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palbabor-writes · 2 years ago

Note

Hellooo queen I hope you had/will have a great day. This is actually my first time requesting something so I’m very sorry if I do something wrong 🥺🥺... can you maybe write some fluff (OR NSFW I DONT MIND... just love him way too much damn) stuff for dabi?? I don't know if you only take requests with exact instructions or if this request is enough... if you need something more precise i will try to come up with something! Thank you very much!!

Hello, love! You did it perfectly & thank you so much for asking! I can be a bit of a lurker on things, so I totally get how much courage it takes to do one of these.

You did amazing & I love, love this question. I love it so much that I went ahead and took an old outline of mine & made it into a full blown fic for you!

Now, in honor of all the craziness swirling around our favorite flame user, Imma post it a little earlier then I’d planned! So, thank you for the ask & I hope to talk to you again ( ＾◡＾)っ ♡

Pairing: Dabi x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 7496

Warnings: SMUT, NSFW 18+ only, mentions of blood and gore, heat play, dick piercings, adult language and freaking Dabi. That alone should warn you.

Thermós θερμός ther·mos adjective m (feminine θερμή, neuter θερμόν); warm, hot, boiling, glowing

It’s sweltering; the fervor of summer sticky, humid, and oppressive. Japan is in the throes of August, and this heatwave is not letting up. Even at night, it’s impossible for Dabi to get comfortable. He’s been lying, half naked, draped across his narrow twin mattress for the last few hours, sweating.

His quirk isn’t helping matters.

He’s been trying to recruit new members. Every day, he sets out, pounding the pavement, sifting through the bits and pieces of trash that he runs into. It’s a pity. If those scrubs weren’t so fucking pathetic, he might not be in this predicament. But they are, and now he’s having to suffer the consequences of his temper.

His phone gleams on his dilapidated side table, a text message chiming across the screen as it flashes a speck of brightness into the darkened room. Groaning, he leans over and snatches it up, his hands slick as he clutches the encased plastic.

It’s Toga.

As a rule, he tries to avoid her. He hates her chatter. It’s always some unending nonsense about those UA kids, about Stain, or about fucking blood. It’s always blood with her. Give her five minutes, and she’ll work it into her conversation somehow, even if it’s just blurting it out, a blush staining her cheeks.

Fucking freak.

[ Blondie: 12:34 am ]

- found smth 4 u. (Y/N) has a place. Keeps it @ like 60 degrees… lol

Well, disgusting as Toga is, she has her uses; he thinks as he reads her text.

He’d asked her, a few days before, if she knew a place where he could crash. Somewhere that had some goddamn air conditioning. The hideout’s unit is on the fritz again, not that it had ever worked all that well.

Hmm, well this is something, at least.

Dabi’s isn’t sure what to think about Toga’s little ‘find’. You were a newer recruit, someone that Compress had brought in.

He hadn’t paid much attention to you. You didn’t stay at the base and were only around if there was a specific mission, or a task, that Shigaraki set for you. He isn’t even sure what your quirk is. You seemed easy-going, neutral, but he doubted you’d extend that easy-going demeanor to him camping out at your place for the A/C.

Chucking his phone back on the side table, Dabi flops to his side and tries to drift off, hoping his exhaustion will let him ignore the suffocating heat he’s drowning in.

Fuck.

He’d done it again. It was hard to resist the urge when these people spouted such vague fucking bullshit at him. No one, not fucking one of them, could live up to his cause. And if they couldn’t meet that standard? Well, they were better off as ash, melting into blackened pools as the asphalt greedily soaked their blood into its cracked depths.

There is a heat advisory today.

He’d heard the news as he scarfed down a quick breakfast at the hideout’s bar. He wouldn’t be out for that long, he reasoned. Besides, maybe today he’d find someone good.

Wishful thinking on his part.

His skin feels oppressive and his staples and piercings are scalding, the metal hissing and steaming as he tries to dampen his quirk. It’s harder to regulate his temperature on hot days. He shouldn’t be out here, he thinks, snarling as he pats out a few rogue flames that catch on his dark jacket. Even lifting his arm to perform that simple task makes him grunt, hissing out a mantra of curses.

Shit, fuck, goddamn it fucking all.

He looks bitterly up at the sun and debates his next move.

He could retreat to the bar, but that doesn’t solve his problem. No, the viscous heat that radiated along those upper floors would just make his skin feel worse. Hell, it might even result in more mottling, his burns stretching farther along his arms and chest. He’s not going back to the bar.

Where the fuck even is he?

He peers down the alley toward the street. It’s not too busy; just after noon, so most of the foot traffic from the morning has died down. He yanks his hood up, ignoring the ache of his legs as he stalks toward the street corner.

Carefully, he pokes out, his eyes tracing over the crosswalk, looking for the street signs. Ah. He’s close to that address, your address, that Toga sent him.

Slipping his hands into his pockets, he saunters along the pavement, careful to keep his head down.

You were out of town.

He’d picked up that tidbit from Compress this morning. The masked man had been lamenting that you might be away for a few days, possibly weeks. Something about being on a fact finding task for that shadowy voice that talked with Shigaraki from his tv.

He didn’t care, still doesn’t. All he knows is that you supposedly keep your place cold, and that’s all the encouragement he needs.

You’ve got a nice apartment.

It’s decorated in pleasing whites, yellows, reds and greens, with clean lines and modern touches. It’s kinda like you, he considers as he shrugs his coat off and breathes in that amazing waft of cold A/C. You’ve been useful to have in the League; efficient and no nonsense about the missions you're given and you can fit in with the outside world. You’d give even Toga a run for her money when it comes to espionage, he’s heard others say about you.

Dabi tosses a distasteful glare at your narrow couch and pads toward your bedroom, shouldering the door open and stepping into the dark sanctuary.

Your bed looks nice. It’s a good size too.

Lifting his boots from his feet and stripping down to his boxers, he presses into your clean sheets; shivering as the chilly air hits his overheated skin, cooling and dampening that oppressive sense of heat. He’s out in seconds, his body relaxing, slackening as he falls into the void of his dreams.

Yeah, now that he’s had this, there’s no way he’s staying at that hideout of the League’s unless he has to.

You’re gone for the better part of a week.

He’s started asking Compress about you. At first, the older man had given him an impassive stare. Since when did Dabi even know your name?

He’s asking because he needs to talk with you about… uh… supplies?

This, apparently, is the correct thing to say, because Compress nods his head sagely and elaborates on your timetable. You’re collecting things for Kurogiri and you’ll be gone for another few days.

Good, Dabi thinks, slinking into your apartment again, lowering the window behind him. He’s careful to leave things as he found them, his entryway into your place included. You don’t need to know about this.

What the fuck would he even say to you?

Hey, uh, it’s fucking hot at the hideout, and since you’ve got a working A/C unit and like 3 fans, he’s been sleeping over at yours. No big deal, right?

Even after you return, he keeps sneaking in.

He’s gotten your schedule memorized, and he’s heedful of the hours you keep. You’re a little more regular than the others in the League. You actually sleep at night; unlike the rest. The others are often out at God knows what hour, combing for recruits and leads, but not you.

So, Dabi shifts into full night owl mode. He crashes at your place in the midmorning, after you leave for the day, trying to ignore the perfume that comes from your sheets.

You’ve got a nice smell.

It’s oddly comforting, and he hates when he accidentally burrows into your pillows; nostrils flared, inhaling that aroma that’s all you. While he’s never talked with you before this, he goes out of his way to ignore you now.

What he’s doing is fucking weird, and lines are blurring. The other week he’d bumped into you coming out of the bar and he’d almost snatched you to him.

You must have just showered, because that fucking scent was radiating off your skin. It’s nothing too, eh, feminine? No, it’s more like… oranges and sandalwood. It’s a heady blend of rich balsamic and citrus, and he can’t get it out of his head.

August has faded into September, and he’s still sleeping over at yours.

He can’t help it. It’s not his fault your bed is so downy and, fuck, cool. It’s like the sheets don’t absorb his warmth. No, they’re always cold and they feel so fucking good against his staples and burned skin.

It’s midmorning, closer to noon, and he’s dozing, his eyes heavy and drooping. He’s exhausted, so bone tired, that he doesn’t hear your door opening. No, he doesn’t even notice you until he hears your voice.

“Um, would you like to tell me why you’re in my bed?”

He’s on his feet in a flash, a slow flicking of blue flames tracing along his fingers. You’re framed in your doorway, eyes wide, stepping away from his aggressive stance.

“Woah, woah,” you begin, lifting your hands in supplication. “Let’s just… take a minute and talk. I’m not-”

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he snaps, his cerulean eyes narrowing, but he dampens his fire, a long curling of smoke framing his face.

“Uh, I think you got that backward there, bud. You’re not supposed to be here, I live here,” you scoff, one hand propping on your hip, head tilted exaggeratedly.

Dabi is about to spit something else out when you stride into your bedroom, tugging your jacket off and sauntering over to a tall dresser. He snaps his mouth closed and watches you. He’s not sure how he’s going to talk his way out of this, and he’s grateful for the reprieve. But, he knows an onslaught of anger or, fuck, preserve him, a lecture is incoming. Worst case, he thinks, observing you from his peripheral as you tug out a long shirt and some shorts, you’ll just kick him out and that will be that.

