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amica-aenigmata-naboo · 9 months ago

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Aeterna Amantes

Astarion x Y/N - Chapter 3 - 1.7K WC

chapter 1

chapter 2

chapter 3 (you are here!)

chapter 4 NSFW 18+

chapter 5

Masterlist

Warnings: mention of sex, blood drinking, Astarion being smitten but in denial, Karlach being lovely

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Astarion watched you sleep for ages, your chest rose and fell with the soft golden glow of your heart rising and falling with it. You were an anomaly to him. Quite the opposite - innocent, sweet. He felt so conflicted thinking of you. He wanted you in the purest way; to nurture you and care for you. But his primal brian told him to manipulate you, use you as an advantage for himself. Every time he looked at you he couldn’t decide. You had been nothing but kind to him, it was all you knew.

“You think a lot.” you whispered up to him.

He hadn’t noticed you wake, “Oh? What makes you say that?” he smirked down at you. Your head still rested on his chest, making his undead heart swell.

“Your face is scrunched up.” you said, poking his forehead.

Astarion chuckled, sitting up slightly. You followed his actions. He pointed to the corner, “There are plenty of books for you to read through today, Gale even threw some in there for you.”

You ogled the stack of books, there were easily ten there. “Where will you go?” you asked as you picked the first book up, letting your fingers trail over the dusty cover.

“Moonrise Towers, if we’re fortunate.” he said as he started to put his armor on.

You gazed at him, never having seen another person’s body before. It was different from yours.

“Like what you see?” he teased.

You tilted your head at his remark. You did like what you saw, you just didn’t quite understand why.

He saw the curiosity swimming in your eyes, squinting his own before the realization hit him. “Have you never seen another body before?” he asked.

You shook your head, your cheeks heating up slightly. Your general lack of knowledge around everything embarrassed you, especially things everyone else seemed to know so blatantly. You walked closer to him, gazing over the vast expanse of his strong pale chest. You raised your hand, going to touch him before stopping yourself. You remembered how he reacted the first time you touched him without asking, “May I?” you asked in a hushed whisper.

His eyes watched you cautiously but he gave you a small nod. You felt over his chest, tracing his sharp collarbones, feeling his ribs and the muscles that lay overtop of them. You felt him shiver when your fingers hit the ridges of his scars that barely wrapped around the side of his waist. You felt his stomach and noticed the silent breath he took in when your fingers trailed over tuft of white hair leading from his belly button into his pants.

You looked at him, “Bad?” you asked, your hand still lingering on the hem of his pants.

“No…” he whispered, his eyes hazy while watching your every move. He never wanted you to stop touching him, even if these were just innocent little touches. All that mattered was that they came from you.

“Are you different from me?” you asked, looking between his body and yours.

“In some ways.” he mumbled, trying to relish in your gentle ambiance.

He watched as you put his hand to your chest and yours to his. “Same. We are the same here.” you said. He felt the warmth radiating from your glowing heart.

“Astarion, come one we gotta - oh… sorry…” said Karlach as she barged into his tent breaking the tension between the two of you. Astarion pulled away quickly, slipping on the rest of his armor while you stood still, unsure if you had done something to be embarrassed of.

Astarion followed Karlach’s lead out of his tent, “Stay safe in here and read. I’ll be back later, you can tell me everything new you’ve learned.” he smiled at you quickly before disappearing into the Underdark.

You sighed before picking up one of the many books and started reading.

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“Soooooo…..” Karlach said with a teasing tone as she and Astarion walked behind the others.

“So what?” he grumbled, not even sparing her a glance.

“Come on, you know what.” she said, sounding giddy.

“Haven’t the faintest.” he said monotonically.

“Oh I think you do… fangs likes the drow.” she chidded.

He rolled his eyes at her, not bothering with a retort.

“And you don’t even deny it!” she cackled.

“Please, I’m a glorified babysitter. That’s all.” he waved her off dismissively.

“Really? That’s not what it looked like this morning.” she grinned at him.

“Neither of us have heartbeats, that's all they discovered this morning,” he said.

“I bet. And I’m sure you wouldn’t mind if Gale or Wyll were to take an interest in them?” she asked.

A faint trace of jealousy crossed over his face as he shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant.

Karlach chuckled at the very obvious fondness Astarion had for you. He was stubborn and knew he wouldn’t admit it but she saw it as early as the basement. You were drawn to each other. Fate was funny like that, always unexpected but always falling in line.

Astarion walked ahead, aching to get away from Karlach’s prying questions and accusations. Primarily because they were true and he hated having anyone other than himself be right. Especially about this.

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You fell asleep after the fifth book. It gave you much to think on, primarily because it was an anatomy book. Humans and elves are different but not very much. So now you knew what rested beneath Astarion’s pants. You also knew how reproduction worked. The whole explanation of the process seemed rather odd to you. Very… clinical. You couldn’t help but feel like the process of creating life was supposed to be more… emotional. It all overwhelmed you after reading the previous books on The Hells, Baldur’s Gate history, The Many Gods, and The Practice of Arcane Magic. The more you read the more your brain felt like it was devouring intellect and by the gods was it an insatiable beast.

Astarion entered the tent to find you asleep, surrounded by different books. He laughed at the sight. You reminded him a lot of himself. He changed, cleaning himself only slightly as today had thankfully not been a very battle heavy one. He brought a plate of dinner to the tent for you, some sort of beef stew from what he could tell.

You rose at the noise of him returning, “Hello.” you smiled at him.

“Hello beastie. Learn lots today?” he asked motioning to the scattered books before handing you the stew. He settled next to you, imbibing in his typical bottle of wine.

You happily took the bowl from him, forgetting to eat throughout the day. Something you’ll have to make a mental note of - eat, regularly. “Yes! All of it was interesting… some of it was perplexing. I don’t quite understand the feelings one book described.”

“What feelings?” he asked.

“What does sex feel like?” you asked, trying to understand the book that wouldn’t seem to leave your mind.

Astarion choked on his wine, he coughed a few times trying to regulate himself, “Where did you read about sex?” he asked.

You handed him the book. Of course it was one of Gale’s, he thought with a roll of his eyes.

“Didn’t the book explain what it felt like?” he asked, trying to avoid the topic.

“It did but…” you sighed before you continued, “I don’t think it was right. I feel like the combining of two people in body would feel… emotional. Not just physical.”

Astarion’s eyes widened at your explanation, perceptive little thing you were. “It… can be.” he confessed.

“What does it feel like then?” you asked while you continued to eat.

“With the right person it can be… euphoric.” he said, trying to find the right word. He wasn’t exactly the one to answer questions on how good, healthy sex was supposed to feel. All the sex he could remember was harsh, loathsome.

You smiled softly, “That sounds lovely.” you said, understanding the science of it all but also the beauty of the emotional aspect. “How do you know if they’re the right person?”

“You just do.” he said as he laid down.

You hummed at his answer. “When do you eat?” you asked.

“Truth be told, I haven’t eaten in a few days. The Underdark is lacking in options.” he sighed. Even the thought of blood was enough to send him reeling.

“Do you want to eat? I don’t mind.” you smiled at him as you finished the last of your stew before leaning your neck towards him.

He sat up, “Are you sure?” he said cautiously.

You nodded eagerly at him, wanting to help. You laid back on the bedroll, beckoning him closer. Astarion kneeled next to you before leaning down. You could feel his cold breaths on your neck, giving you a slight shiver.

“This might hurt…” he said before kissing your neck and sinking his fangs in. You winced a bit but it wasn’t awful. He had never tasted something so rich. Decadent and sweet. Your crimson poured into his mouth, it rolled over his tongue in waves and he cherished each little molecule of it. His hand held your waist while the other cradled your head. He straddled you to get a better angle at your neck. Your whole body felt warm, particularly between your legs. When Astarion ripped himself away from you he lapped up the rest of the blood that dropped from the puncture holes he left behind. The feeling of his tongue on you was strange but you craved it the longer it went on. He kissed over your neck a few times as an apology for the pain he caused you. It wasn’t pain you felt however, it was something else. Something carnal. You let out an involuntary but needy whine as he kissed over your neck. You both pulled away looking at each other.

“Sleep?” you asked quietly. You felt embarrassed. Was that the feeling he was describing earlier? Did you want him in the way the book described?

“Yes, of course.” Astarion said with a breathy laugh. He settled next to you, holding you close like the night before.

Little did you know, as you drifted off to sleep, the fantasies he was playing in his mind of the two of you were positively sinful.

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Naboo's Note:

Hello! This has taken me literally all night to write but I am so sleep deprived I'm not shocked. I got called in for another overnight despite having worked 3 in a row with very little sleep - I hate being on call. But I do like this! Your guys' comments/reblogs/likes keep me super motivated so I hope I hear from you all soon! XOXOXOXOXOXO

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warmblanketwhump · 3 years ago

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flight plan

disclaimer: this takes place in pre-you-know-what times - if you’re actually sick, do not do what B does here. alright, on to the suffering :)

Back when B booked their flight, the 4 am boarding time and 2 layovers seemed like a great exchange for saving a few hundred dollars while flying across the country. But now, with a head that feels like it was stuffed with cotton, a gate change that forced their leadened body to trek across the entire airport, and an additional 3-hour delay before their final 4-hour flight, they were beginning to question their penny-pinching ways.

In a nearby terminal, a fussy infant screamed, and it took everything for B not to scream back at them: I hate it here too! Their nerves were frayed, their whole body ached to the bone, and their head felt like it was in a vise grip.

It hadn’t felt this bad this morning - heck, they wouldn’t have left if they’d felt this bad - but the changing cabin pressure and constant temperature shifts from hot, stuffy terminals to icy planes were wreaking havoc on their poor, rapidly sickening body. They’d been up for 18 hours. And now, they had no choice but to ride it out and power through the last leg. They hug the paper cup of tea they’d grabbed at a nearby cafe close to their chest, trying to hold back their frustrated tears.

They just wanted to be home.

B shifts on the hard terminal seat as they wrap up a third agonizing hour of waiting, willing the passengers ahead of them to board more quickly so they could just get home to A, who they’d been missing all week. But the miserable minutes ticked by, and B kept having to blow their tender nose with their precious (and dangerously dwindling) travel pack of tissues. As they massage their aching sinuses, B feels a tap on their shoulder. Turning, they recognize a fellow passenger from their previous flight extending another full pack their way.

“Here. You need these more than I do.” They extend the gift, and B gratefully accepts. The stranger nods, and heads back to their luggage to wait out the boarding process.

After what feels like an hour, B’s group is finally able to board the flight. From their boarding pass, they knew they’d be stuck in the middle seat, but their heart lifts a bit when they see their Kleenex-wielding savior in the aisle seat next to theirs, who waves and gives them a small smile as they let them through. On the window seat side, a sour-looking individual scans them up and down, raising an eyebrow when B coughs roughly in their elbow.

“Sorry…” B sniffles. The sour-faced person rolls their eyes and turns their attention to the window, and B shrinks in their seat, embarrassed.

“Just want to be home, right?” Their aisle friend smiles sympathetically, and B nods weakly. “I know the feeling. Name’s C.”

B introduces themselves, and the two make amicable small talk during the pre-flight checklist, finding out that they both called their destination city home. As the plane takes flight, B winces - the pressure change makes their head ache, and their sinuses feel like they’re going to explode, along with their ears. The dry air of the plane irritates their chapped nose, and they close their eyes and grip the armrest till their knuckles bleach, trying to breathe through the pain and praying it doesn't get worse.

It gets worse. On top of their pounding head and runny nose, B discovers like all the other planes, this one's an icebox. Once they reach cruising altitude, B apologetically shuffles by C to head to the bathroom, hoping that by some chance it’s warmer in there. In the dim light, B’s stares at their haggard reflection – their feverish eyes are glazed and watery, their raw nose is bright red, and their peaked face is wan and drawn, coated with a sheen of sweat. Hopefully A would still recognize them, they thought humorlessly.

The bathroom is just as frigid, and B’s stuck with a stream of lukewarm water that barely heats their cold hands. Back in their seat, the throbbing headache continues to build behind their eyes, and their throat desperately cries out for something to drink.

As if they could hear their thoughts, C leans over and pulls a small bottle of water from their personal bag. “The flight attendants came by with drinks while you were up - figured you could at least use some water.” B gratefully accepts and murmurs their thanks, and the cool water feels like heaven as they gulp it down.

After, B pulls the paper-thin flight blanket up to their chin - at this point, they didn’t care what the travel magazines said about how dirty they were. But it’s no use. The cold plane air sinks into their aching bones, and their body shivers to make up the difference. They close their eyes and wriggle around in the seat, trying to find a comfortable position that still allows them to curl up and get warm while exhaling as few germs as possible – and if there's any mercy at all, to fall unconscious for the next 3 and a half hours.

“Will you stop?” The window passenger glares at them. “It’s bad enough you brought your germs on here. But now you can’t even sit still?” Tears pricked at B's eyes - being sick always made them more sensitive - but before they can squeak out an apology, C leaps to their aid.

"Lay off," C snaps. "Can't you see they don't feel good?" The other passenger huffs indignantly, and presses closer to the wall of the plane. C's eyes don't leave them, and they stretch their hand out tentatively toward B. "May I?"

B nods, letting their eyes close, and C gently lays a cool hand across their forehead, clicking their tongue at the heat. "Well, I've definitely flown with healthier seatmates than you." B tries to laugh, but a cough seizes their lungs, and they double over to try and contain it as best they can as C gently rubs between their shoulder blades. When they finally catch their breath, they rest their head on their knees, exhausted from the exertion. From their prone position, B checks their watch. 3 hours and 26 minutes to go.

I'm going to die.

Slowly, B sits up and stiffly straightens their blanket with as little movement as possible. A draft floods their section of the plane, and B longingly eyes C’s unopened blanket tucked in the seat pocket, trying to quiet the incessant chatter of their teeth.

“You cold?” C frowns.

“Freezing,” they whimper through clenched teeth. “And I hurt all over and I just want to go home and I miss A and I’m so tired.” They didn’t mean to break down, but two twin tears slip from their eyes as they try to stop their lip from quivering.

C’s quiet for a moment, then stands to rustle around in the overhead compartment, and returns with a small bundle.

“Lean back,” C gently commands, and A obeys and closes their eyes. They’re immediately draped in warmth, and open their eyes to see a thick, fleece-lined jacket being tucked over them, along with a soft travel blanket over their legs. They try to protest, but C shushes them.

“Being sick is already miserable without being stuck in a tin can in the sky. Besides, these flight blankets suck." C gives B's shoulder a reassuring squeeze, and B nearly melts at the touch.

“And look, if you don’t want to, it’s fine - you don’t know me - but you can use my shoulder if you want to try and catch some sleep.”

In any other moment B would be mortified, but they're so spent that they just nod weakly and surrender to the offer of comfort. C pulls their unused blanket out and folds it into a sort of pillow, clicking the armrest down between them, and B collapses onto them in a boneless heap. Sleep tugs at the edge of their vision, but there's one lingering question on their mind.

"C? Why....why are you helping me? You've been nothing but kind and you don't even know me."

C's quiet for a moment. "Last year, I tried to do the same thing you're doing – power through an 8-hour flight home with a blossoming case of pneumonia. Cough, chills, headache, the works. About 2 hours in, I was about ready to jump out of the plane." They chuckle lightly, but B hears the wistful note in their voice. "It was absolutely miserable, and all I wanted was someone to hold my hand and tell me it’d be okay.”

C turns to look at B. "But nobody did. Not a single soul. So I vowed that if ever I found myself in a position someday to help somebody home, I’d do it.”

The words are so achingly comforting and desperately sad, so soft and generous and B feels like they should say something, affirm that yes, helping a random sick passenger was damn close to sainthood. But instead, sleep wins over, and they nestle closer to C as they tumble into a soft, dreamless sleep.

it feels like they’re asleep for minutes, but when C nudges them gently, they realize that they’re descending. They’re home.

The wheels skid on the runway, and the journey off the plane is a blur of sound and color and too-bright lights. B is only vaguely aware of C’s arm around their waist, guiding them through the crowd and to the baggage claim area. They must have told C which suitcase is theirs, because they blink twice and it magically appears at their feet.

“C’mon now, B. Almost there.” C gently guides them forward, and B wills themselves to power through the final few minutes.

“Do you see A anywhere?” C asks, squinting through the crowd of people. B can barely focus their eyes, and they’re losing hope, when all of a sudden - they see them. A. Holding a small paper sign with B’s name and a stuffed animal with a small red heart in their arms, waving wildly. They’re beaming, but the smile falls from their face as they see what condition B’s in.

“B - what happened? Are you okay?” B can barely whisper A’s name, and A pulls them into a hug, gently whispering reassurances, that they’re home and safe.

“Bit of a rough flight, but B hung in there,” C smiles, passing B’s suitcase to A. “They’re not feeling too hot, but I think they’ll make it.”

Suddenly, B releases A and stumbles back to C, throwing their arms around them. C’s thrown off balance by the strength of the hug, but manage to compose themselves and pat them gently on the back.

“Thank you,” B whispers. “So much.”

C blushes. “It was nothing. Just don’t forget to pay it forward.”

B squeezes tighter. “You deserved help. You still do.” C says nothing, just swallows tightly, and B feels C’s arms tighten ever so briefly around their waist.

A rush of dizziness floods B, and C gently guides them back to A’s waiting arms, before handing A a scrap of paper. “Listen, it’s none of my business - but can you give me a call in a couple days, just so I know they’re feeling better?”

A takes the scrap and smiles. “Absolutely. It’s the least I can do to thank you for keeping old B from falling apart in public.” B grunts indignantly, almost asleep again, and A strokes their hair and smiles.

They make it back to the car, and A manages to maneuver a limp B into the passenger seat, tucking them in and cranking the heat on their side. B blinks their eyes open and smiles guilelessly. “Go home now?”

A smiles and presses a soft kiss to their forehead. “Yes, love. We’re going home now.”

#fever whump #sickfic #whump prompt #hurt comfort #caretaking #whump on a plane #PLANE WHUMP EVERYONE #FINALLY #this really took a turn I was not expecting when I set out to write this #BUT ITS DONE #also there is most certainly space for a part 2 👀

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 3 years ago

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Bent, not broken 3

Warnings: non-consent sex and rape; violence; injury; blood; fingering, mean Steve

This is a dark!fic and features the winter soldier and Captain Hydra x reader and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Synopsis: An attack leads to the uncovering of decades old secrets when you are taken by the deadliest assassin in the world

Note: Here’s part 3. Right now I’m bouncing between things but open to suggestion for the upcoming week for ongoing series. (I’ll likely just add onto my Lee fic).

Thanks to everyone for reading and thanks in advance for all your feedback. :)

I really hope you enjoy. 💋

<3 As usual, I’d appreciate if you let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply or an ask! Love ya!

The days passed like a pendulum, swinging between paranoia and suffocating tension. You felt like an animal caught and caged. Much of your time was spent in that room, abed and alone. Your only contact was when Steve brought you your meals but the soldat did not appear again. You were relieved not to have the silent watchdog around but it also made you uneasy.

The pain dulled. Your shoulder loosened up first and no longer sent a jolt down your arm every time you moved. Your ribs were another issue and even as the agony was less intense and consuming, the echo of the injury remained. You felt brittle as if one wrong move would break you completely.

Then, when the pain was not so strong to distract you, you grew restless. The walls seemed closer together and the meals further apart. Steve’s appearances were brief and mostly wordless. He’d linger to check on your injury or bark at you to eat, but he wasn’t as talkative as your first day in the hideaway.

There was little for you to do. You were left with a copy of War and Peace and the tight font often left your eyes fuzzy and fatigued, your mind as well. There was a booth hidden behind the narrow door and you washed when you felt up to it, the water ice cold. You spent much of your time staring at the ceiling, wishing it would collapse on you.

You weren’t stupid. You knew it was all methodical. The indifferent isolation. You were being conditioned like a dog with a bell and it was working. You longed for any contact, any company, and conversation.

That day, the door opened but you didn’t move. You laid with your head on the pillow, arms crossed, and one leg over the other. Steve placed the metal bowl on the nightstand and sighed as he stood by the bed. You felt him watching you as you ignored him for the pale white above.

“Sit up and eat,” he said.

You glanced at him. The scar through his eye wrinkled as he grimaced and tapped his fingers on the table. You shrugged at him and sighed.

“I’m not hungry,” you said.

“Eat,” he repeated.

“I will,” you relented, “when I feel like it.”

“Now,” he grabbed the bowl and put it over your chest, “come on.”

You rolled your eyes and sat up and took the bowl. His eyes clung to you as you bent your legs and stirred the thick oats. The goopy mixture made a gross noise as you did.

“You don’t like it?” he said.

“Bland,” you took a bite, “doesn’t matter.”

“You’re right, it doesn’t,” he rebuked, “you better be done by the time I return.”

You looked at him as he turned away and headed for the door abruptly. You choked down the thick porridge and took another bite. You were hungry but the pasty oatmeal went down like rocks.

When he came back, you scooped up the last mouthful and put the bowl aside. He neared and draped a lilac dress by your legs. You stared at it then looked him in the face. His expression was as impenetrable as the mountain compound.

“What is that?” you asked dully.

“Don’t be stupid and put it on,” he put his hand on his hip, “I’d say it’s a bit more fitting than that prison uniform.”

“Is it?” you grumbled as you tentatively reached for the purple fabric.

“Or you can go naked,” he reached out and jabbed your shoulder.

“Fine,” you turned your legs over the bed and watched him expectantly.

He raised a brow and waited. You shied away at his unflinching stare and swiped up the dress. You crawled to the other side and kept your back to him. You took off the shapeless shirt and dropped it behind you. You pulled on the dress and stood, pushing down the baggy bottoms. The dress floated at mid thigh and left you feeling exposed.

“Your ribs are healing,” he remarked, “you should be able to take the bandage off.”

You faced him as he went to the foot of the bed. He waved you over and continued to the door.

“Should get the kinks out,” he said as he set his thumb in the sensor and the metal slid up, “a proper tour is in order.”

You neared as he turned and waited for you to precede him. As you passed, his eyes slipped down your body and he tilted his head. You looked away quickly and carried on into the hallway. There was little point resisting a man who could break you in two with his pinky, especially in your state.

“Looks good,” he said as he followed you out and came up arm to arm with you, “you know, you, me, the soldier, we’re the only ones who know about this place. Not that you know much, huh?”

“I don’t like games,” you retorted, “I’m… tired. Please, don’t--”

“I found this place in 1955,” he led you along the shining halls, “it’s had a facelift since then. A hobby on the side. Used to be Stalin’s hideout, akin to Hitler’s bunker if anything ever went south. When he died, the co-ordinates were lost. They sent me out to find it…”

“They? Hydra? Why--”

“Because the other guys didn’t care,” Steve said, “I saw how they celebrated my death as some patriotic feat. Like I was just a shield. You know, the ‘bad guys’, at least they don’t try to lie about what you are. They use you exactly like they need to and don’t sugar coat it.”

“And your… friend… you like how they use him?”

Steve stopped short and caught your arm, “it’s best for him. He couldn’t handle a clear mind. We keep each other safe, like we always did.”

“Mmm,” you hummed.

“As I was saying,” he nudged you onward, “I gave them a fake map and all they found was a demolished bunker. It kept them happy and me too. I got a place to lay low. Place of my own.”

You turned down the next hall. You were quiet as he led you along, past that room with the bar and around another corner. You lost sense of direction as he took you deeper into the hideaway. You came into a large corridor with a glass wall that overlooked a mountain pass without. You were breathless as you stopped to peer through.

“He’ll hurt you again,” Steve said bluntly, “we both know that.”

“Then why keep me here? You can let me go. I wouldn’t say a word, I wouldn’t even know what to say--”

“And why would I do that?” he asked blithely as he admired the deep drop and jagged offshoots.

