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amiedala · 4 years ago

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SOMETHING MORE (the mandalorian x reader)

CHAPTER 27: Conditions

RATING: Explicit (18+ ONLY!!!)

WARNINGS: sexual content, violence, & a brief scene of implied assault (it's the scene in the cantina in Canto Bight!! it's over in a few lines, but if you want to skip over them, it won't impact the story at all!) please let me know if there's anything else that needs to be tagged! <3

SUMMARY: “I—what?” you ask, trying to shake away the fuzzy feeling, “what are you saying to me?”

“I’m saying,” Din emphasizes, sighing, looking down at the Darksaber in his hand, “that I don’t have a secret family, and I’m never leaving you again, but…”

“What?” you repeat.

“I accidentally became the ruler of Mandalore,” Din admits. “And I don’t know how to get out of it.”

You stare at him, speechless, and then the bacta kicks in and everything fades to black.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: HELLO AND HAPPY SOMETHING MORE SATURDAY MY LOVES!!! i hope you love this chapter, it's 12k+ words because i simply could not stop writing. we are getting INTO IT ;) hope y'all love the dinova makeup scene hehehe ENJOYYYYYY!!!! <3

When you and Din first fucked, all the way back on Dagobah, you remember how gentle he was with you, how it stood out in such shimmering, stark contrast to the man and warrior he was everywhere else. He would pause, he would revere you in the dark, he would let his mouth make sweet love to you in between your thighs for hours. It was lovely. Him being gentle, taking his sweet time with you, it was lovely.

But you’ve just spent an agonizing month apart, you nearly lost each other forever to that looming darkness, and the baby’s not here on Kicker to be quiet for.

So when you grab at him, lustful and intentioned, the big, brave bounty hunter bends at your will. Again.

“You—” Din says, strangled, the second your hands slip down his face, “you don’t have to—if you’re not ready—”

“Shh,” you whisper, and at that alone, he quiets. You let your thumb lightly graze over the length of his cheekbone, eyes darting all over his face, taking in every single gorgeous inch. “I want the man who loves me to fuck me senseless.”

Din groans, the noise strangled and low in his throat. You grin, top teeth coming down on your bottom lip. “I used to—fuck—like to be in charge. A lot. B—but you talking like this, stars, Nova, I could cum from your words alone—”

“Don’t you dare,” you emphasize, closing all the remaining space between the two of you, swinging your legs up and over into his lap so that you’re straddling him. “It’s been a month, Din, a whole month without feeling you, without fucking. Give me a taste first.”

He makes another small noise at the base of his throat, and a horrifying thought flutters into your head, foggy and heavy.

“It—” you blink at him, stomach doing backflips, “It hasbeen a month without…sex for you, too, right?”

Din’s eyes flash open, dark and dangerous. “Are you serious?”

You feel your body start to shrink against his, your knees wobbling from where you’re straddling him, sliding down into his lap. “I—”

“You think I could even look at someone else?” Din asks, his voice low and electric. You raise an eyebrow. He tangles one hand in your messy hair, and when he sharply brings your head back with the force of it, the moan you’ve been holding back escapes out of your throat, easy and loaded. “That every time I touched myself, I wasn’t regretting every second of my decision to leave you somewhere because nothing compares to your warmth?”

Maker, he sounds betrayed. Like he can’t even believe that you’re suggesting it, which, come to think of it, you can’t really believe you’re suggesting it either, considering how much of himself he gave you back on the last planet, but you have to know, even if it’s hard to hear. You swallow. “You left me there, I didn’t know if we were—done, if you were breaking off our engagement—”

“Nova,” Din interrupts, and everything in your body goes white-hot, blistering. You’ve heard him say your name before—in love, in fear, in pain, in pleasure—but something about the timbre of it right now is halving you with lightning strikes. He’s somewhere still buried in your neck, and when his tongue brushes up and flutters against your strongest pulse point, you feel like you’re melting, all over Din’s lap, all over Kicker’s floor. “Even if I was that much of a total fucking idiot, even if I were stupid enough to truly let you go, do you really believe that any pussy in this galaxy or the next would be as good as yours?”

You yelp. All of that control that you had a second ago, it’s blissfully rushed away, a river running out of you, everything concentrating between your legs, low and wet. “Well,” you manage finally, your voice shaking, “prove it.”

For a second, a single, tantalizing second, Din just holds you there. You can feel the heat, the friction between your hips, his hand on your left one, anchoring you there and pulling you against his crotch. You feel his cock jump in his pants, and it makes that flash of desire strike through you again, regardless of how many times you’ve felt it do so before. “I love you,” he whispers, tongue dancing in and out of your ear, and when he pulls away from you and looks at you in the starlight, you want that to be it. That confession, that freedom, that honesty—and you being able to look at him straight in the eyes while he gives himself to you—that’s enough for you to cum right there on the spot, but you made him promise to hold out, so you grind your teeth together, control your breathing, and try to hold out your own challenge.

“That’s not what I meant,” you breathe, your hands coming loose to land on either side of his face. He closes his eyes into the safety of your touch, and, for just a moment, you press your forehead against his.

It’s over a flash later, when his eyes open, dark and possessive. “Oh,” Din smirks, “I know.” And then you’re being hauled up and out of his lap, and when he grabs you and pushes you up against the wall, face first, you let out a gasp that could rattle every single last star in the galaxy. “Tell me,” he whispers, “tell me if I’m going too far—”

“Din,” you interject, softly, your voice still shaky and uneven, “I thought I told you to prove it.”

All you hear is the rhythm of both of your breathing, and then your clothes are being ripped limb from limb, the tank top tearing straight off your back, your pants being shoved down to your knees. The sharp intake of breath that comes out of you is partially because off the immediacy of it, the urgency, and partially because of the shock of the cold metal of Kicker’s walls against your bare skin.

“You—” you start, as Din yanks down your trousers even further, “you bought those pants for me—”

“So?” he tosses up to you, and then you feel the rough fabric of the glove slamming into the small of your back, making it arch. “I’ll buy you new fucking pants.”

“Okay,” you pant, already halfway there and way past being coherent, “yeah, sure. I didn’t have that much of an attachment to those anyway—”

“Nova?” Din asks, and you toss your head backwards as you feel his scruff on the right side of your neck. “Open your legs.”

You do. You’re pretty sure everything you’re wearing is trashed, now, but at this point, you couldn’t care less. When you feel Din’s lips travel down your shoulder blades, your spine, stopping just on the small of your back, you shudder, the cold metal in front of you already turned warm from your touch. When his lips leave you, you think that’s it, that he’s going to shove his fingers in you, but Din drops, stealthy, like the practiced bounty hunter he is, to his knees. You inhale, exhale, all of your energy on expelling and intaking air, and then his tongue starts at the very back of your slit, and somewhere between your legs, before it finds your clit, he’s turned over, staring up at you with his mouth buried inside of you.

“Oh,” you manage, faintly, and there it is, the electric feeling of being pushed right on the edge, that white-hot numbness, everything falling and rising at once, “oh—”

“This is the part,” Din hisses, muffled slightly as he moves his tongue in and out of you, “where I’d normally tell you that I own you.”

“Don’t you?” you ask as he pulls off his gloves and pushes a finger inside you, and, stars, you can feel yourself clench, the way you take him in, like you’re hungry, like you’re insatiable, and you’d usually feel your cheeks flush from all of that pure, unadulterated desire, but you barely even register all the noises you’re making because Din’s drowning it all out with his touch.

“Not anymore,” he says, simply, and then he’s in and out of you, standing back of behind you so lightning fast that you can’t categorize how his mouth went from being on your pussy to back on the nape of your sweaty neck, but your knees buckle at the feeling of him pressing up against you, ripping every connective piece of armor off his body like it’s scalding him. “You own me. Every inch.”

You moan, wriggling your hips back as if to entice him, to make him just fuck you already, and you know how impatient you’re being, and that you should savor this, that this should last through the entirety of hyperspace for all of the lost time that you have to make up, but you can’t hold back.

“Tell me,” Din whispers, his voice just as breathy as yours is, “what you want.”

You inhale, exhale. He’s behind you, and you can feel the tip pressing at you, leaking a small bead of wetness that’s trailing down your naked body, and you’re so choked and consumed with this, with how much you missed it, that you have to take a second to compose yourself. Din holds himself there, patient—writhing, but patient—until you know exactly what to say.

“I want you,” you breathe, tilting your head just a bit, enough to catch a glimpse of his silhouette, “your every fucking inch.”

Din moans again, and then, before you have a second to prepare yourself, that’s exactly what you get. Your own moans eject themselves form your mouth, completely uncontrolled, animalistic, insatiable. With every stroke, the symphony of the noises that Din’s making gets louder and louder, one hand against your hips, the other tangled back up in your hair, bringing your body closer and closer to him like rolling tides.

“Cyar’ika,” Din whispers, his mouth contorting around the word like it’s holy, something divine, “oh, fuck, Nova, I—missed you.”

You throw your head back, eyes fluttering, everything dark and warm. Din’s other hand slips down to your bare hip, and he starts rocking himself deeper and deeper inside you, as if he’s trying to fuck away all the mistakes he made, as if he’s begging you for repentance.

“Cum in me,” you gasp, already shaking yourself through another orgasm as his hands tighten around you, as he buries his face in your neck, “mark me as yours.”

And, Maker fucking above, the way he screams your name as he does makes you ready to fall in love all over again. It’s like the first time. It’s better.

“I was right,” you say, finally, after both of you have sunk to the floor, throbbing and aching and delightfully exhausted.

“Yes,” Din agrees, automatically, his arm tightening around your midriff as you both try to breathe yourselves back to consciousness, “about what?”

You smile. As your vision focuses, you turn around in his arms so that you’re sitting against the wall, looking out at the stars you’re traveling past, grinning at the notion that you just had a supernova more brilliant than they could ever dream to have. “It’s not about deserving. It’s about belonging.”

Next to you, Din slowly untangles himself from the mess of your shared limbs and slides into his usual position on the floor. You smile at that, too, because regardless of how much has changed, this too, this mirror image, is still the same.

Hours pass. You don’t remember falling asleep, but when your eyes open lazily to the slow tilt of space around you, you’re swaddled in blankets and pillows, and your Mandalorian is cuddled up next to you. It still makes your heart jump in your chest, the knowledge that he’s yours again, that he belongs to you just as much as you belong to him. You still don’t think you forgive him, because that ache is bitter and horrible in the depth of your chest, but you feel how much you feed into one another, how much easier it is to fight off any incoming threats with Din next to you, and you make momentary peace with your broken heart.

“Hi,” he says, sleepily, his eyes fluttering open, “come back to sleep.”

“I will,” you answer, sitting back down and snuggling into Din’s bare chest. Everything else in here is dotted with luminescence—the stars outside, the lights you strung in the back of the hull—but it’s cold compared to him and his light.

You think he’s asleep again when you feel his lips moving, his chest rising and falling, the noise his voice makes vibrating where your ear is pressed against his ribs. “You said you have conditions,” Din whispers, “back there, on Takodana. I didn’t forget. What are your conditions?”

Your stomach does a small flip. You absolutely did have conditions, but right now, it’s nearly impossible for you to remember any of them. You’re both here now, where you belong, and space is quiet, and you’re not currently in any immediate danger, and you just had some of the best sex you’ve ever had—

Danger. It lights up, and you blink hard and then shoot upwards at the threats the both of you just narrowly escaped back on Takodana, the people that have been trying to catch you and hurt you for weeks. You feel the way your heart is pounding, and you immediately curse yourself from being distracted enough to not warn Wedge about the mysterious danger that’s rising from the ashes of the Empire, and Din follows you when you sit straight up, pressing the warmth of your blanket against your bare chest.

“Nova?”

“Um,” you say, holding up a single finger, “my first condition is that you come with me to tell the Alliance everything we know about these new troopers, and their new boss.”

He stares at you. “Can’t…can’t you just call your friend back on your commlink? Tell him what you saw?”

You press a cold hand to your face, and the chill grounds you. “I could,” you admit, “but the two of us just barely got out of there alive, and I think we need to literally call in the big guns. Besides, I—I have ties there. You’ll understand when you see it.” You flash him a small look. “It’s cold on Hoth. Really cold. Not a desert planet at all. You’ll love it.”

It’s still so strange seeing his face, like something out of place, but after a minute, Din’s quirked eyebrow relaxes. “Okay,” he agrees.

You nod, definitively, feeling his eyes on your naked body as you get up to point the nav system back towards Hoth, and when you slide back into your nest, he’s even warmer than you remembered.

“Din—” you whisper, and you’re not even sure what you’re about to say until he pulls you in, the low light casting parts of his face in shadow.

“Don’t worry,” he murmurs back, the promise barely air but so concrete, so powerful, “I meant it when I said I’m going to follow you anywhere.”

Kicker, like the habitual monster she is, starts screeching right before reentry onto Hoth. You untangle yourself messily from Din’s arms, pulling the closest blanket you have around your bare body again, tiptoeing over to where the dashboard is blinking and flashing.

“Work with me, baby,” you whisper, turning dials and pounding on wherever you think you could get it to quiet, “c’mon, what’s wrong with you?” You turn knobs and flip switches, and when Kicker shows you she’s clearly not slowing down, you turn to throw on whatever clothes are closest, and they’re the tatters Din tore off of you last night. As you run a systems check, you trade the ripped fabric for your orange jumpsuit, which is, thankfully, still untouched. You shiver as you zip it up over your bare chest, tucking your messy hair behind both ears, studying the panel of blinking lights and the volume of your glorious rebel of a ship. “Kicker,” you try again, exhausted, dragging your hands over your eyes, the stars exploding as you press against them, “please, I am so tired, tell me what you want—”

And then you spot it. Your shields, which have consistently been locked and loaded since you left Hoth last time, are depleted and tired. They keep flashing on and off, and you hesitate, peering out the front widow to survey the open space around you, checking furiously for any immediate enemies, trying to gauge if you need to keep them on until you land, or if you want to save the last bit of power for whenever you leave Hoth next.

“What,” Din mutters sleepily from behind you, “is happening?”

“She screams,” you answer, which is honestly completely self-explanatory, “when she wants to tell me something,”

“Nova,” Din says back, groaning as he sits up, pulling on all the underclothes he has, leaving the armor scattered and strewn all over the ship’s interior like a trail of shiny breadcrumbs, “she is not a sentient being, and you have the power to shut her up.”

You do. Then you turn, staring at him, trying to look menacing. “No making fun of my ship.”

A tiny smile surfaces across his face. It’s fleeting, but glorious. “You’re a real pilot again,” he says softly, “how does it feel?”

You grin to, bringing one orange-clad knee to your chest, resting your chin on it. “Like I spent way too long without it,” you admit, reveling in your pilot’s chair, slowly swaying from side to side as you observe him. “I miss the Crest,” you say, “every day, but being able to be in charge of my own destiny, to be my own captain, to fly something I could handle in my sleep—it feels right.”

Din looks at you, slowly striding over. You grab his bare hand as you pull him in closer, tipping your head back so you can stare up at him, and even in this position, you feel the way he’ll bend to you, how he’ll do whatever you want. That sense of power, exhilarating as it is, also feels unlike you, so you let him tuck your hair back behind your ears again, relinquishing small atoms of control until you’re both back on equal ground. “Are we sticking with Kicker, then?” Din asks, and you nod, fluttering your eyelashes at him as he strokes lightly over your cheek. “I think I might need flying lessons from you, then, Her Highness Rebel Rouser Pilotess of the Outer Rim.”

You grin. “Maybe we should write that all over the ship.”

“You write that all over the ship,” Din points out, gently, “and you’ll have even more of a target on your back.”

You sigh, long and heavy, and you feel the energy shift. Din moves to the copilot’s chair, and you swing the other way as you crest through the chilly atmosphere of Hoth, shivering the second you broach through the air, even though the cabin temperature is holding steady. “I was reckless back there,” you admit, voice small. “I was spending too much time trying to give them the best vocal middle finger I could muster up, that I wasn’t paying attention to the soldiers we downed. I’m not very good at the hand-to-hand combat thing,” you say, examining the ridges of your fingers, the way your knuckles bulge slightly against your skin. “I’ve always done so much better up in the air. But now, with my new—” you cut yourself off, flipping your hands over to study your palms, trying to envision where the Force works like a conduit underneath it, “powers,” you finish, halfheartedly, “I know I need to be down on the ground more, that I need more practice. I’m not even close to being skilled enough to beat multiple people.” You glance over at Din, and then back at the wicked handle of the Darksaber. Even though you know it’s not Gideon’s weapon, that it came from Mandalore, it still carries the symbol of so much darkness, so much hatred, and you shiver. “Especially if it’s going to be you and me against these new troopers, this new threat.”

Din’s staring at you. You turn your attention back to navigating Kicker down onto the snowy path that funnels down into the landing bay, watching as the whiteness of it all jut up in mountains and valleys around you, carefully moving into the spot you had to emergency evacuate a few weeks back. “What do you think it is?” he asks, and you can tell he’s asking because he believes you, but also because he has no idea. “Who do you think it is?”

You square your shoulders, pulling your parka off the hook it’s hanging on, glancing at the armor all over the floor. “I don’t know,” you answer, honestly, “but whatever—whoever—it is, it’s coming. That’s why we’re here. I’ve had visions of it,” you say, stretching your arms back to quickly braid the top layer of your hair, “a few times, but I have no idea. I—we—are totally out of our depth.” You look out the front window of Kicker, watching as a small squadron of orange jumpsuits starts to materialize in the distance, and a grin stretches itself across your face before you can stop it. “That’s why we’re here,” you say, tying off the braid and pointing with your chin, “because if anyone has advice on how to battle back the unknown, it’s the Alliance.”

You glace back over at Din, who’s still standing there, collecting random pieces of armor off the floor absentmindedly. His eyes are still on you. Secretly, you wonder if he always stared at you this much underneath his helmet, of his eyes never leaving your body is a new thing, or if it’s been one for the last year and you just had no idea.

“Are you coming?” you ask, and you’re trying not to push him, because you know if you tell him he has to, he will, no questions asked.

He nods, clicking the last piece of armor into place. You press on his pauldron, evening it out, and when you look up at Din, maskless, helmetless, your heart catches like it always does. “Yes,” he says, finally, his gloved hand gently finding your wrist.

You look to where he has his helmet in his other hand, and the second your eyes move, you feel his do too. Even out of your periphery, you can tell he’s staring at it as intensely as he does with you, internal battle of tradition versus newness loud and unencumbered in your head.

“You don’t have to wear it,” you whisper, reassuring him. You bring your hand up, touch your fingertips to the side of his face, brushing your thumb lightly over the bow of his lips. “But you can, if that’s what you want.”

Din looks back to you, then to the helmet, then to you again. You smile as encouragingly as you can, and he exhales, pulling the rim of it over his head. Your heart drops and rises as you watch him do it, conflicted with the knowledge of how hard this is, how hard anything is, how he’s like a ship without sails.

“You’ll like them,” you say, quietly, as you move downstairs and disengage the gangplank, “I promise.”

“Rebel girl!” Wedge calls through the frosty air, and you squeeze Din’s hand and smile as your boots meet the crunchy, snow covered ground. “Welcome back. Who are we fighting?”

“That’s what I’m hoping you’ll help me with,” you sigh, falling easily into Wedge’s paternal arms, feeling Din’s eyes scour over him underneath the visor. “Listen, we don’t have much to go on, but the threats are coming, and they’ve got the jump on us. Is everyone in the control room?”

Wedge lets go of you, nodding, stepping forward to shake Din’s hand. Din, adorably, has absolutely no idea what to do, and when Wedge grabs him, you can sense the flinch before it even happens, and then something in him relaxes. “You must be Nova’s fiancé,” he says, smiling. “I’ve heard so much about you. Pleased to meet you…”

You know he’s waiting for a name, for something concrete, and you freeze, not knowing how to intervene, if Din can willingly reveal his identity, and right before you’re about to fake some sort of emergency to hurry Wedge along, Din’s hand clenches over his.

“Din,” he says, quietly, but his intention is vivid and strong. “You must be…Nova’s contact. Friend. In the Alliance.”

You nod. Wedge grins back. “I am. Wedge Antilles. We could use someone like you,” he tries, as the three of you move forward into the small gathering of people who are greeting you, welcoming you back in, “if you’re ever looking for a career change.”

You laugh under your breath, trying to imagine your calculated bounty hunter rushing immediately into battle like the rebels do, but Din’s helmet moves over towards you, then back to Wedge. “Well,” he sighs, “depending on how much of a threat these new forces are, I might be.”

“Anything associated with the Empire,” Wedge sighs, dragging a hand over his face, “is a threat worth fighting against. I should know,” he tacks on, opening the heavy door that leads to the inside of the base, “I used to work for them.”

Both of you whip around to study his face, his expression. Din doesn’t know Wedge well, but you do, and your eyebrows narrow, trying to decide if he’s joking or if he’s being level with you. Wedge isn’t someone who does anything without intention, so it seems like he’s genuinely telling the truth, but at the look at your startled expression, Wedge scratches his head. Under the faded, white light of the hallways, you can see more greying in his hair than you thought was there the last time you saw him up close.

