#that's the hardest part for me so fingers crossed I can keep this momentum going | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lovelykhaleesiii · 3 years ago

Text

Newcomer: Chapter 2

Pairing: Rafe Cameron x fem!Reader

Words: 2.3k

Summary: The Outer Banks was a place you’d only heard of until recently. The unfolding changes in your life had led you to this very moment, and it appears you still have much to learn...

Warnings: swearing, (***) minor time jumps

A/N - sorry for the delay, had a huge assignment due and work <3 I know this is a slow ass start to the series, but trust I’m trying to build momentum LMAO

It had been just over a week, and seemingly still trying to settle in. Majority of your belongings, clothes and other sentiments have now been unpacked and neatly placed away in their new space, although you felt the hardest part wasn’t over just yet. Yourself, Caleb and Anya still struggled to find your way around town, mostly succumbing to the help of Topper, who despite initially being ever so welcoming, had grown slightly agitated from the coercion of having to always help. He’d be dragged out of whatever event or plans he had made, just to help out, especially during the grueling days of the unpacking stages of moving. Not to mention the not so discrete argument you’d overheard, just a few days ago, that he had with his mother, complaining about not being able to enjoy his own summer break.

You couldn’t deny that your presence did somewhat impede on his break, therefore, the guilt was there. You knew you’d have to start taking on some accountability, with or without Topper’s help.

“Y/N, can we just run to the store real quick, I need to grab a few things and you know how hopeless I am with directions…Please, come with, or else I’ll have to get Topper and we both know how much he loves-”

“Yeah, yeah-”

With a reluctant sigh, you tagged the page you’d just turned over in your book and propped yourself off the bed, adjusting your midi skirt before nodding in agreement.

One of the most convenient things about the Outer Banks was that nearly everything was within walking distance. It gave you a chance to explore the scenic landscape and water front, and perhaps even chat with a few of the locals you hadn’t yet properly met.

“So, how are things looking with that JJ guy? He seems pretty cute,” You intrigued, nudging your sister’s shoulder into conversation.

“Yeah he’s great actually, he's a really funny guy. He, uhm, he wants to meet but-”

“But what, Anya? That’s exciting! We sure could do with someone else’s company that isn’t Topper.”

“Yeah, I know but, I, well we, don’t really know him that well. Who’s to say he isn’t some sociopath, Y/N.”

“I highly doubt anyone around here is a psychopath, Anya. Look around, this is a place people come around to relax or retire.”

“Don’t speak too soon, Y/N…”

For some odd reason, you hesitated in a response. Anya was right, you had no familiarity with the people of Outer Banks, although it just seemed like an outrageous place for crime. Ever since arriving, you felt some unexplainable ease here.

“But I mean yeah sure. I’ll probably meet up with JJ some time… In public though, and you need to promise me that you’ll be on the lookout. Not like you’re busy with any plans at the moment, huh,” Anya remarks, as you appeasingly roll your eyes: God she could be so paranoid.

“Yeah, yeah. I promise. Think we turn right up ahead-”

Continuing right on the pathway, you could just faintly decipher the movement of people bustling in and out of the stores, and with that a wave of relief settled over you. Seemed like you knew your way around after all, having doubts along each turn of the walk.

“Make this quick, Anya, the sun’s starting to set, okay.”

“Whatever, Mum!” Anya quips, before rushing off into the convenience store, leaving your lonesome self outside waiting.

You watched the crowd across the street at the diner, enjoying their dinner, as you observed the locals in action, contemplating who was who, as you heard Evelyn exchange many names with your father over endless dinner conversations.

One name that stuck by you was “Cameron.”

Evelyn mentioned it countless of times, although you’d simply assumed they were one of the many well-known families that had established themselves in town. There wasn’t much else you knew, or wanted to know. You hardly met anyone else outside of the house, nor were you in any rush to.

“Hey!-”

Instantly snapping from your extensive thoughts, the familiar voice dragged you back to reality, as you turned your sight to its direction.

“It’s Y/N, right? Anya’s sister! It’s me, JJ, the waiter-”

“Yeah, of course, I remember you-”

As formal and proper as your manners from childhood were, just as you’d gone in for a handshake, JJ wrapped his arms around you, pulling you in warmly for a friendly embrace, before letting you go.

