#finally managed to track down what i /think/ is this whole shoot

[psychic-waffles]

Chen Chuhe for ONOFF Magazine 2020

[nanaslutt]

• I will always catch you •

ʚ synopsis: You and Nanami play a game of tag, if he wins he spanks you

ʚ cont: fem reader, spanking, fingering, dirty talk, rough sex, unprotected sex, overstimulation

You stood with your hands perched on the back of the couch, your eyes not once straying from where they were glued to Nanami's opposite the couch from you, the only thing that separated the two of you besides the coffee table that sat in front of the couch. "Ten second headstart." You said, already feeling your heart start to pick up at the promise of Nanami chasing you around. 

You knew logically no matter how much time you asked for, he would always catch you in the end, but that's what you wanted, not that you would tell him that—even if he already knew. Nanami nodded, removing his hands from his pockets confidently, his mouth barely quirking up in a smile at the corners, the skin beside his mouth dimpling with it. "You won't catch me this time." Lie. "We'll see." Was his only reply before he raised his hands and started ticking down his fingers, letting you know he had started the timer.

You ran around the couch, passing him where he stood on the other side as you ran for the kitchen across the room, using the large island in the middle of it to separate him from you. It was your best bet to escape him for as long as possible, wait him out here, bait him to stalk you around the island, and shoot up the stairs for his office which had the only locking door in the house save for the bathroom, but that was too close to the kitchen, you needed more time to get away. 

You watched, eyes bright and heart racing as his fingers hit 1, then he closed his hand tightly, letting you know you were out of time before he started walking toward you calmly. Your smile grew larger the closer he got, as did his, though he was far more cocky and confident than yours which was playful and full of adrenaline. "Aren't you going to run, sweetheart?" Nanami asked, cocking his head to the side as he made his way to the kitchen, standing across the island from you.

"I told you I learned some new tricks, you won't catch me this time." You said confidently, moving slowly toward the corner of the island, trying to bait Nanami into following you. And sure enough, he did. He didn't reply to you, just started walking towards the side in which you were closest to him, making you walk away from him, the two of you slowly circling the kitchen island as you made your way back to the opening of the living room.

You knew not to avert your eyes to his and give away your plans, if he caught you looking towards the direction you were going to run, he would catch you—no doubt about it. Nanami was taller and faster, his long legs eating up the space between you like nothing whenever you ran from him, so you had to be smart about this. "We'll see if your tricks are enough." Nanami finally voiced, stopping in his tracks diagonal to you, him standing where you just were in the kitchen, your positions now reversed. 

You smiled at him in response, showing your teeth before you turned abruptly and took off sprinting across the living room. Your heart raced in your chest, the sound echoing through your whole body and making that the only thing you were able to hear. You wanted to turn around so bad and see how close he was, but you knew you couldn't afford to do so. You let out a laugh as you reached the banister on the stairs, gripping it tightly as you pulled yourself forward, using that momentum to run up them as quickly as you could. 

You tried not to think about how Nanami often went up the steps two at a time, so if he was running he could probably manage three or more... shit. Your adrenaline was still pumping, making you more assured of yourself as you reached the top of the stairs, sure he wasn't right on your tail. His office was in your sight already as you pushed off the wall and sprinted toward the end of the hall. You were mentally praising Nanami for his constant pushing to leave all doors in the house open unless they were being occupied so the air could flow freely between them, making it so none of the rooms were stuffy—meaning the door was wide open and all you had to do was grab that door and slam it like your life depended on it. 

You could only feel your own steps as you raced down the hall, surprised that he hadn't reached the top of the stairs yet, but that meant you had one, you finally had one. You reached the office and grabbed the handle before spinning yourself around and momentarily disorienting yourself before you were snatched into a pair of strong arms and hoisted over a shoulder with a scream of surprise. You felt like your heart was going to leap out of your chest and run away at the shock.

How had he got you so fast? You were sure he wasn't on your trail, but apparently, that had been wishful thinking. "Nanami!" You laughed, kicking your legs against him, trying to free yourself as he held you over his shoulder with an iron grip, his arm locked tightly around the back of your thighs so you couldn't wiggle out of his grasp. Your laugh was cut short when a harsh smack was left on your ass, the sting making you whip your hands back and cover yourself from him. 

Nanami swiftly kicked the door shut behind him and stalked over to his desk, wrenching your hands away from your ass easily in his grip. "This is my reward for catching you, hands down." He said calmly, the deep baritone of his voice making you shiver as he pulled you off his shoulder and spun you away from him, using his body to press you against the edge of his desk and pushing you down on it with his hand on the middle of your back.

You weren't able to resist his moves, the speed of his actions making your body more pliant than you would've liked. The papers on his desk crumpled under your chest as you tried to push yourself up so you could stand again, and maybe try to attempt to run away, though you never had been successful at that before. Kento grabbed your wrists with both his hands and locked them behind your back with strength only he could possess, freeing himself a hand as he kept you at his mercy, rubbing his free hand against the swell of your ass.

"The new trick you tried didn't work so well." Nanami cooed, stating the obvious and making your face feel hot as he rubbed your loss in your face. "Were you planning to lock yourself in my office?" He asked, sliding his hand up and down the side of your body, making your skin prickle under your shirt. "Yeah, I was close too." You said defiantly, trying to gain back even a little bit of your ego. You had been so sure of yourself and now look at the position you ended up in.

"Mmm," Nanami hummed, the deep sound of it in his throat making your legs part willingly for him as he pressed his knee against the inside of your thigh and made you spread them. "What were you planning to do once you were in here?" He asked, making you pause. You looked around his office, thinking on his words. I don't know, relish in your victory? Bait him through the door? Write taunting notes about how he's a loser and slide them under the door for him to read?

"What do you think would happen when you opened the door? You couldn't stay in here forever." He asked confidently. "I'd come out because I would have won." You said quickly, the answer obvious, "There is no time limit on the game." He said, his fingers pushing up the back of your shirt and sliding against the skin of your back, pushing the fabric against your arms that were locked behind your back. The gears in your head started turning as you considered his words. 

"What do you mean?" You asked, turning your head as far to the side as you could manage to look at him from under your lashes. "I will always catch you, you can't escape me." You opened your mouth to complain, to whine about how the game has been rigged from the start, how there was no way you could ever win, when a loud slap against your ass stopped your words from coming, a different sound escaping you. Your hands balled into fists as you wiggled back against him, trying to find relief against the sting that never came. 

"That's not fair." You pouted. Nanami huffed out a laugh before his large hand rubbed across your backside, his fingers finding the hem of your shorts before pulling them down to pool around your ankles. "No, it's not." He agreed, another harsh smack making contact with your skin, making you jump. Nanami's warm hand stayed against your flesh rubbingaway the pain as he pressed closer to you, his crotch pressed against your left thigh. "But you don't mind as much as you're trying to make me think you do." He said assuredly. 

You felt a tick of annoyance run through you before it was almost completely snuffed out by another slap of his hand, this one followed by two more in quick succession against your other cheek. "Why would you think that?" You sighed, trying not to pant through your words and give in to him as much as you wanted to. "This whole game has been rigged the whole time." You complained, your eyebrows shooting up when he pressed his knee against your clothed cunt, making you press try to press your legs together--an action that was stopped by his knee that was knocked into your own, keeping you spread. 

Nanami gripped your ass in his hand before leaning over you, massaging the fat of your backside as his weight crushed you, his breath tickling the shell of your ear. He rut his hips against your thigh, letting you know how much he was enjoying his win before he pressed a kiss right under your ear. You shut your eyes, a gasp falling from your lips as all complaints left your brain, the only thing you could think of being the weight and scent of him as he consumed you entirely. 

"You like it when I chase you, but you like it when I catch you even more." He whispered against your ear, his voice making you clench around nothing. "You're so cocky." You breathed, making him breathe out a laugh before he placed a kiss on your neck, the top of your spine, your shoulder blade. You held your breath when his hand that gripped your flesh slid between your legs, your body welcoming him as you spread your legs wider for him.

You couldn't stop the gasp that fell from between your lips when he pushed aside your panties like they were never there and rubbed his fingers through your wetness before dragging them across your clit. "And you're soaked, sweetheart," Nanami replied, showing you just how right he was about how much you loved being caught by him. But you didn't need him to tell you that, you already knew. 

Nanami leaned back from crushing you with his body at the same time he slid his fingers back down to your entrance and pushed two thick fingers inside you like it was nothing—and it might've well been, his fingers getting swallowed up by your wet cunt with ease. The groan that left your lips made his cock twitch in response, the feeling of his hard length against the back of your thigh driving you crazy. 

He released your arms from being caged behind your back, which you immediately used to grab the edge of the desk to steady yourself. Just when you were about to beg him for more, he slapped you again, harder this time, your ass stinging at the impact while your pussy tightened around his fingers like a vice. Nanami echoed your moan with a groan of his own as he began thrusting his fingers in and out of you, the wet squelching of your cunt echoing throughout his office.

"I can feel how much you like it." Nanami groaned, his voice deeper and more assertive with his arousal prominent. "Fuck," You whined, wiggling your hips back to meet his thrusts." Smack, another slap making you whine, a fuzziness starting to build in your mind as he fucked you harder on his fingers. "Tell me how much you like it, honey." Nanami moaned, though it sounded more like a beg as he rubbed his hips harder against your ass, trying to relieve himself on you. 

"Kento," You whined, thrusting your hips back against him harder. A clinking of a belt and a zipper following the sound told you Nanami was ridding himself of his own pants. Another slap against your sore ass was all the motivation you needed to answer him, nodding against the desk. "I love it Ken, I love it, it feels so good." You whined, your clit throbbing at the lack of attention as you wiggled back, hoping he would relieve you soon. 

You cried out when he pulled his fingers out of you abruptly, "Shhh, don't cry-" His words ended as he slammed himself inside you in one thrust, the stretch and slight burn of the sheer size of him making your eyes roll back in your head as he started up a brutal pace inside you, giving you little time to adjust before his hand dropped to your clit just as you wanted while his other massaged your soon to be bruised ass. 

Without his knee between yours anymore, you were able to squeeze your thighs together around his hand as your orgasm wracked through your body, making you scream as he pounded it out of you, his cock hitting just the right spot inside your soft walls and prolonging your high as his expert fingers matched pace with his thrusts on your clit. "K-kento-" You whined, one of your hands wrapping around his wrist that kept rubbing your oversensitized clit, the pleasure of it bordering on pain. 

"I know, I know, honey." Nanami cooed, his voice soft but his actions a stark contrast as he slapped your ass twice, once on each cheek, never once faltering his rough thrusts inside you, "You have to let go, sweetheart. Let go of my hand." He instructed, making you shake your head back and forth violently, only resulting in his fingers rubbing faster back and forth along your clit, it was almost too much.

"T-too much, Kento- f-fuck-" You cried, squeezing your eyes shut tight as you tried to lean forward to escape the pleasure, but he just followed you with his thrusts, knocking hard into your g-spot each time he slammed inside you. "No, it's not, Iknow what you can take." He replied dismissively, massaging your ass in a circle. The two of you had a safeword that had been long established and never used, and you weren't thinking about using it now, so maybe he was right, maybe he did know how much you could take.

You simply whined in response, feeling another orgasm quickly creeping over you, no escape from it in sight. "Let go of my hand, sweetheart, I won't ask again," Nanami said through a groan, his hand briefly coming up to cradle your cheek in a sweet gesture before he slid it back down your body and slapped the back of your thigh. The niceness of his words and the roughness of his actions made it hard to combine them into one person, you almost wanted to curse him out for sounding so unaffected but you knew he wasn't fairing much better than you.

The small sounds of him grunting and cursing under his breath told you exactly how he was doing. Kento's thrusts started losing their rhythm as he lost himself inside you. Begrudgingly, you let go of his hand, your own shaking as you placed it back on the edge of the dest, your knuckles turning white from how hard you were gripping it. "Good girl, I have you, I-I'll take care of you." The sound of Nanami's words getting choked off by a groan made your clit throb under his fingers. It was a fucking headrush knowing how much this man lost himself to you. 

"Please-" You begged, unsure of what you were asking for but knowing you weren't going to last much longer. "Let it out, I'm right behind you." Nanami nodded, leaning over your body and wrapping an arm under your stomach, pulling your back tightly to his chest as he humped his cock in and out of you, the stretch and loss of him with each thrust making you go a little dumb in the head each time. 

"Cum-" You weren't even able to finish your sentence as you came with a cry at the same time Nanami placed his lips on your cheek and kissed softly, trailing those kisses over your shoulder and neck as his fingers and cock worked in perfect harmony to draw your orgasm out of you. "Coming, I'm coming- oh my god-" Kento groaned through his teeth, his hair tickling your face as he buried his head in your neck and ground his hips flush against yours. 

The circular movement of Kento's hips against your ass made your legs shake with sensitivity as his fat tip rubbed against your g-spot as he emptied his balls inside you. A warmth filled you from the inside out with each kick of his cock as he came, rope after rope of his seed filling you just like he did every time he fucked you. A loud, low, continuous groan left his throat as his balls throbbed with his release, his fingers finally ceasing their rubbing against your clit as he went still, basking in his orgasm while keeping himself inside you. 

You reached a shaky, weak amr behind you and grabbed the back of his neck, gently scraping your nails up along his neck and trimmed undercut of his hair. Nanami hummed in satisfaction before he lifted his head and found your lips with ease, kissing you gently and lovingly, like the two of you had all the time in the world and nothing would ever separate the two of you. 

He pulled away and looked at you, a content expression on his face. He leaned in to press one more kiss against your eyelid before he pulled back entirely, smoothing his hands down your sides as he pulled out of you, making the both of you moan at the missing contact of the other. You already wanted to whine about how empty you felt, but you knew you could have him whenever you wanted so that feeling didn't last long.

"My ass hurts." You complained, breaking the silence as you were now finally able to feel the full extent of his actions without a clouded mind. Kento laughed as he pulled your panties back in their rightful place, keeping his cum stuffed inside you as he patted his fingers over your cunt before dropping down and sliding your shorts up your legs. "I'm sorry, my love. I'll take responsibility." He said, a hint of amusement in his voice. 

"You gonna massage my ass all night?" You asked, pushing your body up and leaning against the back of the desk, not yet ready to fully rely on your shaky legs yet. "Of course, I was the one who bruised it after all." Kento nodded as he buckled his belt back into place before stalking forward and caging you in with his body. You wrapped your arms around his neck like you've done a thousand times and let him lean in to kiss your neck, his hands wrapping around your waist to help you stand.

"Good." You said, relishing in his kisses before speaking up again, grabbing ahold of his face and pulling him back so you could look at him properly before you asked your question. "Was the game really rigged this whole time or were you just saying all that to be sexy?" Nanami smiled at that, his own hands grabbing your cheeks as he placed a kiss to the top of your head, to lessen the blow of his inevitable answer you knew was coming. " You know it is, I will always catch you." 

[w2soneshots]

Reunited -W2S

words: 1.0k+

warnings: none.

summary: after not seeing your boyfriend for months you surprise him during a cheap vs expensive sidemen video.

notes: hello loves! Here’s the request💓. This is really fluffy and cute. I hope you enjoy!!🌺🫶🏼

For the past few months I've been in New York working on a very important deal for my company. Meaning that I haven't seen Harry in a long time. We facetime every night but it's obviously not the same and I really miss him. Thankfully though I have a week off and was planning on going back to the uk to surprise Harry but it turns out that he's going to be shooting for the sidemen abroad. So I decided to text Josh; since he's organising the whole video.

Josh and I made a plan. Harry was going to be on the good team for the cheap vs expensive video so I could surprise him at the destination instead. I loved the idea and he thought it would be great for the video. Tobi and Ethan will also be there along with Harry, which will be nice since I haven't seen them (or the rest of the boys) in ages.

I packed my suitcase and headed to the airport. When the plane landed I got in a taxi that took me to the villa. I said hello to Josh and the crew who were already there and Josh showed me to my room so I could freshen up since the other boys would be arriving in just a short amount of time.

Once I'd gotten changed into some more appropriate clothes for the hot weather, I went downstairs. "Hey." I sat down next to Josh, in the huge living room. He smiled at me, acknowledging my presence. "So, how are we gonna do this?" I asked. "Well, I thought you could just be standing there when they arrive. Harry's quite oblivious so I think it'll be funny since it'll probably take him a second to spot you," He explained. I nodded with a chuckle. "They should be here within the next twenty minutes." He added.

I was almost shaking with excitement and nerves as I waited. When the van pulled up outside a wide smile spread across my face. Me, Josh and the crew stood at the front door. The boys jumped out of the car and my heart practically skipped a beat at the sight of my boyfriend. We've been together for a year and are completely in love so not being with him twenty four seven has been torture. I couldn't wait to hug him, feel his lips on mine and see his cute little smile.

All three of them walked up the concrete path and when his eyes met mine he stopped in his tracks. His mouth dropped open in utter shock. "y/n! What are you doing here!" Ethan and Tobi walked towards me with excitement. But I barely noticed them. Harry finally clicked back into reality, he quickly ran towards me, wrapping me in a bear hug. My eyes fluttered closed, savouring the moment. "Hey." I whispered softly. He sniffed. I could immediately tell he was getting upset but that he was trying not to embarrass himself in front of all the cameras.

As we pulled away I smiled at him, tears forming in my eyes that I'd been holding in. "How are you here? What-" he stumbled, his voice cracking. "I managed to get a week off work and when I realised you'd be filming I thought it'd be a fun surprise." I answered him. "So earlier when you didn't answer me-" "I was on a plane." I cut in. The boys let us have a moment so stepped inside and began filming the boy's reaction to the massive villa.

Since there wasn't anyone watching Harry brought me into a soft kiss. "Fuck. I missed you so much." He whispered, our lips just millimetres apart. "I missed you too Haz and I really missed those lips." I joked. He chuckled. "You look so beautiful." He complemented, looking me up and down. "So do you." I winked at him with a cheeky grin. His eyes sparkled.

They finished filming the video and we all decided to get in the pool. Me and Harry headed to our shared room to get into some swimwear. I grabbed a bikini from my suitcase then quickly slipped it on. I turned around to see Harry sat at the end of the bed staring at my body.

I cleared my throat. "Sorry." His eyes flickered back up to my face. I giggled, walking towards him and standing between his legs. His hands immediately landed on my hips. "Come on, everyone's waiting." I slid from his grasp then walked towards the door, he quickly followed.

I sat with my legs dangling in the pool as I spoke to Tobi, telling him all about my time in New York. "So how long have you got left out there? The parties are a lot more boring without you." Tobi asked. I smiled. "Thankfully I'm completely finished next month and I can come back to the uk, all of my coworkers are at least forty and have kids so there's no gossip, no parties, basically nothing fun. It's so boring." I replied.

"Harry's been in such an awful mood since you left. I bet he's so excited for you to come back." He added. I felt slightly guilty but Harry had been assuring me that he was okay every time we'd called.

After having some dinner everyone said good night and left for their bedrooms. Me and Harry shared a quick shower to wash the chlorine off of our bodies. Both of us were exhausted and boiling so we put some underwear on and slipped into the king sized bed. Harry wrapped his arm around me, pulling me into him. He let out a soft, content sigh.

"I was speaking with Tobi earlier and he said you'd been struggling, are you sure you're gonna be okay without me for another month?" I asked. He moved so he could see my face. "I'll be okay. It's just been weird coming home to an empty apartment every day." "I know. I feel the exact same, it's so lonely in New York." I replied softly. He kissed my forehead. "One more month." He whispered. "Mhm. Just one month." I echoed.

[sweetimpurity]

{💓} day 27!! coming in a little late whoopsie! hopefully everyone likes this ending, I think it's a little bit of everything all in one! love ya! thanks for keeping up with this! wc: 1.8k {💖}

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

Earth 546

The ride to the hospital is long and painful. Closing your eyes from the pressure and ache in your head, shooting up from your nose and aching behind your eyes. Miguel sits with you, holding your hand and mentally cursing himself. He should have realized what he had before he lost it. The two months he was without you, they were the worst. Wondering where you were. If you were safe. His multiple screens where he’d spend countless hours scouring his databases for any information that might reveal your whereabouts. And working with Lyla to track that portal. Eventually falling down the rabbit hole that led him to you finally. 

And now this. To see you’ve managed to latch onto this so quickly. This version of himself that was ready to give you everything. He just feels so bad. He let you down. He sighs, leaning his head down on yours. Those years you’ve spent together at the front of his mind. He can’t blame you for the way you reacted. Just accepting Mig’s love because it was the thing you needed all along. 

Mig keeps looking back in the rearview mirror as he drives. Keeping an eye on you and Miguel in the back. He knows he did wrong. But his intentions were pure. His only intention was to give you love. Love you’d been longing for. And to escape that life he'd been stuck in forever. But he did that at the cost of lying right to your face and taking you from the home you knew. 

“We’re here…” He sighs, looking back at the two of you in the backseat. Pulling into the emergency room parking lot. Miguel perks up, turning off his suit and the nanotech disappears, leaving him in his regular clothes. An outfit you recognize. Those gray pants and the light gray long sleeve with the thumb cutouts. An ache in your chest. Realizing this really is your Miguel. Looking in his eyes over the mess of tissue at your nose. He just gives you a knowing look, pressing a kiss to your temple. “It’s okay…”

Mig does the same. His suit disappearing and his work clothes underneath. Running a hand through his messy hair. Parking the car and sighing. 

The three of you make it out of the car and through the automatic doors. Entering the waiting room and getting a few looks from people. These two hulking twins escorting a bleeding you through the lobby. Like guard dogs. Glaring at anyone who dares look your way. Miguel holding your hand and Mig’s hand on your back guiding you through to the front desk. 

Soon you’re getting tended to by a kind older nurse. Cleaning up your bloody nose and giving you some stronger pain killers to help with the swelling. At your request, the boys are waiting out in the lobby. Sitting with an empty chair between them. Crossed arms and huffs, frowning at the floor and waiting for you to return. 

Each of them has a few choice words for the other. 

“You couldn’t have picked a dimension with some higher tech? This place is like 2030…” Miguel huffs, rolling his eyes. Glaring around at the hospital. If they were on Earth 928, he’d be able to treat your broken nose himself in minutes in his lab. But since Mig did all this, this is what they have to settle for. 

“This place seemed safe…” Mig says, staring blankly at the floor. 

Miguel scoffs, looking at him with a furrowed brow. “You act like we’re not superhuman geniuses… who can quite literally jump between dimensions. We can do anything we want and not many people could stop you…” Miguel says matter of factly. Clasping his hands together. 

“My dimension’s messed up… ” Mig says. Blinking and tapping his fingers on the armrest. “Everything feels wrong there… things glitch, my whole life there was like one big glitch.”

Miguel nods and listens. Feeling empathetic to his struggle. He can understand why he did what he did. But he still can’t help but feel it’s his duty to make things right with you. Whatever that may mean. Even if it means you leaving him for good this time. All this started with you two, it should be resolved that way too. 

“Well there are a lot of universes out there… People like you and me aren’t meant to stay in just one. Your whole life could be waiting for you and you wouldn’t even know it.” Miguel says. Feeling more optimistic than usual. Of course, he sees his own struggle in his fellow Miguel. 

“Whatever happens now… it’s gonna be her decision. And we’ll have to take it as it is.”

It’s silent for a bit before the doors open finally and you walk out with an ice pack in hand. A butterfly bandage over your swollen nose. But you’re all cleaned up now. Walking over and instead of sitting in between then, you sit across from them, facing them. The three of you settling into a heavy silence.

“I’m sorry…” Mig is the first to speak. Not looking up at the two of you yet. Looking down at his hands. It’s quiet, letting his apology sink in. 

“Yeah I’m really sorry… I don’t know what I was thinking…” Mig sighs. “I didn’t want to hurt you… but I should have been honest from the beginning.” He hums more seriously. His eyes flicking up and expecting to see hatred in your expression but your face is surprisingly soft. 

“And I’m sorry…” Miguel says. And you find his eyes on you. His apology feeling much more heavy. Three years of your life you spent with this man. This was all pretty messed up to begin with. Both of them messed up big time. 

“I didn’t want to hurt you either… but I was selfish… and ignorant. I didn’t know what I had until it was gone...” Miguel huffs. Looking in your eyes. 

