#DJ fic migration

[dystopicjumpsuit]

Turn It Up When You're Gone (2/2)

The conclusion... Or is it? Posting these has got my thots going again, so I may need to write another installment. UPDATE: I did it. Also, this chapter has one of my favorite lines I've ever written. Guess which one?

Rating: Mature/18+/Minors DNI

Pairing: Sev x Fem!Reader

Wordcount: 2.4k

Summary: Delta Squad is back on board your Star Destroyer, and Sev is determined to make up for lost time. Reader is about to learn that commandos do it better.

Warnings: SMUT; voice kink, praise kink, body worship, facef*cking (but not like you expect)

Previous chapter | Next chapter | Masterlist

Delta squad is back on the Guarlara two days later. You know this because they stroll casually into the mess while you’re eating breakfast. You almost stab yourself in the face with your fork when the one with the blood-red paint turns and looks right at you. Your eyes widen, and you can feel the heat rush to your cheeks.

“Girl, you good?” Jeelee asks, noticing your agitation.

“Yeah, I just—uh, I realized I need to—I forgot, um—” you stammer.

You can practically see Sev’s smirk behind his helmet. 

Cocky bastard.

“I need to stop by the, uh, med bay before my shift starts,” you finish lamely.

“Are you all right?” Drinna asks, concern evident in their wide eyes.

“Yeah,” you say. “Just, uh, lady problems.”

“What kind of lady problems?” Draa asks, confused.

Jeelee and Drinna send pitying glances at the clone trooper. 

“Sorry, was that too nosy?” the clone asks with a sheepish expression. “I just don’t have much experience, is all.”

“That’s okay, Draa,” you reassure him. “You should ask the medic to explain it.”

You excuse yourself and make a beeline out of the mess. You’ve listened to Sev’s recording more times than you care to admit, and you aren’t quite prepared to face him in front of an audience of dozens of clones—not to mention the coworkers who already know about your crush.

When you reach your workstation, your message indicator light is blinking.

“Tactical, this RC-1207. Any trouble with those feeds?”

You record a response. “No trouble, 1207. Everything came through loud and clear. If you want to run another diagnostic, be sure to do it after 2100 hours when the feeds update.”

There. That ought to do it. Subtle enough not to raise any eyebrows if anyone overhears, and obvious enough for him to figure it out.

---

When you return to your quarters promptly at 2100 hours, Sev is already waiting for you, helmet and gloves removed and resting on the floor. He stands up from his seat on the edge of your bunk as the door slides open to admit you. You step inside quickly and close the door.

“Hi,” you say. You sound nervous, even to yourself.

“Hi,” he replies.

You’ve had all day to think about this. For hours, your mind has tormented you with erotic fantasies, heating your skin and leaving you drenched and slippery. You have imagined Sev’s large hands touching you everywhere, his talented mouth drifting over your body as he tells you all the filthy, delicious things he wants to do to you, the fullness of his cock as he stretches you out.

But now that he’s here, in the flesh, in your space, you feel awkward. He’s a big man, even bigger in his armor, and the small room feels crowded with both of you inside. You aren’t sure what to say, or what to do with your hands. They’ve taken on a mind of their own, fluttering in front of you, fidgeting with your cuffs, and finally wrapping around your waist in a self-soothing embrace. Sev also seems unsure what to do, and it occurs to you that you’ve invited a total stranger into your bunk. 

“I’m Sev,” he says.

“I know,” you nod. “I heard on the feeds.”

“Should I just call you ‘tactical’?” he asks. “I want to make sure I’m yelling the right name all night.”

You laugh and tell him your name.

“Can I touch you?” he asks.

“Yes, please,” you whisper.

You expect him to go straight for the goods, so it’s a surprise when he takes your hand and draws it away from your body. He strokes his thumb across your skin, across your fingers, across your wrist.

“I knew you’d be soft. Even softer than I imagined,” he says with satisfaction. He presses his fingers to the pulse point on your wrist. “Your heart is racing, little one. Are you sure you want this?”

“I’m sure,” you say. You raise your free hand to trace the lines of his face, and he leans into the contact, closing his eyes. You wonder if he’s ever felt a gentle touch before. You brush your fingers over his skin. Intellectually, you have always known what he would look like, but now you take in all the small details that make him unique from his fellow clones. The scars, the faint lines around his eyes, the slightly longer-than-regulation hair, the prickly scruff of a beard that hasn’t been shaved in three cycles. Deep circles under his eyes betray his exhaustion, and you feel a momentary twinge of guilt at keeping him awake after a mission.

“Do—do you?” you ask. 

His mouth twists in a half smile. “It’s all I’ve thought about for the last three rotations. I want this.”

He presses his lips to your palm, and then he reaches for you, pulling you into his strong arms, capturing your mouth in a kiss. His duraplast armor is hard and cool against you, and you scramble for purchase against it. 

“You taste amazing,” he says against your lips. His tongue brushes against you, and you part your lips to let him in.

Oh, damn, he’s good. He kisses you with an intense, single-minded focus, as though you—your mouth, your lips, your tongue, your pleasure—are the only thing in the galaxy. There’s no awkward, over-enthusiastic tongue thrusting; just slow, skillful movement that pulls you in and steals your breath. His kiss leaves you lightheaded and unsteady, and you’re grateful for the way he cradles your body in his arms, keeping you from melting into a quivering heap at his feet.

“Kriff me, did they teach you to kiss like that in commando school?” you breathe.

“Yeah, we learned it after hostage extraction and before demolitions,” he says, deadpan.

You laugh again, and he looks very pleased with himself.

“They also taught us how to take off our armor in under a minute,” he says. “Want to see a demonstration?”

“Will you do a sexy dance while you show me?” you ask.

“That might slow me down,” he replies.

“In that case, skip the dance,” you say. “What’s your personal best time?”

“Thirty-nine seconds. I was motivated,” he says.

“And are you motivated now?” you ask.

“Time me and find out,” he suggests.

“I’d rather enjoy the show,” you say.

“Don’t blink,” he says with a smirk.

He strips off his armor. He works efficiently, and you watch with interest. You’ve never seen a clone go through the process before. He starts with his vambraces, works his way up his arms, then removes the cuirass and proceeds down his torso and legs. Each piece is stacked neatly as he removes it, and you suspect the habit is so ingrained in him that he couldn’t leave the duraplast in a messy pile if he tried.

“I think I shaved a couple seconds off my best time,” he says once he’s stripped down to his body glove.

You remember the way he tallies his kills on each mission.

“You’re very competitive, aren’t you?” you ask.

“Yeah,” he says. “How many times did you make yourself come to that recording?”

Your skin heats, and you aren't sure if you're embarrassed, aroused, or both. “Why do you want to know?”

“Professional curiosity. Also, I want to know how many to aim for tonight.”

“Uh, six,” you confess.

“That’s only two per day,” he says. “I’ll have to do better with my next recording.”

“It was actually three the first night and only one on the second. I was tired,” you explain, a little defensively.

“I hope you’re rested up,” he says, tugging you into another searing kiss.

You slide your hands up his back, feeling the hard muscles shift beneath the black fabric of his body glove. The man is massive, built like a tank, and if the bulge you feel pressing against your belly is what you think it is, he is proportionate all the way down. You grind your pelvis against him experimentally, and in response, he crowds you against the wall, growling into your mouth. 

Actually growling. Maker save you.

His hands settle on your hips as he pulls you against him. Yep, definitely proportionate, you think.

His kisses are hot and frantic now, and his hands roam possessively over your body. He moves his mouth along your jaw, down your neck, next to your ear. His warm breath whispers across your skin, leaving a thrill of arousal in its wake.

“Do you know how hard it is to stay focused on the mission when all I can think about is you, fucking yourself to my voice?”

“Tell me,” you gasp, needing to hear those obscene words from him.

“Almost got nailed by a vulture droid ‘cause I was thinking about these tits.” He slides his hand up the rough wool of your uniform to palm your breast. “Oh, kark, that’s good. So fuckin’ good. Let me see you.”

You start to unzip your uniform jacket, but Sev is impatient. He yanks the zipper down and shoves the jacket off your arms.

“How many kriffing layers are you wearing?” he demands.

“Only three more,” you laugh. “Let me help.”

You unbutton and remove your uniform blouse, then slip your undershirt off over your head and unclasp your bra as Sev unzips your trousers and tugs them down.

“Finally,” he says when you are fully bare. “Stars, look at you. Prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

He trails his hands reverently across your skin. His fingertips are rough and calloused, but they touch you with an aching tenderness that leaves you breathless. He drops to his knees, bringing his head level with your chest, and draws you to his mouth. The sensation is overwhelming. His busy hands touch you everywhere: fondling your breasts, sliding up the inside of your thigh to squeeze your ass, brushing across your clitoris to feel the dampness gathering there.

“Sev,” you breathe as he sucks your nipple into his mouth. His lips tug insistently as his tongue swirls over you again and again, and your body thrums in response.

“Fucking perfect tits,” he mumbles against you. “Even better than I thought. So soft. You look so good in my hands.”

You look down to see his large, brown hand on your breast, your flesh spilling out between his fingers as he squeezes you gently.

“You can be rougher with me,” you whisper, “if you want.”

His dark eyes snap to yours, and he pinches your nipple experimentally. Pleasure shoots through you, and you gasp, your head dropping backward to lean against the cold durasteel walls.

“Like this?” he asks, sucking your nipple into his mouth and grazing it with his teeth.

“Yes!” you hiss. “Harder!”

He groans and does as you order, finally giving you the intense stimulation you crave.

“Oh fuck, yes, just like that, don’t stop, keep going,” you chant.

His clever mouth is doing unspeakable things to you. Kissing, sucking, biting, teasing, worshiping. You are stunned to feel your orgasm building, and you wonder if it is possible for you to come like this. The tension draws tighter and tighter, but you need more. 

Sev releases your breast and kisses down your belly. He pauses when he reaches your hip, working over you with excruciating thoroughness. 

“Kark, I’ve been wanting to do this for weeks,” he says, his voice even deeper than usual. “I wanted you the first time I saw you.” He presses a hard, open-mouth kiss onto your hip bone, and his tongue flicks across your skin. “Jerked my cock to you every time I took a shower. I made myself come so many times imagining this beautiful little cunt.” 

He is still playing with your breast with one hand, squeezing and pinching and rolling your nipple between his fingers. His other hand grasps your ass roughly, digging his fingers into your flesh. His kisses are brutal, hovering on the knife’s edge between pleasure and pain, leaving a stinging trail as he makes his way slowly—so agonizingly slowly—across your pelvis.

And gods, it’s so much. It’s too much, and you can’t stand it any more. You grab his head and shove him against your pussy, and his tongue flicks out to slide between your labia and swirl over your clitoris, and fuck that’s it right there just like that—fuck! Your orgasm takes you by surprise, slamming into you, wrenching his name from your throat in a ragged cry. Your hips buck against Sev’s face, and you would feel bad for using him like this, but he’s grunting with pleasure, and his mouth is on you and his tongue is inside you, and he’s grabbing your ass to pull you even harder against him as you fuck his face, and then your legs give out, and he catches you, supporting your weight with his strong arms as he sucks your clit into his mouth until he wrings out the last tremors of your orgasm, and then he eases you down the durasteel wall to rest on his thighs.

Your lungs heave for oxygen, and your forehead drops to rest on his shoulder. He’s still wearing his body glove, and the fabric is soft against your face. He wraps his arms around you, stroking the back of your head as he whispers the sweetest words in your ear: so good for me, so beautiful, taste so sweet, so pretty when you come, love to watch you lose control, so fucking sexy.

You roll your head to face him, burying yourself against his neck. He smells like salt and skin and battlefield smoke and bacta, and your tongue darts out to taste him, drawing a rumble of pleasure from his chest.

“Did I hurt you?” you ask.

He lets out a single, short laugh. “No, babygirl. You could fuck me into the ground, and I’d thank you for giving me a warrior’s death.”

You can feel his erection pressing against you, and you slide your hand down his body to stroke his length through the thin fabric of his body glove.

“In that case, I should probably take care of this,” you murmur. “Can’t fuck all night if we don’t start early.”

---

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Tagging: @blueink-bluesoul

[autisticempathydaemon]

Hello... again! Are you hyperfixated on RedactedAudio?

Do you want (need) to know who to follow to cultivate your dashboard and feed your gremlin brain good, good boyfriend roleplay content and my first recommendation post of magnificent fan-artists and fan-writers wasn't enough dopamine for you?

Cool, I’ve got you, and I’ve got even more hyperlinks. Buckle up.

(Note: This is by no means a comprehensive, objective, or complete list, as I have biases and favorites and limited time. If you feel I've missed someone, please feel free to reblog with your additions! I just would have loved a guide like this when I got into the fandom back in August 2022 and wanted to spread some positivity~!)

Fanfiction:

@agentplutonium: they/them

Pluto is just one of the many gorgeous people who've migrated to Tumblr now that Twitter is, ya know, on fire. I've been following them on Tiktok for ages, and I'm so pleased they joined us on tumblr now! Highlights: "Constant" and "Inconvenience" mean the world to me, because there are just not enough aspec headcanons in the fandom, we could always have more.

@angelicaether: they/them

Aether is a fucking gem unto this fandom- not only do they run Sky Side, a friendly, closeknit (hehe) server for 21+ Redacted fans but they also were who we have to thank for Redacted Kinktober 2023, bless them~ Highlights: New Job Posting is magnificent if you’re in the mood for some David/Angel smut today and this cute couple crossover fic if you’re feeling more SFW!

@caelumsnuff: they/them

Phoenix is magnificent, creative, and endlessly sweet. I also respect the hell out of anyone that can take the anon hate that they get with as much grace and attitude as they do /gen /pos Highlights: I love this gift for the Quinn-fuckers they wrote, I do, but I have to admit I'm partial to the Imperium!Vincent/Imperium!Asher piece they did, because their tension and hatred was just too palpable to deny, I needed it.

@empydoc: any pronouns

Empy's Soul Eater AU has not only taken over my life but has also got me deeply wanted a Soul Eater rewatch. God forbid xe succeed because this post has already been delayed enough /j Highlights: I love the Marcus/Asset post, because that's my favorite pairing but also because Asset as both an android and a weapon is so, so interesting. Blake/Bestie's is also a particular gem, because being a meister just gives him a new dimension to his manipulation and I love it.

@floofdeloop: she/her

Not only is Floof a beloved fic writer but she's also one of the adored DJs of the fandom. Are you really a fan if you haven't looked up Redacted on Spotify and saved all her playlists? /j Highlights: Her whole playlist page is literally so good, but I love the cute, domestic vibes of this Geordi one or the tragic, angsty, Britrock vibes of this Porter playlist~!

@joshusten: they/them

Sten is one of if not the writer that comes to mind when you're looking for amazing Guy/Honey content! Highlights: Bitter Melon is my personal favorite of their work; what can I say? I'm a sucker for a little jealousy in my fics. You also can't miss Honeysuckle, their most recent piece which gets into Guy's canonically less-than-pure mind~

@pinksparkl: she/her

Gosh, where would we be without her? Pink never has a bad word or thought for anyone and just persists in being a delightful, sweet presence in the fandom. Highlight: I can't decide what I'm more obsessed with- their Adam-centric fic exploring the Progeny/Maker bond or their nsfw Gavin-centric with his tail exploring Freelancer nudge nudge wink wink

@redlikeredacted: they/them

Just as their blog says, they are the CEO of Dasher. In my head, they are the president of both the David/Asher and the Autistic!David fan clubs, and I'd vote for them a second and third term okay I love Red Highlights: Their "David bottoming for the first time" fic is everything to me okay I am here for nothing but this except maybe this Milo fic where he gets Aggro~

@teafairywithabook: she/they

A lovely writer, voice actor, and person, Cheri does it all! With a whole 34 Redacted works on AO3, they are a must-follow. Highlights: I'll provide the masterlist of previously mentioned works, but I must recommend her nsfw Avior/Starlight fic keeping us sated until we finally get an Avior BA and their fic of Alexis's POV of Sam's turning I couldn't not okay I'm just a person I have biases

@tepid-judas: he/they/it

My favorite Adam stan, my friend, and the person who converted me into an Adam/Brighteyes shipper, I thank Judas every day for that. Highlights: I love their series of epistolary fics, because who doesn’t love a good letter, but I would be remiss if I didn’t rec his DAMN polycule plus Xavier fic cause fuck canon let's add frosty the snowman to the orgy /lh

@themonotonysyndrome: she/her

Lady, my dearest friend and greatest foe~ How else do I describe the gorgeous, sociable, friendly person who bought Alexis/Christian into the world and ruined my life? (affectionate) Highlights: Let these two assholes in love take you on a ride, fall in love with them too. If that's not your vibe, I cannot recommend enough her insane, gen z Bright Eyes being an absolute fucking terror /pos

Fanart:

@androgynouspenguinexpert

Can YOU believe Penguin's only been posting art since, like, December? I certainly can't, because it's like they've drawn every boy at this point and each is as smoochable and adorable as the last. Highlights: Their Porter is one of my favorites; what can I say? Who can resist this high ponytail and cape combo? I also love their Hush, cause look at him~! He's adorable! Penguin gives all these boys such luscious, floofable hair; I love them!