It had caught you off-guard, although not at all in a distasteful way.

“How are you? How’s Anya?” He asked, folding his arms as he leant against the wooden post of the front deck.

“Yeah we’re good! I’m sure Anya’s kept you posted, we’ve pretty much moved in now. How about you? I haven't seen you around.”

“Yeah, I’ve been pretty good! Oh that’s great to hear, that would mean you guys are free to come to the Boneyard tonight!”

“The what?”

“The Boneyard? Where we have this party with a kegger, Topper didn’t tell you?”

By the puzzled expression reeked across your face, JJ knew to take that as an immediate no, not questioning it any further.

“Well if you’d like, I could meet with you guys later and escort you there myself. There’s a few friends of mine I’d like to introduce you guys to.”

“Yeah, sure. That would be lovely, JJ-”

And as perfect as the timing could get, Anya returned from her little store run, stunned by JJ’s unexpected presence.

“Anya- I was just telling Y/N, I’d love to take you guys out tonight to the Boneyard, I was going to text you about it before, but something with my Dad-”

“That’s fine, but we just don’t know where exactly the Boneyard is.”

“That’s okay, JJ’s got us covered,” You exclaimed, before exchanging a friendly wink to JJ who just managed to catch it.

***

“You texted JJ our address right?” You persisted, growing anxious by the thought that perhaps JJ might’ve forgotten about you two.

“Yes, for the last time Y/N could you just relax. He should be here any minute now!”

And just on cue, in the close distance, the roaring sound of an old engine with dull headlights belonging to one of those old, retro “hippie” vans had pulled up through your drive-way. JJ’s head popped out excitedly by the window, waving for you guys to join, and immediately you both walked over.

It was difficult to convince your father of going out tonight, in fact, he’d been pestering you both to get out and mingle. As soon as you’d both approached him with the idea of heading out to some party, he leaped with relief, and encouraged you both to take up the offer. He was easy going like that, trusted you both knowing how well he’d raised you both. Of course, he covered some basic ground-rules: no drinking, no drugs, no smoking.

By the time you’d both arrived to the van, you could just make out the silhouettes of some figures inside the van through the grimey windows. JJ was out of the van, as the courteous man that he was, pulling the side door right open.

“John B-” Pointing to the boy on the driver’s seat, who gave you a friendly wave, made himself known.

“Kie-” A lovely, young girl, exchanged a gracious smile and nod to both Anya and yourself, before JJ finally introduced “And this is Pope-”, a young, pleasant man sat beside Kie.

“Guys this is Anya, and her older sister Y/N. They just moved here like a week ago.”

“Nice to meet you all, thanks for letting us join you guys tonight-” You warmly proclaimed, before gesturing Anya into the van with you following her behind.

As JJ was carefully closing the door behind you, John B mentioned how JJ spoke of you two, confessing you to be the “mystery newcomers” before kindly welcoming you to the Outer Banks.

You felt Kie’s over gaze fall between yourself and Anya, and felt somewhat intimidated, although it there was no threatening intent to it, however more of a protective sentiment.

“So you guys are Kooks, huh?” Kie blatantly questioned, before Pope nudged his elbow into her, as though to signal her to stop whatever interrogation she had planned.

“Sorry, what?”- Anya questioned in response, frowning as she looked around the van, back to you.

“Kie, stop. They don’t know about any of that stuff. Just drop it, okay!” JJ insisted, as he ran his fingers through his blonde locks, almost in frustration.

“We really have no idea what this whole Pogue-Kook business is, but perhaps you could enlighten us one day, Kie-” You suggested, as amiable as possible, not wanting to already cross the line with the few locals you’d just met.

“I sure will, I just can’t believe you guys live with Topper. He’s such an-”

“Ass?-” Anya intervened, finishing off Kie’s sentence precisely the way she intended, making Kie smile in agreement.

“Yeah, I don’t think he likes us very much,” Anya confessed, and as much as you hated “gossiping”, you couldn’t deny this one.

“Well Kie, you’re on to talk… What about your Kook year?” John B laughingly mocked, as Kie infuriatingly shoved his shoulder.

