#i think pointing out his weaknesses and appealing to his soft heart leads to some trouble with him.. i can't articulate it here but there's

[nohymn]

i was refreshing on the wonweek and sunday exchanges and this one still tickles me because so much is said.

i already surmised before this that sunday wasn't someone who took well to being "pitied" in his eyes [something to do with his pride, as well as his rhetoric with the weak and the strong and how he factors himself into this; that's something i can write a rambling post about another day], but having it confirmed was delightful. there's something there with his strain for condescension in contrast that i can't place.

and of course there's the elephant in the room of how he responds better to criticism and critique than he would someone genuinely showing him sympathy. punishment and disappointment will make him move, but smothering him won't. if he's met with condemnation, he can ruminate but do something about it, because he's given something to work with, and it goes against his perfectionism, which is a struggle in of itself; but there's not really much he can do with someone feeling sorry for him, and it makes him feel small and weak when there's this constant urge to fix something. it isn't conductive.

[sabineelectricheart]

Fair Exchange of a Happiness for Another

Summary: Yuuki thinks that Mihaya could be happier if they had never met. He strongly disagrees.

Rating: K+ - Suitable for more mature childen, 9 years and older, with minor action violence without serious injury. May contain mild coarse language. Should not contain any adult themes.

Words: 1400

Notes: Mihaya is a softboi. Change my mind.

Every morning, ever since they left Theta for good, Yuuki wakes up with a sense of contentment. Each day, as soon as she opens her eyes, she is reminded how happy and blessed she is.

If there was anything better than waking naturally, most usually in the late morning, letting her eyes flutter open slowly to adjust to the sunbeams pouring through the window panes, only to lay eyes upon her common-law husband’s sound face, then she had not yet had the pleasure of experiencing it. In fact, she is certain that no such feeling could ever be achieved, because nothing could surpass what she had just described.

While the sun caressed her face in the momentaneous absence of Mihaya’s, she turned to face the man in question. His skin is slightly flushed from the warmth of the morning and the heavy fabric of their shared duvet, his eyes are still closed and heavy breathing comes from a slight opening of his mouth, through which a dry trail of drool ran.

No-one was supposed to be cute in their sleep, but there is something about him that is absolutely endearing to her heart. He was so inviting, and nothing she could ever do would lead him to break her trust, but what was important was that she felt it.

It is as her Uncle Yashima once described, their hearts mirror each other, and so she finds that it becomes nigh impossible to be duplicitous. There is nothing to fear about being unapologetically herself, to say what was on her heart, or communicate her fears with someone who had proven to be continually thoughtful and understanding no matter the situation. She recognizes in him the weaknesses and scars that she holds in herself, and seeing him be strong and kind in spite of them inspire her to be better each day, too.

“Close those curtains…” The man grumbled, slowly waking from his peaceful slumber under her watchful eye. “The sun’s waking me up.”

She giggled, brushing his curly hair out of his face and behind his ear. “It’s nearly midday, already. Shouldn’t we be waking up?”

“Certainly not, darling. It’s too early.” He smirked, still not having opened his eyes.

To assert his point further, the green-haired man pulled Yuuki closer to him so he could bury his face in her neck.

“You can’t hide from the light, especially if I move.” She points out.

Upon his petulant lack of response, she rolled her eyes and tried to demonstrate by standing, but Mihaya kept she firmly in place.

“I thought you wanted me to close the curtains, dear.” The woman says at his rather childish demonstration.

The man grumbled incomprehensibly and let her go reluctantly, replacing her neck with the pillow she had recently left unattended. With half his face buried in the soft fabric, he saw the shades of the skin over his eyes turn darker, and he knew the curtains were being closed.

Feeling secure not to hurt his vision nor to wake up even more, he dared to open an eye, finally, for only one of them was not pressed into the pillow, and he saw her.

Yuuki is not trying to look a certain way, walk a certain way or seem particularly appealing. She is comfortable, authentic, and while she has never been much of a vain person, it must be said that, ever since they fled to Tau, she looks and feels much more at home.

His worn-out shirt protected her body, flowed over her curves and dips, faintly, cautiously, touching her skin in the places she could hardly bare his fingertips to grace. Her waist, for instance, a particularly ticklish part of her body that she jealously guarded at almost every moment, and yet his own property could get closer to it than him.

No matter, at least it was him in some essence. In lieu of the sort of formal arrangements they could have had in their native colony, his pride feels placated if he can get her to wear his clothes ever so often, gauche as it may be.

There were protocols and traditions that were followed by the inhabitants of Theta, but there is no State in Tau to manage those things. Everything was more informal in the Vector cage, and so they only exchanged a promise to each other, with no recognition from anyone else. While this has value to him, he would prefer that Ibuki stopped looking over to what he claimed as his.

“Are you watching me?” She asked fondly, catching the man staring.

He smiled. “I’m just admiring you.”

Yuuki hummed gently. “Ah, I see…”

She climbs back into bed and slipping her leg in between his, to warm her and hold her. His arms instinctively wrapped around her, holding her tight in place, a hand resting between her shoulder blades and the other caressing her face. He shuts his eyes again, and she felt safe enough to do the same, clinging to that sense of security she once thought fictitious.

“I know that you hate these questions, but…” She began.

“Oh no, don’t start with that again.” The young man interrupted, clinging to her more tightly.

“But…” She continued, and he groaned. “What if I had never found you? I can guarantee I would never feel as safe as I do when I’m with you with anyone else, so I’m happy I did. But if you didn’t suffer so much, what are the odds that we actually met and fell in love? If we didn’t met, you could be living in Theta and get to be a journalist and…”

“I can say, with great certainty…" He interrupted her spewing thoughts, whispering softly and staring at her with great seriousness. "That the odds were very high. Because whatever our souls are made of, yours and mine are the same, we were meant to find each other. If I had to suffer to get here, then it’s well worth it for me.”

“But…” She tries again, and is once again silenced, with a soft kiss to her shoulder.

“Stop spending your time wondering what it would be like not having me.” He demands, almost forcefully, as her doubting forces him to consider those scenarios himself. “You have me, until my last breath, and wherever I’m taken from there, I will search for you even then. I will love you, even then.”

A certain warmth spread over her body as Mihaya spoke these words to her, forced her to listen carefully and understand that every word he uttered was the absolute truth.

It is not that Yuuki ever doubts it. She knows that he loves her and that he does not regret exposing the leadership back in Theta, even with the privilege of hindsight and knowing they would end up exiled, but she wants to have her cake and eat it. She wants him to be free of his trauma, to be with his parents, to return to his colony, but still remain with her. Thinking about these scenarios is an act of love, even if ultimately meaningless and deceivingly painful.

“I made it all week.” She laughed, wiping the tears from her eyes, as his words sunk through her skin and buried themselves into her heart. “You ruined my no crying streak.”

Mihaya smiled, kissing her forehead, kissing her cheek and trailing to her mouth slowly, pecking her skin along the way until he was met with her plump lips. It felt like more than a kiss, although it was impossibly slow and gentle. It felt like a promise with such depth that she might fall over an invisible ledge and be irrevocably lost to the world, if it were not for him being there to catch her.

His hand crept up her back and caressed her neck before tangling in her unbrushed hair, while his other hand wiped the tears from her face. When he finally disconnected from her lips, he left her hair to wipe her other cheek from staining tears, and smiled encouragingly.

“You’re my greatest treasure.” The young man hummed, tucking her under his chin. “I never want to be apart from you.”

“I love you, Mihaya.” She sighed contently, grateful the curtains were closed and there was nothing to do but sleep in his arms all day.

“I love you, too.” He replied, earnestly.

*_*_*_*_*

Paradigm Paradox Masterlist

[aotopmha]

Attack on Titan season 4 part 2 episode 9:

1) Magath's appeal to 2000 years of oppression is comparatively weightless not only because he doesn't know (or care) it was caused by shitty leadership enslaving foreign people, but because it ignores actually relevant present circumstances.

It's not unfounded because the consequences are still there and felt in the present, but blaming Italy for what the Roman Empire did has a lot less weight than blaming them for what the fascist movement did and even then circumstances change and as they change, new conflicts arise dependant on context.

2000 years of history shouldn't be relevant when a nuke is breathing down your neck and you need to act now.

But that history also is actually used as an excuse to do bad, keeps people from acting and most importantly needs to be understood to be learned from, so it should be addressed.

2) Man, the desire to talk is such a true and real component of the conversation in this episode.

Several conflicts in human history would've been much less destructive if the 'force of good' in the conflict wouldn't have been so soft-hearted.

It's like the counter-balance to the actions in the previous episode and Annie points this out perfectly.

If you can't reason with Eren, what then?

In this case, the hesitation comes from personal ties with Eren.

In other cases, it's faith in humanity that things can be resolved by talking or fear of the enemy.

And we've seen the positive and negative consequences to all of these elements in this series.

If Annie and co would've talked during training, perhaps Paradis would've learned of their circumstances before Eren was worn down by his experiences and Erwin was killed. Perhaps then, the more slower approach of building understanding and more allies would've been possible to happen.

There are multiple times when characters trying to reason or hesitating with the enemy have all lead to creating an advantage for the enemy, especially if you look at them in a vacuum.

When Annie didn't kill Armin.

When Eren hesitated fighting Annie.

There was Hange and Jean hesitating to immediately kill Reiner when he was captured.

There's even smaller ones like Jean hesitating to kill a member of the MP attacking the scouts.

But it all made sense from the perspective of their characters.

But the coup lead by Erwin mostly consisted of very smart politics and minimal sacrifices.

And diplomacy is what brought together the current alliance. It has bargaining chips and circumstances backing it, but it worked.

Finally, as said, there was the aspect of people succumbing to fear, which the Jaegerist movement demonstrates in this arc, but has been the main element the story has been emphasising when fighting oppression since the start.

At first it's fear in the face of Titans, then it's fear in face of people who are Titans, then it's fear in the face of an oppressive regime and then it's all put together.

Fear is probably also the biggest motivator in this series.

Nobody wants to fight the Titans because they are scared to die.

Eren is scared everyone he cares about will die.

And then many other elements are thrown in the mix to make a war and the conquest of a nation happen.

Many things can give a country motivation to invade another, to name a few, perhaps its strategic location, maybe resources on the land or even just principles of conquest and the need for greatness.

There are plenty of excuses to draw from: in this story's case it's the standard claim of being attacked first and 'destroying the devils on the island to save the world'.

For a war to happen a country spurs its people with some form of propaganda.

And for that war to be won, hesitation of your enemy because of naivete or fear is necessary, just as much as economic weakness.

In general all of these elements can have so many aspects and nuances to them, I'll just leave what I listed here in relation to this story.

I think these are all great things to bring up because many times people don't really think about all of the bad in people being human, too.

Wars happen because people are people.

This story is empathic to these bad things in humanity as well as the good and I think for this section of the episode, Annie's quote before the events in Stohess is the most appropriate:

"It takes great courage to go against the flow. I want the people swept along the flow to be considered human, too."

Many read this as her trying to excuse her actions, but Annie has made it really clear she doesn't really care about herself that much: she has pretty strong self-loathing backing her reasonings.

In hindsight especially, I think it's about not even necessarily empathising with her, but understanding the position the Eldians in Marley are in.

As human as the bad parts of humanity are, they also shouldn't be something to hide behind or excuse or hand-wave.

That's the tightrope to walk when humanising the bad parts of humanity.

And I think this series generally does a pretty good job with this – and ultimately this is one of the reasons I love this story with all of the issues I take with it.

I just find any story with that kind of framing interesting. Instead of giving bad and good qualities the story values, it says all of it is part of the human experience.

3) I think, once again, this episode also does a pretty good job of balancing perspectives out.

Magath and the Marleyans are given a word and their flaws are listed.

The Eldians are given a word and their flaws are listed, too.

Both of which Yelena dishes out happily and then is also given a few words by Jean.

Pointing out possible self-righteousness is very good in my eyes – it's another separate aspect of the alliance to address because no matter the reason, murder is not okay.

If the story didn't point out this aspect and give that humility to the perspective of the alliance, it could justify Eren pretty easily.

It also balances out the 'save the world' element last episode ended up on.

This is why I don't understand the outrage from certain people about that scene. It's exaggerated to be a point of positivity, but is immediately taken down a notch by the narrative in the following material, which asks, okay, that's well and good, but what does 'saving the world' actually entail here?

The fact of the matter is that almost everyone around that campfire has killed someone, regardless of what their reasoning (and yes, some of them did it in self-defense and absolutely were victims, like pretty much all of the Paradis Eldians), but the important part here is that getting high and mighty about justice could lead to killing that isn't about doing the right thing or self-defense.

And I think Eren is that example. At this point what he is doing is just indiscriminate murder no matter how much it is for his friends.

I said I loved the character and thematic material in this material the most when it first came out and I think, again, this chapter being essentially made into a single episode helped a lot with the pacing of it.

It helped the feelings stew and for you to stay in the moment much more and I think that's probably the biggest flaw of this final stretch of the story.

It often doesn't let you sit in the feelings of a moment.

I'd argue this episode made good material into pretty great material, even.

Yes, much of it was spent with images of trees and very limited animation, but I think from the directorial standpoint focusing on the more abstract helped to focus on the nuances and feelings of the writing.

It's limited animation used in a very effective way in my eyes and as much as the ending of the Evangelion TV series frustrates me, it used this type of directing to create a similar effect.

It just wasn't as effective to me because the dialog was a lot more muddled.

I hope they do this with the ending – add a few points of directorial nuance (like when the tension in a scene rose, the editing became more haphazard) and give some scenes more time to breathe.

I think the ending also needs some additions in the writing itself, but even altering some of the pacing would make a big difference when I look at how much of a difference this episode had just by having a specific style of direction behind it.

Yeah, I honestly kind of actually loved this episode and I did not expect this at all.

[alygatorwrites]

Hii, I love your writing so much 🥺 May I request Reiner x reader where they go on a date to a zoo 💞🥺? He seems like the perfect person to go see cute animals with 🙄🥰

a/n: aww oh my god i love this idea! i just know reiner has a soft spot for animals 😭 here’s a short little fic! thank you for requesting hun 💕

pairing: reiner x reader

warnings: none! this is straight up fluff y’all

↳ to be added to my taglist, please fill out this ♡form♡

a date at the zoo with reiner 

intimidating.

many people would describe reiner braun as such - and with good reason, too. between his towering height, the broad expanse of his frame, and that solid composure, it’s only natural that he seems like a daunting man.

he’s quite the opposite, actually; the epitome of a gentle giant.

when you ask reiner if he wants to go see some wildlife, he agrees instantly. while you originally thought that it was because he wanted to please you, it turns out that the idea of it was just as appealing to him as it was to you.

your fingers intertwine with reiner’s as you stroll through the zoo, palms flush, and he lets you swing your hands with every step. it’s such a cheesy display of affection and has your heart melting. 

that’s when you come to a realization; reiner loves animals.

you don’t notice it at first until the both of you reach the otter exhibit. when you glance up at reiner, his eyes are twinkling with interest. he pats you on the arm to make sure you’re paying attention when two otters flip onto their backs and snuggle into one another. perhaps it’s to prevent them from drifting apart. 

“oh my god,” you gasp, smiling at your boyfriend’s reaction. reiner doesn’t look away from the otters, but he leans into your side, and radiates a warmth you’ve come to know over the past few years. “they’re so cute.”

“yeah,” reiner nods. there’s a rare whisper of fascination blooming across his expression, making you weak at the knees. “that’s us.”

it’s so fucking funny and random that it has you laughing, and reiner’s face grows pink like he didn’t even realize what he said. 

with every animal you visit, reiner studies the informational plates outside the exhibits, reading about the wildlife. you’re in charge of the holding the map - and although you go the wrong direction a few times - reiner doesn’t mind. he actually finds it funny as you screw up your face in confusion and try to figure out where you led him. it’s made better when he gets a great view of the red pandas and the tigers.

when you point at an orangutan and mention how it looks like zeke, reiner laughs a little.

“i'm being serious,” you say, squinting through the glass. “doesn’t it kinda look like him? the way it’s sitting and everything.”

“it doesn’t,” reiner chuckles gently. his hazel eyes are full of fondness, the sharp features of his face softening as he tilts his head to gaze at you. you’re filled with so much love for this man that it almost hurts.

reiner lets a palm rest on your lower back then, innocent and resolute as he leads you to the giraffes. he ends up mumbling something about how the monkey does look like zeke - just a tiny bit. 

eventually, you reach the aquatic room where a group of stingrays swim in an open tank. there’s a cautious wonder in reiner’s fingertips as he reaches down to pet one. after catching you staring, he tenderly guides your hand downward so you can touch it, too.

“didn’t steve erwin die from one of these?”

“don't touch the barb,” reiner says seriously, like he thinks you actually might do it. the hilarity of it all has you smirking.

the tarantulas are the one thing reiner doesn’t enjoy looking at. he steps up to the glass, sees the spiders, and immediately pulls a face of discomfort. you can’t blame him though; those things are hairy as hell. 

after a lovely lunch and rainbow snowcones, the day finally comes to an end. reiner’s cheeks are a little sunburned, and his blonde hair is ruffled from the summer wind. you tease him about it, but he only pecks you on the forehead. 

it’s the first time you’ve ever had a date at a zoo, and certainly not the last.  

[spencerscoven]

— idle hands

about ; Spencer looks back on to the months before at the events that pulled him under, all of them starting and ending with you.

gif by sarahmichellesgellar

WARNINGS: unedited— fem!reader unsub, unsub!spencer, handjobs, smut, mentions of drugs&addiction, mentions of depression, mentions of torture, mentions of death

“Is it really so hard to believe I wanted to do it?”

A small smile played on Spencer’s features, his eyes on Hotch’s, unmoving. His eyes were bright honey, within them holding something that had been foreign to him for much too long. Happiness. Euphoria.

He sat in the same seat as you once did, letting himself soak up the aura of the interrogation room. The metal jingle of his handcuffs paired with the rough floors that were once waxed allowed him to be brought back to half a year ago, to a Wednesday in September, where the sun rose south on the horizon in Quantico, where nothing would be the same again. 

Spencer’s brought back to the day he first met you, the memory so vivid he could stick his tongue out and imagine he tasted your perfume in the air. It only takes a little longer before he’s also taken back to the moments before, when he leaned against the hallway walls of the BAU with an unsettled stomach and weak knees.

“I just can’t.” Spencer had said. Begged, even.

“You can’t? Or you won’t?” Spencer knew it wasn’t a question, no matter how Hotch had phrased it. He shook his head obediently, heart heavy and guts threatening to spill onto the brown leather of his shoes. It was even worse with every step, his fingers feeble on the cool handle of the door. And he hated himself for knowing where he’d go after, the image of a small seringe behind his lids each time he blinked.

The temperature inside was only cooler, making the claminess of his hands more evident, his jaw clenched. He inspected over you for as long as he could before it turned into staring, observing just who you were in the flesh. The woman behind the profile.

Soft hair.

Established at work.

Calm.

Smart.

Perfectly hidden in everyone’s good graces, leaving you out of suspicion.

He examined you so long that he was able to see you do the same to him, gazing up and down, the corner of your lips turned up. Twenty four men within the last eight months— erratic at first, until the murders gained a special flair, your signature. The photos sat infront of you already, their tongues cut skillfully out of their mouths as you paid the snapshots no attention.

“This one,” You pointed to the photo to the farthest left, your nose scrunched up in slight disgust, “To me he looks very proud, doesn’t he? I’m sure somebody wanted to shut him up.”

Spencer’s eyebrows furrowed, watching the game you were getting at, moving your chess piece three spaces over and looking him in the eye, daring him to join.

“Is that what you wanted? To shut him up?”

“Couldn’t say. I only read about it in the papers,” You retracted his accusation as if you’d been looking forword to the chase, crossing your legs and watching as his eyes followed them. “I read that he was a man with wandering hands, and much too many secrets. Maybe he deserved it.”

He watched you lean forward, embracing the space of the table as you placed your elbows upon it, holding your chin in the palm of your hand. You were the exact opposite of what uncomfortable was. You were eager. Excited.

“Do you agree that he deserved it?”

“I couldn’t possibly agree with you.” Spencer appealed.

Your painted nails motioned him to come closer, his jaw going slack at what was a demand, not a request. His body acted first, the scent of you nearly lifting him off the floors as it hit him. It made him sick as if he was on a rocking boat— shipwrecked. And to feel something felt good.

“I mean, there’s really no proof of who the killer is anyway.” You sighed, collecting your things without much regard for the bloody mess of the images below you.

Spencer glanced at the two way glass to the left as if he could see the figures behind it watching him crumble, letting you go because you were right in all the ways that were wrong. He’d hear about another thing he had done wrong as soon as he exited the doors.

You dismantled the space between the two of you, stopping close to look into the bronze gold of his irises, holding his energy alongside yours. Spencer tried to justify the way he didn’t step back— the soft soul of your breath against his ear just barely.

“I just wanted to see you up close...” You lead off without finishing, implying you wanted his name.

“Doctor.” He tutted, his arms held defensively by his side as if it would get him out of this newly dug hole that already contained multiple sprouting seeds inside of it.

“Doctor, you seem unsettled...” You let out a little hum at the title, nodding as you swiped your hand on the shoulder of his jacket. It was your only excuse to touch him. “Some people do bad things for all the right reasons, and sometimes, they do far too well at it.”

You struggled at your last statement, as if you were passing it onto him to consider. He couldn’t help himself from looking over his shoulder, watching the sway of your hips fade into the distance, leaving the door open only to reveal the figure of the black haired man, as if he was ready to stop what everyone else could see happening.

Hotch watched from the open door as Spencer stepped closer to the table, eyes burning through the print that you once referenced to before he took it between his thumbs, tearing it apart.

In the beginning of October, he let himself come to true terms. Sure, his team acted like they cared. They never ratted him out in fear he would lose his job— in fact, they never even uttered the words of it out loud, instead preferring looks of empathy. And as time went on, their empathy switched to looks of pity that soon became dehumanizing as they pressed and prodded at him like a cell below a microscope.

So he told them what they had already known when he was finally able to come to terms with it himself, droplets falling to the floor from his eyes as he quietly announced “I’m an addict”. And he listened as they said completely nothing, looking up to only see them watch anything in the room but him, averting their eyes to something that was somehow more important than what he had to confess.

And it dawned on him that very moment that they didn’t care when they only spoke to accept his apology for the sudden slip of the tongue. To them, he ceased to exist beyond the ways his brain benefited them.

Spencer realized they didn’t care to talk about the trackmarks that riddled his arm, or the noise of the glass vials that they heard from his pockets. He was becoming increasingly uncaring and disorganized, becoming less and less sterile each time he pumped his viens and chased his impending doom in the form of a sweet high. They just wanted to go to sleep at night without guilt sitting on their chests.

They wanted him to suffer in the shadows, swaying against the side of the bathroom stall as he rolled up his sleeves. They wanted to get off scot free and go on with their lives if they were to ever find him slumped against the cold floors, barely conscious.

It made Spencer’s skin crawl.

During an evening in mid October his fingers shook on the bottom half of his old cellphone, eagerly inching towards the final number— the one that had been burned into the front of his head right from the manila folder.

187...The one he promised he wouldn’t call.

187-654...The one that smelt like vanilla graced with casablanca lillies, and something else he just could not sniff out.

187-654-337... Was it so bad that he thought of you in a way he wasn’t supposed to?

“Hello?”

Spencer’s breath hitched against the receiver, keeping his voice in his chest while he nuzzled against his phone, taking you in as if you were right beside him.

“It’s you, isn’t it, Spencer?”

He worried his lips at your tone, patience and humility just waiting for him to speak up. Spencer counted the seconds over as several minutes passed, your tolerance never wearing down.

“Why do you know that?” Spencer asked, running his slim fingers through his head of hair at the sound of his first name, one he had never given you. Was he that fucking obvious to you?

“You were easy to find, I googled you. You’re quite remarkable, aren’t you? Besides, I’ve been expecting this call,” You admitted.

He could hear you shuffling around the room, discarding something metal and turning on the pipe, washing your hands clean. He could see your image now, phone held between your cheek and shoulder, hair falling infront of your eyes as you rinsed. He wondered what you were ridding your hands of, or if it even mattered now that he had crossed this line.

“You’ve been expecting me?”

“It’s a pity you didn’t call sooner, Spencer... I’ve been thinking about the things we could discuss. Is that what you want? To talk?”

He swallowed around the lump in his throat to stop himself from reciting his uttermost single thought: You’re no good for me.

“Yeah, I’d like to talk.”

He’d forgotten what it felt like when someone listened.

On the ripe night of December 31, he sat upon your couch, his elbows on his knees as he covered his face in shame. Hours before he stumbled onto your porch, rambling about you and him, him and you. You’d only chuckled at it, calling him admirable and sickingly sweet. His pulse began to beat harder as you told him that he reminded you of your mother, a woman who stood pure and good. He didn’t have the heart to just let you blindly say so, spoiling the image of her. Not when he wouldn’t do that to his own mother, either.

After the new person he’d become the past year, he wasn’t so sure he was deserving of such a thing. He played with the band of his watch, nothing that in just two more hours it’d be the new year. He couldn’t stop himself from spilling his truth, the one he had implied to you for months.

“What did you used to take?”

“Dilaudad, when it was available. But Morphine mostly,” Spencer’s voice was no louder than a whisper, “It was easier to get.”

He sat without saying much else, digging his fingernails into the palm of his hand, expecting you to dismiss him like so many others had before.

“How long has it been?”

“A few months.” Spencer pierced his lips, ignoring the look you gave him that implied you knew, like he did, that he wasn’t ready to admit exactly just how long he had been at it.

“Did they care?” You asked, your body leaning closer into him, waiting for a reply that never came from his mouth. You paid attention to the slight tremble of his body and the glossiness of his eyes.

He never told you the specifics about himself, and you wondered if it was because he kept you at arm’s length or because he truly thought there wasn’t anything to tell. But sometimes he’d talk about them; a woman called Emily, and one by the name of Garcia. You already knew who Hotch was from the moments he tried to shake a confession out of you before. You had assumed they were the only ones he had because he never said much else. His silence only pinged as an answer.

“Spencer, you deserve better, you do.” Your hands glided along his jaw, tilting his head to look at you. With the pads of your thumb you wiped the few tears that cascaded down his cheeks, his eyes shut tight in protest. “I care. Did you ever know that?”

Spencer stood with limp arms, his head nodding as he brought his cheek closer to your hand and laid a gentle kiss on your finger, dropping his whole world into yours.

“I’m sorry.”

“Why would you need to apologize, Spencer?”

You didn’t look at him through a lense that demonized him, reducing him to just another case who had let his addiction eat his life up from the inside out. He knew that to you he was someone like he had never been before. He was just himself, not an obstacle. And you were unreal, ready and willing to protect him.