@cute-brainz: she/they/it

Kindly, lovingly, respectfully, Cute's listeners designs reduce me to a sniveling, simpering puddle of a simp. I become nothing but a humble, simple straight man, and none of you came blame me good god their listeners are hotter than all the redacted men- Highlights: Like, look at their Lovely: the hair, the singlet, the VIBES? Fuckin irresistible; like Vincent, I'd give them anything their heart desires. And their ANGEL? The MINUTE David Shaw fumbles that bag, I'm on my knees with a ring hello earth angel will you be mine

@darling-solaire

Darl has been posting art for only a month and a half at the writing of the post, and yet I feel like I've loved their Solaires for forever. They, as a unit, are hot and tragic as fuck, and I love them. Highlights: I am obsessed, particularly, with the Solaire family portraits, but maybe that's because my girl Alexis is up there, and I love her. There's also this bust compilation of more Redacted boys in case you didn't find your favorite in the Solaires~!

@free-boundsoul: she/her

Okay so, like, vibe with me did you ever love Lisa Frank products with the bright, saturated colors and sparkling eyes but wish instead of cuddly animals that there were really hot men? Then Savvie is the artist for you~ Highlights: One, it's fun to see a Regulus that's not blue, okay? It's thinkin outside the box. Two, the CRACKS? WITH THE GOLD PEEKING THROUGH? I'm inconsolable my god. Speaking of daemons, Fool!Gavin is sort of everything to me. He's just really rocking that sweater vest!

@hotmcrodz: he/they

I know for a fact that I'm not the only one obsessed with the way Jai draws human anatomy. I have unironically seen a Jai piece in the tag and gone "WOWZA" like I'm Jim Carrey in The Mask; that's what they do to me. Highlights: This Milo was one of the pieces that made my eyes pop out my head like a cartoon wolf; I think it's the shirtlessness plus the muscle pose. I just couldn't handle it. I also reacted like that to their Babe because I am an equal opportunity pervert /hj

@izzuku: he/they

Izzuku designs characters with the most realistic and gorgeous body types; like, I love the soft jawlines and how warm and touchable they draw skin. Every Izzuku design is kissable as hell. Highlights: I have to recommend his Regulus and Hush designs, obviously, they're my favorite men. However, I can't let the world go by another rotation without recommending this special Halloween version of Vincent~!

@kilarthmac: she/they

In case we needed another reason to love and appreciate the iconic timestamping account we all recognize from the Redacted comments, we cannot neglect their fanart! Highlights: Like, look at this brought-back-wrong Vega! This Hush with his cute face and off-putting air! He's so cute and so weird! I also love this piece they've done for one of my favorite rarepairs, Imperium!Lasko/Adam~

@latenightsleeper: he/they/it/she

My kinfolk and my beloved, one of the few people who understand me and the vision that is beautiful, blonde, dumb and lovable Christian. They will give you so many feelings about Darlin and Christian, and they will cause you agony /pos Highlights: Obviously, I'm obsessed with the Tank/Christian art like this one (Christian is just so cuuute), but we're all obsessed with this Sam/Darlin animatic set to Eat Your Young.

@maxpaulll

An amazing artist that I'm so glad we managed to get to migrate to Tumblr from Twitter so I could put them on this list~ Highlights: I am obsessed always with their Indigenous character designs, especially David. Like, look at him, he's indescribably beautiful, outshone by no one except maybe Max's Imp!Vega, because oh my god look at him~

@nortyourself: she/her

I don't think there's anyone who's not obsessed with at least one of Rachel's pieces; like, I believe she'll get to every Redacted man with the speed and beauty she works. Even Reticuli has gotten the Rachel treatment and been made hot af. Highlights: Technically, this Imperium!Damien just takes me breath away; like, it would be blown up and framed in his palace (for all of his short and tempestuous reign). Personally, her Hush has a dear and special place in my heart. He's just my favorite~!

@penncilkid: any pronouns

One of the most gorgeous and darling and non-stop creators in the space! They're a true triple threat, kicking our hearts in the butt with their art, their writing, and their audio roleplay series~ Highlights: With so many mediums under their belt, it's so hard to choose. If you're looking for purely Redacted content, their art is prolific and so creative, I've got to share the whole gallery. If you're in the market for a new VA to fall in love with, you've got to check out their youtube channel~!

@pycth: any pronouns

I dont have anything creative or profound to say here- all of pycth's designs are smoking hot and would render me selectively mute with a glance, 'nuff said. Highlights: How can I PICK? Ugh, hottest of the hot that comes to mind has got to be their President Moore art; like, this pose isn't FAIR. On the other end of the spectrum, if you want your heart kicked in the butt, I don't think any of us are over this Sam piece or ever will be.

@rainingcatsandjune: any pronouns

Another new artist who's only been here since April, and yet- I would die for his and his fine-ass, touchable Sam. Like, hell, render any man pretty like that, and I'll die for him. That's how pretty this art is. Highlights: Like, look at him. How does one do anything but look at him, especially in this pose? Again, look at him! Look at the hands. The soft, touchable glow and how it lights and shades his and Darlin's skin. The broad shoulders good god~

@sainthowlzon: they/he

You can't turn a corner on tumblr without seeing some of Howl's adorable Scribble Dolls or Icons! (Or any other social media actually. I feel like I've deffo seem some of Howl's icons on Tiktok too.) They're cute, they're iconic, and there's one for almost everyone! Highlights: Here's that full set of icons for your perusal; my personal favorite is Asset's. And here's the full set of Redacted Scribble Dolls; my favorite is Regulus, I think, because of his freaky vibes, but it's so hard to pick!

@sincerelywhistler: any pronouns

Like everyone with a working set of eyes and a beating heart, I am obsessed with all of Wes's designs; like, who wouldn't fall in love at first sight with all those beautiful and often shirtless people? Highlights: There's honestly too many to pick from, but I'll TRY. Their Gavin is an absolute must, I share it with the Discord on sight, he's that it girl if you will. Oh, and one cannot neglect Avior's HBS piece; I'm not even an Avior girlie, and I was like daaaaaamnnnnnnn~

@slushiepizza: they/them

Where would all the guy-lovers be without Slushie and their absolute cornucopia of Guy and Honey delights? Like, where else would we get our homemade, MacGyver'd serotonin? Highlights: The "Everyday" series is everything to me, and I mean everything; Guy has become too relatable and has struck me right in the heart. If you're not in a Guy mood, I'm also in love with their older, cozy Anton~!

@s0lairee: she/they

Jo's style is just so clean, so cute, and I really love it when they play with lighting in their pieces. Like, we are almost, almost there to making me stan Vincent if you're gonna drape him in moonlight like that... Highlights: ...thought, if I had to pick, I'd probably lean more towards Vincent's partner. They're rocking the red eyes, I love them! I'm also obsessed with their freckle-y, sweet Lasko, because who isn't?

@strawberrybouvine: he/they

The artistic equivalent of gourmet candy, I am absolutely obsessed with the gorgeous colors of Jasper's art and cannot get enough of the sweetness! Is this sugar running through my veins or unparalleled cuteness? Highlights: I'm not even a David stan but, like, jesus christ, the long hair and hairy chest makes me want to go feral. Don't even get me started on the cuteness of his chibi art, I really will start foaming at the mouth.

@theflowersaremine

I don't know exactly what medium Haylin uses or what colors or effects they use, but goddamn it makes those men so dreamy. I'm not even a Sam stan, but that's a smoochable man right out of Gilmore Girls /pos Highlights: Like, are you seeing the Gilmore Girls vision? That's a handsome man from a wholesome show geared for women- almost as handsome as this art of David. I see this smile in my dreams; it's so beautiful.

@venuslove-28: any pronouns

Venus's art is strawberry and vanilla soft serve injected straight into my heart; it's so familiar and cute, so charming, and I want to stim and bounce in excitement when I see it. Does that make sense? It'll make sense when you see it. Highlights: Personally, I have never and I will never stop thinking about this Huxley, I am simply not capable. Their Avior is also cuter than all get-out, I must admit.

@wingless-cupid

I don't think anyone does cute and colorful and pastel and kawaii quite like Cupid. You can't help but look and admire all the eye-catching colors and then want to hug their cheery, dynamic characters! Highlights: I'm highkey obsessed with their Freelancer and DAMNily and all their d(a)emons in general. Like, look at this! Minh is such a cutie and a simp, I love them! I'm also constantly thinking about this art in particular, because look at all these PRICELESS EXPRESSIONS!

@yoteako: he/it

Would you like stunning, high quality art and tragic, old man yaoi on your dash? That's a silly question; of course you do which is why we're going to follow and love on Yote. Highlights: See how beautiful, doomed, and intimate this multi-page comic is about two characters who've never canonically spoken? That's devotion. On the less forsaken side of the narrative, their Gavin/Lasko ship art is embedded into my heart.

If you’re reading all the way here, I hope you found the post helpful and smiled while making your way through it! Or both! The RedactedAudio fandom is truly one of my favorite spaces on the internet; it’s so intimate and creative, and I’ve found some amazing, perfect friends here, so I hope you will too 💖

[creativeashproductions]

When Fate Intervenes // Luke Patterson

IN WHICH: Fate intervenes with a trio of musicians on the night that was supposed to be legendary. Fate puts the reader with a special ability that may or may not be able to save them. Fate puts a clairvoyant, an accidentally upsized pizza and thirteen year old oddly obsessed with a rock band.

Warnings: Swearing, food poison, death, and fluff

Words: 2.8k

A/N: Time to get rid of some fic ideas from my TOO LONG of a list. It’s Julie fault, she keeps encouraging each fic idea I tell her.

TO BE TAGGED SEND AN INBOX/ASK PLEASE!

Masterlist

The Orpheum, 1995

The line up comprised of countless girls wearing homemade band shirts for the new band performing. Your little sister, at thirteen years old, had pleaded for weeks if not three months to go watch it. It was odd since she was more in the pop scene than the rock music. Your parents would never let her go to the rock show at night, so it was you or no show. It took a promise of doing your chores for an entire month and her dessert for two months. That was why you stood beside Harper among the fangirls while you clicked through the camera you’d saved up for years.

“I’m so excited.” Harper buzzed dancing on your feet as the time on her watch dwindled down more and more.

Your eyes flitted from the screen to the ball of energy you called your little sister, “I can tell. Which one do you have a crush on?”

“Reggie. He’s the bassist and so fucking-sorry freaking cool.” Harper gushed, “A good portion of the fans are obsessed with the lead singer Luke. Bobby is the rhythm guitarist, and he’s a ladies man, but he’s sweet about it.”

“And you’d know that how?” You questioned letting go of the camera around your neck. Your e/c eyes meeting her matching pair of irises; well yours were a bit more vibrant.

“I just know.” Harper retorted before beaming as she roughly poked the pin she’d made herself, “This represents all of them. Red for Reggie’s plaid shirt he always has, orange for Bobby’s love of oranges, yellow for Luke’s energy and pink for Alex because he loves the colour!”

The pin had their band design with Sunset Curve on it with the words outlined with a sunset made up of red, orange, yellow and pink just as Harper had pointed out. By far, it was her best work, but that was expected from an art student at Los Feliz High School. An art school for artists and performers. You attended for photography and creative writing just as Harper attended for art.

“That might be your best work Harps.” You complimented your little sister who shivered in the cool night breeze. You didn’t even think about tugging off your warm jacket to place on her shoulders.

You’d rather be cold than your little sister no matter how much you fought with each other, the Y/L/N siblings had each other’s backs no matter what.

“Thanks.” Harper murmured, leaning closer, “So do I meet Reggie?”

Your eyes widened slightly at her subtle goading to a part of your life was cinematic. It was a piece of you that very few people knew about, only your parents and Harper. Like most of the women in your paternal lineage, you carried the ability to foresee events in the future. A clairvoyant.

“Harper!” You scolded the young teenager who blatantly was just over-excited to see the band she’d been talking about constantly.

Harper’s cheeks turned a cherry blossom pink under the crappy lighting from the marquee sign. Even in the light, you noticed the changes in her face as she matured into a young woman, her cheeks while still full didn’t have that baby cheek look now. You saw a stubborn zit that you could see under the makeup that didn’t entirely match her skin tone. It caused an ache in your heart to know that soon she’d have the experience of heartbreak.

“Sorry!”

“You told me these guys are my age. Need I remind you that you are thirteen? If anyone older than thirteen makes an advance I’ll put my softball skills to the test.” You sternly informed the shorter girl with the pout that screamed rebellion, “Just be a kid Harps.”

“Like you said Y/N, I’m thirteen. I’m not a kid anymore.” Harper dropped the attitude to adopt a more mature soft tone. You could see the tinge of sadness in her eyes at losing the part of life where it was easy.

“I know. I can wish you’ll stay that annoying little kindergartener that stole my clothing.” You chuckled, “You’ll always be the Stephanie to my DJ.”

The two Y/L/N siblings momentarily glanced around before hugging as quickly as possible, they still had reputations to uphold. Had you been actually paying attention, you and Harper would have noticed the commotion from the people behind you.

As you and Harper had the sweet moment, the very band performing had raced out the alley into the street. What brought you back to the surroundings was the pizza boy delivering the pizza box to you. 

“Wait, we ordered a small!” You exclaimed finding the boy holding an extra-large pizza. You only received a shrug in response with the right change given back. 

Two things happened with this food mistake, you didn’t have to pay more than what you actually ordered, and you still got the larger pizza. However, the Orpheum didn’t allow outside food, meaning you’d have to force-feed yourself all the pizza or trash more than half. 

“We could shar-” Harper was cut off as a blinding white light became your focal point. Harper knew what was happening by the specific groan coming from your lips.

A nauseating scent of cheap meat, gas and chemicals flooded your sense of smell in the dingy alleyway. It was nighttime with a few people in the general vicinity with a dilapidated table and mismatched chairs on the walls’ edge. A poorly made sign with Sam & Ella’s and going by the vendor selling the hot dogs the name fit. Sam & Ella sounded like salmonella.

From a distance, you couldn’t quite hear the conversation between three male teens, but you had a bad feeling. They all migrated to a ratty couch that had been better days, a rat wouldn’t even crawl on it you swore.

The first boy had slicked back hair with rosy cheeks you dubbed innocent and cute that juxtapositioned his rocker attire. He had polished black leather shoes, pleather if his choice of food was an indication, a leather jacket and a red plaid shirt around his waist. His attention focused on the two guys beside him. In the middle, the boy had the blue hood of his sweater pulled over his messy brown hair as if hiding. Nothing stood out about him, and it seemed like that was intentional. On the other side, the last one was the tallest with his blonde hair hidden by the backwards black hat. A distressed dark grey jean jacket open to proudly display his pink hoodie. Each one wearing black pants and adorning rings.

“This is awesome, you guys. We’re playing the Orpheum!” The middle boy joyfully spoke head in the clouds instead of the questionable surroundings. He arguably had the loveliest smile you had ever seen, and his friends had nice smiles at that as well.

Yet even if this hadn’t taken place, however, it still felt like you were intruding on something incredibly private, “Why am I being shown this?”

Your question went unsurprisingly unanswered.

“I can’t even count how many bands have played here! And then ended up being huge!” He happily sunk into the back of the couch, thinking of all the bands he had CDs to in his room, “We’re gonna be legends!”

“Oh.” You breathed as you caught a whiff from the boys that quickly gave you the understanding of why you saw this. You could only smell what you had dubbed as death, the scent unchanging from the first time you’d encountered it.

The death stench accompanied a clairvoyant vision if the object of your vision was sick or about to die. The first time you encountered, it was a vision of two cars colliding, the sound of shattering glass and crunching metal, the scent of burning flesh overpowering the milder stench. The next morning school was cancelled after a teacher died in a car accident on the way to work.

“Eat up, boys. ’Cause after tonight, everything changes.” The only vocal one continued with his two friends silently listening. The trio toasted their food together.

“No!” You exclaimed as each boy took a bite. You held your breath, hoping that the inevitable in the vision wouldn’t occur.

Unfortunately, it was right away the warning appeared. The blonde one the most affected, “That’s a new flavour.”

“Chill, man. Street dogs haven’t killed us yet.” The leather jacket guy proudly spoke, the least one concerned. 

Even the guy in the middle was concerned but ultimately continued eating.

“Stop it!” You shouted, but it was no use. As with every vision, you had the potential to stop it from coming true, but while in the vision, you couldn’t interact with the people or surrounding. No matter how much you wanted to slam the food out of their hands.

But one thing sends shivers down your spine. The one in the middle made direct eye contact with you. Something that had never happened before nor to any previous clairvoyants. He kept eye contact as he slowly grew sicker and sicker.

The three boys had no chance as the ambulance rushed to the alleyway to save them. The paramedics weren’t as quick as the vendors who’d already packed and fled to protect their own hides.

You watched as the paramedics did everything in their power to save the young teenagers with everything possible. Just like Luke sang in their last song, the boys felt the darker version of an electric hammer to the heart. The clocks freezing in place as they each took their last breathe in the oddest of deaths. You saw the blonde guy die painfully first before followed by the formerly hooded one, the terrified cries of the last one haunting your phantom ears.

How did three healthy teenagers die on the same night of the exact nature within minutes of each other without one surviving? Maybe it had something to do with the hot dogs chilling in the liquid that was a cesspool of bacteria compounded with tained condiments from battery acid.

You roughly came out of the vision shaking and pale-faced frantically scanning the surroundings. Harper had a grip on the extra large pizza box while the other tightly held yours to ground you in the present.

