#it's stolen moments and desperate yearning for that short moment

[silencedrage]

what colour does your love feel like ?

cold stark gold

Fireworks, borrowed lighters and sparklers against a dark backdrop, yours is a love that burns stark and bright. It's scary though, like things that burn always tend to be, but for you it isn't the thrill of the open flames that gives pause and a slight stomach drop of terror, but rather the time when the flames go out, the sparkler ends and the night is cold and dark once again. Fireworks, borrowed lighters, a striken match, your love burns bright and fast and then maybe it passes, maybe the feeling dies out and you're left in the cold once again. And that's the feeling isn't it? Of being bored and waiting for someone to light you up again? To be fair, you do know you don't need it, but then again we don't often crave the things we need. And you crave and yearn and burn in the wait, restless in the knowledge that at some point someone will pass and rub you the right way, that some day you'll light up the night sky bright yet again. There's comfort in the darkness and solace in the predictable loneliness of the in between, but your heart still squirms inside you, waiting and willing and begging to burn up again. Your love might not be comfort, it's not one for the sick days, but then again, there's a reason why everyone waits for the shining lights in the sky during holidays.

tagged by: @feminaferitas

tagging: people who want to do it

[mistyorchid]

Meet-Cute

Old Man!Logan x fem! reader

summary: Failed talking stages inspire you to meet someone irl. Riding an older man in the backseat of his limo makes you forget about the immature boys who ghosted you on Hinge. Ch. 2 Ch. 3 warnings: MDNI, no use of y/n, smut, age gap, reader is 21+, fingering, riding, size difference, praise kink, pet names (doll, baby, sweet/good girl, sweetheart), unprotected p in v, light slapping, oral (male!receiving), creampie, car sex (nobody's around tho), logan's slutty glasses. wc: 3k

Hinge. The app designed to be deleted. You smiled as you pushed the cart, daydreaming about chucking your phone into the nearest lake. The few matches that you received often ghosted you after a week, afraid of committing to a real date.

So here you were, aimlessly strolling through a grocery store. Desperately begging the universe for a real man.

You spent an embarrassingly long time curating the perfect outfit to attract a guy worth your time. Casual enough for a quick errand, but still chic. I want to be with someone who admires my confidence. They shouldn't reprimand me for expressing myself.

That's how the feminist part of your brain explained your attire. The other touch-starved half, however, wanted to wear the shortest skirt you owned just to feel men stare holes through it.

You turned into the bakery aisle and pretended to evaluate the nutritional contents of a massive chocolate cake. Maybe this could be plan B, if tonight's endeavor was hopeless.

The comforting hum of fluorescent lights softened the sterile environment around you. Memories of simpler times floated in your mind. Handmade school lunches. Gentle kisses placed on your knee after a bad fall. You closed your eyes, lulled by the promises of love you were granted as a child. Now an adult, you yearned for a partner that could nurture you in a romantic way.

Logan overheard a bag of produce spill onto the floor as he picked up a shopping basket. The cashier dropped it when he saw Logan's blood-stained dress shirt.

Mumbling a string of profanity, he decided to release some steam. "Show's over!" he snapped, flippantly tossing his right arm behind him.

Ignoring the shocked gasps of the other shoppers, Logan sulked further into the store in search of something to soothe his palate.

His doctor tentatively ordered him to "lay off the booze," a suggestion that left three deep puncture wounds in the drywall of his office. Alcohol numbed the emotional and physical pain that plagued him, but it also further delayed his healing powers.

Logan's skeleton was withering away, and all he wanted was a fucking sweet treat.

Your body braced for impact as your chest made contact with a shopper haphazardly turning into the aisle. After dropping the cake onto the pristine white tile, you closed your eyes again, salvaging the moment of peace that was stolen from you.

"Hey, watch where you're going, asshole." You reluctantly opened your eyes and were met with the solid torso of a man.

Slowly raking your gaze up his body, you raised your eyebrows at the sight of his bloody shirt before meeting his narrowed eyes.

Crows feet radiating from the corners. Prescription glasses. He appeared much older than you expected from your brief contact with his chest.

You silently cursed your luck. This meet-cute plan was steadily evolving into a meet-angry situation.

"Not smart to close your eyes in public," he huffed, staring pointedly at the fallen cake. It was hard not to notice your mini skirt. He hasn't seen a skirt that short since the 60s.

Although you had pulled away from him, the man's eyes lingered on your chest. The playful baby-doll top hugged your cleavage in all the right places. Your glossy lips donned a similar shade of pink. He quickly resumed eye contact, feeling like a dirty old man for imagining them wrapped around his cock.

She's too young, you sick fuck. Logan's internal monologue worked overtime to maintain a shred of decency.

Your face turned away from him at the impending embarrassment you were about to put yourself through. Smirking, you shyly retorted, "Not smart to stare at a girl's tits in public." You gently pushed up his glasses further onto the bridge of his nose.

Closing the gap between your chests, you tip-toed to reach his ear before whispering, "It's okay . . . I want you to."

The answer to Logan's suffering was sweeter than any slice of cake he could have indulged in. A pretty little thing was actually flirting with him, a cynical ex-soldier worn by the unforgiving rings of time.

Logan's hands found the back of your elbows and slowly pulled you closer to him. You gasped as you felt his belt buckle catch on the flimsy fabric of your top.

"Careful, doll," he grunted, leaning down to meet the side of your face. "I'm old enough to be your father."

You defiantly peered up at him through your lashes. "Yeah, and . . .?"

The man slowly distanced himself from you, gently tugging the hem of your top down to its original state.

Okay, definitely not the best response to seduce an older man. You chewed the inside of your cheek, stunned by your juvenile comeback.

"I'm sorry, kid. Forget I said anything," he muttered before turning into another aisle. He mentally kicked himself for letting the interaction go that far. Although his aching body and mind yearned for some relief, he wouldn't take advantage of some young girl.

He hurriedly stomped past the cashiers, swiping a few cigars from a distracted employee's station.

After the initial shock wore off, you quickly followed the older man to the parking lot. Totally not stalker-ish at all, right?

You wanted to take care of him. His reluctance to return your lust-sick gaze should have deterred you, but it only made you more desperate.

You watched as his hands dug into his pocket, pulling out a set of keys. The chipper click of the limo doors unlocking motivated you to get his attention.

"Hey! Can we talk?" You yelled, raising an outstretched palm to stop him from getting inside the car.

Logan froze at the sound of your voice. He contemplated being responsible, slamming his door and driving off without a second glance.

The gentle pressure of your hand wrapping around his wrist made him think extremely irresponsible thoughts.

Turning around to meet your gaze, the older man swiftly opened the passenger door. "Get in. Now," he growled.

Words betrayed you. All you responded with was a surprised squeak as he used your grip on his wrist to push you further into the vehicle.

His eyes widened as you briefly parted your thighs to get settled in the lush leather seat. The sinfully short hem of your skirt bunched up, revealing your underwear.

Logan whipped his head to the front of the limo, avoiding the sight of your body. Unfortunately, he couldn't avoid how you felt against his. You sat at an angle towards him, knees pressing against his thigh. His body tensed as you placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Why were you following me, huh?" he asked, finally meeting your eyes. "I've had a long fuckin' day and I need answers." He couldn't believe that a young woman like you would be interested in him.

"Yeah, you're old enough to be my father, maybe older-" you paused to move your left hand onto his thigh. "-but I'm done playing with boys." You shyly turned your head before continuing, "Need a real man."

Logan was done holding back. Now, it all made sense. Your lack of direction in the store, the low cut of your outfit that was way too sexy for a late night grocery run. We're both adults, he reasoned. She wants this.

He gingerly cradled your jaw with his large hand, turning your head towards his. "You sure about this, sweetheart?

You covered his hand with your own, bringing your lips to his in a spontaneous kiss. "I-I need to hear you," he stuttered.

"Shut up and fuck me, . . . " you sighed, pausing to ask for his name.

"Logan . . . call me Logan, doll." His left hand snaked around your waist, bunching the delicate material and exposing your breasts.

As you leaned into his palm, he fished the limo keys out of his pocket and clicked twice, locking the doors. He fondled the underside of your tits before rolling the sensitive nipples between his thumb and forefinger.

You were grateful for the tinted windows that shielded your embarrassing moans from the public.

"Already whining for me, hm? So fuckin' needy," he hummed, pushing up your top even further. You crossed your arms to undress, but Logan swatted them away, explaining, "It's cute. Wanna see your tits bounce for me, baby."

He gripped your ass with both hands and effortlessly swung you onto the broad expanse of his lap.

Your back arched as his rough palm cupped your pussy, thumb languidly tracing your sensitive bud through the cotton.

"But this . . . has to go," he drawled, tugging the elastic of your panties before letting it go with a faint snap.

It was too much. You were splayed over the lap of a stranger, hips wantonly rocking yourself over his prominent bulge and mewling as your sensitive clit caught on the rough fabric of his slacks.

He stilled your movements with his hands, lovingly kneading the flesh of your hips. "You okay with this?" he asked, searching your eyes for any sign of doubt. "Yeah, Logan . . . more than okay. Need you."

You loved that he was confident enough to take what he wanted but also gracious enough to check in, unlike the boys you were used to fucking around with.

His fingers hooked around the waistband of your skirt and panties, skillfully pushing your legs against your chest as he pulled them off. He decided against slicing them off with his claws, not wanting to hurt you. "Fuck. You're so pretty. My sweet, sweet girl . . ." he cooed. You whined as your aching cunt was finally exposed to Logan's hungry gaze and the chill night air. He groaned as you resumed desecrating his lap with your juices.

Your breath hitched as Logan traced two fingers along your bottom lip. You granted him access, playfully darting your tongue around his digits.

After his fingers were thoroughly soaked, he used your saliva to gently trace your hole, noticing the faint flutter of your walls.

"Need me to fill you up, hm? Poor baby's clenching around nothing. Let me fix that . . ." Logan's palm brushed against your clit as his fingers plunged into you, setting a steady pace.

You were incredibly wet, but he needed to prep you for his thick cock. He drooled, collecting a heavy wad of spit onto his tongue before letting it fall onto your pussy.

"Ah-ah!" You exclaimed, surprised by the contact. You bit your lip, cheeks flushing at the lewd feeling of his spit mixing with your wetness.

He used his other hand to slap repeatedly against your puffy folds, mesmerized by how vulnerable you were being for him.

"Yeah, you like that?" He whispered, curling his fingers as they met your cervix. You covered your mouth, desperately trying to maintain some modesty. Logan withdrew his left hand to pry away your arm and swallow your moans, sloppily slotting his lips into yours.

You gasped into his mouth as you felt your cunt spasm around his fingers, gushing all over his tight slacks.

"Oh, fuck! Logan . . . " you mewled, biting his lower lip while he continued to finger you through your orgasm.

Your head fell into the inviting crook of his neck, nuzzling his graying beard. "Atta girl, come for me," he cooed.

Logan peered down at you, noticing wet droplets dampening his beard. You were silently crying, tears cascading down your puffy cheeks before landing on his face.

At first, he was alarmed. "Hey, hey, shhhh," he purred. "What's the matter, doll?"

His cock twitched when he realized you were smiling against his neck.

"Nothing's wrong, Logan . . . you make me feel so good, that's all."

He planted a sweet kiss on your forehead. "Yeah? Want me to make you feel even better? Fill you up for real this time?"

You nodded dumbly, still basking in the haze of your release.

"Nuh-uh. Words." The simple command made you rut into his lap.

You shuddered while responding. "Wanna feel you inside me. Need your-" Logan bucked up into you. "-cock."

He slid his hands under your thighs, briefly pushing you forward so he could unbuckle his belt. Your small hands slinked toward his waist. "Let me do it," you pleaded, hastily sliding his belt through its loops and tossing it to the floor.

You pulled his cock out of his slacks, leaning down to press sweet little kisses to the head. Your thighs burned with the effort, but it was worth it to feel him momentarily lose control. Logan hissed sharply, "Good girl, fuck-" before guiding his thick cock into your heavenly mouth.

You licked a prominent vein that teased its way above his waistband. The taste of him was utterly intoxicating. You moaned onto his length, choking back tears as he suddenly thrust up into your eager throat.

The delicious weight of his cock on your tongue was short-lived. He cupped your face, forcing your mouth to slide past the tip with an obscene pop.

"Won't last long if you keep doing that, doll. Takes a lot less to get me riled up these days," he explained.

You nodded as you straightened yourself, using your knees to hover above his lap. He teasingly ran the flushed tip of his cock through your folds before sinking into your weeping pussy.

"Oh my god! fuck-" you cried, lowering your hips to embrace his full length. Your hands found stability on Logan's shoulders as you bounced on his cock.

Logan stared in awe at your tits. They were practically spilling out the sides of your cute top, jiggling with each movement of your hips.

As he admired your form, you drunk in the sight of his coarse salt and pepper beard. His wiry glasses barely held onto the slope of his strong nose due to your eager movements. You paid special attention to his crimson-stained shirt, wondering how he was enduring the wounds.

"You're hurt." You stated, pausing to slowly unbutton his dress shirt.

Logan's hands grabbed a handful of your ass and slammed you down onto his lap, forcing you to continue taking his cock.

"Never said you could stop," he huffed. "It'll take time, but I'm healing."

You gasped as your clit hitched on the bunched fabric of his slacks, frantically shrugging off his shirt in the process. A devastating moan ripped from Logan's throat as you peppered kisses on his wounds. The coppery taste of his blood was oddly soothing, reminding you that the man buried in your cunt was real and not just a figment of your lust-fueled imagination.

Logan loved how dazed you looked, your chest rising and falling with each shaky breath, your pupils dilated and glossy. His cock twitched every time your soft tits brushed against his face. You whined as the steady rhythm of your hips faltered, hinting at your imminent release.

"Lean forward, baby. Let your old man take care of you," he sighed, wrapping his broad arms around your waist. You allowed yourself to slump forward, arching your back and playfully wiggling your ass in the air.

You yelped as he slapped your ass with enough force to feel the sting radiate from his outstretched palm. "Such a fuckin' tease," he growled, filling you up in one thrust. He set a punishing pace that made you sob into his chest. The loud squelches of your release echoed throughout the limo, mirroring your high-pitched wines.

"Oh, my god! . . ." you mewled, savoring the feeling of his cock stretching your walls. Your breath hitched every time his hips met yours, balls slapping against the sensitive skin of your ass.

He fucked up into your cunt, relishing the fact that you'd probably never had a cock as big as his. Logan stared at where you were connected, hypnotized by the subtle drag of your folds along his rugged length.

"Don't know what I did to deserve a pretty girl like you." His teeth tugged on the delicate strap of your top, exposing your breasts. His mouth enveloped the bud, gently sucking and pulling as they hardened.

"Logan . . . can't take it anymore. I'm close." You clenched around him, earning another hard slap on your ass.

"You gonna come for me sweetheart, hm?" He somehow increased his pace, hips drilling into your sensitive cunt. "C'mon, come all over my cock. Such a sweet young thing, so eager to please . . . " he hummed into your ear.

"And just so we're clear, I am definitely older than your father." His filthy words made you arch even higher, stilling your hips mid-air and allowing Logan to fuck you through your release.

The sound of you faintly chanting his name as you came sent him over the edge. "You can take it," he encouraged as your pathetic whines intermingled with his unabashed groans. His hips drove home, bouncing you harshly against his tense thighs and spilling into you with a low growl.

You almost blacked out at the feeling of his cum spurting into your walls, reaching even further when Logan buried his cock to the hilt. You clenched around him, overstimulated and thoroughly fucked.

"That's it, just relax . . . You look so pretty milking my cock," he praised, brushing stray hair away from your face.

You managed to sit upright and shakily moved to lift yourself off his cock, but Logan quickly steadied your hips. He's still hard, you realized, fascinated by his renewed vigor.

He panted, obviously just as spent as you were.

"So, uh, tomorrow, the Italian place on fifth street, 8 PM?"

You narrowed your eyes, incredibly confused at his choice of words after experiencing the best sex you've ever had.

"Our first date," he clarified. He kissed your cheek and you blushed at the contrast between the innocent action and the fact that his hard cock was still buried in your cunt. "After all, I'm a real man, right? And real men plan dates." He plastered on a cocky grin, repeating your earlier statements.

"Okay, old man. It's a date." You smiled, kissing his mouth with passion.

an: Ah!!! I had so much fun writing this. Old Man Logan, when will it be my turn >:[

[laduenadelswing]

A happy day in hell

The hum of the V- tower resonated like a dirge in Vox's circuits, a counterpoint to the hollowness that gnawed at his core. The city sprawled beneath him, a tapestry of neon and shadow, yet his crimson gaze, usually keen and calculating, was clouded with a yearning that threatened to short-circuit his processors. Old memories haunted his thoughts.

Lisbon was a distant memory, a sun-drenched mirage shimmering in the wasteland of his existence. He recalled cobblestone streets slick with rain, jasmine clinging to the air like a lover's embrace, and the warmth of sun a beacon in the storm. In the city of light, Vox met the light of his (after)life. She, a fledgling model with eyes like emeralds and a laugh that could chase away the bleakest nights. He, a rising star, his voice captivating millions, his heart captivated by her. The pastel colours shined brighter when he saw her.

Their love story, though brief, resonated with the intensity of a supernova. Stolen moments under Lisbon's moon, whispered promises exchanged in secret gardens – these were the notes that formed their melody, a melody cut short by the cruel hand of fate. One day they stayed all night at the beautiful view points and gardens, another day he was crushed in his studio. The currents fell immediately, ending their love. The life they had was cut short, no more light, models, TV, dates, adventures and growth. Vox vanished, woke up in hell without his soulmate.

She carried on, like a lone instrument playing his tune in the vast orchestra of life. He watched from the other side, a disembodied echo, his circuits aching with the phantom pain of her absence. He saw her age, the lines etching themselves onto her face like the grooves on a weathered record, each wrinkle a testament to a life lived without him. He saw her grief, he wanted to embrace her and promise that they would meet again. It’s everything he ever wanted. But he wouldn’t wish her to wake up in hell. She war his angle, his goddess who made him believe in love again.

Then, the news arrived, a final, discordant note. She was gone too, her melody fading into the cosmic silence. The world around Vox dissolved into static. The city lights, once vibrant, bled into an oppressive darkness.

Yet, even in the abyss of grief, a flicker of hope remained. In the pregnant silence, he could almost hear her voice, a gentle murmur soothing the ache in his circuits. He could almost feel her touch, a spectral caress reminding him that their love, though silenced, was not truly extinguished.