“Can I touch you?” Spencer croaked, looking down at you with wide eyes. You didn’t answer verbally, instead opting to bring his face closer to yours, steering his lips into a kiss. It became clear as to who was in control as he submitted, hands delicately wavering above your hips without the permission to do much else.

You threw your thighs over his, straddling his hips and beginning to grind slowly, only to see that he was already showcasing a hard bludge in his pinstripe trousers. At the speed of it you pondered on the thought that he hadn’t been touched in a long time— or ever.

“Yes, you can touch me.” You assured him, a ginger grin appearing in response to his nervous eyes and hands that grasped your tits above your shirt, so eager to touch. “I meant what I said. If they can’t help give you what you need, what can they do for you?”

You palmed Spencer through his pants, admiring the little sounds that poured out of his mouth, each a bit louder than the one before. The button of his pants came off easy enough, allowing his cock to spring out, the rosy tip already leaking and sensitive. His hips jerked up to your touch, breath caught up against your neck. Your hand worked between the two of you, traveling up and down his dick repeatedly. At the perfect pace, your thumb ran across the tip, coaxing swears from his mouth as you brought your lips back to his.

“There’s nothing wrong with you, Spencer. You don’t always have to stand so strong...”

Spencer’s hips moved underneath you to meet your hands, his orgasm coating your hands as he continued to whine well after he had cum, a sound that ensured the happy death of you. Through hooded eyes, he taped you licking his finishes off the back of your hand and your fingers, a keen look of contentment placed upon your face.

“You’re not alone anymore, are you?”

Spencer nodded ‘no’, embarking on how you resembled Eris, spirit dripping of discord and nasty twists, yet headstrong enough to hold the both of you up. It was an infatuation; a dangerous one.

He rubbed circles into your thigh, the after effects of his orgasm making his head hazy, head stuck in the clouds. His long fingers inched closer to the waistband of your jeans, face confused when you gently directed them away.

“I just want to please you,” he mewled, pout evident.

“You already have.”

Spencer nodded, following your lead to drop it, a long sigh drawn out his peachy lips. His head tilted, almost as a puppy’s would, an epiphany settling in. His eyes became earnest, unable to tiptoe around the dark reality surrounding the two of you. To him it didn’t matter anyway, not anymore.

“You killed those men, didn’t you?”

“Who’s to say?” You raised your eyebrows, feigning innocence like a code, meant for Spencer to see right through.

“Right,” His shoulders dropped, body no longer tense. “My team... they’re wondering if you’re worth all the trouble.”

“Am I?”

Spencer’s lips rose north, resembling something that he hadn’t done for months. You watched, a bit hypnotized, lips swollen and skin sensitive to the touch.

“You are.”

When it became March, it was too late.

“The victim is male, mid 50s, his identity yet to be verified,”

Hotch watched the scene infront of him eerily silent.

“Body has several struggle adhesions, the tongue was severed from the mouth, as well as both hands. They’ve yet to be found— I’d say the body is about five days old.”

He’d last seen Spencer six days ago after he entered the passenger side of the familiar black car, windows just a bit tinted as he saw his torso reach across the center console, kissing who had been in the driver’s seat. He hadn’t asked where he planned to go.

Idle hands ; the devil’s workshop. Nothing good came from hurt.

masterlist

[himbodjarin]

LUNAR; CH12

18+ EXPLICIT Content: Unprotective sex, vaginal sex, oral sex (female receiving), cum eating, DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE UNDER 18. MANDO'A TRANSLATIONS AT THE END Chapter Word Count: 14,704 aah im sorry no im not Pairing: Din Djarin/F!Reader - no y/n

The Mandalorian is a driven warrior — traversing the galaxy in search of the ancient Jedi — but everyone has their weaknesses, and he’s no different. The Bounty Hunter possessed three in fact. One he’s discovered—The Child. The remaining two, though, he wasn’t aware of their existence. At least, not until he meets a valorous Sharpshooter underneath a moonless night sky; then he’s plummeting down a dark mission of self-discovery, questioning his morals and his Creed while the moon taunts him, the phases of the satellite corresponding to his personal revelations. However, the Girl has a dark past that may come to inflict hardships on the Mandalorian and the Child; it's up to the Bounty Hunter to decide her fate. Read on AO3 / Series Masterlist

CHAPTER TWELVE: LET ME SHOW YOU

“So about that break…”

One simple sentence is all it took for the two of them to silently agree to their departure of Tatooine and to seek refuge somewhere quiet, secluded and undisturbed by baleful bolts of shimmering reds. It escorts them to the moss-green planet bedecked by marshland and chirpy fauna—its atmosphere crisp and welcoming to that of Tatooine’s sand-choking airspace.

“So you’ve been here before?”

“Yes. There’s a village nearby. They took me in for some time.”

“So you’re thinking they’ll let us crash there for a while?”

There’s a click on the vambrace and the Razor Crest’s hatch closes behind the trio. “If all goes well. Are you sure you have everything? It’s a bit of a walk.”

A tap on a blaster holstered to her thigh, a finger trailing across a wrinkly green forehead, the faint touch on a steel pauldron. “Blaster, kid, Mandalorian. Check, check, and check.”

The Mandalorian chuckles and takes the lead through the woods, heading towards the unnamed village of Sorgan—its inhabitants surely awaiting his emergence the moment the Crest snapped through the atmosphere and swooped low among their needle-point rooftops. It’s selfish, he knows this, returning to the haven he once envisioned himself hunkering down at—having the opportunity of a joyful life, a family, a love—with a different woman matching his stride is destined for failure; for tension. It’s wishful thinking to pretend it’ll produce anything but, to pretend this could be normal.

Sorgan hadn’t changed one bit, except for the lack of invasive Klatoonations, thanks to yours truly. It’s still so green, so wet, so clean and fresh. Its air could regenerate the deflated lungs in his chest from decades-worth of smoke, dust, and discipline, its waters purify his blood, its pacifying ambience replace the void he reserved for quiet nights in space, its company fill

the vacancy between his arms—that last one wasn’t entirely Sorgan’s doing and he gazes at his companion treading alongside him, feet generously lifting over an undisturbed one-eyed aqua frog in her path.

He sighs and places the flat of his leather against the back of her shoulder. “I trust them, they’re good people, but my name can’t be spoken here.”

She twists her neck to look at him and dips her head in a nod. “I know that, Mando.”

Mando. A name that once sounded like shiny credits falling from the clouds now so bleak and rusted. It’s mere corroding steel in comparison to her moaning his name in such a broken voice it heats his abdomen and increases his blood flow. The Girl is like a spice, a strong dose of alluring desires that he’s incapable of acting upon—the inquisitive little alien in his care interfering with his white-knuckled primal impulses.

Idling in hyperspace, confined and carnal, with a toddler and the woman who made his knees weak, heart leap, fingers itch, was dangerous. There he was thinking the atmosphere back on Tatooine was tense; how wrong he was. If that was tense, this had been downright torturous. He could cut the tension with his vibroknife; reduce it to tiny physical pieces he could chew on and grind his enamel down to the gums.

Sorgan is their opportunity to explore their unspoken relationship further—to disassemble the barricade of panels in place and analyse the circuitry underneath. Mando downplays the increased pumping of his organ to himself, masquerading his excitement with faulty breathwork.

“I can take him,” Mando gently tugs on the rucksack strap situated across her shoulder, the child cooing at her hip. “Those slashes haven’t healed.”

“They’ve healed enough.”

He insists, “They reopened, you’re going to strain them with the weight. Let me carry him.”

The Girl grumbles under her breath and picks up her pace, tenacious to prove she’s more than capable to carry the toddler despite the ache the satchel strap is producing; burrowing its residency in the pads of her shoulders. The Mandalorian remains at his tempo, allowing her the distance she incessantly pursues. “Atin,” he breathes.

Their shared moment back in the abandoned cantina seemingly sectors away—so out of reach and untouched it almost never occurred.

All though there had been times, dead in the middle of hyperspace when the kid was napping in his hammock, where the Girl would join him in the cockpit to share a few soft spoken words and purposeful touches he couldn’t begin to dissect. The sensations of her hands running along his shoulders still so crystal in his mind, her knuckles brushing against his cowl as he’d tip the helmet back against the headrest simply to get a little glimpse of her. She knew what she was doing when she’d administer feathery kisses against the surface of his visor—sheer seduction on her part—and it took all of his fizzling restraint not to bend her over the controls and fuck her until her thighs are burning, calves trembling, her skin star-kissed.

Believe him, he’d imagined it. On many occasions in fact. He’s pictured taking her anywhere and everywhere—against the walls, on the floor, in his bunk—but nothing, nothing, was more appealing than the thought of having her in his lap in the pilot’s seat, her back smooshing the buttons of the navigational controls until the Crest whined in agony.

Needless to say, the circumstances didn’t allow the rise for many opportunities; the kid often waking the moment his glove makes contact with her. Mando had to settle for small glances here-and-there, the occasional stroke of her arm as she passed.

But he needs more—needs her.

The Girl is an additive through and through—functioning as a pricey flask of spotchka sedating his muscles and justification and in exchange stimulating his appetite for her; flesh, muscle, tissue, whatever his nails could dig themselves into he wanted.

Mando’s teeth grit together and his eyes scan her back ahead of him, nursing the heavy eyelids on the curve below. The cockpit had been too electric, the recycled air too thick with his desperation; the projection of the Girl naked—because he knew what that looked like now—never far from his mind. But he hadn’t seen her bare from behind; a view he can only imagine - for now.

A throaty grunt slips past his lips as he stumbles on a grounded root in his trance. She doesn’t notice, thankfully, but the Child’s peering eyes stare straight past the visor as though he could sense the disgrace radiating off his guardian, his eyes squinting. He tenses his shoulders in embarrassment and joins the Girl as she slows to a halt on the village’s border outskirts.

“This it?” she asks, shifting the satchel to the opposite hip between herself and Mando, shielding the kid from potential threats.

“It is,” he confirms.

Their heads twist in unison, observing the environment laid out before them; high-spirited and brimming with energy. In the distance children run through riskless fields playing a game of tag, adults conversing and labouring the krill ponds, the croaking of frogs echoing around their feet. Subdued and isolated from all the destruction—preserved from everything they are down to their cores.

The Girl hums and fiddles with the strap slung across her chest. “I don’t want to intrude. They look…”

“Happy.”

She’s concerned for the villager’s safety, as is he—jeopardy seemingly overhanging them like an aura; tethered and indestructible. Returning without a notice felt deplorable to the Mandalorian’s morals as though he was trespassing on their sanctuary and sabotaging their chance at true tranquillity.

Shuffling beside him reminds him why he’s here, why he chose Sorgan rather than any other planet in the Outer Rim with a half-decent field. Mando wags a gloved digit ahead of the Child and anticipates his claws to latch onto the leather, tug and whine until he’s content in his beskar, but not even a grunt of acknowledgement slips through his lips.

Mando huffs a deep exhale and returns his hand to his belt, hooking his thumb in the centre and taking the lead. “Let’s go,” he directs.

The Girl adheres to his side, elbows brushing with each swing of their arm, their footwork synchronised as they cross a narrow mound of land between two krill ponds—the vibrant blue critters easily perceptible with his visor’s enhanced vision. She shrinks her shoulders inwards as the path withers to his wingspan—too binary to admit defeat against Sorgan’s elements and saunter behind—her feet sliding against the bank, but Mando’s reflexes are sharp and he snakes a hand around her waist before she tumbles off the edge.

She straightens herself out, checks on the baby, and exudes an embarrassed smile. “Thank you.”

Mando grins and shrugs his shoulders nonchalantly. “Couldn’t let the kid fall in.”

“Oh, that’s how it is, is it?” Her eyebrow cocks and eyes squint. “What about me, huh?”

“Wouldn’t want him stirring up a disturbance, would we? We need to make a good impression,” he teases. “Besides, you’re a big girl, you’d be fine.”

“Sleemo,” she insults lightheartedly, placing a firm palm against his pauldron and shoves—not so lightheartedly. Mando’s smile falters as his boots lose their traction in the slippery, squelching mud. Descent incoming, he reaches out for the Girl’s arm but stops himself at the reminder of the baby attached to her hip; her own personal lifeboat.

If he wasn’t so cautious for the Child’s current state he’d clasp her wrist and force her to take the brunt of her actions, instead, he accepts his fate and collapses into the krill pond—the water soars higher than the village’s roofings with the added weight of beskar, the sloshing reverberating and drawing the inhabitants attention their way.

Mando finds his footing in the waist-deep waters, hands on his hips as droplets streak down his armour, the over-absorbed fabric of his flight suit clinging to his muscles. There’s dark brown coagulated mud muting his shiny beskar, plastering the warring steel with Sorgan’s serene elements.

“Think you’re so funny, don’t you?” he questions, head tilting.

She bellows just as loud as the initial crash, her gasped amusement echoing among the hushed quiet; the villagers watching from afar. “You’re a big boy, you’ll be fine,” she mocks. “Funny. I don’t hear much commentary coming from you now.”

“I could’ve drowned.”

She jabs an eyebrow upwards and gestures to the water level. “That’d be very embarrassing.”

He grumbles with feigned anger, splashing her lower-half with a mischievous thrust of his hand.

“Oi, watch the kid!”

The Child’s ears perk down at his guardian submerged in the filthy waters, a soft tight-lipped grin donning his face in replacement of the frown he’d been suiting prior—Mando’s muscles lax, his stoic demeanour withering away.

This was good. Right. Both the kid and the Girl deserve to reside in a haven like this, somewhere they don’t need to look over their shoulders—somewhere blasters can retire from holsters.

Miniscule cobalt crustaceans summon up the courage to investigate the intrusive limbs in their occupancy, grasping against the fabric of his flight suit and scrambling underneath the rim of his beskar cuisses. Mando attempts to shake off the meddlesome critters but they’re persistent in driving him away; the Girl steps forwards to aid him out of the waters—after she’d finished laughing so hard tears were brewing in the corners of her eyes—but stammers in her footing as a shadow casts over him from beside her.

She instinctively reaches for her blaster’s hilt and shields the Child, but a delicate hand outstretches for Mando below and she carefully drops her hand, clenches it beside her in doubt. Mando inclines his helmet to follow the hand, travelling up the grey fabric of their tunic and settling on the familiar kind hearted brown eyes welcoming him to the village without needing to speak the words.

He nods as thanks and slips his leather into her hand, hoisting himself to the ground with a boot in the bank for stability. Mando humorously nudges the Girl enough for her to panic and seize his elbow for safety—his vocoders unable to catch the light chuckle in his throat but she feels the tremors in his limb and playfully slaps his bicep.

“It’s good to see you again,” Omera says, a bright smile as she eyes him up and down. “I see you’ve made yourself a friend.”

“Yes.” Mando glances at the Girl beside him, tucked into his side plenty that she looked tiny. “I hope we’re not intruding, we-”

She interrupts him, shaking her head and gesturing behind her to the gathering inhabitants. “The community will forever be grateful for your endeavours. Stay as long as you like—we’ve established additional lodges since you were here. Take your pick.”

“That’s very thoughtful. Thank you.” Mando follows after Omera, irrigating the grass in his wake, and the Girl stealths behind him so she’s unseen from the watching eyes; his beskar performing as her protection. She engrosses herself with the ball of abrupt energy fighting against the confines of his satchel, his claws eagerly tearing at the fabric to rid himself.

The villagers have queued themselves along the banks of the krill ponds, distanced enough for their visitors to pass through without bumping shoulders but close to exchange friendly greetings—welcome back’s and thank you’s—their proximity allowing them the opportunity to examine the Mandalorian’s new partner on the heels of his boots, her eyes cast down in an attempt to stave off unwanted attention though it does very little.

Omera stops short of the newly-installed structures, three identical huts to match with the theme of the others strewn throughout their lands and Mando, not being one to concern himself with impractical decisions, chooses the first one his eyes lay on; his hand vaguely gesturing to the open door of the middle hut.

Omera nods her head and orders a flock of children to prepare their quarters. “We can organise your friend next door.” She flicks her attention past his shoulder and he follows, acknowledging how stiff the Girl looked as though she could be blown over with a docile breeze; her eyes silently pleading to him through his visor.

It’s unusual looking at her this way, as though he’s violating her with just his eyes. She’s typically so snarky and talkative, but her lips are bonded together and her eyes bounce from his visor to the speculative crowd; nervous and uncomfortable.

She assures, “You’ll only be a few metres away from each other.”

Mando has no intentions of letting her occupy a separate hut, not after he’s been so distanced from her all this time. “That’s okay. We don’t want to take up more space than necessary.” The Girl relaxes somewhat, shoulders flaccid, and her hands return to fight against the Child’s tantrum.

He notes how the villagers share some questioning glances towards each other, their prying prompting an unsettling weight on his shoulders—Omera shares a hasty gander between the two of her visitors as if assembling a deconstructed blaster from scratch, gears turning in her head.

It’s too much attention for him—too much visibility for a Mandalorian clad in ancient shiny Beskar steel.

His shoulders tense, his fingers flex into fists; they know, they have to know.

His throat bobs underneath his cowl, mouth dry and cheeks warm, though he’s learnt to conceal it through his mannerisms—the constant tension between him and the Girl training him over time—he remains stoic, statuelike, displaying no visible signs of confirmation to their silent queries.

It’s none of their business; nobody’s other than him and the Girl’s.

“If that’s what you wish,” Omera breaks the silence. “I’ll leave you to situate yourselves.”

Mando inhales sharply and nods his head, walking past her to their new residency. The cluster of children straighten upon his arrival, organising themselves in a single file to allow their guest to investigate their work. It’s a small cabin, less spacious than the barn he occupied last time but more secluded—the windows sturdy and the door possessing a lock—with a bed fit for three in the far-end of the walls; it’s been too long since he’s slept on a mattress, too long since he’s been allowed the privilege of stretching his limbs rather than compact them.

Alongside a comfortable mattress comes the Girl’s warmth as they’ll indeed be sharing a bed. Mando will make certain of that.

There’s hushed whispers behind him, helm capturing some of their words—baby, ask, play—and he redirects his vision to the rucksack resting among the Girl’s hip, the children bursting with excitement at the sight of their playmate. He’s just as psyched as they are, his little claws outstretching for Winta in the middle of the group.

“It’s okay.” Mando nods his head towards the children. “He can play.”

The Girl nods and transfers the kid to the floorboards carefully, stepping out of the stampede of children excitedly taking themselves outside.

Tarrying presences now gone, the Girl joins him in the examination of their cabin. “Good thing the Crest isn’t far,” she jokes.

“It’s not that bad.” Mando twists his body to follow her, pauldrons clashing into her harshly. “I suppose it could be a little bigger.”

“Or you could be a little smaller, tin-man.”

He cocks his head to the side, visor leering. “You’re looking for trouble today.”

“Oh, am I?”

“Yes,” he grumbles in his throat, sweeping his vambraces around her to hug her arms against her sides. “You are.”

She struggles against his grip, well aware of her impending justice, but he’s too sturdy—too determined to seek revenge. “Don’t,” she warns.

Mando simply smiles, a large toothy grin that makes his eyes crinkle.

What little gap remained between them abruptly narrows as Mando compresses his build into her, squeezing out the krill water from his flight suit and into her garments. Beskar wipes itself clean on her shirt, caking the textile with heavy mounds of sludge.

“Mando!” she gasps and rolls her shoulders back in false hope it’ll aid her escape. “I don’t have a change of clothes!”

He chuckles, deep and throaty that makes his shoulders bounce. “Neither do I, but you didn’t think of that when you pushed me in,” he growls, the vocoder filtering the sound as a crackle that reverberates in the structure and through her bones; she shudders, her shoulders and chest twitching against him—his blood pumps hot.

“I was doing you a favour. When was the last time you hit the ‘fresher?”

“Need I remind you I have you trapped, mesh’la?” Mando presses the curvature of his helmet against her cheek and rubs the excess droplets onto any surface area he can manage, her cheeks, forehead, jaw, staining the pretty skin she’d been blessed with.

She tries to disguise her laughter with anger, but it comes out through her voice—light and airy; Mando hums at the delightful sound, like a lullaby to his ears. “Okay, okay. You win!”

Unwilling to wrench his grip from around her, he continues pressing himself against her and inches forwards until her back is flat against a pillar—his vambraces slipping around sandwich her between two sturdy foundations, one of splintered log and the other a living, breathing tower of a man coated head to toe in steel.

He’s breathing hard, filters whistling with each exhale.

“Mando--” she purrs, teeth nibbling at the soft insides of her lips.

Eyes bore into the cushiony flesh, his tongue swiping across his own in the thought of them against him. Soft and warm—he knew that much when they were around him—but that’s as far as his understanding reached; were they gentle and sweet or rough and hungry?

Would they be addicting, like every other part of her, or simply satisfying; something to pluck as a treat here-and-there?

He grunts and squeezes his vambraces against the wood, his chest following suit against her. “We’re alone,” he murmurs, head tilting to the side as if to silently voice his thoughts.

She’s not as convinced, searching the cabin for eyes infused into the walls, the floors.

“Mesh’la, it’s safe.”

Her head twists to the entrance, a rush of heat tagging her cheeks in soft hues of pinks. She quietly squeaks, “The doors open.”

“Nobody is looking.”

He’s pushing boundaries he put in place decades ago; parading around a relationship—or whatever this is—like some big achievement, which, to be frank, was pretty extraordinary for the Mandalorian. Flings and casual partners—sure—they weren’t feats but this...He’s never encountered someone so remarkable, so special, so necessary; she’s squirmed herself into his life and now she won’t ever be able to leave without causing a disturbance in his lifestyle. He needs her.

She composes herself at his odd comment and brashly collects a batch of his cowl between her teeth to tug him closer—arms still inoperable against her—and uses the newfound angle to assault his neck with a tauntingly hot breath.

“Clean yourself up first,” she tempts. “You’re grimy.”

“To be fair,” he grumbles, “I don’t recall you having a chance at the refresher in a while.”

She pulls away, eyes squinting at him. “Tread on your words very carefully here, Mando.”

He chuckles and loosens his grip moderately. “I mean—you could join me.”

Mando’s growing confident—too confident, it’s the first signs he’s setting himself up for disappointment—and he slides his hands from the pillar to the curves of her hips, his leathers slipping underneath the oversized shirt to explore the bare flesh; her torso being the only place he hadn’t been given the pleasure of researching—all the chalky scar tissue, the slopes of her abdomen, the contours of her chest.

Pair that with the suds of soap cloaking her skin, her hair, it’s every man’s dream to be the one to apply it to a woman, to feel and pull on slippery skin in such a personal way—to scrub her spic-and-span only to ruin her until she needs another.

“Join you,” she repeats mulling for a moment but she shakes her head with rejection. “That’s too conspicuous.”

She doesn’t voice her concerns regarding his helmet—how in the hell do you clean yourself with me there?—and he himself is uncertain, he just knows he wants to be the one to wash the grime off her. He’ll fix himself up after he’s tended to her, if need be.

“Everybody already has their suspicions.”

She sighs. “Guess I wasn’t very discreet earlier, huh?”

“No,” he confirms, his digits stroking leisurely lines to-and-fro. “you weren’t. What happened? I’ve never seen you look so uncomfortable.”

“I...don’t do well with crowds.” She casts her eyes between their feet, examining the size difference of their boots. Mando removes himself from her to allow her to breathe, to continue without feeling pressured. “That face mask I wore… It was a layer of me. It helped me deal with spying eyes. When Tika destroyed it, I dunno, I guess a piece of myself died with it. It-it doesn’t make sense.”

You’re talking to the expert of masks, he thinks.

“I understand.” he says. “It mustn’t be easy having to deal with the lack of something so integral.”

Mando has yet to experience that fear—that overwhelming sensation of uneasiness; people’s eyes so effortlessly studying him without the disguise of his armour to protect him—it’s something he’s appreciative of everyday.

She sighs, hot and heavy and laced with exhaustion. “Well, life continues either way and I can’t exactly hide away here forever.” She initiates a stare-down with the ajar door, scanning the wilderness that reached her vision; a couple of women standing among the pond waters scooping for krill, a pair of children on the banks assisting with their catch. “I’m not one for fishing but I guess I should help out a little, as thanks.”

He grunts as a reply, lacking the confidence to trust his voice—stay here, stay with me—and lamely takes a few steps back, assigning his amban rifle to a nearby flat surface, some storage units, and sinks to a rustic chair.

She considers him, eyes bouncing from his helmet to his lap where his cloak is pulled between his hands. Mando rings out the sopped material, murky water seeking refuge in the crevices of floorboards.

“You’re making a mess.”

“I need to dry,” he retorts.

“Take it off,” she says.

Mando’s shoulders stiffen, his back straightens. “I can’t.”

“I won’t look.” The Girl turns on the heels of her feet and shuts the door ahead of her, casting the room into darkness except for the timid rays of sunlight shining through the narrow gaps of the window—not enough for somebody outside to see, but plenty for him to undress himself without a hassle. “Just put in my hand when you’re done. I’ll find somewhere sunny to hang it up - shouldn’t take too long to dry in this heat.”

There’s no movement on either of their sides, their hut as though it was in suspended animation or the Crest on one it’s many malfunctions just idling in the vastness. She shifts on her feet restlessly in wait for the sodden garments to weigh her hand down.

“What, so I just sit here until it’s dry?”

She shrugs her shoulders. “Unless you want to walk around the village naked with a helmet on, yeah.”

Mando grumbles under his breath. It’s not really a choice. It’s not as though he can just remain drenched all day until the air inevitably dries him off. Still, it’s not easy to remove himself from his armour somewhere other than the Crest; it provided security, a reassurance that nobody will see him so exposed.

Both boots are dismissed from their positions and come to lay rest beside the chair while he works on the beskar platings riddling his body—the steel branded to protect him now nothing more than a nuisance as it resists against his efforts and continues to cling to the suit against his wishes. They’re slippery and contain no traction on behalf of the clumpy muck, his leathers sliding out from underneath each time. It’s like a suction seal against his chest, inconceivable of success, but he’s just as stubborn and lures the rim underneath a stitch of his glove and plucks the guard off harshly.

One down, too many more to go.

The other platings put up just as much of a fight as the first but, with a few tugs, they withdraw from his body and reside on the ground alongside his boots. He’s practically naked without his beskar—the air light and crisp as he breathes without the weight—practically naked in front of the Girl. It’s the most he’s been so revealing and, even though she’s not looking at him, his cheeks grow warm, his stomach pulled taut.

He dabbles in intolerable concepts—thoughts he shouldn’t act on for the sake of his Honour, his Creed—the overwhelming suggestion of standing behind her and letting her feel his bare heat radiate off in potent waves; like a strong glass of spotchka, irresistible but ultimately an unhealthy decision.

