#people would actually give him bounty contracts just so he would fuck off and give them some peace and quiet for a while

[fangsandfeels]

Whenever I try to put Astarion and "domestic life" in the same sentence, this is the only result i can imagine:

[redfish-blu]

Kobra kid backstory headcanons please? I saw your drawing with the hospital gown thing and I want to learn more

Yeah gladly. I love that dude :)

- Kobra was born in (still LA but barely) Battery City. November 22, 2006. Very shortly after the end of the Helium Wars and very shortly before the BLi takeover.

- He lived there for 9 years, two of which were spent in “Assisted Living” which gets into the hospital gown thing. That’s what I consider deep lore because it gets into like. Big Picture details of the story (which I will happily explain if there’s interest). Basically it was a sinister BLi thing.

- Him and Party’s mom died when they were young (7 and 13 respectively), so they went into the system and were separated. Party went to military school and Kobra got snatched by BLi for the aforementioned purposes.

- He obviously has no memory of this. Which I’m sure will not come back to haunt anyone after Party lies to him about it for ten years.

- When they both made it to the zones around 2013, they lived in the first ever Gravel Gertie. So that’s kind of cool. Kobra was taught how to read and write there. And do some basic math. Party was actually one of his teachers cuz they were short staffed as fuck.

- Kobra is always wearing headphones or earbuds at any given time. He loves listening to music (silence without some kind of auditory stimulation bothers him). When he lived at Gertie’s, he had a walkman and a few cassettes, a collection that grew over the years until he found an iPod and started using that instead.

- His music taste is pretty rigidly rock and punk rock, but he also records stuff from random zone bands or songs that Jet writes and listens to that too. Very rarely does he listen to pop or folk music, unless he’s in a particular mood.

- If the world didn’t end, he would have probably been some kind of professional athlete. He doesn’t play sports often because there’s rarely time to do so (also because he finds it embarrassing and egotistical), but anyone who has ever played against him in basketball, football, fucking soccer, will tell you he’s crazy good.

- Kobra has heterochromia. His left eye is hazel and his right eye is dark brown. This is the main reason for always wearing sunglasses. He isn’t insecure about it, but it brings attention to his face and that’s like, at the bottom of the list of things you want when BLi has a bounty on your head.

- He has always had an issue with self worth. When he was a kid, like until he was fifteen, Party and Jet wouldn’t let him do dangerous tasks or go out alone without supervision. Logically he knew it was because dying in the zones is the easiest thing you can do, and they were just looking out for him. But it also made him feel like nobody believed in him. Which was really shitty, and he carried that feeling of inferiority around a Lot. Everything he did kind of just became about proving he wasn’t a nobody and could be independent.

- Kobra spent an abysmal amount of time at Dr. D’s place, where Party explicitly told him not to speak to Cherri Cola under any circumstance. And he didn’t, but Cherri lived to spite people and talked to him anyways. In which Cherri kind of became that older kid who gets you to do things your parents tell you not to. He taught Kobra how to shoot and fight hand-to-hand, which was ultimately helpful in the long run. Even if Party did throw a lawn chair at Cherri once for giving Kobra a black eye (on accident).

- That yellow bike was actually something he bought. It was sketchy as fuck, basically the equivalent of buying something off craigslist but it’s post-apocalyptic so it’s even worse. He had to go to Zone 3 (first red flag) where a dude named Merle sold it to him for 2,000c’s out of his garage. It was creepy as shit but his face didn’t end up on a t-shirt so it was all good.

- For a brief period of time, Kobra was a “professional” racer at the Crash Track in Vegas. He was contracted at 16 with a fairly popular team called The Roadrunners, which may have been a little human rights violation-y because he didn’t really get paid that much for the Evel Knievel shit they had him do on the track, but he wanted to be a star so it was “no big deal, they let me take the leftover pizza home”.

- Loves video games. Even if he knows he has no way of playing them, he’ll take any he finds back home with him just in case a ps2 appears out of thin air. Honestly it’s kind of a hoarding problem at this point, that’s like all his room is used for. Posters and an archive of every game ever made. His favorite (which he only ever played once at someone’s house party) is Skate 3, but generally he likes his gameboy because it’s portable.

- His “biggest rival” on the Crash Track is DJ Hot Chimp, who is the same age as him and part of a different team. They are almost tied for most 1st place races and often mess with each other while practicing or if they see one another around the zones. There’s not really any animosity but their respective teams tell them to keep dissing each other for the publicity. Meanwhile they both work for Dr. D and see one another at the cookouts bi-weekly.

- Everyone in the zones has at least a little grasp on Spanish because there’s a Large community of spanish-speaking killjoys. Kobra was taught both english and spanish at Gertie’s, but Party and Jet speak predominantly english and all the stuff he listens to and reads is also english; but he really tries not to let himself forget anything because you will get further if you know both. Often he acts as a translator for the rest of the Four (except when Ghoul is around because he’s a native speaker).

- Okay last one cuz this is So Godamn Long; Kobra believes firmly in The Phoenix Witch. He wears and makes Bad Luck Beads for himself and everyone else he knows. It’s very important to him that the people around him are being looked after when he’s not around, this includes drawing symbols of protection and luck on people’s arms in sharpie and painting them doorframes, cars, and weapons. He’ll leave one in every place he passes through.

[amiedala]

SOMETHING MORE (the mandalorian x reader)

CHAPTER 25: Tied

RATING: Explicit (18+ ONLY!!!)

WARNINGS: violence, suggestive content

SUMMARY: “Nova. Cyar’ika—” he whispers, and you flinch against the nickname, against the life you once had together, “I want you back. Need you. I need you.”

“Too late. You blew it,” you manage, and even though every cell in your body is telling you to stay, to forgive him, you try to do what you used to do best. Run.

“Cyar’ika,” Din says again. No, he’s pleading with you. “Please—”

“I looked it up,” you whisper, through shards of glass. You’re trying so hard to stay angry, but you’re teetering on heartbroken. “Cyar’ika. It doesn’t just mean sweetheart. It means beloved.”

He stares at you. You’re on the verge of tears. “Please,” he repeats, and Maker, he sounds almost as broken as you do, but you can’t help yourself.

“It means beloved,” you seethe, “and you fucking left me.”

AUTHOR’S NOTE: HELLO MY LOVES HAPPY SOMETHING MORE SATURDAY!!! this chapter is an absolute WHIRLWIND of emotions, and i am so excited to share it with you all!!! i hope you love it!! <3

*

“What are you doing here,” you manage, voice shaking. You have to grab onto the bar to steady yourself, keep your body upwards.

“I’m sorry,” Din says, and it comes out as a whisper. “I was wrong.”

You know how much this means to him. You know that coming here, after everything, wasn’t the plan. You know how much it means that he came back at all, how he’s standing in front of you, how he tracked you down after leaving you behind on Dantooine, how he probably followed your footsteps from Dantooine to Hoth to Polis Massa to here. You know how he’s standing here, unmasked, unmoored, undone, and it takes everything in you to back away.

“Please,” Din begs, and it’s so desperate that it makes you shake your head and move out from behind the bar, pull him into a quieter corner. People are staring. Gaping, actually. It’s closing time, and there’s barely anyone else left in the cantina, which means that all eyes are on the two of you. You can’t stop staring at him, so unencumbered, without his helmet. Everything in you wants to cover up Din’s face, to make everyone stop staring at him. Even hurt, even heartbroken, you can’t bear to watch him throw away his Creed, the one thing he had left.

He’s not even registering the glances he once was so terrified of. All he’s focused on is you.

“What are you doing here,” you repeat, crossing your arms over your chest to hide your shaking hands. “You left me.”

“I shouldn’t have,” he says, and it barrels over your own words. “Leaving you there—leaving you at all—was the worst mistake of my life.”

“It was.” You bite down, trying not to hide. “What do you want from me?”

“Nova. Cyar’ika—” he whispers, and you flinch against the nickname, against the life you once had together, “I want you back. Need you. I need you.”

“Too late. You blew it,” you manage, and even though every cell in your body is telling you to stay, to forgive him, you try to do what you used to do best. Run.

“Cyar’ika,” Din says again. No, he’s pleading with you. “Please—”

“I looked it up,” you whisper, through shards of glass. You’re trying so hard to stay angry, but you’re teetering on heartbroken. “Cyar’ika. It doesn’t just mean sweetheart. It means beloved.”

He stares at you. You’re on the verge of tears. “Please,” he repeats, and Maker, he sounds almost as broken as you do, but you can’t help yourself.

“It means beloved,” you seethe, “and you fucking left me.”

You turn on your heel. He says your name again, your real one, and you close your eyes against it, striding back to the bar. “I lost the kid,” he says, and that stops you. Immediately. Like a tractor beam, you freeze, turn, and stride back to him.

“What do you mean lost,” you choke out, hand coming up in his beautiful, broken, unmasked face. You knew, all along that your visions had been premonitions. You knew it months ago, and you had it solidified on Tython when you saw the Crest blown to smithereens. But the way Din’s mouth curves around the word lost, it sounds like Grogu is dead and gone.

He closes his eyes against your fury, and you inhale shakily, moving your hand back, shoving it in your pocket to contain it. “I…I had to give him up.”

“Had to?” He nods, swallows. You’ve studied him for more than long enough to recognize that he’s close to tears himself. You don’t push it. “Tell me what happened.”

“After we—we met Ahsoka,” he says, and your jaw clenches against her name, against the events that happened after her, “I took him to Tython. It didn’t go well. He—didn’t talk to anyone that I could see.” He swallows, eyes darting around your surroundings for the first time. “He—he got taken by Gideon’s soldiers.”

“I know,” you say, wiping a tear away as subtly as you can, “I—I mean how? What happened, exactly?”

“It was a planned attack,” he says through clenched teeth. “I had help, but they weren’t—enough. And Gideon’s troopers blew up the Crest.”

Your heart clenches at the memory of it, that the ship that was once your home is destroyed forever. In an instant, like it’s nothing. Like it felt when Din left you. “Who helped you?” You don’t know why you’re asking this. You know it was Luke Skywalker, but if the Crest was destroyed between Tython and Gideon’s cruiser, he had to have help elsewhere. You need to know the baby is okay. Your whole body feels like it’s been thrown into the lava rivers on Mustafar.

“Cara,” Din admits, and this makes sense. You breathe a sigh of relief—a tiny one, barely air at all, but enough to make your heartbeat quiet instead of quicken. “Bo-Katan and Koska. Fennec Shand,” he continues, and you narrow your eyes in confusion, “and Boba Fett.”

You stare at him. “Boba Fett?”

He nods, confused. “Yes. And Fennec Shand.”

“Boba Fett?” you repeat, loudly, and the music in the cantina cuts. You flutter your hand impatiently at the band, who have, somehow, been tiredly playing a background track throughout all of this, and they start up again. “The…the bounty hunter?”

Din nods. “Yes.”

“Eaten by a Sarlacc pit Boba Fett?”

He raises an eyebrow.

“Killed by Han Solo Boba Fett?” You stare at him, completely lost. He’s giving you nothing. “The—the unaltered clone Boba Fett?”

He startles at this. “Clone?”

You look at Din in utter disbelief. “You were helped by a legendary, Empire-contracted, elitist, dead bounty hunter,” you say. “Okay.” You wouldn’t believe him if it wasn’t him standing in front of you, completely confused. You swallow. You know how this story ends, but you need to hear it come out of Din’s mouth. “Then what?”

“We…all of us, we went to Moff Gideon’s ship. We barely made it out.”

“But you—the baby?”

“Grogu was fine.” He swallows. “Is fine. The dark troopers Gideon had—one nearly killed me. They were indestructible. But,” he says, and his voice is shaking again, “then a single X-Wing pulled up out of hyperspace. It came out of nowhere. When I saw it…” his voice is so quiet it’s barely anything at all, “I wished it were yours.”

You’re crying. Completely uncontrolled. You don’t know what to say. Din continues, quieter still. “I’ve never seen anything like it.” He pauses. “The Jedi…he was unlike anything I’ve ever heard. He took out an entire army of dark troopers with just his lightsaber and the Force. When he got to the bridge…he’d slaughtered all of them. Singlehandedly.”

You choke up.

“He knew…he said Grogu would be safe with him. That he’d teach him. He was one of his kind. I had to,” and his voice breaks over the syllable, “I had to let him go.”

You close your eyes. “Who was he?” You know the answer already. But, like everything else, you need Din to say it.

Din looks at you. “I…didn’t ask his name.”

You’re exasperated. Maker, he’s like the side character in his own story. “I—what did he look like?”

Din’s silent for a minute, eyebrows furrowed like he’s trying to remember. “Tall. Blonde hair. He…he has a robotic hand. A green lightsaber.”

“General Skywalker,” you breathe, even though this all makes sense, this is everything you’ve seen, but hearing Din put all the pieces together breaks your heart all over again, all the syllables coming out pitched and altered, and he looks at you, somehow confused again. “General Luke Skywalker,” you enunciate, and he startles.

“From your stories?”

You blink. You’re dumbfounded. “From the fucking Rebellion, D—”

You cut yourself off. Abruptly. He’s standing there in front of you, in front a whole cantina filled with people, with his Creed broken, with his mask off, but his name is the one sacred thing he has left. Even furious, even heartbroken—you can’t take that away from him, too.

“Nova,” he starts again, and you hold up a shaking head.

“Where is Gideon?”

Din steps toward you, you step back. He pauses. He looks just as broken as you feel, and still, you can’t forgive him. You can’t even let him touch you, because you know you’ll be a goner if he does. The second his hands go on you, you’ll forgive him. Even if it hurts like the scar Jacterr left up your belly, even if it breaks you in the same way Din leaving you did, you’ll forgive him. You just stare at him, trying to project the same look that he gave you when he found out about your Force sensitivity—betrayal.

“Bo-Katan has him,” Din answers quietly. “She took him back to Mandalore as her prisoner. I don’t think there’s any way that he’s getting out of her clutches—”

“I wouldn’t bet on that,” you interrupt darkly, swiping at the strand of hair hanging down in front of your eyes before Din’s familiar touch can do it for you, tuck it behind your ear. “If the baby’s still out there—if I’m still out there—Gideon will do everything in his power to get to us, take us back. You’re not safe here,” you say, trying to steel your voice, “with me, you’re not safe. Right? That’s what you told me. So you should go. Leave Tatooine. Don’t look back.”

Din cocks his head, staring at you. “Novalise,” he starts, his voice just as daggered as yours was. “Nova, I never wanted to leave you. I—I thought you would be safer if I did, if I split you and the kid up so that Gideon would come after us instead—”

“Bullshit,” you spit back at him. The word is dirty, dark. It sends Din reeling. “Bullshit, you never wanted to leave me. You abandoned me on Dantooine, the same place you kissed me for the first time. The place we started our lives together. Remember that? You dumped me like it was nothing. Like I was nothing. I don’t care if you did it to protect me,” you continue, even though your voice is all wavery, “you gave me everything in the galaxy and then you took it away. I’m just supposed to get over that?”

“No,” Din says, earnest, pleading. He tries to reach for you again, and you yank your arm out of his grasp. It slams up against the wall, but you barely register it. Din lets his own arms fall at his sides, looking utterly defeated. “No, but I—I promise, I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to make it up to you—”

“Fat chance,” you seethe, even though that’s all you want. Your voice isn’t even an imitation of confident anymore, it’s broken and fractured through. “Have a nice life, Mandalorian. Don’t you dare try to follow me.” You don’t want to do it. Everything in you, all the strength and promises you built up over the last year, are screaming at you to stop, to go back, to forgive him. But you can’t. Something in you, some sort of resolve, is so much stronger than logic. You don’t even look back, no matter how much you want to. You just grab your shit and leave the cantina, making a break for it the second you can, full on crying, running wildly towards where Kicker is parked in the hangar. You don’t want to leave this planet. You’re so exhausted of moving, of being on the run. Din promised you he’d kill Gideon, and it’s just another on the laundry list of how many he’s broken. Gideon’s alive, with Bo-Katan, sure, but he’s out there. The people living in the shadows of the Empire, they’re out there too. You’re not safe. You don’t know why you ever believed Din’s promise that once Gideon was dead, you’d be out of danger. You’re Force sensitive, the mother to another Force sensitive being, you’re in the Rebel Alliance, you know Luke Skywalker has your kid. You’re always going to be in danger.

You’re so full of heartbreak and tears, you don’t notice the people huddled around Kicker at first. It’s a stupid mistake, a foolish one, but you don’t even have your thumb on your blaster when one of the men steps forward to grab you.

“She’s prettier than her puck says,” he smirks, and you tug as hard as you can to rip your arm out of his grasp. It doesn’t work. He drags you in closer. “Why are you on the run, gorgeous?”

“Not a runner,” you spit back, stomping on his foot. It’s enough for you to stumble backward, but you collide into the backs of the two other men he’s with, “not a bounty either, so—”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” the first man says, stepping forward. You look frantically up at your ship, making sure that it’s in your reach if you can somehow, miraculously, get away from the three of them before they drag you away. The way the man in front of you is smiling looks so much like Merle. “Look.” He presses a button on his bounty puck, and a hologram of you pops up, your hair tied back neatly, your eyes gleaming. It looks like you and not like you at the same time. You don’t look hardened. Your features are soft, slightly rotating in the dusk. You squint.

“You’re not in the Guild,” you say quietly, fear bubbling up in the pit of your stomach, “are you?”

“Guild doesn’t pay us like the Empire does,” the man holding you says, grinning, looking down at you hungrily, “and you’re a hot ticket, pretty girl.”

You swallow. You’re scared now, for real. Not just because three men have you captive, but because there’s no logistical way that you can get out of their grasp, and even if you do, they’ll see you run straight for Kicker. You’re taking the very slim chance that they don’t know it’s your ship, but if they do, they’ve already alerted everyone they’re working for, and you’re in as much danger out in space as you are on Tatooine. Or, really, anywhere.

This would be the time that Din would normally come to your rescue. But he’s not yours anymore, and you told him not to follow you, so now more than ever, you’re on your own. You swallow. You’re trying so hard not to look scared, but you’re terrified. There’s no way you can even get word to Wedge, not without a direct line to him, since the Alliance’s servers have become fortified and secretive, and even if you’re not getting dragged to Gideon, you’ll be somewhere, held captive, completely alone without a chance in the galaxy of getting out alive.

It hurts more this way. You were so close to escaping it—the danger Gideon put you in, from the life you’ve been living for the past few weeks. You miss Grogu. You miss your parents. You miss Din. It hurts, just as much, to simply admit it to yourself, but it’s the truth. And if you’re going to be taken hostage by these creeps who look at you like you’re a piece of meat before they look at you even as a bounty, you might not get out of it alive. Everything you’ve been running from, all three of you, it’s right here, right now, right in front of you.

You close your eyes.

“Come with us,” the one in front of you taunts, but you don’t dare open your eyes to look at him, “and we’ll treat you right, baby, I promise—”

“My name is Novalise,” you murmur, not loud enough for any of the three of them to really hear it, but loud enough for them to know that you’ve spoken. And then, louder, “and I’m not going anywhere with you.”

The one holding your right arm yanks you back. Hard, enough for you to stumble, but in the chaos, your left hand comes free. It’s not enough to push them all away, your strength has been depleted from weeks and weeks of running and hiding without a break, but you take your chance. It’s quick. The sky is fully dark, now, both suns disappeared over the horizon. You know that this is your one shot to break free, so you let everything run out of you backwards—Din leaving you, the loss of the baby, Luke Skywalker, rejoining the Alliance, Wedge finding you back on Dantooine, your parents’ deaths—and unleash it in one roar, lifting your free hand.

The guy in front of you, skittered to the ground in the chaos, grabs at your outstretched palm. You smile at him as he snatches it, a real one, because you don’t need it. This is new, being able to move things—people—with only with your mind and the Force alone—but you can feel the strength of it, the vitality. It doesn’t matter that your head doesn’t know what to do. Your body does.

You pull the thug holding you closer, close enough to touch, and the fucker’s eyes are still lit up with the thought of getting to grab you again, and you don’t show him any mercy, no Force knockouts, no gentle pushdowns. You bring up your knee in between his open legs, hard, and the noise he makes when he doubles over, howling at the top of his lungs, almost makes the moments he held you, ready to devour, worth it. He’s cursing in three different languages that you can track, but you’re preoccupied with the other two. The man who spoke, who held your bounty puck, is still struggling to get off the sand, so the other man, the biggest one, lunges at you.

They’re so predictable. Men, these kinds of men, men that want to take you and eat you and spit you back out for seconds, men who think that voicelessness means yes, men who only go after people they deem weaker than themselves, they all make the same moves. This one’s trying to tackle you. You’re so good at evading tackles. You tuck and roll, easy, landing on your feet like it’s nothing. It’s like flying—that freedom, using the liminal space midair to take your shot, to use your punches. You do, eventually. You’re so sick of playing the offense, and when the big guy comes at you again, you let him lift you up in the air and haul you over his shoulder, and then you use his trapezius to push off into the open air, already knowing the Force will catch you before you go down too hard. He wails as you yank his arm, dislocating his shoulder, and then two out of three men twice your size are writhing on the sandy ground, unable to touch you.

The last man—the one who stopped you, the one who showed you the puck, is seething. He’s the scariest, even though he’s the smallest, because he has the same sick, determined fury in his eyes that Moff Gideon did. You swallow, tucking your hair behind both ears, holding your ground, out of reach of all three of them.

“You might not be worth all this trouble,” he says. You don’t doubt he means it.

“I’m not,” you say, shrugging. “Really. You can leave here, forget you ever saw me, or you can have me defeating you in your head forever. Either way, I win. But in one, you get to win too.”

“You’re worth just as much dead as you are alive,” he spits at you. “We were only taking you in as is because of the kindness of my heart. I don’t normally like to kill little girls,” he says, “or use them, either, but you’re an exception. I’ll give you to Gideon stripped down to nothing, freshly dead—”

And then he’s not speaking anymore, because his head is blown clean off.

You shriek, ducking and hiding behind a ship as quick as you can, hands fumbling towards the blaster strapped to your thigh before you realize how shaky your grip is. You spend a few seconds in the dark that feel like full hours, trying to figure out how to get free from the shooter before you hear your name. It’s unmodulated.

You peek out from behind the ship. “I thought I told you not to follow me,” you say, trying to sound confident, angry, staring at Din in the dusk and dust. The two other men you incapacitated are trying to get up. Din sinks blasts into both of them. You think they flash like stunners do, but you can’t be sure if he just killed all three of them. And, honestly, at this point, you’re so exhausted that you don’t really care. You swallow.

“I didn’t,” Din answers, voice quiet. “I left the cantina and then I heard all the noise.”

“I had it handled,” you squint at him, trying to project confidence and disgust, but neither of those feel accessible—or real—right now. “You didn’t have to kill him—”

“I recognized them,” Din interrupts, voice scalding. “Lowlifes. Scum dragged from the depths of the Empire. They would have kept chasing you down. It’s my job to protect you.”

“It was,” you say, measured, stepping forward, crossing your arms over your chest. “You know, until you fucking left me. Also, I’m pretty sure I’m stronger than you are now.”

Din stares at you. “Cyar’ika—”

And then he’s cut off by the familiar, horrible screech of TIE fighters. You curse, loudly, and then you dive behind Kicker, climbing up the gangplank backwards. There’s a few of them, at least five, maybe more. Their dark bodies are silhouetted against the blackness of Tatooine’s night sky. No matter what, though, you can’t take them on yourself. You need to be in the sky. You’re almost in the cockpit when you catch a flash of Din just standing there, helmet off, staring up at the fighters with this blank, resolute look on his face. When they start shooting at him, he doesn’t move, standing there, resolved, making peace with death.

“You—” you start, and then you’re hurling yourself down the ladder. Your fight-or-flight isn’t screaming flight, right now. It’s yelling at you louder than your determined, emotional heartbreak is. If you leave Din here, he’ll either let the troopers take him out or keep putting himself in danger until someone else does.

And as angry as you are, as much as it hurts, watching the man you love die isn’t something you can do. Not ever. Not even now. Your hands are full of beskar and yanking it towards you before Din registers you’re dragging him towards the ship. He starts to argue, but then a blast fires, close. Too close. Wordless, eyes wider than normal, he nods, hauling himself up the gangplank behind you as you run for the controls.

“Hold on to something!” you scream, flipping all the switches, giving the dashboard one swift pounding to wake Kicker from her grumpy slumber. It works, miraculously, and you’re airborne. The starfighter doesn’t handle like the X-wing did. It’s more streamlined, but the balance is definitely off, especially with another person onboard, and somehow, it’s clunkier. Still, you’ve had plenty of practice with getting yourself out of sticky situations, and when you fire at the fighters, it’s like muscle memory. You still hate killing. It lives, awful and dangerous, at the back of your mind, always. You have nightmares about it, even when it’s you trying to stay alive. But right now, you’re all tapped out of emotion to give. You send a volley of blasts, slightly off so that the fighters don’t immediately explode in their fiery deaths, and allow a soft smile when it hits three different wings, sending them into a dangerous tailspin to the ground, but nothing they could die from. You fly through the blasts from the last few, and when you’ve chased them out of Tatooine’s atmosphere, you disengage the controls. You don’t know if Din strapped into something, if he’s even hanging on to anything, but you’re safe, nestled into the safety belts, and you go weightless. It feels like a freefall back to the planet, and the fighters think they’ve got you, but then you power the ship back up and hurl every single thruster you have into warp, and you’re gone.

Despite it all, despite everything, you smile, heartrate slowing, letting yourself stay suspended in the victory for just a few minutes. You’ve earned it.

Once you let the controls go, you turn around to see Din standing there. He still looks so uncomfortable without his helmet on, so restricted, so broken. It slices you down the middle, but you lift your chin. “Told you,” you breathe, finally, and one of his thick eyebrows lifts. “I’m stronger than you are.”

He stares at you. “You always have been,” he says, lowly, voice strangled. “Always. Even when I didn’t know it—”

“Don’t grovel,” you manage, your words coming out high and breathless. “Don’t. I only saved you because I knew you wouldn’t have fought off the ships. You’ve been lost. Reckless. But I’ve never known you to be suicidal,” you say, leaning back against the seat, “so what the hell was that back there?”

Din sighs. It’s so quiet in here, the hulking kind, the kind that made space feel like prison in the first few days after Din left you on Dantooine. “You aren’t m—mine anymore. The kid got taken. I didn’t have much left to live for. What’s the use in fighting if it’s going to be a quick death?”

You stare at him, eyebrows furrowed down the middle. “You are not,” you say, breath heaving in your chest, “ever allowed to give up and die again. Do you understand that?”

Din’s shoulders sink towards the floor. It looks like all the tension in his body has evaporated. “Nova—”

“This doesn’t mean I forgive you,” you interrupt firmly, “but I mean it, Din Djarin, if you ever willingly try to leave this galaxy again, I will bring you back to life myself. You don’t just try to die. You have to talk to someone if you’re feeling that…defeated. Understand?”

“Yes,” he answers quietly. “I’m sorry—”

“Stop,” you say, voice barely anything at all, but he does. You’re exhausted. “Stop apologizing to me. I’m not ready to forgive you. I’m not—” you cut yourself off, bringing your fingers to the knots in your neck, “you’re not going to stay with me. I’ll leave you somewhere safe, but this—all of it—this is over. You ended it when you left me instead of trusting me to protect myself, Grogu, and you. You can sleep down the ladder,” you offer, pointing at a spare blanket. “I’ll wake you when we land on the next planet.”

Din looks at you, and his heartbreak is written all over his face. You want to take it all back, everything, but you can’t. You have integrity. You have drawn a line in the sand, and you need to make sure no one—especially yourself—crosses it.

“Thank you,” Din manages, and with one meaningful, loaded look, he climbs down the ladder. You exhale, pressing your face into the pillow in your nest of blankets so that he can’t hear you sob. This, somehow, hurts worse than him leaving you. And you don’t want this. You want to forgive him. You want to go back to the cantina and go with him, and you want more than anything to just let all this go. But you can’t. You know you can’t. Because he didn’t trust you to protect him, this is you showing him you can, from an arm’s length away.

And, besides, you have places you can go. You can call Wedge and pick up new tasks for the Alliance. You can land back on Dantooine and visit Arlen. You can even go back to Tatooine once the dust clears, apologize to Kuna and pick up other jobs at the cantina. And, maybe, if you’re brave enough, you can ask Wedge to put you in touch with Luke, and you can learn how to be a Jedi, alongside Grogu, alongside whoever else the greatest one in the galaxy is training.

You can do it without Din. You don’t want to, but you can.

Your sleep is restless, fitful. Multiple times, you wake yourself up, biting into your pillow or the flesh of your arm to stifle your yells. If Din hears you downstairs, he doesn’t let on. When you wake for good, you drop out of warp, look to see where you are. You were halfway hoping for it to be some desert planet, somewhere he’ll hate being, but it’s Mon Calamari. Not the safest place, but not the most dangerous, either. It’s some sort of wet, desolate compromise. And it’s somewhere desolate enough that Din will have to work up the credits to get a new ship, have to work at tracking you down if he does decide to follow you anyway.

Or, you know, he could call his new best friend Boba Fett to give him a ride. You barely can escape one bounty hunter. You don’t even want to think about what two would do. Cara, you decide as you park in the landing bay, you’ll reach Cara, because even though she’s Din’s friend first, you also have a pretty good idea that she’d kick his ass for you if you even alluded to the hurt he caused you. Cara would help you hide, and then she’d tear Din to shreds.

Your stomach is in a knot when you dock. You don’t want to go downstairs and look Din in his soulful, apologetic brown eyes, because if he stares at you for one more second, you’re afraid you might break. But you have to, in order to get out of here, so you steel yourself, push your shoulders back, and slide down.

“Nova—”

You look at him. You don’t want to, but you do. It’s dark in here, but not dark enough to pretend you can’t see the contours of his face, your eyes lingering all over the places only you used to eb able to see. You press the button on the gangplank, wordless. He startles at the sudden burst of light, even though it’s rainy and miserable, and you can tell he’s nervous.

You stoop down to pick up his helmet. You push it, quiet, into his hands, breaking your gaze for just a moment to stare at it. “Put this back on,” you say, softly. There are Quarren walking around on the dock, but the dawn is barely over the horizon, and they’re not paying any attention to you.

“I can’t,” Din says, voice empty.

“You can,” you say, nodding. “You put it back on after you showed me. Besides, who’s gonna tell the galaxy they’ve seen you? Cara? Grogu? Luke?”

At Luke’s name, Din startles.

“Put it back on,” you repeat, quiet and firm. “I won’t tell anyone you broke your Creed.”

“Novalise—”

“Goodbye,” you say, gesturing for him to descend the gangplank with your eyes. “And don’t follow me. I mean it this time.”

Din walks down the ramp into the rain. He doesn’t say anything.

“Promise me,” you call after him, “that you won’t follow me.”

His helmet is back on. He doesn’t nod, just cocks his head at you, and because you can’t stand to stare at him anymore, you take that as an agreement. The second the gangplank is up, you collapse onto the ground, wrapping yourself in the blanket you gave to Din, breathing in his musk and metal and cinnamon and cleanness, crying hard enough that you can barely see the ladder on the way back up to the cockpit.

You’re not sure how you get out of there. Everything feels like a blur. You want to run to Hoth, to go back and sleep in the place you made your home for a solid few weeks, to be around fellow members of the Alliance who knew you well enough to keep you around but not well enough to pry into your past, your life, your mess. You want to go back to Dantooine and move in more permanently with Arlen and the other women at the sanctuary, but you know you’re in too much danger and the people who are after you won’t hesitate to let innocent bystanders get caught in the crossfire. More than anything, more even than wanting the last month to not have happened at all, you want to go back to Yavin.

You’ve considered it. Seriously considered it, especially when it’s late at night and you’re lost out, castaway in the stars and silence, but you don’t know if you can bear to go back alone, especially when the last time that you were there, you got proposed to. And now all four members of your family are lost, stranded out there in the hulking, cruel quiet of space, and you don’t know how to light your own way back out. If you go to Yavin, it feels too much like an ending rather than a beginning. And you don’t trust your own shaky strength enough to try and flip the odds in your favor.

So you coast. You’re not sure for how long. Kicker has a clock in her, an old fashioned one built straight into the analog part of the dashboard, but you usually turn it off. You don’t like to think about the days you’re missing, because they all collide into how much time you’ve been wrenched away from Din and the baby. You fly, stopping every few planets for soap and food and water and whatever else you need, but for the most part, you stay up in the cosmos. You’re not sure if you need to actively be on the run or if you just need to avoid the Empire at large, so you’re careful. You don’t want to, but on one planet, you buy a can of paint and stretch it around the identifying symbols of orange rebellion. It’s not the best job, but it’s blurred enough that if people saw you, they wouldn’t immediately tag you for a Rebel. It feels dirty, guilty, to cover up something that’s so vital to your identity, but it’s a necessity.

You’re so tired of necessities.

When you do park Kicker more permanently, it’s on Ryloth. You hate it here. It’s swampy, and it’s swimming with Twi’leks who are undoubtably less dangerous and abusive as Xi’an, but seeing the teeth and skin are enough to make you second-guess your aim way back on Coruscant. You try to blend in, but there’s not a lot of humans who frequent this part of the planet, so you spend most of your time hiding away in Kicker, only venturing out to pick up food and drink and stretch your legs. Mostly, you just try to go unnoticed, wrapping your hair up in your shawl and pulling the hood down to your eyebrows, keeping your face trained on the ground so no one will catch your eye. You need a game plan, a good one, because you’re so tired of running. The threat was supposed to end with Moff Gideon, but Din couldn’t even make good on the promise he left you for, and now his particular shade is lurking somewhere imprisoned on Mandalore, existence taunting you even from parsecs away.

You could go to Mandalore. It starts as a joke, one you say out loud to the otherwise silent ship, because you’re going crazy when there’s no radio signal and there’s no one to talk to, a bitter, twisted one, because even though that’s the planet that Din technically belongs to, he wants to avoid it like the plague. You’re not sure how to feel about Bo-Katan—she’s commanding, graceful, kindhearted yet cold—but you’re a good fighter, and keeping Gideon close might be the only thing that could satiate the anxiety and nightmares that lurk on the edges of your sleep. It’s still a joke, but as the hours tick down, you’re considering it.

Not yet, though. You need to find somewhere with a comm system advanced enough to send a message to Wedge and the other fractured members of the Alliance without being detected, to show him you’re okay and also to make sure that you really can’t go back to Hoth. So you start plotting a course to do that—you know you can’t handle being back on Polis Massa, but there are comm centers on Balnab, and a bigger one on Coruscant—but you don’t think either planet would be safe enough to be on, both physically and emotionally. So you bide your time on Ryloth. When the planet’s atmosphere darkens at night, you wrap yourself up in your shawl despite the muggy, brutal temperature, and go for walks. Mostly, it’s to breathe in air that Kicker hasn’t turned stale and to keep your mind off your crushing solitude, but it also makes every little decision in your head get a bit easier to handle.

You aren’t expecting it. You never do, because when you’re at your most vulnerable, it’s when you aren’t paying attention, aren’t thinking about hiding. You hear your name behind you—your birth name, the one you haven’t answered to in years—and you freeze, slowly turning around to a horde of stormtroopers.

You sigh. Your hands are in the air. This is something that would have terrified you mere months ago, but you know you can beat them, even though there’s ten—maybe twelve—because you don’t need a weapon and because troopers have notoriously bad aim. But now, you’re exhausted. You’re not hardened from constantly being in danger, you’re just so bone-heavy, a tired even sleep can’t cure. “What?” you say, voice flat.

“There’s a warrant out for your arrest,” the trooper in front says.

You close your eyes. “Why?”

“Running and evading. Resisting arrest,” he volleys back, and you flick your eyes over to Kicker. If you haul yourself through the three of them closest to your ship, you can get to the gangplank. You don’t have your blaster strapped to your thigh, which was a really stupid, rookie mistake, but it’s the situation you in, so you try to inhale a breath deep enough to sustain staying upward.

“I don’t know if you guys got the memo,” you say blearily, “but the Empire’s gone now. You don’t have to be here, don’t have to do Gideon’s bidding—”

“Gideon?” one asks, stepping forward. “Oh, you’re mistaken.” His voice is full of venom. “If you think that Moff Gideon is your greatest threat, little girl, you’re in for a big, rude awakening.”

You want to come up with a snappy comeback, some sort of witty retort that’ll get blasters firing so you can move the bolts with your mind and get the hell out of here, but you’ve got nothing. You’re trying to show them that you’re not scared, that you can handle the sorry leftovers the Empire left behind in their wake, but Gideon has been your biggest fear for so long, you’d forgotten the possibility that he might not be the one calling all of the shots. Maker, you’re tired. You’re so tired.

But giving up isn’t in your blood, so you keep fighting.

“Funny,” you manage, finally, cocking your head at the last stormtrooper that just spoke, “your uniforms do look different. Who do you work for?”

“Come with us,” another one says, leveling the blaster up against your heart, “you’ll soon find out.”

“Mm,” you say, trying to keep your heartbeat as steady as it could be with this high-powered weapon pressed up against your chest, “I’ll pass. But let your boss know,” you continue, raising your left eyebrow enough to imitate that cockiness that panic takes place of, “war’s over. The Empire lost. Do you really want to do that twice?”

That does it. One fires, and it’s not the one that has the cool mouth of the blaster angled at your back, so you take your chance to dodge and drop, kicking the giant artillery as hard as you can. You’re much more of a kicker than you are a puncher, so you let yourself get dragged down to Ryloth’s surface so you can put your calves to good use. You’re no match for twelve troopers, not when you’re on the ground instead of airborne, but you feel even heavier than normal. Way heavier than normal, you realize, as your movements start slowing down, and when you blink twice, there’s about six guns in your face.

You got hit, you realize, there’s an open gash in your upper thigh, and you’re bleeding, but that’s not what’s disorienting you. They roofied you with a fucking dart when you were getting shot. You pull it out of your leg stupidly, staring at it, trying to make your eyes focus.

They don’t.

You’re panicked now, fighting and flailing against the drowsiness, but there are so many blasters swimming in front of your vision that you don’t trust yourself not to kick in the wrong spot and send yourself to a painful, ridiculous death.

“Not fair,” you slur, trying to remain as snippy and rebellious as you can while fighting off the tranquilizer they just shot you with, “dirty fucking move—”

“I have half a mind,” the one in front says, the one with the temper, “to strip you down for parts and leave you here for death,” and, Maker, you can feel the sneer in his voice, even through the stupid little modulator under their cowardly white helmets, “if we weren’t getting paid famously to keep you alive, I would—”

“You know,” you interrupt, and you know, somewhere, back in the part of you that’s still logical and lucid, “what happened the last time that someone said that to me?”

You feel the hiss of the modulator start to engage when, suddenly, he’s gone, too. You’re barely awake enough to see it, flailing on the ground, but when your head lolls sideways and your vision goes blurry, you catch the reflectiveness of Din’s beskar and something dangerous and electric as he slaughters every single trooper that pinned you down. Its’ hazy, so you think it’s just an extra-strength vibroblade, but there’s something more kinetic about it, and you stare, your focus oscillating in and out before you push it out of your mind entirely to berate Din for rescuing you twice when you said you didn’t want him to.

Finally, you feel like you have control over your words again. “I had—”

“It handled?” Din interrupts darkly. “Not this time.”

