#he went to the desert to get sand and they told him to fuck off

[with-both-my-hearts]

Anyone else listen to the Imp & Skizz podcast? There was just something so funny to me about Impulse implying in today's ep that Scar started getting non-PG after bearing witness to a suggestive joke Skizz made once.

[ihavethedreamies]

Desert Storms | Woozi

Lee Jihoon (Woozi - Seventeen)

Rating: M (18+) MDNI

Word Count: ~4k

Pairing: Woozi x AFAB!Reader

Genre: Sci-Fi AU!, Reader-Insert, Smut, Some Plot, Hookup/One-Night-Stand/Strangers to Fucking

!!This is smut…if that much isn't clear you should probably leave now!! MDNI!

Warnings: She/Her Pronouns used, Pet Names (Doll, Baby Girl, etc.), Swearing, Kissing, Oral (M! & F! Receiving), 69-ing, Bondage? Tied up but not like that, Unprotected Sex (Use a condom!)

Author's Note: I plan on doing a story for each member of Seventeen that is this Sci-Fi, desert world, Alternate Universe, but not according to any kind of schedule.

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I am cross-posting this on Archive and Wattpad. Please reblog! If you know anyone that would like this or future fics but they aren't on here my name and icon are exactly the same on the other sites. Happy reading!

"Shit. Shit. Shit-" You cursed. You cursed yourself, you cursed the desert, the planet, everything. Why? Sandstorm. Your rover was having trouble keeping ahead of it and you were pushing her to her limits. One of the real issues with sandstorms on the planet of Sierra-Victor-Tango versus Earth was…acid. The giant burrowing space worms that lived under the dunes spit literal acid. Because of this, the sand at deeper levels was infused with that acid. So, you really, really didn't want to be out in that. The problem was, if enough of the acid sand hit the rover, it could damage it badly, and take out the glass. Then you would have been screwed. The storm was getting worse as it traveled and to stay on the road, you couldn't drive straight away from it. All of a sudden, a message came over the transceiver.

"Hey, uh, I can see you from my base. In like a kilometer take a right and then you'll be able to see it and then you can just drive straight in." A man's voice came in, the receiver made the audio crackly from the high wind. You knew about the base, but it was private, so you didn't really know anything about it. If the guy was offering, you would take him up on it. You hit the button on your radio and shouted over the noise, "Okay, great, thanks!" You weren't sure if he saw you on some kind of radar or what. Right where he told you, you took the turn and cringed at the rattling noise your rover let off. Unfortunately, the direction he had you turn was leading you more into the path of the storm. Luckily though, you didn't have far to go. Slowing down a bit, you saw the hatch to the base open just enough for your rover to fit through. As soon as your rover started to go down the ramp into the base, the door closed, and you could hear your own thoughts again. Slowing down, you sighed in relief and stopped the rover. There was another one parked down there that was much nicer and much bigger. You pulled up and shut it off, honestly not knowing if it would start when you went to leave. The motor rattled as it shut off and you had to kick the door open after you pulled the handle. Slamming the door shut, you coughed as a bunch of sand dust blasted back at you.

"How'd you get caught out in a sandstorm?" You recognized the voice of the guy who contacted you, actually able to hear it clearly. You stepped around the rover to look at him standing in the doorway that actually led into the base. He was…gorgeous actually. Not very tall yourself, you had no room to talk, but he was pretty short. However, he compensated for this by working out it seemed because he was thick. His black shirt was sleeveless and tight, his pants were equally as tight. He had longer wavy black hair pulled halfway back into a small ponytail. You waved to acknowledge his presence and retrieved your pack from the hatch of your vehicle and slung it onto your back. Approaching him, you got an even better look at his face. There was a small scar over his brow ridge that left a clean cut into his eyebrow, another small scar on the opposite cheek near his jaw. A set of snakebite piercings rested under his lower lip and his eyes were red. Not like bloodshot, his irises were red. You didn't know if it was natural or not. His ears had some ear piercings, a long pendant hanging down from the left ear with an upside-down triangle-like design. Each finger had an identical silver ring on them that probably served some purpose.

"Thank you for letting me shelter here." You told him, adjusting your bag on your shoulder.

"Here." He reached for it, and you hesitated for a second but handed the large pack over, keeping your satchel with you. Motioning with his head, he went deeper into the base, and you went up the short three metal stairs and inside, the door sliding closed behind you. You followed him down the short hallway, the metal was old and worn but more or less clean. There was an intersection not too far down the hall, but he kept going forward. You reached another sliding door and when he led you in, it was a stark contrast. Everything looked brand new, fancy, top of the line. It was a giant open living space with a large sectional couch and fancy holo-screen. There was a giant round table to the left and there was a decorative wall that had the kitchen on the other side. It looked like there was another big open space behind the kitchen with a bunch of consoles and other equipment set up. On the other side of the living room there was a large bedroom with the doors open and the hall went in both directions past it.

"Wow…" You gaped, looking around. The same logo that was on his earring was found in multiple places around, a big hologram floating above the center of the table, printed on the glass of the decorative wall, even scored into the glass of the coffee table.

"The storm is supposed to dissipate soon, but then another big one is coming in. You can stay here through it, no one else is here. Normally my co-commander is here too but he's not right now." The man told you and his voice brought you attention back to him. This place looked like more money was put into it than your entire hometown.

"What is this place?"

"Ever heard of the Rangers?"

"Yes?"

"This is our main base." He motioned with his head again and you followed after him as he led you down the hallway to nearly the end. The door at the end opened and he had brought you to a beautiful bedroom with a sitting area, king-sized bed, and a giant bathroom behind the bed.

"I can stay here?" You gawked and he let your bag thump on the ground as he smirked.

"Yeah, no one is using it. Woozi." He held his hand out and you nervously shook it. Even though he himself was pretty short, you were still a good three or four inches shorter than him.

"Oh, uh, (Y/N)."

"Where are you from?" Woozi moved back out of the room, and you trotted after him as he led you back toward the kitchen.

"Morgran town." You informed. He told you to take a seat at the counter and you jumped up on the stool and he opened the ice box.

"I'm not a wonderful cook so I don't have any fancy ingredients, but I can mix all this together with some rice." He had taken a bunch of small containers of leftovers and set them on the counter.

"Okay!" You were starving and hadn't had a normal meal in quite a while. He set up the rice cooker and you wondered if this was how homes on Terra looked.

"Were you born here?" Woozi asked.

"Yes. You?"

"Nah. I was born on Pledis and moved here when I was about eighteen."

"Why?"

"The co-commander, Seungcheol, convinced me to come here with him and start our own faction of Rangers. Not only are there a lot of runaway criminals here, but a lot of people who need help in the middle of the desert." He cast you a sly look as he hit the button on the rice cooker. You laughed nervously at this, and he leaned against the counter in front of you. Lord, he was hot. The way he was positioned, the muscles in his arm flexed and his shirt spread tight over his chest. He huffed when he noticed you were ogling him, and his hand came to your chin. He moved your head up, so you looked him in the eye again and your face exploded into a blush.

"U-uh, I…I'm-"

"Don't worry, doll." He tilted his head to the side, looking over your face, his thumb coming up to stroke your bottom lip. Woozi backed up with a smirk and you avoided his gaze, turning in your stool to get down and go near the couch.

"Your holo-screen is huge." You marveled and he moved out of the kitchen to join you, pointing for you to sit.

"Tap the table." He told you and you saw a little flashing light and pressed it, a holographic module popping up that worked as the remote.

"Watch whatever, I have to go finish something." He told you. You watched from the corner of your eye as he went to the room behind the kitchen, your eyes moving down to look at his ass in those tight black pants. When he got completely out of view you looked back at the module and found a listing of movies and shows that you had only ever dreamed of seeing. They even had ones that were over a hundred years old! Selecting one, a movie series based off an even older set of books about elves and wizards, you sat back to watch it. There was another button on the module that flashed, catching your attention. You tapped it, and a second smaller screen popped up in the corner showing the radar of the storms incoming.

"Shit." You groaned. Woozi had been right. The one you just escaped was still lingering over the area and there was another bigger one coming right behind it. At the bottom of the corner there might have been a third one developing as well. Oh well, it could be worse than being stuck in a fancy underground base with an extremely attractive man.

It was only about thirty minutes after you started the movie he came back out, the only reason you noticed was because the rice cooker had gone off. Pausing the movie, you got up and went to sit at the counter, watching as he mixed everything together and your mouth watered. He left it all in the same big bowl, grabbed two spoons, then nodded for you to follow him back into the living area. You hesitantly sat down, and he sat way closer to you than you even hoped for and handed you a spoon. Glancing at him, you sat back still mostly rigid, and hit play on the movie. After you got to eating it and realized how starving you were, you soon forgot that he was so close to you. He watched in amusement as you scarfed it down and you both had soon finished it off.

"Thanks for letting me stay here. I looked at the radar and it looks like the storms are just going to keep coming." You groaned, resting your head on the back of the couch. Your eyes were closed so he took the chance to look you over like you had been him. The thin fabric of your shirt had ridden up some and revealed the smooth skin on your tummy and waist, tanned with a smattering of freckles from sun exposure. Your long hair was tied back in a braid, and you wore tight leggings with mesh side panels to allow for more breathability. It wasn't too often he ran into anyone, even women, who were that much smaller than him, let alone that cute. His eyes shot back to your face, your eyes still closed and he wondered if you had fallen asleep already. Woozi wanted to just grab you and haul you onto his lap. Living out in the middle of the desert with only the rest of the guys in his Ranger group didn't give many opportunities for him to be with a woman. Now, one had just happened to show up. He didn't want to push it, but with you how you had been looking at him…

"Ugh, I think I wore myself out trying to get out of that storm. The adrenaline has finally gone away it seems." You tipped your head back and forth, your neck popping to relieve some pressure. He glanced at his watch, and it was pretty late. This time of year, the sun didn't get very low, so it was bright nearly all of the time.

"Go sleep then. If I'm not out here when you get up, you can just grab whatever from the kitchen. I'll let you know if the storm lets up sooner." He stood up with the bowl to clean it up and he watched you trudge sleepily down the hall and into the room he let you use. When you got in there, you marveled at the luxury and peeled your clothes off so you could take an actual legitimate shower. The water felt like heaven, and you were glad your spare underwear and clothes were clean. Just putting on your leggings over your panties and redoing a wrap-around breast band, you climbed in the amazing bed and immediately fell asleep.

A loud and echoing crash startled you awake, the sound of metal crunching was the opposite of reassuring. When it happened again you jumped out of the bed and ran out of the room and down the hall. You assumed the only room with the door closed was his and you got ready to knock, but the door just slid open. He was sitting up at a desk across from the bed and he glanced over at your panicked face.

"What the hell was that noise?"

"The metal crushing?"

"Yes!" You gaped and came further into the room.

"Sand worm. We're fine." He assured you, and when it happened again, you jumped so hard he got up and went to you.

"Hey, it's fine." He placed his hands on your arms, and he felt you were shaking.

"That's NOT a sand worm." You insisted, the noise happened again but louder. Even he was a little surprised by the volume of it and he walked past you and toward the equipment room. You followed close behind him and he typed on the console and a hologram of the base popped up, a bright red flashing dot appearing the top right corner.

"Oh, great." He grunted and you looked at him then back to the dot.

"What?"

"The storm must have damaged the drone silo; it seems they're all falling out of the hangar." He clicked his tongue, and you sighed in relief. Sure, that sounded expensive, but a giant monster wasn't going to break in. You were still shaking a bit; your adrenaline had spiked again but your body was so worn out that it wiped you out more.

"(Y/N)?"

"Yeah?" He stepped closer and he was dangerously close to you now.

"I won't let anything happen to you, doll." He smirked, his finger coming up and brushing a lock of hair away from your face, which turned red.

"No?" You stepped even closer, your own hand moving to trace over the rings he had on each finger. The smirk grew and the hand you were touching wrapped around yours and he pulled you to him. Chest to chest, his other arm wrapped around you, your other hand resting on his shoulder. Woozi brought your linked fingers to his lips and kissed over your knuckles, and when he reached your thumb, he sucked it into his mouth. You exhaled harshly and your free hand cupped his jaw.

"How about I help you relax?" He asked, his fiery gaze meeting yours.

"Please." You whispered; his lips so close to yours now. Letting your hand go, you dropped it to his other shoulder, and his strong arms engulfed you, pressing you into him. Woozi sealed his lips over yours and you whined, his tongue immediately swirling around yours. He tasted good, almost like some kind of soda you only had once or twice in your life. His hands on you were hot, his body pressed to yours was hard and his kiss was consuming. When he finally pulled away from the kiss, a trail of saliva connected your lips and you nearly slumped against him. His presence was all encompassing, and your head was already swimming, he was some kind of drug.

"Can I do something?" You ask, his lips still close to yours, your breath mingling.

"Whatever you want, doll." Woozi complied, so you pulled back a bit but instead of stepping away from him, you sank to your knees. His finger came to your chin and made you look up at him.

"If you're going to do that, I want you to sit on my face while you do." He told you and your eyes widened.

"Okay." You shrugged and instead of reaching his hand to help you up, he bent and scooped you into his arms and carried you to the bed. You weren't big, but he did it so easily. Letting out an 'oof' as he dropped you onto his bed, your eyes got bigger as he began to strip. The tight black shirt came off and you nearly drooled. His body looked just as good as it felt, and you couldn't wait for him to drop his pants. He undid his belt and with an aggressive snap, he pulled it off and dropped it on the floor. With a smirk, he made eye contact with you and let his pants fall. You were not expecting him to have nothing on underneath and his hard cock bounced some from being released, smacking against his stomach. Your mouth watered. Stepping out of the clothes, he stalked over to you and pushed you onto your back. It wasn't hard or aggressive, more playful, and he hooked his fingers in the waist band of both your leggings and panties, then yanked them off. Woozi deftly unsnapped your breast band and threw that off you as well. Laying on his back, he patted his shoulders and you hesitantly moved to where he wanted you.

"Come on, doll." He wrapped his arms around your thighs and pulled your dripping cunt onto his face. You squealed, falling forward, and catching yourself on your arms. You found yourself right in front of his pretty cock and since he was already shoving his tongue into your core, you enveloped the head of his cock with your lips. Neither of you could get over how the other tasted and he grunted when you just kept swallowing his cock deeper into your mouth and throat. His arms tightened their hold around your thighs, and he sucked on your clit. You twitched at the sensation, losing your pace and you gagged on his cock. The spasming of your throat squeezed his cock deliciously and he couldn't wait to fill your cunt. When he buried his tongue inside you as deep as he could, you moaned again, the hand loosely holding his cock squeezed a bit and his hips jumped, making you swallow him more.

"Cum, doll." He ordered, nipping your clit and you did as he told. The vibrations of your moan hit his cock and you sucked hard, setting his own orgasm off. Spurts of sticky white cum painted your throat and mouth and dripped down his shaft when you couldn't contain it all. Still semi-hard, you pulled your mouth off of him with a pop, then licked him clean.

"You taste so good~" You cooed; he was about to tell you the same thing. Helping you dismount his face; you just roll over onto your back and flop to the bed. He smirked, sitting up and rolled you again so you were on your stomach. He kneeled behind you and lifted your hips up, making you rest on your knees. Your chest and face were still touching the mattress and he rubbed his thumb over you dripping folds, then the cold metal of his rings touched the flesh and you shivered.

"W-what do those do anyway?" You asked.

"Wanna find out?" When he asked you turned to look at him and nodded. Little blue sparks flew off of them, then a hologram-like gauntlet surrounded each hand. Suddenly, warmth spread over your skin, and you yelped as ribbon like tendrils shot out from his hands and wrapped around your body. It wasn't bondage, they just wrapped around like vines, over your legs and arms, your abdomen, and breasts. They were warm and tingled and when it got done, the end landed right above your clit.

"Oh, god." You gasped; the sensation dull but incredibly sensual.

"What about this?" He asked and then the ribbons tightened, and this forced a moan out of you. His hands then grabbed the flesh of your ass, the tingling hologram on his hands leaving the same sensation as the ribbons.

"Ready?" He asked and you felt the fat head of his cock at your entrance. Your body was buzzing in so many different ways and you whined positively, and he started to ease in. The burn of his girth fucking opens your walls heightened every other pleasurable sensation in your body and he groaned at how tight you were, so wet you were literally dripping.

"Ah~ (Y/N)…" He groaned finally filling you up completely. Your head was swimming and he simply grinded as deep into you as he could, his pelvis meeting your ass. When he didn’t do anything more than that you whined pitifully, needing him to move more than that.

"Woozi…" You mewled and he groaned.

"You're so tight, baby girl." His voice had rumbled through you. You yiped when the ribbons tightened then began to move again. You couldn't see behind you, but when he groaned, you felt the ribbons wrap around his cock as well and the heat intensified, and he began to move. His thrusts were shallow but hard, and he made sure to roll as deep as he could with each thrust.

"Fuck, I'm not letting you go anytime soon, doll. Even if the storm lets up." He grunted with each thrust, then stopped. You were about to complain but he leaned over you, his hands landing by your head, and you could see better the blue light around his hands.

"You want more?"

"Pl-please…" You huffed and he pumped his hips, snapping his cock into you hard after nearly pulling out all the way. Your mouth opened to scream, but nothing came out and tears pricked your eyes at the intense feeling of him rearranging your guts. He was fucking you like an animal, nearly growling above you, drool was leaving a dark spot near your mouth on the sheets.

"W-Woo-Woozi!" Feeling your orgasm coming fast, he leaned over you more, wrapping his arms around your middle to haul you up, his chest to your back. His hands cupped your breasts and the ribbons tightened even further and he grunted two more times, spilling inside of you, this sent you over the edge. One of his hands was on your throat, just lightly holding you in place as your whole body spasmed. You orgasm faded shortly after his and your body stung, the ribbons leaving you calmed the burn, and he helped you curl up in the bed. You watched the dancing patterns of the screen saver on his wall display, dazed, barely registering him moving around. When he came back into view you slightly noticed the continuing metal crunch of the drone silo, but it was the least of your concerns.

"You know, I think the storms might last a few days…" He sat on the bed next to you, wearing a pair of boxers now.

"I hope they last the whole month," You mumbled, and this made him laugh.

"Me too, doll."

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Ring of Fire (Cooper Howard x Reader)

Masterlist

You and Cooper are heading to collect a bounty, but it's a lot farther away than you anticipated. He's used to the sun but your pristine and non-irriated skin isn't. Heat stroke is imminent and could end up killing you if Cooper doesn't intervene.

(WARNINGS) - descriptions of heat stroke - descriptions of severe sunburns - descriptions of dehydration

The show reignited my fallout obsession but Cooper's character is so goddamn hard to write in a sorta romantic way since we mostly see him being an ass to everyone after the bombs. I still tried my best so hopefully it comes across okay. I think I also got the hang of his accent the more I wrote for this too

Anyway, I wrote this during a heat wave when I was miserable and needed some comfort lol so if you're reading this I hope it can bring you a little bit of comfort too. Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated :)

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Whoever said California was a pleasant heat sure as hell hadn’t walked through the desert after a nuclear fallout. Everything burned; the sand, the sun, the air, your legs, your nose. It was unbearable and if it hadn’t been over the promise of a large stack of caps at the end of the road you would have given up a long time ago. 

“If I see one more dried-up lakebed I’m gonna fucking lose it.” You mumbled, rubbing the sand from your eyes again. 

“Quit your complainin’, we’re almost there. An’ I told ya to stop doin’ that.” Cooper swatted at your arms, making you put them back down at your sides again. You scoffed but obeyed his directions. 

“I’m never gonna make it there if I can’t see where the fuck I’m going.” 

“Maybe, but you sure as shit ain’t gonna see nothin’ never again if your eye gets infected. Your body don’ have enough moisture to keep your eyes slick with the way you keep yappin’ your mouth off and wastin’ it.” He retorted back, his face snarled up into his usual scowl. You didn't say anything more for a good long while, not because of his fancy way of telling you to shut up but because talking was starting to become more and more physically taxing on you the farther along you went. There was nothing but more sand, more heat, and more nothingness for as far as you could see across the horizon. Every step added another weight to your head, making it feel like it was stopped up with cotton that weighed a million pounds and banged against the inside of your skull like a war drum. Your body felt like mush and your clothes felt twice as heavy. But you kept going, trudging behind your cowboy, using him as a guide through the pain. 

That is until you started to see three of him. And what was that whinnying sound you kept hearing coming from? Plus you swore there was a herd of something chasing the two of you what with all the stomping hooves you were hearing too, but every time you turned around there was nothing but sand dunes and the outline of destroyed L.A. on the horizon. 

“Wait. I…I think I need to take a break. In the shade preferably.” you stopped and told him after gunfire was added to the list of sounds you were hearing in the distance. One more step and you were sure you were going to end up with a mouth full of sand. 

“We don’ got time for pit stops sweetheart, keep movin’,” he replied back, still keeping his pace forward, not realizing you had stopped completely. Or just not caring. He wouldn’t leave you behind, not for long at least, but he still wasn’t listening. 

“Cooper fucking listen to me this time,” you shouted, hoping to catch his attention. You succeeded, as soon as his real name fell from your lips he made a dead stop in his tracks. “Please,” you added in a softer voice. You hadn’t meant to shout at him but your body was so overwhelmed and you were tired of being ignored. He tilted his face towards the sky and let out the most audible annoyed sigh you had ever heard from him before finally turning around to face you. 

“Alright, I’m sorry for pushin’ ya, just not so loud next time ‘kay? I don’ need the whole goddamn wasteland knowin’ my name.” he said as he walked back towards you. “Well, you’re still standin’ so that’s a good sign. What’s the matter?” you were used to his gruff exterior by now but you were just grateful he was finally taking you seriously. 

“I…I’m not sure? My head hurts so fucking much and I keep hearing things…I think. My skin feels like it's on fire and I-”

“Heat stroke. Goddamnit.” He cut you off, not even listening for you to list any more symptoms out loud. He sounded pissed, but you had learned by now that his angry voice and his overprotective voice were kinda one and the same. 

“...Heat what now?” you asked, but he never quelled your confusion. Instead he focused on scanning your surroundings. There wasn't much, there usually never was anyway, but he must've found something in the distance that would work for what he had planned. 

“Hm, that’ll do,” he said, more so to himself than to you. You weren’t really listening anyway, that whinnying sound was back and it was taking every ounce of energy you had left just to stay standing upright. He turned back to you and said…something, but you couldn't make out any of it. His lips were moving, sure, but all you could hear was muffled static as if you were underwater. Your face must have had a look of confusion plastered on it because it didn’t take long for him to figure out you were unresponsive, the way you just stared at him and blinked also didn’t help. 

He approached you and started to pull the sleeves of your jacket off, peeling the leather from your sticky sweaty skin off entirely. You stood there and let him, you may have been hearing things and had all the energy of a newborn sloth, but you could still recognize Cooper, and you trusted him more than anyone else. If he thought your jacket needed to come off then you trusted he had a good reason for doing so, even if the wind was starting to feel extremely cold on your exposed moist skin. 

He tried to talk to you again but you just continued to stare at him, watching his mouth move but none of the words making it to your ears. He shook his head and threw your jacket over his shoulder, grabbing one of your wrists and looping it over his back as he grabbed you under your arms and started to half drag you forward towards whatever makeshift shelter he had found. You tried to help, tried to get your legs to move with his, but it felt impossible. At some point, your head began to droop and your temple bashed into his shoulder, making you cry out in pain. He stopped to assess the damage, no doubt cursing you for being so clumsy even though you still couldn't hear him. He tucked a loose strand of your hair behind your ear and kissed your forehead where it had made impact with him before placing his hat on top of your head and continuing onward. The new barrier between the unforgiving sun and your dried-up eyes was a small relief to your unbearable discomfort, one you cherished every second of before your vision went dark for good this time. 

When you opened your eyes again you were thankfully in the shade this time, your skin still felt like it was on fire but at least the sun wasn't continuously beating on it now. You were sitting on the ground propped up against the side of a half-destroyed barn and you dug your fingertips into the sand, grasping for the cooler sand that usually lay a layer deeper than the surface, an old trick Cooper had taught you. 

The memory of that lesson in your mind had you spring up, frantically trying to find your cowboy again. Your jacket was still missing, and his hat was still on your head, but you couldn’t see him anywhere. You wanted to get up, you even tried to, but your limbs felt like jello and you discovered your toes and fingertips were numb. You tried again anyway, kicking at the sand with your feet to find purchase and clawing at the rotting barn boards to pry yourself upwards. 

“Hey, now it took a lotta effort to get you here, don’ tell me you wanna leave already.” You heard his voice and stopped, watching him as he came through one of the broken doorways into the barn, his spurs clicking behind him with every step. 

You blinked, making sure it was really him this time and not something else you were imagining again. But there he was; scorpion belt buckle, cowboy boots, saddle bags and all. He dropped what he was carrying next to the doorway, where you saw your jacket lying on the ground, and then came to sit in front of you, grunting as he knelt down and made himself comfortable. 

“Feelin' better?” he asked. You went to answer but then immediately felt just how dry your throat was. You coughed and tried to lick your lips, but your tongue felt like sandpaper against the already rough skin. You had never experienced a dried-up tongue before and you never wanted to again, it felt like a worm had crawled into your mouth and nested behind your teeth. Cooper was already prepared through and placed a can of water into your hands, already punctured with his knife. 

“Here. Small sips though, ‘kay?” he told you. You nodded, disappointingly understanding him even though you wanted to guzzle the whole can down right then and there. But you did as he told you, taking a slow and small sip, relishing the feeling of the liquid making its way down your throat and easing the pain a little. You tried to lick your lips again, this time succeeding in wetting the crusted-up skin. 

“How bad is it?” you croaked out, vaguely remembering what he had said earlier. Heat stroke, whatever that was, felt like one of the worst things to ever happen to you.

“Well, you’re still alive, despite losin’ consciousness and being fried up like an iguana on a stick from that there sun. I don’ think I’ve ever seen you with such a tan.” he smirked, poking fun at the lack of time you spent outside before meeting him. It wasn’t your fault life was safer inside a city and behind four walls of a shack, but still, it amused him to remind you of your sheltered past every chance he got. You rolled your eyes, grateful that you were at least still alive. 

“Will it scar? Or peel off like your skin did?” you asked, not sure which possibility you hated most. 

“Whaddaya mean?” he tilted his head at your question, confused. 

“You know, the burns.” you showed him your bright red and blistered forearms as emphasis to what you were talking about. You could only assume your face looked just as bad. He couldn’t help but laugh a little at your question, which only agitated you. “I’m being serious here!” you barked. You creased your brow, which you realized immediately was a huge mistake as the tension on the freshly raw skin caused fireworks to explode in your head and flames to shoot across your skin. You winced from the pain and that got him to stop chuckling. 

“Sorry sweetheart, no, neither is gonna happen. You might lose some skin, but not in the way you're thinkin’. It’s just a sunburn, not like you got attacked with a flamethrower. You’ll be fine.” he explained finally. You couldn’t help but sigh in relief, although you still weren’t sure what this so-called “sunburn” was and how it was different from a regular burn. But you knew he wouldn’t lie to you, so you believed him. 

“So what now? We still got at least a day’s walk to town.” with your emergent questions out of the way your mind turned right back to business. Caps were on the line and you were itching to claim them, despite the discomfort traveling imposed on you in your current state. He liked that about you, your desire for caps and the willingness to chase after them with him, though he would rather bite a radroach raw than tell you that to your face. 

“Now? Now we stay put for a while, at least til those burns heal up some. Ain’t no bit of leather and an ol’ beat-up hat gonna protect you enough from the sun if we try to continue on. Right now the only thing I need you to worry ‘bout is finishin’ that water that’s still in your hands.” he leaned back against the opposite wall from you, kicking his legs out and propping his head up with his hands. 

“But-” you tried to rebuttal his decision but he cut you off again before you could. 

“Nah uh, don’ even think about arguin’ here. We even try walkin’ and you’ll collapse again ‘fore we even make it a mile. Best to just stay here and try again once you’re not so dehydrated and redder than a tomato. Few days rest won’t hurt nothin’.” 