You glance at him again, your eyes lingering over his exposed chest and legs, and he can’t help the scowl that breaks over his face. He’s not embarrassed, he’s just, well, he’s not sure how to classify that stare. Most people recoil or toss him a glance of pity, their brows wrinkled with worry and distaste. But you? You arched an eyebrow and smiled.

Fucking weirdo.

Pausing in your doorway, you bite your lip into your mouth and carefully speak your next statement, voice smooth. “Look, while I’d rather you, oh, I don’t know, asked me about staying here. I’m not in the mood to argue with you, and I’ve got a long journey ahead of me tonight.” You take a deep inhale and toss him another smile.

“Just… just lay back down and get some rest. I promise I won’t molest you,” you tease, and he snaps his head up at that, his chin jutting in agitation.

You laugh at his sour face and he feels wrong-footed; lost. What the fuck? Who says shit like that? Who is in their right mind is just, oh, no worries man, promise I won’t grab your dick?

What’s wrong with you?

“I’m going to change and then I’m going to go to sleep. You can go, or you can stay, I really don’t care. All I know is that I’m not going to sleep on the couch when I’m in my apartment.” You retort, that grin still lifting your lips as you step away, the wall shielding you from his view.

Dabi remains where he is; standing in your bedroom, clad in his boxers, his hands clenched into fists by his side. Somehow this is worse than you throwing him out.

You return a few minutes later and he can’t get a good look at you. You slink past him and are under your covers in an instant. Not that he’s trying to give you a once over, he snarls to himself, shaking his inky head.

You nestle into the comforter and turn to your side, leaving him plenty of room on the opposite end of the bed. He blinks at you, a deep welling of uncertainty nestling in his stomach.

You’re quiet for a long moment, your eyes closing and shoulders relaxing, acting like there’s not a wanted, deadly villain in your bedroom, paces from your side. Then, you twist, giving him a quick scan, your eyes lingering over his.

“Either lay down or get out, Dabi. I’m not going to be able to sleep with you glaring at me like that. You look like some kinda ghost.”

Your declaration provokes a huffing, agitated reaction out of him. If there’s one thing Dabi hates, it’s being told what to do.

He slings himself beside you, splaying out, his body laying on top of the sheets. You chuckle, your head peeking at him over your shoulder. He ignores you and tries to close his eyes.

It feels strange, resting next to you like this. It’s… intimate, and he’s not sure if he hates or likes the sensation. He chances a glance at you, but you’ve already turned back to your side, your shoulders rising and lowering rhythmically. He shakes his head at your blasé reaction. How can you just, fuck, sleep?

He can’t get comfortable and his skin feels heavy again. It’s not heat this time. No, now something else is making everything feel too close, too warm.

He dampens his thoughts, mind frantically focusing on anything but you. As the sun slips behind the buildings across the street, his eyes lower and he fitfully sleeps, your rich smell filling his senses.

He’d left you in the night; tucking his clothes back on and easing out of your window.

True to your word, you’d relegated yourself to your side of the bed, hardly tossing or turning as you slept. As he paced back to the hideout, he wasn’t sure what he’d gotten himself into. He just hoped you’d keep your mouth shut. He didn’t want the others knowing about this, it felt, well it’s not like him. Abrasive- fucking spewing anger and vitriol? Yeah, that was him. But this? This was too soft, too gentle. He hated it.

But that’s the problem with hate. It’s terribly close to that other emotion. They’re sisters, really. Usually love and hate exist on two sides, but they’re still the same coin, no matter how you toss them.

You don’t act any differently after that night.

You keep coming to the hideout, giving him a vague smile and greeting before continuing your day. He’s acting differently, though. He can’t help but watch you, suddenly fascinated with how you move. He tries his best to shake himself from his musings, but sometimes he can’t help it.

If anything, he grumbles to himself, watching you chatter with Toga, you’re subtly going out of your way to place yourself in front of him. You were never around this much before. Well, maybe you were. He didn’t pay you any mind back then, but now? Now he can’t get enough of you.

He reacts when you laugh, or talk, his head turning, like a sunflower, toward the light you give off. Ugh. His only hopeful reprieve from this, from you, is the changing seasons. The days are getting shorter and that heatwave is finally, finally breaking.

It’s his one comfort, his saving grace.

Yeah, he should have fucking never tossed that wish into the universe.

No, another heatwave passes over the island and it’s the worst one yet. The daily temperatures have been hitting the low 100s and the nights aren’t much better. To make matters worse, the A/C at the hideout has given up the ghost and won’t turn on at all now.

Still, Dabi’s prepared. He’d bought a secondhand electric fan a few weeks ago, and he’s grateful for the tiny slice of paradise that it grants him. It’s not as nice as your apartment, or your bed, but it will do.

He’s laying across his mattress, sweat trickling down his back and shoulders, trying to ignore that ache in his burned skin. The fan is blowing across him and he’s about to crank it up a notch when it gives out an ominous sputter.

Dabi sits up, his eyes flashing. No, no, no, no. There’s no fucking way.

The fan’s blades are slowing, that sweet, cool air dampening, drifting into the low-lying humidity that surrounds him. He yanks the plug from the wall, his staples stinging as he stands. He stomps over to the outlet and plugs the fan back in, turning on his haunches to see if the blades will start that familiar whirl.

There’s fuck all happening.

Cursing, he kicks the shitty thing over and grabs his jacket, storming down the stairs and into the night.

You’re sleeping when he slinks under your window sill, sliding the glass shut and kicking his heavy boots to the floor. It’s that sound that wakes you, and you lift yourself up, your sheets falling from your chest, revealing a bare shoulder and low cut shirt to him. Unabashed by your appearance, you wipe a palm over your eyes, rubbing the sleep away and croaking out a greeting.

“When I said you could sleep over here, I didn’t mean you could barge in at all hours. And through my window? So, that’s why the hinge looks like that.”

Dabi considers you for a moment, his blue eyes gleaming in the moonlight. You tilt your head at him and suck your teeth.

“A, oh, I don’t know, sorry, would be nice?” you scold, that alluring smile lifting your lips. He follows the line of your mouth, his thoughts hazing over, focusing on some other, darker, daydream.

“Hello?” you call, waving your hand beside your face. “Earth to Dabi. What do you want?”

That question slips him out of his stupor and he lifts his eyes back to yours. “The A/C is out. Bought a fan a few weeks ago, but the fucking thing broke and I can’t… it’s hard to regulate my body temperature in this fucking heat. You keep this place like an icebox, so I started crashing here. Wasn’t planning on coming back, but after tonight-”

“Ok, ok,” you laugh, already scooting over and flinging the covers back. “Seeing as you didn’t try any funny business last time, I guess I’ll let it slide. Just, not to be rude, but shut up and let me sleep. I’ve gotta long day tomorrow and as enthralling as this conversation is…”

“Whatever,” Dabi mutters, slinging his damp shirt over his head and pacing over to the side of your bed. You blink up at him and shake your head, that tiny grin lingering. He presses into your familiar sheets, eyes already slipping closed as the fragrance of you pulls at him.

It’s early when he wakes, shuddering out of a nightmare, red flames and crying voices fading into the back of his mind.

Wincing, he raises a hand to his eyes and pulls at his face, relieved that it’s still cool air that meets him. As he rolls to his side, he feels something trace over his unscarred chest. The sensation makes him freeze, his eyes snapping open again, the cerulean searching, whisking over the dim figure beside him.

You’re still sleeping, but you’ve shifted, your body curled, facing him, and one of your hands is reaching toward him. Shit, he thinks, heart pounding in his ears. You’re so close.

He’s never been this close to you.

Your mouth is parted, delicate lips plush and soft in the early morning gloom. He tries to shift away, but your brow creases when he does, so he stills his movements, gritting his teeth and trying to ignore that flush that is building across his nose.

This is stupid. It’s just you. It’s not like the two of you have even done anything. Fuck, you barely talk with one another.

He burrows his head into his pillow and the shift of his body urges you closer to him, your hand opening and pressing to his skin. A sigh slips from your mouth as your fingers splay out, tapping against his warmth, and he nearly startles off the bed.

He looks down at your hand, aghast. He wants to move it off of him; can’t stand that you’re touching him, he tells himself, that you’re this close to him. But he can’t bring himself to move. Your hand is so delicate, so…

Unconscious, you turn from him, your fingers lifting on their own, curling back to you. Dabi almost moans as you slip from him, clamping down on the sudden, primal desire that races through him. He wants to grab you; to drag you back to him.

The hell? What the fuck is wrong with him?

Sucking his teeth, he turns over, facing away from the confusing neediness that’s lapping at his subconscious. He fluffs his pillow aggressively, trying to drown out all the raw emotions that are racing through his mind.

Forget it. Sleep.

When he wakes again, you’re gone.

The sheets where you slept are cold under his fingertips and he sits up, his arms resting on his knees. This whole situation is so fucking weird.

He lets himself ease into consciousness before standing and stretching out the leftover kinks in his muscles; stooping to grab his discarded shirt, pulling the fabric over his head and shaking his dark head against the sunlight. Just as he’s slipping his coat on, he notices the note that’s sitting on one of your bedroom chairs. It’s got his name on it, so he snatches it up, flipping open the folded paper.