“Why wouldn’t you?”

“It’s much more fun to keep you,” he chuckled, “and he wanted you so taking you away won’t do shit.”

“I don’t--”

He raised his finger and hushed you. He squinted as he listened but you didn’t hear anything but the winds on the other side of the glass. Steve’s mouth slanted and he stepped past you. You turned to the end of the corridor and heard a soft padding that grew to a tremulous stomp.

“Speak of the devil,” Steve taunted, “sounds like a rough mission.”

When the soldier emerged from the next hall, you gasped. His face was a smear of grit and blood, his locks dangling and slick around his mask. His gear was torn and gashed in places and his metal fist clenched as the plates of his arm bore even more scratches than before.

He stopped and his eyes dilated as he saw you. Steve went to him calmly and put a hand on his shoulder.

“Hey, you’re back,” he said softly, “snap out of it.”

He tapped the mask so the soldat looked at him instead. Their eyes met as the soldier’s chest puffed and slowed. Steve’s other hand went to his chest, just over his heart. The captain leaned in and kissed his temple, issuing a whisper you could not hear.

You were too shocked and confused to do more than watch. Steve gripped Bucky’s jaw and turned his gaze onto you. He smirked as he held him.

“Look at her,” he slithered, “isn’t that what you wanted? A pretty little plaything.”

The soldat didn’t move, just stared.

“She’s all ready for you,” Steve let go and clapped his chest, “isn’t that a nice dress, huh? A nice peek of her legs… don’t you want to know what’s underneath? Don’t you want to touch it?”

You took a step back as goose bumps rose on your skin. Steve released him and snickered. The soldat brought one boot down and then the next, marching slowly towards you.

“Let’s have some fun,” Steve boomed and his eyes narrowed over Bucky’s soldier, “soldat, engage.”

His next step came down quicker and you spun on your heel. Without thinking, you dashed away in a blur of terror. You could hear him behind you, the heavy soles thunderous against the slap of your bare feet. You got around the next corner and your ribs throbbed painfully as your lungs burned.

You peeked over your shoulder. He wasn’t running, he was walking. A mock of a chase as he kept within sight even as you raced on. Your heart pounded in your ears and your legs felt like jelly. It was so long since you did more than pace your room or lay in bed.

You stumbled deep in the maze, all recollection of the path Steve led you on gone. You hit your knees on the hard floor and hissed. You had only a moment to gulp down air before you were seized by the back of your neck. You staggered as you were spun and your back collided with the cold wall.

The soldier’s metal hand was quick to grasp your throat and push your chin up as he held you on tiptoes. You clawed at his fingers as his other hand crept up your thigh. Your eyes watered as it felt like a vice was wrapped around your neck and chest. You quivered as the skirt caught on his hand and slowly rose with his touch.

You squeezed your thighs around his fingers and he poked you so harshly you whimpered. Your legs parted for him and he pushed against your bare cunt. You clung to his wrist as your other hand slapped at his bicep. His blue eyes focused on your skirt as he delved between your folds.

Your feet arched as you tried not to slip and your calves cramped. You whined through your teeth as he turned his hand and pressed the heel of his palm to your clit. He bent his finger into you and drew a pathetic yipe from you. He felt around inside and added another, eliciting another tremulous yelp.

“Pl.. please,” you rasped, “don’t… you don’t want to…” his eyes flicked up and met yours.

He paused as he gazed back at you and you squirmed. He hesitated and for a moment, it felt like he might drop you. Another set of footsteps approached evenly and Steve tutted as he came upon the scene.

“You shouldn’t play with your food,” he said, “go on. You know what you want to do. It’s why you took her.”

You choked as his fingers tightened and he buried himself to his knuckles, his hand firm to your clit. He rocked his hand and your body, every tilt sending a jolt through you. Your walls were scoured by his intrusion and your core thrummed at the distant stirring of instinct.

“Please…” you cried.

“Shhh,” Steve came closer and leaned on the wall next to you, “we don’t want him to break something else.”

“Wh-why--” you coughed.

“Faster,” Steve snarled, “make her feel it.”

The soldier lifted you off your feet with each dip of his fingers. You slapped your hand against the wall and reached for the captain. He swatted your hand away and backed up as he watched you. He rounded Bucky and peered at you from the other side and hummed. He sucked his teeth and came closer, his hand on the soldier’s shoulder.

“More,” he urged.

You closed your eyes and shrieked as his hand sped up, slamming into you over and over as your thighs clamped around him. You gritted your teeth as your pulse raced and you were swept up in a sudden fit of dizziness. You felt fire flickering from his touch, building and building a spark at a time as your body rebelled.

“Look at her,” Steve purred, “so weak, so small. Nothing. She’s not like us, she’s just one of them.”

You groaned as your cunt made slick noises around Bucky’s fingers and his hot breath glossed over you. He leaned in and his hand moved so that his thumb pressed along your jaw painfully. You whined as you felt as if he’d crush the bone.

“She’s almost there,” Steve mused, “faster, yeah, like that.”

You wailed as you came, terrified of the man before you and the way your body bent to him. Your nails grazed down the leather across his chest and your hand dangled limply as you let the tide wash over you. He kept on until you could hardly breathe and dropped you suddenly. Your legs folded and you crashed to the floor.

You kept yourself from keeling over onto your face and pushed your back against the wall. You peeked up as Steve took Bucky’s hand and licked his glistening fingers. You cringed as he let go and his attention turned on you. He knelt and exhaled deeply as he smirked at you.

“You want to know why?” he blinked and his nose scrunched sardonically, “because I didn’t want this. I was happy. Just me and him. Decades and he decides to go out and catch a pet.”

“No, I…” you rubbed your throat as it burned.

“Him, I know, but it doesn’t hurt any less,” Steve scowled, “but we can make it work.” He reached to you and brushed his thumb over your cheek, “I can make use of you. Just the way you took his fingers, that look on your face…” he retracted his hand and leaned his elbow on his leg, “and he could use an outlet. Something to ease the tension.”

“You… and him?” you wondered aloud.

“It’s the twenty-first century, isn’t it?” Steve stood and slapped the soldier’s ass. He got a sharp look in response, “not that it ever really mattered.”

“It’s not… I just didn’t… realise,” you rasped.

“Mhmm,” Steve intoned, “you’re just innocent.”

“I didn’t--”

“Get her up,” he ordered, “take her to our room and get her cleaned up. You too. You smell.”

You flinched as the soldier grabbed your arm and forced you up. Your thighs quaked in the after shock and your core ached. He pulled you away from Steve and you limped beside him. You shivered as the cold air enshrined your hot flesh.

“No touching,” the captain warned, “not until I say so.”

395 notes · View notes

gaiuswrites · 4 years ago

Text

King of Cups || Chapter 7

Chapter 7: The Fool

Archive: ao3 | masterlist | six

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!Reader

Summary: It all spills over.

Word count: 8.8k~

Rating: Explicit

Warnings/tags: SMUT (WE MADE IT FOLKS), thigh riding, fingering/hand job, very brief breathplay/choking, cum eating¿? Angst/emo shit (I'm so sorry i have no self control)

Notes: HI FRIENDS, wow it's been a minute. Sorry for the massive delay. For anyone wishing to start KOC, now would be the perfectly spicy chapter to do so! This chapter was Herculean. idk why. Love you guys, enjoy! x (gif credit : @djarinsgf)

“Maker,” you bemoan, shielding your face from the heavy beat of the suns.

You’ve known warmth—you were raised in warmth. This is beyond it.

It’s not just warm, it’s sweltering. The heat is oppressive, congealing the air to mist; you can barely see through it what with the sweat running into your eyes. Tall, craggy dunes line the valley of desert, trapping the planet’s hot pulse within their walls. Your steps crunch along the dry, pebbled earth as you swat at the gnats buzzing in ribbons around your head.

A muffled gurgle sounds from behind you and you slow to a halt, boots gritting into the cracked top soil.

“You doing alright back there, Munch?” you ask, craning your head to the child nestled into the carrier fashioned onto your back. A green ear pokes free from the top, and you can see the jewel of his black eyes peering at you through the gauzy cloth you draped over it. He grunts, and you give a small shrug—shifting the pack by the straps, eliciting a giggle out of him. “We can always turn back, okay? I’m not going to be mad.” Another noise, a happy coo this time, and you shimmy your shoulders again, jostling the bag playfully.

“Well, you just let me know.”

Your conversations usually unfold this way. They leave much to be desired, but you’d like to think you understand one another—in fact, you probably understand the kid more than you understand his dad.

You’ve grown close with him, you’ll be the first to admit it. You’re attached to each other. The little one has been your constant companion for these months and in some ways, you suppose he takes care of you just the same as you take care of him. The chamber of space can be lonely; it’s cold and unkindly reflective, stranding you to the echoed chain of your thoughts—but when he tugs at your hair or slobbers spittle down the front of him or crawls up into your lap to nestle into your tunic, it feels like you belong there—there on the Crest, streaming through the galaxy.

And maybe, simply, it feels good to do right by a child—as if you could make up for it somehow, within yourself. To do better than you were given.

Squinting, you raise your wrist to check the coordinates on your comm and shade a hand over the screen, blocking the glare cast onto the display. “Almost there,” you mumble, resuming your stride as you begin the last leg of the trek to the settlement you and Mando discussed that morning.

“What?” he asked, planted some paces away from you.

You hummed a curious note, glancing to him.

“What is it?”

You were trying to be small all morning—shrunken and shy, avoiding the thought and avoiding him all together. You quieted yourself, as if to not take up space, but the attempt was fruitless; of course he picked up on it – you get good at reading people on the job, he’d said – and of course he called you out on your behavior. You took a big gulp of your caf, gaze flickering down—increasingly more and more invested in the scuffs marked into the table you sat at.

“Dala,” he said pointedly, arms folding over the breadth of his chest.

Shit. Who did you think you were fooling? Playing possum with a Mandalorian?

Worrying your lip, you stood. You couldn’t bear to look up at him, just looming there across the table from you, so you paced around the deck as you rambled. “Okay, so you know how I’m still connected to the RRM channels? Well, I’ve been checking the message boards and I—there’s a settlement here out in the Wastes. It’s small and new and they’re looking for volunteers and—”

You whistled in a breath. Fuck it.

“And I want to help.”

Like the toggle of a switch, you went from having a career—having a purpose—to having nothing. And all your gratitude for the transport he’s offering couldn’t fill that empty lull that’s settled inside you.

“Would you be comfortable with letting me take the kid? I know I’m probably asking a lot—and I will fully respect whatever you decide—but I can keep him by me the whole time, I swear, I just—” You shook your head, pinching your eyes shut before sighing, “I need to be doing something. Anything.”

There was a long pause. You scratched at the torn skin around your cuticle, nervously searching the pitch of his wordless visor. He didn’t move a muscle. He didn’t even twitch.

“That’s fine,” he finally remarked, graveled.

You blinked, taken aback at his agreement, and all at once your fidgeting ceased and a bright grin broke out over your features in its place.

It nearly brought him to his knees.

“Wait, seriously?” you asked, bouncing on the balls of your feet and he nodded, a subtle tilt to his helm. “Maker, thank you,” you exclaimed, and without thinking you flew towards him, flinging your arms around his neck and sealing yourself to his armored frame. His arms escaped out from his chest in surprise, suspended and stiff, before falling measuredly to his sides. You could’ve been imagining it, but you swore you heard the distinct grit of his teeth grinding together under his helmet.

“Really Mando,” you beamed, pulling back to lay your eyes on him, to let him see the earnest there: you have no idea how much this means to me. “Thank you.”

You gave his shoulders a squeeze, thumbs brushing along the scratchy fabric of his cape before tearing yourself away. Swiping up your mug of caf, you wound down the corridor - airy, buoyant - back to your makeshift quarters to prepare for your outing. It took him another minute just to get his damn feet to move from the spot on the durasteel you welded him to.

Din told you to be safe.

You smiled, and promised you would.

You left the Crest before him and it was strange, surreal. For the first time, you stood in each other’s shoes, leaving Din there on his own while you set off into the world. He watched you go—you and his boy—watched you walk away into some great unknown without him.

And he didn’t like it.

He soured, somewhere in the deep of him—within that pit he called a gut, he twisted sick.

Your feet hit the ramp, dull and tinny, and it sounded like goodbye—it sounded like you leaving. It’s what it will look like when time and fate touch, and inevitability catches up with him. It’s what it will look like when he takes you home. You’ll walk out of his life, down that same ramp, and your steps will echo those same beats. You won’t look back.

And Din, with all his strength, all his unshakeable resolve—Din will let you go.

///

The encampment is settled into the shadow of a cliffside, seeking respite there from the blazing suns, the taupe of the canvas shanties camouflaging into the arid landscape. Some crawl their gaze up as you enter the village, and you offer them smiles they do not return. Others do not acknowledge your presence at all— unstirred as your footsteps sound past, their heads bound heavy towards the earth. It’s not long before a decisive voice cuts through the hush that’s claimed the settlement.

“Are you with the RRM?”

You turn and are greeted by a woman ducking out of a tent—the grey of her woven tunic browned with sand, heat collecting in her black, coiled hair.

“Yes, I’m with the Movement.” It’s not a total lie. Sure, you’re on leave, but that doesn’t discount you completely. What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.

With a sharp exhale like a prayer of relief, she makes her way towards you. “Where’s the rest of your division?” Her eyes narrow discerningly, flitting behind you as if expecting to spot the rear of your party trickling in.

“It’s, uh—it’s just me,” you confess, pressing your lips together in a thin smile.

She rakes a hand over her hair, over her face. The skin around her knuckles is split, the beds of her nails chalked with days of unwashed grime. “Alright,” she concedes begrudgingly, without any better option presented. “And who is this?” She nods to the child, emerging from the pack and staring curiously at her.

“This is—” You take a moment to consider it—consider the secrecy around the child, the bounties, the life on the lam. Less is more, you decide. Again, it’s not a total lie. “I’m babysitting.”

The kid grunts an emphatic patu.

You both share a look—a quirk of her dark brow, an apologetic heft of your shoulder—and she sighs. “Well, I’ll take all the help I can get,” she quips dryly with a wave of her hand, leading you into the settlement.

///

She’s coarse, this woman—Arlaani, she told you—matronly and effective. She has a calculating gaze and powerful shoulders that she holds steady as she shows you through the camp. There are lines around her eyes, carved into the curves of her mouth. She knows what you know—what all women learn: sometimes you must be hard in order to keep others soft.

You walk shoulder to shoulder, matching her long strides with your own.

“The Black Sun has taken the southern hemisphere; their numbers have only grown since the Battle of Yavin. Pirates, mercenaries, spice runners—they’ve ransacked one half of the planet and have the officials of the other half in their pocket,” she scowls. “They have stolen our land, our homes—we’re moisture farmers, mechanics, mothers and fathers. We are simple people and we have been forgotten by our government—by those who vowed to represent us, protect us.” Arlaani draws in a long breath. “We’re on our own out here in the Wastes.”

You survey the area; the lifeless ocean of rock and sand, the few scattered trees that have died on their feet—roots withering bone dry in the suns. “Why settle here if it’s so uninhabitable?”

She huffs a humorless laugh. “Because, it’s uninhabitable,” Arlaani explains. “No one robs a beggar. There is nothing in the Wastes the Black Sun wants.”

There are no buildings, no structures; the whole area is undeveloped and raw. Tents are dotted sporadically in clusters, crates of supplies and water canteens stationed every other one. Children dawdle idly, tired and overheated, leaning against boxes and posts—their bellies distended and skin parched taut. Flies land on their shins, on their cheeks. They do not go to shoo them away.

“The Movement supplied those for us when we landed,” she comments, nodding to the crates. “That was two months ago.”

“No one has come back to check on you since?” you ask, brows notching together.

She shakes her head solemnly, jaw set rigid. “Our little ones go hungry, our elders are sick with red fever. We will run out of water before the week is through,” Arlaani says before she turns to you, holding your gaze—the seriousness evident in the stone of her eyes. “I thank the gods you are here.” She presses a palm to your shoulder. You feel the weight of it, the weight of her—of the lives she carries on her back.

“I thank the gods.”

///

You stop by each tent delivering what little food and medicine you brought with you from the Crest, and after each encounter—the people so grateful, so weary—your mind strays further and further to Mando.

Din, you scold yourself. Not Mando, Din. Din Djarin.

You still can’t bring yourself to say it.

He spent that whole fateful day nearly two weeks ago bristling at the very sight of you, going out of his way to limp to the other side of the ship just to ignore you better, only to do you in for one final head spin and give you his name.

Two weeks, and you still haven’t said it. There’s no other excuse: plainly - pitifully - you’re scared. You’re scared he regrets it.

Because how horrible of a truth would it be? To be offered something out of carelessness or guilt; to be the product of pity, or even worse, a mistake that cannot be unmade, cannot be rectified. He can’t take his name back, can’t unspeak it any more than you can unhear it, and this fear, picking at you like an old scab—it’s so painfully human, so terribly universal:

what if I’m not worth it?

And isn’t it easier to neglect the answer, then it is to ask the question.

So you’ve buried his name for both of your sakes, keeping it somewhere secret and private, there to garner dust in the quiet of your mind.

You’re brushing through the draped entrance of a tent when you spot him: a small boy hiding behind a supply crate, the top of his dusted head poking out over the ledge. You catch him peering at you, and he ducks down shyly. A honeyed grin blooms across your face.

“I think we’re being watched Munch,” you coo. The little ball of robes blinks up at you from your arms, earning his nickname tenfold as he crams his mouth with a flakey cracker. “You want to say hi?” He hums in response and you crouch, letting him wiggle free from you to toddle over to the other child. With small steps, he eventually makes it over to the other and immediately, without hesitation or provocation, extends one of his crackers to him.

Your heart swells until it bursts, proud and beautiful in your chest.

Munch leads him out from behind the box, the two boys shuffling slowly through the dirt back to you. He can’t quite meet your eyes—his gaze lands somewhere around your chin, your collarbone, and you fold forward, bent at the knees to meet his height.

“Do you have a name, sweetheart?” you ask kindly.

He nods, nibbling quietly on the cracker, and you breathe out a chuckle. “Not much of a talker, huh? I can respect that,” you say, eyes crinkling fondly with a smile. “Well if you want to tell me, you can—or not. That’s okay, too.”

He nods again, and you fish out more salty treats from the sleeve in your pack, gently handing them to the other—a gesture he nervously accepts, dirty fingers trembling as he plucks them from your open palm. This boy is precious—sweet faced and cherubic, he must not be a cycle over the age of seven.

And the realization comes so suddenly that it blindsides you—struck by it, there between your lungs: Din was his age when it happened—when life happened to him. When this could have happened to him.

You can’t help but think of it—think of him and everything he told you that night he came bleeding through the Razor Crest. You can’t stop imagining him; Din as a little boy tucked away, his people—his parents—decimated overhead. He is a Mandalorian by proxy. Displaced from his home, from his past, saved by a sect with an affinity for orphans—to protect those who cannot protect themselves. The irony of it all is not lost on you:

Din is a refugee too.

You see him in this boy, and in all the faces here—in every set of eyes, young and old alike. Each are individual - idiosyncratic - but they each wear the same qualifiers. The same exhaustion. They each fight the same tired battle, leaving them with identical sets of marks.

Does Din? If you were to see him, truly see him, would you find them there? You’ve seen the scars he’s earned from being a Mandalorian.

You wonder if he has any from simply being a man.

Pushing yourself to stand upright, you cradle Munch back into your chest, his teensy claws riddling your shirt, and offer the boy your hand—outstretched in front of you.

He’s cautious. Too cautious for a boy so young, for a child who should know nothing but abundant love and fearless imagination. He shouldn’t have had to learn this lesson: that some hands should not be taken, that some people should not be trusted. He studies you, hesitant but hopeful, and you smile softly—cycles of hard-won patience and empathy curving the corners of your lips.

He lays his small hand in your own. You walk on together.

///

The day blows by like hot desert wind, chafing at your skin. Minutes have ripened to hours—morning has crawled to midday.

The three of you finish your rounds— distributing rations throughout the camp, pitching tents, taking stock of the dwindling supplies for you to relay to the Movement once you return to the Crest and have access to your holopad.

It’s then that you notice Arlaani again. She’s speaking in hushed tones with another man, the both of them hunched over a large carton. You see the concern ticked clearly along the man’s jaw, the dread grooved into her brow, her crossed arms. With a frown, you plop the child down onto a nearby petrified log and the other boy joins, hopping up next to him, all too happy to get off his feet. You tell them not to wander off— a kiss to Munch’s forehead, a ruffle of the boy’s hair— before making your way to the couple.

“Hey,” you call, jogging over. “Is everything alright?”

Arlaani wheels around as you approach. It hasn’t been long since you’ve seen her, but somehow she looks older. Hollowed, drained— like there’s less and less in her. “It’s the water,” she grits out, “sand mites have gotten to the crates, to the canteens.” She tosses you one of the flasks. It’s littered with holes, porous and leaking— the remnants of water splashing out of the orifices bitten into the sides.

Arlaani dives through the crate, rifling through the supplies. She’s tense, upset, her voice is rife with it. “They’re all like this. Ruined, fucking—” She heaves out a hissed exhale and props herself up on the edge of the box, neck bowed between her shoulder blades. “This was the last of it, and now—now…”

The man tries his best - how do you comfort marble? - as he places an arm around her, his thumb drawing patterns there, reassuring and calm but she wants nothing of it; she gruffly shrugs it off as if stung, weaseling out of his hold. “I can’t— I need to think,” Arlaani bristles, as she paces away from the settlement, receding deeper into the Wastes.

“I’m sorry,” he stutters, “I have- I have to—” His eyes follow her shrinking form, worry apparent in the shape of them. It’s so obvious. He’s terrified of that woman—probably loves her, too.

“Go,” you say, and with a knowing expression, he turns and trots after her.

Heavy footed, heavy hearted, you trudge back to find the children exactly where you left them. Once there, you collapse to the hard ground, dust and dirt puffing up as you recline onto the log. Your palms run over the earth—scooping up sand and rock and letting it slip through the cracks of your fingers, gaze trained out onto the encampment—the people milling about, the miasma of helplessness stifling the air.

This isn’t enough. You’re not doing enough— these impermanent little nothings, your measly good deeds. It’s not going to matter. They’ll be bones by the time the next wave of volunteers rolls through. They’ll be grain.

You need to do something that lasts, that outlives you when you leave.

You glance over to the kid and his new friend, their little legs swinging off the edge of the trunk, heels thumping against the old wood. They look to you, two pairs of big eyes—crackers in their tiny fists.

“You boys ever dig a well?”

///|||///

The suns roast into his beskar, blistering him from the inside out.

The day has been long and it’s only half over. It took him longer than it should have to gather himself— his fob, his rifle, his fucking head—and depart the Crest. Longer than it should have to hunt the bounty here—some marauder scum who’s number is up and luck has run out. Longer than it should have to set up his sniper’s nest, sculpted into the mountainside.

Din is distracted, has been all day— has been since you left.

He can’t stop feeling you. Your warmth pushing against his chest, your arms looping around his neck, the heat of your palms searing through his flight suit. Din can smell you on him still— like citrus and moss, you cling to his cowl from where you buried your head.

It’s intolerable. It feels like an infection with how it’s been building, how this has spread— slowly but surely rearing to an unignorable head. Serpentine and insidious as it crept through him, this growing affliction— this morbid curiosity that spoiled like rotting stonefruit into infatuation— slipping along his bones and organs, blemishing Din in faint little licks— imperceptible to the naked eye but there all the same.

How did this happen? How did he become this?

You’ve been more relaxed now, bolder in some ways. Transparent. Sometimes, you’ll touch his arm as you walk by him or sweep your hair from your neck when you sit by his side in the cockpit, star shine on your jaw. You’re quick with a laugh, lips pulling back into a pretty grin. He’s even caught you staring at him, there out of the corner of his eye—from where he steals those same glances under the safety of his helm.

