#wow they must have had a crazy shift

[nigellica]

I love the big, ridiculous, dramatic disasters on 9-1-1, but I'd really love to see an episode where they don't go to a single call.

And I don't mean, the focus is elsewhere and we just don't see the calls. I mean they don't get a single call. Like the opposite of the quiet episode.

I want like, Buck climbing the walls, Eddie trying to pretend he isn't also bored out of his mind. Hen trying to be responsible and do responsible things but getting sucked into shenanigans. Bobby suspicious he gets to cook and eat an entire meal. Maybe Chim trying to avoid a conversation with someone and having to find excuses around the station to escape. Or begging Maddie to send them literally any job so he doesn't have to listen to Buck whining (especially when Tommy can barely respond to his texts because he's so busy).

And maybe they get one call and everyone rushes to get ready, gets in the trucks to go and then.... Slowly and sadly reverse back into the shed when they're stood down because another unit is closer.

I want them running out of things to clean, playing stupid games like fuck, marry or kill, doing personality quizzes ('Which animal are you? Buck and Cap both got golden retrievers!'). Just... The levels of stupidity they could get into with nothing else to do.

(And Bobby somehow gets an entire month's worth of paperwork done before he emerges into the disaster that is the firehouse, smoke alarm going off, feathers everywhere for some reason and just the entire 118 looking like guilty puppies)

[cursingtoji]

thinking about the first time toji gets to fuck you in your bedroom surrounded by stuffed animals. he knew you were a girly girl and he absolutely adored that about you, your always glossy lips, pink outfit and short skirts were what made him approach you at first. i’m

being older and making more money than you, toji had a better apartment, a spacious and nice located flat, so the first few encounters were always there until things started to get serious and he asked to go to your place tonight.

toji was far from surprised when you open the door and he was welcomed to a colourful living room and a sweet vanilla smell, he noticed a couple teddy bears by the couch and a few action figures next to the tv, but as soon as you started to make out on the couch you got up and took him by the hand to your bedroom.

“wow” he let it scape when he saw all your plushies, the big ones were in the floor, a bunch on the shelves and a few more in the nightstand, “sweetheart are you sure this is your room and not a 6 year old’s?” he teased and chuckled when you slapped his chest.

“i like them okay? most of it is from those claws machines so it’s not like i spent crazy money on it…”

“oh yeah? and you got all of those in the first try?” he poked your waist as you laid down in your bed.

“well…” no you didn’t “never mind, kiss me please” you pulled him by his shirt and he placed his knee on the bed before hovering you.

“i’m not gonna support this addiction of yours you know” he reached back and pulled his shirt off.

“shut up smoker” you giggled and proceeded to take your clothes off as well.

nights with toji usually escalated very quickly but that night he seemed more distracted and a bit uneasy. when he finally had you on your hands and knees his pace was not as fast as normal, in fact he seemed to be shifting a lot.

“toji? you okay?” you asked looking over your shoulder.

“we’re switching.”

“wha—“ before you could process he had already laid on his back and manhandled you onto his lap, “toji~” you whined.

“be a good girl and ride me” he slapped your ass as he helped you sit on his dick, and how could you deny when he bosses you around like that, “that way i don’t have to see those…” he murmured and slapped away some teddy bears in your nightstand. you stopped your movements and started to laugh.

“wait is that the reason?” you chuckled but one hard trust he gave you made you lose your balance and fall on his chest.

“there must be like a thousand eyes in this bedroom” he said looking around and massaging your waist to relieve his own tension.

“oh come on old man” you teased biting his lobe, “those thousand eyes watch me touch myself every time i think about you and you’re not around” that seemed to be enough to bring the big man back to his usual self. toji placed both his feet on the mattress and proceeded to fuck into you as you got up from chest to find a better position holding onto his flexed knees.

“and who gave you the right to touch my pussy huh?”

suddenly the stuffed animals were not a problem anymore.

[slasherscream]

Wash Day

pairing:  jordan li x fem black!reader

"You wanna go out to dinner tonight? Know I've been busy this week. Feel like I've barely seen you." Jordan mutters against the shell of your ear. You shiver as he gives the skin a teasing kiss.

Already you're pouting, knowing what your answer has to be even though you wish so desperately that you could give a different response. "Wish I could, Jordan. But my night is already spoken for."

You're spun around by a hand on your hip, playful and fast so that you can't stop yourself from falling into his chest. Your hands grip his jacket for balance, and he reaches up to hold one of them with his own. "You got plans? With who? Cate? Cancel them."

"Brat." You laugh.

How demanding Jordan is would be less cute if they ever asked you to do something they themselves wouldn't. As it stands, with the way they do anything you ask at the drop of a hat, all you can do is roll your eyes and pretend to be exasperated instead of smitten.

"Fine, don't cancel. I'll just come with." Jordan sighs, as if seeing his best friend is a great tragedy (Which it is. Cate being there means you'll smack Jordan's hand away when he tries to sneak it up your skirt at dinner.)

"What if we want a girls' night?" You shoot back, grinning.

Jordan shifts. The hands on your waist are smaller now, but pull you in closer, "You're the one who's feeling bratty. Really have been neglecting you this week, huh baby?" Jordan smirks, in that condescending way she does when she realizes you're trying to get a certain reaction out of her.

"The plans aren't with Cate, and they aren't cancellable." You sigh, deciding not to rise to the bait of her tone, smirk, or the little circles she's rubbing into your skin.

"What are these oh so important plans?" Jordan asks.

"Do you know how many white boys have complimented my hair today, Jordan?" You ask.

"Pardon?" Jordan blinks at what seems to be a completely unrelated topic.

"Six! Six white boys complimented my braids today. I'm about to kill myself, if we're being honest. I must looked fucked up, and you didn't even say anything." You pout.

You've been having a bit of a rough day, to say the least.

"You look beautiful. What are you talking about?" Jordan asks, confused but nonetheless, wanting to make you feel better. "If you didn't look good I'd very politely... have Cate tell you. But you look great! You've been getting compliments all day, you just said it yourself!"

"Wow, you'd throw Cate under the bus, huh coward?"

"Cate isn't interested in making out with you every spare second of the day. I am. You can be mad at her. I've got stuff I wanna do." Jordan's grin is downright salacious. You smack her arm, trying not to smile.

"Ah. You are operating under the same delusions of the white man. I see that now, I'll let go of the anger." You say, sighing and kissing Jordan on the cheek.

"First of all, don't you ever fucking insult me like that again.... Second of all, what particular delusion am I sharing with the white man?" Jordan asks.

"White men only compliment a black woman's hairstyle at two points in time. When it's brand spanking, fresh off the lot new. Or when it's started to look like shit. I've had these braids in for longer than... is your business. So guess which compliment I'm getting right now?"

"I fucking refuse to say your hair looks like shit, and this conversation feels like a trap. You're always beautiful to me." Jordan says.

"Thank you, baby. But we live on a campus where the diversity win photographers lurk around every corner trying to get pictures of 'The Diversity Win Couple' in our most natural state. I need to take out my braids tonight before I talk crazy in the group chat, and Andre sends me a 'this you?' pic that will devastate my argument." You shake your head somberly, already imagining the fate that lies before you.

"You could stop talking crazy in the group chat." Jordan teases.

"You know damn well I'm not capable of that."

The two of you burst into laughter, unable to keep it together. Jordan has always been obsessed with how easy it is for you to make them laugh.

"Is that gonna take up your whole night, though, baby? We don't have to go to dinner early! We'll go wherever you want." Jordan insists, tone bordering on begging.

Whenever they come out of a particularly busy week, they spend the next two weeks glued to you. As if to make up for it. The clinginess is a stark difference from how they acted before you made things official.

"Jordan, look at the braids on my head."

"I'm looking at them."

"Are you seeing them with your eyes?"

"Yes, and my eyes are sending the image to my brain, which I assure you is working. What's your point here, baby?"

"How long do you think it will take me to undo these, detangle my hair, wash it, deep condition it, and then wash it again?"

Jordan squints at you for a long moment, analyzing your hairstyle and the utter displeasure on your face. "I dunno? Maybe... four hours?"

"I should fucking murder you. Just for that, you're helping me with wash day now."

Jordan's face breaks into a grin like sunlight breaking through clouds, "So I do get to spend the day with you, is what you're saying?"

"Yeah, baby, you get to spend the day with me." You click your tongue at them. Pitying them for the ache in their fingers they're about to feel. They complain about curling their God damn hair a couple of times a week. You suspect you'll be ready to kill one another by hour two.

But you also missed them a lot. Or whatever.

"Don't cut too high up, Jordie. " You whine, shifting his grip lower on your braid, to an acceptable cutting length of the hair extension.

"Baby... can I ask you a very serious question right now?" Jordan hums, obediently cutting where you instructed.

"What?" You ask, already starting to unbraid the piece.

"How... long... do you think your hair is?" Jordan, to be fair to him, does ask the question quietly and with the proper amount of hesitation.

"How dare you! Are you calling me bald?" You gasp, stifling a laugh.

"Don't do this to me. You are prolonging the process. We can cut these braids at least four inches higher than what we're doing right now." Jordan says, you can't see his face but you can tell he's also trying not to laugh. Bastard.

"My hair grew!"

"From the top of your head. It did not magically lower itself further into the fucking braid extension." Jordan loses the battle and laughs.

"Jordan Li do not fucking cut off any of my hair or I'll cry and then blow up this school."

"Of course, princess." Jordan kisses the top of your head and gives in to your terrorist demands because you're cute.

"So how am I supposed to do it, baby?" Jordan claps her hands and you smile at how eager she sounds to help.

"You're gonna want to section it off. Do like... eight parts of hair. That'll make literally every step after this easier. Then you're gonna comb the hair from the bottom, 'kay?"

"Got it."

Jordan starts the process of parting your hair, careful and slow. Fingers sectioning off eight chunks of hair that she keeps apart with the silky hair ties you hand her over your shoulder.

"You sure you don't want me to comb it, Jordie?" You ask Jordan.

"I'll be gentle, don't worry. You always say your shoulders hurt at the end of wash day. Which is crazy, because I've seen what you can bench. I've got you, baby." She spritzes extra detangler spray on each of the parts she just made.

You move around slightly, a little sore already from sitting still between her legs for so long, but smiling to yourself nonetheless. A pillow is suddenly shoved into your face and you lean away, confused.

"Sit on this one instead. It'll be better." Jordan says.

You switch out the pillows and tilt your head back to look at her. "Why're you always right? Is that your kink?"

"No, my kink is bossing you around." Jordan smirks and leans down to give you a kiss. Despite the awkward angle you can't help trying to deepen the contact. The feeling of her soft lips sliding against yours, firm but gentle, is always irresistible.

She hums and gives you a playful nip before pulling away. "Don't start something we can't finish."

"Who says we can't?" You shoot back, staring up at her.

"You will be pissed an hour from now if you glance at your phone and we haven't made any progress." Jordan runs her thumb along your bottom lip before pushing your head forward.

"Who says it will take an hour?"

"I do. If we start, I'm not stopping." Jordan's voice dips seductively and a line of tension runs up the length of your spine.

You smack her thigh for teasing you, "Shut up."

"Is this comfortable?" Jordan frowns, staring at the angle your head has to be at to fit in the bowl of the sink.

"No, but this is the best angle this chair can get me to." You say. Usually you just wash in the shower, but since Jordan is helping the sink makes more sense.

Jordan stands, scowling at how uncomfortable you seem. Suddenly he grins, "Baby! Make a chair with your shields. Something that leans."

You were getting a lot better with being able to make complex shapes, with less concentration. You stand up from the chair you'd dragged from the common room. Jordan pulls it out of the way and gives you an encouraging thumbs up.

It takes you a minute, but you conjure a shield that resembles a salon chair and the both of you let out identical cries of delight.

Jordan pushes you to sit down with a kiss on your forehead. "That's my fucking girl. Tell me if the temperature is too hot."

Jordan washes your hair with the perfect amount of pressure and thoroughness. He's nearly rhythmic in his methodical cleaning. You didn't realize your eyes had fluttered closed until you hear him laugh. You open one eye to glare at him playfully, knowing he won't get soap in them.

"What's so funny?"

"You're like a cat. You gonna purr for me, baby?" He smirks.

"If you keep going like that, yeah. Or I'll fall asleep. Please don't make me fall asleep. I'll fall on my ass." You say.

"I'll endeavor to make the rest of the wash as unpleasant as possible."

He does not do that. And at one point you do fall asleep. Jordan catches you before you can actually fall. 'Thank God for Supe reflexes', you both think. You spend the rest of the wash with your eyes wide open and Jordan laughing at you.

"Did we put too much?" Jordan asks, dabbing at another drip of oil and conditioner down your brow.

"No, this is typical. The hair has to be saturated. It's dripping because the oil is you know... getting hot and even more liquid-y." You say, eyeing the episode of Property Brother's you'd both decided on. "Hm. I think that woman should be put to death."

Jordan was keeping vigilant about dabbing at the sides of your face. You'd been in charge of one side, at first. But Jordan seemed to have a sixth sense for when the other side was dripping as well, and kept interrupting you before you could get to any trickles of oil. You'd given up and just started narrating the show for her as she wasn't taking her eyes off the line of your brow.

"Why? What did she do?" Jordan dabs again.

"She wants to put up a fence that blocks the view of the historical house that she did not have to buy if she wanted a fence so bad." You roll your eyes.

"Is the city gonna let her?"

"No."

"Haha. 500k down the drain." Jordan cackles.

"Anti-gentrification win!" You hold out your fist for a fist-bump and Jordan obediently obliges, oil soaked rag still held in her fist.

A comfortable silence falls over you two, besides the noise of the portable hair dryer.

"I really think we put too much, baby." Jordan mutters, dabbing again.

"I have been doing this since I was twelve, Jordan!"

"Play the video again, one speed slower this time." Jordan's eyes are glued to your phone.

You're sitting between his legs again, cushioned by the (superior) pillow of his choosing. You were trying to decide on a simple hair style when Jordan saw a picture of Mini Twists and got excited to see you in them.

("You've already seen me in mini twists, Jordie. What are you talking about?"

"You weren't my girlfriend the last time you wore them though! Now you are, and I get to look at you as much as I want."

So that had decided that.)

"Okay, I think I got it. 'M gonna start with a braid base, without making the parts too big, then start twisting the hair with two strands, and that will make it last longer, right?"

"Right." You smile at how focused Jordan sounds.

They're hot when they're in the zone. You just didn't think they'd get so into helping you with your hair. But you should have known, really. Acts of service paired with their inner perfectionist? You're completely relaxed at this point. You know Jordan won't have you walking out of your room looking crazy, come hell or high water.

"Is this okay?" Jordan shows you a picture of the back of your head, three rows of twists done.

You gasp, snatching the phone, "That's my head?"

"Uh... yes?" Jordan answers slowly.

"The back of my head? The head on my body?"

"Should I start over?"

"Fuck you! These are almost better than mine. Who's hair are you playing around in when I'm not here, Jordan LI?"

"Stop using my fucking government name." Jordan tilts your head back to look at him with a gentle grip on your neck, grinning down at you. "You play too fucking much. You sure they're good, princess? It's okay if I need to redo them."

"I'm gonna give you orgasms that will make you lose brain cells."

"Baby!" Jordan laughs, rolling his eyes. "I'm serious. Do any of them need redoing?"

"The first row is really fucking good for a beginner but the second row is damn near perfect." You say.

"I'll redo the first row then." Jordan kisses your temple before moving you to face forward again.

"I said they were good!" You protest.

"But the second row is better. I want the whole thing to look good. Don't want you feeling self conscious cause I fucked up the style, y'know." Jordan mumbles.

You tilt your head back to look at him, ignoring him sucking his teeth (a habit he picked up from you) at you moving.

"I love you, Jordie. Thank you for helping me today." You coo.

You watch his face go red with a grin. He grins back, leaning down to give you a gentle kiss. When he tries to pull away too soon you whine, holding him close by the hair at the nape of his neck.

"Wanna kiss you. You're sweet." You breathe the words against his lips, insistently continuing the caress.

He sighs, smitten, and let's you lead for a moment. Hand finding it's way back to your neck and tightening just enough to make you gasp. Still, he pulls away too quickly.

"I'm gonna fuck you up." You scowl at him.

"The only thing you're gonna fuck up is your neck, brat. This is a horrible angle for you." Jordan's smile is so soft at the edges it's your turn to blush.

"Speak for yourself."

"No, I'm too busy speaking on behalf of your neck."

"Well, I'm speaking on behalf of my-"

"Pussy?"

"I was going to say raging hormones but that's a lot more to the point, yeah. Or maybe I was going to say something romantic. You ever think of that, Jordie? Huh?"

"Were you going to say something romantic?" Jordan hums.

"No."

"Let me do your hair in peace." Jordan turns you forward again with a laugh.

"Turn this way." Jordan instructs, snapping another picture.

"I don't know whether you're worse than an Instagram hair stylist or a Mom." You ponder, words barely audible because your girlfriend is scary.

"Shut up and smile." Jordan scowls.

As if engraved into your genetic code the words make you do just that. You suffer through another 20 pictures being taken before you say enough is enough.

Jordan happily shows you the pictures, as if you hadn't seen yourself in the mirror just a minute ago. Or ever. The grin on her face so wide it looks like it hurts.

"You like it, baby?" Jordan asks again.

"It looks so good, Jordie. It looks like I paid someone honestly."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." You drape your arms around her shoulders. "How's this angle?"

"For what?" Jordan tilts her head to the side, puzzled.

"For kissing. Since you were so worried about the angle before."

Jordan scoffs, but she's the one to pull you in. She doesn't pull away this time.

A/N: i needed reader to have a goofball vibe because i have a goofball vibe. if you enjoyed this fic consider reblogging, leaving a reply, or an anonymous ask saying you enjoyed it! a writers fuel is engagement. xoxoxo

[touyafootfetish]

Runaway Drabble

touya todoroki x reader

summary: after waking up in a strange facility, touya will try anything he can to get back home

warnings: none

no use of y/n - gn!reader

"I have to go back! Please, I need to go home!"

That boy had been asleep since you came to this place. But after three years, he finally woke up. You had heard from the doctors that his name was Touya, but that’s all you knew. Since he got out of bed, he’d been begging the doctors and Sensei to let him go home. Of course, they wouldn’t let him. This place was his home now, just like it was yours.

That boy continued to sulk all day, even after Sensei had left when it was time for bed.

Like you, Touya wasn’t in bed tonight. He was perched on a windowsill, peering out the large window. You could see a distinct seriousness on his face through the reflection. He must really want to leave with a look like that. When you saw him earlier, you didn’t talk to him. No one did since he looked so upset.

You pulled your jacket tight around your body as you made your way over. The stupid thermostat never worked, so it was always cold. You don’t say anything when you climb onto the windowsill with the boy. Touya seems to notice you, but he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t even look at you. You notice staples on either side of his face. He had a ton of burn scars, too.

Were they from his quirk?

“What happened to you, Mr. Sleepy Head?” you ask, sitting with your legs crossed. You’re trying to be quiet since you’d get in trouble if Sensei saw you guys out of bed. He might bring you back to the Dark Room. You hated that room. You’ve been on your best behavior since the last time Sensei took you there.

Since Touya was going on about how he wanted to run away all day, you figured you would warn him about the crazy things that happened here.

“Who cares? It’s not like I’m staying in this place forever,” Touya grumbled. He wrapped his arms tighter around his legs. He was curled up so tight that he looked tiny. Then again, Sensei mentioned Touya was smaller than most boys his age. “I’m going home.”

There he goes again.

Doesn’t he realize that he can’t leave? None of the kids here were allowed to leave, even if they had family waiting for them at home. If they had strong quirks, the man in the Dark Room took them away and brought them here.

Sure, Touya was here before you. Except, he was asleep the whole time. He didn’t know these people like you did. He didn’t know this place like you did.

“You— all of you. You’re all stupid for staying here.” Touya says. “If you all have such great powers, why don’t you fight and run away?” he asked. He didn’t wait for an answer. He turned to you, holding out his hand. A bright blue flame appeared in the palm of his hand.

Your eyes widened as the hot flame warmed the air around you. You hadn’t seen anything like it before, and you were mesmerized. You’ve never seen a fire quirk with blue flames.

“Wow, you’re incredible, Touya!” you quietly exclaim. “Did you get training before they brought you here? Your flame is so strong,” Touya grinned and nodded before his flame disappeared. Before he came here, he was probably still in junior high. Too young to be in any kind of hero course. “Who trained you?”

“Hm, my dad taught me. He’s the pro hero Endeavor.” Touya shifted so he sat criss-crossed like you.

He had this proud smirk on his face. His old man is the number two hero, after all. After a while, his expression became sad.

“I have to get home, you know? I still need him to train me. I’m going to be a powerful hero, just like him.”

“But how? You know Sensei won’t let you leave. Most of us have given up on getting away,” you sighed. You shut your eyes, leaning against the cold glass behind you. “And I like you, so I don’t want them to punish you for trying anything dumb,” you say.

“So what! Didn’t you see my flame just now? I’m probably the strongest one here, idiot!”

You open your eyes to glare at him. “Shush, Touya! Someone might hear you.” Touya rolled his eyes at your words. “You’re the idiot for thinking’s like that,” you tell him. “You’ll get yourself killed.”