“—told you not to follow me.”

You’re being hauled into the air and being whisked away the few klicks to where the ship is, and when Din brings you onboard, your eyes, still unfocused, catch the carnage you left behind.

“Listening,” Din sighs, carrying you up the gangplank, hoisting you up the ladder, “is not my strong suit.”

“I’ve noticed,” you say, but all the malice and sarcasm that you loaded it with comes out all fuzzy. “Don’t feel so good,” you start, but then the blade of a needle is being stuck in your thigh, and you want to slap it away before it starts to kick in, shaking off all the drunken sleepiness that the tranquilizer sunk into you. “Oh.”

“We gotta go,” Din says, looking out the front window, “how the hell do you fly this thing?”

You stare at him for a second before you lug yourself off the floor, pushing down on the heels of your hands to rocket yourself upwards. You give a swift kick to the dashboard, and she comes to life, Kicker, this glorious, ridiculous beast you call yours, and you sling yourself into the pilot’s seat, fluttering a hand at Din to sit down or hang onto something. He obliges. When you pop out of the planet’s atmosphere, you see a barrage of menacing looking ships rocket out of warp, and you let out a string of curses underneath your breath.

“This is gonna get dicey,” you mutter, more to yourself than to Din, but he sighs in acknowledgement. “First, we get out of here. Then,” you continue, pressing a barrage of buttons and flipping multiple levers on the dashboard, “we teach you what not following me means.”

Din stares at you. Even under the helmet, you can tell. “Nova,” he says, quietly, voice halting like it’s catching somewhere between his mouth and the modulator, “I promised you forever. That doesn’t stop because I made a mistake—an awful, reckless, stupid mistake. I won’t ever leave you again. I—I’m—tied to you—”

You gawk at him, trying to settle on an answer between curses and tears, but the ships have caught wind of you and started firing, so you have the lovely, helpful distraction of being the Rebel fighter pilot you’ve spent the last month relearning. Kicker isn’t sleek, and she isn’t entirely responsive, but she’s fast. Fast enough that you can do all sorts of spins and shots while you’re still moving, a plus that the Razor Crest never could figure out. The ships are vast, and massive, but they’re slow. Especially in comparison to Kicker. Especially in comparison to you.

It does get dicey—their shots are fast and heavy, and their artillery completely outweighs yours—but you’ve had a lot of practice getting out of sticky situations relatively unscathed, and after the last month, you’ve had an equal amount of practice evading and escaping from the forces that still use their fallen Empire to justify death and destruction. You don’t stop shooting at them, but you take on your usual, pacifist kind of role, where you dodge instead of attack. You’re quick, and you’re fast, and you can keep up ten paces ahead of your movements in your mind, and it’s not long before you’re able to blast through a skeletal wing of a darkened fighter and hop into warp. You know they can’t follow you, because Kicker’s too quick and because they like to gang up on you instead of going on a wild goose chase, so you just gun it to go to the other end of this sector, deciding to just figure out how to get word of your safety to Wedge later.

Now, though, you can feel Din. His presence is large and lurking, demanding and stoic. With a long, quiet sigh, you exhale and turn around to face him. You’re sitting in your pilot’s chair, and he’s towering over you, but for once, you’re not intimidated. The both of you know you hold all the power here, and he’s waiting for you to speak.

“You left me,” you reiterate, and he winces at your words, harder this time than before.

“I—Nova, listen,” Din starts, trying to yank his helmet off.

“No,” you say quietly, and he freezes. “You left me like I was some problem to dump off elsewhere while you dealt with something on your own. And that something could have gone so much better if you had taken me along with you.”

“I know,” Din says, voice glum, defeated. “I—I knew it was a mistake. Almost immediately. But I did it to protect you, cyar’ika—”

“Don’t call me that,” you spit, and it’s so much angrier than you intended, but all the hurt filters up and out of your mouth, sharpening your words into malice. “Din, I held my own back on Er’kit. I protected you on Corvus. I fought off Gideon with nothing but my hands and mind. I know I’m not an experienced hunter like you are, I know that I’m untrained with too much raw energy, but did you really think that storming that bridge outnumbered would be a good idea?”

“I came back for you,” he says quietly.

“Bullshit,” you retort, immediately, before you startle with the memory of the Mandalorian helmet back on Dantooine while Wedge was taking you off to Hoth. “When?”

“After I lost the kid,” Din sighs. Slowly, as you watch, he sinks into his knees on the floor in front of you, his helmet leveling almost completely to your face. “When he got taken on Tython. I—I came to find you before I went to even Cara, to anyone else I knew. I realized how stupid I’d been, how I acted without including you in my decision. I didn’t t—think—”

“You didn’t think,” you repeat, lowly. Your voice is level. “So you just left me there on Dantooine, without thinking?”

“Yes,” Din murmurs, voice enunciated and intense. “I shut down. I’m used to protecting things, not to l—loving things. I fucked that up with you, and then I fucked it up again with the kid. I didn’t think. I just acted.”

“Loving things,” you echo.

Din stares at you. Your breath catches in your throat, wings stuck like a butterfly. You can’t breathe. The air in here is too stuffy, too intense. He’s never said that before, never used the word in the way you have, He’s told you he loved you by knowing you, by caring for you, by protecting you and then he broke you the second it was your turn to feel the same. Your stomach feels like a whole ocean that’s on fire.

“You know I lo—”

“Stop,” you say, and it comes out choked, like a sob. “Don’t say it now. Don’t you dare say it as a consolation prize to win me back. Say it because you mean it. Say it when I save you.”

Din freezes, again. You still can’t breathe. Everything in here is fuzzy around the edges, like it was when you got struck with the poison tranquilizer. Your breath catches again in your mouth, like it can’t touch the atmosphere of the ship around it. Din shuffles forward on one knee as he hooks his fingers under the rim of his helmet, and before you can stop him, he pulls it clean off. You stifle a small sob as he looks at you, his brown eyes dark and deep, filled with something colored like regret and guilt and, impossibly, belonging. What was it that he said earlier? That he was tied to you? You want to cut that string, but he’s magnetic, even when your heart is this broken, even after everything.

“You promised me you wouldn’t follow me,” you manage, around shards of glass. “I thought you were a man of your word.”

“I never promised you I wouldn’t follow you,” Din refutes, cocking his head slightly. “I just looked at you, and you pretended that was enough.”

“Din—”

“Let me prove to you I meant my apology,” he says, and he leans in. He’s electric. You’re on fire. “Please. Please, Nova, please, let me prove to you I mean it.”

“You’re tied to me?” you squeak. His lips, pink and divine, are so close to yours. You stare at them as his gaze bores a hole through you.

“What else does forever mean?” Din whispers softly, pushing his face into yours, his forehead resting, just for a second, against your own.

“I still don’t forgive you,” you say, trying to load your breathless voice with as much intention as you possibly can.

“I know,” Din murmurs, nodding, and you lean in to meet him in the middle. And then his lips are on yours.

*

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I HOPE YOU LOVED IT!!!!!! we still have a whole arc to go my friends ;) i promise i'll let you all know when we're closing in on the last chapter, but for now, there's still more of SM yet to come, and, when it's over, the sequel will absolutely be coming! i hope you have a lovely week!! as always, i'd love to talk to you about your favorite parts of the chapter/theories of what's yet to come!

CHAPTER 26 WILL BE UP ON SATURDAY JUNE 19TH AT 7:30 PM EST!!!!

xoxo, amelie

[laurafett]

Unfamiliar Fruit

PART TWO

Friends to lovers, sex pollen Boba Fett x f reader

Words: 6k

- You and Boba are guests in a palace on a different planet. The King serves you some strange food, with the intention of doing both of you a favour -

No mentions of pronouns, hair or skin color, sexuality. Minors, do NOT interact!!

Warnings: smut, fluff, age gap (reader is 18+), oral (m and f), face fucking, spit, cumplay, fingering, choking, slight innocent kink, slapping, degradation and praise kink, mirror sex

______________________________________________________________

With one hand, he pulled the door close behind him. A sigh escaped him while he looked at the maid in front of him. She was wearing something more casual this time, what showed that she also got caught off guard with the message. She waved her hand to signal him to follow her.

“Again, I'm really sorry. I know that this is probably a very bad time, but we wouldn't call you if it wasn't necessary. Also, no one answered when I knocked at your door, so I figured you were with your partner.” Her steps were big while she walked him to the communication center.

“It's not your fault. No need to apologize.” A hand ran over the bounty hunters face. It was hard for him to keep up with the woman in front of him. His erection was still very present and the pain made his legs ache with every new step.

He hadn't cum yet. When he touched himself and heard your orgasm through the comlink he thought he would, but then you said those words. Said you wanted him to touch you. His hand stopped in the second the last word left your mouth.

At first, he thought he was imagining things but he didn't. He heard your voice so loud and clear, the words repeated themselves in his head over and over again.

Never ever, in his entire time knowing you, would he have thought you liked him in the same way he does. But right now, a little spark of hope made its way into his heart. Sure, you were in ecstasy and still reeling from the affects of the fruit , but he would have been damned if he didn't even try to find out if you really meant what you said. And he did. Thank the Maker.

“How are the symptoms going so far? You don't look too bad but your partner?” Her questions cut through his thoughts. Boba drew his eyebrows together in confusion.

The woman's head turned around to look at him, after he stayed silent. “You know, from the fruits.”

“He knew what they were going to do to us?”

She laughed a little and looked back into the direction she was walking.

“Sure he did. He actually wanted to do you a favor after being away from your 'partner' for so long.”

His eyes widened at her words. This was what this all was about? The King thought you two were in a relationship? “Me and my partner are not together in that way. Why did he assume this?”

Her figure stopped for a second and turned back. The man could see the surprise in her blue eyes. “You two are not- Oh, Maker.” She cut herself off and thought about something. “We... we thought you two were... Oh no. I'm so sorry.”

Sorrowful eyes looked up at him.

“It was just... the way you talked about your partner and the way you two looked at each other... We really thought the two of you are in a relationship, that's why The King decided to get you those fruits.”

Her hands started to shake and he could see that her eyes started to tear up. Today was really not the day he wanted to deal with this.

“It's alright. Forget about it. Just take me to the call with my other partner.”

The maid nodded and started walking again. Both of them stayed silent for the rest of the walk. Boba was confused. Were his feelings for you so obvious that the King really thought you two had a romantic bonding? He told him about you, but he couldn't recall what exactly he said about you. Probably not much, after all of this was business.

When the two arrived at the communication system the woman walked away to give him some privacy. Fennec's face was simmering as a blues light in front of him as he approached the holograph in front of him.

“What's wrong?” His voice was annoyed. He didn't want to be here, he wanted to go back to you and finally do what he was wishing for, for so many nights.

“Hello to you too. I see you don't even wear your armor around here, it seems like you got comfortable.”

Boba rolled his eyes and massaged the bridge of his nose. He wasn't in the mood for this banthashit right now. “Just tell what you need. I don't have much time.”

“Busy, huh? I can see that.” Even though Fennec was just a hologram he saw that her eyes wandered down his body. A smirk played around her lips.

He realized that his whole body was on display for her and stepped closer to her face, covering everything underneath his shoulders.

“Fennec.” He sighed.

A light chuckle fell from her mouth. “Alright, alright. Do you remember the guy you made a contract with two months ago?”

The man brought his hand up over his mouth and thought for a second. His eyes wandered back to Fennec, the look in them telling her he had no idea.

Boba was good in what he did, he has always been. He kept track of the people he talked to, noted all of his partners down, had all the contracts sorted, he knew what he was doing. Just, in this moment he couldn't focus. It was hard for him to stand upright and follow Fennec's words.

“Great.” Her words drowned in sarcasm. “Kero Raff. The Twi'lek from Coruscant. You made a contract with him about the slaves on Tatooine. Some of your men would free them and he would take care of them when they arrive at his base. Remember?” He nodded. “Well, he isn't happy about the money we sent him, he wants more or he's out. He's wants a response, or he will hop of today.”

“How much more?” He leaned his hip against the table behind him. His intention was to finish this as fast as possible, not wanting to waste any more time.

“That's the problem. Wait a second I wrote down some calculations.”

Boba frowned and rubbed his eyes. This couldn't be real.

You were laying on your bed again, sweaty and shivering at the same time. The tears stopped some time ago but you were still not able to control your breathing properly. One of your hands was between your legs, trying to get another orgasm out of you but it just didn't work.

Blood was pumping quickly through your veins, the adrenaline making your body buzz. Every muscle was tense, like you were about to have the worst cramps in your life. The fingers in your wet cunt hurt from moving but you didn't stop, not wanting the pain to become even worse.

Your fingers slipped back inside your dripping hole. You grew even more wet with every passing second, you were sure the sheets under you were already soaked too. With a fast tempo you wanted to force yourself to have another climax, but without Boba talking to you, it felt like it was impossible.

His voice was like a song stuck in your head and you listened to it on repeat. The little pantings during his sentences, sounding like he forgot how to breath normally. Maker, nobody did to you what he did to you with only talking. Beside the fact that you fell for him a long time ago, his words were doing things to you you couldn't describe. There was something so arousing about him you weren't able to point out.

Maybe it was the fact that he told you that he wanted you, for quite some time now. You still debated with yourself if his confession was real or just something you made up in your head. Boba wasn't someone to talk about personal stuff. He rarely did it, even when it came to Fennec or you.

Your eyes squinted shut when you felt just the smallest amount of heat rising in your lower stomach. Trying to focus on the picture of Boba's head between your legs in your mind, you brought your second hand down to your core to start rubbing your clit.

Whispering his name, you did what he told you when you two masturbated on the comlink together. Imagining it was him, his hands inside of you and his dark brown eyes locked with yours. The movements of your hands got sloppier and finally you felt yourself getting close.

You recalled the conversation with him, replayed the way he called you 'Princess' and 'Little one' over and over again until you pushed yourself enough to let go. Silent moans filled the room and your body arched up. You felt yourself clenching around your fingers, while you rode out the light aftershocks.

This orgasm wasn't even close to the first one you had, way too weak and less helpful than the one you had with Boba guiding you through it.

You couldn't tell if the pain got less or if you just got numb after this amount of time. Both hands fell beside your head, not being able to keep them moving without getting a cramp. If Boba wouldn't come back soon, you would have to think about other options to get rid of the pain and to be honest the best idea you had by now was jumping off the damn balcony.

The bounty hunter was furious. They managed to build up a connection to the man and now he had to watch Fennec and Kero arguing. Boba suggested to just give him the money he asked for but his partner tried to talk him out of it. He couldn't tell how long this discussion was already going, but he sure knew that he was beyond pissed and fed up. His body was slightly shaking and he didn't know if it was because of the anger or the pain that still flowed through him.

“Enough!” He screamed at the two holograms in front of him. Both pairs of eyes looked at him, waiting for what he had to say. “I don't have the time nor do I have the nerve to keep listening to you two. Kero, I will give you twice as much credits if  that's what you want.”

The Twi'lek with the light green skin started smirking and nodded. “This sounds like a fair deal.”

“Boba! What the hell?” Fennec protested against the man.

“Great. Fennec, write it down in my books. We will see each other soon.” And with that, he broke the connection and let out a deep sigh. He rubbed his hands over his head before he turned to leave the room.

The maid that led him here was still standing in the long corridor they walked through before. She smiled weakly at him and started walking him back to his chambers. Not a single word was spoken on the way back and this time it was Boba setting the pace, so she had to keep up.

His head was full and empty at the same time. He couldn't keep his thoughts away from you now that you were even closer to him than before. With every step closer to your room, his blood started to pump faster and his cock twitched at just the mere thought of you.

The two arrived back at the corridor where she picked him up some time ago. “Thank you.”

He said silent with his eyes locked to the door of your quarters.

The woman nodded and was about to walk away, when the bounty hunter snatched her arm to stop her. “It doesn't matter what happens or whoever may call tonight. I wish no further distribution.”

She nodded a second time..

“Yes, sir. I won't let it happen.” And with those last words she was gone. Boba's look fell on your door again and he rushed into its direction. He was about to open the entrance when angst made its way into his head.

He was gone for quite some time, what if you were able to get rid of the pain yourself? What if the pain got less and now you saw things in a different light? His hand drew away from the doorknob. You asked him to touch you, but you weren't in the right state of mind. Maybe you thought about it and came to the conclusion that it wasn't right to do this.

“Shit.” Boba whispered to himself. Since when was he thinking about such things? He never doubted himself in anything he did but you made him think of things he didn't even consider before. You made him ask himself about so many of his decisions. He didn't care about anyone's opinion until he met you. One day, you would be the death of him, he saw it as clear as water.

Still drowned in his own thoughts, he didn't realize how the door to your room got opened. You heard him swearing and thought he was about to return to you but after waiting some more moments, you got impatient and wanted to see what was taking him so long.

When you opened the door, his back was turned to you. You heard that he muttered something to himself but you couldn't make out what exactly. So you reached out to him, carefully touching his shoulder.

The man jumped in surprise and turned around, now looking at you. His breathing stopped when he saw that you were only in the green lingerie he caught you in before the dinner. Both of his eyes roamed your body up and down until they found yours again.

“Do you still want to...” You didn't finish the sentence, too afraid that he might have changed his mind.

Boba's eyes wandered back down to your breasts, his cock jumped at the sight in front of him. “Yes, fuck I-” But before he could keep talking, you grabbed the collar of his shirt and pulled him into your room.

You pressed your lips on his and started kissing him as if it was the last thing you would ever do. His hands found their way to your waist, squeezing it. Your teeth bit his lower lip and tugged slightly while your hands went to his pants. One of them brushed his dick through the thin material and his hips jerked up at the feeling.

Breaking the kiss to get some air, you drew your face a little more away from him, his lips trying to chase yours. You smiled at him, finally able to open his trousers and letting them fall down to his feet. In a matter of seconds, Boba got rid of his shoes and pants just to bring his hands back to you, connecting his lips to yours again. Trying to signal him to pull off his shirt, you tugged at the hem of it and he broke the kiss to throw it off as fast as possible.

His big hands captured your face once more as he started to kiss you again. You let your hands glide over his chest and to the waistband of his, also black, briefs. Feeling his smile against your lips yours let go of his and made their way down his throat. A deep growl escaped him when you licked over his Adam's apple, feeling the vibration on your tongue.

Your mouth went deeper, starting to bite and lick over his collar bones. His eyes were pierced on you, watching every single movement you made. Your tongue moved over his chest, through the small patch of dark hair till down to his navel. Placing a light kiss just underneath it, your eyes went up to meet his while you settled yourself on your knees.

His dark pupils were even wider than normal and you could see the lust burning in them. Not breaking the eye contact, your mouth followed his happy trail, till you reached his briefs. A mischievous smile painted your lips when your fingers hooked around the waistband of his underwear. Not being able to wait any longer you pulled them down and Boba's cock sprung free.

With big eyes, you mustered his twitching member in front of you. He was thick, thicker than anyone else you ever been with. His length was a little bit more than average but you were sure that he knew how to use every single inch of it. The pubic hair around the base was dark and short, like he knew what would happen today and prepared himself for it.

One of your hands reached around his cock and the man grunted. It wasn't the touch that was drawing those sounds out of him, no, it was the sight in front of him. Your hand seemed so small compared to his hard dick. His hips twitched and he accidentally pumped himself in your hand, what made him moan even louder.

Looking back up to him through your lashes, you gave him a few slow pumps before you brought your tongue to the underside of his base and licked one long stripe up till you reached his tip. The man groaned, throwing his head back in pleasure. With some feather light licks, you collected the precum on the head of his cock. Boba's hand flew up, going directly to the back of your head, trying to hold himself steady.

Carefully and not too fast, you brought your lips around his cock, starting to bop your head back and forth. With each move you tried to take him deeper into your mouth. You looked back into the bounty hunter's eyes, seeing him watching you.

“Now look at that. Just when I thought you couldn't look any prettier I get proven wrong.” Your tongue swirled around his dick, making him hiss through his teeth. “Kriff, Princess you look fucking gorgeous with my cock in your mouth.”

You took your hand away from around his base and brought both of them up to his thighs, looking for something to hold. Keeping the eye contact you tried to signal him that it was his turn now. One of his eyebrows rose, not really understanding what you meant.

Nudging your nose up, you told him that he was in charge now. Finally understanding, Boba started to slowly pump himself into your mouth.

“So this is what you want? You want me to take control, little one?” A dark chuckle rumbled through his chest while you nodded eagerly. “”How could I ever say no to you?”

And with that, his pace started to pick up. His hand was clenched into your scalp, bringing your head towards his hips with every thrust. Spit started to drip down your mouth, making its way down your chin and breasts. You relaxed your throat when he continued to go deeper, breathing steadily through your nose.

The now brutal pace made you gag around him and tears started to swell up in the corner of your eyes.

“Look at you. Taking me so well. You are so good for me.” He panted, shoving his dick even deeper into your throat, keeping you there. Your nose was nuzzled in his pubic hair and the tears now started to fall down your face. An animalistic sound escaped him before finally letting go of you.

You pulled his member out of your mouth and started to breath heavy, trying to get air into your lungs.

“Fucking hell, you feel so good. But as much as I would love to cum into your mouth right now, I think we should wait with that so I can help you too.”

Shaking your head, you reached for his dick again and started pumping it. “No. Believe me, you will be able to cum more than just once. You need more than one orgasm to get rid of the pain.”

Boba smirked down to you. “Princess, I'm a bit older than you, this won't work.”

Still touching him, you tried to argue. “But you have the same reaction as I do. Fuck your age, it has nothing to do with the situation we are in right now.” Your tongue licked his dick again, wanting him to change his mind.

When you brought him back into your mouth, he gave up. It didn't take long until he took charge again, pushing his cock faster and faster into you. His hand went down to your throat, wanting to hold you but instead he felt himself.

“Kriff, can you feel that? Fuck, I can feel myself in your throat. You are such a good girl, taking me so well.” You squirmed at the nickname and tried to push your thighs together, but it didn't work at giving you any sense of relief. Taking one of your hands off his leg, you sneaked it between yours and started to rub your clit.

The wetness in your folds was already on your thighs, before you even touched yourself. You were almost dripping and it would be no surprise if you were able to wring out the panties you wore right now.

Boba's eyes fell down to your hand and that was it. He pushed himself so deep into your throat one last time that your whole face was pressed against his abandonment. Grunts and curses rolled over his lips and you could feel his hips twitch. Not a second later, you tasted his salty release on your tongue, stopping your own hand.

After some moments, he came back down from his high, pulling himself out of you. With innocent eyes you looked up at him, opened your mouth and showed him the mess he made.

“Oh, you like that, don't you? You want to swallow it? Wait a second, little one.” His hand grabbed your chin in a hard grip and tilted your face up to him. He brought his mouth above yours, tipped his lips and let a drool of spit drop into yours. You couldn't help yourself but moan at this kind of filthiness. “There you go and now swallow it, every single bit.”

With a theatrical loud sound, you swallowed every drop and opened your mouth once again to show him that everything was gone. He hummed at the sight.

“If I wasn't still hard I'm pretty sure this would've changed that, but I guess you were right when you said one orgasm is not enough.”

You grinned up at him. “Told you so.”

His hand came down to your cheek and stroked it slightly. “That's my pretty girl. And now I should give you something back, after you've been so good for me. Get up and lay down on the bed.”

Without hesitation you got up, went to the bed and laid yourself down. Boba stood in front of you, pushing your legs apart with his hands before he went on to the bed on his knees. He hovered over you for a second, enjoying the view. A smile formed on your lips, which he gladly returned.

“Marker, you are so fucking beautiful.” You were about to giggle but his lips crushed down on yours, shutting you up.

The kiss didn't last long because his lips started to wander down your body. Normally he would have taken his sweet time with you, would tease you but he knew that the symptoms of the fruit were still going through your body, so he decided he would do it another time.

One of his hands sneaked around your back, clasping your bra open. You pulled your arms up to get the straps off. Finally free from it, he tossed it behind him, not carrying where it would land.

“I actually thought you would rip the clothes off of me.” You purred into his ear. He looked at you, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh, don't you worry princess. This will happen sooner or later, I promise. Also, I want you to keep this set as a memory for our first night together.” A soft expression painted your face. “And because you look fucking hot in it.” You started laughing at his words.

“To be honest, I would have loved to tear it down since the first time I saw it on your body, but now I'm glad I didn't do it.”

He gave you one last smile before his head dipped back down, starting to kiss your breasts. You moaned at the feeling of his wet mouth against your hard nipples, but he didn't spend much time there, already on his way down to your core, leaving kisses and marks all over your body.

Now that he was finally where he wanted to be the most and where you also needed him the most, he wasted no more time. Getting on his knees in front of the bed, just like he did earlier, he pulled your panties down.

You hissed when the fresh air hit your wet center.

“Shit.” You heard the man in front of you swearing and you popped yourself up on your elbows to look at him. “You are so fucking wet, princess. I know it's because of the reaction but do we want to try and see if I can get you just as wet when we go back home?”

You could feel yourself clench around nothing by his words.

“Dank, yes, Boba.”

“Oh, I love it when you say my name like this. Let's see how loud I can make you scream my name tonight, alright?” And with that, he brought his mouth to your cunt, starting to eat you out like a man's last meal before death.

Your head flew back and you started twitching at the feeling of his tongue between your folds. Boba brought one of his hands up and sneaked it underneath your thigh, pressing his flat hand against your hip to hold you in place.

His tongue flipped over your clit, making you whimper. Your hands grabbed the sheets underneath you, trying to hold on to something.

Suddenly you felt a sharp slap against your heat and you looked down. The man's face was inches away from your heat, dark, devouring eyes looking at you.

“Look at me, while I make you feel good. I want to see your face.”

Not brave enough to look away again, you kept the eye contact while he brought his face back to you. His tongue circled at your entrance, while his nose nudged against your clit. He moaned into you and the feeling rumbled through your whole body.

The bounty hunter raised his other hand, carefully thrusting one of his fingers inside of you. It felt like all the air got pushed out of your lungs. And before you were even able to get used to this feeling, he added a second finger.

The fast pace he started off with was enough to make you go crazy. It was hard to hold eye contact but you forced yourself to keep going. His two fingers crossed inside of you, stretching you out, while his tongue kept flipping over your sensitive bundle of nerves. He curled his fingers, making you arch your back and moan out his name.

You felt the heat rising in your lower stomach and your legs began to shake. “Fuck, Boba. I- I'm gonna cum.”

Without taking his mouth away from you, he started talking. “Go ahead. Cum all over my face, little one.” He curled his fingers one last time, sucked your clit between his lips and you were done.

Your legs pressed together around his head, keeping him in place. Your eyes fell shut, while a high pitched moan left your lips. Both of your hands still clenched at the bed sheets, ripped them out from their place under the mattress. Shaking and twitching, you pushed Boba's head away from you. Feeling nothing but the hot pleasure filling your body, you tried to calm down your breathing .

After some moments, you finally came back down from your high. You looked down at Boba who still sat on the floor by the bed. With one finger, you signaled him to come to you and so he did.

His body was over yours again, kissing you like there was no tomorrow. You tasted yourself on his tongue and moaned at the sensation. He rubbed his hard cock against your inner thigh.

“Kriff, I want to fuck you so bad, can I-” He wasn't even able to finish his sentence, because you already turned the both of you over so you were on top. Your hands were on his chest, steadying yourself while you grind your wet heat over his dick.

He brought his hands up to your waist, helping you move. When you were sure he was wet enough you rose up a little bit, grabbed his cock and lined him up at your entrance. Slowly you started to lower yourself down on him. Maker, he was so fucking thick.

Boba's dick stretched you like no one else had before. It was almost painful, but the pain was way too good to feel bad. When he was finally seated inside of you, you both took a moment to adjust yourselves to the new feeling.

“You are so fucking tight, Princess. I probably won't last long with this pretty, little cunt around me.” He breathed out underneath you while he squeezed your waist. You were still sensitive from your previous orgasms so you didn't mind. The most important thing was, that you were finally able to feel him.

You brought your hands back to his chest, holding yourself up and started to move. With the first few thrusts, you could already feel how his tip hit just the right spot in you, so you started to move faster.

Boba's hands helped you to keep the pace and from actually falling over. It felt so good that you were almost sure that you couldn't feel the pain anymore. You moaned and whimpered on top of him, looking directly to the part where both of you met, being sure that you never seen something so fucking hot.

The man grunted and had to hold himself back from thrusting into you from beneath. He saw that you were out of breath, at the end with your power. But Dank, if you weren't a sight to behold. Your tits bouncing with each thrust, your eyes closed in pleasure and your mouth open, making the prettiest sounds he has ever heard.

“Shit. You look so good right now, fucking perfect. If you could see yourself right now, Princess.” His eyes fell onto something behind your body and he finally knew how to finish all this in the right way.

“Stop. Hey, hold on for a second.” You stopped in your tracks looking down at him. He smiled in your confused face.

“Is everything alright? Did I hurt you?”, the panic in your voice set a warm feeling in his chest.

“Don't worry. Everything is fine, just move with me.”

You were about to ask what he was talking about but his broad chest was already pressed against yours, while he scooted over to the edge of the bed. A wicked smile danced around his lips, while you were still just confused.  

“Get up and turn around.” You had no idea what his plan was, until you turned around and saw what was in front of you. The fucking mirror. Boba's hand pulled you back down to him and with his other hand he pushed his cock back inside of you.

This was something new. You have never seen yourself during sex, but something in you got excited at the thought. The man pushed your legs apart again and laid them over his own, so everything was on full display.

You saw your cunt, wet and swollen, stuffed with the cock of the man you were in love with. He smiled at the sight of your face, curious about what is happening in front of it right now.

His hips made an experimental thrust while to try to catch your reaction. Another thrust and he wasn't able to hold back anymore. He pumped himself in and out of you, watched your whole body reacting to his actions. It turned him on even more.

Your eyes wide in pleasure, your mouth open, your body bouncing with his and your hands on your thighs. Fucking perfect. Not being able to help yourself, you let your head fall back on to his shoulder. But that wasn't the plan. One of Boba's big hands grabbed you by your throat and pulled your head back up.

“No. Don't look away, or I won't let you cum. Look at yourself getting fucked. Look at how fucking perfect you are for me.” The hand around your throat tightened and you clenched around his dick at the feeling.

“Oh, you like that too?” He added a little more pressure, making you slightly light headed. “This is the best fucking cunt I've ever fucked. You want me to keep doing that? Hm? You want me to keep fucking you even when we get back home?”

An obscene moan left your mouth at his words. Kriff, if it was for you, he could fuck you for the rest of your life. You were sure that no one would ever be able to give you the feeling Boba gave you in this moment. You never wanted to miss out on that again.

His other hand went to your cunt and landed a sharp slap on it. A scream coming from your mouth, so loud that you were sure everyone in this palace heard you. The familiar feeling built itself up again, already bringing you to the edge with how sensitive you were.  

“I asked you a question, little one.” His grip around your throat let loose a little bit so you were able to speak.

“Yes, fuck yes. Boba, you can fuck me whenever you want to, please. I'm yours, only yours.”

His hand returned to your cunt and started rubbing your clit. “That's exactly right and now cum for me. I can feel that you are close. Cum all over my cock.”

And with that, he pushed you over the edge again. Your legs twitched on top of his, making it very hard for him to keep pushing into you. White noise filled your ears again, almost making you deaf. Boba let go of your throat, letting your head fall back on his shoulders while you screamed his name on the top of your lungs.

The aftershocks were so strong in your body that you almost missed his question.

“Where do you want me to cum, little one?” His movements got sloppier with every thrust, just waiting for you to tell him where he can finish.

“Inside.” Your voice was so weak and silent that you were sure he didn't hear you, so you brought your last strength together and raised your head again to look into his eyes through the mirror. “I want you to come inside me, Boba. I'm safe.”

And that was all he needed to hear. You could feel how his release pumped into you, his cock twitching while he finished. His hands on your waist squeezed you so hard, you were sure he would leave bruises there. Your name fell from his lips, with many other swears.

Coming down from his high, his sweaty forehead fell to your shoulder and you could feel his hot breath on your back.

After a while of just sitting and trying to catch your breaths, he brought his head up again and put his chin on to your shoulder. “Fuck.”

“Yes, exactly.” You laughed breathless and he joined you. Carefully you tried to stand up and whine when his cock slipped out of you. To both of your lucks, he was already soft. As soon as you stood you felt his cum running down your thighs. He smirked at the sight.

“That’s actually kinda hot.”

“Ah, fuck off.” You said, pushing his shoulder and made your way to the bathroom on shaky legs. With a washcloth, you cleaned up the mess between your legs, doing your best not to touch any of the highly sensitive parts. Washing your face too, you looked at yourself in the mirror and all the marks Boba left on your body. You knew that he would be proud of them.

Stepping out of the refresher, you saw that no one was in the room. You looked to the balcony but the door was closed too. A bad feeling slowly started to overcome you. So, this was what this all was about? Not even his clothes were still here. Maker, you were so stupid. How could you think that the King of the Underworld would have interest in having a real bonding with someone?

You wanted to scream and cry, but before you were able to do so, the door to your room got opened and  Boba stepped back inside. Fully dressed and in his hands a white bed sheet.

“I just thought it would be better to get some new sheets instead of sleeping in the dirty ones.” He went to the bed and threw the old sheets on to the floor, putting the new one on the bed. His eyes fell on your, still naked, figure standing in the middle of the room watching him. “Are you alright? Do you still feel some pain?”

“Are you gonna stay the night?”, you asked. The man let go of the sheets and went over to you, carefully taking your face in his hands.

“If you want me to.” He pressed a light kiss to your nose. “And if you want to, we can spend every night together from now on.”

You looked at him with a soft smile.

“That would be great.” He slightly pulled your head into his direction and kissed you deeply.

“Now, I think we should go to bed. We have to go back home tomorrow, without getting poisoned by the King again.”

“Poisoned by the King?” A confused look washed over your face while you made your way to the bed. You slid underneath the sheets right next to Boba after he got rid of his clothes again. He opened his arms for you and you went over to him, laying your head on his chest. His arm tugged you closer to him.

“Yes. It seems like the King thought we were in a romantic relationship, so he wanted to do us a little favor by giving us an aphrodisiac, so we could have fun.” He explained. And finally you were able to catch up.

“Ahh. Okay, that makes sense.” Some of the events of this current day went through your head and now you really got what it was about with all the expensive underwear, beautiful dresses and looks from the other guests at dinner. There was just one thing you didn't understand.

“Wait. Why did he think we were a couple? I've been here for only one day and the first time they saw us together was at dinner? That doesn't add up.” A sigh left Boba's mouth.

“The maid told me that they assumed that by the way I talked about you.” Your head shot up and you looked down at him with raised eyebrows and a wicked smile.

“What? Really? What did you tell them about me?” His dark eyes studied your face, while his hand went up to stroke your cheek.

“To be honest, I don't even remember. But I know for sure that they caught up on my love for you way sooner than you did, Cyare.” You leaned down to kiss him.

“You didn't catch up on my love either. Even though it was pretty obvious for a certain amount of time now.” With a hand to the back of your head, he held your face close to his and pressed his forehead against yours.

“Just good to know that we both had the same feelings for each other for such a long time and both of us weren't able to realize it.”

“Fennec will never let go of this. She will say 'I told you so' for the rest of our lives.” You chuckled against his face.

“Oh, she sure will. We will never hear the end of it.” Boba said with a smile across his lips. “But we should sleep now. I don't want to leave too late tomorrow.”

You brought your head down to his chest, listening to his steady heartbeat.

The man kissed the top of your head before he whispered:”Good night, Princess.”

“Good night, Boba.” You said, snuggling closer to him.

This trip was totally worth it.

_________

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@darthmama1618

[fettsvette]

Never Worn White (Part One)

Cloud City, Bespin. Boba Fett is on the hunt for a casual fuck before he cashes in on Han Solo’s bounty. You’re a naïve virgin, saving yourself for an adolescent fantasy… and it just so happens that he’s in town. Upon encountering the object of your infatuation though, you didn’t expect he’d be so willing to help you out.

Pairing: Boba Fett x Reader Words: 2.1k Rating: Explicit Warnings: Loss of virginity and unprotected sex

Can be found on Archive of Our Own here.

Boba Fett was in town.

 There had been rumblings around the city for the past several days. Something big was happening, but nobody seemed to be sure of exactly what. You’d overheard people at the Shadow Market saying there was a beautiful woman who matched the description of Princess Leia Organa of Alderaan - well, formerly of Alderaan, now - staying in the guest quarters of the Administrator’s Palace, with a motley crew of attendants that included, of all creatures, a Wookiee. There were whispers of the famous spice smuggler, Han Solo, having been sighted as well, and even quieter mumblings concerning something called a ‘Skywalker’ (whatever that meant). An Imperial Garrison had been installed earlier in the week with no sign of leaving anytime soon, and the Baron Administrator himself, Lando Calrissian, had allegedly been seen meeting with Darth Vader himself. 

  Or so your roommate claimed.

  “That big scary guy who works for the Emperor? The one with the magic powers who sounds like he breathes through a gas-processing vane?” You had asked skeptically when they’d burst into your shared flat with the news, the normally relaxed Aruzan acting infuriatingly bubbly at finally having gotten hold of the hot gossip in the neighborhood before you had.

  The very same, they insisted; and the Baron hadn’t looked too pleased to be hosting such a powerful representative of the Empire, either.

  They hadn’t seen anything themself, no - they’d heard it from one of their coworkers at Pair O’ Dice, who’d claimed their cousin’s friend’s uncle had seen them together, walking across the Apex Overlook with a squadron of armed stormtroopers trailing behind them… the amount of parties involved in this city-wide game of Comlink Operator seemed to go on and on and on. You couldn’t decipher what was true, and what was just garbled rumors and hearsay. And you couldn’t make sense why such a varied amalgamation of the galaxy’s most well-known creatures would choose to congregate at a mining colony so far away in the Outer Rim.

  There was one thing you were absolutely certain of, however.

  Boba Fett was here, in Cloud City.  

  You’d never been so sure of anything in your life. You knew it was true. 

  Because you’d seen his ship yourself.

  It had been two days ago. You hadn’t been able to sleep, even after a long night waiting tables at K’cri’s Café, and you’d decided to take a walk down by the landing platforms in the wee hours of the morning, dawn still only a pinkish-orange smudge barely visible above the thick clouds. Whatever the time of day or night, there was always some action going on there - ships arriving constantly, bringing tourists from all over the galaxy looking to try their luck at one of Cloud City’s various casinos. You enjoyed watching the multitudes of different creatures disembarking off their various means of transportation - sub-aquatic Mon Calamari, blue-hued Chiss, reptilian Trandoshans; you’d even seen some gargantuan Hutts a few months ago, with their retinues of slaves and hangers-on, making their sluggish way across the concourse towards Yarith Bespin. It sometimes seemed that this city never truly slept.

  You’d been about to finally call it a night, still not particularly tired but knowing that you should attempt to go home, draw your curtains against the burgeoning light of the sun, and get some shut-eye before your next shift the following evening, when a bizarre sound from above snapped you out of your reverie. 

  You’d heard the Slave I long before you’d seen it. 

  The ship’s engine gave out a strange whining noise, unlike anything you’d ever heard in a transport. It reminded you of a gigantic buzz-bug, and you resisted the urge to swat at the air around your ears out of habit, squinting your eyes against the hazy morning light to see what kind of damned contraption could be making such a racket. 