“There’s some leftover pizza in the fridge, I won’t have time to eat it. Help yourself. There’s also a spare key on the coffee table. Take it and stop jimmying my window open.”

Scoffing, he crumples the paper up, tossing it over his shoulder as he paces into your kitchen.

It’s a fucking thing now.

He’s rarely at the hideout. Why bother? You don’t seem to care if he sleeps over. Hell, you make space for him. There’s gotta be something else to it; there has to be. What kinda idiot is so fucking accommodating? You act like you’re a fucking hostel or something. Well, a hostel where there’s only one bed.

You even bought another fan. You told him you don’t like to keep the overhead one on in the cooler weather, so he can use this one for his side of the bed.

Yeah, he’s got a goddamn side of the bed. It’s fucking insane.

The other members of the League either haven’t noticed what’s going on between the two of you, or they don’t care. It’s not like either of you talk about your sleeping habits. Fuck, you still never interact with him at the hideout, content to maintain that level of professionalism.

He’s not sure why it bothers him.

One night, the temperature drops into the low 40s and he’s stretched out on your blankets, enjoying the first real cold snap of the fall, when he sees you shivering. It’s not very noticeable, what with the way you’re turned away and bundled, but it makes him tilt his head toward you, watching.

Another pass of his fan has you repeating the quake and, without thinking, he pulls you closer, one long arm wrapping around your shoulder and tugging. Startled, you fight his hold, but he calms your movements with a squeeze, grumbling about your stoic reluctance.

What’s the big deal? It’s not like you haven’t brushed up against him before. Calm down.

You quiet after that and slowly, tentatively, you lean against his bare chest, your cheek cool against his heated skin. He tucks his chin over your head and tries to keep his breathing even. He doesn’t want you to hear, fuck, feel his heartbeat; it’s slamming its way out of his throat and he gulps when your fingers pull him closer.

“How are you so warm?” you ask, your breath floating across his pectorals.

“It’s my stupid quirk,” Dabi mutters, dipping his head down to his pillow, shifting you with him. You nod against his lean muscles and your fingertips trace cool designs into his skin, lingering over his burnt patches and staples. He sighs, unable to resist the low shiver that creeps up his spine.

This is nice; too fucking nice.

He can’t do without your touch now.

Remember that thing about love and hate being sisters? Well, that hate is simmering into something else for Dabi. It’s not love, he doesn’t know you well enough, but it’s certainly not hate anymore.

He likes touching you. You’re smooth against his jagged skin and he enjoys the contrast. He’s slow when he pulls you against him, careful to not snag you against his staples, but you seem to like his heat. You’ve even started wearing less to bed, slipping out of that baggy shirt and into a thin tank top; he’s pleased that he has more of you to caress.

It’s getting harder to keep you out of his head. He can smell your perfume, even if he hasn’t seen you for days, and each time he does see you, even at the hideout, his fingers itch to press against you.

You’d laughed at his sudden, intense, interest. The hell Dabi, are you touch starved or something? You’d teased. What’s up with you? I was worried about you burning down my apartment, not you turning into some kind of cuddle fiend.

He doesn’t care what you say. He knows it’s fucking stupid, fucking dumb, that he’s this desperate. It just feels good. And there’s not much about him that feels good these days, so he’ll take what he can get. Fuck you very much.

There’s a meeting. It’s one of the ones where Shigaraki demands that everyone make their way to the bar.

Boss man has been tense lately, thrumming with some dark energy, so the room is quiet as Kurogiri elaborates on the smaller details of the mission. Your part is minimal, limited to reconnaissance with Toga. It’s boring shit, and Dabi is only half listening to any of it.

Besides, there’s something else that’s snagging his attention.

Dabi is sitting on the couch, his eyes lingering on you. You’re wearing one of his favorite outfits and the color looks good on you. It brings out your eyes. You’re questioning Spinner and Toga about the finer points of your team up. He can’t hear you from here, but that doesn’t matter, he’s still in the best spot to spy you leaning forward, perfect ass on full display.

“She’s gotten better, more adept at working undercover,” Compress’ voice shakes Dabi from his thoughts and he turns to him, a bland frown on his face.

“Who?”

“Please, you know who I’m talking about. You can’t stop looking at her.”

He chortles, his laugh a sharp bark. “You’re fucking joking. Her? Fuck, no. I’m gonna head out, not like the boss has anything for me anyway,” Dabi stands, slipping his hands into his trench coat and pacing to the heavy door, shouldering his way into the night.

He leans against the brick wall, lighting up a cigarette and sighing a thin line of smoke into the chilled air. Fuck, they’re noticing what’s going on. Wait. What is going on? It’s not like the two of you are fucking. Yet, a small voice echoes in the back of his mind, and he smirks at that thought.

Yeah, maybe it’s time to speed things up.

You step out a few minutes later, your eyes searching for him. He flicks his cigarette onto the pavement and wraps his fingers in your coat, tugging you to him. You don’t fight him; don’t make a sound as he pins you against the brick, his body hot against your front.

The two of you watch the other, his cerulean eyes roving over your face. Then he’s lifting your chin, his lips sliding across yours. It’s a strange kiss. Usually, he’s too busy trying to get off to focus on his partner. He rarely kisses anyone, even if he’s hooking up. But this kiss?

Like everything else about you, it’s fucking nice.

You move with him, your body surging from the brick, breasts flattening against his chest, fingers cupping behind his ears; nipping and sucking at him, your teeth digging into his burned lower lip and pulling. You’re encouraging him to touch you next, rubbing yourself on him until his hands fall to your hips. He’s already half hard, and that warm juncture of your thighs isn’t helping matters.

To his shock, he’s having trouble keeping up.

You’re already pulling from him when he dips his tongue into your mouth. He gasps at the emptiness, that chilling vacancy that your touch leaves him panting into. Before he can bemoan your absence, you’re kissing at his neck, lifting on your tiptoes to reach the staples on the side of his face. You lick at him, your wet tongue dragging over his burns. He trembles under your hands and you smile, your laugh bright.

Snarling, Dabi yanks your head back and you meet his hazy gaze, biting your lip; pantomiming a wonton innocence. Immediately, he’s pushing you into the brick, his hands cupping and lingering until you’re whining for him. That’s fucking better, he thinks, his teeth worrying against your pulse.

Just when he’s got you where he wants you, your hand snakes between the two of you, pressing against the bulge of his dick. Dabi can’t help his sharp intake of air, and his head falls to your shoulder as he ruts into your palm. You keep kissing at the side of his face, your lips roving over his ear as you tug at his covered dick. You’re saying something, but he can’t focus when you’re doing that.

“Dabi,” you try again, teeth ensnaring his destroyed earlobe, sucking at the burnt skin. “They’re about to come out.”

He knocks your hand away from his straining, throbbing length and leans away from you. Fuck, you look good.

Your lips are swollen, and your eyes are dazzling. He can’t pull himself away. You smile at his dazed expression and lift a hand to his cheek, your palm cool against his overheated skin.

The door shudders open and the two of you spring apart. A few minutes later Toga is grabbing at your arm and pulling you down the street, away from him.

He’s waiting outside your apartment, another cigarette smoldering to ash under his lips. But he can’t bring himself to go in.

Not without you.

Toga’s kept you busy. It’s been over an hour since that kiss in the alleyway. He’s cooled off since then, but that simmering heat that you elicited from him? That hasn’t dimmed. He’s still half hard against his dark pants and he can’t bring himself to care. Besides, Dabi has a very specific idea about how he’s going to have you lessen that pressure for him.

He’s just about to light another cigarette when he sees you.

You walk into your building, and he starts the long climb up the fire escape. His heart is pounding again. He hasn’t wanted something this badly in ages. He’s been so fucking focused on his cause, on making his plans a reality; he just hasn’t had the time.

But now? Fuck, he wants there to be more hours in the day. He’s hoping the two of you can pick up where you left off. Yeah, he tells himself, scaling the last few steps, it’s just about the sex.

That sounds better than saying what he really wants.

You’re already slipping your oversized sleep shirt over your head when he lifts your window. You pause, watching him curl his way into your space. Once he pulls his legs inside he turns to you, his eyes dark, unfathomable, the blue so deep that you feel you’re drowning in it.

He doesn’t shut the window. Instead, he yanks his clothes off, clattering them against your floor. You smile and a gentle laugh makes its way to him.

“What did I say about coming in through the window?” you chuckle, already lifting your arms for him.

He’s against you in a single breath, his warmth seeping its way into your chilled skin. His lips are rough, pressing and lifting, biting and nipping. He’s working you toward your bed and once your knees hit the edge of your mattress, he’s shoving you down.

You flop against the cold blankets, your legs already spreading for his hips. He’s hot, scaldingly hot, against your hands. Your fingers dip into his hair and you pull him back, earning a low growl and his flashing glare, displeasure written all over his face.

“Slow down,” you scold, your legs wrapping around his hips, grinding against the hardness you find.

“The fuck? You goddamn tease. Fucking saying that, then rubbing your wet pussy all over my dick,” Dabi snarls, snatching your wrists and pinning your hands beside your head.

“How do you know it’s wet?” you ask, batting your eyes at his steeled jaw.