“I guess we’re just wired to love you… in every dimension…” Miguel says with a slight sad smile. The two of them watching you from across the row of seating. 

“Me too…” You sigh with a pained grin.

5 years later… Earth 928

You’re home. Back where you started. After having spent some time away from any and all versions of Miguel O’hara. After the hospital, you said goodbye. You gave the ring back and a tearful goodbye to Mig who wished you nothing but love and joy in your life. And he told you about his plans to explore more of the multiverse and try to establish his own life somewhere, instead of framing his life off of the variants that are his parallel, but not his mirror. 

Getting back home, you decided it was best to part ways with Miguel as well. At least for a while. After the deep hurt he caused, you needed to heal on your own for a while and figure out what you want and how to love yourself first. You landed a promotion the next year, moving up a position at your job surprisingly after having to explain to them the very unique reason for your two month absence. Picked up some new hobbies after getting your own apartment. Growing flowers and herbs on the fire escape and who knew you could paint?! Made some new friends in the neighborhood. And all was well. 

Miguel spent his time focusing on the Spider Society. Guiding his team to protect the multiverse and working to preserve the precious timelines from running out of control. He was able to do so with the help of Lyla, Peter B, Jess and all the spider teens. And finally after five years, he’s passing the Society off to those teens who are now adults. Spiderpeople in their own right and passionate about keeping the multiverse and all its inhabitants safe. And leading the Society as a united front. Knowing it will take them some time to grow into the role but he’s willing to help them all along the way. 

Miguel plans to take a step back from the Society. And from his work as Spiderman 2099 as a whole. What with the baby on the way, he wants to be able to spend all his important time with you. 

One year ago, you reconnected. After spending nearly 4 years apart, he happened to check in and it happened to be on the date of your anniversary. Talking about old memories changed to talking over dinner again. And without half his mind distracted by the multiversal collapse, he could focus on you and only you. He can’t help but feel oddly grateful to Mig all those years ago for making him see what he was missing, making him realize what he was losing. You. 

This time he wasted no time. Proposing to you six months later and knowing it’s right this time. Not wanting to lose you, not wanting to risk you feeling the way you did ever again. Wanting to do right by you. From now on and always.  

You were married in a tiny ceremony at HQ. Peter B cried, Miles did too. 

And now a few months after that, you’re pregnant with your very first! It’s all you ever dreamt of. All you wanted. The family, the stability, the feeling of home with the man you love. And you have to feel grateful to Mig too because he showed you, you were deserving of unconditional love. At the time, Miguel just couldn’t show it. Right person, wrong time. But he’s learned better now.

Miguel has already been decorating the nursery with little pink web designs. Full papa spider mode getting the nest ready for the arrival of your little one. And though the journey hasn’t exactly been smooth sailing… you’re together at last and on the same page. And Mig 731 isn’t doing too bad himself…

…

Mig traveled the multiverse all these years. Going to worlds he never knew existed. Timelines that are so different from his own. Always searching for a new adventure and coming out of his shell. The shell his broken dimension always forced him into. Feeling a freedom he never had before. Not when he was sitting at home, watching other Miguel’s have lives he could only dream of having. Not readily having the technology to actually get out and seize his chance. 

Along the way, he even met a certain someone who took his breath away. You. From Earth 764A. A feisty spider woman and the prettiest in the multiverse. And when he learned you didn’t have a Miguel in your timeline, it was like the gates of fate opened and he saw the light. The two of you traveling to fantastic worlds unknown! And falling in love all the while. Spending the rest of his days with you, the only version of you that he feels he was meant to find. Miguel was right, his whole life was out there waiting for him. You were out there waiting for him. He just had to go looking...

And they all lived happily ever after… 

The end. 

Taglist!! love my sweeties!

@spooky-sculder

@slushycoookie @xxyaoi-nationxx @snails-doodles22 @scaryplanetdestroyer @fate13

@divorcepaperz @yeahnohoneybye @zaunsin @tomalymme @drefear

@mrs-pondwater19 @saintdiior @aphinthestars @hyjionie

@palomanh @maxad99 @muuuwoppppp @reader-1290

@sp0ck136 @lazyninjaphilosopher

@pinkdizzyship @opalwitchart

if you'd like to be added/dropped from the taglist, please comment on my masterlist post. Or else I might not see it! thank you! 🩷

plus those who requested a part 2+:

@d3stin7 @laysmt @yougavemeyourheartyouknow @marshhbs

@twwcs @resident-clown @haveclayeveryday

@fullmetal-spiderling @grumpyahjumma

@lxverrings @lazyjellyfish300 @nightingale1011

[djarins-cyare]

WIP Weekend

It’s been a while since I’ve made progress on any of my fics, but I’m trying my best to write something for Kate’s Roll-A-Trope Challenge, so I finally have something I can share a snippet of 🥳

Over the last 14 weeks, I’ve been tagged in 19 WIP Wednesday posts / Last Line games / WIP polls (yes, I keep track!), so thank you to the following lovely people for continuing to think of me even though I’ve been suspiciously quiet 💚:

@burntheedges @nerdieforpedro @604to647 @the-mandawhor1an

@kyberblade @almostfoxglove @for-a-longlongtime @djarins-wife

May I offer you some (totally unedited and marginally redacted) pre-spice Din and f!Reader in the trope genre of secret relationship below the cut…

Swallowing, you blink innocently and ask, “Is there anything else you need before I turn in?” You’re not particularly tired, but you should let him get some rest. Slowly, the angle of Mando’s helmet drops a few centimetres, and he releases a vibrant hum. The few seconds of silence that follow feel charged somehow, full of expectation, and just as you realise where he’s relocated his gaze to, he rumbles a reply in the lowest, sexiest register you’ve heard from him this evening. “So far, you’ve known exactly what I’ve needed without me having to ask.” He pauses again as he slowly tilts his helmet, the silence loaded with promise. “So you tell me. What do I need now?” Your eyes inadvertently dart to his crotch again and… shit. You’re pretty sure something’s happening down there. It looks… harder… larger (if that’s even possible). “You, uh….” Your attempt at an answer goes nowhere since you don’t know what to say. You want this, sure, but you shouldn’t. He’s injured, and you promised your uncle you’d keep your distance, not jump into an intimate act with the guy the first chance you get. After a few deep and shuddering breaths, you manage, “You need a good night’s sleep.” “I do,” he agrees. “But your question was whether I need anything else before you go to bed. Sleep comes after you go. What comes before?” Fuck. His words vibrate through you and disintegrate your misgivings. There’s no logical decision to answer in the way that you do; it just happens. “You… if you want.” A pleased hum resonates through the vocoder. “I do,” he agrees again. “The bacta took away the pain, but if you’re offering some pleasure too….” “Y-yes,” you blurt, halfway between eager and anxious. “But… my uncle will kill me if he finds out.” Mando chuckles. “He’d shoot me first. Our secret, then?” Your pussy dampens at the idea, eyes flashing as you nod your acceptance of his clandestine terms. Suddenly, a secret liaison with the apparently dangerous man you’re supposed to be avoiding for your own good sounds like the most desirable thing in the galaxy.

Yeah, you know me… I can’t just write a single scene; I have to write the whole damn relationship!

So, obviously, this is how their secret relationship gets off the ground. You may have gathered that Reader is a certain High Magistrate’s niece and has been given strict instructions to avoid the new resident of the cabin out on the lava flats. You can look forward to plenty of sneaking around, flimsy excuses, near misses, and suspicious confrontations. Oh, and smut 😏

I can’t believe I only have a month left to write all this. What have I signed up for? I’m so fucked…

*Hates self for not being able to write short stories* /jk

I’m clearly over-excited about finally having something for a WIP post, so I’m going wild and tagging a load of writer mutuals and favourites. Feel free to do any form of WIP post you choose, or ignore me entirely if you’re not up for posting snippets right now (either way, you’re all awesome) 💚

@5oh5 @abbonation @always-andromeda @captainredspade @court-jobi

@davnittbraes @din-cognito @dindjarindiaries @djarinmuse @drewharrisonwriter

@dumfanting @eatommo @evolnoomym @fhatbhabiee @fromthedeskoftheraven

@fuckyeahdindjarin @galaxyedging @grogusmum @happy-beeeps @iamsherlocked-1998

@insomniamamma @ishabull @itsjuststardust @joelalorian @jolapeno

@lady-bess @lahooozaherr @larkoneironaut @littlemisspascal @magpiepills

@morallyinept @mothandpidgeon @newpathwrites @oonajaeadira @penvisions

@prolix-yuy @quicksilvermad @saradika @secretelephanttattoo @sixhours

@sp00kymulderr @studioghibelli @syd-djarin @the-blind-assassin-12 @theetherealbloom

@wannab-urs @whocaresstillthelouvre @whxtedreams @wrathkitty @yopossum

[rhiannonsknife]

That one scene where Rhiannon visits Craig at work, but it’s Reader…💭💭

(Also, could I be 🪩?)

— summary: rhiannon visits you at work…

— warnings: nsfw content. mdni. face slapping. fem!reader. r is craig’s coworker.

— a/n: shoutout to @lottiesgrl for sending me the screenshot of rhiannon <3

the loud creak of the door catches you off guard, sharp and unexpected in the quiet hum of an otherwise severely uneventful afternoon. you glance up, expecting to see a courier or maybe someone from the team. instead, it’s her.

rhiannon lewis stands in the doorway, one hand holding the strap of her purse, her expression unreadable. for a moment, you’re too caught up in the surprise of her presence to speak. “you must be here to see craig,” you finally manage, tilting your head as you wipe your hands on the fabric of your jeans. it’s a guess. a safe one, given the circumstances. ever since tommy passed, he had stepped into the role of your unofficial boss, handling everything with a precision that bordered on self-importance. technically, the company wasn’t even his yet, but everyone had adjusted to treating him as if it already was.

and, besides, you have seen the two of them together.

you had been keeping an eye on the former boss’s daughter for much longer than you’d care to admit, watching her from afar at every single work event that she happened to attend, but never finding the right words to approach her beyond the occasional polite nod. unprofessional? most likely, and just another reason for you to never make a move on her. craig, however, did not seem to have your decency. watching rhiannon meant watching his prying eyes too, always a little too close for comfort at said company events.

that’s why he’s the first thing that comes to mind, now that she’s in front of you. your lunch break has just started and you feel severely underdressed: rhiannon is in a blouse, a neat pair of shoes, and a skirt whereas you’re in stained jeans and a thin tank top, your flannel stolen by one of your coworkers, who’d been teasingly dangling it in front of your face before rhiannon showed up. oh, the lovely perks of working in a still mostly male-dominated field and having to deal with their endless, stupidly boyish teasing.

“no, actually,” she says. “i was hoping i could speak to you”

your coworker lets out a low whistle beside you, earning himself a playful slap as you use the distraction to your advantage and snatch the flannel from his grip.

“shut up” you hiss, just as rhiannon interrupts, sharper: “now?”

ignoring the teasing comments your colleagues call after you, you get up and quickly stumble after her. she knows her way around the place, of course, and leads you back into what’s soon to be craig’s office. she holds the door for you before pulling it shut, locking it on her way in.

“sit” rhiannon orders, pointing towards the chair in the center of the room. taken aback by the sudden, stern demand, you can’t think of anything but to do as you’re told. you quickly move to sit, pulling your flannel on in the process.

“who said you could put that back on?”

your fingers freeze where they’re working on the buttons and you shoot her a glance of disbelief, not entirely sure if you got any of that right. a pleased look flashes over rhiannon’s features before she moves closer, hips swaying with every step it takes her to reach you. your throat visibly bobs at the sight and the fabric of your flannel slides from between your fingers.

“uhm-“ you try to tear your gaze away. “you said you wanted to- to talk?”

“craig and i broke up” she informs you nonchalantly, not looking much like she cared for him, to begin with.

“that’s-“ great to hear. “i’m sorry”

“no you’re not” rhiannon stops in her tracks and, as if the whole situation isn’t absurd enough already, reaches for the hem of her skirt.

“wow, uh-“ this time you do look away, just to keep yourself sane. from the corner of your eye, you still see her: pushing down her tights, then her panties too, before stroking her skirt back into place, leaving herself a little less exposed.

“you’re not sorry” she repeats again, firmer, then walks around your chair and into your view. once again somewhere where you can’t ignore her, she pouts mockingly. “or are you?”

“n-no” you stammer, eyes tracing over her features.

“right” rhiannon rasps, lifting her skirt enough so that she can slip into your lap, her legs spreading around either side of you. your breath hitches in your throat when you feel the heat that has pooled between her thighs and is now pressing against your crotch.

your gaze is fixated upon the place where she must be soaked until rhiannon grabs your chin and forces you to look up at her.

“i saw the way you look at me,” she tells you, leaving no room for questions. the hand she has been holding your chin with becomes gentler as it trails the side of your face. her eyes follow the path it’s taking, up your jaw and then into your hair by the side of your face.

even though you should know better, you scoff. there’s no way you’ll just outright admit it to her. “i wasn’t-“

you instantly fall silent when a sharp, sudden slap to your cheek cuts you off. “ow” you whine, only half complaining. not only do you feel the sting on your cheek, no, it also shoots right between your legs when she strikes you like this.

rhiannon slaps you again, harder, for good measure. your head is moved by the force of it but she instantly makes you look back up at her, not giving you any time to think.

“shut up” she demands. while taking in the shock (and arousal) that is written all over your features, rhiannon drapes an arm over your shoulder and pulls herself closer. the fact that you can see right through the thin fabric of her blouse is not helping your case; the outline of her breasts is clearly visible. she must've ditched her bra before coming here or maybe she never wore one to begin with. rhiannon uses the position of being sat on your lap to her advantage and draws herself in so that her bare center is dragging across your jeans. you can almost instantly feel the way her arousal soaks the fabric, leaving a stain on it.

with your body moving on instinct, you lift your hands, putting one on her hip and the other on her lower back. to your surprise, rhiannon lets you and doesn’t instantly bat them away like a part of you had expected. instead, she starts rocking against you slowly, grinding her cunt against your thigh.

“fucking hell” you mutter under your breath, taking in the way her body moves.

rhiannon won’t let you for long; as soon as you drop your gaze, her palm sneaks up your throat until your chin is between her thumb and index finger so she can push your head up all over again.

“look at me” she instructs. the breathless tone to her voice does not go unnoticed.

“wha- fuck-“ you’re cut off once more when she repositions on top of you, giving herself much easier access to the firm muscle of your thigh and pressing her chest to your face in the process of lifting her weight, then lowering it back onto you. who are you to complain?

once she’s found a good position, rhiannon picks up her pace, panting heavily as she begins to properly ride you. she’s still holding your face in her hands, moving it around mindlessly as she uses your body to get off.

eventually, she tilts you in a way that allows her to lean over you and eagerly press her mouth to yours. whenever you had dared to imagine yourself kissing her, it had been tender, and soft. the way rhiannon kisses now is nothing like that. she’s hardly using her lips at all, instead, she sinks her teeth into the flesh of your lower lip until you can taste blood on your tongue. noticing the metallic flavor in her own mouth, rhiannon pulls back. when she sees the drop of crimson bubbling from your lips, her eyes widen. she only moves her hips faster. at this point, she’s practically bouncing on your thigh and you can feel her stain she's leaving on your clothes underneath the denim.

you kind of wish she had approached you beforehand: there’s no way in hell you would have turned her down. instead, you would’ve been prepared: you could’ve put on the strap, so you had something proper for her to bounce on. for now, your thigh will have to do.

“god” you groan weakly, only able to hold your head up because she’s holding it for you. “you are so-“

“sh!” rhiannon hushes you harshly, pressing her hand over your mouth to shut you up. her thumb runs over the broken skin of your lower lip. it stings, but her reaction makes up for the discomfort: when she realizes that there’s still blood on your mouth, rhiannon lifts her palm back up, and stares down at the place where it has smeared across her hand. instead of the disgust a part of you had expected, rhiannon’s jaw drops and the first actual moan is drawn from her lips. it spurs her on, you realize, when she removes your hands from her waist and starts to go even faster, clearly chasing her height at this rate, a pending oragsm fast approaching. you don’t know where to look anymore, now that she’s moving erratically on top of you, so rhiannon -once again- makes the choice for you, and snaps: “look at me!”

the sight of her hips grinding and breasts bouncing under her blouse with every move is heavenly already, but nothing compares to her face when it’s contorted in pleasure like this: her jaw slack, her brows drawn together, her eyes heavy, yet still watching your every move, ensuring that you keep watching.

“look at me” she repeats, again and again, like a prayer that grows more frantic with every time it is spoken. like this, she keeps going, until it becomes too much for her body to take. until she can't keep up with the pace she has set herself without letting herself fall over the egde. you feel it before you see it: the way she grows tense, the way her legs tighten around you, and her thighs begin to tremble. the way rhiannon throbs, right before she’s cumming on top of you.

then, and only then, her head falls back. she breaks the eye contact and she cries out in pleasure. her fingers tighten around the nape of your neck and, as her orgasm crashes over her, she falls forward, her body spent and exhausted. her moans subside slowly, only after her cunt has stopped twitching where it is pressed against you do the low, raspy whines stop.

rhiannon holds you close like this for a long moment, recovering and catching her breath. you don’t dare to move, don’t even dare to touch her, afraid it’ll make her uncomfortable or pull back altogether. her cheek is smudged against the side of your head whilst she pants into your ear. she does pull back, eventually, and leaves you breathless and turned on beyond words in your seat.

she steps back to the pile of clothes, putting them on one by one: the white panties first, then her tights, before she’s readjusting her skirt. only when all that is done, does she turn back to look at you one last time:

“i’ll call you” she says, hand on the lock and ready to leave.

“wait!” you call out. “wait you don’t- i never gave you my number. you don’t have it”

“yes i do” rhiannon winks, then turns around and abandons you in the office.

[kenshiluvr]

Heeeey could I ask for Kenshi with an reader where on a mission reader gets badly injured please?

aaa of course!! i love writing hurt/comfort :3

shooting star

kenshi takahashi/reader

summary: you get injured protecting him.

tags: major injuries, both reader and kenshi are protective of each other, they’re in love your honour, angst, hurt/comfort, good bf! kenshi, stargazing

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽.* :☆ﾟ. ───

“Haha, very funny.” Kenshi chuckles sarcastically after you made another bad joke. You’d been reading them to him for a whole hour, because you want to learn how to ‘out-dad-joke’ Johnny, even if neither of you had kids. You giggle, lay on his chest, scrolling through your phone. “How about this one. Two fish are in a tank. One of them turns to the other and says: ‘you know how to drive this thing?’” You giggle softly at the ridiculousness of the joke. “Little bit of army humour.” You muse, listening to Kenshi hum briefly. “Very little.” He notes, listening to your soft laugh.

Kenshi runs his fingers over your back, rubbing up and down gently. “Baby… surely we’ve gone through enough jokes by now.” He chuckles, shaking his head with amusement. “Aww, c’mon… just a few more?” You look from your phone to his, letting him kiss the bridge of your nose. “Nope. I’m not letting this continue. Unlike you, I cherish my sanity.” Kenshi laughs, carefully taking your phone from you. “Fine, fine. Spoilsport.” You shake your head, laughing a little. You and Kenshi had been dating for a little over a year now, always sticking together, everywhere he went you followed… even with his troubled past.

Kenshi appreciates you, and your bad jokes, you bring a light to his days that he was struggling to find. With the gruelling task of bringing his family’s name out of the Yakuza, of tracking down Sento… he felt any sense of normalcy slipping through his fingers like sand… but you kept him sane. You made him feel loved. “Get some sleep. I’m sure Johnny can listen to your jokes tomorrow.” He chuckles, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “Alright, alright.” You smile, stealing a quick kiss.

-

Trudging through harsh conditions, you follow Kenshi as he leads the way, being guided by the item that Liu Kang had given him to help find Shang Tsung. “Do you think we’re getting close?” You ask softly, glancing at the little compass in his palm. “I believe so…” Kenshi murmurs, glancing down at it as well. “Good… I think someone’s getting restless.” You chuckle softly, glancing back at Johnny, who had been whining the whole time. Kenshi hums softly, continuing on the path the compass was guiding him on.

Finally, you all arrive at a ledge, overlooking a grizzly fight between a group of human people and Tarkatan people. “What’s going on here..?” you murmur, brows furrowing. Kenshi hums, uncertain as well. Spotting Shang Tsung, you nudge your boyfriend, pointing the man out. Shang Tsung has a Tarkatan brought over, plunging a needle into his neck, drawing bone marrow. You grimace at the sight, turning away briefly. “This is… disgusting…” you murmur, eyes moving back to see the Tarkatan break free of his restraints, ready to harm the man your group had been searching for. “Come on. We can’t let him get killed.” Kenshi doesn’t hesitate, moving down to help. “Ken, wait-“ your eyes widen, scrambling to follow.

With a scrambled fight, you, Johnny and Kung Lao manage to disperse a few Tarkatans and humans alike, with you focusing on helping the imprisoned Tarkatans out of their shackles, giving them their freedom to escape this cruelty. Most give you wary looks, but a few nod thankfully and leave. Turning around, you see Kenshi in a strong fight with the Tarkatan that Shang Tsung had recently drawn bone marrow from, immediately moving over to try and help. Kung Lao grasps your arm, stopping you from jumping in, not wanting you to get harmed. “He can handle this.” He tells you calmly, bringing you back a little. “But-“ you glance from your friend to your boyfriend, eyes full of worry. “Relax. Kenshi’s a strong fighter.”

Sighing, you focus on finding out where Shang Tsung had escaped to. A pained grunt catches your attention, and your gaze immediately snaps back to Kenshi. “Ken!” breaking free from Kung Lao’s grasp, you run to his side. The Tarkatan he’s fighting scowls at the sight of you, drawing his Tarkatan blade from his forearm. You steel yourself, more focused on Kenshi’s safety than your own. With a hard slash, the blade slices into your side as if you’re made of paper. Kenshi’s breath hitches, watching the blood spill. Your name utters from his lips as he grasps you tight, feeling you crumple onto him. Johnny jumps in, finishing the fight for the two of you as Kenshi sits up, holding you tight to his body. “Baby… shh-shhh… i’ve got you.” Your boyfriend stresses, hand pressing to your deep wound. “What the hell were you thinking?!” Kenshi scolds, eyes full of worry as he holds you tight.

“Sorry- I-I didn’t think.” You chuckle weakly, resting your head to his shoulder. You feel dizzy, a lot of blood pouring from your wound. “C’mon, doll… stay with me.” He whispers, grimacing as your blood covers his tattooed hands. “Mhh… m’sorry.” You mutter, slumped to him. “Shh… it’s okay. Save your strength.” Kenshi’s other hand strokes your back, trying to keep you awake. “Stay with me baby,” he murmurs, voice cracking a little. “I need you.” Kenshi stresses, squeezing you close. If he lost you… he wasn’t sure what he’d do.

-

“Hey…” a soft voice whispers to you, two warm palms grasping one of yours gently as you stir awake. A pained groan leaves your lips, sighing softly. “Kenshi?” You mutter, blinking blearily. “Shhh… I’m here.” Your boyfriend moves one of his hands, pressing his knuckles to your forehead. “I thought I lost you. You fainted right there, in my arms…” Kenshi whispers, leaning down to gently kiss your cheek. “Scared me, baby…” he mutters, closing his eyes as his head rests against yours. “Sorry…” you whisper, voice hoarse, fingers weakly squeezing his.

“Don’t apologise. If it weren’t for you, I probably would of been killed by that Tarkatan.” He sighs, squeezing your hand in return. You hum weakly, leaning her head to his. “How long has it been?” You mumble, noting that you’re both back at the Wu Shi academy. “Shang Tsung, is he-“ you go to sit up, but your boyfriend eases you back down onto the bed. “Shh. Don’t push yourself. It’s been dealt with.” Kenshi murmurs, stroking your cheek gently. You sigh softly through your nose, closing your eyes in pain.

“Do you need anything?” Kenshi asks softly. “Painkillers… please..?” you whisper, fingers moving up to grasp his. “Of course.” Standing up, he kisses your fingers briefly before gently putting your hand down onto the bed for you. “I’ll be right back.” Kenshi assures you, stepping out of the room. He rushes right back, pills and water in hand, carefully sitting beside you on the bed. “Here, sweetheart.” Kenshi murmurs, helping you take the painkillers; he even feeds you the water, not wanting you to strain yourself.