  The ship came into view as it banked around the clouds, beginning a slow descent towards one of the nearby docks, and you felt your heart give a walloping jolt from the shock of what you were witnessing.

  ‘No… it can’t be… not here…��

  The ship was an ugly, mottled thing - a retired Firespray model of Old Republic make, the paint faded red and greenish-grey, much of it scraped away and adorned with deep gouges and obvious carbon scoring from firefights over the years. It had seemed to glide almost effortlessly through the air as it swept towards the docks, and as the transport grew closer and its image became more clear, your eyes widened, your blood screaming in your ears, your heart threatening to jump up out of your throat and flee from your frozen form. Its strangely vertical craft had suddenly rotated horizontally in the air, hanging momentarily as if suspended by a fine thread, and sank down to settle on one of the nearby landing pads, steam from the thrusters billowing around its now motionless form.

  You knew the ship well, although you’d never actually seen it in real life. It was all over the HoloNet almost every time a huge sum of credits were posted on a well-known fugitive’s head, their eventual capture usually accompanied by footage of that very same transport leaving the scene. It was called the Slave I , and was owned by a man who wore a ragged suit of Mandalorian armor, and who made his living by hunting down and - sometimes killing - those who found themselves on the wrong end of a particularly influential creature’s business dealings.

  Rooted to the spot, trembling from excitement, you’d stood on your toes and craned your neck, trying to catch a glimpse of the pilot as they exited the durasteel behemoth. When the boarding ramp had finally extended, however, you’d turned and ran back to your apartment, a wave of anxiety at possibly seeing the owner - and them seeing you - having overcome your senses. And there you’d hid for the rest of the day, pacing the floor of your living quarters and periodically peeking out the window, expecting to see the old Firespray taking off into open space from the vicinity of the dockyards across the city. But as far as you knew, it was still there. You could feel in your guts that it was.

  That was how you’d discovered that Boba Fett had come to Cloud City.

  The deadliest and most effective bounty hunter in the entire galaxy, in your town.

  And you wanted to meet him. You needed to meet him.

  It sounded almost dirty, to acknowledge that maybe you had a bit of a crush on Boba Fett. Although merely calling it a ‘crush’ was quite an understatement. 

  You were infatuated with him. 

  You’d followed his career almost obsessively since your early teenage years, when he’d first erupted onto the bounty hunting scene and began making headlines thanks to the clean, efficient work he’d make of marks who’d been unfortunate enough to cross his path. He was highly dangerous and had a nasty reputation for being a ruthless killer, focused only on bringing pain to the creatures that could earn him as many credits as possible. On top of that, he had exclusive hunting contracts with both the Empire and the Hutts, which didn’t garner much support from communities sympathetic to the Alliance to Restore the Republic, such as your own. Much of the galaxy considered bounty hunters to be the lowest of scum, on the same level as the criminals and other dregs and vestiges of the civilized universe that they were famous for capturing. It was difficult to admit that it wasn’t the gorgeous Falleen who lived down the hall that you fantasized about sweeping off your feet and charming the Corellian hells out of you, but Boba Fett. 

  You couldn’t fully explain it, even to yourself let alone your exasperated and befuddled friends, but there was just something downright sexy about him. You felt weak in the knees whenever you saw his visage broadcast on the holocaster in the café, and your ears always tingled and burned when you caught his name being mentioned in a snatch of overheard conversation. You spent hours scrolling and typing on your holopad, searching for any and all information you could discover on this enigmatic figure who wore the regalia of an ancient warrior race. You’d made it a point to haunt the local nightclubs and bars on your nights off, always seeking out information on Boba Fett’s whereabouts in the galaxy, his latest jobs, encounters that the creatures constantly flowing in and out of the local entertainment establishments may have had with him during their travels. You’d heard how good of a lay - and a generous tipper - he supposedly was from several of the go-go dancers who worked at the Zero-G Club, and the idea of Boba Fett himself getting a lap dance in a seedy topless bar always sent liquid heat pooling to your core. One of your most prized sources of intelligence concerning Boba Fett was Rystáll Sant , the half-Theelian backup singer for the Max Rebo Band, whose frequent sets at the Blue Petal Bar you never missed for this express reason. Lyn Me and Greeata Jendowanian had their own Fett stories, but Sant in particular became very talkative about her famous conquests while touring the galaxy - always after a couple spotchkas, which you were more than happy to share with her.

  Rystáll Sant was adamant that she’d had a casual physical relationship with Fett for years, and that he was, without question, the best fuck of her life. She hadn’t seen, let alone hooked up with him, in several months, no, but the band had a long-term residency at Jabba the Hutt’s palace on Tatooine coming up, and she was looking forward to finally reuniting with him there. He was one of Jabba’s favorite hired guns, after all. You always came away from your conversations with Rystáll feeling flushed and woozy, in a way that had nothing to do with the copious amounts of alcohol you both consumed while chatting. You’d always been too shy to grill her on any of the specifics of her dalliance with Fett, even though you knew she’d be happy to give them to you - what kind of a lover he was, if he was gentle or rough or a delicious mixture of the two, what he sounded like when he moaned, what he looked like both underneath his Mandalorian helmet and that mysteriously dented codpiece - but those unasked questions haunted you endlessly. You wanted to learn the answers yourself, somehow.

  In short, you were helplessly drawn to Boba Fett, and found everything about him to be intoxicating - from the danger associated with his chosen career, to the mystery of what dashing good looks he had to be hiding behind that black-visored helmet… and the fact that he was experienced. 

  Because you’d never been with a man before.

  Ever.

  You were a virgin in every sense of the word.

  You didn’t consider yourself a prude, or anything close - you just felt you’d never met the right person who you’d want to share that part of yourself with. Your virginity was something sacred in your eyes, something you wanted to give to someone special, not to just waste on a drunken, spiced out tryst after a night partying. Your prospective admirers on Bespin bored you to tears, and you found yourself constantly daydreaming of being whisked away off-world by a masked man in a shining suit of armor; one who would take you on exciting adventures and carry you bridal-style back to his ship afterwards for a romantic, passionate night together.

  You’d never admit it to anyone, knew you’d be laughed out of the social circles you’d managed to cultivate during your years living and working in Cloud City, but Boba Fett’s was the only name that ever came to your lips as you laid in bed, your hands between your legs, bringing yourself to climax twice, sometimes three times during one of your nightly sessions. Just the mere thought of him drove you wild in a way that no other person ever had, and you constantly fantasized about him claiming your innocence for his own, leaving you trembling and mewling underneath him.

  And now, like a bolt out of the blue, he was actually here , located in Cloud City on some unknown business, possibly entangled in whatever Imperial affairs that’d had the entire colony holding its collective breath over the previous days.

  It almost seemed as if it were meant to happen, that you were supposed to seduce and sleep with him, despite your initial panic at his unprecedented arrival. You knew how it sounded. If anyone found out about what you were planning, discovered the details of your deepest fantasy, the one thing you truly wanted above all else, they’d have you admitted to the psychiatric medcenter at Cloud City Central.

  It was true.

  You were saving yourself for Boba Fett.

  You were on a mission to fulfill that adolescent promise to yourself, consequences be damned, and you had no idea what you were getting yourself into.

[write-ur-wrongs]

Mother, Mother pt.2

A/N: Finally ready to post part 2 of my dad!Geralt fic!!! Part 2 is loosely based on this prompt Another request with baby!👀🥰 Reader has a newborn and geralt is just watching them thinking about how much have changed and how reader turned his life around...🍪 so I really want to thank that anon for their prompt and their patience! I definitely took some liberties with this story and worry the plot got lost along the way(?) but I really hope you like it nonetheless! Full disclosure I haven’t proof-read this piece so forgive the many typos!!

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“I said, no,” Geralt repeated himself slowly and with great authority, “thank you.”

The village healer looked at the witcher with eyes wide in disbelief, unable to accept that there was anything a witcher wouldn’t do for coin. Especially this witcher – the White Wolf – or so they used to call him. He used to be a force to be reckoned with on the continent, but now it seemed there was rarely a job he’d be willing to take.

“No? B-but who will help us!” they shouted desperately, “you can’t just leave this village to fend for itself! The creature will kill us all, Witcher!”

Geralt closed his eyes and took a deep breath before repeating himself yet again. “Please understand, I can’t help you, but I know people who can. Eskel is highly qualified and will be here by the next full moon. He will help you; I assure you.”

“But you’re here now,” the healer said, still shaking his head, “you could resolve this by nightfall! Why should these people wait a week for peace?”

“Hm.” He growled, lowly, biting down on his cheek to keep himself from giving into his rage and his pride. He wasn’t just living for himself anymore, not just living for the coin or by the witcher’s code; he had a family now.

He knew the world wouldn’t be easy to convince regarding his change in career path. Hell, it had taken most of your pregnancy to convince his brothers at Kaer Morhen of his plans. When he first told them you were pregnant, and it was his, they laughed heartily while sharing quick looks of concern between one another; fearing you’d strayed and were trying to play poor Geralt for a fool.

Yet that reaction was nothing compared to the one they gave him when Geralt admitted that his days of being a witcher were over. He’d be a consultant now. He’d travel the continent only when he heard of monsters through Jaskier’s letters, and once he reached these villages, he’d take stock and refer the case to one of his brothers, who’d pay him a modest commission for the referral. Geralt never took contracts he deemed to be too dangerous (which, so it happened, was most of them). The rule was if he wouldn’t readily bring Cirilla along to help, it was too dangerous for him alone.

Once, he let pride take precedence and he accepted a contract he knew was dangerous. It felt good to be back in the saddle, both literally and figuratively. He and Roach took to the forest like birds on a breeze, and his sword was just an extension of himself as he wielded it fiercely and with grace.

While he did conquer the beast in the end, it did put up quite a fight, and everything he thought made the fight worth it was washed away the instant he limped into your home and saw the look on his pregnant wife’s face and heard the cries of his beloved child surprise. To this day, he still feels the panicked sound of Ciri’s fearful shriek and your horrified sob weigh heavily in the pit of his stomach.

He felt this very weight now as he considered this desperate healer’s words. Yes, he’d handled this type of monster many times before, but it wasn’t worth it.

“Listen to me, this type of creature is only a threat during a full moon,” Geralt said, “just educate your people, spread the word, you’re in a position of authority here – use it.”

The healer sighed deeply before muttering to themselves in frustration. They pulled their cloak tighter around their body and made a scene of grabbing the coin-filled sac from the table. Geralt rolled eyes his at the paranoid healer before gesturing for them to head outside.

“Fine, leave! But if you leave now and anyone dies, their blood will be on your hands!” shouted the healer, as Geralt tended to Roach.

Geralt rolled his eyes before mounting Roach, urging her onto the trail.

This isn’t my fight, he thought, and their people will be fine.

You were having a wonderful morning. Wren slept through the night for the first time in who-knows how long, and Ciri was relaxing as she entered her fifth day without a magical episode; those lessons with her aunt Yennefer were definitely paying off.

Now you were savouring the gentle afternoon breeze, resting your knees in the cool earth of the garden as the sun warmed you from above. You loved harvesting produce and tending to the flowers; this year was especially bountiful thanks to a rainy spring and temperate summer. As you picked tomatoes off the vine, you smiled softly at the sound of Ciri celebrating a successful hit on her target across the yard.

Meanwhile, Wren played happily in the dirt at your side. She’s been sitting up on her own now which was such a thrill. Such a small change, but it granted you freedoms you didn’t know you’d been missing.

“Mama, snek!” Wren squealed, proudly holding an earthworm up at you. You laughed in relief upon seeing what she was holding up – for half a second you thought she’d managed to snag an actual snake.

“Wow my girl,” you cooed, “what a find!”

At the sound of your praise, Wren smiled up at you brightly and closed her little fingers around the earthworm with pride.

“Careful now, love! Don’t harm it,” you said, gently prying open her stubby fingers and releasing the worm back into the soil, “these little guys play an important role in the health of our garden.”

“You know she doesn’t understand you, right mom?” Ciri said a little breathlessly after stabbing her sword into the earth.

“I don’t think we can say that with certainty, Ciri. She is a witcher’s daughter after all, we are in for a lifetime of surprises I’d say.” You replied with a small shake of your head. Ciri rolled her eyes at you before making off towards the house at a run.

“Cirilla,” you warned, “don’t leave your sword in the yard! And wipe it down before you take it in – I don’t want dirt tracked in again.”

“Mom!” she groaned, stomping back to get her sword. “Witchers don’t need to do these ridiculous chores…�� she said under her breath.

“They don’t get warm meals or comfortable beds either!” you replied in a sing-song, knowing it would drive Ciri crazy – you hated when she grumbled at you. Ciri had great respect for her father but would sometimes treat you like you were nothing more than a headmistress at school. Having spent time with witchers and sorceresses alike, scolding didn’t command respect; at least when you played it light it got her attention.

“Yeah – I know! I’ve lived those lives!” Ciri shouted, storming back towards the house, sword in hand.

Fuck. You forgot she was there when Cintra fell. How could you forget?! She was alone and, on the run, and oh gods if Geralt had been here and heard this he’d –

“Ciri, wait, I’m so sorry. I’m –”

“Sounds like someone could use some help.”

You stopped cold at the sound of the strangers’ voice. It ran through you like mead – ice cold but left a strange burning sensation in its place. Ciri also stopped in her tracks, dropping her hand from the door but keeping a firm grip on the helm of her sword. Ciri cast a quick glance at the stranger standing on the edge of your property before settling her nervous eyes on you.

You did your best to evoke confidence before turning to see this stranger for yourself.

It was Visenna.

Again, you did your best to seem confident as you addressed your eldest. “Ciri,” you said, not taking your eyes off the druid, “take Wren into the house, quickly!”  

“Mom?”

“Cirilla please, take her and go into the house,” you said, impressed at your ability to keep your voice level. “And take your sword with you,” you added, turning to give her what you hopped was a look that encouraged her to stay calm and be careful.

Ciri said nothing but scooped her sister up and onto her hip with one arm while keeping her sword steadily by her side.

Once you heard the door close, you cast a quick glance to make sure your girls were safe before turning your attention back to the woman standing at the gate.

“Why are you here, Visenna?” you asked, holding your head high despite the fact your heart was pounding in your ears.

“Oh child,” her words dripped with condescension, “I never expected my son to write me back, but I had hoped he’d share the contents of my letter with his wife.”

“He told me about the letter,” you said, giving her a tight close-lipped smile, “in fact he told me all about you. So, I’m going to ask you again, why are you here?”

“If you know about the letter, then you know why I’m here.”  

“Could you be so cold as to have you forgotten your history with your son? The way you left him to be tested on like a rat? You have no right to be here.” Your voice cracked as you finished your last sentence, and Visenna tilted her head at your sign of weakness.

“You have no idea what you’re talking about, dear. You weren’t there -”

“Neither were you!” you spat; with a harshness you didn’t think you had in you.

“Hm.” Visenna crossed her arms and watched you closely through narrowed eyes. You hated that she reminded you of Geralt as she seized you up – the had the same mannerisms, the same affinity for the non-verbal. Geralt could never know.

The druid’s scrutinizing glare made you squirm, and when you broke eye contact with her for a moment of reprieve, she moved to open your gate. For the briefest moment, your panic left you paralyzed as you watched the woman begin a confident stride towards the house.

“Stop!”

You whipped your head around as you heard Ciri come bursting out of the front door. She was wielding her sword up in front of her with one hand while the other hugged Wren onto her side.

“Do not come any closer, I am warning you!” she shrieked, her light eyes wild as her mousey hair blew behind her.

“Ciri-” you tried, holding one hand out to calm her.

“No!” she yelled, keeping her eyes and her sword fixed on Visenna, who was now standing stock-still at the gate.

“Stop trying to tame her, dear,” Visenna interjected. “Let the lion cub roar.”

At the sound of her old nickname, you took in a sharp breath and felt your heart drop to your stomach. It felt like the world stopped turning as Ciri reacted to the trigger.

Cirilla could handle discussions about her old life in small doses and only on her terms. Whenever the dreams came to her, it would take you hours to calm her down. More often than not, the episodes left you and Geralt drained and deeply concerned. Yennefer was really the only person Ciri responded to, and while her methods and lessons have helped, sometimes the pain brought on by the memories was simply too great.

Now, as the four of you stood in your garden, you could feel the earth begin to vibrate beneath your feet. Ciri’s jaw was clenched tight and her nostrils were flared. She slowly knelt down and placed Wren onto the ground before standing tall once again.

“Do not call me that.” She seethed, voice dripping with magic.

“Come now, child,” Visenna replied, seemingly unaware of the storm brewing, “I am your grandmother. I can help you; teach you.”

“You are not my grandmother!” Ciri shrieked, pushing a violent wind towards the druid which forced her to take a step back. “Get out of here! Leave!”

“I – I don’t mean any disrespect, Ciri. The Lioness was –”

“Ciri, no, wait –”

Everything happened so quickly. You felt the burning rush of Ciri’s magic roar past you and tried desperately to keep your eyes open so you could see Wren. Though your eyes stung against the harsh blast Ciri was emitting, you saw Wren crying soundlessly behind her sister, her chubby hands reaching out towards you in desperation. You tried to step towards her but an invisible force pushed you to the ground. You pulled yourself up on one elbow and tried to reach towards your baby without luck. Everything was burning and it took all of your strength to stay alert.

Meanwhile, Ciri’s blast of magic shot at Visenna like a bolt of lightening. Out of the tip of her sword and from her outstretched hand came a bright blue flame surrounded by pulses of violent wind. The destructive blast uprooted the gate and surrounding fence, throwing them back into the forest beyond. Burning shrapnel and earth flew towards her at breakneck speed, but the druid reacted quickly, pulling a portal with the help of an amulet and escaped the blast.

The garden in the path of Ciri’s blow burned harshly – leaving nothing behind but ash; except for the pocket where you lay. You tried to call out to Ciri to calm her down but there was no air for you to draw from. You let the force of her magic hold you down for a moment, trying to recuperate your strength, and when you looked up again you saw Wren taking a few wobbly steps toward her sister.

Holy fuck, you thought. These were her first steps.

You watched with wide eyes as Wren took step after step towards her sister, whose magic raged on. You were so drained by the weight of Ciri’s magic that you were convinced your eyes were deceiving you.

You watched in disbelief as Wren took step after step towards Ciri. The moment her little hand reached her sisters leg, the spell broke and Chaos released its hold on Cirilla. Drained from the exertion, she lost consciousness and started to collapse in on herself, her sword falling from her hand and onto the ground with a dull thud.

You scrambled to your feet and raced to Ciri, dropping to your knees once you reached her to catch her in her fall. You smoothed the ashen strands out of her face and rocked her gently from side to side, breathing shakily through your silent tears. You didn’t know when you started to cry, but when Wren waddled her way to you and nestled onto Ciri’s lap to press her face into the crook of your neck, you were sure you’d be crying forever.

“What the fuck,” Geralt growled upon seeing the destruction as he rode up to the house from the trail. In a growing panic, he urged Roach into a canter. When they got to where the gate should have been, he dismounted and ran towards the house at a sprint, his heart pounding in his ears. When he saw you sobbing on the ground with an unconscious Ciri and weeping Wren, he lost all control.

“Y/N! Y/N what happened?! Who did this?” he shouted, panic rising. When he spotted Ciri’s sword on the ground, Geralt fell to his knees beside you and quickly scanned you all for any sign of injury. You were weeping, holding tightly to Ciri, who was unconscious, and Wren, you

“Y/N please talk to me,” he said more harshly than he meant it, while brushing wild strands of hair out of your face gruffly.

“Ciri, she um –” you choked, working to slow your breathing, “she lost control of her magic…”

“Yeah, I can see that, love.” He said with an incredulous laugh, his eyes scanning your ruined garden with disbelief. “What the fuck happened to make her so upset? Did – did she have a nightmare? Did you, hm, say something to her?”

“Geralt – no,” you said quickly, the tears you managed to calm coming back with a vengeance.

“Y/N, I’m sorry I just…” Geralt regretted the insinuation that this might have been your fault but he’d only ever seen Ciri’s magic be this destructive when she was afraid or hurt. He was at a loss.

You shook your head and turned in his arms to look back at him, readjusting Ciri and Wren in your arms to free an arm which you placed onto Geralt’s chest. You held his eyes and took a steadying breath, unsure of how he’d react.

“We – we were in the garden just, just like always and,” you cast a quick glance down at your daughters before bringing your eyes back up to Geralt’s, both to ground yourself and to hopefully remind him of their proximity in order to temper his reaction, “and Visenna appeared at the gate.”

He gasped sharply at your words, and his body around you. You brought your hand up to his face and tried to calm him. His cat-like eyes were wild and unfocused – he looked like a frightened child and it broke your heart to see him like this. Wren seemed to sense this too, as she scrambled up and reached towards her father’s hair.

Wren’s light tugs managed to pull Geralt out of his shock momentarily and his eyes seemed to come back into focus. Seeing this change, you gently redirected his attention back to you.

“Visenna came for Wren… T-to take her or, or to raise her or something? She mentioned the letter…” Geralt clenched his jaw at the reminder.

You hadn’t motioned the letter in months. Geralt wasn’t at all ready to welcome his mother back into his life, and he definitely didn’t want her anywhere near his family.

“What did she do to Ciri? I swear I’ll –” he seethed.

“No, no, Geralt,” you interrupted gently, moving your hand back to his chest, “she didn’t get the chance. I don’t know what she was going to do, but Ciri came out with her sword,” you stopped short to look down at her with pride, “to protect us.”

“She did?” Geralt let out another incredulous breath, shaking his head at his child surprise.

“Yeah, it was like nothing I’ve ever seen. Her magic, it destroyed everything in its path but somehow, she was sheltering me from the blast. Visenna escaped through a portal, I- I think? But Ciri was… unstoppable.”

“Y/N, if Ciri was able to harness Chaos like this at her will, to protect you; this could mean –”

“Oh no, love, I’m sorry I’m not telling this right. She came out of the house with her sword to protect us but she lost control when Visenna called her the Lion Cub.”

“Oh, fuck.”

“Oh, I know,” you agreed emphatically before adding, “and then she called herself Ciri’s grandmother…”

“Fuck!”

“Right,” you sighed, shaking your head as a shudder ran through you.

“Da-ee,” Wren said suddenly, pushing her little hands into her father’s face, causing a shocked laugh to escape his lips. Geralt’s face softened in a way he reserved for his youngest daughter and the sight of it was enough to pull you out of whatever was left of your panic.

“Oh, gods!” you exclaimed, “Geralt you won’t believe this.”

“Hm?” he hummed, not taking his eyes off Wren; he was completely enthralled by his baby.

“She took her first steps – and, gods it was incredible Geralt – when she touched Ciri, it pulled her out of the trance!” You gushed breathlessly.

“She did? That’s my girl!” he beamed, earning a proud giggle from the toddler. “Fuck I hate that I missed this, you’re just full of surprises aren’t you, goose?” he said, peppering light kisses across Wren’s little face.

“I know, love.” You said softly, leaning into his arms once more. “I’m so relieved to have you home.”

“Come on, Y/N, let’s get our girls into the house.” Geralt said as handed Wren off to you before picking Ciri up gently as he stood. You took his outstretched hand rose to your feet along-side him. “I’m not leaving you again, I promise.”

“Geralt, you say that every time.” You tease lightly, holding the front door open for him.

 “No, I mean it this time Y/N, really.” He said quietly, as he laid Ciri down in her room. “I can’t keep doing this. When I’m gone, all I do is think of you and the girls…” he trailed off when he noticed Wren had fallen asleep on the couch. You smiled tenderly as you watched him cradle her into his strong arms.

“My love, you know you’d go crazy if you stayed here with us all the time.” You said as you smoothed his hair out of his face.

“I’d go crazy if anything ever happened to you.” he whispered.

“Hey now… we’re fine,” you tired to reassure him, “today was an anomaly. I doubt Visenna would try that stunt again. Ciri will be fine, she just needs to rest, and tomorrow we can send word out to Yen for support. We – “you paused to take a steadying breath, “we can’t let fear rule our lives, Geralt.”

“Hmm,” he hummed, setting Wren down into her bed before wrapping his arms around your frame, “now when did you get to be so wise?”

“A certain witcher taught me a few things,” you said, a small smirk playing on your lips, “always preaching something or other but sometimes the lessons stick.”

“Is that so?” he growled, a fighting back a smirk of his own.”

“Hmm,” you teased, kissing him deeply.

[mandalorewhore]

Hunter (formerly Hunter and Prey)

Cis-Female Reader Insert/ Din Djarin

Gif by @themandaloriandaily

Thank u to @cptnbvcks, @whenimaunicorn, and of course @no-droids for the inspiration and your superior writing skills, whenever i was stuck on a portion i would reread all of u guy’s works and feel inspired again

Rating: Explicit Content Warnings: Exhibitionism, Oral Sex, Rough Oral Sex, Breath Play, Deep Throating, Masturbation, Pining, Depictions Of Violence, Canon-Typical Violence Words: 11k AO3 LINK

Summary: AU where Din Djarin stays with the mercenary group owned by Ranzar Malk. Takes place a few years before Din is contracted for Grogu's bounty. You're a merc trying to make a name for yourself in the group when circumstances end up having you run away with Din. You become his hunting partner in order to support yourself but you cant help falling in love with him, even as trained killers chase you across the galaxy.

FULL FIC:

As a mercenary, you wouldn’t consider yourself an overly sensitive person. 

Maker knows you wouldn’t have lasted a week in the job if you couldn’t handle your emotions. Although you don’t consider yourself entirely void of empathy, having a sense of detachment is useful when your waking hours are spent committing crimes throughout the galaxy.

          So why the fuck are you so jealous right now?

          The obscene moans and harsh slapping that echoes throughout the hangar shouldn’t inspire a larger reaction than disgust as you dutifully continue to repair the blaster marks on one of the rogue-class starfighters. Luckily, it seems that most of your immediate associates have ran off into the deeper areas of the bay to toll your last mission.

Excluding three members, you guess.

          Thank the fucking Maker Migs isn’t here You think bitterly, willing the sparks to fly higher and machine rumble louder as you carefully manipulate your buffing laser on the metal surface. His snarky attitude certainly wouldn’t lessen your misery as you try to drown out the sounds of sex. Raunchy words hiss, bouncing off the metal walls, before finding your feet and slithering up your limbs with a foulness that chokes you. Controlling the hot spinning laser seems to stoke your inner seething more than it distracts you. 

“Mando! Stars, keep-fuck- keep doing that,” you hear Xi’an echoing. Fucking Xi’an. She knows what she’s doing to you. The cruel Twi’lek is far too observant to not know that she is practically comm-station broadcasting her sexual exploits to the entire crew, and with that sheer volume, might as well the entire galaxy. You truly wouldn’t care about her sex life if it wasn’t blatantly obvious that Xi’an was doing this to mock you. You know this is meant for your ears only, a repeat of every other time you’ve found yourself stuck with this chore.  

Even if she wasn’t directly rubbing the fact that she was fucking the Mandalorian in your face, you don’t doubt that she would find a way to taunt your nonexistent sex life just for the fun of it. Another salacious moan echoes in the bay causing you to cringe and slightly jerk the repair tool in frustration.

Fuck, why did it have to be Mando? Aren’t there enough people on this kriffing space station to warm her bed? And how is he being so quiet right now? After a second you remember that’s a stupid question, considering he is probably the quietest person you’ve ever met.

His reservation serves to intimidate your targets, all the while unintentionally stoking that warmth in your belly when you are near him. His all-encompassing presence when he enters a room strikes fear in the hearts of the opposition, meanwhile, you are secretly pressing your thighs together in desire, enjoying the spectacle?.

 You’ve found yourself reveling in the few jobs where Ran’s strategy has you in a decoy-role, weaponizing your feminine charm to lull your target into a false sense of power. The muscle composing of Burg and Mando make quick work of those men once they're thoroughly wrapped up in your wiles. Despite being placed together for jobs on several occasions you’ve never actually had a real conversation with him. 

You’re too scared to talk to him, a near-silent man covered head to toe in Beskar, but you make money killing people and robbing gangs every week. It would be funnier if that purple freak wasn’t so vile. You don’t even know how to casually approach him.. Nice job killing those guys while I manipulated them into trying to fuck me! I’m pretty good with a gun, too. Maker, it’s so ridiculous that you don’t even bother with trying to figure it out. Other fantasies are easier to picture, such as the thought of him strolling across the room to slot himself in-between your spread legs, directing that intensity into your willing, aching body.

  This infuriating crush is why you suppose that your envy wouldn’t be as biting if you caught some sort of noise from the man during these displays of exhibitionism. It would give you something to repeat in your mind while you stow away in the late hours of the night seeking your own release. You guess the inability to hear him is proof of how far Xi’an is pushing her volume. It’s all just to piss you off. 

“Uhg, how miserable..” You mutter to yourself, allowing a little moment of self-indulgent angst. Typically, you wouldn’t allow yourself to wallow like a petulant teen seeing as you’re a literal fucking criminal. 

I’m supposed to be a hardass, dammit you think, spirits low as repairs wrap up far too swiftly. You swear you’ll buff right through every layer in the ship if you keep procrastinating on finishing your job and wandering into the tucked away fresher for a shower. Wandering past….them.

Wherever they are choosing to fuck can’t be that far considering the slap of skin on skin is already fucking loud enough. The sounds seem to be emanating from a vent not too high up the wall, you deduce it connects to one of the bunk rooms not too far from the landing pad you’re working next to. It really is fucking loud with all these metal surfaces to echo off of. Making your way to your small bunk might cause you to go deaf and if the last thing you ever hear is Xi’an wailing as she rubs in the fact that you aren’t fucking Mando, well, you might just take this spinning laser to your head. Unfortunately, at this point, the exterior of the gunship couldn’t possibly get more pristine.

Sighing in defeat, you push up from your crouching position on the metal floor and start to assemble your tools for clean-up while the sounds of Twi’lek pleasure predictably pick up  in volume.

“Fuck, fuck-Ah I’m close, I-I’m going to-“ A literal howl pierces the air as your gut twists with discomfort. Fuck, this is so awkward... and like, weird? Does he consent to this? Does he like that we can hear it? Maker.. Pushing that thought out of your mind you start to jog to your goal of the darkened hall that leads to the station fresher, still so wrapped up in jealousy that you almost miss the rough modulated growl accompanying the scream.

 O-oh.

Oh shit. Was that Mando….Moaning?

The swirling jealousy is suddenly overtaken by a- stars- painful heat, so debilitating that you stumble and almost double over with an intensity that shoots through your groin. Okay well, now you feel like an actual pervert. This display of eroticism was engineered by Xi’an to make you uncomfortable, not so painfully turned on that it’s dizzying. You vaguely register a growing slickness between your legs as you hurry along the cold hallway, desperate to drench yourself in icy water and pretend to forget the sound of Mando moaning.

Shit, Maker, was he cumming? Was that what he sounds like when-- no stopstopnope. Don’t think about that. Your inner monologue is running amuck as you desperately try to block it out. This feels kinda gross, as if you’re a greasy peeping tom spying on Mando’s private endeavors even though this whole situation was shoved in your face to make you ache in countless, longing ways.

That deep growl repeats in your mind as you hum nonsensically under your breath, tapping your skull as if you can knock the sound out of your consciousness despite being well aware that you will go to your fucking grave with every detail. The top of your inner thighs is so embarrassingly slick that you have to resist waddling along the corridor to the showers. Just as you are about to round the first corner, one of the side bunker doors slides halfway opens with a whoosh. The smirking Twi’lek saunters out like the loth-cat who got the cream.

I suppose she did get the cream... Your split-second of sour mirth is further spoiled as Xi’an slides the rest of the door open revealing the gleam of silver beskar and red steel as the ever still Mandalorian adjusting his…thigh armor. You spy a large vent at the junction between wall and ceiling, confirming your earlier suspicions that she chose this location on purpose. Quickly glancing between Mando and Xi’an, your face uncontrollably floods with fire when her giggles pierce the air. You register his helmet tilting toward you right as Xi’an’s tongue slowly extends to liiiick her fingers, any curiosity at his gesture burning away in revulsion.

What does she get out of making everyone uncomfortable? You think to yourself, wanting to squirm away from the obscenity but resolving to hold your ground.

“Xi’an,” You greet the two shortly, hands linked behind your back. “Mando.”  He nods.

“Sorry,” Xi’an offers in a voice devoid of guilt. “Were we being too loud? I would never want to distract you from your… projects.” Her taunting smile curls so widely that it is almost disturbing. “What would the team do without our junior mechanic!”

Her cackle rings through the suddenly freezing hall as you spin on your heel and try to not look like you’re fleeing. Red is tinting the edges of your vision from her insult while tears threaten to flood your eyes out of embarrassment.

You need to get to that shower quickly.

    ----------------

  As the tepid shower rains down on your flushed body, you childishly wonder if you should run away. Or rather, if you could run away considering you technically don’t own any of the ships currently residing in the hangar bay. Although you technically have free reign to pilot most of the spaceships available, that freedom entirely applies to transportation between merc assignments . The thought of running away from your current acquaintances on a stolen ship is not appealing. In fact, the only crew member owning a personal vessel happens to be Mando, his Razer Crest gunship was often subject to your mechanic skills.

Mando, who always offered a genuine “Thank you.” after you’d spend hours touching up the vessel’s damage procured from the rare missions he lent its flight to. Mando, the person who you are presently trying to not think about while naked and still trembling with emotion.

Your sillier fantasies would sometimes involve stealing away in his gunship, hand pressed over his chest and leg thrown across his lower body like a romance novel while he skillfully pilots the ship away. Kriff, you felt like a soft girl whenever you run this scenario through your mind, so cliché and campy that you cringe at yourself. Thus, this particular dive into your consciousness was reserved for special moments such as lying in bed after a strenuous job, or after long days spent working through that junkyard of hangar bay trying to strong-arm your way into earning worth in the company. Private moments where you are finally comfortable letting your guard down to drift aimlessly throughout maladaptive daydreams.

Not so soft fantasies exist in your mind as well. Once again that modulated groan springs to the forefront of your mind causing your clit to throb softly. The conflicting feelings of embarrassment, rage, and painful arousal serves to create an energizing cocktail that goes straight to your pussy.

‘Fuck it,” You whisper breathily to yourself, “Nows as good a time as ever..” your fingers are trailing down your stomach as you say the words out loud. You adjust the water to be slightly warmer and sigh as the comfortable heat compliments your tickling fingers. If only you could replace your hands with the significantly larger leather-clad ones of a certain bounty hunter. The thought spikes your arousal as you lightly brush against your mound, choosing to tease yourself as images flash through your mind. The armor-clad Mandalorian gripping the back of your neck to you press facedown on the floor of his ship and take his cock. Or your legs spread wide across his hips, crushing your pussy on his groin while he’s seated in the pilot seat of his ship.

Your fingers dip slightly into your slick hole then drag up to your clit causing you to bite your free palm and hold back a moan. Eyelids heavy, you give in to the fantasies and begin to earnestly rub at your clit.

“Mmf Maker, f-fuck..”, you whine into your hand at the thought of him breaking your pussy open. You just know he fucks hard -- it’s a given that the crazy Twi’lek would be one for rougher sexual affairs. Someone who spends nearly every moment of life feeling nothing but the weight of fabric and beskar on their skin must be so fucking touch starved. You bet the opportunities he’s had to feel a tight cunt wrapped around his length would completely overwhelm his restraint. Muffled moans begin to fill the fresher as your fingers speed up between your legs, head hanging forward into the metal wall and water dripping off your brows.

Your eyes flutter shut as you pull your hand from your lips to tug at your hardened nipple, other hand still between your legs, imagining a dark visor being trained on your soaking wet, writhing body. The image sends a shooting pleasure up your spine as you spin around and press your back to the wall. Imagining his dark form watching you from the other side of the gathering steam, you open your thighs and spread your labia apart, sighing at the wet sound it makes. “Like what you see, hunter..?” you whisper into the empty room wishing he would find you in this shower.

Removing your fingers from your nipple you reach down to your crotch and greedily fill yourself with two fingers, pumping in and out as your other hand works at your swollen clit. The volume of your now unmuffled pleasure is likely overheard by anyone on this section of the station, but you can't find it in yourself to give a shit. If Xi’an can screech out her orgasms at any given opportunity to fuck with you then let them hear.

Let him hear.

Your imagination runs rampant at the notion that he could hunt down your gasps and take care of you himself, causing you to gasp louder. S-shit people can hear you, you just won't say his name out loud, it's fine, it's f-fine- The thought of him discovering you here is so hot that it's blinding, and suddenly your orgasm is rushing up to crush you entirely.

Your lower half is locked tight then suddenly your knees buckle and you’re cumming hard. Your choked gasps cutting through the steamy shower like blaster fire as you peak higher, uncontrollably calling out for the Mandalorian while white-hot pleasure wrings you dry. Let him hear you crying for him as you gush around your fingers, convulsing in bliss.

     In the shuddering aftershocks, you don’t hear the uncharacteristically loud padding of leather boots retreating away from the fresher door.

    ------------------------------------------

    You’re good at your job. You wouldn’t be doing it if you truly couldn’t handle the ordeal of being a mercenary. The whole point of the job is to take care of the dirty work, so those far disconnected wouldn’t have to dwell on their choices too hard. You’re used to not asking questions, motivated by credits and reputation alone. But in moments like these, a job going this awry… well, you just feel like pure shit. This hit was way too easy and far too filthy even for your career mostly consisting of professional filth. It was so glaringly obvious that even if your associate’s numbers were sliced in half, you would still sweep the ground with your winnings.

And what meager earnings they are.

The crew’s assignment this round was to hit a casino shipment just outside the outer rim planet of Cantonica. Due to the Razer Crest’s ability to fly under the radar of both Imperial and New republic records, Ran rudely allotted that Mando should allow his ship’s use for crew transport. You’re surprised he agreed at all, but perhaps the prospect of gain motivated him. His motivations are rarely clear to you. You’re guessing the price of a wealthy city’s supply sounded frankly too tempting for everyone involved; Ran was practically salivating over the drawing board for this particular errand. One would imagine a hull stacked to the top with credits and the finest luxuries for Canto Blight’s flashy tourists. It is Catonica’s main attraction after all.

But once the team’s resident crime droid, Zero, breached the cargo ship's record, the whole team is  informed that the cargo-freighter ship only contains “organics”.

Slaves.

          In the end, Migs remarked that there may still be something of worth to obtain from this job, and thus the plan morphed into an robbery on the surface once the cargo landed at its isolated dock. You reluctantly agreed to continue while Mando shortly nodded, both of you last to assent on this change in direction.

----------------   

Some hours later you’re crouching in a derelict warehouse while the lessening blaster fire showers spark like fireworks across your corneas. The fighting between your crew and the dockyard guards has almost died down at this point and you take the moment to catch your breath behind a large stack of cargo boxes.

          “Holy stars,” you gasp out, head falling between your knees as a wave of guilt consumes you momentarily. This job fucking blows. It’s so much easier robbing Imps and gangs because they are inherently bad fucking people. Robbing a group of slaves is the lowest point you think you have ever hit in your life. This is so wrong, this is so so wrong, they don’t even have ownership of their own lives and here your crew of fucking mercenaries swoops in with a vengeance over being cheated out of something that we didn’t own in the first place.