“It fucking better be,” he groans, his teeth sinking into your neck and pressing, hard.

You gasp at the stimulation and arch for him, testing his hold on your wrists. Grunting, he licks a wet line to your pulse, his hands tightening over yours. “Mmm, why don’t you find out?” you ask, leaning into his lips, loving the contrast of his destroyed and perfect skin.

He shifts his grip on you, yanking your arms up, pinning your hands above your head. He lifts one of his own hands away once he’s satisfied he’s got a good hold on you. His warm fingers trace down your side, pausing when he gets to the lacy band of your panties. Teasingly, he pulls fabric away from your skin, and lets it snap against your hip. Dabi tips his nose into the curve of your neck and shoulder, taking a deep drag against you.

You buck your hips, squirming under his weight. “You get lost? My pussy is a little further down.”

He chuckles darkly, his breath making you shiver. You’re just about to wriggle from him when one long finger eases past your panties and presses into your sopping heat. “Oh,” you gasp, your eyes rolling back. It feels like he’s heated his fingertip, and the skin that’s stroking and thrusting into you is warm, too warm.

Dabi leans away from your neck, bracing himself above you with his knees, pulling himself into a hunched position. He’s smirking at your awed expression and his teeth glow in the darkness.

“Like I said doll, you’re already so fucking wet for me. You want more?”

You nod and buck your hips, digging that finger deeper. He groans at your eagerness and you can feel him warming the next digit up, the tip burning against the soft flesh of your inner thighs.

Once it’s in, he starts to v the two, dragging them along your rippling walls, spreading you open, easing you into his hand. Your slick is sliding down your legs and seeping into the sheets. Still, Dabi keeps on, maintaining that steady stretch. It starts to sting and you shift away, but he releases your wrists, free hand moves to your hip, stilling you.

You glance up at him, curious. His eyes are hooded, the blue a velvety sapphire. He looks like he’s holding himself back from something. Almost like… like he’s handling you with more care than he’s ever given anything. It’s a strange thought, but the idea of it makes you reach for him, your fingers running down his discolored skin, lingering over the staples and piercings.

“I’ve gotta stretch you out,” he informs you, his eyes closing behind his trembling eyelids, savoring your gentle caress.

“Hmm, you that big?” you joke, fully expecting him to react, to silence you with a kiss or another well-timed thrust of his fingers. But he surprises you. He opens his eyes and fixes you with a rough stare, his digits continuing that aching pull. You’re throbbing around him, your arousal easing his passage, his extensions.

“I don’t want to… hurt-” he stops, his eyes narrowing. With an inaudible sigh, he slides down your body, only halting once he’s face to face with your sleek cunt. His breath heaves against you and you wrap a leg over his back, holding him close.

Dabi laves his tongue over you, latching onto your pulpy clit and giving it a soft suck. Your hands sink into his hair, curling into the spiky tendrils, urging him to give you more.

He rewards your needy moans with another lick and he flicks his eyes up to yours, watching you over your shaking curves.

“I’m going to add another finger,” he tells you, preparing you for another deep stretch. When he enters you almost pull from him, your hips bowing away at the pricking of pain. Sensing your distress, he keeps his lips around your pulsing clit, distracting you with kisses and low blows of air.

Finally, you can feel yourself loosening. Your feet brace against your bed and you use the leverage to maneuver him deeper. You feel, you feel so…

Dabi, realizing that your cunt is quivering around his intruding digits, shifts closer, his piercings rubbing against your thighs. He’s sloppy now, less controlled. His tongue is circling your clit with furious laps and he lets a canine trace the bud. His fingers are still spreading and he’s found that spongy spot now. He taps against it, teasing you, making you clench and gasp around him.

Just when you think you can’t take it anymore, when it seems like all the sensations are too, too, much; it snaps. The coiling in your core pulls free and you’re moaning, so loudly you’re worried your neighbors will hear. His name is falling from your lips at a rapid rate and you can feel his smirk as he lifts his fingers from your cunt.

Dabi leans away and you shake at the loss of him. He was so warm, so hot against your damp skin and you miss it. He watches you, tucking his fingers into his mouth, lapping the final bits of your release from him.

“Take off your clothes,” he demands when he’s finished, his hands already dropping to his tented boxers, slipping the elastic down his trim waist.

You shift to obey, your hands yanking your shirt, bra and soaked panties off of you. You splay under him, indolently admiring the sight that is revealed to you. Oh, you think, unable to contain your small gasp, he is big.

His cock is long, thick, and curved, and it’s dripping with pre-cum. There’s a crossed set of piercings at the tip of his length and you watch, mesmerized, as a shimmering strand of his arousal catches on the shiny silver, leeching down the smooth length of him. He’s bigger than anything you’ve ever taken, and that thought makes you shiver with anticipation, and a small sliver of worry.

Dabi grins wildly at your flushed face. “Like what you see?”

You nod, and he laughs, fingers snatching your legs, tugging you toward him. You spread for him, so eager and fucking turned on you can’t think straight. His hand lowers to his cock, and he strokes himself as he rechecks your silken cunt, gathering some of the gossamer strands of your arousal on his fingers as he ensures that you’re ready to take him.

“I’m not going to go slow,” he warns you, his eyes lifting from your folds.

Gulping and biting your lip, you nod, a shaking exhale escaping your lungs. He shifts himself nearer and begins to press. He’s right, you think, wincing at the sting of his intrusion. He’d stretched you out, licked you until you were leaking all over the bed, but it hurts.

It takes him a moment to bottom out. Once he does, he groans and gasps above you. “Fuck (Y/N), you’re so damn tight.”

You flop your head against your pillow and let out a long sigh. He’s holding still as you adjust, and, despite his warning, he’s being careful with you. It makes your chest squeeze. After a few more pained breaths, you can feel a low tingling radiating from your core. It’s like an itch. Experimentally, you cant your hips, your legs wrapping around his waist, cautious of the stapled skin across his lower back.

Dabi mutters a soft curse and pulls back, his length sliding out of your drenched pussy. When he glides back in, you feel that same tingling sensation. Distantly, you realize it must be those piercings of his, but you’re too overwhelmed by the sensation to process it fully.

“Hold on,” he groans, his hands bracing beside your head. You lace your arms around his bowed neck, and he starts to pounds into you. It’s a calculated motion, but- ah- he’s taking the extra second between his powerful pulls and thrusts to scrape his pelvis against your pulsating clit, stimulating you, ensuring that dim blaze pleasure within you keeps building. Whimpering, you arch your back, your ankles locking around him, encouraging him to keep going. You feel so good, so full, filled to the brim and practically begging him for more.

Sloppily, his mismatched lips find yours and he nibbles and kisses at you. The sheer heat of him is making you both slick with sweat. You don’t mind the salty, dampened feeling, if anything, it eases his motions.

You’re so wet now that he’s gliding easily into you; that piercing of his heating up, and the rapid fire thrusts he’s giving you create a smoldering inside you; like he’s catching you on fire from the inside out.

His hips stutter and he lifts one hand from the bed, his thumb easily finding your clit. He presses a tight circle across you and you see spots.

“Come on,” he groans, his voice hoarse, strained, “cum for me (Y/N). Fucking cum on my dick.”

That desperation in his tone is all that it takes.

Seconds later, you’re arching and shaking so much that he has to hold you still. He eases into you a final time, his frantic thrusts slowing, spacing out as he enjoys your rippling channel, and the fiery feeling of his own release almost hurtles you over the edge again. You curl against him, panting into his burnt ear, licking at the damaged skin.

Dabi leans heavily against you, one large hand pressing into your lower back, lifting you to him. Once he comes back to himself, he kisses at your shoulder, his warm breath making you shiver. He eases himself out of you and your legs clamp together, holding his cum inside you. It still feels so, so hot, and you’re not ready to let it drip out of you, not yet.

He untangles himself from you and adjusts some of his staples, wincing against the sting of his marred and clean flesh. Realizing what he’s doing, you slip from the bed and pad into your bathroom. You clean yourself off and grab a bottle of hydrogen peroxide, dampening a clean cloth with the solution.

“Here. It’s got some peroxide on it,” you tell him as you reenter the bedroom, tossing the rag his way. He catches it easily, dabbing it over himself, careful to not snag it on any of his loose skin. While he’s busy doing that, you snatch up his discarded white shirt and sling it over your head. He looks at you and scoffs.

“What’s wrong with yours?” he asks, tossing the cloth onto the floor.

“Yours looked better,” you inform him, returning to his side and leaning close. He rolls his eyes at you and you shift into his open lap, straddling his hips. Grinning, you kiss at his neck again, sneaking a few groans from him. Sighing as you give him a particularly hard nip, he bats you off of him, tumbling you down to the sheets.

“Give me a fucking minute,” he complains, shaking his head as you wrap around him, pulling him into your arms. Once he’s settled onto the bed you turn, pressing your back to his chest, relaxing into the familiar hold. He snorts, amused by your sudden change of mind.

Dabi lowers his forehead to the back of your head, a small smile rising along his lips. Your breathing evens out and he listens to the sound, trying to memorize each little detail of you.

Yeah, this is it, he tells himself as he drifts off. The rest is just extra. Oh, it’s nice, to be sure, but this, this right here is what he really wants.