He knew then that their life, though cut short, wasn't over. It lived on in the echoes of their memories, in the melody they had created together. And perhaps, in the infernal show of Hell, their love would find a way to play again, a defiant testament to a love that transcended even the boundaries of life and death.

But the path forward was shrouded in the static of his grief. Would he search for her in the labyrinthine depths of Hell, her arrival a spark igniting a desperate quest? How would his grief sculpt him, make him more compassionate or harden him further? Could he find a way to express his love in this new reality, perhaps composing a song that would bridge the chasm between them?

The possibilities hummed with an electric potential, mirroring the spark of determination igniting within him. He would rebuild, not just the radio tower, but himself. He would carry her memory, her love, as his guiding melody, composing a new song in the symphony of his existence, a song that would echo through the halls of Hell, a testament to their enduring love. And in that melody, perhaps, he would find solace, purpose, and maybe, just maybe, a way to reconnect with the melody that had been so cruelly silenced.

Vox surveillanced every part of hell until he found his soulmate. She was lost, alone ans had no clue how she got there. As soon as she cried, Vox appeared.

“Oh darling, I missed you so much. I waited forever to see you again.” He chuckled as he came closer. She hesitated, the horror on her face was visible. Vox’s claws wanted to help her get up, the confusion on her face confirmed Vox’s biggest fear.

“Who are you?”

[frogsinflannel]

My Candy Hearts Exchange Letter!

I cannot tell you HOW EXCITED I am for whatever loveliness you are going to write for me. I threw my hat in many, many different rings for this exchange because I wanted the experience of opening a box of chocolates: I genuinely have no idea what I'm going to get!

For a general idea of what I like, check out my blog here, or I'm an_ardent_rain on Ao3. And I have included a list of general likes!

A Selection of General Likes/Preferred Tropes/Etc.

-FOUND FAMILY -Yearning/Pining/Slow Burn/Make these poor souls absolutely sick with desire -Journey/Road Trip/Travel narratives (if there's a metaphorical journey involved as well, all the better!) -Happy or on their way to happy endings -5+1 Fics -Banter, witty dialog, characters having conversations generally -Epistolary stories, stories told through texts, maybe podcast transcripts, my guilty pleasure is that: I LOVE REDDIT STYLE AITA OR ADVICE POSTS, new and interesting formats are always going to be a hit -Us against the world/love during conflict, "we want to be together but The Circumstances have torn us apart!"/finding their way back to each other -Stolen moments -Getting together/first kiss/first time/that "ahh ha" moment of a crush !!! (this might be my favorite trope of all) -Outsider POV/canon retelling from another perspective -The Character is autistic (this is projection, leave me alone) -Music (inspired by, a character playing an instrument, dancing to music, etc) -Time Travel -Gothic horror/similar themes -Nature (I love lush descriptions, characters out exploring the world, even something as small as the language of flowers or looking out at a magnificent view) -Folk horror -Hurt/comfort -There was only one bed!/forced proximity

If You Want to Write Smut

-First of all, go ahead! I'm fine with any rating, a gentle baby G to reeeeal nasty Explicit. Follow your heart -Here is a buffet of things that might be possible: FEELINGS, choking or breathplay, cosmic horniness, monster fucking, rough sex, desperation, struggle play or primal play, body worship, HANDS, lots and lots of foreplay or teasing, cuddling, hand feeding, dressing/undressing/clothes, facials/messy blowjobs, teaching/one partner with more experience, overstimulation, being silly and having fun

PLEASE NO: lactation kink, detailed description of other bodily fluids, necrophilia, non-con (cnc is okay if it's tagged), alpha/omega/beta-verse, flowery/coy terms for body parts, sexual torture, ageplay

General DNWs

-heavy angst -unhappy (as in bleak or hopeless or the-world-burns) endings -unreciprocated feelings -infidelity -Complete AU unless requested for the fandom (canon divergence is fine, a small change within the canon universe is fine like everybody has wings (another favorite trope of mine) or a character goes back in time to talk to their past self or something similar. But please nothing that fundamentally alters their reality) -pregnancy (talked about is fine, already born babies are fine, just not on page please) -graphic violence/body horror For the fandoms specifically, I included short prompts in my ao3 sign-up. I hope those are helpful!

Thank you for writing something for me, I am greatly looking forward to it. I hope it's something that you really enjoy writing, please have fun with it! I am so very, very easy to please.

Also: Treats are welcome! ♡

[siiinfully]

continued from this with @sugarspicesins

it is, quite frankly, endearing, that she thinks it will work.

but, count dracula allows the girl to push him against the wall, if only by taking a step backwards himself, as she so desperately presses her soft, warm lips to his own. she is aching for his touch. he can feel it in the way that she kisses him. he cannot fault the poor thing for that. that is part of his allure, after all. she cannot help that she is drawn to him, particularly given the fact that his mind is closed off to her little ability. he is a creature of the night, a dark figure that roams the earth in search of one thing, and one thing only.

blood. and oh, he does so crave her blood. he smirks against asteria's lips, his fangs brushing against her flesh. he doesn't apply any pressure. not yet. but he doesn't kiss her back, nor does he touch her or grab her as he knows she wants him to. he can feel it in the air, in the way that her breath hitches in her throat. no, what he does, is step into her space, cornering her, as she steps backwards. he can see the hairs standing on her body, the way that she'd draw into herself. fear, is a subconscious response to his presence. he catches her chin with his thumb, long nail pressing into her lip, before he pushes it into her mouth. “ say that again. ” it's a soft whisper, spoken in a tone that is almost playful. he will not give her what she wants. not yet, at least. the blood rushing through her body has him sallivating, his eyes darkening as they move to a vein that is singing to him, on her pretty neck. he moves his free hand to grab her neck. he isn't gentle, fingers in her hair as he pulls her closer. “ go on, my pet. say. that. again. ” she would soon learn, count dracula is unlike anything she has ever encountered in her sheltered, short life.

+++

It was a series of miscalculations that brought her to where she was now.

A miscalculation on her ‘guardians’ end that their sweet little prize would remain blissfully ignorant forever. So much so that they foolishly left her room unlocked, thinking that she wouldn’t take that sudden but yearned for bid for freedom.

A miscalculation on the woman whose identity she stole just to board the ship bound for ports unknown.

And a miscalculation on her end to not have used her time in isolation to finally master her abilities.

If she had, she might not have fallen into the invisible trap that the Count so skillfully spun over everyone aboard. In her case, it was the sudden silence that accompanied him instead of an endless cacophony of lewd, panicked, or ambitious thoughts. And, of course, the undeniable allure that he exuded, making her desire him like she hadn’t done towards anyone else. The chance to enjoy a few moments’ peace had been difficult for her to ignore.

Now, however, she squeaked at his sudden advance, the stolen kiss cool on her lips. And while fear coursed through her body along with her nymph blood, it, too, came with a growing curiosity. One that may prove lethal and yet, she stayed within its radius. She didn’t have a choice, but at the same time, she didn’t want one.

The long nail entered her mouth, and its sharp edge sliced at her tongue. Asteria tasted her own blood, the rusty-tinge trickling down her throat as she kept her eyes locked with his. “Shut up,” were the two words she whispered obediently, but they no longer held any meaning. No, it was the next words that carried more weight and significance to her, and she drew in a deep breath. “You carry death with you, don’t you?” Yes, he must have. It would explain everything about him, from how easily he seemed to take everyone in. How he moved, like a spider did when it had its prey in its web. Well, the wall was his web, and he was the spider, finally closing in on its helpless prey.

Her.

The tip of her still-bleeding tongue pushed out from between her lips, several drops sliding down her lower lip.

[whattraintracks]

Haha, what's this? I'm back, and holy guacamole, it got long. What began as wandering speculation nosedived into fic territory.

Short version: I think I really really like the idea of Raph with mystic psychometry. The ability to detect and experience emotional echoes attached to an object.

I benched this idea (largely based on my interpretation of Cal's force ability in SW Jedi: Fallen Order) as soon as I thought of it, because it didn't seem right for Raph. But I really really love psychometry and couldn't stop thinking about it, so I reviewed your published and unpublished HEM writings to see if I could justify it, and, well, here we are.

I think it could work because '03 Raph is an emotional guy, very physical, loves his family, and likes people in general. Additionally, I got the impression from HEM that Raph has a lot of regrets, often building what-ifs off the echoes of his own life, and that this is the kind of mystic power that would piss him off because it's a perceptive ability, and everything he senses has already happened. There is literally nothing he can do about or with it!

You see, I imagine Raph desperately envies both Don's threads—these live, vital connections to the people he loves—and Leo's spinjitzu/hydrokinesis—something he can use to be a better protector. But I love Raph, so I'm going to be mean to him specifically and not give him what he wants.

Like Don's, I think Raph's mystic specialty is shaped by desperation. A deep yearning that he reaches for with his whole soul, causing a shift within him and the world around him. At some point, Raph—angry and longing and missing his brother like a physical thing and guiltily wishing he was back—goes to Don's lab or somewhere else significant to Donny, and it's alive. With the patience and love and laughter of his brother, and for a moment, he's sure Donny never left at all because he's right here.

But he did leave. He can't be here, and whatever this feeling is is too naïve, too young, nothing like the presence his brother carries now. This dark, unwieldy thing that bows Don under its pressure. And Raph almost weeps because despite how powerful the impression is, that's all it is. It's not Don. It's an echo of him. Steeped into the floor and blossoming before his view like a plant feeling sunlight for the first time.

And so Raph discovers mystic echoes. Never things as they are or will be, only snatches of what used to be. Feelings, events, little details lost to time and made imperfect by remembering, preserved in perfect, quiet clarity in the physical world. And at home, they're in everything he touches.

He can't brush against a wall without choking on the overwhelming feeling of his brother's quicksilver mind. The door frame to his room carries the cloying sorrow of everyone who's entered looking for answers and left empty-handed. It starts like this, but as he reaches for these echoes, literally and spiritually, he only begins to feel more. Touching a child's plaything fills him with mirth or a flash of indignation at a toy once stolen. A memory of purchasing new dishware when he scrubs a plate. Dissatisfaction at the ending of a book he's never read before.

And it's annoying and overwhelming and such a stupid power what the shell, but. He gets it, right? That there are emotions so strong they bleed into the world around them. It's almost reassuring to find them, to hold in his hands a little piece of someone else and know what they knew and feel what they felt in a single moment. And it’s maybe even a relief to know his own emotions don't just exist in a void. They linger and enrich everything they touch. With every strong emotion he feels now (which is most of them), he can’t help but wonder what it will leave behind. It's exciting and terrifying.

This is the kind of ability that could burn Raph up, too. Because he's so desperate for any memory of Donny, however stale, that he leaves the metaphorical floodgates open to any and all echoes. He doesn't even realise this is something he can and should temper. He's already got so many of his own emotions, and now he's consuming with abandon those left behind in everything he touches.

Now, emotions that linger on objects don't alter his own. Raph's emotional state isn't changed by them any more than yours would be at the sight of someone smiling brightly or sighing glumly. It's not a transference; usually, he just holds the feelings alongside his own. But echoes are stronger with age. Impressions, once made, work deep into an object, though recent echoes are hard to find. Emotions like to stew before they show themselves.

So maybe he touches some sort of mystic or Foot artifact imbued with malicious intent. An ancient object carrying a mystic echo so powerful and evil that, without preparation, one touch knocks him out cold. His mystic connection feels shivery and frail for a week after, and he desperately isolate to avoid being rocked by an unexpected echo or, worse, find himself unable to feel the important ones anymore.

Once Raph settles into his psychometry and learns to regulate it, his ability could be beneficial in a mystic-rich world like Rise or when mystic foes pop up. Since echoes influenced by mystic are so distinct, if he can avoid overwhelm when interacting with an enchanted object, perhaps he could sense the caster's intent. He couldn't disable a cursed item directly, but this could help him discover how to. He could use this ability to track specific mystic signatures, items or people, given enough time had passed, or he honed the ability enough to detect the fainter, recent echoes. Maybe with time, he'd even be able to purify an object of its echoes. I know these might not seem like abilities Raph would want to cultivate, as detached from combat as they are, but I think they're a logical development here.

Thanks for coming to my TED Talk about Raph developing psychometric abilities.

Is Donnie the only one with mystic powers what about his bros?

As of right now, I'm thinking that Donnie would be the only one of the 2k3 turtles with specialized mystic powers! (Don't quote me on that, though, there is a lot of stuff I'm still working out about the later bits.)

On the Same As it Never Was side, they no longer have amulets. If they wanted to train for years, they could use chi without a focus, but for the moment the only one even *slightly* pursuing that is Leo. They are mostly just adult mutant ninja non-magic turtles now.

I'm not opposed to exploring the 2k3 bros with mystic powers as in Rise, if not in the main story then in a side story/'what if' (or seeing someone else's take on this!) but I can't say I've given much thought to the sorts of specialties any of them would have except Donnie. His kind of came naturally as a consequence of his circumstances.

Just for fun, does anyone have any suggestions on Rise-style mystic powers for 2k3 Leo, Raph, and Mike? I'm curious! Doesn't have to be related to their season 5 weapon abilities, but certainly can be.

[xcertaindarkthingsx]

make you mine

pairing: jealous!mando x fem!reader

summary: you’ve been traveling with the Mandalorian for a while now as a healer and caretaker for the Child.  one day, the Mandalorian needs your specific skills to help him catch a bounty, and needless the say he is NOT happy about it.  

warnings: two idiots that don’t know they like each other, some fluff and yearning, a smidge of possessiveness/jealousy, canon-typical violence, swearing in basic and mando’a, brief mentions of unwanted touching, mentions of taking care of injuries/stitching and blood, SMUT 18+ (minors BEGONE), porn w/ plot i guess, thigh riding, finger sucking, grinding, a lil’ dirty talk (if i miss any just please let me know!)

word count: 7.6k (i’m soRRY)

a/n: WHEW OK so i originally wrote this for #dincember but because i suck at deadlines and take forever to write it just turned into something else. reader is a lil insecure but mando makes it all better (self-projection, anyone?) ummm, this is my first time writing for din AND my first time writing smut but i hope you guys like it! comments/likes/reblogs/feedback are completely welcome and much appreciated! i apologize if this is a mess kladjflkd but shoutout to @a-dorin and @princessxkenobi for being wonderful beta readers and helping me when i got stuck.  i am planning on making this a two parter, so if you want to be added to my tag list let me know! if you prefer to read on ao3 you can do so here . mando’a translations at the end!

gif credit: @bestintheparsec

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

Soft coos filled the air inside the Razor Crest as you desperately tried to rock the Child back to sleep.  You were almost certain he was starting to get hungry, but you were out of snacks and Mando had told you not to leave the ship under any circumstances.

You had been traveling with the Mandalorian for a while now, after being picked up on Arvala-7. You were a healer—a pretty damn good one, if you had anything to say about it—and had patched him up after a bounty hunt gone wrong.  

The Mandalorian thought your services would be helpful if things ever got a little dicey again, so he asked you along for the ride (the reality was you had nagged and scolded him so much about how cauterizing was not the answer for every wound, that he eventually caved just to get you to stop). There wasn’t really anything tying you to Arvala-7, so you agreed.

Plus, the Child had taken a real liking to you, and how could you say no to that precious face?  

The Mandalorian was an odd man—well, no.  Not odd.  More like intriguing, and you were drawn to it.  It had been quiet and awkward the first few months.  He was a rigid man of few words, never speaking more than necessary (unless he thought he was alone with the kid; the way he spoke with him made your heart melt).  But after countless late nights together of taking care of the Child and constantly tending to his injuries, you were surprised to find there was a sense of gentleness under all that beskar.

The Mandalorian had been just as surprised as you when he found himself warming up to your presence.  It was all the little moments that had snuck up on him, the stolen glances and lingering touches, and now his heartbeat seemed to quicken every time you were together.

Little did he know, yours did too.  

At the sound of the hatch door opening, you looked up.  You watched as the Mandalorian walked up the platform, admiring his strut.  How someone could look so good just walking, you had no idea, but it was maddening.  

“No bounty?” you called out, turning the kid in your arms so he would be facing out towards his dad.  It was unusual that Mando hadn’t found the target yet, but you were just thankful he was in one piece for now.  He shook his head.

“Not yet.  I ran into some… complications,” he huffed and even though his voice was laced with frustration, it put you at ease.  Being on the ship alone for nearly the whole day, sometimes you just missed hearing that husky baritone filtering through his modulator.  

Not to mention you thought it was sexy as hell.  

You quirked an eyebrow at him.  “Complications?”  

He heaved a deep sigh, lifting a hand for the Child to grab, which he took happily.  “Hey, kid,” he whispered, and you smiled as the Child babbled back.  Mando turned his helmet towards you and continued.  “Yes, but I found a contact who should be able to give more information.  I came back for you and the kid first.  I know you guys must be hungry.”  

You nodded at the same time the little green bean gave a resounding coo, earning a soft chuckle from the both of you.  “I’ll get the pram ready.”

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

After a quick stop in the marketplace for supplies, Mando had led you two into what seemed to be the only bar in town.  It was only late afternoon, leaving it nearly empty, save for a few older patrons lazily sipping on glasses of ale.  You ignored the way the Weequay behind the bar seemed to look you up and down.     

Mando set you and the kid up with two bowls of soup at a table nearby while he talked business with his contact, who happened to be the bartender.  Sipping your soup, you tried not to eavesdrop as the two began to fall into what you would call a heated discussion.  On Mando’s end.  Apparently, this was a particularly “difficult” target.  

“Lucky for you, he’s got an eye for pretty girls,” the bartender drawled, jutting his chin at you.  “She’ll do fine.”

Your head snapped up from your task of feeding the child, spoon mid-air.  “Excuse me?”

“No.  Absolutely not,” resounded Mando’s gruff voice from under the helmet.    

“Listen, Mando.  This guy is high-profile, practically untouchable, bodyguards with him at all times. And I’m not talkin’ your run of the mill pair of idiots that can’t shoot for a damn, I’m talkin’ highly trained mercenaries.”  The Weequay sighed.  “I don’t doubt your skills as a Mandalorian, but you’re just one man.  You need to get him alone, and she is your only way of doing that,” he insisted.  

“I said, no,” Mando gritted out.  You were non-negotiable.  

The bartender just shrugged.  “Then consider this a loss, cause you’re not getting anywhere near him.”

Your heart hammered in your chest listening to the two of them argue. Embarrassment flooded your cheeks, remembering the way the bartender eyed you when you walked in.  All you wanted to do at this point was bury yourself in the confines of your room in the Razor Crest.