The last straw was when you witnessed a young bedraggled woman fearfully tossing the Twi’lek sibling, Qin, a small wooden necklace, the last possession from her life before slavery. You ended up turning tail and running deeper into the dock while Qin needlessly hissed at her just to enjoy her terror. You’re sure he’ll just toss the thing after the job is over.

“I never would’ve agreed to this…” You breathe out shakily to the empty air, hollowness swallowing your ability to compartmentalize your humanity from the nature of this work. You are still fighting the impulse to give in to that deep pit of sorrow when a large shadow makes you start and grip your blaster before relaxing in recognition at the chrome gleam.

          “Oh, hey, Mando,” Smiling tightly in his presence as he approaches silently, his helmet tilted down at your crouched form. His gaze makes you straighten up quickly, realizing that you probably shouldn’t look so stricken in front of your crime associate. Gotta look tough, can’t let people think you’re too soft for this work. Man, didn’t he help start the company? That thought motivates you further to stand up and face him head-on.

 “Not what we expected huh? Certainly no Canto luxury here..” you quietly murmur to his cheek groove.

If you looked directly where his eyes might be he would likely catch the sparkle of moisture threatening to pool at your bottom lashes.

          “No,” he breathes shortly through the modulator. “Not this.” Something in his voice inspires the bravery to glance at his T-shaped visor. Compared to his usual tone of speech he almost sounds …stricken right now. Distraught by this display of debauchery your crewmates have shown the slaves and few people manning the dock. It's not noticeable unless you’ve been around him enough to read him on some level but deep down you know he feels the same way. You try to recall him taking part in the violent takeover and realize he was barely present for the ordeal. Aside from the initial violence that broke out during landing he hardly did anything and was noticeably absent once the slaves were targeted. In the back of your mind, you pray that he won't be reprimanded for the lack of effort. The thought is ridiculous but you’re scared anyway.

Stars, this is all too much, your head is swirling with grief and stress as your heart rate picks up and suddenly you are so desperate for humanity, for empathy  that you lose your filter and-

          “Couldn’t stomach it either?” You blurt out to him, desperately hoping he understands and will not judge your deep sorrow for the enslaved people affected by this brutal takedown. Your mind catches up in panic half a second later when Mando doesn’t immediately respond. Did you just seek sensitivity from the Mandalorian? Fuck. Wait. That sounded like an insult too. Fuck um-

“Ah, um I-I mean. I just mean I don’t remember you firing on anyone helpless and I um- I didn’t either, I didn’t fire my blaster at all to be honest I-Fuck- I hid. They’re just slaves not Imps, Mando. The guards were taken out in seconds and-” You hiccup and stutter as tears gather at the edges of your eyes and begin to fall. You feel so overwhelmed with anxiety and guilt that all of a sudden you forgot about his open show of emotion.

Pull it together, don't do this in front of the Mandalorian. He is the very picture of a stoic, hardened mercenary and now you’re kriffing crying in front of him? It briefly registers that this is the first time you’ve ever spoken one on one with him, the both of you were almost always alone or with members of Ran’s party during time off. You internally curse your existence for thinking you could tearfully word vomit in front of a fucking bounty hunter and get comforted by him. Your knowledge of Mandalorians is limited, despite knowing one, yet you think the point of his whole creed about giving up your identity and giving yourself to war. Why the fuck did you cry in front of a damn Manodlorian? You’re just starting to unfreeze from your panic-stricken muscles to dab at your cheeks when a gloved hand swiftly brushes just below your eye to catch a tear.

          ‘This wouldn’t have happened if that Droid could do his job,” You glance up at him in shock at his biting tone juxtaposed with the gentle gesture, but he’s already turning away, voice rotating with his visor. “The worst is over now that the shooting stopped. Let’s round up the others.”

          He pauses with his back turned and you take that moment to compose yourself. You’ve only shed a few tears so your eyes can’t be that red.

“O-okay.. .” You reply, trying to inject your usual backbone into the tone of your response before moving to follow him around the piled boxes and regroup. Staring into your warped reflection in the back of his helmet you try to find the words to thank him but they get lost in the ghosts of today.

          Your mind is still swirling but the clouds of despair have mostly cleared away. You know you don’t have time to dwell on your short interaction yet your mind is fully absorbed in his every move, both present and past. Coming from anyone else his reaction would seem shitty and dismissive but coming from Mando... well, you're honestly shocked. Those two sentences were fairly long for someone usually so silent. And what about his reaction to the way this job has gone? Him brushing away your tears?

You are gazing down at your feet deep in thought when you suddenly bonk into the back of Mandos broad back, wacking your forehead on the base of his helmet.

          “Oww.” You groan lightly, rubbing your forehead and stepping to the right of his body, “Why’d you stop so sudde-'' It is then when you notice the muffled whimpering coming from the clearing in front of the both of you. A crimson pool of blood laps at the Mandalorian’s boots, its kiss staining the leather a deep black.

Now you are truly sickened, bile rising in your throat as a ragged gasp leaves your mouth.

          “Why…? How can you..”

          “Xi’an!”

          Your choked whisper leaves your lips at the same moment the Mandalorian fucking barks the Twi’leks name.

A crumpled form adjacent to her body is the source of the whimpering and bloodshed, their contorted limbs looking less than human as muscles strain against metal binders. Xi’an’s triangular blades are dripping in her grip as she spins on her toes like a dancer and flounces childishly in the direction of your frozen form. Tearing your gaze away from the shell of a human you meet her eyes with open hostility. She stops several yards away from you.

          ‘Aha! So good to see you two. Isn’t this job sooo disappointing?” She calls out to the two of you casually. When no one responds her body deflates as she twists her knee inward and clutches one arm peevishly. Performative. “What? No hello? I could’ve died today!” She cackles at the notion.

          Mando is a statue at your side. You can feel the rage radiate in waves off his body like a heater and you wonder what's going to happen if Xi’an pushes this further. Your heightened stress from moments before is vibrating throughout your nervous system, compelling you to step forward and speak up.

          “Xi’an… this-this is completely unnecessary. The only thing required to complete our hit was taking out guards! What the fuc- and they were clearly incapacitated by you before you decided to take your blade to their skin!” Okay, that came out a little shakier than intended, but it feels like a disservice to hide your revulsion for her actions with the victim lying right there. “You could’ve just hit em’ in the skull with a blaster shot if you needed them out of your way!”

          “Guards? Oh, I already took them out. This-” Xi’an punctuates the word a kick into the person’s stomach causing them to groan weakly, “Well, this is just an Organic as Zero would put it.” Organic? Fucking- You jump slightly and glance to your left when the Mandorlorian makes a shocked exclamation at her words. Maker, you’re so sickened you forgot he was with you.

“You mean a Slave? From the shipment?” He hisses the question through his teeth. You can’t see his face but you can hear the tension in his jaw, his body still a ridged form at your side. Xi’an pokes her tongue out and runs it lightly over the pointed edge of her teeth while she considers her response. She seems to be measuring her response to Mando with a little more care than she bothered with while speaking to you. You’re guessing that she cares far more about his perception of her than your personal attitude regarding the Twi’lek. Wouldn’t want to piss off her fuck buddy.

“Answer me!” He snaps when her response takes a millisecond too long. Your purple associate sighs, exasperated now.

“Yes a slave,” she hisses, drawing out the word in contempt, “Really I’m doing him a favor. From the looks of him, he was picked up on Tatooine. I doubt he even had a family to mourn him back on that shitty dustball of a planet-” Her eyes suddenly bulge as she clamps her mouth shut, gaze fixed on the armored man betraying a twinkle of... fear?

Slowly, you turn to him. The pit in your stomach is somehow weighing heavier than ever when you take in his body language. If you thought he was emanating white-hot rage before Xi’an’s response then you don’t even have words for how he holds himself now. You take a half step back in trepidation as the air around you seems to warp around the Mandalorian’s gravitational pull.

“A foundling?” His tone is unexpectedly quiet for someone who is manipulating the very atmosphere of this desert planet. Time seems to freeze. Shadows are ebbing at the edge of your vision and your head feels like it is going to pop in the pressure. You want to do something, anything, to relieve the pressing wall closing in on the three of you, to somehow end this interaction so that you can crawl in on yourself and bury the ghosts in the back of your mind. Fuck, your mouth is so dry, heart palpitating with a painful squeeze. Shit, fuck, what do you do? What did he mean by that question and why is Xi’an freaking out? You’re still fixated on the gleam of his helmet, rushing to find appropriate words when-

A flash of red explodes in your peripheral-vision, sparks seeming to fly 20 feet in the air. The words die in your throat in shock.

Did he? Did he shoot her? You barely saw him move yet as your mind races to catch up on this turn of events, you realize his blaster is drawn low on his hip, while the rest of him hasn't shifted an inch. The pressure cooker disappears in a sweeping wave of silence.

You swallow and turn awkwardly back to Xi’an. Oh.

He shot the slave.

Xi’an is just as stiff as you, her arms slightly raised as if she instinctively tried to ward off the blaster fire before realizing its trajectory. You are still processing his actions when a gloved hand wraps around your wrist and pulls you swiftly as he runs from the scene, tossing a flash bomb behind the both of you.

Without question, you run with him.

  ----------------

  “Hey!” Within minutes your chest is burning from keeping up with Mando’s relentless pace. You’re fit from your job but he's twice as big as you and probably more than twice as fast. You get the feeling that he's moving slower than usual so you aren’t left behind. Struggling to control your breathing, you attempt to make sense of the jumbled thoughts by wheezing out, “M-Mando what are we doing?”

“Running.”

“Okay, fucking obviously!”

“To the Crest.” He clarifies just as shortly. Okay. Okay, once you reach his ship maybe you’ll get more answers. Right now, both of your priorities align with getting the fuck away from Xi’an before her vision returns and she comes after the both of you. But you can’t yet push some of the recent events to the side.

“You shot him.” You mean to phrase it like a question but it comes out more accusatory than intended with how breathless you are. “The slave you shot-“

“I ended his suffering.”

Oh. That makes sense, even if it makes your chest contract in duress you recognize his killing the slave came from a place of empathy. What exactly did he say right before drawing his blaster, something about… foundlings? You don’t know the term exactly but contextually you can guess it means orphan or alone. Fuck, this is so bad. Just what are you going to tell everyone? He may not have directed his shot at the Twi’lek but he temporarily blinded her. That still counts as an attack on a member of the team. Your chest is burning unbearably now so you slap at Mando’s vambrance to signal your need for a break. He drags you gasping around a corner into the shadowy edge of the warehouse.

“Listen, hey, look at me.” His large hand reaches out to gently grip the side of your face, warm against your skin and smelling sharply of blaster residue. Looking into his visor you realize your cheeks are damp again as hysterical hiccups threaten to make themselves known. “We are going to run. You don’t have to come with me of course but I unintentionally put you in the position of being complicit by attacking Xi’an. That-that wasn’t the plan… but I was leaving the company anyway”

His chest suddenly deflates as he rids it of air.

You realize you were holding your breath at the same time as him as you gasp out, before rubbing at your cheeks and asking dumbly, “Y-you were… leaving the company? Is Ran pissed?”

Stupid question. Of course, he’d be pissed at losing the one Mandalorian in the group. Mandos' presence gave him cred. 

“Ran doesn’t know.”

“Ran doesn’t… what? When was this happening then?”

Mando’s visor turns away from your gaze and looks off into the middle distance. His gloved hand on your face is still gripping gently to lock you in place. “Today. That’s the only reason why I agreed to let him use the Crest for this job.”

He shakes his helmet slightly and turns back to your face, the metal covering his face becoming your main focal point while the room spins. You can't see his features, and never would, yet you feel as if you are looking directly into his eyes. Your body has impeccable timing when you feel your cheeks heat blushing.

However, your senses return in an instant when a familiar piercing howl echoes off the walls. The glove drops and he is gripping your shoulders,

“Can you run again?”

Adrenaline springs your limbs into action as you spin around, catching his wrist and pulling, roles reversed as you lead him in the direction of his ship.

Dust is billowing from below whenever your feet meet the ground. The steps sound like thunder in your ears as paranoia begins to worm its way into the forefront of your senses, every corner, every shadow, every blindspot could be hiding one of your former partners. Xi’an is an excellent assassin; time and time again her main skill has proven to be stealth, targets dropping dead expectedly. The Crest isn’t very far thankfully. It sits right on the back of the targeted freighter since Zero requires physical contact to hack the other ship systems for paths. Oooohh shit you forgot about the droid- 

“Mando, Zero’s in there.” You puff out shortly in between breaths. 

“Fuck that droid. I’ll take care of him, just back me up.” You both slide around a corner as he responds, bringing the two ships into your field of view. You are facing the rear end of the larger vessel, thankfully leaving the coast clear as far as you can tell. Mando’s helmet scans the area then nods, indicating the go-ahead with his fingers before running ahead of you. You follow him, casting fervent glances behind you for any signs of life. You reach the ship a millisecond after he does, his vambrance held high to lower the rear ramp. As the ramp begins to lower he grips your shoulders and spins you around dizzily.

“Stay right outside here. The second I enter the crest I’m dropping the Droid. I’ll call you once it’s safe.” You gulp quickly and nod in assent right before he leaps into the opening of the ship.

Seconds pass. 

Your nerves are plucking way more than they normally would.. You never particularly liked Zero, but the sudden turn of taking out your ex-allies is making you high strung and nervous. Zero’s voice cuts through the silence, making you jump.

“Mandolarian, you are back early. Were the prospects plentiful despite being Organics?”

“No.” You twitch when a shot echoes in the hull followed by the clash of metal on metal.

 The Mandalorian sharply calls your name springing you into action. You enter the ship immediately spying Zero’s body under the cockpit ladder, blaster wound still smoking with red-hot metal ringing the edges. Your eyes linger a little on the droid’s body, slightly leery at the death of someone who was your backup only hours ago, then you sigh and duck to get a handle on under his shoulders, dragging him to toss out the open entryway. 

Grunting with effort you direct your voice at the cockpit, “Tossing the droid! Take off when read- Shit.”

One of the droid's hip joints gets stuck on a portion of the hull wall, preventing you from moving his corpse. Something wizzes above you at the exact moment you duck down to adjust the body, right where the back of your head was a second ago. One of Xi’an’s triangle blades ricochets off the wall and slides across the floor, stopping right under your nose. Oh f-

“Fuck! Fly, fly, she's here Mando!” You lurch to the floor as the thrusters kick in, twisting your head to try and get eyes on the clearing. Through the rapidly closing ramp, you see a flash of purple skin, but before you have time to react the Crest door snaps shut. Heart thudding at what feels like a million beats per second, you try to get your bearings on the floor. Twisting sideways you suddenly find yourself face to face with Zero’s corpse, revulsion whipping through you like lightning as you scramble backward on your hands and feet.

    You can’t do this right now. 

    The last thing you want is to seem weak and needy in front of the man who just selflessly saved your life, for reasons still unknown, but you can’t do this right now. A creature of habit, you fold your neck between your legs, the same reaction you had to the violence on Cantonica. A minute, you just need a minute, a minute and then this horrible drone will go away, and you can deal with this, you’re a fucking mercenary…  the blackness swarming at the edges of your sight overtakes you all at once and you slide limply to the floor.

  ------------------------------------------

  You aren’t sure how much time has passed once you rouse. At your request, Mando tosses Zero's body before kicking into hyperdrive right about 120,000 feet in the air. You stare at its flight path until the speck disappears in the taupe shithole that is Cantonica. Feeling shaky as your adrenaline finally dips, you decide that the Crest could do with a once over before the long journey. 

After performing a quick analysis on the Crests systems it’s determined that the two of you are lucky this hunk of metal can fly. Hyperdrive operating at 67% capacity, weak communication signal if it even works half the time, plus more damage than you can currently process. If there weren’t five million different stressors weighing on you, your mechanic brain would probably explode at the current state of Mando’s ship. He probably should’ve taken it to you, or anyone else handy with tools if he wanted it to be in proper form for departure, but it makes sense that he didn’t want to draw too much attention. Hopefully, his pilot skills will compensate for the Crest’s sorry state. 

 To be fair, the whole blow-up-your-coworker-and-run-for-your-life aspect didn’t seem to be in Mando’s original plan. 

“So… where are we going?” You’re on the floor in the cockpit, back facing the passenger chair while the Mandalorian is seated pilot. After crawling under the console for a while you couldn’t bother to lift your aching muscles on the chair, resigning to scoot on your butt over to the closest object that could support you. As a result, you end up craning your neck to look up at him, his back straight in the chair. 

“My original plan was to head to Nevarro to take on a few quarries. I’m still with the guild and Karga doesn’t give a shit whether I’m running with Ran or going in alone.” You bite your lip anxiously. Oh yeah, you kinda forgot your presence threw wrench in his plan. He notices and tilts the helmet sideways at you, “You’re not in the way. I’m not concerned about you joining me, someone of your skillset is helpful to have around. I’ll introduce you to Karga so you can get on your feet.”

The compliment lifts your spirits enough to make you playful, poking at his boot with your toe, “Gee, glad I’m useful enough to keep around. All I have is my blaster and the clothes on my back, so if you drop me, I’d be  pretty fucked.” 

You giggle quietly but you know it’s the truth. All of your possessions are back on the space station, but you didn’t own too many personal artifacts, aside from some clothes and weapons. The only thing of use would’ve been your credits. You worry again at the realization, dipping your head before continuing to speak,

“Shit Mando, I don’t have any money on me. It was all back in my bunk, I don’t know how I’ll help pay for things around here unless Karga decides I can take on a quarry right away. Even then I’ll have to bring it back before I ever have a lick to my name.”

“You can make it back. I’ll split the profit from jobs that you assist me on. Cut depends on how useful you are and once you prove yourself, Karga will give you the decent pucks.” He swivels the chair and faces you, knees slightly spread as he leans forward in the chair, “Deal?”

You swallow and nod your head, mind blanking at how your head is level with the bend in his hips. You don’t think he's trying to come across as suggestive but the effect, intentional or not, invites a flutter of desire in your tummy. The Mandalorian leans back on his leather backing and sighs, the sound gentle despite the modulator warping his natural tone,

“You aren’t in my way. I swear it. If I had more time before leaving I would’ve asked you to join me anyway, you're good with your hands and always had more… compassion? Than anyone else in the company. I admire that quality.” That makes you straighten back up to meet his visor. He sounds nearly shy.

“O-oh…” You never even thought he noticed you aside from when you touched up the Razor Crest. The compliment sends warmth throughout your body, as languid as sex pollen in the near feverish effect. You don’t know how to respond at all, you’re feeling disjointed, like you may reveal too much if you don't change the subject soon. You wish you could be snappier but you’re exhausted. Maybe try for a joke?

“I g-guess you value girls good with their hands, huh. H-haha?”

Silence. Hm. 

That was the absolute worst thing you could’ve come up with. 

It didn’t meet even a single one of your simple ass goals, which entail the following:

Thank him.

Change the subject.

Not reveal how much his words make you want him to rail you.

    Wow, what the fuck- kill me. He hasn’t moved an inch, much less reacted to your shitty joke. The positioning of your bodies that you found so hot ten seconds prior is now a place you’d try anything to escape from. It’s almost comical how his height advantage serves to emphasize the disappointment in the small room. He hasn’t responded so you’re guessing he won’t bother to try. Heavy silence suffocates you to the point of desperation, you need to fill it with something right now or you swear you’ll die. 

    “I-I jus-t mean like- Well you had certain- ah- habits, you’d adhere to in your free time. Li-like um, I mean you didn’t hide much. Kinda obvious if you- listen, uh, I didn’t mean t-to say that I-I was joking around-”

“Get to the point.”

“I-” Your tummy fills with heat at his command. “Umm..” You wipe your hands on your thighs and glance down from his voice. The hours of on and off adrenaline must be majorly messing with your head. It’s kinda weird that you want him this badly after everything that went down today. Wasn’t your most recent concern something about avoiding death at the hands of a bitch you hate most in the galaxy? To be honest you can’t recall. 

The proximity of his groin is suddenly at the forefront of your mind. Again.

He slowly tilts his helmet to look at you, arms bending to settle in a relaxed position on the armrests. You are extremely aware of how you’re blatantly staring at him but your mind is slow to come up with a valid response, blankness written in the reflection on his visor. His position on the chair is mountainous, looming over your body in a way that boxes you in between the passenger seat and the Crest console. You feel like a prey animal... In a sexy way? Maybe?

Although, when he leans back into his seat, helmet still trained on your face, you are unsure if you’re actually pissing him off or not.

“Say what you mean.” 

Okay, the sexy is mixing a little with anxiety. 

“Ah- Um well, I just mean like. It’s not like you hid it from me- everyone else too. In the company. Ran’s company? ‘Cause, I- We… always overheard you and Xi’a- Her…” Fuck, your mouth is so dry that last part came out like a squeak. “I’m sorry, I’m rambling again um, I kinda thought you were doing it on purpose. With Xi’an. Making me hear when you’d...fuck her.” Cheeks blazing, you duck your head back down, which doesn’t help at all since you’re just face to face with his crotch once more. 

    “You say ‘always’...” Mando’s inflection is lost somewhere between statement and question, his tone confusing enough that you end up lifting your head from its bowed position below him. 

“Y-yes?”

“As in this was a common position you found yourself in? Did you overhear me multiple times?” Now he poses not one but two questions for you, neither of which you feel brave enough to answer steadily. You can’t deflect further at this point so you answer him with a sigh.

“No, I only heard you once. Xi’an always wanted me to hear her though. It was gross.” Mortified, you gather your legs under your body to stand up from the floor. You think the hyperdrive issue is fixed well enough to hold until Nevarro. When your hand reaches for the edge of the armrest to pull yourself up it is abruptly enveloped in warm leather. Half crouched, your arm jerks back a little in surprise at his touch. 

“I wasn’t asking about myself specifically. And I wouldn’t force you to participate in her games, had I known.”

Maker strike my ass down. Can humans die from embarrassment? You wish it were possible if it got you out of this conversation. He’s correct, he didn’t specify whether you had heard his moaning. If you weren’t nursing these stupid feelings for Mando you never would’ve given away the fact that you memorized every tantalizing second of what you overheard. Not only is this embarrassing, but you don’t want him to think you’re a sicko who wanted to eavesdrop in the first place. The clarification about his awareness of Xi'an's timing is comforting but not enough to erase what you already admitted to him. You somehow feel sweaty and bone-dry at the same time, a flush spreading over your face.

“I’m so sorry.”

“I heard you too.”

You both speak at the same second, and a beat passes before either of you process what the other said. He- what? What is he talking about? Are we having two totally different conversations right now? When did you ever fuck someone on that space station anyway… unless he means… in the fresher…

This time he is the one who breaks the silence, “You’re sorry for… overhearing me?” 

“Y-yes, I really, really, don’t want you to think I’m a creep or anything. Anything I heard was involuntary, I swear. Xi’an w-wanted to make me… Um…” You trail off shyly, sitting down again. His hand is still over yours.

“Get to the point.” His voice is filled with heat now, so low and compelling that you’d tell him anything just to keep it that way. You whisper your response, lifting your eyes to his dark visor wishing you could meet his gaze.

“She wanted to make me jealous. Over you.”

“Mm… You wanted me instead?”

“Maker, yes.”

The climate between you and the Mandalorian made a 180. Nerves dissolving like honey in tea, all at once being taken over by a hum of sexual tension while his fingers caress a warm pattern over your knuckles. Exhilaration builds within you, though in the back of your mind you are calculating the possible motives behind his advance. 

You know sometimes, after a particularly rough day, people are compelled to relieve their pent-up stress through intimacy. There’s a reason why the market of sex work thrives under wartime, terror existing constantly in a fighter’s life must be paired with the softer, inner-most comforts of knowing another living being, or they’d go mad with sorrow. Brothels made a lot of money during the last stages of the Empire’s rule from both Imps, Rebels, and neutral parties alike.

It’s not out of the ordinary for you to seek each other out right now, yet can’t help but dream that this might mean more. 

The Mandalorian’s hand currently encasing yours flips your wrist to trace the lines of your palm. Sighing you tilt your head to the side, a curtain of hair cascading across your features. His free hand reaches out to brush the strands away before he gently grips your jaw, hand large enough to press his thumb on the front of your chin while his fingers wrap lightly under your ear. 

“I heard you too, pretty girl. You called out for me in the fresher… just what were you doing in there? Describe it- please.” He speaks with such allure that you break under his voice, pressing your cheek to his palm.

    “I-I thought of you watching me while I touched my pussy. I was so wet thinking about how I want you to feel me after being under all your armor, Stars, even the wind can’t touch you Mando. I thought about how you must crave the feeling of something so soft… can I show you how soft I am?” Your free hand raises to rest gently on his knee, fingertips hesitating at the edge of his thigh piece. He is still fully suited for battle, explosives strapped to one boot and rifle across his shoulders. 

You wish so badly to help him unwind, you would never disrespect him by trying to remove his armor, but you want to help him move past the experience that was Cantonica. Mando continues to stare at you for several tense seconds before melting into your touch.

“H-helmet stays on.” He breathes out shakily, a slight tremor running through his legs as your fingers lightly explore the fabric under the edge of the piece of metal. “But the rest… the rest can come off.” 

He’s already moving to undo the magnetic connectors holding his cuirass in place so you scramble to follow his movements. The rust-colored armor on his body has complex enough attachments that you don’t really know where to begin. Your hands clamber around, mostly following his deft movements. Slowly a man of flesh and blood is revealed, and as his impenetrable exterior melts away you find the true shape of him. 

The armor serves to add a few inches of bulk on his features, enhanced proportions making out a dramatic silhouette designed to be spotted from miles away. Without it his body is still so powerful, built hard as stone and broad, hard angles melding enticingly with a hidden softness. Not hidden- you realize -it compliments him completely. The pieces fall away and you’re left with the unexplored bareness of him. He is human and warm, evidence of this betrayed in rare moments where his hands travel lightly up your arms while you work at his pauldrons, brushing through your hair here and there before finally returning to your jaw to hover in front of your lips. 

“Off.” He instructs shortly, brushing the seam of his thumb over your bottom lip. Your mouth falls open to explore him with your tongue, tasting salt, blaster residue, and a hint of the heat he holds in his body. Satisfied, you bite down gently on the glove ridge, watching as he pulls off the leather encasing his hand and drinking in the sight of golden skin as it is revealed to you inch by inch. All you’ve seen of him is one bare hand and somehow it is the sexiest thing you’ve ever laid your eyes on. Flames lick your body, spreading from your white-hot core, energy gathering with such impassioned motions that at any second now it will burst from your skin, a reaction so immense that you could birth another galaxy.

You want to taste his skin too.

“Fuck baby-” You take his middle finger down to the knuckle, emboldened by his slurred reaction, noises startling to babble out of the bounty hunter as his stoicism falls apart under your tongue. Humming around the digit, you start to bob your head gently, eyes locked on his impassive visor while filthy, filtered noises drift through the beskar. It’s like there is no barrier at all between you, the air thrumming with a longing so great that you feel one with the man crumbling before you. If you're not careful you will fall with him. 

“Mando, Plea-se,” You stutter around him, voice shaking more than intended. “I want to f-feel more of you, let me touch you, please-” You squawk, mouth empty when he suddenly rips off the other glove, tossing it behind him before reaching down his torso to pull the hem of his trousers south. You gulp in trepidation, unable to tear your eyes away as enticing dark hair displays itself, leading to the base of his cock. He pauses, but you’re so caught up in discovering him that you don’t notice the tonal shift.

“Before I show you this-” dark words enunciated by palming his cock through the fabric, “I need to know where to put it.” 

What kind of question is that? You’re honestly bewildered, mind blank before you realize that the options are overwhelming. In his own way, he is asking you to verbalize consent, which is very much appreciated. You want him in your pussy, to work his way deep in your body and in turn, discover just how human you are... yet… You feel oddly unprepared. It’s not that you don't think you can take him, in fact you can't recall ever being this wet in your life. It’s just… after today… you want to help him unwind but you’re still not fully there. You still want to please him, but you’re not ready to let him know you that way, not until you come back to yourself. 

So in that case…

“I want you in my mouth, hunter.” 

Mando growls then grabs your wrist, guiding it over the edge of fabric and onto his throbbing length. He shudders while you process the feeling of him. He is thick, the width of his cock so wide that your middle finger and thumb are straining to meet each other. You release him from his pants then try to pull at the hem to wiggle them down his thighs. He obliges and lifts his hips so that you can reveal more delicious olive skin, but he makes no move to assist you with his hands. You get the feeling that he is drinking in your efforts to touch him, the sensation of your jerky movements giving away how much you want him. 

You kiss and nibble at every possible moment, one hand drifting lightly over the length of him, twirling at the base dusted with short, dark hairs, cupping his balls then moving back up, your mouth traveling to meet your fingers. Hissing, his hand flashes up to meet the back of your head, fingers tangling in strands to tug tightly on your scalp. With a light moan, you tongue along the side of him, teasing hot air more than actually licking him. 

“Look at me- fuck - pretty thing, s-so fucking willing for me, I want to see you take my cock as far as you can, s-show me how much you can handle-” He pulls harder at your hair, dragging you roughly enough to control your neck, back up from where you were sucking at his hip to the head of his dick. “Are you going to show me yourself before or after I gag you on it?”

Fuck, you never realized how tantalizing submitting to another person could be, not until that came out of his mouth, rough enough to clip through the modulator. You elect to show him what you can handle. Leaning forward to meet the swollen tip, you part your plush lips and kiss at the drop of precum gathered there, before relaxing your jaw to take him halfway. He groans and nearly doubles over at the sudden sensation, holding you there for a second before you draw back up to spread your saliva more thoroughly. Lips rewet, you sink back down on him, gliding smoothly as you pull his cock deep within your mouth, drinking in his breathy groans.

“Maker, yes … that’s it, fuck-” You attempt to sink even further down on the Mandalorian’s impressive length, but stop short a few inches from his base, blunt head pressing in your throat. “-so good, s-so good for me baby, you look perfect like this.”

He’s so far back inside you that you can’t access your vocal cords to produce any noise at all, otherwise you’d be whining at his praise. Your hands are free to assist you at any time, you could circumvent his daunting length if you wanted help. But you want to impress him. Besides, your palms are warm on his torso, traveling under his shirt to feel the ropes of muscle there. You don’t want to remove them. 

You surface to the tip, taking a deep breath in preparation before ducking to take him as deep as you can manage. He watches you, entranced at the sight of a face so lovingly strained to please him. Your gag reflex spasms but you will it away, determined to fully engulf his cock at least once even if you find you’re unable to handle more. The noises rising from your throat are brutal and raw as you choke around him, his helmet blurring when tears fill your eyes. You bob a little then almost give up when the urge to retreat floods your senses but then he starts talking again- so filthy that you can’t stop yet.

“You’re trying so fucking hard, fuck, I love seeing you wrapped around my cock, Maker, you feel so fucking good, I can’t imagine how your little pussy must feel, you’re so warm, so, fu-fuck, tight…” The stream of filth serves as your motivation to bob for as long as possible on his length, throat stretched obscenely around him. You realize hazily that there are tears streaming from your eyes, but the urge to pull off is lost in dizziness as the oxygen in your lungs depletes. You keep going and going, your high at its peak as you recognize that your body is starting to fade in black. You should pull off and breathe, one quick breath is all you need, but the way he’s filling you is more addicting than the purest Spice. He notices when you start to slump into his lap and pulls you up gasping for air. 

Nearly fainting never felt so good.

“Shit, are you alright?” You nod and rest your cheek on his thigh, face turned on its side to meet his visor as he spins little circles in your vision. A soothing hand brushes against your cheekbone, tracing a gentle pattern on its height. “You were doing so good for me baby. No need to hurt yourself.” Mando’s voice is still breathless, offering you tenderness through a cloud of stimuli.

“I’m okay- I’m… I just need to catch m-my breath.” You’re still heaving unevenly but you want him so bad, you want him to finish for you, your wants translating into weak pawing at his dick trying to give him more sensation. He catches your wrist with an airy laugh and guides your uncoordinated movements to better stroke him. The sound fills you with light.

“Pretty thing, I know you want me. Try to not die on my dick before I’ve had the chance to feel your cunt.” His hand leaves yours on his length and reaches over your ass to cup the apex of your thighs through your pants. You jerk up and almost crack the crown of your head open on the chin of his beskar but his other palm is pressed between your shoulder blades, keeping you bent over in his lap. A garbled noise tears from you when his index and ring finger spread on either side of your outer lips, allowing his middle finger space to travel up and down your seam, so wet that you can feel the slickness gathering through two layers of fabric onto the tip of his finger.

“Ah, Fuck! Mando, I-I- wait please, please, wait-” He draws his hand up away from your wet center, reaching your asscheek before you yelp and snatch his forearm to stop him from retreating farther. “I s-still wanna, I wanna make you come. You first, before-before me.”

“Baby, you’re… fuck okay. Can I still touch you?” Mando caresses your hip at the fold where it meets your thigh. 

“Later, let me d-do this, please.” He allows you to lift his arm from your spine and rest it on the crown of your head as you move forward and try to meet his cock again. Pulling his thighs to the edge of the chair, you settle back on your knees and stroking him one-handed while he hums low in his throat. You wrap your lips around the swollen head, sucking and swirling your tongue before taking him deeper, this time using a palm to stroke the last few inches instead of opening your throat. Starting up a rhythm of bopping and stroking his velvety length that pulls incredible noises out of the Mandalorian, each one going straight to your swollen clit. 

Coming up for air you start to jerk him off faster with your slick hand, meeting the T of his visor with your heated gaze, hoping that you are finding his eyes. He must enjoy the sight of you jerking him off because his moans start to tighten, hips thrusting into your palm. 

“K-keep fucking doing that, good girl, fuck I-I’m close, where-where do you want it, baby?” You respond by settling low near his thighs, putting his cock above you with your tongue sticking out, wetting the tip while your wrist moves faster. Somehow he’s harder than ever and-

Mando curses through his teeth as his cock convulses, warm spurts of cum painting your tongue, cheeks, and nose bridge, rivers of him flowing down your chin and dribbling on the swell of your chest. He grips the back of your head tight enough to hurt, then rips one hand down to stroke himself, smearing the mess across your features. 

The fingers on your scalp loosen then graciously begin rubbing at the base of your neck to soothe the soreness on your head. One of your eyelids is sealed shut due to a rope of his cum crossing from nose to eyebrow, the other eye unfocused, hazy with pleasure as you listen to him come down from his peak. A low noise rises from your throat as he massages your scalp, feeling tingly all over as blood flows back to the area.

“T-Thank you… that was great, I-“ he breaks off when you start to gather his cum off your skin, licking it off your fingers while studying his visor through your lashes. “Hey, let me…” 

He surprises you by wiping at your face with his cape, still hanging off the arm of the pilot chair from when you detached it. You giggle, “Is there a way to wash that on here? I can’t even tell if that hole in the wall includes a shower.” 

“There’s enough to work with.” 

You laugh louder at that, “That’s encouraging. I hope there’s ‘enough to work with’ so that I don’t meet Karga covered in cum.” Pausing to consider your current position, you add, “Actually, that might help my case.” 

Face wiped mostly clean, you're able to open both eyes now, taking in his posture. A jolt shoots through you when you realize he’s holding himself differently for some reason, he looks almost predatory but maybe that’s just the effect of Beskar’s harsh angles... Nope, he’s leaning forward now, caging you in again.  

“You want to look sexy for Karga?” Gulping, you try to figure out the best response but he continues before your slow-ass mind can catch up, “You’re right, that might help you get better pucks. But I don’t know if I want my hunting partner to be introduced that way. I still need to return the favor…” 

He lifts your body with ease, pulling you sideways onto his lap. Mando’s warm hand slides along the bend in your knee, slow and sensual on your body. He caresses you aimlessly, relaxed in the afterglow of cumming so hard. You’re still tightly wound, energy balled in your body as his movements serve to wind you up even more. But he’s not moving any faster so you relax into his broad chest, enjoying the feeling of his bare skin. 

Time blurs with your senses. His touch pulls you to a place right out of your daydreams, where everything is draped in velveteen and silk. You’ve honestly forgotten his original goal in the first place, and as his arm begins to drag on its path, it seems like he has too. The stroking on your arm has lowered your arousal to a simmer, leaving you content to stay laying across his lap, the glow of hyperspace streaking over your bodies. All at once, you realize he’s no longer moving over your body, his chest rising and falling deeply against your shoulder. 

He’s asleep. Surprise registers sleepily somewhere in your exhausted mind, the realization behind layers of warm fuzz. Didn’t even think he slept. 

There’s a full day of travel until you reach Nevarro. Snuggling closer into the warm crook of his neck to resolve to live in this dream for as long as possible. Who knows what tomorrow will bring.

[no-droids]

Chapter 5: Of Metal and Men

Part five of the Rough Day Series

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 5.1K OUR LONGEST SIN YET FOUNDLINGS

Warnings: SMUT, oral sex (m receiving), dirty talk, mild mild degredation whoops

A/N:  Uhh this is so fluffy?  wtf how come??/?

“Mando?”

“Hm.”

“I have to pee.”

He grunts.  “So go pee.”

“I can’t see.”

“Turn on a light.”

“But…”  You don’t even want to say the words aloud.  You’ve so far convinced yourself that if you just never mention the fact that he’s got his helmet off right now, he’ll somehow forget to put it back on again.  

It’s not that you necessarily want him to deviate from the ways of the Mandalore, obviously; you have more respect for his culture than that.  No, it's just that.  This is so nice.  Hearing him speak without a modulator warping the natural frequency of his voice, being able to feel his skin directly under your lips with your face buried in the crook of his neck like this.  Practically everything on this fucking ship is metal—the floor beneath you, the mechanics, the hull, the cockpit, the blasters, the armor.  When he puts it on, he becomes nearly invincible; an unreadable, impenetrable fortress that abides by a strict code he rarely deviates from.

But without all that, he’s so… human.  Not a Mandalorian, just a man.  Everything that gives him prestige and recognition stripped away.  Every weapon he straps to his body removed.  The code he’s honored his entire life suspended in a paradisiacal loophole that you never want to end, even if it means having to walk around in the dark for the rest of your life.

He has to put the helmet back on at some point, you’re eventually forced to remind yourself.  What starts out as an impossible task slowly becomes easier as the pressure in your bladder increasingly makes itself known, a reminder that you too are only human and sometimes humans have to pee soon after they wake up.

Which, y’know, a lot of times is okay.  But sometimes, like right now, it really fucking isn’t okay.  Because right now, his hand is so big and warm resting against your upper-back, shoved up underneath the fabric of your shirt and spread out across your shoulder blade.  Right now you can feel his heartbeat through his chest, feel his lungs expand and contract slowly against you.  The last thing you want is to move, and the darkness makes a perfect scapegoat.

You’re quiet for too long, apparently, because he eventually turns his chin to brush his lips against your temple.  “Turn on a light.  Just don’t look.”

You honestly don’t blame him.  He hasn’t had as much time to contemplate the staggering predicament you’re in.  “Those two things aren’t mutually exclusive, shiny.”

“Go.  I trust you.”