He spied you once, just a glimpse of your backside, padding quietly away from the shower with only your underwear on, drops of water tracking down your spine. It was brief, you were fast—you must have forgotten your shirt in your bunk—but he had to lock himself in his quarters and fuck his hand before he could even think about piloting the Crest into the stratosphere.

Din is a lot of things, but he isn’t daft. A part of him knows. A part of him is aware that you are two very human people with very human needs—and that you’ve been ignoring these primal aches with premeditated dereliction for months now.

And you can only dance around each other so long before one of you snaps.

And Maker, he’s so desperate to be rid of you—to get you out of his fucking system; to let him sleep without dreaming of you, to let him wake without plunging into his briefs and jerking himself off. You are everywhere. In his ship, in his galley, in his thoughts. He has no privacy, he has no sanctity— he has no idea how you have managed to worm yourself so deep into every living part of him. Others have tried and they have failed, and you— you did it in your sleep. From that very first fucking night, curled up in his chair, gore and ash stained tunic rising with your slumbered breathing. You snored.

You fucking snored.

And now you’re killing him— just as the suns above, you are blistering him from the inside out.

His level-headedness has all but evaporated. He’s peeved. Not only is Din distracted, but he's angry— has been since he plodded up this damn hill, waiting for his quarry to pass through the ravine between the valley of mountains—because instead of performing his job, he’s consumed with you. All of you.

He kneels, flattening himself against the rocky sand— your hands, so small and soft against him— and unclips the rifle from the strap on his back—how good you’d feel on his skin—he aligns his sights— the weight of your breasts in his palms—

His helmeted head clunks to the ground and he loses his aim, a frustrated growl emanating out from him. Focus, Mando. Fucking focus.

Din reorients his crosshair, training it on the gang of pirates in the gorge below. They lean haphazardly over their speeders, their cargo nets packed full with different wares and spices, jeering loudly and chugging from the jugs of spotchka they undoubtedly looted earlier that afternoon. He inspects the rabble, searching for his target and—those pretty lips that smile so easy for him, stretched around his length.

Fuck. He pinches his eyes shut.

You whispering husky into his ear as you ride him, you bent over the pilot’s chair begging for his cock, you sprawled out over the deck while he laps at your sweet cunt.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck— he can’t do this. He can’t fucking do this. You’re everywhere everywhere everywhere— you buffer his vision, his senses, his sight. He’s blinded with you. You’re blinding him.

With an infuriated heave he shoves himself off the ridge of the dune, bounty-less, and reverses his course back to the Crest—heart beating furious and bloody against his ribs.

///

The settlers surround the trench, peering down at you as you work. Hours ago, when you originally proposed this idea to Arlaani, they insisted on helping— to which of course, you insisted they didn’t. And so they watch— the refugees, Din’s foundling, the nameless boy— mangling their hands restlessly, animated with an inkling of that all too lethal substance long sought after by those of all species and creeds: hope.

You sink the shovel into the dry earth and your muscles burn with the effort—the skin on your palms stings from the rough grate of the wooden dowel and the yawn of your back strains as you pitch forward.

You’ve missed this.

You’ve been so distracted. You’ve grown comfortable in your routines, you’ve let yourself go listless—living in blissful ignorance—all because of a metal man in his metal ship with the most impossible and darling child you’ve ever known. All because your body reacts at the very sight of him, all because your belly flips when he speaks, that modulated purr rumbling loose from his beskar, all because, because—

You like him.

You wish you didn’t—you hardly know why you do—but you’ve soaked your fingers enough times in your rack to realize that this thing residing within you burns.

You can’t even see his face, and you don’t have to. His presence alone— that raw, vacuous energy that surges from him—it’s addicting. It's engulfing. It makes you whimper into the night, massaging your pearled clit as your other hand muffles your moans and you come over and over and over again, chasing after the fantasy you so dangerously harbor for this man. The man who’s piloting you back to Coruscant—the man who sleeps just down the hall.

But that isn’t real. That’s not real life— that’s not your life. This is real—the fuchsia of the setting suns blazing through the horizon, the sweat on your brow. You’ve missed this— Maker, you need this. Working with your hands, making an impact. You’re wanted here and kriff, does that not feel so unabashedly right. To be wanted. To be important.

Your back groans, the sinew woven over your spine aching in protest and you know, without a doubt, you’ll feel this for the next week. Half of you dreads it—being cooped up and sore, lactic acid compacting your joints— while the other excites at the prospect; the memory of a good deed lasting long after it’s finished. That reminder always there, always present: see, there’s still hope in the galaxy. We can still do good. There’s goodness where you look for it.

You fling dirt over your shoulder as you burrow lower and lower. With each shove, the soil changes hue, changes density—the striations darker, more definitive. It’s less dry now, thicker too—turning from sand to clay the deeper you dig. Again, you drive the spade into the sod with a taxed grunt, when you hear a distinct, wet squish.

You pause, stilling your shovel in the dirt. Everything - everyone - freezes.

Adrenaline thrums through you as you drop to your knees, using your hands to brush away loose silt piled atop the loamy floor, excavating what lies beneath.

Prayers and hollers erupt above you and you lurch your focus up to the sound, a feverish grin plastered to your face. The little boy jostles the child excitedly, and his green talons rumple the other’s tattered tunic. Your head falls back, cushioned by the dirt wall and you laugh - gargled, relieved - as water begins to seep through the tired ground.

Bubbling up, bubbling up—unearthing.

///

The promise of ridding yourself of your soiled clothes was the singular thought that fueled your trek back to the Crest. Every inch of you was filthy, caked in dried mud and gritty sand and you wanted nothing more than to strip from those dirty layers and melt into your bedroll. The kid, that lucky little bugger, had passed right out; sun drunk from his long day, he’d slept the entirety of the return trip—stirring only once when you placed him in the hover pram and sealed it shut.

Your bones are worn. Your tissue, your tendons— every little scrap that keeps you stitched together craves sleep. You reckon you should feel miserable, what with the tell-tale stiffness already burdening your spine and the fresh callus from the shovel’s handle reddening your palm.

But you’re not miserable, not even close. No, you’re happy—you’re glowing; fulfilled and serene, humming as you wash your pants in the basin, kneading at the sopping fabric. You wring out the article, shaking free the excess droplets before draping it on a metal rung overhead. You peel off your shirt and bra band next, leaving you only in your underwear as you plop them into the bowl and begin to scrub at the stains, concentrating on a particularly dirty patch at the sleeve.

The grating mechanics of the Crest’s great jaw unhinging sends your stomach bounding frantic to your lungs.

Kriff—shit shit shit, he’s back early.

Clutching onto your modesty, you cover your breasts and scramble to your quarters, quickly shimming a loose tunic over your head. Its hem barely covers the curve of your ass and you tug long at the cloth before peeking cautiously from the doorway and tiptoeing out of your room.

“Hey,” you warble, rounding a corner as solid feet pound up the ramp—you can feel their reverberations in the floor under your own. You pad into the galley, pulling at your shirt as you go, to tidy up the washing you left unattended. “Sorry, I wasn’t expecting you so—”

You falter.

He’s there at the mouth of the ship, the ramp drawing slowly up behind him and he’s fuming; you can practically see the steam lifting from his armor and his breathing is labored—chest rising, plummeting violently. You both stand immobilized on opposite sides of the hull—you, bare-legged and exposed and Din, all but anonymous under the steeled fury of his armor. Finally, the sound dampens, ship shuddering as she seals shut—sealing you in—and the leather of his fist creaks in the silence hanging dense like smoke around you.

“Mando...?”

He doesn’t grace you with a response. Instead he begins to stalk forward, stripping weapon after weapon from himself with every thundering step—rifle, blaster, vibroblade—he sloughs it all, metal clanging against metal as they clatter to the deck.

“Hey, what’s wrong-”

He’s not stopping. Fuck, he’s getting closer and closer and instinctually you back up—staggering until you’re pressed against the bulkhead—his broad frame crowding you until all you see is the silver polish of his beskar. You jolt when his hands fly up and slam into the wall behind you, framing either side of your head, fencing you between his forearms. Your lips part, wide-eyed and confused, and you gulp around the nervous lump threatening your voice.

“Do you have any idea,” he seethes, “what you do to me?”

“W-What-” Your stammering is cut short as he slots his thigh between your legs and you have to tilt your chin to meet his visor, a gasp finding itself on your tongue.

“Strutting around my ship, putting your hands on me, that kriffing smile…” Din ruts his knee into your heat, and you’re practically hoisted onto your toes. Your core pulses against the blunt pressure, blood racing to the throb at your center.

Maker, you could fucking faint.

“Do you know how long I’ve thought about this—about you?” His voice is tar black—smooth like obsidian—and you succumb to it. You can’t speak; any and all language evaporating from the forefront of your mind, because he’s everywhere. He’s inescapable and smothering and his scent floods over you, intoxicatingly wild—like iron and sand and something dangerous. Something heady, carnal.

“Is this what you want?” he hisses.

You’ve gone dumb. You’ve imagined this, you’ve dreamt of this, but now it’s actually happening—here, in the flesh, it’s finally happening and you’re trembling with the reality of it. All you can muster is a shaky nod, tongue darting out over your lip.

“Tell me,” he orders, scanning your face behind the guise of his helm. You feel his gaze rove over your eyes, your cheek—fanning across your lips.

Your breath hitches.

“Yes,” you whisper, “yes I want this.“

It’s all it takes.

Din is rougher than he means to be. He wears this as he wears his armor, plating the soft parts of himself he doesn’t want anyone touching. He doesn’t know anything else. He doesn’t know how to be anyone else but this.

He grabs a handful of your waist, rooting you still as he rolls his thigh against you. You inhale an airy noise, grappling onto his other arm stationed by your head and you bite your lip, sucking it into your mouth. Your cunt spasms for him as he presses up into your mound, fightless against the groan that seeps through you.

“You like that?” he pants. ”You like fucking my thigh?”

Din manhandles your hips, his hold on you vicious as he rocks you back and forth on his plated leg, your clit catching on the cold edge of his thigh guard with each motion. It sends hot sparks down your spine and you trap a moan behind your teeth, letting the sound rumble there before you swallow it. His hand weaves up from your waist, the drag of his glove setting fire to your skin as he passes over the swell of your clothed breast, and you arch into his palm as he swipes a thumb over a nipple. “You want more?”

He splays his large hand, groping at your plump flesh, and pinches your nipple hard until it pebbles through your shirt. With each sharp twist, his intention becomes clearer: it won’t be enough to skate by on moans alone.

“I asked you a question.”

Din slides his other hand to the small of your back, drawing you flush to his front, and you can feel him— the outline of his firm length twitching under his flight suit against your hip. He cranes over you, intimidating and menacing and achingly devious. The panel of his visor has never looked darker.

“Use your words, dala,” he husks.

You should be embarrassed by this—by your need made evident through the soaked lining of your underwear—but you aren’t. The heat that stipples your cheeks isn’t born from shame, it’s sprung from lust—pure and primal—and you can’t afford to give it any further consideration because all there is is this man wrenching sounds from you like an animal— and he’s scarcely even touched you yet.

“Your fingers,” you whimper, “I want your hands."

He learned this lesson within those first weeks—relearns it every fucking day. You could ask him for anything - everything - and he would oblige.

He can’t say no to you.

He shifts out from between you, hooking into the elastic of your panties and tears them down your thighs to rest just above your knees, the spread of your legs keeping them from dropping to your ankles.

Patiently - tortuously - he scrapes up your legs, leaving embers in his wake as he trails higher higher higher to where you need him most. You’re shivering—nerve endings fried and frayed—and every atom inside you hums with anticipation, with unbridled impulse.

The orange tips of his gloves dimple your inner thighs - squeezing, massaging - before he tilts his helmet, angling himself to see you better, and paws your swollen lips apart.

Your pussy is drooling for him.

He moans something indecipherable— a curse in Mando’a—at the sight of you glistening for him under the dimmed lights like this, and immediately you buck your pelvis to him, hungry for his touch—and the pathetic noises babbling out of you prove too much for him to bear.

“Fuck this,” he snarls, ripping a glove off and tossing it aside, “I need to feel you.”

Your eyes have dilated with want, blackened as you watch Din retrace his bare hand—that gorgeous thing you’ve never seen, only ever fantasized about—back to your heat and slowly - so fucking slowly - pass a finger through your slit.

You throw your head back, knocking against the durasteel. The mewl that escapes you is inhuman.

He’s so warm. His tan skin is molten—it’s like he brought the sun in with him, as if he’s burning that star straight into your sex. You’re slippery with arousal; you can feel how glossed you are, you don’t have to look. You can hear it—hear the obscene squelches he’s stroking from your seam.

“Maker, you’re - shit - you’re wet,” he groans loudly, reveling in the way you pitch your hips—seeking his warmth, his friction. He’s been toying with you, drawing patterns along your pussy and playing with your puffy folds, but he hasn’t even come close to your clit. You know it’s no accident. Din is methodical in all things, he doesn’t make mistakes. This is a decision—it’s intentional. You think, perhaps, he’s looking to break you—some sort of retribution for these months you’ve spent swimming in circles around each other—and you think, perhaps, you’d let him.

That you’d like it.

When Din grants you mercy, finally gliding his index along your neglected bundle of nerves, reflexively you fist into his cowl, knuckles going pale.

“Stars-” you exclaim—just like that.

He handles your body like he does one of his pistols - practiced, unparalleled - encircling your clit with precision, his finger on your trigger—blinding, perfect agony swiveled into your sweet cleft.

When he pushes himself inside you, all the oxygen gets punched out of your lungs.

“Fuck, and so tight,” Din growls, bending at the knuckle to curl over that spongy spot of your walls that makes you gape, makes your brain go slack. Your arms scamper around his pauldrons, nails scraping sharp over beskar. The heel of his hand presses into your clit and you grind against him, each roll of your hips pleading a filthy please please please as you chase after the orgasm he’s baiting you with.

He responds to that, bourboned praise dripping smug from his smirk. “Fuck, look at you, so desperate—gonna cum for me already?”

You don’t have the wherewithal to formulate a response. He’s fit another finger into you, fucking up into you hard—fucking you exactly how you need him to. It feels like you are about to shatter right there on your feet. It’s almost unbearable, this mounting tension that’s climbing within you. You’ve been so starved for this, so deprived of a kind touch and a good fuck, and within no time at all he’s coaxing you to the ledge of your release.

“Mando,” you sob, entwining your fingers into his cape, grinding grinding grinding into his palm when suddenly, without warning, his ministrations cease—that burning coil abating to a simmer. You let out a rasped pant, collapsing forward onto his shoulder— your climax ripped away from you at the last, pivotal second.

Your eyes are screwed shut, you don’t see the movement—you can only feel it once it’s already there: the bounty hunter’s glove grating over your neck. You sputter out a gasp as he forces your jaw up to align with the chill of his visor, trapped in the unrelenting strength of his grasp. Your eyes clamber around the chrome boxing you in, gulping back the fear coalescing in your mouth.

“You say my name,” he gravels. “You say my name when I’m inside you.”

Your cunt spasms around the fingers still seated within you—aching for movement, aching to cum—and your lower lip quivers as he leers. “I gave it to you—say it,” he commands.

For a fleeting moment, in the remaining rational corner of your brain, it occurs to you that you’re terrified—that there may be no going back once you speak it. There’s no unmaking this choice. Like a door—a door that swings both ways—once it is cracked ajar, it cannot be closed again. Because you know yourself, you loathe to admit it, but you know his name will crumble you; that you will bend—that you will want to give and give and give to him— and still, despite, you lay onto the handle and fling that door wide open.

“Din.”

“Fuck,” he seethes. His reaction is visceral—the whole of him stiffens, leathered pads of his fingertips searing into your throat. “Again.”

“Din,” you whine as he rocks his fingers into your walls.

He moans, wanton and guttural, at the way his name tumbles from you like velvet. “Good girl—fuck, that’s good.”

He vanishes from your neck, bringing his hand down to cup his cock bulging painfully against the fabric there and your gaze snaps to it, saliva pooling in the well of your mouth. You slither your hand down his breast plate, over the paneling of his flight suit, trailing south until it lands on the hide of his glove. You stop, waiting there - breathless - until he nods curtly.

His hand falls away. You mold your palm to his length.

“Din,” you give freely, high-pitched and girly, and his cock brays under your hand. Fuck, he’s big—you can feel his mass through his pants and your pussy flutters around his fingers moving deliciously lazy inside you. Your eyes latch onto his, the brown of them hidden somewhere under the helm, and you can feel his own bore into you, weighing leaden there—

before you both simultaneously rupture.

Din’s fingers slip out of you to fiddle with the hem of his pants, unbuttoning in a clumsy flourish until he springs free with a groan of relief.

Maker.

He’s fucking divine—long and veined, with a patch of dark curls padding around the base of him. Din weeps for you already, frustrated and pent up from the confines of his restraints, beads of arousal dappling his head. He hisses as you swipe a digit over his cock, smearing his precum down the silken slope of him. You’re transfixed—the both of you staring as you wrap your hand around his shaft and he shudders, keening in to your touch.

“Mm, fuck you’re soft- kriff-”

Din dwarfs you—you barely fit around his girth—and he can’t help but buck into your palm as you begin to move in tandem. Din flicks at your clit, mirroring your pace as you get each other off. It’s awkward and lewd and perfect—both of you, a tapestry of woven limbs and sweat and you pump him harder and harder, choking his cock with your fist. You fuck him raw, the dry drag of your satin hand ripping curses from his mouth.

“Fuck, dala,” he pants, “I-I’m not—” I’m not gonna last. His words are snuffed out as you circle your wrist and brush a thumb over his leaking tip, forcing him to shiver. He doesn’t have to finish his thought, you understand plenty well. You’re dancing along that same precipice, flirting with the fall.

“Stars, yes,” you plead. Fuck, you want him to cum— you need him to. You need to make him feel good, to let him know that you’re here - you’re right here - and that he means more to you than you care to admit; that you want him—have since you first laid eyes on him, since he rescued you, since he took you back to the Crest and gave you the last of his bacta to heal all your splintered bits. That he deserves this—with all that he’s done for you, all that he’s doing for you—

with all that he his.

“Din—please.” Fuck, you don’t even know what you’re asking for—more of him, all of him—and a groan tears through his modulator at the sound of you begging his name—like he’s wounded, like it pains him to hear you say it.

It’s a race now—the two of you hurdling headlong towards this terrible, messy collision. You’re both sloppy—wet sounds and slaps of skin—as you stumble closer to the brink of release. He’s been rendered incoherent, chiseled down to the basest of grunts and broken words you don’t recognize. His thumb finds a devastating pressure on your swollen nub and your legs begin to vibrate, nearly unable to stand on your own two feet with how fucking perfectly he’s working your pussy.

This thing inside you feels giant - monstrous - and that slow wave that’s been building and building and cresting is here, upon you. You’re trapped in the barrel of it, and it’s going to crash at any moment and sweep you out to sea. Drown you—happily, gladly. “I’m - oh fuck—"

“That’s it, good girl,” he praises, tightening his circles on your clit. “Cum for me, cum on my hand-”

A crack of lightening streaks up your middle, the whole of you shaking as your orgasm rushes through, a sputtering cry let loose into the ship. You feel yourself gush, dripping past his thickness stuffing you full, dripping down your inner thighs. Din pulls out from you and you whimper at the loss—his absence leaving you gaping, leaving you bereft. You’re siphoning down air, dizzy from your release, when he raises his hand, glistening with your fluids, and traces your bottom lip—asking for entrance.

Fuck.

You part for him, eager and pliant, and he snakes two fingers inside—tasting your own tang and the leather residue left there, stamped into the whirls of his fingerprints. Your tongue swirls around them, laving him clean, and you drag over the ridges of his shaft— still hard and throbbing and waiting in your grasp. He bobs his fingers in your mouth, matching you thrust for thrust, and you let out a depraved little moan, humming around him, and all Din can do is watch.

Watch as he disappears between your lips—his skin pulling and catching on your plush flesh— watch as you suck on them, watch as he practically fucks your throat. And Maker, you take him so fucking well, letting him do what he pleases with your all too supple body.

He can’t even begin to imagine what his cock would look like—what it would feel like nestled in the hot cavern of your mouth, hollowing your cheeks to suck him like hard candy. Din doesn’t let himself—can’t. If he did, fuck, that’d be it. He’d be done for. He knows he’d cum in a flash and he wants to make this last—to hold on to this - onto you - for as long as he can, allow himself this singular concession. The only time, he convinces himself, the last time.

He won’t think about you again.

You quicken your rhythm and Din bucks wildly into your palm, his seizing and twitching alerting you to how close he is. He slides from your mouth, a string of saliva trailing along after as he clasps onto the back of your neck.

“I’m gonna cum, I’m—” Din knots into your hair, gripping you rough, panting frantic. “Fuck. Fuck, dala— cyare-”

With a hoarse shout, he slams his gloved fist into the durasteel and spills over himself in hot, thick pumps, spurts shooting out to splatter on your tunic, on his flight suit, on your knuckles. You ease him through it, his cum glazing down his cock before you slow to a languid stroke, his seed sticky under your palm. You’re panting, the both of you, spent noises reverberating ugly and loud against the metal sidings.

Din sinks his helmet to your forehead while you catch your breath, his cold beskar kissing your flushed skin—the density of it comforting, grounding. Your eyes teeter shut and you let yourself lean into him, a dazed grin tugging at your wet lips. This is— nice; so much gentler than the pace he drove not minutes before. Head to head, his hand buried in your hair, your arm slung over his hulking shoulders; your fingers thread into the askew fabric behind his neck to discover a sliver of skin treasured away underneath. You trace there - lightly, whispered - earning a fizzle of static sent whirring through his vocoder.

“Fuck,” Din mumbles, before unweaving himself and separating from you. Your legs have gone useless and rubbery—you almost face plant forward without him there— and by the time you blink open, he’s already tucked himself into his pants and picked up his glove, slotting it over those skilled fingers that had just filled you to the brim. He turns back round to find you staring at him through the haze of your afterglow, eyes glassy and fucked out; your fluids dribbling down towards your underwear still bunched above your knees, hair tangled with sweat and saliva and cum—his and yours.

You look wrecked—disheveled. You’re so fucking pretty it makes Din want to scream.

He picks up a stray rag from a crate and offers it to you, before silently sliding your panties back up to your hips in one dexterous swipe. He lingers there but for a moment, savoring the touch of you—grazing a digit into the crease of your hip. You’re rendered mute— your brain can hardly string a sentence together— but finally you manage, your voice weak when you find it again.

“Thank you,” you croak, wiping away the traces of him off your knuckles, and you smile coquettish, delirious. “That was… that was, uhm—I really enjoyed that.”

A quiet beat slogs by.

And then, everything shifts.

Din’s hand descends from your waist, holstering it to his side, and he moves away. He moves away from you.

You can feel it immediately—like a gust of chilled wind, the change in the air nips at you. Din’s armor is anything but warm—his presence, his aura, anything but inviting—but now, he seems farther from you than ever before, his visor tempered and steely.

You know him. You know this man. You’ve travelled with him, you’ve mended his ills, you’ve taken care of his son, you’ve spoken his name, you’ve laid prints on his skin and deeper still—

And here, before you, Din is white noise. Indiscernible. Unreadable.

Nervously, you twiddle with the frayed edge of the stained cloth, worrying your cheek. You swear, just for a second, that you see him inch towards you— you think you sense him, some part of him, breaching the chasm that’s formed between you. But it’s only a trick of the lowlight—a trick of your cruel heart, winged and errant beneath your ribs, misconstruing your thoughts to fancy.