There’s a deep shudder that runs through the base of his neck down to his coccyx, goosebumps brandishing him and refrigerating him far greater than the krill waters could. Underneath his helmet, he casts his eyes low to devour the curves and slopes of the Girl’s body, his teeth grinding against each other until there’s an ache in his temples.

His Beskar is gone, solely a clump of shiny steel that serves as a warning of what he could be throwing away—everything he’s risked his life for, everything he’s spent decades consuming, altering his physical attributes to suit that of a stoic, emotionless pillar of flesh and bone fortified with not just his armour but his code. His faith.

The Girl precariously shifts between either foot and cocks her hip out, sighing dramatically that pulls his thoughts back into the present.

“Patience,” he instructs.

The air is thick, hot, or maybe it was just him—his filters rendering inoperable when confronted with the foreign bashfulness; it’s not often he encounters such a outlandish emotion, so unknown and disorienting, and it’s quite possibly the worst fucking issue he’s faced with. There’s no shooting or piloting his way out of it and his brain only works in a handful of matters at a time—none of which included addressing the electricity in his chest, the bubbling in his stomach, the clenched muscles throughout his anatomy.

The Mandalorian—if he could still be considered a Mandalorian without his armour, his essence—stands, prompting a squelch from the pool of water he formed underneath, and reaches around his neck to unclasp the heap of his cloak; it’s nothing new, she’s seen him without it before. The shirt is a different story. That’s new. That’s untouched boundaries. His build is infrequently subjected to the perched star in the clouds let alone another lifeform.

Fingers dip underneath the hem of his shirt and bundles the material, his second knuckles sweeping against his abdomen that leaves his jaw tight. That famished growling in his chest is utterly pathetic—his own touches manage to provoke such a humiliating reaction, he could only fathom what the Girl would do to him with those soft hands of hers, her gentleness as she nurses the bruises with her thumbs.

Mando hoists the shirt over his head and slips free from the sleeves and drops it to the floor with a displeasing schlup and neglects the choking in his throat, the rise of his heart rate. Are your eyes closed, he seeks answers to voiceless questions, or are you staring at wood, counting the twigs? Why aren’t you looking at me? There’s another sigh that fills the quiet, whether it’s from her or himself is uncertain; his heart is pleading for a moment’s break.

It doesn’t come.

Next is his trousers—something she had seen before, but under different circumstances, totally contrasting. Perhaps it was all that Tatooine heat that got to them or the severity of the events catching up—Mando nearly dying, nearly stranding her and the kid—that caused them to collide with desperation, their hands working at whatever little article of clothing they could eliminate from the equation to feel each others warmth; the indication they were both alive, safe.

Mando takes pity on her restlessness and forces his reflections to the dark recesses of his mind for later, stripping out of the trousers adhered to his thighs, his calves, noting how the temperate air licks his legs dry. It’s too exposing, too public for his comfort, and he swiftly bundles the cot’s blanket around his shoulders to conceal himself from eyes that weren’t even aimed at him. She wouldn’t go undermining the trust they’ve built, but it’s his Honour, his code—at least that’s what he tells himself.

The Mandalorian tells himself he’s weary because that’s how he was brought up, he was trained to be cautious. To prohibit connections that’d tie him down and crush what little valour remained within him.

He ignores the pestering inkling at the back of his brain telling him that’s not why he’s so high-strung.

There’s scars tainting his flesh, painting the tan skin in slithers of off-whites, bruises on his knees and shins, thick callus paddings on his fingertips. He can’t help but imagine what the Girl might say if she saw him so bruised, so broken. Would she still want to touch him, or is it the shiny beskar that allures her—a mere status symbol.

Securing the blanket around his frame, Mando shimmys a hand out between the folds and grabs the pile of drenched cloth, striding across the room in three steps and gingerly placing it in the Girl’s outstretched palm.

“Is that all?” she asks, her fingers tightening around the stack of black. “I won’t be able to come back for more.”

Mando swallows, his throat bobbing against the air rather than his cowl; it’s such a bizarre situation, being so bare before the woman he struggles to contain himself around, his thoughts jumbled in his head—turn around, please don’t turn around—and he finds the strength to back away from her. “That’s all.”

She won’t—turn, that is—it’s too overbearing, too unlike her. No matter how easy it could be for her to witness him so vulnerable, so human-like, she won’t fiddle with the bindings of their mutual loyalties. Won’t stick her hand in the wet duracrete because she knows it’ll leave a permanent mark, a stamp of her backstabbery.

“All right.” She inches backwards so she can open the door ahead of her. “You out of sight?”

“Yes.”

She nods, her fingers wrapping around the handle and twisting but it stays firmly against the frame. “Get some rest. I know you didn’t sleep on the way here. I’ll get these tended to and then you can hit the ‘fresher.” She opens the door and takes a step outside. “Don’t forget to lock it.”

He watches her leave, observes how the sun swallows her in a breathtaking glow, watches the room be cast into darkness once more—isolating him from the outside; if it’s not beskar or the Crest, there’s always something between him and the natural beauty of the planets he frequents.

The sonic detectors pick up her departing footsteps, light and reluctant, until her boots make contact with the grass, dulling their resonance until he’s left with the laughter of children and hushed gossip concerning himself. He sighs, clicks the lock into place and precariously removes his helmet—cold, dirty with mud and silence leering through him. It’s insides are comforting, a shelter he’s incomplete without, but it’s exterior is the polar opposite; sinister, an insignia for his kind to instill fear into their enemies—the Girl never displaying that trepidation he’s so accustomed to.

Mando is endowed with the sight of the Girl’s beauty, how her eyes crinkle when she smiles or how she chews on her lower lip when in thought, her hands never static for more than a minute at a time, there’s not a detail in his sight he hasn’t engraved into the forefront of his mind.

She’s not as fortunate as him, stranded in the cold surrounded by steel rather than warm skin, unable to pursue the comfort of another without the constant reminder that he can never provide her with anything more than a slab of metal servicing as her shield. And yet, despite those factors, she remains beside him—voluntarily puts herself between him and danger—looking past the visor, all the walls he put in place, and into his eyes.

The helmet expires atop of the chair he’d been seated on, positioned away from him as he sinks his weight onto the mattress—bouncy and cottony, feeding his aching muscles with some much needed attention. For the first time ever, the bed is too large, too empty—she should be here.

Mando’s head stoops against the bundle of organised pillows, cushioning the healing wound underneath the thick of his curls. Curls her fingers nursed. He groans, deep that resonates through his chest, and distorts his head towards the door in wait for her return, his eyelids heavy as they fall shut.

Sleep doesn’t come to him easily in territories he’s been deprived of conquering; the nooks and crannies of each aisle between the huts unaccounted for, the instability of wooden walls establishing minimal security. It’s not optimal in contrast to his Crest but it works enough to achieve a couple hours of sleep. When he wakes, the orange tint leaking through the cabin has evolved into a blend of soft pinks and purples that blush against his tan skin as he paces the room, the blanket wrapped around his build dragging along the flooring with each lengthy stride.

He’d discovered a small refresher deposit in the shack and decided to clean himself up best he could—despite his hormones advocating against the idea, begging for him to wait it out until the Girl returns and he can share the space with her—which now leaves him stranded with his thoughts. A dangerous game he’s not prepared to dabble in presently. Fortuitously enough, he doesn’t need to—a steady knock on the hut’s door pulls him from his thoughts.

“I’ve brought your clothes,” Omera says from the outside, Mando quietly hums to himself and slips his helmet on before speaking.

“Thank you,” the vocoder crackles to life.

“I’ll leave it at the door for you to recollect.”

Mando enables his thermal vision, outlining her body through the door as she bends down to place the garments at the foot of the entrance and turns away for him to steal them. He does so, swiftly and with such minimal sound she doesn’t hear the door open or close behind her.

She’s unmoving, her hands clasped behind her back in patience for him to dress himself.

Assuming she wishes to commune about their sudden arrival, Mando doesn’t leave her waiting long—the flight suit smelling of soap and hugging his muscles with a pleasant residual warmth from the sunshine, his beskar, boots, gloves, and cloak following suit; electing to disregard his bandolier and holsters.

He’s not as hesitant to make noise now that he’s back to donning his layers and widely swings the door open indicating his decency. Omera turns to face him, her eyes casting over his clean clothes and offering a smile. “I was wondering if you’d like to take a walk before nightfall,” she asks, gesturing to the stairs below. “It would be nice to catch up with you. It’s been a while.”

“Where’s-”

“She’s out in the ponds with our finest catchers and your boy is with Winta and the other children.”

Mando doesn’t object against her proposal. Perhaps it’ll do him some good to get some fresh air, to clear his thoughts of the Girl, the wavering uneasiness of his Creed.

They leisurely stroll beside each other following the gravel paths of the village, the sinking sun ricocheting off the front of his helmet as they draw nearer.

“The ponds, huh?” Mando thinks aloud.

She chuckles. “Quite talented at fishing at that. She’s made a name for herself. We can swing by on our way, if you’d like.”

He faintly nods, his helmet inclining to the path as he walks. “Has the village encountered any issues recently?”

“You mean the raiders? They’ve kept their distance and the villagers know how to fight if that changes.”

“And what of you?” Mando asks. “How have you been? Winta?”

“Better, because of you, thank you,” she says, her feet coming to a halt among a cluster of krill ponds. They’re all empty, the inhabitants packing up for the remainder of the night, though his eyes land on the Girl in the distance. She’s switched her tarnished trousers and shirt for a village dress, hitched up to her mid-thigh as she dries the limbs coated in krill water.

The Mandalorian’s stomach contracts, his throat narrowing as he rakes in the image—the fluidity of the material in the wind, her skin lambent from the sunrays, the unclothed legs tormenting his self control. She hasn’t detected his prying, too concentrated on communing with a flock of women thanking her for the assistance.

It’s almost...domestic; Mando can imagine them settling down in a place like this, rough hands that manipulate blasters and spacecraft dedicating themselves to lenient chores like a regular townsman. Gummy blood that sticks to his leathers washing away in a tranquil stream. Their nights spent witnessing the stars emerge from the vastness of the sky above.

The weight on his vambrace suffocates his daydreaming with grungy splotches of soil and he reluctantly returns his attention to Omera, who’s studying his inattentive stance.

“The offer still stands.”

“Offer?” he asks.

“To settle down here with your boy.” The bothersome weight snakes along his beskar and to the thick of his flight suit, her fingers working their way into the strained bicep. She lowers her voice to a dainty murmur, “There must be a reason for your return.”

The weight on his arm is unnatural, forced—so unlike the unfiltered gentleness of the Girl’s—he refrains from shrugging her off, not wanting to appear ungrateful for her hospitality, but it’s like venom seeping into his veins and numbing him from the inside.

Their little game of tooka-and-womp-rat from the last time he was here starting to catch up with him; this is what he was afraid of. She’s a kind woman, she’s great with kids and can handle her own, but she’s not the Girl. She’s not who he wants to see right now.

“You like it here, don’t you?”

“It’s-it’s not an option. We can’t stay still for long.”

“It’s safe here.” Fingers dig in, feet inch closer, eyes dusky.

Mando finally pulls away, unsettled, and shakes his head. “The Child is still being hunted by the Guild. We may only last a few days here before needing to move on. They need a break, is all.” He shies from mentioning he requires a break as much as them; the Girl’s initial idea stimulating the selfish desires that influenced his return. “We’ll be out of your hair before you know it.”

Omera’s eyes stall downwards, her hands clasping together ahead of her. “I understand,” she says. “Since you’re on a break, how about I take in your boy for the night? It’ll allow you some rest and I’m not sure if I can separate Winta from him.”

“I don’t think-”

“We’re only a few huts down from you,” she reassures.

It’s not that he doesn’t trust Omera, she’s demonstrated her loyalties before, but they’ve spent so much time apart since Tatooine. What happens if the kid latches onto someone and Mando can’t stomach meddling with their bonding? What happens if he no longer wishes to journey with him? The Mandalorian is responsible for him—he can’t just abandon him, but who’s he to insert himself in places he doesn’t belong?

Then again, devoting time to other children his age—well, about as close they’ll reach to his age—could be beneficial; it’s one of the reasons why he had chosen Sorgan.

Mando exhales and seats his hands on his hips. “Okay, but if he’s too much to handle let me know.”

“Of course,” she whispers, clasping a hand on his tricep as she passes him, the burden slinking down his elbow until he’s too far from her reach and it falls away. He cranes his head to look behind as she strides back towards the village, his eyebrows crinkling as he studies her.

“You two are real chummy,” the Girl says from ahead of him, brushing her shoulder against his pauldron as she continues towards their shared hut. He releases a grunt as he’s pushed out of her way, the confusion inscribed into his brows only multiplying—what the fuck is happening?

“Hey.” Mando stalks her, towering and threatening that induces the locals to pitiful onlookers, silently wishing the Girl her best as she enters the hut with him not far behind, the door slapping closed. “What’s gotten into you?”

The Girl scoffs and shakes her head with disbelief, her hands working at the fastenings of her dress to loosen it from around her thighs, framing her legs in wrinkled tapestry. “Me? You’re the one changing around all your little rules you put in place. Should’ve seen the two of you out there. What happened to privacy?”

His legs don’t operate with his wishes, the boots cemented in a debating stance with his arms crossed against his chest. “What are you talking about?” the vocoders buzz.

Baring her teeth like a tooka, she hisses, “She likes you.”

She likes you—he mulls it over, sifting through the dust for the underlying meaning—do you like her?

Mando’s muscles sag and his feet bound across the room to near her, needing her warmth; needing her. He can’t believe she’s skeptical of their connection. He can’t believe she’s doubting how he feels. It burns him. Leaves a searing scar where his heart belongs.

He wants to reach out for her, feel her pliable tissue underneath his gloves, but there’s a meek hesitance; a miniscule drops-worth of concern he’ll incur further stings that eat at his flesh.

“I--”

“Turn around.”

He tilts his head. “Why?”

“Need to get out of this stupid dress.”

Does she not realise what it’s doing to him?

How his fingers are clenched into fists against his sides. How his breathing is heavier. How his shoulders are hunched and his head is preoccupied with images of that blasted skirt hitched up to her thighs with him between them. Does she not see that?

“Keep it on.”

It’s almost an order. Almost.

“It’s hers,” she spits.

Oh. That makes sense.

“I get it, all right. I don’t...have you, Mando. I’m not allowed to-to be jealous when another woman touches you, but—” She unzips the top unconcerned of his peeping, furious and desperate to rid herself of the confining garment. “I won’t wear her clothes. I won’t dress up as another one of your flings. That’s - that’s…”

Mando’s features soften, his fists unclenching, shoulders slacking, and—wait. Back up. Is she that clueless?

He carries his feet towards her, heavy and laden with purpose.

“You’re wrong.”

“What?”

“You’re wrong, mesh’la,” he repeats. Another step.

She’s no longer concerned with the dress, the fabric that once felt like acid against her skin now nothing more than the means of coverage. The Mandalorian isn’t radiating any expressions that she’s learnt to pick up on—he’s completely unreadable.

“About what?”

“I don’t have you,” he recites. “That’s what you said.”

The Girl’s quiet, too quiet, as she stares him down. There’s a falter in her movements as she recedes from her own nerves reflecting off beskar. Finally, ever so slowly, she breathes out another, “What?”

His modulator thrums, his boots clink, his flight suit rustles. Their radius is shortened, Mando’s beskar brushing against the material of her dress as he closes her in like he did before. His leathers stroke against her cheek, bulky and unsatisfying; preventing him from the intimacy he seeks. It’s not fair. He can’t remain like this—so quarantined from her, so fucking removed.

There’s no thinking, no self-interrogating, as his hands fumble against the beskar plate strapped to his chest in haste—concerned that if he slows down even a second he’ll lose the confidence building up inside him—his fingers curl underneath the boundary and tears the steel off his build, clanking to the flooring beside them. The impact causes her to jump, her eyes widen as she inspects the vacant space of his torso.

“Your Creed,” she whispers.

Seizing her hand in his, he compresses it against his pectoral and breathes in deep—lungs inflating against the appendage, his heart stammering at the unacquainted sensations of her nails digging into the flesh underneath. Inconsistent palpitating of his organ travels from the surface of his chest, through her fingertips and to her core, tightening and coiling as her own beating soars to unhealthy speeds.

It’s an adrenaline rush in itself, her fingers so temperate and alive abutting his dense suit—he conceptualises them slithering underneath to nurse the ache of his organ.

He’s not afraid of being burned. He told her that back on Tatooine and he fucking meant it.

Mando is durable; he can take a few burns if need be.

“You make me do foolish things, mesh’la.” The beskar slides across the room with a kick of his boot and he takes another step closer, her back forced against the walls of their dinky cabin. A gloved forefinger hooks the thread perched among her neck and lifts, the steel pendant revealing itself from beneath the top of her dress and he rubs a comforting stroke on the face of the skull. “This is the only part of me I never removed.”

Her face is hot, her lungs heavy. She’s listening, though she makes no effort in concealing how her fingers insistently grasp at his shirt to develop an understanding of the unfamiliar territory.There’s a gentle squeeze across the back of her hand and she tears her eyes away to glance at the visor, tilted and lenient. “This-” He absentmindedly fidgets with the necklace. “-means more to me than my beskar. It was a...beacon of light, hope. It was my compass when I lost myself in my commissions—reminded me of why I chose this life, why I chose to isolate myself—I’m not sure if I need it anymore.” He hopes he’s exhibiting the connotation inside his head as successfully as he believes—I don’t need it when I have you and you have me.

“Mando…” she exhales.

He chews on the gums of his cheeks, his lips, until they’re sore and tender.

“Not -- not good with words,” he confesses, his thumb massaging circles into her cheekbones. “Let me show you.”

Her head angles to the side in consideration. “Show me?”

It’s not an exact approval of his request but it’s enough for him to act—enough for him to demonstrate his devotion to the Girl—and he sinks his hands behind her thighs and hoists them around his waist, pressing his chest into her for stability against the wall. Her hands find their place on his pauldrons, quizzing eyes searching his visor for assurance. Baffling, how she’s so precarious for his Honour’s sake despite him being the initiator; his toes absorb his weight as he lifts himself to insert the face of his helmet into the crook of her neck, his modulator eliciting a grunt as his arousal awakens and rubs against the bottom of her thighs.

“Tell me to stop and I will.”

She doesn’t—Thank the Force, as Peli would say—and he transitions them to the cot, her legs tightening around him with each step he takes. He deposits her onto the mattress on her back with his body hunched over hers, though his feet refuse to tear from the floor, either hand on the cushions beside her head.

“Take it off.”

She doesn’t need a stupid dress for him to look at her that way.

The Girl whirs melodically like a comforting warble from his Crest welcoming him home and she carefully slips her limbs from his shoulders down his chest and out from their sleeves, the dress supported by nothing but gravity and her fingers bundle the skirt, impishly stripping the garment inch by slow inch.

Mando rids himself of his gloves, hell-bent on pursuing the pillowy flesh and engraving his fingerprints. Her stripping wavers at her abdomen and he takes the opportunity to slip the rough pads of his hands along the tops of her thighs to beneath the cloth, fingers blindly studying the miniscule scars puncturing the smooth skin. They find the most recent one, still tender but glossed over with rough tissue, and he circles it like a tooka with its prey.

She’s otherworldly, all soft curves and smooth skin in contrast to the dead of steel.

The weight on his chest, or lack of, evokes shameful thoughts.

“Come here,” he whispers, catching her hands and placing them on either of his pauldrons, her fingertips hooking underneath the rim. “Drag it down and then up.”

“I can’t.”

“You can, pretty girl.”

The nickname pulls a shudder out of her bones and her fingers tighten around the steel, heeding his instructions until the layers unclasp from their fastenings—protection he’s bonded with now nothing more than inanimate alloy in her hands. It’s a physical weight off his shoulders but it reaches so much deeper than that, as though he could finally breathe for the first time in years even with the blockade of a helmet.

He repositions her hands to his vambraces. “Curl your finger underneath-” She follows, either forefinger arching beneath the rim and finding a small shrouded dial, the plates slackening around his wrists and she carefully peels either off. “That’s it.”

That ugly trepidation from before isn’t even a consideration—his eyes glowing and fingers stiff as she shucks him from his beskar piece by piece, her own garb partially removed and covering the last portion of her body he’s yet to see bare. He won’t undress her further, not until they’re equal and she’s more comfortable.

Mando slips free of his boots, nudging them to the side, and ascends to the surface of the cot to sit on his knees between her legs. Their hands shift to his tassets resting among his hips and he aids in her attempt to dislodge them from their joints, tossing them to join the growing pile of steel below the bed. She stops with her hands sprawled across his cuisses, the last of his armour; the last physical manifestations of his essence.

“Is this what you want, Mando?” she asks, the tips of her fingers caressing small strokes into his thighs above the steel.

“Say my name,” he pleads. “No one will hear.”

She repeats, “Is this what you want, Din?”

Dank Farrik. He’s no longer The Mandalorian, Mando, but instead reclaiming a long lost name and wearing it with pride, ingraining the sound of it slipping through her lips into his bones. Din. A name he’ll only ever hear come from her. His name.

And the Girl was no longer just the Girl—she’s His Girl; all his and he’ll brand her body to prove it, label her skin with his crescent nails if he has to. They deliberately dig into the meat of her thighs, skin raking underneath his fingernails, and he nods his head in response to her question - this is all he wants. To be suspended in time right here and now; triumphing buried insecurities with her unwavering support.

Her fingers progress independently, hitching underneath the borders and tugging the final two pieces of pesky beskar from his body, sans helmet of course, and languidly drops them to the flooring with a clank.

She stifles her breathing, reducing it to a slow wisp that flees her mouth and circles around them dragging them against each other. “You-you can touch me, mesh’la.” He expresses his covet for her touch by depressing his hips into hers, rocking once and twice rhythmically until she wads a fistful of flight suit to draw him in—her breath fogging the visor as she analyses his build with her hands; trailing along the front of his chest and around his sides, the featherweight touches tickling the body parts scarcely disturbed.

“Smell so good,” she moans and tucks her face into his cowl. “Much better than before.”

Din chortles. “Should’ve joined me.”

“Next time.”

He’ll take her up on that.

There’s a hand on either hip and he observes from the clouds as she aligns their pelvises together, her heat bucking against the emerging bulge.

“Show me,” she alludes to his previous proposal, eyes swallowed with inky lust.

Din fucking growls—the modulator contributing very little to the deep crackle—and his hands return to soft flesh, shoving the galling dress up, up, up and over.

“S’pretty.”

The garment is discarded across the hut, finding its home somewhere among the clutter of beskar trailings. She’s faultless, something he already had an impression on but seeing her so bare, so unguarded and trusting beneath him, is record-breaking.

Trauma lesions encompass her skin, little choppy lines of faded tones splotched across her abdomen, her chest, shoulders, waist—mimicking his own—and he returns to the healing wound on her abdomen to brush a tender stroke along the surface; an injury he was there to witness, the blade tucked into her flesh still so fresh in his mind.

“Din.”

The vermillion slipping through his gloves as she faded out of consciousness. Those dreadful cries of pain each time he touched her. The unyielding environment of Tatooine attacking his muscles and composure as she bled out in the arms of a stranger.

A prodding at his back plucks him from reliving the memory, crumbling it into miniscule debris fragments upon the revelation that she’s here with him, breathing and safe and alive. She’s poking at the wound he garnered all those days ago, when she took the first step to progressing this little thing they have going—all of their intimate milestones triggered by one or the other inflicting a wound of sorts; Din seemingly the culprit in both instances.

But not this time.

This time is different. Spurred on by passion and a necessary need to show each other themselves defenceless.

“Sorry,” he whispers and compensates for lost time with a gentle grind of his bulge into her sex, her feet digging into the matress behind him and holding him stationary against her.

She raises to her elbows, seizing a clump of his cowl in one hand to stabilise herself and uses the newfound leverage to rut against his lap. “Shit, Din,” she moans.

It’s so fucking lewd; she’s just using him to get herself off and fuck if he doesn’t like it—the pressure around his neck with each tug, the warmth against his lap, how light and freeing each movement is compared to last time.

“Supposed-” He’s cut off with a tumbling grunt, fleeing out of his throat and into the silent cabin as she quickens her pace; stroking the underside of his length raw. “I’m-I’m supposed to...fuck.”

“Taking-” she breathes, “-too long. Fucking--taking off your beskar, what’re you thinking? I need you, Din.”

She’s forced back onto her back beneath him with a hand flat against her abdomen, his figure looming over her exuding lust and desire and pure dusky thoughts he’d be ashamed of admitting. “Wasn’t done,” he declares, a hand grasping at the hem of his shirt to eradicate the article from the equation. Din needs to feel his skin against hers, more than just roughened hands, he wants her nails in the muscles lining his back, her teeth retreating to the skin above his collarbone, lips and tongue labouring at his neck.

The weight around his neck and shoulders commands him to cease his stripping—fuck. Why’s he got so many fucking layers for? Din rips the cloak from around his neck, bundling it into a tattered ball and tossing it across the room impatiently.

His hands return to his shirt’s hem, elevating the fabric until a sliver of his abdomen is assaulted by frigid air. The downwards dragging is unexpected, quaint, and he stops to heed her interruption, “Only if you want to, Din. Don’t - don’t force yourself for me.”

“Sweet girl,” he muses and removes his hands so she’s left clutching the fabric alone. “Take it off for me.”

It’s too intimate, too liberating; so much more than just sex and a means to receive relief from each other’s bodies. This is something they’ve both been denied for far too long—the meek touches of another to lull each other, reassure themselves events that have yet to unfold will be okay so long as they’re together.

She discards the shirt beside them and runs her nails along his spine gingerly, recording the bumps of bone buried underneath the flesh and muscles. His front is in her face, on direct display for her eyes to collect the slithers of off-whites; her lips brushing his pectorals.

“Been through so much,” she whispers against his skin, her breath prompting a layer of goosebumps in its radius. “Too much.”

“As have you, mesh’la.” His fingers trail a slash across her shoulder.

The time she contributes to identifying each scar, memorising the feeling and positions, is staggering—as though she’d be content with just studying his body for the next week alone—those impressions of her only wanting him for his armour and protection, not for what else he can bring to the table, are lit in unforgiving flames.

She’s not in it for the reputation he withholds, but simply for him.

There’s a tightness in his chest, an ache, something new and terrifying—a word to an emotion he’s not acquainted with circling his mind, bouncing along his tongue in jest towards his confusion and uncertainty.

He doesn’t entertain the thought; the thought that maybe, possibly Din is having his initial encounter with something bigger and more dangerous than any commission he’s dealt with before. It’s not possible. He’s not that fortunate. He can’t process those emotions—he’s not built for that.