Mando seemed final in his decision, and you couldn’t help but wonder if it was because he didn’t want you involved or if he thought you simply lacked the skills to do so.  He could probably tell you weren’t really the seducing type, and truthfully the thought of trying to do was mortifying.    

But Mando needed this, right?  You thought of all the things he’s done for you, how he’s protected and provided for you.  This was the least you could do for him.  You could deal with one night of potential discomfort so he could get his bounty.  It was a lot of credits.  

“I’ll do it.”

Mando snapped his head around at you so fast, it was a miracle he hadn’t hurt himself.  “For the last time, I said you are no—”

“I’m doing it,” you said a little more forcefully, cutting him off. You didn’t need to see his face to know he was staring daggers into you from underneath the helmet, but it was going to take more than a dirty look to get you to change your mind.  

“Excellent!” the bartender’s cheery voice cut through the tension in the room.  “Come on back, I’ve got an old dress an ex-girlfriend left behind that you could probably use.”

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

The dress in question was a slinky black number that had you freezing your ass off in the cold of the desert night.  

The dress was too… everything.  Too short, too revealing, too tight; but the only other thing you had to wear were some oversized t-shirts and utility pants, which aren’t exactly sexy, so you were shit out of luck.  

Mando nearly choked when you came out of your room, thankful for the helmet for hiding his widened eyes and agape mouth. You looked absolutely ravishing, the black fabric clinging to all the right places on your figure.  His eyes roved over the valley of your chest, the curve of your hips, the length of your legs, and his hands balled into fists, just aching to hold you.  It’s as if your skin was begging to be touched.  

You cleared your throat, feeling incredibly exposed and wondering what in the blazes Mando was looking at because you were certain you looked absolutely ridiculous.  The noise shook him out of whatever daze he was in and he quickly shifted his gaze.  

“Not a word,” you warned, wobbling down the platform.  As bad as the dress was, the heels it came with were somehow worse.  “I feel ridiculous.”

“You shouldn’t,” he answered a little too quickly. “You look…” words were lost on him as he tried to find the right one.  One that wouldn’t make it obvious that he was losing his kriffing mind in front of you.  “Good,” he finally decided on, and mentally kicked himself for it.  Good?

You gave him an exasperated look.  “I know you’re just being nice.”

He opened his mouth to argue but was interrupted by an ill-timed fit of babbling from the kid.  You had bent down as best you could to give him a little pat on the head and he could feel a lump forming in his throat.  

Mando couldn’t express how much he didn’t want you to do this.  And well, he tried.  The whole way back to the ship, in fact.  But for some reason you were completely hell-bent on doing this for him, and he didn’t know how to explain that you and your safety meant more to him than a few thousand credits.  

The reality was, Mando wanted you.  He never thought he’d be so fond for someone besides the Child, but you were the exception.  And even though he wanted to make you his, he knew it would be selfish of him to pursue you, to claim you, when he couldn’t give you everything you deserved; his Creed prevented him from doing so.  

But Mando was a greedy man, so he took what he could get.  He drank up all the kindness you so freely gave him, like a parched soul wandering in the desert, and cherished every little moment the two of you shared. They probably meant nothing to you, but they were everything to him.  And he wanted more.

Not only was he a greedy man, but a stingy one as well.  The thought of anyone other than him seeing you in that dress was enough to send his thoughts into a jealous frenzy.  

“You don’t have to do this,” he tried to reason again.  

You placed a gentle hand on the soft spot between his pauldron and neck and offered a small smile.  “Don’t worry, Mando.  Everything will be fine.”        

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

Everything was, in fact, not fine.  

The night had started well enough.  After all of Mando’s failed attempts at dissuading you again, he had finally resigned to silently stewing in his disapproval rather than voicing it.  

You entered the bar while he stayed behind and watched closely from the outside.  He had given you a comms device, that, with the push of a button, would let him know you were alone with the bounty and it was time for him to step in.  

“Just press it, and I will be right there,” he assured, his gloved fingers pressing the device firmly into your bare palm. Something about the protective tone of his voice stirred something in you.  You nodded before looking away, trying to ignore your racing heart.  

The bar was rowdy that night, patrons hooting and howling from the booze.  The smell of stale spice and death sticks wafted in the air, making you wrinkle your nose.  Your newfound bartender friend had waved you over, pointing out the target with a nod of his head.  

Your eyes fell on a Pantoran man across the bar with a drink in his hand, dozens of black suits surrounding him.  His associates—a Rodian and another Pantoran—seemed to all be talking business.  The bartender wasn’t kidding about this guy’s security.

How the hell am I supposed to get this guy’s attention?  You desperately racked your head for subtle ideas but came to a halt when his eyes met yours.  Kriff, he had caught you staring.  So much for subtle.  Trying not to panic, you flashed your best coy smile before turning back towards the bar.

Somehow, that was enough to give him the courage to approach you.  

Cocky bastard, you thought as he swaggered on up to you, leaning in close, leering.  With his chiseled features and striking yellow markings, you would’ve called him handsome— if you didn’t already know what a sleazebag he was.  An air of arrogance surrounded him, the type that made him think he could get whatever he wanted with a flash of those pearly whites. Typical douche.  You wanted to smack him for being so close.  

Instead, you flashed another winning smile. Placing a hand on his shoulder, you leaned in close and with a breathy whisper of, ‘Let’s get out of here’ he was tossing credits to the bartender and signaling to his guards that he was leaving with you.  

The Weequay had shot you a knowing look as he watched you leave; a warning.  You assured him that everything was fine with a slight nod of your head.      

The asshole had his arm snaked around you, hand on your ass, as you made your way to the motel just across the street.  You fought back the urge to throttle him, instead fawning about how, ‘I can’t wait to be alone with you, darling.’    

Your hands began to clam up as he retrieved the keys from the clerk, and you tried to convince yourself that everything would be fine once you clicked the button on your comm from the inside of the room.

Wrong.  

Immediately after the Pantoran locked the door, the unease in your stomach began to grow.  Bile rose in your throat at his grinning face, the way he fidgeted and licked his lips as he pressed you into the wall.  A hand landed on your bare thigh, trailing dangerously high, where you shuddered in disgust at the feeling.  

“We’re gonna have so much fun,” he whispered, and that was your cue to press the comms device you were desperately clutching in your small purse.  Your mistake was failing to mask the faint beeping noise it emitted.  Your companion stiffened at the sound, pressing you further into the wall.  

“What the hell did you just do?” he growled, using the other hand to rip your arm from your purse.  He stared at the comms device with contempt, before turning his attention back to me.  “You bi—”

He never got to finish, because the next thing you knew your Mandalorian was crashing through the door, blaster in hand.

The scene Mando had walked in on nearly made him sick.  That osi’kovid’s hands all over you, and worst of all, the look of pure fear on your face after being made.  He’d planned to put a quick end to the whole ordeal, but the bounty had plans of his own.

Mando rushed him, shoving him into the wall and away from you.  As expected, the Pantoran went flying before crumpling onto the floor.  What Mando hadn’t been expecting was for him to be armed. He didn’t peg him as the type to get his hands dirty.  

The Mandalorian was about to release the fibercord whip from his vambrace when the bounty rose from the floor with a sneer, a small combat knife in hand as he lunged at Mando, before wrestling him to the floor and sending his blaster skittering.  

You watched in frozen horror as the two fought for the upper hand. At one point, the bounty had tried to charge at you, slashing wildly, but Mando was already there blocking his blows. The knife caught on the cowl above his chest, slicing the skin underneath with a sickening noise.  That seemed to kick your brain into overdrive, and you dived for the fallen blaster on the ground.  

You took a steadying breath before you aimed and shot once, twice, at the bounty’s leg.  He cried out from his place above Mando before clutching his leg and finally falling over.

Mando rose and immediately released the fibercord, imprisoning the bounty.  He held his hand out for his blaster, and you watched with wide eyes as he smacked the butt of it into the Pantoran’s face once, twice, three times.  The third time ended with an appalling crack, his head lolling forward, and leaving him unconscious.  

You stared as Mando stood in front of the bounty, seething.  You could have sworn his hands were shaking.      

“Stars, Mando, your neck,” you murmured, breathless.  The room was dim, but you could see the dark stain of blood that was beginning to drench his cowl.  Your hands went to inspect the wound, but he quickly brushed you off.  

“We need to go,” he grunted, gathering the rope and heading towards the back entrance of the room.  The two of you hadn’t exactly been quiet and the bounty’s guards were bound to notice their boss had been gone for too long.  When you had opened your mouth to argue, to insist that you needed to check his injuries, he was already out the door.

Adrenaline still coursed through your veins as you walked back towards the ship.  You pulled your arms tight across your body in an attempt to quell your trembling hands; guilt, bubbling up in your stomach as you replayed the events of the night in your head.  

You had been the one to volunteer yourself for the mission.

You were the one who had repeatedly insisted that everything would be fine.  

And now, your Mandalorian was bleeding profusely from a nasty wound on his neck.  

“Mando,” you pleaded, trying to keep up with him in your ridiculous heels.  Instead of acknowledging you, your words fell to deaf ears.  He was stomping his way back to the ship, the unconscious bounty in tow.  

Worry bloomed in your chest.  The wound had looked bad back at the motel, but it was as if he couldn’t even feel it.  You could hear his ragged breathing from behind; whether it was from the fight, the long walk, or the wound, you weren’t sure.  

“Mando,” you tried again, this time raising your voice as you approached the hatch of the ship.  

Nothing.

He let out another grunt as he hauled the bounty onto the ship, towards the carbon-freezing machine.  You pursed your lips, jaw clenching in his direction. You did not appreciate being ignored, especially after just half-saving his ass just moments before.

Granted, you were the one that had put him in that position, but that was besides the point.

His back was to you and you stepped closer, ready to unleash a piece of your damn mind, when you stopped.  You took in his brooding stance and clenched fists.  The tremble in his hands.  Anger seemed to roll off the Mandalorian in waves, making you falter.  

What the hell was his problem?

“Mando, can you kriffing listen to me?  I need to treat you, you have no idea if he nicked an important artery or something.  I don’t know what you’re so worked up about, but you’ve been bleeding for a few minutes now and I just need to look—” annoyance rose in you as he continued to prep the carbon machine.  “Maker, can you even hear me?”

The Mandalorian couldn’t hear you, not clearly anyways.  Blood was still rushing in his ears, his vision still tinged red.  But with another call of his name, you were finally able to get through and he suddenly whipped around.  

“He touched you,” he gritted out, seething and shaking. “That skanah had his hands all over you and I swear if I didn’t need him alive for the bounty, he’d already be dead.”  He punctuated the last word with the slam of a button on the machine.    

You took a step back, eyes wide and brows furrowed. Something warm tightened in your chest and belly.  Wh-why did he care so much?  A lump had lodged itself into your throat.  “Mando, I—I’m fine.  Alright? I’m okay,” you tried to assure.  “So, can you please calm down and let me just—"

But the Mandalorian already had his back turned again.  You threw your hands up in the air, groaning in frustration as he continued to work.  Another minute passed and with a faint whoosh, the bounty was finally set in carbonite.  

A shiver ran through your body as the cool night air blew its way into the Razor Crest, raising goosebumps on your exposed skin.  Seeing you tremble in the cold seemed to break Mando out of whatever angry stupor he was in.    

In all honesty, he hadn’t meant to ignore you, but something in him snapped back at the motel.  The image of that skanah touching you had made his blood boil, and his sole goal was to get him back to the ship and be done with it.  

“You’re… cold,” he stated, the words coming out slow and soft, like pulling them out of a dream.  You must have been freezing in that dress.    

Your head snapped up at him.  “I—what?”

“Let me get you a blanket or—” He hesitated when he saw you pinch the bridge of your nose, eyes screwed shut.  

You couldn’t believe this idiot.  

“Mando, seriously?”  Your heart and your brain were having a hard time deciding whether you should be flattered about him caring so much or pissed off because he didn’t seem to give a damn about himself.  

You chose a mix of the two.

“Mando,” you sighed, looking up at him.  “I promise you I’m fine, thank you.  Really.”  You gave him your most genuine, caring look to show you were thankful for his concern, and then quickly replaced it with a hard one.  “But if you don’t get up into that cockpit right now and let me treat you, I’m going to use that damn pulse rifle on you.”

And just like that, you had managed to dissolve the lingering traces of anger in his mind.  His lips twitched under the helmet.  “That supposed to scare me?”

You glared.  “Don’t push it.” You could have sworn he was laughing under there.

The Mandalorian would have laughed if the wound on his neck hadn’t began to ache.  Instead, he begrudgingly nodded, throwing his hands up in mock surrender before disappearing into the cockpit.  

He began to input the coordinates back to Nevarro into the navicomputer, warmth unfurling in his chest as he listened to you check on the Child.  A tiredness had begun to settle in his muscles from the fight earlier, and he grimaced as he reached for a lever on the control panel.  The pain on his neck was getting worse, and if he was being honest it burned like all hell, but he was not going to admit that to you.

The door behind him slid open and you stepped in frazzled, medkit in hand.  Even with your hair in disarray and scrapes littering your arms and legs, he thought you looked breathtaking.  

“Uh, so bad news,” you began, gesturing at the medkit.  “They didn’t have any at the market earlier, so we’re out of bacta shots and spray.  I’m gonna have to stitch it closed depending on how deep it is.”  You shot him an apologetic look.

He nodded, putting in the last of the coordinates before removing his chest plate to give you easier access, and turning his chair to face you.  You closed the space between the two of you, quickly going to work.  Careful hands began to peel away at the fabric stuck to the wound, a hiss of pain at the tip of his tongue as you ripped off the last of it.

“Sorry,” you whispered, inspecting the fabric before discarding it.  “You’re definitely gonna need a new cape.”

He shrugged.  “At least now you’ve got a new blanket.”  You always had a habit of curling up into all his old stuff.  

With a smile, you returned your focus to the task at hand, mentally sighing in relief as you began to clean the wound.  It could have been worse, but it was still very deep.  An inch to the left and just a smidge higher, and you would have had quite the problem on your hands.  

“Idiot,” you muttered.

“What was that?”

“Lucky,” you corrected, biting back a smirk.  “You got lucky.  Any higher and this would be a lot messier.”  You tossed the last of the gauze out and prepared the needle and thread.

Mando took in your awkward stance as you tried to bend down and begin stitching.  Standing was fine for when you were cleaning, but for something this intricate it wasn’t the best position.  You cursed and tried again, trying to get the angle right, but it was no use.  The thought left his mouth before he even had a chance to filter it.  

“You can sit on me if that’s easier.”

Heat blazed on your cheeks at his words, nearly dropping the damn needle.  “Oh—um—” Coherent thoughts didn’t seem to be forming in your head at the moment.

Panic flooded the Mandalorian’s brain as he took in your shocked expression and realized his mistake.  “I—well, not like that—what I meant was—” he spluttered, trying to find the right words, thankful that his helmet hid his mortified expression.          

“No, no it’s okay I—I know what you meant,” you managed to choke out after picking your jaw up off the floor.  It would have been comical—the certain and capable bounty hunter struggling to regain his composure—but his words had flooded your mind with some less than innocent thoughts and images, ones that left you heated and flustered.  You swallowed hard in an attempt to relieve your suddenly very dry throat.  “I can, if you’re okay with it?”

He slowly nodded, mentally kicking himself for being so daft.  He held his breath as you stepped closer, bracing a hand low on his chest as you perched yourself on his lap.  You cursed, trying to your best to maneuver yourself onto him without being inappropriate.

Finally, you were situated, hovering precariously over his thigh.  You breathed deep, willing your mind and body to calm down. Being in such close proximity to the Mandalorian was… dizzying, but you had a job to do.  And so, you went to work.  

A few minutes in, Mando could feel the tension rolling off your body, the tremble of your thighs as you tried to hold yourself above him.  “You can sit if you need to.”

The thought had crossed your mind, but truthfully you were afraid of how your body would react if you did. Eventually you gave in, shivering at the cold kiss of beskar on the insides of your thighs as you straddled his leg.  A knot was forming in your belly, low and warm.  

Maker, help me, you thought.

The change in position had slid your dress higher and Mando’s eyes began to wander again, taking in the exposed skin where your dress had hiked itself up, the material bunching around your hips.  His hands felt that pull again, that ache to touch you; to dig his fingers into the soft, plump flesh.  

Osik, he cursed, trying to control himself.  In his mind he conjured up the image of a blaster, mentally taking it apart and putting it back together as a pitiful attempt at a distraction.

You had fallen into a steady rhythm of stitching and knotting, your hands absentmindedly working.  The Mandalorian had fallen into a dull haze in the wake of your delicate touches, despite the sting and pull of the needle.  But when your hands brushed the edge of his helmet, he snapped to attention, reflexes kicking in.

A strong hand had immediately encircled your wrist, forcefully locking it in place.  Your breath seized at the realization of your colossal fuck-up.  How could you be so stupid?

“Shit, shit, I—I’m sorry,” you stammered out.  “Mando, I—I promise I wasn’t going to take it off, I just needed to adjust it to get the needle under.”  Your heart thundered against your chest, and you swear you could hear it in the empty silence of the cockpit.  The iron-clad grip he had on your wrist was starting to hurt, biting into your skin.  

Mando saw the flash of fear in your eyes, the way you had flinched at his touch and loosened the grip on your hand.  Regret began to bubble up inside him.  He opened his mouth to apologize, it had just been his instincts, but you beat him to it.  Your next words caught him off guard.  

“Do you trust me?”

He swallowed hard. Of course he did.  There was no question about it.  You were the one constant in his life besides the kid; the one he found he could rely on time and time again for anything. You had never betrayed him, in Creed or otherwise.  He took a steadying breath before answering.  “Yes.”

You tried to ignore the burst of warmth in your chest at his admission and what it implied. Instead, you nodded, slowly allowing yourself to move again and continue your care.  “Lean back,” you whispered and he obliged, fully baring his neck to you. It was a vulnerable position, but the cautious movements of your hands crushed any anxiety that threatened to well up in him.

And maybe it was that cautious, careful touch that had begun to wear down his walls; the tenderness you so freely gave that softened his heart and opened him up.  He wanted to make up the last minute to you, to show that he really did trust you.  Maybe that’s why he couldn’t stop the next thing that tumbled out of his mouth.

“Din.”

You paused mid-stitch, confusion flickering on your face.  “What’d you say?”

His heart felt like it was going to fly out of his ribcage.  “My name.  It’s Din.”

