#I have been so deep in the mud pit of also very bad takes ‘uh why do you say it’s bad this movie idolizes blatant racism and encourages

[jangofctts]

Sink Your Teeth In (Part 2 of Are You In Or Out?)

Rated: Explicit (Paz is in the next chapter DONT WORRY)

Word count: 7.5k

Warnings: mentions of violence, blood, the cold?, reader is in PERIL YET AGAIN, vaginal fingering, oral female receiving, unprotected vaginal sex (wrap them schlongs yall), brief hand jobs, swearing, angst, very VERY light choking, din is a sub sorta?? bottom energy 

Summary: Well. At least you aren't dead. After a solo hunt gone wrong, you’re dumped in a cave on Csilla. Hopefully someone finds you before you freeze to death.  

a/n: hey…so uh. HOW ABOUT THAT EPISODE HUH?!? aheM anyway--yall I just wanna thank everyone first off for all the love and support!!! I see all of your comments and tags and AH IM SO LUCKY TO HAVE ALL OF YOU GUYS. ALSO SPECIAL SHOUTOUT TO @djxrxn​ THIS WOULDNT HAVE BEEN DONE WITHOUT YOU BB GORL

Well—

Here you are. 

Taken by surprise by another bounty, further proving how irrevocably incompetent you are at this line of work. You blame the binders. An older, clunkier model—easy to pick if you’re clever enough and yes. Maybe you should’ve asked to borrow a carbonite chamber, but hey—where’s the fun in that? 

Not much, as it so happens. 

Your feet had been kicked up on the dashboard, dozing and unaware of the freed bounty creeping up behind the pilot’s seat. Something delightfully blunt smashed against your temple, jolting you into a brief conscious state where the only thing you could think before passing out again, was a resounding— 

Oh, fuck me sideways with a fucking lightsaber—

The rest is hazy. A blur of colors and the fuzzy shapes of your bounty’s face sneering in amusement when she bound your wrists and ankles and left you in the cargo hold. Vaguely you recall your ship being commandeered, swung into an unidentified atmosphere and landing on said unknown planet Or planets. Planet hopping to cover up a trail. 

The bitter cold, sharper than a needle through skin is what shook off the last dregs of unconsciousness. The bounty’s hand was hooked into the collar of your clothes, dragging your limp body through drifts of snow and ice. You would’ve fought back—should’ve even though each extremity felt like a numb block of lead. Not very useful in a fight…

Soon, the snow turned to mud and the mud to stone as a mouth of a cave slid over the impossibly blue sky. Dumped in a cave, and left to die—perfect way to bite the dust. Your bounty turned captor lands a sharp kick to your ribs, mouthing some curse in a language you don’t understand, and left without a second thought. 

Seems about right. You have a knack for lying helpless and half dead in places you ought not to be in. 

Two days and counting, you’ve been holed up in this blasted cave with no food, no supplies and no comlink. It’s going be a fucking chore to find you—nearly impossible. You’re lucky in that aspect you guess—you know enough bounty hunters to sniff out a a needle in a whole stack of needles, so all it is is a race of time against the elements and how long it takes for one of them to notice.            

Aeris is no help. He left a day before you had—hired as personal protection for some syndicate leader halfway across the galaxy. Ives is in a similar boat, off-world and unavailable to drag your ass out of the hole you’ve dug. Which leaves…

You sigh and pinch the bridge of your nose between your forefinger and thumb. Anytime you even think of those two a migraine cumulates behind your eyes. It’s…it’s not like anything bad happened in the aftermath—there’s been no fallout or arguments with barbed words as weapons. It’s been quiet. Like stepping onto a sheet of cracked transparisteel in a library full of tight-lipped academics. 

The questions lurk under the surface of every conversation and longing look cast your way. You’ll need to clarify and sort things out eventually, but fuck—it’s such a mess of frazzled heartstrings and fine strands of impossible thoughts that lead into an endless void of doubt. You’re shoving that emotional time bomb to the very back of your mind—everything is still so raw…  

So you ran. 

Picked up any and all jobs that the Guild provided just to escape the looming decision of confronting a certain pair of Mandalorians. That and with them having their own tasks to complete, it was rare to see them, let alone together in the past few weeks. A simple run in here and there in the halls of the Covert, but you were too busy to stop and chat—forced a chaotic schedule upon yourself as an excuse to avoid staying in once place at a time.    

Coward.

The word knots in your stomach like gnarled tree roots escaping their prison of dark soil on untrodden land.  

Maker—how did everything become so tangled? 

You draw your knees up to your chest and release a long, drawn out exhale that echoes through the cave. You sniff and force the swell of tears that prick at your eyes away. You’re pretty sure they’ll freeze and you’re not hoping to find out. 

The only good thing about being dropped on this Maker-forsaken, wasteland devoid of anything but snow, is the free ice for the nasty gash on your forehead. A nice little parting gift. 

It’s shallow…you think—it stopped bleeding the night before and is now just a scabbed over, tender wound that throbs whenever you move your head too fast. Concussion maybe—a mild one.  

Maker willing when someone finds your sorry ass they’ll have bacta. Or a blanket. Either would be peachy.     

Sitting up with a wince, you shuffle to the mouth of the cave for the thousandth time and scour the skyline for a familiar ship. Or, any ship really. The only thing you do see is a lonesome wisp of cloud against the grayish blue sky much to your chagrin. You scowl and stalk back into your little hovel and slump back onto the ground. 

The hours drag on, the watery light of the dying sun barely doing anything to warm you. Sulking is hardly what you should be doing—not great for the burdened mind and all that, but ah, it’s so fun to wallow in misery. You curl your knees up to your chest and you must slip into a doze because when you’re snapped back into the present, footsteps punch through the frozen tundra outside your cave.  

Adrenaline crackles down your spine—the bounty changed her mind. Ultimately decided she’d be safer in the long run with you dead. Fine.

If this is where your grave is going to be, might as well get in one or two punches. What’s another black eye anyway?

A shadow flickers at the mouth of the cave, curling around the wall as she draws closer. A brown boot kicks through the snow and— 

“Changed your mind? I—“

Your words die on your tongue as relief floods your veins. Din Djarin stands before you, a sight for sore eyes in these trying times. 

Frost glitters on the burgundy chest plate, glinting in the dim sunlight that touches the mouth of the cave. A delicate feathering of the dainty crystals that no high end lace maker could ever hope to mimic curls up the front of Din’s visor and eats away at the edges of his cloak. His heavy step forward reverberates off the walls, some of that ease replaced by the prickle of dread. His silence is unnerving. 

“Din,” you say again, just so he’ll say something. “I can—“

You move to stand, but he interrupts with a halting;

“Sit.”       

Your mouth snaps shut and you drop back on the floor. This…is not good. His footsteps are heavy as he approaches you and every muscle in your frame tightens like a fist wrapping around your ribcage and squeezing. The precise edges of his helmet are not a forgiving sight and even when he kneels onto one knee you have to resist the natural urge to flinch. Like this, despite hunching over, Din is broad. All hard muscle and sinew amplified by the bulky layer of beskar.   

Your tongue runs over the insides of your teeth as you track his hand that he thrusts foreword. You hiss and jerk away at the sudden needly pain when his gloved thumb finds the edges of your head wound. A low sound of disapproval filters out through the helmet in a low metallic buzz. 

“You won’t need stitches,” he says. Din reaches into one of his various supply pouches and pulls out a tiny vile of bacta. He casually pulls off his right glove, unscrews the vile and smears the bacta over his thumb. This time you don’t make a sound, even though your nerves scream at the razor like sensation of his thumb working the bacta into the damaged flesh. He doesn’t ask how the injury happened and you don’t care to tell him. There’s a time and place for stories about battle scars and near misses—it’s much too fresh to be spoken of right now. 

The brief torture finally ends after once last glance over for other presenting injuries. He finds none, replaces his glove and stands with a muted grunt. You know what’s next. You’d rather avoid it—you aren’t keen on the berating lectures—as deserved as they are.      

“I found your ship on Sato 3,” Din begins with a growl. “Imagine my surprise when I found your bounty selling it for parts.”  

Ah, there it is. You wince and study your fingernails. “Pile of junk anyway…”

“I thought you’d be smarter about these things,” he snarls, his sharp tone deadly enough to slice through bone. “Was the hole blown into your lung not enough for you?”

You swallow and bite your tongue.  

The bristling Mandalorian, continues and jabs an orange tipped finger at you. “You are reckless.”

Your chest constricts as you look away, shame blooming in the pit of your stomach.This is a new facet of Din you’ve never encountered. You aren’t naïve—even the most docile of people can harbor a temper, you know that. And you know Din is by no means passive—he’s an elite warrior equipped with a small arsenal at his disposal. You don’t expect him to coddle you or treat you different than any other companion; but…but it’s hard not to take his ire to heart. Not when it’s the kind of anger that boils deep in your chest and erupts with molten streams that leaves scathing wounds and blistered feelings.  

You chew your lip hard enough to taste blood and avoid his piercing gaze. You think if you do you might catch fire and burn to a crisp. “I’m sorry.”   

The meek apology settles in the air like a heavy fog. Din’s anger still brews, looming and dark but he reigns in his temper and switches out the searing cadence of his words with chilly informality. You’re not sure which is worse.   

“No more bounties.” 

“What?” Your brows knit together. The fuck does he mean.  

“No more hunts alone—“  

You interrupt with a scoff. “You’re grounding me?”

He strides across the small space and plants himself on the opposing wall. “Until you’re competent enough, you have no business being out in the field. You might as well be bait at this point.” 

“Competent.” You echo through clenched teeth.  

His helmet dips, leveling a steady glare of indifference. “The Crest is a half cycle’s walk from here. In the morning I’m taking you back to Nevarro.”   

“I’m not a child. You can’t just,” you throw your hands up in dismay, “ban me from bounty hunting.”    

Din’s armor clinks together as he moves to sit. He rests one elbow on his propped up knee, extends his other and rolls his helmet to meet your eyes. “Your actions reflect the Covert now. We can’t risk discovery because of one stupid mistake or a careless loose end.”    

That hadn’t even crossed your mind. Stars, you want to smack yourself. Your ship, as shitty as it was, hosted a good chunk of sensitive information, all encrypted and translated into binary. A mediocre slicer could hack through it in hours. Not exactly foolproof but hey, at least you had something. Good thing your bounty wasn’t in the market of selling stolen ships to the Empire. 

“Din?”

The Mandalorian makes no noise of affirmation that he heard you. You sigh and take his silence as a go ahead and clear your throat. “How long was I gone for?”

Here, in the cave it’s been nearly three days, but the rest of it you’re not exactly sure. Hunting the bounty down took up at least a week or two and even longer to capture her and there’s no accounting for the time lost after your ship was commandeered. Your teeth roll over your bottom lip as you wait for him to respond. 

