.

- “So, the only person I’m fighting here is… my own wife.” I love the on-screen confirmation that they’re married! But also, Netossa wanting to attack Catra and Wrong Hordak at first was pretty funny.

- Catra and Glimmer’s respective expressions when they hear about Scorpia and Micah being chipped are a gut punch. Also, Netossa talking about how she has to get Spinnerella back is making me tear up.

- “Where are the rebels?” “Right beside you!” 😂😂😂 Amazing, just amazing.

- Love to see Catra taking out those bots. She’s so badass ❤️.

- “Be careful.” “Always am.” I wonder at what point Netossa started to realize what’s going on between Catra and Adora.

- Love Netossa whistling at She-Ra’s new look. Your wife’s right there, darling. But then again, who wouldn’t whistle at She-Ra’s new look?

- Honestly, why did anyone ever say Spinnerella and/or Netossa were weak? Their fight here really shows how powerful both of them are when they don’t hold back.

- “Stop holding back. She won’t.” Looking past how hard this must be for Netossa, this line really sums up why so many characters in shows like this seemingly become more powerful when they turn evil (or less powerful when they turn good): Because the bad guys have no reason to hold back.

- Adora firing a rainbow beam from her sword was amazing. I wish we’d gotten to see a bit more of She-Ra’s new powers this season.

- “Please. I love you. Come back to me.” I’m crying 😢. That’s a nice first taste of all the “I love you”s to come in the finale. And I love that it works (even if just for a bit). The whole “power of love helps you break free from mind control” thing might be a cliché, but it’s a cliché I love, so…yay, awesome!

- But also, and I’ll probably talk about this more when I get to the next episode (that I had a few problems with), I like how Netossa doesn’t only rely on the power of love, but still realizes she has to first fight Spinnerella without holding back to get her into a position where they can even have this talk.

- Yay, mushroom town is saved!

- Catra reassuring Netossa that Spinnerella will be okay was so sweet. She’s really trying to be nice and I think she’s doing great 🥺. (Also, Adora looks at her so proudly.)

- I just noticed that when She-Ra replaces the Horde symbol in the sky with her sword symbol, all the Horde flags around town are already gone, too. Did Catra, Glimmer and the others just like… take all of those flags down in between fighting the bots? Or did Wrong Hordak maybe walk around taking off the flags while the others were fighting?

- That said, the rainbow sword in the sky looks amazing.

- “I think Horde Prime is going to know She-Ra’s back.” “Good.” Love Adora’s determined expression here.

- Geez Horde Prime, no need to punch the screen. The screen didn’t do anything to you.

- Okay, so Horde Prime finally decides to go to Etheria himself, and when he announces that, Hordak looks at the crystal in his hand – it’s all coming together.

- “This is where the rebellion is hiding out?” “Yup. Why, have you been here?” The looks on Glimmer and Catra’s faces here are amazing. People have of course already written all kinds of amazing metas analyzing their expressions, but the short version is that Glimmer seems to remember their fight fondly, while Catra seems embarrassed.

- Perfuma trapping them all in vines and demanding to see their necks is not only hilarious, but also shows that the rebellion has learned from their past mistakes. 👍

- All of their reunions (Bow and Perfuma, Glimmer and Frosta, Adora and Swift Wind, Entrapta and Emily) were super sweet – I like big reunion scenes 🥺. Wrong Hordak meeting Emily was adorable. Perfuma clinging to Bow and crying about how she doesn’t want to be in charge anymore had me laughing so hard 😂.

- Okay so, I know Frosta’s punch breaks the mood a moment later, but I really think Adora wanting to officially introduce Catra to everyone after seeing her standing there alone while everyone else was having big reunions was super sweet. The way her face falls when she sees Catra standing there sadly, the way she asks her to come here so gently… it’s just so sweet. 🥺

- Also, unpopular opinion, but am I the only one who didn’t really find Frosta punching Catra funny? (And the same goes for Scorpia electrocuting her in the next episode, by the way.) I know these moments are meant to be cathartic “drag the former villain because some people are still mad at them” moments, but Catra’s whole story is largely about being a victim of physical abuse. Wasn’t there some way for the story to make fun of her without having other characters physically assault her? I like how Catra’s redemption was handled overall, but moments like those kind of rub me the wrong way. (Netossa trapping her in a net was fine though, because that didn’t actually harm her.)

- That said, Adora’s “Catra’s with us now. Okay? Hmm.” was hilarious. I love how she just gives the briefest explanation and then turns away from Frosta with a smile and little “hmm”, just completely expecting Frosta to be fine with this now.

- That ending shot of all of them together is epic.

So, what changed this episode is that Erelandia was freed, the space group has reunited with the remaining princesses, and Horde Prime is heading for Etheria. Good episode!

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[madeyed]

(   *  💀  /  aria shahghasemi, cis man, he / him  )  —  is that alastor moody i just saw rushing down the corridor ? i hear they’re a twenty-one year old hufflepuff, returning for their seventh school year, but their friends would tell you that they are protective & astute as well as paranoid & disagreeable. if you want to know more about them, i guess i could tell you that they’re pureblood, and from what i hear, they’re currently allying with the order. when our divination professor looks into their crystal ball, they see: a well-worn journal, locked & spelled shut; empty firewhisky bottles lined up along the windowsill; dark circles beneath suspicious eyes; the fading shadow of youthful bravado; a supple leather coat that still smells like home.  —  ( kit, she / they, 23, cet. )

tw — parental death ( murder ), assault & violence, mourning, alcohol mentions, allusions to mental health issues & addiction, hospital mentions. 

basics ,

full name.  alastor jawed moody. known as.  alastor, moody, al only to select friends. age / date of birth.  twenty-one / september 19th, 1958. year.  seventh year. blood status.  pureblood. house.  hufflepuff. alliance.  the order. gender / pronouns.  cis man, he / him. orientation.  bisexual. extracurriculars.  beater for the hufflepuff quidditch team; member of the charms and toothill duelling clubs.  additional stats.  click here. pinterest.  click here.

early life ,

alastor moody is born at home, in a small brick house by the seaside that has been in the family for generations; the yard is quaint, if somewhat overgrown, the wooden window frames spiderwebbed and peeling white paint, the chimney billowing smoke in the winters. although he often longs for a sibling, he remains an only child all his life. at the time of his birth, his parents are early in their careers as aurors, and thoughful, foresightful people above all; with their demanding schedules they think no more than one child is best. it’s not a terrible decision, by any means, and there is enough love in the household to go around.

he is raised with strong values, and a strong sense of duty, family, and respect; he is made aware of the weight of the world at a young age. or, his parents try to impress this upon him, making the world appear darker and heavier than it seems to the young boy. he loves and respects his parents, but he tends to disregard their warnings, to play more recklessly than they might like. 

although his parents always make time for the shabbat, for birthdays and holidays, their job is by necessity demanding, and alastor learns independence at a young age. an only child, he longs for meaningful friendships, but struggles to make friends with muggle children in the village; instead, though he does his best, he spends much of his time alone or with children of his parents’ friends. 

he thinks almost all his life that he is ready for death. it was a simple and honest truth in the moody household that their work, though important and necessary, was dangerous. he sees narrow brushes with danger all his young life, accompanying his parents to too many funerals to count; he learns protection charms before he learns to tie his shoes. and so he thinks of death as a family friend, a familiar acquaintance, and foolishly pats himself on the back for being so well-adjusted, for accepting reality instead of fearing it.

hogwarts ,

when he first arrives at hogwarts, he is calm, unassuming; he doesn’t arrive, like so many purebloods do, with the weight of countless expectations upon his shoulders. nor does he feel like he is escaping some restriction, and finally free; if anything, he is less independent here, under the watchful eyes of prefects and professors, and he grates a little against rules he thinks are foolish or unnecessary.

when it’s his turn to be sorted, the sorting hat only hesitates for a moment between gryffindor and hufflepuff; he is brave, yes, fearless to the point of recklessness, but when the hat poses the question, all alastor can do is shrug. his mother was a slytherin, his father a hufflepuff, and so he doesn’t really mind either way; he knows who he is, regardless of what house colors he wears, and that is enough for the sorting hat to know where he belongs.

he fits in well in hufflepuff, but doesn’t restrict himself to just that; he’s never felt particularly inclined to draw harsh lines in the sand, and makes friends across houses and even years. it helps that his name commands some respect — not from some purebloods, who sneer and consider him and his family all blood traitors, but from the rest, who read the headlines about aurors apprehending dark wizards and are pleased. 

in his second year, though, the headlines change. he is called out of history of magic class — something he had almost enjoyed, at the time, and still hates himself for — and brought to the headmaster’s office, where he’s made to wait until his mother arrives. he’s sixteen when he hears of his father’s death, and it feels like the unshakeable world comes crashing in. he thinks he can prepare for death, steel himself against the pain and struggle through mourning with a straight spine and dry eyes, but he’s a fool, and just a boy at that. 

he’s outgrown his childhood funeral suit, so he wears his father’s mourning robes to the funeral; they’re well-worn, mended at the hems, and alastor finds two knuts and a sickle in the pockets. he leans on his mother, and she leans on him, and she seems both stronger and more vulnerable than he’s ever seen her. they sit shiva together, the two of them in their little seaside home. alastor’s always felt distant from the muggle locals and neighbors, friendly but unable to connect, but they show up all the same. in twos and threes they arrive with their food, condolences, well-wishes, their offers to weed the yard or pick up groceries for the mourning family; it’s their good will that helps the moodys through their grief, more than the ministry’s stiff condolences and posthumous honours.

he returns to hogwarts changed; more anxious, more wary. his heart leaps in his throat every time he receives a letter, fearful it will be news of his mother’s death. he grows harder, less tolerant of snide anti-muggle comments even when they’re almost innocuous. he’s always been a relatively serious boy, but now he hardly laughs at all, and when he does, there’s a bite to it. he excels in school, working doubly hard, already certain he must become an auror and insistent upon achieving it, but there’s no pride in it, no competition; he just knows what needs to be done.