Because he doesn’t. He doesn’t come to you like you want. He doesn’t touch you again, he doesn’t hold you like you need.

It feels like you’re withering—your legs too bare, your tunic too short, hair too mussed, eyes too bleary—everything feels wrong now, misplaced. “Din,” you start, you try—you try to keep attached to this tether, to this thin strand you’ve sewn between your bodies, but he shrinks back. He severs it. He is as you first met him. Rigid. Distant. A Mandalorian bounty hunter— the best in the parsec. He is as he was months ago, when you were strangers.

When you were nothing.

“I—” He silences himself, teeth clenching shut around the unspoken sentiment you so long to hear, and instead takes another step backwards. Farther away. Farther from you.

He stands straighter, impossibly taller, and you feel

small.

“Goodnight,” Din gives, his voice shrouded and cloaked by his modulator. He pivots on his heel, retreating into the depths of the Crest and leaves you there, the ghost of his hands on your neck, on your breasts, in your heat— still tingling from where they haunt you. Exhausted, you thud back into the bulkhead, unfocused and unseeing.

“Goodnight Din,” you murmur, but it falls upon deaf ears. He’s gone, and the empty hull swallows your words—burying them.

taggies:

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#din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #din djarin x fem!reader #mando x reader #mando x you #mando x fem!reader #din djarin #the mandalorian #pedro pascal #star wars fanfic #the mandalorian fanfic #king of cups #mandalorian smut

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sirthisisa-wendys · 4 years ago

Text

The General (part 5.5): Geto Suguru x Fem!Reader

synopsis: a negotiation goes bad, you learn a lesson from a rake, and you receive a long awaited reward.

wc: 1.8k

tw: nsfw because nudity, adult thoughts, and maybe a little touchy-feely?

masterlist

“Moving the camp works like this,” Kaori begins, lacing her fingers through your hair as you sit on the floor after dinner. “Master Geto will send Gojo and Haibara ahead with a modest squad. When they arrive upon a town, they negotiate with the elders. Should they agree to let us set up camp among them, Master Geto will scout out fields and open land to reside in. Usually, the village will send a peace offering and they will accept it, then Master Geto will send for the rest of the camp to join him. However, as we inch closer to the Imperial Palace… the more willing villages are to put up a fight to wait for Imperial forces.”

“And if they fight?” Kaori shudders, closing her eyes.

“Master Geto will wipe the entire village out in one night. It hasn’t happened in many months, but the last one…” Kaori drifts off, but you know what the implications were. “Anyways, you should put these on. Master Geto is waiting for you outside.” She motions toward a small pair of umanori and a hakamashita, and you cautiously pick up the white and black fabric.

“What is this for?”

“Just meet him outside when you’re done.”

_______________________________________________________________________

You find Geto sitting in the field where you previously watched him spar with Gojo, and as you approach, he tosses blades of grass aside and stands to greet you.

“Why are we out here?” you ask, and Geto crosses his arms over his broad chest.

“I told you I would teach you how to fight,” he laughs. “Now I’m making good on that promise. Stand tall, warrior.”

“Wait, is this really necessary?” you retort as he knocks your chin high with a finger.

“I’m going to be away for a time, and I need to know you’ll be well prepared should something happen.”

“You mean you’re not taking me with you when you go off to the next village to scout?”

“I…” he pauses, frowning. “Hold your hands out.” You do so, and he presses your palms together between his massive hands. “Feel that warmth?” You nod, feeling the spike in temperature on the backs of your hands, and he lets go. “That’s pure energy. You need to know how to harness it properly to fight well.”

“Energy?” you question, but he proceeds with his speech.

“First things first, do you know how to fight with a rake?” He hefts a rake off of the ground and tosses it at you, and you barely catch the instrument, fumbling around with the wooden handle clumsily.

“No,” you moan, and he claps his hands together, smiling in the dimming light of the sun.

“Try to swing at me with the prongs.” You swing away, trying to catch the General with the sharp end, but failing miserably as he dodges your attacks easily, sidestepping and weaving around your failing efforts.

“It’s too heavy,” you pant, feeling a dull ache in your arms.

“We won’t move on until you get me with the prongs or the sun goes down. Either way is fine with me,” he announces, and you groan, hefting the rake again.

Once the sun goes down, you find yourself on the dirt ground, face sticky with sweat and grime. Geto stood above you without so much as a scratch, hands on his hips. You look up at him in disdain, hoping that he would drop dead right where he stands, but not anticipating his next move. He hoists you over his shoulder, draping your torso across his back and your legs across his chest.

“We’ll work on this again tomorrow, little one. You gave a great effort today.”

“What does swinging a rake have to do with pure energy?” you pant, and he chuckles.

“The rake is just a tool. When you can swing it with precision, you’ll have enough strength and dexterity to handle the energy within.”

“Seriously? You had me doing arm exercises this whole time?”

“Yes and no,” Geto answers, pushing the flap of the tent open and walking inside. “But let's take a bath and go to bed. I know you’re feeling tired.” You grumble when he sits you on the bed, your entire body screaming in pain as you try to lay back comfortably.

“I suspect Kaori is asleep, so I’ll go fetch the hot water.” With that, Geto leaves, and you lay in the bed, eyes glued to the ceiling of the tent. Fighting, negotiations, emissaries… How much could you fit into a day? You long for the lazy days and nights spent reading by the window, the long afternoons that would stretch on forever while you and your mother cooked, the sound of the brushstrokes as your father worked on a painting. You long for home, and for a whole month, you’ve stuffed it down to avoid the misery. But now, there’s nothing left but the memories of how things used to be.

You don’t realize you’re crying until something wet runs down your cheek and to your earlobe, finally dropping onto the sheets beneath your head. When the first tear comes, it’s quickly followed by the second tear, and the third, fourth, fifth, until you can’t keep track of them anymore. And you’re sobbing - but it hurts to cry since you were already in pain, which causes you even more grief. You’re crying so hard that you don’t hear the soft footfalls reenter the tent, nor the sound of a water bucket being placed on the ground. It isn’t until you’re pulled up into strong arms that you realize Geto has returned, and you’re being held by him.

“Did I push you too hard?” he asks, lips next to your ear.

“N-no, no…” you choke out, trying to catch your breath. “I j-just miss... h-home.”

“Mmmm…” he hums, reaching up to stroke your hair. “You will see your home as soon as I can manage safe traveling conditions for you, little one.” You nod into his chest, the fabric rubbing against your forehead and nose. “Come on; can’t let the water get cold.”

You immerse yourself in the hot water slowly, the steam and heat rolling up your body and relaxing your frayed muscles. As you bathe behind the curtain, you hear Geto shifting about and wonder if he’s going to join yo--

“I’ll be right there to help,” he calls out, and you sink lower in the soapy water to preserve your modesty. When he appears, your eyes follow him cautiously as he sits beside the tub and gathers the soap in his hands. When he sees your submerged figure in the tub, he laughs, running his free hand through loose black locks.

“You remember, I’ve seen you completely naked before.” The mention of this reminds your ass of the punishment it received - on your first day in the camp, no less - and you grunt once, squinting your eyes at him. He dips his hands into the water, and he plucks out your right leg, smoothing soap all over it before beginning a slow massage down your calf and up to your thigh. You jolt at the contact when he reaches the midpoint between your thigh and your core, and Geto instantly lets your leg go, the water splashing on his hakamashita.

“Sorry,” he whispers, and moves to the other side, taking your left leg out of the water. When he reaches the same spot on your other leg, you don’t jolt, but you do curl your toes, your leg muscles sighing in relief as he places your left leg back in the water. Geto does the same movements with both arms, then turns his attention to your back, where you feel the most pain. You moan as he kneads into your shoulder blades, releasing tension you didn’t even know you had.

“Your hands are huge; I didn’t think you would be able to do this with precision,” you mumble and he huffs a soft laugh.

“You’d be surprised at what these hands can do.” When the double meaning hits you both, you stiffen and Geto clears his throat. “Anyways, all I have left to do is your neck, if you’ll let me.” You shake your head yes, and he runs his fingers up the sides, pressing around your trachea and spine with care. You moan again when you feel fingers dance along the tops of your ears and down your chin.

“Geto…” you breathe, and upon realising you just said his name out loud, you inhale sharply.

“I’m here,” he replies huskily, lips to your ear again. You shakily exhale, closing your eyes as your pulse quickens. “Tell me what you need.”

“I need…” I need your hands all over me. “... to get out.” You get up immediately and step out of the tub, dripping water on the rugs as you grab a towel and pad to the other side of the curtain.

What are you doing?

You firmly shake your head, knocking the images of Geto splaying you out spread eagle on the bed from your mind. You towel off quickly, dress in your night clothes, and climb into bed, pulling the sheets over your head as Geto comes around the curtain. This wasn’t the plan. Falling for your captor wasn’t in the plan.

When you peek over the sheets, you see Geto working on his maps and plans at his desk, hunched over the parchment. Whether it’s your poor judgement or impulsivity, you don’t know. But the fire inside of you quickens your exit from the bed and moves you to where he’s sitting with his back to you, the dragon on his shoulder twisting about in circles. When you stand beside the General, he looks up in surprise, his black eyes catching yours immediately.

“Y/n, wha--”

You plant your lips firmly on his, and at the contact, the pen drops from his hand and he moves to cup your face, tongue probing at your bottom lip. You open your mouth for him and feel his tongue slide inside, seeking… searching, and he brings you close enough to straddle him in his chair. When he pulls away you’re both breathless, panting softly. The evidence of his arousal is pressed against your thigh, but you can’t focus on anything else except how the kiss felt and the fact that you want to do it again.

“Y/n,” Geto whispers, touching his forehead against yours and closing his eyes. “Please, have mercy on me.”

“What do you mean?” Your fingers touch his swollen lips and he presses a tender kiss to them.

“You’re about to make me into a beggar of a man, and right now, I can’t… I can’t have you like I want to.”

“What?” Your confusion is evident, and he opens his eyes and presses a hand to your cheek.

“I should explain when you’re less tired.” He stands, still holding you against him and carries you back to the bed, laying you there with a tenderness you had never really appreciated before. When he tucks the covers around you and presses a kiss to your forehead, you realize everything will be as it should be. “Sleep now. I’ll explain everything in the morning.”

You drift off to sleep on the heels of his words.

_______________________________________________________________________

TAGLIST: @jotazinha @just4readingfics @mxhi @sammytamaki @brownskinnedgirll @keelyshayee @leanne-tamashi @vabybizzle @amaris9

#geto x reader #jjk geto #jjk smut #jjk gojo #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen getou #jujutsu kaisen imagines #jjk nanami #nanami kento #jjk haibara

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geraltrogerericduhautebellegarde · 4 years ago

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Can we get the fluff 28 from prompt list#1 🥺👉👈? I imagine Jaskier being afraid of the dark while he's in witcher's keep for winter for first time (he's just little scared of sounds around and since it's winter it gets dark faster than normaly) and goes to Geralt to feel save.

I must admit, I have completely lost track of what prompt list this was supposed to be from, I reblog far too many. HOWEVER, you still sent me an entire prompt so I just ran with it!

I hope you don’t mind and that it doesn’t disappoint! (And I’m sorry I’m a chaotic disaster)

And I very much thank you for sending a prompt! They are my life blood! Original thought? Don’t know her.

Jaskier was an adult, and that meant that he had left all his childish, irrational fears behind him.

Or so he had thought.

Laying in bed, hiding under the blankets in his room at Kaer Morhen, he was starting to wonder if he had been lying to himself all along.

Another creak of the old keep made him squeeze his eyes shut. Surely there was nothing there, nothing to threaten him in a keep full of witchers.

Surely.

That knowledge should be comforting to him. And it might have been if he could see anything.

Jaskier had thought of many possible problems that might plague him during his stay at Kaer Morhen over the winter, but he hadn’t even considered the one real challenge he’d had to face every day so far.

The darkness.

The days were short at the keep, and the nights long. The clouds blocked the sky most days, limiting sunlight and any light that would have been provided by the moon and stars. The witchers perhaps didn’t notice, used to it, but they lit very few torches, their eyesight being better than his own.

And he’d managed to get used to that; having just a few light sources wasn’t normally a problem unless he needed to read something. But then, when it was time to turn in for the night, the wonderful witchers of the school of the wolf extinguished all light sources. Jaskier was able to scamper to bed first but once he was there, things stayed dark.

He would light a fire every night, but it cast such a low light through the room, elongating shadows, it didn’t really help. Every noise he couldn’t identify made him cringe, and he really couldn’t identify any of the weird noises the old keep would make.

He tried to justify the noises, explain them away, but he kept coming back to the same horrible thoughts of monsters and mages and bandits and anything else that would put him in danger.

Another creak echoed through his room, long and drawn out.

Nope.

Jaskier surged out of bed, lunging for the torch he kept near his door and hurried to the fireplace to light it. Swinging around the torch, Jaskier looked around the room, unsure of what he would do if he found anything but feeling better being able to see. His hands were shaking, his breathing ragged in his chest. There was no way he could do this for another night.

He could only think of one possible solution.

Geralt.

Jaskier slept just fine while out camping with Geralt, the noises not a bother, knowing his witcher was there to keep them safe. Perhaps, at least for tonight, Geralt wouldn’t mind sharing a room.

Jaskier certainly hoped so, he wasn’t sure how he would manage to sleep the rest of the winter otherwise.

Wrapping a blanket around his shoulders, Jaskier slipped on a pair of shoes and set out to Geralt’s room. It wasn’t far, directly up the spiral staircase to the next door. Jaskier hurried up the staircase, his eyes flicking around, trying to see past where the torches light shined. Reaching the door to Geralt’s room, Jaskier pushed it open without pausing and shut it firmly, leaning against the door as his heart raced even harder.

“Jaskier?” Geralt’s voice was gruff with sleep. He was sitting up in the bed, hair mussed and eyes squinting against the light of Jaskier’s torch.

“Ahh, hello, Geralt. I hope you don’t mind me popping in for a bit.”

Still squinting, Geralt frowned, “What do you want, Jaskier? It’s the middle of the night.”

Jaskier floundered a bit, staring back at Geralt with wide eyes, “I just… thought perhaps we could have a bit of a sleep over. For old times sake. Share a room and all that.”

“Why?”

“Just for the fun of it.”

“Hmmm.”

“Oh, come on,” Jaskier pleaded, “don’t make me say it. Just let me stay with you tonight.”

“Tell me what’s wrong, Jaskier.”

Jaskier grunted in frustration, sounding much like Geralt himself, “I’m afraid of the dark and my room is quiet and I haven’t been able to sleep so can I please just stay here with you tonight.”

Jaskier’s words were rushed, not even bothering to pause to breathe. Geralt stayed silent for a beat, watching Jaskier, before he threw back the blankets, gesturing to the empty side of the bed.

Jaskier blew out the torch quickly and ran to the bed, slipping into the sheets and pulling a blanket up to his chin.

Geralt lay down beside him, “Will you be able to sleep now?”

“With you by my side, my dear witcher, I could not feel safer. I am quite sure I’ll rest easy tonight.”

Geralt reached out slowly and wrapped a tentative arm around Jaskier’s waist, drawing him closer, “It doesn’t have to be for just tonight.”

“Well then, you’ll have to help me move my things tomorrow.”

Check out my masterlist!

Tag list: @stinastar @feraljaskier @bastardofmothman @hailhailsatan @moonysourenza @its-onions @elliestormfound @dapandapod @geraskier-trashh @jaskierswolf @fontegagrilledcheese @negativenuggetz @veritasrose

#the witcher #the witcher fandom #the witcher fanfiction #fanfiction #ficlet #jaskier #geralt of rivia #geraskier #jaskier is afraid of the dark #but geralt will protect him #kozkaboi

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bookishspirit662 · 3 years ago

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The shockwave from the explosion in the reactor of the Grimlands Forge knew no bounds, and no matter how far away it was, Pixandria couldn't be safe.

Completely unrelated, did you know sand in Minecraft is one of the few blocks with gravity physics?

so I had an idea. here's a fairly short fic, there is a lot lot of minor character death (the world is ending it's like a disaster movie what do you expect) but I didn't describe any like blood and guts type stuff, so do with that what you will

The Copper King had been gone for months when the sands sank.

It was a pleasant day in the desert, as the sun had decided not to be punishingly warm. The people of Pixandria had finally begun to adapt to their ruler's absence. Days went on, a few dedicated citizens tended the Vigil, and acceptance set in: Their king wasn't going to come back, at least not for a very long time. Everything was quiet.

Then the earth trembled.

The streets filled with confusion, most Pixandrians never having experienced an earthquake before. When the shaking died down, the royal advisors sent masons to check for damage to the buildings, muttering amongst themselves. To their knowledge, the beautiful capital wasn't on any fault lines, so what happened? Soon, with the masons having determined that none of the houses, the shops, or the Anthill had been visibly hurt, the advisors told everyone to go back to their lives. Everything was under control, everything was fine. As the people cautiously returned to what they were doing, the sky darkened with a storm. A few faces lit up—were they to get a rare rain today?

Lightning flashed across the sky above the Anthill, rumbling in the distance. A few parents ushered their children inside, as electric storms weren't to be messed with. Another bolt struck the ground this time, followed by a crack that most definitely wasn't thunder. One brave fletcher stepped forward, squinting at the ground that had been hit.

“I don't see—”

The sand fell from underneath his feet, dropping him out of sight. Screams rang out, and everyone who was nearby tensed. No one had ever seen such a sinkhole before. “Uncle Henley?” called a younger boy tentatively. “Are you alright?” They all waited anxiously to hear something, anything, but no answer came.

“Is it done?” asked the boy. “Can we get him out now?”

As if it was taunting them all, the sand started to trickle more quickly, shifting into a stream, then a pour. It took a moment for everyone to process, but they quickly came up with a solution: “Run!”

They raced to the Anthill, the most stable place in Pixandria, minus the Vigil and the strange magic about it. Sand was now swiftly sinking beneath the city, and people left their crumbling homes in a hurry. Even within the walls of the Anthill, the ground seemed to shiver, and the volume of people's voices rose with their fear. The shaking only increased. One girl decided to risk a glance outside, and so she wove her way towards the door. Gasps rang out around her as those nearby saw the precipice that had formed, a drop that had to be at least twenty feet down. Houses lay broken on the ground, plants rested uprooted, paths were merely streaks of browns and reds… The Vigil had remained standing above it all, but its base had small cracks tracing up the sides.

“What are we meant to do?” she asked, running a hand through her hair. “Are we just… trapped here?”

No later than the words left her mouth, the walls of the Anthill began to tremble. Shouts could be heard as people noticed pebbles falling from the ceiling, and the crowd surged towards the door, not knowing of the emptiness beyond. Those at the front tried to brace themselves to stay safe, but still the girl and two others plummeted to the rubble below, screaming as they fell. People quickly realized there was nowhere to go, so they huddled towards the center as bigger and bigger rocks fell from above. Praying, hugging their loved ones close, and hoping this was all just a nightmare, the citizens of Pixandria felt the world cave in around them.

Months later, when the Copper King made it back to see why he’d had visions of the Vigil, he found nothing but a broken monument of Death and traces of red rocks mixed into the sand. He fell to his knees as he realized that everything that he’d built and guarded for centuries was gone, lost beneath the sands that blew in from the west.

#screw it maintagging #empiresblr #empires smp #empires fic #empires smp fic #bookish's fics #empiressmp #pixlriffs #pixandria #esmp

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kaiparker-avengerssmut · 4 years ago

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Our Doll 14// Here we Go Again

B.Barnes x S.Rogers, B.Barnes x Stark!Reader, S.Rogers x Stark!Reader

Series Synopsis | After the events of the horrific past, y/n Stark, Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes have finally admitted their feelings for each other. But is life as an avenger whilst dating two super soldiers any easier than anything y/n’s experienced in the past?

sequel Series to Their Doll

Series Warnings | smut, violence, torture, swearing, threesomes, drug usage/substance abuse

Chapter Summary | y/n and Bucky get closer again

Warnings | blood, implied violence

A/n | This is a sequel book/series to my fic Their Doll! This book loosely follows the mcu timeline, starting in CAWS in book one and starting just before AOU in this book. Bucky had been recovered and is safe, and Peter was taken under Tony's wing when he was much younger.

Masterlist | Series Masterlist

"My scar." Y/n mumbled, looking up at Bucky suddenly. The man hummed, placing his book on his lap to look back at his girl.

"What about it?" Bucky mumbled back with curiosity.

"You said those...dreams were what you would've done if we'd been together before the war, but I still had my scar. You could've gotten rid of it, but you didn't." Y/n explained, a confused frown dancing over her brow when he smiled.

"It's because I love you, all of you. That scar, it tells a story that you shouldn't have to tell, but shouldn't ever forget. It's part of you, like this," Bucky lifted his metal arm, waving the plated hand slightly, "is part of me."

Y/n smiled light from where she sat across the couch; she still didn't feel comfortable being too close to Bucky after the whole locking her up thing, but she was getting closer.

"I'm sorry." He abruptly blurted and y/n frowned. Bucky took a deep sigh before continuing. "I really can't tell you how sorry I am about...about, well, everything?" Bucky proposed and y/n shifted in her seat slightly.

"Oh." Was all she managed, placing her own book on the flimsy coffee table that sat parallel to the torn up sofa in the motel room they were staying in. "Thanks, I guess?" She supplied and Bucky blinked at her. "I'm sorry, I'm just not good at this stuff, I guess. I'm so confused as to how I should feel right now." Y/n vented and Bucky smiled.

"You have nothing to be sorry for. I'm just happy you can bare me enough to talk to me, I was terrified that I may have lost your trust forever." He mumbled, tentatively reaching to take y/n's hand. When she didn't flinch or pull away, he held it in his own.

"I just don't know what to feel; on the one hand, you let them lock me up, but on the other, well, you did everything you could to keep me comfortable and you got me out." Y/n admitted and Bucky nodded, understanding. "And I still love you." She added quietly and Bucky grinned, before wiping the expression from his face.

They'd been on the run for a couple of weeks now, skipping between dingy motels and safe houses that had been long forgotten. Using a code, Bucky and Peter had kept in contact. Apparently, Tony and Sharon were furious.

"I love you too. Do you want some food yet?" Bucky asked and y/n nodded. He got up and crossed the room to gather some money and the room key. "I'll be back in half an hour tops, okay?" Bucky checked and y/n nodded.

"See you later." She murmured as the door slammed shut.

Alone with her thoughts again.

Y/n would rather be in Bucky's company than alone still. Even after the stuff he'd done, she couldn't stop herself from loving him. And it's not like she hadn't done her own fair share of bad things, too.

The girl sighed, rubbing her eyes as she felt the drowsiness of sleep overcome her. Maybe she could get a nap in before Bucky got back.

...

Bucky kept his head down. His hair had grown longer; he hadn't bothered cutting it since they left. His hood was drawn tightly over his face and his steps were quick as he paced to the closest store that sold food.

Once he reached the shop, Bucky rigged a hand - the flesh one - from his pocket and pulled open the door. When inside, he hastily went in search of some decent food.

Although, he instantaneously discovered one of the down sides to shopping at night - drunk people. The boisterous laughed filled his ears like water as Bucky hunted through the shelves, slurred insults thrown back and forth within the group of men.

"Hey, you!" Shit. Bucky looked up. "Yeah, you with the long hair!" One of them boomed and Bucky scoffed, shaking his head as he turned back to the section of ready-made sandwiches.

"Hey, look at me." The man persisted and Bucky rolled his eyes. They boy looked back to his friends, all clearly amused with the situation before the guy was swinging a punch in Bucky's direction.

On instinct, the super soldier caught the guy's fist in his hand. His metal hand. The guy looked so aghast that Bucky had to stop himself from laughing.

...