“Almost two months.” He replies evenly. “Your transmissions were cut three weeks ago and I didn’t think anything of it. Comms are always patchy in Wild Space."

Leather creaks as his fist balls at his side. “You didn’t answer for days. Paz and I tracked the ship to Sato 3, but you weren’t there. Do you know how difficult it was to pick through all the planets recorded on your log?”

You blink and return to picking at your fingernails. 

“You weren’t easy to find, I—“ He severs the rest of his sentence with a crackling sigh and tilts his head back. “You’re lucky.”    

The hesitance lacing his words makes you bite your tongue, the snarky retort crumbling to ash in your mouth. Din doesn’t bother to filter his words—he’s blunt. Efficient and to the point when he does decide to speak. That…well that was different.   

He was worried—

You rub at your cheek—numb with the cold and curl into yourself. Din was worried. Easily the most feared bounty hunter in the parsec, worried that he couldn’t find you.   

A different cold—one that settles deep into the marrow of your bones and hugs your soul with a sheet of frost, makes a home in your heart. The severity of what could’ve happened replaces that sheen of hilarity and fuck. You were closer to freezing to death than Din finding you here—alone in some stupid kriffing cave.  

Somehow the idea of that is worse than the brief brush of eternal slumber you had on Nar Shaddaa. Up to that point you expected to die young—no harm and no foul in it either. You had no attachments, no debt to pay—a drifter in an endless galaxy.    

Now you’re here, buckling under the weight of mismanaged friendships and your uncanny skill at weaseling into any and all trouble. 

Neither you or Din jump to fill the silence. The ashes of disaster settle in nicely with the frozen echo of an endless winter.      

It’d been a couple hours shy from sunset when Din arrived, the sun providing weak light that hardly touched the mouth of the cave. Now as the shadows grow longer and with the temperature dropping, the two of you are swallowed up by the unyielding darkness of night. 

Din shuffles and fishes out the solar light from his supply bag. It clicks on and warm, orange light illuminates the cave. It bounces off his beskar, fracturing the light like a million tiny suns in the tempered metal and in the impossibly dark visor. He looks up, and tosses the light over. 

You catch it easily and despite the warmness of the light it emits, it offers no heat for your chilled fingers. You set it to the side and tuck your hands into your armpits. 

By no means is the cave warm—the natural thermal vents kept the ground dry and free of the ice and snow that rages outside, but it doesn’t protect you from the occasion chilly draft that cuts through each layer you wear. Then again, you weren’t planning on taking an unexpected vacation on Csilla. No time to plan really.  

You sigh and pull your knees up to your chest and cast a glance at your ever radiant ray of sunshine across from you.  

He looks nice and cozy—leaned back against the cave wall, one leg crossed over the other while his hands sit intertwined just below his navel. The beskar must provide insulation—maybe a fancy heater in that bucket of his, or maybe he’s just too stubborn to show anything other than indifference.   

Another bout of shivers tear through your frame and you’re certain Din can hear the enamel of your teeth clack together. You shove your hands deeper into your armpits and tuck your chin into your chest to preserve heat and pray that sleep isn’t far off—can’t be cold if you’re unconscious.    

Metal scrapes over stone as Din readjusts himself and you can feel him looking at you. It’s not a terrible weight to bear; intense and analytic, sure and in the past it would’ve unnerved you. Now, instead of it feeling like he were peeling back each fibre of your soul each time he stares, it’s familiar. A pattern of sorts—

It happens each time Din wrestles with an uncertain question. He deals in absolutes, and it’s no surprise he rarely knows what to say to you. 

“You’re shivering,” he states. You roll your eyes. “Are you cold?”

“Boiling, actually,” you snip. “Why else would I forget a jacket?”

A sharp hiss of air crackles through the vocoder. “Don’t get mouthy with me. It was a simple question.”

“Well—there’s not much to do about it,” you sneer, watching your breath condensate in the air. “I’m freezing, exhausted, and hungry.”       

You know you’re being snide—but your nerves feel like they’ve been severed at the root with a dull vibroblade. You have neither the time nor energy to spare for simple questions. Din should understand that—seeing as he’s a man familiar with short temperament.

The space between you is ripe with crackling tension, and maybe—if you weren’t so fucking cold—you’d play the mediator. Thread stitches into the gash you both sliced into your friendship, as small it may be. You’ve lost friends over less—this could end up no different.

You sigh and turn your head. This is a problem for tomorrow. 

Irritated and upset, you squeeze your eyes shut and chase after sleep. You slip in a doze faster than expected, any and all discomfort fading away a you toe the line between a deeper sleep and waking dreams. You think you imagined Din saying your name—Maker you can’t even escape him in your own fucking head—  

It doesn’t end—like a nagging buzz that swells until it’s right near your ear. Spite spurs you to ignore It and exhaustion convinces you to drift further away. That is, until a hand, gentle and warm curls around your shoulder. You once again hear your name rumble low through Din’s helmet, but it’s much too difficult to open your eyes. Why can’t he leave you be? You barely feel the cold now…

“Stay awake.” Din sounds distant, in some other plane of existence despite the steady hold he has on your arm. “Maker—you’re colder than kriffing ice.” 

“Go away,” you grumble through numb lips. Such a pest.  

He’s talking—but the words don’t make sense. Muddled—split between that hazy line of dreaming and consciousness where you can’t decipher what’s real. His hands however—you can feel those plain as day. A bare palm cups your cheek—shreds through the layer of frost you’re positive has crystalized over your skin and rouses you to a more coherent level of presentness.       

“Don’t quit on me yet—“

“Nah,” you mumble. “I’m hard to…to kill. L-like a scrap rat…”  

Din grunts in response. “Rat is a compliment. You’re more of a spider-roach.”

The ends of your mouth quirk. It’s the best you can do—a full smile just might push you to the brink of death.        

“C’mon—I won’t let either of us freeze,” Din sighs. His fingers find the magnetized latches on his cuirass and it slips off with practiced ease, the armored thigh plating following a moment later. He neatly sets it to the side and grabs his cloak to fasten it around you. With another sigh, Din shuffles in behind you and wraps an arm around your middle, nestling his legs and body snuggly around yours.   

Maker—you don’t have time to bother about the intimacy of this because all you’re drawn to is the furnace like heat. Fuck, he’s so warm. You have only a second to enjoy it before your body begins to thaw—bringing forth waves of achey pain.   

His chest molds to your back, both arms curling over your own arms that are scrunched up tight around your chest. You shake in his hold, vicious waves of cold clashing against his body heat—it hurts—like sticking your bare foot into hot coals.     

You squirm, little gasps of discomfort slipping out that echo around the cave. Din shifts, tucking you further under his body until he’s nearly crushing you. It’s a bit tricky to breathe like this but hey—you’re not complaining. Not when your nose is buried in his soft undershirt that smells purely of Din.   

Your fingers and toes still throb as they thaw, but it’s working. Cuddling Din Djarin to stave off hypothermia—sounds kriffing ridiculous. 

“You’re still shivering,” he says. “I might…”

Your breath catches in your throat as he trails off. “Might what?”

Another shiver wracks through your body as his frosty helmet catches on bare skin when he dips his head in embarrassment. You don’t quite catch what he says and he doesn’t bother to clarify. “Forget it.”  

You turn your head as much as you can, straining your eyes to meet the strip of visor. “Tell me.”

He mumbles under his breath again and cuddles closer, slotting his hips against your ass. “Might know…know another way to keep us warm…”

Oh. 

A spark breathes to life in the pit of your tummy. You wiggle onto your back, your nose brushing the vizor. “Does it involve me taking off my pants?” 

Din huffs, his hands, previously latched onto your hips, starting to crawl up your waist. “It could…”    

You smirk and rock your hips back, eliciting a low growl that rumbles through his chest. With your whine of approval, Din’s hand slips between your legs and gives the meat of your inner thigh a squeeze. You let your knees fall open as far as they can in this position and it’s all Din needs to cup your cunt through the thin material of your trousers. 

Crackling pleasure flood your veins as the heel of his palm grinds into your clit, and while the pressure is nice, it does nothing to satisfy. Only feeds the growing flames of desire with brittle kindling. 

You pull at his undershirt and whimper, thrilled once his deft fingers, calloused and thick unlace your pants and yank far enough down to fit his hand. His fingers trace your outer lips, a ghost of a touch as arousal swells in your stomach. He parts your folds once your wetness begins to dribble out and coats his fingertips with your arousal. 

Stars—you need him. You arch into him and whine. “Touch me. Din, please—“ 

You jerk as Din’s thumb swirls a slow circle over your clit, a rush of endorphins surging out like unrefined fire whiskey. Din’s head tilts to watch you writhe over his fingers and the sudden chill of his helmet touching the inside of your flushed neck steals away your next inhale. Goosebumps race down your entire being, adding to the influx of your excitement that pools in your lower belly.       

Your hands tangle into his undershirt, pulling him closer until you can’t find where he begins and you end. His heart pounds in his chest, thrumming to the dance of your own heart that yearns to break free from your ribcage. Your breath catches when two of his thick fingers tease at your entrance. Your walls flutter around him as the slip in easily.   

His fingers roll forward and stroke against something devastating inside of you, and he when his palm rolls back, it bumps against your clit with that divine firmness you need. Your cunt tightens around the two digits as they curl.  

“Fuck. Can you hear yourself?” He pants, groping your breast to elicit a high pitched wail. “You always make—make such pretty noises.” 

Butterflies erupt in your stomach at his words and fuck. You’re already dipping head first into release. A moment later you’re arching into his chest as every muscle stiffens in a crescendo of bliss, your stuttered breathing harsh even to your own ears.  

Your quick pants fog up his visor as Din rests the crown of his helmet on your forehead, the metal a cool relief to your flushed skin. He slips his fingers out of your dripping cunt, your chest still heaving with exertion as the last strands of your high fizzle and ebb away. Din shifts and and snakes his fingers, still shiny and wet with your arousal, beneath the lip of his helmet and sucks them clean with an appreciative groan.  

“Fuck—“ You breathe, pushing your face into his hand as he cups your cheek. Din’s thumb brushes over your cheekbone and swings his leg over your hips to hoist himself over you. 

“Do you remember...” He starts, his voice buzzing through the vocoder. His fingers tickle down your cheek and trace the parted outline of your lips. “When you let me taste you?”

You nod, and it’s all you’re able to do. You’re not even sure you can formulate words, let alone voice them right now. 

Din’s thumb pulls at your plush bottom lip, and you can’t help but slide your tongue along the digit. He grunts and slips his thumb into the wet heat of your mouth. “I think about you every night…how you came on my tongue—”

Your stomach flips as a rush of arousal sweeps through your tummy. You groan and you’re half sure you’re gonna dissipate into the floor from how hot your cheeks burn. “Din—"  

He continues without missing a beat. 

