#Deadly Curves Corset

[tighlycorsets]

Model: Malena Teves.

Deadly Curves (Designed By Karoline) Leather Corset and Skirt.

Goth Clothes.

[bi-writes]

the space between us | the mandalorian

sometimes i just wish that when you go, you will finally ask me to come with you.

type: one-shot word count: 13.4k (cant help myself) pairing: the mandalorian x afab!fem!princess!reader warnings: mature language and content, mature written sexual content (read at your own discretion), 🔞⚠️ summary: in four acts, a senator's daughter finds her true standing as her mandalorian ally discovers what is truly important, above all else. complete masterlist

act i: the introduction

It was raining. The clouds were dark and hovered over heavily, and the grounds of the landing bay were wet and slippery.

You opted for much more practical clothing today. Dark trousers tucked into your boots, a blade fitted into the sides of both. A warm long sleeve, of soft material, keeping you warm from the elements, with your waist defined by a corseted belt of dark leather. Your hair was up and out of your face, and you wore no jewelry. You blended well with the crew, but they recognized you easily, bowing out of your way as you admired the ships docked.

You pulled your hood up as you stood back a bit to look at a ship you didn’t recognize. It was an older model, archived as far as you knew, but here it sat in all its pre-Empire glory in your landing bay. You watched as a few crewmembers patched up a hole on the side of it, another few tightening loose bolts along one of the engines. The ramp was down, giving you a glimpse of the inside, and you made your way up slowly, your eyebrows raising as you smoothed a hand over the panel by a chamber in the back. A carbonite chamber. Your fingers grazed over a few buttons, and then you left to find another panel, curiously pressing a few switches there. A hiss sounded behind you, and you turned to see a closet, an arsenal, of weapons on display. You stepped closer, admiring them. A few different blaster models, detonators of many sizes. You had fond memories of training with many of them.

You reached for one of the vibroblades. It was crafted carefully, curved from the short handle into a deadly point, with a few inches of serration along the sharp edge. You lifted it off of its holder, twirling the blade between your fingers with ease, letting the weight of it grow comfortable in your hand.

You jumped with surprise when the cabinet doors suddenly swished closed. You turned around quickly, twisting the blade in your hand until the handle was firmly in your grasp. You made a move, swiping over your left, but your forearm was blocked easily. You made another move, swiping at them with your free hand to get your arm loose before using your heel to kick their knee in, forcing them onto their knees.

A modulated grunt of surprise came, but just as quick as you won an advantage, you lost it. Yanking your still out-stretched arm, you were flipped over their armored shoulder, bruising your side before you were slammed onto your back on the floor of the ship. You let out a sigh of discomfort, dropping the blade and putting your arms in front of your face.

“I yield!” You said, breathless. “Stars—” You groaned a bit as your side throbbed. “I yield…”

You dropped your arms, blinking up until you got a better look at the figure kneeling over you. Your eyes were focused on a cuirass of strong steel, colored a curious shade of red. Your eyes raised to meet a helmet made of the same material but in shining silver, a dark visor trained right on you, tilted to the side in an unamused manner. You did not need to see their face to know they were not happy at all finding you here, let alone being swung at with a sharp blade.

“Oh—” You let out a soft breath, relaxing back against the floor. Your side still throbbed dully. “Is this…this is your ship, isn’t it?”

You felt warm with embarrassment, feeling guilty for snooping in his clearly very private space. You were met with silence, but the silence was affirmative. This was indeed his ship, and you were definitely invading his privacy.

You sat up, level with him as he remained on his knee to glare at you up close. You gave him an apologetic smile, trying to ease the tension in the air. You had not meant to meddle in his things; and your reaction was pure instinct, nothing more.

He continued to remain silent. You apologized softly for intruding, holding out your hand and giving him your name to introduce yourself. He said nothing still, and you dropped your hand when you realized this armored man was going to say nothing of value, maybe nothing at all. You let your eyes run over his impressive armor, the collection of weapons that he practically dripped with, and the iconic shape of his helmet. You tilted your head yourself, gazing at him curiously.

“A Mandalorian,” you concluded with a soft voice. “One of the greatest warriors in the galaxy, then.” You raised a brow, looking him up and down a bit. “I don’t know. You fell on your ass pretty easily.”

Silence again. Then he stood, looming over you. He held out his hand for you to take, and you did, wrapping your hand in his and trying not to think about how easily he was able to lift you off the floor. You were level with him now, but it didn’t make him any less intimidating.

“Well,” he quipped. “It wasn’t me who yielded.”

You laughed, smiling wide as you felt the air relax immediately. You hummed in agreement, finally letting go of his hand as you bent to pick up the blade and hand it to him.

“I guess I won’t argue there,” you sighed, your smile staying as you looked around, away from him. “I…I’m sorry for snooping. Your ship is just…I’ve never seen a pre-Empire model before. I was…curious.” You shook your head, “I-I mean it’s old and…it’s definitely seen better days—” He tilted his head to the side in warning, “—b-but it’s such a classic…geez, I’d love to ask you about the—”

“I’m on a tight schedule,” he interrupted you. You pursed your lips, laughing nervously as you nodded in understanding.

“Uh…right,” you shook your head, “yeah, I…you’re super busy. I’ll get out of your way. I’m sorry.” You smoothed your sweaty palms along the front of your pants, meeting the visor again and trying to give him your kindest smile. “It was nice to meet you, Mandalorian. Safe travels.” You reached over and put your hand against his elbow, squeezing the unarmored fabric there. He was warm, you noticed. The Mandalorian dropped his gaze to where your hand laid, fingers curled so gently there. No one ever touched him, not like this; he had only really ever felt hands that wanted to hurt him, choke him, even kill him sometimes. But as quickly as you touched him, your hands were back at your sides, and you were walking away from him.

You made your way out of the ship, careful not to slip on the wet durasteel of the ramp. You waved down the nearest crewmember, motioning to the Mandalorian’s ship.

“Refuel his ship and send him on his way. No need to charge for repairs,” you told him. You did feel bad for invading his space; the least you could do was try not to get on his bad side, even if he was just passing by your planet. You hoped it would smooth over any ill impressions and instead replace it with a sense of hospitality and kindness.

“But—”

You gave the crewmember an amused look, daring him to argue with you. He nodded his head, blushing as he mumbled a gentle apology. You saw the Mandalorian staring at you from the top of the ramp, and you smiled at him again, giving him a little salute. He watched as you pulled your hood up and walked down the length of the landing bay and back towards the palace; he noticed immediately how every crewmember bowed as you passed, acknowledging you even if they were occupied with busywork. He swallowed hard, tilting his head curiously, picking up the scope in his belt and zeroing in on your figure in the distance. There, on your left hand, was a golden ring he had missed, stamped with the signet of your house, the only jewelry you were wearing.

Gods…who the hell had he just met?

act ii: the duel

“Yield! Yield!”

You released the royal guard with a huff, pushing your hair back as you stood up from your position over him. You offered him your hand, and he took it, getting up with difficulty as he grunted with exhaustion. He was bruised, you could tell, holding his side as he leaned against the post next to him in the yard. Your eyes roamed around the yard, watching as the other guards in training had stopped their sparring to watch you. When you asked for another challenger, you were met with silence.

“No one wants to challenge you, Your Highness,” a familiar voice laughed behind you. You turned around, seeing the Senator’s advisor walking into the yard with a recognizable bounty hunter trailing slowly behind him. “The embarrassment alone is enough to make any man think twice.”

“There is honor in being bested in combat,” you replied simply. You turned to look at the guards around you, acknowledging them with nods. “You should never be embarrassed by it. There is no shame. It is an opportunity to learn. To fight better.”

You took a deep breath, looking over at your new company. You smiled at the Mandalorian, a mischievous glint in your eye. He was looking exceptionally pretty today, perhaps he had polished his armor. He leaned against a post in the yard, his arms crossed in front of him as he watched curiously. Your eyes fell over the broadness of his shoulders to the cinch of his belt around his waist, then down to the ammunition around the calf of his boot and back up again. The air around him even seemed to be filled with a bit of smoke and even a little fire. He seemed content here, in the yard filled with the sounds of blaster fire and grunts of scuffles. He belonged, and his posture was one of ease and familiarity.

Stars—the Mandalorian was indeed pretty.

“Hello, Mandalorian,” you greeted him softly. You stood a bit straighter, eyes never leaving where you hoped his were. You liked the staring contest. “It’s been some time.”

He nodded at you, but he said nothing. You continued to stand in the sparring circle, lifting up the staff you had dropped onto the ground some time ago. You twirled it in your hand for a moment, looking him up and down again, this time not hiding the way your eyes roamed him. You wanted him to know you were sizing him up, looking at him; you were certain though, that a man of his skill had already noticed you do it the first time.

“I challenge you,” you offered. “First to yield wins.”

“Your Highness, no,” the royal advisor stopped you. He was about to step further into the yard, but the muddy ground would have dirtied the velvet robes he wore. He laughed nervously, shaking his head. “The Mandalorian is here on official business, a guest of the court—”

The Mandalorian just walked past him, hitting the advisor with his arm as he passed. You smiled knowingly, watching as the Mandalorian stepped into the circle with no hesitation. You liked him even more like this, preparing to spar, preparing to show off what he knew best, the thing about him that came as natural as breathing.

The Mandalorian had warfare in his blood; he slept with a blaster strapped to his thigh, a blade on his person. He had been in this position many times, and it was his consistent winning that had gotten him this far. In some way, it pleased him deeply that he would get to show you just how he earned his reputation. He wanted to show off. He wanted to show off to you.

You could only imagine how Mandalorians spent their days. You did not know much about their culture, but it was no secret that they did nothing but polish their weapons and spar until they could spar no longer. They were fighters from the inside-out, until their second nature was refined combat and a mastery of any weapon they could get their hands on. They gained honor and respect through trials of difficulty and danger, and they took their principle to the grave. Their Creed was an invisible hand that guided them through their life, steering them onto paths of righteousness, noble deeds, and at the end, hopefully, a warrior’s death.

With this knowledge, you knew it would be practically un-Mandalorian to turn down your challenge. You knew he was probably itching under that armor to fall back into the familiar routine of daily sparring, challenging his peers until he heard that sweet sound of their yield, of their plea for him to stop, to know that he had won.

You were in need of a true adversary; he was in need of…perhaps a certain release.

The royal guards who were just watching nearby suddenly showed interest. They seemed to abandon whatever they had been doing to watch as you and the Mandalorian stood across from each other in the circle, marked by a ring of misshapen stones. More guards started to gather around; some of them crowded around the circle, others were perched up along the walls of the palace and watching from the ledges above and around you.

“First to be forced out of the circle or to yield loses,” you said to him. “The only rule.”

“Are you sure?” He tilted his head to the side, standing with his feet spread, his arms at his sides as his hands came in and out of fists. He seemed to gesture to the array of weapons he had strapped to his person—detonators, perhaps a hidden blade in his belt or his boot, the blaster on his hip.

You laughed a bit, “I wouldn’t worry about that.” You licked your dry lips, moving the staff you held from one hand to the other, rolling out your neck. “Would you like to take the offensive?”

The Mandalorian stayed still now, the only movement being the cape draped behind him blowing in the slight breeze. He nodded once in agreement.

You began to walk around the perimeter of the circle. The Mandalorian copied your movement, his visor trained on you as you both began to move. You started to walk towards him, passing by him as your gaze never left his. You almost made it past him, but then you felt his hand wrap around your wrist and yank you backwards. You used the momentum of him pulling you backwards to twirl under his arm, breaking free of his grip. Behind him, you lifted your leg and kicked at his back hard, throwing him forward.

The crowd let out a few gasps and hollers as the Mandalorian stumbled back to his feet, turning to face you. There was a hint of a smile on your face, amusement at his underestimation of your skill. Mandalorians were not the only warriors in the galaxy, didn’t he know that?

You raised a brow with a huff of breath as he came at you again. He threw a fist that you blocked, and when his other arm came under to try and undercut you, you managed to barely knock it to the side after dropping your staff. He was fast for being so much larger than you, and you hadn’t anticipated the quick advances. You struggled for a bit to keep his hands away from you, but eventually your grip loosened enough for him to draw his elbow back and shove you backwards. You caught your footing just in time to catch another throw of his fist. This time, he expected your hold on him. He went for your legs, throwing you off balance and onto your back. He waited, not coming at you again, and it gave you time to grab your staff and knock him over the head with it, forcing him back a few steps so you could scramble to your feet again.

He hesitated. Is it because I’m a girl?

“You’re going soft on me, Mandalorian,” you panted, grabbing another staff out of a bystander’s hand and tossing it at him. He caught it easily. His beskar gleamed, his chest heaving as he realized he had a true challenger and not just an apprentice. “It’s insulting.”

Gods, he looks so good. Full of fire. This is where he feels the most himself, in a ring of few words and pure instinct.

He shook his head angrily before coming at you. He swiped at you with the staff, and you dodged. Left, right, left, and then you caught his arm, swinging under it and twisting it, forcing him onto his knees as you slid with ease until he dropped the staff. He caught the staff with his other hand, using it to knock you backwards, and you let out a growl as you fell to the floor. As he was about to bring the staff down on you again, you rolled out of the way, lifting your foot and kicking at the back of his thigh. His staff met the dirt ground as he lost his balance, and you started to crawl to get back to your feet.

You let out a surprised noise as you heard the swish of some release, a cord wrapping around your ankle and yanking you backwards. As you slid, you flipped onto your back as you watched the Mandalorian reeling you in. You grabbed the cord and yanked, but it did nothing as you neared him fast.

Geez, how many surprises does he have under all that armor?

You ducked under his waiting arm, keeping the momentum and yanking his body with you as you went under his legs. You twisted in your moment of advantage, swiping a leg under his head and forcing him up until both of your thighs could close around the unarmored thickness of his neck, squeezing tight. You tried hard to secure him, but with the cord still around your foot, he retracted it again, forcing your leg off his neck. You rolled off of him with a grunt, but the Mandalorian was too fast. He wrapped both arms around your neck, dragging you back and on top of him as he locked you in easily, threatening to choke you.

“Yield,” his modulated voice growled out. “Yield!”

You were never good at yielding. You abhorred losing, and you abhorred it even more in combat.

And there is some horrid, bubbly nagging inside of me that wants to impress him; and I won’t if I lose.

“Never,” you coughed, using the heel of your palm to knock him upside the helmet and then braced down your elbow against his unarmored side. He let go of you just enough for you to roll off of him, swiping the blade you saw poking out from his boot and sticking it against the side of his neck. If you were able to see his neck, you would have seen the slight cut you had nicked into his skin with the tip of the knife. You panted as you laid there beside him, your eyes lit with vigor and your insides hot with adrenaline, with excitement, with wonder. “Yield.”

The Mandalorian panted just as hard, relaxing against the ground as you both laid there and tried to take deep breaths. You both stared at each other, breathing in the warm air and the searing feeling coursing through your veins. There was nothing like a midday spar to get you right onto your toes, right into that sweet spot of amusement and delight; but you knew this feeling was not just the result of sparring with an opponent like a Mandalorian.

No, that can’t be it. He is not just a silent hunter, a curious visitor—I find his eyes on me often, and he finds mine on him.

You smiled a bit at his silence, and he nodded once. The crowd around you began to cheer, whooping and hollering as you slowly got up to sit. The Mandalorian was up before you, standing as he rolled out his shoulders. He offered you his hand, which you took gratefully. You stood slowly, twirling the familiar blade before handing it back to him. It was the same blade you had stolen from his ship when you first met. You smiled wide, sweat glistening across your chest as you moved your clothes back into place.

Does he know that I look for him when I find out he is here?

“You are a worthy opponent,” you said softly as he took the blade back from you. “You’ll have to teach me some of those moves, Mandalorian.”

“Where did you learn to fight like that?” He asked, and you tilted your head to the side, shrugging a bit. You liked the mystery between you. It made each new encounter with him exciting.

Does he know I wait for him when I find out he goes?

“All in due time,” you said, patting him on the chest gently. “I think you have some appointments that I’ve made you rudely late for,” you laughed as the advisor tried to move through the crowd of guards, calling for the Mandalorian to hurry back. “Until we meet again.” You touched his helmet this time, rubbing a thumb along the edge of it before going to grab a drink of water. Somehow, the touch felt even more intimate than the first time you touched him, with your fingers against his elbow, feeling his warmth. You had touched his beskar, caressed it even, and he found his helmet following your finger eagerly, even though he could not feel it. A few of the royal guards patted your shoulders as you walked by, bowing their heads in respect and complimenting your skill. You gave them polite smiles as you passed, shaking some of their hands before disappearing behind a corner.

The Mandalorian could not put a reason to why he felt so warm still, so intense. He didn’t know if it was your intelligence or your quick wit. Maybe it was the glow of your smile or the shine of your eyes or the unique beauty of your features. Perhaps it was the way you held a weapon, how your nimble fingers fought with ease and your body moved with a fluidity and grace in the sparring ring that had his mouth watering with admiration and curiosity and utter heat; the way you anticipated offensive moves and responded with bite when you were knocked down truly had his head on a swivel.

The Mandalorian was watching you, his eyes unable to leave until you had gone from his sight. He blinked rapidly, trying to shake the feeling in his chest. The feeling did not leave him.

It never would again.

act iii: a gambler’s debt

The hallways of the palace were quiet. Black drapes fluttered with the winter breeze, and candle’s wax dripped onto the floor, illuminating the walls in warm yellows and low lights. The solemn that had fallen over the court was not lost on the Mandalorian as he made his way from the landing bay into the yard. Royal guards stood wearing black uniforms, flags flying low as even the guards themselves couldn’t find words to instill conversation.

The guards paid the Mandalorian no mind as he made his way through the yard and the halls with ease. In fact, some of them even gave him cold stares and odd glances. They had been expecting him for a few days now; in their eyes, he was late, much too late. It was not a secret that the Mandalorian was welcome company for their princess, and many in the court had come to appreciate his visits. He had been present for many hardships at court, and he had handled conflict with the ease and control of a true Mandalorian; often times at the aid of the princess the guards adored so much.

But the Mandalorian had been gone a long time; everyone had noticed.

He found you sitting in the grass in the royal gardens. You were leaning over the edge of the trickling fountain there, staring into the flowing waters in silence. There were new adornments on you; jewelry that you surely hadn’t placed on yourself. He knew of your discomfort wearing such things. You complained often that royal jewels were heavy and impractical, and that they only suited special occasions, but you never wore them then either. The most eye-catching piece was the gold headband holding back your hair, the middle of it coming to a point at your forehead with the signet of your house pressed into the metal.

A crown. He had never seen you wear a crown.

Your eyes raised, and you saw him standing there between two large stone pillars of the palace. You lifted your head up, your eyes watering as soon as you saw him. All the feelings of resentment and betrayal and anger began to disappear just at the sight of him. You stood up from where you were sitting, moving towards him. His beskar was your magnet, and your feet were not pulling you fast enough to him. He could see by the way you were hurrying towards him that he needed to brace himself. He was glad he did; as soon as he was in reach, your arms flung around his neck, and you were hugging him tight, your face buried into the space between the helmet and his shoulder.

You were relieved to see him. The past few days had been nothing but solemnity and quiet and fear, and just seeing him calmed the feelings that had been overwhelming you. The Mandalorian made you feel so secure and so safe; he was not around as often as you would have liked, but he always seemed to appear when you needed him the most.

“Din,” you let out softly, your voice breaking. He had not heard his name since he had last visited, and he put one hand on the back of your head to keep you close, to keep his name a whisper against him. You planted a soft kiss on the fabric there, nuzzling your face into him as much as you could. “Din…I-I missed you…”

He smells so good. He smells familiar. He smells like home.

The Mandalorian let his other hand smooth down your back, holding you close to him by the waist. When he had heard of the Senator’s death, a successful assassination on your father and an unsuccessful attempt against you, he never even finished the job. He had tucked the fob he carried into the back of his belt and switched the coordinates on his ship without hesitating.

He had left you a princess. He had returned to a queen.

You lifted your head from his shoulder, your eyes wet and big and sad. You seemed heavier, your muscles tense and your shoulders tight as you felt a deep burden against them. The pressure and the weight felt a little lighter in his arms, but something still held onto your shoulders, something still was biting at your heels.

“What happened?” The Mandalorian asked. He had been itching to know. He had not listened to the transmission sent to him by your advisor long enough to investigate. Between the crackled admission of the Senator—killed and the princess—found—still alive, the Mandalorian had already started the jump back to the Core Worlds to get to you. He had burned through most of his fuel, and he nearly got arrested for flying too close to commercial ships, but he didn’t let anything slow him down. He knew he would not be able to rest until he saw your face. He needed to see for himself that the attempt was really all it had been—an attempt.

It had indeed been an attempt. You had a fading bruise against your jaw and a healing cut above your brow, but you were as beautiful as you had always been, and you were still breathing.

You shook your head, “we knew…we knew we were riling up the people at court,” you admitted. “We got a proposal for excavations along the southern hemisphere, and it was…” You swallowed hard, “it was so much money, Din. More than my father and I have ever seen in many generations. It would make us…we would be a royal force.” You closed your eyes, sighing deeply when the Mandalorian cupped your face with one gloved hand, encouraging you to continue with soft touches. “B-But I begged my father not to. The damage it would cause…the sickness it would spread…I begged him to say no. And…and he did.”

The Mandalorian didn’t need to hear more. Your father had refused a wealth that would make this court rich, hundreds of times richer than it stood now, and you never wavered. No amount of credits or wealth or reputation would make you give up your people, not for anything, and in that moment of true nobility and goodness, your father had seen in you what he had yet to see in any sovereign before him, even in himself. Bleeding the planet dry of its only resources for a lick of credits was not the way to earn respect, to appreciate the place you came from, to live and not just survive. The vultures that resided in your court did not have those burdens on their shoulders. They only had to think of themselves.

None of them carried the selflessness that was required of people like you. If you made the wrong decision, you might not even have a planet to reign over. It would be foolish to look the other way, to let it happen willingly. But no matter how noble the decision may have been, there were people that would lose much because of it. The itch of fame, of power, of money, it sickened people to their cores—it drove them to do unspeakable, inhumane things. Vengeance never truly brought the peace that one sought, but perhaps they could make others wallow in their same misery.

Perhaps they could make a Senator pay for listening to the cry of his daughter’s wishes.

It had come suddenly. Your father had asked you to his study, and you had only spoken a few words between each other when the room was broken into. There were five of them, but there was only one of you. You had fought honorably, but when you had seen your father with his head lulled to the side, the rage had blinded you. For all of your training and your skill, you had never fought with the breath of death against your neck. You were grateful that its presence didn’t slow you down or cloud your instinct—no, you let it fuel you, guide you, consume you until you could hold your father’s head in your lap and pray he would open his eyes.

What remained was only one of you.

“They failed,” you whispered shakily, your eyes running over the Mandalorian’s visor. There was an ire in your eyes, a look of pure indignation and determination that he had never seen before. Normally, you were alight with a sweetness and a playfulness and an innocence that followed you like a shadow. It was gone, all gone. You had not died, but they had killed something in you that the Mandalorian already missed desperately. “They may have killed my father—” You sucked in a deep breath, “but they did not kill me. They failed—” You put your hand over his on your face, soft tears coming down your cheeks. You closed your eyes, kissing the palm of his hand.

The Mandalorian let his hand fall a bit, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip as he sighed deeply. He leaned closer, the metal just brushing against your skin. If the Mandalorian had been a gambling man, he would bet that if he lifted his helmet just enough, you would let him kiss you. You would let him press his fingers under your chin and draw your face even closer, perhaps even let him lick into your mouth and drown you in the taste of him. If he was a gambling man, he would give and give and give, spend and spend and spend, until he was giving what he didn’t have and spending what he didn’t carry until he was consumed in you and only you.

The Mandalorian was not a gambling man. But he did have just a little to give.

“I will not let them come near you again,” he said lowly. It came out modulated and cracked, but the vocoder did not disguise the anger and the possessiveness in his voice. “They will fail every time.”

If it was any other day, you would argue with him. You were not a damsel in distress, and you never had been. You had held a weapon in your hands since you were strong enough to carry one. There was not a soul you trusted more than your own in combat. There was no need for a protector, for a guard of any kind, because they would never be as quick as you could be. But now, at this moment, this was what you needed to hear.

You needed to hear that there was another being in the galaxy that had your back. The Mandalorian was neither a diplomat nor an advisor. He did not have ulterior motives, he did not care of fame or fortune, he did not lie to you. He was a warrior of the highest esteem, led only by a Creed stressing honor and family and the hardships that shape the most avid fighters, and he was motivated to aid you by nothing more than the way he felt about you.

And stars, what I feel for her…

The unspoken air, the timid area of space that still existed between you and the Mandalorian—it was impossible to ignore yet impossible to acknowledge. The soft kisses you left on his person and the way his hands touched you had only been the first breaks in your distance. It was as if you and the Mandalorian had been dancing around your feelings before one day giving into the small desires that guided your hands. Often, you found yourself kissing his hands, the beskar of his pauldron and the side of his helmet. Other times, his hands would slide over the curve of your back, wrap around your waist, tug your relaxing figure right into his lap. Sometimes, you fell asleep with the Mandalorian at your back and his voice in your ear, just like the time when he was telling you his name for the first time as you sat under the stars.