“Are you okay?” Harper softly questioned with the panic hidden inside her body. Harper knew that this vision had been one of the bad ones. The haunted look in your eyes hinting towards death in the near future.

“We need to go.” You frantically replied, grabbing the pizza that would hopefully have a hand in saving three hopeful teens.

Your gym teacher would be proud of the distance diminished and speed you kept towards the area that would further shatter you. Foreseeing death and sometimes unable to stop it always had a nasty impact on you. 

“Where are we going?” Harper yelled, “We’ll miss the doors opening!”

“We’ll miss them if we don’t hurry up!” You shouted back at the disgruntled little sister but at the moment that didn’t matter. 

What mattered was three hungry teenagers about to gorge themselves on death dogs if you didn’t make it in time. It appeared for the first time you’d actually manage to stop the deaths, unlike the previous three times. 

“-tonight. Everything changes.” The chill-inducing rasp helped navigate you to the disgusting couch. Your cold hand slammed the hotdog from the blonde’s hand, the shocked reaction halting the other two.

“Don’t...eat...it.” You heaved bending over at the waist to catch your breath. Wheezing sounded from your little sister as the running and seeing her favourite band up close settled.

“Excuse me! I paid for that hotdog!”

“You’d be buying yourself death literally. Your dreams of playing the Orpheum would be extinct.” You sighed, chugging the water from the pocket of Harper’s backpack for a few seconds before the owner took it back.

“Okay, look I don’t know how you found us but-”

“You don’t have to believe me ’cause I sure as hell wouldn’t have but don’t jeopardize your dreams. Look my little sister wanted to see your show so I brought her and we ordered a pizza. They fucked up the order by giving us an extra-large pizza. We’ll barely eat a quarter of it, and the venue is strict on the rules.” You rambled using tour hands to elaborate the story before Harper roughly elbowed your ribs, “Ow!”

“Oops.” Harper faked a sugar-sweet smile for your benefit as the interaction with the three musicians slowly dove into embarrassment.

“-sorry. You’d be doing us a favour by not wasting our money and food. What do you say?” You hesitantly asked the trio who didn’t speak vocally; their eyes meeting in a silent conversation.

Reggie sighed as he begrudgingly dropped his hotdog in the bin near the couch, “Pizza outranks street dogs even if the dogs are heaven and to die for.”

“Literally.” You grumbled forcefully pushing the obscenely large pizza box into the middle one’s stomach, “I’m Y/N, this is my little sister Harper.”

“Hi.” Harper shyly waved with cheeks turning a dust pink concealed by the dark of the alleyway. The boys’ lips all quirked at the sudden contrast from the confident sister slamming her elbow in you to the bashful teen.

“I’m Luke. This is Reggie and Alex.” The hooded one, Luke, introduced his bandmates as best he could with his hands occupied by the pizza box.

Without the threat of death by the hot dog, you actually took the time to look at Luke with appraising eyes. His eyes were like oceans of blues, greens and even a brown that both exhilarated you; the desire of studying them not surprising. His smile outshone the sun on the hottest day in August.

“Nice to meet you.” You informed the trio with a beaming smile that matched your starstruck little sister. The interaction gave you the opportunity for immense and untiring future teasing on the teen that daydreamed of the bassist. 

You had to admit the trio were incredibly attractive.

“Come back to the dressing room. We can eat there out of the cold.” Alex courteously invited the two formerly strangers. His blues sharing his pure intentions to repay you for saving their lives and offering pizza. 

“Of course.” Harper nodded her head with her eyes barely meeting the ones of the boys. The shell was broken when Reggie piped up.

“That’s a really cool pin! Where’d you find it?”

Gated Community, Los Angeles, 2002

An off-tune humming filled the modestly sized home in the suburbs of Los Angeles, California with the sound of water splashing. Doing the dishes was a mindless chore that typically didn’t bother you, but the pain in your lower back protested. You’d have used the dishwasher, but the thing was perpetually breaking down. Didn’t seen essential to replace when washing dishes by hand was just as productive.

Or it was when you didn’t have the extra weight in your midsection, a symbol of your love with your husband. In fact, you would have avoided doing dishes if you hadn’t just used the last clean plate and glass at breakfast plus Luke hadn’t been home in the previous week.

Sunset Curve had gone on a press tour for the upcoming album and tour planned for next year.

“Oof.” You moaned as the little rascal once more hit your bladder, “Are you breaking electric guitars in there?”

“Not a soccer player?”

“With you as their father? Not likely.” You snorted as the sudden appearance of Luke became clear. You hadn’t been expecting him, “I missed you. We missed you.”

As had it since you first told him Luke’s warm hand came to rest on the front of your swollen belly. In a short month, you’d be cradling the newest member of the Patterson family with Luke singing the lullaby he solely made for baby P.

“Still haven’t given in?” The lead guitarist teased you with a beaming smile splitting his face, “Go sit down. I’ll finish the dishes.”

You didn’t need to be asked twice. 

“I’m not abusing my clairvoyance to foresee our child’s gender, name and appearance.” You pointed one finger in his direction, “I refused Bobby’s pleading to see which models he would bed. The only time I did something like that was to reassure Alex that he would fall in love with a lovely guy.”

Luke’s heart burst with sheer adoration at how easily you had sunk into the friendship with the band after that one night. A night that had given birth to a friendship that slowly evolved into a romance and marriage. To this day, the group got together as much as possible.

“I love you.” Luke chuckled, “Even-”

“-if I came into your life like a completely crazy person?”

“We’re all a little crazy.”

Your house surely would be when a little tornado with Luke’s energy took over the home you’d made with Luke. The very home you would have more children and grow old together until soon you held your grandkids on your laps.

Tag List (PLEASE SEND AN INBOX TO BE ADDED! I CANNOT GUARANTEE YOU WILL BE ON THE LIST VIA POST COMMENTS!)

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[samanthadalton]

Thank you for writing my Poppy sketchbook request!! I loved it! 😭😭💕💕

Anyways, I have another idea: Poppy and MC doing body shots at a frat party!

I'm so sorry I keep requesting stuff. Hehe

I’m really glad you loved it anon it means a lot. Sorry if you were waiting a while for this one because I’m working through the requests now, I hope you enjoy it 💖💖

pairings: Poppy x mc

(Takes place after chapter 7 of queen b) 

taglist: @cloud9in @somewillwin @baexpoppy @save-me-the-last-dance @helpconfusedpersonhere @dopeyouth (i forgot i had a taglist for poppy but if you wanna be added on in future fics let me know 😁)

word count: 2.3k (its a long one) 

Body Shots 

The party at the frat house is in full swing, music blaring from the speakers, the pulsating and infectious beat echoing throughout the entire house. Every inch of the house is filled with drunk college students, all immersed in the party, drinking, dancing, playing beer pong and the classic, hooking up. 

Poppy Min Sinclair stands in the corner of the living room, a scowl etched on her face as she observes her surroundings. Veronica’s nowhere to be seen, undoubtedly live streaming for her picta fans and after many gruelling hours of begging and pleading, Chloe was back at the queen b’s side as her number 2. Chloe looks at the party-goers longingly, wishing she could join in on the fun but with Poppy in a sour mood tonight there’s no chance of that happening. After throwing away her remaining self worth to get back into the strawberry blonde’s good graces, she was not about to mess it up again by ditching her. 

You hover at the front door of the frat house, self-conscious about being in the public eye after weeks of hiding since Poppy released that embarrassing hog calling video. Everywhere you went, you were met with stares, laughs and even a student or two who would mock you. 

“Girl stop worrying” Zoey says reassuringly placing her hand on your shoulder, “everyone’s practically forgotten about the video.” 

You glare at Zoey indignantly, and then roll your eyes, “no they haven’t. I mean yesterday someone literally sent hay to our dorm room. Maybe this was a bad idea.” You turn away from the door and begin walking away. Zoey chases after you, her hand firmly clasps your arm as she tugs you towards the door. 

“Bea, pleaseeeee. Tonight is all about getting drunk and having fun. Please stay” She bats her eyelashes while giving you the puppy eyes treatment and your doubts start to dissipate.

You stand a little straighter, giving Zoey a resolute nod, “you’re right.” You begin mentally steeling yourself as you stare down the Alpha’s front door, which somehow looks way more intimidating than the first time you were here. 

Zoey ushers you in through the front door where you are met by a half naked, unmistakably drunk, Ford who throws his arms around both you and Zoey, “looks who’s hereeee.” he takes a swig from the cup in his hand, “we were hoping you would come Bea.” 

“Really?” you raise an questioning eyebrow at Ford who replies with an eager nod, pulling both you and Zoey into the living room. He motions at the dj who gives him a knowing nod, and the music suddenly changes and the sounds of your hog calling, which begins to echo throughout the entire frat house, evoking an assortment of reactions. All the students turn to look at you, humour written all over their faces while embarrassment is on yours. You look around the room and your gaze meets Poppy, whose lips quirk up, her eyes glimmering with amusement as she stares you down. You feel like you’re staring right at the face of the devil itself, and anger begins to flood through your body.

Zoey looks at you apologetically once the normal music resumes and she draws you into a hug, and mumbles an apology in your ear, “we can go if you want you.” 

You eyes once again roam the room, most students once again indulging in the party while some gawk at you, finding the ordeal humorous. You mind drifts to Poppy and how infuriating she is, because this is all her fault. You shake out of your reverie and softly shake your head, “no.” Zoey raises a worried eyebrow at you, “I came here to get drunk so that’s exactly what I’m going to do.” You both walk over to the keg, pouring yourself and Zoey some beer in some plastic red solo cups and drain the entire thing within seconds before refilling it. 

“You might want to take it slow,” Zoey says, as she carefully sips her beer. 

“Nope, I need to forget the last couple of weeks existed,” you raise the cup almost as if you're doing a toast before downing the rest of it. You sharply inhale as you feel the alcohol beginning to warm your body, and you feel yourself starting to feel more at ease. You’re about to pour yourself another cup until a familiar voice comes up behind you, and it takes everything in you not to roll your eyes. 

“I see the Alpha’s are doing their regular charity work by taking in a stray,” her voice crackles with detest as she looks you over, but you notice her eyes lingering on your body but you don’t blame her since the dress you’re wearing is doing wonders for your figure. 

“I’m pretty sure you’ve already used a line like that before Pops, don’t tell me you’re losing your touch already?” you give her a little smirk, her eyes glowering at the sound of the nickname you’ve given her but she brushes over it and returns a demonic smile. 

“Hmm, maybe it’s because my point still stands. You don’t belong here. Maybe you’ll be better off on that farm of yours, getting down and dirty with the pigs than the frat boys.” 

“You didn’t mind getting down and dirty with me a few weeks ago.” Chloe who’s standing behind Poppy gives a small gasp, while Zoey stares at you, mouth hanging open. Poppy however, stares at you, all sense of amusement wiped from her face as a fire begins to burn in her eyes. 

Poppy turns her head slightly, speaking over her shoulder, “leave us now.” her voice commanding, and Chloe awkwardly migrates into the party. A few seconds later Poppy raises a perfectly shaped eyebrow at Zoey, “why are you still here new money? Did befriending Farmsville cause you to lose brain cells or something?” Zoey sputters and looks to, waiting for your answer. 

“It’s okay Zo, go and enjoy the party. One of us should be able to without feeling like the air is being sucked out of the room.” Poppy lets out a small huff but Zoey obliges and walks but not before mouthing, “you and Poppy?”. You respond with a wink and then you’re left with the strawberry blonde who’s just staring daggers at you. 

“Listen here you oversized gremlin” she takes a menacing step towards you, but you stand your ground no matter how much steam is coming out of her ears, “you weren’t even that good in bed so I wouldn’t get all high and mighty if I were you.” 

“Funny, because I remember you screaming out my name.” 

“Hmm, I remember you begging me to say yours.” she retorts, with less sass but her tone almost seductive. As the air between you intensifies, Poppy does something you would never expect, she looks away. 

“So what’s her majesty doing in a place like this? You clearly aren’t having any fun?” You begin refilling your drink while Poppy���s face twists in disgust. 

“You’re still talking to me?” 

You roll your eyes, “Why are you always such an uptight bitch? Does it ever kill you to have some fun?” 

“I have fun Farmsville. I’m just not a juvenile like you, finding entertainment in the most banal things.” 

Maybe it was the alcohol, or just plain boredom, you’re not sure but something within you sparks a challenge as you raise an eyebrow at Poppy and say, “prove it.” Maybe Poppy’s feeling the same way as you, because her eyes mirror your exact feelings when she gives you a small grin. 

“Okay Farmsville, but first I need a drink.” You lift up your cup towards Poppy who pushes it away with disgust, “no a real drink.” 

As the party blazes on, Poppy leads you to a secret room within the Alpha house which is a replica of a bar, only smaller but you repress making a joke about how it’s a literal minibar. 

Poppy reaches behind pulling out a bottle of tequila and looks at you with a devious glint in her eye. “Now we can have fun.” She takes out two glasses, pouring out a drink for you both, and you both quickly down the drink. You slightly wince as the tequila burns your throat but Poppy seems unaffected as she refills the glasses again. 

“Damn,” 

Poppy raises a cocky eyebrow at you, “bet you didn’t think I could hold my own Farmsville.” 

“I’ll have to remember to not underestimate you.” 

“You have a habit of underestimating me Farmsville, just know I will never back down” she runs a finger down your chest, and you sharply inhale as you gaze into her eyes. As the atmosphere intensifies you find yourself almost drowning in Poppy’s brown doe eyes, and you begin to slowly lean in, Poppy notices your expression and quickly lifts her glass blocking your face and drinks it all before setting the glass down hard. “You’re falling behind Farmsville.” 

You quickly grab the other glass draining the contents before giving her a small grin, “please, I could literally drink you under the table.” 

Without missing a beat Poppy retorts, “but could you drink off me on the table.” her voice commandeering with confidence. In the moments that follow, Poppy easily unzips her dress and slips out of it, before hopping up on the counter and reaching behind grabbing a lime wedge and a few salt packets. She eyes bore into yours as you helplessly appraise her body, your mind flashing back to the night you had sex with her, and how perfect her body felt against yours. How her nails dug into your back leaving red marks all over it, but the pleasure was too much for you to care about it. As your eyes travel back up Poppy’s body you reach her eyes, which are glimmering with humour. “So?” She lifts up a salt packet in her hand, “are we going to do this or are you too much of a coward?” 

You step forward daringly, and take the salt packet from her hand before licking your own hand and sliding it down Poppy’s chest, the substance of your saliva sticking to it. You rip open the salt packet with your teeth, while maintaining eye contact and slowly guide the strawberry blonde’s body down the counter and empty out the contents of the packet onto her chest. Poppy lets out a giggle, her cheeks flushing red as she takes you in. You pour some of the tequila into her belly button and eagerly begin licking her chest, your tongue exploring the swell of her breasts. You hear some light gasps from Poppy as you kiss your way down to her belly button, your lips encircling it as you begin to suck the alcohol out of it. Once you’re done, you move your head up and begin looking for the lime wedge, your brows furrowed with confusion until Poppy opens her mouth and you see the lime wedge between her teeth.

You stare at Poppy before slowly moving down to her mouth and taking the wedge between your own teeth, your lips softly graze together before you tilt your head up, biting down harder on the lime squeezing out all of its juice. You laugh victoriously as Poppy sits up and begins to pull you down onto the counter. 

“My turn.” She begins hastily unzipping your dress and pushes you down onto the counter, as you lie down she straddles your hips. She pours a glass and balances it on your chest. She licks her fore and middle finger before sliding it down your throat and pouring some salt onto it. She delicately places a lime wedge on your lips, your mouth opens slightly biting down on the peel. Poppy leans down and begins to run her tongue down your throat, her tongue caressing it as she licks up every grain of salt before moving down your chest. Her lips curl around the glass as she picks it up with her teeth, emptying its contents, plucking it out of her mouth and moving down to the lime wedge. As she slinks down, your eyes meet hers, as she takes in the lime and begins to bite down on it. While the peel is still in your mouth, she finishes the rest of it, slightly wincing by the time she's done. In that moment you look over at Poppy and her eyes glisten with want and her gaze lingers on your lips. You turn your head spitting out the rest of the wedge, grab the back of Poppy’s neck as your lips come crashing together in a passionate kiss. Her lips taste sour, hints of the lime juice and tequila remaining on them as you nibble on her bottom lip, eliciting a few high pitched moans from the queen b. 

You stay attached at the lips, Poppy’s tongue invitingly tangling with yours, as you kiss her without restraint. Your hands slowly start to trail down her body resting on her hip. You’re about to flip the strawberry blonde over on the counter until the door abruptly opens and a gasp pulls you out of the moment. You look over to see Veronica, phone in hand as she ogles at the two of you. 

Poppy pushes you away, jumping off the counter, “you better not be live streaming Lombardi” her voice quickly sobering up as she glares at the ombre-haired girl. 

“I wasn’t and I’m going to leave. Have fun with whatever this is.” Veronica gestures between the two of you before slinking out of the room and as you get your bearings, you see Poppy already slipping her dress back on. 

“So that’s it huh?” 

Poppy doesn’t answer, her gaze averted from yours, she quickly zips up her dress, before running a hand through her silky hair and moves towards the door. Before she leaves, she turns towards you, “this was fun Farmsville. Maybe one day we’ll continue this in a more private manner.” She gives you a small wink and disappears, leaving you and your whirlwind of thoughts. 