“Thank you,” you murmur, threading your fingers through his. With a soft sigh, you press your head to his thigh. “Ken, baby… can we go outside? I wanna get some fresh air.” You mumble, looking up at him. Kenshi smiles softly. “Of course, sunshine.” He responds, stroking your cheek lovingly. Helping you up out of bed, he’s careful of the stitches on your side, supporting you as you walk. “Nice and slow… just take it easy.” He murmurs, holding your hands gently as he helps you outside.

Finding a bench, he sits you down carefully to give your side a rest, sitting beside you. It’s late, stars out overhead. Leaning to his side, you feel Kenshi’s arm circle around your waist. “Better?” He mutters, pressing a kiss to the top of your head as you rest on his shoulder. “Yeah…” you smile, eyes turning up to watch the stars that dot the inky, dark sky. Spotting a shooting star, you nudge your boyfriend, pointing it out. “Hm. Would you look at that?” Kenshi muses, smiling a little. “Did you make a wish?” He asks, looking back at you. “Yeah. But I can’t tell you now, can I? Or it won’t come true,” you giggle softly, watching it disappear from sight. “Aw, c’mon… you can trust me with that secret.” Kenshi teases, laughing softly. “Mhm. Well, I guess I can tell you.” You respond, smiling softly. “I wished that, no matter what, we stay together.” You admit. Kenshi feels his heart flutter. “Baby, you don’t even have to wish for that.” Kenshi tells you, kissing your temple lovingly. “It’s already true. I’m not going anywhere.” He smiles, pulling you a little closer.

[fettuccinealfred0]

Til Death Do Us Part | Part 9

Series Masterlist

Astarion x f!reader, Arranged Marriage AU

Word Count: 12.5k

(CW: SMUT 18+, brief descriptions of gore, vampire biting/blood drinking, unprotected p in v sex, cunnilingus)

Summary:

“You turned me into a vampire?” You practically shriek at Astarion. You keep your palms pressed firmly into the ground, fighting against your instinct to immediately rip his throat out. It’s hard to restrain yourself. You feel like a wild animal.

There’s a flash of panic that passes over Astarion’s face before his brows knit together in confusion. “You’re angry?”

You huff out a humorless laugh, eyes turning up to the sky to check if this is some sort of cosmic joke. “Yes, I’m fucking angry, Astarion! What did you do to me? You killed me!”

“Raphael killed you!” He shoots back defensively. “You were dying! I didn’t have a choice.” 

Read on ao3 here

You can’t focus on anything other than this hunger. 

Oh. If this was how good blood tasted, how did Astarion ever manage to pull himself away from you? 

You want to fall into him and drown. You want to devour him whole. 

The aftertaste of his blood sticks heavy in your mouth when he finally tears his wrist free from your tight grasp. You need more. You never want to stop. 

“More,” you croak out and your throat feels like it’s burning.

“There are bodies everywhere, my love. Take your pick,” Astarion says. You’re cradled in his arms, and you can’t even think to question how you got there because your entire being is consumed with this burning desire for blood.

After freeing yourself from Astarion’s arms, you crawl on your hands and knees to a downed guard a few feet away. He’s still alive, but barely. You can smell the blood pouring from the gaping wound on his thigh and can hear how it rushes under his skin. You salivate.

It’s too much work to pull off his gloves to get to his wrist, so you go straight for the gap between his helmet and his chest plate, digging your teeth into his neck. His blood is sweet and rich and so good that you can’t think straight. 

The whole thing is messy and crude and violent. You can’t even bother to care right now. 

You hear yourself let out an angry growl when you’ve drained that man. More, still more. You crawl a few feet to the next body on the floor. This one is dead and their blood is stale. And still, you drink until there is nothing left. 

The more blood you consume, the more your mind clears and the sharper your senses become. Has the world always been so loud? So bright?

When you finish draining that man, still on your hands and knees on the floor, you look up to the rest of the group. You can feel the blood running down your chin and neck, staining the front of your dress. There’s blood all over you, in various stages of drying- the rusty tear tracks running down your face from the energy wave Raphael had unleashed, the thick clumps of your hair that are matted and still wet with blood from when your head had been bashed into the wall. 

Everyone's faces are painted with varying shades of displeasure and horror. Shadowheart has big, sorrowful eyes and Wyll is looking down at you as if you were a rabid animal. 

All except Astarion, who is kneeling on the ground and staring at you with a wide smile on his face, like this is the embodiment of his wildest dreams. 

You had just died and he had the audacity to be happy about it?

You burn with an anger that doesn’t fully belong to you. It’s uncontrollable. You’re scared of yourself. Everything is too much; your emotions all feel too big. 

What sort of monster had Astarion turned you into? 

The two of you had agreed that you would get to decide when you were turned into a vampire- that you would pick when and how, and it would be a lovely memory that you would get to cherish forever.

This is most certainly not that. 

“You turned me into a vampire?” You practically shriek at Astarion. You keep your palms pressed firmly into the ground, fighting back against your instinct to immediately rip his throat out. It’s hard to restrain yourself. You feel like a wild animal.

There’s a flash of panic that passes over Astarion’s face before his brows knit together in confusion. “You’re angry?”

You huff out a humorless laugh, eyes turning up to the sky to check if this is some sort of cosmic joke. “Yes, I’m fucking angry, Astarion! What did you do to me? You killed me!”

“Raphael killed you!” He shoots back defensively. “You were dying! I didn’t have a choice.” 

There’s genuine sorrow in his voice as he practically pleads with you to understand. And you do. But there’s something itching at your throat and you just died and you’re angry and you’re upset. 

It feels like you are watching yourself react, trapped away in a haze. There are tears rolling down your cheeks and desperate, heaving sobs choking their way up from your throat that have you curling in on yourself to weep. Astarion must have come to sit by you because you feel his hand run soothingly down your back. You wrench your body away from him. 

You did not want comfort. Not now. 

“You took away my choice, Astarion! Again!” You yell at him between your sobs, too aware of the way each tear feels as it rolls down your face. Everything was just too much. Everything felt wrong in your body. “My whole life, I knew I would have little control over who I married. But you took away the choice of whether I lived or died!” 

“You were human, we would have gotten to this point eventually. We had already talked about turning you.” Astarion’s hands have fallen in his lap and he looks at you with such melancholy. It makes your skin itch, to think he pities you in your current state. 

“It’s about autonomy, Astarion! It’s about choosing what happens to my body and when that happens. You of all people should understand that!”

If you were thinking clearly, you would never have brought up his past. The part of your mind that is still you and not this monstrous new version of yourself shatters as you watch his face scrunch in pain and anger. 

“So, you’re allowed to always be angry at me, but I’m not supposed to have my own feelings?” Astarion asks. “I’m just supposed to immediately forgive you and forget the fact that you invaded my privacy by reading my diary? Am I not allowed to be scared after I just watched your skull practically shatter in front of me?” 

He struggles in vain to steady the underlying shake in his voice. “Was I not supposed to do everything in my power to save you? Please, do not treat me like I have been completely unreasonable or like you have never done anything to hurt me. You know as well as I do that you would have made the same choice if I were the one lying in a pool of blood in front of you.”

And you simply sit there, powerless, as the person who knows you most intimately in the world calls your bluff. 

He’s right. He has seen right through you in the way that only he can. You had made that same exact choice when he returned home from a previous trip with that gaping wound in his side. You had not thought, you had not hesitated when you cut your hand open and fed him your blood. In that moment, all that mattered was saving Astarion by any means necessary. 

“Well, if you would have told me everything, we probably wouldn’t have even been in this mess in the first place, would we?” You shout back, trying to deflect from how Astarion had just exposed the flaws in your anger. 

To be fair, only you can comprehend the full weight of your question. Astarion still doesn’t know that you have the final gem. Nevertheless, it rings true. The communication issues have compounded on themselves. If Astarion had let you help in his search, you would not have read his diary and he would not have sent you away to be kidnapped. And if you were not kidnapped, you would not have had to fight Raphael. You would still be alive. 

Astarion’s crimson eyes flare with anger because he knows that you are right, too. You both just stare at each other, challenging the other to back down. In the background, you hear someone awkwardly clear their throat, but you and Astarion stay fixated on one another. Apparently, a side-effect of vampirism was unwavering focus. 

You break first, though, when you begin to grow impatient. 

“You say that you are not allowed to have your own feelings, but the minute you set your mind on something, my feelings on the subject become completely irrelevant. It’s all you, Astarion. It’s always about you and how you feel,” you snarl. “I have given you every opportunity to listen to me and to be honest with me and you have fought against me at every turn.”

Astarion opens his mouth like he is going to interrupt, but you cut him off.

“No. Even when you promised that you would tell the truth, you still carefully selected what insignificant information would placate me without giving me any of the meaningful details. How am I ever supposed to trust you if I doubt every word you say?”

“I have never once lied to you,” Astarion defends, his jaw locked tight.  

“A lie by omission is still a lie. Evading my questions with half-truths is still half-lying,” you point out, “Astarion, I don’t know how I can be with you if you’re unable to understand why your actions hurt me.”

“Are you-” Astarion stumbles on his words, unable to even finish the thought. But his eyes betray him, asking are you done with me?

“No, never. I-” you cut yourself off, bringing your hands up to cover your eyes and block out all the too-bright lights. Have candles always burned so brightly? “I think you were right. I think we need some space so we can both process for a bit. I need time to be angry at you. I need time to adjust.”

“My love, I’m so sorry, but that can’t happen.” He sounds so genuinely remorseful. His hands wrap around your wrists, gently pulling your hands away from where they shield your eyes from the overwhelming, flickering candlelight. You can tell Astarion wants you to be looking at him while he speaks and his eyes are soft and round with concern. “You need me now more than ever. You’re going to be hungry, going to need to feed. There’s so much I need to teach you.”

“So you’re making this decision for me, too? That’s wonderful.” You rip your hands out of his grasp. 

Why does he keep insisting on reaching out to touch you? Does he not see you struggling? Does he not remember how disorienting it was to first wake up all those years ago? You’re so aware of everything and it makes his touch against your skin practically hurt.

Some distant, detached part of your mind reminds you that he is probably looking to ground himself. Touching. Always touching. Astarion needed that comfort and you weren’t able to provide him with that right now.

You feel guilty and angry at yourself that you somehow keep hurting Astarion without even trying. You’re mourning your life and the loss of everything normal that you once knew. And you hadn’t even begun to fully process the fact that you had just killed people. It was all a blur when you had jammed your knife into Raphael’s throat but his blood was caking uncomfortably on your hands and that poor man who you had just drained on the floor might have been at the brink of death, but it was still you who killed him. 

You lean over and throw up. Bile and congealed blood force their way up your throat and leave a dirty, metallic taste in your mouth. Astarion reaches out again, and this time you let him hold the hair away from your face as you vomit on the floor. Over the sounds of your sobbing and heaving, you faintly hear a discussion before everyone leaves the room. 

And then, it is just you and Astarion and it’s finally quiet. Astarion whispers soothing words to you in a smooth, low voice that doesn’t make your eardrums feel like they’re splitting open inside your head.

When your sobs eventually diminish into little sniffles, Astarion lets go of your hair. He makes a motion like he’s going to stroke your face before he hesitates and pulls away. 

“Are you okay?” He asks softly. “The transition can be… a lot. I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking. It’s been so long since I was turned.”

“Why can’t you just leave me alone?” you ask.

Astarion’s face falls. “Is that really what you want? I’ll leave if you tell me to.”

“No,” you say, almost immediately. You look at your hands in your lap, stained an ugly, rusted brown. Your first instinct isn’t repulsion, but rather that you want to bring them up to your mouth and lick them clean, even if the blood is stale and dry. You feel disgusted with yourself. “What happened to me?”

Astarion seems at a loss for words.

“I want to go home,” you say.

Let there be some comfort, some sense of familiarity, in this tidal wave of foreign sensations.

“We can’t yet,” Astarion says. His voice is so forlorn, as if it is hurting him to see you like this. “It’s about to be daybreak and we can’t travel in the sun.”

It’s yet another reminder of everything you have lost.

“Great, just what I needed,” you scoff. 

“There’s an inn across the street. The others went over to get us rooms.”

So that’s where everybody else went. How long ago was that? How long had you been curled in on yourself on the floor, weeping and sick and desperately craving blood?

Astarion must have been trying to give you privacy. Even now, he was still taking care of you- allowing you to grieve without the other’s prying eyes and helping to take away some of the overwhelming stimulation in the room.

“I can go tell Shadowheart to prepare a bath for you, if you’d like me to?” Astarion asks, almost as if he can sense that you are getting lost in your own mind again. He offers you a little smile, “I find those help.”

Those words sounded so familiar… It takes you a moment to place that you had read them in his diary. Astarion had not meant his jab as a jab but it still makes you painfully, acutely aware of how cruelly you had betrayed his trust. You want to start sobbing again.

You simply nod at Astarion, accepting his offer, unable to find the words to say anything else. He seems reluctant to leave you, but he finally pushes himself up from the floor.

“I’ll be back in just a minute, okay?” His hand stretches out awkwardly between the two of you and when you don’t reach out to grab it, he drops it. With a shake of his head, he turns on his heel and leaves.

“Wait-” you call after him and Astarion turns to regard you curiously. You look down at your hands in your lap, feeling a bit silly that you don’t know the first thing about vampirism, despite all the months you spent married to one. “Will I need more blood? I don’t- how do I even know when I’m hungry? I don’t want to accidentally hurt someone.”

“You won’t, little flower, precisely because even now, in the peak of your bloodlust, you are still aware enough to worry about others.” Astarion’s eyes soften. “Though, it is probably a good idea for you to drink a bit more while I’m gone. Can you promise me that you’ll try?”

You nod and Astarion gives you one last fleeting smile before he is leaving the room. 

And for a moment, you close your eyes and let yourself sit in nothing but darkness. You sit until you can no longer deny your unquenchable thirst. You don’t even need to look, don’t even need to open your eyes as you drag yourself to a new source of blood.

Only, when you open them again, you are met by Raphael’s cold, dead stare and the deep gash in his throat, nearly severing his head from his body. That is not an image you will ever forget. You fall backward on your hands in horror, trying to back away from him as quickly as possible. 

Wrapping your arms around yourself, you pull your knees into your chest. You are too aware of the devilish body sitting just a few feet away from you. Raphael’s face stays at the front of your mind. His eyes had not even been that different than when he was alive, looking at you with pure nothingness behind them, like you were so insignificant that you did not even deserve to be seen.

But you had promised Astarion that you would try to drink something and the idea of blood is slowly consuming you, pushing away that horrible image. You scan the room and find another dead guard to drain. 

And you do feel marginally better after drinking some blood, so you finally pick yourself up off the ground. It feels too cold in the room. You hadn’t even realized that you were shivering. 

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch the familiar shimmer of one of the green gems, still encased in glass on their pedestals, completely unharmed by the commotion.

You step closer to them, reaching out a hand to press against the glass covering. From this close, there’s no shred of doubt in your mind- your mother’s necklace had contained the final gem all this time. But why? How did she even get one?

It seems foolish to just leave them there when Raphael had gone through so much trouble to find them. Lifting up the covers, you slide the gems off their pedestals. You’ve just tucked them into your skirt when Astarion’s voice surprises you. 

“Are you ready, darling?”

You try to gauge whether Astarion had caught you slipping the gems into your pocket, but he simply leans against the doorframe on the other side of the room. 

When you come to stand a few steps in front of him, Astarion asks,“Did you treat yourself to a snack while I was gone?” 

You nod but you can’t help the way your gaze darts nervously over to Raphael’s body at the mention of a ‘snack.’ His dead eyes feel like they have followed you as you walked across the room. 

“Oh,” Astarion’s smile drops instantly. He holds his hand out to you. “Come, let’s leave. We never have to look at him again.” 

You know Astarion means to be reassuring but you fear the image of Raphael’s cold, dead face has been burned into your retinas. 

Attempting to clear your mind, you give your head a little shake and take a deep breath before reaching your hand out to grab Astarion’s. You do not miss the subtle way he squeezes your fingers, as if he is afraid that you will drop his hand again. 

When you finally leave the room, it feels like a weight has been lifted off your shoulders. With your hands laced, you let Astarion lead you through the maze of Raphael’s house to the inn across the street, where a warm bath is waiting for you. Astarion shows you to a room. Shadowheart is there and when she sees you, she gives you the same melancholic little smile that had been painted on Astarion’s own face all night and it makes you want to roll your eyes in disgust. How long would everyone insist on treating you like you were made of glass?

“You’ll tell me if you need anything?” Astarion asks. He’s trying to keep his voice measured but there is a pleading, desperate undertone. You know he is only trying to help, but that is of little comfort to you right now. You just need time by yourself.

You nod stiffly at him and he awkwardly clears his throat, finally dropping your hand. 

“I love-” 

“Don’t,” you cut Astarion off. “Please, don’t do that to me right now.”

Astarion’s brow creases in displeasure and he turns on his heel to leave immediately. You stare after him, watching his figure retreat to the room next to yours. He shuts the door with an angry slam. 

Where there would normally be a heavy ache in your chest, there is nothing. Just a deep dread settling in your stomach.

When you close the door to your own room, Shadowheart’s back is turned. Seizing your opportunity, you quietly tuck the gems into a drawer in a dresser. You aren’t entirely sure what possesses you to keep them a secret, but after so long of being kept in the dark by Astarion, it’s only fair you get to have a secret of your own for a while. 

Shadowheart helps you peel off your dress, which is stiff and hard where the blood has dried into the fabric. 

“I sent Gale into the city to get us all new clothes. I fear this dress is beyond repair,” Shadowheart says, wrinkling her nose in disgust. “Hopefully, he’ll come back with something at least somewhat presentable for you to wear on the ride back. You never know though. It is Gale, after all. He only ever wears purple.” 

There’s a small smile on her face and you can tell she is trying to raise your spirits. It was usually easy to goad you into poking fun at Gale. But this time, you just hum in response. The idea of laughter seems too foreign, too impossible right now. 

In the tub, you let her scrub the dried blood off your skin as you numbly stare ahead at the wall. The water surrounding you turns an unpleasant shade of red. 

After your skin has been cleaned, Shadowheart gives you a towel and instructs you to stand behind the dressing screen in the corner of the room. She calls upon some of the workers from the inn and they refill the tub with fresh, clear water. 

You climb back and sink into the warm water, watching the steam curl around the edges of the tub. Shadowheart lets you sit there as long as you want and you stay until long after the water has grown cold and started to make you shiver.

Shadowheart helps you into the dress Gale brought back from the city (which is indeed a rich, deep purple). You’re too aware of the way the once-soft velvet scratches uncomfortably against the skin of your arms. 

It’s only after you’ve dressed and Shadowheart has put your hair into a simple braid down your back that you pass by a mirror. You don’t see yourself. Immediately, you try to conjure the last glimpse of yourself that you had gotten in the mirror before you left on your trip. Even then, the image in your mind is fuzzy- you had not been paying attention to details. You had not known it would be the last time you would ever see yourself. 

Tears begin welling up in your eyes again.

“Let’s just cover that, why don’t we?” Shadowheart says, turning the mirror around to face the wall.

You spend the rest of the afternoon just sitting in your room in the inn with the curtains drawn and the lights all turned off. It should be silent and dark. It isn’t. Somehow, your new senses cause you to hear every creak and groan of the building. You can hear the mice in the walls, smell the blood of all the other bodies moving in the building.

How did Astarion manage to live like this? 

Eventually, Shadowheart knocks on your door to let you know the sun has set and it is time to leave. You follow her outside, down the cobblestone streets of the city to a stable on the outskirts of town.

Everyone else is standing together. They all look better- washed and free of grime and dressed in fresh clothes. You would almost be relieved to see them if they didn’t all immediately fall quiet in your presence. It makes you feel murderous.

“Glad to see you’re feeling better.” Halsin breaks the silence with a friendly smile. 

“I may look like it, but I certainly don’t feel better,” you hiss back, even though you know Halsin does not deserve your anger. “Just because I am no longer vomiting blood on the floor doesn’t mean that I’m not in constant agony.”

Everyone’s eyes dart around nervously, like they’re unsure what to say in such an awkward situation.

Astarion laughs, with a roll of his eyes. “Oh, stop being melodramatic, you’re perfectly fine. You’re adjusting.” 

Of course, Astarion looks beautiful in the moonlight. His hair is silver and incandescent, shining brightly against his dark, black coat. 

“You don’t get to tell me how I feel!” You snap at him, crossing your arms over your chest in defiance.

“So, what?” Astarion asks you. “You’re just going to keep behaving like a-”

“Ehem,” Gale interrupts. “Not that… this isn’t fun to watch and all, but we need to leave if we want to make it back by sunrise.”

You and Astarion lock heated gazed for a moment longer before you’re shoving past him to the rest of the group. Everyone else is standing next to horses, which have been saddled and prepared for the ride back to the Ancunin manor. 

“Horses,” you say, a bit surprised.

“They were quicker than carriages,” Astarion answers, coming to stand by your side. His gloved hand brushes against your own for just a moment. “I wasn’t about to leave you with that vile man a second longer than was necessary.”

“There’s not enough of them for me or Shadowheart to have our own,” you observe.

“You’ll ride with me and she can ride with Lae’zel,” Astarion says, as if the answer was so obvious.

“No, I will not be riding with you!” You look at Astarion, incredulous. “You’re not allowed to make decisions for me anymore.” 

Since Shadowheart already has a riding partner, you turn to your next closest friend, Halsin. “Can I ride with you?”

To put it bluntly- you’ve never seen cool, collected, go-with-the-flow Halsin look more uncomfortable and unsure in his life. He obviously doesn’t want to be in the middle of your and Astarion’s argument. Astarion is glaring daggers at Halsin. That selfish, monstrous part of you which has grown louder since your turning feels a bit vindicated that Astarion is jealous.

Halsin clears his throat nervously. “I’m truly sorry, my lady, but propriety dictates that you can’t ride with a man that’s not your husband.”

Of course. Silly you, thinking that a friend would be willing to help you in your time of need.  Could this day get any worse?

You turn to your backup plan- the only other woman who does not already have a riding partner. 

“Karlach, please.”

“Not a good idea.” Astarion interrupts. “We don’t know if you can control your bloodlust, darling. I’m the only person here you can’t hurt.”

Selfish bastard. Why does he now suddenly feel the need to control even the most minute details of your life, like who you ride on a horse with? Does he no longer love you enough to offer you this small sense of comfort in what has been an obviously distressing time?

“Please,” you ignore him, begging Karlach again.

“Alright,” she agrees warily. “But if I catch you staring at my neck for too long, you have to get on with him.”

“Deal,” you say, reaching out to shake her hand. 

Which, maybe, is not the most sensitive thing to do the day after you had just resolved Astarion’s deal with a devil. He shoots you an annoyed look. 

The first half of the ride is quiet and contemplative. Every time you turn to look, Astarion’s eyes are already on you and he’s got this distant, faraway look that tells you he’s a bit too lost in his thoughts. You can feel everyone else watching you carefully, as well, like you are a ticking time bomb bound to explode at any moment. 

It does not occur to you until hours into your journey that perhaps Astarion had been so insistent on you riding with him because he is worried that you are going to leave him the moment that you get home. In his mind, perhaps he was simply trying to spend one last moment with you. Perhaps he even believed he could convince you to stay. It was just the kind of foolishly insecure thing that Astarion would think. He should know better by now- you were not so easy to chase off, even if you had complicated feelings about him at the moment. 

And the ride continues in silence until eventually, Karlach nearly bursts with the need to talk. The two of you start chatting, with others joining in occasionally. Everyone seems to start relaxing around you, now that you have proven that you are not completely feral. 

Ultimately, the ride home is uneventful. Karlach talks and by the end, her mood is so infectious that she even gets you to laugh a couple times. You’re so grateful for her humor, it was just the amount of levity you needed. 

You’re sure that you’ve never been more happy to be home before and you're desperate to be inside. As you walk from the stables back toward the manor, you find yourself fantasizing about how wonderful it will feel to lie down on your bed, even if you don’t need sleep anymore. 

Lifting your foot, you move to step over the entryway. Except, you’re stuck. It’s as if there’s some sort of invisible wall barring you from entry. 

Of course, because vampires can’t enter a residence without permission.

Astarion’s got a little smirk on his face as he stands in the hallway, looking back at you stuck outside. 