Your lashes brush against his neck when your eyes pop open, and the giant pang you feel in your chest shouldn’t be nearly as debilitating as it is.  You know he trusts you, it goes without saying.  But it’s one thing to travel around the galaxy with him, cultivate that inherent trust that comes naturally with odd partnerships that work surprisingly well.  He trusts you to look after the kid, trusts you to pilot and maintain his ship, trusts you to cauterize his wounds when he’s incapable of doing so.  He even trusts you enough to fall asleep next to you, leaving himself unarmored and vulnerable in ways you know you’ll never truly be able to understand.

But this—this is entirely different.  This is the Way.  And he’s half-asleep right now, putting a proverbial blaster in your hand and painting a target on his livelihood, telling you he trusts you enough to uphold one of the strictest, most foundational pillars of his belief system for him.

Okay.  Okay.  If this is what he wants.  You’re not sure you’d put nearly as much blind faith in your own abilities (pun totally intended), but okay.  You trust him and apparently he trusts you, so by some weirdly paradoxical extension inwards, you’re just going to have to trust yourself, too.  He’s always been a man of relatively few words, so it shouldn’t really come as a surprise to you that somehow only three of them work to provide you with more motivation than you’ve experienced in your entire life.  If this is what he wants, then you’ll fight logic with gloves on and downright force yourself to see without seeing.  Somehow.

You slowly start to wiggle out of his arms, but then pause for a second to tilt your chin up and press a soft kiss to his lips, trying not to get distracted from your task when he mmphs low in his throat and his hand comes up to cradle your jaw, holding you there for just a bit longer than you originally planned.

“Go,” he eventually breathes into your mouth.

“You’re not making this any easier.”

“Go.”

“Fuck—fine.”  You carefully remove yourself and do your best to stand up on the blanket with unsteady legs, but then you stop for an entirely different reason, patting the skin on your bare hips in the pitch blackness to check.  “Wait, hang on, did—did you not put any pants back on me last night?”

“…Was I supposed to?”  Eventually comes from somewhere by your feet.

No.  No, he most certainly was not.  You’re honestly just surprised it took you this long to notice, especially since you’ve been subtly clenching your thighs and delaying the inevitable in the darkness for so long.  

You don’t end up answering him, determined instead to find your way to the fresher without the use of sight so you can come back to him quicker.  That’s easier said than done, though.  It’s slow going from the start, trying to step over him without actually knowing exactly where he is, carefully tapping your toes to the ground three times before putting any weight on them and hoping you don’t accidentally step on anything important.

He takes the possibility away when you hear him sigh and strong fingers wrap themselves around your ankles in the dark, pulling and guiding your legs up over his body while muttering inaudibly under his breath.  Something tells you he’s still getting used to having companions that are so blatantly helpless without him, but he does good in rising to the challenge regardless.

The second he releases you and you take a step forward off the blanket though, you immediately trip over something bulky and painfully hard on the floor, catching yourself just in time but managing to stub your toe in the process.

“Careful,” his voice says from behind you, over the loud clang echoing throughout the hull.  “Beskar’s there.”

“Thanks, I almost tripped.”  Once you get closer to the machinery standing upright against the far wall of the hull though, it’s a bit easier to see.  The red and green lights act as your navigation beacons, stationary air traffic control wands guiding your turbulent body through the darkness.

The fresher light is fucking blinding when you finally make contact with the switch, and with the illumination comes an incredibly stern reminder to yourself not to look behind you.  It… it’d be so easy, wouldn’t it?  Turning your head just a fraction right now would be the equivalent of pulling a blaster’s trigger a mere inch—devastating, life-altering, and permanent, yet somehow so fundamentally easy.

You don’t, of course.  It’s just the fleeting thought of it that jars you for a moment.  You quickly shut the door behind you, use the toilet (annoyingly slanted thing you need to have a talk with him about soon, more of a weird space urinal than anything else and not really designed to be used by people with vaginas at all), and then wash your hands.

Your slightly damp fingers press tight to bridge over your eyes before you carefully open the door again, knowing you’re now facing him and the fluorescent light over the sink behind you is probably shining directly on him.  

“Is it… safe?”  You ask after a second.

“I’m not a rancor.”  The sound of his voice makes you sigh in relief and your heart drop in disappointment simultaneously.

Modulated.  Filtered, and familiar.

Sure enough, you peek through your fingers to see him laying back with an arm casually folded behind his head, his helmet back on.  Even though the only skin you see is his bare hand resting on his stomach, he still looks fucking gorgeous like this—waiting silently for you in the make-shift bed you shared, blanket twisted around his lower half.

You pause there in the doorway so you can just admire him for a second.  Relaxing, looking so trim and flexible in his long sleeved under-armor without all that beskar weighing him down.  He looks back at you through the chrome visor, letting it tilt to the side and rest lazily in the cradle of his arm, and you suddenly remember with a jolt just how incredibly pantsless you are right now.

“Come here.”

Maker, he still makes you nervous.  Stars, he had his mouth buried between your legs for longer than you can even imagine last night, why are you still so nervous?  Is it the proximity?  Just the literal act of seeing him in front of you?  Not being able to feel like yourself around him unless he’s a disembodied voice in the darkness?  Not being able to remember he’s an actual fucking person under there if you’re not actively touching his body in some way?

You feel… kind of shy now.  Why?  It’s like a flip inside you he can switch at will, just ever so subtly change his posture or tone of voice and bam—he’s dangerous, remember?  He’s an underground bounty hunter, remember?  He’s a mystery, he’s unpredictable—he’s an invincible, unreadable, impenetrable fortress, and you know absolutely nothing about him.  Remember?

You trip over his armor again for an entirely different reason on your way back to him this time, despite how much better you can see now.  You catch yourself once more, looking down at the offending pile of beskar like it did that on purpose, but then stop to consider it for just a second.

It’s just metal.  And he’s just a man.  You know he’s probably killed more people than you can count and he’s intimidating as all fuck, but you also know he stutters when he gets really worked up and decided to fall asleep next to you without his helmet on.  Because he’s just a man, and men aren’t born with shields on their backs and visors covering their eyes and grenades in their hands.  Not even Mandalorians.

So you slowly bend down and grab his hefty gloves, taking a moment to study them before fitting your comparatively small hands into each of them one at a time, flexing your fingers inside the fabric and feeling how much space the tips of them have to move before reaching leather.

He says your name shortly as you’re carefully stepping your right foot into his oversized boot.  You ignore him, balancing precariously on one leg while your left foot slides in the other one.  “Hey, guess who I am.”

“No.”

You reach down and lift the unexpectedly heavy ammo belt over your head, letting the thick leather drape between your breasts and come to rest just below the curve of your bare hip.  “I’ll give you a hint,” you say, gathering the mass of dark fabric at your feet and making sure your butt doesn’t get caught on the thick bandolier when you rise back up again.  You wrap the cape around your shoulders and lift your chin to tie it in a sloppy, makeshift little knot around your throat, fingers noticeably less nimble when confined in loose leather.  “Handy with a blaster, not real big on droids.  I also wear a helmet, probably because my face is too pretty to match my menacing vibe but those rumors are unconfirmed.”

“Come here,” he gruffs impatiently, but you just turn around and waddle back a few steps in the baggy getup, much too tiny feet clomping around awkwardly in his roomy boots and the floor-length cape dragging on the ground behind you.

And then you stop, before grabbing the hem of it and whipping around dramatically to face him, giving him your best bounty hunter pose.

“I can bring you in warm,” your voice is a deep as you can get it, your eyebrows narrowed as you fingergun and shift with flair.  “Or—”

“Hey—careful—” he quickly sits up and points at your hand, “—don’t touch your thumb to the—”

“—I can bring you in—”  And then an actual, real life, giant ass blaze of fucking fire suddenly shoots from your wrist and scares the living shit out of you so much that you stumble backwards and trip over your cape, choking and flailing as you come down hard on your bare ass.

You blink up at him from the ground with wide, terrified eyes.  He looks back at you, arm outstretched and frozen in midair.

And then he laughs.

Mando actually fucking laughs at you.

You stare at him in utter shock as he abruptly drops his hand to his lap and his helmet to his chest, his shoulders shaking with it.  As lovely and uplifting the sound is, you’re not really sure how to feel about the fact that the first time you managed to get an outright laugh out of him was at the risk of your own mortality.

“Excuse me,” you say after a second, trying your best to sound appalled.  You carefully remove the death gauntlets with your hands extended as far away from your face as possible, fingers spread and thumb held completely rigid in position.  “Are you actually laughing at the fact that I almost just died horrifically in front of you?”

“Stars, just—” he lifts his head back up to look at you, “fucking—come here.  You’re worse than the kid is, I swear.”

You slowly stand up, and the boots are so big around your ankles that you don’t even have to kick them off, you can just leave them there in position on the floor as you lift your feet and begin walking over to him.  “I’ll have you know I am a fierce bounty hunter—”

“Terrifying,” he mutters, and you’re about halfway done untying his cape when you get close enough for him to reach out and snatch the bottom of it, swiftly yanking you down on top of him and removing the fabric from your throat at the same time.  He ignores your dramatic choking noise, catching your flailing body with barely a grunt.  “Craziest in the guild.  Your first kill was yourself.”

“Yeah, I—” you oof and giggle as he immediately flips you around, downright giddy at the ease with which he maneuvers you on the floor and gets on top of you, “—I bring them in warm, or I bring them in hot.”

“Stop,” you can hear his smile through the helmet as he catches each of your wrists and pins them to the ground by your head.  “Maker.”

“Wait—” you try to wiggle out from under him.  It’s futile, of course, not just because he’s all muscle while he holds you down and straddles your hips, but because all your body weight is now laying on top of his ammo belt as it slings around your chest.  “Wait, h-hang on—the fresher light’s still on.”

“So?”

“So I can see you right now, which means—”  you can’t take that stupid thing off your head and kiss me.

That’s what you want to say.  You catch yourself just in time, biting your lip and blinking up at your warped reflection in the chrome visor.  He releases your wrists and lifts his torso up tall.  “…W-which means—”

Mando’s too smart for that, though.  You’re not getting one by him anytime soon.  Before you can come up with an alternative, he hooks his fingers under the thick band of leather trailing down through the valley between your breasts and calls you out.

“Do you want me to take my helmet off?”  He asks, tilting his head down at you and letting his hand slide back and forth under the ammo belt idly.  For a second you think he’s going to remove it, try and find some way to wiggle it off you in this position, but then he just lets the heavy bandolier drop back down to your sternum again and continues moving his hands down your tummy.  “Hm?  Or do you want to see?”

And then one of his thumbs catches the hem of his trousers and ever so slowly starts to pull the fabric downwards.  Your breath stutters as tan skin and dark, coarse hair are gradually revealed right in front of your eyes, the hemline making a mouthwatering triangle shape that runs alongside the lines of his Adonis belt.

When he stops just at the very base of his cock, it takes you a second to realize he’s waiting for an answer.

“Uh—”  Stars, what the fuck kind of harrowing, existentially crippling question is this?  Kiss him or look at him?  Is he serious?  “Uhhhh…”  You legitimately feel torn, blinking up at the visor and noticing the struggle blatantly written all over your reflection.  Why in Maker’s name would he put this on you?  On the one hand, his mouth.  On the other hand, his—

“I want you to see,” he admits quietly, and you flick your eyes down to look at him slowly running his thumb along the slope of flesh peeking out of the dark curls.  “Can I show you?”

Oh fuck, what is happening?  And why are you so wet already?

“Uh… ye-yeah—” and then he’s immediately using his other hand to reach inside and shift up just a bit, before he eases his gorgeous cock out of his pants by cupping his balls and letting the fabric hooked in his thumb rest under them.  He’s already half-hard for you, already deliciously thick as he carefully lowers himself back down again.  Against all reason, his skin practically glows under the artificial lighting, somehow looking sunkissed in places that never see the sun.

Maker, you want it in your mouth.

You have no idea why that’s your first thought.  Okay, well no, that’s not true—you know exactly why that’s your first thought, especially when you can physically see him getting harder and harder right in front of you, watch him trace his fingers down his shaft and lazily brush them over the head.  You love the way he touches himself, how his hands look cradling the base, the beautiful contrast between the dark hair and his warm skin tone.

He slowly starts to move down your body, slide his legs back on either side of you until he’s straddling your lower thighs, and it’s not until his cock goes in the exact opposite direction you want it to (away from your mouth) that you find your voice.

“Hey, wait—I want—” his touch immediately stills along your hips and he lifts his helmet, letting you scramble to prop yourself up with your elbows, “—let me go down on you.  Please.”

“I told you I’d fuck you when you woke up,” he says, dropping his gaze back down between your legs.  His voice somehow sounds deeper through the filter.  Maybe not the pitch exactly, but the… color?  Fuller, darker, more depth.  “You want to make me into a liar?”

“Never.  Fuck my mouth instead.”

His hands tighten and his breathing subtly picks up through the modulator.  “I want your pussy.  First.  We’re almost to Corellia and I’m not risking my life on another hunt until I’ve fucked it like I want to.”

“You decide that timeline,” you remind him breathlessly, pushing your upper-body up off the floor and catching the fabric of his tunic near his neck.

“I have to earn credits somehow, I can’t just—” he abruptly cuts himself off when you yank his collar to the side and lick a slow, hot, wet line up his throat.  “—I… I-I can’t just stay on this ship with you f-forever and… and…”

His breath catches when you bite down on the thick cord of muscle connecting his neck to his shoulder.  And then he murmurs your name when you wrap your hand around his hard cock.

“You can do whatever you want to my pussy,” you whisper against his skin, feeling him shudder under your lips as you slowly pull your hand up and down the thick length of him.  “Whenever you want.  I made that clear last night.  All I’m asking is that right now, you lay back and let me suck your cock for a little bit.  Is that okay?”

He doesn’t answer with words, but he throbs under your hand and his body is surprisingly malleable as you urge him to move back slightly, just enough for you to collect your legs out from under him and rise up on your knees to face him.  You keep stroking him the entire time, sucking marks down his neck while you hold the hemline to the side.  Nobody will ever be able to see them, but somehow that makes it even better.  A secret only you and him know.  Next time he scares off a crowd of locals, he’ll be wearing your signet under his armor.

When you’ve sufficiently bitten and kissed marks along his neck and the fabric won’t stretch anymore, you reach down and pull it up from the bottom, lifting it up up up—up until it rests right above his sternum and you can see almost the entire length of his torso underneath, tan and dusted in dark hair.

You strongarm him back to sit on the floor with one hand and hike your own shirt up over your breasts with the other, letting the fabric bunch under your armpits while his ammo belt bisects your chest diagonally.  He curses when you immediately climb on top of him and start dragging your skin against his, rolling your exposed tits and pussy against the hard planes of his body and letting him feel how soft you really are.

“Is that okay?”  You ask him once more, rubbing yourself into him.  “Will you let me suck your cock, Mando?”

“Fuck—” he growls, grabbing your hips, “—why are you—h-how do you always make it feel so… so good—?”

“It’s supposed to feel good,” you tell him, beginning to slide down his body.

“Not like this,” he pants, tipping his head back when you slowly lick down his chest.  “Not—not everything, n-not all the time.”

The warmth that settles in the pit of your tummy is intensified by the clear drop of precum shining at the tip of his cock, now achingly swollen and a mouthwatering shade darker in color than the rest of him.  “Keep talking,” you whisper.  “It’s sexy.”

And then you slide his head into your mouth and let your tongue flutter gently along his frenulum.

Mando instantly goes rigid and grabs a fistful of your hair as you hum and taste his precum, slowly brushing your tongue over his tip to see if you can get any more out of him like this without going deeper.

“Fuck—” he grits while lifting his helmet to look, every muscle in his body tensing under you.  “Y-your mouth is—” he gasps when you gently swirl circles around the pulsing head, his open palm coming down hard on the blanket with a dull thud, “—fuck, your mouth is s-so—so fucking good—”

You open your jaw and take him down a few inches so he can feel your throat, satisfied when his helmet falls back and his grip tightens in your hair.  You slowly begin bobbing up and down, dragging the flat of your tongue along the underside of his shaft and getting him nice and wet.  His thighs almost feel like he’s wearing beskar over them, his entire body held so incredibly tight and stiff as you softly pleasure him.

You can only get around half of him in your mouth without straining for it, so you soon lift off him and start coating your palm and fingers in spit.  His head raises immediately, exposed chest heaving as he watches.

“You’re so tense,” you murmur, reaching down and starting to jerk him with your slick hand.  He doesn’t relax into it, instead he straightens his back even more, his hips starting to thrust into your grip.  “Do you want me to stop?”

“I want to fuck you,” he growls, the exact opposite of relaxed.  “You—you can’t w-walk around half-naked in—in my clothes and expect me t—”

He cuts himself off with a groan when you take him back down again, deeper this time.  And then he relents and starts slowly fucking into your mouth, gradually rolling his hips further and further with every thrust.  One hand fists itself into the blanket while the other holds your hair back as you open your throat and work the rest of his length with slippery fingers.

When you take him down as far as you can and you drop your palm down to cradle his balls, Mando just about loses his mind.

“Fuck—let me fuck you,” he starts rasping at the ceiling, “please, l-let me—let me pound you into this dirty f-fucking ground like you wanted, like—like the filthy little girl you are—”

You hold there and swallow around his thick cock, letting your other hand slither down between your own legs and start rubbing your clit.  He probably can’t see you do it from this angle but it feels so much better this way regardless, having him as far down as your throat as possible and listening to him babble while you touch yourself.

The sound you make pulling off him to breathe isn’t necessarily the most attractive thing in the galaxy, but with the way he groans and tugs your hair sharply in response, you’d think it was the sexiest thing he’s ever heard.  You keep jerking his throbbing cock and rubbing circles around your clit, before moving down to take one of his balls into your mouth.

His grip tightens, along with the gorgeously soft skin under your tongue.  “W-Wait—stop—”

You look up at him.  He’s covered in a thin sheen of sweat and everything about him is unbearably stiff, even with the way his body is sprawled out and his chest rocks up and down with exertion.

“Sorry, I just—I was—” he gasps, “—I d-didn’t want to—to c-cum—”

“I want you to cum,” you murmur, blinking up at him and dragging your tongue up the length of his swollen, throbbing cock.  “Please.  Want it down my throat.”

You don’t know how it’s possible for his body to go even more rigid, but it does.  “You—?”

He possibly could’ve stopped himself, you think.  Even with the way you start gently sucking on his tip and looking up at him innocently after telling him you want to swallow his load, maybe he could’ve stopped the way his balls suddenly pull up tight, the way his grip on your hair turns to steel and his helmet rolls to the side.

But then the subtle shift of his head means he can see your hand moving between your legs, you can tell.  You can tell, because he makes a choking sound through the modulator and his stomach flexes, and then he’s cumming down your throat exactly like you wanted him to.

There’s a second between the moment of detonation and the explosive result of it.  It’s just enough time for him to slowly tilt his chin up and let out the smallest, quietest moan you’ve ever heard from him before his cock starts throbbing on your tongue, his balls working to steadily pump cum up his shaft.

You pull up and start swirling circles around his head just as the first spurt hits your tongue, moaning at the taste of him and preening at his hoarse whisper of your name.  You swallow everything he gives you, drain him until he’s completely empty and spent, trembling in pieces on the floor.

Admittedly you do keep him there in your mouth just a little bit longer than you should, just taking a minute to savor how good he tastes and how fucking beautiful his cock is, how stunning his body is exposed and spread out for you on the ground like this.

“Keep—keep doing that and I’ll get hard again,” he eventually warns, though his voice comes out sounding like sandpaper in his throat.

You hum and finally pull off him.  “That’s got to be the least threatening thing you’ve ever said to someone, I think.”

“Not able t—” he jerks when you bite his hipbone, “—to scare you off, apparently.  Most people run from me.”

“Nope.  Told you I wouldn’t, remember?  Back on Cantonica.  I’m also the craziest bounty hunter in the guild, so.  Look.”  You lift up to show him.  “I even have an ammo belt, see?  It holds all of the bullets, for all of my guns that I have.”

His hand slowly comes up and you think he’s going to grab the band of leather across your chest to either take it off you or pull you forward with it, but then he just grabs one of your breasts and gently squeezes it instead.  “You’re beautiful.”

Your breath catches.  You blink twice at him, your heart suddenly thundering under his hand.

“Wearing my armor.  Not wearing it.  Not wearing anything.  Wearing your clothes.  In complete darkness.  You’re beautiful.”

You think—for one ludicrous, insane second, you think that the enormous swelling in your chest literally transfers itself up to your brain and causes you to have an aneurysm right there on the floor in front of him.

But nope—it’s just the entire hull starting to violently shift and shake, swerving sideways and jerking upwards with rapid, unpredictable shifts in gravity.

You thrown on top of him in the chaos and try to find some sort of stable ground without accidentally kneeing him in the crotch.  Mando grunts and gets rolled on top of you when the ship immediately veers the other way, the weight of him suddenly crushing your lungs and making it impossible to breathe with the brutal changes in g-force.  Did he—did he leave the baby in the fucking cockpit?

He left the baby in the fucking cockpit.

[valberryy]

efficacy. — zhongli

hi!! this started out as an oc fic, but i thought i'd convert it to a reader insert!! i tried to change some of the more "explicit" oc info, so hopefully it's fine now!

pairing: zhongli x gn!reader

content warnings: mentions of blood/injury/death, contemplations of/vaguely attempted murder, slight swearing. if these topics are sensitive to you, i'd recommend clicking away.

i. 

[Name]'s life would be nothing without order. They found a certain comfort in routines—working at the bookshop with Jifang in the afternoons, working for their less-than-legal clients once night fell. There was an odd kind of safety they found in it, in completed contracts and crossed-out bounties on a board: as they wiped the blood off their blade at sunrise, they found themself glad they no longer lived at the whims of ice, and snow, and migrating deer.

Tonight was odd, though. 

A dagger twirled deftly between their fingers, and [Name] raised an inquisitive eyebrow at the informant sitting before them. A mask and hood alike obscured his face, and he seemed almost to hesitate slightly beneath their burning gaze—a newbie, then, or a fool.

"So?" they asked, their voice like a whip-crack in the silence. "Don't waste my time."

"Apologies," he said, and [Name] had to resist the urge to scoff. At another raised eyebrow the informant dug through his things and passed them an envelope. 

Gingerly, they tore it open. "...Wangsheng?" they muttered to themself, before glancing back up. "I trust you have the right compensation?"

A stiff, "Of course," was their only response. 

The knife between [Name]'s fingers stilled, before it became embedded in the cheap wood next to their now-client's head.

They stood, gave an almost-mocking flourish of a bow, and walked off without another word.

ii. 

[Name] did not glance up from the shelf they were restocking when the footsteps of another customer coming up the stairs came into earshot, only saying a gruff, "Welcome," as they grew closer.

Their only response was a content hum, and they resisted the urge to sigh in relief that this particular patron wasn't a chatterbox. 

The minutes trickled by in comfortable silence, as the man—for he was a man, [Name] learned, as soon as they looked up and towards his direction—browsed through their selection. The only sounds to be heard were the blowing of the breeze and the idle chatter of people walking past.

"What a fine collection you have," he said, and turned to face the counter they were seated behind. At the sight of his face they were thrust back into two nights ago—an unpleasant evening in a dingy old house, an envelope in one hand and a cheap knife in the other. 

Not now, they thought to themself. Not now, when the blood can seep into the floorboards. The smell will hang for days.

"Thank you," they elected to say in reply. "...Will you be buying?"

He nodded, a thoughtful hand on his chin. "Indeed. The entire stock, actually."

[Name] faltered. "The entire…?" They coughed into a fist, regaining their composure and leaning forward on the counter. "That's going to cost you, sir."

They could almost see the excited sparkles around him as he opened his mouth to speak again, and whatever thoughts they had on how elegant and refined he seemed were thrown out to sea.

"Yes, of course," he began, "there truly is no treasure greater than knowledge, after all—there is a subtle nuance to the art to capturing a moment in time so vividly using just words alone…" 

As he continued to ramble, [Name] rested their chin on their palm. The daggers concealed beneath their clothes were cool and heavy on their skin—a constant reminder, a subtle threat. 

When his voice trailed off they gave a small, polite smile, standing upright again. "If you have the Mora, there should be nothing stopping you, sir."

The faraway, almost dreamy look in his eyes grew lucid at the mention of Mora. "Ah, of course. Mora," he said, and started patting his pockets searching for his wallet.

When neither of them heard the telltale clinking of coins, they glanced at each other almost exasperatedly. 

"My deepest apologies—"

"...No, it's okay—"

The knife still burned against their skin, but they brushed it aside for a moment to grab an unwrapped copy of a book under the desk. They held it out to him, their face blank but the faintest, faintest hints of amusement dancing in their eyes.

He was…interesting. Dead men can rarely boast as much.

 "Take it," they said, simply. 

His eyes seemed to widen in pleasant surprise. "Are you certain?" he asked, and at [Name]'s casual shrug in the affirmative he gingerly took it from their hands. 

"Thank you kindly," he said, raising the package in the air and inspecting it. "I'll have to repay you, for this."

They looked at him again, and thought of the envelope from the other night, thought of how they could almost feel his pulse as their fingers brushed just seconds prior.

"I'll hold you to it, then, sir," they elected to say.

Not now, not now, not now.

iii.

On his lips played a gentle smile that [Name] couldn't help but to distrust. 

"There's a restaurant I believe you'd like," he had said. "Allow me to treat you for lunch, as thanks."

Their head had thus begun to swim with backup plans and what-ifs. Did he know? Was this some elaborate ruse to poison them? Surely not, right? They had been so careful up until now, too…

They blinked away their initial surprise and canted their head to the side. "Where?"

At that he went off onto another tangent, just as long as the ramble he had gone on a few days prior. [Name] found themself zoning out, glancing at where they knew his jugular was beneath his collar—or perhaps poison during their impromptu outing would fare better?

No, they scolded themself, there would be witnesses at a restaurant.

"...Don't worry, of course, I'll be sure to bring the Mora this time around," he said with a velvety laugh, and [Name] suddenly found themself back in the present.

They leaned forward on the bookstore counter, an eyebrow raised. "I don't even know your name, Mister Philanthropist." 

Another smile graced his features, then—apologetic this time, and he outstretched a hand for them to shake. "My apologies," he said. "I am Zhongli, consultant for Wangsheng Funeral Parlor."

Gingerly, they took his hand in turn. They could feel the rhythmic beat-beat-beat of his pulse under their fingers.

Soon, they thought. 

"Call me [Name]," they said, and forced themself to smile.

A few days later, it just so happened that both of their schedules were free. 

"Would you still be willing to indulge me?" Zhongli asked—he had been visiting more often lately, and it just so happened that many of his visits happened to be on the days [Name] was there, as well. Jifang seemed curious, and honestly they were as well—did he enjoy their company? Was there something about their short, curt responses that didn't turn him away?

Or maybe he was planning something, too?

Nevertheless, despite their raging paranoia, it wasn't like they were in much of a position to complain. Jifang seemed content at their new, distinguished guest, and [Name] took it as an opportunity to learn more about him for the time being. 

"...If you so wish," they said, plucking the book he was holding out of his hands to wrap it for him. 

"Only if you do, my friend." Damn him and his deflection. "But it is my firm belief that the generous receive what is due to them, in time."

They hummed idly as they thumbed through the book he had chosen—something or other about the natural beauty of Inazuma—and then glanced back up at him.

And that was how they found themself here, they supposed.

Their table was relatively silent compared to some others, but it was by no means uncomfortable or awkward. With the idle chatter of other people and the clear sky above as a backdrop, the two dined in comforting silence—only the clinking of ceramic against each other to be heard, and to [Name]'s surprise, no traces of poison to be found whatsoever.

As the sun began to dip down the horizon, and all their food had been finished and the bill paid, the two found themselves taking a stroll down by the docks. Zhongli's gaze was trained ahead, while [Name]'s flitted about cautiously.

"Forgive me if I'm prying, however…" he began, "...But you're not a native, are you, my friend?"

A jolt, then, a bolt of white-hot fear running through their limbs. Did he know? Did they give themself away? 

"I'm not," they said. "I was born abroad." 

A satisfied hum was their response, and when they turned to glance at him, they found the smallest of smiles on his face.

"It's getting late," Zhongli said. "Thank you for today. I'd like to do this again, with you."

[Name] took pause at that. They thought once again of the envelope hidden under their drawers, and the knives hidden under their clothes.

They thought about the way Zhongli rambled on about whatever tale it was the storyteller across the street had spun—how "that indeed is one interpretation of it, but in the original text, the author actually meant to imply that…" 

There was a pang of what almost felt like guilt in their chest, at that. 

"...And I, you," they said, finally, "...my friend."

iv.

Perhaps stumbling into your supposed assassination target's home half-bloody with an arrow sticking out of your side was not the brightest idea, but in [Name]'s defense were two things: first of all, they had no fucking clue it was Zhongli's in the first place, and secondly, they couldn't exactly keep running from their angry former client with an arrow sticking out of their side.

And thus whatever levels of discretion they normally would have had were thrown out the window as they climbed into Zhongli's in the dead of night, and probably knocked something over in the process (if the new bruises were anything to go by). 

(To be fair, they had been calling each other friends for a while now. Is this what friends did? [Name] couldn't be sure—their shady friends weren't exactly the best examples, after all.)

They had just sat up and groaned in pain when Zhongli came in, alarmed first at the noise and then at their sorry state. 

"...Sorry," they muttered through gritted teeth. "Thought the place was empty—ow, shit! I can—I can do it mysel—"

"Nonsense," he said, his voice and hands firmer than they had noticed before. "...I still haven't repaid you for your favour to me, after all."

They stopped for a moment, at that. "...I thought the lunch was repayment?"

Somehow, Zhongli found it in himself to laugh, albeit tensely. From where they were sitting, they could see his face a lot more clearly than they had before—the tenseness in his brow, the flecks of gold in his amber irises, the way his nose crinkled at the density of the smell of blood.

"No," he replied, "that was a thank you."

They hummed, before hissing in pain again. "Pull the other way; the arrowhead went in at an angle—"

"Ah, yes, my mistake…"

[Name] continued, "I suppose this is your repayment, then?"

They only barely hid their surprise when he shook his head again. 

"I'm doing this because I want to, [Name]."

(Somehow, they liked their name better when hearing it from him. Was it the timbre of his voice? Was it the appeal of hearing your name from a man who was supposed to be long-dead?)

"...I see."

As he sealed the last of the bandages and allowed them to adjust their clothes, he helped them over to what they assumed was a guest room, of sorts. He helped them to take a seat on shaky legs, and placed a firm, almost comforting hand on their shoulder.

"Promise me you'll be more careful, my friend."

They glanced away, their face oddly warm. Wasn't blood loss supposed to do the opposite? "I can't guarantee that, Zhongli."

He followed their gaze over to the floor, and then glanced back at them. "If not that, then I'd at least ask you to…rely on me more," he said, and something about the sincerity in his voice struck them as odd. 

They almost wanted to burn that envelope in their drawers when they went home.

[Name] glanced back up at him, forcing themself to face his questioning gaze.

"...I'll try." 

But only for you.

+1.

In [Name]'s life, there exists a line they do not dare themself to cross. On one side stands sweet Jifang from the bookshop, the tenacious Traveller and their friends, and the ghosts of their loved ones from Inazuma; and on the other stands themself and their other shadowy benefactors. 

The first to tread the line between the two was Zhongli—who, despite the bounty on his head, still managed to maneuvre his way into them somehow being able to call him their friend.

Honestly. The Seven damn him and his stupid charisma, and his stupid voice, and his stupid encyclopedic knowledge of silk flowers.

When [Name] woke up, they were not in their home. 

Through their shock they failed to register the bandages wound around their torso, and bit back a yelp of pain as the wound threatened to reopen. In the dark they could see their overwear folded neatly on the bed next to them, and Zhongli asleep, slumped over in a chair.

Suddenly, they were acutely aware of the old bone knife under their clothes—their only souvenir from home, unstained by blood for years, and years, and years.

Would Zhongli be its first, then?

Quietly they stood and dug through their folded clothes until they felt it—the uneven blade, the worn-down grooves near the hilt. They skulked their way over to where he slept, and tried to ignore how painfully peaceful his slow, even breaths were.

His eyes fluttered open just as they pressed the blade to his throat. He seemed too calm, though, not even a twitch of his hands or a hitch in his breath to give away any surprise at all. All he did was place a loose grip on their wrist—a stark contrast to their white-knuckled, shaking hand—and ask,

"What are you doing, [Name]?" 

They grit their teeth. "...I'm sorry," they said, "but I have a contract to complete."

Something in Zhongli's eyes softened at that. This was his domain, they realised—contracts, and contingencies, and wordplay. 

His grip on their wrist tightened, ever so slightly, and he traced his free hand over their clenched jaw. "But so do we," he replied. "I've still never paid you back, after all."

There was a pause, then—a long, pregnant silence. 

"May I kiss you?" Zhongli asked, his voice like a whip-crack in the space between them. [Name] said nothing, but the crease between their brows deepened further. 

The dagger embedding itself into the floor and the soft, firm press of their lips against his was enough of an answer.

[jaskiersvalley]

Thank you so much for your amazing writing!! I love all the ficlets and fics you have posted in your tumblr. Would you believe me if I say that everyday I log into tumblr to see if you have posted anything else? I have been in quarantine in my house for a month (government issued quarantine) but you always get me to smile. So thank you!! And keep on!! Ps: i love the fics in which you make jaskier interact with the rest of the wolves causing and initial panic as they are not used to affection.

I really hope quarantine has treated you well, Nonnie and things are easier wherever in the world you are!  It make my little heart soar to know that my writing has brought a smile to your face. May this next little fic for you give you a little more to smile about today. I really hope you enjoy it!

As far as travelling companions went, Geralt was quite pleased with Jaskier. Minus his annoying tendency to chatter, to constantly play music and be a general pest. There wasn’t anything special about him, except for the high notes he could hit when given enough incentive. He obviously hadn’t seen enough of the world, given how constantly cheerful he was, happily bounding along after Geralt into all manner of fights. Which was downright unfortunate when Geralt ended up facing off against a leshen and miscalculated. Distantly, he could hear Jaskier’s shout and Geralt had just enough time left to feel guilty at making Jaskier witness his death and also probably be slaughtered by the leshen. But as his mind turned to the shame and indignity of such a stupid death, Geralt slipped from the land of the living.

He really didn’t expect to blink his eyes open to see Jaskier peering down at him, lute in hand.

“Ah, I was wondering when you would deign to wake up. Come on now, the day is wasting away. We have contract to claim the reward on then I want to sing in the tavern for a dinner. I have a new song I need to try.”

Geralt sat up with a groan and looked down at his stomach. His clothes had a large gash in them but underneath it, his skin was pristine, not even a scar to show some evidence of accelerate healing.

“I died,” he grunted.

“Yeah, but you got better.”

That made zero sense but Jaskier was already off, strumming his lute and humming, obviously not interested in having a conversation. It was possibly for the first time in his life.

After that incident, Geralt paid more attention and he began to see a pattern. Wherever Jaskier went, meadows blossomed, vases perked up, there was even the incident with the kitten and the crying children. After Jaskier declared that an adult ought to have a look, the kitten was running around and the children cried no more. Only, Geralt had seen enough dead things to know that the kitten had most definitely not been alive three minutes earlier.

“Are you a necromancer?” he asked without any preamble, once they had settled on their bedrolls for the night.

“No.” While the answer was the truth, Jaskier still sounded hesitant.

“But? I know you brought that kitten back to life. And me, after that incident with the leshen.”

“Okay, technically I’m not a necromancer. I’m just-” Jaskier scratched the back of his neck and looked down before mumbling, “kind of on really good terms with Death.”

Once again, it made zero sense so Geralt just stared at Jaskier. It did the trick because more words came forth.

“I sort of died and didn’t realise it, was a bit too busy composing. Well, Death heard my song and liked it. Like, really liked it. Now, I just have to play a song and ask Death and, well, you’ve seen what happens. Plus, Death likes it when I’m happy so I can work little things like flowers and the sorts without their input.”

Trust Jaskier to charm Death. Geralt was half tempted to start smacking his head against the wall because he actually should have expected it. Jaskier was too pure to be a necromancer.

“Okay,” Geralt said because there was nothing else to say really. And so, they continued along their travels. Winter saw them in Kaer Morhen with the other wolves and Geralt had all but forgotten to mention Jaskier’s otherworldly friend who helped out.

At first, it wasn’t obvious. Sure, Lambert was ecstatic that his cactus had survived, even bore a flower a few days after their arrival but that was just strange. Vesemir’s herb garden seemed to be exceptionally bountiful. The only thing that was strange was the way the witchers could sense the opening of a portal every now and then but by the time they got to it, all they could see was Jaskier, strumming at his lute and singing something bright yet mournful, occasionally downright macabre.

One by one, the witchers figured it out, or at least thought they did. Geralt had to reassure his family that Jaskier wasn’t a necromancer, they would have been able to detect the sharp burn of such magic. But proof came when, one morning, Eskel entered the great hall, face crumpled with grief, the body of a goat in his arms.

“It’s Li’l Bleater,” he said, voice shaking ever so slightly. “I don’t know what happened.”

Lambert had skidded around the corner and marched up to Eskel, pulling him into a hug as soon as the goat’s body was gently laid down. There wasn’t anything he could rally say to make it better.

“He was in his pen, safely locked in.” Eskel was trembling a little but there were no tears. “I don’t know what happened to him.”

Jaskier padded closer and suddenly Geralt knew what was going to happen. A hand darted out to stroke over Li’l Bleater’s head before Jaskier settled to pluck a few chords on his lute, starting into a slow song.

“Now is not the time for this, bard,” Lambert spat, turning to snarl at Jaskier and his insensitive ways. “This is Eskel’s- Oh fuck me.”

On the ground Li’l Bleater blinked awake and kicked to get back up onto four legs. Letting out a soft bleat, he trotted up to Eskel and butted against his leg.

It was the moment Vesemir entered the room and he frowned, looking between Eskel and his goat. “How many times have I told you, no animals in the keep. I haven’t had to tell you that since you were fifty.”

The secret was out about Jaskier though and he had to, once again, explain how he might have become buddies with Death. Nodding with a frown, Vesemir obviously had a few concerns.

“So Death only ever brings things back to life for you. Never the other way round?”

Jaskier’s eyes widened in realisation and Geralt had to snatch the lute from his grasp as a mutter of “Valdo Fucking Marx” left Jaskier’s lips.

“And who else knows about this ability you have harnessed?”

Looking at Jaskier, it was obvious there was someone else. However, he was reluctant to say who and betray their confidence. It didn’t matter though because a week later, a portal opened in the courtyard where the witchers were practising while Jaskier strummed at a new song. Of all the people, it was Yennefer who walked through it, a body slung over her shoulder.

“Again?” Jaskier asked with a sigh but he diligently played a new song for Death as payment. On the floor, Stregobor gasped to life. “Try and keep him alive for more than two weeks this time, I need time to compose songs worthy enough.”

Nodding her thanks, Yennefer gripped Stregobor and disappeared through another portal without a word. Three sets of yellow eyes turned to Geralt who looked just a little shell shocked. He was definitely going to be more careful around Yennefer after that, he did not want to end up on her wrong side.

[words-writ-in-starlight]

Untamed TAZ Balance AU? Don't have to write anything, just consider that (is Wen Ning Lucretia in this or is he too nice for that)

NHS IS LUCRETIA, NHS IS ABSOLUTELY LUCRETIA, I HAVE THOUGHTS, my girlfriend yelled at me for these thoughts.  Hell this got long, I’ve literally been saving it in my drafts until Tumblr fixed the Read More issue.