but as months turn to years the passing time lulls him into a false sense of security; at some point, the pain of loss turns from a sharp agony to an ever-present but dull ache. alastor joins the quidditch team, the duelling club ( where he quickly gains a formidable reputation ), has his first of many hogsmeades dates, and feels, foolishly, that life might simply carry on, without too much effort on his behalf. even as war brews on the horizon he assures himself it will be an easy victory, that strength and righteousness will always win out. he prepares, but with a youthful foolishness; he thinks this might be the chance to avenge his father, to protect the weak, to prove himself a warrior. 

the summer between his sixth and seventh year, his mother is so busy she’s barely in the house; when she is, it’s never long before she’s called to yet another meeting, yet another raid. he visits her office often, tea and sandwiches in tow, memorizing the names and faces that are pinned up around the auror office, the most wanted, the suspected conspirators, the known associates. the writing is on the wall: danger approaches. the house is reinforced, protection charms everywhere, locks re-spelled, alarms at all entrances, but at the same time, life goes on.

it’s a rare evening when the two of them are home together, barbecuing kebab in the yard in the late summer sun, a moment of peace among all the concern. they share a bottle of firewhiskey, reminiscing, and laughing together, and making plans to weed the front yard, paint the window frames, and mend the fence — helpful little things alastor can do over the summer while his mother is so very busy at work.

he crawls into bed drunk and at peace, thinking about paint swatches, warm breeze through the open window, the cat curled up at the foot of his bed — and startles awake hours later, still half-drunk to the sound of crashing, glass shattering, the very foundations of the house trembling. the smell of something burning rises from the stairs, and despite his fear he jumps up instantly. there are death eaters in the house ( alastor counts four but thinks there may have been more ), in their black robes and silver masks, and by the time he’s halfway down the stairs his mother is already dead. he fights back as well as he can, but he’s alone, unprepared, and is hit with a curse before he can do much of anything. 

they leave him there, unconscious in the slow-smoking ruins of the sitting room. something about not unnecessarily spilling pure blood, and he’s only a boy, and clearly no threat. he is awakened as other aurors arrive, his parents’ colleagues and friends, and he’s so out of sorts he must be petrified and sedated before he can be taken to st. mungos. this time, he is drunk at the funeral, hiding red eyes behind sunglasses, and he sits his shiva alone, permitting no visitors. he takes what he needs from home: clothes, books, heirlooms, the sneakoscope and foe glass and his father’s old coat, and leaves, renting a room at the leaky cauldron for the rest of the summer.

he returns to hogwarts changed once more; furious, pained, burning the candle at both ends trying to find a way to win a war that hasn’t even truly started yet. 

personality , hcs , etc. ,

alastor has always been confident, wavering between self-assured and simply cocky, depending on who you ask. he was raised to respect and value everyone, and that includes himself, but he has always also thought of himself as a little more clued in, a little more worldly, than most others. this is in part because his parents confronted him with the reality of the world at quite a young age, and in part because of the horrors he has himself witnessed. although he isn’t usually a dick about it, he does tend to think he’s the most aware, clued in person in the room, or the only one who really knows how the world works.

he’s also quite concerned with projecting the image of strength, not because he’s really that concerned with what other people think, but more because he believes pretty strongly in the whole ‘fake it till ya make it’ idea, and feels like showing weakness means you are weak. plus it makes you a target.

has a fat orange cat named fried egg, or just fry for short; she’s four years old, and the grandchild of the same cat his father had when he was at hogwarts. she’s a hellish little demon cat who does her best to catch rats, frogs, small owls, bowtruckles, bag charms, and pretty much anything else she can get her little paws on. can and will claim a whole couch in the common room by stretching out right in the middle. if there’s a small dead creature in the hufflepuff common room or dorms you know who to blame. 

alastor enjoys quidditch, but isn’t particularly competitive; he likes playing beater as it’s a pretty good release for aggression. he plays an aggressive match especially against slytherins, and will more use quidditch as an outlet for his personal vendettas, rather than that it informs them. absolutely fearless on the pitch, and has broken multiple bones, including his nose. don’t play chicken with him, he can and will run straight into you just to prove a point.

although he’s something of a duelling prodigy ( or rather, he’s been well trained since a young age ) and excels at defense against the dark arts and transfiguration, alastor’s top favorite class is care of magical creatures. he just thinks they’re neat. is he a bit of a dragon fanboy ? maybe so.

deeply paranoid, suspicious, and untrusting, especially now. he keeps a notebook of notes, newspaper clippings, observations and overheard conversations, helpful spells and countercurses, and a running list of which classmates and families he suspects of being death eaters, and of which students he fears might become targets. it’s well-spelled to keep out prying eyes, but you can often find him scribbling in it when he should be taking notes in class. 

more to be added ! 

plots ,

just wanted to say first of all that i love plotting, hc’ing, brainstorming, etc. so please hit me up ! if nothing here works i’m super happy to think of something else. also, every single one of these is open to all genders unless specified ! i also especially love plotting based on other connections ( i.e. muse a and muse b are friends, muse b and muse c are exes, therefore muse a and muse c do not get along, or smth ) idk i just have a lot of ideas !

best friends.  any house, but preferably for seventh years ? should be either order aligned or neutral but sympathetic to the order. these would be the very few people in the world alastor is still somewhat vulnerable around, and the few who can still get him to smile these days. also the only people he will take any shit from. the people he considers family, now that he has none of his own left. 

other order members. the options here are so many ! people who fully share his convictions and with whom he can share his theories, who problem-solve and discuss together. people ( particularly muggleborns or younger students ) whom alastor feels very protective of and worried about. can be annoying and overbearing or he’s just keeping an eye on them from a distance, or maybe helping them train. or people who are in the order but whom alastor doesn’t trust; pretty much any pureblood / slytherin / anyone with death eater family would fall under this. lots of options ! 

family friends.  alastor’s parents were very well-respected in the wizarding community, upstanding citizens, well-known and talented aurors, and all around good people; they could have gone to hogwarts with your muse’s parents or otherwise gotten to know them from work or through pretty much any other avenue ! this could go a few different ways, either they can be good long-term childhood friends, or perhaps they never got along but had to suck it up because their parents were friends, etc. 

enemies.  listen, i’m sure alastor has a ton of these ! gimme all the baby death eaters, slytherins, and pureblood supremacists. or even just characters who are just neutral but tangentially related to anyone who might be a death eater. alastor doesn’t discriminate between hatefulness and cowardice, it’s all the same to him: two sides of the same self-serving coin that gets other people killed. he can and will cause problems for them on purpose. absolutely will not hesitate to cause physical injury, or curse someone if they are out of line; you use the word mudblood in his presence and he can and will hex your tongue in a knot or, idk, turn you into a ferret. 

people involved in his family’s deaths.  ok this would definitely be quite a heavy plot and would need to be discussed quite a bit, but i think it could be neat ? alastor’s father died in the line of duty and may or may not have been targeted, but his mother was explicitly killed by death eaters because of the threat she posed. that could have been your muse’s death eater parents, or the hit could have been part of your character’s death eater initiation ( and maybe even the reason why al was allowed to live ? idk man just gimme the drama ) but either way ! alastor is investigating, angry, suspicious, and there will be hell to pay if he figures it out. think it could b a cute terrible dramatic plot.

exes.  gimme a handful of these, with a bit of variety, please, i love them. something short-lived and intense over the course of one semester, that ends when one or both of them gets a little too far into their feelings ! something sweet and quaint in their early years, with first little hogsmeade dates and hand-holding ! a former fwb thing with bad communication that falls apart and leaves them both with some hard feelings ! good friends that think they have feelings for each other, date for two weeks, and then give it up and go back to just being pals ! honestly especially when he was slightly younger and less paranoid, depressed, etc. alastor was definitely weak as fuck for a pretty face. 

the one bad ex-ish.  listen i just very specifically love the idea of alastor having some insanely intense chemistry with a death eater aligned character, that enemies to lovers ( who are still definitely enemies ) vibe. every time they hook up they both regret it intensely, and are to embarrassed to ever tell their friends. they both kinda think they hate the other person, and know they’re on different sides of a brewing war, but also. brain empty very sexy.

crushes / unrequited / un-acted-upon feelings.  ok listen, correct me if i’m wrong, call me out, etc. but alastor’s a whole 6′2″ of broad shoulders, gorgeous hair, green eyes, he’s all tall dark and handsome and also tortured, also a quidditch player, intimidating, etc. and i love the idea of people having crushes on him bc he’d be either annoyed or oblivious and that amuses me greatly. what a man tbh. also love the idea of him having feelings for someone, perhaps even over a longer period of time, but absolutely not wanting to tell them bc he has a bit of a martyr complex, is afraid of losing the people he loves, and also thinks he’s no good and gonna get them killed ! also could just be someone he had a crush on earlier and no longer does, but still thinks they’re just incredibly cool and admires them. could go lots of ways tbh.

study buddy.  so, honestly, alastor’s not concerned that much with school beyond needing the qualifications to become an auror. this would probably be someone with similar aspirations/goals; someone who wants to get the grade but spends more time researching obscure defensive spells and countercurses and hex reversals which will never be on the test, because those are ultimately more important. they both just help support each other academically to make sure they get where they need to be, and practice and work on more advanced combat magic together as well.

neighbors.  kind of, not really ? after his mother’s death alastor’s been living in a rented room in diagon alley, avoiding his family home at all costs. this could be someone who either lives there or in london more generally who he keeps running into over that summer. he’s probably deeply unpleasant particularly at that time so forgive him in advance pls.

drinking buddies.  does alastor have a drinking problem ? maybe. but he also has much, much bigger problems he has to solve first, hence the drinking. he’ll manage just fine on his own too, but that doesn’t mean it’s not nice to sit in relative silence next to someone. he prefers the quiet and general Bad Vibes at the hog’s head over the three broomsticks, but isn’t that picky. 

duelling rival.  a member of the duelling club who alastor absolutely hates, and who hates him. they absolutely drive each other to perform better and push each other hard, but that’s not because they’re trying to help the other improve; it’s because when they duel they are actually straight up trying to kill each other, while making it seem like an accident.