Confusion slowly morphed to shock at his revelation.  He had just shared his name with you; something incredibly personal and dear to him. Knowing it felt… intimate.  How many people actually knew his real name? You couldn’t stop that slow smile that had begun to spread on your face.  

“Din,” you repeated, hushed as if someone else would hear.  His heart skipped at the sound of his name on your lips; the soft way your voice curled around the short syllable.  Your eyes peered into his through the visor of his helmet, a question behind them. “Just ‘Din’?”

“Din Djarin,” he corrected.  

You repeated it again, delight clear on your face.  “I like it.”

I do too, he thought.  Especially when you say it.  “You can use it whenever, as long as we’re alone or it’s just the kid.”

“Of course,” you nodded, then added a soft, “Thank you.”  For trusting me.

The two of you had settled back into a comfortable silence, his hands resting comfortably on your hips, and Din couldn’t fathom why you kept biting back a smile.  You were the first to break it.  

“I’m sorry, for all this.”

“It’s fine, it’s not that painful.”  

You shook your head.  “No, I mean—” you gestured at his neck and then to you. “He was aiming for me.”

He scoffed.  “You’re out of your mind if you think I’d let anything happen to you.” You could hear the anger beginning to simmer beneath his words again.  “No, I… I would protect you every single time.  Besides, that osi’yaim got what he deserved in the end.”  

Your eyes flicked to his visor again and you tried to ignore the way the knot in your belly tightened at his promise to you and the shiver his low voice sent down your spine.  Instead, you tried to change the subject.  “Osi’yaim?”

“A useless, despicable person.  A waste of space.”

A soft laugh escaped you lips.  “You need to teach more Mando’a.  Something besides the bad words.”

Din’s heart clenched at your request. Something about you asking to learn his language stirred something deep in him.  “Of course,” he managed to reply, but it came out more strangled than he had meant it to.    

You continued with your task, getting lost in the repeated movements of your fingers.

Watching you work had always fascinated Din.  You granted each injury the same amount of attention, whether it was as small as a papercut or as big as the gash he had now.  It was endearing.  The meticulous way you ensured every stitch, every bandage, was perfect and in place. The adept movements of your fingers, steady with every touch.  The way you bit your lip and furrowed your brow as you concentrated.  

He was captivated by it, and you, every time.

His gaze was concealed by his helmet most of the time, but tonight you could feel the weight of his eyes on you.  Your cheeks began to burn at the thought of him staring at you so closely and you thanked the maker that he couldn’t see the crimson hue painting your face.  

“Are you warm?” he asked, the low rumble of his voice startling you.  

“What?”

“You’ve been shivering since you started, but… you’re all flushed,” he explained.

Your eyes widened at his words, heart stopping.  “Wait—how can you see my—”

“Heat sensors.” Din couldn’t help but notice the way the heat on your face spread even more, down the soft slopes of your neck and chest.

Of course, heat sensors.  You were absolutely mortified, a nervous laugh erupting from your chest.  May as well be honest.  

“No, not warm, more like embarrassed,” you tried to explain, unable to meet his eyes.  

Din tilted his head, trying to understand.  “Why?”

You scoffed.  “’Cause I just realized I’ve been sticking my ugly mug in your face for the past 20 minutes.”      

Din was dumbfounded.  Ugly? The mere thought of you seeing yourself in that way made his heart ache.  How could you think such a thing when he saw you as the most radiant thing in this galaxy?  That, every time he saw you, he had to remind himself to breathe?

He had no idea what the in blazes he was doing, but he knew that he couldn’t let you go on thinking such things about yourself.  Din reached out and tilted your chin up towards him, making you meet his eyes.  

“Cyar’ika, you are the furthest thing from ugly that someone could be.  I—you are absolutely stunning.  Do you—do you know what seeing you in that dress tonight did to me?” he confessed, letting out a breathy laugh.  The front of his pants tightened in reminder.  “I’ll teach you something new in Mando’a right now.”  He paused, letting his fingers brush over your chin. “Mesh’la.”

It felt like you were on fire at that point, burning under his gaze, but somehow you found your voice underneath all the flames.  “What does it mean?” you breathed, unable to mask the tremble in your voice.

“Beautiful,” he murmured. “You’re beautiful.”    

Your body betrayed you, melting into a puddle with just a taste of his touch and the boldness of his words.  It was a devastating effect, and there was no denying the dampness that had pooled between your legs now.  You managed to stutter out a, ‘thank you’ before trying to finish the last knot of his stitches.

“All done,” you whispered.    

Din watched as you admired your handiwork and noticed that you made no move to remove yourself from him.  Instead, your hands were softly dragging across the planes of his exposed chest, leaving a trail of fire wherever they went.  It was such a foreign feeling, flesh against flesh on such a shielded part of his body.  He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had touched him there, let alone so gently.  

A strangled sound caught in his throat as you brushed over a particularly sensitive spot, just above the other side of his collarbone.  It was almost too much, the shot of electricity that singed his nerves, but it felt good.

His body involuntarily bucked at the sensation and his hands gripped your hips roughly, pressing you flush against him.  

You gasped at the sensation, of your clothed core dragging against the beskar plate on his thigh, your knee brushing against the bulge that had tented his pants.  Your hands scrabbled to find something, anything, to anchor yourself from the blinding pleasure that fizzled through you.

“Maker,” Din murmured, letting out a shuddering breath.  “Osik, cyar’ika, I’m didn’t mean to touch you like that but—”

“But what if I want you to?” your own voice sounding foreign to your ears.  You did not miss the way his breath hitched, caught in the modulator of his helmet.  

Din’s mind was reeling. “You—you want me to?” he swallowed thickly around the ball of shock that was caught in his throat.  

And you’re nodding, eyes dark and body and mind clouded with need, leading his hands up your torso and chest; but Din, he needs to hear you say it.  “Use your words, cyar’ika.  I need to hear you.”

“Yes, Din.  Please,” and that’s enough to dissolve any shred of self-control he thought he had.  The sound of you saying his name like that, a plea for him and only him, was maddening.  

His hands were on you in an instant; hands that you had seen nearly beat a man to death just for touching you, but on you they were soft, gentle.  Desperate, but tender.  Rough, but passionate and loving.  The contrast was making your head spin.  

“Din,” you whimpered. “You have to be careful, your cut—”

“I don’t care,” he rasped.  “Do you know how long I’ve wanted to touch you?  Make you mine?”  He pulled you closer against him, hands grasping at anything he could reach.  He wanted to erase any trace of the bounty from your presence.

You tried to answer, but you were a mess, filling the cockpit with soft moans and mewls as you bucked your hips on his thigh.  

“I want to watch you make yourself feel good, can you do that?  Just like this?”  You frantically bobbed your head.  “Good,” he answered, stroking your cheek.  “You deserve it after tonight, sweet girl.”

The sound of ‘sweet girl’ sent wet heat straight to your core.  If anything, you thought he was the one that deserved to be taken care of right now.  But you were not about to argue with the Mandalorian who insisted on you using him to get yourself off.    

Your hands pawed at his chest again, struggling to find some kind of purchase to anchor yourself. They finally settled for his biceps, nails digging deep.  He watched as you grinded down on his thigh, eyes screwed shut.  His hands fingered the strap of your dress and you nodded, giving him permission to slide it down.  

Din took in the sight of your bare chest, your nipples pebbling in the cold air of the cockpit. He ached to take them into his mouth, hear you whimper and moan against his tongue, but he settled for brushing his gloved fingers over them and watching you arch.  

You ground down harder, desperate you get the friction you needed.  Din’s hands slipped from your breasts down back to your hips, stilling them.  A high whine escaped your throat and it was almost pitiful.  

“Up,” he instructed, confusion marring your face as you lifted yourself off his leg.  He gripped the thigh plate and dropped it to the ground, promptly setting you back onto his thigh.  “Wanna feel you,” he growled, and you could only moan in response.  

Soon enough, your arousal had seeped through your panties and onto the fabric of his pants.  The heady smell hit his nose and his mouth watered, desperate to know what you tasted like, to know what sounds you would make if he buried his face between your thighs.  

You guided his hands back up your chest, up to your neck.  His fingers cupped your face again, thumb brushing the bottom of your lip. You held his hand in place, biting the leather tip of his glove and slowly slid it off, letting it drop between you.

The feeling of his bare thumb resting on your lips sent another wave of arousal through you.  “Wanna feel you,” you breathed, grinning before taking his thumb into your mouth and sucking hard.  Din’s eyes rolled back and he groaned; the sight of your hollowed-out cheeks and the sensation of your tongue on the pad of his thumb nearly sent him over the edge.  

One hand trailed to the base of your neck, tangling itself softly in your hair.  He took in the way your eyes were screwed shut, the furrow in your brows as you chased your high.  You had taken your bottom lip between your teeth, biting hard and almost splitting it from the pressure.  It was almost the same concentrated expression you wore as you tended to his injuries, though it was clear you were concentrated on something far more rewarding now.  

“Mesh’la,” he commanded.  “Look at me.”

You wretched your eyes open, fixing your gaze on him.  

Din watched, enraptured, as you continued to pleasure yourself.  You were a sight before him; pupils blown, mouth agape, chest heaving as you tried to ease the ache in your belly.  He was lost in the way your eyes sparkled, perfectly matching the dark galaxy you were set against just outside the viewport.  

Your moans filled the cockpit, desperate sounds and pleads of Din’s name as he sent delicious licks of pleasure throughout your body.  You held on for dear life, panting as he brought you closer and closer to the edge.

He feels the tension simmering from your shuddering figure, like a coil just waiting to spring.

“Are you close, mesh’la?” he whispered, his words and the rasp of his voice sending you higher and higher.  “Are you going to come for me?”

And you’re a wreck, whimpering and pleading, yes, Din, yes; and all Din can think is he can die happy knowing how you moan his name.  He shifts you, pulls you right onto the straining bulge in his pants and you both gasp, the sensation pulling you even closer to your orgasm.  A bare hand snakes between where the two of you are pressed against each other and he presses right onto your clit.  

A sob tears from your throat and stars burst behind your eyes as you’re pushed off the edge; and you’re falling, waves of ecstasy washing over you and burning straight to your toes. Din holds you close as your body continues to shudder, a steady hand on your back coaxing you down from your high. He lets out a groan when he feels evidence of your orgasm seep through to his clothed cock.    

Fog clouds the bottom of his helmet as you softly pant, the pleasure lulling to a dull thrum in your veins. He’s admiring your sleepy eyes, the flushed cheeks of your afterglow.  You give off a shy smile, peering into his visor.  “Beautiful,” he murmurs right next to your ear.  “Just like I said.” 

“Thank you,” you hum, pressing a searing kiss onto his bare neck and sliding a hand over the hardness trapped beneath you.  

Din hisses at your touch and you laugh, trying to ease the ache between his own legs.  “Mesh’la,” he warns, grunting at the loss of contact as you lift yourself off him and slide between his knees, kneeling.  

“Yes?” you respond, sliding your hands up and down his thighs, and pausing at the button of his pants.

“You don’t have to—” he starts, but you quickly cut him off.

“But I want to, Din,” you assured.  You rest your head on his knee, peering up at him with wide, innocent eyes, awaiting his permission.  “Wanna return the favor, wanna taste you,” and you grin at the strangled sound that leaves his throat.  He couldn’t deny you even if he wanted to.  

Finally, he nods, spreading his legs wider to accommodate you.  Your smile grows and your nimble fingers make quick work of the buttons on his pants.  You’re just about to free him from the confines of his boxers when an alarm signal sounds from the ship, startling the both of you.  

“Come in, Mando,” Greef Karga’s voice crackled through the small room.  “We’ve got a problem.  I repeat, we’ve got an emergency, please come in.”

Din groans and you throw an exasperated look towards the comms on the control panel.  “Just ignore him, it can’t be that—” and you’re cut off by another sound.

The unmistakable sound of a baby crying.  

“Shit,” you muttered under your breath, pressing your forehead into Din’s knee.  You loved that little green bean to death, but damn him for his horrific timing.  Din softly slid his hand over yours and you looked up.  

“It’s alright, cyar’ika,” he hummed.  “Go check on him,” and you slowly nodded, shooting him an apologetic look before rising from your spot on the floor.

Din watched in mild amusement as you wobbled to the door, before turning his chair towards the control panel and sighing.  His own arousal was almost overwhelming, but he did his best to shove it to the back of his mind.  

Whatever Greef needed, it had better be good, he grumbled in his head.  

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

mando’a translations:

osi’kovid – shithead

skanah – very hated person, fucker

osik – shit

osi’yaim – cowardly, useless person

cyar’ika – darling, beloved

mesh’la – beautiful

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

thank you for reading! let me know what ya think!

[efkgirldetective]

~part V~ { part I & part II & part III & part IV }

thank you thank you to the anon who sent in this prompt! 💗💗💗

book + cerulean + passion

“Don’t have too much fun while we’re off, yeah?”

“Never, Padfoot, we—”

“Head Girl? Can you reassure?”

“Former Head Girl, mind you—”

“Sirius, honest to Merlin, we’re so, so late, and you know how Moody gets, he’ll have our—”

“—bollocks, yeah, had the exact same and shuddering thought, dearest—”

“—amount of calling me dearest can make up for that image, fuck’s sake—Pete? We’re near—”

“I’ve been ready, Remus!” Peter exclaims, springing indignantly from his seat on the sofa. “Been sat right bloody here, reading a book while you lot argue on and on about ‘oh, do you have the coordinates, or do I?’ Honestly, could’ve read through Hogwarts a bloody History frontward and backward, already!”

James grins at the exasperated trio, puffy-coated and scarf-wrapped and leaving not thirty minutes after they ought to have left. Between his wide-leg lean at the kitchen counter, Lily calls out, “Be safe, okay?” Sirius accios his wand all the way from down the hall, quite nearly missing the tawny tuft of Peter’s hair—“And be polite!”

“Polite, Evans, honest?” James tucks into her sweet-smelling hair. “Like Moody wants politeness, not moxie or gall or some imposing four-syllable word that escapes me at the moment.”

Lily pinches the skin of his arm.

“See you for dinner, yeah?” Sirius is calling back. “Right chuffed for steak pies—”

“Black!”

“Oh, for—coming, coming!”

Peter’s aggravated scowl is the last thing they see, the babble of Remus and Sirius floating down the hall, disappearing behind the closed door.

“If we’re going to be parents,” Lily says, running her hands along James’, wrapped round her waist, “We ought to start practicing, no?”

James laughs, sweeping her hair away and leaning down to kiss her neck. He contemplates the skin, a small pair of freckles marking the place where neck and shoulder meet. He thinks of their furtive trip to the fertility clinic earlier in the day; how the charms glimmered cerulean over Lily’s stomach, her hand gripping his tightly as the Healer surveyed her vitals, told them how healthy the baby—their baby—looked, inside, just about ten weeks along and growing so well. James took it all in as if from afar; heart beating out of his body, sense of place, of home, tied so firmly to Lily’s five-fingered hold on him; how her eyes shone with nervous excitement as she looked at him from the examination table—red hair a stark contrast to such a sterilized room. She whispered, “Okay?” and squeezed his hand. He nodded, bent to kiss her forearm, unable to find words for how he felt; an overflowing of love that left him just as tethered as it left him unmoored.

In the kitchen, he tries to make sense of the paradox: how he might be sinking for all his unruly, anxious fears—and at the same time buoyant, near-weightless in pride, in joy. He bends his cheek to the freckles and blinks slowly. “You’re going to be such a good mum.”

She sighs, turns in his arms. Happy and healthy and growing. “If you let go of any absurd dream involving an infant Quidditch player,” she murmurs, hands winding up his chest and neck, “then I know you’ll make a really wonderful dad.”

Though he is unwilling and unable to let go of hope for an infant Quidditch player, he makes no mention—he leans forward and kisses her cleanly, slowly, letting the overflow transmute into tenderness, deliberate and ebbing; Lily responds in kind, threading his hair through her fingers, some soft urgency sounding in the back of her throat. Her body melts closer, thin pink cardigan letting him know just how little she’s wearing beneath—and is unsurprised, given the turmoil surging inside, that need floats so easily to the top; skimmed out of overwhelming affection, of the delicate knowing that their bodies, together, created.

And the idea of when that might have been—when it happened, in any of the jumbled and run-together instances of love, of impatience, of time-taken and stolen and stretched out and yearned for—eats at James, digs at him—merges with the feeling of limbs lethargic on his, her lips moving from chin to jaw to neck and loitering, heatedly, on his throat. “When—” he begins, short on breath, hands moving up her back, under the thin fabric, finding the warm skin of her back—“when do you think it happened?”

Lily hums into his neck, nipping gently. “When what happened?”

He laughs, ruefully, fingers pressing into the curve of her hips. Closes his eyes to her hair. “Er, the conception.”

“The conception?” Lily emerges from his neck, laughing, too, lips pulled apart in mirth. “What, we're religious, now?”

“Well, it’s the technical term, Lils—would you rather I call it procreation?”

Lily groans, “Oh no, that’s far worse—so detached and impersonal,” she steals a long and wandering kiss. “Hardly what I feel when you’re inside of me, moving.”

"Oh, fucking hell—" James kisses her, can’t help it—and again, and again. “Really, though, semantics aside—” he moans, and she kisses him again, still laughing—“I want to know when you think it happened, is all.”

Leaning back from him, and really looking at him clearly, Lily lets her smile fall into something smaller; something like a smirk. “Alright, well,” she exhales, thinking, hands falling from his hair down his shoulders—and slowly, slowly, down his arms, pausing at the sleeves of his shirt. “It had to have been two months ago, or so,” she muses, eyes meandering from their lean to the expanse of kitchen counter behind them, the oven and the hob. “Maybe, it was just there, over the...” her eyes turn back to him, aglimmer.

James swallows deliberately, tilts his chin upward; takes a short moment to compose himself. It hardly works. “Evans,” he articulates, slowly. She laughs, fingers slipping, rounding his biceps; an insufferable squeeze, and stroking.

“I imagine an act of such passion could surely lead to conception,” she stands on tiptoes, finds his ear, nips at the lobe, “don’t you agree?”

For this he has only one long, breathless moan—the memory of a night without housemates, a shared bottle of wine; her breath so soft and wanting as they necked in the kitchen, necking that turned— near instantly—into a clamor of hands under and tugging at clothes, lips on necks, whimpers and gasping and an oh, Merlin, please as he sunk to his knees and fixed his tongue between her legs— which led, inevitably, to a growing plea for more and more now; to her impatient keening as he grappled with her skirt and knickers, his own pants barely pushed aside before he pressed inside, hard and leaking, half-gone and humbled at her neck, her shoulder—her sweet gasping James what took him clear over the edge, right there in the kitchen, adjacent the hob; her hips tight in his hands, legs shaking madly under his.