Notes: Soft, soft Dabi. I like him like this ꒰ ᵕ༚ᵕ꒱ ˖°

Tags: @evesmores, @spicy-skull, @xwildskullx

#in honor of warm weather #rb #self reblog #pal writes #bnha #dabi todoroki #toyua todoroki #dabi

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palbabor-writes · 2 years ago

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← chapter four

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Pairing: Din Djarin x F!Reader Rating: Explicit Word Count: 7.4k Summary: You learn there's more to your current planet of residence than what meets the eye. Warnings: aphrodisiacs (sex pollen), mentions of masturbation, language, dirty thoughts, discussions of consent, groping, pining, anxiety Notes: I love being evil and doing evil things. Seriously though, this chapter was a beast to write so I hope you enjoy it! For your reference, Ede is a planet of my creation. It does not exist in the Star Wars canon. If anyone knows of anything similar to it, please let me know!

There’s something wrong with Ede, and only Din seems to notice.

Perhaps, with all the frogs and strange lizards the kid ingests, he’s built an immunity to all things peculiar. Or, maybe, it’s a subset of his species to be naturally resistant to planet-borne illnesses. Din really can’t make sense of the logistics in it, but his child is just as bouncy and vibrant as ever - and as endearing as those characteristics are normally, they’re damn well exhausting given his current state.

You. Din knows why you’re fine. Hard as you try to be regimented with those daily E-bacta shots, you’re not free of the substance’s ungovernable effects. Your wrist is almost fully healed now, yet you still haven’t made any changes to the dosage. Because not only do they keep you healthy, they leave you rejuvenated, pumped up for the gruelling training sessions Din throws at you. You’ve been able to get back up and fight after every bruise, every loss. And while you have yet to win, Din is extremely fucking impressed with how you manage to outsmart him every single time. Clever girl. He occasionally considers going easier on you too, to let you beat him; but he recognises, for as long as you’re primed the way you are, you need to be pushed to your limits.

Honestly, with just how well the E-bacta seems to be working on you, he’s contemplated snagging a shot. But no, supplies are limited; he wouldn’t be able to live with himself. You need them more than he does.

Yeah. The helmet takes the brunt of it, anyway. He can handle the way the fog clouds his senses, if only for a little longer. It isn’t as if it instils thoughts in him he hasn’t had already. Din doesn’t need an aphrodisiac planet to think about spreading you underneath him, to crave the taste of your cunt; the sight of you does enough to him alone. But stars, does it make it infinitely harder to keep to his restrain.

He’s a Mandalorian, as disciplined as they come. A lesser man would have caved by now, he’s sure. Be that as it may, the smallest things have been setting him off. A glimpse of your shoulder. The shape of your legs. He was sure he’d gone mad when your smile was enough to spur him as he fucked his fist late one night. It’s been a while since his last lay, sure. That isn’t the issue - it’s never been as bad as this, not since he was a teenager and saw a woman’s breasts for the first time.

Yours trump those, though, easily.

It had all come to a head that day in the forest. When you ran and triggered something absolutely primal within him, something that lit every suppressed urge with the scorn of a thousand suns. Over his course as a bounty hunter, Din has long since stopped relishing in the thrill of a chase. Adrenaline means nothing to him, a hindrance at the best of times - to keep a clearer head, he operates with apathy. It helps with precision, and the reputation that trails along. But when it was you he had to catch…

The instant his heart skipped a beat, Din knew he was in danger.

And when he had you pinned to the ground soon after, he crossed a line without second thought. What’s worse, he didn’t regret it. He doesn’t. He only wishes he’d gone further, that he’d seen more of you.

‘T-That is not fair.’

No, it hadn’t been. Even if they were to get off this planet, what he’d done has permanently ruined you for him. The feel of your flesh. Your supple softness. Din, with the memory of your breast seared into his palm, is a ticking time bomb. It’s only a matter of time before he implodes - and with the lack of control he’s had over his mind lately, he can’t have you around for that. You’d hate him.

“Hey,” Your shoe nudges his leg, dragging him back to reality. “You okay?”

No. “Yes.”

Din isn’t a bad liar - the modulator flattens the inconsistencies in his tone, his helmet conceals any tells. Yet still, somehow, you remain unconvinced. A brow arches quizzically, your eyes narrowing in suspicion. Firelight illuminates the planes of your face, fluttering sparks almost as bright as you. Clever, clever girl.

“Sad ‘cause I won?” Your smile is devil-sent, devious. The things he’d do to you.

He exhales. “Sure, if you call throwing pebbles at me winning.”

Taking a large bite of the fruit you picked, you talk through a mouthful. Din hardly registers it. “Tactical problems require tactical solutions.” Your lips are plump, highlighted with a thin sheen of juice as you chew. He wonders if they’d look that way surrounding him.

“I’m a tactical problem?” He pitches in after a while, upon watching the way you settle into the awkward silence.

“A real menace.” You giggle in response, brushing a hand over the hovering pram near you with agonising tenderness. “Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

“Hm,” Din hums absentmindedly. Tendrils of fog lace his ankles and wind up his legs. It’s almost… sentient, in the matter it encompasses him, like it’s privy to the wicked fantasies he has of you. Maybe it is - that would explain why you and the kid are so unaffected; maybe Ede can only influence those already too far gone.

The thought is nothing revolutionary - he knows. Din knows he’s awful for feeling this way. It goes against everything the Mandalorians have ever taught him; a betrayal of his creed to lust after someone so unsuspecting. Unwilling. The guilt that eats him alive is justified - welcomed to a certain degree, a reminder not to betray the trust you have in him to remain strictly professional. He was the one that invited you to live with him, for Kriff’s sake; the least he can do is think of you with the decency you deserve.

“Y’know, the flower this fruit comes from can be used to make an extremely deadly poison. Synox, I think it’s called.” You say, eyeing the rose-coloured morsel with vapid interest. Din hums. He recognises it. “I saw it on my walk earlier… ‘Course it’s edible in this form.”

“Couldn’t have guessed.” The wry comment pulls another laugh from you. Something foreign settles in Din’s chest. “I didn’t know medical academies taught so much about poison.”

“If they did, I couldn’t tell you. I wasn’t the best student.” And though you shake your head with all the vulnerability of an honest woman, the Mandalorian doesn’t believe you. It’s difficult to imagine a world in which you aren’t the smartest person in the room. “An old friend mentioned it once, is’all.”

“An old friend,” It’s not quite a question any more than it is an open-ended interrogation, founded in concern over the vacant tone that’s wormed its way into your voice. He isn’t blind; he sees the subtle hesitation in your admittance, the recoil of your shoulders at a memory he isn’t informed on. Disappointment latches on to him at the sway this one individual has on you. For all the likeliness that it isn’t a former lover, he knows it very well could be. Discomfort swells in him at the prospect; he tells himself it’s the fog.

Your gaze flutters to him. You’re smiling again - it feels forced. “Shocked to find I have other friends, Mando? I’m not that insufferable.”

Other friends. Other friends. Was he… one of them too?

The fruit is nothing but its core now, a fat seed with rough edges. You poke a hole in it with the wooden dagger you use for sparring practice, then bury the pit in overturned dirt. Din watches you, tracing the curve of your hip when you bend, the dainty motions of your fingers while you work. His cock throbs from behind the confines of his pants, semi-hard already and leaking steadily, preparing him solely for the embrace of his own hand later. A stone lodges itself in his throat - uncomfortable, much like the rest of him - and he thinks of ploughing into your tight cunt instead. You’d soak the front of him, moaning his name in between choked gasps and whimpers. Fuck, he can almost hear it, the way your skin would clap as he pistons his hips against the softness of your thighs, his nose buried between your tits, fucking you open.

His Doc. His clever girl. He’d ruin you.

“Mando?”

He needs to get out of here.

When he stands, his armour clunks clumsily at the speed with which he moves. You’re still on your knees, about face level with his crotch, and he thanks the Maker that you worriedly peer up at him instead of surveying the evidence of his arousal. You look so good like this, he could just grab your hair and–

“Need to run a perimeter check. Watch the kid.” The excuse is half-assed; unbelievable because, in the two week’s they’ve been on Ede, there have been no signs of life larger than the occasional bug or amphibian. You don’t question it, though, just frowning solemnly at him. In his mind, that’s infinitely worse.

But he can’t stick around. Not when you look so fucking divine; all glass, smooth edges, burning over the hot coals of his desire. Not with the way your brows furrow slightly, neck stretched and elongated as your head tips back to drink him in. You’re lovely, gentle, and you’re always there - always so perfect at supporting him. Blood rushes from his head, he can feel his heartbeat at his brow; he wants you. And the fog filters through his helmet, wafting up his nose, dimming his reasoning. It tells him to do it, lift your face to his and devour you completely, to suck in your precious moans when he stuffs his cock into you. But no, no. He can’t.

Not when he risks hurting you.

With a stiff nod, Din marches off.

The chronometer ticks metrically, consistent in its sole function. To you, in your anxious state, its rhythm gains speed with every minute you wait. Dawn emerges on the horizon, and you haven’t slept, trapped in silence with the debilitating tangent conceived three hours ago.

The Mandalorian has been gone for the better part of the night, and there has yet to be any sign of his return.

