#that job felt like a fever dream. still does | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

paingoes · 1 month ago

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Rubies - Trial II

hiiii. i have such a headache omg. help meeeee

(Content: living weapon whumpee, past child abuse, conditioning, dehumanization, electrocution, physical abuse, verbal abuse, bruises, broken bones, institutionalized child abuse, institutionalized slavery, (internalized) victim blaming, self hatred, retraumatization, whump aftermath)

He had still felt the chill of the ocean when they had first brought him back to base. They’d had to recast his arm for the final time. They’d spotted the broken ribs that had barely had time to heal, not helped at all with the impact he’d made into the water. The fever dreams crept all around the corners of his eyes.

After Levon had left, the nurses had made a request of him.

He did not have to stand for it, luckily. He sat up on the bed and let them undo the jacket, folding it back against his waist to reveal his bare torso.

He was so covered in bruises then that it almost looked natural on him.

The marks themselves were not the shape of anything in nature, though. Not unless you counted the handprints. Instead, they showed the imprints of rulers and rings. Whip marks. Chains.

They really tried to be respectful as they aimed the camera at him.

Two and a half months later, in the new and sterile room, all the bruises had faded. It was the longest he’d ever gone without them. There was still a tenderness in his ribs, but it felt more like a phantom pain than anything real. The cast had finally come off of his wrist — and he appreciated the new dexterity it afforded him.

He sat on the white floor and watched Kitty hesitate for a long while with her rook.

He was not allowed outside of his room, but he could have her inside of it. He’d had Apollo there too, but from what he understood, the medic had immediately been thrown back into clinical rotations. Kitty’s role in IT afforded her much more free time. She’d spent most of her absence working too, so there was no real change in their schedule.

She put the rook down indecisively, but seemed to tire of the game. She glanced back at the door, furrowing her eyebrows at the lock placed upon it. She folded her fingers up beneath her chin.

“This whole thing is a waste of time.”

The anger in her voice caught him off guard.

“I’m sorry,” he said, drawing his hand closer into his lap.

She looked up in surprise, a bit of guilt seeping into her expression.

“I’m not mad at you,” she clarified, “You didn’t do anything wrong. That’s the thing. Levon knows you’re innocent. You shouldn’t have to go through all this.”

He didn’t really feel like he had been through anything, but he didn’t argue with her. He processed the words slowly, trying to work around the irritation in them. It still made him antsy.

“Hey,” she spoke gently, trying to draw his attention back, “I’m not mad at you. You’re not in trouble.”

“Okay,” he conceded, “Sorry.”

He moved his bishop to put her in check. She sacrificed the knight in the king’s stead. Before he could capture it, a voice sounded through the buzzer, directly on the other side of the door.

“Maryam Pike. Can I come in?” It crackled through the static.

Kitty gave Delta a concerned look. He blinked, unsure what she was waiting for.

“Do you want her to? You don’t have to let her into your space,” Kitty said.

He shrugged. She was just doing her job. There was nothing he could really do to avoid questioning, anyway.

Kitty stood up from her spot on the floor, stalking over to the entryway. She opened it up.

“Does it have to be here?” She asked Maryam, “It’s his room.”

The older woman shrugged just the same.

“His choice. I have the office too, if you want to take the hike.” She glanced over Kitty’s shoulder, addressing Delta. “You want to get out for a little bit?”

He did, actually.

They were back around the table. Apollo was absent this time, but everyone from the council was still in attendance. Levon leaned against the back wall casually, sorting through the folder he’d been given. His expression was unreadable.

They knew how impossible it was to get Delta to speak in front of people. He had his gaze all the way down even as he sat at the table. It was too difficult to try and have him give testimony. They’d had to resort to other ways.

Maryam slid the cassette player into the center of the table. She looked at Delta, giving him a final chance to amend it. He had nothing to add.

He still cringed to hear his own voice play over the tape.

[

Q: What is your earliest memory?

A: …I was playing with a baby pool, filled up with all these little fish. The staff were asking me if I could move them around, but without using my hands. It took hours, but eventually I could focus enough to push them around just by thinking about it. I made them swim upside down.

Q: Where did this take place?

A: One of the lower levels of the Institute. It was one of their wet labs.

Q: What were your parents like?

A: I never knew my parents, ma’am.

Q: How did you feel about other children your age?

A: …Indifferent.

Q: What is the primary emotion you associate with your childhood?

A: …I don’t know, ma’am.

Q: What were the rules at the institute you grew up in?

A: No running. No fighting. No talking back. Be respectful when addressing a superior. Wait for explicit permission before using your powers. Take your medicine as prescribed.

Q: When you were a child, did you ever make any attempt to escape or to disobey your handlers?

A: Never to escape. And I never, um. Never intentionally disobeyed. But by accident sometimes, yeah.

Q: By accident? What did you do?

A: …I was getting fussy one day after drills. There are these kind of growing pains you get if you move up a new level — and I was getting them really badly that day, and I guess I was lashing out too much. I wasn’t really listening.

Q: And what happened?

A: Got some warning shocks. When that didn’t work, they. Um. Increased the voltage until I was ready to listen.

Q: To clarify, are you saying they electrocuted you?

A: Yes, ma’am.

Q: Did this happen with any frequency?

A: Not to me.

Q: Not to you? What does that mean?

A: Not to me, ma’am. It happened to the other students a lot more. I didn’t need as much correction, ma’am.

Q: And you witnessed this “correction” personally?

A: Yes, ma’am.

Q: How frequently did this happen?

A: In the first years, it was multiple times a day. It didn’t happen as often later on. A lot of the problem students had already been eliminated from the program at that point.

Q: I see. And you never once attempted escape?

A: No, ma’am.

Q: Why not?

Q: What was that?

A: I didn’t have anywhere else to go.

]

The tape clicked off. Delta folded his hands in his lap.

“We also have testimony from other alumni of the Beldam Institute,” Maryam declared, though Delta disagreed. You couldn’t be an alumnus if you didn’t actually graduate. She’d gotten testimony from the drop-outs. It’d been edited into a neat and digestible format, though to him it seemed a bit hokey.

Levon pulled it up onto the projector, his expression still unreadable.

The woman in the video was in her mid-20s, which meant she hadn’t been there from inception, and that she hadn’t stayed long. She said as much in the video. She was a kind of lightworker - lasers, burns, flash bombs. She’d been transferred to the Institute out of foster care.

“-would’ve been unethical to have adults working those hours. 16 hour days — and there were younger kids there than I was, ones that needed like ten hours of sleep, and they never got it. I don’t think I had a single moment of free time while I was there. The amount of-“

“-and of course they hit the kids. Where I went, at every house I’d been to, they hit the kids. That was nothing new to me. But they had the kids hurting each other. And these were untrained psychics who were still learning to use their powers, they didn’t know their own strength. And they were learning to use it on whoever was lower in the hierarchy than they were. Some of them would get messed up bad. One time-“

“-said pack your shit, get out. I didn’t have any more value to them anymore. I had been fucking gifted. And they just burnt me out like I was nothing. Glad they did, though. The only way kids ever left that school was burnt out or in a body bag. I still haven’t-“

There was no footage of the Institute. No cameras had been allowed inside except by licensed professionals. What they did have were the scans of the old photo books. Delta recognized the backgrounds so clearly, even though it’d been years since he had stepped inside. He felt only some dull recognition for the children in the photos — there’d been too many to keep track of. He’d never cared for them much anyway.

He felt the air in the room stiffen as the pictures got progressively gorier. Training accidents. Wrong dosages. The stripes they’d whipped into the backs of the worst kids. He wondered how much of his survival had been pure luck. He hadn’t known just how mismanaged it’d been at the time. Though he did have inklings.

“It’s clear the defendant was raised in an environment in which his every move was controlled under threat of severe physical punishment or death. His surroundings instilled a sense of learned helplessness within him. From an earlier age, he has been made to feel he has no option but to obey. Due to that conditioning, we can reasonably say that any exhibit of his powers has been under duress. It’s absurd that he should be held legally or morally responsible for his actions.” Maryam had a practiced cadence, especially on such short notice. She looked at nobody and nothing in particular when she did it. Levon watched her like a hawk.

She took a deep breath.

“There’s evidence this coercion continued beyond Beldam Institute.”

She switched between files on the computer. A new screen filled the projector.

“Hold,” Levon held a hand up, “Delta, you don’t have to be here for this. You can take recess.”

She couldn’t get him to talk about Paris. It’d been a no-go. His chest tightened up whenever he tried. The questions made him dizzy.

She had other ways, though. She was surprised she’d managed to dig them up. There’d been so few photos or videos of Paris anywhere. By now, the videos of his time on-the-run far outnumbered any from his reign. He couldn’t imagine how much effort it must have taken her to find this one.

He shook his head. He didn’t see any reason to, did not want any reputation for sensitivity. Keyglades didn’t even stand out as one of the bad ones, anyway.

“I’m okay, sir,” he said softly.

The video began to play.

It had sound.

Paris’s voice cut through the white noise. It was distant, grainy with analog. Still, Delta felt his ears perk up, immediately rapt. Unable to pry his attention away even if he had tried.

He could pick up on the irritation from the first syllable. The tape showed surveillance footage a hallway within Keyglades’ city hall. It led away from the main conference area and twisted up into the further reaches of the government building. Delta had been pretty sure at the time it was restricted territory, that they shouldn’t have even went that far.

Paris’s speech had risen to the rapid-fire pace it always took when he was pissed. Delta swore he worked himself up just for sport sometimes. Paris didn’t want a solution, he just wanted to be mad. He should’ve known better than to interrupt.

On the tape, Delta’s voice was low enough that the exact words were indistinct. But the sound of the ringed hand coming down hard against his face had been picked up in crisp resolution.

“You think I don’t fucking know that?!”

It had caught him off-guard. It seemed to catch the others in the room off-guard now, some of them visibly flinching at the abruptness. In the tape, he had reeled, though he did not have long to do so. Paris’s hand caught on the loose fabric of his shirt collar and slammed him into the wall. His grip moved upwards, onto his neck. Tight and uncomfortable, but not actually choking. Just meant to hold him there. Make sure he couldn’t avoid it.

“It’s not about the fucking tax, it’s about the principle. That’s all it ever is with these people. Can you stop acting like you know better than me? There’s a reason nobody fucking asks you. Who the fuck even gave you permission to speak?”

Delta frowned, looking down as if he was getting scolded in that same instant. It had the same effect. He tucked his legs further beneath the chair, shielding them. In the tape, Paris pushed him to the floor — not a hard thing to do — and stomped down on his wrist. It was too mild for him to really consider a beating, but some blood had dripped from his mouth while he was on the floor, which is probably why she’d chosen it.

Maryam cleared her throat.

“Would you say there was anything exceptional about this event?”

It took him too long to realize the question was directed at him. He knew they were all looking at him, but he couldn’t bring himself to look up from the floor.

“No, ma’am.” His hands balled up in his lap.

“And was this an atypical occurrence?”

“No, ma’am.”

“How often would you say you experienced this level of violence?”

That level, specifically? That much was hard to quantify. It depended on how quickly operations were moving, how much the plan was working, how badly he’d fucked up. He’d like to say he had a good track record when it came to his powers. He aimed to please. The worst of it came when he didn’t. He would have answered monthly if he’d been asked how frequently he was actually beaten. Those were the standout ones, the ones that left him sore for days afterward, the ones he most thought of as deserved. Well, justified. He deserved all of it.

But the tape hadn’t shown a severe beating. That kind of pettiness came much more frequently. Weekly, he guessed. Biweekly if things were going well. The other kind of biweekly if things were going poorly. If he counted the smaller things — the shoving, the hair-pulling, the grabbing — he would have said almost daily. But he didn’t count those.

“Weekly, ma’am.” He didn’t let his uncertainty show in his voice. He couldn’t pose it as a question; it wasn’t something they could answer. Weekly was a good enough approximation.

He saw Kitty’s eyes narrow dangerously. Her claws carved lines into the woods of the chair from gripping it so hard.

“This caused significant injury, as evidenced by the condition he was in when he first came to Galatea.”

The screen clicked abruptly to the photographs the nurse has taken just before she’d cast his arm. There were several of them, taken from different perspectives. The broken angle his wrist was held at. The thick, dark bruise against his ribs where they’d been kicked in. There was a whole litany of other bruises along his arms and neck. Handprints, implements. Nobody could argue they were obtained in combat. None of the photographs showed his face.

It was his first time seeing the full mosaic. He’d avoided the mirror whenever he could while it was happening. He remembered how badly he did not want Simon to see them, to have the proof of his failures be written out so clearly on his body. It felt a million times worse for Levon to see him like that. He wanted to apologize. He’d promise to do better, if he was allowed to. His lip bled from how hard he was biting into it.

The bruises were bad. Each of his separate ideologies burned in his brain, building and fighting each other. He’d failed. He’d earned it. Paris was fucking crazy. He’d never be able to please him. He’d deserved it. He was supposed to be better than this. He deserved worse.

Kitty’s hand brushed against his. He flinched, but forced himself not to withdraw it. Too well trained to pull away. She seemed to pick up on this as she drew her own hand back.

“Where are you?” she whispered. He couldn’t answer.

When he looked up again, Levon was staring straight at him, not at the bruises on the screen. As soon as they made eye contact, Levon looked inconspicuously to his watch.

“Think we’re gonna call it for today,” he announced.

He’d expected to return straight back to his room afterwards, but nobody escorted him. Kitty led him through the airy hallways instead. This section of the building was made mostly of glass and white tile.

“I swear this is their best kept secret,” she said as she pushed open the outer doors.

They entered into the bio-pond. The algae green ambiance contrasted sharply with the tidiness of Galatea’s interior. Despite her claim, a few other people drifted around the edges, absorbed in their own work. They didn’t pay the pair of them any mind.

It was the first time he had stepped outside all week. The damp air was suddenly much easier for him to breathe. She sat him down by the edge of the pond. A row of turtles sat on a log in the center of the water. The grass was soft, slightly damp. It felt cool against his palms.

Kitty leaned forward over the water, pointing out the fish that lived inside of it. He saw her claws poke out like she wanted to snatch them straight from the water, but she held herself back.

He didn’t speak. Subconsciously, he tried to shield his arms, covering up the bruises from her sight. Of course, they weren’t there anymore. And when they had been, she’d seen them already.

He didn’t know how long they stayed there, but he saw the sky slowly fading to purple by the end of it. The mosquitos were starting to bite.

“Why don’t you hit me?” He’d asked when he finally had to return to his room. She went in with him, just for a little while, until she had to go back to her own. His head had drooped a little when he asked in, in its exhausted state.

“Whyyy would I hit you?” She asked instead, hooking one finger around his. This time, he didn’t flinch, felt no urge to withdraw it.

Because he was difficult, more needy than he’d been in years. Because he was evil, because he deserved it. Because she could. Because everyone else always had.

He shrugged.

“Never,” she promised. She brought his hand up to her lips, kissing it gently.