“S-So what exactly is the difference between a Pogue and a Kook?” You intriguingly questioned, shifting your gaze from Kie to Pope.

“Well, to put it short, Pogues live on the Cut, which I assume Topper would rather die than enter. Whereas yourselves and our Kie here, live on Figure 8,” Pope answered.

“So it’s just a social class thing?” You quipped, being reminded again of how very unprogressive things were around the Outer Banks.

“Exactly!-” Kie shouted, a hint of relief, as though finally finding someone who’d shared mutual understanding with her cause.

“I mean there’s more to it-” JJ added.

“But it’s best if you guys don’t get as involved, your only just new here-” He calmly reassured.

“Just keep an eye out for the Kooks, they usually come to these sort of events anyways for the booze they can’t afford-” Kie ridiculed.

“Yeah, especially Rafe-” Pope uttered, his tone reeking of bitterness to the name.

“Wait-Who exactly is that? The name just sounds familiar-” You brush off, not wanting to vex Pope any further.

“Good God, he’s the worst of the worst-” Pope scorned.

“An asshole-” Kie provoked.

“He’s the older brother of Sarah Cameron, I’m sure you’ve met her. She’s Topper’s girlfriend,” John B confessed.

“HA! Topper has a girlfriend, since when?!” Anya broke out mockingly laughing: as Kie and JJ chuckled to her comedic outburst.

“He must be that bad, huh?” You uttered, as the rest began to settle themselves.

“He’s a terrible person, Y/N. If I was you guys, I’d avoid him at all costs,-” Pope insisted, although by the seriousness of his voice, it seemed more of a warning than anything.

***

The Boneyard was a secluded location of the island, where the ashy white trunks of dead logs were arranged in a way to accompany large crowds, and rowdy parties far from the complaints of the adults. As you’d all arrived, kegs ready at the hand, the party had already commenced, as people from which John B described had consisted of Pogues, Kook and tourists. Regardless, all strangers to you.

As you finally eased yourself into that party mood, you found yourself enjoying the company of the Pogues, they were quite the friendly bunch. And it seemed ANya was letting loose as well, no thanks to her new-found companions: it always seemed like an impossible mission for Anya to enjoy herself, although witnessing her from the standpoint of a bystander, you felt comforted.

“I’m just going to go grab myself a drink-” You assured John B, as he nodded in agreement.

As you crammed yourself through the crowd, you felt a tight grip pulling on your elbow, making you topple in the direction of whomever it was that grabbed you.

“Topper, what the fuck?”

“How the hell did you get here, let alone find out about this?” He exclaimed, by the faint smell of the beer oozing with each breath, you could tell he was slowly becoming intoxicated.

“No thanks to you-” You snapped, before jolting your arm out of his strained grip.

“Seriously, Y/N. Does your Dad even know you’re here?”

Before you could even respond, some sort of internal sixth sense, felt an intense pair of eyes on you. As you shifted your gaze, to a bunch of people standing behind Topper, you’d immediately recognised his face.

For some odd reason you felt a shiver crawl down your spine, as though in fright of seeing some ghostly figure. His intense, blue eyes just fixated on you and only you, as he took sips of his drink, with one hand snugged away in a front pocket. It seemed he was in conversation with a bunch of other guys, all dressed quite similarly to one another in their polo shirts and summer shorts, and yet he was not at all engaged... Only to you.

“Earth to Y/N!” Topper loudly interjected, stirring you to snap back, as you fixed your view on him.

“Y-Yes, yes he does. Now could you just let me be?”

And before you knew it, you instinctively stormed off, before Topper had the chance to drunkenly question you any longer. As you disappeared into the crowd, heading for the kegger, your mind persisted in contemplation.

That was Rafe, surely. You vividly remembered the whole, minor incident during your first encounter with him.

After what the Pogues had confessed about him, and by his looming nature, you’d never felt so unnerved by someone, you’d in fact, never even met.

But why?

