#I clean it up? Just a tiny scratch from a razor

[themenendezbrothers]

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Page 8

My first strip-out took place in the L.A. County Jail. The jail was a place of many firsts: the first time I would walk handcuffed and shackled to meet visitors, the first time I would be approached for "protection money"; the first time I would see crips and blood's and understand their decades-old battle. The utter and complete change in my life that came about in the L.A. County Jail is something that is difficult to explain. How can anyone describe the complete loss of freedom? When the call came announcing the warrant for our arrest, I was in Israel. Halfway around the world and free. Free to run and hide. But I never once considered running from the law. I was relieved to be "caught" – like a man stepping into a hot baht, I was finally washed of my secret.

When I came to the jail, I wasn't prepared for the stop-and-go pace. I would wait hours for the next thing to happen, and when it did, there was never enough time. Contact with the outside world was brief and monitored. Meals were scheduled and timed. The yard was small and closed and available only one hour a week. My first strip-out was like something out of a dime store novel. The jailors did everything they could to make it uncomfortable, but the whole time I stood wondering why they didn't just give up. Didn't they know that a stranger examining your body in a well-lit room with gloves and flashlights doesn't hold a candle to the terror of your father forcing unspeakable acts in the dark of your bedroom? I'm sure I hated the intrusion and humiliation, but the loss of privacy in a jailhouse setting just didn't seem that outrageous to me.

And so I dealt with it in the beginning. It was only over time that the intrusion and loss of privacy became an annoyance, and then a violation, and eventually a subtle act of violence, like Chinese water torture. The drip, drip, drip of experiences would finally get to me, and for a time I hated the guards as they administered strip-outs. But like everything in life, you must fight or give up, and eventually, I decided that strip-outs wouldn't break me. Once my body was visually searched, I was handed a pair of boxers, shirts, socks, and a blue, ultra-thin jumpsuit. The material was so thin you could see through it, and it made you wonder why they even bothered to cover you in the first place. "It'll be a while," the guard said. He slapped the door slot shut and I was alone again in another hastily cleaned cell with remnants of the dozen or so prisoners who had passed through Folsom's Center for Receiving and Release before me.

Page 16

When the officer finished, I was given a "fish kit" (toothbrush, toothpowder, a razor, and a bar of soap) a bed roll (two sheets, a towel, and a blanket), and a brown cup and spoon. My cell was on the upper tier. I dragged my property up the stairs until I found myself standing outside my cell. As I looked in, I was shocked by what I saw. The cell was tiny and torn by graffiti. It was not just scraped up a bit – it actually looked like someone had entered the cell, somehow pulled the walls absurdly close together, and then clawed at the surfaces until every inch of the drab gray paint and concrete walls had been marred by scratch marks and gang signs. These cells made those at Folsom look like suites. The cell measured six feet by ten feet, but they closed in at the front, narrowing the width to just under four feet, less than the span of two outstretched arms. The cell was smaller than a closet. My first thought was that two people could not possibly live in this. I must have been thinking it for some time, because the guard yelled, "Menendez, what are you doing? Get inside! I stepped in but for whatever reason, the guard didn't immediately shut the door behind me. I was almost relieved. At Folsom, the operation of cell doors was completely controlled by the tower guard. So I was perplexed when I heard the guard yelling again. "Menendez, what the hell are you doing? Am I going to have a problem with you?" I slunk my head out the door "What do you mean?" Shut the damn door!"

Source: Companion piece to Tammi's book. (not included in the book).

[circadianventing]

//blood mention

cuts from shaving have no business bleeding as much as they do while being so small

[ranticore]

just wanted to say i absolutely love ur characters. each and every one of them is such a joy to follow. genuinely cant say how many times i've reread ur books at this point. i love them and i would hate being around any of them (special mention to my boy erica for being both the coolest and lamest person alive and jean for. being jean)

thank you so much for sending this 🧡and also for so completely understanding eri's character

here is a snippet (might be used, might not) from one of the openings of the third book i've written:

“What is it that we call you these days, anyhow?” Erica went on, falling into step beside him. His fingernails were black, as if he’d been scratching coals. “And why am I needed?” “We found explosives at the Spurs barracks,” Félix said. Any remnant of resentment or anger that might have showed on Erica’s narrow, shrewd features was wiped away in an instant. He practically bounced on ahead, leaving Félix to wrestle with the mule who pulled one of the emptier supply carts. “Wait just a moment!” Félix called, finally getting the animal to pull into a trot. Erica mounted one of the steps at the back of the cart as it passed by. “What kind of explosives?” “The kind that explodes, how am I to know? You’re the expert.” Félix settled himself into the driving position, finally, wincing as the movement of the cart rattled up through his knee. “It was wrote on the box, 'N I T R O-'” “Nitroglycerin?” Erica looked elated at that. “Ah, I know you were sent for Jean but you should have asked for me first, Ortega. You’re less wrong than usual; of the two of us, he may be the physicist, but I am the chemist.” “I don’t give a fuck what it is,” Félix said, stubbornly, “and I don’t care to know. We only need to transport it.”

“Naturally. Do we know why it is there?” Erica was speaking directly over Félix’s shoulder, suddenly, his tangled black mane brushing against Félix’s perfectly clean chestnut brown hair. It was a reasonable question and one at which Félix could only guess. “Isn’t it obvious?” he said, rather than admit ignorance. “They’re storing it all away from the townsfolk so that they don’t set it off by mistake.” “Evidently,” said Erica, “but why have it at all? This is not a mining town.” “It ain’t an army town, either,” Félix said, “but they managed to drum up a firing squad for those rangers.” Erica’s black eyes turned to the distant grey-brown line made by the sea on the western horizon. The sea had always struck Félix as something very ugly, as much as he would have liked to have believed in the romanticised vision of foam and waves in many of the books he’d read. His first association with it had always been the filthy armpit of Amhan bay, mud flats that seethed with salt flies and threatened to trap him as he dug for whelks and razor clams. He recalled the excited voice of Cypress exclaiming over the northern sea past Aberharain, how beautiful it was, how vast. Félix had been able to forget the truth and believe it then. He’d made quite a habit of forgetting the truth, where Cypress was concerned. Now he followed Erica’s gaze and glared at the ugly brown smear, and wrinkled his nose against the distant reek of rotten seaweed and mud. “I’ve heard of a fishing method,” Erica said, “whereupon a fisherman lights a blasting cap and drops it overboard.” Félix snorted. “Where’d you hear that? Jean? What he knows of the real world couldn’t fill a thimble. That goes for you, as well. I could tell you any aul bullshit and you’d believe it.” “I would try,” Erica said, a tiny, ironic little smile hovering about his lips. “Indulging in fiction could only bring me relief.” The shape of the fortress filled the end of the road again with its attendant smell of burning death, and opportunities for light-hearted conversation died with it. The open graves lining the bottom of the wall were still being fed with soil and bodies. Some of the rangers had tied cloths over their mouths, but most had just got on with the work, up to their elbows in mud. “The place was burned,” Erica remarked, as Félix steered the cart as close to the store-room entrance as he could go. “And the explosives remain miraculously intact. Are you certain you can read?" “They were put there after the fire ended, genius,” Félix said. He set himself back down on the ground, with as much grace as could be managed, and still felt it when his bad knee took his weight. The stray dogs had grown less cautious about the graves, and one now lay motionless with an arrow in its chest put there by the ranger on guard. Félix stepped gingerly over it.

[lyricalt]

red sniperspy + domesticity mayhaps?

totally mayhaps!

----

It isn’t until Sniper rolls on his back and feels a moon clip dig into his side that he finally snaps. It’s five in the morning. He ought to be still asleep for at least two more hours.

“Spy,” he growls, pulling the clip from underneath him. He throws it at Spy’s legs, sending it bouncing off the intended target and into the floor, spilling all six bullets. “Clean your shit. Ain’t no reason for your ammo to be in the bloody bunk.” 

Spy is shaving at the tiny sink. He turns to Sniper, his mask bunched up to his ears and half a foamed jawline still obscuring his face. “Oh, don’t you know? I’m comfortable leaving my things around. My messiness is a sign of trust. Aren’t you flattered?”

Sniper looks around the camper. Spy’s got his jacket draped over a chair, an overflowing ashtray by the window, and countless gadgets left all over what limited space he can afford. Sniper might not be the neatest bloke out at Teufort but even he’s got to put some effort in keeping things organized. Can’t have too much in the van, after all. He’s never considered the idea of Spy being a packrat, storing ammo and cigarettes under bunks like a squirrel. 

“Nice fuckin’ try, y’snake,” he says, pulling two extra disguise kits from under the mattress. Jesus Christ. That’ll be half of Spy’s arsenal. Not even Engineer’s dispensers hold this much crap. “Me camper’s not your personal storage bin.”

Spy opens one of the upper cabinets and pulls out a bottle of aftershave. His own. There should have been animal tanning supplies in there, not ten different shaving tools. 

“I’m not using it as a storage bin,” Spy says. He gives Sniper a wide-eyed look, full of foamy innocent affection. “This is my home, with you.”

“Piss off.” Sniper scowls. “Don’t be disgusting.”

Spy’s expression rearranges itself into something more normal, mainly exasperation. “I don’t see how I’m adding any more mess to the place.”

“So you agree, it’s mess,” Sniper says, turning back over and crunching on possibly twenty more cigarette cartons for all he knows. He shuts his eyes and pulls the blanket backover his head. It even smells like Spy under there, bloody aftershave and everything. “Quit leaving shit under the bunk. You should’ve just asked me for a drawer.”

“Fantastic. So I can have a drawer?” Spy drawls.

“Top left from the sink. And the right side of the closet for your clothes,” Sniper grumbles, burying his face into the pillow. “Been yours. I’m askin’ to keep your things together.”

The soft scratching from Spy’s razor pause for a moment. The razer taps before resuming. 

“Wipe down the sink when your done,” Sniper adds, drifting back off.

The last thing he hears is Spy wiping down the sink.

[gojo-mochi]

mmkay but i'm sure if you mess up and cut him a tiny bit (nothing gross just a little scratch) he wouldn't even flinch while you are freaking out seeing the tiny drops slowly forming at the base of his cock trying to stand up to grab something to clean him while cursing and apologizing, he would just push you head forward and go "lick it...like a puppy, just lick it"

(i hace a sweet spot for older men calling me pup sorry) I know that man is a head pusher but that's a conversation for later

YESS YOU GET ME OMGGGG KISHIBE ANONNNNN

He so calm and even enjoy seeing you panic god... You do as your told and lick away the small blood droplets at the base of his cock and you can feel it twitching above you. His hand is still on your head, a constant pressure on you. Once you were done or think you were done, he would grab the razor from you. You start saying sorry again thinking that he was stopping you from going further cuz of the cut, but you see him make a another very small cut on the middle of his shaft this time, without even flinching or taking his eyes or hand off of you.

"Looks like you missed a spot... make sure to get that too."

HEAD pusher for real though, god, you're such a good puppy choking and drooling on his cock like that..

(also older men calling me pup would get me to melt so fast, i would bark for them anytime)

[cakerybakery]

Adam hissed as the hot spray hit his still healing wounds.

“Sorry,” Lucifer mumbled behind him.

They got lucky this time, in a way. The shower head could be taken off the mount and moved around. The shower was still too small for Adam to be comfortable standing, so he sat on a small stool so Lucifer could clean the wounds and rewrap them after. But at least with the shower head being able to come off the wall it was easier to wash.

Adam closed his eyes as Lucifer sprayed his hair, wetting it. He heard the shampoo from the tiny bottle provided by the motel squirt and Lucifer’s clawed finger dug into his hair. They scratched the scalp lightly and Adam tried not to moan.

It was bad enough he could feel Lucifer pressed against his back. The wet towel Lucifer was using to preserve their modesty touched Adam’s lower back and he couldn’t tell if that was just the knot keeping the towel up or if Lucifer was as hard as Adam was.

His own towel was soaked and he hunched a bit to make sure his body hid it from view.

“Okay,” Lucifer’s voice was husky and Adam shivered despite the warmth of the water. “I’m going to rinse your hair, so this might sting.”

It did. Rivers of soapy water running into the cursed wounds. He grabbed the towel and twisted it in his hands, trying not to scream, trying not to look weak. The wounds were better than they had been but they were closing slowly. His angelic blood slowly undoing the curses.

It stung, but he needed the wash. Too tall to fit in the motel showers, to hurt to bend properly, he finally admitted he needed help.

While the kid watched TV and ate some junk Adam had miracled from a vending machine, Lucifer was helping him wash.

“It’ll be okay, big guy.”

Adam just grunted. If he replied he might admit that it hurt.

The conditioner was more of the same. Those fingers nearly making him moan and stinging as it was washed out.

“Alright, turn around.”

He didn’t know why Lucifer needed his to turn around, but he got up, adjusted himself as subtly as he could and hoped it was good enough.

Lucifer didn’t look down. His hands went to Adam’s face. “You could use a shave.”

It was true.

He never had to shave in heaven. However he wanted his hair was how it was. If he wanted a beard again, it grew. If he wanted to shave his head, it was. He never shaved on Earth. Eve helped him him cut his hair or beard, but he never learned to shave.

“I’ll do it for you.”

“You know how to shave?” Adam asked doubtfully.

“Hmm. Yeah. Human trends come to hell too. Just because angels almost always choose to be clean shaven or keep our hair styled the same, doesn’t mean we can’t grow hair. Most angels are unchanging, I change, slowly, but I’ve tried different hairstyles and even facial hair. But I had to do the long way and learn to shave.” He tilted Adam’s head as if trying to see the grain of the stubble to know how to cut it best.

“I don’t see any stubble on you now.”

“I said slowly, didn’t I?” Lucifer teased.

He leaned out of the shower and grabbed something from the bag he brought into the bathroom.

Adam frowned at the can of shaving cream and the disposable razor. “How did you buy that?”

“I didn’t. Shaving isn’t the only skill I picked up in hell.”

Sat back down, Adam was forced to look at Lucifer.

The lather smelled weird and the sensation of being shaved was odd. Lucifer made faces he was meant to mimic, and turned his head about. By the time Lucifer was done all that was left was the patch on his chin he favoured these days.

“There we go, handsome. You’ll really charm them tomorrow when we need another ride and place to stay.” Lucifer winked, patted Adam’s thigh, and got out of the tub. “I’ll leave you to deal with that,” he pointed down between Adam’s legs, “by yourself.”

Adam quickly covered the visible erection and cursed himself.

“Don’t sweat it, Adam. You’re the biggest I’ve seen, but not the first. Ten thousand years is an awfully long time to be with only one person.”

He heard Lucifer get dry and get dressed. He waited until Lucifer was out of the room before retorting to himself, “and over nine thousand years is an awfully long time with only your hand for company.”

I love me a good one bed, can you imagine some human cultists summon Lucifer to kill someone. But they do the good shit and bind his powers so he can’t just kill them or take their souls.

They offer him a human sacrifice, like a kid or something, and Lucifer is, Lucifer so he’s like what the fuck?!?

And before he can refuse and tell them not to call him again, Adam shows up to rescue the kid.

The cultists manage to hurt Adam’s wings before he kills them all and ends up trapping Lucifer on Earth without his powers. Adam’s pretty hurt so until he heals up, his powers are limited. Enough that he can’t portal home either.

So now there’s the devil, the angelic first man, and a kid that just wants to go home. Home is across the country and the kid won’t let Adam leave him. And Lucifer is going to stick with Adam too until Adam’s healed and can break the binding on him.

Adam has enough power to make Lucifer look normal, if he’s close enough, and use little miracle like getting someone to help them.

I like the idea of

“What? You dealing in kids now, you degenerate freak?” Adam yelled as he slashed into one of the robed creeps.

“Fuck you! I barely talk to my own kid, why would I want some human kid sacrificed to me? No thanks. They assholes can all die for all I care.” Lucifer snorted dismissively, not batting an eye at the blood shed around him.

Barely dodging because he’s a big man in a small space, Adam kicked one bastard through the wall and asked for help the nicest way he could. “Then prove it and fucking help me kill these fuckers!”

“Ah, summoning circle, Adam. I can’t do jack shit, you jack ass.”

Swiping at the circle with his axe the circle is broken and Lucifer steps out. The still had him bound, but so long as Adam didn’t kill them all it would be fine. He picked up a fallen knife and plunged it into the head of the first soon to be sinner in his path.

After an undetermined amount of time Adam announces that’s all of them and it takes Lucifer a minute to remember, “oh fuck. Are they all dead? I never got to refuse the deal so my powers are still trapped.”

—

And

—-

“Move over. You take up too much fucking room.” Lucifer hissed as he tried to shove Adam over a bit but he’s huge even in his human form.

Adam pushes him back but there’s no where for Lucifer to go. He was already on the edge of the cramped bed with his back against the cold wall. Lucifer had never been so cold and hated the feeling against his back.

“I’m already on the edge of the bed, if you don’t like it, go sleep with the kid.” Adam hissed back.

The kid had the other bed to himself. There would be room for Lucifer but the kid was scared of him. Couldn’t blame him for it either. He was the devil.

And the kid could have slept with Adam but Adam was afraid of crushing the kid. At least if he rolled over on top of Lucifer, he would be fine. Powers or not, he was built like an angel and you’d have to be a freight train to knock him off balance, forget being able to crush the guy.