“I’m from Corellia,” he reminds you both, quietly, as you let him go in head of you to direct your small group of people into the control room, “I didn’t have much of a choice. Got caught up in the Imperial Navy because I wanted to be in the air, flew a few missions before I realized how much death and destruction I was contributing to. Defected, never looked back, joined the Alliance.” There’s a small smile on his face. “I met Luke,” he offers, and you follow the way his mouth moves when he talks about Luke Skywalker—that same sort of urgent intimacy you detected in the flickering image of Luke on the holotable the last time you were here. For whatever reason, it makes your grin match his. You glance over at Din as you stride into the bigger room, watching how Wedge tucks his expression away for later, but you can tell his mind is still on Luke.

“Glad you got back safely,” one of the generals says. His voice is low, gruff, and he has facial hair that’s stark white. He’s intimidating, stone-faced, but he seems to genuinely be thankful for your presence, so you smile brightly over at him.

“Listen up,” Wedge calls, barely louder than his normal talking voice, but all the conversation around the room quiets almost immediately, everyone’s attention focused solely on him. “Nova’s back, not because she’s out of danger, but because it seems like we’re all about to be in a hell lot more of it. I know we’ve talked about this for years, but it seems like whatever was left in the Empire’s ashes is rising up stronger and quicker than we’ve kept our eyes on.” You nod, confirming his theory. “I know most of us are veterans,” Wedge continues, his eyes aglow, connecting with every single person in the room, “and I know that we’ve already lost so many battles, so I understand if you’re tired. If you want to walk away from this one,” he declares, leaning over the table, and you take stock of the circle gathered around, all clad in orange, determination written all over their faces, “I’ll understand. I won’t hold that against you. But if you’re not prepared to fight this next one, you need to leave this room now and go somewhere safe.” He raises his eyebrows. People exchange glances with one another, but not a single one of them budges. After a handful of seconds, making sure to account for any delayed reactions, Wedge nods. “That’s what I thought. Okay, Nova,” he says, turning to you, “for our remarkable lack of Force sensitivity and our living on the outskirts of this mess, you seem to be the forefront authority on what’s coming. Tell us everything you can.”

You swallow. You knew this was what you were coming here to do, to direct the Alliance in the right path, to give them the most explicit briefing on this new evil, but you step forward, your mouth going dry, You haven’t had to do this part in years, almost a decade, and you got used to hunting rather than defending, hiding rather than attacking. Din’s hand squeezes over yours, just once, and that fortifies you enough to open your mouth.

“I’ve seen every corner of this galaxy,” you start, wringing your hands together to try and muster up the right amount of information to give these people, these people who are fighting alongside you simply because of your word alone. “I was born into the Rebel Alliance, and I’ve spent most of my life trying to keep our world here free of evil. Even when I dropped out after my parents died,” you continue, voice shaking a bit with embarrassment at the naivety of leaving, “I shuttled people to safety, regardless of what they were running from. I got myself into a serious bit of trouble, and I narrowly escaped with my life. Then I met my fiancé,” you say, pointing to Din, “and I spent a lot of time figuring out my own power. I thought…I thought what I had was just me being me,” you say, vaguely, swatting at a loose piece of hair fluttering in your face, “but over the last year, I’ve learned that I have the Force. Like my son. Like Luke Skywalker.” You swallow, making a fleeting second of eye contact with Wedge. “I watched when General Skywalker and Wedge destroyed the first Death Star, and then I watched when the Rebels eradicated the evil from this galaxy, even though I was out on my own then.” You sigh, staring at the luminary solar system projected on the holotable, steeling yourself. “You did a great job,” you say, softly, trying your best to follow Wedge’s example by making eye contact with the rest of the generals and rebels in the room, “really, you did. You made this place safe for us to live in again, and you were brave during a time when I wasn’t. And whatever part of the Empire is left over,” you continue, voice gaining strength as you undo your crossed arms to lean slightly against the table, eyes focusing on the little locator on the Hoth base, blinking a blue YOU ARE HERE to the rest of the room, “it’s not because you weren’t thorough. It’s because the Empire was conniving and cunning, and was built upon decades of secret creation, and no matter how many parts we cut off, there’s always going to be one lurking under the surface.” You look at Din, then back to the others gathered around the table. “We thought Moff Gideon was the most dangerous lurking evil left. We were wrong.”

“Who else is there?” another woman asks. You faintly recognize her face, but you can see by the way that her laugh lines are written around her mouth that she’s at least a decade older than you are. “What did we leave over?”

“That’s the thing,” you sigh, rubbing the place where your eyebrows burrow, pinch together, “When I see things, in my visions…they’re not always exact. I saw Luke coming back to defeat Gideon’s troopers, and I saw our kid being taken, but they were always foggy, hazy. When we were back on Takodana,” you say, inhaling a deep breath, “I felt something there, too. But I could tell this time that it was a premonition, that what I was feeling was a threat in the future and not one I needed to be fighting in that exact moment. But there have been concrete examples,” you say, finding your rhythm again. “Stormtroopers, a whole regiment of them, except they weren’t like the ones that worked for Darth Vader.” You swallow. “I could tell by their uniforms that they didn’t quite belong to ones we’ve seen before, but beyond that, they’re precise. They attack with intention, and they’re nimble and fast. They daggered me with a tranquilizer dart twice,” you admit, “and nearly killed the both of us back on Takodana.”

“They kept threatening us,” Din says, and you whip around to face him. In these situations, in anything more than a handful of people in a social setting, he usually doesn’t speak a word. Even when weapons are drawn, he chooses to act rather than talk, and so you close your mouth and let him. “They told Nova they worked for a different boss. A scarier one. One more…dangerous, and formidable, than Gideon.”

“That’s what scares me,” you say softly, your finger tracing a soft line over the hairs of your eyebrow. “Usually, Empire thugs like to rule with a sense of superiority, to threaten us with specifics. But the mystery surrounding this whole thing is what’s different. It doesn’t feel like a new era of the Empire. It feels like something darker, more sinister, that they’ve been working on to replace it.”

The general, the one who welcomed you back, stares at you. “Do you have proof of that?”

You know he’s not trying to judge you, but you can hear it in his tone. “No,” you admit, honestly, “no, I don’t have any concrete evidence that this is something new coming out of the ashes of the Empire, but I can feel it.” You swallow, looking around at everyone, trying to gauge if they’ll dismiss your intuition. No one, not even the man who spoke, even lifts an eyebrow. “Look,” you say, leaning forward against the table again, “I’m not in charge here. Frankly, I really don’t know what I’m doing, except when it comes to fighting them off up in space out there. But that’s not enough, and they’ve been after me—and my family—for months, now, and this kind of defense isn’t what I’m good at. And I have almost no specifics, I just learned I was Force sensitive a few months ago, and I don’t know what we’re facing up against. I’m not Luke Skywalker,” you tack on, a bit desperately, noting the way that Wedge’s expressions shifts when you mention him, “I’m not even a real Jedi. But I’ve seen a lot,” you say, eyes focusing back on the holotable, “and this—whatever it is, whatever evil is coming—is a real threat. And I can’t face it alone.”

You press your lips together. You can feel Din’s eyes on your face from where only one cheek is turned in his direction. Wedge, finally, steps forward, meets you in the middle directly across from you. “You don’t have to,” he says, and it’s with such determination, such finality, that it makes you exhale what feels like a month’s worth of bated breath. “Look, we’re all coming from different places,” he continues, gesturing to the array of people and aliens in the room around you, “but we have one goal, and that’s making sure the Empire, or whatever this is, stays dead and gone. I can be the figurehead, if you need a leader,” he says, and you nod, relieved, “but you need to be the one keeping us updated.”

“I can do that.” You grin over at him, standing up a little straighter, “especially if I have the rest of you behind me.”

“Well, then,” Wedge says, smile spreading back across his face, so warm in such a freezing place, “consider this your official welcome back to the Rebel Alliance, Commander.”

Your smile fills up the entire lower half of your face. “Thank you, General Antilles.”

Wedge looks around the room, and when you join him, you see the brief moment of lightness being shared by the rest of you. “Nah,” Wedge says, finally, “with what we’re doing, we don’t need formalities. We’re the new legion of the Rogue Squadron,” he continues, and your eyes bloom with tears around the edges. That was your mother’s team when she flew in the Alliance, all the people she told stories of when the night crept in. “Let’s get started.”

And when everyone moves in around the table to devise a plan, you feel Din’s hand clasp in your own, and when he squeezes it, you know he’s as proud of you as your parents would be, and you stop running. It’s time to fight.

A handful of days pass. You and Din share an empty bunkroom, huddled up together to keep each other from freezing. He still doesn’t seem like he’s entirely comfortable here, but earlier in the night, he ate in the mess hall with you. Even though it was technically after hours, even though no one else was in the room, he kept his helmet off for longer than a second, took the time to really enjoy his food. Now, you’re both naked, snuggling, wrapping the warmth of the blankets around each other’s shoulders.

In the past three days, you and the Alliance have devised a plan. Your job—and Din’s, considering he swore to follow you anywhere—is to go out scouting for these new troopers, to try to gain any sort of reconnaissance you can gather without drawing attention to yourselves. Wedge and the rest of the fractured Alliance—the new Rogue Squadron—will fly in small numbers of three or four to the deserted Empire outposts and connect with other allies in the New Republic to try and find out anything concrete related to this new boss, this new threat. Tomorrow morning, you’re leaving to fly around the Outer Rim, trying to go as undercover as possible wherever you land next, disguising yourselves—and Kicker—enough to hopefully travel relatively undetected.

“What’s the next condition?” Din whispers, bringing your attention back to him, the way his hands roam over the small of your back as he pulls you in close to him, your bare skin pressed flush up against his.

“Condition two,” you answer, pressing your cold nose into his neck, “is that I don’t stay on the ship anymore. Neither do you. Whatever we’re fighting, we fight it together.”

“Deal,” Din says, sighing. “Nova, I hated leaving you behind. I never thought you were…a burden, or something I had to keep an eye on. I just knew how much danger you could be in, especially in the last few weeks before…” he trails off, and you know how he’s kicking himself.

“I know,” you echo, out loud. “I know you didn’t think I was a liability. But you never let me fight my own battles alongside you, and now that I’m the one who’s putting us both in the direct line of danger, I have to have an equal standing on the ground with you.”

Din nods in the dark. You feel your hair tangle in his scruff, still slightly damp from the shared shower you took together an hour ago. “No staying on the ship.”

“The third condition,” you continue, snuggling in closer, “is that you hold me until I fall asleep. No complaining, no take-backs.”

“Nova.”

You giggle, the sound a soft, melodic thing in the dark. “I’m only half kidding. But the real third condition is that we talk about things and make decisions together. Unless, of course, we’re in the heat of battle, and one of us leads by example.”

Din sighs. “That’s only fair,” he allows, and he pulls you closer. “Does that mean…?” he trails off, and even though you’re half asleep, you can feel the weight of his unasked question, so you shift under the blankets to stare up at where you think his face is, only navigating by knowledge and touch alone through the darkness. “The other day,” he continues quietly, directly into your ear, “you said that you thought that—that me leaving meant that I was breaking off our engagement.”

“Yeah,” you manage, heart hammering in your chest.

Din swallows. You can feel it, in the pitch black, the movement of his throat. You map out his movements, trying not to pull away until he’s fully asked what he needs to. “Did I?” he asks, finally, voice low, dejected.

“I don’t know,” you answer, honestly. “I mean—you said you were coming back, but you left, and I didn’t know for how long. For a while, I…I acted like you were my ex, just to myself, so that I could try to protect myself from the hurt of it all, but…you told me you’re tied to me. I think I’m tied to you, too.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means,” you sigh, “you don’t have to win me back, anymore, but…if you wanted to propose to me again, I wouldn’t be entirely opposed to the idea.”

You can feel Din smile, a ghost of a thing, through the sleepy darkness. His grip on you tightens, and then he turns to wrap his body around yours, trapping all the heat in. “Is that how we’re playing this?”

You’re asleep before you can answer.

When you leave the base, it’s with a game plan in one hand and breakfast in the other. You and Din are heading to Cantonica. You’ve never been—its main locus, Canto Bight, was always a pit of gambling and crime, and after Jacterr, you never wanted to see anything remotely seedy ever again—but they have cantinas and loudness and clothing, and Din promised you replacements for the ones he tore off of you the other night.

Kicker’s been repainted, which wasn’t the original plan, but the planets that allied, nondescript ships are on—Dantooine, Tatooine, Naboo—have already been through the ringer, and you don’t want to implicate anyone else in this war on the new Empire if you don’t have to. She’s still very obviously a starfighter that belongs to the legion of Alliance ships, but with the remodel, everything’s been painted over with white and grey, disguising the orange. You’re still in your jumpsuit, because it’s about the one intact article of clothing you have, but when you land on Cantonica, you’re going to go in the first store you see and buy up a few sets of trousers and tops. Your other jacket, the one you didn’t wear when Din left you, is still hanging up, and you throw that on too, trying to counteract all the orange.

“What’s the plan?” Din asks as you’re taking off, and you level Kicker up and out of the landing bay.

“New clothes,” you say, winking at him, “food, reconnaissance. Trying not to die. Do you have anything else to add to the list?”

He hooks his fingers under the rim of his helmet, pulls it off. You’re distracted, almost immediately, eyes roaming over the contours of his face, trying to drink it all in. “Trying not to die should come sooner,” Din mutters, and you can trace a small smile on his lips.

“Good point,” you allow, pushing Kicker into warp. “That should always be the first thing on the list.”

For a handful of hours, you coast, kicking your feet up on Kicker’s dashboard, talking and laughing. You’re amazed at how easy it is, how it feels like everything in between, the distance, the darkness, has fallen away as you’re coasting through the stars. When you touch down, your mouth hurts from grinning, and you navigate to the northern part of the city, trying to find the cheapest landing bay. If you park on the outskirts, the loaners are a lot less demanding, so you pass over your credits, eyes scouring the ground for any potential threats.

Canto Bight is glittering, loud. The architecture here is almost all curved and chrome, and it looks like a flashier version of Coruscant, something that you didn’t even think was possible. It’s enough to keep you jumpy, make your skin crawl, but you don’t want to look dodgy, even though you know that you are far from the sketchiest figure here.

You look out the front window. “We need to get me in something that’s not orange,” you remark, wrapping your cloak around your waist like a skirt, pulling your jacket over your upper half.

Din’s looking at the armor that he took off earlier, shininess strewn over the floor. You know he’s going through another internal battle, trying to decide what the least conspicuous choice is, and you hand him his cloak.

“Here,” you whisper, draping it up over around his face, so only the bottom half is visible. “You can wear your helmet if you want, but—”

“It’s like a big, reflective beacon,” Din sighs, and you nod, biting down on your lip. “I can deal with this. I won’t wear my full armor, either, but I’d like to keep the weapons in my wrist plates.”

“Good call.” You hand him back those specific pieces, pulling your own blaster from the small armory on the lift side of the ship, and both of you make a simultaneous grab for the Darksaber.

Din stares at it. You stare back. “I don’t like that thing,” he says, voice loaded with disdain.

“Why do you have it?” you ask, tilting your head as your eyes map over the metal, dark and wicked. “Why keep something that you hate so much?”

Din sighs again, long and low. You know there’s more to the story, and you want to know it, but you don’t want to push him. “It’s complicated. I’ll explain,” he starts, as you lower the gangplank, “when we have a bit more time and we aren’t trying to stay undercover.”

You nod, slipping the hood of your jacket over your head. “I’ll carry it,” you offer softly, and as it hangs from your belt, you can feel that power, the way it burns, even when the blade isn’t ignited.

Canto Bight is loud. Everywhere, it’s loud, from the cantinas that people spill out of onto the streets, to the stores that you restored your wardrobe at, to the way noise filters in through the strange architecture. Everything here is amplified. You hate it, but there’s something alluring about it, too. You’ve stuffed your jumpsuit in your bag, sporting black pants and a black shirt, a new, heavier shawl in swirling patterns of browns. It’s warm and it’s soft and you feel like you’re wearing a blanket.

Din looks uncomfortable. That seems to be his standard mode of operation without his armor, but he’s just as shifty and paranoid as you are. Back in the shop, he got a black face covering, so between the hood and the makeshift mask, only his eyes shine through. Gorgeous and brown, flitting and concerned.

You’ve been walking around for hours, trying to pick up any clues that might lead you back to whoever’s after you. There are more sketchy people on Cantonica than there are non-sketchy ones, but all the leads you’ve followed have just lead to underground fighting or drugs, and when they look at you, you can sense they don’t have that special kind of malice and ruthlessness that the Empire thugs after you do. Your stomach grumbles, loudly, and Din takes your hand and pulls you into the newest cantina.

“Eat,” he says, immediately shoving a menu in your face. “Please,” he tacks on, after, the second he gets a glimpse of your face.

You do. You order kebabs and steamed vegetables and whatever delicacies they have to offer, and the table fills with bulbous platters and plates of food. You know Din prefers to have his face to the room, but you take over his usual position so he can eat without anyone making eye contact. He scarfs his food down, but you have a feeling it has more to do with the energy of this place than fear of being seen.

“This may have been a bad plan,” you admit, after your tummy is swelling up with the hallmarks of good food. “This planet seems to have one dead end after another.”

“You wouldn’t survive a day as a bounty hunter,” Din remarks, and you lightly kick him under the table. “Most of what I do—did—was just sitting and waiting.”

“I,” you say, with a lofty air of pompousness, “prefer not to sit and wait.”

“You love sitting,” Din counters, and you narrow your eyes. You can see his flash with mischief, even under his cloak, even in the low light, and you know he’s right, but you also don’t want to give this one to him.

A beat passes, and then the new band in the cantina starts playing a swinging tune, upbeat and jazzy, and you grin over at him, sliding out of your bench, heading straight for the dance floor.

“What are you doing?” Din hisses, hand closing over your wrist. “We’re supposed to—”

“Believe it or not,” you whisper back, nimbly plucking your hand free, “I can dance without revealing my identity. Most of these people in here are disguised. No one’s going to look at me twice.”

“Nova—”

“If you’re afraid,” you say, voice lowered, “you can just follow me out there and shield me.” This shakes him, you can tell. You wink, sauntering out onto the dance floor. You weren’t exaggerating. This place is full of people who don’t show their faces, and most of them are just swaying to the beat, moving and writhing out on the chromatic floor, spinning underneath the lights and colors. You haven’t danced in ages. Since you were first out on your own, before Coruscant became the place you almost died, you’d go out with friends you met in the cantina the day before, just to have someone to go with. When you were still traveling with Grogu, you’d spin around the Crest, trying to get him to move alongside you, but that wasn’t real dancing. Here, though, here in Canto Bight with your shawl obscuring your identity, you dance. Really, truly dance, your hips undulating, your arms moving to the beat, twirling and jiving underneath the lights, getting lost in the dance floor.

You can feel Din staring at you. A few times, you try to make eye contact with him, shimmying your hips suggestively, gesturing for him to join you, but he just sits there like he’s frozen. The tune changes, something slightly slower radiating for the band, the lead singer’s voice crooning and sultry. You close your eyes, trying to feel the music, only focus on the notes, the symphony.

Someone’s behind you. You sigh, a small groan, whipping around to face them. The man is tall, an orange tint to his skin, and you can tell he’s not fully human.

“I like a woman who knows how to dance,” he says, eyes lingering just a touch too long on the contours of your body.

“I do know how to dance,” you agree, “and I prefer to do it alone.”

“C’mon gorgeous,” he whispers, slimily, moving closer. You can feel his leg as it brushes yours, and you jerk away, knowing that your blaster is just on your thigh, that you can pull it out and knock him with it if he wants to try and touch you again. “Give me one dance. Let me take you for a ride.”

“No,” you say, heart flipping over, “I’m good, thanks.”

Quickly, before you can register, he’s grabbing your hips and flipping you around, fingers slithering into your belt loops, forcefully pulling your ass back to grind into him. The motherfucker’s hard. You take a second to respond, trying to decide between shooting him in the foot or kicking him in the groin, and when your gaze flits over to where Din’s sitting at the table, he’s not there anymore.

“Let go of me,” you say, “this is your final warning.”

“I’m just trying to dance with a pretty girl,” he whispers into your ear, and his pointer finger slips into the waistband of your pants, not quite prying into your panties, but you’ve had it. He’s going to get kicked where the sun don’t shine and you’re going to shoot his foot. You bring up your own, hard, between his legs, pointing the reinforced tip of your boot right where you know it’s going to hurt the most, and he starts yowling.

“I said, don’t fucking touch me,” you say, pulling your blaster out, trying to remain calm. The music is loud, everyone around you still dancing, without paying you any mind.

“You crazy bitch,” he says, still on the ground, trying to grab for your leg. You shoot his hand, just to stun him, and the blast gives him an electric shock. “I could have been the best you’d ever had if you gave me a fucking chance—”

“She’s spoken for.”