"This may hurt a little." Y/n sighs, eyes squinted as she threads the needle in front of her. Bucky swallows his groan of pain, giving her a stiff nod before letting his head knock back into the wall behind him. Y/n steps between her boyfriend's legs, pulling his arm forwards and letting a small apology slip from her lips when he hissed.

"Fuck!" Bucky cursed, metal fist slamming into the counter that he was sat on, the dent large and lined with splintered wood. Y/n winced a little but continued, her voice twisting around whisper sweet nothings to calm him down.

Bucky's breathing was heavy, laboured, as y/n continued to sew up the gash, lip pulled between her teeth in concentration.

"Almost there...just a little more..." Her small voice mumbled as Bucky's metal a whirred.

"Fuck me, please remind to never piss off a group of drunk guys again." Bucky groans, but y/n could only find herself biting her lip harder at the thought of fucking him again.

Clearly, this intimate moment had helped her see past his mistakes.

Huh.

"I'm so sorry, y/n. I'll be more careful next time." Bucky promises, flesh hand reaching to cup her cheek when he pulls back - remembering her hesitance.

"It's not your fault. I'll still patch you up each and every time it happens." Y/n smiled tightly, almost with pity when she eyes his retracted hand.

Bucky nods solemnly before moving to hop off the crappy bathroom counter in their motel room, only to cut himself short with a groan.

"Easy, soldier." Y/n jokes, placing her hands onto her boyfriend's hips to help him down.

"Thanks." He mumbled low before hobbling off, eyes biting back tears as he limped through the room to flop on the creaky bed.

Y/n sighs heavily, watching him go with a sad expression. Bucky flicked the TV on - blue light sliding over his features in a haunting highlight; the structure of his bones protruding with the flashing colour of people moving across the screen.

"Y/n." Bucky hissed as she wrung out the little towel - now full of blood and stained a deep crimson.

Her her snapped up, the wet fabric falling into the sink with a soggy slap before she was stumbling across the room to perch on the edge of the bed.

"Oh my god." She exclaimed, hand tight over her mouth I shock at the screen.

"Suspect in the bombing is none other than James Buchan Barnes and Y/n Stark. We'll be back with more information when we have it." The presenter finished, accompanied by pictures of both y/n and Bucky stealthily away from the building, which was now laying in ruins.

"Oh my god." She repeated, horrified at the sight of King T'Chaka and all the victims.

Bucky Barnes Series/mini Series | @buckysgirl101 @quxxnxfhxll @marvelhoesworld @macylawz @Zaphdekota @theoldermanswhore @addriaenne @thegirlwiththeimpala @turkish276 @lilpopizzle @gooseyhouse @ohmy-fandoms @harrysthiccthighss @partiesandblurrypolaroids @prettysbliss @the-surviving-revolutionist @white-wolf1940 @dpaccione @tenaciousperfectionunknown @loveyou5everr @vallerydevora @multihoee @supraveng @cap-n-ce @sebbyxlover @jeremyrennermakesmesmile @veronicapaula @ravenmoore14 @frickin-bats @itstaylorcale @sunflowerbunny2 @spookyparadisesheep

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goodmanmorgan · 4 years ago

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Okay so we all know Arthur is kinda unsure about PDA which is all find and dandy, But I feel like when he’s drunk he’s probably a little more lenient about it. Do you think you could write a short fic about Arthur and a Male reader sitting around the campfire with a few other of the gang members. Having just a fun old time drinking and singing dumb little tunes.

Like, for once everything just feels at peace. The reader can sit in Arthur’s lap and just laugh and pepper his face with kisses without anyone being bothered. Maybe a soft nsfw end? Nothing too graphic but just imagine Arthur tenderly looking into your eyes as he makes love to you. 🥺 Sorry if this is too much!

First request!! This is a really good prompt and I hope I did ok for my first RDR2 fic!

Arthur is drunk, and we all know what he's like when he has a little bit too much to drink :)

Word Count: 923 Warnings: Alcohol, Period typical homophobia (only a small paragraph near the end) Reader: Male For the first time in a long time, spirits in camp were high. Sean had just been rescued from Blackwater and everyone was celebrating his safe return. You were sat around one of the tables at Horseshoe Overlook with Karen and Grimshaw, watching their game of rummy and listening to Javier strum his guitar at the nearby campfire amongst the chatter and sing-song from others around camp.

You smile and pick up your drink, going to take a sip, however, finding it empty you shake the bottle and grumble. Getting up and tossing the bottle over your shoulder you hear the bottle make contact with something solid, followed by a quiet grunt. Looking over your shoulder to make a quick apology you see Arthur stood behind you, flushed face and eyes hazy, rubbing his shoulder where the bottle made contact.

“Arthur! Fuck! 'm so sorry!” You slur out, stumbling over to him and laying your hand over where the bottle hit him. “'m okay darlin'” he chuckles, pulling you closer to him by your belt loops as you try to fuss over him. You look up at him with a guiltily and move to cup his face in your hands, bringing him down to place a light peck on his lips.

He smiles against you and pulls back a little, shifting slightly so he could lean closer to your ear, whispering “If you want to make it up to me, may I have a dance?” the slight playful lilt in his voice betrayed how much he'd had to drink, as did his actions. He'd never really do this around gang members without a lot of liquid courage.

You snort out a laugh and nod, waving a goodbye to the two women sat at the table and pulling Arthur by the hand to make your way to the front of Dutch's tent, the two of you stumbling slightly every now and then. Emerging from around the side the two of you spot Molly and Dutch holding each other close and dancing, gazing into each others eyes with soft smiles and chuckling to themselves whenever he dipped her. The sight made you smile and lean into Arthur, they had been so tense recently – they needed this.

Arthur wraps his arms around you as you move to be chest to chest with him, copying the moves of Molly and Dutch the two of you sway together slowly, your head on his chest and his head resting on top of yours. You were like that for a while, both of you just existing in the other's arms – feeling at peace. Untouchable. Nothing and nobody could ruin this moment, Not Micah, not Colm, not even the Pinkertons.

The phonograph eventually stops, both of you pulling apart and bowing at each other with small grins. You kiss Arthur on the cheek as a thank you, murmuring about going to get another drink and he nods, kissing you on the forehead and wandering off to go find something to do.

Heading over to the drinks on the table in front of Dutch's tent you grab a bottle and your hazy mind travels to how touchy Arthur is when he drinks. 'He deserves to let himself go every now and then' you think, grabbing another bottle for Arthur, watching Karen and Sean sneak off to John's tent with a chuckle as you do so.

After uncapping both bottles and taking a swig from yours, you eventually drift to where most people still celebrating were gathered around the campfire, singing along to Javier playing Jack o' Diamonds. You take another mouthful of whiskey and spot Arthur sat next to Uncle on a set of crates singing along, looking more carefree than he has in weeks.

You make your way over to him and all but throw yourself in his lap, finishing your drink and passing him his, his free arm settling around your waist to stop you from slipping off and colliding with Uncle. You give him a cheeky grin and he squints at you slightly, trying to guess what you want from him before he falls into a chesty laugh as you pepper his face with feather-light kisses, the rest of the gang sat around the fire joining him, watching your antics make Arthur turn a darker shade of pink.

Eventually you stop, shifting in his lap to face the fire and lean against Arthur's chest, listening to him joining in some of the songs with his beautifully rough voice right next to your ear, leaning his head on your shoulder.

A brief thought crosses your drunken daze, thinking about how lucky you both are to have the gang. In most areas, two men seen in a relationship together could be hung, but here, in this den of thieves, outlaws and murderers no one -apart from maybe Micah- really paid it any mind. It made you happy. Being here made you happy.

You relaxed back into Arthur further, lazing like a content cat, barely registering the movement out of the corner of your eye. Slightly turning your head to see what it was you spot Karen and Sean sneaking back out of John's tent, hair messed up, flushed and smiling like idiots, Sean more so than Karen. Arthur follows your line of vision to them when you squeeze his arm, pressing a kiss into your shoulder and tightening his arm around your waist, finishing his drink. A silent invitation, one which you accept with another squeeze of his arm.

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x male reader #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 x reader #rdr2 x male!reader #rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 x reader #red dead redemption 2 x male reader

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veryreallyfuckinbad · 3 years ago

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FIRE AND MOSS // Daryl Dixon X Reader// CHAPTER 2

TW: Injury, strong language.

A week has passed since you found the note, that was your guess at least. Time was difficult to keep track of. With no calendar, the only way you could keep track of how much time has passed was by monitoring your supplies. You were on your heels ever since then, after all you didn’t know the stranger’s intentions.

Jake was useful, both in keeping you sane and in tracking any edible creatures, mainly squirrels. Lately, however, you could find fewer and fewer animals. That’s the only reason you decided to venture out of your camp, which has grown- you set up a small, green tent, got a couple of logs to sit on by the fire, even installed a makeshift security system which consisted of some tripwire and empty cans that alerted you whenever someone, or something got too close to your camp. Jake was incredibly helpful with setting the tripwire up, he tangled himself in it about four times before you could tie it around the trees properly. He was also kind enough to make sure that the cans were free of any dangers, sticking his snout in them and running to you so you could take them off. You didn’t mind, though. You enjoy every second you spent with the animal, he made you laugh and feel safe- always alerting you when he sensed danger nearby. You couldn’t deny that the two of you had a special bond, the kind of bond that only two wild creatures that were both hurt by the world could have.

The lack of supplies caused you to venture out of the “safety” of your camp. You didn’t want to stray far, so you decided to check a lone cabin that stood in a clearing, between the trees, about three miles from your camp. You had found it while tracking a buck with Jake but decided to come back to it later, as not to lose your prey[J1] [J2] [J3] .

You walked on the moss-covered forest floor with Jake trotting by your side, glancing up at you from time to time. Every time you stepped on a stray twig, the snapping noise would cause him to growl and look at you, giving you a warning before he realized that you weren’t in any danger. All you could hear, apart from Jake’s occasional panting was the beautiful, almost calming chirping of birds. You chuckled to yourself when you remembered the first time you heard a woodpecker hitting the willow you were set up under with his beak- you almost pissed yourself. It was unexpected to say the least.

You reached the cabin, taking in the disturbingly tranquil sight. It was wooden and old, some mushrooms grew on the half-collapsed roof and you could see ferns and twigs growing through the broken windows.

“Alright,” you kneeled down and gave Jake a pat between his ears “now, we need to be careful. Some could be trapped inside” you smiled at your companion and stood up.

Slowly and quietly, you made your way to the cabin door and unsheathed your knife. You gave Jake a signal to stay down, knowing that he would understand- you did this with him before. He understood you and your signals well.

You quickly opened the door, making it hit the wall. You sighed with relief as you saw that no walkers were inside- at least none of them were in the main room. You looked around- broken glass littered the wooden floor, greenery grew out of cracks in the floor. You still had to check the bathroom, so you motioned for Jake to enter. He trotted around the cabin and sniffed everything he could, finally stopping by what you presumed to be the bathroom door. He began snarling and you noticed him tense, fur standing up.

You stood in front of him and quietly praised him while getting ready to take down the walker locked inside. You burst the door open and to your surprise, you weren’t met with any growls or hands trying to claw at you- all you found was a broken mirror and an empty cabinet. Your only complaint about the bathroom, beside it being clear of supplies, was the horrible stench of something rotting, but you couldn’t pinpoint the source of the smell. Then it hit you. The shower. The glass surrounding it was so dirty and smeared with things that you would rather not think about that you didn’t see the walker inside. You quickly swung the glass door open, dead hands and teeth instantly trying to get you. Before you could take it down, however, you felt your foot slip on a puddle of some kind of liquid filth, maybe caused by the humidity of the room.

You fell backwards and wrestled the walker off yourself, trying to push Jake away to protect him. The fox was stubborn though, biting into its neck in an attempt to get it off you. While Jake distracted it, you crawled out of the bathroom, backwards. Calling your companion over to you, he immediately let go of the dead man and ran up behind you- thankfully unharmed.

Before you could catch your breath, you were tackled to the ground once again. This time, though, you felt a sharp, splitting pain, worse than anything you’ve felt in your life. The broken glass dug into your back and the back of your thighs, impaling one of them. Despite the pain, you didn’t give into the walker and with the last of your strength, picked up a sharp shard of broken glass from beside you and plunged it into the walker’s skull, causing it to go limp and fall on top of you- pushing the broken glass even deeper into your back and thighs.

You put your hand over your mouth, trying to suppress the blood curdling scream that was slowly forming in your throat. You managed to push the walker off yourself and tried to stand up, but couldn’t. Jake ran up to your side and whimpered, he didn’t know what to do. He nudged your hand with his head which made you relax a little, it was comforting. He suddenly jolted up and began pulling you by your sleeve, wanting you to get up. You complied, but it was awfully painful.

“Okay” you panted, “I’m okay” you weren’t sure whether you tried to reassure him or yourself.

“Let’s just get out of here, please” you choked out between whimpers and examined your thigh. A huge shard of glass was stuck in it, you wouldn’t be able to walk properly. Knowing that pulling it out would make you bleed out, you ripped off your sleeves and began tying them around the shard in an attempt to stabilize it. You could feel the warm blood trickling down your back, it was a strange feeling. You were quickly becoming dizzy- you were losing too much blood. Shaking your head to remain conscious, you stood up slowly, grabbing onto a table for support. Jake wagged his tail when he saw you get up.

Your head was spinning, you were unsure of which way your camp was. Everything was blurred and cloudy. You knew that if you didn’t find any form of help, and soon, you were a dead girl walking. You pulled out your arm to grab onto a tree, stumbling in the process. All you could do was walk forward. Jake never left your side, nudging you whenever you fell down, even allowing you to lean against him while standing up.

“Just go, please” you breathed shakily, “I don’t need you to get hurt if something happens to me” was all you could say before Jake’s ears went back, he gave your hand a quick lick before he took off. You knew that he didn’t want to go, but you were also aware that if he stayed near you, you could eventually become a danger to him. You kept walking forward, with no destination in mind. You just wanted to sit down and close your eyes for a moment. You shook your head, thinking about everything that has happened to you so far.

Jake, your previous group, they would all want you to keep going. Fox Jake, too.

“Come on” you encouraged yourself “You can goddamn do it”

You stumbled when you saw Jake come running back, squeaking and tail wagging. Even in your desperate state, you couldn’t help the smile that crept upon your face. He came back for you for some reason. You wanted him to go and wanted him to stay at the same time. He gently grabbed your wrist with his teeth, making sure not to hurt you. He pulled you in a different direction and let go, trotting to where he was trying to lead you and coming back again in an attempt to get you to follow him. You did just that.

You squinted your eyes, trying to shield them from the light when you saw an opening in the trees. It was a clearing. But as soon as your eyes adjusted to the light, you saw it- a giant, beautiful mansion with farmland, a barn, hay bales, even a chicken coop. A path made out of pebbles led to the house but you didn’t dare step out of the shade offered by the trees. For a minute you were sure that you were dead. Places like this didn’t exist anymore.

You felt Jake’s teeth on your wrist again, even gentler than before. He nudged you to come out of the forest and into the field. You trusted him, so you did.

Everything was blurry, you were stumbling and couldn’t walk in a straight line. You could hear distant shouting but it was muffled and unclear, you couldn’t make out what they were saying.

Out of nowhere, you were surrounded by strangers. They held you at gunpoint but as soon as they saw you looking at them with life in your eyes, they lowered their guns a little. They asked you questions, but you weren’t exactly able to make out their exact words.

“I’m…hurt” was all you could say before a jolt of adrenaline shot through you when you felt a bullet whiz right past your head, barely missing it. It was shot from the roof of some sort of big car but you didn’t have the chance to take a closer look before you noticed another man run up to you.

Jake growled at all the people, standing in front of you and snarling, showing off his sharp teeth. He was protecting you.

“You fuckin’ idiots! Lower yer guns and help ‘er!” A man yelled, his voice was strange. Gravelly.

You weren’t able to make out more of his yelling when you collapsed. The last thing you felt was Jake’s wet nose nudging your hand and the warm grass beneath your face.

Your eyes fluttered open. You had no idea where you were and no memory of how you got here. You were laying on something soft- were you in an actual bed? You looked around and sure enough, you were covered with white sheets, a pinkish pillow under your head. You sighed with relief when you felt Jake’s warm body pressed against your side, stroking his fur. He looked like a flame again, against the white bedsheets. You noticed his dirty pawprints all over the bed, suggesting he was trying to walk around you, maybe wake you up or lick your face.

“Where are we?” you whispered under your breath, causing Jake’s head to jolt up. He sat up on the bed and looked at you, his tail wagging happily.

“At a farm. Ya were really beaten up”

You jumped up. You didn’t notice the man sitting in a corner, leaning against the wall in the shadows. You were, to put it simply, shitting your pants. You were in a strange place with strange people, in no shape to move, much less run if you had to.

“Who..? I’m sorry I’m-“ you choked on your words, unable to speak. You still felt dizzy, but you were better. The horrible pain in your back and thigh was still present, causing you to hiss before you could finish your sentence.

“Yer alright. Ya wandered into our farm all cut up” he explained, but it didn’t relax you at all.

“Why would you help me?” You said and instantly regretted it, as the man stood up, allowing you to take a better look at him. He had short, dark hair and a crossbow attached to his back. He wore a dark leather vest with no sleeves. He was much, much bigger than you. You guessed that if he wanted to, he could kill you with his bare hands. But he didn’t.

He took a chair that was sitting in a corner and flopped down on it with absolutely zero grace. You noticed him stare you down as if trying to figure out what to say.

“Recognized the fox”

#the walking dead daryl #daryl x y/n #daryl x reader #daryl dixion imagine #daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon fanfiction #twd daryl #daryl imagines

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beautifulletdownfics · 4 years ago

Text

Terrible to Meet You - A Harry Styles One Shot - Act 3, Hearts beat not fail

Harry wants to get out of the house. Alex wants to get home.

Alex meets Harry at at crossroads. Harry meets Alex on a one way street.

A coffee shop OU fic feat. lattes, lamingtons & that Great Unfathomable Feeling.

Story Page Here My Masterlist Here

Read Act 1 & 2 Here

Four Walls 'I wanna make you feel how I feel when I'm listening to love songs'

For their first date, Harry took Alex to his favourite spot at the top of Golders Hill Park, the place with the view that often derailed his outdoor runs, it was so breathtaking.

For the two weeks leading up to him asking her, Harry made an effort to occasionally visit The Daily Dose in the afternoon as well as his daily morning visit.

On those afternoons he and Alex would usually end up in the park near the cafe-—just like that first time—spending hours talking about what they were watching or reading or telling each other about friends or family members, travel adventures and failures. Once, Harry listened to Alex list her top five arguments between her flatmates, which ranged from week-long silent treatments over unstacking the dishwasher to a year-long war over missing socks. Alex liked hearing about all the things Harry loved about being back home in London indefinitely. Harry's favourite thing was when Alex got passionate and started 'swearing in Australian' as he phrased it.

When he admitted to only knowing Australian music to be the likes of Kylie Minogue, Keith Urban and Gotye, Alex vowed to educate him. Later that evening, a text came through a link to a Spotify playlist and Harry listened to nothing else for months.

Neither said it to the other, but as their hearts watched their exchanges—beady little eyes flicking back and forth like tennis spectators inside rib cages—there was a sense a story was unravelling before them Harry and Alex were powerless to control. Harry saw it all as instantly as a human could, while Alex needed half an inch of beckoning to read along with the words on their page. How perfectly two stars aligned—one coming home while the other looked to a home on the too-far horizon.

Alex hadn't ever felt comfortable with someone so quickly, and it was rare for attraction to last for her. Romantically, her endeavours in London always fell a little flat, and she generally ended up on dates with other Australians. Or Kiwis.

Harry went against what she'd experienced before; he made eye contact, and he was attentive in conversations, he remembered little things and threads between her stories that made Alex feel heard and seen. He teased when she swore too much and asked questions when he didn't know something.

So, when Harry lay the picnic rug for them on the grass, only to discover it was covered in muddy paw prints and hair, she enjoyed the opportunity to laugh at him, and to be comforted by the nerves he rarely showed as he kicked the back of the rug in haste trying to clean it off. He lay it back down and sheepishly admitted it was usually for saving his sister's dog from messing up the back seats of his car when Harry dog-sat for her.

He looked flustered and thrown, and Alex thought it was perfect.

"Do you think Paul's face is permanently going to look like that?" Harry asked, waiting for her to glance over at him before doing his best rendition of Paul's smug expression. She laughed as Harry went back to pulling out the provisions he'd brought with him; snacks and water, a book for Alex to borrow, his film camera and then finally, a small, cardboard box from a bakery in East London he was anxious to give her. Alex put down the coffees they'd brought with them from The Daily Dose (Harry was proudly calling his a long black now) as Harry handed her what he hoped would be his silver bullet.

He glanced back up at her where she was standing to the side, taking in the park around them. He was glad he seemed to have taken her to somewhere new. This was his favourite place in London. Before Harry picked her up, Alex swapped her work clothes for a blue and white dress with just two thin straps up over her shoulders. Harry couldn't keep his eyes from settling on the freckles over her collarbones, he was utterly entranced by the newly exposed skin. She only got more attractive to him, although as he nearly spilled the honey almonds everywhere, he was sure the catalogue of moments where he looked like an idiot in front of her only grew.

"It's his universe stuff again," she adjusted the sunglasses on her nose, and shut her eyes beneath her glasses, tuning into the feeling of warmth from the sun around them. She was thinking about how the heat in London felt utterly different from the summers at home. The summer she'd give anything for right now, along with the feeling of home. In summer London got warm, but it didn't swelter like she craved. It was a crisp, clean warmness that she felt safe basking in. At home, weeks of heat started to feel suffocating and heavy.

"Does he still think I'm your cosmic event?" Harry asked after a quiet moment, thinking of Paul's declaration from a few days before. The two hearts leaned in closer, Harry's holding a hand out to Alex's.

Alex hummed out a sound that could go either way, turning around to see if she could help Harry setting up at all, "He also thinks Brad and Jen are going to get back together."

Harry squinted up at her, trying to appear unbothered as he patted the rug in invitation, "Could still happen though, right?"

Taking the few steps to the edge of the rug, she looked at him, taking in the way his bottom lip was pulled between his teeth. Was he talking about the celebrity couple or … "Maybe?"

It wasn't a conversation for their first date though, so Harry diverted it, "I'm still holding out hope for Ross and Rachel, to be honest."

When they were settled in their spot on the side of the hill, the expanse of parkland in front of them, Harry stretched his legs out lazily in front of him, watching as Alex lowered herself down and crossed hers in a pretzel sit beside him. He was hyper-aware of the spot on the side of his left thigh Alex's knee lightly pressed up against. Neither of them moved away from the other.

Slowly, Alex turned her attention back to the box, "What's this?"

"Open it," Harry smiled, "I got you something."

Alex felt her cheeks heat as he watched her fold back the top to reveal what was sitting inside.

Lamingtons.

Harry brought her lamingtons.

"How did you know about these?" Alex marvelled.

"I Googled 'How to get an Australian to fall for you', and this was Step One."

Alex felt her cheeks warm further and saw Harry notice it, "That's not something you can Google, surely."

He grinned back at her, itchy on the inside somehow and tingling all over, "I think at this point, you can Google literally anything."

Alex picked one up and held it between her fingers, struggling to take in the gesture of it. As she chewed through her first, tentative bite she thought of making the small cakes in her grandmother's kitchen during school holidays. They were such a nostalgic food, one that Alex hadn't thought about for a long time. As soon as Harry opened the box though, she was back to being ten-years-old, her feet sticking to the lino of her grandparent's kitchen while all her cousins, sandy and pink from the beach, fought over the plate while being scolded for flinging coconut pieces up the walls.

She took another bite of the lamington and a sip of her tea.

"These are bloody good," Harry's voice was muffled by his mouthful of chocolate, coconut sponge.