“Nuh-uh! Come on, don’t you think it’s worth a shot? I bet we could escape this— this prison.” Touya says. He looks at you and starts jabbing your forehead with his finger.

“Hey. Let’s runaway from here. Just us, okay?”

WC: 789

[girls-alias]

Have A Little Faith - Dean Winchester P3

Title: Have A Little Faith - Dean Winchester Part 3

Words:

Relations: Dean Winchester X Reader

TW: SPOILERS S1E12

Prompt:

Follows Faith Episode. Season 1 Episode 12.

Part 2

I pulled up to the motel and helped Dean to the door of Sammy's room. He knocked before Sammy opened it and let us in. "What the hell are you doing here?" Sammy asked, happy to see Dean again. He even smiled at me as I helped Dean take a seat.

"I checked myself out, I checked her out too," Dean replied trying to seem tough.

"You've been doing that since we met," I chuckled making Dean smile.

"Are you crazy?" Sammy asked Dean showing his concern.

"I'm not going to die in a hospital when I can just bring my hot nurse with me," He gestured to me making me scoff.

"You know this whole 'I laugh in the face of death thing, It's crap, I can see right through it," Sammy added making me smirk.

"Yeah whatever dude," Dean shrugged him off.

"Alright, so I guess I should be going." I piped up.

"Wow, wow wow." Dean stopped me. "Your shift isn't over, you're still my nurse," Dean smirked at me.

"I'm not your nurse," I rolled my eyes with a laugh.

"Would you like to be?" He added suggestively making me laugh. "Aw come on, you were the one to convince me to leave and now you're going back?" He questioned. I shook my head. Dean had an idea. "You're going to walk away from a dying man? denying him of the help he needs," He asked giving me a guilt trip.

"You suck, Dean." I gave in making him smile. I walked over and took a seat beside him. "Is that okay?" I asked Sammy.

"I guess so, I'm Sam," He added. I smiled and shook his hand.

"I'm Y/N," I replied softly.

"Yeah, so I've been scouring the internet and calling all the contacts in Dad's journal," He informed Dean.

"For what?" Dean asked adjusting his sitting position.

"For what'd help you," Dean scoffed but Sam was serious. "One of Dad's friends, Joshua, called me back, heard about a guy in Nebraska, a specialist." Sam was adamant that Dean could be saved and it was something I needed.

"You're not going to let me die in peace, are you?" Dean added making me giggle.

"I'm not gonna let you die, period," I smirked at this. "We're going,"

"Alright whatever, but first we sleep." Dean shrugged. "Y/N's sharing a bed with me in case I get cold," Dean cheekily added.

"I will not, Y/N is sleeping on the floor," I replied in the first and third person making Sam chuckle.

"You're going to deprive your patient of warmth and comfort?" He added acting shocked. I pretended to think about it.

"Yep," I quickly added making Sam laugh. Sam got up and went to the bathroom.

"I promise I won't do anything, just please stay in the bed with me. I don't want you being in pain on the floor and it would help to have you beside me if I need you to help me with the bathroom or something?" Dean explained in a concerned yet helpless tone. It was easy to see that he didn't want Sam to see how dependent he now was on me.

"Okay," I replied softly making him smile.

"You won't regret it," He added.

"I think I will," I commented with a chuckle making him slightly laugh. Sam came out of the bathroom and saw us both smiling.

"I thought you would have resisted him longer than that," Sam joked making me laugh.

"Me too but it's those eyes," I added with a laugh. Of course, I had noticed the angelic eyes of the angelic man. His green eyes are so precious and perfect yet the rest of him is roughed and handsome. It must be true what they say about the eyes being a window to the soul.

"Oh, so it's my eyes that you like?" Dean questioned with a smirk.

"Shut it, you've made two comments about my butt today and it's only 2 so you can't say anything," I retorted making Sam laugh.

"I like her," Sam chuckled referring to me. I looked at him confused but I still had a smile on my face. "I like anyone who can shut my brother up," He added. I was a little shocked to find out they were brothers but now that he mentions it I can see some similarities.

"You can wear one of my shirts to bed, my bag's just on you're left," Dean commented on changing the subject. I looked over to see a duffle bag on the floor I picked it up and put it between Dean and me. I pulled the handles away from each other and as the bag wasn't zipped up I saw a gun inside. I saw the guys share a glance.

"Nice, a double-barreled shotgun," I commented pulling it out of the bag. "It has a nice grip to it but it feels a little lopsided. Have you changed the choke?" I asked quickly from the concealed love I have for guns.

"You know guns?" Sam asked impressed.

"Damn, she's hot," Dean unknowingly slipped out but I chose to ignore it.

"Yeah, I got into them after my dad showed me his handgun collection," I shrugged and both of the guys looked impressed.

"If I live through this, I'm keeping you," Dean added making me laugh.

"Maybe I'll have to make sure that doesn't happen then," I said and handed him the gun making him smirk. I will admit I'm teasing him and playing hard to get but with a face, body, eyes, attitude and smirk like his you know he can get whatever he wants anyway. Dean put the gun aside and went into his bag. He pulled out a plain grey shirt and handed it to me before pulling out clothes for himself. I got up and offered him my hand. He took it and I helped him to the bathroom. I led him inside but before I left he smirked at me.

"You're not going to help me change?" He asked still smirking.

"I can't but I can ask the nurse Sammy if you'd like?" I teased so he glared at me. I walked out but stayed standing by the door in case I heard Dean struggling. I heard Dean groaning in pain quite a few times and I couldn't bear it. I lightly knocked on the door.

"Are you okay?" I asked but heard no reply. I slowly opened the door and stepped inside. Dean was sitting on the lid of the toilet with his head in his hands in just his boxers. I looked at him sadly. I got in front of him and knelt. I put my hands on his knees to assure him.

"I'll be okay," He softly spoke and you could hear so much pain in his voice. More than usual.

"Come on, I'll help you get dressed." I shrugged but he sighed.

"You shouldn't have to," He started.

"Hey, I'm your nurse now remember, I have to look after you," I added. Dean now looked at me and his eyes peered into my soul. He looked so glad but so grateful at the same time. I grabbed his PJ bottoms from the side and scrunched them to the floor so Dean just had to carefully place his feet inside. Once we did that, I stood and offered Dean my hand. I helped him up and smiled at him and I blushed at the height difference.

Masterlist

Working On

Part 4

[an0nfr0mth3d3n]

As a sapphic myself, how could I not write a bit about the cutest lesbian couple (almost) on the qsmp?

The day Bagi got picked for Team Soulfire was one of the best days of her life, that she remembered at least. That Eye guy must really be homophobic because Bagi was going crazy with not being able to see the adorable girl that had so captured her heart.

Bagi picked the last of her supplies into her backpack, shouldering it quickly. There was no telling when her former teammates who had got chosen for Red could show up, and she wasn’t keen on finding out if the Green Gay spirit would grant her immunity from her former team.

Plus the sooner she saw Tina the sooner she could find happiness in this cruel horrible world of Purgatory.

Bagi smiled as the sun beat down on her face, soaking up the sounds and smells of the jungle one last time. The spicy hint of cacao, the distant squawk of a parrot, the gentle mist kissing her face, the earthy loam beneath her feet, and the far off crashing of waves against a sandy shore.

With spirit determined, she marched forwards towards the sounds of the waves.

Admittedly, she did in fact tense up a little bit when she saw the terror of the island Badboyhalo, who was doing figure eights in a motorboat (on the beach), but considering she already knew he was coming down to pick her up she wasn’t too surprised.

“BAGIIIII” Bad yelled when he saw her coming from the dense woods.

“BADDDDD!!” Bagi couldn’t help smiling at the sight of her dear friend, and she jogged forward to greet him.

Bad’s eyes narrowing in a manner that Bagi had come to associate with mischief, and as she approached, she noticed him type something out on his communicator.

Bagi stopped in front of him, leaning her hand on her hip. “Ok, whaaat are you typi- OOF”

Her sentence was cut short with a loud impact to her back, causing the Brazilian to fall onto the sand. The confusion only lasted a few seconds because with the impact came a high pitched happy squealing and even though it had been a week, Bagi would know that sound anywhere. “TINAAAAAAAAAAA”

The weight on her back shifted, and Bagi turned over in the sand, not minding the beach sand that was getting into her hair. In front of her, was her beloved-

Woah wait were those abs????

Bagi gawked at the crop top exposing Tina’s midriff. Where once was soft squishy belly, not that Bagi was specifically ever checking Tina out haha never…, were now sharply defined and well tanned muscles.

Bagi could hardly breathe as she tore her eyes away, face bursting into heat. It really didn’t help that as she did so she caught sight of the lean muscle now attached to Tina’s arms, and the pretty tan that the other girl had gotten.

Speaking of the other girl-

“Oh my god. What was I THINKING. Why did I DO that? I literally do not even know why I did that Bagi I am SO sorry. Ohhh god this is so embarrasssiiinngggg. Oh my god let me help you up.”

As Tina talked anxiously, Bagi could feel her senses returning, and briefly registered the shi- the muffin-eating grin on Bad’s face.

“Wow Tina I can’t believe you ATTACKED poor Bagi! I’m so sorry, I guess she doesn’t want you on our team!” Bad said far too cheerfully.

“Shut up you FREAK!” Tina yelled at the…vampalien?

“Freak??” Bad scoffed pompously, “I take offense to that! Bagi get your dog under control!”

“YOU’RE THE D-“

BONK

“OW!”

“DON’T MESS WITH TINA!”

Bad grumbled, rubbing his head, expression that of a kicked puppy. “Such violence! I cannot believe you would hit me, and with a cooking pot of all things!”

Bagi hefted the weight of the pot in her hands “Yeah, well I don’t have my frying pan, so this will do!”

“Wait, you have a cooking pot? Oh my god we should totally make a dinner for each other tonight!” Tina said, grasping Bagi’s arm with stars in her eyes.

Bagi stared. Tina’s face, while slightly cut in bruised from the trials of literally existing in purgatory, was gorgeously sun kissed, a faint tan spread evenly across her complexion that spoke tales of working in the sun.

“Um. Errrr. Yeah. Do you have any ingredients?” Bagi managed to get out.

Tina smirked proudly. “Ingredients? Girl, I’m like, the co-leader of the entire farm! I could get you anything! Anything for you Bagi!”

Bagi grinned, heart fluttering. “Then let’s have a nice dinner tonight. Might as well enjoy something in this hellish place!”

“Could I co-“

“No.”

[ebxx456]

Daddy’s little girl part 1

Minors DNI

This is my first time posting on here and first time writing a really smutty smutty story so I’m really sorry if it’s absolutely shit but I’ll try my best.

Ok so for the plot, your dad’s best mate is coming to stay with you for a bit as he just got divorced, you haven’t seen him in about 6 years (you’re 18 now). Hayden is 41. You also have an older brother called Ezra who is 24 (your dad was 16 when they had your brother making your dad now 40).

It will be Hayden Christensen x y/n female ( everyone’s of age!!)

Warning TW: idek yet, smutty filth. Extreme daddy kink, dirty talk, virgin reader, large age gap ( 23 years), everything sexual( idk the terms for it I’m sorry)

Part 2^ !!!!

You woke up that morning with a sense of emptiness running through you. You craved something that you sinned yourself for wanting so badly. You decided a long time ago that you would save yourself for marriage, deeming all boys your age unworthy of having sex with you. You wanted it to be special, fulfilling, hot, steamy, wet.

However, lately you felt yourself becoming needy, desperate to be touched. You knew that any boy in your year would be ready and willing to give you what you craved but your pride didn’t allow you to stoop so low. You wanted a man. You needed a man.

After putting on some very low waisted flared jeans and a small light pink crop top, an outfit that you knew your father would be very distraught about, you sat down at your vanity decided on how to style your hair today.

It was the first day of winter break and you were almost bored already. Your best friend Maya was in the Hamptons visiting her grandparents leaving you alone. You had other friends, quite a lot of other friends actually but you didn’t like them very much. You weren’t rude or bitchy but they just didn’t understand you like Maya did, they were boring and only cared about High school boys and buying juicy couture tracksuits, which don’t get me wrong you loved to wear to. The autonomy of a high school senior.

“Y/n! Come down please!” You heard your mother yell from downstairs. You were very close, you would tell her everything. Normally. Recently your sinful thoughts and needy cunt were only known to yourself. You and your father however were not so close, he judged the way you dressed and acted. It was obvious to anyone that he favoured Ezra, comparing you to your brother at any chance he got.

As you made your way down the down the stairs, sliding your hand slowly down the banister, your heard an unfamiliar voice. A mans voice. Deep and seductive.

No.stop.

“Ah sweetie, you remember Hayden, he’s going to spend Christmas with us.” Your mother said as you took the final step down the stairs.

Your eyes immediately met the blue orbs of your dad’s friend. You felt a spark ignite inside you as you examined him. The way his biceps were almost ripping out of his shirt. His sharp, jaded, jaw which led into his pursed soft lips. Kissable lips. No. His hair, long and scruffy, slightly curly. Easy to grab. no.

“It’s nice to see you again sir.” You finally spat out. His gaze shifted down across your body sending a shiver across you. You heavily regretted your decision to not wear a bra as you felt your nipples hardening at this single look. You knew they must be protruding through your shirt by now. Oh god.

“You too sweetheart, you look completely different since the last time I saw you.”

You felt your pussy throb at the pet name, You were practically dripping without even a touch from yourself or him.

“Can you believe it, my baby’s 18!” Your mother smiled at you kindly.

“Wow. 18.”

Whether it was your soaked underwear beginning to seep into your blood and turn you crazy or it was really said, you don’t know, but the way he said 18 was hot, almost as though he felt as riled up as you do now.

“y/n go take Hayden to the guest room and make sure he knows where everything is. Then change your outfit, we are going out for a nice dinner, Ezra and Brooke(your brothers girlfriend ) will be joining us too.”

You smiled and nodded at your father’s bossiness and bluntness. A word out your mouth would only reveal your desperation and neediness, exposing you to everyone. Yet what feared you was being alone with this man. He had changed in six years also, you always found him attractive, even as a twelve year old girl yet your mind wasn’t so clouded with sex back then as it is now. But still now he had more fine lines spread across his face, he seems taller? Is that possible? You never realised your love for dilfs until this one was standing right in front of you as you leaked.

You began walking up the stairs sending a look back to make sure he was following you, which if course he was. Your eyes met again when you turned but not before realising that his eyes were previously glued to your ass.

You smiled to yourself, realising that maybe your insane thoughts were not just one sided. You continued to make your way up the large staircase but this time moving your hips slightly, just enough for him to notice but not to much that would make you look like an idiot in case the attraction was still in fact one sided.

As I followed behind my best friend’s teenage daughter, I couldn’t escape the thoughts running wild inside my mind. My eyes felt glued to her ass the whole way to the guest room yet I just couldn’t peel my eyes away. The one time my eyes did drift away was when they met her own, I noticed the slight smirk she had. Was I crazy? Or was she as hot and bothered as I was?

I could practically smell sex on her, or my nostrils were going as insane as my body was. no. She’s 18!

legal. Highly frowned upon. But allowed. She can’t even drink yet. But I bet she can drink up my cum when her mouth is wrapped around- no.

She probably thinks I’m a pervert. She probably has a boyfriend too.

Does she have a boyfriend? Why would it anger me if she did? Jesus Christ pull it together.

“So do you have a boyfriend yet?” he asked you nonchalantly once you had reached the bedroom. You opened the door and walked inside before turning to face him. Your eyes meeting once again and your body melting into a puddle.

“No, high school boys aren’t for me, I want a man you know.” You empathised on the word man, practically whispering that word out, and pulled your lips into a smile.

He chuckled at your words, his laugh practically vibrating through you. What was wrong with you?

“So where is your wife then sir?” You asked, quickly changing the topic to something you were desperate to know. If you were going to obsess over a man older than your dad, you at least needed to know if he was single, lonely, needy.

“Did your dad not tell you?” He asked as you shook your head.

“We recently split up.”

“Oh I’m sorry sir.” You weren’t the least bit sorry, if fact you literally had to fight away the smile attempting to steal your lips. “What happened?”

“She cheated on me, with the pool boy.” He replied and you noticed the sadness across his face. “That’s horrible, I’m so sorry sir.”

“No need to feel bad for me Darling, we fell out of love a long time ago.”

As sad as his words were you could practically feel yourself pulsating at the way he said darling. Yet he still hadn’t even touched you. You needed more. You needed to see if you weren’t crazy.

Even the way this girl spoke turned me on. The way she called me sir at the end of almost every sentence she spoke. It was going to be a long day, if not week. I don’t even know if I could last a day let alone the whole Christmas holiday.

I watched as she bent down in front of me, picking up one of my bags. Her ass was literally displayed across my face. Her red thong showing at the top of her jeans making my cock twitch at the sight.

After you bent down to grab the bag you lifted it up and then moved it on top of the dresser. You heard him exhale a breathe once you had stood back up. So maybe you weren’t crazy?

You turned round to face him, your back against the dresser as he made his way towards you. Your eyes meeting once again, his blue orbs practically drilling into your soul. If you weren’t dripping before you were definitely dripping now.

“I just need to get something out my bag.” He told you as he came even closer yet you didn’t move an inch. Your breathe hitched as his front clashed with yours as he reached over you, unzipping his bag. You were practically squirming under his body, biting your lip to fight of the moan ready to escape your lips.

He pushed into even more as he rummaged through his bag, his hips practically almost thrusting into you.

That was when you couldn’t control it anymore, when his cock practically brushed over your clit. And a soft moan escaped your lips.

You felt your cheeks heat up as he let go of his bag, placing his hands either side of you on the dresser. Caging you in.

He nelt down his face inches away from yours.

You parted your lips in anticipation, was your fantasy really going to come true. All you wanted was his lips on yours. All you needed was his cock buried deep inside you as he whimpered.

But he didn’t put his lips on yours, instead he spoke. The proximity of the two of you made you feel his hot breathe on your face turning you on even more.

“Don’t be embarrassed.”

After the soft words left his lips he moved them to your ear, nibbling slightly as you put your hands around his waist, feeling his toned back under your fingertips beneath his tee shirt. You pulled him into you, his hips meeting yours as another quiet moan left your mouth.

You felt his bulge hardening as you pulled him closer one again, his mouth now moving to your neck as he peppered kisses across you.

He circled his fingers around your hard nipple through your tee causing a louder moan to escape you. Fuck.

“You’re so sensitive, have you ever been touched before?” He asked as he looked directly at you. You shook your head shyly as he tutted. Why the fuck was that so hot?

“I’m going to need words sweetheart.”

“N-no sir” you stuttered as he shook his head in disbelief.

“Have you ever even touched yourself?” He asked as his fingers trailed across your stomach towards your core.

“Words y/n.” He practically commanded as he traced a circle over the crotch of your jeans leading you to moan once again.

“No sir. Never”

He kissed his teeth, shaking his head slightly as he ran another circle over your area. You needed the jeans off. You needed to feel him.

He pulled his hand away completely as you felt yourself growing needy. Desperate for his touch once again.

“Please.” You begged as you rubbed your hand over his pants, you felt his large cock practically twitch at your touch

“Please what?” He smirked, teasing you even more.

“Please daddy, I need you.” you practically moaned out. You didn’t even think twice before the word left your lips. Embarrassed began to wash over you, but it left as you noticed the spark in his eyes up the moment you said the word.

you pulled him towards you again as you dipped your hand inside his chinos. Only his boxers separated your hand and his cock as you slid your hand up his now hard length.

His head moved towards your ear again as he let out a very quiet whimper. If his mouth wasn’t so close to your ear, you probably wouldn’t have even heard it.

But then there was a switch in him all of a sudden and he pulled your hand out by the wrist and backed away from you.

“No, no we can’t do this.” He muttered as he practically paced the room.

“Who’s going to know sir?” You asked desperately. You were past the point of trying to maintain your pride.

“Stop no we can’t. We need to get ready for dinner.”

“ but-“ you began to say but he cut you off harshly.

“go get ready for dinner.”

“I-“

“Please y/n” he practically begged.

“Fine.” You sighed brushing past his shoulder as you practically stormed out of the room and went straight into your bedroom. Fine.

[the-scandalorian]

Mutual, Part II

Pairing: Sexworker!Din Djarin x Female!Reader Word Count: 10.2k Rating: Explicit, 18+ Warnings: misunderstandings/bad communication, a bit of angst, one gross jerk, Din being protective, cursing, oral (f-receiving), unprotected p-in-v, semi-public sex

YOU

You tell yourself you’ll wait two days—That’s a normal amount of time to wait before contacting someone, right?—and during those two interminably long days, you think about him nonstop.

About bringing him home and pulling him into your bed. About easing his gloves off and holding his hand. About sinking to your knees in front of him. About taking him apart piece by piece again, just to fall asleep on his warm, broad chest.

Sending a text would be easier, less scary, but you can’t think of what to write. Several options—each more unhelpful than the last—run through your head. Everything sounds too formal or too casual or too ridiculous or too much. So, you decide you’ll call him instead.

Just the thought of talking to him makes you feel a little less anxious. You know the power his voice has over you. It works like a drug on your nervous system, calms you like a tonic.

The evening of the second day finally rolls around. But now that it’s time, you can’t seem to work up the courage to pick up your com and press call. Instead, you flail around your living room for half an hour.