“The wall is too fucking cold.” He shivered and pulled away from the wall again.

“Jesus, you’re a prissy bitch. Eve and I survived way worse than a cold wall.” Adam taunted. “Fucking fine.” Adam shifted closer and pulled Lucifer flush against him.

Lucifer’s head rested on Adam’s thick bicep. His hands, trapped between them, rested on Adam’s surprisingly firm chest. Adam’s arms wrapped around him and Lucifer found himself letting out a tiny squeak of surprise at how warm and comfortable Adam was.

He smelled like ichor, despite the shower Adam took to wash off the blood. But also of the summer breeze in an alpine valley and cinnamon buns. Like heaven and the dinner Adam had managed to sweet talk from a bakery down the street.

Adam fell asleep first. His chest rumbled a bit as he slept, not quite a snore mixed with his strong heart beating rhythmically.

Lucifer had forgotten the feeling of safety. Hell was hell. Everyone was always willing to shoot you in the back to take what was yours for themselves. He hadn’t felt safe since heaven. Not until this moment when, for once, there was no sense of fear or dread.

Curled up and held in his enemy’s arms, Lucifer had never felt so safe.

[bambimeadows]

A small reader x Adler thing I whipped up. It’s not my best work, the writing is a bit stripped back, I haven’t put too much effort into it, so it is messy and a bit simple and rushed🙃 But I haven’t posted any writing to tumblr yet, so here you are. Reader is gender neutral (tried my best but let me know of any errors) you’re basically a rookie spy at the BND 🕵️🕵️‍♂️ There is some vague, non explicit sort of smut. Have fun! 💕

Three years ago, when you were a rookie, fresh out the womb of the government’s BND training programme, you had met him while you were shadowing one of the organisations top agents.

He hadn’t even taken the liberty of addressing you directly when the three of you met in the abandoned train tunnels, but he had peered at you from behind his shades, those black, sepia tinged squares of glass and gave you a singular firm nod. It was because he knew your weakness, he could discern your current standings, he smelled it on you like tigers did prey, you might as well have been a tiny, delicate, dainty wobbly legged fawn stumbling along after your handler as if they were mama Deer.

You were a sharper blade now though, sturdier and pluckier in every sense of the word.

Adler needn’t be a source of trepidation, he was an associate and you would be liaising with him for the sake of your job and the free world. You had been trusted to do so, albeit with the less than encouraging words, “Do not embarrass us, agent. You know who he is.”

Indeed you did, in the small inner circles of the BND, the man was a legend. You were privileged just to know he existed.

And here he sat in the Heidelberg, his long limbs sprawled out and propped up leisurely on the small red arm chair. He was slotted into the corner of the joint, at a small round table, another chair sat vacant opposite him. You glance at it with wash and swirl of dread in your belly before you powered forward, penetrating the cloudy hive of collective smoke from the patrons. Adler seemed to be contributing to the smog heartily as he huffed away, letting fluid like clouds billow from his lips with artistic flair and grace.

He did not acknowledge that he had seen you initially, he merely nodded, ever so slightly, to the seat opposite him.

“You’re early,” he comments flippantly, scratching a long, thin hand across his jaw absentmindedly, a hearty earthy sound emitted when he did this due to the faded stubble adorning his visage.

He had been clean shaven last time indeed, you only remembered due to your razor sharp attention to detail, not because you had been particularly fixated on his face and the terrains and markers that pieced it together.

And if you kept telling yourself that you might start to believe it.

You had forgotten however, the exceptional depth and richness of his vocal chords, like an abyss his voice was, bottomless and profound. It sliced through the flesh of any silence with such volition and authority it made your ears flinch.

On cue you glance up at the clock on the wall behind his head and raise an eyebrow at him. “By three minutes, sir?”

“Glad you can read a clock,” he muses, before gathering himself together, sitting up straighter, a rough clear of his throat as he does. “Got what I need then?”

You shouldn’t, but you do feel demoralised by his briskness, his stinging frost. You hadn’t been sure what you had been expecting, but perhaps you should have expected that he’d be a colossal prick after all.

A man like him, why wouldn’t he be? When you’re at the top, wasn’t it the done thing to do? To lord down on people? To stroke and pamper your own ego by wiping your boots with other peoples? You wasn’t entirely certain how you’d behave and move through the world if you were him.

“Yes,” you breath, reaching down into your black leather bag and thumbing around until you find a book, some romance novel you had laying around on your coffee table for months, the documents that laid sandwiched between the pages of said book were the treasure here however, your selection of literature needn’t have mattered. You slide it across the table to him. “Here you are.”

“Thanks,” he scoffs, rubbing his thumb across the cover of the paperback painstakingly slowly. “This will really come in handy for all these lonely nights.”

You search his face for a moment, your eyes straining in an effort to see through the lenses, but there is nothing to be displayed, his face is pristinely still, the glassy mask on his eyes currently impenetrable. He leisurely pulls his hand up to take another ample pull at his cigarette, you take it as your cue, you begin to stand.

“Leaving so soon?” He ponders, tongue laced with feathery and amused surprised. As you are now stood up, looking down at him, you can see the beginnings of his retinas, you could just about make out that they were a startling blue. The man must have seen the ways in which you were trying to peak, so he reaches up and pulls the damned shades down the slopping, robust bridge of his nose.

He makes eye contact with you and it takes a grasp on you you, it squeezes you, the grip firm, sweetly and tenderly painful around your heart, gratifying like the way pressing down on an aged violet bruise is. “You sure you won’t stay for a drink?”

It knocks you for six, and you can’t suppress the gulp that travels down your trachea. It’s no big dramatic gesture, you tell yourself, but your body is not convinced. You begin to buzz, your nerves combust into licks of flames.” Well… I suppose I could have just one. But I have work tomorrow.”

“So does everyone else here,” He throws his hand up, palm towards the ceiling in a disdainful gesture. “Come on, I could use the company.”

Your eyes squint in scepticism at him and he lets out something of a delicate snort and shake of his head. “God damn what are they teaching you kids these days,” you hear him mutter as soft as gently trickling water, you barely hear him. I’m buying,” he says louder, stubbing his cigarette out. “What will you have?”

You felt put on the spot, so you shake your head. “Surprise me, whatever, I don’t mind.”

“Great,” he snaps, a hard breath through his nose as he does.

It’s just as you’re sitting down again, expecting him to be well on his way to the bar by now, you feel his breath right near you ear, and then his voice enters you and it sends lightning sparks up and down your veins. “It looks sketchy,” he murmurs, laying a hand on your arm. “If you sit down, pass me some shitty book and then get back up again. What do you think this is? Amateur hour?”

You let out a breathy little chuckle, ducking you head and shaking it. “The cover is that I give you the book… and that I came here to lend it to you. No one suspects a thing.”

“No one comes to the bar to lend someone a book and then leaves again without even having a drink, without even staying to chat,” he argues back insistently, not missing a beat, there is no malice woven into the seams of his tone, but there’s something testing and almost asking, mocking, like a elegantly arrogant professor egging on and challenging his students. It’s… enticing, alluring, it awakens some dormant yet restless little demon in your ribcage, to say the least.

“So hurry up and go and get me one then, super spy,” you say the last word extremely quietly, turning to him now, and it’s a power move by anyones standards, let alone yours, by your standards you’re staring into the mouth of a tiger. He lingers for a few counts, your noses barely an inch from each other, your breath begins to mix, the smell of his cigs and his alcohol wafts up your nose and you have to give your dizziness a firm push back. Finally, his lips twists into something of a smirk and he bends upwards and walks away.

By the time he is back again, you had grown vindicated in his absence, as if the break from his charm and allure had allowed you to come to your senses. The fireball moment of excitement has faded off into something bitter and icy, because of the insinuation that you were a halfwit, because of the suggestion that you were incompetent.

The man places a pint of beer in front of you and you glance up at him, you cut your eyes at him into mean spirited shards and you know you present indignant.

“No ones paying attention to me it’s you who attracts attention. People look at you, they really look at you. You should get surgery to cover up those scars,” you bite, you feel the snow lacing your tongue as you do and wish vehemently that contrasting hot pricks weren’t travelling up to tingle your cheeks. “They are extremely distinctive.

He raises his eyebrows at you and nods as he pulls a cigarette from his pack. “I’ve considered it. But in truth it doesn’t matter if people notice you, it only matters that you fit in.”

“Well, I reckon you’re playing games with me,” you retort, passive aggressive and snarky, bringing the beer up to take a first sip, and you grimace at his selection. “Trying to size me up. I’ve heard all the stories about you.”

“Is that why you come in here looking like a rabbit caught in headlights?”

That rendered you silent, you felt your jaw set tight and you picked up your drink again, staring into the glistening amber.

“You’re still a rookie,” he has grown quieter now and he has looked away towards the bar, he’s easing up on you. “How long has it been now?”

You look up at him through tired half lidded eyes. “Three years.”

“Yeah… you’re only beginning,” he nods slowly more to himself. “Three years, might as well be three weeks in spy time.”

You glance to the side to see the pair of women, the women in which you were referring to when you mentioned him attracting attention, are still eyeing him up, paying you little mind. You turn back to him, slipping him a sly, devious little quirk of your lips. “Think you’ll be going home with one of them? Or both of them?”

“I really try to avoid it while I’m on the job,” a glimmer of amusement manifests and warms up his face, he brings the tumbler of whiskey up to his lips before slipping the entirety of it past his lips and downing it swiftly. There is no flinch from him, he just presses his lips together hard before he settles into blankness again.

“You’re a rare exception in our line of work then,” you say.

“I’m sure,” he agrees lightly. “If your colleagues were more like me they wouldn’t have to sit around telling tales and spreading rumours like a bunch of stepford wives.”

You glance up at him in momentary astonishment, before you shake your head chidingly, but you ponder briefly that he may have a point, because the way the men spoke, or gossiped, or grumbled, or gushed, about him over at BND was all rather undignified and girlish.

You down the wretched beer and then stand, pushing back the tinges of tipsiness making its way to your senses, you look him square in the face and nod. “Thanks for the drink.”

“My pleasure. I’ll see you Friday. Be ready.”

As you walk out, you feel your mouth start to tug into a small grin and then it spreads across your whole face and you find yourself shaking your head again, involuntarily, as you mutter to yourself, “Asshole, what an asshole.”

-

The days leading to end of the week whizzed by you thick and fast, you anticipation seem to spurn it on, and before you knew it, it was 8pm, chilly and dark and you were making your way on top of a factory rooftop to meet him.

He smoked and peered down at the city, he wore what you wore, a snug black turtle neck, exempt he matched his with grey combat trousers, you wore blue jeans.

“Copying my style I see,” he had quipped, eyes grazing up and down your body when he registered your presence.

“More like you’re copying mine,” comes your quick witted retort, but couldn’t stop the gentle laugh that escaped your throat.

He had smiled earnestly at you, comfortably awaiting the light filled moment to pass before he turned serious, business, steely and professional in the blink of an eye, you had to whip yourself into a similar demeanour.

“There’s an East Berlin spy travelling into the city tonight, he’s been causing a lot of problems, I want him gone.”

“You don’t even want to capture him,” you side eye him warily as you wrap your hands around the icy cold railings. “He could be valu-“

“I know who’s valuable and who isn’t, agent,” he holds a hand up as he cuts in. “Can you follow instructions or not?”

You clench your jaw, your temptation to strike back is fierce and fiery, borderline uncontrollable, but you keep your wounded pride under bandaids and begin to nod slowly. “Yes of course I can, agent Adler.”

“Perfect.”

He checks over his shoulder at the ground below again before turning back to you. “He’ll have armed security. I’ll start taking them out, while I’m doing that, I want you to sneak into his suite and kill him.”

“Wait,” you perk up now, you feel your eyes grow wide and raw as you gaze up at him. “You want me to actually get the kill?”

“What’s your experience with a sniper rifle?”

“…non existent.”

“Exactly,” he replies promptly, still surveying the ground below. “And I already knew that. You’re better on the ground. I’ve heard your stealth is excellent.”

You glance at him, peaking at his side profile, the curved and sharp lines of his nose and jaw illuminated, highlighted, clarified by the murky industrial city lights. His honey wheat hair is different today, it doesn’t bounce and animate with every movement, it isn’t perfectly positioned and curated to suave insufferable perfection, instead it is slightly flatter, yet more fluid, pushed back away from his face to fall in waves and gather and end at the nape of his neck. It suits him, but it renders him quite a new variety of man, a more…more work less play sort of man.

“I get by on it,” you say finally, lowering your gaze as you begrudgingly contemplate the cumbersome and gruesome nature of your attraction, how it flutters against the walls of your stomach.

“Give yourself more credit,” he takes out a pair of binoculars and positions them towards the ground below once, you glance too and see a black car rolling in to the front of the hotel.

“There he is,” he confirms. “You ready, agent?”

You push back your shoulders and raise your chin, swallowing your nerves and doubts and pesky lingering trepidation of impending death, and nod firmly. “Yes I am.”

The man gives your shoulder a clap before turning away from you, beginning to position his sniper rifle to wreck havoc with the men from East Berlin.

Angel of death, slipped across your mind as you walked away from him. So beautiful, but what a dark creature he well and truly was. And you too, you remind yourself. You too were beautiful, and you too were wicked when it was time to be.

That’s why when you managed to more or less silently break into the man’s hotel room, up and over, through the window of the bathroom, you make him suffer.

Yes he had smashed a bottle over your face first, yes he had enraged you, but you could have just shot him with your silenced pistol, instead you take your time with this man and his gargled muffled screams were your solitary reward for it.

“It’s nothing,” Adler murmurs, you are both sat in his safehouse/apartment now. He speaks to you, his voice husky and absent minded due to him concentrating mostly on the cuts on your face, the deepest one being the nasty nick at the top of your lip, he dabs at this one with a wet cloth. You see his face now, his shades had been abandoned on his bed side table, you now get to witness his eyes squint and sharpen to coincide with the tender, effortful care he is showing, even the soft little furrow of his brow is so expressive, “Keep it moist, apply lots of cream to it, all day for the next few days, it won’t scar.”

“Yeah?” You chuckle tiredly. “Okay doctor.”

“Might as well be,” he quips, tilting his head at you and raising his eyebrows nonchalantly.

“Oh bullshit, a fucking doctor please,” you scoffed. “You really love yourself, don’t you?”

“Who else is going to?”

You let the room fall into a gentle silence after that, when he is done with attending to your face, you both sip at beers he had in the mini fridge in his room, but you soon turn to him with a deciding sigh.

“I guess you have a lot of experience with injury,” you resort to. “You must have picked up a few things.”

“My ex wife actually taught me that about the scarring. She thought it could help mine,” he points to his face then. “Bless her heart.”

You watched as his eyes glaze, a transient fleeting few seconds of reminiscing, you wanted to take advantage of the little opening, the little opening of openness.

“How’d you get them?”

“Everyone always asks,” he brings his cigarette to his lips, eyes narrowing into cool consideration. “Everyone’s always so nosy about it. I don’t get it.”

“Wouldn’t you be?”

“I don’t think so. I’d just put it down to bad shit happening to people and leave it at that.”

“Well we can’t all be as cool as you, Adler.”

You glanced up at his face, and you marvelled, because yes it was handsome, but there was something far more interesting than that, there was the almost immaculate duality. Like the strange and beautiful creature who lurked in the opera house, like Jekyll and Hyde, like hell’s fire and heaven’s celestial. You touched it, his face, you wanted to touch the battle torn half, you wanted to fill the diverse topography, the dents and dips and valleys, but you felt it a step too intimate, so you glided your fingers, as feather soft as you could, across the undamaged side instead.

The man doesn’t flinch, but he does slips his eyes onto you with a manner of frosty suspicion and cynicism, he searches your eyes leisurely, patiently yet intently as you continue your light caress.

You found the insinuation of confusion on his part confusing, because you had been ninety nine percent sure he had discerned your attraction to him by now, yet here he is now, coming across so precarious and untrusting, you felt like you were trying to win favour with a perpetually anti-social, precarious dog.

When you lift your hand away however, he does grab it, and not gently either, it is just outside a death grip and it hitches your breath in your throat. You refuse to look away from him, you hold firm, rooting yourself into the ground beneath you, not tearing your eyes away from his. “You’re still too green.”

“You mean… like, envious?”

“Too fresh, too trusting. I’m terrified for you,” he is muttering to account for how close your faces are. “You are…decent, but this life isn’t for you. I can always tell. Trust me, you’re either meant for this shit or you’re not. It’s not really something you can learn.”

“That’s bullshit,” you whisper back shaking your head, a sickened smile coming to your face. “I couldn’t imagine doing anything else. I couldn’t imagine a life without this, without people like you.”

“Then you’re gonna hurt,” he tells you, his eyes have softened now, something faded and dim and quietly melancholic, like cloudy sapphires. “You’ll have to get chewed up and spat out again, and again, and again, until you’re tough and dead enough inside to be what you need to be.”

You felt your stomach drop, despite yourself, but you do not display it, simply grinning and rolling your eyes instead. “Why would you be worried about me? Spies get killed, we’re all just collateral to the top dogs like you.”

“You don’t know shit about me sweetheart,” he drawls, raising his cigarette up to his mouth.

“You’re right,” you murmur voice suitably honeyed, you lean in, a hand coming to grasp his thigh firmly to balance yourself. “I’m sorry.”

