#I take them into the shower press them against the wall and scrub every blind individually. Then flip and repeat

[skineruptions]

Cleaning window blinds is always such a humbling experience

[peanutbutterandbananasandwichs]

This is my fave fic I've ever written, but I have been meaning to make some changes to it for a while because my writing has improved since I first wrote it. So just thought I'd post the updated version. Also you should go to the Ao3 link just to see the amazing art that was done for this fic!

Make Something Good Out Of It

—- “Because it’s wrong and it’s bad and we shouldn’t?” —-

Sam starts awake, with a sick, lurching feeling deep in the pit of his stomach. It takes him a couple of minutes of bleary eyed confusion to piece together where he is and what had happened.

Oh God.

He runs a shaking hand through his sweat dampened hair, combing it out of his eyes, then scrubbing the hand down his face, his fingertips brush past his lips and Sam curls them round to bite at his knuckles.

SHIT.

There’s another body pressed lightly against the small of his back, his stomach lurches again as he swiftly scoots himself right to the edge of the bed. Sam’s eyes are still cloudy and his head is pounding. The heady mixture of pain pills and booze that had conspired to knock him out cold are coming back in a vengeance. His skin feels too hot, too tight, like it’s covered in thousands of inky black finger prints, smeared across his chest and back, streaked through his hair, sulfurous black oil smudging his lips, and jaw, and neck.

Maybe the pills hadn’t quite worn off after all.

There doesn’t seem to be any movement from the form behind him, thank god, he can’t face that, not just yet. God he needs a shower.

Sam drags himself from the bed, stumbling half blind across the room, trying to keep the walls from spinning. He grabs hold of the bathroom sink to steady himself, his eyes dragged up to the pale and drawn figure staring back at him in the cracked and mottled mirror. He half expects to see the oily black taint he can still feel creeping over his skin, sinking into his flesh, but there’s nothing but bloodshot eyes and the faint impression of teeth marks outlining newly blossoming bruises tracing his jaw.

FUCK.

He makes it to the toilet just in time. Sinking to his knees and gripping the edge of the seat, knuckles turning white, as he empties the meagre contents of his stomach. Dry heaving wretches shake his body to the bones and send stabbing, shooting pains searing up his spine and into his still pounding head.

Clambering back to his feet he goes to strip off his shirt, before remembering he’s already naked. But he still feels too hot. Sweat pooling at his collar bones, sliding down his skin and bringing the non existent black ink with it. Painting his him in rivulets of sulphur. Sam reaches for the shower tap, turning the water down as cold as it will go, although he’s not sure, given the dilapidated state of the rest of the house, if the hot water would have worked anyway. He climbs in.

The water feels good, cleansing and cooling, soothing the ache in his head as he lets it run through his hair and over his body. He leans his back against the wall of the shower and slides down the length until he’s sat, pressed against the cold tile. There’s a grotty looking flannel laying abandoned on the shower floor to his left and he grabs it up in his hand, scrubbing it harshly over every inch of flesh he can reach, his skin reddening under the friction of the rough cloth. He can still feel the ink, seeping deeper into him. He scrubs harder.

When he’s done, Sam rest his head back against the wall and closes his eyes. Letting the water wash over him.

He doesn’t know how long he’s sat there before he feels the touch of a small, gentle hand at his shoulder. He starts, nearly cracking his skull clean open against the tile.

“Jeez Sam!”

The hands slip under his arms, pulling him back to his feet, scooting down his slides to steady him at the waist.

It’s then that his brain registers that the hands belong to Ruby and she’s standing, stark naked in front of him in the shower.

He pushes her gingerly away from him, curling his arms protectively across his chest.

“R..ruby…what are you…?”

“Came to check you hadn’t drowned, you’ve been in here over an hour.”

“Oh. I thought you were asleep.”

“Demons don’t sleep dumbass.”

“Right.”

Sam looks down at his feet, studiously avoiding her eyes. Ruby edges forward, crowding into his space, he feels suffocated. He wants desperately to push her away, but that didn’t work before, why would it now?

She brings a hand upto his check and cups it gently, pad of her thumb splaying out possessively across his zygomatic. Sam shudders. He's not sure if it's in disgust or pleasure. Ruby tilts his head so he’s forced to lock his eyes directly onto her’s.

“Do you trust me?”

“What?”

She brings her lips up to ghost across his, but he turns his head at the last second. She presses them to his jawline instead, over one of the bite marks, eliciting another shudder.

“Do you trust me Sam?” she coos.

“Do I….?” Sam meets her eyes again, “…how can I Ruby…you’re….”

“A demon? I kinda noticed.” Her hand drifts down to his shoulder and over his back. “I saved you Sam. Remember. And if I’d wanted to kill you, I had you right there in that bed. Naked. Vulnerable.” She rakes her eyes across his torso and back up to meet his own. “Like right now in fact. I haven’t. I won’t. I want to help you. I’m all you’ve got. Please Sam, let me help you…” Her other hand reaches up to brush a strand of hair that had stuck to Sam’s face back, tucking it softly behind his ear. “Do you trust me?”

Sam swallows.

“Yes.” He looks down at his feet again. “Yes I trust you.”

“Good.” she smiles at him, gently pinches his cheek.

Ruby reaches down for something on the shower floor behind her. Sam thinks about making a run for it whilst her back is turned, but finds himself riveted to the spot. She straightens back up, and Sam catches a quick flash of silver, with lightening speed he grabe hold of her slender wrist. She's holding a knife. She must have brought it in with her.

“What the hell?!” Sam exclaims, gripping her wrist tighter.

“It’s not for you dumbo. I thought we’d already established that?”

Ruby raises her free arm and wriggling the other until Sam’s grip loosens enough for her to slip it free. She draws the blade across the flesh of her meatsuit, a line of scarlet beading just below the elbow. She looks back up at Sam, expectant.

“I want to you taste it.” her voice is low and sultry.

Sam stands stock still, his stomach turns over at the thought and he feels the urge again to run, run as far as he can, but he’s glued in place and she’s subtly blocking the escape with her frame.

“You’ve got to be kidding me?!” He can feel himself shaking. “You don't you even understand what you’re asking…what….what he…what he.. did to me….?”

“Azazel poisoned you.”

Sam looks up in shocked surprise. He’d never told anybody. Not..not even Dean.

“He forced his blood on you. I’m offering it. Yellow eyes didn’t give you a choice, this is a choice Sam. You can choose to be strong. Beat them at their own game.” She inches closer again. “Lilith won’t be expecting it, none of them will. You can turn this curse on it’s head.” Her free hand buries itself in his hair, drawing his head forwards, like a puppet or a rag doll. Her lips press to the shell of his ear. “Make something good out of it.”

Her words coil themselves round the parts of himself he tries so hard to keep hidden. “I could do it?" He asks, clawing at the edges of hopefulness. "I could save them, save the host? I wouldn’t have to use the knife?”

She nips lightly at the lobe of his ear, and there’s that uneasy shiver again. “You could save everyone Sam, the hosts, victims. Dean. And you’ll get your revenge.” Her fingernails dip sharply into his scalp and she tugs at the roots of his hair. “Lilith will pay." She's almost growling now, "we’ll make sure of that Sam.”

His lips meet hers in a bruising kiss, to match the ones of the previous night. Her hand tightens in his hair and Ruby drags his mouth away from her’s and down toward the blood seeping from her arm.

The stench of sulphur is overwhelming this close and Sam almost turns his head again, he can feel the black, inky fingermarks creeping back over his skin, but Ruby’s grip in his hair is vice like now and he’s already made his choice, he can’t turn back now.

The first taste has him fighting the impulse to vomit. There’s all the usual tastes of blood, but there is a deep undercurrent of rotten eggs and it’s somehow thicker, more oily. Ruby’s hand softens in his hair, she's stroking it gently now, as she grazes her teeth down his neck and he finds himself sufficiently distracted from the taste. His own hand coming up to scoot along her back and threading his fingers up through her hair, their bodies press close and hot under the stream of icy cold water still pouring over their heads. He pulls back from her arm, looking up at her, with wide, lost eyes, seeking reassurance. Ruby nods and kisses the blood from his lips, the blood on her arm now mingling with the water and forming a pale red pool at their feet.

Shutting off the tap behind them, Ruby grabs Sam’s hand and pulls him urgently back towards the bed.

“Just a little more Sam.” she flexes her fingers, causing fresh blood to bead at the surface of the cut, “and then we’ll get to work.”

[http-paprika]

Bite the Hand / Phillip Graves

⋆★⋆ part six - landslide ⋆★⋆ masterlist ⋆★⋆ previous ⋆★⋆ next ⋆★⋆

summary frost finally had graves, but that didn't stop the grief from finding her. like an itch, she couldn't get rid of, but neither is he.

werewolf!au / pairing phillip graves x female!reader / callsign frost / wc 1308 / warning swearing, non-descript references to sex, alcohol, panic attack(?), ooc phillip graves

notes yes, this chapter is inspired and named after the fleetwood mac song. no, I'm not going to apologize. grief for you, sadness for you, a shitty life for frost.

His arm was wrapped around her waist in a protective hold; under her, Frost could feel the steady beating of his heart. On the outside, it was a moment of peace. But her mind was like a building storm, a hurricane threatening to break down the storm walls, and when she closed her eyes, it wasn’t the night she’d spent with Graves that she thought of, but a painful recollection from her past. It manifested in the physical, with stinging in her eyes and throat. 

“Frost.” Graves murmured her name, tucking his chin against the crown of her head, inhaling the sweet smell of her shampoo. “I’ve never woken up to something as beautiful.” 

Not meeting his gaze, she shifted with unease, face pressed against his bare chest, feeling the warmth of his skin and hair. Frost searched for some comfort, but it was only a momentary relief. “I should go.” 

“It’s still early, there’s no need to rush.” He responded, trying to understand what had turned her cold. Considering the night they’d spent together, she couldn’t understand why. “Frost?” 

“I need to change into new BDUs,” Frost said as she sat up, trying to find where Graves had discarded her clothes in haste. “And shower.” She ignored the offense in his eyes, but Frost couldn’t risk returning to work covered in his scent, there’d be too much talk for her liking. No amount of reassurance from him, nor how badly she craved him, could wash away her fears.

 Graves says her name, his eyes filled with concern. “Do you regret this? Because if I misread the signs, if I coerced you into bed, I apologize. Just tell me if my own want blinded me, tell me what I can do—“ 

 “You didn’t do anything wrong.” He’d been a perfect gentleman to her the entire time, whispering sweet nothings and chasing her pleasure over his own.  Frost had fought back tears the entire time, feeling that she didn’t deserve such tender care. 

 “Well, I clearly didn’t do something right.” Graves argued, getting out of bed and pulling on his jeans, hastily following Frost out of the bedroom. “Look, if you won’t stay, let me at least drive you back to base.” 

 The muscles in her body were wound tight, aching with every step. But she was stubborn and desperate to get away, scared she’d suffocate in this house tainted with his scent. “No, no. I need to be alone.” 

 She left the house with Graves standing at the door, cursing under his breath as he watched her hurry away. His mind was enraptured thinking about her, the way she felt under him, how beautiful she looked, and the way Frost uttered his name like a prayer in desperation.

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 Hot water stung at her skin, scrubbing it and trying to free herself of his stench. She felt raw, broken down and apart as Frost let the spray stream down her aching body, over the marks and scars from her past that were mangled with the bruises from Graves’ firm grip. The sounds of her strangled sobs echoed off the tile, she’d never felt more lonely the morning after. It reminded her of being young, of her first time and the vulnerability, the exposure, Frost hated people seeing her like that. What was to stop them from taking advantage of her? How could she trust Graves to keep his promise, that their night together wouldn’t come back to bite her? 

 When the crying finally died, and the shower turned cold, Frost turned it off. She found her perfume, hoping the artificial scent would cover what was left of Graves, praying the citrus was loud enough to ignore the rest. It was folly to think she’d be able to free herself of him. This was Graves’ home, his land, his pack, and she was the intruder, ruining things the way she always did. 

Like a wound-up toy, she moved through the day avoiding curious questions of where she’d been, keeping her head low, and dreading any moment spent close to Graves. He didn’t speak to her, averting his blue-eyed gaze whenever they were in the same room, a cold chill tension supplanting what had been there. One night had ruined for her whatever they had, she couldn’t bear to look at him without a ghostly pain stabbing through her ribs, clutching her heart and wrenching it. 

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��The music in the bar made her mind swim, it was so loud Frost could feel it pulsing in her head as she found an empty stool. Noise consumed her as she rubbed her forehead, thick Texan accents surrounded her, loud from drinking and laughing. People bumped into her, seemingly uncaring and she kept her head low as Shadow Company soldiers came and went through the night.  

 Even with a sea of people, it didn’t stop her lonesome self. It was as unforgiving as an empty landscape, the wind replaced with country music and sights exchanged for glaring neon lights that blinked down at her. 

 Slowly, the ice began to melt in her whiskey that Frost just stared at, wondering why she’d thought coming to the crowded bar would ease her mind. Escaping from the base that she’d naturally confined herself to, leaving behind the fences and gates she foolishly allowed to make her feel sick, but Frost was as confused as ever. One moment away from breaking down, from sinking into her blues. 

 The song changes, a Fleetwood Mac tune that Graves loved played softly over the chatter, lyrics stinging her ears. Her eyes burned as she listened to the melancholy lyrics, the whiskey in her glass suddenly inviting for the first time that night. It soured in her mouth, coating her throat as she swallowed— but it didn't ease the pain. The warmth only disturbed her as she set the glass down, the ice clinking together along with the song. 

 For a moment, her guard faltered and her eyes drew closed, a low sigh escaped her mouth. Placing bills down on the counter, she told herself to leave, there was nothing for her there. But a stranger with blue eyes and a mesmerizing smile is standing there, black hair falling perfectly in place, an inviting scent of rust, hard-earned sweat, and motor oil telling her more than he knew. 

 “You seemed troubled, let me buy you a drink.” The stranger offered, leaning against the wooden counter. It was always the blue eyes that made Frost a fool, that made her question her logic. 

 “Okay.” 

A moment of relief, one bad decision, one more drink. She flirted with him, laughed at his bad jokes, and talked with him until the bar closed. And when they stood by her worn truck, she invited in his kiss, begging herself to enjoy the rough instant, the strangled breathing and groans. But as his hands flirted their way down to her waist, trembling as they toyed with the hem of her shirt, her eyes snapped open. Reality sunk in. 

 “I’m sorry, I can’t do this.” Frost stepped away, scolding herself for acting eighteen all over again. The man whose name she’d not even bothered to learn stands there confused and appalled as she hurriedly finds her key. 

 It had been Graves’ mouth she’d thought of during that kiss, the callouses of his hands replacing that man’s. As Frost drove back to the base in an irritating silence, she wanted one thing, one man. Phillip Graves.

 And no amount of guilt, grief, or fear would stop that woman from getting what she wanted. Frost would tear down every damn wall she’d ever put up if that’s what it cost.

taglist (open): @iamcautiouslyoptimistic @delusionally-loveless-by-choice @bacon-sandwich-of-dionysus @unicorngirly1

[gernades]

Ace is gone. He’s been gone for five weeks. 

Nancy has had a lot of time to think. 

She sees the places where he used to be- the kitchen, his house, the spot in his driveway where Florence is always parked- and can’t stop looking at them. 

“Nancy?” 

Nancy blinks and looks up. Ace’s mother is watching her, hands resting on the dough, eyes concerned. “Are you okay?” 

Today they’re making babka-chocolate bread, braided in sections and glazed with egg wash. Nancy looks down. She’s not very good at braiding, but it mostly looks like Rebecca’s dough. 

“I’m fine,” she says, a half-smile working its way across her face. “It’s just been a long week.” Another week without Ace.  She doesn’t know why she’s here, in his house- in his kitchen- but Rebecca doesn’t seem to mind. She never has.

Nancy’s here every other day, now. They’ve made bread and biscuits and a dozen Jewish desserts that Nancy is now addicted to. 

Sometimes, Thom joins them. 

( “He’s taken quite the shine to you,” Rebecca whispers on one such day, eyes sparkling. “He’s not like this with everyone.” 

Nancy doesn’t bring up the ASL textbooks sitting new and shiny on her desk at home. 

Talking about me again, Thom signs over his shoulder, and Rebecca laughs, flicks him on the shoulder. )

Now, Rebecca gently sets down her dough and wipes her fingers off on her apron. “Do you want to talk about it?” 

No, thank you, is Nancy’s knee jerk reaction. She pauses before letting the words come out. She’s been doing that more often, as of late. Sana-her therapist- would be proud. 

Nancy purses her lips and drags a finger through the loose flour on the counter. “It’s nothing, really. I’m just… going through a lot with my dad’s business, and... I can’t help but feel like I’m never going to be happy again.” 

The last part she doesn’t mean to say out loud. “I’m sorry,” Nancy says immediately, and lifts her head up. “That was…” 

“Oh, honey,” Rebecca whispers. Her eyes are shiny. “I don’t know exactly what’s been going on, but I can tell that it’s been hard on you. You’ve always been so strong. Just like your mother.” 

“Hm,” Nancy manages, throat tight and vision blurry. When Rebecca bustles around the table and wraps her arms around her, she doesn’t pull away. 

Rebecca smells like soap and rosemary: she is warm and accepting and she makes Nancy’s heart hurt less. This will have to end eventually, but she can’t help but lean into it anyway.

                                                              *** 

“You’ve been spending a lot of time out of the house,” Carson remarks later that night. 

They’re sitting at the dinner table, doing their best to eat what is supposed to be spaghetti, courtesy of Ryan. He’s still learning how to use basic appliances: his cooking is dangerous.

 Nancy wrinkles her nose and stabs at a coagulated lump of pasta. 

“Yeah. Nothing bad. I’ve just been… baking.” 

Ryan hums and shoves a forkful of food into his mouth. Nancy and Carson watch in amazement as he gets it down without gagging. “You’re really good at it, too. That, uh, chocolate croissant thingy you brought home yesterday was amazing.” 

Nancy raises an eyebrow, amused. “The rugelach?” 

Ryan jabs his fork into the air. “Yes. So good.” 

“Spending time with Rebecca, I gather?” Carson’s voice is light and free of judgement. Before the whole Wraith thing, Nancy would have pulled up her walls, deflected the conversation. 

It’s a little different now, though, so Nancy just nods. “It’s just... nice to have someone to talk to who’s normal.” 

Carson sighs and rubs her shoulder. “I understand that completely.” 

“Hey,” Ryan states, expression pinched, “is pasta supposed to make my stomach bubbly?” 

Nancy and Carson exchange a long, tired look. 

They take Ryan to the ER for food poisoning. 

                                                              *** 

George slams a palm down onto the table. Her engagement ring sparkles in the afternoon light. Nancy jumps. “It’s been quiet, Drew. Too quiet. I don’t trust it.” 

Nancy takes a long look around the Claw. It’s nearly packed to the brim with customers- their Yelp ratings have skyrocketed since the staff have actually started working again. “This is your idea of quiet?” 

George groans and slides into the opposite booth. “You know what I mean. We’ve had nothing supernatural happen for almost a month. It’s driving me crazy.” 

“Good,” Nancy replies mildly, and takes another bite of her crab roll. “I’m taking a sabbatical from sleuthing.” 

Sana was the one to suggest a break from anything stressful- like sports or large events! Avoiding murder and possession via the paranormal probably isn’t what her therapist means, but Nancy can read between the lines. 

George screeches. Half the restaurant turns to look at them. They turn back when they see who it is. 

“What?” She narrows her eyes and leans in. “Okay. I never thought I’d live to see the Hero of Horseshoe Bay gives herself a break.” She crosses her arms. “I’m proud of you, Nancy.” 

Nancy’s heart hums. She sends George a grateful smile. “Thanks.” 

George smiles back. “Your lunch break was over ten minutes ago, by the way. I need you to clean out the grease traps.” 

Nancy’s smile drops. 

The grease traps are gross, hard work. They’re also the last normal thing Nancy did with Ace, which is equal parts sad and amusing. 

She grits her teeth and scrubs her cloth against the dirty metal. At least it’s cool here, in the kitchen, and away from the always-prying eyes of customers. 

The bell above the restaurant door tinkles faintly. Nancy sighs and dips her rag into the bucket of degreaser. 

Bess screams, high-pitched and excited. “Ace!” 

Nancy stands up so quickly that she knocks the bucket onto its side. No way. 

He can’t be back- it’s too soon, too late. Nancy needs to think more. If he’s back, she can’t go to his house again, can she?

Heart pounding, she creeps over to the window and peers into the restaurant. He’s surrounded by Bess and George- and, after a moment, Nick jogs in from the parking lot, smile blinding. 

Nancy wants to go see him. She does. Her feet seem to have other ideas, though. She can’t seem to move at all. 

Ace looks good. His hair is longer, and sun-bleached; his skin is tanned. Even from this distance Nancy can see the new freckles on his face. 

There’s a leather jacket, black and tight around his shoulders- and two new silver studs in his ears. He’s smiling. He looks happy.

 Nancy’s chest aches. 

“Hey,” she hears him say to George, “Where’s Nancy?” 

Nancy takes a half step backwards. 

“Cleaning the grease traps in the kitchen,” George replies, spreading her arms in a grand gesture. “The best job in the world.” 

Ace laughs. 

Nancy runs. 

She doesn’t really run- she simply makes a strategic, tactical retreat into the staff room and out the back door. 

There’s no time to overthink it- not yet, her brain and heart agree. Not yet. 

Nancy thanks her former self for parking her car at the very edge of the lot. Nobody notices as she pulls out onto the road, a full two hours before her shift is supposed to end. 

Ooh, she’s a little runaway! Bon Jovi croons on the radio. Daddy’s girl learned fast- 

Nancy grits her teeth and pushes her foot against the accelerator. 

All those things he couldn’t say! Ooh, she’s a little runawa-

Nancy spins the radio dial with fumbling fingers, and spends the rest of her drive listening to germanic opera. 

“Shit.” 

                                                               *** 

“Jesus,” Ryan says when he opens the front door. “You look worse than I do, and I spent three hours getting my stomach pumped last night.” 

Nancy pushes past him without a word. 

Ryan’s voice lowers, softens. “Nancy. Hey.” He reaches out, gently wraps a hand around her wrist. She stops walking. “What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing,” Nancy says, but her words come out wobbly, uneven. 

Ryan scoots a little closer. “Okay, well… that’s a lie.” 

Nancy snorts. “Ace is back.” 

Ryan smiles, relieved. “That’s great!” He pauses. “Isn’t it?” When she says nothing, he squints his eyes, searches her face. “Oh,” he says finally. “I see.” 

Nancy stiffens, alarmed. “How did you-,” 

Ryan sighs and taps his cheek. “We make the same kind of face, you know. Genetics and all that.” 

“Shit,” Nancy says again, and tries very hard not to sink through the floor. 

“Don’t worry,” Ryan promises. “I wont say anything.”

“What’s going on?” 

Ryan and Nancy turn to face Carson, who is wrapped in a purple robe, fresh out of the shower. He takes one look at the expression on Nancy’s face and rushes over. “Is there another entity-,” 

“No,” Nancy says vehemently. She drops her head onto his shoulder, breathes in the smell of his aftershave. “I’m just not feeling well.” 

Neither of her dads press her for more- they simply stand like that, the three of them, for a very long time. 

                                                              *** 

        George: where the hell are u?? 

        George: hello? nancy?

        George: are u ok

        Bess: ACE IS BACK!!!! :D

        Bess: wait where r u 

        Nick: Did something happen? 

        Ace: hey. i just got back. where are you? 

“No,” Nancy says softly, and turns off her phone. “I am not good.” 

She needs a plan. Something to protect herself, and to spare everyone from the complications that one-sided feelings often bring. It’s been a good five weeks, if she doesn’t include the whole Ace thing. It’s been peaceful. Happy. 

She doesn’t want to ruin that. 

Nancy draws her knees up to her chest and stares out the window. I think I’ll just have to pretend. It’s either that, or avoiding Ace altogether- which would be impossible.

No more baking with Rebecca and Thom, either. That hurts more than Nancy wants to admit- but she’s already made up her mind. She’ll keep her feelings on the back burner, and do her best to keep things normal. 

With a sigh, she stands, and goes upstairs to take a much-needed nap. 

She dreams again. It’s the same one she’s been having every night for the past five weeks.

Nancy dreams of silk and cigarette smoke- because Ace always has to light one up after he has a joint- and of the ocean. The waves lap at the shore, rhythmic and quiet. It’s peaceful, here. Safe.

She dreams about a cliff, soft grass: warm, roving hands and a familiar mouth against her own. If she calls out his name in her sleep, that’s her problem.

 If she wakes up sweaty and teary-eyed, that’s her problem, too.

[mermaidxatxheart]

Better Together Chapter 5

Here's the next chapter. I hope you like it. Comments are always welcome. If you'd like to be added to my tag list, send me an ask. My works are not to be posted anywhere.

Pairing: Poe Dameron x Reader

Word Count: 2.2k

Warnings: violence, panic, swearing probably.

Chapter 4

Chapter Five

Leaves whip across your face, scratching the bruised skin of your cheek.

Dirt shifts under your feet.

Your fingers slip on Poe’s shirt and you struggle to regain your grasp.

Panting echoes in your ear, mirroring your erratic, pounding heartbeat.

Roots seem to stretch out of the ground, determined to trip you.

You can’t see more than a foot in front of you.

You stumble, crashing to your knees.

Poe’s grunt is muted, soft, as he lands next to you. Your entire torso feels like it’s on fire.

You want to stay down, to just give up.