You sit down on your couch, stand up to pace back and forth, throw your com down on the cushions, slap your hands over your face and groan, pace some more, and pull that little slip of paper out of your pocket. You run your fingers over the neat letters of his name. 

You can do this. He wants you to call him.

You fish your com out from where it slipped between the cushions, sit back down, take a deep breath, then type in his number and hit call.

Your heart is in your throat as it rings and rings…and rings, and after one final trill, a robotic voice tells you to leave a message. But that sounds even more difficult than composing a text—like having a one-sided conversation without the benefit of Din’s calming voice.

Nope nope nope. That’s not going to work.

You tap end call right as that grating beep begins to sound and stare at the blank screen.

And it rings.

You just about jump out of your skin, but when the screen illuminates, you see that it’s your best friend calling you, not Din. A vague sense of disappointment prods at the back of your mind. You wanted it to be him. But you answer it, of course—you promised you’d tell her every single dirty detail of that night, and you’re absolutely bursting to share.

“Hey!”

“So?? How was it?”

“Incredible.”

“Ahh! Tell me everything!”

So, you do: it all comes out in tumble. At first, she’s ecstatic, interjecting with ahhs and wows. But as you get further into recounting the night, gushing about your connection and hinting at some future potential, her reactions shift.

You notice right away. She starts making vague, noncommittal noises on the other end of the line: a string of unenthusiastic uh-huhs and hmms.

“He was so sweet to me,” you continue. “I honestly don’t even know how to explain it. We really had something special. It meant something to both of us, you know?”

You can tell that she’s confused, bordering on disbelieving.

The longer you talk, the more you realize how naive all of it must sound to someone else—to someone who didn’t spend that night with Din. You can’t really blame her for being a little skeptical. When you say it aloud, the idea that you’re falling for the sex worker who took your virginity after spending one night together does sound absurd and cliché.

You just have to explain it properly, that’s all. Then she’ll understand.

“It sounds crazy, but I know he felt the same way I did.” You gear up for the thing that’s definitely going to convince her, the undeniable proof that your night together was significant for both of you. “He took off his helmet and kissed me. He’s a Mandalorian. That’s against his code, his religion, not to mention his rule with clients. But he ignored that—for me! I’m pretty sure it was the first time he’d ever kissed anyone.”

You sit there with a dopey smile on your face, thinking about how Din’s heart had stuttered under your palm when you’d leaned into him, and there’s a long, pregnant pause on the other end of the line.

“That’s his job, though, right?” she says gently. “To make you feel special? To make the night feel special? It sounds like he was incredibly good at his job, so I totally get why you liked him.”

You let out a sigh. “No, it wasn’t just that. I’m not explaining this well. We actually got to know each other. We talked about real stuff—his life and my life and love and just…everything. We didn’t just fuck. It was more than that.”

An even more skeptical silence prickles between you. You can tell she’s trying to figure out what to say, how to say it.

“What?” you prompt.

She speaks carefully: “I’m so glad it was a good experience for you—I really am—but I don’t want you to set yourself up for heartbreak by reading into what happened or making it more than it was, okay? I-I’m worried you’ll get hurt.” She pauses for a second, her voice dipping softer. “Like, I don’t mean this in a bad way, but how do we really know this was different and special if we don’t know how he is with other clients? Or what other sex workers are like? He’s the only person you’ve been with.”

You breathe through the initial sting of her words.

Okay, you’re starting to understand just how ridiculous this all must sound from her perspective. She doesn’t know Din, doesn’t know what it was like to trade secrets in the dark with his head in your lap. She’s just being a good friend. You’d absolutely tell her to be careful if the roles were reversed and you knew nothing about the sexworker she was infatuated with after one single night together.

“No, I totally get that. I do. I know how this sounds—I know it sounds insane—but he left me his name and his com! He tells people to call him Mando. He usually doesn’t share his real name! But he wanted me to know, and he wants me to call him. I’m not setting myself up for heartbreak or expecting too much, I promise. I don’t have any crazy expectations. I just want to see where this goes. I want to see him again and get to know him more—”

“You’re going to make another appointment?”

You pinch the bridge of your nose.

You’re beginning to feel irritated. It’s like she’s trying to misunderstand. You stand up and start to walk circles around your apartment.

“No…I mean to see him outside of his work.”

“Is it okay to ask him out? I don’t know how that works…that might be off limits for him? He’s probably not supposed to allow personal relationships with clients.”

You laugh, realizing how much you’re botching this: “Oh no, I wouldn’t have to ask him out. He already asked me out.”

“He…did?”

Why isn’t she getting this? “He left me his name and his number.”

Another uncomfortable silence.

“Yeah, you said that. He probably left you his direct number so you’ll be a return customer.”

To your frustration, a tiny tendril of doubt is unfurling in the back of your mind and twisting its way between your thoughts. It’s making it hard to think, to explain—especially when the points she’s making are so…reasonable.

“No, but this is a personal com number. Different than the one I used to make the appointment.”

“Didn’t you book the first appointment through a third-party service online?”

“Yes—but—”

“Yeah, it’s probably his direct work com. Maybe he wants to cut out the booking service so it doesn’t eat into his fee.”

“I—no, no—that’s not… It’s definitely…”

You stare blankly at your tiled floor as that fledgling doubt blooms and expands into something huge and undeniable.

“No…”

The realization dawns slowly, painfully.

You slouch into one of your kitchen chairs and drop your head into your hands, keeping your com pressed to your ear.

Fuck.

What were you thinking?

You felt so sure—sitting back to back with him, talking about anything and everything in the dim lamp-lit hotel room—that you had a real connection. You didn’t stop to step back and think about how it all sounds.

It sounds too good to be true.

Because it is.

Because he is a professional, you were his client, and this isn’t a fairy tale.

He was literally just doing what you paid him to do—and doing it exceedingly well. A normal person would have understood that, not read anything into it.

After a very long silence, she asks, “Are—are you okay?”

“I’m such a fucking idiot.”

“No, of course you’re not! It sounds like he was really sweet and good to you! It makes total sense you’d feel connected to him, especially since it was your first time—”

Regret and humiliation are mixing in your gut, congealing in a way that’s making you feel sick.

“I…have to go.”


“Wait, no, please, I didn’t mean to make you feel bad about this! I’m sorry—let’s walk through it again. I’m probably just not understanding what you mean—”

“No,” you laugh ruefully, “that’s actually the problem. You’re absolutely right. I was just being…ridiculous.”

“No, of course not—he was—”

You sit up, suddenly very ready to not be talking about this anymore. “I’ll call you later this week, okay? I gotta go.”

She says your name with an aching sincerity then, “I really am sorry—I didn’t mean to ruin—”

You know her words are coming from a place of love, but her tone is bordering on pitying and that’s even harder to stomach. “I know. It’s okay. I’m fine—really. I gotta go.”

“Okay, but—”

“Talk to you later.”

You click off your com and let it drop heavily onto the table. Your forehead follows with a dull thunk.

What is wrong with me?

You don’t have time to answer that question because your com trills again.

You lift your head, and Din’s name flashes across the tiny screen. Panic seizes your chest, and your heart jolts into your throat.

No no no no no.

You scramble to tap the red reject button but in your haste end up touching the answer button with clumsy fingers instead. You squeak and slap a hand over your mouth as the line crackles to life.

“Hello?”

You can tell by the clear, undistorted quality of his voice that he’s not wearing his helmet on the other end of the line. That knowledge gives you a surge of confidence. Maybe you really did have something.

How many people know what his real voice sounds like?  

For a second, you’re tempted to say something. Maybe if you talked to him, you could clear things up; his voice could work its magic, and he could reassure you that he left his number because he wanted you to call him for him…not for another appointment. And that all those things he did were real, not well-practiced strategy.

Then it clicks. He’s answering an unknown number on his com like this. His voice isn’t some secret thing shared between you—it’s not the sign of intimacy that you desperately want it to be. It’s just how he answers calls.

Your over-eager, romantic brain is tricking you again.

The more you think about the whole situation, the more you wish you could go back in time and run away from that silver hotel door before he opened it. Everything looks so different in retrospect, knowing that he was just patient and kind and talented at his job while you were busy falling in love with him.

How humiliating.

“Hello?”

You hit the end call button, power off your com, and decide you’re never allowed to leave your apartment or interact with any other life form ever again for the rest of your life.

*** DIN


At first, he’s confused.

He didn’t expect you to reach out right away, but after a week, he’s starting to think you’re not going to at all. Two days after you met, he missed one call from an unknown number, but when he tried back, there was no one there. He tried again, and the call wouldn’t go through.

Why didn’t he ask for your number so he could call you?

The booking service keeps all client information confidential, so he has no way to get it now. All he can do is wait. So he does. Days stack up too quickly, slip into weeks.

When almost an entire month has passed, he stops hoping. He just…felt sure you’d call.

And now he feels silly. Juvenile and naive.

With every new client he sees, he realizes how insane it was to think one night could have turned into something more. How could that possibly have been a foundation for something real?

He barely knew you. You barely knew him.

You were a client. You paid him to do a job, and he spent that time falling for you. 

He thinks about all the personal things he shared with you, about all the personal questions he asked you, about the fact that he took off his helmet in your presence. He cringes when he recalls subjecting you to his first clumsy, nervous kiss. He compromised his Creed for someone sweet and patient, who understood the real, transactional nature of your shared relationship even if he didn’t.

In retrospect, it’s hard not to see your kindness as pity.

How sad.

You must think he is completely unprofessional.

Din realizes it’s actually a blessing that he left his number instead of asking for yours. This way, his heartbreak is clean and immediate. It isn’t going to be dragged out. You don’t want to see him again, so you don’t call him. Simple.

He still ruminates on your sweetness, though—on all the things you did that seemed so intimate and personal at the time. You’d taken him apart so carefully; you’d made an effort to get to know him.

Why? Why did you do that? 

He eventually comes to a very obvious conclusion: that night was emotional and overwhelming because it was your first time. You wanted to have a connection with him because you wanted to feel safe and supported, because you were nervous. 

But that’s it. That’s all it was.

You had all but asked for that explicitly. It shouldn’t have been a mystery to him. He just didn’t want to see the truth at the time.

He’d read into all those little things because you were so starkly different from any of his other clients. You caught him off guard. He found meaning where there was none because he’s lonely. So he’d managed to weave the beginning of a love story out of a few meager threads, and that feels pathetic.

Din will move on. Honestly, he’ll probably laugh at himself later for ever thinking the two of you could have been something more. He hopes so, at least.

But for now, he dreams of you. Of your mouth. Of your cunt. Of your soft hand on his face and your lips on his. Of your voice in the dark.

For now, he wakes up lonely. He wakes up with his cock throbbing so hard it hurts. He wakes up in whatever huge hotel bed he happens to be sleeping in for the night and feels cold.

Eventually, the dreams will fade. Memories always do, especially the good ones. Time takes those most willingly.

It’s not a new realization—that he’ll always be alone—but it feels a little heavier now. He goes about his work, taking more clients than ever, expanding his services to escorting and private security to fill up his time, and loneliness sits leaden on his shoulders in a way that not even his beskar ever has.

*** YOU

You don’t hold yourself to the promise that you’ll never leave your apartment again. In fact, you commit to the opposite. You let friends and coworkers set you up. You date casually; you fuck casually. You distract yourself, do the best you can to force the process of moving on.

Maybe you can wring him out of your system.

It’s not working yet.

About three months into this failing strategy, you’re at a work event—a cocktail party at one of the swankiest hotels in the city (thankfully, not the one where you met Din). Attendance is mandatory, of course. You’re here to network, schmooze with your wealthiest clients, and snag some new ones. It’s boring as fuck, but the drinks are free, and the view through the floor-to-ceiling windows is gorgeous. The city is spread out before you, and from up here, it looks like someone spilled a bag of twinkling stars haphazardly across the silver-gridded landscape.

The penthouse space is large, encompassing most of the top floor of the hotel. There are probably a hundred or so well-dressed people milling between the scattered tables and black leather couches, all arranged around the circular bar in the middle of the room.

The woman you’re chatting with has aggressively magenta hair and seems incapable of talking about anything other than her sundry vacation homes on different planets. But she’s an important client, so you’ve gotten very good at fixing your features in an interested expression and nodding along. You stopped absorbing her words a while ago, though.

You’re tossing back the last sip of your fancy cocktail when the elevator doors across the room chime. 

Your eyes flick over to watch the gold doors slide open. You’re hoping someone even more important than this client is about to walk in so you can politely excuse yourself from this never-ending conversation.

Instead, a wall of silver steps out.

Din.

You go stiff, shoulders pulling back. Panic flashes hot over your face, and you quickly reorient yourself, leaning against the bar so you’re not facing the elevator and can avoid meeting his gaze should he look your way.

You can still easily track his movements in your periphery, though.

The woman in front of you continues to ramble. Apparently, she didn’t notice when distress, anxiety, and embarrassment all flitted across your features. Or when you did a spastic little shuffle with your feet.

Why is he here?

You chance a quick glance at Din. Verena, one of the upper-level execs at your company, looking gorgeous in a blush pink dress, is hanging on his arm, her hand perched on the shiny silver of his vambrace. Huh. You didn’t know he was also an escort. You’re pretty sure that was not listed as one of the options on the website.

Maybe he isn’t.

Maybe he’s just here with a woman. A date.

Duh.

Of course he’d date someone powerful and worldly and stunning and experienced.

You shove down a sharp upwelling of emotions: jealousy, shame, loneliness. No, not now. Not here. You just have to keep it together and avoid him for—your eyes drift down to your com where it’s sitting on the bar—two fucking hours.

Great.

*** DIN

Din hasn’t hunted in months, but he hasn’t lost the requisite habits. He doesn’t think he ever will—they’re part of him, as natural and unconscious as breathing, as permanent as the scars etched into his skin. He surveys each room he enters automatically, assessing for threats, locating exits and weak points.

So he spots you right away.

His helmet comes to a halt not halfway through his scan of the space, the black t of his visor fixed blatantly on you. You’re leaned casually against the bar talking to someone, and you’re wearing a shimmering, floor-length dress that hugs your body. When you shift your weight from one foot to the other, he notices a slit in the fabric that stretches all the way up to your thigh.

He knows what you feel like there.

You shivered against him when he pressed you back into the pillows and ran the pads of his thumbs up the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. He remembers the exact pitch and inflection of your moan when he fit his leg snuggly between yours, his hands gripping the soft give of your hips as you ground yourself against him.

You innocently raise your glass to lick at the sugar on the rim, your pink tongue darting out to swipe along the edge, and Din’s cock twitches.

He knows what your tongue feels like on his throat, fluttering over his thrumming pulse or dragging up the column of his neck. He thinks about kissing you, about how addicting your mouth was.

He stands there, frozen, and all the things he never got to do—will never get to do—flash through his mind.

He never got to taste you. And it would be so easy to lay you down on a table, push that gorgeous dress up past your hips, and bury his face between your thighs. He never got to feel your lips around his cock, and fuck, you’d look good on your knees for him, your cleavage peeking over your heart-shaped neckline.

But those aren’t even the things he wants the most. 

What he really longs for is the easy intimacy that you’d managed to establish in the space of a few short hours—something he’d never had with anyone else in his adult life, even with friends he’d known for months or years. He wants the closeness and the quiet he felt when his head was in your lap, and you were telling him about your favorite constellation.

He clenches both fists.

Get it together.

He just has to make it through a few hours in your presence. 

The first step is to stop staring.

*** YOU

Silver glints in your periphery, and you know he’s looking at you. Stop it. You will him to look away. The intensity of his gaze is practically burning the side of your face—you feel exposed and pinned, like anyone could glance at you and somehow know every detail of your humiliation.

You wonder what he thinks of you, how he thinks of you—probably as that inexperienced woman who poured her heart out to him, who was embarrassingly susceptible to his talent and his kindness. Who paid him for sex and treated him like a boyfriend. And then never made another appointment.

He hasn’t looked away yet. Why? Is he waiting for you to acknowledge him? You’re willing to do just about anything to get his attention off of you, so you force yourself to turn your head and meet his gaze. As soon as you do, Din nods curtly—discreetly—and looks away, turning his body back toward his date.

You don’t know what you were expecting him to do, but it wasn’t that.

He won’t approach you, you realize. Of course he’s not going to approach one of his former clients in public. That would be unprofessional. This was his way of acknowledging you. A courtesy.

You want to feel relieved. You can probably make it through the entire night without even speaking to him. That should be a good thing.

Really, it’s just a confirmation of all the things you’ve feared—that you were never anything more than a client.

So you don’t feel relieved. Instead, you feel small. Invisible.

Crushed.

*** DIN

He stared at you for an uncomfortable amount of time—for so long that you’d noticed. He’d been completely ignoring his client, standing like a metal statue in front of the closed elevator doors while she greeted the clump of people who came over to welcome her.

You must think he’s so unprofessional.

He makes a concerted effort not to do it again. It’s hard. It’s like trying to ignore the brightest light in the room, like resisting the pull of a strong magnet. If he doesn’t actively think about it, his gaze starts to wander in your direction. 

He doesn’t let it.

Din makes the rounds with his client, grateful that this job requires nothing but standing by her side while she makes small talk about whatever business she runs. He doesn’t have to pay attention to any of it, which is convenient because his time and focus are being eaten up by the effort required to avoid looking at you.

A little more than an hour passes like that.

He doesn’t look at you, but he does keep track of you. He always knows exactly where in the room you are at any given time. Right now, you’re perched on a barstool.

He follows his client as she excuses herself from another group of partygoers, offering her an arm as they work their way through the crowded room. She comes to a stop in front of a booth with a couple people sitting in it, pausing to trade pleasantries with them. Din is satisfied to stall here for a moment because you’re just a few feet behind him, talking to a man seated next to you at the bar. Din steals one cursory look before turning back to face the chattering group in front of him.

That man is sitting far too close to you, and Din doesn’t trust his smug little smile. He didn’t miss the way his eyes had unabashedly dipped to your chest.

He’s not proud of it, but he reaches up to discreetly adjust the audio sensor on his helmet so he can hear your conversation.

“—think we could definitely work out a collaboration that would vastly improve the efficiency of your supply chain—”

“Have I told you that you look gorgeous tonight?”

The man has a voice like oil—unctuous and slippery—and it immediately sets Din’s teeth on edge. 

“Yes,” you reply shortly, “you did.”

“Well, you look so gorgeous you deserve to hear it again.”

You pointedly say nothing, and even though he can’t see you, Din knows you’re uncomfortable. It takes everything in him not to turn around. Or walk over there and fucking loom behind you until that ass walks away.

“Can I get you another drink?”

“No, thank you,” you reply, your tone cool and business-like. “Can you tell me more about the manufacturing delays you’ve been dealing with? I think we can—”

“Oh, sweetheart, you’re so serious. Lighten up! This is a party. Let’s get another drink in you.”

No, Din thinks. Don’t like that.

“I already have a drink.”

“Oh no no no,” the man insists, his voice low and conspiratorial, like you’re in on some shared secret, “we’ll get you something better—something stronger—and then we’ll take a break from all this work talk, okay?”

Din clenches his fists, something possessive rearing in his chest at the man’s patronizing tone. Leave, he thinks. Or better yet, fucking slap him.

“Work is the only thing I’m open to discussing.”

The man laughs. “Well, in that case, do you want to go somewhere private so we can really hammer out the details? I have a room downstairs, and I’d love to talk one-on-one about opportunities for collaboration.”

Din is only so strong. The agitated monster in his chest is writhing and bucking, so he turns his head just enough to look at you out of the corner of his eye, and a low growl slips through the modulator. The man is leaning toward you, his face inches from yours, but you haven’t shied away.

You have a benign smile on your face as you carefully enunciate: “Absolutely. Fucking. Not.”

Din watches you down the last of your drink, smack the empty glass down on the bar, slip off the barstool, and walk away.

Good girl, he thinks.

The asshole you leave behind has the audacity to look like he’s been wronged as he mutters bitch under his breath. Rage thunders through Din’s veins, every muscle in his body tensing, and suddenly it’s hard to hear over the blood pounding in his ears.

He jolts when a hand grasps his elbow.

“Mando? Is everything all right?”

Din looks around and realizes his hand is resting on his holstered blaster, and every one of the people around him is eyeing him warily.

He relaxes his arms immediately and clears his throat. “Yes.”

His client looks up at him skeptically but nods.

“Can I get you another drink?” asks Din, noticing the empty glass in her hand.

“Oh, you’re sweet, thank you.”

Perfect.

Din turns and heads to the bar, parking himself next to the creep, his gloved hands relaxed on the counter. He orders a martini from the bartender then nods at him, and the man raises his own drink in greeting.

“I noticed you talking to that woman,” Din says conversationally, tipping his helmet in your direction. You’re already enmeshed in conversation with a couple other people on the opposite side of the bar, your back to Din.

“Oh yeah, that one? Don’t bother,” the man barks, his eyes flitting over to you before he looks back at Din. “She’s an unfriendly cunt.”

Anger sears through Din, simmering hot under his skin, but he waits. The bartender returns with his drink. He thanks them when they set it on the counter and waits until they flit away to help someone else. 

Din leaves the drink where it is and turns.

The man is still smiling at him as if they’re about to share a laugh, and Din remains completely silent, tipping his helmet to the side as he subtly rests his hand on his blaster again. The smile slides off the man’s face as his eyes follow the movement of Din’s hand.