“I’m waiting for you to ask nicely, little flower,” he teases. 

“Can I come inside?” You spit out through gritted teeth.

Astarion looks like he’s considering it for a minute before he frowns. “Not nice enough, try again.”

“Oh, beloved husband, can I please come into our house?” You ask, voice dripping with sarcasm. But you plaster a sweet smile on your face at the end and Astarion seems to have had his fun with you, anyway. 

“Welcome home, darling. Please, do come inside. You’re keeping everyone waiting,” Astarion says, sweeping into an overdramatic, elegant bow.

You make sure to shove his shoulder with your own when you pass him. 

Shadowheart has already drawn the heavy curtains for you when you enter your room. 

The first thing you do is carefully tuck the gems away in the hollowed out book on your bookshelf. You could deal with that problem later. For now, it was time to wallow.

For hours, you lie in bed, staring up at the mahogany panel on top of your four poster bed. It all feels wrong. You’re so tired, but no matter how hard you try, you can’t will your body to sleep. You wish you had some book, like Essential Knowledge on Being a Vampire, to teach you how to solve this issue.

Later that evening, there’s a knock on your door and you open it to find Astarion.

“I have something for you,” he says, producing a jar of sloshy red liquid from behind his back. 

“It’s not fresh,” you say with a twinge of disappointment.

“You’re too spoiled, pet.” Astarion laughs. “I lived on nothing but rats and bugs for 200 years. I assure you, many vampires would kill for stale human blood.”

You pout, hoping that trick still works and Astarion will give in to you. “Why can’t you just call up one of your snacks for me? Why do I have to drink it like this?”

“Now, now, darling,” Astarion reprimands you as he finally steps past you into your bedroom. “It took me a very long time to curate such a wonderful collection of vintages. The last thing I need is for you to drain one of them dry and scare the rest off.”

“So, I’m stuck with that then?” You ask, pointing to the jar of blood in his hand. 

“Or drinking from me,” Astarion shoots you a flirty wink. “I’m more than happy to drink enough to sustain the both of us.”

That hungry, lustful part of you runs wild with the idea. You and Astarion could spend your nights wrapped together again, but now it would not just be him biting you. Now, you could bite back. You could finally taste him.

But that doesn’t seem like a good idea with the current state of your marriage- it would just add confusion and more unnecessarily complicated emotions.

“I don’t want anything else from you, Astarion.” Your harsh words aren’t filled with the normal tenacity behind them. 

It’s all too much, the constant smells and having to hold yourself back from sinking your teeth into everyone around you. You collapse into a chair in the corner of your room. 

“I’m so tired, but I can’t sleep,” you confess in a quiet voice. 

You know Astarion heard you. Now that you are a vampire, you understand the sensitivity of vampiric hearing. 

Astarion places the jar of blood on the table next to you. You’re reminded of so long ago, that first day you were here, when Astarion kept sending you food even though you were determined not to eat. He was too good at this- at caring for you even when you were determined to be difficult.

“That comes with time,” Astarion assures you, sinking to his knees in front of where you sit. He looks unsure for a moment before he reaches out, grabbing your hands in his own and pulling your attention to him. “I know that you’re stubborn and impatient and you just want everything to go back to normal, but things have changed. It will take time. I have learned the hard way that you cannot just rush past all the hardships in life, no matter how desperately you wish to.”

Astarion’s thumb traces soothing circles on your hand as he continues speaking, “We’re both here and we’re both safe. And I know you need time to be angry at me. And though I know I will forgive you, I’m still hurt by your invasion of my privacy. So… let’s just… spend some time apart. And know that whenever you decide you’re ready, I’ll be waiting for you, okay?” 

Astarion reaches out, ghosting his thumb along your cheek as the corner of his mouth quirks up in a half smile. “And don’t rush, we have all the time in the world, my love.”

You nod, unable to speak in fear that tears will start welling up in your eyes again. Gods, was this some sort of horrible symptom of vampirism that you just kept crying all the time? If so, you need to figure out how to deal with that quickly, because these constant tears were a nuisance. 

Astarion gives your hand a little squeeze before he’s rising from where he kneels on the floor, turning to leave your room. 

“I- thank you, Astarion,” you say when he’s in the doorway. He pauses but doesn’t peek over his shoulder to look back at you, as if he knows that will cause you to lose the nerve to continue speaking. “I don’t say that to you often enough, but know that I am very grateful for all that you’ve done for me.”

—------------

The next evening, there’s another gentle knock on your door but no one is there when you open it. The only thing you see is a leatherbound book propped up next to your door. 

It looks remarkably similar to Astarion’s diary and it must have been left by him, but there was no way he was just… giving you his diary, right? Not when it was still such a sore subject between the two of you. 

What, was this some sort of weird way to test your loyalty?

You debate whether you should ignore the gift completely but as usual, your curiosity gets the better of you. After grabbing the book, you curl up on your bed and open the front cover. 

The first thing you see is your name, your actual name, which Astarion called you so rarely. It’s written in his beautiful, looping cursive and it nearly pulls the breath from your lungs when you see it.

Underneath your name, the first page is a letter to you.

My dear wife,

I know that you are inquisitive by nature and I am sure you are filled to the brim with questions about being a vampire. It seems unfair of me to turn you into one and then send you off into the metaphorical dark, so I thought I might offer you some advice. As you have learned, I have grown to find writing rather cathartic, so I thought it fitting to write to you about my own experiences as a vampire. I hope this will help ease your transition. 

Please, forgive me if I have forgotten anything. I have tried hard to think of everything you might ask and I like to think that I know you very well, but I am not nearly as creative in my curiosity as you are. 

With all that I am, know that I love you.

Your husband, 

Astarion

When you turn to the next page, a loose sheet of folded paper flutters out. There are only two sentences scribbled hastily on the paper.

I told you I would give you your space. I intend to honor that promise.

Oh, how unexpected and perfectly timed. Just yesterday, you had been wishing for a book exactly like this. It was as if your husband, Astarion, had read your mind.

Your insides feel warm and fuzzy as you hold the book to the chest, over the spot where your heart used to beat. For the first time in a long time, you have hope that everything will be okay again, that your anger will fade and love will bloom in its place, a love that was far more radiant than ever before. 

—------------

Slowly, you lose track of time. You spend a little time feeling sorry for yourself and a little time feeling sad. But mostly, you spend a lot of time not really feeling anything at all. There’s just numbness and staring at the hypnotic, swirling patterns of the wallpaper in your bedroom. 

Time moves. You don’t. 

You feel dead. Guess that makes sense. 

You settle into a new routine. Sometimes, you and Astarion bump into each other around the manor and you’re both cordial and polite, scared of intruding in the other’s space. 

You miss him. You spend your evenings rereading the book he had written for you, tracing your fingers over his lovely handwriting. But at times, the anger inside you still flickers back to life. You do not dare to approach Astarion until you are sure the flames of anger within you are long dead.  

“You know, he could have turned you into a spawn,” Shadowheart says one day. It’s enough to finally shock you out of the monotonous routine of self-pity that you had found yourself in. 

“What’s the difference?” You scoff. 

You were faintly aware of the difference between true vampires and spawn but the subject had not been discussed in any great detail in the book Astarion had written for you. You know this is due to the traumatic nature of his own life when he was a spawn. 

“He gave you his blood,” Shadowheart answers. “You’re a full and true vampire. You aren’t bound to serve him; you aren’t forced to obey his commands.” 

Shadowheart is purposefully avoiding your eyes while she continues to braid your hair. 

“You know, I thought he was going to make you a spawn,” she says. “Trust me, I’m happy that he made the right choice and didn’t. But for a second, it really looked like he was considering…” She trails off and sighs. “Well, I guess I didn’t think he would be able to resist guaranteeing that you could never leave him.”

“Why are you bringing this up now?” You ask. “Are you just trying to point out that my life isn’t as bad as it could be?”

“No, stop being difficult,” Shadowheart punctuates her statement with a tug on your hair that is a bit rougher than what is necessary. “I’m just trying to paint a full picture for you. What you do with that information is up to you.” 

She falls into a contemplative silence for a moment before she finally says, “Though, it is rather annoying when the two of you are fighting. I have to go out of my way to avoid two places. When you’re together, I only have to avoid one room.”

You roll your eyes at her comment.

“Something still feels wrong,” you confess. “It still feels like he’s controlling every aspect of my life. He decided we would be married. He decided that I was not allowed to know any details of his past or about his deal with Raphael. He was the one who decided that we would go on the trip which got us kidnapped. He decided to turn me into a vampire. He confined me to this house and made me a prisoner of the sun.”

Shadowheart sighs. “Have you tried telling him any of this? Tried explaining how you’re feeling? Have you asked him what he’s been thinking and feeling?”

“I already made it perfectly clear what I think.”

“No, you yelled at him,” Shadowheart says. She finishes braiding your hair and moves to lean against the vanity to look down at you. 

“How do I explain…” She looks off into space as she thinks for a moment before she turns back to you. “Look, Astarion has had a long and traumatic life. Have you really not noticed how he shuts down when people raise their voices around him? Same as how you start spewing insults you don’t always mean. You fight, he flees. Neither of you are capable of listening to the other in that sort of state.”

Damn her. That’s a good point. When did she have time to notice all this about the two of you? 

The realization washes over you like a wave- for all your anger about Astarion never listening to you, you had neglected to see that you had been ignoring Astarion’s needs, as well. 

This intervention from Shadowheart was good. This was what you needed- someone to shake you awake from the haze you had been trapped in so you could finally see all the damage you were causing. 

“Oh gods, I’m a horrible person, aren’t I?” you groan, letting your head fall into your hands. “I’ve been a terrible wife.”

You hear Shadowheart’s twinkly laugh and her voice is amused. “Stop being so dramatic all the time. You’re just as bad as Astarion.” 

You shoot her a look of warning between the fingers covering your face, even if you secretly relish the fact that she brought up your and Astarion’s similarities. 

“And you’re not a horrible person.” She pats your back in a comforting, reassuring motion. “You’ve been through a lot of very big life changes in the last year. You’re adapting. You’re learning. And I wouldn’t even say you’ve been too harsh on Astarion. He can get a bit too full of himself. He needs someone like you to keep his head screwed on. The two of you just need to talk and actually listen to one another for once.”

“You’re strangely wise, when you want to be,” you tell her.

She shrugs, but you see her smile.

—-----------

Astarion’s faces away from the door when you approach the study, focused on the stack of books next to him. For a moment, you silently watch him hunt along the different rows in the bookshelf before he places a book and grabs a new one from the stack. He must be reorganizing. 

You reach out and knock on the door to draw his attention. 

“You don’t need to knock if the door is open, Gale,” Astarion says, annoyed. He doesn’t even bother to turn around.

“Oh, I- I’m not Gale,” you stutter out nervously. You fear that he will be disappointed when he sees you- that the beautiful smile that used to light up his face whenever you entered the room will be gone.

But instead, Astarion’s head whips around to look at you. He nearly drops the book that he’s holding, but he manages to catch it before it clatters to the floor. It’s a clumsiness that is so uncharacteristic of Astarion, who always moves so gracefully and elegantly. You have to hide your smile. 

Here’s this man, this vampire- so powerful and so strong- and your mere presence makes him so nervous that he nearly drops everything he is holding. 

“And thank the gods for that. One Gale is already bad enough,” Astarion jokes and you manage a soft laugh at that. The smile on his face is lovely and you’re struck by the urge to just stand and watch him for hours, to study him how you used to. He tilts his head a bit to the side, in question. “What are you doing here? I thought you still weren’t speaking with me.”

“I came to apologize,” you tell him.

“Whatever for? You haven’t done anything wrong.”

“Well, that’s not true at all. I’ve done plenty wrong. And I’ve actually been a bit of a tyrant as of late.” You laugh, though you are sure Astarion made his comment earnestly. You were starting to realize that he viewed you as far more infallible than you actually are. 

“You’ve been going through a big change,” Astarion continues to defend your actions.

“Please, don’t make excuses for my bad behavior. Will you just hear me out for a couple minutes?” you ask. “After, you can tell me to leave or stay or say whatever you’d like but right now, I need you to be quiet and let me speak, okay?”

Astarion nods. 

You take a deep breath and ready yourself for the speech you had prepared in your head. You had been working on it for the greater part of a day, trying to sort through your thoughts and figure out how to vocalize everything in a way that could be easily understood. You had even forced Shadowheart to listen to you practice it earlier, though she was a rather unwilling participant. 

“First of all,” you begin. “I’m sorry I read your diary and I’m sorry I haven’t given you a heartfelt apology yet. That diary was yours and I know that I never should have touched it. It’s as simple and as complicated as that. And I kept giving excuses to justify my actions rather than actually apologize, but I fully recognize that any frustration I felt about you not being upfront with me never warranted invading your privacy. I truly, sincerely apologize. It will never happen again.”

Astarion surveys you curiously, though his face remains soft and open. It’s a good sign, at least, that he seems receptive to your apology. 

You continue speaking. “And when you confronted me, rightfully angry, I got upset and yelled at you because I felt guilty. I need to stop doing that- I need to learn to take a break when I feel myself getting upset. I know that I can be mean when I’m provoked and I lash out and hurt other people. It happened when you tried to distance yourself from me, it happened when you found me with your diary, and it happened again right after you turned me.”

“I won’t apologize for what I said after you turned me. I stand by all that. I’m allowed to be frustrated and angry at the world. But I am sorry that I took that frustration out on you. That wasn’t fair of me.” You can feel yourself growing more and more impassioned the longer you speak, so you try to tamper yourself down to a calmer level. 

“I promise that I am going to do better at listening to you Astarion, but I need you to promise me that you will do the same. I need to see changes,” you implore. “I feel like I have made it perfectly clear by now, but let me be overly explicit for a final time- I don’t like when you make my decisions for me. I know that it is supposed to be my place as a woman to defer to your judgment, but frankly, I think that’s stupid.” 

The corner of Astarion’s mouth tilts up in a grin- he always did love your pluckiness. 

You feel a phantom heart beating in your chest as you continue speaking. “I have a mind and a will of my own and it is unfair to make me do things that I don’t want to do. A part of me will always be sad that I wasn’t able to enter into our marriage or choose to be a vampire of my own free will. I don’t want my memories of you to be tainted by that. I value and respect your opinion, but please, trust me to be the one to make my own choices from now on.” 

“And lastly, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” You look up to the ceiling, trying to force down the tears that you feel brimming in your eyes. This was the part of your speech you had been dreading the most, the part that you had not rehearsed with Shadowheart because it felt too personal. But if you had ever inadvertently contributed to Astarion’s pain by being too forward in your intimacy, you needed to apologize to him. “It’s not a valid excuse but I didn’t know about your past, Astarion. You have to believe me. I know that I probably pressured you into uncomfortable situations because I was so insistent. Please know that there will never be enough words to tell you how sorry I truly am.”

“And… I miss you, Star. I can’t tell you how many times I've reread the note at the beginning of the book you gave me. I think I practically have it memorized at this point.” You breathe out a shaky laugh. “Okay, that’s… I think that’s everything I wanted to say.”

You pull your gaze back down from the ceiling to gauge Astarion’s reaction. He just looks stunned. Which is fair, you did just dump a lot on him. 

And then Astarion just keeps staring at you, like you have broken his brain completely. The longer you wait, the more nervous you get and eventually, you have to close your eyes, terrified of the rejection that you are certain is coming. You can feel yourself start to panic a bit as you prepare for Astarion to tell you to get out and how could he ever love someone as weak and stupid as you?

Instead, you feel his arms wrapping around you. You cling to him, burying your face in his chest and letting the tears that had been building finally leak out.

He’s so much warmer than you remember. 

Astarion tilts your chin up so he can look at you and he brushes away the tears that have fallen down your cheeks.

“I don’t know where to start,” Astarion says, at a loss for words. He gives you a sweet smile. “For what it’s worth, I already forgave you long ago for reading my diary.”

The crushing weight that had been sitting on your chest for so long finally lessens. You feel so light now that you can breathe again.

Astarion’s thumb continues tracing along your cheek and his eyes watch the motion, rather than stare into your own. You are too familiar with the fact that it can be easier to get your feelings out without the pressure of eye contact. 

“I see now that I was wrong, too. I’m sorry that I didn’t fully trust you. It’s just-” Astarion huffs and his brow furrows, “How do I explain this? You saw me as the man I am now, detached from all my trauma and background, and you loved that person. And for so long, I was scared that if I admitted my past to you, you would no longer see me as the man you knew and loved. I didn’t want to ruin the illusion for you. I realize now that I was mistaken.”

You’re stunned, partially because Astarion just admitted he was wrong and that was a minor miracle in itself. But also, you had never considered that Astarion might have been afraid that his past would make you see him differently. 

And you do, but not in any way that matters. He just feels like a more complete person now. All those little reactions and details you could never place finally make sense. 

Astarion wipes away another stray tear rolling down your cheek. “And I need you to trust me, little flower. I need you to hear me when I say that I love you and I want you. I like having sex with you. Believe me, I don’t do anything that I don’t want to anymore. I’m past that point in my life.”

And with his words, Astarion continues to quell any shadows or doubts in your mind. It feels wonderful to finally speak so freely with each other. 

“And now, it’s my turn to apologize,” he says. “You’re right. I haven’t been listening to you. Throughout our whole marriage, you’ve basically been shouting from the rooftops that all you wanted was to make your own choices and I kept making them for you in fear that you might choose to leave me. That’s not fair of me, either- I need to trust that if you love me as much as you say that you will choose me.”

Astarion pauses, sighing gently, “And I’m sorry for the circumstances surrounding your death but I won’t apologize for the outcome. You know that I am a deeply selfish man. I wasn’t going to lose you- not now and not ever. I will not apologize for what is done, only that my actions have caused you pain. I know nothing I can say will make this… right. And it probably wouldn’t help you feel better, anyway. But know that I am here with you, every step of the way; as a mentor, as a friend, as a lover. However you want me, you have me.”

“What about as a husband?” You tease. 

“Well, that can certainly be arranged,” Astarion says as a devilish grin splits across his face.

“I love you,” you tell him. “Thank you for waiting for me. Ever since you caught me with your diary, all I’ve wanted is to go back to how it was before.”

“I don’t think we ever will be able to go back to how it was before,” Astarion says, and his words fill you with a deep sadness. Your face falls but Astarion is still smiling. A real one, not a performative one. “It will be better this time; we’ll be true equals.”

“Equals. I like that.” You smile back at him. His knuckles stroke lovingly along your jaw.

“And now I should probably tell you that I actually kind of like that you get a bit nasty when you’re angry,” Astarion says with one of those smirks that makes you want to get into all sorts of trouble with him. “Maybe just direct that at other people in the future.”

You laugh. “Just point and I shall destroy your enemies with my vicious mockery.”

“Oh, yes. Yes, please.” He giggles in delight. “That sounds wonderfully entertaining.”

And it feels so good now that everything is out in the open. Like you and Astarion are truly seeing each other for the first time as you embrace, grinning like love-struck fools. 

“How have you been?” Astarion interrupts the moment, his voice turning more serious. “I feel like I’ve hardly seen you.”

“Um, it could be worse, I guess? I could be dead.”

Astarion frowns at your joke. Note to self- don’t joke about your death with Astarion. 

But you’re not sure how exactly to explain the fog that it feels like you’ve been trapped in for the past… Actually, you don’t even know how long it’s been since you’ve been turned. You lost track of time. Has it been weeks? Months? 

Now doesn’t feel like the time to unload all that on Astarion. You had just gotten him back, you weren’t about to go chasing him away again with new issues. You would wait until later. Maybe even bringing it up as you cuddle in bed so you do not have to watch how his pretty face twists with worry at your confession.

You deflect by turning the attention back to him. “Thank you for all that you’ve done for me. You must have been pretty busy trying to get all that blood for me.”

For a moment, Astarion looks like he wants to pry into what’s on your mind, but he resists. It was time to trust each other and that involved having faith that the other person would bring up issues when the time felt right for them. 

“Ugh, you don’t even know, pet. It’s more work than I’ve done in years,” Astarion complains. “I have to think about what I want and then go and ask Gale for it and that always takes forever. I was made for looking pretty, not for organizing blood draws.”

You giggle at his theatrics. “Well, if you’re going to be so dramatic about it, I’ll go offer my thanks to Gale instead.”

You move to pull away from Astarion but he catches your wrist and pulls you tighter against his chest.

“Don’t you dare.”

Is this Astarion initiating?

He’s looking at you with hungry, red eyes and the way his hand rests just a bit too low on your back isn’t entirely innocent. 

You chew on your lip, debating in your mind whether you should just lean forward and kiss Astarion. You haven’t fully adjusted to the new sharp fangs inside your mouth and you found yourself forgetting them constantly. You let out a little hiss at your mistake and your finger comes up instinctually to dab away the bead of blood from your lip. 

You stare at the drop on your finger, entranced, former train of thought completely lost. The room fades away and for a moment, there’s only blood. 

And then, Astarion reaches out to grab your wrist and he sucks your finger into his mouth with a moan that should send him straight to the hells. Your brain goes blank, yet again, as you watch how he slides your finger out his mouth, never breaking eye contact with you. 

Your whole body feels like a live wire. Reaching out, you tug Astarion down by the back of his neck to press your lips against his. You had been without him for so long and now, you’re ravenous. 

This isn’t one of those sweet, loving kisses that you and Astarion share so often. There is nothing loving about this kiss- only hunger. As if you can make up for lost time by consuming one another whole. 

Your lips crash against his, two sets of fangs ripping and tearing into one another’s skin. There’s blood everywhere- coating your lips and electrifying your taste buds and trickling down your chin. 

And just for a second, you hesitate. Did he want this? You hadn’t checked. You had pulled him down and kissed him and, sure, he had kissed you back, but that doesn’t mean he wants more. Despite his words earlier ensuring you that he enjoys physical intimacy with you, your doubts are still present. You aren’t sure how to act anymore. 

Astarion, sensing your moment of hesitation, pulls away immediately.

His voice is low and hoarse. “What’s wrong?”

You try to find the right words. “I just- I’m sorry. I should have asked. Did you want me to kiss you?”

Astarion chuckles. “I always want you to kiss me. But please, no doubts, my love. I promise I’ll tell you if I don’t want to do something. But this-” His hand traces along the curve of your ass as he moves his lips down to brush against yours, “this is me initiating. Trust me, I’m nearly out of my mind with how badly I want you.”

His words send a shock straight to your cunt. 

“Get back here, then,” you practically growl, pulling him down by the collar of his shirt.

Your lips collide again and the world closes in around you- there is nothing but you and Astarion and this impossible need to be closer. You can’t think past the hunger itching at the back of your throat and the molten fire pooling in your cunt. 

You urge Astarion backward until his back is pressed against the bookshelf. You must overestimate your own vampiric strength because a few books are knocked off the shelf and Astarion lets out a little exhale of ‘oof.’

“Sorry,” you apologize into his mouth, not bothering to fully separate your lips from his. 

“Don’t be, pet,” he says in a breathy pant. “I like when you lose control.”

Fuck, you need to lose control more often if it makes Astarion talk like that.

Your hands move down, untucking Astarion’s shirt from his trousers and you ghost your fingers over his abdomen. It’s still shocking how warm his skin feels now that you have become a vampire. You had grown so used to the cold. 

Astarion separates his lips from yours only long enough to pull his shirt up over his head and throw it somewhere in the room. 

There are hands everywhere. Your hands move down the planes of Astarion’s chest, continuing downward to trace over the outline of his cock hardening in his pants. And his hands pull you so tightly against him- one follows the curves of your body and the other comes up to thread through your hair. He gently tugs at the roots, tilting your head back to give himself easier access to lick into your mouth. 

Eventually, you part from his lips and they’re all swollen and bloody and wet. His beauty will always stun you.

Gods, and how does he smell even better now? 

You run your nose along the column of his throat. There’s bergamot and rosemary and underneath that, the intoxicating scent of the blood sitting still in his veins. He must have fed recently. You can’t even bother to be jealous that someone else got to experience the ecstasy of Astarion drinking from them because he smells so good.

“Go on, little love. You can have a taste,” he murmurs against the shell of your ear. He’s a bit breathless, as if he can’t contain his excitement at the idea. 