But you can’t.

Not yet.

The river is ahead of you. You can hear it.

You start again, ignoring the burning in your muscles.

The trip back is impossible. Too long. Too far. Your urgency makes you clumsy. Your injuries make you weak.

Blaster fire snaps and crackles over your head and you yelp, ducking out of reflex. Poe shoots over your shoulder and you hear the grunt as one of your pursuers goes down.

You have to outsmart them, lose them before they can follow you to your ship. Everything will have been for nothing if that happens.

It takes more time than you can afford, but finally you can board. You guide Poe to the built in sofa and run to the cockpit, getting ready for take off.

Your hands are shaking.

You can’t breathe.

Your vision is doubling.

It’s blurry.

You smash the buttons, definitely not being careful. The engine rumbles after too long of being dormant. You push the throttle to full blast, not caring if you burned down the entire forest.

Fuck this planet.

You plot a random course, jumping to hyperspace the second you can. You run back to Poe, grabbing the cart of medical supplies. You don’t care about your own wounds, only focused on him.

“They probably,” he starts and you nod, jabbing him with a bacta shot.

“I know. I’m taking precautions.” You mutter, avoiding his face. You can’t look at him. Not now. Not after everything.

“Hey, do you think,” he starts and you clench your jaw together as you wrap his bleeding leg as best you can. “Do you think Leia is sobbing uncontrollably right now because she misses me so much?” He asks, hissing quietly.

“Yes.” You reply, tying it tight.

“It’s worse than I feared.” He continues and you push yourself up, heading back for the cockpit, not waiting to hear what’s worse.

You take your natural seat, the co-pilot’s chair and take the wheel. Your hands are scraped and bloody from falling, among who knows what else. The secret stitches all over your body pull uncomfortably, you’ve probably ripped them open. They were crude to begin with.

You can’t just sit here. You have to look for tracking beacons. You force yourself to stand and head back through the cabin, avoiding Poe, even though you can feel his dark eyes on you.

You don’t blame him for hating you. He’s in this mess because of you.

You search the entire ship, maintaining your isolation until you drop out of hyperspace. There’s no tracker inside. There’s a decent chance that the ship was never found in the first place. But you have to be sure.

You head back to the cabin and guide the ship to an asteroid, landing on the dark side. You don’t notice the bloody hand prints you’ve left everywhere, mind too wild and overwhelmed with panic.

“Y/N.” Poe starts and you ignore him, grabbing the oxygen mask and lowering the ramp. It’s cold outside the ship, cold enough to turn your fingers blue.

Good. Maybe they’ll freeze and fall off, and then you can’t hurt anyone else.

You climb all over the outside of the ship, checking in absolutely every little space that could hide something like that, but there’s nothing.

Still…

Hesitation eats at you.

You take a minute outside, hiding like a fucking coward, before going back in and starting the engines once more.

“Find anything?” Poe asks from behind you. You jump, smacking your hand on the hyper speed lever as you try to turn.

“Damn it.” You curse quietly, holding your throbbing hand to your midsection. “Go lay down. I’ve got this.” You tell him, turning back around, trying to get your heart to calm the hell down.

“Y/N,” he starts, but you can’t take the look in his eyes, the ones filled with regret.

“Go. I didn’t find anything.” You say shortly and he eases himself into the pilot’s chair-his seat.

He looks over the console, reading all the flashing lights as easily as a second language. “But you’re still light speed skipping?” He frowns, turning to look at you.

You don’t try to make him understand. How can you? Your last gut instinct turned out so bad, he can’t possibly trust you again.

“Safety precaution.” You mumble, flipping some more switches.

He studies you for a minute, the silence dragging on and you want to scream at him to stop, to go away. But you don’t. And the silence drags on.

“Alright.” He says finally. “But you’ll need my help.” He finishes and you squeeze your eyes shut before nodding. You start the flight sequence, your broken heart doing little twists in your chest. You don’t know if this is going to work, or if there’s even a need for it. But you’ve committed now, you have to follow through.

The ship lifts and you hover before punching it to hyperspace. Radar is still clear as you course correct around crazy land masses. Spires of solid rock shoot straight into the sky as you maneuver. Poe’s grip is tight on the wheel, he’s nervous. He doesn’t trust you.

And just as well.

But the realization still hurts. Your best friend has lost all faith in you.

You flip the next switch, lining up the next location and Poe initiates, sending you back into the seat with a painful grunt. He glances at you, but you won’t show weakness, not when he was nothing but strong for you. You can hide this.

Water reflects a brilliantly lit sky, two suns reflect off a glittering lake, almost blinding you as you rocket towards the tree line in the distance. Radar is still clear.

Again, another planet where you’re steering for your life, praying to the Maker that you don’t crash.

Another, and then just one more.

Poe is silent through the whole thing. Realizing you were wrong, you were never being followed, you cheeks heat with shame as you plot the course for home.

“Go clean your hands, I’ve got it from here.” He says finally.

Carefully, painfully, you peel your hands off. The skin, sticky with blood and cuts adheres to the wheel, pinching and pulling as you lift them. Fresh blood rushes to the surface and you hurry from the cockpit to the refresher.

You turn on the water and scrub your hands, removing more skin than you’re cleaning, doing just as much harm as good. Your reflection taunts you in the mirror, staring at you, blaming you. Wildly, you fling it open, exposing the cabinet behind with all of Poe’s things; medicine, shaving supplies. The tightness grows in your throat and you drop your gaze, scrubbing harder, as if that could make everything go away.

Your nose burns and your eyes blur and you sniffle. Maker, you’re fucking crying while Poe is in there, flying the entire ship by himself while he’s injured and you’re in here, crying like a little fucking girl because you feel guilty.

The ship drops out of hyperspace and you crash back into the wall, head smacking the corner of the shower stall. Pain flares down your neck as you struggle to regain your balance.

Poe’s voice comes on the speaker. “Sorry about that. Had to drop out early. Making our descent now.” He tells you.

“Do…” you cut off, your voice rough, and so fucking weak. “D-do you need help?” You manage and the silence drags on.

“No.” Comes the short reply.

You want to wail, to cry. To tell him how fucking sorry you are! You’re sorry for the kiss, and for getting him caught— but he won’t wanna hear your pathetic excuses and bumbling.

You slide to the floor, knees pressed tight against your chest as you try to breathe, try to steady yourself. The tight space helps, and acts as a compression unit. But it’s not enough. Not after everything you’ve done.

You can feel when the ship makes landfall and panic rises in your chest, sheer, blinding panic. The engines cut off and you hope Poe walks right off the ship to get looked at. Your ribs ache with the effort of holding everything in, of being silent.

And then a short knock on the door jolts you. “We’re here, Y/N. We’re home. Open the door.” He says, there’s something strange in his voice and for a moment your heart stutters in your chest. How sure are you that what you brought with you is actually your Poe? Does the First Order have capabilities on this level?

“You go ahead. I’ll b-be out in a minute.” You call and he sighs.

“Open the door.” He repeats.

“Poe, I-... I just need a minute. Please? Go get yourself taken care of.” You plead.

“You have to get looked at, too.” He reminds you.

“I know. I will.” You promise. Just not anywhere he can see you. There’s an uncomfortable moment of silence before you hear him turn and limp away.

You can hear him speaking at the bottom of the ramp, but then there’s a commotion and he’s shouting. Your name is mixed in and you scramble back from the door, already trapped, nowhere to go. Poe’s shouting gets louder, more frantic and tears finally escape as you shove yourself into the shower, twisting to hide. Clearly, this isn’t the resistance you left, the First Order got here before you, tricked Poe into landing. Now they’re going to finish what they started.

The door to the stall is pushed back, revealing a face you thought you recognized, but maybe your mind is playing tricks on you again. Blood loss is making you disoriented.

“Hey, Y/N, glad you’re back.” They say with a smile that seems to warp into something wicked. “Got something for ya, gonna make you feel real good.” He says, already reaching for you.

“No! Don’t touch me! Don’t touch m—“ you thrust your arm out to fend him off, but he jabs a huge needle into the crook of your elbow and you cry out as it pinches. “No,” you croak, already feeling weaker. Your knees no longer support you and you slump, falling right into their open arms.

“Get a table.” He barks over your head and you try to struggle. “Sh, sh, sh. It’s okay. You’re home now.” He promises, scooping you up and setting you gently on a flat surface. Foggy memories try to claw through the sedative, trying to warn you.

You try to roll off the table, you need to escape, you need to make sure Poe is safe. This is all your fault.

“Whoa, whoa. Easy, Y/N.” He says, catching your wrists and securing them to the table. You try to scream, looking around frantically. Faces are blurry, dissolving as the sedative claims you. You can hear Poe shouting your name as he tries to reach you. People are holding him back, stopping him from taking your hand.

“Give her another dose, she’s fighting it.” The man above you says. The last thing you see before everything goes dark is Poe, fighting to get to you.

***

The hike to their base is long. It takes about half a day for them to march you back there. Made worse by the fact that your arms are bound so tightly behind your back that you’re losing feeling.

Poe keeps looking at you to make sure you’re okay, but other than that, he won’t talk to you. You want to tell him you’re sorry for getting him caught, for kissing him and distracting him. And the way he won’t talk to you, the way he keeps cutting off your sentences tells you that he blames you, too.

The troopers are content to watch you trip and fall, laughing as they drag you to your feet again. Sometimes they’ll even purposely trip you just to watch you struggle.

One time in particular, if you had just fallen where their boot caught your ankle, you would have been fine. But you try to right yourself, stumbling forward awkwardly for a few steps before falling and bouncing your head off a rock. Your name manages to hiss through Poe’s clenched jaw, but other than that, nothing. You’re hauled unceremoniously to your feet and shoved forward, but you can feel blood trickling down your face.

They finally lead you into their base, sore and bruised, dragging you through the sterile halls until shoving you both into a room.

It’s a dark room, red lights dotting the walls sporadically. In the middle, two upright restraining tables facing each other.

Just like in your dream.

Chapter 6

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[beskarberry]

Krayt’s Teeth

Bargaining with Beskar, Chapter 3 (The Mandalorian x f!reader)

The sound of crashing and shouting was hot on your tail, the other hunters had followed you and were gaining fast. You saw a light rapidly approaching ahead of you, and the two of you burst out into the brilliant daylight to the worst possible place: a dead fucking end.

Rating: Explicit

Word count: 6.7k

Content warnings: Canon typical violence, killing in self defense, headcanon angst, FLUFF, sensory deprivation, body worship, oral sex (f receiving).

A/N: These are my headcanons regarding Mandalorian culture in terms of sex, I didn’t find much lore on it so whether it’s accurate or not idk but I like them and that’s all that matters! Enjoy~

<-Previous Next->

You could have slept forever, even on that horrible little cot you were so comfortable that you could have been out for days, but the only one on it was you. You did’t know when Mando got up from the tiny space you both shared through the night, or how he managed to get out from your tangled bodies without waking you up. You opened your eyes to tiny green baby hands tugging at your fingers. 

“Hey booger, is it time for breakfast? Where’s your papa?” You started to sit up, but the horrible sticky mess underneath you made you reluctant to move, a mix of passion and pain from the day before. “Yikes. I’m gonna run all his water out if I have to keep using the fresher. Come on, let’s get scrubbed up.” The baby gibbered excitedly at you, though you weren’t sure how much of what you said he actually understood. You scooped him into your arms without looking back at the sad little cot and all its stains. “You’re water proof, right?”

The ship’s engines were rumbling away, so you guessed tin man was up in the cockpit flying you towards your next bounty. Or Nevarro. You would have to find Mr. Mystery later, the grossness that was you had to be dealt with. Between you and the child your shower took forever, the two of you getting water and soap bubbles from top to bottom. You didn’t care. You had been on Tatooine for months without having a real shower, being consigned to the sonic freshers that vibrated the sand off of the moisture farmer’s bodies; and this was the second real shower you’d gotten to have in twice as many days. You spent a good deal of time trying to get your chatty friend to hold still long enough to be dried off, the little fart squealing with joy every time you went for him with the towel.

An ordeal later you were both fresh and presentable, but your host was still nowhere to be seen, though the ugly sheets had thankfully disappeared from view. The ship was quiet now, without the engine running you knew you had to be back on the ground, and you could hear a distinct hum of activity coming through the walls. Space port? He flew us into town? The thought was replaced immediately with a rich, savory smell coming through the air vents: FOOD! Your gut grumbled loud enough to resonate through the cabin and earn you a confused look from the baby. When was the last time you really ate? You’d been living on ration packs for the last couple of days. That was going to change right now.

“Ya hungry buddy? Me too! Maybe that’s where your dad is, hmm?” Grabbing your old backpack and hooking the baby under your arm you started punching buttons on the wall to get the door open, sending walls sliding and cabinets opening before you got one of the access ramps open. Bright double sunlight nearly blinded you, and on reflex you covered the baby’s giant googly eyes. It took a moment for your own to adjust to the radiant light of the Tatooine morning, and the smell of cooking food hit you like a ton of bricks, making your mouth water. As your eyes adjusted you were able to take in your surroundings: though it was bright outside you were parked low inside a maintenance bay, the walls of which soared high above you; littered with engine parts and humming with droid activity. Sound was the last input your hungry brain could process, but when it did you didn’t like what you heard. The sounds of an argument echoed around the hangar, high and shrill.

“I already told you, you can’t park here! You’re bad for business!”

“I just need to park here long enough to get supplies.”

“Well you’re gonna have to pay up, Mando! I’m not running a charity here! You got credits for supplies you got credits for parking! Up front this time!”

Oh no.

Of all the mechanics and docking hangars in Mos Eisley he had to pick this one. The fireball of a woman barely came up to your partner’s chest, but she made up for it with unbridled fury; and the giant cooked animal leg she was swinging around like a club between bites made her look even more formidable. She noticed you coming down the ramp and stopped grilling your comrade long enough to glare daggers through your skull.

“Oh NO! No nope nuh uh! You can turn right back around and get back on that ship, missy! I knew it! I knew you were bad for business, Mando! What’re you doing running around with her? I hope she’s your bounty because she’s your problem!”

“Peli.” Your words were cold as ice, but the squirming baby in your arms took all the malice out of your stance. He wiggled until you set him down, and he ran towards the mechanic with open arms.

“Baby! You can stay but your dad’s gotta take the mean lady somewhere else! She cheats at sabacc!”

“You lost fair and square, Peli! Try playing a better hand next time!”

“Ladies please!”  Mando cut through your bickering, holding his arms up between the two of you like he was trying to corner a pair of wild blurgs. “If I let the child stay with you for the day, will you let me park the Razor Crest here? Just for a couple hours?”

Peli bounced the child on her hip, offering him a bite of her breakfast. The baby squealed happily while he sank his little teeth into the mighty snack, though the size of it comically dwarfed his itty bitty hands. “I’ll tell you what, you let me keep him and then maybe I’ll let you park here in a week.” Mando cocked his helmet at her with disdain and she huffed loudly, “Well if you put it that way, I guess you can park here, but you gotta put five hundred credits down, and not a cent less!”

Mando reeled, stabbing his hands to his hips with indignation. “Five hund- absolutely not! What am I going to buy our-” You interrupted his tirade with a hand on his shoulder, waving a slew of credits in front of his eyes. Peli snatched them out of your hand, fanning them out like cards to count them.

“Who’d you cheat these outta?”

“Don’t worry about it.” You leaned casually against your metal man, eyeing Peli with a smug look on your face. “Let’s go, Mando. Bye baby green bean, have fun with Auntie Cheats-at-Sabacc!” You spun him around by the hand and dragged him towards the exit, ignoring the insults being slung at your back. “We are getting breakfast and that’s final!”

The Mandalorian allowed you to pull him along a few feet before grinding his heels into the sand, shaking his head. “You have to stay here.”

Now it was your turn for sassy head tilts. “I just paid for your parking, buckethead, that makes me in charge and I’m hungry! I’ll buy you breakfast too if you want.” He didn’t budge, fixing you with that intense stare of his and grabbing you by the shoulders.

“You are still being hunted. Mos Eisley isn’t safe for you.”

Ah.

You knew you could look after yourself, and he himself had compared you to a ferocious rancor just yesterday. You groaned loudly, “Shit balls of hell. But dad, I’m huuunngry!” The man bristled at your paternal harassment, sighing heavily and letting his helmeted head fall to the side like the world was ending. He glanced around the hangar exit, his shiny beskar snapping to each object of interest until he located a protocol droid corpse that was missing everything from the waist down. He strode over to it and held it down with one boot, yanking it by the head until it popped off. He began prying the droid’s vocorder apart at the mouth, pulling it wide until the droids face plate broke off with a snap! Tossing the rest of the logic processing unit to the ground, he held the face plate up to the light, inspecting the clarity of its photo receptor casings. He bent back down to the junk pile and fished out a stray wire to thread through the ruined audio processors, then tossed the finished creation to you.

“Put that on.”

You turned the makeshift mask over in your hands to check for sharp edges before you pressed it to your face. The bug eyes on the front were dirty, but you could see well enough. Before you could clean them more thoroughly you felt the weight of fabric on your head, his cloak now worn as your own. The thought of how you must look made you giggle. “You make me take my clothes off, now you want me to put clothes on. It never ends with you, Mando. Next you’ll be forging me beskar. Now can we eat something, please?” Without a word the armored man turned on his heel and walked out the hangar exit. I’ll take that as a yes.

Mos Eisley buzzed with life, people and animals and things you couldn’t explain made their way up and down the bustling streets. The smell of food led you to a vendor selling something that could have been a root vegetable, covered in herbs and spices and grilled to perfection. You couldn't wait, all thoughts of self-preservation went out the window as you hauled ass to the stand, waving two fingers in the air. When you had both of your prizes in hand you stuffed the savory veggie under your mask, sighing contentedly at the taste of real honest-to-Maker food. “Hey tin man, I hope you like... whatever this-” You turned to offer your partner something to eat, but he had disappeared from the crowd. “Alright... more for me.”

Taking a newspaper from the vendor you wrapped the extra snack up tight and threw it in your pack for later, continuing to chow down on your own. You would find Mando eventually, and you had credits to spend. You had held onto your hush-money for months to avoid suspicion, but now it was burning a hole in your pocket. Wandering the streets of Mos Eisley from merchant to merchant you began accumulating a small hoard of supplies, ranging from bacta to hand tools, and food. Whatever you could get your hands on that would survive hyperspace when you inevitably left this fucking dirtball for good; though you still weren’t convinced that you wouldn’t be making that flight in carbonite. You picked out new clothes and underwear, a much-needed bedroll, and some soft bantha-wool blankets. Something further down the marketplace caught your eye, and you made your way to the fancier items that glittered in the double daylight. You didn’t wear jewelry yourself, a poor choice of attire for a hunter, but the way the trinkets caught the light still made you wistful. Your hidden eyes danced over the glittering treasures; jewels and geodes that had been found deep in the sands and polished to a radiant shine.

You spotted something opalescent at the end of one table and found a pair of krayt teeth, each about the size of your palm. They had been sanded to a smooth, flat finish and carved with intricate desert patterns. The backs of them had tiny fittings that could be sewn on as buttons, or pulled off to reveal magnets. Something about their shape seemed familiar, though you couldn’t imagine why in that moment. You purchased the unique pieces anyway, something to remind you that even the harshest of places could hold hidden beauty. After a while you had so much junk piled in your arms that you could barely see over it, and tin man was nowhere to be found. You spotted a courier droid and paid for it to deliver your treasures back to Hanger 3-5, though you kept the pricey teeth in your pockets. With your arms free you started looking for your missing comrade.

The streets were busy with people, you would have to get somewhere out of the way in order to scan the crowds. Your eyes went from shimmer to shimmer, looking for his reflective chrome dome. “Big jerk,” you mused to yourself “‘Mos Eisley’s not saaafe...’ If he’s so worried then where the hell is he? Bah!” The scratched-up photoreceptor casings of your mask made it a challenge to see through the crowd, and you took a moment to adjust the iris apertures so you wouldn’t have to keep squinting into the double sunshine when you felt a hand on your back. Finally. “Mando, where have you-”

“Mando? Whos’sis man-do? Nah sssweetheart, I think you got me confused wi’ sssomeone elssse.” The slithering voice in your ear made your blood run cold. Not Mando! You rocketed your elbow backwards, connecting with the gut of the stranger on your back with an -oof! The hand let go long enough for you to make a run for it, and you tore off down the streets of the busy spaceport, smashing into bystanders in your wake. You cast a quick look behind you to see a large reptilian body flying after you, brownish scales catching the reflection of the noonday suns. Though you had your blaster, the risk of hitting a civilian was too great, so running would have to do. You were thankful for the courier droid that had freed your hands just minutes before as you barreled down the busy streets.

Market stalls flew past you, your boots kicking up sand and dust. The mask on your face, as dirty as it was, kept the debris from your eyes as you raced through the sunburnt city. You had to lose this fucker and fast. You turned down an alley, left, right, another right, leaping over supply crates and low fences like a lothcat. You turned to see if you had lost your chaser, breath heaving and heart pounding. Behind you was clear, but you took your eyes off your path for just a second too long, and were taken by surprise when a heavy weight fell on you from above.

The Trandoshan had gone over the low sandstone roofs, chasing you easily through the alleyways of Mos Eisley while you were none the wiser. He pinned you under him quickly, ripping your blaster off your hip and pointing your own barrel in your face. “Tha’ss enough, princesss! Nice n’ quietlike now. You gonna make me a pretty penny you are.” The lizard’s words dripped with metaphorical venom, though you were sure by the look of those fangs that real venom was probably right behind. “Ahm gonna cart yer arse right back to th’ Guild’n I’ll become th’ most famous hunter in th’ galax -urk!”  With a sickening gag the hunter above you grew a shiny new fang in the back of his throat before falling down dead on top of you, a vibroblade protruding from back of his skull.

“Took you long enough!” You hollered at your chrome companion, who was stepping forward to kick the carcass off of you. “Where the fuck have you been? Getting your rifle polished?” He pulled you to your feet, handing you your blaster while readjusting the mask on your face. You swatted at his fussing hands, but when you looked at him you were shocked to see not one but three blinking bounty fobs dangling from his belt. On the ground by the dead lizard was a fourth, flashing rapidly in the sand.

“I told you you weren’t safe! We need to leave right now.”  You were barely able to grab the remaining bounty fob while you were being tugged away by your allied hunter. He had a death grip on your hand, pulling you along behind him towards what you hoped was the docking hangar. You would have to cross the main street to get there, and as the pair of you plowed across the dusty, busy road there came shouts from either side. More hunters, fucking Guild! You didn’t have a single second to assess them before you were lead through an alley on the other side of the street. These were darker than the ones you had run through on the west side of town, and shady bodies moved quickly out of the way of your living locomotive.

At the end of a narrow alley you both burst through a door leading into an abandoned building. The darkness was almost worse than the blinding sunlight, you would need time for your eyes to adjust but the Mandalorian had enough sensory detection equipment that he ghosted through the ruinous building with ease; never once letting go of your hand as you tripped and stumbled through the dark. The sound of crashing and shouting was hot on your tail, the other hunters had followed you and were gaining fast. You saw a light rapidly approaching ahead, and the two of you burst out into the brilliant daylight to the worst possible place: a dead fucking end.

“There! Get down!” Mando pointed at a pile of rubble, probably big enough to hide behind, but that’s not how you handled business.

“Fuck you! I’m not going down without a fight!” You pulled your blaster out and aimed at the incoming assailants. He growled at you and stepped closer, putting his body in between you and the door. The reptilian hunters burst from the darkness of the warehouse, firing rapid shots of blaster charges that bounced off of Mando’s beskar. You fired over his protective arm, taking out the first one and tripping up the second, who fell over his cohorts limp body. Mando took shot after shot to the chest, reeling with each impact. His other arm cocked back and shot out, sending a wall of fire into the last of the Guild’s hired guns.

Both of you were panting, shaking and sweating from flying through Mos Eisley, but the sound of blaster fire would draw attention and you knew there was no time to waste. You stepped over the incinerated corpse, making sure the fob it carried was melted, the second body still squirmed in the dirt, and you weren’t going to let it get a second chance, firing your blaster through it’s scaly skull. You picked the remaining two fobs and stuffed them in your pockets, making a run for it back through the building with Mando right behind, the blaze of his flamethrower lighting your way.

You took a different door out of the building and were relieved to see the words ‘HANGAR 3-5′ painted in bright blue Basic straight ahead. You skittered through the entrance, rounding the corner and dropping down behind the edges of the hangar doorway. Mando did the same on the other side, both of you pointing your blasters back towards Mos Eisley’s dark heart. Bootsteps behind you made you snap around, and you nearly shot your mechanically inclined host.

“You kids have fun out there?” Peli stood over where you were hunched, and you lowered your blaster to the ground. At her feet your little buddy was holding onto her pant leg, making big puppy dog eyes at you. You looked over to Mando to make sure there weren’t any more coming, but he still held his blaster out ahead. After a few tense seconds he lowered it down until it was back in its’ holster, then pulled himself to his feet.

“We can’t stay any longer, we’re putting you in danger. Time to go, kiddo.” His charred beskar still shimmered when he bent down to pick up his adopted son, who chirped with delight. “Thank you for watching him.”

“He can stay any time! Oh and thanks for all the snacks you made that droid bring me!” Peli called after the three of you as your party quickly boarded the Razor, making you turn around and stick your tongue out at her. She happily flipped you off and started closing the ground entrance to the bay, letting you board the ship uninterrupted. Fortunately, the courier droid’s delivery had made it to the ship, though you couldn't help but notice a few of your most carefully picked snacks had been taken as collateral. Fucking Peli. As much as she infuriated you, there wasn’t another person on all of Tatooine that you would rather play sabacc with.

