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outercrasis · 4 years ago

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Maybe It’s A Sign

Pairing: Modern!Din Djarin x F!Reader

Rating: Explicit 18+

Word Count: 9.3k+

Warnings: alcohol, implied age difference, oral sex (f receiving), vaginal fingering, p-in-v sex, unprotected sex, cockwarming

Summary: You and Mando have been driving across America together for months. You're happy to be with him but part of you longs for something more.

A/N: I don’t really know the time period for this, probably like anything pre-2010s. There’s no use of y/n and let me know if I missed a warning :)

Read it on AO3

The breeze from the open truck window is cool against your heated skin. It's your only relief as the sun beats down on you through the windshield, the busted A/C offering no help. You're headed down some freeway in the middle of nowhere America, riding shotgun in an old beat-up truck that's seen better days.

You've been keeping your eyes on the flat landscape surrounding you, watching as field after field passes you by. They really weren't joking when they'd named them the Great Plains. Music filters through the air, some classic rock song you've heard a thousand times before. You still hum along mindlessly, enjoying the small amount of entertainment.

Bored of the vast sameness outside your window, your eyes drift over to your companion, driver, and owner of the truck. Mando. You study him, finding him far more interesting than the fields outside.

His worn baseball cap has been pushed up, presumably from scratching his scalp underneath and not bothering to fix it. Soft brown curls peek out around the edges of the hat. He has his sunglasses on and his eyes are firmly fixed on the road ahead, as they should be. The patchy scruff along his jawline has grown out a bit from your recent days on the road and you can see a few gray hairs mixed in with his darker natural color.

He shrugged off his jacket earlier in the day, leaving him in a worn gray t-shirt that hugged his lean muscles all just right. His faded blue jeans are on and you wonder how he can stand to wear them in the oppressive summer heat. You gave into shorts days ago.

All in all, he was a far better sight than anything outside the truck. As you look him over, you muse how everything he owns seems to be worn in. His rusty truck, his old hat, his distressed clothes. They all carry a sense of being lived in, nothing new and shiny on him. Well, except for his jewelry. His silver necklace and rings always shine brightly, a dramatic contrast to the rest of him.

"Stop staring," Mando suddenly says, breaking you from your observation of him. You're a little embarrassed to have been caught, but you aren't going to let him know that.

"Why? Nothin' else to look at around here."

That rewards you with a chuckle. At least he isn't irritated by your staring then.

"Don't you have a book or something?"

You look over at the book you had thrown on the dashboard. A used copy of Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger that you picked up a couple states back. You aren't sure you like Holden, but it's a good read at least. "Yeah, but I can't read it for long before I start feeling sick. So I guess I'll just have to look at you instead."

"Sure that I won't make you sick?" Mando teases.

You smile. He's in a good mood today. There are days where conversation with him is like pulling teeth, but it makes days like today all the more worth it.

"Nah, you aren't so hard on the eyes." You say it cool and casual, genuine but not needy. As though you don't often think of his looks when you have the time and privacy to satisfy your needs.

Mando shakes his head slightly but you can see the ghost of a smile on his lips. "Sure, sweetheart."

He never seems to believe you when you compliment his appearance. It breaks your heart a little. Sure, he has some years on you, but you aren't blind. You know a good-looking man when you see one and Mando? He was it. If the man wasn't oblivious, he'd notice the looks plenty of women and some men throw him when he strolls into town.

Not sure of what to say next, but not wanting the conversation to end, you take to a habit that's been slowly forming over your months with him. It had begun out of boredom one day, but continued due to a desperate urge to learn anything and everything your mysterious companion will tell you about himself.

"When's your birthday?"

Mando isn't surprised anymore by your random questions. "May eighteenth."

Your eyes go wide at his answer. It was July now, meaning he'd let the day come and go without telling you. You had just assumed his birthday hadn't come around with you yet. "Mando! Why didn't you tell me? I would have at least said something if I had known."

He shrugs. "Birthdays aren't a big deal where I grew up."

"Were you raised Jehovah's Witness or something?" you ask.

"No, nothing like that." His fingers drum slightly on the steering wheel. You noticed a while ago that he did that when you got close to something he didn't want to talk about. His childhood always seems to be a touchy subject.

You want to know more, want to learn all of his secrets, but you don't want to jeopardize his good mood. Mando had shared bits and pieces of those more intimate details with you over your shared months with him, but always on his own time. His own terms. You won't push it now. Instead, you pivot to something more innocuous.

"If you could only eat one meal for the rest of your life, what would it be?"

You're surprised when he barely takes any time to consider the question before answering. "Tacos."

You raise an eyebrow. "Tacos? I took you for more of a burger and fries kind of guy."

"Nothing compares to a good authentic taco from down by the border." He says it with such confidence that you can do nothing other than believe him.

"I wouldn't know," you say.

Mando cocks an eyebrow at you now. "We'll have to fix that then."

A warm flush runs through your body at his words. You know he isn't looking to get rid of you, but hearing him make plans for the future with you, no matter how tentative, makes you happier than you care to admit. Small promises that you know he'll make good on eventually given the time and opportunity.

"What about you?" he asks.

"Easy. A full breakfast. Eggs, bacon, potatoes, and toast. Doesn't matter how they're cooked or the specific options, you can't go wrong."

You stretch yourself out in the cab as you answer, throwing your feet up on the dash. Your eyes close for a moment and you miss the way Mando's eyes rake over your extended frame.

"You're never awake for breakfast," Mando comments. He's right. You enjoy your sleep and when left to your own devices you easily dream through breakfast hours.

"That doesn't matter," you retort. "Breakfast food isn't only good in the morning."

You continue that way for a while, gathering small bits of information about him and sharing your own in return. You learn that he prefers hot weather over the cold, soft pillows over firm ones, showers over baths, and most surprisingly that he has a soft spot for musicals. That fact had made you giggle, imagining Mando singing along to The Music of the Night. With all of his mystery, he wouldn't make for a bad Phantom you think.

As the afternoon wears on, you can feel yourself growing tired. Between the warmth of the sun, the lulling rumble of the truck, and the comfortable environment of the cab, you're fighting to keep your eyes open. Mando notices your struggle and reaches a hand out towards you.

You aren't really sure when this began, but you aren't complaining about it. Mando would hold your hand whenever you fell asleep in the truck, thumb gently rubbing against your skin. His hands were rough, callused from years of work, but they felt nice. They felt strong, comforting. In those moments nothing else in the world mattered. And if you thought about his hands later, touching places other than your hands, then that was your business and no one else’s.

You wake up a couple hours later, Mando calling your name to pull you from your sleep. The sun has moved down in the sky and you guess it’s somewhere close to five o’clock. You’d check the time on the radio, but Mando never seemed to bother keeping it right due to regularly changing time zones with all the cross country traveling.

You’re sitting outside of some 24 hour diner on a random roadside. Mando seems to be fond of these little dives, preferring them to any of the big chain restaurants you always pass. Fast food is the only exception to that rule and even that’s rare, these food stops often being one of few chances to stretch your legs when you’re on the road.

“What do you think? Do they have the best pie in America?” you joke, pointing at the sun-worn sign hanging below the restaurant’s name. You can’t count how many ‘best blank in America’ signs you’ve seen at this point. While you can’t credit their authenticity, it usually did mean there was something good waiting for you on the menu.

“I suppose we’ll have to be the judges of that,” Mando replies.

You tug on your socks and shoes that you pulled off earlier in the day and hop out of the truck. The easy conversation and warm nap have you in a great mood, one that makes you a little bolder than you might otherwise be. Walking into the diner, you grab onto Mando’s arm, smiling at him when he looks down at you in surprise. He doesn’t pull away from you though and your heart beats a little bit faster.

The diner has plenty of open seats and you seat yourselves, grabbing one of the booths. The stiff vinyl isn’t the most comfortable, but you can’t say you’re surprised. The place looks like it hasn’t been renovated in a decade. If the smell from the kitchen is anything to go off of though, the food will be just fine.

A waitress comes over to take your orders. She’s exactly what you would imagine a waitress to look like in a diner like this one. Slightly heavyset, a kind face, and a big smile to offer you. “Hi there, what can I get the two of you?” she asks.

“I’ll take a coke, ma’am,” Mando says. He seems oblivious to the flush on the waitress’s cheeks at his baritone.

“I’ll take a coke too.”

“I’ll be right back, folks.”

You reach over to grab a sticky menu from the end of the table. The stickiness grosses you out a little, but it really does add to the ambiance of the place. Your conversation from earlier drifting back into mind, you immediately look for the breakfast section. Perfect. Their ‘two eggs and more’ option is exactly what you were looking for.

The waitress returns with your drinks and takes your orders, Mando getting himself a burger and fries. You smirk at him, taking the wrapper off of your straw. “I thought you said you weren’t a burger and fries kind of guy?”

Mando watches as you carefully make a wrapper worm, dropping the smallest amount of soda on the paper to make it move. “I just said tacos were my favorite, never said I’m a guy who doesn’t enjoy a good burger and fries, sweetheart.”

“Fair enough,” you say with a shrug.

You fall into a comfortable silence together at the table. Silence isn’t an uncommon occurrence between the two of you. When you first joined Mando you talked all the time. Trying to fill up the empty space, feeling like if someone wasn’t talking then the situation was awkward. Slowly you learned though. The silence was never awkward until you made it that way and unless Mando had something to say, he’d stay quiet. He’s not incapable of conversation, he just doesn’t like to force it.

You softly hum a tune that’s been stuck in your head, looking out the diner window and enjoying the sunset. It’s a gorgeous one today, the sky looking like an oil painting with its gradient of colors. The flat plains allow for a good view of it too, only a small building in the distance blocking any part of the horizon. You kick yourself for not picking up that disposable camera at the gas station this morning. The photo would never do it justice, but at least that way you could have a small piece of the gorgeous sky to hold onto.

Plates being set down on the table brings you back down to earth. You happily dig into your meal, pleased to have been right about the quality of food here. Nothing could beat a good meal at a greasy diner. Mando seems to enjoy his burger as well, scarfing it down well before you finish your plate.

He always ate like that and you aren’t sure why. It’s as though he thinks if he doesn’t eat it fast enough then someone is going to come and steal it from him. Early on you’d tried to speed up your eating, feeling awkward every time he finished and was forced to wait on you. Now though, you don’t care. Mando rarely ever stops moving and a meal with you is a time you can be certain that he isn’t doing anything for once. You hope that eventually it might encourage him to actually enjoy his food as well, but that still seems a long way off.

Mando picks at his fries and sips at his coke while you finish up. The waitress comes by to refill the drinks, another flush on her cheeks when Mando thanks her. There must not be many attractive men who roll through here if a simple thanks has her blushing, you think. Poor lady, she seems quite nice.

“So, what’s the plan?” you ask Mando between bites of egg and toast.

“Plan?”

“Yes, plan. We’ve been driving west for two days now and you seem to have some destination in mind. So, what’s the plan?” What plan, of course Mando has a plan. He always does. Was it always well thought out or complete? No, but there is never a time where he doesn’t have some sort of plan, some idea of where he’s off to next. You’re the one without plans, content with travelling alongside him.

Before Mando can reply, the waitress returns to the table and clears his now empty plate. “Can we get a slice of your pie?” Mando asks.

“Of course, what flavor would you like?” she replies.

“Whatever flavor you think is best, ma’am.” That garners yet another blush on the waitress’s cheeks. Wow. Things must be really bad around here then. One good-looking customer shouldn’t have that big of an impact on anyone, much less a woman who’s clearly made this job her life’s work.

She leaves and you prompt Mando again. “So? Plan?”

“I’m going to meet someone tonight, pick up a new job. Then we’ll go from there,” he finally tells you.

You aren’t pleased by his half-cryptic half-telling answer. He’s always doing this to you, giving you answers but never quite the whole thing. You bet he already knows what the next job is, he’s just being coy about it for some ridiculous reason.

You decide not to push it and slide your plate over to Mando. There are some hash browns left and he won’t just ask for them despite the fact that you’re clearly done. He doesn’t say thanks, just picks up the fork and shovels them in. This by now is routine too so it doesn’t bother you, but it’s still odd. Mando is just weird about food.

He finishes the last of your meal and the waitress returns with the pie. “Blueberry, winner of the county festival five years running,” she tells you.

You grab a fork and dig in, suddenly finding the room in your stomach for dessert. Best pie in America might be a stretch, but you believe their claim to the best pie in the county. It’s delicious, eliciting a small but satisfied groan from you on the first bite. You go to take a second bite when you realize Mando hasn’t moved yet, he’s just watching you with an expression on his face that you can’t quite make out.

“Earth to Mando?” you say, waving your hand. “Try the pie, it’s delicious.”

He breaks from his stare and takes a piece of the pie. “‘S good,” he says around the mouthful.

You laugh at his terrible manners. “Gross, finish chewing before you talk.”

He doesn’t have a witty retort, but he gives you a grin that makes you feel like you’ve won a million dollars. It’s one of the ones that reaches his eyes, making them just shy of sparkling. Now you really wish you had bought that disposable camera.

Finishing the award-winning dessert, you and Mando go up to the counter to pay. He’s left a tip on the table, a sizable one in your opinion, but you aren’t going to say anything about it. Mando is always leaving big tips at places like these.

You take in the diner for one last moment, not paying attention to Mando’s conversation with the waitress until she says something that catches your ear.

“-shift ends in a half hour.” Did you hear that right? Was she really propositioning Mando right now? Christ, things must be downright desolate around here.

Your heart stops as you wait to hear Mando’s reply. He could easily accept. She’s an attractive woman with that classic middle America charm about her. Any other man would probably take her up on the offer. Would it shatter your heart into a million pieces if Mando did? Most likely. But do you have any right to feel that way? Most likely not.

Mando isn’t tied to you, at least not in that way, and he’s certainly still a man. You haven’t known him to chase after any women the whole time you’ve been with him, but surely he has needs and the waitress is beautiful and willing. You wouldn’t be able to fault him for it.

“I’m flattered, but the lady here and I need to be getting back on the road,” Mando says, slinging an arm around your shoulders. You do your best to keep your face neutral, not wanting to come off as rude while also trying not to make it obvious the way your heart swoops at Mando’s reply. You know he doesn’t mean anything serious by it, but the implication is still very much there.

Embarrassment washes over the poor woman’s face. “Oh, I’m so sorry, I just assumed…” she trails off, not finishing her thought. You want to feel bad for her, but you can’t help but feel sorry for yourself.

You have a good idea of what she assumed. You’ve heard a multitude of mistaken relationships by now between you and Mando. Everything from some kind of family relation, to something more perverted that’s assumed by greasy motel attendants who cast odd glances when you ask for a double instead of a single. It’s never any less uncomfortable.

Mando brushes it off. “It’s fine ma’am, no harm, no foul.” The waitress doesn’t blush at his words anymore.

Bill paid, you and Mando leave the diner. His arm leaves you and you climb back into the truck. The radio flickers back to life and neither of you speak. You wish you could know what’s going on inside of his head. Probably just thinking about the next job. That seems like him, always focused on what’s coming next.

You can’t help but be consumed with thoughts of him. Situations like the one with the waitress always left you distracted. There’s no real way to describe your relationship with Mando. You had helped him with a deal and he had helped you with a way out of your one-horse town. Originally neither of you planned on staying together for this long, but at some point Mando stopped asking you where you wanted to go and you stopped asking if he was going to leave.

You’re comfortable around each other, content to drive across America while Mando picks up job after job. At some point your feelings deepened for him, you aren’t exactly sure when, but now you can’t imagine leaving Mando. It’s no longer just about the adventure of it for you. It’s something more, a deeper tie than you’ve ever had to anyone. However, you have no idea if he feels the same way and you don’t intend to find out. Better to love your mystery man from afar then reveal yourself and get left in the dust.

Fifteen minutes into the drive, Mando reaches over and turns down the radio. “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable back there.”

You’re a bit surprised to hear an apology. After all, he had nothing to really apologize for. The waitress had come onto him, not the other way around. You know Mando isn’t the type to flat out refuse and insult someone like that. What he had done was… fine. You had hardly even considered it.

“You didn’t make me uncomfortable, Mando,” you tell him. “If anything she did, propositioning you like that.”

A small, relieved smile works its way across his face. “It was quite bold.”

That makes you laugh. “I’m not surprised, she was sizing you up since we walked in.”

“She was not,” Mando argues.

You shift in your seat to face him. “Are you kidding? You really didn’t notice her blushing every time you spoke to her?” If Mando was this oblivious maybe you didn’t need to worry about him catching onto you.

“Now you’re just lying, sweetheart.”

“Am not. You just don’t pay attention.”

Mando rolls his eyes and turns the radio back up. He mumbles something but you can’t make it out. You let it slide and allow yourself to relax. Your hand falls to the center of the bench seat as you look out the window. The stars are coming out now, another gorgeous sight in the vast expanse of the sky. So far away from the city, it feels like you can see every pinprick of light the universe has to offer. It’s a bit disorienting honestly. Nothing makes you feel smaller by comparison and yet, you don’t really mind.

You startle as something wraps around your hand. Looking down, you realize that it’s just Mando, holding your hand as he does when you’re close to falling asleep in the truck. You look up at him, confused. You aren’t anywhere close to nodding off. He should know that, so why…?

Mando doesn’t look at you, keeping his eyes fixed on the road. His thumb softly rubs against the back of your hand. You relax into his touch, turning your eyes back to the stars. Confusion about Mando’s actions doesn’t compare to the way your stomach flips at his gentle touch. It feels nice, domestic almost, if one can consider a life lived out of the front seat of a rusted out pickup domestic. His hand doesn’t leave yours until he pulls into the pothole filled parking lot of some dive bar.

Mando parks and turns the truck off. You move to get out of the truck with him when he squeezes your hand to stop you.

“Stay in the truck,” Mando says. His hand leaves you and he opens his own door, jumping out onto the cracked asphalt.

You look over at him, incredulous. “Excuse me? You know I am old enough to go in there, right?”

“I know. Stay in the truck.” Mando closes the truck door, giving you no more room to argue with him. It pisses you off.

What is this? Soften you up by holding your hand only to leave you behind? You hate when he does this, treating you like a child that’s just tagging along with him. You suppose you are tagging along, which stings a bit more, but you could be helpful, useful even if he would just let you in. Instead he keeps you at arm’s length at times, treating you like you can’t take care of yourself. He has no right to boss you around like that, telling you where you can and can’t go.

You watch his figure enter the bar, temper rising. If this place was good enough for him, it was certainly good enough for you. A bar like this had been where you met Mando months ago, working as a bartender and server. It didn’t bring back the best of memories, but you can handle yourself. At worst a fight might break out or patrons might get a little handsy. You can avoid the first and as for the second, it’s not as though Mando would need to put someone in the hospital for getting a little too flirty with you.

After fuming in the truck for a couple minutes, you make up your mind. You look yourself over in the mirror, trying to fix your appearance to look like you hadn't just spent the last two days in a truck. Pleased with yourself, you pull your shirt down slightly to reveal a bit more cleavage. The discovery of the power a pair of tits held in dive bars was one you made a long time ago. You flip the mirror back up and get out of the truck.

You practice your walk as you approach the bar door, trying to keep it calm and confident. Mando is going to be pissed at you for this, you already know, but you refuse to be treated like a child. If coming in here without his permission is what it takes for him to view you differently, then so be it. Younger you might be, but incapable you are not.

The moment you walk in the door, you spot Mando. He’s in the corner, talking to someone with his back to the door. He doesn’t even notice as you walk in and stroll up to the bar.

The man behind the counter is old, his white shirt spotted with stains and a towel thrown over his shoulder. It’s almost too stereotypical a look and you want to laugh. The stiff look he gives you though stifles your amusement.

“What can I get you?” he asks gruffly as you take a seat at the bartop.

“I’ll take a whiskey on the rocks.”

Whiskey is not your favorite drink. Not by a long shot. Really, you would have loved to order something fruity that you can’t taste the alcohol in, but whiskey is something you’ve learned to tolerate. You know that appearances matter in a place like this and a fruity drink would mark you as someone lost, not as someone who belongs here. You aren’t looking to get trashed anyway, just something to calm your nerves.

