#competent din is best din

[azertyrobaz]

Din & Grogu fighting together

[on-my-vigilante-sht]

Competing With Gods

Luke Castellan x Aphrodite!Reader, Apollo x uninterested!Reader

Request: Hi could you write luke castellan x reader, where Luke gets jealous of a guy who tries with y/n? How would he react if y/n is at the game? Thank you

Summary: When Apollo is sent to camp as a punishment, he sets his sights on Luke's girlfriend.

Warning: Fighting, jealousy, making out, the slightest allusions to/implied smut, Apollo being a dick

Word Count: 3k

Masterlist

A/N So instead of another camper or whatever, I’m making the other guy Apollo.

Apollo crashed into the ground of Camp Half-Blood. Right in the middle of all the cabins. Great. He briefly cursed Zeus for this. He was being punished for flirting with a nymph the big guy was interested in. And when Apollo had told his father to maybe focus on his wife, Zeus banished him to Camp Half-Blood for a few weeks as a “warning.”

The Half-Bloods began to peek out of their cabins but one girl was already rushing over. Her hair fell over her shoulder so nicely as she kneeled over him. Okay, maybe camp wouldn’t be so bad. She gave him a concerned look. “Are you alright?”

“Now that you’re here,” he immediately started flirting. He enjoyed the way she immediately became flustered and jumped to his feet. She looked up at him in bewilderment. She saw him fall. She wasn’t a daughter of Apollo but he should have been suffering from at least a few broken bones. “I’m Apollo,” he clarified with a proud smirk. By now all the other campers within the vicinity were near enough to hear and kneeled. The girl did too, kneeling with a lowered head. He reached out a hand to her. She took it hesitantly, standing up. “Who are you, gorgeous?”

She became further embarrassed. How do I bring up Luke? She briefly wondered. “Y/N. Daughter of Aphrodite.”

“I should have known,” the god flirted. “What with those mesmerizing eyes.”

“Lord Apollo,” a voice interrupted him. He turned, finding Chiron trotting over. “My apologies, I was just notified of your arrival.”

“No worries,” the god smiled. The nice thing about not being around gods is that you get called things like Lord.

“Please,” Chiron began, gesturing over to a big house, “let me show you around. Your father has a few requests for you whilst here.”

“Of course he does,” he rolled his eyes. He turned back to the girl. “I’ll see you around, gorgeous,” he winked.

As he left all the campers were left in shock. Especially Y/N. And even more so, her boyfriend. Luke went up to her, finding her still in astonishment. “Sooo… that was weird,” he began, trying to not show his jealousy.

“Yeah,” she breathed. “Was Apollo just flirting with me?”

“Yes!” Silena gushed as she ran up to her best friend/half-sister. “Oh my gods, a god is interested in you!” She then seemed to notice Luke and remember their relationship. “Oh- uh. Sorry, Luke.”

He just gave her a tight lipped smile.

“Oh my gods, what am I gonna do?” Y/N asked, clearly stressed out.

Luke shrugged, again trying not to show his jealousy. “Not much you can do. It’s not like you can tell him to leave you alone.”

“If you really don’t want him then you can tell him you have a boyfriend. And a sister,” Silena suggested with a raised eyebrow.

Her sister laughed. “I was trying to think of a way to mention Luke. And Silena, you’re 16.”

“He looks 18!” she insisted.

“Even if he was actually 18 I’d say he’s too old for you. Come on, the bathroom still needs to be cleaned after Drew decided she wanted to dye her hair black.”

“Yeah well, she’s crying now because she wants to be blonde again,” Silena explained as the sisters walked back to their cabin.

Feeling mildly ignored, Luke yelled after them. “I’ll see you at dinner!”

Remembering her boyfriend, Y/N ran back to him, pressing a peck on her lips. “Sorry. I’ll see you later.” He watched her go, trying to not think about it too much. She never forgot to kiss him goodbye but he tried to chalk it up to the fact that she was shocked by Apollo’s appearance.

~

That evening at dinner everyone had noticed the “new camper” sitting at the Apollo table looking very unhappy. Chiron stood up and called everyone’s attention. “As you all know, we have a very honored guest staying with us for a while. Lord Zeus had requested that we treat him as we would any other camper.” As he finished he gave us all a long, hard look as if to say, “Don’t get yourself killed when his immortality is restored.”

Once dinner finished, everyone was at the bonfire. Luke sat on the ground, his back resting up against a log. His girlfriend was leaning up against his shoulder, her legs over his lap. His free arm would occasionally swipe the mosquitos away from her with his other arm supporting her weight. They were talking to a few other campers when Luke let his gaze fall onto Apollo. Some campers, mostly girls from Aphrodite, sat around the god, looking at him with cartoon hearts in their eyes. He knew for a fact Y/N had told them to stay away as a. they were all minors and b. he was a god and she didn’t want to deal with their broken hearts.

When Apollo’s gaze fell on the girl in his lap, Luke tightened his grip protectively. He knew it was ridiculous. Y/N would never cheat on him and he knew she’d slap any guy who tried anything, immortal deity or not. But he couldn’t help but be worried. Hell, he had nearly punched an Ares camper last year and that kid wasn’t a god. And Apollo was known for his womanizing ways.

He tried to shake it off and go back to his conversation but his brain was still stuck on Apollo. “Hey,” he whispered so softly that only the girl in his lap could hear. She turned and he immediately kissed her. She kissed him back briefly but pulled away, not a huge fan of PDA especially in front of the entire camp. But Luke persisted, gently holding her cheek and kissing her deeply.

When she finally pulled away for breath she looked at him quizzically. “What was that for?”

He smiled and shrugged. “What? I can’t kiss my girlfriend?” She just smiled, pushing his head away jokingly before going back to her conversation. But he was looking at Apollo again, hoping the god saw that kiss. If he did, he was playing it off.

Later that night, when the fire was extinguished and he had kissed the Aphrodite counselor goodnight several times, Luke was trying to sleep. Keyword: trying. Normally the several snores or creeks of the Hermes cabin didn’t bother him, but he was so on edge thinking about Apollo’s flirting, that every noise jolted him awake. He couldn’t stop thinking about how Apollo had immediately begun to flirt with Y/N and how she had seemed to forget him for a moment.

Frustrated, Luke crept out of bed. As he opened the cabin door, he checked for harpies keeping watch but found none. So he went to the Aphrodite cabin, knocking on the window right above Y/N’s bed. It took a few tries but eventually, she poked her head up, gesturing to shut up and that she’d be out in a minute.

So Luke waited until she came around the side. “What?” she asked, still rubbing sleep from her eyes. But her hair was already falling back to the way its usual flawless look, courtesy of being Aphrodite’s daughter.

“I just wanted to see you,” Luke smiled sheepishly. And make sure Apollo isn’t sniffing around. He realized he didn’t have a reason to be out here that didn’t stem from insane jealousy. She looked mildly annoyed at that so he did the only thing he could think of. He kissed her. If he couldn’t get rid of Apollo, he could completely occupy her mind. So he did the only thing he could think of. He was pushing her up against the side of the cabin, one hand on her jaw, the other around her waist.

She had no clue where this came from but she gave in nonetheless. She wrapped her arms around his neck, kissing him deeply.

After a few minutes of making out, she finally managed to push him away enough to get a deep breath in. “What was that for?” she asked, both of them still gasping for air.

Luke smiled, grabbing her by the hips to pull her closer. “‘Cause I love you.” He pressed the lightest kiss to her nose before stepping away abruptly. “Night, see you in the morning.” And with that, he walked away the happiest demigod in all of camp.

The daughter of Aphrodite still just stood there, completely taken off guard. The only thing that snapped her out of her daze was the faint caw of a harpy, making her quickly scramble inside. Luke ended up getting his wish as that night, the only thing on her mind was that kiss.

~

The next day was Capture the Flag day. When Chiron announced it at dinner that night, everyone lost their minds. It was Athena, Hermes, Aphrodite, Hephaestus, and Poseidon vs. Ares, Apollo, Demeter, and Dionysus.

As the couple was walking over to their cabins to get their armor, Apollo caught up with them. “See you out there, Y/N,” he said as he passed with a wink.

“S-see yah?” she called back hesitantly.

Luke was frustrated but at least she didn’t seem flattered by his flirtations. Now she was just confused.

Once they grabbed their chest plates, then went back to the creek where they’d be starting the games. As Luke put his on, she was struggling to get hers tightened. “Hold on, I’ll help you in a sec,” he said, finishing strapping his onto his body.

“I got it,” a voice interrupted. Apollo seemingly appeared out of nowhere. He was standing in front of Y/N, tightening the strap.

“Hey!” Luke yelled without thinking.

Apollo held up one hand in surrender, the other still on her shoulder. “Chill man, I’m just helping.” Luke didn’t say anything else as Apollo walked away with a slight smirk.

“Hey,” Y/N said softly, stepping closer to him. “What was that about?”

Luke gritted his teeth. “Nothing. C’mon, I need to assign everyone and talk strategy.” He took her hand gently, reminding himself to not let his anger get the better of him. He headed over, gathering the team. “Alright, Cabins 6, 3, and 11 will be offense. Cabins 9, 10, and 12 will be defense. Except for Y/N, you’re with me. Beckendorf, you’ll also be offense.” He pointed out a few Athena and Hermes campers, directing them to defense as well.

After a few minutes, the conch blew and everyone was in their places. The couple quickly jumped over the creek, slipping through the Apollo cabin’s defenses. They had done this so many times, their routine was well practiced. They ran through the woods, searching for any opposing defense.

The other teams had learned that Y/N and Luke always worked as a pair so they started also pairing defensive players. That is when Hermes and Aphrodite were on the same side. If they weren’t, Capture the Flag could go on for hours since they knew all of each others’ tricks.

They continued on, occasionally making quick work of disarming opposing campers until they reached the flag. It was only guarded by one person. Apollo. Clarisse must have figured that everyone else would be too afraid to offend a god. But Luke was honestly looking for this opportunity.

So while Y/N fell back, hesitating, Luke was jumping at the god. Apollo blocked him with a sword but he was clearly not very good with it. Archery had been banned since before Luke got to camp. Even though the arrows were enchanted not to kill, someone had been blinded so Chiron banned them forever. He didn’t even make an exception for the god of archery.

While Luke fought Apollo, Y/N was grabbing the flag. “Luke!” she yelled, waving the flag. She then took off, heading for their territory. Because of Apollo’s inexperience with the sword, Luke was easily beating him. After a few slashes on the god’s arms, legs, and even face—nothing major, they were honestly just cuts a band aid could fix—Luke was disarming him. He didn’t have to be as brutal as he was or knock him over but he did, throwing the god’s sword far away before following after Y/N.

Luke was still a few feet behind her when she hopped over the creek into safety. He watched proudly as she ripped the helmet off her head and held the flag up triumphantly. The members of their team around her cheered triumphantly as the conch blew and their team was announced the winners.

Luke was still in enemy territory, watching her have her moment when Apollo showed up. “She’s really something,” the god announced, his smile focused on her.

“Yeah, my girlfriend really is incredible,” Luke said pointedly.

The god was still smiling. “I know she’s your girlfriend. I saw you making out with her last night.”

“What were you doing out at two a.m.?”

The god looked even more smug, his arms crossed over his chest. “I don’t have to answer to you. But if you must know, I had the same idea as you but you got there first.” Luke finally looked at him, rage once again filling his body. So he wasn’t paranoid. “How long have you been together?”

Luke was confused but answered nonetheless. “Uh three years,” he answered suspiciously.

“Aw, three years down the drain. I’m sorry in advance,” the god said in exaggerated regret.

Luke tried not to let his fury show. This is why he hated gods. They thought they could do whatever they wanted without regard for mortals. “Well, she loves me. At night she swears we were made for each other,” he said, recalling sweaty nights during the school year when every other Aphrodite kid was home. And how they’d make breathless promises of eternity.

Apollo gave him an almost pitiful look. “I’m sorry about your relationship but you can’t actually believe she’ll pick you when she could have a literal god?” he gestured to himself arrogantly.

Now it was Luke’s turn to gloat. He just shrugged, “I’m the one she calls for. She doesn’t call for the gods like most others would. She only ever says my name.”

Apollo was a little taken aback by the kid’s boldness. “Well, that’s the nice thing about being a god. I can make anyone mine.” And with that Apollo headed over to the capture the flag winner of the night. It took everything in him not to race up to her but he kept his composure. She’d have to reject him on her own, he couldn’t keep running defense.

He watched in surprised satisfaction as Apollo reached her. He congratulated her before pulling her into a hug. His arms were around her waist and creeping kind of low but Luke once again kept his resolve. He didn’t realize he was holding his breath until she pulled away quickly, pointing over at him. What was she saying? Was she praising him for fighting the god? Or telling him that she had a boyfriend?

Apollo tried to hug her again but she ducked under his arm, running over to him. He immediately broke out into a smile. Her arms were opened to hug him but he just grabbed her face to kiss her instead. He turned her towards the tree he had been leaning on, pressing her up against it again. He only pulled away slightly to whisper a congratulations but then their lips were connected again. When he finally pulled away, he threw an arm around her shoulder, shooting a look to the god before heading off to their celebration.

That night as they were celebrating, Luke was glued to Y/N’s side. It wasn’t until some of the other Hermes boys needed help getting their illegal video game working again that Luke left her side. “I’ll be back,” he promised her, pressing a quick kiss to her forehead.

As soon as Luke was gone, Apollo was swooping in. “Congratulations again,” he said, handing her a drink.

“Thanks,” she smiled nervously, taking the drink. “How are the cuts?”

Apollo shrugged. “They sting more than I would’ve thought but they’re fine. Your boyfriend’s a hell of a fighter.”

“Yeah,” she chuckled, relieved that he was acknowledging she had a boyfriend.

“I mean, he’s good for a mortal. He’s certainly no god,” Apollo flirted.

“Well, none of us are. Present company excluded,” she laughed nervously, gesturing to him.

Apollo casually threw an arm around her shoulder. “There’s other things we’re better at,” he said, letting the implication hang in the air. The tension was so thick you could cut it with a knife. “Have you ever been with a god, Y/N?”

She was immediately pulling out of his grasp. “I- uh… um no. I’m flattered but…” She had no clue what to say. She couldn’t just say no to Apollo. If this were any other man she’d throw her drink in his face but this was a god.

She didn’t have to say anything because Luke had seen the whole thing. As he came back he saw Apollo throw his arm around his girlfriend’s shoulder and subsequently watched her back away quickly. “I told you she loves me,” he smirked before tugging her away. She gratefully pressed herself into his body.

“Thanks,” she mumbled, careful that Apollo couldn’t hear.

“Hey, you don’t have to thank me. This is kind of my job as your boyfriend.”

“Still, you basically told him to back off. Kind of bold to deny a god.”

“Yeah, well,” he began, brushing a hair back from her face, “if he smites me we’ll just have to make up for the lost time in Elysium.” She giggled, hugging him closer as they headed off to bed.

Masterlist

[luxurychristmaspudding]

On Call | On Call

part ii

summary: sometimes, frankie wonders what he'd do without you. without your help, your laughter, your friendship, the lunches you pack him. and sometimes, when he's alone, he wonders what he'd do with you.

pairing: neighbour!frankie x f!babysitter!reader

ratings/warnings: 18+, MDNI. idiots in love, reader is good with kids. reader and frankie are both bi and have same sex exes. if that’s a problem for you, keep scrolling. fluff, plenty smutty thoughts, f&m masturbation. mentions of grief/dead parent, heartbreak, and biphobia/homophobia. brief competency kink, makin' a man some lunch (in a neighbourly way). drinking.

reader is a teacher, has hair, and there are some descriptions of outfits, but she is otherwise a blank slate :)

wc: 13.1k (normal length fic, my ass)

an: eternal love to @schnarfer for being a constant guiding light and the most wonderful friend. and further eternal love to @din-jarring and @toomanytookas who each make every day a little sunnier.

dividers from the glorious @saradika-graphics

She said call me now baby and I'd come a running If you'd call me now baby I'd come running

- on call, kings of leon

series masterlist | main masterlist

When Frankie gets home Thursday night, weeks later, you’re working at his dining table.

He checks his watch as he closes the front door gently behind him, looking back at the glimpse of you in the kitchen, brows furrowed. It’s late. Surely you should be in front of the TV, fighting sleep.

His footsteps are quiet down the hall, and he pauses in the doorway. You glance up at his soft hey, and he can feel how tired you are.

‘Hey, buddy.’

Your smile is quiet, kind. You watch as he moves to the sink, collecting two glasses, filling them with water.

‘How’d it go?’

You say it at the same time, and it breaks some of the stillness, both pairs of lips lifting in mirrored grins. 

‘Good,’ he says, ‘Glad to be home.’

He moves closer and takes a sip from his water, placing yours next to you, gesturing for you to go next.

‘Fine. Totally fine. She was out like a light after the second read. Best kid ever.’

You take a gulp of your water as he raises his eyebrows.

‘Second?’

Mhm.

‘I usually have to do at least four.’

You giggle, fluttering your fingers at him.

‘Magic touch,’ you whisper, ‘Plenty of practice reading kids to sleep.’

He shakes his head at you.

‘That’s not true.’

‘Mm. I’m sure my ninth graders would disagree.’

Frankie rolls his eyes, sitting down heavily next to you. He rubs his face, huffs a deep yawn as he slouches further down into the seat. You try not to stare, but he just looks so soft. You want to wrap him up in a blanket and lead him up to bed. Lay him down and press kisses to his cheeks.

‘She drew this,’ you say, pulling out a sheet of paper from beneath your piles of books. ‘Personally, I think it’s a good likeness.’

He laughs, properly, as he takes in the flourish of crayon across the page. It’s obvious where you’ve helped her - sketching the outlines of people, houses - and obvious where she took over - a mess of scribbles, rainbows of colour. The two houses, the fence, him and Lucia - Papi and me - and then the colourful tangle of you next door - Bug.

He traces the lines with his finger, gaze softening, heart swelling in his chest.

‘She hold you up, doing this?’

You smile at him, shaking your head. You fumble below the books again, pulling out a second sheet.

‘No. Looked so cute I drew one myself.’

You watch Frankie’s eyes light as he takes in your drawing. His and Lucia’s curls, the books under your arm, the oversized caterpillar in the grass. A tidier version of Lucia’s, one where you’re stood closer together. Like a family. 

He bites his lip, a sparkling swell of joy flooding his chest.

‘Masterpiece.’ He says. You shake your head at him, bashful. ‘Wanna put it on my fridge.’

You scoff at him.

‘Put Luc’s on the fridge.’

He holds your drawing away from you, pushing Luc’s over your papers.

‘Put Luc’s on your fridge,’ he says, ‘And I’ll keep this one. Deal?’

You suck your teeth, grinning.

‘Deal.’

He stands from the table, moving further into the kitchen. When he reaches the fridge, he takes an alligator magnet and pins your drawing to the metal. He steps back, folding his arms. You watch him.

‘Perfect.’ He says. You giggle.

‘You’re a soft bastard, Frankie Morales.’

He laughs, turning back to face you. 

‘Don’t tell anyone.’

You hold out your pinky, and he links it with his.

‘Promise.’

The heat from his hand, so close to yours, is almost irresistible. Your chest heats, and you want to pull him closer, see if he’s that warm everywhere. 

You drop his hand, standing on heavy legs. Your I should get going is muffled through a yawn, and he nods, helping you to gather your things. When you’re ready, he follows you to the door. 

This time, he pulls you into his chest. And he is warm, warm all over, and you could sleep here, suddenly, wrapped in his arms.

‘Goodnight, baby.’ he says, as you step out of his house.

He’s warm, and he’s so sweet. Baby, baby, baby running through your head as you make your way across the grass, smiling to yourself, still smiling when you turn on your porch, facing him stood on his own. Half of his body dimly lit by the glow within his house, shadows across his face as he makes sure you unlock the door and turn the light on safely. You raise an arm to him, and he does the same. You turn it into a flash of your middle finger, and he does the same - grinning to himself at the sound of your giggle across the lawn, cut off only as you close your door behind you. Goodnight, baby.

It still echoes in your mind as you’re pulled from the silken depths of sleep on Saturday morning by the whirring of a lawn mower. You huff, grumble, roll onto your back and press your forearm against your eyes. You have no idea what time it is, but you know for sure that it is too early for whatever this shit is.

Through the dim light behind your arm, you grimace. Your toes are a little cold, body achy like it needs to be stretched out. All fixed with more time spent asleep, except the buzz from outside comes louder now, more incessant. You roll yourself sideways, squinting in the sharper light coming from the window, mumbling to yourself as you sit and push up off the mattress. When you shuffle to the window and pull the curtain aside, you’re surprised. Frankie is up and out already - his front lawn cut into neat stripes - and now he’s gliding up and down yours doing the same. T-shirt clinging to his body, arms and neck shining with sweat. Cap on to keep the sun from his eyes, the curls at the base of his neck damp and dripping. He’s a sight.