Din needs a distraction, pronto, otherwise his head will be so clouded with the thought that—

She banks a wet stripe across the front of his throat, the groan oscillating through his flesh and onto her tongue and she rewards him with a benign kiss—his throat bobs and he ruts against her pelvis unquestionably eager.

Yeah, that’ll do.

Din’s hands surrender behind her back and blindly unclasp the hooks of her undergarment and yanks the blasted barrier off, his hands working the soft mounts before his eyes gain a chance to rake in their appearance.

“So soft,” he murmurs, palming the tissue vigorously. “How’re you so soft?”

The Girl opens her mouth to utter something snarky—he’s beginning to sense her incoming sass—and he devilishly clips a nipple between two fingers to disrupt her train of thought, her fingernails raking against his shoulder blades in an attempt to stifle the rising noises in her throat. It’s hypnotic, like watching electricity react against metal, her back arching as he flicks a thumb over the hardening peak sparking her nails to bare down into the meat of his slackened deltoids.

A hand trails down to his abdomen, digits soaking through the hairs of his happy trail but she doesn’t stop in her endeavours and sinks lower, past his bulge and buries her hand underneath her undergarments so that he can only see the outline of her hand working away at her crotch.

Din exhales, one of his hands fleeing from her breasts to remove the garment so he can watch her. She plunges three fingers inside of herself, stiffly pumping her hand in and out—preparing herself for him; it’s so fucking vulgar.

“Gods,” he groans. His final piece of clothing retires to his ankles, too overzealous to put in that extra effort to be completely free, and instructs her hand to his cock, using the slick on her fingers to lubricate himself. “Flip over for me, pretty girl. Let me take care of you.”

She enthusiastically obliges and squirms underneath his weight to lay on her stomach, he uses the pillows to prop her ass up to avoid her overstraining herself and reserves a moment to consider the view—far greater than his mind would conjure up. There’s additional scar tissue across her back, lengthy slashes and the remnants of blaster bolts, but those only highlight her features; the dip between her shoulder blades, the arch of her lower back joining the curves of her ass perfectly.

“Beautiful.” He adjusts himself between her folds, rubbing the tip to amass more of her slick, and eases inside her gradually; his hands never leaving her waist, eyes refusing to tear from the scenic sight.

“Shit--”

“So beautiful.”

“--Din, please-”

Din hums and thrusts inside her, pulling moans and gasps from her lips like music to his ears. “Beautiful...mesh’la.” It doesn’t require further explanation, the connotation straightforward with two simple words.

She asks, nonetheless, words muffled with bedspread and moaning, “That’s what you’ve been calling me all this time?”

“Do you like it?”

“Do I like it—you’re… you -- Maker. Shut up and fuck me.”

Fucking her, that he can do. Shutting up, on the other hand, was a little more difficult. It’s worthy of a comedic performance, how contrasting Din is in bed to in his armour; usually so stoic, a Mandalorian-of-few-words, now so whiny and talkative underneath the Girl’s charm.

Even if he wanted to stop murmuring dulcet words—and he really fucking doesn’t want to; the pent-up statements flowing from his throat so smoothly compared to earlier, like a tender creek current—he can’t stop.

Din applies his weight onto her back, uses his knees to continue his thrusts, and dips his helmet to mutter filth into her ear, “Gar jatnese be te jatnese-” He grunts, a hand squirming it’s way underneath her body to snatch a breast - just to have his hands against parts of her reserved for him. “Gar ani ni, vaabir gar suvarir?”

Of course she doesn’t understand—-Mando’a isn’t a well-known language, with few aruetii capable of articulating the speech. It’s no surprise when she doesn’t respond to his comments but the quiver reaching her shoulders and toes is a clear indication she’s savouring the sound of his voice manipulating a foreign language—whispering endearments only he can understand.

He’s touching her everywhere, running along her sides and across her shoulders, fingers dipping to draw lines across her cheeks and forehead where sweat is beginning to accumulate. Din’s inquisitive, it goes against his nature—habitually so cautious and attentive—and he sweeps two fingers across the cushioning of her lips, tapping against the flesh until she parts and immerses the digits within the pocket of her mouth.

There’s no sense of direction, no suggestion for what she should do cause he’s fucking splintered like a log; he’s had her fingers in his mouth before but he’s never felt the warmth of her saliva without a leather barrier. The helmet tucks into the crevice of her neck and shoulder as she bobs her head on the fingers, performing identically to how she had at Tatooine on his cock—sultry and slow, simply exploring the body he’s honoured her with sharing.

It’s an overload of sensations. Being rooted so deeply within her it’d be best to pitch his residence to refrain from laborious movement, their lungs synchronised against each other, his bareness, his withering Honour, so apparent and she’s focused on serving him with anything he desires; fingers in her mouth, weight crushing her, a hand grabbing at her chest, she doesn’t care so long as he’s satisfied and touching her.

Din can’t handle it. He’s a fucking Mandalorian. A warrior. He’s killed thousands of lifeforms in his lifetime. He’s survived wars. None of those even came close to shattering him like she does—a pretty girl is the cause of his skeptical questioning of his Code. A pretty girl is the sole motivation for his fingers to dip underneath the beskar rim, floundering for the feel of a fastener -- click!

There’s a hiss that interrupts her pace, the gears in her head turning, and she pulls away from his fingers to stare off into oblivion. Her body’s tense, the cushiony flesh abruptly hard and taut underneath him. “What’s the matter, Cyar’ika?” he mulls, stopping his movements to console the change of attitude.

“Din—you can’t.”

She doesn’t need to explain herself. Doesn’t need to clarify she understands that sound, having heard it twice before now. She understands the reality of the situation he’s pushing themselves into; quite possibly more than Din himself.

She inhales and inclines her head, sealing off any possibility of catching a glimpse of something unforgivable. She murmurs, “You’ve shown me, I get it -- I understand. The pendant, the beskar, the flight suit... It’s too much—I can’t reciprocate. You can’t give all of this to me, Din.”

The beskar is slack, mobile, as he shifts so he’s directly behind her. “Oh, Cyar’ika, you’ve given me plenty.” he hums, the vocoder continuing to operate. It modulates his vocals into staticy droid-like sounds; it provokes a rise in his chest, a tightness in his abdomen, and he rips the steel from his face—as though he’s submerged in krill water, drowning and in dire need of the Girl—and his mouth latches onto the back of her shoulder in one foul swoop. There’s no time to consider it, his actions overcoming his rationality and faith to his Creed.

It’s all teeth and tongue. Biting and tugging, licking and lapping.

The Girl springs at the sensation, the contact so heavenly she’s uncertain whether it’s real.

“Din, you...fuck, shouldn’t-shouldn’t…” She struggles for a deep inhale with the weight on her back, her face swallowed by blankets for his Honour’s sake.

The enamel works out the knots in her muscles, his warm tongue lulling the skin to relaxation after he’s finished abusing it. It’s fucking surreal. Dreamlike. Who knew something so small could elicit such a primal feeling inside of him. She’s even softer in his mouth than his hands—how is she so fucking soft—all warm and salty from sweat that attacks his tastebuds, leaves him thirsty for more.

He marvels whether the beating in her chest is as fast as his, whether he’s spurring on some deepened arousal like she’s doing to him; his cock hardens like that of his beskar, tight and sturdy to the point of ache and he’s compelled to grind his pelvis against her ass to relieve some of the pressure.

“Pretty girl,” he coos, voice rounded and deep and alive; goosebumps rise to the surface of her skin, which he nurses with delicate pecks. “Should take a look at yourself.”

She bites back, “Should listen to yourself.”

It encourages him, welcomes the husky tone from the depths of his throat as he nears her ear and deliberately exudes a hot sigh to assault the cartlidge, “Kaab jate, Cyar’ika? Is that what you like? My voice?” He pokes his tongue at the base of the side of her neck and slides upwards to the bottom of her ear. “Or—ner uram—my mouth?”

It’s not a question needed to answer; she makes it apparent that yes, his mouth, his voice, his vulnerability, his sacrifice, is what she likes—she likes him.

“Ke-ep talking like that and I’m gonna-”

“We’re not done,” he rumbles. “I wanna-wanna taste.”

“Ta-st-e…” she stumbles. He can’t see her face from this angle but he imagines a tint of pink across her cheeks, her teeth chomping away at the bottom lip.

Din buzzes against her ear in confirmation. “Want you in my mouth. Is that okay?”

“Oh fuck. Yes. Where - how do you want me?”

So fucking eager—he swallows the opportunity to assuage her appetite for his tongue by flattening the organ against her spine unloading a thick stripe of saliva in substitute for the sweat that nestles its way down his throat. “Not yet, sweet thing, let me take care of you first.”

Din lacks experience utilising his mouth to get someone off, isolating yourself in a layer of steel tends to do that to a man, and he’d be unable to reveal himself from his beskar again if he humiliates himself like that—he’ll just exploit what he can and swoop in to lap up the remnants between her thighs.

It’s greedy wanting to experience the flavour not for her pleasure but his own. That aftertaste that’s so highly spoken about so unidentifiable on his taste buds; he can’t continue living not knowing what that’s like.

But first; he’ll make her scream his name and come on his cock until she’s leaking down her thighs.

His helmet idles beside them, lopsided visor leering at him from it’s position—he scowls at the heinous thought jostling around his mind and repositions it ahead of the Girl, the steel weighing down the blankets. He verifies it’s perspective and slithers a hand around her throat to pry her face from the depths of the blankets and mattress.

She’s rigid as she finds herself in the reflection of the visor, sweaty and flushed and practically drooling with thirst for his thrusts. “Fucking——look at yourself,” Din moans.

“Shit, your face-”

“S’okay,” he slurs, “can’t see me from your position.”

The Girl relaxes somewhat, her shoulders still taut but her neck melting into his hand and moulding her flesh around his digits as he continues to incline her head—look how gorgeous you are—and his teeth latches onto the skin of her throat, twisting and pulling to leave a mark for later.

His hair is thick and unkempt, subsequently flat and jungly from the helmet, and his wild curls wash against the bays of her jaw; strands peering into her field of view even though her eyes are almost at the back of her head. She obliges with her eyelids requests, respecting his Creed, and seals themselves together to submerge her vision with black—it’s all sensory, all touches and gentle kisses against her neck to counterbalance the unforgiving thrusts he’s gifting.

Din labels her with his teeth indentations, breaking the blood vessels in splotches across her throat, painting crescents into her shoulders with his nails. He mouths her name but the word refuses to vocalise, latching onto the tonsils and taking residence there; in his mouth, where it belongs.

“Din--”

His response is nothing short of filth; muffled moaning pressed against the back of her ear as his hand captures the swelling nub of her clit to draw eager circles.

“--Din, fuck. Din, Din, Din...”

“That’s it,” Din croons, his lips curling at the over abundance of his name spewing from her gullet. “Let go.”

There’s a quaint delay, her body working overtime to comprehend all the sensations without overloading her brain, then she’s writhing and twitching underneath him; his hand and thrusts never-ending as he pulls every single quake out of her involuntarily. Her walls tighten around his cock, that unmistakable warmth engulfing his length to attract his own undoing like a magnet—he could keep going for hours if not for that fucking warmth.

“Din! Di-”

“Shh,” he advises, setting his palm against her mouth to blunt the ecstasy cascading from her vocals like a waterfall—a downside to being so close-quartered to others; he wants to hear those whines, the unstoppable call of his name at her peak, but he’ll settle for rewarding muffles.

Din works her down from her orgasm, pecking soft kisses against her healing slashes and softening the fingers against her clit until she’s no longer twitching underneath his weight. She lays there for a moment, simply memorising the tingling between her thighs and how his pelvis compresses against her ass with every delicate thrust.

Energy recovering, rather quickly, she meets with his lunges, sloppy and trembling on her knees but he appreciates the effort—not that he needs it. She doesn’t need to do anything special to aid his high; Din could just come if she asked him to.

He’s reaching deep, the tip of his cock nudging against her cervix, and they stagger in unison. “Fuck. Vaii, Cyar’ika. Where-where do you want-”

“In,” she mewls between his fingers. “Don’t stop.”

“In.” Din fights his conscious for a breath, his windpipes narrow and clogged. “Dank Farrik. You’re sure?”

“Definitely.”

In, it is.

Din’s cock anchors in her warmth, his pelvis rocking back-and-forth lightly, and he savours how her walls contract with each flick of her sensitive nub—edging on his orgasm by the inch starting from the tip and sliding down to the base like vine tendrils wrapping around him and encouraging him to just fucking let go.

He heeds his own advice and relaxes, allowing the overwhelming pulsations to pump strings of softening whites inside of her, her name falling out his mouth in broken moans. Their warmths mix together within her walls and stick to his length with vengeance as he numbly extracts himself until only the tip is concealed. Cock still semi-hard, Din irresistibly thrusts into her one final time—pathetic ego reaching new heights when she mutters a final bleat.

Din runs rough fingers up the backs of her thighs and to her shoulders, palming the flesh tenderly until she’s nothing but a pool of lax muscles beneath him. His mouth delivers delicate kisses across the back of her neck to provide a break for her to regain her breathing.

“Can you continue?”

She nods her head, a simple response he holds close to his heart as he carefully readjusts himself behind her.

She’s poetic from this view, a body crafted with wise hands the greatest bards would struggle to write about, but there’s nothing that comes within range of outstanding like her face does.

He needs to see her.

“Think you can hold your eyes shut while I go down on you?” Din groans in desperation while she mulls the question over. “Please, Cyar’ika, I need a taste.”

It’s a big ask and if she can’t ultimately gather up that courage to comply he won’t pressure her, no matter how much his mouth salivates from the thought of finally consuming a piece of her.

It’s the greatest test of trust; she’d easily be able to slip open those pretty eyes and pulverise his Creed to molecules—he wouldn’t trust himself if he was in her position.

It should terrify him; should render him into a solid beam of sturdy beskar.

It doesn’t. Din’s paralleled to that of the Girl, soft and warm, not an inch of him cold and solid.

His Mandalorian helmet contains a blackout setting and, if it comes to it, he can slip it over her head so he can sate his cravings without the paranoia in either of their heads—no.That picturesque face of hers shouldn’t ever be covered up again; that stupid face mask stole too many moments from his vision.

There’s enough concealment behind beskar to provide for both of them. Too much concealment.

The Girl gasps, “Okay. Okay.”

The stretched lips across his face is disgraceful; finding pleasure in something so filthy. Din couldn’t give a fuck. Who wouldn’t be smiling in his position?

They silently reorganise themselves with her on her back, eyes firmly shut, and Din planted between her thighs, quite possibly his favourite place in all of the galaxy.

Din doesn’t rush things; he’s not that kind of man. He works her up with ribbing kisses across her sternum and tooka-licks on either nipple simply to hear her breathing hitch and her hands fist the blankets underneath them. She white-knuckles the fabric when his teeth collect the sensitive skin and brutally sucks his markings into her, red and blemished that’ll welt nicely by morning—the only form of bruisings her body should be subjected to.

The hand assaulting the blankets transfers into the thick lock atop of his head with his guide, the digits snaking through the curls for leverage and tugging as he makes sloppy open-mouthed kisses around the pendant resting between her breasts.

“Cyar’ika.” The newly-adopted nickname floats through the air and into her core. “What’d I do to deserve all this?”

There’s no sarcastic comeback this time, not even an attempt, though he knows what she would say—destroyed my rifle—and he makes route lower and lower and fucking lower.

She’s straining to keep her hand in the mess of hair, his head lowered between her thighs where she can feel his breathing against her heat.

There’s a trail of translucent along the insides of her thighs and he follows the streak with his lips, digits digging into the meat while he collects it onto the cushiony brims. His tongue doesn’t delve out for a taste—not yet—until he’s made a path directly to her sex to place a final kiss against the peak of her clit triggering a miniscule buck that nudges against his nose.

“Tell me to stop,” Din pleads; fucking pleads because he knows if she doesn’t he won’t be able to stop himself.

His scalp burns as she stiffens her grip. “Please.”

There’s an experimental lick at first, nothing short of the tip of his tongue running through her folds, but once he’s obtained a taste of her there’s no end in sight—the finish line sprinting so far away from him he doesn’t even want to make an attempt to reach a conclusion. He’s happy to sit there and lap up everything until she’s dried out.

The Girl was spot-on. They’re a combination of sweet and salty—sweet on the account of her, salty because of him—and its so fucking addictive. His tongue flattens against her to collect as much slick onto the muscle and retracts, swallows, and repeats.

The bump of his nose stimulates her oversensitive clit for a second round, his fingers deviously slipping inside her canals to accumulate what his tongue can’t reach, his eyes spying on her face for every reaction he plucks.

Din can’t prevent the famished growl that slips out of him when his fingers plop into his mouth, shiny whites blending with his salvia to slide down his throat and lay rest in his stomach.

“Sweet girl, you really are sweet.”

For someone so inexperienced, Din sure knows what he’s doing. His tongue is in hyperdrive, working at her clit and suctioning every last drop of her out from within.

“O-o-h,” she moans and writhes on the mattress. “Gods, Din... Right there. Sh-it.”

The mewling words of encouragement boost his ego, as though he’d been replaced with his younger self; overly-enthusiastic and mindless, but possessing far more maturity—nurturing quirks that go against his amour propre youth.

Din heeds her commands, unrelenting licks jerking against her clit while his fingers get to work pumping in and out of her.

He’s not trying to make her come again, he didn’t think he had it in him, but fuck she’s right on the edge—he can feel it. Maybe it’s the over-sensitive nub collapsing into her core prompting her to tremble and twitch, or maybe he’s not giving himself enough credit; regardless, he’s working overtime to quench her needs.

When her thighs pinch the sides of his head, he really loses the plot—a heavy grunt expelling from his throat as he angles his head to the side and quickens his pace, poking and prodding at the spot she likes best.

“Din, Din-fuck.”

Thrumming journeys through his mouth and onto her clit, stimulating it just that extra mile to cross the finishing line. Her thighs stabilise his head in place while she violently bucks into his mouth, her second orgasm much stronger than her first.

There’s a surge of slick coating his fingers and he sinks to hoard it in his mouth, tongue-fucking her up till she’s a whimpering mess beneath him. It’s all her—his saltiness long gone—and he revels in the warmth; focusing on it slipping down his throat and sheeting his taste buds with a sweet syrup that immediately destroys the memory of those pitiful pancakes.

“So fucking delicious, Cyar’ika. You deserve a taste. You want some?”

Her head nods faintly, the exhaustion catching up to her; thighs trembling and fingertips taut in his curls.

Din accumulates a mass of her slick on his fingers and reroutes himself for her mouth, but stops himself. It’s glistening at him, taunting and just begging to slip into his mouth—he fulfills it’s wishes and plunges his digits inside for his tongue to lap up the remnants before hastily ramming his lips against hers.

It’s too authentic, too nerve wracking, as though he’s being initiated into the Creed for a second time; all butterflies in his stomach and outpaced blood flow through his veins. His hands quiver as they find her face, cupping her jaw as he deepens the kiss with a flick of his tongue across her gums.

The Girl’s eyes nearly slip open from the initial shock but she’s mastered her self-control, slinking into the mattress and pulling him with her.

It’s not like the kisses you’d see in holoplays, where it’s all soft and delicate but rather hungry and needy, a lot of teeth clashing against each other as they attempt to find themselves.

They exchange flavours, Din offering up her slick on his tongue in return for her saliva; tasteless in itself but it’s hers—his favourite flavour.

It’s all over him. In his mouth, on his chin, his fingers, his cock. It’s where it belongs.

Breathing is essential to life: they’re reminded as they reluctantly pull from each other's seals. Din’s not done just yet, then again, he’ll never truly be quenched of her. There’s just not enough of her. His lips disturb every speck of visible skin on her face, pecking her chin and across her cheeks all the way up to her eyes and back around the opposite side.

He’s much more gentle now, having gorged himself on her lips and taste, and is mindful of the scratchiness of the scruff along his jaw as he runs the pillows down her throat to come to rest in the cavern between her shoulder and neck.

She’s so bouncy, so padded, Din could rest his head on the bare tissue and sleep for centuries; recuperate for all the decades of blood and sweat he’s put his body through, replenish the colour underneath his eyes, permit his muscles and bones to be reborn.

His eyelashes brush against his cheekbones as he rests his eyes and evens out his breathing.

“Din,” she breathes, hands sketching idle lines across his back. “Hate to ruin the mood but your helm-”

“Don’t worry about it. Just rest,” he mumbles against her flesh, a hand blindly reaching out for the blanket to cover themselves; he doesn’t plan on moving from this position. She’ll have to pry him off herself. The beskar pendant is wedged between their chests, the skull's tusks digging into his muscles but it’s somehow fitting, comforting.

She is worried, though. There’s a crinkle between her eyebrows that he heals with the padding of his thumb. “What if I wake up-”

“I’ll be awake before you.”

“But--”

“I promise.” It’s not a pledge Din should initiate. She’s too comforting and he might never wake if he remains in her arms. His stubble pricks against her collarbone as he finds an abode among her chest, the beat of her heart against his eardrum.

“Please, Cyar’ika, don’t make me put it back on.”

How can she oppose that?

“Oh——okay.”

This is bliss.

This is his Manda, his paradise.

Her, not the location, though Sorgan will always sit somewhere special within his heart.

His Girl is all he needs.

If Din didn’t have a mission, a green mischievous baby, to tend to he would spend the rest of his days nestled into her body, pampering precious skin made of the elements themselves with sentimental kisses and delightful touches.

If she was to ask him to retire his blasters to their weapons unit, he would do it in an instant.

“Din?” He placidly drones in feedback. “Thank you.”

“Hmm? For what?”

A hand lazes on his head, tufts of ungroomed curls separating through the gaps of her fingers considerably slow as to not lug a knot. “Believing in me. I don’t ask much about Mandalorian culture ‘cause I figured you get asked a lot; I only know of that from Legends, but I can see it’s a part of you. Trusting me with your Creed...after everything I’ve done… Thank you.”

She’s still beating herself up about previous events. He could just wedge open her eyelids so she can look into his eyes; maybe then she’ll realise he’s already forgiven her. Instead, Din exhales a low-toned sigh and pecks what skin his lips can reach from his position.

“We agreed to a cin vhetin, remember?”

“Yes, but-”

“Sweet girl,” he shushes her. “In Mandalorian culture we use that term in initiation; it’s to clear all previous debts. Everything that occurred before is erased. Only what will happen in the future will be considered.”

Their cabin falls silent as she mulls the significance over. Din can hear a fire crackling somewhere nearby, children laughing, and adults toasting each other to another successful day; lively and euphoric-sounding but he’s content laying atop of his euphoria, to feel each expansion of her lungs, each tardy investigative stroke on his bare form.

“Does that mean I’m not getting your rifle?” she jests.

Din laughs, a full-on throaty bellow that resonates through her. It’s so humanlike it shocks him, leaves him wiping at the corners of his eyes from the onslaught of tears he’s producing.

The Girl’s hand runs from his head to the back of his neck, her thumb and forefinger massaging out the taut stone into flexible cloth. She quietly murmurs, “Wasn’t that funny.”

Laughing gradually subsiding, he basks in the comfortable silence between them. The Girl was never overbearing, even before all the tension arised, never stepped her foot out of line purely out of respect for his wishes and now she’s breached obstacles that’d make him hang his head in shame in the presence of his elders.

“Didn’t you propose a challenge or have you already forgotten?”

She smirks with cocky confidence. “Gambling with your weapons, huh? That’s so unlike you.”

“As I said; foolish, foolish things, Cyar’ika.”

___________________

"atin" - stubborn "sleemo" - slimeball "mesh'la" - beautiful "gar jatnese be te jatnese" - you're the best of the best "gar ani ni, vaabir gar suvarir?" - you complete me, do you understand? "auretii" - outsider "cyar'ika" - sweetheart/darling "kaab jate?" - sound good? "ner uram" - my mouth "vaii" - where

A/N: Sorry this one took longer than the others, it lowkey beat my ass up. In other news, I am currently planning my next series that'll be a Mandalorian!Reader if any of you are interested in that. If you wish to be added to either the LUNAR taglist or the upcoming series tags, please send an ask or a message!

tags: @ohhersheybars, @greatcircle79, @northernpunk, @tanzthompson, @djarrex

[yslkook]

complicated

pairing: seokjin x reader summary: in which you and seokjin are figuring your “relationship” out. word count: 2415 warnings: cursing, alcohol, brief smut (like very brief) a/n: a part two to ships in the night. ty to @taestybae​ for listening to me rant about this!!

You and Seokjin somehow find your rhythm, even after months of being out of sync with each other. It makes him nervous, how easily he falls back into his friendship with you. It scares him how now that he’s allowed to, he sees you in a different light.

Like you had said. It was a cliche, that he was coming to terms with his seemingly hidden feelings for you after a three year long engagement with another woman. Another woman that he hardly thinks of these days. Because all he can think about is how soft you feel curled up next to him, and how your hands feel intertwined with his. All he can think about is how your face lights up when you see him, as if he’s the only one in the room.

It’s been almost eight months since Jin had ended his engagement with Taeyeon. He doesn’t know what the appropriate time is to wait into jumping into another relationship after a failed engagement. But does it bother you? 

You don’t like complicated. So you let him hold your hand. You let him kiss you. You let him sleep in your bed, reminding you of when you were both in college. You let him hold you in a way that is definitely more than friendly.

Yoongi tells you that you should ask him what he’s thinking. Ask him where you stand with him. But the idea of complicating whatever you have with Jin doesn’t sound very appealing. Yoongi tells you that you’ll break your own heart again if you don’t figure your shit out with Jin. Jimin gives you flirty eyes and his warm smile, finally happy that his two friends who were like his older siblings finally are venturing out of the bounds of friendship. And Jungkook worries that you’ll get hurt.

They’re all probably right. And you deserve better than a boy, regardless if he’s your best friend or not, have you out of sheer convenience. But you know Jin. You know his heart, and you know when he’s genuine. But still, you make a promise to yourself. That you’ll talk to him at some point.

Jin had asked you to accompany him to his parents’ house for dinner about a week later. You think nothing of it- you’re closer to his family than your own family. You had contemplated whether you should dress more casually or dress up a little. You decide on dressing up a little bit, wearing a blouse tucked into your pants and a brown plaid jacket. The way Jin’s eyes widen as you swipe your lip gloss on makes it worth it, you think.

“You look better than I do,” Jin whines, pulling you into his side and dropping a kiss to your lips quickly. You swipe at his bottom lip to take the remnants of your gloss off of him. It should be strange, how easy kissing him was. 

“God forbid,” You roll your eyes and wrap an arm around his waist, pulling you flush against his chest.

“We’ll be the only tens in the house. Well, I’m an eleven, but you’ll do,” Jin says and you scoff fondly.

“Alright, keep dreamin’, Jin. Keep living in your delusions. I won’t burst your bubble.”