It is you who’s made the first move by doing this, the first negotiation into whatever transgression was going to transpire, but it is he who actually bites the bullet and kisses you.

A hand snakes around your waist, his thumb presses irregular shapes into your hip. The kiss is not what anyone could have anticipated from a man like him, it is substantial, but then it is also slow and delicate and feathery, his lips soft and patient and forgiving and almost somehow non intrusive against your own.

“I’d be pretty fucked off if you got killed actually,” he mumbles after he’s broken away from you, he’s talking into your ear now, before he presses a firm, deep kiss to your lobe which starts a wildfire internally and a heaviness and electricity darts straight between your legs.

“Why?” You breath as he starts to litter more kisses down your face, beneath your ear and across the bones of your jaw and flesh of your cheek, as gentle and tickling as water droplets landing and splashing onto you, when he reaches your neck you can’t stifle the little whine that travels up your throat, especially when he begins to nibble on the taunt, excruciatingly sensitive skin.

He has you. You hadn’t even realised how much he did, but he has you. You had melted into his hands, your body was subdued and limp and supple, your head was light, airy and drifting off somewhere as rapidly as a ballon set free into the skies.

You ached and throbbed for him, your heart nearly burst at the sneaking reminders that there wouldn’t be much more of this to come because he’d be long gone by morning. Tomorrow you’d lose him. It could be forever, you could very well never see him again and you’d never get to feel this ever again, you didn’t know.

“I don’t know,” he murmurs after a while, hand snaking between your legs to stroke the plush flesh, albeit through your clothes. “You’re different, and you’re so beautiful. I wanted you the moment I saw you, those few years ago. I’ve often times thought about you since then. I bet you didn’t know that.”

“Bet you didn’t know it’s all mutual,” you quipped back, almost aggressive, desperate and breathy as he caresses travel up higher, with no sign of stopping.

“Oh no,” he brought his head down, you felt his hair brush your temple, he chuckled, unabashed and right into your ear again. “Don’t worry, /I/ knew. I always know.”

“Well chances are you’ll probably never see me again,” you say, catching your breath and placing your hand on his wrist to still him, to catch your breath. You look up into his eyes, through your lashes, you feel sordid and dirty yet so powerful, so powerful over such a powerful human being

. “So are you going to make the most of me this time, or not?”

With his face gradually shifting into a slow, hazy smile, he takes the glass from your hand and physically moves you up to the headboard of the bed.

He takes his time with you, really takes his time. He kisses you for what felt like hours, pulling your body so it curves and moulds into his own so securely, you click together like puzzle pieces. When he enters you it feels like what he said, it makes you muse the reality that you both knew this would have to happen eventually. Mutual lust. To be able to express and display every iota of feelings left unsaid, finally. It was ripping off the bandaid, it was releasing dangerously built up pressure.

He growls sweet praises into your ear and strokes your face and even tells you that you’re his, and with that you wonder if he is acting out his fantasies, if that is what he truly desires, someone to be well and truly his and only his. Did he mean it in a wholesome, domestic sense? Did he mean it in hedonistic manner, did he truly want to own someone? You didn’t know. You didn’t know this man, and you didn’t dare allow yourself to believe that, for whatever it was that his heart desired with every pump, it inherently involved you.

He just craves the intimacy, you decided. He craves passion and adoration, you were sure. In fact, this is what he needs, you consider as he flips you onto your stomach and you bury your face into the plushy cool, snowy pillows that smell of his woody, spiced cologne rendering them an aphrodisiac, who cared about the world that waited for you outside of this room, for now, you consider as he enters you and you moan out deeply, sweetly, this is all you both need.

And then after a couple of hours, you are both done, you lay in the amber glow of the lamplight and his vastly long arms, and this time you do touch his scars.

“It was Vietnam, they got me, pinned me down, pulled out some silly little knife,” he recounts, voice hoarse and low and deliciously thick, rumbling against your temple as you rested your head on his chest. “Luckily there was a squadron not too far behind, they saved me before they my throat got slit.”

He inhales deeply on his cigarette as his eyes pierce the wall opposite him. “It’s nothing more interesting than that.”

“Can you remember how much it hurt?”

“Every day,” he stressed, and then he pauses before chuckling easily, lazily, the sex had mellowed him out, softened and blunted his rough, razor sharp edges. “Fuck did that shit hurt. Really really fucking hurt. Those God damn bastards.”

You laugh as well, his sudden display of humbleness endearing and lovely, it was a moment that you could be likened to the rarest of gemstone.

“I like you, Adler.”

“…Yeah,” he mused, gradually contrite and melancholic as he ran a rough, jagged skinned hand down your arm. “I like you too.”

You shut your eyes, fall in tune with his smooth rise and fall. “I’ll be alright, you shouldn’t worry.”

You fall into the most blissful sleep you’ve had since your were small, and then the daylight is creeping through the curtains and nudging your body awake, and as predictable and inevitable as death, he is coldly absent and you quietly fall apart.

[missingartist]

Moon Maiden Part Five

Thank for all the likes! I hope everyone have had chance to watch the latest episode. Oscar Issacs is amazing! 

You were not a morning person; circumstances made early morning necessary for your job. So when you awoke and found the clock reading 7.16, your first thought was to throw the pillow over your head and go back to sleep. But the searing pain across your side pushed a low hiss out of your teeth.

Scrambling to a sitting position, you peeled up your shirt, revealing a severe bruise and several scratches. 'What the hell?' Running your hand through your hair, you blink several horrific images away from the night before. That creature and that man. What had you drunk? Never in your adult life had you drunk so much that you would dream up Halloween creatures and wake up with weird bruises. Maybe someone drugged her? You never left her to drink unintended; you were properly overtired.

Reaching for your phone, you found what remained gathered onto your makeshift night table. At least you remember to pick it up. God, what the hell? You were never drinking again. Padding your way across your tiny bedroom, you made your way into the living room; for the most part, it seemed unaffected by the late-night escapades. You had even nearly folded her clothes and since you didn't even do that when you were sober was impressive. Searching around for the remnants of last night, you found her wallet and her keys, so at least you didn't have to cancel her card. Just replace your phone. Not great, but it could have been worse. And worse was the word.

Under your coat, you saw that forgotten gold bug, the sides extended and covered in a sticky red mess. Plucking it up, a sudden realisation hit you, it was blood, and it wasn't a little paperweight. It was a weapon; razor-sharp edged looked like wings stuck out from the side, glistening menacingly in the morning sun, which is when you saw the silver gun poking out from beneath the grey robe that the man wore, the man who saved you. The robe is covered in blood from whatever attacked you the night before.

Tilting your head, you could just make out the dull sounds of a conversation. 'We have to do this…..I know……..I have told you all you need to know….. if we don't take her, they will find her and do far worse than anything we could do.' Bile rose in your throat as you shook, dropping the item in your hand.

'You're awake. Morning Moonbeam.'

Moonbeam?

'I made scrambled eggs; it's the limit of my culinary expertise. Steven is the chef out of us, and unfortunately, he has gone silent. Think he is sulking on us.' The accent sounded American. Maybe, you were pretty sure you were still drunk. That was it.

'You shouldn't touch that, sweetheart. You will hurt yourself.' The man cooed, placing the plate on the side and picking up the bloody object, and with a slight movement, retracted the golden wings that sliced through the air with a sinister hum. 'Eat while it's hot; I'll clean the kitchen.'

'Whose Steve?' Why did you ask that? The less you know, the better

'You met him. The sweaty, nervous guy. Apologies way too much.'

'Th…that was you.' Are you seriously questioning the crazy guy right now? Are you trying to become a statistic?

'Not me. Just the other one. He is Steve, and I'm Marc. Don't worry about him; you'll meet him again soon enough after I have a little discussion with him about not donning his Mr Knight suit when you got to attack. Now eat.'

Oh god, why did you not pay out to have a landline? You had a man, possibly psychotic, standing in her kitchen who seemed to have his superhero costume. At least you hoped it was a superhero costume.

'Umm, thanks, but I better….' What do you say to a possible insane man standing in your flat? 'Can you please leave I…I' Can you please leave? Are you sure you want to live because that is the stupidest thing to say right now?

The man gave a tiny little smile; it wasn't malicious but tense, the sort of smile she imagines she would give someone when you were about to lose patience with them.

Oh, please, god help. No one ever told me how to deal with how to get a man out of your flat after he kills some sort of human dog that is chasing you.

'Eat your breakfast.'

'Please leave. I won't tell anyone or say anything. I have no idea what is happening, but you're scaring me; please take your weird shit and go.'

'I am not going anywhere, moonbeam.'

Now grabbing the gun was not the wisest decision you had ever made. It was the stupidest thing you had done. But fear and the fury of his cocky smile as he looked at you made you.

'You think you can use that big old thing moonbeam? Why don't you put it down before your get hurt?'

HE. DID. NOT. JUST. SAY. THAT. For that alone, you wanted to shoot him.

'Actually, I do.' You gritted out, shuffled your feet back, squared your shoulders, and angled your hip. Well, technically, you knew how told hold a shotgun, and you weren't relatively sure the safety was not on.

'I am impressed. I knew there was a reason you're where my moon maiden, and I know our first meeting could have been a little gentler. But stop being silly. NOW.' He didn't shout, but his tone lost its languid easiness and was replaced with a harsh authorial tone as he took a step forward.

'You take another step forward, and I will shoot.' You snapped, refusing to take a step back. You desperately wanted to. You didn't like how close he was now. Damn your tiny flat.

The next thing happened in a blur. He moved, and you barely squeezed the trigger when a shot ripped through your eardrums. You thought you had shot him for a second, but your brain managed to catch up in the brief moment that you found yourself against a rigid body. Steven or was it Marc, stood staring furiously down at you, a small black hole embedded in the door frame opposite. You expected to hear a loud outcry from the neighbours, but nothing, just more silences; you would have thought a gunshot would cause some commotion but nothing.

'You really shouldn't have done that.' Marc gritted out.

The dark-haired was looming over you, hand tightly gripping your wrist, the gun now lying on the floor.

'Don’t’  

You didn’t listen. You swung your free hand round as hard as possible to catch him in the mouth, but he was still too fast. He caught the pathetic jab quickly, twisting you violently against him; now, he was close enough to feel his hot breath against your neck. He was far too tall, and his grip had him standing on tiptoe in a painful position.

‘Stop your hurting me.’ You choked out in painfully pants.

A sense of relief filled you as he dropped your arms; painful red and purple bruises were now developing on your wrist and arms. Hissing as you rubbed them, your eyes flickered to him. His eyes flickered and rolled back into his head.

‘What….fuck you Marc …I knew I should never have let you share this body’ He gulped. ‘Did I do that?’ his soft brown eyes lingered on the rapidly growing marks. ‘Shit, I am so sorry. Marc is heavy-handed…If I left him alone, I thought if left him alone, he would leave…’ the man’s eyes locked on the gun at his feet.

‘I am so sorry…. I am so…’ a suppressed sob cut him off as he took a step back and sunk to his floor on his knees, tears welling up in his brown eyes. ‘You should…. should go.’ He swallowed a half sob. ‘I won’t…I won’t stop you. I’ll stop him.’

You felt sorry for him. The man in front of you wasn’t the one who offered you eggs. Yes, he looked the same but entirely different at the same time. This morning, the made in her kitchen seemed carefree and young, while now Steven looked haggard and tormented.

You opened your mouth to say something, but instead, nothing came out, and you watched him shake. Sighing, you edge around him, picking the gun up as you went. You felt sorry for him, but you weren’t stupid. There was an emergency phone in the lobby. All you needed to do was walk out and call the police. Still, you were lingering in the doorway. The man was still on your floor; he was silent now but trembled violently like he was absorbing all his sobs; you didn’t want to, but he needed help; the police was the best place for him. Them

‘You are the best place for them. You are their safety. You will not abandon them.’ The voice spoke out into the room, causing Steven to look up; his face was blotchy, and his red eyes red ringed.

‘He is broken. They are broken. Restore them, maiden.’

You turned away. Shaking your head, whatever weird thing was going on was just the result of a mistake or at the very least some sort of psychosis every way; it had nothing to do with you.

‘It has everything to do with you. Marc, get out here now!’

You wanted to turn and run, but you could not move. You were paralysed to the spot, tears welling up in your eyes as you watched Steve’s eye flickered and rolled till the softness ebbed away, and he was back. These hard eyes were soft as he stood looking at her.

‘It’s okay, moonbeam, shhhhhh’, Marc cooed, brushing a stray tear away with the pad of his thumb. ‘It will be okay; he will be okay.’ The dark eyes soothed, taking your head in his hands. ‘You don’t have to come with me; you are free to do whatever you want, to go wherever you desire but know that I will always be there in the shadows. But I strongly recommend you come  with me now; I can explain things and show you what is happening without anyone getting caught in the crossfire.’

His eye flickered past you, resting for a moment on the items behind you—the pictures of your family. A sudden fear swelled within you; you didn't know if he was threatening you or merely highlighting that they might be a target to whatever or whoever it was doing this to you.

‘Can’t let anything happen to our little Moon Maiden.’ The man punctuated his last words while brushing your lower lip with his thumb.

@naiomiwinchester​ @horny4knives @love-on-the-murder-scene

[daddydindjarin]

Slow Hands

Pairing: Din Djarin x F!Reader.                                                          Wordcount: 1390                                                                                        Rating: T (for now)                                                                                Warnings: None                                                                                    Summary: The heat on Tattooine is unbearable, but what makes it worse is that the only clothes you have available are all for space travel, which means too hot for this desert planet. Mando is more affected than you’d expect.                                                                                                             A/N: This is Part 1 of 2 I think, and honestly just pure self-indulgence from a dream of Mando’s fingers tapping on a table.

-----

You huffed, digging through yet another crate in the cargo hold of the Razor Crest, sweat dripping down your neck to convalesce in the center of your back and along your chest.

Kriff but it was hot on this maker-forsaken planet. Tatooine wasn’t exactly high on your list of favorable planets, the twin suns doing nothing to cool the planet, leaving respite from the overbearing heat almost non-existent.

It didn’t help that you had been in space for so long- and on icier planets when not- that you had packed away your lighter clothes, instead sticking to the thick sweaters and Mando’s stolen duraweave shirt that be assumed had been beyond repair. He underestimated your tenacity and skill with a needle.

“Okay, I know you’re in one of these crates,” you mumbled to your missing clothing absently before straightening, your hands on your hips. You bit your lip, counting the crates left and groaning.

It was too hot for this, but you wouldn’t be able to cool down until you found those clothes. You staggered back to your corner of the bay, flipping down into your…”nest” as Mando so eloquently called it. It was a simple pallet stacked with blankets and pillows to cushion the hard floor. It was cozy.

You shucked your over shirt off, immediately sighing in relief. You couldn’t just walk around in your under clothes but-

Scratch scratch scratch.

You grinned, sitting up as the little gremlin toddled his way over to you.

“Why, hello there, Bean! Did you enjoy your nap?”

You had no idea how he managed to get out of his little cradle, but you know it’s pointless to question these things at this point. You had already stripped him from the baggy robe he wore, leaving his tiny body in a one piece suit that just made him more adorable that you thought possible.

He blinked slowly at you, still waking up, and reached his clawed hands for you. You happily picked him up, running a finger along his overly large ears. “Tell me, why would you want to leave your temperature controlled carrier to be out in this heat? Huh?”

He babbled in his little language, and you grinned, nodding along to his words as if it was the most serious thing in the world.

“We need to wait for your Papa to get back so I can make him help me look through these crates because I am apparently not nearly as content as you are with this heat.”

As if waiting for his cue, Mando’s heavy boots trudged up the open ramp, and the Child immediately squealed, more awake now that his favorite person was back.

“Okay, okay! Wait till he’s had a chance to come inside,” you laughed, letting him go once Mando started setting his multitude of weapons down across the table where you ate your meals, preparing them for cleaning.

You stood up, brushing sweaty hands along your leggings, and moved closer to where Mando had sat down, smiling as the Child tried his damnedest to climb up Mando’s boots.

Watching as Mando started his routine of cleaning his assortment of weapons, you reached into one of the lockers to hand him more oil, having noted earlier that his current supply was running low. As you set it on the table, he paused to look up at you, and then held your gaze.

As the seconds ticked by without breaking the contact, you cocked an eyebrow at him. “Everything okay, Mando?”

You knew you couldn’t see his eyes, but as his helmet dipped slightly, it was impossible not to feel like his eyes were on your very exposed chest. Heat rose up your neck, and you could feel your ears start to pinken, suddenly self-conscious about being in only your breast band and leggings.

“Oh,” you began, wringing your fingers nervously together. “About this, I can’t find my light clothing, and it’s just really hot. So I stripped down to this to avoid heat stroke.”

He didn’t say anything, but you noticed his hand clench slightly on his thigh, and while you hoped you hadn’t offended him, now your thoughts were heading in another, less innocent direction.

“It’s fine,” he finally said, still looking at you. “I’m not sure where they are either, but I’ll help you look in a moment.”

“Thank you,” you replied, sitting across from him and picking up the child before he could get Mando’s oil rag in his mouth. “I don’t know how you’re not dying under all those layers.”

“It’s not as bad as you’d think. The beskar reflects a lot of the heat.”