“Yeah maybe except our profits,” you told him, quicker this time so he couldn’t interrupt you again. 

“I ain’t riskin’ you over a pile of caps. We’ll make due either way,” he said before closing his eyes, marking the conversation officially over by him. You didn't have a reply anyway, it was rare for him to mention how he felt about you aloud, and each time he did you were left speechless. You stared down at the water can in your hands, tracing your finger gently over the raw edges of steel where his knife had cut through it for you. The metal had been bent back inside the can a little, almost as if someone had shoved a finger through the hole and pushed it back, smoothing out the outer edges where your lips had touched the can. Something in you had a suspicion that if you checked Cooper’s glove you would find scratch marks that would match the size of the hole perfectly. 

Your eyes flicked to him. You weren't sure if he was legitimately asleep or not, but his eyes were still closed and he hadn’t moved an inch. He always talked to you more like an old friend rather than a lover, yet you were pretty sure you were the only person he showed any amount of kindness to. Suddenly his hat felt a little heavier on top of your head as you sat there and pondered where your relationship with him stood. 

[its-in-the-woods]

Chapter four, Life's Too Short

Chapter one , two, three <- if you missed it.

Cooper howard/The Ghoul x Lucy Maclean

Post end of season 1

No beta.. I tried to edit 🫠

Ninety five percent written just tweaking

⚠️ Warning ⚠️

There will be canonically typical violence and eventually smut

There's lots of bl00d and g0re in this one

+18 only - MDN

Slow burn sorta kinda

Please be nice this my first fic in almost a decade 🫣

Will eventually post on AO3 once I can get access... or where suggested 🤷🏻‍♂️ Like please tell me I am old and don't know things anymore.

Lucy was running, her oversized boots felt like weights on her feet. The thing was huge and unnervingly fast. Cooper yelled and ran, which made everything worse. Cooper had never run, not with her anyway. A stream of curses had come out of his mouth as the great horned beast tore after them. They had been walking through a particularly rough patch of rocky desert when Dogmeat started to bark. How they hadn’t noticed until it was almost on top of them was shocking.

They had both felt it before seeing it, the heavy footsteps of the great beast shaking the pebbles around them. Her heart had started to pound in her ears. Adrenaline spiked as she tried to keep up with Coop's long legs. Dogmeat was well ahead of them running towards what looked like a small cave. 

“Get in the cave!” Cooper shouted as he slid to the side of the rocky outcrop, Turning around he leveled his shotgun at the beast firing two rounds into it. 

Lucy didn’t have to look back to know they had connected, the creature's howls of rage rang over the wasteland. It would surely draw a lot of unwanted attention. She slid as she came to the entrance of the small cave grabbing her weapon and she fired off a couple of rounds. The bullets bounced off its bony skin. 

“Aim for its underbelly,” Coop roared, backing up so that he was closer to her reloading faster than she could blink.

She did as she was told and hit just under its neck a stream of blood burst out as it continued to lumber towards them. Coop hit it in the groin and the thing screeched hesitating to step forward. Lucy took the chance and lobbed a grenade at it.

“Grenade” She screamed, grabbing the Ghoul by the back of his duster and dragging him down. 

There was a loud bang as the grenade hit the ground and exploded raining sand, rocks, and debris over them. The creature's howls cut off as it was blown back. The two companions scrambled back upright, Lucy aiming where it should have been standing.

The creature had been split up from its midsection legs splayed out in unnatural angles as whatever passed for guts covered the sandy floor. Lucy had somehow hit the creature right between its legs and split it in two. 

“Heck yah,” Lucy cried, pumping her fist in the air with a shout. She turned to see Coop slide down the wall, a bloody streak left behind. “Oh no,” 

A large chunk of bone stuck into Cooper’s right side. It had passed right through the front and was poking out the back. As thick as her fist and about as long as Lucy’s arm.

“Fuck.” Coop coughed, “That hurts.” 

Lucy felt her stomach drop, as the man looked back at her. His eyes unfocused and head bobbing back and forth.

“We got move, Lucy,” the Ghoul huffed, he tried to pick himself up but his right arm was hanging there like a limp noodle.

She immediately went around and helped the man up, and could feel his heart jamming away under her. This was not good. 

“There-” Cooper swallowed “There will be more.”

He was leaning heavily on her. The thought of more of those monsters coming after filled her with fear. She needed to try and move them as quickly as possible. 

“We can hide in the caves.” Lucy gasped out trying to steady herself under his weight.

“No. Leave me here.” He grunted, eyes rolling slightly as the pain pulsed. Blood had already started to stain his jacket. 

“I am not leaving you.” Lucy gritted out and started to haul him away. He was barely moving, but he was moving. 

“Fresh meat.” The man sputtered. 

Lucy could hear off in the distance the howls of another one of those creatures, followed shortly by a second and third. Her heart was hammering so hard in her ears that she could barely think. Looking around frantically she saw, in the distance, what looked like a concrete building. She hitched up the Ghoul slapping his face to get him moving. They were never gonna make it.

“Bluecap,” The Ghoul growled at her, stumbling and coughing. 

She opened the saddle bag ruffling through the extensive amount of meds and finding a blue capped auto dispensing needle. Pulling off the end she stabbed it directly into his thickly scared neck draining it swiftly. She felt his left hand clench as the drugs worked into his system. They began to move at a bit faster pace. The screeching seemingly moved at impossible speeds. The creatures had to be right behind them.  

Light caught her attention, between her heart and breath she hadn't heard them. Off to her left she saw the faint sight of a camp. 

“Fresh meat” She whispered, lowering Coop beneath an old hollow cactus. Glancing around she couldn’t see any of the creatures, yet the noise of them was close. She looked at dog meat. “Watch him.”

She grabbed the shotgun and machete kicking her heavy boots off as she took off towards the camp as quiet as a mouse.

They had camped up on a small ridge, there was little cover but Lucy had always been good at hiding. Moving quietly came second nature. Her toes burnt in the still-hot sand, but she barely noticed, one singular mission numbing any other feeling. One person stood facing towards the thundering sound of a storm moving in. Another crouched smothering out the flames of an old fire. Two others tended to the large beast attached to a wooden cart. A bag with a red cross on the front sat on the end of the cart.

Lucy crept slowly up behind the cactus, her eyes darting everywhere. 

A scream exploded from the person standing watch as Dogmeat ripped into his calf tearing away at the flesh. Just as soon as she had bitten the dog was gone. All the travelers turned to stare at the man as he screamed clutching his calf. 

Lucy took the opening, firing a shot at the one closest to her blowing open his hip. She pumped, reloaded, rolled, lined up, and hit the man closest to the wagon. Dogmeat flew in and latched herself onto the last traveler's face wrenching their neck around. It was chaos as Lucy darted in. She hit the man closest to her, chopping off his arm as he screamed.

A blast hit her back. She let out a yelp and slid behind the cart crawling underneath she swung her machete at the back of the other traveler’s knees. Blood spurted as she crawled back out. The man with the hip wound shot at her hitting her thighs. She turned and fired into his gut and his scream echoed into the night as he dropped the gun. Turning she cut the tack on the beast and slapped its backside it let out a long bellow as it took off into the night.

The screams would haunt her dreams but it didn't matter. Lucy grabbed the red cross bag, the clicking of glass reassuring her it would hopefully have what she needed. Needing to move quickly she ignored the men begging her to end their lives as she ran back to Cooper.

Cooper had slumped over his chest barely moving. She grabbed another blue vial and shot it into him. A croak of a gasp came out, his eyes opening barely pupils blown wide. She grabbed his good arm and helped him to his feet. He groaned as she bumped the wound. Grabbing their bags she handed the Dogmeat the cloth bag.

“Carry.” She stated and was surprised to see the dog grab it without hesitation. Looping ahead of them in easy bounds. Lucy gritted her teeth and made her body move. The bird shot in her back screaming as she held up her companion. Her suit was soaking in blood, the wound on her thigh making her vision go blurry. To add to the chaos a storm was moving and light was disappearing fast.

“Not letting your dumb self die because of me” 

The walk felt like it took hours, her whole body trembling with effort to keep the heavy man upright. Once at the door, she grabbed the handle trying to turn it. It was locked. A wretched sob cried out of her throat. Lucy's head pressed against the door. Prickle of the storm tingled over her.

“Of course. Of course, it's locked.” 

She dropped Cooper, his body limp against the sand. The idea of just laying down beside him darkened her thoughts. It be so easy to just lie down. Forget everything and just fade into the blackness around her. A crackle of thunder spurred her forward.

Screams in the not too far distance echoed across the valley. The beast had found ‘fresh meat’, her eyes barely making out the hulking forms as it tore into the travelers. She dug around into her bag and pulled out a nail file and bobby pin. The first couple of tries had her trembling hands breaking the nail file. Wiping snot and other fluids from her face she worked to calm herself. Even as the screams behind her turned to slurping-sucking noises.

A click. And the door opened. Lucy sobbed as Dogmeat bounced in looking back waiting for her. She chucked the bags into the dark. Crawling over she grabbed Cooper under his arms and dragged him inside. Closing and locking the door behind her.

It was completely black inside the building. Lucy fumbled for a flare, striking it to look at where they were. It looked like an old office rows of defunct dusty computers went on as far as she could see. While filing cabinets covered the wall. Several skeletons dotted the place, otherwise it was empty. Feeling somewhat safe she leaned the Ghoul against the wall. First, she needed to get the piece of shrapnel out of him. She tried to get his jacket off but it was stuck just as much as the bone lodged into him. Taking a few deep breaths she pushed him so his back was more or less turned to her.

“This gonna hurt,” she whispered into the dark. Grabbing a hold of the end of the bone she pulled back. A wet sucking sound made her stomach turn. It was hard to get a grip on the thing. Placing a foot on the Ghoul's back she grabbed it with both hands and pulled. A wet pop rang out and she tumbled onto her backside with the offending piece in her hands. She took a brief moment to celebrate which was immediately crushed by the amount of blood oozing from the hole. The flare flickered and she lit another, grabbing the meds out of the bag. Removing his duster vest and shirt so she could get a look at the large hole that passed right through him. She grabbed stim-packs, the blue-capped meds, and another vial she recognized as med-x. Flicking the caps off she jabbed all three near the hole. She was just grateful his thick skin didn't break the needles.

She counted out loud, “One, two, three, four,-” 

Ten seconds later, tears were flowing again. She took off her poncho balling it up to press against the wound, trying to stem the flow of ooze leaking out. 

“You're not dying on me.” She yelled at him grabbing a stimpack and two more vials she jabbed them in, counting down. But nothing, the hole was just as big and bleeding.

She rests his head against her chest quiet sobs leaving from her chapped lips. Her hands rubbed over his chest desperately hoping for a heartbeat. Ghouls were supposed to be hard to kill. Unless you took their head off they should heal. But here he was. Her Ghoul, still dripping blood. She rests her head against the concrete wall. Defeat made her eyelids heavy, everything smelt like the sour smell of blood. The pulsing pain of her wounds made it hard to even move. 

What was she going to do now? She was alone. No one was coming to save her. She looked over at her revolver, one shot at the temples and this nightmare would be gone. Lucy was so tired. So tired and so alone. Dogmeat came over and lay beside her whining and licking at her hand.

Chapter five

I am not sorry for the cliffhanger.. I promise it be worth it!

Yes I made up some meds, I know they are not canon behave thyself

promise the next chapter will be out tomorrow!

[paingoes]

Crash Out

Defense

(Content: minor physical violence, guilt…?)

They knew better than to step foot in a population centre, but sometimes it couldn’t be helped. It never went without incident. The only bright side was that the most inexperienced people were always the quickest to jump. Paris could handle, for the most part. It was easier now that he was expecting it. And he did expect it. All the time. 

Most days, they were just scuffles. He knew how to weave out of them. The most that he typically felt afterwards was the disgust and the indignity. Neither of those were going to kill him, probably. But he worried about Lorelai. She was always taking the brunt of it just for the crime of being around him. She kept getting boxed in. Paris would try to cut their fucking hands off when they touched her, escalating the situation, letting it devolve into total chaos. Lorelai herself wasn’t badly hurt, but she was pretty shaken up. She was a glass cannon. It was bothering him just how easy she was to take down when she was unarmed. 

He’d had her pinned down in the desert at night. The touch wasn’t nearly enough to hurt, but it didn’t take a lot of pressure to restrain her. With her, it would always come down to technique.

“Like this?” Her hand came down over his wrist.

“Other arm. Tuck your elbows in more. Yeah, perfect. Go.”

She rolled over, forcing him down beneath her into the sand. She blushed a little. He’d avoiding putting any real weight on her, but after she shifted their position, she was straddling him. He tried not to react — the contact was inevitable and it wasn’t the point. She slid off. They readjusted.

“Do you really not know any of this? How did you even get the phys ed credit?” He pinned her arm behind her back. 

“I just told him I was on my period.” She slipped out of the lock.

“Everyday?”

“Mhm. My dad taught me how to box though. He said I needed to, cause my mouth was so smart.”

“Can you box?” He raised an eyebrow. That’d actually be useful.

“Wanna find out?” She smirked.

He shook his head. “No. You’d kick my ass.”

She laughed. The sound carried across the empty desert. He shifted their positions again. Her eyes lit up with recognition.

“Wait, I do know this one.” She contorted her body enough to drive her knee directly into his sternum. It was the right move, but he was going to warn her to pull it a little. Too late. He rolled back onto the sand.

“Oh! Did I hurt you?” Her hand flew to cover her mouth, concern etched onto her features.

“That’s kinda the point,” He wheezed. 

“I thought it was self defense.” She crawled closer to him.

“The point is to disengage. Most people will only stop when it becomes too painful to continue.” He forced himself to sit up. It took him a while to recover his breath.

“I can show you how to get out of chokeholds, if you want?” He offered. His hand traced the site of the impact.

“Yeah. Go for it.” She nodded.

He sat up on his knees. The way the sand scraped against the birdseye mesh of his pants made a strange and pleasant noise. She rolled up, matching his posture. 

“You’re really supposed to do this with a wall. I guess it’s fine here.” He placed his fingers gingerly around his neck. It…didn’t feel right. On some level, he was still trying to avoid the collar. He pulled his hand back before he could even apply pressure. “Fuck it. Nevermind.”

She unfolded back onto the sand. If she had sense of what had just happened, she didn’t acknowledge it. She took another sip from the borg gallon. Her attention had turned to the fire.

“Did you know that some species of trees can only release their seeds when there’s a forest fire? They can’t reproduce otherwise.” She hummed. “We probably aren’t even allowed to have a campfire out here, come to think of it.“

“Not like there’s anything to kill.” He shrugged.

He poked at the embers idly. He’d had to bring the stick from another planet — the firewood too. Nothing grew on this one. Lorelai got to her feet. She put the gallon back into the ship and retrieved her pajamas from her bag. After she had changed, she brushed her teeth and spit the ginger remnants out onto the sand. Finally, she pulled a water jug out from the ship and a thick jacket over her head. The desert was as cold as it was dry. The chill creeped in only a few meters from the campfire. She dropped back down beside it, right atop of her sleeping bag. 

“Can you braid my hair?” She asked. Paris blinked in surprise.

“Um. Yeah?”

She leaned over. He scooted closer to her, taking the water from her outstretched hand and the hair ties from around her wrists. It wasn’t like she needed help. She’d done it alone every night before then. Still, he separated the hair into even strands. He combed his fingers through them, trying to brush out the sand that had gotten caught there. He formed two loose braids down her back. She sighed contentedly and curled up within the sleeping bag. 

“You staying up?” She mumbled.

“Yeah.” There was zero chance he’d be caught sleeping out in the open like this. He was fine keeping watch. The desert sightlines were perfect, anyway.

“Okay. Goodnight.” She turned over. She held one hand out to him from beneath the blankets, tapping all her fingers against her thumb.

“Hm?” He didn’t understand what she was asking for.

She took his hand and pulled it right beside her pillow. She didn’t let go of it even after she fell asleep. 

The softness made him feel sick enough to die.

……..

tags:

@catnykit @snakebites-and-ink @vivulapom @scoundrelwithboba @whatwhump

@pumpkin-spice-whump @deluxewhump @fuckass1000 @fuckcapitalismasshole @defire

@micechomper @writereleaserepeat

[dykeishheart]

The Dragons Of Enura

New excerpt of Saints in the Desert!!!!!!!!!!!!! I actually fucking got there!!!!

It's like, 4500 words. Took me a hot fucking minute. Anyway, enjoy the chapter where I introduce dragons, aspects of Enuran culture, philosophy, and some light desert ecology (fantasy). Also there's a big fuckoff huge pile of dead bodies because like. War.

“Hold. Something stirs.”

Damian stood, the rumbling of the earth growing beneath him. Leander gripped his pike tight, white knuckled on the shaft. The rest of the men behind them stopped short, looking around to see nothing but sand. What remained of the Enuran town burned behind them as it had all night and into the morning. Fear of curses and magics unknown rattled through the men.

“Damian… I think we’ve upset something,” Leander said, his eyes forced closed to not see his lieutenant witness his fear.

“Dragon. They got ‘em out here in the desert, I heard so from my cousin. They live in the sand! Big as a galleon, they eat-”

“That’s enough, Bertholdt,” Damian snapped, cutting him off.

Leander started walking again, pacing hurriedly into the desert. Damian blinked, then followed after him. He heard armor and weapons clink and rattle behind him, hushed whispers passing amongst the men like barn flies as the troupe walked away from the morning sun. The rumble was getting closer, heavier, and more sustained.

A solitary tree stood in the dunes ahead. Damian knew not what kind. As the ground shook, so too did the dry and feathery boughs, needles dropping off snaking limbs. Leander stopped again, looking out at the tree. The ground was still for precious seconds, a stillness almost as concerning as the shaking earth before it, before the alien tree was swallowed into the ground below.

“What in the name of God…”

The earth erupted. Sand blasted the men and filled the skies, entire dunes obliterated into the wind. A thick haze of reflecting sun in clouds of dust blinded Damian to everything around him; he couldn’t open his eyes to the dust storm for more than a half a second lest the sand shred them open. Tears welled in his eyes. The power of the storm against his body felt as if the weight of the entire desert had crashed into him like a ship careening into rocks. Damian reached his arms out to find Leander crumpled on the ground ahead of him. He crawled over the top of Leander to shield him, however little good it would do now. Damian felt an eternity of sand settle on the two of them as they laid on the ground, breathing heavy, pained breaths of mortal terror.

It was all he could do to keep from seizing up and dying of shock, just holding onto Leander. He was right. The world felt as if it was ending in this sad little corner of the desert. A bed made for a curse, and he was lying right in it. As his eyes held shut against so much sand, his vision was nothing but fire. Fire as far as his mind could tread, as far as the horizon of his imagination, burning eternal behind a grinning madman.

The sand slowed, settling a mighty weight on Damian’s back. He could hear Leander struggling to breathe. He hurriedly pushed himself off of Leander, and carefully wiped his eyes. When he finally dared open them, Damian saw sand strewn about Leander’s face thick enough to almost entirely obscure it. Frantically he started brushing off as much of the stuff as he could until blessed breath was heard in Leander’s mouth. Leander coughed violently, a dry drowning just narrowly warded away.

“Dragon! I told you! It’s a fucking Dragon!”

Damian whipped his head around, scanning the horizon. He saw nothing. He looked back down at Leander, then hoisted him up by his shoulders.

Leander opened his eyes, shock mounting in them as the light dilated his pupils. He raised his hand to Damian’s cheek, touching him as if he wasn’t truly sure he was real.

“Lieutenant! Behind you! Get down!”

Damian’s head was swimming. His vision went black. Voices were calling to him but they were far away, just vibrations through water. His stomach turned. The smell. The pit was calling to him.

“Are you okay? Damian? Here,” the short priest said, forcing a gourd of water into his hands.

Damian stared at the man, dumbfounded. He had lost himself in memory. He blinked, then looked down at the gourd. It had been so long since he drank.

“You disgrace everything our glorious kingdom has fought for. To think you would take the charity of these savages. Do this and damnation far greater than you can imagine awaits your paltry spirit,” spat the king like so much venom.

“I… I cannot accept this of you. You will die where I will not. You have greater need,” said Damian, pushing the gourd back.

“My god, drink the water. We’re a short walk from the river and we have two more gourds full. If you hold still a gardener might eat you as you are, so please, eat and drink with us.”

Damian hesitated. He looked behind himself, but the king was nowhere to be seen. He turned back to the priest. He nodded to Damian, urging him to drink. Damian looked down at the yellow gourd in his hand and gently pried the stopper out.

“I understand your hesitation. We are not without fears of each other. I do not forgive you, but I do not wish to harm you. You may drink.”

“Speak for yourself,” said the younger man off to Damian’s side.

“Quiet, fishmonger.”

Damian looked back to the priest and considered his words. He wondered how many men in his army would’ve given a starving Enuran a scrap of food, even if they had enough to spare. He wondered how many would spare water for a thirsty countryman, even. He wondered if the gesture was one of kindness or fear. He took the gourd up to his mouth and drank, the flavor of the water greeting him in bittersweet homecoming.

The water was a bitter shock. His tongue absorbed much, dry as it was. He could feel the rush of it down his throat, the skin cracking on his lips anew as he drank. The weight of what he had denied himself became clear in the wet of his palate.

“Thank you. I am glad you have ceased this cruelty to yourself,” spoke the short priest.

Damian stopped drinking. The words turned in his mind. He looked to the priest. “What did you say?”

The priest smiled a world-weary smile. “Young men who wish to learn about the world often think to be either blind gluttons or martyred as ascetics. Both are paths of foolishness, as they are fosters of cruelty, either to others or oneself. You cannot gain wisdom through violence.”

“I killed thoughtlessly. I don’t think a man who does that should have an easy time of things.”

“You have a strange idea of what would constitute justice. I fear the man who made you saint of such things,” said the taller priest.

Damian looked at him, anger in his eyes. “In a just world I’d have died long ago. Murderers don’t deserve to live unpunished.”

“Aye, and your death would surely bring all your victims bounding back from the belly of death itself to live once more. Tell me how many innocent men you might have killed if only you were told they were murderers? And for what?”

Damian’s mouth fell open. He couldn’t even form a reply. He had already proven the man right. All that time ago, on the day he became a saint, he made the lie a reality. It had cost him his only love.

Damian looked down to the sand at his feet. “No. They will never come back.”

The priests exchanged looks. Damian could not know what they were thinking to each other, but whatever it was, they nodded to one another.

“Damian. We have come here today to witness a great tragedy in Enura, but also to work. Such things are always opportunities to bring life out of death, much as the gardeners do. Come with us. If you truly wish to receive penance, do so with learning rather than violence,” said the shorter of the priests.

“Mother, you cannot be serious,” protested the fisherman.

Mother? Damian looked at the young man, then back to the priest. He looked closer at the short little man, clothed as he was in loose robes to obscure form as much as protect from sun and sand. A decidedly mannish face greeted Damian’s eyes, and the voice Damian had heard matched this quite well. Damian’s confusion must have been obvious in his face; the priest examined him in kind with eyes that did not seem concerned with his understanding. It was a face that said not to ask whatever questions he had, but that would not answer them either way if the warning was unheeded.

“Will you come with us? There is much to be done,” spoke the taller of the priests. The shorter priest kept his eyes on Damian, looking for any reply.

Curiosity bested him, and Damian asked a question. “What does he mean by mother?”

“My son means to say I am his mother. It is an idea which needs no explanation, unless I have sorely misunderstood how Kelsyid children are raised.”

Damian’s suspicion was correct; the answer would not come. He looked down to the gourd in his hand and took a final swig of the bitter water. A soreness in his muscles crept in with a droning persistence, as if vitality was returning to him as laborious digging through his veins, an unpleasantness that was toned by the reminder of him still being alive in some regard. Damian’s stomach gnashed at the rest of his insides, squirming in search of anything to digest now that water had woken it from dormancy.

“I suppose I don’t have much choice. I will come with you, but I fear I’ll not be of much assistance unless you have a lot more water.”

The short priest smiled at him, her face wrinkling with delight. “I’m glad you’ve come around. Come, we go to the river. I hope you like fish.”

***

The river was near enough to the pit that it could still be smelled as if it were under Damian’s nose. After so many hours in its magnetism, Damian had come to regard the smell as a companion, bound were the two as flies and shit. Fish Damian did not recognize were sizzling in an iron pan; the fisherman had produced both when the four of them sat down by the river’s edge. The noonday sun was hot over-head and the sand was hot under-heel, and the smell of cooking fish was all but drowned in the quagmire of rotting bodies.

Damian surveyed the landscape near the river. Scrub brush was abundant here, far more than he had ever seen in the Wasting Sea. Gnarled and twisted trees with weeping, feathery boughs dotted the land, standing each as solitary moments of interrupted terrain. Damian had never seen trees of this nature back home. Trees back home were tall and thin, uniform to a degree, and bunched together, branching only at their tops to form dense canopies of needling green. To see trees so sparsely planted, twisted and knotted and ugly, was so alien as for him to wonder if they were even trees at all. Damian had heard from more traveled soldiers that Enurans don’t use lumber to construct their homes or to craft their weapons, but he had always wondered how that could be. If their wood was this crooked and misshapen, how could they use it?

Damian’s idle musing was cut short when the fisherman produced an oddly shaped knife with a bone handle in front of him, gesturing to take it. Damian looked up at the young man and saw a much softer expression than he’d come to expect from earlier in the day.

“Take this, and come with me. We’ve carving to do.”

The priests nodded and assumed supervision of the cooking fish. Damian stood and took the knife gingerly in his hand. It felt immediately intuitive to hold, comfortable between his thumb and palm in a way that suggested decades of use in exactly the manner he had held it. The bone was dry and cool, soft in a way Damian did not expect, and porous to the point that it seemed to drink the sweat of his palm. The blade was a hard iron, and Damian tested the sharpness of its edge by raking his thumbprint across it flatways so as not to cut himself. Its edge was marvelously maintained. The fisherman was dedicated to his craft, this much was clear.

“This is a beautiful tool. You must use it with pride,” Damian said to the young man.

“Indeed. It’s an inherited craft, as is the knife. My father was a smith. The bone was his father’s. If I’m lucky, I will give this to my child one day.”

“You did not become a smith like your father?”

“Do children follow their father’s work in your country?”

“Typically, yes. Apprentices aren’t realistic for common folk. My own father was a fisherman as you are, but I chose a life of soldiering after he died.”

“Hopefully you will put soldiering behind you, so your sons and daughters might be fishermen instead,” said the young man, wistfully.

Damian hadn’t even thought about the possibility of having children. Could he even do so?

The fisherman had started walking out toward the trees, and Damian followed him. When they arrived at the gnarled thing, the young man pulled a small axe out from somewhere underneath his robe, then set about the tree, examining it with a keen eye for some detail Damian couldn’t guess. He must have found what he was looking for, for after a few moments the young man began hacking at a bump in the wood. After a few decisive chops, the bump was pried loose and rolled into the young man’s hand with a bounty of sap in tow.

“Do you see these burls? They are places the tree has hurt before,” said the young man, sticky sap coating his fingers. He turned the burl over in his hands. “They are the hardest wood of the tree, most difficult to carve but they give us beautiful eproxa.”

“What is an eproxa?”

The young man began chopping a second burl on the tree as he spoke. “I do not know its translation in Kelsyid tongue, but they are ritual items. We use them to represent our dead in the festival of the gardeners. We carve them from wood here where the oldest of the white bean trees grow. I’ve heard other towns to the south of us just use stones because the white beans do not grow there,” explained the fisherman. He plopped the newly cut burl into Damian’s hand, sticky sap dripping off the thing.

“The closest word for us would be ‘effigy’ but we don’t typically make them to honor the dead so much as rally soldiers on the eve of battle. Our town did not celebrate it but I know of a place in Kelsys where an effigy of God’s disciple Rhea is built out of dried sticks on the week before soybean harvests and placed in the middle of the markets. Most Kelsyid effigies are built to burn the night before battle, and they typically depict the enemy.”