The old rust bucket rumbled to life, taking off into the midafternoon sky and pointed towards the stars. Finally! Bye motherfucker. The hazy atmosphere of the outer rim planet fell away below you until the light of the bright yellow world illuminated the Crest’s stern. The pre-Imperial scrapheap started howling with noise, and you were almost thrown to the deck when it blasted into the safety of hyper space.

Your heart was still racing and you struggled to catch your breath. Once you had yourself in order you started busying yourself with putting the supplies away, filling the food larder to capacity. The child was contentedly telling you about his day with his auntie in his cute baby gibberish, and you picked him up off the ground to give him a much needed hug, pushing your stolen identity onto the top of your head to give him kisses. You almost wanted to ignore the sound of heavy armored boots hitting the floor panel under the ladder, their wearer opting to jump down from the cockpit rather than climb. You could feel the fury coming off of him as he stalked over to where you were sorting your treasures.

“You could have been hurt! I knew it was a bad idea to let you go wandering around, even with your face covered. What if they’d caught you? I picked three of them off before you even saw one!”

“I had it under control, Mando! I’m not some princess that needs you coming to her rescue at every sign of a struggle. And you don’t get to let me do anything, you don’t own me!” The man under your scrutiny paced the cabin on stiff legs with his hands on his hips, helmet snapping with rage.

“I know you can handle yourself, but I need to protect you.” He said with a huff, “And that lizard was... he had you pinned down, had his filthy, scaly claws on you... Nobody should touch you like that! What if.. what if he... I- I- didn’t like that he was...” Listening to the sound of the gears jamming in his head made you realize the ridiculous thing he was trying to say.

“Are you.. Mando are you jealous?”

“No! I- I’m.. Cyar’ika I... ”

Oh no, you don’t get to be cute right now. “I don’t know what that means, Mando! What is that, some kind of sexy little pet name you use on all the girls you take underneath of you?”

“NO! I didn’t- I would nev- I’ve never had... There’s never been- no!” Oh how you wished you could see his face, watching him flail trying to defend himself from your accusation, he was probably white as a sheet under all that armor.

“Never what, Mandalorian?”

“I’ve never had anyone in this ship before!” The Mandalorian’s confession lost steam halfway through as embarrassment and fear crept into his throat, threatening to choke him with his own secrets.

“Wait.. wait wait. Never? You’ve never had anyone in this ship or...” You started approaching him, analyzing his visor for hints of meaning. “Or you’ve never had anyone at all?” The Mandalorian stopped his pacing, but his shoulders looked like they were carrying the weight of the galaxy. His silence told you everything, and the last piece of his puzzle fell into place. “Mando...was I your first?”

“Y-yes.” His visor tilted up to you, hands fidgeting at his sides. His voice was faint and sheepish, a stark contrast to the thunderstorm you were arguing with a moment ago.  Your eyes were full of questions, all racing through your mind so quickly none of them made it to your mouth. The metal man answered them all for you in one singular motion, raising his fist to knock a couple times against his beskar helmet. His creed.

“So, what, you guys aren’t allowed to have sex?”

He sighed his heavy, trademarked sigh and plopped down on the nearest supply crate with a defeated thud, cradling his head in his hands. “No it’s not that. Not... not exactly. In Mando’a the word we use is me'dinuir. It means ‘to give’, specifically to give yourself to another. And... when you give yourself away to someone-“ He turned the black gloss of his single eye up to you, “-you belong to them. That is The Way.”

The weight of his words made your blood cold. He was jealous, but not just because that other hunter had put his scaly hands on you. Everything about his attitude around you suddenly made sense, the way he had looked at you when you were presenting yourself to him that first day, why he never threw you in carbonite when he probably should have, and how he had stayed with you through the night after you nearly died hunting his bounty. His mysterious way of life decreed that giving his body to you meant that he had also given you his soul, and that made you just as important to protect as his foundling.

Mando reached out to pat the fuzzy green head of the baby you were still holding, who gibbered sleepily up at his armor plated papa. “I’m sorry to put that on you, and I’m sorry for how I acted. You’re not my bounty anymore, and I shouldn’t try to control you. I understand if you don’t want to continue with me to the next bounty. You can take whatever you want from the armory when we land next. I’m.. I’m so sorry.” The monolithic man looked so tiny now, sitting on the edge of the crate with his shoulders hunched. He reached his arms out to take his infant son from you, hugging him to his blast-burnt chest and smoothing his massive ears. "I didn’t get to thank you for washing him earlier, he smells really good.”

You desperately needed to know more, though the sight of him fawning over his sleepy son made your heart swell. “I kinda got the feeling that you were rusty when we met, but that was actually your first time? And what does that mean ‘you belong to them’? How can you belong to me? I don’t even know your name.”

"It means that I’m now sworn to protect the one that carries my soul. I’m not asking you to do the same, you’re not Mandalorian.”

His words made you feel sick, ashamed that you had taken something so sacred from him without a second thought, but how could you have known? He could have stopped at any time, you were the one in cuffs that day, not him. No, out of trillions and trillions of sentient beings in the galaxy he chose to give himself to you, knowing full well what his heritage decreed. Why you? Arms crossed, you dug deeper. “You’ve never seen another naked body than your own?”

He shook his head. “Just... holo-vids...”

You were going to have to ask him about those later. “Nothing? You’ve at least kissed someone before though, right?”

“Kissed?”

Maker fucking help you. “Yeah you know, kissing? The thing you do with your... oh, right." You reached up and tapped him twice on the beskar. “You need your face to do it.”

He cocked his helmet at you. “Can you show me?”

The innocence of his question made you melt. Fuck you, tin can, you’re not supposed to be cute when you’re in trouble. You reached your hand out, demanding he give you his, and shyly he obeyed. You pulled his hand to your lips, unsure of how much he could actually feel through his thick leather gloves. You pressed his hand to your lips and watched his whole body snap straight. “Kiss, like that.”

He was staring at his hand like he’d never seen it before, and after a moment he pulled your locked fingers to his head, tapping his forehead with the back of your hand. “Kov’nynir, But we do it with our helmets.”  At this rate you’ll be speaking Mando’a in no time. He still held your hand gently, running his thumb over your fingers. “I think I like your way better. Could... Could you do that again?”

So polite, maybe having him stuck with you wouldn’t be so bad. You pulled his hand back to you, giving him another soft kiss on the side of his thumb, and you heard the sound of his breath catching in his modulator. Your lips pressed to each of his knuckles, and then you turned his wrist to kiss his palm. “How’s that?”

“That’s amazing.”

“You like that? Watch this.” Addressing the bantha in the room would have to wait. You tugged his glove off, revealing the warm bronze skin underneath and kissed him again. The hitched breaths coming out of his modulator were honey to your ears, and you turned his wrist over to kiss his bare palm again, hunting for more sweet sounds. His body was so stiff, so tightly wound you thought he might snap. “Are you ok? Do I need to stop?”

“I- I- want to... Can... Can I try?” You nodded, your heart jumping to your throat at the thought of him removing his helmet in front of you, but instead he gently reached up to the busted droid face you still wore on your head. With a twist of a knob the armatures inside of the eye casings coiled shut, and when he slid the mask down into place you were thrown into total darkness. “Can you see?” You shook your head. “Promise?”

You sighed, long and frustrated. “I promise, dark as a sarlacc’s backside.” You were met with only silence. Then, after what felt like an eternity you heard the sliding sound of metal as the child’s pram shield slid closed, then the shuffle of armor being removed, and lastly the dull thunk of something heavy being set down on the crates. His hand found yours again, and he pressed his lips against your skin. They were hotter than you were expecting, and soft, almost plush. You understood right away why he was so rigid when you were doing the same, it was amazing. Gentle kisses made their way over the back of your hand and made heat flood through your veins. He moved slowly over each joint, following the same pattern you had shown him, then turned your hand over and kissed at your fingertips. Something fuzzy brushed along with his lips, and you imagined that he might have a mustache. The shivers that crept their way up from your captured hand knocked all the strangeness of your conversation out of your mind, but when he reached your wrist he stopped.

“Where else do you kiss at?” You nearly fainted at the sound of his unfiltered voice, a rich baritone that dripped with dark intentions and stole all the words from your mouth. You could only point with your other hand at the forearm attached to the hand he held. Again you felt his lips on your wrist, then slowly, inch by agonizing inch he made his way up your arm, each kiss slower than the last until your toes were curling in their boots. When he reached the edge of the tunic’s sleeve that hung at your elbow he paused again. “Where else?”

“Everywhere.”  Your tormentor hummed at your consenting words and let go of your hand to run his palms down your clothed thighs. When he reached your knees he pulled on their joints, bidding you to bring your legs up over his lap. When you were seated on him he resumed his trek up your arm, kissing at the crease of your elbow and then upwards over your tunic until he reached your shoulder. When he got to your neck you almost buckled over, but his hands were at your back in an instant, wrapping heavily around your waist. Your own hands made their way to the nape of his neck, and your fingers found the edge of his hairline that you had felt before. To your delight you felt that the tousled curls went all the way up, and you tangled your fingers in them, exploring their softness while he explored you.

His journey led him up your neck to the base of your jaw where he nipped gently at the sensitive skin like you had done to him last night, sending a fresh wave of goosebumps from your head to your toes. When his nose bumped the edge of your mask you were suddenly aware of how silly you might look with your big bug eyes. “Can I take this thing off?” you asked in a whisper. “I won’t look.”

“I have a better Idea. Hold on tight.” You dug your hands into his shoulders and felt his arms wrap under your legs as he stood up, lifting you with such ease that you wondered if he felt your weight at all. His boots echoed through the cabin until he stopped at the other end. You hung on for dear life while he climbed the ladder with you still wrapped around his front. When you both reached the top you let yourself unwind from him and scooted on your butt over the floor, listening to the sound of him pulling himself all the way up. You remained seated as your host fussed around the flight deck, the noise of buttons pressing and switches being thrown the only input to your deprived senses.

You were only unattended for a moment, then his hands found your waist, fishing for the edge of your shirt. The tunic was pulled up and over your head, taking your mask with it, and you squeezed your eyes shut to protect his modesty; unsure of what his unconventional oath to you included in the fine print. Your diligence was rewarded with a kiss on your forehead, then down to kiss both of your closed eyes, and then lastly to your lips. The searing heat of his mouth on yours threatened to throw your eyes open, but when they fluttered all you saw was darkness. The transperisteel’s blast shielding had been closed, and the only light in the cockpit came from a handful of illuminated buttons on the dash.

He was lying over top of you on the metal floor, one arm wrapped under your neck for support. The cold decking under you was uncomfortable, but you couldn’t be bothered to care, letting yourself be consumed by his kisses and becoming drunk on the scent of leather and adrenaline. The soft fuzz of his facial hair tickled slightly as he pressed into your lips, and you couldn’t help but smile. Your hands went to his face, running your thumbs over his cheeks and feeling what you weren’t allowed to see. His face was scruffy but not unkempt, and the bristles went all the way from his jaw up to the bottom of the defined nose that bumped against your own. You felt the creases on the corners of his eyes, wishing you could see his smile lines and all the stories they would tell.

You kissed him back, letting your tongue glide over his plush lips and making him inhale sharply. You licked into him again, and this time you were met with his tongue as well, just the faintest touch of its tip. He hummed in your mouth, and the sound of him so close made your belly pool with heat and your kisses bolder, sending your tongue deeper into his mouth until he was almost vibrating with the sensation of you exploring something as forbidden as his human body. He mirrored you as best he could, rolling the smooth muscle over your lips and the edges of your teeth until you were both lost in each other’s taste. He pushed his forehead against yours, pulling his mouth away with frantic breaths that spread fire over your skin. “Everywhere?”

You pushed your lips against his again, giving him an ambitions ‘Mmhmm’ as an answer. His growl made the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end, and you realized where his goal was. He kissed and nipped his way down your throat, letting his tongue glide over your skin. He made his way to your breast, taking its’ tender tip between his teeth and making you gasp. He sucked at it gently, rolling his tongue around it while it grew harder for his efforts. The hand not under you groped at your free breast so it wouldn’t be ignored.

"Beep!”

An urgent chime echoed in the tiny space, the hyperdrive indicator was flashing its countdown warning: 10 minutes remain.

The Mandalorian’s growl on your breast made your blood turn to ice and your core flush with heat at the same time. He wanted to devour you, taste every single inch of your exposed skin, but time was not on your side; and he became a man on a mission to prove himself worthy of you. Bristles dragged over your skin as he slid down your belly until he hit the edge of your pants. They were yanked off so fast you briefly worried about the krayt teeth that were still in their pockets, but you didn’t have long to think before Mando was poised over the apex of your thighs, kissing at each leg to make his intentions known. Those must be some good holo-vids you’re watching, tinman. You let him push your legs apart with his chin, receiving a soft kiss on each one once they were far enough apart for him to stuff his face in between.

Your back arched, hard, followed by the most ragged moan you‘d ever heard escape your throat. The grip on your thighs kept you in place as he lapped at your clit, sucking and teasing in an experimental way. His inexperience didn’t seem to matter, his hunger for you fueling his efforts and making you squirm in delight. Your hands sought desperately for something to grab onto to keep yourself grounded, finding his lovely curls to bury your fingers in deep. It was all you could do to hold on for dear life, tangling in his hair and struggling to breathe as he worked you into a frenzy.

The noises coming from below your waist were heavenly, wet and greedy in between his hums of contentment. It took you a while to realize they weren’t hums at all, but alien words of worship being prayed at your sinful altar; but the blood pounding in your ears and the gasps from your throat were too loud for you to hear his devotion.

“Beep beep!”  Five minutes remain. Fuck.

The Mandalorian’s efforts doubled, running his tongue almost too quickly in his attempt to eat you alive. You let your hips grind into his mouth, begging him to bring you your release, and it wasn’t long before he succeeded. Stars flashed behind your eyes as you came into his hot open mouth, but he refused to leave until he had drank his fill of you. Eventually he pulled his face away from your spent heat with agonizing slowness, as if he would rather drown than address the impending drop from hyperspace. He kissed at your shaky thighs, your soft belly, and each breast before pressing his lips into your panting mouth, pushing the taste of you onto your own tongue. His breath was ragged, and you could feel the sweat of his brow where it was pushed against your face. 

He lifted away from you, and the weight of the handmade mask was draped over your face, making you groan with the displeasure of your passion being cut short. However, once it was in place, it was almost immediately pushed under by strong fingers to lift its edge, and you were given one last kiss to swear his promise of return to you.

“Din. My name is Din.”

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[luminescencefics]

you feel like home - part six

“Uh, sorry. Sometimes Jackson’s just too much, so I come out here and—”

He’s not quite sure why he’s saying anything. Neither is Ryan, considering her face is blank, brown eyes staring into green wondering why she hasn’t turned her back to him yet. Because in any other instance she would have listened to Harry unfalteringly, but that was before she read the signs wrong and tried to kiss him. Now she’s just staring at him, blinking through her blurry thoughts, wondering why the lift is taking forever to reach their floor.

“Sorry,” Harry says quietly, and Ryan isn’t sure if it’s for this awkward moment in the hallway or for not kissing her back. She doesn’t really want to think about it at all, if she’s being honest.

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***

When It Goes From Bad to Worse

In the days that follow, Ryan does her best to stay locked inside her flat. She dodges Fiona’s constant calls, ignores the text messages that have flooded her mobile, all filled with questions regarding the so-called date she wishes she can just forget she ever attended.

Ryan feels a bit bad, because she knows she’s being selfish by leaving Fiona out after she promised to ring her the following day with a play-by-play of the evening’s events. But reliving those felt like some cruel sort of torture Ryan refused to bestow upon herself, therefore she’s decided to do the next best thing—sit in her flat with the front door locked wearing those ugly flannel pajama bottoms she buried in the bottom of her drawer, drinking cheap beer and ordering takeaway because she refused to leave her flat in order to do her food shopping. The slightest possibility of running into Harry in the fucking hallway was enough to keep Ryan inside, swallowing her pride and suffering in silence.

She feels like an idiot if she’s being honest. Because for the quickest of seconds, she let her guard down—her resolve that she’s built up and practiced purposely whenever she finds herself spiraling into a fit of anxiety and social awkwardness. For people like Ryan, people who feel their stomachs bubble with nerves and their brains whir with too many thoughts, people who over-analyze and plan their sentences because they can’t fathom feeling off guard, people like that need to have a protective layer. A perfectly practiced layer that allows Ryan to keep herself at a careful distance, so that she can act accordingly to whatever social situation is thrown her way.

But that night on Harry’s couch, she felt suffocated by his presence. She didn’t want to be at an arm’s length with him—she wanted to be smothered by his warmth and feel him crack through her walls, breaking down her barriers inch by inch and filling the gaps with everything she found herself liking about him. And for a split second, she did. She allowed her brain to turn off, finally welcoming the way her thoughts turned to mush around him. She completely opened herself up to the possibility of not knowing what was going to happen next. She let herself be vulnerable to the fullest extent around him.

And she figured that’s what Harry wanted her to do in the first place. Ever since she first met him, Ryan’s felt that he’s been chipping away at her wary exterior, scratching away at the concrete until his fingernails bled with every innocent query he had about her life. Whether it be her peculiar moving patterns, or her fascinating career, or how she spent her days in uni, he wanted to know everything about her. About the person she was buried beneath this protective layer she’s spent years curating.

But with one inch backward, one brief movement that ruined their almost-first-kiss, Ryan immediately realized that Harry did not want the same things as her. And she feels like an idiot because she was almost certain that he wanted her to kiss her, that he wanted her to make the first move and finally show her interest in him.

That’s the thing about infatuation, it allows for a momentary lapse in judgment, a brief juncture of blindness. It made Ryan’s tough exterior falter, but only just slightly—because the second Harry backed away from her, Ryan forced herself to close off completely, to rebuild her walls. 

The most aggravating part of it all is that she’s angrier with herself than she is with Harry. Because it’s not his fault he backed away—how could she be upset with him for that? He clearly invited her over for dinner to thank her for watching Jackson, just as he had said in her doorway that afternoon. Ryan let herself listen to Fiona in believing that it was anything more than just an amiable dinner between two friends, as he so reminded her when he defined their relationship as a “friendship” after she jokingly called him clumsy. Ryan couldn’t bring herself to be angry with Harry for not wanting her in the same capacity that she wanted him.

And that’s okay. It’s okay to not be wanted by somebody, because deep down Ryan knows that boys like Harry do not fall for girls like her. Girls who are far too awkward for their own being. Girls who feel more comfortable speaking to his four-year-old son than they do his father. Girls who misinterpret a comforting handhold as something more than a kind gesture. 

She just wishes it didn’t hurt this much.

After completing another series of the new Netflix show she decided to start bingeing at the beginning of her self-induced isolation, Ryan’s decided that it’s finally time to get off the bloody couch and change out of her horrid flannel pajama bottoms. 

Luna stretches on the rug beside her, curious in her owner’s newfound sense of urgency. She follows behind Ryan as she gathers all the empty beer bottles and takeaway containers, throws them into the appropriate bin, and wipes down the coffee table. When Ryan strips down and scrubs at her skin in the shower, erasing every remnant her abrupt downward spiral left on her, she feels ten times better than when she first entered the bathroom. 

She decides it’s time to properly stock her fridge, considering the only thing sitting on the shelves is an expired carton of milk and raspberries that are due to spoil by tomorrow. So with wet hair and fresh clothes, armed with a long grocery list and reusable bags, Ryan exits her flat for the first time in four days.

As she’s waiting for the lift to arrive on her floor, she tries her hardest not to focus on the voices coming through the crack under the front door of Harry’s flat. She can hear Harry’s low tonality through the thin walls of the hallway, and she can distinctly make out the words “please” and “Daddy’s very busy” and “I promise, later.”

Ryan knows it’s not her place, but when she hears the shrill sound of a toddler crying, she finds herself leaning a bit closer to 4G. She can’t really make out much over Jackson’s blubbering, but she can somehow piece together Harry muttering, “Bubs, please, daddy is so behind on work and I can’t sit here and read to you. Not right now. I promise when I’m done, just please stop crying so I can try and finish this song.”

She flinches when she hears Jackson’s wails grow louder, and suddenly she’s wondering how on earth Harry can manage to be a father while working at the same time. She starts to feel bad, because if she were in Harry’s position, taking care of another living, breathing human being all by herself, she’d probably go absolutely mental.

Suddenly the sound of heavy footsteps overtakes Jackson’s cries, and before his front door flies open, Ryan makes sure to back away, pressing her finger repeatedly on the lift call button once she’s realized that the doors had already closed and moved on to another floor.

Ryan tries her hardest not to look over her shoulder when she hears Harry’s front door close, because the thought of facing him after she ran out of his flat seems far too unbearable. But when a moment passes and the lift still hasn’t arrived, Ryan caves and peeks, and the sight is enough to bring a frown to her face.

Harry’s back was pressed against the wall next to his front door, his neck extended with his head leaning upwards facing the ceiling, his eyes closed tightly. His hair a mangled mess atop his head, tufts of curls sticking up haphazardly from being pulled in every direction. Two big palms were pressed over his eyes, his arms causing his wrinkled jumper to look even more disheveled. Ryan’s almost certain this is the most distressed she’s ever seen Harry, and before she can say anything, he rips his hands away from his face and takes a deep breath that causes his chest to rise and fall. 

Harry can sense that he isn’t alone in the hallway. And just as he opens his eyes, his face shifts to the left and he realizes it’s Ryan waiting near the lift. He notices the frown on her face immediately, and he wonders if it’s because of their failed kiss or something else entirely.

“Uh, sorry. Sometimes Jackson’s just too much, so I come out here and—”

He’s not quite sure why he’s saying anything. Neither is Ryan, considering her face is blank, brown eyes staring into green wondering why she hasn’t turned her back to him yet. Because in any other instance she would have listened to Harry unfalteringly, but that was before she read the signs wrong and tried to kiss him. Now she’s just staring at him, blinking through her blurry thoughts, wondering why the lift is taking forever to reach their floor.

“Sorry,” Harry says quietly, and Ryan isn’t sure if it’s for this awkward moment in the hallway or for not kissing her back. She doesn’t really want to think about it at all, if she’s being honest.

The lift chimes and the doors open behind her, and somehow from her position at the end of the hallway, she can see Harry’s eyes fall and his head shake frustratedly. He seems to be upset, and Ryan’s not sure if it’s from Jackson or from the fact that she’s about to walk away from him again.

Somehow it’s enough to cause her to ignore the lift for the second time, her feet creating a determined path to her front door, key fitting into the lock and turning unceremoniously until the door swooshes open and she’s standing in the entranceway of her flat. She can hear Harry call her name in a questioning tone, voice laced with confusion and worry. But before she can respond, she’s standing in front of one of her bookshelves, plucking the red paperback from the middle shelf. Just as quickly as she arrived, Ryan locks up with the same gusto, extending the arm holding the book tightly in Harry’s direction. 

His wide eyes create a path from the book to Ryan’s eyes and back again, and after a few moments have passed and Harry still hasn’t taken the book out of her hand, she pushes it an inch closer, forcing him to grasp it. 

“What’s this?” Harry dumbly asks, even though he can clearly make out the shape of a paperback book in Ryan’s small hand, as well as the yellow lettered Harry Potter writing on the top half of the cover. 

“I bookmarked where we last left off,” Ryan mumbles, staring at the loose thread on his jumper instead of the wide look of his eyes.

When it’s still quiet, Ryan just nods, taking that as her cue to leave. But before she can make it past his frozen frame, Harry seems to snap out of his dumbfounded state, turning on his heel and grasping her forearm lightly.

Ryan stops, trying her hardest not to shiver under his touch.

“Ryan, I really think—”

“—Let me know when you’ve finished. I can lend you the next book,” Ryan forces herself to interrupt, before shaking her arm loose and beginning the short trek back to the lift.

With a brief pause, Harry defeatedly calls out, “It’s your thing, though.”

Her finger hovering over the lift call button freezes, and suddenly Ryan feels as if she can’t move. How Harry even knows that his son said those same words to Ryan a few days earlier in his pillow fort makes her heart drop into the depths of her stomach, and she immediately feels bad for the little boy inside 4G. She feels bad because not only did she let him grow attached to her in such a small period of time, but she let herself get just as attached to him. And knowing that she can’t read the rest of the Harry Potter books to him, something so infinitesimal in the grand scheme of things, leaves a dull ache in her chest.

She turns around then, feeling Harry’s heavy gaze fall on her. What once would make her shift uncomfortably in her boots from awkwardness now just leaves her feeling sad and empty.

“Just make sure you do the Hagrid voice, he’ll forget all about it being our thing,” Ryan says sadly, and both begin to frown, knowing that what she said held little truth.

He looks as if he wants to tell her something, but before Ryan can fall under his hypnotizing spell, can give him a second chance to chip away at her much thicker walls, she turns back around, jabbing her pointer finger into the lift call button.

She watches the screen count down from twelve, and she knows she only has about two minutes until it reaches the fourth floor. She’s praying that Harry will leave her alone, will reenter his flat and make sure Jackson is okay. But just as the screen reaches eight, she hears her name fall pleadingly from Harry’s mouth, and she knows she’s fucked.

Ryan doesn’t turn around, but she also doesn’t give him a reason not to continue. So as the number falls from eight to seven, she hears, “I really wanted to kiss you,” fall from Harry’s mouth, and suddenly her chest constricts, and she feels even sadder than before.