“Kim Seokjin!” You hiss at him, swatting your hand over his shoulder, “You did not tell me that your brother and his pregnant wife were coming. And your cousins. And your aunts and uncles! You ambushed me!”

“What’s the big deal?” Jin hisses back, rubbing his shoulder, “They all love you anyway! You act like this is the first time-”

“The first time! It is the first time, you idiot,” You pull him to you by the lapels of his jacket, cursing his stupidly handsome face, “It’s the first time I’ve been around your entire family while we’re doing whatever it is that we’re doing!

“No wonder your mother is looking at me like she has a secret,” You rant, “Oh my god, and your brother- he looked so fuckin’ happy to see us. Oh my god-”

“Hey,” Jin says sharply, “Will you relax?”

“Seokjin! No, I will not relax! Can’t believe I had to be ambushed just to get an answer out of you for what it is we’re doing here-”

Jin sighs and pulls you into his arms, muffling your surprised gasp. You melt into his hug quickly, and most of your irritation has washed away. He’s always been an instant source of calm for you, and this time is no different.

“Is that what this is about?” Jin murmurs and before you can snark at him, he clasps his hand over your mouth, “You’re mine and I’m yours. That’s how it’s always been. And that’s it. Doesn’t have to be so complicated, baby.”

“Complicated…” You echo, feeling your muscles relax, “Unconditionally?”

“Yeah. Unconditionally.”

At the end of the night, when Jin’s father insists on a family picture with everyone in it, you don’t even feel out of place pressed up against Jin. You squeeze his hand in yours tightly and smile.

It’s not so complicated.

You almost drop your coffee when you see none other than Taeyeon, Jin’s ex-fiancee, staring at you as if you have ten heads.

“Uh,” You say eloquently, squeezing your cup of coffee. You had gone to your favorite coffee shop after work to pick up pastries for you and Jin before seeing him later that evening.

Taeyeon finally gives you a weak wiggle of her fingers. “Hey. Long time no see,” She says. She looks good, you think. She looks happy. Happier than when she was with Jin.

“You look good,” You comment, voicing your thoughts out loud, “How have you been, Taeyeon?”

Your heart is slamming in your chest, for some unknown reason. You can’t help but feel guilty all of a sudden. Even if you had done nothing when her and Jin had been together.

“Good. How have you been?” Taeyeon says politely.

“Good,” You echo. What does she want with you? She seems to hesitate for a minute before sighing deeply.

“Will you sit with me for a minute?” Taeyeon says quietly. Your lips part in surprise, eyebrows shooting up to your hairline.

“Yeah. Yeah, okay,” You murmur and lead her to one of the tables by the windows, “So how are you really? I didn’t think you’d want to hear from me. Considering…” You trail off, your eyes meeting hers.

“Yeah,” Taeyeon nods, “I didn’t. Want to hear from you, that is.”

“Fair,” You reply, “Not sure why you wanna hear from me now, then. Want a croissant?” You take a freshly baked croissant from the box and hand it to her. Her eyes glaze over your left hand, namely your ring finger. Before she can protest, you shove it in her hands and she murmurs a soft ‘thanks’.

“You bringing those for Seokjin?” Taeyeon says, not an ounce of bitterness in her voice. She was always too good. Better than you could ever be.

“Yeah,” You say simply. Part of you wants to say ‘is it any of your business?’ but you refrain. You’re certain this is hard for her. But she’s the one who wanted to talk.

“I was thinking about you the other day,” She says softly. Taeyeon is just full of surprises today, isn’t she. “I just…”

“Taeyeon… You don’t have to do this. We don’t have to do this. You can hate me-”

“Hate you? I never hated you,” Taeyeon says, taking a sip of her coffee, “Okay, maybe I did for a little. But that was only because you were the easiest person to blame at the time. Seokjin and I would have never been happy together.”

You stay quiet, chewing nervously on your bottom lip.

“I moved on. There’s no reason for him not to,” Taeyeon continues, her voice soft and melodious as it carries through. You raise your head in surprise, trying to mask it quickly. But she picks up on it and smiles.

“That’s great, Taeyeon. I’m happy for you,” You say, and you mean it. Her eyes brighten at your words and she gives you one of her show-stopping smiles. The smile that Seokjin fell in love with all those years ago.

“He hasn’t put a ring on you yet?” She says, half jokingly and you snort.

“How do you know I haven’t put a ring on him yet?” You wink at her. You remember why you had defended her to your friends when they said that her and Jin didn’t fit- she was genuinely so nice. But that didn’t take away from the fact that they didn’t fit. You missed her friendship, and that revelation has you surprised.

“He seems to be taking his sweet time. Considering that you were one of the reasons we ended things,” Taeyeon says airily. You wince at her oblivious bluntness.

“Taking his time with what?”

“Making you his. The way you should’ve been from the beginning.”

Breath seems to be stolen from your throat at her words and you choke on your coffee. “Taeyeon…”

“I’m only saying. He broke an engagement for you. What are you both scared of?”

“It’s…” You exhale, somehow trying to reconcile that you’re speaking about your relationship with Jin with his ex-fiancee, “Complicated. It’s complicated.”

“Is it?”

Jin’s head is in between your legs, your back braced over the couch. Your hands tangle in his hair, tugging lightly as a lewd moan escapes you. Despite his lips dotting your inner thighs in kisses, his hands flat over your hips… Your mind is preoccupied. 

Taeyeon’s words replay in your mind on loop. Jin can tell you’re distracted and he pulls away with a sigh and with rosy lips.

“Babe,” He sighs, “Are you okay?”

“Huh?” You mumble, wrapping your legs around his waist to nudge him by the heels of your feet. Jin lays on top of you, shoving a hand up your shirt to play with your tits lazily.

“What’s on your mind?”

“I saw Taeyeon today. Your ex-fiancee, remember her?” You say bluntly and Jin freezes for a second, his fingers clamped around your nipple.

“Of course I remember my ex-fiancee,” Jin hisses, squeezing your waist, “What could my girl possibly be talking to my ex-fiancee about?”

“What else do we have in common?” You roll your eyes, “You. And croissants. She looks good. She’s happy, told me about the girl she’s seeing.”

“And you? Are you happy?”

“She said something funny,” You say, ignoring his question, “Said you broke your engagement for me and that it was stupid that we weren’t together.”

“Not together? You think we’re not together?” Jin asks incredulously, “This is fuckin’ weird, baby. Because Taeyeon said we’re not together, you think we’re not together?”

“I don’t think anything, baby,” You say stubbornly, “It’s...complicated.”

“What’s complicated? I’m yours and you’re mine. That’s all there is to it, remember?” Jin murmurs, cradling your face. You pull him down for a hungry kiss. You don’t want to talk about it anymore. You only want him.

Hoseok’s New Year’s Eve party, or the party of the year as he dubbed it, was in full swing. Bottles of alcohol were opened on the designated table, red, black and gold streamers and decorations all over his apartment, with everyone dressed in either red, black or gold to match the theme. As per his request.

You were wearing a tight, red midi dress. Jin nearly convinced you to stay home, with his wandering hands and lingering touches. But you wanted to end the year with a bang, and you’d be damned if he held you up. He was hot, and you thought it was cute when his ears reddened at your soft sigh when you saw him.

You’re about four drinks deep, in the middle of drinking games with equally, if not more, tipsy friends and you’ve never been happier. You cheer loudly when your team wins, giving Jungkook and Yoongi’s girlfriend kisses on the cheek at your victory.

Seokjin is on a mission to get you alone. When he finally gets his chance, inching his way in between you and Taehyung, you grin widely at him. With your arms flat on his chest.

“Hey,” You purr, “Missed you.”

“Wanna tell you something,” Jin says, a little desperately and takes you outside, on Hoseok’s balcony.

“Outside? It’s cold,” You complain, rubbing your bare arms. Jin immediately draws you into his chest, replacing your hands with his. As nice as it is, you’re still cold.

“I need to talk to you,” Jin pleads, taking your chin in his hands.

“Jin,” You ask worriedly, “What’s wrong? Are you alright?”

“I love you,” Jin exhales, “I love you so much.”

“I know that,” You smile, heart still skipping a beat at his words. 

“No, you don’t understand,” Jin says frantically, “I’m in love with you. I’m so in love with you. Even when I didn’t know it, I was. You are my best friend, my soulmate, and I am in love with you.”

“O-oh. Like that,” You murmur. His words are new, but for some reason, you don’t feel any different. Maybe it’s because you’ve known for the last few months. You’ve known how he felt about you. But still. His words are everything. 

“Yeah. Like that.”

“I’ve been so in love with you for… God, I don’t even know how long,” You sigh dreamily, melting into his kisses over your cheek, your forehead, your chin, “Say it again, Jinnie.”

“I’m in love with you,” A kiss to the corner of your mouth, “I love you-” A kiss to your eyebrow, “I fuckin’ love you,” A kiss to your lips.

“Want to end the year with you as my girlfriend,” Jin murmurs into your neck, “And start the next year with you as my girlfriend. Will you do that for me? Will you do that with me?”

“Yeah,” You nod, almost shy, “Fuck, yeah. I’ll do that with you.”

“I wanna do everything with you,” Jin sighs, “Every fuckin’ thing, babe. Do it all with me. I love you. I love you. I’m in love with you.”

Your heart is singing, you feel like you’re floating and when Jin kisses you at midnight in front of all of your friends… Even dipping you dramatically. The cheers of your friends are muted with the press of Jin’s warm lips on yours with the promise of a future together.

It’s not so complicated.

[karlnapity]

Rejoice, Rejoice, God’s Ears are Stitches

“Drop your things in the hole,” Tommy says, and Dream feels his stomach drop. He slowly undoes the clasps on his chest plate while his eyes scour the crowd, from Punz’s fierce expression to Puffy’s tear-streaked face. Something deep and dark jolts in his chest, but he casts it aside same as his chest plate. It makes a clang! as it hits the bottom of the hole, and Tommy jumps satisfyingly.

He takes his time removing his armor, relishing in the way the crowd shuffles uncomfortably. Eventually Tommy lets out an indignant “hurry up!” and he can barely keep himself from chuckling.

Once he’s finished, they stand there in a tense silence for a few seconds before Tommy says, “All your armor, Dream.”

He tilts his head to the side. “What d’you mean?”

He has a sneaking suspicion that lets tendrils of something akin to nerves creep up his spine. They only solidify when Tommy points his sword at Dream’s face.

“Your mask. Put it in the hole.”

For a second, he considers refusing. But he imagines being held down, the mask forced off his face, and he shivers. He reaches to the clasp, hand stuttering. When was the last time he’d taken it off?

Tommy huffs. He undoes the clasp.

The mask shatters as it hits the helmet still resting on the top of the pile. He watches the shards bounce.

The audience has gone very silent. He refuses to look at them. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Tommy scrutinize his face. He does not look at him.

“You’re an ugly motherfucker, you know that?” There’s little bite in Tommy’s words. He may have the upper hand right now, but he’s still only grasping at straws against Dream. He is. Dream still sneers. Low blow, to poke at the various scars littering his face, hardly leaving an unmarred spot. He opens and closes his fist where he’d usually be grasping a weapon.

Sam and Punz step forward, each of them grabbing an arm. He’s led to the elevator as he listens to the sounds of the crowd celebrating. He does not look at them. He won’t give them the satisfaction.

As the elevator rises, Sam’s hand only tightens around his arm. He wonders why, at first, but it becomes obvious as he starts to ache.

Mining fatigue. Fuck.

He focuses his attention on simply remaining upright. The bruises and cuts and the knee Tommy had almost knocked out of its socket suddenly make themselves known, and with a vengeance. He shuffles, trying to keep his legs from giving out.

Punz coughs a laugh from beside him. Dream can’t stop his eyes from straying, but it doesn’t help. He can’t read his expression.

“It’s weird being able to see what you’re thinking,” Punz says quietly. Dream quickly schools his expression. He does not respond.

The fatigue becomes almost overwhelming as they come to a stop. The two lead him out of the elevator and through the prison. He passes by more walls, doors, than he can remember. He tries to catalog information as it comes, but his mind is just as tired as his body, and black spots dance in his vision. He will not let these people see him weak, though, so he keeps his attention on keeping his expression neutral, keep his legs moving.

He watches the lava part, and his heart stutters to a stop in his chest. This is it.

He does not look at the two as he’s left alone.

>

He jolts awake, his breath catching. As he gasps on the floor he notices the heavy air, the way his hair is stuck to his face. The heat is almost scalding, and as he sits up he feels woozy. He almost laughs at himself. He’s only on his first day (or is it?) of his imprisonment and he’s already falling apart. He lets out a chuckle, coughing from dehydration.

His stomach churns from a combination of the overwhelming mining fatigue and the heat from the lava. He brushes back his hair as best as he can, ties it up, suddenly glad Sam had only let him keep a t-shirt.

He examines the cell, still dizzy but acclimating as best he can. Thankfully there’s what seems to be a dispenser in a corner, leaving him with a bottle of water and a raw potato. Not the best food, and it doesn’t help replenish any health, but he takes what he can get. He stops himself from chugging the water as much as he wants to. He doesn’t know when Sam will next leave him food, and he needs to, at the very least, stay conscious. Dying from dehydration won’t do him any good.

The clock on the wall ticks loudly, and for a second he considers crushing it. He wonders, if he does, if Sam will come replace it.

He can’t risk it. The noise is loud in his ears, the only other thing in this godforsaken place aside from the sound of the lava bubbling.

He feels tears mounting in his eyes and pushes them down. No. He won’t, can’t be weak. That would mean accepting defeat, and he will leave this place. He will win.

He doesn’t feel particularly victorious with his hands over his ears, trying to block out the ticking sound of the clock.

>

It’s impossible to tell how long he’s been here, and he can feel it already prying at his mind. The clock tells him whether it’s day or night, but not much more than that, and it doesn’t make much difference to him when the only light he gets is from the lava.

He started trembling a few days ago, and he’s not even sure where it comes from. It makes it hard to do much of anything, and it’s not even like there’s much to do. He alternates dunking his head in the cauldron of water in a pitiful attempt to cool himself off, struggling to write in the books he’s been given, and laying on the floor and listening to the clock.

He’s too tired from the mining fatigue to be able to do much writing at all. His hands shake too much to hold the quill correctly, and his brain moves at a snail’s pace that annoys even him. So, instead, he lays on the floor, listens to the clock, and stares at the lava. His back hurts from the hard stone, and it holds the heat, but it’s not like he has much other choice.

Has it been a week? Two? He’s not sure. He hasn’t seen Sam since he was imprisoned. He hasn’t tried to escape. He hasn’t done anything but eat raw fucking potatoes and try not to get heatstroke. Sleeping is really the only agreeable possibility, and even then he wakes up choking on hot air.

His communicator buzzes, and he sits up so fast his head swims. All avenues have been cut off except Sam, so he knows it’s him immediately.

< You have a visitor today. >

He clambers to his feet. He hates the way his heart races at the thought. He shouldn’t be this excited for one of them to visit him. It was inevitable that, eventually, someone would. They wouldn’t be able to forget him. They need his help.

(It’s the only reason he’s alive.)

(He shakes that thought away.)

For the first time in over a week he tries to pull himself together. He fixes his ponytail, makes it as neat as possible, downs the rest of his water to try to garner some sort of energy. He’s already exhausted just from the excitement. Jesus Christ, what has this place done to him?

He sits on the lectern as he waits. Who will it be? One of his old friends? Punz? Tommy?

Soon enough, the lava starts to lower.

He makes direct eye contact with Tommy. The boy looks petrified. Good.

What will Tommy want? Will he want him to stay put together? Will he want him to be pitiful?

(Tommy will want a friend. Tommy will want soft.)

He’s not used to regulating his facial expressions. He’s had to time adjust to the lack of cover, the familiar feeling of it sitting on his skin lacking, but it’s new, having to looking people in the eye, having to appeal to them in this way. It frustrates him.

Soon enough, Tommy is facing him and the lava is already rising. He looks uncomfortable, pulling at his collar and shoving his hands in his pockets.

He looks better than Dream has seen him in a while. He looks happy enough, certainly healthier than he’s been. He wonders how pathetic he looks.

“Hey,” Tommy says, making the first move. Dream avoids his eyes.

“Hello.”

“What’ve you been up to?” Tommy asks, awkward as ever.

(Tommy will want a friend. Tommy will want him to be sorry.)

“I like watching the clock,” he answers, genuine. He keeps his voice quiet. “I’ve been going crazy in here.”

“Everyone hates you, you know?” Tommy says. That confuses him.

“Well, I’m in prison, now, so there’s no reason for anyone to hate me,” he refutes, frustration rising. That makes no sense. Why would they hate him now?

They beat him. Why would they hate him now?

“Hey, Dream, are you getting all sad? Watch this: I am your best friend, Dream, I am your friend, and I will come and visit you every day!” Tommy’s voice rises as he takes his clock off the wall, throws it in the water, turns back to him, angry as hell. “Does this remind you of anything?”

Dream stays quiet. What can he say to that?

“It’s just sad! You’ve been exiled, bitch! You’ve been imprisoned!” Tommy looks so satisfied, like he deserves this, like he’s proving a point.

It’s hard to take a deep breath when the air’s so heavy, but he has to. He clenches his hands in fists, turns around so Tommy can’t see his expression. Remember.

(Be Tommy’s friend. Be sorry.)

“Maybe I’ll be better, and then you’ll let me out,” he tries. Makes his voice as meek as possible. Makes himself smaller.

Tommy laughs. He tries harder.

“What if it’s a long time and I’m better?”

Tommy just looks at him. For the first time, his expression is unreadable. He looks stronger, now. He doesn’t look like a kid anymore.

“Tommy, I’m sorry.”

(It’s what he’s supposed to say.)

“Really?” Tommy looks genuinely taken aback, genuinely surprised. Something in his expression hurts, but he ignores it. “For what?”

He ransacks his brain for the right thing to say. He can’t think, he’s so tired.

(He wants Tommy to leave. He wants Tommy to stay.)

“Um. For everything I did to you.”

He says all the right things: I have no reason to lie. I’m glad you visited me. I’m sad.

Tommy gives him homework, and he complies obediently.

He lets Tommy make fun of him all he wants, lets Tommy laugh at him, and he doesn’t get angry.

Tommy promises he’ll be back. Dream can’t tell if he’s genuine.

“I lost my friends, and all my stuff, and my server. And you.”

He doesn’t mean to say it. It’s not part of the routine. But it works: Tommy seems genuinely interested, then, doesn’t seem to take it as manipulation as much as everything else. He tries to pull himself together, but he’s so tired. His act is falling apart.

“Who do you miss the most?” Tommy asks.

Anger flares.

“I think you should go, Tommy.”

Tommy asks again, and Dream can’t do anything but yell for Sam. Tommy just keeps asking, and Dream just wants him to leave. He drives his fingernails into his palm and he doesn't look at him.

The clock is especially loud, that day.

[gisachi]

Okay I LOVE YOU TO DEATH ( ´ ∀ `)ノ��� ♡ but I think you already know that. I'm hereby requesting for #2 or #15 for the ShinRan kisses bc omfgahd you the b e s t ❤❤❤

This is for the dearest Tru because guurl your dcmk fandom misses you but I know you’re enjoying yourself over in HQ fandom and that’s great too ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) if you feel like coming back, let this be your ShinRan welcoming gift ok~ 💝😘

2. A small, fleeting kiss - which is immediately followed by a passionate, hungry kiss. 15. A fierce kiss that ends with a bite on the lip, soothing it with a lick. (1,659 words)

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Shinichi is a biter. It’s a fact not even he was aware of until Ran pointed it out. She discovered this weird trait of his back in middle school when in the dead silence of their study session, Shinichi unlookingly reached for Ran’s dormant hand and gave a light bite on the side of her palm.

Utterly aghast, Ran gave his head a good whack, questioning where the hell that came from,  only for him to respond with a clueless (and pained) ‘Huh, what did I do?’

Ran believed that Shinichi did know but merely played pretend to avoid her flying fist of death. Yet, it happened more than once, all done randomly and without any hint of hesitancy nor perversity in his end. That was when she started to consider that maybe, Shinichi was indeed blissfully unaware of his habit— of his fondness?— of biting her.

She isn’t going to lie, it’s very weird at first. It isn’t simply some information she can share so casually because even Agasa-hakase would find it hard to believe. Shinichi? Bites? Dogs bite. Not people. Moreso not him. He who cowers like a kitten when he senses the Ran Rage. Not that his bites hurt, but still. Weird.

Though after noting the pattern, Ran concludes that Shinichi mechanically does it only when three conditions are met: when he isn’t stressed, when they are beside each other, and when they are alone. If absorbed in a case, he doesn’t so much as flinch from his chair, sitting upright in a foetal position, and Ran beside him is reduced to an invisible post. But when his mind is free of cases, leisurely reading his mystery novels next to her, the hand grabbing and hand biting occur.

One instance, they were walking home, and although they were beside each other, fingers grazing fingers, Ran sensed his hesitancy to snatch her hand for a usual bite. Side glancing at him, she teased, “So you’re finally becoming conscious of your weird habit?”

“Conscious enough to understand that I must stop myself from doing that in public… give me credit, Ran,” he scoffed.

They weren’t even dating then, but the blush on her face was akin to the blush of a woman receiving a declaration of love from her man. He realized he was weird. And he wanted to be weird, comfortably weird, only around her.

The affectionate bites have continued without issue until high school, even beyond. She’s allowed to call it affectionate, right? Yes, it grew on her, and though it’s questionably odd, the act of imprinting innocent, visible teeth marks somewhere on another’s body is something that does not just happen if both parties aren’t comfortable with it. Letting him bite her is a sign that she returns his affection too.

And then they started dating.

The only thing that’s changed apart from their relationship status is that the biting doesn’t only happen on the hand. Sometimes, he treats her forearm like a roasted chicken leg and Ran tickles him on the rib as punishment. Her arm and shoulder are his favorite body parts to nibble on. Fortunately, teeth marks don’t take long to disappear, unless they blotch which is a different story. That hasn’t happened. Yet.

“You’re doing it again,” Ran complained during another private study session when the nibble on her unsleeved shoulder felt deeper than usual.

“Crap, sorry.” And he soothed with a kiss. Ran blushed.

That was a first.

She moved a tiny inch away from him, formidable pink growing in her cheeks. “Sorry for the bite, or for biting too hard?” she snipped. Shinichi simply laughed.

Pensively, he observed the embedded mark on her skin as she moved, eyebrows scrunching in contemplation. Suddenly his mood shifted.

“Do you think I ought to stop this?” he spoke up.

Ran blinked, a little surprised. “And you’re asking that question now?”

“Better than not asking and making you feel uncomfortable for the rest of your life, yeah.”

“What makes you say I’m uncomfortable?”

“ ‘Cause I never hear you say you’re okay with it?”

Ran blinked a few more times.

“Shinichi, I don’t have to say I’m okay with it for you to know I’m okay with it. You of all people should know that.”

“That’s not it,” Shinichi argued, “it’s precisely because I know you that I need to hear you say it. Your silence can mean a lot of things... I still can’t read you one hundred percent, you know...”

Stopping a growing smile, Ran rolled her eyes and sighed thickly through her mouth. She was so tempted to humor him but he looked so sincere with that sad apologetic face.

“It’s just odd. But I don’t...I don’t hate it,” she answered.

“So you like it?” His face brightened, voice upping mirthfully as he leaned closer. “C’mon! Say it.”

“M-Mah,” flustered, she lifted her nose in the air and looked the other way, “You’re just making fun of me now!”  

He laughed, then kissed her shoulder again. “Fine. I’ll take that answer.”

And so he never stops.

In the most random moments alone together, he'll grab the opportunity to steal a bite. When she’s brushing her hair, when she’s zoning out during a movie, while she takes a call from her mom, or even while she’s cooking. Especially while she’s cooking. He’ll stand behind her and wrap his arms around her waist, making everything more intimate than it already is.

One fine night, he drops by Ran’s after solving yet another case that has earned him another column in the next morning paper. In a very good mood, he bites her shoulder, after he has taken his bath, and Ran is cooking his favorite food for dinner. His lips - not his teeth - linger longer on her skin, longer than how he often soothes her, and Ran notices that the warmth is zipping north, onto the slope of her neck and shoulder, and then on her neck.

Suddenly, the heat that emanates isn’t just from the steam from the pot; it’s in her body, everywhere.

“You smell so nice…” She can hear his relaxed smile as his hands caress her waist, and Ran releases a quivering exhale. She knows he’s saying that more out of admiration than anything else, but his voice is raspy and it makes her knees weak. It doesn’t help that he just finished his bath and his bare chest touches her back, and he smells like her lavender shampoo and soap, and he is very far from stressed, and they’re alone in the apartment.

That fine night, the intimacy in the air feels tantalizingly different from usual.

“Did… Did you already heat the teapot as I told you?” Her question is not at all suggestive, but her tone seems to indicate otherwise.

“Mm,” lazily, he parts her long hair to the other side and nibs on the silky skin of her neck, “seven minutes ‘til it boils.”

And then the following seconds are quiet, body language speaking for itself. Her head craning, breathing short; his relaxing nibbles softer and deeper, hands on her waist playful. His alternating kisses and bites electrify her, and she wants to fuel this spark into something greater, something that will make both of them combust.

So she sets the stove to low heat, and turns around.

On that fine night, she seizes the opportunity to kiss him where she prefers.

Chaste and gentle, but eager all the same. Instances like these are when Shinichi need not ask if she likes what he’s doing because the answer is crystal clear in her eyes.

Still, with a shell-shocked expression, he stares back, unmoving. Heart beating fast and head spinning crazy. That is a first.

The next second, he’s kissing her back.

“Doing it...again,” Ran breathes, breaking their connection every two seconds to let him punctuate each kiss with a tender bite on her lip.

“ ‘M sorry,” he airs, smiling, kissing deep, drinking the moan that trembles out her throat. “Force of habit... Didn’t notice.”

She feels the swirling heat change the color of her cheeks; she’s probably burning red now. “You always don’t,” she chuckles over his lips as her back hits the edge of the kitchen island.

They are no expert at this, but it feels like they’ve been doing this for so long with the way their lips move and glide and dance with each other, already done testing the waters, encouraging for more. As if his skin kisses are but the foreplay leading to this special moment. Soon, she feels herself being lifted from the floor, thighs laid to rest flat on the countertop, his body slotted between her legs. Ran feels her soul leave her body. This intimacy has easily transcended into another level.

In the middle of concentration, Shinichi’s eyes blow wide like dinner plates and he separates, touching the corner of his lower lip.

He tastes iron on his tongue. He looks at his girlfriend, realizing what she’s done. “...Whoa.”

Smiling coyly, Ran leans close, pausing a breath away, before soothing his swollen lip with a soft bite and gentle lick, and Shinichi groans a little. “I think...I see the appeal now.”