It doesn’t take long before someone is sidling up next to you at the bar. You don’t acknowledge him right away, instead staring up at the small CRT TV that’s playing the local news above the bar. Some murder case from a couple towns over is currently being highlighted. Lovely.

“What’s a pretty thing like you doing here?” he asks you.

You glance over at him, enough to get a look, but you don’t let your eyes linger. Lingering eyes would mean an invitation that you certainly don’t want to give. You have to admit, as far as seedy dive bar men went, he isn’t hard to look at. Not much older than you, clean shaven, bright blue eyes. Another time you might have gone for someone like him. Not now. These days your thoughts are only occupied by scruff, dark hair, and warm brown eyes.

“Came in for a drink,” you reply simply.

He leans in a bit closer. “Can I buy you another?”

You take a sip of your drink. “I think I’m alright, thanks.”

He pushes in even further, placing a hand on your thigh. This guy didn’t take no for an answer apparently. “Aw, come on now, don’t be that way sweetheart.”

Hearing him call you sweetheart makes you want to punch him more than him touching you does. It sounds wrong coming out of his mouth, harsh and manipulative, not the smooth and warm way Mando says it. For a moment, you do seriously consider punching this guy square in the jaw before deciding against it. You came in here to prove a point and not being able to handle a pushy guy would just prove the exact opposite of that.

You turn in your chair to move your thigh away from him. He has the decency to let his hand fall at least. “Don’t call me that,” you tell him.

“Alright then, what do I call you?”

You turn your attention back to the TV. Now they were highlighting a feel good story about an animal adoption from the nearby shelter. Odd shift in tone. You don’t reply to Blue-eyes and hope he gets the message.

“Playing hard to get, that’s fine,” he says. You take another sip of your whiskey. The news shifts to the weather. There’s more warm weather on the way for the next week, no storms in sight. That’ll be nice to drive in you think.

Blue-eyes’ hand returns to your thigh, creeping up higher than it was before. “I don’t mind hard to get, sweetheart.”

That one garners a slap. You do it before you even give it a real thought. It’s a good one at least, making a very solid sound as his head spins. It’s a testament to the bar that no one even spares it a second glance. Blue-eyes turns back to you, furious.

“You’re going to regret that, bitch,” he hisses at you, roughly grabbing your arm.

“You’re going to regret it if you don’t take your hand off of her.”

You’ve never been so happy to hear Mando’s voice in your life. Could you handle this guy? Probably. Do you want to? Absolutely not. You know on your own there's a near certain chance you'll end up with bruises before this guy gives up.

Somewhere in your mind you register the very real possibility that Mando is pissed at you right now. You shove it down, choosing to focus on the fact that he did just come to your defense.

Blue-eyes is more stupid then he looks and doesn’t read the very obvious threat Mando poses. Instead he doubles down and tightens his grip on you. “Oh yeah? And what are you going to do about it, old man?”

You can't say you're surprised when Mando punches him in the face instead of answering the question. You also can’t say that you feel bad about it either. The surprise and hurt of the sudden punch makes Blue-eyes release his grip on you, giving you enough time to move out of the way as Mando moves in. Mando grabs a fistful of Blue-eyes' shirt and pulls the guy in towards his face.

“Do you regret it?” Mando grits out. Blue-eyes sputters something that sounds like an apology and pushes himself away.

Satisfied, Mando now turns on you. You were right, he's pissed. His typically soft, warm eyes are hard on you now as he pulls you away.

You flounder to tell him you haven't paid for your drink but he just ignores you, dragging you out of the bar. If you were smarter, you would think to be a little scared about making a man like Mando mad at you. Instead, your thoughts are occupied with how he's barely even trying to overpower you and yet you couldn't break free of his grip if you tried. You wonder if there's something wrong with you for how much it's turning you on.

Arriving back at the truck, Mando releases his grip. "Get in," he demands.

You do as you're told and climb into the passenger seat as Mando goes around. Nerves finally settle in. Mando would never hurt you, you know that, but he could decide to ditch you somewhere. Whatever this situation is with him, it's far from formal. He has no obligation to you and could easily choose to end it. With the trouble you’ve just caused, you wouldn’t be surprised if this all comes to a swift and sudden end.

As Mando climbs into the cab, you stare down at the floorboards, terrified that he's going to tell you he's dropping you off somewhere and leaving you behind for good. You can't imagine your life without him now. There's nowhere for you to go, nothing for you to do without him. Right back to square one.

He doesn't speak right away, which only makes you more nervous. He peels the truck out of the parking lot, headed back in the direction you came from. You still don't look at him. It's obvious you fucked up and there's nothing you can really say to fix that. Your only hope is that he forgives you.

You're headed back through the small nearby town when he finally speaks. “I told you to stay in the truck.”

You don’t say anything in response. Anything you can come up with sounds childish in your head. The exact opposite of what you'd been trying to prove. Thankfully, Mando takes your silence as an answer.

“Why would you even do something like that? Do you know how stupid that was?” His hands are tight on the wheel, glancing between you and the road as he yells.

You mumble back to him.

“What was that? I couldn’t hear you.”

“He called me sweetheart,” you say a little louder.

“What?” He isn't going to let you off the hook with this and it gets under your skin. Some part of you thought he might be proud of you for smacking that creep and here he is berating you for it.

“He called me sweetheart, alright?” you half-shout.

Mando gives you a confused look, clearly not the answer he was expecting. “Do you- do you have a problem with that?” The heat is still present in his voice, but you can hear a little worry in it now. Shit. This is not what you wanted out of this whole ordeal.

You've never wanted the ground to come up and swallow you more. Why didn’t you just say that you smacked him for touching you? That would have been simple. How do you answer this without making everything weird? No, Mando, I don’t have a problem with that. I smacked him because I only like it when you call me that. Sure. That won’t be weird or awkward at all.

After cursing yourself for a few seconds, you manage a response. “No, I- I just didn’t like it when he said it.”

"Oh." That's Mando's only reply.

You know he's still angry about you coming into the bar, but apparently your answer has sidelined him. If it wasn't so embarrassing, you might even be rejoicing at his reaction. Instead you just feel like a fool.

The silence remains as you pull into a little local motel with the vacancy sign lit up. Mando hands you forty dollars, way more than you need, and tells you to get a room.

Okay. So he isn't getting rid of you… yet.

You barely even listen to the attendant as they tell you they only have one single available for the night. Now is not the time to be arguing about sleeping arrangements. You take the key, room 104, and make your way back to the truck.

You grab your bag from the flatbed and let Mando know the room number. He nods and goes to pull the truck around. You kick yourself as you walk over to the room. Why didn’t you just stay in the truck? Why didn’t you just lie to Mando about your reasons? He’s smart and it won’t take long now for him to put two and two together. Especially if he asks anymore questions.

You have no idea how Mando might react. If learning about your feelings towards him combined with what happened in the bar might be enough to leave you. He’s certainly not cold with you, but you’re not sure you’d call any of his actions romantic either. Holding your hand after the diner today is the closest he’s ever come. You wish you knew what that meant to him. You know what it meant to you.

Mando parks the truck outside of the room as you unlock the door. It’s not a fancy room, just one big square with a bathroom attached. There’s a full bed, a dresser with a TV on it, and a small table with a couple chairs. You toss your bag on the table and sit down on the edge of the bed. There’s no point in pretending you aren’t upset, Mando can always see through your lies. Might as well just get this over with.

Nervous, you hide your face in your hands, leaning forward with your elbows on your knees. You’re ready to deal with it, but not while actually looking at him. You can’t handle seeing his face as he figures things out; the way he might look at you while he rejects you. Suddenly you feel a wave of sympathy for the waitress earlier today. You hope Mando will let you down easy like he did for her.

You don’t look up when Mando comes into the room. His boots enter your line of vision and you close your eyes. You can’t look at any part of him right now. It’s too painful.

Mando says your name softly and you can sense as he kneels down in front of you. You don’t reply. Gently, he moves your hands away from your face. You still refuse to look at him and he cups your chin, lifting your head up to his.

“Look at me, sweetheart.” You wish you could resist, but you can’t. Not when he speaks to you in that soft tone. Not when he calls you that.

You meet his eye and see all the concern and worry he holds there. “I’m sorry, Mando. I should have listened to you.”

His hand slides up to hold your cheek. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have treated you that way. I could have at least told you why I didn’t want you coming in with me.”

You’re surprised at his apology. Two apologies he didn’t need to make in one day. This isn’t something you ever expected. You assumed he would still be full of heat and anger, not this careful kindness.

“Why didn’t you want me to come in?” you ask. You need to know the reason, need to know why it is he told you to stay behind. No matter how much the reason might hurt.

Mando sighs. “I didn’t want you to come in because I didn’t want anyone else looking at you.”

You pull back out of shock. “What?” Did you hear that correctly? Could that mean what you thought it might?

He takes off his baseball cap and runs a hand through his hair. “What can I say, sweetheart? I’m a jealous man.”

A thousand thoughts run through your mind. There are so many things you want to say, so many questions you want to ask, and yet none of them can find their way out. As a result, you do the only thing you can.

You lean in towards him, slowly, giving him enough time to stop you if he so chooses. He doesn’t though, instead following your lead and moving in closer. You carefully search his eyes for any answers they may hold. Your noses bump and you both pause. “Mando, I-”

He cuts you off. “Din. My name is Din.”

You close the gap and kiss him. The kiss is careful at first, as though you’re both still looking to confirm that yes, this is what you both want. Mand- Din’s lips are soft and sweet against yours and you melt as it’s everything you could have imagined and more. A small moan escapes you, one that you’re embarrassed about until it causes Din to deepen the kiss. Caution evaporates, quickly turning into passion as your tongues meet.

Din moves, getting up from the floor and pushing you back against the bed. His lips never leave yours, devouring you as though you might slip away at any moment. He gives your bottom lip a small nip, quickly soothing it with his tongue. You pull away, needing a moment to catch your breath.

“Is this okay?” Din asks, his voice low with desire. You respond by pulling him back down into another bruising kiss. Your positions shift as the kiss continues, Din’s knee finding its way between your legs as his arms wrap around you. Both of your hands have worked their way into his hair, something you’ve been fantasizing about for months now.

Din begins to kiss his way down your neck, leaving little love bites along the way. You gently tug on his hair, pulling a heavenly sound from him that only intensifies your pool of desire. Desperate for more, you move a hand down, seeking the hem of his shirt and slipping your hand underneath. His skin feels remarkable under your fingertips.

Din pulls away from your neck and quickly divests himself of his shirt. He allows you a moment to take him in, his lean physique flexing as he holds himself above you. Scars litter his body in various shapes and sizes, but you think they look beautiful against the glow of his honeyed skin.

Taking the opportunity, you remove your top as well, leaving you in your basic everyday bra. You wish you had worn your other bra, the sexier one, but with the way Din is looking at you, you’re not sure it matters. His lips return to your body, working his way across any and all of your newly exposed skin. One hand splays on your waist, holding you, grounding Din against you.

“You’re so soft, sweetheart,” Din murmurs against you. His lips find their way up to your chest, placing careful kisses against the globes of your breasts. He pauses and looks up at you, seeking your permission. You arch your back, allowing Din access to slip a hand beneath you and undo the clasp.

He pulls the bra away from you and you flush under the intensity of his gaze. “Perfect, you’re perfect,” Din says before reoccupying his mouth with your breasts. It seems that he has a real oral fixation, not that you mind in the slightest. His warm mouth feels heavenly against you, licking and sucking wherever he can.

Din takes one of your nipples into his mouth, his fingers playing with the other. It’s the best thing you’ve felt in months, better than any of your late night fantasies when you would try to satisfy your growing want for the man currently giving you so much pleasure. As though your attempts could ever come close to the real thing.

Din releases your nipple with a pop and returns to your mouth, licking his way inside. His kiss alone is enough to make you see stars. It makes you forget any other kiss you’ve ever shared, enveloping you in him and him alone.

You pull back slightly from the kiss, unable to take more without further relief. “Din, please, I want you,” you pant into his mouth. Din growls, actually growls, at your words. It's a far hotter response than it should be.

“Yeah, sweetheart? What do you want me to do to you? Tell me.” His knee comes up and presses his thigh against you where you want him most, causing you to moan out his name. “Use your words, sweet girl.”

He’s trying to kill you, you think. Calling you a name like that. Sweet girl. It loops in your mind until Din’s fingers ghost over your nipples again. “I want you to touch me,” you tell him.

“I’m already touching you,” Din says. He’s a tease, you think, growing slightly frustrated with him. His thigh moves against you again though and he’s immediately forgiven.

“Please, Din,” you whine, hoping he’ll take pity on you. Thankfully he does, moving his leg away and quickly removing your pants. You already know you’re soaking, your panties feeling cold against you with the loss of the other cloth barrier.

Din pauses for another moment to take you in before moving. You’re nearly bare before him, almost entirely on display.

“You’re so beautiful,” he compliments, his hands parting your thighs. “So perfect, so beautiful, and all mine.” You can feel yourself clench at his words. No one has ever made you feel this way before. His stare only relaxes you more, his words feeling like a warm blanket wrapping around your fears and quieting them.

Din’s fingers brush against you through the thin cotton. “Is this all for me, sweetheart? I can already feel how wet you are.”

He continues to tease you, only leaving you capable of nodding your head back at him. His eyes catch yours, watching your reaction as he pushes the near useless fabric off to the side and pushes one finger between your folds. Just the small touch sets you aflame, pushing yourself down onto his hand, wanting more.

His finger leaves you and you frown until you watch as he brings it to his mouth and licks your slick off of it. Din moans at the taste. “You taste better than you do in my dreams.”

He leans down to kiss you, sharing the taste of yourself while he pulls your panties off completely. They’re thrown haphazardly into the room, lost to be found for later.

Din then moves himself between your legs, slowly working kisses down your body as he slides back onto his knees on the floor. He grabs your waist and pulls you to the edge of the bed with ease and starts nipping and kissing your inner thighs. Your hands wind back into his hair, while you lie in disbelief that this is really happening right now.

Gentle kisses are placed along your folds, Din moving back as you try to grind your hips down onto him. His eyes catch yours again, mouth hovering over your clit as he speaks. “I’m going to taste you until you cum on my face and then I’m going to fuck you, okay?”

This time you manage a response, frantic to let him know that’s exactly what you want. “Yes, please, I want you so badly, Din.”

It’s all he needs to hear. His mouth comes down on your clit, carefully playing with the bundle of nerves, making you cry out and clench around nothing. He pulls away slightly and then licks a long stripe from bottom to top, pausing again at your clit to give it a teasing suck. Your hands pull at his hair from the attention.

He moves back down, teasing your entrance with his mouth. He moans, lapping up your pussy, acting every part a man dying of thirst who’s found oasis at your core. You buck into him and his hands quickly wrap around your legs, holding your hips in place. Din wants to pleasure you, but on his own terms, at his own speed.

You can’t make a coherent thought as he continues to eat you out. Small snippets of words make their way out of you, none of them making any real sense in conjunction with one another. It’s not until his thumb finds your clit as he continues to lick, suck, and nip at you that you find complete words to shout. “Din, oh god, yes, right there, I’m so close...”

Moments later you feel the tension within you snap, crying out as your body shakes from the overwhelming pleasure. Din continues to work you through your orgasm, only stopping when you physically push his head away from you. He trails hot kisses along your inner thighs again, telling you how beautiful you are, how good you taste, how perfect your pussy is.

As you come down from your high, Din removes the last of his clothes, finally freeing his stiff erection. Your breath catches as you take him in, your Adonis in the flesh. He’s gorgeous, you think, wondering what you did to get so lucky.

Then he’s back over top of you, kissing and sucking at your skin. Some of those are bound to leave marks for tomorrow but you don’t mind. You want everyone to see, for everyone to know that you’re his. No more mistaken assumptions about your relationship, you want it on display for the world.

You look down to catch a better glimpse of his cock, satiating the curiosity that’s plagued you for so long. He’s big. More than enough to fill you, possibly even more than you can handle. As wet as you are, you know you’ll need him to go slow, to slowly stretch you out before he can truly fuck you.

You tilt your hips, bumping against him, letting him know that you want him. “Do you want my fingers first?” Din asks. You know you should say yes, but you can’t imagine another moment without knowing what he feels like inside of you.

“No,” you tell him. “Just go slow.”

Din places a quick searing kiss against your lips and positions himself. The head of his cock presses against your slick entrance and you feel like you’re already seeing stars. Din is muttering in your ear, holding you tightly against him as he pushes into you.

“Fuck, you feel so good sweetheart. So tight and wet for me. I can’t wait to fill you up, to feel every inch of your sweet pussy.”

You nearly forget to breath as he slowly pushes in further. You can feel every inch of him and you only want more. Din’s stream of compliments are interrupted when he finally bottoms out in you, holding himself still as your walls clench and stretch around him. “Fuck, sweetheart.”

You turn your head and pull him into a blazing kiss, loving the way he feels filling you up. You wonder how you were ever satisfied with your fingers before when this had been next to you for so long. Din is apparently thinking along the same lines, whispering to you, “I’d have done this long ago if I knew you felt this good.”

You don’t even have time to consider the words as he slowly begins to move in you. The pleasure borders on agonizing as you begin to move your hips, encouraging him to move faster. Din responds quickly to your urging, setting a furious pace as he begins to lose all control. You know you’ll still be feeling him tomorrow and the thought makes you smile. You never want to go another day without a reminder of how he feels.

His thumb returns to your clit and you don’t have time to warn him before you’re thrown into another orgasm. Your walls clench around him and you lose yourself in the feeling of cumming on his cock. Din quickly follows, pulling out of you just in time to paint your stomach with ropes of his spend. You mourn the loss of him, but once Din finishes he buries himself back inside of you, causing another shock of pleasure to zing through your body.

Din rolls the both of you over, keeping himself sheathed in you, and allowing you to collapse on top of him. You’re both sweaty and panting, trying to come up with words. Din’s fingers lightly trace along your back, causing goosebumps to erupt across your flesh. You lift your head up from his chest in order to look at his face.

He’s completely debauched, sweat causing hair to cling to his forehead, the rest completely wild from your hands. His eyes are still blown wide, happily looking back at you. His lips are pink and swollen from all the kisses and licks he’s pressed into your skin. You know you can’t look much better than him.

You give a small clench around him and smile at the expression that runs across Din’s face. “I love the way you fill me,” you tell him. Din presses a loving kiss against your sweaty forehead.

“I never want to leave this perfect pussy of yours.” You can tell he means it too. If he could, he would stay buried in you forever. You love the way that sounds. His eyes flutter closed, reveling in the feeling of having you surround him.

“Din,” you say.

His eyes pop back open and refocus on you. “Yeah, sweetheart?”

A smile blooms across your face. “Nothing, I just wanted to say it. Din. It suits you.”

His name suits him in a different way than Mando does. Mando is the rough exterior, the front he puts up to the world. The one who punches men in bars for touching you and calling you pet names. The one that strikes fear into others, knowing that if he’s hot on their trail that they’re screwed. Din is the soft inside, the place where all of his ‘sweethearts’ originate, the cause for the hand holding and sparkling smiles. The man behind the armor that he presents to the world, the one who kisses and fills you up just right.

Din’s arms wrap around you tightly, clearly intent on never letting you go. You’re fine with that, letting it sink in that you’re finally laying in bed with the man who’s consumed your thoughts for months. A small, joyous giggle escapes you.

“What’s so funny?” Din asks.

“I thought you were going to leave me earlier. Now here I am, laying on top of you with your cock still inside of me.”

Din chuckles and you can feel it rumble in his chest. “I’m never letting you go sweetheart, no matter how much you piss me off.”

You fold your arms across his chest, letting your chin rest on your hands. “I am sorry. I just wanted you to notice me. I felt like you were treating me like a child,” you confess.

Din’s eyes widen a bit at your admission. “I always notice you, mesh’la. I never meant to treat you that way. I only want to keep you safe.”

“I know that now. Honestly, I feel so silly about it all.” He reaches up and pushes a strand of hair back from your face.

“Next time, I’ll take you in with me. I’ll show everyone that you’re mine.” He grinds his hips up into you to prove his point. It makes you squeal, causing a smirk to settle on Din’s lips. You give his cheek a small flick in retaliation but make no attempt to move.