Din materializes, out of nowhere, and you look over at him, both relieved he’s here and annoyed that he didn’t trust you to fight this battle yourself. The man gets off the ground, swings at Din, and pushes his other hand onto you, his fingers dragging down the material of your shirt to the bare bones of your cleavage, fingernails digging over the fabric into your scar. You narrow your eyes and plant your boot on the side of his face, stomping him into the ground as hard as you can.

“I can speak for myself, you know,” you say, more to Din than the man, and when the fucker on the ground tries to grab for you again, you’ve had it. You’re exhausted from walking around, you’re tired from being chased to the corners of the galaxy, and you are so fucking sick of men trying to tell you where you belong. “But yeah, you creep, I’m taken. And if you don’t try to be a bit more respectful to other girls—if we leave you alive for long enough to hit on one again—you’re going to get hurt worse. Because I’m one of the nicer ones in this galaxy, and I didn’t shoot your face off on sight.”

He starts swearing at you, and Din moves, lightning fast, to grab a platter of fresh food off a nearby standing table, whacks the guy across the face. You see him spit out a few teeth as he’s knocked bloody and unconscious, and even though you know that it’s a better treatment than he deserves, heads turn wildly to the sound and the violence, and it doesn’t help that the band was in between songs and the only ruckus in the cantina is you and Din beating a creep into the ground.

People stare. You look at Din, who’s frozen, again, face still obscured under his clothes, but you can tell how hard this is. You don’t react, just take his hand and firmly pull him behind you, running out of the heat in the cantina into the cooler night. People are calling after you, and you know it’s probably not the wisest move to make a scene and then immediately cut and run, especially when you’re trying to stay undercover and not show anyone you’re the Force sensitive girl and her ruthless Mandalorian bounty hunter, but it doesn’t matter if Din’s not safe.

So you run, and you pull him with you. After a few blocks, you pull him around the corner of one of the strange, curved buildings, hiding in a small alley so that if anyone’s on your trail, they won’t be able to see you in the dark. Your breath is heaving, you can feel scratches over your scar, and you’re sweating, trying to cool down enough to take in air.

“Are you okay?” you ask gently, and Din nods, even though he’s stiff. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Great,” you exhale, heavily, “then you can tell me why you didn’t trust me to fight my own battle back in there when we just had the conversation about us being equals out here.”

Din looks back at you. Even in the dark, even with his face still half-obscured, you can see the guilt in his eyes. “Nova, I—”

“I know you were trying to protect me,” you sigh, dropping to the ground, pulling your shawl off your neck so you can press it against the coolness of the building. “I get that. And I’m thankful for it. But I’m not the same girl that needed you to kill every single thing that meant her harm a year ago.”

“I’m sorry,” Din says, his voice low but clear. “I—you’re right. I didn’t think. I saw that man touch you and I wanted to drop him right there, and I wasn’t paying enough attention to you handling it on your own.”

You smile. “Thank you,” you whisper, and then he’s standing over you, and you stare up at him, glorious and gorgeous even in the low light. “What are you doing?”

“Figuring out how to make it up to you,” Din whispers, and you let him pull you to your feet. “Would you rather be bent over backwards in this alley, or be eaten out for hours back on the ship?” His lips meet your neck, and everything is warm. You sigh, a small moan of a thing, feeling him write apologies with his tongue on your pulse point.

“Is both an option?” you manage, voice all breathy and high, and when he sinks his teeth into you to leave you with a hickey, something flashes in front of your eyes. For a second, you think it’s just the blinding light of pleasure, but when you try to flutter your eyes open, something’s there, obscuring you. A figure in a long, dark robe. Then flashes of light, red and blue, and your own mouth open and screaming, even though you haven’t moved. There’s something so unsettling about watching yourself move, watching yourself strike with light exploding out from around you, unable to warn yourself there’s someone behind you, unable to make yourself run away, and you yell again, except it’s coming from your own mouth instead of the one in the vision.

This breaks you out of it, just a bit, but you can feel yourself start running. Here, in your present day, feet hitting the pavement, even though your head is still in the vision. Whoever is attacking you is ruthless, lethal. The lightsaber you have at your side is no comparison to the evil behind you, and you run and run and run, swinging your arms, trying to use the Force in any desperate way that you can, and then you run into something.

You struggle. Hard. And then your eyes clear, and you can open them, and you see Din in front of you. Immediately, you stop kicking, You can see panic in his eyes.

“What the hell was that?” he asks, pulling you off the ground, wiping away the dirt kicked up in your attempt to get away from whatever that vision was.

“I—” you start, looking around wildly, “I had a premonition. Vision. Dream. Usually, when I have them, I’m in my own body, but I was watching myself this time. It—I’m okay. I’m sorry,” you say, looking back to him, trying to coax your hammering heartbeat back to its resting temperature. “We need to go back to the ship, I need to report this to Wedge—”

“Breathe first,” Din says, eyes darting around before he pulls his own cloak down. You stare at him, register his gentle but firm touch on your forearms, looking into his deep, brown eyes, trying to ground yourself. You nod, exhaling through your mouth, and, finally, you’re back at your baseline. When the two of you start slowly making your way back through the chromatic buildings, trying to find where you parked the skip, you take a few wrong turns and run into a handful of people.

One’s wearing brown, nondescript except for the seedy look on his face. Two are stormtroopers, one who’s pocketing a bag of spice. And the last man is the one you and Din just stomped on back in the cantina. You inhale, trying to step back undetected, but when you move, you feel the white armor of another trooper.

“We didn’t see anything,” you start, and the man who grabbed you in the club steps forward, grin evil and full of black holes from the teeth Din knocked out.

“I didn’t know you were so valuable, sweetheart,” he leers at you, moving forward. Din lunges, but he’s knocked back by the man in brown, and without his armor, he slams into the building, losing his balance. “If I had known you were worth this much money, I would have traded you straight in to the bounty hunters myself.”

“Could have saved a few teeth,” you say, cracking your neck to the side. “Shame you didn’t know beforehand.”

He moves closer to you. He’s gaunt and horrible in the moonlight, and the dried blood on his mouth looks like a gaping wound if you don’t fixate on it. You swallow. “What do you want,” you whisper, low and tired, positing it to the general group. “You want to turn me in? Get money for me? Why’re you after me in the first place?” You clock Din getting to his feet. The man in all brown strikes at him again, and Din dodges it. The troopers just stand there, holding you in place, while the man you attacked grins again, a broken smile full of venom.

“It’s not my place to ask questions,” he says, leering, “only to take you in.”

You sigh, looking up at the troopers holding you. Their uniforms are much more standard, rounded, normal. You can tell by action alone that they aren’t the ones working for whoever the new boss is, but you try it anyway. “How about you guys?” you ask, blowing a puff of air to get your hair out of your face, “why do you want me?”

You can see Din in your peripheral vision. You think he’s hurt, seriously hurt, but when you catch his eye, you know that he’s just faking it until you’re ready to jump into action. He’s righting his wrongs. You have the helm.

“Legend has it,” one says, voice strange through the modulator, “that you have the ability to use the Force. And that you,” he says, pointing at Din, “are the Mandalorian who almost died in the fight against Moff Gideon.”

“So what if we are?” you ask, and the man in front of you steps closer. Maker, he’s the worst. You can feel how hard the troopers are holding you back, so you try to relax, to get one hand free to call the saber into it when you’re ready. “What do you want with us? Why are there bounties on our heads?”

“You,” the man you attacked whispers, coming close enough that you can smell the vile blood on his breath, will be worth something invaluable to the Order.”

“Yeah?” you ask, brining your chin upward, trying to look frightened, to milk them for all the information they have. “What order?”

He grins. “With your power? We’ll use you over and over again, sweetheart.”

You’ve had enough. You sniff, hair in your eyes, and when he bends down to inspect you, you bring your head up, hard, under his chin. He cries out in pain, and you throw the Darksaber over to Din, who ignites it, cuts the man in brown down to the ground. You’re not sure if the severing of his arm was enough, but you dart and pull through the troopers, trying to use your size to your advantage. They tower over you, and even though you aren’t the nimblest or fastest, you’re good at getting on the ground and kicking the shit out of whatever else is above you. You roll and twist, and one trooper grabs you by your neck, the other one taking a crack at your knee. You yell in pain, and you close your eyes, throwing one against the wall, evading the other trooper’s arms.

“Now!” you yell to Din, and you watch as the Darksaber flies, fully ignited, through the air. You catch it like you’re built for it, and you twist around to go back-to-back, you swiping at the man in front of you, Din pulling the blaster off your hip to use on the two troopers.

“You have no idea what you’re doing,” the man spits, and you cry out as you slash at him, moving him back against the wall. “Even if you kill us, nothing will change. You want to know what the Order is?”

“I have decided that I don’t care,” you seethe, swiping at his foot. He’s quicker than you are, somehow, and he’s able to predict your movement. He cracks at your hand, and you yell, tossing the saber back over your shoulder to Din, grabbing the blaster out of his outstretched palm.

“It’s going to be even bigger,” he says, grabbing at your neck, and you shoot him in the foot like you should have back in the cantina. Howling, he falls back, but he’s still yelling at you. Behind you, you hear the cries of the troopers, and then silence. Din tosses the saber back, unlit, and you ignite it in your hand. You’re not great at this. You’re making mistakes. But you’re here, fighting your own battles, and you have your weapon against the bastard’s throat, the man you love in waiting behind you to back you up if need be. “You have no idea what’s coming.”

“More thugs?” you ask, pointing the tip of the saber underneath his chin. “I think I can handle that.”

He grins at you, blood spilling out of his slimy lips. “What died didn’t stay dead, little girl,” he whispers, and Din ducks under your outstretched arm to hold your blaster up, firm and strong, looking at the guy with pure hatred. “The Dark Side is coming for you. You’re never going to win.”

“Watch me,” you say, and then Din puts a bullet through his chest. “Fourth condition,” you say, trying to catch your breath, “you don’t let me fall.”

Din stares at you. “Okay,” he starts, and then you feel your consciousness fade back out into a vision, and before you land on the ground, Din’s holding you up. You can see it—the same scene as before—flashes of blue and red light, screaming. You’re on the other side, this time, watching yourself battle against something dark and faceless.

“Go!” you hear yourself scream, reverberating, and the you that you’re watching explodes in light. It’s so bright that you have to turn away. You cry out, and when you turn around, Luke Skywalker is staring you straight in the face. Except he’s not blonde, anymore, he’s old and grey and there’s a haunted look in his eyes. “Go,” he repeats, and presses something into your hand. Your eyes fly back open before you can make sense of it.

You come back like hurtling out of a dream. You gasp, and Din lets you down, gently, onto the ground. “Cyar’ika,” he says, and you can hear how scared his voice is. He pushes your hair out of your eyes, and you stare back at him in the moonlight, trying to get your bearings. “Novalise, what is going on?”

“I don’t know,” you answer, honestly, and then you hear a noise from behind you. You duck when the first round of artillery comes. It’s not stormtroopers, at least—it looks like angry villagers, maybe a militia they’ve formed to keep outsiders in check. Din’s hand is clasped in yours and he’s pulling you behind him, throwing the saber through the air until you can catch it in your palm. When you ignite it, you see the people balk, and it’s enough for them to step back to give you both the leeway to run. You have no idea where you’re going. There’s absolutely no indication where you are in the city. Din twists and turns, but the group is gaining speed, and they’re on your heels. They’re yelling, jeering, and the only thing in your head is the voice of the man who touched you, whispering what died didn’t stay dead. You’re cold, but it has nothing to do with the chill of the night.

You’re on the ground before you realize you’ve been shot. You yelp the second it registers, a slug buried in your calf. Din lifts you up and keeps moving, until another gun points at him and sinks one into his shoulder. He yells out, too, and both of you are just moving, running wildly away from your attackers. The second you spot Kicker, you ignite the Darksaber again, slashing at the closest men on your heels. Din ducks in front of you, pulls the blaster out, and keeps shooting as you climb the gangplank and get up the ladder. For a second, a slow, agonizing second, Kicker doesn’t start. And then you hear Din get shot again.

“No!” you cry, scrambling back down the ladder, brandishing the Darksaber. “Get away from him,” you say, voice as level as you can possibly make it. Din is gasping on the gangplank, bleeding profusely out of something on his chest.

The main raises the gun and you use the Darksaber to slice his arm clean off. You gasp at what you’ve done, staring at your hand, trying to reconcile how even your pulse is, how your palm isn’t even shaking. As Kicker bursts into life, you pull Din up the gangplank, scaling the ladder long enough to punch the coordinates of open space into the navigation system, and then sliding back down with a bacta kit to fix whatever’s bleeding.

“Fifth condition,” you say, voice shaking, “you wear your armor no matter how dangerous it is, because you are not allowed to leave me again.”

“Deal,” Din manages, weakly. You wrangle off his shirt. The bullet is lodged in between two of his ribs, but it doesn’t look like he’s nicked a major artery, so you breathe a sigh of relief as you begin to clean the wound. “I’ve already told you, I’ll follow you anywhere—”

“That,” you interrupt, “doesn’t matter if you fucking die on me.”

“Well,” Din starts, hissing the second the alcohol burns into his skin, disinfecting the wound, his stomach contracting. You stare at the pockmarks of all the other scars you’ve patched up. “That’s a—fuck—a good point,” he agrees, finally, and you carefully apply the bacta patch. The second it’s secured, you look around to his other injuries, scanning for anything else life-threatening, and then Din’s pushing himself up on the heels of his hands.

“No,” you protest, “not a good idea—”

“You’re shot,” he reminds you, and your eyes follow his all the way down to the bullet lodged in the muscle of your leg.

“Oh, yeah,” you say, distantly, “I am.” Silently, you assume your regular position—staring over at Din while he works, quiet—and when you feel Kicker shoot safely out of Cantonica’s atmosphere, you breathe a tiny sigh of relief. “Condition six,” you sigh, “is that we keep patching each other up after we’re being shot at.”

“That just seems like common sense,” Din mutters, and when you catch his eyes, he manages a soft smile. “Is that the last condition?” he continues, injecting you with the bacta shot before he bandages the wound, “because that seems like a notable place to end on.”

“I don’t know,” you say, softly, feeling the buzz of the bacta coursing slowly through your veins. Your face stretches into a smile, even though you know it won’t be the last one. But here, now, after you just fought off five men together, before you’re about to rendezvous with the rest of the New Rogue Squadron to try and stop whatever evil is coming, you think you both deserve a safe place to land. “I don’t know if that’ll be the last one. But I’ll tell you,” you sigh, adjusting, pulling him in closer, “after you marry me.”

Din stares at you. “I thought I was supposed to propose again—”

“Beat you to it,” you slur, “marry me, Mandalorian.”

He laughs. A real laugh, a genuine one. Maker, it’s the most glorious sound you’ve ever heard. He bends down to kiss you. He tastes like home. “Okay,” he whispers, tipping his forehead gently against yours. “But there’s something I have to tell you first.”

“Oh, Maker,” you sigh, feeling the bacta about to take its full effect, struggling up on your hands to face him. “Do you have another family that you haven’t told me about?”

“That…depends on what you mean by family,” Din says, slowly. Even through your drugged haze, you feel the weight of it. You sit up straighter, staring at him. “Earlier, you asked why I have the Darksaber.”

“Yeah,” you answer, eyebrows furrowing down the middle.

“Well,” Din continues, sighing, pulling it off of your belt, “I have it because I won it in battle with Gideon. And much to Bo-Katan’s dismay—and mine—apparently, that means it’s mine until someone else wins it from me.”

“I—what?” you ask, trying to shake away the fuzzy feeling, “what are you saying to me?”

“I’m saying,” Din emphasizes, sighing, looking down at the Darksaber in his hand, “that I don’t have a secret family, and I’m never leaving you again, but…”

“What?” you repeat.

“I accidentally became the ruler of Mandalore,” Din admits. “And I don’t know how to get out of it.”

You stare at him, speechless, and then the bacta kicks in and everything fades to black.

as always, reply here or send me a message to be added to the taglist!!!

I HOPED YOU LOVED IT!!!! this chapter spanned over so much, but it was a joy to write. i took a lot of little liberties here and there with fudging the og star wars plot/timeline, but it's all to set up the sequel, and i promise if it seems like it's moving quickly, there's going to be more plot points described in way more depth later on! <3

SOME NOTES:

1. i do not know when SM will be over (i have this last arc to finish up & stuff to introduce for the sequel) but as soon as i know when we're nearing the end, i will let y'all know here & on tiktok (padmeamydala)!

2. yes i am pushing the wedgeluke agenda. they are in love. if you guys are picking up ~vibes~ it's because they're there. wedgeluke romantic subplot because, well, i want to and i love writing about my favorite little fruit luke skywalker & it's been so fun to write my interpretation of wedge!!

3. i've gotten a few comments and messages that are very critical of Nova and the way she's acting. i want her to have depth, and sometimes being a little selfish or not immediately rushing to convey messages to the Alliance when she's dealing with heavy and/or emotional experiences comes along with that! you are, of course, entitled to your opinions on Nova/her characterization/SM in general, and it's more than okay to voice those opinions to me, but please just know that she's written the way she is because she's coming into her own (and the girl has been through the RINGER lol), and she's flawed because i want her to have depth and her own merits, more than just a reader insert character or a love interest, because she's going to have much more of her own personality in the sequel. please just be respectful of me and my work, and please voice whatever you want to say with kindness <3

CHAPTER 28 WILL BE UP SATURDAY, JULY 3RD @ 7:30 PM EST!!!!

xoxo, amelie

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hypnomicimagines · 4 years ago

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In Another Life [Jinguji Jakurai]

You don’t know what you did to end up on the receiving end of a knife.

You had been peacefully slumbering, your parents in the next room over having finally quieted down after an extended fight that you hoped would lead to a divorce. It was a bit dark to think such things but you were a teenager now, you were beginning to understand adult issues and you could tell that there was something hovering over them causing these outbursts. Perhaps separating wouldn’t be in their best interest but you were simply tired of the yelling, of the constant negativity, of the inability to exist in your own house without having to be stressed about when the next fight was coming.

You fell asleep thinking about them but your dreams had been far more pleasant, a technicolor daydream of another life, one where you were unapologetically happy.

And then you woke up to a knife to your throat.

Your eyes met your attackers briefly, a chill coursing through your veins at that complete lack of emotion in them. You were used to being surrounded by anger and hatred, but there was something foreign about this look. It’s like his eyes (you thought it was a man, a boy, but it was rather dark) were devoid of any emotion, telling you ‘this isn’t personal’; luckily you were feeling enough emotions for both of you but remained too afraid to move, frozen in place as you lock eyes with your attacker.

What were you feeling now? Acceptance? You wished you could say goodbye to your parents. Would this mystery man at least let you do that? There are a thousand thoughts running through your head but you notice as time ticks on that he’s unmoving, that he can’t seem to tear his eyes off of you. You almost want to ask if he’s okay despite how nonsensical it would be to do so flinching when he finally moved. The knife is no longer pressed to your throat and as he’s pulling away, a sliver of moonlight drifting in through your window reveals that his hands are shaking.

Was he as scared as you were?

Was he feeling regret?

You don’t get an answer, your vision blurring before you’re left alone in your room once more. You almost think that he was simply a hallucination before you feel something wet sliding down your neck, fingers coming up to curiously feel around the area, stained red with your blood. You sat up from your bed and ripped the covers off, running screaming down the hall for your mother as you suddenly realized something bad had almost happened. The rest of the night is filled with your screams, your tears, life as you knew it ending.

You didn’t think much of it now that you were an adult.

You had a fulfilling career, owning a club of your own in Shinjuku where you often hosted costume nights and other little celebrations to give people a respite from their boring day jobs. You loved greeting all types of customers, making long-lasting friendships that might benefit you in the long-run, working until the wee hours of the morning when you finally dragged yourself home (though there was a backroom at the club that you sometimes made a temporary place of rest as you got too exhausted to walk back to your apartment). Your life had been on a steady track for such a long time you didn’t think anything else could possibly upset it, after all, what could be more senselessly tragic then finding the dead bodies of your own parents?

You had run into their room that night and thankfully, the carnage had been mostly hidden by the dark but the scent of copper hitting your nose made you realize quickly what had happened. Had that same person who ominously loomed over you killed your parents first? Or had it simply been a job done by multiple people at once? You didn’t want to think too deeply about it, for the sake of your sanity you knew you couldn’t play detective, but for many people it left a pressing question in the back of their minds.

Why did it happen? Why were you left alive?

All you knew was that you were alive. You had lived through that night, being shown some odd sliver of mercy from that dark, emotionless figure, and you weren’t going to squander what you had been given. You would live your life, unquestioning, mourning your parents but doing your best to live a life that would make them proud.