Din takes one step forward, and the uncertainty in the man’s eyes morphs into alarm as his mouth falls open in an unspoken question. The fear in his eyes calms the tempest in Din’s chest. 

Din leans forward then—fully insinuating himself into the man’s personal space in a way that he hopes appears casual enough to anyone looking on—and drops his voice until it’s a low scrape of gravel through the modulator.

“If you ever speak to her again, I will know, I will find you, and I will break every single bone in your body.”

Din pulls back to watch his face, and the man shudders, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water as he struggles to form words.

“Do you understand me?”

He nods.

“Good.”

Din turns back to the bar, grabs the cocktail, and walks away.

*** YOU

Welp, the word collaboration is forever tainted for you now. Just thinking about the smug, suggestive way that creep said it makes you want to puke.

You feel better knowing that the first thing you’re going to do Monday morning is go to your boss and get yourself taken off that account. Or better yet, tell her what happened and get the company to drop the account all together. Yes, that.

Disgusting prick.

Over an hour of the party has passed, with only that one notable snag. You’ve been keeping tabs on Din the entire time, always acutely aware of his location within the room, and you’ve managed to skirt each other completely. It helps that whenever he and his date start wandering closer to you, you casually drift further away.

Only forty-five more minutes of subtle evasive maneuvers to go.

You’re taking a break from the networking bullshit to commiserate with your coworker and trade notes on which partygoers to avoid. You and Leigh are parked at the bar, and last you checked, Din and his date were sitting on a low couch off to your left, Verena safely ensconced in serious conversation with two Twileks. You might just make it out of this without facing him at all.

And that thought is simultaneously comforting and devastating.

On one hand, you're relieved. You’ve all but survived the night, stuck in the same space as Din without speaking to him, embarrassing yourself, or leaving. The whole time, you’ve been trying to think of what you would say to him if you had to face him…and coming up completely empty. Avoiding him means saving yourself all kinds of discomfort and awkwardness. 

But.

There will always be a part of you that wonders what could happen if you did speak to him—the microscopic part of you that remains stubbornly, incandescently optimistic despite everything. It’s frankly hard to imagine being with Din without slipping back into the warm, secret intimacy of the night you shared together. You can’t help but yearn for it. Hope for it. Just a little.

Even if it was an illusion.

You rest your elbows on the bar and give Leigh a resigned smile, gesturing at the time glowing on the screen of your com. “Only like one or two more boring conversations, and then we can get out of here.”

“No way,” she says. “No more for me. I’m determined to leave without hearing the words profit margin or vertical integration again.” She flags down the bartender then looks at you. “You want another drink?” 

“No, thanks,” you say, “just water.”

She orders, and as she hands you a glass of water, her eyes go wide at something over your shoulder. 

“Uh oh,” she says, nodding behind you, “CFO incoming.”

CFO. It takes your brain a moment to process that information.

Shit.

Verena is the CFO. 

You whip your head around, and sure enough, the two of them are making a beeline for you, the crowd parting easily for Din.

As soon as you make eye contact with Verena, you realize turning around was a mistake. Now you’re stuck. You can’t slip away. You just have to wait here and watch your doom approach.

Fuck, he looks good. 

Those broad shoulders.

You know what it’s like to slide your hands up his warm back, curl your fingers around those thick muscles, and feel them flex and shift as he moves inside you.

Leigh leans in behind you and interrupts that train of thought to whisper, “Good luck with that,” before you hear her slide off her barstool and slip away.

Traitor.

You haven’t worked with Verena much but enough that she knows your name, your title, and the fact that you should be mingling and collecting new clients instead of sitting at the bar chatting with Leigh. She’s a force to be reckoned with—assertive and self-assured—and very much not the person you want catching you when you’re taking a break, even if it is well-earned, at an important work event.

She greets you without preamble and several rapid-fire questions about the party, making no mention of Din as he stands beside her silently, like a piece of furniture she’s leaning on. You decide that means you don’t have to acknowledge him either, your burning desire to avoid interacting with him overriding the fact that it’s incredibly rude.

Verena ends her long string of questions with two final ones: “So, any promising leads? Have you spoken to the two reps from Xbac yet?”

You take a deep breath, trying to recall all seven of her questions as you start to answer the first, “Yeah, I think—”

But a stern looking man in a suit walks by at that moment, and Verena’s gaze follows him.

“You know what? Hold that thought,” she says, holding up a finger. “I really need to speak with Zeke privately for a moment. Mando, stay here. I’ll be right back.” She looks at you and adds, “Look after him for me, won’t you?”

“Uh…”

Verena turns and walks away, leaving behind a cloud of expensive perfume, before you’ve even answered.

Well, fuck.

*** DIN

You’re avoiding his eyes, looking at everything but his visor—alternating between studying the sweating glass of water in your hand, scanning the rest of the room, and staring fixedly at his chestplate.

You seem determined not to speak first. Or maybe you just don’t know what to say.

At this point, Din doesn’t feel like making a half-hearted attempt at small talk with you, so he decides to be blunt. He doesn’t have anything to lose, and this might be his only chance.

You both start speaking at the same time.

“You didn’t call.”

“So, how’d you meet Verena?”

Your eyes go wide at his words, but you keep your lips pressed together in a tight line, cocking your head, clearly waiting for his answer first.

Din doesn’t understand why it matters where he met his client. He guesses you’re just grasping at straws to keep the conversation in a safe place. 

“Same way I met you,” he says.

He’s surprised when your face shutters at his words, completely closing off—but not before something that looks like hurt flits over your features.

“The booking service,” he clarifies. “She hired me as personal security for the night.”

Your features soften, eyes flicking up to his visor for the briefest second.

Apparently, it does matter to you.

A reckless hope flutters behind his ribs.

So he tries again. “You didn’t call.”

You shift on your barstool, and a new stiffness appears in the set of your shoulders. “I didn’t want to make another appointment, Mando.”

You say it in a completely neutral tone, no hint of malice whatsoever, but Din steps back as if you shoved him in the chest. He’s not sure which part of that hurts more—the implicit rejection of his romantic advance or the cold use of Mando when you know his real name.

He’s not sure what to say.

He should excuse himself and walk away. Leave it there.

But a stubborn part of him is determined to dig himself into this painful hole just a little deeper. He wants you to acknowledge his interest and reject it outright. He needs you to say it. He needs to hear it. It’ll be easier to move on if you don’t give him any other choice.

Had you really felt nothing for him?

So he opts for the truth, as uncomfortable as it may be.

“You know that’s not why I left my number.”

You finally look at him then, wide eyes settling on his visor, and you look perplexed—like you very much did not know that. For the first time since he’s seen you tonight, Din feels truly hopeful.

Did you really not know? How could you possibly not have known?

“I-I,” you start. “You—I wasn’t sure—?”

Someone plops themselves onto the barstool right next to you, beckoning the bartender over, and you cut yourself off abruptly.

You sigh and lower your voice. “I can’t talk about this here. Everyone I work with is in this room—I just, I can’t do this here.”

Din steps closer to you and ignores the impulse to reach for your hand where it’s closed in a tight fist on your thigh: “Then where?”

You look around, and Din follows your gaze. Verena has stepped out onto the wide balcony and is embroiled in what looks like a slightly heated conversation.

“Come here,” you say, grabbing his gloved hand and pulling him toward the only place with any privacy: the hallway that leads to the refreshers. He follows passively, thinking about how perfectly your hand fits in his.

When you’re both out of sight of the main room, you drop his hand and face him, crossing your arms over your chest. You look apprehensive. Defensive. Unsure. Like when you first entered his hotel room three months ago.

He thinks about the way you thawed for him then—that you wanted him to take the time to unwind you—and he hates that he’s not alone with you. He wants to work that same magic again, put you at ease. He wants to be talking to the real you, not this guarded version.

He wants to blow off this stupid job and this stupid party and be alone with you.

Just as you open your mouth to speak, someone comes out of one of the refreshers and greets you by name, shooting you a strange look when they see who you’re standing with. Din knows he needs to fix this fast or this conversation is going to be over before it starts.

So he takes a chance.

Din slaps the control next to the newly vacated refresher to hold the door open and tilts his helmet toward it. You look at him with raised eyebrows.

“Please,” he says, “just for a minute.”

*** YOU

He wants to talk to you. He wants to be alone with you.

You know that’s not why I left my number.

You glance around the empty hallway and slip into the small bathroom. It’s ridiculously fancy—just like the rest of this place—with bright yellow-gold fixtures and white marble covering every surface, except the upper half of the walls, which is papered in ostentatious velvet damask. You lean against the cold edge of the counter.

The door slides shut behind Din, and he stands there, huge in this small space, and looks vaguely uncomfortable. He moves away from the only exit, ever aware of how he is or isn’t adding to your comfort. It hits you just how deftly he leans into and out of his bounty hunter persona, mitigating or intensifying his own threat with the careful placement of his body.

You think back to when you first met him, when he seemed impenetrable, imperturbable. Now, you’re realizing even in his armor, he’s quite readable. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, his helmet tilted down, right hand fidgeting slightly at his side.

“You didn’t call,” he repeats.

“I…did, actually. Once,” you say, casting your eyes down to study the gray veins in the floor.

“Two days after?”

You look up at him in surprise. “Yeah, how did you—?”

“I rarely give out that number,” he says. “Why didn’t you say anything when I called back?”

Your stomach does a little flip. It was the number for his personal com. Even still, you’re not sure how to answer his question, not sure how vulnerable to make yourself. What if that night still meant more to you than it meant to him? You don’t think you’d be able to weather this same heartbreak twice.

“I…didn’t know what to say.”

“Why?”

You look up at his black visor, and maybe it’s the soothing balm of his voice or maybe you’re too tired to think of anything else to say, but either way, the truth just sort of falls out of your mouth. 

“I didn’t know what to expect—I didn’t know what you were expecting. I talked to a friend about that night, told her everything that happened, and she assumed you wanted me to call back to make another appointment. What she said made sense, honestly. I thought I was reading into everything that happened—that it was all just a job for you.”

“You thought…?” He sounds and looks bewildered, his head tilted almost comically far to the side. “I took off my helmet,” he says simply, as if that’s all that needs to be said, his hands open in offering at his sides.

“I wasn’t sure that really meant what I thought it did. At the time, I thought I knew…” you trail off. “But my friend talked me out of it. She was just trying to protect me. I think I talked myself out of it too.”

“Why didn’t you ask me?”

You force yourself to look at him. “I was…scared.”

He nods, his gaze downcast. “I understand.” He pauses, his chest inflating on a deep inhale, and looks up again. “I’ve never taken off my helmet with anyone else—not since I started wearing it as a boy—and even if that night didn’t mean to you what it meant to me, I don’t regret it.”

His words hang in the air, heavy with significance.

You were right.

You take a deep breath as your whole perspective reorients once again—as his words repaint repressed memories of that night in vivid color, flooding your chest with buoyant relief.

“Din,” you say, a tentative smile on your lips, and he steps forward at the sound of his real name. “It did.”

He says your name back, and you can hear his answering smile.

The truth sits there, filling the room with electric potential.

Din shatters the tension by walking back to the door and turning the lock. It slides into place with a satisfying click.

And you’re reminded suddenly of where you are—of everyone outside that locked door, of your limited time together. You're desperate to hold onto this moment of clarity with Din and terrified of what will happen when he does walk out that door and leave you in the dark again.

Even still, you can’t help but ask: “Don’t you need to go back out there? Won’t Verena notice you’re gone?”

“I don’t care.” He takes a step toward you, his fists clenched tight. “Can I touch you?”

You close your eyes for a moment as goosebumps spread up your arms. “Yes.”

Din crowds you backward, hands finding your hips to urge you up onto the counter, and a desperate little whimper escapes your throat as your legs automatically spread to accommodate his hips. He grips the edge of the marble on either side of you, caging you in.

He’s breathing hard through the modulator, leaned close to you, arched over you—so close that each deep inhale makes the metal of his chestplate brush up against the thin fabric of your dress. You shiver, your nipples hardening under the cold whisper of contact. His helmet is dropped forward, his visor poised over your shoulder—like he might rest it there.

He stays like that for a long moment—looming over you in a way that feels incredibly possessive even though he’s not actually touching you. You think he’s trying to calm himself down before he does anything rash. But that’s the last thing you want.

Your hands find his pauldrons, and you push him back just a little so you can meet his eyes. He makes to back away, but you grip his belt to hold him close.

“Kiss me.”

*** DIN

You reach for the light switch, but Din stops you with a gentle hand. That’s not how he wants to do this. He wants it to be different this time.

He doesn’t want there to be any confusion; he is determined to erase any doubt or question in your mind. 

He wants you to know you have him. 

He won’t take his helmet all the way off—not here, not yet. This isn’t the right place or the right time. It’s far too soon to ask something like that of you, to place that weight in your hands. But the idea of bearing himself completely doesn’t feel foreign or unspeakable any more. It feels possible. Probable. 

Inevitable.

So he reaches up, and your mouth falls open in a surprised o.

Din looks at your parted lips and thinks about the last time he kissed you, about his unsteady hands and his pounding heart. He was so nervous, completely free-falling through the dark void of space until you caught him in your gravity. 

Now, his pulse is elevated, but his hands are steady. He doesn’t feel conflicted.

He feels ready.

*** YOU

That sibilant rush of air you remember well sounds loud in the small space, and he eases his helmet up just far enough to reveal a strong jaw with salt-and-pepper stubble and the most kissable set of lips you’ve ever seen.

You stare at his mouth, and you think you’ve forgotten how to kiss. How to have motor control of your limbs. How to breathe.

You cup his cheek reflexively, without thinking, the feeling so familiar on your fingertips but the experience so different in the light. You get to see the little dimple crease his cheek when he smiles. He stays still, savoring the moment as much as you are, and lets you hold him as he relaxes warm and soft into your touch. 

Then he leans in.

One large hand frames your face, like it’s something precious and delicate, and he kisses you.

There’s no sign of the tentative Din who was stiff and nervous for his first kiss. No, he kisses you like he knows how because he does. He knows what you like. He knows how to draw little gasps out of you by nipping at your bottom lip; he knows how to make you moan with gentle waves of his tongue against yours; he knows how to make your back arch by brushing his thumb gently across your clothed nipple.

Eventually, he pulls away, panting, and his lips look even sweeter all red and kiss-stung.

He backs up and takes you with him, easing you off the counter and back onto your feet.

“Turn around.”

He guides you around, and you’re treated to the view of both of you in the mirror. You look a little wrecked already, your mouth open and panting, lips swollen, the thin straps of your dress slipping off your shoulders.

He stands tall and handsome behind you—a picture in sleek silver—but all you can focus on is his mouth. He’s still holding up his helmet just enough that you can admire the sharp cut of his jaw and the matching blank spots on each side of the patchy stubble of his beard.

Cute.

His lips pull to the side in what you think is the beginning of a sly smile, but you can’t be sure because before you can gather any thoughts, he’s dropping to his knees with a clank behind you.

“What’re you—?”


“Bend over and don’t look back,” he says, a large hand on the small of your back guiding your upper half prone onto the counter. You fold for him, bracing your forearms on the cold marble, a thrill of pleasure zipping up your spine.

You hear the muted smack of leather—once, twice—against the tile floor, and then his warm, bare hands close around each of your ankles, guiding them apart. You spread your legs for him, and his palms slide up, coasting up the backs of your calves, your knees, your thighs, hiking up the fabric of your dress as they go.

He bunches the fabric of your dress up around your waist, catching it between your body and the counter so you’re completely on display for him. Two large hands hold your thighs open, and with no warning, he drags his nose up the v of your legs, pressing his face into the crotch of your panties and breathing deep. You shudder at the naked desire in that gesture and arch, tipping your hips back to chase the heat of his mouth through cotton.

Then, as if he’s too impatient to pull them down, he yanks your underwear to the side and licks a shameless stripe through your pussy.

Din eats you out like a man starved, his tongue hot and insistent as it takes you apart. This has to be the first time he’s done this with anyone, but you can tell by his eagerness and his boldness that he’s thought about it, dreamt of it, hoped for it. He knows how to make you come with his hands and his cock, so there’s no floundering or experimentation with his mouth—it’s all deliberate repetition and concentrated attention. He moans as he savors the taste of you, and when you start to plead, panting a low chorus of Din Din Din, two of his fingers find your clit to rub tight circles over it, the movements slick with spit and arousal. 

The unmistakable clink of metal, slip of leather, and rustle of fabric tell you he’s using his other hand to shove his pants down to take himself in hand. You can hear him start to work himself in quick strokes as he moans into your cunt.

He’s so turned on he’s driven to fucking his own fist while he eats you out, and that knowledge combined with the heat of his mouth and the pressure of his fingers has everything inside you pulling up tight. You bite your lip to keep yourself quiet as your orgasm rips through you, spreading through your veins like wildfire.

When you start to shudder from overstimulation, Din pulls away from you and reaches up to slap the light switch, and the small space is plunged into darkness. You sense the movement behind you as he gets to his feet, and he sets his helmet on the counter beside you with a muted clang. Then he leans over you, the cold of his beskar pressing into your back, and the ridge of his nose traces a delicate line up the back of your neck.

“Can I fuck you?”

“Please fuck me.”

“Yeah?” he asks, his voice husky and just a little teasing. “You want my cock? Can you take it just like this, sweetheart?”

You can feel the fat, leaking head drag up the inside of your thigh, leaving sticky precum in its wake.

“Yes—fuck—I’m so wet. Please fuck me.”

A warm, satisfied sound rumbles through his chest, and he notches the blunt head of his bare cock against the dimple of your entrance…and waits, his other hand clutched possessively around your hip. You squirm back against him, eager to feel him sink inside you, to feel the heft of him breaking you open in a way that no one else does, but he holds you there, pressing a soft kiss to the back of your neck, his movements suddenly hesitant. Even in the dark, you can feel the shift.

Just like when you sat on the edge of that hotel bed together.

“Did you miss me?”

He asks it in a quiet whisper—not in that low, suave growl he uses when he knows he’s making you feel good or in that cocky teasing lilt he uses to make you smile. A soft heartbreak settles in your chest at the sincerity of his question. He really wants to know.

And any lingering doubts you had evaporate instantly.

You turn your head in the darkness, twisting backward as far as you can to press a kiss to his jaw.

“So much.”

*** DIN

Din inhales relief deep into his lungs and dips his head, dragging his lips up to your cheek and rocking his hips forward a little, easing just the tip of his cock inside the tight warmth of your cunt.

This isn’t the fuck he wants. He wants to be naked in the dark with you. In a bed. Ideally, in your bed, in your space—definitely not here and not even in the sterile, nondescript space of a hotel room where he spends most of his nights. He wants to be somewhere comfortable where he can take his time with you. But he’s not willing to wait to change venues.

He is willing to wait just a little longer for something else, though.

He stills his hips again.

“Did you think about me?”

“All the time.”

He sinks inside you a little more, letting out a low groan. You bloom warm and wet around him, pulling him in, and it takes all his self control not to sink to the hilt right away—especially when you’re writhing and whining under him. But he wants something else even more first.

“Tell me. Tell me what you thought about.”

Your hand searches in the dark, curling around his where it’s leaned on the counter.

“I thought about how you took such good care of me, about how hard you made me come. About how no one else has made me come as hard as you did, how no one fills me the way you do.”

Din growls and nips possessively at your ear lobe, the thought of someone else touching you making him tense. Never again, he thinks.

Then your voice dips a little quieter. “I thought about all the questions I didn’t get to ask you, about the things I didn’t get to tell you. About taking your armor off for you again and learning to put it all back on… I-I thought about how much I wanted you and how much it was breaking my heart that you didn’t want me back.”

Din tightens his grip on you.

“I want you,” he breathes the words like a promise as he sinks all the way inside you, his voice catching at the hot clutch of you. “I want—I want—”

His hips fall into a quick rhythm, and he presses his lips against the side of your neck to silence himself, sets his teeth against your skin to prevent any other painfully romantic sentiments from pouring out of his mouth. Things he shouldn’t say—things he shouldn’t feel—are going to slip off his tongue if he doesn’t keep his mouth occupied.

He folds over you, pressing you down against the marble surface, and one of his hands slips down the back of your thigh and curls under the crook of your knee, hitching it up over his forearm so he can grasp the edge of the counter and hold you open even wider.

He’s not going to last, and he needs to feel you come around him.

“Rub that pretty little clit for me, okay?”

*** YOU

Din lets you shift back until you have enough space to wriggle your hand between your body and the counter and slip it under the bunched up fabric of your gown to touch yourself.

You’re so close already, the head of his cock rubbing against the spot that makes your spine arch and fists clench. All it takes is a quiet pressure on your clit, and you’re tightening around him, throwing your head back and squeezing your eyes shut as the pleasure radiates through you.

“Fu–uck,” he growls, giving you his cock the whole way through it, thrusting hard and deep. “Feel so good when you come on me.”

And all you can think about is how badly you want to feel him come too.

“Inside,” you gasp, your words punctuated by every punch of his hips. “Come inside me.”

You're not sure if it’s your words or the tight clench of your cunt around him, but either way, you drag him down with you. He holds himself still and groans, grinding his hips against your ass as he releases a low, broken sound, his cock pulsing as he comes hot and wet inside you.