His chest ached.

~~~

tags:

@catnykit @snakebites-and-ink @scoundrelwithboba @whatwhump

@pumpkin-spice-whump @deluxewhump @fuckass1000 @fuckcapitalismasshole @defire

@micechomper @writereleaserepeat @aloafofbreadwithanxiety @floral-comet-whump @littlebookworm69

@lordcatwich @human-123-person @paperprinxe @whomeidontknowthem @chiswhumpcorner

@bacillusinfection @dietofwormsofficial @ichortwine @whump-queen @lumpywhump

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angelsanarchy · 9 months ago

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Fever Dreams: Mike x Y/N One Shot Series PRT 01

Tagging: @icarus-star @chainsawgvtsfvck @romanroyapoligist @liquidsmoothdomme @madamemaximoff06 @drazenka @blacksoul-27 @444rockstargf (let me know if you wish to be tagged)

Mike sat in the passenger seat of Leff's 1970 Chrysler Newport which he treated like the child he always wanted. He was pissed to have been dragged out of bed so early to sit in the Train station parking lot. He had no idea who they were picking up or why he had to be with him but he was annoyed and tired.

"You're gonna need to get in the backseat." Leff said without looking at him.

"The fuck for?" Mike looked over at Leff who narrowed his eyes at him.

"Because I'd rather not watch Y/n embarrass you this early in the morning." He explained. Mike knew very little about this person they were picking up. He knew that they worked for Leff and just returned from doing an import run.

"He can sit in the backseat just fine." Mike laughed but when he felt Leff's gaze on him, he looked over at him.

"Are you fucking serious? I'm already comfortable, why do I have to move just because of them?" Mike whined.

"You sound like a fucking child." Leff groaned.

"You treat me like a fucking child." Mike argued. Leff rolled his eyes and continued to puff on a cigarette watching for this person to make their appearance.

"What's so special about this guy? I mean you made me take a fucking Uber from the airport when I got here but we're picking this guy up at the train station?" Mike asked curiously.

"Y/n works harder than you ever thought about working." Leff kept his eyes on the platform and Mike rolled his eyes.

"Y/n isn't a guy either so be respectful. Did your mother teach you any fucking manners?" Leff asked with frustration. Mike let out a laugh.

"So what? You fucking her?" Mike asked with his eyebrow up. Leff gave him a death glare before Mike put his hands up and got in the back seat mumbling about never getting any respect.

"Okay so this chick...what does she do exactly? I mean is she like Sicky? Is she like me, a runner?" Leff snorted.

"A runner? That's what you call yourself? She's not like either of you because she doesn't need a fucking job title to earn money." Leff explained.

"She's also off limits so don't even think about being cute with her, she'll cut your dick off before I even get a chance to slap you around for being an idiot." Leff pointed at him in the rearview with a warning.

"So you are fucking her?" Mike pressed and Leff swatted at him but he put his hands up.

"Jesus Christ! I'm just curious. What's her deal? Why am I not allowed to even ask about her?" Mike was getting irritated with how uptight Leff was being.

"She used to work for a nightclub that one of my competition works out of. I was fucking a few of her coworkers but she had reached out to me about your mom once." Mike's attention was piqued.

"What do you mean?" Mike pressed.

"When your mom was trying to get her fix, she would go to places like that and try and score. Y/n kept an eye on her for me but her boss wasn't too happy about it...tried to have her dealt with." Leff explained.

"But she works for you now? How did that pan out?" Mike was confused.

"Technically I paid a fee to take her out of the night club. The club boss didn't care, my competition still tries to make moves to bring her back into the fold over there." Leff shook his head.

"How can you trust someone who worked for the competition?" Mike asked and caught Leff's gaze in the mirror again.

"She got her ass nearly cut into pieces for getting your mom out of a deal gone wrong. I saved her life, got her out of that assholes crew. She doesn't have to suck dick or get her ass beat over here. She's worked her ass off and has never said no to a tough task. She's the best worker I got." Leff wanted Mike to know the situation with Y/n and how important she was to his team. She was a trustworthy person and had even known his mom. Mike really wanted to ask her about his mom but he knew Leff would probably shut that down.

It was still something that was too hard to talk about.

"There she is. Keep your dumbass comments to yourself or I'll kick your ass." Leff popped the trunk as she approached and she tossed two large duffels into the trunk before climbing into the car. Mike was surprised she was so attractive. He knew she once worked at a nightclub but she had naturally beautiful features.

"Who's Brokeback Mountain?" Y/n tossed her thumb to the backseat.

"Oh fuck off." Mike groaned in annoyance.

"That's my nephew, Mike. He's apart of the team now." Leff started to drive and Y/n turned back to look at him.

"Is this a permanent look or are you going through a phase of sorts where you like to suck dick?" Y/n asked with a smirk.

"You're one to talk with lips like that. Are you going for New York homeless or DC prostitute?" Mike fought back.

"Mike!" Leff growled but Y/n laughed.

"Oh he's going to be fun. I like him already." She turned in the seat and extended her hand.

"Y/n, I will absolutely be ripping you to shreds verbally on the daily." She smiled brightly and Mike felt a little part of him melt a little before taking her hand and shaking it.

"Mike and I look forward to going toe to toe with you any day sweetheart." He shook her hand and she flicked his cowboy hat.

"So does the hat get you any pussy?" Y/n asked curiously and Mike smirked.

"Why? You want to get in line?" He teased making Y/n laugh.

"This one is going to be trouble, you know that right?" She looked over at Leff who glared at her.

"Don't encourage is dumbass behavior. It will get him killed." Leff gritted.

"He'll be okay. You know Sicky and I will take good care of him." She tried to reassure and Mike was curious as to the touch she gave Leff's shoulder. Maybe she was into Leff? He needed to talk to her and get her story before he let himself get too interested in her.

"So you knew my mom?" Mike asked abruptly and the care grew silent. She looked over her shoulder and nodded at him.

"I did. She talked about you a lot....I'm sorry how things ended." Y/n looked at him with remorse and he wasn't expecting her to look so effected by the mention of her. He made a note to ask her about what she knew when Leff wasn't around.

"Are we done making friendship bracelets and braiding each others hair" Leff asked breaking up the silence.

"Don't' be jealous Leff. We can get you a cowboy hat if you want." She openly teased Leff and her glared at her. There was so much about her Mike wanted to know.

#5lbs of Pressure #Mike #Mike x Y/n #One Shot Series #Fever Dreams #Rory Culkin #Culkin Cult

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the-scandalorian · 2 years ago

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like a moth to the flame, part III

Pairing: monster!Din Djarin x Female Reader Rating: E, 18+ Word Count: 10.8k Content Warnings: dark!Din, stalking, predatory/obsessive/possessive behavior, body horror/painful physical transformations, violence, gore, blood and hunting and monstery shit, verbal argument turned smut (finger fucking, cum eating, etc.), nightmares

DIN

The dreams started as soon as the kid left.

Angry vermilion dreams, fractured dreams—a flurry of images as sharp as shattered glass—played any time Din so much as dozed. He couldn’t make much sense of them, but the visuals seared into his mind. Pearly white incisors caught in thick, hot viscera. Rent flesh. Deeply gouged burns. The smell of scorched skin.

A war-ravaged planet. An empty gray-washed throne.

A pile of discarded Mandalorian helmets coated in ash.

As soon as they began, Din knew something was wrong with him. These weren’t normal nightmares, not like the quiet, melancholic blue of the dreams he’d always had about his parents, the ones that stayed tucked safely in his sleep. No, these…lingered. They slunk past the edges of his sleep to haunt his daylight hours. He’d wake up and taste blood on his tongue. All day, he ached in strange places: his shoulder blades, his teeth, his hands and feet, a spot behind each of his temples. Every one was a concentrated, bone-deep ache, like the growing pains he remembered vaguely from his teenage years.

The kid was gone, and something was wrong with him.

Din knew loss too intimately to mistake it for grief alone. He knew this was something else too. It was physical. He was ill. He told himself it needed to wait. He had to find the covert. Then, he could deal with whatever was happening to him.

So he put his head down and did what he does best: he hunted.

For two months, he searched. He took jobs for credits and jobs for information. Finally, finally, he tracked them down on Glavis.

He can still remember the fetid reek of the butcher where he went to find the final bounty, Kaba Baiz, the key to the covert’s location within that ringed maze of a city. Even through the filters on his helmet, the smell was an assault—raw flesh and congealed blood, singed bone and burnt marrow. All at once, it made him sick…and, to his own horror, ravenous. He should have been disgusted, but his mouth watered even as his stomach soured. Cold sweat beaded between his shoulder blades. He itched to peel off his armor.

He was most definitely ill.

The last thing he wanted was a fight. The last thing he needed was a fight. He wanted to take the bounty and leave, to find what remained of his covert and be still. But the Klatooinians closed in around him, and he knew he wasn’t going to get what he wanted.

It was the first real fight he’d been in since the dreams had started, and it was…different. He was different.

One of the Klatooinians lunged forward and bit him. The pain was sharp, and as he tried to wrench his wrist out of their grasp, all Din could think about was how much he wanted to sink his teeth into something that bleeds. Behind his beskar, he bared his teeth.

It only devolved from there.

He slipped so far into the flow of the fight that it felt like a fever dream.

He didn’t make an active choice to reach for the saber. It just happened. His blaster had been knocked out of his grasp, and there were too many of them. The beskar spear was strapped to his back, but his hand fell to the saber’s hilt as naturally as it falls to his blaster; his finger flicked the activation as naturally as it finds a trigger.

He lifted the humming blade, and for one short moment, it had sung for him.

The saber slipped through living and dead flesh alike, rending breathing bodies and hanging animal corpses just the same. He felt good. He felt strong. He moved with an ease he hadn’t felt for years, not since he was younger, before he had a tight back and knees that cracked. He felt distant from himself, distant from the fight, as his body fell into a controlled sequence of moves.

Somewhere in the back of his fogged mind he finally asked himself why? Why was it suddenly easy?

Then the saber grew heavy in his hand, and he faltered.

He stabbed one of the Klatooinians straight through the gut, and when he wrenched it back, the flat of the saber sizzled and spat against the flesh of his own thigh. The searing pain pitched him into a red haze, and he dispatched the rest in short order. He cleaved through two, took a hail of blaster fire, and stabbed Kaba Baiz between the ribs with his vibroblade. He lifted his dead weight with one hand on the hilt, and Din knew he was different.

Without thinking, he took up the saber and sliced clean through the Klatooinian, even though he was already dead, and Din knew he was different.

*** He was half delirious with pain and exhaustion by the time he found the Armorer.

“What weapon caused such a wound?”

“Paz Viszla, bring it to me.”

The moment Paz touched the hilt of the saber, Din’s body went cold, every part of him snapping to high alert. His hackles raised.

He knew then there’d be a challenge. A duel.

Sure enough, after he’d given himself enough time to assess Din’s state and skill with the blade, Paz had thrown the gauntlet, and something reared in Din’s chest in response. Something eager.

The fight passed in a blur of scarlet. Smoke encroached on the edges of Din’s vision as they grappled, and something outside himself took control. By the end of it, by the time he had Paz on his knees with a blade to his throat, Din was barely conscious. He felt far away in his own body.

He heard the Armorer’s dismissal faintly, an echo of words through his hollow ribcage.

“Then you are a Mandalorian no more.”

He could barely stand, let alone process the devastating reality of her words.

He doesn’t know how he made it back to the surface of Glavis and all the way to the public transport. He has no memory of stripping himself of his weapons, signing them over to a droid, and stumbling on board. He has no memory of upgrading to a private room.

He remembers the room, though.

By the time he got there, he knew he was going to be sick, his insides roiling and churning. As soon as the door closed and locked behind him, he ripped his helmet off and paced the tiny space, massaging his temples and willing himself to calm down. His blood pumped hot and furious through his veins as he replayed the duel, as he remembered the Armorer’s words.

He felt trapped, pent-up and weighed down; he needed to be out of his beskar in a way he hadn’t felt since his first days of wearing armor—back when he was just a kid and the weight was stifling and restrictive and unfamiliar.

And then the real pain came. Like a fever, it took him.

He buckled to the floor of his private room, collapsing to his hands and knees, his thigh guards clattering against the durasteel floor. Against his better judgment, slouched pathetically on the ground, he peeled off each of his layers—his beskar, his soft underarmor, his flight suit. He stripped to his boxers and stretched out in a prone position, face turned to one side. The shock of the cold metal floor felt good on his feverish skin. Din lay there and counted.

He lay there and tried to compose himself.

Over and over, he watched his hot, panted breath leave a temporary shadow of condensation on the gelid floor and dissipate. Spread and evaporate. Spread and evaporate.

Just when he thought he was starting to get control of himself, it felt as though two hot blades pierced his shoulders, and he reached back reflexively, rolling onto his side as he convulsed in agony, his spine curling and straightening. He shoved his clenched-white knuckles against his teeth to muffle his scream, and he felt something hard protruding from his back.

Paz must have followed.

He writhed and pitched.

The door was locked. The room was empty.

Nothing made sense.

I’m dying.

Two points of white-hot pain sprouted behind his temples, his vision going gray and bile rising in his throat.

Then, blissful darkness.

*** Things are good. Things are calm.

Din has fallen into a routine, a sustainable routine for the foreseeable future. It will get him through the time period between now and whenever you leave—whether that’s a few weeks or a couple months. And that’s all that matters.

He lets himself hunt once a week. He’s finally accepted that concession lends him more control. He’s less on edge after he allows himself to turn and feed. So, once a week, he sheds his armor and changes. It’s just enough freedom to quash the urge to go armor-less when he shouldn’t. Plus, he has a clear purpose for it now. He stalks through the forest, kills a beast, and reinforces his territory.

He’s picking off the pack one by one, just as he planned. They’re onto him now—they’re wary and hyper-vigilant. They move constantly, retreat higher and higher into the hills. They place scouts along their flanks. Din picks off the scouts.

First, it’s a gray female.

Next, a tawny male.

The third, its mate.

And so on.

He hunts. He keeps tabs on you from afar. He trains with the saber.

Yes, everything is good.

You haven’t sought him out again, not since the market. His rejection was enough, apparently. He’s relieved.

He’s miserable.

Truly, he’s sick with it, and his regret is showing up in all sorts of tangible ways.

All the tiles of his shower, every single white square at his eye-level, where he leans his weight on a clawed hand once a week, are scored now. The deep lacerations don’t bother him anymore though. Each one is a mark on stone instead of flesh, a tally of his self-control.

He breaks things more often, when he’s changed and when he’s not. He feels like some kind of adolescent animal, just learning the limitations of his own strength. It’s ridiculous. He figures it’s the incompatible combination of his new strength, his burning frustration, and the age of the house.

He’s had to repair his headboard, the door frame to the bathroom, and two door knobs. He’s had to fully replace his front door, hinges and all. He came back from a particularly grisly hunt, pent up and brimming with violent energy, and pulled the thing clean off.

It’s been weeks since he’s talked to you. Summer has had enough time to wane into fall, but this unexpected penance he’s enduring for the way he treated you doesn’t seem to be going away.

*** The next time he goes out for a hunt—in the early evening because he can’t seem to make himself wait out the few hours until nightfall—Din can tell you’re out walking in the forest before he’s even a mile from you. The wind shifts, and he can smell you as if you’re standing right next to him.

He could turn for home. He could skirt you completely. He could follow you from a distance until you make it home safely. He could do anything that ensures you have no chance of seeing him like this.

He’s not in the condition to make a rational decision.

Din continues on the same path, until you’re so close that in full daylight you’d be able to see his towering shape moving beyond the lattice of low tree limbs, and he scales the largest tree he can find, pulling himself lithely up into its high branches.

He waits, silent and still, as you wander through the trees far below him. You look so tiny from up here, like something too insignificant to draw his attention on a hunt, the perfect prey for some creature that’s one rung lower on the food chain.

Possessive longing embeds itself somewhere tender behind his ribs and tugs: You look like something that needs to be protected.

The little fawn is trailing behind you like an obedient duckling. She notices Din’s presence right away, her tiny head craning upward to find him in the murky gloom. She goes skittish and fragile when she sees him, blundering ahead of you on precarious legs.

You look after her with mild concern. “Where are you going?”

If you were to glance up too, you might be able to make out his hulking shape, crouched in the tangle of the canopy, but you wouldn’t be able to discern the details. You wouldn’t see his face. His silhouette would be obscured by the wide, swooping contours of his wings, all detail lost to shadow.

There’s a part of him that wants you to look up, a part of him that wants to leap down and block your path—to make you look at him like this. He needs to know what you’d do.

You’d scream.

And then what?

Would you freeze or fight or flee?

You’re not one to flee on instinct. You’re too smart to fight something more than twice your size. His credits are on freeze.

And when you stood there staring at him, how long would it take you to tear your gaze from his clawed hands and pointed wings and sharp teeth to meet his eyes? How long would it take you to look up from the threatening bulk of his body to his face? Would you put it together? Would you recognize the unzipped flightsuit tied loosely at his waist?

Would you hate him?

He doesn’t want to think about the possibility of disgust reflected in your features. As hard as he’s tried to convince himself that it would be easier if you feared him, he despises the idea of you seeing him like this and being scared or repulsed.

It would be the final confirmation that he’s a monster.

You’re almost out of sight. You could still look up. All you’d see is a dark void—a space that swallows more light than any of the surrounding shadows.

You don’t look up, though; you wander on. You’re close enough to your home, headed back in that direction, that he’s not worried about you. He’ll be attending to the potential threats elsewhere anyways.

He jumps down when you’re a safe distance away, falling gracefully and with control, and the thick bed of pine needles muffles the thud of his landing. But he’s so heavy like this, so dense with muscle, that the forest floor vibrates just for a moment when his feet touch down.

Din turns for the hills, where he knows the pack is waiting.

He thinks he’ll kill two tonight.

When he returns home hours later—sweaty and fed and sticky with blood—he heads right for the shower, reaches for the knob, starts the hot water…and the metal snaps off in his hand.

Fuck.

*** All the necessary repairs mean that Din is in town more often than he wants to be.

The next evening, fuming, he heads there for the replacement part for the shower. With the newly purchased knob slung in a bag over his shoulder, he starts for home. He’s skirting the main roads in town, sticking to the side streets and alleyways to avoid people, but Din pauses when you step out the door of the cantina.

Alone.

No, not alone.

A quiet growl escapes the modulator when that boy that bothers you at the market comes stumbling out the door behind you, tripping over his own feet as he calls your name. Din has noticed every time this boy lingers too long by your stall on Saturdays. You always have the same vague, disinterested smile plastered on your face until he leaves. He annoys you, and that annoys Din.

Din waits in the shadow of the alley, out of sight, to ensure this boy doesn’t do anything more than annoy you.

The urge to protect you isn’t a want for him anymore. It’s a physical imperative.

“Wait, wait up,” the boy pants when you turn at the sound of your name. “Let me walk you home.”

You turn and give him a pacifying smile. “I’m good, Terek.” You wave him off amiably and keep walking.

Terek follows.

Din starts forward as soon as Terek reaches for you. He covers the short distance in a few strides, coming up behind both of you. Neither of you hears his approach.

“Don’t,” Din says, his voice low and threatening, just as Terek grasps your wrist.

You and Terek freeze and whip your heads around, surprise apparent on your faces. When you both register Din’s presence, Terek’s surprise melts into fear, yours into…disappointment?

That stings.

In an attempt at chivalry, Terek hesitates for a moment then steps all the way in front of you, putting his body squarely between yours and Din’s, swallowing audibly as he looks up at his visor.

Din sighs.

“What do you want?”

“Release her.”

Terek splutters for a moment, trying and failing to form a sentence that expresses his utter disbelief, but you save him the trouble by wrenching your hand from his and stepping away.

“I’m fine,” you say to no one in particular. Then, to Terek, “Go home.”

“I’m not leaving you with him,” he says, disgusted, eyeing Din warily.

“I’m fine,” you reassure him, adding, “Just go,” when he hesitates.

Terek leaves, his pride sufficiently wounded by the dismissal. He mutters under his breath as he does, disappearing around a corner. Then it’s just you and Din.

You look up at him for a moment then turn abruptly on your heel and stalk away.

You waited to be alone with him just so you could leave first. The pettiness of it almost amuses him.

You’re upset with him. Hurt. For good reason. He doesn’t blame you, and as much as he should be thrilled that you want nothing to do with him, he’s suddenly desperate to fix it. Now that you’re standing in front of him again, he can’t help himself.

“Wait,” he says, following you instinctively. “Let me walk with you.”

As soon as he says it, he regrets it. He sounds just like Terek, who obviously annoys the shit out of you. Sure enough, you reject the offer.

“No,” you reply, tossing the word carelessly over your shoulder.

Din watches you walk away, disappointment coiling in his chest like thick smoke.

He makes an impulsive decision, overtaking you in a few strides, turning around in front of you to force you to stop walking. “Please.”

You’re surprised, caught off guard by his plea, but you recover quickly. You deliberate for one painful, infinite moment.

“Alright,” you say, your expression softening. “Come on.”

He’s so relieved he sighs audibly. He’s so relieved he doesn’t even let himself think about what a bad idea this is—how it’s going to completely erase the progress he’s made in keeping you away from him. He shoves those thoughts aside and falls into step beside you.

Din looks down at the reluctant smile pulling at your lips, and he smiles behind the helmet.

In that moment, everything changes. His resolve evaporates. Nothing about this could be wrong, he decides. It feels too good. Even more importantly, you look happy.

That means he’s doing something right.

YOU

Summer gifts you a final handful of warm days as fall pushes in.