Because if he had said those words to her four days ago, Ryan would have turned around and ran into his arms, threw her arms around his neck and kissed him long and hard. But now, after four days of silence, four days of ignoring the world and rebuilding her walls, it’s the last thing she wants to hear.

She feels her skin warm with anger, because how dare he say that to her with her back turned to him? When she’s been replaying every incident they’ve shared together over and over in her head, analyzing every look, every touch, every word until she’s practically memorized them? When she finally decided that Harry wasn’t interested in her, that he was just another beautiful boy that Ryan could admire from afar?

So she buries it all—the anger, the frustration, the bitterness. She buries it until it’s hidden under every crevice of her insides, until the only thing that’s left is an overwhelming feeling of sadness. Because that’s truly all there is to it—a missed opportunity between two people who didn’t want the same things. 

When the doors finally open, Ryan doesn’t hesitate to throw herself inside, her back slamming into the wall with a clamorous thud. Her hands are shaking, and she misses the ground floor button on her first attempt, giving Harry the chance to step forward an inch and try one last time.

“I’m sorry,” he says despairingly, green eyes begging for her to listen to him. Ryan tears her eyes away before he can say anything else, pressing the button successfully and burrowing her hands into her jacket pockets.

Ryan gives him one last nod, her lips upturned in a juxtaposed sad smile. “Me too,” she says softly, closing her eyes just before the lift doors shut tightly.

***

The middle of the week brings a ridiculous amount of work for Ryan to complete, but she’s happy for the distraction. Because for a moment she can stop thinking about Harry, can stop thinking about all of the things he said to her, can stop thinking about what he truly meant when he told her he wanted to kiss her.

Because thinking about those things only makes the tear in her heart rip inch by inch, and she really can’t bring herself to break apart. Not when she’s rebuilt her walls. Not when she’s gotten so used to being alone, relying on just herself to get through the day. 

Because being alone is much easier than letting herself feel things. Vulnerability is a precious thing, probably the most precious thing Ryan has to offer. Her emotions are far too complex, her personality is sometimes fragile, therefore she keeps her vulnerability hidden under lock and key. So the only other option is to be alone—and it’s an option she’s been okay with for the better part of three years.

She hasn’t heard from Harry since his confession in the hallway, and Ryan figures it’s probably for the best. He’s confusing and he makes her feel things her heart hasn’t felt in a long time, and even though she feels an odd sense of emptiness in her chest when she considers her missed opportunity, she knows that trying to find steady ground with him will only make everything hurt that much worse.

Harry’s probably come to the same conclusion, and Ryan can sleep at night knowing that she did everything she could. She can finally put this odd relationship with Harry to rest, and even though she’s sad about it, especially considering she found a new friend in his tiny son, it’s something she has to force herself to deal with. 

A loud ping from her desktop shakes her out of her thoughts, and Ryan clicks on it to see a new email from her supervisor. Apparently, he’s sent over two parcels that require product testing, and Ryan sighs quietly, adding another thing to her overflowing to-do list. 

After sending over her recommendations on the Nerf blasters she and Jackson played with last week, Ryan heads over to her bedroom to find her ratty slippers. Her legs are covered in cashmere joggers Fiona splurged on for Ryan’s twenty-fifth birthday, and because she misses her friend a little more than usual, she’s wearing a white knitted jumper she borrowed from her closet and never returned before moving out.

Her hair is a mess of waves falling down her back, and she doesn’t even realize that she’s been wearing her glasses for most of the week, feeling far too lazy to put contacts in. With her mobile in one hand and her mailbox key in the other, Ryan heads out into the hallway, her brain already thinking about the next four things on her to-do list.

The sight in front of her makes her slipper-clad feet stop abruptly on the carpeted flooring.

Outside of Harry’s front door stands a beautiful blonde-haired woman, her hair much shorter than the long curly mane in the photographs around his flat. Instead of falling down her back, her hair is straighter now, clipped right above the tops of her shoulder blades. She’s donned in an impressive pantsuit with an expensive-looking briefcase resting on the wall near Harry’s door. From her side profile, Ryan can make out her perfectly constructed jawline, her exquisite button nose, and the edges of her almond-shaped eyes. 

Ryan immediately identifies the woman as Rachel, Jackson’s mum and Harry’s ex.

When Ryan looks a bit closer, she can see that Rachel’s pouty lips are in a straight line, and her eyes are downcast as if she were angry. Her hands are moving aggressively as she speaks, and when Ryan chances a look at Harry standing in his doorway, she can tell by his body language that he’s equally just as mad. His arms are crossed over his chest and his mouth is shaped into a frown and his eyebrows are furrowed, and suddenly Ryan feels as if she’s intruding on an intimate family moment she no longer is privy to. 

The Ryan before would retreat back into her flat without being noticed, but the Ryan after, the Ryan who understands that she and Harry have nothing left besides a tattered friendship, the Ryan who built her walls back up, the Ryan who promises herself to remain unfazed by whatever sight is occurring in front of her—that Ryan takes a deep breath and steps forward, heading for the mailroom because her job is much more important than her missed opportunity with Harry.

She makes sure not to make eye contact when she walks by Harry and Rachel, choosing instead to stare at the lock screen of her mobile as if the picture she took on the shores of Devon this past summer was infinitely more interesting than the arguing couple to her left. And just when she thinks she’s in the clear, a few meters away from the lift, she hears her name fall from the chipper mouth of a four-year-old boy. She looks over her shoulder, noticing Jackson’s curly head poking out from behind Harry’s legs, and suddenly he’s hobbling over towards her without a care in the world.

“Ryan! Guess what!” He’s in front of her now, head tilted upwards with a toothy grin on his face, excitedly waiting for her response so he can tell her whatever is on his mind.

Before she looks down at Jackson, she can feel the heat of a blue-eyed glare coming from the other end of the hallway, and she tries her hardest not to look up at Rachel. Ryan offhandedly hears Harry scold his son for running out of the flat, and just as Jackson begins telling Ryan his story, she hears the heated whisper of, “the nanny lives next door?” and she instantly flushes with red-hot embarrassment. 

When Ryan finally looks down at Jackson, she realizes that he’s been speaking to her for a few moments now, and she’s completely missed the first part of his story. She begins to frown, immediately feeling bad for focusing on Harry and Rachel instead of Jackson. All she wants to do is get out of the fucking hallway and into the lift, but her adorable new friend is making it that much more difficult to escape unscathed.

“Hey, champ. I’m sorry, but I’ve got somewhere I need to be. Why don’t you go hang out with daddy, okay? We can hang some other time.” It’s a promise she isn’t sure she can entirely keep anymore, but it saves her the guilt of ignoring Jackson completely. 

His excited babbling stops and he begins to frown, his bottom lip quivering slightly, not understanding why his new friend who always entertains him suddenly doesn’t want to anymore. 

“But, Ryan—”

“—Jackson, leave her alone. Come grab your things and leave with mummy,” Rachel says harshly.

When his face turns red and his big green eyes start to glass over, Ryan’s almost certain she’s the only person who can see his tantrum brewing, considering his back is to his parents and he’s completely facing her. Unbeknownst to her, Harry can feel it too, and he’s instantly regretting this entire situation.

“I don’t wanna go! I wanna hang with Ryan! And Luna! We play games and have fun and she reads me Harry Potter books, and I don’t want to go to mummy’s no more!” He’s having a full-on strop, tears rushing down his red blotchy cheeks. He’s gasping for air between belts and Ryan knows she shouldn’t console him because it isn’t her place, but fuck, he looks so sad and it’s utterly heart-wrenching. And before she understands fully what she’s doing, she’s crouched down in front of him, two hands resting gently on his shaking shoulders.

“Hey, champ. Whoa. Deep breaths, you’re all right, yeah? We’ll hang another day. You’ve got your mum now, don’t worry about me or Luna. We’re always right next door. I need you to breathe, can you do that for me?” Ryan can hear the sound of clipped heels echoing against the flooring, and when she looks up she’s met with nothing but a face of fury, blue eyes darted into slits and red lips thinned out in irritation. 

“What on earth are you saying to him?! You’re the nanny for Christ’s sake, not his mother! Stop trying to act like it just because you want to shag his father!”

The silence is deafening. Even though Jackson’s uncontrolled sobs are ear-splitting, Ryan can’t hear anything except for the sound of her heart sinking into her stomach. Instantly, she stands up, ignoring the feeling of Jackson tugging at the bottom of her joggers. She wonders if that’s what Harry thinks of her—if that’s how he describes her to his mates, to his family, to his son’s fucking mother.

This realization is entirely conveyed through her dark eyes, and Harry can practically feel her disappointment and anguish towards him. Immediately he starts to panic, eyes wide and mouth parted, struggling to find the right words to say, because shit—he’s never thought of her in that way ever.

But then he’s reminded of his wailing son and his angry mother. And instantly he goes into dad mode, delegating his son as his top priority and pushing Ryan’s hurt to the bottom of the pile.

Ryan knows this. And she suddenly wants, no, needs to be anywhere else but here.

With a muffled apology that she isn’t sure she meant to direct at Jackson or his mother, she skirts by them, stares straight ahead ignoring Harry’s gaze, and heads for her front door, shutting it tightly behind her before she slinks down to the ground and lets the first tear fall. 

She stays on the floor of her entranceway for a long time, muffling her cries with the sleeves of Fiona’s jumper until the tear in her heart rips completely open, flooding her insides until all that’s left in her chest is a gaping hole where her heart once was.

***

A/N: Hi all, that was part six of you feel like home. Please be patient, I know you guys probably want to slap Harry across the face (even though the chapter title sort of explained how it would go). This story is meant to explore how Ryan feels, and I really hope this part helped explain her reasoning. It’s a two-sided story, and I know you’re probably dying to hear Harry’s side! That’s the glory of mult-part fics, it’s his turn to shine next chapter. Thanks for all the feedback and love you guys are giving this fic, it makes writing it that much more fun. Part seven will be posted on Thursday December 7, so feel free to chat with me in the meantime and tell me your thoughts! This was a submission for the 1DFF Quarantine Challenge, which has other amazing writers participating as well, so feel free to check out the page! See you next week my loves x

taglist: @stylishmuser @vikki1220 @greatestview @verorax @cronias13 @adoremp3 @ilovegolden @taintedwonder @stepping-into-the-light @onlyphysicallypresent @dontwanttobealone @justsaying20 @elemayox @awomanindeniall @ihearthemcallingforyou @halloweenniall @live-at-the-forum @kakayam @harryinsweatersandbandanas @hopelessly-harry @ficnarry @morethanamelodyy @niallgolden @harryswinterberries @caramello-styles @harrysstyle @greatestview @solllaris​ @niallgolden

[hoodoo12]

The Ties That Bind (And How to Follow Them) 3/?

@bunnys-beetlejuice-blog @werwulfy @mel-time @rainingpaint @infptarius @monsterlovinghours @turtlepated @strange-n-unbluusual @heresathreebee @sweetcat-666 @genderless-cryptid @fireflower1015 @go-whovian-universe

Monday at the archives went by uneventfully, though Pate did have some difficulty staying awake. She actually ended up going out to her car for her lunch hour and took a nap, the result being that she didn’t eat anything.

Pate was never quite sure these days what she might walk into when she opened her apartment door, but it was unusually quiet when she arrived home. “Beej?” she called out. He’d taken off once or twice before, taking care of she didn’t know what business she didn’t know where, but he’d usually be back before bedtime. Feeling a little more energized thanks to her nap but famished from her skipped meal, Pate changed into loungewear, scrubbed off her makeup, and started preparations for dinner. It didn’t take long, and she would ordinarily wait for Beetlejuice to return from his roaming but she was starved and quickly scarfed down her portion, keeping Beej’s helping warm with a foil tent over the plate.

Unsure what to do with herself with the specter gone, Pate curled up on the couch and put on an animal documentary to wait for him.

⁂

He worked it down to a system.

Find a crack, enlarge it enough to send a tentacle or two to start searching for the next one while he forced the rest of himself through. A few times he was slowed when the scouting tendrils took longer to find the next exit point, and once he was stymied because a crack was above the ‘window’. He had no idea if anyone on the other side of that mirror saw him, or what they thought as he shimmied up the inside of the glass like a striped spider right out of a nightmare.

As Beetlejuice expected, there was no rhyme or reason to any of this, and no way to determine where he was. He could have been halfway around the world or in the apartment next door to Pate’s. Nothing he saw when he looked out--and he looked out of every window--was familiar. Undeterred because he had nothing but time, he kept at it.

Just because he had time, though, didn’t mean he didn’t ache. He’d never worked his tentacles so long that they were sore, and his fingers felt more numb than not. He had no fingernails left and he could feel the scrapes on his face, left after he’d pushed through a hole that wasn’t quite large enough for him to get through.

Hours had to have passed. If he got to Pate’s mirror before she came home, Beej promised himself a rest. Till then, he pressed on.

It seemed a Sisyphean task, this endless clawing into the white space behind mirrors. Evilly, his brain started asking questions like, “how many mirrors were there in the world? What if he was going in a circle? What if Lillian had forced the illusion that he was making progress, when he was still just trapped in her one special mirror?” If he gave into those thoughts or despair, he’d be lost for good. Then, all at once, as he pressed his forehead to the inside of yet another pane of glass to look out, a piece of paper on the outside caught his eye. He’d been through plenty of mirrors that had photos stuck to them, but very few in a bathroom--with the same black and white striped shower curtain as in Pate’s! The photo had curled from the humidity. Around it was a smear of lipstick in the shape of a lopsided heart. She’d been so angry he’d used her favorite shade to add the decoration--with his finger, no less!--but she’d never wiped it away.

He couldn’t see the front of it, of course, but knew the photo: a spontaneous Polaroid shot on her balcony one evening during the golden hour, an old-school selfie taken just because. They’d both been laughing because it had taken time to line it up correctly and not just get hair or half of someone’s face. They’d wasted so much film trying to get a good one. The final shot was the two of them slightly turned towards each other, Pate’s forehead against his temple, her eyes closed and a wide grin on her face. His mouth was slightly open because he’d been caught mid-laugh, but he was smiling too. Both their arms were outstretched because they figured both of them holding the camera might work better. The tips of his hair were pink.

He was home.

Beetlejuice would have cried in relief if he wasn’t so tired. Now all he had to do was wait till Pate came into the bathroom, probably inadvertently scare the crap out of her, and get her to let him out.

⁂

She must have nodded off there on the couch because the next thing Pate knew she was startling awake, heart thumping in her throat. She’d been on the colorful road again in the foggy wood, running from she didn’t know what and towards she didn’t know where.

Pate rubbed at her eyes with the heels of her hands and sighed, swinging her legs to the floor. What she needed was a splash of cold water in her face. Rising to her feet, Pate stretched and squinted at the time on the cable box, noting that Beetlejuice still appeared to be absent. She frowned, slightly unsettled that he had yet to return home.

She padded to the bedroom and on to the bathroom, flipping on the lights. In the sudden brightness she was instantly aware of a figure in the medicine cabinet mirror that was not her own. The initial shock made her jump, but the oh-too-familiar green hair and striped suit made her huff a relenting half smile.

“Okay, Beej, that was a good one. You totally got me,” she said, turning to face him behind her only to find that the room was empty except for her. Brow furrowed, Pate took another moment to look around in case he was hiding and hoping for another shock but there was no sign of him. Turning back to the mirror, where his disembodied reflection still stood with a strange expression on his face, she flashed him a questioning look.

“What’s goin on, Bug?”

Looking more closely at him, Pate noticed that his already mussed hair looked even more awry than normal, and there were marks on his face. Growing concerned, Pate took a step closer, pressed against the counter to lean closer to the cabinet and the mirror with the growing suspicion that something was wrong.

⁂

Time still had no meaning here. He tried the same things on Pate’s mirror that he had in Lillian’s, pounding on the glass with fists and tentacles, to the same zero effect. He even did his best to simply wrench the glass from the wall, but unlike the odd cracks he’d found that was seamless, like it was one solid piece of material. Eventually he gave up and just waited. It was like being in a tomb. He’d had plenty of practice with that, although this was unending light and he could see a portion of the bathroom. That was almost worse torture than just laying in the dark. Pate had to enter here sometime, however. When she did, looking a little like she’d just woken up, it actually startled him. The light was blinding for a moment and he jumped. Pate did too, when she saw him there, and then tiredly derided him for the scare.

He shook his head and said, “No--Pate, baby, you gotta let me out!”

She didn’t see it. She had turned to look behind her as if expecting him to be there.

When she turned back around to face him, she looked confused. She asked him what was going on.

“Pate! Pate!” he shouted, the volume in his voice increasing. “I’m stuck here! I can’t get out, you’ve gotta let me out! I went to see Lillian and she trapped me in her mirror, and then I kept moving from mirror to mirror until I found yours--how long have I been gone? Let me out!” Beej watched her gaze shift from his eyes to his mouth, and realized with growing panic that one, she couldn’t hear him, and two, he just word vomited so much so quickly there was no way she was able to lip-read everything that spilled out of his mouth. He put one hand flat on the glass towards her and licked his lips to try again. Enunciating as best he could, voice still just one notch below yelling, Beetlejuice said, “Pate. I’m stuck. Stuck! Help me get out, baby!” He put his forehead on the glass. The fingers on his outstretched hand, the one pressed palm side to the interior of the glass, trembled as well. The specter lifted his eyes back to her. “Please,” he pleaded.

⁂

Ordinarily after pulling a scare on her, Beetlejuice would be preening like the cat that caught the canary, punctuated with nuzzles and kisses to her forehead and cheeks and statements that he simply couldn’t help himself, she looked so cute when he caught her off guard.

This time, though, he looked positively frantic. His eyes were wide and desperate, his hand pressed flush against the inside of the glass. Pate’s eyes narrowed as his lips moved but she couldn't hear him. She did her best to discern what he was saying by reading his lips, but even then she could only make out a few words.

She thought she caught him say the words “stuck” and “help”. She swallowed, feeling an apprehensive flutter in her stomach. Something was terribly wrong. He was scared, and anything that could scare Beetlejuice was something to be deeply concerned about.

Questions began forming in her mind; how had he gotten himself stuck in her mirror? How could she get him out? The first thought that occurred to her was breaking the mirror, but somehow that didn’t seem like a good plan. What if it hurt him or something?

‘Come on, think!’ she told herself, reaching up to press her hand over the spot where his was in the glass.

Nothing Lillian had taught her seemed to be of any use, it was all about how to keep spirits and specters away, not letting them loose. At that thought she wondered darkly if Lillian might have something to do with this.

“Beej,” she said slowly, in case he couldn’t hear her, too. “Did Lillian do this? Because if she did, I’ll go talk to her right now.”

If the older woman somehow sealed her demon lover away, surely she had the ability to release him, Pate reasoned. And if it meant finally coming clean about having Beetlejuice around, if Lillian refused to teach her anymore because of it, then so be it. She just had to get him out of there.

⁂

Pate putting her hand against his, unable to touch, felt like they were miles apart instead of separated by a layer of glass. He swallowed and ran his free hand through his hair, hoping it wasn’t betraying his rising panic with some odd color. She must have picked up something from his spill of words, because she hit on the person who had done this: her mentor. Beej nodded at her query, but Pate’s announcement that she was going to talk to the older woman right now made him pound a fist on his side of the glass in anger and fear. “Yes it was Lillian! But baby don’t--don’t leave me here!” he shouted. “Pate--!” Frustrated and increasingly worried she was going to follow through with her idea to go to Lillian’s right now, walking away from him after he’d clawed his way and only by chance ended up where he wanted to be, Beetlejuice continued to pound on the mirror. A terrifying thought skipped through his head: What if she went back to Lillian’s and he needed to be in Lillian’s mirror to be let out?!

He’d have to get back to the old woman’s apartment. Frantically he glanced in the direction he’d entered this space and to his ultimate fear, it was once again plain unending white. There was no broken seam, no evidence he’d ever been anywhere but where he was right now. That threw him into a state of even more panic, and without warning Pate, he stepped away from the window.

A tentacle immediately nosed the spot he thought he’d come in, but found nothing. His fingers found nothing. The seam he’d torn apart was nonexistent. He’d have to find another to try and leave this mirror, and who knew where that would take him. Where would he be? Could he find his way back to Lillian’s? A whine that he now knew Pate couldn’t hear escaped his lips. Beej pushed himself back to his feet and went back to the window. “Please don’t leave me,” he whispered.

tbc . . .

[13thbaronzemo]

THE EMPEROR'S NEW CLOTHES: PART 4

Baron Helmut Zemo/F!Reader

Rated E (Explicit)

You are the Sokovian custodian of Castle Zemo, which now belongs to the dissolved nation’s neighbors, and the baron himself has ordered you to come vacation with him in Ibiza.

Disclaimer: This is a continuation of a fanfic written before FatWS: Ep4 aired and set up after his separation from the protagonists and while on the run from the law.

Baron Zemo’s beach villa was a glass house with windows as high as the ceiling and as low as the floor. The sun shone right through them and illuminated every brightly painted wall and every darkened corner. And, while you missed it on its way up, the sun didn’t miss you. It had been keeping your side of the bed warm as you slept, as well as the side the baron had woken up in.

It was only when the heat became too suffocating, and the thirst too unbearable, that you stirred. Sitting up on your hunches was a Herculean task, and opening your eyes in the morning light was a bad decision. The hangover had made your mouth sand-dry and had your head spinning. All you could remember was being put to sleep like a child because, after a day of travel and a night of drinking, you were far too weak to do it yourself.

The baron anticipated the bad morning you would be having. On the nightstand, he’d left you a note reclining against a tall glass of water and atop a folded tissue.

My Lady,

I know how much you needed a good night’s sleep, so I didn’t dare wake you up so early. I had to go into town this morning, but I’ll be back in time for lunch.

Be sure to drink plenty of water while I’m gone and, if your headache is too much to bear, I’ve left you two tablets of ibuprofen. There is a tray of food that you can stomach waiting for you on the kitchen counter. Do not go hungry waiting for me.

~ Your Lord

You emptied that glass so fast, you only discovered the two tablets folded in the tissue after you were out of water. Thankfully, your Lord had thought of everything: there was a whole six-pack of water bottles on the coffee table across the room just waiting for you to walk over to it. Wrapping the sheet you’ve slept in around your naked body, you crossed the sun-heated carpet and helped yourself to a few more sips of water and ibuprofen.

However, you couldn’t wait around for the pills to heal you, so you began walking off the hangover.

First, you freshened up in the bathroom with a shower. And, since you hadn’t bothered going back into the bedroom to bring your supplies into the cabin before closing it, you proceeded to use his products. But it’s not like you minded bathing in the strong scent that only his musk could overpower. As you scrubbed off your skin, you also traced over the bruises he bit into the side of your neck and the ones he dug into you with his nails. Your thighs were still tender and the memory of his fingers was still fresh in your flesh. And, before you knew it, your nails were digging, dragging themselves between your thighs.

When you couldn’t bear it anymore, when the thought of his tongue entered your mind like it had entered you last night, you slipped a finger inside. The sound you made was louder than the water, but it wasn’t enough to summon him by your side. Or behind. Or inside. All you had was yourself and your fingers to fuck yourself with as you drowned out the desperate sounds in the shower stream. So you slipped another one in and took care of your clitoris with your thumb. When you finally came, it was while calling out your Lord’s name.

Secondly, you had to pick yourself off the shower floor before the cabin flooded and the worries started winding the gears in your brain. You couldn’t let all the terrors he’s inflicted on the rest of the world take over your thoughts, so you sniffed the humid air and your wet skin in search of his scent. Sure enough, the memories took over and you were engrossed in the thought of all the gifts he has bestowed onto you.

Thirdly, you needed to dry and dress before heading downstairs for a late breakfast. He had ordered you to stay hydrated and fed while he was gone, after all. While brushing your teeth and combing your hair, you saw something purple peering back at you in the reflection of the bathroom mirror. It was peeking out from under the lid of the wicker laundry basket and, once you lifted it completely, you saw it was the sleeve of the same shirt Baron Zemo wore last night. Pulling it out, you put it right up against your nose, inhaling the rest of his scent, the traces of him that couldn’t be contained in a conditioner bottle. When you returned to yours and the baron’s room, you were wearing a smile, his button-up shirt, and nothing underneath.

Finally, after plucking your phone out of your purse, you ventured downstairs into the kitchen. The tray of food he’d promised you was preset there: toasted bread, honey, avocado spread, and boiled eggs. Next to it was another tall glass, but, this time, it was filled with blended bananas. From the mixer drying next to the sink, you were delighted to deduce that he made you the smoothie himself. Putting the phone in the shirt pocket, you placed the glass on the tray and made your way to the couch in the center of the open living area.

Sitting down, you took a sip of the smoothie before sliding your fingers on your phone’s home screen. You knew, before you even unlocked your phone, you had a slew of messages waiting for you. The group chat from work had been chatting about you. Well, they were complaining about a couple of Spanish tourists you weren’t there to talk to in their tongue. You chose to focus on the more recent messages, the good mornings. You sent one of your own and the interrogation began. You answered their questions about the weather, the food and the nightlife. Even back in the old country, you heard stories about Ibiza’s nightlife. All of Europe heard the stories about the nightlife. ‘Send photos,’ they insisted. ‘Pics pls,’ they spammed you. You had no such photos to send, but Heidi had your back. She had spammed you the selfies from the VIP area while you slept. You told them about this lost Sokovian sister who lived here and who you met in Eden.