Shinichi’s smirk is smug and thrilled, loving his girl’s newest discovery. “And I see why you aren’t stopping me before…” he kisses her again, “Do it more.”

And on that night, more she does. Her first kisses, her first nibbles, her first tongue action she offers while taking all of his in turn. Perhaps she might have taken more, if not for the kettle whistling and dinner boiling out of the pot.

As for his weird biting habit, safe to say it’s best she gets even for the hundred times he’s done before. And apart from his lips, she’s willing to discover where he likes to receive it most and how he likes it given.

That won’t take long. He’s a willing teacher anyway.

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[choco-mark]

A Marriage of Inconvenience (6)

overall pairing: mafia!jeno x mafia!oc

overall genre: angst | smut | fluff

warnings: language, mentions of violence + death, jeno threatening to kill hyuck, mentions of sex, explicit sex, angry/rough sex, choking, manhandling (kinda), unprotected sex (be safe!!!), somnophilia, oral (fem. receiving), overstimulation, praise kink (kinda), moaning kink, crying during sex, i literally wrote fucking filth okay??

summary: when two mafia gangs decide to end their family feud after decades, your mother decides to give your hand away to marriage of their son, lee jeno. he seemed to hate you from the moment he laid his eyes on you, but could the resolution lead to something much more than a bride and groom?

words: 4.7k

masterlist

requested by 🤡 anon

27 April

Despite your threat to leave nearly a week ago, you hadn’t left the palace since that moment—well, you hadn’t really taken a step out of your room other than to go to Jisung’s room, and Mark had so nicely guided you on a pathway from your room to his. You also hadn’t talked to Jeno since then, also considering that he was being a complete asshole to you from the moment you had even entered the house nearly two weeks ago. He was just that—an absolute asshole.

Jisung had been taken back to the Park mansion two days earlier, leaving you with a tight hug and a promise that you would indeed see him again, just to be ripped from your grip one more time. At least he had healed enough for the Parks to...not be completely suspicious to the point where they declared some war on the Lees, and it was good enough for him to be sent back. It wasn’t easy, staying in your room with absolutely nothing to do other than to sit by the window and enjoy the air, or listen to Mark talk about virtually nothing for hours. It wasn’t that you didn’t enjoy his company, he was just so talkative to the point that you would zone out to the sound of his voice and focus on how your life could’ve been if you didn’t ever leave your home.

You didn’t know what you expected for Jeno to do, however: come visit you? apologize to you? maybe tell you that he’s sorry for being the main cause of your misery? But you hadn’t seen that handsome face of him for the past week, and only when you had briefly mentioned him to Mark, he had told you that Jeno’s birthday had passed on the twenty-third. And he hadn’t celebrated it in the least. You didn’t expect him, or any of the Lees to be celebrators of their birthdays, but Mark had insisted that this was just a Jeno thing: he never wanted to take note of the fact that he was born on that day.

Jeno, however, felt like a complete failure of a fiancee when he saw you storm out of his bedroom with tears and a broken voice, and he couldn’t even bring it up to himself to ask why the fuck he decided to explode on you as if everything was your fault. It really wasn’t, not even in the slightest, but he also couldn’t find anyone else to blame: his father? your father? both families? But he knew that he had fucked up when he saw someone as strong as you cry with real tears streaming down your face the way you did when Jisung lunged himself in front of a week earlier. And the worst part was, he wasn’t really much different from Taeyong, being the reason that you were shedding tears and being the cause of your pain. He felt like shit.

And maybe he deserved to feel like shit when he hesitated in front of your door every single time he built up the courage to actually go up to your room, and maybe he felt like shit when he sent Mark in there instead, to see how you were doing. Were you eating right? Were you feeling better? Were you recovering properly the way you were supposed to? He didn’t know why he wanted to know how you were doing, but he felt obligated in a way, obligated to keep you—safe.

Mark told him that you were—softer. Softer than the way you were when you first came to the palace, and he said that it was because of your brother; that your brother made you softer on the inside and messed with your emotions. Taeyong was smart in that way, emotionally manipulating you with your core weakness, family. You knew that you went soft whenever it came to Jisung, but you couldn’t help it anyway, seeing him hurt meant that it hurt you more, mentally and physically.  

It was around eight in the evening when Jeno decided for about the hundredth time that he had the courage to storm up to your room and apologize to you about being—a shitty person to you. He stood in front of your door again, a hand raised to knock but it never actually meeting the wood, hesitation going through his blood. What if she doesn’t want to talk to me? Obviously she wouldn’t, you were a fucking idiot towards her.

“You’re not backing out this time,” Jeno jumped from the sound of a familiar voice, double-taking on the owner of the sweet voice behind him. Donghyuck was standing behind him with his arms crossed, a slight smirk painting his face as he nodded towards your door. “Don’t think I haven’t seen you chicken out on actually going into her room for like—the past fucking week. Don’t be a pussy, Jeno...”

“I haven’t been chickening out,” he answered quietly, looking at the intricate door and then back to Donghyuck, his voice lacking any real confidence. “I just don’t want to be—rude or anything.”

“Rude? You’re worried about being rude, now?” He asked incredulously, the one eyebrow with a perfect slit raising as he leaned against the wall, the sound of voice increasing slightly until Jeno gave him a look. “Okay, okay. Just—get over yourself and apologize to her. She deserves it, you know. She’s a pretty one.” Donghyuck hummed thoughtfully after that, making his brother give him a pointed look. “I mean, just stating facts. She’s pretty, she’s got a pretty voice, and everything about her is—pretty.”

“Don’t talk about her like that,” he growled softly, and Donghyuck put his hands up in mock defense, shaking his head. “She’s mine.” The words tasted familiar on his tongue, like they were meant to be there as he gave him another cocky look. “Don’t look at me like that, Hyuck. I’ll kill her if you even lay a hand on her.”

“Feisty, okay,” he punctuated the last word with a smack of his lips, pursing them carefully as he rolled his eyes. “Just listen. You were an ass, and she probably still thinks you’re an ass because you’re the only one here that can’t get over his massive ego. She’s not stupid, either, so don’t half-ass your apology. Get it over with and then eat her out, simple.”

Jeno could’ve spit out his water if he had any in his mouth. Donghyuck just shrugged after his words, as if he hadn’t just given his older brother some—sex advice? “She’ll definitely forgive you if you suck on her clit, okay? You’ve stressed the pretty girl out enough, so go make her cum a few times. Oh, and you might wanna close the door, these servants just walk in on their own accord these days.”

“Hyuck, if you don’t fucking shut up right now, I’m gonna choke you to death.”

“Kinky,” he wiggled his eyebrows, dodging Jeno’s hand as he lunged for the collar of his shirt. “Yikes! You might not want to show her that side yet, it’s a little too early. See ya!” He backed away from his grip, swaying down the hallway till the end turn, giving him a small wave, and then disappearing.

Suck on her clit...make her cum a few times. That doesn’t sound...that bad? His eyes fell back on your door, the one that he had been standing in front of for the past few days, never having the actual courage to give it a sharp knock and see your face again. But she probably doesn’t want to see me anyway. Hyuck’s right. I was an ass...and I kinda still am. Jeno raised up his hand again, resting it softly against the wood so it wouldn’t make a noise. Okay, on three.

One.

Two.

Three.

He left a sharp few hits to the wood, regretting it almost immediately with every single cell in his body. Shit, shit, shit, I should leave. Okay, fuck. You already knocked on the fucking door, Lee Jeno, you can’t leave now, she’s just gonna hate you even more. Fuck, did she hear it? Maybe I should—

“Mark?” Your voice was euphonious, the name of his older brother ringing through the room, though it was muffled from the distance that he heard it. “I said you don’t have to knock anymore, just come in.” His pursed his lips at your words. Mark’s been coming in without knocking?

Even though you were basically inviting him in, his feet didn’t move to his mind, staying planted. Suddenly, the ground looked very appealing to it. He never really seemed to realize how nicely the expensive wood floor looked against the walls and the door. Maybe he’d end this mafia business and just become an architect instead.

The door swung open, revealing your unsuspecting figure as you focused on Jeno’s face, your face falling as you realized who was finally outside of your door after what seemed like decades. “Oh...” You sounded disappointed to see him, which wasn’t necessarily the case for you. You were just—surprised. “You’re not...Mark,” you trailed off, looking away from him.

“Can I come in?”

He didn’t sound as harsh as he did when he spoke to you last, but you couldn’t let it deceive you this time. Your hand curled around the doorknob, getting ready the slam the door in his face eventually. “No.” You weren’t as firm as you wished to be, but that’s what the flat piece of wood of a door was for. You swung it forward, but Jeno’s foot stopped it first, halting it halfway through it’s motion.

“Please? I just want to talk...” He sounded desperate, your heart twisting at the sound. You shook your head in denial. Nope, I’m not letting him in again. I can’t let him in any longer. “Y/N, please.” There it is again, saying my name like that.

“Stop saying my name like that,” you muttered, still trying to close the door on him but failing. “Just go. Leave me alone.” You realized that you were sounding like a child, but you didn’t really care at this point. “Just go!”

Jeno already had a short temper, that was something that was obvious to almost everyone in that entire palace, and your stubbornness was annoying him by the second. All he wanted to do was set things right, apologize to you properly for being an asshole the entire time, but you weren’t quite making it easy for him. Well, he couldn’t really blame you, if you had done the same thing, he probably wouldn’t want to see you either. But it was prickling his nerves intently, annoying him from the way you were even refusing to hear him out.

“Y/N, just listen to me for one minute,” he tried to keep his voice level, to sound sane as you didn’t budge. “Y/N! Just listen to what I have to say!”

“Why should I listen to you?!” You snapped back, and you knew that you had hit a nerve of his when his tongue poked at his cheek, darting out to lick his lips shortly. For some reason, it made you oddly satisfied to piss him off, the urge to push him further down the road fueling you as you bit down on a smirk of pride. “You’re such a fucking prick, Lee Jeno!”

That did it. The foot that was holding the door with such patience was removed for a brief moment, only for him to kick it back with so much power that it startled you. He made his way in, nearly making you stumble backwards as he slammed it shut with a loud sound, grabbing your body and pinning you to the wood in less than a second. Your breath hitched as tried to squirm away from the tight grip he held on your wrists, but his eyes were pouring into you, bright will a newfound anger and...lust?

His hand went to cup your core the same time he attacked your lips, basically crashing them together so hard that you thought your mouth would bleed from the action. “I’m a prick?” He asked between kisses, nipping at your lip with his teeth as his eyes never left yours. “What? You like that?” The hand that was over your clothed pussy rubbed with an increasing friction, your strong demeanor falling as he did so. “You like it when I touch you there? Huh?”

As much as you didn’t want to admit it to him, you nodded your head, panting as you did so. “You are a prick, so fucking—selfish, fuck...” His hands had dipped past your jeans and panties, fingers roughly caressing your folds that were growing wet by the second. Your hands were grasping his forearms as he continued the fast paced motion, making you double over. “Fuck, fuck, fuck...”

“You’re a brat, Y/N,” he snarled, stopping momentarily to basically rip off your jeans, throwing them behind him as he yanked down your panties, leaving you bare to him. “You can’t even listen to me when I ask you to, so disobedient. I was trying to be fucking nice for once.”

“Shut up,” you pierced him with your gaze as you watched him kick off his own boxers, taking in the sight of his fully erect cock. “What? Is this why you came here? Because you fucked up with your words and now you’re so fucking hard for me?! You deserve it...” He thrusted into you, hard and raw as you let out a yelp of pain, your fingers digging into his arm as he started a brutal pace.

“Deserve what?” He mocked, grabbing you by the jaw to push your head back, moving forward to suck at your neck. “Deserve to be called a prick? You think you can talk to me like that?” You fisted a hand in his hair, pulling at the locks hard enough to elicit a moan from him. “You’re the one dripping all over the floor for me.”

“You’re not my father,” you scratched at his chest, trying not to let him know how good he was making you feel. “Fuck off, Jeno.”

He groaned at the sound of his name, pushing you even harder against the door as he thrusted impossibly deeper, making your entire body go limp as you wrapped your legs around his hips. You were trying to get ahold of yourself, to keep yourself grounded but the way he was fucking you so desperately made you lose your mind.

Jeno noticed your fucked out expression as he pulled back from your neck, feeling the hot skin under your shirt as he raked it upwards, grasping onto you tightly. You looked so good like that, so drunk on his cock that you couldn’t focus on anything but it. Oh, it just felt that good. “At least you‘ll fucking listen to me now,” he continued, hitting your sweet spot with such a force that had you crying out. “Oh, baby, does that feel good?” Good? Good was a fucking understatement of how it felt, the way his cock was dragging across your tightened walls, clenching over him every time his gruff voice hit your ear. He could tell you liked it—no—loved it, and he took it to his advantage, stilling with his cock buried deep inside of your pussy that your eyes fluttered open in response.

You tried bucking your hips, but his strength held you to the wall, driving you crazy. “You gonna listen to me like a good girl, now?” He asked, a little softer as his hand cupped at your cheek for a moment. You tried shying away but his grip was still there. “Answer me.”

“Just fuck me, Jeno,” you said breathlessly, arching your back to get him to move again. “Come on!”

He could’ve sworn you fucking whimpered when he thrusted deeply into you again, hitting your sweet spot as he stilled once again. “Don’t be greedy, princess. Listen to me.” The pet name caught your attention, the weakness of it seeping through as you nodded slowly. “Good girl, you like that? You like it when I praise you, don’t you?” You nodded again, this time falling completely into his hold as his fingers caressed your skin.

“I came here because I wanted to say I’m sorry. I’m sorry for being a fucking prick. I’m sorry for treating you like shit from the literal moment I saw you. I’m sorry for trying to kill you, and I’m sorry for your brother getting shot. I’m sorry, Y/N. I’m really fucking sorry.” His breath fanned your face, bringing you back to reality for a moment to see his sincere expression. “And I’m not just saying this because you’re letting me fuck you against the door.”

You let out an unhumorous chuckle, “Yeah? I don’t believe you.” Now you were just trying to push his buttons. You could see how his eyes had changed from their sparkle of lust to something else as he spoke to you, but they changed back, and the hand on your cheek moved down to your neck instead. His fucking was hard as his fingers pressed at the sides of your throat, your moans now coming out choked.

“You’ll believe me when I’m done with you, princess,” he whispered into your ear, removing his hand just to slam you against the door again, the action knocking the breath out of you. “Look at you, so fucking helpless for my cock. Aren’t you just a sight for sore eyes?” You couldn’t even answer his taunt, holding onto him for dear life as he pounded into you to your orgasm. You scratched down his back, letting out a loud moan as he drove you into overstimulation. He took you harder, his cock causing you oversensitiveness as you felt him chase after his own high. With a groan, he came, filling you up with his milky liquid as you threw your head back at the feeling of his cum inside of you.

Jeno pulled out his already softening dick, watching as his essence dripped out of your hole down your thighs, even decorating the wood underneath the two of you with the liquid. As he unwound your legs from around his hips, he set you back down on your two feet with ease, even though you stumbled into him anyway, clutching at his shirt desperately as he held you from falling. “That good, huh?”

“Fuck off, Jeno.”

28 April

“She came once?!” Donghyuck asked incredulously, pointing at Jeno accusingly as he rolled his eyes at his exaggeration. This was probably the third time he asked him with the same tone, completely baffled to the point where he was scoffing in disbelief. “What about ‘make her cum a few times’ did you not fucking understand?!”

“She pissed me off, okay! I just got—too into the moment and took her against the door, but I think she liked it...” He trailed off, remembering how you had looked at him with those huge gleaming eyes of yours, begging silently for him to fuck you into oblivion while he was attempting to apologize. “But, er—I did apologize.”

“And? How’d she take that?”

Jeno blinked, the only memory coming back to him being your answer in order to rile him up into stuffing you with his cock again. He looked sheepishly over at his brother, scratching the back of his neck. “Uh, well. She told me she didn’t believe me so I just made her cum.” Donghyuck didn’t seem impressed. “What?! Don’t look at me like that!”

“Like what?” He crossed his arms, sighing dramatically. “Like you just fucked your fiancee after I told you to act like a sane person and apologize with your mouth?”

“No! Like I did something wrong!”

“Uh, um, well. You fucked your fiancee after I told you to act like a sane person and apologize with your mouth, and you left her to an empty room in the morning to come and fucking talk to me?! How do you expect her to forgive you after that? Or worse, how do you expect her to let you fuck her after that?!”

“Wow, priorities,” Jeno rolled his eyes at his brother’s words, leaning back against his bed. “And I didn’t leave her like that! I did the aftercare shit and I was there the whole night, you know, and I like hugged her and shit. It was cute...you know?”

Donghyuck massaged his forehead. “Cuddling, Jeno. It’s called cuddling. Get your endearment terms together and maybe you can work this thing out with her. Have you ever dated before?”

“Er—no?”

“Yeah, that explains a lot.” He shuffled forward, crossing his legs as if he was about to start lecturing Jeno about the theory of relativity. “So, rule number one. You don’t fuck for forgiveness. It doesn’t work like that. Two, you can’t just fuck her all the time. And three, if you don’t go back to her room and make her cum at least three times, I’ll do it myself. And yes! That’s a fucking threat, brother!”

“You just said I shouldn’t fuck for forgiveness, Hyuck. And I already told you that I’ll kill you if you even dare to touch her—I’m gonna narrow it down to look at her.” Donghyuck didn’t seem fazed by the weak threat, but slapped his thigh instead, startling him. “What was that for?”

“Do you like her?”

“I’m engaged to her.”

“That doesn’t answer the question, jackass.”

“Yes, fuck. Yeah, I like her.”

He grabbed Jeno by the arm, pushing him off the bed as he continued to move towards the door, eventually throwing him out of the room. “So go fucking tell her that, you idiot. And don’t come into my room until you’ve made her cum three times.”

You woke up with a tingling sensation from between your legs, your entire mind in a haze as a wave of pleasure crashed over you, sending too many signals to your brain that you were flooded from the feeling. You didn’t understand what was happening, but as your eyes finally fluttered open to a sight of bright hair between your legs, oh, you knew exactly what was happening.

Jeno was lapping at your folds like a small dog, his tongue swirling over your skin slowly until he noticed you were waking up. He didn’t stop, however, his hands moving to throw your legs over his shoulders before he sent you a silent wink, burying his tongue into your heat again. Your heart jumped, jumped out of your fucking chest when you felt the wet muscle at your most sensitive area, your body responding so quickly with an arch of your back. If this was Jeno’s first time ever giving oral, you wouldn’t have known, considering it was most definitely the first time someone had ever put their mouth on you in such an intimate fashion. He didn’t quite know what he was doing either, considering that he actually hadn’t done this before, but your responses were fueling him to continue.

He stopped momentarily to rub your inner thighs, looking at you with widened eyes as he saw you biting at your lip, your eyes barely open as he moved his finger against your clit instead. “Good morning, princess,” he wouldn’t have found the moment any hotter if you hadn’t came from the sound of his raspy morning voice, a cry ripping from your throat as you felt yourself flush in embarrassment. Jeno, however, was impressed. “Oh my god. You just came. Did you just cum from my voice?” He asked with curiosity, but he knew the answer was yes when you tried to close your legs. “Fuck, that’s so hot.”

Jeno felt his ego soar from that, noticing that you were so affected by him as he pressed his lips against your core again, watching as you cried out from the sensitivity. Though he hadn’t ever tasted a pussy before yours, he was sure that it couldn’t get any sweeter. You tasted so good, so wet and fulfilling for him as he practically made out with your clit. The sparks going through your body were way too much, nearly sending you out of this world as you laced your fingers through his hair again, grabbing on something to keep you sane.

Yet, it didn’t keep you sane in the same way, not from the way you heard the lewd sounds coming from between your legs, filling up the entire bedroom along with your voice. He was doing so good, his jaw moving so rapidly that you couldn’t even think about anything else. Nothing but Jeno, Jeno, Jeno. He paused to move down to your hole, teasing his tongue at the entrance before adjusting his grasp on your thighs and easing himself inside. You swore loudly, his name tumbling from your mouth without a second thought as you came again, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes.

You’ve never felt this good in your entire life before, that was absolutely sure, and you especially knew it when Jeno didn’t even hesitate to continue fucking his tongue into you, making you writhe in the sheets. He was groaning from every time you cried out his name in desperation, the vibrations making you go feral as you came for the third time, tears streaming down your face as it happened.

His hands held a tight grip to your thighs as he didn’t even stop, and you cried out loudly, “Jeno, I can’t, please!” Hands ran up your body, soothing you with sweet nothings as he gave you a small break. You felt him press wet kisses to your lower abdomen, feathering them back down to between your legs once again.

“Just once more, princess,” he cooed, the voice sending shivers through your whole body as it he let out a breath against your clit. “Please? You taste so good, I can’t get enough of you. Just one more time, okay? Once more? Please?”

You fell into his grasp again, his tongue sending you into another universe as he drew soft circles of comfort into your inner thighs. The motion just had you ten times more sensitive than earlier, so much more responsive that you were when he decided to wake you up with that pretty mouth of his. That was it, his mouth was absolutely pretty. It worked so well, bringing your over the edge without a doubt, his lips turning swollen but pleasurably so as he looked up at you every so often to see your reaction. Your folds were still glistening from his saliva and your reoccurring arousal, and the amount of times that he had heard his name fall from your sweet, sweet mouth were uncountable.

You bucked your hips into his mouth as you came for the fourth time, soft sobs filling the room as you felt the wave pass over your body in an overwhelming crash. It was too much, way too much at once but it felt so good at the same time. Jeno finally removed himself from his position, letting you take a good look at him with his face covered in your juices. You threw your head back again, your chest heaving as you sobbed in absolute pleasure, the sight of your fiancee sending your emotions sky high.

“Oh my god,” he settled down next to you, pulling the comforter over both of your bodies before he wiped the tears from your face, his own expression during concerned. “Did that hurt? Please tell me that I didn’t hurt you.” You shook your head immediately, raising your hand to grasp his wrist weakly. “Did you like it? Did I do good?” He asked, his eyes searching yours as a way of needing approval. “Did I make you feel good?”

You didn’t know why you were crying, maybe it was the way you felt so intimately connected with him, maybe it was the way that his mouth had made you feel, maybe it was the way you felt so vulnerable under his control, or maybe it was the way that you felt your heart leap with just a simple glance to Jeno’s pleading eyes. But you took a single chance, leaning forward and pressing your lips to his.

“Yes.”

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I LITERALLY WROTE THIS IN A DAY, anyway, i hope you guys enjoyed that because it was f i l t h and i don’t think i’ve ever written so much fucking smut in one post. anyway, there is only one more part after this and an epilogue!! :) love you babes <3 don’t expect...to much angst after this, but i can’t promise anything ;))

[ibijau]

Here's another angst prompt for you, should you choose to accept it. JC/NHS or JC/NMJ or similar. Someone convinces NHS/whoever that the way to test JCs love for them is to make him jealous and make him fight for a relationship harder, except that's not how JC works, he's all like 'I knew NHS couldn't really love me, he'll be happier with XX, I have no right to force him into an unhappy relationship' etc etc etc and just aaaaannnggsstt!

as usual, I’m not sure how well this fits the prompt, oops. But there’s Jiang Cheng, there’s a Nie, and there’s some jealousy as well!

Jiang Cheng left the room without a word, and headed out for a walk in the gardens of Carp Tower. He had seen enough.

It wasn’t a surprise as such that Nie Huaisang, a few cups of wine into the banquet, should start misbehaving. For someone who drank so much, he couldn’t handle alcohol very well, always making a spectacle of himself. Usually that meant crying over a minor problem with his sect, or about how much he missed his brother, but sometimes, like that night, he would get flirtatious instead.

Jiang Cheng, often a victim of that flirtatiousness, had more than once advised him to stop drinking in public. It was often a half-hearted scolding though, because he didn’t exactly dislike having Nie Huaisang’s attention like that, especially not now that Nie Huaisang, on occasion, had made overtures while sober as well. Jiang had started wondering how he was supposed to show that he didn’t dislike the idea, but hadn’t found out how yet.

Which was just as well. If that night had proven anything, it was that Nie Huaisang had never seen this as more than a game. And after seeing him shamelessly flirt with Lan Xichen all evening, pouting and batting his eyes like one of those dancers the late Jin Guangshan sometimes brought to conferences, Jiang Cheng felt stupid for ever thinking Nie Huaisang could have seen him as more than a temporary amusement.

Jiang Cheng hadn’t been walking for very long when he heard footsteps rushing behind him. He hated that even before turning around, he could recognise the person. His mother hadn’t been wrong, every time she’d told him he needed to harden himself against others. It really was weak of him to be so desperate for attention.

“What do you want, Nie zongzhu?” Jiang Cheng hissed, refusing to turn around.

He heard the footsteps stop a moment and a soft gasp, as if Nie Huaisang were surprised to have been noticed and recognised. An instant later, Nie Huaisang sauntered at his side, hidden behind a fan.

“Jiang-xiong, you left so suddenly, I became worried. Is there a problem?”

The tone of Nie Huaisang’s voice might have been innocent, but the way he peered at Jiang Cheng over the edge of his fan wasn’t. It was easy to forget, with the way he acted and how he never made anything of it, but Nie Huaisang was pretty good at reading people when he bothered. That he had been seen through made Jiang Cheng’s heart twist with shame.

“It was just too noisy in there, I needed some quiet,” he lied. Partly lied. Banquets held in Carp Tower really were annoying, and brought back unpleasant memories. He’d never have come again, if not for the chance to see Jin Ling. “I’m fine, you can go back and have your fun.”

Nie Huaisang stared at him a moment, then closed his fan and turned as if to leave.

“You’re right, I should enjoy myself while I can. Er-ge is so fun when he unwinds a little, isn’t he?”

Jiang Cheng huffed, refusing to comment on that. All Lans were the same to him, not one of them worth anyone’s time, yet always catching the attention of people around him. If Nie Huaisang wanted to have shitty tastes though, he was more than welcome to go after whoever he pleased.

Unbothered by his lack of reply, Nie Huaisang started walking back towards the buildings. He didn’t make it very far before he stopped again.

“Seriously? That’s how much you care?” he asked in a voice steadier than it ought to have been after how much he’d drunk.

Surprised by the chance, Jiang Cheng turned to look at him. Nie Huaisang was glaring at him, hands on his hips, a stern frown on his face. With such an expression, he looked a lot like his brother.

“I wasn’t aware I was supposed to care about anything,” Jiang Cheng dryly retorted. “Please, go back and have fun with Lan zongzhu.”

Nie Huaisang tilted his head, his eyes narrowing.

“Jiang-xiong, I just never know how to go about things with you,” he sighed, coming closer again. “You’re always making things more complicated than they need to be.”