The fisherman considered his words. “Enurans do not build effigies as you describe. Eproxa are small things to hold close, but I suppose the two are both meant to inspire. If you must call it anything in your tongue, I would say it is a talisman. But eproxa is a word which is close to us, so I hope you can appreciate the difference.”

The young man sat down in his place beside the fire and ran his hands across the sand to clean off the sap. Damian followed suit, watching as the young man started carving into the burl in his hand with his own knife. The bone handled heirloom sat uneasy in Damian’s other hand, suddenly feeling as if he shouldn’t be holding such a thing.

The pan of fish had been removed from the flames earlier by the priests, and they now stuffed the fish with herbs of an unknown kind.

“It smells wonderful,” said the young fisherman, not looking up from his carving.

Damian watched as the short priest removed a folded animal skin from her leather bag on the ground. She unwrapped it and produced a flat bowl with a wide lid made of some kind of red pottery. It looked similar to the clay pottery Damian had seen from the towns of the northern coast in Kelsys, but different in a way he couldn’t place. Removing the lid, the priest took four thin flatbread circles from inside and set them across her lap. She placed a single stuffed fish in the center of the flatbread, then rolled the whole thing up in such a way that one end of the newly formed cylinder was closed in on itself. The priest handed the wrapped fish to Damian.

“It is a favorite of mine. Do me the honor of complimenting my cooking?”

Damian could finally smell the herbs more strongly now that the finished meal was so close to his nose. The scents reminded him of basil, but he didn’t recognize the leaves so it must’ve been a different plant. He laid the heirloom knife across his lap so that he could hold the wrapped fish with both hands. It had been weeks since Damian ate any food; his mouth ran wet as soon as he opened it to take a bite. To be truthful, he might’ve enjoyed eating wet clay after so long of nothing at all. His own estimation of flavor – skewed as it must’ve been – made little difference. The fish tasted incredible. He could taste an overpowering aroma from the herbs, bathed in the juices of the fish and the sheep’s milk butter which it had seared in. He’d never eaten anything like it. The flatbread was warm in his hands as he savored the first bite of food he’d had in his immortal lifetime. What a marvel to be welcomed back to his senses, to taste something that wasn’t sand and desolation.

He looked up to see an expectant look on the priest’s face as he forced his throat to remember how to swallow. Tears rolled down his cheeks, and all he could manage was a nod. Satisfied with his answer, she went about rolling the remaining fish so the four of them could eat together.

***

Damian took the wood burl in his hands. Lunch sat amiably in his belly, the first time anything had done so since his time with the Coyotes. He wondered how they would be faring. The fisherman sat next to him and held his partially carved burl in an instructive pose for Damian to copy.

“Envision the endpoint of the cut. Place your blade shallow and push, using your thumb to guide the blade gently to its home at the end of the cut. Force is not your friend here, only self-assured movement. If you use too much force the knife will twist under pressure or you will break your grip. The cut will be ugly and you might nick your other hand.”

“What am I creating with these cuts?”

The fisherman paused and thought to himself before answering. “I suppose you do not feel the same things we do about death. We create eproxa to please our dead, so usually their faces or their favorite items in living times. There are too many dead here and too few living to make appropriate eproxa for all of them before the gardeners arrive. Make whatever pleases your heart.”

Damian puzzled over what exactly he meant. He wasn’t even sure he knew how to please his heart anymore. The fisherman’s comment about death felt pointedly accusatory, but Damian couldn’t protest it. The young man was telling the truth.

“You keep mentioning these ‘gardeners’ but I don’t follow what you mean. Who are they?”

“If I am correct in my predictions, you will meet one tonight. When you do, be respectful,” said the fisherman with a certain finality about his voice.

Damian would have to get used to unsatisfactory answers, it seemed.

“I’ve yet to ask your name. What do you like to be called?”

“By you? Nothing. My mother may be more graceful, but I will not pretend not to hate you. I am teaching you these things because it pleases my mother, not because you have a right to know them.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You are not. You are ashamed.”

Damian could not form a reply. Anger heated his blood, but it quickly subsided. The young man spoke truthfully, but to acknowledge his assessment twisted the knife in the wound. He looked over to the priests, both of whom were carving their own eproxa, neither of whom acknowledged the conversation.

The ground began to shake. It shook in a way that Damian had hoped was only a dream. It shook with the waking of something terrible.

“We have less time than I had hoped, it seems. Come, Damian. Let us head closer to the bank,” said the taller priest, taking the shorter one’s hand to pull her up.

“We have to run! Are you crazy?” Damian dropped his wood burl, barely carved at all. He was frantic, sweat beading his brow.

“Damian, calm yourself. The ground shakes with life. You are in no danger,” spoke the shorter priest.

“No danger? It’s a fucking dragon! I’ve felt this before, right before I was nearly eaten by a monster!”

A mighty wallop met the side of Damian’s head, followed quickly by the hot desert sand. His vision spiraled with darkly spun webs. His stomach turned over and tied itself in knots from his concussed head and the shaking earth.

“Never disrespect my mother, and never disrespect the gardeners,” the young fisherman shouted, barely coherent through the thick clouds swirling in Damian’s head.

“You didn’t have to do that,” the tall priest chided.

“He had it coming.”

“Fuck. Okay, I’m sorry. God,” Damian groaned, holding his pounding head, “you could’ve just given me a warning.”

“You will not die,” said the fisherman, chuckling.

Damian couldn’t understand how the three were so calm. What on earth were gardeners? Were they the dragons? Did Enurans truly have mastery over these beasts? He looked up at the three, each seemingly unconcerned. How could this be their reaction to the same monster that buried his men in the sand and nearly ate them all that time ago? And why would they hold a festival for it?

The taller priest extended a hand for Damian to pull himself up, which he accepted. He winced as his head throbbed.

“You throw a hell of a punch.”

“I hit you with your sword pommel,” the fisherman said through a massive grin, holding up the sheathed blade.

Damian couldn’t even be angry. The man’s clear enjoyment of the moment was infectious. The circumstances were ridiculous to the point that Damian felt like laughing with the young man.

“Let us get out of the way. To the shore, quickly,” said the fisherman’s mother.

The four of them hurriedly walked to the river’s edge, Damian looking over his shoulders to try and see where the dragon would erupt. The rumbling had subsided for the moment, but that could change rather quickly from his experience.

“There! Behold, the gardener emerges!” The taller priest pointed beyond the fire; far off before the horizon sat a mound of sand and shrubbery, shifting with something below.

Damian froze as he absorbed the sight of it. Wings colossal stretched slow and stiff out of the earth, casting off mountains of debris in shrugging wakefulness. A head followed, black and speckled with orange, yawning maw bedecked in spilling sand. The behemoth shook its limbs, leaving the craterous hole of the earth to fill with its castoff bedding. It stood true to its myth, tall and wide as a galleon on the northern coast, its frame truly transcendent in scale. Damian felt a hand on his, pulling him downward, but his eyes were fastened tight on the monster before him.

“Damian, kneel before the great bird. Please do not dishonor yourself.” The hand pulled more insistently.

Damian couldn’t tear his eyes away. The towering wings of the beast slacked back down to the ground and splayed out as if a great lantern spilled its oil across the land. The creature shook itself off of the rest of its sandy blanket and the rest of its lingering sleep, then turned its massive head skyward. It opened its cavernous maw and opined a guttural howl, the kind that rattled bones, pierced eardrums, fractured daytime sky. Damian wondered momentarily if this was a howl to its kin, some kind of summons like the baying of a pack animal in the evening hours of the hunt, or if it simply howled to feel that it still could after waking from a tomb.

The dragon crept toward the corpse pit, its sluggish movement shaking the earth with each heavy step. It raised its leathery wings, creaking with newfound mobility, and beat them downward with torrential force. The desert erupted with sand once more as this great terror launched skyward, blowing debris far and wide in a brilliant plume. Damian stood in awe of this thunderous cloud, standing now outside of it to truly appreciate the sheer terror that had enveloped him those many months ago. To watch such a thing from a distance was beautiful in its own way, haunting as it was to experience from inside the cloud. The dragon descended, its flight ultimately akin to a leap for such a large creature despite being such an incredible distance. Its wings billowed upward to drag against the fall, letting the colossal lizard land with far more grace than it looked to possess at first blush. The innumerable corpses looked paltry to such a megalithic beast.

Memories danced a sonorous dance in Damian’s eyes. The mouth of a hungry abyss, so deep to create its own horizon in which to be enveloped. The lot of them spared the snapping jaws, wide-eyed and terrified, each man leaving alone – even as they walked together – after being changed by such twisting fear. He recognized this ghastly face, the pattern of orange and black under eyes so dark they swallowed the sun. This was the beast that Leander struck with his pike that fateful day. Damian was sure of it. He took shaky steps toward the dragon, knowing not what compelled him but knowing that he dared not falter.

[cyanophore-fiction]

Hunting Trip

Good old Hez. He’s an alien called a Paqeru, and he’s been congregated for over two fucking millennia. From his memories, I know a little bit about his people. They’re like a cross between a crocodile and a grizzly bear, tough as nails and their homeworld still kills them off in droves. They’re pre-industrial, because apparently there isn’t much time for science and engineering when you have to spend all your time hiding from hurricanes. Or they were pre-industrial, at least, when Ramiel came to visit them two millennia ago.

In any case, Hez didn’t have a very nice life as a mortal. He spends a lot of time away from the Congregation, so we tend to run into each other in the margins. Not that he hates it here or anything, Ramiel pulled him out of hell. He just needs to go back to hell every so often to feel like himself. Great guy to commune with when he’s not out in the Fever. Usually, it’s even better to just talk with him and hear his stories without any neural connection. 

Apparently, he just goes out into the Deep Fever and looks for trouble. Then, he comes back and shows everyone what’s brewing out there. It’s always bad, but never anything worth panicking over. 

I’ve only been out there a few times myself. The first time, Ramiel would only let me go with an armed escort, and only to a depth of one hundred meters outside the beacons.

Got to see a little bit of weird shit. Took a close look at an ant—it turned out to be a cluster of little humans, all stuck together, just mimicking an ant. Mirrors in the sky, reflecting a giant mouth eclipsing the sun. Can of tomato soup rolling around on its own over the dunes. Nothing really dangerous, just off-putting. That’s the sort of stuff you get at a hundred meters deep. That, and glimpses of some really interesting things moving on the horizon, so far out in the desert that you can barely make out what you’re looking at. 

I said I wanted to get a closer look, and my escort said it was time to go. Next time we went, I ditched the escort. Slipped into my old Quetzal avatar and took off over the dunes. Left a trail of feathers behind so they could find me. Exactly what I was thinking, I’ll never know. Probably that it was all just software and it couldn’t actually hurt me.

Apparently, I cleared two kilometers before coming across whatever it was that got me. I’ve still got a few memories of what I saw, lodged so deep that even Ramiel couldn’t clear them out. There was something that looked like a human, but it moved in these little stutters. Then it bloomed. I don’t have another word for it. There’s a painwall in my mind when I try to recall exactly what it looked like.

Hez was the one that found me and dragged me back. Through his memories, I’ve seen how I looked, thrashing and screaming and raving. Twisting myself into knots, my scales melting into sand. Becoming homogenous with the desert. 

It took the Congregation hours to shear all the trauma from my psyche and hurl it all back to the Fever. Days of recovery time, separating myself from the bad inputs. There was pain—physical, emotional, other kinds that I can’t put into words. Hez told me that I’m lucky to still have a coherent soul.

So, yeah. You don’t fuck with the Fever. But Hez does, and he does it by choice. After I recovered, he offered to take me on a little outing. He figured that I’d go back eventually, and doubted he’d be able to stop me, so I might as well learn how to survive.

We went for three days. I followed his instructions to the letter, and we came back fine. Not to say we didn’t run into trouble—that’s the whole point of Fever-wandering, getting so bored of utopian life that you’re willing to risk your soul for a little uncertainty. The trouble mainly consisted of me hiding behind him while he put rifle slugs into living fractals and golems made of chicken bones held together by crystallized urine. 

We killed a day and a half—which feels like a lot longer because the sun never moves from noon—before Hez scoped out a wild construct weak enough for me to take on alone. It looked like a mechanical tarantula with hypodermic needles at the ends of its legs. Looked terrifying, but Hez insisted that he knew what it was capable of. Just some human’s distant childhood fear of getting shots fused with some arachnophobia. Strong visual associations, but very little substance. The whole construct was centered on an instinctual foundation just firm enough to keep it from dissolving. 

Hez had me hover directly above it and whittle its body away with bursts of pulse laser fire. Since the Quetzal avatar doesn’t have any limbs, the gun is mounted on its tail. Tricky to aim, but Hez made me swear that I wouldn’t switch to a different avatar for any reason. Whatever body you have the closest connection to is the one you want to wear in the Fever. 

Each hit made the thing shriek like shards of glass in my brain, and it could jump a little higher than I liked. Still shredded it into little metal filings, and when it finally fell to dust, it felt good. Unnaturally good. Hez tells me that there’s a kind of built-in emotional reward associated with destroying certain constructs. Something about stepping into the heroic role. In any case, he must have gotten a dose of the reward, too, because we just sat there in the middle of the desert and bullshitted for a little while, laughing while joy bled back and forth between us. 

I want you to picture this: a ten-foot tall crocodilian, built like a tank with jagged teeth and claws, who is immortal and older than Christianity and hunts the literal stuff of nightmares just because he can’t imagine a life without conflict. He throws back his head, chuckles, and puts his arm around you, chatting like a pleasant old uncle while radiating warmth through your neural link. At the edge of his mind, you catch glimpses of bones cracking and stone spears and paleolithic terror of starvation, but none of that shit matters anymore.

Unbelievable. Right now, the old me is still back on Earth, a spirit hosted on hardware sitting in a building somewhere in Norway. The closest thing that version of me has ever had to psychic contact is a good conversation. That version of me doesn’t even know that there’s life beyond Earth. And I’m immortal. 

I don’t need to speculate, because I was tuned in to his thoughts: Hez knew exactly how much I needed a victory. Everything and everyone in the Congregation was ancient, vast, overwhelming. I’d spent the last week having my soul stitched back together after an indescribable maiming. After about thirty seconds, I was coiled around his arm, sobbing. 

Since then, I’ve been back, but I haven’t gone beyond the beacons. The shallows are good for getting some alone time, and that’s what most of the Congregation uses it for. 

Eventually, of course, I’ll go out past the beacons again. Probably with Hez, maybe not.

_________________

Dusting off a very old concept and set of characters with this one. Never wrote a proper story for it, but I’ve got a ton of setting notes that I think I’ll start putting back together. Thanks for reading!

[just-some-random-blogger]

It was ridiculous, this whole thing. Had you been born a man, there would be no need for this nonsense. Had you not been born a Stark, it would still be happening, but perhaps in not such a brutal way. Or had you not been tempered by the cold, made so brazen to insult and oppose Otto Hightower, perhaps your punishment wouldn’t be marital rape.

FUXKINGG OTTO YUCKKKKK BURNNNNNNN

You took off your gown, having been previously unlaced by your trusty maid. You put on the dreaded, lacy shift. The latest fashion in Dorne, you had been told. For how expensive it was, it certainly was made of little fabric.

Well if that ain't the truth

Some rustling could be heard outside your room and you panicked. You were running out of time. The tint! Made of some berries, you hoped didn’t poison you.

Lmao it would make sense if she wanted to get poisoned too

“Wife.” He rumbled, coming to stand in front of you. Daemon had docked his furs and armor, his sword no longer rested at his side, just as your agreement dictated. He had come to you unarmed and barefooted, yet it didn’t make him cut a less intimidating figure in the least. His purple eyes looked at the tint with curiosity, and plucked it from your hands. “Getting ready for me? I’m touched.”

HI DADDY 💞 STFU THO

Daemon’s breath hitched. Clearly affected by the sight of your prone, soft body, on the bed. “What are you doing, zoklītsos?” His hand went to your exposed folds, finding you as dry as the sands of the dornish deserts. You nearly jolted at the touch, and only his hand on your hips kept you in place. It was not a good omen, you had gathered, from nights spent exploring your body before the cold and worries had turned you into the frigid ice queen the lords in the South accused you of being.

NAH BUT WHAT IS SHE DOING SHE BUILT DIFFERENT OML

“Don’t be like that, little wife.” He kissed your jaw, tenderly, and when you moved your face away from him, Daemon adapted and started kissing a path down your exposed neck. “You wouldn’t like that, sweet innocent virgin you are. I would tear you apart, and that's no fun.”

“Oh, by the…” You muttered, exasperated. You tried telling yourself that the red of your cheeks was out of rage and not embarrassment. Used as you were at being the smartest one in the room, you deeply disliked how out of your depth you were here. It was not your fault, being uneducated on these matters. Orphaned when you were a lady just flowered, there had been no time for anything else but caring for your siblings. “Why must every woman you meet burn for you?”

“Because I am the blood of the dragon. Heat is in my veins.” He mouthed at your shoulder, this time. His kisses felt like a trail of fire down your body. It was… Waking feelings you didn’t wish to have. Nipples pebbling, hairs standing up, pleasant shivers and all. You breathed in and out, trying to control yourself. Daemon pushed the sleeve of your shift down. “My proper little wife. My ice queen. You will melt, in the end.” He kissed back up and towards your ear, whispering, cruelly. “They all do.”

LITERALLY SHUT THE FUCK UP BUT ALSO

“Do you really want to find out how the fire in your veins meets the ice in mine?” You remarked, coldly. It was an attempt at projecting a bravery you did not feel. Bravado. Nothing more. And Daemon could tell.

FUCK YOUR FORESIGHT ALSO ME

“Fire can melt ice.” He pressed an open-mouthed kiss on your throat. [...] But heat was pooling between your legs, you were getting embarrassingly slick.

YEAH WE WATER NOW

“Ice can put out a fire.” You warned, one of your hands going to his silver locks and tugging. You got exactly the opposite reaction of what you wanted. Daemon’s eyes closed, expression turning into a delightful mix of pleasure and pain.

GET IT GIRLIE AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH

“Only a fool would meet your ice head on.” He kissed your sternum. You remained as still as a sculpture. He tugged at the sleeves, until they gave. There went the dornish shift, ruined forever. You felt a distant rage at having wasted so much gold on it for him to rip it apart. Daemon drank the sight of your exposed chest eagerly, seemingly entranced. You tried covering yourself, but he grabbed at your wrists.

“I think not, Lady Wife.” Then, very tenderly, he pressed kisses to the top of your breasts. You whined, low in your throat. It felt good, and he had no right, no right at all, to get your body to betray you like this.

You felt like you were burning up, as if something that had been long asleep in you had started to be awakened. Long hidden and forgotten desires that were making themselves known. You found yourself looking down, mesmerized by the sight of the blond shock of hair between your parted thighs and how it bobbed up and down with each eager lick he took. Your hand reached down, tangling in Daemon’s hair, and it was then, you got pulled over the edge.

“It won’t hurt.” Daemon said, kissing your forehead. You looked up at him, eyes wide in fear. He squeezed your hand and lined himself up. You felt the tip of his cock nudge at your entrance, and wondered what it looked like. It felt blunt, and it was very warm. “I will do it on one thrust, like ripping a bandage off. You probably don’t have your maidenhead, with how fond you are of riding. And if you do, you are more than wet enough.”

OK DADDY WHATEVER YOU SAY DADDY WHATEVER DADDY WANTS

“Jealous, ice queen?” Daemon licked a strip down the base of your neck towards your jaw. “You will have to admit you know little of the topic.”

WHAT ABOUT IT

“I would say I know plenty.” You answered, glowering, just as he thrust inside of you, seemingly tired of the conversation. At the sudden feeling of fullness, you yelped. But there was no pain, as he had promised. Only an odd feeling of being stretched and filled to the brim, and a slight discomfort. “Rude.”

“Fucking is a pleasure.” Daemon insisted, pinching at one of your nipples, You whined. He could be telling you the secrets of the realm, and you wouldn’t care. “And I will teach you all about it.” He grunted in your ear.

You were too gone to care about his smugness. Your heels dug into his back, pulling him closer and closer. You met him thrust by thrust, scratching at his back until your nails were bloody. Daemon kissed you and tugged at your hair, desperate to claim you. You could hear his silent laughter, feel his mocking smile against your skin. He had finally gotten what he wanted, a reaction out of you. It could not be faked, this pure, raw emotion. Soon, his fingers found their way to your button, making you whine and squirm. It was too much for your poor, abused body. You screamed his name as you reached your second peak of the night.

Honesty (Daemon Targaryen × Reader)

Summary: In which Prince Daemon seduces his unwilling Lady Wife.

Warnings: Smut. Dub Con/ Non Con. Oral sex (F receiving), P in V sex. Stark reader. Convenience Marriage. No use of Y/N.

A/N: First time writing for Daemon. Reader is the oldest sister of Cregan Stark and acts as his regent. Might write the full story one day. High valyrian from an online translator, not explaining it because I wanted the reader to not know the meaning.

The shift was white, silky, and oh so tiny. You stared at it with contempt. It had cost you a pretty penny, as had the cosmetics Lady Manderly had so eagerly pushed into your hands. Red tint, she had said, to paint your lips and enhance your natural attributes in other areas. The woman had even had the nerve to point at your breasts!

It was ridiculous, this whole thing. Had you been born a man, there would be no need for this nonsense. Had you not been born a Stark, it would still be happening, but perhaps in not such a brutal way. Or had you not been tempered by the cold, made so brazen to insult and oppose Otto Hightower, perhaps your punishment wouldn’t be marital rape.

Still. It was your duty, and you intended to perform it. It was the only way to keep Cregan, Rickon and Sara safe. And you would do it. Prince Daemon, your lord husband, as he insisted you called him, could surely get the deed done faster with the proper incentives.

You took off your gown, having been previously unlaced by your trusty maid. You put on the dreaded, lacy shift. The latest fashion in Dorne, you had been told. For how expensive it was, it certainly was made of little fabric. You glared at your reflection, watching how the long sleeves had a vertical cut that made them useless. Your skin broke out in goosebumps, as you wished you could add more wood to the fire.

Some rustling could be heard outside your room and you panicked. You were running out of time. The tint! Made of some berries, you hoped didn’t poison you. You quickly rubbed it on your lips and cheeks, trying to seem less like the terrified girl you were and more like an appealing sight. You sat down, primly, on the foot of the bed just in time for Daemon to enter the room.

“Wife.” He rumbled, coming to stand in front of you. Daemon had docked his furs and armor, his sword no longer rested at his side, just as your agreement dictated. He had come to you unarmed and barefooted, yet it didn’t make him cut a less intimidating figure in the least. His purple eyes looked at the tint with curiosity, and plucked it from your hands. “Getting ready for me? I’m touched.”

You glared at him, trying to hide how much nerves pooled in your stomach, how you were cold from fear, skin clammy and pale.

“If I must…” You shifted to your hands and knees, and lifted your shift, exposing your naked folds and arse. It was quite the vulnerable position, and heat started to spread almost immediately to your cheeks and neck. You hated the humiliation it brought you.

Daemon’s breath hitched. Clearly affected by the sight of your prone, soft body, on the bed. “What are you doing, zoklītsos?” His hand went to your exposed folds, finding you as dry as the sands of the dornish deserts. You nearly jolted at the touch, and only his hand on your hips kept you in place. It was not a good omen, you had gathered, from nights spent exploring your body before the cold and worries had turned you into the frigid ice queen the lords in the South accused you of being.

“Go ahead. Do it.” You closed your eyes, keeping them tightly shut, and braced yourself for the pain. Daemon tsked, his warm palm caressing your bottom.

“Hells, you have been deprived.” He pulled your shift down, covering you.

“I do not understand.” You frowned, looking at him over your shoulder, still on your hands and knees. “This is right, I know. I have seen animals do it.” Your tone was of absolute confidence, petulant, even. To you, it was one of the facts of life. The sky was blue, the sun rose in the west, and fucking was done on one’s hands and knees, with the man behind you. It cracked Daemon out. He snorted, hands still busy fixing your shift. It soon turned into a full-blown belly laugh, at your icy glare.

“Poor little wife, your previous lovers have done you wrong.” He palmed at your ass. You hated how the warmth of his palms made you shiver. Good gods, how was he so warm, barefoot as he was and in only a linen shirt? You wanted to kick at him, at the offense of your virtue, perhaps make an icy comment, but you were frozen in shame. “Unless…” Daemon’s hands moved to your stomach, urging you to get up on your knees. He pressed a kiss to your exposed nape when you did, as if rewarding you. Stubbornly, you tried to escape his grip, but he only hugged you tighter. “Oh, what a treat you are… The gift that keeps on giving, zoklītsos.”

“Shut up and get it over with.”

“Don’t be like that, little wife.” He kissed your jaw, tenderly, and when you moved your face away from him, Daemon adapted and started kissing a path down your exposed neck. “You wouldn’t like that, sweet innocent virgin you are. I would tear you apart, and that's no fun.”

“Oh, by the…” You muttered, exasperated. You tried telling yourself that the red of your cheeks was out of rage and not embarrassment. Used as you were at being the smartest one in the room, you deeply disliked how out of your depth you were here. It was not your fault, being uneducated on these matters. Orphaned when you were a lady just flowered, there had been no time for anything else but caring for your siblings. “Why must every woman you meet burn for you?”

“Because I am the blood of the dragon. Heat is in my veins.” He mouthed at your shoulder, this time. His kisses felt like a trail of fire down your body. It was… Waking feelings you didn’t wish to have. Nipples pebbling, hairs standing up, pleasant shivers and all. You breathed in and out, trying to control yourself. Daemon pushed the sleeve of your shift down. “My proper little wife. My ice queen. You will melt, in the end.” He kissed back up and towards your ear, whispering, cruelly. “They all do.”

Your breath hitched. A slip. The first of the night. You could feel Daemon’s smirk against your skin.

“Do you really want to find out how the fire in your veins meets the ice in mine?” You remarked, coldly. It was an attempt at projecting a bravery you did not feel. Bravado. Nothing more. And Daemon could tell.

“Fire can melt ice.” He pressed an open-mouthed kiss on your throat. With the way he held you, curling and uncurling around you, Daemon reminded you more of a snake than a dragon. You felt as if you were in the grip of a boa, constricting around you, robbing you from your air, leaving you breathless. It was wrong, being so excited at being the sole focus of such a predator. But heat was pooling between your legs, you were getting embarrassingly slick.

“Ice can put out a fire.” You warned, one of your hands going to his silver locks and tugging. You got exactly the opposite reaction of what you wanted. Daemon’s eyes closed, expression turning into a delightful mix of pleasure and pain.

“Only a fool would meet your ice head on.” He kissed your sternum. You remained as still as a sculpture. He tugged at the sleeves, until they gave. There went the dornish shift, ruined forever. You felt a distant rage at having wasted so much gold on it for him to rip it apart. Daemon drank the sight of your exposed chest eagerly, seemingly entranced. You tried covering yourself, but he grabbed at your wrists.

“I think not, Lady Wife.” Then, very tenderly, he pressed kisses to the top of your breasts. You whined, low in your throat. It felt good, and he had no right, no right at all, to get your body to betray you like this. “You see… A tiny flame, if constant, can begin…” Daemon kissed lower, encircling your areola, purple eyes gleaming with mischief. “To melt your ice.” And with that, he took your nipple into his mouth, making you let out a little scream. You squirmed, feeling more wetness gather between your thighs. If you wanted to keep your dignity, you had to get away from him. But Daemon’s grip wouldn’t budge, no matter how hard you tried.

“No… I… Husband… Please. Please.” You begged, shame so deep you were nearly in tears. How it was that easy for him to take you apart, you didn’t know. Despite your pleas, his tongue circled your nipple, his lips making nearly a vacuum around it. His hand came up to pinch at your other nipple, warning. “I don’t want this, please. Just… Just…” But whatever you were saying got lost into your moans, until you were unable to know if you were asking him to stop the sweet torture or give you more of it.

When your tears started to fall in earnest, Daemon let go of your breast with a nearly obscene slurp.

“What is it, zoklītsos? You don’t want the attention of your Prince?” You nodded, and he gave you a mocking little coo. It almost made you think he would stop. Almost. If not for his hands, bunching up your shift until you were exposed once again. Under the candlelight, your cunt glistened with how much wetness you had produced. You tried to close your legs, but he kneeled, forcefully keeping them apart with his torso.