“You were so fucking wet for me—dripped all over my hand,” he murmurs, nuzzling his helmet, still chilly and frosted over, into the crook of you neck.  “I want to do it again—can I?”

You’re nodding before he even finishes his sentence. He wasn’t the only one longing for his head between your thighs on those long nights apart. Remembering those plush lips and addictive touches could only get you so far and well—he’s here now. You said it once and you’ll say it again—there’s no chance in hell you’d be passing up this opportunity. 

Din lifts his head and as you watch the light glitter in the reflection of the beskar, a sudden stray thought ricochets into the forefront of your mind. “Din, the light—your helmet.”

He pauses, his body tensing as he mulls over his options. “It’s—I—it’s ok…It’ll be ok.”

Din inhales a stuttered breath and casts a brief glance over his shoulder. It’s a dim light, kicked into the corner and laying on its side. From this angle, his face would be partially obscured in shadow…but still. There are easier ways to go about this. Ways that don’t risk jeopardizing the very foundation of who he is—what he stands for and what he so devoutly follows.    

To say you know anything about his religion is laughable. Everything you know can fit on the back of a thumbtack and even still, you’re sure that half of that is still based upon rumor and speculation. But this—what Din is hinting at, you know is not something to be taken lightly. 

He’s stripping his soul bare for you—allowing you to glimpse at that bleeding heart of his he guards so securely within layers of flesh and bone and impenetrable beskar. Din is gifting you his trust and there’s no where else to put it except for the space beneath your breast bone.   

Yet, even still—this could mean nothing at all. You have no way to know the exact magnitude of what this means to him. If he’s alright with this, who are you to question?

He mumbles one last thing about the light and sits up. Goosebumps rush up your bare skin at the loss of the heavy warmth of his body. You whine and curl up closer to his legs, greedy for any spare iota of heat like you’ve been denied it your entire life.   

Maker you hate this fucking planet—   

Your attention snaps back to Din when he makes a noise of uncertainty. His hands are cupped around his helmet—hesitant, nervous and you suspect if Din’s hands weren’t plastered so tight around the metal, he’d be shaking. You chew on your lip and prop yourself up. 

Cautiously, so as not to startle, you reach up and curl your fingers around his wrist. You can feel his pulse thrumming through his veins—alive, flesh and bone like you. Not some heap of sentient metal built for the horrors of war. You don’t know why you do it—just seems right to pull the fragile and vulnerable skin of his inner wrist to you mouth. You plant a gentle kiss there and smile when he cups your cheek.           

“You don’t owe me anything, Din,” you say, staring into the darkened depths of his visor. “Least of all this.”    

Some of that tension held in Din’s shoulders melts. He utters something in that clipped language of his people, and the only thing you can make out is your name. He lurches foreword and fuck—you’re terrified for a split second he’s gonna cave your skull in but instead he lightly bumps the crown of his helmet over your forehead.      

“I want to. For you—only you.”

Din doesn’t leave any time to unpack all of that. He sits up again, wraps his hands around the beskar— 

The metallic thunk of the helmet reverberates through the cave like a crack of thunder.    

You were right. 

You can barely see his face—if you really look, you can see the murky outline of his nose, dark hair and a sliver of his tan skin that the light touches. Attractive—but you knew that already. You touch his cheek and smile, your thumb catching over wiry facial hair and soft skin. Din makes a sound low in his throat and pushes his cheek into your hand. 

“I still want to taste you,” Din says, his voice richer when stripped of that tinny vocoder. You like listening to him speak without it, you think, and it’s a damn shame you never get to hear it. “Please.”     

Before he can escape and fulfill that fantasy, you yank him into a blinding kiss. He kisses the same—all wild edges and with desperation lining each motion—but there’s a new found tenderness here. Like he’s savoring each gasp and every brush of skin you grace him with like it’s your last night left in the galaxy.   

He breaks away from your mouth and peppers kisses and nips down your jaw, then lower as you arch and expose the bare skin of your throat. There’ll be a plethora of bruises tomorrow, and with no hope to cover them either but fuck it—Din can leave as many hickeys and teeth marks as he wants. 

If not for the cold still latching onto your very soul, you’d ditch the shirt; give Din better access instead of him needing to shove a hand up under and grope at your breasts. He gives the fabric an annoyed tug, but it’s fruitless. There’s no use when there’s better things to be sought. 

He shoves your shirt as far up as it goes, shivering as he mouths down your stomach, licks around your bellybutton and sucks a bruise onto your hipbone. Your pants are already pulled halfway down—one sharp yank and they’re around your ankles and off in the next breath. 

Cupping your knees with both hands he gingerly spreads your legs and drapes them over his muscular shoulders. Din rubs his patchy haired cheek along your thigh and hooks his hands under your ass, his ivory white teeth catching the light as he smiles.  

“Fucking perfect—“ He groans, planting his lips over your inner thigh. His tongue swipes a wet line up, stopping just before your aching cunt to dig his teeth into the sensitive flesh. You jump at the burst of pain and shoot a hand down, tangling your fingers into the soft curls atop his head.  

Din grunts and jumps to your other thigh, leaving no inch of skin neglected and without evidence of his teeth and lips. By the time his thumbs touch the outer lips of your cunt, the aching need for him is burning you from the outside in. He has to still your twitching hips with a calloused palm, and only after you settle does he surge forward. 

His tongue meets your swollen clit, ripping a tangled cry from you vocal cords. He’s just as eager as the first time he tasted you, if not more—every action backed by needy abandon. He sucks at the bundle of nerves then sweeps his tongue lower. Din’s thumbs part your lower lips as he runs his tongue though your soaked folds, the tip of his nose bumping against your clit that send delicious sparks throughout your whole body. Little noises and breathy gasps fill the cave, encouraging Din to push his tongue deep into your aching entrance. 

Your hand fists into his hair as your hips stutter and rock into the searing heat of his mouth. The noises you make are obscene, and Din is no better. Each pass of his tongue over your pussy is matched with his own deep moans that vibrated against your clit. Fucking hell he’s devouring you alive.          

Your orgasm sneaks up on you, robs you blind and crashes over you in deep waves that drag you out to sea and never to be found again as you spill onto his greedy tongue. Your fingers are threaded tight in his hair as you squeak and press harder into his mouth, riding out your pleasure until it shifts and becomes raw and sore.  

Din doesn’t pause for even a second—all too happy to stay put between your thighs for eternity. Your legs are trembling when you force his head away, a nice, tingly warmth settling into your limbs 

A dark thrill rushes down your spine when he looks up, wild hair and mouth covered in your slick. If not for the low lighting you imagine his eyes would be glazed over and Maker you want him again. Din swoops down and presses his mouth to yours, the taste of yourself heavy on his tongue that slips past the seem of your lips. 

You whine after he breaks away and sits up—an opportunity for your eyes to roam down his body. He’s still got his trousers on, a considerable bulge tenting the front. With a smirk you reach up and grab a handful, delighting in Din’s startled grunt. “Easy.”

You flash him a wry smile and give his clothed cock a playful squeeze. “Take them off.” 

Din huffs and pulls at the drawstrings. “Needy.”

He says it with no bite and no coquettish retort on your end springs to mind—especially when his thumbs hook into the waistband and pull. A slow reveal of sun-kissed skin and a sparse happy trail that your eyes eagerly drink up. 

Din’s cock bobs as his trousers fall around his knees, tip shiny and wet and curling towards his navel. You bite the inside of your cheek and reach out, a rush of arousal pulsing through your core at Din’s low moan. He’s heavy in your hand, deliciously thick and throbbing—and all of it for you. 

Din gasps out your name as you lightly squeeze and stroke down, your pace dreadfully slow and teasing. Who knows when you’ll get another chance like this—a Mandalorian willingly on their knees for you.           

Your other hand slips up his chest as you stroke him, intent on grabbing a handful of his thick hair that curls softly against the column of his neck. Your fingernail lightly scrapes across his nipple and he sways, pitching forward before he catches himself and straightens. Din’s eyes are squeezed tight, chest heaving with shallow pants as a smirk tugs at your lips. 

“It’s ok, Din,” you whisper. “I won’t break.” 

Your fingers twist into the hair at the base of his skull and guide him back. He slumps forward with a sweet moan, laying his weight onto your body that you’re all too happy too bare. His nose is nestled into the slope of your neck as his hands lock around the dip of your lower back while the other cradles the back of your head, drawing you into a loose semblance of a hug. 

Something snaps and crumbles deep in your soul that bleeds the heartstring blues, humming with broken chords in the presence of Din’s soft fragility. Your hand moves from between his legs to instead wrap around the wide expanse of his back, squeezing him tight to your chest. You hold each other like there isn’t tomorrow to look forward to and you wonder if this is how it feels to fall apart. Two spinning halves of a supernova torn apart and destined to collide and shatter into a million fragments of dazzling light.  

Yes, you’re scared he might blind you or burn you with his brilliance, but you can’t look away.      

Your fingers crawl up his muscled thigh and settle on his hip. “Lie down for me?”

There’s no hint of hesitation or complaint as he maneuvers himself onto his back, patiently allowing you to clamber over his legs and straddle his hips. His cock rests on your inner thigh, pulsing and leaving a dribble of wetness every time it twitches.    

“Good boy.” It’s subtle but it ripples out like a heavy stone thrown into a still lake. Din shudders and says your name in a cracked whisper. He rolls his hips, both of you groaning at the sensation of his cock running along your dripping center.     

Another time for that game maybe. 

Your desperation is running hot and wild to have him inside you and you know he’s in a similar boat. You grab the thick shaft of his cock and grind the tip of him through your lips, breath hitching when it extracts such a perfect moan from the man below you. 

“Ride me,” he pleads, clamping his large hands over your hips. “Fuck—I need you.” 

How can you deny such a request?

You line the wide head up with your aching center and slowly work him in. Shivers wrack through you, and Maker—he’s splitting you apart, molding your insides to the shape of him. Beads of sweat dot your hairline by the time you’re seated fully on his member, the both of you pushed even closer towards madness.  

Din squeezes your ass and props his knees up, rolling his hips up into you. You whimper and tip forward, propping your palms over his chest as he sets the pace. You may be on top but there’s no changing the bold colors of power and lust that cloud his mind, fueling the brutal movements of fucking up into you. Your thighs burn already and Maker—why the fuck are you already tired? You’re not doing any of the work.  

Quicker than lightning, Din curls forward and manhandles you onto your back. You squeak as he grips your thigh and yanks it around his narrow hips, thrusting in deeper. His right hand crawls up the front of your shirt and wraps his fingers around your throat in a loose hold. His thumb hovers over the dip at the base of your neck but he makes no move to press down—just allows the weight of his palm to do the work. And fuck—it works. 

Choked garbles of his name pass through your lips as you buck and squirm in his hold, feeling your arousal begin to drip down the back of your thighs. You’re skirting the edge of sizzling release that alights your nerves with liquid wildfire. Your nails harpoon into the meat of his shoulders as your eyes squeeze shut. Din won’t allow it.      