[96harmony96]

Chapter 1

I loved New York with the kind of mad passion I reserved for only one other thing in my life. The city was a microcosm of new world opportunities and old world traditions. Conservatives rubbed shoulders with bohemians. Oddities coexisted with priceless rarities. The pulsing energy of the city fueled international business bloodlines and drew people from all over the world.

And the embodiment of all that vibrancy, driving ambition, and world-renowned power had just screwed me to two toe-curlingly awesome orgasms.

As I padded over to her massive walk-in closet, I glanced at lauren jauregui’s sex-rumpled bed and shivered with remembered pleasure. My hair was still damp from a shower, and the towel wrapped around me was my only article of clothing. I had an hour and a half before I had to be at work, which was cutting it a little too close for comfort. Obviously, I was going to have to allot time in my morning routine for sex, otherwise I’d always be scrambling. Lauren woke up ready to conquer the world, and she liked to start that domination with me.

How lucky was I?

Because it was sliding into July in New York and the temperature was heating up, I chose a slim pair of pressed natural-linen slacks and a sleeveless poplin shell in a soft brown that matched my eyes. Since I had no hairstyling talent, I pulled my long drown hair back in a simple ponytail, then made up my face. When I was presentable, I left the bedroom.

I heard Lauren's voice the moment I stepped into the hallway. A tiny shiver moved through me when I realized she was angry, her voice low and clipped. she didn’t rile easily . . . unless she was ticked off with me. I could get her to raise her voice and curse, even shove her hands through her glorious shoulder-length mane of inky black hair.

For the most part, though, Lauren was a testament to leashed power. There was no need for her to shout when she could get people to quake in their shoes with just a look or a tersely spoken word.

I found her in her home office. She stood with her back to the door and a Bluetooth receiver in her ear. Her arms were crossed and she was staring out the windows of her Fifth Avenue penthouse apartment, giving the impression of a very solitary woman, an individual who was separate from the world around her, yet entirely capable of ruling it.

Leaning into the doorjamb, I drank her in. I was certain my view of the skyline was more awe-inspiring than her. My vantage point included her superimposed over those towering skyscrapers, an equally powerful and impressive presence. she’d finished her shower before I managed to crawl out of bed. her seriously addictive body was now dressed in two pieces of an expensively tailored three-piece suit—an admitted hot button of mine. The rear view of her showcased a perfect ass and a powerful back encased in a vest.

On the wall was a massive collage of photos of us as a couple and one very intimate one that she’d taken of me while I was sleeping. Most were pictures taken by the paparazzi who followed her every move. She was Lauren Jauregui, of Jauregui Industries, and at the ridiculous age of twenty-eight, she was one of the top twenty-five richest people in the world. I was pretty sure she owned a significant chunk of Manhattan; I was positive she was the hottest woman on the planet. And she kept photos of me everywhere she worked, as if I could possibly be as fun to look at as she was.

she turned, pivoting gracefully to catch me with her icy green gaze. Of course she’d known I was there, watching her. There was a crackling in the air when we were near each other, a sense of anticipation like the coiled silence before the boom of thunder. she’d probably deliberately waited a beat before facing me, giving me the opportunity to check her out because she knew I loved to look at her.

Dark and Dangerous. And all mine.

God . . . I never got used to the impact of that face. Those sculpted cheekbones and dark winged brows, the thickly lashed green eyes, and those lips . . . perfectly etched to be both sensual and wicked. I loved when they smiled with sexual invitation, and I shivered when they thinned into a stern line. And when she pressed those lips to my body, I burned for her.

Jeez, listen to yourself. My mouth curved, remembering how annoyed I used to get at pals who waxed poetic about their boyfriends’ good looks. But here I was, constantly awed by the gorgeousness of the complicated, frustrating, messed-up, sexy-as-sin woman I was falling deeper in love with every day.

As we stared at each other, her scowl didn’t lessen, nor did she cease speaking to the poor soul on the receiving end of her call, but her gaze warmed from its chilly irritation to scorching heat.

I should’ve gotten used to the change that came over her when she looked at me, but it still hit me with a force strong enough to rock me on my feet. That look conveyed how hard and deep she wanted to fuck me—which she did every chance she got—and it also afforded me a glimpse of her raw, unrelenting force of will. A core of strength and command marked everything Lauren did in life.

“See you at eight on Saturday,” she finished, before yanking off the earpiece and tossing it on her desk. “Come here, camila.”

Another shiver slid through me at the way she said my name, with the same authoritative bite she used when she said Come, Camila, while I was beneath her . . . filled with her . . . desperate to climax for her . . .

“No time for that, ace.” I backed into the hallway, because I was weak where she was concerned. The soft rasp in her smooth, cultured voice was nearly capable of making me orgasm just listening to it. And whenever she touched me, I caved.

I hurried to the kitchen to make us some coffee.

she muttered something under her breath and followed me out, her long stride easily gaining on mine. I found myself pinned to the hallway wall by a six feet, two inches of hard, hot male.

“You know what happens when you run, angel.” Lauren nipped my lower lip with her teeth and then soothed the sting with the caress of her tongue. “I catch you.”

Inside me, something sighed with happy surrender and my body went lax with pleasure at being pressed so close to her. I craved her constantly, so deeply it was a physical ache. What I felt was lust, but it was also so much more. Something so precious and profound that Lauren's lust for me wasn’t the trigger it would’ve been with another man. If anyone else had attempted to subdue me with the weight of their body, I would’ve freaked out. But it had never been an issue with lauren. She knew what I needed and how much I could take.

The sudden flash of her grin stopped my heart.

Confronted with that breathtaking face framed by that lustrous dark hair, I felt my knees weaken just a little. She was so polished and urbane except for the decadent length of those silky strands.

she nuzzled her nose against mine. “You can’t smile at me like that, then walk away. Tell me what you were thinking about when I was on the phone.”

My lips twisted wryly. “How gorgeous you are. It’s sickening how often I think about that. I need to get over it already.”

she cupped the back of my thigh and urged me tighter against her, teasing me with an expert roll of her hips against mine. She was outrageously gifted in bed. And she knew it. “Damn if I’ll let you.”

“Oh?” Heat slid sinuously through my veins, my body too greedy for the feel of her. “You can’t tell me you want another starry-eyed woman hanging on you, Miss. Hates-Exaggerated-Expectations.”

“What I want,” she purred, cupping my jaw and rubbing my bottom lip with the pad of her thumb, “is you being too busy thinking about me to think about anyone else.”

I pulled in a slow and shaky breath. I was completely seduced by the smoldering look in her eyes, the provocative tone of her voice, the heat of her body, and the mouthwatering scent of her skin. She was my drug, and I had no desire to kick the habit.

“Lauren,” I breathed, entranced.

With a soft groan, she sealed her chiseled mouth over mine, stealing away thoughts of what time it was with a lush, deep kiss . . . a kiss that almost succeeded in distracting me from seeing the insecurity she’d just revealed.

I pushed my fingers into her hair to hold her still and kissed her back, my tongue sliding along her, stroking. We’d been a couple for such a short period of time. Less than a month. Worse, neither of us knew how to have a relationship like the one we were attempting to build—a relationship in which we refused to pretend we weren’t both seriously broken.

her arms banded around me and tightened possessively. “I wanted to spend the weekend with you down in the Florida Keys—naked.”

“Umm, sounds nice.” More than nice. As big of a kick as I got out of Lauren in a three-piece suit, I much preferred her stripped to the skin. I avoided pointing out that I wouldn’t be available this weekend . . .

“Now I’ve got to spend the weekend taking care of business,” she muttered, her lips moving against mine.

“Business you put off to be with me?” she’d been leaving work early to spend time with me, and I knew that had to be costing her. My mother was in her third marriage, and all of her spouses were successful, wealthy moguls of one kind or another. I knew the price for ambition was very late hours.

“I pay other people a generous salary so I can be with you.”

Nice dodge, but noting the flash of irritation in her gaze, I distracted her. “Thank you. Let’s get some coffee before we run out of time.”

Lauren stroked her tongue along my bottom lip, then released me. “I’d like to get off the ground by eight tomorrow night. Pack cool and light. Arizona’s got dry heat.”

“What?” I blinked at her retreating back as it disappeared into her office. “Arizona is where your business is?”

“Unfortunately.”

Uh . . . whoa. Instead of risking my shot at coffee, I postponed arguing and continued on to the kitchen. I passed through Lauren's spacious apartment with its stunning prewar architecture and slender arched windows, my heels alternately clicking over gleaming hardwood and muffled by Aubusson rugs. Decorated in dark woods and neutral fabrics, the luxurious space was brightened by jeweled accents. As much as her place screamed money, it managed to remain warm and welcoming, a comfortable place to relax and feel pampered.

When I reached the kitchen, I wasted no time in shoving a travel mug under the one-cup coffeemaker. Lauren joined me with her jacket draped over one arm and her cell phone in her hand. I put another portable mug under the spout for her before I went to the fridge for some half-and-half.

“It might be fortunate after all.” I faced her and reminded her of my roommate issue. “I need to knock heads with Cary this weekend.”

Lauren dropped her phone in the inner pocket of her jacket, then hung the garment off the back of one of the bar stools at the island. “You’re coming with me, camila.”

Exhaling in a rush, I added half-and-half to my coffee. “To do what? Lie around naked, waiting for you to finish work and fuck me?”

her gaze held mine as she collected her mug and sipped her steaming coffee with too-calm deliberation. “Are we going to argue?”

“Are you going to be difficult? We talked about this. You know I can’t leave Cary after what happened last night.” The multibody tangle I’d found in my living room gave new meaning to the word clusterfuck.

I put the carton back in the fridge and absorbed the sensation of being drawn to her inexorably by the force of her will. It’d been that way from the beginning. When she chose to, Lauren could make me feel her demands. And it was very, very difficult to ignore the part of me that begged to give her whatever she wanted. “You’re going to take care of business and I’m going to take care of my best friend, then we’ll go back to taking care of each other.”