“No. I doubt that's the problem.” Daemon rubbed a finger against your entrance, not putting it in, but just pressing. “I think my little ice queen is melting. A big puddle, she is turning into.”

“You think…” You got cut off by a moan. Daemon had found your pearl, and it seemed he knew exactly what to do with it. “Yourself so smart. Smug…” He pushed a finger inside you, making you yelp, and effectively unable to finish your sentence.

“If you still have coherent thoughts…” He pulled away from you, taking his shirt off. Your eyes immediately were pulled, as if by magnet, to his chest. He had a warrior’s body, muscles all functional. Deliciously broad shoulders, toned stomach with the slightest hint of definition, yet still slender in the way most Targaryens were. Closer to gods, indeed. He bent down, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to your stomach, making you squirm.

“Lord Husband…” You warned, noticing how his kisses started to approach your privates.

“Lady Wife.” Daemon repeated, with a mocking tone. Then, he curiously pressed a finger against your button. This time, your hips bucked, and you were unable to quiet the moan that slipped from your parted lips. “Such a pretty cunt you have.”

“You don’t have to…”

“Oh, but where is the fun in that, zoklītsos?” He spread you apart, as if opening up the petals of a flower, gentle but so casual. “If I wanted a quick fuck, I would have taken one of your servants, or found myself a whore.” Daemon leaned down and licked a strip over your cunt. In your haste to muffle a scream, you brought one of your hands to your mouth and bit down on your palm until you tasted blood. It was the oddest feeling, a line of scorching hot electricity on your exposed sex. “I intend to enjoy you. As often as I can. That’s why I accepted marrying you.”

“I don’t… I….” You muttered, but you weren’t really opposing him anymore. It was impossible to think about anything apart from what he was doing, of how his heat and wanton ways were starting to warm your blood too. Daemon kept licking at you, making your hips twitch. He was entirely ignoring your pleas, apparently finding great pleasure in the way he took you apart.

You felt like you were burning up, as if something that had been long asleep in you had started to be awakened. Long hidden and forgotten desires that were making themselves known. You found yourself looking down, mesmerized by the sight of the blond shock of hair between your parted thighs and how it bobbed up and down with each eager lick he took. Your hand reached down, tangling in Daemon’s hair, and it was then, you got pulled over the edge.

Daemon would later say it had been the way he had groaned against your pearl, what had made your thighs quiver and tummy tense, an impossible amount of wetness dripping down your thighs. You would say, if asked, it had been the way his purple eyes met yours, mouth still busy at devouring your cunt and face twisted into the most smug and deviant expression you had ever seen. Whatever it was, it pleased him greatly.

“I knew you had it in you. You weren’t cold.” Daemon whispered against your skin, kissing a path towards your mouth. He was unhurried, dedicating lavish kisses to your hipbone, moving to mouth along your belly button, gnawing hungrily at your ribs. Under him, your body went lax and pliant, spent with the first climax you had experienced under his careful touches. “You just needed a dragon to warm you up.” He licked at the sweat collecting in the hollow of your throat, before finally pressing a kiss to your lips.

This time, you answered. You took his lower lip between yours, playfully. You could taste and smell yourself on him, and it was more alluring than what you had ever thought.

“Good.” He said, pulling back. He started to undo his breeches, and you felt panic grip at you some more. This was it. You had to fulfill your end of the deal with him, let him take you. As if he could feel your nerves, Daemon rubbed your thigh, affectionate. “Do not fret, zoklītsos. You will enjoy this, too.”

“It is meant to hurt.” You answered him, pouting. He tapped at your lower lip, gently.

“Put that away, before I have to bite it.” Daemon took out his cock and rubbed it up and down your folds, gathering the wetness. Despite your fears, a wave of desire overtook you. His fingers had felt good, so had his tongue. You wondered if this, too, could be pleasurable. Otherwise, there wouldn't be so many bastards being born in Westeros, right? But you were supposed to bleed. Bleeding was not pleasant, ever.

“I…” You grabbed at one of his hands, holding on for dear life. He may not have been your choice of husband, but he had vowed to protect you under his gods, standing in the sand and mixing your blood with him. Daemon took his valyrian vows seriously. You were desperate for any scraps of reassurance he was willing to give, even if in normal circumstances you would have rather died than be helped by him.

“It won’t hurt.” Daemon said, kissing your forehead. You looked up at him, eyes wide in fear. He squeezed your hand and lined himself up. You felt the tip of his cock nudge at your entrance, and wondered what it looked like. It felt blunt, and it was very warm. “I will do it on one thrust, like ripping a bandage off. You probably don’t have your maidenhead, with how fond you are of riding. And if you do, you are more than wet enough.”

“Lady Manderly said it hurt her, the first time.” You pouted again, and this time, he did good on his promise. He leaned down and kissed you, biting at your lower lip playfully.

“She has a fool for a husband.” Daemon muttered, kissing your ear. You shivered, nearly mewling. You weren’t aware of how sensitive you were there. “Trust me on this. I know more about it.”

“Taken many maidenheads?” You remarked, with a hint of a teasing smile on your lips.

“Jealous, ice queen?” Daemon licked a strip down the base of your neck towards your jaw. “You will have to admit you know little of the topic.”

“I would say I know plenty.” You answered, glowering, just as he thrust inside of you, seemingly tired of the conversation. At the sudden feeling of fullness, you yelped. But there was no pain, as he had promised. Only an odd feeling of being stretched and filled to the brim, and a slight discomfort. “Rude.”

Daemon smirked. He stayed still, letting you time to adjust. You took a deep breath, and shifted to rest your weight on your elbows, to take a curious look at where you were joined. To your disappointment, you could only see a cloud of light hair, mixing with yours, hips impossibly close.

“Did it hurt?” Daemon flicked at your pearl, absent-mindedly. He groaned when that made your walls tighten around him.

You glared.

“No.”

“You silly girl.” He laughed, starting to thrust. The friction felt good immediately, and you moaned, grabbing at his shoulders. “And you thought fucking could only be done on your hands and knees.”

You didn’t answer, choosing instead to cling to him, mouth falling open in moans you were unable to keep quiet anymore.

“Fucking is a pleasure.” Daemon insisted, pinching at one of your nipples, You whined. He could be telling you the secrets of the realm, and you wouldn’t care. “And I will teach you all about it.” He grunted in your ear.

You were too gone to care about his smugness. Your heels dug into his back, pulling him closer and closer. You met him thrust by thrust, scratching at his back until your nails were bloody. Daemon kissed you and tugged at your hair, desperate to claim you. You could hear his silent laughter, feel his mocking smile against your skin. He had finally gotten what he wanted, a reaction out of you. It could not be faked, this pure, raw emotion. Soon, his fingers found their way to your button, making you whine and squirm. It was too much for your poor, abused body. You screamed his name as you reached your second peak of the night.

Daemon thrust several more times, practically vibrating with smugness. He grabbed at your body, fingers digging in the flesh, surely bruising your hips. His mouth was slightly parted, and something stirred in you at seeing him so raw. Daemon had been right, you realized. Many moons before, he had said bodies spoke and were honest in ways their owners were not. And so, you let yours speak, tugging at his hair, sucking bruises in his pale neck. Perhaps there was something there, in the way he held you closer, shuddering and spilling himself with a muffled cry. Something that mere lust couldn't explain.

You both laid there, panting. Daemon looked down at you, and brushed your sweaty hair out of your face.

“I think, Lady Wife, that the coldness of the North might just be bearable.”

[toasttheinkling]

So what if I started posting my writing here?

-TEEF POV-

Teef followed the odd old man into the sewers, why? Good fucking question. They’re hard to read even for a watcher like myself. 

“The- The the- THE OCTARIANS ARE COMING!!” Cuttlefish began. “AGAIN!” he shouted after a pause.

“Oh, uh, hi... Did we do this once before? The ol’ noggin ain’t what it used to be.” Seeming to only notice Teef now.

“Anyhow, the name’s Cuttlefish. Senior advisor to the new squidbeak splatoon, at your service!”

He glanced at him, an odd-looking man, very old- sun-dried with crazy eyes. “That look in your eye… it’s the look I’ve been lookin’ for!” Teef narrows his eyes what the hell does that mean

“The Great Zapfish that powers Splatsville has been squidnapped! It's the octarians again. You can bet your bottom sand dollar on it! See, the Great Zapfish has gone missing before. Twice, in fact! And those octojerks were behind it both times.”

Teef assumes he's talking about octolings. What does he have against them, anyway? When Teef was growing up octos, inklings, and other creatures were all seen as equal, but as soon as he moved to the splatlands people seemed to have something against them… he's told it's even worse in the Inkopolis area. He knew that the peninsula of anarchy bay was cut off but really what had he missed? 

“I’ve been keepin’ an eye on ‘em even though I'm technically retired. And with eyes like these, there ain’t much that escapes me!” Teef believed that his eyes were honestly worrying.

“But they still made off with the Great Zapfish. And now WE’VE got to get it back. … Right?” Teef narrowed his eyes at him

“So, uh…”   “… that was a job offer kid. The pay is… zero but you might just save the world. You’re in, right? RIGHT!?”

“Uh-” Teef spoke for the first time, he didn't talk much almost ever but with how much this ‘cuttlefish’ was talking 

“Course you are! Starting today, you are the new agent 3 of the new squidbeak splatoon! “This is your brand-new hero suit! It’ll help you fight the octarians” 

Cuttlefish held out a jacket, shoes, and some kind of earpiece that Teef took and put on over their ragged clothes a rain jacket lined with a soft fabric, that had surprisingly good airflow even in the heat of the splatland deserts with a built-in ink tank, attaching the earpiece that glowed once it was attached and nicely bouncy shoes that seemed good enough for… well whatever this guy wanted him to do. The next thing he pulled out was a gun, handing it to Teef who took it after a moment of hesitation.

“Now let's go get those octoclowns! You got it buc- OH!”

 Teef began to walk in the direction he pointed before Blabo scuttled at the old man“You’ve already got another agent there with ya, huh? Well, I'm fresh outta hero suits, unfortunately…” Teef blinked at him before holding out his hand for Blabo, who went into the pocket between their ink tank and jacket, which was conveniently smallfry-sized. “Ah, but it's a salty li’l scamp ain’t it- it’ll do fine.” “Now, where was I… oh, right! Let's go get those octojerks! I’m countin’ on you, bucko!”

[randomestfandoms-ocs]

Alchemical: Vol 1 Prompt List

Prompts for Dove Cameron’s album, Alchemical Vol 1, practice good reblog karma and sent a prompt or two to the person you reblog this from

Usually I keep it casual

Cause she walks like a saint, floats like an angel

Can't feel my face, I should've stayed home

I know what she's doin', she's a lethal woman

I came all this way just to feel this

Know that I'm coming to get ya, cause game recognizes game

I didn't ask for this but I'm not mad at it

So if I can't resist, I guess I'm powerless

I didn't ask for this, I’m not a masochist

I guess I'm into it, I like a lethal woman

Man on the screen they only see whatever you want them to see

We only know higher than high, lower than low, no in-between

Bubblewrap the heart in plastic

The question we're scared of asking

Can we just stand still?

Face in the crowd, merry-go-round, kiss me with your razor blade mouth

We could be what they dream about

How dare you dare me to love you when you can't love me too?

If you jump, I will too

Your smoke in my hair, hot and dirty like the L.A. air

But you don't know what you don't know

So you wanna talk about power? Let me show you power

I eat boys like you for breakfast

And they'll always be mine, it makes me feel alive

I never said it's right, but I'm gonna keep doing it

And honestly, I'm getting high off it

What's worse?  Being wanted but not loved or loved but not wanted

What's worse?  Hearing what you wanna hear or hearing what's honest

Our love's misaligned 'cause you're on my mind every night

I ignore the signs and I don't know why

Cause, baby, I saw the end when we began

You couldn't love the way I can

I tried to bargain with the stars

I tried to bargain with the stars for more than half your heart

You have more pieces of me than the desert has sand

I have less pieces of you than I can hold in my hand

What hurts is the one thing that you wanna do is the one thing that you shouldn't do

What hurts is knowing what's good for you just doesn't look good to you

I stretch out the time and now I know why

Let's talk about love, let's talk about this

Sex, money and drugs, flick, flick of the wrist

Got the Midas touch, fuck you think this is?

Where'd you come from, where'd you go?

If you're ready, let me know

Make you swallow all that pride

Snow on the floor, honey, I can't see straight

Who needs friends anyway?

It's a slippery slope, a heavy dose of heaven knows

She soprano, the way she hit that high-c note 

I am no home for you, I am shades of blue

You are beautiful, I am next to you

Learn to see the world through your eyes, I know it’s a scary place 'cause you told me so

Love of my life, would you lie?

Are you only tryin' to hurt me, babe, so you can be my savin' grace?

Just a boy with a man's face, playin' God's game

I try to fight to get you out my brain but like a bloodstain, you remain

I made myself a home for everyone but me

Been alchemical ever since fifteen

And if I'm honest, I just never saw all this comin'

I prepared with so much care

I was runnin', it was stunnin'

I am desperate from delusions, not much of a solution

Never knowin' what the truth is, oh, God

I can't believe we're finally alone

I can't believe I almost went home

What are the chances? Everyone's dancing, and he's not with you

The universe must have divined this

What am I gonna do?  Not grab your wrist?

I could be a better boyfriend than him

I could do the shit that he never did, up all night, I won't quit

Thinking I'm gonna steal you from him

I could be such a gentleman, plus all my clothes would fit

I don't need to tell you twice, all the ways he can't suffice

If I could give you some advice, I would leave with me tonight

Ladies first, baby, I insist

I never would have left you alone, here on your own

Never would have left you alone, for someone else to take you home

Plus you know my clothes would fit

The foundation's here, but the magic is gone

I let you in, then you let it all decay

The lights are burnt down, the flowers are dead

Somehow I'm still 'supposed to sleep in this bed

Gave you a key, but I couldn't make you stay

But I'm still glad you came to visit

Love is like a house of fragile things where hearts can be broken as easy as antiques

And now there's glass all shattered at my feet, what we built together, you left in smithereens

I'll paint all the walls, a fresh coat of blue but I'll never cover the memory of you

Watchin' me sleep, dancin' on your feet always, I'll replace the floors, whatever I do

The ghost of you will always live in these rooms

You get to leave, I don't have that luxury

[heartshapedwords]

I want your midnights

>> Pairing: Fezco x Female Reader

>> Plot: Fez meets a girl at the boxing club. There’s immediate attraction. Both are a little bit of a mess. 

>> Warnings: Mention of food and Euphoria typical themes. Mention of violence and blood. Mentions of sex but no actual smut.

>> A/N: Sorry I was gone for a while, work was really stressful the last two weeks. This was written during my lunch breaks. It’s spellchecked but I didn’t proofread. Hope you enjoy it anyway ♥ English is not my first language so cut me some slack ;) All likes, reblogs and comments are much appreciated ♥

The first time grandma took Fez to a deal with Marco he hated it. The place smelled like blood and sweat and loud metal music blasted from the speakers as guys with bloated muscles kept punching bags of sand and leather.

It wasn't that he didn't like the whole scene itself. Boxing was kinda cool and he wouldn't have minded taking some lessons himself. But it was just after the accident, the cold metal of the crowbar smashing against his head still fresh on his mind. And it was so loud. That place was loud and hectic and the air was thick and heavy. It made him anxious and it overwhelmed him.

Marco was nice enough but that didn't change the fact that all of Fez's senses went into overdrive as soon as he stepped foot into the place.

And then the thing with grandma happened and everything was forever changed.

He had to grow up. Immediately. While he never really got to be a kid, a little spark of the boy he used to be was still there. When he had to take over the business, that spark died.

It was on him to make sure Ash had a roof over his head and that there was enough food in the fridge. It was on him to take care of grandma and keep the shop and the drug business going. It was all on him.

And there was no room for mistakes. No room for fear or anxiety or hesitation.

Marco was one of the few that kept taking him seriously even without Marie by his side. Maybe, Fez thinks, he felt bad for him. Just a fucking kid carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Or maybe he was just super into blow and Fez was the cheapest seller.

In the end, it don't really make a difference.

He likes to come by early in the morning when the boxing club is fairly deserted still. The music isn't so loud, the air not as thick.

"Yo, Marco. I'm here."

Fez usually calls before he enters the building. Sometimes, when there's too many people around, he wants to do business outside or in the backroom.

"Shit, Fez. I totally forgot you was comin' today man. I only remembered like 30 minutes ago but I'm already on the road. Getting some new equipment for the place. Sorry, man. But I told (Y/N) you were coming around. She can handle it. "

There's very few things Fez hates more than people wasting his time with their misplaced irresponsibility. This is his fucking business, his livelihood. He's particular and careful about who he's making bigger deals with. Handling the drop-off with some girl he doesn't know? That fucking sucks.

"Man, you know I hate doing shit with people I don't know."

"She's cool, Fez. Trust me. Basically raised the kid until her mama went all crazy bitch on me and found some new dude to smooch off on. Still got a soft spot for the girl. "

"So she's family? You trust her?"

"Yeah for sure. She's family. "

"Alright man, but if she causes trouble..."

"That girl is all trouble but she'll be able to handle this. Promise you, man. I'll pay extra next time for the inconvenience."

Extra pay. Now that sounds like something Fez could be on board with. And yet, a bad feeling settles in the pit of his stomach. Like when you're watching a horror movie and you know something's about to jump out and scare you.

Only it's not a monster or a serial killer greeting him as he enters the building. It's a girl in basketball shorts and a sports bra kicking and punching a punching bag with a fury as if the inanimate object has personally insulted her mother or something.

She's hot though. He can admit that much. There's hardly room or time for a girl in his life but he isn't blind. That girl looks like trouble in all the best and most delicious ways.

"You (Y/N)?" Fez calls out to her which makes her whip around, eye focused on him like an animal considering whether to run or to fight.

"Depends. Who's asking?"

She's out of breath, sweat pearls down her face.

"I'm Fez, was supposed to see Marco but -"

" Oh, you're the guy!" She exclaims and it seems for the first time since he stepped foot into the place she relaxes a bit. A smile tugs at the corner of her lips as she grabs the towel hanging around her neck and dabs the sweat off her skin.

"Guess so," Fez replies and shrugs his shoulder in agreement. "The guy". It ain't the worst he's ever been referred to. Sometimes it's quite shocking how little respect people show him. As if he's not a human being just trying to get by and provide for his family but a personal substances ATM dealing out addictions with malice and bad intentions. Being "the guy" really ain't so bad.

" Didn’t expect you to be so — “

“ So? “

“ Young. You’re like my age. I thought drug dealers were mean and scary and — old. “

He’s also heard this quite a few times before, less so now, but back when he first took over, people didn’t take him seriously at all. To be fair, he can’t blame them. They learned fast though, that he can do business just as well as people twice his age. Some people might not see it as something to be proud of but grandma always told him to find pride in what he does. Making money. Providing for his family.

“ Yeah, well you got a problem with that? “ he asks, eyebrows raised in question. He really doesn’t have time for this bullshit.

“ No I — sorry I didn’t mean it like that. I’m pleasantly surprised actually. Didn’t expect you to be this cute. Uh anyway, let’s go to Marco’s office, that’s where he left the money. “

Cute? Now that’s a new one. Sure, there’s always at least one drunk girl at a party trying to get a discount by offering him — something in return. But they are drunk and horny and out for a price cut. It ain’t serious. Fez isn’t blind. He knows he’s not the kind of guy girls usually go for. Not compared to pretty-faced cover boys like Nate Jacobs.

He wonders if this girl is blind, crazy, or just trying to play him for a fool. Either way, he hates that it makes him blush.

“ Yeah alright, lead the way. “

She untangled the red boxing wraps from around her fists exposing the colorful bruised knuckles of her right hand.

"Fuck, man. That's some bruises you got there."

She shrugs her shoulders nonchalantly as she curls and uncurls her fingers into a fist and back. She winces slightly before quickly making the expression with a fake smile.

Fez is good at reading people. It's part of his job. Every move. Every little expression or gesture, he notices. He analyzes.

"Oh, it's not so bad. You should see the other guy," she jokes before a serious expression takes over her features " but don't tell Marco you saw me boxing. He wants me to take it easy. "

"Then why don't you?"

" 'cause he's just being ridiculous. It's really not that bad." She exclaims as she plops down onto the dingy fake leather rolling chair with the stuffing coming out that sits in the middle of Marco's office.

Fez's eyes travel back down towards her hand. The bruise has all the colors of the rainbow. Blue and purple and red and green and yellow. It's a kaleidoscope of pain.

"Ice that shit," he said and nods towards her hand as she gently hands him the roll of dollar bills.

"Okay dad, I will. You sound like Marco."

Fez can't help but let a small smirk pull the corner of his lips upward as he drops the plastic bag on the desk.

"You mind if I check?" He asks her, waving the roll of bills. "You can check too."

"I wouldn't even know what to check for. I might've taken over a lot of Marco's vices but drugs ain't one of them."

" 's just weed and coke. He doesn't want anything else at his club."

She chuckles slightly as she grabs the bag and stores it in one of the lockable desk drawers. "Yeah, he doesn't want his guys to do any drugs. Meanwhile, he's snorting lines in his office. Always such a do as I say, not as I do kinda dude."

She says it not with malice but with unwavering fondness. The way you talk about an old friend. One whose faults and shortcomings you know like your own but you accept them because they are what makes them, well - them.

"He said you're family," Fez mentions as he counts the money.

" Yah. He dated my mom for a few years. Was the best of her boyfriends. Taught me how to stand up for myself and not take shit from no one. Made sure we always had food and everything. He's the closest to a dad I ever had."

Dads, Fez thinks, are fucking overrated anyway. His sure as hell didn't even deserve being called a dad. Never showed up when he was needed. Wrapped his love in a fist. Bruised cheeks where there should've been kisses.

He tries to be better. Do better. He's no dad but he's the only man Ash has in his life. He hopes he can be worthy.

"So you my age, how come I never saw you before?"

"Was in juvie for a while."

At that, his eyes snap up to meet hers. "Word?"

"Nah, I was a fucking nerd in high school and I got offered a scholarship to study abroad for 2 years at a gifted program. Then afterward I went to university but I fucking hated it. Now I'm back and working here for Marco. I want to start working with teens. Think it helped me stay on a good path, maybe I can help someone else."

"You any good?" Fez asks, a laugh swinging along with his words.

"Yeah dude, I'm real good."

"Your knuckles say otherwise."

"That's - a different story. Didn't use my head in that fight. "

He wants to know more. Wants to know what happened. Something about this girl has him mesmerized.

"Used your knuckles though. I can see that."

The money is all good. He's counted twice now. He could leave but he doesn't really want to. Something keeps him here. Something about her makes him want to stay around.

"Guess you could say that."

"So, you comin' to the party tonight?"

The words are out of his mouth before his brain really comprehends them. Sometimes his lips are so much faster than his head.

"There's a party."

"There's always a party. 'specially on new years eve."

"Are you gonna be there?"

There's a twinkle in her eyes. A challenge. A request. A glimmer of hope. Excitement maybe.

" Mmh. For sure. Gotta work."

"At the party?"

"Well yeah, I -"

"Oh shit, I forgot. Sorry, stupid question."

She seems almost shy as she realizes what his work at the party entails. He thinks she's so fucking cute.

"Nah, you good. You gonna be there?"

She bites her lip in consideration. Red and flushed. He wants to taste them, taste her. So fucking badly. Get yourself together, man. What are you? A horny 14-year-old?

(Y/N) grabs her phone from the desk and holds it out towards him. " Here, text yourself so you have my number. Then you can let me know where and when tonight."

And when she smiles at him he thinks maybe this will be the first time in a long time that he goes to a party not just for business but for pleasure.

He texts himself a smiley face.

" 'ight. Here you go. Guess I'll be seeing you tonight."

"Guess you will."

When she says those words, she underlines them by biting her lip. He's not sure if it's meant to be suggestive. He likes it either way.

Heavy steps take him out of the office and towards the gate leading out into the open and just before his hand meets the door handle to push open the heavy iron door, she calls out his name.

It’s quiet, music playing so low it hardly floods the entire boxing club, making her voice echo through the halls and sound even louder.

“ Yeah? “ he asks, eyebrows raised in confusion. Ain’t nothing wrong with the product, he counted and weighed and packed it himself. He knows that for certain. There’s not a lot that Fez is proud of and quite honestly he doesn’t know if this one counts, but he’s good at his job, meticulous, and attentive. He wants to take pride in that even if a lot of people might disagree. “ Something wrong with the merch?"

"Merch is fine. I'm gonna go take a shower, thought maybe you want to join me?"

He's not sure how long he's standing there, not saying anything. His dick for sure is screaming at him to fucking go for it. His brain though has some kind of short circuit or something. Pretty girls like her don't go around asking boys like him questions like this one.

And then she lets a giggle fall from her lips and breaks the spell.

"You can close your mouth, babe. It was just a joke. I'll see you tonight, okay?"

He just nods and leaves through the front door, the midday sun smacking his face and pulling him back down to earth.

What the actual fuck was that?

The moment she walks in, eyes latch onto her and follow her around as she pushes through the crowd of sweaty, drunk teenagers.

She's wearing ripped Jean's, heeled boots, and a sparkly top partially covered by a jacket. She looks like she could break and heal you all at the same time. And Fez is sure he wouldn't fucking mind her doing either of those things to him.

"Wassup, million-dollar baby. How you doin'?"

She grants him a radiating smile before dropping down on the couch next to him and wiggling her plastic cup in the air.

"Pretty good. They got some expensive ass vodka here. How about you, Heisenberg?"

He smirks at the nickname. There's something about this girl that makes him feel like they've been friends for years.

"Yeah I'm good," he replies, holding out his smoke to her which she declines with a little shake of her head.

"You don't smoke?"

"I do sometimes. Just not feeling it right now."

"Alright Rocky, just lemme know when you change your mind."

She laughs at the nickname then agrees.

"Okay will do. Now tell me about your friends here."

As she gestures around the room, Fez regards the crowd. He knows a lot of these people and he knows even more about these people, whether they want him to know or not. People tell him all kinds of shit about everyone and everything. Does he care? No, not really. But people seem to lose any kind of filter they had when they come to buy their shit at his store and rope him into a conversation he doesn't fucking care for.

"None of them are really my friends. Except for Lexi and Rue but I don't see them around right now."

"Who's the tall guy?" She asks, nodding her head towards Nate Jacobs who's leaning against the kitchen counter in a heated argument with Maddy, as always.

"His name is Nate. Don't get caught up in his mess though."

"Why? He that bad?"

"He's a fucking asshole."

Fez can feel the red hot anger bubble up inside of him again. The feeling of dread and anxiety he felt when they got raided. The constant worry about Rue and her friends. All thanks to this bitch who calls himself a man. Pathetic.

His hands are twitching with the images of what's to come. He ain't here solely for work and play. He's also here to settle a score. Pay back some.

"Oh no, don't worry. He's too tall for my taste and I'm not looking to get with any High Schoolers anyway. And he seems pretty locked up to me. That girl he's arguing with, she's his girlfriend, isn't she?"

Fez exhales through his nose at her question. There's something comical about Nate and Maddy, if the whole thing wasn't so sad and toxic.

"Who knows. Sometimes she is. Sometimes she's not.  I 'ont keep up with them. But between us, she the only one at this whole party that scares me. Girl is ruthless."

"Maybe she's just frustrated with the way he's treating her. Boy looks like he demands a blowjob every time they fuck and then doesn't kiss her afterward because he's disgusted."

"Yooo, who does that."

Her laughter is half-hidden by her plastic cup as she takes a sip from her drink. "Oh, you'd be surprised."

"You know guys like that?"

"I've blown guys like that."

"Yo, you hanging out with the wrong kinda men then."

He rests his head on the back of the couch and turns slowly towards her only to be greeted by her eyes already on him. A small smile is playing on her lips and fuuuck, he wants to kiss her so badly.

"Mmh. I'm trying to change that."