“Look at me,” Din snarls, yanking your head back by your hair. “I want to—to watch you cum for me.” 

A blush scalds your cheeks but you listen. Your eyes flutter open for him, sliding to the dark shadows of his eyes that sweep you into their own gravity well with no hope to escape. You don’t mind. 

“You’re so g-good for me—always so perfect.”

White hot light bursts behind your eyelids, and that’s all it takes. Your body seizes, your cunt squeezing impossibly tight around his cock as you cum. This one is different—steals your breath away and leaves you a broken husk of a person lost in most delectable forms of agony and pleasure. The cry of his name pierces the air only spurring the Mandalorian into a jarring pace to seek his own peak of ecstasy.  

Din’s nose nuzzles into your neck, his pants hot and sharp against your flushed skin. “You f-feel so—fuck. Say—say my name.”

You leap to his request and with a playful nip to his earlobe, you whisper it to him with the sweetness of starcherrries and the promise of better things. 

He tips over the edge, his hips faltering into no discernible pace as he cums. Din buries his teeth into the skin below your jaw, a mess of whines and begging gasps of nonsense as he fills your cunt to the brim. 

Your harsh breathing mingles as you both lazily slip down from your high. He rests his head over your sternum, listening to your beating heart that drums in a wild staccato as your fingers carefully comb through his hair. If not for the ache in your hips you’d keep him here forever. Din pulls out and you both groan at the loss. 

He doesn’t completely move away and you’re glad for it. He brushes his knuckles down the expanse of your cheek and dots a tender kiss to your hairline. Your name rumbles low in his throat as he shifts lower and gives your ear lobe a playful nip. His stubble scrapes along your neck, and you can’t help but giggle and squirm—but the weight of his body keeps you pinned. Your name slips from his lips a second time, breathy and drawn out in a sweet sigh, like he’s savoring the sound of each syllable and roll of the tongue. 

Din lifts his head, only slightly—near enough that his nose bumps into yours and his lips scrape along yours that are still parted and wet. “I—can I tell you something?” 

You cup his cheek and steal a kiss. It’s supposed to be quick—but instead he leans into it, guiding your mouth into a slow dance of sticky sweet movements that are caught in a slow draw, like crystalized honey abandoned in a glass jar. You’re enraptured by his touch—his skin mottled with scars yet somehow still unfairly soft. He smells of snow—like metal and soap and something gentler, that’s uniquely Din.            

Fuck—you can feel your mind slipping away, wrapped up so snugly in his presence you almost forget to answer. “Yeah—anything.”

Crackling static suddenly rips through the cave, startling you both. A distorted voice chatters on the comlink that lies forgotten beside your pants. It blinks and the transmission ends just as abruptly. With a sigh Din brushes it off and tilts his head to tempt you into another kiss but—

Whoever’s trying to patch through is persistent. 

His lip curls in a scowl and snatches the comm. “Jorhaa’ir.”

You only catch your name being mentioned twice as rapid Mando’a is exchanged. Aeris maybe judging by the tone, but no that’s not right.   

“Wait—is that Paz?”

The muscles in Din’s shoulders tense, confirming your suspicion.

“Is everything ok?” Din doesn’t resist you when you pry the comlink out of his fingers and patch in. “Paz?”

Your heart skips a beat. 

“There you are,” the comlink crackles and you smile. “You’re a pain in my ass, you know that?” 

Stars—you didn’t think you’d miss hearing Paz’s voice. Your chest aches. 

The conversation is short, he asks you how you are and when you’re coming home and in the time it takes to answer, Din is peeling himself from your body. While you're distracted, he pulls on his pants and sits at the edges of your vision.

You both pretend when you say goodnight to Paz, return the comlink and crawl into his arms that nothing has festered with savage detachment. You don't remember to ask him what he was going to say and he lets you forget. The golden heart that bleeds molten ichor slips from your sight and becomes shut behind walls of beskar and bushes of thick thorns and overgrown ivy.         

He still holds you, but it’s the coldest you’ve ever been. 

Tag List: @teaofpeach @corrupt-fvcker @nelba @datmando @ben-is-a-hoe @dreams-like-clockwork @aeryns-library @auty-ren @huliabitch @anxiety-riddled-mando @phoenixhalliwell @cptnbvcks @thesoftdumbass @krissology @starlite41 @legally-a-bastard @basslinedweller @cloud-of-roses @elenamiria @goldafterglow @maybege @equalstrashflavoredtrash @wandxrlust @hdlynnslibrary @calamity-queen @sgtbookybarnes @pinkninja190 @lackofhonor @darthstyles @spacegayofficial @absurdthirst​ @blue-writes-a03​ @max--phillips​

[my-proof-is-you]

You Should Just Go

This was a reader request! Thank you, @unnuevosoltransformalarealidad!

Request:  Hi! I've been obsessed with your stories lately. I see that your request are open. Could you do one where the reader has depression (sadness and loneliness) but it is denied by the reader? Thank you

Word count: 2187

Warnings: depression, anxiety, loneliness, angst, fluff

You

Your eyelids felt heavy as you forced them open. Everything in you wanted to close them again--to go back to sleep and stay that way for a long time. 

You can’t, Y/N.

The little voice in your head pushed you to get up and walk to the bathroom, your extremities feeling like lead. Your feet literally dragged as you walked down the hall, cursing the bunker’s enormous size as you went. The thought of the effort to take a shower was making you mentally exhausted. 

Somehow you did it, though. 

You had been feeling like this for a while. You weren’t sure why--chalking it up to being overworked or missing your family. 

You’ll bounce back, you kept telling yourself. 

When you finally finished showering and made it to the kitchen after getting dressed, you felt like you could sleep for a week. You poured yourself a cup of coffee and slumped down in one of the chairs at the table. 

“Hey, Y/N!” Sam said cheerily, walking into the room in what looked to be jogging clothes. You forced yourself not to physically wince at his chipper attitude. 

“Hey,” you responded, not looking up from your cup of steaming coffee. You thought maybe if you just let the caffeine kick in, you’d feel better.

“You okay?” he asked. You finally looked at him and noticed a small crinkle forming between his brows. 

“Yeah,” you said, nodding slightly. “Just didn’t get enough sleep I guess.”

That’s a lie, your inner voice accused. You slept for nearly eleven hours.

You ignored the voice, focusing on Sam as he accepted your answer and set about making his breakfast. 

“Hi-ya, Sammy, Y/N,” Dean said, sweeping into the room fully dressed and carrying his own mug of coffee. 

“Morning,” you mumbled in response. He paused for a moment to look at you but returned to what he was doing when you gave him a small smile. 

That was so fake, Y/N. 

As you watched the two men bustling around the kitchen and completing their morning routines, you felt a pit forming in your stomach. You didn’t know why--couldn’t even pinpoint when it began exactly. All you knew was that as you watched the Winchesters going about their lives, you felt like yours was in slow motion. You felt like your feet were stuck in mud and were sinking by the minute. You knew if you told the boys how you felt they would want to help. That was just it, though.

You can’t ask them to help you. 

You didn’t want to be a burden to them--after all, they had already taken you in after your parents had died on a hunt. The Winchesters were on the hunt, too, and they saw your three-person-hunting-team dwindle down to just you with the twist of a demon’s wrist. They watched your world crumble, and they were there to pick up the pieces. 

They gave you a home, a purpose--they gave you family again. If you told them the truth--that you felt more alone now than you ever had--it would be like a slap in the face. 

“Y/N?” 

You blinked hard and focused on Dean who had come to stand in front of you. 

“Oh, uh, what?” you responded, your cheeks turning pink.

“I asked what you were planning to do today,” he said, a small smirk on his face. 

“Oh, I thought I’d just do some more research on that shifter case upstate,” you said, taking a sip of your now-cold coffee. 

“Okay. Let me know if you need any help,” he said with a smile before turning on his heel to leave. Sam had apparently left the kitchen while you were zoned out, so you put your mug in the sink and headed for the place that was calling to you: your bed. 

Dean

Dean spent the day working in the garage on his Baby. All in all, he had enjoyed a day just doing what he loved. He had only gone inside a few times for bathroom breaks and to grab a quick sandwich for lunch. He hadn’t seen you or Sammy all day, and when it was about time for dinner he figured he should go in and see what everyone was up to.

Sam was in the library, his nose in a lore book. He agreed to go pick up a pizza, and headed out the door to the bunker with the Impala’s keys in his hands. 

“Be careful with her, she’s in pristine condition!” Dean yelled after his brother.

“Y/N?” he called out after the door closed and the bunker was quiet. He didn’t get an answer and figured you were in your room doing research, where you sometimes did. 

Dean knocked lightly on your door and waited a moment. He didn’t get an answer, but could see the light on under the crack of the door. He opened it slowly, and stood for a moment trying to understand what he was seeing.

Your laptop was open on your bed, but facing away from you, the screen black. You laid in the middle of the bed on your side, curled in a ball and wrapped in a blanket. 

The sight wouldn’t have been alarming, would it not have been for your face.

Your eyelids were partly closed, your eyes staring straight ahead. They were slightly glazed, and Dean could tell you weren’t really focused on anything. 

Your cheeks were tear-stained and your eyes were rimmed in red. The sight made Dean’s heart squeeze, and he rushed forward, putting your computer on the floor and kneeling on the bed next to you.

“Sweetheart,” he said, brushing your hair back out of your face, “what’s wrong? Are you hurt?” His eyes scanned your body, looking for what could be wrong with you.

You blinked slowly, causing another tear to cascade down your cheek and onto the bed. “I’m fine,” you said quietly.

“Y/N, you’re clearly not fine!” Dean yelled. You flinched a little, and he immediately felt bad for yelling. “Just...just tell me what’s going on,” he said softly, placing a hand lightly on your back.

You sniffled, your eyes finally shifting to his. “I don’t know,” you said, a sob following your words. “You should just go...I’m sorry.”

Dean wasn’t sure what to do. He could tell something was very wrong, and he wanted to fix it. He just didn’t know how. 

“Y/N...I’m not going anywhere, okay?” he said, moving his body slowly to lay behind you. He wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you to his chest and kissing the top of your head. 

“Hey guys, I got the pizz...a.” Sam stopped in the doorway, holding the rectangular box and looking very confused. Dean quickly shook his head and Sam understood, taking the pizza and leaving the room quietly. 

“Y/N, sweetheart,” Dean began softly, “have you eaten anything today?”

You shook your head in a small ‘no’ motion. “Not hungry,” you said softly.

Dean tucked another piece of hair behind your ear. “Well, you need to eat something anyway.”

“I don’t think I can,” you said, another tear leaking out of your eye.

“I’ll help you,” Dean said, sitting up. “I’m always here for you, Y/N.” Dean looked into your eyes, trying to make you understand that he would never abandon you, regardless of how you were feeling.