WWX is Taako, JC is Magnus, WQ is Merle, JYL is in the umbrella (became a lich to keep her brother from doing it), WN is the Red Robe (became a lich because he thought it seemed reasonable), NHS is Lucretia, XXC is Davenport, LWJ and LXC are mutually Kravitz (LXC sets his bro up with the death criminal wizard), Wen Zhuliu is John Vore, LSZ is Angus but also a baby Reaper

ONE

So Wei Wuxian isn’t really a wizard, is the thing.  Like, he does the wizard magic, and apparently he has strong Wizard Vibes because wherever he travels, people ask him if he can solve their magical bullshit problems, but he’s, like, barely a wizard.  He’s an inventor, technically, except that a few years back some stuff went explosively awry while he worked with this traveling show and–yeah.  So he’s working as a wizard because, hey, he can cast Magic Missile and he needs to eat and he’s an Evocation specialist, anyway, so it’s not like he’s out here making food from rocks.  He’s hired on with a couple other random jackasses, a fighter who took a dislike to Wei Wuxian right off the bat and a cleric with a bad temper and an itchy Sacred Flame finger, and they’re doing a job for some dwarf, or whatever.  The dwarf has a guy hired on as muscle, but he doesn’t look like much, all wide eyes and baby face.  He calls himself Qionglin, no last name, and stares at Wen Qing like he’s never seen a cleric before, and Jiang Cheng spends the entire trip to Phandolin messing with his whip, which is the stupidest weapon Wei Wuxian has ever seen.

Well, then everything immediately goes horribly wrong, though, and turns out that Jiang Cheng is pretty okay with that whip.  Qionglin (Wei Wuxian spoke to the man all of one time, but he was sweet, if a little awkward) gets himself kidnapped by a bunch of goblins, and their employer is gods-know-where with whatever a Black Spider is, and suddenly this very boring escort mission is a very not boring rescue mission.

There’s a skeleton in the cave.  Wei Wuxian takes an umbrella from it, and it crumbles into dust beneath its red robe.  There’s a very annoyed man with a sword who calls himself Song Lan and speaks in static, and he’s somehow not the weirdest part of this whole day.

Phandolin doesn’t survive its brush with the Zidian Gauntlet, and neither does Qionglin.  Wen Qing screams when he dies, and Wei Wuxian grabs her under the arms with Jiang Cheng and books it for the empty well in Song Lan’s wake, and they just hide.  

And then they go to the goddamn moon, apparently.

TWO

The goddamn moon is run by an older man with hair still a glossy black, toying with a beautifully painted white fan in his hand.  He calls himself the Director and–after some testing–hires them more or less on the spot.  Something flickers over his face when Wen Qing, bemused by her own upset, makes an offhand mention of a man named Qionglin who died when the Gauntlet brought down so much lightning that it turned Phandolin into black glass.  But it’s not Wei Wuxian’s problem, so he doesn’t worry himself over it too much.  He takes the payment offered to him by the Director’s aide, a blindfolded, stunningly handsome man in Bureau blue and white who rests his hand on his own chest and says “Xiao Xingchen” and not another word.

The Bureau is–weird.  They’ve got a giant jellyfish and a store run by–something Wei Wuxian Does Not Trust and a dorm.  Wei Wuxian laughs and kicks Jiang Cheng cheerfully in the ankle and says “Just like college, huh?” and Jiang Cheng gives him a dark look and snaps “I never went to college.”

“Yeah,” Wei Wuxian says, blinking.  “Me neither.”

Whatever.  They go on a train adventure and there’s a kid, a kid who blinks and stares at Wei Wuxian like he’s seen a goddamn ghost and immediately walks up to introduce himself as Lan Sizhui, boy detective.

Wei Wuxian fucking loves this kid.  He’s not sure why this wide-eyed fifteen-year-old latched onto him so hard, but he’s smart, funny, loyal, and extremely easy to pick on.  13/10 child rating, in Wei Wuxian’s book.

(Sizhui, for his part, more or less kicks down the door to his father’s offices in the Astral Plane the second the Reclaimers are gone and shouts “I HAVE A LEAD ON WHAT HAPPENED TO THE WORLD.”)

(His father, Lan Wangji, the Grim Reaper, is very interested to hear all about it–especially when his son casually name-drops three of the biggest bounties that the Raven King, his adoptive elder brother, has ever sent him after, with the exception of that absolutely insufferably sweet-tempered lich Wen Ning.)

THREE

So…the Crystal Kingdom.

Is it Wei Wuxian’s finest hour, shouting obscure tentacle-related threats at the second crystal construct they’ve seen in the past twenty minutes?  No, probably not.  But it’s been a stressful day, they’re already down one Regulator and Song Lan is fuck-knows-where with Mianmian and, again, this is the second menacing crystal construct they’ve seen in twenty minutes.  Or maybe it’s the same one? 

Whatever, doesn’t matter.  They’re here to hunt down Meng Yao, a scientist who’s been dicking around with some seriously ill-advised necromancy and also the Philosopher’s Stone, and a crystal construct or two isn’t going to stop them.

Wei Wuxian actually physically cannot help himself, though, when the Reapers appear in the mirror, a matched set of beautiful men, and he grins broadly at the one glaring at him most viciously.  They get let go on a technicality, along with a conduit still containing Meng Shi’s memory of a vision beyond the cosmos, and Meng Yao leaves with his life and not much more.

Later, Lan Wangji is absolutely betrayed by the realization that his brother willfully set him up to be the primary go-between for the completely breathtaking deeply irritating wizard-by-way-of-death-criminal.  And that’s before the whole lich revelation.  (He does get a kiss, though, after he watches his brother pulled under by the Hunger.  That’s nice.  He hopes Wei Wuxian will mitigate the death crimes now that they’re dating.)

FOUR

The seven Relics are as follows:

The Zidian Gauntlet, which can generate a lightning blast so powerful that it can obliterate an entire city.  (Jiang Cheng–he watched the others try to lay in protections, try to make their Relics harmless, and he knew it wouldn’t work.  All the Gauntlet does is damage.  It can melt a city down to black glass, but it can’t be twisted, it can’t be made into any more of a nightmare than it already is.  He’s a fighter.  He knows all about damage, knew all about what he was making.  That doesn’t mean it didn’t kill him by inches to watch it leave a path of destruction–so much that his beloved jiejie tried to seal it away.)

The Oculus, which can make any construct real.  (Xiao Xingchen–Nie Huaisang didn’t take everything.  He doesn’t remember the mission, or his own past.  Something strange got confused in the process, and he lost most of his speech.  But he remembers how to fight, handles his sword as cleanly and effectively as ever, and he remembers that he doesn’t think much of Nie Huaisang’s combat skills.  Or maybe it’s just really obvious that Nie Huaisang isn’t much of a fighter.  Regardless, Xiao Xingchen insisted on accompanying him, before–before.  Then they went into the Felicity Wilds, and…Xue Yang is honestly delighted.  He’s never managed to ruin someone so badly on the way into Wonderland before.  It’s just a shame that Nie Huaisang sent Xiao Xingchen away before they reached the doors.)

The Healer’s Sash, which can manipulate natural forces like the wind, the tides, and tectonic plates just as easily as it can manipulate a heartbeat or a pair of lungs.  (Wen Qing–she prays to Pelor, the Dawnfather, the healer and Lord of Light, but she’s long since lost her faith in him as anything but a contracted boss.  It’s a shock to everyone including her when she’s granted a right arm made of glass and magic after losing it.  She was so determined to make a Relic that could be used for good, but–well.  She supposes she should have known better.)

The Philosopher’s Stone, which can more or less transform anything into anything.  (Jiang Yanli–she’s a Transmutation wizard, she’s been feeding the crew of the Starblaster for a hundred years on whatever she can pull together.  If the right person found the Stone, it would have ended world hunger.  The wrong person found the stone.  Jiang Yanli tried her damnedest to hunt it down, but she found the Gauntlet first, and, well–she already became a lich to stop one younger brother from doing it.  It’s not a struggle to decide that she’s going to take responsibility for saving Jiang Cheng from his own guilt.  Then things go horribly wrong, and she spends the next twelve years in an umbrella.)

The Temporal Chalice, which offers complete control over time.  (Wen Ning–he was a strict scholar until his sister was contacted about the IPRE’s creation, but he always did want to travel, and his theories about bonds were too good for Xiao Xingchen to pass up having on his crew.  Everything he’s done since they lost their home system has been about trying not to leave his family, about trying for second chances, he became a lich for them, he’s done everything to stay with them, of course his Relic is a second chance generator.)

The Animus Flute, which offers control over the spirits of the dead and, in the hands of a sufficiently competent expert, the living.  (Wei Wuxian–he’s watched his brother, his sister, his friends, die so many times.  He’s terrified of immortality, but he’s most terrified of being alone.  He meant to make something that could keep the dead present, so that they would never have to fear being left behind again.  Watching it rip Jiang Cheng’s soul clean out of his body in Xue Yang’s hands is the worst thing Wei Wuxian can remember, even after everything is over.)

The Bulwark, which Nie Huaisang never did explain to anyone, but took the shape of a hand-painted fan.  (Nie Huaisang lost the only person who mattered to him when the Hunger ate their home, and then as he slowly, painstakingly, rebuilt something like a family, he had to watch them suffer and die for a hundred years.  And then he watched them win, and grieve like dying all over again for the winning.  He’s sorry they suffered for his actions.  He’s not sorry for what he did.)

FIVE

Wen Zhuliu didn’t mean to make his whole plane give up.  But he had spent his whole life being used, and it all just seemed so pointless.  It all just seemed so pointless.  There was always someone stronger, always something bigger, always a rule he couldn’t break, always something, and he started talking, started telling people as much, and--

Wen Qing is about the farthest thing in the fucking world from a peacemaker by nature, if you ask her, but she’s a healer first, last, and most of all.  And, she thinks as she watches the sun sink with a very tired man crumbling away at her side, she might be the only person in the worlds who ever noticed that Wen Zhuliu needed a healer.

(They aren’t from the same plane, but--some of the others have found distant family, on their new home.  It’s an unanswerable question, if they might have been family, a few dimensions removed.  Wen Ning still thinks about it.)

[downwiththeficness]

A Need So Great-Chapter 15

Summary: Eva Moore is assigned to work the last year of her contract with the DEA in Colombia. She just wants to get to the end of her tenure, but she keeps getting drawn further into a string of murders in the city. It isn’t long before she’s forced to face the ghosts of her past.

Word Count: ~6,700

Warnings: There’s a lot here... kidnapping (kind of), assault, allusions to rape and sexual assault, smut

A/N: For the purposes of this story, Carrillo isn’t married--or, if you like, divorced. A/B/O dynamics are prevalent, and they come with their own warning. The overall rating for this story is Explicit, although not every chapter will contain adult themes.

Taglist: @dirtynerdy98 @1zashreena1 @heresathreebee @deliciouslyclassytrash @maybege @kid-from-new-zealand @clydesducktape @revolution-starter @autumnleaves1991-blog @jedi-mando @buckysalefty @anaeve

Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 8.5, 9, 10, 10.5, 11, 12, 13, 14, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21

Eva knew something was wrong. The house was always quiet, save for the sound of the waves below, but this was stagnant. She stood in the kitchen, chopping fruit for a late lunch, the knife sounding dully in her hand. Her stomach twisted as she looked down at the mango, shredded from where she’d lost focus and slid the knife through it too many times. She stared at it, disgusted.

There was no sound, no indication of movement, but Eva knew there was someone behind her.  The hair on her arms and over the back of her neck stood on end, her fingers twitching over the blade. For several seconds, she intentionally didn’t turn around.  For several seconds, she let herself feel like everything was normal—that this was a completely normal moment in a completely normal day.

And then she turned.

“Hello, Birdie.”

Eva stopped breathing.

Zero was lounging at their dining room table. He was wearing tactical gear, a few days’ growth of a beard on his chin. He’d camped out for a bit before making his approach when he knew Horacio would be out getting the supplies. His skin was pale, nearly translucent, hair a pale blonde.  He’d let it grow long over the last few years. It flopped over his forehead in a way that looked more careless than it actually was.

“Hello, Zero.”

His head rolled to the side, “We’re old friends, Birdie.  Please, call me Alexei.”

Eva looked past him to the staircase, and over to the door. Zero clocked it.

“The helicopter came in about ten minutes ago. He’ll be another half hour before he makes it up the path. Very resourceful, your Colonel.”

Forcing her body to remain relaxed, Eva acknowledged the compliment with a tip of her head, “I’m happy with him.”

He smiled, straight white teeth, “Anyone with eyes can see how happy you are.”

“Is that why you’re here? Because I’m happy?”

Zero lifted a brow, giving her all the answers she needed. Eva widened her stance, thumb running over the handle of the knife.  She wouldn’t be able to take him in a fair fight, wouldn’t be able to take him in an unfair fight, either.

“She couldn’t leave it alone.”

He shrugged, “That is her way, Birdie.”

The way he was looking at her—there was sorrow in his eyes. This was a ploy, a way to get her to lower her guard. She knew this, but wasn’t unaffected by it. So many people had looked at her with pity over the years, but none who knew intimately the things she’d done, the things that had been done to her. Zero had more reason to pity her than anyone she’d ever known.

Eva swallowed, hand tightening on the knife. Then, telegraphing as little as possible, she surged past him towards the staircase. He was too fast, on his feet and catching her arm in the blink of an eye.  Eva grunted, turning and swinging the blade. She caught him in the forearm, cutting through his clothes to the meat and turning it.

He yelled, grip loosening enough that she got free.  Stumbling, she reached the stairs and stomped up them, hauling herself up by the rail.  Eva made it up all the way, rounding the corner and down the hall. She could hear his heavy footfalls following behind and her adrenaline spiked. Ten feet. Five feet. Three feet. She threw herself into the bedroom, was headed for the panic room when he got to her.

She fell to the floor hard, her hip taking the brunt of the blow. He rolled her beneath him, but pushed a little too hard and she got the leverage she needed to pin one thigh down with her knee and an arm down with her elbow. Knife in hand, she brought it up and down hard, wincing when he blocked it with his forearm, blood spurting from the wound she’d made.

Releasing the arm she’d pinned, Eva used both hands and most of her weight to try to drive the knife downwards and into his chest.  Centimeter by centimeter, she gained the advantage, until she had maybe two or three inches before she met skin. A sharp pain tingled along her thigh.  Eva looked down at the needle just as he pushed in the plunger.

Knowing she was on a timeline, Eva pushed harder, yelling.  It did no good.  Whatever he’d injected her with was fast, her vision blurred. Before she passed out, she got a good look at his wide, gleeful smile. She wondered if he would, indeed, keep his record at zero.

As she began to lose consciousness, Zero rolled her off him and swung her up and over his shoulder. Her arms hung down, limp, as he carried her. Far away, she heard the main door open and close. Drawing a deep breath, she let out a scream, a weak sound that died in her throat. Against the meat of her thighs, Eva felt Zero laugh.

Waking was terrible. Eva’s head hurt, her body hurt, everything fucking hurt. She was slumped against a wooden pole in the basement, her hands bound behind her. Eva blinked rapidly, trying to clear her vision. A welcome voice said her name once, twice.

Eva lifted her head. Horacio was sitting in a wooden chair that had definitely seen better days, his arms and ankles handcuffed to the legs. There was a bruise blossoming at his temple. A ginger twist of her wrists told her that she was similarly bound. Her legs, however, were free.

“Did he hurt you?” she asked, looking up and to her left.

“I should be asking you that question.”

Eva shook her head, regretting the action immediately, “I’m fine. A little woozy and my head hurts, but he hasn’t started in on me yet.”

Horacio cleared his throat, and she could see his shoulders and arms flexing against his bonds, “You know him, Eva.  What is he going to do?”

She thought about it, “Could go a few ways. He could torture you in front of me, he already knows I have feelings for you. Or, we could go that other way, work on me while you watch.”

Eva heard him audibly swallow, heard his feet scuff against the floor.  She looked around. Zero had disarmed Horacio, his preferred firearm sitting on a table next to...several syringes. They were laid out carefully. No labels, no indication as to what was inside. Eva glanced at the rest of the room. The wine rack, covered in a light layer of dust sat at the far end, near the washer and dryer. Above her was what used to be a drying line that reached across to another wooden pole about ten feet away, a remnant from before the place was modernized. On the table with Horacio’s gun was another set of handcuffs, possibly for her feet.

“I’m sorry,” she croaked, feeling tears rise up. Guilt rode her heavy, she was sorry that she’d dragged him into her mess.

Horacio shook his head, “I should have taken you to the beach with me. I let my guard down.”

They both had.  The stillness of the place, the quiet tranquility of the little home they had borrowed, had lulled them into a soft calm that shouldn’t have been there.  

She could see the guilt written clearly on his face, just as it was written on her own, “No. This isn’t your fault. He wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for me.”

The door to the upstairs swung open and Zero’s heavy footsteps dropped on each stair, an ugly beating drum. Eva sniffed, blinking away the tears and dropping into that place she hadn’t needed to go to for a very long time, the place where nothing could hurt her. It would be the only way she was going to survive whatever he was going to do to her.

Zero was smiling as he approached. He’d wrapped up his arm, the bandage a little pink, but it looked like she hadn’t cut him deep enough to hinder the flex of his hands, “I’m so glad you’re awake. I thought I was going to have to pass the time by removing his fingers.”

Eva held her tongue, but Horacio spoke up, voice terse, rapid fire Spanish flying out like little bullets.  She was grateful for what he was trying to do, pull Zero’s attention elsewhere, but she knew the hitman wouldn’t be deterred for long.

Zero laughed, patting Horacio’s face. He responded, likewise, in Spanish. Eva only caught the reference to her and to blood, but she got the gist by the way Horacio paled, his jaw clenching. She had to intervene, and quickly.

“We both know you’re not going to kill me any time soon,” she said, hardening herself, “You’re too arrogant for that. So, why don’t you tell me what the plan is, Alexei. And then I can get on with telling you to go fuck yourself.”

Zero laughed, full bellied, head thrown back.  Eva had never known such a joyful looking thing could be so terrible. Her fists clenched behind her as she fought to reign herself in.

Wiping at his eyes, Zero gave her an affectionate look, “I missed you.”

She sneered, “Wish I could say the feeling was mutual.”

He non-verbally agreed with her, a short tilt of his head to one side. With three steps, he knelt by her, touching her face, “Its a shame your in laws want you dead so much. I would have loved to have taught you the trade.”

The trade. As if it were carpentry, or something equally as innocuous. Eva felt bile rise to the back of her throat as she contemplated being trained and mentored by this man.

Unable to help it, Eva asked the question that had been on her mind since she’d figured out he was after her, “How long since you took the bounty?

His mouth quirked, “About five years. I told them I would need to play the long game.”

She’d been in Nevada at that time, in a vast desert instead of lush forest. Eva nodded, her eyes dropping.

“But, as for my plans,” he sighed, standing, “I thought I would indulge myself, just this once.” He moved over to the syringes, “The family perfected the serum. It will go to market in about two years, once clinical trials are complete.”

Eva’s blood ran cold. She stopped breathing as she stared at the syringe he held up for her inspection. No...

“You remember what your heats were like with Joshua, don’t you?” he asked, kindness in his tone, if not in his intentions, “He used to tell me about how he’d leave you tied to the bed for hours, crying to be fucked.”

She remembered. It was his little game that he played with her cycle-denying her nesting time, denying her fulfilled heats. Eva had worked very hard to process and move on from those heats, had thought she’d moved past them. And, now, before he killed her, he was going to do it again. She could not contain the horror she felt as she looked at the needle.

Zero gazed at her, pity in his expression, “I am not Joshua, and I will not leave you in such a way. In fact, my plan, since you want to know, is to knot you in front of the alpha you’ve claimed as yours. I’ll break the bond, I will break you, and then I will kill you both—as a mercy, you see.”

Eva very carefully kept her eyes on Zero, though she so wanted to know how Horacio was reacting. She forced her heart to slow and forced her breathing to remain as calm as possible. An overtly emotional response would be a mistake.

“I am on a limited time schedule, Birdie. I think I’ll give you the first dose now.”

As he leaned down, she kicked out hard, trying to dislodge the syringe. He caught her leg and pushed up the material of her shorts, sticking her with it. The movement was fluid, so much ease that it had to be practiced. Practiced, but not gentle. Eva screamed, throwing her head back against the pole behind her.

Zero pulled the needle back, capping it, “This’ll start the hormonal reactions. I’ll give you the other two doses in about ten minutes, okay?”

It was not okay. It would never be okay. Eva glared at him, fighting hard to keep her tears from overflowing her lids to fall over her cheeks.  She was only moderately successful, a single tear escaping the control she exerted.

And then he was turning and heading up the stairs, leaving them to their devices.

“Eva,” Horacio urged, “I’m going to try to break this chair.  When I tell you, I need you to scream. Scream loud.”

She looked at the chair, and then at him. He was so strong, she thought he might be able to do it. Nodding, she breathed deep.

“Three, two, one.”

Eva yelled, as loud as her throat would go. He jerked, rocking on the legs.

“Again.”

More yelling, more struggle.  They did this three or four more times, until her voice cracked and she had to stop.  He’d made only moderate gains, the legs rocking a little bit under his weight. Little by little, he loosened them, until they looked like they might detach from the body of the chair. When Eva had just begun to feel hope, the door opened and Zero came sauntering down the stairs.

He took them in, took in her red face, Horacio’s deadly glare. He looked, and he smiled.

“I see we’re getting along quite well.”

Without preamble, he reached for the second syringe, “But, you, Birdie, you’re not quite where you should be. Far too alert.”

Eva sneered, “Maybe your shit doesn’t work.”

His smile faltered just a hair, “No, I made sure the batch was good. Came across a nice little omega just outside of the border. It works. You have always been unusually stubborn, Eva. I should not have expected any different.”

Taking two steps forward, he knelt, grabbed her leg, warded off the kicks from her other leg, and stuck her.

“Let’s see how that does, hmm?”

Horacio spoke, his voice even, “Does that make you feel like an alpha, Zero? Hurting women?”

Zero leveled an amused look at him, “No, it doesn’t. Killing them, yes. But, hurting them, not in the least.” Then, “Do you want to know how I’ll do it?”

“You’re not going to get that far,” Horacio declared, his eyes narrowed to slits.

Zero ignored him, walking over to the table where he’d set Horacio’s gun, “I’m going to shoot her with your gun. Lucky for Eva, I don’t have time to use my knives, so the gun will have to do. I’ll shoot her, and then I’ll shoot you. So simple.”

Eva’s heart pounded, her skin growing clammy. A telltale cramp pushed its way into her stomach. She nearly vomited.

Zero inhaled lasciviously, “Looks like we’ve got a winner.” Fairly skipping over to Eva, he leaned over her, “How are you feeling?”

She glared up at him, mouth thin, “Like I’m going to kill you.”

He laughed, “You haven’t changed at all, Birdie. But, unlike your late husband, I don’t have the luxury of underestimating you.”

Setting the gun back where he’d originally laid it, Zero picked up another syringe and injected her without a word. Eva flinched bodily. It wouldn’t be long before she’d start feeling the effects. She’d slow down, fatigue overcoming her, and then her entire world would spin completely out of control.

“Now that you’re cooperative, let’s get you into position.”

She tried to fight back, tried to struggle, but he manhandled her, loosening the cuffs and flipping her to her belly before yanking her wrist around the pole and refastening them.

“I’m going upstairs to freshen up. You wait here, I’ll be right back.”

As soon as he was gone, Horacio was talking to her. She could hear the scratch of the chair moving as he told her to hold on, that he would get her free, that he would take care of Zero. She focused on it, fighting to breach the surface of her brain. His scent was sharp in her nose, rising above the scent of the other alpha in the house. Eva shivered, choking back a whine.

Blowing out a breath, Eva felt her mind clear just enough for her to pull her knees underneath her. Inching the cuffs up, she used them as leverage to help her stand, until she was leaning heavily against it, forehead pressed to the wood. Sweat dripped down her neck, but she was otherwise alright.  If she could focus, she could work on getting free.

“Fight through it, Eva,” he ordered, and Eva snapped to attention, unable to deny him, even in this state, especially in this state.

Focusing as best she could, she spread her hands over the pole, testing if it was loose, looking for some thing to help her get free. Starting from the bottom of her reach, she worked upwards, feeling...feeling.

The nail. Above her head, maybe six inches, was the nail that had once held the other end of the drying line. A thin thing, half rusted, and sticking out enough that it might work.  Eva shuffled around the pole, working to align the cuffs with it.  With one ear trained to the door, she did blindly what she had done many times before. Push, tilt, pull. The cuff fell free.

The door opened. She squeaked, ambling around the pole and looping the loose cuff over three fingers, holding so that he wouldn’t initially see that she’d slipped it.

“I honestly can’t believe you’re standing. Really, I’m impressed. You are a treasure, Birdie.”

Eva snarled, turning her head to look at him. She could smell Horacio from where he sat—his sweat, his pheromones, everything. Eva had to dig her hand into the rough wood of the pole to keep from groaning. Focus.

“Nonetheless, in a few minutes, you’re going to be prime for a knot. It won’t matter whose cock you have in you, you’ll be begging for it.”

Zero approached, hands on his hips, admiring her. Eva turned her head over her shoulder and tried to spit at him. He laughed that stupid laugh that she’d been hearing all along and she hated him for it.

Spinning, Eva let loose of the cuff, swinging it first down and then up, catching him underneath his jaw. Using the butt of her hand, she shoved it home with a satisfying crunch. Then, she braced her hand on his shoulder and yanked as hard as she fucking could, pulling his jaw free from the joint and sideways, dislocating it entirely.

Zero screamed, falling to the floor, blood pooling beneath him. Almost without thinking, Eva grabbed for Horacio’s gun and took aim.

Hesitating for only a moment, Eva took the time to make sure he knew who was killing him, “Goodbye, Alexei.”

One shot. One kill.

The sound of it rang in her ears and Eva found that she had a hard time moving after that. Something in her body had acclimated enough to whatever he’d given her that she was seeing clearly, but it was as if her mind desperately needed a time out.

“Eva, get the keys from his pocket.”

She knelt, eyeing Zero’s cracked open skull as she pulled the keys out and unhooked the cuff still hanging from her wrist. Then, she moved to Horacio—one, two, three, four sets of cuffs opened, and then he was gathering her in his arms in a fierce embrace.

“You did so good,” he cooed, kissing over shoulders and cheeks, his hands keeping her close.

Eva’s breath stuttered, and she knew she only had so long before her body couldn’t keep up with the drug in her system. She was fighting it hard, though. Everything she knew about the serum was from either fifteen years previous or the little bit of information Zero had given her. She was warm, she was a little aroused, but she had more control over her body than she anticipated. For this, she was grateful.

He leaned away from her, “I need to take care of him, and then I need to get you to a medic.”

Too weak to argue with him, Eva let Horacio lead her upstairs, and then up to the bedroom where he laid her down on the bed. Very deliberately, he opened the panic room.

“If you need to, go in here. It locks from the inside.”

And then he was gone, doing God knows what with Zero’s body. Eva stared at the ceiling, wrapped in the comfort of their bed. She’d left the windows open that morning and the sound of the surf filtered in.  A light breeze blew across her skin, sending a shudder down her spine. She swallowed, everything in her body beginning to tingle. She could feel herself getting wet, her folds swelling outwards for attention. Rolling to her side, she took deep breaths, moaning when all she could smell was him. He was in the sheets, in the pillow she laid on.

Eva didn’t know how long she lay like that, the arousal climbing steadily higher, her body trying to figure out how to process the chemicals.  She pressed her knees together, fingers curling in the sheets.  Deep calming breaths evened out as she drifted, falling into almost a meditative state.

Hot, sweating, needy, her mind following along a familiar path of fantasy, she could almost feel him kissing the skin of her shoulder, hands slipping under her arms to hold her to him. A firm grip lifting her leg so that he could slide up and into her until his hips pressed into the curve of her ass. Eva whimpered, knowing that it would feel so good to be split open, that the pressure of his cock would ease this building ache in her body.

He might try to take it slow, as was his won’t in the first few minutes of their lovemaking. She could already hear herself begging for more, harder, faster. With her hormones going wild, her body leaking all over him, he might indulge her, pushing her to her stomach and holding her down with one hand between her shoulder blades. He might pump into her as hard as he had the night he’d initiated the bond, until she could feel his knot at her entrance with every thrust. He might grind into her, until he could push it inside with a soft ‘pop’ that locked them together. He might come helplessly inside her, thumb rolling over her clit until she pulsed around him.

Eva woke with a strangled gasp, nearly a scream. The room was too hot, she was sweating through her clothes. Her jaw hurt from clenching, her fingers flexing with difficulty. She was so, so close. On a knife’s edge. Eva cried out, pulling at her hair. This wasn’t like the other heat, unlike anything she’d ever experienced. It hurt in a way that wasn’t natural. Tears fell over her cheeks and she wiped them away.

Footsteps sounded up the stairs, a hurried pace. Horacio appeared in the doorway, dwarfing the entrance, his face a mask of concern.

“What happened? Are you alright?”

Eva shook her head, reaching out for him. He could soothe this. He could make it better. Slowly, he approached, already lifting a hand to grasp at her.

“Amorcita, tell me you’re alright.”

Eva nodded, unable to speak. Just the touch of his skin felt like coming up for air after having sat at the bottom of a pool too long. He sat down next to her on the bed, arms coming up to hold her.  She pushed as far as she could into his embrace, inhaling as much of her sent as her lungs could hold. It helped enough that she felt muscles she hadn’t known were tensed relax.

He ran a hand through her hair and down her back, “I need to get you to a medic.”

Eva huffed, “Its a mile hike to the road and several hours’ drive. I won’t make it.”

“I can get you there,” he retorted, pulling back to look her in the eye, “I can.”

She leaned in and kissed him chastely, “You can’t. I don’t think I can even walk.”

This was the truth. Her legs felt like jelly, the muscles ticking. On his chest, her hands were shaking.

“Its gonna get worse before it gets better,” she murmured, “How long has it been?”

Horacio checked his watch, “About an hour and a half.”

An hour and a half.

She blinked. Eva should have been writhing by now, begging, the heat overcoming her.  Eyes lifting to the ceiling, she thanked whatever deity listening that she’d screwed her hormones up so much in her younger years. It had certainly helped in the long run.

She cramped, one hand touching her belly, “I’m on the upswing. Usually, I’d say I’ve got about two to four hours until full heat, but I honestly have no fucking clue.”

Another cramp. This time worse.

“I think its accelerating.”

His expression was pained, his eyes flicking over her body, as if trying to figure out how to help. His nostrils flared, and she watched as his pupils dilated. Drawn in by the shift in his scent, Eva touched her mouth to his cheek, his jaw, forehead, and lips. His taste, already one of her favorites, was richer with the fluctuation of their hormones. She dipped into him, running her tongue over the inside of his lower lip.

He groaned, hand at the back of her neck, deepening the kiss. The feeling burned through her, igniting her already unstable nerves, until she was leaning helplessly into him. She pushed her hands into his hair, loosening the hold of his pomade. Against her mouth, he moaned, his hands pushing under her t shirt.

Too quickly, he pulled away, “Eva, stop.”

She keened, reaching for him again.

“Stop,” he said again, “I can’t do this.”

Eva, breathing hard, asked, “Why?”

He looked as her, incredulous, “You’ve been drugged, Eva. I watched him inject you with—I...you’re drugged. I can’t do this to you while you’re drugged.”

Her mind took a hard left, trying to work out what the fuck he was so worried about.  This was a heat, he was her alpha, there shouldn’t even be a discussion.

“Its fine,” she breathed, hands wandering up his arms.

He caught them, holding them down on her thighs, “Its not fine.”

When got up and headed for the door, Eva felt herself give an involuntary yell, her hand reaching after him. Not again. Not. Again.

“Please,” she bit out, “Please don’t leave me here alone. Please don’t make me go through this alone.”

Horacio turned and looked at her for a long moment, and she could see the wheels of his mind turning. She waited as patiently as she could, unable to really sit still, her body fairly vibrating with need.

Then, she watched the decision settle over him. His shoulders squared, his jaw set. Taking one step to the side, he leaned down and pulled the chair from the corner a little, angling it so that he had a clear view of the bed.  Sitting, he rested his forearms on his knees, eyes darkly expressive.

“I’m going to sit right here. You’re going to stay on the bed. Understand?”

She nodded eagerly, ready to take whatever he was willing to give her. The air in the room electrified with the knowledge that she would not be going through this artificial heat alone. He would be with her, if not directly by her side.

He drew in a deep breath, eyes closing a little as he scented the air, “You do what you need to do, whatever you need. I’ll be right here with you.”

Eva’s cheeks colored, “You want me to—.”

Horacio gave a little affirmative hum, “Just like you did a few weeks ago.”

Her body pulsed, tongue licking along dry lips, “I don’t know…”

He nodded, wrist turning over, fingers extending, “Lay back.”

She did as he asked, trying to get her body to relax against the mattress. He shifted in the chair and she glanced down her body at him. He’d leaned back, arms draped over the armrests, legs spread so that she could see that he wasn’t unaffected by the situation.

Heartened, Eva touched her stomach, feeling it quiver in response to the stimuli. Clumsily, she unsnapped her shorts and pushed them down along with her underwear. They landed with a soft thud on the floor.

He drew in a sharp inhale when she spread her legs, letting her hips open naturally. His scent floated over to her—aroused, hungry. She let it roll across her tongue as she gingerly pressed four fingers to her mound, massaging gently. Eva was embarrassingly wet, her fingers sliding so easily that there almost wasn’t enough friction.

Control shattering, she lost herself in the momentum, in the motion of circling her clit to get the first orgasm out of the way. With her free hand, she pushed in two fingers, then three, trying to get a little pressure going from the inside.

Panting, Eva’s hips rolled, her back arched, her feet digging into the mattress below—she couldn’t get there. Desperate, she picked up the pace, until her forearms ached with the repeated motion.

A sob left her, and she stopped, hands clenching the sheets, “I can’t.”

“You can,” he drawled from too far away, “You can.”

Head whipping from side to side, Eva called out his name, the fire burning hotter, the pain rising. Tears formed in her eyes as she flung herself over to her belly, face pressed into the sheets. His scent was there, a little faded, but still there. Eva cried into it even as her hips flexed against the bed, seeking relief. The smell of him soothed her mind a little, igniting along her body.

“What do you need?” He asked, sounding just this side of panicked. “Did you bring your toy?”

She laughed, amused and frustrated at the same time, “No. I didn’t think I would need it.”

That earned her an unwilling chuckle, then, “What do you need?”

You, she thought. I need you.

The rational part of her mind, what little of it that was still functioning, was grateful for his consideration. The animal part of her, the omega in her, wanted to rail at him for not simply taking what was his in the first place. She needed him. She needed him. She needed…

Eva sat up so fast that Horacio flinched, his body pushing back against the chair, “Give me your shirt.”

A fresh scent, something still warm from the heat of him. That might do it.

When he hesitated too long, she whipped out a hand, flicking her fingers to indicate that she wanted it right now, “Your shirt, Horacio.”

His mouth parted, eyes a little glazed, and then he was reaching behind him to pull the polo over his head. He threw it at her and she caught it. Fuck, but it smelled good. Just like him. Her eyes rolled back as she fell to the bed, rolling over it and rubbing her face against the material. From his perch, Horacio growled lowly, but he didn’t move.

Another roll took her to the head of the bed, cosseted by the pillows. It was then that Eva had an idea that she wouldn’t have dared to execute at any other point in her life. Pulling one of the pillows beneath her spread thighs, she straddled it.

...feels too good when you ride me...

Holding his shirt to her nose, Eva began to roll her hips against the firm mass beneath her. Her slick soaked into the material, and the sound as she dripped more and more onto it was very nearly obscene. She squeezed her thighs, pushing the pillow up and into her, giving her a little extra pressure. Every thrust forward pushed her higher, until she had to brace her hands either side of the pillow, the shirt stretched over the mound.

Eva might have said his name, might have said any number of things, but her brain was mostly shut off, leaving only the primal need to come. It rose steadily, helped along by her fingers shoving inside roughly. It was the looking back that tipped her over, the looking over her shoulder and seeing him watching her. His eyes were focused on the sway of her hips, his hands clenching the armrests to keep himself immobile. Her strong alpha, her beautiful man enduring this in consideration of her needs.

It hit her hard enough that she yelped, her face scrunching, arms giving out. Eva rubbed her nose in the shirt, gathering as much of him into as she could while her cunt clenched on nothing but her too small fingers.

As soon as the contractions died down, the cramps started again. Exhausted, she rolled to her back, taking the shirt with her. It draped over her body and between her thighs. She took several deep breaths, trying to get her bearings as the need began its rapid ascent to spiral out of control.

Biting her lip, Eva reached down again, fingers tangling in the material. The sensation, the friction of the fabric as it slid across her skin was more than magnificent. It was exactly what she needed. Both hands buried in it, Eva pressed down hard, rocking up into the shirt.

She was soaking it, her juices flowing until they pooled in the hollows of her thighs and beneath her. Everything spun, her body reaching once more for the apex. Eva rubbed faster, using the shirt to gain just the right grind, until she came again moaning his name.

Somewhere after orgasm number four, Eva passed out. She wasn’t sure for how long, but it was almost dark when she awoke, the evening sun shining with purples and oranges through the bedroom window. Head lolling to the side, she looked at Horacio. He was sitting exactly where he had been when this all began, head resting on one fist, eyes dark and searching.

She tried to speak, her voice croaking. Clearing her throat, she asked for water. Robotically, he rose and went to the en suite, returning with a cup. She half sat up, leaning heavily against the headboard. Gently, he helped her drink, giving her little sips, his hand cupping the back of her head.

When she had drained the cup, Eva grasped his wrist and gave him a little encouraging pull. Hesitantly, he sat near her, though he was definitely looking for signs of another wave.

“I think its over,” she said. “I feel...I think its over.”

Horacio scanned her face, touching just beneath her chin.  Seemingly satisfied, he slipped off his shoes and socks and joined her on the bed, pulling her to lay with her back against his chest. Propped up against the headboard, he held her for a long time, until there was almost no light left in the sky. Oddly, he reached over and turned on the bedside lamp, the warm amber glow filling the room.

Once the fog had cleared just a little, Eva lifted up and pulled off her t shirt and bra.  They were sweat soaked and chafing her still sensitized skin. She lay back against Horacio with a sigh, earning herself a little strangled groan as he took her in. His hands brushed gently over her, far more gently that he probably wanted to, if the erection digging into the small of her back was anything to go by.

In her stupor, she’d noticed that he hadn’t moved, that he hadn’t touched himself through the whole ordeal. He was still hard, leaking enough that there was a circle of damp, darkened, fabric to the side of his fly. Her affection for him, already too intense by her own standards, swelled even more.

Head rolling, she kissed his jaw, giving it just the littlest nip. He pulled away, her name a warning that held no bite. Her arms covered his, wrapped around her middle. She skimmed them down to his hands, threading through them. Pressing down, Eva increased the pressure until his palms were flat against her, urging one to knead at her breast, the other to travel down. She felt him inhale, felt his whole body tighten up, knew he was fighting for control. Very slowly, she flexed her fingers over his, curling them into her center, still wet.