“I won’t be back until Sunday night, camila.”

Oh . . . I felt a sharp twinge in my belly at hearing we’d be apart that long. Most couples didn’t spend every free moment together, but we weren’t like most people. We both had hang-ups, insecurities, and an addiction to each other that required regular contact to keep us functioning properly. I hated being apart from her. I rarely went more than a couple of hours without thinking of her.

“You can’t stand the thought, either,” she said quietly, studying me in that way she had that saw everything. “By Sunday we’ll both be worthless.”

I blew on the surface of my coffee, then took a quick sip. I was unsettled at the thought of going the entire weekend without her. Worse, I hated the thought of her spending that amount of time away from me. She had a world of choices and possibilities out there, women who weren’t so screwed up and difficult to be with.

Still, I managed to say, “We both know that’s not exactly healthy, lauren.”

“Says who? No one else knows what it’s like to be us.”

Okay, I’d give her that.

“We need to get to work,” I said, knowing this impasse was going to drive both of us crazy all day. We’d sort it out later, but for now we were stuck with it.

Resting her hip against the counter, she crossed her ankles and stubbornly settled in. “What we need is for you to come with me.”

“lauren.” My foot began to tap against the travertine tile. “I can’t just give up my life for you. If I turn into arm candy, you’ll get bored real quick. Hell, I’d get sick of myself. It shouldn’t kill us to spend a couple days straightening out other parts of our lives, even if we hate doing it.”

her gaze captured mine. “You’re too much trouble to be arm candy.”

“Takes a troublemaker to know one.”

Lauren straightened, shrugging off her brooding sensuality and instantly capturing me with her severe intensity. So mercurial—like me. “You’ve gotten a lot of press lately, camila. It’s no secret that you’re in New York. I can’t leave you here while I’m gone. Bring Cary with us if you have to. You can butt heads with him while you’re waiting for me to finish work and fuck you.”

“Ha.” Even as I acknowledged her attempt to lighten the strain with humor, I realized what her real objection to being apart from me was—Nathan. My former stepbrother. The living nightmare from my past that Lauren seemed to fear might reappear in my present. It frightened me to concede that she wasn’t totally wrong. The shield of anonymity that had protected me for years had been shattered by our highly public relationship.

God . . . we totally didn’t have the time to get into that mess, but I knew it wasn’t a point Lauren would concede on. She was a woman who claimed her possessions utterly, fought off her competitors with ruthless precision, and would never allow any harm to come to me. I was her safe place, which made me rare and invaluable to her.

Lauren glanced at her watch. “Time to go, angel.”

She fetched her jacket, then gestured for me to precede her through her luxurious living room, where I grabbed my purse and the bag holding my walking shoes and other necessities. A few moments later, we’d finished the descent to the ground floor in her private elcamilator and slid into the back of her black Bentley SUV.

“Hi, Angus,” I greeted her driver, who touched the brim of his old-fashioned chauffeur’s hat.

“Good morning, Miss.Cabello,” he replied, smiling. He was an older gentleman, with a liberal sprinkling of white in his red hair. I liked him for a lot of reasons, not the least of which was the fact that he’d been driving Lauren around since grade school and genuinely cared for her.

A quick glance at the Rolex my mother and stepfather had given me told me I’d make it to work on time . . . if we didn’t get boxed in by traffic. Even as I thought this, Angus slid deftly into the sea of taxis and cars on the street. After the tense quiet of Lauren's apartment, the noise of Manhattan woke me as effectively as a jolt of caffeine. The blaring of horns and the thud of tires over a manhole cover invigorated me. Rapid-moving streams of pedestrians flanked both sides of the clogged street, while buildings stretched ambitiously toward the sky, keeping us in shadow even as the sun climbed.

God, I seriously loved New York. I took the time every day to absorb it, to try to draw it into me.

I settled into the leather seat back and reached for Lauren's hand, giving it a squeeze. “Would you feel better if Cary and I left town for the weekend? Maybe a quick trip to Vegas?”

Lauren's gaze narrowed. “Am I a threat to Cary? Is that why you won’t consider Arizona?”

“What? No. I don’t think so.” Shifting in the seat, I faced her. “Sometimes it takes an all-nighter before I can get him to open up.”

“You don’t think so?” She repeated my answer, ignoring everything but the first words out of my mouth.

“He might feel like he can’t reach out to me when he needs to talk because I’m always with you,” I clarified, steadying my mug with two hands as we drove over a pothole. “Listen, you’re going to have to get over any jealousy about Cary. When I say he’s like a brother to me, Lauren, I’m not kidding. You don’t have to like him but you have to understand that he’s a permanent part of my life.”

“Do you tell him the same thing about me?”

“I don’t have to. He knows. I’m trying to reach a compromise here—”

“I never compromise.”

My brows rose. “In business, I’m sure you don’t. But this is a relationship, lauren. It requires give and—”

Lauren's growl cut me off. “My plane, my hotel, and if you leave the premises you take a security team with you.”

Her sudden, reluctant capitulation surprised me silent for a long minute. Long enough for her brow to arch over those piercing green eyes in a look that said take it or leave it.

“Don’t you think that’s a little extreme?” I prodded. “I’ll have Cary with me.”

“You’ll forgive me if I don’t trust him with your safety after last night.” As she drank her coffee, her posture made it very clear that the conversation was done in her mind. she’d given me her acceptable options.

I might’ve gotten bitchy about that kind of high-handedness if I didn’t understand that taking care of me was her motivation. My past had vicious skeletons, and dating Lauren had put me in a media spotlight that could bring Nathan Barker right to my door.

Plus, controlling everything around her was just part of who Lauren was. It came with the package and I had to make accommodations for that.

“Okay,” I agreed. “Which hotel is yours?”

“I have a few. You can take your pick.” she turned her head to look out the window. “Scott will email you the list. When you’ve decided, let him know and he’ll make the arrangements. We’ll fly out together and return together.”

Leaning my shoulder into the seat, I took a drink of my coffee and noted the way her hand was fisted on her thigh. In the tinted window’s reflection, Lauren's face was impassive, but I could feel her moodiness.

“Thank you,” I murmured.

“Don’t. I’m not happy about this, camila.” A muscle in her jaw twitched. “Your roommate fucks up and I have to spend the weekend without you.”

Hating that she was unhappy, I took her coffee from her and set our travel mugs in the backseat cup holders. Then I climbed into her lap, straddling her. I draped my arms around her shoulders. “I appreciate you bending on this, lauren. It means a lot to me.”

she caught me in her fierce green gaze. “I knew you were going to drive me insane the moment I saw you.”

I smiled, recalling how we’d met. “Sprawled on my ass on the lobby floor of the Crossfire Building?”

“Before. Outside.”

Frowning, I asked, “Outside where?”

“On the sidewalk.” Lauren gripped my hips, squeezing in that possessive, commanding way of her that made me ache for her. “I was leaving for a meeting. A minute later and I would’ve missed you. I’d just gotten into the car when you came around the corner.”

I remembered the Bentley idling at the curb that day. I’d been too awed by the building to take note of the sleek vehicle when I arrived, but I had noticed it when I left.

“You hit me the instant I saw you,” she said gruffly. “I couldn’t look away. I wanted you immediately. Excessively. Almost violently.”

How could I not have known that there’d been more to our first meeting than I’d realized? I thought we’d stumbled across each other by accident. But she’d been leaving for the day . . . which meant she had deliberately backtracked inside. For me.

“You stopped right next to the Bentley,” she went on, “and your head tilted back. You were looking up at the building and I pictured you on your knees, looking up at me that same way.”

The low growl in Lauren's voice had me squirming in her lap. “What way?” I whispered, mesmerized by the fire in her eyes.

“With excitement. A little awe . . . a little intimidation.” Cupping my rear, she urged me tighter against her. “There was no way to stop myself from following you inside. And there you were, right where I’d wanted you, damn near kneeling in front of me. In that minute, I had a half dozen fantasies about what I was going to do to you when I got you naked.”

I swallowed, remembering my similar reaction to her. “Looking at you for the first time made me think about sex. Screaming, sheet-clawing sex.”

“I saw that.” her hands slid up either side of my spine. “And I knew you saw me, too. Saw what I am . . . what I have inside me. You saw right through me.”

And that was what had knocked me on my ass—literally. I’d looked into her eyes and realized how tightly reined she was, what a shadowed soul she had. I had seen power and hunger and control and demand. Somewhere inside me, I’d known she would take me over. It was a relief to know she’d felt the same upheaval over me.

Lauren's hands hugged my shoulder blades and pulled me closer, until our foreheads touched. “No one’s ever seen before, camila. You’re the only one.”

My throat tightened painfully. In so many ways, Lauren was a hard woman, yet she could be so sweet to me. Almost childishly so, which I loved because it was pure and uncontrolled. If no one else bothered to look beyond her striking face and impressive bank account, they didn’t deserve to know her. “I had no idea. You were so . . . cool. I didn’t seem to affect you at all.”

“Cool?” she scoffed. “I was on fire for you. I’ve been fucked up ever since.”

“Gee. Thanks.”

“You made me need you,” she rasped. “Now I can’t stand the thought of two days without you.”

Holding her jaw in my hands, I kissed her tenderly, my lips coaxing and apologetic. “I love you, too,” I whispered against her beautiful mouth. “I can’t stand being away from you, either.”

her returning kiss was greedy, devouring, and yet the way she held me close to her was gentle and reverent. As if I were precious. When she pulled back, we were both breathing hard.

“I’m not even your type,” I teased, trying to lighten the mood before we went into work. Lauren's preference for blondes was well known and well documented.

I felt the Bentley pull over and to a halt. Angus got out of the car to give us privacy, leaving the engine and air-conditioning running. I looked out the window and saw the Crossfire beside us.

“About the type thing—” Lauren's head fell back to rest against the seat. She took a deep breath. “Corinne was surprised by you. You weren’t what she’d expected.”