Your weekly harvest shifts from the best of the summer fruits and vegetables to what fall has to offer—pears and apples, squashes and pumpkins, leafy greens and broccoli crowns. A chill slips in at night, first a light breeze, then more insistent until it’s enough to necessitate shut windows and drawn curtains.

In the forest, the deciduous trees are just starting to turn. The tart greens of summer have waned to a muted olive in the heat and the drought, and they’re beginning to give way to the first golden hues of autumn, heralding the oncoming winter months. It’s your stark annual reminder of the transience of the growing season. In a few months, the weekly market will all but close, reduced to a handful of stalls selling preserved and prepared foods. Your part in it will be over for the year.

You’re even more relieved than usual. You’ll miss the finer weather, of course, but not the work. Or the weekly slog to the market…and the constant reminder of the Mandalorian’s rejection.

The memory tastes like sweet cherry gone sour on your tongue.

You try not to think about it—how stupid you made yourself look, flirting with him when he wasn’t interested. Pursuing him outright and cajoling him to come to your stall when he’d made the choice to avoid you. You’d made some bold moves, and they hadn’t paid off. No, they’d backfired rather spectacularly.

You’re grateful that the Mandalorian’s constant radius of solitude—the area around him that his intimidation keeps clear—means that no one else witnessed the whole embarrassing scene up close. A small blessing.

The last Saturday markets of the season pass without event. Just like the previous handful, Mando walks by. You see him coming and avoid his gaze; you avoid looking at him altogether in fact—you don’t even sneak a sidelong glance to see if he’s willing to spare you a nod. You don’t want to know.

You both act the part of the strangers you are. Whatever nascent thing flickered between you for a moment has been snuffed out completely.

You pack up your kiosk and head home from that final Saturday, knowing it’s time to get to work on the necessary preparations for winter: some repairs, the work in the orchards and gardens, tending to the chickens. The final push feels extra hard this year.

You’ve never been more ready to leave this planet.

So naturally, when you head into town a few days later to check on the progress of your ship, you find out that the last few parts are back-ordered. Everything slows down here when the first chilly winds start to pick up the fallen leaves—everything. People hunker down preemptively, incoming shipments of all goods slowing to a trickle. It doesn’t help that your ship is an old model, out of production. It already takes extra time to find the right parts.

The mechanic estimates an early spring completion date.

You’ll have to wait out the cold months patiently. Knowing he’s still out there. A small comfort is that you probably won’t see him at all now that you won’t spend hours at the one place you reliably crossed paths. Maybe you’ll pass each other when you’re visiting the tiny winter market briefly for necessities. Likely not, though, when you know exactly the time he shows up and therefore just how to avoid him.

You wish he’d leave the planet entirely so you could stop thinking about him.

No, you wish he’d seek you out. Just so you could reject him.

Who are you kidding? That’s not how that would go.

What you really want is for him to seek you out, explain that the whole thing was some kind of misunderstanding, whip his helmet off to reveal his handsome face, and kiss you full on the mouth.

It’ll probably happen. Any second.

*** Right away, you’re proven wrong. It’s not so easy to avoid him. But you don’t run into him at the market—no, you’re in town, coming out of the cantina, when you see him next.

A slightly drunk Terek is trying to talk you into letting him walk you home, and the Mandalorian appears out of nowhere.

Again, the absurd idea that he follows you seems not entirely improbable.

“Release her.”

The protective tone of Mando’s voice makes your stomach clench. Terek is perfectly harmless. You’ve dealt with him for years, and he’s never done more than offer his company, sometimes too insistently. Some deep, vicious part of you wants him to get uncharacteristically angry and brave right now—to escalate the situation by refusing to let you go.

You want to see how effortlessly Mando would put him down.

Fuck, what is wrong with you?

The man does things to your head.

You pull your hand out of Terek’s loose, sweaty grasp and step away. He protests when you tell him to leave, but eventually, reluctantly, he listens. And then it’s just you and the Mandalorian. As you wanted.

He got protective over you, and your curiosity is unyielding. You have to know how this is going to play out.

He stands there like a metal statue and says nothing.

So you turn and walk away.

“Wait,” he says belatedly, his footsteps picking up behind you. “Let me walk with you.”

It’s embarrassing how easily the request makes your irritation disappear. The reality of just how much his attention means to you cinches uncomfortably in your gut. You remember your last encounter, and the combination makes you defensive.

So you say the opposite of what you really want, an ugly satisfaction settling in your chest: “No.”

He rounds on you. “Please.”

He sounds well and truly fraught—even though the modulator, the sharp emotion comes through.

The Mandalorian seems to be someone else entirely tonight: you think he’s the man you’ve glimpsed behind the armor, sweet and real, the one he usually tries to keep hidden. It’s intoxicating.

“Alright,” you say, relieved. “Come on.”

He falls into place beside you quickly, a little eagerly.

You pass the entrance to town, and the wind whistles through the dry leaves in the forest, tugging the last few hold-outs from their branches to join the rest. They skitter across the hard-packed dirt road.

As much as you’d rather avoid the topic altogether, it feels necessary to address the awkwardness between you before diving into anything else. It doesn’t feel so daunting at this moment. His energy tonight has changed the dynamic completely.

“I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable that day at the market. I didn’t mean—”

He surprises you by stopping abruptly in his tracks and turning toward you. You pause too. He extends a hand like he wants to reach for yours then decides better of it and lets it drop.

“I was rude,” he says. “I’m sorry, it had nothing to do with you.”

You scrunch your nose. That doesn’t seem true. “Really? It seemed like—”

“Forgive me.”

It has the quiet desperation of a plea, and he says it with so much sincerity that you don’t feel any qualms about agreeing.

“Of course,” you say. “It’s forgotten.”

He nods once, decisively, then turns to keep walking. Apparently, the matter is settled. You let him change the subject when he tries.

“How’s the progress on your ship?” he asks.

You let out an annoyed huff. “Delayed. Again.”

You explain the specifics to him.

It feels like a gift to be alone with him for this long, to finally have an uninterrupted, prolonged, one-on-one conversation. You’re learning so much about him, his quirks, already. He has a way of keeping you talking without saying anything. He gives you a look, cocks his helmet, hums. Not talkative but not aloof. He wants you to keep talking, and he communicates that openly.

You like it—like learning him—and at the same time, you can’t help but want to wheedle more out of him. You want the man behind the mask, all of him. You tell yourself to settle for this. This is easy. This is comfortable. You’ll give him time. You’ll let him unravel you a little before you start in on him.

So for now, he goads; you answer.

Ten or so minutes pass like that.

“So, it looks like I’m stuck here through the winter,” you conclude.

That fact is starting to feel less bleak by the minute.

“Yeah?”

Either there’s a faint glimmer of potential in his question or you want it to be there so badly you’re projecting. It feels real, though—real enough to press a little.

“What about you, Mando? How long are you here for?”

“Still deciding.”

“And what’s informing that decision?”

He looks you over for a long moment. Leaves crunch under his boots, and you feel exposed under his naked attention.

“Several…factors,” he says finally, perfectly cryptic.

You roll your eyes at him playfully, prompting him to expand with an open hand.

“I’ll…be here through the winter too.”

It feels like he’s just deciding right now. And you want to believe that—that your timeline is somehow, improbable as it is, affecting his.

You can’t help but smile at him. “Good.”

You walk in companionable silence for a few minutes—until something howls mournfully into the night.

“You walk this alone at night?” he asks. There’s concern there.

You shrug. “I’ve lived here all my life—long enough that I know what to expect, long enough that nothing on this planet really scares me anymore. I know how to deal with it.”

A grunt of acknowledgement, then he goes thoughtfully quiet.

You’ve reached the turn-off for your house. You expect him to leave you here. He doesn’t. He walks with you all the way down the path, all the way to the stairs that lead up to your front porch.

You turn to him, he turns to you, and you’re painfully aware that in any other situation, walking home with someone you’re interested in might culminate in a kiss. If you wanted it to.

You look up, meeting his visor, feeling shy under his gaze again. “Thanks for walking with me.”

He nods and reaches into a pouch on his belt, fishing out something small. He hands it to you. “In case.”

You look down at the little silver device, closing your fingers around it. A com. A direct link to him, given freely. You’re surprised. And pleased. “I—thank you.”

“Use it if you need it.”

“I will.”

“...if you want to,” he amends, a little hesitantly.

“I definitely will.”

He bids you goodnight with a final nod, but he waits to leave until you let yourself in your front door and lock it behind you.

From the window, you watch him go, watch him turn and melt into the syrupy darkness like he’s always been part of it.

*** The next day, you’re buoyed by the hope of last night’s conversation. He was friendly. He wanted to spend time with you. He was protective. You float through your work mindlessly, daydreaming.

The little silver com feels heavy and significant in your skirt pocket.

The air smells earthy, and there’s a chilly bite to the morning breeze. Luna follows you as per usual, moseying behind as you graduate from one task to the next. Her ankle is fully healed. She wanders in your vicinity, searching out the best food sources without leaving your sight.

You replay your conversation with Mando—the questions, the interest, the amiable silence—while you work.

You pause in the middle of pruning an apple tree, clippers poised over a branch to be cut: you might actually be friends with the Mandalorian.

Of course, what you really want is to be fucked raw by the Mandalorian every day. But being friends is probably a good first step.

When you’re done in the orchard, you move the chickens from their outdoor enclosure inside, counting each feathery butt as they titter their way through the door of the barn. The last one meanders away, pecking at the ground in search of bugs, and you have to herd her back toward the waiting warmth.

“Come on, silly.”

You usher her inside, check the feed levels, and latch the door behind them. All accounted for. You haven’t lost a chicken in months.

It’s odd, honestly.

It’s usually a constant battle to keep them from being picked off. You always factor in an expected loss each year. But for the past few months, you haven’t lost a single one, haven’t seen a single offending footprint of a predator—large or small—anywhere on your land. Even the rats have stopped coming for the eggs.

It makes you curious.

You venture into the forest early that evening, slipping under the patchwork of fall colors: amber and olive and burnt orange. Luna follows close at your heel. You’re not sure what you’re looking for until you find it.

A ways into the forest, quite far from the edge of your clearing, you come across a large tree, its trunk wide and thick, and the bark is shredded. It’s cut with long, deep lacerations. And lying at its base is a sizable ladder of vertebrae. Mammalian. Something big. The bones have been picked clean, left almost pristine by the elements and hungry critters.

You’ve never seen something like this so close to your house.

And you haven’t seen any live predators lately. You’ve heard them, far off. It doesn’t make sense.

You circle the trunk and notice a little way off, there is another tree just like this one—ribboned bark, an offering of bones gathered at its foot. And then, from that tree, you spot another. There’s a series of them, one after another. You follow one to the next, marked tree to marked tree, and find that they form a massive ring around your property.

A halo of slashed trees hemming you in.

You can tell they’ve each been marked repeatedly, newer lacerations scored across older ones, newer kills piled atop older ones. There are scattered bones everywhere—husks of shattered skulls and splintered femurs, the pristine skeletal structure of a paw as big as your hand. Some are stripped, but decaying muscle and flesh still cling to others.

Dread has dropped into your stomach like a stone, growing heavier by the minute. Something is…stalking you?

Has been stalking you.

For weeks. Maybe months.

Something that’s large enough to kill the largest predator on this planet.

Something new.

Someone new.

You know.

You’re almost back to where you started; you’ve almost completed the full circuit when you find one spot that’s more disturbing than the rest. The kill that sits at the base of this tree looks fresh, maybe a day or two old. It hasn’t rotted yet, and you can smell the coppery tang of dried blood. You can see it too, dripped like black ink across dead, curled oak leaves.

There’s something else in the air too—something strong and alluring—

You turn abruptly when you realize you haven’t heard the quiet crunch of Luna’s steps in a minute, haven’t felt the gentle press of her nose and the warm chuff of air when she exhales against your leg. Your tiny companion is several steps behind you, completely stricken. She looks as terrified as the day you took her home—trembling legs splayed, eyes huge, ears alert.

She is not pleased with the grisly scene. For good reason.

You scan the area, listening intently. There’s no movement, no immediate threat you can discern. You know this kill is abandoned.

But you’re not going to subject Luna to this fear. You scoop her up, trudge back through the forest to bring her home, and put her inside. And then you head back to the spot.

Something aside from the macabre mystery of it all brings you back.

The smell of blood is overpowering, but there’s that other scent lingering on the still forest air, something warm and pungent and vaguely familiar. You can’t put your finger on what it is, but it smells good. Mouthwateringly good. Not like fresh baked bread, not something benign like a food or flower or early morning.

It’s something overtly sexual, something personal.

You can’t remember ever being this attracted to a scent, but it conjures images of intense coupling. It smells like tangled limbs, like burying your face against the hollow of a sweaty throat. Like skimming the tip of your nose up the inside of a thigh. Like having two thick fingers thrust into your mouth, pressing in, pressing down on the wet muscle of your tongue until you choke. Like those same spit-wet fingers slipping out of your mouth, streaking a glistening trail down your chin, and closing around your throat.

It’s leather and sex and smoke and salt and…so many more unnameable things.

It has you wet between your legs.

It has you following a faint trail of dripped blood and remnants of dismembered carcasses across the pine-needle strewn ground—a path that leads away from your property. You wander from one trace to the next, a little dazed, searching the forest floor for more signs of the violence that took place here.

Every step you take has you moving a little faster, until you’re all but running through the maze of tree trunks.

You pass cracked ribs, stripped almost completely clean.

The smell is getting stronger, more magnetic. You barely have to seek out the trail of the blood and scattered viscera to find your way; the smell itself is enough. It keeps you on track.

You know it’s crazy. But you need answers.

Halfway there, you’re sure of where the path leads. There’s nothing else this far in the forest. You know who will be waiting at the end of it.

You step over the sharp angle of a jaw bone, shiny teeth lined up like snow-covered mountain peaks.

No wonder the nights have been loud with desolate howling.

You’re vaguely aware that dusk is gathering quickly, spun like silk between the tightly packed trees. It’s dangerous to be out this late, in this part of the forest, in the dark.

You keep moving, fingers clutched tightly around the com in your pocket.

*** The Mandalorian is waiting for you.

He’s standing comfortably, leaning against a tree, as if he’s been expecting you for some time, like he’s known you’ve been on your way. His house lurks somewhere in the blue mist behind him.

How could he possibly have known?

When he straightens, his body language is stiff. Something is off.

He greets you with a gruff, “You shouldn’t be out here.”

You hesitate. “What—why?”

“It isn’t safe.”

“It’s not—”

“Don’t come here again.”

The contrast to how he spoke to you last night is jarring. You’re speechless for a second. He turns on his heel and starts to walk away. He’s gone mercurial on you again—retreated fully behind his armor.

You find your voice before he’s disappeared between the trees. “I told you—I’m not afraid of anything on this planet.”

He stops in his tracks and turns slowly to face you, his silver armor glinting dully in the gloom.

“I know,” he says, “but you should be.”

You bristle. “Why are you acting this way? Yesterday—just yesterday you gave me a com link.” You pull the thing out of your pocket and hold it up. “And told me to use it. You wanted me to.”

“That…was a mistake.”

“Don’t say that. It wasn’t.”

“I shouldn’t have been so familiar. It won’t happen again.”

He turns and is almost completely lost to darkness, the looming outline of his roof just barely visible beyond the trees.

“Why is there a trail of carcasses leading from my house to yours?”

He stops in his tracks. Silent.

“You owe me an explanation,” you press. “I’m not leaving until I get it.”

He stands there for a long moment.

“Come in,” he growls finally, jerking his helmet toward his front door.

You follow him inside. The house is old but beautiful—hardwood floors and sky blue walls. It’s clean and uncluttered, just as you expect his space to be. He nods toward his kitchen table, offering you a chair, and leans against his kitchen counter, thumbs tucked into his belt.

“Explain the bodies.”

He’s not looking at you. He chooses his words carefully. “They…were a threat.”

“They were a threat…?”

“So I eliminated them,” he says simply.

Eliminated feels like a generous euphemism for the way the beasts were obliterated, ripped to shreds and scattered. To be honest, though, you’re less concerned with the details than you should be. You care more about the reason. You want to hear him say it.

“Why?”

“I’m a hunter. It’s what I do.”

“There was a bounty on those creatures?”

He tilts his helmet in a way that feels like an eye-roll.

“They weren’t bothering anyone,” you say. “It wasn’t necessary.”

“They were stalking you.”

The lake. The fight. Here it is, finally: the truth. You’re going to have to drag it out of him.

“And how do you know that?”

He tips his helmet up, his visor finally meeting your eyes, but he says nothing.

“You’ve been following me.”

Again, nothing. He fixes his gaze downward again.

“Why, Mando?” you prompt, some mixture of dread and desire pulsing through your veins. “Tell me. You owe me that.”

“You know,” he says quietly.

Your heartrate kicks up. “I know what?”

He says it begrudgingly, like it’s an ugly reality: “That I want you.”

You laugh. He can’t be fucking serious. “How would I know that? Should I have guessed when you stopped talking to me? Or when you refused to look at me? How could I possibly have known when you can’t seem to decide whether to let me in or push me away?”

“You’ve known,” he says, addressing none of your questions. “You flirted with me.”

“I did,” you admit. “But that had more to do with my feelings than anything I assumed about yours. I didn’t know what you were feeling. I just knew what I wanted.”

“Mmm.”

You’re going to kill him if he doesn’t start giving you more than monosyllables.

“If you want me, why do you keep pushing me away?”

He rolls his helmet to the side, annoyed. As if he has any right to be annoyed. You can hear how tightly his jaw is clenched when he speaks. “Because I can’t have you.”

“Shouldn’t I be the one who gets to decide that?”

“Not in this case.”

“And why is that?”

“It’s…complicated.”

“Fine. Explain it to me.” You make a show of settling back in your chair. “We have all the time in the world.”

He bunches his shoulders, rubs a heavy hand down the back of his neck, uneasy. “You’ll get hurt.”

“What does that even mean? How would I get hurt?”

He ignores that, deflecting. “This isn’t your decision to make,” he spits. “It’s mine.”

“That’s insane—we both want the same thing—”

“I won’t let you get hurt.” His voice is low, his visor pointed at his boots—almost as if he’s talking to himself, trying to convince himself.

You stand, frustrated, your chair squeaking on the hardwood floor when you shove it backwards. “Why would I get hurt, Mando—how? What are you going to do? Or is it me you’re worried about? Is this how you really think of me? As something fragile? Do you just think I’m that fucking weak?”

He breaks.

The sound he makes is brutal and anguished, a dull roar, and you can’t help but flinch when he slams his fist against the counter behind him. The windows shake with the impact. He laughs when you flinch, something low and dark rumbling through his chest, a sound tinged with vindication.

“Good,” he says. “I said you should be scared.”

“That sound startled me,” you say, rolling your eyes. “It doesn’t mean I’m scared of you.”

He moves like a gunshot.

He shoves your empty chair away, and his massive metal frame forces you backwards with faltering steps. You stop when your back hits the wall, looking up at his visor defiantly. He’s trying to provoke you, to orchestrate a situation that forces you to push him away, that justifies his own worry.

“What will it take?”

He gets so close that his chest brushes yours, so close that you can feel the cold metal of his armor through your clothes. He looms over you, dropping his helmet toward your ear.

“Hmm?” he prompts. “What will it take to convince you?”

“Of what?”

“To leave this—leave me—alone.”

You open and close your mouth, at a loss for words, overwhelmed by his closeness.

He dips his head again, his helmet nudging your temple, his voice pitching low and dangerous. “You want me to hurt you?”

“You won’t hurt me.” You say it so quickly, with such conviction that it surprises even you.

Mando lets out a quiet sound like a wounded animal and looks away, his visor fixed on the ground as his chest heaves in deep breaths. You’re about to speak again when he looks up and cradles your cheek in his gloved hand.

He’s gentle suddenly. Reverent.

“You’re right, sweet thing. I won’t hurt you. Not on purpose.”

“See?”

“Not on purpose,” he repeats, the words heavy with significance.

“I trust you.”

You reach for his helmet with a tentative hand, waiting for him to stop you—fully expecting it. He doesn’t. You trace the sharp relief with light fingers, running them down what would be his cheek.

“I want you. Let me want you.”

A low growl rumbles through his chest, but this one is different from the others. This one sounds pleased. You’ll take it.

You tuck two fingers into the soft leather of his belt and tug his hips forward those last few inches, guiding him close until his whole body is flush to yours, until you’re caught between his unyielding metal and the wall.

You let your hands wander to the spaces between his armor, let them run up his sides, let one slip under the layered fabric at his neck. Your fingertips find warm skin, and you sigh at the feeling.

He’s real. He’s here. He’s not moving away.

He’s leaning into your touch, his breath coming thick and fast through the modulator. His hands, though, are hovering by your hips, uncertain.

“Touch me,” you beg, grabbing them and moving them to your sides.

His fingers tighten against your middle, and he presses the solid length of his body harder against yours. He’s half hard against your hip.

“Please.”

He’s considering. He’s drawing out the longest moment of your life.

You can feel the moment he decides to give in, to let himself have what you both want so badly. He sighs and curls himself around you, dropping his helmet toward your shoulder, slipping his arms around your waist to hold you tight.

It’s achingly tender. Intimate in a way you weren’t expecting.

You breathe together.

And just as suddenly, everything shifts again. He pulls back and fixes you with a hard look.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“You need to be sure.”

“I’m sure. Just—please—”

His fingers follow the line of your jaw, his thumb settling on your lower lip. At the merest hint of pressure, you open your mouth.

“Bite,” he whispers, pushing just the tip of his thumb past your lips.