“Maybe I should invest in some for myself,” you joked, tickling the Child’s stomach. “Or you could always let me wear yours when you’re not using it.”

A chuckle left the broad, shining Mandalorian, and you grinned back at him, thankful for the camaraderie between you.

“Alright kid, let’s get you something to eat before you down Mando’s rag and leave him with grimy blasters,” you said, standing up and taking him to the galley, not noticing how Mando’s gaze tracked you the entire way.

——————

You sighed again for the 5th time, watching as Mando lifted another box to look for your clothes, but your hope of finding them was dwindling at this point.

“Mando, I appreciate you looking for me, but I don’t think they’d be that far back,” you sat at the table, resting your head in your hands. The baby was already asleep, and Mando had been looking for a few hours now, with no luck. “I’m just gonna have to take some credits into Mos Eisley tomorrow and see if I find a few cheap things.”

Mando paused, looking over his shoulder at you. “You’re going to the market wearing…that?”

You looked down at yourself, beyond caring about how little you were wearing. “I mean…anything else is going to melt me into a puddle, and I hate to break it to you, but a puddle can’t watch the kid, or help fix your nav computer, or make sure you eat.”

Mando chuckled, moving to the table as he looked down at you. “Well, we can’t have you melting.”

You froze, your throat going dry from one rasped word through a modulator. Melting never seemed to be a problem when Mando was around. His voice was only a part of the appeal, if you were honest. The other main thing-

“Tell me what you’re looking for, and I’ll stop by the Market tomorrow,” he said, tapping two thick fingers on the table, drawing your gaze to the well worn leather gloves. You swallowed thickly, trying to keep your inner thoughts modest. But it was hard to keep yourself from imaging those fingers trailing along the column of your throat before reaching your breast band and then…

“Oh, yeah! Thank you! Uh, I think just a light shirt, and maybe a head scarf, would work.” You couldn’t meet the visor of his helm, knowing that he noticed the long pause, and was waiting for you to explain yourself. “I think I’m gonna go to bed a little early. Tired from the uh- heat!”

Mando’s helmet tilted to the side, watching you closely. His silence was expected, but you had learned to read through his silence, taking in the slightest body language and being able to derive full conversations from the movements. It was a talent that came in handy, but you found yourself grasping at thin air, trying to figure out what this particular head tilt meant.

He stepped closer to you, his hand reaching for you slightly, before dropping back to his side. He nodded once, and then turned around, heading to the cockpit, leaving you with more questions than answers, and more importantly, a noticeable ache between your thighs that needed attention.

--------

Taglist: (from my art tag list!) @djarinsbeskar @asta-lily @clints-lucky-arrow @readsalot73 @momc95 @dinandgone @radiowallet @grimmchimms @heartsofbeskar @krissology @javierpinme @radiowallet @heavenseed76

[cdelphiki]

Bruce wasn’t sure what he was thinking.

Well, that was an absolute lie. He knew exactly what he was thinking. He just wasn’t sure how he was going to explain to Alfred and Jason what he’d been thinking, because he certainly couldn’t tell them the truth.

He’d been considering getting Jason a dog, but hadn’t anticipated doing it so soon. How did he tell the twelve-year-old he’d recently taken in that he saw a starving, skittish puppy out on the street and thought of him?

Jason was such a skittish child, and tended to take everything Bruce said or did the entirely wrong way. Sometimes, Bruce wondered if Jason were doing it on purpose.

But other times… other times he was starkly reminded of how truly awful Jason’s life had been.

Like when Jason had dropped a glass, three days prior, and immediately cut himself on the shards, trying to clean it up in his bare feet, with only his hands.

“I’m sorry,” Jason had been blubbering, tears streaming down his face, when Bruce had to physically pick him up and set him on the kitchen counter, just to get him to stop.

He’d gone so tense and rigid, Bruce just wanted a list of every person who had ever hurt Jason, who had ever caused him to think, even for a second, Bruce would beat him over a cheap four dollar glass.

Or over anything, ever.

But Bruce already knew the name of the person who had caused his reaction, and since Willis Todd was already dead, all Bruce could do was pull out the first aid kit and silently started picking the tiny pieces of glass out of his feet with the tweezers.

“Hey there,�� Batman said, his voice soft and completely void of his normal gavel. The small, grey puppy was backed up into the corner of the dead end alley, his tail between his legs as he shook violently.

Batman knelt down, a few feet away from him, as far back as he could be without giving the puppy an escape route. He knew that was adding to his distress, but Bruce didn’t want to risk him getting away.

The poor thing was absolutely starved. Bruce could see his ribs, jutting out along his side, marred with scrapes and scratches and welts. The poor little thing had had it rough, and he couldn’t have been more than twelve-weeks-old.

“It’s okay,” he soothed, making himself as small as he could, trying to get down at the dogs level, “I’m not going to hurt you.”

When the puppy whimpered, instead of relax, Bruce considered just picking him up, just like he’d done with Jason. Sometimes, the only option was to force the contact and prove it would cause no harm.

But the puppy wasn’t actively hurting himself, so Bruce stayed still and quiet, as he reached into his belt for a piece of his snack jerky.

“Here,” he said, tearing off a small piece he was confident wouldn’t choke the dog and holding it out, “Come here, I know you’re hungry.”

That was another method he used with Jason quite frequently. Being patient and waiting for him to come to Bruce. It didn’t always work. Jason had yet to come to Bruce about his nightmares. Or to ask for help with his schoolwork, or training, whenever he got stuck and worked himself into frustrated tears. But Bruce could be patient as long as Jason needed.

One day, he knew, Jason would trust Bruce to never hurt him. But in the meantime, he’d keep offering, and waiting.

Just like he did with the puppy, holding out the jerky so he could smell it, and then placing it on the ground, half way between them.

Jerkily, the puppy skittered forward, trying to sniff the treat better, between his quick movements back into his corner. After doing that a few times, each time staying near the treat a little longer, he finally snapped it up and jumped back into his spot.

“See, it’s good, isn’t it?” Batman said, tearing off two more little pieces. He set one right where the first had been, and the other a few inches closer to himself, in hopes of slowly luring the dog to him.

It worked.

Slowly, but surely, the dog came closer and closer, each time lingering just a little longer near Batman, before finally Batman held out the final piece of jerky, and didn’t set it down.

Warily, the puppy inched closer to him, sniffing at the air and eyeing Bruce, like he thought it was a trap, but wanted the food more than he wanted to not be hurt.

Bruce felt a little bad, because it was a trap, in a way. But not a bad one.

When the puppy put his nose right up near Batman’s hand, he slowly brought his second hand up to place on the puppy’s head, and gently started scratching it as the puppy ate the last piece of jerky.

“That’s a good boy,” Bruce said, continuing with his scratches, getting behind the ears in a way that made the dog tilt his head, “See, I’m not going to hurt you.”

Swiftly, before the dog could bolt, Bruce scooped his now empty hand right up under the puppy, and lifted him into the air.

The dog yelped, and struggled for a second, but stilled when Bruce pulled him close and kept scratching at his head. “That’s a good boy,” he murmured again, as he stood to his feet, “No reason to be afraid.”

He trembled the entire time, but Bruce kept with his rhythmic pets, careful to avoid any spot that looked tender, and tried his best to reassure the little guy that he was perfectly safe.

Perfectly safe and about to meet the little boy Bruce knew would love him unconditionally.

Jason loved dogs, Bruce had found out, two weeks prior when they were out for a walk in one of the parks in Gotham. They passed a woman playing fetch with a golden retriever, and Jason’s face had absolutely lit up at the sight. Bruce wanted to encourage him to ask if he could pet the dog, but Jason had seemed perfectly content to watch.

“I had a yellow lab when I was a kid,” he’d said, a bright smile on his face and his hands in his pockets.

“Yeah?” Bruce prompted.

Jason nodded enthusiastically and said, “Yeah. Well, he was a mix, but his name was Sparky.”

“Sparky,” Bruce had repeated, “That’s a good name for a yellow dog.”

“Yeah. But he bit Dad one day, so Dad ditched him in a park.”

The nonchalance with which Jason had said that was probably what broke Bruce’s heart the most. Jason just… said it. Without emotion. With a little shrug. To him, that was just how it was. Something that couldn’t be changed, and therefore shouldn’t be dwelled upon.

Bruce was glad Jason could be mature about things, but still. It killed him that his twelve-year-old had learned to be mature about it, long before the age of twelve.

He knew the puppy in his hands wouldn’t replace Sparky, or anything close to it. But maybe it would give Jason a little more feeling of stability.

Jason seemed to think his welcome in the manor was sitting on a razor thin edge. One little misstep, and Bruce would kick him out on his rear, send him back to the street to fend for himself and fight for his keep. No matter how many times Bruce said it, Jason just could not trust his ‘I will never kick you out” statement.

Apparently Jason’s own father had ‘kicked him out’ when he was a mere eight years old. It might have just been for one night, a night Jason spent sleeping on the fire escape, but one night was enough to destroy all trust in a little boy.

Sure, Bruce had only had him for three months, but that didn’t mean Bruce was willing to part with the sweet little boy he’d come to adore.

Bruce would never, never even think about kicking Jason out. Or moving him to another home. Or anything of the sort.

Jason was his, and that was that. It didn’t matter what Jason did, that would never change.

Maybe having a puppy. Maybe giving Jason a puppy would show him how permanent he was. How could Bruce kick him out, if he had a puppy to take care of? Jason seemed quick to believe in Bruce’s kindness to others, just not to himself. Hopefully he’d trust Bruce would never kick the puppy out, and therefore couldn’t kick Jason out, because he was Jason’s puppy.

And one day, when the puppy grew larger, as large as his little paws, proportionally massive compared to the rest of him, suggested he’d be, maybe he could also offer Jason a little security, too. Bruce had no doubt the puppy would bite anyone who dared touch Jason, just as Sparky had done, all those years ago.

“It’s okay,” Bruce repeated, as he approached the Batmobile, the quaking puppy whimpering in his arms, “We’re going home. We’ll get you cleaned up and fed, does that sound good?”

Batman opened the trunk to the car, first, and with one hand dumped out one of the crates he used to organized all his supplies. He couldn’t think of a better way to transport the puppy, without someone else there to just hold him. The last thing he wanted was for the dog to crawl around the car and cause trouble while he was driving. After he lined the crate with one of the blankets he kept on hand, just in case, he gentled settled the puppy inside.

He seemed to calm, slightly, once he was set down, and when Bruce folded on edge of the blanket over his body, so only his head was exposed, he snuggled down a little more and looked far more relaxed than Bruce had seen yet. Bruce scratched the top of his head as he carried the crate up to the front, and settled him down into the footwell of the passenger side.

It must have been cozy in the box, because in the twenty minute drive back to the Manor, the puppy fell asleep, the sweet sound of little puppy snores filling up the car.

Bruce might have wanted a dog for a long time, as well, he had to admit. Just could never justify getting one, with how little time he spent at home, and how inconsistent his schedule was. Alfred, also, always balked at the idea of pets in the house, so Bruce had never explored it much.

Even now, he was a tad worried about how to care for the dog, how to ensure the puppy received the care he needed. He hadn’t intended on getting Jason a dog so quickly, so suddenly.

He’d been doing the research, reading articles and studies about dogs and their effects on child abuse victims. Trying to decide what kind of dog he’d get, how they’d get one, and how they’d share the responsibilities. Jason, Bruce thought, would be the dog’s primary owner. The one responsible for walking him and feeding him and playing with him the most. But Bruce or Alfred would have to do a lot of the heavy lifting.

Jason was just a child, after all, and he had school. He hadn’t started school yet, they were still homeschooling him in order to catch him up to where he should be, but one day he would have school. And Bruce would likely have to take the dog out multiple times. Alfred did not even know Bruce was considering a dog, so it was unlikely he’d be very thrilled or eager to do any of the work.

Alfred had been quite clear, multiple times when Dick was a boy, that there would be no filthy animals in his house…

Then, of course, there was the issue of caring for the dog’s health, which would likely fall upon Bruce’s shoulders, not Jason.

As Bruce pulled into the Batcave, he tried to set all his planning aside, and just focus on the moment. He had quite a bit he needed to do with the puppy, to ensure he could be brought up into the house.

First and foremost, removing the fleas from his fur and getting him nice and clean.

Did they even have flea treatments in the cave? They definitely had some sprays for them, but Bruce was hesitant to spray down the puppy with them. It might require a quick trip to the store, to purchase pet specific supplies.

Jason was in the cave. That was the first thing Bruce noticed, when he pulled the car to the parking spot. Because the batcomputer was on, and the computer chair spun around to reveal the tiny twelve-year-old curled up in it, looking like he’d just been startled awake.

Bruce resisted the urge to sigh as he got out of the car. Jason was supposed to be in bed. His bedtime was midnight, and he knew it. Especially with Alfred not feeling well, and taking the night off, Jason was really pushing his luck spending the night in the cave, by himself, past his bedtime. Bruce had threatened punishment if he defied the rule, and thus far just the threat of punishment had been enough to deter him from misbehavior.

All Bruce would do was ban him from TV for the next day, and he’d told Jason as much, but sometimes just the thought of being punished made Jason a little antsy and nervous. Even though the punishment itself would hardly even faze Jason, since the boy rarely watched TV anyway.

But Jason being awake could be beneficial, Bruce thought idly, as Jason slowly stood up and smiled a touch nervously at him. He kind of wanted to surprise Jason in the morning, waking him up with the puppy, but Jason could help him a lot with settling the dog.

“Hi, Bruce,” Jason said, when Bruce shut his door and looked over at him, where he was standing about ten yards away. He put his arms behind his back, and smiled a little tighter when Bruce pulled down his cowl shot him a ‘you know what you did’ look.

“Aren’t you up a little late?” he asked. It was 3am.

“I was reading case files,” Jason said, as if that were a valid excuse, “I wanted to finish all the ones related to the Riddler tonight.”

“Hrn,” Bruce grunted, “And did you?”

Even if it was frustrating, Bruce couldn’t help but be proud, every time Jason defied him. He knew testing the limits and pushing the boundaries was going to happen eventually, and probably cause Bruce to gray prematurely, but he was so damned relieved it was happening. That finally Jason was starting to test to see just how far the rules went, and if the consequences were what Bruce said they were.

All he wanted was for Jason to feel safe. He’d put up with the frustration if that was what it took.

“I’m almost done,” Jason said, a little sheepishly. Bruce’s guess was he fell asleep not longer after midnight, and hadn’t actually got anything further accomplished.

Bruce hummed as he started to round the car. Jason took half a step backward, before he seemed to catch himself, and started warring on his lip instead. When Bruce stopped at the passenger door, however, and didn’t keep walking toward Jason, he stopped.

“Come here,” Bruce said, as he opened the door, “I need your help with something.”

“What?” Jason asked, a touch curiously, as Bruce gently picked up the crate.

Despite his best effort, the puppy startled awake at the inevitable jostling. The dog stood, and tried to shake the blanket off of him, so Bruce got a good grip on the crate with one arm so he could use the other to move the blanket.

Jason skipped over, then, but froze when Bruce held the crate low enough for him to look inside.

“Is that?” he whispered, a touch of awe in his voice. Carefully, he walked the last few yards to Bruce, and lifted a hand to set on the dog. Just before he touched him, however, he looked up at Bruce and asked, “He’s not, like, radioactive or anything, is he?”

“No,” Bruce said, a smile tugging on his lips. Although radioactive dogs wasn’t something entirely out of the possibility. Not in Gotham.

He hoped he never came across radioactive dogs…

The puppy shrank back at Jason’s hand, and gave him the most pitiful little whimper Bruce had heard yet.

“Just scared and hungry,” Bruce murmured.

“Oh.” Jason slowly finished his approach, holding two fingers out right in front of the puppy’s nose, letting him sniff for a long few seconds, before he started scratching the top of his head. “Why are you scared, little guy?” he whispered, moving so he was scratching behind the dog’s ears.

The dog highly appreciated that, because he tilted his head, pressing himself into Jason’s fingers more as he shut his eyes.

Bruce couldn’t help his smile. He always knew Jason was a sweet kid, but seeing it in action might be one of Bruce’s new favorite things.

Jason looked up, and his cheeks reddened a little when he did. “Where, uh,” he stammered, “where’d you find him?”

“That dead-end alley on Broad. I didn’t see any other puppies or a mother anywhere nearby, and based on his appearance I’m fairly confident he’s a stray.”

“Aw, poor little guy,” Jason murmured, looking back down at the puppy.

The dog backed away from Jason, the best he could inside the crate, but pushed his head forward for Jason to scratch a second later.

Bruce could already tell, they were going to be best friends.

“Can you watch him while I run out and grab some supplies?” Bruce asked, once Jason had pet the dog for a minute or so, and looked completely in love already, “We need to give him a flea bath before we bring him upstairs, or Alfred will kill me.”

Jason looked up sharply, his eyes a little wide as he asked, “What am I supposed to do?”

“You don’t have to do anything,” Bruce said quickly, “just keep him company and let him know he’s safe. We can put you in the locker room with the door closed, so he can’t run off.”

“Oh,” Jason said, nodding, “yeah, okay.”

“Okay,” Bruce repeated, “Here, let’s get you settled.”