[ms31x129]

Woohoo! Time for Chapter 3! I had to make a another DJ! I felt compelled! @cultureisdarkbeer @monikafilefan @today-in-fic

Chapter 1 - Courage to Jump Tumblr LINK or if you like AO3 it is HERE.

Chapter 2: Luck of the Irish Tumblr LINK or if you like AO3 it is HERE.

Chapter 3: Graffiti of the Heart  (Click on the name for AO3) or if you like Tumblr just clickity-click on the Keep Reading link below.

{Summary:

Jackson continues his journey, leading him into D.C. and the power of words, mixed with his abilities, and some parental love, allow him to travel back into his younger self. There he delves into a memory within a memory, but whose memory is he recalling?

Oh Jackson, never fret, when you are the son of Fox William Mulder and Dana Katherine Scully, you never walk alone.}

“A vision is not just a picture of what could be; it is an appeal to our better selves, a call to become something more.” -Rosabeth Moss Kanter

Jackson tossed the cabbie a $20 that he’d “won” on a scratch off ticket he picked up at the gas station not far from his house.

“You good, kid?” the man with thick eyebrows and questionable hygiene asked him as he slid out of the back seat.

“I’m good.”

As he shut the door and shoved his hands in his jacket pockets, the man’s window opened and Jackson rolled his eyes at the preemptive attempt to dole out words of wisdom that he knew were surely heading his way.

“You’re a kid alone in the dark, and I’m dropping you off in the middle of the National Mall,” he warned, pointing at the dimly lit public square overlooking the lake as if it weren't completely clear to Jackson as to where he was headed. “Shit happens.”

Jackson leaned down and smirked. “Yeah, I got that,” he waved the driver off. “Thanks for the heads up, but they're the ones who should be afraid of me.”

The cabbie shrugged, probably figuring he’d tried if a sullen news report streamed across his T.V. in the morning about a teenage boy found dead behind some bush near Constitution Ave.

The cab’s tail lights shone in the dark as it drove off down the street. Jackson was left alone to wander and think about what the hell he was going to do next. Running was getting old, fast. Yet, running was all he knew how to do anymore.

After bouncing round from place to place, traveling and sightseeing for months now, he figured he’d stick around more familiar places for a while. And after his little run-in at the house, he decided a larger populated city would be a better area to blend in at. He was fairly certain no one of importance was searching for him after taking a bullet through the skull and had been presumed dead by everyone but his mother, yet he couldn’t be too careful if he wanted to keep what was left of his family safe. So, the busy tourist attraction around the Washington Monument seemed like the perfect place to clear his head before finding a cheap motel to crash at for the night.

The springtime weather was unusually warm for nightfall and the soft quacking of ducklings bathing in the lake in front of the monument caught his attention. He smiled and found an old bench to sit on and stretch out his long legs as he watched how the mother duck encouraged her babies to follow her into the glassy water.

As a little boy, he would run out back behind his farmhouse and sit on a log with his dad to watch the birds and geese swoop down onto the lake during migration. The sky would darken with the mass amount of them hovering and playfully cutting through the air above him. Now when the sky darkened around Jackson, it was not due to nature and its natural way of life, but an unnatural force of darkness that has managed to follow him wherever he went.

“What do I do now?” he wondered to the empty seat beside him, strumming his fingers along the back of the bench. “Alone in the dark…”

As he steadily chipped away at the fragments of the multilayered paint, Jackson noticed letters engraved deep into the weathered bench. With his curiosity peaked, he leaned down to tear away a larger chunk of blue paint and saw exactly what was written.

DKS & FWM

WERE HERE

1994

His eyes widened just before his mouth fell open. “No way! It can’t be,” he shook his head in disbelief. But there it was, etched in precise, even lines that defied all logic.

He could feel her —feel her as if she were sitting right beside him in that very moment. Even with so few letters to go on, there was no mistake to be made. His birth mother had marked her presence for her future son to unknowingly stumble across 25 years later.

“Un-fucking-believable. I guess the past really does screw with the future.”

His fingers traced along the letters, feeling each groove as if he were her sitting in this very spot so many years ago. Was she acting as a lovestruck young woman daydreaming of the man she loved? Was she poking fun at the probable 30 other initialed couple’s forever time stamped into the bench’s frame? Could she have been contemplating her future, her whole life as she scratched each line with purpose?

So many never-ending questions with never enough answers. He did carry one way to find resolution to some of his larger ones that have remained unanswered for far too long.

Jackson reached into his pocket and opened up the letter once again. He inhaled deeply and picked up where he had left off.

And if I falter or fail on this day, know there is an answer my child. A sacred imperishable truth but one you my never hope to find alone.

The last words barely registering in his head when his mind started up like a projector, snapping his head back with the force of the memory.

December 10, 2008

It was a cold day and his mom had him all bundled up in a puffy blue and white jacket. He could hardly move, restricted by the coat and his sweater that hugged him. It chaffed at his pale sensitive skin underneath.

This hospital felt more like a church with pictures of saints covering the walls, crosses with the carved out figure of Jesus bleeding from his hands and feet hanging ominously.

The hallways to the children’s section had windows with tiny squares, reminding him of a jail cell from a show on T.V.. The nun brought them down another hallway with big blue bears and bright yellow giraffes painted on the walls, stuffed animals and toys inside the rooms on shelves and beds. All of it couldn’t hide the cold hospital walls, hard industrial floors, or the thick flat wood of hospital railings holding the stench of sickness and antiseptic.

It all made his stomach turn and chest feel tight with worry. The sound of machines beeping played in the background as his anxiety grew.

Another room now.

This one was baby blue in color with animal prints dressing the windows and children’s drawings mounted for all to see. It was meant to be friendly, but it only had the hair at the back of his neck standing on end. He wanted to run. He wanted to cry. No more tests.

Everyone passed with purpose; expressions dark with evil, lingering stares for such a holy place. Jackson made up his mind. There was no way he’d ever return to this place again.

They turned the corner quickly and he swung himself wide, stretching out his arm, tugging at his mother’s hand and was suddenly hit by a moving object in a white coat.

Stumbling back, his gaze scanned up towards the woman in front of him. Her face was blurred by a file, but her feelings of defeat, of a battle lost, of helplessness, of the world closing in was in full high-definition. Her kind blue eyes framed by vivid tendrils of hair never quite met his, but they were the softest blue he had ever seen. Like water in the pool at his friend Mikey’s house, floating peacefully in chaos.

“Oh, excuse me. I’m sorry,” she murmured, reflexively placing a soft hand to the top of his head and leaving a spattering of goose flesh along his skin.

He heard the stress in her voice, saw the tightness in her neck, her hair reminding him of a blood moon casting it’s red shadow among the wheat grass swaying in the fields by his house. She was beautiful.

“Mother,” the word rising unbidden from his throat in a mere hoarse whisper for no perceptible reason. His eyes followed her as she swiftly rounded the corner to disappear from which they just came.

“You’re not hurt are you, Jackson?” his mom asked as she leaned down to give him a once over.

“No, Mom. I’m fine,” he mumbled back sharply as they continued down the corridor.

The nun conducting their tour had his father’s ear, relaying information in cautious tones “...once he begins to show promise in his progression he will visit Dr. Goldman for additional testing...”

That last word, “testing,” burrowed into his ear and burned at his throat as if he had swallowed shards of glass, lighting his stomach on fire.

The word hit him so hard that it pushed him back into the present. His brain rattled fiercely inside his skull. The heel of his palm massaged his brow at the ache firing in his brain until his anxiety settled.

It wasn’t going to stop him this time. He would push the physical and emotional pain away to continue on. Determined, he read the next line:

Chance meeting your perfect other, your perfect opposite, your protector and endangerer.

“Ah!” His small index finger screamed in pain. Something sharp was in his coat pocket, stabbing at it, pricking the skin. He dug it out in the privacy of his bedroom. It was one of those guardian angel pins like the one his mom used to wear and place inside Christmas cards when she sent them to people that were special to her. It must have slipped into his pocket from the woman who had bumped into him in the hallway earlier. Mother . Jackson recognized the birthstone as his own. The angel pin flipped around his naive tiny fingers and he realized he was, once again, trapped inside another flashback. Back into the abyss he plunged, opening into the eyes of another .

A ceiling came into view. A foreign bed, the softest of pillows, and a warm comforter surrounded him as a strong consoling arm wrapped around his waist. Deep, complex resonating emotions filled him—pain of loss, regret, and a heavy emptiness that hovered over him so thickly that it nearly suffocated.

“Do you think God is losing any sleep?”

His perspective shifted and a man’s face came into view. He had a beard worn almost as a mask, drawing attention away from the honest truth he held in his eyes.

Harrowing truths he carried on the cross he bore for ‘her’ and for… a sister. His eyes reminding him of the first of spring, when the grass just started to grow, but the death of winter remained underneath.  

“Why bring a kid into the world just to make him suffer? I don’t know, Mulder, I’ve got such a connection to this boy,” Jackson said in a tender voice that was not his own.

“How old is he?” the man asked and his eyes softened further, concern flooding through his vocal cords.  

“You think it’s because of William?” she wondered as if she were afraid of his answer.

“I don’t know... I… I think our son left us both with an emptiness that can’t be filled.” As he spoke his eyes revealed an intricate mosaic of an endless devotion—caring and love built up inside a never ending staircase like the one in the MC Escher art book that had caught his eye in the library.

“Just go to sleep,” the man said and tightened his comforting embrace. His lips rested at her temple for reassurance. “Let me curse God for a while.”

Unfamiliar long lashes fluttered shut and a sharp pain sang through the center of his brain.

The vision rapidly zoomed out, blurred and tunneled, focusing in on the toy box in his old room and the angel pin in his hand. He heard his parents talking in hushed tones just outside his bedroom door. He was there for a brief moment, only for him to be forcefully sucked out again.

His consciousness jolted back from his own eight year old body and violently threw him forward into the present.

His birth mother's angel pin vanished, the letter now in its place, clutched firmly within his shaking hand. He had just watched a moment in time through Dana Scully’s eyes, and that man was Fox Mulder.

“Oh. My. God.”

[lady-charinette]

A Brief Glance - Dinner for Two Marichat Fic (Chapter 9)

A Brief Glance

Flashback to dinner with Gabriel at 6pm

Adrien checked himself one last time, already hearing the clicking of Natalie’s heels hitting the marbled floor of the Agreste mansion, making sure his hair was neatly combed and already ironed shirt sat straight.

The door opened and Natalie greeted him with a curt nod, “Welcome Adrien, your father is already waiting in the dining room.”

Adrien mustered a small smile, “Thanks Natalie.” The woman stepped aside to let him enter and Adrien sighed, taking in the hues of metal and white, “Hey, Natalie…”

“Yes, Adrien?”

“Does a color change fit into father’s schedule?” Natalie was already following Adrien’s line of sight and the normally strict and uptight woman allowed a small but sad smile to grace her lips.

“…I’m afraid not, Adrien.”

Adrien’s small smile still remained, but it was hollow, “I see.”

She cleared her throat, “…I’ll see what I can do without any guarantee. Follow me please.” Adrien stared at her back sympathetically as she led him to the familiar double doors across the hall.

He sometimes felt bad for Natalie, he knew the woman could be strict and uptight, but she had been the one who’d fought for his right to attend public school while he had been a teen. She had warmth, but it was deeply buried underneath a thick layer of professionalism. Adrien admired her, working for so long in such a cold environment and still having that small speck of warmth.

The double doors opened and Natalie excused herself, closing them again once Adrien was inside.

His father was sitting at the end of the long table and Adrien mentally asked himself why he still had such a large table when it was mostly reserved for one person, two occasionally or even four if Natalie and the gorilla, on very rare occasions, joined in.

Still, Adrien sat down beside his father, who was eating soup, Adrien’s own still steaming before him. It had a creamy, pale texture, either mushrooms or something else, “You’re punctual, Adrien.” His father’s words broke the silence like ice and Adrien began eating.

“As I always am, father.” His tone, he noticed, had changed again, into that slightly indifferent one he used whenever he stepped foot into the mansion.

Whenever he talked to his father.

His father hummed but that was the only response to his answer before he changed the subject, “I trust your day went well.”

The answer flowed easily from his lips, as if reciting a report, “I’ve been quite busy. Fencing lessons started in the morning and ended at 3pm, photoshoots with Chloe and Theo at 3:30pm until 5:30pm. Studying follows after dinner.”

Gabriel paused, as if taking in the information, information he knew since he coordinated his schedule, “How are Chloe and Theo doing? I believe they must be very busy with their rising popularities.”

Adrien refrained from making an undignified noise as snorting, he barely reined it in.

Barely.

“Chloe plans to visit her mother in New York for a few fashion events. Theo has modelled for a few Italian companies and got featured in several magazines.” The information that left his mouth barely registered to Adrien, his focus was on the bland soup he was swallowing.

He couldn’t deny enjoying the luxury of first class chefs in the Agreste kitchen, but their food at the restaurant made by Miss Cesaire was by far superior.

“I see.” Gabriel cleared his throat, “I noticed you cancelled a photoshoot scheduled for tomorrow.”

Adrien paused, trying to carefully word his next sentences, “The photoshoot takes place at the same time I have a test in physics, I rescheduled it for the afternoon.”

He could sense his father’s displeasure, he didn’t need to look at his face to know, not that he would read anything from the stone-like surface it seemed to transform into, “So, you still attend university lectures?”

Adrien’s grip on the spoon was a bit too tight, but he wouldn’t allow his emotions to get the better of him, “Yes, since attendance is obligatory.”

“Attendance is required for photoshoots as well.” Ah, that argument.

The young man finished his soup, which was immediately taken by a servant, before they were served their next course, grilled lamb, perfectly smooth mashed potatoes with a mysterious sauce.

Adrien mentally prepared himself for the direction their discussion, if one could call it that, was starting to take, he lifted his gaze from his plate for the first time this evening to look at his father, whose gaze still remained fixed on his food, “Photoshoots can easily be rescheduled, exams in university are difficult if not impossible to reschedule, especially for a single student.”

Gabriel’s brows furrowed slightly, “If you wish I can write a letter to the university and-“

“No.”

The noises of cutlery ceased completely and Gabriel finally lifted his head to look directly at his son. Adrien gathered his growing courage to repeat his answer, “No, thank you father. I already rescheduled the shoot, it’s fine.”

The fashion designer huffed and wiped at his mouth, “Perhaps for you, but I’m the one who needs to explain the reasons behind my son missing events.”

“Shall I do it? I have a computer, I have their e-mail address.”

“Adrien…”

The blond set his napkin next to his still full plate, “It’s not a problem, father. I can write a full page essay on how I prefer to focus on expanding my education in subjects I enjoy and am interested in and that I deeply apologize for the rescheduling of a photoshoot solely relying on my attendance to boost their popularity.”

“Watch your tongue, young man!” the hard edge in his father’s tone reminded Adrien of the rare times he tried arguing against him, mostly unsuccessfully, in his younger days.

But he wasn’t fifteen anymore.

He was an adult.

And he would act like one for once.

With all the gracefulness and practiced calm of a model and an Agreste, Adrien rose from his seat and folded his napkin over his untouched food, “I apologize father, but I lost my appetite. Enjoy your meal.” He nodded once at his furious parent, before he finally left the suffocating, ice cold room.

And left his father sitting alone at the table.

Just like Adrien used to sit alone at that very same table in his youth.

When he opened the doors, Natalie was looking at him in concern, “Adrien-“

“Good night Natalie. Make sure you try the lamb, it’s delicious.” With those words, the young Agreste left the building he used to call home behind in confident strides.

And didn’t look back once.

--------------

Hearing Nino’s excited voice over the phone while walking towards the club filled Adrien with a sense of fulfillment he hadn’t experienced often, especially after a day like today and the dinner he had.

Nino had been right, it would do him good to go out and relax every once and a while.

Adrien frowned when he thought of the restaurant, feeling bad for going earlier than he usually did. Pierre said it was alright, but it still left a sour aftertaste in his mouth.

Perhaps he could work a few extra hours tomorrow to make up for today, if he was out until ten with Nino and Alya, he could still study for two-three hours until he had to go to sleep.

-------------

A little while later at the club

“Dude! You came!” Nino’s body migrated towards his best friend immediately upon spotting the blond tuft of hair in the crowd, arms wrapped around the model like a monkey.

In hindsight, he supposed it sounded sad, but being hugged by Nino felt infinitely better than the last time he had been hugged by his father. Adrien returned the hug gladly.

“Ahem, if you boys are done swooning over each-other.” A playful female voice sounded from behind Nino and the two men broke apart.

Nino grinned sheepishly, placing an arm on the shoulder of a stunning dark-skinned woman with auburn hair and glasses, dressed in a stylish dark purple one suit which could pass for a shorter cocktail dress, “Ah, sorry, Adrien meet Alya Cesaire, to-be-worldwide famous reporter, already famous blogger and amazing girlfriend.” He grinned at the blond, “Alya, meet number one model and awkward sunshine boy Adrien Agreste!”

He rose an eyebrow at the ‘awkward’ part, to which Nino chuckled at his friend’s reaction.

Alya smirked at her boyfriend’s description, smoothing down his bowtie, “Thank you Nino.” She turned her attention to Adrien, holding a hand out, “Hi Adrien, welcome to the club!” she smiled brilliantly and Adrien returned the smile full force, shaking her hand.