“That’s rich, coming from you,” Jiang Cheng retorted, only for Nie Huaisang to tense and quickly hide again behind his fan. “I remember the kind of schemes you’d come up with when we were students. Now that was needlessly complicated.”

Nie Huaisang laughed awkwardly, and lowered his fan a little.

“Ah, yes, that. I was young, I needed to have fun. I still want to have fun. It’s just harder now. And you,” he stated, closing his fan to poke it at Jiang Cheng’s chest, “are a lot less cooperating than you used to be. Hence my previous statement: I never know how to go about things with you.”

“By the look of it, you don’t need me to have fun,” Jiang Cheng replied, batting away the fan. “Lan Xichen seems more than happy to provide you with all the amusement that you need, so go back to him and leave me alone.”

“Er-ge has been indulging me a lot tonight,” Nie Huaisang agreed, stepping closer still.

Jiang Cheng gritted his teeth.

Rationally, he knew that Lan Xichen hadn’t exactly flirted back. All he had done was reply to Nie Huaisang’s very silly remarks, laughed at his jokes, and tried to make sure the younger man ate a little between two cups of wine. As far as Jiang Cheng knew, Lan Xichen had never once given any indications that he thought of Nie Huaisang as anything but a second little brother, slightly more whiny and demanding that the first one, but a brother still.

Jiang Cheng wasn’t in a mindset to be rational, not about this.

Because he knew, also, that Lans weren’t exactly demonstrative about their feelings. He knew that Lan Xichen had been there for Nie Huaisang since the moment his brother died. He knew that it was to Lan Xichen (and Jin Guangyao, not that it mattered right then) that Nie Huaisang turned to whenever he encountered problems, even though Jiang Cheng had made it clear he was willing to give a hand as well.

He couldn’t even blame Nie Huaisang for this. Between the number one bachelor of their generation who lead a rich and powerful sect and was skilled in every domain, and the leader of a half ruined sect that was still desperately trying to get back on its feet, a man with so little to make himself appealing that he’d been judged less attractive than the son of a nobody… well, it wasn’t hard to see who Nie Huaisang would pick.

Nobody, given the choice between Jiang Cheng and literally anything else, had ever chosen Jiang Cheng. Even Wei Wuxian had chosen a life in exile and poverty rather than stay at his side, so why would Nie Huaisang be any different?

“Good for you,” Jiang Cheng hissed. “Invite me to the wedding I guess.”

He tried to leave, but Nie Huaisang quickly grabbed his arm with unexpected strength to stop him.

“Jiang-xion, wait! I swear you’re so… can’t you react normally sometimes?”

“Apparently not!” Jiang Cheng spat. “What’s a normal reaction supposed to be?”

“I don’t know,” Nie Huaisang whined, twisting and turning his closed fan in his free hand. “Something? Anything? Maybe saying ‘I’m better than him’ or ‘I won’t lose you to him’ or something like this? Make an effort, Jiang Cheng, I can’t keep carrying this courtship all on my own!”

Jiang Cheng blinked a few times, startled by that unexpected reasoning.

“I’d be an idiot to think I’m better than Lan-fucking-Xichen,” he numbly pointed out. “And what do you mean by courtship? Who’s courting who here?”

He hadn’t realised that it was something so serious between Lan Xichen and Nie Huaisang, but maybe his own stupid infatuation had forced them to make it more obvious so he’d stop mooning over Nie Huaisang like a lovesick puppy.

Nie Huaisang who tensed again, and threw him a worried look.

“I thought… Jiang-xiong… Jiang zongzhu, did I misread the situation?” he asked, sounding oddly fragile. “I thought we were courting? Isn’t it… I thought you were just a little shy about it,” he whispered, dropping his gaze. “That’s why I… I just wanted to spur you on, I didn’t think… This is so embarrassing. I’m sorry, Jiang zongzhu. I’ll stop pestering you then.”

True to his word, he released Jiang Cheng’s arm, looking more pitiful with every passing moment.

“You never said you wanted a courtship,” Jiang Cheng snapped, making Nie Huaisang flinch.

“I thought it was obvious?” he replied with a nervous laugh. “Like I said, it’s fine, I’ll stop…”

“How was I supposed to guess?” Jiang Cheng cut him. “You’re supposed to ask these things, you idiot.”

Flinching again, Nie Huaisang met his eyes, looking as if he might cry, and opened his fan once more. He didn’t say anything for a while, just observing Jiang Cheng carefully until he seemed to reach a conclusion and lowered his fan again.

“Jiang-xiong, you… is that you saying that you wouldn’t be opposed if I just asked?”

“Don’t say it like it’s an outrageous thing to want! It’s normal to ask!”

Nie Huaisang’s eyes went wide, before he burst out laughing.

“Jiang-xiong, only you would need it spelled out when I’ve been so obvious about it! Even Lan Xichen noticed, and he wouldn’t notice a murder happening right under his nose, so that’s saying something.”

That seemed like an oddly specific remark, Jiang Cheng thought, before deciding he didn’t want to ask about that when there were more important matters at hand.

“So you do want a courtship,” Jiang Cheng insisted.

“Yes.”

“With me?”

“Yes, with you!” Nie Huaisang laughed. “Who else? Lan Xichen? No thanks. I’m a Nie, I can’t imagine being with someone who never took the time to develop a personality. So, Jiang Cheng, let me ask you properly: would you entertain the idea of a courtship between the two of us?”

Jiang Cheng nodded, the words stuck in his throat. It seemed almost too good to be true, that anyone would choose him, that Nie Huaisang of all people would choose him, but he wasn’t about to question his luck.

“Good, excellent, we’re finally getting somewhere,” Nie Huaisang said, still half laughing, his cheeks flushed beautifully. “I guess just saying things isn’t a bad method either, after all. Now, Jiang Cheng, how about you kiss me?”

Jiang Cheng spluttered and grumbled at the shameless request, but quickly obeyed anyway.

[starr-fall-knight-rise]

Humans are Space Orcs, “Infiltration.”

Sorry guys about my weird schedule,  I know I am posting a little early. Hope you like it :)

“No, this this doesn’t make sense. “Krill’s voice echoed about the room, carried on a loud and startled whisper up into the massive atrium.

Sunny placed a hand over his mouth stifling his shock as she stared on with wide eyes having come to the same conclusion as Krill, “I think it makes perfect sense.”

“No, they wouldn’t.”

“I think they would.” 

Before them, four large words stared at them from the darkness like the looming eye of some great beast, all powerful, and all knowing.

Bureau of Intergalactic Relations.

Department of Diplomacy

Department of Trade

Department of planetary security 

Department of Foreign policy 

Before Krill could say anything further, Sunny clamped a hand over his mouth and pulled them back into the darkness of the maintenance corridor.

Krill cursed and Sunny growled a warning for him to shut up, “They probably have security all over this place, and it will be more than a miracle if we didn’t already trip it.” She whispered. Just as she spoke, the two of them froze at the sound of approaching feet. Sunny grabbed Krill around the middle and retreated further into the darkness as voices approached.

Krill half assumed that sunny would conceal herself and wait for an opportunity to ambus, but instead, she dragged him further into the darkness of the maintenance corridor. The echoing voices faded behind them as she took a sharp corner and moved downward.

“What are you doing!” Krill hissed 

Sunny mostly ignored him as she moved on lower and lower until his struggling became so annoying she finally explained in a harsh whisper, “Tesraki have never had to worry about physical spies or assassins, so we can assume their security system will be relatively easy to breach. We know that you don’t want to try to hack the tesraki….. But sneaking into a government facility might be easier.”

“How exactly do you plan on doing that.”

It was then that Sunny let of a huff of pleasure, stopping in a small- dark room where all the building’s power outlets converged.

“I am an engineer, so I am going to…. Un-engineer This power, and cut feed to their cameras and security systems.”

“Isn’t that just the stupid way of saying break all their shit?”

“Ok yeah, go ahead and make it sound less cool.”

“You sound like Adam.”

Sunny stopped in her tracks and shrugged a bit, head down, “Well, he isn’t here so…. So someone has to say stupid stuff.”

The silence continued on for a long moment before a quiet hiss of pleasure, and with a loud THUD, the lights went out, and they were plunged into total darkness.

Krill blinked and immediately turned on his thermal vision, though the only thing visible in the space was Sunny’s heat signature.

“Good work, just, one question. How are we going to find them!”

“SHHH would you.” There was a sharp click, and a light flicked on somewhere in the darkness momentarily blinding him. Sunny’s face was suddenly lit by a soft beam of yellow light. She huffed, “I may sound like Adam a little bit, but at least I think ahead.”

“Hmm, so opposites do attract. You are the brains, and he is a complete idiot>’

Sunny frowned in the half light, the illuminating casting strange shadows over her face, “He isn’t an idiot…”

Krill gave her a look and she huffed, “Fine he is an idiot, but that isn’t to be confused with stupid. He’s smart, and you and I both know it.”

Krill held up his four hands, “No need to get defensive, I like The Admiral as much as you do.” He paused to think about that as she tilted her head at him, “Ok well actually no i don’t like him THAT much, but you get my point. Now let’s go.”

Krill inflamed his helium sack and floated up to grab ont the back of Sunny’s carapace as she started down the hall keeping her light shielded from any potential attackers as the moved further into the darkened building which housed the Tesraki government offices.

***

Adam stood, eyes wide, mouth agape at the bloody body before him. In the partial darkness he could see a line of blood, black in the dimness trailing down the side of the detective’s face like tar oozing out from his skin. Hesitantly, he moved forward, dropping to one knee as he reached out to feel for a pulse. 

He didn’t like the man, but he had never wished him dead.

It took a second, and for a moment he thought the man was dead, but after a few seconds he felt the soft fleeting beat of the man’s heart. It was weak, but the pulse was there. A sudden soft flutter to his left, had him turning on a dime hands raised as he stared into the dark. There was a soft thud, and another body hit the floor, this one also unconscious, though he could tell from the moving of his chest that the man was still alive.

He didn’t advance, staying where he was as the quiet movement walked forward from the darkness.

His eyes widened, surprised to find a familiar figure standing before him.

The Tesraki detective, holding a metal pipe in both of his hands and breathing heavily.

“He took a step back in shock, and worry.”

“Please.” THe Tesraki whispered, “You have to go, before they kill you.”

His mouth opened and closed in confusion, “I, w-what.” 

“Please, you must go. I have held them off this long, but I can no longer protect you from what is going to happen.” he pointed down at the floor where the detective lay, “Take him and leave as fast as you can out the back entrance. I will stay behind and make sure the security feed stays safe and is sent to the right people.” His head reeled in confusion, and the only words he managed to conjure were, “But… it’s dangerous.”

The Tesraki detective shook his head, “Humans do not have the monopoly on bravery. Yes it will be dangerous, and Yes I will likely come to regret my decision, but this is about the fate of the GA, now GO.”

Adam paused and then nodded, reaching down and hauling the unconscious detective onto his back in a fireman carry.

Footsteps echoed in the hallway.

“GO!” The Tesraki urged scuttling off into the darkness.

Adam followed his lead, hurrying off through a small open door he had not noticed before and down a narrow back hallway. There were a few times he nearly dropped the detective with how small the hallway was, and there were a few times he considered doing it on purpose just out of spite, but, thinking of what his mother would have wanted from him-- he avoided dropping the man flat on his head, dong his best to support the dead weight as he hurried out the back.

He was almost free when the voices started up behind him, growing closer.

WIth a curse, he broke into a light jog and lunged out into the pouring rain. Red neon still glittered off the streets as he ran, skidding through puddles and ducking through allies. Advertisements glowed down at him everywhere he looked, and he felt as if he was being watched by a thousand eyes from all directions. His feet dashed through a puddle that seemed to glow blue from the reflection above, it’s surface being broken by great drops of rain.

He could hear voices in the distance, though they seemed meandering and confused.

There was nowhere to go.

Accept…

He continued his jog, breaking into a half run as he raced through the streets losing the voices in the pounding rain. He was soaked to the skin now, and so was the detective whose dead weight was growing even deader. The cold rain seemed to be reviving the man, who groaned in pain.

Adam ignored it and kept going moving through the night for what seemed like hours before coming to a nondescript building and an even more nondescript door. He paused there, and raising his hand, he pounded three times against the metal. He had to wait for what felt like a good five minutes, knocking three more times till the door opened, and he came face to face with a man and a Finnari, the man with a bright green mohawk one hand held protectively in front of the finnari.

“Admiral!” The man exclaimed.

He nodded to an old friend, “You have to help us.”

Eyes still wide with shock, the man opened the door to let them inside without hesitation, “What is going on.”

Adam made it onto the floor of the deserted club, tossing the detective like a sack of potatoes onto the floor before turning to look at the LFIL couple they had met on Noctopolis not so many months ago, “I’m being framed, and there are men trying to kill us. I need help.”

***

It was a testament to how poor tesraki physical security was that Sunny and Krill managed to sneak their way up through the building. There were a few close calls and more than one reroute, but at some point they found themselves at the top of the stairs next to the elevator and one big long hallway, which was even more grand than the entrance hall with an arching vaulted ceiling, chandeliers, in the human style, which were unlit as of that moment.

The water from the rolling pools on either side of the hallway had gone still, their power cut with everything else in the building. Exotic lush plants, also from earth, lined the hallways looking rather worse for ware as, whoever had bought them, was likely more interested in their aesthetic appeal than they were about their actual botanical function.

Voices emanate up the hallway, and Sunny and krill moved further inward. Krill was, of course, silent, floating as he was, and Sunny was nearly so as the rain drumming against the large glass skylights in the vaulted ceiling overhead concealed her footsteps.

“What do you mean he is MISSING!” The voice was recognizable as tesraki almost Immediately, “How hard is it to keep tabs on ONE measly human!”

“I told you he was dangerous.” Came the second voice, one Krill and Sunny recognized immediately as Kree.

Sunny turned to glance at Krill, and in the darkness, she could just barely make out the movement of his mouth as he mouthed the word “Adam”.

“We did what you asked! We put him away, we did everything we could, and yet you STILL cant get it to work.” Paused by the doorway, they could see the shadow of the Tesraki as they stood from their seat pacing back and forth before the window, “We should have known. You failed the burg, and look what happened to them, practically castrated by their love of humans.”

Another figure darkened the doorway, stepping into their path of site, “The burg failed because the burg did not listen. They simply tried to get rid of him, turning him into a martyr in the process, and dooming their species. I thought you Tesraki would be smart enough to proactively follow my instruction and DISCREDIT him, not let him GO. Now we have no idea where he is, and no idea what sort of allies he might have.:

The Tesraki snarled and threw his hands up in the air, “The better question is what allies DOESNT he have. I did what you asked, I brought the evidence forward before the GA council, and NONE of them believed me, well, none of them other than the Bran of course, but they have always had a thing against humans, so it wasn’t hard to convince.” The Tesraki snarled, “and what happened to the lights.”

The Kree ignored the Tesraki’s complaints, “Calm yourself, delegate, and be patient. With someone as well established as the Admiral, it will be difficult to discredit him. Humanity, the GA loves him, and they will not be so willing to cast off that love.”

The Tesraki snorted, “That is the truth. The chairwoman is wrapped around his finger, Lord Celzex practically threatened to destroy me for even suggesting that his dear admiral is something other than a friend, and the Drev counselor was prepared to challenge me to a duel.”

Sunny shifted in her place, but Krill barely noticed as he was fixated on the conversation.

“Can you believe it. The man has the most political power in the galaxy and he has no clue. Imagine having that much power and just…. Not caring.”

“That is probably why the people like him so much.”

“Don't sound so impressed!” The Tesraki growled, “Because of that one, single human, our economic power is failing. Humanity has booked the monopoly on some of the most important trade agreements in the galaxy. Human products are the HEIGHT of status, and that is only making their products more desirable. Their tourism is practically feeding our economy now, and if they ever decided to pull it away, we would be left helpless. Since the humans showed up we have lost 41% of our economic power 20% of our commissions, and I estimate my power in the GA has never been lower.

The kree churred deep in it’s chest almost in amusement, “yet your city is prospering because of them.”

“Whose side are you on.”

“Whoever pays more, though I am coming to think that might just be the humans.”

The Tesraki GA delegate turned around, his face coalescing into sharp relief in the dim light from the street, “Get out there, FIND HIM and make sure he doesn’t ruin this for me. If this all works out, by the end of the month I will be chairman of the GA, and the humans will simply be an afterthought.”

[agent-cupcake]

Imagine having a child with a guy named Jimmy. Cursed.

OTHERWISE you all pretty much echoed what I was thinking, bless you.

cw pregnancy / forced pregnancy

(As ever, this is all in the context of dark personalities. I hesitate to say yandere, although that’s kind of become synonymous with dark personality AU’s and an obvious argument can be made that a darker take on the characters could lead into a yandere scenario) 

Ferdinand von Aegir

~While I don’t think he’d go out of his way to have a baby, he definitely wouldn’t take any steps to avoid it, either. That is, he wouldn’t really stray into breeding kink territory or anything of that kind but he’s not gonna pull out either. 

~But, yeah, if you were to get pregnant, Ferdinand wouldn’t be displeased by any means. He’d legitimately think it was the best way to “fix” things and out of a misguided attempt to ignore any negative aspects of the relationship and cling to the idealism of a happy marriage. 

~Just a side note, but I def see him with a body worship kink and I can only begin to imagine how that would intensify with his weakness for the softness and so-called beauty of motherhood. Whatever that’s supposed to mean.   

~Honestly, I don’t see him overtly leveraging  as a manipulation tactic. No, he’s good enough that his genuine feelings could do the job for him. Like, it’s not just you anymore. You’re responsible for another life so don’t you think you just trust him and let him take care of you? Oh, sure, he’d humor you (on account of the hormones) and say that he understands why you’re upset, but please just calm down. Everything will be all right, he’ll take care of you. 

~I think that Ferdinand would want a family even without the whole dark personality aspect. The way he’d see it is that children are a natural result of a union and love. He’d absolutely cherish your children if for no other reason than the fact that they’d be half you, although you can’t tell me that he wouldn’t have a horrible weakness for kids.  

~You’d be barely showing and he’d be picking out baby names and getting opinions on how to decorate the nursery and occasionally freaking out due to anticipation and nerves. He’d be really, disastrously, over-the-top protective, too. I just assume white magic would greatly lessen the infant and mother mortality rate but that doesn’t entirely remove the risk of complications so he’d be cloyingly careful about everything you ate, keeping tabs on any possible oddity going on with you. And, you know, I think he would enjoy emotionally taking care of you. Like if you were scared or sad or anything, I think he’d enjoy comforting you in a way that’s definitely not healthy. He’d enjoy being needed, I suppose.

~Yeah, so overall I view any sort of darker personality take on Ferdinand to be him, but with his sweet and noble and protective traits dialed up to an eleven without any sort of self awareness to make him pause and consider that maybe you don’t feel the same so having a child like this, as an intentional act of manipulation to make you stay or not, would be within the realm of possibilities.

Sylvain Jose Gautier (Bastard Man)

~Sylvain is pretty easy to imagine with a dark personality. I mean, assuming you have no pity in your heart and are willing to write him in a way that he never was able to get over his myriad issues, self hatred, severe distrust of people’s true intentions, and familial trauma.

~Assuming all that, and entertaining the idea that he could never find a good balance of repression and escapism, I think Sylvain would create an unhealthy emotional bond to a single person he believed to be exempt from his overall dismal regard for people and do this fun little thing where he’d chaotically flip flop between extreme emotions of distrust, blame, and anger and adoration, need, and a desperation to be seen as he was and still loved. 

~But it’d be a brutal cycle because he’s not the delusional type. Sometimes he could be, both with the good and the bad, but those would be kind of episodic. There’d be bad days where he’d be utterly convinced that you were just like the rest and he’d pick little fights and generally just be pretty pissy. But then sometimes he’d be blinded by love and so caught up in it that even if you told him no, he’d take it with a cheeky wink because of course you loved him and everything was so good. But, mostly, it’d just be a lot of dysfunction and Sylvain trying to lure you into a nice, good relationship with him by being mostly normal and decently charming and even, occasionally, being vulnerable (and tricking you into being vulnerable with him). 

~Anyway, back to the point. With all that context, why not bring a baby into the mix, right?    

~How many times does Sylvain bring up crest babies. Please, someone do a hard count and get back to me because damn son. So, may I just say, if anyone of these three were to have a breeding kink it’d be him. Is that controversial? Just think about it. Every girl ever wants him mystical crest cum, right? So, mentally, the whole thing would have a lot of weight and significance. Also Sylvain just strikes me as the type who’d be self aware enough of his dark and unhealthy needs that staking as intimate of a claim as that would be erotic. Unlike the other two, the act of forcing an irreversible and tangible change in your body and mind would be interesting. Not that he’d tell you any of that, or even dwell on it himself. 

~I’m torn between Sylvain saying it was an accident and him using the argument that since the two of you were in love, it was only natural that you’d start a family together. How could you not want to have his children? Better yet, how was he supposed to know that you wanted to wait. 

~But if you continued to be unreasonable, he’d go on the defensive. Like, what are you going to do? Leave him? For what? To raise his baby on your own? Or, worse, abandon your child? If you thought he’d voiced unfairly negative opinions about women before, the way he’d talk about a mother who abandoned her child and such a good, happy life with a loving husband would be infinitely worse. After all, he wanted to make a change in your relationship and be happy together. He wanted to be a good, loving father. He wanted a family with you. After everything, what kind of person would you be to throw that all away?

~So that’s... a lot. 

~But Sylvain’s the type to be awful in the moment then regret it after the heat dies down. Knowing he’d hurt you would genuinely tear him up inside. All of that adoration and desperation to keep you with him because he’d feel like he needed you to be happy would kick in and he’d break down under the guilt and tell you how much he loved you, how happy it made him to think that the two of you could have a family, that he knew you would be a great mother, that he knew he’d messed up but he would make it up to you, that you really could be a happy family. 

~Just saying, I can see him taking a perverse sort of pleasure in the physical effects of pregnancy. Also, he’d definitely be a lot softer with you. Guilty conscience, anyone?

Dimitri (Dimi) (Jimmy)

~You, dear anon, said it better than I could have myself. I agree SO HARD that Dimitri would be terrified of being a parent, but at the same time I think, if it were to happen, he’d be utterly enamored with the idea. There’s a lot more that I think about how he’d regard fatherhood, but that’s the gist. 

~Funny thing is, darker Dimitri is just like... More needy... unbearably protective... Paranoid... less stable... bad at managing his emotions when it comes to you... But, like, the same general emotions about fatherhood would apply because that’s already pretty complex. Only, this time, with an obvious emphasis on how it would effect you and your relationship. 

~I was going to say that I can’t see Dimitri purposefully impregnating you, but that’s not entirely true. In a fit where he’s feeling especially raw and paranoid, I think he would do it very purposefully and even almost-kinda-sorta relish in the idea. 

~I view his obsessive feelings to be like an itch he can’t quite scratch because he knows better than anybody how easy it would be to lose you and doesn’t know how to manage both his own instability with the unpredictable world because at any moment it could all spiral apart. 

~So, this in mind, he could believe that having a baby would make things different. More than just vows or words or rings or anything, it would be a concrete and absolute tie between the two of you. He would have an unquestionable claim over you that would go beyond the scope of just your relationship, you’d be carrying the royal heir which would give Dimitri even further valid excuses to be suffocatingly overprotective.

~It would be... So messy... On the one hand, I think the concept of fatherhood, of being given another chance, of being needed that much more by both you and the child, would really appeal to him. It could even sand off some of the rougher edges of his darker traits, now that he had this assured security in keeping you with him. Sure, the itch wouldn’t be scratched entirely, but it would be easier to ignore, there would be a solid way to reassure himself that you were his.   

~But Dimitri’s got this awful middle ground of self awareness. Anything that would come off delusion would be a result of his endless attempts at rationalizing his unhealthy feelings and trying to make sense of it all without having to actually confront the issues. But that wouldn’t mean he wouldn’t know, on some level, that what he was doing wasn’t healthy and how bad it was for you. The guilt would be intense, which would be apart of the reason he needed to keep you so close all the time because then he could pretend that you needed him just as badly, that everything was all right because he could take care of you better than anyone else. 

~Dimitri’s self aware guilt would allow a part of himself to understand that he should let you go. He could even, on the bad days, convince himself that maybe, one day, he would allow you to leave him because he loved you, because what he was doing was wrong. As long as you were near him, he wouldn’t be able to stop himself, he would always hurt you. 

~But using pregnancy to force you to stay with him would, perhaps even in an intentional subconscious way, cut off that last-ditch contingency to ease his own guilt and pain of what he was doing by keeping you with him. Now that you were going to be having his child, the royal heir, would mean that you could never leave. He’d know it. You would probably know it, too. 

~After that point, Dimitri would double down with proving his affection, proving that he was capable of taking care of you and his child and that you could be a family and everything would be okay. 

[echo-three-one]

Whatever It Takes : Reloaded

They're on a mission, chasing a lead in hopes of locating where The Shadow Company is situated.

Table of Contents

Previous Chapter : Vlad the Janitor

Chapter 20 to another story made by Ray (echo-three-one) Comments and Reviews appreciated! I hope you enjoy! Love you all ❤️

forgive the piccrew

Undying Admiration

Francine "France" Winters

Safe house 110197, Brazil

"Look at them two, you think we could do that too?" Soap asked France. They were both seated on Soap's side of the floor, the soft foam caught their asses as they crossed their legs while Soap spun around a water bottle.

"You and me? Sing and Dance? Never in a million years!" She denied looking at the poor guy's attempt to actually get her to like him. She thinks he already knew that she's already falling for him since day one. But she wanted to focus on other things at hand rather than distract herself with romance. Maybe if this was all over and he's still there, he'll finally get the answer he's looking for.

"Why not? I'm kinda okay with singing." He grinned. Francine giggled. Sure he is, his overconfidence was getting attractive for her. If they weren't soldiers in a war, they'd probably be making out again. What happened back at the Gulag was an impulse, she never saw it coming as she almost lost hope for his absence.

"Why don't you like… sing for me?" She dared her eyes stared intensely into Soap's eye-catching baby blue orbs. She made a mental note that staring for more than five seconds in those were already dangerous, so she always breaks it before the fifth.

"Why do you do that?" He asked, his voice was giving her ears a good time. Yes. She's falling for him. It felt like everything he does is attractive, but she shouldn't be too quick, life has taught her that the faster she falls in love, the faster they leave. So she had to test the guy's patience.

"Do what?" she asked as if she didn't know what he meant.

"Look me in the eyes then immediately break it as soon as I stare long enough…" His eyes squinted towards her as she evaded eye contact.

"I don't do that." She easily shrugged it off and got up.