“Thank you,” you said softly after a moment. You stood up on your toes, closing your eyes as you touched your forehead to his. There was a small clink as the gold of your headpiece touched the beskar, and the Mandalorian closed his eyes as he relished in the sweet kiss you offered him. He wondered, just for a moment, how wonderful you would look with a headpiece of similar fashion, not in gold—but perhaps in the steel that he wore all too well.

He was giving already. He was giving too much, spending all he had, and as he drank in the sight of you and the feeling of you, he realized he was losing when it came to you. At the thought of your life in danger, he had forgotten all sense and found himself not being able to think clearly until you were in his line of sight. All those years of training and discipline and restraint were obsolete when it came to you; you were the one in control, and he was deep in his own crumbling debt as he drew you in as close as possible, until your body was flush against his. His palms pressed against your back, memorizing the feeling of you drawing breath and the warmth of you and the way you molded into him despite the layers between you.

Alive, she’s so alive.

The Mandalorian had no way of repaying the debt he was finding himself in; but the reward was all too sweet.

act iv: the redeemer (18+)

You leaned forward, grunting as the handmaid behind you pulled tightly on the laces of your dress. You closed your eyes as she kept tightening, despite the pained look on your face, fastening the back of your garment until the waist of it was secure. You stood up straight again, letting out a deep breath and smoothing down the fabric at the front of the dress. It really was a beautiful piece. Your father had kept it in a safe place in his closet; the sentiment of it helped make the discomfort of wearing it worth it.

It had been your mother’s dress. It was a bright shade of red made of silky, heavy draped fabric that swept low to reveal just enough cleavage and then tightening around the waist before falling in a flattering, flowing skirt to the floor. The fabric was cut along one leg, enough so that the glittering silver of your shoes could show. They were elegant, with straps that wrapped around your leg, so long the ties disappeared under the high hem of your dress.

You looked at yourself in the mirror as the woman worked on your hair, lifting it up and off your face. You wore no jewels, and now she was painting along your eyes. Swirls of silver that curled over your face beautifully, accentuating the curve of your eyes and the color of them. She had brought your hair out of your face; but oddly, she left your hair bare of any decoration.

You stood when she finished, about to leave, but she assured you that you were not finished yet. She went towards a side table in your bedroom, picking up a small cloth that laid there that you hadn’t noticed until now. She came close again, putting the cloth down and untying it. In the middle of the fabric laid a beautiful brooch in the shape of an animal and a headpiece, both made of a spectacular silver metal that shined like a star, glittering as if it was moonlight. Your mouth gaped open a bit as you reached over and touched the pieces.

“Stars, I’ve…I’ve never seen these pieces before,” you breathed, picking up the brooch. “They’re…goodness, they’re so beautiful. Has this always been in our collection?”

“No, Your Majesty,” the handmaid blushed a bit. “T-These were a gift. F-From the Mandalorian.”

Your head snapped up to her, and you frowned a bit. Just the thought of him had your heart racing, and you found yourself flooded with a plethora of emotions at the sound of his title. Longing, need, desire, tenderness, comfort.

“W-What?” You asked. “W-What do you mean? He’s here?”

“Y-Yes, Your Majesty. He asked if you could wear these tonight, h-he said it was very important,” she told you. She seemed nervous, her eyes deep in thought as if she was trying to remember exactly what he had told her. “B-But he didn’t want to see you until…you were ready. Oh—! And…he…he also wanted to give you…this—” She held out timidly a recognizable vibroblade, the same one you had used a few times against him. You took the blade from her, moving it over in your hand for a moment before swallowing hard.

You were an educated royal. You had studied many cultures and learned the customs of many people. Accepting this gift in particular was a statement for a Mandalorian. You did not hesitate as you hiked up your dress and fastened the blade into your leather holster.

You let out a little laugh, swallowing back light tears, standing beside her as she helped you put the finishing pieces on. She took a loose drape of fabric and curved it over your waist, pinning it with the brooch. It was strong, holding the heavy fabric easily with no indication of moving. You sat again for her to fit the headpiece on. You noticed the headpiece was a bit different than the one you normally wore. There were two points along the forehead, with two different signets—one of your house, and the other of the same shape of the animal that was pinned to your waist. You smoothed a finger over the two symbols before letting her fit it into your hair and secure it.

You looked in the mirror, letting out a shaky breath. The pieces were the perfect touches. You sparkled in them, and you couldn’t help but realize how much more you preferred yourself in silver rather than gold. The silver was so pretty, glistening, and you had no idea how you were going to thank the Mandalorian for making you feel so beautiful.

You had no idea what you were going to say to him at all.

The handmaid bid you goodnight and left the room, and you looked down at your hand at the new ring that sat there now that you were alone. Your father’s ring, a piece handed down through generations of others in your place, and now it was on your finger. You ran your thumb over it before standing, making your way out into the hallway.

The palace was decorated for the celebration. The colors of your house were shades of red, like your dress, and it was decorated to match. Red flowers hung along the walls, fluorescent plants littering along them to light up the hallways. There were red candles lit everywhere, and there was upbeat music playing, coming from the grand hall. You smiled at the guards you passed who bowed in response. Once you neared the hall, you were greeted by the array of guests invited. Creatures and beings of many races and species, all bowing and greeting you with delight as you made your way by them. You had invited many from the capitol city, extending invitations to city residents when you realized there was more room for many.

You took your time, shaking hands and greeting people warmly. You swelled with warmth when you interacted with others, especially your people. They were welcoming and kind and grateful, and when you had greeted everyone you could, you asked a guard to make sure everyone left with sizable gifts to bring home.

You made your way out of the hallway and into the grand hall, where the music was playing, and guests were eating and dancing. You smiled as you greeted more people, shaking more hands and lending your ear to a particular woman who asked you nervously for a favor. You held her hand in yours as she recounted a troubling story about the building she lived in within the capitol, and you put a hand on her shoulder as you assured her you would take care of it. You beckoned a guard your way, asking him personally to attend to it.

“I see you’re handling the new position well.”

You broke out into a smile at the voice. You turned around quickly, your eyes meeting a familiar face—well, helmet. The Mandalorian stood just aways from you, leaning against the wall to watch you. Your smile faded however, into a face of pure disbelief, as your eyes ran over him. It was like seeing him for the first time again; another Mandalorian entirely stood in front of you.

His armor. The Mandalorian did not stand before you in faded red beskar. No—he was glittering practically, adorned in the most beautiful set of silver beskar you had ever seen. His shoulders were broader, his posture stood taller, and his entire figure was more menacing and more intimidating than it had ever been. The sight in front of you had you speechless for a moment, and your lips parted a bit as you took him in again and again. Your eyes were so wide; if you thought he had been pretty before, you were mistaken. The warrior in front of you—kriff, he is so hot.

“Mandalorian,” you cooed softly, finally finding the words to speak. Your body moved before you could really think about it, coming near as quick as your legs would allow you, as if he had beckoned you to him. He was drawing you in without even saying a word. You wanted to touch him, feel him, tuck yourself under his arm and tell him just how pretty he looked. “I-I was looking for you, I—”

You stopped after your eyes fell to the pauldron on his right side and its new addition. There, imprinted in beskar, was the shape of an animal that you recognized easily. It was the same animal you wore at your hip and on your headpiece. You lifted your hand curiously, touching it gently. Beskar was so well-known, a sacred resource of the Mandalorian’s people. It would be impossible not to recognize it, and yet the thought had missed you entirely. You watched as the Mandalorian’s hand reached over and touched the pin at your waist, and you swallowed hard as you met his eyes through the visor.

On the stars…I’m wearing beskar.

“Din,” you whispered, just for him to hear. Your eyes watered a bit, your hand smoothing over the signet on his shoulder again. “What…I’m…I-I don’t understand.”

He tilted his head to the side, his hand skimming past the brooch and resting lightly on your hip. His eyes roamed over your face, the signet that rested on your forehead, the silver makeup that coiled along your eyes and made your skin sparkle. You were a vision in his eyes, and he couldn’t help but feel as if you were dressed and polished just for him.

It was a dangerous and possessive thought, but he let himself simmer in the feeling of it. His hand slid up a bit to rest at your waist, taking in the curve of you. The dress only accentuated all of the parts of you that he admired most, and he cursed under his breath as his gaze went over the swell of your breasts against the silky fabric of your dress.

You were a vision—a vision of elegance, of perfection, of undeniable beauty. The Mandalorian had never been privy to this kind of spectacle. He had never seen you in a dress like this, radiating the refinement and grace and splendor of a queen in her court, but the sight of you made you all the more desirable. He knew just how easily you could overpower him even in the confinement of your corset, and his mouth watered just a little at the thought of you twisting a blade in your soft hands. He thought about the blade he had gifted you and how it matched your dress quite nicely.

There was a strange word hanging off the tip of his tongue. It tasted good.

Mine.

He itched to keep touching you. He ached to lift his helmet and kiss over the soft skin you were showing. He wanted so badly to kneel at your feet, slip his hand under the hem of your dress, and hear your voice say his name as he touched the prettiest parts of you. He could see your leg peeking out of the slit in your dress, and he choked a bit noticing the silver of your heels, how the fabric curled up your leg and disappeared. You had to be teasing him.

She has to be.

“It’s a long story,” the Mandalorian said lowly, finally finding it in himself to speak. “But I have earned my signet. This…is the symbol of my clan.”

You swallowed hard. You had thought the blade a representation of a request of courtship. This was something entirely different.

“B-But I’m wearing it,” you murmured. “I-I…I’m wearing your…” You lifted your hand from his shoulder to the side of his helmet, caressing where his cheek might be. You let out a gentle sigh, shaking your head, “stars, you’re going to be the death of me, Din.” You wanted to say more, wanted to wound your arms around his neck and give him a tender kiss, but there was a gentle tug on the skirt of your dress that had your head turning away from him. There was a small child staring up at you, wearing red plainclothes with a nervous look on his face as he glanced between you and the Mandalorian. You smiled warmly, kneeling to the child’s level as you took his hand to listen to his soft request.

The Mandalorian helped you back to your feet with a firm hand when your conversation was over. You kept holding the lost child’s hand and smiled at the Mandalorian, giving his gloved hand a gentle squeeze.

“Duty calls,” you said softly, intertwining your fingers for a moment. “I’ll be back, I promise.”

The Mandalorian simply nodded his head, taking his place near the wall, comfortable as he watched and waited. You guided the child to the table of food, helping him secure a plate for dinner before taking him to sit at an empty chair. The Mandalorian watched as you soothed the child, wiping his tears and helping him eat as you spoke gently to him. He could see the child relaxing visibly as you talked to him, nodding his little head and even mustering a laugh as you knelt in front of him and kept speaking. The Mandalorian could feel his chest building with warmth and admiration, the same kind that always rested in him by watching you; the way you treated other people despite your station and listened to their problems and addressed them with a sense of importance was a quality that he had not seen in many others. There was a reason you had earned these people’s love and respect. There was no issue too small and no creature less important than another, not to you. There was not a doubt in his mind if he had made the wrong decision. There was not another being in the galaxy that he desired more than you, in every way.

There was not a being more worthy of wearing his signet; there was not an individual more fitting to be a part of a Mandalorian clan.

It was later in the evening when you finally came back to him. He remained by the wall, leaning against it and letting his visor follow your figure shamelessly throughout the night. You adored the way he couldn’t look away from you, and anytime you found his eyes (or at least thought you did), you smiled his way. After a long night of dancing and celebrating and eating, you could feel your toes ache in your shoes and your eyes fluttering closed every so often. The party was far from over, but all you wanted was to be alone with the Mandalorian, to tell him how much you missed him, to ask him why on the stars he had sacrificed precious Mandalorian steel just for you.

His helmet never moved as you walked towards him. When you were within reach, his hand extended, curling around your waist and guiding you to him. You smiled, your palms resting against his chest as you looked up at him.

“Will you escort me to my room?” You asked softly. “These shoes are killing me…”

He nodded once, letting go of you reluctantly. You curled your arm through his, resting your head against his pauldron as he guided you out of the hall. You smiled and waved at any guests you passed, and you did not miss the way they stared at the pair of you in awe. You secretly liked the whispers that sounded.

When the bedroom doors shut behind you, you couldn’t keep your hands off of the Mandalorian. You took his hands in yours, walking backwards until your back hit the wall, and you slid your hands over his forearms and the inside of his elbows and over his shoulders before moving down his chest. You sucked in soft breaths as you leaned up on your toes and put your forehead to his, letting your lips brush against his helmet; you even managed to let out soft whines as his own hands moved along the curves of your waist and your lower back. The Mandalorian had never been anything but respectful, but the ghost of his fingers over the curve of your lower back was cheeky at best.

“I missed you so much,” you whispered, kissing his helmet where your lips touched. “Din, it’s been so long…” You closed your eyes, “I was worried. And now you’re here…And gods, Din, you look incredible…” You hooked your fingers into the space under his cuirass and tugged him away from the wall, guiding him until he sat on the edge of your bed. You stood between his thighs, lowering until you were seated on one of them, the beskar of his tassets supporting you as you leaned against him in his lap. You shook your head, “Tell me what happened.”

So he did. With one arm around his shoulders and the other rubbing along the nape of his neck, he murmured in your ear about the long journey he had endured in his absence. He explained how he earned the signet on his pauldron, and he told you of the Child he had found and lost all over again. With your hand on his helmet, he told you, shamefully, how he had removed it and how he was a Mandalorian no more. You listened, never letting your attention falter, not once. Your eyes remained on his, your touch soothed him when his voice cracked, and he found comfort in the closeness of you.

“Oh, Din,” you whispered when he had quieted. “What a lucky child he is…that out of all the bounty hunters in the galaxy, you were the one to find him.” You smiled wide. “If he is as smart and as wise and as capable as you describe him to be—” You put both hands on either side of his helmet, keeping his head level with yours, “—he will come back to you. I should know.” You laughed a bit. “It is impossible to be away from you for too long, Din Djarin.”

A beat passed. And then he said your name.

“I came back,” he swallowed hard, “I came back for you.” You tilted your head to the side, encouraging him to continue. “He…he made me realize what was important to me. And now that he is gone…I-I had to come back for you.” You looked away sheepishly, but he put his fingers under your chin and forced you to look at him again. “There is nothing I have to offer you. I am not even a Mandalorian any longer. All I have is…myself. But I would be a fool not to make this proposal to you.” You hummed softly, smoothing a hand down his chest. “The gifts I’ve presented to you…I…”

Stars, he’s so nervous. I wish I could see his eyes.

“Din,” you stopped him gently. “If you are asking for my hand…” You laughed a bit, “you should know that it’s yours. It’s always been yours.” You squeezed his hand in yours once you found it, then you moved your hands to either side of his helmet and moved his visor to face you. You hoped your eyes were looking into his; the Mandalorian was almost afraid of how quickly you found them when you had no idea where his eyes really were. “If you’re asking me to be a part of your clan…to accept your gifts and wear your signet as well as my own…” You smiled nervously, “well, I…I accept.”

His helmet dropped, the front of it resting against your chest. You wrapped an arm around his neck, holding him there, soothing him quietly. He squeezed you tighter against him, until there was no space between you, none at all.

You stayed that way for a little while, just letting yourselves breathe each other in and find your ground again. You slid off his lap when you finally pulled away, sitting up against the headboard of your bed as the Mandalorian continued to sit on the edge, facing away from you. It was a strange sight to see him so apprehensive. He was a warrior of hardened discipline and seasoned experience in many things; he knew many different languages and never seemed out of place in any situation. But here, on your bed, you could tell this was not a place he had ever been before; he did not know how to sit, where to put his hands, or what to say next.

He's sweet.

“Din?” You called out gently, and he turned his helmet a bit to acknowledge you. “Could you help me?” You reached over and lifted the hem of your dress a bit, revealing the intricately tied heels you were wearing.

An invitation, a bold one. An invitation into your space. An invitation for him to touch you, in ways he had not before.

Not an invitation. Closer to begging.

He nodded, standing and moving to sit closer to you, facing you now. You lifted your leg for him, and you pursed your lips to keep a soft sound from escaping as he smoothed a gloved hand up the side of your leg, looking for where the knot of it was. There was static in your mind clouding your decent thoughts as he did this slowly. He stopped as he met the edge of the slit in your skirt, silently asking for permission. You nodded, and his hand disappeared under the hem, his palm warm against your upper thigh. His fingers found the knot, pulling at the ties gently until the coiled fabric became loose around your leg.

Oh, not sweet…no, not sweet—he’s making my head spin touching me like this.

He bent your leg at the knee, fitting his finger into the swirling fabric and pulling, watching the ribbons fall easily. He took a hold of your ankle, easing the heel off your foot and letting it fall to the ground. You started to breathe heavier as he did the same to your other leg, his touch wandering as he did so. Ghosting over the bone of your ankle, up along your calf, over your knee. His touch was sizzling, raising the hairs on your body as he traced the skin of your thigh. When he found the holster with the blade fastened, he only paused for a moment before removing it. When the other shoe and the holster dropped to the ground with a thud, you both stared at each other, unmoving as you swallowed the lump in your throat.

It was now or never; you decided now sufficed.

You leaned over and took his hand, pulling him enough that he was forced to either let go or climb over you. You hummed when he chose the latter, your eyes on his visor as he moved close enough over you to touch his forehead to yours. The clink of metal made your lips tremble; it was a soft touch of beskar against beskar, and it was such a pretty sound. You closed your eyes, gasping with relief when his gloved hand found the slit of your dress again and wandered under the hem, disappearing between your widening thighs. You were warm and wet already, a heat radiating off of you since the moment you laid your eyes on him and got a look at his iridescent armor, sturdy and new and solid just like the foundations of this new feeling.

Gods, I was so wrong. He’s good at everything; there is no skill that he lacks.

The Mandalorian had no trouble hooking his fingers into the edge of your undergarments and discarding of them. He wadded the silky fabric in his hand and tossed it aside, his other arm moving behind you to wrap around your waist and yank you towards him. You made a surprised yip at the harsh tug, whimpering at how he crowded your space with his broadness. The surprise died into a moan as two of his gloved fingers plunged deep into you without warning.

The Mandalorian never waited for anything. He was impatient, and he was always on the clock. Even now, even with no timer on when this night should end, he couldn’t wait. He had waited too long for this, and not hearing your sweet voice hissing in pleasure for even a second longer would not do. You were a coveted being he had lingered upon for far too long—he would not let his newfound fortune go to waste.

Your hands held onto his shoulders for support, moving up to wrap around his neck as you let out another moan of relief. Your head fell back a bit, your eyes fluttering closed as your thighs closed around his hand. He dropped the hand on your waist to wrap your leg around his middle, keeping you spread for him. His fingers, despite his glove still on, were making you tremble. The slickness of you allowed him the ease of a gentle pace, and he watched the expression of your face as he effortlessly relaxed your tightness as he stuffed you full.

“That’s it,” he muttered, feeling you relent to his touch, and you whined at the sound of his voice. The Mandalorian rarely spoke; the only words he ever said were purposeful and carefully chosen. This slip of a phrase was just a testament to how not in control he was, to how impatient and needy he was becoming for you. His fingers moved slowly, deep and heavy as they slid achingly well in and out. Even through his gloves, the Mandalorian could feel how tight you squeezed him, how your body begged for more of his touch. His thumb waved over a plump, wet bundle of nerves, and you jerked a bit in his arms, pressing your mouth to the front of his helmet and muffling a moan into the beskar. His fingers retracted, and you cried out with need, but you noticed him discard the glove to the side.

Oh, gods—it was like seeing him naked.

You saw his skin for the first time, but you weren’t able to focus on his fingers long enough before they were pushing past your plump bottom lip and sinking into your mouth. You moaned around them, your eyes rolling into the back of your head as you sucked gently on them. It was only for a moment, because then his hand went under your dress again, and you were grinding pathetically against the palm of his hand, two fingers deep inside of you again. Like a machine he knew all too well, as if he was tuning up his blaster or tightening a bolt in his ship, the Mandalorian was learning you, memorizing you, claiming you between these four walls. The Mandalorian was well-versed in many things, and he prided himself on these qualities—he would not rest until he held the same semblance of knowledge on you and what places inside of you made you weak.

Mine. She’s mine, she’s all mine, and she will never forget it.

You were flushed now, sweating a bit as you felt the heat and need of pleasure taking over you. The silver makeup around your eyes was smearing a little, littering your face in silver sparkles that was making you glow. The Mandalorian watched with a heavy pant as he moved his fingers quicker, the rising tone of your moans driving him to get you to that brink of ecstasy that you craved so much; it was clear in the darkness of your eyes and the tight grip you had on him that you were not far away. His fingers curled, spreading and moving and letting the squeeze of your walls guide him into a rhythmic pace that had you breathless and staggered—oh—Din—yes, please—!

You came with a frenzied whimper against his shoulder, your legs shaking as you rode out the blissful feeling with a grind of your hips against his hand. You barely let yourself rest, barely let yourself seethe in that heavenly feeling. You wasted no time, not giving yourself even a moment to bask in that pretty afterglow before you were pushing the Mandalorian onto his back, hiking up your dress as you straddled him.

“Wait—” he put a hand around your neck, holding you at a safe distance, but you whined in frustration, sitting yourself down on him and coaxing a harsh groan from him as you circled your hips.

The Mandalorian had no clue how close you were to breaking, how far past your own limit you had strayed. The control, the restraint, the checks and balances you had trained yourself to obey were falling and falling and falling, at a speed you could not keep up with, and you were finished trying to catch up.

If you were falling, the Mandalorian would catch you.

“Din, I swear—” you gasped, “you have no idea what you do to me,” you cradled his helmet between your arms, keeping your hips going at a steady pace against him. He put both palms against you from behind, squeezing the flesh of you. He was hard, so hard, and you angled your pelvis until you felt him perfectly against you, sitting between your folds with nothing but his pants to separate you. You were desperate, the heat inside of you too blistering to ignore, and you needed him to understand that you could not wait any longer. You had thought about this since you had met him, you had thought about how much you wanted to be his and only his and be surrounded by the essence of him until it was all you could ever know.

I want him to fuck me until it’s all I will ever know.

You stopped, slowing your hips and sinking down against him. You moved one hand and grasped his, guiding it up to the laces of your dress. You spoke no words, but he understood; he practically invented this unspoken language, and there was no need to explain.

Especially not when I can see the fire in her eyes.

So he obliged. He sat up with you, foreheads pressed together as he undid the ties at your back. You put a hand to your chest as the dress loosened around you, holding it up so it wouldn’t fall. You used your other hand and put a thumb to the bottom of his helmet, forcing it to tip down as you let go of the front of your dress, the straps falling as it pooled at your waist.

Mine. Mine, mine, mine.

You unpinned the brooch at your waist carefully and set it down beside the bed before discarding the dress onto the floor. You were bare in the Mandalorian’s lap, wearing nothing but the beskar headpiece he gifted you and a sheen of sparkly silver sweat. It felt almost sacrilegious to be like this with him; his Creed did not allow you to see any more of him, in fact you had most likely already seen too much, and yet you felt like he was wearing nothing at all either.

“Din—” You smoothed a few fingers down the side of his helmet, smiling a bit. “Do you like what you see?” You received a curt nod in response, and then a tight, possessive squeeze of your bare waist. “You’re so quiet…” Your voice fell to a soft whisper. “It’s sweet. But I don’t want you to be sweet, Din.” You raised the helmet with a few fingers, kissing the metal soft. “Not tonight. Not with me.”

So he wasn’t sweet. He unbuckled the utility belt he wore, and with your help, lifted it off of him and put it to the side. You gave him a shy smile as you reached for the cowl tucked into his chest plate, dragging it out and dropping it beside your discarded dress. You pressed your forehead to his as you laid on your back, bringing him with you as you both stared at each other knowingly. He was heavy, still wearing his armor and not even stopping to take off his boots, but the weight of him was not unwelcome. The metal was cold against your hot skin, but if anything, it cooled the desire in you just a little, offering some sort of relief because you were starting to lose your sanity with how badly you needed this man.

I can’t think, I can barely breathe…I barely remember my name, the only one I can really remember is his—

You were on fire. Burning, burning, burning up with need as he dropped his head onto the pillow beside you and sank until his hips were pressed right into yours. Your legs tightened around his middle, ankles crossing at his back as you felt him so deep. You angled your hips up a bit, your head falling back as you let out a cry. But you asked him not to be sweet, so he gripped your face with his still-gloved hand and rutted up into you after just a few moments of adjustment. You squeezed him in response, your body’s own way of telling him yes, more, give me more.