He carried the crate into the locker room, and set it down on the ground, where Jason sat down right next to it. Carefully, Bruce picked the puppy up and set him down, semi close to Jason, in hopes of not scaring him too bad.

It didn’t work, because immediately the puppy backed up, his little tail between his legs and his whole head lowered, his piercing gray eyes darting between Bruce and Jason. When Bruce moved, with the intention of standing up, the puppy bolted, finding a bench up against the wall to cower under while letting out his pitiful little whimper.

“Aww,” Jason said, softly as he crawled a little closer, then laid on his stomach, “don’t be like that. We ain’t gonna hurt ya.”

“I’ll grab him something to eat, first,” Bruce murmured, as he stood and walked toward the door, away from the terrified little puppy, “you might get him to come out for some food.”

Jason merely nodded, as he rested his chin on his hands and kept his attention on the puppy.

“Are you hungry, buddy,” Jason said, softly, as Bruce was leaving the room, “I bet you’re starving. The food here is way better than street food, trust me.”

Bruce tried his best to ignore the twinge in his chest, as he went upstairs.

In the kitchen, Bruce looked through the fridge in hopes of finding something for the dog. If push came to shove, he could scramble an egg. He knew he was capable of that, but he’d rather not mess up a pan and hear it from Alfred in the morning about how he wasn’t ‘allowed��� to use his own damn kitchen.

Thankfully, though, he found what remained of a rotisserie chicken Alfred had made for dinner, two nights before. The left overs hadn’t been turned into anything else, yet, so it was basically plain chicken. Absolutely perfect for a dog.

Bruce made short work of peeling off the skin and cutting up about half a cup of it, into small, puppy sized bites. He really wasn’t sure if it was too much or not enough for the little dog. He’d find a good vet to explain all that to them, within the next few days.

Or he’d spend the morning researching.

Likely both.

He brought the plastic bowl of chicken he prepared, along with another bowl and a bottle of water, down to the cave where he found Jason in basically the same position, the puppy still pressed up into the corner, deep under the bench.

“Here, you can give it to him,” Bruce said, only walking in far enough he could hand the bowls and water to Jason, “I’ll be back in half an hour, 45 minutes tops. I’m just running to the Walmart up the street.”

“Okay,” Jason said. He sat up and took the bowls and water, and sat them on the bench above the puppy, before he opened the water and poured a little into the bowl.

“Call me if you need anything,” he added, pulling a still unused burner phone from his belt and handing it over. He needed to get Jason a real phone, eventually. But for the moment, a burner phone worked fine. “You have my number memorized, correct?”

Jason rolled his eyes dramatically and rattled off Bruce’s number.

Bruce might have made Jason repeat it dozens of times, until he didn’t have to think about it and could simply recite it without hesitation. And Jason was still not over how ‘cruel’ the method of memorization was.

“Okay, good,” he said, smiling a touch, “I’ll be right back.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jason mumbled, as he turned back toward the cowering puppy and picked up the bowl of water, “here, buddy. Are you thirsty?”

Content, Bruce turned to leave, but paused when Jason called out a little urgently.

“Wait,” he said, “What’s his name?”

“He doesn’t have one yet. Why don’t you start thinking about that.” Bruce had some ideas of what he’d name the puppy, but if it was going to be Jason’s dog, Jason should get to name him.

It ended up taking Bruce fifty minutes to get back home. Between having to shower and change, then actually find the pet section at the maze that was Walmart, it took way longer than he wanted. Once he was in the pet section, he got a little lost trying to round up all the things he thought they’d need to survive the night.

A crate was a good idea. A real one, meant for dogs. A bag of food, too, but then he got distracted by all the options. He had no idea there was so many kinds of dog foods, all claiming to do something different. He ended up with a bag of the stuff meant for large breed puppies, and a box of canned wet food, as well. Just to have on hand. Then he bought a jar of treats, a couple toys, the flea shampoo and some other grooming supplies, and a collar and leash.

It was way too much stuff, he felt, but not nearly enough at the same time.

Once Alfred was awake, he’d probably have a much better idea of what they needed.

In the meantime, it was good enough.

Bruce felt bad, leaving Jason alone for as long as he did, but then again Jason had spent hours in the cave already, even though he wasn’t supposed to, so it wasn’t like it’d hurt him. Especially not when he spent the whole time watching over the puppy.

When he finally made it back down to the cave, with the grooming supplies and treats, it’d been nearly an hour. Bruce would be a giant liar if he said he wasn’t anxious about having left Jason alone so long.

But when he got to the locker room door and opened it slowly, he breathed a sigh of relief.

Jason jumped, of course, when the door opened. Bruce wished the boy didn’t have such strong reflexes, sometimes, because based on how he was curled up against the wall, the blanket wrapped around himself, he had been fast asleep. Bruce would have loved to snap a picture, if only to show Alfred, because not only had Jason been asleep, but the little puppy was curled up in Jason’s arms, sleeping against his chest.

Now that Bruce had entered the room, however, the dog’s ears lowered and he sank further into Jason’s hold.

“Shh, it’s okay,” Jason whispered through a yawn, as he sat up, his hands holding the dog close, “It’s just Bruce. We like Bruce.”

Bruce couldn’t hide his smile as he shut the door behind him and crossed the room. “Everything okay?” he asked, as he knelt down and slowly ran his hand down the dog’s head, trying to reassure him a little.

“Yeah,” Jason said, his shoulders dropping a little, “You were right, he came right to me when I offered the food.”

“That’s good,” Bruce said, looking over at the half empty bowl of chicken, sitting up on the bench, “He only wanted half of it?”

Jason grimaced, a touch, and asked, “Remember when I first got here, I got sick cause I ate too much?”

With a nod, Bruce said, “Yes.” He remembered that clearly.

It had absolutely broke his heart to know three pancakes, a few pieces of bacon, and a scrambled egg had been enough to make Jason sick. Had been too much food.

They had to slow him down and put him on a rigid meal plan for the first couple weeks, just to get his tolerance back up. Three months later and he still was underweight, but at least he could eat a full meal and not get sick.

“I didn’t want the same thing to happen to him,” Jason said, turning his attention back down to the puppy, who looked up at him with big eyes, “so I was feeding him one piece at a time, and he started acting pretty full.” When Jason ran his hand down the dog’s back, he tried to stand up, and Bruce could see his tail twitch from under the blanket still wrapped around him. When he couldn’t stand up, he started licking at Jason’s arm, making Jason grin for a second.

“You’re a good kid,” Bruce said, setting a hand in Jason’s hair and ruffling it, a touch. A compassionate kid. Just when Bruce thought he couldn’t like Jason any more.

Jason hid his smile in the puppy’s fur.

“Come on,” Bruce said, standing back up and motioning with his head toward the bathroom, “Let’s get him a bath.”

Bruce led Jason to the large sink they mostly used for soaking things or washing things like their grapples, when necessary. But it was the perfect bathtub for a puppy, so Bruce scrubbed it down quickly, then plugged it up and filled it with a couple inches of warm water.

“Okay, set him down,” Bruce said, as he went through the various bottles of soap he’d purchased.

The puppy whined when his paws touched the water, and tried his best to stay in Jason’s arms.

“It’s okay,” Jason soothed, running his hands down the dog’s back, when he tried to climb out of the sink, “you’ll feel way better clean.”

Despite Jason’s reassurances, the puppy continued to whimper and try to escape the bath, so Bruce worked as quickly and as gently as he could, first washing him off with the regular shampoo, then with the flea shampoo, working it into his short, slightly matted fur carefully, sure to avoid his scrapes and cuts. All the while Jason kept murmuring at him and offering gentle scratches to his head, between his eyes, and his snout. The puppy’s ears remained down, and his tail tucked between his legs, but he did quit whimpering and trying to escape Bruce’s hands.

“Have you thought of a name?” Bruce asked, while he was gently pouring clean water over the puppy’s back, to rinse away the rest of the flea shampoo.

Jason merely shrugged, not even taking his eyes off the puppy, who was looking back at him pitifully.

“That’s okay,” Bruce said, “Take your time.” Bruce wouldn’t be able to name a dog on the spot, either.

Once Bruce was content the puppy was as clean as could be, he picked him up and placed him on a towel Jason spread out on the counter. Jason wrapped the towel around him, and rubbed him down, drying him off and petting him at the same time.

The puppy barked, the first not whimper sound Bruce had heard from him, when Jason flipped the towel over his face.

“What?” Jason asked, when he moved the towel, a big grin on his face, “You don’t like being blinded? How unreasonable.”

In response, the puppy barked again, and jumped up on Jason, putting his front paws on Jason’s shoulders while he started licking at Jason’s face, his tail wagging slightly behind him.

Leave it to Jason to win the puppy’s adoration in less than two hours. He’d basically done the same thing to both him and Alfred, after all.

Jason laughed, loud and clear, and tried to catch the puppy’s face with his hands and get him to stop licking at his face. “Stop it,” he said, through his laughter, “Buddy come on, that’s so gross.”

“All right, how about we take him outside first,” Bruce said, after he’d drained the sink and put away the supplies. Maybe if they took him outside first, Alfred’s introduction to the puppy wouldn't be cleaning up an accident on one of the carpets.

Alfred… Alfred would not appreciate that at all. And would likely begin demanding Bruce find a better home for him.

They’d also have to figure out where to keep him. Jason needed sleep, Bruce knew. And the puppy likely did as well. He just wasn’t sure where to do that. It was probably a terrible idea to trust the puppy in any room before they’ve had a chance to go through and make sure it was ‘puppy proof.’ And Bruce felt like all of them going to sleep was trusting the puppy alone, even if he was with one of them. Likely Jason.

Perhaps they should set up his crate, and get him acquainted to it. Establish it as a safe place that was all his.

“Hey, Bruce?” Jason asked, as they were taking the elevator up to the manor.

Bruce didn’t like taking the elevator, when not absolutely necessary. It was a good workout to climb the stairs, but Jason insisted on carrying the puppy, since he still cowered away from Bruce, and Bruce did not trust him on the stone stairs quite yet. There was no telling what would happen if they set the dog down free. Bruce had no faith he’d actually follow them, and if he did, that he’d be able to climb the stairs without falling.

And with Jason carrying the dog, he did not trust Jason on the stairs, either. Not that Bruce couldn’t easily catch him or the dog if the dog started squirming and Jason lost his balance or grip, but taking the elevator took away all the anxiety, so that was what they did.

“Yeah?” Bruce asked, when simply looking down at Jason hadn’t prompted him to continue.

Jason shifted from one foot to the other, his attention down on the puppy. He had a solid grip on the dog, with one arm under him and the other arm on top, holding him still. Not that he needed to hold the puppy still, since he had snuggled down into Jason’s arms and seemed content, just looking around at the elevator around them.

“Are, uh,” he finally started, but he paused to clear his throat, and asked a little more confidently, “Are we keeping him? Or just watching him until the shelters open?”

The elevator dinged, and the doors opened to the landing between the actual entrance to the house.

“Do you want to keep him?”

If Jason didn’t want to keep him, Bruce could certainly find him a loving home somewhere else, but he’d be a little shocked if, after how quickly Jason clearly has fallen for the puppy, he didn’t want him.

But Jason looked up at him, and Bruce could tell that Jason didn’t dare ask.

Another one of Jason’s little habits. Hide away the things he truly loved, play them down as ‘no big deal,’ all out of fear Bruce or Alfred would take them away from him. Why? Bruce didn’t know. And he was afraid to find out from where such a fear came.

All he and Alfred wanted was to give Jason the world. He’d spent far too much of his life without even the basic necessities. For once he deserved the things he wanted.

Bruce took a step to the side and wrapped his arm around Jason’s shoulders, trying to ignore how the puppy’s ears lowered and he tried to bury himself further into Jason’s hold. “If you want to keep him,” he said, pulling Jason to his side for a second, “We’ll keep him.”

“Really?” Jason asked, shifting in Bruce’s hold just a touch, but not pulling away, “You’re sure?”

“I wouldn’t have brought him home, if I wasn’t sure,” Bruce said, squeezing Jason a little tighter, “I’m ready to keep him forever.”

“Oh,” Jason whispered, as he looked back down at his puppy. When he didn’t say anything further, Bruce led him out of the elevator and into the manor.

Getting a collar on the puppy was quite the task. Every time Bruce tried to put it on him, he pulled away and tried to run. In the end, Bruce had to hold him still while Jason put it on him, whispering his reassurances the entire time. Just based on how the puppy kept flinching away, cowering from Bruce’s hands, he would have said fuck it, and let the dog be without a collar.

But he was terrified if they let the dog outside without a leash, he’d bolt and they’d never see him again. The coyotes or foxes or something would kill him. They did not have a fence, except for around Alfred’s garden, and Bruce knew letting the dog run free within the garden would not win any points with Alfred.

Finally, though, they got the collar secure and hooked the leash to it.

“If we’re keeping him, we really ought to have a harness for him instead,” Jason said, as he tried to lead the puppy out the door. He kept pulling on the leash, trying to run off, but would stop when the leash went taught and started pulling on his neck.

“I see what you mean,” Bruce said. It probably would be much safer and more comfortable for the puppy, in a harness rather than a collar. He hadn’t even considered that, when shopping. “How about I stay up here, so he stops trying to get away from me. You can take him out.”

Jason hesitated, but leaned over and ran a hand down the puppy’s back. The little dog looked up at him, then back at Bruce, and started to follow when Jason took a step down the patio stairs, toward the yard.

When Jason paused again, and looked back at Bruce, he said, “I’ll be right here watching, okay?” Being outside, alone, was not something Jason enjoyed much, completely understandably. Doing it while it was dark out hadn’t come up, yet, but Bruce could understand him being a little nervous about it. Even if the sky was starting to light up, with the twilight of the coming sunrise in an hour or so, Bruce wouldn’t go anywhere. He’d stay right on the patio, and wait for Jason and the puppy to get back.

“Okay,” Jason said, nodding a little, as he turned to lead the puppy out into the yard to do his business.

It took some coaxing, and about fifteen minutes, but finally the puppy relieved himself, and Jason rewarded him with one of the treats he’d tucked into his pocket, from the jar Bruce purchased. They’d both taken a few, just to start in on the training.

He had a lot of research to do come morning, on training.

Once Jason finished praising him and petting him, he started to lead him back up to the patio. It wasn’t until they reached the stairs did the puppy notice him, and start to pull on the leash to get away.

It killed Bruce, just a little, to think what other large men had done to the poor dog to make him so afraid. He’d warmed right up to Jason, but even with Bruce being gentle and kind and feeding him, he was still wary.

Just like Jason could be, at times.

“It’s just Bruce, buddy,” Jason said, kneeling down and running a hand down the puppy’s back, “I know he’s big but you don’t gotta be scared of him.”

“That’s right,” Bruce said, trying not to smile warmly and embarrass Jason. He took a few steps to the top of the stairs and knelt down, holding out a treat for the puppy. “Come here, bud.”

The puppy openly warred with himself, taking half steps forward and back, as he sniffed at the air in the direction of the treat. Bruce stayed still, and waited, until finally the puppy gave in and hopped up the four stairs, so he could sniff the treat more directly and snatch it from Bruce’s fingers.

“That’s a good boy,” Bruce said, pulling another treat out and holding it out with one hand, so he could scratch behind his ears with the other.

“See,” Jason said, smiling brightly, “Bruce is nice.”

Once inside, Bruce reluctantly let Jason take the leash off, and watched with a sigh as the puppy immediately found a bench to hide under in the mud room.

It was going to be a long process.

“Why don’t you work on getting him to the kitchen,” Bruce said, as he hung the leash up on the coat rack, “I’ll go prepare him another bowl of water.”

Jason nodded, and sat down on the floor, a good ten feet away from the puppy, so Bruce let him be and left, shutting the door behind him.

In the kitchen, he did as promised and filled a shallow bowl with water, and set it on the counter for when it was needed. Then he pulled out the crate he’d bought, one that was likely going to be too small once the puppy grew. It was meant for medium sized dogs, and Bruce had a feeling the dog would be squarely in the large category. It would work for the moment, though, so he opened it and started putting it together. They could figure out a good spot for it, later. When it was time for Jason to get some sleep.

He wasn’t quite sure what the dog’s breed was. Looking at his eyes, he looked a little like a pitt bull. His nose had some pitt qualities, as well, but the rest of his body looked more like a lab to Bruce. But he was gray, a solid gray, with light gray eyes.

Honestly, Bruce didn’t know a ton about dog breeds, so that was likely another thing he’d be researching, once Jason and the puppy finally went to bed.

Alfred was going to kill him, letting Jason basically stay up all night with only a couple short naps in strange spots.

Jason finally came into the kitchen a good fifteen minutes later, the little puppy trotting along, right by Jason’s side.

He didn’t startle, much, when he saw Bruce, but instead pushed to be right between Jason’s feet, and started looking around the kitchen.

“Impressive, son. Looks like he trusts you already,” Bruce said, as he continued opening all the toys he’d purchased. There were only a few, but each of them had zip ties and cardboard to remove before they could be given to the puppy.

With a bright smile, Jason took the bowl of water and knelt down, offering the dish to the puppy who eagerly started lapping it up, his little tail wagging happily as he did.

“Are you sure you don’t wanna name him?” Jason asked, sitting next to the bowl and watching as his puppy continued drinking, “He is your dog.”