“Thanks Alya, the pleasure is all mine! It’s nice finally meeting you after hearing all these wonderful things about you from Nino.” He locked gazes with his DJ friend, who rubbed at his head in embarrassment.

Alya crossed her arms, “I surely do hope there were only good things.” She winked, laughing at her boyfriend’s reaction and the two males soon joined in.

They talked and drank for a while, catching up and getting to know each-other. Adrien found out she ran the famous blog he heard about here and there, he was glad to know she was also promoting Nino as a DJ, which helped boost his popularity. Their relationship dynamic also intrigued him, they were playfully bantering and bickering but the soft, loving looks in their eyes were undeniably.

Adrien had to drink and turn his head a few times when he noticed their heads were leaning a bit too close to each-other, but otherwise they were very cool.

He also got to hear Nino letting loose and rapping onstage, he hadn’t heard Nino rap in ages, since Dupont, while good back then, it was nothing like it was now. Now he really did deserve the title of prodigy DJ, even complicated, longer words effortlessly flowed out of his mouth in quick, smooth tones and the lyrics were cleverly put together and sent a powerful message.

He suspected Alya had a hand or at least was a partial inspiration, if the proud look and loud cheering were any indication.

Adrien couldn’t remember the last time he was so loud, he could shout as loud as he wanted, there were always people louder than him here in the crowded club.

It was liberating, being so casual. His green dress shirt was slightly in disarray, the first button open, collar slightly loose, hair a bit messier.

But nobody cared and Adrien reveled in the non-attention he was getting.

He felt free.

Still, Adrien couldn’t shake off the feeling like he was forgetting something.

--------------

Marinette couldn’t remember the last time she ran in the short heels without tripping, but now she was, at full speed towards the bustling restaurant.

It wasn’t that late, maybe Chat Noir was still there. She wanted to ask him to meet her again tomorrow, maybe the odd feeling she had earlier would go away little by little the more time she spent with him outside the restaurant.

Maybe she was just nervous, he was a good looking man, not quite what she expected, for some reason, she imagined him to have blond hair or at least more on the lighter side.

She sighed, looking left and right for incoming cars as her legs carried her across the street towards the building.

Marinette entered with a huff, panting heavily and muttering apologies when she nearly ran into a few customers on the way to the receptionist desk, which was occupied by the elder butler again.

He offered her a welcoming smile and a polite nod and Marinette returned his gestures, “Good evening! Is there still room for one?” she meekly looked around the full establishment.

Pierre chuckled and grabbed the menu card, “Of course, if you would follow me miss.” He gestured for her to follow and she did without question, feeling relief washing over her when her usual seat was empty.

Thank god.

Marinette felt another wave of relief when she sat down, her tired legs screaming at her to take a rest after the hard day she had.

When Pierre handed her the menu, she wanted to worship the ground he walked on.

While he moved away to get her a glass of water, Marinette scanned the menu, feeing giddy to talk to Chat Noir again.

When Pierre came back with only her glass of water but no black toy, Marinette hesitantly spoke up, “Um…excuse me, but…is…is the cat not available tonight?” she swore she hadn’t seen Chat Noir���s toy anywhere else in the seats.

Not that she’d been looking.

The elder man frowned slightly, hands clasped to his front apologetically, “My apologies but the black cat is not in service for tonight I’m afraid, would you prefer a different one?”

Sadness hit Marinette like a wave, but she forced on a bright smile, “No, no, thank you very much! Um, I’ll take the potato soup and the noodles with chicken and vegetables.” Pierre nodded and bowed briefly before leaving with her order.

Marinette sighed, her tired form slumping back to rest against the cushioning of her seat, staring up at the ceiling.

She was so excited to talk to Chat Noir again! She wanted to know more about art therapy and how it helped people and what his relationship was like with his students!

Another long drawn out sigh left her lips and Marinette tried hard to ignore the ache in her heart.

She felt a bit bad for cancelling the night out Alya had called her for, but she was too tired to go clubbing now anyway, she still needed to work on that paper that was due in two weeks.

Still, it would’ve been nice to eat with the cute green eyes staring at her and the soothing, boyish voice keeping her company with cat puns.

I’m sorry for the short chapter! I hope it’s still okay! Thanks everyone for reading, I hope some people still follow this. :3

[brucenat]

this prompt may be too angst-induced too but can you write one where nat’s about to get married to someone else and bruce wanted to stop her by confessing but it’s a little too late? i love your writing by the way, i might have read all your fics in ao3. enjoy the holidays!

thank you so much for all your patience (and your lovely, lovely compliment) I am so very sorry I am the worst ahhhhhhhhhIhopethisisn’tadisappointmenthhhhhhhhhhhhIhopeyouenjoyhhh

The mirror is betraying her. Clint called her radiant, Steve said she looked transformed. Yet, she stares at her reflection and simply sees herself in a red dress with one ringlet of hair that won’t behave.

The knock at the door is a welcome distraction. She leaves the sink to let her visitor inside.

Bruce slips through the gap, looking from one side of the bathroom to the other. “I came to make sure you weren’t jumping out the window.”

“Please.” The smile comes without her trying. He feels like the one person who’s the same today, herself included. His authenticity helps extract the part of her that’s been neglected. “I climb out windows. I have a helicopter waiting for me.”

His hands dig into his tuxedo’s pockets and releases a feigned groan. “What am I gonna do with the getaway motorcycle the guys got you?”

“Use it as part of your distraction.”

“That’s what the green guy’s for.” The instant it’s out of his mouth, regret flashes across his face. In the years she’s known him now, that self-loathing has resisted change. She still doesn’t know what it’ll take for him to believe he’s not the monster he makes himself out to be.

With a hip propped against the porcelain, she brainstorms. Part of the thinking is the recollection of their times together—the conversations that stretched into night, then dawn, the missions before they both retired their SHIELD badges, their tradition of casual hangouts that she initiated. Even Tom, the man to be her husband by the end of this day, had tried to assist her efforts since they started dating—that was one of the factors in her decision to enter into a serious relationship with him.

None of it seemed to eradicate the self-deprecation and harsh criticism from Bruce. Not completely.

“Listen…” He says, jocundity evaporated from his voice. Apprehension clings to him like a cloak. Something about the trepidation wrinkling his features makes him unreadable to her for the first time. Her only option is to stand in wait for what next emerges from his mouth.

“You look incredible.” He tells her. A nervous hand slides from his pocket up to his neck. “You’re gonna knock him off his feet.”

This time, thanks to an unsatisfied curiosity, she can only conjure half a grin. “You’re just trying to make me blush.” More earnestly, she says, “Thanks.”

His gaze goes to his shoes. There, it recovers from whatever it was that overcame him. When he returns to her, he asks, “Can I give you a hug?”

The arms she opens to him serve as her response.

Hugging him has become part of her normal. It’s familiar, a small type of home. When he draws her in, she discovers the elevated racing of her heart. Feeling his breath against her calms the beating as quickly as she notices it.

He pulls away too soon for her liking, but is forgiven when he tells her, “I love you, Nat.”

It’s not often she hears that from him. He compliments her often, but those expressions of his love are what she cherishes more than any material item or praise.

It’s only fair that she returns the truth. “I love you too.”

The smile that grows is a bashful but joyous thing. He brings a hand to rest on her bare arm and uses his head to gesture to the door. “Let’s get you out there.”

No migration is required for the reception, since both that and the ceremony are held in Clint’s backyard. She and Tom share vows, a kiss, then their first dance as a married pair. As they rotate, their arms interlocked with each other, she tries to let the onlooking gazes melt off her. She tries, but a spy’s old habits persist.

When the song ends and applause swells then fades into chatter and dancing, she swivels her gaze around, taking account of her bridesmen. Steve and Rhodey shoot her individual smiles as she finds them. Clint’s back walks away from her as he dips into his kitchen to help Laura bring out food. The last member of her party doesn’t show himself in the throngs of guests. He must be assisting inside.

At Tony’s insistence, she and Tom attempt a livelier dance to The Black Eyed Peas—a band she’d never heard of until she and Tom went through and approved Tony’s “wedding DJ setlist.” It didn’t take much to make her and Tom question the decision the position they bestowed unto their friend, but they had to throw him a bone somewhere.

She makes it to the second round of the chorus before bowing out. Tom’s got his best friend and her wife to dance with while she watches, takes a few minutes to digest this day. A note on her chair determines there’s to be a shift in that plan.

It takes one look to identify the scrawl at Bruce’s. Between slowed heartbeats and a light churn in her gut, she makes a decision. A moment later, the envelope is pressed between her palm and dress, and she’s heading inside for the bathroom. Not only for more privacy, but also to perform a cursory inspection of the inside, she dodges Laura and a strange look in her trek upstairs.

Somehow, this bathroom doesn’t feel like the same one that saw her prepare for the ceremony. Her back settles against the door once it closes, and she’s transported to yesterday, to three years ago—just before she and Tom met. Hell, once the door seals shut and she clicks the lock into place, she might as well be in some alternate version of her life. Surreality numbs the urgent fingers that pull a single sheet of paper from its sheath. Only one side contains Bruce’s handwriting. It’s more intimidating than infiltrating any enemy’s spiderweb.

A deep breath in, a longer exhale out. She reads.

Natasha,

Please don’t be too angry with me. You have every right to be angry with me, even though you don’t know why yet. Or maybe you do know, and thought that was very clear. I’m not great with hints. Unsurprisingly, I’m not great at a lot of things. I could’ve written this letter sooner. I could’ve had the courage to tell you in person. I could’ve acted years ago. I did none of those things. I thought of countless detours and escapes—alternate ways to say this, show this, classify it; countless other ways to do anything but tell you what this/it is. For that, I’m sorry.

I’m so sorry for my dishonesty. When you told me that talking to me felt like talking to a mirror, that I was someone you trusted, I thought of how I hadn’t earned that. I’m not your mirror because I haven’t given you the full image. It was never your fault—I wanted to and I didn’t let myself. I convinced myself I had dug myself in too deep. In every other way, I was truthful with you. I’ve been truthful with you in a way I never have been with anyone else.

Today, I realized that it was never too late until you said your vows to someone else. For all of this, I’m so, so sorry. I’m sorry if this feels like betrayal—I never meant for it to be that way.

I’m still finding different ways of methods of avoidance. What I’ve wanted to tell you for so long seems so simple, but I have no idea how to build up to it in a letter (I think the past 8 years have been the build up). The best way to go about this is to just say it.

I love you. I love you in a way I shouldn’t. I love you in a way where I want all of you all of the time. I want to wake up to you and fall asleep beside you. I’ve loved you for years. I’m sorry.

That’s the full image of me. It’s the first and the last time anyone will ever see it. I don’t think anyone else can see me in the complete way you do. Which is why (part of the reason why) I’m leaving I left.

I understand if you’re angry, or if you even despise me now. I’m so, so sorry for any hurt I caused you. I want you to have the happiness you deserve, which is why I can’t be a presence in your life.

Have the best life, Nat.

The pillars and turrets of stone inside her crumble. They crumble to dust and ruin, and she can’t even physically collapse with them. She can’t move anything except her eyes. Debris from the destruction emerge, but they’re in the form of tears, not ash, soot, and screams. The sobbing starts with silence. It’s her wedding day and she’s crying.

It’s her wedding day and it shouldn’t be.

Then, as her eyes and nose shed droplets, hatred seeps in. It’s a searing abhorrence for no one but herself. She does love Tom, she truly does—she wouldn’t have married him if she didn’t. Unfortunately, she also didn’t realize until now that there were very different types of love. Despite all the suppression over the past few years, her I love you to Bruce was true and altogether something more honest and close to herself than her I do to someone else. She loved him in the same way and he didn’t even know when she told him.

She’s made a mistake. So has he. After all, he is her mirror, and she’s his. She always will be. Even if he’s erased himself from her future.

She doesn’t know how to leave this room with all that it knows, with the pieces of her scattered everywhere and nowhere all at once.

[tmarie82]

Dance with Me

Pairing: Maxwell x MC (Rosie Carter)

Book: The Royal Romance (Book 1)

Word Count: ~2,300

Rating: PG-13 (pretty tame, with some language and innuendos)

Author’s Note: This is a fic request for my new, extremely talented friend @klaudiana-beaumontkk. If you haven’t seen her photo manipulation work, you should really check it out! (Here’s a great example of her work, as well as the pic in the aesthetic below.)

We were arranging a barter (of sorts) and I told her I would love to do a fic request for her. She asked for a Maxwell x MC fic from the first book, a situation where the two friends could have hooked up. I’ll be honest, I was nervous to do this as (most of you know!) I’m a die-hard Drake stan . . . but this was actually really fun. I enjoyed getting out of my (Drake-centric) comfort zone and I’m pleased with how this turned out.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy this read and, most importantly, I hope this lives up to your expectations @klaudiana-beaumontkk!

~~~~~~~~~~

Maxwell leaned his back against the bar, vibrations from the loud music reverberating down his spine. He took a sip of his whiskey on the rocks and tried to keep a nonchalant appearance as he surveyed the bar. It was a cool place alright, with rustic decor and hardwood floors throughout and even a mechanical bull in an “arena” in the corner. Modern country played through the booming sound system, causing people to spontaneously break out in line dancing on the dance floor.. Not his usual scene, but the company was good, the drinks were strong and the music was . . . tolerable.

He scanned the dancefloor casually, trying not make it obvious who he was looking for. When he found her he quickly scooted his eyes away, but he couldn’t fight that nervous feeling in the pit of his stomach. Rosie looked HOT tonight. Wearing cowboy couture, a low-cut flowered dress that showed off her legs topped off with a cowboy hat, she fit right into the scene . . . . but she would definitely never blend in looking like that. It took every bit of strength he could muster to not stare at her as she laughed and hopped around the dance floor with Hana.

Maxwell didn’t know when, but things with Rosie had changed. At least, they’d changed for him.

Two months ago he’d shown up at her apartment the morning after she’d walked into all of their lives . . . more specifically, into Liam’s life. Sure, they’d all been charmed by her in New York as she showed them around her city and they’d ended up at her favorite desolate beach cove. He’d seen the spark between her and Liam, it was impossible to miss. That’s when the idea popped into his head . . . the chance to redeem House Beaumont with a potential suitor in the running for Liam’s hand in marriage. And what he hoped was a good chance given the chemistry between the two.

During the two months since they’d arrived in Cordonia, he and Rosie had become close friends. She had reassured his feelings of inadequacies that Bertrand constantly reminded him of and make him smile at her impressions if his uptight olde brother. And he had been a trusted advisor and a shoulder to cry on as she competed with the other suitors to become Queen, and all the heartbreak and pettiness that came along with it. They enjoyed many of the same things, discussing the newest movies and singing catchy pop songs while he assisted her in choosing the perfect outfit for every event. Somewhere between the early morning wake-up visits and late night chats, Maxwell had realized he was falling for Rosie.

“Beaumont.” Called a gruff voice approaching him. He turned to see Drake walking towards the bar, motioning a “two” on his fingers to the bartender and pointing to the glass of whiskey in Maxwell’s hand. “I figured I’d find you on the dancefloor instead of in my territory.” He handed him a fresh glass of whiskey before taking a big swig of his own.

Maxwell laughed. “Yeah, just not really feeling the vibe in this place. I enjoy my clubs a little more. . . clubby.” And maybe a little less . . . distracting.

As Maxwell and Drake continued to drink by the bar in silence, the rest of the gang began to migrate over to them. Liam had just shown up and was obviously just as taken by Rosie’s outfit as he was. As Rosie and Hana chatted with Liam, he could see the tiny beads of sweat settling on her neck and collarbone. She laughed almost breathily, as if she was still tryin to catch her breath from the boisterous line dance. Maxwell swallowed hard as she caught his gaze and stilled, giving him a small smile of acknowledgement. Fuck, man. Just act normal! He attempted to smile back convincingly, but he was pretty sure it had turned out cheesy. Liam said something to Rosie, grasping her attention again, and he quickly took the opportunity to turn away from the group and fiddle with his drink on the bar.

He could smell her perfume before he felt her edge up next to him, the fresh floral aroma he’d grown familiar with. “Hey you.” She said in a playful tone as she nudged her shoulder against his. “I’ve been missing you on the dancefloor. Come dance with me? No one else out there can keep up with me.” He glanced over at her, falling into her deep blue eyes before she quickly winked one at him. He grinned, starting to loosen up a bit at her cheerful mood.

“Well, this music is not exactly conducive to my particular dance style. Too twangy and too many cowbells.”

“Hmmm, so that’s it. Let me see about that.” With that she pushed back from the bar in one swift movement and started walking towards the DJ table. She leaned over and whispered in his ear, glanced through his playlist before pointing to one and nodding. She smiled and patted the DJ on the shoulder before turning and walking back towards Maxwell.

“Alright, what was that about?” Maxwell couldn’t help but get excited as she approached him with a smirk on her lips.

“Something you will thank me for in a minute. I know you too well.” Rosie paused as the upbeat country song came to an end, then beamed as she heard the first few notes of . . .

“Thriller!” Maxwell exclaimed, laughing. “You know I can’t pass up doing the choreography for this!”

“I know. Now let’s get out there and show these folks how it’s done!” Emma grabbed his hand and dragged him to the middle of the dancefloor before jumping right into Michael Jackson’s infamous dance moves.

They danced in sync, gathering a few other dancers and a small crowd cheering them on. Maxwell couldn’t help but to laugh as they flowed through the movements and sang out loud.

As the song came to an end, Rosie came over to him and grabbed him in a big, sweaty hug and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. She stepped away, hands gripping his forearms and gave him a knowing look. “See, I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist! Thank you, I’ve been missing my dance partner tonight.”

He peered into her eyes and chuckled, still trying to calm his breathing as his heart rate slowed down. “No, thank you. I’m so glad you set that up, I needed that tonight.” As he finished speaking, a slower song started to play in the background.

“You know I’d do anything for you, Maxwell. You’re my best friend.” Her eyes twinkled as she gazed up him. “Here, dance this one with me while we catch our breath.” She placed his hands at her waist before looping her own around his neck.

Suddenly, Maxwell felt like a pubescent teen with his first crush. He feared she could feel his nerves pulsing in his veins through his fingertips or feel the sweat he felt beginning to accumulate on his neck. They swayed in silence for a while, then Rosie gently placed her head on his shoulder and nestled in close to him. And then he didn’t feel nervous anymore, he felt only . . . content.

“Maxwell?” Rosie asked softly. “I have a confession to make.” She didn’t lift her head, but continued to move with him and listen to his heartbeat.

“Hmm?” Maxwell felt his heart in his throat, anxious for what came next.

She paused, then took a deep breath before her confession. “I . . . I can’t marry Liam.”

With that he stilled. He didn’t move at all, couldn’t even remember how to breath. Finally, all he could say was “Oh?”

She pushed away from him and peered up at him with tears in her eyes. “No. No, I can’t, Maxwell. I’m so sorry. I don’t love him.” She inhaled a sharp breath, then continued. “I’ve always known I could only marry for love. I want to live the rest of my life with my best friend.” She looked almost as if she were questioning him, not making a statement.

Maxwell looked down for a moment, unable to speak. Finally he muttered “Bertrand will be disappointed. We will of course support you in whatever you need to do . . . . “ his voice trailed off. He gazed at her, then said softly “I just want you to be happy, Rosie.”

She took his hand and cupped his palm on her cheek. “I know you do. I’m your Little Blossom.” There was that look again. That look like she was asking him something . . . and suddenly, he panicked.

He dropped his hand to his side and stepped back. He stared at a spot on the floor next to her feet and cleared his throat. “I . . . I should go inform Bertrand. He will know what to do next.” He glanced back up at her. Was that disappointment in her eyes?

“Yes, of course.” She muttered. And with that, he turned and walked briskly out the door.