Alex laughed at him, "They're one of my favourites."

Harry's face lit up instantly, he'd hit the mark perfectly. He took the next step tentatively, "I really like you, Alex."

"I really like you too," Alex looked up at him, finding the words surprisingly easy to conjure despite the fact hearing them from Harry drilled a shaking fear through her. Her feelings all clicked into place a little too quickly with his, or so it seemed. She didn't know how to square the want for him with her need to leave, to get home. Nothing in her was as sure as the longing for Australia.

His gaze on her was expressionless, but not in an unsettling way, Harry was merely watching her, and Alex found herself calming, and settling into the moment. In fact, she watched him right back, as if hunting for the next piece in whatever puzzle they'd started together.

An exacerbated laugh let her lips eventually, and Harry's expression changed to silently question what was going through her head.

She was grinning at him from her spot beside him, hair framing her face as the sky behind them warmed with the sunset, "Doesn't this feel a little surreal?"

Harry could put his finger on the shared feeling immediately, "Feels like we've done this before, doesn't it?"

She nodded, "What was Step Two?" Alex asked him.

&&&

It rained.

Which, in hindsight, Harry should have made provisions for. It started lightly, and he and Alex stopped talking and looked at each other in shock. She held out her palm to the sky and started laughing while they both waited to see whether it was a passing sun shower or something that would settle in.

Only a few minutes later, they were scrambling into Harry's car almost completely drenched through. Alex hadn't stopped laughing, which Harry took to be a good thing, and it was contagious because he found himself with a sore stomach from his own laughter as well.

"Jesus Christ," he breathed out, wiping the hair from his forehead.

"When it rains, it pours here, doesn't it," Alex held herself in an upright position leaning forward to avoid her warm, wet skin sticking to Harry's seats. Her arms hung in the air in front of her as Alex collected the water droplets along her arms with her fingers.

"Don't worry about the car," Harry read her manoeuvring, swallowing away the wave of lust that swept through him at the sight of her singlet stuck to her body and the damp sheen of her skin. "Are you okay?"

"Yep, I'm good," she grinned over at him, hair stuck to her temples and neck, looking invigorated by the decimation of Harry's perfectly planned afternoon, not put out by it, "You don't have an old gym towel kicking out back there, do you?" She gestured to the back seat.

Harry's face screwed up, "No, and even if I did, I would not be offering you a used gym towel!"

"Usually, that would reassure me."

"I've got clean ones at home," Harry started slowly, "It's just around the corner …"

Alex vacillated between being terrified Harry liked her just as much as she liked him, and berating herself for the feeling.

A smile was splitting his face as he waited for his response, Alex envied the ease behind his charm, "Let's go."

&&&

Alex instantly loved his house.

It was clean and warm and understated. As Harry led her, he named the room as he went. Alex tried equally to take every inch in and tattoo it to the inside of her skull, trawling it for details and lessons about Harry, while at the same time trying desperately not to appear too nosy or eager.

Her dress was wet and uncomfortably stuck skin to her as they went.

There was an awkward moment when Harry left her in his laundry with a bathrobe and instructions to take off her wet clothes while he ran upstairs to do the same. A few minutes later, (during which Alex agonised over whether to take off her underwear or not) Harry quietly knocked on the door and said Alex's name as he came in with a fresh outfit and an armful of his own for the washing machine.

When they got to the kitchen, he offered to put the kettle on, and Harry's movement prompted her to notice an appliance sitting tucked away in the corner on the bench.

"What's that!"

Harry turned around at the sound of her cry, he'd been trying to breathe through thoughts of Alex wrapped in his robe which was somehow setting off a loud (horny) alarm in him, "What? What's what?"

"That!" Alex went towards him, a look of horror on her face as she stared at the espresso machine he barely used anymore, "Harry! What the hell is this?"

"Oh," he rested his hip against the bench and crossed his arms over his chest, "That?"

Alex bumped his shoulder with the heel of her hand, "You don't need to buy coffee every day, look at this beauty."

Harry felt her thigh pressed against his. He didn't move away from the touch. Instead, he let his palm find the small of her back while she ran her fingertips over the top of the silver machine in front of them, "I think you know why I do, actually, need to buy coffee every day."

Watching her in profile, Harry saw her lips quirked in understanding, although Alex tried to hide it.

When she was quiet for a few beats too long, Harry prompted her, "Alex?"

"It's Paul's clairvoyant services, isn't it?"

"It's really not," Harry laughed, "Although it was impressive he guessed my favourite Friends character based off my coffee order."

Alex rolled her eyes, "It was a lucky guess."

Harry laughed and leaned closer to her, angling himself so they were face to face and he could hear the unsteadiness of her breathing, "I go every day to see you," he tells her simply.

"I know," she pressed her lips together and flexed her fingers out from the fists they'd been squeezed in. "I'm glad you do."

"But you can come over and use this anytime you want," Harry said of his machine. His nose was so close to Alex's it almost itched.

He knew to kiss her then as if he'd lived it before or it was a moment that happened in another life, and something in Harry remembered it. Hearts reached out for each other and fell together in the centre as Harry's lips pressed to Alex's, there was a sigh of souls as if two pieces of time clicked together perfectly.

After not even a minute of having Harry's mouth against hers, Alex felt breathless, his chest pressing into the bulkiness of the bathrobe around her. She laughed at something her body understood, but she didn't yet, leaning away from Harry to take a breath and finding his lips greedy to keep her there.

"Harry, Harry, stop," Alex finally put her hands on him, fingers curving over the top of his shoulders and squeezing lightly.

He was breathless in front of her as well, faces together and lips upturned, "Yes?"

"This is insane, we shouldn't… This … This is insane." She laughed, her head moving back and forth.

Harry's brows furrowed, but the smile stayed across the rest of his face, "What is? Why is it insane?"

Alex wasn't enjoying stopping it, "I'm sorry, I don't—Don't you think starting something is a bad idea?"

His head tilted to one side, "I happen to think it's an excellent idea, actually."

"It's insane," her heart wasn't in the protest though.

"It's not," He argued back gently, sensing Alex stepping through something in her head. Something that Harry probably needed stepping through as well, "This happens."

"It does?"

"Two people meeting by chance and both being crazy for each other from the start? Yes."

"But this year …"

He grinned, swaying and holding her eyes with his, "Just agree and say you're crazy for me, Alex."

Alex half-rolled her eyes as she accepted the kiss coming her way, chaste and sweet, "I mean, the world is ending, Harry—

—If the world is ending," he gave her a look, "Then this is the best time, this is the time to just take your shot. What have you got to lose?"

Alex couldn't force herself into the same blind faith, "Nothing's for certain anymore."

Harry's gaze softened, "Nothing except how you feel, nothing except the person right in front of you, right now."

The person in front of her wasn't someone Alex was looking for at all.

"What's going to happen?" Alex asked, sounding young and unsure. Her fingers reached for Harry's, and she linked herself to him silently.

Harry replied honestly, "I don't know, but I want to find out."

&&&

505 'Oh, when you look at me like that, my darling, what did you expect?'

She woke with Harry's hand resting heavily across her ribs.

It took Alex's brain only a few seconds before her eyes flew open, and she reached aimlessly for her phone, "Shit."

4:12am.

Shit, she thought, brain drunk on sleep as her chest lit up with panic.

Alex wasn't of right mind, and so her attempt to slip out from Harry's bed and skip across the room for her belongings was met by staunch resistance from him. Immediately at her movement, his grip tightened in his sleep, and Harry's body leaned closer to her, his arm extending further around Alex's torso as his face contorted in a frown.

"Harry," she said more urgently, his bedroom dark and still around them, "I have to go."

Those words turned the lights on in his head, and Harry's eyes opened in the darkness, "What?"

It was four weeks since the first time she had been to his house but the night before was the first time Alex stayed over on a weeknight. (Weekends had almost exclusively been spent together) She didn't remember falling asleep. Things got heated after dinner and a movie on Harry's sofa and two orgasms later exhausted, so it seems, they broke the weeknight rule.

Alex wriggled away with the slight loosening of Harry's hold, "I have to go," she repeated.

Harry raised his head up to look for the time, "No, it's 4am, Al, no."

"We fell asleep," Alex covered his wrist with her hand and pulled it up with the duvet and started to kick her legs out. "I have to go home first before work."

"Why?" Harry asked, sitting up and squinting in the darkness to see where she was moving. He didn't understand why Alex never took advantage of the fact he lived closer to her job than she did.

"I don't have work clothes here."

"Alex," his arm lunged towards where the last of her was slipping out of his reach. Harry got a hold of her elbow and gently tugged it towards him, Alex's movement stopped, and he heard a quiet sigh come from her lips, "We'll find you something to wear here."

"Harry," she protested. Wearing a man's clothes only worked in movies, Alex had boobs and hips and wasn't any part of her that wished for the hit to her self esteem trying any of his clothes would provide.

"Alex."

"You won't have anything that will work for me."

Fit, fit was the word she meant.

Harry groaned, still barely able to think straight from being woken from the deepest sleep, "It's four o'clock in the morning, Alex, what were you going to do, get an Uber across London for a t-shirt and jeans? I'll give you a shirt, and you can wear the jeans you wore yesterday."

"I need black jeans for work."

"Paul won't care, and I'll drive you too," Harry thought it pertinent to try sweetening the deal, although he thought it went without saying. His next words came out more firmly, "I'm not letting you leave at 4am, come back go bed."

Alex obeyed, but she felt betrayed by her mind for giving in mostly due to sleepiness. Harry's chest was warm, and with the duvet back around her, she lay awake with the sound of his deep breathing as he slept on. It didn't take long for tears to prickle her eyes and a thick hotness to coat the back of her throat. Here she was in the arms of a man who'd completely taken her life by surprise, yet Alex had an overwhelming yearning for a place on the other side of the world.

Every time she spoke to her sister about the baby or heard from her brother and his fiancé about their wedding, the fire inside her raged with a frustrated and fierce calling for home.

How could she be so desperate to leave while at the same time feel like she had everything to lose in going? She sensed her life had come to be ruled by two separate timers: one counting down to the moment she got on a flight back home, and the other simultaneously counting down her time with Harry. One timer ticking down to something she wanted so much, but it also signified her losing something she had no idea she would get.

Shit, she thought.

&&&

Harry thought it was funny how Alex thought Paul didn't know they were seeing each other.

When he dropped her off at work that morning, she was adamant they go early, and he was not to pull up outside The Daily Dose. Harry had a right mind to call up his mum and apologise for all the times he or his sister asked her to do something similar dropping them off to school.

Alex was wearing the jeans she wore to his house on Saturday—and again on Sunday, evidentially she wasn't bothered wearing them twice in one weekend—and a long-sleeve t-shirt of his from somewhere along the line. It was a teal green Harry had not been keen on in the slightest until he saw Alex in it. She knotted it with a hair tie at her waist to fix it being too long on her. (Harry hadn't said he told her so)

"Do you want to stay over again tonight?" He asked, the engine running as he leant to peer around the street corner towards where the cafe was, "Are you sure I can't just drive you around to the front?

She shook her head at his second question, and then answered his first, "And run into the same clothing problem again?"

Harry smirked and ran his eyes across her chest, thinking of the moments immediately after he saw her wearing his shirt and how he promptly removed it from her, "I don't recall there being any problem."

"Harry!"

"We've broken the weeknight rule now, it's moot," he bargained. Trying not to think about the fact that at any moment, she could get the phone call or email that would mean he'd lose her. Harry wanted nothing more for her than for Alex to have certainty about getting back to her family in Australia, but that didn't mean the selfish half of him wasn't greedy for all the time he could get. "We can go and pick up some stuff from your place, I'll come to pick you up at three."

"You're relentless," she was halfway out, her leg out the car door as she gathered her handbag from the floor.

Harry grinned at her, "Sure am! Now, c'mere," he curled his finger at her, leaning his elbow onto the middle console.

Alex leant forward and kissed him, for all her resistence she couldn't help her next question, "Will you come in later this morning for a coffee?"

"Of course," his palm squeezed her forearm, "Have a good day."

He sat and watched her skip down the street and around the corner through the windscreen, smiling like a fool to himself. The phone number Harry dialled next was automatic, he didn't even think twice about how early it was.

"Good morning, my wonderful, son," his mother answered warmly.

"Morning, mum," Harry checked the traffic behind him and turned out onto the road. "How are you?"

"I'm good, my dear, what a treat to hear from you first thing. What's news from London?"

His whole life, he'd heard people say 'when you know, you know'…

"I've met the woman I'm going to marry, mum."

Well, Harry knew.

&&&

Sixteen 'Time. Suddenly, we got no time'

Two weeks later, on a Tuesday, Harry received the kind of phone call he'd do well to avoid ever getting again.

It had just gone 10pm, which was late for Alex to be awake on a work night.

Harry was spread out on the armchair in his bedroom where he'd been reading for the few hours after dinner. His bed beckoned, but he was trying to get through the final few chapters of his book.

Seeing his girlfriend's name flash up on his phone brought a smile to his face.

"Hey you," he answered, sure that she'd be on the other end of the call, bored or frustrated at not being able to sleep. It immediately became clear though, from the first sound Harry heard from her down the line, that something was very wrong. He listened to a shaky intake of breath and something like a whimper from her, "Alex? What's wrong?"

She pressed her hand into her chest to steady herself, "Can I come over?"

Harry was on his feet, "Yes, yes, of course. I can come to get you, where are you?"

"I'm already in an Uber," she said quietly.

"Are you alright? What's happened," Harry urged again, racing down the stairs from the top storey of his house, turning on all the lights as he went, "Alex?"

It was silly how upset she was, Alex couldn't stop the devastation she felt though, "Jess has gone into labour."

Harry stilled, his heartbreaking for her, "Oh, Alex, babe, I'm sorry."

"Yeah," she breathed out, shakily, "I just don't want to be alone right now."

"Is everything okay, I mean, this is early, right?"

"Jess is fine," Alex relayed, "It's just early."

Fifteen minutes later, Harry got a text saying her Uber was about to turn onto his street. He left the front door wide open and went down to meet her on the curb. He watched the headlights of a dark sedan slowly creep towards him, feeling a heavy dread inside him.

She's not supposed to be here for this, he thought to himself. It wasn't fair.

He thought of the conversations they'd already had about what would happen when Alex got notice of her flight back home. It was all Harry wanted for her, despite the fact it would mean living with his heart outside his body. Despite the fact it would put everything up in the air for him. He was determined to have her in his life, just as he was determined to do nothing but blindly encourage and support her return home.

Alex emerged from the back passenger door, saying a sincere thank you to the driver.

"Hey," Harry greeted her, pleased to see an overnight bag hanging off her shoulder.

"Hi," she stepped up to him and straight into his open arms, squeezing herself as tightly as she could against his chest.

&&&

His leg was numb, but Harry wasn't in any hurry to move.

He and Alex were wedged into the corner of his sofa, her lying between his legs with her torso across his, one of his legs propped up on the back cushion while the other wrapped around her hip on the other side.

It had been a little over an hour since she arrived, and Alex was waiting for a phone call confirming the birth of her sister's baby. The two of them had been quietly chatting back and forth while a quiet album played in the background, Alex teary and struggling while Harry did everything he could do soothe her through the waiting. But there was no feeling better, there was no magical way to fix it for her. Alex was as far away as humanly possible from her family at precisely the time she wanted to be with them. Instead of meeting her niece or nephew in person, Alex would be hearing about them from a phone call.

Harry felt the vibration coming from Alex's phone at the same moment she did. She sniffed against his chest and flipped it over where the screen was lit up with an incoming FaceTime. Harry's hands fell away from where they'd been crossed over her back, he watched Alex sit up between his legs and run her sleeve under her eyes.

"It's my brother-in-law," she told him, surprising Harry when she swiped to accept the video call.

The week before, when Harry told his mum about Alex, it was the first time his family had heard of her. And in the time since, Alex admitted her siblings already knew about him. Still, Harry wasn't sure how much they knew of him, and he didn't feel the need or want to insert himself into such an important family moment. Still, Alex wasn't moving away from him or making it seem at like she wanted to be alone for the call. Harry stayed where he was, looking up at Alex and observing her interaction silently from his spot.

"Alex!" The booming voice of her sister's husband filled Harry's warm, London living room.

She held the phone out in front of her face, face splitting into a colossal smile Harry wished he could bottle, "Matt, how is she? What's going on?"

"Jess is great," Matt told her, the white hospital wall behind him giving nothing away, "She did amazing. And we've got a little boy, Alex. He's perfect, you … You can't imagine how perfect."

Tears leaked out of her eyes instantly, "A boy!"

"A little man," he confirmed joyfully, blind with the love of a new parent.

Harry squeezed Alex's hip, feeling emotional himself. Wishing like anything Alex wasn't doing this over a phone screen. She mopped up her tears with the sleeve of her jumper.

"Show me him, where is he?" Alex was desperate to see her nephew, "Where's Jess?"

"She sent me out here to call you, we don't have great reception in the room," Matt explained. "As soon as she's up and moving, she'll call you herself."

"Oh, okay," Alex tried not to sound too disappointed.

Matt knew her well enough to sense it though, "It's alright, Alex. She's desperate to speak to you, Jess wants to be the one to introduce you to him. He's not looking his best at the moment now, anyway," Matt laughed, "They're kinda misshapen when they come out."

"I'm so happy," Alex said happily. "How are you?"

"Me!" Matt laughed, "I'm great. Your sister is a bloody legend. We miss you though."

"I miss you guys, too, more than ever."

Harry looked away from her face, focusing on the black TV screen across the room.

"You'll be back soon though," Matt was upbeat.

"I can't believe you're a dad!" Alex cried out happily, "I'm going to have to start writing down all the corrupt and illegal things I've witnessed you do, so I can turn your kid against you when they're older."

Matt laughed, "Ah, you fucker. I hope they never let you back in then."

&&&

"I'm such a wanker," Harry said into the blackness of his bedroom, sometime after 1am that evening.

Alex was lying beside him, stretched out across his bed with her legs kicked out on top of the bedding. They had the window open, letting in the warm summer air. It was making Alex feel like she could be at home, in a humid Sydney night.

"Why are you a wanker, Harry?"

"All this time, I've been silently glad you missed your flight back in May… Because it meant I got to mee yout. But after tonight, I—I'm such a dick for being happy about that. You should be with your family right now."

Harry wondered how Alex's usual optimism would measure up to his confession. He'd not seen such emotion from her tonight, her ability to snap her way out of negativity up until that point had been nobel. But she was devastated when he answered his phone earlier in the night, and part of Harry was surprised she wanted to be with him at all at the moment. Surely nothing in London could feel good when she longed so desperately for somewhere else.

"You're not a wanker, Harry."

"Well, I feel like one."

"Were you supposed to be in London right now?"

"Sorry?" He asked.

"If this year had gone how you planned," Alex explained, "Would you have been in London right now? Or in May?"

He thought for a moment, "No, I would have been on tour somewhere. Wasn't going to be in London much this year."

Harry had stopped measuring life by where he was meant to be a few months before, it was driving him mad.

Alex rolled over on her side and pulled Harry's arm against her chest, "Do you want me to say I'm glad your tour got cancelled so we had the chance to meet, to make you feel better?"

"Yes, actually," Harry smiled.

"So glad you've basically lost a year of work, don't know what I would have done without my new piece of London arse."

The next sound was her squeal of surprise when Harry launched himself on top of her, burrying his scratchy cheeks into the hollow of her neck and digging his fingers into her soft sides.

&&&

The next day, Alex got the email.

Notification of Repatriation Flight - London (Heathrow) to Sydney

&&&

Silent Readers: Click here Act 4, And love blooms in hearts not fields - coming soon!

+++

Tag list: @afterhoursharry @beautifuleclipses @bumbershots @coffee-doodle-doo @decadentdonkeyflowerzonk @elemayox @ficsthatmakemeswoon @finelinesupremacy @greatestview @hatnightin2008 @ifiwereaboy2323 @ihearthemcallingforyou @just-damn-bored @kakaym @kara-246 @lifeandsomethingelse @luminescencefics @micurq27 @miorni @monpetitchouchou16 @morethanamelodyy @piawhat @rubytersteege @staceystoleyourheart @stepping-into-the-light @steppingonoranges @stylesfics-xx @stylishmuser @toalltheboyswhowastedmytime @tpwkhoney @ursamajor603 @veryplatoniccircunstances @wanderlustiing @whatevarandomlygoes Sign up for the tag list here

#fic: terrible to meet you #1dff #Harry fic #harry stories #harry styles fanfic

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santigarcia · 4 years ago

Text

fly away with you

an ezra x reader fic~

rating: m for smut; virgin reader; some violence

word count: 6,780

summary: Waking up with no memory after a head injury, you find yourself in the presence of your rescuer - a handsome stranger named Ezra.

a/n: I AM SO SORRY i’ve had this fic like...finished but i just never got around to posting it. i had it broken up in chapters, but i just decided to post them all here w/ breaks to signify where the chapter would have ended. (im also adding the first two parts - so if anything seems familiar this is why!)

Ringing. There’s a loud ringing in your ears. Your vision is blurry, and that ringing won’t stop. You can’t hear anything else, and you’re not sure what you’re seeing. The color brown and green seem to blur together. What happened? Did you hit your head?

Reaching up to touch your temple, you feel wet. Your hair having been matted down with something sticky. Pulling your hand away, you look at it. Not that it does any good because your vision is still blurred. But there’s enough red on your fingertips to know it is blood.

Suddenly you smell it, your blood. And dirt. And earth.

Something else is mixed in, maybe smoke? Something in the air is foul.

The air.

You panic. Where’s your helmet? How long have you been breathing in this air? It’s the air you smell that’s foul. What if it’s toxic? Frantically you try to get up, but you can barely get your legs under you. You’re still too dizzy.

When your vision finally clears, you see your helmet on the ground next to you. There’s a large crack leading to a hole. Shards are everywhere. Some have blood on them, and you assume this is where your head injury is from. But upon further inspection, you see blood on the rock nearest you.

What happened?

It’s still foggy, but you try and retrace your steps from the day.

You had been with your cousin, whose whereabouts now you have no idea. It wasn’t even your choice to come along. But he claimed that your hands were the steadiest, and you’d be best for the harvesting. You had no idea what he was even talking about. You only agreed because your home world is the last place you want to be right now. And hey, he said he’d pay you so why not?

The ship ride over was a nightmare. It was smooth sailing quite frankly, but you’ve never been a fan of space travel. You like it on the ground. Though at the present moment the ground is covered in your blood, what a day it’s been. And you can barely remember it.

You do remember harvesting a couple of those things, you can’t even think to remember what your cousin called them. It wasn’t easy but it wasn’t hard either. You did just fine.

You also remember some arguing? Something was happening? There were these other people?

It’s starting to come back to you, but this air is getting to you. How long have you been walking? Are you even going in the right direction? You feel dizzy again and things are starting to spiral.

Then everything goes black.

A voice this time brings you out of your stupor. You can’t make out what they’re saying, but you can make out it’s a male voice. It’s not your cousin, this voice has a thick accent.

You blink several times to clear your vision again, and you take in your surroundings and this stranger.

First you notice you’re inside laying on a cot of some sort. Everything in the room is an olive green. An ugly yellow light shines overhead. It’s very dim. The space is small, it seems to be a large tent. There’s medical supplies and strange photographs on the wall. Where is this?

The man is sitting near you in a metal folding chair. He’s got no choice but to sit close to you, there’s not any room in this area.

He’s in a suit not unlike your own. His face is kind. His voice is deep, but nonthreatening. Light scruff dusts his cheeks and jaw, and his eyes are pleasant. There’s a small blond streak in his brown hair. And a haggard scar on his cheek. His kind eyes and kind smile almost seem out of place next to that scar.