You breathe together in the dark for a few moments, and you can’t help but think about how different this was from the last time—rushed and spontaneous instead of slow and planned—but somehow just as intimate. And even better, now that you know for certain you have the promise of a future with him, whatever that may be. 

Din presses one more kiss to the side of your neck and eases out of you, a warm trickle of his spend dripping down the inside of your thigh. You lie there, collapsed on the counter as you listen to the rustle and clink of him putting himself back together behind you. Then, just as you’re about to do the same for yourself, Din does it for you. 

You let him.

He bends to gently wipe away the sticky mess you both made between your legs and rights your panties. Then, he flicks on the lights and pulls you back up against him with strong arms. In the mirror, he still looks the picture-perfect warrior in pristine beskar, helmeted and completely composed, not a weapon or piece of armor out of place to suggest he’d just fucked you raw in a refresher.

You, on the other hand, look like you’ve been fucked raw in a refresher.

But Din puts you back together as carefully as he pulled you apart: shimmying the bunched fabric of your dress down your hips and smoothing out any wrinkles, slipping your thin straps back up your shoulders, turning you around and pulling off one glove again to use his thumb to erase a shadow of lipstick from where it smudged under your lip. 

When he’s done, he doesn’t move away. He stands there, pinning you to the counter with his hips, and holds your face in his hands, large palms cupping your jaw. You look up at him, a smile on your face you can’t seem to get rid of, and lean into the supple leather of his gloves. 

“When can I see you again?”

“Next weekend?” you offer, wondering how soon is too soon.

Din growls a low disagreement, his fingers tightening gently on your cheeks.

“Tomorrow night?” you propose, looking up at him through fanned lashes.

He shakes his helmet, a subtle jerk to the side.

Your smile widens. “Tomorrow…morning?”

He huffs and shakes his head again.

“Later tonight?” you try, hope effervescent in your chest. “Meet me at my place after this?”

He leans his helmet against your forehead, the metal cold against your overheated skin, and nods.

“Tonight,” he agrees, the word a pleased purr in his throat.

[darkbluekies]

Jerry asks #1

Next one

Concept: I've put multiple asks into one post to avoid too much loose posts on my account! This way, you have more to read too<3 Warnings: yandere

Ok I must know how would jerry react if her s/o got a cat name tom so when the day comes her s/o just goes tom, jerry get over here

She'd want to smack you in the back of the neck. She has had enough of your 'funny pranks'.

"You think you're really funny, don't you?" she'd mutter with her arms crossed. "Such a clever litte thing, aren't you? Rename the cat or get rid of it. As long as you look at me as a joke, baby, I will treat you like one. Deal?"

If you laughed, you'd get the sternest gaze right back at you.

just read cat & mouse and wow I’m officially a Jerry simp

Good, me too >:)

In the Silas V Jerry debate it's Jerry 1000000% I love a hot murderous woman! Will we see more of her?

Hahahah same, jerry is the best<3333 there will 100% be more with Jerry!!

I wonder… what would happen if Jerry ever became the boss? Is Silas her boss or are they from two different mafias?

The only reason why Jerry isn't the boss is because if she was, she'd have so much more work to do. She's lazy and wants to drink. But if she was the boss, she'd get her gang in so much trouble because she's not having a consequense thinking. She'll do what she wants and deal with the trouble later.

I haven't specified if Silas is her boss, that's up for you to interpret ;)

I love Jerry so much! I was actually scrolling through some reels on YouTube and come across a "Sigma Girl" reel by CRAZY GREAPA that for some reason reminded me so much of how I imagine Jerry in my head when I read your writing. Specifically this one: https://youtu.be/C-G_pHgQE3g I thought I'd share it with you just cause lol

omg yes i've seen her!!! i really like her lmao. She's a bit to the image I see her as too!!

Okay so we see jerry with the talkative and affectionate reader but what about everyone else? Like how would they react when reader goes from super affectionate to absolutely 0% snuggle

She'll be confused about your sudden change, but will try to give you what you need. If you suddenly want her gone, she'll move away but don't you worry, she will be back soon. She hasn't had enough and if you think that you can control Jerry then you're wrong.

"I left you alone for ten minutes. Ten minutes are a lot of time. Open your arms now so I can hug you, i'm not asking."

Sorry to bother but in the ask where reader becomes quiet and unaffectionate you mentioned jerry being wrong, do you mean as in she knows she was wrong to treat reader in that way?

asks it's referring to

Yes, she feels bad about it, but won't admit it. She'll try to shift the blame to you, saying that "You shouldn't have annoyed me" and "it's not my fault I snapped" but deep inside she knows she shouldn't ever shout at you. She loves to hear you talk about everything and nothing at the same time. She has too much of an ego to apologize.

I need more jerry content 😭😭Imagine when jerry kidnaps her s/o the s/o decided to be smart and play along with her for a couple of years. The trust is built and yada yada yada. And then one day jerry comes home and see that s/o is gone. At first she wouldn’t think anything of it bc she has trust in them but then realizes (pretty quickly) that they aren’t coming back…Also, Jerry s/o and Silas s/o play dates?

Poor Jerry. She doesn't get stressed-stressed often, but when she realises that you're actually gone, she'll be scared. But don't worry, she won't waste time, she'll go out look for you.

and yes, playdates for days.

I want jerry to suffocate me😁😁

same :,)

[fckinwild-kiwi]

Dec. 13th: Comfort in His Voice

Day 13: Laundry Day/Just Can’t Sleep

Guys, I’ve made it to Day THIRTEEN!! of @comp-lady’s Domestic December writing challenge!

Warnings: Maybe Swearing, *Slight* Allusions to Smut (This is an 18+ blog, minors dni)  Word Counts: 0.8k+ Words Pairings: Steve Harrington x Reader

The relationship with Steve, though new, felt natural in a way that brought us both comfort. So much so that sleeping over felt like second nature. It was not often that we found ourselves in separate beds. And even though I still lived at my parent’s house, we ended up splitting the nights pretty equally between our houses. Even though Steve was concerted at first he began to realize that my parents understood that we were both adults and we stayed respectful of their boundaries. Physical intimacy was always something I thought you found within sex. I realized though, the physical intimacy that I craved the most was feeling the weight of his body pressed against mine, no sex on the horizon, just comfort from each other’s touch.

There was something so beautiful in recognizing that, while the sex was extraordinary, it was not the most important part of the relationship. It didn’t compare to knowing that your emotional needs were being met and that you were an equal in the relationship. 

I struggled with falling asleep on nights when we found ourselves at separate houses. I craved the comfort and feeling only Steve could provide when we shared a bed. Tonight, Steve was taking Robin and Eddie to a dive bar in the neighboring town, I decided to stay home because I had to work early the next day. But here it was, 1:30 in the morning with no sleep in my future. The bar had to have been closed or close to closing so I took my chances in calling Steve, hoping his voice would help me find comfort.

After six rings, I heard a voice on the other end, “Hello?”

“Stevie?”

“Baby,” He sighed out. “What’s wrong?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” I whispered in the receiver. “Missed you too much. How was your night?”

“I missed you too, baby,” He echoed. “Robin went crazy, the alcohol she drank tonight must have given her a personality change because she suddenly had the most confidence known to woman-kind.”

“Really?” I questioned, giggling at his excitement. “What happened?”

“She had three shots and decided that she found the love of her life, she walked right up to this woman, and within a few minutes they were making out, in front of everyone!”

“No way that was Robin,” I argued. She was a comically shy person in public but with our group of friends she was exceptionally outgoing, I was so happy to hear about her willingness to believe in herself. 

“Oh yeah, so she left with her about an hour later and Eddie decided that he was going to sing karaoke but he was also three shots deep and it didn’t take long for them to kick him off the stage because he was hogging the mic,” Steve said, beginning to laugh at the memory he was sharing. “He took a few more sad shots and then I gathered him up and took him home.”

“Wow, that’s a quick night for you guys,” I continued whispering. “Did you have fun at least?”

“Oh yeah, I did,” Steve reassured me. “I would have had more fun with you there to make fun of Eddie with me.”

“You need to be nicer to him, be a better wingman,” I reprimanded. 

“I know,” Steve sighed into the receiver. “I’ll be better. How was your day today and night?”

“It was fine,” I started. “My boss was on my ass about the new product and its layout for the holidays. I have to finish the setup tomorrow. Dad grilled some hamburgers for dinner and we watched ‘Wheel of Fortune’ after dinner. Some real party animal shit.”

“I hope your day at work goes better today, honey,” Steve said. “If it makes you feel any better, I work the late shift today so I’ll have to do all the restocking and cold calls to remind people to pay their late fees.”

My face fell, I had completely forgotten that Steve was working late today. “It doesn’t make me feel better.”

“Will you do me a favor,” Steve whispered back to you even though he had no reason to be quiet. “Tomorrow, when you leave work, will you come to my place? Stay with me?”

“Yes, please,” I said, releasing a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

“I just sleep better when we are together,” Steve said, rambling. “You’ll be here for a few hours before I get here but all of your favorite snacks are in the pantry. If you’d rather stay at home, I get it and I could come to you. But if you’d rather have another night apart, I get that-.”

“Stevie,” I interrupted him. “I don’t want another night apart, I sleep better next to you too. In case you forgot, I couldn’t sleep tonight and I called you at almost two in the morning because I missed you so much. After work, I’ll head home to yours, I’ll even make you dinner for when you get home.”

“I love you,” Steve mumbled into the receiver. I could tell that sleep was starting to creep up on him. “I can’t wait to see you tomorrow.”

“I love you too, handsome,” I echoed. “Get some sleep, I’ll see you tomorrow.” Tonight though sleep came slowly, I found comfort in his words and that would be enough.

[ninjaofnaps]

Through the Star Field for You

OK! Here is my first attempt at fanfiction. Hopefully, it's enjoyable. I'm using it to warm up and dust off my writing skills. I also posted this on A03

I've enjoyed reading all the great fanfictions out there from people like @aislingdmdt @eridanidreams @bearlytolerant @spookyspecterino

I'm definitely looking for prompts, so feel free to send any my way.

Through the Star Field for You

The blackness gradually faded as she heard indistinct voices, far-off sounding as if from the other end of a tunnel. Where was she? The world was fuzzy as she tried to open her eyes. Oh wow, that was a mistake; her head hurt. Actually, her whole friggin body hurt. Where was she? The voices became intelligible, and Ves closed her eyes again, trying to focus on their words through the pain.

"And this new Dusty was the miner you sent in there?" a lilting English woman's accent.

A stronger female voice clips back, "No, that is not the new Dusty I sent in there. That's what I'm trying to tell you. My Dusty went in, and when we lost communication with him, we went to see what happened and found… her."

There was a pause, like the woman with the accent was trying to understand what had just been said. In the background, Ves heard a faint clicking and beeping of what she thought to be medical equipment. "So let me understand this. You're saying you let a new miner go in there to dig up the priceless artifact Barrett hired you to look for. You left him alone, and when you saw fit to finally check on him, he wasn't there, but she was? Have you found the other miner? Is that Argos suit she's wearing the same one the miner wore? You have to understand how utterly bizarre this sounds, correct?"

A sigh of exasperation from the other woman before, "I know how crazy this sounds; I wouldn't believe it if I hadn't seen it myself. The new Dusy went in after the thing, "artifact," whatever, that Barrett wanted. We lost coms, went to see what happened, and the Dusty was gone! She was lying there in the Dusty's suit with that odd metal thing in her hand, out cold. So we called Barrett."

"So you lost your miner and could have lost the artifact in the process? Why was a miner in training looking for an item of this value to begin with? Could you be more incompetent? Exactly what kind of outfit are you running here?"

A deep male voice jumps in. "Hey guys, calm down. We'll get answers soon enough. Her vitals are shifting, Sarah. It looks like she's waking up."

Ves blinked and opened her eyes one at a time; her sight was clearer now but still not normal. A man in a spacesuit without a helmet creeps into her vision, "Hey there, sleeping beauty. How ya feelin'?"

"Everything hurts, but I'm alive, I think. Where am I? Who are you?"

The man's face splits into an award-winning smile as he says, "I'm Barrett, and you're on Vectera. Let's start with something simple. What's your name, and how'd you end up on this rock?"

Vectera? Ves has no idea what country that is and blinks dumbly at him, replying, "I'm a U.S. citizen." The curiosity in his eyes deepened as he pushed for more specifics. "The U.S? I think you really must have bumped your head in there. I think you mean U.C. as in United Colonies?" With a touch of exasperation, Ves responded, "No, I mean U.S., I'm a United States Citizen. I've never heard of the United Colonies. I was in South America on an archeology field project, a new temple discovered underground in Sama, Peru. I assume you're with search and rescue? There must have been a cave-in or something. I remember reaching for an object in the temple when things just went…" Ves trailed off, trying to make sense of the things she remembered, the lights, the sounds, the feeling like she'd been pulled through the universe, but the pain in her head increased the more she tried.

His dark complexion paled a bit as shock registered on his features, and he glanced over in the direction of the female voices she'd heard. With tentative concern lighting his eyes, he turned back to her and asked, "What year is it?" She slowly, painfully sat up and responded, "It's 2025, obviously." Her response met silence. The air hung with a hint of mystery, as if her words had woven an unexpected thread into the room's atmosphere. Using a hand to shade her eyes from the glaring overhead light, she glanced around; Ves noticed 3 people besides Barrett staring at her like she'd grown an extra head. "What?" She asked.

The shorter blonde woman with the English accent spoke, her stern expression softening a bit, "Barrett, have you given her a Med Pack yet? She may actually have taken a blow to the head in there. Let's try that before we ask her any more questions. "

Before applying the Med Pack, he asked if she would be okay with it, explaining that the medicine within the pack would help ease and heal any pain or injuries her body might be experiencing. Hesitant, she weighed her confusion with the current situation against the throbbing ache in her head. Eventually, her body's discomfort won out, a sense of uneasy surrender creeping in. It surprised her that she was willing to trust these people at all; it must be the bizarre circumstances that demanded a level of acceptance from her she wasn't usually willing to give.

In a flash, the Med Pack chased away any lingering pain and fatigue, leaving Ves wondering what exactly was in that little injector and if it was addictive. Feeling better than she had in years, she was torn from her internal thoughts by the stiff blonde woman; she thought Barrett had called her Sarah, who repeated the question about the year. Annoyance flared in Ves to this stupid line of questioning. Just as she began to respond, a sudden commotion erupted outside. The distant sounds of people yelling, a popping that sounded like gunshots, and chaos filled the air. Before worry could take seed in Ves, someone burst into the room shouting in a panicked voice, "Lin, the Crimson Fleet is here!"

Things happened so fast; it was all a blur to Ves. Everyone was racing to put on their helmets and started arming themselves. Vest jolted as a helmet was shoved into her hands; looking up, she saw Barrett giving her a smile that could charm the skin off a snake. Grabbing a pistol and holding it up, he asked, "Know how to use one of these?" She nodded a yes, and his smile grew as he said, "Good. Feel up to a little firefight? Those are pirates out there, and they aren't exactly known for taking prisoners." Pursing her lips, Ves looked at the gun again, then responded, "I've never been one to shy away from danger." "Good," he said, handing her the pistol and an extra clip. She checked to make sure it was locked and loaded before grabbing his arm. She pointed at the helmet and said, "I'll need help with this, though." Laughing, he mumbled something about her definitely not being from this time because even a 5-year-old knows how to get a spacesuit helmet on.

As the airlock door swung open into the dark night of an industrial setting, she stepped out into the heart of chaos. Instinct took over as she ducked into cover, her fingers quickly assessing the grip's texture and the gun's weight. Adrenaline kicked in, and she was in motion in a heartbeat, responding to the threat with an innate fluidity that felt almost meditative. Without thought, she swiftly dispatched three pirates, moving with a practiced killer's precision and skill. Swiftly sliding from one cover and rolling to another, making critical shots as she did. By the time she'd made it halfway across the platform, she managed to pick up a combat knife by sneaking up behind an unwitting pirate, grabbing the knife from his thigh sheath, and using his own weapon against him in a swift, fluid motion that spoke of ruthless efficiency. He was dead before he knew she was there and before his body even hit the ground. The edges blurred for her as she seamlessly incapacitated one adversary after another, dropping spent weapons and picking up new ones as she went. The actions seemed strangely natural, like she'd done this before, been in this exact situation before. Movement and survival overtook her until there was nothing but an eerie silence. In the aftermath, a mix of shock and disgust at the skill she didn't know she possessed overtook her as she stood there, gun in hand. The red-clad bodies of the Crimson Fleet littered the tarmac before her.

The silence was palpable as people came out from their cover, all eyes on her. Ves felt strangely embarrassed as the last of the adrenaline left her body. Barrett and Sarah approached her. The skin near his eyes crinkled in a knowing smile as he glanced at the gun in her hand, then back at her, saying, "Boy, you weren't kidding when you said you could use that. I knew I sensed something special in you when I saw you. And I think we may just be seeing the tip of the iceberg." Sarah looked less thrilled and more cautious than before. "Where did you learn how to do that? Ex-military?" Ves shook her head no. "I… I'm not really sure. I learned self-defense and guns a bit over time. I mean, I travel for work, to remote places as a woman alone. It always seemed smart to know a bit of self-defense." Looking back at the bodies, she said, stumbling over her words, "But… this… I, I didn't know I could do this." A slight tremor started in her hands as she dropped the gun she was holding. "We need to get you somewhere safe before figuring out exactly who or what you are. I say we head back to Constellation and get you some rest and a medical workup before we figure all this out." Numb to the overwhelming situation at hand, you nodded your acquiescence. A brief conversation with Barrett and Sarah followed; the former decided to stay behind and assist Lin, who seemed to be in charge of the mining camp, with the remnants of the pirate attack.

Questioning her reality, Ves followed Sarah to the ship. A starship. Her mind stumbled across the thought as she tried to believe what she was seeing, a fucking starship? Directing her to a cot on board the small ship, Sarah advised her to get some sleep on their short trip. Clumisly removing her helmet and stumbling out of the space suit, she collapsed into the cot, squeezing her eyes shut against the tumbling thoughts. When Ves finally opened her eyes, her breath hitched. Directly above her was a window out into the star field. A swirling mass of galaxies on an endless black highlighted with greys, twinkling whites, strokes of soft blues, and pinks that twirled in an infinite pattern that could only have been crafted by a master artist's hand. She'd only ever seen photos from NASA like this, yet here it was before her, real as could be and more beautiful than she ever imagined. As the soothing darkness of sleep overtook her, the last thoughts drifting through her head were of the frightening and extraordinary reality she had found herself in.

[falcqns]

Hii,

Chenford prompt + 3x01 Tim takes Lucy home

you took a part of me (could you leave it?)

✰ 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: Tim Bradford x Lucy Chen

✰ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: After coming face to face with Rosalind, Tim decides Lucy shouldn't be alone, so he takes her home.

✰ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: references to Day of Death (kidnapping, near death experience), PTSD, trauma, happy ending I promise Natasha, fluff at the end, love confessions. tagging @natashasera as usual!!

don’t forget to read and reblog, and i do not give permission for my works to be posted anywhere other than tumblr. thank you.

Tim knew that Lucy being face to face with Rosalind was a bad idea. He knew that Rosalind was going to try something, which is why he was so frustrated whenLucy insisted, stating “if I can’t handle talking to Rosalind when she’s locked in a cage, then I shouldn’t be a cop.” Because, the thing is, he knew she could handle it, to his face at least. But he also knew that meant she shouldn’t have to handle it.

She shouldn’t have to be face to face with the person behind the worst thing she had ever gone through. The person who is the reason she can’t get tattoo’s, takes the stairs whenever she can, never goes out drinking after shift, and has basically given up on finding love. While Caleb did the dirty work, Rosalind was behind it all, and she sat there knowing that Lucy slowly dying in the barrel, and enjoying it. As far as he was concerned, Rosalind didn’t even deserve to be walking the same earth as his Lucy did, much less breathing the same air as her.

But Lucy, eve this stubborn and determined boot, with her knowledge of psychology and how the brain works, was determined to move past this, and work through the trauma. And Tim knew that there was nothing that he could do to deter her once she had her mind set to something. So, he didn’t answer her, but lead her out to the shop, and towards the prison where Rosalind was living out her life.

As soon as they came face to face with Rosalind, Tim immediately regretted letting Lucy anywhere near the psychopath. And it wasn’t anything Lucy did, nor Rosalind. In fact, they didn’t do anything but stare at each other. No, it was Tim. He had a sudden urge to plant a bullet between Rosalind’s eyes, an urge he had never experienced before, with anyone. He wanted to hurt Rosalind just as she’d hurt Lucy, and then take Lucy as far away from this prison as he could. But, as much as he wanted to, he knew he couldn’t. They had a job to do.

“You know,” Rosalind said, breaking the silence. “I am so impressed with you.” Tim swallowed, squeezing his duty belt to stop himself from strangling her. “The way you handled what was so obviously a very traumatic experience…” she said, eyeing Lucy like she was a piece of meat and nothing more. “It’s inspiring.” “Thanks,” Lucy replied instantly, face blank. Tim knew better. He knew under that strong stoic front, that she was scared. Despite his resistance to sharing her psychology knowledge with him, he knew about micro expressions and whether she knew it or not, her micro expressions were betraying her. She was scared.

“That means a lot, coming from you.” Lucy snarked, and Tim had to bite his lip to stop himself from laughing. It was not the time to laugh, not when they were standing in front of a serial killer. Behind bars or not, she was still dangerous, and Tim was not going to let Lucy get hurt on his watch ever again.