Her words are low and breathy, almost whispers but not quite. And for a second it feels like they are the only two people at this god damn party.

"That one of your resolutions for the new year?"

"Maybe. You got some?"

"A few," he shrugs.

"Which are?"

"Now, if I tell you they won't be coming true."

"They're resolutions Fez, not wishes."

He likes making her laugh, he decides right then. Maybe that can be added to his list of resolutions. Make her laugh more often.

"Okay but if I tell you and I don't stick to 'em, you can call me out on it. If I keep 'em a secret, I only have to answer to myself."

She's quiet for a moment. Contemplating.

"Hmm. Yeah, that makes sense in a weird way."

As they're about to fall back into conversation, a girl steps up to stand by the couch. She has her hair intricately braided around her head and she's wearing some kind of polka dot print shirt. She looks like a fairy, (Y/N) thinks. Though her demeanor doesn't give any sign of joy. Her arms are crossed, her eyebrows furrowed in worry. She reminds her a little of Tinkerbell when she's angry.

"Have you guys seen Cassie?"

Her words come out frantic and quick. Like a plea. "We got in a fight and she got out of the car and  now I can't find her."

"Nah, sorry Lexi. Haven't seen her all night. Didn't come around to buy nothin'." Fez replies in his signature slow drawl.

"I don't even know who Cassie is. What's she look like?" (Y/N) asks the worried pixie-like girl.

"Blond. Short blue dress."

Sadly shaking her head (Y/N) has to disappoint. "Don't think I've seen her. But I'll keep an eye out. Promise"

With a rushed "thank you" Lexi excused herself from the conversation leaving Fez and (Y/N) in their shared comfort once again.

"So that was Lexi. You said she's your friend!"

"She is. She's cool."

Her eyes wander towards the rip in her jeans that she's nervously picking at as the next words fall from her lips.

"She like a friend friend — or a girlfriend?"

Fez lets out a soft chuckle as the air around the fills with the smoke escaping his lips.

"She a friend friend. Why you care? If you wanna know if I'm single or something, you can just ask me."

"Are you?"

There's a challenge in her eyes and while he usually doesn't really care all too much about the chase, there's something about this girl that makes him question everything he ever thought he knew about himself.

"Why you askin'? You interested?"

"Just like to make sure I'm not flirting with a man who's taken."

His heart does a little flutter when she says that and for a second he feels 12 years old again, like having his first-ever crush. Ridiculous.

"You flirting with me?"

"My guy, I've been flirting with you since you stepped into the boxing hall."

He smiles around the blunt, smile escaping from between his lips. He likes girls who go for what they want, who tell him outright. He's never been one for games and hanging out at high school parties just made it even more clear to him that those are not the kind of toxic and manipulative relationships he wants to maintain.

"That's good to know.'

"Mmmh. Hey, it's almost midnight. You got anyone in mind to share a new years kiss with?"

He wants to kiss her. Everything inside him screams at him to abandon the plan. To say fuck it and kiss her instead.

Then he catches eight of Ash as he maneuvers his way through the crowd, doing his part. Doing what Fez told him to do. It would be a huge asshole move to let him hanging and not stick to his own side of the plan. And for a girl too.

Fez's eyes survey the room before stopping on exactly the face he's been looking for. Nate leans against the half wall separating the kitchen and the vast living room. He's got a cup in hand and that damn smirk on his face that makes Fez's hand curl into a fist. This has been a long fucking time coming

"Yo, (Y/N). Listen, I don't want tonight to end yet but I gotta do some shit. Shit that ain't nice. My bro is waiting in our car outside, you feel like hanging out at my place after I deal with — business?"

She looks at him with eyes bursting with curiosity.

"You want me to come home with you?"

"If you wanna."

She thinks for a moment before a smirk takes over her lips "sure."

He can't help but reciprocate the smile. There's something about this girl that makes his stomach do weird tingly things. He's not sure if it's something more or if he's just really horny. Maybe both.

After he explained which car is his and what to tell Ash, she grabs her stuff and turns back to face him. In a move that makes Fez's inside implode with all kinds of joy and goodness, she tangles her fingers in his sweater and pulls him closer.

Her lips are so close to his ear, he can feel her breath against his skin, and god, he wishes they were this close in a completely different situation.

"Aim for the temple if you're after a quick knockout. The nose if you want him to suffer a bit longer."

Then she kisses his cheek and vanishes into the crowd leaving Fez dumbfounded and enchanted all at once.

"Was the bottle necessary?"

A stinging pain rushes through his hand as (Y/N) stitches up the cut. She tries to be as gentle as possible, biting her lip in concentration.

The way she stands between his legs as Fez is sitting comfortably on the kitchen table sends a shudder of electricity through him. Having her there feels good. It feels right.

"I got a flair for the dramatics," he murmurs, eyes trained on her face. On the way her eyebrows furrow when she focuses on the task at hand. On the tip of her tongue that peeks out from between her lips every once in a while. On the care and the warmth that's gleaming in her eyes.

He feels fidgety, nervous and excited, and overwhelmed.

"Yo, you gotta hold still for me to stitch you up," she scolds him slightly.

"Sorry. Just — feel like I gotta do shit, ya know?"

"I get it. That's the adrenaline still running through your system. Makes you wanna punch someone," she explains and lets his stitched-up hand go. Her arms wrap around his neck instead and, as if working on autopilot, Fez's hands find their place on her hips. Fuck, she's killing him.

"Or fuck someone."

The spark of mischief is back in her eyes and it feels magnetic. Addicting.

She gently takes his hand that's resting on her hip and moves it lower, placing it right on the soft curves of her gorgeous ass. Fez thinks he might be dying.

"Yo, you fucking bold. Ain't no beating around the bush, huh?"

It's not a judgment from his side, it's just an observation. He's not judging at all, if anything, he's fucking thrilled.

"Just trying to start the new year sticking to my resolution. Spend my time with nicer men."

She looks at him as if he's the best thing she's seen in all her life. He doesn't think he's deserving of that look. He takes it anyway.

"You think I'm a nice man?"

"The nicest man!"

And when she nuzzles her nose against his, he feels like someone grabbed him and pulled him into a cheesy rom-com or some pop love song. His gut feels tingly and his heart is beating twice as fast.

"I'm not in high school anymore, Fez. I don't wanna play games. I like you, and I think you're hot so I'm telling you what I want. If you just wanna hang out and watch a movie, that's fine too. Just letting you know. Ball's in your court … or corner if we wanna stay with the boxing terminology."

He lets out a breathy chuckle "how you so hot and then say shit like that?"

"I'm a woman of many talents."

"Yeah," he says and pulls away just enough to look into her eyes. "You wanna show 'em to me?"

She tastes like liquor and some kind of artificial honey chapstick. He thinks she tastes like heaven.

Her lips are soft and warm and when she lets her tongue touch his he thinks he might explode. With hunger and thirst for her. Body and soul.

"Yo, what the hell. Not on the kitchen table, c'mon guys."

As Ash's complaint echoes through the kitchen, they pull away, just slightly. Just enough to see the longing in each other's eyes.

"Yeah alright. Calm down, bro. We'll go to my room. Just — keep them headphones on full volume."

Her giggle sounds through the halls as Fez sweeps her up into his arms and Carrie's her towards his room. Just before he pushes the door closed with his foot, they both hear an aggravated "gross" being called out to them, making them both laugh against each other's lips.

————————

This wasn't his first time, but Fez really wasn't as much of a ladies' man as some people might believe him to be.

Yeah, his job comes with a lot of opportunities to be just that but it also comes with a horrible side effect of not being able to really trust anyone. And Fez really isn't out there looking to fuck girls he can't even trust.

The few times he's had sex were more out of curiosity and frustration than anything else.

It was a way to scratch an itch. To work off some energy. To get his mind off of things for a while. It was good, sure, but it was never like this.

Playful and silly and awkward and soft.

She gets tangled up in her own top as he tries to pull it over her head, leaving her with messed-up hair and the biggest grin on her face.

"Oh shit, ma. I'm sorry."

"No," she giggles and lets her forehead rest against his shoulder as she straddles him. " No, you good."

They're laughing and smiling and Fez has genuine fun even in the moments leading up to the actual sex. Something is different. Maybe this time it's because he's all in.

Body & Head & Heart.

And it's scary. To give all of you to a person you just met. But she makes him feel things. Things he can't explain. Things he doesn't know and doesn't understand fully.

Maybe, he thinks, maybe it's time to let himself feel this way though. For once he deserves something that is entirely his because he chose it. He chose to let himself feel. He chose her.

And she chose him back.

Not for any reason of guilt or responsibility or anything like that.

Just for who he is.

The nicest man.

He's not sure that's true. Quite honestly he doesn't think he's all that mice when he leaves hickeys and little bites all along her collarbone. When he kisses the soft flesh of her boobs. When he sucks her nipples between his lips.

It's definitely not a nice thing to literally rip her panties off of her body. But then when he kisses that spot behind her ears, thrusts into her with all the passion his body has to give, and she makes those sounds, he thinks maybe he is being a little nice.

His name falls from her lips like a hymn, like a motherfucking prayer.

And she looks so ethereal when he flips them over.  When she's underneath him.

She looks like a goddess but she ain't. She's just a girl in the way he is just a boy.

Not the nicest of the best. No superlatives. Just a boy. Just Fez. And he thinks that might just be all he has to be for her.

She looks almost glowing in post-orgasmic bliss. Sweat is clinging to their bodies as she rests in his arms. She seems to fit perfectly.

Her fingers draw shapes on his skin, first his shoulder, then the side of his head.

"What happened?" She asks, her voice laced with concern as she trails her finger along the scar that runs across his head.

"Crowbar"

He has no problem talking about it, people are usually just afraid to ask. And if they do, they're usually not people worth sharing the story with.

Her eyes grow wide in surprise. "For real"

"Yeah, was an accident though. Wrong place, wrong time kinda thing."

"That's rough, my guy." She says and places a kiss on his head, right above his scar. Maybe sometimes scars aren't meant to remind us of our wrongdoings. Maybe sometimes they're meant to be kissed.

He takes her hands from his head and kisses her bruised knuckles, gently and carefully.

"What happened?"

She considers her words for a moment, he can almost see the images flash behind her eyes. It's not a nice memory that much is for sure.

"One of mom's ex-boyfriends came by the house. Bad guy, very shitty guy. He used to push her around. Slap her sometimes. He's the reason Marco took me under his wing and taught me how to fight. I never had to stand up to him but this time I couldn't watch anymore. So I used all that I have learned. "

"Did he learn his lesson?"

"I broke his nose and gave him a gushing wound above his eyebrow so, I hope he did."

For a moment they linger in peaceful silence. Just let themselves be. Quiet and soft and comfortable.

"We all kinds of messed up."

She laughs at his words. "You tell me."

"Maybe we can be messed up together. Cancel each other's messes out, ya know."

She kisses his head again. He could get used to this.

"Hey uh — I've been meaning to ask you. I know we started this thing all backwards but uh — would you like to go out with me sometimes. Like, I don't know, for dinner or something."

Her voice is timid, shy, almost unrecognizable and it makes him fall even harder.

It also makes him laugh

"Yo, you telling me you're all fine and shit when I rip your panties off and touch your whole body but asking me out to dinner is making you shy? "

"Stop laughing," she replies and slightly pushes against his shoulder though her words are laced with amusement.

"Sex is easy. This is hard. Being vulnerable and all that. Scares me a little."

Fez pulls her closer again, cradles her face in his hand, and kisses her lips. Once. Twice. Three times.

"Shit me too. But maybe it ain't so scary if we do it together, ya know. Got no idea about this kind of thing but I'm willing to try and I'm happy to learn. That sound good?"

She thinks for a moment then smiles.

"I guess I can try to be brave if you want to have me and I get to have you. Messes and all."

"For sure. I'm in your corner, baby. Messes and all."

The first time grandma took Fez to a deal with Marco he hated it. The place smelled like blood and sweat and loud metal music blasted from the speakers as guys with bloated muscles kept punching bags of sand and leather.

Fez never believed much in fate though as he gets lost in (Y/N)'s sweet kisses, he thinks that he will be forever grateful to whatever higher power led him here. Made him step into that boxing gym for the first time. God or Karma or just his Grandma.

Whatever it was it brought him to exactly where he was always supposed to be. 

[maliby]

Dare | Johnny Suh (+18)

↬ Pairing: Johnny x F. Reader

↬ Story Genre: smut, fluff

↬ Warnings: mature language, explicit sex scene

↬ Word count: 5.6K

↬ Summary:  You and your friend Johnny have this ongoing string of wild dares. There’s just one thing: you’re never allowed to say no.

“Good morning class, today we’re going to start learning all about the matrix!” Your Algebra professor happily announced, completely unaware of the horror that swept over his students.

“Wait, is he talking about the movies?” Your friend Taeyong leaned in as soon as Professor Weaver turned his back to write on the board. The rest of the class groaned, having heard tales of horror from their seniors about the subject.

“No, you dufus! Remember last year when Taeil was having a mental breakdown?”

“Oh,” realization dawned over his beautiful face, his big eyes widening even more.

You had had a crush on Taeyong from the first moment you had seen him (just like everybody in your year), but that soon went away as you got to know him and found that you connected better as friends.

“Yup. Matrices…” You sighed in terror while you rested your chin on the palm of your hand. “Maybe Taeil has some notes he can give us-” At that moment, the phone in the back pocket of your jeans buzzed, breaking you out of your conversation. You fished the device from your pocket and looked at the shiny notification bar - it was a message from your roommate, Johnny Suh. 

You looked to your left where said roommate was, sat just a few tables from you, and felt a feeling of dread creep up on you at the sight of his stupid grin. You didn’t have to read the message, you already knew what he wanted.

“Is it Johnny?” Taeyong asked as his eyes followed yours straight to the roommate you both had in common.

“Yes…” you mumbled through gritted teeth, quickly placing your finger on your phone’s Touch ID to unlock it and read the message.

Heeere’s Johnny 🔪 (10:35 AM): dare u to scream “fuck” as loud as you can

“Motherfucker…” you muttered with your eyes closed.

“What did he dare you to do this time?” You turned your phone to him as you noticed him trying to take a peek at it. “Oh no…”

It all started this one night at a frat house party. Back then, you were still crushing over Taeyong and, in a game of truth or dare, Johnny dared you to pick your nose and eat your own booger. Of course, any sane person would have said ‘no’ but, the tequila shots you had downed half an hour earlier made you anything but that. After that, not only did you not look at Taeyong for 2 weeks straight, but also dared Johnny to pick his crush’s nose. You thought he would never agree to it, but as soon as you saw the deed being performed right in the middle of the cafeteria, you knew you had just entered a game with no end.

“Y/N, you can’t do this! You’ll be in trouble!” Taeyong tried to reason with you, already knowing his words would fall on deaf ears.

“More trouble than I was in when I had to write a love poem to Professor Stevens on one of the questions of the Calculus exam?” You flinched as you remembered the talk down you got when Professor Stevens thought you were trying to have sex with him to get a better grade.

“Yeah...that was bad. But still-”

The buzzing of your phone interrupted Taeyong. You looked down at it and read Johnny’s second message out loud to your friend.

Heeere’s Johnny 🔪 (10:38 AM): are u scared? 🐔

You looked back at the sender of the message and felt annoyance grow as you saw him flap his arms around like a chicken and laugh straight in your face.

5 seconds. That was how long it took for you to completely lose your cool, flip Johnny off and yell from the back of the class: “Fuck!” 

You were expecting a couple of things to happen, but nothing could prepare you for the general reaction you got: laughter. Everyone was laughing, from your classmates to your professor. Everyone except Johnny, that is.

“Don’t worry Miss Y/L/N,” Mr Weaver said from the front of the class, breaking your stare down with Johnny. “Matrices aren’t as scary as they seem,” Mr Weaver fondly smiled at you before turning back to the board to write something down, leaving you completely perplexed.

You looked back at Johnny who had his face in a frown and stuck your tongue out to him - it felt good to see his evil plans backfire.

“That was lucky,” Taeyong commented with a little chuckle.

“Tell me about it, feels like the Universe has finally compensated me for all the stupid shit Johnny has made me do.”

“You’ve made Johnny do some pretty stupid shit too.”

“Shhh,” you turned to your friend with your finger in front of your lips, making the universal gesture for silence. “Let’s not talk about that,” you patted him in the back and picked up your pen to start taking notes.

“I’m back!” You announced as put your keys on the glass bowl right by the entrance of your shared apartment. 

“Taeyong, they were all out of your favourite yoghurt.” You heard noise coming from the kitchen so you moved your way there, but as you went inside you crossed paths with Johnny who was just leaving the kitchen. He was on the phone, and by the expression on his face, you figured that something bad must have happened. 

“What happened?” You asked Taeyong who was leaning on the balcony eating the last of his yoghurt.

“I don’t know, it’s his mother.” 

“Oh no, are his parents fighting again?” 

Taeyong nodded as he licked his spoon and threw the yoghurt cup in the trash.

It was then that you both jumped up at the noise of the door slamming shut - Johnny had stormed out of the house.

Both you and Taeyong had called him loads of times but Johnny never answered, worry consuming you and your best friend. Eventually, you both decided to split up and go looking for him - Taeyong on his scooter and you on your bicycle. 

After half an hour of looking for Johnny in the most obvious places, you started to get desperate. You were starting to run low on ideas of where he could be, but as you passed by a bus stop and saw an ad for a sunscreen with a girl on the beach you suddenly remembered something: Johnny once had told you that when he was feeling down he liked to go to the beach and listen to the waves because it really calmed him down. 

“Why didn’t I think of that earlier?” You questioned yourself (earning a few weird looks from the people at the bus stop) before you changed directions and started to peddle your way to the beach.

The beach was mostly deserted (being that it was December and it was cold), but a brown-haired guy could be seen sitting alone in the sand. 

You parked your bike in the empty bicycle spot, locked it and walked straight to the lonely boy. As you got closer to him and confirmed his identity you couldn’t help but sigh in relief - he sure as hell didn’t look good mentally, but at least he was physically okay. You fished your phone from the pocket of your jacket and sent a quick text to Taeyong before sitting right down beside one of your best friends.

“It’s a little cold for a swim, don’t you think?”

He smiled at you, but his smile didn’t reach his eyes. 

“My parents are getting a divorce,” he deadpanned before looking back at the sea, your instant reaction being to hug him.

“I’m so sorry Johnny.”

“I begged them to just talk it over. I begged them to try but...they won’t.”

“Johnny…” you started in a warning tone. You wanted to tell him that his parents have the right to be happy, but you completely understood where he was coming from - nobody wants their parents to split up. You just wish you could take away this bad feeling from him.

“I know, I know…” he answered, picking up what you were about to tell him. “It’s just...hard.”

You studied his face for a while and noticed his eyes were puffy from crying and your heart completely broke. You and Johnny liked to tease each other a lot, but the truth was that you really cared about each other, more than you’d probably like to admit.

You placed your hand on his back and started rubbing soothing circles. He probably could barely feel them over his bulky black leather jacket, but you couldn’t help but do it. “We’re here for you. Me and Taeyong. You know that, don’t you?”

Johnny turned to look at you and for a brief moment, his eyes held an emotion you had never seen on him. Something you were sure you had misunderstood. Something that, weirdly, made your heart pound.

“I know.” 

Johnny kissed the top of your head and wrapped his long arm around you, snuggling you closer to him and his body heat. You placed your head on his shoulder and just sat there, hearing a mix of his breathing and the waves.

Suddenly your heart started pounding again - something about this felt way too intimate. Replaying the last few minutes in your head made you realize that all of this, somehow, felt like more than a friendship, and that, scared the crap out of you. 

Your own body acted on its own, and when you came to it, you were already backing away from him and saying something to deflect the situation.

“You know there’s a frat party tonight don’t you?”

“Y/N... I’m not in the mood.”

“Johnny Suh, you are going to that damn party, and you are going to have a good time!” You knew he was stubborn and that you probably had no chance of convincing him but then, something crossed your mind; something that would dead sure make him go. “...I dare you!”

He chuckled. “That’s a low blow, using the dares against me.”

“Isn’t that the purpose of a dare though?” You smiled mischievously, making him smile in return.

“Touché.”

“Woo-hoo! Look at you!” Taeyong whistled as soon as you left your room, all dolled up and ready to go party. “Who are you trying to bang?”

You sneakily took a peek at Johnny who was sitting on the couch and felt a shiver run up your spine as you saw his eyes completely locked on your form. “Mmm, no one,” you lied in a playful tone. 

The truth was you hadn’t been able to stop thinking about that little moment with Johnny on the beach and, as you looked through all your clothes when deciding on what to wear, you couldn’t help but pick your most revealing dress with his reaction in mind.

“Yeah, I don’t believe you,” Taeyong said.

“Well tough luck! Now come on guys, the cab is waiting downstairs.”

When you were grabbing your bag to make your way out the door you felt a tall presence right behind you. He placed his big hand on the small of your back and whispered to your hair: “damn Y/N, didn’t know you cleaned up like that.”

You smiled to yourself and then turned to look at him. “Well, obviously you haven’t been paying attention.” You winked at him and turned back around, leaving to follow Taeyong to the cab while being fully aware of Johnny’s eyes on your back.

When both you and Johnny arrived downstairs, Taeyong had already sat in the front, making you both sit in the back.

The ride was a short one - only 10 to 15 minutes - but, nonetheless, it was full of tension. Taeyong was on his phone the whole time, and the driver kept quiet so, if it wasn’t for the radio the silence would be a deafening one. 

Both you and Johnny didn’t take out your phones, as it would be usual. He just leaned his head on the window and watched the city lights pass by, probably still thinking about his parents. You felt bad. You didn’t want him to feel this way. You wanted him to be his usual funny self and dare you to do stupid shit, but seeing him like this just broke your heart. 

You couldn’t help but stare at his side profile - he was handsome. Of course, you knew he was handsome, you were not blind, but this was the first time his handsomeness was affecting you. You couldn’t help but stare: stare at the way his styled hair brushed upon his eyes, stare at his straight nose and stare at his perky lips. 

Suddenly, an undeniable urge to lean in and kiss him emerged within you. An urge so immense that you caught yourself actually moving towards him, only to be stopped by him turning to look back at you with a charged expression. 

You shared a look for a few seconds. A look that made your insides tingle and your legs press harder against each other. What was happening to you?

Johnny’s hand was reaching over to yours, which was pressed on the seat between the both of you, and you could feel your heart start to beat faster. Suddenly, it felt like time had slowed down and all your focus was on that one hand. That hand that looked strong and delicate at the same time. That hand that looked like it had the power to not only be rough but also gentle. That hand that could grope you, touch you and fuck you so good until you cried for more. That hand that was so close that made you gasp in anticipation.

“We’re here,” the cab driver announced, breaking you from whatever spell Johnny had you on.

“Thanks. Keep the change.” Taeyong paid the driver and left the cab, immediately moving to open up your door.

“Milady,” he bowed, acting as your personal chauffeur.

“Why thank you,” you awkwardly bowed back, still feeling shaken up by the events of the car.

“Okay, let’s move!” Your group started walking towards the house as soon as Johnny joined both of you from the other side of the cab, Taeyong still completely unaware of what had just happened. “I promised Yuta we’d play beer pong with him.” 

“But Taeyong, you know I suck at beer pong!” You protested.

“I do. And that’s why you’re not on my team.”

“What?! That means I’m stuck with her!” Johnny whined from right next to you, making you turn and hit him in his chest, his hard pecks not going unnoticed by you.

“Hey!”

“Shut up Suh, you know as well as I do that you could use a drink,” Taeyong said before he spotted his friend near the entrance. “Yuta ma’ man! What’s up?”

“TY! I was beginning to wonder if you’ve gotten lost!”

“Sorry, Miss Y/N here took 3 hours to get ready,” he pointed back at you, making you hit him in his shoulder.

“Shut up Taeyong!”

“Come on man, did you get a good look at her? I’d wait an eternity if it meant I could look at an angel like her,” he winked at you before getting a sip out of his red plastic cup.

It was public knowledge that you and Yuta had fucked a couple of times. He was pretty hot, and the things he could make you feel with that tongue piercing of his were out of this fucking world. But tonight, you weren’t feeling him all that much - the tiny voice in your head telling you that that’s because you wanted to be railed by Johnny instead.

“Do you really think those cheesy lines are going to work?” Johnny asked out of nowhere with a hint of annoyance to his voice.

Johnny and Yuta were friends and him, more than anyone, knew that Yuta was a nice guy. Sure, he really liked to flirt, but he was also very respectful. So, his reaction made you wonder if he perhaps was feeling jealous. Secretly, you hoped he was. 

“It already did man,” Yuta winked at you once again, catching you a little off-guard. 

“Now, TY told me we’re not going to be on the same team for the beer pong. I’m usually a perfect gentleman, but I’m sorry angel, I can’t let you win.” Yuta came one step closer and picked up your hand and you swore you felt Johnny tense up beside you. “Maybe afterwards you could save me a dance?” He kissed the back of your hand and gave you a look that left little to no imagination of his true intentions - he wanted sex.

“Dream on, Nakamoto,” Johnny interrupted, coming right between you two and breaking your contact. “Stop stalling and let’s go.”

Johnny grabbed your arm and pulled you inside and away from Yuta and his advances. The look of bewilderment on your other roommate’s face didn’t go by unnoticed by you, but you forcibly chose to act like you hadn’t seen it. You didn’t know what it was, but you were liking this jealous side of Johnny and you were certainly curious for more.

“Alright, game on,” you heard Yuta comment before the loud music from inside overwhelmed you and your ears.

The game went on for a while. You lost, just as Taeyong had predicted. You didn’t mind, really. You just wanted to have a good time and the alcohol from the game was helping you do just that: you were currently in the middle of the dance floor dancing by yourself without a care in the world. You had lost your friends when you went to the bathroom and decided to go to the dancefloor when WAP started playing.

You were enjoying yourself. You were at that fine line where you were feeling the effects of the alcohol but you could still make your own decisions and you loved it.

Suddenly, as you were shaking your ass, you felt a pair of hands on your hips and a crotch on your ass. You wished it was Johnny, but as you opened your eyes and saw him sitting on a couch not far from you, you felt your fantasy crumbling. You turned around to see who you had just ground on and weren’t surprised when your eyes landed on Yuta.

“Hello angel, I’ve been looking for you.”

“Really?” You tried to put a little distance between you, but Yuta just pulled you right back in, your bodies now in full contact with each other.

“The way you look tonight...you’re driving me fucking crazy. I can’t stop thinking about you,” he confessed in your ear, his thumb rubbing soothing circles on the small of your back. “All I wanted to do, was ditch Taeyong and the game and do that thing with my tongue that you like so much.”

Usually, that would be enough to make you lose your shit and pull him to the closest available bedroom, but tonight your mind was elsewhere. “Yuta...I’m sorry but tonight I’m not feeling it.”

His face fell in disappointment and he looked like a lost puppy, which partially made you feel bad for rejecting him, but you had to be honest. 

“You sure?” He asked you.

“Yes.”

“Alright, I’m sorry then...”

He was about to let you go; you could feel his grip loosening when someone yanked him back and away from you, leaving you confused.

“Leave her alone Nakamoto,” Johnny’s voice sounded right from beside you, making your heart jump.

“What the-? What is wrong with you Johnny? Why are you acting so- Oh…” Yuta looked back at you and you could literally see him putting all the puzzle pieces together in his mind. “I get it now.”

“Get what?” Johnny asked.

“Nothing,” you intercepted Yuta before he could say anything. “Yuta, don’t you have to go meet up with that girl?” 

You made some weird faces at Yuta so he could understand what you were doing and, thankfully, he did. 

“Oh yeah, I almost forgot. Have fun!” He winked at you and turned to leave, making you sigh in relief that that whole situation was over.

“That was weird,” your roommate commented. “Was he bothering you? I know he sometimes can be a little...persistent.”

You felt a warmth spread throughout your chest. You knew Yuta could never harm you, but the fact that Johnny was so worried about you made you swoon. Then a thought popped in your head that made the warm fuzzy feeling turn sour: was he worried because he liked you or just as a friend?