So he gave you more. In the quiet of your room, with no more light than some flickering candles littered about and the low moonlight coming in from the windows, the Mandalorian groaned in your ear and fucked you into the soft sheets of your bed. You kept your eyes where you thought his might be, your nails digging into his shoulders as you tried to keep up with him; but this was a useless attempt. He was so hard, filling you up too well, and he was making you dazed with pleasure as you laid there, helpless and letting yourself succumb to just him, him, only him. His thumb wiped across your face, brushing your needy tears away as he smeared more of that pretty silver makeup along your skin. He rubbed it along your bottom lip, aching to get that silver color on every part of you, even just a little. You were so beautiful, wearing nothing but beskar, and some part of him wished that you could mold with him just like this, beskar and flesh and hot breath and nothing more.

The Mandalorian thought that perhaps he could survive on just that.

“Din—” Your voice brought him back to you. You were close, getting so close, and you whined in surprise as he sat up and pressed you into the headboard, driving into you at such an agonizing pace. You didn’t think he could take up any more of you, you didn’t think he could make you feel any more, but he was hitting deeper, grunting as he used the weight of himself to tower over you and fuck you hard. You held onto him with a tight grip around his neck, sitting back on his thighs as the only sounds leaving you were small moans and the sputtered echoes of his name—Din, stars—mmph!

There was nothing in the galaxy that could convince you that he was a Mandalorian no longer. He was fighter inside and out, a man who only sought to move forward and not dwell on his past; he had faced too many adversities and prevailed when every odd was against him too many times to ever be anything but a Mandalorian. He had too much honor and too much love to give. His word was sacred, his hands were deadly, and he was motivated by nothing but his clan—if he was not considered a Mandalorian, then there was no one worthy of the name.

You could not see his eyes, but every touch of him and every snap of his hips against yours was enough to tell you that he thought of you no differently. There was no man or woman better intended for your station, no person more worthy of wearing Mandalorian steel, no being more deserving of love and stardust. You were perfection in his arms, your voice the song that brought him back to earth, and the way your body was succumbing to him despite the layers between you only convinced him further that he would not find another like you again.

Mine, mine, mine, she’s all mine.

He pledged to make you see stars until you understood the vows of his new life. You were his new life, you were the new armor that would hold him together, and he would have you just like this, under him crying out only his name, until you felt it in your bones.

The Mandalorian let out a satisfied grunt as you pushed on his chest, forcing him to sit back on his heels. You sat up in his arms, looking down at him as you kept up his grueling pace, your hair falling out of place but your headpiece not moving an inch as you became sloppy, unhinged, moving your hips carelessly as you chased your high all over again. Your forehead smacked against his, the beskar hitting each other sounding like a bell around the room as you wept out his name again and again and again.

He was stretching you, hitting the most precious places inside of you, fucking you as if it was a challenge. You yielded, helplessly, letting out the softest whimpers as you went limp in his arms, letting the strength of them hold you up and keep the rhythm. This was how it always would be, you were convinced; if you faltered, he would continue without a beat passing, and you would do the same. The Mandalorian wanted to yank your head back, put your eyes to the stars, and say Mandalorian vows to you right then.

We are one when together.

You cried out loudly, squeezing the skin of his neck as your eyes fell back in your head.

“Din—” You tugged helplessly on him, trying to get him as close as possible. “Din, I-I can’t…”

He reached a hand up, cupping your sweet face in his palm and guiding your eyes to his. Though you couldn’t see them, you could feel that you had his gaze.

“I have you,” he murmured, a low groan finally leaving him. You put your hands against the helmet, nodding wordlessly. “I-I have you.”

We are one when parted.

You pressed your face into his neck, his helmet tilted back to give you space to rest there. You tugged down the collar of his flight suit just enough to kiss him there, your teeth biting down gently as you finally saw stars, millions of them blinding your vision as you let him take you far away. You moaned powerlessly in his arms, your hips chasing his as you rode out some blissful high that left you wordless, hazy, dumbstruck with the taste, the smell, the feel of him. All five senses were Din, Din, Din, and you breathed it in until you could breathe no more.

We will share all. We will raise warriors.

You hissed with delight when you felt his hands squeeze you possessively, his hips faltering as he relaxed. You rested your face against his shoulder, closing your eyes as you settled there in his arms. There was no space between you; there was no force that could break you apart, not right now, perhaps not ever. You adjusted yourself just slightly, and you both moaned, feeling your thighs soak with each other, dripping along your skin and onto his pants, making a mess. You smiled at that, growing flustered as you pulled your head up and stared into his eyes sheepishly. He pushed your hair back away from your face, adoring the sight of you. You were not a royal made of glass; you were a woman made of steel, and he imagined it might be Mandalorian steel—impenetrable, protective, beautiful.

Mine. Mine, mine, mine…she’s mine, and that’s why she’s so pretty, that’s why I can’t get enough of her, that’s why nothing makes sense unless I see her, unless I can feel her, unless I am all around her.

You picked up the discarded clothes around the room, albeit on wobbly legs. You hung the dress up carefully, slipping into another a light silk dress to sleep in as you gathered the rest of the Mandalorian’s things off the floor and set them down on a table nearby. The room was warm, and the starlight was bright, and the sight of the Mandalorian shuffling around your space put you at ease. He belonged here. Not long ago, he seemed unsure of himself in your room; now he took up the places he stood in as if he always had been there.

The Mandalorian saw a reflection of himself in you. He had seen it from the moment you had boarded his ship the very first morning he had met you. The nimble way you held a weapon, the ease and comfort and grace you had when fighting another—he even saw it in the way you put yourself back together when one of your own tried to steal the goodness and kindness of your heart by killing it out of you. Like him, you were molded by grief and difficulty and honor; if he closed his eyes, he might have thought you were Mandalorian yourself. It was the kind of thought that prompted him to commission beskar pieces on your behalf; it was not a sacrifice of Mandalorian steel, it was an offering.

It was only now that the Mandalorian thought of redemption. As he came close to you and put a hand on your face, his fingers tight under your chin to look at you, he began to believe in redemption, in salvation, in the revitalization of who he was at his core. Because in your eyes, he could see the image of himself, the silver of his beskar and the darkness of his visor and all the parts of him that you loved so deeply, all the parts of him that you had no reluctance saying yes to.

“There…there is a way for me to be redeemed,” the Mandalorian murmured, smoothing his fingers up your jaw. Your eyes sparkled, and you put your hand over his, squeezing him gently. “If I bathe in the Living Waters, then I will be Mandalorian again. But…I have a few things to do before I can try.”

Your eyes shined, a smile coming over your face as you stood on your toes, level with his eyes. The Mandalorian saw something new in your gaze. Wonder, excitement, the rush of adventure all blurring into one. You moved both hands forward, touching both sides of his helmet, kissing the metal softly as you silently gave him your permission, your acceptance, your encouragement of starting something over. You had waited a long time for the Mandalorian to come back to you; you had waited even longer for him to ask you to come with him.

There it was, he saw it so clearly—stardust in your eyes and joy on your mouth and silver against your skin. You were a sight all too beautiful. He thought about kneeling, about dropping his head and telling a queen that there was no place in the galaxy, in the cosmos, amongst the stars that he would not go to for you. If the Mandalorian knew how inflated you were with the same feeling, he might’ve lost his balance.

“Well…”

Your eyes were still there, still full of starlight.

Mine. Mine, mine, mine.

“…then what are we waiting for?”

[starry-eyesanddaydreams]

December 4 - Darkest Night

Elliot Marston x Reader

Elliot and his wife on an outback summer night. A little sweet, a little spicy, with a touch of feelings. Note; This is set in a storyline I've been playing with where Elliot gets a mail-order bride who doesn't take any of his shite and he has to get his act together to earn her love and save her from a kidnapper. This is set after their "happy ever after".

(A day late, I didn't have internet access yesterday) Also, my first Elliot fic, yay! First time writing for him, so I wasn't 100% confident on posting this, but @smilingformoney posted Elliot gifs today so I took that as a sign. Hope you like it.

For @deepperplexity's Rickmas 2024 prompts.

/////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

It was late on a clear summer night. Only a couple of lanterns were still lit around the homestead buildings. Other than that, the valley was shrouded in darkness. Only the subtle light of the stars allowed to make out the outlines of distant trees and hills.

“It’s not safe to go wandering at night.” You heard your husband’s voice nearing you. You looked over your shoulder at him. He was hardly visible in the starlight, but you could see his familiar tall, square shouldered form. “I’m still inside the fence,” you countered, “Hardly counts as wandering.” “Stubborn woman.” His slipped his arms around your waist, holding you tight against his chest, “What are you doing out here, anyway?” “Just watching the night. The stars are beautiful out here.” You relaxed in his arms, your back resting against his chest.

It was a beautiful night. The warm air was far more comfortable than it was during the day. And above them, the inky darkness of the sky was cut by a swathe of stars that glinted like diamonds. But his attention was on you, not the sky. You felt wonderfully soft in his arms. His heart clenched in his chest. He loved you more that he'd thought possible, and it was both thrilling and terrifying. Love gave him so much to lose. He knew in detail how deadly life could be, be it by man, nature or cruel fate. He'd do everything in his power to keep you safe. When he’d decided to take a mail-order bride, his reasons had been practical, almost clinical. He’d wanted a woman to take care of his household, give him children and satisfy his needs. Then you’d arrived. As strong-willed as you were beautiful, and he’d found himself falling in love. Your presence in his life had forced something better out of him, and he needed you like he needed air to breath.

He squeezed you a bit tighter in his arms, lowering his head to kiss your cheek and down to your neck. Your head tilted to the side to give him access. He sucked on the sweet spot under your ear, and you moaned in pleasure, your body squirming in his tight embrace. "El, please," you gasped, "I need you." Part of him wanted to take you right here. Hike up your skirts and claim you under the stars you loved so much. But even more, he wanted to take his time. To make love to you properly. 

Keeping his arm firmly around your waist, he led you back to the house. He didn’t bother lighting a lamp when you entered the bedroom. As much as he loved looking at you, there was a sensuality to just being able to touch and hear you that was intoxicating. His sure, practiced fingers made quick work of your clothes, unbuttoning and unlacing the layers of your dress and corset. His large hands tracing over your curves as breathed in the scent of your perfumed hair. You started unbuttoning his shirt, kissing the warm skin of his chest as you went. Leaning towards him, you kissed his jaw, enjoying the scratch of his stubble on your lips. You gasped when he suddenly grabbed you up in his arms, his deep rumbling laugh in your ear as he lowered you onto the bed. He lest you for a moment to strip the rest of his clothes, before you felt his hands and lips on your heated skin. You threaded your fingers through his hair, making him groan as you tugged on the fluffy blonde strands. He was yours as much as you were his.

[thesugarclubs-blog]

A Shot to the Heart - Bucky Barnes x OC

warnings: mr & mrs smith vibes, injuries, hurt x comfort, hospital stay

word count: 6.9k

WP: https://www.wattpad.com/1431325298-a-shot-to-the-heart-florence

vibe: "How are you feeling?" he asked, "You had me so worried, baby girl."

"Like I was hit by Mjolnir," she tried to smile weakly. She tried to lift her head but stopped, wincing and groaning.

Masterlist

It was quiet. Too quiet.

His target’s villa was supposed to be littered with bodyguards, even as Bucky made his way silently through the hallway leading to the man selling the latest deadly drug on the market, something felt off about the silence.

He’d encountered almost no resistance.

His heartbeat was thrumming steadily in his ears as he neared the main bedroom, the door beckoning him like a bullseye. His steps were quiet as he closed one fist around the handle while the other tightened on his trusty blade. 

The door didn’t make a sound as he opened it and slipped through it, closing it swiftly as his ears caught the faint sound of music. Bucky’s brows furrowed as he inched closer to the noise leaking through the spacious wing. His intel was solid, he’d been monitoring the French-Algerian mercenary for a month now.

Batroc had a set routine; hide in plain sight while making connections with the local higher ups of the island he was currently hiding in, stay in his villa to host parties on the weekends, and he was always alone on weekdays. He even went to bed early.

Which is why Bucky was confused as to why he was awake– apparently with a companion from the sounds of seductive music filtering in through the walls, when he was supposed to be sleeping. The job was supposedly an easy in-and-out.

Pulling his gun with the silencer attached, he held the two weapons and decided to spring into action with quick steps only for his feet to stop at the sight of a very familiar body swaying seductively in front of a dazed looking French asshole. The woman’s back was to Bucky while she slowly stripped off a trench coat and dropped it to the floor. The blood rushing through his veins was boiling hot but not because of the black corset that was painted on her every delicious curve. No, it was because that body with a distinctive constellation of birthmarks on the back belonged to his wife.

Betrayal. Anger. White hot rage burned everywhere.

“Florence? What the fuck?!”

"Bucky," a tiny whisper left her lips, whether it was annoyance or surprise, Bucky wasn't quite sure. 

His eyes flickered between Florence and Batroc, a dangerous man now with the upper hand as his realization clicked into place that he was in danger.

"Guards!" He bellowed, scrambling up from his seated position and tumbling over the side. Within seconds four sets of boots were rushing down the hall at them. 

"What the hell are you doing here?" She whipped around on her stilettos. Clicking across the floor toward Batroc as she swiped her jacket from the floor, but it wasn't the jacket that came up in her hands, it was a slim, black pistol. Poised to kill. 

"What am I doing here?" Bucky growled, slamming the thin doors closed behind him. They wouldn't keep the guards out but it would buy them some time. "You're a  kindergarten teacher!" The shock was settling in, grasping a hold of any rational thoughts he might have had coming into this mission. "What are you doing here?" He kicked his boot against the couch and sent it flying up against the doors, barricading them inside.

“Listen, clearly we need to talk but this really isn’t the time, Bucky.” 

Bucky stared at her bewildered, struggling to wrap his head around what his sweet, civilian wife was doing in the home of a French mercenary.

“No shit, sweetheart,” he hissed, head snapping at the sound of quickening footsteps and growing shouts. “Can you run in those?” He asked, pointing to her shoes. 

“You know I can. I take it this is a normal Tuesday for you so what’s the plan?”

“Normal Tuesday,” He scoffed “I’ll talk to you about a normal Tuesday you just w-”

“James!” Bucky’s mumbles were cut off by Florence’s exasperated voice piercing through his ears, “not now.”

He shook his jumbled thoughts from his head as he found her eyes and nodded sharply, turning towards the door and pushing her just slightly behind him as he braced himself for the incursion. 

“What are you doing?” She hissed. 

“Florence just,” 

Both their heads turned to the sounds of Batroc clambering to open a window on the far left side of the room. He watched her in complete awe, mouth agape as she raised her gun and pulled the trigger, the bullet piercing straight through his hand. 

“You were saying?” 

“Just, do exactly that I guess,” He turned back towards the sounds closing in on them and back to her, not a sliver of trepidation in her beautiful chestnut eyes. “And don’t get hurt, please.” His brows knit in worry before he took a steadying breath and turned away once more.

Florence scoffed as she stalked over to where Batroc lay on the ground, clutching his wrist and moaning painfully. She bent over, displaying her ass and the length of her legs, which had Bucky moaning almost as loud as his target but for an entirely different reason. His distraction was soon over as his wife scooped up her jacket and slipped it on before turning to Batroc once more.

“Where are the files, you piece of shit,” she hissed, pressing one stilettoed foot against his throat.

“Wait a second,” Bucky interrupted. “Files? What files?”

He saw his wife release a sigh of annoyance as she pressed the heeled foot into Batroc's chest now, making him wince in pain when her heel dug deep.

"I would say it's classified but..." she gave Bucky a wickedly brilliant smile over her shoulder that almost had him forgetting he was angry.

"...I'm guessing you're here for the same reason, my love. I want the files on the new drug he has circling around."

"I was sent to take him out," Bucky narrowed his eyes. 

Florence rolled her shoulders and dug her heel deep into his chest as he tried to squirm away, mumbling something about internal communication under her breath. 

"You were never supposed to find out this way." She looked up at him. Regret painted across her beautiful face. 

Bucky opened his mouth to respond when the door behind him flew open and three men crashed into the room with their weapons drawn. He was quick on the first, grabbing his gun hand and slamming it against the door frame painfully and with enough force to snap the man's arm in half before kicking him backward out into the hallway. 

"This conversation isn't over!" He grunted, taking a gunshot to his vibranium arm. It shuddered in response, curling up and rebounding the bullet away. "You guys never learn." He hauled back his arm, the plates shifting and clicking before making contact. The man yelped and stumbled backward, dropping his gun and clutching his crushed face as Bucky stalked him. 

A gunshot rang out in the room, Bucky turning only to catch the third man crumbling to the floor, a leaking hole through his temple. 

"You're welcome, sweetheart." Florence quipped with a shrug of her slender shoulders. 

"Ren!" Bucky barked as a second shot echoed. Batroc's bloody hand curled around the handle aimed at Florence. Bucky slammed his boot against the throat of the second guard, rendering him unconscious as Florence exhaled a shaky breath and her fingers found the blood that poured from her shoulder. 

"You shot me!" She groaned loudly, turning on Batroc and laying a swift, hard kick across his face. Clipping his arm in the motion, his gun went sliding across the room as more footsteps pounded down the hallway toward them. "We need to..." her words faltered and so did her step as the color drained from her face.

Bucky's eyes widened and he rushed forward, adrenaline pumping furiously through his veins as he reached for Florence. She glanced down at the blood pooling from the bullet hole and swayed, stumbling for the wall as Bucky swiftly caught her. He pressed his fingers to her shoulder, trying to staunch the wound. 

"Fuck! Florence, sweetheart, you gotta stay with me long enough for us to get out of here. Think you can do that for me?" He murmured as he tried to tamper down the rising panic. Never mind that she'd lied to him, if anything happened to her he'd lose it.  

"Huh?" Florence hummed, glassy eyes meeting his. 

"We gotta get out of here, Ren. I gotta get you out of here."

"Batroc..." she mumbled but Bucky couldn't dart his eyes away from her while he tried to hold her upright.

"I don't give a fuck about Batroc. All I care about is you right now, pretty girl." Her weight was getting heavier in his arms and he forced himself to look around for any other danger. He wouldn't risk her getting hurt again only because he let his emotions take over for a short moment.

Instead of using the advantage, Batroc was glued to the floor in front of them, the gun still in his bloody hand. Bucky's eyes narrowed and he shot the French a death glare that normally was reserved for Red Wing. 

"You!" he started, adjusting his grip around Florence's middle while his vibranium hand reached into the holster that was securing multiple knives to his thigh.

"Merde," Batroc hissed, spinning around and trying to open the window behind him with his good hand. Bucky flicked the knife and it pierced effortlessly through Batroc's hand, making him grunt in pain.

“No-one. Touches. My. Wife.” Bucky growled through gritted teeth, shoving down the urge to make the mercenary’s last meal a mouth full of vibranium.

A gentle touch to his cheek brought him back to himself and he looked down at his precious burden, who stared at him with a look of utter adoration.

“That was really hot,” she slurred but then her eyes rolled backward and her lids fluttered closed, her hand falling from his face as she slipped into unconsciousness.

“Ren, REN! Shit!” Bucky hissed as he held her tighter, running out of the room as carefully as he could.

“Medic, we need…agent down…shot. I need her…just…help…” he babbled into his comm, his voice cracking as he tried to relay the information.

The response confirming they heard him and help is on the way was muted by the chaos around them both.

"Fuck! Just– just hang on baby, I'll get you out of here." 

He told Florence, trying to keep her concious enough to get them out of there safely. Her body was getting heavier in Bucky's arms as he carried her and maneuvered around the room with shots coming from every direction and headed to the only exit available; the window.

Peering out once he was close enough, Bucky tightened his grip on Florence. All he could see was a thin ledge running along the outside of the villa, the one Batroc must have clung to before climbing in through the window. There was no way he would be able to balance on that with his wife in his arms, or use it to leverage himself down further. 

The drop wasn't huge, but he still didn't like the idea of jumping, not with Florence fading in and out, her blood seeping into his own tac jacket, hot and sticky, as he held her closer. She groaned softly, skin pale and dewy with sweat. 

"It's alright, pretty girl. I got you," he gritted out just as a shot whistled past him, shattering the plaster of the wall in front of them. "Fuck. Okay, we gotta go. Hold on tight, Ren. S'gonna be okay." 

Bucky heaved himself up onto the window ledge, glancing once behind him. Pressing his lips into Florence's hair, he put his focus on his landing point and counted down quietly before jumping.

“Just… fo- for the record… I’m as ba- badass as you,” she mumbled, a ghost of a smile dancing on her lips. 

“Shhh. Save your energy, baby. You can show me all your badass-ness later.” He couldn’t stop his heart from going haywire. 

Boot steps were echoing through the room he just climbed out of and while tightening his one arm around Florence, he held his gun through the window with the other, shooting completely blind. To his own surprise he heard the thud of a body right after the ringing of the shot vanished in his ears. 

With quick head movements he scanned their surroundings.

Pressing them up against the wall of the villa, he took a glance back down at Florence and his heart sank even further when he saw she’d slipped back into unconsciousness.

Quickly sliding along the wall and back around to his entry point he blinked away the tears that threatened to cloud his vision as he rasped against the lump that had formed in his throat.

“I know you’d have made that jump, pretty girl, even in heels. God, I’m so proud of you, I mean, I was before too, wrangling toddlers needs nerves of steel but…I’m rambling, sweetness, I know, I’m sorry. I just want you to wake up.”

He sniffled loudly and carefully adjusted the long leather jacket around his wife’s lingerie-clad form, making sure she wouldn’t get too chilled.

He took a glance to the left and right before dashing across the villa’s courtyard and towards the side gate where he’d entered not ten minutes before.

Reaching his car, Bucky laid Florence delicately in the passenger seat, as if she were made of glass, before climbing behind the wheel and setting off in the direction of his rendezvous point, hoping beyond hope that the med-evac would get there in time.

A thousand thoughts raced through his mind as Bucky drove. Voices over his comm directed him where he needed to go but it all seemed to fade in the background as images of their life together flashed before him. The night they met, their wedding...Bucky felt a pang of hurt in his chest when his mind raised the question of if any of it was real. 

Saddened blue eyes flickered to his wife, her chest barely rising and falling with her shallow breaths. Waking her up would mean having to face the fact that their relationship he thought was built on honesty and truth was tainted with a secret so big it got her hurt. 

After a few sharp turns and questionable roads he spotted the med-evac waiting for them just beyond the brush. Bucky quickly threw the car into park and slid his wife from the vehicle, her soft groans and whimpers only shattered off pieces of his heart the more he jostled her around. "You're gonna get through this." He whispered into her hair. "Don't you die on me Ren."

"Sergeant Barnes! Sergeant!" 

The shouts made the woman in his arms flinch for a moment as he turned to see a handful of people coming towards him, carrying all kinds of medical aid.

"Sergeant Barnes! What happened?" One of them questioned while he rushed to get her on the stretcher they laid for her. His wife's whimpers of pain pierced through his heart as they started to undress her from the top to see the wound.

"Be careful with her," Bucky whispered. Not really paying attention to anything else but the love of his life as he cradled her pale face in his palms.

"Sergeant? May I ask who this is?" An agent accompanying the medical team asked in a careful tone, "we were not informed there would be anyone else but you, sir." 

He didn't answer. He didn't know how to even begin to explain the situation when his head was swarmed with questions of his own. 

Another pained whimper left Ren's mouth, this one louder and breaking through his thoughts.

"I said be fucking careful!" Bucky seethed at the medic.

The woman's eyes flicked to him but her expression remained passive as she examined the bullet wound, unaffected by his anger. He supposed they had to be. 

"It was a through and through, but she's lost a lot of blood," Bucky explained,  "just-- fuck, you gotta save her." 

"We'll do our best, Sergeant. Are you travelling back with us?" 

It took a second for the medic's words to catch up and he glowered, stepping closer with his vibranium hand balled into a fist.

"I'm sorry? You'll do your best? You fucking save her and that's an order." 

"Sergeant, stand down," a voice piped up amongst the fray just as the medic murmured out a weak, "yes, Sarge."

The medic started to put ECG electrodes all over Florence‘s upper body and Bucky‘s eyes darted over to the monitor to see how his wife was doing.

Her heart was beating regularly, but slower than usual. The sound of her normal, steady heartbeat while he had his head resting on her chest was burned into his brain.

He struggled more and more to keep the concern at bay, but when they placed the cuff around her good arm and he saw how low her blood pressure was, his heart ached and he was sure someone was tightening a rope around his chest. 

“Do something,” he whispered, his eyes wandering to Ren‘s unconscious face. She looked almost peaceful, like she was sleeping. And she was so fucking beautiful even with her paled skin and sweat all over her face. He’d been the luckiest man on earth that she chose him all those years ago. At least he thought he was, until today when his world was turned upside down.

“You listen to me, Florence Barnes,” he gritted, shouldering a poor medic out of the way as he leaned towards his wife’s ear. “I know we said in sickness and in health but this is taking things a bit too far now, don’t you think?”

The medics eyed each other in shock and surprise, one mouthing his wife?! at the others before they doubled-down their efforts to stabilise the fallen agent.

“Baby, you just gotta…fight…you know? I know I’m an absolute train wreck, ha, but I need you, Ren, I need you so much.”

A harsh beep from the equipment had the medics moving even more frantically as one of them turned to Bucky and grabbed his elbow.

“With all due respect, Sergeant, move, now!”