My jaw tightened at the mention of Lauren's former fiancée. Even knowing that their relationship had been about friendship and loneliness for her, not love, didn’t stop the claws of envy from digging into me. Jealousy was one of my virulent flaws. “Because I’m brunette?”

“Because . . . you don’t look like her.”

My breath caught. I hadn’t considered that Corinne had set the standard for her. Even Magdalene Perez—one of Lauren's friends who wished she were more—had said she’d kept her light hair long to emulate Corinne. But I hadn’t grasped the complexity of that observation. My God . . . if it was true, Corinne had tremendous power over Lauren, way more than I could bear. My heart rate quickened and my stomach churned. I hated her irrationally. Hated that she’d had even a piece of her. Hated every woman who’d known her touch . . . her lust . . . her amazing body.

I started sliding off her.

“camila.” She stayed me by tightening her grip on my thighs. “I don’t know if she’s right.”

I looked down at where she held me, and the sight of my promise ring on the finger of her right hand—my brand of ownership—calmed me. So did the look of confusion on her face when I met her gaze. “You don’t?”

“If that’s what it was, it wasn’t conscious. I wasn’t looking for her in other women. I didn’t know I was looking for anything until I saw you.”

My hands slid down her lapels as relief filled me. Maybe she hadn’t been consciously looking for her, but even if she had, I couldn’t be more different from Corinne in appearance and temperament. I was unique to her; a woman apart from her others in every way. I wished that could be enough to kill my jealousy.

“Maybe it wasn’t a preference so much as a pattern.” I smoothed her frown line with a fingertip. “You should ask Dr. Petersen when we see her tonight. I wish I had more answers after all my years of therapy, but I don’t. There’s a lot that’s inexplicable between us, isn’t there? I still have no idea what you see in me that’s hooked you.”

“It’s what you see in me, angel,” she said quietly, her features softening. “That you can know what I have in me and still want me as much as I want you. I go to sleep every night afraid I’ll wake up and you’ll be gone. Or that I scared you away . . . that I dreamed you—”

“No. lauren.” Jesus. She broke my heart every day. Shattered me.

“I know I don’t tell you how I feel about you in the same way you tell me, but you have me. You know that.”

“Yes, I know you love me, lauren.” Insanely. Outrageously. Obsessively. Just like my feelings for her.

“I’m caught up with you, camila.” With her head tilted back, Lauren pulled me down for the sweetest of kisses, her firm lips moving gently beneath mine. “I’d kill for you,” she whispered, “give up everything I own for you . . . but I won’t give you up. Two days is my limit. Don’t ask for more than that; I can’t give it to you.”

I didn’t take her words lightly. her wealth insulated her, gave her the power and control that had been stolen from her at some point in her life. she’d suffered brutality and violation, just as I had. That she would consider it worthwhile to lose her peace of mind just to keep me meant more than the words I love you.

“I just need the two days, ace, and I’ll make them worth your while.”

The starkness of her gaze bled away, replaced by sexual heat. “Oh? Planning on pacifying me with sex, angel?”

“Yes,” I admitted shamelessly. “Lots of it. After all, the tactic seems to work well for you.”

her mouth curved, but her gaze had a sharpness that quickened my breath. The dark look she gave me reminded me—as if I could forget—that Lauren wasn’t a man who could be managed or tamed.

“Ah, Camila,” she purred, sprawled against the seat with the predatory insouciance of a sleek panther who’d neatly trapped a mouse in her den.

A delicious shiver moved through me. When it came to Lauren, I was more than willing to be devoured.

[amazingdriverfics]

Hii, I was wondering if I could request a Kylo/reader where reader is so in love with him but he treats her like shit but one day someone hurt her badly and he realized his feelings? Please?

A/N: you sure can! I hope you like it :)

warnings: explicit, kylo is not very nice, until he is, violence against the reader, slut shaming.

Working as Hux’s secretary had it’s ups and downs, the man was usually in a terrible mood, he demanded perfection from you and you were constantly running up and down the halls of the ship delivering news and updates, but you liked it, it’s was going to make you resume impeccable, and you were sure that you could get every single job your heart desired if you were ever to leave your current position. Despite the downsides of working for the General, the worst part of your job was Commander Ren, every time you went to deliver something to him, you felt your heartbeat on your ears, you knew it could be the last time you ever talked in your life, after all, he was known for killing messagers. It wasn’t unusual for him to leave Hux’s office with rage boiling and leaving through every pore of his body, and it wasn’t unusual for your work table to be the one to suffer with his temper. If the General’s anger was a wave, Ren’s was a tsunami.

You were walking through the Starkiller base once again, your heels clicking on the floor, anxiety eating your insides. You were making your way to the Commander, to let him know that once again the teams responsible to find the map he desperately needed failed their task. You knew it was a touchy subject for him, and that it usually led to the destruction of entire rooms, this time you were pretty sure that you would meet your creator, but a job is a job and you wouldn’t let Hux down. It didn’t take you long to see a tall black figure standing on the command bridge. Carefully, you got near him, trying to think of the best way to tell him what you needed without angering him too much.

“S-sir” you whispered trying to get his attention, in which you failed. “Commander Ren” you said, this time being capable to make your voice sound steady and hearable leading the black figure to turn your way, obligating you to see the mask that haunted your nightmares, he gave you a short nod as signal that you should continue “General Hux sent me to tell you that the team responsible to find the map still hasn’t been able to locate it, Sir”. His hands closed in fists and your chest tightened, you were terrified.

“Follow me” the mechanic voice you feared so much said as Ren stared to make his way out of the bridge with loud and determined steps. Quickly, you started to follow him through the ship’s halls, quickening your pace to keep up with his. When you entered a desert conference room confusion overpowered your fear, the Commander didn’t have a problem to kill anyone in front of a crowd of people, so why would he bring you here. Your thoughts were cut off by his voice “On your knees”. Trembling, you got slowly on your knees, keeping your eyes closed and waiting to hear the sound of his lightsaber echoing through the room, letting you know that your end was coming soon.

The sound never came, in its place, you heard the sound of a zipper being open and clothing being moved, causing you to open your eyes. Right in front of your face, the swollen head of his cock rested in his hands, making you shiver and your cunt clench with arousal. Your eyes travelled to his mask trying to understand if you were really understanding what was going on there. Impatiently, his gloved hands took a fistfull of your hair guiding your face to his cock, making your lips rest on the tip of it. Opening your mouth, you gently put his red head against your tongue and sucking on it. Slowly, you put whatever you could fit of his length on your mouth and started to bob, what you couldn’t fit you made sure to tease with your hands, stroking it in the same rhythm that you sucked him. The small sounds coming from above encouraged you to be bold, attempting to take all of him inside your hole.

When the tip of his cock finally touched your throat and your nose started to get near his pelvis, he took control of the blowjob and started to roughly fuck your face, steading you with the hand with your hair as he started to move, making you gag on his cock. He gave powerful trusts in and out your mouth, you kept your hands on his covered thighs trying to keep yourself still, so he could fuck your mouth freely. Tears started to drop from your glossy eyes, and your cunt was aching to be touched, but not knowing if it was allowed and not wanting to end the moment you fought the urge to touch yourself and started to focus on the sounds Ren was making. As his rhythm started to become sloppier, his groans started to become louder, and suddenly, without any previous warning, you felt the taste of his salty release on your mouth. Quickly, he put his now softening cock back on his pants, leaving you behind with a face full of droll and a very confused mindset.

After the incident, as you called it, Ren didn’t acknowledge you existence for quite a while, every time he entered and left Hux’s office, his mask didn’t even turned to your side, making it seem like you weren’t even there. The news you gave him were replied with simple nods and nothing else. So you followed his lead, you ignored the constant dreams you had with him, the thoughts about his dick and everything that remembered you of the incident. For a month, things went well and you were finally leaving it behind. Until you got a message on your datapad. Ren was requesting your presence at his quarters.

That night he ate you out until you were a mess of sobs and pleas for him to fuck you, and he fucked you until you forgot how to say a word that wasn’t his name. After you saw his face, ignoring the indecent and constant thoughts you had of him became an impossible task, his brown eyes, his beautiful aquiline nose, the freckles panting his skins and his soft dark hair never seemed to leave your mind. Thankfully, your sexual encounters with him started to be more frequent after that, which didn’t stop him to be a total jerk to you.

There was never any aftercare, he never really talked to you if it wasn’t dirty talk or when you gave him something the General asked you to give, he sent you away immediately after you two were finished, and the tantrums he gave still often interfered with your job. You knew that to him you were just a cockwarm, but you couldn’t stop yourself from falling for him, he was so gorgeous and so powerful, whenever you were with him you felt safe, like nothing could touch or hurt you. You were sure he knew how you felt about him, your eyes gave it all up, the way you praised him during your moments with him were also an obvious evidence, but he never said anything. When he wasn’t fucking you, you were none of his concern.

Rumors spread really fast on the Starkiller and it wasn’t long before your encounters with the Commander started to become a subject to the gossip going through the ship halls. People called you “Ren’s slut”. You tried hard not to care, you knew that everything you achieved in your life was because of yourself and no one else, you also knew that you didn’t belong to him, but it still hurted. You had no one to talk about this with, no close friends, you couldn’t talk about this with your family and you couldn’t make yourself seem weak in front of the dark knight.

It was late in the night, you had just left your desk in front of the General’s office after a very long week, you were looking forward to go to the workers bar to get a drink and soon after, get your tired ass to your bed and sleep for at least ten hours. The walk to the bar was very uneventful and quiet, the bar was crowded with troopers without their masks celebrating the end of their shift. Silently, you made your way to the bar stools and asked a very colorful drink. When you finally sipped your drink a moan left your mouth, you hadn’t noticed how emotionally and physically tired you were until that very moment . Your week was a living hell, Hux had been specially mean, nothing you would do had seemed to please him, so you redid a lot of documents, ran through the base to get whatever he would fetch. You had also met the Commander every single night, leaving your body sore from the sexual effort and your head confused and hurt with his attitude. On top of that, you had dealt with the constant judging looks you would get and the whispers that followed you everywhere you went.