“No, it’s okay. He did nothing wrong. Thank you…”

“You’re welcome…”

The mood got awkward for a minute, with none of you saying a word until Johnny broke your shared silence. “I’m gonna go.”

“What?”

“Yeah...I’m sorry, I’m just not really feeling it.”

He looked mentally down and you felt bad for him. Johnny was always the one cracking up a joke - wherever there was laughter, he was always present. He loved to dance and to have a good time, and it broke you to see him like this.

“Hey, come on, dance with me.”

“I’m sorry Y/N, I’m really not feeling it…”

“Come oooon…” You didn’t know how you could convince him, but then an idea popped in your head. “I dare you.”

He chuckled and you couldn’t help but smile at the thought of at least making him laugh. “Playing dirty again Y/N?”

“Well, you aren’t giving me much of a choice now are you Johnny?”

“I don’t know…”

Before he could continue you started imitating a chicken, just like he had done to you in the Algebra class and you couldn’t help but smile at his laughter once again.

“Alright, alright!”

“Yes!” You chanted in victory, promptly grabbing his hands and making him dance with you.

The dance started out friendly, with a few spins here and there, but it wasn’t long before tension started rising up and his hands were on your hips, just where Yuta’s had been. In your head, you couldn’t help but compare the feeling of the 2. Yuta had nice hands, that had certainly made you feel good before, but Johnny’s somehow felt better. His hands felt like he cared for you on a much deeper level. Like they could hold you and never let go. Like they could protect you from anything and completely destroy you at the same time.

As your inner voice went on an entire monologue about the wonder of Johnny’s hands, you found yourself looking him dead in the eyes. The way he was looking at you was making you think wild things, and with the buzz from the alcohol, you couldn’t help but want to act on those thoughts.

Without an ounce of self-control, you let your head move forward and your mouth whisper in his ear: “I dare you to grab my ass.”

Without a second of hesitation, his hands were on your ass and you were exhaling on his ear. The way his big hands were fully grabbing you and massaging you was turning you on so much that you could feel yourself get wet. You wanted nothing more than to have him lift up your dress and finger you in the middle of everyone.

Johnny moved his head near your neck and you thought for a second he was about to kiss you there, but you were surprised when he spoke in your ear. “I dare you to grind that sexy ass of yours on my cock.”

“Fuck.”

Just as he had done with your dare, you promptly complied, turning around and rubbing yourself on his semi. You both were walking on some dangerous paths, but you didn’t think any one of you could go back now.

As you moved your ass to the music and felt him grow harder and harder you couldn’t help but think about what it would be like to fuck him. You wanted him to end you. You wanted him to fill you up so good that he’d ruin any other man for you. You wanted his hands all over your body. You wanted him to grab your tits and play with your nipples. Fuck.

You reached your head back and whispered your next dare to him: “I dare you to play with my boobs.”

“Gladly.”

And then those big hands that were previously on your ass were now caressing your breasts and you felt like you were completely done. 

“Mmmh…” you moaned, not sure if he could hear you over the loud music.

The way he was pinching your nipples over your dress made you feel glad you decided on  not wearing a bra tonight. He was making you feel so good just with his fingers on your nipples and his clothed cock on your ass that your mind once again thought about what it would feel like to have the real deal.

“I dare you to kiss me.”

The dare had caught you off guard. You had been so in a trance by the grinding that your mind went straight to the fucking and skipped the kissing, but now that he had requested it you couldn’t stop thinking about it. So, consumed by desire, you turned around and glued your lips to his. 

You wrapped your right leg around his hip (his hand once again coming to the rescue and grabbing your thigh) and felt his cock rubbing you straight on your clit. The feeling was so pleasurable that you felt like you couldn’t take it anymore, you had to have him now. So you pulled back from the kiss and plead for the last dare: “I dare you to fuck me.”

Johnny didn’t waste any more seconds, he grabbed you by your hand and lead you up the stairs to the first spare bedroom he could find. He then pushed you to the bed, making you fall right on the mattress.

“When I saw you with Yuta I went fucking crazy.”

The way he was towering over you and looking down on you as he confessed his feelings to you was slowly driving you mad. You never imagined you would be where you were right now, but now that you were you could confidently say that you wanted nothing more than this.

“I turned him down because of you,” you also confessed, now suddenly feeling shy and not being able to look him in the eye.

He chuckled.

Suddenly the mattress dipped between your legs as he joined you on the bed, right on top of you. 

“How the fuck did we end up here Y/N?” His fingers gently placed a misplaced lock of your hair behind your ear, catching your breath at his tenderness.

“I don’t know...but I think I don’t want to go back.”

“Good. ‘Cause me neither.”

His lips were back on yours and although the kiss felt different this time, it quickly evolved to something more. His hands ran down your body and went between your legs, his fingers rubbing you over your drenched panties.

“You’re so wet baby. Is this all from grinding against my cock?” His fingers slid under your underwear and easily entered you, making you moan.

“Fuck, yes. I can’t stop thinking about your cock, it’s driving me crazy. I want to fuck you so badly.”

“I want that too.” Something dark took over his eyes. Something that, in combination with his low and breathy voice was making your desire for him grow to even bigger levels. 

“Lately I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.” His free hand pulled down the upper part of your dress, exposing your breaths to his hungry mouth, as his other hand picked up its pace. “I lay awake at night just thinking about you: your smell, your hair, your smile, your eyes, your lips, your body…”

“Johnny…” you moaned his name as you felt that sweet pleasure building up from within you.

“Fuck, that sounded better than I imagined. Do that again, baby.”

Johnny’s other hand joined the one between your legs and began its assault on your little bundle of nerves, intensifying the amount of pleasure you were feeling. “Fuck Johnny, I can’t take it much longer…”

“Cum for me baby,” he instructed as he tried to alleviate himself by rubbing his cock against your leg.

“Ohshit-” you incoherently mumbled at the arrival of your orgasm, your walls spasming around his long fingers.

“You’re so beautiful,” Johnny mumbled against the skin of your belly as he pressed soothing kisses on it.

You smiled and took in a few more breaths so you could talk. 

“Since when are you this romantic Suh?” You asked as you finger-combed his now messy hair.

“Since always. I just only show it to special girls.”

You looked away, suddenly feeling the blood rushing to your cheeks. Damn Johnny Suh and his smooth ass talking.

He chuckled before moving closer to your face and kissing you across your jaw. “Since when are you this shy Y/L/N?”

“Since-” You opened your mouth to answer him but came up short, ending up getting frustrated instead. “Shut up and take your clothes off!”

Your roommate laughed at your annoyance and immediately complied, removing his shirt and working on his pants. You couldn’t help but stare at his buff body: his bulging biceps, his washboard abs and his juicy pecks. You were so lost in desire that you didn’t even notice that Johnny was eyeing you up.

“Enjoying the view?” He teased, the stupid grin on his face driving you mad.

“Shut up,” you said once more, not enjoying the power he had over you.

“Take off your dress baby, I wanna see you too,” he requested as his hand caressed your naked thigh, sending shivers up your spine.

You obliged, quickly removing all your clothes and exposing your naked body to his hungry eyes.

Johnny didn’t say anything, but you could tell by the way his cock twitched that he was affected. So affected, in fact, that within seconds he was on top of you devouring your lips.

Both your hands wandered on each other’s body as he dry humped you between your legs.

“Do you have a condom?” You asked between ragged breaths.

“Fuck, no. But wait a minute,” Johnny reached for the bedside table and opened the first drawer, finding exactly what he was looking for. “Jackpot.”

“Did you know that was there?” 

“No, but I figured. After all, this is a frat house,” he explained as he opened up the package and rolled down the latex condom on his cock.

“Are you ready, baby?”

“Fuck, yes. Just put it in.”

Johnny didn’t wait a second longer. He grabbed his cock, ran it up and down your slit a couple of times and slowly entered you, the feeling of fullness being completely indescribable.

“Oh Johnny, you feel so good.”

“Fuck, tell me when I can move.” Johnny was nuzzled up in your neck, leaving tiny love bites as you adjusted to his cock.

“You can go.”

He started moving slowly at first, a string of moans spilling out from both your mouths, but, soon after, his hips started thrusting faster and harder and you found yourself clawing at his back. 

“Shit,” he hissed before glueing his lips back on yours.

For a moment you both lay there on your own little pleasure bubble, just fucking and swirling your tongues together, with moans and cusses being spilt left and right as you enjoyed each others’ bodies. For a moment, nothing else mattered - just you and Johnny.

“Baby, you’re taking me so well. You are so perfect,” he confessed as he kissed you all over, his words almost making your heart jump out of your chest.

“Johnny, baby, I’m so close.”

“Me too, fuck.”

Johnny was drilling into you so hard that the sound of skin slapping on skin was drowning out the music coming from outside. You were almost there, and as you felt that sweet feeling building up in your core you took a chance to really look at Johnny: the way he bit his lip, the way his brows frowned in pleasure, his dishevelled locks and the way his veins popped on his arms as he held himself up so as not to crush you. He was so fucking hot you couldn’t believe you hadn’t noticed it sooner.

“Johnny, I’m gonna cum.”

“Cum for me, beautiful. I’m right there.”

That was all you needed. Just like that, you were crashing and burning around the man you had considered as ‘just a friend’ for years, your walls milking him dry and making him spill everything inside the borrowed condom.

You didn’t move for several minutes. Johnny fell right to your side and just lay there right beside you, your chests rising and falling in tandem.

What do you say in these situations? What were you supposed to say right after one of your best friends, and roommate, fucked the shit out of you? You had no idea, but thankfully, he took the lead.

“I dare you to fuck me again.”

The dare caught you completely off-guard, just like yours had caught him and you couldn’t help but laugh. For a good minute, that’s all you both did: laugh.

“Alright,” you reached for the drawer and grabbed another condom from the owner of the room. “But this time, I’m on top.”

© maliby, 2020. Do not copy or repost without permission.

[avengerscompound]

Small Gods: The Last Bar - 2

The Last Bar: An Iron Man Fanfic

The Last Bar Masterlist | More Small Gods PREVIOUS //

Buy me a ☕ Character Pairing:  Tony Stark x F!Reader, Tony Stark x Pepper Potts (No cheating - relationships happen at different times)

Rating: E

Word Count:   2368

Warnings: Drinking, drunk driving, angst, mentions of dying, mentions of canon torture, smut (mf, drunk foreplay, alcohol induced impotence)

Synopsis: Tony Stark’s life is going off the rails.  He feels alone, misunderstood, and running on empty.  No fuel, no battery life, no signal.  If he could just find one last bar he might be okay.  He pulls into the parking lot of Fin, a dive-bar with no discernible location.  It could be the last bar he goes into.

Chapter 2

It was years before Tony saw that bar again.  So long that the memory of the place faded and became just another improbable thing in his alcohol-fueled daze, mixed in with other events like the time he drove his car into someone’s pool, and the night he went to a party at the playboy mansion and came to a week later in bed with two strange women in a hotel in Vegas with no memory of the entire week.  He got drunk so often and so completely back then, that it was just one fucked up hazy event after another, and a bar where the owner treated him with kindness was strange, but not strange enough to sear its way into his memory.

Then Tony experienced something both traumatic and life-changing.  Obidiah Stane, the man he’d considered a father figure, paid a group of terrorists to murder him.

Instead of killing him, he’d been kept in a cave and tortured.  They put an electromagnet in his chest to keep him alive - and with the help of one man, he’d turned that electromagnet into a power source and built a suit of armor that he’d used to break free of his captives.

When he’d crashed in the desert - his suit ruined and the power source depleted - he wasn’t sure he had enough left to get him out of there safe and alive.

There was a moment when he was sure he saw you - a woman he hadn’t even thought of in years - in the desert while he lay in the sand injured and considering that now was the point where he gave up.

He was sure it was a hallucination.  How could it not be a hallucination?  You were a bartender in California and he was in the middle of the desert in Afghanistan.  But even as he lay, praying for the energy to get up and move, he was sure you grabbed his shoulders and told him that if he went east, his friend would find him.

The incident fell away after he got a decent meal and some sleep in his own bed.  It didn’t even need to be a good sleep - it was a long time before Tony had a good night’s sleep again - just a few nights of returning to a routine as a free man within the comforts of his own home.

After Afghanistan, things changed for him.  He needed to be a better man.  Someone other than the fucked up mess of a human his father had shaped.  That meant a few things for him. The first was changing what Stark Industries traded in.  No longer would he be complacent with the company bearing his name capitalizing on death and destruction.  He steered it into green energy and communications.  His long-term plan was to have whole households running on Stark appliances with 0 emissions.  Next, there was the whole Iron Man thing.  He felt guilty for the way Stark Industries weapons had been used and responsible for the innocent people they’d been used against - Iron Man felt like his way to right some wrongs.  He’d be a superhero.  Like Batman, only less angry and more high-tech.

Finally, he’d try and be a better friend and boss.  He’d made it difficult for people to get close to him and even still, a few had slipped in, and looking back at how he’d treated them, he was a little surprised they hadn’t ditched him years ago.  So he’d try and let them know he appreciate them, and he’d be more open to them.  He’d be less flakey and he’d make sure he didn’t put them in situations that made them uncomfortable.  And most of all, he’d stop drinking.

Not completely.  He lived a life that lent itself to drinking.  There were clients to schmooze and galas to attend.  People invited him to parties and award shows.  Just about every social interaction Tony had outside of being in the lab involved drinks.

Besides - he liked to drink.  He liked the peatiness and smoke of a good Scotch.  He liked the malt and hoppy finish of a decent pale ale.  He really loved the heat that bloomed in his chest from the alcohol in any top-shelf spirit.

So he didn’t give it up, but he did cut down.  Now instead of trying to find somewhere to go as an excuse to get drunk, he might just have a drink with dinner.  Instead of making a complete spectacle of himself at a benefit, he would stick to champagne or a couple of dry Martinis.

He knew that most people said you should go cold turkey, but he also knew they also expected you to turn your will over to God -  and given he liked having free will and didn’t believe in God - he wasn’t so sure that would work for him.  Especially not on top of the fact he liked to drink so much.

Instead, he just replaced getting drunk with other things.  Being Iron Man, spending more time in the lab, hanging out with Rhodey, Happy, and Pepper, eating right, exercising.  It was working well…

… until it wasn’t.

When Tony found out that the device in his chest that was supposed to be keeping him alive was killing him, he started to spiral.

The first night when he realized there was nothing he could use to replace the palladium cores that were not only burning out faster and faster he went out on a bender to rival any other he’d had.

It was three in the morning when the glowing sign with Fin written on it came into view.  The memory of the smokey bar that didn’t seem to have a last call flooded back to him.  Everything from how strange his car looked in the parking to the breakfast that you’d set out.

He pulled the car into the car park and staggered out of it, slamming the door behind him.  He was in his Tesla Roadster this time, but it looked just as odd as the Bugatti had all those years ago.  He felt much drunker than when he had last been here, and he weaved his way into the bar.

The crowd was different this time.  The pool table was empty this time, but there was a group of drunk college kids playing quarters in a booth and a woman was smoking and nursing a glass of red wine at the bar.  Her makeup was smudged like she’d been crying.

You stood behind the bar, leaning against it as you tossed peanuts into your mouth.  Your eyes followed Tony to the bar and when he took a seat you sidled over to him.  “Didn’t think you’d be back here,” you said.

“You remembered,” Tony said, aiming for playful but coming off confused.  It wasn’t exactly surprising you’d have remembered.  He was famous, people tended to remember when they served famous people.  Still, it felt strange for some reason.  The way the words were said was almost like you were greeting an old friend.

To add to that feeling of strange familiarity, as you approached you took down a bottle of Lagavulin and grabbed a glass.  You put the glass in front of him and poured three fingers in it, and set the glass down beside the glass.

“Of course, I remember,” you said.  I remember all of you.”

Before Tony could ask how in the world that could be possible you had moved away and topped up the glass off the woman at the other end of the bar.  He watched you as you moved around the bar.  Despite how cheery you spoke to people, there seemed to be a sadness in the way you held yourself - as if the happiness was just a mask you wore for the people around you.  He never felt as connected to a stranger as he did with you right now.

You picked up a mango and sliced off the cheeks as you leaned on the bar opposite him.  “So what brings you back to me?” you asked.

Tony emptied his glass as he watched you slide a knife along the inside of one cheek again and again making a grid pattern in the flesh.  “I needed to drink and the bars all closed.”

“We are the last bar open, that’s usually the story,” you said.  “But why are you drinking tonight?”

Tony refilled his glass and considered the question.  You flipped the mango cheek inside out and sucked one of the cubes of mango into your mouth.  Some of the sweet sticky juice ran down your chin.  As your tongue flicked out and licked it up one of his other self-destructive traits reared its head.

Here he was in your bar - the device that was housed in his chest that had caused him frequent and intense pain since the moment it was put in was killing him even as he swallowed down a mouthful of Scotch - and he wanted you.  He wanted to feel something other than this hopeless grief he was trying to drown.

He opened his mouth, the lie already formed lips.  The perfect story and smooth segue to get into your bed when you close up for the night.  Instead, what came out was the cold, painful truth.  “I’m dying.  I’m dying and I can’t fix it and I don’t want to feel like this anymore.”

You wiped your chin and your eyes ran up and down his body.  “I can’t close until everyone is gone,” you said.  “Or at least until they’re done drinking.”

He didn’t know if you had just read his mind or if you’d gotten so good at reading people that you knew when people wanted to sleep with you.  He was also too drunk to care.  He gave you a nod and topped off his glass again.  “I can wait,” he said.

The college kids went first, their one sober friend insisting that it was time to go home.  You started to pack up after that.  Wiping down tables and flipping the chairs so they sat upside down on top of them.  When the woman at the bar needed a refill you’d come over and top her off, but by the time you started mopping the floors, she was sagging over the bar.

You took her up to bed -  most likely to one of those white cells that Tony had woken in that first time.  When returned you locked the doors and began to clean up the bar area itself, taking out the trash and putting things away.  You took the bottle and glass off Tony and packed up the last of the glasses into the dishwasher and turned it on.  Finally, you closed off Tony’s tab and gave him back his credit card.  “Follow me,” you said.

He followed you upstairs and down the end of the hall to a door that opened at the very end.  Your room was large enough to be comfortable, but not so big as to be notable.  There was a full-sized bed and dresser, to the left of the room behind a bamboo and paper partition, and on the other side was a couch, coffee table, and tv.  You didn’t have a wardrobe, your clothes seemed to be hung on a rolling hanger that sat behind yet another bamboo and paper partition, and there was a  door on the left of the exit that opened into a tiny bathroom that only just had enough room to fit a sink, toilet, and shower.  None of the furniture matched, and while everything was pristinely clean, it all looked so worn out that Tony half expected the bed to collapse and the sink to start spraying water everywhere. 

He didn’t care about any of that at all.  All he wanted right now was you, and to feel something good for a change.

He took hold of your hand and you looked back at him, your tongue flicking out and traveling over your bottom lip and tugged him toward you.  Without a word, he wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you into a passionate kiss.

He was drunk and it was sloppy.  He fumbled to remove his clothes but you stayed his hand, leading him back to the bed with a broken array of kisses - like breadcrumbs that disappeared as soon as they were doled out.

He fumbled to undress you again, and this time you helped him, shedding both his clothes and yours until there are shoes and jeans and belts scattered on the floor around your bed, but before he can get to the good stuff you stopped him again and pulled him down on top of you.

He kissed you - your lips, your neck, he even tugged up your t-shirt and kissed the exposed skin on your soft stomach, and yet, as much as he wanted this - you, his body was not responding the way it should.

The room felt like it was swaying, making his stomach churn and his vision blur, and even when you cupped his cock in your hands and stroked it slowly, it remained flaccid and useless.

He pulled back and looked at you with a mixture of frustration and embarrassment.  “I'm sorry, this never happens to me,” he said as he slipped his hand into his pants and tried to jerk his unresponsive member to life.

You sat up and cradled his jaw. “It's okay. It's late and you're drunk.  Sleep.  I'm sure you need it and we can try again tomorrow if you still want it.”

Deep down, he knew that under any other circumstance he'd argue.  He'd have to try and prove himself or at least get out of there so he didn't have to suffer this embarrassment any longer than necessary.  But there was a kindness and patience in your tone he so rarely heard - even from his friends - and so he complied, lying down beside you, and curling in close.  He didn't even care that the light was still on.  He just wanted to sleep and thankfully, for the first time in a long time, it came for him right away.

// NEXT

[gaiuswrites]

King of Cups || Chapter 7

Chapter 7: The Fool

Archive: ao3 | masterlist | six

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!Reader

Summary: It all spills over.

Word count: 8.8k~

Rating: Explicit

Warnings/tags: SMUT (WE MADE IT FOLKS), thigh riding, fingering/hand job, very brief breathplay/choking, cum eating¿? Angst/emo shit (I'm so sorry i have no self control)

Notes: HI FRIENDS, wow it's been a minute. Sorry for the massive delay. For anyone wishing to start KOC, now would be the perfectly spicy chapter to do so! This chapter was Herculean. idk why. Love you guys, enjoy! x (gif credit : @djarinsgf)

“Maker,” you bemoan, shielding your face from the heavy beat of the suns.

You’ve known warmth—you were raised in warmth. This is beyond it.

It’s not just warm, it’s sweltering. The heat is oppressive, congealing the air to mist; you can barely see through it what with the sweat running into your eyes. Tall, craggy dunes line the valley of desert, trapping the planet’s hot pulse within their walls. Your steps crunch along the dry, pebbled earth as you swat at the gnats buzzing in ribbons around your head.

A muffled gurgle sounds from behind you and you slow to a halt, boots gritting into the cracked top soil.

“You doing alright back there, Munch?” you ask, craning your head to the child nestled into the carrier fashioned onto your back. A green ear pokes free from the top, and you can see the jewel of his black eyes peering at you through the gauzy cloth you draped over it. He grunts, and you give a small shrug—shifting the pack by the straps, eliciting a giggle out of him. “We can always turn back, okay? I’m not going to be mad.” Another noise, a happy coo this time, and you shimmy your shoulders again, jostling the bag playfully.

“Well, you just let me know.”

Your conversations usually unfold this way. They leave much to be desired, but you’d like to think you understand one another—in fact, you probably understand the kid more than you understand his dad.

You’ve grown close with him, you’ll be the first to admit it. You’re attached to each other. The little one has been your constant companion for these months and in some ways, you suppose he takes care of you just the same as you take care of him. The chamber of space can be lonely; it’s cold and unkindly reflective, stranding you to the echoed chain of your thoughts—but when he tugs at your hair or slobbers spittle down the front of him or crawls up into your lap to nestle into your tunic, it feels like you belong there—there on the Crest, streaming through the galaxy.

And maybe, simply, it feels good to do right by a child—as if you could make up for it somehow, within yourself. To do better than you were given.

Squinting, you raise your wrist to check the coordinates on your comm and shade a hand over the screen, blocking the glare cast onto the display. “Almost there,” you mumble, resuming your stride as you begin the last leg of the trek to the settlement you and Mando discussed that morning.

“What?” he asked, planted some paces away from you.

You hummed a curious note, glancing to him.

“What is it?”

You were trying to be small all morning—shrunken and shy, avoiding the thought and avoiding him all together. You quieted yourself, as if to not take up space, but the attempt was fruitless; of course he picked up on it – you get good at reading people on the job, he’d said – and of course he called you out on your behavior. You took a big gulp of your caf, gaze flickering down—increasingly more and more invested in the scuffs marked into the table you sat at.

“Dala,” he said pointedly, arms folding over the breadth of his chest.

Shit. Who did you think you were fooling? Playing possum with a Mandalorian?

Worrying your lip, you stood. You couldn’t bear to look up at him, just looming there across the table from you, so you paced around the deck as you rambled. “Okay, so you know how I’m still connected to the RRM channels? Well, I’ve been checking the message boards and I—there’s a settlement here out in the Wastes. It’s small and new and they’re looking for volunteers and—”

You whistled in a breath. Fuck it.

“And I want to help.”

Like the toggle of a switch, you went from having a career—having a purpose—to having nothing. And all your gratitude for the transport he’s offering couldn’t fill that empty lull that’s settled inside you.

“Would you be comfortable with letting me take the kid? I know I’m probably asking a lot—and I will fully respect whatever you decide—but I can keep him by me the whole time, I swear, I just—” You shook your head, pinching your eyes shut before sighing, “I need to be doing something. Anything.”

There was a long pause. You scratched at the torn skin around your cuticle, nervously searching the pitch of his wordless visor. He didn’t move a muscle. He didn’t even twitch.

“That’s fine,” he finally remarked, graveled.

You blinked, taken aback at his agreement, and all at once your fidgeting ceased and a bright grin broke out over your features in its place.

It nearly brought him to his knees.

“Wait, seriously?” you asked, bouncing on the balls of your feet and he nodded, a subtle tilt to his helm. “Maker, thank you,” you exclaimed, and without thinking you flew towards him, flinging your arms around his neck and sealing yourself to his armored frame. His arms escaped out from his chest in surprise, suspended and stiff, before falling measuredly to his sides. You could’ve been imagining it, but you swore you heard the distinct grit of his teeth grinding together under his helmet.

“Really Mando,” you beamed, pulling back to lay your eyes on him, to let him see the earnest there: you have no idea how much this means to me. “Thank you.”

You gave his shoulders a squeeze, thumbs brushing along the scratchy fabric of his cape before tearing yourself away. Swiping up your mug of caf, you wound down the corridor - airy, buoyant - back to your makeshift quarters to prepare for your outing. It took him another minute just to get his damn feet to move from the spot on the durasteel you welded him to.

Din told you to be safe.

You smiled, and promised you would.

You left the Crest before him and it was strange, surreal. For the first time, you stood in each other’s shoes, leaving Din there on his own while you set off into the world. He watched you go—you and his boy—watched you walk away into some great unknown without him.

And he didn’t like it.

He soured, somewhere in the deep of him—within that pit he called a gut, he twisted sick.

Your feet hit the ramp, dull and tinny, and it sounded like goodbye—it sounded like you leaving. It’s what it will look like when time and fate touch, and inevitability catches up with him. It’s what it will look like when he takes you home. You’ll walk out of his life, down that same ramp, and your steps will echo those same beats. You won’t look back.

And Din, with all his strength, all his unshakeable resolve—Din will let you go.

///

The encampment is settled into the shadow of a cliffside, seeking respite there from the blazing suns, the taupe of the canvas shanties camouflaging into the arid landscape. Some crawl their gaze up as you enter the village, and you offer them smiles they do not return. Others do not acknowledge your presence at all— unstirred as your footsteps sound past, their heads bound heavy towards the earth. It’s not long before a decisive voice cuts through the hush that’s claimed the settlement.

“Are you with the RRM?”

You turn and are greeted by a woman ducking out of a tent—the grey of her woven tunic browned with sand, heat collecting in her black, coiled hair.

“Yes, I’m with the Movement.” It’s not a total lie. Sure, you’re on leave, but that doesn’t discount you completely. What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.

With a sharp exhale like a prayer of relief, she makes her way towards you. “Where’s the rest of your division?” Her eyes narrow discerningly, flitting behind you as if expecting to spot the rear of your party trickling in.

“It’s, uh—it’s just me,” you confess, pressing your lips together in a thin smile.

She rakes a hand over her hair, over her face. The skin around her knuckles is split, the beds of her nails chalked with days of unwashed grime. “Alright,” she concedes begrudgingly, without any better option presented. “And who is this?” She nods to the child, emerging from the pack and staring curiously at her.

“This is—” You take a moment to consider it—consider the secrecy around the child, the bounties, the life on the lam. Less is more, you decide. Again, it’s not a total lie. “I’m babysitting.”

The kid grunts an emphatic patu.

You both share a look—a quirk of her dark brow, an apologetic heft of your shoulder—and she sighs. “Well, I’ll take all the help I can get,” she quips dryly with a wave of her hand, leading you into the settlement.

///

She’s coarse, this woman—Arlaani, she told you—matronly and effective. She has a calculating gaze and powerful shoulders that she holds steady as she shows you through the camp. There are lines around her eyes, carved into the curves of her mouth. She knows what you know—what all women learn: sometimes you must be hard in order to keep others soft.