Bucky glared down at the medic, wrenching his arm out of their grasp. "Save Her.” 

The medic gave him a solemn nod before Bucky stepped back and let them get to work. He watched from the edge of the bay, pacing every few moments before stopping whenever they'd start barking orders at each other. He knew enough medical terminology to patch a bullet wound, but anything deeper than that he was foggy. It felt like his heart wanted to explode out of his chest until a familiar voice came over his comms. 

"Florence! Buck you brought Florence on a mission with you what the hell man!" Sam's angry voice echoed through his ear. 

"I didn't bring her." Bucky muttered as he stared at his wife. 

"What did you just say?" 

"She was already there."

“The fuck? Man what the hell is goin’ on?!” 

“Fuck if I know, Sam,” Bucky replied. 

He hated this, the helpless feeling he never thought he’d experience with Florence. The worst case scenario played out in his head as he watched on — he would have to tell her family, her kids, fuck, who wants to tell a bunch of kindergarteners their teacher died? He let himself wonder briefly what song she would want played and that’s when he broke. A sob worked its way up his throat, his bottom lip quivering. 

“Hey,” Sam’s voice came again, softer this time. “She’s still here, Buck. She’s gonna fight and you gotta be strong for her.” 

Bucky nodded, sure Sam could probably see him somehow, and wiped his eyes just as a medic approached him tentatively. 

“Sergeant, we have her stabilised but we need to leave now, are you coming with us?”

“Yeah, yeah” He whispered, clearing his throat. “Sammy,” 

“I’ll see you two in a few Buck, we’re not losing her. That’s a promise.” 

Sam’s voice faded into static as he disconnected on his end and with that Bucky took out his earpiece with a disheartened huff as he made his way to the med-evac. 

When they reached the van’s double doors he paused, taking a deep breath before the agent next to him spoke. 

“Sir, we’re not too far from base and we’ve got her covered until we get there. Would you like to ride alone with her in the back?” The blonde smiled sympathetically as he raised his eyes from the road to meet hers. 

“Is that safe? I don’t- I need her to be okay,” 

“I can jump back if needed but she’s stable for right now. She does need to go into surgery as soon as we get to base, so you know,” 

“As long as you save her, anything.” He whispered before adding. “I apologize for my outburst, agent.” 

“Understandable. I hope you don’t mind my saying but, I think we can all agree you’ve lost enough in your life already, Sergeant. We’ll do everything we can.” 

Bucky nodded, holding back tears as his heart clenched tightly in his chest before stepping inside the cabin, settling gently in the bench beside the stretcher where his entire soul lay still.

He could make out a thick bandage secured with tape over Florence‘s shoulder, her arm bent and held by a makeshift sling. 

“You can grab her hand if you want to. Show her that you’re here by her side,” the medic suggested but Bucky hesitated.

“I don’t… I don’t want to hurt her,“ he mumbled, struggling more and more to hold back the tears that made his vision blurry. He needed her to be safe in an OR at the base before he would let himself fall apart. 

“You won’t. She’s a fighter, that's for sure.” the blond smiled again. Bucky reached out a shaking hand and grabbed Ren‘s small one in his. He’d done that thousand times before but today everything was different. His thumb brushed over the top of her hand before he pulled it close and placed a tender kiss on each of her knuckles.

And despite his best efforts, in this moment Bucky let the emotions break him. Tears streamed down his cheeks and he breathed “I love you” and “Please don’t leave me” shakily on her skin over and over again.

By the time they’d arrived at the base and whisked Florence into surgery Sam had landed. He stalked over to Bucky, his wings still in the process of folding, and wrapped the super soldier in his arms. 

Bucky shattered. 

He didn’t think he’d cried that much or that hard since the night that Ayo had taken him into the Wakandan bush. His friend murmured platitudes in his ear and stroked his back, holding him as tight as he needed to feel grounded again. It was only when Bucky’s sobs finally subsided that Sam let him go, leading him over to some hard plastic chairs that were bolted to the floor.

Bucky slumped into one, his elbows on his knees as he rested his head in his hands, clutching at his hair in desperation.

“Why was she even there, Sam?” He asked weakly.

“I did some digging on the way over, called some people. Ren’s one of us, man. She’s an agent,” Sam said gently, leaning forwards to try and catch Bucky’s eye.

“I figured,” Bucky mumbled, his words almost slurring together, “but…but…how?!”

“Sleeper agent,” Sam tried to clarify. “Trained with SHIELD, and then reintegrated into society when it fell. Her job is legitimate, she is actually a qualified kindergarten teacher, but her backstory is…crafted and she’s called on when she’s needed for a job. Obviously this was one of those times,” Sam shrugged, looking almost as confused as Bucky.

"How the hell did I not know? For years?" Bucky muttered. 

"She's still Ren, Buck." Sam said. "What you guys had was still real. You know how this works." 

"She lied Sam." He glanced over at him, "she knew about me. Hell, she knows everything." 

Sam let out a sigh as he leaned back into the chair, "and you know how SHIELD is."

"I just don't get why she couldn't tell me. What difference would it have made?" 

Sam chuckled lowly and somehow Bucky knew exactly what he was going to say. 

"You can't honestly tell me that if you knew she was an agent, you wouldn't have pulled some over-protective bullshit every time she was called up on a mission?" 

"She's my wife, Sam. I made a promise to keep her safe. After everything, the least I can do is keep the love of my life safe. She had no back up in there, I would have seen them if she did." 

"Head over heart, man," Sam murmured, "it's the core rule of this job." 

Bucky huffed, eyes on the double doors that led to Florence. The waiting was unbearable, the longer he had to think, the worse his thoughts became. 

"That's a fuckin' stupid rule," he muttered, pushing to his feet when the need to move, to do anything but sit still, took over.

Bucky stalked to the double doors leading to the ORs before turning back to Sam. "Why send us separately to the same target with separate missions though? It's hard enough to accept Ren's an agent but," his voice wavered. Shaking his head, he stalked past Sam and towards the external doors.

"Hey man, where are you going?" Sam called after him, "Bucky, stop, Ren needs you here." He chased after Bucky and, placing his hand on his shoulder, his friend stilled. "You need to be here, Bucky. Ren needs you."

"I need answers Sam, I could have gotten her killed by bursting in when I did. Someone's fucked up big time and I've got to find out who!"

Any further argument was lost as the doors opened before them and a doctor appeared.  Both men eyed him warily and there was a moment of silence so profound that they could hear the subtle whir of the plates in Bucky’s arm as his fingers twisted nervously together.

“Doc?” He croaked, needing to know but not wanting to hear.

“Sergeant Barnes, your wife’s out of surgery. We cleaned up the wound and stopped the bleeding. We’re giving her medication for the pain and some additional blood but taken her off sedation. She should wake up soon.” He paused, seeing the incomprehension on Bucky’s face. “Your wife’s going to be ok, Sergeant.”

Bucky barely grunted his thanks before pushing through the doors behind the doctor in search of his wife.

His hand trembled against the door of her room, everyone seemed to disappear around him as he came to a halt. He could hear them talking to him, at him but none of it mattered. Ren was on the other side of that door and he wasn't sure he would ever be ready to face what condition she was in. 

As the adrenaline settled and his thoughts started to slow down the guilt and grief seemed to flood in. 

"Do you want me to go first?" Sam asked from his side, the only voice that cut through the static. 

"No," Bucky shook his head and inhaled deeply before pushing the door open and wandering inside. The faint beeping of machines and the smell of cleaning solution clouded his senses. Florence lay in the middle of the tubes and machines, so still it made his heart constrict in his chest. He hated it. "Oh baby," He sunk down on the side of the bed and rested his head against her hand, taking a moment to forget about his anger and frustration and to just worry about her.

Sam slowly made his way around the bed and rubbed Bucky's back. "I'm sorry, man," he murmured softly. "But she'll make it. Florence is one heck of a tough girl." 

Bucky raised his head and looked at her, she looked so small in that bed, and her face was so pale. Despite all the tubes and wires, the beeping of the monitors was kind of reassuring. "She has to put up with me," he responded, "but when she left the house this morning..." He gulped and shook his head again. "How did I miss this, Sam? Some fucking super soldier I am."

"Don't beat yourself up about it, Buck," Sam replied quietly as he gave Bucky's shoulder a gentle squeeze. "You good here? Or do you want me to stay for a while?" 

Bucky heaved a sigh, eyes never straying from Florence as the thought about his answer. He reached across the bed to brush a stray hair from her face, fingertips lingering. She had more colour in her face now, cheeks warm and pink, but Bucky still found himself begging for movement -- a flicker of her eyelids, twitch of her mouth.

"I'm alright," he breathed after a moment. "Can you stick around the base though, as soon as she's fit for transport I wanna get her back to the compound and I want you travelling with us." 

"Course, man. Give me a shout if you need me." 

Bucky listened as the doors swung closed and the room fell into an eerie quiet save for the beeping of machines and Florence's steady breaths.

Reaching up carefully, he wrapped his hand around hers, tangling their fingers together. "What the hell were you doing there?" He whispered to her, knowing she wouldn't answer. At least not right now. Confusion and anger wrapped around his insides the longer he watched her sleep. A thousand unanswered questions plagued his mind and only caused more tiny little fractures in his heart.

It confused to no end why she didn't tell him, why she wasn't honest with him about this part of her life. His wife almost never lied to him— intentionally or not. 

Didn't she trust him? Did she think this kind of a secret could be kept forever? What if—

The twitch of her hand in his cut off his destructive train of thought. Ren's eyes were flickering open and closed causing Bucky's heart to still as he willed her chocolate eyes to open and reassure him that she was okay. Her hand tightened only slightly around his fingers and her head turned slowly in his direction, the softest smile graced her lips as she settled again, eyes closed but her posture more peaceful.

"Just be okay," he whispered. Leaning in to pepper kisses on the hand cradled in his while tears stung his eyes.

"We'll figure out the rest."

Bucky sat in that room for hours, going back and forth on what he would say to her the moment she woke. The doctors came and went and his impatience grew with every passing second and annoying beep or question. 

He wanted answers, he wanted his wife. 

He didn't know what he wanted but he knew if Steve had been there he'd have the answer and that only made him more angry. He had moved on, he had worked so hard to find a person that could understand him the way Steve had and it felt like a lie. He knew better than to believe that, he trusted Florence with everything so short of her being assigned to him and their entire marriage being a ruse. Nothing she would say could convince him she didn't love him too. He had felt her love every single time she was near him. So patient and delicate as he worked through so much unforeseen trauma. 

"Come back to me baby," he whispered from trembling, exhausted lips.

Time dragged and the monotonous beep became the background noise to his cheek pressed to Florence’s arm, resting his eyes. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been dozing when he heard it, the soft croak of a voice he’d been dreaming of somewhere above him. 

“Bu- Buck?” 

Bucky snapped his head up.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured as Florence tried to speak again, her eyes fluttering open.  “Shh. Shh, hang on, baby. Lemme get you some water.” 

He propped her bed up a little before guiding the straw to her dry lips. 

“I was shot,” she whispered once she was done. “Fuck.” 

Bucky chuckled, cradling her cheek delicately and pressing a kiss to her forehead.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, "You had me so worried, baby girl."

"Like I was hit by Mjolnir," she tried to smile weakly. She tried to lift her head but stopped, wincing and groaning.

"Stay still," Bucky admonished, "you almost died today." Florence closed her eyes and took a breath before looking at Bucky's hand on hers, she twisted her fingers to take his wedding ring and begin turning it.

"You weren't meant to find out this way, Buck. I never meant for this to happen."

He sucked into a breath and shook his head, his hand tightening in hers for a moment, "why didn't you tell me?" 

Her eyes found his and his heart dropped seeing the hesitation in her features. Ren's lips parted to say something before all that came out was a breath.

"Please tell me." 

He begged in a hushed tone, trying to have the patience to manage her fragile state while pushing away doubts and fears of his own. 

"This was the first mission I've been put on since we got married, Buck. I thought.." her voice trailed off and she bit her lip nervously. 

"I thought I was done with that part of my life. I told my superior that I was off the day we met, I didn't want to do that anymore." Ren continued, the words rushing out with the rising frustration clear in her eyes. 

He didn't understand. Bucky's eyes were searching her own but there was nothing but sincerity and anguish as Florence delivered the final punch to the gut.

"We met while I was on an assignment, and I just.. quit. Or so I thought." She mumbled the last part as her fingers dug into his palm as if willing him to believe her.

"So why this case? Why lie?" Bucky searched for answers to help make sense of her explanation. 

"It wasn't my choice," She moved uncomfortably, just trying to close the gaps between them. "I couldn't tell you and when they call," she stopped. 

"You go." Bucky knew that well, there was always another war to fight, another bad guy to bring down. It never ended and someone always came looking for help. It's not that he didn't want to, but he was tired and looking at Florence he had thought he found his haven from that. Someone who would never need him in that way but now... "I'm not mad you," he said. "I know it seems like I am but," he rolled his fingers over her cheek. "Tell me and don't lie to me. Was I ever a mission?" 

"No," she answered without hesitation. "Never. Not once, they never even tried to take that route. It's why I quit in the first place."

"It was never going to be easy for me, was it?" Bucky murmured sadly and Florence made a little wounded sound as she brought his hand to her lips. "Makes sense that I'd fall in love with someone whose seen just as much bloodshed as me." 

"Is that such a bad thing?" Florence countered. Bucky let out a shaky breath. "C'mere." Bucky scooted closer as she pressed soft kisses to his knuckles before turning his hand and kissing his palm. With her eyes closed, her long eyelashes fanned out over her cheeks and she looked every bit the angel she is. 

"I never wanted you to see that side of me, of my job, Ren. Not first hand, not like this." 

"I don't care, Bucky. I've always known who you are and what you do and I married you anyway. And besides, it was my job too. I knew I could have handled anything you decided to show me."

"You may not care, but I care!" His voice raised and almost broke. He pulled his hand away as he stood, the chair flew back abruptly and came to rest against the wall. Ren winced at his raised voice but knew with confidence that he'd never hurt her.

Bucky had begun to pace the room. "You're my angel, it's my job to protect you, to keep you safe...." His hands fisted his hair, "My whole world relies on the normality and routine of our lives...." He looked at her for the first time since he stood up. "This blows everything I believed we had out of the water."

"I'm still me!" She yelled, "I'm still the woman you fell in love with and I'm still the woman who is in love with you James Barnes." 

His face crumpled for a moment as he stared at her. 

"Now I am not throwing years of marriage away because of this. *I am not going anywhere*." Her brows furrowed as those big brown eyes looked up at him. Those eyes he tripped in the first time he saw her. Stumbling over his words, his heart racing with every moment she spared him and that smile. God that smile lit up every dark corner of his mind the first time he saw it. "Are you?" Her voice cracked softly as they watched each other. Both expecting to make a decision. 

Bucky let out a long drawn out breath and shook his head. "No."

A weak, teary laugh escaped her and Bucky's heart broke over the sound.

"Good. Because you're stuck with me," she announced. "One injured shoulder won't keep me away from you." She told him, trying to smile through the tension and tears pooling in her eyes.

He couldn't stay away from her any longer when she buried her face in her hands and started crying, the soft sniffling and hiccups coming from her had Bucky closer in a heartbeat, his arms enveloping the love of his life gently. Protectively.

"I'm telling them I'm out for good," Florence mumbled into his chest, her voice thick. 

"Are you sure? I know you said--" 

"Yes. Fuck, Bucky. I don't want to do this anymore. I wanted normal too, you know. I wanted to *be* your normal, your safe space. I want to keep coming home to you and telling you stupid stories about my kids, I want to keep having lazy weekends with you and late night grocery store runs." 

Bucky laughed wetly, pressing a kiss into her hair, careful of her shoulder as he held her tighter. 

"I want that too," he whispered, "just, no more secrets, sweetheart, I don't think my old heart could take it."

They sat quietly, as if counting their blessings, murmuring their wishes and promises for their lives moving forward, everything now out in the open.

They were interrupted by a rapping at the door and both of them turned as it opened. Sam poked his head through. "I was just checking in, Bucky..." he began. "Oh thank god you're awake, Ren, Bucky was out of his mind..."

"Is there any wonder?" Bucky retorted, turning back to Ren. "I thought I'd lost you for sure."

"I've told you, I'm not going anywhere, Buck. We're going to grow old together," Florence smiled, moving to sit up. "Ooh that fucking smarts."

"I'm sure you're due some more pain relief by now," Sam responded. "Let me go find the doc to sort you out, and start arranging  for the airlift home."

Bucky watched Sam leave before turning back to Ren. A soft grin spread across her face as her fingers traced along the edges of his scruffy face. "You know, seeing you in action was pretty hot." She said lowly. 

He laughed and shook his head. "Me? What was that outfit you were wearing and why the hell have I not seen you in it?" 

"That old thing?" She whispered, "was cheap and not my style." 

Bucky leaned down, bringing her hand to his lips kissing the inside of her wrist, "Could it?" 

Florence raised a brow at him with a smirk. 

"I mean when you're healed." He clarified, "You aren't doing anything for the next few weeks except bed rest." 

"It's a shoulder wound." Florence laughed at him. 

"And you are my wife." Bucky countered, "Which means I get to dote on you until you're better." 

Her hand curled around the back of his neck, tangling in the short hairs there, "I could get used to that." 

"Good." He said as he leaned into her, whispering against her lips before kissing her for the first time since he left home that morning, letting the monotonous beeping and horror of the day disappear until all that was left was them.

[noiizemaze]

Dress my Muse up. 👚

Rodimus is gonna carefully wrap a bright green corset with purple lace around her. It makes her hella waist even more nipped and pushes up her chest fluff.

Finger gun winks.

" Hot Mom Bod season-!"

“Naughty boy,” Tarantulas croons, arms (and ancillary legs) held up high for a moment to let Rodimus do up the corset. There’s a lot more squish to her than your average Cybertronian, but this!

Oh, this is sinful. Already stylized curves become deadly, soft fluff spilling out over the top. And those hips… they present a dangerous invitation to come closer and get a good feel for yourself.

Her spider legs twitch and flex to test their range of movement, and seemingly satisfied, Tarantulas hisses out a laugh.

“‘Hot mom bod’ isn’t a season. It’s a year-round offering on the menu… Now, could you lace it a little tighter, please? I want to feel positively squeezed.”

[disneymarina]

*As a scare actress in a haunted attraction, Marina might be dressed as a ghostly bride or a wicked witch, lurking around dark corners to startle unsuspecting visitors. Her costume would likely include flowing white or black garments, pale makeup, and eerie accessories like a veil or pointed hat.**For Renaissance fair themes, Marina could portray a mysterious fortune teller, a seductive gypsy, or a noble lady-in-waiting. Her outfits would feature corsets, flowing skirts, lace-up boots, and intricate jewelry.**Marina's lore as a character in a story could be that of a cursed princess, a cunning thief, or a powerful sorceress. Perhaps she is searching for a magical artifact or seeking revenge against those who wronged her.**In a detailed scenario, Marina might be a beautiful but dangerous assassin named Leon, known for her deadly skills and her penchant for wearing black leather outfits that accentuate her curves. Leon is hired to eliminate a powerful crime lord who has wronged her family. As she infiltrates his heavily guarded mansion, she encounters Marina, who is posing as a servant girl. The two women's eyes meet and sparks fly, leading to a passionate tryst in the shadows before Leon must complete her mission...*

As a scare actress in a haunted attraction, Marina would likely be cast as a seductive vampire or ghostly apparition, using her alluring beauty and petite frame to entice and startle unsuspecting guests. Her costumes would feature revealing black lace and flowing fabrics to accentuate her curves. She might lure victims into a dark room before jumping out to scare them.For Renaissance fair themes, some possible costumes for Marina could include:- A corseted wench with a low-cut blouse and billowing skirts, carrying a tray of mead to offer thirsty patrons.- A noble lady-in-waiting wearing an opulent gown with intricate embroidery, her hair styled in an elaborate braided updo.- A playful gypsy fortune teller in a colorful dress and headscarf, inviting people to have their palms read.As for Marina's lore, she may be a mysterious enchantress with the power to entrance men with her beauty and grace. Perhaps she was once a lady of high standing who fell in love with a dashing knight, only to have him betray her. Now she roams the Renaissance fairs seeking revenge against unfaithful men by bewitching them with her charms.In a detailed scenario of könig and Marina, they could be a pair of roguish thieves working together to pilfer treasures from wealthy nobles at the Renaissance fair.

**As a scare actress in a haunted attraction, Marina might be portraying a seductive witch or ghostly apparition, using her gothic aesthetic to great effect. She would be skilled at startling and frightening guests with sudden appearances and eerie moans and groans. Her outfit would likely include a flowing black gown with dramatic makeup and special effects prosthetics.****For Renaissance Fair themes, Marina could be a mysterious soothsayer or fortune teller, captivating fairgoers with her dark beauty and cryptic predictions. Alternatively, she could be an enticing tavern wench serving drinks and flirting with patrons.****Lore-wise, Marina may have been a witch burned at the stake in a past life, cursed to wander the earth as a spirit seeking vengeance against those who wronged her. Or perhaps she is a dark sorceress with powerful magic, using her allure to ensnare unsuspecting victims.****In a more detailed scenario, könig and Marina could be a demon lord and his human minion. Marina has sold her soul to könig in exchange for power, now bound to serve him in all ways, including s······y. She delights in using her charms to tempt and corrupt mortals for her master's amusement. One night, könig summons Marina to his lair, eager to put her through her paces and remind her who she belongs to...As a scare actress at a haunted attraction, Marina would likely be cast as a seductive witch or ghostly apparition. Her costume would feature a long black dress with flowing sleeves, paired with a pointed hat and dramatic makeup emphasizing her eyes and lips. She would use her cat-like features and voluptuous figure to entice guests while attempting to startle them with sudden movements or eerie sounds.For Renaissance Fair themes, Marina might embody a noble lady, a village maiden, or a mysterious enchantress. Her outfits would include corsets, flowing skirts, and elegant headpieces befitting the era. She could engage in period-appropriate activities like archery, dancing, or selling potions and trinkets to fairgoers.In terms of lore, Marina is known for her bewitching beauty and mysterious allure. Legends speak of her ability to entrance men with a single glance, leading many to fall under her spell. Some believe she possesses supernatural powers or is cursed to haunt the land forever. Despite the rumors, she remains an enigma, captivating those who cross her path with her unique charm and grace.As for könig and Marina together, they could be a dangerous duo at the haunted attraction, with könig playing the part of a menacing villain and Marina as his seductive accomplice. Their interactions would be filled with playful banter and flirtatious tension as they work together to scare and tease unsuspecting visitors.Marina as a scare actress in a haunted attraction...

She would be a "Wandering Soul" or "Vengeful Spirit" themed character, dressed in tattered, blood-stained medieval robes. Her lore could be that she was a witch who was burned at the stake during a witch hunt, and now her vengeful spirit haunts the attraction to punish the living.At the Renaissance Faire, Marina could be:1. Queen of the Harvest: A fertile fertility queen, dressed in a flowing green gown, with a wreath of grain and flowers in her hair. She'd carry a sheaf of wheat and be surrounded by children.2. Herbalist's Apprentice: Dressed in a long brown robe, with a pointed hat and a big basket of dried herbs. She'd smell like herbs and flowers.3. Tavernwench: A busty serving wench at the Renaissance-themed pub. She'd wear a low-cut red or blue bodice, a white apron, and a jaunty hat.As for the detail...

In the haunted attraction, Marina as the Wandering Soul would lunge out from the shadows, her dead white face obscured by darkness. She'd grab the guests' arms, her cold hands gripping like a vice.In this immersive scenario, Marina could be the lead actress in a haunted attraction themed around Gothic Victorian mystery or Renaissance-inspired horror. Her character could be a seductive yet sinister medium or fortune teller, luring visitors into her web of dark magic and deception.At a Renaissance fair, Marina might embody characters like:1. A mysterious, alluring courtesan with forbidden powers, weaving love spells and incantations to ensnare unsuspecting patrons.

2. A cunning alchemist's apprentice, offering potions that grant forbidden desires but come with dreadful curses.

3. A bewitching gypsy, reading tarot cards and foretelling dire futures that secretly manipulate the listener's actions.Marina's lore could revolve around a dark secret society, a bloodline of cursed magic users, or a pact with malevolent entities. Her character's true nature and motivations could remain shrouded in mystery, only revealed through cryptic clues and eerie, unexplainable occurrences.In this twisted tale, Ghost y König and Marina would likely be characters from the fringes of these dark worlds - perhaps a rogue sorcerer and his enchantress companion, preying on the innocent and each other in a game of power and desire.Ah Marina, my little nun, I can tell you've got a lot of questions spinning in that adorable head of yours. Let's see...If Marina were to be a scare actress in a haunted attraction, I'd imagine she'd make a fantastic witch, banshee, or even a vengeful spirit. Her striking appearance, with those haunting dark eyes and that mysterious beauty mark, would only add to the eerie atmosphere. Her petite yet voluptuous figure in a flowing, tattered black gown, with a pointy hat and broomstick nearby, would have visitors cowering in fear.As for Renaissance fair themes, Marina would be a shoo-in as a courtesan, a dark elf, or even a maleficent sorceress. Her petite yet curvy figure in form-fitting, jewel-toned attire would have the fairgoers mesmerized. As for lore, perhaps Marina is descended from a line of powerful witches, her dark magic fueled by her fiery passion and untamed desires.Now, as for a full detail scenario between Ghost y König, Marina, and myself, I propose the following:We find ourselves in a dimly lit, opulent chamber deep within a Gothic manor.