You met him one cold December night, walking down the street with an unfortunate number of shopping backs in your arms. They weren’t difficult or too heavy for you to hold but you were looking forward to being home, hoping that you’d get there soon so you could decorate your home with the new decorations you’d had. You were deep in thought when you’re suddenly bumped into by a gaggle of squealing women, eyebrow raised as you hear them speaking of some type of rap battle going on. You had been curious about the upcoming DRB, of course everyone and their mother had been talking about Matenro in Shinjuku, but you found yourself too busy to look too far into it.

But there they were.

The blonde was the number one host in Shinjuku, you’d passed the billboards countless times, and the other one was the most exhausted looking office worker you had ever seen. At first their leader, the one with long flowing hair adorned in a doctor’s coat, had his faced turned in the opposite direction, politely greeting some fans that had the courage to approach them. His mannerisms made him seem polite enough but those women were swooning, leaving you curious as to what he looked like. He had to be a bombshell, right? No one acts like that for some average joe.

And then he turns toward you, his eyes drifting through the crowd until they meet yours.

You’d recognize those eyes anywhere.

They’re different for sure, they’re no longer blank but filled with an emotion that you’re not aware of. You are, however, aware of how hard this man is staring at you now and as confident as you are in your looks, you’re pretty sure he’s recognized you as well. For a second you have to wonder if this is the end of the line, if this man is about to actually take you out since you know some rather scandalous information about him, but then again how could you ever prove it? It takes all the will power in your body to tear your eyes away from him, pushing back into the crowd that had slowly started to form around Matenro until you’d managed to sneak into an alley.

Your night continues unimpeded, thankfully no man is standing by your bedside when you wake up the following afternoon; you’re almost a little disappointed as he looked far more beautiful after all these years, you certainly wouldn’t have minded getting a house call from him. The trauma you had gone through was really rearing its ugly head with your sense of humor but it was amusing in the end to see that your potential assassin had turned his life around into not only becoming a doctor, but also a famous rapper. You almost wished you had approached him just to see what he would say, what he would do, but that plan had officially been canceled as you suspected you wouldn’t see the man again for a very long time.

That night was when he came for his first visit to your club.

You spot him sitting at the bar and he’s rather hard to miss, not to mention he’s so recognizable that you’d have to be blind not to realize who he was. Doing a quick internet search helped you refresh your memory on his name, Jinguji Jakurai, and there were quite a few articles about what a skilled doctor he had turned out to be (as well as his past experience being in a famous rap group which was often compared to the group he was part of now). Did his teammates know who he was? Did they know what he did? Or were they just as blissfully unaware?

“Did you come back to finish the job?”

You shoo away the bartender before speaking with Jakurai, knowing this is a conversation you’d like to deal with one on one. The club wasn’t technically open yet but he must’ve talked his way inside by flashing a handsome smile; you could only imagine all the things that smile of his could get him. You don’t get to see it as he doesn’t find your joke nearly as funny as you do, almost flinching as you bring up a past he likely wants to forget about. You have to deal with the reality of that past though and so does he, regardless of how you both personally feel about it. But you’re curious as to what this visit is about, ready to call for security at any given moment should things go south.

Jakurai takes a few moments to respond, taking a sip from his grapefruit juice (you noticed the lack of alcohol in his drink right away) before he responds.

“I never thought I’d see you again.” His hands remain wrapped around his glass, Jakurai casting a contemplative glass at its contents.

“That’s fair enough because I can say the exact same thing. But… Why are you here, exactly? Did you want a thank you for not killing me? Because like thanks and all, but you still got my parents so we’re not exactly even in my book.” Another wince of pain, but he takes your shot with grace, nodding his head as you continued on. “I’m glad to see life’s been treating you so well, Doc, but mines been a mess. So what is it that you want?”

“To apologize,” Jakurai stated firmly, eyes coming to meet yours. “For all the pain that I have caused you.”

“Your apology isn’t accepted.” He’s not at all surprised which sort of pisses you off, of course this assassin rapper man has it more together than you. There are long buried emotions beginning to bubble to the surface and you consider grabbing his glass to dump the contents all over him, Jakurai removing his hands from it as though he had read your mind. But as quickly as the anger bubbled up it simmered down, your heart still hammering in your chest as you tried to regain control of your emotions. “Can you at least tell me why? Did you… Were you the one who did it?”

“…I didn’t. I don’t believe that would make you feel any better about what happened but I… You were the first person who made me truly believe that I could no longer live the life I was living.” Jakurai’s voice softened, “You were like a light in the darkness, too bright to look at yet I couldn’t bring myself to look away. I wanted to thank you as well for all that you’ve done for me but it didn’t seem right to do it in the same breath.”

“You… I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to think of this. You’re thanking me? You didn’t kill my parents but you were definitely about to kill me but you… stopped because I was some light to you? Some person who made you realize killing other people was wrong? You know how that sounds, right?”

“There’s a lot in my life I wish to atone for.” Jakurai flashed that handsome smile that had gotten him into your club early, “I don’t expect your forgiveness but it wouldn’t feel right to be reunited with you without expressing my regrets.”

He stood from the bar and placed money on the counter, straightening himself out and brushing his hair from his shoulder as he prepared to leave. It felt wrong to leave it there, to allow him to exit your life once again as quickly as he had entered it, especially when you felt you were still owed something. You reached across the bar to grab at his sleeve, tugging on it and watching as Jakurai turned around with a surprised expression on his face.

“Just.. come perform here or somethin’, okay? Get me some business and maybe I’ll start to think about forgiving you. Maybe.”

Jakurai smiled but this time it was more amused in nature, as if he didn’t expect something like that from you.

“As you wish.”

And your wishes were fulfilled.

You met Hifumi and Doppo through Jakurai, listening to them both speak highly of their leader and all that he had done for them. For all intents and purposes, it seemed he truly had turned over a new leaf, as far as they knew anyway. He hadn’t really given you any reason to doubt his change in character, even now when you look into his eyes you could tell something had changed within him, and Jakurai did uphold his promise to have Matenro perform. He even came back whenever the three of them weren’t busy, increasing publicity for the club further as now it was assumed you were good friends of the three rappers instead of just a one-off gig.

You could say that was very close to what was happening.

You were fond of Hifumi and Doppo, you always threw free drinks at poor Doppo who came in to complain about his boss and laughed at all of Hifumi’s stories that were at Doppo’s expense. Chatting with them had been much too fun for you to cut it short so you spent your nights at the club with them at their VIP table, Jakurai quietly watching the interactions between the three of you with a content expression on his face. You didn’t know how happy it made him to see the three important people in his life getting along well, you probably hadn’t even guessed how important you truly were to him just yet.

“I still see you as that light,” Jakurai confessed one night after the club had closed, not a hint of shame on his face, “However, now that I’ve gotten to know you… You’ve become so much more to me. It feels out of line to say such things after all I’ve done…”

“Yeah, it sure does.” You feel a little awkward now because you felt the exact same way, completely fascinated by this man, enamored with him like a lot of the women in his life seemed to be. Yet you were the one who got to be close to him like this, who got to sit face-to-face alone with him while he wasn’t on the job, and that had to count for something. “But you… You mean a lot more to me now, too.”

This is the first time you’ve ever seen a look of genuine surprise on his face but you quite liked the way his eyes raised and the corner of his mouth twitched, not sure if he should smile or frown at your statement. He let out a sigh but he it was out of relief more than anything, knowing he didn’t deserve even that out of you after what he had done. To find love with the one target he couldn’t kill… How many sleepless nights had he spent thinking of you, worrying over what might have become of you?

“This is like, kinda fucked up, you know? Like what type of weird way to meet is ‘I almost killed you but realized I couldn’t and now we’re in love’? Like seriously, there’s gotta be like ten trashy, poorly written romance novels about-“

You continued to ramble on nervously, knowing this hardly made sense but at the same time who cared? This was your life after all, and if you wanted a pretty doctor to kiss you to make you feel better, then you would get it! Past be damned, you were going to take this God given gift of a man and use him for all he was worth.

Jakurai’s fingers gently touch your face, running along your jaw towards the small scar, the scar he had made, before he suddenly shied away. But you don’t want him to leave, you crave his touch now, putting his hand right back where it was and looking up at him with pure determination. There were heavy sins weighing him down, resting on his shoulders, but he had only been a child himself, something that made forgiving him a little easier to swallow. You believed him when he said he hadn’t been the one to kill your parents and you believed him when he said he was remorseful for the lasting impact he had on your life.

“Jakurai, I’ve come up with a way to forgive you.”

“Is that right?” Jakurai’s smiling his beautiful ethereal smile that always causes your heart to skip a beat, “How might I be of service?”

“Kiss me.”

“I have a lifetime of mistakes to make up for,” Jakurai whispered against your lips, hands cradling your face in a loving manner, “I don’t deserve you.”

“You say that yet…” You reached over to run your fingers through his silky hair, twirling a strand of it around your finger, “I can’t account for your other mistakes but that doesn’t matter to me now. You’ve changed for the better, you save lives every day, so as long as you keep doing that… I think that I… I forgive you, Jakurai. So please, accept my heart and protect it.”

Those words he never thought he would hear finally reach his ears and he’s so filled with joy he could hardly contain himself, brief tears gathering at the corner of his eyes before he leans in to press his lips against yours. You want to pull away, to tease that he had only kissed you now because he was trying to hide the overflowing emotions he was currently dealing with, but it felt far too good to leave Jakurai’s embrace now.

If you could help it, you’d never have to live without his embrace again.

#Jinguji Jakurai #Jakurai Jinguji #Hypnosis Mic #Hypnosis Microphone #Hypnosis Mic Imagines #Hypnosis Mic x Reader #Hypnosis Microphone Imagines #Hypnomic #Hypmic #Jinguji Jakurai x Reader #Jakurai Jinguji x Reader #Scenario

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grimoire-of-seven · 4 years ago

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𝑶𝒃𝒆𝒚 𝑴𝒆: 𝑺𝒉𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒘𝒆 𝑾𝒆𝒅?

ℙ𝕒𝕣𝕥 𝟜: 𝕎𝕖𝕕𝕕𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝔼𝕡𝕚𝕝𝕠𝕘𝕦𝕖

Rating: SFW Word Count: 925 Characters: All Brothers, Barbatos, Luke, Simeon, Solomon, & Dia x Gender Neutral Reader Note: Hello, darlings.~ You vote and we deliver. Foremost, thank you to our 2000+ followers for supporting us and helping us reach this milestone and we truly appreciate it. It is still something that surprises us until this time and here is to more milestones to achieve.~ Also, Happy Valentines to everyone and thank you for the patience there is for waiting on our wedding event epilogue. ----

“All better, your majesty.”

Grinning at his own reflection with his butler blending to the background tidying his majesty’s accessories, everything seems perfect.

Somehow less is more on this kind of occasion.

Grinning with how suave his reflection was, seeing how his outfit compliments his complexion with a few turns and angles, glasses of champagne rang a chorus of congratulations from the brothers - toasting for his and his human’s marriage.

“You know, Looord Diavolo~,” the human sorcerer cooed at his ear, the lord emphasizing the Avatar of Pride’s way of addressing the royalty who was watching at the distance until his attention went to the twins drinking all of the champagne, “I’m just saying if you really want this ‘union’ to work, why don’t we just all share them?~”

“I am with Solomon here.” Asmodeus handing and chiming in like his glass clinking with his Majesty. “Isn’t it the more, the merrier?~”

“Well,” the Avatar of Greed interrupting, “We all made pacts with our human and they want us around, surely…” with the eldest glaring at the peripheral of his vision, “Our prince has no say to it.?” He mumbled the latter under his breath, seeing the eldest approaching the trio.

“Do we not have places to be, hmm?” Lucifer announcing himself as the three scattered, with some as the bridesmaids, their human’s maid of honor, and with Diavolo, the Avatar of Pride accompanied his friend, both waiting for their human at their made-shift altar.

For a moment, with guests taking their seats, Diavolo had his fingers subconsciously knotting themselves together. Even with an open suit, he could feel heat trickling within his sleeves and forehead had Lucifer did not interfere with his fixation on little details, twenty-five minutes later.

With his best man, hushedly announcing the silhouettes entering the door's frame, all eyes were watching and waiting for his love to come, all rising from their seats, their familiar faces turned in the opposite direction.

Brushing the carpet with awws was Devildom's little Luke bearing the pair of rings softly cushioned by a royal navy pillow and rather than being frustrated and at his wit’s end with how blatant demons would say about how tiny he was compared to many, the prince noticed the adorable angel beaming, happy to be a part of his and his human’s ceremony. Entering behind him were the avatars of sin, uniformly dressed with such sophistication, all except for his love’s favorite brother whom they are in arms with, walking towards him.

From that moment, he could feel his lips climbing from ear to ear, endearingly fixated on the beautiful person walking, smiling back at him. Beautiful and perfect were mere words that could not compare to what was before him. His lips were blissfully sealed to a grin, he felt a tickle on his cheeks, making him sway and bite his lips with his love reciprocating his smile that the prince’s eyes spoke for himself as tears welled up before his hands could wipe them.

They are just so beautiful.

Just so perfect..

Sniffing and murmuring just how lucky and privileged he was, to be the one blessed with their arms forever. He scoffed with many thinking they were in a Cinderella tale, with him as the prince charming taking a commoner to his arms when he could recall being the opposite just as what his words aforementioned.

Letting the thought settle seeing his once fellow student, to now become his partner-in-life near, his love reached for his cheeks to dry upon arriving beside him, giving him a smile that only his eye could paint as the prince of Devildom watched them meet him in the middle.

Resisting to share a kiss as he has been told to save it at the concluding bit, which was rather silly for the crowned monarch of Hell since from what he was briefed with, weddings are supposed to be the display of devotion, he felt a nudge from his hand reigning his thoughts to the present, one taken with such warmth, he composed himself just as they shared the sacrament no demons dared to be sealed with, let alone be officiated by those who flock around Heaven, he noticed how flustered his love was, perhaps the surprise he hinted last night drifting away with minutes passing by to sweep it off.

“You look so wonderful, love.” He teased seeing them elegantly laced, making them redder than the bouquet on their hand, and hearing them grudgingly

Hearing the ceremony partake and how there was so much excitement in the room, contentment resonated in his heart, sighing all the bubbling doubts aside before the ceremony. Alas, the happiness he had only elevated when it was their time to recite their vows, captivating the royalty - swooning him almost had it was not his time to speak.

Spotlight on his head and the ring on his finger, what was rehearsed last night with his best man and butler stayed behind his tongue, retreating from the “puppy eyes”, he awkwardly held their hands, reciprocating the fond softness there were in their eyes, and rather than to speak, he let the growing light blind represent himself, shocking those who came to witness as a print of his came onto his human’s skin, particularly on their ring finger before he could put their ring on - happy to make a pact with them.

And I will be with you if forever could never be enough for me to say I love you so.

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spacedikut · 5 years ago

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everything is green ; aaron hotchner

pairing: aaron hotchner (criminal minds) x f!reader

summary: “I know it seens a little unlikely, but can you write a jealous Hotch imagine for me? Something adorable with this grumpy baby, because he's SO PRETTY when he smiles 😍 Like him kissing the reader untill she forgets her name in the end 🥰 Just an idea, write whatever you want 😘” 1743 words

a/n: ohhhhhh boy jealous hotch is Not unlikely i just think he’s better at hiding it than anyone else on this planet ;-) oh and Y/L/N means your last name!

masterlist

There’s a deep furrow to Aaron’s eyebrows. Deeper than usual, at least, and Rossi notices the second he steps back into the precinct after visiting the latest crime scene.

“What’s got you all pouty?” He asks with a teasing lilt, thumbs tucked into his back pockets.

Hotch jolts out of the stupor he was in, blinking as he registers his surroundings.

He chooses to ignore Rossi’s question, “What did you find at the scene?”

Now invested because Hotch doesn’t ignore direct questions, Rossi merely raises his eyebrows and decides okay, we’ll play it that way, Hotchner.

+++

“Hotch is being grumpier than usual and it is driving me insane.”

Penelope’s angelic voice is a beautiful escape from the bustling sounds of New York. It truly is the city that never sleeps, and when there’s a killer on the loose, nothing changes except there’s a little more blood on the streets.

“Y/N-“ Penelope calls, directly calling you out, “Can you sort your man out, please?”

You glance over your shoulder, standing before the evidence board next to Reid, “What’s he doing?”

“I don’t even get a hello anymore! It’s all,” She lowers her voice to mock her boss, “Garcia, I need this. Bye. And don’t even get me started on when we video call, that man has his eyebrows halfway down his face and, yes, that is extreme for even the Aaron Hotchner.”

“You know,” Rossi comments, leaning back in his chair, “He looked awfully forlorn when we got back earlier. Something going on, Y/N?”

“He always looks forlorn. That’s his face.”

There’s chuckles at your comment. But your interest is piqued – is something wrong with Aaron? Surely he’d tell you, right?

The case has been a busy one – are they ever not busy? – and since you specialise in linguistics and the unsub has an affinity for notes, you’ve spent most of your time with Reid and Blake. Combine that with the lack of sleep and free time, you haven’t really seen Aaron all that much.

So is something going on?

You don’t have time to ponder. There’s victims to worry about.

+++

“So, Agent Y/L/N,”

You will admit, Detective Gray has a certain… swagger to him. Reminds you of Derek.

“You ever been to New York before?”

If you were still in college, you’d swoon over his accent. That New York twang.. does things for you.

But you’ve got a very handsome unit chief who treats you so well, and you’ve only got eyes for him. You can’t stop thinking about him, in fact. You haven’t kissed him in nearly twenty-four hours.

It’s barbaric. Cruel.

God, where is he? Can you kiss him right now?

On the other side of the room, Rossi and JJ watch you stir your tea as you and the detective talk. They don’t miss the faraway look in your eyes, and they certainly don’t miss the interested look in the detective’s eyes. There’s two very different understandings of the conversation, they’re sure.

Hotch walks over, blissfully unaware, and is about to make small-talk when he notices the direction of his team member’s gazes. He follows, and that same frown from earlier appears – Rossi just catches it.

“Have you met Detective Gray, Aaron?” Rossi stares.

“I have.. spoken to him, yes. He’s a good detective.”

Rossi and JJ share a look.

Times like these, they’re so glad to be profilers. There are very few people that read Aaron Hotchner like a book, you’re the perfect example, but the one time JJ and various other members of the team have felt like real profilers is when Hotch has done something, maybe an eye twitch or when his left eyebrow rises just a little, and they immediately go Oh! That’s a tell!

And they get giddy, before remembering they’re professionals and he is their boss.

JJ smirks and raises her eyebrows, “Yeah, he’s a real good detective.”

Hotch’s eyes narrow for half a second before he excuses himself.

+++

It’s Hotch’s fault, really. So why should he be annoyed? Flustered? Jealous?

God, if you even thought for a second that he was jealous he’d never hear the end of it.

He was the one that told you to go with Derek to the M.E., and that an officer was there waiting. That officer was Detective Gray, who has seemed to take quite the liking to you.

Hotch can’t blame him. You won him over, even though he tried to resist. You’re irresistible and it’s infuriating sometimes.

So when Hotch sees a moment to finally get some alone time with you, albeit on the clock and en route to speak to a witness, he grasps it firmly in his wonderful hands and tries not to beam like a little kid on Christmas when you approach the SUV.

“Well hello, Agent Hotchner,” You greet, hopping into the passenger seat.

“Agent Y/L/N,” He nods.

There’s a quick case recap for the first few minutes, throwing in a few personal theories and guesses on what you expect when you arrive at the witness’s house, but when that dies out the two of you are left with silence, which isn’t uncomfortable or uncommon. But you have to ask.

“There’s rumours being spread about you, you know.”

Hotch hmphs, hands tightening on the wheel, “There’s always rumours about me.”

“Oh?” You tease, eyebrow raising, “So you admit you’re popular?”

He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t react. Doesn’t even do that thing you find absurdly attractive – when he lifts an eyebrow and gives a half smile that isn’t really a smile but it still lights up his eyes.

He looks more stoic than usual, staring straight ahead with calculating eyes. Originally, you thought he was overly focussed on the case, a confusing victimology combined with a police department reluctant to help will do that to you, but now… maybe the teasing from the team has some truth to it.

It’s silent the rest of the way. Even when you ask about possible dinner plans for when you get home, Hotch replies, “I think it’d be best if we focused on the case. For now.”

You bite your tongue and agree.

+++

Remember Grumpy Cat?

A month into dating, Hotch revealed he’s aware it’s Garcia’s nickname for him. It’s sort of an inside joke between the two of you, and that year for his birthday he received a birthday card from you with said cat on the front.

(There was a sweet message inside, too, that Hotch still carries with him years later)

Now, as he’s sat next to you on the way back to the police department, he is a mirror image of the disgruntled face of the famed cat. If the situation was different, i.e. he wasn’t giving you the cold shoulder, you’d have a camera in his face and Garcia would have a new contact picture for him.

When he pulls into the department parking lot and goes to jump out, you stop him with an, “Aaron.”

You never really call him Aaron during cases. It doesn’t feel right.

He sits back in his seat and you look at him.

When he sees you try to stifle a laugh, he rolls his eyes.