~~~~~~~~~~

The conversation with Bertrand had not gone well. As Maxwell had explained the situation, all Bertrand could speak of was “obligations” and “imminent ruin.” Geez, no pressure Bro, Maxwell thought.

As Bertrand plotted how to best remedy the situation, Maxwell’s mind wandered back to Rosie’s confession. He could still feel her in his arms, tucked in perfectly like the missing half of him. He remembered the asking in her eyes as she spoke, as she waited for his response. He heard her soft whisper. “I’m your Little Blossom.”

Suddenly he felt a surge of determination and purpose. You are in love with her, you idiot. Go tell her. He quickly stood up, startling Bertrand in the midst of his rant. Bertrand gave him an odd look. “She made up her mind, Bertrand. We need to let her live her life by her own rules, not ours.”

As Maxwell hurried toward the door, Bertrand shouted gruffly. “Where are you going? We need to devise a plan!”

“The plan will work itself out, Bertrand. Now I have somewhere I need to be.” He swooped through the doorframe without a look back at his perplexed brother.

At first he walked briskly towards Rosie’s room, full of resolve to share his feelings with her. But as he neared her door, he slowed down to pace himself and gain his composure. He stared at the door, frozen. This simple act of knocking, that he’d done so many times before . . . but this time, it was different. He took a deep breath, then knocked three times on the door and waited.

The room was silent, and he wondered if she’d not come home yet. But then he heard a faint shuffling, followed by footsteps and then the click of the door handle as she opened it. She looked surprised to see him, her brow furrowed in confusion. Her eyes were slightly red and puffy, and she sniffled a bit as if trying to hide the tears that she’d been crying. Yet to Maxwell, she’d never looked more beautiful. Her hair was disheveled and face bare of makeup, nothing to mask the red eyes and blotchiness. She was wearing a baggy long-sleeved “Cordonia U” t-shirt and pajama shorts and big fuzzy socks. She was a mess. A remarkably beautiful mess.

“What do you want Maxwell? Did you come to tell me how mad Bertrand is? How I ruined everything?” Her eyes filled with tears again and she looked away as she brushed them away with her sleeve.

“No. No. . . I mean, yes, Bertrand is mad, but . . .” he stuttered.

“Then what?”

He took a deep breath, exhaled, then blurted it out. “I’m falling in love with you, Rosie.” There, no going back.

She faltered at his statement, a perplexed look on her face as if he were speaking a foreign language. “What?”

Maxwell looked deeply in her eyes, trying to portray his intention as he spoke. “Look, I know I brought you here for Liam. To become Queen and to save House Beaumont. But somewhere along the way I started falling for you. You’re my best friend, and I can’t imagine . . .”

Rosie grasped his face in her hands and stood on her tiptoes to press her lips firmly against his. He stood there stunned for a moment, then wrapped his arms around her and kissed her back with relief. The kiss was passionate and fierce, a confession finally out in the open. Then as they slowed to catch their breaths, Maxwell began placing short sweet pecks around her lips, cheeks and chin, causing Rosie to giggle with happiness. They just held each other in a warm embrace for a moment before separating.

“I thought, tonight . . . I thought you didn’t feel the same way. I thought you were mad about what would happen to House Beaumont.” Rosie smiled up at him and traced a line from his eye down his cheek. “But deep down inside I hoped . . . I knew that you felt the same way.”

Maxwell bent down to catch her lips again in a slow kiss. “Of course you knew. You know me better than anyone.”

Rosie giggled. “If my intuition was off, then I should have at least known by your behavior earlier tonight. You couldn’t even look at me without blushing.”

“Did you see yourself tonight? Can you really blame me?”

“Well maybe I was hoping you’d look.” Rosie grinned wickedly, then placed her hand in his and pulled him forward. “Now, are you going to come in here or what?”

Maxwell didn’t blush this time, but let her lead him into her room willingly. “Of course, my Little Blossom.”

END

[ao3feed-ncis]

A Tibbs Halloween

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/2NC5rSA

by DiNozzos_Probie

Tony, Gibbs, and almost 5-year old DJ prepare to celebrate Halloween. This is a sequel to "Five Years On" which is currently on ffnet, but I do plan to migrate it over here. Here's the link to the original fic: https://ift.tt/2P1ZGm9

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!!!

Words: 4789, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: NCIS

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories: M/M

Characters: Jethro Gibbs, Anthony DiNozzo, Abby Sciuto, Original Characters

Relationships: Anthony DiNozzo/Jethro Gibbs

Additional Tags: Family, Romance, Fun, Halloween, Love, Parent-Child Relationship, Friendship, Sequel

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/2NC5rSA

[dystopicjumpsuit]

Watch and Learn, City Boy (Taylor's Version)

Rating: Mature/18+/Minors DNI

Pairing: Sergeant Hound x Fem!Reader

Wordcount: 2.8k

Warnings: fluff; SMUT; oral sex; PIV; playful partners; sex in a tent; dirty talk; Grizzer has seen some shit.

A/N: This was originally written for the Writer Wednesday week 1 challenge, and if you'd prefer to read a smut-free version, you can find it here. If you like spicy lemons, keep reading!

Want to read more Hound goodness? Check out this fic by @imarvelatthestars

Masterlist | Sign up for my tag list

“Remind me why we’re doing this, again?” Hound grumbles as the two of you wrangle a pile of tent poles and canvas.

“Because the hotel didn’t allow massiffs,” you say, grunting a bit as you struggle with the heavy tent.

Technically, the hotel doesn’t allow clones, either, but you leave that unsaid. You had booked the room, paid the pet deposit, and traveled from Coruscant to Alderaan, only to be abruptly turned away at check-in. Before you left, you told the hotel concierge your opinion of their corporate bigotry, and now you are also banned for life. And so here the three of you are, setting up an ancient, decrepit canvas tent that you dug out of your parents’ attic.

Well, technically the two of you are setting up the tent while Grizzer explores your campsite, sniffing the lush greenery of Alderaan with interest. The massiff is accustomed to the hard plastcrete and rancid smells of Coruscant, and you wonder if she’s ever been in nature before.

“Relax,” you say. “I did this all the time growing up. It’ll be fun!”

“Sleeping in the dirt and eating rations is your idea of fun?” Hound asks.

“The tent has a floor,” you point out, “and believe me, we can do better than rations.”

Eventually, you wrestle the tent into submission and get two bedrolls laid out inside. The scent of old canvas, saturated with woodsmoke and memories, pulls you right back to your childhood: camping under the stars, swimming in the lake, lying in the sand and exploring the world around you. You can almost hear the shrieks of laughter and your father’s deep baritone as he sings a lullaby to you and your siblings.

You hang up a few strings of twinkle lights, and then, satisfied with the cozy little retreat you’ve created, you go back outside to get a campfire started. Hound is standing with his arms crossed, looking decidedly unimpressed with the entire situation.

“Has it occurred to you that there are wild animals in these woods?” he asks. “Gree told me about the wolf-cats of Alderaan.”

“Grizzer will keep us safe,” you reassure him. “Won’t you, girl? Who’s my sweet baby?”

Grizzer wiggles happily over to you and nuzzles into your chest as you squat to scritch behind her ear holes.

“Grizzer, have some dignity, for kark’s sake,” Hound says. “You are a soldier of the Republic, not a pampered lap-tooka.”

Grizzer ignores him and flops onto her back to beg for belly rubs. Seeing the way you fawn over the massiff, Hound can’t help but smile, remembering the day he met you.

“Grizzer! NO!” Hound chased after the bolting massiff as she charged an unsuspecting civilian in the middle of Monument Plaza. Grizzer had yanked the leash out of his hands and was running full-tilt through the scattering crowds. Too late, he saw her target: you. You were standing in the sun, laughing with a street vendor, and Hound would have taken a moment to appreciate your beauty if you hadn’t been directly in the path of certain doom. “Grizzer!” he shouted again. “Heel!” You turned toward the commotion with only a few meters between you and the charging massiff. Hound fought the urge to close his eyes before Grizzer launched herself and savaged you, but then something completely unexpected happened. You called out a word in a strange language, and the massiff skidded to a halt in front of you. You allowed her to sniff your hand, and then you pulled something out of your pocket and offered it to her. She took the treat and licked your hand as Hound finally caught up, heaving with exertion. “Sorry, ma’am,” he panted. “She slipped her leash. I don’t know what got into her.” You smiled up at him, and his heart thudded with more than just adrenaline when he saw the way your eyes sparkled. “She just smelled the treats,” you said with a shrug. “We always had massiffs when I was growing up, and I never got out of the habit of carrying a few treats in my pockets. I hope it’s all right that I gave her one; I really didn’t want to lose a hand.” In that moment, Hound knew he was utterly lost.

“Awww, is Daddy grumpy?” you coo at Grizzer as you rub her belly. “Is he a Cranky McGrumperson? Is he spreading his grumpy energy all over our campsite because he’s afraid to get his hands dirty?”

You shoot Hound a teasing look, and he stalks over to you, pulling you away from Grizzer and into his arms for a kiss. You sigh happily. You’ve been seeing Hound for a few weeks now, and you were hoping that a romantic trip to your home planet of Alderaan during his shore leave would give you an opportunity to take things to the next level. You had booked a room at a posh boutique hotel with a luxurious soaking tub and an incredible view of the mountains. Who knew the hoteliers would turn out to be gigantic dicks?

So you made a quick change of plans. You had been worried about Hound’s reaction to the idea of camping, but your other option was to take him to your parents’ home and sleep in your childhood bedroom, which… No thanks. Not the ideal setup for the intimate weekend you are planning.

You break away from Hound’s kiss feeling lightheaded. He’s an excellent kisser, and as you’ve discovered over the past weeks, a man who can kiss like that will bring a similar level of skill and enthusiasm to the bedroom (or the bedroll, as the case may be). Now all you have to do is coax him out of his sullen mood.

“Did I mention I happen to be an amazing cook?” you ask, fluttering your eyelashes.

His interest is immediately piqued. “How are you planning to cook out here?”

“Watch and learn, city boy,” you say with a grin.

One hour, two shaak steaks, and four bottles of ale later, Hound’s temper is remarkably improved. 

“Where did you learn to cook over an open fire like that?” he asks.

“My dad taught me,” you say as you pull out a deck of sabacc cards. “I told you we used to do this all the time when I was a kid. You in?”

He nods, so you shuffle and deal. 

“Your dad sounds like an interesting man,” he says. “Too bad he wasn’t home when we stopped by to get the camping gear. I’d like to meet him.”

You laugh, “Trust me, it’s better this way. You might be ready to take down the entire Separatist army, but you are not prepared for my parents’ boyfriend interrogation.”

“Boyfriend, is it?” Hound asks, his brown eyes twinkling.

“If you play your cards right,” you say with a smirk.

You play a few hands of sabacc, betting with pebbles since Hound doesn’t have any credits, and when it gets too dark to see the cards, you decide to change into pajamas. Grizzer goes into the tent with you and immediately flops down on a bedroll. When you’d packed for your trip, you were planning to be spending your nights in a luxury suite, and your choice of sleepwear was not exactly suited to the great outdoors, so you regretfully tuck away the lacy little chemise. You strip out of your clothes and pull on a pair of short shorts and an old Alderaan University hoodie—the best option you could find in your old bedroom at your parents’ house. 

When you leave the tent, Grizzer stays behind. Hound watches you with an unreadable expression, and you worry that he’s still not having a good time. It’s time to break out the big guns.

“Are you ready to have your mind blown, trooper?” you ask with a flirty look.

He sits forward immediately. “What did you have in mind?”

You bend over and rummage through the bags of groceries you’d bought on your way out of Aldera. When you straighten up, you notice his gaze lingering on your exposed legs. You toss him a packet of marshmallows.

“What are these for?” he asks.

You hand him a stick that you scavenged earlier in the day and teach him how to toast the marshmallows over the coals of the campfire. Hound’s immediately catches on fire, which you assure him is part of the experience. 

“It’s not a real s’more if the marshmallow isn’t at least thirty percent carbon,” you say.

You show him how to sandwich the resulting crispy, molten marshmallow in between layers of chocolate and sweet biscuits, and the bliss on his face when he tastes it for the first time makes the entire trip worthwhile. You haven’t eaten s’mores in years, and you’ve forgotten how rich they are. 

“I think I can only eat one,” you say.

“Not me,” he says. “I’ll eat the whole bag.”

You give him a delighted smile, pleased that he’s finally come around. Hound has such a sweet tooth. All the clones do, he tells you. Something to do with their enhanced metabolisms, and the fact that they rarely get to eat anything other than ration bars and bland mess hall food.

“These are incredible,” he mumbles around a bite. “Messy, though.”

“I can help with that,” you offer. You raise his hand to your mouth, licking the melted chocolate and marshmallow goo off his fingers. “After all, we both know you don’t like to get your hands dirty.”

His eyes widen, and for a moment, he forgets how to breathe. He swallows audibly. “You know, I take it back. Maybe camping isn’t so bad after all.”

You stand up and tug him to his feet, leading him to the tent. Inside, Grizzer has completely claimed one entire bedroll for herself.

“I guess we’ll have to share,” you say, already planning what kind of treat to give the massiff as a thank-you.

“Oh, no, anything but that,” Hound murmurs as he draws you close to him, running his hands down your back to squeeze your ass. “You know, with the lights on in the tent, I could see everything when you were changing.”

“Everything?” you ask, tipping your head back to gaze up into his beautiful amber eyes.

“Well, maybe not everything,” he admits. He slips a hand inside your hoodie to caress the bare skin of your back. 

“Maybe we should turn them off so we don’t scandalize all those wild animals you’re so worried about,” you tease.

“Let them watch,” he says, pulling you into a searing kiss.

Your tongue brushes against his softly. He tastes like sugar and chocolate, and you melt into him. Your hands roam over his body, sliding the jacket down his arms, tugging at his belt. You silently thank the Force that he’s wearing civvies instead of his armor. Once you’ve gotten his trousers off, you both sink to your knees onto the bedroll so you can take his shirt off without hitting the low ceiling of the tent. 

You press him backward until he’s lying down, and you move to straddle him. You’re still wearing your shorts and hoodie, and something about being fully clothed while sitting astride the very naked, very aroused man is intoxicating. You trail your hands over his smooth, brown skin, tracing his tattoos and massaging the hard muscles of his torso. He raises a hand to cup your face, and you kiss the gnarled, twisting scar on his forearm—a memento of a training accident with a young massiff. You roll your hips against him, feeling the hard length of his cock pressing against you through your shorts. He slides his hands up under your hoodie, cupping your breasts before lifting the garment off over your head. The air is chilly, and your nipples stiffen instantly.

“Oh, fuck, look at those perfect tits,” he groans. “Come here, babygirl. Let me taste you.”

You lean forward, and he captures one of your nipples in his mouth. Jolts of arousal flash through you. His large, rough hands are warm against your back, and you can’t hold back a moan of pleasure.