Bruce paused from where he was freeing a little hotdog toy from its packaging and looked over at Jason. But Jason wasn’t looking at him, he was still staring at the dog, almost like he was pointedly not looking at Bruce.

“No, Jason,” he said slowly, frowning at himself that he obviously hadn’t been clear enough, “He’s your puppy. I brought him home for you.”

Jason didn’t say anything, just pulled his knees up to his chest, so Bruce ventured, “Unless you don’t want a dog?”

“No,” Jason said quickly, shaking his head, “I want him.”

“Okay.”

With the hotdog freed, Bruce crossed the room and took a seat next to Jason, who didn’t look over at him still. The puppy did, however, and took a few steps to the side, but warily hopped back over to his bowl after a second, pausing every few sips of water to look at Bruce.

Jason absently placed a hand on the puppy’s head, then withdrew it, and hugged his knees a little tighter.

“Are you okay, lad?” Bruce asked.

“Yeah,” Jason said, dully, nodding a little as he did. Clearly not okay.

Jason and his moods were so unpredictable. The strangest things set him off, sometimes, and Bruce often felt like he were navigating the woods in the dark, without a flashlight, trying to talk to Jason when his moods hit.

Sometimes placing a hand on his back was welcomed, but other times, it was very not. And only set Jason off further.

So Bruce kept his hands to himself, and looked down at the stupid little hotdog in his hands.

He held it out to Jason, tapping him gently on legs with it to get his attention. It was a pretty dumb looking toy, in all honestly. A stuffed hotdog with a little smiling face on the front of the weiner. He’d known the second he saw it that Jason would get a kick out of it, so he couldn’t not buy it.

As expected, Jason smiled when he looked at the hotdog, and shifted into sitting crisscross as he took it from Bruce. “That is so cute,” he said, inspecting the whole thing, before turning his attention to the puppy, “Have you ever had a hotdog?”

The dog, of course, didn’t answer, but did look up when Jason squeezed the stuffed toy and found the squeaker inside. His little tail started wagging slowly when Jason squeaked it a few more times, then held it out for the puppy.

Clearly the dog had no idea what to do with a toy, at first. Because when Jason offered it to him, he trotted up closer and started sniffing at it rather intently.

“Bite it,” Jason said, pushing the toy at him a little more, “It’s yours buddy, you can play with it.”

It took another minute of experimenting, but the dog eventually took it from Jason, biting at it several times until he had a good grip on it. He jumped backward, and leaped around a couple times with it, as he kept working on his grip.

Finally, he seemed to be satisfied with how he was holding it, because he started shaking it aggressively, his tail wagging a mile a minute while he growled, a cute, very non-threatening little growl.

“You got it,” Jason said, grinning wide, “Good boy.”

Bruce draped one arm across Jason’s shoulders, hoping that with his upturned mood, he wouldn’t be too jumpy at the action.

He wasn’t, but he did look up at Bruce before relaxing into the arm.

“I’m glad you two are getting along already,” Bruce said, running his hand up and down Jason’s arm for a second before letting go, content to just sit there with Jason for a bit, watching the puppy fight with his new toy hotdog.

If the dog was going to be as big as Bruce imagined, it was unlikely the hotdog would survive very long.

Not if he kept playing with his toys that violently.

They lapsed into silence for a few minutes, just watching the dog as he trotted around the kitchen, flinging his hotdog around and going to ‘catch’ it, just so he could shake it around again and send it flying.

Eventually, Jason shifted again, pulling away from Bruce’s arm, so he removed it with one pat to his back. He placed his hands on his own knees, while Jason started hugging his again.

Bruce didn’t bother telling Jason he was right there, ready to listen to whatever Jason had going on inside his head. If he did, Jason would roll his eyes and make some joke, or completely brush Bruce aside and try and forget about whatever it was.

So instead he waited.

The puppy bounced over to Jason after a few minutes, and set the hotdog down next to him. But when Jason reached out to pick it up, he changed his mind and quickly grabbed it, trying to pull it away before Jason could take it.

“Why this puppy?” Jason finally asked, while he taunted the dog by tugging at the toy. He acted like he was letting the puppy have it, then pulled it, pulling the entire dog with him.

The little growls he got in response were cute, though Bruce knew it wasn’t a behavior they’d be able to tolerate long. Growling at them, even while in play, probably wasn’t a good behavior to encourage in a dog.

Bruce shrugged and said, “He’s the puppy I found.” There hadn’t been anything special about him, he supposed.

Except that he’d found the dog in Crime Alley. And had been starkly reminded of Jason.

Which still was not something he was going to tell Jason.

Because Jason was not a dog, and Bruce did not think of Jason as a dog in the least bit.

Even if he had found Jason starving and alone in Crime Alley, too…

“But,” Jason said, when the puppy had ‘won’ the hotdog and carried it five feet away to keep playing with, “What if he turns out to be bad behaved and, like, pees on all the old rugs.”

Why was that even something Jason was worrying about? Of course the dog was going to pee on the rugs. He was pretty sure it was part and parcel to owning a dog. They’d be damned lucky if that was the worst thing the dog did.

“Then I guess we’ll buy some new rugs,” he said with a shrug.

“But,” Jason said, looking up at Bruce with slightly wide eyes, “what if he tears up all the sofas. And eats your shoes. And bites you. And, and—”

“Jay,” Bruce interrupted. wrapping his arm back around Jason’s shoulders. He saw the problem, now.

Willis had ditched Sparky at some park, all because he bit him. Likely protecting Jason, if Bruce’s suspicions were correct. Why would Jason believe Bruce would be any different?

Even though Bruce had been trying his hardest to be absolutely nothing like Willis Todd.

He’d rather die than be anything like that sorry excuse for a man. Jason deserved so much better than him. And while Bruce didn’t think he lived up to everything Jason deserved in a parent… he at least hoped he was better than Willis.

But Willis was Jason’s example of a father, so Bruce could not blame him for expecting Bruce to act like him.

How did one convince a little boy that unconditional love existed, when he had never experienced it before?

“He’s part of the family now,” Bruce eventually said, pulling Jason into his side when Jason didn’t shy away from his hold, “He might do things to make me upset sometimes, but that’s okay. I’ll still love him, and I’ll never hurt him or kick him out, because I’d never do that to my family. No matter what they did or how mad I got.”

Jason’s lip twitched, slightly, as he sank into Bruce’s hug. He took a moment, but finally sat up and asked, a smirk on his face, “What if I peed on the carpet?”

“Would it be on purpose?” Bruce asked, seriously. Because it did matter, even if Jason thought it was just a funny joke.

All Jason did was snicker, and say, “Yeah.”

“Well then,” he said, “You would clean it up and then we would have a very long, very serious conversation about what the hell you were thinking.” He jostled Jason a little, playfully, and offered him a smile when he looked up. “And then you would apologize to Alfred profusely”

“That’s it?” Jason asked, but he was outright grinning, so Bruce figured it was all landing the right way.

“That’s it,” Bruce confirmed, “Although Alfred might make you do a bunch of chores after.”

“Yeah, that’s fair.”

“I think we can forgive the puppy, though, if he does it on accident while being house trained.”

“Good,” Jason said. He pulled away from Bruce’s arm, again, so Bruce let go once more, “he’s just a baby.”

“That’s right. He doesn’t know any better.”

The puppy had laid down across the kitchen, his head resting on top of the toy hotdog while he just looked at them, his eyelids drooping more and more with each blink.

It was just about bedtime for all of them.

“I,” Jason started, before Bruce could open his mouth and voice that thought, “I was thinking ‘Gable.’ For his name.”

“Gable?” Bruce said, turning the name over in his head, “From Anne of Green Gables?” He knew that had become one of Jason’s favorite books, after he’d read it his second week in the manor.

“Yeah, because he’s gray, and Anne had gray eyes.”

“Ah.” It was a good name, he thought. “I like it. It suits him.”

Jason smiled, one of his sweet, shy smiles, and held a hand out to Gable. “Come here, Gable,” he said, “are you tired?”

“Yes, I think we should take him outside one more time, and then both of you need to get some sleep.”

Gable stood, at Jason’s continued prodding, and started to walk over to them, but then the kitchen door opened and Alfred walked in, carrying an empty breakfast tray, likely so he could begin preparing breakfast for them.

“Dear heavens,” he swore, dropping the tray to the ground as Gable ran past him, right toward Jason. But when the tray hit the ground in a loud crash, he jumped, and changed trajectory toward a small table up against the wall, that had a shelf under it and about eight inches of clearance between it and the ground. Gable squeezed himself in there, and turned around so he was looking out at all of them, but was as far under the shelf as he could be.

“Gable,” Jason said, scrambling to his feet to get across the room to where Gable was cowering, “it’s okay, shhh. It’s just Alfred.”

“Sorry, Alfred,” Bruce said, as he got to his feet and picked up the tray for Alfred, “I was going to warn you.” He did feel bad for startling Alfred so hard. He, too, would be a bit startled, he hated to admit, if he saw a dog he wasn’t expecting in the kitchen at 6am.

“What in heavens is that doing in this house,” Alfred asked, directing all his ire at Bruce.

Bruce shrank back, a little, but then looked over at Jason. Jason had laid out on his stomach, the same as earlier, and was completely ignoring them while he gently spoke to Gable, offering him a treat and promising him everything was perfectly okay.

“No one here’s going to hurt you,” he was whispering, “I promise.”

“We kind of adopted a dog last night,” Bruce said, rubbing the back of his neck.

Alfred opened his mouth, like he was about to dispel a whole pile of vitriol at that, and likely demand Bruce return the puppy immediately.

He had been quite clear, on a number of occasions, that there would be no animals in his house… Or, more specifically, no filthy animals in his house, causing him more work.

But they were interrupted by a little bark, followed by some laughter.

Looking over at Jason, Bruce found him still on his stomach, but the puppy now out from his hiding place. He had one of his paws in the air, and was batting at Jason’s hair as he jumped around, Jason with his face hiding in the crook of an arm, the other hand trying to catch Gable’s paw as he giggled. “Stop, stop, you’re pulling my hair.”

Alfred visibly softened, so Bruce whispered to him, quiet enough that Jason likely couldn’t hear them, even if he were paying attention, “I found him in an alley, starving and alone.”

With a sigh, Alfred ran a hand over his face, and finally murmured back, “I suppose this is the more… traditional stray you’ve brought back.”

Jason rolled on his back, and Gable bounced over to where he was, and started climbing up onto his chest to get a better angle to lick his face, only eliciting more giggles from Jason.

“They’ll be good for each other,” Bruce whispered.

Alfred sighed one last time, and turned toward the counters, where he dug out a pan. “I hope you know I will never hear the end of this from Master Dick. The number of times he begged for a puppy.”

“I know,” Bruce said, grimacing. Dick was going to throw a fit about it, because even Bruce had told him ‘no’ about a dog. But then he’d fall immediately in love with Gable, and likely get over it.

He’d understand, too. If he took the time to listen to Bruce’s explanation of why a puppy was good for an abused, anxious kid.

“Rule number one,” Alfred said, much louder for Jason to hear, “dogs are not allowed in the kitchen or dining room.”

“Aw, Alfred,” Jason started whining, picking Gable up so he could sit up with him, “But—“

“No buts, Master Jason,” Alfred asserted, “This manor is plenty big enough, it will not harm him to ban him from these two rooms. It is simply unsanitary to have a dog slobbering all over my kitchen while I’m cooking, therefore he is not allowed under any circumstances in these rooms, please train him accordingly.”

Jason frowned, for half a second, before absolutely lighting up. “Wait,” he said, hopping to his feet, Gable struggling in his arms to be let down, “So we’re keeping him? For real, for real?”

“Jay I told you—“ Bruce started, but Jason cut him off.

“Yeah, but we all know Alfred’s the real boss around here.”

“Hey,” Bruce protested, but there was no heat behind it.

It was true.

Jason set Gable down on the ground, and watched in amusement as he ran over to his hotdog and picked it up, then pushed his way back between Jason’s feet.

“Yes,” Alfred said, clearly trying, but failing, to keep the smile off his face, “If you can take care of him, you may keep him. He is your responsibility, not mine. I expect you do do the research necessary for training puppies up into well behaved dogs.” Half way through his spiel, he turned toward Bruce and raised an eyebrow at him, so Bruce nodded right along with Jason.

“All right,” Jason cheered, kneeling down to jostle Gable’s ears, while Gable licked at his face again.

“How about you take him outside again, Jay,” Bruce said, before Jason and the puppy lost the little bout of energy they’d both found, “I want both of you to at least take a nap this morning, and he should probably go before that happens.”

“Sure,” Jason said, hopping up to his feet, “come on, Gable. Let’s go outside. You’ll like it more now that it’s lighter outside.”

“Don’t forget his leash,” Bruce called after him, as Jason skipped out of the room, Gable following close behind.

“I know,” Jason shouted back.

Alfred huffed a short laugh, as he pulled out some breakfast sausage, and got to work preparing them a breakfast.

“Thanks for that, Alf,” Bruce said, once he’d heard Jason make it into the mudroom, “I think it’s really going to help him.”

“Of course my boy,” Alfred said, smiling fondly as he placed sausage on the skillet to cook. His expression shifted, and he turned to Bruce, pointing his spatula at him, “But I was serious. I will not be cleaning pee out of my carpets, do you understand? If that dog—“

“Got it,” Bruce said, holding his hands up, “We’ll handle it, don’t worry.”

Bruce was confident in his ability to clean a rug.

And if he couldn’t, well…

He was certainly capable of hauling it away to the dump and ordering a new one online.

If that was the price he paid for giving Jason the joy he’d already experienced that morning, then Bruce was willing to pay it a hundred times over.

Because for Jason, Bruce would do anything. He deserved nothing less.

[l4verq]

fight back | b.b

bucky barnes x enhanced!reader

in which bucky won’t lay a hand on you no matter what :(

tags : a little brawl, fluff cause icanthelpmyself, mentions of blood, john walker (idk if we're supposed to like him now ??) bucky is a cat lady okk

fic : one shot

a/n : inspired by that scene in the final ep of tfatws when karli is screaming at sam to fight back lol😳

|| gif by @unearthlydust ||

-

one world, one people.

you repeat it in your head one more time, when he comes into view, vibranium gleaming onyx with loops of gold.

you know that he knows you’re here, back to the wall a few feet away, peeking at him.

he doesn’t know that you let him know.

doesn’t know that you laid out a trap and just like the foolish mouse, he walked right into the lion’s den.

although you’re not sure who the fool actually is, when you meet his eyes, knees almost buckling at the sight just cause of how long it’s been without them.

“y/n.” he breathes out, almost in disbelief.

it’s been fourteen months since he woke up to an empty bed and a handwritten goodbye letter folded in a clean white envelope, tucked under a pillow still marked by the soft indentation of your head.

fourteen months since you took off in the dead of night, pulling your- his hood over your head, the cold wind nipping at your skin, almost like it was punishing you.

maybe, it saw what you did.

oh, but fred definitely saw what you did, that damn cat always followed you two around even though it’s owner was the blonde next door. her name wasn’t even fred, bucky came up with it after the third time it snuck into the apartment.

he swore he hated it but always seemed to have a treat lying around in case it did come.

and it did, a lot. neglected by it’s owner, it chose to seek comfort in the couple next door, and sometimes a meal or two.

“sorry, no treat today bub.”

fred scowled - honestly, you wouldn’t be surprised if an actual human was living in it - mewling as it came up to you for the usual chin rubs and cooes.

you sighed, caving into it’s antics, squatting to pet it.

cradling it’s head into your palm, she was purring, a very uncommon sight. fred doesn’t purr, she scratches and hisses at anything and everything that moves.

“you’re particularly nice today.” you commented, getting up. it mewled even louder this time but you turned on your heels and headed for the stairs.

you were already late.

your legs picked up pace quickly, easily crossing multiple blocks over in a few long strides owing to the blue serum coursing through your veins.

though your mind remained stationary, fixated on a single face, how it’d crumble at the sight of the letter, how he’d probably end up hating you.

“took you long enough.”

her auburn locks were tied into a loose braid that curved around her neck, the tip sat just below her collarbone, a piss poor job held together by a thin maroon colored band.

it was quintessentially her, the lack of utter patience to spend two minutes looping three knots of hair one over the other.

you jogged over to the other side of the black suv, noticing a stark white rectangle where a liscence plate should be.

“he’s knocked out cold,” you asked as soon as you grabbed the door handle open, “how?”

lazropthalein.

it came in the mail in a brown package, no return address. bucky wasn’t home, he had a scheduled therapy session down the block.

just a pinch is enough.

the text from the unknown number read.

it had no odour, a clean, white colour to it that blended in seamlessly with the flour.

“you baked without me?” bucky gasped, dramatically, hand covering his gaping mouth. his other hand carried two plastic bags, filled to the brim, a purple razor was poking out the top.

he even had to drop the poor bags on the floor, just to emphasize the utter shock he felt.

“i got bored.” you giggled, wiping the countertop with a wet cloth, remnants of flour on the sleek marble turning goopy under it.

“traitor.”

“it’s just cupcakes.”

“still a cake.”

you sighed, “you’re a five year old.”

he huffed, trudging towards the living room, shoulders hunched to really hone in on just how devastating this was for him.