He’s still talking, but you can’t make out what he’s saying. He’s gesturing with his hand. Just one. It’s only then you realize he’s missing his right arm. You feel dizzy again. What if this man is dangerous? Or did he just lose that arm in some accident?

You reach up to touch your temple again, and you feel cloth. A bandage has been wrapped around your head. And you notice, other than a slight headache, you’re not in any pain.

“Where am I?” you wonder aloud. Your throat is so dry your voice croaks.

“At last, the lady is with us!” the man speaks and this time you understand him. His voice sounds nice. That accent is so strong. “Alas, I must admit, I myself do not know where this is. But I was out and about on my harvest when I saw you lyin’ unconscious on the ground. You were gaspin’ for air. So, I took it upon myself to bring you to shelter and here we are.” he gestures with his arm while he looks around the room. That ugly yellow light shines on his face, and suddenly the light is not so ugly on his tan skin.

“Thank you,” you tell him sitting up a little. You’re still feeling dizzy, but you feel safe. “What happened?” you think aloud again. And where is your cousin?

“I heard what sounded like gunfire off in the distance,” he explains, “that’s how I came to find you.”

“I was with my cousin; did you see anyone?”

“I am afraid I only saw some bodies, miss. You were the only one I saw alive.”

Your cousin, and whoever attacked you must have been near where you first woke up. But in your daze, you started walking and missed the bodies entirely.

You were warned this was dangerous work. Sniffling, you wipe your nose with the back of your hand. Grief and shock are setting in. Your cousin is gone, and your harvest.

“I’m stuck here,” you whisper.

“Nonsense,” the man smiles, it’s a warm smile. He seems so kind. You want to trust him. You may have no other choice. “I could not in good conscience leave you behind. You have suffered a mighty fine wound to your noggin, and your poor lungs have breathed in this nasty shit air we got around here.”

He is talking so fast that you can barely keep up.

“Now, I’m sure you’re a-wonderin’ if you can trust me. And right now, little birdie, I’m all you’ve got.”

In any other situation, if a stranger called you a pet name, you might recoil. But he says things so casually, you don’t feel any malice or perversion behind it.

“You can help me harvest, and I can get you outta here. There is my offer plain and simple. You can surely decline, but if your cousin is gone, my condolences. And you have no way to get home.”

Home. You don’t want to go home. You don’t want to stay here, but you don’t want to go home.

“What’s that?” he leans forward, his eyes squinting. He’s trying to hear; you didn’t realize you’ve just said that out loud. “Where are you from?”

“Zulara,” you mumble.

He winces, clenching his teeth, “I do not blame you one bit for not wantin’ to head on back to that planet. I am currently residin’ on Anvarvis V, and I’d be glad to take you along with me.”

You sit for a moment weighing your options. You’ve heard good things about Anvarvis V. or was it IV?

“We’ll split the harvest 50/50?” you ask.

He nods.

“Ok. It’s a deal,” you nod and stick out your hand.

“Alright,” he grins. “I’m Ezra, what can I call you?”

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

And that’s how you began a partnership with Ezra. You worked well together. Tuns out you were really good at the harvesting part, and Ezra’s wit and charm made him a good salesman. He brokered deals and sold the product you’d harvested for a lot of money.

You’ve been so busy; you’ve not even gone to his home planet yet. But somehow you liked this life with him. There’s space enough of his ship for you, and you quite enjoy his company.

Truth be told you enjoy his company more and more each passing day. Your cheeks warm now when he calls you “little bird.” Your heart leaps into your throat if he ever touches you.

That first week with him he touched you a lot. Yes, okay he was checking the bandage on your head, but his fingers would graze skin and he was standing so close to you.

That’s when it first started you think. Being so close, seeing his soft lips surrounded by a dark stubble. His gentle brown eyes looking over your wound.

Maybe you were just lonely. Or maybe it was sharing such a small space with your rescuer. But you had a crush that only seemed to grow.

It started to suffocate you being so close to him and not being his.

The two of you fell into a natural routine and you grew accustomed to seeing him shirtless. That first time seeing him without a shirt almost sent you over. You ached to touch his olive skin. He looked so warm. You had to force yourself not to stare.

He thought you were looking at his right shoulder, where his arm used to be. And he began to ramble on about how it happened. You were embarrassed because that’s not what you were looking at, but you listened to his story all the same. He was opening up to you.

Ezra has the gift of gab, and he talks nonstop. But if you ever have anything to say, he listens with a deep interest. You’ve never felt so heard before. He never talks over you. His constant talking if often stories or little tidbits of trivia, but after that night of him opening up about his arm, things changed.

He was almost always in a good mood, but when he couldn’t complete a task due to his arm, he’d be a little grumpy and frustrated. But after telling you what happened, he let you help him without protest.

Maybe he got the feeling he could trust you back.

“Thank you, little bird,” he always said. And the last time he said it, you know he saw your cheeks turn red.

You figure at some point he’ll ask, or you’ll admit your feelings. You’re not sure which, but both options scare you. You’ve never done this before.

Back at home, you spent most of your life in school or working. There was no time for relationships, as much as you wanted one. You read stories of lovers, you kept them hidden under your mattress. The want was there, but no experience to fulfill that big question in your mind of what it’s like.

What it feels like to be loved by someone, to be held. You always were a little shy about the sexual parts of the book, yet those were the parts you couldn’t tear your eyes away from.

“What are you thinking about over there?” Ezra’s voice cuts in. A deep blush stains your cheeks. You’d been remembering of a story you’d read where a man pleasures a woman with his mouth. You look at Ezra’s mouth and feel your stomach drop and pray he can’t read your mind.

“Nothing,” you chirp at being caught.

“From that look on your face, I’m gonna wager a gamble and say it’s definitely something clanking around in that head.”

Scrambling, you try to think of anything to change the subject. He’s watching you squirm, and he’s delighted in it. Maybe it won’t be too hard after all to tell him if he can already see it.

“When’s the next sell?” you ask, nibbling the skin off your bottom lip.

“Pretty soon,” he replies. “I will head out soon. Won’t be gone long. Will you be alright to wait here until I make a triumphant return?” he grins.

You nod, returning his smile. You feel a heat pooling in between your legs. You shift a little in your seat trying to relieve the pressure. As soon as he’s gone, you’ll do something about it.

Two nights ago, you touched yourself thinking of him. That was the first time. You’d seen his bare ass when he was exiting the shower area. He had to have known you might see, and you couldn’t decide which thought thrilled you more. But the image of him naked was seared into your mind. And that night while he slept soundly, you touched yourself - wishing it were him.

You’d come up with a dirty fantasy, one you will play out again as soon as he leaves. And he can’t leave soon enough.

Normally, you’d go with him. But this buyer is a familiar one and can be trusted. You’re not worried about Ezra taking care of himself in a fight. He’s been in plenty of a scrap or two.

But if you’re honest, your brain is so clouded with the thought of getting a release you’re not worried about him in the slightest.

The thought passes in your mind you don’t know how long he’ll be gone, so you elect to leave your pants on. You lay down on your bed in your little corner of the ship.

The main hanger is around room, your beds are on opposite walls but still in the same room. So, you can see his bed from yours, and you consider going over to his bed, but you’ve already got your hand down your pants thinking about him on your bed.

You begin to tease yourself and you’re already wet from your own imagination. You think of him naked. What he looks like from the front. What he must look like when he’s hard for you. You think of his lips, and how his hand feels. What they must feel like on sensitive skin. You think of his stubble scraping your thighs. How good his long thick fingers would feel like inside of you. How he’d be gentle taking you for the first time.

Your thighs shake and you clench around your fingers wishing it were him.

The release hits you hard, and you gasp. It echoes through the ship. Your breathing is heavy but beginning to calm, when suddenly you hear:

“Well hello there little birdie!”

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Horror floods through your veins and your heart is pounding in your head. You’re still coming down from your high, while fear spikes within you. Your eyes are wide, and you’re frozen staring at him. Your mouth is hanging open, and his mouth is curved in a playful smirk.

When tears begin to fall from your eyes, his expression softens completely.

“Little bird, I-,” he sticks his hand out trying to demonstrate he didn’t mean to embarrass you, but it’s too late. Tears pouring down your cheeks you run into the bathroom chamber and push the button to close the door harshly. It hisses loudly, and the moment it closes you sink to the floor. Cheeks red with embarrassment.

In those books you’ve read, maybe the character wouldn’t have cared. And would have let the man know what she was doing. But this just isn’t how you wanted this to happen. As much as you do want Ezra to know you want him. The shock of the moment startled you.

Ezra outside in the main hangar is uncharacteristically quiet. You can hear him rummaging around. From the sound of it, he’s taking off the bulky outer suit. It takes him a moment since he only has the help of one arm.

He’ll be sitting down on his bunk and unfasten the clips and zippers. He grits his teeth sometimes, other times he bites his lower lip. You tease him about the different faces he makes when he’s concentrating on something.

Deciding to clear your mind further, you turn on the shower. For a moment you hope he doesn’t need to take one after being outside, but you imagine he’s letting you have your space for a moment.

While you shower, you try to decide what you’re even going to say.

“Hi Ezra, I was touching myself thinking about you.”

Well. That might not be a bad way to start. But that feeling of nerves hits your gut. What if he doesn’t want you back? What if he does want you?

You mull this over in your mind and wash yourself clean. Normally the thought of being naked in here while he’s out there has sent you a thrill. Now you’re even more aware of him.

You decide you do want him. But you don’t know where to start. Him seeing you is one way to break the ice.

Gathering your courage, you wrap a towel around yourself and exit the bathroom into the main hanger. Your eyes fix upon him, and every nerve is on fire.

As expected, he’d changed out of his suit. He’s sitting on his cot in comfortable pants, a worn black Henley, and some socks. His hair is sweaty, but it’s sticking up in multiple directions from obviously running a hand through it. His right arm sleeve is tied in a knot near his shoulder to stay out of his way. He’s got something propped up on his left knee, and he’s practicing his hand strength with his left hand. He pauses when he sees you, he doesn’t speak.

He’s waiting for you to say something first. He can read the terror in your eyes as you step closer. Giving you full attention, he frees his hand, and watches you approach him slowly.

When you’re right in front of his spread legs, he reaches out a hand to grab yours.

“You doin’ alright there little bird? You are tremblin’ like a leaf on a tree with strong winds blowin’ every which way.”

You open your mouth trying to think of what to say. You’d forgotten your entire plan you’d cooked up in the shower. Now that you’re here in front of him and he’s looking at you with those soft eyes, your mind is blank.

You almost wonder if you should just drop the towel and climb on him, but you can’t help but want some romancing.

“Say what’s on your mind little bird, I see the wheels turning in your head.”

“I’m sorry you had to see that,” is all you can think to say. But are you sorry? You don’t know what’s going on.

“I’m not,” he grins, but the grin softens, and his eyes are gentle. He stands and presses his palm to your cheek. Shaking a little from the touch, you lean into his hand. “But I am sorry that my presence startled you so, and that I saw such an intimate act without your permission. I admit I was only present for the uh, grand finale as it were, but on my honor, I will not speak of this again if you would prefer it.”

Your cheeks darkened as he spoke, and you can see the look in his eyes. It’s a gentle attraction.

“I-” you start but only blush deeper under his gentle gaze. His eyes are big, he’s listening intently.

“I understand your profound embarrassment, but there is nothing to be ashamed of seeking a fine release such as that. If I may say little bird, I’m only sorry I was not the one to give it to you.”

Your eyes widen at the last sentence. You swallow hard.

This is it.

“You want me?”

“I do little bird. I have for a quite a spell now. You are, simply put, the sweetest thing I have ever had the pleasure to know, and you have brought a light into my dark life I did not know I was needin’.”

His hand is still on your face, his thumb brushes you bottom lip.

“I want you too,” you give him a shy smile which he returns, “only I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“You surely seemed to know a few moments ago,” he winks.

“Ezra,” you groan and bury your face in his shoulder.

“My sincerest apologies,” he teases, “I already broke my promise.”

He’s trying to make you laugh, which it does. And the two of you share a moment of laughter before you pull back to look up at him again.

“I’m serious though, Ezra. I don’t know how to do this. I’ve never-”

“Never what?” he repeats, thumb rubbing your flushed cheeks.

“I’ve never even been kissed,” you tell him.

“Well, little bird. It would seem the honor has been bestowed to me to teach you the lovely ways of liplockin’.”

“What do I do?” you whisper, which he seems to find amusing.

“You know something, I have never once been in situation quite like this in my lifetime.”

That coaxes a smile from you, and you’re already feeling relaxed.

“I can’t say that I have either,” you laugh.

“First step, is to close those pretty little eyes of yours.”

You close your eyes, and smile, you trust him. You think back to when you met him all those weeks ago when he saved your life. You certainly didn’t imagine this happening then.

“Now, tilt your head just a little,” he pushes a little with his hand guiding you. “And open that mouth of yours, just a smidge.” He pushes down your bottom lip with his thumb.

His voice stops, and you feel his breath on your face. He smells like mint and sweat. You decide it’s a good smell.

You feel the tip of his nose first press against the top of your cheek. Then his lips gently press against yours. His tongue just barely touches your lips. His stubbly chin and upper lip scrape on your skin in a way you didn’t know you’d love this much. His hand holds your face gently, and what he doesn’t say, or can’t say during this kiss, is he wishes he could wrap his other arm around you.

Your knees buckle, and you let go of the towel that’d you’d been holding on to so tight and mold your body to his. A strong thigh is in between your legs, your hands cup his face and you pull away gasping. Your heart is fluttering.

He’s slow to open his eyes, the smile splits his face before his eyelids even flutter open.

“Now that,” he licks his lips, “was simply divine.” He leans in and places a couple quick pecks to your lips getting a laugh from you.

You take a step back, and the towel is going to fall. And you were going to let it. But much to your surprise, his hand stops it by pressing his hand against your chest, keeping the cloth from exposing you to him.

“Hold on now,” he breathes. “That little heart that’s fluttering under my hand has surely had enough excitement for one day. And as much as I would love to see that body of yours, I am not wanting to take you to bed in this dirty old ship. I would rather take you home. Since I am unfortunately missing a tool of the trade, I am not experienced in taking lovers into my bed with ol’ lefty here. It’ll be a learning experience for us both little bird. You alright with that?”

You nod, putting your hand over his on your chest.

“Then let’s get you home.”

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Your head is pounding, and you can see him. Your cousin. It’s like you’re on the outside looking in. You see the clearing of trees and two men with your cousin. It’s a standoff, everyone is frozen. There you hear a sharp crack somewhere in the woods, causing the men to take fire. One man shoots your cousin, the other steals the harvest from your cousin’s dead hands. Then that man is shot, he killed his own partner and took the harvest from his hands. He turned around to face you, and you saw his face.

It was Ezra.

With a sharp gasp, you jolt awake. Sweat is on your brow, your heart is racing, and you feel sick to your stomach. Panic sets in because you can’t remember where you are.

Looking around you realize that you’re home, with Ezra.

After your kiss with him, he got the ship ready and punched in the coordinates to head home. His home, but now it would be yours. You expressed to him your apprehension of space travel, and he took down the med pack to give you a medicine to calm your nerves.

“Fear of flying is not uncommon,” he’d told you warmly with a kiss on your cheek.

After the flight and landing, he gave you another medicine to help your lungs adjust to the air of this planet.

You were so nervous, but full of excitement! You have a new home with this wonderful soul.

The planet is gorgeous. The ship landed out the outskirts of the city. It’s nighttime so you can see it’s all lit up, and it’s blue. Every light is a twinkling blue.

“It’s beautiful!” you’d gasped. Ezra was proud to show you his home.

He was not originally from this planet; this is where he lives now when he isn’t prospecting.

He owns a small house is near the outskirts. He could afford a city apartment if he wanted, but he preferred living out away from the hustle and bustle of city life. He likes his view of the trees from his living room, which are also blue.

His house is humble. One bedroom, one bathroom, a quaint kitchen, a small table, and a sitting area. The shelves and walls are covered in artifacts and trinkets from other world’s he’s visited. You love it. It feels like a lived-in home.

“We will have to share this bed unless you want me to take the couch?” Ezra tells you when you collapse onto his bed. It’s been too long a day with all the space travel.

“I don’t mind,” you tell him, and he grins easily.

“No gettin’ to business tonight little bird. I gotta rest, you do too.”

You nod, you’re too tired for that. Though if he wanted to, you wouldn’t have said no.

You fell asleep that night with his body close to yours.

He’s still close by when you wake up from your dream.

“Little bird?” he asks waking up, rubbing his eyes with his hand. “You alright?”

You scramble out of the bed to get away from him. Your heart is beating so fast.

“It was YOU,” you gasp, tears are beginning to fall.

“Me? Birdie, I do not have a damn idea what on this planet you are referring to.”

“You shot and killed my cousin! I saw it in my dream!!”

He sits up and tries to calm you down.

“Little birdie-”

“Stop calling me that!” you cry. You hug your arms around your waist.

“Look at me. Look at my face.” He waits til you look at him, there’s no joke or smile on his face. His eyes are wide, and you can tell he’s upset you’re upset. “I did not kill him. I didn’t even have my gun with me when I found the bodies.”

You think back to when you first met him, and what you can remember from then, he didn’t have a gun on him.

“But it looked so real,” you sniffle.

“I had hoped this would not happen to you, but one of the side effects of the medicine I had given you is nightmares. You’re on a new planet, in a new place. It would not be a surprise to me if you had weird dreams. Now as to your cousin, I do not think you will ever uncover the mystery of his death. I can recall to you what I saw again if it will ease your mind.”

You sniffle again and nod.

He tells you what he remembers, and you do trust him. But that dream still felt so real.

You had been finishing up a harvest when your cousin went to look for another. Your memory is hazy after that.

Ezra fills in the gaps based on what he saw. He’d seen two bodies; one was your cousin and then another man. Your harvest was gone, and there were footsteps leading in another direction. Ezra, not wanting to get into it with this guy, went the opposite way. Which is when he found your shattered helmet and blood. He followed your footprints which led him to you.

“So, I killed my cousin,” you bury your face in your hands, sitting down on the bed.

“You are making less and less sense,” his eyebrows crease.

“You said there was a large branch and I must have tripped, so me tripping sounded the alarm causing the gunfire to go off,” you being to cry into your hands.

Ezra scoots closer to you to wrap and arm around you. He holds you close to him and kisses your hair while he shushes you.

“That was a whole tricky situation and no one’s fault. I have been in a sticky situation like that before and it would seem that people who are trigger happy need no cue to fire away. You are not at fault. Besides, if all this had not occurred, I might not have met the love of my life.”

You look up from your hands, tears still in your eyes.

“What?”

“You heard what I said,” he kisses the shell of your ear.

Crying now tears of joy, you throw your arms around his neck and kiss all over his face. He topples backwards, laughing the whole way down.

“I love you too,” you say between kisses. “I’m sorry I accused you of murder,” you laugh.

He laughs, rolling over so he’s on top of you. He kisses your face and dries your tears. You start to writhe under him when you feel him beginning to harden on your thigh.

“What do you say to some breakfast and then we come back to this bed huh?”

Feeling a little bold, you reach down to cup him through his sleep pants. He gasps out in surprise and buries his face in the crook of your neck.

“Why leave?” you ask, unsure of what to do, but you like touching him. You continue to, until your stomach rumbles loudly. He raises an eyebrow teasing you, even though you still have your hand around his cock. “Fine,” you laugh, “breakfast first.”

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

While Ezra makes breakfast, you look around your new home. Since the house is small and his voice carries, you ask him questions about different objects, and he rambles on from the kitchen.

There are photographs of him when he was younger, those are your favorites. You’re looking at one particular photograph, when he had both arms and no blond streak. He looked like a completely different person.

Your thoughts are torn away when you hear him call your name.

“Could you reach that spice for me off the shelf?” His one hand is too busy to stop and reach. “Just set it down on the counter there,” he nods. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” you smile and wrap your arms around him from behind. Kissing his cheek, he hums. “I’m sorry I’m acting so strange, I think I’m a little nervous,” you admit kissing his shoulder blade.

“Well birdie, it is no small feat to be joined in a union with another person in such an intimate fashion, especially when one is not experienced. It is a lovely thing but can be an overwhelmin’ experience. I am glad to assist and ease the knot in your belly of nerves.”

“I love the way you talk,” you smile kissing his shoulder again.

“And I quite love the way you are holdin’ me right now.”

“I’m sorry again about this morning. I’m sure that’s not the morning you had in mind.”

“No to worry. Grief and change do a wonder on your mind. I know that from losing my arm.”

“Tell me how you got that blond streak in your hair,” you murmur and lean your cheek against his shoulder.

“Now that is an interesting story!” One of which he tells for the rest of the morning. And when he’s done, you’re still not sure what exactly happened. But you laughed and all but forgot about the nerves in the pit of your stomach.

So much so that when he stands and reaches out his hand for you, you’re not sure what he’s doing.

“You ready?” he asks, motioning his head toward the bedroom. Your heart skips, but you nod, yes.

He leads you back into his room, and has you sit down on the bed. He moves around the room setting the mood. First, he pushes a button on the wall that lowers the curtains, dimming the room. He closes the door behind him and sits next to you on the bed.

“How does this work?” you ask a little timid, but very eager.

“Lay back,” he tells you. He lays down on top of you and begins to kiss your face and your lips. Anywhere his lips can kiss, he kisses. Your cheeks, your ears, your eyelids even. The tip of your nose.

Then he moves to your neck and chin and jaw. He adds some bites to your neck, and sucks on your clavicle.

“Can I?” he asks tugging on the hem of your shirt. You nod, and with his help, you pull it off exposing chest to him now. You swallow, feeling a little shy watching him eye your breasts.

You’ve never seen him so speechless. Instead of talking, he puts his mouth to use and suckles your perked nipple into his mouth. His hand cups your other breast and thumbs over your nipple. When you gasp, he sucks harder and pinches his fingers harder. Your hands fly to his hair and you pull. He growls a little and you feel slick between your legs.

“Ezra?” you whine. Your breast is shiny with his saliva, and there’s a sting left behind from his teeth and grit from his facial hair.

“What do you need birdie?” He murmurs into you flesh. His hand smoothing down your skin and gliding over your tummy and to the waistband of your pants.

“Ezra wait,” you gasp.

“Are my ministrations too fast for your likin’?” he questions, lips dragging along your stomach. He’s trying to make you laugh again, or at least relax you further.

“I-” you pause.

“It’s ok,” he smiles and kisses your tummy. “Help me?” he says tugging on your pants a little. You help him push your pants and underwear down, and you watch in equal parts arousal and embarrassment as he sees you.

He touches a pointer finger to your entrance, touching the slick gathered there. He dips inside and you arch your back feeling the drag of his finger inside. His thumb brushes your clit and you jolt.

“Now remember, I am not as well practiced with my left, so you’ll have to excuse any inexperience on my part, though I do know how to please a lady.”

“Ezra!” is all you can think to say when he slides a second finger in.

“But as it seems, you’re enjoying this regardless. That’s good,” he smiles and presses a loud kiss to your thigh. He doesn’t stop the toying with your clit. Even after you hit that first high and come around his fingers. He keeps going. Teasing you just a little more. “You are doin’ so well my girl,” he purrs.

He looks up at you when he pulls his hand away, his grin is pure lovesick. Your eyes are hazy from the high you’ve just been given, and there’s still more to come.

“I want just one more from you before we get down to it alright?” He tells you. He’s working his way up the bed, and you’re not sure what he’s doing. He pulls the pillows together, and he flops down on his back, his head on the pillows. “Alright little bird, c’mere,” he says and taps his chin.

Taking his meaning with heat covering your body, you climb up and carefully lower yourself onto his face. His tongue and mouth ready to accept your heat. You groan in unison as he makes the first lick. You’re still so sensitive from before, but wow it feels good.

Oh.

This is really good.