Grizzer huffs an annoyed snort, and without looking at the massiff, Hound commands, “Grizzer, stand guard.”

She stands with a grumble and pushes out of the tent. You hear the heavy thump as she sits down outside the opening.

“Are you telling me you could have gotten that bedroll back this whole time?” you demand with mock severity.

“Where would have been the fun in that?” Hound asks with a smug grin. “Darlin’, you look hot as kriff in those shorts, but I think it’s time to take them off.”

He holds you against his body and flips both of you over in one smooth motion so you’re lying on your back. You let out a whoop of laughter at the unexpected movement.

“Shh, you don’t want the wolf-cats to hear you and come eat us,” he teases, nipping playfully at your skin as he kisses his way down your torso.

“That’s true,” you say. “I’d rather get eaten by a Hound.”

You raise your hips, and he tugs down your shorts, then lifts your legs in the air to remove them. Before you can lie back down, he kneels and drapes your thighs over his shoulders.

“Nice trick,” you say. “Is that the kind of quick thinking that got you into ARF training?”

“They only accept the best,” he says as he lowers his face to your body.

He dips his tongue into you, sliding over your clit and into your entrance without hesitation. You arch off the bedroll with a cry, and he lays a reassuring hand on your abdomen, pressing you back down as he feasts on you. With his other hand, he strokes up and down your thigh, finally coming to rest against your ass as he grazes his thumb over your pussy. 

“Oh, fuck, Hound, don’t stop,” you whisper.

“Hmm?” he asks, pulling away. “Sorry, what was that? I don’t think the wolf-cats heard you.”

“Kriff you, Hound, shut up and eat my pussy,” you laugh, tangling your hands in his long black curls and shoving his head back down. 

He chuckles against your clit and gets back to work. Between his clever tongue and his skilled fingers, he soon has you writhing and begging beneath him, and then he does something impossibly wonderful inside you, and you shatter with a hoarse moan, squeezing your thighs around his head as you grind against his mouth.

And then he is on you, sliding into your tight heat. He fucks you without mercy, wringing a second orgasm out of you almost before you finish your first. You hold on for dear life as he pounds into you, growling words of praise and filth into your ear.

“Look at you, beautiful girl, taking my cock like a champ. Love the way you wrap those soft, perfect thighs around me, oh fuck, sweetheart. So warm, so fucking wet. Come on, baby, think you’ve got one more in you?”

You nod weakly and let out an incoherent sound, unable to form words. He reaches down to rub your clit, pressing against your lower belly. Faster than you think possible, you feel your body winding in on itself again.

“That’s my girl, my pretty girl. Fuck yeah, baby, come on—kark, you feel amazing, oh shit,” he pants. “Give me one more, honey, before I fill your sweet little pussy up with my cum. One more for your grumpy daddy, come on love.”

“YES!” you scream as the tension in your body snaps again and you convulse around his cock, bucking up against him over and over until your head is empty and your body is swamped with bliss.

He follows you into his own orgasm, thrusting hard as he empties deep inside you and collapses onto you, breathing hard. 

“Fuck, baby,” he says. “You’re incredible.”

You lie that way for a long time, tangled together, until he raises himself off of you to lie on his side as he plays with your hair. You turn to face him.

“Daddy?” you ask with a tiny smile.

He shrugs. “It felt right in the moment. Did it bother you?”

You shake your head. “Nope. Just filing it away for future reference.”

He laughs and presses a kiss to your forehead, and within moments, you fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.

The soft light of an early summer morning filters through the canvas of the tent. You awaken slowly, feeling deliciously warm and safe. As you drift towards consciousness, you feel weight pressing against you from both sides, and you realize that at some point during the night, Grizzer has joined you and Hound on your bedroll, sandwiching you between her and the trooper. You are wrapped securely in Hound's strong arms, your legs tangled between his, and his fingers are interlaced with yours. You hear the melodic chirpings of avian-song outside the tent, and you snuggle closer to Hound, feeling his warm, even breaths against your shoulder, and lower, something suspiciously hard nudges against your thigh.

It may not be the romantic getaway you had planned, but this may be your favorite holiday ever.

---

Tagging: @blueink-bluesoul @secondaryrealm @spicy-clones @wings-and-beskar @imarvelatthestars

[dystopicjumpsuit]

Promises and Pastry

Rating: T / SFW (whaaaaat?!)

Pairing: Jango Fett x Baker Fem!Reader

Wordcount: 3.3k

Summary: On your way to work, you stumble upon an adorable two-year-old Boba Fett, who wandered away from the bounty hunter Jango entrusted with his care. Wholesome, tooth-rotting fluff ensues. Feat. Jango Fett being a sexy single dad.

A/N: I wrote this for Father's Day. This is the last AO3 work that I needed to migrate to Tumblr, so DJ's Great Fic Migration is now complete 🖤

Warnings: fluff; canon-typical violence

Suggested listening:

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Boba Fett sits in a rundown cantina, waiting for his contact to show. The place is an absolute dive, but not even close to the worst he’s seen. The jukebox is playing an old, old song—some sentimental Arcadian jazz ditty about a lost love. The music is incongruous with the dingy setting, but something about the melody tugs at his subconsciousness. It makes him think of warm, soft arms; a gentle voice; the mouthwatering scent of freshly baked bread. Is it a memory or a dream? He can’t tell.

He finishes his drink and pushes the intrusive thoughts away, then orders another round as he waits for his new employer.

The air is crisp in the predawn hours, and only the dim glow of street lamps illuminates your path as you walk to work. Your mind is caught up with the tasks ahead of you: baking the para rolls, ryshcates, and buttersweet puffs that you assembled the previous day; mixing up tomorrow’s batches of dough; topping up the caf supplies before your barista arrives—and all of this needs to happen before you even open the shop for the day. The bakery has always been your dream, and it’s worth the early mornings to finally have a place of your own.

You are almost to the shop when you hear a strange sound. A small, distressing whimper that echoes clearly through the early-morning silence. You scan the area. Bar’leth is a Core World: a safer planet than some, but your bakery is located near one of the seedier areas. It’s an unfortunate tradeoff for the low cost of rent. You don’t see any obvious threats, but you clutch your satchel a little closer to your body, just in case. The cry comes again, and you increase your pace, eyes darting up and down the street. And then you see the source.

A tiny, weeping child huddles on the walkway. He can’t be more than two or three years old. 

“Oh, my stars,” you whisper as you hurry over to him. “Are you all right, sweetheart?”

He looks up at you, wet tears clinging to his eyelashes. An adorable mop of dark curls tumbles around his face, and his tragic, golden eyes break your heart. He holds his hands up to you, and without a second thought, you scoop him up.

“Where are your parents, darling?” you ask, looking around the deserted street.

He wails something incoherent and buries his face in your shoulder. There is no sign of another living being anywhere. You rub his back consolingly and whisper gentle reassurances. Your heart has already made the decision before your mind can catch up: you can’t leave him out here. Settling him more securely in your arms, you hurry the last couple of blocks to your bakery and let yourself inside, locking the door behind you.

You flip on the lights in the kitchen, and the child ceases his wailing and takes a few shuddering gulps. You check him for injuries and find none; it seems he was merely, understandably, frightened. He peers around the bakery curiously.

“Are you thirsty?” you ask.

He nods, so you pour him a glass of water. He gulps it down while you turn on the oven, watching you with fascinated, intelligent eyes. He sloshes a bit of water on you, and you wonder how you are going to manage your workload with one hand occupied holding him. Just then, he spots a tray of day-old pastries.

“I’m hungry,” he says.

You’re relieved that he speaks Basic. Hopefully that means he can tell you where to find his parents. Your commercial kitchen is not exactly a welcoming environment for a toddler, but you set him down on a footstool and bring him a scone—the plainest one you can find, without too much sugar. Force knows the last thing you need is a toddler on a sugar high bouncing around your kitchen while you try to work.

You introduce yourself and ask, “What’s your name?”

“Boba,” he replies around a mouthful of scone. He has crumbs all over his face already; it’s impressive how quickly he made the mess.

“Boba, do you know where your parents are?”

“Dada went to work.”

“Where does your dad work?” you ask as you tie on your apron.

He shakes his head, and tears well in his eyes again. You feel something tug in your chest, and you blink back tears of your own. You’ve always been a sympathetic cryer, but your heart would have to be made of stone to not be moved by Boba’s woeful expression.

“It’s all right,” you soothe him, crouching down to brush those long curls out of his eyes. “You can stay here with me. We’ll find your dad, I promise.”

He nods with a sniffle, and then dives forward into your arms. You squeeze him tightly to you, then settle him onto your hip and get to work. Luckily, the trays are small enough that you can manage them with only one hand, but eventually, you need both hands to work. You start to shift Boba, and you realize he’s fallen asleep against you. It is far from ideal, so you retrieve a large cushion from the front of the house and set it up out of the way in the kitchen. You lay the boy gently down and get to work, amazed that he can sleep through your racket, but then again, it’s only four o’clock in the morning.

He sleeps for hours, and once you’ve finished prepping the next day’s goods, you change out of your utilitarian apron into the pretty, frilly one you wear when you’re running the register. You hear the back door open, and you turn to see your barista, Siero, staring at the sleeping child.

“What. is. that?” she asks.

“And good morning to you, too,” you say.

“Did you steal that child?” she asks suspiciously.

You roll your eyes. “No, I didn’t steal him. He was wandering alone outside the bakery. I brought him inside so he’d be safe until I can find his parents.”

“Have you checked the Holonet to see if anyone has reported him missing?” Siero asks, ever practical.

“Not yet,” you admit. “I’ve been busy getting ready to open.”

Siero pulls out her datapad and runs a quick search. “Nothing so far,” she says with a frown. “I hope you don’t expect me to watch him.”

“Of course not,” you say. “I’ll take care of him. Maybe his parents will come in. If they don’t, I’ll get in touch with the Children’s Wellness Department after we close up for the day.”

Siero shrugs and pulls on her apron. “Well, I always said you could run this place blindfolded with your hands tied. Looks like I’m about to find out.”

Boba continues to sleep as the first wave of customers makes its way through the shop. Fortunately, there’s a lull by the time he wakes up, and you’re able to take a break and sit with him at one of the tables as he eats a pedunkee mufkin and drinks a cup of hot chocolate that Siero makes for him. After that, you work the register with one hand while you carry him on your opposite hip. 

He’s a sweet boy, polite and well-mannered, and your customers are enchanted with him. They are not the only ones; you can feel yourself growing attached, even as you remind yourself how utterly foolish it is to do so. He starts to echo you every time you thank a customer for their business.

“Thank you, come back soon,” he calls, beaming a delighted grin when you laugh.

All too soon, it’s time to close up for the day. Siero heads home, and you flip the Open sign over to Closed as you begin cleaning the bakery. You turn on your favorite old-timey Arcadian jazz music and set Boba down as you sweep the floors, wipe down the tables, and clear out the display case. He follows behind you, eager to help, and you end up swooping him up and dancing with him to the music as he shrieks and giggles with joy. 

Ten hours earlier

Jango Fett limps onto the Slave I, lugging a gory bag containing the severed head of his bounty. It had been a brutal hunt—far more difficult than he’d anticipated. He should never have brought Boba with him this time. But by the time he had tracked his target to Bar’leth, it was too late to return the boy to the safety of Kamino. Instead, he’d entrusted him to the care of his not-quite-friend, sometimes-hunting-partner, Mado Kena. The Rodian had not exactly been delighted to be stuck with babysitting duty, and Jango wasn’t thrilled at the idea of leaving Boba in his care, either, but he hadn’t had much choice.

He’d tracked the bounty for hours and finally cornered him in a gambling den. It hadn’t gone well. The man fought back viciously, and Jango took a blaster bolt to his leg. Ultimately, he had killed the bastard. The bounty is lower for his corpse, but still worth enough to cover expenses. 

He can’t wait to get off this rock. He hisses with pain as he climbs the ramp to his ship and tosses the bag into the conservator.

“Mado, I’m back,” he calls. 

There is no response. The kriffer is probably holed up in his bunk. Jango pounds on the door.

“Mado, wake up, it’s time to go.”

There is no sound from the Rodian. With an exasperated sigh, Jango hits the control panel, and the door slides open. The bunk is empty. Jango stares at it for a moment, then whirls to check his own bunk. It is also empty. Cursing, he runs through the ship, checking every cubby and nook large enough to hold a toddler.

“Boba! Boba, where are you?” he calls, his voice ragged and urgent.

He comms Mado, but there is no response. Gritting his teeth, he calibrates his vambrace to track the comlink. Mado hasn’t gone far, and Jango immediately sets out to find him. His leg screams with agony, but there is no time to stop and apply bacta. He pushes through the pain, and soon tracks Mado to a squalid cantina. The hunter is passed out on one of the tables, and there is no sign of Boba.

Jango seizes Mado by his shirt and drags him to his feet. The hunter startles awake and thrashes in Jango’s grasp. The acrid scent of cheap whiskey oozes from his green skin.

“Where is my son?” Jango growls.

“Wha—what?” Mado stutters, blinking his star-flecked eyes with confusion.

“Where is Boba?” Jango’s voice is hoarse with rage and fear.

“He was just here,” Mado says as he claws at Jango’s fists to try to break his grip. “I got thirsty, so I came over for a drink. I brought him with me, I swear!”

Jango shoves the hunter back down into his seat and whirls to face the bartender. “Have you seen a little boy? He’s only two. Dark hair, brown skin.”

The bartender shrugs. “Sorry, bud, that Rodian was here when I started my shift. Didn’t see a kid with him.”

“Karabast,” Jango spits, rounding on Mado. “If any harm has come to him, there will be no place in this galaxy where you can hide.”

The Rodian cowers, and Jango strides out of the cantina, tracking the most important target of his life.

Not many things frighten Jango Fett, but as he chases through the night, his heart pounds, his stomach churns, his gloves grow damp with sweat. The darkness gives way to dawn, and then to the harsh light of morning, and still he hunts. He searches endlessly, desperately, sweeping the seedy district and working his methodical way outward into the fringes of respectable neighborhoods. There is no sign of his son, and panic claws at his throat. 

By the time the sun is high overhead, Jango is near despair. He stops to rest his throbbing leg, leaning against a building as he gasps with pain. A flash of movement in his peripheral vision catches his attention, and he turns. Across the street is a quaint little shop with a cheerful sign that reads BAKERY, and through the large windows, he sees a woman twirling with a young child. Jango stiffens.

Boba.

He launches away from the wall and storms across the street, slamming the bakery door open with a shout. “Boba!”

You scream and cower away, shielding the boy with your body. Jango stalks toward you, a huge and intimidating figure in Mandalorian armor.

“Please don’t hurt us!” you cry. “I haven’t cleared the till yet. You can take all the credits, just please, please don’t hurt him.”

Jango skids to a halt. “Hurt him?”

“He’s just a child,” you beg. “Please.”

Jango raises his hands slowly, telegraphing that he’s not a threat. Currently. He breaks the seal on his helmet and removes it, setting it on the table next to him.

“My name is Jango Fett. Boba is my son,” he says.

Your terrified gaze darts to his face. Your hand is cupping Boba’s head protectively, but the boy twists in your arms when he hears his father’s voice.

“Dada!” Boba shrieks, pushing away from you.

You set the boy down with obvious reluctance, and he runs to Jango, who scoops him up into a tight embrace. He clutches Boba to his chest as he examines him for injuries.

“How did he come to be wandering the streets alone in the middle of the night?” you ask, more than a hint of judgment in your tone.

“My friend was supposed to be watching him while I was at work,” Jango replied. “Former friend, I reckon. I’ve been searching for him for hours.”

Boba is babbling happily. You can only understand about half of what he says, but Jango listens gravely to the boy.

“Is that so?” he asks. He shifts his attention to you, and you swallow nervously under the intensity of his scrutiny. “He says you gave him hot chocolate.”

You feel a hot flush wash over you at the disapproval you infer from his words. “Well, it was either that or caf, and I didn’t want to see what would happen if we gave a toddler a double shot of espresso.”

“Thank you for taking care of him,” he says, and his voice is filled with so much relief that you soften instantly. 

“I’m glad you found him. He’s a sweet boy.” After a moment’s hesitation, you speak again. “Would you like something to eat? I’ve just closed up for the day, but we have a few things left.”

Jango looks surprised at your offer, but he accepts gladly. “I haven’t eaten since yesterday.”

You pull together an assortment of savory and sweet pastries: a vagnerian canapé, a water-chicken meat pie, a tal-toori, and dameapple turnover. Then you brew a large cup of caf and set it all on the table for him. He has collapsed into one of your big, comfortable armchairs, and Boba is resting against his armored chest. Without his helmet, you can see that he is remarkably handsome, and you smile at the way he rests his cheek on his son’s riotous curls. He looks exhausted; deep circles carved under his eyes—eyes that are exactly the same beautiful, rich brown as Boba’s—and there is a shadow of stubble on his jaw. The Arcadian jazz continues to play, and you pick up your broom to continue cleaning as Jango eats. Boba calls out your name and reaches for you.

“No, Boba,” Jango chides. “Leave the pretty lady alone. She has work to do.”

“I don’t mind,” you say, holding out your arms to Boba. 