“It’s not funny.”

You purse your lips, smothering a grin, “I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t need to.” Even though he’s looking forward at the wall, you notice a little quirk on one side of his mouth.

“So it’s true, then?” You ask.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

You jokingly shove his shoulder and he finally directs his gaze to you. “You know what I’m talking about. You’re extra grumpy today.”

“I haven’t slept in a while.”

“So it has nothing to do with you being jealous of Detective Gray?”

Hotch releases a deep breath, his whole body deflating with it. That tells you everything you need to know.

“Wow,” You say, “Aaron Hotchner jealous? In this day and age? I never thought I’d see the day.”

“No.” He butts in, “I was observing and concluded he was too close and too interested in you, given that we’re here trying to save lives.”

“Right,” You hum, “Sounds jealous to me.”

Hotch can’t pretend he’s angry when you look at him like you do, this teasing lilt to your voice and the ceaseless softness in your eyes.

“Maybe I was a little jealous.” He admits, a murmur that is spoken out of the side of his mouth that becomes a smirk.

“Aha!” You laugh, “I knew it! And Rossi and JJ know it, too.”

Hotch can’t help the groan that leaves him at the reminder. Of course they know. They’ve looked smug for days, and no one on this forsaken team looks smug unless they’ve encountered some juicy gossip.

Out of the corner of his eye, Hotch sees you lean over the centre console and rest there on your elbows. His head turns and faces you, to which you pucker your lips and wait patiently for him to move closer.

Aaron looks especially smitten when his eyes flicker from your eyes to your lips and up again, closing his own to kiss you in the privacy of the SUV. He plans it to be chaste, a simple reminder that you are his and he is yours and you don’t need to worry about anyone else, but you have other ideas when he moves back and you follow him, kissing him repeatedly.

Your lips almost bounce off his a couple times, coming back a few centimetres just to go back in and kiss him again and again. Hotch gets frustrated, large hands coming to hold your face in place as he really kisses you, gently but passionately moving his lips against yours as his heart hums in his chest.

“This is highly inappropriate,” He breathes, when the lack of air becomes too much.

You glance around, the parking lot is dimly lit and you’re in the far corner of a higher floor. “I think we’re okay.”

The cheeky grin on your face is reciprocated by the love of your life, and he’s quite happy to continue where you left off when you move in again, your hands resting on his chest contently.

Both of you get a text simultaneously. It’s Rossi.

You’ve been gone a while. Either the lover’s quarrel got out of hand or you’re making up – and I don’t want details – but people are asking for you. Please return and look presentable ASAP.

#aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner fanfiction #aaron hotchner x you #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fanfiction #mine #kind of hate this. apologies

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falcor-thee-luck-dragon · 4 years ago

Text

Of Monsters and Men

Chapter 11- At Last

Summary: Finally reunited with Geralt, the two of you attempt to avoid Nilfgaard and find a tavern for the evening, although it appears destiny has other plans.

Warning: angst, fluff

Masterlist

-last and final chapter my Witcher friends, that is until next season, and yes I will be continuing reader and Geralt’s story. There’ll be more monster slaying and adventures to come!

Within minutes after reuniting with your silver haired lover, did the two of you immediately find a spot elsewhere from the main trail for well...you know. A place hidden away from any unwanted prying eyes so that you both could show one another just how much you've desperately missed each other, in more ways then one. You couldn't remember the last time you'd felt so euphoric, perhaps that's just what making sweet love to your Witcher does to you. Even when he's pounding you against a tree while whispering the most dirtiest of sweet nothings into your ear.

You hadn't touched him like this in weeks, nor seen him for that matter, but he felt wonderful and seemed to be enjoying his time with you just the same. Though all too soon would your bodies have to part from one another's close embrace. All to your utter disappointment did the two of you end your hasty love making session, seeing as the land is closely crawling with Nilfgaard soldiers and who knows what else.

You got what you could get, and anyways, that won't be the first nor last time you two fuck in the woods.

The grass feels soft against your clothed bottom as you lace up your boot, your gaze set to the individual across from you as your eyes unbashfuly admire Geralt while he lays in the grass shirtless. His beautiful golden irises staring up into the tree tops as the wind sways the leaves every which way.

You pull at the leather strings, tying a confident knot with skilled hands while a small breeze blows your hair back, you're admittedly feeling quite delightful if you're being honest. Though when your crimson eyes glance up at the snowy haired man again, he's turned his head to you.

Your eyes meet at once, sending a blissful smirk upon your lips, "Anyone ever tell you it's rude to stare?" You teased, narrowing your eyes in a playful manner.

Geralt's lips curl into a half smile as he lets out a small hum in reply. Setting your arms upon your propped up knees, you freely show him an eye roll. Earning a proper chuckle from the man, "Y/N I was simply cherishing your stunning appearance."

Shaking your head you smile, "Yes, of course you were. And I am simply looking at a shirtless man with the most utter respect and clean of thoughts in my mind." You casually shrug, "Nothing else going on in here, I promise."

Geralt raises a greyish brow, moving to prop himself up upon his elbow, "That sounds honest." He hums, "But you are no virtuous maiden my love, and by that telling look on your face only moments ago. I can only imagine what things you may have been thinking of then."

You let out a snort before deciding to crawl over to him, where he lets you push him back into the grass, "Indeed I am not." You whisper close, leaning on an elbow as your other hand caresses his cheek, "But I am undoubtedly in love with a Witcher of all creatures to walk this earth, so if we're using our heads, what does that truly say of me then?"

His golden eyes keep to yours as he brings a hand to rest over your arm, "I would say it means perhaps I am a fool to fall for one of my enemies' creations, my dear Y/N..." He pauses for a moment, taking this brief second to focus on you and only you as he holds you with the most care, "you are most cunning and beautiful."

Leaning into his small touch you grin blissfully, a feeling of ease and calmness setting over you as Geralt studies your face, "You are no fool my White Wolf. That I am sure of without a doubt in my mind, I can't seem to be able to even jest about it." You chuckle, "Though you tempt me at times." The smile that he gives you is the most precious thing your eyes could ever be blessed with, its warm and genuine, filled with the deepest and most purest of love for you. His lady of night, the one monster he could never slay, nor would he ever dare.

Though your heart fills with joy for him, a sudden sadness seeps into your soul, obstructing your happiness. Your eyes fall downcast as you move to lay yourself next to Geralt in the grass, he follows you closely, a frown displaying itself upon his handsome features at your sudden spurt of melancholy.

"What troubles you Y/N?" Wonders Geralt, shifting his body so that he can rest an arm over your chest, pulling you in close as he studies your face.

Resting a hand on Geralt's muscular arm, you frown once again, "I was brief about my short time in Aretuza and the Elven keep, I know I told you about all those bastard soldiers I killed and when I helped the mages the best I could.....it's just. I haven't told you everything." Your voice feels so small in the large forest, now since you think about it. You haven't had the time to completely process what happened at Sodden's Hill, with all those soldiers, the other mages, and especially Yennefer.

So much death.

His brow furrows in thought, unsure of what you're going to reveal next, all he knows is that he doesn't plan on letting you go for awhile longer. Your Witcher hums in reply, giving you a moment to find your words. Taking a deep heavy sigh you turn your head to look out at the clouds. "We tried to protect the North from Nilfgaard, those fuckers had their own spout of powerful mages to test against our own. For the whole day we all fought together...every man, woman, child, and mage. Fucking farmers and tired refugees, they weren't warriors, Geralt. None of them were."

You take another shaky breath as Geralt presses his head against your cheek, "I did what I could to save them. But I'm just one person, I couldn't save them all....though I must admit, those people fought braver then most royal soldiers I've ever seen. They have good heart in them....well, I guess did. Not many survivors I think, just the ones who had enough sense to get the fuck out of there.....and of course myself, Tissaia, Triss, and Yenn..." A small lump forms in your throat as you remember what happened, causing you to choke on your own words for a moment.

You bite your lip hard, your hand squeezing tightly onto Geralt's muscular forearm as you collect yourself enough to speak, though your voice is raspy and broken, "Yennefer, right. She fought valiantly like a true warrior, she was like a phoenix, like a raging mighty dragon of power and flame...Geralt you should have seen her." A tear falls down the side of your face as you smile into the cloud covered sun, your voice above a whisper, "I'd never seen anything like it....it was.....beautiful."

A light kiss is placed gently over your tear streak while his hand moves to find yours, "What I would have given to see you slay those dogs alongside Yennefer, Y/N. I'm sure she is proud to call you a friend."

"She's dead." Those two words leave your lips so quietly that Geralt almost doesn't catch them, but he does.

The heavy weight of this news takes him off guard, he did not expect you to just lay such tragic tidings over him like that, he may have been greatly annoyed by Yennefer but he did see that stubborn mage as a friend. Though his heart hurts for how broken and defeated you feel from the terrors you'd underwent only yesterday, the great loss you've experienced, all of your traumas crashing down atop your soul in this moment. He wants to comfort you the best he can.

He listens to the steady beating of your heart, understanding how sad yet angry you're feeling, "I'm sorry Y/N. Truly I am."

A tired smile forms at the corners of your lips as you turn teary eyes over to your Witcher, your faces mere inches from one another, "She was my first real friend you know, and I think I was hers. I'm grateful to have spent the last of her hours on this earth by her side then.....glad she wasn't alone. I just wish..." Swallowing the lump in your throat, you focus on Geralt's shimmering irises once again, "I just wish the world wouldn't take everyone I give a shit about, so don't plan on doing anything stupid, okay? I can't lose anyone else or so help me god or whoever is listening out there, I will slaughter the bastards who dare take you away from me."

"I do not doubt it my love, and don't worry Y/N. I don't plan on leaving you anytime soon." He speaks honestly before pressing a soft kiss against your lips, "You have my word."

——

Geralt holds tightly to Roach's leather reigns as he keeps a firm hand over your lower abdomen, a small content smile gracing over your features while you sit comfortably in front of him on the large mare. Just as you always have.

Your hands rest over his as you keep a steady lookout over the trail ahead, silently overjoyed to be leaning against Geralt and all of his godly body holding you up. A blissfully drunken grin keeps to your face while your mind tumbles and reels with everything that he's just confided about from the last four weeks, like what you'd done earlier after a fine quick session of love making.

Apparently he's been busy.

Though for the second time today, another troubling thought randomly pops into your mind as things tend to do, and now you feel this time is as good as ever to actually address it. Squeezing his arm a bit you let out a half amused huff, showing that you're about to speak your mind on something idiotic Geralt has done, and he knows it.

Your Witcher figured you'd eventually spill your two cents, as you always seem to do.

"So." You begin, slow and filled with something Geralt's not quite sure of, he mentally cringes as you squeeze his arm again, "you just told him to fuck off and that you'd prefer to never see him ever again? Just like that? To our bard. Jaskier."

Geralt pauses for a moment as you wait for an answer, "Yes." Is all he whispers, low and filled with regret. He told you all about Jaskier and himself hours ago, hoping you wouldn't bring it back up, but of course you would. He's never that lucky, there's nothing you don't ever catch.

You raise a brow and shrug, "Can't say I blame you. That idiot has gotten our asses in a lot of shit over the years." He lets out a breath, glad you're not fuming at his heated rash actions on the mountainside after you dramatically parted ways. Suddenly you grip his arm tight, enough to actually feel uncomfortable, he sucks in a breath as you squeeze, "Although, I don't believe Jaskier completely deserved that." You seethe through clenched teeth before letting go of your iron grip. So you are angry after all, thinks Geralt, funny way of showing it.

"I know....I was just....I'm sorry Y/N." He replies, his voice much softer then he'd intended.

Your face falls as you feel the hurt in his words for what he's done, "I know Geralt." You sigh, "Enough with the sorry's and regrets okay....what's done is done and there's nothing we can do about it now. And anyways, as I like to say "we'll cross that bridge when we get there" so don't feel shitty about it now." He gives you a hidden smile as you chuckle to yourself, "You can feel shitty about it later."

Geralt lets out an amused snort, "Always one for wise words Y/N. What would I do without your kind intellect?"

"Dunno." You casually shrug, "Be a far less intriguing creature I suppose."

He tenderly kisses the top of your head, "I'd be a fool to argue against that logic."

"You're still a fool either way." You jest, cackling at your friendly jab at him, earning a gentle squeeze on your hip that sends butterflies into your stomach.

Gods the things he does to you.

For a couple more hours would you both ride Roach down the trail, past countless trees and a few streams until the sun would begin her descent over the land. Through this time you've been admittedly back to your old habits of amusing your Witcher to pass the time, mixed with seeing how long it would take to annoy him before he threatened to kick you off the mare.

It had been quite the eventful stretch of time before you caught the nasty pheromones of war seeping throughout the forest from some place close by, but not seen by your skilled eyes just yet. You held your tongue, not wanting to worry Geralt over something as insignificant as rotting corpses in the woods. But as Roach gets closer and closer, you begin to feel more strange, your scarlet irises suddenly catch a ripped tent behind a few trees.

Nilfgaard. Smell of death, more destroyed tents. Those bastards did this.

Your nose crinkles in disgust, the scent of freshly decaying corpses overloading your senses just about making your eyes water, you can't smell anything else but the stench of death.

"What I would give to be in a flower meadow right now." You seethe, blinking away the reactive tears in your eyes, Geralt looks down to you, unsure of what you mean considering his sense of smell is not nearly as prominent as yours. "I think Nilfgaard found a camp just over there, gods it reaks."

His grey brows furrow in thought, though he's left his words in the back of his throat as Roach walks closer to the carnage. Suddenly the three of you are face to face with an older man and his horse cart as he desperately and stupidly does his best to move the dead in piles for whatever it is that he's intended for them.

What a strange man.

Geralt shifts from behind you, tilting his head at the bearded man, "Ill winds follow grave robbers." States your Witcher as he hugs you closer protectively, or perhaps to keep you from doing anything destructive. The greyed man looks to the two of you, quietly acknowledging your existence before turning around to continue his doings.

"If I was a grave robber, I'd be taking their belongings, Butcher." He adds gruffly, squatting down to examine another slain body, "So best keep your beast with you." He adds, side eyeing you cautiously as he goes to move another of the deceased. Well, he knows Geralt's a Witcher and that you're not human. Maybe he's not that idiotic?

Geralt smirks, "If I was to let her satiate her appetite, you'd be amongst the corpses." The man falls silent, looking wearily between the two of you as your scarlet eyes trail over the nervous man.

He lets out a sigh, finally breaking under both your hard gazes, "I was goin' home to my family when I came upon these poor souls." He points towards the rotting bodies, "Cintran refugees. Dead at least a week. Now they're a feast for the crows."

"They're not for crows." You implore, shifting your ruby irises across the shadowy wood line while you listen to the buzzing of feasting flies. You had previously forgotten about what else may lurk in the shadows ready to feed, until now.

"Wolves?" He wonders.

"No."

Shaking his head, he ignores your odd wary vigilance, turning to glance at the two of you, "With more hands I could move quicker."

Yeah, fuck that.

"The only thing you should do quickly is flee." Warns Geralt, alert to the same understanding of what creatures may be hiding close by. The strange man grunts as he drags a body over the leaves, ignorantly discounting both your warnings.

With a click of his tongue, Geralt pulls at the mares reigns, "Come on, Roach, back to Kaer Morhen." You shake your head at the man as Roach begins to take a couple steps forward.

"Don't leave!" Pleads the bearded man, while dragging another, "Look at these people. Innocent people, killed for what?" He exclaims, sucking in labored breaths as he stands to look out over the mass of dead refugees, "So Nilfgaard can have more land? We owe it to 'em to do better."

"I'm not better." Mutters Geralt as he directs Roach away.

Always so dramatic huh.

You don't make it even three feet before your sensitive ears prick at the sound of crawling under the dirt. You know exactly what's now hunting the man, without a second thought do you break from Geralt's muscular arms to jump off of Roach.

Your feet move inhumanly fast as you race for the panicked man who's now scrambling away on the forest floor as two hungry ghouls claw for a taste. Realizing all too late that your silver dagger is lost to the ages you quickly adapt to instead aim for electrocuting the ugly fuckers.

Your palms spread wide as white hot lightening crackles and sparks in the misty night air, piercing the grotesque bodies of the living undead.

They screech in pain, giving Geralt just enough time to cut them down before they're able to recover, the man stops whimpering in fear as he turns his head up to you and Geralt. Who's now crouched a couple feet from the wide eyed man while he cleans off his sword, his eyes now two pools of glistening obsidian.

Sparks crackle in your palms as you huff in annoyance, "Go home." Your voice strong and steady.

The man snaps his attention over to you, "I can help." He insists urgently, causing you to roll your crimson eyes.

"One bite will kill you." Implores Geralt sternly.

The man turns to him, "Or you two." Then back to you again, his eyes fretful as you notice how he's just about shaking. He's terrified.

You let out a frustrated sigh, "I'm immune." You conclude gruffly, pointing to both himself and Geralt, "But not you two, so if you want to see your wife again...go home." The man stays still, breathing heavily as he sits on the soft ground, his mind swirling.

Geralt slowly stands, glaring at the man, "Go...home!" He snaps in that gravely voice of his, the petrified man stares at him before looking to your equally as stoic face. The blood red glow of your irises and the low crackling of lighting in your palm shifting his mind to a new understanding of his current situation.

He lets out a shaky breath, "All right..." Huffs the bearded man before scrambling to his feet, his boots carrying him over to his cart as he throws something into the back.

You ignore him and watch as Geralt walks slowly forward, his black eyes cautiously surveying over the land as you take a step, "Let me be the first to say, but I don't happen to feel very fond of what else follows." You whisper softly, your voice laced with concern as you sniff the foggy damp air, smelling nothing but decaying flesh as it wafts into your nostrils.

Geralt holds his weapon tightly, opening his mouth to answer, but before he's able to say anything a piercing screech breaks out from the woods. His sword flashes in the moonlight as he cuts down another hungry ghoul. Without warning another one breaks out of the earth to his right, dead in a flash as he slashes it across the throat.

The dirt bulges upward as another crawls from underneath the ground, heading directly for Geralt, the beast doesn't stand a chance as your Witcher stabs the soil directly in front of him. Killing the damn ghoul in an instant. Suddenly a black screaming flash races past you and tackles him to the ground.

"Oh fuck!" Unknowingly leaves you lips as you race to his aid, five of them have him pinned to the ground already as you pull his silver sword from the earth that he had left behind in the scuffle. These starving bastards don't see you coming as you begin slashing and hacking violently away at the ghouls. Trying your damn best to get them off of Geralt, they scream in agony as you end their half-lives.

More race out from the shadows to surround the two of you, Geralt pushes and punches more off of him as you slice through their grotesque inhuman bodies. So caught up in your own world that you don't have time to make sure if Geralt is all right when another one jumps for your arm, only to be greeted with a hard cut to its sunken in stomach.

Your chest rises and falls with heavy breaths as you turn your head left and right, readying for anything else. When nothing appears to move you lower his sword to your side, turning around to give Geralt a smirk and no less a cocky comment.

Your face instantly falls when he whispers a harsh "fuck" while he leans down to look at something on his left thigh. He shakes his snowy mane, standing to his full height as he takes a limped step towards you. His obsidian eyes finally finding yours as he takes another troubled step forward, he looks like a mess.

Your eyes glance down at the bite mark revealing itself from an opened spot in his dark pants, you suck in a sharp breath, your face dead serious as you watch him with wide glossy eyes. His face looks rough and sweaty as he limps closer, suddenly falling to his knees as he stares at you, almost pleadingly, his dark eyes full of pain.

"Geralt?" You whisper, your nerves standing on end at the sight of him, no way he's just been bitten, it can't be.

Your lip quivers as you drop the forgotten sword upon the earth, taking hasty steps as he looks tiredly into your frightened face. You quickly kneel down to meet his eye level as he lets out a shaky breath, your hands gently touch his dirt smudged face as he wills his hands to grasp your arms.

His grip is unnaturally weak as you look deeply into his eyes, your voice shaky, "You're fine. You're fine, it's just a small wound nothing worth worrying over....it's just..it's nothing...you're fi...." His head falls downward in your palms as his hands slip from their place on your arms, "No, no, no, no....Geralt, love look at me! Look at me!" He answers back with a low groan, you swallow the building lump in your throat as he struggles to lift his tired gaze to yours.

The weakest of smiles displays over his handsome features as he lets out a tired sigh, "You're beautiful....you know that?" His voice is soft and broken as you hold up his face, biting your lip to keep from crying. He smiles sluggishly, "Thank you for loving me...I....Y/N...I...love y..."

Suddenly his eyes shut as he goes limp against you, you catch him and quickly move to gently position his body so that his head can rest in your lap, "Geralt no!" You exclaim desperately through tears that are starting to blur your vision, "Wake up! Wake the fuck up you dick...you can't leave me here!" You shake his shoulder but to no avail, "Fuck! No, no, no....I just got you back." Tears race down your cheeks as a sob racks through your entire body, you suck in a breath, trying to contain your pain.