As you were struggling to come up with a good story about how you ended up in the most expensive nightclubs in the world on your salary, you were saved by a low battery. 'Sorry, my phone's dying,' you told the truth. 'I'm off to buy a new charger,' you lied. 'I forgot mine on the plane. TTYL.' And you didn't wait for them to respond before you switched to airplane mode and turned off the Wi-Fi. Then, you hurried upstairs and dug through your suitcase for the charger that you totally left on the plane.

After setting up your phone to charge on the nightstand, you went back downstairs. You were feeling famished and you had the baron's breakfast to finish. The toast was cold and the smoothie was warm, but anything coming from your Lord was going to be devoured no matter what. So you ate the toast, sipped your drink, and looked longingly at the deserted driveway. It was almost noon, so he could've come back any minute. A minute passes. Then three. Then ten. Then your mind starts winding with worry again.

Where is he? Is he safe? Is he okay? Why didn't he give you his phone number? Why didn't he ask for yours? Did he already have it? Did he go through your phone? How can he trust you not to use that phone to call the authorities? Why don't you call the authorities? Why are you here? Why are you here?

In an attempt to distract yourself, you wash the dishes and leave them to dry. When that doesn't work, you take yourself on a tour around the open living area. You bury your nose in a red rose, drag a digit across the kitchen counter top, pass through a forest of potted plants and watch seagulls bathe in the sun through the blinds. When you returned to the sofa, you slid your hand across its smooth surface as you walked barefoot behind it. As you approached the end of your journey, you let your hand fall back at your side. There was more fabric to feel up, but you wouldn't dare. That was his armchair and you could tell.

On each side of it rest a table. On the one that stood between the armchair and the sofa lay a spread of Spanish magazines and a couple of remote controls. And on the other lay a closed chessboard, a glass ashtray, and a stack of paperbacks. They looked to you like they were loved, with bent book covers, dog ears and all. And Il Principe was by far his favorite.

Just as your palm presses down on the first page, you jolt and drop the open book on its back. The sound of a purring engine pulling up pierced your ears and heart. He was back? He was back! How could you mistake the convertible's color as anybody else's but Baron Zemo's? You picked up the copy of Machiavelli’s The Prince and placed it back on top of the stack before praying nothing else was out of place. Well, anything besides whatever had slipped out of those pages and under the chair.

There was no time, so you forsake your search before it even started. Pulling down on the hem of your purple shirt - his shirt - you counted the turns of the key in the lock. One. Two. Three.

"Lord Zemo," you perked up, your feet patting the floor on your way to the door. "Welcome back."

You surrendered to the shivers on a sunny day as his eyes were revealed behind his shades. Since you settled yourself in his direct line of sight, you couldn't exactly complain about being scrutinized.

"It's good to be back," he licked his lips, leering at you as he leaned back against the door and shoved it shut. "And it's even better with a warm welcome." Dropping the big bag of groceries to the ground, he gathered both your hands into his. “How are you feeling, my dear?”

“Better,” you smiled and it must’ve been a silly sight because he snorted when you apprehensively added: “Now that you’re here.”

“Can’t go on a day without me, can you?” The baron brought both of your hands to his mouth and took turns kissing each one. “Can’t even dress yourself while I’m not here.” You reacted as if you just remembered you put on his purple button-up, stuttering to give a straight answer as he snickered. “There, there,” he tutted you, taking your face in the palms of his hands and pressing his lips against your frustrated frown. “There’s no need to pout, little girl. It suits you.”

He made you feel so meek, so small. You hated hearing yourself speak in his presence, seeing yourself quiver under his questioning eyes, yet you loved being at this powerful man’s mercy. Ever since you failed to evade him in the west wing hallway, you’ve been at his mercy. Ever since you surrendered yourself to him, you’ve been more than willing to obey him.

Even now, even as he asked you what you’d like to have for lunch, you didn’t dare demand anything. You let him decide while he swung that heavy bag atop the surface of the counter. Even when he asked what music you'd like to listen to, you echoed 'whatever you wish, my Lord,' like you're back to being his captive in Castle Zemo. And maybe you were.

However, as he hovered over his armchair and whatever secret slipped underneath it, unbuttoning his suit as he buttoned the remote, you begged him to go lay down and rest. Upstairs. On the second floor. Away from the chair and the contents below.

"The paella isn't going to prepare itself, my dear," he talked over timid trumpets. "Aren't you hungry?" He slid the suit jacket off of his shoulders and you scrambled to catch it. "Thank you."

"I've had a filling breakfast," you whispered, all the wind getting knocked out of your lungs as he turned to you with a half-clothed chest.

The fingers on his burgundy buttons froze when he saw your eyes savoring the sight. To the tune of the basset horns, the baron brought them over to the sleeves so that he could bunch them up to his elbows. "Not filling enough, it seems," he breathed, his fingers now at your buttons - his buttons. "Tell me," he craned his neck, hovering over the now uncovered half of your chest. "Have you tried filling yourself with two fingers or three?" When you gasped, he grabbed your naked neck and, while your windpipe was free to filter air, you had yet to breathe in any. "You can't even pleasure yourself without me, can you? You can barely take care of yourself."

"Please," you pleaded. It was a pathetic wheeze as it left your parted lips. Wrapping your hand around his wrist, you welcomed the tightening grip around your throat.

"Please what?"

"Please, my Lord," you closed your eyes as he cupped your breast under the open button-up. Your nipple was at attention before he reached it, his thumb running over it, flicking it, teasing it. Torturing you. "Touch me."

"I am touching you, my dear" he chuckled cruelly, the thumb at your throat pressing down on the bruise as he would a button and snapping open your scrunched up eyes. "Now, look at me," he insisted, his brown eyes growing black. "Please what?"

"Please fuck me," you pushed your breast into his palm and ran your own up and down the arm. You were stroking it, stoking the fire that's been ignited behind his now on fire eyes as they burned in the background of Mozart's Requiem in D Minor.

“Good girl.” Then, as if all the tension was sucked out of the air by his hiss, your lord left you stranded, surrendering his hold on you and letting you balance yourself on the balls of your feet.

When you found your bearings, the baron was seating in his armchair, the throne you had previously pleaded for him to forsake for the bed. As you blinked back the tears you weren’t aware had been welling in your eyes, you saw him spread his legs wider and lean back further. After patting down both of his pockets only to search through a single one, he presented to you a small silver packet.

“Wasn’t it you who wanted me to sit back and relax?” He smirked, satisfied in all the ways he can make your knees go weak. “You have to be the one doing all the work then. Pick the jacket off the ground and get to work, my dear.”

You’d been so distracted by his dashing good looks and his tempting touch that you had dropped his suit jacket at your feet. After dusting it off and hanging it by the door, you returned to him for your ravishing.

Getting on your knees between his own, you followed his instructions to undo his fly. Then, when your trembling hands allowed for his gorgeous, glistening erection to escape, he slapped them away. You wanted nothing more than to trace the vein that pulses up from the base of his penis to the head of it, with either your hands or your tongue, so you whined when you were denied. When he tutted you, tearing the package in two, you excused yourself even as you drowned in your own drool.

Your Lord was so beautiful in the afternoon sun, a king with a glowing crown of beaded sweat on his forehead. The last time you saw both his cock and his chest beard before you it was in the silver light of the moon and he appeared a white marble god to you then. However, as he slipped the rubber sleeve on his shaft, his chest heaving under the heat of your gaze, you remembered that he was a man first and foremost. And, when he commanded you to climb in his lap, his voice another in the chorus of the Requiem, you remembered that you were a woman first and foremost.

“That’s it,” he groaned as you straddled his hips, your nails fixing themselves in the sleeves of his shirt. “Right there, baby,” he held you up by your hip while your cunt hung over his cock being held by his other hands. “My poor baby, so helpless without me,” he licked his lips when you winced against the feeling of him between your folds. “You’ll have to learn to put in some work, little girl,” he pushed you down on him, both hands on your hips now.  "I’ll lead you there, like a lord ought to," he groaned when you gasped, his cock head breaching the entrance. “But you’ll have to do it yourself,” his voice was strained as he slid in with a single snap of his hips. "You'll have to fuck yourself on my cock."

You fell forward, his face between your breasts and your hands holding it close by the back of his neck as he bottomed out inside you. You were finally full. "My Lord, I," you began babbling, trying to turn your brain on. You had to remember to get the slip of paper that sat just under this seat. You had to put everything back into its place. Oh, but his cock, crammed between the walls of your cunt, was right in its place. "I, I, I-"

"Come on, my lady," he breathed between your breasts, his mouth moving from one mound of flesh to the other. Now, as he flicked your nipples, he did it with the tip of his silver tongue. "Come on. Move."

With the baron's hands holding the back of your thighs in a tight grip, you moaned as you moved. With his encouragement, his ever contradicting endearments, his  'baby's and his 'lady's, as well as the long and wide reach of his erection, you began bouncing on his lap. When he suckled all the sweat off your breasts, he shoved your chest out of his face with a palm on your sternum. You had to steady yourself by sinking your nails into the chair's cushion armrests.

His hand slid up on the saliva he left behind on your skin and snatched you by the throat. "Did I tell you to stop?" he growled when you whined and winced, your cunt squeezing down on his cock in time with his hand around your neck. "That's it," he hissed when your hips hurried to comply and ride him again. "Right there, my Lady." His other hand, the one not tightening around your throat, undid the rest of the buttons on your shirt by sending them flying off of their stitches.

You moaned as the hand then moved down to where your bodies met, where your clitoris was growing as you ground against his groin hairs. "Please," you bit your bottom lip, looking at your baron with a vision deterred by suffocation and sexual overstimulation. "Oh, please."

"Please what? Let you come?" His hand was close and you could feel it smoothing down your stomach, then up again. Then down. Then up. "You think you deserve to come, baby? Because I don't think that you do. Only good girls get to come and you've been bad while I was gone."

Through the thick layer of tears and a tight throat, you begged again. And again. You bounced up and down on his lap. Fast. Faster. You squeezed his shaft so snug inside he rolled back his eyes and bucked up his hips. Tight. Tighter.

"Bad girl," he sneered, his eyes narrowing as they rolled back into his sockets. He lifted his hand off of your stomach only to bring it back with a slap to your side. "Didn't your mommy and daddy teach you not to take things that don't belong to you?"

"M-my Lord," your voice cracked, tears of shame and frustration streaming down your cheeks.

"No? Well, I'm both your mommy and your daddy now." He spanked you a second time, leaving searing skin behind. "Don't." Slap. "Touch." Slap. "What." Slap. "Isn't." Slap. "Yours."

Your cunt contracted around his cock after each slap. And, after each spoken word, you warbled out one of your own. It was the same one, over and over and over again. "Sorry. Sorry. Sorry."

He chuckled over the chorus of the Dies Irae, his hand now coming down to caress your flaming flesh. "Baby," his voice dipped lower as his hand snuck back down your stomach. "Baby, look at me."

"Forgive me," you whimpered, your hands winding around the wrist of the arm traveling down south.

“I forgive you.” The baron took pity on you and proceeded with his palm ever further south. “I forgive you, my lady,” his voice was vicious as he barked out his order. “Now come for me! Come!”

The thumb turning your slick and swollen clitoris like a knob had opened the door to your release from the torturous luxury he’d trapped you in. There was a myriad of moans that he squeezed out of your throat and a wide array of words that made more sense while his cock twitched inside you and his thumb circled your clitoris. Words like ‘cum’ and ‘pussy’ and even ‘daddy’ to list a few. Whatever combination you had come up with, it worked like a charm on him as his orgasm followed yours, his face back between your breasts as you fell forward.

“Hold tight, my dear,” he heaved, his breath brushing your skin and his cheek scratching against your sternum. He’d lifted your hips and let himself slip out of you. “There we go,” he sighed, satiated and satisfied.

As you sagged against him, the baron brushed all the hair from your face only to find a sorry face. “I...I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have-”

“You shouldn’t have,” he said, sinking his chin into his chest to kiss you on the crown of your weary head. “Don’t let me catch you doing it again.”

“You won’t, milord.”

“You’ll learn how to do it without my knowledge?” Combing your hair with one hand, he stretched the other hand towards the side table where your post-coitus eyes could now see what your heated gaze couldn’t before: The Prince had an off-white piece of paper sticking out from between its pages. Your mind was still marinating in the endorphins and was slow to recreate the scenario in which he managed to move it from under the chair and back into your book, all of it under your nose.

“Then you must know this: there is no better distraction than one's own desires.”

“Did Machiavelli write that?”

Baron Zemo laughed, his chest lifting up and down under you. “He wrote something like that,” he spoke over the string instruments playing Lacrimosa through the speakers and your spine shivered.

[jangofctts]

Tough Luck (Boba Fett x reader)

Rated: Explicit

Word Count: 5.3k

Warnings: Smut, violence, language, dry humping,  oral (m), sex with binders, vaginal fingering, mildly dubious consent, mild cumplay, more sexual favors (jfc), vaginal sex, consensual loss of virginity, 

Chapter (1)

a/n: howdy hey bucket fuckers. welcome to the second chapter!!! thank you so much for ms. @bobafctts​ for helping me THOT and help with the process of this bad boy in addition to @djxrxn​ whom ALSO encourages all these DISguSTAnG thots. love you, whores 🤠💖❤️ 

It’s a grueling ride to Coruscant. Even with a midway stop to refuel, it takes more than a couple weeks to arrive. 

You wish Boba Fett had thrown you into the carbon freezer. 

It’s...boring down here. 

The bounty hunter had left you alone, preferring to lock himself away inside the cockpit. Not like you’d want him anywhere but there, that is. He’s not some circus clown meant to entertain an impartial audience—you’re his quarry. A quarry worth a quarter million credits.   

The rare occasion you do see him is humiliating as is. Monitored refresher brakes and the singular hellacious shower incident. True, all he had done was wrestle your kicking and screaming self into the little cubicle then proceed to lock you in—and yet…Never in the entirety of your existence had you encountered anything more glacial than that water.  

Stars—you swear he has a direct pipeline to Hoth. 

With fingers frozen and teeth chattering so hard they rattled your skull, you made quick work of scrubbing at your hair and body. It’s a miracle you survived certain death by hypothermia, even more so you haven’t caught a cold in the following hours.   

There are limited chances to protest and rebel, close to zero in fact. He’s proven to be stronger on more than one occasion, man-handling and knocking you around like some squeaky toy left to be chewed on for some oversized loth-cat. 

He’s taken away the sole thing you’ve craved since coming aboard this ship; ripped it from your fingers and shattered it upon a duracrete floor. You’ve never chosen the petty undertaking after flustered nerves and lost arguments in life; it festers and twists into malice like a weight over your chest. But you’re no longer there. 

Here, after the first meal bar landed in your lap, you surrendered your pride and tore into that idle act of revenge.     

The meal bars thrown at your feet now begin to pile up; the one small defiance you can spare. It’s either this or throw your head against the wall until you pass out. Tragically and against your own volition, the imagery your brain provides for it forms a bubble of unease in the pit of your stomach. The sight of your own blood makes you queasy anyhow.   

It’s not ideal. You’re knifing hungry, but your act of defiance works. Faster than you’d originally thought as the second sleep cycle rolls around. 

Boba Fett’s spurs chink against the front of his boots, the glare of the shiny metal catching against the dim lighting. He doesn’t carry a meal bar this time. Instead all he brings is an ion storm filled with buzzing irritation you can feel crackle against your skin. Your eyes sweep up his figure as he plants himself before you, his head tipped down to meet your half-hearted glare.    

With a long sigh, squats and lifts up one the meal bars, the shiny wrapper crinkling under the pressure as he points it in your direction. “I’m not interested in delivering a corpse.”

“I’m not hungry,” you quip, turning your head to glower into the murky darkness of the ship. 

You jump, a pitiful squeak escaping your vocal cords as he throws the bar at your feet and lunges. His hand clamps around the binders, the roar of your heart deafening against your eardrums as he yanks you in close. 

“What is it you want?” He snarls, “A deal?”  

“I see how you treat your deals,” you bite back, straining against his grip. “You’re a liar and a cheat.” 

Boba wrenches you forward, the tip of your nose skimming the edge of the tinted visor from how close he leans in. “Careful, Rabbit. If I recall correctly, you offered me a favor not a contract.”

Despite the inky blackness of the visor, you could easily mistake it with the intensity of a dying star. You’re caught in that same familiar, lecherous pull from before. It feels wrong to be brought so close; like dancing over the serrated edge of a blade, not meant for a mortal soul to be wandering along.  

“I’ll ask again.” He states, the leather squeaking as his fingers clench tighter. “What is it you want?”

There’s no bargaining for a merciful death. You’ve seen how that would play out. All your cards are exhausted and spent and the only thing you’re left to bargain for are simple accommodation before you’re appointment with a firing squad.   

“No more binders. At least for more than a couple hours.” You rush out, afraid if you don’t speak with haste he’ll cut you off. “And...and I want a blanket. It’s—it’s cold.” 

He considers this, each second like a poorly wired hyperdrive—seconds from imploding. You let out a shaky breath as you catch the near imperceptible nod. “Is that all?” 

“Yes...I-I think.” 

He snorts. “You think? What else do you require, Rabbit?” 

You ignore the sarcasm dripping through the syllables like melted sugar. Be it intimidation or your own hormones betraying your rational mind, your eyes dip down. You curse yourself for his perceptiveness. 

It comes with the job you suppose. No one becomes the best bounty hunter in the parsec using untrained eyes.  

“You know, girl,” he chuckles, a gravelly rasp against the vocoder. “I could...return the favor.”

If you had it your way, wielding an iron grip of control on your own body, you’d stop the tidal wave of crackling arousal from licking at your heels and settling in the pit of your stomach. It’s a rush of electricity guilt yet you’re able to reign in your tongue and speak; as shaky and unsure as it is.  “What makes you think I want anything more to do with you?”

“There’s no harm changing your mind,” he says. Boba cocks his head to the side and rocks forward, capturing and twirling a lock of your hair around his fingers. “As you said—you’ll die soon anyhow.”

With a goading tug on your hair he sits up, the tinkle of his spurs filling the space as he saunters a couple paces away. He smooths a hand over a large cargo crate, the leather glove rasping against the wood and with a sigh, he sits. He settles his back against it, your eyes not once leaving his figure, entranced by each subtle movement and swish of his cloak that bunches beneath him.  

“Come claim your favor, Rabbit,” Boba purrs, crossing his legs and leaning further into the cargo crate. He’s awfully nonchalant—like a loth-cat furled out in the sun. Though you know, behind the undisturbed facade, one wrong move and he’ll pounce; sink those razor sharp talons into exposed flesh.   

“Anything?” 

If you could see his eyes, you imagine he’d be rolling them. He pats his thigh. “Why don’t you sit on my lap and then we’ll talk.”

You don’t think about the fact that this is worse than before. That you’re letting yourself clamber over his crossed legs and into his lap. You hate that the crackling fire, greedy and dark, burns through your core as if it had never had a taste of pleasure before.  

His hands skim up your thighs, covered and impersonal. You don’t let that kernel of disappointment wiggle into your thoughts—it’s bad enough you’re here. In spite of this, you think, fuck it. You might as well. Your life is such a shit show anyhow might as well indulge.   

You hiss in surprise as your crotch meets the unforgiving metal codpiece. “Take it off?” 

“You take it off, Rabbit.”

Your teeth clamp down into the inside of your cheek. Bastard. Cocky, smug, asshole—

The list could go on forever and despite the irritation snapping inside your chest like a cut wire, your fingers find the latches to the dark green codpiece. You’re rough taking the blasted thing off, delighting in the bounty hunter’s little chagrined grunt as you tug and pull without much caution. 

“Careful.” 

You shoot the best glare you can muster and stick your tongue out, jolting as his fingers dig into the flesh of your ass in retaliation. With a clatter the codpiece falls off; the thick swell of his cock creating an attractive line against the white fabric. 

The same trepidation returns. You’re digging your own grave here, shoveling through dirt and tough layers of gravel in order to toss yourself in. It shouldn’t be this easy to convince yourself to fall into those greedy claws of arousal.

“Well?” Boba challenges, snaking a hand around the swell of your waist. “Get moving before I change my mind.” 

“What do you suggest I do then?” You snip, exasperated by his indignant shrug. 

With a low hum he anchors his hold over your hips and yanks you further over his crotch. “You could be a good girl and get yourself off.”

You swallow, chewing on the edge of your lip. “Like this? Nothing else?” 

“I don’t know, Rabbit,” he sighs, “but it feels good, doesn’t it?” 

Before you can ask, he rolls his hips up, pressing the firmness of his cock against your covered cunt. You gasp and rock into him, a hand shooting out to grab at his shoulder pauldron. His snort of amusement only encourages your spiral into madness as he allows you to set your own pace; a timid and shallow undulation of you hips that only serves to amp up the craving and not sate it in the slightest.    

Stars, it’s hard to think like this. Every spark of pleasure is a catalyst to the inferno that tears through the fabrics of your being. It’s an effortless process to forget who you’re using to get off; easy to tumble into that pit of pleasure with each buck of your hips.      

Your cries are harsh, an incoherent string of curses and his name all thrown into one. Fuck—it’s blinding. The catch and pull of the fabric against your clit and the hardness of his cock that presses against your inner thigh; pitching quite an impressive tent in those creamy white trousers. 

It rushes up, searing and white-hot that’s got your whole figure into stiffening and catapulting into bliss. With a groan your head dips onto his shoulder, the scent of plasma and an undercurrent of smoke lingering on the fabric of his cowl. Your hips still rock into his lap, riding out the last dregs of pleasure. 

In retrospect you should have known. Deduced that this favor claimed as yours would shift into something completely his. He’s never satisfied with the terms unless he gets the larger cut. 

Just as your hips begin to slow, he readjusts his grip and grinds his straining cock against your sensitive pussy.     

Boba’s hands, one cradling your spine while the other clamps down over you ass is an anchor so unyielding it’d take a ship cutter to brake; he’s heaving your body into they jerky and erratic roll of his hips, too far gone to care about technique or poise. Just a means to an end—desperate for release. His breathy grunts reverberate through the vocoder, near deafening this close to your ear as the hand resting between your shoulder blades, latches onto the back of your neck. 

If not for the intensity of your orgasm, devastating and still wracking through your body in tiny jolts of lingering pleasure, you’d have fought his hold. Instead, you allow Boba to urge you forward, the cool metal a shocking contrast against your forehead in comparison to your flushed state. His own head is bowed against yours, playing into that foreign sense of intimacy as he finds his release. 

With a stuttered groan, his fingers harpoon into your flesh and cums. 

His chest heaves, fervent gulps of air harsh and distorted by the vocoder as he winds down from his high. You’re no better; your breath fans across the visor, the humidity painting a foggy layer of perspiration over the visor as your body still quivers with the aftershocks of pleasure. He’s the first one to part; jerks his head away as if you've burned him.   

In the following seconds, it’s as if your eyes are glued to that visor. There’s no telling wether you’re moments away from being slaughtered or allowed to sustain this little charade he’s put you through.    

“Oh, Rabbit…” A shiver tears down your spine as he glances between your bodies. There’s a wet patch, the fabric dampened by both your combined releases staining the front of his trousers. “What a waste.” 

You gasp as his hand curls around the column of your throat, your cunt clenching as the pressure tightens. With once last, teasing squeeze his fingers move to tangle into your hair. “Clean up your mess.” 

With a not so gentle yank on the strands you’re coerced into clambering off Boba’s lap. He guides your head forward, uncrossing his muscled legs to let you crawl up and settle between his thighs.     

Your hand quivers, somehow able to pop open the button and pull down the wet fabric. Smeared globs of his release stain the soft, dark skin, his cock still thick and swollen even after orgasm. Your tongue passes over your bottom lip as you lean in, a new, fresh wave of arousal carving through your frame. 

The taste isn’t horrid, still warm and mildly salty as you tongue laves at the crease of his thigh. Your tongue leaves a wet trail of saliva down to his balls, the skin velvety soft against your mouth. Boba jerks as you suckle them into the wet heat of you mouth, carefully swirling your tongue over them then tracing up to his softening cock. He grunts as you lick along his shaft, the flesh twitching as you lap up the rest of the sticky substance.   

Boba’s hand nudges at your forehead, then shifts and maneuvers himself out of your hold. Not a word is spoken as he pulls up his trousers and thumbs the button closed. He snatches up the codpiece laying pathetically on the ground and reattaches it around his groin. 

You don’t mean to flinch as he dips down—force of habit—even if all he does is reach for one of the abandoned meal bars. He pushes it into your hand; no room for arguments and perches himself against the cargo crate, one ankle crossed over the other as his arms fold over his cuirass. He dips his head, the message loud and clear to hold up your end of the deal. 

“You don't have to watch me eat,” you mutter, biting off the corner of the foil with your teeth to open it. You roll a piece of the pasty food into a crumbly ball between your fingertips then pop it into your mouth. You grimace at the taste. Bland. A bit like dirt. 

Except…dirt has flavor. 

Not to mention the fact that he won’t stop staring. Tracking every move—unsettling and curbing your appetite into a mess of anxious knots. You don’t like being analyzed and monitored like an ill-tempered child. It’s a long shot to ask and receive an answer, but you’re desperate for anything to fill the silence.  

“How did…um…you find me?” 

Kriff, you can’t even ask about anything normal, can you?

Boba cocks his head to the side, letting that unnerving quiet draw out until you’re sure he won’t respond. And then; “People leave trails. Even you, clever rabbit”

You force yourself to choke down another bite of the bar. “What was my trail then?”

You’re split between the desire to know what you did to ensure your capture while battling your queasy surprise that he’s chosen to indulge your questionings. “The pilot.”

A knife of dread, so sharp and swift it cuts through the layers of cartilage and bone; the blade lodging itself into your heart. “W-what?” 