“Wow,” Rosalind said, staring into Lucy’s should. “So defiant.”

Tim immediately cut her off. “Let’s stick to Nolan.” He said, trying to draw Rosalind’s attention away from Lucy.

“Just like you were when the lid came down on that barrel.” She said with an evil smirk. “It must have driven Caleb crazy, denying him the fear he so desperately wanted to see in you.”

Tim stood motionless with horror. She knew. Somehow, she knew exactly what happened in that barrel.

Things that Jackson and John, Lucy’s closest friends didn’t even know. Things he only knew because he forced himself to watch the video while Lucy was sleeping one night. Lucy had lived it, the least he could do was sit there and watch what she went through so he knew the horrors she had experienced because he had told her to go out that night.

“How-“ Lucy began, voice shaky.

“Do I know that?” Rosalind finished. Tim breathed in through his nose deeply, trying to calm his anger. This was supposed to be a quick conversation. They’d ask questions about Detective Armstrong, and they’d leave. They leave and they don’t add more trauma to Lucy’s already overflowing pile.

“You think the camera in the barrel was for Caleb?” Rosalind asked, her hands gripping the bars.

“Don’t!” Tim snapped, finally tearing his eyes away from Rosalind. “Don’t listen to her Chen, she’s just playing mind games.”

She was not going to hurt Lucy. Tim was not going to let her hurt the only light in his dark world. He couldn’t let that happen; not again. That month without Lucy beside him in the shop on shift was hell. He needed her more than he needed oxygen. She was his sunshine, and no one was ever going to take her away, ever again.

But, it seemed Rosalind had other plans. “Oh I am totally playing mind games, but I am not lying.” She said, eyes falling back to Lucy.

And then, before Tim could stop her, Rosalind began to sing the song that haunted Tim’s nightmares since he’d watched the tape.

“Stars shining bright above you, Night breezes seem to whisper I love you,”

Tim side glanced at Lucy, but she managed to keep her cool.

“Birds singing in the sycamore tree…” Lucy looked down, and Tim knew he had to get her out of there.

“Knock it off!” Tim said loudly, and he finally made eye contact with Rosalind.

“Ahhh, the fierce protector.” She drawled.

“We’re done here.” He snapped, looking only at Rosalind. he no longer cared about anything Rosalind had to say about Armstrong, or Nolan. They’d prove Nolan’s innocence some other way, but Lucy’s mental health was not worth spending another second in that room. “Lets go.” ——

They do end up proving Nolan’s innocence, and they’re sent home. Tim had never thought he’d be more grateful for the end of shift. He wanted to get Lucy home, and help her anyway he can. On their way to change out for the night, Tim somehow manages to convince her to let him drive her home. “You shouldn’t be alone right now.” He’d said. Rosalind just mocked your biggest trauma, so as much as you think that you can handle it on your own, I’m going to help you through it.”

She’d reluctantly agreed, and followed him to his truck, her feet dragging, pace sluggish. Tim knew she was tired, but didn’t realize just how exhausted she was until they were in the elevator, going down to their level of the parking garage and he got a good look at his rookie.

She was barely standing, gripping onto the sides of the elevator with both hands, her eyes closed, and a crease in her brows. The old elevator jolted slightly, and Tim watched as her eyes shot open in terror, filling with tears as as they glazed over. She whimpered, her eyes searching for Tim, and immediately reached out for him, arms outstretched, lip jutting out slightly as tears began rolling down her cheeks.

Tim wasted no time in wrapping her up in his arms. He held her as tight as he possibly could without hurting her, and didn’t let go until the elevator made it to the correct floor, and the doors opened.

“You’re okay,” he whispered. his arms didn’t let go of her, but he readjusted his grip on her, to make it easier for the both of them to walk to his truck. “You’re safe, I’ve got you.” He repeated the same words the entire walk to his vehicle.

Once they made it to his trick, Lucy was reluctant to let go of Tim. He opened the door for her, and helped her in, but her hands gripped onto his arms tight when he tried to pull away from her. “Shhh,” he soothed, as she cried out. “I’m not going anywhere, okay, Goosey?” He said quietly, using her nickname, which made her calm slightly, her grip loosening on Tim’s forearms. “I’m just going to close the door so that I can go to my side of the truck and get in. I’m not going to leave you.” She nodded, sniffling as tears continued to run down her face, but she eventually released Tim, letting him close her door. He walked around the front of the truck deliberately, so Lucy could keep her eyes on him. He climbed into his side of the truck, and after the engine roared to life, they were off, heading towards Tim’s house.

Just after they pulled out of the Mid Wilshire Station parking garage, Lucy reached out for Tim’s hand, her own hand shaking as she did so. Tim immediately gave it to her. He squeezed her hand three times as he continued to drive, and he smiled as he saw her smile out of the corner of his eye.

He had been holding her hand and squeezing it three times since he pulled her out of that barrel. He had no idea where he got the idea to do that, but when Lucy was coming out of a seizure while in the back of the ambulance, she began to cry and reach out for Tim, but Tim couldn’t lift her up and hold her in his lap like he desperately wanted to, all he could do was hold onto her hand, and squeeze it three times to let her know that he was there, that she was safe, and that he wasn’t going to leave her. Ever since then, it had been something that the two of them did when the other was upset or angry. It calmed them down, grounded them, and reminded them that the other person was there, that they were safe, and that the other wasn’t going to leave them or let them get hurt ever again.

Tim felt his arm be lifted, and then felt the warm, wet feeling of his hand being pressed against Lucy’s cheek. He looked over at her, and smiled, seeing that she had fully calmed down, and was just watching the world outside the windshield.

Her stomach rumbled, and she whimpered slightly, making Tim smile.

“We’re almost there.” He said. “I’ll make you dinner tonight, is there anything specific that you’d like?” He asked, and Lucy thought briefly, chewing on her lip as she did.

“Do you have veggie burgers?” She asked quietly, and Tim nodded with a smile.

“Of course I do, Luce. Is that all you want?”

Lucy shrugged. “Maybe a salad?” She suggested, and Tim nodded.

“Veggie burgers and a salad.” He said, looking at Lucy with a smile. “That I can do.”

——

Once they arrived to Tim’s home, the immediately fell into the same routine they’d had since he first brought Lucy home from the hospital. They both left their shoes at the front door, and Lucy made a pit stop in the bathroom, before heading to the living room and turning on the tv. Tim has been insistent since she came home from the hospital that when she was in his house, she was the guest, and therefore she should not be lifting a finger. That meant while Tim was making food or getting them drinks, she was sitting down, and relaxing. Like she should always be, according to Tim.

She did eventually move, joining Tim outside as he cooked the burgers on the barbecue. She didn’t say anything, just stood beside him and watched him flip the burgers every so often. Tim didn’t pay her much mind, at least until he heard a sniffle from beside him, and he looked over to see Lucy quietly crying, a frustrated look on her face. Tim placed the tongs down, and turned to look at Lucy.

“Whats wrong?” He asked quietly.

Lucy shook her head. “Nothing.” She said, her voice short.

“Well it’s clearly not nothing if it’s making you cry all over our burgers.” He half joked, but realized that joking might not have been the best idea once Lucy growled lowly and turned away to stomp into the house again.

He stopped her, grabbing onto her arm. “Hey,” he said. “I was joking Goosey.” Lucy stopped, and took a deep breath before she wrenched her arm out of his grip and stormed into the house, letting the glass door slam shut behind her. Tim turned down the heat on the barbecue, and followed her into the house.

“What’s going on?” He said calmly, stopping Lucy from storming away into the bathroom like he knew she was going to. “What set you off? If I know I can help you calm down, but I can’t do that if you don’t tell me what is going on.” He said, reciting the little speech Lucy’s therapist had told him to say when she got overstimulated or triggered.

Lucy choked out a sob, and then turned around to face Tim.

“Why are you being so nice to me!” Lucy exploded. “I couldn’t even be in the same room as Rosalind for more than five minutes without being triggered! Why are you, my hard ass TO, being so fucking nice to me instead of berating me and writing up a blue page like you’re supposed to! I’m not some fragile little princess, I don’t need protecting!” Lucy ranted, before sitting on the ground and pulling her knees up to her chest, burying her face in her knees, letting her sobs out.

Tim sighed, dragging a hand over his face. He was frustrated. Not at Lucy, he could never be frustrated at her, especially not for something like this. He was frustrated because she couldn’t see why he was doing all of this for her. It wasn’t out of pity, it wasn’t because he didn’t think she could handle what happened today, it was because she was the strongest person he knew. Which meant, she didn’t have to be strong all the time. She deserves to take a break from being the strong, badass woman that she is and let someone help her bear the pain that she had experienced. She deserves to feel happiness, to be at peace. To have a meal made by someone who loves her, and knows her as well as he did. Someone who had seen her at her worst, seizing in the back of an ambulance, and who had seen her at her best and bravest, not letting Rosalind know how she was making her feel.

She deserved the whole world, and Tim was going to stop at nothing to make sure that she got just that.

Tim sighed, and walked over to her, before sitting down next to her. He let her cry out her emotions , and as soon as she took a deep, shuttering breath in and started wiping her eyes, he began to speak.

“I’m not being nice to you and caring for you because I pity you, or I think you need protection. Because you don’t. You’ve shown me time and time again, since your very first shift that you don’t need anyone, much less me, protecting you. There is absolutely no shame in not being able to be in the same room as Rosalind, or being triggered by her. She watched as you were shoved in a barrel and left for dead after being kidnapped. That isn’t something someone just gets over in a week, and that isn’t something you should be worried I am going to pass off as no big deal. Because the truth is, you, Lucy Chen, are the strongest woman I know. I wouldn’t have survived something like that, but you did because of how strong, and how determined you are. But you don’t have to always be strong, especially around me. If you need to cry, if you need to scream, punch things break things, I’m here. If you just want me to sit with you so you can sleep knowing that you’re safe and protected, I will be there as soon as I can and will hold you all night if that’s what it takes for you to get the sleep you deserve. You deserve to be happy and to be at peace. You deserve to not have to deal with this by yourself, and that’s all I’m trying to do, okay?” He said quietly, and Lucy nodded, looking at him, a few stray tears falling from her eyes.

Lucy wiped her eyes, and Tim smiled, and he couldn’t let her sit there all sad, curled up in a ball anymore. He reached out for her, and pulled her onto his lap. He rested his back against the back of the couch, and let her settle with her chest to his chest, her head on his shoulder as he ran his fingers through her soft hair.

“Can I tell you something?” He asked. “Something that I was waiting for the end of your FTO program to say?” Lucy nodded, not moving a muscle.

Tim nodded, swallowed the lump forming in his throat, and did his best to ignore the anxiety swirling in his stomach. “Since your first day, you have been the sunshine in my dark world. You have been my source of happiness, the reason I smile, and the reason I get out of bed and continue to come to work everyday. It used to be to find Isabel, but now it’s you. That glimpse of a Lucy-less life that I got when you were missing were the worst days of my life. I did some things that I am not proud of, simply because I needed you back. I couldn’t live without you; and I think that was the moment that I realized I had fallen in love with you.” He said.

Lucy froze, before slowly sitting up and looking Tim in the eye. “Y-You’re in love with me?” She whispered.

Tim nodded, his eyes watering. “Yeah, I am. I have been for a while, I just didn’t realize what it was until you were missing and I told Angela that I had pushed you to go out that night with Caleb. That I was feeling insanely guilty, and that I should have just let you go home. She pointed out to me that I had never been this protective over any other rookie, and that’s the moment that I knew, but I didn’t let myself admit it until your seizure. The moment you reached over to me when it ended, I knew that I had fallen with the best rookie I’ve ever trained. And I understand if you don’t feel the same, but I just couldn’t have you sitting here thinking that I’m doing all this for you because I pity you or because its a part of being a TO. I’m doing this because I love you, and I need you to be okay.” He finished.

Lucy smiled, sniffling. “I love you too.” She whispered, and a smile broke out on Tim’s face, a warm feeling spreading in his chest.

“Really? You do?” He asked, and once Lucy nodded, he leant in, pressing his lips to her softly. His hands traveled down to her back, and he pulled her as close as possible to his body. They both enjoyed the soft, and love-filled kiss, until their need for oxygen became dire. They broke apart, and rested their foreheads together, smiling, both of them knowing that they were safe, with the one they loved.

“We should get back to the burgers,” Lucy whispered a moment later, and Tim nodded.

“Yeah, we should. I’m hungry, and you’re going to need that fuel for later.” He whispered, pressing a kiss to her jaw.

[woodsfae]

B5 s02e20 The Long, Twilight Struggle Table of Contents • previous episode

Wow, we're almost to the end of another season! It's been a really good one, despite my own rocky start with its beginning. It's been interesting how my perspective has shifted enough along the way that I had change of minds about my change of minds of some characters. In The Gathering I loved Garibaldi, then came to dislike him for his sexism, police brutality, abuse of position, stalking Talia, being a shit about his ex, and general cop-ness, but the writing really brought me around on him! Weirdly, I now believe he can and will be better.

Almost the same for Londo. I didn't really like him at all, came to like him a little, then was to be SO disappointed in him that now I'm just fascinated to see how far his moral depravity and Sunk Cost Fallacy-ing will go.

And on to the episode!

Their CGI planet is really lovely and colorful, and does look quite 3d! And it's Centauri Prime (presumably). Must be a Londo episode!

This guy is petting the throne. wtf Refa. Very blunt about the fetishization of power that's going on here.

Londo: "Lord Refa, I have come a long way, and I am tired. Is there a reason I have been summoned here, now?" Refa: "Indeed there is, I have good news. The war which began six months is about to end. Sooner than any of us could have hoped. And you, Londo Mollari, will be the architect of our victory."

ope, the Centauri are about to do some crazy war crimes, I see!

Finally, a sexy transparent glass silhouette showering scene! I've been waiting for this since the show started. Classy of them to make it be Sheridan.

Friendly Draal Planet!!! I hoped to see him again! How delightful! What a bad omen, though.

Delenn is becoming just…transcendently beautiful. The lighting and camera shots, her expressions and grace, are all just astonishing. I am glad she gets to see her friend again. Maybe some of the other serene characters will pop up for a reunion. I'd love to see the little telepath girl who went to Minbari, Janice the Healer, and Thomas Jinxo the Seeker of the Grail again, and I think they'd all get along well (or at least interestingly) together.

Draal, appearing before Sheridan fresh out of his shower: "I've been watching you for quite some time, Captain. And I thought it was time that I introduce myself. My name, is Draal. How do you do." *Minbari bow* Sheridan, damp and be-robed: "Uh, fine. I'm fine." Draal, who has no idea how to talk to humans: "Good. You don't have any idea who I am, do you?" Sheridan, who did his research on B5 tysvm: "Unless there's another Draal who can do what you just did, you're the Minbari who took custody of the planet we're orbiting." Draal: "Ah, Captain, you do not take custody of the planet, the planet takes custody of you!."

This made me laugh really hard. The planet really did take custody of Draal. Near-total isolation, but youth. idk if I'd go for that.

Details…details…lmao Draal.

The Narn…cannot catch a fucking break. Contact with an entire sector of colonies, lost. They're losing, although their official stance is that they're holding their own. I wish them and their counter attack well! One all-out strike with the majority of their forces is a hardcore strategy! They could lose everything.

G'Sten: "If we make them pay, for every inch of space, we can wear them down, prolonging the war beyond their capacity to fight it. Centauri want a quick victory: they don't have the stomach for prolonging the war."

He also says there will always be enough ships to defend their homeworld, but dang that still feels really risky. I am so excited to see a little of G'Kar's family. His uncle! And he's so kind, warm, and loving. The exact opposite of the way they were described by Delenn and the Centauri in season one. They both call the Narn cold, strange, impossible to empathize with. I hate to see anti Narn propaganda! They have risen highly in my estimation and I am rooting for them so hard.

The Centauri are going to bomb Narn from orbit with banned weapons and wipe out much of the entire population. To "save Centauri lives." War crimes, as I thought.

Everything depends on Londo. It's too late to back out. Bringing the pressure and the logical fallacies down on him! He bends, obviously, and is going to reach out to Morden for help carrying out the sick plan.

Londo: "All right. I will bring my assoociates into this, but this is that last time. We are Centauri. If we are to sieze our destiny, we must do it ourselves. After this, no more." What'shisface" "After this there will be no need! Thank you. Cheer up. By the time you return to Babylon 5 the war will be over, and the Narns will be at our feet. This time, we will keep them there."

Exactly. The Narns will not stop resisting, they will eventually gain their freedom again, and there will be another and another. You can't build an empire without horrifically violating sentients' rights, and those sentients are always going to resist.

Love Delenn's outfit today. I hope Draal won't be an ass about her hair.

Aw, so nice, Londo gets to go watch the Centauri genociding the Narns, live and in HD safe on a warship. How thoughtful. May he choke on the sight.

Dr Franklin is a real and good friend and a great anti-fascist comrade. Gathering deets from his Narn patients to give G'Kar as up-to-date as information as he can, as quick as he can.

Draal Planet light hearted B Plot, yay! And Delenn is now experimenting with swearing She used the f-word even! Frag me, she's so great.

Delenn: "Draal? We're here." Draal: "Did you think I hadn't noticed, my old friend? You've changed. I like it."

I'm glad he's not racist to her! That makes two Minbari who have on-screen supported her: Lennier, and now her old mentor. I'm so glad!

But onto the meat of the visit. Draal has been using the planet's resources to gather information, including Sheridan's history and all the plotting Sheridan's been doing. Convenient, and awesome! Powerful allies are badly needed right now. Draal has been studying the universe and the planet, and he's ready for action! And I"m ready to see that action!

"In the long, twilight struggle which lies ahead of us, there is a possibility of hope."

That's a great message, and good repetition of the same sentiment from earlier with G'Kar and G'Sten. I'm afraid G'Sten is going to die, but I hope he lives. The Narns have faced enough tragedy.

Shadow ships coming for G'Sten and his fleet, the evil shits! The CGI has definitely improved from last season to a degree, although it's extremely obvious with the shadow ships. but I love the effect! They are all cgi and thus fake-looking, which I think enhances how out of sync with the normal dimensional bounds they are. I'd be fucking unnerved if I saw something that fake looking in real life.

goodbye G'Sten. :/

There's people on the Draal Planet! Wow, they must be weird.

LOVE this for Delenn. She's needed friends really badly, too!

Zathras!! Is in league with Draal! Cool!! I didn't think we'd see the Space Werewolf again, but this should be fun! JMS's spreadsheets must have been wild.

Narn is in a BAD position. Centauri have Narn surrounded, there's massive destruction and death, and the Narn fleet has been neutralized. An impromptu re-enactment between Narn and Centauri on B5 is underway. Of course.

Narn looks mostly brown and orange from orbit. I wonder what it looked like before the Centauri ever arrived. Bombs underway, Londo watching on while looking sick. Hope he feels even sicker than he looks!

Ineffective response from Minbari and Earth, of course. An atrocity! They condemn it! Really hard! Finger wag! Don't do it again!

:(

G'Kar. What a horrible horrible place to be. Narn plans to surrender. I hope they can snatch victory from the jaws of defeat, but knowing this show, it will be even more grim for them and the universe by the end of the episode. Horrific.

G'Kar is reduced to asking Sheridan for political asylum. If they hand him over to the Centauri…! fuck! That's the kind of dystopian universe this is, too. I hope that won't happen, though.

Ugh. A speech by Londo. What an awful piece of propaganda.

Londo: "A little over five standard hours ago, the conflict which began with the Narn declaration of war, came to and end. The Narn regime has offered complete and unconditional surrender. The terms imposed by the Centauri Republic are as follows. One: the ruling body known as the Kha'ri will be disbanded, and its members subject will be subject to arrest and trial for the commission of war crimes against the Centauri." Sheridan: "Earth requests the right to send observers to these hearings." Londo: "That request is denied. Two: to prevent further acts of terror by the Narn against our people, the penalty for the murder of any Centauri by any Narn will be the execution of five hundred Narns. Including the Perpetrator's own family. Three: a provisional ruling council appointed by my government will take up the responsibility of re-building a more civilized Narn government, as a colony of the great Centauri Republic." Sheridan: "Is there anything else." Londo: "Yes. Just, one thing. Because the Narn homeworld is now a protectorate of the Centauri Republic, we reserve the right to determine who can speak for Narn. As a result, Ambassador G'Kar may no longer represent the Narn in any official capacity whatsoever. His appointment ambassador to Babylon 5 is hereby withdrawn. And as the only member of the Kha'ri still at large, Citizen G'Kar will return to Narn for trial."

"No," quoth Sheridan. Minbari supports Earth and Babylon 5 in this, although Delenn does call him Citizen G'Kar like Londo did. Fuck him, man. He's fully a bootlicker channeling his frustration at his guilt over all the war crimes against the non-Centauri. My least favorite fictional war criminal.

The framing and character work through this scene is WILD. G'Kar, sitting, slumped, not meeting anyone's eyes. Londo, speaking with clear enunciation, racist and imperialist language framed as the ethical, sensible decisions the Narn have forced them to make. G'Kar rising and speaking calmly before leaving when Londo loses his temper and demands, screaming, that G'Kar leave the council room.