And in the same kitchen her mouth connects to his softening breath, drinking it down, knowing. “Or,” she continues, “perhaps that time in the en suite, when not five minutes in you—”

“Jesus fuck,” James interrupts, voice high and reedy—a sound that changes, and breaks, as Lily swivels her hips over his—“Hadn’t seen you for three days, you can’t just—it was—”

“I wasn’t complaining, though, was I, love?” she laughs into his mouth. “Especially not when you said such nice things with your tongue, afterward.”

"That made up for it?"

"More than made up for it, darling."

He smiles, quietly, and slips his hands down the warmth of her back, round her thighs, and lifts, jostling her into his arms. Lily tightens her grip on him, presses a kiss to his neck. “Could’ve been any one of the times you’ve fucked me senseless into our bed,” she muses. “Oh, excuse me—our premarital bed.”

“Thank you,” James says, “for acknowledging our unwed sin.”

Their bodies sway forward as he pushes up off the counter and staggers, indiscriminately, toward the bedroom, urged on by her burgeoning moan. “You know, I—” he tries, fixing her weight against a doorframe, finding it near impossible to speak around her suddenly desperate kiss, the sparring of tongues—“I just think—”

“—do tell me what you think—”

“—that talking about this was a shit idea.”

“Shit idea? No, really?”

“Really,” James repeats, short on breath and having stumbled from the door right into their bedroom, replete with purported sin. “Because all this talk of conception has me thinking—”

“All this thinking,” Lily whines into his ear, tongue swirling, dangerous. “You’ll hurt yourself, Potter.”

James lays her down on the bed, laughing; hair scattering and soft, cardigan pulled taut at the buttons, a flush of red spreading down her neck. She bites her lip as he leans back, looks at her.

“Thinking of...?” she prompts, fingers fall down his forearms, stroking.

“Of everything that leads up to conception,” he clarifies, swallowing, dipping his face into the swells of her breasts, nuzzling; lifting her sweater up enough to find her belly. His touch slows, gentle as it traces down the skin, as his mouth bends to kiss, slowly, like she is some delicate thing. He turns his face, lets his cheek rest against the center. Closes his eyes. “Hi, baby.”

Lily clambers onto elbows and reaches a hand through his hair. “Baby says hi back.”

James lifts his head. “Oh, you can hear the baby?”

“Yes,” she says, fingers moving across his brow, down his cheek, feeling the indent of his grin. “We’ve a telepathic connection.”

“And what’re they saying, now?”

“Mmm,” she hums. “Saying it’s alright if mum and dad want a bit of a shag, they’ll close their eyes.”

His laughter precedes his body, coming over her, weight shifting down. Her hands latched to the exposed skin of his neck. A gentle kiss between. Pulling and yearning, like yarn. The center, a knot, growing stronger.

Lily weaves her legs around his waist. Breaks gently from his mouth. “When do you think it happened?”

The question is considered, serious and slow, in the nape of her neck; in the pink plane of her cheek; in a blinking, unbroken stare. James lets the world settle down into the space of the bed and their bodies. Answers, eventually, with a tensed forehead, a hand gentle along her thigh. “If this came to be...because of an intention to love you as much and as long as I can,” he murmurs, “then it could’ve been any one of those times.”

She exhales, and he takes the same air as his breath.

He dips toward her mouth, quietly. “Any time at all.”

Lily makes a small sound, pulls down his lips—and of course he can feel their love growing, still, even in the quiet of the room. If he is to drown and float, all at once, then let it be like this; in warm and gentle waters, fixed to the tide of their hearts.

[wayward-cryptarch]

IOTA DRACONIS

Legendary / Energy / Fusion Rifle

"The paths between stars are fractal mirrors of the neurons in our brains and the vicissitudes of our fates." —Sjari, Awoken Techeun

Daniel insisted they check in on Saint-14 and his rescued Osiris once they returned to the Tower. If the Cryptarch got a little misty-eyed emotional over the relief and adoration the Titan held for his returned husband, Jack wouldn’t ever mention it. He has stood watch and cared for Daniel so many times himself, hoping to be the first thing he’d see upon waking. Jack knew exactly how Saint felt and it left him feeling something rather emotional, too.

So much so that when they parted ways with Saint that evening, Jack took Daniel directly home and made love to him slow and tender by the light of the Traveler shining in through the apartment’s windows. He poured his heart into Daniel through kisses and touch, watched him respond beautifully, like a flower soaking up the sun. And when Daniel fell apart from too much, Jack held him through the storm of their passions and gently tucked him back together in the calm afterwards.

It was a stolen moment of pure joy. A gift for them and their yearning hearts before being forced to regroup. A reprieve before the nightmares began again, tragedies starting anew. After all, who really knew what the hunt for Savathûn would bring.

Without a Ghost of his own, Daniel would always be vulnerable. Every mission they ran, Daniel was at risk of permanent death. Seeing a Guardian, especially a Warlock as powerful and willful as Osiris, lose their Ghost: that hit hard. For Jack, though, watching Saint-14, the strongest and bravest of Titans, reduced to worry and panic over his now Light-less beloved? That hit him even harder.

That could’ve been Daniel. Savathûn could have snatched him up, used him just the same as she had Osiris. Jack could see how she played with his Cryptarch’s mind even from her crystal cage, tried twisting him just like she did poor Crow.

There had always been something melancholy and desperate in Daniel since he’d initially come home from the Dreaming City, something that Jack hadn’t seen in him before on their first fateful mission to The Reef. Jack noticed it after giving Daniel simple gestures of affection, even more so after taking Daniel to bed and loving him thoroughly. The Hunter chalked up the sad little quiet moments and private bouts of needy intimacy to grief and loneliness. Daniel thought he was hiding it, but Jack knew him too well.

Or at least he believed he did. Because somehow Savathûn had tapped that pain in Daniel. Even Mara Sov could pull the ache to Daniel’s surface. What did they know that Jack didn’t? What did they know so directly about his lover, while Jack only found himself stumbling over it like an Eliksni web mine, leaving him confused and drawn up short? What was the common denominator hiding in them all?

“You can talk to me, you know,” Jack said to the curve of Daniel’s neck, hopefully sounding confident, as he placed a kiss on his shoulder.

Daniel stretched his long body like a lazy cat before turning and curling on his side and onto Jack. He folded an arm over Jack’s chest so he could rest his chin on it and stare up at him sweetly under heavy eyelids. The electric blue of his eyes was brilliant without his glasses to dim them, even more so with satisfaction turning his gaze soft. “I don’t?” he teased.

With a snort, Jack had to concede that one. “Okay, talk to me, not just at me. About anything. I mean it.”

His laugh was full of fond amusement. “Are you looking for a bedtime story, Jack? Because I’ve been talking to Eido down in the Eliksni Quarter, she’s been telling me all about how she’s recorded the House of Light’s history. Ah, there’s the glazed over expression I’m so familiar with.”

“Daniel,” Jack said, eyes narrowing in a flat look of irritation.

Daniel smiled, all coy innocence and boyish dimples, backlit by the play of Light softly rippling under his Awoken skin. “Jack?”

In privacy together was one of the few places Jack could ever witness Daniel so carefree and unguarded. Forever at odds among his peers in the Cryptomancy, and with the past abuses heaped upon him by the people he once considered loved ones and the losses of so many dear to him, Daniel tended to have a subtle edge about him that he very rarely dropped. Somehow Jack had found favor with Daniel, was given his trust—his heart—like a precious gift, and Jack loathed to break it.

And yet, here he was, trying to prod at invisible wounds, looking to hurt Daniel in his own happy place. For what purpose? To be nosey? To assuage some kind of jealousy that others knew his Cryptarch better? In all honesty, those could be true, but Jack just wanted to soothe whatever it was that made Daniel ache so much he didn’t feel he could show it.

“What’s eating at you, Daniel?”

He blinked rapidly, eyelashes fluttering, before his eyes looked down, darted away. He took a deep breath, licked his lips. Jack could feel his body tensing up, fight or flight kicking in. He put an arm around Daniel to keep him close, rubbed circles on his back to try showing he didn’t mean any of this in harm.

“I’m fine. I, uh,” Daniel swallowed and gathered a brave face, looking Jack in the eyes, “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Is it Riven?”

The perfect lavender flush from their lovemaking has long since vanished, but now the pale blue of his face faded to a deathly gray, the ribbons of Light under his skin pitching into Darkness. The guilt and sorrow crashed over Daniel’s face in slow motion, Jack’s educated guess taking him more by surprise than he was able to protect himself against.

“Did you make a bargain, Daniel?”

He tried to push away, but Jack wouldn’t let him. So Daniel tried harder and they scuffled, losing the blankets and pillows to the floor. But Jack prevailed, hugging Daniel to him, one arm across his waist and the other around his back, his hand gently pressing against the back of Daniel’s neck. Daniel settled with his arms wrapped defensively around himself, his forehead resting on Jack’s sternum as he just tried to breathe.

“They say Wish Dragon bargains really were cursed. Monkey paw wishes.” Jack’s fingers brushed at the short hairs at Daniel’s nape, offering a little comfort. “I know you knew this, going in. But you can’t help the wishes in your heart.”

Daniel was very still in his arms.

“You don’t know that your life is forever tied to the damn thing once you’ve made a bargain, though,” Jack said quietly. “How else would the curse stay with you long after they’re gone. When the raid team went in, we all had a wish in our hearts. Revenge for Cayde. We killed Uldren and it wasn’t enough. Riven started him on that path, we wanted her dead for it. So, she wished a curse on the Dreaming City with her last breath, a trade for us putting her down.”

He felt Daniel shudder. “You don’t understand,” he gritted bitterly.

“You think I don’t? I was greedy, Daniel,” Jack said, his voice taking on a harsh whisper in his confession. “I made a second bargain before I even pulled my gun. All I could think about was you in the chamber above, alone with Taken waiting in the wings. ‘Let me bring Daniel home alive.’”

Breath turning ragged and heavy, Daniel seemed to be biting back words, shaking his head where his forehead rested against Jack’s chest.

“I got my wish. I got you out of there and back to the Tower. Safe. Alive. And every mission after, no matter how near to death you may reach, no matter how many times you come close to it, I still bring you home alive.”

“This isn’t real,” Daniel choked on a quiet sob. “This is still Riven. This. This is Savathûn.”

Jack was floored by the accusations, enough so that when Daniel pushed away this time, Jack didn’t even think to stop him. He just watched stupidly as the Cryptarch clambered off the bed and as far away from him as possible. He grabbed for the first article of clothing he could find, Jack’s thermal pants, and quickly pulled them on. Jack would normally find that hot, Daniel half dressed in Jack’s own clothes, but at the moment he felt impossibly cold.

“Daniel?” Jack sounded raw as he called to his lover.

“Oh god, Jack, I want to hear you sound hurt. I want, I want so much for you to sound like you care for me. But it’s not real,” Daniel insisted.

Jack sat up and held out his hands. “Daniel, please, come back to bed.”

Daniel’s arms came up around himself in his defensive self-hug, his shoulders tight and high around his ears. “I can’t. I want to, but, Jack, I can’t.”

“What do you mean, you can’t?” Jack stood up, confused and just wanting to hold and calm Daniel.

The Cryptarch backed himself further across the room, glowing blue eyes darting between Jack and the apartment door once he figured out he was on the wrong side of the bed to escape. The horrific realization that Daniel was trying to protect himself against Jack, was looking for routes of escape from Jack, had him dropping back to sitting on the bed, utterly staggered.

“Ahamkara warp reality to grant wishes. Don’t you see, Jack?” Daniel began to pace along the far wall, his words picking up speed as he warmed to his argument. “This isn’t real. What we have, what you think you might feel for me? Riven did that to you. Against your will. Because I wished for you.”

“Me?” Jack asked, as a cold rock settled in his stomach. The probability that all this, the best thing that had ever happened to him since Charlie, might not be true left him stunned.

“For all that I had—Sha’re and Skaara, access to the Dreaming City, my mother’s past—I missed you, Jack,” Daniel said, pressing his back to the wall and sliding down to the floor. “When the Taken came, I needed you. All I could think was, if you knew, if you just knew I was in danger, then maybe you’d. Maybe you w-would save us. You’re the only person I’ve ever known to truly, unconditionally have my back. You were my friend.”

Daniel hung his head, shamefaced and defeated. Jack could just see the glint of tears slipping down his chin by the light of the Traveler’s glow. “It could have been any Guardian, but in my heart. I wanted you. And then you were there.”

Shaking his head, Daniel’s breath hitched. He continued on in a helpless whisper. “I should’ve wished for freedom, for the safety of those in the Dreaming City. I should’ve wished for Sha’re and Skaara or the Techeuns to be released from the Taken. But Riven shoved her claws into my heart and pulled you free and I couldn’t. I couldn’t.” The guilt hung heavy on Daniel’s shoulders, weighing him down and curling him in on himself.

For three long years, he bore the burden of a wish coerced from him in desperation. Every kiss they shared, every time they made love, Daniel believed it to be a lie. The curse of Riven’s wish come true. The sorrow Jack had seen in him all this time was that Daniel knew it was all a sham, but felt so much for Jack that he couldn’t give it up. He thought he was selfishly taking advantage of Jack all this time.

But wait. They’d wished for each other, hadn’t they? Daniel needed Jack to come for him and Jack, he just wanted to bring Daniel safely home. Didn’t that cancel the curses out or something? And what about what Jack felt? He was grudgingly attracted to the geeky Cryptarch before they even left for The Reef, and his admiration only grew worse as he watched Daniel in action as they fought and negotiated their way to the Venetian Outpost. They were friends then, but Jack was pretty sure now that he was already on his way to falling for Daniel. Why else would he make a bargain with a damn Wish Dragon to bring the infuriatingly brilliant pain in his ass home with him?

“You know, I’m not a Warlock,” Jack said slowly, glad that some semblance of confidence had returned to his voice. “I don’t get the whole reality warp thing. I just care that I get to live in the reality where I can love you.”

Daniel went very still, to the point Jack wasn’t even sure he was breathing.

“It’s always felt real to me, Danny,” Jack went on, his voice low and sweet, just the way he liked to murmur the secrets of his heart against Daniel’s skin. “Every moment felt like a truth. I thought my heart grew on its own for you all this time. So what if it was nudged? Or led? I still feel it. And it feels right.”

“Jack?” There was a desperation in the way Daniel said his name. It was as if he was hanging from a fragile edge—urgent—but raising his voice above a hoarse whisper would shatter everything.

Jack answered back calmly and sure, “Daniel.”

The dam broke and Daniel’s grief poured out. Jack, still naked, crossed the room to his sobbing lover and gathered him into his arms. They sat tangled together on the floor as the Traveler shined on through the window over their heads.

It made sense now to Jack why Daniel somehow always managed to interrupt him from ever saying I love you. Why would he want to hear it, if it wasn’t true? So Jack whispered it over and over, in Daniel’s hair, against his cheek, into his ear. I love you. I love you. I love you.

When Daniel could breathe again without the hiccup of tears, Jack pulled them both up to their feet. But Daniel pushed him away.

“I have to. I have to go,” he told the Hunter. Jack hoped he had washed the guilts and aches away from Daniel’s heart, but even now he still wore them. He just wasn’t hiding it from Jack anymore. Jack tried reaching for him, but Daniel fended him off and backed away quickly. He grabbed a shirt from the back of a chair, his own that he tossed there as Jack hustled him to bed a few hours ago, and yanked it on. “Please. I just. I need to think. Clear my head.”

“Daniel.” He wasn’t above begging, not for his Cryptarch, and his name was a plea on Jack’s lips.

“Jack.” Daniel looked torn, as if fighting himself over wanting to flee as fast as his long legs could carry him, or to curl into Jack again and never leave his warmth. Shutting his eyes and squeezing them tightly, Daniel nodded to himself and determinedly made his decision. “Just. Just stay. I need you here. When I come back.”

A rush of nervous energy, Daniel only stopped long enough to shove his feet into a pair of boots—Jack’s—and fumble with the locks of his door. Then he was gone.

Jack sat naked on the rumpled bed in Daniel’s apartment, the Traveler a witness through the windows. Marge was quietly tucked away, but no doubt she heard it all and was only keeping her peace for the time being. Probably just waiting for Daniel to come back to give him a passive-aggressive piece of her little Ghost mind.

He sighed and picked up the pillows, straightened the blankets from their tussle. Not even a half hour ago, they’d been enjoying a sweet afterglow. But Jack had to open his mouth. He didn’t regret it, though; he finally said the words he’d long to tell his distractingly talented Cryptarch. I love you.

At some point, he must have fallen asleep as he waited, hoped, and worried over Daniel’s return. He turned over and reached out for a warm body, but was only met with cold, empty sheets. Disappointment sunk his heart.

He opened his eyes as shadows played with the mid-morning light glowing in his face. Wreathed in a perfectly cloudless blue sky, haloed in golden sunshine, Daniel stirred from his perch on the windowsill. He must’ve been watching the Tower coming to life below, listening to the calls of merchants in the Bazaar and chatter of the remaining New Monarchy’s members discussing Tower politics. He probably heard Jack rustling the sheets and turned to him, putting a mug that no doubt held coffee down on his seat as he stood.

He looked tired. Ragged. Wistful. Endlessly beautiful.

The grip this man held on Jack’s heart still felt exquisitely, crushingly real.

He pulled back the blankets and wordlessly opened his arms. With no hesitation, Daniel climbed into the bed with Jack, wrapping himself in his embrace. He cupped Jack’s face with a tender hand and drew him into a slow, sweet kiss.

"I love you," Daniel murmured against Jack's lips, desperate and unapologetic. And it was the honest truth.

[lightsinthedistancee]

Stolen Time : Din Djarin x Reader

Pairing: Din Djarin x Reader

Words: 1.1k

Summary: “A hiss sounds, and then a clank of beskar hitting the ground. Your jaw nearly drops in shock. For so long, you had wanted this. For so long, you had dreamed for this. But now, you lack confidence in your movements.”

“Go ahead, mesh’la.”

Feeling Mando’s face for the first time.

A/N: So I actually wrote this a few months ago but never really got around to posting on Tumblr. I’m not sure how much of a fan of it I am now, but I’ve decided to just go ahead and post (obviously). I’ve def seen this concept around a few times before, but I love it so much still for how intimate, personal, and sweet it is, so this is my take on it. Hope you enjoy!