You

You looked at Dean, so thankful for the words he was saying but at the same time so worried that you were going to be too much of a burden. 

“I don’t want you guys to hate me,” you said, your voice small. You used what felt like an insane amount of energy and pushed yourself up so you were sitting.

“Sweetheart,” he said, taking your face in his hands, “we could never hate you.” He leaned forward slowly, placing a soft kiss on your lips. It was something he had never done before, and you weren’t entirely sure what it meant. All you knew was that it was one of the only things that had felt right all day.

“C’mon, let’s go eat some pizza,” he said, pulling back and reaching out his hand for you. You took it, and even though you knew fighting through your depression was going to be hard, you also knew that having the boys by your side would make it a little easier. 

Six Months Later

Things were rough for a while when you finally came to terms with your depression. Once you admitted it, though, it felt like a huge weight was lifted off your shoulders. Sam and Dean had been with you every step of the way: supporting you, letting you cry, keeping you company when it was hard to do much of anything, and just generally not expecting you to be happy when they knew what you were going through.

You had gone to see a doctor, who explained to you that depression was an imbalance of chemicals in the brain. The way he explained it made you feel much better as well. Your depression was something physical—something as real as other diseases that people need treatment for—not just you being too weak or overly sensitive. Your doctor put you on an antidepressant. Once that kicked in, things started to get easier little by little. 

You had hard days, of course...days when you weren’t sure why you felt so sad, or had trouble getting out of bed. Those were the days you were most thankful for the boys. They would come alongside you, gently urging you to do small tasks like eating breakfast or going for a ride in the Impala. You knew he’d never admit it, but you were pretty sure Dean had done some research on how to help a loved one with depression.

Dean had yet to bring up the kiss he gave you on that first night. You weren’t sure if he was embarrassed that it happened or what, but you knew you needed to know. For a while you weren’t even able to think about a relationship—not with all the stuff going on in your head. But now you were doing so well that you just felt like you needed to know.

“Hey, Y/N/N,” Dean said as you entered the library, laptop in hand.

“Dean-o,” you replied, sitting down next to him at one of the tables. He turned his attention back to his phone, and you took a deep breath.

“Listen, Dean—“

“Y/N, there’s something I’ve been meaning to talk about with you—“

You both stopped speaking and stared at each other for a moment. 

“You go,” you said, nodding your head at him. 

“Okay,” he said, breathing a sigh. “Well, it’s just that you’ve been doing so well, and I really don’t wanna do anything to mess that up,” he said, pausing to look at you.

“You couldn’t,” you replied resolutely. “You and Sam have been such a help these last six months. I would be nowhere without you—maybe literally.”

“And I’m so glad we were able to help you, Y/N. I’m just afraid that if I say what I’m thinking it might freak you out or something. And the last thing I want to do is make you feel worse because you deserve to feel amazing because you’re amazing,” he said, barely stopping to take a breath. 

Your eyes widened a bit at his long explanation. “You are too, Dean.” You placed your hand on his, and he immediately turned his to hold yours. He laced his fingers with yours, and you felt your cheeks redden. 

Could it be true?

“Y/N...I gotta be honest. I fell for you a long time ago. I—I wanted to say something but it felt like the timing was never right. And that night months ago...I don’t know if you remember, but I kissed you. I didn’t mean to, but you were so sad, and I just wanted you to feel better. I didn’t mean to do it, but I’m glad I did. Because I knew in that moment that I would wait for you. I would wait as long as it took for you to be mine.”

Your breath caught in your throat. You had no idea Dean’s feelings for you were so deep. Frankly, you were thrilled. But you couldn’t get a word in because Dean kept speaking.

“If it’s still not the right time, that’s fine. I will wait. But I want you to know that I am here for you, and when you’re ready, I want to make you mine. You are perfect and you deserve—“

You cut him off by closing the distance between you and pressing your lips to his. He returned the kiss in earnest, his hands cupping your face.

You pulled apart after a moment. Dean looked a little dazed, and you smiled at him before finally speaking.

“Things might always be hard. I might always struggle with depression. But if you’ll have me, I’m yours.”

@malfoysqueen14

[naromoreau]

(sorry if i sent this twice) can you pls write a sharky/reader fic where reader isn’t the deputy but just some college student visiting hope county, and she really likes sharky but he turns her down because she’s just too young for him?

Thank you very much for sending his in and I hope it’s not too late, so here it is! Big thanks to @fluttyseed for giving it a read

Pairing: Sharky Boshaw & Reader (Not Deputy), side Sharky Boshaw / GN Deputy.

Raiting: SFW, just a lot of unrequited feelings :((( and Sharky being all sweet about them. 

"Hop in, chica,gotta take you to this place that's like--like a strategic location for whatyou doin'."

The midday sun'sglare scorched your skin, making you squint and drag an arm across yourforehead to dry the fat drops of sweat sitting there. The air bristled witharomas, the surrounding fields giving off a hint of freshly mowed barley, thatnow mingled with a light note of propane and a touch of musk coming from him.It was intoxicating. 

You haphazardly threwyourself on the passenger seat, cheeks bright red and throat in dire need of agulp of water. 

"Where we going,Sharky?" There was a slight waver in your voice as you rifled in yourbackpack trying to count the vials to take water samples. You couldn't help butbite your lip at how much his proximity kept affecting you, how every time heflashed you that smile, the one that lingered in his eyes, quicksilver poolsglowing with a warmth, your heart fluttered wildly. Hopelessly. 

"There's a--uh,a lake I think you should check." He cranked the engine, and steered hissight on the highway. 

As someone whocould've got lost in her own home town, you were beyond grateful to Mary May tohave sent you to his metaphorical - until now - arms. He knew the ins and outsof trudging across wild Montana, as if he was just walking across his livingroom. Truth was you'd been worried when you realized your project about lakes'pollution needed a bigger sample than the one you already had, and needed toget them before the current semester at college finished. 

It was a good twentyminute ride until finally Sharky slowed down, and the truck stopped near the bankof a pristine lake, tires grating over fine gravel. 

"'Mkay now, youwant me to get them for ya?" He was already peeling off his hoodie, andshucking his jeans off with an enthusiasm that was utterly infectious. 

He'd offered himselffor the task from day one, trying to alleviate any hard labor from yourshoulders, claiming it was a good opportunity to freshen up in the ungodlyheat. You squinted under the heavy brilliance, admiring not for the first timethe multicolor landscape of this side of the County. 

"Sure," yousaid kneeling to take the vials out of your backpack, handing them to him,"just try not to collect too much mud this time, please?"

"Don't worry,amigo, I think I got the nuts and bolts of this shit." 

You watched him enterthe lake in nothing but his boxers, your eyes taking in the sight of him,putting to good use the fact he was obviously focused in doing what you askedfor. The first time he'd taken his clothes off, your eyes had widened of theirown accord, sliding down the lean muscles of his back and chest, and you'dthanked your luck he wasn't paying attention because your face had gone throughseveral shades of red before it stuck in a soft pink that you were able to maskas just exertion. 

He was so easy totalk to and funny to a point you couldn't keep a straight face every time hewas determined to make you smile. Which was often, not that you werecomplaining. And so, falling down that rabbit hole had been unexpected andinevitable, and now you were head over heels with his scrawny ass. 

Everything would'vebeen easier if he wasn't so damn handsome, and you could've just shaken off theinconvenient crush. But when he turned and faced you, smiling as he shook oneof the newly filled vials, and your gaze slid down his abs following his happytrail, you knew you were sunk down in a pit too deep. 

The sad part was thathe didn't seem to notice what he stirred in you, treating you like a friend andnothing more. Not that you haven't tried to move him to act, a little touchhere, and a hand lingering there, but a whole month and you were still empty handed. 

A sudden sloshing ofwater brought you back to reality seeing him proudly showing you hiswork. 

"Got everythingyou needed, chica." 

You tried not to givea wide display of your throat, when you felt your jaw unhinge seeing himcloser, water beads lazily rolling down his body and stopping in the mostinconvenient places. 

"Thanks, Sharkman." 

Taking the preciouscargo of his hands, you focused on the task of putting them neatly away whilehe decided to sprawl next to you, like a taunt to your senses. 

"Now I kindaneed to dry my underwear, cuz I lost the spare ones," he said stretchingon the yellow grass, skin glimmering under golden rays. "What you wanna donow? Any more uh, places you gotta look at?" 

"Notreally," you replied, "but we could go and grab a cold one at theSpread Eagle if you want?" You shrugged trying to feign nonchalance butyour heart was hammering against your ribcage, its rhythm drumming in your earsas well. 

"Gotta say Ilike how you think." He switched onto his belly, exposing his black-cladrear to the shining sun, "not gonna lie to you, chica, I uh, I alwaysthought college girls were all-all uptight and y'know, not nice, but you ain'tlike that."

A soft chuckleescaped you. "Well, thanks, man. You ain't that bad either." Therewas a quiver in your stomach at the downplay of your own feelings, regrettingthe shyness that prevent you to chase some other course of action, becauseyou'd be gone in less than a day, and all this would scatter into fond memories.You sighed. "So it's that a yes?" 

"Fuck yeah,count me in," Sharky nodded, "just wait 'til I don't feel like Ipissed myself and we're good to go." 

The almost faintnotes of a Diana Ross' song blasting from the car, wafted in the air, tanglingwith the stifling atmosphere, and everything was making you dizzy. You foughtthe urge to touch him, maybe brush two inches of his skin and finally find thecourage to voice the feeling you had been trying to disregard for the lastmonth. 

"Y'know, chica?I'm gonna, uh, I'm gonna miss ya," he said covering his face with his capunder the blazing sun. "Had a good time doing all that science shit--- gofigure, a dumb dropout like me."

"You are notdumb, Sharky," you scolded him. It was something that ground your gears tono end, seeing how easily was for people disregard how smart he really was,throwing the same argument over and over again: dumb failure, you ain't morethan a school dropout. "If it wasn't for you I would've failed big time solet's just say this is also yours."

His chuckle rang inyour ears from beneath his cap, until he finally leaned on his elbows andlooked at you. "You're a real friend dude," he said, grinning. 

The weight of hiswords sagged your shoulders a little and you lowered your eyes to the gravelsurrounding the blue lake. Not something you wanted to keep on dwelling. 

"Aight,then." You stood up with a brisk movement, before the blushing had time tocreep up your cheeks. "Let's go get that beer."

----------

"... and lastthing I knew I was smooching it right in the fuckin nose, open mouth andall."

A gurgle of laughterrippled out of you, while images of his story flitted through your mind. An hourhad passed in the most perfect way, while you both shared stories over beers.But nothing had peaked this one yet. 

"Yeah, yeah,laugh all you want, dude-- I'm tellin' ya, that skunk? Meaniest dink ass I'dever--" 

"Kissed?"You offered, feeling tears welling up in your eyes. "I'm sorry-- I'msorry, that was rude." 