His mouth, of course, of course his mouth is as skilled in pleasure as it is in talking. His tongue moves expertly on your flesh as if he’s done this to you a million times. You’re coming on his tongue in mere minutes.

His arm is tight around you, and you buck against him as you come down.

His eyes open, and he looks up at you, he’s quite pleased with himself.

“Now if this isn’t the best view a man could have then I don’t know what is,” he smiles, his eyes lingering on your breasts for a beat, then back up to your face.

Carefully, on wobbly legs, you lay down on the bed, and Ezra works to take off his pants. You lean up to look at him, he’s on his knees now, naked. He’s stroking himself lazily, getting ready for you.

“Can I?” you sit up reaching for him.

“Be my guest,” he reassures, and you wrap your fingers around him. He winces and groans a little. “It has been far too long since I’ve been held but someone other than my own hand.”

He feels nice, and you have the desire to keep moving your hand until he finds his high. But he pushes your hand away.

“I do appreciate the eagerness, but if you keep that up, we won’t get to all the fun. Lay down for me alright?”

You do as he asks, and he pauses for a moment. He’s thinking.

When he gets the idea, you see it come across his face with a little “oh!” and a grin. He lays down on top of you, you’re chest to chest.

“Little birdie, I need you to wrap your legs around me? Got it?” You nod and do as he asks. From this position you can feel the tip of him at your entrance. Putting his weight on you for a moment, he reaches down between your bodies and lines himself up with you. “There might be a little bit of a pinch, but we’ll work ya through it alright?”

You nod again, and he pushes inside. He moves his hand back up to smooth your hair out of your face. He moves slowly, watching your face, kissing you more to get you relaxed. Once he’s fully inside, he waits.

He gives you a moment to breathe, then when you give the ok, he moves. His arm is up by your head now, keeping him from putting his whole weight on you and giving him some leverage. His thrusts are steady, and your body moves with him, gasping each time he hits that spot in you.

“It pains me that I cannot reach down to tease that lovely pussy of yours, but birdie, you gotta touch yourself for me. Can you do that?”

You slip your hand between your bodies and touch yourself in rhythm with his thrusts.

“Good girl,” he coaxes. “Don’t stop,” he tells you nibbling your ear. And you don’t. You keep going until you feel the high approaching. When it hits you, he’s not far behind. His cock twitches and pulses, and he comes deep inside you.

Exhaustion hits him and he puts more of his weight on you. Now with a free hand, he pushes your hand away and touches your clit again just to touch you a little one more time. That touch has you jolt, and he laughs darkly in your neck.

“Ezra?”

“Mmm?” he looks up at you, and you start to smooth his hair back.

“Can we do this again? Tonight?” you bite your lip.

“Hmm,” he pretends to think. “I’ll have to think about it.”

“Ezra!” you laugh and playfully hit his chest.

“Okie,” he shrugs and begins to blow raspberries on your chest.

You stay with him then, tangled in the sheets all morning. And all afternoon, and into the evening. You can barely keep your hands off one another. And there’s not much desire to go prospecting any time soon, not when you’ve discovered something much richer in each other.

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#ezra x reader #ezra (prospect)#ezra #prospect #my writing #mine #SORRY THIS TOOK FOREVER OMG

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thicctails · 3 years ago

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Summer Of Whump Day 13 [Forgotten/Sacrificed]

Omega did dream this time, now safely beyond the edge of death’s veil.

She was moving very fast, and she could feel a thundering heartbeat beneath her touch. Steam and rusted metal filled her vision, and she got the sinking feeling that she was being chased. Footsteps pounded against the metal floor, never faltering, never slowing down. As she rounds a corner, the dream shifts.

Now, she’s in a small, windowless room. The walls look like they are made of stone, and the ground she is sitting on is hard. She can’t move her wrists, and her vision in her right eye is poor, like she’s squinting that eye. She’s leaning against something smooth, soft, and breathing. She can hear the sound of that same heartbeat, now slower. She hears a sound, a muddled voice it seems. It sounds concerned, but she can’t make out what’s being said. Omega blinks, and the dream is changing again.

Now she’s flying, a cool mist of cloud rolling over her skin. Someone is holding onto her waist, their grip tight like they’re afraid to fall. Something is on her face, a mask she thinks. The world tilts upwards, and she sees stars. The vast expanse of space is before her now, and although she is not in a ship, she doesn’t feel afraid.

Omega’s eyes slid open slowly, the weight of sleep threatening to close them again. The room is quiet, the sound of soft snores occasionally disturbing the calm. She shifted a bit, wincing at the ache in her neck. That was going to take some getting used to. No more turning her head quickly.

Hunter’s chest rose and fell in a calm rhythm, and she takes a moment to bask in the fact that they were all alive and okay. The events of yesterday were still fresh in her mind, and Omega doesn’t feel like risking a nightmare by going back to sleep. So she simply lays there, content to just exist in the moment. Their lives are so full of action and danger, so the break is welcome.

The embrace she’s in right now is so comforting. She feels like nothing in the world could possibly harm her here. Smiling, she snuggles into Hunter’s chest, resting her eyes but not quite falling back asleep.

“Honk!”

Her eyes fly open.

She feels Hunter shift, hears him grumble and crack an eye open. She holds still, not sure if she wants him to wake up and see what Pillow is doing in here, or if she wants him to get more sleep because she knows he needs it.

He sleepily scans the room, then closes his eyes again, shifting his arms so that she can use them as pillows if she wants. Omega wants to settle down again; it’s just Pillow, he’s not a threat! Yet something keeps her awake and alert. She stares at the door, an odd feeling forming in her chest. Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes and tentatively reached out with the Force. Her connection with it is strong, but she is untrained, and thus it takes her a minute to actually figure out how to do what she wants. She starts small, feeling the soft glow of life that comes from everyone in the room. Then, she pushes outwards, searching for life beyond the confines of the room.

She finds it, but it isn’t just Pillow that’s roaming the ship’s abandoned halls.

This time, there is no questioning whether or not she want’s Hunter to get up. She shakes his shoulder, fear entering her eyes. The man wakes instantly, looking at her in concern.

“What’s wrong?” Hunter asked.

“Crosshair’s coming!” Omega whispered.

Hunter gets up as soon as the words leave her mouth. Omega tries to reach out to Pillow as Hunter rouses the others, to communicate with him across their bond. It’s all she can do; her injuries prevent her from moving too much. She feels Pillow’s emotions, he’s full of excitement and pride. He doesn’t understand the danger he’s bringing their way.

She projects her own emotions into the bond. Fear, hurt, concern. She feels confusion ripple through their connection. She sends the feelings again, stronger this time. She feels a flicker of understanding, then a wave of nearly overwhelming guilt.

‘It’s too late.’ Omega realizes. ‘He’s already figured out where we are.’

“Hunter?” She whines, shivering a bit. Crosshair had spared her before, but she has no idea what sort of mental state he’s in now. “’m scared.’

“It’ll be okay. We’ll protect you.” Hunter soothes, lifting her up and handing her to Tech. “Get her back to the ship. We’ll cause a distraction.”

Omega leans against Tech as the younger clone takes her from Hunter. His presence is a source of comfort, and she hides her face in his chest. He has his plastoid armor on, so he isn’t as soft as she would like, but she knows he needs it, especially right now.

Soon they were moving, Tech darting down the hallway one way while the rest of the group goes the other way. They hadn’t been running for very long before the sound of footsteps became audible. They were too fast and close together to be Crosshair’s, so the duo is only mildly surprised when Pillow comes around the corner. He honked loudly when he spotted them, rubbing against Tech’s leg. He let out a series of short, sad honks, his way of apologizing. Omega could feel his sincerity through their bond.

“It’s okay Pillow, you didn’t know Crosshair was trouble. Think you can get us out of here?” She asks, reaching down to pet the amphibian.

Pillow bobbed his head and started off down the hallway he’d just come from. Tech hurried after him, relying on the sound of Pillow’s soft honks when they ran into a patch of corridor that didn’t have any functioning lights.

Suddenly, Pillow yelped, falling back into Tech and Omega. The sudden weight tripped Tech, which caused him to drop Omega. She yelled in pain, her back flaring with white-hot agony. She grit her teeth and pressed her forehead into the cold, dusty floor, trying to find something to focus on aside from the pain.

She lifted her head when she heard the sound of slower, heavier footsteps. She could just barely make out Crosshair’s form as he approached, a sharp coldness rolling off him in waves.

She’d always wondered why Kamino had seemed so cold after the order had gone out.

He raised his rifle, aiming at Tech. The downed clone was unaware of the danger, the force of Pillow being kicked into him having knocked his senses loose for a minute. Fueled by fear, Omega jolts to her feet, tears slipping down her cheeks as her melted muscles and blistered skin were agitated.

“Don’t hurt him!” She said, stepping in front of Tech. The barrel of the blaster sits right in front of her heart. If he fires, even a stun round, she’ll be dead.

“I’m the one the Kaminoans are interested in. A Force-sensitive clone is much more valuable than a rouge enhanced one, right?” She asks, praying that she’s right, and that her life can be used as a bargaining chip. She can hear Tech coming back to himself, and she knows that she needs to hurry.

“If you let him go, I’ll go with you willingly. We can be gone before the others give you trouble, just- just don’t hurt Tech!” Omega pleads.

Crosshair doesn’t speak, and for a moment Omega thinks that he’s just going to shoot her and kill Tech anyways. But then he lowers his rifle, and she hears his gruff voice.

“Let’s go.”

She sighs, her body quivering as she tries to step forward. She wobbles, her body not ready to support her weight in motion yet. Before she can fall, Pillow is there, ducking down and nudging her onto his back. He looks at her questioningly, like he’s asking her if she’s sure she wants to do this.

“Go, Pillow. We don’t have a choice.” She says softly, collapsing onto his broad back. His rapidly increasing size had been a nuisance when it came to sleeping and feeding him, but now she was infinitely grateful for it.

Pillow whined but obeyed, galloping after Crosshair. Behind them, Tech had realized what was happening.

“OMEGA!” He cried. “No,no,nononono! Crosshair get back here!”

Pillow looked back, honking sadly, but didn’t slow down. He understood that what they were doing was dangerous, and it probably wouldn’t end well, but if he tried to escape, they wouldn’t get very far. Rusted metal and sparking wires flew by as he raced down the corridor, Omega holding on for dear life as they followed behind a sprinting Crosshair.

Soon, they reached an opening in the ship. It was a jagged hole, torn open by some weapon during the war. Crosshair spoke into his comlink as Pillow slunk behind him, taking care not to cut himself on the sharp metal. On his back, Omega twitched in pain, crying quietly into Pillow’s neck.

“I need a pick up at my coordinates. I have two captives with me, one human, and one…” He looked at Pillow, who glared at him, “overgrown lizard.”

Pillow snorted and stomped his foot, looking over his shoulder when the movement caused Omega to whimper. Crosshair looked over at her as well, his eyes widening a bit when he saw the state she was in. Blood was soaking through her bandages, and in the light of the early morning, he could see the bruises on her neck.

“And get the medical bay ready. One of the captives requires medical attention, and we need her alive.” He adds.

Pillow nodded, agreeing with the armored human. He didn’t like the man, hated him actually, but at least he wasn’t being stupid. Warm One was hurt bad, and she reeked of fear and pain. He licked her head, trying to bring the human fledgling some comfort.

He was so close to being ready to metamorphosize. He just needed a bit more energy and time, and then he’d be able to help Warm One. He’d bust them out of whatever confinement this human was going to put them into.

He’d save her. He’d save her, and then he’d destroy anyone who had dared to hurt her.

#summerofwhump #summerofwhump[13]#the bad batch #star wars #star wars the bad batch #omega bad batch #omega whump #crosshair bad batch #captain rex #rex clone wars #hunter bad batch #tech bad batch #wrecker bad batch #echo bad batch #whump prompt #writing challenge

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 4 years ago

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Omertà👄1

Warnings: noncon sexual acts (sexual intercourse); tags to be added throughout series

This is dark!Bucky and dark! Loki and explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Your father was a bookie and taught you everything you know about numbers. After his death, you were taken on as a bookkeeper for Loki Laufeyson, resident crime boss in Manhattan. But can you keep your place in the background when a man from Brooklyn threatens to drag you to the forefront?

Note: Yes, I’ve decided to do a mafia!au. Yes, I have no idea what I’m doing. Yes, I’m avoiding actually working on other WIPs, but yes I want y’all to have a good time! Be safe.

Hope you enjoy it. Thank you. Love you guys!

As always, if you can, please leave some feedback, like and reblog <3

The antique shop was unimposing along the New York street front. No different than any other aged and wilting business. The sign was painted with curling calligraphy that read ‘The Attic’ and the windows displayed French chairs and stained glass lamps from over a century ago. The show room smelled of old paper and welcomed few patrons. A mask for what was hidden behind that black door right along the rear.

Loki Laufeyson inherited the old shop from his father just as you were bequeathed your father’s business in turn. But Odin had been more than a mere antique seller. He was a businessman, a swindler, a criminal. The antiques were only a distraction from his real dealings. Powder hidden in African statues and guns hidden in back of creaky old wardrobes. The perfect front. Timeless.

And what were you but an accomplice to this life of crime? Well, you just kept the sums but you weren’t so sneaky as your father. His time at the tracks had taught him much, except for common sense. He could run odds for days but those odds had finally caught up to him. And you.

He had taught you his skill. The art of numbers. Easy, simple. Numbers don’t lie. But you didn’t want to be a bookie and given the mistakes of your youth in the charge of a criminal, life as an accountant in some city office was a pipe dream. So you accepted the job at The Attic, tallied the debts, and went about your life, only slightly tinged by the city’s underbelly.

The sound of the bills quickly flipping into the tray filled the back office. Lopez was in the storeroom as he always was, his rotund figure balanced on the tall stool just behind the counter. You could hear his off-key humming through the door.

Loki’s tall figure stood before the machine better suited to a bank. He was quiet, as he often was, never one to mince words. That morning had seen a large influx as overdue debts were finally fulfilled; with paper as much as blood. You hovered your pencil along the margins of your ledger.

“Twenty percent to Barnes,” He dropped in another stack. “How much is that?”

You bent over the pages and punched in the numbers to your old calculator. You preferred the clacking of the keys.

“One sixty,” You said. “Borderline?”

“Mmhmm,” He turned and began to count the bills by hand. “If I have any say, we won’t be splitting pennies much longer.”

“I’m sure he feels the same,” You said as you tapped your eraser on the desk.

He raised a brow at you. He didn’t tolerate much impertinence but you were so minuscule, he allowed you the odd jibe, though he was rarely amused. You straightened the buttoned collar of your blouse and smoothed the lapel of your tweed blazer. It was stuffy in the back room as the sun slatted in through the blinds.

He was quiet again. He neared and set a stack of bills before you. You took it and started to count it. He sat at his own desk; bigger than your own and predominant to the space. You were a side note. His little book keeper on her perch. He had counted right.

You tapped the stack so that it was even and stood to lay it down before him. You stretched your legs before you sat again and flipped listlessly through your ledger.

You were waiting. Loki wasn’t a man who often worked with others. ‘Partner’ was not a word to be found in his vocabulary. However, given a recent string of raids and retaliation, he had swallowed his pride for a cut. A healthy one. A true lose-lose for all involved. A pit of resent and greed which was sure to fester once more but for now, he would pay the piper.

Lopez quit his humming suddenly as the front door clattered shut. Loki’s eyes flashed but his body did not betray his expectation. He remained as he was, one leg draped over the other as he leaned back in the leather chair. You shifted and stilled the flutter of pages. You pushed your glasses up and re-examined the figures.

A knock at the door. Lopez pushed it open and huffed just inside, a mustard stain on his shirt.

“Mr. Barnes is here,” He gasped.

Lopez didn’t look it, but he was a formidable man. He’d shown that, several times. His deceptive appearance made him Loki’s favourite. And they both had a thing for knives.

Loki nodded and Lopez stepped back and his round stomach brushed against the man who waited behind him. Two others flanked the new arrival but did not enter alongside him, merely hovered by the doorway.

You had seen Barnes before; his men called him ‘Bucky’, Loki called him worse. His dark hair was kept short and his sharp jaw bore a constant five o’clock shadow. He wore a striped suit, flamboyant in contrast to Loki’s deep green attire. He entered and strode into the middle of the room. He grinned as he stopped across from the adversary turned cohort.

“I did try to be early,” He said. “I don’t come to Manhattan often.”

“No, you wouldn’t,” Loki slithered. “If I were a real prick, I’d take a late fee.”

“And you’re not?” Bucky challenged and chuckled. He looked around the room and barely seemed to notice you among the bookshelves.

“I like this place. Fancy,” He mused. “I could use a little something to dress up my own place.”

“Your cut,” Loki pushed the stack of money forward. “How you spend it is no concern to me.”

Bucky slowly reached for the bills and licked his thumb before he flicked through them. His lips moved slightly as he counted. When he finished he looked up at Loki.

“That’s it?” He asked.

“Would you like to consult with my accountant?” Loki shrugged and gestured to you. “She is a mouse but efficient… Or better yet, you may return with your own, if you wish.”

“I keep my own numbers,” Bucky placed the money back down. “I’ll have a look.”

You made to stand and he waved you back down as he neared. You lowered yourself stiffly and flipped the page to the properties along the border of their territories. He stood just beside you and you ran your finger along the proper column. As he read, he bent closer, his finger fell just next to yours as he went down the numbers.

You glanced up at Loki who was entirely disinterested. He sighed and tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair. Bucky’s hand gripped the chair behind you and he leaned in even closer. You looked back to the page and felt the soft brush of his breath, the subtle inhale of your jasmine perfume. You turned slightly and his eyes met yours before he pushed himself straight.

“That’s quite the decline,” His hand dragged over your ledger and you moved yours before he could brush it.

“Yes, well, we did lose a certain op to the fire,” Loki said sharply.

Though it hadn’t been proven, all were certain it had been set by Bucky’s men. The man even snickered at the mention.

“Checks out,” Bucky grabbed the stack and tucked it into his jacket. “I’d hate to find cracks in this new association so early.”

“Surely not,” Loki replied. “Is that all then or should I offer you a drink?”

“A bit early,” Bucky countered. “But I would like a closer look at that statue out there. Can I have some help that isn’t coughing up a ham sandwich?”

“This is a small business, Mr. Barnes,” Loki leaned forward and tented his fingers. “And I haven’t worked the showroom since my adolescence.”

Bucky nodded and glanced at you. Loki followed his gaze and tilted his head. He looked between you and the other man.

“Go on,” He motioned you with two fingers.

You blinked and frowned. You barely knew anything about antiques; sure you admired them but you really couldn’t place a date or a style. You set your pencil down and rose. You peeked over at Loki and he shrugged. He just wanted the man gone. To be fair, you felt little different.

Bucky stepped back and sidestepped the door. He waited for you to leave first. You did so reluctantly. You entered the showroom, passing between his two henchman as he followed. You sensed him close behind.

“This one,” He said and you stopped short.

You turned as he strutted over to a statue of a naked woman barely sheathed by a swath of silk. You neared and his eyes roved the full figure of the statue. His finger brushed her hip and he smiled.

“You like it?” He asked.

You drew your brows together and looked at him. You were rarely asked what you thought, merely for a sum.

“I suppose…” You offered. “Though it is chipped along the shoulder.”

He scoffed and shook his head.

“You aren’t much of a salesman,” He remarked. “But you’re right. I think… I’d prefer a different decoration in my home.” He grinned and turned to you. “Something more… lifelike.”

You were uncertain of his meaning and his tone.

“Something with more colour?” You suggested.

“Perhaps,” He said as he checked his watch. “I'll have to come back and have another look around.”

“Okay,” You said dumbly.

“Miss,” He gave a curt nod and spun on his heel.

You watched him go as his men followed. The door groaned loudly in his stead and you were left with Lopez’s thick breaths. You looked at him as he bent over a newspaper and squinted at the funnies page. You turned back to the office and picked at your sleeve.

‘Don’t trust men like me,’ Your father’s words whispered in your head. ‘Their wants are simple but their methods are tricky.’

You rubbed your neck and headed back to the office. If Loki had taught you anything, it was that your father, for once, hadn’t lied.

“Did he buy it?” Loki asked as you entered the office.

“No,” You answered quietly as you sat back down.

“Hmmm,” He hummed as you felt his eyes on you.

You lifted your head and found him staring. He was watching you, weighing you like he did a sac of money or a crate of guns. You picked up your pencil and twirled it.

“Do the numbers again,” He said. “I want to make certain they’re correct.”

👄

Several days passed and you soon forgot about the awkward meeting of kingpins. The days blurred together as they always did, like the numbers in your ledger. You closed up the book as the shutters grew grim with the impending rain clouds. You went to the safe and spun the dial. You shoved the ledger inside and closed it up.

Loki’s chair swiveled and his toe tapped. You glanced over as you watched his lithe legs stretch out. He leaned an arm on his desk and tapped his fingers.

“I wonder…” He began softly. “Why do you do this?”

“Pardon,” You grabbed the top of the safe and pulled yourself up. You closed the wooden door of the chest that hid it.

“Well, more aptly I wonder, do you dress like that to throw off the scent or are you truly that displaced?”

“I don’t--”

“You looked like a librarian.” He interrupted. “Like you should be sat in a cubicle with a mug that reads ‘TGIF’.”

“I… this is how I dress,” You looked down at your pressed wool pants and your starched blouse with the little red flowers. “Professionally.”

“Your father was a bookie and your mother… well, I do not speak ill of the dead if I can help it.” He said.

You swallowed the insult. You knew this man too well to be upset. It was his favourite pastime riling others up. Seeing how far he could push them.

“I’m not my mother and I’m not some dancer or moll,” You said. “So I don’t see how a blazer should bother you.”

“I am not so concerned by your clothes,” He laughed. “I ponder on your commitment to your work. You see, you come in here, like it’s a nine to five, and then you’re on your way and I frankly do not know, nor can I even imagine, what it is you do outside of here.”

“I didn’t realise you needed to know.” You said coolly.

“I don’t need to know the intricacies of your personal life, I only need to be assured of your loyalty.”

“I’ve worked here for seven years. Name a time I have ever shown anything other than diligence.” You argued.

He grinned and licked his bottom lip.

“I am not worried about your past, I am worried about the present and your future which if you wish to continue on here is intertwined with my own.” He insisted. “So, after seven long years, I need more than your little scribbles.”

“What is it you want?” You asked. “A blood sacrifice?”

“I want you at Diablo’s. Tonight.” He said evenly.

“Diablo’s?”

“Yes, he is having one of his little meetings. Truly, I can’t even think of an appropriate term for the occasion. It is mostly drinking and gaudy suits on our part but you can’t truly think you’ll be my bookkeeper forever.” He said. “You don’t want to be your father, do you? Your whole life spent in the weeds.”

“Don’t talk about him like you knew him,” You warned. “If you did, you’d know I’m nothing like him and you would thank all the odds that I am not.”

“You cannot be a background player in this scene and let me warn you, there are not a lot of opportunities for girls like you.”

“Girls like me?” You scoffed.

“A woman in a skirt can lift it and secure herself a pretty little set-up,” He purred. “But you, you can’t dress like some matron and expect to watch the blood spill with clean hands.”

You sighed and clenched your jaw.

“So, you find a dress, buy one if need be, and you will see me at Diablo’s tonight.” He declared. “Without those awful wiry glasses, too.”

You shook your head and turned away from him. You checked your purse before shutting the flap and he cleared his throat.

“I expect an answer.” He said.

“And if I refuse, you will find a new book keeper?”

“I could. Easily.” He affirmed. “But I daresay, you won’t have as easy a time selling your numbers to others. You’d likely end up selling something else.”

You sneered but resisted rolling your eyes. You missed his former apathy. His quiet derision.

“What time, boss?” You asked.

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