Twitching, he pulled his hands back, dropping them to his sides, “Its not over.”

She smiled, letting her head fall back to his shoulder even as she circled her clit very, very slowly, “It is.”

“No,” he countered, though his hips pushed up against her, “You’re still...fuck, you’re still…”

The sentence cut off, his head knocking back against the headboard as he fisted the sheets on either side. Eva, already laying most of her weight on him, pushed a little more into his body, feeling his cock throb.

“Do you want me to stop?” She asked.

He paused, his chest heaving, “No, you can keep—just, don’t...don’t touch me. I won’t be able to stop myself if you touch me.”

Eva smiled, biting her lip. Daintily, she lifted each leg and draped it over his thighs, hands already working. He arched over her, eyes dropping down so that he could watch, though he steadfastly did not touch. Knowing that this was going to end fast, Eva let her fingers swirl, whining a little when he spread his knees, stretching her wide.

She would be lying if she said she was only working to get herself off. Her body was so primed for it that it would take next to nothing to come all over again. This, though, this was also for him. She needed to show him how much he meant to her, how much she felt when he was near.

“I wouldn’t have done it,” she murmured, forehead slotting into the bend of his neck.

Hissing, he bit out, “Done what?”

Though he was attempting valiantly to remain still, Horacio was pushing his cock up and into her, a stilted, stuttering motion that she focused on, picking up his rhythm so that he got as much sensation out of every thrust that escaped his iron control.

“Begged for it,” she said. “He said I’d beg for him. I wouldn’t have.”

His eyes closed, and she could tell that he was tamping down the anger that mentioning Zero evoked. She hurried ahead, wanting to give him something he so deeply deserved.

“Yours is the only cock I would have begged for. He could have shot me full of ten syringes, and I’d still only want you to knot me.”

That was it. That’s what did it. Head thrown back, Horacio came on a rough yell, looking almost pained as he thrust against her. His released triggered hers, her first and middle finger circling her clit wildly.

It took a long time for their breathing to return to normal. He’d pulled her up a little on his chest, raining kisses down on her face, her hair, her neck, everywhere he could reach. Eva laughed, even as he shuffled out from underneath her, helping her to stand so that he could walk her to the bathroom. She sat on the edge of the tub as he filled it, both of them sinking into the water.

She must have fallen asleep, because the next thing she knew, Eva was waking in the middle of the night. The sound of the ocean was coming in through the still open windows, and Horacio was relaxed in sleep beside her. She pushed an errant curl from his face, thinking that her heart would burst with how just how much she felt for this man.

[kogo-dogo]

i like your skyrim stuff and i wanna know more about the funky little dudes you posted in those “sentences” lol. instead of asking for more snips

You have made a mistake. Prepare for an essay.

But, joking aside, they’re Morrowind characters. I do like Skyrim, but Morrowind is my favorite game of all time and the entire reason I got into the TES fandom years ago. I don’t talk about it much on here because everyone is here for Half-Life and HRV, but... you know what? I’mma take this opportunity. To yell.

About The Guys(tm).

So, basically, in my Personal Canon, I don’t just have a Nerevarine (i.e. Protagonist) character. I have an entire crew of people who help him get through things because it just seems... more realistic for my Extremely Flawed and Terrible Nerevarine. Also, I just had a lot of characters conjured up as a teenager and it was fun to evolve it over time so they’re all friends.

They are, as follows:

- Jo’Karsa (a.k.a. “Karsaga”). Battlemage born under the Atronach. Afflicted with Wombburn. Also the Nerevarine. He’s an abnormally large Cathay-raht who has had an unusual upbringing. He was originally an orphan plucked off the streets in Corinthe and trafficked to Morrowind where he was sold as a slave. As fate would have it, a houseman under his owner took a shine to him and stole him away when they fled to Cyrodiil to avoid political assassination. Karsaga has been raised Telvanni in Imperial territory so, despite being a mighty brute of a Khajiit, he has an extreme affinity for magic and an equally extreme disconnect from his Khajiiti roots.

He speaks like a Dunmer, carries himself like a Dunmer, and has very Telvanni sensibilities. He also has an extensive criminal record from his time spent as a bandit outside of Cheydinhal, and that is eventually how he ends up on the prison boat that sends him to Morrowind. He has a bunch of aliases and an unhealthy penchant for drink and smoke. Not a fan of skooma, though. As gruff and sarcastic as he is, he has a very silver tongue and a way of winning people over and talking himself out of trouble.

Also, “youth born under a certain sign?” Nah, this bitch is 34. And smells like a wet dog.

- Dasrazel. Altmer Nightblade and Quarra vampire. He contracted his vampiric curse while trying to save his lover from the clutches of an undead menace during the Second Era, after a life working various quasilegal oddjobs that brought shame on his noble family. In life, he was a likeable but lowkey individual, and in undeath he’s still very lowkey... but perhaps not as likeable. He has to take a low dose of a calming potion to keep the inherent, violent bloodlust of his Quarra curse at bay, and it does a lot to deaden his emotions. Combine that with hundreds of years to learn how to not give a fuck, and you have a very blunt, stoic, matter-of-fact creature who only very occasionally makes quips and usually just wants to be left alone.

He is Karsaga’s closest ally, right hand man, and platonic soulmate. They met after Karsaga robbed him blind at a bar (thinking him to just be some weird, frail elf), and Dasrazel took pity on him after Karsaga ran him through with an iron saber and panicked when it... did nothing. Their bond is one of a mutual distaste for most people and Dasrazel’s desire to have companionship again.

They’re very much bros, even if Dasrazel spends most of his time not understanding why Karsaga is the way he is.

-  Neira Brenur. Dunmer Witchhunter and low-ranking member of House Redoran. She’s the daughter of a Camonna Tong member and an Ashlander woman, though her mother is dead and she spends a lot of time trying to distance herself from her racist father. She joined Redoran in hopes of atoning for the crime of just being born into a bad family, but has a really difficult time fitting in. She’s very meek and empathetic and does better in controlled duels than actual combat. The idea of actually hurting an opponent makes her sick to her stomach.

She kind of just happened to Karsaga one day, courtesy of him running afoul of her not-so-popular friend, Vandrith (we’ll get to that trainwreck later). She mainly acts as a translator for Vandrith and tries to play mediator when Karsaga starts getting too aggressive with others. She’s in good with some odd folks in Redoran and a very aggressive supporter of the Tribunal Temple, which makes it hard for her to wrap her mind around Karsaga’s existence as the Nerevarine.

Also, the fact she’s an absolute pushover means she just accepts the less-than-savory people Karsaga pals around with. She’s got a big heart and feels actual pity for his blasphemous, undead, and criminal friends. They’re good people on the inside (probably).

- Vandrith Valen. Dunmer Ordinator and conglomeration of a lot of factors coming together in the worst way possible. He is naturally “blessed by Azura” and has some degree of prophetic power, though he’s choked it down after a life of being raised Indoril. He also came to the unfortunate realization after being stationed on Vvardenfell, that he is also a descendant of House Dagoth and is haunted by the Poison Song, a “song” sent out by Dagoth Ur that warps the minds of those who are of his blood and turns them into Sleepers and Dreamers.

These two traits do not mesh well and make Vandrith more than a little unstable.

Vandrith is... prone to erratic behavior and violent outbursts and is largely under the care of his paternal uncle, Tuls Valen, the head priest of the Ald’ruhn Temple. Vandrith is also a clever and tricky bastard who has been trying to figure out how to discern Dagoth Ur’s plans from the Poison Song in order to prevent bad things from happening. Usually, he can keep things under control, but extremely bad visions, close proximity to items/places corrupted by House Dagoth, and stress can cause him to be difficult.

Beyond this, though, he’s not what you’d expect from an Ordinator. He’s very witty with a somewhat bawdy sense of humor, a very devil-may-care attitude, and he’s a huge fan of causing mischief. He forced his way into Karsaga’s social circle due to his absolute certainty that Karsaga could bring down Dagoth Ur, and Neira is his closest (and for a long time only) friend, who has figured out what all of his weird ramblings mean.

- Bashinga. Sorceress and Aundae vampire. She is an old acquaintance of Dasrazel’s who has ties to Telvanni, the Mage’s Guild, and several circles of warlocks and witches. She’s very much a self-serving sort, more interested in the acquisition of power than the wellbeing of Morrowind, but she is fiercely protective of the people she deems worthy (and she has a soft spot for Neira she can’t really explain).

Once upon a time, she was a dancer and performer with a traveling circus, and her fall into undeath and wizardry was a happy accident after being taken as cattle by rogue Aundae. She’s got a good set of vocal cords and can move with grace and ease, but she speaks very bitterly a lot of the time and is difficult to get along with.

She’s one of those people who Karsaga immediately took a shine to because they both like to sit around and bitch about people. Dasrazel and Bashinga mostly get along by the time-honored tradition of “two very gay individuals being catty at each other as a sign of affection, though outsiders would think they hate one another.”

- Jai Swift-Fly. Cathay assassin and member of the Morag Tong. She was born and raised in Elsweyr in a more tribal environment, and is an old friend of Vandrith’s (odd, considering they met because she took a grey writ to knock him off and, instead, he knocked her out). She mostly comes into the fold because Karsaga needed somebody to break into the Ministry of Truth to free Mehra Milo, and she came highly recommended (by Vandrith; Vandrith recommended her). 

She’s a married mother of two, is big and strong and very proud of being big and strong, and a crack shot with a bow. She’s also deaf as hell and communicates through a series of homebrew gestures. Her decision to stick around and help Karsaga after completing the job she was hired to do stems primarily from her extreme curiosity. She has no stake in the Nerevarine Prophecy or this group of losers, but by god does she want to see what it looks like when a god dies.

Fun fact: Jai is dead by the events of Skyrim, but two of her descendants remain. Shevah and J’Rakka. They’re a brother-and-sister duo. Shevah is as much of a curious, troublemaking adventurer as her so-many-greats grandmother. J’Rakka is a werewolf who mostly hunts bounties to make a living.

- Dravyn Telvayn (no picture of him, sorry D:). Dunmer assassin and member of the Morag Tong. Former highwayman and current Berne vampire. Husband of Jai and perpetually confused, mainly over the fact he has kids with Jai and... well, every book he’s read has indicated that that should be impossible for a variety of reasons. He lives in the sewers of the Arena canton in Vivec City and is allowed work in the Morag Tong due to his efficacy at eliminating very high risk targets, though he’s basically “on his own” if he ever gets caught. They’re sure as fuck not giving him writs of execution to present to guards when the Tong could end up fucked over if their relationship with a vampire gets out.

He’s mostly in the background and tags along due to his extreme dedication to Jai. He doesn’t get along with hardly anyone but her, though he is the one who coined the term “Council of Accidents” in relation to him, Dasrazel, and Bashinga. He feels a loose kinship with them in that they’re all members of different vampire clans, but all members whose sires want nothing to do with them, rendering them outcasts. Even after the events of Morrowind, he keeps in infrequent contact with the others. 

After Jai’s death, he acts as a weird “ancestral guardian” to his own descendants. As of the time of Skyrim, he spends most of his time trying to keep Shevah from getting killed. He is very tired. She is a lot.

[overheardatthecontinental]

Talk Chapter 7

AO3

Helen learns about the hit that’s been ordered 

John addresses the guilt that’s holding him down

John packs up quickly, filling the car pretty much to the brim, holding on to the knowledge that he really doesn’t know when he’ll come back.

By putting a contract out on Helen, it was no longer a matter of killing DeLuca and ending this. The contract was open. Whether he was dead or alive, people would come for her.

And while dead was the only way John wanted to see Mateo DeLuca, the fact remained that only he could remove the bounty on Helen. DeLuca, he thinks, or the High Table.

But the High Table wasn’t going to give a shit that Helen Kingston was a civilian. That she hadn’t done anything.

A hit was a hit.

He isn’t sure how he’s going to fix this.

John goes back down to the basement, to his workshop, and found a book hidden among the masses. It’s a newer book that stands out among his bookbinding collection. Larger than most.

He selects it and heads back to the main floor. John lays it open and takes out his phone to prepare to send the message.

As technology got better, so had hackers. Even phones issued by the Continental were subject to being hacked or tracked. He, Marcus, and Sofia had set up a failsafe years ago.

Even if the phone was hacked, it would take years to crack the code they came up with.

He opens the book and finds the first letter he needs, capitalized. He types in the page number, followed by the line that the word is located on, and finally counts out how many words into the line it is.

John hears Helen’s footsteps on the stairs and spares a glance upward. She has a tower of books piled into her little hands. He withholds a smirk and instead, shakes his head. “Just those?”

“This is as many as I can safely carry.” She replies, walking towards him and setting the books on the side of the table, “But rest assured, I’ll be back to steal more.”

He says nothing to that because he can say nothing. Every plan he’s had is screwed up now. His original thought, to separate himself from her, is in shambles now that every assassin in New York knows her name.

She peeks at his phone, “Is that an Ottendorf cipher?”

John feels himself inhale sharply. Why does she have to know that?

It’s such a small thing, really, but she says something like that and his heart starts to stutter in his chest, making him all the more aware of just how much he loves her. He loves her and he can’t have her.

But she says that and he’s lost.

“Yes, but modified. Do I want to know how you know about Ottendorf’s?” John asks, instead.

“I was a paranoid child.” She says, glancing over the book he has chosen, lifting the cover without closing the page to better assess. “All my childhood diaries were written in some kind of code.” She glances up at him, a small smile on her face, “I made up my own cipher when I was eleven to pass notes to my friends in school.”

It occurs to him that she’s never mentioned her own childhood before. Of course, he knows a bit. Between his actual stalking and the time spent on the Continental database, finding every piece of information on Helen Kingston, he was bound to find some things.

Like citations from Elementary school where she got her class to mutiny against a teacher or the handful of detentions she got for backtalk.

But they’ve never talked about her early life before.

Their lines had always been blurred but this was one they hadn’t crossed.

John glances back to his book, “Quite the little rebel.”

She shrugs, “We talked about it last week. What are rules in the face of meaninglessness?”

“And here I thought we were stepping away from nihilism.”

“You’re stepping away from nihilism.” She corrects, “I’m quite content with the idea that there’s no plan or grand design.”

His lips twitch, “There’s still some food left in the kitchen if you want to grab something before we go.”

She hoists her books back up, “Alright. I’m going to drop these in the car first.”

John nods, continuing to compose his message. The Ottendorf cipher was difficult to crack because not only did you need the right book, you needed the right edition, the right printing. It was also a bitch to decode because it required time and accuracy. He, Marcus, and Sofia even took it a step farther by using the first letter of every word rather than using the word itself and often wrote in shorthand.

That said, it was a bitch to put together.

He manages to type out the address of his safehouse and hits send.

John types up a quick message to Winston that he was going off the grid until further notice as he goes back up the stairs. He changes quickly, forgoing the suit for something more casual. Jeans and a t-shirt are oddly discomforting but a three-piece suit would stick out in the middle of nowhere.

Once changed, he checks his phone one last time before powering down.

By the time he finishes, Helen is outside, leaning against the car, eating an apple.

He makes a mental note that they’ll need to stop and pick her up some new clothes because the sight of her dressed in his makes it hard to breathe.

“Ready?” He asks.

She nods, pushing off the car and opening the passenger side door. “Do I want to know about the matching holes in the windows?” She asks as she climbs in.

“Probably not.” He admits.

Helen shoots him a smirk as she buckles in. He’s grateful when she dives into one of the books she had brought rather than asking him questions. He’s still not sure how to broach the subject.

She knows something is wrong, he’s certain, but she hasn’t asked.

Not that he’s offered information. He wants to keep it from her, to protect her for just a little bit longer but he can’t. It’s not fair to her.

Every so often, he catches her looking up from her book, checking road signs and overhead passes that give off locations, directions.

Her curiosity is palpable but, even now, she’s playing the therapist. Not pushing, just waiting for him to get there on his own.

It’s not right. She shouldn’t have to do all the work for them. He tries to bring it up, pushes himself to say something, anything, the next time she looks around curiously.

Half an hour passes.

Then an hour.

Then two.

He gives himself until the clock on the dashboard hits the hour mark. Then he watches as that arbitrary deadline passes, too.

At quarter past, she looks up at one of the signs and he forces himself to choke out the word, “Vermont.”

Helen looks over at him, an eyebrow raised. “Vermont?” She repeats.

He nods, “I have a safehouse there.”

She looks back at the road ahead of them, “Are you ready to talk about it?”

No, he thinks. But it doesn’t matter. They need to talk about it. She needs to know what’s going on.

What was the expression she used? Quick, like a band aid?

“DeLuca put a hit on you.”

He glances over, gauging for a reaction and is met with a simple nod. “How much?”

That, John thinks, should not be her primary concern but he answers anyway, “Four million.”

That makes her head shoot up, repeating the number while staring at him, “Four million dollars?”

He nods, once.

“Jesus.” She mutters, shaking her head, “For four million, I’m tempted to turn myself in.”

John’s hands tighten on the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white, “That’s not funny.”

“I’m not laughing.” Helen rubs at her temple, “Fuck.”

That about covered it, John thinks.

He waits. She’s kept it together this long but news of a bounty on her head has to be enough to snap her out of the idle calm she’s been sitting in. He waits for her try cry or get angry or scream but, no. She shakes her head and looks back to the book on her lap.

He can’t help himself. “Seriously?” He asks, looking between Helen and the road, “You have a four-million-dollar bounty on your head.”

“Yes.” She agrees.

“There are hundreds of assassins looking for you right now.”

“I gathered.”

“Helen…” he cuts himself off, before he says something stupid.

She closes the book and leans back, facing him the best she can in the moving vehicle. “Do you think it would help?”

“What?”

“Do you think it would help if I broke down right now? If I started crying, do you think it would help either of us? Freaking out will not help me handle everything that’s going on. And it won’t affect the guilt that you’re clearly experiencing from something, and I can’t emphasize this enough, was beyond your control.”

He flounders for a moment, opening and closing his mouth as he searches for how to respond to her, “You’ve been kidnapped.”

“Mhmm.”

“Held hostage, sedated, been forced to play mind games with mobsters,”

“Seems like it was only yesterday.”

“And now you have a four-million-dollar hit out for you and you’ve barely reacted!”

She shrugs. She fucking shrugs and John wants to pull off to the side of the road and fucking shake her just to see if that sets her off.

“We all process things differently, John.”

“What have you processed?” He asks, unable to keep the frustration from his voice, “You’ve been eerily calm this entire time!”

She waves a hand, “I started processing it before it even happened. Maybe, if it had been completely out of the blue, I might have had a more visceral reaction. But let’s be real: this was going to happen at some point or another.”

“You were going to be kidnapped at some point or another?” He asks incredulously.

“Given the circumstances, it isn’t a large jump.” She points out. “You’re the Boogeyman. You might not understand all the fear people have when it comes to you but you recognize it. Fuck, I saw firsthand how terrified of you DeLuca’s men are. But you don’t present with a lot of exploitable weaknesses. And, regardless of how I entered the picture, it’s easy to see we have unhealthy boundaries.”

It takes him nearly a minute to process everything that she says and, when he does, he’s shaken.

“You’re saying you knew you were going to be kidnapped because we supposedly have unhealthy boundaries?”

Another shrug, “I wasn’t blind to the possibility that I could be targeted as a way to get to you. And there’s nothing supposedly about it. Our therapeutic relationship has been fucked since the beginning.”

John does a doubletake and looks over at her. “No, it hasn’t.”

Helen snorts, “One month in, I told you to forgo Tarasov V. Regents. A single phone call from you and I could have had my license revoked and my practice disbanded.”

“Isn’t trust the basis of a good therapeutic alliance?”

“There’s trust and then there’s putting my career in your hands. But if you don’t think that’s enough to indicate our God-awful boundaries, we could talk about your late-night stalking habits.”

John’s head flies to look at her.

“Traffic, John.”

He swerves and narrowly misses driving off the road.

His mind reels. She’d never mentioned it before and neither of them has ever brought it up. He operated somewhere between the assumptions that she didn’t know and that she would never mention it if she did.

He asks gruffly, “What did DeLuca tell you?”

She snorts at that, “Please. DeLuca doesn’t see nuances. He’s just convinced we’re sleeping together.”

“Then how--?”

Helen glances over, her voice softening, “Give me some credit here, John.”

He swallows, “How long have you known?”

“Five months.”

Since the beginning.

He watches the road, suddenly hyper-aware of the pounding of his heart, the hairs on his arms that are standing on end, and the tension filling his body.

He’s unable to look at her. He wonders if he’ll ever again be able to look at her, knowing that she knew. This whole time, she actually knew.

How many times had she asked him if he was planning for a late night, supplying him with coffee, all the while knowing that his late night was going to end sneaking into her home and watching her sleep?

And she had known? For five months?

And no, John Wick wasn’t the kind of man you took a restraining order out against, but she knows him better than anyone. One word from her and he would have disappeared.

Morbid curiosity and confusion get the better of him. “You never said anything.”

“You would have stopped.”

It really isn’t fair, John decides, that she can read him like a book despite his prevarications and evasions. But she answers him, and he can barely understand her.

“And that would have been a bad thing?” He can’t keep the incredulity out of his tone.

“I weighed the pros and cons.”

Now John can’t help but look at her. Calm as ever, her eyes remain kind and non-judgmental. “You weighed the pros and cons.” He repeats.

She nods, once, and John really isn’t sure what the hell kind of pros she came up with to sit back and just let that happen.

“Do you really want to have this conversation right now?” She doesn’t sound exasperated, only concerned. “I’m pretty sure you’re about to pull the steering wheel out if we keep going.”

He considers it, but John is pretty certain that the only thing worse than talking about it would be to stop. He wasn’t certain he’d be able to sit in his anxiety now that it was known.

“Yes.”

“To having the conversation or to yanking out the steering wheel?”

He shoots her a look but is a bit relieved that she’s still making jokes. She gives him a smile.

“I figured it out fairly quickly, I think.” She admits, “I woke up one night and just had a gut feeling that I wasn’t alone. Saw your reflection in the window but it was the middle of the night, and I was tired, and so I just went back to sleep.”

“Probably shouldn’t have been your first instinct.”

He doesn’t even have to look to know that she is rolling her eyes again, “You really want to start talking about instincts and poor decision making?”

She has him there.

“Anyway, you were gone when I woke up. At first, I thought it might just be a one-off. You’re a paranoid bastard. It made sense that you wanted to see where I live, gain a little bit of perspective. Trust that I wasn’t some sort of sleeper agent out to kill you or some shit. But then you came back.” She looks back to the road, almost thoughtfully. “And you kept coming back. So, I sat down and thought out a list of pros and cons.”

“And the pros outweighed the cons?” The disbelief is apparent in his tone.

“Yes.”

This, John thinks, has to be the most surreal conversation he’s ever had in his life. Casually talking about the pros and cons of stalking his therapist, with his therapist. Only for said therapist to decide that there were more pros than cons.

“What possible pros did you find?” He asks more out of interest than validation.

“What would you have done if I addressed it in session?”

He blinks at her answering his question with a question. Truth be told, he’s not sure what he would have done but walk out and never come back seems like the most likely.

“You would have run.” She says, matter-of-factly but somehow still manages to make it sound nonjudgmental. “Which, given your history of disorganized attachment, is perfectly understandable. But, it would have been a drastic step that would have pushed you farther away from the healing process.”

“After all this,” John bites, “You still think I can be healed?”

“We've talked about this before, John. There is no "perfect healing" when it comes to trauma. Things can and they will come back up. But I think that you can get to a point where you can let go of the things that have haunted you for so long.” She lets out a breath, “But nobody can get there on their own.”

John shakes his head, “And healing me is worth having your space violated?”

She huffs, “Believe it or not, it isn’t all about you, John.” He glances over and she shrugs. “I— I sleep better on nights you were there.” Helen pauses, then adds, “You keep the nightmares at bay.”

Her words cut him like any knife, but he feels it so much deeper than any cut.

Nightmares.

His thoughts seem to erupt in too many directions at once for him to even follow?

Nightmares?

She’s known for so long.

She sleeps better when I’m there.

What does she have nightmares about?

How the hell have I never noticed that she has nightmares?

Not like she would’ve fucking told you. She’s your therapist.

But she says I keep the nightmares away…

She know; she knows; she knows.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

He can’t handle it, can’t process it right now. Especially while driving. He needs a moment. Or a few thousand.

How can someone’s presence simultaneously sustain him and destroy him?

They pass a highway sign advertising food, gas, and lodging.

It wouldn’t hurt to fill up the tank. They still had hours to go.  And she needs food. Real food, more than just an apple.

“Can you eat?”

She smirks knowingly at the abrupt change in conversation, “Yeah. Probably should.”

He nods to himself, pulling off on the exit ramp. Focusing on finding food, on providing, was much easier than letting himself sit in his own thoughts.

But even as he switches focuses, keeping an eye out for one of the places advertised, he can still hear her in his mind.

Your abrupt change in subject indicates that you’re afraid. Are you afraid, John?

They both knew the answer to that. He was fucking terrified.

He catches sight of a diner and pulls into the parking lot. They’re far enough from the city that he isn’t too concerned that anyone from his world will see them, but he hasn’t put it out of his head that he could have been followed. Even watching the rearview constantly hadn’t helped to ease the paranoia that came after having Helen taken.

John puts the car into park and Helen shoots him a grin, gesturing to her outfit. She��s still wearing his shirt and sweatpants, drawn tight. “Hope you don’t mind that I’m hard-core scrubbing it.”

He blinks, “I don’t know what that means.”

She rolls her eyes and gets out of the car, “Come on, John.”

He follows her into the diner, which boldly advertises breakfast all day. He keeps his eyes peeled and steps directly into the space behind her as he assesses the patrons.

A few bikers, a teenage group of friends, and two couples. It was late enough that the actual dinner rush had died down.

“Stay close to me.” He mutters and she shoots him a look over his shoulder, as if to say, seriously?

He nods.

Helen rolls her eyes but murmurs, “Fine.”

“Two?” A waitress asks.

“Yes.” Helen replies as John nods once, adding, “The back booth, please.”

She gives him a look, as well, but grabs two menus and gestures with her head for them to follow. Helen starts to sit on the near side of the table but John gives her a tap. She sighs quietly but goes to the far side, against the wall, and scoots into the booth. John sits next to her.

“You want anything to drink?”

“Just water, please.”

“Coffee.” John says.

The waitress walks away and Helen leans into the corner, “We’re hours away from your place; hours from the city. Do you really think we’re going to run into trouble here?”

“I’m not taking any chances.”

“I’d roll my eyes but if I keep doing that, I’m afraid they’ll get stuck.”

He shoots her a look and pushes the menu towards her. Helen only grins in response but takes the menu and looks it over.

He peruses it idly before turning his attention back to the people in the diner.

The teenagers looked normal but he had been trained to kill when he was their age. No one blended in quite like a teen.

The bikers had plates from South Dakota. He had checked all the license plates on their way inside. How many assassins lived a nomadic lifestyle?

Fuck, there had been a time where John, himself, had lived like that. Riding under the hot sun, funding his travels by killing at night.

The couples seemed inconspicuous but there was nothing to indicate that it was anything more than a cover. How often had he posed with Sofia as a couple on complicated cases?

The waitress comes back with his coffee and her water and he’s sick to his stomach, thinking of a thousand ways they could be poisoned.

“Know what you want?”

Helen orders first, offering a kind smile to the older woman.

She’s so trusting, he thinks, and that terrifies him.

“And you, hon?” She asks John.

“The southwestern hash.” He pushes his and Helen’s menus across the table and the waitress takes them, eyeing him.

Was the waitress a part of the Underworld? A spy for people leaving New York?

Had he made a mistake by choosing some place only a few hours out from the city?

But she turns and walks away.

Everything else has him on edge.

He acknowledges that he’s paranoid as he picks up his coffee and swallows it down. The burning almost helps to alleviate the frustration.

Over the course of the weekend, he’d lost her. He’d lost the woman he loved to an unknown enemy; had clung to the idea of finding her to keep him going. And Helen had managed to save herself. And things weren’t fixed by getting her to safety, but they were better.

And now, DeLuca was pulling this new shit.

While most of the older, more disciplined assassins were smart enough not to go up against him, he wasn’t naïve to think others wouldn’t come.

He had been a young, stupid assassin once, after all.

He’d made his share of stupid decisions trying to make a name for himself.

And what better way to make a name for one’s self than to go up against a renowned assassin?

He remembered his training well.

The Director had beaten it into their heads: it only takes one bullet.

One well-aimed bullet, one perfect blow with a knife and even the best would fall.

John would die for Helen, happily, a thousand times over. But things were fucked and dying for her wouldn’t be enough to keep her safe with a bounty on her head.

And he didn’t know where DeLuca was.

He didn’t know what it would take to remove the bounty and—

Her hand lands on his thigh and he nearly drops the coffee mug in his hand. Quickly, he sets it down, glancing over to her.

Her hand is on his thigh.

Fuck.

“Tell me five things you can see.” She says and he knows better than to ask questions when she’s using that sort of tone.

He blinks, swallowing as he looks around, “Uh, there are thirteen people in this room, aside from us. There’s the exit sign. A clock. An old license plate on the wall. And you.”

“Four things you can feel.”

“The seat we’re on. The scratch of denim. The air circulating. Your hand.” He tries to keep his voice from breaking at the last. Her hand is on his thigh.

“Three things you can hear.”

He listens, intently. “Murmur of conversation. The sounds from the kitchen. Coffee being poured.”

He can tell what she is doing. Simultaneously distracting him from his paranoia and grounding him in the moment.

“Two things you can smell.”

John breathes in and stutters on the exhale. There are many scents in the diner that he can distinguish, but none more powerful than her. Bathed in his shampoo, his body wash from her shower. She smells like he does and it makes his head go a little fuzzy when he thinks too much about it.

He swallows, deciding he is not going to say that. “Uh, I smell the grease from the kitchen. And my coffee.”

“And one thing you can taste.”

“The coffee.” He says, before he can start to think of what he wants to taste.

“Good,” Helen praises and she squeezes his thigh, “Are you with me?”

“I’m here.” He wonders if he’s flushed.

Helen had, once again, pulled him out of his head. Stopped him from going down a darker path and it wasn’t right, he thinks, that Helen is having to calm him down.

“Are you?” She asks, raising her hand from his lap up to his face. She cups his jaw and turns his head to face hers, “Because you look like you’re still lost in your head.”

“I’m sorr—”

“Don’t be. You have no reason to be sorry, John.”

He doesn’t deserve her. Not her love, not her friendship. Not even her help. She’s too good for him, but now, neither of them have a choice. He got her into this mess and now she won’t survive without him.

“This is my fault.”

“I’m not exactly blameless, John.” She removes her hand and he immediately mourns the loss of her touch, “I kept you on as a client even after knowing what you do. I knew you were sneaking into my house at night and I didn’t do anything to stop your or dissuade you. I’m positive that I don’t have the best security at my house.”

“It’s not the same th—"

“John.” She interrupts him again, “Look, we can go back and forth for eternity about where the blame goes. But it’s not going to do us any good because, ultimately, it lies with DeLuca.”

Helen pauses, giving him a moment to ingest what she has just said, before she adds, “I know you’re not used to being scared. And I know it feels like a lifetime since things have been out of your control. But everything is going to be okay.”

“You can’t know that.”

“I can. Because no matter what happens, no matter what horrors and traumas we face, no matter what loss we experience, we still get up in the morning. We figure things out, we adjust our tactics, and we do what we have to.”

He almost believes her but his fear lingers.

He offers a small smile, “Is that how you managed to stay so calm when DeLuca had you?”

She smiles back, adding teasingly, “I figured you’d be stressed enough for the both of us.”

John relaxes his posture, still on guard but no longer feeling fight or flight instincts that had been drowning him since their arrival.

Their waitress walks over and Helen calmly smiles, thanking her as they’re passed their dinners.

John waits until the waitress has gone to respond, “I’ve had missions go south, but not being able to find you, not knowing who had you…” he shakes his head.

“You crave control.” Helen says understandingly, “With your life, in general, of course. But primarily, over your emotions. So you ignore them until something sends you into overdrive.”

“What’s the solution there?”

She reaches over with her fork and snatches a bit of hash from his plate, “No easy fixes, unfortunately. We’ve already talked about rational verse irrational thoughts. The next step would be directly talking about your reactive attachment but I don’t think you’re fully ready to address that.” Helen tells him as she pops it into her mouth.

“What the fuck is reactive attachment?”

She swallows, “One day, I’ll let you read your file.” She takes a sip of her water, “Okay, attachment crash course: attachment is, basically, the bond that develops from person to person. It starts when you’re a baby and the relationships that you have in your early years tend to be large indicators for the rest of your life.

“Babies have needs that have to be met: being clothed, being fed, changed, and cuddled. When these needs are met by a consistent caregiver, babies start to develop trust. They can recognize their caregiver, they feel secure in knowing that, even if their person leaves them, they’ll come back.

“But, these needs aren’t always met. And, when kids don’t form secure attachments, it effects their relationships growing up. If not addressed and treated early, it transitions into adulthood.”

John couldn’t remember that far back but he still remembered the tribe. The orphans were taken care of. They weren’t abandoned but they sure as hell hadn’t been loved, either. He remembered, not too long before he was sent to live under the Director’s care, being in the orphanage and telling one of the little ones to stop crying.

Nobody cared.

It was best to learn that lesson early than to waste tears on someone who would never come.

“And what does that look like?” John asks.

“Being withdrawn from social interaction; not asking for help when you need it because you don’t trust anyone to come through for you; feeling like you don’t understand the world around you, like everyone else is in on something that must have skipped you; not seeking comfort; avoidant behaviors; a tendency to shy away from intimate relationships.”

John exhales a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. “Jesus.”

“When kids with RAD—reactive attachment disorder—start to form connections, they typically go one of two ways. There’s the disinhibited, where the kid with RAD ends up becoming overly emotional. They search for affection in anybody who pays them the slightest bit of attention.”

That didn’t exactly describe John so she continued, “There’s also inhibited. Those kids avoid any emotional bond, they reject kindness and relationships because they don’t trust it. Even if a kid likes someone, they eventually reject them before they can be rejected.”

John swallows. Just that morning, he had been thinking about how to disentangle himself from Helen. He had justified it by telling himself it was to protect her. From him, from his enemies.

But Helen was still there; still sitting by his side. Still trusting him with her life despite everything.

“When kids with RAD grow up, relationships—even friendships are strained. There’s a fundamental lack of trust that’s based in fear. You avoid close relationships; avoid personal relationships, period.”

“I didn’t avoid you.”

She inclines her head, “Yeah, well…” She takes another bite of her dinner.

“Well, what?” He’s almost afraid of the answer with the look she’s giving him.

“It isn’t unusual for someone with RAD to over-attach themselves to one or two people in particular. Those relationships tend to be a bit obsessive.”

And now, he needs a drink. He preferred to savor bourbon, but he was ready to down a bottle to avoid this particular conversation again.

He can’t help but wonder if she knows just how far his obsession for her goes. If he told her he loved her, would she say that she already knows? After all, she knows everything else about him. Or would she smile sadly, empathetically, and tell him that she cared for him, but not like that?

He wasn’t sure which would be worse.

John had accepted a long time ago that he would love her forever. That he would never feel for another what he felt for her.

A part of him is… almost angry. He loves her but it isn’t because of his trauma.

She’s kind and good and so damn empathetic. But she’s more than that. She’s clever and unyielding. Smart and funny and so damn beautiful, inside and out.

And he isn’t sure he can give a reason why he loves her but he doesn’t want his feelings for her, his obsession, his love for her to be tainted by the abuse he had suffered.

“I don’t want to be defined by that trauma.” It slips out before he can think better of it but Helen takes his words in her gentle way. Her head tilts to the side.

“Do you feel like you are?”

“Sometimes. At least, that I’m a product of it.”

Helen nods, thoughtfully, “You are… distinguished by your trauma. It has shaped you, just like every other experience you have been through, you are changed by it. But you are far more than the sum of your past, John.”

John shakes his head, “The things I feel… they’re not normal.”

Again, her little hand finds his, resting atop the back of his hand. She squeezes in comfort.

“That doesn’t mean they’re not real.”

Ultimately, John thinks, he’s still fucked in the head.

But it’s a little easier to live with that fact with Helen at his side.

[wildroseofarran]

Plans for the Future || Captain Issott

Leslie: Leslie dropped another shell in his pocket. Quite a handful after an hour of strolling the beach. Calves and feet hidden behind perfect white sand. His nose was tender but ignored. Another shell gently cleaned and inspected.

Every offense to Regina Lawson was replayed. It was the little things. Forgetting to eat, dismissive of his own meditation. Irritability from his circumstances causing less than pleasant passes. A sharp look. A sigh. A forced smile. Pebbles became mountains. The man he was, was still the man walking the beach.

'The old me is gone,' people say in these situations. A ridiculous notion. People could improve, worsen, but they were the sum of their parts. He could smile now, sober, with the same kind intentions he was raised by, but Gina would forever carry every part of his sum.

Another shell for his pocket. Better to wait today.

Tristan: "You're gonna have me working like a dog, you know that?"

"Blame the mother-in-law for talking them into five courses!" Gina shook her head and handed Tristan a large bag.

Tristan took it and willed his stomach not to growl at the scent wafting from it. "Oh, I do. Gonna charge her out the ass."

Gina laughed. "So am I. Go on and eat that before it gets cold. I'll email you the purchase order."

"'Kay, thanks. See you soon."

Tristan emerged from the inn and immediately scanned the beach for Leslie, feeling decidedly cheerful despite the long hours of work in his future.

He was going to buy Les so many presents.

Leslie: Leslie was but a blond and blue speck in the distance. Rolled up jeans, shoeless, and nearly shirtless. His blue flannel mostly unbuttoned and arguing with the wind. Certainly not suitable for a luncheon. On purpose, of course, to better drive home how unsuitable he was to be there.

Tristan: Not just any speck; that was his speck. And maybe it was the romantic in him, but Tristan swore his eyes went right to Leslie with almost magical speed and accuracy.

He made his way over, stopping only once to pick up a piece of sea glass.

"Hey, sunshine," he called when Leslie was in earshot.

Leslie: A smile to mimic his namesake was given in greeting.

"I've found you a bounty!" he called. Turned to close the distance between them. Various cockle and murex on offer. More coquina than necessary.

Tristan: God, that smile was a beautiful punch to the gut.

"Look at you!" Leslie was greeted with a kiss the second he was close enough. "My fish tanks are gonna look so good."

Leslie: "How did it go?" he asked. Pocketed his findings and began setting himself to rights.

Tristan: “Got the gig and also a king’s ransom of work. Five course meal for one hundred and fifty people.”

Leslie: "All seafood? Really?" Color him impressed.

Tristan: “Only three of them, unless they decide to put fish in the dessert and the salad.”

Leslie: "Shrimp in a salad is delicious, I'll have you know. Scallops are better." Seafood dessert? The idea put a cringe on his face.

"A customer once tried to convince me shrimp and white chocolate go together."

Tristan: Tristan made a face of pure disgust. "Ew, no. It was a tourist, wasn't it?"

Leslie: "One of the first when I started with Myrtle."

Tristan: He shook his head. "That's some nonsense only someone who didn't grow up eating seafood would like."