 And there’s something about the way he does it, how easy he makes it look. The stripes, the handling of the machine. How he changes the oil of your car, how he can change the tire on his. The way he drives, hand at your headrest when reversing. How he lifts Lucia, how he chops and slices while cooking. So goddamn easy, brow barely even knotted, just his thick fingers working through any problem they come across.

Heat stirs in your cunt.

It’s not that you haven’t thought about it. Him. It’s just that doing so feels… weird. You try not to have detailed fantasies about your best friend next door, feeling disingenuous when you call your good mornings, but certain flashes of thoughts just aren’t so easy to ignore. Stupid ones, like licking his skin when he’s covered in grease, him eating you out over the bed of your truck. Stupid ones like him knocking on your door when he’s done with the grass, coming in to find you reaching for something at the perfect angle in a little summer dress. Thoughts like him bending you over the counter and fucking you stupid, sweat mixing on your skin, the smell of grass flooding your head, tits bouncing in his hands.

Idle thoughts. 

Ones that have you flopped back onto your bed, legs spread, one hand between your slick folds as you work yourself. Moaning and gasping into the heat of the morning, brief flashes of Frankie bursting behind your eyelids. The glimpse of skin and coarse hair you’ve seen when he reaches up to lift something, the shy look he gives you from below his lashes. How soft his mouth looks - what it would feel like on yours, what it would feel like to have him whisper against your thighs right now, telling you how pretty you look, watching your hands before he catches them in his and replaces them with his tongue.

It doesn’t take long before you’re cresting in an easy, all-consuming orgasm. Your back arches against the mattress, eyes squeezing shut as your cunt flutters and pulses, fresh slick gushing from between your fingers. Your thighs twitch as your circles ease, heart beat slowing in its thrumming as you swallow and pant. The mower is still whirring outside. He must be nearly done.

Frankie cuts the machine as he trims the very last patch of your grass to a lighter shade of green.

He peels his shirt away from his skin, flapping it in an effort to cool down. The cap comes off next, one hand swiped across his forehead, the other running air through his damp curls.

It’s warm. Unseasonably warm, and if he had any sense he wouldn’t have cut any grass today. But this Saturday suited him, and once he’s done his lawn, he may as well do yours. You don’t accept nearly as much as you should for looking after Lucia, so he’s taken to sneaking in more favours when he can. An oil change, lightbulbs you can’t reach, an Ikea chair you couldn’t find the time to set up. He knows you’ve noticed. Scowling slightly at how you can’t say no, quick to find a way to repay him. It’s become a welcome game of tag over the last six weeks. You won’t be outdone. In fact, if Frankie was a betting man -

‘Gotcha something.’

When he turns his gaze from the street, squinting slightly, he finds you bounding towards him. Barefoot, glowing with the remnants of sleep, and fucking poured into the most sinful sundress he’s ever seen. Like a teenager, he feels his cock twitch in his jeans, and he scolds himself for it.

‘It’s hot out.’ You grin, holding out a tall glass of something clinking with ice. His own answering smile speaks something of his relief, his gratitude.

‘Sure is.’

He takes the glass from you, giving it a sniff. You roll your eyes.

‘It’s lemonade. I’m not trying to poison you.’ He raises an eyebrow. ‘Yet, anyway.’

He nods, as though you’ve confirmed what he’s long suspected.

‘’S the thought that counts. I don’t get a straw?’

You smack his bicep with the back of your hand as he takes a sip.

‘Dick,’ you grin, ‘I’ll piss in it next time.’

Frankie’s eyebrows shoot up, but he manages to swallow without spluttering it all over you. He considers for a moment, clearing his throat.

‘Nice piss.’

Your mouth pops open, feigning disgust.

‘I said next time, freak.’

He laughs, flashing you a cheesy wink.

‘You love it really.’

You giggle, spinning on your toes like a schoolgirl. He laughs with you, sipping the lemonade, eyes crinkly and affectionate, tracing your lips, the hem of your skirt.

You look up and down the lawn, impressed with his craft. Quiet satisfaction blooms in Frankie’s gut.

‘Looks great,’ you say, pressing his arm. ‘Thank you. You know, you don’t have to do this.’ 

He shrugs.

‘Was out here anyway. Just helping my favourite neighbour.’

You chuckle.

‘Whatever. But you still don’t have to.’

‘Fine,’ he says, pulling a face. ‘I’ll never, ever do it again. I’ll leave you to mow your own lawn, build your own furniture, set your car on fire…’

‘I’m not that bad,’ you laugh, giddy as you step around him. 

‘Bug,’ he says, fixing you in place with a firm hand on each of your shoulders. ‘Baby. I’m not convinced you even know what a wrench is.’

You gasp, genuinely offended this time, and he laughs.

‘Of course I know what a fucking wrench is, asshole. I’ll give you a fucking wrench.’

He laughs harder, and you reach up to swipe his sweaty cap from his head. Before he can grab at it, you’re off, flying in circles across the lawn. He sets his glass down and chases after you, hands slipping through the fabric of your dress. He’s not looking at the plush flesh of your thighs revealed at each stride. Not noticing the way your chest moves, definitely doesn’t see a peek of your ass as you whirl in front of him. He doesn’t, he didn’t, he didn’t. Certainly not on purpose. 

He blames the heat, his earlier exertion for why he can’t catch you. Can’t even try to grab you when you zoom by and scoop up his empty glass, when you round the curve of his fence and wait for him to follow you. He’s barely jogging now, drenched in sweat, breathing heavily. He’s almost at you, cap almost within reach, and then you plant the hand with it in on one of the pickets of the fence, jump, and swing your legs over.

‘That is playing so fucking dirty!’ He pouts, and you cackle at him. 

If there’s one thing you’ve mastered over the last year, it’s hopping the dividing fence. If there's one thing Frankie swears he will not do, it’s swing himself over. Something about his joints, something about his back. Yada, yada as far as you’re concerned.

‘What’d they teach you in Delta Force?’ You tease, ‘Surely it can’t have been any harder than that.’

He flips you off, hands on his knees.

‘You learn to do that in college? How many fences were you jumping?’

You throw his cap to him, waggling your eyebrows.

‘Wouldn’t you like to know, weather boy.’

‘Weather boy?’ He wheezes, shaking his head. ‘Not even gonna ask. Christ, you make me feel old.’

You snicker at him again, hopping from foot to foot. He holds out his empty hand.

‘Good game.’

You step forwards, full of faux-graciousness. You take his hand, opening your mouth to snipe something back, but he’s pulling you in too fast for you to process.

And god, he’s wet. Slimy and gross and warm -

‘Get off me, Frankie!’ You howl, and he chuckles, nuzzling his soaked cheek against your forehead.

‘Come over for dinner tonight,’ he says as you squirm in his arms, ‘We’re making pizza.’

You jerk yourself free, and he lets you go, so fucking pleased with himself. You shake your limbs out, trying to erase the sweaty feeling of him.

‘Only if you have a shower first. You fucking stink, dude.’

He begins to back towards his house, and you do the same.

‘I’ll have a shower,’ he says, ‘If you bring a wrench.’

You snort at the bottom of your porch steps.

‘Fuck you, Fish. I ain’t bringing a wrench. And get your goddamn mower off my grass.’

He giggles, a boyish sound so unlike the burly man it comes from. It makes you giggle, too. 

‘See you later, Bug.’

‘If you’re lucky, Morales!’

You never do produce a wrench, but Frankie is always thrilled by the other magic tricks you have up your sleeve. He looks forward to the surprise when he comes home from flying - whole Lego cities in his living room, wonky origami in the kitchen, hama beads you’ve dug up from God knows where. The hama beads, he decides, he could live without. He found one in his sock the other day. 

He’s home from work earlier than he thought he'd be tonight. Lucia tucked up in bed, he’d tiptoed upstairs to crack her bedroom door open, watching the rise and fall of her back before stepping in and pressing a kiss to her plump, toasty cheek.

He’s just finishing making coffee when he glances across the kitchen to a mixing bowl that hadn’t been out this morning. Curious as the coffee brews, he moves closer to the pale blob inside, and pulls back the clingwrap. He sniffs the dough-like mass, but comes up empty for clues. 

He pokes a finger into it, grimacing at the damp sponginess before covering it again and wiping the digit on his jeans. He pours the coffee, adding creamer and sugar, before shouting over his shoulder.

‘Bug,’ he calls, ‘Were you making bread today?’

‘What?’ he hears you answer from the living room, and he smiles as he carries the coffee through to you.

‘I said, were you making bread?’

You’re still where he left you, tucked up on the sofa. You reach for the mug he offers with greedy hands, and he laughs.

‘Bread?’ you ask, taking it, brow furrowing before the confusion clears and you beam up at him. ‘Oh! No. I made playdough.’

‘Made playdough?’ He says, plopping down beside you.

‘Hell yeah, baby. Easy as fuck. Do you know it’s edible?’

‘Edible? You feeding my daughter playdough?’

You roll your eyes.

‘Obviously not. You’re a regular comedian, you know that?’

He chuckles into his coffee, blowing at the steam.

‘Did she eat it anyway?’

‘Not while I was looking.’

He hums at your answer, swinging your legs onto his lap and squeezing your calf.

‘What you watching?’ he asks. You shrug.

‘Some movie. This guy’s a detective tryna take down a drug ring. She,’ you say, flapping a pointed finger at the screen, ‘Is like, a burlesque dancer who’s actually an undercover agent, and he just found out. He’s feeling some type of way about it because he thought he was saving her from some kind of terrible fate, but it turns out she’s totally fine and is actually saving his ass.’

Frankie grins at you, and when you turn your head and catch his eye, you grin back.

‘What?’

‘Nothin’.’

You snort at him. He turns his attention back to the TV.

‘What’s the deal with the monkey?’

You jiggle your legs in his lap in excitement.

‘Oh! You’ll love this. He’s the gang leader. Everyone understands what he’s saying apart from the detective and this one guy who thinks he’s having the worst trip of his life.’

He belly laughs this time, tipping his head against the back of the couch, and you watch, eyes sparkling, as the hoots of laughter leave his mouth. You lean forward and smack his arm, giggling too.

‘Shh, you’ll wake Luc up.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he splutters, still snickering, ‘I’m sorry. Oh my god. If there was ever a movie written for you, it’d be this one.’

You gasp.

‘I know. It’s insane. And the soundtrack is amazing. So many cool songs. And -’ you pause, waiting for the actress to pop back up on screen, ‘She wrote some for it. Can’t remember what her name is right now, but she’s in a band in real life.’

Frankie watches as the woman welcomes the detective into her dark apartment - pin boards full of pictures and maps, a wall that falls away to reveal all kinds of hidden weapons. She turns to face the other actor, and Frankie cocks his head.

‘She kinda looks like you,’ he says, and you make a noncommittal noise. ‘Sure you don’t have a long-lost sister?’

You chuckle, and the camera pans back to the man.

‘I don’t think so. But he looks like you. Just - maybe… a few years older.’

He drops his jaw, staring at you.

‘Just a few?’

You snort.

‘Yeah, Fish. Don’t worry. Old age comes for us all.’

He makes a hurt noise, fingers scrabbling for the bottom of your feet, and you shriek, holding your coffee far away from you as he tickles.

‘Stop!’ you cry, ‘Stop! Okay, I’m sorry! You’re so much younger than him. You barely even look thirty.’

‘Barely - even - thirty -’ he laughs, wrestling with you as he tries to stop from spilling his own drink. ‘Not only did you call me old, you’re a liar, too.’ he stops only briefly to put his coffee down, and you manage to do the same before he launches at you with renewed vigour. His hands are all over you now, finding any sensitive spot he can. You grab and dig your nails into his arms, kicking your legs against his lap, planting a foot against his belly to hold him away.

You speak only in squeaks, hacking coughs and muffled laughter. There’s a pressure building in your bladder, and it only makes your movements more desperate, more uncoordinated. You’re begging, pleading, almost in tears through your yelping, and then your heel digs lower than it should. Frankie’s movements cease as he doubles over your legs, grunting out a pained noise as you whip your feet away from him.

‘My - fuckin’ - balls.’ He gasps.

You try to suck your laughter back through your teeth, but it’s futile. You lean forwards towards him, your palm firm on his back.

‘I’m sorry,’ you wheeze, ‘God, I really - I swear I didn’t mean to do that.’

‘Oh, fuck off,’ he groans, cradling his crotch, ‘There was feeling behind it.’

You snort, pulling his shoulder back so he relaxes into the couch.

‘Come on. It was barely a tap. Lucia could still have a brother or sister.’

He groans anew.

‘I’m in no fit shape for any of that now.’

You giggle and pout at him.

‘Aw. Want me to kiss it better?’

The flush that reddens Frankie’s face is almost immediate, the same heat flashing through your cheeks. Your mouth works to find some kind of joke, something to take it back with, but you flounder. 

‘Keep dreamin’, bug.’

A ha! escapes your lips, and Frankie manages a bashful smile, a shake of his head. But your heart is lumbering in your chest, stomach gooey, and the tips of his ears are glowing. 

He’s not thinking about it. He’s not.

And neither are you.

So he says something stupid about the monkey, and you say something stupid back. Layers on layers of silliness until the giggles return and the nerves are tucked away.

You love this kid. You really do. But it’s been a shitty fucking day.

You’ve not cried in the staff toilets since your training, but today every vibe was off, as the kids say. You’d been about ready to head home, forget about any work you needed to do, pull on your pyjamas and crawl into bed. Instead, you’re trying to blink back stupid tears on your way to the elementary school across town.

You’re not mad at Frankie, not even upset. When he’d called to say there’d been a fire at work and he needed to stay to provide first aid, your stomach had dropped through the floor. Your are you okay? felt clumsy, rushed, pushed against his panicked panting through the line. But he was just as quick to reassure you - he wasn’t even close, but one guy had burns and they might need him to cover the last flight out.

And it wasn’t a problem - isn’t a problem. You love spending time with Lucia, want to be as much help as possible, but man. You just wish it wasn’t today.

When you pull up to the school gates, Lucia is waiting for you. Her tiny backpack clutched in her fists, bright smile as she chatters away to her teacher stood beside her. Miss Lopez, Frankie had texted you, just in case.

The car door is barely open before the curly-haired whirlwind is launching herself in your direction with an excited squeal, crashing into your legs. You laugh, squeezing her shoulders before dropping down to her level. 

‘Hey, baby bean!’

‘Papi said you’d come!’ She beams as you stroke her hair back from her face.

‘He sure did. You gonna come and hang out with me ‘til he gets home?’

She nods like her head’s on springs, and over her shoulder you look to Miss Lopez. She has the sweetest face, a lovely smile. You straighten out and offer her your hand. She takes it, palm soft and dry.

‘Sorry I’m late.’ You offer, and she shakes her head.

‘Not at all. You must be Mrs Morales.’ She says.

You choke on a laugh.

‘Oh - I - I’m not, actually. Family friend.’

Miss Lopez claps a hand to her forehead, grimacing.

‘Of course,’ she says, ‘The office did tell me. I’m so sorry. It’s just been one of those days.’

You chuckle, feeling Luc link her fingers with yours.

‘I know the feeling.’ You smile, and she smiles back. Miss Lopez crouches to Luc's level and gives her a gentle boop on the nose.

‘Be good, be safe.’ She says, and Lucia giggles, starting to pull you back to your car. Her teacher waves to you. ‘See you soon!’

You make sure to return it, ushering Luc to the car.

When she’s buckled in, she gently tugs the chain of your necklace.

‘I missed you.’ She says, eyes wide and earnest. Heat pricks behind your eyes again.

‘Missed you too, bean.’

It’s been a shitty fucking day, so you make cookies. 

It’s easy to do, and mostly for you, but Luc is fucking delighted. You make sure to dig out her little chef’s hat, and she whizzes around the lower cupboards grabbing a mixing bowl for you. She loves it, more than anything. She’s a star with shaping, mixing, tasting. On the same page as you about eating the dough, and very content to sit by the oven door to watch them melt and bake in front of her. Easy entertainment, and she’s in your sights as you grade your essays at Frankie's kitchen table. 

You know you’re not being fun. Not mustering the same kind of sunshine you usually do so effortlessly for her, not that she seems to notice. You try to keep a smile going when the cookies are done, packing a small box of them into your bag and eating two each before dinner. She might not finish the whole meal, but she looks at you like you hung the moon.

When you settle down to watch Frozen again later, her head starts to bob half an hour in. You let her fall asleep cuddled up next to you, and when another half hour passes, you extract yourself, gather her tiny body in your arms, and carry her to bed. 

You set her down gently, pull the covers up to her chin, and watch her snuggle down in the blankets, nuzzling into their softness. You feel so weak, so goddamn tired, so disappointed in yourself for not playing like you usually do, for not encouraging her to sing and dance with you, for not reading her her usual bedtime story. It’s important for development at her age, a nasty little voice reminds you, and it just feels like something else you’ve failed at. 

You swallow the lump in your throat, turn on her nightlight, and lean down to kiss her cheek. Her skin is so warm, so soft. You gently swipe the curls from her face.

‘Night night, little love.’

You’re still marking your essays when Frankie comes home. 

You know you shouldn’t be. You know you should have curled up on the sofa or in the guest room like he’s told you to before. Know you should be asleep, barely managing to keep your eyes open, but you feel so fucking miserable, and you’ll be damned if Frankie comes home to you crying wrapped in his duvet.

Your coffee is cold, and a sip of its chill only serves to spark irritation in your stomach. You begin gulping it down, wishing it gone, before spilling some on the sheet of paper in front of you. You curse quietly just as you hear his keys in the door, dabbing at the blotch on the page as he toes off his boots in the hall. Your pressing only seems to be making it worse, little flakes of paper coming off on your sleeve as he enters the kitchen. 

‘Hey,’ he says quietly, ‘I thought you’d be asleep.’

You give up, leaning back in your chair to look at him. 

‘How’d it go?’ You ask, throat tight.

He shrugs. 

‘Okay. Dylan has some burns and Eddie is pretty shaken up, but they’ll both be okay. Ended up taking Dylan’s last flight.’ 

You take a deep breath. 

‘I’m sorry, Fish.’

‘Why? You didn’t set fire to it.’

You know it’s one of his usual quips. You know he’s not trying to be smart, not trying to rile you up. But you can feel it happening, all the same. 

‘Are you okay?’

He looks at you, assessing. It’s not like you to not snipe something back, not like you to not take the joke further. 

‘I’m fine. Just took me by surprise, that’s all. I’ve seen worse.’

You nod. He frowns. He doesn’t like it when you’re quiet. 

‘Sorry I was gone so long.’

It hangs in the air for a moment. You clench your teeth, frustrated at yourself for the undeserved irritation. 

‘You were at work. ‘S not a problem.’

He’s staring at you. You can feel it as you lean forwards again, pen in your hand. The words in front of you blur. 

‘Whatcha reading?’

You should go. You should really pack up before this ridiculous anger bubbles over. It’s not Frankie who deserves it, not the kids who deserve it. You should sleep on it, get some perspective. Fuck, do some mindfulness or something. 

Frankie drums his fingers on the wood when you make no reply, and you glower at him as he moves around the table, eyes fixed on your pile of marked essays. He thumbs the corners, and you bristle.

‘Oof,’ he says, picking up the last paper you graded. ‘F for Fail?’

‘No,’ you bite, ‘F for fuck off, Frankie.’

His eyes flick to yours, surprised, and he’s greeted with a wall of fury which he’s never seen before. It shocks him enough to put him on the back foot. Show his belly. He whistles lowly, dropping the paper back onto the pile, and is rewarded with something akin to the gnashing of teeth. The pieces slot together in his head. The bags under your eyes. How short you’re being. 

‘Okay,’ he says, ‘I think that’s enough for tonight.’

‘Don’t patronise me.’ You hiss, and it’s like you’re an open book for him to read. The flame in your stomach roars to life at the look he gives you. You need to take a nap.

He pulls the rest of the papers away from you, and you try to claw them back, outraged. He grabs your hands, holding them away from your work, and your wrists twist in his grip.

‘Frankie,’ you seethe, ‘Let me go. I’m not fucking around.’ 

But he doesn’t. He’s seen you worked up before, knows you better than you think. Knows this isn’t just the result of a few bad essays, knows this is because of something more. Knows how to make you feel better. ‘Francisco Morales,’ you start, ‘Get your fucking hands off me -’ 

He tightens his fingers again and tugs you up off the chair. It squeaks across the floor as you stand. Something about your attitude sparks a flame south of Frankie’s stomach, and he swallows sharply. Nothing a good hard fuck couldn’t fix, and he blinks at himself, surprised. He drops your hands. Where the fuck did that come from?