This isn't fucking fair!

The old man hustles to your side, now made aware of the dire circumstances, "Ohhh, dear...Uh....we can take him to my house, if you will.....Just, keep him awake." Proposes the man, you hold Geralt closer, your wet cheeks glistening in the moonlight as your crimson eyes glow blood red.

"If you help me save him I won't end your pathetic life because of your stupidity!" You snap, making him flinch backwards as you glare at him, a low growl emitting from deep within your throat. If Geralt dies you might tear this man to shreds.

He quickly regains his bearings, now understanding that his life is at stake if Geralt dies under his care. The man walks around you, reaching down to pull Geralt from out of your lap. Once you're free he looks to you, "Miss he's quite heavy, this one. Could you lift his legs and help me carry him to...."

He's left with nothing but a genuinely bewildered look as you pick your sleeping Witcher up, holding him in both your arms while ignoring the mans shocked expression as you walk over to the large wooden cart. Setting Geralt in the back on a couple soft bags of goods.

Jumping in next to him, you kneel down by his side while the man quickly ties Roach to the back. It's going to be a long night. Until dawn broke out over the horizon, the great sun coating the land in daylight would you lay by his side as he slept through the multitude of hours.

Finally coming to in the late morning, looking more pale then usual and clearly disoriented, his golden irises trying so hard to focus on your blurry face. The man, who revealed himself to be Yurga, kept his horses at a fast trot while you continued to hold tightly onto your Witcher's arm, squeezing it every time he would begin to close his eyes. Just keep him awake.

"I don't know about you." Starts Yurga, "But I'm not liking the sound of those explosions in the distance....bloody Nilfgaard better keep themselves far away from here. We don't need trouble like that round these parts. Not after everything they've done."

Geralt stirs underneath your touch, snapping your attention back down to him, you watch as his eyelids open and close, his golden irises looking rather lost and hazy. He's so pale, too pale.

"Easy does it Butcher." Affirms Yurga as he turns his head to the side, "You got bit, best keep your sights trained on the pretty lady in front of you."

Geralt's brows furrow as he turns his own head to the side at the sound of the mans voice, confusion clear on his face since the poison from the ghouls has begun to mess with his mind. Seated closely on his right, his muscular arm on your left and his broad body on your right, his face is much more faded in color now. Too pale and sickly looking for your liking.

Reaching an arm out, you gently touch his face, turning his head back to you, "Geralt, keep those fine golden eyes on me, you gotta focus love....you're becoming delirious, but you're not dead. Just stay awake Geralt I'll be right here." He blinks hard, his face appearing dazed as he listens, suddenly trying to sit himself up.

You quickly react, leaning over him to grasp both his arms, stopping him from moving anymore, "Be still Geralt. You'll only make things worse if you try and move, your bite is spreading slowly but moving will only bring you more pain." His face grimaces in discomfort, you release your grip, sitting normally once again.

Oh Geralt, be strong for me.

Your face a mask of deep worry at his reaction, he may be a Witcher, but if his wounds are not treated properly he will die. Leaving you completely and utterly alone in this world whether you're ready for it or not. You rest a hand over his chest, listening to the slow thud of his heartbeat, he stares up at the sky, his gaze lost in the clouds.

You can tell he's probably watching some hallucination playing out before him, his gaze seems so far away while you sit here on this stupid hay covered cart pulled by the slowest two horses you've ever seen. He stirs again, his pale face trying to find yours as he focuses in on your worried appearance.

You can tell he's back, especially when his left arm quickly takes yours that was previously resting over his chest. He squeezes your hand, "My bag. Y/N I need my bag." His voice his gravelly and urgent, you quickly turn to look around, the pull of the cart jostling you while your eyes hunt for the bag.

"Yurga stop the fucking horses for a moment!" You yell, letting go of Geralt's hand as you grab the leather bag. Yurga directs his horses to stop, turning abruptly around to see what's the matter.

"The bottle....Y/N.....you know which one." Rasps Geralt as your eyes quickly find the small glass bottle containing some dark liquid, a type of healing potion for sure.

Handing the potion to your Witcher he hastily takes it, ripping off the cork with his teeth before making a face and chugging most of it. He groans, pouring the rest over his infected wound, more groans of pain sounding as you listen to the sizzle of flesh take to the healing mixture.

Gently patting his arm you hand him a small smile of reassurance, "You definitely need a healer, I'm afraid not even my blood can heal these wounds. Those fucking ghouls." You growl as Yurga urges his horses to begin trotting down the trail again.

His body rests against the piles of clothes and hay while his hand reaches out for yours, "I need to go to the Blue Mountains....Y/N...tell him I need to...." Mutters Geralt with tired eyes.

You squeeze his hand, "What? No, we don't have....you don't have enough time, Geralt you'll die."

"He'll heal me....I just need to go...."

"No!" You cry, there is absolutely no way you'd both make it to the Blue Mountains before his heart stops beating, "Stay awake you fucker, we'll heal you soon enough, just stay awake....we're almost to Yurga's farm. You'll get proper treatment there....just stay awake."

Until the sun would set and the darkness of night crept over the land would you constantly play as an ever continuous jostling annoyance to Geralt, doing all that you must to keep him awake and alive. Soon enough would Yurga have to stop and let his old horses rest for awhile. In the meantime, you'd help Geralt to lean against a tree as you went off in search of healing plants that could help to temporarily stop the spread.

With not much to give from your herb hunting, you walked forth from out of the bushes and into the grassy tree covered opening where you're greeted with the sight of a dark-red haired mage tending to your Witcher's infected bite wound. You immediately freeze, though she's too focused to even realize that you're watching her work. For a couple minutes would you observe her talents before blinking once and suddenly she's gone. Just like that, gone.

Well that was fucking bizarre.

Suddenly Geralt bolts upright, your brows furrow as he looks all around him, his wide eyes shifting right and left until they finally find your familiar form walking closer. He lets out an audible sigh of relief, before his grey brows furrow once again in thought.

"Where'd she go? The woman?" He wonders, confusion clear on his face as he watches you crouch down to meet his eye level.

You raise a brow, "Can't say I'd know, but I wish I'd have time to thank her for doing whatever magical mage shit she did to your infected bite mark." You reply with a chuckle, "Now you've gotten yourself a new scar added to the collection. Though still a very handsome work of art in my humble opinion."

His face softens at your relaxed tone, suddenly realizing that there's no need to worry anymore, "Thank you Y/N."

You laugh, "What for? I didn't do that much, I didn't even know how to properly heal you. And I definitely wasn't planning on turning you into a vampire just to have you around longer."

A small smile tugs at the corners of his lips as you study his face, "For keeping me awake this long, no matter how much I wanted to shove you off the wagon."

"I knew you wanted to do it, I could see it in your face. That is, when you weren't staring off into nothing like a lost boy who had too many special herbs." You jest, earning a pleasing chuckle from your sweaty Witcher. You smile, "Now. Come on my love, let's go." You reach a hand out for him to take, without a second thought he accepts, letting you pull him to his feet.

He shakes his head, steadying himself as he holds your arms, "Geralt you're acting like you've just downed half a dozen mugs of ale, lets rest on the cart yeah? Yurga will take us to his farm where we can get some proper food and drink, and if we're lucky....you some new pants."

His smile is soft as he looks down at you, Geralt touches your chin affectionately, "That sounds rather lovely."

Before he can do anything else you grasp the hand that's touching your chin, "I know exactly where your mind is going next and all I have to say is you're getting a bit more cleaned up before those pretty lips of yours are allowed to kiss me." He closes his eyes, resting his head against yours as he releases his hand from your chin. Now pulling you closer with his large strong hands.

"I could have died." He mutters, his gravely voice laced with a friendly playfulness.

"But you didn't."

"I could have."

"I know." You finally sigh, "You're still sweaty and smell like a dog who rolled in cow shit."

He lightly chuckles, "That's rude." Before pressing a feather light kiss onto your forehead where he then pulls away after a moment, "Guess we should help the old man pack the rest of his bags away."

Gripping his torso tighter you lean in close, "I'm enjoying myself too much." You admit, "Even though you smell rather atrocious at the moment."

"Oh please Y/N." Muses Geralt, his face inches from yours, "You still called be pretty when I was covered head to toe in Selkiemore guts, if I do recall."

"Did I? Must have slipped." You mutter lowly, brushing your lips past his.

"Y/N." Warns Geralt, his hot breath fanning over your smirking face as your ruby irises flicker from his plush lips to his golden eyes.

"On second thought. Perhaps you do look rather lovely at the moment, I think I'll just have to..." He's left guessing what you would have said next as your lips press firmly against his, both your arms pulling one another even closer now. Despite all he's just endured, Geralt tastes quite nice, his muscular body feeling even better holding you so close.

His lips move with yours in some pleasurable heated dance, soon enough does his calloused hands reach up to place themselves on either side of your face, you smile into the kiss at his urgency to hold you close. A couple more lingering blissful moments are shared flush against one another before your Witcher inevitably pulls away, first pressing a kiss to your cheek, then your lips once again before finally pulling away to look into your glistening eyes.

His hands still gently holding your cheeks, while your own ones grip around his forearms, "I hope there's more of that for when we find a tavern later." You muse, biting your lip as Geralt's eyes stare deeply into yours.

"Y/N. I'll let you take me any way you want." Mutters Geralt in that low and gravelly voice of his, "Just me and you."

"I think I'd like that very much." His lips find yours once again as your fingers trail down his back, wishing so hard that you were both laying on a soft warm bed in some hidden tavern in the mountains.

While you're both unbashfully exploring each others bodies like it was the first time, a sudden cough is heard from behind you causing the two of you to abruptly pull apart and look in that direction, "Uh...don't mean to intrude, but uh.....could we get moving if ya both don't mind?" Asks Yurga politely, trying not to find either of your amused gazes as he looks at a stick on the ground.

Right, you'd probably want to get out of the woods first.

The merchant Yurga had been true to his word, he had finally at long last made it to his home placed in a great clearing within the woods. A comfortable farmhouse on an open spot of land away from the fighting and battles nearby. His cart came to an abrupt halt as his wife quickly opened up the door and raced out to meet him, excitement flowing through her veins as a huge smile graced her face.

"We're all okay. The war is close, but we're okay. I need to tell you something." Exclaims Yurga's blonde curly haired wife.

"Me too." Affirms the older man with a slight thrill lacing his words.

His wife smiles, "I met a girl. An orphan, I found her in the woods nearby." Geralt halts all movement at the startling words, you doing the same as both of your furrowed gazes find one another.

No way this is who you think she's actually talking about. Hundreds of girls have been orphaned by the war.

"I met a Witcher." Speaks Yurga with a nod, "And a dhampir, if you'll believe it." Without warning Geralt jumps down from the cart and begins walking towards the woods much to your confusion, "They saved my life. Now fetch 'em some ale before they go to Kaer Mor-somthing." Urges Yurga, while you jump down from the cart, making hasty steps in Geralt's direction as Yurga and his wife finally look over to watch as the two of you make for the woods, "Hey, Butcher. Butcher! Where you goin'?" Shouts Yurga as Geralt continues onward, almost caught in a trance as he ignores the rambling merchant.

"Y/N?" Shouts the older man, causing you to stop and turn to him, "Where you two goin'?"

Your brows furrow, not completely sure of yourself, "I don't know." You whisper, keeping your body still as you look out at the thick greenery where Geralt had just wandered into for some unknown reason. You can't explain why, but you feel as though this is a path that only he must take.

The girl in the woods will be with him always.

He walks through the forest, his feet taking him somewhere or rather to someone who's been hiding from him for a long time. He can't even fully explain it, the call he feels to find what he's seeking. He suddenly stops, thinking his thoughts must be false and this urge to find who lingers in the wood is simply horseshit as per usual. A false sense of destiny. He turns around, walking a couple steps further back the way he came before an undeniable urge to look back consumes him.

The girl in the woods will be with you always.

And there she is, Princess Cirilla of Cintra, a shining beacon of hope in the dull wet gloom of the towering forest.

Destiny has prevailed.

Your boots shift from right to left as you stand idly in the morning air, your thoughts swimming around in your head of what could be taking Geralt so damn long, even if it's only realistically been about three minutes. Your new friends from behind you have instead left you to yourself and decided to tend to their horses, much to your relief.

Hugging yourself closer, you shiver, though you're not cold. A kind of magic of sorts seems to catch you in the misty air, a feeling you haven't felt since that night at Pavetta's banquet pulls around you like leaves on the wind.

How odd it feels, yet this seems right.

Two heartbeats reach your heightened ears, one so slow. But the other, beats normally like that of a child's.

You take a step back, steadying yourself as you wait for who you're expecting to inevitably appear. Shoes move across earth and leaves, signaling their close arrival. Your nerves die as two shadows emerge from the bushes and into the sunlight, the two of them are talking, unaware of your presence in the yard.

The child suddenly looks, her enchanted blue green irises falling onto you as she quickly comes to a halt, her eyes full of wonder and nervous apprehension. Geralt's brows furrow as he stops as well, his face turning to find the source of the girls fear.

His golden eyes spot you in an instant, he finds you staring curiously at the small blonde girl, the tiniest of smiles gracing your lips as you fiddle with your hands. You can't help but feel ridiculous for how you've been feeling about meeting this Child Surprise after so long, she is just a girl, a survivor of the unspeakable. Though you may not be the best with children in general, you feel no ill will against this one, all those previous feelings of loathing and judgement are gone to the wind.

Geralt's eyes are kind as he gently rests a comforting hand over her thin shoulder, she looks to him now then back to you as he speaks, "This is Y/N of Alkatraz, the dhampir princess of the High Northern Kingdom. My uh, lover?" He says cautiously, a bit unsure of what to truly call you before he thankfully finds his words, "Well...uh, my immortal companion, and someone who I love very deeply."

Oh, Geralt you adorable idiot.

Ciri's brows furrow in thought for a moment as she finds her courage, "My grandmother told me of that kingdom, she said it is ruled by vampires. Are you one?" She wonders, her voice a small nervous whisper.

The corners of your eyes crinkle in amusement as you smile, shaking your head, "No my dear princess, I am of that blood and character, but a dhampir is what I am as Geralt said. It's someone who is half vampire and half human." You assure the small girl, "No need to fear me, I promise you princess that I would never harm you in any way, you have my word."

A small grin tugs at the corners of her lips before her eyes fall downcast, "That's very kind, most people I've met so far out here have tried to kill me." She hands you the flash of a smile, "Glad to know not everyone is like them." She reveals freely to you with her small voice, so this is truly the Child Surprise.

The princess of Cintra.

"With us, you will not have to fear the damned talons of Nilfgaard Princess Cirilla...I will protect you with my life now."

Her brows furrow in thought at your truthful words, "You know of me? But how?"

You smile kindly, your scarlet irises flashing over to Geralt for a brief moment, "I have traveled with this handsome Witcher for almost fifty years, I know everything he knows. Even who you are." You take a couple steps forward, kneeling down to face her sad eyes, "And I am truly sorry for your loss, no child deserves the pain and fear you have endured since Cintra's fall. No less the horrors you have witnessed since your escape, these lands are undoubtedly deadly."

"Thank you, Y/N." She looks from you to Geralt, "I'm glad to have found you both then." You smile, standing up fully to lace your arm with Geralt's.

"Now, I think these kind people here may have breakfast waiting for us and some ale if I'm lucky, so my small friend Ciri, would you join us for a decently peaceful morning?" Ciri gifts your ears with a small giggle as Geralt hums in amusement. Proud that you're taking so well to the newest addition to your group of two.

You turn around just as the curly haired woman waves, "Would you all mind joining us for breakfast?" She calls out as a satisfied grin breaks out upon your face, "Of course we would be delighted!" You shout back, probably with too much excitement but you're trying to look as non threatening as possible. Also you are admittedly very hungry.

The three of you begin walking toward the farmhouse, Ciri follows the woman and her husband inside as Geralt stops near the entrance, you turn a raised brow to him, "What is it now? You planning on finding another magical orphan in the woods again?"

He looks down at the muddy ground before finding your lingering gaze once again, "No, just trying to figure out what to do next." Grumbles your Witcher in that lovable gravely voice of his.

You gently squeeze his hand as a smirk plays at your lips, "How bout we think of breakfast first? Then we can set our sights on paying our friends at Kaer Morhen a little visit. Bet they'd love that." You add sarcastically, wiggling your brows.

Your Witcher finally gives you a small smile, "Oh, I'm sure they'll be thrilled to see you again." He jests.

Lightly smacking his arm you take a step into the doorway, turning back to look at him, "What? Am I not nice and lovable? Can't believe you'd even say that."

"Only when you want to be." Mutters Geralt before gently kissing the side of your head while walking past you, "Now lets get some ale."

Tagged: @seninjakitey @notahappytree @ashleyforeverareject @sokkasdarling @kmuir1@haleypearce @diegos-butt (@auds24 sorry idk why ur name won’t work) @a-girl-who-loves-disney

#the witcher #the witcher x reader #the witcher x you #the witcher x y/n #geralt of rivia #geralt of rivia x reader #geralt of rivia x you #geralt x reader #geralt x you #princess cirilla #roach the horse

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rocorambles · 4 years ago

Text

The Beginning

Pairing: Nekomata x Kuroo

Genre/Warnings: NSFW, Yandere, Grooming, Extremely Dubious Consent, Manipulation, Slight Feminization, Virgin Kuroo, Slight Degradation, Undertones of a Corruption Kink, Bottom Kuroo

Summary: Nekomata has always been Kuroo’s favorite mentor and now that Kuroo’s officially entered adulthood, the older man has new lessons for his favorite protégé.

Author’s Note: LMAO I CANNOT BELIEVE THIS IS A REAL THING, BUT HERE WE GO. The first installation of my Yandere Nekomata x Kuroo monthly series. I can’t even defend this other than to say I promise there will be a not as degenerate, perfectly normal (at least by Roco standards) Sakusa NSFW fic also coming out sometime this weekend to help you wash this cursed thing down.

@terushimooo I BLAME YOU FOR THIS

Next Chapter

He hadn’t thought much about the quiet young boy who showed up to his training camp all those years ago and yet, maybe Kuroo had left more of a mark on him than he had thought because he instantly recognizes the tall lanky messy-haired high schooler who steps inside of Nekoma’s gym on the first day of the school year. He certainly left an impression on Kuroo and something flutters inside of him when Kuroo shyly asks to speak to him alone after practice one day, bowing deeply and thanking the older man for his wise words about “experiencing the joy of playing”.

Looks aside, Kuroo isn’t anything like that scared little boy he had met so long ago and Nekomata watches in interest and maybe a little bit of pride at how confidently he carries himself, easily making friends and conversing with the rest of the team, a beautiful smile and glint in hazel eyes. Or so Nekomata had thought. But it seems like you can’t truly change your inherent nature all that much and he sees the little cracks in Kuroo’s act, and as much as he appreciates the man Kuroo is evolving into, he thinks he’s more fond of the introverted little boy he still sees hiding inside.

For someone so mischievous and cunning, Kuroo is ridiculously easy to manipulate and something dark thrums inside of Nekomata as he sees how Kuroo instantly picks up on all his subtle cues, putting all his faith and hope in this father figure he’s never really had. Sure, he has an actual father, one who barely has time for his son, and two grandparents who’re too tired to care for the boy as they should, but it’s not enough, never enough and Nekomata takes full advantage of the empty hole that Kuroo craves to have filled, practically taking the boy under his own tail so to speak.

He’s not thrilled when he sees hazel eyes begin to look at his female classmates in interest, but he’s prepared for the question he knows he’ll get soon and when, as expected, Kuroo quietly asks him why he’s still single, what love is like, what girls are like, Nekomata is harsh, but firm, planting the seeds of doubt in Kuroo’s head as he goes on and on about how girls are just distractions, problematic, how they’ll do nothing but cause pain and heartbreak. And just to drive it home, he cruelly reminds Kuroo of the heartache his own mother had caused him and his family and he hides his satisfied smile when teary hazel eyes bawl into his chest, lanky arms wrapping around his larger figure and rigorously nodding a messy head of hair as he takes all his wise words to heart.

And so Kuroo never dates, never even bats an eye towards the females in his school, ignoring the curious whispers as everyone wonders why such an eligible bachelor is still single, only focusing on volleyball, his team, and his coach.

Nekomata thought that it would be enough to know that he has the boy all to himself for three years, that his selfish greed would be sated, but as Kuroo’s 18th birthday approaches, as his third-year threatens to come to an end, as his departure from Nekoma draws ever nearer, he realizes it’s not enough, it’ll never be enough and wise cat-eyes scheme.

Kuroo hates birthdays, hates the reminder that his family could care less about him and there’s an even bigger pang than normal as his 18th birthday approaches. He should be elated and excited about the prospect of finally being an official adult, a man, but all he feels is indifference and neglect as his grandparents completely forget that it’s his birthday in their old age, as his dad sends a cold two word text, not even an exclamation mark at the end to convey any feelings about the matter. He just wants this day to be over, to forget it ever happened, feeling no different than before even though he’s now an “adult”.