You lay there for a little while longer, laying your head back down against Din’s chest, listening to his steady heartbeat beneath you. His hands trace anywhere he can touch on you, intoxicated by having you so close against him. Eventually though, you feel the call to use the bathroom and can no longer ignore it.

Din is almost painful sliding out of you, but you’re more upset about the loss of having him buried in you. Your legs are shaky as you stand, managing to make it to the bathroom on wobbly knees. You take a moment to clean yourself up, running a damp cloth across your body. Exhaustion hits as you return to bed, crawling under the covers and into Din’s arms.

You begin to drift off when Din asks, “Why’d you get a single? Not that I’m complaining.”

“All they had left. Maybe it was a sign,” you mumble back.

Din chuckles and presses a kiss against your head. “Yeah, maybe, sweetheart.”

#din djarin x reader #din djarin x female reader #modern!au #modern!din #din djarin fic #pedro pascal x reader #din djarin x you #the mandalorian fanfiction #mandocrasis fic

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adashofniallandasprinkleoflunacy · 3 years ago

Note

i had a craving for some warm apple cider and it reminded me of etrry. he would fuck that shit up omg omg christian girl fall is totally alienrry he would love going to the apple orchards and shit

The first time he tries a pumpkin spice latte, his feedback makes Y/N’s stomach flutter with endearment.

Harry smack his lips as he savors the spices and cozy notes in the drink, furrowing his brows in thought as he picks through all of the different emotions the taste produces. After a moment, his entire body relaxes, and a homey smile makes its way across his dimpled cheeks. “It tastes the way a warm hug feels.”

Y/N’s lips twitch as she sips from her own drink, letting his interpretation sink in. He’s recently taken to relating flavors to feelings and experiences, and the analogies he conjures up always amuse her to no end. “That was pretty poetic of you.”

Harry simpers over the brim of the coffee cup, hugging it with both hands as indulges another gulp. “Thank you, I think.”

She can’t help but notice how big his hands are— how they easily dwarf the paper mug, and how pretty his nails look covered in sage green polish (she’d painted them that color for the sake of irony, and he’d thought the joke was hilarious). The more she dwells on every detail of his hands— the veins that chisel over the back as he tightens his hold, or the length of his nimble fingers, or the small alien hieroglyphic tattoo along the area between his index finger and thumb— the more her thoughts derail towards the graphic end of the spectrum. Specifically, how he’d had those same hands all over her body the night prior.

How they had been tangled in her hair as they stumbled towards her room blindly, too lost in the sensation of each other’s lips to give anything else much attention. How his hands had felt as they hurriedly coasted down her chest and along the bottom of her sweatshirt, pulling it off in one swift motion so he could taste every inch of her skin, his tongue leaving a sweltering heat along her cleavage. How they had gripped her knees and spread them open as he situated himself onto his stomach on the mattress, a faint white cast sheathing his irises as he’d seen the way she was already dripping in anticipation. How his palms had held her down to the bed as he’d bobbed his head between her thighs, his tongue lapping at her sloppily as he’d moaned into her clit, the sound wet and guttural as his back muscles visibly tightened while she’d tugged at his curls and scratched at his scalp. How one hand had grasped her hip desperately as the other wrapped around her throat, its first two fingers weighing on her tongue as she’d sucked on them feverishly, wisps of his name escaping her throat as he’d pounded raw pleasure into the pit of her tummy. How he’d whimpered and gasped into her ear as his nails dug memories into the skin of her waist, and how she’d caught a glimpse of his fingerprints this morning in the mirror, dusted across her flesh in the form of bruises.

Harry’s voice yanks the girl out of her head. “What are you drinking?”

Y/N isn’t really one to crave coffee during the afternoon, so she’d picked up a bottle of rosé on the way home from grocery shopping, right before going to the drive-through at the nearest Starbucks to get him his beverage. He’d seen a commercial for it on TV the other day, and had expressed his interest for it during breakfast as she’d shoveled scrambled eggs onto a plate while he cut up a green apple across the kitchen island, popping a slice into his mouth while neatly organizing the others along his circular platter. And how could she say no to him, especially when he’d been standing there with such a hopeful look in those olive green puppy eyes, his cheeks puffed out with fruit and her teeth marked all over his neck and chest.

“It’s, uhm—” She clears her throat roughly, expelling the image of Harry’s toned stomach and thick happy trail from her brain. She snaps her gaze up to meet his, and the blissfully unaware innocence behind his tone and over his features makes blood rush to her cheeks. “It’s rosé.”

Harry sets down his cup carefully on her coffee table, shifting further back onto the couch and slouching into the cushions, his legs spreading open casually as he settles in. “That’s a type of alcohol, correct?”

Y/N glances down at his thighs momentarily, where his mesh shorts are riding up dangerously high. “Yep.”

If he notices, he doesn’t to show it, seen in how his accent maintains the same nonchalant curiosity as before. He throws an arm around her shoulders easily, scooting his body closer to her own across the sofa. He’s gotten way touchier since they started sleeping together, and she can’t say she doesn’t like it. She likes it more than she should, probably.

“The same liquid in those spiked ciders you got me last time? The sour one that incapacitates you?”

Y/N scoffs lightly at his accurate description, willingly leaning into his torso and folding her legs up under herself as she props her wine glass on her knee. “Mmhm. But that only happened because you drank the entire pack like a moron, remember?”

Harry rolls his eyes at her chastising tone and flat expression. “How was I supposed to know?”

“Maybe you should have asked me before randomly drinking things from that shelf in the fridge.”

“You were in the shower.”

“You could have waited.”

“I was thirsty.”

“There’s a water filter at the sink.”

“I wanted juice.”

“There was grape juice beside the milk.”

“I wanted apple and the bottles had pictures of them on the label. My apologies for using my practical thinking skills and measures of deduction.”

Y/N sighs in good-natured exasperation, shoving him with her shoulder as revenge for his snarky comebacks. “Well, look where your practical thinking skills and measures of deduction got you— bent over the toilet bowl with puke shooting out of your nostrils. Now you know that anything with the word, ‘alcohol’ on it needs to be taken in moderation. Right?”

“Absolutely.”

“Good.” The young woman takes a sip from her glass, savoring it patiently as the sweet and tangy flavor filters through her taste buds. “Lesson learned, then.”

“Unfortunately.” The alien deadpans, pinching along the underside of her underarm just to feel her squirm and squeak. He smiles childishly at her reaction, giggling as she curses at him under her breath.

“You almost made me spill my drink.” She grumbles, getting comfortable once more against his warm body. “And this is the good stuff, too. I’d break the bottle over your head.”

“A bit rash, I think.” Harry snorts sarcastically, eyeing the pink moscato for a moment as it swishes inside her chilled cup, her fingers leaving smudges in the condensation. He then lilts his gaze back towards her own, his tone soft and full of wonder. “Can I try?”

“Promise not to throw up all over my floor again?” The girl quips tauntingly, jutting her chin towards her rug symbolically.

Harry exhales in surrendered embarrassment, lifting his hand and hooking their pinkies together. “Pinky swear.”

Y/N nods her head in the agreement, fending off a fond grin as she lifts the glass to his plush, rosy lips. “Go ahead, then, Area 51.”

The alien snorts softly at the nickname, well aware of its origins now that he’s learned more about Earth’s relationship with extraterrestrial components. Those documentaries on the Discovery Channel are quite educational.

Harry sifts his mouth over the rim of the glass, making eye contact with Y/N to let her know he’s ready for her to pour the drink in. She tilts the wine, watching it funnel past his lips to gauge how much is an adequate amount. She pulls back, observing as he nurses the liquid pensively, his brows creasing like before as he distinguishes all the different flavors present. He smacks his lips again, blinking slowly as he forms his opinion, licking at a drop that had escaped the corner of his mouth.

“So?” Y/N inquires, raising an eyebrow expectantly. “What’s it taste like?”

Harry cranes his sight over to her, the studious expression on his face melting into one of slight smugness, as if what he’s about to say is something amusing. The left edge of his mouth jolts upwards, a sly smirk carving its way across his face as he presses his tongue along the inside of his cheek almost arrogantly, his eyes raking down her body in an objectifying once-over. His descent stops at her clasped thighs, which he focuses on for a few seconds longer than she deems acceptable, and then his gaze travels back up to lock with her own. There’s now a different type of darkness to the jade swirling around his pupils, electrified by something he has yet to express to her fully, but seems excited to do so.

The young man leans forward, and Y/N almost falls back at the sudden closeness of their proximity. He ghosts his lips over the curve of her jaw and across the slope of her cheekbone, stopping at the shell of her ear as if he wants to share a secret. He drags his pillowy lips over the area with every intention to rile her up, his skin cool and damp from the beverage, but unbelievably warm beneath the initial shock of that caveat. His breath carries the same juxtaposing sensations— it’s cold on impact, but heats up the farther it travels across the side of her face and down to the pulse in her neck. His words are low and heavy, but sultry and smooth like the wine they’d shared; a seductive whisper that intoxicates her in a fiery manner that no amount of alcohol ever could.

“It tastes like sex. It tastes the way you do between your thighs, and it feels the way you feel when I’m buried between your legs. And if I close my eyes and savor it, I can taste you whining my name into my mouth, and I can taste you begging for it on my tongue.”

#alienrry #enjoy <3

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mandoinevarro · 4 years ago

Text

NO APPOINTMENT, NO MEETING

Rule Maker, Rule Breaker: Chapter 4

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3

Words: 9.4k

Rating: E

Warnings: so ok descriptions of blood (it’s only one sentence and I don’t think it’s too bad but just in case), remembering trauma/triggering memories, angst. now for the fun part: SMUT, one (1) thigh spank, a sprinkle of dirty talk, a dash of praise kink, spitting, oral (f receiving), vaginal sex, maybe cockwarming but for like two minutes

a/n: happy 2021!!! only one chapter left after this one so enjoy. for the hornies who only want fun and sexy times: scroll to the bottom and work your way up, smut is like 3/4 in.

……………

In the blue morning light, Nevarro is almost beautiful.

The deserted lava fields spread in flat terrain as far as the eye can see, bumps and dips where magma cooled creating waves like a black ocean. Among the tide, obsidian turtle shells shimmer like dark mirrors, where Din Djarin studies his face. It startled him when he crawled from the tent to take the pram inside; when he glanced at the ground and the ground glanced back. His face cloudy and warped by irregular volcanic rock, he barely recognized it. It’s not rare for his features to blur in his memory sometimes, especially when he’s out working for days at a time unable to catch a glimpse of himself. Vanity is not one of his many shortcomings—hiding your face for decades is a mighty vaccine against it.

But today something’s different. The reflection peering up at him belongs to a stranger. Relaxed eyebrows, a hooked nose (has the curved always been so pronounced?), lips that faintly curl up. Content brown eyes. His mirrored counterpart is a sentient being below him, plump with blood and oxygen. Alive.

He looks happy.

However, morning weighs heavily on Din, he can see it in the bags below his eyes. It stings like a hangover, like the only hangover he ever had, back when he was an eighteen-year-old idiot and used the credits of his first bounty to get a flask of spotchka from some seedy bar. He remembers sitting in his crammed quarters at the old Covert, chugging the bottle on his own, methodically forcing himself to swallow against the burn. Waiting. Waiting for the alchemy to kick in, for the magic toxins that flushed drunks’ faces, lubricant that oiled their scowls into easy smiles. Waiting to feel what everyone else felt, just for a moment.

Lifting his head, Din peers ahead. Shadows of the city’s buildings creep above the horizon like a bad omen. The opposite of a promised land. Hunchbacked buildings stain the blue-gray sky, abruptly interrupt the intricate lava patterns, Nevarro the planet versus Nevarro the city. Din’s stomach crumples. One, maybe two hours by foot. One, maybe two hours, and last night will fade into a distant memory, a collection of ghost sensations.

But not yet. Right now, last night is still real. You are still real.

Crawling back into the tent, he licks his lips for the millionth time today. He can still taste you: that thick, salty-bitter taste, so much better than he could’ve imagined. He hopes it stays on his lips for a long time; or, at least, that he can replace it soon.

Inside, you’re curled up with his cape, a blooming bruise above your shoulder peeking out, the baby’s pram hovering next to you. He sits down, careful not to awake either of you, and runs a finger down your shoulder, feels the skin prickle. He buries his nose on the back of your hair and inhales: rain and earth as usual, but his soap too, a part of him that clings to you. Lips on the crook of your neck, Din smells himself on you, wonders if you’ll want to wash his scent away, or if you’ll want it to stay on you. You stir, your soft exhales gain a rasp. Din smiles. You do snore, after all.

He’ll have to wake you soon. He knows. He knows. You need to talk about last night. You need to have the frank conversation that you’ve both been postponing for way too long, back when you floated in dead space, no deadlines, no rush at all to make decisions. But things have changed, and he knows what he wants now, and he knows it can’t wait. Yet every time his fingers brush your shoulder to nudge you awake, he pulls them back. He’s never seen you so peaceful, not moving except for your expanding and contracting chest, the light fluttering of your lashes. All the fight in your body gone, those tall bridges around you down and inviting. So different from when he met you.

If there’s one thing Din’s good at, it’s sniffing out trouble. He had to be, if he wanted to make it in the Fighting Corps. In the Bounty Hunter’s Guild. He can sweep a room with a mental black light, spot the people who flare up white and bright, the ones he needs to stay away from—or approach, depending on the situation. And that day at the cantina, the first time he laid eyes on you? You glowed with it. Talking big game in Karga’s booth, laughing with your pretty smile and shuffling cards, you beamed with trouble, bright as radiation and just as dangerous. What needed to happen was clear as day. The Mandalorian needed to turn on his heels immediately, strut out of that bounty hunter hive without a second look, and never, ever, ask about you.

He’d been there before.

Mandalorians, despite common belief, are not made of beskar. Not on the inside, at least. They’re all warm blooded organics, burdened with flesh and internal organs and skeletons; pain and pleasure receptors. Older Mandalorians cautioned younger ones when they came of age and finished their training, when they were ready to become providers. Tall stern warriors, his superiors, warned that there would be temptation, situations that would make him doubt the Way. “Even the briefest taste,” Din’s former Alor said with that cavernous voice he had, “can be the point of no return.” And he was right.

Outside the Covert, there was so much…stimuli. Voices and colors and movement, a twenty-four-hour beehive, the galaxy buzzed and vibrated to no end. It was equally wonderous and grotesque, like a circus. The strenuous noises that rattled his ribcage, the strong smells, the different food, his senses had never felt more exhausted. The faces…stars, the faces. How muscles stretched in a big smile, the glint of teeth, the deep creases between eyebrows that signaled anger. Always moving, always changing, Din hadn’t seen so many uncovered heads since he was a child. His first few weeks outside he’d stare at people for hours until they scurried away or tried to fight him. Tried.

Then, when the initial shock wore out, he noticed other details. The way children’s eyes filled with admiration when they’d look at their parents, how that dimpled girl in Alderaan would blush and stutter whenever he bought something from her stall. And Din would wonder, despite all warnings, what it’d feel like to be one of them. To share so much of himself with the outside world. With time, curiosity morphed into obsession, obsession into desperation, and soon enough he found himself with Rand and the others, running rampant in an already chaotic galaxy.

One war, two decades, and a thousand regrets later, the curiosity died down. The helmet helped him tune out the outside world, made it easier to retreat into his memories. The galaxy seemed duller by the day, emptier. Lonelier, though he didn’t dwell on it.

That is, until he met you.

Until his resolve circled the drain and he asked Karga who you were and where to find you, walked into your store without an idea of what he’d say. Behind the counter, eyes shining and that silky voice asking what you could do for him, you reset the galaxy for him. Every time he visited you felt like his first day outside all over again.

But last night—that was stronger, set in stone. It felt like commitment. Something was born last night, something burgeoned in his chest and took root. Din can feel the fullness in his body, like he grew an extra limb, similar to the swell that tangled in his insides when he went back for the kid. He doesn’t have a name for it yet, but it reminds him of the day he swore the Creed. The fresh sense of purpose, the carved-out path in front of him, knowing what needs to be done:

When the siege is over, he’ll take you with him.

“Are you watching me sleep?” you mumble, cotton mouthed. “Kinda creepy.”

Din chuckles, then remembers. Stars, his heart stops beating for a second. Dread and natural reflexes throw his palm whip fast over your closed eyes. Maker. What the hell was he thinking, sitting next to you without the helmet. Maker, one second too late and you could’ve opened your eyes and—

“Didn’t see anything. Promise,” you say with a smile and pull his cape over your face. “Cover up.”

He pats around for the helmet (where the hell did he drop it last night?), finds it abandoned by your feet. When he fits it around his head, the familiar padding hugging his skull, he swears it feels heavier than it did yesterday.

“You decent?”

“Yeah.”

You lower the pseudo blanket, sleepy eyes and easy smile. As if you purposefully want to make it harder for him to strike up a conversation. But do I really need to— Yes. Yes, he does. He has to know where you stand and ask the big question: If you’d be willing to leave with him once the siege is lifted. Stars, his hands are sweating. But he can’t imagine you’d say no. Not after last night.

“Listen…”

As if on cue, whimpers and sniffles float from the closed pram. Great timing, kid. The baby’s ears droop like wilting leaves when Din places him on the ground, and the little bundle waddles with his eyes cast down until he reaches your ankle.

“What is it, kiddo?” you ask softly, your voice gentler than Din’s ever heard, sitting up as you hug his cloak tighter around your shoulders.

“I think…” Din begins, watching the baby sniffle and hug your bandaged calf. “I think he’s apologizing.”

A pair of eight-ball eyes blink at you, shiny with unshed tears, and Din feels an ache deep in his chest. This sweet little kid, all he’s been put through…

“Oh, don’t worry,” you coo, as one of your hands wriggles out the cloak and cradles the baby’s cheek. Your thumb brushes away a fat tear. “I’m tougher than your dad.” You wink at Din: Just kidding. But it’s true. Living in this planet for so long, all on your own. “Tough” is a survival skill for you, not a choice.

Also…dad. He should probably correct you. Din is not the kid’s real father, even though he’s caught himself thinking about the baby as his son once or twice, when he’s not too aware of his inner monologue. But he can’t bring himself to tell you the truth. Actually, he belongs to a race of wizards that I’ve been quested to deliver him to. Can’t adopt him if I’ll eventually give him up. Not when the kid’s shedding quiet tears into your leg and you’re doing your best to soothe him. Nevarro’s not child friendly, and Din can’t imagine you’ve got much practice with baby stuff, but he can tell you’re doing your best. And that’s enough to spread warmth through his chest.

What a troop you must make: Mandalorian bounty hunter, black market dealer, magic green baby. You could set up a three-person circus and retire. Yet the image tugs at a memory tucked away in his mind, something familiar but blurred.

His rumination’s cut short when Din notices the kid’s pudgy hands extending strategically on either side of your right leg, his eyelids beginning to flicker. Shit, shit, shit.

“She forgives you,” he tells the kid hastily as he scoops him and lays him on the open pram. He doesn’t need to be the little womprat’s real father to tell he was about to whip out his favorite party trick: healing witch powers. So far it doesn’t look like it permanently harms him, but it does weaken him, and Din can’t take chances. Plus, he skipped the part about the baby having supernatural powers when he told you his story, and there’s not a hell of a lot of ways one can explain fresh wounds disappearing.

“So,” you say after the baby’s settled in his pod. “What are we going to do,” you start, and Din’s throat knots with dread and excitement, “about the jammer.”

Oh. Stars, straight to business

“You said you have one.”

“I said I might have one,” you answer, grabbing for your discarded skirts. You fumble with them under the cloak, one hand clasped tight around it. It’s funny—after everything you’ve shared, you won’t undress in front of him during the day. “I mean, jammers aren’t picky like motors, they’re more one-size-fits-all.”

“But we still have to rewire it,” Din completes, wiping dry drool from the kid’s cheek with his thumb.

“Right.” Holding the cloak with your chin while you clasp your tunic, you seem to slowly draw your way out of a maze. That restless abacus in your head adding and subtracting. Your brows relax, and Din knows you’ve figured it out. “But I’ve got my equipment in my workshop, and we’d save time not having to remove it from a ship. And, no offense, but the Crest’s jammer was an antique. Way more complicated than newer models.” You finish dressing and hand him the cloak. “Only problem is the potential trooper stakeout outside the store.”