"Bet your ass itwas," he said, without stop grinning, taking a swig from his bottle."Don't expect my dates to almost rip my lips off, which it did--motherfucker left a huge scar here, see?" 

When Sharky leanedforward, your heart shivered in your chest, and you regretted you both weresitting side to side, without the table in between to dampen your stupidreactions. 

He stopped a scantinch from your face, pouting, his lower lip on display so you could see a faintscar on it. It must've been the alcohol, and the fact it was round number fourand your stomach was as empty as a wallet before payday, and suddenly it wasimpossible to quash down your leaping heart, his closeness rattling the sundryfeelings revolting in you. 

You pressed your lipsagainst his, hearing a surprised gasp dying in your mouth. It was soft and warmand your hands fell to his thighs, supporting you in your eagerness. 

But as soon as thecomfort of the yearned place came, it swiftly vanished. 

"Woah, woah,there," Sharky panted, clasping you gently by the shoulders, lips red andbreath stuttered, "what you doing, amigo?" 

There was no anger inhis voice, just the soft frowning of bafflement, metal-grey gaze delving intoyou, deep enough to break your flimsy hopes. 

"I'm--I'm sorry,Shark, I don't know what happened to me I just---" You tried not to showhim any tears, but it was harder than you thought. One drop, and then another,streaks ran down your cheeks, completely out of your control and the desire tojust bolt and run into the night churned in your stomach. 

"Hey, hey, easythere," he said, signaling someone for a glass of water and hugging you ina way that made everything more painful. But you couldn't push him away.

When the glass ofwater came, he made you drink it in three short gulps, until your intake of airevened out. 

"Hey, chica, I'msuper flattered y'know?" He cupped your cheek, lightly thumbing the rim ofyour jaw while you struggled not to run away fueled by embarrassment."Like, you're real cute, ok? And so fuckin' smart, but I mean, you're waytoo young--" 

"I just turned20, I know what I want," you retaliated. 

Sharky only chuckled,tilting his head back. "'Kay then, big you, still-- you got all that longass life to live and probably gonna end up with someone who's far better thanme-- I mean I'm pretty great, don't get me wrong," he said, and you huffeda short and hoarse laugh, "but y'know-- cherry, I ain't enough forya."

You were about totell him how wrong he was, how misdirected his guessings were, when you caughtmovement in your peripheral vision. It was one of Sheriff's Whitehorsedeputies. The newest one if your memory didn't fail you. 

"Everything good'round here?" They placed a hand on Sharky’s shoulder, and you saw himpositively turn beet red under his cap. Your eyes were drawn to their face,white flashing through plump lips in an honest smile.

"Yeah, officer,uh-just, uh, just saying goodbye to a friend," Sharky said stumbling uponwords on a higher rate than normal. 

"Ah, well, sorryto interrupt, then." They gave a slight nod, dimples coming to life on awarm face, and they were gone, boots tapping against the wooden floor. 

You saw Sharkyfollowing them with starved sight, eyes almost swaying with the cadence oftheir walking and a hard knot formed in your stomach. 

It was clear as day.After all, you'd seen his whole shenanigans for a month, time long enough soyou could realize he had a crush, the size of a wild moose, on the JuniorDeputy. 

Not much you coulddo, as much as it hurt. 

You found your voiceamidst the inner turbulence. "Y'know man? You should pursue that,"you said with an almost complicit smile, wiping your tears. 

Watching Sharkyambushed by feelings was a whole show. "What? Nah, you got it wrong,sweets- I mean they're a fucking cop, we're like natural enemies--" 

You scoffed."Sure, man, whatever helps you sleep at night, still," you added,"they're really cute." 

"The fuck you'retalking about, chica?" 

"Oh, c'mon,don't be such a liar."

He remained silent fora few seconds before finally springing up, giving you a hand. 

"You reallythink so?" He almost whispered. 

Your illusions anddesires scattered in the air. But he was your friend, and if that was the bondthat should remain, you were determined to honor it. 

"Yeah, man. Whoknows? Maybe that's your destiny right there."

[spidersmiceandeverythingnice]

So, uh, idk if anyone is interested in reading Some Fanfic but I write as a bit of a hobby, so uh - anyway, take this bit about the first meeting between the Mastersona of my Chaldea and Diarmuid.

There was no Throne. There was only the dark.

           In this vast expanse of nothing, there were individual sparks – far apart, close together, dim and bright and separate. Each spark was a Hero, and some were closer to the light than the others.

           One of those sparks is “Diarmuid ua Duibhne.”

           Formless, empty, and waiting for life to breathe into him.

           But conscious. That was something.

           Without a mind to dream, he could not have nightmares. But he remembered.

           With my command seal, I order you –

           You will suffer, they’d promised, and he had.

           Haven’t I suffered enough?

           It was engraved into that consciousness. The confusion of betrayal, the hateful anger, the curse he’d laid down with all the mana pouring out of him, the blood pouring out of him, his own insides falling out into the mud and the dirt…

           His lord stood over him, watching him die.

           It was not that he remembered – it’s that he would never be able to forget.

           Still, there was something of the light in the soul of “Diarmuid ua Duibhne,” who had once been called “the brightest one,” and “the radiant knight.” Born of gods, blessed by the Fair Folk, the first of his brothers-in-arms – there was conviction and promise there that were also unforgettable. Defined by his curses but unable to allow the darkness to claim him, he lingered in a strange and uncomfortable limbo. Haunted by his past, unable to walk into the future.

           Before I am a Servant, I am also a knight.

           He’d said that once. He couldn’t forget that, either.

           And so, when he felt the distinctive pull of life – the pull of a Master, a mage calling for him – the first thing he experienced before materialization was… feeling. Confusion, dread, rage, fear, fear, fear –

           A Servant has no choice. But a knight is… more…

           Again, again. It was all so useless. He would never escape this cycle. This pain.

           And when you fall into the searing pits of hell, you will remember the rage of Diarmuid –

           Not again. Not again.

           This time, I’ll…

           He materialized, sinking to one knee in a burst of blue-white light. That light had never happened before, but he did not allow it to shock him. There was no space between knowledge and formlessness, so he could not even be surprised by the information that rose to the front of his mind, explaining the situation to him before he could even think to ask the question. Strangely, though – his ugly memories, his pain – it did not vanish upon summoning. It took an almost physical effort to shove them back, to focus on the here, the now – his new mission. A new Master. He took a deep breath.

           “I am the first spear of Fianna, Diarmuid ua Duibhne. I offer you my service – should you accept, I shall protect you from all harm.”

           Those were not the words he usually used to introduce himself – he rarely gave his name upon summoning, since he assumed that his Masters knew of him if they had acquired a relic that could cause him to manifest – yet they still felt natural on his tongue. Why had he said all of that? Why had he not simply asked for a confirmation of the contract? This facility is different, his mind told him. This time, it’s going to be different.

           “Okay!”

           Diarmuid nearly bit his tongue when a sudden tide of bitter dread rolled over him. He did not lift his head, but he became aware that there were several people in the room with him, and there was at least one woman.

           She continued to speak, cheerfully. “That’s pretty swell, if I do say so myself. I mean, I got the same class and the same country I was aiming for – so I am going to go ahead and count this summoning right in the success column! You know, I really think I’m getting the hang of this whole Master thing!”

           Her voice was pleasant and distinctive – low and rich and warm. She may have been young, but perhaps not much younger than he was in this body. Diarmuid had two conflicting thoughts at once. The first was that he might be able to get along with this girl if she was immune to his curse; the second was pure horror when he realized that she was the one who had summoned him. This woman was to be his Master.

           He had never had a female Master – except for…

           “Oh, my…”

           Diarmuid nearly flinched. Yes, there were others – this voice was female as well. Her voice was higher, but more mature. She seemed… fascinated. That wasn’t an especially unusual reaction to the curse, but it was hard to tell if she’d been affected without looking at her directly, and he couldn’t risk it. How humiliating – a female Master, and now this. Diarmuid could not lower his head any further without physically curling his body in on itself – this summoning, his memories had disoriented him. He could not sense precisely where this one was standing, and so he could not tell if it was possible to turn his head and hide the love spot from her.

           Somehow, it got worse from there.

           His Master piped up, cautiously. “Mash, you good? You alright over there?”

           A third woman – no, Diarmuid realized upon hearing the responding gasp. This one was a girl – a young girl. She struggled and stammered and he heard her shift anxiously on her feet. Shame and despair filled him. He never hated his curse more than when young girls were affected. Their pleas affected his honor and he hated to see them cry when he turned them away. Some of them could be quite persistent as well, even if their demeanor seemed modest… in fact…

           His head hurt.

           “Okay,” said a man’s voice. He was standing farthest back – he’d be no help. “Let’s not panic.”

           They were panicking? Diarmuid couldn’t believe the situation had become this bad already.

           “Mash, you’re freaking me out,” said his Master’s voice, flat with befuddlement. “Seriously, what’s up?”

           “It’s just…” The young girl stammered again. “You – you lost your contact lenses on the plane… and you… you broke your glasses in that Singularity…”

           His Master made a nervous sound and spoke under her breath. “Okay, yeah, but can we not talk about this in front of the new guy? Like, we know that I’m stupid but he doesn’t need to know that about me. I feel like we’re making a bad impression, so can we –”

           “I wouldn’t call this a bad impression,” said the third woman, distantly. “Would you please look up for just a moment?”

           Diarmuid winced, and hated himself when he raised his head automatically. Still following orders like a mindless dog, even now, after everything.          

           He was in a very bright, pale room. The summoning circle was gray and etched into the floor of what was unquestionably the most high-tech place that Diarmuid had ever been summoned in. His mind supplied the knowledge – it had been almost two decades since his last summons. Still, this seemed like quite a leap in human scientific progress. Diarmuid allowed himself to quickly sweep the room and take inventory. There was his Master – a young woman with her thick brown hair pulled into a side ponytail, average sized with few distinguishing physical features. Pretty, yes, but obviously an ordinary person. There was also the stammering girl, who was burying her face in her hands and trying very hard not to stare. At the back was the man, the only male in the room apart from Diarmuid. He had a lot of long orange hair tied into a ponytail as well – he was young, wearing a long green and white coat decorated with an odd triangular symbol. He looked a bit put off, but his gaze was focused on the woman who’d asked to see Diarmuid’s face.

           She was a simply stunning beauty. Diarmuid wanted to chide himself for allowing that thought to cross his mind, but there was no escaping it. She had long, silken dark hair and deep blue eyes shining out of a face like the moon. There was a faint smile on her lips – like she knew a secret that others didn’t – but she had her hand on her heart, and her slender brows were knitted slightly. She seemed elated but her eyes were not focused on Diarmuid. This was – confusing.