You graze your teeth lightly over his fingertip, catching the seam. The potent taste of leather and blaster residue invades your mouth, sitting heavy like ash on your tongue. You want to taste his skin, not his glove.

You’re desperate to know what sound he’d make if you wrapped your lips around his bare thumb and sucked. But before you have the chance, he eases his hand out of his glove—revealing golden brown skin—and drops it to your side, squeezing your hip so hard it makes you gasp. The leather slaps quietly against the floor when your jaw falls open. He yanks his other hand free and lets that glove fall too.

Your hand slips down his chest plate, skates over his belt, to settle over—

His bare hand covers yours, clamping it in place over his cold metal buckle.

“No.”

You look up at him. “What—?”

“No,” he repeats.

“Why—?”

“Are you sure you want this?” he asks again. “Are you sure you want me to touch you?”

“Yes,” you gasp. “But why can’t—?”

Before you can finish your question, Mando is spinning you around and ushering you backward toward the table. When the edge nudges your back, he turns you again, pushing your shoulders down until you fold forward over the oak top.

He arranges you to his liking: a boot kicks your feet wider, and rough hands grip your hips to shift them backward so he has enough space to work open the button on your skirt, shove it down, and let it pool at your feet. He takes your underwear with it.

Your gasp melts into a moan when he fits himself behind you, bent over you with his hips bracketing yours, and drags his warm, dry hands up the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. You can feel him through his clothes—his cock is hard against the small of your back—and you’re on fire with the thought of trying to fit him inside you.

You’d take it. You want that burn.

But he doesn’t reach for his belt. He stays like that, folded over you, the edge of his helmet sharp on the back of your shoulder, and slides one hand further up into the v of your legs. He grunts and presses his hips harder against your ass at the first feeling of your wet heat on his fingers as he parts you.

The pad of his finger finds your clit and skims it, applying barely any pressure. Teasing.

He speaks softly, his helmet close to your ear. “Is this what you wanted? Is this what you needed?”

You push your hips back against him, seeking. “Please, Mando—I need—”

“You’ll take what I give you, pretty thing. And you won’t ask for more.”

He goes torturously slow, clearly unconcerned with your urgent need. He’s enjoying the build-up, you think, enjoying feeling you squirm against him. He lets you whine for a couple minutes while he plays with you as he pleases. Until finally, he decides to give you the pressure you need, two fingers rocking gently against your clit, his other hand dipping lower.

Out of all the things that have happened tonight—all the weird, improbable shit—what shocks you the most is this: Mando can be a talker. As soon as he sinks two fingers into the warmth of your pussy, he starts to run his mouth. And he doesn’t stop.

In his sinful voice, he tells you how much he’s wanted this, how good you feel around his fingers.

He groans deep. “I’ve thought about this tight little cunt every night for months.”

With both his hands between your legs and a steady stream of filth murmured in your ear, he takes you apart in minutes. He pauses only to rip your shirt over your head, palming your breasts with a quiet oh fuck, and then resumes.

“I’ve imagined the sounds you’d make—the way you’d cry for me when I make you come.”

He fucks you with two thick fingers, stretching you open in a way that’s making your arousal seep down his palm.

“Fuck, you’re even wetter than I thought you’d be—hngg—you’re dripping on me.”

He flicks your clit with his other hand, a little mean, then soothes the sting with just the right touch, the right rhythm. You come like that, spasming around his fingers, and he growls when he feels it.

“Oh fuck, come for me, just like that.”

He pulls his hands away too quickly.

“Let me—just let me—”

He guides you into a new position with gentle but hurried movements. There’s a frantic air to them that has you obeying without a second thought. He draws your shoulders up and spins you around; his hands slide down your back and over the curve of your ass, gripping the backs of your thighs to lift you onto the edge of the table.

He presses you backwards until you lie flat for him, and he parts your knees and slides his palms up the insides of your thighs, forcing your legs apart so you’re completely spread for him. You don’t have time to be startled by the depravity of it because he does something you’re not expecting. He drops to his knees with a clank of beskar and lets his helmet fall forward into the v of your thighs.

You gasp at the cold shock of metal, flinching away instinctively, but his hands curl around your thighs and keep you in place.

He presses the front of his helmet against your sex.

There’s no way he can see anything at all with his visor shoved up against your skin, no way there’s enough light to make out the details of your cunt.

Then you realize, he’s smelling you. His fingers are digging into your thighs as he tries to drag you closer to his face—as if he could drag you any closer when you’re already pressed up tight against him, as if he could pull you straight through the mask of beskar if he tries hard enough.

He’s making sharp, animalistic sounds: growls and huffs and desperate inhalations.

You watch in fascination as his shoulder starts to shift and roll, the dim light glinting on his pauldron, and you push yourself up onto your elbows and drop your head to one side to discover he’s palming himself over his pants where he’s kneeling, rubbing the erection straining against his zipper.

He’s touching himself to the smell of you.

It makes you desperate to touch him. You reach for him.

“Mando, please.”

He lets you pull him up, but when you go for his belt, he swats your hand away. Instead, he grips your thighs and yanks you further down the table; you slide easily over the wooden surface until the solid weight of his body stops you—until you can feel the hard bulge of his clothed erection against your core. You must be leaving a gloss of slick arousal on the front of his pants, but something tells you he likes that.

His hands cup your breasts, run roughly down your stomach, and pause at your hips. His helmet snaps up to your face.

“Can I taste you?”

You don’t even know what he means—don’t know how that will be possible with the impediment of the helmet—but you truly don’t care. You’d let him do anything he wants to you.

“Yes.”

Mando slips a hand between your bodies and teases you open again, easing his fingers inside where you’re hot and leaking for him. He gives them a few leisurely pumps, curling them against you in a way that makes sparks skitter up your spine. And then he pulls them back.

He shoves his hand under the lip of his helmet and lets out the filthiest groan yet, his head tipping back in bliss as he sucks your taste off his fingers.

You brace yourself on your elbows to watch. It’s a deeply erotic sight. It makes you throb for him.

You’re about to reach for him again, to pull his body down over yours when he steps back and suddenly looks…disoriented. Caught off guard. His hands hang loosely by his sides, like he’s… waiting. Something foreign wracks through him—a shiver, no, more violent than that. A tremor shakes his body; he jerks his head to the side sharply and pulls his shoulders up tight, tensing, resisting something. It passes in a moment, and when it does, he leans his weight on slightly bent knees, catching his breath as if he just sprinted up a hill.

What the—?

“Are you alright?”

He shakes his head in a quick jerk. “I’m fine.”

He brushes past it as if nothing unusual has happened.

You don’t have time to question it because he takes his place between your knees again and leans over you, bracing a forearm above your head, the side of his smooth helmet sliding against your cheek. His fingers are still wet with his spit when he slides them home. He presses in close, and you can see the evidence of your slick smeared across his usually pristine visor. You can smell yourself on his helmet.

And you like it, like seeing him undone for you. By you.

He knows it’s there. You’re sure he can see the hazy smudge that extends across the vertical line of his visor.

“Fuck,” he says, breathless, resting his forehead lightly against yours, his hand moving between your tense thighs, “taste it.”

It takes you a moment to understand. His fingers press deeper, the feeling of him curling and stroking radiates outward.

“Lick yourself off my helmet.”

You don’t even think about it. Your mouth falls open obediently, and you drag the flat of your tongue up the glass, cutting through the taste of your own arousal.

He loves it. He lives for it.

You’re not sure if it’s the fact that you’ve just shown him you’re wiling to do whatever he says, without question; or if it’s the idea of you tasting yourself; or if it’s the filthy visual he must have of your mouth, up close and personal—maybe the closest thing he will ever get to a kiss; or if it’s something else entirely.

Whatever the reason, he likes it.

He mutters a string of praise so panted and broken that you can’t follow it. It somehow manages to communicate his meaning even better than if it were intelligible.

Mando shifts the arm braced above your head lower so he can press the pads of two fingers against your lip, a question.

Just what you wanted earlier.

You part your lips, and he coaxes another orgasm out of you. With one hand, he moves two fingers inside you, his thumb slipping over the tender pearl of your clit, and the other is cradling your chin, his fingers pressing down on your tongue as you moan around them.

It takes no time at all to work you back up to that same precipice.

“You’re—fuck—you’re choking my fingers.”

The broken pant of his words is enough to push you over the edge.

And all you can think about while you’re coming on his hand is how impossibly full you’d feel if he was fucking you with his cock instead of his thick fingers. And how much you want to know what that feels like.

You lie there, trying to catch your breath for a few moments, Mando braced over you, his breathing just as labored as yours. Eventually, he straightens.

“Up,” he invites, offering a hand.

You take it, and he pulls you into a sitting position on the table, your spread legs snug around his hips. You both look down between your bodies, and you hope he’s thinking the same thing you are.

This table is the perfect height for him to fuck you.

He could take himself out and sheath himself inside you so easily. Or you could do it for him. You’re hesitant to reach for him again, the echo of his unyielding no still loud in your head.

But you can see the rigid outline of him straining against the dark fabric of his pants. Your mouth waters at the sight. You’re itching to touch him—you can almost feel the weight and heft of him against your palm, hot and hard. He must be riding the edge of painfully aroused by now, absolutely aching for relief. And based on where his gaze is fixed—on the inches of space between your body and his, the meager distance that feels like a gaping chasm—he’s definitely thinking the same thing you are.

He wants it.

You’re seconds away from throwing caution to the wind and reaching for his zipper when he clears his throat, and you look up to his visor. His tentative fingers brush your cheek, and your filthy thoughts are successfully derailed by the only thing that could possibly derail them: Mando being sweet to you.

“You’ll stay here.”

It’s neither an invitation or a question, just a fact. Stated warmly and firmly.

He finds your discarded clothes for you then leads you to his bed and waits for you to climb in. You settle under the thick quilt at the far end so he has enough space to lie down beside you. Which he does. Awkwardly. On top of the covers. In full armor. He’s even pulled his fucking gloves back on.

You’ll push him on that at some point—the armor thing. Not now, though. You’ve just barely gotten this far with him. You feel like you’ll spook him if you push too hard.

He leaves a gulf of empty space between your bodies when he settles on his back, his hands clasped together over his belt. A safe, respectful distance away. Hands completely to himself. As if he hasn’t just made you come on his fingers twice, buried knuckle-deep inside you as he whispered filthy things in your ear. As if he hasn’t just tasted your cunt.

If it wasn’t already perfectly clear, this drives the point home: He doesn’t know how to do this—how to be close to someone. If you want this to be anything else, anything more, you’ll have to show him.

You close the space between you, shifting toward him, guiding him closer with a hand on his arm, and he makes a quiet, surprised sound as he turns onto his side, into you, his arm instinctively circling your back. The instinct is there—the desire too—just not the how.

You curl into his metal chest, and one of the very good reasons he had for staying so far away from you on the bed becomes immediately apparent.

Ow.

He murmurs what you’re thinking: “I know the armor can’t be comfortable for you either.”

He makes no offer to take it off, extends no apology for its presence, just acknowledges that you’ll want to move away because of it. It’s not that he doesn’t want this; it’s that he’s accepted he isn’t suited for it.

“It’s fine,” you murmur, afraid he’s going to pull away.

You tighten your fingers in the duraweave at his side. The hard lines of his beskar press into the front of your body, cold and pinching, in all the wrong places. He’s right. It is absolutely uncomfortable. You try to adjust subtly, try to get more comfortable without confirming that you’re really uncomfortable in the first place. You nudge your face further into the fabric bunched around his neck, chasing one of the few soft, warm parts of him that you can reach.

The tip of your nose brushes skin, and he sighs.

That scent. The one that lead you to him. It’s strongest here, heady and potent. You think you could get drunk on it. Live in it. Right now, though, it’s not so urgent. It doesn’t compel you; it’s not the catalyst it was before. It’s simply…comforting. Sweet and soothing, like the cloying edge of a sedative. No, it’s less demanding than that. More of a gentle suggestion, a reassurance.

The warm embrace of safety.

“It’s fine,” you mutter again, and this time you really mean it. “I don’t mind.”

His arm tightens around you, his hand traveling up your back to cup the nape of your neck, holding you in place where you’ve nuzzled in close. The gesture feels protective. Intimate and familiar.

Somewhere in the back of your mind you register how difficult it will be to give this up, but you release the thought as soon as it comes. No good can come from thinking like that. The end is inevitable: neither of you are meant to stay here forever.

You’ll enjoy this while you have it. Enjoy him while you have him. However brief that is.

You start to doze off, tucked comfortably against him, your thoughts spreading out and losing their shape, like ink bleeding across a wet page. It allows several things to click into place at once, settling into a recognizable pattern like puzzle pieces.

The bloody path. The dismembered carcasses. His unwillingness to let you touch him. The trees around your house. His inner conflict—his worries about hurting you. The armor. The odd physical reactions. The scent. Luna’s fear.

You’ve suspected for a while. You’ve known for sure since you saw the bodies, and in the liminal space on the edge of sleep, you finally let the truth surface.

He’s not human.

#monster!din #dark!din #din djarin x you #the mandalorian x you #mando x you #din djarin x f!reader #the mandalorian x f!reader #mando x f!reader #din djarin x female reader #mando x female reader #the mandalorian x female reader

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billthedrake · 1 year ago

Text

STANDING HALL PASS

"Hey," came his sexy voice as he let me into the hotel room. He had that killer smile that first made me crush out on the guy - when he first had that press conference for his hire my dick stood up immediately at his easygoing masculinity.

It still does. "Hey, Coach," I grinned, stepping in to follow him. This wasn't a date, but I tried to look my best for him. Sport coat, dress shirt, hair product in. Maybe because I'd met him smarted up in a blazer for an athletics award bruncheon. I was certainly overdressed now... the man had on sweatpants and an oversized team sweatshirt.

"You're looking good, G," Don said. "I got you a beer from room service," he offered, sitting down at the table. It wasn't a luxury hotel but it was a pretty nice room.

Coach Hartman and I had been having an affair for ten solid years now, and I was getting used to this phase. And to the man's desire to have a conversation before we fucked. So I sat down and we made chit chat, talked about the Broncos game the next day and my promotion at work.

It wasn't always like this. I was an Ohio State lax bro when we met, riding my youthful horniness and feeding of Coach Hartman's pent up sexual energy. We had some exploratory hookups at first, with wild, fevered sex, until we figured out a way to meet more frequently. I was living the dream, indulging my desire to top an older man, a man old enough to be my dad. That he was an honest to god NFL coach stud made me feel like I'd gotten the ultimate prize every time.

Then Don told me he had to break it off. Maybe a combination of guilt and fear of getting caught. I was from the Cincinnati area and I'd hung after graduation, but I knew it would suck being there and not being able to bone Hartman any more. Seeing him on the local news all the time, knowing he was just miles from where I lived. When I half lied and mentioned I was thinking of relocating to a different city, I saw the relief in his face and that nearly broke my heart. "I'd never ask that of you, Grant, but that would be for the best," he said.

So I moved to Denver. Had a great job and was into the outdoor culture. Even made some good friends quickly. But Denver is a young city and didn't have as many bottom daddies as I craved. Still, I was a good looking ex-jock, I did OK. And I took some vacations to Palm Springs that let me scratch my dadfucking itch.

It was about two years to the day when I heard from Don. He was still "William" in my contacts for the messaging, since I'd entered his middle name for anonymity sake. "How are you doing Grant?" was all it read.

The rest was history, I thought, as Hartman and I made small talk now, eye contact getting heavier. I kicked off my sneaker and ran my foot along his anke.

"You're making me hard," he whispered.

"That's the point, right, Don?" I teased. Working my foot higher.

He grunted and with a nod, raised his hips off the chair to pull down his sweats. The man was going commando and his smaller, thick tool stood up from the forest of grayish brown pubes. His legs weren't as toned as when we first started fooling around, but the man kept in shape.

I peeled off my socks and undid my jeans, not taking them off yet but letting my hardon have some breathing room in my briefs. I scooted the chair to angle us facing one another, allowing my foot to travel up his inner thigh, teasing him more. I don't know that either of us were into foot play, but this was novel and sexy, and I got off seeing Don's dadcock twitch.

"You sure you want to be with a 60 year old?" Coach asked, with a glint of flirting but also an insecurity there. He'd just had his birthday the previous week. Just as I'd had my 30th milestone the previous summer.

"Sure I'm sure," I replied. I breathed deep and felt my cock throb. I was glad it was no longer so constrained. "You sure you wanna be with a guy who gets turned on by fucking a 60 year old?"

I thought maybe I was going too far. Like a lot of guys, Don didn't like to think of himself as old, and he'd bristled any time I brought up any "dad" or "daddy" talk. But his spike jerked some, and I moved my foot up to tease his hairy balls sac and his short shaft.

He gave me a sly grin. "Maybe you have more of a granddaddy kink than a daddy one," he laughed.

"Maybe," I shrugged. "Would that bug you?" I challenged him.

He laughed. "Honestly, Grant? I don't fucking know." This was Hartman in his laid back mode, more laid back than I'd seen him in a while. I liked this version of him, I decided.

I played with his exposed genitals some more, getting into the new kind of foreplay. "Well, 60 or not, you're hot as fuck, Don."

He smiled at me, those trademark dimples forming, then lifted up his sweatshirt. It was a gesture that said he was self conscious he didn't have the body he did at 50. But a gesture that said he was seeking my approval.

I gave it to him. "Seriously, Coach," I grunted. "Your body is incredible. All of you." I wasn't laying it on thick, it was the truth. I was now partnered with my boyfriend Kevin, who twelve years older and a total bottom who indulged my incest kink. But I'd been up front with him that I had a married fuck bud who was going to stay in the picture. A famous guy who'd remain anonymous. Kevin actually suspected it was Tim Ryan since I'd fantasized, crudely and out loud, about that man being my bottom bitch more than once.

Kevin had actually called things off with me, until he decided he could live with me hooking up with mystery man 2 or 3 times a year. I'd get a text from "William" and drop any plans I had to come over to the hotel Don was staying at.

Like now. Hartman was feeding off my praise and my clear lust. I pulled out my cock and let him see not only its size but how hard the man was making me.

"Why don't you come over and suck it, Coach," I hissed. I'd played up the alpha jock thing when we first met. Hartman had to get me to tone it down a little, since usually he was more likely to put out for a buddy rather than a dom type. But on occasion, I'd order him around and on occasion he'd get excited by it.

It never got old seeing the middle-aged man naked and hard, getting into servicing position between my legs. Even more as I realized he wouldn't be middle aged much longer.

I grunted as his hands ran along my jeans and his head came closer. His hair was grayer now, much grayer, almost bristly with the silver. I ran my hand through its short length and felt him hiss, just before his tongue made contact with my dick.

Don Hartman wasn't a good cocksucker when we met. That gave me a source of pride, that I was the one who trained him, taught him the way to treat a dick. If I wasn't into fucking so much and if Coach didn't have such an amazing ass, I'd be happy sticking to a nice BJ and calling it an evening.

But it had been too long since we'd gotten together. So I'd let Hartman work me up, tease me to a full fuck-hard. And maybe he wanted to indulge his newfound oral fixation, too. Fine by me. I just pulled him off when I got too close.

"You didn't have me come over just to suck me, did you, Coach?" I growled.

Don's fist now encircled my spit wet prick. "Nah, G.... I need this in me, man. You know that?" His face blushed red at the admission. Carrying on an affair with Hartman was an emotional mine field, but I learned to embrace that part of it, too.

I ran my thumb along his cheek. Still can't believing the man I lusted for in my high school years was here with me now, still... again. "I know, Coach.... you know it turns me on to hear you say it."

He gave me a sexy smile. The embarrassment not giving way fully but transforming into something else. "You know, I thought I could go cold turkey... when you moved away...."

That hit me deep. Maybe I was the one going on the emotional rollercoaster with Don. My whole hand now patted his cheek, stroking his face tenderly. A part of me wanted to give him a slap, but he and I didn't have that dynamic and never would. "I'm here now, Don.... maybe it's once a year, maybe it's more. Whenever you need this cock, tell me, OK?"

He nodded, almost grateful. Fuck, my dick throbbed and started leaking. Hartman's eyes watched excitedly. "Maybe I can fly you out East sometime. If your boyfriend would be OK with that." We had an asymmetrical understanding. Don could talk about Kevin, but his family was off limits to discuss when we hooked up.

"He'll be fine," I replied, reassuring him. Don still had major cheating guilt, but his one stipulation was that he was not going to be a homewrecker for me. "He knows I need this."

With that I leaned forward. Don leaned up and met me. We didn't always kiss, particularly in that "it's just a fuck" phase when we rekindled our affair. But lately, Coach had been open to it. So I greedily kissed back, working as much game as I could into each lip lock.

It wasn't entirely romantic, though. I was horny, and Hartman was crazy pent up. Maybe his wife hadn't been putting out much lately. Or maybe he'd just missed a man's touch after too long. I put no claim on the man, but I knew I was the only guy he fooled around with.

I stood up, and Don was a half beat behind. We embraced and I let Don help me take off my clothes. I was regretting now that I hadn't come in casual attire like Don, because I would be naked now. Sometimes the slow stripping is fun, but just then I wanted to get naked with this hunk of a granddaddy. It had been too long.

"GOD!" Don hissed as I finally peeled off my shirt. I hit the gym pretty regularly and I guess I was in even better shape than last time we'd hooked up. His hands greedily ran over my muscle.