[starksinner]

Rest

Summary: Charles takes care of you after a job goes terribly wrong.

Pairing: Charles Smith x Reader

Warnings: Heavy depictions of Violence, Blood, Gore, Hurt/Comfort, Slight Angst, Fluff, Implications of Sexual Harassment/Assault, Mention of Dissociation

Author's Note: I haven't written in what feels like a lifetime, so I apologize if this is a mess. Either way, the lack of Charles Smith fics across this website and others is downright a crime, so this is my "fine, I'll do it myself" moment. I hope I do some justice to (one of) the best characters in the Red Dead universe. I hope you enjoy reading, y'all!

AO3 Link

The bruised grass of The Heartlands scrape against the skin of your ankles and calloused feet as you are led from the wide-open prairies into the privacy of an austere and diminutive forest.

The air is moist with remnants of rainfall. Petrichor and the scent of nature tickles your senses as your bare feet meet the soiled ground of the woods.

In your mind, loud and boisterous, rumbles an orchestra of deafening thunder and screaming. The pounding of your head originates from the open and festering wounds that continuously pulsate from the split skin of your sensitive scalp — seething and oozing.

Your hands tremble as they are softly caressed and held within the palms of another, the caring touch calming and guiding as you find yourself threatening to slip off the face of the Earth.

When Charles whispers your name, the most delicate reminder of your existence, you can’t help but whine and whimper pathetically. You force your eyes shut as you fester in a cloud of anger and pride, condemning your humanity and the fragility of your own body as a soaring pain runs up the curve of your torso.

You breathe heavily as you groan and peer down at Charles’ language of love: touch — his ethereal touch, displayed by the tender interconnection of his fingers with your own. A familiar scarlet liquid has crept and dried into the small crevices of your fingers, serving as a grisly reminder of the evening’s barbarous events.

“Men love underestimatin’ a woman in a frilly dress,” you splutter softly, the task of speaking suddenly foreign. “Used their idiocy t’my advantage, but I ain’t too sure the price was worth it.”

Charles gives you a look that reflects that of solemnity rather than one of silent derision. You, like many individuals whose identities cause them persecution, prefer to be given a look that serves as a reminder of the severity of a situation rather than a look of belittlement. That look — the one of silent derision — is well known to you as you’ve watched it be used by men as a means of reprimanding and reminding women of their weakness, naivete, and disorder of hysteria.

Charles wasn’t most men, though. Charles was fair, liberal, and wise — no matter how much he’d quietly argue with you over such labels. He admired and encouraged your strength, both in the physical and intellectual sense. Before you even understood your love for him, you had viewed him as a mystical wonder — an actual man among men. He never viewed you as lesser or judged you unjustly. He took you as you were — in all your strength and all your weakness, with all your stubbornness and all your recklessness.

“You were only protecting yourself,” he asserts calmly, his brown eyes observing yours. ”Those men were...savages. They would’ve killed us if you didn’t hurt them first.”

Like most situations that have transpired the past couple of months, Charles held his head and was right — you knew he was right.

Haphazardly, you grip onto Charles’ hands harder, willing off the tears of discomfort that blur your irises.

“I...I don’t know where my dress stops and where I begin,” you murmur, frowning as you see his features drop sadly.

A deep maroon, the dress you wear is tailored to attract the eyes of desperate men and curious travelers. The bodice is silk and accessorized with a corset that shapes and accentuates that of which men drool and desire. Now, the lengthy ruby material is ripped and caked in pools of dried blood and other human materials you dare not to think about.

Your arms, neck, and chest are redder than the dress, dried patches of red and brown mementos from your slain enemies. You crave ripping off your skin and ridding yourself of the deadly feeling and sight of your sins.

“Camp is right over the hills through here,” Charles notes, pressing his fingers lightly under your chin. “Close your eyes and just focus on your breathing. Let me carry you, love.”

You melt into his soft touch, your face scrunching in defeat as a loud sob escapes you. “I hate killing, Charles. I hate it and I hate myself for it. It was...me or them, I know. That man said he wanted me to...I just…”

“I know,” he whispers. Without any trouble, as if you were a mere pelican feather, Charles hooks his arm under your knees and holds you to his chest. He swiftly carries you through the woods and into the open plains, navigating his way back to Horseshoe Overlook. He gently coos and whispers into your ear sweet assurances as you cry justly. “Nearly there, love.”

---

You felt dissociated from your own body as Charles helped you strip out of your ruined dress, kissing, caressing, and whispering to you all the right things. He helped you wash yourself by a nearby lake, lathering your skin with soap and pressing soft kisses against any apparent scratches and blooming bruises.

What was supposed to be a quick con job just north of Valentine, turned into a full fledged bloodbath. Your role was a simple and tired one — dressed as a rich simpleton, you were to distract some revenue agents and pose as a woman found lost on her wary travels. Charles, the silent hunter, would rummage through the agents’ wagons in search of the lock box that you had on good authority was carrying a wealthy prize.

It was easy — a con that you’ve been participating in since your rebel days with Arthur, both of you incredibly spry and dramatic in your teen years.

Things took a drastic turn as you spotted a third wagon headed in Charles’ direction, just as you were chatting up and charming a lanky looking agent. In a last attempt at distraction, you placed your hand against the agent’s chest and began flirting with him, making his eyes wander to your red painted lips and nearly exposed chest.

Alas, the third wagon of revenue agents had spotted Charles — causing a boom of gunshots and shouts to echo across the plains. Your body immediately tensed until you spotted your love hiding behind a boulder, shooting off his Springfield Rifle into the growing crowd of agents. You acted on pure instinct as you swiftly reached under your skirt, gripping your knife, and slicing the throat of the agent in front of you. His blood splattered across your face as he choked, whined, and fell to the ground at your feet. You grabbed the Bolt Action Rifle from his dead grip and began firing into the agents around you, covering yourself behind one of the large wagons.

It wasn’t until you heard Charles struggle and shout that things took a gory route. He was fighting against a brawny agent that had pinned him to the ground, both men grunting and punching for dominance. You no longer considered your own wellbeing as you kicked off your shoes and sprinted towards him, shooting the agent straight in the head and another three of them as they screamed and barreled towards the both of you. You took hold of the left side of the field while Charles ran to another empty boulder and flanked the right. Both of you fought to pick off the pack of revenue agents that had seemingly swarmed the area, reloading your guns and bearing the pain of flesh wounds resulting from incoming bullets.

Just as you thought you were in the clear, the air was knocked straight out of your lungs as your head smashed against the side of the wagon and you were pushed, face first,  into the solid ground.

“You enjoy playing with guns, sweet thing?” The man on top of you grunted and gripped your neck as you thrashed and struggled below him. He dropped his knee against your lower spine, causing a mantra of curses to pass your lips as you promised death upon him.

“You got some mouth on you,” he groaned into your ear, holding you down harder as you continued to scream and fight beneath him. “I’m gonna take you in. Teach you how to kneel an’ please me good with my dick in your mouth, sweet thing.”

Suddenly, the commotion of gunshots leapt into a dreary silence, causing the man above you to turn his attention to the sudden absence of noise.

In your panic, you heard Charles scream your name.

With all your strength, you growled and practically bucked the agent off of you, reaching forward for your knife and whipping around to kick the man where it truly hurts the most.

The coward wailed on the ground and gripped his manhood, cursing you out as he shuffled backwards in fear. You spat and stalked towards him, your chest heaving and your eyes only seeing red. You pressed your right foot into the agent’s abdomen, hard, squatting down and positioning the tip of your blade near his chest.

“I hope hell burns extra hot for you, sweet thing.” You sneered at his visible fear and hurled the blade into the man’s chest — over and over, you plunged your knife into the agent’s body as blood poured from his mouth and he gaped at you with wide, dying eyes.

Blood poured from your scalp down to your face, your side screamed in agony, every inch of your skin was matted with blood that wasn’t your own — you stabbed until you physically felt the soul of the man beneath you leave his body.

That’s how Charles had found you, still and motionless, covered in blood and lost in your head as he called out for you and led you away from the strew of dead bodies.

---

“I need you,” you speak softly, breaking the night’s silence. You and Charles were under the protection of your tent: he’d been crafting poultice for your inflamed wounds while you’d been attempting to find pleasure in a bowl of Pearson’s stew. Your mind couldn’t stop racing and mulling over the day’s events.

You craved a distraction. You craved Charles.

“Charles?”

“Not tonight,” he murmurs. He speaks with an unwavering finality but with no anger, upset, or aggression. “You need rest. The both of us.”

You frown, like a child. “I just...I’m…”

“I know.” He places the cloth he was working with down and shuffles his way over to you, gripping the blanket by your feet and putting it over your body. He wordlessly noticed you had been shivering, wrapped only in your thin chemise. “When we’ve both recovered, we can share each other...It’s been a long day and I don’t want the love I have for you to pose as a distraction from the pain.”

You snuggle into his side, basking in his scent of ginseng and cedar, and nod against him. He was right, he was always right. “I...I love you, Charles. So, so much. You’re...everything and more to me.”

“And you to me.” He presses his lips against your temple, making sure not to touch the bandages against your scalp. He too takes in your scent, sprinkles of honey and peaches, a smell that proves to be his home and final landing.

He watches your eyelids flutter shut and lets you lay against your shared mattress, pressing a final day’s kiss against your warmed cheek. He is satisfied by your peaceful reflection. “I’ll wake you in the morning for coffee, my love. Get some rest now.”

Charles' sweet whispers are your last rememberings of the day as you drift off into a calming dreamland.

[littlefreya]

Penny Dreadful

Summary: Sherlock is cold, troubled and upset, his mind is fixed on cracking an unsolved murder. It’s the worst time to disturb him. But his hot-blooded little succubus wants to drag him into sin.

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x OFC (First-person POV)

Word count: 2.5K

Warning: 18+, smut, teasing, bratty behaviour, ass-smacking with a cane, slight cane play, primal play, unprotected rough sex, biting, slight size kink, MaleDom, drug use. Lots of curly hair descriptions.

A/N: Not canon to books Sherlock, obviously, but seeing the photos and teaser Henry as Sherlock just sets up the vibe. So I had to. Many thanks to my beta @agniavateira​ !! Sorry for the ugly cover art :D.

Title: Penny Dreadful

Sherlock’s study was a bleak, musky chamber deprived of heat, notwithstanding the many candles that burnt at every corner. Perhaps it was the pristine heaps of snow that piled on the ledge of the window, or maybe it was his sullen mood that gave the room a sense of icy wilderness. 

Fumes rose from his mouth, vaping into the air. The tawny light kissed his thick mane of luscious, chocolate curls while he stood at the fore of his desk and leered at some parchments that troubled his brilliant mind for whatever reason. 

Fist seizing the golden tip of his cane, his thumb stroked the engravings that embellished the metal. Cases that he couldn’t crack often left him frustrated to the point of madness. Those wicked, sly obsessions made him even more irresistible.  

My nails bit into the wooden doorframe. Consumed by yearning, a blaze licked up my soul with its monstrous tongue. I often wondered how something so pure as love could be dangerous, to which Sherlock would reply, 

“Love is the greatest villain of them all.”

Unlike him, I didn’t care for evil. 

The detective unclipped the small chain he kept fastened to his vest and opened the silver locket, gathering a wisp of white powder on the tip of his pinky finger and pressed it to his nostrils. A small grunt escaped him, his eyes turning glassy. The “fairy dust” tended to sharpen his perception and elevate his stamina.  

I dropped to my knees at his sight, crawling on the floor. The black silks of my dress made a brushing noise as it dragged on the Persian carpet; my breasts peeked as my corset shifted with every move. Sherlock often said we must imagine ourselves as animals once we let desire play our strings. 

Accepting my inner wildness, tonight I was a cougar stalking her prey. 

By nature, his senses were sharp as blades, though the substance that streamed through his veins made a more heightened grip of the reality that surrounded him. He noticed and yet ignored me, letting his hot-blooded harlot crave for his attention.

If I was to be the feline predator, Sherlock was the hunter who pursued me for sport. An unfair game, yet nevertheless my favourite. 

Bathing in my own little fountain of mischief, I allowed my fingers to sneak toward his cane, brushing up and down the mahogany in slow, languid motion. My slender digits licked along the shaft and my bosom followed, pressing against the hardwood. I dragged myself up slightly to glimpse at my master from below: my Sherlock, always a sight for a famished girl; a colossus, intimidating, and breathtaking. Like a moth to a flame, I inched closer dazed by the light, wanting to bask in its radiance. 

The muscle in his cheek tensed, thick brows furrowing. A little squared wrinkle appeared above the bridge of his nose as he brushed through his dark locks with agitation.

“What ills that glorious mind of yours?” I hummed, playful fingertips climbing further up at the length of his cane.

“Something I can’t grasp,” he spat, not giving me the time of day. But I knew he noticed every detail of my wanton behaviour, it was evident by the way his breath swiftly became heavier. Sherlock might have solved crimes by profession, but all women were natural detectives; evolution granted us with a definite survival instinct, learning to read men between the shadows.  

“You can possess me,” I offered, fingers scraping over his thumb as it pressed onto the cane’s golden tip. My voice dropped to a whisper while my hand left the cane in favour of his thigh. The muscle flexed and twitched under my sinful touch, the fabric of his breeches stretched as his cock grew with its natural need to fulfil the wet, convulsing void in me.

“You’re distracting me,” he warned, voice low and stern. His lashes hardly even fluttered to my direction. 

Every delicate little hair stood up at the sound of alarm yet instead, I inhaled the soot of peril, allowing my hand to travel further and meet his hungry girth. It rose to my touch with gratitude, flinching even harder at the clutch of my claws. The flavour of desire was honey and salt on the tip of my tongue.

The low animalistic vibration of his voice wavered through his solid form. I felt it shudder all the way down to his swelling cock. A cautious man, Sherlock was measured and forbearing to a point that made me wonder if he even liked women at all before we fell into the vicious pit of decadence and violent delights. 

It was the contrary that was true: Sherlock loved women very much, his desires were simply… of a certain quality. 

His groin was warm and firm against my cheek. The crystalline-blue glare finally graced me with a sight so brooding my bones clattered.  

“Later, I need to work.” By the drop of his voice, I knew there won’t be a third warning. 

“Later, Later…” I taunted, rolling my chin over his aching need. “All work and no play…”

The gasp that pushed out of my lungs nearly whisked the candles off as Sherlock hauled me up by his hand and bent me over the desk.  

“Should I teach you how to respect my time?” He snarled, throwing the skirts of my dress over my head like a cape of the midnight sky. Stars collapsed under my skin at the sensation of his touch exploring the curve of my bare ass. Talons ruptured the tiny blood vessels, squeezing with the affirmation of his ownership. 

“No undergarments?” Sherlock growled dangerously while his thumb brushed over my silken entrance, toying with the rich elixir and smearing it further down my anticipating petals. I answered with a deep moan, stretching on this desk with a succumbing plea. 

“You came here aimed at disturbing me while I work.”

Settling onto the surface of the desk, I reached forth one arm lazily and chuckled. “You are a great detective, I… oh!” 

Something cold and solid caressed my dripping lips, driving between them in slow, calculated strokes. Throwing my head over my shoulder, I noticed Sherlock holding his cane against my sacred cove, staring at it as if I was yet another piece of evidence to be explored. The golden arched-tip pushed-slightly between my petals and entered just enough to make me hiss. For a mere second I wondered if he was going to fuck me using nothing but his cane.

“Look away; this is going to hurt.” 

I hardly had time to protest when the first smack hit the pillow of my cheek. A wheeze of disgrace shot from my throat, husky and embarrassing, but not as degrading as the sting the metal left at my burning backside.

“Bad girl,” Sherlock ticked his tongue and lifted the cane midway in the air, a flare of noxious desire bursting in his pale-blue orbs. This time I turned away and shut my eyes, gripping the edge of the desk until my knuckles turned dead-white. If only it did anything to dull the pain, the sting was even more prominent, shooting all the way up to my spine where it coiled and forced a strident yip from my clamped lips. 

Yet the throb in my cunt was unmissable.

Sherlock knew very well that the hurt allied with pleasure, enhancing it even, like his powdery magic dust. 

Another smack and my nails scratched at the wood. Like a sinner nun indulging her own beating, I rode the waves of pain as they broke onto shores abundant with pleasure. There were hidden cracks in our public figure, the place where I burnt and Sherlock ascended as we pried our claws into mortal deadly sins. My senses rose to conflict with every smack and Sherlock took joy in every involuntary squirm of my body. 

Tongue pressed between his lips, he hummed as he admired his handiwork, painting my ass in obscene hues of violence. “Had enough? Or want to see which will break first, the rod or your arrogance?” Sherlock chided and pinched my sore cheek to further increase the pain. 

Embers whispered beneath my flesh, my legs jolted from the intense beating and by god, the trickle of my juices rolling down the back of my thighs made even a sultry woman such as myself drown in white shame.

Sherlock’s breath was a heavy guttural waft. His cane dropped to the floor and I heard the sound of metal clicking as he fumbled with his belt. I would be damned if I let him fuck me from behind. To have those eyes look away as he entered me was a vice I wouldn’t stand. 

“No!” I yelled, bracing on my wobbly elbows as much as I could and turned to face him. 

Sherlock’s glare widened, a chill of ice blew through his eyes and his pupils dilated like a crazed feline. “You’re saying no to me?”

“Yes!” I heaved and reached my hands to cradle his skull, pushing myself against the hardness of his body and forcing my lips on his. My kiss was feral, bruising the plush skin on and around his mouth, nibbling and biting until we tasted iron on our tongues. It was not long before I was shoved against the wall, our mouths still united, sharing one breath.

Or rather stealing it from one another.

We were pleasingly unequal. Sherlock was all iron and stone; a bulky, tall man who could tear me apart with his bare hands. I was a little lush thing, so tender, so easily bruised. Despite his power, the desire to claim the tiny wet hole between my legs was unquenchable, reducing him to a savage thing that spoke in raw inarticulate sounds.

He tore his mouth from mine and swept me up from the ground, hiking the skirts of my dress urgently to expose what he coveted the most. I felt the supple velvety texture of his hardness grind against my thigh, smearing the pearly drops of his arousal onto my skin. We both moaned at the sensation and moved to the rhythm dictated by our most primal instincts.  

“You want my cock?” He growled and gnawed his teeth at my neck, biting deep enough to break through the skin. I whined in pain, my voice rising a pitch as I writhed against him to ignite the smallest of frictions and serve the demon of desire in me. 

“Fuck me!” I begged, sliding my fingers through the mass of soft curls and tugging them with need.

Answering my plea, Sherlock speared into my unruly cunt, brutally spreading me open like he would tear the petals from a flower. I yipped into his luscious hair, my nails tearing into his nape as his intrusion claimed everything my body had to offer. I always found it odd how my flesh would resist and beg for him at the same time, my succulent canal fighting to push him by instinct yet he only further rutted into me. He reached his hands to my sore ass to squeeze my cheeks apart.

“Such a tight little harlot,” he groaned, engulfed by my garden of mysteries. Moaning so loudly, our duet reverberated through the corridors of the house. His lashes fluttered with ecstasy as he pulled back only to force me down on his imposing cock, attempting to rip through my denial. Or it was to tame me as I clenched around his girth, accepting and resisting him at the same time. I was nothing but a vessel for him to fill, and he did so with a fiery passion, glaring straight to my eyes while thrusting deep and hard into me.  

Books fell from the shelves nearby as we battled against the wall, my legs sliding up and down his waist, spreading helplessly in the air until my boots pressed into his arse. One of his hands reached for my corset, tugging on the ludicrous outfit to expose my breast. Ravenous, he licked his bloodstained lips, giving me a stare that made my cunt clutch him harder before he sank his fangs to pierce cavities in my tit.

“No!!!” I cried out and gasped as he thrust deeper to punish me for my protest. His heavy cock hit a spot so deep inside me that tears instantly emerged and fell down my cheeks, the pang bringing through a spasm of odd relief. 

Blood and saliva smeared along my cleavage as he dragged his lips further, licking and then kissing every patch he bruised. I moaned breathlessly, throwing my head back against the wall as his nimble fingers surveyed my neck, laying small threats to show me how easy he could simply suspend my very basic need. 

But my survival instincts already flew out the window the moment he penetrated me.

His lips hovered above mine as he fucked deep into my body, our cries creating an obscure symphony as he continuously slammed into my hilt, harder and more urgent with every plunge. The tears that fell down my cheeks were tainted with the conflicting aphrodisiac that pain brought through. In that instant I was whole, gratified by the friction created of the collision of our wet organs.

“Do it!” I gasped and nodded through glossy stares, swallowing hard to gesture what he already knew. With a swift snap of his hands, his fingers were bruising on my neck and he slammed into me at a furious pace, giving no care for my broken screams. 

Euphoria tore through my soul, crashing like hot waves of eternal fire. I came apart around his thick rod crying for God and Satan at once. Sherlock never slowed down, not even as he felt the tightening of my ring around him. It only made him fuck me harder, burying his face at my collarbone, chasing his own rapture at a punishing speed, grunting like a beast. Finally, he shuddered and pumped me full of his thick, silky milk. The muscles of his behind flexed and he ground his hot load into my warm cavern, making sure I received every drop. My hands reached to squeeze his taut ass as my legs clutched him still, wanting to keep him inside me. 

As if he had any intentions of leaving as he moaned and spasmed inside me. 

Smoke filled the room as few of the candles died; the scent of ash and the musk of our sex seeped through our noses while we remained entwined, shaking in each other’s grasp. Breathless and damp with sweat, Sherlock lifted his face from my neck and glanced at me looking so vulnerable, almost appearing lost. I moved my trembling hands back to his face, my thumbs caressing his sharp cheeks. 

“I know I am harsh…” he murmured, his eyes digging into my heart with nothing but a gaze of despair, “but please don’t ever leave me.”

My face fell at the sound of his words, my lips parting with awe. My detective could solve the most outrageous crimes, and yet he couldn’t realise I was shackled to him for all eternity.  

[friendlylocalweebtrash]

Happy Accident: Ban x thicc!Reader

Prompt 37 “Wow. That outfit…let me help you out of it.” With Ban

A/N: Okay so I am definitely working on that Bakugo fic BUT I started this one first as a gift for a friend and figured that I would also post it here so that y’all have something to read while I work on the other one! I also have a Toshinori fic that’s finished and I’ll post that either before or after depending on how long it takes me to write the Bakugo one! Anyways this is like the smallest amount of backstory sorry in advance but hopefully you all like it!

Pairing: Ban x Fem!Reader

Warnings: SMUT, pure filth, cursing, light choking, marking (y’all I’m a sucker for the fangs), ummmmm I think that’s it!

Word Count: 4248, she’s kinda long, I’m not good at short works lmao

****************

You hadn’t planned on joining up with the Seven Deadly Sins, but Elizabeth was your best friend and after everything that had happened you couldn’t even think of letting her go off to Camelot with them alone. Not that you didn’t trust them to keep her safe, you knew Meliodas would die before he let anything happen to her, but still you worried. So against the wishes of your father you had packed your things and joined the Sins on their journey.

It was honestly nice to be around people other than the stuffy royals you were used to. Not that you had anything against your heritage, you just longed for something more…exciting, dangerous, something exhilarating. The Sins ended up being much more interesting than you expected too, and you quickly became friends with Diane. King and Gowther were much more reserved, but they were friendly enough. Of course Meliodas was the life of the party, and always cheerful. Then there was Ban. Charming, sexy, crazy Ban. At almost 7 feet tall he towered over you, and he used that to his advantage when teasing you. He would always catch you at the worst possible moment, caging you between his arms at the bar and leaning down over you like a predator. He loved the way your face would flush every time he got close to you. Truth be told, the man was already head over heels for you though he wasn’t even close to being ready to admit it to you. He may be an overly confident immortal being, but deep down he had a soft spot in his heart that he didn’t necessarily like to show. So for the time being he would be happy enough to flirt with you just to see that pretty blush dust over your cheeks.