‘Get off -’ you growl, and he points at you.

‘Sit your ass on the couch. I’ll be there in a minute.’

You set your jaw and glare at him, and he raises an eyebrow. He watches as your mouth twists into a scowl before you turn on your heel and stomp through to the living room.

He takes his cap off, scrubbing a hand through his hair and exhaling through his nose before adjusting himself in his jeans. He tidies your papers, puts pens and markers back into your pencil case, closes your laptop, packs your bag. Moves to the cupboard for two mugs, busying himself with tea and coffee as he tries to push thoughts of your furious eyes from his mind. How he could kiss the frown from your forehead, the scowl from your lips, how he could take you apart with his mouth, his cock, make you forget, make you feel better -

When he steps into the living room, you’re sat with your back to him, crowded into a corner of the couch. He places your tea on the table behind you, and his coffee on the other at his end. He lowers himself onto the cushions, relaxing against the leather, watching you. Your shoulders are almost up to your ears, fingers picking at the skin around your nails, eyes on your lap. He waits, chewing his cheek, hands twitching at the way your nails dig into skin.

‘I’m sorry for snapping at you.’

Your voice is small, quiet. He rubs his eyes and sighs.

‘It’s okay, baby. I know you didn’t mean it,’ he pauses. ‘I’m sorry for - manhandling you.’

You huff a breath through your nose, scratch at your knuckle. Frankie feels the worried pit in his stomach start to yawn.

‘Bug,’ he says, softly, ‘Talk to me.’

You wipe your hands over your thighs, and Frankie wonders whether it’s him. Something he’s said or done. He knows he’s not been looking hard enough for another sitter - maybe you’ve just had enough. His gut twists.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing - just. A bad day, is all.’

Too fast. He can feel his eyebrows lift.

‘Because of the tests?’

You shake your head.

‘All of it. The whole day was wrong.’

Frankie waits again, resisting the urge to move closer to you. You need a moment, though everything in his body wants you near right now. The scratching at your knuckle is incessant, and Frankie observes the movement with his own growing anxiety. You clear your throat.

‘All my lessons were shit. Everything was shit. I forgot reports and data drops, and the kids wouldn’t shut the fuck up, and I yelled at my favourite class, and almost everyone in my tenth grade group failed their assignment, and I just - couldn’t smile enough, wasn’t good enough for Lucia, and I’m so tired,’ you rush out, pressure building behind your eyes and at the back of your throat. ‘I’m tired, Frankie.’ You whisper.

He’s nodding, hands clasping and unclasping over his lap. 

‘Bug, baby,’ he says, so gentle, ‘Please don’t worry about Luc. Don’t ever worry about not being good enough. You know she thinks the sun shines out your ass,’ he pauses, but there’s no giggle. ‘And I bet your lessons weren’t shit. You had a bad day - that’s all. That does not make them shit.’ He can see your head quirk minutely, hear the thought as though you’d spoken it aloud. Wrong. He keeps going. ‘And things get forgotten, but they’ll get done. Did anyone say anything?’

You shake your head.

‘No. Helen just said they need to be done as soon as possible.’

‘So no one was upset? No one yelled?’

You shake your head again.

‘So it’s fine. You won’t be the only one, bug. And kids never shut the fuck up. It’s annoying as fuck. You know how long I’d last in that classroom?’

‘Five minutes?’ You say, a tiny curl of amusement in your words.

‘Twenty fucking seconds. You’re a saint.’

He hears it, though faint. A small huh of a laugh. He continues, smiling a little.

‘And fuck the tenth graders. If they shut the fuck up, they’d have done it properly. They wouldn’t have fucked it up. They wouldn’t be making my best pal upset, here on my couch.’

You breathe out, shoulders sagging.

‘Maybe they found it hard, though. Maybe I didn’t do a good enough job of explaining it all -’

‘Ah,’ Frankie interrupts, ‘Maybe. But were they concentrating when you explained it? Or were they talking football teams and weekend plans?’

The scratching stops. Frankie counts the seconds by the tick of his heart beat as you pop your knuckles and sigh again. You still haven’t looked at him. 

You suck air through your teeth.

‘Football teams and weekend plans. But they still - the results are awful, Frankie. They’re gonna think I can’t do my job.’

‘They’re not gonna think that. They’re not. This is one bad day, one bad result. You’re doing all you can. But you can only do so much, bug. Today was just not your day.’

Your body is vibrating with tension. You link your fingers together, watching the way the skin shifts between the joints.

‘It just - it wouldn’t be so hard if they fucking listened to me,’ you say, still quiet, but angry again now. Upset in a way that makes Frankie’s chest swell. ‘And then I get to thinking - maybe it is me. Maybe I’m just shit at my job and nobody’s bothered to tell me yet -’

‘Enough. You’re not doing this. Of course someone would have told you. Bug, they’re kids. They don’t even listen to their parents when they’re told to defrost the chicken when they get home from school. You’re not doing anything wrong.’

In the low light, Frankie can see you bite your lip, chin wobbling.

‘Hey,’ he says, softly. ‘Hey. Don’t cry. If anyone should be crying, it’s them. You’re doing your best. The least they could do is meet you halfway.’

‘But it’s my job, Frankie. And I care.’

‘I know you do, baby,’ he says, finally leaning forward, squeezing your thigh, ‘I know you do. So - what can we do? You’re tired. Lots of sleep. Long lie in on the weekend. But there’ll be lots of things you can do to turn things around. What can you do for tenth grade?’

You look up, finally. He gets a glimpse of your eyes, panicked, worried, before you turn them away again. You swallow, nod.

‘I guess I could… break it down for them. When I give their marks back. We could write an answer together. And Lucy showed me a really good feedback grid I can print for them all so they know what to work on.’ 

‘Good. That’s good. Make ‘em write it again?’

You twist your fingers.

‘Yeah. I guess so. There’s time. And they could do with the practice.’

Frankie squeezes your thigh again, stroking his thumb against your pants. You huff.

‘There. See? Already fixin’ it. Easy, peasy, lemon squeezy.’

You quirk your head.

‘You’d think. More like - fuckin’ - difficult, difficult, lemon difficult.’

A slow smile spreads across his lips, despite himself. And when you look up, catch it, you fight to keep your mouth from doing the same.

‘You can laugh, bug,’ he says, ‘That was funny.’

A small giggle floats from between your lips, but it’s still watery. He can taste the salt in the air.

‘What else?’ he says.

You shake your head, retreating back into yourself again.

‘Bug?’

Your eyes are back down on your hands, fingers twisting, twisting, twisting.

Frankie holds his breath, heart aching in his chest. He can feel it radiating off of you, something deeper, painful.

‘I just - it made me think maybe I’m not cut out for it. Maybe I’m not as good as I hoped I’d be, and -’ you cut yourself off, throat tight. You swallow, and Frankie leans towards you. One of his huge hands reaches out to yours, and he gently pries his fingers between your palms, thumb stroking over your knuckles. The tears come without you realising, hot and quick, so many of them you’re startled. ‘And maybe - not as good as dad said I would be.’ You shrug again, wounded, vulnerable. Frankie shifts, the arm closest to you wrapping around your shoulders, pulling you to his chest. Your voice catches, fear and guilt straining against sound. ‘That was the worst part. I felt like I was letting him down.’

‘Letting him down?’ He says into your hair. You feel his lips against your scalp as he speaks. ‘My god, bug. How could you ever think that?’ He squeezes you tighter, and you fight the sobs clawing up your throat. ‘Every day, you go in there and you kill it. No one in that school has ever said a bad thing against you. And you come home with notes, drawings, emails from kids and staff and parents who tell you that you’re making a difference. That you’re helping them learn, you’re making them feel safe, feel like they’re worth the time you give them. Do you know how special that is? Do you know how many of those kids come to you for that?’

A broken noise escapes your mouth, and Frankie begins to rock you gently. 

‘I’m proud of you,’ he says, ‘And I know if I’m proud of you, your dad is watching you with his heart about to burst. You could never let him down. Look at you. You are so special.’

You hiccup against him, and Frankie nuzzles his face into your hair. Your tears are hot, damp through his t-shirt, but you can’t stop. You hold to his arms, breathing him in as holds you close. Your legs are going numb, head aching, and you don’t know how long you sit there like that with him holding you. He soothes you with quiet whispers, waves rushing in and out, and once your breathing is back to normal you pull away from him with a great sniff. You laugh at yourself, wiping at your face. He smiles gently back, little crow's feet ceasing the corners of his eyes. 

‘You okay?’ He asks. 

You nod. 

‘Yeah. Just gross. Need to blow my nose.’

He shakes his head at you. 

‘You’re never gross.’

You roll your eyes at him, and he chuckles. 

‘There she is.’ 

You shift on the sofa, stretching and popping your joints before hauling yourself up to go to the bathroom. 

‘Do you want anything?’ You ask shyly. He shakes his head. 

‘Nope. Take your time.’

You shut the door quietly behind you in the bathroom, stepping to press your head against the cool tile. You try to empty your mind, but your chest is heavy. Everything that Frankie said, everything that was so easy to share with him. You’d thanked your lucky stars many a time over the last year that he’d bounded out his front door the evening you’d moved in, but now there was something more to it. You roll your head against the cool ceramic and press your fists to your chest. Your dad was a man who believed in fate, in things happening for a reason. Here, in the quiet calm of Frankie’s house, you have a feeling that he pulled some strings. That he knew who you’d need. 

Lips almost pressed to the tile, you whisper to him. 

‘Thanks, dad.’

The words hang in the air, slung out the universe, met with warm silence. Your throat tightens again, and if you close your eyes tight, you’d swear he was at your shoulder. Like you could turn around and he’d be there. 

When the tightness passes, you inhale deeply and turn to the sink. You splash your face with cold water, blow your nose, and make your way back to Frankie. 

He’s right where you left him, the TV on quietly. You flop down into your usual position, and he makes motions for you. You swing your legs onto his lap, and he runs his hands up your shins. Gentle, tender care again. You tip your head back and speak to the ceiling. 

‘Thank you.’

He’s quiet for a moment. 

‘You don’t need to thank me, bug.’

You make a noise of dissent. 

‘You should know. You should know how much I appreciate you. How much I love you.’

You blink at the lights and shadows above you. How easily that slipped off your tongue. It’s never been difficult for you to tell your friends you love them. Hell, you even said it to the lady who served you at the store the other day. But something about saying it to Frankie feels… different. 

Your breath gets caught in your chest, and then Frankie’s thumbs dig into the flesh of your calves. 

‘Love you too, bug.’

You inflate your lungs at the same time as he kneads a particularly tense spot on your leg, and you loose a quiet groan. You’re not sure if you imagine the minute pause of Frankie’s hands before he thumbs the same spot again. 

‘Fuck.’ You hiss. 

This time, he does pause. He pauses and prays you don’t feel the way his cock twitched. 

‘Does that hurt?’

You pull your head back up and find him watching you with dark eyes. 

‘No,’ you say quietly, ‘Not really.’

He nods, studying your face at the next pass of his fingers. Your wince at the tension, but the relief that follows makes your eyes close. This time, he runs his knuckles over your muscles, and you bite your lip, eyes flickering open to meet his. You sigh. 

‘That good?’ He asks. 

You can’t say anything, nothing that wouldn’t betray the flood of warmth sparking in your cunt. 

Mhm. 

He nods, kneading further down your leg. Your head flops backwards again, lip clamped between your teeth, brow furrowed as you will your body not to betray you. You almost have it, almost, fingers flexing against the couch cushions, until he presses his thumbs into the arch of your foot and you moan. You fucking moan. 

You freeze, teeth releasing your lip as you gasp, but he keeps going. Running his thumbs over and over the sore muscles as you let out quiet little gasps, squirming against the couch, soaking your panties. 

‘Jesus Christ, Frankie.’

‘Relax,’ he says, ‘You’re fine.’

You are not fine. Every synapse in your body is firing, every nerve ending alight. You begin to panic, begin to wonder whether you could come from a foot massage alone. Your eyes find his face again, and he turns his head slowly to look back at you, digging firmly into a particularly sore spot. You whine, more pain than pleasure this time, and he presses harder. Hot hurt shoots up your spine, and you whip your foot away from him, breathing heavily. Like dawn breaking, Frankie’s face clears.

‘Fuck,’ he rasps, ‘Sorry, I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?’

You wince, flexing your foot against the carpet. 

‘’S okay,’ you murmur, trying not to pant, ‘Just a little too deep.’

You can’t look at him. You’re so sure that this man does everything from the good of his heart, with the express intention of making you feel better, but you can’t ignore how your body is buzzing. He can’t possibly know how turned on you are right now. Just a friend comforting a friend. Just a friend. Jesus Christ.

You glance at your watch and curse, all but leaping off the sofa. Frankie stares after you, panicked.

‘Bug -’

You whirl around to smile at him, realising just how wet you are with your thighs pressed together.

‘It’s fine. You didn’t hurt me. I should just - I should really get going.’

He hasn’t moved from the couch, hands crossed in his lap like he’s afraid to move.

‘I’m sorry.’ He whispers. 

‘Don’t be,’ you say - too brightly, too quickly. ‘Don’t be. I - thank you. For everything. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

And you’re gone. Bag grabbed, barefoot, shoes in hand, flying out the front door, across your lawns, into your own house. Dumping the shoes and peeling off your clothes in the safety of your bedroom. You flick the bedside lamp on and yank open your bedside draw, rummaging around for your vibrator, pressing it to your throbbing clit before you’re even on your bed. 

Your body jerks at the sensation, knees giving out as you moan, long and loud, free hand fisting the sheets as you rock back and forth on your hands and knees. Something clatters through your mind, something confusing and guilty, some mix of emotions that stirs in your chest and in your gut, something that tells you you shouldn’t be doing this - again. Shouldn’t be this close to coming already, shouldn’t be so wet, shouldn’t be shaking this hard. Shouldn’t be moaning so loud, so desperately, shouldn’t be thinking of the way Frankie’s dark eyes bored into yours, the way he worked his fingers over your sore muscles, how he’d held you there so you couldn’t escape. What he’d think of you dripping all over his couch from just touching you through clothes. 

You tilt your ass up further, resting your forehead on your arm, feeling sweat gather on your hairline. In your mind, Frankie’s hands are climbing up further than they were before, kneading up your thighs, squeezing and rubbing, all the way until his thumb grazes the edge of your panties. You can imagine how his eyes would get darker as he felt the slick there, so wet it made the closest press of your thighs damp through the fabric. How you’d hold your breath and his gaze as he slipped two fingers beneath the gusset, how he’d sweep them through the wetness there, just spreading it, teasing, enjoying how wet and ready for him you were before slipping both digits inside, easy, so easy -

You clench your teeth against the cry that seeks to force its way past your lips, breath stuttering in your lungs as your body seizes and pulls, cunt clenching and pulsing with your orgasm. Your head slips off your forearm onto the sheets and you curse quietly, betrayed by how easy it had been to come. 

You stand on shaky legs, turning the vibrator off with a click before leaving it on the duvet. You kneel and survey your room, the unread books, the pile of laundry, the freshly ironed shirt ready to wear tomorrow. The window across from you, bare of curtains, looking straight through to - fuck. For fuck’s sake.

Frankie’s bathroom light is on across the dark expanse of midnight grass. You freeze, naked, terrified for a moment that you will see him step into frame and catch you red handed. As if he’d know. As if he’d be able to tell, just from the look on your face, that you’d come so quickly, so easily, to the thought of him slipping his hand beneath your panties. 

But he doesn’t. With an arm over your chest, you whip the curtains over the gaping glass, and get ready for bed. 

Frankie can taste blood.

He barely even registers it, lip clamped between his teeth as he fists his dripping cock in the bathroom mirror. 

He’d sat for a few minutes on the couch after you’d left, trying to will his arousal away, terrified you might have forgotten something and come flying back through the door. Terrified Lucia might be rattled awake and find him to ask what the noise was about. 

When neither had happened, he’d unzipped his fly to relieve some of the aching pressure. He’d turned off the TV and all the lights, something swelling in his chest at the sight of the plate of cookies on the counter, piled high, and hauled his ass upstairs. The movement had made it worse. 

The friction against his cock at every step of his tired feet made him ache fiercely, and he’d forgone his bed, heading straight to the en-suite, where he’d  whipped his t-shirt off and pulled himself out. 

He’s trying to be quiet. Trying so hard as he draws his fist over his tip, spreading the precum down his length, as he twists and tightens his hand. His heart is racing, body thrumming with desire. He’s trying not to think of them, but those sweet, desperate little sounds you made are flooding his mind. He’s fucked. So fucked. 

And he’s weak. 

Weak at the knees at the thought of you laid out on his couch. At the thought of his hands drifting higher, at maybe finding your panties soaked. With his eyes closed, he can imagine your face - shocked, desperate, aching for him the way he is for you. He’d swipe his fingers along your slick slit, and he’d taste them - fuck, he’d give anything to know what you taste like. And when you begged, he’d strip you down and spread you out. He’d lower himself between your legs and kiss every inch of skin he could find. He’d breathe in the scent of you, nose the crease between your thigh and cunt, and he’d eat you. He wants to know what other sounds you make as he takes you apart, wants to lick you from your hole to your clit. Wants to hold you down as you squirm, wants his fingers in your mouth to keep you quiet. And he wants to make you come. Wants to drink you down as he feels you twitch and pulse beneath him, and then he wants to fill you with his cock. 

He tightens his fist again, barely muffling his groan. He wants to feel you stretched out, gasping as he pushes in. Wants to lean his forehead against yours as he whispers how beautiful you are, how good you’re being, letting him take care of you like this. Wants to see you cry for a different reason, wants to taste the salt on your skin and know it’s him who’s making you feel this good, that it’s only him who can fuck you like this.  

Wants to make you his, wants to feel you come around him, watch your eyes roll into the back of your head - 

He moans as he spills into his fist, cock kicking and jerking with every spurt of milky release that escapes him. Blood roars in his ears and he strokes himself until he whimpers at the sensitivity, panting hotly. 

His mouth is bloody and raw in the glass, eyes wide and guilty. He turns from his reflection in shame, ripping toilet paper and cleaning himself gently, trying not to think of your hands, your mouth, how you might look with his spend leaking from between your legs. 

He throws the paper in the toilet, tucking himself in and pushing the lever. 

He turns after flushing the evidence of his fantasies away, and is fixed with the disapproving eyes of the Star Wars duck on the edge of the bathtub. He pulls a face at it and flips it off.

‘Don’t look at me like that. I bet you do it when she’s not watching, too.’ He says, pointing to the sparkly gold one beside it. 

The duck glares back at him, accusatory, and he sticks his tongue out at it as he swings the door open, flicking off the light before stepping out. He closes the door firmly behind him, and leaves the ducks to their domestic.

Frankie snoozes his alarm the next morning, eyelids fluttering against his pillow as he wraps his arms around his tangle of duvet. He’s warm, limbs languid, still in the haze of a sweet dream, a familiar scent hiding behind the edges of sleep. 

He’s almost passed out again when he jerks awake, adrenaline flashing through his veins as he stumbles out of bed and into Lucia’s room. She’s asleep still, groggy as he gently stirs her, mumbling into her teddy about not wanting to go to school. And despite his best efforts, they’re both sluggish, slow, running late as he dresses her and then himself, as he makes breakfast, as he packs her bag, as he reaches into the refrigerator to grab her lunch - 

Shit. Her lunch. 

He throws a frantic glance at the clock, muttering a fuck too quiet for his daughter to hear as she waits behind him with her shoes, ready for him to put them on. He turns and kneels in front of her, placing one foot on his thigh so he can finish getting her ready. He makes a calculation that includes stopping to get her something from the store on the way to school, but there’s just not enough time -

He whips the door open so quickly it startles you, your hand flying from where it was about to knock. Your stomach is churning, heat crawling up your spine with how fucking weird you must have been last night. 

Frankie looks just as surprised to see you as you are him. 

‘Bug?’ He says, paused in the doorway with Lucia hitched on his hip. 

‘Bug!’ She crows, delighted with the early morning visit, oblivious to her father’s rush. You beam back at her, greeting her with a mornin’, mini Morales, before looking back at Frankie. Something in his chest goes gooey. 

‘I made lunch for you both,’ you say shyly, quickly. Frankie’s eyes drop to the two bags you have held out. ‘I didn’t think you’d have time last night. And I wanted to apologise. I didn’t mean to give you shi- a hard time when you got home. And I’m sorry I ran out so fast.’

Frankie sucks a breath through his teeth, heart rate settling. 

‘You’re a goddamn angel,’ he says, ‘You know that?’