I let him explore my body, then softly patted his ass. "On the bed, Coach. Face down."

He grinned and nodded. I watched him crawl up on the bed, pulling down the covers and settling into a comfortable position. I got up behind him and took a second to massage those daddy buns, feeling just what a 60 year man felt like. Hartman was the oldest guy I'd ever been with, and I found a strange thrill in that. He wasn't the man I first fucked ten years ago, but mentally I still had 50 year old Don in my head and loved the way that fed into the 60 year stud in front of me. Oscillating back and forth, each version bringing out the hotter part of the other.

I leaned in and started burying my face in his ass.

This was my calling card. Before me, Hartman didn't realize he loved getting eaten out so much. After our first time together, he knew that's what he'd been missing. Sometimes our rim sessions would be epic, but tonight it was just going to be intense. Maybe 5 minutes of me feasting on the coach hole I missed so much.

Hartman was worked up too much too. Within a minute he was bucking his hunky ass into my face, challenging me to hold his hamstrings or hips down to steady him. I did just that and powerdrilled my tongue in and out.

I couldn't take any more though. Thankfully Don had set out some lube. I slicked myself up and fingered a good bit into his hole. I knew he'd be tight, which was great but also not. Gently I guided him up to into a doggy position.

He was horny but also a little nervous. I patted his lower back and massaged his muscle some while my other hand worked my lubed pole along his crack and over his pucker.

"It's like riding a bike, Coach," I assured him.

He chuckled. "I want you to open me up again, G," he hissed.

I did. Bluntly I applied force to his ring, until I popped through. I actually wasn't skilled at this when I was 20 but I had it down now... force, then restraint, perfectly timed. I breached that coach hole and then held the breach still so the man could get comfortable with a dick in him again.

"Feeling good, Coach?" I asked when I felt the vicelike spasms let up.

"Jesus, G, you have no idea," he answered. "Go ahead... I'm all yours, buddy."

The magic words. I pushed all the way inside Don Hartman, feeling every bit of warmth and snugness and getting off on his mature muscle. Dad, Granddad... who the fuck cared who he was in my psyche just then. I gave gentle but deep strokes. All the way in, all the way out. I used his hips for leverage, slowly.

"Fuck me, Grant... oh god yeah..." Don hissed in time to my cock. Hartman may take a lot of work to break in sometimes, but when the man got into it, he really got into it.

My fingers gripped around his waist tighter and I fucked harder. I was amazed I was able to hold off this long, but it was gonna happen soon. I was gonna spunk the insides of one of the league's best coaches. I pounded faster, even, feeling so close. I didn't know how close Don was, but his hand was now on his spike, working himself in sync to the fuck I was throwing him.

"Goddamnit, Coach, I'm gonna cum... gonna cum inside you," I announced.

Maybe Don was close already. Or maybe the idea of my sperm shooting in him was the trigger. But I watched his back muscles tense and I heard his deep orgasmic grunt. Hartman was beating me to the finish line by a split second.

My prick fired heavy inside him. Several full jets of my cum flooded his raw NFL coach ass, soaking it full. I always felt like I had won a prize trophy after nailing Hartman, but I also liked to think I was giving him his own personal trophy and keepsake.

I slowed my hips and finally stopped, leaning down to kiss between his shoulder blades before I pulled out.

"That was incredible, Coach," I said. I felt I could never praise this man enough and in the afterglow I always felt grateful as hell.

He had a content smile when he rolled onto his back. The next time I'd have to do him missionary and take advantage of seeing his more mature body. "That it was, G." His hand reached forward and felt up my thigh muscle. "Maybe we can shower off together?"

I still never knew which Hartman I was gonna get. The man who'd be quiet and standoffish after orgasm. Or the one who wanted some intimacy after. But I rolled with the punches. I offered a hand and helped him out of bed.

We actually didn't kiss much in the shower, but it was amazing feeling up each other's body, soaping and rinsing.

When we dried off and got back into the main part of the room, I knew not to push my luck. "I know you have a big game tomorrow, Coach," I said, walking over to find my briefs.

"Yeah," he said. "But if you wanna come over tomorrow night... we can go a little longer then."

I knew I'd have to make this up to Kevin somehow. A whole weekend with another man. But I also knew I'd be back in this hotel room, probably overnighting here. I wasn't gonna pass up on that chance.

"That'd be awesome, Coach," I said, stepping up to get one last kiss. This time it was Don who didn't want to break it off. I felt my dick stir and knew I could go again with this coach hunk, but I would save it for tomorrow night.

I grinned as I pulled back. Maybe cocky, which I tried to keep in check around Don. But he smirked at my reaction. "Jesus, G... you haven't changed a bit since you were in college."

That wasn't true. But I knew what he meant. And I knew he was like me, getting off on the dynamic between me 10 years ago and me now. And liking that difference.

I didn't reply. I didn't know what to say that would be better than the afterglow we were feeling. So I got dressed, eye contact still heavy on Don as he sat, naked and content in his chair, watching me and finally finishing the last of his beer. I picked up my sportcoat... I could put it on later. Tomorrow, I'd definitely be casual.

"Just text me tomorrow and let me know what you're feeling," I instructed. Sometimes Don wasn't in the mood for sex after a tough game, and I always wanted to give him an out.

"You know I will, G," he said. That happy-go-lucky smile getting a more serious paternal look. "Thanks again for coming over."

"Anytime, Coach," I said. "You know that." I patted my pocket to make sure I had my phone. Then I bid him good night.

#drakestories

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gutouhua · 2 years ago

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experienced older zhongli x younger f.reader

tags. drugs (from doctor’s office), dubcon, fingering, oral sex (f.receiving), heavily implied age gap (reader is like mid 20s, zhongli is like 38) established relationship, dom/sub undertones

a/n. i literally wrote this in a fever dream :') unedited & i'm really rusty with writing smut, sorry guys...

“Open your legs and relax, love.”

“Open my legs?” you slurred, something more than confusion muddling your words. “Why do I need to do that? I thought…thought the doctor said I was okay?”

“Yes,” Zhongli smiled, voice sticky sweet. “But I just want to double check. Double checking is good, love, and besides, I’m sure I’m a better doctor than that quack is.”

You frowned and thought about it. “That does make sense because you’re so…”

You trailed off, looking mischievously at him.

Zhongli arched a fine brow. “So what, sweetheart?”

“Old,” you giggled.

“I might be old, but you cum on this old man’s cock every night, love. So I don’t see any issue with my age.” He pushed his knees against yours, widening your legs with his. “Spread a little further.”

You pouted. He wasn’t wrong, but you weren’t either, and yet somehow it felt like he’d won the conversation. Whatever—you made yourself more comfortable on the duvet, sinking into the pillows, and spread your legs for Zhongli.

“Lift them up.”

Even amidst the haze of the drugs, you raised your skirt hem upon command, muscle memory aiding your fuzzy head.

Zhongli had to suppress a deep shiver when he saw your wet folds, sticky sweet against the near translucent fabric of your panties.

“You’ll be the death of me, I swear,” he groaned, palming his hard cock through the stuff fabric of tailored trousers.

“No dying,” you said, trying to sound stern but failing.

Zhongli hummed and leaned down, his face at your thighs. “And why’s that, sweetheart? You’ll miss my cock?” he teased.

“No dummy!” You swatted his head lightly. “You still have to make sure the doctor did a good job! Didn’t you say you were gonna check!”

Zhongli had to stop the full belly laughter that threatened to come out. Upon sight of your cunt, he’d nearly forgotten his true objective. “Of course, of course—I’ll check and make sure that so-called doctor did a good job and didn’t hurt you.”

“Thank you,” you mumbled, almost petulantly.

Zhongli pulled your panties off, shimmying it around your ass.

“Okay then, let’s get started.” Zhongli swiped his long tongue against his middle and ring finger—although if the shininess of your folds was any indication of how wet you were, he wouldn’t need to do that—and lightly pressed his two fingers against your pussy.

“How does that feel?” he murmured, going up and down your folds, just barely skimming your clit.

“Inside,” you demanded. Frustration pitched your voice, made it higher and whiny, but Zhongli didn’t mind. Found it endearing.

“I have to make sure the outside is okay first, love, then I’ll check the inside.”

“Okay, fine,” you muttered.

Zhongli chuckled and continued to massage the folds until you began squirming underneath his hold and he had to steady your hips with his free hand. An errant finger would occasionally slip just past your folds, but then it was gone and you were fighting his fingers with your hips.

“Slow down, love. There’s no rush,” he said, sweeping long fingers against your folds. He gathered the wetness that dripped, caught it before it dirtied the sheets, and then pushed lightly inside, three fingers this time—just the tip—and you nearly folded in half from the sudden intrusion.

“Deeper baby, please.” Desperate begging, completely forgetting that your husband was supposed to be checking for health reasons and not pleasure.

“But I am deep?” he said coyly, sinking down to his second knuckle. Zhongli pumped his fingers in and out of your cunt, giving you slow strokes and just barely curling them.

“Not—” you buck your hips, trying to impale his fingers on you, “—not deep enough. I want you deeper.”

“Ask nicely, and I’ll do it. I will give you anything you ask for,” Zhongli said softly. He continued to stroke your insides, never going all the way in, and you didn’t want to cave—how did you even get into this position in the first place, you wondered—but you could feel your insides draw tight, your core fighting for sweet relief.

When you didn’t say anything immediately, Zhongli pressed his tongue to the seam of your lips, against the folds that sucked his fingers greedily and you cried out from the sudden sensation. “Wife?” he murmured, licking your cunt messily while continuing to finger fuck you.

“F-Fine,” you said shakily. Half-angry, half-aroused beyond belief. He knew you couldn’t resist him when he called you wife; used it every time he wanted something from you, or in this case, wanted to give you something.

“Will you go deeper, please?”

Zhongli latched his tongue around your clit and sucked lightly, pleased when your hips lurched forward and bumped his nose. Words half muffled, he said, “Manners.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat; swallowed your need to win and acquiesced. “Please..please sir. Please go deeper, sir.”

“That’s a good girl,” Zhongli praised and then thrusted knuckles deep into your cunt, sucking your clit at the same time with a harsh pull of his tongue.

Hips lifted into the air, above the bed like an offering, you keened. “I’m gonna cum, baby, gonna cum—”

“Then come, sweetheart. Give it to me.”

And so you did: when the tight draw in your stomach threatened to overwhelm you, eyes glossy from tears and something else, with Zhongli encouraging you, whispering praises—good girl, sweetheart, you’re doing so good, princess, cum for me—you let yourself go with a long moan and something garbled and something sounding sort of like Zhongli’s name.

Only when you relax into the sheets, eyes closed, breath slow, exhausted, does Zhongli pull out, fingers soaked, the lower half of his face shiny and wet. But he doesn’t mind, likes the taste, really, and takes the chance to lick his fingers clean since you always chastise him for doing so in front of you.

You got so embarrassed over things like that, Zhongli thought, but thought riding his cock wasn’t. He smiled, and although he liked you a sweaty and pleasured mess, you’d feel better waking up clean, but he’d clean you later. Not yet.

He brought his saliva-coated fingers under his nose.

Inhaled.

Yes, this is it.

#guys this is not...my best work but i just wanna write something smutty & not think about editing it...#zhongli x reader #zhongli smut #genshin smut #zhongli x y/n #zhongli x you #zhongli thirst #zhongli imagines #genshin fanfic #genshin x reader

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paperbackribs · 9 months ago

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A Tarnished Copper Boy (9)

Previous | Next | Ao3 Last chapter, Steve found a domestic rhythm with Wayne and Eddie after Thanksgiving only to disappear before Christmas, but despite blipping away Steve managed to leave a gift behind for Eddie.

Chapter 9: The Second

Winter 1985

After Steve leaves, time moves unconscionably fast and yet syrupy slow. Christmas tumbles into New Year's and New Year's falls away in a quiet spectacular of fireworks and exuberant countdowns. Eddie returns to classes that pass in a blur of noisy rooms and corridors, while he continues to make muffled deals after school.

The dark of dead trees behind the school provided little shelter from the crisp white of the snow-clad ground, the heat from Eddie’s and his buyers’ chests escaping through mouths pressed against cupped hands: cold weather as an incentive for short but profitable interactions. The trailer’s furnace had decided it was time for an undignified burial and Eddie and Wayne had scrambled to get it replaced in the dead of winter, Eddie’s extra cash helping to keep the essentials going.

Then the commotion of life would suddenly give way to a crawl.

The clamour of the outside world drifting away as Eddie found calm in an easy conversation between his fingers and the strings. Cocooned in the refuge of a dark room lit by soft lamps, he would sit in the centre of his bed, amongst messy sheets that he had once shared with Steve, an acoustic guitar in his lap, and contemplative eyes resting on a faded stain.

Not because the shape strikes fear in his gut anymore, but because it reminds him that this all has been too real. Steve hadn’t been some domestic fever dream spurred by too many bowls one night. The stain reminds him of the truth of Steve’s absence even as the aggressive melody of The Sentinel tumbles over into a melancholy strumming from his fingertips.

Afterwards, winter flies by in one heavy blink, filled with campaigns, band practice, and begrudging motions towards his schoolwork. Half-hearted assignments handed in, but at least he’s attending exams this year.

Yet, as Eddie increasingly fails to give his best at school, the tension between his shoulders and neck tightens further. What had started as a rope of responsibility loosely circling his body at the beginning of the year has come to life, every moment of dodging his work creating a mirror movement that twists and cinches the knot, an incremental shift that has thickened and twined, squeezing Eddie’s chest and steadily moving higher, threatening his neck.

If he's lucky he’ll complete a chapter of this term’s text before a new interest will take over the greedy gremlin in his brain, fuelling a creative conflagration of new ideas, new stories, new songs. It does nothing to complete the essay burning on his desk, but it’s still a welcome distraction from the building feeling that he is fucking up again.

He wouldn’t have even attempted a repeat if it weren’t for Wayne. Confessing his sins last year, Eddie had offered the obvious solution to his uncle: he may fail the class of 1983, but instead he’ll get a real job and start contributing, properly, to the household.

Wayne had shaken his head and Eddie’s guts had fallen to his feet in the sudden understanding that his high school nightmare was still a long road in front of him.

“While a diploma is not a magic potion from one of your games, a… a cure-all,” Wayne had gently explained, palm on Eddie’s shoulder. He knows Wayne had meant the gesture in comfort, but it had felt like a boulder of responsibility instead.

“Panacea,” Eddie blurted out, unable to stop himself. “A cure-all is called a panacea.” Wayne only gave him a steady look in response and Eddie ducked his head, long hair hiding his face. Ashamed that his mind works in all the moments that it doesn’t need to.

“But it’ll help you get a leg up,” Wayne continued to say. “I don’t want you stuck under the type of people who’ll only hire a high school drop-out. You’ll end up working a factory at fifty with aching joints and a bum back, looking down the barrel of your body steadily failing you even while it’s the only thing bringing money into the household.”

Eddie had bit his lip against the low-hanging fruit of a use your body joke. Swallowed around it, savagely downing the humiliation of failing, and the mortification he knew was coming when he walked through the doors of Hawkins High as a repeating senior in the Fall of ‘84. Because Wayne had asked him to do this and there is very little the man asks of him. So, he would.

And he did.

Eddie had absorbed the failure and rolled on. But rather than meeting the challenge, he has avoided it. Ducked and twisted and ran like he is so very good at and has ended up closer to the gallows than ever. With little interest in success, Eddie is plummeting quickly after failure again and any little distraction comes with its own wash of guilty relief.

And so, time passes, quickly then slow and then back again in its own special loop, but always with a little niggling question of whether today is the day that Steve comes back. A little hum at the back of Eddie’s mind that strikes sparks at each moment he thinks to share with the absent boy travelling through time. Turning to the Steve-shaped hole next to him, only for his shoulders to drop as he remembers that he’s not there.

The spark flashes again at the beginning of spring, as the first of March comes with its own inevitable celebration in the Munson household. Eddie sits on the couch, palms firmly pressed to his eyes and fingers wiggling cheekily, “Whatever could be coming this way?” He calls out, mock curiosity teasing through his tone.

The scent of smoke reaches his nose before he hears Wayne say with amusement, “All right, all right, open them up.” Eddie can almost hear him rolling his eyes.

Three slim candy-coloured candles are stuck in a rich, thick layer of red frosting, the bare hint of a golden-hued cake at its base. The room isn’t very dark, with the new season’s sun pouring through the parted curtains, but the small flickering flame draws Eddie’s focus like he is a moth. The traditions of his birthday settling the ongoing unease in his gut along with the affection in Wayne’s eyes.

His uncle leans forward, nodding for Eddie to hurry and blow out the candles and Eddie closes his eyes to think of a sun-kissed boy with bronze locks; he exhales his wish into the air.

“Happy birthday, Eds,” Wayne passes over the traditional Happy 3rd Birthday, Big Boy! birthday card, this year with a child-like pirate stamped on the front, making Eddie grin in familiar delight.

Tearing his way through green Christmas wrapping reveals an orange plush material with two round eyes and a sardonic expression. Eddie barks out a laugh: Garfield slippers. He wiggles his feet into them immediately, they’re soft and comfortable and mocking all at the same time. “Thanks,” Eddie says, happily. “I love them.”

Wayne smiles, and hands over a thick wedge of cake. The thing about Wayne is that he may burn eggs, but he’s a great baker. Every year is some variation of dessert, be it lemon or vanilla or almond or funfetti, and always with a little decoration tailored just for Eddie. An outline of a guitar, a lumbering bigfoot or, this year, devil horns topping the head of the p’s in Happy.

Eddie shoves a large forkful into his mouth, speaking around the crumbs. “You know,” he says as casually as one can with frosting already on the side of his cheek. He quickly rubs it off, but a lingering stain of red remains. “Catherine always sends nice dishes our way, I bet she would love a cake or sweet to dig into too.”

Wayne’s salt and pepper moustache twitches as he thinks, “I can’t imagine she’d think it’s very manly of me, covered in flour and whipping up egg whites.”

Eddie shoots him a mild look of reproach, what feels like a lifetime of Wayne helping him unpack what is and isn’t acceptable flashing between them. A large part of that had been Wayne telling him not to listen to brain-dead idiots. To definitely not listen to his brain-dead idiot of a brother, and his ideas of what constitutes a real man.

Wayne grimaces a little. “Old habits die hard,” he simply says, taking a thoughtful bite as he thinks over Eddie’s suggestion.

Eddie nods: they do. Sometimes a particularly vile thought will rise unbidden in his head and it’ll take him a moment or two to realise that it’s his brain parroting his father. Wayne has never talked about it much, but Eddie has always gotten the sense that Pop’s attitudes about masculinity stemmed from similar attitudes held by their father.

“Is giving us Thanksgiving pie a girly thing or a generous thing?” Eddie muses, dragging his fork through the crumbs and dredges of buttercream, fondly thinking of a particular fruit cake long gone.

“You’re right,” Wayne gruffly concedes, “And the woman works herself half to death with all those shifts she takes at the hospital.”

“I bet it’d be nice to come home to pie she hasn’t made herself,” Eddie points out sensibly.

A gleam grows in Wayne’s eyes and Eddie is unsurprised to amble out of his bedroom one late morning to find Wayne about to exit the trailer, a Hummingbird Cake plated and in hand. “You go, Uncle Wayne,” Eddie crows and Wayne shoots him a mildly exasperated look before leaving.

Eddie doesn’t see him when he returns, but the edge of a smile plays at the old man’s mouth for the rest of the day.

Hawkins experiences an unexpected warm front with Eddie’s birthday, drying the air and bringing it with the chirps and melodies of awakening birds and the faint hum of industrious bees. The noon warmth of the sun on his exposed face is particularly rejuvenating as he sits reclined on the weathered couch outside his trailer.

Steppenwolf plays in the background, Eddie absently humming along to Magic Carpet Ride. Slouched on the opposite side, Randy takes a long drag of their joint. The cherry flaring before he lets loose a bellow of grey smoke, circling his head as if trying to recreate the fading clouds in the sky.

Eddie watches the trails dwindle away, sure that there are patterns to be found, but they keep sliding out of his head for the moment.

“It’d be a good item,” Randy says out of nowhere, his voice deep like a man’s where it had been breaking only six short months ago. He’s wrapped in a puffy jacket and blue jeans, long blonde hair tied low at the back of his neck.

Eddie languidly rolls his head to the side, allowing the sun to catch and warm his left cheek and ear. Maybe he’ll freckle and Eddie will match Steve’s constellation of beauty marks. Randy stares blankly out into the wood behind the trailers that give Forrest Hills its name until Eddie pokes him with his boot.

“A magic carpet,” Randy jolts up to explain, wrists moving expansively before handing Eddie the joint. It is their second, but the first one had been smoked out long ago and they were nearing the—gasp—heights of sobriety before Randy suggested another round.

He’s a good guy, Randy. A good D&D player, too, treading that line between thorough inspections of dungeon corners but also calling for the group to take action. It’s one of the reasons that Eddie allows him to come to the trailer for deals; he only allows friends to hit him up at home, liking to keep potential trouble with unknowns away from Wayne’s doorstep.

“You’re a mage…” Eddie starts to point out but is briefly distracted by a flicker at the trailer window. Mind slow and syrupy he thinks back: no, he’s pretty sure Wayne is with the guys this afternoon, playing poker.

Good luck to him, Eddie muses, eyes sliding back to the clouds again as he reminisces about the one time Wayne had allowed him to join. He had been immediately confused by the value of the printed cards and the order of winning combinations. And how come the joker, the best part of any pack, is defunct? Valueless, Eddie thinks sadly. He should have pocketed the bright jester, pin it on his mirror and give it a home that knows his worth.

Randy snorts out a laugh, “You are baked, man. Hello—” He snaps a finger in front of Eddie’s face and Eddie blinks. “Carpet of flying, I know they’re rare, but it’d be a fun item to play with in-game.”

Eddie’s grin is wide, the ideas of how his players can use the carpet immediately amusing. “It could hover along, serve snacks like those ladies at golf games.”

“Puffs itself up and acts as a bouncer at every open door,” Randy rejoins, giggling.

“Any time it comes across a mundane carpet it tries to challenge it to a dance off.”

“Mischievous thief and prankster!”