You take his permission and bite into Astarion’s skin, careful to pick a spot far away from the twin scars on his neck. This was meant to be a new memory, separated literally and metaphorically from the struggles of his past. 

His blood is so fresh after so much time of only drinking blood from the jars stored in the cellars. Astarion lets you swallow a few mouthfuls before he guides you back up, crashing his mouth against yours again and chasing after the taste of himself in your mouth. 

Astarion continues kissing you, but he presses forward, forcing you backward until your back hits the edge of his desk. You raise your hips to sit at the edge, widening your legs so he can slide between them. 

He fiddles with the buttons on the back of your dress while he continues to kiss you senseless and you sigh into his mouth, picturing his wonderful hands at work.

“There’s too many-” Astarion cuts himself off with a growl and you hear a sharp ripping noise as he tears open the back of your dress. “Too many buttons.”

“I liked this dress,” you huff and Astarion leans down to press a kiss to your collarbone in apology as he begins bunching up your skirts. 

“I’ll buy you a new one,” he says, as he helps pull your dress over your head. He presses his lips to yours again, slow and sweet and a complete shift in tone. He leans his forehead against yours, “I’ll buy you whatever you want.”

It’s a sweet sentiment. You’ll appreciate it more later when you can think clearly again. 

Taking a moment to appreciate the sight of Astarion before you, you try to commit this moment to memory. You try to memorize the way that the rivulets of blood running down his chin highlight the lovely blush staining his cheeks.

And over his shoulder, you notice that the door is still wide open. 

“The door’s still open,” you squeak out. You don’t love the idea of someone barging in on you and Astarion’s private moment, but you hate the idea of parting from him long enough for one of you to shut the door more. 

Astarion must have a similar thought because he chuckles, deep and dark, as his hands grip the back of your neck, pulling your gaze back to his face. His thumb runs down the hollow of your throat and you feel yourself gulp. Astarion watches your throat move, entranced. “They all know better than to interrupt us. And if they don’t… Well, I wouldn’t say no to a snack, would you?”

The idea of draining someone dry with Astarion makes you salivate. Something to look forward to in the future. 

Astarion kisses you again, pushing you to lean back at an angle on the desk and distracting you from the lovely images that you had concocted in your imagination. His mouth moves down to nip at your skin and kiss along your collarbones.  

“You still have to get past my corset,” you tease. “Can’t rip your way through that one.” 

“I can try,” he practically growls, one of his hands coming up to trace menacingly along the boned seams. 

“Don’t,” you grip his chin and turn his gaze up to yours. His eyes light up at your command. 

Astarion listens and helps you remove the rest of your clothing. Miraculously, your corset and chemise make it off your body without being destroyed like your poor dress.

The cool wood of his desk against your bare skin makes you shiver but you’re quickly distracted when Astarion brings your wrist to his mouth. His eyes lock onto yours and he presses a kiss to your skin before his teeth sink in. You had missed that rush of coldness when he first bites that sends electricity shooting through your veins and it’s almost obscene as you watch him. He drinks from you slowly and sensually and his eyes burn into you the whole time.

As he drops your wrist, a fresh streak of ruby red runs down his chin and you lean forward to lick it up, greedily pressing your mouth against his again. 

You fumble with the buttons on his trousers, pushing them down so you’re able to free the hard length of his cock and wrap your hand around it. He groans as you pump your hand up and down his length.

“Missed you being inside me,” you whisper. “Missed how good you fuck me.”

“Then what are you waiting for, pet? Take what you want.”

You guide him into you and he lets you adjust for a moment before his hips are snapping against yours at a ruthless pace that betrays his desperation.

You had missed this- this closeness, this feeling of being whole and one and loved.

“I’m going to fucking ruin you,” Astarion promises, and he grabs the back of one of your thighs, lifting your leg up to wrap around his waist. It has him hitting that much deeper inside you with each thrust of his hips. Your eyes practically roll back in your head.

Astarion brings his lips down to ghost against yours before he teasingly pulls away. “Look at us. I belong to you just as much as you belong to me.”

You moan at his words, losing yourself in the sentiment and the feeling of Astarion moving inside you. Just him and you, like how it was meant to be. He is yours and you are his. 

“Say it,” he commands, pulling your attention back to him. It sends a lovely shiver down your spine. You’d do anything he asked if he kept talking to you in that rough, low voice. 

“Yours. Only yours,” you breathe into his mouth, chasing after his lips. He gives you a gentle tug on your hair that pulls you back so that your lips are still just a hair’s breadth away from his. 

“And I’m yours,” he says, before he finally kisses you.

And Astarion’s hands are everywhere. As if he is determined to memorize your body by touch alone. It makes you smile. Touching. Always touching. You doubt that Astarion will ever let you out of his grasp again. Nor would you want him to.

The way he fucks you somehow feels even better, even more wonderful now as a vampire. All your senses are tingling and hyper-alert and it only serves to make you that much more aware of how Astarion feels pressed against you and how he moves inside you.

It’s carnal, it’s feral, it’s utterly vampiric. 

His hand reaches down between your bodies, his magical fingers moving against your clit in a way that sends sparks through your cunt. It has you reaching the precipice far sooner than you had hoped. That aching desire pools low in your stomach, rising into an inferno. 

You come and it’s like nothing you’ve ever felt before. Every nerve ending in your body is molten fire.

“So tight, so good,” he pants against your mouth. You whine at the way his hips keep driving into you at a pace which feels so good it’s almost painful. “Can you come for me again, little flower?”

Oh, this man was going to the death of you, wasn’t he? You nod frantically, unable to form words. Astarion presses open mouth kisses along your throat before he’s biting down again. The sudden shock of cold has you gasping for air and digging your nails into Astarion’s skin. You feel that coil tightening deep within you again, ready to snap at a moment’s notice. Astarion keeps moving his fingers against your clit. 

You come.

Astarion manages a few more frenzied thrusts before he comes, too, spilling inside you.

And thank the gods you’re already dead because that second orgasm might have just stopped your heart entirely. 

You’re just coming back to your senses when you Astarion sinks to his knees in front of you, lifting your legs over his shoulders. He’s staring at your cunt like it’s a four-course meal and you eventually have to tug at his beautiful white curls to pull his attention back to you.

“What are you doing?” you ask.

“You’re dripping all over my expensive desk,” Astarion says. “I’m going to clean you up.” 

Your brain is already a bit slow after two overwhelming orgasms and the sight of Astarion on his knees before you, offering to lick away the traces of his come leaking out of you, has you practically feral with lust. Astarion squirms under your gaze the longer you continue to stare down at him, his confident facade dropping. 

“Is that okay?” he asks.

You sigh out a breathy ‘yes’ and he’s back to smirking arrogantly at you. Astarion’s arms wrap around you so he can shift your hips to the very edge of his desk. 

He devours your cunt. His tongue is everywhere- lapping at your inner folds and dipping deliciously inside you. You lean back on your hands to steady yourself, but that does little to help when Astarion moves to suck on your clit and your whole body trembles with ecstasy. 

You aren’t entirely sure how this is helping to ‘clean you up.’ It seems much more likely that Astarion got distracted by all the noises that you are surely making and is trying to drag this out into some sort of religious experience. 

“One more, please,” he practically begs, like it’s some big favor to him that you should orgasm another time. His chin is glistening with your wetness and he sounds practically breathless. “You’ve no idea how badly I missed watching you come.”

His words send another spark of heat straight to your cunt and you let out a surprised, strangled whimper. Astarion’s mouth quirks up in a haughty grin, so you simply reach out to tug his head back toward your cunt.

You feel Astarion’s laugh before he begins feasting on you again, sucking and licking and rolling his tongue in some unholy way that has you seeing stars. 

For a moment, there is nothing but the white-hot waves of pleasure that roll through you as Astarion coaxes yet another orgasm from your body. 

His mouth continues moving against you until you are shaking. He presses gentle kisses to the inside of each of your thighs before gently lowering them from where they sit on his shoulders and the small, caring act brings a goofy grin to your face.

How is it possible to love someone more with every passing moment?

Astarion surges back up to press a final kiss to your lips. It’s slow and deep and you can taste the combined taste of your releases on his tongue. Astarion gently traces down the column of your throat with his thumb, over the spot where he had bitten you just a few moments ago. You can tell your skin is already healed. 

“No more marks.” He looks genuinely forlorn. “A pity.”

“I’ll always have this one,” you remind him, holding up your wrist. Astarion brushes his fingers over the twin bite marks on the inside of your wrist from when he had turned you. 

You watch him study the marks and you wish you could hear what he was thinking.

“Speaking of which,” Astarion finally breaks the silence. He leans over you to pull open a drawer in his desk, shuffling around in it blindly. He gives a satisfied little smirk when he finds whatever he was looking for. 

“You might want this back,” he says. When he opens his hand, your wedding ring is sitting on his palm. 

“Give me that.” You feel the smile light up your face as you snatch the ring from him and place it back on your ring finger. “Are you still wearing yours?”

“Never took it off.” Astarion proudly displays his left hand as proof. Sure enough, the gold band glints enchantingly when it catches the candlelight. 

“I love you,” you tell Astarion. 

The way he’s looking at you can only be described as awe. He catches your hand and brings it to his mouth so he can press a lingering kiss to the spot where the ring now sits comfortably on your finger, once again.

“I love you, too.”

Somehow, you manage to smile even wider.  

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

Notes:

So next week, we wrap up the plot (since we still have that pesky Crown of Karsus hanging around) and then the final chapter is the epilogue. I'm actually kind of happy that I decided to move things around a bit because now I get to add in an extra smut scene that I was originally planning as a fade to black since the epilogue was getting too long.

I loved seeing everyone's reactions to last week's chapter! Can't wait to see what you all think as we start wrapping this bad boy up!

As always, huge thanks to my beta-writer AliensNSuch on ao3.

Taglist: @ayselluna @idkbrodontaskme @maruichio @fanfic-share @the-littlest-bruja @asterordinary @divineknightmare @fandomarchiveilyd

Feel free to let me know if you would liked to be added/removed from the taglist for future chapters!

[jowrites]

"If I buy a car, will you take me on late night drives?" - Part 1

Jake Sim x Fem!Reader. Where 2 neighbors befriend one another because of his dog, and she doesn't have any friends.

TW: Isolation(?), mentions of being a lone(r), mentions of parent death

Jake liked to think of himself as a disciplined man. When he had a goal and set his mind to it, nothing could stray him and he always managed to achieve it. He came from a good home, good family, he had good friends, and attended University and has a good job. He works hard. He worked incredibly hard to get the nice studio loft he had been dreaming of since he saw it. The location was perfect, near his University and by the College of Engineering where he was doing his internship. He was on cloud 9.

When he moved in he loved how quiet things were. The first week of moving in he wondered if he had a neighbor across the way or if the place was vacant and that's what made it so quiet. He figured that's what it had to be and every time he took his dog, Layla, out for a walk he would look at the door across the way and have this odd feeling that he wasn't alone. Because he wasn't.  One day, he came home later than usual and he heard the faint noise of music playing. He was familiar with the sound, it was “Cry” by Cigarettes After Sex which so happened to be one of his favorite artists. He stood outside his door just listening to the song, until suddenly the door across the hall swung open and one of the most beautiful people he had ever laid eyes on stood in front of him. 

She had a trash bag in her hands, her hair was tied up, glasses framed her face, and she was in a pink overalls and a white tank top. Her whole being was covered in paint. She stared at him before shrugging and walking to the trash shoot to dump her trash. Jake snapped out of his zone, amazed he did indeed have a neighbor he finally confirmed after being there for a month, he just had to get her name.

“So there IS someone that lives across from me,” he smiled.

“You talking to me?” she asked, stunned as she stopped in her tracks and looked around. 

“Well, we are the only 2 people here. I'm Jake, it's nice to meet you,” He held out his hand.

“Y/N. See ya!” And with that she waved goodbye and quickly went back inside and closed her door.

 Jake was left speechless. Did he do something wrong? Is she afraid of him? Maybe she just needs to warm up to him. He couldn't help but have her on his mind, and for the rest of the night she was flooding his mind. When he laid down to go to bed, he stared up at his ceiling with his neighbor across the way still on his mind. 

He didn't see her for another 2 weeks after that. He was so curious about her. Who was she? What did she do? Did she go to school? One thing he assumed was that she liked art or was an artist given she was literally covered in paint. One day, he opened his door to take Layla for a walk when he ran into her coming home. She had a duffel bag on her and Layla got out of his grip and ran straight to her.

“Layla, no!” He ran after his dog. Layla, was fine as his neighbor, knelt down on the floor petting the white creature. 

“Layla, I think he's talking to you,” He heard her say. “It’s okay, I don't like to listen either.”

“I'm sorry about her, she gets excited especially with new people,” he explained as he grabbed Layla’s leash.

“Hm. I love dogs, so you can stay I guess,” She stood up not taking her eyes off Layla. Jake tilted his head, finding it a bit odd but moved on.

“Ah, thank you for the approval,” He jokes.

“Really, thank your dog, she can stay, you're just a plus one. See ya around!” She waved before opening her door and closing it in his face. Did his dog just one up him with the pretty neighbor?

To Jake, it didn't seem like you were scared to speak to him, but you avoided him it seemed like. He also noticed how he almost disappeared when Layla was around, your attention fully on her and her only. This became a habit. Every so often Layla would escape and run to your door scratching or barking until you opened it. You would open the door and let her in only to close it in his face and not open it. The first time it happened Jake was mad, he thought you kidnapped his dog. 

“You can't just take someone's dog without permission! How do I know you're not going to harm her?” He voiced.

“Oh, I would never do that! We had some things to discuss. She's welcome anytime!” You smiled, finally reaching his eyes before going your way.

He got used to the way you were around him. He would let Layla go as it seemed she truly enjoyed your company and you hers. She was never harmed and always seemed to be around no more than 10 minutes at most. He would wait until you opened the door and you would be in a full conversation with the dog as if you two were actually speaking to one another. 

“You know, some people might think you're crazy for talking to a dog,” He had his arms across his chest.

“What do you mean a dog? Layla’s not a dog, she's a friend,” Again, you left Jake laughing at your words. Your mind stunned him.

There wasn't anything wrong with you, you just didn't have many friends and you lived a very isolated lifestyle with just you and your cats. You prefer the company of animals more to the company of people. After 4 months of this going on, you started talking to Jake more too. He wasn't so bad and he always seemed to try and stay on your good side which you appreciated. You didn't understand why he tried so hard, but he started understanding your language more and so I guess he was a nice neighbor. Then one night, everything changed for him and for you.

He came home late. It was actually very late but he got stuck with things at the University and so he was forced to stay longer. When he got home the moon was bright and the hall was dark. He was so focused on getting to Layla to check on her he almost missed your form leaning up against the windowsill at the end of the hall. When he opened his door, Layla immediately ran out and ran straight to you. It's like she knew something was wrong and when he approached you the tears down your face really struck a chord in his heart.

“Y/N? Are you okay?” He asked quietly, not wanting to disturb you.

“It's just SO sad! Isn't it sad, Layla?” You turned to the dog before crying again. He then realized your slurred words and concluded you were drunk.

“What’s sad?” He knelt down to your level, not once leaving your side.

“I don't have anyone to go on late night drives with,” you admitted. 

“Late night drives? You want to go on a late night drive?” He frowned, feeling confused but also wanted to understand more of what goes on in your head.

“I want to go on late night drives, but I have no one to take me,” You hiccuped clutching your cheeks in your hands.

“Well, I'll go with you,” He offered and your face perked up.

“You will!?! C-can you drive?” You asked him and he nodded.

“Yes, I have my license,” he chuckled. “My only problem is I don't have a car. I never needed one.”

“Oh no, that's not going to work. If I buy a car will you take me on late night drives?” You asked.

“Buy a car? You want to buy a car just to go on late night drives?” His eyebrows raised in disbelief. 

“Yes, yes I will. I want to go on late night drives, it's my dream,” you cried again leaning your head on his shoulder as he started comforting you.

“Well,” he cleared his throat. “If you buy a car, I'll take you on late night drives.”

And that's how it started. It was 4 nights later and Jake hadn't seen or heard from you so he assumed you were too drunk to remember. That was, until he heard a knock on his door at 10:30 PM at night, currently a Thursday and he was just about to go to bed. He opened his door to a very excited you. You were dressed in jeans with a black leather jacket and white tank underneath.  Your hair was down and you looked awake and ready for something.

“Oh, this is a cute look! It's time to go,” You held up a key, not just any key: a car key. 

Jake's mouth dropped, he was in the middle of brushing his teeth and he couldn't believe you were here in his presence being serious.

He ushered you to come inside as he quickly went to clean up his face and rinse his mouth. You took a look in his apartment and noticed how clean it was, neatly decorated and it smelled like cedarwood and grass. Layla came running to you and you quickly embraced her, giving her hugs and pets. You and Jake seemed to be the opposite but you didn't mind.

“You were ACTUALLY serious?” He asked you.

“I'm always serious, I never lie,” You said. 

“You ACTUALLY bought a car? Who are you? You're like this...this person I can't figure out,” He was in such disbelief, he really could not understand you.

“Well, I'm Y/N. I got a large inheritance after my parents died and I just bought a car, now let's go!” You hopped up in excitement. “You told me you would take me on a late night drives.”

Jake felt sad. He didn't know your life story or who you actually were but sharing little details here and there just made him want to embrace you even more. You were such an enigma to him, and now he was afraid that if he poked too much you would run away. 

“Okay, I did yeah. Let me get changed and we can go.”

And so that's how it started. Almost every night for 3 weeks straight you would come to him and say you wanted to go for a drive and he would take you. He learned you had your license but you hated driving. You prefer to be driven around and he didn't blame you. You don't go out much and he learned you have an Estate that you look after that's outside the city. He also learned you were indeed an artist and sold paintings to your parents wealthy elite friends and made a good living from that.

“Can I ask you something?” Jake spoke up. 

It was a Saturday night, almost 3 AM and you and Jake were out strolling around the City. 

“Whats up?” You looked over at him, giving him your attention.

“Where are your friends?” He asked. 

“I don't have any friends,” You said. 

“What do you mean? Like…at all?” He frowned.

“Well, if you count the people at my family's estate then they're all there. That's where they are,” You shrugged. “My butler I grew up with, he's more like an Uncle now.”

“You didn't have any friends at school?” He asked.

“I didn't go to school, I was tutored at home,” You said. “Well, you're my friend too, right?”

“Yeah, I guess I am,” He smiled looking over at you.

“Then you're right here. Here is where my friend is,” You smiled at him. “Oh, I miss Layla.”

Of course, Layla.

[bloodgulchblog]

I need to name this and polish the edges but when I do I'll put it on AO3. Jackals steal the Pelican and the gang gets it back. Esparza hates Chief's Warthog driving. 2.5k words.

The Chief’s helmet swings in a smooth echo of the Pelican’s arc, tracking the stolen dropship’s movement as he processes, and then he’s running. Esparza’s running too, he’s much slower but he’s closer. He has time to leg over the side of the Warthog just before the Master Chief vaults up over the top and down at the wheel, the whole vehicle rocking under the weight of the MJOLNIR armor.

He doesn’t look at Esparza until after he’s already gunning them off through the trees.

“We’re getting it back,” he says, rock-steady and factual, the man ready to pull down the moon.

“Big guy-”

Esparza doesn’t know what he’s going to say and doesn’t get to find out. They take a meter of air as the Chief points the hog over a broad-backed rock and it launches eagerly off the crest. All Esparza can do is hold on for dear life, his heart hammering in his ears and against his ribs. The breath that leaves him is barely intelligible profanity as they land and keep rolling. He wonders what it takes to break a Warthog, and is sure it’s more than it would take to break his own spine.

“Chief!” the young AI alerts over the armor’s external speakers. It’s for Esparza’s benefit, so he can hear her yell at the Chief. The Chief does not slow but he turns, swerving them out of the trees and onto an open part of the ridge.

“We can’t lose them,” he says.

“Do not make me fall out of this car,” Esparza manages to spit. Dust is pluming behind them as the huge tires haul them down, down, down hill. He cannot see the Pelican, he’s assuming the Weapon’s tracking it and feeding it through Chief’s HUD or something like that as the unfair fight between ground vehicle and air vehicle plays out. He cannot help, he’s just here for the ride.

He shouldn’t have jumped in the jeep.

If he hadn’t jumped in the jeep, would Chief have left him back there?

“I won’t,” the Chief says and he’s so casual about it Esparza could strangle him. The Warthog bounces as they hit uneven ground, the corners of the frame rocking and jilting as the jeep prances across grass and stone until they’re out of the hummocks and sliding downhill again at an angle that makes Esparza sure they’re about to flip forward. Chief angles them hard. They’re on four wheels, then just the right two, and then the Master Chief’s long, armored arm is across Esparza’s front and it’s the only thing anchoring him to safety and life as the jeep rolls side over side and he finally just has to scream with it. They land on four again, perfectly calculated, and Esparza can’t let go of Chief’s arm just as much as he can’t stop swearing at him.

“I don’t think they can see us anymore,” the Weapon says with the calm, detached focus of an AI with split attention. “They’re slowing down and flying straight.”

Chief’s still holding Esparza with one arm, carefully not crushing him into the seat, and driving with the other. Even when he has to fight the wheel to get them over another rock, one arm seems to make no real difference. Esparza’s getting used to him, slotting the Master Chief into his brain in a place that processes people and not iconic demigod war figures, and that means sometimes forgetting how ludicrously strong he is.

“Can you shoot?”

The question takes a second to get to the smart part of Esparza’s brain through all the traffic currently running in the adrenaline-soaked part of it that mostly remembers what it’s like to run from cave lions and how nice it maybe feels if someone strong is protecting you.

“What?” he manages.

“Can you shoot?” The Chief obliges.

Esparza remembers the big M46 LAAG anchored behind them in the bed and feels a sinking in the pit of his belly that has nothing to do with the next awful bounce.

“I’m not trained on that chain gun, Chief.”

“I am. If I give you my sidearm, can you use it?”

“Yes?”

“Good.”

He doesn’t say anything more. Esparza keeps expecting him to. They’re finally running the hog over smooth stone and dark gray sand, having found the nice shallow belly of this fold in the land where the Forerunner-seeded river beside them has had time to run this ground flat. Chief has both hands back on the wheel.

“Can you please let me in on what the plan is?” Esparza finally asks.

“I’ll figure that out when we find where they’re taking the bird.” Ominous. What’s even more ominous is how the river is turning, and the Warthog is not. The Chief is not.

“That’s water, Chief.”

“We can slog it.”

“Are you sure?!”

They’re already in. Cold river water swamps up high enough to spill across their legs. Esparza hisses in dismay and smacks Chief’s right pauldron in fruitless protest. The hog’s not a swimmer, but it is a wader. Chief has to have some kind of depth gauge in that phenomenally expensive helmet, because the spot they’re fording is shallow enough to cross with a watery snarl. The jeep’s wheels beat a frothy wake behind them and cloud the water with billowing silt, and then the Warthog’s clawing its way up the other bank. Esparza’s just glad it’s a shallow grade, because he’s sure Chief wouldn’t balk at the face of yet another awful tire climb. All the river they took on as passenger is escaping out drainage points built for this, but Esparza’s pants are still wet and he doesn’t need this to be worse.

“Did you do this to all the jeeps I found for you?”

“Just the good ones.”

Esparza snorts, but doesn’t want to give in to a laugh. He’s still just getting to know the Chief, and especially this version of the Chief who speaks to him slightly more often, but he’s getting a strong sense that maybe Spartan-IIs don’t need encouragement when it comes to bad jokes.

“They’re putting down,” says the Weapon. “I’m painting a waypoint. Do you think the Jackals will damage it, Chief?”

“Not immediately. No good to them if they break it.”

“They better not,” says Esparza, who didn’t realize how strongly he felt about it until this moment. Scared, yes. Angry, yes. But there’s something specific about the Pelican now. It’s his Pelican, it’s been his home for six months and they may have been the worst six months of his entire life, but that does not change the truth of it. The idea of a bunch of Banished Jackals tinkering around on it feels personal. Chief’s taking them up hill again, and Fernando at least likes to imagine he’s slackened the pace now that the dropship isn’t moving. It’s the smallest relief and isn’t complete, though, because in short order they’re hitting trees and hexagonal shelf-cliffs and piles of fallen rocks that range in size from a man’s head up to almost as big as the Pelican they’re chasing. It’s one of these that Chief tests the front wheels against for a moment, before pushing forward so they start rolling up the incline onto it. Esparza holds on tight to the grab bar. “Please don’t flip us.”