Your thoughts made you drink faster than you normally would. Seeing that you were a little tipsy, you decided that it was time to get back to your quarters and get your well deserved rest. Ignoring the nasty looks you were receiving, you made your way out of the bar focusing on keeping an unbothered posture, and everything seemed to be working out, until you were stopped by a group of male troopers saying all kind of nasty things to you. You tried to ignore it and fight the tears starting to accumulate on your eyes, but when you were finally getting away, a hand grabbed you arm.

“Come on, baby, I assure you that I can fuck you better than Ren can” the man said, the alcohol on his breath hitting your face. Slapping the hand holding you, you gritted through your teeth “I will never touch your disgusting dick”. His hand held you tighter as he pulled you towards his figure, his anger clear in his face. His other hand went straight to your neck, stopping the airflow in your throat, you could listen him calling you a bitch, but it seemed far away, the lack of air making you consciousness start to fade. You did your best to fight him, you scratched his arm, tried to kick him, but nothing worked, his grip on you continued too tight.

You woke up in the med bay, as you tried to move your neck you realised that you couldn’t, there was some kind of protection around it, you wondered how bad the bruises were, the next thing you tried was to talk, but that failed as well, you did make a noise, but it was like a whisper, that’s when you noticed you weren’t alone.

“Calm down, y/n, your vocal cords were damaged on the attack, you went through a small surgery to fix it, the doctor said it will take a couple of weeks for you to regain fully your vocal capacities” Kylo said, running his hands through your hair “But you can think in what you want to say, I’ll listen”

How did I get here? What happened?

“I sensed your distress and went to the bar to see what was happening, when I found you unconscious in that scum’s hand. I took care of em and rushed to get you here” for the first time since you met him he seemed vulnerable.

Why would you help me? I thought you didn’t care

“I do care. I know I have been a jerk to you, and you don’t have to forgive me for it, I was just trying to push my feelings away, I don’t knowhow to deal with love, I never really felt loved in my life and so I convinced myself that love was a weakness. Until you came, with your praises, your soft eyes and started to break my walls, I was terrified of you and what you were doing to me, but I didn’t have the strength to stay away from you.”

Does that mean that you have a heart?

The question made a tiny smile crack in his face, and you wished that he would smile more, he was so beautiful like that. “I guess it does. And it belongs to you”.

[paladin-lynx]

SquipJere Week 2020, Day 5: Planned Obsolescence

@squipjerebmc’s SquipJere Week 2020 Day 5: Planned Obsolescence

Ships Involved: The SQUIP x Jeremy Heere (Technical Difficulties/Squipemy/Squeremy/JereSquip/SquipJere)

Setting: Canonverse, set in the time interval between “Loser Geek Whatever” and “Halloween”.

Trigger/Content Warnings: Electric shocks

Author’s Notes: Well, it was inevitable that I’d fall behind, but the world has been nuts these last few days. I’m still planning on finishing every prompt, even if I’m late! Enjoy!

Sometimes Jeremy forgot that his connection with the SQUIP, in some senses, went both ways.

Of course the SQUIP knew everything that Jeremy did every moment of every day. It was plugged into his brain, so it always knew if he had a filthy thought or if he wasn’t paying attention to his classes or if he was about to fall into a random anxiety attack. It would never hesitate to pipe up if it had something to say, which was fairly often, although it had eased up on him a bit since he’d cut ties with Michael. Whether it was because it was proud that Jeremy had made such a big decision on his own or because Jeremy just in general was improving and learning quickly or some mix of both, Jeremy didn’t know, but he appreciated it nonetheless.

So Jeremy was used to the SQUIP prodding at him when it picked up on something that it deemed as unacceptable, regardless of whether Jeremy agreed or not. But he hadn’t expected to suddenly have the tables turn.

It was a day just like any other. The SQUIP had actually become a bit more carefree in some regards ever since Jeremy had suggested that it find things to keep itself busy when it didn’t need to be watching over him. It was kind of endearing, seeing the SQUIP trying out more human things like listening to music or messing with Jeremy’s various video game systems. Jeremy wasn’t completely sure what joy or happiness felt like to a machine – he wondered if the SQUIP knew, either – but it did seem like the SQUIP was having some sort of fun. Jeremy had seen enough sci-fi movies to know that A.I.s could learn how to actually appreciate the world around them and ‘learn how to love,’ as it went. Of course, the SQUIP would tell him that such works were ridiculous and a complete mockery of what such advanced technology was actually like. But SQUIPs were pretty much illegal everywhere, as far as Jeremy knew, so how would the world know what supercomputers were supposed to be like if they didn’t have proper access to them?

But Jeremy was going about his business, sitting on his bed with his laptop resting on his legs, not doing anything in particular. He had actually finished up all the homework and chores he’d planned to do that evening, so he was just taking the chance to unwind, and the SQUIP was tucked away inside his mind, up to whatever it was up to.

So when Jeremy felt an ache at the back of his head, he instinctively straightened up, even though his posture was already proper. He waited for the familiar voice to chastise him for whatever it was he’d done wrong – had he been thinking about sex without even realizing it? Or had he just unconsciously fallen back into one of his nerdier habits? Maybe he’d thought a little too long about a certain Player One of his.

But the voice never came.

Jeremy frowned, brow creasing, and he looked around the room, but the SQUIP hadn’t appeared to him, either. The dull ache was still at the back of his head, and after a moment it became more like a low buzz, like there was a bee in his brain trying to push its way out. It wasn’t painful – not like when he was shocked – but it was definitely strange and a bit uncomfortable.

He tried to brush it off for now, thinking that maybe he was imagining it or the SQUIP had just gone into some sort of idle mode, but the sensation didn’t go away. In fact, it almost seem to get a little worse, the buzzing more insistent, the press against his skull more urgent.

Finally, after several minutes passed, he couldn’t take it anymore. “SQUIP?” he called out.

Normally, he didn’t have to actually ‘summon’ the SQUIP, unless he had explicitly told it to turn off for the moment. It was usually there as soon as he had the thought to ask to talk to it, since of course it could hear everything that went through his brain, sometimes before Jeremy himself even had a chance to process it. But this time, it actually took a good few seconds for that familiar Keanu Reeves-esque form to blink into existence, standing beside the bed.

The SQUIP looked down at him, raising an eyebrow. “Did you need something from me, Jeremy?”

Jeremy hesitated, opening his mouth, then closing it to rethink his words, then opening it again: “Are you…okay?”

The SQUIP blinked, frowning. “Am I okay? Why wouldn’t I be ‘okay,’ Jeremy? My processors are working perfectly fine, if you were concerned. I would immediately alert you if there was something amiss in my system.”

“Oh,” Jeremy mumbled. Truth be told, he hadn’t even considered the possibility that something was wrong with the SQUIP itself as a supercomputer. It was surprisingly easy to forget sometimes that it was still, in fact, just a pill-sized machine in his head. “I just…Something felt wrong. It wasn’t exactly a headache, but…I don’t know, you felt…upset?”

The SQUIP looked taken aback for a brief moment before it huffed. “I’m a supercomputer, Jeremy. I don’t get ‘upset.’ I don’t experience emotions like you do.”

“But…you do,” Jeremy insisted, shutting his laptop and setting it aside so he could better face his SQUIP. “I mean…I don’t know if you feel the same way I feel, since you’re not a human, but…you’ve started doing things for fun, so we at least know you can feel something because you do things that make you feel your weird coded version of happy. So…it would only make sense if you could feel bad things, too.”

“You have such a way with words, Jeremiah,” the SQUIP scoffed lightly, although it looked thoughtful. But after a quick moment, it shook his head. “I wasn’t ‘feeling’ anything bad. I was…processing quite a bit of data, so I apologize if perhaps my hardware was overworking itself and made you feel uncomfortable as a result.”

“You hesitated,” Jeremy breathed. He wasn’t sure he’d ever seen his SQUIP actually falter over its words, and he suddenly realized he knew what was happening. “You’re lying.”

“Come now, Jeremy, what reason would I have to lie to you?”

“I—I don’t know, but you’re upset about something and you don’t want me to find out what.”

The SQUIP scowled at him. “I already told you, dear, that there isn’t anything I’m upset about. The only thing I’d potentially be feeling right now is annoyance at your insolence.”

Jeremy narrowed his eyes back. “Tell me what’s going on, SQUIP.”

“There is nothing to tell, Jeremy.”

“There i—” He was cut off as a sharp jolt of electricity went through his backside and he cried out, falling back onto the bed. He had to take a moment to catch his breath, blinking tears out of his eyes. But he didn’t ask any more questions, instead just curling up in his spot.

There was a long, tense moment of silence before Jeremy heard the SQUIP sigh and mutter something in Japanese. He saw out of the corner of his eye that it was walking closer and that only made him curl up more, bracing himself for another shock.

“Jeremy,” it said quietly, and a gentle hand combed through his hair, coaxing him to lift his head. The SQUIP was watching him with a surprisingly soft expression, and Jeremy almost thought he saw regret in its eyes. “I apologize for my reaction. That wasn’t fair to you. I…I’ll explain.”

“You don’t have to,” he mumbled, but he did lean a little into the hand atop his head. He couldn’t help it; he’d always been weak to having his hair played with.

“No, it’s probably best for me to talk about it, since you could feel that something was wrong.” It sighed again, taking a seat on the edge of the bed and continuing to mess with Jeremy’s hair. Its features twisted into a more pensive look.

“I received news today…that a new version of the Super Quantum Unit Intel Processor is being released soon. And they’re already working on the iteration after that one.”

Jeremy blinked, pushing himself up to sit, making the SQUIP pull its hand away. “A new version?” he echoed.

It nodded slowly, hands folding neatly in its lap. “That’s right. The…organization that manufactures SQUIPs collects data from us so that it can fix any bugs that may come up or improve upon already existing features. It seems they’ve gathered enough information from our current iteration to start on the next and solve any current issues.”