G'Kar: "No dictator, no invader can hold an imprisoned population by force of arms forever. There is no greater power in the universe than the need for freedom. Against that power, governments and tyrants and armies cannot stand. The Centauri learned this lesson once. We will teach it to them again. Though it take a thousand years…we will be free."

The Narn will not go quietly.

Centauri is celebrating, they are dancing in the streets on homeworld. Or so the propaganda news broadcast goes.

Sheridan has a very nice speech for G'Kar and offer of support of all his personal assets that can be put towards that aim.

G'Kar: "The last time I took someone's hand we were at war twenty-four hours later." *takes Sheridan's offered hand anyway*

Mad lad.

And now Sheridan's off to a super-secret meeting! Delenn presiding. She has gathered him allies to pledge to Sheridan. Ah, Sinclair's project! <3 Sinclair, good work, buddy. Kosh is there, too! Somehow I doubt he is there to swear TO Sheridan. Along with, benevolently, to help the ants win against the anteater, maybe.

This is an episode of speeches! G'Kar's was terrible and great. Sheridan's falls a little flat. His line has been drawn on the other side of a fascist empire re-enslaving an entire people.

Well. I can only hope for some great and wild successes on the other side of the season finale!

The balance of affection between G'Kar and G'Sten, and Delenn's joyful reunification with Draal and the hope that and Sinclair's rangers inspired were all a much-needed balance against the Narns' current plight, but this was still so heavy and dark. It went there, it did that! Man, the forces of the Light are just fucking crippled without the Narn and their previous resources. All destroyed, and mostly dead, to feed the appetite of the Centauri Empire.

next!

[boliv-jenta]

Sex worker!Max Lord x f!reader.

WC:1.7k

Warnings: Unprotected sex. A little angst.

Summary: There's that rule about not mixing business with pleasure. What happens when pleasure is your business? Max is about to find out.

Series Masterlist

Redrafting

Max turned your reaction over and over in his mind. It was obvious that control was a big issue for you.

All your interactions were on your terms. Even in the moment, you would control everything. Shifting your body to move him where you needed him. Or flat out ordering him to move. The money you gave him was good. Who was he to question your motives? Friday night rolled around. The scent of coconut met him at the door. The sight of you in your short robe that barely covered anything greeted him. 

"Come on in." The room had a few little candles dotted around. The ambient light was low. 

Max was inside and shrugging off his jacket as usual when you caught his arm. He stopped his movement and he left the jacket in place. 

"I want to apologise, Max. For the other day. It's not an excuse but I spent all day walking a tightrope at work. If I don't speak up I'm freeloading off the ideas of others. If I do speak up I'm a bitch. If I'm friendly I'm leading them on. If I'm not friendly enough I'm a frigid bitch. It's just hard being damned if you do and damned if you don't just because you happen to be female. I wanted to be the one in complete control for once." The longest sigh you let out tugged at his heart strings. "I understand if you want to stop this. There was no time frame in your contract. We can just stop."

Max continued to remove his jacket.

"I can understand how that must be difficult. I prayed on it before, that insecurity that society seems to hard wire into women. I had one steal for me, so I could get what I wanted, just by making her feel seen."

"Wow, it seems like we both have a mean streak. I guess we deserve each other." 

Max's lips parted in a silent question. "Obviously not like that." You waved a hand in dismissal. "Rule two still stands. But, I guess it wouldn't be so bad to loosen some of the other rules I've imposed on myself. I wouldn't mind if you took care of me again. You're a nice guy Max. I can see that. Even if you can't. If you're alright with it, I'd like to keep this going."

"It's more than alright with me."

With that a weight was lifted and you snapped back to your usual, confident self."Good. I was hoping we could try something different tonight."

The coconut candles continued into the bedroom. The scent reminded Max of drinks on the beach in the summer heat. The memories warmed his skin but nowhere near home much your next sentence did."I was thinking I could give you some control tonight." You dropped your robe leaving you bare to him without  a care in the world. "As always I have some rules. No missionary or similar intimate positions. The main one is that you come inside me."

Max's curiosity got the better of him. He decided to push his luck while you were being so open. "Why that rule in particular?"

"I don't know. It just does something for me. Everyone's got something. You clearly have a thing for praise, Pretty Boy." A flush burned his cheeks. "I don't know why you get so embarrassed about it. You are."

"Thank you." He looked even more embarrassed.

"Right, well this is feeling a bit too familiar. You wanna get to work?"

Max had asked a pretty damn good question. What was it about a man filling your cunt with his cum that drove you crazy? Could you still have a breeding kink if you didn't want kids? Was it the sinful waste that called to your lapsed Catholic upbringing? Something about it always felt naughty and wrong, even with you using birth control. The thought occupies you until Max decides he wants to take you from behind. And what a good choice it was. Max certainly knew his way around a vagina. He knew every spot to make you feel good and just how to hit it. He hit the last spot perfectly when he purred "Can I come inside you?"

It was your turn to beg for a change. "Please, Max. Give it to me. I need it."

It felt better than you remembered when he spilled inside you. Two large hands came to palm your breasts as he pulled you up flush to him.

The sounds Max made when he came made you want to double his fee. You had never heard a man get so lost in his enjoyment. He would moan deeply. Whimper your name when your touch was too much, which you made sure was often for Max. Always just pushing him just a little further to hear his panted whines and pleas. It was a rush to have such a man beg for you. 

When Max walked into a room people paid attention. They were attracted to him. Whether that attraction be physical or to his energy. When Max was in his element he could charm the birds out of the trees. You knew he was accused of being some sort of con artist. The details were fuzzy in your memory. It made sense when you saw the two men he was. The confident one he presented to the world was almost its own con. Sure, Max was confident but he didn't think he deserved anything that came with that confidence. The attraction. The admiring glances. The envy. The Max he let you make him during your time together was more comfortable in his skin. Ordering him around, making him beg for you, that seemed to be what he thought he deserved. That's where the aftercare came in, you wanted to show him what he truly deserves.

In your heart, you had so much love to share but no one to share it with. The job you moved her for took up most of your time. Aside from your Sunday night call to your parents, you didn't tell anyone you loved them. There were a few acts of service you did for your female friends at work but even then they had to be kept quiet. There was no room to show weakness if you wanted to move further up the company.

Max quivered, giving a final choked off whine as he pumped the last of his cum inside you. The sounds of him panting and cursing in Spanish made you smile. A smile played on his lips and dragged over your shoulder. He pressed the occasion kiss along the path he traced up your neck and behind your ear. For a moment he just pressed his head to yours, his arms still around you. His cock softening inside you. Post coital bliss settled under your skin as Max settled over it. You should move. This was too close to something more intimate. You would just let him catch his breath then send him away. When Max's breathing settled, you turned your head to dismiss him. That was a mistake. Those captivating brown eyes caught you in them. Caught in their trap you stayed where you were, saying nothing. Just being there, lips hovering so close to him. It wouldn't take much to lean in. To fall into him. To let the feelings in your chest rule over the thoughts in your head. You knew he would be so soft with you if you asked him. Even without being paid. 

The line came into focus. He was being paid. This was a job for him, nothing more. You had bought a service that you needed. 

"Max, why don't you go get a shower?" He looked a little confused. Almost always you had him make you come at least twice, he hadn't even achieved that once, your bare pussy being too much for him, before running him a bath. Reluctantly he obeyed.

Once you heard the shower running, you lay yourself down to finish what Max had started. There was no way you could have his hands on you in your current emotional state. Dipping your fingers inside you felt Max's cum gathered there. A few times you ran your fingers through it aimlessly just enjoying knowing you were full of him.

Max's heavy footsteps on the fall drew you attention. "I'm sorry. I was just coming to ask if you were sure you didn't need anything else."

Fuck, he was pretty. He was naked and willing. And sweet. And charming. And caring. Would it be so bad just to fall a little, to land in his arms? It didn't have to be a marriage proposal. It didn't even have to be for more than one night. Just for once you could be soft. Not just in your care for him but by letting him care for you.

"Take care of me, Max. Please."

His broad form pressed you heavily into the bed as he lay on top of you. The feel of him grounded you. He hadn't stopped kissing you since he climbed on top of you. Your lips tingle from it. His nimble, clever fingers brought you closer to orgasm by the second. 

When you came you moaned a single word against his mouth. "Max."

Gently he worked you through the aftershocks until he could start on another orgasm. "Look at you, letting me take care of you. I know it's hard. You're so strong all of the time. You don't need to be with me. I can be whatever you need."

That was food for thought. Maybe a new contract could be drawn up. One with rules on how far his care was allowed to go. All too soon you were arching into his touch again. "Oh my god. So good, Max. Max. Ahh." The second climax was stronger than the first. It spread through your whole body, systematically wiping out every part of you until you were a compliant mess for him. So compliant that you didn't say a word as he took you to the still running shower. Or even when he rutted his now hard cock against your ass. Or when you guided him inside you to finish again, you combined moans echoing a chorus in the confined space. The silence continued as he helped you dry off and wrapped you in your bathrobe. It still carried on when he slipped you into bed before climbing on top of the sheets and wrapped his body around yours. Sleep found you so fast that night.

The next morning you awoke to an empty bed. A fresh glass of water and one of your legal pads sat on the nightstand. Picking the pad up you looked at the heading, writing in neatly scrawling cursive and underlined.

My new terms.

[yandere-fics]

Mafia Princess Bullying Miriel

(I stole the champagne idea from another yandere fic I'm so sorry, it just lives rent free in my mind 24/7)

You hated her. That stupid elf girl sitting opposite you. Her stupid squeaky voice, her annoying little giggle. You just wanted to punch her in the nose, in fact you'd wanted to punch her in the nose since you were kids. Whenever your father would bring you along to a big event, she would be there, clinging to her parents like a baby bird refusing to leave the nest. You'd only ever spoken to her when you had to, and yet here you were, in some shitty private restaurant on some shitty fake date, all with the purpose of "settling tensions" between your families. If your dad wanted things to be more chummy with her parents he could have gone himself. But no, he makes you sit opposite this dumb whiny girl for three hours, so your bodyguards can gush about how wonderfully behaved you were, guaranteeing peace between the two families for another generation. Idiots.

"This restaurant is really lovely, isn't it? The view of the city is wonderful..." Miriel spoke, smiling as she stared into the vast, endless city. Gods she pissed you off, trying to play nice and make conversation. What a bitch.

"This restaurant sucks."

"O-oh"

"$800 for a steak?? What am I, poor??? It's like they're insulting me. Obviously you don't feel insulted, you with your bowl of lettuce. I bet you'd eat grass off the ground and call it a 5 star meal." You teased, grinning as she meekly looked away. 'Oh come onnnn' you thought 'she doesn't even fight back'. You clicked your fingers, gaining the attention of your bodyguard Kassien

"Hey, Kassy, get us some of that champagne they boast about on the menu. It must be good if they're charging that much for it."

"As you wish." She responded, wandering off towards the public section of the restaurant.

"Oh um. I don't actually drink champagne-" Miriel stuttered

"Wow, that's crazy. I don't care." You snapped back, her lip quivered in response, oh she was fun. Maybe you'd get some enjoyment out of tonight after all.

Kassien returned with the bottle of champagne, it had some stupid french name on the label, it didn't matter. You shooed her away and turned back to face your "date", who was shifting uncomfortably in her seat.

"Pour this for me." You demanded, holding your glass in front of yourself

"Huh?"

"Huh?? What, can't hear through those pointy ears? Pour my drink. Or I'll put a hit out on you the moment I'm queen."

Her eyes widened, a shiver running up her spine

"Why would you say that???" She cried

"I like watching you squirm. It's my entertainment for the night. Now pour my drink, bitch." You coaxed, she bowed her head in shame and obliged, carefully pulling the cork from the bottle and preparing to pour it into your glass.

'She's so pathetic. She didn't even try to tell me no. I can just walk all over her like she's nothing.' You thought to yourself, staring as she oh so carefully poured, her hands shaking with fear.

BANG

You slammed your knee against the table, causing Miriel to jump at the sudden noise, pouring champagne all over your lap

"I'M SORRY!! OH MY GODS I'M SO SORRY!!" she cried, tears starting to well in her eyes

"What the fuck??? Damn bitch you can't even pour champagne right?! Were you dropped as a baby??" You teased, she panicked and grabbed a handful of napkins to wipe you down

"What do you think you're doing??? This champagne is one of a kind. Half a glass probably costs more than your ransom. Don't you dare waste it. Get on your knees, and drink it out of my dress." You hissed, her eyes widened, her knees were shaking, you could feel your bodyguard's peering into the room, you simply gave a thumbs up in response.

"Well? Are you just gonna stand there or what?"

"O-okay" she whimpered, getting under the table and pressing her lips to your dress, sucking the champagne out of the fabric. You grinned, sipping champagne from your glass as you watched her little face go red with embarassment. She looked like she was going to cry! It turned you on way too much. This dumb little baby was meant to be the heir to the second most feared crime family in the city, and here she was getting tipsy between your legs.

"Is... is that it...?" She asked, you shook your head in response, pulling your dress up to reveal your panties.

"You took so long it seeped through the dress."

"R...really?"

You offered her only a death stare in response, she whimpered and got back to work. Fuck it felt good. She sucked and lapped up every last drop that'd soaked in, you grinned and teasingly pressed your foot to her crotch.

"Oh my gods. I KNEW IT! THIS TURNS YOU ON!" you laughed, cackling as she scurried out from under the table, tears flowing down her bright red face.

"I-I-I- I didn't..." she stuttered, the girl looked like she was about to short circuit.

"Don't lie to me. I could feel it. Show me."

"W-what?!?!?"

"Lift up your dress, pull your panties down, and show me." You grinned as she did exactly that, lifting her long black dress up to reveal her pretty little dick, twitching and begging for attention. It was adorable.

"Alright, strip and sit on the table." You commanded, she looked over to her bodyguard, who only lowered his gaze in response. She followed orders, stripping nude and sitting on the table, she looked nervous enough to explode.

"You really just let me order you around huh? I don't know how you walk around, since you clearly don't have a spine." You teased, kneeling down in front of her, holding her dick in your hands, admiring the way it twitched and convulsed at your touch.

You lowered your mouth onto her, she moaned loudly in response, you had barely even started and she was damn near screaming. You took all of her into your mouth, running your tongue along her shaft as you bobbed your head up and down, finding the perfect spot that made her squeal just right. The spot that made her legs shake and her hips buck. The spot that had her chewing on her own hand to stifle her moans.

"I-I-" she whimpered, her dick throbbed in your mouth, signalling that you were done here. Her dick left your mouth with a pop as you stared at her blushing, messy face. She whined as you stopped touching her, poor girl looked like she was going to die.

"Say thank you."

"Wh-what?"

"Say 'thank you for not letting me cum'"

"Th...thank you for not letting me cum"

"Good girl. Now get off the table. My knees hurt." She obliged, leaping off the table and allowing you to take a seat right on the edge, spreading your legs for her and pulling your panties aside, flashing your glistening pussy for her to see.

"Well? Put it in. Before I change my mind."

"I... I'm too short" she whined, the table just too high off the ground

"Stand on your tip toes. Don't be lazy"

"O-okay" she squeaked, standing right on her tippy toes as she pushed herself inside. She slipped right in, causing her to gasp loudly

"You're so warm~" she hummed

"I know" you responded, grinning as she began fucking you. You held her close, your arms wrapped around her, playing with her hair as she moaned and whined into you.

"Faster" you commanded, and so she obliged, her thrusts becoming quick and rhythmic, until suddenly they started to slow

"Hey, I said faster."

"I... I can't..." she whined

"Why not?"

"If I go any faster I..."

"You'll cum? I don't care. I said faster, either you go faster or you stop entirely but don't you dare cum."

You only got a whine in response, she picked back up the pace, you felt her throbbing inside of you, she was so fucking cute

"I... I'm gonna-"

"Don't you dare."

"Please!!!"

"Don't you DARE stop, and don't you DARE cum."

"I can't keep going!!! I can't!!!!!!" She cried, her thrusts becoming irregular, like she was fighting her own body.

"Then cum. Nice and deep." You grinned, finally letting her release. She moaned so loudly as she came, she felt like her heart hadn't been beating for hours, like she hadn't taken a breath since she got here. As she released herself, you held her, feeling the tears run down her face onto your arm as you softly ran your fingers through her hair.

"I'm sorryyyy" she whined, you shushed her in response, softly humming to her

"It's okay. It's okay sweet girl. Such a sweet girl. You gave me just what I wanted. I'll tell me dad we get along swimmingly" you smiled and kissed her on the cheek, she shivered in resonse

"I'll see you next week"

-girlfailure (I really enjoyed making this)

i feel so bad for my baby girl, too bad she also enjoyed it.

[late-to-the-magnus-archives]

Corrupted, Chapter Four: Watched - a Malevolent x TMA fic

Tim's been treading, head above water, for a while now. He had hoped to find help.

That’s not really what the Magnus Institute does.

AO3

——-

Tim leaves early.

Navigating empty streets at night is one thing. This is heading into west London right at the beginning of the work day, and he will take no chances. Beyond all the ones he can’t avoid, anyway.

John’s navigation, however, is flawless. Slow down a little. Good. The step is higher than that—good.

On the bus without incident. Amazing.

And then it’s very weird, because Tim is used to scrolling his phone on public transit, and he obviously can’t do that now—but it gives him an idea. He rummages in his backpack.

What are you doing? John sounds curious.

Tim finds what he’s searching for by feel. “Ah, ha!” he says, and uncoils a white cord with earbuds. “There,” he says, plugging into his phone. “Thank you, Past Tim, Pack-Rat Extraordinaire. Now I can talk without looking crazy. Just on the phone, ma’am, nothing to see here.”

Very smart, John says. I’m impressed.

“Modern technology, eh?” says Tim. “Modernish, anyway. Speaking of which, you don’t seem to be struggling very hard with things like cell phones and rideshares. You’d been here before. Recently.”

Have I? Tim, there are so many worlds, so many timelines, so many dimensions. I’ve seen technology you would never believe—and magic that made it all irrelevant.

What an answer. “And you’re humble about it, too,” Tim says. “Also, you’re deflecting. You know movie titles. Not that Tim Curry doesn’t deserve multiverse fame, but you knew who that was.”

Such a clever man, John purrs, and Tim shifts in his seat, unwillingly affected. I see I will have to watch what I say around you.

“Deflecting. Again. Anyway, I’ve been thinking,” he murmurs, facing the window. “You must be kind of rare, whatever you are. If the world were full of things like you, I’m pretty sure I’d know.”

Really. 

Amused. That’s that tone. “Sure. Why wouldn’t I? Why wouldn’t everybody?”

Because for most of us, it’s far more entertaining and useful when humans don’t know what’s watching them from the shadows.

“Okay, so that’s really ominous,” says Tim. “Worse than ‘a being.’ Positively malevolent. Still not gonna tell me what you are?”

No.

Tim sighs. “So. Anything interesting out the window?”

Quite a lot, actually. And John proceeds to describe what he sees.

Tim would absolutely have bought the audio with this guy narrating London for tourists.

John manages to make ordinary shops and red mailboxes interesting. He describes people Tim knows he would never have even noticed on his own. He manages to make London feel like a thriving, vividly energetic throng, a place of potential, not just a crowded, expensive place to work.

It almost feels like part of a life worth living. Maybe it’s time to face the fact that he has no plans. The house selling is great, but he is going to need another job—and yeah, Nigel is probably not going to give him a recommendation.

Tim should care about that more than he does.

You’re drifting, says John.

“Sorry. Just… trying to think about things. Future. Employment. All those boring human details.”

I see. What are you thinking?

“You actually want to know?”

I do, Tim.

Tim slouches comfortably, sliding low in his seat. “Sure. Well, I worked in publishing. I’m a really good editor. But… I don’t know anymore.”

Looking for a change?

“Needing one, honestly.” He swallows around the tightness in his throat. “I was thinking about when I quit, and nobody… nobody really cared. I haven’t been happy for a while, you know? And they say you’re not supposed to make any major changes like quitting your job or selling your house or getting married for a year after bereavement, but, uh. I’m two for three, and it hasn’t even been a month.”

I see. You feel the need to keep moving, John observes, low. The type of creature which, if it ceases swimming, will drown.

Tim shivers. “Wow. Never been called whatever that is before.”

A shark. This is our stop.

Tim laughs. “Shark? I am so not a shark.” Somehow, he manages to exit the bus without running into anyone or banging his head, and exhales in relief. “Right. Which way?”

I’m not sure. There are a lot of old buildings here, but not much signage. Walk forward. More to your left.

It’s like a trust game, Tim thinks. Like something to do with your brother one boring summer afternoon, one of you blindfolded and the other giving directions and accidentally-on-purpose steering you into things.

Sure. That makes it less scary. Right.

Ha! There we go. I see a small, brass sign that says, MAGNUS INSTITUTE 1818. Perfect. And—oh, Tim.

“What?”

This is a place of power. The way John says that… deeper, richer, absolutely eager.

Tim shivers. “Power? What kind of power? Is that good?”

Perhaps. I’ve never had trouble with this particular Power. I believe I am safe.

“You sure you’re as anonymous as you think?”

The moment you made that phone call, Tim, you bet both our lives. If I thought this were truly a danger, I would have said so.

“Sure, put it on me,” he mutters. “How far?”

Stairs starting… now.

There are more stairs than Tim expected. They’re wide and shallow, just a little awkward to climb. “Does it look spooky?”