Chief obliges without a word. They’re over and rolling, and then he’s positioning the tires for the next maneuver that will carry them up and through a narrow gap between two boulders. It’s wide enough that the Warthog should be able to span it if he can get the left wheels against one face and the right wheels against the other at the right level.

“We could just get out and walk,” Esparza suggests. He’s getting used to this. It’s a joke.

“You could,” Chief says mildly as he shifts gears. “Hold on.”

Esparza doesn’t point out that he was already holding on, he just does it harder as the Warthog fights its way higher. Chief has to turn and finesse the front wheels, coaxing the vehicle forward centimeter by centimeter and occasionally having to pull back and re-do an angle. He’s getting them there. The Warthog hates it. Esparza wonders how far the sounds of its unhappy engine will carry, and how close they are to the Jackals.

They clear the rocks and sit for a moment, four tires on the ground again while the whole Warthog leans to the left on the slope. Chief tips his head toward the way they came, a silent see?

“Showoff,” Esparza acknowledges. Chief answers by accelerating so hard out of the stop that Esparza rocks backward into his seat with a startled shout and has to hold on with both hands. This time, despite himself, he does laugh.

“Look sharp. We’re getting close.”

“Is there a plan yet?”

“The plan’s get closer.”

The Warthog kicks small stones and tufts of shallowly-rooted grass down the slope behind them. Chief keeps it close to the belly of the sheer hexagonal cliff face they’re now running alongside. He’s cutting off as many high vantage points as possible. When he notices that, it makes something in Esparza’s belly tense.

The Chief finds a place to tuck them into a combination of cliff shadow and overhead tree cover. He makes a wait - quiet gesture to Esparza. Esparza busies himself for a couple of seconds by noticing how far uphill they’ve gone, and how going back down all of that could be really really bad. It’s a shame he has to think this kind of thing about Zeta Halo, and it’s a shame that Zeta Halo feels like a deathtrap that is singularly hostile to their existence. If it weren’t for that unfortunate detail, the greens, blues, and silvers of the shimmering ring-arc horizon really would be beautiful.

Chief taps him, and wordlessly presses the weight of the Mk50 Sidekick into his hand.

“Plan?” Esparza whispers.

“Stay here.”

The Chief unfolds himself from the driver’s seat and out of the Warthog, unlimbers his rifle, and scouts ahead.

Esparza always hates it when he’s alone to wait, and he especially hates being in the Warthog for it. At least the Pelican is spaceworthy, protected from all sides. He sighs, uses his free hand to grab the top bar that keeps rolling from cracking the windshield, and pulls himself up to climb over into the driver’s seat. Esparza can fire that pistol if he has to, but Esparza also understands where his areas of competency actually are.

It’s all quiet upstairs. He doesn’t hear the Chief (unsurprising) but also doesn’t hear the sounds of a whole pack of Jackals trying to kill the Chief (good.) It’s even more excruciating to hear nothing from the Chief and the AI when he knows the Chief’s in the middle of actively avoiding being killed.

When the tall green figure with the golden visor drops down the cliff edge to land beside the Warthog again, Esparza does a very good job not yelling but it is a near thing and he does startle halfway across the vehicle again. The Chief pauses, notes the change of seat to the driver’s side, and nods in approval as he steps back toward the Warthog’s bed and then steps up into it.

There are so many questions Esparza wants to ask him. How close are they? How many are there? How’s the Pelican? Chief, what’s the plan? But he’s worried maybe they’re too close, maybe he can’t say anything. Is the Chief taking the LAAG off the Warthog the quiet way because he has the luxury of time for once, or is it because he needs to?

Esparza collects himself and holds the gun and waits, focusing on his nervous heart and trying to keep his breathing slow. The Chief pulls the heavy gun off and Esparza can feel the Warthog perk up once freed from under a half ton of Spartan-II and — he doesn’t remember the weight of the M46 LAAG offhand. Sue him.

“Wait until all clear,” says the Chief as he carries the chain gun past Esparza, steps heavy with purpose and massive firepower. This is, apparently, the plan at last.

“Can do.”

This time, Esparza hears so much. Most of it is the chain gun. Some of it is Jackals. None of it is the Chief himself. Esparza doesn’t know how long it takes, but he does know that whatever his perception of time is here is going to be trash from all the adrenaline. Something falls from overhead and he barely manages to track it with the pistol as it hits the dirt.

Esparza stares down the barrel at a somewhat dazed Jackal. Wide, slit-pupiled yellow eyes stare back at him up a long, toothy snout, the quills at the crown of the Kig-Yar’s head are up and splayed out in agitation. Even a neutral expression on one of the aliens looks frightening to a human, teeth exposed in a resting snarl and long-sighted eyes set fixed like a raptor’s.

The Jackal is unarmed, unhelmeted, and is now bleeding from a cut on its shoulder. It has to be at least bruised from that fall. Has Esparza ever seen a Jackal afraid?

The alien reacts quicker than he does and launches itself, not at him but down slope. It avoids the way the Chief and Esparza took for the Warthog, gunning for the steeper face that has more plant cover over the uneven earth and stone. Esparza sees it slip, slide and roll in a way that looks painful before it’s up again, running, and gone completely.

Jackal. Kig-Yar. Pirate. Mercenary. Does a Jackal feel shame for cowardice? Is there a reason for one to?

Esparza realizes he’s been holding his breath and stops. He points the gun to the last spot he saw the Jackal and listens for the last sounds of the battle up the cliff to die.

The Chief returns with the LAAG, relaxed and in control, looking exactly as he did when he left.

“Clear?”

“Clear!” It’s the Weapon who replies. “Those Jackals are definitely going to think twice about trying to steal our Pelican again!” She pauses. “Well. Different Jackals. If they hear about this. Because these ones won’t be thinking anything anymore.”

Esparza snorts and shakes his head while the Chief bolts the chain gun back into its mount. The Spartan hops down from the bed and stops still, looking up toward Esparza, hesitating. He might be trying to decide what to say. Esparza arches his brows.

“Oh, get in. I can drive.”

The Chief comes up the right side of the Warthog and climbs in the passenger’s side. Esparza passes the Sidekick back to him, and drives the rest of the way up to the Pelican. It is an uneventful and smooth climb, and there are no giant rocks.

[literaryavenger]

Ant-man

Summary: There's a breach in the Avengers Compound and Sam investigates while you keep an eye on him through the security cameras.

Pairing: platonic!Sam Wilson x F!Reader, platonic!Steve Rogers x F!Reader

Warnings: Language, I think. Descriptions of fighting. Best Friend Sam Wilson. My poor attempts at being funny.

Word Count: 1.1k

Masterlist | Series Masterlist

It’s been a few months since you’ve joined the Avengers. You spend your days training, team-building and going on missions. 

You still occasionally follow some leads about Bucky, but nowadays most of the team’s missions consist in tracking down Rumlow, the last Hydra asshole that somehow survived the Triskelion falling on his face. 

The guy that rebranded himself as ‘Crossbones’ is particularly hard to catch and the team's been just missing him for months.

On your off days the whole team just hangs out in the compound, taking turns to assist security and keep it safe, although hardly anything ever happens.

You’re in the Control Room, paired with Sam who’s flying around the perimeter when you see him on camera fly to a roof and look around.

“What’s going on down there, Sam?” you ask him through the comms.

“I had a sensor trip but I’m not seeing anything.” he says, "Wait a second.”

You can see him fixate on one point on the ground, but there’s nothing there. Just as you’re about to ask him what the hell he’s doing, he talks.

“I can see you.” he says with his eyes still pointed at the ground. 

You’re about to tell him that you’re gonna book him a room in a psychiatric center when suddenly a grown ass man appears seemingly out of nowhere.

“Holy shit!” you all but yell.

He opens his helmet and says “Hi.” then he waves at Sam "I’m Scott.”

“Seriously?” you roll your eyes. The man broke into the Avengers Compound, you’d think he’d have a little more common sense.

“What are you doing here?” Sam asks.

“First off, I’m a big fan.” Scott says back.

“Appreciate it. So who the hell are you?”

“I’m Ant-Man.” he says proudly and you snort.

“Ant-Man?”- Sam echoes, smiling.

“What, you haven’t heard of me? No, you wouldn’t have heard of me.” Scott says and you can’t hold back your laughter.

“Sam, this guy’s an idiot.” you say, but he ignores you.

“You want to tell me what you want?”

“I was hoping I could grab a piece of technology just for a few days, and then return it.” the balls on this guy. “I need it to save the world. You know how that is.” 

“I know exactly how that is.” Sam answers, then finally he acknowledges you. “Located the breach. Bringing him in.”

“Sorry about this!” you hear Scott say as Sam goes to grab him and suddenly he’s gone.

You see Sam fall back hard as if he got punched and then he starts flying around, looking for the insect guy.

“Breach is an adult male who has some sort of shrinking tech.” he feels the need to inform you.

“Yes, I have eyes, Sam.” you can basically hear his eyes roll as he lands on the ground.

He goes to step hard on the ground where you assume Scott is, but all he manages to do is get hit repeatedly.

Then the genius takes out his guns and starts shooting and this time is your turn to roll your eyes. “Sure, Sam, shoot at an ant-sized man.”

Sam keeps getting punches and trying to punch back, but all he hits is air.

“That’s enough.” Sam actually lands a punch and Scott gets back to normal size, rolling on the grass.

Sam picks him up and punches him, then grabs him again and takes flight, hitting him but as he’s falling Scott shrinks back.

Sam lands again as Scott enlarges and wraps his legs around Sam’s neck so the latter activates his jetpack and they slide on the ground locked together until Scott shrinks and Sam goes flying through the air.

Sam quickly gets up and hits little Scott with his wings, he gets big but shrinks right back.

You can see Sam looking around. “Do you need backup, Sam?”

“I got this.” is all he says as he flies towards one of the old storage buildings and, when you open the door for him, he goes in.

“Wow, not even a thank you. Rude.” you say, as the door closes behind him, knowing he’ll ignore you. “Sam, I don’t have eyes on you. Is everything alright in there?”

Less than a minute later he’s breaking through the door, his wings clearly malfunctioning.

“What the hell, Sam?!" you yell shocked.

“He’s inside my backpack!” Sam yells back.

He flies around for a moment and then lands on his back, sliding until he comes to a stop. He gets up, seemingly unhurt.

“Are you okay?” you ask him, trying hard not to laugh after the scene you just witnessed.

“I’m alright.” he says as he takes off his goggles.

“So, you still ‘got this’, Wilson?” you can’t help but tease him.

“It’s really important to me that Cap never finds out about this.” Is all he says and you can’t contain your laughter anymore.

“Oh, I’m definitely telling Steve you got your ass kicked by an ant!” you say between giggles and he groans in annoyance.

You’re so busy laughing while watching Sam’s walk of shame on the monitor that you almost miss the agents that come into the Control Room to start their own work day.

“Come on, Falcon, shift’s over.” you tell him as he mumbles about his broken wings. “Drinks are on me, Sourpuss.”

“We don’t pay for drinks. If anything, drinks are on Tony.” he grumbles and you roll your eyes.

“Just move your ass, Grumpy pants.” you tell him and leave the room to make your way to the Avengers living room where you sit at the counter of the bar.

Sam meets you there 10 minutes later, his face still as grumpy as it was on the security cameras.

“You’re pouting.” You point out. “It’s just gear, Tony’s gonna have it fixed in no time.”

“Whatever.” he says, not lightening up.

“Come on, man!” you try to cheer him up. “That could’ve happened to any one of us.”

When he simply glares at you, you try hard to contain the laughter so he won’t try to kill you tonight.

“I promise I won’t tell Steve, just please stop moping like you just lost your platoon.” you can’t contain your laughter anymore and thankfully he follows right after.

“Thanks for not telling Steve.” he says when your laughter dies down, bumping your shoulder playfully with his.

“Not telling me what?” you both turn around and see Steve standing there, arms crossed with a suspicious look on his face.

You and Sam look at each other before saying "Nothing.” in unison, then start laughing knowing damn well Steve’s not gonna buy it.

But the Captain lets it go, as he sits to your other side with an amused “Okay, weirdos.”

Sam leans in and whispers to you “Next pizza night is on me.” and makes you laugh again.

“You’re damn right it is.”

Requested taglist: @sapphirebarnes

[cfr749]

Beneath your Beautiful is one of my favorite Chenford fics ever! 

😭😭😭

This is so sweet anon, and such a compliment given the absurd amount of talent in this fandom. I'm honored that you still have love for the story despite my less than stellar track record on getting this thing done.

For whatever it's worth, here's a silly little outtake / deleted scene from an earlier draft. Sorry to say, there is not going to be a boudoir photo shoot in the actual fic 😂, but I promise to try and make up for it with some other bits of sexiness... ❤️

***

“Oh hell no,” Tim curses, tossing the folder of information onto the table as if it’s burned him. Production had couriered the package over earlier that afternoon, but Lucy hadn’t found time to open it in her haste to get as much of her to do list done as possible before Tim arrived home. 

Kojo hops around him in a final excited attempt to hold his attention before flopping to the floor by his feet, begrudgingly accepting that he’s no longer Tim’s primary focus. Tim bends to give the dog’s head a final loving scruff.

Lucy glances up from where she’s sauteeing some vegetables on the stove. “Dare I even ask?” she teases, raising an eyebrow in response to Tim’s dramatics.

But he just shakes his head, muttering under his breath. “What is wrong with these people?”

“Tim,” she whines, her curiosity getting the best of her. “Come on… tell me. What is it?”

He huffs a frustrated breath of air, finally meeting her gaze. “We have to do a — a —” And it’s so awful he apparently can’t even get the words out.

She rolls her eyes, turning the burner off and wiping her hands before moving to retrieve the packet from the table. Her eyes go wide when she spots the source of Tim’s distress. They are scheduled for… drumroll, please… a boudoir photo shoot Thursday evening.

“What is their obsession with getting us naked?” Tim grouses.

Lucy smirks, allowing her eyes to roam over him, “I mean… I can’t say I totally blame them. You do look pretty damn amazing without a shirt on, Bradford.” 

He grins wolfishly, allowing his eyes to wander down to her chest. “I could say the same thing about you.”

Her lips twist as she attempts to hold back a laugh, choosing to ignore the jolt of heat one suggestive look manages to ignite. She pauses, tilting her head and thoughtfully tapping her bottom lip with her finger, “What if… we aren’t actually a match, and this whole thing was just a grand ploy by a lovestruck PA to get you take your clothes off?”

He rolls his eyes, even as his cheeks tinge the slightest bit pink in response to her ribbing. “Uh huh. Last time I checked, I wasn’t the one with a PA groping my ass.” His frown deepens, clearly following the thread until arriving at yet another reason to despise the idea of the photo shoot. “We’re getting you a very oversized pair of flannel pajamas.”

“Mmm… this from the man that was practically begging me to do a striptease for the whole damn world not even a month ago? Have I told you how much I love it when you’re a giant sexist caveman?”

She closes the remaining distance between them, using his shirt to playfully tug him closer before arching up on her toes to give him a proper hello. His lips are pliant and welcoming against her own. She slips a hand around his neck to deepen the kiss while his hands settle on her hips before creeping the slightest bit upward underneath her blouse to caress the bare skin just above the waistband of her jeans.

“Hi,” she breathes softly as she reluctantly pulls back, dropping back down to her heels and tilting her head back to look up at him, her arms still linked around his neck.

He smiles down at her, and it’s one of those smiles that reaches his eyes and makes her feel all warm and fuzzy and melty inside. “Hi.”

He slips his hands into the back pockets of her skintight jeans and pulls her so that her hips are flush against his body. “How are you so damn pretty?”

“Mmm… I could say the same thing about you,” she teases.

He frowns, “I think you mean ‘ruggedly handsome.’”

“Do I?”

He shakes his head in mock irritation as he reaches up to tuck a strand of hair that’s escaped her low ponytail back behind her ear, before shifting his hold to keep her in place as he dips his head to kiss her again, a little more roughly this time. 

“You are literally the only reason I haven’t quit this dumb fiasco.”

She laughs against his mouth, nipping his bottom lip before pulling back enough to meet his eyes. “Right… I’m sure it has nothing to do with that long, complicated contract you signed promising financial ruin if you refuse to get naked on demand.”

***

Thank you for the wonderfully kind ask, anon!

[lizardperson]

come all sufferers

part 4: long term side effects of getting shot in the head [on ao3]

fandom: fallout new vegas characters: female courier/original male character rating: m wc: 613 prompts: head injury for @sweetspicybingo

[hurt/comfort bingo masterlist]

---

Mika dropped down beside Gabriel, visibly pale and exhausted after throwing up for a good ten minutes. He handed her a water bottle and they both sat in silence for a bit. "It's getting worse. Those attacks, I mean," he eventually remarked. "Maybe my stomach just doesn't like your cooking," she grumbled at him, then made a face when he raised an eyebrow. "Sorry. Didn't mean to be a bitch. Your cooking is actually really good." The food wasn't the problem, and they both knew it. "It's getting more frequent." "No, it's-" Mika started to protest, then sighed. "I know." Since her encounter with Benny in Goodsprings, she had started having these episodes of sudden headaches and dizziness. It usually stopped again after about an hour, but the whole thing was getting irritating. And very concerning. Gabriel looked at her intently. "I really think you should talk to a doctor." She crossed her arms in front of her chest. "No." "Why not?" "What's that supposed to do? It's not like they can un-shoot me," she objected, getting clearly annoyed by the whole topic. "But there might be ways to manage your symptoms," he suggested gently. "No! I don't want to. I hate doctors." Now she started to sound like a bratty child. He raised an eyebrow. "Why?" "I just do!" Gabriel was aware that she'd rather drop the topic, but now he needed to get to the bottom of this. "Wait, are you scared of doctors?" "What, no?! Of course not!" she huffed at his outrageous accusation. The way Mika protested told him that he was on the right track there. "Well, then I don't understand what the problem is..." He could see how defensive she was getting now, how much she hated this idea. "Tell you what, an old friend of mine works at the Follower's Fort. Next time we're in Freeside, we'll drop by, and she can take a look at you," he suggested. "She's a real good doctor. Someone I trust." Mika sighed, then her typical mischievous grin crept into her face. "Is she hot?" He laughed at the sudden mood shift. "Uhm... yeah. Yeah, she is." "Are you just saying that to get me to see her?" she chuckled. "No." Mika stared at the ground in front of her again for a few moments, apparently considering the whole thing. Then she suddenly looked up. "Wait... old friend, or old 'friend'?" "Excuse me?" She rolled her eyes and laughed. "Oh my god, I am asking if you were a thing!" He made a vague shrugging motion. "...it's complicated." "You do realize I am now dying of curiosity, right?" Then maybe he should use that to his advantage. "How about this: you go see her, and afterward I will try to satisfy your curiosity a bit." She frowned at him, still not entirely convinced. "I'll stay with you the whole time if you want." "I'm not a fucking toddler, I don't need handholding." "I know you don't, I'm just offering," he chuckled. You might not be a toddler, but sometimes you act like one, you little menace. Mika let out a long sigh. "Okay, fine. Next time we're in Freeside," she finally agreed, reluctantly. "But I'm not letting some labcoat poke around in my head, no matter how hot she is!" "Okay." "...and maybe you should come with me after all," she added sheepishly. "Just to make sure I don't hit on your ex too much."

[ryehouses]

ive said this before and I’ll say it again: Boba POV for his and Din’s first scene in the kitchens

this was by FAR one of the most requested boba povs -- seriously, i have like twelve of these in my inbox -- so i figured that it would be as good a POV to start on as any!

set during chapter 3, "sha'kajir." the content warnings relevant to that chapter, including some extremely preliminary kink negotiation, some mild non-sexual choking and some painplay, apply.

if you're like "wait, all of the dialogue is the same!" it is, but the ~inflection is different from a different pov.

enjoy!

in which boba fett makes an educated guess. 

If Din Djarin wound himself up any tighter, he was going to snap in half and scatter beskar all over the floor of Ushib’s tidy kitchen, and somehow, Boba didn’t think that Fennec would be very happy with him if he let that happen. 

He wouldn’t be very happy with himself either, honestly. Boba liked Djarin. His side still hurt where Djarin’d gone for a gap in Boba’s cuirass – twice – and he was trying his hardest not to limp where Djarin could see. The mean little lyleck had kicked Boba so hard that Boba was going to need to hobble around with a brace in the morning, though he’d be karked if he let Djarin notice. 

The whole point of getting him in the sparring ring was to get him to relax, Boba thought, watching Djarin across the quiet, dim kitchen. He’d found Djarin in one of the old pit fighting rooms, where Jabba and his court had bet on gladiators, and had brought Djarin here after their spar to put Djarin more at ease. To get him more comfortable. 

Djarin was not comfortable. 

He’d been willing enough to spar, when Boba had finally managed to track him down. For a man in bright silver armor – not even a sensible green, a red that would disappear in low light, a blue that would blend into the sky – Djarin’d been karking hard to find. But once Boba’d managed to dig him up, Djarin had  agreed to spar, and during the spar he had relaxed. Boba had been able to see Djarin. To learn about who he was underneath the armor. 

Any ease that Djarin’d found in the sparring ring was long gone now. He was staring at Boba, one hand curled around a cup of tihaar that he hadn’t yet touched, like he thought that Boba was going to rush him and stick a knife in his belly. His shoulders were pulled tight. His free hand was twitching for a weapon. 

I don’t particularly want to get stuck with the darksaber, either, Boba thought. I’ve already been whacked with that spear. Djarin had only used the blunt end to jab Boba – he was polite enough, for a Mandalorian – but still. Sparring was one thing. Sparring was fun. A good way to blow off some steam. Boba’d hoped that the spar had convinced Djarin that while Boba might whack him around a little in the sparring ring, Djarin wasn’t in any danger here at the palace. Boba wasn’t Bo-Katan Kryze. He had no interest in stabbing any of his allies in the back, no matter what they’d accidentally walked in on. 

I don’t have enough allies to go around betraying them, or to go around shooting them because I forgot to look my own karking door.  

Boba eyed Djarin for another minute, feeling an echo of Djarin’s stress in his own shoulders, behind his teeth, and then turned away, swallowing the tihaar in his own cup. The familiar smell, sharp alcohol and sweet fruit, warmed his mouth. He watched Djarin out of the corner of his eye. Djarin didn’t move, stiff and wary. It was like Boba’d invited a half-starved anooba into his home instead of one of the best fighters Boba’d ever seen.  

Boba sighed. “I thought maybe food and drink would put you at ease,” he admitted, apologetic. Boba had vague, old memories of his father passing around a bottle of tihaar with the Cuy’Val Dar, old grudges set aside while the bottle changed hands. He’d thought that sharing food and drink was a way to set a Mandalorian at ease, but the days of the Cuy’Val Dar were long over, and Boba’d never been very good about remembering what few Mandalorian custos he’d learned at his father’s knee anyway. “But we can do this up in my rooms, if that’ll help.” 

Boba hadn’t wanted to corner Djarin. He knew well enough how a cornered fighter would react, and Djarin hit pretty hard. But maybe Boba’s room, with its open walls and its starlight, would be better. Boba liked the kitchens, personally. Liked the smell of fresh japoor bread and chuba stew. It reminded him of the simpler days out in the desert, sharing a tent with Ushib. 

Boba hadn’t had much to worry about, then. Not getting killed by the Spotted Anooba’s chief, who’d hated outsiders. Not dying of the wounds inflicted by the sarlacc. Life had been easy. Simple. 

Then I had to go off and start a syndicate, Boba thought dryly. Though none of this was in the job description. 

Boba wasn’t sure what had set Djarin off. What made him so tense and wary here. He had walked in on Boba and Theran, but – 

The suggestion – the idea of going up to Boba’s rooms – made Djarin tenser. “Do what,” he said, tone flat. 

Kark. Boba poured himself another small measure of tihaar. Looking at Djarin head-on only seemed to put him more on guard. “Talk about what you walked in on,” Boba said. He’d been willing enough to dance around the issue, to use vague terms or euphemisms; most beings preferred it. Boba’d prefer to keep Theran’s privacy, if he could, but he also needed Djarin to be sharp, if he was going to stick around with the outfit, and Djarin couldn’t be sharp if he was fretting over what he’d seen. 