“I’ll take care of troopers.” Din takes the cloak and hesitates. It’s day nine, that time bomb still ticks in his head. Could it be that easy? Could you really do all this in one day? “What if we don’t finish on time?”

“Then,” you say, “we’ll figure something out.”

We, Din thinks, and smiles. Somehow, that’s all the reassurance he needs.

≈

Nevarro couldn’t look more deserted if tumbleweed rolled in the streets. The city’s a populated ghost town, no man’s land that’s filled with men. Well, men is a strong word. How did Viszla put it that time? We live hidden like sand rats. Yes, rats seems more fitting. Packs of them, scurrying around the former Covert, stealing Mandalorian armor to be bartered for scraps. Karga didn’t have to spell it out when he told him about people finding the Covert. Mando is familiar with the ways of the Outer Rim: Anything unclaimed is up for the taking, and beskar’s too tempting to resist. Knowing doesn’t make his blood boil any less, though. If Din focuses, he can almost hear their squeaking echoing from the sewers, the scavengers of this gray rock serving themselves to the abandoned armor of his people.

Movement to the left. The Mandalorian draws his blaster and bars you with his forearm, to see…a tunic. A short tunic. Tiny red lights. A Jawa. He exhales and sheathes the blaster. Stars. With the vembrance turned off, he has to rely on bare eyesight to scan for danger.

The Jawa drags a sleigh behind him. On it lies a dead or unconscious trooper (it makes no difference to these creatures), its gloved fingers drawing traffic lines on the mud and ash of unpaved streets. Red stars below the cowl focus on you for half a second, the bounty hunter’s hand approaches his blaster, and…

…and the Jawa waves at you, says “hello” in its squeaky language. You wave back, smiling, and the lump of shadow continues on its way. A neighborly gesture that in this context is plain bizarre.

“Old friend of yours?” Mando asks, walking again.

“Associate,” you correct, running a finger along the kid’s left ear until it twitches and he giggles. “Jawas scavenge parts straight from the wreckage, eliminate the middle man. And they don’t report to the New Republic.”

You mean steal from the wreckage, Din almost says, but bites it back. He supposes he can’t judge you for trading with Jawas. Prospects on the Outer Rim are bleaker than ever, and everyone’s got to eat. Especially during a siege.

Maker, sometimes he can’t believe he convinced himself to leave you here. Marooned in the type of place Core World citizens only talk about with shaking heads and disapproving voices. The type of place that makes people feel better about their lives, because hey, it could be worse, at least I don’t live in Nevarro. Granted, Din didn’t know then there’d be a siege. After the fight, after he bid goodbye to Cara and Karga, he hovered on the atmosphere for longer than was safe, gazing down at your store’s roof from the Razor Crest’s cockpit. His head a seesaw, weighing his options and unable to make a decision. You were still so close. He could fly back down to the surface, knock on your door, and take you away with him like he did with the kid.

Would you say yes? Reject him?

But most importantly: what about his quest? What kind of life would you lead travelling with him, a fugitive of the Empire and the New Republic? Life for Din has been defined by survival. Every day he’s had to get up and fight; fight to an inch of his life, fight with concussions, frostbite, shattered ribs. Knife wounds, blaster wounds. Personal wounds. He didn’t want that for you. You’re young, clever, resourceful. After that day, maybe you’d decide Nevarro was too dangerous. Maybe you’d pay your passage on a cruiser and start over in the Core Worlds, make your luck own there. Find a good man, if that’s what you wanted.

So he started the thrusters—the same ones he bought from you so long ago—and jumped into hyperspace with a semi clear conscience. This was best for everyone. You probably wouldn’t have accepted his offer, anyway. For five months he lived with his decision. And then he learnt about the siege.

In the sky, a string of river pearls forms a pattern like a necklace. Imperial cruisers, tie fighters, every ship that Guideon commands, solemnly presiding over Nevarro, itching to shoot down runaways. They’re too far up in the atmosphere to make out anyone in the surface, but Mando grabs your arm and coaxes you behind him all the same, his grip on the pram tighter. The memory of that imp’s blaster on your forehead is still too fresh. The dried blood on your legs.

Din glances back at you briefly. You catch his eye and smile—not grin, not smirk—but smile, a pretty, kind smile that would put to shame any of the imaginary Naboo girls you were so worked up about two nights ago. He should know, he’s been to Naboo, and none of the women there had your kaleidoscopic face, those hints of life that send his pulse on a sprint. The Mandalorian wonders what else you could be hiding under that sharp tongue, behind those clever eyes.

“Mando,” you call and point at a blackened mass to your right. “Nursery’s this way.”

All buildings in Nevarro emerge from volcanic rock, pushing away from clumps of hardened magma. They’re half-manmade, half-volcano hybrids—it’s a useful layout that gives their structure grip against constant earthquakes. It also, however, makes the buildings look like tumors growing on the navel of an ill planet. Your store’s the only one that’s never looked malignant, more like a sprouting flower than a parasite.

And now, the cantina too. Burned to a crisp, blacker than night, the former Church of Nevarro seems to have been swallowed by its unwilling host: the volcanic rock it was built upon. It’d be near impossible to know there’s a cantina inside, if not for the wide window peering inside. And it’s far from impossible for you or Mando, who know by heart where all the doors stand. He pushes one open for you, and together you walk inside.

“Thumb on the bottom, middle and ring fingers on the top, index to the side,” instructs Cara from behind the cantina’s crisp black counter. “The other side.”

Greef Karga sits on a stool opposite her, fumbling with a deck of cards. “Got it. Then what?”

“Then…” The veteran moves aside a flask of ardees and places a matching deck on the bar. “Pressure with your index, release the thumb.” She acts out her instructions and creates an arched ribbon spread on the surface. The Mandalorian can’t remember the last time he walked into the cantina and didn’t see the hypnotic patterns on cards, didn’t hear the wing-flapping noise of their shuffle. Although if he thinks about it, it makes sense that sabacc is the local sport around here. Dumb luck is the only god in the Outer Rim, where inhabitants gaze perpetually at their uncertain future and never look back. Tomorrow they’ll get a better hand, yesterday’s lost credits are forgotten. Everyone here seems to shed their past like snake skin.

“Nice spread, Dune,” you call. Greef and Cara follow your voice, realize they have visitors. “You should job hunt at Canto Bight.”

“Oh yeah?” replies the ex-shock trooper with an impish grin, both elbows on the counter and a rag over her shoulder, all bartender swagger. “What do you know about Canto Bight, hot stuff? Heard you’ve never been off this rock.” She spies a sly glance at Mando, enough to confirm that she’s annoying him on purpose, openly flirting with you. He squares his stance, rolls the helmet to pin her down with the visor, but (he really should know this by now) it does little to intimidate her.

“No trash talk before nightfall, ladies,” quips Karga, walking towards the pram. “And certainly not in front of babies. Hello, little one!” Said little one coos and lifts his skinny arms to be lifted by the Guild Leader, who sits back down delighted at having the baby’s favor, the little rascal on his lap. “He likes me!” Greef Karga smiles wide, flashing those white glinting teeth that’ve always reminded Din of a wolf’s. He’s not happy to leave the kid here, but he can’t take him if there’s a stakeout in your store. Beggars can’t be choosers and so on. But Cara’s here, and Din knows he can trust her with the baby. Though not with you, evidently.

“Tell you what, Mando,” Cara continues, apparently not done peacocking around you. “We arm wrestle, just like last time. Winner gets a flask of spotchka and the opportunity to take the lady to Canto Bight after you lift the siege.”

“Help us lift the siege and I’ll consider winning that flask.”

Dune lets out an long whistle, giving you a complicit look. “Big words.”

Your eyes rake along the Mandalorian’s armor slowly, boots to helmet, a dark tint in your eyes. Din flushes, the oppressive heat of his clothes suddenly thicker.

You shrug and answer, “Big man.” Your fingertips dance idly around the nape of your neck, which makes Mando think about last night, about his tongue on your neck and the purple bruises he sucked, the salty taste of flesh, the heady one between your legs. The memory steers blood into…into awkward places. Which, knowing you, was your intention. Maker, he needs to talk to you about teasing him in public.

“Help you how?” asks Greef, lifting the baby into the counter, whose six little claws hold on to two of his gloved fingers.

“Look after the kid, we won’t be more than a few hours.”

“Sure thing!” booms Karga, at the same time as Cara says, “Fuck no.”

You fold your arms at the veteran. “You scared of an infant, Dune? It’s only one of him, and…” you squint at the cantina’s black shell, like something’s out of place in its burned remains, “…two of you. Where’s—” you start, before glancing at Mando and swallowing the second half.

“Duma?” supplies Karga, tapping the corners of the deck on the counter. “Don’t know, probably boiling beskar to make broth. Rumor has it she’s running out of supplies, fast. Did you ever take her up on that deal?”

Your eyes shoot vibroblades at him, your mouth a flat line.

“What deal?” Mando asks.

“Nothing,” you reply, still glaring warnings at Karga, who sighs, shakes his head, and tickles the baby’s tummy. The kid giggles and kicks half the deck off the counter. “Nothing important. We should get going.”

Outside, you guide the Mandalorian through a maze of back alleys, the ugly underbelly of a planet that’s already the galaxy’s own underbelly. Mando glues a palm to his blaster’s grip, lifting it only as muscle memory to turn on the vembrance and activate the setting to scan footprints, frustrated when he remembers his own piece of equipment would immediately snitch on him. Yet you glade past dark corners that beg for their own knife-brandishing mugger with the grace of someone frolicking in D’Qar’s moorlands, postcard-calm.

Once in your store’s backdoor, the Mandalorian ventures a glance at the front street. Empty. Like the rest of the city, it’s like curfew was declared, not an imp in sight. Certainly not a stakeout in process. Behind him, you push the door open, the busted security panel no more than a prop to discourage robbers.

“What?” you ask when he doesn’t walk inside.

“There’s nobody here,” he answers, studying the connecting alleys like a web of arteries, waiting for a trooper squadron to materialize and ambush you.

“It’s quiet too quiet?” you tease with a lopsided grin. “Lay off the thrillers, Mando. Come on.”

You step inside, he hesitates. “Could be a trap.”

Hands on the doorframe, leaning forward, your face almost touches the helmet. “Then you’ll shoot them and we’ll be back to square one. Not much of a choice here, Mando.” Those pretty eyes, your shining, wet lips. It’s a siren’s call he knows he shouldn’t answer.

The Mandalorian follows you inside.

It takes him a moment to recognize his surroundings.

Your store hibernates in the dark, stale air floating around its vault. Your store, which used to buzz with drills and neon lights and life around the clock, looms like a beast’s hollow belly, crypt-still. Lights off and furniture wrapped in sheets, it looks abandoned, the way all those family houses in deserted villages were hastily vacated during the war. He wonders how long you’ve been out of business because of the siege. Because of him.

You walk across the reception in tomb silence. In the reception signs hang next to the front desk—store policies that gave Mando more than one headache—dark and colorless, like they turned in their badges and no longer preside over this place. Only “NO IMPS” twitches, one or two agonizing flashes of neon green, before it shuts down like its colleagues. Six rules in total, although in Din’s opinion there’s a seventh that foregoes the need of a sign: “NO QUESTIONS”.

That’s a rule that everyone in Nevarro—bounty hunter or not—subscribes to. It’s the rule you followed when the Mandalorian walked into your store, still crafting some half-assed excuse about thrusters when he came face to face (helmet to face?) with you. You never asked about New Republic guidelines or what he wanted them for. Not even for his name. No questions when he came back two weeks later. No questions as weeks passed and then months, as tension thickened between you until his internal barometer cracked.

No questions when his thinning resolve broke one night. That night. He pushed you onto your workbench, you undid each other’s belts, pawed at each other’s sides. No questions when he slid into your wet heat, when he had to stop for a second to avoid a heart attack. No questions when he finished inside you, blood roaring in his ears, your sighs clouding his visor, your hand gently pushing him back.

And then, his question: “Where are you going?”

“Upstairs,” you answered, pulling your trousers back around your hips.

It dropped on his head like freezing water. Upstairs. Upstairs to your apartment, to rest. Alone. Meaning your encounter was a one-night stand, a shortcut to let off some steam. Stars, you were basically swinging the front door wide open for him, putting away a couple of wrenches and switching off the lights to signal the night was over. The Mandalorian didn’t need questions to know he’d overstayed his visit.

But…what if he’d spent the night anyway? Maybe the next morning he would’ve been upfront with you, confess he’d wanted you for so long and that he wanted it to evolve past one furtive encounter, that he wanted it to be real. No, he probably wouldn’t have. As a bounty hunter—as Mandalorian—there are things he simply can’t have. Things that are better off unspoken, better off—

“Tucked away,” you say behind him, making the Mandalorian jump.

“What?”

“The planner.” You walk behind the front desk. “I was saying I don’t remember leaving it here. I thought it was tucked away in some box.”

Oh.

It is strange. A light sheen of dust covers the counter, yet the planner is glossy clean, a painted depiction of the Manarai Mountains on its cover. A souvenir from Coruscant. He wonders who brought you that. It tugs at something sweet but sad in his chest, the fact that you have to rely on others’ cheap souvenirs to explore the galaxy. That’ll change as soon as this mess with the siege is settled.

You flip through the planner, empty for the most part but for a few scribbles on the first pages. It’s dated 5 ABY, four years ago. The Mandalorian knows from experience that your appointment rule works mostly to turn away unsavory clients. Or to get on his nerves.

“Look at that,” you murmur as if reading his mind, your finger pointing at nothing on a page. “You don’t have an appointment, Mando.”

“We don’t have time for this,” he answers, though he knows he’ll make time for it anyway. It used to drive him up the wall whenever you refused to see him using that stupid excuse. But, as with everything with you, it was more complicated than that. It took longer than he’s willing to admit to understand that it was a game. That you liked him riled up, after the push and pull, the hot and cold, the challenge. You had a taste for difficulty. Although it didn’t take as long to figure out that he liked it too. “Just let me in.”

“I don’t know,” you drawl, glancing at the dull signs on the wall. “Rules are rules.”

The Mandalorian has played this game with you enough to know what you want. He thinks of all those memories in this building. You, pinned between his armor and the doorframe; him, sitting on that battered couch upstairs with your hands on his knees. Even those calm nights, when you’d only sit and talk and make him laugh, and sometimes he’d get a laugh from you too, if he didn’t try too hard. All the sweating and the panting and the talking that these walls have witnessed. Maybe there’s time for one last memory before you both leave this planet for good. Not maybe—there’s definitely time. If this were an ambush, you’d be dodging blaster shots by now.

“So bend the rules,” he says slowly, gripping his edge of the counter and dropping his voice to the low register that gives you goosebumps. “For me.”

Your eyes twinkle like copper at the fact that he’s playing along. “And what do I get in return?”

This time, he doesn’t hesitate. “Whatever you want.” Perhaps he’s known for a while, in the back of his head where he could ignore it, but last night the idea rushed to his front lobe. He’ll give you anything you want.

“I want…” you begin, mischief shining in your eyes, before a shadow clouds them. Slowly, your face goes soft, a special kind of longing in your pupils. You swallow, your voice becomes throaty, and the words sound truer than anything Din’s ever heard: “I want you. I just want you.”

He almost trips on his feet when he rounds the counter, his head already swimming. The hunter crowds you with his body, backs you up against the counter until you’re caged and looking up at him, hooded eyes and parted lips. Hot stuff. Cara’s shallow pet name. When he heard it he thought it was inappropriate. But now. As your mouth nestles on his clothed neck and breathes hot, damp air through the fabric—a mild sensation for most people, he guesses, but almost a mating call for him—he realizes it’s not untrue. The name fits you like a glove, hot stuff. It’s just…incomplete. If he’s learnt anything these nine days is that there’s so much more to you, enough sailor knots of emotion and personality inside you to loop around the galaxy if unraveled.

“Touch me,” you breathe, rubbing up against him, searching friction. “Please, please, touch me. There’s nobody here, we—we have time.”

Gloved palms on your waist, down to your hips, lower to your ass, Din tries to fondle you as best he can. He pins you between the counter and his hips, your leg curls around his back and holds him closer. His erection starts to bulge against your belly, your breaths start quickening, your hearts start pumping faster. The tell-tale signs that indicate you’re both ready to go hit all their usual beats. But something’s missing. There’s a step you’re skipping, something…something he’s not doing right.

Tentatively, you press a small kiss on his covered neck, and he can only feel its frustrating whisper, a promise of more.

A lightbulb flicks on.

Mando holds your hips and spins you around, the desk’s edge on your waist. “Bend over,” he grouses next to your ear, his voice sand-coarse. “Don’t turn around.”

Gloves off first. One palm cradles the back of your neck, feels you shiver. His left hand runs down your back and around to your tummy, savoring all those warm, secret places on you, the way your body opens up to him on instinct. The power trip when he cups your heat through your skirts and you moan into the counter. You nestle your hips on his lap, and he stiffens on command, a tug between his legs that he knows is far too insistent for foreplay. Stars, it’s like he’s conditioned to get hard in this store.

“Don’t—” he chokes out “—not so fast. Or I—I won’t—”

“What?” you pant. Din hears the grin laced in your voice and knows it’s bad news for him. He drops to his knees and both hands walk up your bandaged calves, squeeze the tops of your thighs. “You…you don’t…” He throws your skirts over your back. You inhale sharply at the cold air—or at his hands pulling the soft flesh of your backside. When he removes the helmet, your pitch sounds broken up, more desperate. “You d-don’t want…”

It’s a small victory when he parts his lips against your clothed core and it’s you, for once, who chokes on words. Small victory, but he’ll take it, especially after the way his cock twitches in his pants when he smells you. He kisses you again, just a peck over your clit, and your legs shake. Fucking…stars. If this is how you feel when you tease him…well, he gets it. You mewl and push back on his face, but he hardly thinks you want it that easy.

“Stop moving,” he tells you sternly, with a voice he’d use on quarries.

A shiver runs down your spine. “But—” You break into a whine when his open palm slaps the side of your thigh. It’s probably the surprise rather than the sting that makes you inhale sharply, and a combination of both that dampens the cotton between your legs.

“Stop moving,” he repeats, mouth pressed against your core so you can feel the vibration; that, he learnt from you. “Or you don’t get my mouth.”

Above him, you let out a displeased little grunt, too throaty to mean much. But you open your legs wider and brace yourself on the front desk, grant him full access to you. His index hooks on your underwear, moves it aside, and he buries his lips deep into the softest part of you. Din barely hears you gasp. He circles both arms around your thighs and pulls you closer, until his tongue is buried between your folds and you just have to take it. Fuck, it’s just…decadent. The taste, the smell, how soaked you are already, your little purrs and whimpers when he sucks on your lips. They’re not things he ever thought he’d get to feel. He doesn’t deserve any of it.

“Mmm, stars, Mando,” you sob, sneakily rutting your hips like you just can’t help it. He allows it, but only because he’s so rock fucking hard he’s practically doing the same thing. His cock trapped down one pant leg, he squeezes his thighs to try and soothe the ache. “Move—move up a b-bit.”

“No,” he grunts, and licks a slow line from the spot right below your clit to the back of your slit. It wasn’t so long ago that it was your mouth on him, you teasing him mercilessly inside this very store, him moaning and grunting and losing his mind. That’s how he wants you: sloppy, desperate, begging.

“Maker, don’t t-tease,” you moan, but it only encourages him. His tongue slides deep inside you where you’re hotter than sin, enjoying how your walls swell and tighten around it. You’re so fucking wet, he could push into you right now and relieve the pressure building between his legs. But not yet.

“Beg me,” Din groans, mouthing at the inside of your thighs and sucking tiny bruises there. You moan above him, deep in your throat, and he wonders which one of you is more turned on right now. “Put—fuck—put that smart mouth to use. Beg me.”

For a moment all he can hear is your labored breathing, the wheels turning in your pretty head, laying out a plan to make him give in faster. Then, soft and sweet, you hum, “Mando.”

One word. Probably the word Din hears the most, so generic and impersonal that everyone from friends to strangers to enemies call him that. That word coming from your lips makes his heart sprint, his cock pulse and scream at him to hurry up. Stars, but if it was his name—his real name—on your lips, soft and purring like you pronounced his nickname, he knows he wouldn’t be able to hold back a second longer.