You chuckle a little, looking down at your feet. His heart swoops, and he knows he shouldn’t, knows he won’t, but he wants to ask. 

He wants to ask you why you flew out the way you did. Wants to know why your bedroom light was on so late. Wants to know if there’s some wild possibility you were caught up the same way he was. But he doesn’t. 

Instead, he pulls you in for a one armed hug, and with all the gratefulness he can muster, says -

‘Thank you, baby. Luc, what do you say?’

Lucia grins at you with all her teeth. 

‘Thank you, bug.’

You giggle. 

‘I packed you extra cookies.’ You whisper conspiratorially, and Luc claps her tiny hands. 

You smile up at her, and she reaches out for the bags. You make sure she’s got them handled before turning your smile to Frankie, and he’s sure his heart stops. There’s worry in your eyes still, and it takes everything in him to not swipe a thumb along your cheek, to not press the fullness of his mouth against yours. 

‘We’re going to the beach on Sunday,’ he says, ‘Do you wanna come?’

Your smile brightens, widens. Relief washes over your features. 

‘Please!’ Lucia joins, ‘Pleasecometothebeach - we're gonna build sand castles and bury Papi and swim and eat ice cream -’

Frankie clasps his hand over her mouth, and she cackles against it, legs swinging against his hip.

‘I’d love to.’ You say. 

The beach is a raging success. 

From the moment you’d felt the silky sand brushing between your toes, it was like the stress of the week had melted away. 

Lucia had grabbed your hand as soon as Frankie had dropped the cooler in the best spot he could find, squealing and running all the way to the ocean with you beside her. Frankie had laughed as he ran to catch up, hitting the waves just after you, sweeping Lucia up in his arms as she shrieked with laughter, swooping her low so her toes swept through the water. You swam and paddled together for a while, Frankie only leaving to grab a ball so you could play piggy in the middle in the shallowest shallows.

Now, laid out on the blanket you’d brought, with the sun warming your skin, you close your eyes. 

Everything feels slow - the tick of your heart, the carousel of your thoughts, the way you drag your fingers through the sand at your side. You’re drifting into the arms of sleep when there’s the soft snick-crack-fizz of a can beside you, and then you’re suddenly thirsty.

You peek through one eye at Frankie beside you, and like he feels it, his eyes flick to yours. He offers you the open soda before reaching into the cooler for another. You sit up, groaning a little, twisting to look for Lucia.

She’s still slumped on the sand throne you and Frankie had built her, now fast asleep. Legs planted, arms settled on the armrests like a stately little Lord. Her head tilted back, tiny sunglasses and flowery sun hat on. You can’t look at her for too long before you get the giggles, it’s so fucking cute.

Frankie follows your eyes, mouth lifting in amusement, raising his eyebrows at you.

‘We should take a picture. One for her 18th.’ 

You giggle, and he takes a sip of his drink before flopping down beside you. You take a long pull from your own can before doing the same, turning on your side to face him. Frankies fights to keep his gaze steady, something he’s been trying to do all day. Trying to avoid the skin that had been revealed to him today, trying to avoid how soft you look, how comfortable, how gorgeous. How your skin would taste, how it would feel against his. He closes his eyes.

You watch him. The strong sweep of his nose, the fullness of his mouth. The scruff of his beard, the bare heart-shaped patch before the line of his jaw. Your eyes sweep lower - the wide expanse of his chest, golden skin that seems to go on for miles and miles. It makes your mouth run dry. 

It’s not like you haven’t seen him shirtless before in the hot Florida summer, but up this close, it’s different. The soft band of his belly, the smattering of hair above the waistband of his trunks. The silvery bud of a scar above his hip. 

When you glance back to his face, he’s watching you. Your eyes dart down again.

‘Mexico,’ he says, ‘2016.’

You nod, and reach out your hand. Slowly, softly. Frankie holds his breath, stomach tensing.

You run the tip of your finger along the puckered edge of the scar, and he shudders. You pause, untacking your tongue from the roof of your mouth.

‘Does it hurt?’

‘No,’ he reassures, ‘Just - tickles.’

It’s a half truth. 

It doesn’t hurt. It does tickle. And there’s a burst of heat beneath his skin where your fingers graze him.

‘Was it bad?’

He smiles slightly.

‘Just a scratch.’

You hum quietly, swiping your thumb against it tenderly. He watches you, mouth parted, heart burning. It doesn’t look like a scratch, but you’re not one to pry.

The moment is broken by a soft coo behind you, and Frankie’s eyes lift to it. You roll onto your back.

A woman flashes you and Frankie an apologetic smile.

‘Sorry,’ she says quietly, gesturing to Lucia, ‘She just looks so cute.’

You smile breathlessly, a little flustered. She’s gorgeous. So tan and smiley and stunning.

‘Gets all her looks from me.’ Frankie jokes, and you roll your eyes. The woman smiles.

‘I think you mean her mama.’ She says, nodding to you before continuing on her stroll. You’re still too taken aback to correct her, trying to loosen your tongue before Frankie takes any offence. He laughs beside you, and you roll back to him to apologise -

‘You are literally no better than a man.’

It’s not what you were expecting, and the shock of it makes you laugh, too. You land a soft punch to his arm, a grumbled shut up shot from where you bury your face in the sandy blanket.. But it feels good, the ease at which the jokes come. 

To think, there’d been a night on your porch not long after you’d moved in when you’d mentioned the name Annie and clammed up, panicking about what questions would follow next. The name of your ex-girlfriend - ex-fiancee - had been something which only really existed in your mind at the time. Known, of course, to the friends you’d left back home; friends who had loved her, loved the two of you together. But soured by the reaction of your extended family, the people who had voiced their disgust at who you'd loved, who had been so quick to turn their backs in the face of your happiness, the first you’d found since your dad’s passing. It had made your stomach twist. 

You’d been worried about Frankie’s reaction, couldn’t bear to think of the first friend you’d made - your neighbour - having the same look of distaste - or worse - intense curiosity. 

But he’d done neither of those things. Had marked it with a quiet oh before asking what she was like, where she was, what had happened. You’d told him how you met in college but weren’t brave enough to ask her out until after graduation. How she was an engineer on the east coast - kind and funny and eager to watch you succeed. 

You’d been sparing with the details about how it ended. The breakup had still been a raw nerve, something you had no real desire to discuss. Something which you only found to be the case more and more the longer you spent around Frankie. And then he gave you further reason to be less afraid of what he’d think, whether he had the want to judge.

‘Sounds like my ex,’ he’d said, ‘We were friends first, too. Benny.’

You’re snapped back to the present by Frankie rustling around in the cooler.

‘Have something to eat,’ he says, ‘You’re looking a little shaky.’

You’ve been asleep for most of the way home. 

Hair blowing in the wind of the journey, cheek pressed against your shoulder. You look so peaceful, so beautiful, and something about this - the three of you in Frankie’s truck, Lucia babbling to herself in the back - feels so right.

He’s loathe to wake you. Wishes he could bottle this moment; the sand still clinging to your skin, Luc’s bright smile in the rearview mirror, but you stir all the same when he slows and pulls into his driveway. 

You stretch your arms and yawn, smiling sleepily at him before twisting to look back at Lucia.

‘How you doing, bean?’ You ask.

‘You were asleep!’ She chirps back, and Frankie chuckles.

‘Sure was,’ you grin, ‘Can’t keep up with you.’

You insist on carrying the cooler into his house while Frankie unbuckles her. He holds her hand around the side of the car before she pulls free of him, clattering into the house after you in her sparkling sandals. She passes him in the hall, arms full of toys as she speeds back out to the grass out front, and you smirk at him around the doorway of the kitchen. He shakes his head at you.

‘I don’t know how she does it.’ He says. You grin.

‘She’s four. Give her a few more years.’

He chuckles as he swoops in behind you, pinning your body between his and the counter. He digs in the cooler as you close your eyes against his body heat.

‘Want a beer?’ He says against your neck before pulling away.

‘Thought you’d never ask.’

When you’re settled on his porch, Lucia mimicking the sounds of the dinosaurs she has splayed across the lawn, Frankie bumps your shoulder.

‘You should have asked for her number.’ He grins. You turn to him, still a little sleepy.

‘Whose?’

‘The woman. On the beach.’

You roll your eyes at him despite the heat rising in your cheeks.

‘They’ll get stuck like that, you know.’ He says.

You nudge him back, a little harder.

‘You should’ve asked,’ you chuckle. ‘Gets all her looks from me.’

He snorts.

‘Nah. I wasn’t even on the field. Think you mean her mama.’

‘Should have given her the old I’m the babysitter line.’

He laughs. 

‘God. Imagine. Maybe that’s what I’ll have to tell the guys the next time they ask if I’m seeing someone.’

Your blood heats, a soft pounding in your ears. Imagine. Imagine.

You roll your head on your shoulders.

‘Are you?’ you ask tentatively, ‘Seeing anyone, I mean.’

Frankie shrugs beside you like it’s no big deal.

‘No,’ he says, ‘I kind of… swore that all off after Benny. Didn’t wanna go through it all again. Wasn’t good for me, wasn’t good for her,’ he says, gesturing towards where Lucia is playing on the grass. He’s quiet for a moment. ‘Just don’t think I’m cut out for it. Getting my heart broken again.’

You know how it ended - before it had really begun. A tentative feeling between friends; Frankie falling hard, Benny unsure about the new step. Caught up with the nerves you remember so well in the new turn of discovering himself, scared by the ripples caused within the tight knot of their group of friends. It had been hard on Frankie. Not made difficult by his brothers in arms, who, to all intents and purposes, had seen it coming - but because he was so clearly a man who loved hard. With all the goodness in his heart. It’s obvious in how he talks about him now, in how he talks about Lucia's mother. Love that lingers, that still sees the light.

You watch him as he speaks. The soft sunlight illuminating his curls, turning them golden, chocolate brown, little streaks of grey peaking through. His eyes are bright and flecked with hazel, his lips soft and full. When he talks, they are shaped with sound, with emotion. Expressive and beautiful, moving with the crinkles at his eyes, the frown lines on his forehead. Something pulls in your chest, and you reach out to hold his wrist just above his beer bottle. He squeezes your hand with his free one, and turns to look at you. So soft, so warm, eyes so kind and yet so sad sometimes it takes your breath away.

You can’t ever imagine breaking Frankie’s heart.

He licks his lips, eyes flitting to your parted mouth before resting back on yours.

‘Are you?’ He asks.

You breathe a laugh, something breathless in the sound. You retract your hand and look away from him, back to Lucia, watching her toddle around with her dinosaurs. He studies you, and it makes something spike at the back of your throat. You hate when he gets you like this; like he can see you better than anyone else ever has. 

‘No,’ you say. When you look back at him, his brows curve in a furrow at the sight of your sparkling eyes. You offer him a small smile, take a deep breath. ‘Think I’m the same as you,’ you shrug, ‘Not built to get my heart broken again.’

Frankie dares an arm across your back, squeezing the shoulder furthest away from him. He pulls you into his chest, palm pressing your bicep in comforting sweeps.

‘I’m sorry.’ He says into your hair.

‘Don’t be,’ you reassure him, ‘I’m not - cut up about it like I was.’ You sniff and pull away from him a little to look in his eyes. ‘It just stays with you, like you said before. The hurt and the shock. Everything you had planned. I think it’s just… hard to remember you won’t have that. Hard to not have that future, hard to feel like you’re enough again.’ You smile softly, and he answers with his own. He knows, he understands. ‘Just… really thought I was gonna marry her,’ you whisper, looking down at your hands. ‘Day I asked her, every time I saw that ring on her finger, thought we were gonna spend the rest of our lives together. And it made me so… happy.’ Frankie swallows thickly beside you. The feeling of it, of what you’re telling him, so painful, so raw for both of you. ‘And when it happened, when it fell apart… it wasn’t big. She just told me - real kind, real patient about it - that she didn’t love me anymore.’ Frankie breathes deeply when he hears the catch in your voice, the sting of it. 

Your eyes are on Lucia, but you’re so far away that it worries him. He wants you here, safe, having beers with him on his porch, giggling on the steps.

He can’t ever imagine breaking your heart.

You quirk your head, sighing. ‘Spent a long time tryna figure out what I did wrong, but there was never an answer,’ you shrug. ‘I’m glad she ended it, though. Despite it all. I’d have never forgiven her if she’d stayed.’

A strained hum pulls itself from Frankie’s throat as he watches you lean forward to pick at the grass by your feet. He clears his throat, studies your profile carefully.

‘Do you still love her?’ He asks, voice low and hoarse. He finds, to his surprise, that he’s terrified of the answer.

You frown, slowing your pulling.

‘No,’ you say. ‘I have love for her, but we don’t speak. I don’t want her in my life, but I wish her the best. I just found it… hard to rebuild.’

He thinks back to the day you moved in next door, the bright smile that he hadn’t realised didn’t quite reach your eyes, how you’d been a little thinner, looked so tired. How you’ve changed over the year since, so warm, so full of love and light and energy. How you tear around the lawn with Lucia, how you laugh at his kitchen table, how you fit into his side when you’re watching movies. 

Something swoops in his gut, something so huge and unbalancing that his breath comes shallow, that his ears buzz and his vision blurs. A feeling that makes so much - too much - sense.

Fuck.

He swallows, closes his eyes.

When he turns to look at you again, it’s with a heart that knows - really knows. He sees everything you are, everything you’ve been, everything you will be. Knows you for all your good days and bad days, has seen you at all hours, could hold every piece of your fractured heart in his hands and meld it back together again if you let him.

Your eyes find his. He watches your brows raise a fraction at his expression, watches them push together in a question. 

His mouth is dry, but he speaks.

‘You are,’ he says, ‘You are enough.’

Your eyes don’t leave his.There’s a pressure behind them, a pull in your gut, a skip of your heart. Something on the tip of your tongue. 

Frankie’s eyes slip to your mouth. Your breath catches in your throat, and the world stills. The sounds of the evening, Lucia playing, fade to almost nothing.

If you tip your head, you think he might kiss you. 

A small, wild ball of energy crashes into Frankie’s chest, and the moment slips through your fingers. Frankie lets out a quiet oof, wrapping his arms around his daughter. A giggle bubbles out of your mouth, and he grins at you, but his eyes linger. Lucia turns her tiny face up to him, and Frankie rolls his eyes goodnaturedly.

‘Whaddya want, mija?’

‘Strawberry laces.’ She whispers, and you both laugh.

‘Strawberry laces, what?’

‘Strawberry laces, please, Papi.’

‘Alright,’ he says, shifting her out of the clutch of his arms and onto the step beside you, ‘Sit tight, mi amor. I’ll be back in a minute.’

The front door isn’t even closed behind him before Lucia is crawling her way into your lap, wrapping her arms around you. You tuck your hands against her back, pulling away to look at her.

‘How’s it going, mini Morales?’

She beams up at you.

‘Good. The bugs are winning.’

‘Winning? Against who?’

‘The dinosaurs.’ She says, gravely. You nod, just as serious, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

‘That’s good. Bugs have a lot going for them.’

She leans back to consider you for a moment, her face scrunching up in the low lying sun.

‘Miss Lopez called you Mrs Morales the other day,’ she says, ‘Does that mean you and Papi are married now?’

Your heart lurches in your chest, head spinning a little. You laugh, disbelieving. From the mouths of babes.

‘No, baby,’ you say softly, and her face falls. 

‘Why not?’

You can feel your heartbeat in your toes. You pray Frankie is struggling to find those strawberry laces.

‘We’re - we’re just friends, Luc. People who get married are usually a bit more than friends.’

Lucia frowns.

‘But you are more than friends,’ she insists, ‘You’re best friends. And you love each other.’

Jesus Christ. You squeak out a hm, trying to remain noncommittal. Lucia begins to fiddle with the charm on your necklace.

‘How do you get married?’

‘Well,’ you swallow, ‘Usually you have a big party. With lots of friends and family there. And you have to ask each other first.’

‘Have you been married?’

You wince. How is she doing it?

‘No, bean. I haven’t.’

She nods, thoughtful.

‘Neither has Papi. He could ask you.’ 

You choke out a laugh. Frankie’s eyes on yours, on your mouth. The moment caught in time.

Idle thoughts.

‘He could. But I don’t think he wants to.’

Her wide, brown eyes shoot to yours, hands stilling on the chain of your necklace. A feeling creeps up the back of your neck.

‘He does,’ she says quietly. ‘You’re his favourite person, apart from me. He told me s- Papi!’

She cuts herself off in an excitable screech, and you scrunch your face at it. Luc is wriggling in your lap, lips open wide in a toothy grin. Her hands reach out in fists as Frankie rounds your shoulder, the plastic packet of strawberry laces crinkling in his hand. 

‘Open your hand,’ he says, and Lucia obeys, her fists flattening to palms face up. Frankie drops a small handful of the sweets onto them, and she dances on top of your thighs, shoving two in her mouth at once so she can chew them up like snakes disappearing between her teeth.

She flashes you another grin, red blended with white, and wriggles backwards, running off back to her dinosaurs. 

Frankie settles next to you again, offering you the packet. You take it, fingers scrabbling for sugar as the two of you watch her. For a second, it’s like you’re a family. Like you can feel the weight of a ring on your finger, a ring that was supposed to be there some time in the last six months. You shake your head. A silly thought.

Frankie licks his fingers beside you, and you turn to watch him. The sound of the pop as he releases them from his mouth, the smile that dances across his lips as he watches Lucia, the crows feet at the corners of his eyes. An involuntary smile crawls across your own lips.

‘Got another favour you can do for me,’ you say, still chewing. 

‘Hm?’

‘Sink’s a little leaky. Think you can take a look?’

You hold the packet of strawberry laces out to him, and he takes one, lowering it into his mouth. You giggle at the way his tongue curls around it. He grins back at you.

‘Sure can, baby. Luc is at a sleepover Friday night. That work for you?’

‘I think it might, Morales. I think it might.’

[djarins-cyare]

Din Djarin: The Contractor

I had no access to my WIPs for a few days this week, so my brain started inventing scenarios… ‘imagines’, I guess? This (totally unedited) one came about when I happened to scroll past the first two pics of Din on Pinterest, and the memory of Joel telling Ellie he used to be a contractor sprang to mind…

Well, your [SWU-techno-thingy] is broken. Great. Trying to keep your irritation in check, you call the repair company, who politely assure you they’ll send over their best guy immediately. It’s late in the day, and dusk is approaching fast, so you guess you should be happy they’re willing to send anyone out at all.

After a lengthy wait, during which your irritation seems to grow exponentially, your repairman pootles up to your home on his banged-up speeder, parking outside. Unhurriedly, he grabs his tools and trudges into your home, nodding a greeting but remaining suspiciously quiet and not even giving his name.

Perhaps doing a late job has made him grouchy. Yeah, well, not having a working [SWU-techno-thingy] has made you grouchy, too. Get in line, pal.

You show him the problem, and he spends a while trying to get a better look at it, peering into the inner workings and sighing. He mumbles “hmm” an awful lot, sometimes tutting and shaking his helmet at what he sees, and he takes plenty of readings with various tools.

Eventually, he concludes his analysis and tells you it’ll cost double what you were quoted when you called earlier because your [SWU-techno-thingy] is entirely dead. Apparently, he needs to replace your [thingamajig] in order to realign your [whatchamacallit] and get it running again, which requires brand-new parts and a lot of labour.

When you baulk at this, he simply shrugs and says he doesn’t set the rates; they’re determined by the Guild. Then he stands there, looking annoyingly smug, waiting for you to authorise him to start work.

You reluctantly agree and leave him to it, stomping off in the hope that you can find something to occupy yourself while he works.

Frustratingly, you can’t, and when you return shortly thereafter to check how it’s going, you find he’s taking a break. What the hell? A break already???

As much as you try to keep your anger in check, you virtually yell that he’s supposed to be on the clock and he’d better not be charging you for the time he’s spending sitting around doing nothing!

He grumbles something about missing dinner (with a womp rat, of all things!) for this, puts down the bowl he was drinking from, and huffily grabs his tools to get to work.

Finally, he starts the job you hired him for, and you stick around to monitor him, slightly worried he might try and push his luck again. But it seems like he’s pulling his weight at last — tools a-turnin’, sparks a-flyin’. He seems to know what he’s doing.

After a while, you start to realise that what he’s doing is actually pretty impressive. You can’t deny he looks skilled and competent — almost badass — as he expertly fixes your [SWU-techno-thingy].

Satisfied he’s now earning his fee, you leave him to it for a while, once again trying to find something else to occupy you.

But it’s not long before you find yourself back again, keen to know how he’s doing. For a moment, you think he might’ve fallen asleep because he’s lying down, and the bitter taste of annoyance returns, but… oh nope, he’s just getting a better angle for the repairs.