“The Imperial one.”

Elliria Beren. Elli— 

No. No—that’s…he’s toying with you.  

Dantooine is the last place you saw her. Alive. Wild, auburn hair blown from her braids caused by the windstorm that swept up through the grassy plains; the clouds, colossal and dark, swallowed up the sun as they rolled across the horizon. Her flight suit was hastily thrown on, rumpled and against regulations in the rush to help you. She told you to run—stole the TIE fighter to give you one last, undeserved chance. 

It feels like a broken promise stapled to the roof of your mouth as your mind dregs up the remnants of that day. She’d thrown her arms around you, crushing you to her chest, smelling like oncoming rain, and that contraband perfume she’d bought on Alderaan; a delicate sweetness you can hardly remember.

With Elliria, there was no fear; cradled in her arms and severed off from the world. There, you've done nothing wrong, you are not being chased by some relentless terror. You could sleep inside that moment. You could live inside that string of seconds. It would be fine. It would be perfect. You could escape and mend you fragmented heart strings. 

But you’re not there. 

You’re here. 

Here on a bounty hunter’s ship. Here there is fear. There is great sorrow. There is a litany of sins and a throng of terrors devouring at your soul. You led her straight to her death. Right into the very jaws of the man who sits before you. You hadn’t even considered she’d be caught.   

Your stomach churns and coils as bile pricks at your throat. What have you done.  

“I found her on Tatooine,” Boba continues, either enjoying your obvious horror or unabashedly oblivious.

No. Stop fucking talking. You bite back a choked sob as he raises a finger, tracing it across his cuirass. There—alongside the braided pieces of hair mounted as trophies, sits a red and blue ribbon. How haven’t you seen it before? You were there when Elli was awarded the Imperial Medal of Valor—it’d been the first time you’d seen her smile in months.  

And now…now it hangs upon the pauldron of a bounty hunter as a conquest won. “She was a good shot—but I was better.” 

Your chest is a wall of fire; the air you breath constricted and hot as your throat mimics that of a too tight collar on a fancy suit. You don’t care that stinging tears spring from your eyes and carve burning paths down your cheeks. Grief and wrath spin inside your chest with the fierceness of a vortex all-consuming. You shouldn’t have asked. Shouldn’t have forced his hand into revealing that all you ever do is leave a wake of destruction behind you. 

The abrupt, sharp, buzz throughout the ship slices through your despair. The comm system is flashing, attempting to patch in a call. The moment he stands, your mind races with plots of vengeance. You have nothing but your fists, your sharp teeth and bitten off nails. You don’t care. 

He turns his back, his cloak rasping against the floor. 

A momentary lapse in judgment on his part to leave himself vulnerable to a quarry free from their binders. 

With a cry you launch yourself across the small space, hooking your arms around his neck. He shouts out a curse, the weight of your body causing his own to pitch backwards. All air punches out of your lungs as the back of your head cracks against the ground, the full weight of beskar platting slamming into your chest and stomach. 

Your hold around his vulnerable throat loosens, giving him more than enough wiggle room to spring up. Your fist snaps out, the skin over your knuckles splitting open as it connects with the sharp edges of his helmet. He scrabbles to contain your flailing hands, eventually ensnaring your writs between his fingers with ease. 

Bucking your hips and kicking your legs out does nothing to save you from Boba wrestling you onto your stomach, straddling your thrashing body, wrench up your arms, and snap out a new pair of binders. Boba snarls as your elbow manages to stab into a vulnerable gap in his armor, forcing him to throw his entire weight over you. 

You don’t mean to slam the side of your face into his helmet—hurts you more than it would ever him. But it’s satisfying to feel him jerk and hiss out a curse.

“Stop this.” He barks, digging his forearm harder into the flesh of your shoulders. “You’re only hurting yourself.”

The blooming mark forming over your left eye socket is proof enough. The most damage, if any, would show up as bruise from where his own beskar had brutalized the skin or where your elbow had connected on his ribs.  

You want to fight—tear into his flesh until he feels even an ounce of the kind of pain he’s caused. Instead, he chooses something different.    

“I’m sorry about your friend.”  

Friend doesn’t sound right. And lover too bold. Feels overly simplistic; shallow to what you had with Elli. Like glossing over a three hundred page holonovel. “I hate you.”    

There’s no malice, no gloating. Just...sincerity. “Truly, I am.”  

You don’t know what’s worse; the fact that there’s nothing to latch onto, bare your teeth and spit out words more jagged than broken glass or if it’s the hollow void that carves out the cavity in your chest. The frigid vacancy that follows after a forest burns; charred skeletons of a once lush forest. Everything in your life has been burned, flipped and torn inside out more than you care to think about. 

Stuck in that strange limbo between the devouring vortex of agony and revenge. Flirting with dull edged apathy that blankets the pain with buzzing static. 

You choose the latter. 

It’s easier.  

It’s not fair Elli is dead. But there’s nothing you can do to change what happened. 

Some of that pressure bearing down on your spine eases as your body goes lax. You’re not sure how much time ticks away as you lie there against the dirty floor. Enough time to count the screws connecting the durasteel walls and the individual planks making up a cargo crate. You don’t care that Boba Fett continues to maintain his precarious position seated on your thighs, or the inquisitive touch between your shoulder blades. He isn’t the one to hate in this situation. You are. 

That gentle, uncharacteristic touch smooths down the line of your spine, disappearing once it reaches your bound hands. 

“You’re such a tiny creature...” You don’t think it’s meant for your ears, more of an observation he lets slip than a conversation starter. Regardless, it sends a shiver from the base of your skull and down. 

With a curious hum, Boba shifts, slotting his hips against your ass. The added weight is uncomfortable, it digs your hip bones into the durasteel flooring. Yet, unlike the beskar codpiece supposed to be strapped to his groin, all you can feel is a different sort of hardness present.

“There’s still fight in you yet, Rabbit.” 

Your fingers curl into fists so tight the bite of your fingernails leave crescent shaped indents. His hands smooth along the waistband of your trousers, the soft leather tickling the sliver of exposed skin where you shirt became rumpled. “Does that surprise you?” 

He huffs. “No. But you could put it to better use instead of attacking me.”  

“Like what? Fucking you?” Bitter resentment builds like ash over you tongue, even if the idea of it sends a charged volt of interest down to your lower belly. 

Boba’s fingers crawl down your thighs. “I didn’t say that, but if you insist.”  

You scoff and wriggle. “You’re deplorable.” 

“Is that a yes, Rabbit?”

Maybe, you think as you nod your head, this will fill that torn void with temporary gratification. Steal away your thoughts and loose yourself something akin to the mind numbing affects of alcohol. 

Boba hums in acknowledgment, hooks his fingers around the elastic and yanks down, underwear included. You can feel the weight of his stare wracking down the newly exposed skin, pliable and wanton—and all for him. 

You squeak as he takes two, plentiful handfuls of your ass, spreading and massaging the flesh. It’s as if the only reason he exists is to torment you. Pull from you the embarrassed flushes and ashamed squeaks. You’re relieved once he retreats.   

Though it’s not a moment later his hands are back over you. Gloveless. It’s a shock to your system feeling the scrape of calloused fingertips trail over the curve of your spine. A curious touch, one unfamiliar with the softness of skin, yet the fleeting presses rapidly turn into the only thing he knows. 

Your sharp inhale echoes into the ship as his fingers trail down the slit of your cunt, gliding through the slick, already leaking from your core, with ease. You jolt as his fingertip catches against the tiny bundle of nerves, the pressure teasing and light. Never enough to satisfy, just a cruel reminder just how easy it is to get you worked up. With a muted whimper, your hips twitch, silently begging for anything more. Anything to fill your clenching cunt.  

He obliges with a smug chuckle, lazily pushing a finger into the ring of velvety muscle. You whine as he slips in another digit, scissoring and shallowly thrusting in out, thoroughly coating his hand with your arousal. Just as the buzzing strings of pleasure begin to build up, he extracts them. Frustration pierces through your sternum, your teeth clamping down over your tongue in order to quell your irritation.  

There’s a rustle of fabric and a harsh inhale from the man behind you as he closes the space between you. Your pussy clenches as the tip of him touches against your clit, the flesh searing and painfully hard. You shudder and exhale a long, stuttered breath.    

“I can tell you haven’t been fucked right,” he purrs, dragging the flushed head of his cock through your folds. “Why don’t we fix that?” 

Boba gives your thigh a swat and shifts, ready to align himself and sink into your clenching core. That heavy haze of pleasure is abruptly yanked out from beneath your feet, panic piercing through your heart with an alarming jolt. You seize up and jerk away. 

“W-wait!” You gasp, hands wiggling against the binders. “I-I...uhm—“

“Don’t tell me you haven’t done this before, Rabbit.” He thinks it’s a joke. It is a bit silly considering the circumstances—yet here you are. Bent over and telling Boba Fett you're a kriffing virgin.  

Your shamed silence and the heated flush that follows answers his question with crystalline clarity. 

“You’re serious.” 

“I’ve never been fucked, ok?”  Your eyes squeeze shut as you let out a long exhale. “I just...never…”

Your piss-poor explanation tapers off into a gaping fissure of terse silence. Maker, you should just throw yourself into a trash compactor—  

“I can change that,” he offers, trailing his palm over the globe of your ass. “If you’d like.” 

You swallow. Maybe in a different version of reality you’d consider a better option, but fuck it. You’re already here. “O-ok.”

“As you wish, Rabbit,” Boba complies. If not for the helmet you’re sure you’d see a smile curl across his face. “Just know—I don’t do gentle.”

You would never expect him to. Whatever civilized temperament he holds in not saved for anything but hunting and aiming a blaster. You tense as your walls begin to stretch and accept the tip of his cock—alarm bells blare inside your head, terrified that it won’t fit. His hand smooths over your hip as he encourages you to relax, let him sink in the rest of the way. His fingers find your clit, rubbing jerky patterns into the nerves as your cunt flutters and stitches wider for him. The sharp outline of his hips touch your ass, a sharp hiss of breath crackling out of the vocoder as he finally bottoms out. 

You’re so achingly full. No amount of fingers thrust up inside your cunt could compare to what you feel in this exact moment. Simultaneously split open and burning with white hot ecstasy with each involuntary jerk from the man inside you. There’s a minuscule pinch and ache as he pulls his hips back, the drag of his cock catching against each ridge and fold as you clench around him. 

“Fuck,” Boba swears, sheathing himself back inside with a forceful thrust. You squeak and pull against the binders. “You take it well.” 

There’s not much time between your next inhale and his hands anchoring around your hips, before he sets the pace; harsh and unyielding. Just as he promised, there is no buildup, just the violent roll and abrasive push inside you.  

There’s no time to familiarize yourself with this newfound sensation, just a frightening buildup that seizes you by surprise. It begins in belly, spreading through your bloodstream like the most virile poison. With another, devastating, surge of his cock into your pussy, you’re cast into that gaping bit of burning pleasure. 

Your vision whites out, your body arching and stiffening as you cry out. The fact that you’re squeezed so, fucking tight around him, holds no hinderance to his pace. Just encourages him to go faster. There’s no mercy as he fucks you through orgasm, overworking those sensitive nerves and pushing them past your limit.

With a hiss of air the binders fall to the ground with a clatter; the noise barely heard in comparison to your stuttered cries and the obscene sounds of his cock burying itself into your cunt. Your shoulders burn as your hands slip beneath you, shaky and unsure of themselves, stabilizing yourself against the greedy pull of his hands.  

The rough callous of his palm sweeps up your back and forms a fist in your hair, urging your spine to arch as his thrusts take on a sharper rhythm.

Your core is a mess of knots, pulled tight and more pressurized than a airlock. Your nails scrabble against the metal flooring, your knees rubbed raw from the vicious momentum he’s achieving. Fuck—this should’ve been your favor from the very start.

Those burning nerves, flooded with acute overstimulation, throws your body off that haphazard edge of another scorching orgasm. One that drags it’s sharpened nails down the curve of your spine, all the way done to your toes. 

“Fuck—fuck you’re tight,” he snarls, his hands squeezing your hips with vicious strength. “Keep squeezing me like that, Rabbit—good girl.”

The top half of you buckles under the weight of ecstasy, weakened and unbothered by the new angle; his cock reaching deep. Your fluttering cunt and the high-pitched whines of his name are it takes for him to reach his end. 

He pulls out, ropes of his release landing over your ass in hot gushes. “Shit.”

Boba’s cock still jumps and twitches as he drags it over your ass, rubbing his cum into the skin until the last dribble of his release dips above your tailbone. Quicker than you’d have liked he pulls away. Not far; just seats himself to your right and pulls up his trousers with a sigh. Eventually you’re able to trick yourself into moving; curling yourself into a little quivering ball as the aftershocks of pleasure prickle beneath your skin. 

You were right. It did fill whatever grasping numbness inside your chest, but now you’re left to deal with it all over again. You’re glad your back is to him as lonesome tears trickle down your nose and into you mouth, filling it with the taste of salt and pain. 

“I didn’t kill her. If that makes a difference.” 

It’s muttered and hard to catch, but you hear it just the same as if he had yelled it into your ear with an amplifier. You crush that flicker of hope with an iron fist as it flutters inside your stomach. “But?”

“But your Empire made sure that she was.” 

It doesn’t make a difference. 

[getitinbusan]

The Studio Sessions - Part 6 Smut

It's Min Yoongi's birthday and you're ready to give him whatever he wants. When he makes a sarcastic wish while blowing out the candles he didn't think you'd take it seriously. But he's glad you did.

When word spreads about these special "Studio Sessions" everyone wants to collaborate. A chaptered 0T7 smut. 

These stand alone but you won't want to miss reading all of them!

The Collaborators so far:

Taehyung

Jimin

J-Hope & Joon

Jin

Jungkook

Special Golden Closet Edition - Yoongi and Jungkook

The Yoongi Collaboration

You closed the door quietly behind yourself. Faint sounds of clanging dishes came from the kitchen as Yoongi stood facing the sink unaware of your presence.

Wrapping your arms around his back you pressed your cheek into his flanel and breathed him in.

"Do you still love me?" You whispered into his shoulder.

"Why would you even ask me that?"

He turned in your embrace and lifted your chin. His eyes were red, "I love you so much I'm willing to share you with other people."

He paused for a deep exhale, I know I can't satisfy you...."

"Yoongi, stop..." You caressed his cheek, "I may have wanted more, but I never asked anyone else to give it to me...you did."

"I didn't think you'd enjoy it so much," he frowned. 

"I'm not going to lie, I did enjoy it," you said matter of factly. "But, that doesn't mean I need it. I thought it was just something you wanted to try." You cupped his cock, "If I'm not mistaken you seemed to enjoy it a little too." 

He smiled at your summation and asked you, "Were you jealous?"

You nodded, "Very much so. How did you feel… watching them fucking me?"

You cocked your brow, and he smirked.

Grabbing your face he kissed you, hard, "so angry"

Yoongi didn't like being aggressive, it was a rarity but it seemed in line with tonight's game so you prodded him on. 

"I guess you should fuck me until you feel better about it." 

He frowned in displeasure, "You think I want to fuck you while Jungkook is still all over your body?"

He picked you up and carried you to the bathroom. Setting you in the shower he turned it on, "Take your clothes off, I want everything you wore today in the trash."

You striped slowly, as he stared you down. "Now wash him off your skin. if I so much as get a sniff of his cologne you won't get fucked for a week."

While you lathered yourself he pulled his t-shirt over his head and unbuttoned his pants. "Stick your finger in and clean your dirty little cunt, get all that cum out of there."

Taking his pants down all the way he stepped in the shower beside you. Pushing you against the wall, tits to the tile he slapped your hand away and stuck his own fingers inside you.

Pumping aggressively he stopped abruptly the minute you moaned.

"Dirty girl, you like this? Do you enjoy making me scrub my friends cum out of you?"

The shower walls echoed the sound of the wet slap he laid across your ass.

Turning you around to face him he pulled his finger from inside you and jammed it into your mouth.

"Is he out of you yet?" You could only nod, his fingers still hooked onto your lips.

Lifting your leg around his hip he entered you, driving his cock into your core without hesitation. 

"Tell me you're mine Y/N, no more fucking games."

Your head hit the tile with every thrust.

"I'm yours," you cried.

"You belong to me, say it!" 

His hand grasped around your neck while you whimpered, "only you Yoongi." 

He came with a last hard thrust and collapsed into your arms. Squeezing him tight you peppered kisses onto his shoulder, "I belong to you." 

As you ran the towel over your skin he stopped you, inspecting the fresh bruises left by Hoseok. Placing small kisses over them he apologized, "I should have told you, I'm sorry."

Taking your hand he led you to the bedroom. Turning down the sheets he unwrapped you from your towel and tucked you in.

"You're too good to me Yoongi."

He kissed your forehead and smiled ,"Yeah I am."

Clicking the light off you met in the center of the bed, "you should get some sleep you must be exhausted."

You shook your head and murmured "no," into his chest. "I told you I was saving the best for last."

You could feel his smile against the top of your head, "I don't know what to do here. What's going to satisfy you that nobody else did today?" 

Running your fingers through his hair you replied, "You can make love to me…nobody but you can do that." 

His fingers lightly skimmed over the soft flesh of your hip while he captured your lips between his. This was the most fulfilling part of being with Yoongi, the way he could make you feel so incredibly loved.

You wrapped your legs around him as he entered you, soft and slow.

He focused his kissing on your neck just under your ear. He knew it was the goosebump spot, and god, he loved feeling the way your flesh reacted to his touch. Arching your back into the pleasure he moaned at your movement under him.

Pulling your hands above your head he held them there in a light grip, lips just hovering over yours, "Tell me your mine."

You wanted to touch him, reassure him but you could only use your words. "Yoongi, I'm yours, only yours, I promise" 

He released your hands and pushed himself up to lock eyes with you, "Can you cum with me? Are you ready?" 

You nodded, lowering his head he attached his mouth to your breast and the sensation had you immediately tugging his hair.

He continued pumping gently into you, his breathing signaling how close he was.

Just as you hit your peak, you moaned out what you knew he needed to hear, "I love you." 

_______________________________

Laying spent, side by side he brought your hand to his lips and gave it a kiss.

"Happy Birthday Min Yoongi. I'm sorry if today didn't turn out like you'd hoped it would," you said turning to face him.

"I really don't mind sharing," he said in his deep sleepy voice. "I kind of liked it. I just...if we're going to keep doing this, I think we need to come up with some ground rules." He laughed, "We tend to make irrational decisions when under the influence of arousal."

You giggled at his insight, "Maybe I could just teach Jin a few knots... and Guk needs help, he's gonna go blind if he keeps watching all that porn. Also since it's on the table, Taehyung's cock can't suck itself." 

"Not too greedy huh? Just four out of seven, no Hobi, Jimin or Joon?" He teased.

"You can have Hope and Chim but you'll never get Joon."

He raised his brow, "Is that a bet?"

_______________________________

The next morning there was a knock at the studio door. Bang PD and Manager Sejin came in carrying an elaborate birthday cake.

"Sorry we missed your birthday Yoongi, we heard there was a lot of action around here."

Yoongi burst out laughing as you looked at him shaking your head.

"There's no fucking way."

The Golden Closet Chapter - Yoongi and Jungkook

_______________________________

@phoenicia1533 @itscalledgayhoney

[softbiker]

Born to Run - Chapter 17

Warnings: angst, alcohol abuse, anxiety, heartbreak, police violence (potentially triggering encounter, please heed the warning), language

Word count: 3.2k

A/N: Well, here it is. All I can do is say...I’m sorry. But I promise I’ll fix it. I decided to go ahead and post this tonight because I haven’t gotten to write much lately, I’ve been working constantly and now I’ve got a second job - so I just love getting to write and post when I can. Thank you for sticking with this story. It’s almost a year old now! As always, let me know what you think!!

“I dunno, Mom - I mean it’s not like I planned this-”

“Well, no, honey,” her mother huffed over the phone. “It doesn’t seem like you planned any of it.”

Y/N winced at the sting of her words but didn’t argue. With her phone wedged between her ear and her shoulder, she grabbed another stack of underwear and socks from the dresser and turned back towards her bed, where a suitcase lay open. A few pairs of jeans and a couple of sweaters were already folded inside. Off to one side, her toiletry bag was stuffed full - skincare and toothpaste and hair products she might not even use but tossed in anyway in her flustered packing frenzy. Her grip on the socks in her hands tightened to keep her fingers from trembling.

It had been 2 days since her fight - breakup - with Bucky. For the first 24 hours, she fell into an anxious, disorganized catatonia; she shuffled from room to room in her house, pacing and biting her nails, opening cabinets at random then promptly closing them. Her fingers tapped restlessly against her thigh, and her heart raced at a breakneck pace. If a single clear thought managed to arrange itself from the scattered clutter of her panic, it was only Bucky’s face, red-eyed and tear-stained as he pleaded with her. After splashing some water on her face and changing into sweatpants, she had put herself to bed, settling in for the longest night of her life. She tossed and turned, hearing the minutes tick by from the clock on the wall. At around 3 am, she threw off the covers in heartbroken frustration and stalked to the kitchen, setting the kettle on for tea and raiding her cabinets for any treats she could find. Thank God she still had that fancy dark chocolate she’d gotten last time she went to the city; it was the only thing her cupboards could provide in the way of comfort food. Armed with a steaming cup of lavender chamomile and an entire half-pound of dark chocolate she settled back under the covers and grabbed the T.V. Remote from her nightstand. If nothing else, she prayed Netflix could distract her, fill her mind with different faces, different voices - drown out the one that wouldn’t leave her.

She managed to doze off towards the end of Breakfast at Tiffany’s, tearful confessions playing in the background of her not-quite-dreams, and woke just before 7. A cold, clear morning greeted her through the window, the air in her room practically frigid, but something in it settled her. Quieted the static that had blurred out all thought since Bucky walked through her door the day before. With a deep breath, she threw off the covers and swung her feet out of bed, leaving the tea cup and chocolate wrapper to deal with later. It was her running shoes she reached for.

An hour and 10 kilometers later, she jogged back up her front porch steps, breathing heavy and feeling light. Her cheeks were charted from the wind, and her nose was running, but the grip on her heart had shaken loose. And as she clambered into the shower, stinging hot and billowing steam, new thoughts began to string together - thoughts for tomorrow, and the tomorrow after that.

Still in sweatpants, hair dripping, she’d scribbled down a list while she sipped her coffee. Names, to-do’s, a seed of a plan. In order, she phoned the clinic, her best friend, her residency program coordinator - and now, at last, her mom.

“I’m driving up to stay with Kat for a few days - maybe a week,” Y/N sighed, ignoring her mom’s comment. “Just to…clear my head, you know?”

“Sure, sure,” her mom agreed. “Though I don’t know why you couldn’t come here…I haven’t seen you since Thanksgiving-”

“Mom.” She closed her eyes, one hand settled on her hip. “It’s not a vacation.”

“No, sweetie, but it doesn’t hurt to come let your mom take care of you…”

Knuckles pressed to her eyelids, Y/N sat down on the edge of her bed. The old mattress creaked, as it had every night she slept in it for the last several months.

“I-I just,” she licked her dry lips and tried to swallow. “I need to be alone for a little bit, Mom. Once I’ve got it all figured out, I’ll let you know. And maybe…who knows, maybe I can come visit soon.”

“Sweetheart.” The voice on the phone is tired, resigned. “Why do you always try to do these things by yourself? You don’t have to be alone.”

Y/N’s throat tightened, her fingers curling into the fabric of her pants. She breathed slowly, warding back the lump that threatened to close off her voice.

“I’m sorry, Mom. But this time I do.”

**********

“You’ve got to go in there and wake him up-”

“I’m not doing it - I wouldn’t touch him with a 10 foot pole when he’s like this.”

“Well, someone’s got to. We’re bugging out in just a couple days-”

Heavy-eyed, and feeling like death warmed over, Bucky stirred at the sound of the voices outside his bedroom. Harsh winter sunlight burst through the blinds over his window; even before he opened his eyes it hurt. Something throbbed inside his skull, and his tongue felt thick and heavy in his parched mouth. Why the hell did he feel this bad? He couldn’t remember the last time he drank like this, to the point of blacked out nausea. His stomach roiled as he turned over, and he felt far too old to be drinking like there was no tomorrow, like he hated himself-

And then he remembered.

Y/N.

Suddenly he had no interest in getting up, getting water, getting something that would settle his stomach. He covered his face with his hands, fingers pressing firm against his eyelids and blocking out any light that came through. It was hot in his room, the combination of heating and a pile of blankets that someone had tucked him in with, but he didn’t move the covers, choosing instead to sweat underneath them.

How had he fucked up so badly? The best thing that ever happened to him - and now she was gone, baby, gone. It would’ve been alright, maybe, if Natasha had allowed him to talk to Y/N himself, but-

Natasha. Just the thought of her set his blood on fire, and he sat bolt upright in bed, his eyes flying open - only to immediately regret it as a stronger wave of nausea threatened to claim him. He quickly folded himself in half and put his head between his knees. When his head finally stopped spinning, he propped his elbows up against his knees and threaded his hands through his hair.

Already, he felt a thread of shame and guilt tugging at his gut. It wasn’t right to blame Natasha. He knew that. The lies were all his own; all Nat had done was reveal the truth.

But, God, the look on Y/N’s face - she had never looked at him that way, not even in the beginning when she was afraid he might be a criminal. It chilled him - right down to the marrow of his bones - the cold anger, the mask of disgust and disinterest that she wore to hide the way she hurt. And she did - he could see her pain cracking the ice in her eyes, no matter how she tried to hide it.