TAGLIST - @juliep7654 @foggybanditgardenprune

109 notes · View notes

hrina · 4 years ago

Text

In The Ring, Pt. II - Cross

PAIRING: Harry x Reader RATING: M WORD COUNT: 7k REQUESTED: highly lol!

hi again! here’s PART 2 of boxer!harry :) thank u all for such a wonderful response on the first part, i can’t explain how much it means to me. i worked really hard on this chapter, so i hope u guys love it! if u do, reblogs and feedback are very much appreciated, and i’ll probably ask for ur hand in marriage in return.

warning: parts of this fic will contain mentions of blood, violence, mild stalking, and sexual content. if any of that makes you uncomfortable, please take care of yourself and keep scrolling <3

u can find the rest of this series on my masterlist, which is linked in my bio! my inbox is also there if you wanna spare a few thoughts about this part. love u guys sm, stay safe out there 💛💛💛

~*~

January 19, 2021

It’s ten at night, and you’re curled up in bed, scrolling through social media. You should be doing the assigned readings for your anatomy class, but you’re procrastinating. Besides, watching video after video of cute kittens peeking their furry little heads out of cardboard boxes is a much better way to pass the time.

Your relaxation period is interrupted when a notification banner descends from the top of your screen. It’s an unknown number, but the content of the message makes your eyes widen in surprise.

Hi. It’s Harry. I’m at the gym.

You tap on the text immediately, waiting with bated breath as you’re taken to a different app. You chew on your bottom lip for a moment, thumbs hovering over the screen before they begin to type.

Hey! I’ll be there in twenty minutes.

Harry’s reply is short, concise, to-the-point—just like him. Oddly enough, it makes you smile.

Okay. See you soon.

~*~

The first thing that Harry notices when you walk through the door is that you’re slightly out of breath. He’s standing in the middle of the ring, his eyes fixated on the opposite side of the room as you enter. Your hair is tied up in a high ponytail, and you’re wearing a pair of leggings and a tank top under your jacket. Your sneakers squeak against the floor as you stride over to him, fingers wiggling in a friendly wave.

“Hi!” you call out, shooting him a kind smile.

Harry leans against the ropes circling the ring, careful not to put too much of his weight on the barriers lest he flip over and fall to the floor. It’s happened once or twice, and each time, he ended up with a bruised tailbone afterward.

“Hi,” he replies.

You shrug your coat from your shoulders as you draw nearer. “How are you?” you ask, peering up at him curiously.

“Good, thanks,” he says. His fingers toy absentmindedly with the silver cross pendant dangling from his neck. “Er…did you run here?”

“What? Oh, no,” you answer with a breathless laugh. “I drove. But I was hurrying—I didn’t want to keep you waiting.”

You’re so fucking sweet. He’s going to throw up.

“It’s alright.” He shrugs. “I don’t mind.”

“Still,” you say, tightening your ponytail with both hands. “You’re going out of your way to do this for me. And while we’re on the subject of that—thank you, again. I really appreciate it.”

“No problem,” Harry says. He slips between the ropes and hops down from the platform. “Shall we start?”

“We shall,” you agree, biting back a teasing smile. “Am I going up against you?”

Despite himself, Harry chuckles. He shakes his head. “Not yet. First, you need to learn the basics.”

“Basics,” you echo, nodding once. “Right.”

He leads you over to the side of the ring, where a pair of punching bags have been strung up near the wall. The arrangement is nothing special—twin leather bags, one brown and one black, filled with sand and stitched together with strong, coarse thread. Reflexively, you reach out, running your fingertips along the black bag and giving it a gentle push. It swings outward before returning back to you. Harry watches you closely, examining the gentle crease between your brows and the slight glaze that smooths over your pupils. He clears his throat quietly, and you seem to snap out of your trance.

“Do you know how to punch?” he asks.

You purse your lips, looking unsure of yourself. “Um…I think so.”

He nods. “Show me, then.”

The blow that you deliver to the bag is weak at best. Harry immediately notices a handful of things that you’re doing wrong. When you pull your arm back and peer up at him, he’s trying his hardest to hold back a smirk.

“What?” You frown.

“Nothing.” He snickers softly, shaking his head again. “It’s just…that was cute.”

“‘Cute’?” you parrot, narrowing your eyes. You scoff good-naturedly, stepping back and holding your arm out in invitation. “You do it, then.”

Harry’s lips twitch. “Gladly.”