He keeps working diligently, so you let him continue without disturbing him.

After what feels like a lifetime, he finally tells you he’s all finished.

As you inspect his work, you notice him standing off to the side like a kid waiting for the teacher to grade his class project. It’s sort of sweet, in a way.

It seems like he did a decent job, and you tell him so, handing him payment with a smile, which he accepts with a nod. He then collects his stuff (an impressive display of strength), bids you goodbye and turns to leave.

You escort him to the door, thanking him again and watching your taciturn repairman walk away from your home.

Now that you have a working [SWU-techno-thingy] once again and have recovered from being quoted an extortionate price for its repair, you revise your opinion of your contractor. He’s skilled, and aside from being a little huffy to start with (though you concede he was probably just hungry), he seems like a nice guy.

Plus, as he walks away from you, you can’t help but admire his perfect ass, remembering how good it looked earlier when he bent over to grab his toolkit.

Almost as if he can feel your gaze, when he gets to the edge of your property, he turns back to look at you, lingering for a moment, meeting your stare in that intense way of his.

Your pulse picks up, and for a second, you think he might come back — that he might push you inside and have his wicked way with you, give you a decent seeing to with those skilled hands of his.

The moment you share is electric, and you imagine a plethora of debauched scenarios as you stare into his T-visor with hope…

…but it passes as he tears his gaze away, hurriedly loads up his rusted speeder bike, and climbs on. He gives you a final nod as he pulls away, departing from your life as swiftly as he arrived.

Oh well, it was surely a ridiculous thought anyway.

You return inside and try to get on with your evening, but your thoughts keep drifting back to your contractor. Why can’t you stop thinking about him? He barely even spoke to you.

Eventually, you cave and admit it. You’re attracted to him. He has a magnetism you don’t understand, yet you can’t deny its pull on you. But there’s nothing you can do about that… is there? And he might not feel the same anyway.

You keep thinking about the look he gave you when he left. There was something there, you’re sure of it.

So… okay. Are you really going to break something else to get him to come back?

Yes. Yes, you are…

[boxboxblog]

Driver Profiles: Sergio Perez

Hello, this is part of a series where I focus on one driver on the current (as of Oct 2024) grid and give an overview over their career and driving styles. I will be going in championship points order. Enjoy!

Name: Sergio Michel "Checo" Pérez Mendoza

Age: 34

Nationality: Mexican

Years in F1: 14 (2011-2012 Alfa Romeo Sauber, 2013 Mclaren, 2014-2020 Force India/Racing Point, 2021-Present Red Bull)

Number: 11

WDCs: N/A

Driving Style: Perez is most well know for his patient and defensive driving style. He regularly is able to hold off stronger and faster cars behind him for extended periods of teams, meaning he holds position well and also is an asset while defending his teammate. Perez is also known to have great tire management skills, often patiently waiting until his rivals tires wear out before going on the attack with his better-maintained ones. He is also excellent in complex weather conditions, including full wet and wet-dry. A downside of Perez's style is that he struggles with consistency and setting a qualifying pace. He often is outpaced and out qualified by his teammates, especially his current one.

History:

Born not to a legacy racing family but involved in racing nonetheless, Perez began his karting career in 1996 when he was six years old. In his first year of competition he achieved four victories in the junior category and was 2nd in the standings as a rookie karter. In 1997, he participated in the Karting Youth Class, where he was the youngest driver in the category, and had a positive year, finishing 4th in the championship. The next year, in 1998, he would become the youngest driver to win the championship in that same category.

(Perez in karting)

In 1999, he raced in the 80cc Shifter category, finishing 3rd in the championship. He actually was too young to race in this category, but obtained special permission to do so and was the youngest driver to achieve a win in the category. In 2000 he would go on to do much of the same, regularly being the youngest in the categories he race din. He would soon draw the attention of various sponsors and national racing organizations. The next few years of his career would yield similar positive results, though he did not win any titles.

In 2005 Perez moved from Mexico to Europe in order to compete in the German Formula BMW ADC Series. His first year in this series would not yield super positive results, but he would improve in the 2006 season, improving to 6th in the standings. In 2007 he would switch into Formula 3 for the first time. He competed in the National Class and would win his first title that year. In 2008 he would compete again, but only get 4th in the standings.

(Perez racing in Formula BMW)

Pérez joined GP2 in 2008 for the GP2 Asia Series 2008-2009. He was the first Mexican driver to compete at this level of motorsport since Giovanni Aloi took part in International Formula 3000 in 1990. He would show significantly positive results in this series, bringing home multiple podium finishes and sprint race wins. 2009 he would switch to the main 2009 GP2 Series. Pérez finished 12th in the standings, with a best result of second coming at Valencia. His 2010 run in GP2 would be a lot better, ending the season 2nd in the standings.

(Perez after a win in GP2)

Late 2010 it was announced by F1 team Alfa Romeo Sauber that Perez would be joining their team for the 2011 season. Through this, Perez became the 5th Mexican to compete in F1. During the time of the announcement, he also became a Ferrari Academy Driver. Perez had a relatively average rookie season with Sauber, finishing in points positions a few times. He would finish that year 16th in the standings after. bad crash knocked him out of three races. 2012 was a better year for Perez, as he achieved his first podium in Malaysia, and two more during the season. He finished the year in 10th, above his teammate.

(Perez on first podium)

In 2013 Lewis Hamilton vacated the Mclaren seat and Perez was announced as his replacement, ending his relationship with the Ferrari Driver's Academy. He would have a middling year withe Mclaren, his highest finish being 4th. He would also have friction with teammate and WDC Jenson Button, who described his driving style as 'overlyaggressive'. Perhaps this is why later Perez evolved into a cautious and patient driver.

(Perez, right, with Mclaren teammate Jenson Button)

In 2014 Perez would join Force India, and solidify himself as a midfield driver. For a majority of his career with the team he would be a steady driver, most often outpacing his teammates. He achieved a few podiums with them, but also had moments of disaster, famously suffering several crashes throughout his time. He outlasted the Force India name, and was retained when the team became Racing Point in 2019. He would achieve his first win with Racing Point at the 2020 Bahrain GP, an energetic race that allowed him to show his skill. All in all, his time with midfield teams yielded good results for him, often outperforming his teammates and pulling the car to higher positions than it should be. That year it was announced that he would be joining Red Bull for the 2021 season, replacing Alex Albon.

(Perez after first win)

His time with Red Bull would be a mix of bad and good. During this time, he would regularly achieve podiums and a few wins. In 2021 he would finish 4th in the standings. While this was deemed a positive result, his teammate finished first and it put some scrutiny on Perez. 2022 saw Perez finish 3rd in the standings, behind his teammate in 1st and Ferrari's Charles Leclerc. That would also be the year he achieved his maiden pole position, at the Jeddah GP. 2023 was his best year in F1, being one of few drivers to win a race that year other than Max Verstappen. He would finish 2nd in the standings behind Verstappen, and help Red Bull win another WCC. He would also help Red Bull win their first ever 1-2 in the championship.

(Perez with teammate Verstappen, 2021)

2024 so far has been a mixed bag for Perez. While he has achieved multiple podiums, he has also regularly qualified and placed multiple positions behind his teammate. This performance has led to speculation that Perez would be removed from Red Bull half way through the year, or in the 2025 season. The speculation was put to rest when Red Bull announced a contract extension through 2025 with Perez.

(Perez on the podium at the 2024 Austria GP)

Major Races:

2012 Malaysian GP - Perez's highest finish of his career then, and his first pole position. He displayed excellent tire management, completing a long stint and maintaining a competitive pace.

2014 Bahrain GP - His first podium with Force India. Perez displayed his famous defensive driving, holding off much faster cars for the entire race.

2020 Bahrain GP - Perez's first win in his last year with Racing Point. He had the greatest comebacks in his career, after being spun to the back of the grid. It was a remarkable race as he battled his way to 1st, and is the race that won him His Red Bull seat.

2021 Baku GP - His first win with Red Bull. Baku would become a track that he is known for competing well around. He held off Lewis Hamilton (who was fighting his teammate for the championship) the whole race. Many attribute his win in Baku as a major part of Verstappen's first WDC.

2022 Monaco GP- Monaco is famously a tricky circuit, and he raced extremely strategically, outmaneuvering both Ferrari's to win. It was also yet another race where Perez showed his skill in wet-dry conditions.

Alright, that's all for Perez! Up next is Fernando Alonso.

Cheers,

-B

[thefrogdalorian]

I know there is this widely held perception that Season 3 of The Mandalorian had silly moments and made some comically strange story choices, which I can totally admit myself. I mean the bit in 03x04 where they all scatter to eat, but Bo is allowed to remain sitting by the fire was kind of hilarious and blatantly just because they wanted a helmetless scene in that episode.

And I won't complain too much because more Katee Sackhoff on my screen is never a bad thing.

But come on! The Mandalorian has always had goofy, unserious moments that if you contemplate for more than a second, your head threatens to fly off because of how daft it can be, at times.

For instance, in 1x04 Sanctuary, when Din removes his helmet on Sorgan in froNT OF AN OPEN WINDOW?!!?!

I know they did it for dramatic effect, to demonstrate how long he has worn his helmet, but if one of those kids looked around it would've been CURTAINS FOR HIM. Okay it might have been dark, sure, whatever but I cannot imagine someone as devout as Din would even take that risk! The Creed is everything to him.

Also, this man who we have seen for an entire season being such a competent and capable warrior has apparently never had a jetpack before Chapter 8. The best bounty hunter in the parsec cannot fly?! Then, immediately after getting it from The Armorer, with no training, he conveniently uses it immediately to blow up a TIE fighter and (seemingly) defeat Moff Gideon?!!?!

Not to mention how silly it is Gideon survived that initial skirmish... and probably survives in Season 3 too but we'll deal with that when it comes to it.

It isn't just Season One, either. There are also some parts of Season 2 which leave me scraching my head slightly, like in The Believer when the terminal needs to scan a face. Not a specific face, just any face. It doesn't make much sense. Again, not complaining, more Pedro Pascal on my screen is never a bad thing.

Not to mention how convenient Din getting the beskar spear was right before his duel with Gideon for the Darksaber. A weapon which is coincidentally one of the few which can parry the sacred blade!

Anyway, I don't hate any of these moments at all, I just feel like fans used to be so much more lenient.

Of course season 3 has some hmmmmm moments too, but there have always been questionable decisions right from the start. Star Wars fans are always going to nitpick and it mostly comes from a good place. I just wish there could be a bit more of a ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ attitude sometimes.

Nothing is perfect, but this show has had so many enjoyable moments and such compelling characters that I can let some silliness slide. Star Wars should always be a little goofy and silly and for me, long may that continue!

[justagalwhowrites]

Growing - A Beskar Doll Drabble

Aidla makes her case to become a bounty hunter like her parents. A Beskar Doll drabble.

Pairing: The Mandalorian x Female Reader from Beskar Doll

CW: Pregnancy. No use of Y/N. Drabble is SFW but Source fic is 18+ only, minors DNI.

Length: 700

A/N: The first chapter of Beskar Doll went live one year ago today so, in honor of that, here's a little peek at what Din and Doll are up to with their little family. This takes place about 2 years after the end of Beskar Doll and I hope you enjoy it!

Beskar Doll Master List | Full Master List

“But I’m ready, Buir!” 

Din sighed, looking over his daughter’s head to you. Grogu was on your hip, an amused smile on your face and a small fistful of hair in his little grasp. 

Aidla turned to you. Din couldn’t see her face but he was sure she was pouting. 

“Mama!” She protested. “I’m sure I can do it! Really!” 

“Patu!” Grogu said, drawing your attention. 

“OK, I don’t need the two of you teaming up on me,” you said, adjusting your hold on your son. “And no, Aidla. You’re not big enough.” 

“Finally, something we can agree on,” Din said, earning him a scowl from you. “Your mother is right, Aidla. You’re too little.” 

You insisting on coming along for every part of the bounty hunting process was a sore subject between the two of you now that you were pregnant again. 

It made Din incredibly nervous, watching you do anything dangerous in your condition. Of course, he had a whole new understanding of what dangerous was when it came to his children - and you, when you were carrying one. While you were the single most competent person he knew - a formidable adversary and the best partner he could hope for in any combat - that didn’t make what the two of you did for a living safe. Bounty skippers weren’t exactly ready to come quietly and they weren’t above using something like your pregnancy against either of you. 

You, however, were as stubbornly confident as ever. You were convinced that you could handle anything that got thrown at you as easily as you did before you were pregnant. Though, in your defense, you’d been correct when you were pregnant with Aidla. 

That didn’t make it any easier to watch you put yourself in harm’s way now. 

“Why can’t I at least try?” Aidla whined, her little beskar staff tight in her fist. “How can I become a warrior if you never let me really fight?” 

She turned to look at Din. 

“Buir, how old were you when you first fought a bad man?” 

He sighed. 

“Not much bigger than you,” he said reluctantly. 

She smiled, a little triumphant, before turning back to you.

“Mama,” she said. “I know you weren’t too much bigger than me when you and Aunt Sosha went to school. And you were fighting bad guys before that! Why can’t I do it?” 

You bounced Grogu on your hip for a moment before looking back at Din. 

“Don’t,” he said, looking between you and Aidla. 

“Patu,” Grogu said. 

“She has a point…” you said.

“She’s not old enough!” 

“Din,” you lowered your voice and moved closer to him, whispering near his ear on his helmet. “I’d been running information to the rebellion for years by the time I was her age…” 

“That doesn’t mean she’s…” 

Din didn’t have a chance to finish his sentence. His leg got pulled out from below him and he went down hard, his beskar armor clattering against the floor of the Razor Crest’s hold. He was barely on the ground when he felt the small feet of his daughter clambering up his back, the end of her staff pressed firmly into the back of his neck. 

“See, Buir?” She said from her place standing on his back. “I can do it! I’m ready!” 

“Aidla!” Din could hear you straining not to laugh as you scolded her. “That is not how we spar, you know better.” 

“Mama,” she said, exasperated as she climbed off Din’s back. “I wouldn’t spar the bad guys. I’d just fight them.” 

You disguised your laugh with a cough as Din got up with a grunt and sighed. He looked into his daughter’s wide, brown eyes, not unlike his own. 

“Alright,” he sighed. “You can try. But you have to follow mine and your mother’s orders the moment we tell you, understand?” 

“I understand!” She said quickly, throwing her arms around Din’s waist and burying her face in the armor there. “I’ll do so good, Buir! I promise I will!” 

“Better go get ready,” he sighed. “Desert clothes.” 

She nodded once before taking off to get changed and Din looked to you, a small smile on your face as you came to stand beside him. 

“She gets that from you, you know,” he said. 

You looked up at him, smiling smugly. 

“Finally,” you said. “Something we can agree on.” 

[ravenalla]

Okay I swear this will be my last rant post before the next episode airs but I have to get it off my chest cause I keep seeing the argument made that people disappointed Din gave the darksaber away are forgetting the lack of plot in the previous seasons, which I very heavily disagree.

I can’t speak for everyone, but at least for me when I’m saying I’m disappointed Din did not become Manda’lor I am not saying I hated the adventure of the week side quest format they had. That’s what I liked best about the show! It was great in season 1 feeling like Din was just the random guy off on his own adventure with this baby he found, I would have loved for it to have kept that small space western feel. Season 3 becoming this big interconnected universe with a corrupted New Republic plot connecting to the sequels is what I was most worried about just because I personally don’t like that direction. The more they’ve tried to go the Andor route and make this show about the Galatic politics, the worst it’s become imo (we literally have two white dudes writing a plot point about droids liking being underclass and serving the soft democratic people that is ruled with the help of a former Nazi, but ohh it’s okay it’s Jack Black and he’s funny and the Space Nazi and the Space Nazi doctor are really sorry for what they did, look the New Republic is just as bad as the fascist imperials 🥺🥺)

What some people are not getting is that the darksaber is ALL. DIN. HAD. LEFT. There was no driving force or goal for him after episode 2, they reunited him with his child in a spin-off show, they have him redeem himself fairly easily without any emotional impact, and now they took away the opportunity to do one last interesting thing with him. Din does not have his own actions or thoughts throughout most of the season, and when he does it’s just retracing the character development they already gave him in previous seasons (i.e. the whole droid fiasco). He’s a plot device, meant to further Bo-Katan’s character and help her with her goals or have him in danger so she can save him. It was okay if Din did not become Manda’lor, but they can’t just make him having the darksaber out to be a huge deal, show him trying to learn how to train with it, and give it up so stupidly through a loophole just so Bo-Katan can lead again when she has done nothing to actually earn it or apologize for the way she disrespected Din’s entire culture again and again. She was a terrorist who has done a 180 into suddenly being an honorable character just because of a few action scenes, no introspection or interesting conflict between her and the covert about their differences, nothing about her actually thinking about her past mistakes, just the covert being there to look like dumbasses who settled on a dangerous planet where their children get eaten so Bo can lead missions, look a million times more competent in comparison, and suddenly be the one who deserves to lead.

There doesn’t have to be a big plot each episode, but it’s not being executed well like it was in the first two seasons. The goal was getting Grogu to a Jedi, and we were given the interesting side adventures on that journey. Din needs to find somewhere he can lay low, he goes to Sorgan and becomes tempted by a domestic life. Din needs credits, he takes a job with some old acquaintances and sees what kind of slimy person he could have been. Din needs to find other mandos to help him find a Jedi, he runs into a small town desperate for help with a Krayt Dragon and showcases his pride in being a Mandalorian but his respect for other cultures and his willingness to do the right thing. He travels to a planet ruled by an former Imperialist because the Jedi he was searching for was there and helps her to save a town both for their sake and his need to give his son the best life he can have. See the pattern? They were side adventures, but they weren’t a random hodgepodge of ideas, they fit the story and the tone, giving us interesting side characters and helping to develop our main characters. Din showed his leadership, his growing kindness, his frustrations, his annoyances, his fears, Grogu becomes more adventurous, vocal, and attached to who he’s starting to see as a father figure. They both aren’t talkative characters, but they had feelings and personalities we saw. They had moments between them that wasn’t just exposition for the plot or a push towards an action scene, it showed their lives and values, their relationships. Little moments like Din being happy to hear Grogu’s name, Cobb sharing his story and why he valued the armor, Omera talking with Din about his life and wondering if he could stay, Frog Lady wanting to get her eggs safely to her husband and Din comedically trying to make that happen. The story was driven by these characters decisions and their personalities.

Season 3, on the other hand, has taken away all the life of these side adventures in its goal to tie in a larger Star Wars narrative that connects to other shows. They are not character driven anymore, and instead the characters are being twisted and molded to do and say stuff that’ll get us from point A to point B instead of the other way around. The point of Din breaking his creed is not to see what that would mean for his identity or how he wants to live with Grogu by his side, the point is to take him to Mandalore so that he can ultimately get trapped and fall down a hole so Bo-Katan can see the Mythosaur. The point of Bo-Katan’s crew leaving her and her staying in a random castle for no reason doing nothing all day isn’t for her to recognize her past failings or show us what their relationship was like and what it meant to her, it’s to have an easy offscreen explanation so that she can come to the covert without anything challenging in the way. The point of Din’s coverts staying on a monster-infested planet where Paz’s son is kidnapped isn’t because it makes sense they’d be there or that Paz suddenly even has a son we’ve never seen before, it’s so they can put in CGI monsters they thought were cool and have Bo save the day so they can have a flimsy reason she does need to be leader again. The point of spending time with the covert and having random pirates attacking Nevarro wasn’t to develop the other mandalorians as actual characters, it was to have them accept Bo easily so that she can “walk both worlds” and give Carl Weather’s character more screentime. And so much more.

Things are happening, but it doesn’t matter whether they make sense or fit the characters anymore, because all the side quest are focused on is bending over backwards trying to make you believe this Bo deserves the darksaber narrative. Before that it wasn’t like the Covert was planning to take back Mandalore, Din wasn’t planning to take back Mandalore, Bo didn’t tell anybody what she saw so there was no real stakes for anybody. Nobody in the main plot has had any purpose as more than side characters besides her. Din may have been the main character, but the people he met on his journey didn’t just do stuff to contribute to his own character or finding a Jedi. Omera had her own goals, Cobb had his own goals, Fennec had her own goals, Boba had his own goals, and they all still worked well with the narrative without diminishing each other, Din developed on the way by learning from the other characters and them him. What the fuck does Din want this season? Paz? The Armorer? The answer is whatever will make it easiest for the plot to retake Mandalore and have Bo be the Manda’lor for these writers, despite it being shown previously they have no reason to care or like Bo-Katan.