“You always make me feel so good,” you continue, arching your back a little to test the waters. “You’re so—so good with your mouth, stars. Want you to kiss me again—kiss me everywhere. Taste me like yesterday—” Your breath catches when he sucks on your inner lips again, closer to where you want him. Maker, if you keep talking like that… “Used to th-think about it all the time, how—mmm—how your—your tongue would feel. Never, ngh, never thought you’d use it th-there, though.” Din laps at your cunt, drinks from it. Fuck, he can’t remember the last time he got this hard. An airy laugh before you continue. “You can be so d-dirty sometimes. I’d let you do—do anything to me.”

Really, Din doesn’t know what pushes him to do it. He doesn’t know what makes him pull back and spread you open with his fingers, stare at your glistening, deliciously swollen folds, and spit at their very top. You moan raggedly above him, a complete mess of sobs and whimpers, as Din simply stares. He watches the trail of spit run down your slit, the lower it goes the more precum he feels sticking to his trousers. Half-drunk on your words and your slick, Din thinks: What did you do to me? Maker, you have him wrapped around your finger.

Saliva trails down until it teardrops on your clit, clings to it, and he doesn’t need another sign. His lips latch on to your bundle of nerves and suck. You sob and whine and cry, rocking your hips hard against his mouth, and he continues sucking through his teeth. Your knees give out, but he holds them before you can hit the ground, holds you in place as he feels you give him everything, your pussy clenching around nothing. Slick trails down his chin, all the way to his neck, and—shit. He’s going to burst in his pants just from feeling you cum in his mouth.

It takes every last ounce of self-control he has left to detach his lips from your cunt and stumble to his feet. You’re still shaking, still panting, but he can’t hold it back a minute longer. Fuck, not even a second longer, he needs to have you right now.

It’s a struggle to get a hold of his fly, fingers trembling and teeth grinding. When he finally pulls the zipper down, the sound snaps your head up.

“Are you—Mando, are you going to—”

“Yes,” he grunts, digging into his waistband for his cock, lining it up against your cunt. Stars, he’s so pent up, it hurts to touch it. “Is it—is it o-okay, can—can, I—”

“Oh, fuck, yes,” you mewl, pushing your hips so tightly against his groin the head of his cock catches against your entrance. Fuck. “Please, please, please, put it inside, let me feel your big, thick, co—”

One hard shove, deep enough that he feels himself poke your cervix, and he’s cumming—hard. His spine doubles over and he grunts and moans into your hair, giving you short, stunted thrusts as he fills you to the brim. You were already so swollen before, now you feel unbearably tight, squeezing his cock so harshly his eyes roll back on his skull. And his balls keep pulling up and giving you more of his load, his teeth grinding so hard they might crack. One last thrust, nice and deep so his cum stays inside you, and his palm presses down on your eyes. Din uses that hand as leverage to turn you around and tilt your head like you showed him, just enough so he can reach your lips. And he kisses you.

Your bodies spasm and throb against each other, you clench around him involuntarily and he flinches, too sensitive to handle the aftershocks of your orgasm. Still, he could stay like this for days. Gently sucking on your tongue, running his along the roof of your mouth, feeling how your lips curve against his in a smile. Then, an alarming thought. Maybe this is the only way to do it that feels right now—sex, he means. With the helmet off, his lips on yours, his nose on your hair. Bare hands drawing circles on your hips. Every sense devoted to you. Even the briefest taste can be a point of no return.

You peck his lips and flutter sweet, short kisses around his jaw, working your way up to his ear, where you whisper, “We’re running out of time.”

The jammer. Those words are quickly becoming the bane of his existence. “I know,” he whispers back, but presses one last, long kiss to your lips that feels inexplicably sad, like a kiss goodbye. Din shakes the thought off his head. He’s too pessimistic sometimes.

You both hiss when he pulls out, slowly so he won’t hurt you.

“Keep ‘em closed,” he tells you before removing his hand from your eyes. For all he knows you could open them right there, and there’d be nothing he could do about it. Somehow, however, he’s certain you won’t. His trust is rewarded when he pulls the hand back, and your eyes are screwed shut beneath it.

It takes an awkward choreography to straighten yourselves. You try to pull your own underwear back on, but in your position it’s near impossible. So Din kneels behind you once more, fishes his helmet from the floor, tucks himself back into his trousers, and lifts your panties until they hug your hips. You push your own skirts down before Din’s upright, which results in the long fabric covering him like your furniture. You share a quick laugh before standing straight and facing each other.

“You can open them.”

Now, he tells himself, watching your sated smile and blinking eyes. The words are on the tip of his tongue: When this is over, would you like to come with me—

“If there’s a jammer here,” you say, before he can get a word out, “it’s in the workshop.”

You walk around him and open a door behind the reception desk to reveal the staircase that leads to your apartment. Din’s still telling himself that he’ll just ask you later, when you climb one step—and stop. You turn around like you can sense he’s about to ask, for the second time in this store, where you’re going.

“Gotta get some stuff from upstairs, but I’ll be down in a second.” Your voice wobbles, your foot hesitates on the step. You’re nervous. “But if you find the jammer before I come back, don’t…don’t leave.”

“Of course not.” Maker, of course he wouldn’t leave without you. Do you really think he would?

The workshop is darker than the reception. A single window, currently boarded up, so he has to use the helmet’s light. The cone of white light creates a sinister effect, like creatures lurk everywhere it doesn’t touch. Rubber tubes hang from the ceiling like lianas, circuit boards glimmer green like leaves, and yellow sensors blink from several components. Your own little ecosystem watches him dig into boxes of clutter to search for a jammer. Stars, he’s never known how you manage to find anything here. It’s probably best if he waits outside; he wouldn’t be able to find his own ship in here without you.

He’s turning to the door when the helmet’s light catches on a dark glint, like it reflected on a mirror. It stops him on his tracks. Din’s not sure what prompts his feet to carry him toward your worktable, where the mystery item lays center-front. He sees himself reflected on the dark T-visor. It’s a helmet. It’s a blue Mandalorian helmet.

At first he’s confused. Surprised to see a Mandalorian helmet here—and is it even a Madalorian helmet? Yes, yes it is. His brain lags behind his eyes, goes through different scenarios, each less likely than the last.

Is there another Mandalorian here? Did the Alor bring this? Is the Alor a client?

And then, truth.

It falls abruptly on his back like atmospheric pressure, gravity that crushes. A hot rush of blood enveloping his head, poisoning his thoughts, a ringing in his ears so sharp he thinks he might pass out. A million thoughts in less than a second—convoluted, scrambled, furious. Then an image, so clear that the Maker himself might’ve played it for him like a holo: Thieves, scammers, criminals scurrying through the tunnels of the Covert, the empty halls where his people built a refuge, where they could feel safe. The pile of beskar armor unguarded—the high price that brave Mandalorians paid to help Din, help the child—served in a silver platter for these scavengers, these fucking honorless lowlifes.

His gloved fingers grip your worktable so hard his knuckles might crack—or the table. But the Mandalorian can’t feel the pain on his joints, not when his bloodstream’s turned to acid, when it feels like somebody jammed live wires into his head.

This fucking place. This planet with its fucking people, their fucking cynicism, this fucking landfill for hazardous waste, this piece of shit skughole—

Above, the Mandalorian hears footsteps. Your footsteps. You.

He looks down at the helmet, the empty T-visor limp and black, dead. You did this. Thinking of you clears the red cloud from his mind, trades it for a gray one. A headache creeps behind his eyes, his shoulders go slack. He feels hollowed out. Like a spoon reached inside his chest and scooped away everything essential, left him a carcass. Like something died here today.

You did this.

And then the helmet is not a helmet, but a severed head. A head with a pool of blood around it, guts sprayed all over, and there’s the corrupt smell of blaster residue coming from his neighbor’s house, the taste of copper after biting his tongue running, the durasteel giants shooting red death, the deafening explosions, his parents’ screams, his school going up in a cloud of smoke, his father holding him, whispering one last sentence that he can’t hear through the sounds of war and carnage, his mother’s cheeks stained with tears and dirt and blood, their blurring faces, the darkness, the fear.

Holding the helmet, Din feels tears sting in the corners of his eyes, then hot on his cheeks. Nobody understands, why can’t anybody understand? The warrior that owned this helmet is lost forever, condemned to live like a phantom, empty without the Creed, without the Way. It’s worse than death. It’s the curse that most of the Covert was forced to carry, to walk this galaxy like living dead, violently stripped of everything that mattered. And the relic of their sacrifice sits in your workshop next to the rest of your junk, ready to be sold off to the highest bidder, somebody who’ll want to hang it in their wall like game they hunted, and how could you do this to him, how could you, how could you do this—

“Find anything yet?”

When the Mandalorian turns, his helmet’s white light locks you in place like quarry. Like guilty quarry.

You squint and raise a palm to shut out the bright beam. “Stars, Mando,” you laugh. “Are you trying to blind me? Turn that off.”

Your words are muffled by the rushing blood that wraps around his ears, loud as a waterfall, but he can understand them. The Mandalorian grips the helmet tighter between his hands and keeps the light on so you can see what he found, what he knows about you. The ugly, festered truth about you.

Once your eyes adjust to the bright light and they’re able to stay open for more than three seconds, you give him a quizzical look. The visor gives you nothing, so you drop your gaze to the hard evidence between his hands.

And you have the nerve to look even more surprised. Furrowed eyebrows and everything to add to the performance.

“Where did you get that?” you ask.

A thousand responses climb into his head in a savage, foul clutter, like army ants. I should ask you the same, where do you think?, how much are they giving you?, was it worth it?, what’s wrong with you?, what’s wrong with this fucking planet? He opens his mouth, but they swarm in his throat all at once and tie a knot around his windpipe. More tears on his cheeks, another attempt at words—nothing.

Finally, quietly: “How could you do this to me?”

The crease between your brows digs deeper, and there’s genuine worry in your eyes. Of course you’re worried, he just caught you red fucking handed. “Mando, I really don’t understand—”

“Me neither,” he hisses through his teeth, “because this is a Mandalorian helmet, and you’re no Mandalorian.” The first insect out, the rest follow like a waterfall, crawling out his mouth. “How long did you wait after I left to steal this from the Covert? An hour? Five minutes?”

Trapped under the light, where you can no longer hide in shadows, you look stricken. The harsh light shines on circles under your eyes, creases where you frown. Bleak features he never noticed before.

Your voice is low and icy when you say, “I never stole anything from the Covert.”

“Scavenge, loot, I don’t care what you people like to call it.” How could you, after everything, how could you.

“Listen to me,” you say steadily, but your eyes are hot coals and your jaw is set, your own anger rising. Good. Masks off. He wants to see who’s been hiding under his noses these nine days. All those fucking months. “I didn’t take a thing from the Covert. I have no idea where that helmet came from.”

The Mandalorian is barely listening. He’s heard more than enough lies for two lifetimes, he sure as fuck doesn’t need yours. Instead, he focuses on the one thought that manages to float in the red sea of anger and despair. He holds on to it like an anchor, clutches it until his palms bleed, but truth hurts.

“Duma.” He doesn’t ask this time around—he tells you. He knows and there’s nothing you can do about it—nothing he can do about it. Greef Karga’s words shine painful light on fog. Boiling beskar…did you take her up on that deal? “You’re selling it to her.”

“Stars, of course not.” The stoniness of your features melts for an instant, hurt revealed underneath those layers. You look devastated, tired. Maker, you’re good. Those hours of sabacc are sure paying off. “Why won’t you believe me?”

“How can I believe you?” he snarls, his head suffocating in dark quicksand—grief, anger, betrayal all clogging his nostrils, making his head throb. How could you how could you how could you. “When I know what type of people sprout from this planet, I make a living hunting them. I know you—” his voice breaks, but the words keep flowing and he hardly hears them “—I know the kind of company you keep, I know you have no principles, I know you can’t commit to shit—”

“Commit?” you snap, face hardening cold and twisted like the magma outside, but he knows too well what lies beneath the surface. Lava, hot and bubbling, your anger as raw as his. Rawer. “You wanna talk about commitment? I waited for you for five months!” The light from the helmet no longer makes you squint, but it turns your eyes red and watery. “You left. You left me here to starve through a fucking siege that you caused—”

“I came back for you!”

That gives you pause. Then you shake your head. “No, you came back because that piece of shit official asked—”

“He asked to meet me in Belderone.” Belderone, same sector as Nevarro, not even ten minutes away in hyperspace. “Told me Nevarro wasn’t safe because there was a siege, so I insisted we meet here.” The memory drains him. How worried he was about you, the type of worried that stirs bile in the stomach. How guilty he felt. “To see you again. Make sure you were okay.” The Mandalorian looks down at the helmet in his hands, a strange mirror staring up at him. Harsher than the one from this morning. His ears ring, his mouth tastes sour, his rising headache plateaus into an unbearable, incessant throb. A ghost limb aches somewhere in his body, all over it. He wants to leave your store, your planet.

How could you?

Mando doesn’t raise his head to look at you when he walks out the workshop. You don’t stop him when he reaches the main door. You don’t stop him when he walks out to the street.

The sky is jaundice-yellow when he steps outside. Gone are this morning’s blue hues, suffocated by the sickly coughing of a million volcanos, by their fumaroles and their sparks. For all the Mandalorian cares, this planet can burn.

On his way to the cantina to pick up the kid, he stares at the marker that identifies the entrance to the city: that crooked, arthritis-ridden arch. Beyond it, he spots the outline of a ship. A sleek civilian shuttle, probably a rental. The official isn’t stupid enough to fly a Republic starship past siege lines, so if the tiny shuttle fooled Guideon’s platoon in the atmosphere, well, it’ll have to do it again. Tomorrow, they’ll just have to tempt fate and avoid tempting the batallion of Imperial cruisers. Or fly out in the Crest and hope they can jump into hyperspace before imps pulverize them. All he wants is to put as many lightyears between him and this planet.

Din’s head pounds when he walks inside the cantina. The only thought hammering against his skull: How could you.

…………

Edit: Chapter 5…’tis the end

Taglist: @rosetophighlander @hellomothermoon @newyorksins @leo-moon @benedrylcumbersnatch @corrupt-fvcker @seratoninforyouseratoninforme @multifandomlife22 @justanotherblonde23 @abysshaven @equalstrashflavoredtrash @16boyfriends-and-me @ihaveashield @dinispunk @bananaagurl @mstgsmy @absurdthirst @cowboy-kylo @roxypeanut @heyitmelexie @readsalot73 @krazykatkay456 @elusive-danger-noodle @lola-wolf @nikkiparthena @lifeisapitch15 @teaofpeach @auty-ren @anewrule @hyp-oh-critical @pascaliprincess @geannad @coaaster @frietiemeloen @yourbucky084 @brynnstudies @elfwoodfae

im pretty sure i forgot someone so please message me if i did!

#the mandalorian smut #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x you #din djarin smut #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #mando smut #mando x reader #mando x you #mywriting #rule maker rule breaker

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silversatoru · 4 years ago

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Hello! I wanted to request for a chubby reader x Levi oneshot. I feel like there aren’t many stories that have chubby readers ): As for the storyline, I’m not sure if it falls in the angst or hurt/comfort category. It would be the reader feeling insecure about themselves because they have a harder time training than the others (them blaming it on their own weight) and seeing how everyone is much thinner than them, they start avoiding food. To not make it look suspicious, they’d go into the kitchen alone and put the food away along with the left overs. The reader would act normal with Levi and he doesn’t suspect anything at first. Later on, the reader would push themselves harder to the point where they’d train on their own whenever they had to chance so they can lose weight and improve their training. At this point, Levi starts noticing the reader looking paler than usual and the slight difference in their weight. One day during training, the reader ends up fainting from exhaustion and dehydration. They wake up on Levis’s bed with him looking over them. He asks what happened and the reader lies by saying they didn’t drink enough water. Levi calls it bs and ask if they think he’s stupid and goes on to tell them about how they noticed the reader sneaking off into the kitchen with a plate and coming out without it. He didn’t think anything of it at first, but he started putting the pieces together. They end up telling Levi the truth, the way they feel towards themself and how they don’t like the fact that they’re bigger than Levi. He comforts the reader and lets them know that they’re an idiot for thinking that way, etc. Thank you! I’m so sorry if it sounds so cheesy!

hello dear!! i dont think your idea was cheesy at all, i love it actually. these kind of issues live very close to my heart, so writing about them is always really fun for me. that being said,, this fic definitely got very dark and very real, and i would advise everyone to read the warnings before deciding to read this <33

empty

levi ackerman x gn!reader

synopsis: levi catches you skipping meals and does what he can to help

tags/warnings: eating disorder, skipping meals, hurt/comfort, but it does have a happy ending!

word count: 2.2k

Throbbing headaches and hollow, gnawing pains in your stomach — they’ve quickly become your new normal. You see everything through a hazy fog these days, nothing feels real and everything hurts but it’s worth it — that’s what you keep saying to yourself. You’re tired of lacking the same agility, momentum, and grace that your thinner counterparts have.

Your weight was always something that ate away at the back of your head, but joining the scout regiment multiplied it tenfold. You were constantly working twice as hard as your fellow scouts, and it seemed like it was never enough. Everyone around you was not only ridiculously athletic, but so fucking thin. You didn’t hate your comrades for their bodies and the way they were born, but you made up for it by inflicting all of the hate onto yourself.

You wonder if anyone notices your zombie eyes or the abnormal paleness to your face — god, you hope they don’t. The last thing you want to do is have to confront your feelings and admit what you’ve been doing lately. Every night you shamefully sneak back into the kitchen and pour your plate of food into the large pot of leftovers. You pick at food here and there when your friends are watching, but behind closed doors you haven’t eaten much of anything lately. Your body is running on empty, and it’s only a matter of time before it fully catches up to you.

You hear your last name echo from across the training fields, slowly turning around to see an angry captain sulking towards you. His face was twisted into an unpleasant grimace, his eyebrows knitted together into what almost looked like concern.

“I’m excusing you from the remainder of training, leave,” his words were flat, but there was a subtle emotional edge.

“Sorry, what?” you gave him a confused look — Captain Levi never excused anyone from training, not unless they were practically on their deathbed.

“Go home, and eat a big dinner tonight, your energy has been less than adequate lately,” his face softened slightly, “I expect you to be back to normal by tomorrow. Your skills and abilities are needed here, so go get some rest and be better tomorrow, yeah?”

“But, I-,” you stammered, trying to come up with some kind of valid excuse.

“That’s an order, cadet”.

His words surprised you, and before you could even rack your brain for an appropriate way to respond, he was turned on his heels and walking away. You swallowed thickly, your throat dry and stuffed full with anxiety.

Reluctantly, you followed his orders and made your way back to the Scout’s base early. You grabbed a stack of fresh clothing from your room before heading to the showers and scrubbing yourself free of all the sweat and grime from training. You were careful to avoid mirrors when you navigated bathrooms, and tonight was no exception, your eyes glued to the tiled floor. After showering, you hesitantly walked to the kitchen, preparing a plate of food and bringing it back to your room.

That food stared you in the eyes for hours, taunting you and teasing you and making intense nausea creep up your spine. Tears were stinging the backs of your eyes and your lungs were shaking with heavy, anxiety-filled breaths. You couldn't do it, and you were overwhelmed with shame and guilt. If you couldn’t do it for Levi, you were hopeless that you’d be able to do it for anyone, never mind for yourself.

After making countless pitiful attempts to take a bite of your untouched meal, you decided it was going back into the leftover pot — just like everything else. The other scouts should have returned and been sleeping by now anyway, you’d just silently creep down the hallway, dump the food, and creep back, no harm no foul.

Except for that a certain short, dark-haired captain was standing at the end of the hallway — you didn't notice him, but he certainly noticed you. A boiling anger rippled up inside him as he felt an overwhelming disappointment in your actions. He’d been suspecting this kind of behavior for a while now, but watching you tip-toe down the hall and into the kitchen with an uneaten plate of food confirmed all of his suspicions.