“don’t i get a hug?” you held your arms out, making grabby hands, following him.

apparently, the devastation was to the point where he had to bring out the big guns, the sad baby blues.

the act lasted for another minute? at best. hours later, he was happily munching away.

“i know why it tastes so good.” he moaned, smacking his lips.

your smile faltered a little, did he kn- no, there’s no way he could have known. you burned that little plastic bag as soon as you dumped a pinch in.

“yea?”

he grinned, popping the last bit left in “it was made with your love.”

“how did it work?” your voice rose several octaves higher, amplified further by the cool, silent night.

drugs and sedatives don’t work on supersoldiers yet a certain blue eyed one was back home, unmoving even if you screamed right into his ears.

“dr wilfred, he invented it. the power broker wanted something to balance out our,” she flared her hands at both of you, “super-soldierness, so that we don’t have an upper hand when all’s said and done.”

would the either of you even be alive when all was said and done?

“look, i know you didn’t want to do this but james, he won’t understand. he’s not one o-..”

“yea, can we jus- let’s just get out of here.” you get in beside her, whipping the seatbelt over your torso.

the car was stuffy, felt like a choke around your neck that only seemed to tighten more and more.

“if we go now, there’s no coming back.” she glances at you, hand curled over the gearstick ready to position it in place.

she was giving you an out, one last chance. karli was a lot of things and having a heart inside that cold, bitchy exterior was one.

“i know.”

you sunk deeper into your seat, the hoodie had a faint smell of burnt toast and that cologne which was on sale, almost half off if you cut out the taxes.

it smelled like him, too much like him.

until it didn’t after a few days. but you still slept with it, just outright refusing to wash it despite karli’s snarky remarks about hygiene.

hygiene could go fuck herself, for all you know.

compared to the motels and basements you guys shifted around in, that hoodie was a doctor’s scrubs.

when the moon hung low on the black sky, you tried not to think about him too much. the silence didn’t help, you needed something to drown out your thoughts. that’s when the ‘socialising’ with the other flag smashers started. they were nice.

nice cause you were the leader’s little sister. but also a huge fucking liability because of a certain supersoldier hot on their heels in search of you, ruining every goddamn plan so their niceness was.. limited.

karli was a natural when it came to it, all of it. the talking, rallying of supporters - fuck, she just had a way with words. she could make you believe she hung up the stars in the sky.

probably how she convinced you that holding a room chock full of council members hostage right smack in the middle of nyc was a good idea.

the only idea, more precisely.

you guys had the upper hand, more than a handful supersoldiers at your disposal, capable of taking down the entire military force if you so pleased.

the only playing card they had was one supersoldier, who was better off distracted, kept off the field.

so who better to send to do the deed than the love of his life.

“fred had a baby. multiple babies, spawn of the devil if you ask me. always running around, thrashing the place up.” he takes small steps towards you, slow and calculated, as if a lion stalking around a prey.

“you shouldn’t be here.” you lie through your teeth, a tiny white compared to the ones that’ve rolled off your tongue before.

“i think the neighbours call me a cat lady now,” his eyes shift around and he leans in to whisper, “they haven’t even seen my knitting skills yet.”

“stop.” you think you said it or much rather whispered it, your voice was failing you. he’s getting close, too close for your liking so why aren’t you backing away from him?

“fred misses you, you know. she wonders where you went.” he smiles but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

the hairs on your neck shoot up, a slight twitch of your brow. the way bucky’s ear perk up, you realise it’s not just you and him here anymore.

someone else has arrived.

“i’ve got it handled, john.” bucky turns around, plants him directly infront of you, blocking john’s view of you.

sure enough, it’s john limping in, a nasty gash across his chest.

your blood runs cold because this isn’t how it’s supposed to go.

john isn’t supposed to be here, he’s supposed to be fighting.. oh god. you notice the various splatters of blood on his cowl, on his boot, on his shield.

it’s too much blood from a guy who’s barely bleeding.

“really? i was thinking you should do more than just talk.” he spits on the ground and wipes his mouth.

you notice, the spit’s all blood too.

“i’m giving you a chance to walk away, right now.”

john snorts, leaning sideways to get a view of you, neck craned out.

“and leave this prize all to yourself?” he grins, “i’d be an idiot.”

“you have a death wish then.” you lift your chin a little higher, praying your quickening heartbeat doesn’t give away your calm exterior.

john whistles, grimacing as he straightens, “so, she does talk.”

you scowl, crossing your arms.

he’s in bad shape. he has no chance, not that he ever did even in his best shape. he knows that too yet he’s still here. that sends a chill up your spine.

“go, i got this.” bucky tips his head, glancing at you.

“i don’t need you to save me.” you hiss at him, which comes out a little harsher than you intended. an apology dies in your throat as he flinches just the slightest.

“trouble in paradise?” john’s barely finished saying it before he’s reached behind his back and swinging the vibranium

you hear it before you see it stopped mid air by a gloved hand. then you charge.

it’s all a hazy mix of blue and red until your fist connects with his jaw, sound of something breaking ringing in your ear.

something pulls your waist back, a grip far too strong to be just flesh.

“go, i’ll ta-..” bucky’s barely said anything before an upward cut from john connects to his neck, violent coughs ensuing.

you grip john’s arm before he’s even retracted it back, jump up his back, settling around his neck and twist until you hear a crack and a bloodcurling scream following suit.

he whips his head back right into your stomach, seizes that moment when the wind knocks out of you to pull you by your hair off him.

“i told you to go.” bucky growls, kicking john right in the shin that makes him kneel and you almost fall off but you keep your fingers tightly looped around john’s hair, pulling as hard you can.

but he’s relentless.

your head hits something hard and you realise you’re on the ground now, legs loosely around john’s shoulders, him also on the ground.

it’s like the both of you realise at the same time but you’re quicker. your legs tighten around his neck, against the spot where a thick neck muscle throbs. he claws desperately around, straining for oxygen

soon, his hands lull down, the dull thud on the ground confirming his unconsciousness.

“are you hurt?” bucky’s hovering over you, seemingly unfazed by john’s neck in a chokehold by your legs right now.

you reject his hand he extends and push yourself off the gravelly concrete on to your feet.

“this was a mistake.” you trail off, saying it more to your own self.

you weren’t the lion, you were the stupid fox who thought it was.

stupid enough to believe you were over bucky and that everything wouldn’t come rushing back as soon as you laid eyes on him.

he whips you around by your hand and before you know it, he’s already caught your other fist heading for his sternum. you barely feel the grip, it’s soft, just so incredibly soft and fits so right.

you hate it.

rage bubbles inside you, mostly at yourself. partly at him because he’s not screaming at you or slamming you against the wall or jus- anything.

you wrench your hand away, land a swing which he does nothing to block. his grip on your other hand loosens and he still does nothing when another hit to the jaw leaves him staggering,

instead, he looks at you softly as if resigning himself to your anger, to let it simmer off.

“fight back!” you scream, outstretched palms pushing him back.

he stumbles a few steps back, hands reaching out to yours resting on his chest, fingers intertwining yours tightly.

“stop.” it’s a soft plead, tears spiking the corners of his eyes.

“hit me!” you’re practically begging at this point, thrashing your arms around.

his hands grapple at your shoulders, bringing you to his chest, “it’s okay.”

he smells so sweet, just so sweet that you almost believe him.

“i drugged you and i left you and i-,” you inhale sharply, “i killed so many people, bucky.”

the last fourteen months had escalated quickly from doing what’s right to doing what’s needed, lines blurred between moral ethics and survival.

“it’s okay.” he repeats, hand patting your hair, gentle and soothing. your body betrays you, sinking into his touch, his warmth.

“you should hate me.” you whimper.

you wouldn’t blame him if he did. you doubt he could hate you more than you already did yourself.

he pulls back, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, “i couldn’t if i tried.”

god, why does he have to be so.. bucky?

frustated, you spit out, “this? this was a distraction to separate you and sam.”

you don’t say it but it’s understood, understood that you wouldn’t have met him if not for it.

the inner corners of his brows angle up slightly, a ghost of a smile on his lips, “i know.”

your breath hitches, if he knows then wh-

“then, why..?”

you finally look up at him, vision blurry because of the stupid tears pooling at your eyes.

his thumb wipes away a tear dribbling down your cheek, the coldness of the metal a clear contrast to the warm moisture, “you know why.”

-

a/n : this one’s been sitting pretty, collecting cobwebs in my drafts so thought i’d take it out lol, also haven’t been posting fics in a whileeee cause im dumb and i’ve been working on multiple things all at once lol yea this is me rambling and also i just wanna say that i. love. folklore. sm. that whole album has me crying and sad and just :((

[babeyloser]

Once my facial hair starts growing in, I get super excited about it. I wear my patchy peach fuzz and wimpy mustache with pride.

Leone is happy for me, but at a certain point it’s time for them to interviene.

She corrals me into the bathroom for a shaving lesson.

After I wash my face, Leone lathers up some shaving cream and rubs it onto my jaw. Tiny bubbles pop against my cheeks.

Their touch is gentle; it makes me feel precious.

Leone wets a fresh razor and takes it to my skin. They explain the proper techniques, and I half listen.

His breath comes out in soft puffs against my face. Her golden gaze is soft like a flickering candle. Her voice reverberates in the bathroom deep and lovely.

I’m under her thrall.

“—You’re not even listening to me, are you?” he sighs.

“It’s your fault that I can’t pay attention. You’re too damn pretty.”

Her pale face pinkens. Subtle scratching noises accompany every stroke of the razor.

“Flattery gets you nowhere. Pay attention because I’m not doing this again,” they lie.

“A kiss might help me focus better.~”

Leone swishes the razor under the tap.

“Fine, just one,” she rolls her eyes.

I straighten on the counter, and she nestles between my legs.

They look down at me with poorly hidden affection. Yellow eyes flicker between my eyes and mouth.

Leone thumbs away some shaving foam from my lower lip. She kisses me.

It’s a long, closed-mouth kiss that we both breathe into. I can feel her smile against my mouth. My hand raises to cradle her jaw.

We pull apart. He has this dazed, love-struck expression on his face—eyes glued to my lips. They lean down for more.

The razor clatters into the sink as their hands go to grope my hips.

Sweet pecks morph into sloppy kisses.

Leone leans further into me. The back of my head knocks into the mirror. I press my hands against her chest to keep her from smothering me in excitement.

She dips down to lick and suck on my freshly shaven neck. I knead his developing breast buds in response. They breathe out a moan against my wet ear, sending shivers up my spine.

My touch trails down her cotton loungewear to squeeze her hard cock.

“Hng!” Leone jumps as if my hand were a cattle prod.

I nearly slip off the counter in shock, “Woah, sorry!Sweetie, are you okay?”

“‘m fine. Just wasn’t expecting that was all.”

Our panting echos in the small bathroom. Leone adjusts her cock, pointing it towards her waistband.

“Get yourself cleaned up. I love you but I’m not fucking you with that stupid shit all over your face,” Leone laughs.

“Hey! You’re covered in it too!”

Leone focuses on the mirror behind me to see white foam smeared on her nose and cheeks. She yanks the rag off her shoulder and roughly cleans her face.

“Your turn,” they drop the rag into my lap, “come to bed when you’re done, angelo.”

The image of Leone waiting for me in bed kicks my ass into gear.

I touch up my sideburns and I only cut myself twice. I rinse and moisturize; it kinda stings.

I rush to meet my partner in the bedroom, stripping off my shirt and hopping out of my pants on the journey there.

If this is how her interventions end, then I wouldn’t mind another one.

[whumperooni]

Imagine being such a perfect little angel for papa enji. Always taking care of him. Scrubbing him when he’s in the bath, rubbing his shoulders and drying him off when he gets out the bath. Maybe you even stroke his cock when he’s in there. When you go out with your friends for lunch, you always bring him something back like his favourite cake or something. You make sure he has dinner ready for him when he comes home, sitting in his lap and bouncing on his cock slowly as he eats. Sucking him off after a long day being a hero. Telling Daddy how much you love him, how you’ll always be his as he looks at you with a look that only a father can give his little girl. You always make sure his hero costume is clean and ready for work. You always do as daddy says and he loves his little girl for it 😭😭

Please this makes me so somft ♡

tags/warnings: tw incest, blowjobs, a touch of somft, tw grooming

♡♡♡♡♡

“Daddy, wait! I made you lunch!” Enji blinks and pauses in the doorway, head turning back to find his little girl bounding over to him. You’re still dressed in your bedclothes- a thin, silky nightgown and fuzzy slippers, a robe that’s slipped off your shoulder- and Enji huffs at that, huffs at the sleep that’s still written all over your face. You press a bento box into his hands and a kiss to his cheek- one that he returns with a grunt whenever you peer up at him with expectant, drowsy eyes. “Have a good day at work, daddy! I love you!” “I love you too, little one.”

➺➺➺➺➺➺➺➺➺➺➺➺➺➺➺➺➺➺➺➺ “Aw, Endeavor, did your little girl make that for you? How cute.” Enji grunts and he shoulders away Hawks when the boy peers over his shoulder, ignores the pout that pops up on the hero’s face. “You’re so lucky! I want someone to make me lunch,” Hawks whines, trying to creep his hand over Enji’s other shoulder to grab the food. Enji scowls and he shoulders the boy away, finds himself curling protectively around his lunch as feathers begin to shiver. “Hey, come on- let me try a bite!” “No.” “You’re so stingy! That’s not befitting of the number one hero, ya know!” “You have your own lunch,” Enji points out in a snap. “Not one made with love and care! C’mon- just one bite!” “I said no.” Hawks huffs and he plops down next to Enji- crowding his space like he always does, obnoxious wings beating against Enji’s back and making him huff. A little smirk plays across the flame hero’s face as he watches the boy unwrap a store bought sandwich and the usual annoyance of crinkling cellophane goes unnoticed as Enji takes a bite of karaage. It’s delicious- as usual- and Enji smiles as he slowly eats the lunch his daughter had so lovingly prepared for him. ➺➺➺➺➺➺➺➺➺➺➺➺➺➺➺➺➺➺➺➺ Hero work is good work- honorable work- but it leads to very long days. Enji is tired by the time he gets home- weary from a day full of catching bad guys and filing endless paperwork, dealing with the expectations of the public and the burden of self-righteousness. You greet him when he gets home as always- a tumbler of bourbon in your hands neat and so welcome, a smile on your face. The kiss you press to his cheek is soft and sweet and Enji hums as he returns it- lips brushing just against the corner of yours. “Daddy, how was your day?” “It was fine.” You nod, accepting that, and follow after him as he heads toward the den- your soft footsteps lost under the sounds of his thundering ones. Enji sits himself in his armchair and you take your rightful place on his lap- hand lightly landing on his chest and your gaze fond as you watch him take a drink. “I made udon tonight, daddy,” you tell him, hand working up to loosen his tie and undo one button, two. Enji hums as your fingers stroke over the scarred, bared flesh of his chest and takes another drink, allows his lashes to lower. “But I can draw you a bath first if you want to relax before dinner.” A bath does sound good- it’s just what he needs to unwind after a long day. “I’d like that, little one.” Your face lights up and you nod- only getting up after you press another adoring kiss to his cheek. Enji watches you leave- dress swishing along your thighs- and he slowly drains the rest of his bourbon, allows himself to relax in the comfort of his home. He has such a good daughter. It’s such a shame that the others can’t be like you. ➺➺➺➺➺➺➺➺➺➺➺➺➺➺➺➺➺➺➺➺ “Is it warm enough, daddy?” Enji hums in response- eyes opening and flitting to the side to drink in the sight of you knelt by the bathtub. You have a smile on your face- soft and content- and your hands are just as soft as they run over his body, wash him off with a gentle touch. No one else has ever treated him the way you do- with pure admiration and respect, a never-ending love and a sweet, subservient adoration. You treat him kindly, wonderfully and he knows deep in his heart that he doesn’t deserve it. He accepts it all the same, though. “I’m going to do the shopping tomorrow,” you murmur- fingers kneading along his bicep and working up to his shoulders. You rise, just slightly, with it and Enji’s eyes draw half-shut as your bosom presses against him. “Can I pick anything up for you?” “No, but I need my suit taken to the dry cleaners.” “The navy one? I’ll drop it off.” Enji nods and you hum softly, press against him more as you reach over to his other shoulder. He enjoys your gentle ministrations and he relaxes under your touch, relaxes more when your nails gently scratch through the hair at the base of his skull. “Daddy, do you want me to shave you tonight?” you ask, fingers glancing along his jaw and over the stubble gathered there. “I sharpened your straight razor.”

Enji considers the idea- he does enjoy it; he enjoys the intimacy of the moment, the look of concentration that graces your face, and how you touch him as if you’re afraid that you’ll hurt him- as if you somehow truly believe that your tiny hands could possibly do harm to your six and a half feet tall, built like a brick house, number one hero father. It’s amusing, really.