Djarin was fretting over it. He was so stiff that Boba was half-worried that Djarin would fall over. 

Is it me he’s afraid of? Boba wondered, and the thought tasted sour in his mouth. Respect was one thing. Boba didn’t particularly mind being feared by his enemies either. 

But Djarin – Djarin wasn’t an enemy. Not now, at least. Once he got tired of hanging around on Tatooine and karked off back to the other Mandalorians, he might end up on the other side of a battlefield some day, but here and now, he wasn’t Boba’s enemy. 

“I’m not Jabba, you know,” said Boba, aiming for a light, unbothered tone. Djarin had said that he’d done a few jobs for Jabba. He probably knew how Jabba’d handled things in his court. 

This isn’t Jabba’s court. It’s not going to be Jabba’s court again. 

Boba had promised the universe quite a few things, when he’d been sitting in the sarlacc’s belly. He had decided, if he lived, that he was going to be better than Jabba. Better than Boba himself had been. 

“I’m not gonna have you dropped down into the rancor pit just because you walked in on me enjoying some of my – ” Boba hesitated for a split second, unsure how to describe what he’d been doing with Theran to someone like Djarin. 

For a Mandalorian, Djarin was – different. Boba hadn’t figured out just what it was about him that was different, but Djarin was nothing like the few Mandalorians Boba’d run into over the years. Boba didn’t know anything about him. He didn’t know if Djarin understood what he’d seen, between Boba and Theran. 

“ – odder pastimes,” Boba finished, wincing internally as he did it. He wasn’t very good at coming up with words on the spot. Odder pastimes wasn’t the best description of what Boba and Theran did together, but –

“Is that what it was?” Djarin asked, sounding tentative. “I didn’t – ” he paused too, and Boba wondered if he was blushing under his helmet. 

Boba paused. Pinned that thought down. 

Now where, he thought, did that come from? 

“How you punish your people isn’t any of my business,” Djarin continued hastily, pulling Boba back to the matter at hand. “I just heard – through the door, I heard what sounded like someone in pain.” 

Boba had to blink for a moment, surprised. 

Well, that’ll teach us to play on the main floor, he thought. Theran hated Boba’s rooms. He was as brave as a bladeback, Theran, and had been for as long as Boba’d known him, but Theran was terrified of heights and their old arrangement – renting a room in a cantina somewhere in Mos Eisley – was more dangerous now that Boba was trying to set up an outfit of his own. 

And I wasn’t punishing Theran, either. Theran didn’t go for punishment. He preferred regular, quick sessions, a few licks of the flogger to take him out of his own head for a little while. That was all. For anything heavier Boba would have insisted on his own rooms, or on a different suite. The room Theran’d chosen hadn’t had anywhere for Boba to stash any of his medical supplies, any snacks, anything that Theran might need as he came back up once he’d finished letting Boba bring him down.  

“Theran and I have an arrangement,” Boba said, watching Djarin to see if Djarin would understand the difference between the two. Punishment and arrangement. 

It was harder to guess what Djarin was thinking with all of his beskar on. That helmet was blank. Unchanging. The set of Djarin’s shoulders told Boba that he was uncomfortable, but little else. 

“He knew me before, when all of this – ” Boba gestured at the kitchens, which weren’t really much to look at, but meant the palace above them too – “was Jabba’s. We.. have compatible interests.”

Djarin’s confusion was almost palpable. “Compatible… interests?” he asked, still tentative. 

Boba tried not to wince. C’mon, Mando, you know what I’m talking about. 

Boba’s preferences weren’t necessarily common, but he was hardly the only man in the galaxy who enjoyed wielding a whip. Theran was hardly the only man who liked to be whipped. 

“Ni gaa’tayl,” he muttered to himself, hoping it was quiet enough to escape Djarin’s notice. Boba didn’t know enough mando’a to hold a full, complete conversation with a real Mandalorian and didn’t feel much like dealing with Mandalorian ossik tonight anyway, but sometimes the handful of phrases Boba still remembered from his days on Kamino were the only phrases that felt like they fit how he was feeling. 

Right now, I need all the help I can get, Boba thought. He studied Djarin, trying to figure out what to do.

Best to just – go for it, Boba thought. Boba had never been very good at being subtle. “Yeah, compatible interests. He likes – to give someone else control over his body,” Boba said, trying to explain his and Theran’s arrangement in vague enough terms that Boba wouldn’t completely run over Theran’s privacy, though Theran himself didn’t much care. 

He could tell that Djarin still didn’t understand, though. The Mandalorian had cocked his head a little, listening, like a curious anooba cub. Boba squashed the flicker of amusement and kept going. 

“He likes pain,” Boba said. “He likes… someone to look after him, to decide what he feels and when he feels it.” 

There, thought Boba. That’s about the gist of it, without digging into the specifics. Djarin should understand. Boba’d seen Djarin fight. Had watched him come up with plans, with strategies. Djarin wasn’t stupid. He could figure it out. 

Djarin, if anything, pulled his shoulders up even higher. “And you…” he said, trailing off before he managed to voice an actual question. 

Something about the way that Djarin was sitting – the way that he was looking at Boba, the way that Boba knew that Djarin wasn’t looking him in the eye, even though Djarin was wearing a helmet – scratched lightly at the edge of Boba’s awareness. Felt almost – familiar. 

Boba cocked his head and looked harder at Djarin, trying to see the man underneath the armor. “Like to take control, yeah,” Boba said. In for a peggat, he thought. There was no harm in describing his own preferences. Anybody who’d spent more than five minutes in a room with Boba knew that he liked to be in control. Boba’d accepted that part of himself a long time ago. 

“Like to cause pain, too.” 

Boba saw the moment that Djarin understood. His shoulders twitched, just a little, like Djarin had brushed a live wire.

Interesting. The feeling of familiarity scratching at the back of Boba’s head itched harder. 

“...Oh,” said Djarin. He set his cup of tihaar, still untouched, down on the counter beside him. He didn’t immediately sneer anything derogatory and he didn’t try to bolt, either. Boba watched him carefully for a second, then relaxed. 

Djarin understood. 

He was still tense, though. 

He said that he thought that he heard someone in pain, Boba thought. He came to help. 

Before Boba and Fennec had set off after Djarin – after Djarin had left Tatooine with Boba’s armor, not knowing what it was that he was taking away – Boba’d done a bit of research. He hadn’t been able to find the man’s name, not until Djarin’d shared it, but rumors of a Mandalorian in silver armor fighting the Empire, driving off pirates and rescuing towns from Greater karking Krayt Dragons echoed all over the galaxy. Djarin had helped a lot of people. Had killed a lot of people, honestly, but Boba’d done his own share of killing and wasn’t bothered by it, and all of Djarin’s killing had been pretty straightforward and clean, too. He wasn’t a torturer. He wasn’t cruel. 

He heard Theran cry out, and he came to help. 

“‘S not as bad as you’re worried about, Djarin,” Boba said gently, trying to set the other man more at ease. Theran didn’t notice, and he doesn’t mind an audience anyway. It’s just – it’s a matter of discretion, yeah?” 

“I won’t tell anyone,” Din said hastily, and Boba could hear him blushing. “I’m not – I don’t share other people’s secrets.” 

Boba almost smiled. “No, you wouldn’t,” he said, trying not to laugh at Djarin. Boba’d already known that Djarin could be trusted, at least a little. Djarin was the Resol’nare walking. “You’ve got your honor.” 

Djarin relaxed a little. 

Something in Boba’s gut twinged. Settled. Like Boba had just rounded a corner in Mos Eisley and come face to face with someone in the crowd, like he’ reached for his blaster, but instead of finding an enemy, had found someone that he could trust. 

Recognition. 

The way that Djarin was sitting – the way that he was looking at Boba – Boba recognized it. Had seen it before. 

“But that’s not all I wanted to talk to you about,” Boba added on instinct, though he felt a little bad when Djarin immediately froze. Boba paused for a fraction of a second, debating whether he should follow what his instincts were telling him or just let Djarin go, send him off to work through what he’d just learned on his own, but – 

But something about the way that Djarin was looking at Boba – something about the way that Djarin had fought in the sparring ring, about the way he carried himself – made Boba say, “Sometimes, pain is good.” 

Later, Boba wouldn’t be able to say what it was about Djarin that told him that Djarin was like Theran. Sometimes there were clues. A certain pattern of speech, a certain look, an intake of breath when Boba stood close. Sometimes beings who wanted what Theran wanted just came up to Boba and karking asked. Sometimes it was just a feeling.

With Djarin, it was just a feeling. 

“For some it’s a focus,” Boba continued. “Or a reminder, or a reason.” 

“Is that why you were.. Was it to help Theran?” Djarin asked. He was still holding himself very still. Boba wondered what Djarin would be doing if he’d let himself move. If he’d pick up his cup of tihaar again, or if he’d try to leave. If he’d put a hand over his thigh, over the plate of armor Boba’d hit with his gaderffii, and try to feel the bruise that Boba was sure was growing there. 

A spark of interest licked the back of Boba’s ribs. Trying not to show it – it’d never paid for Boba to play his hand too early, even if he’d had a perfect sabacc – Boba just said, “That’s between me and Theran.” 

What Theran got out of a flogging session was Theran’s concern. Boba’s too, of course – Boba tried to make sure that everyone he played with got what they needed – but it was private, even if Djarin would get something similar out of a flogging session himself. 

Would he? Boba wondered. He is Mandalorian. He ought to be used to using pain, or at least to fighting through it. 

Djarin was a frighteningly competent fighter. Boba knew that the Empire – even the Remnants – had tended to value their own pride over any kind of self-awareness, but if Boba’d been Gideon, he would’ve thought twice before trying to interfere with Djarin’s clan. Djarin had a shriek-hawk’s temper. 

Most of the best fighters had a more intimate relationship with pain than the average being. It came with being hit in the head – and the chest, the gut, kicked in the knee, grappled – so karking often. Djarin was one of the better fighters Boba’d seen. 

Djarin, fidgeting more obviously now, picked his cup of tihaar again and brought it up almost protectively, though he still didn’t make any move to take his helmet off. 

The flicker of amusement in Boba’s chest was brighter now, and it wasn’t as easy to quash. 

He tilted his head, considering. 

I can just let it go here, he thought. He’d explained himself to Djarin. Djarin’d promised that he wouldn’t go spilling the details of Boba’s arrangement with Theran all over the palace. Their business with each other, at least for the night, was done. 

But that instinct – that recognition, searing and bone-deep – wouldn’t let go of Boba, so he said, “Your buy’ce.” He drummed his fingers over his own helmet almost absently. “Can you take it off?” 

He wanted to see Djarin’s face. His eyes. 

Boba knew that there were some groups of Mandalorians who preferred to show their faces only to their families or their close allies. Djarin and Boba weren’t close. They’d known each other for just a little more than a week, and for part of that week Djarin had been unconscious in a bacta tank after defeating a Remnant Moff and upsetting Bo-Katan Kryze’s plan in one swoop. 

But Boba still wanted to see his eyes. 

Djarin clearly hadn’t been expecting the question. He startled, which caught Boba by surprise – he hadn’t seen Djarin startle before. Then Djarin sat up straight, chin up, that fierce lylek look plain even through his armor, and put his tihaar cup back down.  

Boba watched Djarin flex his fingers a few times. 

Interesting, he thought. He wasn’t surprised, though. Just about any being or beast had two reflexes, when surprised; fight or flight. With Mandalorians – with Boba too, either through persistent genetics, training or plain experience – the response was almost always fight. 

Djarin managed to master his urge to punch Boba, though. Boba saw him take a deep breath. Djarin sat up straighter. Boba watched him, intrigued. 

“Why?” Djarin asked. 

That was an easy enough question to answer. 

“Because I want to ask you something,” Boba said. “And I’d prefer to see your face while I do it. If that’s alright?” 

Djarin started at Boba for a handful of seconds. He’d gone stiff again, wound tight with tension, and all that energy would eventually have to go somewhere – Djarin titled his helmet a little and Boba could tell that Djarin was looking for a way out. 

Boba realized that he was between Djarin and the door and tried not to wince. 

Don’t corner him, he reminded himself. That’s going just gonna get you punched again, Fett, or worse. Djarin had already kicked Boba in his bad knee once tonight. 

But Boba knew how to manage this sort of reaction too. Moving very carefully, slow and deliberate, Boba shifted over to the side, leaving a clear path between Djarin and the door out into the hall, ready to let Djarin go if Djarin wanted to. 

Djarin didn’t move. 

Boba let him think about it. He could be patient. He hadn’t become the best bounty hunter in Jabba’s outfit by rushing headlong into things. Boba knew how to wait his prey out. 

Thinking of Djarin as prey, something to be caught – tamed – made Boba’s heart beat a little faster in his chest. Djarin’d put up a fight. He would. Boba knew that he would. It’d be fun. He squashed that feeling too. 

This was about Djarin. 

Finally, after several tense, frozen seconds, Djarin obeyed and reached up, curling his fingers around the edges of helmet. Most buc’ye – buckets – were the same, even if the shape and the features were different. Djarin released the seals with a hiss of compressed air and tugged his helmet off in one sharp move, like Djarin thought he’d stop halfway if he tried to pull it off slowly. 

Djarin blinked in the light, and Boba hid the frown that wanted to pull at his mouth. 

The last time Boba’d seen Din Djarin’s face, the man had been fresh out of a bacta tank. He’d looked terrible. The bacta had kept Djarin’s brain from leaking out of his ears – Boba’d seen the hole in the wall where some kind of new superdroid had done its best to kill Djarin – but even bacta could only do so much, and the last time Boba’d seen his face, Djarin had looked half-dead. Pale, bruised and exhausted, the old, half-visible scars on his face stark in the artificial light of the med bay. 

Despite the fact that it had been a few weeks since then, Djarin still looked awful. The bruises had all faded, but he had shadows under his eyes. His hair, a curly, soft-looking brown, stuck up untidily. His face was thinner, more worn, and the scar between his eyes still stood out, even in the low light. 

What happened? Boba wondered, alarmed. Djarin’d only been on Tatooine for a few days – he couldn’t have been that badly-injured out on his hunt. Boba knew that Fennec had made sure that Djarin had eaten, the night he’d landed on Tatooine. Djarin hadn’t been with them long enough to get this tired. This worn. 

Kryze, Boba thought, darkly. He should’ve known that she’d be too busy with her own karking plans to make sure that her guests – her allies – were well taken care of. 

Djarin held Boba’s eyes for a second. His eyes were dark too, like Boba’s. Kryze and her people all had blue or green eyes. Kalevalan Mandalorians were fair-skinned and fair-haired. Boba’d gone to Keldabe once, when he’d been younger and stupider, convinced that he could scratch out a living for himself among his father’s father’s people, and had been shocked to see how few Mandalorians actually looked like Jango Fett. 

Then Djarin’s eyes darted away again, anxiety plain in Djarin’s face. 

Boba softened. Djarin’d had a long few days, and he was clearly out of his depth.

“Jate,” he said, hoping that the common language would set Djarin more at ease. Djarin started at the word again, his eyes skipping back to Boba’s own for a second, but he did relax some. He rubbed a globed thumb absently over an invisible mark on his bright silver helmet, his eyes finally settling on the side of Boba’s face. 

Not a big fan of eye contact? Boba wondered. If Djarin kept his helmet on in front of everybody but his clan, Boba supposed that that made sense, though he didn't like the way Djarin kept looking sideways at Boba, nervous and tense.

“You don’t show your face often, huh?” he asked. 

Djarin just shrugged, raising one stiff shoulder and dropping it down. He looked at Boba’s cheek for another second, then met Boba’s eyes again. Djarin’s jaw was tight. He clutched his helmet like he wanted to pull it back down over his ears. 

He didn’t, though. He looked Boba in the eye and said, with a bit of a challenge in his voice, “Well?” 

Boba blinked at thim. 

Right, he thought. We were having a conversation. 

Boba let himself hesitate for another second, then pushed on. He’d learned over the years to trust his instincts, and this instinct, this feeling of familiarity – 

I think, Boba said to himself, that Djarin is – like me. Like Theran. He couldn’t say what it was, exactly, but Djarin has hesitated at the door, when he’d walked in on Boba flogging Theran. He’d stared for a second longer than he should have. 

“What’s your relationship with pain?” Boba asked, deciding to take pity on Djarin and cut straight to the point.

It was Djarin’s turn to blink at Boba. “Uh, what?” 

He didn’t bolt, which was a good sign. “What’s your relationship with pain?” Boba repeated, keeping his tone friendly and even. “Good, bad, want it, don’t want it? Does it distract you, or does it help you focus?” 

“Nobody wants,” Djarin began, tone hot and defensive, but he caught himself before Boba could correct him. He would’ve done it gently, but still. Djarin was wrong. Plenty of people wanted pain. Wanted to take it or to give it. 

Djarin chewed his lip, eyes darting up to meet Boba’s again. He was flushed faintly, the tips of his ears red, and that familiar feeling in Boba’s chest hardened into certainty. 

Cyar’yc, he couldn’t help but think, amusement uncurling in his belly. Sweet. 

“Have you ever thought about it?” Boba asked, gently. Gentleness didn’t come very easy to Boba, but he had learned it, over the years. It took more effort to be gentle than to be cruel, but gentleness had its place, even on Tatooine, and Boba found himself wanting to be gentle with Djarin, at least for now. He didn’t know Djarin well enough to know how to push him, yet. To know how far Djarin was willing to be pushed before he fought back. 

“About letting someone hurt you?” he continued. 

Boba saw Djarin swallow, and satisfaction flared bright behind his ribs. 

“Letting someone – no,” Djarin said. One of his hands twitched towards the bruise that Boba knew was darkening across the top of his thigh, but Djarin didn’t touch it. 

“Why?” Boba asked, curious. There must’ve been Mandalorians who enjoyed dominance or submission. Pain and pleasure. Boba’d never been one of them, but Mandalorians were beings just like any other. 

Djarin didn’t answer Boba right away. He shook his head a little, fingers tight around his helmet. 

“Why not?” Boba said, pushing just a bit. Djarin could take it. 

Boba’s persistence got a reaction. Djarin bared his teeth a little and snapped, sharp as a blade, “I shouldn’t need it. The only things a warrior needs are his armor and his courage.” 

Boba almost rolled his eyes. Mando ossik, he thought. Djarin wore his armor proudly, though – and took his rules seriously – so Boba didn’t disparage his people to his face. 

“Those are important,” Boba agreed. “But a warrior can’t march on just courage, you know.” 

Djarin bared his teeth again, studying Boba’s chin intently. “Why are you asking?” he challenged. 

Boba rather thought that it was obvious. “You’re Mandalorian,” he said. “A warrior. Warriors have… an interesting relationship with pain. The good ones, anyway,” he said, throwing Djarin the compliment. Anybody who could defeat an Imperial Moff was a good warrior. Boba’d seen Djarin fight on Tython. Kark, he’d seen Djarin fight here. Boba’d be carrying bruises underneath his cuirass for a good few days. 

Djarin didn’t soften. 

“Not just anyone can push themselves through training,” Boba pointed out. “Some warriors… they get through it because they have to, but others get through it because they like it. Pain helps them focus. Helps them center themselves.” 

Djarin’s shoulders went up again, tense and miserable. 

In for a peggat, Boba reminded himself. “I think it might help you,” he said, still gentle. He looked at Djarin’s leg. He could almost see the bruise that would be blooming there, underneath his silver beskar. Boba hit hard; he could crush a stormtrooper’s helmet with his gaderffii, if he put enough power behind the swing. He could crack skulls, break rocks. Boba couldn’t break beskar, but underneath the armor was just a man, and men bruised. 

Djarin’s flush was spreading. His dark eyes were wide. 

“And,” said Boba, laying down the last of his cards, “I think that you want it, though it’s hard to tell when you’ve got your armor on.” 

 Djarin twitched again, his whole body shivering with the urge to slam his helmet back on. Boba wondered what had made Djarin so defensive. He still wasn’t looking Boba in the eye. 

“Just because I want something doesn’t mean that I need it,” Djarin said. It hurt him to speak, Boba could see that it hurt him, but he made himself speak anyway. 

Brave, thought Boba. And honest. 

“No,” he agreed. “But that doesn’t mean that you shouldn’t have it, either.” 

That won Boba a derisive snort. “I’ve lived this long without it,” Din said. “I’m not – I’m an effective warrior. I provide for the tribe, I haven’t lost a bounty in years, I brought in renown for the Guild – ”

That one sentence had more words in it than Boba thought he’d ever heard Djarin say at one time. Boba wanted to frown again, but managed to avoid it. Djarin was still watching him with wide, wary eyes. 

“Yeah,” Boba said, holding up a hand. Djarin was a battle-trained warrior – he knew how to watch for hand signals, how to obey them, and his mouth clicked shut mid-sentence. 

“I’ve seen you fight, Djarin,” Boba said, trying to reassure the other man. “I know you’re capable.” His knee throbbed helpfully. Djarin had kicked Boba without a second thought. Without hesitation. “I’m gonna have a few bruises of my own when the suns rise.” 

Djarin looked at Boba like he wanted to keep arguing, but managed to hold off. 

Jate, Boba wanted to say. “All I meant is that if you want more,” Boba said, deciding to help Djarin out, “if you want to see what pain could do for you, well.” Boba gestured at himself. “You’re in a good place to try it out, is all.” 

“With you?” Djarin said. 

“If you wanted,” Boba replied, evenly. He was hardly the only man in Mos Eisley who knew how to swing a flogger, though. Djarin didn’t strike Boba as the type of man to trust that kind of vulnerability – his bare back, his submission – to a stranger, but then he really didn’t know Djarin very well, and had only gotten this far with him on instinct. If Djarin wanted to visit some cantina in Mos Eisley and find a stranger to flog him, that was his business, not Boba’s. 

“A few of the palace guards, some beings in Mos Eisley,” Boba continued, determined to give Djarin options. “Fennec, even, though she usually doesn’t play with men. She likes you enough she’d be willing to help out.” 

It had been Fennec’s idea to contact Djarin, actually. She liked Djarin. Respected him. 

Despite that, Djarin made a face, an open, honest expression, and Boba laughed. Djarin flushed again. The curl of amusement in Boba’s belly broadened. 

“Fennec’s out, then?” he asked. 

Djarin didn’t say anything for a while. Boba let him have his silence. Djarin was obviously thinking, and that was really all that Boba could ask from him. If Djarin really hadn’t thought of this before – had never considered intentional pain as a tool, as a relief – then Boba’d give him the time he needed to think about it. 

“What would it… how would I know?” Djarin asked, tentative again. The flush creeping down his neck was distracting. “If I wanted it? If it would… help me?” 

Boba could only shrug, spreading his hands. “I can’t answer that for you,” he said, repaying Djarin’s honesty with his own. “You’d just take it slow, and stop it if there was something happening that you didn’t like.” 

Djarin blinked at Boba again. “Stop it?” 

“Yeah,” said Boba. “In an arrangement – ” which wasn’t the right word, exactly, but was as close as Boba could get without needing to walk Djarin through a thirty-minute lecture – “either party, you or me, if you wanted to try it with me, or you and whoever else you picked, can stop at any time.” 

“Oh,” said Djarin. Doubt still flickered across his face, but there was something else in his eyes too. Curiosity, and something deeper than curiosity. 

Hunger, Boba thought, excitement beginning to build in his chest. 

Technically, he didn’t need to show Djarin anything tonight. Boba’s sessions with Theran were usually pretty short, but Theran was so used to Boba by now – and Boba so used to Theran – that Theran slid to his knees as soon as he walked into the room and gave up control of his body to Boba without a second thought. Boba was satisfied. It had been a good session, despite Djarin walking into it near the end. Boba was comfortable in his own skin. Settled. Between the flogging and the fight, Boba would sleep better tonight than he usually did. 

But the hunger in Djarin’s eyes had a similar hunger rising in Boba, an answer to the question Djarin hadn’t yet asked. 

Djarin licked his lips, then said, “How would I stop it?” 

The faint hunger deepened. “There’s a word, usually,” Boba said. He rattled off a few that he’d used before. “Gev, rahm, luubid, something like that.” A mix of mando’a and tuskra. Djarin ought to know both. 

“Gev,” Din repeated. “It’s that easy?” 