He hated himself for it.

A soft knock at the door, and Steve’s blond head poked in.

“Oh,” he said, eyebrows jumping in surprise. “You’re awake.”

Bucky’s scowl deepened as Steve and Sam kindly let themselves into his room and took up post at the foot of his bed.

“Yeah - thanks to you two. You wouldn’t know how to whisper if your life depended on it, Wilson.”

To his credit, Sam didn’t respond - merely rolled his eyes and cast an exasperated glance at Steve. With a sigh, Steve crossed his arms over his chest, his eyes down on the soft blue quilt Bucky had haphazardly wrinkled during the night.

“Look, I understand that you’re really upset right now.” Steve’s voice was soft, barely more than a murmur. “I know…I know how much she meant to you.”

Bucky felt his eyes starting to burn as he stared at his friends, and he hastily scrubbed at them with his palms, sniffing.

“But,” Steve continued, licking his lip. “We’ve got our marching orders - we’re on standby to pull out any day now. We - I - can’t have you going on binders, AWOL for 24 hours, and then stumbling in here piss drunk at 3 in the morning.”

“We thought you were dead, Barnes,” Sam added, clenching his jaw. “We’re on fuckin’ suicide watch, man. You’re gonna drink yourself to death over a breakup? Huh?”

Growling, Bucky reached behind himself for a pillow and hurled it at Sam’s head.

“Shut the fuck up-”

“No, Buck, Sam is right.” Steve’s brows were knitted together tightly. His eyes were sympathetic, but the rest of him was unflinching as stone. “You can’t do that again. What if you’d run yourself off the road, or gotten hit by a car?” Bucky scoffed, but Steve didn’t back down. Raising his voice he went on. “No, I really want you to think - would you be better off dead? Is that what you want? Is that what she would want?”

Eyes squeezed shut, Bucky saw her face right before him once again, her smiles, the way she used to look at him. The panic in her eyes during his parking lot showdown with Rumlow, the way she bit her lip when she was concentrating on something, how sleepy her eyes were in the mornings - each little piece of her, precious secrets he had tucked away in the hidden corners of his heart. He had thought, dreamed, that he had a lifetime to collect them all, fit all her parts together like a puzzle one piece at a time, and love every moment of it. Now, though. These lone pieces are all he has left, and they will never be enough.

What did she want? He knew only one thing for sure - that she was the only person who could say.

“I don’t think it matters to her either way, punk.”

**********

A few miles outside of town, just past the last lonely gas station, was the exit ramp to the interstate. The road had seen better years; the pavement was pitted with potholes and cracks, haphazardly patched with uneven lumps of asphalt that left drivers weaving between lanes and wondering which would do more damage to their tires. But, since this part of the state saw less traffic than other areas, infrastructure money was slow to trickle down towards repair and reconstruction.

Y/N had driven this road a handful of times - as she moved into town, and then when she had taken the drive a couple of times to visit her friends in the city. It was desolate enough to be a slightly depressing drive; nothing but scorched fields for miles on either side of the road, and the steep ditches that banked it on either side were overgrown with wispy stalks of dead grass. Overhead, a grey and overcast sky shadowed everything, promising a winter day best spent indoors.

She tuned in and out of a true crime podcast while she drove, hardly seeing the road in front of her. Her mind was too far gone on the events of the past few days - and everything she had to do with the coming ones. But there was something comforting here, in the grip of the wheel in her hands, a travel mug of coffee still steaming in the cupholder, an open road ahead of her. She felt…awake, present. Bruised, but not broken. And ready to get back up.

Of course, it shook her when a cop car pulled out of the overgrowth on the shoulder of the exit ramp, putting on speed to keep up with her. Mentally she reviewed her driving - still only 5 over the speed limit, her lights were on and working, her tags were in date. They had no reason to pull her over, she rationalized.

And they didn’t. The car stayed right behind her for the next 10 miles, quietly driving at her speed, keeping a couple car lengths’ distance between. No flashing lights, no sirens.

So why were her palms sweating?

After 20 miles, the sirens finally started blaring, blue and red flashes blinking in her rearview mirror. Despite being raised to respect the law, she felt nervous as she glanced back at the car, easing her foot off the accelerator, but not quite braking to pull over. She bit her lip, hesitating another few seconds as the alarm grew louder behind her. Her stomach clenched nervously.

Stop freaking out. You’re just worried about getting a ticket. Sucking in a deep breath through her nose, she scolded herself and gently pulled her car over to the side of the road, careful not to get too far into the muddy grass along the shoulder. Fingers fidgeting nervously on the steering wheel, she watched as the officer got out of his car and strolled up to her window at a leisurely pace. His head was shaved, and he wore dark mirrored sunglasses, in spite of the gloomy light of the day. As she rolled down her window, she squinted at his face, trying to recognize him from the adrenaline-blurred memories of the night Bucky killed Brock Rumlow - but the low slope of his cheekbones, the clean-shave, the firm-set frown are all unfamiliar to her.

“Good afternoon, ma’am,” he greeted her, one hand on his hip. It drew her eyes down towards his gun. “License and registration please.”

Instinctively, she nodded and reached towards her wallet lying in the passenger seat to dig out her license. The officer was silent, propping one hand against her car while he waited; she could hear her own heartbeat in her ears and willed herself to calm down.

Clearing her throat, she gathered her courage and spoke up.

“Excuse me, officer-” He barely glanced up from where he was perusing her car registration. “Why did you pull me over?”

He looked up at her fully at the question, shifting his stance and licking his upper lip.

“One of your tail lights is out,” he said, shoving her papers back through the window. “That’s a real safety issue.”

“My tail light…?” Her tail light - which had been changed only a month ago. She knew, because Bucky did it himself. He had always been worried about her safety; every time she was going somewhere without him, he did a full inspection of the car, testing brakes and changing the oil, going over every last inch of it and then filling up the tank with gas before she left. Last time, she’d sat in the garage nursing a cup of cider as she watched him fiddle with the lights…

She shook her head to lose the thoughts of him.

“I’m sorry, sir, but my tail lights are working just fine, I just had the bulbs changed.” She leaned forward in the seat, peering up at the officer. “Are you sure that there’s something wrong with them?”

Frown deepening even further, he crossed his arms and widened his stance.

“Ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to get out of the car?”

“Excuse me?”

“Get out of the car, ma’am.”

“What? Why?”

“Please, just calm down and get out of the vehicle.”

“But-” her protest broke off as he shifted his stance back, one hand inching towards the mace in his belt. She glanced at her phone, sitting in the unoccupied cupholder with her aux cable connected to it. Her fingers twitched - for a microsecond, she contemplated the very bad idea of reaching for it, refusing to get out of the car, calling-calling…someone. Someone.

But surely, if she cooperated, this would all be worked out with just a minor headache, or maybe a ticket, she reassured herself. She repeated it in her head as she unbuckled her seatbelt and opened the door, climbing out of the car carefully, her hands held out to her sides where they could be seen.

Once she was out of her car, the officer took a step forward and pushed on her door, shutting it with a resounding click.

“Okay, I’m out of the car…”

“Turn around and put your hands on the hood.”

“I’m sorry, what?” she exclaimed, hearing her voice hitch in alarm. Her eyes cast up the road and back towards the exit ramps - there were no other cars in sight. No witnesses. “Am I under arrest?”

“Shut the fuck up,” he growled, out of patience. His hand went to rest on his gun now. “Turn around and put your fucking hands on the hood of the car.”

Her fists curled and she stood her ground. She willed away her thoughts of Bucky.

“No. I haven’t broken the law, you can’t arrest me for having a tail light out-”

In a blink, his gun was up and trained directly on her.

“Put your hands on the fucking car!” he yelled, loud enough to make her wince at the volume. Her thoughts tunneled on the barrel of the gun aimed at her chest.

Wordlessly, she turned and planted her hands on the cold metal, shivering in just her sweatshirt, her winter coat tossed in the passenger seat while she was driving. The tips of her fingers went numb and her eyes watered, stung by the wind. Her dry tongue pressed against the backs of her teeth - if she tried to swallow she’d choke.

“Who are you?” Her voice shook, but she managed the words. Scared and alone, but she’d fight, goddammit. She’d fight. He would want her to fight. “Who the hell are you and what do you want?”

“Shut up.” A firm, cold point of pressure between her shoulder blades as he pressed the gun against her back. There was a faint buzzing sound and then the rustle of fabric; when he spoke again, it clearly wasn’t to her. “Yes, sir?” He answered his phone. “Yes - we’re on schedule. I have the package. Will confirm when its secure and en route.”

Her heart raced wildly and her mind went white with fear. What was he talking about? This had to be some kind of mistake, a misunderstanding-

Just as she opened her mouth to speak again, the butt of his gun came down against the back of her head; her vision exploded in stars, and then faded to black as she slumped against her car. Barely conscious, she felt herself being dragged away down the road, lifted and shoved into the backseat of the squad car, unceremoniously dumped with her face down against the cold leather. The engine hummed to life; a seatbelt clicked - not hers.

“Sir?” He spoke again from the front seat. “Package is secured.”

She wondered if Bucky was coming to find her. He would, she told herself. He’d come.

And then, nothing.

[softschnappi]

Winter Showers Bring...Tacos and Mike Wheeler?

hey guys! Finally sat down a shat out a 2k fic even though I have 80+ wips to finish...anyways...hope you enjoy! fun fact I coincidentally had tacos the night after I wrote this...

pairing: ryers

summary: Richie and Will share a shower together and Mike finds out, but he’s cool with it. It’s a little awkward, some shenanigans ensue and there’s a lot of talking about relationships (between richie and will and about mike and el)

warnings: swearing, lots of mentions of sex but no actual sex, showering if you consider that a warning?

read it on ao3

“Is this warm enough for you, baby?”

Richie reached his hand behind the shower curtain and felt the stream of water for himself, making sure it wasn’t scalding hot as Will usually enjoyed. “It’s good. I’ll just never understand why you want to feel like you’re burning in hell when you shower,” He paused, “You can’t blame me for not wanting to walk out of here looking like a hot cheeto.”

“You know I hate being cold,” Will reminded him, pulling off his sweater and shirt. They fell onto the floor in a wrinkled pile, followed by his pants, socks, and underwear.

Richie followed in suit, setting his glasses on the sink counter before stripping naked. “I know, I know, princess can’t have the room temperature below seventy…” He watched as Will rolled his eyes and stepped into the shower with him.

Will squirted shampoo into his palm, as Richie soaked his hair under the water, before beginning to scrub his boyfriend’s hair.

“You wanna get tacos after this, baby?” Richie asked, placing his hands in the familiar position of around Will’s waist, massaging his wet skin with his thumbs.

Nodding, Will replied, “Yeah, okay. Then we’ll watch that movie, right? And actually watch it this time?” He raised an eyebrow, expecting the smile that appeared on Richie’s face. It seems like every time they tried to relax together and watch a movie, they get distracted and end up fucking or just fooling around in some way or another.

“Tonight yes, because Mike and El are going to grace us with their wonderful presence, but next time...we’ll hopefully have to save the food for later…” Richie reached and grabbed the shampoo bottle off the shelf and squeezed some directly onto Will’s head. Every time they fought, which was very rare, or especially had sex, Richie always ordered some type of food to eat. Pizza or fast food, never anything healthy. “Well, unless you wanna get back at them, give them a taste of their own med-”

Will furiously shook his head as Richie rubbed into his scalp. Mike having El over all the time was no problem, he could care less, but hearing Mike’s bed begin to creak along with loud grunts and girly moans coming through the wall happened one too many times, and there was no way Will wanted them hearing him and Richie. They’d only recently told their inner circle about them being in a relationship, even though they’ve been together over a year, and Will would rather die than have anybody listen to him having sex.

“I was joking!” Richie laughed, “I know you’re no exhibitionist. Fuck, I mean you’re so shy you have trouble asking for a handjob, such a shy little baby...trying to hide your face from me when you cum even though you look so cute-”

Reaching behind him, Will stared into Richie’s eyes with a squint and his cheeks tinted pink, and turned the shower handle to the right, watching as his boyfriend writhed with pain as the sudden hot water hit his body.

“Ow! Ow! Fuck! Okay, I’m sorry, just-” He yelped, cutting himself off as the water temperature turned back to normal. “You can be a real asshole sometimes, under all those layers of whatever innocence you have left.”

“Well, I wonder who I got it from?” Will scratched his wet hair, pretending to think.  

Richie playfully gasped as he reached for the blue loofah and soap. “That’s not very nice. Ouchie, you hurt my heart…my feelings are so hurt, scrub me squeaky clean or I won’t buy you tacos.”

“You-”

Bang bang bang bang!

“Will? Hello?”

It was Mike, banging on the door with an urgent tone in his booming voice.

Will’s eyes went wide as both he and Richie froze. He blinked a few times before licking his lips and shouting back, “I’m in the shower! What do you want?”

“Okay, stay in there!” Mike told him as the bathroom door swung open. Will flailed his arms around in a panic, dropping the loofah and slapping a hand over Richie’s mouth to prevent him from giving himself away. “Sorry, I really really gotta piss, fuck !” Continued Mike once he was inside, an audible unzipping sound coming afterword, followed by him pissing into the toilet and sighing with relief.

Richie began licking into Will’s palm, for the sole purpose of just being a little shit. Will pointed a warning finger at him with a serious expression on his face. Richie responded by smirking into his hand and raising a challenging eyebrow at him, before letting out a loud and long fart. Putting his face into his hand, Will began to regret life and at the same time contemplate murdering Richie. He knew Mike heard it, and he knew Mike would think it was him since he didn’t know Richie was in the shower with him. Will’s cheeks burned with embarrassment with every silent second that passed and it felt like Mike was taking an eternity to piss.

Almost tripping over all the clothes, Mike turned the sink on, trying to hold back his laughter. If that was him in there, he would have waited until he was alone and then let it rip, but he guessed that Will was just super comfortable around him. But the silence between them was only making it worse.

As he soaped up his hands, Mike noticed the familiar pair of glasses sitting on the counter. His eyebrows furrowed in confusion. Those were definitely Richie’s, but why would they be here instead of on his face? He was essentially blind without them. Mike’s eyes trailed to the scattered clothes across the floor, which he now realized was a lot for one person. Well, he also now figured out that it wasn’t just Will in the shower because one, there were two towels also on the counter, and two, a Hawaiin printed shirt would never belong to Will, and neither would those pizza socks or PlayStation printed boxers.

“Hi, Richie,” Mike announced.

Richie shoved Will’s hand off of his face. “Hi, Mikey! Wanna join us?”

“I didn’t fart, that wasn’t me I swear , it was Richie!” Will pleaded aloud.

Mike burst into laughter. “Yeah, I was like, shit Will, you couldn’t wait until I left?” He paused, catching his breath and regaining his composure. “Anyway, sorry I had to intrude like that. I, uh, didn’t know you guys were at this stage yet…” It was a little shocking for Mike if he had to be honest. Sure, they only recently told him that they were together, but Mike really hadn’t thought much about what they were doing before they told people. It was a jump, for sure, to see Will doing relationship stuff after all these years of...not.

“Well, it would be nice if we didn’t know what stage you and your missus were at, but we do,” Richie fired back, earning himself a light smack on the chest.

“I--uh--well--sorry--I--we--” Mike stammered, face heating up with embarrassment. Will does such a good job at keeping Richie moderately quiet that he and El just assume nobody is home. Which will always be the wrong move. Richie and Will always make sure to check the entire apartment, sometimes even the cabinets just to be safe, before they get down and dirty.

Reaching down and grabbing the fallen loofah, Will waved his hand to dismiss Mike even though he couldn’t see him. “This totally isn’t awkward at all, but let’s drop it.”

“Right,” Mike replied. “I just came in here to piss, enjoy your shower,” He hurriedly finished before walking out and shutting the bathroom door.

Richie and Will each let out a long breath. At least Mike was cool with it, as he should be because it’s not like he’s had to suffer through hearing them fucking.

As Will began to wash Richie’s body, he said, “Well that was certainly something.”

“I kinda wanted him to come in here. I mean, you would have to leave since there’s barely enough room for two people as it is, but I bet Mike would let me wash his balls.”

Will visibly cringed at what came out of Richie’s mouth. It was like his ears were being poisoned. “I hate that...so much. Never say any of it ever again. And enough about the ball washing thing, you’re so gross!”

Richie raised his arms a little in defence whilst Will ran the soap over his upper thighs. “I’m just saying it would bond us more!”

“Okay, maybe it would, but I’m still not in favour of it. It’s embarrassing, it’s kinda weird, I wouldn’t wanna look at you, and you’d probably scrub too hard on purpose. End of conversation, I’m not letting you wash my balls.” He continued to wash Richie as he turned around to show his backside, before speaking up again, “You know, I’m surprised you’ve stayed soft for this long. You’re usually a huge perv when I shower with you.”

Richie laughed. “Thank you for the compliment, dear, but you’ve forgotten I haven’t washed you yet.” He batted his eyelashes and poked Will’s nose. “Don’t act like you don’t like the attention, shy boy. Or like you haven’t gotten hard from me washing you.”

“That was one fucking time! Fuck, always about sex with you. You’re nasty. It’s so hard to put up with you just so you can pay for my $5.99 taco box, it really is.”

Leaning in close to his face, Richie mocked, “Aw, it’s so horrible isn’t it?”

“Yeah, it is,” Will replied, licking his lips and putting his arms loosely around Richie’s neck as he got closer. “You’re a real piece of work. I don’t usually do this stuff for free, but you’re hot and have a big dick, so...”

Richie’s face faltered a little at that. “I feel bad, I’ve corrupted your brain so much since we met, but then again you’re so hot when you say stuff like that…” Will only saw Richie smile for a second before his waist was pulled closer and he pressed his lips against his. Will immediately opened his mouth to let Richie’s tongue inside, letting out a little sigh after he groaned into his mouth. Kissing down his neck and beginning to suck a red mark onto Will’s neck, Richie’s hands roamed his back before sliding down and giving his ass a squeeze.

Bang bang bang!

“You’re going to use up all the hot water, assholes!” Mike yelled from behind the door.

Shit, how long have they been in there?

“Yeah, and I have to pee…” El chimed in.

Will immediately reached behind him and turned the water off. Richie pulled back the curtain and they both quickly stepped out, wrapping a towel around their waist. Grabbing his glasses and putting them on his face, Richie followed Will out the door, neither of them bothering to pick up any of their clothes.

“Sorry,” Will mumbled to El as they passed by her on the way to his room.

“Did you enjoy your shampoo? Because that’s as far as I got with you…” Richie said once they were both standing in Will’s room.

Will giggled, “Shit, you’re right. It was basically your shower and I was just...there.” He dug through his dresser and slipped on a fresh pair of boxers.

Richie grabbed his hand and pulled him toward the bed before he sat down. “How about I just Uber Eats the food? Do you wanna pick up where we left off?”

“Mike and El are home…did you already forget that?”

“You and that dirty mind of yours, I swear, Will, all you think about is sex,” Richie playfully huffed. “Such a bad influence. I just meant kisses. Can’t a man just kiss his boyfriend around here?”

Will rolled his eyes with a small smile and pushed Richie back on his bed before climbing on top of him and connecting their lips.

“Are you guys gonna get your clothes?” El shouted.

Richie let out an exasperated sigh as Will stood up. “We really need our own place. I don’t know how much more I can take.”

Will whipped his head around to look back at him and flushed. “You really mean it?”

Giving him a small shove with his foot, Richie grinned, “Go get our clothes, buttercup, we can leave the talking for later when we finally get those tacos.”

[the-enamorando-deity]

jazzzzzz can I please have 10 with L and with Maria Hill*? 💙

yes, yes you can. I am SHOOKETH,, yes this is a blessing :):) 18+ warning for the smut below so uhhh enjoy

Maria Hill x Reader, 18+

Good Morning

Most mornings, you would wake up to the beeping of the most annoying alarm your phone had to offer. You preferred waking up in her arms, both of you spread out and gently woken by the sun creeping through the cracked blinds. Maria grumbled and rolled over, hiding her face against your chest. 

‘Morning,’ you mumbled, grateful you both finally had a day off to spend together.

After more than a struggle, you dragged her from the bed and into the kitchen. You kissed the back of her neck as she made coffee for the pair of you, your eyes drifting over her gun sitting on the counter.

‘Does that need to be there?’

She turned to wrap her arms around your neck, paying you back for the kisses you laid on her neck. ‘Sorry, baby,’ she muttered, breaking away between words, ‘if you hate it, it’s gone.’

Her words were sweet like honey, you couldn’t even process what she was saying as she kissed down your collarbone. You didn’t hate guns, but you hated them laying in the open like that, especially since anyone could just waltz in and… you lost your train of thought when she pulled your robe open, kissing down the centre of your chest.

‘I really need to shower,’ you stuttered between breaths, her lips kissing all over your chest and her hands moving down your shoulders. ‘Maria…’

She took your hands and pulled you to the bathroom, walking backwards and devouring you with her eyes. ‘Mind if I join?’

You grinned and flicked the fan on, dragging the handle for the water to the hottest setting you could handle, not that you would need it. Maria pushed the straps of your slip down, pulling it over your head. You slid your fingers across the buttons on her shirt, popping them open a little too easily.

She kissed your neck and pressed you against the glass wall of the shower, the hot water pelting down on her back and making her press herself against you. Slippery from the water, you moved your hands down her back and tried to grab her ass, your hands gliding all over her with ease.

You felt her smile as she sucked on your chest, gently grazing her teeth over your collarbone. Your experience in the shower was limited to washing your hair and body, something Maria didn’t know, but she would be more than willing to show you all her tricks.

Her hands gripped your hips, teasing your thighs with her thumbs. She had her way with you last night, but now it was your turn. Your hand drifted up into her back and latched onto her hair, clenching your fingers and pushing back against her. Her back arched and her hips pressed against yours as she touched the cold tile wall.

You grinned as you kissed your way down her body, holding her by her ass you kissed your way inside her.

Trying to find something to hold onto, Maria felt around, the only thing she could find was your head. She pushed you deeper as you licked her clit, sucking down her pussy as she tightened her grip.

You could feel her muttering, trying to hold onto a word but unable to even catch her breath. Her legs buckled as you slipped your tongue inside her, sucking and stretching your tongue as far inside her as you could manage, using everything she taught you the night before against her.

Her body rocked against your face, your fingers taking the place of your tongue, your lips moving back to her clit. Every second that you worked her up was a mix of heaven and hell, bliss surrounded by a scalding heat. She started slipping through your hands, sinking lower, your fingers reaching deeper.

You wanted her to ride the high that hit her, enough to leave her shaking. It wasn’t hard once she started, everything hitting her all at once. She turned to putty in your hands, melting as your fingers curled in just the right way, touching all the right places. She came with a weak groan, holding your shoulders for support as you cleaned her up and sucked at her thighs, kissing your way back up her body.

Maria held your shoulders as you kissed her neck, legs still shaking as you climbed out of the shower. She ran her hands through her soaked wet hair, trying to catch her breath long enough to grab the shampoo.

You grinned at her through the foggy glass, watching her biceps as she reached up to rub the shampoo into her hair. ‘Hurry up in there, I have stuff I wanna do.’

She finished a little faster than you expected, coming up behind you as you rubbed a sugar scrub across your lips. You licked it off as Maria turned you around, wrapping her arms around your neck.

‘You missed a spot,’ she murmured, kissing you and cleaning the rest of the sugar off your lips. ‘Is that raspberry?’

You nodded and grinned, lips both blue from the sugar. ‘Don’t start what you can’t finish, Hill,’ you warned, pressing your chest against hers as you deepened the kiss.

She held the side of your face and you ran your fingers through her hair, pulling her lips away and frowning concerned.

‘What?’

‘Looks like you have a little shampoo in your hair,’ you mumbled, pulling her towards the shower, ‘mind if I help you with that?’

@marvelfansince08love @mymarvelwomen @imnotasuperhero

[smooshjames]

forget you not (v)

how come they don’t make ‘em like you, babe? (or: a night to hold on to)

word count: 3.6k

a/n: ok this is technically the final part of forget you not as it’s currently written, but i may write an epilogue if i’m feeling up to it. but either way, thank you for reading and i hope you’ve enjoyed!! as always, all songs that have been mentioned or will be mentioned are not mine; they belong to little mix. this chapter only has one, which you can listen to here. also, i have a ko-fi, so if you want / are able to buy me a coffee, i would sincerely appreciate it! alright, i believe that’s everything i need so say, so without further ado, here’s part five of forget you not. thank you againn for reading, i hope you enjoy!

warnings: more angst, Implied Sexual Content(tm)

previous parts: one, two, three, four

No one pressed you for details on your conversation with Shayne, which you were glad for. You didn’t even know what to think about it yourself, much less how to explain it to other people, even to your best friends. You went through the last event of the day in a sort of trance, barely speaking throughout the whole interview. If anyone asked you about it, you figured you could just blame it on being exhausted after a long day.

As soon as you were free, you went straight back to your hotel room and locked yourself in the bathroom for an hour so that you could shower and decompress. Once you had scrubbed all your makeup off and changed into more comfortable clothes, you came out of the bathroom and found your hotel room empty. There was a note from Carly that read the following:

Hey Buttercup,

I figured you’d want some time and space so I went over to Alexis and Piper’s room. If you want to talk, or just to have some company, feel free to come join us. We were thinking about going out for dinner so text me if you want something.

I love you. You’re the baddest bitch I ever met.

-- C

You smiled at her thoughtfulness and went to crawl into bed. You scrolled through Twitter for a while but found your eyelids growing heavier as the sun began to disappear behind the horizon. It wasn’t that late, only about eight o’clock, but between getting up early and having such an exhausting day, you soon found yourself dragged off into sleep.