The chain hanging from the ceiling rattles when his fist makes contact with the leather. The punching bag itself swings forward in an extraordinary arc before hurtling back in your direction. You gasp when Harry stops it with his palms. He grunts quietly, stilling it before turning around to face you. There’s a small smile playing on his lips, and he’s sure that his eyes are gleaming with a smug sparkle. You just cross your arms over your chest, gazing at him evenly with your chin held high.

“Fine,” you say. “Tell me what to do.”

Harry gets you situated back in front of the bag, standing beside you and studying your posture.

“First of all,” he starts, “you need to make sure that the position of your feet matches the position of your arms.”

“What do you mean?” you ask, shooting him a confused pout.

“Like this—,” Harry reaches for your shoulders before pausing, his fingers only inches away from your skin. “Er,” he clears his throat, fixing you with inquisitive eyes, “is it alright if I touch you?”

You nod wordlessly. Harry swallows down the lump in his throat as his hands close the distance between your bodies. He slants your torso to the side before reaching for your arms, bending them at the elbow so that your fingers—now curled into loose fists—are suspended in front of your face.

“If you’re angling yourself this way,” Harry starts, mimicking your stance, “you need to make sure that your right foot is leading you. But if you stand in the opposite direction—,” he changes sides, adopting a mirror image of his previous position, “—then it has to be your left foot. Got it?”

“Got it,” you say confidently. That same crease is digging into the space between your eyebrows; Harry aches to reach out and flatten it with the pad of his thumb.

“Also,” he says, delicately wrapping his fingers around your wrists, “when you punch, you can’t drop your other hand. Keep it up at all times—you need to guard your face.”

“Guard my face,” you murmur, mostly to yourself. “Okay, cool.”

You throw an experimental punch at the bag, and Harry doesn’t miss the shadow of pain that flashes across your features. His eyes trail down the length of your arm, lingering on your fist. Before you can deliver another blow, he stops you, catching your knuckles in the calloused valley of his palm and halting your movements.

“Keep your thumb on the outside,” he says, peeling your fingers open and freeing your thumb from beneath them. “You’ll break it, otherwise.”

He curls the digits back up, this time so that your hand is settled in the proper arrangement. He then steps back, jerking his head toward the bag and encouraging you to take another swing. “Try it, now.”

The third blow is better than the past two. You beam up at Harry when a promising smack! echoes through the air. He smiles reassuringly at you, nodding his head and tugging at the collar of his t-shirt. “Good. That’s a start.”

“Put me in, Coach,” you tease, bringing your fists up to your face and bouncing playfully on the balls of your feet. Your eyes shimmer as you peek at him from behind your knuckles. Harry presses his lips together to keep himself composed, but he can’t stop the faint snort that slips out of his nose. You laugh cheerfully, dropping your arms back to your sides.

“Okay, so I know how to punch,” you say. “What’s next?”

“There’s four main punches in boxing,” Harry replies. He steadies himself in front of the bag, his left foot extended to provide balance.

“The jab—”

He punches with his left fist, pointed and forceful.

“—the cross—”

He strikes with his right hand, driving the weight of his body into the blow.

“—the hook—”

He curves his arm, angling it accordingly so that he can deliver a hit to the side of the bag.

“—and finally, the uppercut.”

He bends his elbow, scooping upward so that his fist makes contact with the bottom half of the bag. The sand inside shifts audibly as it rattles around, looping in every direction and gathering momentum. Harry turns back to you as it continues to swing in circles, cracking his knuckles loudly and seeking you out.

Your eyes are wide. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think that you look a bit…enthralled. His brow furrows in confusion.

“You alright?”

“Yes,” you say immediately, and he’s taken aback by the breathless quality of your voice. You clear your throat quickly, scratching at your hairline and looking away. “You’re just very…dedicated. That’s all.”

“I’ve got to be,” Harry hums. He turns back to the punching bag and ceases its movements. “This is how I make a living.” His lips quirk up with the hint of a smile. “We can’t all go to medical school and become doctors.”

A weak laugh tumbles from your mouth. “I haven’t even gotten in yet,” you say from behind him.

“But you will,” he murmurs, the reply slipping out before he can weigh it on his tongue. “Without a doubt.”