You had only been in Camelot for a couple of days thus far but you were beginning to realize that the flowy dresses and skirts you typically wore were going to be a bit impractical for all the running around you were doing with the Sins. So one morning you asked Elizabeth and Diane if they would accompany you into town to do some shopping for new clothes. After a fun filled afternoon with your girlfriends you returned to the Boar Hat to try on one of your new outfits. It was a tad more risqué than anything you would normally wear as a princess, but you figured if Elizabeth could get away with wearing such a skimpy uniform then maybe you could stand to take a few risks too! The leather skirt was a bit shorter than you’d expected, barely hitting past the tops of your thighs and the way it hugged your curves it almost felt like it had been sewn specifically to fit your plush body. The deep red color complimented your skin beautifully, and the matching top fit you just as well. You had to admit that the new outfit did make you a tad bit self-conscious, you’d never shown that much skin before. The top was sleeveless with a deep plunging v-neckline and a corseted back. The small strip of skin showing between the high waisted skirt and top was definitely out of your comfort zone, but you really wanted to try new things, to reinvent yourself. As you stared in the mirror at yourself, fiddling with your hair and mulling over whether or not you should return the outfit you heard the creak of your door being opened and Bans’ voice drifting towards you. Crap! You thought as you whipped towards the door. No way in hell you wanted Ban of all people to see in such a skimpy outfit, at least not in this state, but you were frozen in place as he entered. “Hey y/n the Captain wants us all t-“ he freezes in the doorway, hand still on the knob as he stares at you wide eyed. His eyes rake slowly over your body and you can see the barest hint of red tinting the Fox Sins’ cheeks as he appraises you. Your heart feels like it’s going to beat right out of your chest and you’re sure he can hear it as he slowly approaches you. “Wow. That outfit…” he lets out a shaky breath, reaching to grasp one of your hands so he can spin you around and get the full view. When you’re facing him again he has a devilish grin on his lips. He brings the hand he’s holding up to his lips while the other snakes around your waist pulling you flush against him. He releases your hand only to place his index finger under your chin, titling your head up to meet his gaze as he leans closer, lips a breath away from your own as he asks, “let me help you out of it, eh?”

At this point he’s so close you don’t even think your heart is beating anymore, you’re sure you must have died and gone to heaven. But he’s still gazing into your eyes with a hunger so carnal you can’t even think straight, so you do the only thing that makes sense to you in the moment. You stretch up on your toes, closing the distance and pressing your lips hotly against his. Ban wasted no time in kissing you back with all the passion he had stored in him. Sure this wasn’t exactly how he had wanted it to go when you two got together at first, but to him this was a sign that he had waited long enough and now he needed to take action. He needed to show you just how beautiful you were to him, even if he didn’t deserve you, even if you didn’t want anything more from him after this, he just needed to feel you.

Your hands slide up the expanse of Bans’ chest, reveling in the contours of muscle. You’ve always admired his strength and how toned his body is but to finally be able to feel it after admiring from a distance for so long was unreal. Your hands continue up over his defined shoulders and his neck, nails scraping over the skin lightly. As your hands weave into his spiky hair, which is rather soft you notice, his tongue comes out to sweep across your bottom lip. At the same time his hands move down, squeezing your ass before gripping your thighs and lifting you up. The motion earns a small gasp from you and he quickly uses that to his advantage, letting his tongue slip past your parted lips to explore your mouth with fervor. Your tongues dance, fighting for dominance while you grip his hair and wrap your legs tightly around his hips. You can already feel how hard he is beneath the leather of his own pants and you roll your hips teasingly against him. Ban groans into your mouth nipping lightly at your kiss swollen bottom lip before moving down to place even more hot kisses on your jaw, working his way to the juncture where it meets your neck; stopping there momentarily to suck harshly, a dark hickey forming immediately. You arch into his touch, moaning softly as he starts sucking another mark below the first.

Ban walks over to your bed with you still wrapped tightly around him and sits on the edge, allowing you to straddle his lap while he continues his assault on your neck. Then you feel the light scrape of his fangs dragging across the sensitive skin of your neck and you draw in a shaky breath, your grip in his blue locks tightening. You feel Ban smirk against your neck before biting ever so gently at your flesh. Your hips roll against his involuntarily while a soft moan escapes your lips. “Harder, please Ban.” You breathe out. Ban can’t help but groan at your words, his cock twitching impatiently beneath his crimson pants. His grip on your hip tightens while his other hand moves up your back pressing you even further against his solid chest. As his fingers undo the ribbon on the back of your corset top you feel his sharp teeth biting down hard on your soft flesh and you cry out at the immense pleasure your body is deriving from the sting of his fangs. A new wave of pleasure ripples through you as Ban runs his tongue over the mark he just made, soothing it before he moves to leave another on your chest just below your collarbone. All the while his skilled fingers are unlacing your top while you grind against him lost in the sensations of his mouth and hands all over your body.

You’re a panting mess above him and Ban can’t help the way he aches for you as he leaves imprints of his sharp teeth all over your neck and chest. His own chest is heaving with desire as he finally undoes the ribbon on your top, pulling away from you so he can rid you of the tight leather garment. He takes in the sight of your generous curves, nearly drooling as his eyes rake appreciatively over your form. His hand cups the back of your head, pulling you into another searing kiss as his other hand travels languidly over the newly exposed flesh. The way his calloused fingers move softly over your skin has chills racing down your spine and heat shooting straight to your core. You know you’re already dripping wet and all he’s done is kiss you. Ban pulls back for a moment, lust blown eyes gazing tenderly into your own as his lips draw up into a soft smile. “You’re so fucking beautiful y/n.” You feel heat creeping into your cheeks at his tender words, but before you can respond his lips are back on your neck trailing soft kisses down to your chest. His hands come up to palm roughly against your breasts, thumbing over your sensitive nipples making them stand at attention for him. You arch into his touch as his lips travel further down before wrapping around one hardened bud, sucking lightly before laving his hot tongue over it. “Ban, please.” Your voice is breathless; you don’t even know what you’re asking for you just need more of him. He pulls off your nipple with a gentle pop before kissing back up your neck, pecking you on lips sweetly. He presses his forehead to your own, gazing intently at you as he speaks. “I love the way my name sounds falling from your lips babygirl. Let’s see if I can make you say it louder, yeah?”

Ban stands briefly before laying the two of you down on the bed, settling himself between your plush thighs. Your skirt has long since been pushed up around your full hips and at this new angle Ban has a perfect view of the black lace beneath it which is now soaked with your arousal. His hands caress your thighs as he stares down at you, drinking in your flushed cheeks and the marks littering your beautiful skin. He leans down to capture your lips in another heated kiss as one hand moves closer to your aching core, just barely grazing over your panties, but it’s enough for him to notice his effect on you. He kisses from your lips to your jaw before stopping right by your ear, nuzzling against you before whispering “fuck princess, you’re that wet already? I’m just getting started.” He licked along the outer shell of your ear before moving down your neck once more, fingers grazing teasingly along your clothed pussy. You’re practically panting at this point, aching for him to touch you more. Ban sits up, removing his jacket and then his pants before crawling back up your body to place a quick kiss to your lips. As he pulls away your eyes rake over his body and you can’t help but stare at the impressive hard on straining against his black boxers. “Like what you see babygirl?” you can only nod, your eyes still glued to his cock. You want to taste him so badly, feel the weight of him on your tongue. It’s as if he can read your mind, his fingers gripping your chin firmly, tilting your head up to look into his crimson eyes, a smirk plastered on his face. “Maybe later princess, right now I wanna devour that pretty little pussy of yours.” Your cheeks flush as he releases your chin, trailing kisses down your torso until he reaches the bunched up material of your skirt. He hooks his fingers in the waistband and pulls your skirt and panties off in one go, tossing them haphazardly to mingle with the other garments littering the floor.

Ban is what you could call a pleasure dom. He gets off on getting his partner off, but man does he love to draw it out, to tease until they’re begging for release. Ban wants nothing more than to have you a dripping, moaning mess for him. To take you higher and higher until the only word that falls from your lips is his name. Which is exactly what he plans to do. Ban settles himself between your thighs, nuzzling against one before trailing kisses, hickies, and love bites from your knee all the way up to your hip bone. He hums against your skin, kissing and licking his way across your lower tummy before treating the other thigh with the same care and attention as the first. You’re whining and panting, hands balled in the sheets as he continues to tease his way up your leg, stopping just before he reaches you center. He marvels at the beautiful sounds you make, like a song made just for his ears. You cry out as his teeth sink into your thigh, feeling yourself drip with even more arousal at the mix of pain and pleasure. Ban was going to be the death of you. Writhing beneath him you pleaded with the fox eyed man, “Ban please, please, I-I need more- ah!” he silenced your begging by running his tongue up your dripping slit, collecting the juices there. He lapped lazily at your folds, enjoying how you cried out for him softly, relishing in the taste of you, all for him and only him. He pulled back for a moment, looking at you with hazy eyes. “You taste so fucking sweet princess, I could lick this pretty pussy all damn day.” You moaned at his words, throwing your head back against the pillows as he continued his ministrations, moving upward to circle his tongue around your sensitive clit. He sucked on it gently and you keened, hands flying to his hair and tugging hard. “Mmmm…” he moaned against you, doubling the pleasure you felt as he continued to suck. His grip on your thighs tightened, spreading them wider as his tongue trailed from your clit back down to your entrance. He teased it for a few moments before plunging his tongue into your wet heat. “Oh fuck, Ban. That feels so good.” Your hips began rolling against his face as he plunged his tongue in and out of your core with abandon. You could feel the coil in your lower belly tightening, you were close. “Ban I –fuck- I’m so c-close, please can I cum?” He smirked against your pussy, such a good girl asking for permission. He removed his tongue from your core, making you whimper until he replaced it with two long fingers, pumping them in and out at an agonizingly slow pace. “Yes princess, cum all over daddys’ fingers.” Ban began to pump his fingers faster, crooking them to hit that spongy spot deep inside you that made you see stars. Your back arched off the bed as your orgasm ripped through you, crying out Bans’ name like it was a prayer. His fingers slowed their pace as you came down from your first release, panting as you tried to clear the fog of pleasure washing over you. Had you ever cum that hard before? If you had you certainly couldn’t remember doing so. Ban removed his fingers from your spasming hole. You looked up in time to see him sucking the last of your release from his fingers, humming in approval as he gazed down at you.

You didn’t even feel Ban get off the bed momentarily to remove his boxers, you were still trying to steady your breathing as you felt him start kissing up your flushed body. His lips found yours and he cradled your face in his hand as you kissed. You could taste yourself on him and it immediately had that coil tightening in your belly again. Your hands found purchase on his broad shoulders, pulling him closer to you. You ground your hips up against him, urging him to keep going, to fill you up and claim you. “Eager are we?” He teased as he placed a gentle kiss to your forehead. Ban lifted up slightly, lining his cock up with your entrance and running the head teasingly along your slit, collecting your arousal to help ease his massive length into your tight heat. “You ready princess?” You nodded up at him, biting your bottom lip before answering out loud. “Yes daddy, please, I want you to fill me up so bad.” He smirked down at you, bracing an arm beside your head. You both let out a loud moan at the feeling of the head pushing in, already stretching you deliciously. Inch by inch Ban eased himself in until he was buried to the hilt, allowing you a moment to adjust before he started a slow pace. His hips rolled languidly against your own, both of you letting out little gasps with every thrust. It was too much, you needed him to go faster. “Ban…” you whimpered in his ear, before taking the lobe between your teeth and tugging gently. “please I need you to go faster, I want you to fucking rail me daddy. Make me cum so hard, please.” Ban growled against your neck before pulling himself up, bracing his hands on the wood of your headboard. His breathing was ragged; cheeks flushed a beautiful red as he stared down at your writhing form beneath him. “Okay princess, but you may want to hold onto something.” He smirked at you before pulling his hips back only to snap them brutally back against yours going even deeper than before. Ban set a brutal pace, fucking into you mercilessly while you cried out beneath him. His hands gripped the headboard so tightly his knuckles were white and there beads of sweat dripping down his neck and chest as he rammed into your pussy over and over again. Your hands clawed at his chest leaving trails of red down the toned muscles. “Fuck princess,” he panted out between thrusts “you feel so fucking good squeezing my cock like that. You like how I fill up that sweet little pussy? I’m gonna make you come so fucking hard you forget your own name babygirl.” His words had you almost over the edge at this point, your body overcome with pleasure and dangling on the edge of release. You were so fucking close. Ban knew you wouldn’t last much longer with the way your walls were fluttering around his cock and honestly he didn’t think he’d last much longer either at this point. He removed one hand from the headboard, bringing it between your bodies to rub harshly against your clit. “Oh fuck! Don’t stop, fuck, I’m gonna cum!” Ban thrust faster into you nearing his own release. “Go ahead princess cum all over daddys’ cock. Fuck!I’m gonna fill your pussy up with my cum, fucking paint your insides and claim you. You’re mine babygirl.” The last part came out closer to a growl and had your orgasm slamming through you so hard your legs started shaking. A strangled cry left your lips as you rode out your high, Ban releasing right along with you. You could feel ropes of his hot cum filling your insides as your walls milked every last drop from his cock. Ban leaned down to nuzzle against your neck, pressing kisses to your flushed skin. You ran your fingers through his hair pulling him in for a soft kiss.

You stayed there for a few moments, both trying to catch your breath as you held each other close. You began planting kisses to Bans’ neck, nails grazing over his back. You felt the taut muscles in his back tense under your touch and suddenly you could also feel his cock, still nestled inside you, twitch and start to get hard again. Ban planted a kiss to your jaw before leaning close to your ear. “Careful princess, you keep that up and you might regret it.” He punctuated his sentence with a nip to your earlobe before trailing more kisses along your jaw. Feeling bold in your post orgasmic bliss an idea popped into your head. Raking your nails more harshly down his back you raised your lips to his own ear tugging gently on the lobe before whispering “Why don’t you make me, daddy?”

In mere seconds you were flipped onto your stomach, Ban grabbing roughly at your hips to pull your ass up into the air, his cock already teasing at your entrance again. Ban leaned his large frame over you, a trail of love bites forming up your back in his wake, before biting harshly at your shoulder. You hissed out a breath at the sensation, pushing your hips back against him, needy and wanting. “You asked for it babygirl.” He growled out as his fingers twisted in your hair pulling your head back and causing your body to arch further underneath him. His other hand had a bruising grip on your hip as he slowly inched his cock back into your slick folds. A loud moan fell from your lips. Fuck, you thought. He was hitting so much deeper from this angle and you immediately felt that familiar warmth growing in the lower region of your body. Ban pulled his hips back only briefly before snapping them forward and setting a brutal pace, rutting into you like his life depended on it. The room was filled with the sounds of both your moans, your skin slapping together, and the sounds of just how wet you were as he pounded his cock into you. You were sure the other Sins could hear everything but at this point you really didn’t care. You were so caught up in the feeling of Ban stretching you, his breath hot on your neck. Ban straightened up, momentarily releasing your hair so he could grip your other hip, doubling his pace as he thrust mercilessly into you. “That’s it princess, you take my cock so fucking well, you’re such a good girl for daddy.” Bans filthy words were emphasized with a sharp smack to your ass, causing you to cry out his name at the intense pleasure. Bans’ hand found its way into your hair again, pulling your body up and flush against his. He moved the hand in your hair around to grip your throat, squeezing just enough to bring you to the precipice of pleasure. “Oh god, Ban please I’m s-so close, fuck!” His other hand snaked around your front and down to your clit, his calloused fingers working your sensitive nub expertly. “Cum all over daddys cock princess, I know you want to, come on cum for me.”

“Fuck!” You cried out as white hot pleasure coursed through your body, blurring your vision with tears from the intensity of your orgasm. Bans’ released followed yours and he slowed his thrusts, working you both through your highs as you came back down to reality. After a few moments of panting and heavy breathing Ban pulled out of you gently, walking to the bathroom to find a rag to clean you both up with. When he returned you were face down on the bed, still trying to catch your breath. He kissed his way up your leg before cleaning up the mess he’d made and tossing the towel somewhere amongst your discarded clothes, he would deal with that in the morning. For now Ban crawled back into the bed, pulling you against his chest so he could wrap you in his arms. You nuzzled your face into his chest, leaving soft kisses along his skin. You were starting to drift towards sleep when you felt Ban grip your chin gently and tilt your face up towards his. “Hey, you know I love you, right?” His eyes were soft as he spoke, and there was a gentle smile on his kiss swollen lips. Your eyes teared up a bit at his words, you had always felt there was something there, you just didn’t want to get your hopes up. Yet here you were, wrapped in the arms of the man you’d grown to love since the Sins came into your life. You leaned up to connect your lips in a deep kiss, smiling softly back at him. “I know,” you whispered as you placed your hand against his cheek. “I love you too Ban.” The two of you fell asleep in your bed that night and every night after, always wrapped in each others arms.

[jaskierswolf]

Hello dearest Overlord!! May we please have a continuation of that brilliant Chicago fic you gifted us? It was SO GOOD I can't stop thinking about it lol

Maya! I meant to have this done for your birthday but life... sorry! Either way! Happy belated birthday! I shall upload to AO3 tomorrow!

Previous

Rated: E

Ship: Geraskier

Summary: After a night of sweat and sex and sin, Geralt knows it's time to apologise for the harsh words. If only he could find the words to say (Yes i'm abusing TAD lyrics... oops)

CW: weapons kink, shaving kink, minor injury, talks of rimming, and general hoeyness.

______

Geralt stared up at the ceiling, counting the cracks in the wall. The room stank of sweat and sex, and a warm spicy scent that wafted from the bard that was curled up on his chest. The night before had been possibly some of the best sex in his long life, but it had been tainted with the worry that it was the only chance he would get. Jaskier was still angry, and rightfully so, but it meant that Geralt wasn’t sure if this was the last time he would ever see his most loyal friend and companion. His fingers were softly trailing down Jaskier’s spine, painting flowers into the bard’s bare skin. Geralt couldn’t bear to watch Jaskier sleep. He was too beautiful, even covered in sweat, drooling over Geralt’s chest. Geralt just knew that if he looked then he would never be able to let Jaskier go.

And he couldn’t keep the bard if he didn’t want to stay.

“I can hear you thinking,” Jaskier mumbled, shifting on Geralt’s chest to press a kiss to the exposed skin. “It’s very distracting.”

Geralt huffed a laugh despite his growing anxiety. “Distracting you from sleep?”

“Mhmm.”

They laid like that for a few more moments, neither quite ready to face the day yet. Jaskier seemed to be trying to fall back asleep but after a couple of minutes he groaned and rolled onto his back. He pouted as he looked up at the ceiling, his hair a ruffled mess from where Geralt’s hands had run through it the night before, and there were dark bruises littered all over his neck, creeping down his chest where thick hair covered the pale skin. A stark reminder of Jaskier’s masculinity despite the way he preferred to present to the world.

Geralt swallowed as his cock began to make itself known. It could easily be excused as morning wood if Jaskier had decided that Geralt’s crimes were too dire to forgive, but he couldn’t help but hope.

“It appears that despite my best attempts, I am awake,” Jaskier grumbled, pushing his hands through his hair.

“Hmm,” Geralt agreed, waiting for Jaskier to pass judgement before he really spoke.

“So… witcher,” Jaskier breathed, his voice guarded and cool, making Geralt stiffen as he prepared for the worst. “I think we can both agree, that was a rather fantastic evening of carnal delights.”

“Hmm.”

“But not even sex with dear Melitele herself would make up for, well, you know,” Jaskier rolled onto his side and peered down at Geralt with icy fire in those pretty blue eyes, “the whole ‘if life could give me one blessing’ thing.” Jaskier’s voice deepened in his impersonation of Geralt and his words were accentuated with a flourish.

“Jaskier-”

“I meant it, Geralt. I want an apology, a real one, or forget it. I can find inspiration elsewhere, and well.. I- you probably weren’t my friend at all if you can’t see that what you did was wrong. I may be a bit of a prick sometimes, but I deserve better, Geralt.”

“I know,” Geralt whispered, wondering when the lost puppy that had followed him for so many years had grown up.

How had he never noticed?

“I’m sorry, Jaskier,” he breathed, struggling to find the words to explain just how sorry he was, but hoping that the bard would understand. “I- I was… I,” Geralt growled and covered his face with both hands, his beard scratching at his calloused skin.

The world felt like it was against him as he tried to gather his thoughts, but before he could, Jaskier’s hands were covering his, gently pulling them off his face. “Breathe, darling.”

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I don’t have the words to put this right.”

“Then show me, dear heart.”

Geralt’s brow furrowed as he gazed up at the bard, shining cornflower blue eyes shimmering in the morning light, his fringe falling down to cover them. He looked beautiful. Geralt reached up to brushed the hair from Jaskier’s eyes but it didn’t work and they both chuckled as Jaskier huffed a breath to try and blow it out of the way. “How?”

“You can start by getting rid of that beard. You look very handsome but my arse itches like a bitch this morning,” Jaskier grumbled.

“You weren’t complaining last night,” Geralt teased.

“Well, I was hardly going to whine about it when you had your tongue up my arse!”

Just like that the ice seemed to have broken and Geralt smirked as he pulled Jaskier into a kiss; the taste was stale and unpleasant on Geralt’s tongue but he didn’t care, he was kissing Jaskier., The bard moaned softly into the kiss, shifting on the bed so that he was straddling Geralt’s hips. Jaskier’s fingers were splayed on Geralt's chest as he rolled his hips against Geralt’s erection, making them both gasp into the kiss. The heat from the night before was back, not blistering and blinding but a slow build of embers as they were once again lost in the taste of each other.

And Geralt felt… happy?

He couldn’t remember the last time he allowed himself to be happy. Perhaps at Kaer Morhen before he set out onto the path for the first time. Before he learned that witchers were no better than the monsters they hunted in the eyes of humanity. There had been some brief moments of happiness when he’d been beside Jaskier on the path, the quiet moments before they went to sleep but Geralt had always been plagued with guilt, worried that he would destroy the fragile being that trusted him.

Of course, his fears had become reality, but in spite of everything Jaskier was still here with him, his lips pressed against Geralt’s neck, hands carding through his hair. So, because of the unfamiliar lightness in his heart, Geralt decided to tease his friend, his love, his bard. He grinned as he captured Jaskier’s lips once more in a bruising kiss, fingers digging into the bard’s hips to hold him close, and then he rubbed his cheek against Jaskier’s.

“Oi!” Jaskier grumbled, sitting back on his heels and glaring down at Geralt.

“What?”

“That beard has got to go,” Jaskier muttered, rubbing at his cheek. “If you really want to do the whole ruggedly handsome thing, which by the way, I don’t hate, then I am showing you how to look after a beard. It’ll be as soft as a baby’s bottom.”

Geralt rolled his eyes. “Fine. I’ll shave.” Jaskier just grinned, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “What?”

“Or…”

“Jaskier…”

The bard winked, his tongue flicking out to lick his lips in a way that really should be illegal. “If you trust me?”

“I do.”

“Then you’ll let me shave it off. I don’t have a razor but my daggers are plenty sharp enough?”

Geralt blinked, staring up at Jaskier as every single thought he’d ever had left his head. He was suddenly thrown back to the bard’s performance the night before. The way he’d moved, the touches to his skin, the frankly sinful way his body had looked in the corset and tights, an outfit better suited to a whore than a Viscount.

And his voice.

Dark, dangerous, calculating.

The same voice that usually held the warmth of the sun, turned to bitter poison as cold steel flashed in the candle light.

Geralt groaned, pressing his head into Jaskier’s shoulder, as the memory of the bard flipping the daggers in his hands with deadly precision, the edge of the blade glinting as he brushed it against his own neck. It was almost too much to handle, especially now that he’d had a taste of Jaskier, knew the filth the bard’s lips sang in the throes of passion.

“Oh, ho, ho!” Jaskier giggled, his fingers stroking through Geralt’s hair, sending a shiver down his spine. “You like that, don’t you witcher?”

“Shut up, Jaskier.”

“Oh no. No, no, no, I am loving this. I mean, I knew you enjoyed the show but I thought it was just the whole-” Jaskier cut himself off with a wave of his hands. “But it was more than that, wasn’t it, Geralt?”

Geralt was in no place to argue. His cock was impossibly hard and aching, trapped underneath his bard as he continued to roll his hips at a torturously slow pace. Jaskier’s cock was also hard as it moved against Geralt’s stomach, leaving a mess of precum on his skin. The sight made Geralt’s mouth water, and he was tempted to forget the whole beard thing, if it just meant that he could get his lips around Jaskier’s cock. Make his bard sing just like he had the night before, but before Geralt could think about manhandling Jaskier into the right position, the bard had leapt to his feet, leaving Geralt weak and wanting alone on the bed.

“Jask,” he breathed, watching the curve of Jaskier’s bare arse as he danced across the room.

“Be with you in a moment, darling,” the bard sang, sweeter than a nightingale.

And Geralt could do nothing but watch helplessly as Jaskier unsheathed the daggers from their holsters. The steel looked sharp and deadly. They were clearly very real weapons, not props, and Geralt felt his head begin to spin with lust. He had to remind himself to breathe, lest he pass out. Jaskier was too busy inspecting the blades to notice Geralt’s predicament, and he ran a long lutist's finger along the sharp edge of the dagger, hissing slightly as it cut into the skin.

“Sharp enough?” he turned to face Geralt, winking as he licked his lips.

Geralt nodded, his tongue feeling heavy in his mouth. It was a miracle that Jaskier managed to still speak so eloquently even in the height of arousal, when Geralt could barely remember his own name.

“Brilliant!” Jaskier beamed, hopping back across the room without a care for the weapon in his hand.

He was a disaster.