You woke up around eleven, groggy and disoriented. When you sat up, you saw Carly entering your darkened room. “Hey,” you said, voice rough with sleep and disuse. “How was dinner?”

“It was good,” she said. “You feeling okay?”

You sighed. “I don’t know,” you said. You dug around in the sheets for your phone and eventually found it. It was almost dead so you went to plug it in. There were no pressing notifications; the only things of note were a text from one of your friends back home and a text from Carly, sent shortly after you’d fallen asleep, which was just her double-checking that you didn’t want anything for dinner. “I kind of feel like somebody punched through my ribcage and started squeezing my heart.”

“I think that’s called a heart attack,” Carly said, smiling. You laughed despite yourself. “In all seriousness, I don’t blame you. This weekend has been utterly insane. I’m gonna shower and get some sleep, though, okay? We need to be up early tomorrow so we can pack before we fly home.”

You nodded. She rooted around in her suitcase for a change of clothes and then disappeared into the bathroom. You considered her words. You weren’t sure if you wanted to go home the next day. You knew that if you left without seeing Shayne, your choice would be made; if you didn’t go see him tonight, you’d probably never see him again.

You made a frustrated sound in the back of your throat. You reached for your phone, found the text from him, and put the address into your GPS. It was only twenty minutes from your hotel.

After thirty or so minutes, the water in the bathroom shut off. You laid on your back and stared up at the ceiling, debating.

The lovesick teenager in you really wanted to go to him, at least so you could see him one last time before you really said goodbye. Maybe if you gave him another chance…

No. That was stupid. You had to remind yourself what happened last time; all the tears, the heartache, the pain. The only reason you got through it was Carly, and then eventually the band.

You wrote music to help yourself cope, and then you met Alexis and Piper, and everything took off from there. If you let yourself give in to the insane idea that he could magically be better this time, you were signing your own death warrant. You knew how things ended with Shayne.

You rolled onto your side so that you were facing away from Carly’s bed and looking at the window. You closed your eyes and tried to sleep, but you couldn’t. Distantly, you could hear Carly moving around the room behind you as she got ready to go to bed. You heard her covers rustling as she laid down.

You couldn’t force your brain to be quiet, and after a while, you ended up just staring straight at the radiator on the far wall of the room. Slivers of moonlight were shining through the cracks in the blinds.

Something thumped against the back of your head. You let out a yelp, surprised, and bolted upright. When you turned around, Carly was still laying down and facing away from you, but one of her pillows was on the ground between the two beds. You figured she had thrown it at you. “What was that for?” you demanded.

“You’re being too loud,” she replied. “I can’t sleep.”

“I’m not saying anything!”

She rolled over and looked at you, accusatory. “I can hear you thinking.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I’ll try to quiet my thoughts down,” you said, sarcastic. You scrubbed your hands over your face, frustration causing your shoulders to draw tight and tense.

“Please do,” she replied, fake-annoyed. Her voice softened, though, as she continued: “what happened today, buttercup?”

“What do you mean?” you asked. You knew what she was talking about, but you didn’t want to face it.

She rolled her eyes. “I mean you and Shayne disappeared after the Smosh video, and you said all of about three words to anybody for the rest of the day. The girls and I were all talking about it over dinner. If he did something, we can and will make his death look like an accident.”

Again, a laugh bubbled out of you despite yourself. Carly always knew how to cheer you up. But the laugh faded quickly, and the smile not long after it. You sighed. “He didn’t do anything,” you said. “I mean, he just… he said that him and Courtney aren’t dating, and then he said that a part of him is still in love with me, and he said he doesn’t want to ‘leave things like this,’ whatever that means, so he texted me his new address and said I could come over if I wanted to. He said that he wants to talk more, but that if I don’t show up tonight then he’ll never bother me again. The most batshit crazy thing he said was that he thought I was over him. And it’s just stupid because he says he doesn’t want to leave things like this but he’s the one who ended it in the first place!”

By the end of your rant, your voice had raised in pitch and volume. You ran a hand through your hair, distressed. A tear dripped down the bridge of your nose and you wiped at it frustratedly, but with that tear, the floodgates opened. Your throat tightened and you couldn’t hold back a sob. You felt your heart, which had been so precariously stitched back together, shattering all over again.

“Oh, honey,” Carly murmured. She slid out of her bed and moved over to yours so that she could wrap you in a hug. You clutched at her shirt and let yourself be babied for a few minutes, crying weakly against her.

A part of you was disgusted with yourself. You had worked so hard to get over him, and now here you were, broken again after just one weekend. You thought that you’d given all the tears you had to give for him.

Once you had managed to calm down, Carly moved so that she was sitting next to you rather than on her knees in front of you. She kept one arm wrapped around your shoulders. “So now you don’t know if you should go or not?”

You nodded. “I know that if I don’t, if I go to the airport tomorrow and fly home… he’ll keep his promise. That was the one thing he was always good at. And I know that it’s for the best if I just let it die, but something in me doesn’t want this to be the last time we ever talk to each other. Seeing him again, I… I was so sure that I was over him. But there’s a reason I haven’t found anybody else, and the reason is that every date I go on, every guy I’m with… I compare them to him. And no one ever seems quite as good. And now he’s twenty minutes away and I can’t sleep because I just know I need to --”

You stopped short. You had finally found your answer.

“Go, Y/N,” Carly whispered.

It didn’t take more than that. You threw off your covers, grabbed your phone and wallet, pulled on the first pair of shoes you saw, and rushed down to the lobby to catch the first taxi you could find.

***

Shayne was beginning to give up hope, which was a statement, considering he hadn’t had much of that to begin with.

He ordered takeout from your favorite Chinese place. At least it had been your favorite before everything fell apart. He hoped your order was still the same. Once he had the food, he put it in the oven to keep it warm and began straightening up his apartment. He took out the trash, washed the dishes, folded and refolded the throw blanket on the couch, and halfheartedly played Animal Crossing in an effort to take his mind off of the passing minutes.

Eight o’clock came and went, and nine o’clock not long after it.

At 9:30, Shayne went to move the food from the oven to the fridge. He considered eating his but decided against it. If you showed up, he didn’t want you to have to eat alone. Besides, his nerves had completely sapped him of any appetite.

At ten o’clock, he gave up on Animal Crossing and just put on an old comedy special instead. He scrolled through Twitter but found that he wasn’t absorbing any of the words on the screen, so he put his phone down and just stared at his television without really hearing any of the jokes.

A couple of times, a car door closed outside of his apartment and he perked up, hoping against hope. But the knock on his door never came, so he sank back down into the couch and turned back to the TV, kicking himself for being so stupid. Of course you weren’t going to come.

Finally, at 11:30, he sighed and went to get ready for bed. He was halfway to the bathroom when there was a knock on the door. He froze.

“Hey, Shayne, um…” he felt like he could cry tears of joy at the sound of the voice from outside, slightly distorted through the wood of the door but definitely yours. Shayne felt like his bones were melting. “It’s Y/N, I, uh… could you let me in, please?”

He nearly broke his leg running over to the door. He cleared his throat, straightened his shirt, and opened the door. You were standing there in sweatpants and a ratty old t-shirt, your eyes red-rimmed and puffy. “Hey,” you said.

“Hi,” he said. “Um, come in, please.”

He stepped back to let you in, which you did. There was a moment of agonizing silence where you stood on his welcome mat, looking around.

“It’s nice,” you said.

“Thanks,” he said, closing the door behind you. “Um, sit down, please. Make yourself comfortable. I ordered Chinese for you if -- if you’re hungry. Or if you want water or something, I can get you some of that, too.”

“Actually, I am really hungry. I didn’t eat dinner,” you said. He felt his chest twist with worry, but he didn’t comment on it. He didn’t have the right to be worried about you. You were an adult, and you could take care of yourself.

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll go heat it up.”

You mumbled an “okay” and sat down on the couch while he went into the kitchen to heat up your food. He moved through his apartment in sort of a daze, only half-aware of what he was doing.

You looked like an angel sitting on the couch when he got home. Your nose was buried in the book you’d started last week, and it must’ve been good because you seemed to be well over halfway through it. You looked up when you heard the door close and flashed him that smile that made him feel like he was going to implode with the force of his love for you. Suddenly, his palms were sweating and his heart was thundering and he couldn’t breathe.

He felt like he was in a coal mine and the canary had just dropped dead.

“Hey, babe,” you said. “How was your day?”

He barely heard the question. He walked over to the counter and braced himself against it, took a deep, shuddering breath. The ring in his back pocket suddenly weighed a metric ton. Too much; too much feeling, too much pressure. He was pretty sure this was what dying felt like.

Jesus, what was wrong with him? He had a woman behind him that was perfect in every aspect, and that fact was suddenly cloying, overwhelming. It was cold in the apartment but he shrugged his jacket off anyway. He felt shaky, unsteady.

He couldn’t do it anymore. He didn’t know why, but he felt panic welling up inside him and he knew he needed out. And then, before he could think it through, he dumped kerosene over his own life and set it ablaze with just four, stupid words.

“We need to talk.”

The microwave beeped. Shayne startled back into the present. He blinked a few times, trying to clear his head of thoughts of that night. That didn’t matter right now. What mattered was that you were sitting in the living room waiting for him, and if you were waiting for him that meant you were willing to talk. That meant he had a chance.

He returned to the living room with the food and held yours out to you, and he couldn’t help but notice the way your eyes lit up when you saw where it was from.

“No way! I haven’t had this in so long!” you said, looking between Shayne and the takeout container like he’d performed some kind of miracle.

For a split second, it was as if the last few years hadn’t happened. You tucked into your food and he did the same with his, and there were a couple of minutes where neither of you said anything. Every so often he’d sneak a glance at you, trying to commit to memory exactly what you looked like at that moment. It was edging ever-closer to midnight, and the moonlight filtering in through his blinds had haloed you in silver light. You looked ethereal and lovely and he could feel himself falling back in love with you with each passing second.

Finally, when you were done eating, you set the takeout container down on the coffee table and turned to him. He did the same. “That was really good,” you said. “Thank you.”

“No problem,” he said. “I, um… I thought you wouldn’t come.”

“In all honesty, neither did I.”

He wanted so desperately to reach for you. His fingers twitched as he fought the instinct to take your hand. He picked at a stray thread on his sweatpants in an effort to occupy his hands. “What made you change your mind?” he asked.

You sighed. “I knew that if I didn’t come tonight I would never see you again, and that was… I don’t want that.”

He hummed low in his throat, desperately trying to quell the hope welling up within him. “I don’t want that either,” he said. He couldn’t bring himself to look you in the eye. He just kept staring at the stray thread on his pants, feeling a little bit like his fingers weren’t his own. “I, um… I said this to Damien earlier, but I guess it’s probably more important that I say it to you. Letting you go was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done, Y/N, and if I could go back and change that night I would in an instant.”

There was a long, agonizing moment where you didn’t say anything. He risked a glance up at your face; the silence was unbearable and he needed to get an idea of what you were thinking. Your expression was stony and unreadable. “Please say something,” he whispered. His voice was strained around the tears he was holding back.

“I loved you,” you said. Your face was still utterly unreadable. “I loved you harder and more honestly than I’ve ever loved anybody. And you… you decided that you didn’t want that. That you didn't want me. And Shayne, I wish we lived in a fairytale where everything could just be okay again, where I could just love you again without the past getting in the way, because if we did --” you stopped and took a deep breath. “After you, music became my everything. I worked myself to the fucking bone to get myself where I am, to get myself back to good. And now… now it doesn’t even matter because what the hell is the point of being good if I’m not good with you?”

“I’m sorry,” he said, because he didn’t know what else to say. “I was so utterly idiotic. I was scared and in too deep and I didn’t know what I wanted. I sure as hell didn’t know what I had. But then you were gone and for a while, it was like what the fuck is the point? What am I doing if I don’t get to come home every night and see you? And I thought about calling so many times but I just… I just couldn’t. I was always too fucking scared, and by the time I worked up the courage, I thought it was too late. I thought you would’ve found somebody else.”

At that, you laughed. “I tried,” you said. “I went on so many dates, my friends set me up with so many guys. But none of them were you, and all I’ve ever wanted is you, so how the hell were they supposed to compare? So finally I just stopped going on dates. I told Carly… I told myself, really, that it was because I was so busy with work. That I’d find someone new eventually. And before I knew it, it had been years and I was still alone because there’s nobody like you.”

Now, Shayne did reach for you. He held his hand out, palm up, a clear invitation. You took it without hesitation, and that simple touch was enough to send him spiraling out of his body. “I still love you,” he said. You squeezed his hand.

“I know,” you replied. “I… I don’t think I can say that right now. I think I feel the same way, but the word, saying it out loud… it’s too much. But I have to leave tomorrow and I’d really like to have tonight to hold on to.”

He knew it was a terrible idea. He knew he shouldn’t do it. He’d already let his hopes spiral entirely out of control. He felt like he had finally reached the light at the end of a five-year-long tunnel, and he’d spent so long in the dark that he wasn’t entirely sure what to do with the light. You were still nervous, flighty, like a stray animal; one wrong move and you’d be running for the hills.

But there you were, silhouetted by moonlight and looking at him like you needed him to breathe and Jesus, he was only a man. He wasn’t equipped to deal with the fire spreading slowly from his fingertips to his heart and out into his bloodstream.

“Okay,” he said, and for a moment, nothing happened. The room was still, frozen in time.

And then you both surged forward, desperate, like you needed each other to survive. He maneuvered you up and toward the bedroom, and the door shutting behind you sounded a little like the last nail in the most beautiful coffin ever built.

***

The sound of Shayne’s alarm had never been so wonderful.

He sighed as he rolled over, reaching blindly for you. But where you should’ve been he found only sheets, and they had long gone cold in your absence. Shayne sat bolt upright and looked around the room. Your clothes were gone. You were gone.

He almost crashed onto the floor trying to get himself untangled from his sheets. He pulled on the nearest article of clothing he could find and burst from his bedroom into the living room, heart pounding. You were nowhere to be seen. “No,” he mumbled, over and over until the word lost meaning, eyes scanning his apartment desperately for some sign of you. For a few terrifying seconds, he wondered if the night before had been some kind of vivid fever dream. But that wasn’t possible; the feeling of your skin under his fingertips was far too real, far too tangible. It had to be real.

And yet, the only proof that you’d been there at all was an empty takeout container and a note saying that you would call soon.

[ghosthunthq]

What Are Men Good For?

Title: What Are Men Good For?

Author: @shesailsships

A/N: This was written for the 2020 Ghost Hunt Fanworks Weekend. I selected the prompt neighbors who only meet because “I can’t get this stupid jar open, can you help?”

What are men even good for?– Ayako Matsuzaki thought vehemently as her apartment key scratched in the lock and she flung open her front door– besides opening jars, moving furniture, and killing bugs?

Kicking off her heels and dropping her purse, Ayako immediately set to erasing the face of the man who had successfully ruined one of her very few Saturdays off. He had been the son of one of the nurses who worked the night shift with Ayako at The University Of Tokyo Hospital. Ayako had gone into the arrangement with more hope than she probably should have after two other failed dates just that month…

So much for that.

Looking to cool her temper a bit, Ayako began rummaging around her small kitchen. Locating a glass, she closed her cabinet with a bang. Opening the fridge, she closed it with a slam. Ayako stood at her kitchen counter taking angry swallows of cold Brita water. Then with a slight pang of guilt, it occurred to her she might have been a bit too loud for it being midnight.

But the sudden sound of a running shower put her mind at ease.

That’s right. Rocker Monk is always up at this time.

Ayako had never actually crossed paths with Rocker Monk. He had moved into the unit directly next to her about a month ago. What Ayako had learned about her neighbor had all come through the wall. That he was in fact a he was made certain after hearing him sing (loudly) in the shower (which was inconveniently located next to her kitchen), and…the chanting. When Ayako first heard it, frankly it had kind of weirded her out. She had considered calling apartment management…but after week, she (grudgingly) found it somewhat soothing. It wasn’t hurting anyone, so she let it be.

Ayako attributed her passing curiosity in him (after having never given a second though to her previous neighbors in that unit) to them keeping similar schedules. Ayako worked graveyard shifts at the hospital. She assumed she was the only person in her building sleeping until four in the afternoon, whose work day didn’t start until eleven-thirty at night. But then came Rocker Monk. Who was silent as a ghost all day, and only active at night. Between ten and eleven Ayako could always count on the shower kicking on, and then he was out the door…off to whatever his job was. After hearing him regularly practicing bass guitar, Ayako began the amusing idea that he was in a rock band.

He’s late tonight, Ayako thought as Rocker Monk began singing.

He wasn’t half bad and Ayako decided listen in while finishing the dishes left in her sink. Afterward, she found herself going to bed in a relatively good mood.

The next night, Ayako was back to slamming cabinets again. She was in a flustered mood, running behind. She had taken the world’s quickest shower, and with her hair still wet, she was attempting to cobble together a decent breakfast. She was about to work a double and she wanted something decent in her stomach. But the damn jam just wouldn’t open.

Cursing in frustration, Ayako was considering just chucking the thing…when she heard the shower turn on next door. She stared down at the offending jar in her hand.

What are men even good for?

Ayako gave it fifteen minutes. She busied herself blow drying her hair, touching up her makeup, throwing on her scrubs. Then, putting two pieces of bread in the toaster, she grabbed the jar of jam, and left her apartment.

A moment later, Ayako was standing in front of Rocker Monk’s door, knocking firmly. It took a good bit of knocking (clearly he didn’t have guests over often), but then the lock slid over and there stood a tall man in the doorway. Ayako took him in in a blink– his long blonde hair pulled back in a low ponytail, his broad shoulders, the black long sleeve v-neck sweater he was wearing– and then she was thrusting the jar of jam into his hands.

“Can you open this?”

As not to drop it, Rocker Monk accepted the jar, but was looking between it and her with an expression that was partly interested, partly confused.

“Do we…know each other?”

Ayako, arms crossed, impatiently nodded.

“Of course. You’re–” Ayako hesitated here, almost calling him by his nickname, “Bou…Bou-san. And I’m your neighbor who needs help opening this jar.”

Rocker Monk blinked at her, taking in her answer. Something like an impressed spark lit his eyes,

“Bou-san? What makes you call me that?”

“I heard you chanting.”

“Oh?”

“What happened? You run away from the temple?”

The monk was smiling by this time, a bit self consciously he rubbed at the back of his neck.

“Actually…yeah. I couldn’t make music there.”

“Ha, I knew it.”

“You could hear that too?”

“Sorry but, I’m running short on time. Can you open that thing or not?”

His attention returned to the jar in his hands, Bou-san gave the lid a deft twist and with a satisfying pop, it opened. The monk held it out to her.

“There you go.”

Ayako flashed a smile and took back the jam. With a wave she was already backing down the hall, towards her apartment.

“Thanks, neighbor.”

He waved back, and peering out of his door frame, he called back to her, “It’s Takigawa, Houshou.”

“Nice to meet you, Rocker Monk.”

Still smiling, Ayako closed her apartment door and set about making a reasonable breakfast, having just enough time to stuff toast in her mouth.

That’s what men are good for.

Weeks passed by. Ayako worked a blur of twelve and sixteen hours shifts. She listened in on countless songs sung by the monk in the shower. She swore he was even louder than before. On purpose. More often than not, she found herself wanting toast with jam on her days off. Visits next door became a somewhat regular thing.

Ayako learned that Rocker Monk– or as she now called him– Bou-san, was in fact in a band. A small indie one, that played mostly night gigs. He learned she was a nurse at a major hospital. She offered her services if he was ever choking to death. Or had a heart attack. She was well trained in the Heimlich Maneuver and CPR.

That spring Ayako was granted a much deserved vacation. After being lavishly lazy the first two days, she decided spring cleaning was in due order. On a bright Sunday morning she drug herself out of bed, threw open her blinds and windows and decided to rearrange her living room.

An hour later Ayako was sweating and cursing over her stubborn couch that just wouldn’t move. About to give the whole thing up– she had a dawning realization.

Exchanging the sweats she was cleaning in for a pair of jeans and a tank top, Ayako walked the familiar path to her neighbor’s door. Knowing it was hours before he would even be conscious, she hesitated in her plan, but then knocked anyways.

What are men even good for?

It took more pounding than usual, but eventually the monk answered the door. Ayako raised her eyebrows at the sight of the still half asleep man before her.

Hair loose at his shoulders, was wearing boxer shorts…and no shirt.

“Ah, crap. I thought it was an emergency–” he started to explain, attempting to cover his bare chest.

“It is an emergency. I need you to move my couch.”

Bou-san put on a shirt and the couch got moved.

That’s what men are good for.

The next day decided Ayako decided she wanted to move her bed. And then her computer desk. Rocker Monk got very little sleep the whole of Ayako’s vacation. But occasionally she fed him. They had dinner twice. Lunch once. Coffee several times.

After vacation Ayako gained the nickname Miko. Having been in her apartment, Bou-san noticed the number of plants that filled the space. He appreciated her green thumb and told her she reminded him of a shrine maiden. Ayako snorted at that, but the name stuck.

At the start of summer, Ayako was having trouble sleeping. It was incredibly muggy in Tokyo. On her night off, after tossing and turning for hours, Ayako stared at the ceiling in defeat. Sitting up in bed, she decided she would read, hoping that would make her tired enough to fall asleep. Reaching for her lamp, Ayako saw the clock read two in the morning.

Great.

Clicking the light on, Ayako reached for the book she had started six months ago– and then froze.

A spider. Hairy and the size of her hand, was crawling across the foot of her bed.

With a cry, Ayako jumped up– scrambling to stand at the top of her bed. Back pressed against the wall, Ayako’s mind raced, but every solution seemed to involve getting off the bed and facing indeterminate danger. She just couldn’t kill it.

And then, a flash of genius through her blind panic. A question that solved the problem.

What are men even good for?

Heart pounding, Ayako reached down, fumbling for her phone sitting on the nightstand nearest her. Her finger hit speed dial. Three rings later, a gruff voice answered.

“Wha– Ayako, what is–”

“Bou-san you have get over here right now there’s a huge spider it’s going to devour me and then you’ll have nobody to listen to you sing in the shower–”

It felt like a century, but Bou-san was over in an instant. Having exchanged keys a month ago (what if there was a medical emergency?), he came barreling into Ayako’s apartment, a broom in hand.

“Where?” he demanded as he entered the bedroom, waving the broom around.

“On my bed!”

But it wasn’t. In all of Ayako’s commotion, she had kicked her blankets off. The spider was no longer anywhere to be seen.

Ten minutes of turning on all the lights, sorting through all the blankets, doing a sweep of the whole apartment…and there was still, nothing.

“Those are nice,” Bou-san spoke, leaning against Ayako’s door frame where they had taken up post to watch for the spider.

“What’s nice? None of this is nice–”

“Your pajamas.”

Ayako tore her gaze away from the floor to glance down at herself. They were her lacy ones.

Oh well.

“Keep your eyes on the prize, monk. It’s almost three in morning, where the hell is this demon spider?”

“Wait, what’s that brown thing…?”

“What?!”

Ayako launched at Bou-san, and was clinging to him (practically climbing him…), before he could even finish his sentence, hitting him in the arm, demanding that he kill it.

But upon further inspection, there was nothing to kill. The brown thing turned out to be just one of Ayako’s slippers. Exhausted and flustered, Ayako finally released the monk, head in her hands.

“I’m just not going to sleep tonight. I’ll just call the office as soon as they open and have them bomb his place.”

Bou-san chewed at his lip, thoughtful.

“You have to sleep.”

Ayako sent him a sharp look,

“Not with that thing in here.”

“No…I don’t blame you there, but you could sleep…you know– at my place, if you wanted.”

There was a beat as Ayako’s foggy mind processed this offer.

“Sleep. At your apartment?”

“Yeah, like on my couch. I haven’t seen a spider for weeks, I think it’s probably safe.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah?”

“Sure.”

That’s what men are good for.

Trading her apartment for his, Ayako did finally manage to get some sleep that night, comfortably tucked into the monk’s bed, while the monk (somehow) ended up on the couch.

The summer’s humidity brought mosquitoes. And mosquitoes brought Bou-san over several times a week. The monk teased her that her love of nature didn’t seem to embrace all of it and the little spirits of the bugs she was having him squash would haunt her. Ayako balked at this, but that was how they got started on the topic of the paranormal. Apparently they shared a mutual interest in it, and more than one night was spent with them exchanging chilling real life experiences.

Ayako didn’t want to admit it, but the more she got to know Bou-san, the longer her list of what men were even good for seemed to grow.

Cooking.

Like when Bou-san surprised her with a real breakfast after she slogged home from a particularly harsh double shift at the hospital.

That’s what men are good for.

Handy work.

Like when her washing machine broke and apartment maintenance said it was back ordered and would take a month to be installed. One YouTube tutorial later and Bou-san had it fixed.

That’s what men are good for.

Company.

Like when Bou-san stayed up with her all night, taking her mind off the head cold she caught, watching ridiculous horror films, and telling bad jokes.

Standing on her deck, the season’s first snowflakes falling through the dark, Ayako studied the monk beside her, and found she was a bit afraid that she had come to like her list a little too much. Especially the part she just added…

“I can’t believe it’s really snowing.”

“You’re cheeks are red. Pretty cold, huh?”

“Hm.”

“Want me to come a little closer, share some warmth? Oh look at that, it’s really coming down now.”

What are men even good for?

Love.

And she kissed him.

That’s what men are good for.