You could barely crawl out of bed the next morning, your ribs aching and your head pounding with a dull pain. You grasped at your tall dresser, catching your balance as you dangerously swayed back and forth for a few seconds. After regaining consciousness and stability you carefully changed into your uniform, having to stop and take breaks every few seconds because you were running out of breath. Your body felt utterly devoid of any kind of energy, and you wondered — when was the last time I actually ate something?

It was far enough back that you couldn’t quite remember, maybe a few days at this point, you really weren’t sure anymore. You’d have to suck it up for training though, because the last thing you wanted was to be confronted by the captain again.

You chugged back a full glass of water before lacing up your boots and throwing on a convincing facade. People don’t seem to notice something is wrong as long as you're smiling, laughing, and going along with what they say — it’s easy enough to fly under the radar of your fellow scouts.

Levi’s radar is a little sharper though, and he keeps a close eye on you from the second you walk up to the training grounds. He’s disappointed in your hand to hand combat — it’s sloppy, slow, predictable. Your hands look shaky too, and maybe it's the light playing tricks on him but it looks like the color is draining from your face.

Things are feeling deplorable on your side — you can barely stand anymore, never mind throw punches or avoid the oncoming attacks. Your vision was starting to tunnel, foggy black surrounding your periphery as you began to lose feeling in your fingertips. You tried desperately to cling onto whatever semblance of consciousness you had left, but failed miserably, your body collapsing to the hard earth beneath you.

The soft glow of warm candles illuminated the walls around you when you finally woke up from the earlier incident. This wasn’t your room, where the hell were you? You uncomfortably shifted to the side and flinched when you saw your captain sitting in a chair in front of you. His arms were crossed and one of his legs was propped on top of the other, an icey look in his eyes.

“What happened today?” His words were very short and his tone was flooded with irritation — he didn’t even give you a chance to take in your surroundings.

“Ah- I didn’t sleep well last night,” you lied, “And maybe I haven’t been drinking enough water or something”.

“I’m offended that you think I would fall for such a pitiful lie,” He clicked his tongue off the roof of his mouth, “I saw you sneak into the kitchen last night, how long have you been doing that?”

Your eyes grew wide with anxiety, your heart abruptly dropping to the floor — you made sure to go extra late last night, why the hell was he still up?

You stayed quiet for a moment, pondering over how honest you should be with Levi right now. The two of you had always been a little closer than he was with the other scouts, but unfortunately there was no room for things like love in this world. You also assumed that maybe he never reciprocated your feelings because of your weight — but that was just more toxic fuel to the fire blossoming in your head.

“Pretty long,” you sighed, ultimately deciding to be fully honest with him, because knowing Levi, he’d continue to see right through your lies anyway.

“I figured,” He grumbled, uncrossing his legs and leaning back into his chair, “Why?”

“Everyone around me is thin, I stick out. And, I’m not as agile or flexible as the other scouts either. I just thought that maybe...,” you bit down hard on your bottom lip, rolling onto your back so you wouldn’t have to look at him, “I thought my weight bothered you too, and also that I’d be more useful to the scouts if I was skinnier”.

“You think I’d like you better if you were dead?” Levi was leaning closer now, heat boiling in his eyes, “Because that’s where you’re headed right now. If you truly think you’ll be more helpful to the scouts when you’re six feet under, you’re delusional. And who the hell gave you the idea that your weight bothered me?”

His harsh words were cold slap in the face, your eyes burning and threatening to spill over with tears. You didn’t want to die, not really, you just didn’t want to hate yourself anymore.

“No one! I don’t know, I just thought, maybe because I was bigger than you-,” You continued to stammer over your words, tears beginning to leak down your cheeks.

“It doesn’t matter,” he waved you off, not wanting to push the issue further, “You’re wrong, and I’m hurt that you’d even think that. I’ve never once thought that you were anything other than the way you should be”.

“I’m sorry,” your voice was weak and shaky, but your heart was pounding against your chest at his words.

“I’m not the person you should be apologizing to, that’s something you owe to yourself” he shook his head and stood up to retrieve two small bowls of food from a nearby table, “I brought you something to eat”.

You watched him intently, pondering over his words about apologizing to yourself.

“It’s only a bowl of soup, so you can start small, yeah?” He offered one of the bowls to you, which you hesitantly took into your hands as you sat up.

He sat down again across from you again, leaning back and taking a sip of broth from his bowl. You were grateful that he was here, that he was eating with you — it made things a little easier. You grasped the spoon in your hands and scooped up some brothy vegetables before lifting them into your mouth.

“Good, finish the bowl,” nodded at you, giving you a reassuring look and lifting his own bowl to his lips again.

The two of you ate in silence until you were finished, and then he sat the bowls back on his nightstand before finding a seat next to you on his bed.

“Stay here tonight,” he stared at you with his signature tired eyes, but there were hints of concern laced through them now, “We’ll have breakfast together in the morning”.

“Okay,” you gave him a weak nod, trying desperately to bottle up your growing emotions, but they were becoming too much to bear.

Small sobs began to rack through your body, your chest tightening and your stomach lurching with anxiety. You were experiencing so many feelings tonight — eating for the first time in days and being here with Levi, it was overwhelming to say the least.

You could barely see the captain through your blurry vision, but you could feel his arms maneuver themselves around you and pull you against his chest. You stayed like that for a while, Levi’s arms delicately holding you in place while quiet sobs worked their way out of your lips.

“You’ve dug yourself into a deep hole, I won’t lie to you,” you heard him let out a tired sigh, “And it’s gonna take time and effort for you to dig your way out, but you’ll get there. We’ll start by having breakfast and dinner together every night, how does that sound? Just you and me, no one else has to watch”.

You nuzzled a tiny nod into his chest, your tears finally running dry. It was a terrifying thought, eating normal again, but you were starting to feel hopeful that you might actually be able to do it.

And so the two of you met every morning and every evening for your scheduled meals, and day by day things began to get easier. You even found yourself staying over in Levi’s room after dinner and into the morning for breakfast sometimes. Spending so much time together was definitely pushing the two of you to address the feelings you’d been hiding for so long.

But not everything was perfect, it would be irrational to think it would be. You still have bad nights, where eating is so hard you break down into tears, and where you want nothing more than to rid yourself of the food in your system. It’s a draining process, but Levi works hard to make sure you stay on track with your progress.

It’s slow, but eventually your face starts to glow again, your skin gets smooth and soft, and the aching pains in your body start to fade. Your war with your body is far from over, but you’re doing what you can, and you’re healing yourself one day at a time.

thank u for reading this, and now i would like to give you a gentle reminder to do something nice for your body today. eating disorders and mental illnesses are huge mountains to climb over, but taking things one day at a time makes it a little easier. try and eat a meal today (even if it’s small), go to sleep early and get some rest, take a shower and rub lotion all over your legs so they feel nice against your blankets when you lay in bed. baby steps are better than no steps at all, so be patient with yourself. n go drink some water, ur body loves that shit

#attack on titan #attack on titan levi #attack on titan x reader #levi #levi ackerman #levi x y/n #levi x reader #levi ackerman x reader #levi x gn!reader #hurt/comfort #angst #levi hurt comfort #attack on titan x gn!reader

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imaslutforremusandsirius · 4 years ago

Note

do you think you could write a soft!dom george weasley x fem!reader smut with a daddy kink and a praise kink where he like treats her roughly but calls her a good girl and his words are rlly soft? <3

Soft but rough

Wrote this during spanish class

I think this is the most graphic bj scene i ever wrote and i dont know if i should be ashamed or proud lmaoo Everyday i stray further from god😫🤚🏽 thanks for the request, enjoy love!! <3

Warning: 18+

---

George smiled at you from across the Great Hall, laughing softly when you shyly smiled back. You made your way over, plopping down next to him to eat your dinner.

“Hi love” George grinned at you happily, throwing an arm around your shoulders to give you a kiss on your cheek.

You kissed him softly, sighing with contentment when you breathed in his comforting smell. “Hi” you breathed, giving him a giddy smile. God, he still made you nervous after all these months.

“Ugh” Fred groaned teasingly “Keep it in your pants!”

George smirked and wet his napkin with water before quickly slapping it on Freds face. You burst out laughing when Fred held his cheek in mock outrage, the side of his face soaked in water.

You were still giggling when you gave him your napkin to wipe off, focusing on eating your food. George had already filled your plate with a bit of everything, making sure that you ate up, urgning you to drink until he was satisfied that you weren’t hungry. You loved when he took care of you like this, he was doing it so instinctively as if it was as if it were as natural as breathing. George would only start eating when you got everything you needed.

After you finished he leaned in and put his lips next you ear. “I want you to go to my room and strip. Sit in the middle of my bed and wait for Daddy, okay baby?”

You nodded, mouthing a “Yes, sir.” and stood up to make your way to his room.

---

You had been sitting on his bed for quite some time now, your heart pounding when you heard footsteps pass the room but never enter. Your hands were flat on your thighs, back straight and head bowed in submission. You forced your head to stay still when the door opened and closed, a bag hitting the floor with a dull thud.

“Good girl” George praised you, putting your hair in a low ponytail to get it out of your face. He liked to test your obedience sometimes and you doing as you were told although everybody could walk in at any time and see you naked was the ultimate sign of you trust and utter submission. George’s heart warmed at your actions. He couldn’t help but tug your head back sharply, smashing his lips on yours to show you his desire for you.

Your mouth fell open without a second thought, letting his tongue softly nudge yours as you kissed noisily. You reached out to touch his face and he let out a deep ‚Mm-mm‘ biting your lip harshly. You instantly let go of his face, digging your nails into your thighs to keep yourself from moving.

He pulled back a little to look into your eyes, sweeping them over your face and his gaze softened. Fuck, he thought, so fucking pretty.

„Baby“ he rasped „you tell me when it gets too rough, alright? Daddy might lose control...“

„Yes, Daddy.“

„Fuck“ was all he whispered before he grabbed you by your hair to push your head into his pillow, spit covered fingers stroking over your clit in fast circles.

„Daddy!“ you cried out, pushing back and spread your legs wider. His hand moved from the back of your head to your neck, pressing on the sides to cut of your blood circulation.

„You may cum whenever you want, as long as you tell me when.“ That was all he said before you felt him let go of your neck and press his mouth on your clit. He sucked your clit into his mouth and locked his jaw, licking until your legs shook under you.

„Daddy, please! Please gonna ah yes there plea-“

He pushed three fingers inside of your cunt, mouth still sucking your clit and pressed his thumb over your back hole, not slipping in.

The moment he curled his fingers you came hard, wailing as your rode his face. He took his fingers out and lapped up your cum, moaning at the taste.

„My precious love tastes so good. Good girl rub your pretty pussy on Daddys face, fuck.“

George forced himself to move away, already missing the taste of your soaked cunt on his lips and took off his own clothes.

„On your back“ he said gruffly, moving to straddle your chest and wrapped his belt around your throat, holding it tight in his fist.

„Baby“ he said softly, the belt choking you a little „Daddy‘s gonna fuck your pretty face now. Be a darling and suck okay?“ You blushed when he kept his tone soft, but his words were utter filth.

„Yes Daddy“ you whispered.

„Louder baby“ he crooed, the belt cutting off your oxygen.

„Yes Daddy!“ you said louder, voice hitching with the tight hold.

„Good girl. My darling girl, always so perfect..“ George drawled, rubbing the head of his cock around your lips. The precum made it easier to move, coating your lips with his taste.

You peaked your tongue out and George pulled the belt. „Ah ah ah“ he tutted „you open your mouth when I tell you.“

He took one of your hands and wrapped it around his cock. Your hand was so small in comparison to his that it was barely visible, not even able to wrap around him completely. The silky skin felt hot and you whined a little, wanting to taste him.

„Patience.“

He moved your joined hands, throwing his head back. You saw the veins of his neck strain as he held back his moans, only soft gasps escaping his mouth.

„There we go baby, slow..“ he groaned, hand tightening around yours.

George glanced down at you, watching the desperation in your eyes grow and your pupils dilate. He couldn‘t wait anymore, he wanted to see you choke on his cock. He needs it.

„Open your mouth“ he moaned and you complied. „Tongue“ was all he said and you stuck it out, keeping eye contact as he spit in your mouth, pushing his fingers deep down your throat.

You gagged as tears gathered in your eyes, slowly running down your temples. But you kept your tongue out, even as you felt spit run down your chin.

„Fuck so perfect. My love, my baby“ he groaned. „Keep your mouth open, yes just like that...“

He pushed inside and you breathed through your nose, feeling the belt tighten as he accidentally pulled.

„My pretty baby, suck your Daddys cock, go on..“

You closed your mouth around his cock, gently suckling on the tip as your tongue traced the underside if the head. Pushing forward you took him deeper and he helped, his hand letting yours go to steady himself on the wall. George moved his hips, thrusting in your mouth until your nose was smushed against his pubic bone, choking on his length.

„Yes! Yes baby there we go...“

He lost his composure and let out loud groans and whines, moaning your name like a prayer. You watched his muscles flex as he held his weight with one arm, veins prominent on his forearms. You saw his slight sixpack and bright colored happy trail. God, he‘s perfect.

„Ah fuck so pretty“ George gasped „So pretty with my cock in your mouth. My gorgeous girl.“

You hummed around his cock and he hissed, fucking your face faster, his balls smushed on your chin. Suddenly he growled and pulled out, jerking himself on your face and he came in hard spurts, covering your cheeks with his cum.

He still pushed his hips against his fist, squeezing the last drops on your lips. His hand let go of the belt and pushed the cum inside of your mouth.

„Eat up baby..“ he smirked, watching you suck on his fingers, as you bat your lashes innocently.

He moved away and kissed you, tasting himself on your lips and pulled back to grin at you.

„What do we say?“

„Thank you Daddy“ you beamed and he chuckled, pulling you in to keep kissing you.

#george weasley smut #george weasley #george weasley x you #hp smut

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foodieforthoughts · 4 years ago

Text

When the ball drops

Summary: It's your third year in the Big Apple and you still haven't found your midnight kiss for when the ball drops, until tonight.

Pairing: Henry x Reader

Word count: 1.7k

Warnings: Fluff!!!

A/N: Happy New Year to everyone! ✨ Watching the ball drop on New Year's Eve in Times Square is my ultimate bucket list! Also not beta read, so don't mind the errors, just had to get done in time before @infinite-shite celebrates New Year's before the rest of us! This baby deserves all the love in the world ❤️

*divider by @firefly-graphics

Title: When the ball drops

The cackle of people's laughter ringed through the pub as the hours ticked by. In contrast to the cold winter air of New York, the inside of the enclosed space felt warm. You quickly pulled on your apron and slid behind the bar, relieving your co-worker from their shift. He hugged you for the New Year that was to ring in about an hour later, happily weaving through the crowd towards the staff exit.

You sighed, grabbing the dish cloth to clean some glasses.

The excitement of coming to the Big Apple had quickly died down for you. You had dreamed of living in the city like the various shows potrayed, feeding lies that everything is magical and full of opportunities in this concrete jungle. But you could disagree with all the contradictions between facts and fictions and align them in a PowerPoint presentation. Not only were you yet to secure your dream job, you lived in a mediocre place with little to look forward to everyday.

Another sigh left your lips, your shoulders slumping despite the merriment around.

"That would be the second time you sigh." The crisp accented voice of a stranger sounded from across you. "What's the matter, love?"

You knew who he was. You ogled at his pictures on a regular basis, especially when he became Superman. But he looked nothing like the Henry Cavill you saw on the red carpets. Clad in a plain blue shirt, jaw sprinkled with the hint of a stubble and hair combed to perfection, Henry titled his head at you with a smile. You looked around at the other patrons, unsure if he was talking to you indeed.

Henry chuckled at your look of confusion. He took a seat at the barstool and grabbed the menu from the stand. With a dish cloth still inside the glass tumbler, you stared at the Hollywood heartthrob. The pub you worked at was frequented with celebs on a regular basis, the only downside being you usually worked for the day shift which meant by the time you rolled out of work, the big shots were only just waking up.

"Can I get-"

"Guinness?" You interrupted him. You meant to say it in your head but the word left your mouth before you could control your lips.

But Henry didn't flinch. He just smiled widely, the dimples in his chin dipping charmingly and his eyes shining like the brightest star under the flickering strobe lights. He slid the menu back towards you and clasped his hands together.

You blinked your eyes several times to rid yourself of the flutter in you belly as Henry smiled at you softly. He watched as you got him a glass and filled it up with his beer. Your hands trembled so much with the nervousness of serving an A list actor, who not only was doing well in industry but was exceptionally sexier in person, that you were worried the foam gathered at the top would dribbled down the sides. Noticing your struggle, Henry extended his hands and placed them over yours to secure his glass.

Electricity. In the most clichéd scenarios of romance movies, you felt a jolt of electricity when your hands touched his, the sparks travelling down your spine to your toes. Sucking in a sharp breath you handed him the glass, chiding yourself over your hyper aware mind.

"What is a pretty lady like you working in a bar at this hour?" He asked, sipping his fermented pint of alcohol.

"Coworker has plans with his girlfriend, like everyone tonight." You shrugged your shoulder, going over to another customer ordering drinks. You could feel Henry's eyes on you as you readied the customer's order. The sound of giggling girls pulled your attention just as the man left with his drink.

You walked back to where Henry sat, nursing his beer. "Anything to go with that?" you enquired, rearranging the shot glasses under the bar counter.

"I am still wondering how, in the world, a pretty woman like you, is stuck here."

You scoffed, more to yourself than him. "Because this supposed pretty woman is single as fuck." The mirth in your voice hid the sense of self pity edging at the corners of your mind. It had been three years since you had first arrived in the city with a possibility of reaching for the stars in both personal and professional life. You had been left disappointed with the jerks and assholes you ended up with, ultimately sitting at home and questioning your choices in men.

You noted the softness creasing at the corners of Henry's eyes. The last thing you wanted was to be seen as a miserable bartender at the end of the year, so you cleared your throat and smiled at him. "What is superman doing at a bar, in New York, alone?"

Henry chuckled. His gravelly thick laughter ringing louder than the music in your ears. "I was just stopping by the city, thought I'll stay to understand what the big deal is with the ball drop."

"Oh my God. Watching the ball drop and kissing at midnight is the most romantic thing you can do with your partner. You should be at Times Square!" Your excitement over the whole New Year's Eve shenanigan was flowing through in your speech.

"Too crowded." He shook his head, groaning and sipping his beer.

You rolled your eyes. "As opposed to this cramped pub?"

Henry chuckled again, throwing a wink at you. You felt the familiar flutter in your belly. You peered at him under your lashes, Henry seemed to be having his eyes only for you tonight. The giggling ladies were desperately trying to grab his attention while sipping on their Margheritas wearing their embellished dresses with low cuts and frills. You glanced down at yourself and frowned. Over the faded blue jeans and white t-shirt, you wore the black apron with the pub's insignia on the left breast. You suddenly became profoundly aware of how 'basic' you might look in comparison to the other ladies.

Self doubt clouded your mind. You politely smiled at Henry and hurried to the other side of the bar to serve the other customers. Maybe Henry only wanted someone to play the horizontal hokey-pokey with him for the night, or maybe he was bored and since you were obligated to talk nicely with him, he had pitched a conversation. Whatever the reason, you did not like how the multiple scenarios would end. You knew your feeble, fragile heart. You would get hurt, one way or another.

"Hi," Henry appeared again in front of you. He had his beer in his hand, his other elbow resting on the counter. "Did I offend you in some way?"

"No. But you are pretty much making me realize, how miserable my life is." Your voice sounded bleak against the booming voices. Tucking your hair behind your ear, you watched the couples snuggle up to each other. It had been ages since you had felt the loving embrace of a man, even longer since you had shared a meaningful kiss with someone special.

"What would you have been doing instead?" Henry's voice pulled you out of your desolated reverie.

"I would be in Times Square, with my significant other, which I don't have. We would get some drinks while standing on the outskirts of the crowd and watch the countdown."

There was a stir of activity in the pub as someone announced that there were only 90 seconds to the ball drop. You hadn't even realized that time had passed so quickly whilst you had juggled your conversation with Henry.

"Well, you have the drinks," Henry reached forward to grab a glass and poured half of his beer in the empty tumbler. "We are at the outskirts of the crowd since everyone is huddled near the TV." You nodded as you watched the couples gather near the enormous flat screen mounted on the wall. "We aren't at the Times Square, but we are in New York."