It’s a temple, John breathes. Oh… I knew it was old, but I didn’t expect this. The one worshiped here has been worshiped here for a long time. Door.

Tim feels for the handle, tugs. Of course, it’s still locked. “Guess we’ll just have to loiter for a bit. You know, in front of the scary pagan temple in the middle of London. What time does my phone say?”

Seven. We’re an hour early. Heh. And pagan doesn’t cover it.

“Sure. Well, better early than—”

“Excuse me, can I help you?” comes a posh baritone.

Tim, there’s a… oh. 

Tim wonders what that oh was for. “Hi. I, uh. I need to see someone inside. Kind of an emergency.”

The posh man huffs, like an irritated cat. “Well, we don’t… this is a place of research, so I’m not sure what you expect in an emergency.”

He’s a slight person, shorter than you, much narrower. Brown skin; I’d think mixed South Asian ancestry. He’s slightly overdressed for the weather; shirt, vest, sweater over that. He’s managing to look down his nose at you in spite of his height. But Tim… he’s been claimed, branded by the thing that calls this its base of power, in a messy, undisciplined way. I don’t understand what I’m seeing. It’s like he’s accidentally a priest.

So that’s the oh. Tim wonders how the hell one can accidentally be a priest. “Well, I need to, uh. What was it the website said? Give my statement?”

There is an irritated sigh. “Well, you might as well come in. I can at least give you a place to wait until Gertrude arrives—ah, Ms. Robinson, the head Archivist.” The voice is moving away, accompanied by the sound of keys. “I’m Jonathan Sims. In research.”

“Tim Stoker. In trouble.” 

He hunched when you said that. I believe he feels more for our emergency than he wants to let on. 

“Sorry to hear that,” researcher-Jon mutters. “But as I said, I’m not sure what we can do. Police?”

“Not for this, mate. But thanks, anyway.”

Correct to the left a bit. He’s holding the door for you. Ahead of us is an enormous, open lobby with old marble and dark wood. It’s beautiful, elegant. I see no furniture or anything else to trip you. To the left and right are the stacks going out of sight in the gloom. Clearly, at least part of this building is a library.

Their footsteps echo. It smells like books.

“What’s your statement regarding?” drawls researcher-Jon, audibly trying to be polite.

“A horrible book that ruined my life,” says Tim.

He’s stopped walking and is staring at you, abruptly pale, the arrogance dropped away like a mask. Oh, you’ve got his attention now. 

“What?” says researcher-Jon. “What did you say? A book?”

“Yeah.”

“Did it have… a bookplate in front?” says researcher-Jon.

Tim can feel himself going pale, too. “Yeah. It said, ‘The Library of Jurgen Leitner.’”

“Oh, gods,” says researcher-Jon. “You… you’ve…”

He looks afraid, Tim, and—oh!

Those oh exclamations were, Tim was beginning to realize, far more important than any casual fuck or damn.

“Jon?” comes another voice, posh, somehow managerial. “Well, I’m used to you being here early, but who’s your…” The voice stops.

Oh!

Tim is about ready to strangle something over those oh’s.

“Elias, he’s touched a Leitner,” says researcher-Jon.

“I understand. I’ll handle this one,” says the man.

“I was going to make sure Gertrude—”

“Jon,” says the man, in a quiet, uncompromising tone. “I will handle this. Go on, now.”

“All right, all right. Good luck, Tim.” Researcher-Jon sounds like he means it, and he leaves, Oxfords clacking away.

“Thanks,” Tim calls after him.

Tim, this has to be the high priest of this place. Its power, its marking, is all over him.

“Elias Bouchard.” There’s a pause. 

He’s holding out his hand. He’s a couple decades older than you. Expensive suit. Handsome in a boring sort of way. And he’s powerful. Oh, Tim, he’s powerful. 

“The head honcho, eh?” says Tim, and reaches.

The handshake is firm and not spooky, so that much is good.

“Can you navigate?” says Bouchard.

“What?” says Tim.

And Bouchard’s voice is low. “I can clearly see that whatever… that is inside you has done something to your eyes—which is to say, you are blind. Do you wish for guidance to my office? I completely understand if you’re more comfortable making your own way.”

He… can see me? John sounds stunned.

“You see him?” says Tim in a small voice.

“I do. He’s… my, my, my.”

He’s not supposed to be able to see me, John says with a slight tremor.

Tim’s not feeling fear. Relief and shock and desperation rise up his throat like vomit, and he has to swallow emotions down before he can talk. He is not insane. External validation. His eyes leak, and he wipes them. “Can you help? This happened last night. You can see him. What’s—”

“Good morning, Mister Bouchard!” comes a cheerful tenor. 

A tall, overweight man, surprisingly light on his toes, with bright red hair and a charming smile.

“Martin, good morning,” says Bouchard. “Mister Stoker, was it? Please come with me. We’d best deal with this in my office.”

Tim, you didn’t tell him your name.

True. And unnerving. “Okay,” Tim says, wary. “How’d you know my name?”

“Your passenger is not all I can see. Come along, please.”

Well. John had said they’d read his mind here.

I’m familiar with avatars of this particular Power, but this is an unusual level of skill. Be cautious.

Great! “Well, that simplifies things, right? At least I’ll be believed,” says Tim with cheer he does not feel.

“Refreshingly pragmatic,” says Bouchard. 

Yeah, this was lovely.

Follow the sound of his shoes. We’re passing a secretary’s desk. His office is straight ahead. Tim, this man’s body isn’t as old as he is. He’s confusing to look at.

“What’s that mean?”

Bouchard ignores Tim’s mutters. “Here we are.”

The sound of a door closing behind Tim feels… weird. Very weird. He feels stared at. Ganged up on? Prickly, like he has to defend himself, or—

“Please, Mister Stoker, have a seat.”

Tim feels for the chair. “Do you think you can help us?”

There is a pause. 

He’s seated at the desk. His hands are folded, and his gaze is… intense. 

“Well, can you blame me?” says Bouchard. “You are truly magnificent.”

Tim is confused for the moment it takes him to realize who was just addressed.

John gasps. You can hear me?

“Yes. I simply had to… adjust a few details. Tilt the radar dish, play with the bunny-ears—ah, but you’re too young for those references, aren’t you, Mister Stoker?”

And Tim can feel two very distinct things.

One: John is afraid. Being seen and heard has shaken him; finding out why is definitely going to come up after this.

Two: Tim knows he���s being subtly mocked. The weird, watched sensation has grown, making him feel judged, and he really, really wants to make it stop. “I’m not a kid, for crying out loud. I know what a television antenna is.”

If you can hear me, then I highly suggest you stop siphoning him, John growls.

“What?” Tim blurts.

“My apologies,” Bouchard sounds positively silky. “My patron craves your fear. Can I get you some tea?”

Tim is frozen. “My fear?”

John growls. Full-on growls, and it is not remotely a human sound, and it is huge, and absolutely frightening. Back. Off.

“I’m afraid I have no such control over it,” says Bouchard, standing. “The Eye doesn’t have much in the way of personality—only hunger. However, if Mister Stoker does manage to calm down, the Eye will have no use for him. He’ll practically be invisible to it.”

“The Eye? What? Like a giant eyeball?” Tim stammers.

“Quite. I’ll be back with that tea. Take a moment, will you? Breathe deeply. You’ll be just fine.”

Bouchard leaves, and Tim resists the urge to wipe himself down as if the man’s words had been coated in oil. “It’s a big eyeball god?” he says.

Something like that. What we are dealing with is a Power—an Entity that lives on fear.

“What the fucking hell?” 

You need to calm the fuck down.

“Oh, sure, I’ll just hit the calm the fuck down button,” says Tim. “Maybe I should’ve asked for something stronger than tea.”

John sighs. Then he flips that smooth, warm, absolutely devastating voice into action.You’re going to be all right. He told you what to do to avoid his Power’s hunger. Just take a minute, and breathe with me, all right? In. Out. Slower.

Fucking dom, Tim thinks, but does it. “This place is actually trying to making me feel watched, isn’t it?”

I believe so. But you’re handling it like a champ. In. Out. There, you see? That wasn’t so hard.

It does feel better. “No, I guess not.”

I told you—you can trust me, Tim.

Tim snorts. “Opportunist.”

Bouchard returns. “Hold out your hand.” 

Tim finds himself with a cup of tea. He closes his eyes, sipping. “Thanks. That makes me feel human again.”

“Of course. Now. Why don’t you tell me what happened last night?”

His fingers are steepled. He’s watching us without blinking. 

“Spooky,” says Tim before he can help himself.

Bouchard laughs lightly. “I serve a patron that feeds on fear. I’m afraid that whatever else I offer, comfort will not be on the menu.”

Tim’s heart sinks. “But… can you help?”

“Let’s find out. What happened?”

Tim takes out the book.

Careful,  John warns. Open that, and it will again send out a— oh. He’s leaning away from it. Tim, he looks terrified.

“Well,” says Bouchard. “That is… ah..”

Tim already hates touching this thing. It may be psychosomatic, but now it feels terrible, greasy, like living skin. “What? What do you see?”

“I am going to make a guess,” says Bouchard slowly. “The passenger in your head was in this book first. Yes?”

“Yes,” says Tim.

“There is something else in that book. I would heavily advise you not to open it again.”

What? What? There is no other being in this book.

“I assure you, there is,” says Bouchard.

Impossible, John says as if offended.

“I assure you, it is not,” says Bouchard.

“So what do I do?” says Tim. “There’s got to be something I can do.”

And though he cannot see Bouchard looking at him, Tim suddenly feels pinned. Feels very distinctly like this man just reached into his brain and peeled it open, revealing everything he is.

John growls again.

“I will be frank,” says Bouchard. “I do not yet have an answer, but I believe I can find one. I have at my disposal quite a lot of knowledge, as well as some truly interesting contacts. I am willing to leverage all of that to help you in exchange for the freedom to watch how it all pans out.“

Tim’s not sure what that means. “What do you mean, watch how it all pans out?”

His eyes lidded just at the thought.

“I will give you much more than aid. I will give you answer. Any I find.”

Tempting. “You must really like to watch, eh?” Tim says, trying not to make it sound sexual.

“You have no idea,” Bouchard says, not trying to avoid that at all. “I’ve never seen the like. A new thing, to my patron, is the highest form of offering, and I am quite eager to help you. You rather have me over the proverbial barrel, Mister Stoker.”

He’s leaning back again, considering us. His fingers are still steepled. It’s a thoughtful look, pensive, as if he’s weighing something.

“You are in need of a job,” he says.

Spooky mind-reading confirmed! Tim thinks, slightly panicked. “I... will in time, sure.”

“I could employ you.”

Tim snorts. “No offense, but this place feels really weird.”

“It does, yes—but it’s also very safe.”

“Not according to every nerve in my body,” says Tim.

“The paranoia and fear are side effects of proximity to the Ceaseless Watcher. They are not representative of actual danger,” says Bouchard. “Working here would grant you some… protections, as well.”

“I don’t know quite how we got to offering my CV to a fear-god, but no thanks?” says Tim. “Got at least a few months before I’m that desperate, I think.”

“And do you plan to remain occupied that long?” says Bouchard.

Tim goes silent.

Can you help or not? I want something definitive. Your god is impressive, but this man is mine, and if you think I’m going to share—

“Hold the fuck on!” says Tim. “What?” 

Bouchard laughs. “It’s all right. Mister Stoker. I’m fairly sure he’s just responding to the invasiveness of my patron—for which I do apologize. Do you have a safe place to stay?”

“Sure?” says Tim, still fighting against the absolute certainty of being watched, against the weirdness of his desire to rage in response.

“Would you be willing to leave that book with me?”

Absolutely not.

“But what if he can see inside it without opening it, or something?” says Tim.

No .

That growl is really something. 

Tim takes a deep breath. “Hey. What does John look like?”

John has no body of his own to stiffen, but Tim feels him do it, anyway.

“Well,” says Bouchard, eyes lidding. “I see him in two ways. First is an impression—I suspect his own of himself. Whispers of the form he once had; catastrophically beautiful, like a terrible storm. Darker than mere absence of light, as if he might absorb it. There is gold throughout—I can’t quite make out the shape, but it is a very specific and almost harsh yellow. He seems to have… how shall I put this… the essence of a body that simply is not human. Multiple limbs, perhaps tentacles. Enormous horns or antlers, casting spined shadows. And I think he was quite large. All of that, however, is echo. What do I see when I look at him? The reverse of a flame. Dark, and hungry; fluttering and flickering like conflagration dancing in the wind, and significantly more dangerous than he seems. Given the right fuel, I daresay he could burn the world.”

Tim is silent.

John is silent.

“Wow,” says Tim.

There is a fabric rustle, and Tim suspects Bouchard has shrugged as if to say, Well, there it is.

“You really see all that?” said Tim.

“I do.”

“What the hell is he?”

“I have absolutely no idea. You’re very lucky. Whatever you're experiencing may have no precedent in this world.”

John is still silent.

Tim sighs. “So… what now?”

“Well, I suggest food that is not peanut butter? And keeping your head down. If you truly wish to keep the book, I think there may be a target on you. I can’t offer you protection outside my place of power.”

Tim snorts. “Well, unless you’ve secretly got an apartment complex in here, it wouldn’t do me much good, anyway.”

“Actually, we do, in a way.”

“What?”

“My employees are… hard-working. Part of the archive below has been converted. There is a small sleeping area, a washroom, a very minimal kitchenette. Should things grow desperate, you have my permission to kip there, as it were.”

“You really want to watch all this, don’t you?” says Tim.

“Indeed I do. And while I readily confess I will be watching anyway, doing so with your permission and awareness makes it all so much more delicious. Is there anything else?”

At least he’s honest about being creepy, Tim thinks, because that’s all he can think. “Not until you have a solution.”

“Not yet.”

“And my offer?”

This has to be a them, not a him. “John?”

I need to think.

“Fair enough.” There’s the sound of a chair rolling back.

He’s standing. 

Tim stands, too. He doesn’t know what to do. This hadn’t gone at all how he’d hoped.

“I’m sure it’ll all work out,” says Bouchard with a sort of dark glee.

“Right,” says Tim. “Thanks, I… guess.”

“Here. I do hope you change your minds.”

He’s holding out a business card.

Tim takes it on automatic. 

It sounds like Bouchard opens the door.

Tim walks out.

#

With every step, his heart feels heavier.

He’d been so sure solutions would be here. Immediate ones. Telling himself that had kept him going all morning. But now…

There wasn’t help. There was the possibility of help, with the cost of loss of privacy—which he might have lost anyway, just by coming here.

None of this feels good. Tim sighs, fishing for his earbuds.

Someone gasps.

Tim, there’s an old woman looking at us. She… something about her is very dangerous. Something about her… Tim, I think she can see me. Fuck this place.

“Good for her,” mutters Tim, who has decided merely seeing John does not qualify one for anything. “Am I still going right?”

Yes. The door is three steps ahead.

“Leave it,” says Bouchard behind them.

Tim doesn’t think that was for him, and he feels for the door handle.

“Elias, you can’t be serious,” says the old woman’s voice—old but strong, frustrated.

What, had she been about to do something to them? 

Tim is sure of it. Sure of it, and doesn’t know why.

Hurry. Apparently, John is sure of it, too.

Tim hurries.

#

Stairs just ahead. Take your time.

Tim does, one step at a time, using the excuse of concentration to be silent. He wipes his leaky eyes.

Are you all right?

“No. Gonna have to be, though, apparently, because I don’t want to take his deal.”

I promise you, Bouchard will be watching us regardless of what we do; it’s the nature of the Power he serves. It only makes sense to benefit from it, given that we will pay either way.

“Well, fuck that guy, then,” says Tim. “I guess consent isn’t on some fear god’s radar.”

I don’t know why you ever thought it would be. You’ve reached the last step. Where now?

“I don’t know. I’m trying to think. Can I just walk somewhere? Get away from this place?”

Walk to your right. There isn’t much traffic. I may have an idea, but I need to… weigh the pros and cons.

“Right.” So Tim walks, and doesn’t speak again until he’s found a comfortable pace and position that seems to keep him from smashing into anyone.

It works better than Tim would have thought. John directs, corrects, and says nothing of substance.

Tim is deep in thought. A lot happened here.

He’s always thought of himself as deeply pragmatic. That means tackling this with an open mind, and organizing it in lists as quickly as possible, ready to absorb new rules. “So,” he says. “A few things.”

Hm? says John, sounding distracted.

“First, you were scared in there.”

Yes. At least John can admit that honestly. I know you’re new to this, so it may seem like nothing to you—but neither of those people should have been able to see me, much less hear me. I am deeply startled.

“Right,” said Tim. “And by saying that, you’re revealing you’ve done this so often that you have a ‘normal’ in your head, so that’s a whole thing.”

Not as often as you think. I’ve spent most of my time in this world in that book.

Tim’s not sure he believes that. “They didn’t recognize you, though.”

No. They did not, or I would have urged you to run like a cat on fire.

Tim smiles weakly. “Hell of an image. Look, what did you do that you have to hide from everyone? You said you’d tell me after.”

It isn’t so much what I’ve done, John says slowly. It is what I am. You were correct in that earlier assumption: I am… rare. Endangered, in fact.

Tim has a feeling John isn’t using that word casually. “So what are you?”

A being. Rare. Powerful, in my own right, though as you can tell by our current situation, I’ve been robbed of my body.

“Where is your body?”

In another plane of existence, friend. Quite out of reach, I’m afraid.

“Are you dead?” He has to ask.

No.

“Are you… what, a prisoner?”

Tim… I really don’t feel like answering these right now.

“Promise broken. I‘m keeping track,” says Tim, but only half means it. “So there’s you, antlered-tentacled-whatever-the-fuck. There’s fear-gods.There’s accidental priests. So… are there good fairies, or something? Wishing wells? Forest spirits of mercy, or kindness, or whatever?”

No. The lack of hesitation is upsetting. There are no beneficent fairies. No good and kind spirits waiting to freely give of themselves to mortals in need. Everything that exists only does so because it has not been eaten or used by something else, including yourself—from your immune system to your choices, you also fight to survive. 

This is different from John’s usual calming tone. It’s not crazy-smooth; it’s just quiet, and Tim suddenly feels like this is the first time John has been genuinely gentle with him.

Tim’s throat feels tight. “Bit of a downer, there,” he manages after a minute. “So what do we do?”

You truly don’t feel what he offered was worth what he asked?

“Just being in that building made me feel like hitting something, and that isn’t like me. I started to get angry, over, just… nothing. No. Whatever price I have to pay to get out of this, I’m not losing myself for it. That guy didn’t even have a solution, anyway. Just a what-if. Not worth it.”

Yes… yes. John sounds thoughtful . That’s a good way of looking at it. The cost cannot be one’s self. 

Tim isn’t done. “And just so you know, John? Maybe I am surviving , like everybody else here, but that doesn’t mean I can’t make choices and be a good person and help other mortals in need.”

Seeing yourself as the hero, are you?

Tim snorts. ”No. I’d be a cheerfully bisexual bard, at best. I just mean… I don’t know. You make every living thing sound like an asshole, and I don’t think all of us are.”

John chuckles. A slutty bard? Really?

“It’s a DND ref- wait. You understood that?”

Yes. I’m familiar with the trope. I’m merely amused you used it.

“That has some implications, holy shit. How the hell are you familiar with an internet meme? How much time have you spent here?”

Not everyone who kept this book was only a cultist. Some of them were nerds.

Tim is flabbergasted. “What, did they just keep you on the table while scrolling through The Adventure Zone?”

Sometimes.

This doesn’t feel like the full truth. There’s something else John is not saying here, but Tim doesn’t know how to get at it. “I can talk to you in memes,” he says instead. “I’m going to be insufferable.”

John chuckles. Ah… I do like you, Tim.

That sounded regretful? Odd. Why would he… 

Or maybe Tim just feels paranoid thanks to whatever the hell that place was. “How does anyone even manage to work there without all becoming axe murderers?” he mutters.

I believe if you are inclined toward the type of fear and information-gathering that god prefers, it grants some sanity so you can keep feeding it. I’ve seen the like.

“A whole fear-god economy. Fuck me, that’s wild.”

Indeed.

“And by the way—what was all that ‘mine’ stuff about?”

John sighs. I apologize. I could feel the Power feeding on you, and I thought perhaps it would respect some kind of… prior claim. Obviously, that didn’t work.

“So you’re not a lot familiar with that thing.”

No. Enough to know that one isn’t much of a danger to me—but others like it must be avoided.

“Did one of those fear-gods send the monsters to my parents’ house?”

Yes.

Tim laughs weakly. “Wow. So they’re actively after you. Fuck. John, you’ve got to have a better idea what to do.”

I have an idea, if you’re willing to try it—but first, you need to eat. Your physical form has needs; Bouchard was right about that. Man shall not live by peanut butter alone.

It is deeply unnerving to hear all these deeply human references used with such familiarity. “I don’t want to try dealing with a restaurant. Find me a take-out place.”

Keep going. I’ll get you there.

He couldn’t believe himself anymore. A tiny part of him is beginning to wonder if, somehow, his family might be cursed.

It’s going to be okay, Tim tells himself on repeat. It’s going to be okay. 

———-

NOTES:

Do I hear that description of the King in Ben Meredith’s voice? Yes. Yes, I do.