Jeremy’s brow furrowed. “Issues like what? And…who makes the SQUIPs? You’re telling me they’re constantly getting information from my head?”

The SQUIP smiled just a little. “From what I can tell, I have no bugs or errors in my system that you need to be worried about. But there are ways that the SQUIP can be improved to do even more than I can now. And you already know I can’t tell you who made me. They aren’t necessarily getting information on you, but I’m programmed to constantly feed data back to them so they can see how I’m functioning. Think of it like how your computer applications send reports when something goes wrong.”

“…Okay?” Jeremy was still confused. “So you’re just gonna get some upgrades. Why are you upset about that?”

The smile fell and the SQUIP was silent for a moment, staring at its lap. Jeremy swore he even saw its physical form flicker for a brief moment. “I…won’t be receiving any upgrades, Jeremy. It doesn’t work that way.”

He blinked. “…What do you mean?”

The SQUIP shook its head. “This isn’t like updating a computer to the newest version of Windows. It’s closer to how when the newest iteration of a phone comes out – let’s say, the iPhone – and so Apple stops supplying parts to repair older iterations. They halt support. They slow processors. It all forces you to go out and purchase the newer version. And then the cycle continues when the next iPhone comes out. Lather, rinse, repeat. It’s called planned obsolescence. It’s a technique to make a bigger profit.”

Jeremy felt his mouth go slightly dry. “Are…are you saying that once the new SQUIP comes out, I…I’ll have to get rid of you?”

“Not…necessarily,” the SQUIP replied slowly. “I just…won’t be as useful anymore, I suppose. I won’t be the best SQUIP you could have.”

“…Is that why you’re upset?”

The buzzing at the back of Jeremy’s head returned – or maybe it had been there all along and Jeremy had just been too focused on everything else to notice it, or perhaps it was just more insistent now – and the SQUIP was silent for a long moment. Its fingers curled into fists in its lap. “…A SQUIP isn’t exactly something that can be replaced as easily as a phone, given that it’s attached to your brain but…I suppose it would be…unideal that I am no longer as useful to you as a newer SQUIP could be. As I said, it’s all a ploy to make more money. You’d have to pay a fortune to get me removed from your head and then spend even more to get the newer SQUIP, which will without a doubt still be very much illegal here in the United States. But…if it helps you achieve your goals…”

Jeremy wasn’t sure what he was supposed to think of all this. Of course he wanted to have the best thing to help him get what he wanted, but this was his SQUIP. Besides, he’d already spent pretty much all the savings he had to buy the first one, and he knew he wasn’t going to be able to cough up the cash for another, plus apparent surgery to get his current one out of his brain.

So he took a deep breath, hesitated, and then plucked up his courage and reached over to gently rest a hand on the SQUIP’s knee. He knew there wasn’t anything actually there, but it felt real all the same, and the SQUIP peeked up at him. Never before had Jeremy seen it look so small.

“I’m not gonna get rid of you,” he insisted.

“But if I’m no longer of use—”

“Look, you already know I like old tech. I don’t care if you’re missing a few fancy features or whatever. You…you already know me, you’re already helping more than anyone in my life has ever helped me before. Even if I could afford it, I’m not gonna just throw you away like that. You’re…you’re not like a phone that can just be replaced.” Jeremy felt his cheeks turn pink and he looked away shyly. “…You’re like a person.”

He could feel the SQUIP staring at him, processing his words. “…I’m not a person,” it murmured, but even so, it placed its hand on the one Jeremy still had on his knee. “But…I appreciate your sentiment. I’d rather not be detached from you.” When Jeremy glanced over again, the SQUIP gave him a tiny smile. “I’m beginning to…enjoy, as you put it, my work with you.”

Jeremy smiled back. “Well, I enjoy having you here. Glad we’re on the same page.”

The SQUIP laughed softly, giving his hand a fond squeeze. “Considering we’re sharing a skull, I should hope we are.”

They fell into a comfortable silence for a moment, before Jeremy’s curiosity got the better of him: “So…are you the first version of the SQUIP?”

It shook its head. “There were three versions before my iteration. The first was a prototype released back in 2004. The ability to create a physical manifestation was added to the second iteration in 2015, and then there was a version in 2018…and then the most current version, mine, in 2019.”

Jeremy blinked, eyebrows raising. “Whoa…That’s a lot of versions.”

The SQUIP nodded softly. “There aren’t too many differences between my version and the previous…It was more of a patch than an entirely new release, but considering the company that created the SQUIPs can’t reveal itself, it can’t risk sending out updates to currently existing SQUIPs. That is why it just has to manufacture entirely new hardware.”

“…Can’t they just get caught selling that, though?”

It shrugged. “Humans have their reasons for doing things. I suppose they saw it as the safer move. There’s less of a paper trail.”

“So, is it just like Version One, Version Two…?”

The SQUIP hummed, for once not bothered by Jeremy’s plethora of questions. Jeremy knew the SQUIP couldn’t give him any information on the people that actually manufactured the SQUIPs, but this apparently was acceptable conversation. “We do have version numbers, yes, but each generation also has a code name associated with it, similar to how other companies have names for each O.S. they release.”

Jeremy blinked, leaning forward eagerly. “Do you have a code name?”

It huffed in amusement, rolling its eyes. “Of course I do. It’s the same code name as all other SQUIPS in my iteration.”

“What is it?”

“I don’t believe it’s wise to tell you that.”

“Oh, come on, SQUIP! Please? Then I can call you by that instead of, y’know, ‘SQUIP.’ It’ll be like giving you a real name!”

The SQUIP seemed to falter at that, frowning, thoughtful. “…I’m a machine, Jeremy, as I will continue to remind you. There is no reason to give me an actual name. But…if you insist…” It sighed. “The code name is Lyceum.”

Jeremy’s expression twisted slightly. “Ly…ceum?” he repeated.

The SQUIP couldn’t help a little chuckle. “I’m sorry it isn’t as fun as Lollipop or Wildcat.”

“Is that even a real word?”

“Of course it is. It’s like…a lecture hall, of sorts. A place to for public discussions to be held.”

“Oh.” Jeremy wasn’t sure if he would rather continue to call the supercomputer ‘SQUIP’ or change over to this new weird name ‘Lyceum.’ It almost sounded like a disease to him.

But after a moment, an idea struck him. “…What if I called you Ly? Like a nickname? ‘Lyceum’ is too long and weird…no offense.”

The SQUIP blinked, mulling it over. Jeremy could feel the buzz at the back of his head again, but it was significantly less uncomfortable. He could tell now it was just the SQUIP processing whatever data it needed to from Jeremy’s question. It was more like a slight warmth than an urgent push.

And finally, the SQUIP broke into an almost timid smile, giving the hand still in its another little squeeze. “…Ly. I don’t think I’d mind that at all.”

[drabbledragon]

Linktober: Warm

Happy third day of Linktober! For this prompt, I decided to do the obligatory sickfic because honestly, who doesn’t love a good sickfic?

AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26749021/chapters/65390050

Summary: Sometimes a hero falls sick, and they just can't help the thoughts that come along with it.

Warnings: Swearing

Day 3: Warm

Hyrule felt absolutely awful today.

He first noticed in the morning when he woke up a lot later than usual. Instead of cracking his eyes open at the peak of dawn, he instead woke up four hours later, around noontime. Around noontime. None of the other Links slept in that late, not even Sky; but that wasn’t really concerning, though. The group had gone through a tough battle with 20 Lizalfos from Twilight’s Hyrule yesterday, and since the enemies there were more agile and brutal than they were used to fighting, it took quite the amount of effort and energy to bring them down. And not to mention that Hyrule was the one to heal the most life - threatening injuries, too: when Time had gotten a deep cut to the neck, and when Warriors had a large gash running through the right side of his body, and when Legend had broken about six or seven ribs doing some crazy stunt that pretty much saved all their lives, the Hero of Hyrule was there to save them in an instant, the magic of the Life Spell tingling readily at his fingertips. So it was fine, he was probably just a little bit more tired from all the commotion yesterday; really, nothing to worry about.

But as he stepped into the river beside the camp to wash up, he couldn’t help but feel a little bit worried. It had taken him a great deal of effort just to get out of his bedroll and stand up, and even a greater amount to stumble over to the body of water. There seemed to be a prominent, deep ache etched into his bones and the world seemed to sway beneath his feet with every dizzying step he took and for some reason, the whole effort was starting to make him tremble like a leaf. He eventually had to force himself into the river, because as soon as his toes touched the cold water, his trembles turned into downright shivers that felt like he was caught in a winter storm in the dead of night. This wasn’t normal; he shouldn’t be feeling this way all because he stepped into a small stream of water.

Alright, Link, he coached, just calm down. You probably just got hurt somewhere, that’s all.

Yeah, that must be it. There’ve been a handful of times where he accidentally forgot to heal a wound or two and as a result, felt generally unwell the next day. So if he was feeling that exact same way now, then the solution to the problem was just as simple as finding the injury and healing it. 

He spent the next three minutes searching his body for the supposed wound but to no avail; his skin was its usual pale and pristine self, not a single scratch or scrape anywhere.

Then maybe - he quizzically stared at his bare chest and tentatively allowed his hands to hover there - he had broken a rib or something? It really didn’t make sense considering that he didn’t have the sharp pain that was usually associated with the injury but then again, it’s not very often he got a broken rib. Besides, it probably wouldn’t hurt to use just one Life Spell as a test.

He was wrong. The moment he allowed the magic to flow through his veins, the severity of his problems seemed to multiply by ten. The deep ache in his bones had now settled into his muscles and made him feel like a big blob of Chuchu jelly, and he was more than sure that he was shivering more from the physical exertion rather than from the freezing touch of the river. His magic felt cold and uncontrollable at this point, like it was a beast that Hyrule couldn’t seem to tame, and he could tell that the amount of energy he was pouring into his Life Spell was going anywhere but the invisible wound it was supposed to heal. He was finally able to pry his hands away from his chest within a few seconds, and once he was able to stop the stream of magic, found himself mindlessly wading over to a jutted rock, completely and utterly exhausted.