The countdown read 60 seconds with the red numbers counting backwards. Henry stood up and leaned forward on the counter. You watched with bated breath as he grabbed the strap of your apron and pulled you towards him.

His hand rested lightly on your cheek, his thumb grazing your cheekbone. The smell of beer, his perfume and musk enveloped you, bundling you in everything that signified him. You gazed into his cerulean eyes, the fleck of brown going dark against the blue ocean. Your hands hung by your side, flabbergasted by the surprising turn of events.

"I might not be your significant other," His breath washed over your heated face, his eyes transfixed on yours. "But we can perhaps change that."

"Happy New Year!"

Like the fireworks going off on the One Times Square Building, when your lips collided with his, there was a burst of colorful sparks celebrating the union of two people from across the pond. Henry pulled your face closer to his by grabbing behind your head, his fingers threading through your hair. You finally could think straight as you moaned into the kiss, holding onto the collar of his shirt as the pub erupted with loud cheers. In that moment, everything seemed perfect in the world. You felt your legs turn to jelly as Henry pulled back, breathing through his mouth, tugging at your lower lip with his teeth.

The smug smile on his face returned as he sat back on his barstool. You grabbed onto the counter for support as you gulped lungful of air.

"Did that count as something for when the ball drops?" He asked, sipping his beer and watching you from the brim of his glass.

You nodded. The heat on your cheeks traveled down to your chest, a grin spreading on your lips. Biting your lip you reached for the other glass of beer Henry had poured. "Happy new year to me." You announced before clinking your glass with Henry's.

✨HAPPY NEW YEAR GUYS✨

#henry cavill #Henry Cavill fanfic #Henry Cavill rpf #Henry Cavill x Reader #Henry Cavill x you #henry cavill fluff #Henry Cavill imagine #Foodie's new year fanfic #NYE 2020 #foodieforthoughts

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badass-at-fandoming · 2 years ago

Text

Fandom: Ikémen Revolution

Pairing: Seth Hyde x gn!Alice

Tags: PWP, Semi-Public Sex, Outdoor Sex, Hand Jobs

Thank you to @voltage-vixen and @xxsycamore for organizing this event!

The perfumed fairy lights of the artist market enchant the eyes and delight the senses. Jaw-dropping paintings, wood-turned bowls, blue glass ceramics, intricate woven baskets, and leis of all color and materials clamor for attention. Bedecked in your matching green sundresses, Seth and you coo over your favorite pieces. "Let's get a souvenir for Nodisha!" you exclaim.

"Of course! She would be disappointed if we didn't ⭐️" says Seth. "What do you think of this, Alice?"

He holds up a wooden box that's a swirl of color: light and dark wood intertwine into the shape of a hibiscus flower. After careful examination, you remove a carved stamen. With a click, the lids slides off and reveals a cushioned compartment. You clap in happiness. "A jewelry box! Oh, she'll love it!"

Seth's smile crinkles into the corners of his eyes. "I think so too. Let's get it!"

You pay the artist their asking price and they throw in a pretty bag and bow to wrap the present in. You loop the bag through your arm and hold hands with Seth as you amble the thoroughfare. The market is hot and lively—partly since the Army descended upon it en masse. The air has a tang of festival to it.

As your gaze wanders, you realize, with a start, that you know the name of almost everybody here. You began the trip knowing the Black Army and the Chosen Thirteen. Now you recognize Ozymandias, Celeste, and Zero buying baskets together, laughing over how they're perfect for storing lollipops. The trio of militiawomen drinking margaritas out of coconuts are Amber, Dimple, and Brittney. You must strain to hear over the hubbub, but Luka is sharing recipes with Mateo, Yuki, Edward, and Jake. When did this happen? You know the Kings and Queens meticulously planned this appreciation trip for weeks, but your heart basks in this after-glow of their success. Step-by-step, Cradle heals.

With an almost audible pop, your musings are interrupted. Somehow, you've walked into a discreet alleyway. Seth leads you onward to the back of a building. No one is here but darkness and cricket sound. "Seth?"

"There you are 💚," he says. "You were so lost in your thoughts, I was lonely without you!"

You glance around. "So you took me here?"

"Less distractions and," he crowds into your space, backs you against a friendly wall, "I want a kiss."

You arch a brow. "Just a kiss?"

"Without any wolves watching us. May I have one please?"

There's only one answer you want to give. You kiss him, sweet and clear as a summer morning. You two showered before going out, so Seth freshly smells of his favorite rose moisturizer. You could eat up the scent. You could eat him.

Seth seems to be having similar ideas. His hands roam up and down your thighs, leaving dull nail trails of excitement. You grab his plump ass and squeeze. He stutters against your mouth, but is undeterred in lifting the cotton cloth of your sundress and diving for the prize underneath.

His flat hand rubs against you, rough and quick, waking you to sensation. Desire flares. You're seized by the imperative to rut against his hand. Seek light-popping friction against his calluses. As you work, your panting breath keens over to whine. Seth, devil he is, bites your neck in encouragement.

You cling and break against him, over and over in desperation. "Seth, please, I need more," you beg because the heat filling you up is reaching intolerable levels.

Because you are you and he is Seth, it only takes a stroke and a finger twist. You cum hard into his palm. You shudder and grip tight his shoulders. "Alice," he coos, "what a sweet present you've given me."

Before you can even make a semblance of a recovery, Seth brings his drenched hand to his lips and licks it clean. You blush to the roots of your hair. "You didn't have to…"

"I did." He fixes your dress and dusts off his own. "Shall we return to the market?"

You grab his chin and lay a searing, bruising kiss on him. "Now we can go," you say into his dazzled eyes. "And I owe you a treat later!"

#summer of smut #summer of smut writing challenge #summer of smut content creation challenge #ikemen series #ikemen revolution #ikerev #seth hyde #ikerev seth #a03 #text post

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amazingmaeve · 4 years ago

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Affair - Draco Malfoy

Harry Potter Masterlist #2 // Main Masterlist

Summary: Draco and Y/N knew each other in Hogwarts and know he is cheating on Astoria Greengrass and Y/N feels horrible.

Request: hi! i was wondering if u could do a draco fic with illicit affairs and its very angsty with a little fluff towards the end? thank you so much!!

Requested by: @runninglownad

Pairings: Draco Malfoy x Female!Reader

Warnings: Cheating, angst, fluff

AN: As said in the request based on the song illicit affairs by Taylor Swift.

Word Count: 1058

Make sure nobody sees you leave

Hood over your head

Keep your eyes down

Tell your friends you're out for a run

You'll be flushed when you return

Take the road less traveled by

Tell yourself you can always stop

What started in beautiful rooms

Ends with meetings in parking lots

Y/N didn't mean for it to happen. She didn't mean to start. Her and Draco met up at a party where she saw he was with Astoria.

Y/N had gotten drunk and then slept with him.

She felt horrible for doing that to Astoria. So Y/N left before he could wake up.

"Stupid stupid," Y/N chastises herself as she walks to her flat. Y/N couldn't believe that she has done that. She was a horrible person.

Draco has turned up at her flat which surprised her and he asked her why she left.

Y/N explained to him that he was with someone. While he explained that he didn't love her it was an arranged marriage.

Y/N was hesitant about doing this with Draco but agreed since she has had feelings since Hogwarts.

For a while they would meet at hotels and she told her friends she was going for a run. But now they basically meet in a car and have sex. And anytime she would return to her flat she would be flushed.

It makes Y/N feel like crap.

And that's the thing about illicit affairs

And clandestine meetings

And longing stares

It's born from just one single glance

But it dies, and it dies, and it dies

A million little times

Y/N knew the first time she glance at Draco she knew it would be fun and dangerous. But she knew it would end in heartbeat.

Every time she was at a party they would always throw each other lustful stares.

Every time they would meet she would feel on cloud nine but after she felt so guilty and felt bed for Astoria.

Y/N always thought about asking Draco to tell Astoria and leave her for her. But she knew how devoted Draco was to his family so she shut up about.

One time after they've had sex Draco stayed over and let her lay on his chest and talk. That was one of the times Y/N felt good after sex.

She so badly want to tell him she loved him but didn't want to ruin what they had.

Leave the perfume on the shelf

That you picked out just for him

So you leave no trace behind

Like you don't even exist

Take the words for what they are

A dwindling, mercurial high

A drug that only worked

The first few hundred times

Every time she would go out with with Draco she would always get dressed up and out make up on and put the best perfume on.

She wanted to impress Draco but what she didn't know is that he was already impressed by her.

Sometimes he stayed at her flat and would leave in the morning.

Y/N would always have to cover up hickeys and make sure no one knew about what they had.

Y/N knew this was wrong and dangerous but maybe that's why she liked it. She has always been a good two shoes so maybe this why.

She liked the high she got by sneaking around with him. Maybe it was adrenaline.

Y/N was happy for some time but happiness always leaves when two people aren't being truthful with each other

And that's the thing about illicit affairs

And clandestine meetings

And stolen stares

They show their truth one single time

But they lie, and they lie, and they lie

A billion little times

Sometimes when she sees Draco with Astoria she gets jealous. The way he looked at her she wanted to be looked at like that.

And she knew that with one stare in her direction.

She was just a mistress.

That's what Y/N would always tell herself. She cries herself to sleep sometimes because of the guilt and the sadness.

The sadness of not being able to be with Draco in public. Or having dates with him.

Draco doesn't know because Y/N thinks he's only there for the sex. But he does care about her but he's just to scared to go against his parents.

So Y/N just tries to enjoy herself.

And you wanna scream

Don't call me kid

Don't call me baby

Look at this godforsaken mess that you made me

You showed me colors you know

I can't see with anyone else

Y/N has had enough of doing this with Draco. So she had met up with him at a hotel one night.

"I can't do this anymore," Y/N whispers.

"What do you mean love," Draco whispers back caressing her cheek. Y/N leans into his touch she's gonna miss that.

"Baby what's-," Draco was about to say.

"Don't call me that!"

Don't call me kid

Don't call me baby

Look at this idiotic fool that you made me

You taught me a secret language

I can't speak with anyone else

And you know damn well

For you I would ruin myself

A million little times

"You make me feel like an idiot Draco," Y/N snaps at him moving from his embrace.

"Darling what are you talking about," Draco asks desperately.

"I'm saying if you don't break up with her I'm done with this arrangement," Y/N snapped.

"You know I can't do that," Draco whispers.

"Then you obviously don't care about me," Y/N whimpers as tears run down her cheeks.

"No no darling I do," Dracos hands envelope her cheeks wiping her tears away with his thumbs. "You don't understand how much I care about you," Draco has tears in his eyes.

Y/N feels this but actions speak louder than words.

"Why don't you just do it break up with her if you care so much for me," Y/N sobs a tears coming out like a waterfall.

"Okay okay I will I'll do anything for you darling," Draco accepts.

"Really," Y/N asks in shock in reality she though he would never go against his parents.

"I would do anything for you because I love you so much."

#draco malfoy blurb #draco malfoy headcanon #draco malfoy one shot #draco malfoy x oc #draco malfoy imagine #draco malfoy smut #draco malfoy x reader #draco malfoy #astoria greengrass #cheating #harry potter headcanon #harry potter blurb #harry potter oneshot #harry potter x oc #harry potter imagine #harry potter smut #harry potter #harry potter x reader

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dvesinthewind · 3 years ago

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Ignorance is Bliss | Russell Adler

Bell finally receives the information on her file, including the small factor of her life that Adler has coincidentally forgot to mention.

warnings: angst, younger!bell, language

word count: 1.8K

a/n: this is not a happy ending on adler's part lol! with that being said, feedback is appreciated :)

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Thinking back now, Bell wished she could spare herself the embarrassment. A shade of unforgiving deep red constantly flushed over her cheeks in chagrin as she felt no other than like a juvenile. A stupid young girl that forgot how to replace her rose colored glasses with lenses made with a prescription fit for reality.

How could she not see it? Reluctantly, she reminisced on those frequent nights, where Adler’s hands meticulously roamed unprofessionally where they shouldn’t have. Knowing what she knew now, would things have been different? Would she have stopped herself from feeding those cravings that maybe were not cravings at all? Perhaps those desires were all figments of Adler’s implanted memories. Regardless, the thought alone made her physically sick. The contexts of her stomach felt as though they had flipped themselves upside down. Bell had felt like a puppet with Adler in control of the strings.

Surely, fucking your protégé was not a part of the plan.

Prior to this acknowledgement, Bell surrendered herself to a devoted state of infatuation. Lustful thinking, and big blue eyes, seemed to have nothing on Adler, at first. He made himself scarce, only speaking to her when completely necessary, which evidently was all of the time. Genuinely this was the first time he truly believed he had lost his mind. How could he allow himself to be in a place of such vulnerability? He often reflected on everything he had done. How a Vietnam veteran could possibly allow a few batted eyelashes and youthful skin to throw him off the rails was unknown to him.

Retirement was definitely considered, as well as stepping down from the mission. Perhaps Bell began to mean something to him other than just being the enemy.

Solovetsky was an example.

Bell stood quietly as Adler held the pistol up to her head. The cold metal tickled her temple and sent chills down the column of her spine. Though she could not see him, she imagined him behind closed eyes, stone cold expression as he contemplated life or death. If he was willing to watch her blood seep into the earth's soil, she wasn't so sure. She then wished she could take one last glance into his emotionless eyes before all they saw was the abyss.

He pulled the gun away from her temple with a huge sigh that was heavy with defeat.

"Should I do it myself?" She asked impatiently, as she shifted her weight onto one side. Mentally she knew she resembled a child arguing with their father, nevertheless she disregarded it.

"You're not going to die, Bell." His hands are now held up flat in front of his body, she presumed it was his way of backing down.

"Was that not what you were just doing?"

"Hudson gave me a choice, surprising I know."

Bell eyed him skeptically, staring at him like she could see right through his tinted shades. Lines creased between her brows as they furrowed.

Adler decided to elaborate. "You made the right choice, kid."

She wanted to scoff, roll her eyes so far that they reached the back of her head, but he was right. "Now what? You're not killing me so where do I go?"

"That's to be determined."

His calm and collected demeanor was only sending her further off the edge. Bell wasn't sure how someone could remain so calm with everything they had done hanging loosely off their shoulders.

Bell scoffs humorlessly and she brushes herself past him. "Probably would be a lot easier if you killed me, no?"

"Consider yourself lucky," he grumbled, but she was already too far to hear it.

The safehouse did not feel the same after Solovetsky. A place like this could never feel like home. The orangey lights that were in desperate need of changing still shyly beamed down on them as they trudged around to pack all their things. Concrete and dust was an unwelcoming smell Bell hoped to forget, and never experience again. Selfishly, she wished Lazar was still here. Surely he would be more understanding. She did not regret saving Park, but who knew what would've happened if she knew she could only save one.

Now that the cat was out of the bag, it was all she could think about. She was living a constant lie. No one in this building gave a shit about her, and it wasn't easy to accept.

Hours later, she sat at her desk with a book neatly resting in her lap. Her legs were crossed politely, and her auburn hair was brushed mostly out of her face. Stray pieces tickled the back of her neck, and her arm rose every so often to tuck her bangs behind her ear. Adler watched as she attempted to straighten the crease left over from her dog-earing the page. If times were different, he would chuckle to himself, allowing the corner of his lip to quirk. A silly little habit of hers would typically be intriguing, but now was not the time. Instead, he fumbled with the file in his calloused hands as if it didn't belong, contemplating giving it to her or not. It was without question that she would be asking for it soon enough.

He approached her casually, mentally praying he didn't resemble a dog with their tail between it's legs. She waited before she was done reading the page before giving him the time of day. Understandable. She glanced up at him with eyes full of annoyance. "What is it?" She asked, not careful of her tone. Usually she would correct herself, given the circumstances it was not likely. A tiny voice in the back of her head told her she was convincing herself to be angry. That he was entirely too handsome, and manipulative, and if he wanted her now, he could have her.

Thankfully he shook her from these thoughts. "Can we talk privately? I have something you might be interested in seeing," he said.

"I'm not entirely sure I want to be alone with you."

Part of him wanted to question what she meant by this. He chose not to press. "Get your head out of the gutter," he replies, and if she's positive, his words are laced with a hint of humor. If he's teasing her, there is no facial evidence to prove it. However she knows him well enough to know that to be true already. He gestures towards the empty room with his head, and begins walking without checking to see if she follows. She does. Adler closes the door behind them to find her sitting down in the chair. She means business, he supposes. He sits opposite of her and places down the file carefully. Bell senses caution, studying him as she does so.

"What are you waiting for?" He urges her, and he's not sure why. Perhaps the anxiety building up in his abdomen is becoming too much. He's anticipated the worse, now he is just waiting for it to come.

"Is this my file?"

Please open it, dammit, he's thinking. He nods, and Bell's fingertips graze over the big red lettering.

CLASSIFIED

She smirks to herself, and he thinks its the last time he'll ever see it. Adler attempts to swallow the knot forming in his throat. She's quick to open it up, somewhat akin to a kid on Christmas morning. After she spends some time reading about her relationship with Perseus, she finds the page. The page that has him completely worked up.

Clipped on the left corner is a small image of a young man. Much younger than Adler. In fact, he is not much older than she. Handsome wouldn't be serving him justice. His eyes are lightly crinkled in the corners due to the smirk that is found on his lips. Bell wishes the photo was in color, she would only then get the full experience. "He looks very similar to-"

She stops herself. As her fingertips skim over his face, they freeze suddenly. She must have found it. Yet, the silence grows further. Her eyes are glued to the page, glued to the small note that he made just months before knowing her.

Perseus's son, Andrei.

In relation to "Bell", spouse.

Adler's heartbeat moves from his chest to inside of his skull, thumping in his ears so loudly that he cannot think of anything else. The woman stares at him, blank expression that he can't read. He's not sure if he wishes he could though.

Hot tears begin to brim her waterline. "I was married?" She doesn't allow her voice to break just yet.

"At one point, yes."

She whispers his response to herself in complete and utter disbelief, as if repeating it to herself is the only way she can comprehend it. For the first time in his life, Adler feels small.

"I was married," she repeats, but this time it isn't a question, and her words are dripping of venom. He has completely corrupted her, and Adler can feel the remaining pieces of his heart jump. Tears are now pouring from her porcelain face, black mascara streaming with it. He hesitates but attempts to swipe his thumb underneath her eye to collect some of it. She slaps his hand away. "Don't."

She isn't sure why it bothers her so much but it does. She must've been happy. She was married, it circles her mind like an omen. Before she knows it, she's shaking. Tears are uncontrollably falling from her eyes. It's well overdue. Bell stands, tries to pry open the door but her hands are just too weak. Adler is standing now, his face so full of concern she wishes she could laugh. She imagines the rest of the group outside the door, judging her as they hear her sob. Maybe they knew too.

"Where is he now?" She demands, trying her best to make it audible.

"He's in Russia. We have no reason to believe he has any relation to his father currently." He's as calm as he can be. He isn't sure whether or not it's soothing her, or if she's finally calming down. Perhaps the image of her and her husband living happily away from this shit storm popped into her head.

"Can I see him?"

His chest takes another leap, feeling as though it's detaching from the strings holding it up. "Yes, we think so."

Bell hesitates before taking a seat again. She's thankful he never held her, she's thankful he kept the space. She's a married woman, as ridiculous as it sounds, even if he didn't respect that before.

Adler observes her again while she's not looking. She is so graceful, even with makeup dried on her face like a child decided to try water painting for the first time. He watched as her chest rises and falls, the pattern seemingly slowing as the minutes go by. He wonders what's comforting her. He used to think it was him, now the thought of reuniting with her husband is more than likely entertaining her. For the first time she seems at peace, and Adler finally understands why she was so alluring to begin with.

#russell adler x bell #russell adler #black ops cold war #russell adler fanfic #russell adler x bell oc #cod bocw #call of duty writing #whewww #this is short #but this idea has been lurking in my brain for decades

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whump-town · 3 years ago

Text

The Paths to Revenge

Warnings: same old, same old... just some stabbing

Pairing: Hotch/Morgan

Summary: Doyle nonsense but make it Hotch/Morgan for the fun of it.

Clyde goes first.