Tanned hands. Shiny beskar. Soft leather.

That is all you know of the Mandalorian.

Even when he has you bent over, thrusting into you roughly, he reveals no part of him. Most of the armor stays on. He conceals every part of himself from you: his mannerisms, his movements, even when he’s inside you—when he’s taking you in the most intimate way possible.

A reminder of a convoluted, volatile past that had become something more.

It started off purely on the intentions of business. He’d asked for your help on a bounty, you’d accepted. It was grueling in the beginning. He wasn’t much of a talker, and neither were you, but something about his stoicism gave you an overwhelming urge to garner any reaction out of him. After spending a few days with him, you’d begun to talk and talk and talk, just to see an annoyed squirm or gesture out of his emotionless form.

Nevertheless, he’d opened up after some time, and…well…you’d sort of simply stuck around. And that had evolved into whatever this was.

Your attitude towards him astonished yourself. For your entire life, you’d never been one to take strangers home for the night or have flings.

Yet here you were: committed to a man who you’d never seen the face of. Who you’d never kissed, never ran your hands through the hair of.

He’d told you his name in one of his few moments of vulnerability. It had been whispered in the dead of night, in the middle of the desert, after a stark reminder of his time on Mandalore had rendered him silent, haunted, and hurt. You’d coaxed a lot out of him that night: his fears, his hopes. You’d finally put a personality to the man that you lived and worked with each day.

And that was also the first night his hands had roamed your body, stripping you of your clothes, showing affection as best as he possibly could. The helmet had come off in the darkness with a soft hiss. But he never even let you turn your head despite the absence of light, never let you run your fingers remotely close to his face.

There was no denying that you were curious about what he looked like, but it was not possible with his creed for you to ever know. It threw up impenetrable walls between the two of you. You’d suggested an alternative exactly once, had asked him to let you feel his features, map out his appearance by touch.

There’d been a long silence after you’d asked, followed by a stark refusal. He’d spent the rest of the day in a foul mood.

Sometimes you believed that he wanted the same.

Like when you’d catch him staring at you, zoned out, a moment of rare daydreaming for him. You’d say his name, ask him why he was staring. His answer was always the same: that he wasn’t staring at you, and that you couldn’t possibly know what his eyes were focused on with the helmet. And you responded the same way. A surrender and a roll of your eyes that he pretended not to see.

But no matter how self-absorbed or self-assuring it may have sounded, you knew that he was always staring at you. It was always you. You could feel it. The sensation of his eyes. The raw intensity of his gaze.

And that is what you think upon as you sit in the cockpit of the Razor Crest, staring at the stars and the desert sands outside. A singular light shines dim in the small room, illuminating the files of a bounty in front of you.

The door opens behind you, but you don’t even spare a glance until the cockpit goes pitch black.

“Din, you know I’m in here, right?”

You know he is aware when he sits beside you in the other seat.

“What are you doing—“

“Shh.” He shushes you. His hand comes out, taking hold of yours, the soft leather familiar on your skin. “I was thinking about how you asked to feel my face….” His voice comes out uncertain, wavering.

You freeze. Din was nothing but certain. He was confident, assured in everything he did. And to hear his voice tremble makes your hands shake.

“B-but you said no,” you stutter out, eyelids fluttering in rapid succession despite the darkness. “You were angry the rest of the day, and—“

“I wasn’t angry at you.” His voice seems softer, even with the modulator of his helmet. Your hands grip the handle of the seat, apprehensive of what you believe is to come. “I was angry at myself. I wanted to let you feel, but I didn’t.”

A hiss sounds, and then a clank of beskar hitting the ground. Your jaw nearly drops in shock. He takes your hand once more, dragging it up towards his face. You hesitate, unsure of how to process the moment. For so long, you had wanted this. For so long, you had dreamed for this. But now, you lack confidence in your movements.

“Go ahead, mesh’la.”

You nearly chuckle. To think that he would be the one encouraging you in a moment like this would’ve been unfathomable just hours before.

And you move your hand forward. Skin…hair…breath.

His hair is soft, pleasant to run your hands through. Not extremely short, but not long either. You follow the strands. Facial hair. Some stubble along his chin. A mustache.

Along the bridge of his nose. The bone beneath your fingers. His eyelids flutter as you run past them, feeling his cheeks and ears and forehead. Whatever you can get your fingers on.

His lips are soft, and you lean in with a certain yearning. He closes it with confidence, and you cannot fathom it. You’re kissing him. You’re feeling his skin beneath yours. You’re feeling his breath on you.

And then both your hands are on each other, desperately stripping away at clothes. He lets you feel his body too. Something you’d done briefly exactly one. So briefly to the point that you remember nearly none of it. His body is firm. Muscle lines and hard ridges. Yet not hostile. His form is inviting, begging to be touched, to be caressed in a way he’d felt so few times before in his life.

He’s responsive to you, leaning into you, pulling you flush against him. You now know that he’d been restraining himself all those times before. And you match his conviction with an equal vigor. Your hands are in his hair, gently tugging at the strands that had been forbidden to you for so long.

He pulls away, catching his breath, resting his forehead against yours.

“Ni kar’tayl gar darasuum, cyar’ika,” he murmurs. “I love you.”

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Taglist (for everything): @dark-academics-and-florals @theultimateslashgirl

If you wish to be tagged on my other Din works or any of my works for other characters, just let me know!

Thanks for reading!

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Originally posted on AO3 on 12/30/20.

[obeymeluv]

Red String of Fate

Something a little different! Drabble lead + headcanons! I really like the idea of being connected to someone, so have this~

Also: very long, so I only did a few of the brothers. I tend to do them in order but I tried to jump around for variety’s sake since I published a partial post the other day.

Features: Lucifer, Mammon, and Asmo (short-ish, but for a reason. Makes sense when you read the lead-up),

I have to get to bed. Need to get up early for studying + a morning class. Really love this idea so I’ll be working on something unique for the rest of the bros :)

Casual conversations about soulmates and bad dates inspires Asmo to find your one true love. He swears up and down there’s a book that can do it. Being a lover of love and feeling like it’s his duty to see you off into the best of hands—the hands made to hold you!—he sets out to find the book. Legend says Cupid pricked his finger while writing out love lists with his enchanted quill and threw the dirty pages away, deeming them unusable. Instead of being discarded, they were salvaged by another and turned into a book that would answer any love-related question the reader had.

All it would cost is a drop of blood.

Cupid, who was very serious about his task of uniting hearts and forging bonds, felt insulted by the book. He felt cheapened and could not see the joy it would bring before his arrow was destined to arrive. In a fit of rage he threw it from the heavens, assuming it would disintegrate before landing in another’s hands.

He was wrong.

The book circulated for centuries, making its way through humble and haughty, poor and princely. Some say it even inspired the most romantic of playwrights. It was kept by a family of matchmakers for generations before their home was pillaged and burned by a spurned heart. Traded out of guilt or in a desperate moment for silver or food (Asmo didn’t remember which), it ended up in the hands of a scholar. He sat with his crush and read the book, the two asking it hundreds of questions and finding themselves quite content with each other.

After the two got married, they were convinced it was a lucky charm of sorts and passed it along to their friends. Once those friends found their true loves, it started a chain of giving. When one family had all of their children married off, they would pass the book on to someone else. The book spent a fair amount of time collecting dust when one person lost their soulmate too soon and didn’t open it for about five years, convinced it would stay blank. A new love came into their life and they were so moved by the magic, by the joy, that they donated the book to a thrift shop.

Asmodeus lost the history after the thrift shop. Too many people went in and out of it, too much time had passed. All he knew is that it ended up in the hands of a witch who made serious money off of love potions and romantic divinations. One of her grandchildren—a quarter succubus and three-quarters human—had donated it to RAD’s library.

He should’ve just texted his friends about the damn thing instead of researching it like Levi does his events. Should he be proud of all the effort? You could be, but he was kind of put off by all the work. It was shabby and beaten, hardly bigger than a typical planner. Definitely unassuming and definitely looked like it’d seen some things. Asmodeus was expecting something gorgeously gilded and velvet.

Hopefully a peek into your future would make up for all the disappointment. “I bet it’s me.” he touched a finger to his soft lips with a giddy smile, little ring glinting in the light. He practically skipped out of the library and back to the House of Lamentation. At the very least, he’d get to go on and on about how he found it and how grateful you should be that he cares for you so much to do so!

Asmodeus whisks you away into his room, the bed already set with pillows that were both aesthetic and luxurious. Nothing too out of the norm for him, but he wanted something that complimented the romantic undertones of this little endeavor. He coddled the two of you in a plush pink blanket before cracking it open and guiding your finger along the edge of the page. The red soaked in, ink blossoming in a faint pink that turned a brilliant scarlet.

The book grew warm, almost burning as the scarlet began to sear and shimmer on the page. You heard him hiss and grabbed the book as he started to squirm and scoot out from under it. You’d barely grabbed the book when pinky-red smoke exploded violently in your face. It didn’t burn or have a taste but it was surprisingly thick.

“What? No names!” Asmodeus had finally swatted away enough of the smoke to see a blank book. “It’s supposed to be names!” he scowled, kittenish fangs threatening to poke at his lower lip.

“Maybe there’s been a revision,” you blinked distractedly, talking more to yourself than him. Nope, still there. You wagged your finger at Asmodeus, showing off the bright red string tied around it.

His oncoming rant receded immediately, eyes shining a gorgeous and unmistakable pink. “Let’s see where it goes!”

To Lucifer:  

He’s in the middle of doing paperwork (shocker) when he finds a vibrant red string tangling in his pen and catching on the lines

Tries to shake it off (very undignified, glad no one saw it)

Puts his pen down to pick at it and untie it. When that doesn’t work, he slips the opposite glove off with his teeth and lets his demon aura come out just enough to turn his fingernails into claws

That didn’t work either

Physically tries to pull the string off and begrudgingly stops when he realizes his finger might come off first

A huffy, annoyed man

Takes an awkward pic with his D.D.D and sends it to Diavolo, wanting to know if it’s a prank

Diavolo swears it’s not and Barbatos suggests it could be the red string theory, that thing some humans believe in.

Could it be true? Does he have a soulmate? Could he, being a fallen angel? Demons had soul mates?

All the questions swirl and he just leans back in his fancy padded chair to absorb it all. There’s something beautifully sad and...comforting...at the thought of demons having a soulmate, someone made just for them

Lucifer doesn’t really think that a soulmate’s at the end of the string, but he tells himself it’s a walk for the sake of his health, to stretch, and sets off to find the string

The eldest is quite surprised to run into you and Asmo, the string clearly tied around your finger.

“A bit overboard, don’t you think, Asmo?” Lucifer’s a little aggravated by it. What is this, a set up?!

His little brother swears against it, holding up a beaten book not even Mammon would waste money on.

Apparently, the string disappears when the soulmates touch their fingers together. Lucifer rolls his eyes and tries to soften his scowl as he presses his finger to yours.

You’re both surprised when the string thickens until it resembles a ribbon, kinking in the shape of a heart before disappearing in a burst of pinky-red smoke that has your fingers tingling

Lucifer says nothing, silently stunned and heart yearning at the tingling in his finger. It’s warm, like your love.

To Mammon:

IS IT ONE OF THE WITCHES?! IS THIS A TRACKER?!

First reaction: “OI! What the hell?!”

Also shakes his finger

Immediate second reaction is to chew on it and try to get it off

Ends up sucking on his tender finger like a baby because he basically chewed on himself instead of the string

Texted all the sorcerers and witches he knew. They all deny hexing him or mentioning him in potion-making.

He’s surprised to find he can still move around with the string. It’s not straining or limiting him, so he goes in his closet of magical seals, peeling a few back to reveal a sizeable hoard of stuff he’d stolen over the centuries (including some stuff he had on him from the Fall).

He tries daggers of all sizes and types. They don’t cut the string, either

When nothing seems to work, he marches towards the source, wrapping it around his fist with a grumble.

He pulls on it at random just because it’s a minor inconvenience and he couldn’t get it off.

Mammon notice that it runs under Asmo’s door and he yanks on it really hard, hoping he’s tearing thread off of a sweater or something. Annoying ass little brother!

When you yelp he freezes. Brain hasn’t quite kicked in yet and he yanks it again to check the reaction. Another yelp, and a thick thud behind the door.

Sounds like you’re involved somehow. Oops.

Turns out you had a hard time coming out of the room because he wound the string too quick (and weren’t strong enough to tug it back to yourself)

Asmo’s in the middle of lecturing him as he squishes your poor little face, scowling and lamenting that MAMMON is your soulmate. MAMMON, of all people, who’d been smacking you against a door for the last few minutes!

Now Mammon’s interested and needs the story

Gets a biiiig shit-eating grin when he realizes what’s happened.

Takes your hand with his usual fanfare of ‘’Course I would be! I’m their MAIN man! Their BEST man!”

The string seems to tie your hands together for a brief moment before exploding in a burst of smoke and Mammon’s still grinning like an idiot.

He doesn’t let go of your hand

To Asmodeus:

He’s waving that smoke away when he feels a new, subtle weight on his finger

Whatever it is, it’s flitting and ticklish. He can feel it catching on some of the fashion rings he wears

Asmodeus doesn’t know whether he wants to purr or squeal. He did something that hurt your human ears though.

Didn’t realize it hurt your ears until after the noise bottoms out to a lower pitch, and immediately cups his hands over yours ears, sliding them up into your hair while he showers the crown of your head in apology kisses.

Makes a video clip to send to the bros in a group chat and has to redo it several times because they can’t really hear his words over the smug purring and clicking

It warms his heart to know he has a real soulmate. Asmodeus really struggles with the concept of genuine, non-sexual love.

He figured the most he could ever get was platonic love or brotherly love, but this is a whole new thing for him and he’s honestly blown away

For a brief moment he feels like Heaven’s Jewel again, so treasured and special. It almost makes him cry

He’s lowkey crying.

100% takes advantage of the fact that your fingers are tied together until you touch fingertips. You guys giggle quietly and cuddle close as he loops the string around his finger so you put your arm around his neck

“You don’t need a string to make me touch you, you know.” you tease him, wrinkling your nose in that cute human way you have

“I know,” Asmo gives you an Eskimo kiss that turns into a few butterfly kisses on your mouth, leaning over you and into you.

Totally uses the string as an excuse to cuddle you and turn down any activities the bros want you to go to. (”Can’t, they’re kind of tied up.”)

Let this baby bask in his sure thing, okay? He really needs it, and you know he’s good for it

Gives you hand kisses and cuddles into you

Gets the bright idea to try to bottle the smoke that’ll erupt when you touch fingertips. Sacrifices his most beautiful perfume bottle to immortalize this moment

Catches the littlest bit, so thin that he has to hold it up to the light to see it.

Complains about probably swallowing most of it during that attempt

Is now even more shameless about demanding his cuddles and attention because you guys are destined lovers.

[project-ohagi]

Keigo Takami ღ Hawks x Reader {Omegaverse}

Buy me a coffee!! <3

The crisp, spring breeze wafted over the heavenly fragrance of an Omega. Hawks' nose twitched as it invaded, seeming to ghost through every crevice, every material part, until it permeated his very soul. The scent of lavender and pine was overwhelming, weakening his cognitive functions. Some deeply-buried, primal urge commanded him to go forth, to find the source of such a delicious aroma. He couldn't listen to the whispered voice chastising him, nor the pained twitch of his heart when he imagined taking this Omega by force. Their smell alone was a temptation too sweet to resist; he needed to mark them, to mate them. He didn't stop to consider their appearance - if this was truly his Omega, as the scent appeared to claim, then perfection would breathe into them at every given moment. They couldn't be any less than ethereal.

He abdicated a half-baked conversation with a member of the Paranormal Liberation Front, and took to the skies, searching...hunting. The Alpha inside him begged to hold this Omega, to cradle them, to perform...unspeakable acts on them. He couldn't fight it. His head pounded, following the rhythm of his heart, but he continued to scour the city. The scent should have led him straight to the awaiting Omega, but it was muddling his senses far too much. Soon, he wasn't even sure he would be able to fly, without falling.

Why had this tantalising smell enraptured him so, if it wasn't even within arm's reach?

It was powerful, inviting...but not the type produced by a heat. This Omega wasn't desperate, they weren't in need of sexual satisfaction...then, why did they smell so incredible?

Are they my fated mate? They have to be! I'll find them...I'll make them mine.

That same thought played in his mind a million times over. He couldn't control his instincts. He wanted this Omega - his Alpha craved them. The introduction would have to be short, choppy, or better yet...bypass the entire thing, and dive straight into baby-making. He was still attempting to maintain a semblance of rational thought, but he knew that wouldn't last. Once he found his little lost lamb, the hawk would pounce. There wouldn't be any sugar-coating, for time would cease to exist; he and his cute Omega would lose themselves in ecstasy...they would breed. He wanted three, maybe four chicks. His Omega would be unable to refuse. Of course they would. The whole courting thing was doomed to fly out of the window. Who needed such trivial, tedious romancing, when he could just as easily breed and marry? They would bond, whether this Omega cared to or not. After all, in the current society, Alphas ruled. Hawks didn't anywise liked this mantra, but now more than ever, it was bleeding into his reality.

He couldn't stop it.

Not that he actually would. This was intoxicating, sovereign over all other scents...it was an Omega - his Omega, and he would be damned if he didn't claim them. Right now.

The smoke-like trail, visible only by the carnal desire glossing over his eyes, seemed to be growing stronger, more intense. The aroma struck his heart now, with a new ferocity. He swiped his tongue across his bottom lip - he was closing in on his Omega. Maybe he would snatch them up off the ground and fly over some houses, while fucking them into oblivion? After all, the Red-Tailed Hawk (with whom he felt the most kinship) mates airborne. It didn't cross his mind that they might be embarrassed by such a public display. They weren't even in heat...he had established this, but still, he was desperate to breed. He neglected to consider you - the Omega he truly wanted, the one he yearned for, every waking moment.

...You!

Glancing down with passion swimming in his eyes, he saw you. How had he failed to recognise you, a flirty and vivacious resident of Deika City, solely by scent? He knew it anywhere! Was this his mind's way of teasing him? You weren't the typical, meek Omega, by any stretch of the imagination. If honesty spread its wings around him, then he would reluctantly admit that he was drowning in love for you. He worshipped the very ground beneath your feet, he would probably grovel and beg if only you implored him. It was spellbinding, how he was wrapped around your finger. Though, perhaps the most bizarre part was your complete ignorance. It would take an actual conversation to realise the extent of his affections.