Initially, with the way he stormed off, you figured you’d leave him to his own devices, at least until he came down from whatever temperament he was in. It isn’t your first rodeo, after all; Mando is moody on his best days, withdrawn and reticent with what he feels. You like to think that your relationship has progressed past that point, but with the unaddressed tension between you nowadays, you aren’t too sure. That’s fine, though. Really. He’s kept you around for long enough that you’re close to confident he won’t leave you stranded on the next planet. The ease your group has settled into is more than enough reassurance that he doesn’t despise you – so when Mando left you by the fire, you’d shrugged off his bullshit lie and carried on with your night.

During the first hour, you massaged the taut muscles in your back and practised your kicks. As Mando had you on strict orders not to target tree trunks (“You’ll disfigure your leg.”), you fashioned a dummy using a duffel bag, old rags, rope and duct tape. You’d started with the roundhouse, likely because of the impression it made when your bounty hunter had seized and repositioned your ‘lazy’ stance while teaching you. His words rang clear in your head: load your weight onto your back leg, step around forty-five degrees towards your target, swing your upper body for momentum, lift, pivot your hip and kick. Progress was slow - you were kind of glad Mando wasn’t around to see. Your first few tries on the makeshift dummy had hurt, the impact reverberating up your tibia and throwing you back on your ass, but then you realised your mistake in using your foot. Your shin is sturdier, supported by denser bones. When you had adjusted accordingly, your kicks had more sway, despite hurting just as bad. Soaked in sweat, you’d considered it a victory all the same, thrilled to tell Mando the news.

At the second hour, you began with your nightly routine. The system was one you’ve adapted for everyone’s convenience; after tucking the child into his hammock, you’d be the first to shower. Mando always preferred to wait until you were asleep anyway, as to avoid the risk of you walking in. And, despite his absence, you stuck to the familiarity. It wasn’t a prolonged ordeal - the water on Nevarro was scalding by cause of the lava plains, so you’re accustomed to quick washes. In no later than ten minutes, you padded out in a plain shirt and compression pants. There wasn’t much else to do afterwards - on any other day, you would’ve gone to bed - but something told you to wait until the Mandalorian came back. To occupy yourself in the meantime, you had laid out your remaining supplies to take inventory. There was a disturbing lack of E-bacta (that couldn’t have been you, could it?) as well as gauze, so you made a list of items that needed replenishing. The mindless chore gave you ample time to overthink, and it was then that the doubt crept up on you. ‘Do perimeter checks usually take two hours?’

All throughout hour three, you spiralled into a well of crushing concern. While re-organising the chaotic wire work along the Crest, you wondered what could be taking Mando so long. Had you said something to upset him? Maker, you hadn’t even pondered that possibility; you had just let him go with little care or issue. The thought made you sick. If he was upset, then it’d be on you. Worse - if he was hurt, it’s on account of your negligence. Fuck, what was wrong with you, have you not grown? You’d made a promise to yourself that you wouldn’t let loose again, not after what had happened last time. And for all your efforts to distract yourself, your father’s palish, blue-tinged face haunted you; there as you fixed the hatch, singed into the back of your eyelids while you polished the floor. You were a sitting duck, dizzy and only half-mindful of just how little you were doing.

Now, it’s a bit off of three hours since the Mandalorian’s absence. You’re covered in a parka, clutching your way-too-bulky blaster with one trembling hand and surveying your chrono on the other. The ramp is open in front of you, a morning chill drifting through to take up residence in the hull. You’re unsure if the way your nose stings is due to the cold or the threatening onslaught of tears you’re keeping at bay.

“Two minutes, Mando. You have two minutes to come back or I swear to the mighty sister above I’ll find and kill you myself.” The waver in your whisper betrays the hysteria surging within you. You can admit it to yourself here, in this chasm of dread, alone with only the chirp of far off birds and background drone of the Crest - you’re fucking worried for him.

Time passes. Your resolve weakens. The crack of a twig catches your rapt attention; nothing becomes of it. You squeeze your eyes shut, and draw in a long breath.

Then, you move.

You follow the trail of sunken footprints in mud. They aren’t hard to miss; the hunter wears heavy duty combat boots and weighs double the average man - courtesy of his beskar; even rain couldn’t easily corrode the path he’d made. What’s more, any low hanging branches or leaves have been wacked out of place, broken off at their arms somewhat violently - if you’re to go by their splintered ends. It occurs to you that, based on the evident wreckage, the Mandalorian must have been frustrated upon leaving camp. You fidget nervously to expel the guilt that returns at the thought.

The forest is dark, the light from the rising sun barely filtering through its thick canopy. Chewing your lip, you try to orient yourself amidst the panic. The fog is always thicker in the morning, coming well above eye-level and shortening your sightline significantly. You stumble over fallen logs, slip on mossy rocks. At some point, you start to notice the faint floral aroma present in the air. Has that smell always been here?

Great, you’re losing it. Gulping, you breathe through the tears brimming along your waterline. ‘Relax,’ you tell yourself, ‘have a little faith’. Mando has lived this long without you hanging over his shoulder, he’s more than capable of warding off any dangers that come his way. Still, that reckless urge is back, the one you’d battled with when the pirates had attacked - the need to protect him. You want him to know it; he doesn’t have to rely on himself anymore, you’re here for him now. Trekking through an uncharted, abandoned forest with a blaster you’ve never been taught to use, wandering into a fight you wouldn’t be able to win. Should you even be expecting one? No, you’re looking for your lost companion, that’s all. That’s it. Mando is fine; you are too. Your palms are damp with perspiration, and the beginnings of a migraine pounds at your temple, but you’re okay.

Some protector you are.

The continuous buzz of the Crest’s machinery has faded by now, and the once distinct footprints are a confused mess, disorderly with the way they impede on one another, turning in circles. It’s completely unlike Mando - too tumultuous to be a trail he made in sound mind - but it is, you’re sure of it, you hadn’t lost sight of the prints for more than a second. Shivering, you squat to gain a closer look. It’s only then you pick up on the foreign articles that litter the area, like tiny little balls with thorns all along their surfaces. A bullet of adrenaline shoots through you. Bugs? No. Seeds. They’ve been around for the past few metres.

A horrifying suspicion arises. This entire time, you’ve been distraught over the idea that a person intercepted and attacked him. You hadn’t even paused to note the dangers nature posed; if perhaps Mando had fallen into a pit, been attacked by an animal or grown susceptible to poison. Ede is an uncharted planet, the closest one you were able to land on post attack. Camp is safe, but there’s no way of knowing whether the rest of the world is.

Stupid, stupid. You waited so long to come out and find him when time can mean the difference between life or death. The gravity of your predicament comes crashing down, devastating in its weight. Where the fuck are you even going? The prints mean nothing here, the forest floor is unruly, roots winding amidst soil, disrupting leaves and tiny plants. They could have been made by anything; gone is the telltale pattern of Mando’s sole’s, missing is the pace of his regular gait. You’ve been grasping at straws and wasting precious time.

You stop for a moment's respite, hyperventilating. While trying to suck in as much oxygen as possible, you quickly realise none of it is enough. This isn’t working, that’s been established. None of this is helping Mando. You need to steel yourself and think with a clear head. Yeah, just… Just ground yourself.

The earth is solid underneath you. If you focus, you can feel the way it pushes back against the pressure you put on it. Your blaster is cool, the metal comforting in how familiar it is. You imagine it’s Mando, that you’re running your thumb over the curve of his pauldron. There’s a rustle of leaves, the thundering rush of a waterfall, a faint groaning. And there’s the tick of your chrono, constant and unchanging. The flowery aroma has grown richer now, shifting in and out of reach with the swirling mist. Can Mando smell it too, through that helmet of his? Can he indulge in the details of life; smell, taste, sound?

Sound.

A faint groaning.

You perk up, holding your breath, trying to pinpoint its source. They’re overshadowed by the ambience of the forest, but they’re there, hidden between lulls in the wind. It’s coming from your… You wait again, forcing all your mental strength into concentrating. Left. It’s coming from your left, in the same direction of a babbling brook.

It’s the best hope you’ve got.

At once, you start on your new path, half-running to your best ability on the rough terrain. It’s like your mind goes silent, laser-focused on this localised objective. Get to the groaning’s source. There’s no time to second-guess yourself, you can’t afford to temporise; whether or not it’s coming from Mando, there’s only one way to find out. So, you jog, readjusting yourself when the sound veers away from right in front of you. Your ankle bends far too often on account of your clumsiness, and your pounding heart threatens to drown any external noises out. Your desperate search lacks all the elegance of a seasoned predator - someone like Mando, who’s been doing this long enough to earn his stealth. You don’t let the foolishness of it disrupt you, though; it can’t matter to you, not when something far more frightening awaits.

The pained sounds have gotten louder now. You don’t really need to strain to hear them anymore - they find you. You stumble blindly forwards, squinting - trying to catch a glint of his armour, the squelch of blood-soaked earth beneath your boots - any indication that it is, in fact, Mando you’re chasing and not some wounded creature. The trees are larger here than they are at camp, triple your width, and crowd each other like wires in a chain-link fence. You should be wary; but common sense dictates that it’s safer than out in the open, where you can be attacked from any angle.