           “Fascinating,” she said, almost dreamily. “Please don’t be offended when I tell you that I am normally immune to this sort of thing but I must say you took us a bit by surprise and well… I’ve never felt anything like it. Quite astonishing, really.”

           She lifted her free hand into the air, pointing one finger up in what Diarmuid realized, somewhat belatedly, was a sort of Eureka! type gesture. She declared, “I would like to run a few tests!”

           The man with orange hair looked at him. So did the Master – but to Diarmuid’s further confusion, she did not swoon or blush. She simply squinted at him, and blinked rapidly before turning back to the other two women.

           Diarmuid thought, Ah – it could be that…

           “Okay,” said the orange-haired man. He got up and spread his arms, coming between the Master and the other two women, physically herding them towards the door at the back of this room. “I think both of you need to leave, just – no, that’s fine, Mash, you can go –”

           “Um,” said the Master.

           The girl called Mash practically sprinted for the door, a blush spreading to her neck and ears. The other woman resisted leaving and argued with the man as he gently maneuvered her outside.

           “As a scientist, you know, I adhere to the strictest ethical standards in all my experiments, and of course I wouldn’t do anything invasive or strange – it’s really a once in a lifetime opportunity for a genius such as myself to study this kind of magic –”

           The door slammed in her face, and then it was just the three of them.

           Diarmuid looked at his Master, allowing himself a moment of curiosity.

           She threw up her hands as she turned back to stare at him with the same incredulous face that he was sure he’d been wearing for the past few minutes.

           “What is happening? Who are you, anyway?”

           Yes, Diarmuid thought, resigning himself to his fate. This one was going to be very different.

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

           Zoe had not been at all disappointed with the appearance of Diarmuid O’Dyna, even though she hadn’t been trying to summon him. She’d only been at this Master thing for about a week, and she’d been injured pretty badly in the city on fire, so as far as she was concerned, any Servant who decided to turn up in Chaldea was welcome. But seeing how Mash and Da Vinci had reacted to him was baffling. He hadn’t even really done anything strange or intimidating, and Mash had run out like the room was on fire while Da Vinci rattled on about experimenting on the new Servant.

           She turned back to get a better look at him. Indeed, she had lost her contact lenses during a fiasco in a South American airport on her way to Chaldea. (In fact, this was the whole reason that she’d been late to the orientation and kicked off the first mission at all. Either fitting or ironic – to think that an act of carelessness or incompetence on someone’s part had saved her life in the end.) And Lainur had smashed her glasses when he’d tossed her around like a ragdoll in that cavern where the first Holy Grail rested. Her bruises had healed nicely thanks to Roman – but she still could barely see. They’d offered to do a laser surgery and fix her eyesight in Chaldea, but Zoe had argued that they shouldn’t waste the resources on something she was perfectly capable of handling herself.

           Still, now she wondered what exactly she was missing. The new Servant was down on one knee – a very courtly sort of position, but he’d said he was a knight – and he seemed rather tall. She had the sense that if he got to his feet, he’d be at least a head taller than her. He was also muscular, but she didn’t have the sense of him being especially bulky either. He had thick dark hair, and was wearing green – probably leather armor with a few metal plates here and there, while most of his legs were taken up with high brown boots. Which altogether meant that she had a vague idea of what he looked like, but it was hard to tell without seeing him clearly.

           “Sorry about all that,” Roman was saying, moving around monitors and tables to stand beside them. “I think you took us a bit by surprise.”

           Diarmuid O’Dyna said, “I beg your pardon – but you did not intend to summon me?”

           Zoe didn’t want him to think that he was her second choice. She didn’t want to give him more reasons to be upset when she’d clearly already made the worst possible first impression. “Well, no – not as such, no.”

           “Please,” Roman interjected in the awkward pause that followed. “Rise, Diarmuid. There’s no need to be formal on our account. We’re very casual here.”

           Slowly, Diarmuid got to his feet. He had to have been at least six feet tall, and he stood very stiffly – uncomfortable – which made him seem even taller. Most of his gaze was focused onto Zoe, which made her feel like she was being tested for something.

           “It’s just that I am quite sure you called for me specifically,” said Diarmuid. “Yet you seem to have no idea who I am?”

           “Well,” Zoe said, struggling to find a way to salvage this situation. “If you must know – I was trying to summon Cu Chulainn. Not that I want to,” she added swiftly, “because he was kind of a dick honestly, but I had worked with him previously and he said he was good in the Lancer class, and I needed a Lancer – but now you’re here! And this is great! I’m really – um…”

           She faltered and trailed off, feeling useless.

           Luckily, Roman stepped in. “Zoe, you know the story of Fionn MacCumhaill?”

           “No?”

           “One of Ireland’s most famous heroes,” he insisted. “A mage-knight who was the star of the Fenian mythological cycle? Defeated the war god Nuadha? It’s said that he built the Giant’s Causeway?”

           “Oh.” Zoe frowned, a rock formation fleeting through her mind. “Oh, yeah, I know that one.”

           “Well, Fionn is most famous for leading the order of the Fianna – a famous brotherhood of knights. And here –” He gestured to Diarmuid. “– as mentioned, is one of the most famous among their number. Apart from Oisin - Fionn’s son, the narrator of the cycle - and Fionn himself, Diarmuid is probably the most well-known and storied member of the Fianna. He is also known as ‘Diarmuid of the Love Spot.’”

           “Okay. What does that mean?”

           “You probably can’t see it, but there is a small mole – or you might call it a ‘beauty mark’ – beneath Diarmuid’s eye. It’s enchanted.”

           Zoe squinted at Diarmuid’s face. She didn’t want to get too close to him; when she looked directly at him, he seemed to get even more uncomfortable. He held himself awkwardly, like he was ready to run away from her at any given moment. She had a sudden flash of understanding.

           “Enchanted how, exactly?”

           Roman looked at Diarmuid, who remained stubbornly silent.

           “It was given to him by a fairy,” Roman explained. “The living incarnation of youth, whom he knew at his foster father’s court. It may have been intended as a blessing but it functions as a curse. Any woman who looks at that spot falls madly in love.”

           Zoe thought about this. She looked Diarmuid up and down, trying to pick out a distinguishing feature. Her mind supplied the idea that he must be exceptionally handsome – the way he was cut, there was no way he’d ever be considered “ugly.” But he was too blurry for her to form a concrete opinion. She had no idea what to think.

           She said, “And I’m sure this has never caused you any problems ever before in your life?”

           Diarmuid’s shoulders sagged.

           “Your poor eyesight is a blessing to me in more ways than you can possibly know.”

           There was a pause while the remark landed. Zoe was delighted; she felt like she’d passed whatever test had been set in front of her, like she’d broken through some wall that was standing between them. She knew at once that Diarmuid would fit in here, and that they’d be able to get along, curse or no curse withstanding.

           Diarmuid seemed embarrassed. He put up his hands. “I’m sorry, that was uncalled for –”

           “No,” Zoe said, grinning. “That was good – you’re funny!”

           “Zoe, can I ask just how much you can actually see right now?” Roman’s voice pipped up hesitantly. Still in a good mood, she answered with one hundred percent honesty.

           “Well, I can definitely see – like colors and shapes and how many fingers am I holding up and whatnot. I probably won’t get lost on my way to here or my room or the cafeteria or anything like that.”

           “Probably?” Roman muttered.

           “Probably,” Zoe confirmed. “But I definitely can’t read anything right now, and also I’ve had a headache since I got up this morning.”

           There was another pause here.

           Roman said, “Zoe, that’s incredibly bad.”

           “Da Vinci’s making my new glasses, I don’t know what you want from me!” she said, defensive. “Anyway, let’s focus on how we can fix this.”

           “Fix…?”

           “Yes, fix!” Zoe gestured in Diarmuid’s direction. “We can’t have him walking around here with a curse on his face. We have to find a way to remove it or it’ll cause everyone more problems in the long run.”

           Diarmuid said, “Master, I must –”

           “Oh, you can just call me Zoe, that’s fine.”

            Insistently, Diarmuid said, “This is not the kind of curse that can be ‘fixed.’”

           “Nothing is impossible,” Zoe shot back, folding her arms. “This is a good first challenge for me as a mage! Finding a solution to a curse like this –”

           “Zoe, please don’t take this the wrong way, but this is a bit beyond your pay grade,” Roman interrupted, raising his hands. “This is - this is the unholy combination of a divine blessing and faerie magic. Diarmuid knows better than either of us, I’m sure – it can’t be removed or erased.”

           “Then I’ll just find a way to block it!” Zoe decided.

           “That’s unnecessary,” Diarmuid said. “If I’m causing too much trouble for you here, then you may simply –”

           “No.”

           Roman said, “Zoe, let him finish.”

           “I said, no.” Zoe took a deep breath. Honestly, speaking her mind took practice, but she had no problem here – she had only known this Diarmuid person for five minutes but she knew in her heart that he was meant to be here, even if she’d summoned him by mistake. And even if that wasn’t the case, she had made a promise to herself. “I’m not sending back any Servants. I said that I wouldn’t and I meant it. We wanted a Lancer, now here’s a great one! I will fix this stupid love curse thing if it’s the last thing I do, because as a Master it’s my duty to make sure that my Servants are in their best condition, and you can quote me on that!”

           Neither of them responded to this, and so Zoe told Diarmuid, “Okay, well this is normally the part where I show you to your room here but I’m thinking maybe it’s a better idea for Roman to do that?”

           “Sure, Zoe,” said Roman, with a faint sigh. Diarmuid was just staring at Zoe as if he had never seen anything like her before. Maybe, Zoe thought, he hadn’t. She had a million questions for him, but honestly, she was worried that she’d already said too much, too soon. “You go get some rest, okay? Don’t strain your eyes too much.”

“I’m going to go look for Mash.”

“I would rather you just went back to your room and rested -“ Roman tried to say.

“I’m going to find Mash,” said Zoe, sharply, “and we’re going to brainstorm ideas on how to break a love curse!”

There was a final pause, in which both of their gazes felt very heavy and long. Zoe felt the back of her neck grow warm with embarrassment and she hurried out of the room before either of them could start laughing at her earnest declaration. 

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

This was the first meeting between Diarmuid ua Duibhne and Zoe Venier, Master at Chaldea. When the door swung shut on Zoe’s back, the knight had a moment of silence to sort out what, exactly, he was feeling at this moment. He was not less anxious, but neither was he more anxious. This was not like any summons he had been called into before, and Zoe was clearly not an ordinary Master. An amateur, to be certain - but was it a bad thing, all things considered? She talked very fast, and when he focused, he could feel the new currents of mana within him - pure and strong and plenty; she practically radiated magical energy like a miniature star. And she was probably blind as a bat - if she could look him right in the face and not even flinch - a new kind of anxiety rolled into him at the thought. Why in the world was she walking around unassisted if she could barely see someone standing directly in front of her? Wasn’t she at all concerned for her safety, or was she simply that confident in her ability to find her way around?