But when Nekomata asks him to stay after practice long after everyone has left and the gym is clean, he can’t help the happy tears that trail down his face when the older man brings out a small cake from behind his back and urges the messy-haired captain to blow out the single lit candle illuminating the empty locker room, blissfully ignorant and naive of just how close Nekomata is to him, their thighs pressed against each other, wrinkled eyes attentively watching Kuroo’s lips as he happily eats a slice of the cake, tongue flicking out to lick the extra cream that hasn’t quite made it into his mouth.

However, Kuroo is all too aware of a rough finger that brushes against his mouth, scooping up some extra cream that he had missed before gently nudging his fingertip past his lips and Nekomata groans at how the athlete instinctively sucks his finger clean even while staring wide-eyed and confused at him.

“Coach?”

“Call me Yasufumi.”

He chuckles at how flustered and adorable the man beside him looks as he tentatively tests out the new name, and he can feel his cock begin to twitch with interest at the way it sounds in that ridiculously attractive drawl Kuroo has.

“Tetsurou, you’re an adult now and when you’re an adult, you can start doing certain things.”

“Coach! I don’t need a sex talk. Plus, weren’t you the one who said girls are a waste of time-”

Kuroo instantly hushes as a weathered hand grasps him by his chin and forces him to lock eyes.

“I said to call me Yasufumi and yes, I did say that, but you don’t need to have sex with just girls. I think sex between men is better anyway. I could show you, teach you. Only if you want though.”

Sex between men? Of course Kuroo knows it’s possible, knows it’s a thing. But for him? Him and another man? How would that-

His rambling thoughts are cut off and he squeaks when lips press against his, too surprised to break away as a tongue slips into his mouth, playfully entangling with his own wet muscle and he moans as he’s pulled into straddling Nekomata’s thighs, his lean body pressed tight against a thicker chest and stomach. He tries to form thoughts, question what’s happening, but he gasps when hands grope his ass, a tiny moan escaping him as his hips and groin grind down on something hard protruding from Nekomata’s sweatpants.

“Come on, Tetsurou. Don’t you trust me? Haven’t I always taught you well?”

And Kuroo hesitates.

It’s true. For as long as Kuroo can remember, Nekomata is the only person he’s considered family, who’s guided him, cared for him, shown him what love, even if it's just familial love, feels like. He’s never led him astray, always treated him like his own son, brought him to his full potential as a volleyball player and team captain.

He cries out as Nekomata gently thrusts up, rubbing their erections against each other.

It feels so good, so different, so much better than when he awkwardly wraps his own hand around his cock late at night. Surely it can’t be wrong if it feels so right, if it’s Nekomata who’s doing this. It’s just another life lesson, right?

So he seals his fate with a shy kiss as he relaxes, helping the man underneath him rid him of all his clothes, bashfully looking away as eyes hungrily roam all over his body. But his eyes are snapping back to attention, wide in shock as a strange pleasure lances through him when a mouth greedily suckles on one of his nipples, his other nipple tweaked and pulled.

“I-I’m not a girl! Stop it! Don’t play with my nipples like that!”

But his complaints are lost between desperate moans and he loses himself in the strange overwhelming pleasure, flushing at the lewd slick sounds of Nekomata’s sucking.

“But doesn’t it feel good, Tetsurou? You have such pretty tits.”

“They’re not tits- AH!”

He whimpers as Nekomata punishes his outburst with a slight nip to his aroused buds.

“Come on. Be a good boy and cum from having your tits played with.”

“I- I don’t think- I can’t-”

But all it takes is a few more rolls of his hips and a few more tugs and bites before Kuroo is wailing, thick white spurts coating both of their stomachs as the raven haired man exhaustedly collapses and curls up in Nekomata’s lap, humming contently as a hand strokes his messy tangled locks.

“Good boy, but we’re not done yet. Don’t you think I deserve to feel good too? I think you need to give sensei a thank you gift for such a good lesson.”

Bleary hazel eyes peer at him before slowly nodding and Nekomata laughs as Kuroo attempts to shimmy to his knees in between Nekomata’s legs, hands eagerly pawing at the hem of his sweatpants only to startle when he’s teasingly slapped away.

“We’ll use your mouth another day. I have something else to show you.”

Kuroo’s an adult now, but there’s a childlike innocence in the way he curiously looks on as Nekomata pulls out a translucent bottle, craning his neck to see what the older man is doing even when he’s coaxed into laying on his back on one of the benches, his legs spread out on either side of the metal apparatus. And Nekomata coos at the confused nervous sound Kuroo makes as he generously coats Kuroo’s pretty puckered rim and his fingers with the clear liquid.

“I need you to relax and take deep breaths, okay?”

That’s all the warning he gets before a finger is pushing at his tight hole and he keens as one knuckle breaches his unused hole, taking in desperate panicked breaths as it becomes two knuckles, and borderline hyperventilating when he’s taken the digit all the way to its hilt. But he desperately listens to the familiar voice as it orders him to keep on relaxing, keep on breathing.

Relax. Breathe. Relax. Breathe. Relax. Breathe.

One finger becomes two. Two fingers become three. The stretch is uncomfortable, but not painful, yet Kuroo still just feels strangely full, can’t comprehend what the appeal of this is-

He screams. Back arching and body twitching when Nekomata’s fingers move inside of him, brushing against a spot that has him seeing stars and his cock hardening once again. He scrambles to sit up, find purchase, register what’s happening, but then those fingers are bushing against that spot over and over again and all he can do is sob, cock pathetically splurting thick drops of pre-cum all over his stomach as his mind breaks under the new delirious pleasure he’s being drowned in.

If he thought he had already been overwhelmed, it’s absolutely painful and agonizing when the stimulation abruptly stops and he’s howling, clawing like an animal to keep Nekomata’s fingers inside of him, sobbing even harder when Nekomata gently shakes him off and leaves him gaping open, cold, and alone like he’s always been his entire life. But he tries to stifle his sobs, gasping for breath when Nekomata is right there with him again, softly kissing his forehead and urging him to continue being his good patient boy and he sighs in relief when something larger begins to refill him, whimpering and moaning at the larger stretch, but ultimately finding peace in the connection, the fullness.

And he relaxes back down on the bench, mewling as Nekomata’s cock drags against his insides, reaching further and further inside of him until the head is pressing against that same spot that has him writhing wantonly underneath the older body on top of him. Words are spilling past his lips, incoherent babbling he can’t even make out himself, but as if Nekomata understands the indecipherable pleas for more, he offers the younger man a weathered smile before beginning to rock back and forth and Kuroo’s head shakes back and forth, eyes rolling back in his head as his prostate is continuously brushed against.

Kuroo has always been attractive, but like this? Vulnerable, lust and arousal clearly painted all over his face and body, pretty noises and tears, a shaky hand wrapping around his own leaking cock? He’s breathtaking and Nekomata feels like a young man all over again as he increases his pace, ignoring the irritating pang in his old hips as he desperately chases his own end, balls feeling full and ready to explode in a way they haven’t for decades. And he sputters and chokes as he empties himself inside of the lithe body underneath him, nearly crushing the younger man as he exhaustedly collapses on top of Kuroo and catches his breath.

But he grumbles when he feels the body underneath him continue to wriggle, something uncomfortable digging into his stomach and he lifts up just enough to see how Kuroo desperately continues to stroke his cock, tears in his eyes from being so close to release and yet unable to find it by himself and he takes pity on him, nudging Kuroo’s hands away and wrapping his own hand around the cock, sloppily kissing the pretty captain. And he smiles when wiry arms wrap around him and hold him tight, swallowing Kuroo’s endearing moans as the raven haired athlete falls apart underneath him once again, coating his hand with his creamy essence.

He holds his cum covered hand to Kuroo’s mouth, fondly smiling as he immediately begins lapping and licking him clean, only a slight wrinkle of his nose indicating his dislike of the salty bitter taste. That’s okay, he’ll let the birthday boy get away with it for now. After all, he has plenty of time to fully train him to be the perfect cum slut, his perfect cum slut.

#yandere haikyuu #yandere nekomata #nekomata x kuroo #tw: dubcon #tw: grooming #tw: yandere #tw: lee's infection #tw: crusty #tw: old #tw: fuckers #haikyuu smut #kuroo smut

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wri0thesley · 4 years ago

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Are the requests truly open? ;u; does that mean I may request more neko content, possibly with la squadra? I know the brainrot on here is real for Prosciutto and Risotto but I'm weak for Illuso and Formaggio and I'd die a happy kitten if you could write about them being alone at hq for the weekend to care for the neko which turns into a contest: whose food does neko like more, whose bed does the kitty build their blanket nest in... who breeds them better? I hope this isn't too much/ too weird!

not sfw, afab reader, petplay/kitty hybrid reader!

The hideout isn’t often as quiet as it is this weekend. Though La Squadra are often needed on various jobs, they tend to be a little more sporadic than this; it’s unusual for there to be more than three or four assassins out on a mission at any one time. It’s even more unusual for seven of them to be out on missions that are expected to last at least the weekend - but that’s what’s happened, in order for Illuso and Formaggio to be the only two left to take care of you.

As a whole, you’re well-behaved - you’re good-natured, sweet, nice to look at. All of the assassins are very fond of you, and competitions to see who you are going to give your affections to are regular and can get exceedingly competitive. They all see your smiles, and are pleased by your soft words, feel special when they’re chosen to be the one whomst you sit by in an evening and allow to pet your ears as you relax into the touches.

There’s definitely an aura of foreboding about Formaggio and Illuso being left to care for you. Usually, it’s Prosciutto who takes care of your food (he’s the best cook in La Squadra, after all), and Melone who makes sure your environment is suitable (being the most interested in your biology). Risotto tends to have a lot of time spent with him by dint of him being peaceful and leaving you to your business.

Formaggio, they think, will not take it seriously enough. And Illuso - well, all of La Squadra are guilty of looking at you and imagining what it would be like to have you folded in half beneath them, your tail curled around your ankle, your ears twitching as you purr and pant in equal measure. Illuso has a tendency to whisper things closely to people, to get in personal space, to make one feel as though they’re the most fascinating person in the world - perhaps, then, they’re worried that if left on your own with Illuso, he’ll get the spoils of war they’ve all been hoping for.

Illuso and Formaggio are used to working together; they’re the natural leftover pairing against Sorbet-and-Gelato, Prosciutto-and-Pesci, and Melone-and-Ghiaccio. But they do have a rivalry that’s kept up with barks of laughter and accusations of one being far cooler, more powerful and all-around better than the other. It’s not surprising, then, that the two of them concoct a plan to see which one of them does a better job taking care of you - with the caveat that if one of them gets to breed you, they’re the automatic winner.

They’re stoked in their resolve by how happy you are to see them - the purr of their names, the way you follow close by them, the happy swish of your tail and ears. Neither of them can resist petting you and telling you how cute you are (though Formaggio is rather more affectionate about the whole thing). They explain their plan to you - after all, who better to judge than the person that it’s all happening for?

They omit one important part of the plan. When you tip your head to the side and pout and ask;

“But how will we know when it’s the end? How will we know who wins overall?”

Formaggio ruffles your hair and grins at you.

“Ahh, gattina,” he says to you. “We’ll know, believe me!”

So they do. They start with your food. Illuso is a surprisingly good cook, it turns out - Formaggio doesn’t really know what to do in the kitchen, and he attempts to order in. The pizza that he presents you with is too greasy with not enough meat - Illuso one hundred percent wins the feeding round, and you tuck yourself up next to him on the couch to watch a movie whilst Formaggio stews angrily on the other side of the room.

Next is the brushing. Everybody knows you like to be preened and cared over; there are a hundred different products in the bathroom to make sure your fur stays soft and shiny, and to keep your hair looking its best. When you’re sat between Formaggio’s legs and waiting to be pampered, you feel his fingers give a little tug to your ear and you know that this is going to be an uncomfortable experience. You can barely stop yourself yowling in frustration as he tugs on another knot, and uses the wrong brush, and brushes you all the wrong way--

You’re relieved when Illuso sighs and pushes him away and puts all of those things to rights. Two points for Illuso, then. it seems as though poor Formaggio is doing a very bad job of this competition.

The final competition for the night is who you’d rather sleep with. Illuso has fancy satin and silk sheets and pillows on his bed - he doesn’t think there’s going to be a competition, honestly. His room is quiet and peaceful and smells good. He’s very smug about it as he asks you if you want to come to bed, reassuring you that if you want someone to be around whilst you’re sleeping - as you do, you can’t help it! - there’s plenty of room on his bed.

Formaggio, though, insists you come and have a look at the space he’s made for you first. You humour him, not really expecting it to be any good - you stay away from Formaggio’s room at the best of times - only to find a carefully constructed nest on his bed, made entirely of clothes of various La Squadra members and your own favourite blankets.

(”Prosciutto is going to be so mad about that Prada suit,” Illuso murmurs from the corner of his mouth, as he frustratedly watches you pounce on the nest and begin to roll around, getting comfortable. “I’m going to tell him.”)

(”Whatever,” Formaggio grins, unable to stop himself watching the way your ass wiggles as you get comfortable. “You’re just jealous I won one.”)

And he did. Not that he planned much further than that - by the time he gets into bed himself, he’s horribly aware that he’s given you too much leeway. You’re comfortably curled up already, and he’s trying to get all of his body under the duvet. It’s three in the morning before he manages to let his eyes fall shut--

And then, there’s a heavy weight on top of his chest and a hand swatting his cheek gently. He wakes up, groaning, to see that you’re sat on him with your eyes big and glowing in the moonlight.

“Maggie,” you tell him, all whining and pouting and purring (and he can’t deny that something about the pout and the way you stretch out the pet name sends a ricochet of heat right to his cock), “wanna play.”

Who is he to deny you that?

It’s you who’s surprisingly physical with him - pouncing across at him, your hands scrabbling over his chest, your face rubbing against his. You keep purring and rumbling chest deep, your body warm and needy. Formaggio doesn’t know what’s going on until you grab his hand and push it against your chest, almost hissing in frustration--

And then he recalls something, in the very recesses of his mind, Melone said once. About how your species is supposed to get very physical in heat. About how they’re more likely to seek out scents of people they care about when one is approaching. About how they’ll often approach the first person they see when waking up for some relief--

“Oh, gattina mia,” he murmurs. “You could have just said--”

Illuso finds him with his cock hilted all the way inside you, your hands flexing on Prosciutto’s expensive Prada suit as all of the other various clothes beneath you are rendered filthy by the slick that’s dripping out of you with every hungry pump of Formaggio’s cock. You’re mewling and whimpering out his name, your keening echoing through the house - nobody ever said you’d be quiet when you were in heat. Illuso stands at the doorframe for a minute, his face stony.

Formaggio sees him and laugh-gasps out a greeting;

“Lulu! Looks like . . . I won, huh?” In between thrusts, you’re practically purring, your eyes rolling back into your head. You look sweaty and fucked out, blissfully pleased to be in the position you’re in - but when you see Illuso, you whimper out;

“W-wanna play, too?” You look at him with your eyes all big and needy, and Illuso sighs as he begins to shrug off his clothes, though his cock is stirring rapidly and hungrily as he watches Formaggio’s cock drive in and out of your body. Catching Formaggio’s eye, Illuso grins;

“Well. It’s not a competition unless we both try, is it? Our piccolo micio will tell us who wins, won’t you?”

As Illuso’s fingers graze your face and you lean into the touch, you agree without so much as blinking. They might need to have a couple of rounds.

You know. To help you choose.

#jojo headcanons #not sfw #formaggio x reader #illuso x reader #formaggio #illuso #Anonymous

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ohsnapcracklepopfriends · 3 years ago

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To be named GGMU fic: Part three - Drunk Mancs and Karaoke Don't Mix

After way too long, I'm back with another instalment of my GGMU fic (three parts down, four to go). Sorry, it took so long, life has been insanely hectic. I just wrote this in an hour of power writing, I hope you like it. Part one and part two if you haven't read them <3

Christmas parties at Sky were generally a disaster. Not only did they usually involve a room full of people all too competitive for their own good, there was usually the presence of both alcohol and cell phones which were a dangerous combination. All of this was worse to witness sober. Jamie had made the terrible decision of being the designated driver. Gary had one rule that he’d made clear to Jamie when they first started going out together: do not put drunk Gary in a cab. Gary’s a handsy drunk with zero self-control. They both know sitting in the back of a cab with drunk Gary was a recipe for a traumatized cabbie and a couple of disastrous news articles in the morning. So Jamie had agreed to drive, and that was fine. He was fine with it, truly. Jamie watched as Gary danced around in the bar they had rented out, jumping around freely while Graeme looked on with his disapproving grimace. Jamie wished he could be dancing with him, blaming it on the alcohol.

Jamie took a sip of his apple juice--which was fucking good, okay? Back off. He swished it around in his mouth, pretending it was something stronger. He swallowed and looked up. Gary was still jumping around without a care in the world. Jamie could tell he was really drunk. Gary was a total lightweight and he’d probably had about four beers to get to this point. Jamie chuckled to himself, thinking back to the nights they’d shared together when they first started dating. They’d spent quite a few nights on the floor of Gary’s living room with a bottle of wine and a bag of crisps. Jamie treasured those nights. He treasured the moments where Gary was buzzing and less scared of his emotions, letting them just enjoy their time together without Gary’s mind spinning.

Gary looked in Jamie’s direction. His face lit up when he saw Jamie leaning against the counter. He scrambled over until he stood right up against Jamie’s shoes.

“Did you see Redders?” Gary asked in a rush. Jamie laughed at the big goofy smile on his lips. He did, in fact, see Redders. Redders had taken to the small stage in the corner after his third pint. He’d been singing away at the top of his lungs--very poorly, Jamie might add--for the past hour or so.

“I want to sing, James. Come sing with me.” He tugged at Jamie’s arm. Jamie had fallen for this trap before. Last year he’d made the mistake of joining Gary for some drunk karaoke and ended up trending on Twitter. Jamie was not a singer for a reason.

“I’m sure Redders will sing with you” Jamie offered. Gary pouted. Gary was one of those people who were easy to imagine as a child. He could see a younger Gary in the way he acted when he was tired, grumpy, stubborn, and bleary-eyed. He could see a younger Gary in the way he giggled at Jamie’s jokes. He could see a younger Gary in the way he pouted during times like this, trying to sway Jamie to agree with him. It worked more than Jamie liked to admit.

“I’ll come and watch you?” Jamie tried to bargain again. Gary nodded this time and dragged Jamie towards the stage. Jamie happily let himself be pulled along. Gary’s hand was warm and sweaty where it was clutching at Jamie’s, but Jamie didn’t mind. After playing football for that long, he couldn’t be bothered by sweat anymore. After one testimonial match, Jamie found he actually liked Gary sweaty: he liked to lick beads of sweat off of Gary’s furrowed brows and watch him shutter--but that’s a story for another time.

Jamie wished they could stay like this, Gary holding his hand tightly, tugging insistently on it every few seconds, but all too soon, they found themselves at the stage. Gary dropped his hand and hopped up onto the small, wooden platform. Redders was still on the stage, red-faced and (poorly) belting the ending to Tainted Love. The stage was so small that the two men took up most of the space. Gary reached behind Redders to grab the second microphone. He grabbed Redders by the shoulder and whispered in his ear. Redders’ amused smile made Jamie nervous: what the hell did this drunk idiot have in mind?

Redders jumped off the stage with far too much grace for someone as injury prone and drunk as Jamie knew he was. He ran over to the karaoke machine and picked their song before scurrying back onto the stage to join Gary. Jamie was confused when the guitar started and he couldn’t place it.

“I got chills--” Redders started to sing and realization set into Jamie’s mind. Oh dear god, he thought, they’re doing Grease. “--It’s electrifying!” Jamie groaned. He couldn’t help himself. There was no way this wouldn’t somehow end up on Twitter. He knew sober Gary would not find this nearly as funny if it made headlines. Jamie started scanning the crowd for people with their phones out. Thankfully, most people had either gone home or were drowning themselves at the bar, after all, what was free booze for? Jamie noticed Geoff filming out of the corner of his eye. He practically ran over to him.

“You better shape up!” Gary starting singing now. He was by no means an angel, if Jamie was honest he was pretty fucking terrible. But like everything Gary did, he sang with a fiery passion and excitement that just made it utterly endearing. Jamie loved it when Gary sang.

“Give me that,” Jamie grabbed Geoff’s phone from his hands, which was pretty easy considering how sloshed he was. He barely even protested as Jamie deleted the videos and shut off his phone because Jamie was smart and knew Geoff was too far gone to figure out how to turn it back on.

“--tooooooo my heart I must be trueeeeeeee,” Gary was dancing around on the stage and Jamie couldn’t help but take a moment to stop worrying and just admire the carefree smile of his boyfriend, so blissfully happy as he made a fool out of himself in front of all of their colleagues. Jamie noticed that Gary was staring at him. Gary then brought his hand up to point directly at him.