Your foot stubs against another stubborn obstacle, and you bite back a scream of frustration. These fucking roots are the worst; they weave into the ground and jump up at you when you least expect it. You can already feel the blisters forming on your toes as a result, and you have half a mind to punt this one if it wasn’t for Mando’s advice against it.

You’re grateful you don’t, though, because when you move to step over it, a cold grip wraps around your ankle.

And you just… know.

Your skin prickles with the atmospheric shift; you can smell it - that musk, leather and spice. The fog blocks any chance you might have in confirming your beliefs - the forest floor all hazy - but your brain short-circuits like it does only in his presence, and you know.

“Mando?” You whine down at your calf.

Your name comes back to you. It’s broken, choked between ragged croaks.

Sobbing, you fall to your knees, crawling over to the other side of the body slumped up against a trunk. His gloved hand remains at your ankle, unbearably tight. There’s something off about the way his fingers press into your skin, like you’re clay he can easily mould; honestly, you can’t bring yourself to care. He’s here. It’s him. You weren’t aware your shoulders were as stiff as they were until they slump at the sight of that T-shaped visor, a black void so comforting to you it’s hard to imagine you were once scared of it. There’s a man behind the helmet - one so unexpectedly gentle, somewhat awkward and so fucking reckless.

“W-What happ– Stars, are you okay? Are you hurt?” Your hands are everywhere all at once, smoothing down his arms, poking around his abdomen. You check for blood or sore spots that’d make him cringe. When you don’t find any, your agitation booms; maybe he is poisoned. You… you can’t help him if he is, not until you get back to the Crest. “Fuck– I’m s-so stupid, I should’ve brought–”

“Nghh, g…” He sounds hurt, but he doesn’t look it. There’s no open wound anywhere, he isn’t shivering with the chills of toxicants. He’s still strong, evident in the way he holds onto you. So, why is he lying before you like a dying man? Why do you taste desperation saturating the space between you?

“Hu–Huh? Mando, hey, tell me what’s wrong.” You squeak, shoving two fingers under his cowl, beneath his helmet to check on his pulse. It’s faster than it ought to be. Shit, and for someone who was out all night, he’s heating up. The fabric of his cape is fully soaked with sweat, peppered with those spiky seeds. You have no idea what this could be; he shouldn’t be sick, his mask prevents that. “Please.”

Mando lets out an aggrieved moan. “G-Go. You need to– to leave…”

“Are you insane?” You whisper-shout, the consonants hissed between your teeth. He’s not in his right mind. You need to get to the Razor Crest, to the medisensor and your supplies. That’s your only option. Decisively, you yank your leg back from his clutches and pull at his arm. Mando doesn’t budge. “Get up! C’mon. I need to get you back,”

“Fuck– you–” He moans hoarsely, head falling back. “C-Clever girl. Need… Need you– mmfh— need you to get away.”

The moniker catching you off guard, your efforts cease for a moment. No, not now. Whatever game he’s playing at, you’ll deliberate later. Forget how the praise sounds coming from him, his voice husky and rough. Forget about it. “Nuh-uh. No way, bud, get up. Let’s go home.”

“Home,” It’s spoken softly. You exploit the vulnerability.

“Yes, yes, home. Where it’s safe, where I can help.”

His hips roll before his thighs spread, a leg bending at the knee. When his foot digs into the ground, you manage to pull him up onto his feet. Hurriedly, you lay his arm across your shoulders, wrapping yours around his waist. He’s heavy, but aside from the occasional stagger, Mando doesn’t put his full weight upon you.

“You have to work with me, okay? We’re walking back to the ship, so stay conscious, please.”

“Sound– Sound so… pretty when you beg.” Warmth pools into your cheeks. Dismissing it, you begin to retrace your steps. Mando trudges along, his voice weak when he speaks again. “Can’t stop thinking of you.”

Ignore it. Your tummy blazes with the flattery, but it’s not real. He doesn’t understand what he’s saying. This… thing that’s gotten into him has the added element of psychosis, you’re sure. You reflect on what you know can do that instead of on your trickling desire. An agent that hinders the senses, perhaps. Or a brain-eating amoeba of some sort.

Your heart stops. Fuck, why would you even think that.

If possible, you push Mando harder, conscious of the way his hold tightens on you.

The carnage you left in your wake trying to find your companion makes for a convenient trail back to the Crest. Even so, it’s a miracle the two of you reach it for all your combined impairments; Mando’s hardly cognizant by the end - a string of hushed groans filter out of his vocoder, an added indication he’s not yet dead as he stumbles beside you. You imagine your complicated mix of panic and lust doesn’t help either; as much as you want to focus on all the means through which you can help him, his wandering hands keep pulling your attention away. It seems the only thing you could centre on is how strange it feels. Save for when he fondled you to gain an upper hand in your spar, Mando is not a physical person, deliberate or not. His touch grazing up your back is abnormal in all the right ways, a scene pulled straight from one of your fantasies.

Naturally, this happens to worry you even further.

You’d made sure to activate the ship’s ground safety patrols for the sleeping child before you left. In the time it takes you to disable them, it’s like Mando’s torment triples. He clings to you now, his body hunched over so his helmet can rest atop your shoulder. With how his arms are wrapped around you, you can feel every uneven breath he takes, his muscles jolting as if the action pains him. Or maybe it does.

You wriggle loose, dodging his embrace yet still supporting his weight. The sudden lack of warmth is sobering; you strive not to think about how nice it’d been. “We need to get you inside. Can you climb for me?” You ask, keeping your inquiry gentle as you guide him to the base of the ramp.

“Yes.” His words are restrained – not tense, but something a little more savage.

“Come on then. That’s it, yeah, that’s good.” And aside from the way he tips forward, Mando manages to make it up into the hull with relative ease. A shred of anxiety ebbs at that; he’s doing okay so far. It’s an encouraging sign.

“Let… Let me–” He starts, protesting as you help him down onto the ground.

“No. Just stop moving, I need to figure out what’s wrong.” You’re firm. His stunted motions still at the conviction evident in your tone, but he’s just as stubborn despite the stutter in his response.

“Nothing’s w-wrong, clever girl.”

“You’re burning up and you can barely function, Mando. Don’t lie to me.” Cutting him off before he has the chance to say much else, you hustle around the hull, locating the medisensor just as you set down your blaster by your makeshift couch. As much as you despise it, you clearly can’t deduce the problem on your own. You’ll need the hand-held diagnostic scanner for that prior to starting treatment.

But when you point it at the Mandalorian, it draws at a blank.

The glowing screen flashes a few times more down at the hunk of steel situated against a wall, seemingly as perplexed as you are. On the side are a list of his symptoms – fever, migraine, nausea – but the main box dedicated to the diagnoses is empty.

“You useless son of a–”

“Told… you…”

“Are you just… sick? Is that it?” Doubt creeps up. It’s in you to overthink; maybe you’ve blown this out of proportion.

“No.” He uses the floor to push himself into a precarious stand. You’re right by him when he dangerously sways, propping him up by his chest. “Jus’ let– let me use the r-refresher, okay?”

“Mando-”

“You don’t u-understand,” Your heart twinges in mild offence. Regardless, you nod. He’s right. You can’t make sense of the situation. You’ve done your part in getting him home fine, but until he’s willing to tell you what else you can do, you’re purposeless.

“Okay, okay. But I’m staying right here. Shout if you need anything.” You scold, walking him to the refresher door. His visor turns to take you in, the intensity in his solid-black stare startling. It stretches the longer the pause, gorging on your vulnerability, and suddenly, you’re all too aware of everything wrong with you. You hadn’t thought to wipe the tear tracks on your cheeks; your hair is a frizzy mess; your parka is stiflingly hot along your collar, sweat beading down your forehead.

Mando shakes his head minutely. “Don’t… answer me if I do.”

Your expression drops. “What?”

But he’s already limping through the refresher door, unfastening the front of his cowl. You barely catch a glimpse of his neck before it whirrs shut.

The datapad flashes from its place on your lap, your legs crossed underneath it and pulled close for comfort. In your proximity to the refresher, the artificial rain of the shower is clear, pitter-pattering upon durasteel floors. The Mandalorian has been in there for a remarkably long time. Like you, his washes are usually militaristic in length, and if it wasn’t for the splashes he makes as he shifts, this prolonged interlude might be a cause for concern.

As it stands, though, you’re doing the best you can. Mando’s datapad is outdated and horribly inefficient - it’s been loading this page for the better part of five minutes now - but it works for what you need to do. After he shut you out, you’d decided you wouldn’t wait until he recovers; curiosity and concern dictate you find the source of his malady, if only to be prepared should something happen.

So, here you are, researching Ede on the galactic planetary index. In contrast to Arkanis or Chandrila, both planets with a rich history, there’s practically nothing on the one you’re stationed on. Basic facts about its climate, the fauna – its natives live high on the mountains, which explains the lack of life you’ve encountered so far. You’re just about to jump to the section on planetary borne illness when something captures your attention.

‘Markedly, Edians choose to stay well above ground level to avoid the fog that pervades through Ede’s forests during mating season. For more information, refer to section 4.’