Like, some character moments are there. Bo is changing. I’m not saying that’s not happening at all. But it’s being done in a way that is sabotaging every other aspect of the show to force this plot that they wanted, the sidequest are feeling duller because they aren’t for these characters to have fun adventures we get emotionally invested in that simultaneously furthers the actual main characters goal, it’s let’s just have a CGI dragon, let’s have Lizzo and Jack Black guest star, let’s have Zeb from Rebels be in there for no reason. Unless again you count Bo as the main character, but like honestly she’s not even having natural character development. She went from being an antagonistic ex-terrorist to suddenly being kind and charitable with hardly any buildup or insight into her feelings. It doesn’t feel organic. I know she lost everything, but they still made it seem like she blamed Din for it only to have her rescue him once and completely abandon that hostility. The best we really have gotten is Grogu remembering his past while with the armorer and setting up his future as a Mandalorian, but even that feels cheapened when the armor he was given isn’t even talked about with the person who he shares the symbol with him that signifies their relationship, making me think it’s just another merchandise decision.

We wanted Din to learn to rule because, even if we did have to say goodbye to the adventure of the week type format, it would have been in service of his character evolving into something he doesn’t think he deserves or is good at. It would have been the next step in his journey, accumulating everything he has learned, the growth he went through using both diplomacy and his skills as a fighter time and time again. Instead, they chose to really quickly ditch any of the conflicts he had so they could have him free to do this instead. If they had waited one more season, this could have possibly been done well imo. Din’s arcs could have been brought to a meaningful and satisfying conclusion, and then you could have made him and Bo-Katan become co-leads. It wouldn’t have mattered as much then if they decided to focus a little more on her. But instead they essentially abandoned Din’s story they’ve spent two seasons creating to go ahead and tell her own.

The side quest aren’t what people are complaining about. It’s that they have no meaning for our characters other than having everybody circling around Bo most of the time or creating some big connection to the sequel triology and setting up the Star Wats MCU, which wasn’t the style of writing this show did. I don’t care how many ways people want to argue against it, Din is not the main character in this season, which is not what they have been selling us all year, and he doesn’t even have any engaging story or arc as a side character either. That is the problem, and that is why these side quest and the lack of an actual plot do not work.

[crimsonvictory]

Release

MINORS DNI

word count: 3.6k

tags: the mandalorian, the mandalorian smut, the mandalorian x reader, din djarin x reader

warnings: overstimulation, sub!din, dom!reader, touch-starved!din, p-in-v sex, multiple orgasms, virgin!din

notes: i love touch-starved!din. he just needs some release. 😩

I haven’t written anything in SO long please forgive me.

Updated it a little bit because I wasn’t happy with the first results.

prompt(s):

"Tell me what you like.”

“Don't stop, don't you dare stop.”

————————————————————

Since boarding the Crest a little over a year ago, the increasing amount of frustration that was filling the air was concerning you. The tension was so crisp, you could cut it with a knife.

Being within close proximity with someone else gave you plenty of practice on reading unspoken body language. The Mandalorian thought he could hide how he was feeling from you, but you could pick up on his little tells. The way his modulator would pick up his change of breath, it could mean many things, agitation, a slight laugh at your jokes, or sometimes a sign that he was tired and needed a break. His shoulders held so much emotion too. He carried the galaxy on his shoulders and almost never seemed to relax, unless he was asleep.

You mourned the way he never allowed himself to rest. He slept only a couple hours at a time, always on alert, never fully comfortable.

A couple of weeks ago, you noticed that he was getting agitated over every little thing that happened within the ship. The hot water fluctuating (not your fault), the GPS being off by a few parsecs (most definitely not your fault) you (possibly your fault?).

It seemed lately that nearly every day he was almost always taking his anger out on you. Whether it be a snide comment on the work you were doing on the ship or stony silence. But either way, you were getting tired of it. This last dispute really crawling under your skin.

It had all started because you had ordered the wrong part for the GPS system (okay so it was your fault), causing it to overshoot by a few parsecs. It was an honest mistake, and you owned up to it right away. But he did not take your apology well.

It took you almost a better part of the day to explain it to him. You made your way up to the cockpit, hands sweaty on the metal rungs. You danced your way around the room, not able to sit still, the guilt just eating at you.

You went over and over in your head how you were going to tell him, but he beat you to the point.

“What did you do wrong?” he asks, not turning around to face you.

How did he know? Was he as good at reading body language as you?

You cleared you throat, beginning to explain what had happened. Your voice shook as you told him.

“You know better. You better pray to the Maker that we can make it to a shop that has a competent mechanic.” he seethed whipping around to look at you.

You glared at him, face heating up from embarrassment.

“It was an honest mistake, Mando.” you explained.

“You think you know everything but you don’t. You’re adequate at best. How hard is it to order a GPS component?!” he continued.

Your mouth opened and closed in shock, tears brimming your eyes. You were angry.

“I said it was a mistake! Why don’t you lay off of me? I’ll fix it when we get to the next planet, okay? I’m sorry.”

He stood up, walking over and getting down in your face. “I don’t need your help.” he bit out, huffing as he turned and stomped back over to the pilot’s chair.

He spun around quickly, huffing loudly and putting in the next coordinates. You stood there in shock, shaking from anger. Taking a deep breath, you composed your thoughts, trying your best not to be emotional about the situation.

He was still seething. You could feel the anger radiating off of him. The tension in the room so thick you could barely breathe. You took shallow breaths through your nose and out of your mouth, willing yourself to calm down.

“I don’t appreciate being talked to like that,” you stated, leaning against the co-pilots seat and crossing your arms.

He stayed facing away from you, stony and silent.

“Mando,” you pressed. “You can’t talk to me like that. I am human and I’m going to make mistakes. But at least I own up to them and offer to fix them-“

“You shouldn’t be making mistakes-“ he spits.

“If you don’t want mistakes then hire a kriffing droid,” you spit back, fire under your tongue.

He whirls around at that, chest heaving.

“I don’t know what your fucking problem is, but you don’t need to take it out on me,” you tell him, glaring at his unwavering visor.

He sighs heavily, and you can already feel him putting up a wall again.

You roll your eyes. “You always do this! You always put up a wall when I’m trying to talk to you. I’m trying to help, Mando. That’s what I’m here for. I’ve been here for nearly a year and I know nothing about you.”

“It’s best it stays that way,” he grunts out. “Like I said, I don’t need your help. I’m fine on my own.”

You stepped forward, closing the distance a bit. He leans back in his chair, watching you warily as you come closer.

“But what if I want to help?” you offer softly, completely flipping the situation.

You’re surprised at your words, not knowing where they came from. He freezes at your words, unable to speak. His shoulders tense, a fist forming by his side. You walk closer to him, slowly inching the space closed. His visor follows your movements, watching you closely.

“You need to relax,” you whisper, warily placing a hand on his pauldron.

You hear his breath catch and small smile tugs at your lips.

“Let me help, Mando.”

You watch him, he’s completely still, almost not even breathing, not used to another’s’ touch. After a terse moment, he slowly nods.

“Okay,” he whispers, modulator catching the hesitation in his voice.

You smile at his words, sliding your hand up to rest at his cowl. You’re slow with your moments, not wanting to spook him. You gently stroke the exposed skin at his nape, feeling goosebumps erupt at your touch.

His breath expels shakily through the modulator.

“Breathe,” you remind him. “If it‘s too much, let me know, okay?”

Mando nods again, relaxing a bit after a few deep breaths. You slowly slide your hands down his chest, taking mind of his armor. You gently caress his arms, working from his wrists up to his biceps and back down again, watching his body language for any signs of discomfort.

“This okay?” you question. He nods and clears his throat.

You can tell he wants to say something, but it’s catching in his throat. He eventually tells you after a silent moment.

“You can, uh, take the armor off if you want,” he murmurs.

The request takes you by surprise.

“Are you sure?” you ask, appalled that he would suggest even a thing.

He nods, confirming your questioning.

You go slowly, starting at his shoulder pauldrons and working your way down. His hands guide yours, helping you on the places that you struggle.

It’s the most careful he’s been with you. Your hands tremble with excitement and you feel your heart begin to race. Your cheeks warm, feeling so vulnerable in this small space.

You continue to unfasten the buckles, setting his armor down gently on the floor beside you. Working your way down to his breast plate, you glide your fingers under the beskar, lifting it up over his head. His vambrances come next, and finally the thigh and shin guards.

Your breath catches at the mere size of him. He was big without the armor. Just pure muscle, but still soft, especially the way he’s relaxing under your touch. He’s left in his thermals, and your imagination begins running wild. You’ve always imagined what he looked like.

You always thought of him having dark hair, dark eyes, and a sharp, aquiline nose. You’ve never taken a peak, but sometimes you dream of him. You would never confess that. Not to anyone. You turn your focus back to the man in front of you. He seems to shy away from your eyes, turning his head away from you.

You guess that he’s blushing under his helmet. If only you could see him. You just know he’s beautiful. You make a soft noise, appreciating the opportunity unfolding before you. You wrap your fingers around his bicep, squeezing gently.

“Tell me what you like,” you coo.

His visor snaps back to you and he lets out a choked noise. You’ve taken him by surprise.

“I-I-,” he stutters as you trail your fingers down his arm, removing his gloves and placing them down next to his armor.

You finally get a glance at his skin. He’s sun-kissed, nearly golden under all of that armor. You wonder if he ever misses the feeling of sun on his skin. You lace your fingers together, gently squeezing his against your own.

He hums his approval, it crackles through the vocoder.

“Mando.” you say, catching his attention. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“I- uh,” he clears his throat again. “I’ve never really-“, he mumbles, looking away again.

Your mind reels at his confession. The Mandalorian, a virgin? It couldn’t be.

“Never?” you question softly, no judgement in your voice.

He answers with another shake of his head.

“This is the Way.”

You hum, considering your options. You don’t want to overwhelm him, but you want to make him feel good. Sliding your hand down to his thigh and squeezing gently.

“Would you let me take care of you?” you ask again. He looks up at you from the pilots seat, in a daze, and takes. a moment before nodding again.

“Use your words, Mando.”

“Y-Yes,” he finally gets out.

You give his thigh another squeeze before straddling his lap and wrapping your arms around his neck. You can feel how hard he’s becoming underneath you, and it makes your stomach flutter.

Reaching up and placing your hand on the exposed part of his neck, you tilt it to the side, giving you access to the skin closest to you. His breathing quickens, nervousness- and you stroke the side of his neck gently before leaning down and placing a kiss to the underside of his jaw. There’s a hint of scruff and you slip your fingers up near his jaw to memorize his face. You’re careful not to move his helmet too much, keeping the Creed in mind. He hums his appreciation at your courtesy.

Hints of mahogany and black vanilla filled your space and you dart your tongue out, tasting his skin. He keens, tilting his head back against the headrest, giving you as much space as he could. His cock twitches against you, and you hum, feeling his arousal grow.

You mouth along his neck, dipping down a few times to kiss his collarbones. Goosebumps follow your kisses, and you can feel the intimacy buzzing under his skin. His energy is electrifying.

Mando shifts his weight underneath you, hips bumping up against your own and it catches you by surprise. You grab onto his arm, steadying yourself.

“Sorry-“ he apologizes as quickly as possible.

“No need to apologize,” you murmur against his skin, dropping your weight down and grinding once, twice, against him.

A moan crackles through his helmet.

Oh.

You wish you could hear him unfiltered. His voice would sound like molten honey. You watch his chest rise and fall, a blush peaking just above his collar.

“Doing okay?” you whisper, checking to make sure your boundaries aren’t overstepped.

He nods, trying to meet the downward grind of your hips. His hand wraps around your waist, holding you in place. You gladly let him use you.

You feel yourself getting aroused, a warm feeling building in your stomach. The way his length is rubbing against your clit feels otherworldly. You bite your lip to keep quiet. He strokes your hip with his thumb, visor watching you. A warmth spreads over your cheeks, the roles reversed.

You take control again, slowing your movements and wrapping your fingers around his neck, pulling him close as you grind against his lap. You watch as he slowly starts to come apart, the pleasure becoming too much. Your kids grow heavy and you watch his chest rise and fall, little gasps falling from his mouth. He sounds fucking angelic.

You wish you could listen to them on repeat. He’s trying his best to keep his hands at his sides, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. He’s fighting to relax but slowly giving in when the pleasure builds up and up and up.

“You can touch me, y’know,” you pant, watching his visor. “You’re not going to hurt me. It’s not a bad thing to give in to your pleasure,” you remind.

He’s hesitant, you can practically see the battle in his mind. He slips his hand around your hip, stroking circles into your skin. You hum, praising him.

You begin to slow down your movements, taking the time to gather the strength to climb off of him and position yourself in between his legs. He spreads them wide, placing one foot up on the edge of the seat before tilting his helmet down and looking at you.

Maker- the angle of him above you, chest flushed with arousal- makes you squirm. His chest is rising and falling rapidly, anxious of your next move. His arm is resting on his knee, fingers splayed, relaxed. He looks like a fucking god. You imagine his lids heavy, mouth parted open as he breathes. You nearly come apart at the sight.

“Like the view?” he jokes, and you nod, unable to congregate a sentence. His voice has dropped an octave. You could fucking die happy right here.

You get to work, unbuckling his belt, then having him shimmy out of his pants, leaving him in his boxers.

The outline of his cock is straining against the material. You almost drool, looking up at him through your lashes, you ask, “May I?”

He nods, motioning with his hand to go ahead. You lean forward, placing both hands on his upper thighs and lean down to mouth at his length.

Oh.

He’s fucking huge.

You place soft kisses against the fabric before licking a stripe up to the tip. He whines, hips bucking upwards.

“Please-“ he whines. “Don’t tease.”

His hand grips the side of the pilots chair, fingers wrapping around it tightly, restraining himself.

You bring one hand closer, slipping your hand inside and wrapping your fingers around his length. He’s soft, like velvet - and he twitches in your hand. You bring out his cock through his boxers, adoring the sight of him.

“Maker-“ you whisper in shock. You give him a test stroke, curling your fingers over the tip before sliding them back down to the base. “You’re fucking huge.”

A gasp leaves his lips and he tenses up at your touch. You repeat the pattern, watching his resolve come undone under your finger tips.

He slumps back in the pilots chair, hips bucking upwards to meet your strokes. He’s covered your fingers in precome, easing the way your strokes go up and down.

You tighten your grip on his cock, slowing your strokes down and leaning over to place your lips around his tip.

“Oh, fuck-“ he curses, hips stuttering.

You hum, slowly taking him into your mouth while stroking what you can’t fit at the moment. You suck, swirling your tongue around his tip and bobbing your head up and down his length. You nearly gag due to his size. You cannot believe the situation right now. Maker, you are in heaven.

A heavy hand threads its fingers through your hair, tugging as you absolutely devour him. You can’t get enough. He tastes so fucking good. You lean into his touch, encouraging him to continue.

Your eyes roll in your head as you take him deeper. The sheer size of him makes you so fucking wet. A moan slips from your mouth and you look up at him from your eyelashes.

The sight above you was painted by the Maker himself. You wished so badly again that you could see his face. You imagine his brows scrunched in pleasure, mouth pouting open in the prettiest of ways. You know his lips were angry and pink from his teeth biting into them. He was trying so hard to be quiet and was failing miserably.

You wanted him to let go, relax and enjoy this feeling. Because you didn’t know how long it would be until he needed this again. He wasn’t a man to ask for help. But when he did, you were more than happy to deliver.

The quiet gasps filtering their way through the modulator was music to your ears. He sounded so fucking desperate.

You stroke him a couple more times, coming off of his length with a pop. He groans, mourning the loss of your mouth. You make your way up to his lap again, pulling your underwear to the side and straddling his waist again.

You tilt his chin up, making him make eye contact with you.

“Mando, do you want me to stop?”

He grabs onto your arm, squeezing tightly.

“Don't stop, don't you dare stop.”

You moan at his words, an ultimate confession of wanted pleasure. You both were shaking with anticipation, getting used to each other's bodies. Lining yourself up, you take his hand and guide it down to your pussy.

“Do you feel that? You did that, Mando,” you coo, feeling his thick fingers glide through your folds.

He groans, bringing his fingers up and underneath his helmet, like a man dying of thirst.

“Fuck, you taste fucking good.” he moans, returning his fingers to your folds for another taste.

You keen at his praise, holding on to his shoulder as he dips his fingers back again and again. He’s hooked on your taste and cannot get enough.

Mando wraps his fingers around your hips, guiding you over to his cock. His other hand cuffs around your neck as he pulls you close, voicing another confession.

“Please, fucking wreck me.”

He trembling at this point and you cannot deny him any longer. You guide the tip of his length to your entrance and slowly guide yourself down. It takes a while, as you’re not used to his length. By the time you bottom out, you’re both shaking with exertion.

“Holy fuck-“ you choke out, appalled by the sheer size of him.

“If you don’t fucking move right now-“ he gasps, trembling with pleasure.

You obey, slowly move back up before guiding yourself back down. You feel so full, not knowing if you can take all of him. It’s overwhelming, but in such a good way. You clench around his length, grabbing his attention.

“O-Oh my god-“ he gasps, squeezing your hip. “Again,” he praises.

You oblige, loving the pleasure it gives you both. A thin sheen of sweat forms on your skin and your thighs start to tremble. It’s fucking worth it.

You know he’s not going to last long, you can tell from his breathing. You’re not either, by doing all of the work. But you’re so blissed out on pleasure you don’t even care. He fills you up in just the right way, the tip catching at the deepest part of your cervix and creating a delicious burn in your stomach.

He grabs onto your shoulder, leaving one hand on your hip as he takes control for a moment, speeding his thrusts up to meet yours. The sound of your bodies meeting fills the cockpit, tension resolved and disappearing.

All that lingers now is the smell of sex and arousal. Warmth from both of your bodies filling the air. It’s comfortable and you don’t want to leave.

“Fuck- Mando, you’re doing such a good job,” you gasp out between thrusts. “Look how well I’m taking you.”

He moans at your praise, hips stuttering. His visor tilts down, watching where your bodies separate and then meet again. His fingers brush over your clit and you gasp.

“If you keep talking like that I’m not going to last-“ he warns.

“Good,” you laugh, high off of pleasure. “I want you to let go, come for me.”

“Oh Maker,” he chokes out, thrusting, once, twice, thrice before seizing up, pleasure overcoming his body.

You watch as his body tenses and then slump as the pleasure slowly makes its way through his body. He’s breathing heavily, gently rubbing circles on your hip. He laughs, a musical thing. You wish you could have this moment on repeat.

Your pleasure is still building, burning it your stomach. He glides his hands down to your clit, thumb brushing along your little bundle of nerves. He’s unexperienced, but a quick learner. You show him how to build your pleasure and he repeats your motions, making it burn in your belly.

You slump forward on him, grabbing his bicep for support. His fingers are slow and calulating, but adding the perfect amount of pressure that has you seeing stars.

He does something unexpected, wrapping his fingers around your throat and giving a soft squeeze. You clench around him, body going taught as you reach your orgasm. He coaxes your body through it, guiding you up, up up, and carrying you gently back down.

The pleasure is so intense you start to cry. It’s been so long since you’ve had any intimacy and you cannot handle it. He strokes circles onto your side as you calm down.

“Thank you,” you both say at the same time, causing a chuckle from you both.

“Don’t wait so long to ask me for help next time,” you joke, leaning against his chest and giving him a hug.

“I won’t,” he says.

You believe him.

[azertyrobaz]

R5, next shield.

[court-jobi]

Sneak Peek: Just Be Gentle pt 2

Gif credit by @javier-pena

I am SO delayed in this, but WIP Weekend it is! Recommended by the lovely @djarins-cyare, thanks friend!

I have not visited my drafts folder in sooo long, but I'm coming out of an unintentional writing hiatus and have fresh motivation to open the ole lappytop back up for a little sample to share. Part 1 of this fic was much beloved by yall apparently, so it continues here!

Pairing: Paz Vizsla x reader

Words: 1.9K (for now)

For my Star Wars | Mandalorian Masterlist, check it out here!

Paz watched the scene before him unfold; the heat of compassion bloomed in the gut like stoking a fire…

Din Djarin swore on the deed of his ship that he wasn’t exaggerating. He placed a flag solidly in her camp, and would go to arms for her as a returned gesture of loyalty. From that first meeting when the Hunter came back through the alcove to Nevarro’s covert, he spoke on his companion’s competence on several fronts. Namely, in all the ways that resonated with his people: creative thinking, handy know-how, and something more: empathy- a gift not to be ignored when it came to caring for others -himself included- in moments of high stress. 

He praised her talents ‘all across the board’, citing moments in their brief stint together on the Razor Crest as testimony to his Mandalorian clan for her to remain there in shelter– to be the exception to their rules regarding outsiders. Aruetti. 