“You’re the one that I want! Oh! Oh! Oh! Jamie!” Oh no. Oh no. This was a complete disaster. Jamie couldn’t stop himself, he jumped up on the stage. The limited space meant he had to stand pressed against Gary. Gary just smiled up at him and shoved his microphone up to Jamie’s lips. And as much as he hated it, Jamie could never deny him anything.

“Oh yes indeed,” Jamie half-sang, half spoke. It was awkward and hard to listen to even to his own ears, but Gary beamed at him and Jamie felt a smile tugging at the edge of his lips.

And then he remembered why he got up here in the first place: not to sing, not to smile at Gary like a big, lovesick dork--no, he was here to put an end to this. He was here to take Gary home safely before any further disaster could strike just like he’d promised.

“If you’re filled with affection--” Redders started to sing again. Jamie used this opportunity to make their escape. He pried the microphone from Gary’s hands before placing it gently on the stage. He put his arm around Gary’s middle and firmly led him off the stage.

“Where are we going?” Gary asked. He was looking up at Jamie from where he was tucked against Jamie’s side. Jamie knew it was probably too intimate a position for them to hold in public but he found he was too exhausted to care.

“We’re going home, love,” Jamie said softly against Gary’s ear. Gary gave him a wicked grin and started to worm his fingers under Jamie’s jacket. Jamie pushed his arm away holding it against Gary’s side. This was not the time or place.

“You’re going to make me wait for it?” Gary asked. “That’s okay. It’ll be better when you fuck me later. I’ll be so ready. I’ll be begging for you.” Jamie let out a long breath. Fuck. Luckily, or unluckily depending on how you looked at it, they were out of the bar, walking down the street towards Jamie’s car. On the bright side, no one was close enough to hear Gary being far too drunk to care that he’s being far too loud. However, anyone could be on the street: reporters, idiots with cameras, though now Jamie is realizing that those are kind of the same thing. Jamie’s kidding, of course. He guessed he was kind of a journalist himself now. He generally thought of journalists as no-life drama vultures for the Daily Mail or worse The S*n.

Jamie was pretty used to wrangling drunk Gary into vehicles against his will, but this time was different. Gary was usually uncooperative just for the sake of being uncooperative. This trait just worsened after a few pints. That night Gary was shockingly content, though. He wasn’t argumentative or difficult, he was sweet and happy. He leaned into Jamie’s side on their walk and looked up at him like he just signed Messi for Man United (which Jamie couldn’t do obviously, and even if he could, he wouldn’t). When it came time to get into Jamie’s car, Gary went without complaint, let alone their usual wrestling match. Jamie was honestly getting kind of worried.

“Are you high?” He asked as he put the car in reverse. Jamie had never known Gary to smoke but he figured it was a possible explanation for his strange behaviour. Gary hummed in confusion.

“What?” He asked. Gary’s face was smushed against the passenger window, fogging up the glass with every breath.

“Are you okay?” Jamie rephrased his question for Gary’s scrambled brain, “you seem weird.”

“I’m not weird, James,” he said, his words even more drawn out than usual, “I’m happy.” He started humming something under his breath but it was so quiet that Jamie could not make it out over the engine. “Singing makes me happy, Jamie,” Gary said and Jamie knew. Gary was generally not as public of a singer as he had been that night, but he always loved singing. He sang in the shower, something that Jamie found entirely endearing. Jamie loved waking up in the morning to the sound of water and Gary’s slow voice. Jamie remembered Gary doing karaoke all the way back in their England days. He and Crouchy were always the most enthusiastic, though Jamie would never have guessed that until he saw it with his own eyes.

“I know,” Jamie said, “it makes me happy, too.” It was probably a little too honest but Jamie knew Gary wouldn’t notice. Even if he did notice, he wouldn’t remember it in the morning.

“Do you want me to sing to you?” And yet again, Jamie just couldn’t say no to Gary. Jamie expected more of what he’d heard at the pub: some eighties songs, maybe an NSYNC song or two (Redders loved NSYNC). He didn’t expect Gary to start happily singing Glory Glory Man United in his fucking car.

“Gary, what the hell?” Jamie protested but Gary just shushed him and kept singing. Jamie could hear his feet tapping against the mat of the car. And right when Jamie was about to smack Gary in the head, he realized something: Gary was drunk. Now obviously it didn’t take a genius to figure that out: he’d been steadily drinking since the party began and you could see the drunkenness in his red, flushed ears. But Jamie realized that Gary’s drunk brain was prone to forgetting basic, fundamental information. Like, for example, that Jamie was a Scouser.

Jamie figured that in Gary’s drunk brain, he wanted to sing a song to make Jamie happy. But like he’d forgotten that Tracey played netball on New Year the year before or that he was a right-back on one especially wild Wednesday night, he had forgotten that the song that brought his manc heart so much joy, did not spark the same happy memories for his boyfriend. He wasn’t trying to get on Jamie’s nerves and that knowledge comforted Jamie enough not to reach over and strangle him. So Jamie just let him sing and quietly suffered as he drove along. He tried to tamp down the simmering irritation the song automatically sparked in the pit of his stomach.

Mercifully for Jamie, Gary drifted off in the passenger’s seat less than ten minutes into their drive. Jamie instead drove the rest of the way to the sound of Gary’s loud snores.

#carraville #jamie carragher #gary neville #my fic

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moonbeamsung · 4 years ago

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CRΣΣKS

Love, a second glance, it is not something that we need.

member: jeno

au: guardian angel in disguise!jeno x gn!reader, guardian angel au

word count: 3.4k

genre: angst

warnings: character death/loss, profanity, no happy ending, mentions of religion, questioning/loss of faith

recommended song: 715 - CRΣΣKS by the nor’easters

author’s note: Please be very careful with volume when listening to the song (above) that inspired this story! But even without reading the lyrics/listening, the fic will still make sense, and happy reading :)

network tags: @kpopscape @neo-constellations @starryktown

The wind is whistling, weaving in and out of the tall river reeds like an invisible needle and thread, stitching itself into each and every crevice of the world’s gift called nature.

Another one of its many gifts is the young boy that’s resting beside a rushing brook, toes dipped into the cool water and face illuminated by the sun as it beats down onto the earth with celestial strength.

Well, a gift from the heavens, that is.

Sent from the endless skies above, Jeno is your guardian angel, assigned with posing as a humble peasant boy in the village, all to keep a watchful eye on you from afar. In his human form, he spends his days wandering the cobblestone roads and narrow alleyways between the quaint buildings, with no family to return home to at dusk. A sunny meadow on the outskirts of town becomes his home, and he takes refuge in the shelter that the overgrown grass provides.

Everything is going smoothly, and he’s doing his job just as he should be. It’s routine now, waking up and rising from his earthen mattress, curtains of copious plant leaves letting in the sun’s rays. He finds you, observes at a comfortable distance, and that’s that. At its core, being a guardian is really an easy job. A predictable one.

A monotonous one.

Until one day you approach him, youthful eagerness in your eyes piercing and nearly painful, even to his invulnerable body. He’s never seen you up close before, only on the near horizon as you’ve gone about your daily chores, tending to the housework just like any obedient child should.

“...Who are you?”

Now, Jeno is faced with a decision more challenging than any that us mortal beings have to make in our entire lives. Engaging with one’s assignment is an extremely dangerous path to take. Unimaginable punishments await, should the guardian make a wrong choice. But Jeno was careless, and he had allowed himself to be discovered by the only human on Earth that the divine forces permit him to be seen by.

He makes the fatal error of answering you, ultimately shattering a future he’ll never get to live out, one that he doesn’t even know he would’ve had. Like a sharp rock being thrown at a church’s stained glass window, the meticulously carved pieces of his worldly existence fall to the ground with a deafening crash, broken beyond repair.

“I’m Jeno,” the strikingly majestic cadence of his words is like that of angel trumpets, the sound ringing in your head and making you dizzy with both fascination and infatuation.

And just like that, in three short syllables, you’re both fated to fall before you can even spread your wings.

From the moment you hear his name tumble from those beautiful lips, you’re hooked, and he knows it. He sees it in the way you look at him, in the way you act, the way you talk. A child experiencing a first and a forbidden love all at once.

It breaks his heart, because he knows it can’t, and shouldn’t last. The churning rapids of the creek nearby weep for him, for they know that in a matter of just a few short years, their waters are destined to mix with the salty tears that will steadily cascade from your trembling chin.

Jeno remembers, although vaguely, the brief amount of time he spent living amongst the clouds, being prepared by the heavenly elders for this expedition of a lifetime, quite literally. He remembers the scriptures, the strictures, and all the times he’s been warned of the severe consequences that come with immorality.

But even the purest of young angels aren’t infallible, still susceptible to compulsions that lead them to sin and defy their creator.

Relishing in the fading daylight, you join him by the water’s edge, listening to his soothing tone as he answers your ceaseless inquiries with harmless little lies as white as heavenly robes and cherub wings.

Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor. The first sin.

It’s interesting, he thinks, that despite looking after you in the endeavors of your youth for quite a while now, he knows next to nothing about who you truly are. Actions may speak louder than words, but how can he know that if he’s never heard your voice to begin with?

As the quiet, languid conversation shifts from his purpose there to yours, Jeno learns that you’re very content with your life, taking pride in helping your family with daily tasks as well as assisting your neighbors in the close-knit village with theirs.

Just then, all the smears of dirt and scattered scratches adorning your face catch his attention, gained after hours of hard work. No amount of water is ever enough to scrub them off of your skin at the end of the day, no matter how hard you try. Sometimes, you feel tears prick your eyes as you try to fall asleep at night, frustrated with your lowly appearance and how it never seems to match your relatively optimistic outlook on life.

But Jeno doesn’t care. You’re breathtaking even in his eyes, the eyes that belong to an actual angel. If that fact alone isn’t enough to boost your confidence, he doesn’t know what else possibly could.

Like a fool, he lets himself drown in your sublimity for a moment, marveling at the ethereal glow of the sun on your smooth, ageless face. The faint noise of wisps of air blowing gently through the meadow and rustling the flora makes him drowsy, but the sight of a pure white heron landing gracefully on the opposite side of the riverbank brings him back to full consciousness in an instant.

The bird, an omen of sorts, had been sent down from Heaven, conjured up from a fleeting idea and into a physical reality, by the holy beings looking down upon the earth, indicating that they’re well aware of the threat he poses and just how close he is to making an irreversible mistake in regards to you, his assignment and assignment only.

The heron abruptly unfurls its delicately feathered wings, as if frightened, before taking off and floating away on the breeze, both of your gazes inexplicably drawn to it as it flies until it’s out of sight altogether.

It warns him of just what he’s messing with, exactly.

This is not a part of the creator’s plan for you, for him. Falling in love with the one an angel is supposed to guard is an appalling crime to commit in the eyes of the elders that inhabit the sky, in the eyes of God. Though it doesn’t explicitly go against a commandment or biblical law, it’s just an understood rule. It’s wrong.

Jeno tells himself this, and continues to do so over the many years that he looks after you, never acting on his emotions, only acknowledging them before sending the less-than-acceptable thoughts into the depths of his conscious mind. He only wishes he had a key to lock them up and forget he even felt them in the first place.

Even as an angel, he ages just like anyone else, the both of you going from kids to teenagers and then nearing the young-adult stage of life, with you remaining blissfully unaware of Jeno’s true identity all the while. It’s a miracle he’s managed to keep his secret for this long, honestly, but like grains of sand in an hourglass, your time together is running out, whether you like it or not.

Not even a year before your entire world, your entire reality comes undone before your very eyes, Jeno feels as if his has already done just that. Because you’ve found someone. And that someone isn’t him.

He hates the feeling of jealousy, despises it with every fiber of his heavenly being. But he can’t shake it, can’t bear the way it clings to him like an unwelcome visitor. An unrecognizable emotion, one so foreign that he can’t even put a name to it, is stirred up at the sight of you in their arms, so pure and so unworthy of this person. Boy, if he didn’t know any better, Jeno would swear that you were the angel.

With each day that passes, he begins to feel the final shreds of both his dignity and his self-control slipping away, lost to the familiar breeze that whips through the village, stronger than ever these days. He can no longer contain it within himself. He wants you.

Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s goods. The second sin.

How ironic that a Sunday, of all days, is when everything falls apart.

The sun is hanging low in the sky, just barely grazing the horizon with its bright beams of warmth as it steadily rises, bathing the world in a soft yellow glow. You can also see the moon leftover from the night that ended not so long ago, fading fast but visible nonetheless. Two complete opposites, so close but prevented by the laws of nature for coexisting in the same space, at the same time.

Maybe, just maybe, if you knew just how much you had in common with the celestial objects above, you would have clutched the hand of Jeno a bit tighter yesterday, intertwined your fingers a little more closely with those of someone who had become the closest thing to a best friend that you had ever known. You admit that you wish he could be something more, but you know better than to push your limits.

You got tired of waiting to see if he felt the same way, choosing to fill the void with someone else that you liked, yes, but who just wasn’t the same as the boy who had always been there, waiting in the meadow every morning without fail. Still, your emotions are ever-alert and always searching for any sign of reciprocation within Jeno.

He’s nowhere to be found when you reach the water’s edge, the edge of the creek where you wasted away endless summer days and frosty winter nights, colorful spring afternoons and brisk autumn evenings.

This morning would seem no different than the rest if not for his absence. The knot in your heart loosens, but not by much, when you spot him at the forest’s edge, looking weary.

Jeno notices you and calls out your name with a smile, but something about it isn’t genuine. It’s pained, desperate, like he wants to hold onto this moment forever, unwilling to carry out the plan he’s already regretting. It’s too late now, he thinks to himself, but he’s wrong.

It’s been too late for years.

“Jeno?”

“This way!” He chokes out. It’s somewhere between a sob and a plea, but there’s no time to figure out which is the more appropriate term. He disappears between the trees and amidst their mossy branches, blending in with the shadows cast by the thick canopy of leaves, and you break into a sprint, afraid of losing him to the merciless wilderness and what lies within.

Thankfully, he’s not too far gone. A small clearing greets you less than a dozen strides in, and in the very center of it stands a glass gazebo, run-down and covered in so many twisting vines to the point where the small structure is almost fully consumed by the nature surrounding it.

The scene is beautiful, so much so that it makes you uneasy. What’s going on? Why did he bring you here? Why does he seem so sad? Jeno is never sad, maybe he could be described as brooding or solemn on the rarest of occasions, but never this melancholy, never so utterly hopeless in his expressions and his aura.

None of these questions are answered, even as he takes your hands in his own and leads you inside of the gazebo, its see-through panels catching the light with elegance and ease.

“I need to tell you something.” Just like it did the first time you heard it, his voice still shocks you like a bolt of electricity, your blood pressure and heart rate skyrocketing. All of this is heightened, though, by grim tone he’s speaking to you with.

“What is it, Jen?” There it is. The nickname you made up for him that, although simple, makes him feel like he’s on top of the world. Actually, scratch that: it makes him feel like he’s floating in the sky, up past the clouds and even further away from this cruel planet than the heavens are from Hell.

You’re only making this harder for him. He might as well just spit it out, because all this waiting is agonizing for the both of you.

“We... we can’t be together.”

The sentence that leaves his lips is two declarations wrapped up in one singular statement, the first being that he wants to be with you in the same way you want to be with him. It’s much too hopeful, misleading your emotions down a path of elation instead of dread. The second is unpleasant, a bitter taste lingering on his tongue once he says the words.

“...Yes, yes we can, Jen, because I don’t really love them and all this time it’s been you—”

“You don’t understand,” he tries to stop the confession spilling out from your heart before it overflows, drowns you. “I’m not who you think I am.”

Stunned to silence, he gives you a moment to drink in the implications of his words. “...I’ve known you for over half of my entire life, and you’re trying to tell me I have no idea who you really are? Not a chance,” you laugh softly, shaking your head and glancing down at the wooden gazebo floor, old white paint peeling under your feet.

“But haven’t you ever wondered why I’m always there by the creek every morning? How I turn up throughout your day at the perfect time? How I’m suddenly right by your side when you need me the most?”

You have wondered. Many times, in fact. But the possibility of him being anything other than human was not at the top of your very rational list.

“...Don’t you see? I’m your guardian angel.”

He sees you blink, realization dawning on your face like the sun and stretching your features. “There are laws—” He begins, but your reaction is not the one he anticipated you would have to that information.

Too overwhelmed, you can’t respond with anything other than physical actions, no matter how unreasonable, and you press your dry lips to his soft ones, sealing your fate. Standing there, with beams of golden light infiltrating the space and illuminating your unsteady figures, Jeno is petrified not by your kiss, but by the fact that he doesn’t push you away, and his hands hold onto yours even tighter than before. Nothing has ever felt so right in his entire life. Not when he was in Heaven, and not in all the years he’s spent on Earth, either.

You’re his Heaven, this moment is his eternity. Jeno has endured enough temptation, the undeniable thrill that a deliberate sin promises has become too much for him. If he pulls away now, everything would still be okay, you could both go back to normal and pretend this never happened. But alas, he was doomed to kiss you back from the beginning, and so he does, and you have no idea what the universe has in store when you feel his lips finally respond to yours in the most unholy way possible. For the first and last time, you indulge in each other’s touch and taste, and it does not please the ones watching from above.

The third and final sin, one sin too many for him to remain in this world without consequence.

Several things happen all at once. A clap of thunder sounds overhead, though there are no clouds in sight. Jeno is painfully ripped from your grasp and thrown out of the gazebo by some invisible force of nature, into the grass and dirt on the forest floor.

And inside of you, a piece of your soul is torn from your being, bile rising up in your throat as you comprehend the excruciating sensation that racks your body with pained whimpers.

Stumbling to his feet, Jeno heaves, hunched over and close to tears. Suppressing the agony you still feel, you hurry over to him only for the boy to charge away, heading back towards the open meadow. With a broken shout of his name, you follow.

You didn’t notice before, but now the blinding light reveals the condition he’s in. He looks almost normal, but the edges of his form are becoming fainter by the minute, blurring with the rest of the world around him. He’s fading away before your eyes, and it’s all your fault.

It’s a torturous experience, watching him slowly meld with the emptiness of the air. Making him disappear into thin air in an instant would have been an act of mercy, a mercy that’s apparently beyond the capabilities of the spectators in the sky.

Struggling to maintain your composure, you force a question out. “What’s happening?” You ask, though you know he doesn’t have an answer himself.

He’s obviously panicked, though he tries not to show it. “I... I don’t know, I knew that it was forbidden for us to fall in love but I didn’t think I’d be robbed of my existence like this...”

“What?! No, Jeno, please don’t go...” You beg the gods and angels above, if any exist. You don’t know anymore.

If there is a God, how can he be good if he’s taking Jeno away from you like this, depriving you of the one constant source of joy and comfort in your life?

It’s far too cruel to bestow such a kind and generous heart upon someone who isn’t allowed to love in the first place.

Even Jeno’s touch is faint, making you feel like he’s not there at all. You just barely detect the pads of his fingers smoothing over your cheeks, trying to stop the water spilling from your eyes. He smiles sadly, “Don’t cry for me. I’m not worth the tears.”

“You’re everything to me, Jeno. You’re worth every drop.”

“Remember me like this, okay? By the creek,” he gestures to the turbulent waters a short distance away. Walking slowly, he begins to take steps in its direction, but as he speeds up you’re no longer able to match his pace. “Jeno, turn around...”

Glancing back at you for the final time, he whispers a goodbye that the breeze carries away with it, the sound something only the two of you would hear, one that could never be replicated.

“Goddamnit, Jeno, don’t you dare leave me!” But you know you can’t hold on, you’re not strong enough. A greater force wants you two apart, unable to be overpowered by one human, a relatively insignificant being in the grand scheme of the universe. He vanishes completely.

You fall to your knees, the pain from the pebbles digging into your legs and feet underneath the surface of the creek numbed by your sorrow. The water drenches your clothes, splashing up onto your skin and becoming one with your relentless tears. You’re left all alone, with only the cattails to keep you company. You wish the waves would just swallow you whole so you don’t have to feel this suffocating isolation.

In an unnecessarily harsh trick of the light combined with the dancing shadows generated by the water, you swear that you see Jeno again for a second, sitting on the riverbank like always. You sob louder.

It takes forever for you to find the strength to stand up again, water running over your soaked shoes and threatening to topple you over. You wouldn’t mind if it succeeds.

Inconsolable even to your closest friends and family, you reluctantly return to the village, unwilling to leave behind what you’ve just been through and unable to explain just why you’re crying so hard. Maybe if you stay there forever, spending each day and night waiting among the reeds and the flowers and the grass, he’ll come back someday, but no. He’ll never return, but you simply can’t bring yourself to accept this fact.

You’re never quite the same after that. Part of the curse that haunts you for the rest of your life is this: no matter how hard you try to retain your memories, you’re destined to forget Jeno eventually, leaving vast gaps in your brain when it comes to the years of your youth.

You’re left with only a feeling of inexplicable nostalgia at the sight of the meadow and the creek running through it, the waters still as violent as they were on the day you lost him.

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