            Roman looked at Diarmuid and smiled, awkward but reassuring. His voice jarred Diarmuid from his thoughts, pulling him back to Earth with a jolt.

           “Don’t worry too much about her,” he said. “She’s a very sweet girl – you’ll like her, we all do. But she has her quirks that take some getting used to.”

           Diarmuid believed him. That, he thought, was going to be a problem.

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

NOTES:

So uh, how bout that mobile game Fate Grand Order? Anyone else have Feelings about Fate characters and the Chaldea system? Just me?

Anyway, some context for this is just the way I’m writing this particular Master sona - it’s based on Order of Arrival my Chaldea with a few notable, plot-related exceptions. IE, the original Servants I rolled are Robin Hood, Emiya, Touta, and Hundred Face Hassan - but I also got Cu Chulainn in this same tutorial roll. But in this story, the “alt class” versions of a Servant don’t show up because it’s confusing for me to keep that many characters straight so it becomes a plotpoint after CasCu helps her in Fuyuki where she tries again and again to summon him but can’t - because the hero Cu Chulainn been already summoned into another Singularity. Instead, while trying to summon “an Irish Lancer” she gets Diarmuid - therefore insuring that he won’t be summoned into the American Singularity. 

Trust me it’s for the Character Development.

The Mastersona is Zoe Venier, obviously - she’s not really like me too much apart from her stupidly bad eyesight. She’s also my age (24, if you were curious!), but that’s because it’s easier for me to write a main character who is My Age and has similar life experience to me. A few of my OCs are teenagers and I already know that if I ever publish their story, they will Not Act Like Normal Teenagers. Anyway, Zoe’s life is entirely fabricated, though it has bases in my experiences. Kind of a spoiler/explanation: Zoe’s spirit origin is something along the lines of “home” or “safe,” and so prolonged contact with her/her mana causes Heroic Spirits to remember their past lives - and in particular, it causes them to be reminded of people that they loved or cared for. This is how she draws Dantes in later and how she’s able to communicate with Berserkers. It’s also part of how Diarmuid is able to hold on to his memories of Fate/Zero, though there are OBVIOUSLY other reasons for that.

Lastly and related to that previous point, Diarmuid deserves character development/healing and I think that it’s important to acknowledge previous summons in Grand Order since characters are established to at the very least recognize each other/people from their pasts. There’s another bit I have written that takes place not long after this - after Zoe finds a way to block the Love Spot, he runs into Hundred Face Hassan and they get all bickery and tense about the Holy Grail War that they both now remember - and ANYWAY I have a lot of ideas and this post is already so damn long. If you have questions or like it, hit me up, I do like feedback!

[tigereye771]

New Year, New Beginnings (Part 7/?)

Title: New Year, New Beginnings

Part: 7/?

Pairing: Jon/Sansa (Modern AU)

Notes: I admit, I struggled with this part and I’m not sure it’s completely successful but I’ve worried at it and let it sit and then worried at it again over and over, so it might just be time to just let it go.  Hope you enjoy.

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4] [Part 5] [Part 6]

Sansa eyed Jon in amusement as he finished off his second personal quiche, a vegetarian version this time.  He swallowed the last morsel and sighed in satisfaction, gently patting his flat, but full stomach.  “I’m going to have to start working out more if I keep eating your cooking.  Between the lunch yesterday, the dinner last night and now, I must have gained five pounds.”

“Yes, I noticed this morning the lack of leftovers in the refrigerator,” Sansa noted wryly.

Jon blushed, realizing that he may have eaten Sansa’s share of the mac and cheese with his unexpected appearance at dinner last night.  He started to apologize, but Sansa merely laughed and waved off this apologies.  

“I always have my dinner during my break at Taylor’s.  If anything, you prevented Arya and Bran from over-stuffing themselves. I swear, they’re both bottomless pits.”

Her mention of her seasonal job sobered Jon instantly.  He still had a lot of questions regarding what had happened to the Starks over the last few years.  He didn’t believe for a moment that Bran and Arya had told him everything last night. Sansa was an almost unknown entity to him and given the fact that she hadn’t even bothered to give him her cell phone number when she had so willingly provided her siblings’, he knew it would be harder to convince her to open up to him.

Jon would have to earn her trust, and given what he had heard last night, he didn’t blame her for her wariness.  They were silent for a few minutes as Sansa cut out cookies in assorted holiday shapes and placed them on a baking sheet.

“You were always a good baker, but I never imagined you working in a café,” Jon suddenly blurted out. He flushed red as he saw Sansa hesitate a moment.  He could feel wariness creep over her entire body as she resumed her work.

“Oh?  I thought Arya and Bran explained all of that,” Sansa replied easily and in measured tones, but Jon could sense she didn’t really want to talk about what happened.  “There wasn’t much money left except in trusts we couldn’t access. I was only eighteen and not a lot of work experience. Margery was starting the café and it seemed like solution to our problem.”

Yes, that was the story that Arya and Bran told him last night, but Jon knew it wasn’t the entire story. Granted, he didn’t want to upset or fight with Sansa, but Jon needed to know about everything and every detail.  Maybe it was the military training in him that made him want to know every scrap of information before going into a dangerous territory.

And he was wading into dangerous waters here.

“They did,” Jon began gently. He paused.  “They also told me what Peter Baelish tried to do to you. Why didn’t you press charges against him, Sansa?”

“Arya explained that to you too,” Sansa replied calmly with just the slightest hard edge to her voice. Sansa knew her sister had given Jon the explanation they all agreed upon when asked about that incident.  Sansa had double checked with Arya last night when she was sleeping in her sister room and Jon slept in her own.  Arya swore she didn’t tell Jon about everything else.

“I think we can trust, Jon,” Arya argued. “And I’m over eighteen now. What can they do to us?”

“Bran is still underage and they’re still very powerful,” Sansa replied.

“But they’ve kept their distance like he promised.”

“Only because we’ve kept our end of the deal and kept quiet. Did it occur to you that if we say anything to Jon we could put him in a bad position? Do you think after Jon hears what happened he’ll just let it go because we tell him to?”

“No,” Arya grumbled.  “But do you really think they could be more powerful than the Targaryens?”

“This isn’t his problem, Arya.  Let’s just leave Jon out of it.”

“I didn’t want to go through a trial.”

Jon watched silently as Sansa began to use a little more force in pressing the cutter down to pop out shapes of bells and candy canes.  She was becoming more agitated and he wondered how far he could push her.

“So you let him get away with almost raping you?” Jon pressed.  “What if he tried again? Or if he attacked someone else?”

Sansa paused in her work and glared at Jon.  “Don’t you dare try to guilt me into anything, Jon Snow!  I held this family together with no help from anyone, least of all you or any other man.  I did what I had to make sure my family survived.  If it doesn’t meet your high moral standards, then you can just walk right back out of our lives now!”

“I’m not judging you!” Jon exclaimed.  Sansa took a tray of unbaked cookies to the oven and shoved them in, sharply pressing the timer next to the oven.  As she started to walk by, Jon reached out to stop her.  He gently grasped Sansa by the shoulders and turned her towards him. “I’m trying to understand why you didn’t press charges and get Baelish out of your lives forever.”

“Jon, I was twenty, accusing a powerful and respected attorney of attempted rape.  Do you know what they do to rape victims in court?  They try to dig up every disgusting and embarrassing detail of your life so it can be said out loud and for the record. They’ll protect the criminal’s information, but not the victim’s.  I had just barely won custody of Bran and Arya.  Now I was going to have to go to court and have my reputation dragged through the mud? I couldn’t guarantee the court wouldn’t change their mind and take them away from me. Arya hadn’t turned eighteen yet!  Bran was just recovering! That’s how Baelish got away with it.” She shrugged off Jon’s hands and grabbed something from the refrigerator.  She put it onto her work counter between two pieces of parchment paper. Jon realized it was a lump of butter. Sansa began pounding it into a flat disc with a wooden rolling pin.  “We’d lost so much of our family already, I wasn’t going to risk losing the rest.”

“But now he’s still in your lives,” Jon replied, raising his voice over the whacks she made with her rolling pin.

Sansa stopped her movements and took a deep breath.  “We try to limit contact as much as possible and have done a good job of it so far.” She sent him a tired, wry smile. “I know you’re just worried about us, Jon, but trust me, we’ve gotten quite good at handling Petyr Baelish.”

“It’s not fair.  It’s not right,” Jon grumbled.

“No,” Sansa replied quietly as she folded some pastry around the flattened butter.  She put the entire thing back into the refrigerator and began to wipe down her work space.  “But then again, so little in life truly is.”

The warm kitchen became quiet and chillier after that.  Jon wasn’t certain how he could get them back to that friendly footing from before. Several times he opened and closed his mouth to try to say something, but he couldn’t seem to find the right words. He lost his opportunity when the back door open and one of the young women he saw yesterday came bustled into the kitchen.  She stopped in surprise when she saw Jon.

“Jon, Mya Stone.  Mya, Jon Snow.  Mya is the assistant baker here and Jon is an old family friend,” Sansa said by way of introductions.  “My car died last night.  Jon gave me a lift this morning.”

“That early?” Mya squeaked in surprise.  “Heck of a friend!  It’s nice to meet you Captain Snow.”

“Jon,” he told her as he shook her hand.  Mya’s presence ended any opportunity to speak more to Sansa, but he knew how to make his next opportunity happen.  “So, I better get going.  I’d like to get a bit more sleep and do some errands.”

“Yes, thank you again, Jon,” Sansa said she wiped her hands on a towel and started to escort him to the back door.

“So I’ll pick you up about 2:30?” Jon asked her as he paused at the door.

Sansa stopped and stared at him.  “What?”

“That’s the time you leave here for the mall, right?  For your job at Taylors?”

Sansa frowned.  “Yeah, so?”

“So I’m giving you a ride.”

“Oh, no, Jon, I’m sure Arya-,”

“You can’t be certain she’ll have your car fixed or be able to give you a ride herself.  Besides I need to go to the mall anyway.”

Sansa looked at him suspiciously.  “What for?”

Jon looked her right in the eye and said, “I do have my own Christmas shopping to do, Sansa.”

“Oh,” Sansa blinked, not having a good response to that other than, “Uh, well, yeah, thank you, Jon. That’s very nice of you to drive me again.”

“Not a problem,” Jon replied cheerily.  “Like I said, I have to go to the mall and do some shopping any way.  I’ll see you later.”  He smiled at her and left.

Mya came up to Sansa’s shoulder as they watched Jon get into this car and pull out of the parking lot.

“Would you look at that,” Mya breathed.  “You’ve got Jon Fricking Snow acting as your chauffer!”

“Zip it, Mya,” Sansa said in an annoyed voice as she shut the back door.  “He’s just a nice guy.  He always has been.”

TBC