Boba nodded. “It’s that easy,” he said. 

The keen hunger in Djarin’s face shifted. He looked – 

Ravenous, Boba thought. Djarin looked starved. Like he hadn’t eaten for a week, lost in the desert, and had stumbled across a full feast. 

Pushing Djarin now could backfire. If he hadn’t considered pain a tool before, rushing him headlong into a scene probably was likely a bad idea. Boba didn’t know what Djarin liked. What his limits were. He didn’t know if Djarin just wanted pain or if he wanted more. If he’d like to be held down. If he’d want to get on his knees. 

But the look in his eyes, sharp with longing – 

Boba decided to risk it. “Here,” he said, taking a cautious, slow step closer. He left his helmet and his cup of tihaar behind. Djarin didn’t bolt. That was good. “Let me show you. Remember your word? Gev to get me to stop, alright?” 

Djarin tensed again as Boba got closer to him, but made no move to fight. “Alright,” he agreed, wary as a wraid. He shifted like he was going to stand, but Boba shook his head. He didn’t need Djarin to stand, not for this. 

Djarin hesitated as Boba got even closer, but still didn’t pull away. 

If he does, I’ll stop, Boba thought. Djarin didn’t really know what a safeword was, not yet. Not like Theran did. If he pulled back, if he tried to leave, Boba’d let him. 

Djarin just tilted his chin up. He met Boba’s eyes this time. 

Boba grinned. Mando pride, he thought. “Confident,” he said, close enough now for Djarin to touch. Boba got between Djarin and the counter where Djarin had set his cup of tihaar. That way, Djarin could bolt right or left if he had to, and get to the door without Boba blocking his path. Djarin didn't seem like he was going to bolt now, but Boba remembered how tense Djarin'd been when he'd realized that Boba had been between him and the door. “I like that.” 

Djarin shivered a little. He was warm. Boba was close enough now to feel the heat of his body. Moving slowly and carefully, Boba took a hand and did what he’d wanted to do since he’d brought his gaderffii down on Djarin in the sparring ring. He set his hand on top of Djarin’s thigh plate. Curled his fingers around the smooth edges of that beskar. 

The metal was cold. Djarin wasn’t. He went still when Boba touched him. His eyes went wide. Boba smiled at him, amused again, and pushed. 

He did it lightly enough. Boba couldn’t see what Djarin’s leg looked like, not like this, and he didn’t want to cause true pain. He just wanted Djarin to see what Boba’d been talking about. To understand. 

As soon as Boba pressed down, Djarin growled and jerked, twisting like he meant to lurch off the stool towards Boba. It was another, easy instinct for Boba to take his free hand and catch Djarin by the throat. 

He did that gently too, or at least did it as gently as he could. There wasn’t really a soft way to grab a man by the throat, and the look in Djarin’s eyes, wild and challenging, told Boba that Djarin didn’t want Boba to be soft. 

Still, choking Djarin out wasn’t something that Djarin’d agreed to and it wasn’t the kind of thing that Boba wanted to do without talking to Djarin first – without knowing for sure that Djarin would understand just what it was that he was agreeing to – so Boba was careful to keep his grip loose. 

He set his thumb at the corner of Djarin’s jaw. Even through his gloves, Boba could feel Djarin’s pulse hammering wildly. Djarin was still for another fraction of a second, and then his own instincts kicked in and he reached up to try to pry Boba’s hand away from his throat. His helmet fell from his hands, clattering against the floor. 

“None of that, now,” said Boba firmly, keeping his grip steady. If Djarin struggled, he’d hurt himself. Djarin stared at Boba, eyes wild, but obeyed. His immediate obedience made Boba want to smile. 

“Relax,” Boba added, as Djarin’s heart beat hard against Boba’s thumb. “You can still breathe, yeah?” 

Djarin took a few shallow breaths, his throat working against Boba’s palm. Boba didn’t loosen his grip, but he gave Djarin a few more seconds to realize that he was alright. 

“I need to hear you say it,” Boba said. “Can you breathe?” 

Djarin finally blinked, swallowing. “Yes,” he said. His voice had changed. Without his vocorder, Djarin sounded – uncertain. There was a hesitance to him that his helmet usually hid. He finally looked Boba in the eyes, too, and Boba could see Djarin’s shock. His confusion.  

“Jate,” said Boba warmly, immediately rewarding Din’s obedience. Djarin’s eyes widened at the praise. Boba couldn’t help but soften, instinctively adjusting his approach. He didn’t know what Djarin wanted just yet, but praise was usually well-received. “Very good,” Boba said. He didn’t have enough mando’a to tell Djarin to let go of his hand. 

Both of Djarin’s hands were wrapped around Boba’s. Djarin had a good grip. A warrior’s grip. He could break Boba’s hold, if he wanted to. 

“I want you to let go of my hand, alright?” Boba said, speaking slowly so that Djarin could hear him over the adrenaline, the confusion, that must be crashing through him now. 

Djarin blinked. His grip didn’t loosen. 

“Grip the edge of the counter, if you have to,” Boba said. Theran didn’t need anything to hold onto during a session, but it was alright if Djarin did. “But I need you to let go. I can make you, if you need me to.” 

Boba’d have to let go of Djarin’s leg to break his grip, but that wouldn’t be the worst thing. Djarin had given Boba a hell of a fight in the sparring ring, but here, now, Djarin was off-balance. Unsteady. 

Djarin swallowed again, looking a bit like Boba’d punched him between the eyes, and finally obeyed. His fingers loosened, one by one, and Djarin let go of Din’s hand. 

He did grab the counter, one hand on either side of Boba, clutching the wood so hard that Boba heard his gloves creak, but he let go of Boba’s hand. 

“Good,” Boba praised again, watching as Djarin swayed towards him like he’d been caught in a gravity well. Like he couldn’t stay away. 

Boba liked this part. His own heartbeat picked up, not as fast as Djarin’s, but fast enough. 

“Very good,” Boba repeated. “Don’t let go.” 

Djarin didn’t say anything. He’d heard Boba, Boba knew that he had. He applied just a bit of pressure to Djarin’s throat. Djarin’s breath caught again, a sweet little sound and a dark sort of satisfaction preened in Boba’s chest. 

Maybe I didn’t burn as much off with Theran as I thought. 

“I need to tell you that you understand,” Boba said. 

Djarin stirred again, heart hammering, but managed to say, voice thick, “Yes. Yes, I understand.” 

Boba made a pleased noise. “This is going to hurt,” he warned. He made sure that his grip on Djarin’s throat was loose, so that Djarin could breathe without trouble, and then returned his attention to the plate of armor across the top of Djarin’s thigh. 

Slowly and deliberately, Boba began to push. 

Djarin lasted three or four seconds before he made a sound, a low, thin noise of pain. It was as sweet as music. Djarin’s eyes met Boba’s again and his pupils were almost entirely blown, his eyes black in the dim light of the kitchen. Djarin’s mouth parted.

He wanted to collapse against Boba’s body, but he wasn’t letting himself. Djarin stayed straight as his spear, shoulders back, chin still tilted defiantly. That was alright. Boba had some time. 

He kept pushing. Pressure bruises weren’t really Boba’s specialty, but he understood the theory, and it’d be a good demonstration for Djarin, one that would show him what Boba meant about pain without scaring him or putting Djarin on his knees. 

I do want to put him on his knees, Boba thought, the desire flashing through him. He’d look good on his knees. 

This wasn’t about what Boba wanted, though. Djarin caught another thin sound of pain, gritting his teeth, and tried to pull away from Boba again, though he didn’t let go of the counter, so Boba was fairly confident that Djarin wasn’t really trying to get away. He watched Djarin’s mouth closely, ready to let go at the first sign of gev, but Djarin didn’t say it. 

“Easy,” Boba soothed, resisting the urge to lean in and nose at Djarin’s temple. Djarin kept fighting. Boba sighed. “You’re stubborn, you know that?” 

Djarin flashed his teeth again, snarling at Boba, and another wave of amusement rose and fell behind Boba’s ribs. 

He did like Djarin. Djarin was a fighter. 

“Easy, Djar’ika,” Boba said, the name falling off of his tongue before Boba could snatch it back. It wasn’t a conventional nickname, as far as Mandalorian nicknames went, but Boba liked the sound of it better than Din’ika, and he hadn’t yet called Djarin by his first name anyway. 

Djarin evidently felt otherwise, because he jerked again at the nickname and made a sound like an angry anooba. 

Boba couldn’t help but laugh. “Easy,” he said again, trying to help Djarin understand. He didn’t ease up on Djarin’s leg and he didn’t let go of Djarin’s throat, either. “Don’t fight me so hard. Lean into it. Let it happen.” 

Djarin showed no sign of listening, so Boba tried something else. For Theran, it was mostly about the pain. Theran didn’t care much for restraints, for being held down, for being made to take a flogging. 

But Djarin was Mandalorian, and Mandalorians were peculiar. Proud. Mando ossik, Boba thought. Maybe Djarin would only let himself enjoy this once he realized that he couldn’t get out of it. 

“It’s not like you have any other choice, yeah?” Boba asked, following the instinct. He’d made pretty good guesses so far, anyway, and decided that he might as well keep following his luck. “Unless you have something you want to say?” Boba loosened his grip, reminding Din that he could speak, if he wanted to. If Djarin didn’t like this – if he was really struggling, and not just putting up a token fight because he thought that he had to – he could stop it with a word. 

Uncertainty flickered across those dark eyes of Djarin’s. He panted against Boba’s hand. He was tense again, wound taut, and his breath came short with fear. 

But he didn’t say gev. He didn’t say gev. He looked Boba in the eye, his teeth half-bared in pain, and didn’t ask Boba to stop. 

Boba smiled at him. Stroked a thumb against the corner of Djarin’s jaw. 

Djar’ika, he thought. “I think,” Boba said. “That I can help.”

[player1064]

I love your drabbles. How about this this time it is Phil's turn to walk in on them during some heavy petting (on a sofa, under a duvet?) but unlike the others he is totally oblivious for the longest time, until he's basically going "haha lads why are you acting so strange, are you not wearing any pants haha :).... :) .... :) ... :l lads?"

YESSSS I love this honestly. Phil Neville voted most annoying younger brother in the world for the 47th year running.........

---

The beauty of living alone, Gary’s always liked to think, is that – well, that you’re left alone. And that if, hypothetically, you wanted some adult company then, hypothetically, you could invite your colleague/maybe best friend/maybe boyfriend over and would be free to enjoy his adult company on any surface you liked, because there’s nobody who could stop you because, crucially, you live alone.

The trouble with hypotheticals is that they don’t often factor in annoying little brothers.

So, Gary’s lying back on his giant sofa, enjoying some adult company with the Scouse bastard/definite bane of his existence/maybe love of his life, when they hear the front door click open and both freeze.

“Fucking Phillip,” Gary mutters, extracting himself out from under Jamie with a sigh.

“Thought you said his flight only got in later?”

Gary glances at his watch, swipes away the ‘high heart rate’ warning to check the time, and groans. “Seems we lost track of time.” He straightens his jumper and turns his head towards the open living room door. “Din’t anyone ever teach you to knock,” he calls out to where he hears his brother still shuffling around in the entryway.

“What’ve I got a key for, then, if I ‘ave to knock,” Phil calls back. There’s a couple of seconds silence while he pads in his socks down the hall, which Jamie and Gary use to frantically check they’re both presentable, and then he’s sticking his head round the doorway with a smile. “’sides, I thought you were probably workin’, since you didn’t answer my text when I landed. Oh! Hiya, Carra, I weren’t expectin’ to see you today.”

He wanders over, uninvited, to flop down on the couch next to them. “What a flight, I tell ya I’m knackered. And I couldn’t even get direct, neither. Absolute nightmare, but it’s good to be home. Julie and the kids send their love, they’re already asking when you’re comin’ over to visit. New house is pretty nice, an’ all.”

When he finally stops for breath, Jamie slaps his thighs and goes to stand up, saying “how’s about I leave you two to catch up, ‘s a long drive home for me, maybe I can beat the traffic.”

Gary shoots him a glare that he hopes says ‘if you leave this room I will kill you.’

Jamie sits back down.

“We were gonna order somethin’ for dinner, Carra, weren’t we?” he asks, inching his hand across to pinch Jamie in the side to make sure he behaves. “What’d’you fancy, Phil, you’re my guest of honour.”

“Ooh, I could go for a fish and chips, to be fair. And mushy peas, y’don’t get those in Portland…”

“Sounds great! D’you want to go collect, then, and me ‘n James can tidy up a bit round here.”

Phil tilts his head back against the back of the couch. “I only just got in!” he whines, “give us a break, just order it on one of the apps.”

There doesn’t seem much use in trying to argue, so Gary gets out his phone and hands it to Phil once he’s got the local chippie’s deliveroo page open. Phil takes his sweet time to pick out what to get, which seems an uneccessary kind of torture when his whole life he’s literally never ordered anything but a medium cod and chips with gravy and mushy peas.

When he hands the phone back to Gary, he pauses, tilts his head with a frown.

“Oh, Gaz, y’ve got somethin’ on your neck there, lemme just –”

Jamie displays the kind of quick reaction time that he barely even managed in his playing days and grabs Gary by the chin, tilting his head with force so that his neck is angled towards him and away from Phillip.

“No need,” he says breezily, lifting his thumb to his mouth to wet it like he’s an anxious mother trying to get a speck of dirt, “here, lemme see…”

He rubs his thumb against what he knows damn well is not a speck of dirt, which he knows is a fresh bruise by virtue of the fact that he’s the one who just put it there, and when Gary’s breath hitches at the pressure against it he shoots him a wicked grin because he is evil, he is sick and twisted and Gary is going to kill him.

“Aw, no,” says Phil, leaning in closer to peer at the mark, “it’s not budging, must be a skin thing. Are you getting stress hives again, Gaz, I thought you said you were takin’ it easy for a bit?”

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” Gary says tightly. Jamie releases his neck and Gary shakes his head around a bit to get it feeling normal again.

When Jamie lowers his hand back down, however, it lands to rest lightly on Gary’s thigh, fingers curled just above his knee, because he is a fucking bastard.

Phil shrugs and flops back to where he was on the sofa, idly picking up the TV remote. “Anythin’ good on TV lately?” he asks, pulling up the channel guide, “I tell ya what, me ‘n Julie’ve been watchin’ this –”

“—Why don’t you go unpack, Phillip?” Gary interrupts quickly, because he feels Jamie’s hand slowly tracing up his thigh and he doesn’t need for there to be any witnesses when he murders him in a few seconds. “Freshen up before food comes, maybe, you were just sayin’ what a long flight you’ve had.”  

“Ooh, you’re right, maybe I’ll even run a bath if there’s time.”

Gary nods encouragingly, maybe a bit frantically, and sits tense until Phil wanders back out, humming the tune of some silly little pop song.

When he’s safely out of earshot, Gary hisses “you fucking bastard”, and slams his mouth against Jamie’s, pushes him backwards and swings a leg over him to straddle his hips.

Jamie just grins against his lips, slips a hand under his jumper. “How long d’you think that’s bought us?” he mutters, “ten minutes? Can get a lot done, w’that.”

“Y’better make it at least fifteen or I’m not invitin’ you back.”

“Bossy, bossy,” Jamie says, still grinning, then he scrapes his teeth over Gary’s bottom lip and Gary forgets that he's meant to be annoyed with him.

“Was gonna call Julie but I left me phone in ‘ere, silly me,” comes Phil’s voice from just outside. Gary freezes. Jamie does too, but it’s much too late for either of them to do anything besides that, because by then Phil is already stood in the doorway flushed a bright red.

“Oh!” he says. He blinks a few times. “Oh! Oh, alright then, I’ll just – food’s in half an hour, yeah? I’ll just – I were gonna call Julie, and the kids…” he says, before practically sprinting out the room and back down the corridor.

Jamie just laughs, pulls Gary back down to kiss him again. “Look at that, lad,” he murmurs, “half an hour, eh? Could get a lot done twice, w’that.”

Gary’s torn, momentarily, about what he should do with this idiot he’s got underneath him. Killing him does seem tempting. He rolls his eyes. “Not on yer life,” he says, and kisses him back.

[masschase]

M-A-T-T-M-I-L-L-E-R

I finally commissioned @whoredmode 😊

There was a stunned silence, his eyes searching her as if he was still trying to process. She gave him a hopeful smile. God, if he somehow rejected her after all of this, she was going to run straight into the simulation and shoot everything up for a month.

I just can't stop staring at it. This is exactly how I pictured this moment in my head. Amazing job, thank you so much Ted.

Full context and excerpt below. But TLDR... Casey decided to give an a more accurate answer to Matt and Shaundi's questions at the start of GOOH.

To set the context, after the whole Matt-getting-shot-love confession thing(I wrote about that in an ask answer here), Asha appears in 2016 after Casey in 2022 remembers and sends her(though not before having to be physically restrained from going to rescue him herself and risking erasure from existence), and manages to jump Matt back to the ship in time for the Zin to treat him.

They put him in a medically induced coma which is supposed to last up to 48 hours but ends up roughly double that as Zin estimates for that kind of thing tend to be off. But (once she's gone after the perpetrator, who unfortunately gets away for now due to her heel snapping at an inoppurtune moment) she barely leaves his side until he wakes.

When he does though, after they talk for a while she asks if they want to go back to "what we were doin' in 2016" and he looks like he's struggling with it but turns her down, saying he can't go through that again and that their friendship is too important to him. This throws her. She's crushed and leaves in rather a hurry.

When she relays this conversation later, Asha points out she made it sound like she was interested in another "sex only" arrangement, and that if she really wants to be with Matt she's going to have to make a very clear statement that she's looking for an actual relationship. Possibly even be romantic. Johnny, having talked to Matt after Casey did, is pretty mad at her for not just telling him how she feels when she knows he loves her.

Jane helps her talk through things and when she admits that she's not surw which version of her Matt's love confession relates to, even though she knows it makes no sense for it to be the younger her. She told Jane her feelings for Matt must have started to develop since she came back from hell; with her making Matt her lieutenant and the two of them spending more time together. Jane tells her she believes Matt has had some form of attachment to her since at least that time, because of the question he asked the Ouija board at Kinzie's party.

From that comes her idea. That, and the candles she happened to think he looked so beautiful in two weeks ago when they were cuddled up together during a powercut. She also makes pecan pie because she found out in 2016 it was his favorite, and it's the only thing she can cook, and sets Last Dance to come on at precisely 8pm. She is throwing everything at the wall here.

So it's no surprise that around 7.45, Ms. "I-don't-get-nervous" finds herself waiting by the couch they spend every Friday night on, growing incredibly nervous.

God she hoped he was going to show up. He’d better fucking show up. She shouldn’t have come down here so early. She was fucking pacing. Maybe she should’ve worn something sexy, not her usual spacesuit. Maybe she should have gotten some booze to loosen them both up first. She couldn’t do this. No, she could. She had to. Ugh it was all stupid. No it wasn’t. He’d love it. He’d turn her down again. FUCK. She took a second to try and stop overthinking and just breathe. When she opened her eyes, he was just coming around the corner, hands awkwardly tucked behind his back much as hers were. “Hey!” she greeted. “Alright?” he replied, smiling, then stopped in his tracks. “Bloody hell, that’s a lot of candles.” She nodded. “Yeah, kinda.” She had dotted them all around the couch. At least three times as many as when they’d cuddled up together there two weeks ago. Thank god they were flameless; she could barely be trusted with fire inside the simulation, let alone outside of it. Looking around her reminded her she had gone too far to turn back. Looking at his beautiful face in the candlelight reminded her that she didn’t want to. “Are we... expecting another power cut?” “Uh... no... uh... hey, are you... feeling ok?” she checked. “Should you be standing?” “Actually it feels nice to stand for a sec. And the Zin physio is fantastic.” “Lucky you.” she commented, remembering her own unpleasant post-coma recovery. “Oh I... I didn’t mean to be insensitive.” “No... it’s OK...”. She smiled. “I’m... I’m glad they were able to fix you up so fast.” “Yeah.” he said, sounding unusually awkward. “I um... I didn’t see you at dinner.” “Oh...” she replied. “Yeah.”. It was true, she'd been so preoccupied by what she was doing that she hadn't eaten since Shaundi had brought her lunch to Matt’s bedside. Actually she’d barely eaten anything for the past few days. “It’s OK.” “Oh... well... I um... I got you something.” She looked at him, intrigued. He was kind of making her more nervous here by making him wait but she’d be damned if she ruined it. He smiled and pulled out a Freckle Bitch’s bag. “You don’t have to share if you don’t want to, though.” “Matty, that’s so sweet!” she exclaimed, a smile lighting up her own face too. “You’re... you’re always so nice to me.” “And um...” he said awkwardly. “I... wanted to thank you for... everything you've done and you said no-one had ever really bought you flowers before so um...” he pulled out a small bouquet of white roses. “They um... reminded me of your hair and...” he glanced down at them. “I don’t know.” He’d bought her food and flowers. The most ridiculous grin spread over her face. It took all her strength not to run across the room and kiss him. But she was in the middle of something, so instead she lingered awkwardly. “So, Nyte Blayde?” he checked, taking a step towards her. “I’m guessing you only watched one last week so we’re on-“ “One second.” she blurted out, interrupting him and halting his advance across the room. He frowned ever so slightly. “Everything alright?” “Yeah, I uh... just want to talk to you about somethin’.” “Oh... ok?” “Uh...” she gave him a nervous smile. “Matty, you uh... you remember that Ouija board you brought to Kinzie's party?” she asked gently. “Um... the one that led to you being dragged into a massive portal into Hell?” he replied, grimacing. “Hard to forget something like that.” “Yeah... that one.” she confirmed. “Do you remember... how all that shit happened?” “Um... I think so...”. He stared at her, obviously trying to work out her intentions. “Are you about to finally make me take the blame?” She laughed a little. “No. Just wondering if you still remember what you asked it.” “Oh... um... yeah.” he said, looking confused. “I asked um... “Will the President slash God-Emperor-for-life, ever choose a partner to reign alongside them?””

She hesitated. Was she really going to do this? This was fucking lame. But she'd made the damn thing now. She pulled out the shitty fake Ouija board she’d drawn on a piece of card, and the bracelet Johnny had leant her. She held it up for him to read, and slid the bracelet to ‘Yes.’. His face turned from slight confusion to utter bemusement. “And then you said...”. She rolled her eyes as she continued, imitating his sing-song tone. “Someone’s gettin' married!” “Right.” he laughed, looking embarrassed. “And you said “Shut up Matt.”” “Can you blame me?” she asked with a smile. And then uh... Shaundi said... uh...” They both paused for a second, thinking. “She asked it... um...” Matt said nervously, then looked her straight in the eyes. “Who will... tame the Emperor’s... wild heart?” She paused, staring back at him. She angled the board a little so she could see what she was doing, and slid the bracelet across it to spell “M-A-T-T-M-I-L-L-E-R.”. There was a stunned silence, his eyes searching her as if he was still trying to process. She gave him a hopeful smile. God, if he somehow rejected her after all of this, she was going to run straight into the simulation and shoot everything up for a month. “I just want to check this means... what I think it means?” he asked, sounding apprehensive. “I wanna be with you, Matt. More than anything.” she admitted. “If you want somethin’... like... a real... relationship... y’know... whatever that... would be...” she added in a mumble. He seemed to freeze up completely at that, his eyes wide, his mouth a little open. She wanted to beg him to say something, anything, but the silence forced her to continue. “And look... I uh...” she sighed. “I'm never gonna be able to give you the romance you deserve because I’m shit at talkin’ about my feelings and... I know I’m thirty-one now, and I’m kinda an asshole, and I’m sure not as cool as I used to be but y’know, I really think-“ She was interrupted as he walked straight up to her, threw his arms around her and kissed her passionately, dropping both the bag and the roses onto the couch behind her. She brought both arms up around his neck as she returned the kiss, the badly homemade Ouija board crumpling and falling and the bracelet clattering to the floor. It had been so long since she’d felt him kiss her like this. Like he fucking adored her.

(Which is the moment I drew here.)

Thanks to some creative use of Casey's obsession with Jane Austen on Matt's part, she was able to overcome her issues and confess her love for him that night, too.

Of course, the Freckle Bitch's was ruined after being dropped so suddenly, and the roses got left on the couch overnight.

But unsurprisingly, neither of them gave a shit about that.