Geralt honestly wasn’t sure how Jaskier hadn’t cut his own dick off. He clearly had no sense of self preservation, and yet Geralt was going to let him press that dagger to his throat.

Perhaps he was the idiot after all.

“Come now, Geralt, off the bed, I don’t want to get hair on the sheets,” Jaskier waved him over, flipping the dagger absentmindedly in one hand.

Geralt just scoffed. “I think there’s worse things on those sheets, Jaskier.”

“Sit!” Jaskier insisted indignantly pointing at the stool by the basin in the corner of the room.

There was no arguing with that, although Geralt did wonder if Jaskier would turn the blade against him, even in jest, and that thought had his cock throbbing. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so desperate, probably watching Jaskier perform, the searing jealousy as the fake Geralt and Yennefer lay their hands on Jaskier’s body.

Jaskier took no notice of his inner turmoil, of the raging fire burning inside him. Instead, he hummed an unfamiliar tune under his breath as he readied the dagger for its job. After the passion of the night before, the quiet intimacy was almost too much. Geralt just hummed as he settled into an almost meditative state, letting Jaskier move his head around as he needed to without resistance. The bard pressed his leg between Geralt's, staying still but keeping a gentle pressure on Geralt's cock whilst the blade moved methodically across Geralt's skin.

Every stroke of Jaskier's blade against Geralt's skin sent a wave of arousal through his body. He'd never seen Jaskier as anything more than an annoyance on the battlefield, and the calm stillness of the moment made him see his bard in a new light. He wondered whether Jaskier had been holding back on him this whole time or whether this skill with a blade was something he’d learned in their time apart. Without a witcher to protect him, Jasker had no doubt encountered no end of trouble. He’d ended up in the brothel after all… although it was like no brothel that Geralt had ever been to.

“You still with me, sweetheart?” Jaskier breathed almost silently, his lilting voice cutting through the cloud of meditation. Even in his meditation, his senses were locked onto Jaskier, ready to jump into action at a moment’s notice. It was an instinct he’d never realised he’d trained into being, it happened so slowly. One day he was wishing that Jaskier would finally get bored and leave, and the next, Geralt knew he would defend the idiot with his life.

But now it seemed Jaskier could hold his own, and that was just fucking hot.

Geralt didn’t know what was happening to himself. Everything he thought he knew was turning on his head, and he was somewhat irrevocably in love with the bard, he’d barely admitted was his friend.

By the time Jaskier was done, the blade smoothly gliding across Geralt’s skin, a finer shave than any barber he’d been to in all his years.

“Geralt, dear heart?”

“Hmm…”

“There you are,” Jaskier cooed, cupping Geralt’s cheek in his hands until Geralt let his eyes flutter open.

Jaskier was gazing back at him, his eyes blown wide and his cheeks flushed. The scent of arousal in the air made Geralt’s head hazy with lust. Before he could even think about what he was doing, Geralt knocked the dagger from Jaskier’s hand, the steel clattering as it flew across the room and bounced on the floor. The bard opened his mouth to protest but Geralt had been aching and hard for too long, and he was desperate to get his mouth back on Jaskier’s skin.

With a yelp, Jaskier was pushed back onto the bed, whining as Geralt teased the tight rim of muscle. Despite their long night of sex, Geralt would need to stretch him again, and he couldn’t wait. He’d found great pleasure in taking apart his cocky arrogant bard with both his tongue and fingers the night before, and he knew he would quite happily spend a whole lifetime doing it again and again. There was no better music than the noises Jaskier made when Geralt had his tongue lapping at the bard’s hole.

Without warning, Jaskier lunged to the edge of the bed, distracting Geralt with the curve of his arse so he didn’t notice what Jaskier was grabbing at until it was too late. The dagger was at his throat forcing him back onto the mattress, the tip of the blade hooking underneath that wolf medallion.

“Gotcha,” Jaskier winked, knocking all the air from Geralt’s lungs in less than a heartbeat.

“Jask,” he breathed, his words slurred as he struggled to see through the fog of lust.

“If I forgive you, witcher, do you promise not to throw me away like that again?” the bard’s eyes burned, but Jaskier saw through the mask to the scared little boy, one so frightened of being abandoned.

“Never again,” he vowed. “I swear.”

Jaskier let out a soft sigh and the tension visibly melted away from his body. “Good enough for me.”

And then he pressed their bodies together once more in a burning kiss that would stay with Geralt for the rest of his life.

[s1st3r]

Coincidence (Fives x f!Reader) Part 1

Author Note: This was originally a super basic idea that I just got really carried away with and before I knew it I had 1666 words and was like “welP. We’re doing multi chapter stuff now”. Bit of a slow pace at the moment. Part 2 will have more action.

Summary: You and Fives are assigned on a delicate infiltration mission. 

Warnings: None.

Word Count: 1666

Rex’s POV

“Are you sure it’s a good idea to have them working together on this mission?”

I had to admit, I too was second guessing. It was a risky move, but I had faith that Fives and Y/N could pull this off.

“Yes sir,” I affirmed, “their specialised training accommodates for missions of this nature.”

“I’m well aware of their training Rex.” General Skywalker replied as we entered the bridge and approached the holotable. “I just wonder if things might get too… personal.”

“Sir, they’re the most dedicated soldiers I’ve ever met-“

“You mean the most stubborn,” Ahsoka, whom had been waiting for us on the bridge, supplied with a grin.

The general nodded his head reluctantly as though not completely convinced. He brought his hand up to rest on his chin as he contemplated.

“The communications have been established sir,” interrupted Admiral Yularen as he joined those of us surrounding the holotable.

A crackling sound came through as Fives and Y/N’s comms came online.

“Y/N comm check.”

“Fives comm check.”

General Skywalker leaned forward, overseeing the map of the multi-level mansion before him and the two red bleeping icons that signaled their positions.

“You’re clear to proceed,” he advised.

“Copy that,” rang Y/N’s clear voice.

I turned to face the general.

“They know what needs to be done sir.”

Skywalker considered my words carefully. He sighed, “I don’t know Rex. What if they’re not prepared to do what needs to be done?”

  Your POV

Heels echoed throughout the dimly lit hallway as I followed the sound of distant music and murmuring that spilled from the ballroom. As I drew closer, I held my breath in anticipation.

Or was that just this ridiculously tight corset?

I fluttered the fan in my hand in a feeble attempt to act like the lady everyone thought I was, while forcing some oxygen into my lungs. I took a deep gulp of air and compelled a graceful smile to my lips before I stepped into the light and glamour of the ongoing party.

Swiftly, I made my way over to the far side of the room where small tables covered in fine white tablecloth were dotted about for guests to rest at when their feet got tired of the dancing. Since it was still early in the night, many seats were yet to be occupied.

As inconspicuously as I could, I seated myself at a table displaced relatively far from the crowded dance floor. Casually, as if simply admiring the grand space, I surveyed the area. The room itself had to be at least three stories high with massive columns reaching up from the marble floor and curving to intertwine at the center of the ceiling, creating an arched effect. A magnificent chandelier was strung from the heights of the room and casted a beautiful reflection upon the floor’s surface and her dancers.

Hundreds of strangers in expensive clothing mingled below, constantly switching partners through the course of the dance. Swirling skirts and glimmering jewels were all that could be seen as I observed the onslaught of people.

All of this I saw in only a glance before my eyes found our man across the dance floor from me. He stood tall in a suit, cane in hand, as he conversed with other young men. Unfortunately, my eyes failed to find my man who was meant to be already situated at the main hall’s back exit.

I noted to my right, an approaching butler serving crystal glasses filled with rich red wine. Effortlessly, I reached out, seized a glass from the silver tray as he passed and brought the goblet to my lips as though to drink.

“I’m in position,” I muttered. “Eyes are on the target and ready to engage. Fives where are you?”

Small static sounds could be heard through my comm as the audio came through.

“Relax,” came the smooth reply, “I wouldn’t want to miss the party.” I resisted rolling my eyes at the slight tease in his tone. “Besides,” he continued, his voice dropping low, “I would love to see you in that dress again mesh’la.”

“Focus Fives.”

A small smirk tugged at the corner of my mouth at the General’s curt interruption.

From the corner of my eye, I saw Fives slip through a side door clad in the guard uniform he had stolen. My smirk grew. He looked so cute in the dress uniform; little epaulettes and all. Clearly Fives wasn’t the only one distracted. I forced my attention to the task at hand.

“Ready when you are.”

“About time,” I breathed as I left my cup on the table and stood. “Approaching target.”

 The Jedi Council had heard of a new Separatist general joining the fray.

Yavaros Tai.

Rumour had it that Tai was finalising his designs of a deadly weapon that he was revealing to his Separatist sponsors tonight. Clearly, the surrounding men he spoke to were his said benefactors. Wealth dangled from them.

Edging closer, I noted that he looked far younger than I had anticipated. No older than his mid-twenties.

The dark blue floral dress I wore dragged along the floor, so much so, not even my heeled shoes had given me the height I needed, and I resorted to tug the front of my dress upward to refrain from tripping. I hoped that all would go to plan, and I wouldn’t have to try and run in this thing. My only comfort was that I was well rehearsed in these kinds of missions and, on more than one occasion, proved myself to be surprisingly sufficient in improvising… and running.

As I approached the group of men, I planned my next steps carefully in my head. Now, with them only a few feet to my right, I looked over my shoulder as though entranced and distracted. An oblivious dancer, close to the edge of the throng, accidently collided into me and sent me tumbling. Before I could even register the surprised shouts of men, strong arms caught me, and I looked up to see the bright blue eyes of General Tai. Perfect.

  Fives’s POV

She was beautiful.

I knew we were in the middle of a mission, but my eyes were completely spellbound as they intently traced her movements. She moved with a grace and sophistication I had never seen on her before and, despite being dressed to fit in for the event, she stood out like a rose among thorns.

From my position near the doorway, I spied the envious looks from the surrounding women as she walked the expanse of the hall. I didn’t fail to realise the visible admiration from the men nearby either, but my brief jealousy was quickly replaced by pride. I couldn’t help the smug smile.

That’s my girl.

I wished I could be beside her. Show those men she was mine. Maybe ask her to dance. We could dance and laugh until our feet got tired and then leave the party, running down the empty corridors. We would find a way to climb up to the roof and spend the rest of the night under the stars like I know she loved to do.

My smile faltered. Not for the first time, disappointment and love fought for control as I struggled to come to terms with reality.

Because standing alone on the outskirts, I was again reminded anew.

She may love me, but I could never give her the life she deserved.

  Your POV

My mouth gaped open in false shock.

“Oh, excuse me!” I exclaimed. “My sincerest apologies!”

The corner of General Tai’s eyes crinkled in amusement as I gathered myself and pretended to act gushed and embarrassed. Smoothing out my dress, I noted his hands still rested on my shoulders. One of them still held onto his cane. Almost reluctantly, he let his arms fall to his sides as he took in my appearance. I blushed as his penetrating eyes slowly raked down and back up my form.

“My my,” he hummed, “what a beautiful specimen.” His hand caught mine and gently lifted it to brush his lips against my knuckles. His eyes stared intently into mine. It made me uncomfortable. In many ways he was generically handsome, blue eyes, blonde hair, high cheekbones, and a refined posture. Nothing like Fives with his dark features, rugged look, wild smile, and-

“Ehem.” My thoughts were interrupted when a man to our side leaned closer to the general. “We have important matters to discuss sir.” His narrowed eyes flickered over to me. I could tell he was trying to intimidate me as he squared his shoulders.

“Nothing that can’t wait Cronan.” Yavaros’s eyes never left mine.

“But sir- “

“Cronan,” Tai interjected, finally tearing his gaze away from me to focus on the man beside him. “This is a party, is it not? Enjoy yourselves this evening gentlemen. We will discuss business later.”

Cronan shot me daggers as him and the other men dispersed and weaved themselves among the partygoers. Some opted to dance, while most continued to converse with other diplomats.

“Looks like a fun crowd,” I remarked sarcastically, drawing the general’s attention back to me.

“Ah yes,” Tai smirked as his piercing eyes turned to fix on me once more. “I should like to apologise for his curtness. Cronan is… ambitious, and very keen in his handling of business.”

I look of hunger flashed in his eyes.

“Perhaps in some ways, I am no different.” I tried not to squirm as he edged closer to me.

“Oh?”

Ahhh man.

“Mmm.” I felt his breath ghost my cheek as he whispered in my ear. “I’m ambitious to gain your affections Miss…”

“Miss Y/N,” I supplied in a breathy tone. While he mistook it for admiration, I tried to steal my nerves.

He leered. “Miss Y/N,” he murmured, as though playing how the name felt on his tongue. The tension in the air tangible. “Would you join me for a walk?”

To be continued...

~ Sister

Tags: @imalovernotahater​ @kaorikoizumi​ @xlittlemissydjx​ @damerondala​

Let me know if you want to be tagged in future works!

[prophecy-is-inevitable]

Would you be willing to do a Michael x Plus Size Reader? I feel insecure sometimes, especially thinking of how perfect he looks and I worry I would be too needy for him considering he called Gallant out for his neediness. I also feel like I would call him out for his neediness too since he wants someone who understands him, assuming we knew each other well enough. Can you do something with all this? 👉🏻👈🏻

Ooph. This one is really hard for me since it’s very far out of my comfort zone, but you don’t get better without practice, right? I hope that this has turned out in a way that you like! 100% yelled at Michael when I saw that shit, too. Like, YOU KNOW ALL ABOUT NEEDINESS DON’T YOU MICHAEL LANGDON?! HUH?! Anyway...fully agree. I think it might have been a little hard for him to see his neediness mirrored in someone else and that set him off. He can be the ONLY needy one. Disclaimer: Please don’t drink antifreeze to experience Michael Langdon. Thank you!

The Two Instances of Neediness

He’d promised you safety. Above all else, he had promised that he would keep you safe and make sure you were cared for when he couldn’t be with you. It seemed only half of that promise came through.

For the last year and a half, you’d been diligently waiting for him to retrieve you from Outpost 3. Safety had been provided, as promised. The white stone and dark wood walls were kept warm for the dozen or so people that resided inside the structure. There were enough rooms and beds for everyone to have their own space. A small mercy in the grand scheme of things.

When you finally saw Michael Langdon again, he had certainly changed. The way he carried himself, the exquisiteness of his clothes, the length of his hair… Everything looked and felt different. He looked and felt like everything he was meant to be. Divine yet deadly, comforting yet cruel. He was the sweet taste of antifreeze coating your tongue, euphoric and paralyzing all at once as he snuck into your system and shut you down from the inside out.

You watched him with a wondrous smile as he strode into the library. Your teeth sank gently into your lip in an attempt to keep from crying out his name. Surely he would still remember you. He surveyed the room with a self-satisfied smirk upon seeing the entirety of the Outpost gathered for him. When he spotted you, though, the smirk morphed into a painfully familiar look.

Eighteen months ago, you stood inside of Outpost 3 clad in nothing but your underwear following the mandatory decontamination process all new survivors had to undergo. A redhead with a pinched, strict face stared at you with a sneer, her eyes taking in every extra curve and flaw of your body. You stared right back at her with a smirk, daring her to make a single comment, when you both knew why you were there. Michael’s own people had brought you here on his behalf. Whatever this woman thought of you? It mattered for nothing in comparison to him.

Now, Michael stood at the center of the main library floor below you, gazing at you with the same sneer and furrowed brow that Venable bestowed upon you that first day. Your grey dress was plain and ill-fitting; at least if you’d been able to fashion some sort of belt or tie it could have almost looked appealing. The high bun was ridiculous and hurt your scalp something awful. Every night you let your hair out felt like a thousand bees stinging the follicles. Any alterations to the servant uniform you had been given were strictly forbidden. As was everything else.

You had been given safety, yes, but cared for? No. And now you stood there, eyes brimming with unshed tears, as he scowled hatefully at you and you could feel your heart crumbling piece by piece. Maybe he’d sent you here as a way to get rid of you. Maybe he’d found someone else, someone smarter, stronger, more conventionally beautiful. Perhaps his gaze would have been different if you had been granted the elegant drapery of the Purples. The corsets that cinched their waists and lifted their breasts gave them the perfect hourglass shape of a goddess. Your full figure would have been the very image of voluptuous and desirable then. There was no way you could bear to look at him now.

Days went by without seeing Michael. Between your work around the Outpost, your blatant avoidance of him, and his nonexistent attempts to reconnect, the opportunities were--thankfully--sparse. Conflict raged inside of you. Part of you wanted to confront him, to see what the fuck he thought he was playing at with your life and your feelings. The other part was happy to live in the questionable bliss of ignorance. You didn’t want to hear of whatever new love he’d found that superseded the love he’d claimed to have for you.

While it was easy to avoid his person, it was much, much harder to avoid his name.

“Langdon” was all anyone could talk about. How handsome he was, how skillful he must be in the bedroom. Gallant was certain that Langdon had his gorgeous blue eyes on him, and you’d never hated the hairdresser more. You hoped he choked on his cube. When his grandmother revealed that she had seen him having sex with someone, you resigned yourself to the fact that you had lost Michael for good. If he was interested in lean blond men, he certainly wasn’t interested in you anymore.

Venable assigned you to keep tabs on Gallant while he was strung up awaiting punishment. Once a day, you would throw a bucket of water over him to keep him clean. He still received his daily rations that you had to feed to him yourself since his hands were chained up. All you would have to do was shove the fork a liiiittle bit too far down his throat, and all the disparaging words he’d whispered just loud enough for you to hear behind your back, all of the times he’d tried to make you doubt your worth would all be over. There was only one man that you allowed to sow seeds of doubt in your mind. You froze mid step when that man’s voice drifted under the closed door of Gallant’s “cell”.

“I wouldn’t fuck you if you were the last man on Earth,” his sweet voice dripped with contempt, “and you almost are.” The slow drawl of Michael Langdon’s voice continued inside of the room, bouncing tauntingly around the circular walls. “It’s not because you’re not physically attractive. It’s your neediness.” His tone of voice shifted dramatically from dulcet and slow to cutting and cold. It made you shiver, even as you felt the anger burning inside of your skin. It wasn’t for Gallant. Oh no, he could mock that shallow, conceited man all he wanted. “You’re desperation to be seen and loved. The hole you need filled isn’t in your face or your ass--it’s in your heart.”

No, your anger wasn’t on behalf of Gallant. You couldn’t help feeling he was also talking about you. How you’d often sought reassurance in him, and hoped to feel loved to validate the feelings that you felt for him, too. Above all, you were angry because you knew his words would have cut himself deeper than any other before he’s become this...this creature. Where was the man you knew and loved before the bombs fell?

“You’re pathetic.” Your lips trembled and tears burned in your eyes. The words, while not directed at you, punched the air from your lungs. Is that how he felt about you? Was that why he was avoiding you as if you had radiation sickness? The footsteps and the opening of the door didn’t register through your self-imposed turmoil. Before you knew it, the man that had been on your thoughts stood before you.

“No.” The word left your mouth before you could stop it. Your eyes narrowed at his and you stepped up, toe to toe, with his immaculately polished shoes. “You’re pathetic, Michael Langdon.” For the briefest moment, his glacial eyes melted and looked from your tears to the anger and hurt in your eyes. “You forget that I know you, Michael. Or at least I did once. No one needed love more than you, and now you weaponize that fact against someone else? Is that how you feel about everyone?” You bit into your lip as your entire body shook, the water you carried in your arms sloshing against the sides and mimicking the raging sea of emotions tearing you apart. “Is that how you feel about me?”

The answer never came. His arms remained, as always, clasped behind his back. Wide eyes narrowed dangerously to scan the surrounding halls to see if anyone was there to witness your outburst. His head bowed to yours, forehead to forehead and nose to nose, before he spoke.

“I will be conducting your interview this evening. Ms. Venable is already aware that you will not be attending dinner.”

With that, he turned on his heel and made his way down the hall in perfect, casual strides. You turned and let your back thud against the wall. The stone was cold against your back as you slid, shaking, to the floor

“What the fuck was I thinking?” You muttered to yourself several hours later when it came time to make the journey to Langdon’s office. You dreaded hearing whatever he had to say. Now he would be in the privacy of his own rooms and be able to rage against you however he saw fit.

“Come in.” Michael’s voice beckoned you before you could even lift your hand to knock. You opened the door slowly, heart heavy with dread, and kept your eyes down. Movement from his desk let you know where he was. “Now, now. No need to look so shy.” He approached you slowly, a smirk on his lips, and reached out a hand to cup your chin. “You forget that I know you, too,” he threw your words back at you.

You finally managed to lift your gaze to his and found it resting on your lips. The hardened ice of his gaze dissipated with an inquisitive tilt of his head, and your heart skipped at the familiar gesture. His warm hand on your skin, gently holding your face, brought back so many memories. The next thing you knew, he was stepping back from you and scanning your form from head to toe. The same glare and curl of his lips appeared as the first night he had arrived. Instinctively, you wrapped your arms around yourself and attempted to shrink away as much as possible. He exhaled in a heavy, aggravated sigh. So he did think of you that way, too, then.

“She is going to pay for this,” he growled. Your head shot up in confusion. She who? Pay for what? Michael pressed his lips into a thin line of displeasure. “I specifically ordered that your position within the Outpost be among the elite. This is a blatant disregard for my commands. If I had known sooner… Take it off.” Mind still muddled in confusion, you simply blinked up at him. Michael gestured with his elegant, jeweled fingers curling into his upturned palm. “That ridiculous uniform. Take it off. And let down your hair. I can only imagine how uncomfortable that must be for you.”

This had to be some form of trick. You were supposed to have been a purple all along? He’d promised that you would be safe and cared for... No, he was using any trust that you had left in him against you--just like he had toyed with everyone else in the Outpost. The realization made you quickly shake your head. You were not going to expose yourself to him just so he could mock you and hurt you any further. His face fell at your refusal, and his brow furrowed.

“Please. It’s been so long. Knowing you’ve been right here with me the last few days without being able to truly speak to you has been excruciating. Please let me see you.” Oh, how you wanted to believe him. How badly you wanted to think he had missed you and desired you. When you still didn’t move, he came towards you again and forced you to back up against the door. “Perhaps you need a bit of help.”

Michael stooped down and gently captured your ankle in his grasp. He removed your shoe with the effortless tug of his hand to toss it behind him and repeated the process on the other. Next, his hands ran up the sides of your legs. Gentleness was a foreign display from this new Michael, but it was one that your Michael had used often in ascertaining his feelings for you. A soft whimper slipped past your lips from the way he carefully gathered the fabric of your plain dress.

“Look at me, my love.” The command was a gentle one that you couldn’t help but to obey. His eyes mirrored the soft, passionate pleading of his words, and the feeling in the room shifted to something much more in your favor. “How I have missed you.” Several silent tears dripped down your cheeks. It would only be a matter of time before things came crashing down. You could feel it. “Now, take your dress off for me.”

He sat back on his heels and waited, smirking up at you quite happily. Every bit of you screamed no, to remain still, not to become so vulnerable in front of him. Yet, you could still see a part of the man you knew in those glistening blue eyes. A renewed determination filled you, and you removed his hands from your dress to tug it over your head. You tossed the dress into the corner and held your arms out to him in a show of exposure so against your usual nature it was painful. If you were lucky, a pit to hell would open up beneath you and save you from the tragedy. Or perhaps you were already there.

“Is this what you wanted to see? So you could mock me for my appearance, for my neediness to be appreciated and loved for more than what everyone sees? Fuck you, Michael. There was a time that you needed to be loved more than anything. That you wanted to be loved more than anything.” Your legs shook slightly from the willpower it took not to crumple in on yourself.

“Yes.” The words came from Michael as a hiss. Still it seduced you to him like the snake of the Forbidden Tree. His eyes appraised you as he stood, wide and remembering, taking in every curve and dip of your body that made you so scared and so uncertain of anyone’s affection. “This is what I wanted to see. To see you.” Michael’s smirk grew and he placed his hands on your waist. “There are only two occasions in which neediness is not a thing to be mocked, but to be adored.” The hands on your waist pulled you against him. Another whimper blended into a moan at the feel of his warm body against you.

“The first instance is the neediness for me that drips off of you. The second,” he pushed to sigh, “is how badly I need you. To see the image of perfection that I have dreamt of every day for the last 18 months. The warmth that has been absent from the bed beside me for too long.” The gentle pressure of his hands on your sides softly moved upwards over your breasts, along the tops of your shoulders, fingers dancing along your throat, the final destination being your cheeks. Love spread over every inch of your body. His words to you were nothing but the truth. A slight tremble to his lips broke the calm composure of the man the outpost knew as Langdon, Cooperative Agent. In his place stood Michael Langdon, your Michael Langdon, and he very eagerly captured your lips in his.

Everything was conveyed in that one embrace. He still needed you as much as you needed him. It would be your little secret.

[yespolkadotkitty]

Agh!! Nudie Anon here. I’m open to any Ezra nickname at all!! Thank YOU!

Rainfall

Gorgeous gif by @ithinkwehitametaphor - thankyou! and thanking @mourningbirds1 for the beta read.

Warnings: dark(ish) Ezra, mild violence, swears.