You walk shoulder to shoulder, matching her long strides with your own.

“The Black Sun has taken the southern hemisphere; their numbers have only grown since the Battle of Yavin. Pirates, mercenaries, spice runners—they’ve ransacked one half of the planet and have the officials of the other half in their pocket,” she scowls. “They have stolen our land, our homes—we’re moisture farmers, mechanics, mothers and fathers. We are simple people and we have been forgotten by our government—by those who vowed to represent us, protect us.” Arlaani draws in a long breath. “We’re on our own out here in the Wastes.”

You survey the area; the lifeless ocean of rock and sand, the few scattered trees that have died on their feet—roots withering bone dry in the suns. “Why settle here if it’s so uninhabitable?”

She huffs a humorless laugh. “Because, it’s uninhabitable,” Arlaani explains. “No one robs a beggar. There is nothing in the Wastes the Black Sun wants.”

There are no buildings, no structures; the whole area is undeveloped and raw. Tents are dotted sporadically in clusters, crates of supplies and water canteens stationed every other one. Children dawdle idly, tired and overheated, leaning against boxes and posts—their bellies distended and skin parched taut. Flies land on their shins, on their cheeks. They do not go to shoo them away.

“The Movement supplied those for us when we landed,” she comments, nodding to the crates. “That was two months ago.”

“No one has come back to check on you since?” you ask, brows notching together.

She shakes her head solemnly, jaw set rigid. “Our little ones go hungry, our elders are sick with red fever. We will run out of water before the week is through,” Arlaani says before she turns to you, holding your gaze—the seriousness evident in the stone of her eyes. “I thank the gods you are here.” She presses a palm to your shoulder. You feel the weight of it, the weight of her—of the lives she carries on her back.

“I thank the gods.”

///

You stop by each tent delivering what little food and medicine you brought with you from the Crest, and after each encounter—the people so grateful, so weary—your mind strays further and further to Mando.

Din, you scold yourself. Not Mando, Din. Din Djarin.

You still can’t bring yourself to say it.

He spent that whole fateful day nearly two weeks ago bristling at the very sight of you, going out of his way to limp to the other side of the ship just to ignore you better, only to do you in for one final head spin and give you his name.

Two weeks, and you still haven’t said it. There’s no other excuse: plainly - pitifully - you’re scared. You’re scared he regrets it.

Because how horrible of a truth would it be? To be offered something out of carelessness or guilt; to be the product of pity, or even worse, a mistake that cannot be unmade, cannot be rectified. He can’t take his name back, can’t unspeak it any more than you can unhear it, and this fear, picking at you like an old scab—it’s so painfully human, so terribly universal:

what if I’m not worth it?

And isn’t it easier to neglect the answer, then it is to ask the question.

So you’ve buried his name for both of your sakes, keeping it somewhere secret and private, there to garner dust in the quiet of your mind.

You’re brushing through the draped entrance of a tent when you spot him: a small boy hiding behind a supply crate, the top of his dusted head poking out over the ledge. You catch him peering at you, and he ducks down shyly. A honeyed grin blooms across your face.

“I think we’re being watched Munch,” you coo. The little ball of robes blinks up at you from your arms, earning his nickname tenfold as he crams his mouth with a flakey cracker. “You want to say hi?” He hums in response and you crouch, letting him wiggle free from you to toddle over to the other child. With small steps, he eventually makes it over to the other and immediately, without hesitation or provocation, extends one of his crackers to him.

Your heart swells until it bursts, proud and beautiful in your chest.

Munch leads him out from behind the box, the two boys shuffling slowly through the dirt back to you. He can’t quite meet your eyes—his gaze lands somewhere around your chin, your collarbone, and you fold forward, bent at the knees to meet his height.

“Do you have a name, sweetheart?” you ask kindly.

He nods, nibbling quietly on the cracker, and you breathe out a chuckle. “Not much of a talker, huh? I can respect that,” you say, eyes crinkling fondly with a smile. “Well if you want to tell me, you can—or not. That’s okay, too.”

He nods again, and you fish out more salty treats from the sleeve in your pack, gently handing them to the other—a gesture he nervously accepts, dirty fingers trembling as he plucks them from your open palm. This boy is precious—sweet faced and cherubic, he must not be a cycle over the age of seven.

And the realization comes so suddenly that it blindsides you—struck by it, there between your lungs: Din was his age when it happened—when life happened to him. When this could have happened to him.

You can’t help but think of it—think of him and everything he told you that night he came bleeding through the Razor Crest. You can’t stop imagining him; Din as a little boy tucked away, his people—his parents—decimated overhead. He is a Mandalorian by proxy. Displaced from his home, from his past, saved by a sect with an affinity for orphans—to protect those who cannot protect themselves. The irony of it all is not lost on you:

Din is a refugee too.

You see him in this boy, and in all the faces here—in every set of eyes, young and old alike. Each are individual - idiosyncratic - but they each wear the same qualifiers. The same exhaustion. They each fight the same tired battle, leaving them with identical sets of marks.

Does Din? If you were to see him, truly see him, would you find them there? You’ve seen the scars he’s earned from being a Mandalorian.

You wonder if he has any from simply being a man.

Pushing yourself to stand upright, you cradle Munch back into your chest, his teensy claws riddling your shirt, and offer the boy your hand—outstretched in front of you.

He’s cautious. Too cautious for a boy so young, for a child who should know nothing but abundant love and fearless imagination. He shouldn’t have had to learn this lesson: that some hands should not be taken, that some people should not be trusted. He studies you, hesitant but hopeful, and you smile softly—cycles of hard-won patience and empathy curving the corners of your lips.

He lays his small hand in your own. You walk on together.

///

The day blows by like hot desert wind, chafing at your skin. Minutes have ripened to hours—morning has crawled to midday.

The three of you finish your rounds— distributing rations throughout the camp, pitching tents, taking stock of the dwindling supplies for you to relay to the Movement once you return to the Crest and have access to your holopad.

It’s then that you notice Arlaani again. She’s speaking in hushed tones with another man, the both of them hunched over a large carton. You see the concern ticked clearly along the man’s jaw, the dread grooved into her brow, her crossed arms. With a frown, you plop the child down onto a nearby petrified log and the other boy joins, hopping up next to him, all too happy to get off his feet. You tell them not to wander off— a kiss to Munch’s forehead, a ruffle of the boy’s hair— before making your way to the couple.

“Hey,” you call, jogging over. “Is everything alright?”

Arlaani wheels around as you approach. It hasn’t been long since you’ve seen her, but somehow she looks older. Hollowed, drained— like there’s less and less in her. “It’s the water,” she grits out, “sand mites have gotten to the crates, to the canteens.” She tosses you one of the flasks. It’s littered with holes, porous and leaking— the remnants of water splashing out of the orifices bitten into the sides.

Arlaani dives through the crate, rifling through the supplies. She’s tense, upset, her voice is rife with it. “They’re all like this. Ruined, fucking—” She heaves out a hissed exhale and props herself up on the edge of the box, neck bowed between her shoulder blades. “This was the last of it, and now—now…”

The man tries his best - how do you comfort marble? - as he places an arm around her, his thumb drawing patterns there, reassuring and calm but she wants nothing of it; she gruffly shrugs it off as if stung, weaseling out of his hold. “I can’t— I need to think,” Arlaani bristles, as she paces away from the settlement, receding deeper into the Wastes.

“I’m sorry,” he stutters, “I have- I have to—” His eyes follow her shrinking form, worry apparent in the shape of them. It’s so obvious. He’s terrified of that woman—probably loves her, too.

“Go,” you say, and with a knowing expression, he turns and trots after her.

Heavy footed, heavy hearted, you trudge back to find the children exactly where you left them. Once there, you collapse to the hard ground, dust and dirt puffing up as you recline onto the log. Your palms run over the earth—scooping up sand and rock and letting it slip through the cracks of your fingers, gaze trained out onto the encampment—the people milling about, the miasma of helplessness stifling the air.

This isn’t enough. You’re not doing enough— these impermanent little nothings, your measly good deeds. It’s not going to matter. They’ll be bones by the time the next wave of volunteers rolls through. They’ll be grain.

You need to do something that lasts, that outlives you when you leave.

You glance over to the kid and his new friend, their little legs swinging off the edge of the trunk, heels thumping against the old wood. They look to you, two pairs of big eyes—crackers in their tiny fists.

“You boys ever dig a well?”

///|||///

The suns roast into his beskar, blistering him from the inside out.

The day has been long and it’s only half over. It took him longer than it should have to gather himself— his fob, his rifle, his fucking head—and depart the Crest. Longer than it should have to hunt the bounty here—some marauder scum who’s number is up and luck has run out. Longer than it should have to set up his sniper’s nest, sculpted into the mountainside.

Din is distracted, has been all day— has been since you left.

He can’t stop feeling you. Your warmth pushing against his chest, your arms looping around his neck, the heat of your palms searing through his flight suit. Din can smell you on him still— like citrus and moss, you cling to his cowl from where you buried your head.

It’s intolerable. It feels like an infection with how it’s been building, how this has spread— slowly but surely rearing to an unignorable head. Serpentine and insidious as it crept through him, this growing affliction— this morbid curiosity that spoiled like rotting stonefruit into infatuation— slipping along his bones and organs, blemishing Din in faint little licks— imperceptible to the naked eye but there all the same.

How did this happen? How did he become this?

You’ve been more relaxed now, bolder in some ways. Transparent. Sometimes, you’ll touch his arm as you walk by him or sweep your hair from your neck when you sit by his side in the cockpit, star shine on your jaw. You’re quick with a laugh, lips pulling back into a pretty grin. He’s even caught you staring at him, there out of the corner of his eye—from where he steals those same glances under the safety of his helm.

He spied you once, just a glimpse of your backside, padding quietly away from the shower with only your underwear on, drops of water tracking down your spine. It was brief, you were fast—you must have forgotten your shirt in your bunk—but he had to lock himself in his quarters and fuck his hand before he could even think about piloting the Crest into the stratosphere.

Din is a lot of things, but he isn’t daft. A part of him knows. A part of him is aware that you are two very human people with very human needs—and that you’ve been ignoring these primal aches with premeditated dereliction for months now.

And you can only dance around each other so long before one of you snaps.

And Maker, he’s so desperate to be rid of you—to get you out of his fucking system; to let him sleep without dreaming of you, to let him wake without plunging into his briefs and jerking himself off. You are everywhere. In his ship, in his galley, in his thoughts. He has no privacy, he has no sanctity— he has no idea how you have managed to worm yourself so deep into every living part of him. Others have tried and they have failed, and you— you did it in your sleep. From that very first fucking night, curled up in his chair, gore and ash stained tunic rising with your slumbered breathing. You snored.

You fucking snored.

And now you’re killing him— just as the suns above, you are blistering him from the inside out.

His level-headedness has all but evaporated. He’s peeved. Not only is Din distracted, but he's angry— has been since he plodded up this damn hill, waiting for his quarry to pass through the ravine between the valley of mountains—because instead of performing his job, he’s consumed with you. All of you.

He kneels, flattening himself against the rocky sand— your hands, so small and soft against him— and unclips the rifle from the strap on his back—how good you’d feel on his skin—he aligns his sights— the weight of your breasts in his palms—

His helmeted head clunks to the ground and he loses his aim, a frustrated growl emanating out from him. Focus, Mando. Fucking focus.

Din reorients his crosshair, training it on the gang of pirates in the gorge below. They lean haphazardly over their speeders, their cargo nets packed full with different wares and spices, jeering loudly and chugging from the jugs of spotchka they undoubtedly looted earlier that afternoon. He inspects the rabble, searching for his target and—those pretty lips that smile so easy for him, stretched around his length.

Fuck. He pinches his eyes shut.

You whispering husky into his ear as you ride him, you bent over the pilot’s chair begging for his cock, you sprawled out over the deck while he laps at your sweet cunt.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck— he can’t do this. He can’t fucking do this. You’re everywhere everywhere everywhere— you buffer his vision, his senses, his sight. He’s blinded with you. You’re blinding him.

With an infuriated heave he shoves himself off the ridge of the dune, bounty-less, and reverses his course back to the Crest—heart beating furious and bloody against his ribs.

///

The settlers surround the trench, peering down at you as you work. Hours ago, when you originally proposed this idea to Arlaani, they insisted on helping— to which of course, you insisted they didn’t. And so they watch— the refugees, Din’s foundling, the nameless boy— mangling their hands restlessly, animated with an inkling of that all too lethal substance long sought after by those of all species and creeds: hope.

You sink the shovel into the dry earth and your muscles burn with the effort—the skin on your palms stings from the rough grate of the wooden dowel and the yawn of your back strains as you pitch forward.

You’ve missed this.

You’ve been so distracted. You’ve grown comfortable in your routines, you’ve let yourself go listless—living in blissful ignorance—all because of a metal man in his metal ship with the most impossible and darling child you’ve ever known. All because your body reacts at the very sight of him, all because your belly flips when he speaks, that modulated purr rumbling loose from his beskar, all because, because—

You like him.

You wish you didn’t—you hardly know why you do—but you’ve soaked your fingers enough times in your rack to realize that this thing residing within you burns.

You can’t even see his face, and you don’t have to. His presence alone— that raw, vacuous energy that surges from him—it’s addicting. It's engulfing. It makes you whimper into the night, massaging your pearled clit as your other hand muffles your moans and you come over and over and over again, chasing after the fantasy you so dangerously harbor for this man. The man who’s piloting you back to Coruscant—the man who sleeps just down the hall.

But that isn’t real. That’s not real life— that’s not your life. This is real—the fuchsia of the setting suns blazing through the horizon, the sweat on your brow. You’ve missed this— Maker, you need this. Working with your hands, making an impact. You’re wanted here and kriff, does that not feel so unabashedly right. To be wanted. To be important.

Your back groans, the sinew woven over your spine aching in protest and you know, without a doubt, you’ll feel this for the next week. Half of you dreads it—being cooped up and sore, lactic acid compacting your joints— while the other excites at the prospect; the memory of a good deed lasting long after it’s finished. That reminder always there, always present: see, there’s still hope in the galaxy. We can still do good. There’s goodness where you look for it.

You fling dirt over your shoulder as you burrow lower and lower. With each shove, the soil changes hue, changes density—the striations darker, more definitive. It’s less dry now, thicker too—turning from sand to clay the deeper you dig. Again, you drive the spade into the sod with a taxed grunt, when you hear a distinct, wet squish.

You pause, stilling your shovel in the dirt. Everything - everyone - freezes.

Adrenaline thrums through you as you drop to your knees, using your hands to brush away loose silt piled atop the loamy floor, excavating what lies beneath.

Prayers and hollers erupt above you and you lurch your focus up to the sound, a feverish grin plastered to your face. The little boy jostles the child excitedly, and his green talons rumple the other’s tattered tunic. Your head falls back, cushioned by the dirt wall and you laugh - gargled, relieved - as water begins to seep through the tired ground.

Bubbling up, bubbling up—unearthing.

///

The promise of ridding yourself of your soiled clothes was the singular thought that fueled your trek back to the Crest. Every inch of you was filthy, caked in dried mud and gritty sand and you wanted nothing more than to strip from those dirty layers and melt into your bedroll. The kid, that lucky little bugger, had passed right out; sun drunk from his long day, he’d slept the entirety of the return trip—stirring only once when you placed him in the hover pram and sealed it shut.

Your bones are worn. Your tissue, your tendons— every little scrap that keeps you stitched together craves sleep. You reckon you should feel miserable, what with the tell-tale stiffness already burdening your spine and the fresh callus from the shovel’s handle reddening your palm.

But you’re not miserable, not even close. No, you’re happy—you’re glowing; fulfilled and serene, humming as you wash your pants in the basin, kneading at the sopping fabric. You wring out the article, shaking free the excess droplets before draping it on a metal rung overhead. You peel off your shirt and bra band next, leaving you only in your underwear as you plop them into the bowl and begin to scrub at the stains, concentrating on a particularly dirty patch at the sleeve.

The grating mechanics of the Crest’s great jaw unhinging sends your stomach bounding frantic to your lungs.

Kriff—shit shit shit, he’s back early.

Clutching onto your modesty, you cover your breasts and scramble to your quarters, quickly shimming a loose tunic over your head. Its hem barely covers the curve of your ass and you tug long at the cloth before peeking cautiously from the doorway and tiptoeing out of your room.

“Hey,” you warble, rounding a corner as solid feet pound up the ramp—you can feel their reverberations in the floor under your own. You pad into the galley, pulling at your shirt as you go, to tidy up the washing you left unattended. “Sorry, I wasn’t expecting you so—”

You falter.

He’s there at the mouth of the ship, the ramp drawing slowly up behind him and he’s fuming; you can practically see the steam lifting from his armor and his breathing is labored—chest rising, plummeting violently. You both stand immobilized on opposite sides of the hull—you, bare-legged and exposed and Din, all but anonymous under the steeled fury of his armor. Finally, the sound dampens, ship shuddering as she seals shut—sealing you in—and the leather of his fist creaks in the silence hanging dense like smoke around you.

“Mando...?”

He doesn’t grace you with a response. Instead he begins to stalk forward, stripping weapon after weapon from himself with every thundering step—rifle, blaster, vibroblade—he sloughs it all, metal clanging against metal as they clatter to the deck.

“Hey, what’s wrong-”

He’s not stopping. Fuck, he’s getting closer and closer and instinctually you back up—staggering until you’re pressed against the bulkhead—his broad frame crowding you until all you see is the silver polish of his beskar. You jolt when his hands fly up and slam into the wall behind you, framing either side of your head, fencing you between his forearms. Your lips part, wide-eyed and confused, and you gulp around the nervous lump threatening your voice.

“Do you have any idea,” he seethes, “what you do to me?”

“W-What-” Your stammering is cut short as he slots his thigh between your legs and you have to tilt your chin to meet his visor, a gasp finding itself on your tongue.

“Strutting around my ship, putting your hands on me, that kriffing smile…” Din ruts his knee into your heat, and you’re practically hoisted onto your toes. Your core pulses against the blunt pressure, blood racing to the throb at your center.

Maker, you could fucking faint.

“Do you know how long I’ve thought about this—about you?” His voice is tar black—smooth like obsidian—and you succumb to it. You can’t speak; any and all language evaporating from the forefront of your mind, because he’s everywhere. He’s inescapable and smothering and his scent floods over you, intoxicatingly wild—like iron and sand and something dangerous. Something heady, carnal.

“Is this what you want?” he hisses.

You’ve gone dumb. You’ve imagined this, you’ve dreamt of this, but now it’s actually happening—here, in the flesh, it’s finally happening and you’re trembling with the reality of it. All you can muster is a shaky nod, tongue darting out over your lip.

“Tell me,” he orders, scanning your face behind the guise of his helm. You feel his gaze rove over your eyes, your cheek—fanning across your lips.

Your breath hitches.

“Yes,” you whisper, “yes I want this.“

It’s all it takes.

Din is rougher than he means to be. He wears this as he wears his armor, plating the soft parts of himself he doesn’t want anyone touching. He doesn’t know anything else. He doesn’t know how to be anyone else but this.

He grabs a handful of your waist, rooting you still as he rolls his thigh against you. You inhale an airy noise, grappling onto his other arm stationed by your head and you bite your lip, sucking it into your mouth. Your cunt spasms for him as he presses up into your mound, fightless against the groan that seeps through you.

“You like that?” he pants. ”You like fucking my thigh?”

Din manhandles your hips, his hold on you vicious as he rocks you back and forth on his plated leg, your clit catching on the cold edge of his thigh guard with each motion. It sends hot sparks down your spine and you trap a moan behind your teeth, letting the sound rumble there before you swallow it. His hand weaves up from your waist, the drag of his glove setting fire to your skin as he passes over the swell of your clothed breast, and you arch into his palm as he swipes a thumb over a nipple. “You want more?”

He splays his large hand, groping at your plump flesh, and pinches your nipple hard until it pebbles through your shirt. With each sharp twist, his intention becomes clearer: it won’t be enough to skate by on moans alone.

“I asked you a question.”

Din slides his other hand to the small of your back, drawing you flush to his front, and you can feel him— the outline of his firm length twitching under his flight suit against your hip. He cranes over you, intimidating and menacing and achingly devious. The panel of his visor has never looked darker.

“Use your words, dala,” he husks.

You should be embarrassed by this—by your need made evident through the soaked lining of your underwear—but you aren’t. The heat that stipples your cheeks isn’t born from shame, it’s sprung from lust—pure and primal—and you can’t afford to give it any further consideration because all there is is this man wrenching sounds from you like an animal— and he’s scarcely even touched you yet.

“Your fingers,” you whimper, “I want your hands."

He learned this lesson within those first weeks—relearns it every fucking day. You could ask him for anything - everything - and he would oblige.

He can’t say no to you.

He shifts out from between you, hooking into the elastic of your panties and tears them down your thighs to rest just above your knees, the spread of your legs keeping them from dropping to your ankles.

Patiently - tortuously - he scrapes up your legs, leaving embers in his wake as he trails higher  higher  higher to where you need him most. You’re shivering—nerve endings fried and frayed—and every atom inside you hums with anticipation, with unbridled impulse.

The orange tips of his gloves dimple your inner thighs - squeezing, massaging - before he tilts his helmet, angling himself to see you better, and paws your swollen lips apart.

Your pussy is drooling for him.

He moans something indecipherable— a curse in Mando’a—at the sight of you glistening for him under the dimmed lights like this, and immediately you buck your pelvis to him, hungry for his touch—and the pathetic noises babbling out of you prove too much for him to bear.

“Fuck this,” he snarls, ripping a glove off and tossing it aside, “I need to feel you.”

Your eyes have dilated with want, blackened as you watch Din retrace his bare hand—that gorgeous thing you’ve never seen, only ever fantasized about—back to your heat and slowly - so fucking slowly - pass a finger through your slit.

You throw your head back, knocking against the durasteel. The mewl that escapes you is inhuman.

He’s so warm. His tan skin is molten—it’s like he brought the sun in with him, as if he’s burning that star straight into your sex. You’re slippery with arousal; you can feel how glossed you are, you don’t have to look. You can hear it—hear the obscene squelches he’s stroking from your seam.

“Maker, you’re - shit - you’re wet,” he groans loudly, reveling in the way you pitch your hips—seeking his warmth, his friction. He’s been toying with you, drawing patterns along your pussy and playing with your puffy folds, but he hasn’t even come close to your clit. You know it’s no accident. Din is methodical in all things, he doesn’t make mistakes. This is a decision—it’s intentional. You think, perhaps, he’s looking to break you—some sort of retribution for these months you’ve spent swimming in circles around each other—and you think, perhaps, you’d let him.

That you’d like it.

When Din grants you mercy, finally gliding his index along your neglected bundle of nerves, reflexively you fist into his cowl, knuckles going pale.

“Stars-” you exclaim—just like that.

He handles your body like he does one of his pistols - practiced, unparalleled - encircling your clit with precision, his finger on your trigger—blinding, perfect agony swiveled into your sweet cleft.

When he pushes himself inside you, all the oxygen gets punched out of your lungs.

“Fuck, and so tight,” Din growls, bending at the knuckle to curl over that spongy spot of your walls that makes you gape, makes your brain go slack. Your arms scamper around his pauldrons, nails scraping sharp over beskar. The heel of his hand presses into your clit and you grind against him, each roll of your hips pleading a filthy please please please as you chase after the orgasm he’s baiting you with.

He responds to that, bourboned praise dripping smug from his smirk. “Fuck, look at you, so desperate—gonna cum for me already?”

You don’t have the wherewithal to formulate a response. He’s fit another finger into you, fucking up into you hard—fucking you exactly how you need him to. It feels like you are about to shatter right there on your feet. It’s almost unbearable, this mounting tension that’s climbing within you. You’ve been so starved for this, so deprived of a kind touch and a good fuck, and within no time at all he’s coaxing you to the ledge of your release.

“Mando,” you sob, entwining your fingers into his cape, grinding grinding grinding into his palm when suddenly, without warning, his ministrations cease—that burning coil abating to a simmer. You let out a rasped pant, collapsing forward onto his shoulder— your climax ripped away from you at the last, pivotal second.

Your eyes are screwed shut, you don’t see the movement—you can only feel it once it’s already there: the bounty hunter’s glove grating over your neck. You sputter out a gasp as he forces your jaw up to align with the chill of his visor, trapped in the unrelenting strength of his grasp. Your eyes clamber around the chrome boxing you in, gulping back the fear coalescing in your mouth.

“You say my name,” he gravels. “You say my name when I’m inside you.”

Your cunt spasms around the fingers still seated within you—aching for movement, aching to cum—and your lower lip quivers as he leers. “I gave it to you—say it,” he commands.

For a fleeting moment, in the remaining rational corner of your brain, it occurs to you that you’re terrified—that there may be no going back once you speak it. There’s no unmaking this choice. Like a door—a door that swings both ways—once it is cracked ajar, it cannot be closed again. Because you know yourself, you loathe to admit it, but you know his name will crumble you; that you will bend—that you will want to give and give and give to him— and still, despite, you lay onto the handle and fling that door wide open.

“Din.”

“Fuck,” he seethes. His reaction is visceral—the whole of him stiffens, leathered pads of his fingertips searing into your throat. “Again.”

“Din,” you whine as he rocks his fingers into your walls.

He moans, wanton and guttural, at the way his name tumbles from you like velvet. “Good girl—fuck, that’s good.”

He vanishes from your neck, bringing his hand down to cup his cock bulging painfully against the fabric there and your gaze snaps to it, saliva pooling in the well of your mouth. You slither your hand down his breast plate, over the paneling of his flight suit, trailing south until it lands on the hide of his glove. You stop, waiting there - breathless - until he nods curtly.

His hand falls away. You mold your palm to his length.

“Din,” you give freely, high-pitched and girly, and his cock brays under your hand. Fuck, he’s big—you can feel his mass through his pants and your pussy flutters around his fingers moving deliciously lazy inside you. Your eyes latch onto his, the brown of them hidden somewhere under the helm, and you can feel his own bore into you, weighing leaden there—

before you both simultaneously rupture.

Din’s fingers slip out of you to fiddle with the hem of his pants, unbuttoning in a clumsy flourish until he springs free with a groan of relief.

Maker.

He’s fucking divine—long and veined, with a patch of dark curls padding around the base of him. Din weeps for you already, frustrated and pent up from the confines of his restraints, beads of arousal dappling his head. He hisses as you swipe a digit over his cock, smearing his precum down the silken slope of him. You’re transfixed—the both of you staring as you wrap your hand around his shaft and he shudders, keening in to your touch.

“Mm, fuck you’re soft- kriff-”

Din dwarfs you—you barely fit around his girth—and he can’t help but buck into your palm as you begin to move in tandem. Din flicks at your clit, mirroring your pace as you get each other off. It’s awkward and lewd and perfect—both of you, a tapestry of woven limbs and sweat and you pump him harder and harder, choking his cock with your fist. You fuck him raw, the dry drag of your satin hand ripping curses from his mouth.

“Fuck, dala,” he pants, “I-I’m not—” I’m not gonna last. His words are snuffed out as you circle your wrist and brush a thumb over his leaking tip, forcing him to shiver. He doesn’t have to finish his thought, you understand plenty well. You’re dancing along that same precipice, flirting with the fall.

“Stars, yes,” you plead. Fuck, you want him to cum— you need him to. You need to make him feel good, to let him know that you’re here - you’re right here - and that he means more to you than you care to admit; that you want him—have since you first laid eyes on him, since he rescued you, since he took you back to the Crest and gave you the last of his bacta to heal all your splintered bits. That he deserves this—with all that he’s done for you, all that he’s doing for you—

with all that he his.

“Din—please.” Fuck, you don’t even know what you’re asking for—more of him, all of him—and a groan tears through his modulator at the sound of you begging his name—like he’s wounded, like it pains him to hear you say it.