You’re amusing. “You can do it in the morning,” Enji decides on, leaning back against the bath. Another hum and your hands move down over his chest, glide in slow circles to lather him up. You wash him attentively- loving and sweet with your gentle touches- and Enji nearly sighs at the quiet contentment flaring in his chest, at the fondness that he will never admit he feels out loud. Your hands work over his cock- soft and sweet- and Enji shakes his head when you look up at him, rumbles out a “later” that you simply nod at. “Okay, daddy.” You go back to washing him and Enji closes his eyes, tilts his head back and soaks in your touch, allows himself to feel satisfied over just how well he’s raised you. ➺➺➺➺➺➺➺➺➺➺➺➺➺➺➺➺➺➺➺➺ “Daddy, was dinner okay?” “It was good, little one.” A smile pops onto your face and Enji nearly smiles back, hides it with a draw from his cigar. You’re perched on his lap again- dressed in his favorite nightgown, his hand on your soft thigh. You’ve taken a bath of your own and Enji can smell the scent of your shampoo, the light fragrance of your lotion. When he rubs over your thigh, your lashes flutter and his own draw half-shut whenever you curl a little closer. Such a good girl- so loving and kind, so receptive to your father. A darling daughter, a perfect little housewife for him.

You’re the last bit of kindness that Rei graced him with. He should do more for her, thank her more sincerely for gifting him with a beautiful daughter to dote and protect, cherish and fuck and use to soothe all the stress of his career, your less ideal siblings.

Enji takes another draw from his cigar and he squeezes the plush flesh of your hip, relaxes back into the chair as his cock stirs. “Little one.” A blink, a smile up at him, a soft little hum and a brush of your thighs. You nuzzle against him and the soft “yes, daddy?” you let out sets something hungry in his chest, hardens his cock to full mast. “Take care of daddy,” he tells you- casual, eyes running over you and flicking away as he ashes his cigar. “Put your pretty mouth to work.” A tiny noise bubbles from your throat and you nod- lips pressing to his jaw before you slide off Enji’s lap and onto your knees. When his legs part, you shuffle forward and Enji watches as you tuck your hair behind your ear, takes a puff from his cigar when your hands smooth over his thighs and deftly take out his cock. The lick you give has him exhaling deeply and Enji reaches down to pet over your hair as you place open mouthed kisses to his cock, brushes a few strands from your face. You nuzzle into his palm just for a moment- adoring and sweet- and Enji hums when your soft lips graze over the head of his cock, part wider to take him into your mouth. “Good girl.” Lashes fluttering, you mewl around him and Enji soaks in the way your cheeks flush, the way your tongue flicks across his head as you pull off to look up at him an adoring gaze. “I love you daddy,” you whisper- hand wrapping around his cock. “I love you too, little one.” Smiling, you take his cock back into your mouth and Enji’s fingers curl into your hair, his lips flicker with a smile as his sweet daughter swallows him down all the way to the base, lifts a hand to gently rub his balls. Enji smokes and he slowly pets over his daughter’s hair- utterly relaxed and completely content as you take care of your father in the only way a good daughter can.

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[peterpparkrr]

(Din Djarin x Reader): Hair Washing

Summary: You wake up sick and Din washes your hair.

A/N: Whoo hoo! This is just a little blurb one shot that I’ve had floating around because I love Din so much! This pure fluff. 

You woke up with a groan. Sleeping on the Razor Crest was never comfortable, even if Din let you sleep on the cot, you were still spending those hours stuck in a cramped hole in the wall on a bare thread blanket and painfully lumpy mattress. 

But this was a new level of discomfort as you woke from your few hours of rest with an already pounding headache. You shakily sat up and tried to shimmy your body out of the cramped compartment and make your way to the refresher. 

You were so focused on remaining upright that you didn’t even see Din as he silently observed your stumbling path towards the ship’s bathroom. You were nearly to the door when you stumbled and nearly fell to the floor of the ship.

“(Y/N)?” Din asked cautiously as he quickly made his way over to where you were clutching the edge of a crate. 

You took a shaky breath as you raised your head slowly to make eye contact with Din’s… well his visor.

“I think I’m sick,” You told him meekly, your voice sounding like it belonged to a stranger as you took a slow breath in an effort to stop the room from spinning. 

“Maybe you should get back in bed,” He tells you as he takes in your sickly appearance.

“I need to wash my hair,” You protested desperately. It was stupid, there was no way you would be able to even stand up in the shower, let alone clean yourself, but you couldn’t bear the thought of crawling back into that cot when you felt as gross as you currently did.

“Fine,” Din muttered as he carefully lifted you to your feet and led you to the refresher, “I’ll wash it,” he adds.

If you’d been any less out of it you probably would have been so taken aback by Din’s comment that he would have changed his mind. But you were hardly able to hear him as he brought you into the tiny bathroom of the Razor Crest. 

Din helped you get settled on the floor right outside your shower as he busied himself with getting the shower head down while you tried not to throw up on the floor. As Din turned the water on you shifted forward so your hair fell in front of your face and Din would be able to get it wet without spraying water all over the rest of the bathroom. 

“Is the water warm enough?” He asked as he started to slowly let the water spray onto your scalp. Even in your sickness-addled brain you suddenly became acutely aware of the feeling of Din’s bare fingertips as they gently combed through your hair.

You hummed a confirmation to him as you closed your eyes. This was a far nicer feeling than you’d been prepared for.

After a few minutes of silence on both of your parts as Din wet your hair before turning the water off and beginning to work the shampoo into your hair as carefully and delicately as he could manage. 

“You need to scratch harder,” You finally spoke up, your hair muffling your voice slightly, “You’re not going to clean my hair if you don’t actually work the shampoo in.”

Din remained silent for a moment, as he seemed to be thinking through his options.

You sighed, “I won’t break, please just...”

You trailed off as Din commenced his motions again and you smiled to yourself as he started to actually scratch his fingernails against your scalp. The pressure was much more appropriate for hair washing and allowed you to relax into the feeling of Din’s fingers working through your hair over and over again. 

Once he’d rinsed the shampoo out of your hair Din managed to towel most of the moisture off. And you flipped your hair back over your shoulders, smiling warmly as you were able to see Din again and try to express some level of gratitude.

“Do you feel better?” Din asked after a beat as he watched your attempt at combing your hair out and making it somewhat presentable.

“Somewhat,” You tell him with a small smile. Your headache wasn’t quite as painful, but as you looked at your chapped lips and washed-out complexion in the mirror you realized that you were definitely sick. 

“Thank you, for doing that,” You tell Din as you turn back around to face him. It feels awkward, as the words fall from your lips. You’re not sure why, you just shared a moment far more intimate than anything you’d ever experienced before, but maybe that was the problem, as you look at each other (well, you’re looking at Din, you never quite know for sure that he’s looking back at you) the bathroom becomes almost insufferably small again. It feels like something has shifted, but your brain’s already so tired that you can’t quite put your finger on what just happened.

“Let’s get you back to bed now,” Din says gently, you can hear the kindness in his voice, even through his helmet’s modulator, and you just smile and nod as Din shepherds you like a lost puppy back into the cargo area, and then back into the sleeping compartment.

“Maybe we can figure out a way for me to wash your hair some time,” You tell Din in a far-away voice as you crawled back into the sleeping compartment and laid back down on the cot.

Kriff. Din thought to himself as he watched to make sure you were alright. You were going to be the death of him.

[huihuiheart]

Flufftober D4: Tough Love - Yanan

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Pairing: Yanan x GN Reader

Genre: Fluff

Summary: Yanan is starting feel left out and it’s kind of making him regret getting you a kitten to love instead of him. He’ll get his attention soon enough though.

Warnings: Scratches and biting (from a kitten), that’s it I think.

Word Count: 441

Yanan almost always gave in to whatever you wanted, his heart not willing to say no to you, even if you didn’t actually ask for whatever it was. This time he’d noticed how you seemed to be in love with kittens, constantly looking at photos and videos, but never asked to get one. So he took it upon himself to get one and surprise you with it. The pure joy on your face made his day, well until he realized all your focus was on the kitten for the rest of the day. 

“Look how cute Boo is being Yanan, she’s just a little sweetheart!” You gush over the little kitten as it rolled around in your lap to get comfortable. Yanan’s cheeks puffing out as he gives a little pout, he didn’t need all of your attention constantly, but you’d barely so much as looked at him since he walked in with the little kitten. 

You pet over the kitten’s stomach, one second it’s purring and the next you feel tiny razor-sharp claws grabbing at your hand while Boo bites down on your finger. Yanan jumps when he suddenly hears your pained sound before watching Boo run off and climb into the little basket you had made her bed. He gives a small sigh helping you up and leading you to the bathroom to clean up the scratches.

“Does it hurt?” Yanan questions as he puts ointment on your freshly cleaned wounds.

“Yeah.” You subconsciously pout as you watch him work with the first aid supplies to help you out. Sure you could have done it on your own, but Yanan had already started to take care of it, and trying to bandage stuff with one hand is somewhat annoying.

“Good...maybe now you’ll share your attention with me.” Yanan’s sentence makes you look up at his face confused for a moment before breaking out into giggles.

“Yananie, are you jealous of a little kitten?” You tease him a little, watching as his cheeks start to turn pink when you call him out like that.

“Well, maybe just a little bit...I mean I love seeing you this happy and I’m glad we have Boo...but I felt a little bit ignored.” Yanan admits quietly, looking you in the eyes again when he feels your hand on his cheek.

“Well we’ll let Boo settle for a bit while you get my attention, and when she’s ready to be around us again we can play with her together that way you don’t get left out.” You offer, loving to return some of the happiness Yanan brought you today by giving him some attention now.

[rentsturner]

Bruised Knuckles | Mark Renton

Warnings - Reader has punched a wall, mentions/descriptions of injury, mentions of (non-specified) scars, alcohol and drugs, content that some people may find as very similar to self-harm, reader is paranoid and insecure. If any of this triggers you pls don’t continue to read. I’ve tried to note all the possible triggers.

wc - 1.7k

a/n - I’ve had a pretty shitty few days tbh and I still feel the lowest that I’ve felt in months. So I’ve channeled all of that into this fic. It’s quite angst heavy but there’s fluff at the end (what can I say, hurt and comfort is my shit). You may find the reader’s emotions a bit dramatic but I’ve basically self projected on to this and I’m not rlly arsed. Read the warnings and if you don’t like it, don’t read it. I don’t want any shit over this

It’s a cold day in Edinburgh, the skies grey and cloudy over the city.It’s been a long day without Mark. He’s been out since the early hours with Sickboy, no doubt dragged into another of Si’s infamous schemes, leaving you to spend the day alone in your tiny apartment. As much as you don’t want to admit it, the isolation has gotten to you - you slipped, more than once. Yeah, you regret it, but also there’s that nagging need for more at the back of your mind. You try to push it out, to forget about it, but the cold in the air doesn’t help to ease the ache in your knuckles.

The door to the apartment shuts with a click and a jangle of keys, footsteps heading towards the door. He’s back. A wave of relief, before you remember and your chest clenches in panic.

‘Alright, love?’ Mark flops onto the bed with a lazy grin, stretching his arms up over his head.

‘Yeah, fine, you?’ Keep it simple. You busy yourself with a stack of books by the bed, straightening the pile of novels so it’s not about to topple over. Keep the hand busy.

‘Yeah, alright. Si led us on a fucking wild goose chase but we got there in the end, y’know?’

You didn’t know, but you nodded along anyway and let him recount the story. You’re admiring the way his lashes flutter against his pale skin and how his arms flex as his hands come to rest behind his head, when you realise that Mark’s stopped talking. And you’ve stopped moving.

‘Your knuckle...” his eyes dart down to the hand you’ve been trying to hide ever since he walked through the door. Busted.

‘Oh.’ You move to get up, anything to get his eyes away from your swollen knuckles, red lines criss crossing over the flowering purple bruises where your hand collided with a solid wall. Multiple times. The open cuts are still weeping, even though it had happened hours ago.

‘It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.’ You offer a small smile, but it doesn’t fool Mark.

‘No.’ He moves as you do, standing in front of the bedroom door to block your escape. His arms are crossed over his chest, stance serious , but the worry in his blue eyes betrays him. ‘Love. Let me see it.’

He holds out his hand, pale fingers reaching out to you, his skin just as scarred as yours - different actions, same result. He knows how to help. The hand reaching,an offer of support, reassurance, love, all those things that you crave but can never admit. Emotions aren’t your forté - never have been.But Mark knows that. There’s no secrets between you. You almost laugh out loud at the thought. No secrets, but you won’t even show Mark your hand.

Mark would do anything for you, you know that - he tells you all the time. Days spent in bed chatting shit to each other.

‘I’d run to John O'Groats and back for you, y’know?’

‘Would you now, Mark? What about down to Land’s End?’

‘In a heartbeat.’

Bright eyes, wide smile. Your Mark. He’s joking, of course, but his tone is so serious, his answer without a second of hesitation. Your heart skips a beat.

So now, you give him your hand (and your heart).

He takes it tentatively, one cold hand underneath, the other poking at your raw knuckles gently. When one of his prods reaches a tender spot, you wince and he moves his finger away, meeting your gaze in apology.

‘You punch something?’ His brow creases, a hand running instinctively over his closely cropped hair, before scratching at the back of his neck. He refuses to grow it out, no matter how much you try to persuade him, still getting his razor out every other month like clockwork.

‘It’s easier this way.’ He insists. Less hassle in the morning is what he means.

The sting in your hand brings you back to the present.

‘No.’ You look away from Mark’s gaze, knowing that in doing so you’ll give yourself away, but not having the energy or willpower to stop yourself. Much like the ‘incident’ earlier in the day.

‘I’m going to take that as a yes.’ Mark huffs, not in anger, but in frustration - frustration that he wasn’t there to help, to calm you down. ‘Let me clean it up, give me a sec.’

His hand rubs at his eyes, scrunched shut for a moment. There’s dark bags marring his pale skin there - he’s tired too. He goes to move to the bathroom, but you grab his arm with your good hand, gripping it as tight as you can. Don’t leave.

‘No, Mark, it’s alright, I’ll sort it.’

But he shakes his head. He doesn’t look happy. Not that you’d expect him to, but...he’s frustrated with you, you can tell.

‘You can’t clean yourself up with one hand. Just wait here, alright?’

The inkling is worming its way in now, from your subconscious to your conscious, until its at the forefront of your mind. He’s angry, he’s disgusted, he’s going to leave. He’s not going to the bathroom, he’s going to the front door so he can get out of here. You’re sure of it.

‘I’m sorry.’ The whisper escapes you and you have to bite the inside of your cheek so no tears will spill. The words are almost silent, your hand dropping Mark’s in defeat.

But Mark turns his head at your weak apology, stopping in his tracks.

‘What? Why -‘

With a jolt, he notices the way you’ve changed - unable to look at him, arms beginning to wrap around yourself, one fist clenched. He knows what’s happening.

‘No, no, love, I’m not angry.’

He’s back at your side in a heartbeat, bringing his hand up to your chest, thumb carefully wiping away the rogue tear that’s tracking a salty path over your cheekbone.

‘I love you. I just want the best for you, alright? I don’t like seeing you hurt, just like I’d fucking hope you wouldn’t like seeing me hurt.’

His face breaks into a sad smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and you realise he’s right - of course he is. You don’t want to see him hurt, he’s been through enough, but that’s what you’re doing. He’s hurting just from seeing your hand, it’s obvious from the crease in his brow, the blue of his eyes dulled and flat. Mark’s got too much to deal with already, you’re just one extra problem to add to the mix. You don’t want to be his problem.

And suddenly it’s all coming up to the surface, ready to combust, explode, these emotions that you never really have a grip on. You bottle them up and push them down, so far down that the only way they can escape is through a rush of anger, jagged and uncontrollable.

But instead of that, you bury your face into Mark’s neck and let it out as slowly as you can.

‘I’m sorry, I was angry, I just wanted to feel something. Some pain. I don’t want to make you feel like this. I’m sorry.’

You’re clutching onto the worn fabric of Mark’s shirt like your life depends on it. You can’t possibly let go of him, the only one you have left.

Mark is steady, your rock in a storm of emotions. He listens, stroking your hair, pale fingers threading through the strands to knead at your scalp, knowing it tends to calm you down.

‘You’re alright, I promise. I promise you, love. I know you get angry. I know you. And I know what it’s like to want to feel something, trust me. We can get through it together, or we can be a mess together. I don’t care, as long as we’re together, honest. I’m not going anywhere.’

And the sincerity in his eyes, those familiar bright blue eyes, it convinces you. He means it.

You stay like this for a few minutes, your good hand clinging onto Mark’s ratty jumper, the other grasped tightly (but not too tightly) in Mark’ grip. His right arm is around your waist, pulling you closer, as if in doing so he can pour all of his reassurance, all of his love, directly to your heart. He knows it’s not possible. But he tries anyway. Because he’ll do anything for you. Your Mark.

Mark helps you clean your hand later, shushing you everything you wince (though that isn’t often). His hands are steady and practiced as he dabs at the cuts with alcohol, wrapping the gauze over your knuckles and securing it with some tape, humming to himself as he works, the steady tune in time with his deft movement. He doesn’t look up until the job is done - and a good job it is too. He knows what he’s doing, probably after years of wrapping Sickboy’s hands up in the same way - late nights out in the rough streets of Leith, fuelled by alcohol and amphetamines (and worse)

Mark kisses the bandages gently when he’s done - a silent ‘I love you. I care for you and I love you.’

And you smile, a smile that fills your whole body with warmth, a smile that drowns out the demons, if only for a little while. Because how can you not, when you have Mark. He tries his best and so do you - neither of you can ask anymore. You’ll be a mess together.

‘Let’s order Chinese and watch Dr No, eh?’

Or you’ll get through this together

*~*~*~*

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