No, he hadn't spoken to you once. He simply...observed. It was, quite obviously, to ensure your safety, especially with the League now occupying the city. You couldn't be stolen from him. He wouldn't allow it. He was your destined partner - you would be foolish not to reach that conclusion alone.

You couldn't be so blind to fate.

Despite his lust haze, he remained at a distance. This was his big opportunity...but anxiety was alighting in his system. He needed a minute to cool down. This was you, for gods' sake, not just some random, ambrosial Omega. If he introduced himself now, so aroused and craving the soft flesh of your neck, you'd probably slap him. You were feisty, and he loved it. His feet touched the ground, but something inside him bade him to hide. The gentle smile gracing your features as a child approached you, tugged on his heartstrings. It was a sight to behold, and he felt blessed. So, incredibly blessed. The child, such a timid, little thing, held two withering flowers in his palm - a daisy and a crocus. He spoke, but Hawks wasn't listening. He was watching. You placed warm hands atop the flowers, instructing the boy to close his eyes and count.

The colours, the life...they returned to the flowers.

You earned a hug, and Hawks almost lost himself entirely. You were masterful with children. When you conceived for him, you would be the most devoted mother. The way you cherished such fragile creatures as if they were your own...he wanted to breed you immediately. You weren't doing anything to deflate his libido. If he attacked you now, the fault would lie with you. He would make you understand this. You wouldn't ever tempt him, seduce him, so naughtily again.

The child dashed off, leaving you on your lonesome.

Perfect.

A sudden gust of wind lifted your hair, and you giggled. This strange Alpha wasn't aware that his pheromones were being carried on the air, was he? You remembered him fondly - his out-of-control urges never managed to conquer him. You respected that. It was refreshing. It was...funny, having the Number Two Hero chasing after you. In your peripheral, you watched him stalk closer. He smelled wildly needy, like he was holding in his arousal to the breaking point. That...wasn't healthy. It was adorable, yes, since most Alphas would pounce on sight. The scent crept into your heart. This abstinence...it was really hurting him, huh?

At least you weren't alone. Your Omega, your entire being...it ached for him. Your pace slowed as he called out, trying to veil his whiny voice with that almost-permanent, playful façade. It didn't appeal to you quite as much as his raw emotions would, but it was still him, and it was sexy.

"Hey, what's such a pretty bird doing out here, all alone? An Omega, at that? It could be dangerous, y'know?" His concern was genuine, but that tone...

Batting your eyelashes at him, you replied, "But I'm not alone? I have a big, strong Alpha with me."

He nearly choked; it took all his willpower not to fuck you right then and there. "Oh yeah? Anyone I should be worried about?"

"Hmm...nope!" You giggled, absentmindedly walking backwards.

She's up against a wall...with no way out. Is she inviting me? Can I really take her? Right here?

He shuffled ever-closer, determination rising within - soon, not even the air would present an obstacle. He would close the gap, even if it was his dying act. This setting was so intimate. Maybe...just maybe...Lady Luck would side with him today. His hand slapped the wall beside your head.

As he leaned into your body, you stroked his hair, whispering, "Don't you know it's rude to wear headphones when talking to someone?"

His hungry eyes darted to your lips. "I don't, so why don't you teach me?"

"Make me."

Oh, he most certainly planned to.

[Word Count: 1407]

[pendragyn]

Ask Not For Whom The Bell Tolls (It Tolls For They)

an excerpt of my fic set during/after the church scene...

[...]

“Little demonic miracle of my own. Lift home?” Crowley had to make themself walk away after the jolt they’d felt from their hands brushing. They didn’t let themself look back, stalking away and wondering if Aziraphale would accept the offer. Almost hoped the angel wouldn’t, knowing they themself didn’t have the willpower to stay away, not when the angel looked at them the way they had as they’d accepted the books. As though it was a real courting gift, as though something lasting could come of it. As though Aziraphale had ever felt as Crowley had and still did.

Aziraphale looked down at the bag and up at Crowley’s retreating back, and inwardly at their own jumble of feelings and those that had come through with their first physical contact in centuries. Love. Their heart soared with terror and hope. They love me. They love me! As much as I love them! The euphoria was gone in an instant. In love, with a demon. A demon strong enough to walk on consecrated ground. How can this be anything but a trap? Aziraphale’s eyes drifted back down to the books, at war with themself, but called out, “Wait!”

Crowley stopped at the verge of the church’s property, at war with themself, but turned to face Aziraphale as they scrambled cautiously over the wreckage. “Their car should be around here somewhere.”

“Oh, I, I suppose so,” Aziraphale agreed, putting their hat back on and falling into step with Crowley. “It’s not that far to walk. Did it on the way here.”

“Might be another pass tonight. Might be they had friends. Rather be able to get out fast,” said Crowley, relieved to spot an undamaged car down the road a ways. Crowley snarled silently at the lingering scent of demon in the vehicle, but it was too faint to identify. “To the bookstore? I mean, if you’re still in the same building,” they covered when Aziraphale gave them a startled look.

“I am,” Aziraphale admitted, sitting stiffly in the passenger seat, clinging desperately to the books as Crowley started the engine and zoomed away. They wondered, at how much Crowley might have forgotten in the years they had been apart. Did they remember anything of their friendship before the fall, or just their infrequent times together after? It was probably too much to hope they’d bothered to remember much, after removing themself so completely from Aziraphale’s life, but, but, for Aziraphale to be able to sense their love, after so long apart… It had to be more than just nostalgia, more than just a fondness for an old friend, didn’t it?

It was a blessedly short trip and when Crowley stopped at the darkened book store, Aziraphale found themself saying, “Would you like a drink? I owe you at least that.”

Crowley stared at them for a long moment, still fighting themself over doing what was best and doing what they so desperately wanted, and finally gave a mute nod of agreement, following Aziraphale inside. It was dusty, in a way that surprised Crowley, with the books stacked haphazardly and covered in cobwebs, and a faint smell of mildew and rot that was too real to be an illusion. “Let it go a bit,” Crowley blurted, following Aziraphale into the back where their little apartment was set up. It wasn’t much, a little kitchenette, a table with a few chairs piled high with books, a dusty wardrobe in a corner and a couch that had seen better days. It had all seen better days and when Aziraphale cautiously lit a little oil lamp by the stove Crowley realized that even the angel was looking the worse for wear around the edges.

“Oh, yes, some,” said Aziraphale, carefully pulling the books from the bag and returning them to their spots on the only shelf that had been dusted with any regularity. “Didn’t seem much point in opening since the war started.” They frowned to see Crowley still standing and hastily shuffled books off the table and chairs.

“No, I suppose not,” Crowley murmured, taking a seat. It was bittersweet being back there, the first time since Paris, remembering Aziraphale’s excitement as they talked about how they were going to organize the shop and what they were going to do to keep customers to a minimum.

Aziraphale also sat but bounced back up, twisting their ring nervously as they chattered and went to dig out something to drink. “I, er, I made a deal with a farmer, for them to keep my more valuable things on their farm so I’m afraid the best I can offer you is cider—”

“It’s fine, angel,” Crowley soothed, reaching out but quickly withdrawing before Aziraphale could notice the gesture. “You don’t have to give me anything in return. For old time’s sake.”

“I’ll never drink it alone,” Aziraphale told the cabinet truthfully, afraid to turn around and see pity on Crowley’s face. Drinking alone made them remember, made them think of all the things they’d lost. Who they’d lost. “Be a favor to me, really, if you help me get rid of it.”

Crowley knew they should go, but Aziraphale had been their friend, had been their only friend, their best friend, for years on end, and they couldn’t leave, not without a little more stolen time in their company. Not hearing that desperately lonely note in their voice that they could feel like a stab to the heart and knew they’d hear in their own voice if they let it. Maybe there’d be a chance to make them laugh at some silly joke, a chance to once more see the laugh lines crinkle around their eyes as they pretended to scold for some thing or another. “Well, be a shame to let it go to waste.”

∞

What was at first hesitant and stilted conversation eventually eased as they kept to safe topics, mostly complaining about their bosses, which soon eased even further into shared memories of days long gone. The night wore on and as the supply of very strong, specially made and definitely not blessed, more like the opposite of blessed cider diminished, so did their inhibitions and higher thought processes.

The demon was on a rambling monologue about spies and double agents that Aziraphale had zoned out of an hour earlier, and they were instead just watching Crowley as they got up to pour themself another drink; taking in every movement and gesture, the curve of their cheek, the gleam of lamplight on their fiery hair. When they turned and looked over the top of their glasses to give Aziraphale an inviting grin, the angel lost their breath at the emotions that seized around their heart like a fist. I love them. I love them so much.

Aziraphale couldn’t hear anything but their heart pounding in their ears as they sank back onto the couch and unfurled their wings and their auras just so, a plea and an offering, holding out their hands, their throat too full of emotion to say anything but, “Crowley.”

Crowley’s empty glass slipped from their fingers and bounced away, and their glasses soon followed as they were drawn across the space by the absolutely radiant love pouring from Aziraphale’s eyes. “Aziraphale,” they breathed, unfurling their own wings, gasping as their outer auras met and meshed, and then their lips were on Aziraphale’s and their hands were sinking into blond curls and shimmering feathers, holding on for dear life as Aziraphale kissed them back. “Aziraphale!” It was an oath and a prayer as their inner auras brushed, and mingled and meshed and they moaned against each other’s lips. “Yes!”

“Yes!” A mindlessly jubilant euphoria blazed within Aziraphale like a wildfire at the contact, searing away all caution. They didn’t even consider the superficial, and therefore safe, unions afforded by physical or auraic touch, instead surrendering to the soul-deep yearning that had simmered unacknowledged for millennia, murmuring, “For you, Crowley, anything for you—”

Crowley was seized by a senselessly fierce exultant joy that jolted through them like lightning when the angel said those words, and they threw caution to the wind when the radiance of Aziraphale’s firmament brushed their outer aura, bringing them only a thought away from reciprocating when a bell, a church-bell, deep and sonorous and painfully loud rang out and continued to ring with a sense of desperation.

Crowley wretched themself out of Aziraphale’s embrace, pressing their hands over their ears, gasping for breath, horrified at what they’d almost done. They’d been a heartbeat away from turning their best friend into a demon, from dragging Aziraphale down to hell by selfishly taking advantage of their generous and caring nature. Had been moments from destroying the one thing in the entire universe they cared about more than life itself. Saved them from a betrayal only to be the one to almost cause their fall instead. What kind of monster does that? Unforgivable.

“Crowley?” What had just a moment earlier been euphoria crashed and burned beneath the disgust in Crowley’s eyes and the reality of what they had almost done. Crowley had put themself in harm’s way to help a friend, and their so-called friend had almost doomed them in return with their pathetic neediness. What kind of pathetic fool mistakes physical desire for a courting overture? If Crowley hadn’t recoiled, the mingling of their firmaments would have marked Crowley as a traitor to hell and they would have been destroyed for it, and it would have been entirely Aziraphale’s fault. “Crowley, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, please—”

“No, no,” Crowley murmured as they backed away and when Aziraphale reached out, they fled. And worse than the still ringing church bell was the sound of Aziraphale’s pleading sobs echoing in Crowley’s mind, begging the unforgivable for forgiveness.

∞

Read the entire tragic fic on AO3

[amani-outrider]

here’s a very short, very small Renathal/Maw Walker thing I wrote today w/ Renathal Yearning dot txt

Their touch is scalding, like a caress of Light from the Ember Ward. It doesn't sear his skin at the contact, but it drives him mad all the same. Mad with want- wanting more that he knows he cannot have. They are not of his world and when inevitably they leave the Shadowlands he cannot follow them like he so desperately wishes nor can he make them stay. He cannot make this more than he yearns for it to be- he shouldn't- and yet…

He envelops their hands in his, marveling at how small they are in comparison and the mighty feats they've managed to achieve despite it- despite everything. The very hands that helped slay his former master. 

He kisses them gently, lingering just a moment longer than necessary on each. If he cannot have them, then he will have this. A stolen moment, so painfully brief in the endless expanse of eternity ahead of him. An eternity without them.

Perhaps this once he can be greedy.

[seancekitsch]

Intended: Chapter 1

Warnings: uhhhhh slight witcher spoilers??? yearning bullshit, kidnapping, implied canon things that happen when an army sacks a city, none of my usual smutty bullshit?

“Do you think we would be like this?” Cahir mumbles, his lips pressed against your shoulder as you watch the smoke from the fire drift into a starless sky. He embraces you around the waist, as close as he can have you. As much as you are the object of all of his affections, he knows that you are something from a dream and nothing he ever thought he could have. As a child, he dreamed of being a great knight, a relic from the stories he’d read, chivalrous and true of heart, winning the favor of a lovely woman and leading his men into noble battles for causes that are just. Earning honor on his name.

“Mmm, what do you mean by that?” you hum, snuggling closer into his embrace on the bedroll, loving how he feels warmer than the fire you'd made, warmer than even the hearth in your chambers in Cintra, the home you'd been rescued from during its burning. You'd been on the run when Cahir in his mighty helmet had found you in your attempt at escape and brought you out of the chaos. He had saved you, and now treated you with the most chivalry as you traveled, on foot because his horse had been lost, to an out skirting kingdom you could start over in. You spent the week learning each other, your fears, your innermost desires, dreams you'd never shared with anyone. Felt more yourself than you ever did in Cintra. While your family fretted that you'd never make a wife, to imagine their faces now as you'd found someone you would easily marry. Your family. If only they were still here.

“Do you think we would be like this,” he says, his lips brushing against you again, “had I not captured you?”

Cahir lifts his head as soon as the words leave his mouth, seemingly recognizing his error immediately.

You rip yourself from his embrace, jumping to your feet as he quickly follows, scrambling to a stand in confusion as you fume. You find a pace, your gait that of any warlord he’s seen, wild and quick. You mutter under your breath, not quite believing what you heard but repeating it to yourself over and over until you whirl around on your heel. You round back to him with anger in your tone as you shout your summation.

“Captured? Pardon me did you say captured? As in, not rescued like you've had me believe for the past week?” Your voice was shrill, and of course you had caught his slip up. Your hands shake as you speak, refusing to look up at his fucking face. The face of a liar. Of course you had. You are sharp as a whip and he had learned this week it was best not to lie to you, unfortunately the entire nature of the events that had brought you together were a lie crafted by Cahir on the fly. Cahir that had guided you out of the piles of bodies, the debris and the destruction. Cahir who told you he was safe, not like the other Nilfgaardians burning your city. Cahir who had given you the contents of his canteen and had stolen a bedroll to sleep on so he would be the only one to sleep on the ground. Cahir that had listened to you as you told him of all of your secrets, things only revealed to a diary that was now probably nothing more than ash. Cahir who taught you how to use the dagger you shared, the man who praised you and was excited at the progress you made in a short week. Cahir that promised you a sword once you mastered the dagger. Cahir that you had stolen a kiss from, and then continued to kiss and kiss and kiss while you traveled further east, hoping to come upon a new home in an allied kingdom. Cahir that had apparently lied to you the whole time. Stolen the kisses you thought you had stolen, reveled in affection that would not have been given to a captor.

“Did you capture me, Cahir? That was my home you stole me from!”

He hesitates, then mumbles. Refusing to meet you in gaze and in words. He bows his head, like a man praying for forgiveness for a grave sin. Like a man at the altar at his most desperate hour. You now realize that sin is yourself, you are stolen and every moment he spent with you was coveting of something he could not possess himself. He took what wasn't his and dared to spit into the wind and the wind blew your intuition back to the forefront to see him for what he truly is.

“Speak, knight! I know you aren't mute you've done a fair share of moving that tongue since I’ve met you.” your eyes burn holes into his skin, and when he looks up into them it's like looking into hell itself, but he would rather blind himself than look away. Before you is not the man you’d tasted in kisses and between baring your soul talking until dawn the entire week you'd been in the woods. Before you is a villain, a wretch who did not give you the dignity of dying in your home, the dignity of fighting to the death with whatever you'd find once you were eventually cornered. Truthfully, to die in battle seemed like a nice way to die, to die with bloodied hands and passion alight beneath your skin.

“I did, I stole you away,” his voice is ragged, panicked, you've never heard it like this, “but you were not who I meant to take.”

“So you meant to kidnap someone? And should that comfort me? Bring me joy that I was not the intended target?” You’re right. That isn't comforting at all. Instead of completing his quest he steals the first woman he sees near the castle who’s not clearly a terrified peasant. What a mess he’s made of his knighthood. He refuses to meet your eyes as he nods, still downcast eyes into the fire beside you.

“I should not have. I just did not want to let you die.”

Cahir pursued the billow of skirts that trailed behind the form in the alley. Could this be the Princess Cirilla? Had he truly gotten this lucky to find her so easily? He chases on foot, abandoning his horse at the mouth of the alley he’d spotted her ducking into.  As the form turns a corner, so does he, hot on the trails of his perceived target. But the woman he pursues surprises him. She turns on her heel, and armed with a letter opener decorated with jewels, she lunges at him, swinging wildly as a feral tears from her throat. As he  dodges her efforts, he realizes this is not Cirilla. This is a woman; a noblewoman, one with fire and courage at that. She’s beautiful. He admires her immediately, even though she has a lot to learn about handling a blade.

“Watch it with that, you will stab me if you aren't careful,” he jests, removing his helmet as he moves from her swinging range.

“And who says” she lunges again, “I don't want to stab you?”

She wont go down without a fight, but is a fight something she could handle? No. certainly not against his men. She doesn't stand a chance. She won't make it out of here, he realizes. With what his men do to women. No. She does not deserve that fate. He could bring her in Cirilla’s place, he thinks. Whatever Nilfgaard needs her for, they need her alive and healthy. They would take care of her, even if her identity was false.

“You will not want to stab me if you want to make it out of here alive, I’m your only chance,” Cahir blurts out, before he can think about the weight of his words. Looking back here he realizes that he threw away any chance in finding the real Cirilla, any chance at not being tortured and executed if his deceit would be found for a woman whose name he did not know at the time. A woman who was swinging a blade at him, howling like a cornered animal. He leads you out of the city in the shadows that night, pilfering some supplies he can find before you make it past the walls of the now engulfed Cintra. Something about that night had clouded his judgement, changed him, but he did not yet understand why that was so. He did not even understand it when he kept up the charade of savoir, taking her east instead of south to where he would be rewarded for the imposter Cirilla.