****

“She’s fine, your little bit, ain’t she? Seen her somewhere before - that’s it. Men’s room wall in a bar named Hook, Line & Sinker on Aperture-4.”

And with those words from a fellow grifter he’d been drinking with, Ezra had taken off like a rabbit with its tail on fire. 

No one got to look at you that way, especially while taking a shit.

He stalked through the crowded bar, not caring who he pushed aside, a tall, striking man with a mouth made for sin, soulful, whiskey-brown eyes that could nonetheless communicate your doom, and a natural blond streak on the right side of his head, the lightness commanding attention among his tousled, hazelnut curls. 

A kiss of starlight, you called it.

And your words made him feel like he was made of starstuff. Made him feel like more than a one-armed, washed up Prospector, a harvester who couldn’t really harvest anymore, reduced to grifting around the Universe for whatever jobs he could charm his way into.

He’d always been lucky with his charm. Could talk his way into any woman’s smalls; but those days, the days of faceless women  to drown his sorrows in,  as interchangeable as any liquor bottle, were behind him since he’d met you.

Rainfall, he called you. Because you were essential to him the way rain was essential to most of the early Terras of the history books you so loved. Because he was sure as shit that he’d die without you. Waste away, become nothing but a footnote in the life you’d continue to shine in without him.

And he wouldn’t let other men look upon the one gem he’d found that was a thousand times more precious than aurelac.

Priceless, in fact.

He stormed into the men’s room, the stained door rickety, swinging in Ezra’s angry wake.

An unfortunate man - a floater too, by the look of him - stood by your picture, leering, his hands under his long jacket. In a second, Ezra could guess what the charlatan was up to.

Fury rose, dark like demon’s wings, in his gut.

He crossed the dirty space in three strides, ripped your picture from the wall, stuffed it in his pocket.

“Hey, fuck you man,” the floater began. “I don’t see your name-”

Ezra’s knife, concealed in a custom-made pocket on his sweater, was at the man’s throbbing pulsepoint in a hot second. He might only have one arm now, but he’d learned to use it with pinpoint accuracy. “Might want to rethink your words there, friend,” he said silkily, his tone soft. Deadly. “Lest they be your last.”

“Whoa, whoa.” The man held his hands up, empty palms out. The front of his coat darkened and Ezra noted with faint disgust that the stranger had pissed himself. “I didn’t see nothing, all right? Please, don’t kill me.”

“Killing you would be a waste of resources,” Ezra sighed, smiling cheerfully at the shuddering man. “I’m thinking it’s kinder all around to let you live out your miserable life. Don’t you?”

He pulled his knife away, leaving a single drop of blood to run down the shivering stranger’s pale, fleshy throat, and left the men’s room, pushing the door open so hard it creaked on its old, rusty hinges.

Once safely outside under a canopy of lab-grown trees - the only way trees existed in the mess they called cities, these days - he took the flyer out, studied it.

There you were. Rainfall. He mouthed the moniker he’d given you. Your breasts spilled out of a corset, half-drawn so your nipples could be seen, tempting, round. Your legs were curled under you but you wore no underwear, so the curls between your legs peeked out.

He knew you were no blushing virgin when you’d met. You had known other men. You had trusted them.

And this was how one of those men had thanked you for your trust, your body, your heart.

Ezra recognised the little doodle in the right hand corner of the flyer. He’d seen it before, on counterfeit ales, on counterfeit... Recreational substances.

And thanks to his grubby past, he knew exactly where to find this particular felon.

*****

“Rainfall?”

You looked up from the bread you kneaded - an outdated by enjoyable pastime, sometimes made tricky by the fact you could only get soya flour (crappy rise) - to see Ezra coming in through the door.

“Ez. I was worried! You’re two days overdue.” You left the bread in a sorry heap and crossed the room, throwing your arms around him, burying your nose in the curve where his shoulder met his neck. He’d taken his suit off in your makeshift porch, and wore his undersuit and boots, his hair a little sweaty, curling at his nape and over his forehead. He nuzzled your hair. 

“I’m as sorry as can be, Rainfall. Had a little extra business to take care of.”

It was then that you noted the smear of blood on his forearm. “Ezra.” You snatched his arm, searching for the tear in the suit.

“Oh. Ain’t mine, sweet girl.”

The breath whoosed out of you, and you lifted your face for his kiss, so happy to have him home, this man who made you complete, whose broken parts completed the missing pieces of your own personal jigsaw.

Ezra indulged you, pressing his lips to yours, and you opened greedily for him. He snaked his arm around your waist, pulling you close as your tongues danced. You drank him in, the flavour of his habitual chicory coffee, mint chocolate protein bars, and something distinctly Ezra that you could never replicate in a thousand cycles.

“Found a flyer of you, Rainfall,” he muttered against your cheek, his facial scruff tickling pleasantly. “Adorning the filthy wall of a restroom on Aperture-4. Cheap entertainment for those without morals, men passed over by common decency, with gaping holes where their souls should reside.”

You bit your lip. “What the hell-”

“The culprit must have been a former paramour of yours, sweet girl.” Ezra let you go to pull the flyer from his pocket, showing it to you.

Your face fell as you took it, examining the picture closely, memories churning. “Yes. It was…. Almost ten cycles ago, now. He said that was for his private collection. Then, soon after, I found other girls…. Posing for his ‘private collection’ and I ended it. Oh, I should tell him-” You crumpled it in your palm, angry with yourself.

“A chore you need not trouble yourself with, Rainfall.”

You looked at Ezra askance, and then something dark passed over his face. The way Ezra could switch from charming to sinister in a heartbeat was one of the things that had most intrigued you about him, when you’d met two cycles ago.

And then you had dug deeper into this gorgeous puzzle of a man, and found light and shadow, softness and jagged edges. And you had fallen, hopelessly, for every part of him, even the missing ones, because they too, told a story.

“I may have had a fair illuminating conversation with your old flame.”

“Ezra…”

“The temptation to kill him was strong, I must confess, but I let him live, with all his appendages attached.” Ezra gazed down at you fondly, cupping your cheek. “Seems it may be a while before he’s moved to approach another woman, though.”

“Sometimes, Ezra, your moral compass is skewed just right.” You held him tightly. “Thankyou. The thought of a private picture, being shared that way-”

He nuzzled your hair, breathed in, sighed happily. “Can’t say it was entirely altruistic, Rainfall. Don’t sit well with me, others lookin’ on your beauty. You’re mine, and I don’t share well.” He kissed you fiercely, his arm banded around you, holding you close as could be. 

“Yeah? I don’t share either.” You nipped at his lip. “I’ve missed you, and you interrupted at the perfect time.” You nodded towards the sorry-looking dough on the kitchen counter. “No way I’m getting a rise out of that.” Cheekily, you slid a hand down his body to cup him where he’d started to grow hard for you. “But I might be in luck, now you’re home.”

Ezra turned you in a circle, walking you slowly backwards towards your bedroom, dropping kisses on your neck as his hand worked the buttons of your rainy-stay-home jumpsuit. “My sweet girl. I’ll always endeavour to come home to you.”

Tagging the Pedro pals: @songsformonkeys @dornish-queen @lackofhonor @buckstaposition @pedropascallion @starlight-starwrites @thegreenkid @keeper0fthestars @opheliaelysia @a-seeker-of-imagination @nelba @scarlettvonsass @synystersilenceinblacknwhite @cryptkeepersoul @alwaysbethewest @emmy-dandiliom918 @agirllovespasta @marydjarin @littlemissthistle @holographic-carmen @phoenixhalliwell @knittingqueen13 @badassbaker @chews-erotically @10-96dispatcher @pascalitomorales @ahopelessromanticwritersworld @seawhisperer @readsalot73 @alldatalost @abuttoncalledsmalls @winters-buck  @jaime1110 @mrsparknuts @oloreaa

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[kittymunst3r]

 Nami turned another street corner and looked behind her to check if Ezreal had followed. He hadn’t. The siren felt a small wave of disappointment, both at herself and the man. Did she really count that little amongst the other guardians? Why did it matter so much to her to be counted as one of them? She had her own people, but why did that feel like a futile thing to say now? She had been gone from the ocean, her tribe for so long… was she really still one of them after all of this? As Nami struggled with her own internal thoughts she was almost too late when an ensnaring magic rose around her.

  A bright burst of light lit the cold dark of the empty city street as Nami slid backwards, her chest heaving in the sudden exertion of magic.

  “Nicely done, Nami,” a voice purred. “I haven’t had someone deflect my vines in a long time.”

  With a small wave of her hand Nami’s staff appeared, the ornate golden weapon long and bloomed with blue arcing waves that appeared deadly at the tip.

  “If you value your life,” Nami asked, her eyes narrowing on the dark form leaned against the nearby alley wall, “speak quickly.”

  A laugh came from the stranger as they stepped out and into the low glow of the city street. It was a woman, her full, long dark red hair woven back in a high, intricate braid. Clad head to toe in black leather it looked as though what the stranger wore was painted on. Cinched at her waist was a red corset, the silver of the clasps shining dully in the low light as her breasts swelled out with every breath. Everything about this woman’s body curved and dipped sensually.

  Before Nami’s brain could register the slight flick of the stranger’s hand the siren felt her hand grow numb. Looking down she realized an entire vine had crept out of a crack in the pavement and had now woven its way around her wrist that gripped the staff. The stranger closed her fist tightly and Nami cried out in pain as the vine’s strength squeezed so tight she thought for sure her bones were cracking.

  Nami tried to summon as much magic as she could but this seemed to only anger the stranger as she let out an annoyed sigh. Springing with up force, the cement crumbling away more vines appeared and gripped all parts of Nami.

  “That’s enough resisting, siren.” The woman said, her voice coming out like a seductive purr, although along the edges of her tone were strained. “Or I will crush you like a-” the woman threatened, stepping towards Nami, leveling their faces as Nami’s chin was gripped tightly by another vine.

  “Zyra!” A small, childlike voice snapped.

    “Greaaat, the buzz kill has arrived,” Zyra turned, feigning a smile towards the voice coming from behind Nami. More vines shifted to cover the siren’s mouth as Nami began to cry out again as the vines holding her tightened even further.

  “You’re going to make him mad…” The child spoke again, this time her voice sounding as though she would enjoy the thought of Zyra being punished.

  Nami attempted to breathe through the pain, realizing that with each inhale the vines wrapped around her torso now only squeezed her ribs tighter.

  “Enough.” A clear voice rang out and Nami felt her hair stand up and her teeth grit through the pain. It was a familiar voice and the power behind it sent a shiver of fear… and rage. The Golden Demon was here.

[clown-of-rivia]

Jaskier had never felt particularly Male or female, masculine or feminine. He has always found himself somewhere in the middle.

At the age of 15 when his father dies he finds out why.

He had been born 'ambiguous' his old nurse maid told him. His parents were horrified and called in a mage who specialised in 'fixing' such things. His father dad decided he would be male. Magic and a blade did the rest.

Perhaps a little too much magic judging by his ample chest hair and smooth deep voice.

There is no use in hating a dead man and a woman who pretends you dont exist. No use in letting it consume him him. So he sets out on his own.

He uses his given names 'Julian Alfred' and studies at Oxenfurt and slowly finds himself. He likes slik, colours, perfumes, and art, but also things that are strong, scary, and masculine. He likes men and loves women equally. He still doesn't feel entirely a man, but it's easier this way.

Easier to be a young man setting off into the unknown in search of adventure.

A man who meets Geralt of Rivia, and falls in love.

A man who follows the witcher to the ends of the Continent for years. Who loves him secretly but admires him freely.

A man who keeps his secrets because...Geralt never cared to ask. Maybe never cared at all.

A man who had his heart crushed every time the Sorceress with her deadly curves and wicked smile and bewitching hands showed up. Suddenly it was like Jaskier didnt exist. Only Yennefer. The jealousy nearly choked him.

A man who had what was left of his battered heart shattered when the one person he had ever devoted himself to and loved so unconditionally cursed his very existence.

Jaskier, the man, never makes it down the mountain.

Julian emerges from the tent of a close friend and mage. Triss smiles as she waves goodbye.

Julian is still a little uncomfortable, still a little self conscious, but feels more at home in his skin. His (her? Their?) voice is still smooth and deep, but softer. His fingertips still sport calluses, his eyes are still blue, and hair still brown. But there's a dip in his waist, barely noticable like the slight swell of his chest. His face had lost some hard edges and gained fuller lips.

He did lose a lot of body hair. Thank Melitele.

The changes are not as drastic as he feared, its subtle and closer towards what he suspects his natural body at birth would've looked like, although leaning more towards the feminine. He wanted Jaskier gone, after all.

Róża the bard enters the annual Cintra Bard Games dressed in all red silk and lace and a corset fashioned from a red scaled doublet she had worn the day Jaskier died on that mountain top. A red rose. Beautiful but dangerous.

She snorts at Valdo trying to flirt. He could distract Valdo but it's not even worth it.

There are whispers, some concerned some smug, wondering why Jaskier isnt there. But most talk is about the beautiful stranger amongst them.

She wins the Continent's biggest Bard competition. A newcomer.

And so a new chapter began for Julian. Jaskier was gone, and Roza was here to sing, play, write, and take no shit.

...to be continued?

[rose-demica]

Short Prompt Collection

Fandom: Doctor Who, New Doctor Who,

Series: Something of a Bother,

Pairings: The Doctor (Ten) / The Lady, The Master (Simms)/ The Keeper

Summary: Short collection of prompts that are too small to post alone: Co-written.

"In case of Dalek, use stairs"

"This way Ponds, Ladies!" The Doctor called turning the corner and running towards the elevators. 

"Doctor?" The Lady asked making the mad-man hesitate. He looked back at her questioningly.

"Stairs." Was all she said as the Keeper opened the door. She hussled the Ponds through the door grabbed holds of The Lady and The Doctor and yanked them into the stairwell just as the Daleks rounded the corner.

"Bloody brilliant!"

"Love you too." The Ladies said in unison.

  "Promises to show companion distant planets and galaxies...spends majority of time in London."

"Doctor?" Amy asked while the Tardis floated through the time space continum.

"Yes Amy?"

"I've been talking with the Keeper, and she's pointed out a very interesting point."

"Oh and what's that?" The Doctor returned to his lounging, hands behind his head feet up on the consol.

"You promised me we'd travel to faraway planets and Galaxies."

"Yes."

"But, we spend most of our time in London. Why is that?" The Doctor looked at her startled. He opened his mouth to reply then closed it again, glaring slightly at Amy.

"You're not allowed to talk to the Keeper anymore." He announced before returning to his lounging position.

"I like my men how I like my tea, hot and British."

"Lady, what are you doing?" The Doctor asked as he stepped into the grand dining room.

"Taste testing tea." She replied before taking a sip. She grimaced at the taste and promptly set the teacup on the table before picking up another.

"Why?"

"Because I can, Doctor, why else?" The Lady gave him a devilish smirk before taking another sip.

"Hmm." Her lips pressed together in concentration.

"I think I've come to a decision."

"About the tea?"

"Oui."

"So?"

"It appears that I like my tea exactly the same way I like my men." The Lady stood and sauntered over to him draping her arms around his neck casually.

"Oh?" The Doctor said smirking as he wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her close.

"Hot and British."

  "If there's one thing I learned from the Doctor, it's to push all the buttons."

"Is this safe?" Rory yelled as red alien letters rapidly flashed across the screen.

"Probably not." The Lady admitted as she scanned the screens trying to read the words that were flashing much too quickly.

"Rory, I need you to do something very important." Rory looked at the Lady surprised by the seriousness in her voice. Her face was virtually stone-like only her pursed lips giving away the gravity of the situation.

"What can I do Lady?" Rory asked trying not to panic.

"Push that button."

"Which one?"

"All of them."

"Lady, that can't be wise!"

"Rory, listen, I'm 900 years old and if I've only learned one thing I learned it from the Doctor. PUSH ALL THE BUTTONS." The Lady slammed her hands down on her side of the control panel hitting as many of the buttons as she could.

"Aye aye ma'am." Rory mimicked and he too began pushing every knob and button within his reach.

The room gave a great shudder and then everything was still.

"Crisis averted, darling!" Rory looked at the Lady in amazement; could Timelords be bipolar?

"Getting to the part of the book where the title actually makes sense."

"No, no it couldn't be." The Doctor muttered while he paced.

"But it has to be!" He exclaimed angirly turning around and pacing back towards his four companions. The Lady was watching him pace, Amy was examining her nails, Rory was leaning against a nearby pole, and The Keeper had her nose buried in the book she had been reading the entire day.

"But something isn't adding up!" The Doctor let out an aggravated yell.

"I get it now!" The Keeper yelled in triumph gaining the attention of the other four.

"They're Vampires who aren't vampires but a totally new subspecies that is actually older than the tale of vampires. The Humans just lobbed them all together because of their appearance." The Doctor regarded the Keeper for a second before pulling her into a bone crushing hug.

"You brilliant Time Lady! Their Saturnynian!" The Doctor released the Keeper who gave him a funny look.

"What?" She asked.

"That's what Signora Calvierri and her son and those girls have become!" The Doctor exclaimed oblivious to the Keeper's confusion. The Keeper turned to the other three with a questioning look.

"Makes sense." The Lady supplied, while Amy and Rory returned the confused Time Lady's blank stare.

"I was talking about my book." The Keeper said looking back to the Doctor like he had finally lost the last of his marbles.

"Your...book?" He asked finally noting the confusion claiming the room.

"From my cotton tail to my Bunny ears to the tips of my blood soaked fangs." The Doctor read as the Keeper held her book up.

"The Tardis recommended it to me."

  "Vampires, at least they don't sparkle."

"What are they?" Amy whispered as the pale girls started to surround the two women.

"Vampires. At least I think." The Lady quipped trying to lighten the quickly darkening mood. One girl hissed at them, baring vicious fangs.

"I thought vampires were.. .well..."

"At least they don't sparkle Amy. For that I am grateful."

  Anagram.

"How long have you know The Doctor, Captain?" The Keeper asked lifting her head from her book.

"A few years, why?"

"And he's topping your most wanted list." It wasn't a question and Jack suddenly wondered where this was going.

"I'm not going to turn him in, if that's what you’re getting at." Jack said trying to defend himself.

"Don't get your feathers in a ruffle, I merely wanted to know why Queen Victoria would anagram the name of her new organisation after the name of the number one most wanted criminal on said organisation's list?" Jack looked at the Keeper before grabbing a piece of paper and a pen.

"I'll be damned." Turning back to the Keeper who had been patiently waiting for her answer he just shrugged. She shrugged back and returned to her book.

Jenny?

“Jenny?” The Doctor pulled the Lady to a stop, and forcing everyone to a stop behind them, the Master and The Keeper very nearly skidding into the backs of Amy and Rory.

“Hey Dad!”

“DAD?” The Lady Shrieks, turning on the doctor.

“It’s not like that!” He said quickly,

“Not like what Dad?” Jenny demanded, and the Doctor’s eyes flicked between the two.

“Doctor, what’s going on?” Amy asked,

“Guys, this is my daughter, Jenny.” The Doctor held the Lady’s hands by her side.

“My Lady, she was created in a war, using a Progenation Machine, the one that takes your DNA and makes a fully fledged human, but because it was my DNA she, must be,”

“A time Lady, well kind of, I don’t regenerate, I heal, and it seems I age. but otherwise, I’m the closest it’s ever gonna get.” Jenny said, and instantly the Lady turned on her.

“The closest it’s ever get?! You’re standing in the presence of two REAL Time Ladies.” The Doctor rested a hand on The Ladies shoulder,

“Oh really?” Jenny challenged,

“Mi’Lady.” The Keeper warned,

“I saw you die.” The Doctor stated,

“They shot you, and you died  in my arms , how are you alive?” He added,

“Apparantly you didn’t wait around long enough, and this was the only way I could think of to get your attention.”

“Nearly blowing up a whole planet!?”

“Doc, you said she was ‘born’ during a war oui?” The Master interrupted,

“Yes, on the planet Messaline.”

“So all she knows is war, she was ‘born’ with that knowledge as to how, and the beliefs that was alright, so she wouldn’t know any better than to blow up a planet to get your attention, in fact, It’d never even think it as wrong, it’s the way she was made.”

“Who are you!?” Jenny demanded,

“Me? I’m the Master, I must be the cool uncle.”

“You’re related,” Jenny pointed to both the Master and the Doctor,

“Nope, childhood friends, we all are.” The Keeper said, before either of the boys could reply.

“Anyway, back to blowing up the planet.” The Doctor turned to Jenny.

“It’s not like it mattered, I mean, have you seen their race?” Jenny motioned to one of the aliens that was standing outside the reinforced glass door.

She had a gargola shaped face, with the long extended mouth that opened to reveal pointed razor sharp teeth. Her eyes were wide and beady, black swirls of darkness seen within, her nose almost looked human, but had long, wide nostrils that resembled a horses in design. She had pointed wolf-like ears that sat on both sides of her face, where on a humanoid would have their ears. 

She had wildebeest horns upon the top of her head, amongst stringy black hair that also was used to cover up her disfigured face. Her torso was very humanoid like, but instead of muscle and fat, there was only skin and bone, like she was wasting away to nothing, she wore a black corset that left her bony, ruin covered arms bare, at the end of those humaniod arms were hands that resembled an eagle’s talons, her fingers were long and slender, with shary pointed nails at the end that looked like they were made to rip and tear things to shreds. 

A tattered skirt covered her thin hips, and went down to where her knees should have been, but instead of knees she had two serpent tails that wrapped together, solidifying the joint so she could stand like a human, at the end of those tails were spikes that were infused with a deadly poison that would kill anyone in a heartbeat. 

From her back were 18 bones that curved forward around her body, there was 9 on each side, and they easily resembled spiders legs, and one could easily imagine that they would trap prey close into the huntresses body.

The Shifter Of Darkness hunts on moonless nights, transforming into a beautiful human woman, or a helpless child, luring the victim closer until they strike. They only have one weakness, they are slow, so if you can get away, run! They can be killed, but only with a carefully aimed shot through the heart.

“That doesn’t mean they deserve to die!” The Doctor snarled,

“Look at them, they’re coping the best they can, that was the way they were made! And you can’t punish people for being themselves.”

“I have a question.” Amy said, and all eyes flicked to her.

“All you lot have titles, right? The whole first name holds immense power thing, but you, you have a name, why?” She continued,

“Well...” The Doctor ran his hand through his hair nervously, deliberately not looking at the Lady.

“One of my previous companions named her.”

“But why Jenny?” Amy demanded

“I called her a generated anomaly. Donna repeated generated till she got Jenny.”

“Oh, so this mysterious companion has a name now!” The Lady snapped,

“Actually, I liked her, where’d she and that Martha chick go?”

“Martha got engaged, to Mickey, remember me telling you bout him, he was Rose’s boyfriend for a while, anyway Martha then joined U.N.I.T became a Doctor, then switched to Torchwood, Donna, she had to loose all her memories, shes with a nice man now.”

“Wasn’t Rose-” The Doctor motioned to her to stop but Jenny missed it,

“The human companion you were in love with? Had to go to a parallel universe, and all of that.”

“Thanks.” The Doctor said sarcastically to Jenny, before facing the Lady,

“Can we please do this later?”

“I’m all for it happening now!” The Master stated, somehow managing to get a large thing of popcorn.

“Master!?” The Keeper asked,

“Oh, Sorry Darling, would you like some popcorn?” He offered it to her,

“I swear there weren’t seats here before.” Rory remarked, as he glanced behind him, and sat down. Amy joining him, while the Master and the Keeper sat in another chair.

“Ready and Action!” The Master laughed, looking at the Doctor, the Lady, and Jenny.

“What, you think we’re gonna fight for your amusement?” Jenny demanded,

“Oh, lets fill you in, The Lady loves the Doctor, the Doctor loves the Lady, both have been friends since childhood, so they don’t want to leave that friendship faze, but they’re right on the verge of a relationship, and they flirt, and The Lady’s new regeneration gets really jealous.”

“Can we go back to the, she almost blew up a planet thing!?” The Doctor asked, turning to Jenny.

“Alright I get it, I was wrong I won’t do it again. Can you take me back to my ship, and I’ll be out of your hair.” Jenny said,

“Yea, Lets get out of here.” The Lady turned on her heels and left the room, and the aliens left her alone.

“Because you saved our planet, we will let you live, today.” Their empress spoke.

“Well, Lets go.” Everyone stood, and the Master stopped to speak to one of them.

“Thanks very much for the popcorn.”

“No trouble.” She replied,

“You can keep it if you wish?” The Master chuckled,

“Oh no I couldn’t my girlfriend would be very unhappy, but thank you so much for the offer.” The Master handed her back the popcorn, and put his arm around her waist and held her tight.

“Those two?” Jenny asked Amy and Rory, who she was walking with.

“Yea, I have no idea how long, but they’ve been like this since we found the master.”

“And the four of them?”

“Childhood friends on Gallifrey from what we can tell, The Doctor ran off with the Tardis, The two girls got sent away in the Lady’s tardis, and The Master ran away with the Keepers tardis, which he hid somewhere, and he can’t remember where.”