The two boys supply increasingly ridiculous ideas until they collapse against the couch, laughing. Eddie wipes a tear from his eye before sitting up, suddenly overwhelming hungry and needing to do something about it.

“Wait here — I know I’ve got some Lays in the cupboard,” Eddie stumbles up, but once he’s vertical the world seems a little sharper again. Honest mirth and fresh air somewhat clearing his mind of its tacky fog.

Randy moans loudly, “Yes! Please tell me you have Onion and Chives.”

“Gross. No,” Eddie exclaims as he swings open the screen door, his head hanging out of the door even as his body steps into the trailer, “You, my friend, are wrong and gross, and only Salt and Vinegar shall rule in this land.” Eddie grins as he hears Randy boo at him.

The good feeling sitting bright in his chest is only eclipsed at his delight and surprise at seeing Steve—his Steve!—sitting at the kitchen counter, poking desolately at a bowl of cereal.

He looks up as Eddie enters the room, eyes wary but Eddie doesn’t notice the shadowed expression as he runs forward, arms spread wide to fling himself at the other boy, wrapping them around Steve like long tentacles and hugging him upwards, nearly lifting him off of the stool.

“Steve!” Eddie exclaims, taking in the familiar smell of their shared shampoo and that special musky smell that’s just Steve, his Steve. Eddie rubs his cheek against his shoulder, the softness of the Dio shirt feeling exquisitely smooth to his weed-heightened senses.

Eddie leaves his cheek resting on Steve’s shoulders, eyes closed and nose in the crook of his neck. “Where were you?” He murmurs. “I’ve been here all winter and you left me.”

“Eddie, you okay?” Randy’s deep voice calls out and Steve stiffens in his embrace; his friend must have heard Eddie’s exuberant welcome, but he can’t come in, Steve is his secret.

“Yeah, one sec,” Eddie yells out, mouth nearly touching Steve’s neck and Steve flinches away at the explosion of Eddie’s voice next to his ears.

“I think your friend is waiting for you, Eddie,” Steve says from somewhere above. But he draws his upper body away too, pulling Eddie’s arms off from around him and Eddie pouts at the movement.

If Steve is absent for so long then the very least he can do is give cuddles in compensation. He had been right that first morning together: when Eddie forgets to keep to his side of the bed, Steve does give excellent first-wake-up, sleepy morning cuddles.

Tugged back so that he stands out of Steve’s immediate space, Eddie happily catalogues the minutiae of Steve’s face. He’s counting the fourth beauty mark when Steve calls his name questioningly. “I, uh, can smell you’re probably a little high right now, but I think your… friend is waiting for you out there.”

“What, no,” Eddie exclaims, but quickly quietens his voice at the memory of Randy calling for him. “I see Randy all the time.” Steve’s face tightens.

Eddie remembers again that Steve is a top-secret, time-travelling soldier. “Oh, but yeah, shit. We don’t want him seeing you, he’s my buddy from Hellfire so he’d definitely recognise King Steve.” Eddie giggles, the image of Randy’s mouth dropping as he drags Steve out of the trailer tickling his funny bone.

Steve slides off the stool, jaw working as he steps around Eddie, “Like I said before: I don’t want to cramp your style and I could do with a nap anyway. Later.” Steve walks away, his broad back disappearing into the bedroom. The door closes behind him with a firm and quiet snick.

Eddie stares down at the half-full bowl on the counter for a long minute; Steve doesn’t usually leave meals unfinished and he’s almost anal-retentive about cleaning up after himself once done.

“Eddie, oh my god, where are the chips, man?” Randy’s voice booms from outside again and Eddie startles, unsure at how long he had been staring at the amber reflecting in the afternoon light. He feels like he’s missed something important, but he’s finding it hard to get his slow thoughts to pinpoint anything from that short interaction with Steve.

Exiting the trailer he throws the bag at Randy’s head, who grabs it with a cackle and pulls it open with relish. Eddie shakes his head when Randy offers the bag, but his friend asks with a frown, “Are you okay? Was there something back in there? If it’s a massive spider, man, you’re on your own. My mom is the fighter class in our household.”

Eddie stares out at the distant trees, “You ever get the feeling you’ve fucked up, but you don’t know how?”

Randy hums around a mouthful, a scattering of salt and fat smeared across his upper lip. “Like all the time, isn’t that what school is for?”

Randy finishes off the bag even as Eddie falls into an introspective mood. Picking up on the general low vibe, Randy smacks his hands on his knees, thanking Eddie for a chill session and tells him to think about adding a carpet of flying to their loot one day.

Eddie nods, grateful for the fun of the afternoon and that he has a friend who doesn’t overstay his welcome when Eddie’s mind is all mixed up.

The sun is starting to set when Eddie decides to head back in, the bright orb hanging low and the shift of shadows edging the afternoon from cool into a shivering cold. He empties and cleans the abandoned cereal bowl left in the kitchen and curls up on the couch, pulling a blanket over his body and falling asleep to the canned laughter on the television.

If you liked anything, please consider leaving a comment over on Ao3 :-) It would make my day!

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My tag list is always open, so let me know if you want to be added. Likewise, if you want to be removed, let me know. :)

@bookworm0690, @child-of-cthulhu, @cinnamon-mushroomabomination, @ellietheasexylibrarian, @finntheehumaneater, @goodolefashionedloverboi, @gutterflower77, @hallucinatedjosten, @just-a-tiny-void, @ledleaf, @littlewildflowerkitten, @manda-panda-monium, @mightbeasleep, @nburkhardt, @newtstabber, @stillfullofshit, @tartarusknight

#lol flat asses and the debatable value of fruitcakes were last chapter's hot topics - loved it!#steddie #time travel #stranger things #steve harrington #eddie munson #a tarnished copper boy #paperbackribs writing

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running2reanimation · 2 years ago

Text

Illness

Caring comes in many forms.

King scrunched his face up as he felt the light hit it, rolling over to waking. But the the soft whine that followed had his eyes shooting open.

Gold was standing in his bedroom door, clutching his blanket. Now that King was awake, he could smell it before Gold even said it, “I threw up.”

King looked at the clock; he’d only been asleep for two hours. Oh well, time to get moving now.

First order of business, stripping Gold’s bed and pyjamas and putting them in the wash and cleaning Gold’s floor while convincing the feverish Gold to rest on the couch.

Once that was cleaned up, it was time to take his son’s temperature. Gold whined about it, curling away from the thermometer, “Come on now, under your tongue, there you go sunshine.”

Well, that was definitely high, but not dangerously so. Not rush him to the hospital high. King shuffled his way to the medicine cabinet and pulled out the fever suppressant and something to settle Gold’s stomach.

He read and double checked both bottles before measuring out the doses, two tablets and a glass of water.

“Here you go, yes both of them, no not at the same time if you don’t want to, down the hatch,” King steadied Gold’s shaking hand and helped him tilt the glass to his lips.

“There we go, good job,” King soothed, settling Gold back onto the couch, “Try and get some more rest, alright?”

And he could hear the washer come to a stop, so off he went to move the laundry along while his son slipped in and out of fevered dreams.

At least it was first thing in the morning and not midday, making calls and getting the day off wouldn’t be too much of a hassle. Of course he’d do what he could at home, so the day wouldn’t be a total waste.

Not that taking care of his sick son was a wasted day.

He still hadn’t had a cup of coffee yet. At least that explained the growing headache.

By the time the sun was up, Gold’s bedding was dry and King remade the bed and scooped up the now deeply asleep child - who was soon to be too big to pick up - and tucked him in.

King placed a bucket next to the bed and a glass of water on the nightstand, just in case.

Gold slept most of the morning, crawling out of bed to sit at the kitchen table, “‘M hungry and out of water.”

“Okay, well, I want to check your temperature again, but you’re looking a lot better than earlier,” King got the thermometer again, and Gold was a lot better about taking it this time.

Definitely going down, but still a little warm, “How’s your stomach doing? You said you were hungry, how about some toast and a banana?”

Gold nodded and King went to work toasting up two slices of bread and cutting up a banana, “Don’t force yourself to eat it all.”

He managed to finish one slice of toast and few bites of banana, to which King nodded in approval before giving Gold another dose of medicine and sending him back to bed.

King ate the remaining toast and banana and considered that his lunch.

When King went to check up on Gold later, he found his son sitting up in bed, playing one of his video games, eyes bright and alert, “You look like you’re feeling better.”

“A lot,” Gold nodded as King laid a hand on his forehead. No longer felt feverish, that was good.

“How does supper sound, nothing big, maybe some fried rice?”

“Sounds good!”

“Good,” King let out a breath and felt himself finally start to relax from where he’d been tense all day.

——

King arched an eyebrow as Purple marched from his room, bedding in arms, to the laundry room, “Purple?”

“Just a minute,” Came the all too quiet response; once the washer was going Purple joined him in the kitchen, “Sorry, I was just a little bit sick this morning, don’t worry I’ve got it cleaned up-”

“Have you checked your temperature yet?” King chided, already getting up to fetch the thermometer from the cupboard.

“C’mon Baba, do I have to? It’s just a normal stomach bug…”

“Humour me, please?” With a whine, Purple stuck the thermometer under his tongue.

“Okay, so it’s a little high, but it’s not dangerous ‘rush me to the hospital’ high. Don’t worry about it Baba, I’ve got this. I’ve been sick like this before, I know how to take care of myself,” Purple reassured, swaying as he stood up on trembling legs.

“Okay. I’ll try, but worried is one of my default states these days. I do have some medicine if you would like to take some.”

“I… yeah, think I would. Up in the medicine cupboard, yeah?” Purple asked swinging the cupboard door open.

“Let me get that for you, I think you’re too short to reach,” King reached up and grabbed the two bottles of medicine.

“You’ve got to stop being so tall.”

“Unfortunately, it’s a curse I must bear for the rest of my life.”

Purple measured out the pills, swallowing them dry and making King cringe, “You should probably have some water.”

“Once the medicine starts kicking in and I’m sure it’ll stay down,” Purple nodded, moving to go back to the laundry room since the washer stopped.

“I’ve got it, you go lay down in my bed for now and get some more rest.”

“But-”

“Purple, go rest. Please.”

“Fine, but only because you said please.”

—

King hadn’t really been in Purple’s room before, he wasn’t expecting it to be so sparse as he made the teen’s bed. A few purple things and a cherry blossom bonsai, no books or anything.

He’d have to get Purple some more things to help make his room more homey.

And now that the bed was made he scooped up up Purple - who was definitely too big for him to carry like that - and tucked him in with a bucket and a glass of water for the bedside.

Purple woke up not too long afterwards and headed to the kitchen, “Making some toast and applesauce, if you want some.”

“No thanks, do you want any help?”

“I got it, thanks,” Purple’s tone was a little snippy, but he caught himself pretty quick, “Sorry.”

“It’s alright, you’re not feeling well.”

“I am not,” Purple agreed, munching on his single piece of toast, “Gonna take some more medicine and head back to bed to ride this out.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

#avm #ava #alan becker #avm king orange #avm king mango #avm mango #avm mt #avm king #avm purple #avm gold #king #purple #gold #emeto mention #nothing graphic

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spectralquartzafterdark · 11 months ago

Note

In your AoE rewrite does Bumblebee ever call out Megatrons feelings for Rosie? I feel like he and Megatron would at least have thst in common since in my opinion Bee loved Charlie 😭

Ooh I actually have this written!

I was a scout. Observation was my job. To look out for anything suspicious. And I only got better at it when I lost my voice.

This entire mission had felt like a fever dream. When Sam and Optimus told me to stay with Rosie and Megatrons crew I wasn't happy. I knew logically Megatron wasn't a threat, but I didn't trust him. The only saving grace was the fact Jazz was around to keep things light. Rosie always seemed tense and Megatron mirrored her anxiety. A side effect of their interlink no doubt.

But as we made our way through the Appalachian mountains - I had noticed a small change in the former warlord. One I recognized all too well. It was something I had experienced. Something I still hold a bit of resentment towards Optimus for.

Megatron was looking at Rosie as if she were his conjunx. This theory was only solidified when he shut down for the night. I had caught him talking in his sleep a few times. It was always Ancient cybertronian. He could hide how his felt. But his spark couldn't. I took note and recordings. Just in case.

I understood that all too well. I still missed Charlie. It had been decades - and she still lived in my processors. In my spark. I couldn't let another bot suffer like I do. Even if it was a bot I still held hate for. I wouldn't wish this spark break on anyone. Including my worst enemy.

So, one day when it was just us and the humans and others were in sleep mode. I motioned for him to follow me.

“Follow me into the dark~” I kept my radio low and he followed me.

“Bumblebee is there something wrong?” He asked.

I looked to him, I pointed at myself and shook my head before I pointed at him and nodded.

“Gotta talk.” I played and wiggled.

“Well what is it?” Megatron was getting impatient.

“I can hear the things that you're dreaming about. When you open up your heart

And the truth comes out.”

“What in Primus are you talking about?” I Watched his faceplate contort, “I've not said anything.”

“And I know that I'm right. 'Cause I hear it in the night.” I pointed in Rosie's direction.

“SPIT IT OUT.” that struck a nerve. I was on the right track.

“I hear the secrets that you keep

When you're talking in your sleep.” I just stared at him.

He went still, I finger gunned at him. I patted my chassis and smiled showing him I understood.

“She's human… I can't…” He started.

I shook my head and switched the song, “Tell her you need her too. You tell her clearly. Speak what your heart wants you to.”

I was grateful for Spotify and Sirius radio. It made things easy.

“I… why help me?” He asked.

“Charlie.” I looked down and trilled. It hurt, but I knew he needed to know.

“Ah…” I heard him vent and watched as his stance relax, “Why care about my situation?”

“Don't suffer alone.” I let the radio play.

I watched his face. As he nodded I felt pride. I didn't trust him nor could I ever forgive him for what he had done to us. To cybertron. But I had faith he was serious about this change. And I would support it anyway I could.

And another cybertronian who loved a human? That was an ally I couldn't push away. If I couldn't have my person - he should. She was good for him. And I could tell she loved him too.

“Thank you… Bumblebee. I'll tell her when I get a chance.” He finally spoke, “I appreciate the faith you've placed in me. I know our history - isn't …”

I whirred to let him know it was okay.

“I swear I'll atone. I will do better be better. For cybertron… for her.” He said.

“You go tiger.” I clapped my servos and saluted him as we headed back.

I notes Rosie was back up and looked distressed as she sleepily reached for Megatron. He chuckled and picked her up and both got nestled in for the night.

I could see our future in them. And it was bright. Cybertron would rise again and the Earth would be protected for eons to come.

#transformers #megatron #mccadams #megatron x human #megatron x rosie #rosie writes #bumblebee #charbee #bayverse megatron #robot x human

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akirawonwoo · 6 months ago

Text

Till we meet again

By: AkiraWonwoo

Word count: 1,920

Summary: Ralina May a woman with everything but somehow there is still something that missing in here life, like a void inside her heart. One day she met her long time friend Kim Mingyu or was it really him....

Warning: angst, illusions and getting hit by a car.

Note: This is my first ever story so please be easy on me. Sorry if there are grammar errors. If you want any requests I'm open to try and write them. Enjoy. Also Ralina May is my OC.

ఇ ◝‿◜ ఇ (Horanghae)

It's dark. and I'm running away from it. It keeps on following me wherever I go. As I hear an eerie sound as if I'm being swallowed.

I screamed, “Please go away!”

“Please!”

But suddenly I saw a light that was calling my name. I slowly went close to it and felt so warm and safe like an embrace. However it abruptly ended. I woke up with tears on my face. It was a dream I always had but forgot instantly as soon as I woke up. But I must face the fact that I had to go back to reality and face another gloomy day. I got out of bed and got ready for work.

To whoever is reading this, My name is Ralina May, I’m 26 years old. I’m a writer in a newspaper company called “HYBE Papers”. This is a high paying and most sought after job. I should be happy, but somehow I’m not. I don't know why. For a woman like me having a high salary job and at the peak of my career should be happy right? But why do I feel like I’m missing something?

“Hey Ralina! Earth to Ralina'.' as my co-worker Mana shook me to get me out of my train of thoughts.

“Sorry I spaced out.”

I said, “Are you sure you're ok? Do you have a fever?.”

Mana started freaking out like always. Mana is my one and only friend that I had when I started working here.

“Come on now stop freaking out Mana, you should be more worried than me cuz I'm your boyfriend.”

Kenji said, Kenji is Mana’s boyfriend. They have been a couple for about 2 years. “Oh shut up she is my friend and she needs me, I’m like her sister you know”, Mana abruptly says.

Mana said as Kenji just sighed and continued eating, “I will just go outside and get some fresh air.” As I went outside the cafe and sat on a bench checking my phone. “Excuse me miss, is this seat taken?” Why does this voice sound familiar? I looked up “Is that you, Ralina?” I haven't seen you for a long time?” as he sat down beside me and I had a confused look on my face and he started talking again “I’m one of your classmates in highschool, the one who stayed with you when got locked up in the library” he said

(Flashback)

“Hey Ralina can you please do my assignment pretty please” one girl said as she shoved her books into my hands “You're such a good person to us, thank you very much Ralina~” as they left me in the library. I knew that they were fake friends to me but I still stuck with them thinking that they might change and not to feel lonely. “Well I better start now before the library closes” as I sigh and enter the library. I was doing a pile of assignments, but I didn't know that time passed by so fast. Then suddenly I heard a loud sound and I went to look at the entrance. It was locked and the librarian left already. But after I went back to get the books to continue the assignments I suddenly saw a guy with black hair who came out of nowhere.

“Hey, are you also trapped in the library? I'm also trapped too, my name is Kim Mingyu. What is your name?”. “I’m Ralina May” that's how I met him for the first time. He made me feel in company and he even joked around, he was different from the other people I met, he made me smile and laugh like never before.

(Flashback Ended)

“ Wait, are you, Mingyu?” He looked at me with a bright smile and said “YES! You still remember me, it's been a long time. How are you?” he asked. “Well I’m working in a broadcast company as a writer, how about you?". "Well I’m a high school basketball coach, it's really fun,” he said. I feel so happy when I’m around him. But suddenly my friend Mana and Kenji went out of the cafe “Hey Ralina we must go back to the office we have an emergency meeting” Mana said and she ran directly to me “Oh wait” as i looked behind me and saw that Mingyu wasn’t there as if he disappeared from thin air, “Come on now we will be late” Kenji said while calling for a taxi.

(Inside the Taxi)

Why did he disappear? Did I hallucinate again? Why do I feel sad and miss him? Why do I have so many questions? He is just a friend. “Hey Ralina, are you spacing out again? Keep yourself together cuz the one we will meet is one of the investors in the company franchise”

(We all got there and started the meeting and talked about the company franchise.) (The meeting ended)

“Ok everyone goodbye and see you all on Monday” said by the head manager. I said goodbye to my friends and went home. I’m still thinking about him. Kim Mingyu.

(Flashback)

“Hey Ralina, Good morning!” he said, I also did the same. We always walked together to school when going home. He also told me to leave my fake friends. He taught me a lot of things that I was afraid to pass through, he guided me through everything but it all had to end. My parents said I had to leave my hometown and go to the city to study in a new university. While I was done fixing my things, I texted Mingyu so I could meet him and inform him about everything.

*TEXT*

Ralina May: “Hey Mingyu, are you free right now? If you are, can I meet you in the school library?”

Kim Mingyu: “Oh Sure 😁”

So I went straight to the school library and waited for him. “Hey Ralina, I’m sorry I’m late. By the way, why did you call me here? Did something happen?” He said “ Well I called you here to tell you that tomorrow I will be leaving to study in the city.” Mingyu’s face went down for a moment but he smiled right away to show that he was ok and happy for me. “Oh is that so, that's really sad to hear. But still I'm happy for you. I will really miss you”. as he hugged me “Please come back whenever you will have school breaks and also stay in touch too, all right” he said showing his most heartwarming smile.

(Timeskip)

Finally it's school break. I must go back and visit my hometown, I feel so excited. I met my family again. But once I came to Mingyu’s house, someone else was living there and the last family that stayed there, left and sold this house to live in another place. I tried to call Mingyu but he didn’t answer, maybe he had someone else.

(Flashback Ended)

“Everyone we have a big announcement, Our company will have a 1 month break” as everybody cheered, “Finally the much awaited company break, are you excited?” Mana said. I nodded my head.

(Start of the Break)

I should buy something from the convenience store, as I was going there I saw Mingyu of all places. I tried to ignore him but he still saw me. “Hey Ralina, how nice to meet you again here, do you live near here?” he asked “Well uh yes, I was going to buy something, why are you here?” “Well I live near here, just need to buy some snacks too” as we both bought our things. He asked me if we could walk around the park nearby. Well, my answer was yes. “May I ask, why do you want to walk with me in the park?” I asked, “Well to talk about what happened in our lives because it's been a long time now.” “Don’t you have someone in your life?” “Oh no I don't, I'm still single, never had a girlfriend before, hahaha”. I looked at him and can help but miss the olden days when we are in high school.

(That’s when everything started, each and everyday we always talked to each other whenever we have free time, that's when we build a relationship together, he asked me out to the fireworks and he told me that he liked me ever since the day we became friends but he didn’t tell me before because he doesn't how to say it. He felt so relieved. We started to spend a lot of time together. I never felt so happy again. I thanked God that he made me have another chance to meet him again and all the dark memories I had were taken off my heart and replaced by his love and care. Till one day something unimaginable happen)

(1 years later)

I saw a letter on my table saying that I should go and meet Mingyu at the seaside, it was night time. Once I went there I saw Mingyu sitting in the sand and calling my attention. “Hey Ralina over here, isn’t the moon so beautiful as the star surrounds it. But you are more beautiful than those things” he said while hugging me as he admired me “You’re so cheesy you know, but anyways why did you call me here?” I looked at him and waited for him to answer, he sighed. I looked at him with a confused face. “Ralina I wanted to tell you that I have been long dead, I was hit by a car. I went to the city you were in because you haven’t called me for a long time, I saw you walking on a pedestrian line but there was a drunk driver that drove so fast in a red light and they were about to crash to you so i pushed you over the other side of the street, I woke and I knew that I was dead. I followed you to the hospital and they said that you had a concussion so maybe that's why you are seeing me.” I cried, as he wiped my tears and continued talking. “I was really shocked but maybe the angel gave me a chance to see you again and guide you so that you can heal from your sadness. I thought I would never see you and confess my feelings for you. Please don’t be sad anymore.” He embraced me so tight like it was his last time he would see me because it is.