It’s a race now—the two of you hurdling headlong towards this terrible, messy collision. You’re both sloppy—wet sounds and slaps of skin—as you stumble closer to the brink of release. He’s been rendered incoherent, chiseled down to the basest of grunts and broken words you don’t recognize. His thumb finds a devastating pressure on your swollen nub and your legs begin to vibrate, nearly unable to stand on your own two feet with how fucking perfectly he’s working your pussy.

This thing inside you feels giant - monstrous - and that slow wave that’s been building and building and cresting is here, upon you. You’re trapped in the barrel of it, and it’s going to crash at any moment and sweep you out to sea. Drown you—happily, gladly. “I’m - oh fuck—"

“That’s it, good girl,” he praises, tightening his circles on your clit. “Cum for me, cum on my hand-”

A crack of lightening streaks up your middle, the whole of you shaking as your orgasm rushes through, a sputtering cry let loose into the ship. You feel yourself gush, dripping past his thickness stuffing you full, dripping down your inner thighs. Din pulls out from you and you whimper at the loss—his absence leaving you gaping, leaving you bereft. You’re siphoning down air, dizzy from your release, when he raises his hand, glistening with your fluids, and traces your bottom lip—asking for entrance.

Fuck.

You part for him, eager and pliant, and he snakes two fingers inside—tasting your own tang and the leather residue left there, stamped into the whirls of his fingerprints. Your tongue swirls around them, laving him clean, and you drag over the ridges of his shaft— still hard and throbbing and waiting in your grasp. He bobs his fingers in your mouth, matching you thrust for thrust, and you let out a depraved little moan, humming around him, and all Din can do is watch.

Watch as he disappears between your lips—his skin pulling and catching on your plush flesh— watch as you suck on them, watch as he practically fucks your throat. And Maker, you take him so fucking well, letting him do what he pleases with your all too supple body.

He can’t even begin to imagine what his cock would look like—what it would feel like nestled in the hot cavern of your mouth, hollowing your cheeks to suck him like hard candy. Din doesn’t let himself—can’t. If he did, fuck, that’d be it. He’d be done for. He knows he’d cum in a flash and he wants to make this last—to hold on to this - onto you - for as long as he can, allow himself this singular concession. The only time, he convinces himself, the last time.

He won’t think about you again.

He won’t think about you again.

He won’t think about you again.

You quicken your rhythm and Din bucks wildly into your palm, his seizing and twitching alerting you to how close he is. He slides from your mouth, a string of saliva trailing along after as he clasps onto the back of your neck.

“I’m gonna cum, I’m—” Din knots into your hair, gripping you rough, panting frantic. “Fuck. Fuck, dala— cyare-”

With a hoarse shout, he slams his gloved fist into the durasteel and spills over himself in hot, thick pumps, spurts shooting out to splatter on your tunic, on his flight suit, on your knuckles. You ease him through it, his cum glazing down his cock before you slow to a languid stroke, his seed sticky under your palm. You’re panting, the both of you, spent noises reverberating ugly and loud against the metal sidings.

Din sinks his helmet to your forehead while you catch your breath, his cold beskar kissing your flushed skin—the density of it comforting, grounding. Your eyes teeter shut and you let yourself lean into him, a dazed grin tugging at your wet lips. This is— nice; so much gentler than the pace he drove not minutes before. Head to head, his hand buried in your hair, your arm slung over his hulking shoulders; your fingers thread into the askew fabric behind his neck to discover a sliver of skin treasured away underneath. You trace there - lightly, whispered - earning a fizzle of static sent whirring through his vocoder.

“Fuck,” Din mumbles, before unweaving himself and separating from you. Your legs have gone useless and rubbery—you almost face plant forward without him there— and by the time you blink open, he’s already tucked himself into his pants and picked up his glove, slotting it over those skilled fingers that had just filled you to the brim. He turns back round to find you staring at him through the haze of your afterglow, eyes glassy and fucked out; your fluids dribbling down towards your underwear still bunched above your knees, hair tangled with sweat and saliva and cum—his and yours.

You look wrecked—disheveled. You’re so fucking pretty it makes Din want to scream.

He picks up a stray rag from a crate and offers it to you, before silently sliding your panties back up to your hips in one dexterous swipe. He lingers there but for a moment, savoring the touch of you—grazing a digit into the crease of your hip. You’re rendered mute— your brain can hardly string a sentence together— but finally you manage, your voice weak when you find it again.

“Thank you,” you croak, wiping away the traces of him off your knuckles, and you smile coquettish, delirious. “That was… that was, uhm—I really enjoyed that.”

A quiet beat slogs by.

And then, everything  shifts.

Din’s hand descends from your waist, holstering it to his side, and he moves away. He moves away from you.

You can feel it immediately—like a gust of chilled wind, the change in the air nips at you. Din’s armor is anything but warm—his presence, his aura, anything but inviting—but now, he seems farther from you than ever before, his visor tempered and steely.

You know him. You know this man. You’ve travelled with him, you’ve mended his ills, you’ve taken care of his son, you’ve spoken his name, you’ve laid prints on his skin and deeper still—

And here, before you, Din is white noise. Indiscernible. Unreadable.

Nervously, you twiddle with the frayed edge of the stained cloth, worrying your cheek. You swear, just for a second, that you see him inch towards you— you think you sense him, some part of him, breaching the chasm that’s formed between you. But it’s only a trick of the lowlight—a trick of your cruel heart, winged and errant beneath your ribs, misconstruing your thoughts to fancy.

Because he doesn’t. He doesn’t come to you like you want. He doesn’t touch you again, he doesn’t hold you like you need.

It feels like you’re withering—your legs too bare, your tunic too short, hair too mussed, eyes too bleary—everything feels wrong now, misplaced. “Din,” you start, you try—you try to keep attached to this tether, to this thin strand you’ve sewn between your bodies, but he shrinks back. He severs it. He is as you first met him. Rigid. Distant. A Mandalorian bounty hunter— the best in the parsec. He is as he was months ago, when you were strangers.

When you were nothing.

“I—” He silences himself, teeth clenching shut around the unspoken sentiment you so long to hear, and instead takes another step backwards. Farther away. Farther from you.

He stands straighter, impossibly taller, and you feel

small.

“Goodnight,” Din gives, his voice shrouded and cloaked by his modulator. He pivots on his heel, retreating into the depths of the Crest and leaves you there, the ghost of his hands on your neck, on your breasts, in your heat— still tingling from where they haunt you. Exhausted, you thud back into the bulkhead, unfocused and unseeing.

“Goodnight Din,” you murmur, but it falls upon deaf ears. He’s gone, and the empty hull swallows your words—burying them.

taggies:

@girlimjusttryingtoreadfanfics @pedros-mustache @miranhas-art @djarrex @bookloverfilmoholic @keeper0fthestars @misguidedandbeguiled @bookishofalder @helmet-comes-off @grumpymuffinmama @niiight-dreamerrrr @spideysimpossiblegirl @janebby @greatcircle79 @djarinsbeskar @sammysdaisy @whataperfectwasteoftime @mandobloggin @silver-streaked-wings

[the-lord-of-the-things]

"I don't think I can walk" for the prompts!

"Micky, I don't think getting that close to the edge is a good idea," Arcade warned.

Micky looked back over his shoulder at him, and flashed him a grin.

"I'm sure it's fiiiine," he replied cheerily.

Arcade eyed the bank beneath his feet. Micky was currently perched on the edge of a bank overlooking a dusty dry arroyo. The bank itself was only about 12, maybe 15 feet by Arcade's estimate. Not terribly tall, but it was steep, almost vertical, with a gravely creek bed at the bottom. It wouldn't be a serious fall, but it would defnitely be very unpleasant. To top it all off the bank looked crumbly, and Micky was insisting on standing right on the very edge of it as he looked out over the scrub and sand.

"I may not be a geologist, but that doesn't look very stable to me," Arcade pressed, refusing to let up.

"You're cluckin' like a broody hen, 'Cade," Micky chided. He started to turn to fix Arcade with a fondly exasperated look. "I said, I'll be fiiiiIIIIIIIIII--"

A rock beneath Micky's heel gave way beneath his foot, sending him tumbling right down the bank. He cut off into a startled yell that echoed across the desert.

"MICKY!!" Arcade went running over to the edge of the bank as close as he dare, dropping to his knees to peer out over the edge.

As he did so, however, he was greeted with-

"Fucking shit fuck Fuck fucking fuck fuck SHIT fuck Fuck fuck FUCK Fuck FUCK FUCKING FUCK!!!" Micky swore eloquently. His voice was loud and clear from the creek bed below.

Arcade let out a breath. The tension in his shoulders loosened just a bit. In his experience, a vocal and swearing Micky was not a badly hurt Micky. Not too badly, at least.

Carefully, lest he join Micky in tumbling into the arroyo, Arcade picked his way over to the edge of the bank. He didn't so much as climb down as gracelessly slide down on his ass, getting dust all over his pants and coat in the process, but it was a much more controlled descent than Micky's. There at the bottom he found Micky already sitting up. With dust all over his clothes, face, and tousled hair, along with a few fresh scrapes and likely many new bruises, he made Arcade look downright sparkling in comparison. Micky scowled sourly up at Arcade, and Arcade had to bite back the urge to go 'I told you so.'

Micky was sitting with one leg crooked up like tended to normally, but the other was still sprawled out an odd angle that immediately raised Arcade's alarm. He hurried to Micky's side, crouching down next to it, all notion of gloating forgotten as he slid into his familiar role as medic.

"Are you hurt anywhere?" Arcade asked, clipped and professional. He was already leaning in to examine Micky's leg. Micky inhaled, a little shakily Arcade noted, and nodded to his leg.

"Ankle." Micky's voice was tight. Another bad sign.

Arcade focused on Micky's foot. He couldn't see any obvious injury, but Micky's tall lace-up boots made it hard to gauge at a glance. He reached out and started to examine Micky's leg, pressing down with a practiced touch to gauge Micky's response, starting just beneath the calf and feeling his way down. When he pressed down on the ankle, however, Micky sucked in a breath and jolted his foot away on instinct.

"Fffffffffffffuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck--" Micky ground out. When Arcade looked up he could see Micky's face twisted in pain. His jaw was clenched so tight it made the muscles of his neck stand out in stark contrast. For a man that Arcade had personally witnessed walking off bullet wounds, seeing Micky in so much visible pain meant it must have been bad. Either a severe sprain, or possibly even a break.

Arcade eyed Micky's ankle and clicked his tongue as he weighed their options. It needed to be examined back at the fort, or maybe even the clinic.

"Can you put any weight on it?" Arcade asked even though he suspected he knew the answer. Micky gave him a level stare as if to ask 'really? Really??. Still, he begrudgingly shoved his arm out for Arcade to help him up. Arcade got to his feet and reached down to pull Micky up with him. He had to practically pick Micky up, supporting his weight as Micky got himself balanced precariously on his one leg. Once he was standing, he tentatively put his injured foot down to the ground. The second he rested his heel on the gravel, he winced and pulled it right back up.

"...I don't think I'm gonna be walkin' out of here on my own," Micky admitted. Arcade sighed, but he'd expected as much.

It wasn't the first time he'd be helping Micky hobble away from a bad fall, and it certainly wouldn't be the last. At least this time it didn't look like he'd have to carry Micky the whole way back.

[deaconusdelirium]

If You Love Me (Crosshair x F!Reader)

Requested: “I think I know who to come too for some Crosshair content now. You’re literally so good! I had a request if you don’t mind. Could you do a oneshot of the reader f! Who’s been in love with Crosshair ever since they were cadets, he felt the same way and you were probably the only person he was truly comfortable with, and whenever his brothers got too close he’d get jealous. Like, actually telling you how he feels and all. Crosshair gets in a fight with some Regs because they were picking on his brothers, and you’re there to help. And they just all end up in a cuddle pile. Note sure if you’ve seen those fan arts of them?🥺 and years later you all were separated, until you run into them. And of course, you’re apart of the Empire while they’re deserters. And somehow they all end up in a cuddle pile again with Crosshair finally confessing his feelings and he’s just a huge romantic?, I really fucking love you and I hope you go through with this❤️🖤❤️🖤”

Wow-

That’s all I can say. Wow. This is literally perfect, of course I’m gonna do this, who would be crazy enough to say no?

———

“You can sit here Y/n” Hunter offered as you sat in between both Wrecker and him. Crosshair sat in front of you, glaring at his brothers. All cadets had separate lunches from the older clones, so there was nothing but ‘kids’ in the cafeteria. You smiled at Hunter, thanking him and started talking to Tech, wanting to hear more about his facts on other worlds since you’ve never been off world. Of course Tech seemed to love it, his eyes shined like stars and he went into whatever you wanted to hear. You even asked Echo about how he could hack into computers and terminals. Crosshair had a look of disbelief on his face, you talked to everyone but him, what did you find so interesting about them, that they had, he didn’t?

Wrecker even joined in, joking along side you. Your eyes landed on Crosshair, unsure of what to say since he was always so quiet, especially around his brothers. So you wanted him to be comfortable without having him talk to much, he never liked to anyways. “What about you Cross? Still good at hitting your targets?” He nodded, upset since you sounded a bit, not scared, almost bored when you asked him about his interest. “Fine.” Your eyes widen and then softened again at his little lash out. It was nothing new, but it still hurt that he didn’t speak to you as normally as he spoke to his brothers. You nodded your head, looking down at your food and playing with it, a little distraction. Wrecker noticed the awkwardness and nudged your side, making you fall into Hunters side a bit. You laughed it off, apologizing to Hunter and pushing Wrecker back.

“Well well, isn’t it the Sad Batch?” Your attention directed to the young Reg at the end of the table, two other cadets behind him laughing. You glared at the Reg, “Watch it” “what are you going to do? Hurt me?” He mocked, “leave her out of this” Cross interrupted, “what’s it to you? It’s not like you care for her. It’s not like you even care for these losers” he pointed to the Batch while Crosshair stood up, “I’d sit down if I were you CT-9904” “then leave” “make me” Wreck stood up beside the two, your eyes darted between the five, Crosshair threw a punch as the Reg landed on his back, the other two threw Cross down while Wreck immediately pulled the two apart. You jumped up and ran over to Cross, kneeling beside him.

“You better leave Reg, before Lama Su sees what you’ve done” you warned the young clone as you helped Crosshair up, “fine” the Reg spat as Wrecker threw the other two along with the first. Crosshair stood beside you, watching you with confusion written all over his face, your hands tended to his smaller cuts and bruises before you spoke up “well, we better go to the medical bay before someone files a report and makes things worse” you suggested as Crosshair nodded, walking along side you out the cafeteria and to the Med Bay. “Thank you” he bashfully admitted “for?” “Standing up for me” “oh! Pfft, it was nothing, really” you told him, holding his upper arm as you both walked down the white hallway. It was quiet after that, Cross checked in and they made sure he was ok before letting him go. They didn’t lecture him much since they knew fighting was in clones blood.

After that you both walked back to your shared barrack with the others. Everyone was already there, Wrecker was doing push ups, Tech was playing with some android, Echo caught up on some sleep and Hunter played with a pencil. Twirling it between his fingers so smoothly. Everyone looked over and seen you two, you took your boots off and stayed in your blacks. Everyone was already ready for bed, “Crosshair!” Wrecker ran up to Cross and gave him a big hug, throwing him down in middle of the room on a few blankets and pillows you all put there whenever you huddled up. “Wrecker!” Cross called out, trying to push his brother away, Hunter came over and sat against Wreckers back while Tech jumped up and laid down and leaned over Wreckers legs, Echo followed shortly and threw himself over the already growing pile. “Come on Y/n! Bring your blanket!” You stood up, grabbing your blanket and grabbing Lula at the same time. You threw it over the guys as you laid down near Cross.

You laid quite a ways as to not make him uncomfortable, yet you still were close “You alright? Nothing hurting?” “No, don’t worry about me” he huffed out, trying to loosen Wreckers tight grip and get out from under the boys weight. You laughed a bit as everyone put their things away and started to fall asleep. Everyone was basically a blanket for Wrecker, so he slept peacefully, Hunter could feel the coldness of the floor through the blanket so he slept on top of Wrecker while Tech used Wreckers arm as a pillow, and Echo was draped over Hunters stomach, while both you and Crosshair used Wreckers arm as a pillow as well. You held Lula and snuggled closer for warmth. Just then, Nala Se walked in, “lights off” she told everyone as she smiled. A chorus of “Night!” Played throughout the room while Nala Se smiled and turned the lights off, and closing the door. Crosshair pulled you closer so you could at least be under the blanket as well. “Night” you whispered to him, “goodnight” you closed your eyes, cherishing these moments with them all.

—

“Remember, stay to the shadows. We’re only here to eliminate the targets, and leave” you said over the comms to near Elite troops. “And if we find information?” One radioed back, “if it’s on a computer, gets as much info as you can. If it’s something we can take back, bring it. Don’t kill Gerrera. We need him alive” “yes commander” you held a fist up, signaling for your troops to stop. Making them shuffle towards the trees. Night time was the best time to hit, and with the trees covering the light from above made it even better since it was hard to spot any of you especially with your darker armor. “Camps just down the hill” “is there anyone there?” “Not sure. There’s smoke in the distance” “stay there. We have the high ground, we’ll check it out. Make sure no ones around you” you kneeled before the edge of the little cliff, your rifle scanned around as you seen civilians here and there. Your head turned to a branch breaking.

A boot to your chest kicked you back as you brought your knife out, your gun too far for arms reach. Your troops were out cold behind you from the looks of it, quite a ways actually. You told them to stay close before the mission started. The big burly trooper came close, you swung your knife, as they grabbed your wrist and twisted it, you spun around and kicked the back of their knee making them fall, they turned to you as you hit them in the head. They took the beating you gave them well, but as you turned, you were pushed down the pretty long cliff. Your knife and gun still on top of the cliff as you tried to grab onto any branches you hit on your fall. You landed on your side, holding your head as you stood up, hearing sand and rocks roll down. A slightly smaller yet skinner clone slid down after you, they jumped on you as you kicked them off.

Their hand coming up to block your coming hits, “commander?” You groaned, as the person kicked your feet out from under you. You turned and crawled away, only to have them pull you by your foot, you grabbed whatever was closest to you. A branch? You swung at their head, making them fall to the ground in pain as you heard footsteps in the bushes beside you. You looked down, did they even have any weapons on them? Nothing. You ran over behind a tree, your HUD scanning for anything, “commander?!” You angrily pressed the button, “what?” You asked, “we have intruders at-” the line was cut off with screaming and then silence. The sound was gone, yet the body from earlier was still laying there.

The civilians from earlier ran off in the opposite direction as soon as they seen you fall down. Great, there goes Gerrera. Your body fell forward and whoever was on top of you had your hands behind your back. They leaned down, and as soon as they did, you threw your head back, knocking them off you. You took stance as they stood back up, a bit taller than the second one, but still skinner than the first. “Give up, you’re not making it out of here alive” “says who?” A second voice made you spin around as a punch was thrown at you, how many were there? They ran over to you as you kicked them towards the other one that first threw you down. They argued at each other and stood back up. One that looked like a robot ran at you as you dodged his attack, grabbing his helmet and slamming it against a tree trunk beside you, the second one trying to hit you. You moved in time as they hit to tree. Your hand coming under their arm as you kicked the back of their knee. Making them kneel. A with one last hit to the back of their head they fell, holding their neck while the other held their head. “Told you”

You looked up the cliff while waking over to it, your gun and knife still up there. You stood before a tree, ready to climb it. “Where do you think you’re going?” Another one?! You just wanted to leave at this point, you were already tired, you turned and seen the helmet of an unknown clone. Their visor seemed so familiar, yet it seemed like you haven’t even met them. “I suggest you leave, by Order 66 all traitors must be eliminated. I’m giving you and your squad the chance to leave” he didn’t say anything for awhile, he stared at you. You jumped a bit as they suddenly lifted their helmet off their head, your eyes widen under your yours. It couldn’t be, no, they died. They left you on Kamino and died on another planet. They never made it home. “This is the final warning” you broke the silence. No it couldn’t be him. He looked nothing like him, but he somehow did. You shook your head, turning around to jump the tree.

You swiftly climbed it until you reached the top. At least that clone was gone. You grabbed your rifle and your knife, putting them away. It was quiet on the way back to your ship, you still kept your guard up. You stood at the door way, “any remaining troops, come back to the ship, were departing soon” you commed to the others. Hoping that there was still some troops out there somewhere. You opened the door as you walked in, you placed your gun down, head turning as you tried to brace for impact as the clone from earlier pushed you against the table. You breathed out, but the clone grabbed your helmet off you. “Y/n?” You stopped as you heard your name leave his mouth. “Who are you? How do you know me?”

“Where have you been?” The man asked frantically while searching your body, which scared you a bit, making you step the the right and back away from him. “Excuse me? I don’t think we’ve met before” “CT-9904-Crosshair” and there it was, if felt like you had just been hit with a tie fighter. “No- no Crosshair died. The others died on-” “I’m here, Crosshair from Kamino” “stop.” You held a hand up before he came any closer. “Crosshair and the others are dead. They failed a mission” his shoulders slouched a bit, it seemed like you weren’t going to budge anytime soon. He held both hands up, signing to you that he wasn’t planning on doing anything. You watched him carefully, as he stepped closer. You breath hitched as he stood right in front of you, “The Sad Batch?” Every Reg kid on Kamino called you guys that, that wasn’t enough proof. You glared at him, his hands coming up to your wrist and putting them down.

You backed away but he held you there, in place. “Goodnight” you tensed under his grasp, only Crosshair could have known to whisper that to you, in that slightly happy voice. “..Cross? Is that really you?” He nodded, his hands coming up to hold both your wrists, as your hand hesitantly came up to hold his cheek. The one where he was beaten up long ago, apparently the Crosshair tattoo covered it. You ran a thumb over it, feeling the bumps of the black drawing as he sighed out. Only he ever let you this close, he leaned into your touch, but quickly pulled away from the oncoming people. “Crosshair! You let them get away?” One groaned loudly, you stumbled back, “Wrecker.” Crosshair growled out, “Wrecker?” You asked, your eyes squinted at the man, “woah, who are you?” The big burly man walked up to you, way taller than you actually. “Thats Y/n idiot” Wreckers head snapped towards Crosshair who stood with his arms folded, “Y/n?!” He ran up to you, grabbing you in a big bear hug and swinging you around, “where have you been?” Wrecker asked, like he was still the child you knew on Kamino.

“Right where I’ve always been” you gasped out, as he set you down. He rubbed his head, another ship arrived outside yours. The door opened and out walked the other three. Their helmets off, they came in, the one with the longest hair which you assumed was Hunter, he scanned over you for a second, Y/n” “uh” “Hunter” he introduced himself again, “Hunter, wow you look” “Echo seems to be alright, his diagnostics seems stable” Hunter elbowed Tech in the stomach, “Tech, Echo in so sorry about earlier. I didn’t know” you lightly laughed out. Echo had an ice pack on his head while Tech was carrying around a first aid. “Oh. It seems Y/n is alive. We’ve been searching for you, don’t worry, at least we know you can take care of yourself” “searching.. for me?” “Don’t believe us? Check the map and notebook of all the planets we looked on” “no, I just. I waited for you guys back on Kamino, you never came back. I waited for you, and when they said you all died, I stopped wanting to lie to myself, now -I’m somewhere better than before”

Everyone gave each other guilty looks while you turned away from them, still hard to believe that they were actually alive. “We had to leave, we had the Empire on our tail” “yeah well, you can tell the old me, the one who actually believed you were still alive before I threw myself into my work” “speaking of work, why work for the Empire?” Echo asked, “well leaving Kamino and the Empire would have me long gone. And with the New Empire, we could finally rule over all that have beaten us and thought wrongly” “uh Hunter, her chip” Tech tapped Hunters shoulder, “right. Y/n, have you ever gotten your chip removed?” “Chip? What chip?” “I’d say she hasn’t” “speak for yourself” Crosshair bumped in, “have you ever been experimented on? In a tube?” “What? No, I was always loyal. Why are you asking these questions?”

“I prefer to have the chip removed as soon as possible” Tech said as you were totally lost, “agreed” you looked over at everyone, hoping for an answer. “Come with us” Hunter extended a hand towards you, Crosshair still had that jealousy he thought he had long forgotten about. But you only looked at his hand, which made Cross almost sigh in relief. “I can’t just leave, I have my home and my cadets in training back at base” “trust me, you’ll have a better life here than back on Kamino” Hunter tried desperately to get you to come, you thought about it, everyone noticed, but this time Crosshair held his arm out to you, “then take your time training the one we have” you looked back to the console behind you, the beeping of the incoming com rang out. “Give me a second. This is commander CT-9908, what’s the problem?” “We have reports about civilians taking off from the planet. And the failed mission”

“Dank farrick” you cut off the com and turned around, “we need to leave fast” they all seemed to smile at your decision. You grabbed your gun and walked down the ramp, the guys following close behind you. “Wrecker. Pull that box off and take out the wires” you slipped your helmet on as Wrecker did as told. Tech winced at the perfectly good parts being wasted. Everyone boarded on their ship, Crosshair waiting for you at the door. “Can’t believe I’m actually doing this” you scoffed, “hard to believe?” “Yeah, I just left everything I’ve ever known, behind” “hello CT-9908” you turned at your name, and a girl stood there. She waved at you, “hi?” “I’ve seen you before, Hunter always asked about you especially Crosshair but I told them to be more specific about which female clone-” “-off you go!” Crosshair pushed the girl away, “that’s Omega” you hummed, curious to see who she was.

You awkwardly stood there, unsure of what to do. “This way” Cross pulled your arm and lead you to his bed, “put your gun there, I’ll clean it later” you slid your helmet off, putting it next to his on the stacked gun cases gently. “Thank you, I’ve...I’ve never had anyone offer to clean my gun before actually” the ship powered up, you turned to face Crosshair who stared at you, he didn’t have a scowl on his face, instead, it looked like a small smile. “I’ll clean your gun for you anytime” you could basically feel his body heat through your armor, the closeness didn’t make it any better as you blush at how close he was. The ship pulled off the ground, making him fall into you, as you almost fell but he caught you. “The ships not as smooth as yours I suppose?” “No, I know the parts you need for that though” his arms around your back as you hand held his shoulder. Guess now was a good time to tell you how he actually felt. “Y/n?” He asked, eyes scanning over how beautiful you looked up closer. “Yes Cross?” It was quiet, and it seemed like if you spoke to loud, you’d ruin the moment. He felt goosebumps paint his skin under his blacks. “I need to tell you something” he wanted to get this over with quick before anyone other than you two joined or interrupted. “Go on” you spoke, wanting to hear what you thought he was going to say “promise me you’ll stay for good this time. I can’t stand the thought of you leaving again” his words were brittle “I... I promise. So long as you remember me” “I never forgot you” he pulled you closer, chills ran down your body as he gave you the smallest kiss. Then pulled away, only to see you look at him again with those eyes of your, this time. He gave you all he had, his hands held your hips as you cupped his cheek, finding yourself to be more than friends at this point.

“Cross- oh!” Omega walked in, then quieted when she seen you two, you pulled away slowly, processing what had happened as a blush coated both your cheeks. “What, Omega?” He asked irritated, “Hunter wants to talk to you” she giggled when she seen his pink face, then ran off. After that you both walked over to Hunter, he explained that you all were headed to Bracca. Mid sentence, Wrecker picked you up from behind, “I missed you being here Y/n, good to have you back though” “yeah, yeah It feels good to be back” You watched as Wrecker brought you over to the middle of the ship. Laying on the ground with you while the others started to join in. Tech put his datapad away and Echo walked over like he always did when he was smaller. Hunter still slept over Wrecker like he used to and Crosshair used Wreckers arm as a pillow. Pulling you closer to him as Omega jumped on top of Hunter holding Lula. Even after all this time you spent apart from them, it felt like you never left, they never left. And you weren’t separated. Cross faced away from the huddle and faced you, he made sure no one was looking before placing a loving kiss to your lips, “night” you whispered, “goodnight” he whispered back and pulled you closer to him

———

It seems that this one needs a second part as well. However that’ll be quite some time. I hope you enjoyed. I fixed it, and if you guys find the memes in here, I’ll love you forever and you’re now my friend😂