A surprise to none, Paz Vizsla deemed that it would be up to him to judge such loyalties for himself; as a man more inclined to view actions as proof rather than words. 

But then he met her. Every bit of what Djarin said was true. Better yet, she proved every assumption of his wrong: allowed her to take him by the crook of his arm, surrendered her best vote of confidence, and let him lead. Acquiesced to his strength, protected it, and encouraged him at every turn. Saved him the first of her meals, the best of her scavenged findings. Took to tending to his wounds herself, because he wasn’t gentle enough to do so on his own.

A few weeks have passed since that day, but his fondness for her didn’t wane like the moon’s phases did. Paz Vizsla made it his mission from that moment forward to carry an extra ounce of gentleness, just for her. 

Then, the refugees came pouring in. Her arrival couldn't have been timed more perfectly, Paz thought; he’d only begun to see the full measure of little Song’s magic the moment he saw her skills at work. 

A smaller covert made a quick exit and raced to safety after a raid depleted their stores a few systems over. There had been some rumors of their hunter clans taking the bait of Guild membership in order to make ends meet, as they’d seen in Djarin’s success. The Way instilled a sense of belonging wherever Mandalorians crossed paths, so merging on his covert’s territory for the upcoming season out of necessity was a given.

But now, in light of Nevarro’s storm season, it seems their numbers would be doubling indefinitely. The situation proved to be a strain and test of everyone’s flexibility and resilience, to keep everyone content and organized on such short notice… but with a Vizsla as Alorad, they flourished with the change in plans and watched on as Paz steeled himself against Fear, and made everything suitable. Supplies were rationed and rooms were stuffed to the brim, but they would make do.

While they may not have resources with them in tow, they more than made up for it by pulling their weight in preparation for the underground shelters. And that, would benefit all. 

Song made herself indispensable, true to what Djarin had said. Moreover, she did so with caring smiles and solemn assurances to the migrating Mandalorians -young and old- who felt very out of place. To those men who lost their way in the bustle and found themselves turned around in the tunnels, she would give quick pointers about where to go– and thanked them for their service to the clan, each and every one. 

Learning fast. Paz was grateful.

Upon nightfall, there was less commotion than normal. As the common spaces gradually funneled down, bedchambers were lit and sealed for the night. For the most part, it was the heads of families -adults- who went to rooms for the night as a chance to let down and get their heads on straight after such a sudden move. Surely not all slept right away, but took to tending to their armor and delving into their meditation practices.

 Meanwhile, their children under ten or so were sent off to the creche where they could be watched over. The community room was next to the medstations, and as kids are often ones to complain of very little bout of aches, pains, or simple snotty noses, it was the logical choice. 

Two crechemasters stayed in the spacious alcove of the Medbay annex overseeing the creche, as well as one of the resident tribe’s kitchen aides, a few men as guards near the entrance and supply doors… and a certain someone -with a voice like the Coming of Spring- that Paz Viszla could never refuse pausing for a minute to listen….

Clearly tugged by the soft spot within him, Paz volunteered to serve first watch over the children for their first night, which made their parents feel that much more assured of their protection. So with blankets pulled from every corner of spare storage, canvas mats laid this way and that, and with juvenile excitement despite the circumstances, the children all got to sleep and the staff interchanged periods of rest until all was quiet by the early waning hours of morning. Even the covert’s local young ones came to join this slumber party of sorts. For the sake of welcoming and strengthening bonds, the crechemasters allowed it. 

Right after the 0300 guards changed out, Paz heard it. Inside the alcoves inset bunks, one of the smallest boys -nearly four years old- was making a steady and increasing amount of noise, until he startled himself awake and clearly didn't know where he was. He was calling for his babuir in their native tongue; but by his aimless flailing about, it’s clear he’s looking for just about anyone bigger than him that might come to his cry for help.

Before Paz could overstep one of the sleeping children nearest him to respond, he caught the woman he'd know to know as the 'Songbird of the Covert' slipping out of the window jumpseat like a sparrow off its perch, flying to the child's stuttering form up on the riser.

"Well hi honey, g'morning to you too~ Pretty early, isn't it?"

Seeing a soothing figure coming to his call, little threadbare arms immediately shot out and spoke brokenly in bits and pieces of a particular Sundari dialect. Basic wasn't his strong suit. Then again, it gave way to crying in minutes anyway, so his distress was clear and the language barrier mattered little.

"Hm?-- ohhh, aw c'mere bub..” the woman set the child on a hip as he clutched to her. She set them in a sway, “Yeah, you can stay up with me– I can always use some snuggles, too."

The toddler nuzzled in but by his whimpers, Song moved towards the open atrium with more room to walk around and hopefully not disturb the sleeping of any others. 

Paz met her there. She'd looked his way with a pitiful expression, traipsing about with the little one in her arms and keeping his little shoulders pressed in close.

"Bad dreams, I'd say," she murmured low to Paz, in Basic. "But I can't tell if anything else is wrong. Doesn’t feel too warm, not coughing. Seems trusting though, poor thing. " she shrugged, motioning to how easily the child was settling.

Through his careful watch of her across the room, he’d caught her sneaking the back of her hand to his forehead earlier in a move masked as just fixing his curls, but fortunately, he must not have been found feverish to warrant more worry. 

Paz came to bring a big, steady hand on the child's back. The kid turned his head from her neck to find the new Alorad tilting his helmet to match, and  made a big sniff to put on a brace face. Shy and no doubt aware of this elder’s importance, he snuck out a little wave back in acknowledgement.

"//Be at peace, young one. You're safe in the Reliable one's arms, that you are.//"

Whatever Paz said to this "adika" -as he seems to have called him- brought relief to the child, as he hugged her neck tighter and made himself comfortable again in her arms.

An amused whisper graced his ears as she looked up at him,

"What'd you say?"

"That he has nothing to worry about," Paz shared kindly. "He seems to like you."

 "I wouldn't think these kiddos would trust strangers so easily after what they've been through," she smoothed back the child’s hair gently- thankfully, his breathing evened out into sleepy sighs.

 "They've had quite the eventful last few days."

She kept humming away for a minute, trying to subconsciously lull the child the rest of the way. She looked absently over the nursery if other young ones, but Paz was captivated by her alone.

This instinct must have been what Djarin was talking about. She hadn't hesitated to jump right in, even though she must have been on the edge of sleep herself- if her state of dress was any hint. Shed opted for no outer protective layers for this reason perhaps- a source of comfort for the little ones, and though perhaps it was also to signify to them she was not a warrior or someone too formal for them to shy away from.

Finally seeing the child dozing back fully, Paz offered to take the child from her and set him back on his bunk above them.

 She let him, adjusting her loose cardigan back onto her shoulder. Shed opted for that over her cropped black body glove that acted as a breastband, and the loose comfy pants that honestly have fit Paz better, but she made do with her current wardrobe and didn't bother worrying about outfits too much.

Here, just over his shoulder, she watched the Big Blue tuck -yes, tuck- the child in. Stepping away only when he saw the child try to settle into his new sleep position did he step away and back towards her retreat to her watch corner.

"Teacher and carer? You're the dual package, Mr. Vizsla."

"I do what I can. It's not often I get to see our children be children- I would preserve that wonder in them if I could."

Childlike innocence: to hear the hardest-working, stoic soldier speak on such tender things was a thing of wonder itself. 

“I’ve only ever seen the little ones work their drills here– recitations, history lessons.” She looked about the room. “I haven’t seen kids this young in a year, much less so many crammed into one room.”

“Well, the rooming arrangement is common practice,” Paz explained, his trademark patience a soothing constant- even through the helmet, “You’ll find a nursery like this in every covert across the galaxy.”

Then, a more sobering thought, one that brought pity to the forefront of her mind:

“If– you weren’t all living down here, would they be going to a normal school? Making other friends? At least while they’re young?”

As if she expected any other answer, Paz’s reflex came through the form of his gentle whisper: “This is the Way.”

“That it is,” she firmed up a knowing smile. “There’s so many of them, going through so much newness at their age.”

Paz agrees, though knows no other way than the community that sleeps before them. To watch the woman’s empathy radiate from her being -those angel eyes- was to know the warmest ray of sunshine in the pit of winter. Such a calm presence… that’s what these youth need, after all. She’s exactly where she should be.

[the-eldritch-it-gay]

The joyous din of the party was distant as Wyll sat by the riverside. Wyll hadn’t strayed too far from the camp, but the celebrations and singing felt miles away, a lifetime away.

Against all odds, Majexatli had managed not just to save the tieflings, but also save Halsin, take down the goblin leaders, talk Kagha out of the Rite of Thorns, and have the title of Faithwarden bestowed upon them. They were a hero. Wyll couldn’t think of anyone more deserving of a celebration in their honor.

Wyll had helped, certainly, and he couldn’t have been more honored to be by Majexatli’s side. They were a competent leader, a skilled warrior, a sage druid. He had done his best to help them at every turn, help the tiefling refugees in any way possible. But even as he had been teaching the tiefling children how to defend themselves, when he first saw Majexatli, there had only been one thing on his mind. 

Karlach. 

The violent devil he had spent so long hunting, the monster he had sworn to cut down. The one he had traveled to Averus to kill, only to discover she was only a young woman tiefling, a victim of Zariel, forced into servitude. She was no more a monster than he was.

He didn't regret sparing her. He would do it again.

Yet—

His dreams were still haunted by how close he had come to killing her. When he closed his eyes, he could still feel the hellfire burning his skin and his soul was dragged through all the levels of hell. Every time he caught a glimpse of his reflection he was reminded of it all, that he was nothing more than a devil’s puppet. Every time people looked at him, all they saw was his worst.

Wyll never regretted his pact, how could he? How much good has he done because of it, he saved Baldur’s Gate, saved countless people. He couldn’t regret it. He was the Blade of Frontiers, a monster hunter, protecting the innocent with the powers granted by Mizora. He had sworn to only ever hunt monsters and devils.

But how many were just like Karlach—

A twig snapped behind Wyll and he couldn’t help the way his breath hitched, his heart fluttered in anticipation. Perhaps it was selfish, to think that they would leave their own celebration just to see him. He couldn’t ignore that hope though, as much as he tried.

Turning to look where the noise came from, though, that hope vanished.

Stood a few yards away was a wolf, large with dark brown fur and yellow eyes trained on him.

Fear shot through Wyll for a moment, freezing him in place as his mind raced. He was unarmored, unarmed. He had left all his equipment back at camp, he wasn’t even sure how much magic he had left in him after a full day of battle.

Before Wyll’s mind could race much any further, Wyll saw the wolf lower its head and whine.  

Majexatli, Wyll realized, a warmth spreading in his chest. 

The other day, he had seen them wildshape into a wolf while fighting the gnolls on the risen road. It was a form they rarely took, at least for as long as Wyll had known them. 

For a moment on the battlefield, he had wondered what their strategy was, why that form. Often they chose something larger, a bear, a rothé, something that could shrug and walk off arrows and stabs.

His questioning didn’t last long, when a gnoll cornered him and out of nowhere the wolf jumped at the gnoll’s throat, tackling it to the ground and biting down with a jaw powerful enough that Wyll heard the gnoll’s spine crunch.

The wolf before him now looked worlds different from the one he saw with bared teeth and blood-soaked fur. Its eyes were wide and curious, fur clean and soft, though its right ear was still missing, skin raw from where a gnoll had torn it off. 

The wolf padded closer to Wyll cautiously, and Wyll let out a chuckle.

“I had hoped you wouldn’t notice I was gone,”

It was partially true. Some deep, selfish part of him hoped they would come looking for him. He shouldn’t have hoped for it, shouldn’t be glad they left the celebration. 

The wolf whined again as it approached, and mid-stride it was consumed by a golden light. In the blink of an eye, Majexatli was by his side, sitting next to him on the rock. They weren’t quite touching him, but Wyll could feel the warmth radiating off them, melting away the chill of the night. He had to stop himself from leaning into them.

“You were the first person I looked for, of course I noticed,” Majexatli said, adjusting their bad leg with a slight wince.

“Really? I mean— ahem, I’m honored,”

It was hard not to stumble over his words around them.

“Are you alright?”

Majexatli looked over at Wyll, briefly meeting his eyes before returning their gaze to the river. They rarely made eye contact; seeing Majexatli’s green eyes focused on him, even just for a moment, almost made his breath hitch. This close, Wyll could see the worry on their face, the lines on their face more pronounced as they looked out at the river.

“I’m deeply proud of you, a touch less so of myself,” Wyll sighed, joining Majexatli in looking out towards the water, “In truth, I don’t feel in a festive mood and didn’t want to cast a gray cloud over the night.”

Majexatli was silent for a few moments.

“I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do?” 

You coming to find me already means the world.

“It’s alright, you needn’t worry. Any other time and I would love to join you in celebrating, but…” Wyll let out another sigh, “I’m a devil. I love the people from the grove, but I unsettle them deep down. As I seem to unsettle everyone nowadays.” 

“Wyll, that’s not true,” 

Majexatli’s frown had deepened, the sight almost hurt to see.

Wyll almost wanted to be honest, tell them the truth. I’ve likely killed innocent people. People used to look at me as a hero but now all they see is a monster. He couldn’t bring himself to say it, though.

“Come on, you don’t want a devil at your party. Claws will pop the balloons, you see. And the sweetcakes don't taste half as good as raw eggs with this blasted forked tongue,” Wyll smiled, trying to make light of it all, trying to keep Majexatli from seeing through him to the truth. 

“You’re no more a devil than any of us,”

In appearance, perhaps. You don’t know everything I’ve done for Mizora. And I chose to be this way. I wouldn’t change what I did. I would make the pact again if given a chance to do it over. I don’t regret it. I don’t. I can’t regret it.

“If only half the world had half the heart you do,”  Wyll said softly before he could stop himself.

“Wyll…”

They sounded so earnest. 

“Ah, but I’ve taken up enough of your time,” Wyll bit back the selfish urge to keep them here, to lean on them, to tell them everything, “You have a party to return to! Have a dance, enjoy the music. I’ll be back to my old self in no time,” 

Wyll patted their shoulder with a smile. He half expected them to leave immediately, that the moment he finished speaking, they would nod politely and be enveloped in golden light as they returned to whichever form they felt suited them.

In the time Wyll had known them, he had learned enough about them to know they weren’t particularly social. Majexatli preferred silence, solitude, being surrounded by nature rather than engaging in small talk or comforting others. 

Even in the river, Wyll had noticed their tension, the faint edge in their voice, the way they kept their distance. He knew they didn’t mean him any ill will, it was just as they had said, they were unused to being around people. They were a druid that spent their time in the wilds far from settlements, it was understandable, even the kindest druids in the Emerald Grove had seemed slightly awkward around outsiders. Perhaps Wyll should have turned down their invitation—

Wyll pulled himself from his thoughts as he realized Majexatli was still sitting there, looking down, fidgeting with their sleeve, or rather, something in their sleeve. Wyll saw the faintest glint of something silver between their fingers.

“I… I came out here for a reason, you know,” 

“Oh?” 

Majexatli shifted slightly, perhaps by accident, perhaps coincidentally, their knee touching his. The playful retort that had been on the tip of Wyll’s tongue died at the sudden contact, heart skipping a beat.

“I did,”

They fidgeted again, moonlight once again reflecting off something by their side. Wyll paid it no mind though, regaining his composure and smiling.

“And here I thought you had stumbled out here by accident, perhaps all the wine has gotten the better of you,”

As much as he was teasing them, looking at them, he could see their lips faintly stained red from wine. With the amount of bottles he had seen at camp before he left, he shouldn’t be surprised that they were likely a bit drunk. The thought hurt, somehow, the idea that what fueled their care for him in this moment might just be the wine talking—

“I’m afraid I’m quite sober,”

Perhaps it should have struck him as strange. Surely they were lying, exaggerating. He hadn’t seen them drink before, perhaps they handled their alcohol better than most.

“Is that so? Surely then you must have been looking for somewhere quiet to relax and I’ve intruded on your solitude and quite ruined your whole evening,”

Wyll was only half joking, trying to hide the fact that he was nervous, second-guessing himself. He scanned their face intently. Surely he must have misread the signs. 

“I wasn’t looking for solitude, actually,”

Majexatli shifted again, just barely, the hand they were leaning on moving over just enough that they brushed Wyll’s own hand. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see they were clutching something tightly in their other hand.

After a moment, Wyll slowly moved his hand over Majexatli’s. He was almost afraid, worried Majexatli might get spooked and bolt like a cornered animal. But they stayed, half turning towards him, eyes wide.

“I—It’s a long shot, but- maybe you’ve grown fond of me. Gods know I’ve grown fond of you.”

He heard Majexatli’s breath hitch.

“I think I do, have feelings for you that is,” Majexatli said slowly, occasionally flicking their eyes over to meet his.

“Then we share a similar affliction, though I can’t say I’ve earned the honor,” Wyll let out a half-laugh, “The Blade hasn’t really lived up to own reputation, I haven’t even managed to kill a single devil,”

It was true—Majexatli hadn’t seen the best of The Blade. They saw him nearly kill an innocent woman, saw him get dragged through the hells in punishment, saw the tight grip Mizora had on him. What must they think of him? If his patron punished him for being good and he hadn’t been punished like this before.

Majexatli pulled back slightly, and Wyll braced himself for rejection.

“You don't need to be the Blade of Frontiers, Wyll,” Was what Majexatli said instead, looking almost hurt, “You’re more than just the Blade,”

“The Blade is my best self, some days I even live up to it,”

Majexatli was quiet for a moment, eyes distant, face stony. What Wyll wouldn’t give to see them smile, relax, feel at ease. They looked far older than they were, aged by a constant stress and frown that seemed unfitting of a druid. As the quiet carried on, Wyll couldn’t help a gnawing guilt, that he was only adding to their stress, adding unnecessary layers to an already awful situation. Majexatli could be celebrating and drinking at a party in their honor, but instead, they were at Wyll’s side, looking more melancholy than ever.

“Does it hurt?” Majexatli asked eventually, breaking the silence.

“I— pardon?”

The question caught Wyll off guard, he wasn’t even sure what they meant. 

“Having a title you feel you aren’t living up to? Does it hurt?” Majexatli continued, “Is the Blade who you are, or is it a role, a front, character, boots you can never fill that contain some ephemeral worth?”

“What brought this on?”

Majexatli looked up at the stars above, they opened their mouth to speak but stopped themselves, tail flicking at their side.

“What happened in the Grove… with Kagha, the way she named me Faithwarden,”

Wyll wasn’t too familiar with druid customs, but he had been able to sense that it was something meaningful. He saw the surprise on the other druids’ faces as Kagha named them Faithwarden, placing the quarterstaff in their hands that radiated a faint golden light.

“I hear it’s quite an honor, you deserve it, for all you did at the Grove. I don’t know much of Silvanus, but you seem to honor his teachings well,”

Majexatli almost flinched at his words.

At their reaction, their visceral disgust, something clicked in Wyll’s mind, a puzzle piece falling into place. As enigmatic and stoic as Majexatli was, all of the little slips in their mask were compounding. Their discomfort in the Grove, their unusual coldness towards Calnys there, their seeming contempt for Wyll’s congratulations and mention of Silvanus…

“I don’t care for the title,” Majexatli said, then added, almost inaudible, “Not this time,”

There was something just beneath the surface, just out of reach.

“This time?”

For the briefest moment, he felt his tadpole twitch, flashes of images in his mind. Pale hands braiding dark curly hair. The feel of fine robes with delicate elven embroidery. Butterflies in stomach, kneeling before an older half-elf before a crowd of druids. 

With a pang of guilt, Wyll wondered if he had probed their mind without meaning to. 

“I just... I need you to know that I care about you, Wyll. I would care about you if you weren't the Blade, I would care about you if you weren't a hero. You matter to me as a person, not a story or title,”

Majexatli’s hand found Wyll’s, warm and calloused, squeezing gently, earnestly, desperately. They had turned to look at him fully for the first time that night, meeting his eyes directly, searching for something. 

This was a different Majexatli than Wyll had seen before, unguarded in a way that felt more intimate than bathing with them in the river the other day. Wyll leaned in closer without realizing.

“I—I’ll try to remember that, but I’m not sure what I have without the title,”

“You’re enough,”

Majexatli still held Wyll’s hand, looked in his eyes, leaned close to him. 

“In another life, I can imagine courting you properly, dancing in ballrooms,” Wyll said softly.

Wyll would have given anything to see it, to live it. To get a chance to lead Majexatli and glide across the dancefloor with them. To see what Majexatli would look like well-rested, well cared for. For them to see him as he used to be, some version of himself more worthy of their affection.

There was a flash of something across Majexatli’s face, something unreadable. They regained composure quickly, face softening as they brought up their hand to cup Wyll’s face. A faintly metallic smell hit Wyll, subtle enough to barely register.