Leslie: "I can't say I've heard worse."

Tristan: "I don't think anyone has, honestly." Taste couldn't get much worse than mixing seafood and white chocolate.

He held up the bag. "Hungry, sugar pie?"

Leslie: Leslie looked from the bag to Tristan. "Did you actually eat lunch or ...?"

Tristan: "Nope, got us lunch to go. Baked cod, salad, and some bread."

Leslie: "Tristie." He could just manage to sound disappointed. Baked cod sounded absolutely delicious.

Tristan: "Hey, it still counts as a lunch meeting if lunch is involved in some way. Besides, this way I get to eat with you."

Leslie: That sigh through his nose was of utter disapproval. He would have to make himself scarce next time.

"Where do you want to eat?"

Tristan: A kiss to the cheek was offered in apology. Leslie didn't have to say a word; that sigh said it for him.

"Anywhere you want, sweetheart. I can grab the blanket I've got in my truck and we can have a picnic or we could go home or to the square. The town is your oyster."

Leslie: He felt the kiss for its worth. His mind was made up, but this was no hill to die on.

"Somewhere with good light. I have something to show you on my phone. Preferably a laptop. Home, then?"

Tristan: Tristan nodded. "Home it is. Your place or mine?"

Leslie: "Yours is closer. Mine is what I want to talk about."

Tristan: “Oh yeah? Well now I’m intrigued,” said Tristan, holding his free hand out to Leslie.

Leslie: The offer was taken and brought to his lips. A few playful bites to follow.

Tristan: He chuckled and tugged Leslie closer to kiss him.

"I better get you fed before you start eating me."

Leslie: "You'll taste like seafood, too. When was the last time you had a land mammal?"

Tristan: "Couple days ago. I was craving a hotdog like you wouldn't believe."

Leslie: "That's not mammal. That's an abomination."

Tristan: "It's beef! The proper hot dog way!"

Leslie: "There's enough sodium to kill a horse - that it's probably made of anyway."

Tristan: “Come on now, don’t ruin hotdogs. They are good wholesome junk food made of cows and not horses.”

Leslie: "Keep telling yourself that, love."

Tristan: "I will." Have another kiss. "All right, baby, let's go home."

Leslie: "I'll drive." Announced while climbing into the driver's seat.

Tristan: “Ain’t gotta tell me twice,” said Tristan, sliding into the passenger’s seat and handing over the keys.

“You know what we need? A hammock.”

Leslie: "Where are we gonna buy one out here?"

Tristan: “That I don’t know. Think Home Depot sells them?”

Leslie: "Are we going to Home Depot?"

Tristan: “Nah, not today. But it’s been on my mind. The weather we’ve been having makes me wanna nap outside with you.”

Leslie: "We'll have to look into it, then."

Tristan: “Hell yeah.”

Tristan spent the ride home sharing more of the details of his meeting with Leslie. It was the biggest contract he’d gotten in a while; enough to put some money where it was needed and have some leftover for a decent bonus.

Leslie: Talk of money with Tristan. Little slaps of reality. Not entirely sure of his decisions. A lingering ailment of his past.

"How many investors do you have?"

Tristan: "Just the one. I've had a few really great years, the Adrianna is in beautiful shape. Business is good."

Leslie: "Would you be uncomfortable with my contributing?"

Tristan: He smiled. "You wanna invest in my fishing business?"

Leslie: "I do, but I don't want any say in what you do."

Tristan: "What percentage would you like?"

Leslie: "This is so much easier on Robinhood."

Tristan: Tristan chuckled. "You don't want a percentage? Can I tempt you with a small token at the end of my fiscal year?"

Leslie: Leslie put his best effort into a sober tone. One difficult to do in Tristan's presence. Not unlike their first night together. "I don't want you to feel like I have something over you, in the future."

Tristan: "Les, come on. I know that's not who you are. If I thought for a second that you were offering for any reason other than genuinely helping me, I wouldn't accept. And I know you wouldn't offer for any other reason."

Leslie: Softly he sighed. "How about we... we touch base on the subject again after what I have to tell you when we're home."

Tristan: "Okay, baby, that's fine. Kinda making me a little nervous." Was Leslie about to tell him some heavy life-altering thing? Had something awful happened?

Leslie: Tristan's tone told him to take his hand and give a mighty squeeze. "Get out of your head. It's not like that."

Tristan: He squeezed back. "You sure? I'm getting a capital 's' Serious feeling."

Leslie: "You think I'd be holding your hand right now if I planned something like that?"

Tristan: “I don’t know.” He smiled. “You could be about to tell me my face turned blue and ugly in the middle of the night and you’re trying to soften the blow.”

Leslie: "I know I tease, but you should know me better than that. I'd tell you your face is blue immediately," he grinned.

Tristan: “Awww, thank you, babydoll.” He brought Leslie’s hand to his lips. “Did you know I love you?”

Leslie: "No fucking idea! Holy shit, really?"

Tristan: “Really really. Crazy, I know.”

Leslie: "I know there is a balance, and things will happen the way they are meant to, and Fate only has one eye, but I'm still stumped at the two of us."

Tristan: “At how it took us so long and how we managed to end up here?”

Leslie: "Mhm."

Tristan: “Well, things slow down when you’ve only got one eye that you have to share with your sisters.”

Leslie: "Could also just say we're idiots."

Tristan: “Yeah, that too,” he chuckled.

Leslie: Leslie pulled into the driveway and cut the engine. Keys tossed between hands as he stared out the window.

Tristan: "Talk to me about what's going on in that head, doll."

Leslie: "Your nervousness has rubbed off on me."

Tristan: "Sorry about that. Mama always said I emoted a lot."

Leslie: "You emote all you want."

Tristan: Tristan leaned over and kissed Leslie's cheek. "Come on, let's have some lunch."

Leslie: "Right." Tristan was helped inside. Locking the truck with the fob before shutting the front door and tossing the keys on the nearest table.

"Where's your laptop?"

Tristan: He set the food down in the kitchen and set about gathering bowls and forks.

"It iiiiiis.....on the bed. Should be charged and ready to go."

Leslie: He returned with the laptop and a lack of shirt. The results of his beach stroll apparent on his shoulders and chest.

"Alright. I'll pull up what I wanted to talk about. I want your honesty. That's all I want."

Tristan: "If honesty is what you want, then I'm here to give it to you." He started plating their meal. "Lay it on me."

Leslie: Pictures were downloaded from his email and minimized. Leslie leaned back in his seat and itched at his burn.

"A lot of love went into my house, but," deep breath, "I'm...thinking about tearing it down and expanding. But the thing is...I..."

Tristan: Tristan walked over, gesturing with a bowl. "Hey, hey, hey, leave that sunburn alone. I'll slather it in aloe here in a bit."

He leaned in to look at the laptop, only to lean back out in surprise. Not any negative surprise either. "You wanna expand? That's great!" He gestured again. "What's that hesitation for? Don't know how big you wanna go?"

Leslie: A song Tristan had sung before. Funny, he couldn't recall Oliver getting similar treatment. Another sign he should have noticed.

"It'll be healed by tomorrow." He could invest a conscious effort, but he simply didn't want to.

"No. Not that. Clive's had some blueprints in mind the moment he saw my place. It's just deciding between them. But...these weren't drawn with anyone else in mind. I don't...know...what kind of future I'm going to have and how many people should be included."

Tristan: That didn’t mean Leslie couldn’t be comfortable until then, but there were bigger fish to fry at the moment.

Very significant and important fish.

Tristan took a seat beside Leslie and reached for one of his hands. “And you want to know if now that we’re here, they should be revisited, right?”

Leslie: Tristan could have one of his hands. The other to fidget beneath the table.

"We've only just started. I don't want you to feel pressured into anything about the house, or why I want this. But the thing is... It feels wrong to move forward without your input. If why I want this, if any of it is too much, I won't - I won't guilt you into being with me. I won't do anything like that. I promise. We have to have the same vision and I don't know if we have the same vision. I'm just... verbal diarrhea right now. Sorry! You know that Charles - my friend you met with the locked chest, that Charles - runs a school for gifted children. Gifted like... me, kind of gifted. But not me. They call themselves mutants. There are these two girls. Ruby and Ester. They... They don't have family..."

Tristan: A soft smile played at Tristan's lips as he listened. He didn't mind the wave of words and thoughts; he wanted to know, wanted to understand, wanted to have the full picture in front of him. He liked to think he and Leslie were open books for each other, and that made conversations like this matter all the more.

"We have only just started, but when you think about it, we also haven't. Yeah it took us a while to get to this exact spot, but we've been with each other for years. I don't know, maybe it's me being a romantic or me being idealistic, but I've let my mind go to that place. To the wedding bells and the house and the kids running around. Not to say I want the bells right the hell now, I would never push that on you or pressure you.

"But I've always been able to see us take those kinds of big steps." He kissed Leslie's knuckles. "The way I grew up made me wanna have kids. My mom made me wanna have kids. For me it was never an if, it was always a when, and I'd like that when to be with you. It feels right that it's you. Right and good.

"Tell me about Ruby and Ester."

Leslie: "It does sound romantic. I love romance, I do, but I also know... this house... " Leslie waved his free hand. "This didn't happen in a day. I remember all the times you went on and on about projects. Here I'm talking about a new house. Children."

Swallowing, determined to push the conversation as Tristan encouraged.

"They're made of rubies and diamonds. They're hungry for knowledge. Not just about what I can do, but everything. Just touching on a subject they don't know, they dive into it. Ruby especially. She's fiercely protective. Ester is nurturing. They've been through so much. I'm... I'm scared. I've wanted to be a father for years, but I don't know how to - where to begin this."

Tristan: Now that took Tristan aback. Not the children themselves, no, it wasn't that.

"Rubies and diamonds? Actual rubies and diamonds that people make jewelry with? And they call that a mutation?" He gave a breathless chuckle and shook his head. "That's so much more. That's something bordering on ethereal and...divine. Two protective and nurturing little girls should know nothing but nurturing and protection.

"And I can't think of anyone better suited for that than you. No one knows how to be a parent until they are one. Mama says she became a parent the day she decided to keep me. I think that once you make that choice, that's it. You're a parent."

Leslie: "Charles is... apprehensive of their learning witchcraft. I tried to explain that a good education is better than delving into something way over their head because they have no one. We all were raised with guidance. If a witch is determined to go down that road, they will, no matter the cleared path in front of them, but -"

Leslie closed his eyes. Well aware of how he must look. His usual confidence, impressive even by his perspective, had receded like a tide.

"The end of the day, they have to want me to be their father. By the time the house is done, they might not. I might just be a novelty to them. And Charles... Charles could say no. He has the final say. I can state my case, but I'm not going to fight him. And also, none of this is going to happen if you don't want it to."

Tristan: "I don't know your friend Charles all that well, but it...surprises me that he can have two kids in his care made of precious stones and be apprehensive of witchcraft. From what you've told me, it's not even something--I don't know, unnatural? that they'd be diving into. It's in them already, in everyone."

While Leslie's eyes were closed, Tristan leaned in and pressed a kiss to his forehead. It was hard to miss that shaky confidence, and even harder to miss the reason.

"Leslie Issott, you could never be just a novelty to anybody. Not to me, not to those kids, not to anyone. I am in this with you. I want this with you. If Charles says no, it'll be to both of us, after we've made our case."

Leslie: That was precisely the point Leslie wanted to make for anyone interested in the craft. And Tristan just said it. Just accepted it. Damn near rendered his witch speechless. Only finding his voice after the press of lips to his skin.

"Y-Yeah. Exactly." Eyes slowly opened. "Are you sure? Tristie, I want you to be sure you mean what you say."

Tristan: Leslie would see a brilliantly smiling Tristan looking back at him. “There is nothing in my life I’ve been more sure of than you. I want to build a home and a family with you.”

Leslie: A deep breath later, Leslie nodded. Something felt off, but he couldn't put his finger on what. This was what he wanted to hear, but something felt missing. What that was, he couldn't see. Beyond a fog and just out of reach.

But he would smile anyway. "Want me to show you the blueprints?"

Tristan: Tristan kissed his witch's cheeks. This was only the first of many conversations they would probably end up having on the subject, he was certain. And that was exactly the way it should be. One conversation simply wasn't enough when you were talking about your future together with someone.

"Show them to me while we eat. Our stomachs and your blood sugar are going to start complaining at us here in a bit."

Leslie: "You mean my blood sugar," he smirked.

Tristan: “That’s what I said, you beautiful man.” Have more kisses to your face. “What do you want to drink?”

Leslie: "Thought you said our," he laughed as he was kissed. "Just water. I think I had the last of the tea."

Tristan: That laugh would never not be absolute music to his ears. It made him want to shower Leslie with more kisses and affection but he'd save that for later.

For now he got both of them some water and settled in to look at blueprints.

"All right, sweetheart, show me your vision."

Leslie: Sometimes all those affectionate names could be overwhelming. He knew they came from a place of honesty. The look in Tristan's eyes, it was impossible to think otherwise. But still, sometimes, he caught himself wondering if this was Callum's work. Leading a man on and dropping him. Those dropped pieces were delicate. He really did not like that druid.

But the witch just smiled, pulling up blueprints for two designs his father had drawn. A larger A-frame than his current model, and something a little more contemporary for the area. Larger ceilings versus a more intimate feel.

Tristan: Tristan took a bite of his salad and took a good look at the design, unaware of Leslie's thoughts and worries. Had he known them, he would've done his best to lay them to rest. The last thing he wanted was for his slew of nicknames to seem like they came from a place of overcompensation or some sort of residual issue. They came purely from fondness.

"I really like all the windows and that it's still an A frame. The upstairs, too. All that storage space."

Leslie: "I could flip a coin and live in either. I'm partial, but no one can beat these designs. I want a large kitchen. Maybe culinary lessons in the future. Private chef will only go so far in this town. So, classes."

Tristan: "I really like the porch on the one with the bigger kitchen, and the part that's screened in."

Tristan smiled. "You'd make a great cooking teacher, and private chef, and caterer. You could do it all."

Leslie: "But which kitchen, which house would best give me that?"

Tristan: “The bigger one that’s not an A frame, I think.”

Leslie: "Can you see yourself there?"

Tristan: “Maybe I’m biased because I live somewhere with a screened patio/porch area and I really like it, but yeah. I totally can. And look at that huge deck. You could grow so many magic plants on that deck. And I can get us some Adirondack chairs and we can sit out there in the evenings.”

Leslie: "I'll give it some more thought, but I'll let you know what I choose." Leslie stared at the screen for some time. "But..."

Tristan: “Honestly, whichever you choose will be amazing. They’re both great designs.”

Tristan turned back to Leslie. “...But?” he prompted softly.

Leslie: "Is this supposed to be only my decision? Do you want to live with me? See my craft day in and out? It's more than just herbs and playing with pixies."

Tristan: “I don’t know, yes, and yes.” He set his plate aside. “Part of me thinks that since you bought this house, your opinion holds more weight than mine. I do want to live with you. I want to wake up to you and fall asleep with you and see your magic and learn more about it and about you through it. I want to understand it all, not just the herbs and playing with pixies.

“Do you want to live with me?”

Leslie: "But that would mean," Leslie looked around Tristan's home. "That would mean the end of this, wouldn't it? I feel like one of Peter Pan's lost boys. Asking us to live together means growing up in a way I don't know if I'm ready for."

The laptop was closed.

"I want to live with you. But I think, first, I need to... do some things."

Tristan: Tristan mimicked Leslie and looked around at his furniture and trinkets. “This being my house? It is definitely a grown-up thing to do, moving in with your boyfriend, but it’s not an end. Well, it’s an end to living alone but it’s also a beginning.”

Still, he nodded. “You do what you have to, Les. We’re not on a deadline, there’s no rush. But if it would help, maybe we could do a trial run?”

Leslie: "A trial run, as in, my being here?"

Tristan: “Yeah, or my being at your house. Why don’t we live together for a couple weeks, see how we feel?”

Leslie: Leslie took a breath. "What would you say to, a counteroffer?"

Tristan: “Lay it on me.”

Leslie: "While the house is built, I live with you?"

Tristan: He smiled. “Works for me. Work for you?”

Leslie: "The house with the largest kitchen, can you see yourself there?"

Tristan: “I’m already in it putting our chairs on the deck and hanging up those cool backyard string lights like you see in magazines.”

Leslie: "All of your shells, your fish?"

Tristan: “How you do feel about living with fish, shells, nautical antiques, and the occasional rehabilitated hermit crab?”

Leslie: "As well as I hope you'll feel with spell books, dried herbs, and a record player."

Tristan: "I feel pretty good about spell books, herbs, and a record player. Got a ton of records from my mama we can play."

Leslie: His smile bloomed. "Will you have me for however long it takes?"

Tristan: "However long and then some."

Leslie: Leslie brought himself to his feet and into Tristan's arms. "I'll start putting things in storage, then."

Tristan: He was immediately embraced and kissed on his forehead.

“Let me know any way I can help. And also the best place for Opal’s cage.”

Leslie: "Maybe out there?" Tristan's face was held in both hands, given several kisses across the forehead and down the nose.

Tristan: Tristan smiled and closed his eyes, basking in the affection. “Out in the patio? She can have the fish as roommates.”

Leslie: "She might try n'eat the fish. We gotta find a way to keep her out."

Tristan: “The tank out there has a top that goes to it, just have to put it on. And the one by the stairs is covered all the time so the fish should be safe.”

Leslie: "I know I'm gorgeous and irresistible and fun at parties, but do you really, really want me day in and day out for what could be a year?"

Tristan: Tristan nodded. “You sure are and I definitely do. I want you in my bed all the time, to fall asleep to you and wake up to you.”

Leslie: Sounds better than a proposal. "I'm whelmed just the right amount right now. Kiss me?"

Tristan: “The perfect amount of whelmed, huh?” Tristan leaned in to kiss those beautiful lips. “I’m glad.”

Leslie: "Just right. Suffocating in happiness. Up to my ears in elation," he grinned.

Tristan: He laughed and kissed all over Leslie's face. "I'm even more glad. Hell, I'm friggin' delighted." One more kiss for good measure.

"Eat your food. Gotta nourish that beautiful body."

Leslie: "But what if I'd rather ravish your body?"

Tristan: "Far be it from me to stop you, but your blood sugar definitely will."

Leslie: "Thirty minutes? I'll survive thirty long luxurious minutes with you."

Tristan: "Okay, thirty minutes. I'm setting a timer though, to keep us both honest."

Leslie: "Timed sex? Sounds sterile."

A knowing smile his only tell, before lifting Tristan into his arms.

"How about that? Hmm?" To hell with a bedroom. The nearest cushioned surface would do.

Tristan: "I'd rather sterile than--oop!" A rather squeaky sound of surprise escaped Tristan as he was scooped up and carried to the couch, followed by an equally surprised laugh.

"You got me! Whatcha gonna do with me, oh mighty sexy witch?"

Leslie: There was something satisfying to carrying the man determined to haul him this where and that for the past months. He would be placed on the couch with a little more care than his lift. A witch between his legs, on his knees. Hands on either side.

"Do you mind if I do whatever I want?"

Tristan: Satisfying for them both. Tristan hummed and stretched as luxuriously as a cat, looking up at Leslie with a soft, adoring smile.

"I don't mind one bit. I'm all yours to do with whatever you will."

Leslie: "Whatever I will?" Tristan's shirt was slowly lifted, revealing a stomach worth kissing. "Are you sure?"

Tristan: He nodded. “I’m sure, baby. I trust you.”

Leslie: Please protect this beautiful body and mind and spirit, whispered against his skin. His prayer was safe and mysterious in Portuguese. His little secret. Kisses roamed from one side to the other. Buttons slowly undone for further blessed exploration.

Tristan: Tristan looked curiously at Leslie, wondering what language he was speaking but loath to interrupt. He could always ask later.

At the moment he was content to be loved on and explored, to let one of his hands play with Leslie's hair.

And if Leslie wanted to slide his jeans down, well Tristan would oblige that, too.

Leslie: He was going to enjoy every stage of undress. Socks, jeans, underwear, all pooled to his side and forgotten. The last was done sacredly, sliding hands underneath Tristan's shirt, slow in their climb over his ribs and encouraging the lift of his arms to do away with the final bit of barrier.

Tristan: He hardly needed any encouragement at all. He happily stretched his arms above his head so Leslie could finish undressing him, all the while growing more and more curious about what his boyfriend planned to do with his naked sailor.

"Want me to take my hair down?" Tristan whispered. It seemed like the right thing to do.

Leslie: "Absolutely down," he smiled. "Do you want me naked?"

Tristan: Tristan reached around to take the various ties out of his hair. "Every hour god sends, baby doll."

Leslie: His hands were taken, brought to the hem of Leslie's shirt. His smile unshakeable.

Tristan: "I get to do it?" Tristan sat up, smile matching Leslie's as he did away with his shirt. "Lucky me."

Leslie: "Luck does many things. Maybe luck brought me to a little fishing town."

But enough of that. Tristan's hands were returned to himself. Just a moment of tease. Keep those hands to yourself while I kiss your swollen needy body.

Tristan: "Maybe it did. And if it did, I'm grateful for it every single day."

Any protest Tristan had at being stopped in the middle of undressing Leslie died on his lips as those kisses touched his skin.

Tristan reached for him, suddenly needy for those kisses everywhere.

Leslie: A gentle protesting noise answered Tristan's wanting touch. He turned his head to find the wandering hand, kissed his palm. "Keep your hands to yourself, Tristie."

Tristan: “Aw, but you’re so pretty and half naked and touchable.”

Leslie: "Tell me more." While I kiss where you want most.

His warm tongue traced the shape, down the length to nuzzle his scrotum.

Tristan: "You're--mmmmm....." Tristan's back arched off the couch in pure pleasure, eyes closing of their own accord as sensation washed over him. He could swear he felt all the blood in his body rushing through his veins to pool between his legs and harden him nearly to the point of ache. It was pure hell not being able to reach for him.

Leslie was perfect, is what he was, and as soon as some of the blood rushed back to Tristan's head, he'd make sure to tell him that.

Leslie: Saying more than words could manage. He took him and swallowed, popped him from his mouth and went again. Down to his scrotum and back for more. This was deliberate sweet torment. An appetizer.

"Lube, baby?"

Tristan: Tristan's back arched again as a ragged moan was torn from somewhere in his chest. Maybe from his soul. He couldn't quite tell when his brain was leaking out his ears. All he knew was that the heat between his legs was spreading throughout his body and making that needy ache better and making it worse all at once.

"Uh...um...." He gestured toward where he thought the bathroom was. "Cabinet."

Leslie: "I want you ready for me by the time I get back." Back on his feet, shedding the last of his clothes for Tristan's viewing pleasure. Slowly and deliberate as his tongue. His briefs were tossed onto Tristan's lap before strolling to the bathroom.

Tristan: Leslie's departure was met with a mighty groan of protest, which was easily soothed as his witch finished getting naked. Viewing pleasure didn't even begin to cover it; it was pure torture of the best kind.

"M'ready for you now," he called after Leslie, tossing the briefs aside and stretching luxuriously. Everything was throbbing and begging for relief. "Come back, baby doll. I miss youuuuuu..."

Leslie: Leslie would be heard laughing from the bathroom. A quick swish of Listerine and a bottle of lube later he returned to straddle Tristan's lap, offering minty lips as he slicked two fingers for prep.

"Are you allowed to say you miss me? Dunno if you should."

Tristan: Tristan greeted Leslie with a slow grin, pulling him in for a kiss the second he was within reach. "Aw, come on. I'm already not allowed to touch you. Have mercy on a poor weak sailor."

Leslie: "Hmm." Lubrication was warmed in his hand, stroked over Tristan's tumescent cock.

"We need more condoms." Not for any other reason than textural pleasure. "Ready for me?"

Tristan: It felt like his whole body breathed a sigh of relief at Leslie's touch, even if it was short-lived. His shaft damn near twitched in a silent plea for more.

"I'm ready," he said with a vigorous nod. They could get condoms later. It was still afternoon right? Was he saying all this out loud? He couldn't tell with his blood roaring in his ears.

Leslie: The air left his lungs as he sank into Tristan's lap. That familiar wave of heat ascending to his chest, leaving a void preventing another breath. His first intake of breath was against Tristan's lips. Holding his face in both hands as he moaned with relief.

Tristan: Tormented relief. That's exactly how it felt being inside Leslie, how it felt having him exactly where he wanted him. He had to take a deep breath while he let himself adjust to the wet heat, tiny panting moans spilling from his lips. No matter how slowly his witch got into position, it was always a shock to his system in the best possible way. Had to be the magic.

"Les...Les...."

Leslie: Fingers pushed into Tristan's luxurious hair. Squeezed and made a bun with the tangles of his fists. Rather than bounce, he rolled himself forward and back, grunting softly cheek-to-cheek.

"Fuck me, Tristie. Touch me now."

Tristan: Tristan's hands were on Leslie before he could finish his sentence. They swept over his witch's body from shoulders to perfect ass and back again, all while his hips began a rolling rhythm of their own.

His lips would be just as busy, lavishing every bit of Leslie they could reach with affection. You'd think Tristan had gone weeks without touching and kissing him instead of a few minutes.

Leslie: Leslie leaned forward, giving Tristan ample freedom to thrust himself upwards at a rhythm worthy enough to jostle his senses. He clung to his head and offered his mouth, his tongue, and his desperate noises to their kiss.

Tristan: Calling his movements a rhythm was perhaps a bit too generous, but what Tristan lacked in finesse he made up for in enthusiasm.

There would be other occasions for savoring, for lingering, for teasing. On this moment on this occasion, all Tristan wanted was more of those gorgeous, needy little noises. Leslie was the center of the universe and the only thing that mattered was bringing him to orgasm; Tristan didn't have the presence of mind for anything else.

Leslie: This was a desperate cling, and he could feel the beginning stages of sweat. He had to let go of that hair and help himself, but he couldn't. Not yet. Just a few more rolls of his hips. One more rise to the very edge and down to the hilt and his sanity.

"Can you jerk me off?" Finally releasing Tristan's hair, he leaned himself back in his living seat. Both hands squeezed Tristan's knees as he braced himself.

Tristan: Leslie didn't have to ask. Tristan was already taking his witch in his hand, lovingly stroking Leslie's cock while his hips continued their desperate pace.

"That feel good, sweetheart? You're so fucking beautiful."

Leslie: A series of expletives escaped his chest. Not with or against his will. His mind too far north to care about fuck filling the room over and over again as he writhed, spilling hot white over his stomach and both their thighs.

And there it was. That post-orgasm laughter tightening his muscles. Head thrown back as he clung his hands to Tristan's knees.

"Cum for me, baby."

Tristan: The word fuck had never sounded better or more poetic.

Tristan gave a rumbling purr in approval, dragging Leslie down to take his lips again. He wanted the flavor of him making his head swim as he gave those final few thrusts and spilled inside him.

Leslie: Leslie shivered in Tristan's arms. Hugged around his neck and nuzzled into his hair. His thighs and cock were spent. Leaning dying weight into his lover's chest.

"I don't... even... remember what we were doing."

Tristan: Having Leslie lean his weight against him was what Tristan lived for. He loved it.

"Um..." He chuckled breathlessly and kissed Leslie's hair. "No fuckin' idea. I smell food though."

Leslie: "I want to eat everything in the house, but I'm so tired," he laughed.

Tristan: "You need to eat everything in the house. Blood sugar."

Leslie: "Five more minutes," he pleaded to those lips.

Tristan: "Three," Tristan countered with a teeny tiny kiss.

Leslie: "We won't know," he purred, eyes closing.

Tristan: "Mmm, you're right. Guess that means you better eat now," he said a grin.

Leslie: "Three minutes." It's already been one.

[therainroguefanfiction]

🔥 ℝise Ⱥbove I̾t ◈ Chapter 020 [Living Valley Online]

📑 Table of Contents | ◂Backward

Author’s Note: So, this was obviously inspired by the third ending, “Datte Atashi no Hiro” by LiSA. I love that ending and I thought it would be cool to explore that RPG side for a couple chapters! You can watch the clean version at the bottom of this page~

Word Count: 2,344

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〈“If you don’t like the way I talk, then why am I on your mind? If you don’t like the way I rock, then finish your glass of wine. We fight and we argue, you’ll still love me blind.” Dua Lipa, “Blow Your Mind (Mwah)”〉

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“She was… a villain?”

Toshi nodded, hanging his head. “Alissa grew up as an orphan on the streets. She became a mercenary at a young age in order to survive. As she grew up, she came to care less and less for the rules society tried to force upon her and so… she became a contract killer.”

“A mother fucking assassin…”

“Yes. Her quirk, ‘rogue’, made it an easy profession for her. She could use stealth at will, and she was well versed in all manner of poison and venom.”

“Holy fucknuggets,”

“I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to hate her. Alissa’s rough childhood shaped her into who she became because she had no one to guide her, to show her love. She was utterly alone in life, and she did the very best she could with the cards she had been given.”

“Her past was pretty bad, that’s true,” Aizawa interjected. “But everything she did was her own choice. She understood that better than anyone and she didn’t go around making excuses for her actions. She took responsibility for her poor life choices.”

“Alissa had already begun to turn her life around when I met her. Rather than continuing on as an assassin, she chose to become a bounty hunter instead.”

“Ain’t they the same thing?” I raised a brow.

“No, they’re not. Bounty hunters don’t kill their targets, they incapacitate them and hand them over to the police.” Toshi held up a finger as he explained. “She stopped killing people and started to attack only criminals that had done terrible acts of violence. Actually, that’s how we met. She saved my life from a group of villains when I was in my last year of middle school. Of course, I had heard all of the rumors surrounding Alissasears, but she was surprisingly kind to me. She made sure I was unharmed and safe before taking off. After that day, it was like fate had decided that we would continue to cross paths. And then…”

“She turned herself into the police,” Aizawa muttered. “It was all over the news for months how the police had finally apprehended the famed assassin.”

“But she became a hero, right?” My brow furrowed. “How’d that work?”

“She made a deal with the police commissioner. In exchange for her cooperation and testimony against several top villains that she had done jobs for, they would let her go free. She agreed to this, giving up multiple associates and old clients. Because of her actions, twenty-five top villains of the time were taken into custody, but… she was never free again after that. She was under constant surveillance by both cops and villains. No one trusted her. Just like that, she was completely isolated again.”

“So you weren’t kidding when you said she had a lot of enemies, huh?” I swallowed, leaning back a bit.

“No, I’m afraid not.” Toshi heaved a heavy sigh. “As far as most people are concerned, Alissasears ‘retired’ from being a hero because of the target on her back, but there are a few people that know the real reason behind it.”

“Which is?”

He lifted his hand, pointing a bony finger at my heart. “You, young Jen. When she became pregnant with you, her whole world took on a new meaning. She did her best to avoid the public eye, but with so many people watching her so intently, she knew that that could never happen. Not here, anyway.”

Aizawa humphed. “She kept what she was planning a secret from all of us. She didn’t trust anyone… except for this idiot.”

“Even then, she didn’t tell me everything. The day she tried to leave, for example. Alissa kept telling me that she was planning to make a break for a different world, but she never told me when she was going to leave. And then she tried to run.”

I scratched my cheek, my brain trying to process all of this new information. My head is really starting to hurt… “You told me before that she… uh, died in your arms… How’d you find her?”

“When she was heading for the meeting spot, she realized that the hero killer, Stain, was following her. She panicked… I’ll never forget getting that message from her. I was on the other side of town at the time, attempting to help save a group of women being held hostage. Maybe if I had left immediately instead of waiting, she…”

“Tch,” I leaned forward, flicking him hard between the eyes. He winced, blue eyes snapping to meet mine. “All these years and you’re blamin’ yourself, aye? Not cool, Toshi.”

He gave me a sad smile, nodding his head. “I have many regrets when it comes to her, but… the past is the past. There’s nothing I can do to change that.”

“Hmm, and you’re trying to make amends by taking care of me, huh?” I cocked a brow, folding my arms over my chest.

He jumped out of his seat in surprise, blood spurting from his mouth and onto the white blanket draped over Aizawa, who glared at him. “Of course not! I mean, in a way, I hope it makes up for my failures, but I genuinely do care about you, young Jen!”

“Calm your man tits, I was kidding.” I grinned.

Aizawa continued to glare at him, not that he noticed.

Toshi took me by the shoulders, his expression dead serious. “No matter what happens from here on out, I promise you, Jen, I won’t let the league of villains take you. I don’t know what they want from you, if it’s some sort of revenge or if they have other plans, but I won’t give them the chance.”

His sincerity caught me off guard. My grin softened to a smile as I pulled his hands from my shoulders. “I don’t need you to defend me ’cause I’m gonna get stronger. I’ll defend myself and everyone I care about. Let that blue-haired freak come for me. I’ll make him regret the day he was fucking born!”

Toshi smiled proudly, giving me a nod.

“You can both leave now,” Aizawa grunted. “And get me a clean blanket.”

“Oh yeah, that reminds me.” I rubbed the back of my head, giving them a blank look. “Apparently I can teleport,”

“…what?!”

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“Are you fucking serious?!”

I winced, pulling the phone back away from my ear. “Do you have to be so goddamn loud?”

Bakugo scoffed from the other end of the line. “Bitch, you just told me your mom is Alissa-fucking-sears!”

I scratched my cheek. “She’s that popular, huh?”

He was silent for a moment. “Oi, have you told anyone else?”

“No, you’re the only person I really talk to, bro.”

“Good. Don’t fucking mention that to anyone else, got it?”

“D’aww, are you worried about me, Bakuhoe~?” I grinned.

“I TOLD YOU NOT TO CALL ME THAT!! And no I ain’t worried about your dumbass! Are you gonna fuckin’ log in or not?!”

“Yeah, yeah, geez.” I put the phone on speaker, setting it on the coffee table beside me before picking up the controller and booting up my game system. “What’s this game about anyway?”

“It’s an RPG,”

I hummed. “Doesn’t seem like your kinda game,”

He scoffed. “It’s currently one of the hardest games to fucking beat. I’m gonna destroy this fucking game and leave all those losers in the dust!”

“‘Kay… but why do I have to play?”

Silence.

“Bakuh -”

“Shut up,” he grunted. “This stupid game doesn’t let you play alone.”

“And you have no friends, huh?”

“S-Shut up, bitch! You don’t, either!!”

Yeah, but I’m not the one trying to play a multi-player game. I rolled my eyes as the game loaded.

“Hurry up and make your damn character!”

“Don’t fucking rush me,” I scowled, selecting the swordmaster class. “Fuck, there’s so many options. Why are there so many options? This is hella detailed for a free game.”

“Che, I’m gonna go get food. You better be done by the time I get back!”

Hm, should I make her look like myself or a completely different person? Making a cute ass guy is also an option. Meh, I’ll just make her look like me with a few subtle changes. Let’s try… green hair? Ooh, girl, green is not your color, fam. Blonde maybe? Oh, that actually looks pretty dope, but it’s too normal. Red? Not nearly as cool as Erza Scarlet. Damn, that blue looks amazing, though. Maybe I’ll dye my real hair that color for a while.

Now for the clothes. I’ll just choose some pants and a basic, plain shirt with boots. I confirmed her looks and the game started to load. I heard a door opening and slamming over the phone, followed by the obnoxious sound of someone munching loudly on chips.

“Are you done yet?”

“Just loaded in.”

“Ignore the fuckin’ NPC and come outside.”

“No can no, chief. Gotta do the tutorial before I can leave.”

“For fuck’s sake!”

I chuckled at his impatience. “Tuts usually aren’t too long, keep your thong on.”

And I was right. Five minutes passed and the tutorial ended. I left the building, a blinding white light filling the screen.

それ以上に上昇 ☆ Living Valley Online

Bakugo was waiting outside the building, leaning against the wooden support beam. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, but he was wearing an open vest, the top rimmed with thick white fur. Red fangs hung from his ears, and various necklaces and beads hung around his neck. His pants were blue, white fur between the hem and the top of his black boots. Red cloth was pulled over his elbows and a cutlass was strapped to his waist.

“Fucking finally!” he scowled, holding his palm up. A blue screen projected in front of him and he glanced at me. “Swordmaster, right?”

“Yeah,”

He pressed on the screen a couple times before a sword materialized in his hand. “It’s only a rank twenty, but it’s better than that shitty rank one on your back. Trade me.”

A blue screen popped up in front of me: ‘LordXplosionMurder has requested to trade with you.’ I accepted and selected my sword, while he added the higher level sword and some potions. We both confirmed the trade and I took the sword out to examine it. The metal was dark grey with a faint sapphire-blue glow around the blade. The handle was wrapped in leather with wolves stitched into it with black thread. The game said it was a blue item – rare.

“Let’s go! We need to power level your ass!”

I hummed as I followed behind him, strapping the sword to my back. The fantasy city we were in was called Rune Province. According to the information popping up beside me, this is the main city in the game, but it was only medium-large in size. The buildings were made from white brick and dark oak wood. Lanterns hung beside the doors, a cream-colored candle unlit inside.

Hmm, so it’s a fantasy middle-age type game without electricity.

“Hey, what’s the max level in this game?” I asked, glancing at his back.

“One hundred eighteen.”

“And what level are you?”

“One hundred.” He growled, clenching his fists. “You have to pass through the fuckin’ Jade Forest to get to the level one hundred one area, but you have to have at least one level eighty in your party to enter the fucking place.”

“Sheesh. How long you been playin’ this shit?”

He mumbled under his breath.

“You’re walking in front of me, Bakuhoe, I can’t hear you.”

“Since it came out!” he yelled, earning weird looks from the citizens and other players. “And stop fucking calling me that, bitch!”

If I remember correctly, the download page said this game came out a little under a year ago. Has he been playing alone this whole time? I sped up so I could walk beside him. “So, how are we gonna power level?”

“We’re going to Moonbrick Manor,”

I hummed, folding my hands behind my head. “Sounds interesting. And I just gotta let you fight, right?” He grunted and a screen popped up in front of my face: ‘LordXplosionMurder has invited you to a party!’ I accepted and he stopped in front of a wooden post, atop which was a whitish blue stone with a teal swirl in the center. He put his hand on the stone, grabbing my wrist with the other. A bright blue light surrounded us, blinding me.

When the light faded, we were standing in front of a large wooden door, standing at least twenty feet tall. We were on a stone bridge surrounded by spruce forests as far as the eye could see. I glanced over the side of the bridge and whistled. This shit is hella high off the ground, so much so that I can barely see the river flowing underneath it. The fog hanging in the air didn’t help my visibility, either.

“Stop gawking and let’s go, bitch!” Bakugo barked.

I approached the gate, lifting my hand to the wood. A red screen popped in front of my face: ‘Warning! You are about to enter a level one hundred dungeon. Your current level is one. You will definitely die. Proceed?’

I sweatdropped. No pulling punches, huh? “Uhh, Bakuhoe. Don’t think this area is just a bit too high?”

“Hah? Are you scared, tiger?” He smirked, folding his arms over his bare chest.

The fuck is with that nickname, brah? I scowled, “No, I’m not scared, but it’ll take ten times as long to level up if I keep getting one shot when an enemy so much as looks at me.”

He rolled his eyes, approaching the door. “Just stay the fuck behind me and you’ll be fine, dumbass. I’m not weak like you are!” His body walked through the door as if it were made of water.

I have a bad feeling about this, man.

With a sigh, I accepted the warning and stepped through the door.

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