Everything highlighted so far you’ve been able to discern based on experience; the rain is a water-based compound, rouge-tinted fruits are safe to eat, the blue ones are not. The fog, though - you hadn’t noticed anything wrong with the fog. It’s annoying at the worst of times, disadvantageous to your vision, but nothing dangerous. Certainly nothing that warrants as great of an adaptation as colony relocation. Worrying your lip, you tap on the redirection to section four.

‘Ede’s Aphrodisiac Nature.’

Your stomach sinks.

‘During the first 5 standard months of its rotation, Ede enters its mating season, where its climate shifts and the flora release stimulants to encourage fauna to reproduce. Not much else is known of this phenomenon, save for its common contributors, including but not limited to the previously mentioned fog and philein seeds.”

A photo of the latter is attached; a little sphere with thorns along its surface. Something sparks in your memory. You think back on it, trying to pinpoint the hazy recognition. Was it something you pried from within the kid’s mouth? No, if he had eaten one, he’d be just as sick right now. It’s something else, your intuition gnaws at you.

It occurs to you then. They were there, the seeds, on the ground as you tracked Mando down, attached to the pills of his cape.

And then the mental blockade frees, cold realisation flooding in.

It explains the unaddressed tension whenever he was around. The incident in the forest that had struck you as incredibly peculiar at the time. All the sweet nicknames and husky compliments. Fuck. Fuck. Of course he isn’t interested in you. Only a fool would connect the dots this late.

A hope you didn’t know you held diminishes right as your name echoes from within the refresher.

You’re on your feet in a second, reeling like a guilty child caught doing something naughty. You’re unsure why – nothing has changed since before your discovery; Mando is stable, the two of you have remained friendly. But the heat of his touch returns like it never left, grazing up your back, rounding at your shoulder. You can almost feel the sensation of his palm kneading your breast, digging into the tender flesh and holding it for the smallest second. All of it had meant so much to you – a possibility that the attraction you felt wasn’t so one-sided. But it was nothing, entailed nothing.

Your name comes again, broken. You don’t want to ask, you lack the strength it takes to, but you’re sworn to a creed much like the Mandalorian’s. As a physician, you’ve promised to seek and aid all ailments in face of personal bias. As his medic, you owe him as much for the protection and shelter he gives you in return.

As his friend, you hate to see him in pain.

Hesitantly, you approach the door to the refresher. Upon closing in, you pick up on the fainter sounds you’d missed. The water still runs, but there’s the purr of the heater just below, working overtime given the length of the shower, accompanied by loud reverberations as bottles hit the floor. The commotion is jarring, shaking you as you listen in for any indication of Mando’s well-being.

It comes in the form of long, drawn out moans, hoarse and desperate.

Shit.

However you’re able to muster the strength to speak is a mystery. The words are dense on your tongue, molasses, sticky with angst. “M-Mando? Are you… Are you doing okay?”

The other side goes quiet. In the lull, you notice a distinct absence of something you hadn’t caught onto before. Slick slaps of something. Soap falling to the floor, maybe. Or… skin on skin. Your legs press together at the mental image that surfaces.

“It hurts,” The whine is so unlike him, a little clearer than his voice usually is and closer to any admission of defeat you’ve heard from him. Your heart aches. This isn’t just hard on you.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Your ear presses into the metal wall separating you. His moans have devolved into hushed breaths now that you’re listening - you almost wish they hadn’t.

What comes next transgresses any expectation you have of his answer. You half assumed he’d reject your nagging completely and stay silent. Another part of you felt he’d walk out, good as new, to prove you wrong. The concession that comes is beyond concrete reasoning and hypothesis. No educated guess can predict Mando’s next words.

“Y-Yes, come in.”

You choke on your saliva, coughing violently.

It’s so startling, in fact, that it grounds you back to your senses.

It is so contrary of Mando to seek this out in you. You’re no idiot, you can comprehend what your offer must sound like to him in this state. Like you were asking for permission, consent. And though he admitted defeat and invited you in to join him, nothing in this can be consensual. He was hardly sane when you’d found him, and you’re sure he can’t have gotten any better since then – because now he’s calling you when he explicitly told you not to answer, and it’s so fucking deviant to the resolution he’d made. So far from the man who kept you at arms length until you touched down on this Maker-forsaken planet, who has the will of a nerf, who does not want you in the way you want him.

And you can’t take advantage of that.

You rush to pull out your supplies. You won’t help him, not in the way he’s asking you to, but you can make this a little easier. Yeah, two tablets of pharmaceutical-grade antibiotics should mitigate his other symptoms. You’ll keep an eye out for him afterwards but he’ll be fine, this will mull over. No long-lasting side effects were mentioned in your research, after all.

You knock the refresher door. “Listen. I’m gonna come in and give you these two pills. I’ll keep my eyes closed and turn off the lights for extra measure.”

You wait for any acknowledgement. A grunt is all you get.

Gulping, you brace yourself, screwing your eyes shut and holding onto the medication with an iron grip.

You’re met with a sickening gust of steam as you enter. The air is practically liquid with how humid the room is, hot water vapour pouring into your senses. You’re sure you won’t be able to see even if you do open your eyes, but you keep yourself on a leash, self-devised instructions repeating like a mantra in your mind. Give him the meds and leave. Give him the meds and leave. Get yourselves off this planet. Just give him the meds and leave.

Muscle memory alone ensures you’re able to find the light switch to turn it off. Your eyelids darken with the lack of light, somehow making it harder to navigate. Your free hand is outstretched in front of you, bumping into various surfaces before it manages to meet the cold glass partition to the shower.

“Can you move? I’ll hand you the antibiotics.” Your voice is shaky

“C-Can’t…” Comes the bated reply.

Stars, okay. Okay, that’s fine. That just means you’ll have to get in there with him and… and…

“A-Alright. I’ll come to you,” Your fingers slip against condensation as you slide open the barrier. They twitch uncontrollably, but whether it’s in trepidation or eagerness, you don’t know. The cloying heat doubles within this contained area; you’re thankful for the water that beats down on you for the way it washes away your perspiration.

“Down here.” Mando rasps, leading you to find him positioned up on the floor. You squat, careful not to touch any part of him when you extend your hand.

“H-Here, right in front of you,” You choke out, wound tightly in on yourself. His fever is palpable even with your distance, the warmth permeating the space between you. It’s a welcome break from the beskar he usually wears.

Something constricts in your chest, and it dawns on you again - probably entirely too late - that the Mandalorian is naked. Even though you knew he’d be. And of course he is. He doesn’t shower with the fucking armour on, but you’d blocked the idea off. Until now. Now, it’s real, and tangible, and so, so close. You can touch him, should you please. He needs you to.

‘But he doesn’t want you to,’ you remind yourself, ‘not really.’

You stay in place until Mando’s inaction becomes too much to bear. He hasn’t taken the pills off you yet. The shower rains down on you, thoroughly soaking your hair, causing your leggings to cling to you like a second skin.

You inch closer. His thigh grazes your knee.

Closer. The space grows tighter.

Closer still. His head is within your reach, hot breaths fanning across your neck.

Then, Mando’s ungloved hand spreads up your waist. Through the wet material of your shirt, the callouses and scars he’s earned over the years greet you. Your forearm comes to rest lightly atop his chest. The pills are starting to dissolve into your palm.

Your cunt weeps, throbbing in need, and you determine to make this quick. Boldly, rashly, you search for his mouth. You accidentally meet his cheek instead, a rough stubble peppering the expanse of it. Your fingertips trace the pinpricks down to a pronounced chin, then up, up, finding the bump of his lips with little else than a spluttered gasp.

When you push the medication onto his tongue, it vibrates with a guttural moan. His mouth is impossibly hotter than he is, like buttered silk along your skin. His touch roams along you as the muscle does much the same, swirling between your digits, tasting the desire that undoubtedly drips from your fingertups. You bite back the desperate whine his ministrations inspire.

It takes every atom in you to pull away. Your entire body complains, seizing with unrestrained lust, and it’s hard to remember why exactly you want to be anywhere but here. Your core, your gut, your heart; they’re all set on the compelling Mandalorian in front of you. But there’s a tiny voice that manages to scream louder than all else. It convinces you that this isn’t fair, what you’re doing to him – and it’s right. Every single dream and reverie you’ve pondered on had included Mando as an active participant, either the instigator or sober partner to your filth. And sure, his actions may be disproving you at the moment, but what happens when he comes to his senses? When he remembers how you had let him fuck you when he was so clearly ill?

You can’t do that to him.

So, you peel his hand off from where it nips at your thigh and carefully move away. You’ve opened your eyes at some point, yet you still can’t see, the room shrouded in perpetual darkness. Consequently, your remaining senses heighten, and you’re able to step further back when Mando moans out an incoherent protest and reaches for you. If he pulls you back, you don’t think you’d be able to leave again.

“Mesh’la… Cle-Clever girl, please.” His leg knocks yours. You give his calf a reassuring squeeze.

“I… I can’t, Mando.” He’s the sick one, but a cry escapes you all the same. “You’ll be okay, I promise. Just hang in there.”

And, despite the way both him and your body howl at you, you leave him like that.

#staaaaar wars #talking bout’ staaaar wars #but seriously #give this a read #she never lets me down with her prose #the mandalorian #din djarin #star wars #baby yoda #grogu

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