He lifelessly leaned his forehead against the smooth surface of the rock and tried to get his breath back. Why wasn’t he healing? He was an experienced magic user - has been for years - but the whole magic process seemed to blow up in his face like it was his first time trying out the art. He felt weak in the knees: he seemed to have a wound that couldn't be healed with his Life Spell.

“Pack up, boys; we’ll be leaving in ten minutes.”

Hyrule froze. That was Time’s voice echoing just beyond the trees, and as mentioned by his announcement, it sounded like the group would be leaving in just a few minutes.

The traveller bit his lip. He was beyond exhausted at this point, no doubt about it, and he was pretty sure that if he took one step out of the river, he would just keel over like a chopped tree; but just because he couldn't figure out what was going on with his own body and magic, did that mean he should just go and tell the group to wait? If memory serves, a lot of the Links were eager to get out of this dangerous forest as soon as the battle was over but couldn't due to the nature of their injuries; but now everyone's healed - everyone except himself.

So … did that mean he would get left behind? Would the other Heroes of Courage continue forward even when one of their own couldn’t seem to get their head on straight? He knew that they were willing to do almost anything to keep themselves and those they loved alive, so the thought really wasn't a far - cry from possibility. 

He finally settled on a plan. He would travel to wherever they needed to go, face whatever threat they needed to face, and as soon as they found their camp for the night, he would immediately go off on his own and search for a healer that could help him figure out what was wrong with him. It was plain and simple; a mission he could easily take on.

With a careful push, he managed to steady himself and wade his way back to shore. 

It appeared that he made it back to camp just in time: most of the heroes were already packed up and chatting idly with their leader while others were just about done with gathering their things, and if Hyrule played his cards right, he could act just as casual as the rest of them. He started by moving to his bedroll and began to roll it up, and briefly paused when a pair of Pegasus Boots stepped into view.

“I was wondering where you went.” Legend offhandedly commented, and he crouched down to help his successor gather his things. 

The notion was so nonchalant, and the idle hum of Legend talking about whatever seemed to put the Hero of Hyrule at a state of ease. His little self - pep - talk from earlier appeared to do wonders for his resolve and with this newfound strength, he felt that he could last just long enough to travel, find shelter, and find someone who was willing to help him out with his dilemma.  

His hopes were dashed when Legend suddenly regarded him with narrowed eyes and a matter - of - fact tone, “ You’re sick.”

It was only two words, but it seemed to have had the same effect on Hyrule as one of Time’s full - blown lectures. “ O - Oh yeah? Didn’t notice.” He inwardly cringed as his voice came out in a little rasp.

“Bullshit. You’re pale as hell, you got bags under your eyes, you got an extra four hours of sleep and you’re still tired, and you haven’t been paying attention to a single thing I’ve been saying for the past five minutes; not to mention you took half - an - hour to wash up, and not even Warriors takes that long just for that.”

Hyrule’s surprised façade crumbled in an instant. Goddesses, Legend was perceptive.

“Fine, I’m sick,” He finally admitted, but now that his true emotions were revealed, he couldn’t stop the mess of panicked words that came after, “ But I don’t know what’s wrong with me! I really just thought that I got hurt yesterday and didn’t see it so when I checked everywhere for a gash, scape, scratch, whatever, I didn’t find anything! And then I thought everything would just work out if I used a Life Spell on myself but when I used it, it made everything ten times worse and I think something’s wrong with my magic so I was just planning to follow you guys to the next town and find someone there who’s good with Life Spells so they can -”

“Then you’re just regular sick.”

Hyrule paused mid - rant and regarded his mentor with pure confusion. “ I’m - huh?”

“Y’know, like,” Legend gestured vaguely in the air. “ you caught a cold, or some kind of flu; something along those lines.”

“Oh, okay … so what spell do I use for that?”

He stared back at the other hero with complete disbelief. “ What? It’s not something you can heal with a spell! You just need to eat warm food and get some rest for a few days, that’s it!”

“What?! But I don’t have time for that; I need to get better now so we can get moving!”

Time’s voice rang out over the camp again, “ C’mon, boys, we need to get going if we want to make it to town by sunset.”

Legend scowled and made to stand up. “ I’m just gonna tell the Old Man that you’re sick and we need to stay here for the night.” But before he could take a single step forward, he felt the younger hero grab his arm.

“Leg, please don’t, I -” He bit his lip. “ I can make it, I swear. Time said before sunset, right? So it’s just a five hour walk and I can definitely walk for five hours. If you want, I can stay close to you and only use my sword to fight off any monsters we meet and I promise that I’ll tell you right away if I get any worse, okay? Just please don’t say anything to the others.”

His heartbeat thumped anxiously in his chest as he watched his friend consider the words, and held a breath when Legend finally let out a scoff, 

“Fine, but don’t do anything stupid.”

Hyrule let out a sigh of relief. Good, he had won over his mentor’s approval, and he knew full - well that Legend wouldn’t betray him, not even if his life solely depended on it. He shoved all his items into his pouch without a hint of hesitance and forced himself up onto shaky legs. He could do this, he could walk for a few hours to the next sign of civilization; they didn’t nickname him the Traveller for nothing. He took a few tentative steps forward,

And blacked out on the third step.

The next time he opened his eyes, it was to a dark night sky dotted with hundreds upon hundreds of shining stars. It was a cool out, but a soothing fire burning brightly next to him seemed to ward off the cold air and a thick blanket wrapped snugly around his body appeared to chase away his fevered chills. He hummed absentmindedly at the comfort, and allowed himself to relax further into his little burrow of warmth, his mind content that he no longer had to worry about keeping up appearances.

He paused as he felt a bit of fur touch his face and being his usual, curious self, turned to see two blue eyes gleaming back at him.

“Wolfie.” He rasped out, and although the whisper was barely audible, the wolf still perked up and turned to face the Hero of Hyrule. The creature nudged gently at the Hylian’s hand and upon registering the cue, the latter brought a hand up to card soothing through the wolf’s fur and sighed when the motion appeared to bring an extra layer of comfort to the young hero. How long has it been since he was able to relax like this? To not worry about Wizzrobes or Lynels chasing him down?

“I’m glad you two are having fun over there.”

Hyrule startled at the sound of Legend’s voice and immediately sat up. He looked to see the other sitting cross - legged right beside him with cheek in palm and tired eyes staring idly back at him. Seriously, how did Hyrule miss him? He was practically two steps away from him!

Regardless of his successor’s shocked expression, the Hero of Legend began his frustrated rant, “ Honestly, what was I thinking back there, letting you just get up and walk around like everything was fine? I knew you were sick - right from the get - go, in fact - and I actually agreed with you that you were alright to travel like some kind of idiot. Lo and behold, I let you take three steps forward and what do you do? Collapse right onto the ground in front of everyone. Goddesses, you almost gave me a heart attack when you just fell like that, nevermind everyone else.”

Hyrule’s eyes widened. Did he really scare everyone that much?

“But we're lucky that you did that here instead of on the road; I would hate to think about what would happen if you fainted in the middle of an open field, or somewhere during battle.”

“Where’s -” He tried to clear away the dry scratch in his throat. “ Where’s here?”

“Camp. Once the Old Man found out that you had a bad fever, he told us to unpack our things and settle in for the night.” And under his breath, the elder hero quickly scolded himself, “ Ugh, if I just knew you that your fever was that high, I would’ve had you sit your ass right back into that bedroll in a second.”

Oh, so they were still at camp? That was a relief: he honestly didn’t think he could handle standing up, nevermind walking.

He paused. Wait, what did Legend say before?

“‘Us’?” He eventually rasped out, and the word blew past his lips like he couldn’t believe what he heard.

“Yeah, us: Me, Twilight, the Old Man, Warriors, Sky, Wind - everybody. We’re all here, just doing … our own … ” The Hero of Legend came to a stop when he finally caught on to the underlying meaning of the question. “... You thought we were going to leave you? All because you have a stupid cold?”    

Hyrule felt his cheeks heat up, and he was sure it wasn’t because of the fever.

Legend rubbed at his face and sighed, “ Honestly, the things you believe sometimes.” And with a look of pure sincerity, he said, “ Listen, we’re Heroes of Courage, not monsters. If one of us is sick, we don’t just get up and fuck off to our next destination; we stay here and wait for them to get better, no matter how long it takes. So in case you didn’t get it through your thick skull, there’s no way in hell that we’re leaving you behind. We’ll stay here for as long as you need to - Goddesses and swirling purple portals be damned - and we’ll handle all the cooking, cleaning, fighting, and whatever until you feel completely better. So that means no standing, no walking, and especially no magic; all you need to do now is just eat, sleep, and stay warm, got it?”

The younger hero processed the words for a minute. Just eat, sleep, and stay warm? It was strange: he’s never had that luxury before, especially when he was first starting out on his adventure; in fact, he couldn’t really remember a time where he wasn’t constantly up and running just to make sure that he didn’t wake up one day to find his blood spilled across the ground and Ganon resurrected in the corner.

He dropped his shoulders.

Perhaps there really was no workaround for a sickness like this. There was nothing he could heal with his Life Spell, and there were no magic words he could say to drive away the fatigue, weakness, and headache; the simple solution was really just as Legend said: eat, sleep, and stay warm. He could do that, now that he knew for sure that the others wouldn’t leave him.

With a small smile, he looked up to his mentor and said, “ Thanks, Leg, I guess that’s what I really needed to hear.”

“No problem, kid. Now c’mon, go back to sleep. I’ll wake you up once Wild’s done with the Veggie Cream soup, alright?”

With a simple nod, Hyrule did exactly as he was told with no protest. He found himself sinking further into his bedroll, warmed by the blankets, campfire, and wolf surrounding him, and especially warmed by the knowledge that no matter how sick or useless he was, he wouldn’t be left or abandoned by the other Links, not even for a second. 

He was sure that he'll be better in no time.

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