“No one else can know,” JJ had whispered feverishly. She’d looked nearly insane, had come unattached in her months away from them and now pulled back into the whirling black hole of the mess he created by force, cruelly unnatural. “He will kill her. If he—” she’d choked on the words, tears starting to fall down her face. She had looked up at him with a wordless inquiry, sadness and disappointment laced in the fingers she wove into his. If this wouldn’t break him, what would? If he couldn’t cry now, for his best friend, would he ever cry again?

“You can’t tell Derek.”

It’s not their first secret. Hotch severely doubts it's their last.

The grace with which Derek Morgan seems to live has always bewildered Aaron. There is something about the way that Derek breathes gentleness, cupped hands so gentle his fingers could pry apart and life would still be captured in his hands. The fluttering of delicate butterfly wings twitching in his warm palms. Torn between desires, Aaron could never understand if he wished for those palms to close around his throat. To solidify him as something wretched, so undeserving of Derek’s endless, gentle love that he might stifle it once and for all. In another breath, he wishes he could curl himself up to be something so small and so delicate that Derek might hold him like that. Like something worth preserving, worth loving.

Those hands do not wrap around his throat, applying crushing pressure until Aaron is no more. They come to frame Aaron’s face, their warmth seeping into the bone chill of his body. Thumb stroking along a worry line stretched wide by his deep frown. “Tell me what you’re thinking,” Derek whispers, he’s desperate to be them again. For Aaron to settle back down and find him, to lean into his touch. Hotch’s weary but tense with panic and restlessness. Not sleeping. Hardly eating. Derek can’t keep watching this and he’s not sure how much longer Aaron can keep it up. “I can see it in your eyes, I can always tell.”

Before their relationship, Derek had been jealous of everything that Emily and Aaron had. At the time he hadn’t known it for what it was, his unrequited love making him bitter. He had just seen the way they looked at one another, the way they worked and he’d wanted to be that person for Aaron too. Emily’s intuition had lead her to find Aaron after Foyet’s attack, all based on nothing more than a feeling. While Derek had felt boiling rage and the inability to so much as look at Aaron while he suffered alone in that hospital bed. Derek had been jealous of how easily they spoke with one another, in a language no one else really understood. How Emily could comfort Hotch — she was allowed to touch him and hug him and press a kiss to his cheek or even drag him down several steps by the ear to reprimand him like a child. While even comforting gestures Derek attempted seemed to piss Hotch off.

But now Emily’s dead and Derek wishes she was here. So that he can hear Aaron laugh again. To argue loudly and pointless about Sean Connery vs Daniel Craig — how Aaron’s never cared about either but he gets all soft around the edges listening to Emily and Derek bicker more and more as the night goes on. To be happy and close.

And, maybe, Derek just misses his best friend too.

Both of them.

It starts with Clyde. National television doesn’t pick it up, it’s the sort of affair that’s quickly suffocated to prevent mass media from getting word. It reaks with the proper stench of death, Clyde Easter bound to a chair in his London flat. His own blood in a pool at his feet, head hung in the final submission of death. Severally tortured. The strain of an entire week of torture, hunger, and exhaustion taking its toll. Died of a heart attack. Aaron doesn’t need to be told what’s happening, he couldn’t even talk about it if he wanted to. He’s only given what he’s needed, a warning that he’s next and to watch out.

Aaron just prays Derek isn’t there when it happens. He’s allowed this one small grace.

“Ice cream,” Derek says more to the room than to Aaron, the idea had dawned on him so suddenly he’d spoken it out loud. Having spent another weekend inside, moping from their bed to the couch to the kitchen back to their bed, Derek is buzzing with energy he needs to do something with. Grief and this lie Aaron holds sucks him rather dry of the will to do anything. It seems the energy he’s supposed to have has gone to Derek, makes him worse. “Ice cream,” Derek repeats with a clap of his hand. “I’m going to get ice cream and you don’t have to come with me but I’d really like you to.”

Aaron looks up, hair a mess on the top of his head and shoulders sinking impossibly low in their joints as exhaustion sweeps over him. He’s incapable of so much as looking at Derek, having to see how hopeful and how loving he’s being looked at. All he’s ever wanted was to be loved and now he’s got it and he can’t face the vulnerability that cracks through his sternum every time Derek touches him. How every demonstration of love is such debilitating proof of how broken he is. How hopeless.

“I’ll bring you back a tub of Rocky Road.” Derek slides his jacket on, he’s not annoyed. No matter how convinced Hotch is, Derek isn’t even bothered. He knew he was going to get ice cream alone and, though he’d rather not do it alone, that’s okay.

Once his feet are shoved into his sneakers he comes back around the side of the couch and kisses the top of Hotch’s head, messing further with his hair. “I love you.”

Derek couldn’t remember what the last thing he said to Emily was. It kept him up at night trying to piece together every last second he had before she was taken from him before the nurses pulled them in opposite directions. Did she know he loved her? How glad he was that she was someone that not only he could trust but that Aaron had too? It’s the sort of thing that weighs down heavily on him. Now he can’t leave anyone without saying it.

Aaron has the opposite problem. Pulls away so that in case this happens again he won’t get hurt.

“I love you too,” he answers but hoarsely and to the sound of Derek walking away.

Jack is with Jessica. She takes Hotch’s emotional distance with grace, allows him this little period of reprieve while he tries to get back into the swing of things. He’s lost both of his best friends in a year’s span of time and is still really struggling to understand how to integrate himself fully into his relationship with Derek.

Life, it seems, has been throwing hard balls and it’s not getting any easier.

Derek kicks his shoes off at the door, more Aaron’s habit than his but he’s learning to uphold it. “I got rainbow sprinkles,” he calls out. “I know you have a reputation to uphold but I also know you love them—” Derek tosses the bags up onto the counter, smirking even in his slight confusion. He’d figured Aaron would have come looking for him once the front door opened. He’s vigilant about that sort of stuff. Even if he does know logically it’s just Derek. “Hey—” he’s greeted by the dark living room. It’s undeniably odd. “Where’d you—” Derek smirks when he sees Aaron’s back, even bowed and distressed it’s still undeniably him. “Aaron?”

A gun cocks at his head and Derek freezes, eyes never leaving Aaron’s. “Sit down.” Derek opens his mouth, going to argue or fight but Aaron looks away. Gaze sinking to the floor as his head rolls down, chin on his chest. “Sit down!” Derek listens, not out of fear of the gun just in his line of sight but because he can’t think past the sight of blood smeared across the side of Aaron’s face. The way his right eye is red with blood, his temple drooling angrily down his cheek. “I have to admit,” the dark of the room caves to what little light is in the house, and Derek tenses. Recognizes him immediately.

“You fucker—”

The gun is moved, away from his head and to Aaron’s bowed temple. “Sit. Down.”

Derek hadn’t even realized it, he’d just stood like he could do something in the face of a gun. Now he certainly can’t, being the cause of his own life’s end is one thing but to hurt Aaron is another. He sits back down, eases his way back to a sitting position with his hands on the table. He won’t do anything fast.

“You know what I want.” Ian Doyle stands in their house, smirking at the wet sound of Aaron’s blood dripping on the floor. “Tell me where she is.”

Derek opens his mouth to answer, a snippy — “she’s dead” — but Aaron looks up at him. The look they share is laced with mixed truths and the bold lie woven between the three men. His bloody eye, pupil blown wide staring back at Derek with all the answers he needs. Emily had died for them. She’d chased down her past and fought it all alone for them. Derek wondered if that meant she didn’t trust them, didn’t think they were capable of undertaking this threat with them. Looking at Aaron, watching his chest rise and fall in choking breathes, Derek wishes he couldn’t understand the solemn warrior trope. That he didn’t know the truth.

“She’s dead,” Derek mumbles but he’s not so sure about that anymore.

Ian smirks, unfooled. “See,” he clicks his tongue, “that’s what your friend here keeps telling me.” Ian shakes his head, taking the muzzle of the gun and grazing it across Hotch’s head. Trailing it through his hair. “I remain unconvinced.”

Aaron looks hopelessly up at Derek, a tear sliding down through the blood on his cheek. Caught on his eyelash, trailing over the duct tape on his mouth.

The knife comes out of nowhere. Slammed down into Aaron’s thigh with no warning. The duct tape obstructs his breathing, leaves Aaron gasping, struggling to breathe. He groans, sucking in air through his nose but it’s not enough. Aaron’s eyelids flutter, his head tilted back as he trembles. Face drained of color, his breathing getting worse. More strained, shallow.

Derek jerks his head away, clenching his teeth when Doyle jerks the knife back out of the wound. Aaron makes an awful sound, pained and unconscious.

“Tell me!” Doyle slams his fist down on the table. Completely ignores Aaron’s noises, his pained cries as he wheezes around the ducktape. “Tell me or I’ll kill him.”

Derek shakes his head, “no, no—”

“It’s not that hard,” Doyle sneers, patience is gone. “Her for him, choose!”

Derek shakes his head again, his own tear falling down. “I don’t know,” he whispers. Derek starts to tremble, rage replacing hopelessness. Angered to the point of tears. “She’s dead! We buried her!”

Doyle shouts, “fine! You want to keep playing games?” Doyle raises the knife up between them, letting the blade punctuate the question. “You will always lose Agent Morgan. Always—”

“No!”

Aaron’s eyes fly back open, a scream muffled by the duct tape. “I’ll find her,” Doyle promises. “It doesn’t matter what you do.” Aaron’s head falls down to chest, eyes falling shut. “And when I find her, there’s nothing that you’ll be able to do to stop me.” Doyle reaches down, fingers slick with Aaron’s blood, and pulls the knife from Aaron’s chest. “Last chance,” Doyle whispers with a grin. He steps back, “last game, last question: me or Agent Hotchner?”

Derek doesn’t wait for Doyle to get out of sight, he moves immediately to the other side of the room. He steps behind the chair Hotch is tied to, seeing for the first time the ropes wrapped around his arms. The way he’s constrained to the chair, unable to move. “Aaron,” Derek lifts his head up, his fingers under Aaron’s chin. His skin is clammy, cold against Derek’s palm. “Aaron, hey! Look at me, keep your eyes open. Aaron?” His head is heavy, limp in Derek’s hold. “Aaron, please. Stay with me.”

He stops breathing in the ambulance, airway preserved by the tracheal tube bulged in his throat. His heart beats too quickly, pounding away in his ribcage. Derek feels like just yesterday he was living this exact horror movie, Emily’s cold hand unresponsive in his. Dark hair a crown on poignant contrast. Life held in the balance, raw existence. Again, Derek feels the pitter of a heartbeat against his fingertips. Again his breath is held as nurses pull him one way and his heart is torn from his chest.

What will JJ have to say this time?

Will the same tears shine in her eyes? The same trepidation? Their lie is bleeding out on a stretcher being pushed down a luminescent hallway. As pale as the death they created. Perhaps this is the price one pays when meddling with things beyond control. Things that are not to be messed with. The evil Derek’s mother forbade him from playing with. Worse than the handmade ouija board under his bed, death’s creator laying on his chest.

Lying dead in his arms.

Derek Morgan sits for six hours, entirely alone in the waiting room. Each breath could be the last he shares with Aaron and he won’t know for several more to come. They labor on, Aaron’s controlled by machines and Derek’s by the flood of emotions weighing him down. He can only control himself for so long, holding down the bitter failures of the last few days. His anger is intense, uncontrollable.

“You lied.” It’s the middle of the night, Garcia’s hair still pulled back in pigtails and JJ’s in a clip at the back of her head. The waiting room isn’t full of special agents, dressed to the nines ready for a fight. Derek sees only their family, leggings, and sweatpants, and he can’t take it.

“You lied,” Derek repeats to the floor. “She’s not dead and now Aaron—” his voice catches. Derek rubs his hands down his eyes, looks up at them unashamed of the tears falling down his face. Her fault. JJ and her stupid lie. “I’ll never forgive you. If he dies… If he dies because of this stupid shit, I’ll never forgive you.”

“Derek—”

“Not now.”

Sixty-two hours. Over two days of sitting and measuring machine regulated breathes. Three nights of sleeping in a chair, falling asleep to the sounds of machines and thin blankets pulled to his chin. Aaron twitches and each time Derek thinks he’s going to wake up but his pleas are meant with more silence.

It’s sitting. Waiting. Watching. The waiting room has become his third home, where he’s kicked to when Aaron’s getting another test or scan. He’s left with only the anxieties of the unknown. He spends hours just drumming his knee, head in his hands. That’s a long time to sit and think about all things you’ve said in the past.

They hunt him down, attempting to softly fill in the holes with medical jargon. Stammering and averting his gaze to the tiled floor under his feet. “Uhm,” he rubs at his eyes. “I--I don’t want to know.” He doesn’t care that the doctor looks stunned, entirely caught off guard. “Someone else,” he mumbles, head still ducked as he steps into the room. Leaving the doctor in the hall. “Tell someone else when they arrive.” He just can’t do it. He can’t hear all that medical bullshit and still have this blind hope that everything will turn out.

He grabs a chair from the ones lining the wall across from Hotch’s bed, pulling it right up to Hotch’s side and throwing himself into it unceremoniously. Derek looks everywhere but Hotch. He got a glance in and he knows what there is to see. Tape twisting Hotch’s lips around the tube down his throat. All pale skin, still hands, and machines. Derek huffs, shaking his head, and picks at his cuticles. They’ve all been through so much but Hotch…

They never really get a break, do they?

He wishes he could go back to when it was just the three of them. Hotch, Gideon, and himself against the world. When it was Hotch’s desk he kicked his feet up on, watching him eat his lunch or snack in a certain order. Thirty years old and still saving his dessert for after his sandwich and carrots. The only person Derek’s ever met that cared or noticed the apparent lack of yellow and green M&Ms compared to the other colors. Also, the only person Derek knows who sits and sorts them out. Putting them in a neat line and two of each color-- one M&M for each side of his mouth.

Derek’s eyes sting and he rubs them roughly, shaking his head and forcing himself to pull it together. He’s not going to cry over Hotch sharing those odd M&Ms with him. Not going to think about how close they used to be, how things have changed for the better and the worse. He’s not going to die, so there’s no need to think like that.

They’ll be fine.

Everything is fine.

Garcia finds Ian Doyle, he never left Virginia.

Emily’s already on a plane coming over.

Killing Clyde Easter was revenge. It had been personal. For creating Lauren Reynolds and then for taking her away. Hurting Aaron was just convenience. Doyle knew Clyde’s death would sting but it would be no reason to come home, no reason to bring Emily home. There would be nothing she could do about the affair by the time she got word of his death. Hurting Aaron, though. Hurting one of the people Emily had supposedly died to protect, would work like a charm. It would draw her out.

Ian Doyle hadn’t planned for Derek Morgan. Not fully. He knew Derek would arrive when he needed him to, with enough time to keep Agent Hotchner sparingly alive. To make sure Doyle made it clear he knew Emily Prentiss is alive, to stir the team. Pin them against one another. Even against their downed leader. Take out the strongest first -- and that’s where Doyle hadn’t really known them. Aaron is fearless, he’s stupidly brave, but he’s not stupid. He won’t be blinded by his feelings. What Doyle did was stifle their logic, he disabled the one person who would have allowed Doyle to escape. What Doyle did was piss off five agents tired of losing the people they love.

Aaron gets worse on his own.

Garcia stays home, someone needs to be there in case Hotch wakes up. It’s not hard to figure out why they’d want to leave her behind. She’s stronger at home, has what she needs. And Derek’s terrified something will happen.

Ian Doyle finds Declan, it’s all the same story. Confused children and manipulative adults. There are no bittersweet reunions -- not between biological father and son and not between Emily and the others. Doyle and Emily have set fire to the families they had. Held a lighter over the portrait and watched the color melt to grey and then to black. Piercing a hole in the heart.

The airstrip lights up in heavy gunfire.

Derek doesn’t fire a shot. He wishes he had, for his own selfish fire starving out. He doesn’t shoot for Aaron. This isn’t what he’d want. This mess that they’ve all made. Aaron’s morals are always getting in the way of things but as Derek lowers his gun he’s flooded with relief. His anger abating, exhaustion seeping in. Ian Doyle dies on the tarmac. Spread out on his back and choking on blood. It takes four minutes.

It doesn’t feel long enough.

Not after everything he’s taken.

“Derek?”

He can hear it in her voice.

“I think-- Oh God, I think something is wrong.”

Emily had died. Derek had watched the monitor run-flat.

She’s a ghost and Aaron’s dying. This time no matador’s cape will dance, shaking free the threat with deadly precision. No magician to pull up the curtain, to show them the trap door.

“How is he?” Emily asks

“Alive,” JJ mumbles. “They’re not sure for how long--” she shrugs and Reid makes a choked sound, blushing and wiping his face clean of the tears still dry on his cheek. JJ just glances at him. “He’s holding on, Morgan’s with him.” The dismissiveness in her tone is not a reflection of how she feels, truly. It’s just a protective measure to ensure she doesn’t break. If she stops for even a moment she will cry and she’s still trying to convince herself that this is going to work out.

Aaron can’t die now. He’s laced hesitation into Derek’s logic. Changed too many things about him -- taught him the magic of rainbow sprinkles and how to cut hair with nothing but kitchen scissors and the bathroom mirror. Derek’s learned the magic of loving his best friend. Hating the person he shares a bed with. Being unable to sleep without the heat of Aaron’s body close by, no more than a breath away.

With those gentle hands, meant to capture thrashing wild things, Derek Morgan cups Aaron’s face. “I can see what you’re thinking,” he whispers. The intubation machines are gone, one step forward. Aaron lays flat on his back, an oxygen mask over his face. Across his bare chest are machine leads, pads left stuck to his chest. His heart is giving out. “Don’t--” Derek shakes his head, clearing his throat. He uses the back of his hand to push away a tear. “Don’t leave me, Aaron. Not now.”

Every muscle in Aaron’s body is stiff with pain untouchable by the maxed-out morphine. Cold sweat streaks across his body, makes him shiver, and clench his teeth down when the small movements spike worse pain. The thin sheet across his hips does nothing. It feels colder than the rest of the room, not even the reassuring pressure of it seems to help. His muscles ache from the tension. From the rounds he’s lost against the crash cart.

If he could force his jaw open, unclench it from the pain, he’d beg Derek for a blanket. Something warm or comforting. For relief. Anything.

He wakes to movement. It takes him too long to realize it’s his body being moved. “Easy.” Aaron looks up, confused by the sight of Emily and Derek standing side-by-side. “Here--” They work together, moving his body slowly. They try not to hurt him but he feels lit up inside. A pyre in his chest set ablaze with a match. Agonizing. He closes his eyes tight, detached enough to lose focus of where their hands are on his body.

“Aaron?”

When he can open his eyes again, he’s looking up at the ceiling.

“Hey, there sleeping beauty.”

There are pillows under one of his sides, another tucked under his thigh.

“Don’t--” He’s not even aware he’s doing it, not until he’s looking at the hand Emily’s just smacked. “Are you an actual child? Stop touching everything.” She stands and he watches in amazement as she bends over him and fixes the oxygen canal under his nose. Her hand grazes his cheek and she’s real. She’s here. When she notices his confusion she smirks, “seeing a ghost, Hotch?”

“Emily.” Oh, Derek. Hotch looks over at him, a dopey smirk he’s not even aware of spreading across his face. When Derek sees it, he loses his tension. The sting of his reprimand, who still thinks it’s too soon for Emily’s dead jokes, is gone. “How do you feel?” he asks even though he’s not sure Hotch has managed to find his words. His answer is that smile, growing wider as Derek kisses his cheek.

Aaron closes his eyes the second he sees Derek freeing his hands, sighing contently before Derek can even lean over and cup his face in his hands. They’re warm from the coffee he went to get, familiar in all the safest ways. “I missed you,” Derek whispers. Derek kisses him again, on his smiling lips. Unbothered that Aaron’s too out of his mind to work his mouth, just hums back, turns further into Derek’s touch.

Recovery will not be fun. Aaron got his wish. His best friend and his boyfriend back and it hardly cost him a thing. They'll both smother him, taking turns bossing him around.

He's never been so relieved to hear them arguing this early in the morning.

#criminal minds #criminal minds fanficiton #aaron hotchner #derek morgan #emily prentiss #ian doyle #hotchgan #mortch

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