Jango shrugs and hands his son back to you so he can attack his plate in earnest. You dance as you work, much to Boba’s delight. Jango watches you, admiring the way your body sways to the music. He isn’t blind; he can see that you are a beautiful woman, and he takes a moment to appreciate the way a few strands of hair have worked themselves free from your simple bun to curl in a halo around your face. He realizes that he’s been holding a pastry halfway to his mouth as he watches you twirl and play with his son. He crams the rest hastily into his mouth and takes a long drink of caf to wash it down. 

The food is good. Delicious, actually. He’s been eating ration bars for weeks, and he’s almost forgotten what real food tastes like. The warm light of the early afternoon spills into the bakery and bathes the room in a tranquil golden haze. He notices now that there are cheerful vases of fresh flowers on each table, and a low shelf full of books against one wall. 

Kriff, he’s so tired. He stretches his legs out gingerly, feeling the ache of his blaster wound. He leans back in the soft chair, just for a moment. Just to rest his leg before making the long walk back to the Slave I.

You finish cleaning the bakery and get everything staged for the next morning, and when you and Boba return to the front of house, you find Jango asleep in your armchair. You finally get a good look at him without feeling quite so awkward and intimidated. He looks younger; his guarded expression relaxes into softness. His head is tilted back, leaving the thick, brown column of his throat exposed. His shoulders are impressively broad, and while some of that bulk is clearly due to his armor, you suspect that most of it is just Jango.

With a tiny smile, you retrieve a picture book from your shelf and settle into another armchair with Boba on your lap. The boy snacks on the leftover scraps from his father’s plate, even though you offer to get him a plate of his own. You read to him until he falls asleep, cuddled safely in your arms.

Jango lurches awake, staring wildly around him, his body tensed for violence. He’s disoriented for a moment, but then he sees you, curled up in an armchair across from him, Boba nestled securely against you. Both of you are fast asleep. He stands, flexing his leg experimentally. He’s not sure how long he was out, but judging by the angle of the sun, it’s been a few hours. He crosses to your armchair and gazes down at you and Boba. Something like tenderness is in his eyes as he smooths your hair out of your face.

Your eyes flutter open at his touch, and you smile up at him drowsily.

“I need to get going,” he says quietly, careful not to wake his son.

You nod your understanding and rise to your feet. He takes Boba and settles him against his shoulder. You help him put on his helmet, and he presses his free fist to his chest in a gesture of respect, careful not to jostle the boy.

“Thank you again,” he says sincerely. “For everything.”

“Of course,” you say. “Tell Boba to come visit me again sometime.”

“He’d like that,” Jango says. 

You walk him to the door and watch as he and Boba disappear down the streets of Bar’leth, and as you stand alone in your bakery, the music continues to play.

“Boba Fett?” a man asks. He is wearing civilian clothes, but the stick up his ass has Boba willing to bet a thousand credits that he’s Imperial military.

Boba nods his head.

“The very man I was hoping to find," the man says. His clipped, affected Coruscanti accent grates on Boba's temper."The Empire requires your service. I’m to deliver you personally to Lord Vader’s ship.”

Boba finishes his drink and wordlessly follows the man, and the song plays on in the empty cantina.

---

Tagging:

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This fic has artwork!

[bamfahsoka]

Fabulous! Read the warnings folks!

Watch and Learn, City Boy (Taylor's Version)

Rating: Mature/18+/Minors DNI

Pairing: Sergeant Hound x Fem!Reader

Wordcount: 2.8k

Warnings: fluff; SMUT; oral sex; PIV; playful partners; sex in a tent; dirty talk; Grizzer has seen some shit.

A/N: This was originally written for the Writer Wednesday week 1 challenge, and if you'd prefer to read a smut-free version, you can find it here. If you like spicy lemons, keep reading!

Want to read more Hound goodness? Check out this fic by @imarvelatthestars

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“Remind me why we’re doing this, again?” Hound grumbles as the two of you wrangle a pile of tent poles and canvas.

“Because the hotel didn’t allow massiffs,” you say, grunting a bit as you struggle with the heavy tent.

Technically, the hotel doesn’t allow clones, either, but you leave that unsaid. You had booked the room, paid the pet deposit, and traveled from Coruscant to Alderaan, only to be abruptly turned away at check-in. Before you left, you told the hotel concierge your opinion of their corporate bigotry, and now you are also banned for life. And so here the three of you are, setting up an ancient, decrepit canvas tent that you dug out of your parents’ attic.

Well, technically the two of you are setting up the tent while Grizzer explores your campsite, sniffing the lush greenery of Alderaan with interest. The massiff is accustomed to the hard plastcrete and rancid smells of Coruscant, and you wonder if she’s ever been in nature before.

“Relax,” you say. “I did this all the time growing up. It’ll be fun!”

“Sleeping in the dirt and eating rations is your idea of fun?” Hound asks.

“The tent has a floor,” you point out, “and believe me, we can do better than rations.”

Eventually, you wrestle the tent into submission and get two bedrolls laid out inside. The scent of old canvas, saturated with woodsmoke and memories, pulls you right back to your childhood: camping under the stars, swimming in the lake, lying in the sand and exploring the world around you. You can almost hear the shrieks of laughter and your father’s deep baritone as he sings a lullaby to you and your siblings.

You hang up a few strings of twinkle lights, and then, satisfied with the cozy little retreat you’ve created, you go back outside to get a campfire started. Hound is standing with his arms crossed, looking decidedly unimpressed with the entire situation.

“Has it occurred to you that there are wild animals in these woods?” he asks. “Gree told me about the wolf-cats of Alderaan.”

“Grizzer will keep us safe,” you reassure him. “Won’t you, girl? Who’s my sweet baby?”

Grizzer wiggles happily over to you and nuzzles into your chest as you squat to scritch behind her ear holes.

“Grizzer, have some dignity, for kark’s sake,” Hound says. “You are a soldier of the Republic, not a pampered lap-tooka.”

Grizzer ignores him and flops onto her back to beg for belly rubs. Seeing the way you fawn over the massiff, Hound can’t help but smile, remembering the day he met you.

“Grizzer! NO!” Hound chased after the bolting massiff as she charged an unsuspecting civilian in the middle of Monument Plaza. Grizzer had yanked the leash out of his hands and was running full-tilt through the scattering crowds. Too late, he saw her target: you. You were standing in the sun, laughing with a street vendor, and Hound would have taken a moment to appreciate your beauty if you hadn’t been directly in the path of certain doom. “Grizzer!” he shouted again. “Heel!” You turned toward the commotion with only a few meters between you and the charging massiff. Hound fought the urge to close his eyes before Grizzer launched herself and savaged you, but then something completely unexpected happened. You called out a word in a strange language, and the massiff skidded to a halt in front of you. You allowed her to sniff your hand, and then you pulled something out of your pocket and offered it to her. She took the treat and licked your hand as Hound finally caught up, heaving with exertion. “Sorry, ma’am,” he panted. “She slipped her leash. I don’t know what got into her.” You smiled up at him, and his heart thudded with more than just adrenaline when he saw the way your eyes sparkled. “She just smelled the treats,” you said with a shrug. “We always had massiffs when I was growing up, and I never got out of the habit of carrying a few treats in my pockets. I hope it’s all right that I gave her one; I really didn’t want to lose a hand.” In that moment, Hound knew he was utterly lost.

“Awww, is Daddy grumpy?” you coo at Grizzer as you rub her belly. “Is he a Cranky McGrumperson? Is he spreading his grumpy energy all over our campsite because he’s afraid to get his hands dirty?”

You shoot Hound a teasing look, and he stalks over to you, pulling you away from Grizzer and into his arms for a kiss. You sigh happily. You’ve been seeing Hound for a few weeks now, and you were hoping that a romantic trip to your home planet of Alderaan during his shore leave would give you an opportunity to take things to the next level. You had booked a room at a posh boutique hotel with a luxurious soaking tub and an incredible view of the mountains. Who knew the hoteliers would turn out to be gigantic dicks?

So you made a quick change of plans. You had been worried about Hound’s reaction to the idea of camping, but your other option was to take him to your parents’ home and sleep in your childhood bedroom, which… No thanks. Not the ideal setup for the intimate weekend you are planning.

You break away from Hound’s kiss feeling lightheaded. He’s an excellent kisser, and as you’ve discovered over the past weeks, a man who can kiss like that will bring a similar level of skill and enthusiasm to the bedroom (or the bedroll, as the case may be). Now all you have to do is coax him out of his sullen mood.

“Did I mention I happen to be an amazing cook?” you ask, fluttering your eyelashes.

His interest is immediately piqued. “How are you planning to cook out here?”

“Watch and learn, city boy,” you say with a grin.

One hour, two shaak steaks, and four bottles of ale later, Hound’s temper is remarkably improved. 

“Where did you learn to cook over an open fire like that?” he asks.

“My dad taught me,” you say as you pull out a deck of sabacc cards. “I told you we used to do this all the time when I was a kid. You in?”

He nods, so you shuffle and deal. 

“Your dad sounds like an interesting man,” he says. “Too bad he wasn’t home when we stopped by to get the camping gear. I’d like to meet him.”

You laugh, “Trust me, it’s better this way. You might be ready to take down the entire Separatist army, but you are not prepared for my parents’ boyfriend interrogation.”

“Boyfriend, is it?” Hound asks, his brown eyes twinkling.

“If you play your cards right,” you say with a smirk.

You play a few hands of sabacc, betting with pebbles since Hound doesn’t have any credits, and when it gets too dark to see the cards, you decide to change into pajamas. Grizzer goes into the tent with you and immediately flops down on a bedroll. When you’d packed for your trip, you were planning to be spending your nights in a luxury suite, and your choice of sleepwear was not exactly suited to the great outdoors, so you regretfully tuck away the lacy little chemise. You strip out of your clothes and pull on a pair of short shorts and an old Alderaan University hoodie—the best option you could find in your old bedroom at your parents’ house. 

When you leave the tent, Grizzer stays behind. Hound watches you with an unreadable expression, and you worry that he’s still not having a good time. It’s time to break out the big guns.

“Are you ready to have your mind blown, trooper?” you ask with a flirty look.

He sits forward immediately. “What did you have in mind?”

You bend over and rummage through the bags of groceries you’d bought on your way out of Aldera. When you straighten up, you notice his gaze lingering on your exposed legs. You toss him a packet of marshmallows.

“What are these for?” he asks.

You hand him a stick that you scavenged earlier in the day and teach him how to toast the marshmallows over the coals of the campfire. Hound’s immediately catches on fire, which you assure him is part of the experience. 

“It’s not a real s’more if the marshmallow isn’t at least thirty percent carbon,” you say.

You show him how to sandwich the resulting crispy, molten marshmallow in between layers of chocolate and sweet biscuits, and the bliss on his face when he tastes it for the first time makes the entire trip worthwhile. You haven’t eaten s’mores in years, and you’ve forgotten how rich they are. 

“I think I can only eat one,” you say.

“Not me,” he says. “I’ll eat the whole bag.”

You give him a delighted smile, pleased that he’s finally come around. Hound has such a sweet tooth. All the clones do, he tells you. Something to do with their enhanced metabolisms, and the fact that they rarely get to eat anything other than ration bars and bland mess hall food.

“These are incredible,” he mumbles around a bite. “Messy, though.”

“I can help with that,” you offer. You raise his hand to your mouth, licking the melted chocolate and marshmallow goo off his fingers. “After all, we both know you don’t like to get your hands dirty.”

His eyes widen, and for a moment, he forgets how to breathe. He swallows audibly. “You know, I take it back. Maybe camping isn’t so bad after all.”

You stand up and tug him to his feet, leading him to the tent. Inside, Grizzer has completely claimed one entire bedroll for herself.

“I guess we’ll have to share,” you say, already planning what kind of treat to give the massiff as a thank-you.

“Oh, no, anything but that,” Hound murmurs as he draws you close to him, running his hands down your back to squeeze your ass. “You know, with the lights on in the tent, I could see everything when you were changing.”

“Everything?” you ask, tipping your head back to gaze up into his beautiful amber eyes.

“Well, maybe not everything,” he admits. He slips a hand inside your hoodie to caress the bare skin of your back. 

“Maybe we should turn them off so we don’t scandalize all those wild animals you’re so worried about,” you tease.

“Let them watch,” he says, pulling you into a searing kiss.

Your tongue brushes against his softly. He tastes like sugar and chocolate, and you melt into him. Your hands roam over his body, sliding the jacket down his arms, tugging at his belt. You silently thank the Force that he’s wearing civvies instead of his armor. Once you’ve gotten his trousers off, you both sink to your knees onto the bedroll so you can take his shirt off without hitting the low ceiling of the tent. 

You press him backward until he’s lying down, and you move to straddle him. You’re still wearing your shorts and hoodie, and something about being fully clothed while sitting astride the very naked, very aroused man is intoxicating. You trail your hands over his smooth, brown skin, tracing his tattoos and massaging the hard muscles of his torso. He raises a hand to cup your face, and you kiss the gnarled, twisting scar on his forearm—a memento of a training accident with a young massiff. You roll your hips against him, feeling the hard length of his cock pressing against you through your shorts. He slides his hands up under your hoodie, cupping your breasts before lifting the garment off over your head. The air is chilly, and your nipples stiffen instantly.

“Oh, fuck, look at those perfect tits,” he groans. “Come here, babygirl. Let me taste you.”

You lean forward, and he captures one of your nipples in his mouth. Jolts of arousal flash through you. His large, rough hands are warm against your back, and you can’t hold back a moan of pleasure.

Grizzer huffs an annoyed snort, and without looking at the massiff, Hound commands, “Grizzer, stand guard.”

She stands with a grumble and pushes out of the tent. You hear the heavy thump as she sits down outside the opening.

“Are you telling me you could have gotten that bedroll back this whole time?” you demand with mock severity.

“Where would have been the fun in that?” Hound asks with a smug grin. “Darlin’, you look hot as kriff in those shorts, but I think it’s time to take them off.”

He holds you against his body and flips both of you over in one smooth motion so you’re lying on your back. You let out a whoop of laughter at the unexpected movement.

“Shh, you don’t want the wolf-cats to hear you and come eat us,” he teases, nipping playfully at your skin as he kisses his way down your torso.

“That’s true,” you say. “I’d rather get eaten by a Hound.”

You raise your hips, and he tugs down your shorts, then lifts your legs in the air to remove them. Before you can lie back down, he kneels and drapes your thighs over his shoulders.

“Nice trick,” you say. “Is that the kind of quick thinking that got you into ARF training?”

“They only accept the best,” he says as he lowers his face to your body.

He dips his tongue into you, sliding over your clit and into your entrance without hesitation. You arch off the bedroll with a cry, and he lays a reassuring hand on your abdomen, pressing you back down as he feasts on you. With his other hand, he strokes up and down your thigh, finally coming to rest against your ass as he grazes his thumb over your pussy. 

“Oh, fuck, Hound, don’t stop,” you whisper.

“Hmm?” he asks, pulling away. “Sorry, what was that? I don’t think the wolf-cats heard you.”

“Kriff you, Hound, shut up and eat my pussy,” you laugh, tangling your hands in his long black curls and shoving his head back down. 

He chuckles against your clit and gets back to work. Between his clever tongue and his skilled fingers, he soon has you writhing and begging beneath him, and then he does something impossibly wonderful inside you, and you shatter with a hoarse moan, squeezing your thighs around his head as you grind against his mouth.

And then he is on you, sliding into your tight heat. He fucks you without mercy, wringing a second orgasm out of you almost before you finish your first. You hold on for dear life as he pounds into you, growling words of praise and filth into your ear.

“Look at you, beautiful girl, taking my cock like a champ. Love the way you wrap those soft, perfect thighs around me, oh fuck, sweetheart. So warm, so fucking wet. Come on, baby, think you’ve got one more in you?”

You nod weakly and let out an incoherent sound, unable to form words. He reaches down to rub your clit, pressing against your lower belly. Faster than you think possible, you feel your body winding in on itself again.

“That’s my girl, my pretty girl. Fuck yeah, baby, come on—kark, you feel amazing, oh shit,” he pants. “Give me one more, honey, before I fill your sweet little pussy up with my cum. One more for your grumpy daddy, come on love.”

“YES!” you scream as the tension in your body snaps again and you convulse around his cock, bucking up against him over and over until your head is empty and your body is swamped with bliss.

He follows you into his own orgasm, thrusting hard as he empties deep inside you and collapses onto you, breathing hard. 

“Fuck, baby,” he says. “You’re incredible.”

You lie that way for a long time, tangled together, until he raises himself off of you to lie on his side as he plays with your hair. You turn to face him.

“Daddy?” you ask with a tiny smile.

He shrugs. “It felt right in the moment. Did it bother you?”

You shake your head. “Nope. Just filing it away for future reference.”

He laughs and presses a kiss to your forehead, and within moments, you fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.

The soft light of an early summer morning filters through the canvas of the tent. You awaken slowly, feeling deliciously warm and safe. As you drift towards consciousness, you feel weight pressing against you from both sides, and you realize that at some point during the night, Grizzer has joined you and Hound on your bedroll, sandwiching you between her and the trooper. You are wrapped securely in Hound's strong arms, your legs tangled between his, and his fingers are interlaced with yours. You hear the melodic chirpings of avian-song outside the tent, and you snuggle closer to Hound, feeling his warm, even breaths against your shoulder, and lower, something suspiciously hard nudges against your thigh.

It may not be the romantic getaway you had planned, but this may be your favorite holiday ever.

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