“It's already time, Ralina”

“Please don’t leave me, I can't live without you Mingyu please stay a bit longer” as I held on to him as he kissed me one last time, little dots of light went up to the sky as he left something in my hands, it was a ring. That's when I realized and accepted everything that He was truly gone. I held the ring close to my heart and looked up at the sky.

(1 month later)

“Hey Ralina, you look so happy today and that ring you have in your hand looks so pretty. How did you get it?” Mana asked “I got it from someone special” as she looked at me mischievously, I smiled and went up to my office and started to write. A load has been lifted. I'm no longer sad anymore, maybe He got back and took it all away from me. Thank you Mingyu. I will never forget you.

•The End•

Note: Thank you for reaching this far i hope you liked it. If you have any requests please comment down thank you 😁 ఇ ◝‿◜ ఇ (Horanghae)

#mingyu #mingyu angst #kim mingyu #seventeen #seventeen angst #seventeen carat #svt carat #carat

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dreaming-for-an-escape · 1 year ago

Text

Death Becomes Her Part 2

Summary: It did not matter to Aemond that he met Adrian once he was already married to Floris Baratheon. He fell in love with her the moment she bumped into his arms. Aemond was determined to have her as his. He only needed to rectify the situation with his frivolous doe wife first, and he knew just how.

Warning: Extreme dub-con, non-con, drinking, drunk sex, oral sex, forced blow job, multiple orgasms, breeding kink, kinda spit kink? I mean no actual spitting but once you read you understand what I mean. 18+ only though. MDNI. Aemond is an asshat. That's all folks.

Death Becomes Her Part 1:

Tagging: @wolfanddragon98 @sepherinaspoppies Enjoy! Excuse me while I go hide under a rock now xD

Aemond found Adrian drunk and crying in the cave they came across together not that long ago. He approached her in silence until he was close enough, kicking a rock to the side with his boot to alert her.

Adrian’s reaction was slow, enlightening Aemond on just how inebriated she happened to be. In her hand was a bottle close to joining the other three bottles that were empty and tossed by her feet.

Aemond thought back to the times he would find Aegon in a similar drunken state, prior to him getting burned. The stench of wine on his breath and clothes, rendering him barely coherent. Except there was a difference between Aegon and Adrian. While Aegon drank, behaved brutishly with the serving girls, and wept his complaints about how he was treated unfairly by mother and grandsire, Adrian drank out of sorrow.

A fortnight had passed since Floris’ death and Adrian was still grieving the loss of her dear friend. She cried more than Aemond, though he made it seem otherwise. It was fairly easy to act the role of a heartbroken husband when a few days later his own brother died.

The pain from the severe burns on Aegon’s face and the rest of his body could no longer be treated by milk of the poppy. And no medicine by the grand maester could stop the infection from spreading all over. Ultimately it was the fever that ended what little life Aegon had left.

Aemond utilized the anguish he felt from Aegon’s death. He fooled many, including Adrian. Although he was truly saddened at losing his eldest brother, his sadness was pushed down when he’d been crowned in front of the masses. His dream had finally come true. Well, one of his dreams.

Adrian had been present during the ceremony, standing next to his mother and Helaena. She held Jaehaera’s hand while Helaena held the other, watching the Crown of the Conqueror be placed on his head with Blackfyre on his hip. It felt right, and Aemond knew for certain the crown looked a lot better on him than it ever did on his brother.

And now that Aemond was King the council expected him to remarry. A Queen was needed to be by the King’s side. A Queen who would support, love, and give him heirs.

The council made suggestions, such that he should marry another Baratheon girl to honor the alliance between them and House Baratheon.

Aemond did his best to not lose it in front of the council members. He’d just gotten rid of his frivolous doe wife after carefully planning her death to make it seem like a sickness. He wasn’t about to be wed and bed another woman he did not love. Aemond didn’t tell this to his council, just that he needed time to think.

Truthfully there was no need for thinking for he already had the perfect woman in mind.

“Adrian.”

“What are you doing here?” Adrian hiccuped, holding the bottle of rum. This was her fourth bottle, and she was almost done with it.

Aemond walked closer to where she laid on the sandy part of the cave. The lit torch he carried made it easier for him to get a good look at her intoxicated state. “When I went to visit your chambers you weren’t there. I became worried.”

Adrian furrowed her eyebrows. “But how’d you know I’d be here?” She was so drunk she didn’t question why he’d gone to her chambers, only about how he found her.

Unknown to Adrian, Aemond had been aware she’d been going to their special cave on her own at night. He made sure she’d been fine those other times, watching from a far so she wouldn’t see him as she mourned Floris but tonight he would do things differently. Aemond’s patience had reached its end, and he wanted nothing more than to make Adrian his. He was determined for tonight to be sensational.

“Call it a hunch.” Aemond replied, stopping to plant the torch deep into the sand. He found a spot nearby to spread the blanket he'd been carrying in his other hand before taking a seat. He patted his right side, suppressing a smile when Adrian walked over with unbalanced legs. She needed to hold onto his shoulder as she sat down so she wouldn't fall over.

“Want the rest?” Adrian’s question came out slurred, another hiccup escaping her.

Aemond’s indigo eye looked at the almost finished bottle and then back at Adrian. His lips curled upwards. “No thank you.”

Adrian shrugged, unmindful to the way Aemond was staring at her heatedly.

“How many bottles have you finished?” Aemond questioned, already knowing the answer. He’d seen the three empty bottles that had been by her feet before walking over to sit next to him. He could also smell the rum coming off her.

Adrian waited until she chugged the remainder of the rum before attempting to answer him. She slowly raised three fingers up but then looked at the now empty bottle in her hand. She managed to throw it away from her. “Uh, four actually.”

There was a pause during which Adrian mistaked the look Aemond was giving her as one of disappointment. She rubbed her eyes, feeling the tears. “I’m sorry for being such a mess. Here I am drinking when you’re the one who’s lost the most.” A few sniffles escaped her. “I’m being stupid and selfish.”

Aemond shook his head. “I don’t think you’re being stupid or selfish.” He said, choosing words that would soften her resolve for him. To his benefit the four bottles of rum she already drank would make what he had in mind go much smoothly. “You’re hurting.”

“But you’re hurting too and you’re not getting shit faced late at night.” Adrian stated dismally, no longer rubbing her eyes to stop her crying.

Aemond wanted to lean over and kiss her tear stained cheeks but he forced himself to remain still. He only needed to wait a bit more and then he could have her. As much as he wanted to claim her he wanted to do it slowly, gently, and with romance. He cleared his throat, fixing his expression to be one of sadness.

“Yes, I’ve lost my wife and my brother in a short amount of time. And yes, I feel like a part of me has died with her.” Aemond told her, purposely wavering his voice. “The list of people I care about is becoming nonexistent it seems.” His indigo eye then stared directly into her dark brown eyes. “But I still have you.” He reached for her hand, intertwining his fingers with hers. “Adrian, you make things better.”

“I do?” Adrian muttered, fluttering her eyes to make herself more responsive. All the rum she’d drank was making her feel sluggish. This conversation almost didn’t feel like a real one.

Aemond nodded his head. “Yes, you do. You also make me happy.” He let go of her hand to cup her cheek while his other tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

Adrian sober would’ve pulled back immediately, thinking this type of closeness to be weird. However she was four bottles drunk on rum. So the twenty-three year old merely tilted her head.

Aemond hummed, a smile escaping him. “Perzys hen ñuha prūmia.” He whispered before taking the final leap and closing the space between them. A moan worked its way out of him at the feel of Adrian’s soft lips. The kiss was incredible, mind-blowing, but it was cut short by her.

When Aemond opened his eye he saw the look of horror and guilt on Adrian’s face. She was shaking her head, hair becoming disheveled. He didn’t panic, he had no reason to. Aemond watched as Adrian tried getting up only to fall onto the blanket again after trying to walk. He carefully lowered her onto her back, ignoring her protests. They were weak and all it took for him to subdue her was to lie on top of her.

“What are you doing?” Adrian’s head felt like it was full of water, and her vision was not the best because of the alcohol. It also didn’t help that it was nighttime and they were inside a cave.

“No, wait stop.” She tried again to get through to Aemond but he remained on top of her. “This isn’t right. Aemond, you just lost Floris.” She added, eyes welling up at the mention of her close friend.

Aemond stared down at Adrian, enjoying her glassy dark brown eyes. Her hands were holding onto his shoulders, thinking that would stop him. How silly of his love to think so. He took joy at the sound of her gasping when he put his knee between her thighs.

“Floris would want me to be happy.” Aemond began saying, moving his knee until it was under the skirt of Adrian's dress and pressing over her smallclothes. “She’d want you to be happy as well.”

Adrian shook her head. “She wanted to be happy with you, Aemond. She wanted to love you. She wanted you to love her.”

“Yes, she wanted all that but she’s gone now.” Aemond fired back before softening his gaze on her. “You’re the one that makes me happy, you’re the one I love.”

Adrian imagined a bunch of question marks over her head. Love? How could he love me? Aemond was her friend. Maybe in all of Adrian’s drinking she had fallen asleep and was having a weird ass dream.

As Adrian got lost in her own drunken mind, Aemond’s knee moved so he could lower himself enough in order to get his hands under the skirt of her dress. Aemond then swiftly pulled down the stockings she wore and bunched up her dress to her waist. He kissed the inside of her right thigh the moment he saw skin and he smiled against her softness when he heard her gasp again.

“I…I don’t want you.” Adrian stammered, the rum and the way his fingers felt caressing the inside of her thighs made her feel so hot. The way her heart was beating her seemed way too fast and unnatural.

Aemond chuckled, low. “You're not telling me the truth.” His head came out from between her thighs, and went up her body to whisper in her ear. “I know you want me as much I want you. I also know you’re already wet for me.”

Adrian didn’t have time to argue as his hand ripped off her smallclothes. She felt a chill down there but that wasn’t what made her expression drop. Aemond had two fingers touching her folds, with this thumb caressing her clit. His fingers had barely done anything but she realized late in her drunken state that she was already wet.

An excuse tried making its way out of her but it was shoved down her throat the second Aemond inserted two of his fingers inside her, his thumb rubbing her clit a bit faster now.

Adrian shut her eyes, her hands leaving Aemond’s shoulders to cover her mouth. Aemond used his other hand to remove them, wanting to hear the sounds of pleasure he was getting out of her. And he listened and enjoyed it. He was successful in making Adrian forget about her earlier objections and sorrow.

“Oh!”

“I told you. You want me just as much as I want you.”

Adrian was not in the right mind to respond. She was too drunk and too overwhelmed by this new kind of pleasure she was experiencing. Her lack of a verbal response didn’t matter to Aemond. He only cared about how wet she was, and how she kept getting more wet by his ministrations.

Aemond could tell she was almost to the point of peaking. So he forced himself to stop his fingering and rubbing, wanting the first time Adrian peaked to be when he was inside her. He was quick to undo his breeches, pulling them down to his ankles.

When he looked back at Adrian he noticed the frown on her face. He almost chuckled. She didn’t need to be upset because what he planned to do next was going to make her feel amazing. She only needed to handle a bit of pain in the beginning.

Apparently he did a good job with his hand even without throwing her over the edge of ecstasy. Perhaps it was the rum but he liked to believe his skills rendered her speechless and unmoving. She didn’t even complain when he started taking her dress off, ripping apart the shift she had underneath.

Her breasts were now in the open for him to see and they were glorious. He took off his own clothing, eyepatch included minus his breeches that were still around his ankles. He was too eager to finally have Adrian to kick them off. His bare chest pressed against her breasts. Her eyes slowly opened, showing how unfocused they were.

Aemond kissed her long and soft. “I love you.” He earnestly told her, and with one hasty thrust he made his way inside, breaking through what he believed was her maidenhead. In the morning he’d be happy to see the small stain of blood on the blanket confirming it had indeed been that.

“Ah!” Adrian yelped, reacting to the pain by wrapping her arms around his shoulders. Her tear stained face hid in the crook of his neck.

In a few hours Adrian was going to wake up not only with a terrible hangover but also with the feeling of soreness between her thighs. She would feel so much guilt as she cried in the arms of the man who refused to let her go. All while they laid on the evidence of their coupling, which also included the evidence of losing her virginity.

Aemond closed his eye, willing himself not to spurt his seed in Adrian yet. She wasn’t Floris, he wasn’t going to pump a few times and then leave her unsatisfied. He needed to make Adrian feel good first as she already was with him.

“You feel so much better than in my dreams. So superb, so perfect.” He bit his bottom lip before letting go, a hum escaping him. “It’s like the Gods made you for me”

Adrian moved her face away from the crook of his neck so he could see her better. She looked so confused. “What?”

Aemond smiled showing his perfect teeth. He leaned down and kissed her, slowly moving his hips against hers.

The initial pain Adrian felt was fading and there was a tingle spreading all over her body. Her brain shut out any rational thoughts that lingered even with the alcohol in her system. She felt herself begin to move her hips along with Aemond’s as she found herself kissing him back. Her hands held onto him for support and her legs spread out enough to make room for all of him.

“Something’s happening to me.” Adrian suddenly stopped kissing him, whimpering at the sensation of tightening in her lower belly. She didn’t experience pain, just the increasing feeling of pleasure that her drunkenness made her susceptible to it.

Aemond knew what was about to happen to her from all the tomes he read, and his body was trembling from excitement. He hit deep with his thrusts now, using a hand to rub her little pearl of nerves faster. “You’re about to reach your peak, my love.” He kissed her softly on the lips, smiling down at her. “Let go and enjoy.”

Adrian’s whole body shook as pleasure she’d never felt before tore right through her. “Ah fuck!” She shrieked, throwing her head back on the blanket.

The feeling had been so intense Adrian didn't realize she had run her nails down Aemond’s back, leaving red marks until reaching his rear. That triggered his own release, and he cried out of her own name while a few tears streamed down his face.

When Adrian came back down to earth whole her body felt weightless, her face the hottest it had ever been. Her thoughts were becoming a swirling mess again, but even she was able to understand the few orgasms caused by her own hand before this night couldn’t be called that anymore. What she just experienced was an actual orgasm. It magnified her insobriety and momentarily extinguished the guilt that tried to take over.

Aemond’s trembling didn’t end even after filling his love with his seed. He didn’t get off Adrian either, opting to snuggle against her soft breasts that were moving rapidly because of her breathing. His hands caressed her smooth thighs while his cock remained inside her tight warm cunny. He was still achingly hard for her, and he didn’t want a single drop of him to go to waste.

Tonight would be the night their child would be conceived. Inside the cave they had found together while walking the beach and collecting seashells. He thought it was perfect. And there would be a child, a child that was a perfect blend of them.

Selfishly he hoped for more than one child. It wouldn’t be surprising to him if he planted two children in Adrian already because of how heavy and drawn out his release had been. But he knew that was not necessarily correct, although he sure wished for it to be

Aemond could’ve stopped then but he had no intentions of ending their love session just yet.

Adrian’s eyes were closed, meaning she could not see the look of devotion on Aemond. She only opened her eyes briefly when he started kissing down her body to be in between her thighs again.

Aemond started tasting her delicious cunny, licking her glistening folds and twirling his tongue on her pearl. This time he didn’t stop until Adrian was moaning and digging her hands into his hair. He ended up making her climax so hard her slick covered the whole bottom part of his face, dripping from his chin.

In fact, so much slick cascaded out of Adrian it not only painted Aemond’s bottom face but it made its way onto the blanket as well. Aemond could feel a huge wet spot beneath them and the smell of peaches was strong as ever. He growled, licking his lips before diving back in, his tongue paying more attention to her swollen bud of nerves, gently grazing it with his teeth. It didn’t take him long to get Adrian to climax again, her slick like a delicious waterfall to his face.

After getting her to finish twice by his own mouth, Aemond thought it was only fair for his love to do the same to him.

Aemond kissed his way up Adrian’s body. He kissed her softly, disregarding her whining. He untangled himself from her to stand up, quickly tossing aside his breeches that were still caught on his ankles. He made Adrian get on her knees, lifting her chin up to look at him. Her expression showed how blitzed out she was from her excessive drinking but Aemond decided it was because of the powerful climaxes he’d given her from his undying love.

Aemond traced her lips with his thumb, stopping to pull her bottom lip with it. His heart wanted to jump out of his chest, and he could feel his body burning with desire. Already his cock began to get hard again. His voice husked out what he desperately wished for.

“My love, I need you to open your mouth for me.”

There was a look of confusion mixed with nervousness on Adrian’s face that Aemond ignored. He put his hands behind her head, stroking her hair until he could feel her start to get relaxed.

Adrian was ready to speak or at least try to, but whatever she wanted to say was lost as soon Aemond forced her mouth to wrap around his hard member.

“I’ve tasted you, now you get to taste me.” Aemond sighed, spreading his fingers into Adrian’s hair as he guided her mouth further onto his member. He only stopped when he felt her hands on his thighs. When he looked down he saw Adrian looking up at him, blinking with watery eyes. Her mouth was stuffed with his cock and she looked absolutely stunning.

“Your mouth is so soft around me, just as I knew it would be.” Aemond sighed, chest rising faster and faster. “Oh, you take me so well.” He hummed, using both of his hands to move her again, ignoring the way she tried speaking while full with him. He could feel her saliva drooling from her mouth on the sides of his cock, making him shudder. He stopped long enough to assure her. “Don’t worry, perzys hen ñuha prūmia. I’ll do the guiding. You just taste me when I release inside you. Taste my love for you.”

Seeing Adrian’s dazed eyes was what he needed to pull her off his member just a bit only to shove himself back into her warm mouth. Aemond kept doing this for what felt like a very long time, during which his cock became harder than it already was.

Every now and then there’d be low choking noises coming from Adrian, along with weak pushes to his thighs but Aemond would only stop very briefly to caress her face while looking down at her. She looked so out of it, so drunk on booze and on him. He took great joy in that.

His length was covered in her saliva and the sight made him bite his bottom lip. He was so close to finishing but he wanted her to do one more thing before he gave her his seed to taste and keep inside her belly.

Aemond pulled Adrian off his cock, watching a trail of saliva fall down her lips. He smiled, using his thumb to clean her up before forcing her mouth open. “Lick my tip with your tongue.” That was all he said before sticking his tip inside her mouth.

Adrian moved her tongue, not on purpose but out of puzzlement. She barely licked him and that had been enough. From below she heard Aemond moan loudly. Adrian felt his hands in her hair tightening as he pressed her closer to his groin. Startled, she made a muffled noise at being stuffed again. She then felt a surge of thick warmth fill her mouth followed by the taste of something salty.

In Adrian’s drunkenness she didn’t think it was a bad taste, just one she was not familiar with. She tried to move away but Aemond’s hands behind her head made it impossible to do so.

Weakly Adrian pushed against his thighs again but he gently shushed her, forcing her to stay on her knees with his dick in her mouth. She began choking, struggling more than ever before. Although worried Aemond kept her in place, encouraging her to swallow.

Due to her lack of mental and physical strength, Adrian didn’t think she had any other choice but to swallow everything Aemond had given her.

The saltiness made its way down her throat and into her belly where Aemond wanted. This was no way to make a child but it was a way for him to mark her. He now had the knowledge that another part of him was inside her.

Aemond got on his knees after pulling his cock out of Adrian’s warm mouth. He kissed her fervidly, not at all disgusted that he was able to get a taste of himself. Adrian’s lips were unresponsive against his, but he was able to get her to react when he began sucking on her tongue.

Adrian only got a few disgruntled noises out before Aemond had her on her back again. To keep her silent and submissive until the rum took over again, Aemond covered her mouth with his hand. She blinked with somewhat wide eyes, arms hitting his shoulders in such a frail manner.

“Shh, it’s okay my love.” Aemond cooed, using his free hand to grab one of hers in order to wrap it around his cock. He took the lead by making Adrian jerk him until he was hard enough to take her again.

By now Adrian had stopped with her weak attempts of fighting him off. Her head lolled to the side on the blanket, with some of her hair covering her face. Aemond didn’t like that, so he removed his hand from her mouth and made her face visible again. Her eyes were droopy, and her golden skin even in the dark looked as if it were glowing.

Aemond thought she was very beautiful. He told Adrian so kissing her on the lips and then began making love to her again. It did not matter to him that everytime he told Adrian he loved her all she responded with was a whimper and furrow brows. He didn’t stop his ardent thrusting until he felt her gush around his cock, the smell of peaches filled his nose. When he finished his mouth wrapped her right breast and he suckled, wishing they were filled with milk.

They would be once she became pregnant with their child. The very thought of her heavy with their little dragon made Aemond ready to go at it again. He didn’t even pull out, just resumed his thrusting.

Adrian felt her body moving in a rhythm. Her unfocused eyes saw Aemond on top of her, sapphire eye shining down at her. It felt like such a struggle reaching up to trace his scar. She frowned when the movement stopped.

Aemond grabbed her hand and kissed her palm before making her hold onto his hair. She gasped when her body began moving again, taking notice that Aemond was moving with her and of the now familiar sensation forming in her lower belly.

A few seconds later a rush of euphoria passed through Adrian and she felt wetness from between her thighs where she was the most full. Her drunken mind made the connection when she heard Aemond moan her name, his own warmth releasing in her.