“I demand the dagger,” you state, hand outstretched and conviction firm. He blinks up at you in confusion. To Cahir, you look like a blazing angel, the light of the fire making your hair resemble a halo. He would hand over the dagger, and should you wish to plunge it into his chest he would not move a hand to stop or delay you. He sighs as he relinquishes the one dagger to you, the only form of protection, your fingers brushing his as your grasp curls around it, a transfer of power and the last touch of your skin he may ever feel. His hand chases yours involuntarily, ever so slowly. You do not trust him anymore. You are not his to touch.

“I also demand the bedroll. We shall not share.” Not like we did last night hangs silently between you and he, and he silently concedes that to you as well. 

“In the morning, I’ll be gone. Do not attempt to search for me.”

“Please, don’t go,” his voice is weak, far away and parchment thin. Walking away from him will be hard, you realize. Knowing everything he told you… the kind of man he is. But also that he lied to you. He lied about your circumstances and interfered with your life. No, you must be strong. You must leave before dawn. If he wakes before you there’s still a chance you would fall into his arms and concede to this fate. You must stay cold. He is no different that all of the intended men you had turned down in the courts of Cintra. He was not a marriage prospect, like the lot of them were not suitable. Man after man you had rejected, scorned, and he will be just another. He will fade away soon like the others.

You tuck the dagger into the bedroll with you under the thin sheet, wrapping it around yourself as you lay down, facing him. He taught you never to turn your back on an enemy, and you guess he probably isn't the only person to say that so there probably is some truth to it. Sleep finds you soon after a half hour of forcing your eyes closed, but it always did in times of stress. Your body seems to know what you need more than you do, and right now its rest for the journey ahead. You slip downward quickly into a night as dreamless as the sky is starless tonight.

Cahir sits at the fire, staring into it, looking for clues, answers, the already fading memory of what it felt like to have you in his arms and have you kiss his face. Already, it slips from him. he steals glances to you every few minutes, to make sure his mind isn't playing tricks on him, to make sure you aren't already gone. You look peaceful, angelic in the same way you did when screaming at him but an hour earlier; the same way you did in the alley swinging a letter opener at his face. If only he could lay down next to you, to sleep peacefully. Had he known last night was his last beside you, he would have savored it more. Buried his face in your hair, held you tighter, kissed your eyelids and tried to will himself into your dreams. Everything feels heavy, as he fights to stay awake, resolving that to go without sleep is better than to sleep cold, without the feeling of you in his arms. If he has to, he won’t sleep ever again. To spare his heart. Now that he knows what it means to sleep with another, to sleep with you by his side, sleeping alone seems like a fate worse than whatever might greet him in Nilfgaard when he returns empty handed. Cahir doesn't notice falling asleep, he’s too consumed in his thoughts.

When Cahir wakes up back aching, the fire is dead and you are gone.

[pies-writes-and-more]

счастье

Word Count: 3,532

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

Warnings: you may cry from the wholesomeness, seriously.

A/N: Instalment #5 in @wxstedhexrt​​‘s and my Falling collection! Series Masterlist can be found HERE. Please read the poem first as it is the whole centrepiece of the fanfic :) If you need or would like a typed out version of the poem instead of the photo below, here’s the link to it on Destiny’s blog :) All the fluff in the world is in this fic, I’m telling you.

счастье (Russian): happiness (pronounced schast'ye according to Google Translate)

For the first time in a long time, Y/N woke up with pure silence. It was odd at first and she had to remind herself that the lack of laughter and voices drifting to her room from the kitchen wasn’t because the Avengers had all up and disappeared. Instead, this peaceful start to the morning was only alive because she wasn’t at the Avengers complex. It was a cooler sort of spring morning and Y/N could feel the slight breeze creep in through the window they had left slightly open in the evening before. The wind gently pushed and pulled at the long ceiling to floor curtains and allowed for the sun to creep in just enough to say good morning.

Y/N shifted under a heavy warm arm that encased her into a warm hug, gently prying herself from the gorgeous man who was sleeping quietly next to her. She stifled a giggle as she moved to brush some of his loose hairs away from his face, soft snores falling from his slightly ajar lips. This was his first time he hadn’t been half awake or tossing and turning all night in weeks, so Y/N decided it was best to let him rest. She pressed a small kiss to his nose, noting the slight flutter in his eyelids and smiled before sliding herself off the large bed.

She shivered slightly as the warmth from his body disappeared from her skin. She had gone to bed in only a bralette and some shorts, preferring to be warmed by cuddling but now, she was regretting not wearing something a bit warmer. Her eyes searched the room quickly before landing on a shirt on a nearby chair, pulling it to her and slipping it on. He must’ve thrown it there last night before passing out, in which case, maybe he wouldn’t notice she stole it. Although he didn’t seem much bigger than her, his shirts always felt a bit baggy on her and made her feel protected and small. She was still for a moment, feeling the softness of the fabric, breathing in the smell of his soap mixed with her laundry detergent. If she could carry this scent around with her everywhere, she would.

Maybe it was the soft calling of the birds or maybe it was the sparkling dew on the grass but as Y/N walked slowly to the kitchen, she paused in front of the nearby window. She looked out into the warm pink and orange hues of the sun and she almost wanted to just run outside and feel them on her skin. It was beautiful out here in the middle of nowhere. The two of them had spent almost all day yesterday driving up here to this little Airbnb that Wanda had found them after realizing just how exhausted the two of them were. (“I don’t want you two to come back until you forget how to be productive!” And with that, Wanda practically threw their suitcases out the door. Y/N had been thanking her every chance she got.)

It almost felt like a dream. Not just the gorgeous view from the window or the silent little cottage-like house they were staying in for the time being. But the whole last few months. Y/N’s eyes moved back to the bedroom door, thinking about all the late nights talking and laughing at movies, spilling secrets and even convincing him to do a face mask once or twice. She thought about the very beginning of this relationship, the stammered responses, the yearning she had felt for his touch, the fleeting glances.

Her mind drifted to thoughts of their first kiss, her stomach lurching forward into twists as she remembered the brush of his light lips on hers just before he disappeared for a month.

“Be safe,” she had practically begged him, tears forming at the corners of her eyes as she held his arm in her hands. “Please.”

He had given her that almost sorrowful smile, reaching up to touch her cheek and using his thumb to gently wipe away an escaping tear. “I’ll be alright, doll, don’t you worry about me.”

“What else am I going to do without you for a whole month?” She joked softly, trying to smile but it was hard. This was the first time she wouldn’t have contact with him when they weren’t on a mission together.

“Annoy the shit out of Steve for me,” he offered with a smile. Here he was, going in deep to meet with an informant, Y/N was freaking the hell out of her mind and he was standing there smiling. There was a calmness to him, even though Y/N and him had talked about his worries going out into the field for so long. So how did he look so calm looking at her now? Y/N tried to be positive but deep down, she was worried this was the last time she’d ever see him. Her eyes tried desperately to memorize the look on his face, just in case. Her mind had raced with questions when they first ordered Sam and Bucky on this mission. Why did it have to be him? Why couldn’t Steve go? Why did it have to be for a month? Why did it have to be off comms?

But all those questions were answered too easily for her to insist that Bucky stay here. The informant barely spoke any English and Russian was their first language so of course Bucky was a good candidate. Nat was away on a completely different mission with Wanda and Tony so she couldn’t go instead. They wanted to build trust with the informant but also, he could only give them parts of information at a time so a month was the bare minimum at this point. And since they were entering enemy territory, Steve thought it would be best to not have communications hacked. The two man team would have very minimal contact with the base, only to check in about their safety or to ask for immediate emergency help.

“Time to go, Tin Man!” Sam called from the other room. Y/N could tell from the shadow on the floor that he hesitated before at the door before deciding to give the two of them some space and staying outside. “I’ll wait for you in the jet.”

Bucky shouted out a response to him but present Y/N could barely remember what it was. All she could remember was the ache in her stomach as he started to pull away before he turned back and lifted her chin up so smoothly with his fingers. Y/N practically melted as she felt his lips on hers. It was a soft kiss, passion and love melded their bodies together as he held her close, leaning his forehead on hers as they took a breath, before he brushed her hair away gently.

“You’re my one and only, doll,” he whispered, taking her hand in his and squeezing it gently. “I’ll come back to you before you know it.” With a kiss on the back of her hand, he left and Y/N’s lips stayed tingling the whole month he was gone.

That had been the worst month of Y/N’s life. She had made Steve go nuts, bugging him with constant questions of is he okay, what’s the next step, has he heard from them, is everything on schedule-

Y/N smiled to herself as she remembered tackling Bucky to the floor when he got home, squeezing his tired body in a tight hug and ultimately feeling so bad when she realized how bruised his whole body was and she had definitely made it a little worse. But she couldn’t help it - the whole time she wondered would he leave her before she got the chance to tell him how she felt? Would their connection be severed before it ever really existed?

“S’alright, doll,” Bucky had laughed as he sat up from the floor and had gladly accepted her offer to take him down to the infirmary. She had thought all month about how she wanted his coming home to be, would they share another passionate kiss? Would he ask her on a proper date? Would Sam say something stupid and ruin the whole thing?

Maybe the first two would’ve been true if the latter hadn’t come first. Sam had popped his head in to see how Bucky was and loudly expressed how awkward and tense the air was in the room.

“So does this mean y’all are gonna bang? Cause like the wall between my room and Bucky’s is thin and-” Sam started, quickly ducking the blood pressure gauge that Bucky threw at his head. “Rude,” he scoffed but shot a grin at Y/N before disappearing.

It wasn’t long before Y/N felt at home and comfortable again with Bucky by her side. The two of them snuggled in front of the TV with cups of tea and some snacks, watching old cartoons as if they were an old couple.

“Y/N?” Bucky had whispered after a while. Y/N’s eyes were closed, her head leaning against his chest as she relaxed her stiff body into the warmth of his arms.

“Mm?” She hummed, peeking an eye open to see him staring at her. “What?” She giggled, both eyes opening now in embarrassment. His smile was so soft as he watched her without responding for a moment, eyes noting every inch of her face.

“I missed you,” Bucky’s voice was a little shaky and he cleared his throat whilst his eyes turned away shyly. Y/N smiled and poked his cheek playfully in response.

“I missed you too, Bucks.”

“No, I mean…” he hesitated and shifted a little so they were facing each other. “Being away from you for a month made me realize… just how hard I’m falling for you.”

Even thinking back to that moment made Y/N’s heart flutter just a little. The words that left Bucky’s lips repeated in her head over and over again as she moved to the kitchen and pulled out some food to make breakfast with. She thought about how she had kissed him after he told her all that because she wasn’t sure if she could word her feelings right. She smiled as her mind reminisced about the weeks after, the stolen kisses in the hallways between meetings, snarky responses and flirty comments during sparring, and just the comfortableness of it all.

It wasn’t long before Y/N realized that she had just cracked an egg onto the counter top instead of into the pan because she was daydreaming. She laughed at herself a little, cleaning up the mess and deciding to try and figure this old looking radio that sat nearby in a way to keep her mind present.

A slow melody crackled to life on the speakers as she started to cook properly this time, her hips swaying to the beats of the music. She hummed along to the music that she recognized, listening carefully to the lyrics of ones that she didn’t. As the bacon sizzled in the pan, she wondered what kind of music played while Bucky grew up. What kinds of sounds did he have memory with?

She daydreamed about the alternate universe where Bucky had stayed in his own timeline and maybe she had been born into it. Would they have still gotten along? Would he have still asked her out? Would they dance until the night was dark, would he come meet her family and promise not to take her out too late? Or would he be that playboy that Steve often teased about? Would she get a cheeky wink from him across the room as her only interaction with him? Would she roll her eyes in response? Because that was often her response when she kept cocky guys nowadays.

Interrupting her thoughts was the sound of an all too familiar tune starting to play on the radio. Her eyes glanced at it with a smile, as if thanking the hosts for playing such a slow song to match her slow start to the morning.

Wise men say only fools rush in But I can't help falling in love with you

Y/N found herself humming along but it quickly became soft singing as her lips traced around the lyrics she’s known for years. As each word left her lips, she thought about how many people were listening with her and were singing along, how many people knew this popular tune. She wondered if even Bucky knew it and wondered what his thoughts were when he had first heard it. Her eyes noted the now cooked eggs and bacon on her pans, reaching over to turn the oven off and looking through the cupboards to find some clean plates. She pushed the eggs and bacon onto two plates, waving them off as she started to clean.

“Shall I stay Would it be a sin If I can't help falling in love with you”

Two arms wrapped around Y/N’s waist suddenly, making her jump at the tug of her center to a warm body behind her. She looked up from the sink where water was cooling down the pans, and behind her shoulder to find Bucky’s head nuzzling into her neck. “You left me alone,” he whined into her hair, lazily pressing kisses to her skin.

“You were sleeping!” Y/N laughed as she tried to squirm out of his grip to continue cooking. “I thought you’d be exhausted. You practically drove all night up here.” Bucky’s grip around her tightened as she turned off the tap and tried to turn to face him.

The pout on his lips made her grin grow wider, “You left me,” he insisted. “And then you stole my shirt!” He huffed, tugging at the hem that was brushed up against her thigh.

Like a river flows surely to the sea Darling so it goes

Y/N smirked and couldn’t help but admire the just-woke-up look on Bucky, him standing there in grey low waisted sweatpants, “You look better without a shirt,” she laughed, wrapping her arms around his neck.

“You were singing,” Bucky suddenly said as they swayed to the soft music playing in the background. “I like it when you sing,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

Some things are meant to be Take my hand, take my whole life too

“Our breakfast is gonna get cold,” Y/N brought up, face flushing with embarrassment that he had heard her, stepping away from him and starting to move towards the food.

“Dance with me,” Bucky asked quickly, a firm grip still on her waist. “Please, doll?” His eyes were pleading like a child again, that oh so adorable look in his eyes that Y/N had a hard time saying no to. She bit down on her lip and nodded slowly as Bucky turned the volume up on the radio before pulling her into the living room which had more space.

For I can't help falling in love with you Like a river flows surely to the sea

Soft hums left Bucky’s lips as the two of them swayed to the music, his gentle but strong arms guiding her. For a moment they stood there, just holding each other and listening to the beats of the music.

Darling so it goes Some things are meant to be

Bucky smiled as their eyes met, taking her hand and lifting it up slightly, his other hand pressed into her waist. He guided her into a slow dance, breathy giggles and laughter leaving their lips as he twirled her around the room. She couldn’t help but feel like she was dancing on a cloud, Bucky’s movements so free and flowing that she almost couldn’t believe this man was behind them.

Y/N gave a little bit of a squeal as she felt Bucky tilting her back, his chuckling making her feel all the more embarrassed as he dipped her so low, she was almost positive they were going to fall over.

“Don’t you trust me?” He teased as he brought her back up and twirled her around some more, a twinkle in his eye and a wide smile on his face.

“Depends,” she shot back with a laugh, trying to catch her breath from her laughter, “We’ve fallen over before,” she pointed out, thinking about the time she jumped out of a window for him, or the times she’s knocked him over with hugs, or even when they’ve just tripped over each other’s feet. The smile on her lips was starting to burn at her cheeks and she realized in that moment that she wished the song would never end.

Bucky pulled her close again, pressing his forehead against hers once more. Y/N watched as his lips parted and she thought he was going to shoot back with another snarky remark. But instead, his low voice started to sing along,

“Take my hand, take my whole life too”

Y/N hadn’t ever heard Bucky sing before. Soft hums here and there, a melody to his words sometimes, but never fully sun. She wanted to close her eyes, focus solely on the word he was singing but his eyes held her soft gaze, looking like they were trying to say something.

“For I can't help falling in love with you For I can't help falling in love with you,”

Y/N wondered if he could feel how warm her face was getting as they slowly swayed to the music. She wondered if he could hear how fast her heart was beating, if he could tell her hands were shaking. Was this the first time the word ‘love’ had left his lips? The first time he was admitting such strong feelings for her? Sure, she knew he liked her enough to ask her out and come to this middle-of-nowhere house with her, but was he really admitting he loved her?

Bucky tilted her chin up slightly as the melody drifted away from his lips, and he kissed her as if it was the first time and the last time. He held her close as their lips sparked something magical, feeling both a passion and a hunger for each other. The song had disappeared and the radio hosts’ voices were feeling so far as they talked about current news and weather. Y/N’s lips felt Buck’s depart and her eyes fluttered open to see him staring at her, with a sort of gentle love in his eyes. Time felt like it had slowed down in that moment, like the world had been put on pause and there was no such thing as monsters who whispered little dark thoughts into their ears. Here, in his arms, in this far away house, was going to be where their happiest memory was born.

After a moment of silence, Bucky’s lips parted again and Y/N wondered if he would say it, if the three little words would leave his lips. She wondered if they were even ready for that, was it too soon? Did he really feel that way? Was this all going way too fast, especially because back in his day, romances were an awful lot slower?

“Thank you for breakfast, doll,” he whispered to her instead with a smile, stepping back from her and pressing a kiss to her hand with a playful bow, as if she was a princess to be courted.

“Where’d you learn to dance like that?” Y/N asked curiously as the two of them grabbed their plates of somewhat warm food and plopped onto the living room couches. Y/N tried to stabilize her hands, still feeling a bit wobbly after hearing those words leave Bucky’s lips. How long would it take for her heart to slow down? For her skin to stop having goosebumps in response to this tender and loving touch?

Bucky smiled to himself as he started to cut up his eggs, “Back in my day, dancing was the best date you could have. Just forget everything around you and dance, have some fun, be surrounded by smiles.”

“Mm well I kinda like just dancing here with you here,” she admitted shyly, getting up to turn on the coffee machine and find some coffee cups for them.

If she had turned back to look at him, she would’ve seen the look on his face that Steve liked to call ‘love-sick puppy dog’. He watched her as she glided around the kitchen, smile on her face, and he wished he could’ve kept dancing with her for longer.

“We can dance any time you like, doll,” Bucky told her as she turned back to smile at him. “If you’ll have me, maybe I can be your dance partner forever.” And the smile she gave him in response was all he needed.

Small dances in the little cottage-like house’s living room became dances in their bedrooms back home. Sometimes he’d twirl her out of a hug or they’d sway just a little in the hallways. The two of them were like in their own little world, dancing to both music and silence, as if the world of anxieties was a universe away.

** ** ** ** ** ** ** **

Seriously though, I get so emotional writing these fics. I hope you guys are enjoying them! Destiny and I are always screaming our heads off and we love to hear that you guys are liking them too :D

MASTERLIST // Destiny’s Blog! <3