“I don’t have another life, just this one, where I met you,”

Some skeptical part of Wyll had wondered if it had all been a ploy, that Majexatli simply craved intimacy with anyone and he was just romantic enough to fall for it. There was no way they meant what they said, there had to be some hidden motive, and yet—

Majexatli’s calloused thumb stroked his cheek with such tenderness.  

Hells. 

Wyll could court them in this life, even if he was a devil and they both had tadpoles in their heads and the Absolute threatening them at every turn. As much as he wanted it to be perfect, as much as he wanted to take his time—

Wyll leaned in, slowly, cautiously, half expecting Majexatli to stop him. Instead, they closed the distance, pressing their chapped lips to his softly.

The kiss lasted only a moment, Wyll’s hand finding their waist as he kissed back, Majexatli still cupping his cheek with a gentleness he hadn’t seen them show before. He had to stop himself from clinging to them and kissing back with the fevered desperation he felt, trying to chase the warmth and safety he felt in their arms.

“I—well, then,” Wyll started, cheeks burning hot as he pulled away, “Erm, you've got a party to get back to. After all, tonight is about you.”

“Of course. Goodnight, Wyll,”

Majexatli nodded with a faint smile, standing up and immediately being consumed by golden light as they once again assumed their wolf form. They trotted off towards the woods, towards camp Wyll hoped. 

As they disappeared in the treeline, Wyll realized a taste lingered on his lips. 

Not wine.

Blood.

[eashn]

kuroo tetsurō | College AU hcs

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ 𓈈 🀢

summary: a comprehensive list of the CollegeAU!Kuroo headcanons that have been plaguing me for years. 

warnings: allusions to alcohol, some sexual content, swearing, kuroo’s abs.

general

he’s double-majoring in business and chemistry—does hella good in both. 

academic weapon

fairly active in the party scene, but won’t admit he secretly hates it sometimes. prefers the quieter, more refined bustle of the science library or the local cafés. 

didn’t want to commit to the professional level, but still plays club volleyball. never quite finds another team that fits him like Nekoma did. 

on the outside

those dark locks are unruly as ever. 

he’s always been huge but reaaaaally buffed up after high school: broad shoulders and massive, sculpted lats. chiseled abs and the V-line of a fucking god.

he’s worked hard for that body (more on that under Habits), so he shows it off with what he chooses to wear

fitted tees

those sleek athletic compression shirts

prioritizes comfort—his wardrobe is definitely hoodies- and sweatpants-heavy. see images above for a visual 

owns like, nine pairs of gray sweats. the cheeky bastard. 

habits

hits the gym like it’s a religion. his routine is immaculate: strength training couple times a week, a run/jog outside nearly every day. he kickboxes sometimes. plays volleyball of course. 

doesn’t take enough rest days

and forgets to stretch afterward. his shoulders are always tight because of it. 

has a fairly decent sleep schedule

but. he’s a caffeine addict. pulls all-nighters at least once a month, flipping through his textbooks while sipping hot, black coffee.

takes his tea without sugar

and his whiskey neat

doesn’t drink much, though. especially at parties, he likes being able to talk intelligently—to nail first impressions with biting wit and laid-back charm. there’s a certain level of self-possession he cultivates in order to achieve that, though, and alcohol tends to mess with it.

always drives his friends home when they’ve had too much.

academics

he’s good. 

really good. 

aced Organic Chemistry his freshman year while everyone else was shitting their pants

chats with his Business professors during their office hours for fun

his notes are disgusting. loose leaf sheets stuffed into his books, chicken-scratch handwriting littering their margins. 

can’t draw good Lewis Diagrams for shit. his Chemistry TAs give him hell for it.

still, he somehow manages to earn the highest test scores in the class.

competitive. silently simmers when he catches someone earn even a slightly higher grade. he always needs to be the best; he’s greedy for success and recognition. 

total workaholic. grinds himself to the bone.

but also, he really, really loves what he does. the little things thrill him: an Acid-Base titration gone perfectly right, or a really good conversation about Keynesian economic theory. 

he’s such a dork. he’ll never admit to it though

after hours

he’s not a fuckboy. he’s not.

he just…has a certain effect on women. and boy, does he know it.

as mentioned above, he parties fairly frequently—he’s a hot, outgoing twenty-something, so naturally he’s getting invited to a lot. but again, he doesn’t always enjoy the crowds and the noise, and he really doesn’t like getting wasted. 

but if there’s one thing kuroo loves? 

it’s attention. 

though he lingers at the quieter edges of crowds, pretty girls still seek him out, striking up flirty conversation over the din of party music. 

he’ll admit the talk itself is never actually interesting. none of those women are quite smart enough to keep up with him

but all the same, he goes home with them—because they all want him so much. and god, does that stroke some animalistic part of his ego. 

the truth is, kuroo kinda needs to feel wanted. he’s a man that spends all his time competing—beating himself into shape to achieve his various goals. so, when people make him feel like he’s good enough as is, it’s worth a lot. 

his hidden insecurities are part of the reason he won’t approach any truly intelligent women, the ones he notices in his lecture halls and classes. deep down, he’s a little scared of women that can dominate him academically.

but, secretly? he’s also really fucking attracted to that.

desperately wants to meet someone he can actually talk to, a person that’ll share in his ambition and can keep up with his wit.

but for now, settles just for fucking to relieve stress. wakes up more often than not to an empty bed, with no reminder left behind of the girl that was in it the night before. 

A/N - thank you for reading! these were wayyyy too fun to write so this might be the prelude to a bunch more collegeAU!kuroo stuff i do in the future. send me an ask or a message if you’d like to be added to a taglist for that! 

requests for haikyuu headcannons/drabbles are WIDE OPEN!!! send in an idea, and follow @eashn​ for more :)

[julesthequirky]

Hunted: Chapter One

All my work is purely aimed at those 18+ so minors kindly, DNI.

Summary: Drinking with a handsome man at the bar wasn't all that bad. Until it was. Now, you're trapped with a man you don't know, in a place you don't know, where noone can hear you scream. You're starting to think that this was his plan all along. He mentions a brother, and you hope and pray that if you make it out, that you don't meet him.

Warnings: Non-Con (Rape), Explicit Graphic Violence, Super dark fic, Explicit Sexual Content, Explicit Language, Graphic Description, Non-Consensual Touching, Object Insertion, Object Penetration, Forced Non-Consensual Orgasm, Forced Blow Jobs, Kidnapping, Psychological Torture, Physical Torture, Physical Abuse, Manipulation, Asphysxiation, PTSD, Murder, Serial Killer Dean Winchester, Serial Killer Sam Winchester.

A/N: Please. For the love of God, if any of the above triggers you. Do NOT read. You are responsible for your own mental health and the wellbeing of yourself.

W/C: 1,354

The din of the bar was exactly what you needed as you sat and nursed your beer. It had been a long day, with co-workers competing in some stupid in-office competition, and like sharks, they were out for blood. It just so happened that they all thought you were bait. To make matters worse, the guy you were meant to be seeing stood you up at the last minute. But thankfully, tomorrow was Saturday.

Sighing, you checked your phone for the time. Damn, it wasn’t even late, yet it felt like you’d been here forever. Spose you could finish up—

“Penny for your thoughts?”

You turned at the intrusion of your thoughts. Damn, the man sitting beside you was fine. Finer than fine. Fucking gorgeous even. Bright green eyes with lashes that made you envious. His pink, pouty lips curled into a smile matching the cheeky glint in his eyes.

 “C’mon, drink with me,” he nudged you and gestured for the barman. “Two tequilas, thanks.”

The barman nodded, turned, and took two shot glasses from under the bar to the counter. He grabbed a tequila from behind him and poured the shots. The mysteriously gorgeous man handed over the cash and picked up a shot glass.

How could you say no?

You picked up the glass, clinked it with his and downed the shot.

“To new friendships.” He said, raising his glass and downing the shot.

God, even the collum of his throat was hot.

He drank with you, keeping up with you shot and shot. By the fifth shot in, the booze began to affect you. Blinking, you swiped a hand down your face, feeling a little woozy. Best to slow down.

You asked the barman for a water.

“Aw, come on. N’aw. A water? Doll, you don’t mind me callin’ you that, do you?”

A quick shake of your head had him continuing, his body inclining towards yours.

“Nah, you’re done yet, doll. C’mon. Another round.”

He slid closer, dragging the stool along with him. His knee touched yours, and then he let the side of his leg press against yours. Pleasure sparked along your veins, rushing across your skin. You hitched a breath in, and he smiled at you. He placed a hand on your knee.

“If you want a good time, I can be that guy for you.”

His breath hit the shell of your ear, voice drawling, sweet as molasses.

He was what you wanted. To do. Just for tonight.

You nodded, swallowing thickly.

“Well, alright then.”

He ordered another round, and you tipped it back, letting the liquid slip down your throat, forging its burning path down to your stomach, where it stayed, warming you from the inside. After that round, you excused yourself to the bathroom and made your way to the restrooms.

Fingers clammy, they rubbed your forehead, intent on relieving some of the wooziness. It wasn’t bad. You had all your faculties, and could still walk, think, and talk, at least even with a slight slur.

You hadn’t even asked the man his name. Was it too late now? Did it matter? You shook your head, determining that it wouldn’t matter. You’d have fun, which would be the end of that. You’d never see him again, and you’d take your birth control just as usual.

You flushed, washed your hands and returned to the bar, where he sat, with that damn charming smile. He was out of your league. You knew that. But right now, you didn’t care. He had his red flannel sleeves rolled up, revealing toned and tanned forearms. You just betted that this man would look good in just about anything. And maybe even in nothing.

He had another round lined up.

The thought of another tequila round had your belly cramping and your throat constricting. Nausea trying to claw its way up.

You shook your head. No, you’d reached your limit.

He nudged you with his shoulder.

“C’mon…just one more. That’s it. Think you could do one more? Just for me?”

Damn. He was so charming. Flashing you those emerald greens. Shit. Your fingers twitched as they neared the glass shot.

“That’s a good girl.”

You willed the nausea to cool it. Taking a few breaths and steeling yourself, you tipped the glass back and forced the burning liquid down. Fuck, the aftertaste had you shuddering and coughing into the crook of your elbow. Fuck. That was nasty. Had it always tasted like that? Or maybe you just didn’t have the stomach for tequila anymore. You swiped your lips with the back of your hand, the cold sweat building in your skin as the nausea worked its way back up your throat.

“Shit….”

“Keep it down, darlin’.”

He leant closer, fingers tucking hair behind your ear, hand cradling your cheek.

“In a bit, we’ll get outta here. Sound like a plan?”

You nodded, breathed through the nausea fightin’ you. And won. He flashed pearly whites at you, those fucking fanfiction lips nearing you.

“I got stood up.” You admitted. Admittedly, you weren’t sure why you were telling him this. Probably the alcohol loosening you up.

He shook his head.

“He’s a loser. I would never stand you up. Fuck, you’re too pretty. Forget about him. You got me now.”

He pressed soft, plump lips to your forehead. It was sweet. And nice. And exactly what you needed after your recent dating mishaps.

You turned to flag down the barman. For a water. And you swayed, vision swimming in front of you. You put your hand down on the counter and breathed. Fuck, that last shot had tipped you over the edge. Way over.

“Think, I should go.”

Holy fuck. You struggled to get the words out. Perhaps you had been more drunk than you thought. The words sounded so fucking sludgy in your mouth, tongue numb.

The man nodded and slipped off the stool. You did the same, almost body-slamming into him. He grabbed hold of you as you rested a hand on your head.

“Woah, easy there, tiger.”

“Sorry…” You could barely get the word out as he chuckled lightly, hand gripping yours and turning you towards the door.

“You’re alright, darlin’. I gotchu.”

Yeah, he had you. One strong arm wrapped around your back, the other hand in yours. Your feet stumbled as he helped you out of the bar.

When the cool Kansas air reached you, the wooziness in your head felt so much worse. You tripped on the man’s feet, and he hoisted you up, helping you towards his pickup.

“Whoopsie Daisy.”

You didn’t feel so good. With every bumbling step, your head felt heavy. Body weakening.

He eased you into the truck, almost propping you upright like a doll, your head lolling back against the headrest. He followed suit after you, closing the door.

“Just be nice to me.” You murmured as he peppered kisses down your neck.

“Oh, darlin’, I’ll be nice. I’ll be the nicest.”  He grasped your chin with his thumb and forefinger and pressed a kiss to your lips as his hand slid up your thigh.

“Mmnnph.”

You covered his hand with yours, stopping his path.

“What’s wrong, baby?”

Green eyes swam in your vision, and the cabin of his truck spun. You closed your eyes.

“I don’t…” You slurred, struggling to get the words out and having trouble opening your eyes.

“Darlin’, just relax. I’ll make you feel good.”

Feel good, yeah, you didn’t feel so hot. Every part of your body felt too heavy to lift, to move. The man gently shirked your hand from his and roamed higher, slipping under your skirt.

“Don’t... feel…good.” You mumbled.

He laughed softly. “You gotta give me time, darlin’.”

No. No. That’s not what you meant.

His voice was beginning to sound like you were underwater. Your eyelids fluttered as his fingers slipped under your panties, touching your core. He kissed you, and you gave back badly timed kisses, fighting the deep lethargy assailing you, but it took over in moments.

You passed out in his truck cabin with him finger fucking you.

[burnwater13]

Din Djarin, Boba Fett, Fennec Shand, Cara Dune, and Migs Mayfeld standing on Morak looking at the Imp base there (out of frame). Image from The Mandalorian, Season 2, Episode 7, The Believer. Calendar by DateWorks.

Name that Band!

“What do you mean, ‘Name that Band’? That’s just a vid of me and the people who helped rescue you.”

Grogu sighed at his dad. Din Djarin was so literal at times. 

Grogu knew exactly who was in the vid he was showing his dad. He didn’t need his dad to tell them that some of these people helped him when Moff Gideon had sent the special battle droids after him on Ossus. He’d seen Fennec and Daimyo Fett two days earlier when they had vid night and he introduced them to the ‘Best of Diggle and Daggle’. That had been a lot of fun. The look on Fennec’s face when the giant sand fish crawled out of it’s cave… priceless.

“Grogu, where do you get these things? Did you sign up for some new comms site again? I’ve told you to stay off those things. They’re nothing but bantha scat.”

Wow. Someone was cranky.

“Peli.”

“Uff! I should have known. I asked her to show you how to perform basic maintenance on R-5. What did you two do with that time?”

Grogu wondered if he could fake his dad out with a non-answer answer and then thought better of it. Din Djarin was already cranky about something. His dad normally didn’t care about the stuff Peli and Grogu talked about while she was demonstrating cleaning or data collection techniques. They had actually discussed sensors and ranges and calibrations before they started down a rather fun and funny tauntaun trail.

“Sing.”

“Singing?! The two of you wasted valuable time singing all those old songs she knows? Did she even look at R-5 while you were goofing off?”

Yikes. His dad was really mad now and Grogu hadn’t meant for that to happen. He and Peli had been talking about certain sensors being too sensitive and Peli commented ‘Ya mean like when yer dad gets called on at a sing-a-long?’ 

Grogu had nodded and then he had begun to laugh. Din Djarin hated singing on a good day, although he did it all the time when he was in the privy or the ‘fresher. He hated it twice as much when it happened in public and was a special request as part of someone’s naming day celebration. Everyone knew that but they liked watching him get worked up and then stumble through the song with them. It was nice to know that even the hyper competent Mandalorian Bounty Hunter had something he couldn’t do as well as the average galactic citizen.

“Sensors.”

Again, the truth was the best Grogu could do. He didn’t think his dad was going to patiently listen to the whole story of how they started with a very deep technical discussion of sensors and how their settings made a big difference in how the complex tracking systems on the N-1 worked. Too sensitive and you were tracking scurrier fleas across the desert. Too dull and a bantha could step right in your path and you’d only notice when you were covered in fur. You wanted something in the middle. 

That’s when Peli had offered that how sensitive a device was depended on a lot of factors, like components, packaging, and price. Grogu commented that sounded a lot like people. That’s when Peli made her statement about his dad and Grogu had laughed. Peli had laughed too and said, ‘Just think of it kid, if he was in a band they’d call it Mando and the Wailers!” 

Grogu shook his head and signed to Peli, largely because he couldn’t stop giggling, that the band’s name would have been, “Din Djarin and the Drones”. Grogu had fallen over when he finally got that one out. Peli had loved it and started making up a song that they would have been known for. It had started out ‘I’ll bring you in cold, so cold, so cold, I’ll bring you cold, ice cold, froze cold’. Grogu had loved it and they spent the rest of their time singing songs that were based on things his dad had said and they made no sense whatsoever. It had been a lot of fun. 

When his dad came to get him later that day Grogu was so tired he ate his flash frozen frogs and fell right to sleep. The Mandalorian didn’t have a chance to ask him all about sensors and Grogu hadn’t told him about the song that started, ‘I like those odds, Dank Farrik, I like those odds…”

The next day they had traveled to Freetown to visit Cobb Vanth. His dad and the Marshal had so much to talk about that Grogu had gone to the cantina and spent time with Tanti and Jo. They’d listened to a lot of music and Grogu had taught them some songs he’d learned from Peli. 

Oops. He’d forgotten all about that. Was that why his dad was so annoyed? Grogu looked up the Mandalorian and coo’d thoughtfully.

“Cobb Vanth told me you have a very nice singing voice and I should really ask you to give me lessons. Now, what I want to know is why you’re so comfortable singing in Gal Basic with other people and I just get one word if I’m lucky?”

Dank Farrik!

To be continued…

[linksconverge]

GAMES: Ocarina of Time, Majora's Mask, Hyrule Warriors DIRECTORY: Height ref, #character tag

A young wanderer who has little to say to others and less to say about himself. Though generally obliging, he avoids meaningful connection and maintains a strict, careful distance with strangers and friends alike. Used to the lonely weight of being the Hero of Time who won't be remembered and hyper-independent for it, he often goes his own way.

WEAPON: Gilded Sword and Mirror Shield. Ever since a particular incident post-Termina, he's taken a hard stance against the two-handed power of the Great Fairy's Sword and has returned to preferring the versatility of one-handed offense and defense. Trains regularly and thoroughly — very much so gives the older party members a run for their money.

GEAR: Traveller must-haves. Beyond the equipment acquired over his adventures and those generally necessary for life on the road, Grasshopper carries a set of wood whittling knives, a sewing kit, and more seasonings than any of the party would expect. His transformation masks are kept well-guarded mysteries and he still has the Ocarina of Time.

SKILL: Magic user. Raised in Kokiri Forest, Grasshopper has a well of natural magic he can make use of directly (as with cast spells, runes, and usage of catalysts) and indirectly (as through inherent resistance, direction, and sensitivity). He's added to his repertoire of spells since last learning Din's Fire, Nayru's Love, and Farore's Wind.

SKILL: Transformation. With his masks, he can turn into four additional forms — a Deku Scrub, a Goron, a Zora, and the Fierce Deity. While helpful, continuous usage is taxing on his mental livelihood, as these masks can exacerbate his sense of depersonalisation, identity issues, and are never truly painless to put on. (Sometimes, they're just as painful to take off.)

LANGUAGES & COMMUNICATION: Hard of hearing. He understands Kokiri, Hylian (Old and Modern Syllabaries), Terminian, conversational Common, Goron, and Zoran, and a limited amount of his era's Hylian Sign Language. As with some of the others, in this alternate Hyrule, he's mostly counting on Patches' interpreting services. Situationally non-speaking and functionally illiterate, he tends to use body language and gestures to communicate.

As Mikau, he fully understands Zoran (Great Bay dialect). As Darmani, they fully understand Goron (Snowhead dialect).

He'll occasionally draw in his notebook if he feels there's a thought that needs to be understood.

There are very few people he's okay with speaking in front of. "Other Links" are currently not included.

SECRETS: Not that he's the only one with them, but Grasshopper is so defined by what he won't share that his secrets perhaps stand out the most amongst the party. Even Sailor — who arguably knows him best — can (or will) barely comment on anything beyond the Fierce Deity Mask, an injury that seems to have miraculously healed, and his competence as a lone traveller.

PERSONAL TIMELINE: Went through the events of Ocarina of Time when he was nine-years-old, Majora's Mask when he was ten-years-old, and Hyrule Warriors when he was twelve-years old. Or so he would say. He doesn't know nor think about how old he is (or how old he's supposed to be). It's been at least a year since.

NICKNAME ORIGIN: Given by Romani, from his time in Termina. It's the only nickname out of the many he has that he's okay with the general public calling him. Cori signs this as is ("grasshopper"). Patches, Knight, and Linh fingerspell (alphabetically, "G-r-a-s-s-h-o-p-p-e-r").