It became quiet after that, only the sound of the waves and the wind filling the cave. Despite somewhat understanding what occurred, the alcohol running through Adrian made her helpless. She could barely feel her legs and her mind was not in the best state.

After a while of just lying down, Adrian was startled at the feeling of Aemond moving inside her again. She tried hitting his back with her hands to get him to stop but all he did in return was kiss her cheek.

“Aemond.” Adrian called out, moaning with a perplexed blissed out face. “Stop, please.” She sniffled, words slurring. “I’m too sensitive. It hurts.”

“One more time, my love.” Aemond wrapped her legs tightly around his waist, the soles of her feet digging into his lower back. He pinned her arms, hands digging into the sand as he began snapping his hips against hers. “Just one more time.”

He took on a much faster pace than any of their previous love sessions. The sound of skin slapping made Adrian scrunch up her face in discomfort. A few moments later a cry escaped her, and then that cry turned into an earth-shattering moan.

With him in control and the copious amount of alcohol in her system, Adrian couldn’t push him back. She found it easier to just lie back and let Aemond take what he wanted. It felt like a dream almost, an intense dream that had her orgasming repeatedly. In this dream the euphoria pumping in her veins was overwhelming, but the small part of her that enjoyed it would wake up later to feel immense shame.

Except this was no dream as Adrian would find out the following morning. The shame would be real, and by then it would be too late.

“I’m never letting you go.” Aemond promised, panting like a man thirsting for water against her breasts before finishing inside her again with a guttery groan. “Gods, I love you.” He declared, tuning out Adrian’s noise of bewilderment from having shot his load into her and his love confession. She felt like a boat out in the ocean trying to survive a horrible storm.

Aemond took a moment to catch his breath, kissing her breasts and suckling on her nipples until each bud hardened beneath his tongue. He proceeded to rub her sensitive pearl a few times to force a climax out of her. It didn’t seem right not letting her reach her peak.

Adrian released a soft squeal he found adorable as she finished on his hand, slick covering the whole thing. He licked his hand clean not wanting her peachy nectar to go untasted. Adrian squinted her eyes at him, not entirely sure if she had seen that correctly. She quickly lost the thought once Aemond maneuvered them so he could hold her better in his arms, his half-hard cock sliding its way back inside her. He kept his promise and did not make love to her again. Aemond only wanted to hold her while being as close to her as possible.

As the newly crowned King stroked her hair he began speaking of marriage and having a child together. By this point Adrian was way too exhausted, not to mention drunk to even utter a single word.

Aemond’s hold on her was not entirely comfortable for her, nor was the feeling of his seed mixing with her slick sliding down her thighs. She could do nothing about that, and she couldn’t stop Aemond from collecting their release with his fingers and rubbing them against her lips before kissing her messily.

The sounds of the waves crashing on the shore and Aemond proclaiming his love for her again was the last thing Adrian heard before passing out.

#death becomes her #adrian nova reyes #aemond targaryen #au one shot #hotd modern reader #house of the dragon #oc #smut #whew #this is vile #can't believe I wrote this shit #:o

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trelkez · 1 year ago

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Ah, Ted Lasso. This episode was 90% mess, but that 10% sure does know how to hook me.

I wish I could go back in time to the self who went into Ted Lasso thinking it was tightly plotted, top tier stuff and say, "this is a ridiculous show, but you should watch it anyway. You'll love the characters. You will get so much found family. Just don't get too attached to any plotlines or expect anything to make sense ever, and you'll be fine." That would be a reasonable expectation for this show! Unfortunately for me, we're down to the final three episodes, so it's a bit late for me to recalibrate at this point. I am, alas, still invested in the plotlines.

So let's get into 3.10, because … wow, is there a lot to get into.

I'm rewatching the episode as I write this (just in case I forget any of the batshit turns it took and/or parts of it turn out to have been a fever dream), so I'm going to tackle it roughly in order.

1. Richmond's ten game winning streak

Where are we at in the season? Does anyone know?

Remember when this show had season arcs organized around some kind of football-related goal? Avoid relegation, make it back into the Premier League. It seemed logical that the goal of this season would be to win the league, but I guess we're going to get there by putting the team on cheat mode in the background and then shoehorning in some "will they or won't they" football drama at the end, which is actually very in keeping with the overall theme of this episode.

2. Nate quit West Ham off-screen

I'm so glad the guy in the apartment on the other side of my living room wall was out for the night, because I literally shrieked "WHAT?????? WHAT???????" when that "Nate Shelley Out at West Ham" graphic went up.

I didn't get to Nate in my 3.09 writeup, and it's just as well, because anything I wrote before that graphic would have been immediately rendered pointless. Nate quit West Ham off-screen. He quit off-screen.

I am going to reach way, way back to the Nate Shelley I liked in season one and say: that Nate did not deserve this shit.

It has been obvious throughout this entire season that the writers weren't interested in telling the story that season two set up. They didn't especially want to dwell on or in the toxicity that bottomed Nate out last season; they didn't want to do the harder narrative work of actually building back an unlikeable character through a slow but steady redemption arc, even though they've spent entire seasons doing exactly that with Jamie. Instead, they said, "yeah, but Nate isn't really That Guy."

Does the show regret what it did? It sure feels that way. It feels like, in the pursuit of telling a story about a good guy on an ego-fueled descent, the show went way further than it meant to and has now decided to backtrack on that by treating the whole thing like a guy waking up from a bender and going, "I did what last night? Why did I do that?" That wasn't really Nate who did those things, that was Drunk Nate! He did five shots of narcissism and got blackout drunk on jealousy, and he woke up in the morning with a new job. What wild shenanigans will ensue?

So, sure. The only way any of it makes sense is if none of it meant anything. Fine. Even then, what was the point of sending Nate to West Ham and throwing all of Rupert's smothering, menacing glitz at him only for NATE QUITTING HIS JOB AND WALKING AWAY FROM RUPERT AND WEST HAM to happen OFF-SCREEN so they can CATCH US UP ON IT via FAKE SPORTS NEWS INFOGRAPHIC??

If they didn't show it because they felt the real rejection was in Nate going home to his girlfriend, that is very poor storytelling in a season that started out with the most literal Rupert is Palpatine visual parallels imaginable. If they're trying to say that the real climax of Nate's story isn't in rejecting Rupert, but in the amends he makes with the people he hurt, then why did they drag the West Ham stuff out until the tenth episode??? Why is all of this being left for the end, when none of the West Ham stuff has ultimately mattered at all, and pulling the plug on it earlier on could've left a lot of room for handling Nate's healing process at a slower, more organic pace?

Ultimately, this is a story about a good guy who lost his way a little and wound up hanging out with a bad crowd, and now he has to apologize his way back into the hearts of his real friends. The storytelling along the way has been wildly incoherent and had brutally terrible pacing, but if you completely disregard how we got here and pretend season one Nate just woke up from a West Ham bender, there's still time to enjoy the endgame.

3. Isaac is team captain again!

So – Isaac went into the crowd and wasn't banned for the remainder of the season? Let's close our eyes for a moment and imagine that the football gods looked upon Isaac's actions and said, "yeah, that seems legit, let's give him the smallest possible set of consequences." He was sent off with a red card. For assault. But the football gods are treating punching a fan like having a go at an opposing player! Cool. That's still, what, three games?

So even if we assume he only got a three-game ban, and keeping in mind that Richmond isn't in the Champions or Europa leagues and the FA Cup is just – not happening, I guess? So they probably don't have a ton of midweek games, which means that it's been … weeks.

But wasn't the win streak at eight games last week? So – did Isaac just – not get a ban? At all?

Nope. No. Self, you are a Ted Lasso Doylist now, remember? Nothing that happened last week was actually about Isaac in any way, so why would there be ongoing consequences for him from that storyline? Deep breaths.

Isaac is one of my favorite characters in this show, and I'm not particularly interested in there being ongoing consequences for him from whatever that was last week, so – this is fine. Don't question it. We float on an ocean of vibes. Everything is great.

4. Why?

Why did we just take a beat for microaggression with Ted being shocked Bumbercatch is Swiss? Is this really where we're at these days, comedy-wise?

I'm genuinely not sure that anyone involved here knows how to write Ted without making him completely exhausting to be around, anymore. Is that on purpose? Let's pretend it's on purpose.

5. Do we think Nate is capable of being involved in something like that?

"Nah." – the writers, who are pretending they haven't seen season two

6. Jade

I like her so much, but I am 99.95% sure that's because she is being written to be likable, with no other discernible qualities. Who is she? What motivates her? In a season full of long episodes, was there really no time to show her existing when Nate isn't in the room? Did no one in the writer's room stop to wonder, "hey, is it at all dicey if that woman in the restaurant who dislikes Nate suddenly falls in love with him so he can be healed by the power of love?" Did no one say that out loud and hear how it sounds?

Anyway. Jade. Big fan. Looking forward to hearing all about her hobbies and backstory in the ample time remaining.

7. Dani vs. Van Damme

I have a feeling this completely random side adventure into our purest angel having an asshole hypercompetitive side isn't going to land for everyone, but you know what? Sure. Why not. There are epic tales out there of teammates facing each other in the Olympics, the World Cup, etc. and trying to destroy each other and then going home like none of it ever happened. I'm totally onboard for this kind of plot in theory! They took it a little too far with Dani breaking Van Damme's nose, but as we've established, "they took it a little too far" is the story of this entire show.

You know what would have improved this a lot? If it had happened near the beginning of the season and kicked off a recurring storyline in which someone else now has to face Dani on a spring international break. Shoved in at the end of the season (and probably the end of the series), it loses a lot of its potential, so the placement is … strange. Instead of being an ongoing character trait they could slowly build up and make funnier in the re-telling, it comes out of nowhere and immediately goes to 11. But otherwise, why not.

8. Beard gets it

Beard is the only one who watched season two. He gets it.

It would explain a lot about Beard and this entire season if Beard used to be a time traveler, so he's the only one in Richmond immune to changes in the timeline. Maybe somewhere just out of sight there's a genre show about time travel happening, and this football team just happens to exist in that universe – so the world of Ted Lasso is constantly being rewritten, but no one notices. Ted Lasso as a Doctor Who spin-off in which no one has ever met or heard of The Doctor.

No one but Beard, anyway. Is Beard also the only one who remembers that Isaac went into the crowd last week?

9. Uncle's Day

10/10, no notes. Every time I think I'm out, this show uses Jamie Tartt to drag me right back in.

(Actually, no, one note: Jamie was joking about Isaac being his best friend, right? That was just to screw with Roy? I'm going to assume Isaac was the choice for that line because it's so obviously unlikely given how rarely they interact, and not because the writers think Jamie and Isaac are still BFFs. It would be very in keeping with this season for them to think Jamie and Isaac's friendship is just running on cheat mode in the background, but like – I'm going to assume. For my sanity. That it's just a joke.)

The funniest part of this scene winds up being that they accidentally made it look like Phoebe was having an "oh. oh" moment about Roy and Jamie. I had to rewind that twice to figure out that she was spelling it out in her head, and not like, catching on.

I would've understood if she had caught on. Roy stares at Jamie for 10.6 seconds before he says "I love it."

10. Super League? In this economy?

+10 points to Leslie for "I hate to break it to you, Rebecca, but those children are dead."

Unfortunately, -10 points to Leslie for "who cares why Rupert invited you?" Historically speaking, Rebecca should care. Rebecca is totally justified in wondering why Rupert invited her!

Why would Richmond be invited into talks about a Super League at all? Richmond? Recently promoted Richmond? Complete lack of international play Richmond? It's sus as hell. If I were Rebecca, I would absolutely assume this was some strange plot by my evil ex-husband.

(I'm not convinced it wasn't, in fact, a strange plot by her evil ex-husband. Something is going on there.)

Super League is about the richest teams banding together to shake off the chaff. As a Spurs fan, I fully, completely understand the concept of a team that isn't actually rich and successful trying to buy into an exclusive club – yes, Spurs were involved in Super League drama; no, you shouldn't ask me about their season or we'll still be here next week while I cry on you – and we are definitely already outside the tethers of reality when West Ham is at the table, but it, truly it makes no sense.

(And even if Rupert weren't the one extending the offer, "go check it out, what's the worst that could happen?" is naive at best. What's the worst that could happen? The media finds out that Rebecca was at a Super League meeting and now Richmond is being dragged into a shitstorm, whether Rebecca decided to buy in or not. Girl, do not go in there! If you don't want to join, don't join! Why is any of this happening! Get Keeley back in the building before someone runs into a PR problem they truly cannot back out of!)

11. Is the psychic's prophecy still a thing?

So … is the show going Tedbecca? After that weird flirty moment she had with Sam earlier, the matchbook almost calls back to Sam more than Ted, but the show did make a point of having Ted pull out that matchbook a few episodes ago, and here it's directly paired with his toy soldier.

(Honestly, slow clap for everyone who did those green matchbook / green soldier gif sets earlier this season, I thought you guys were reaching straight into outer space with that one and apparently I was dead wrong!)

Ted and Rebecca have barely even talked to each other in the back half of the season. Every week I log on here and see shippers shriveling into dust, their crops unwatered. Is the matchbook/soldier thing a misdirect, or are they going to cram a significant relationship change into the final two episodes of the season after largely ignoring them in the lead-up?

I have no idea which way this is going to swing, and that's kind of terrible, because there are only two episodes left. There isn't time left to do any kind of meaningful build. There's only time for a sudden last-minute rush of drama.

When I put it like that, I think they probably are going to shove it into the endgame. Either that, or the houseboat guy suddenly shows back up out of nowhere. Whatever happens, it is going to have a "bet you didn't see that coming" flavor, because there isn't time for anything else.

12. Roy has an epiphany

What the fuck even is this?

Listen. It never made sense for Roy to have broken up with Keeley. It was clearly something they did as a way to inject some new drama. THAT SAID, they did it, and they committed to it for almost an entire fucking season, and TEN EPISODES ON a teacher with a crush on Roy makes a way-too-personal comment about how she hopes his mess hasn't caused any damage, and THAT'S what makes him suddenly realize he needs to apologize to Keeley? THAT? Just like. Boom. Realization sets in. Lightbulb visibly goes off overhead as he mutters "fuuuuuuck" to himself. A fully illustrated epiphany!

What the fuck does this show think it's doing having Roy suddenly realize that he probably hurt Keeley and needs to apologize?

In episode ten?????

I don't know how much time has passed, because in Ted Lasso season three time is an illusion, but at minimum – months. Months later, he suddenly realizes he might have hurt his girlfriend when he broke up with her??? That isn't character growth. That is completely fucking absurd. They needed Roy and Keeley to get back together and pushed it too close to the last minute, so they did some schoolteacher deus ex machina. Of all the abrupt plot turns in this episode, this might be the second worst.

(There's a clear winner and this isn't it, but second place? It's a contender.)

13. What happened to the corporate pixie dream girl?

So the overall implication here, between this and Trent's rumor of West Ham workplace misbehavior, is that Rupert is probably headed for some workplace harassment trouble, right? If withholding the mystery of it all turns out to be why they didn't show Nate quitting in this episode, I'm going to scream. I will literally shriek with the frustration of a thousand bad plot decisions.

14. Nate's nostalgia journey

This is, sincerely, great stuff with the photo albums and the music and the journey into the attic. There is still time to enjoy the endgame!! Disregard how we got here!!

15. Rebecca vs. Super League

Just watching this scene made me feel like I've now put in enough time on Ted Lasso to be allowed by contract to take some PTO. Ted Lasso needs to pay me for my time while I recover on a tiny island in the Outer Banks. I've earned it.

So – they thought – having Rebecca scoldingly yell "what do you think you're doing? Just stop it!" while picturing aging rich men as little boys was, like … feminist? Someone involved in this process thought, wouldn't it be great if we empowered Rebecca by making her everyone's scolding mother, and no one along the way went, wait, what?

But then it keeps going so that we can humanize Rupert, which – what? Why is this happening? Why do I know Rupert's humanizing backstory when to my knowledge, Jade was born inside Taste of Athens?

This is the most I have ever seen Rebecca care about football. It's a lovely speech, but where is it coming from? Since when is she this invested? The only thing that rings true about this is that Super League is an ugly money grab and many, many owners do not give a single shit about their team's fans. Someone wanted to write a speech about that, so we're getting it through Rebecca, just like we got that speech about deleting your camera roll through Isaac.

Also – the food: I know that the food is a continuation of Edwin Akufo's whole thing with Sam, but it is a weird fucking choice to put so much emphasis on Ghanian food and then reduce it to slop thrown at Rebecca.

Beginning to end, we could've done without this entire Super League story and been just fine. It isn't like this 63-minute episode required extra filler.

16. 24

10/10, no notes. They really do pull me back in with Jamie every time. He revealed that 24 and I, like Roy Kent talking to a schoolteacher, suddenly realized that I ship it. Jamie wore Sam's number?? I'm going to vid this so hard.

17. Nate's dad

I did say there was a clear winner for the episode's worst plot turn.

Nate is sad at home for one episode and suddenly his dad does a complete turnaround after almost three entire seasons? It isn't like we heard a story one time about Nate's dad and now we're getting a reveal on what actually happened there – we've seen him a lot! Nate's entire motivation set is built on his dad and their relationship!

"I pushed you to succeed so you would have more opportunities than I did" is a completely legitimate story to tell, but this has been almost three seasons of disapproval so thick that it threw toxic sludge across the entire show. Nothing Nate has done has ever been good enough. Now we're at the end, and they want to heal it so that Nate can grow, so all of that is being retconned into, "I never cared if you were successful, I just want you to be happy," and suddenly his dad is a completely different person. Boom, fixed! Definitely not the kind of thing you have to heal from over time!

I say again: Nate's story deserved better than this. By pushing this all the way to the end, they've run out of room to take their time with it, so it's just being dropped in. What a mess this season is.

18. Rebecca, do NOT do it

This season is, in fact, such a mess that for a minute there, I believed that Rebecca might actually go for it with Rupert.

I think, more than anything, I'm puzzled by the perceived necessity of this closure on Rebecca and Rupert. I get that they wanted to give us a taste of what brought Rupert and Rebecca together in the first place – to have Rebecca to see him in that old light again before taking a step back, so she could acknowledge the past in a way that helped her finally make a clean break. I get it. But … why? Was this really something lingering out there for her to overcome?

Rebecca's entire season-long conflict with Rupert has felt like intentional backsliding for the purposes of The Drama. If you imagine that she came into this season still very fired up and insecure about her ex-husband, the arc from "I want Zava so Rupert can't have him" to "I don't care about beating Rupert anymore" is fine. But … did she? Is that really where we left her in season two?

And why did an episode in which Nate quits West Ham spend so much time breaking up Rupert and Rebecca, who were already broken up, while Nate quit off-screen?

19. What's left?

Two episodes to go! That's so much time in which to accomplish so many things!

I said to someone last week: you know, I thought this was headed for a "Nate takes over as Richmond's head coach" place, but there isn't enough time left in the season for them to do that, so I guess he's just going to be staying at West Ham?

Turns out they can do anything, because they're just going to drop in whatever at the last minute. Nothing means anything! We exist in a world without the constraints of plot and continuity! Everything is on the table.

So, what's left to shoehorn in?

- Manchester City has been inevitable all season (ask Arsenal how that feels), and we're probably going to get some stuff with Jamie's dad there. Jamie has been one of the only characters they've consistently done right by, so my fingers are crossed they don't screw that up at the finish line.

- Will Trent ever come out to the Diamond Dogs? Maybe being out in the workplace isn't his thing, but it feels like a missed avenue of storytelling to have Trent be right there in the coaching offices, in on all the gossip and sharing and advice, and not have whatever he has going on be a part of it. That would have been such an easy way to integrate queer identity into everyday conversation over a decent chunk of the season, instead of playing it almost exclusively for drama the way they have been.

- Still on Nate's apology list: Colin and Ted? If apologizing to Ted doesn't involve the believe sign somehow, I really don't know anything about this show anymore.

- Is Ted staying in London or going back to Kansas? A lot of people seem resigned to the idea that he's going back, and a lot of Tumblr is hoping he stays for Rebecca, but I wouldn't be surprised if it's some secret third thing. Two whole episodes! There's still plenty of time for them to drop a surprise twist on us. (If he goes back to Michelle, it won't be a surprise twist, but I will turn this car around.)

- Are we ever going to learn what was up with Baz's friend who got kicked out of the pub? I really thought we were headed for some bigger integration of Colin's story, wherein it turned out that was Baz's secret boyfriend or something, but … … …?

- Is anything going to come of Trent's book? I have $5 on there being an epilogue time skip in which we fast forward to the book release and see what the characters are up to (aka the "no seriously, this is it, the show is over" ending) and another $5 on the show ending on Ted in the airport and the book not ultimately meaning anything.

Two weeks until we find out!

#ted lasso #ted lasso meta #episode reactions #we float on an ocean of vibes #everything is fine

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