"Well, good night. John. We have an early mission tomorrow." She got up as Soap trailed his eyes on her, the look of admiration was painted all across his face.

"Can you not look at me like that?!" She pleaded as her cheeks blushed. Her boyish appeal on the force always repelled attention and now this guy was admiring her for who she is and she felt happy.

"I won't do it if I get a good night's kiss." he pouted his wonderful lips. Lips she actually really wanted to taste again.

"Good Night John." She said as she closed the men's bedroom door and went to her bed.

~

When Price told her about a small recon mission, she never knew it was this small. The team only consisted of her and Ghost riding a rental truck to a village which was a few kilometers away from their safe house. The point person was an alleged nephew of a soldier that currently works for Shepherd. It was almost a dead lead but the intel being accessible enough was sort of worth it.

Rule of engagement is "Don't".

The village would most likely be unarmed, unprotected and peaceful. But Price advised to keep a side arm in case things go awry. It was a good call, and France noted to herself that she won't ever fire a shot for this mission as to not raise any sort of attention in addition to what Shepherd already gave them.

"Looks like it's time to go." Soap muttered as Ghost passed through them looking prepared.

Soap nodded goodbye to the man but he just continued walking.

"Maybe he had earphones on." he muttered as he pouted his lips. France softly reached for his cheek and shoved it sideways.

"In your dreams." She laughed as she waved goodbye.

"Every night." He winked as France made an almost disgusted face and followed Ghost. She was lucky enough that she quickly moved that Soap won't see her blushing cheeks.

France hoisted herself on the shotgun of the car and smiled at her partner, who looked serious. Without his mask, he was your average tough british soldier, and he looked like he wasn't in for some small talk while driving. France respected his privacy and trailed her eyes elsewhere, looking at the lush greenery and muddy tracks of tropical Brazil.

France wasn't a fan of quiet road trips, she tried humming to tunes from her playlist as the loud revving of the rental jeep overpowered her voice.

"Are you usually this quiet?" France asked, trying to break the silence between them.

"Yeah. You got a problem with that?" He replied, his eyes trailed on the road as it hit a bump. France actually felt shocked toward his reply and she started to worry about what she did wrong.

"You know you could always say no to Price's orders instead of regretting and wishing Roach would be here instead of me." She pouted, crossing her arms.

"Well that wasn't my case but now that you said it, maybe I should've asked for Roach instead!" He yelled. France couldn't help but shed a tear. She actually had no idea towards his hostility and the thought of not knowing any reason made her mad.

"Wow. Okay." she squirmed and unbuckled her seatbelt causing Ghost to slow down his driving.

"Where are you going? The village is still far from here!" he asked, France never bothered to talk to him as she simply walked away from the path.

Ghost immediately left the vehicle and followed her, catching her so she won't escape and run away.

"Why are you not replying?!" He asked, gripping her hands, restricting her movement. France used her strength to break free of his slightly weak grip and turned to him.

"You see now how it feels? To ignore someone without knowing why?!" She raised her voice. This seemed to make sense to Simon as he actually looked like he's sorry.

"I… " he sighed and looked at her, his eyes were lost and sad.

"I can't talk to you anymore… because I like you… but you've already set your eyes on someone else… so I just had to ignore you hoping that it'll make it less painful." he muttered. Complete silence filled the air.

France didn't know what to do. She didn't know what to say. It may be true that she already had eyes on a certain Scottish cutie, but telling him the truth all over again would leave such mental scars.

It took her long enough to say something that Ghost already invited her back to the car, and her silence may leave no meaning, but to Ghost it meant a lot, at least he knew that he no longer had a chance on her and would finally move on.

The village was like any other typical village, the elder's house would always be on the highest point and the two opted to ask the village elder first to gather clues.

One clue led to another as they visited each house looking for one Fabian Alvarez, a nephew of an alleged Shadow Company soldier. Only a few were able to speak fluent english and they decided to help, until such time that Fabian decided to show up.

He looked like a five year old kid, holding a rubber ball and he looked at France and Ghost awkwardly before hiding back into his house. Fabian was far too young to know about his uncle's whereabouts and the lead went cold once again.

The ride home was quiet. France didn't want to say anything as she can't. Her heart was like inside a washing machine, swirling around as she thought of how Ghost liked her while she's clearly liking someone else. It must've been hella awkward and painful to see on a daily basis. She felt that once, when her best friend got together with her high school crush and continued to stay together up to this day… She knew how he felt.

~

The moment they got back, she was actually greeted by Soap, who already had his hands wide open for a hug. As usual, France would ignore his gesture and it now felt that she was already helping out Ghost from the pain. But now, she's the one feeling restricted.

It pained her to not get near Soap and he's already starting to notice the indifference. She was actually surprised when he cornered her, just as soon as she stepped out of the shower.

Her cheeks flushed as the idea of her, only wrapped with a towel, stood in front of Soap. She felt really vulnerable in this position.

"What happened out there?" he looked angry but the tone of his voice sounded concerned.

"Nothing, it's just … A dead lead. A waste of time." She replied as she attempted to cross over him.

"And how does that warrant an indifferent approach toward me?" he quickly moved to block her again. She sighed at her actions. He was right. He didn't deserve this treatment, he needed to learn something about the truth.

"We had a little fight with your friend over there…" She muttered, her voice was low enough so he couldn't hear.

"Who, Ghost?" he inched his face closer and his face lit up like a curious bystander who overhears conversations on a daily basis.

"Yeah… It was an unpleasant exchange." She said vaguely.

"Well, it'll all be resolved soon. I guess you're too carried away that you didn't want to talk to me as well…" he chuckled and scratched the back of his head. That gesture always made France happy, he may not notice it but she loves the way his muscles twitch when he scratches his nape. She found it satisfying and hot.

"Yeah… I'll go change." She said, as she frowned as soon as they parted. She knew she had to tell him the specific reason and the events that occured today, but she felt that it would create a domino effect that would lead the team to be uncooperative.

During bedtime, Alex requested France to swap sleeping spaces, meaning that she had to lie down beside Soap. She couldn't find the courage to say no as it might ruin the reunion they both longed for after a very long time.

France swung the door open and found out that they were already asleep, except for Ghost who was once again missing. She used this opportunity to actually wake Soap up and let him be aware that she'll be sleeping beside him. She planned to make both men comfortable by spacing herself between them, by only showing affection to Soap while Ghost's not around, until such time that Ghost would accept the inevitable truth.

"John." She whispered, as Soap lazily opened his eyes and reached out for her, wrapping her in his arms.

"I really like you. A lot. I hope you'll be patient enough for me." She whispered again. She knew he wouldn't hear it but the idea of her actually expressing her thoughts to him, put her at ease, as she slowly closed her eyes and drifted to sleep, wrapped by the arms of the man whom she really admired.

Next Chapter : If I Remember Correctly

Notification Squad my Beloved

@ricinbach @whimsywispsblog @smokeywhalee @samatedeansbroccoli @enderio @beemybee

[yatorihell]

In The Darkness Chapter 83 - Respite

Noragami x Harry Potter AU

Words: 2,245

Summary: The aftermath of their escape leads to an answer.

Also available on Yatorihell AO3

The salty sea air pushed Yato’s hair back from his eyes. He stood with his hands in his pockets, staring down at the stone he had dragged from the beach’s outcrop up a short distance away from the cottage. Carved into its jagged surface were a few words: Ebisu, a free elf.

Yato dropped his gaze to his shoes and then tilted his head back with a sigh. Thin beams of sunlight filtered through the cloud, but the wind was still biting enough to numb his cheeks.

When will it end? Yato thought. First Suzuha, then Sakura, now Ebisu. His friends, his family, all risking their lives to stop what he could. If he just knew where to look, to know where to find and destroy the horcruxes.

There’s no way to destroy them now, anyway, Yato had thought to himself. The Sword of Gryffindor was gone now, possibly already on its way back to Oshi’s vault in Gringotts or kept hidden so the Sorcerer would never know it was gone.

Yato tilted his head forward and stared out at the choppy waves for a second before heading back inside. They didn’t know where Ebisu had brought them, but they found refuge in a deserted cottage that sat on the edge of the shoreline. The white painted exterior had peeled away, and weeds sprung up from the seagrass and sand surrounding it. The sign nailed beside the door read ‘Shell Cottage’, but the absence of shells in the décor and the lack of nautical themes inside made the name’s whimsical appeal ring hollow.

The stairs creaked under Yato’s weight as he made his way upstairs. Kazuma and Bishamon were already asleep, having left Yato after Ebisu’s burial for a moment’s privacy. Yukine, on the other hand, was still awake.

The bedroom door was cracked open, and Yato gently pushed it open. Grey sunlight filtered in through the flimsy mess curtain, sending shadows across the bedspread. Dust had accumulated on the surfaces and drifts of sand had worked their way in through the cracks in the window frame.

Yukine looked up from his chair at the movement, and seeing Yato’s cautious approach, nodded.

Yato stepped into the room, eyes fixed on Hiyori. She was still asleep, hair messed up and her arm across her chest which rose and fell steadily. Spots of blood had seeped through the bandages already, marking the points of some letters of the ‘Mudblood’ wound Oshi had inflicted.

“How is she?” Yato said gently, taking a seat on the other side of the bed. A brief memory crossed his mind, of how he had sat like this with her in the infirmary at Hogwarts, hands intertwined, but he dared not touch her.

“Still asleep,” Yukine replied.

Yato nodded. Part of him felt guilty for not staying by her side despite his grieving for Ebisu, but a larger part of him couldn’t bring himself to face her after what happened. There was a pause of silence broken by gull cries over the bay.

Yukine looked at Hiyori for a moment, face soft, before he looked down at his own lap. “I… I don’t think her wound will ever fully heal…”

Yato stiffened, eyes flickering to the bandages. Just like what Oshi did to Yukine…

No. This was worse. No dark object had seared Hiyori’s skin like Yukine’s; this was caused by pure hatred.

Yato's fingernails dug into his palms, hands calmly as he tried to fight the guilt rising in his chest that threatened to claim him again. His vision was blurry. Why would he cry when nothing happened to him? When they did everything to... When he didn't...

"I did nothing."

The hoarse whisper clogged his throat like smoke. The one phrase that had become trapped in his mind since last night, like a butterfly in a jar, its wings becoming more damaged each time it hurled itself at the glass in the hopes of freedom.

“It’s not your fault Yato,” Yukine said softly. “Oshi is mad, and she wouldn’t have believed a word any of us said. We would all be dead if it weren’t for Ebisu.”

Yato took a shuddering breath, a warm tear splashing on his wrist. He wiped his eyes, throat burning and breath quivering. Yukine was right, but it didn’t make it any easier to block out those images. Those memories would stay with him forever.

Hiyori stirred slightly and they stilled. Her head rolled to the side, brow furrowed. Silence blanketed the room – for how long neither of them knew – before Yato spoke.

“You should get some sleep,” Yato said, not taking his eyes off Hiyori.

Yukine nodded. They had been awake all night, and Yato knew he should sleep too, but his mind was wired with grief and guilt. He didn’t want to leave Hiyori like this, and Yukine knew as much.

The door clicked shut behind him, and Yato allowed the tears to fall.

~

The first time Hiyori woke up was screaming.

Yato jerked awake, dull pain in his back from being slumped over, eyes wide and mind racing with the nightmare of the previous day fresh in his dreams. Hiyori was sat bolt upright, her hand wrenching away from Yato’s grip. The sheets had tangled her legs, trapping her and adding fuel to her panic as she screamed again.

“Hiyori, it’s ok, you’re safe!” Yato shushed, his hands pulling away from her and held up in the darkness.

Hiyori breathed hard, her eyes adjusting, ears attuned to the sound of his voice. She looked at him, the unfamiliar room, and the dark, curtained window. Her arm throbbed, fresh spots of blood blossoming from the sudden aggravation. Her mouth hung open, tears on her cheeks as she realised she was no longer a prisoner under torture.

“It’s ok,” Yato soothed, reaching for Hiyori’s hand. His skin grazed her fingers. “We’re safe.”

Hiyori flinched. Yato froze, and after a second, withdrew his hand back into his lap.

The house remained silent. None of the others had woken up from the outburst – probably too tired and out of it to hear the brief night terror screams to be roused. There was only the beating of their hearts and a silent understanding of what they had been through, of what they had survived.

Yato couldn’t bear it.

“I’m sorry.”

There was a beat of silence that hung in the air between them. Another apology for something he caused. Another apology for the hurt he brought those around him.

“It’s not your fault, Yato,” Hiyori tried to whisper, but it came out as a croak.

Yato shot her a sideways look, grief, and pain etched in his features. No matter how many times he heard those words, he would never believe them, not truly.

With a nod, Yato stood on weak legs and slipped out of the door.

Hiyori’s composure lasted long enough for Yato to leave the room. Once his footsteps faded, the first shuddering breath racked through her chest. Any remaining strength slipped from Hiyori's control as her breaths turned to cries that she muffled against her hand.

Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes when she squeezed them shut, trying to erase the memories that are scarred into her mind. Her fingers drifted to her arm, to the bandages. To the reminder of what she is.

Dirty blood.

~

Yato came downstairs with dark circles under his eyes, having been unable to sleep following Hiyori flinching at his touch and the new reoccurring nightmare that would seemingly plague his dreams. Yukine, Bishamon, and Kazuma were already in the sitting room, arranged on the dusty sofas and armchairs and ravaging the kitchen for what little food the cottages' owners had left.

Hiyori joined them not too long after, and a brief glance told Yato that she hadn’t slept well either. Bishamon set out a packet of half-eaten, stale biscuits on the low table that no one made a move to touch.

“What’s the plan now?” Yukine asked, resting his arms on his knees. “The sword is gone, and we don’t know where the next horcrux is.”

“We do know,” Yato said. All eyes turned on him.

“How can you know where it is? It’s been lost for decades,” Bishamon leaned forward in the armchair, hand straying to Kazuma’s hair as he sat on the floor in front of her.

“It has, but I’ve seen it,” Yato explained. He briefly described the vision he had of the goblet loaded with jewels and pearls, resting alongside the Sword of Gryffindor and the sound of a door grating shut.

“Oshi sent the sword to her vault in Gringotts,” Yato summarised. “But why was she so fixated on not letting the S-.”

“Don’t say that!” Kazuma and Bishamon said quickly, cutting Yato off. He, Yukine, and Hiyori looked at them.

“There’s a taboo jinx on that word,” Kazuma explained. “It reveals the speaker’s location. It’s how they found out about us since we said it so much on the radio.”

It suddenly dawned on Yato, Yukine and Hiyori: that was how the Deatheater’s had found them so quickly after the wedding attack. That’s how Nagini was able to ambush them, knowing they were going to Godric’s Hollow to look for the sword.

Yato nodded. “But why was she so fixated on not letting him know that we got into the vault?”

“Because Gringotts is impenetrable?” Kazuma offered.

“Yes, but what if there was something more important in there?”

The question hung in the air for a dramatic moment.

“What if,” Yato said slowly. “The horcrux is in the vault?”

The air stilled. The vision which showed the sword – which Oshi confirmed was in her vault in Gringotts – along with the goblet, spilling precious gems and glittering jewels. The heavy grate of a door – a vault door – slamming shut.

“Then we’re screwed,” Yukine said, flopping back on the sofa next to Hiyori. “As Kazuma said, Gringotts is impenetrable. And even if you did get past the goblins, the security, and the dragon, you would get lost and starve to death before you even found the right vault.”

“I don’t think there’s actually a dragon,” Hiyori said.

Yato looked at her. She had been quiet the entire time; a ghost in the corner watching them talk. He noticed her fiddling with a stray end of the bandage on her arm and looked away.

“Leave the dragon to me,” Yato said. “We just need to get in the front door without getting stopped.”

There was a momentary lull in the conversation as if they were contemplating whether Yato had too many knocks to the head or was getting desperate. To Yato, it felt like a mix of the two, but it was the only option.

Yato looked to Kazuma, questions brimming that he’d wanted to ask before they got Snatched, something that had been revealed to him in a vision. “We think another horcrux is Ravenclaw’s Diadem.”

Kazuma’s head snapped up at this, eyes reproachful behind his frames.

“We think it may be in Hogwarts. Is it kept in a vault, the common room…?” Yato ventured, but Kazuma was already shaking his head.

“The Diadem has been missing for centuries after Rowena’s own daughter stole it,” Kazuma said. “No one alive has seen it.”

Another silence washed over them. ‘No one alive who has seen it'. Yato sighed. It looked like it would be up to him to track down the Diadem too.

“Also,” Yato continued, arms crossed. “That newspaper in your house, about Professor Tenjin’s grave being disturbed, what happened?”

It seemed strange that someone would go to such lengths to tomb-raid a man of little extravagance, but it seemed that not even the Daily Prophet would report what was taken, which was suspicious.

Kazuma looked at Yato with a slightly surprised expression before he realised they had no way of knowing anything about it. “Someone – ‘persons unknown’ –, broke into his tomb and took the Elder Wand.”

Yato stared at him along with Hiyori, Yukine, and Bishamon.

“Are you serious? The Elder Wand exists?” Yukine said.

“All the Deathly Hallows exist.”

“What do you mean, Tenjin owned the Elder Wand?” Yato interrupted.

Kazuma shrugged. “Well, he didn’t go advertising it. You know what happens to its owners.”

Owners… Yato thought. A wand was either matched to a wizard at Ollivanders, inherited, or won. He didn’t know enough about the lore of the Elder Wand to know who possessed the wand before Tenjin, but he knew that winning a wand could be done by killing its owner. That meant…

“Kugaha owns the Elder Wand,” Yato said quietly, running a hand through his hair. “He killed Tenjin. He’s the owner.”

Yukine swore under his breath. The most powerful wand in the world was in a Dark Wizard’s hands. All he would have to do was lose a duel to the Sorcerer and it would be his. A chilling thought crossed their minds: Did the Sorcerer already possess the Elder Wand?

Time was of the essence. If the Sorcerer did own the Elder Wand, then he may also possess the Philosopher’s Stone and the Cloak of Invisibility. He would become the Master of Death; unstoppable.

“We need to destroy the rest of the horcruxes,” Yato said.

He looked at Kazuma, Bishamon, Yukine, and finally, Hiyori. It would be near impossible – a suicide mission – but it had to be done.

“We have to break into Gringotts.”

[morwensteelsheen]

WIP wednesday thoughts:

willow cabin is utterly fucked because i changed my intended ~moral~ halfway through and now im stuck trying to integrate this shitty political intrigue plot into what should’ve been a more interesting story about éowyn adapting to life in gondor. hugely fucking annoyed by it and just totally unsure how to proceed. i could significantly increase the chapter count, but im worried that because the initial framing device was this bandits shit that closing out that plot and then still going for ages afterwards would be really shitty? i honestly don’t know, it’s so difficult. really i just need someone to read my outline and tell me if im being a dumb twat about it lol

meanwhile I know exactly where I want to go with AFTA but for some unaccountable reason im stressed that my ass is gonna get roasted for the direction i want to take it in. it’s all based in both tolkien’s personal politics and (some) historical precedent, but im worried people are gonna see it as a marysue-ification? but also im hoping to do sthg of a sequel to afta to practice the political intrigue writing so i don’t make the same mistakes i did in wc, and to do that it would require this specific set up in AFTA. im gonna put my AFTA thing under the cut so don’t click read more unless you’re gucci with potential AFTA spoilers!!

this royal affair au is definitely gonna get published at some point but im trying to decide if i want to do ~tasteful~ smut that drives a longer narrative or if im really just gonna do a whole 3,000 word build up to some run of the mill, old fashioned PWP lmao

okay so i have spent a Lot of time thinking about what impact i think éowyn and faramir would have on each other in a pre-ring war setting, and the honest to god conclusion ive come to is that they would somewhat inadvertently egg on each other’s (wildly divergent) idealism.

faramir’s an idealist politically in ways that, as Big D rightly points out, are not super productive in a wartime scenario. but so far as im concerned, the war doesn’t feel as warlike until they have to blow the bridge at osgiliath. until that point, there’s not really anything to say that faramir’s whole throwback optimism isn’t a perfectly justifiable position to have.

but what that idealism is and how it manifests are two really important considerations. the crux of his idealistic politics is that he looks at númenor and sees something valuable in it, and looks at gondor and sees a lot that he thinks is fucked up. outside of articulating a general angst towards the glory hunting, it’s not like he’s spending time talking about his specific policy prescriptions. however, we do know a few things that can guide us to a more coherent reconstruction of his politics:

he’s pretty rigidly hierarchical (when it’s convenient for him). as seen in: him basically telling sam to fuck off and stay in his lane in WOTW, and in how and when he chooses to refer to his father as ‘father’ vs ‘my lord’ or ‘lord of the city’ in the aftermath of the osgiliath retreat and then before he gets his ass sent back there. i don’t want to go into too much detail here but if i go with this i’ll definitely justify it more thoroughly in the footnotes.

so we’ve got faramir’s emphasis on hierarchy and his occasional (when convenient) belief that the upper echelons of a hierarchy are there because they’re intellectually and/or morally better. or, maybe to remove the causation from that instance, because they are in those upper echelons, they have an obligation to be more morally/intellectually upstanding, and the people in the structure below them have an obligation to show deference. unless you’re faramir and you’re dealing with denethor in which case that all goes out the window. classic.

we know there is some sort of nascent pseudo-democratic tradition of popular sovereignty in gondor. we know this because faramir asks the masses at aragorn’s coronation if they’ll accept him as king. faramir is a lot of things, but he is certainly not a progressive political radical, and i cannot imagine any situation in which he cooked up that rigmarole himself. that then implies to me that it’s building on some sort of political/cultural expectation in gondor. so: some sort of relationship to popular legitimacy. the people of gondor are subjects, but perhaps not as totally passive and unconsidered in the power structure as we might assume given the comparability to feudal europe/asia.

given those two things, i want to use AFTA to argue:

that faramir, in looking to assign blame for the faults he sees in gondor, would not directly assign blame to the lower classes, but rather to the aristocracy, because he will have seen them as failing in their moral obligations to the people they rule over. this is not to say that he isn’t fucked off about The People™ valorising war, but i think he’d take the position that they couldn’t possibly be expected to form those values and opinions of their own volition, and the fault lies in their rules. faramir: not gramscian.

faramir lacks any power that is non-military, and even that is of questionable worth because the rangers seem to be fairly distinct to the general structure of the army, and are not exactly a huge force.

faramir lacking any political power isn’t necessarily a huge concern for him (as in, he’s not actively trying to change that), because he knows he’s not going to lead a moral revolution and isn’t interested in taking up the responsibilities having political capital would engender because he’s stuck dealing with this war, that he fucking hates btw has he mentioned that he hates it?

however, given that he is apparently eminently versed in lore and scholarship, he is probably keenly aware that there is this incipient notion of popular legitimacy somewhere in gondor’s culture. it’s not, for most of his life, knowledge that actually does anything for him, but it is there.

éowyn, meanwhile, doesn’t really have many strong political convictions (yet). not because she’s a dumbass or whatever, but because she looks at court politics as kind of a farce, and doesn’t believe that power legitimately emanates from anywhere that isn’t a Big Fucking Army. and why, strictly speaking, would she not think that? the event that brought about the creation of her kingdom was not careful, soft spoken negotiation, it was her ancestors being in the right place at the right time with a Big Fucking Army.

and the internal politics of the Riddermark actually seem to be fairly stable, all things considered. i sincerely doubt that Théoden or Théodred are having to negotiate complex politicking in the way Denethor and Boromir are. so where, then, would éowyn see that kind of political behaviour outside gondor? with gríma.

éowyn, then, will see the immediate contrast between gríma (backroom dealer, manipulator extraordinaire) and théoden (owner of Big Fucking Army). and gríma goes and fucking wins that fight. that forces éowyn to confront the fact that, jesus christ, maybe there are different types of power.

at the same time, she’s going to be in minas tirith and needing to cover for théoden letting his shit get wrecked. not just because she’s prideful, which of course she is, but because if denethor/gondor think that théoden is too weak to hold up his end of the bargain, why would they ever go help the Mark? éowyn, seeing that théoden’s f-f-fucked, knows that there’s a very very good chance the Mark will need help.

against her feelings about courtly politics, she starts to accept that she’s going to need to do something to get power in gondor. not anything substantial, it’s not like she’s trying to overthrow anybody, but enough that when push comes to shove she can force denethor to help out the Mark (if he doesn’t do so willingly).

but, as ive sort of already shown in AFTA, she’s a bit of a dogshit diplomat. good for a little big-brawny-enforcer stuff, but not exactly brimming with cultural sensitivity. by the time she realises théoden + the Mark are fucked, she’ll have burnt quite a few bridges with the gondorrim nobles, and it’s not like she’s the sort of person to go running cap-in-hand begging for mercy.

so: she has to look elsewhere. and wow! a chance for faramir to do his favourite thing — talk about his opinions! and by god, his weird idealistic politics are… actually kind of helpful? because he’s like, look, you’re never gonna be a diplomat, but there are other ways of consolidating power. and one of those ways is by appealing to The People™. so why not work that angle?

and actually, we know that this is a viable route for éowyn because hama, in arguing for her to take up the mantle of théoden’s heir when théoden and éomer fuck off to helm’s deep, basically says that The People™ love her and would have willingly chosen her to lead them.

we also know, based on faramir’s middle men speech, that the people of gondor and the mark have grown alike in nature. not totally unreasonable to then think that the people of gondor would take to her like the people of the mark did.

éowyn, then, in various ways begins to try to win over the people of minas tirith. i need to do a little more research on this bc what ive got on the practicalities of that so far are a bit, uhhh, sketchy, but the least jargony way to describe this is to point to when natalie dormer’s character in GOT gets out of the carriage to go hug and kiss some babies. (marc bloch, eat your heart out)

this would later segue into a potential sequel where, while trying to secure the way for aragorn’s coronation, éowyn actually plays an interesting role because she’s fallen into this incidental Diana, People’s Princess™ role and so is better positioned than almost anyone to go advocate on his behalf. wow! cool! éowyn getting to be politically useful in more ways than just getting hitched!

so yeah. that’s how i am thinking it might play out. this would obviously have a rolling impact on the remainder of AFTA and how certain (🔥) events pan out later, but i think that building up part has to begin pretty much now, narratively. also this lets me get in a reference to “and then her heart changed, or else at last she understood it” and have it not be almost entirely about wanting to shag faramir, but actually about her gradual evolution from valorising war above all else to being like, hmm, maybe there are other ways of being powerful. which i think still largely captures the “no longer I will vie with the great riders” stuff, but more subtly and without feeling quite so… deferential, I guess? Like it’s not that she’s swapping one form of power (violence) for nothing (gardening?? healing?? tolkien accidental articulation of necropolitics??) but swapping violence for a different type of more sustainable power.

yeah. that’s the take, basically. who fucking knows.