He pauses when the words finally sink in, his shoulders stiffening and his eyes stamping shut. If you weren’t standing so close, he would have leaned forward and crushed his forehead into the rough leather of the punching bag. His lips mould around unspoken curses as a heavy silence descends upon the two of you.

At last, you finally choke out, “I—thank you, Harry. That’s really nice of you to say.”

“No problem,” he grunts. He steps back, spinning on his heel but refusing to meet your gaze. You’re probably looking at him like that—with soft, glimmering irises and earnestness woven through every cell in your body. If your eyes lock, he knows that he’ll be overrun with the urge to kiss you.

And he knows that if that happens, he might not be able to hold himself back.

“What time do you have to be home?” Harry asks, subtly trying to change the topic.

You lift one eyebrow challengingly, like you know exactly what he’s doing. Still, though, you humour him.

“I told my dad I was going to a friend’s house,” you say, shrugging lightly. “We have time, don’t worry.” You smile as a thought crosses your mind. “Just make sure you don’t get me too sweaty by the end of the night, okay? I can’t go home looking like I’ve just run a marathon.”

Harry’s cock twitches in his shorts at the thought of rendering you sticky and speechless. Of watching you walk away from him with wobbly knees and messy hair. Of dropping you off at home and nibbling on your neck one last time for good measure. He quickly shoos the temptations away, clearing his throat and nodding in accord.

“Minimal sweating,” he concedes. “I’ll try my best.”

Deep down, he knows that you’ll most likely be drenched with perspiration once he’s through with you. You’ll figure that out soon enough, though.

Harry makes his way over to the ring, snatching up a pair of gloves lying on the platform. He turns back around, tossing them to you and fighting a smile when you yelp in surprise. With an awkward flail, you manage to catch them in your arms. You shoot him a questioning look, lifting your eyebrows and waiting for an explanation.

“Put those on,” he orders, clapping his hands together once. “We’re gonna try to perfect your stance, tonight.”

“Why do I need to wear them, then?” you ask, gazing down blankly at the gloves nestled against your chest.

“You don’t need to, I suppose,” Harry says, shrugging. “But your knuckles will probably be destroyed by the end of the night.”

“Oh.” You make a face, wrinkling your nose up in distaste. “Okay, yeah—I’ll use them.”

He smirks, folding his arms over his chest. “We want to be careful, don’t we? Those are the steady hands of a future surgeon.”

You scoff, laughing gently at his quip. “Hopefully,” you say, a sweet smile playing on your lips. “Let’s just pray that I get the right grades.”

You will, Harry thinks, but this time, he bites his tongue to keep the sentiment contained. You’re smart, and you’re beautiful, and you’re kind. You’re perfect. I can’t stop thinking about you. I want to kiss you. I want to fuck you. I want to sleep next to you at night and prepare you breakfast in the morning. I want to make you laugh. I want to make you smile. I want to—

“Harry?”

He blinks. “Yeah?”

You fix him with a benevolent look. “Zoning out on me?”

“No.” He shakes his head, approaching you as you struggle to tug on one of the boxing gloves. His eyes fall to your hands and he reaches out, halting your movements with a gentle, “Let me.”

You peek up at him shyly as he guides your fingers into the glove. He keeps his gaze trained downward, avoiding your eyes. One of his rough palms grasps your elbow as he tugs the Velcro strip tight around your wrist. Once he’s done the same with the other one, he releases you and steps back.

“Thank you,” you say softly. He just nods in response.

“Make sure your feet are shoulder-width apart,” he says, and you spread your legs according to his command.

For a brief moment, the image of you separating your thighs to accommodate his hips flashes through his mind, but he squeezes his eyes shut and wills it away.

The rest of the night is painful—his cock grows stiffer and stiffer by the hour, spurred on by each sweet smile that you send his way. By the time you’re through with the session and bidding him goodnight as he locks up, he’s half-hard beneath his black shorts. He hopes that you don’t notice.

You shoot him a cheerful wave and drive away, and he watches before toddling over to his own vehicle. As soon as he slides into the driver’s seat, he releases a heavy, guttural groan, slouching forward and pressing his forehead to the crest of the steering wheel. Blindly, he sticks his key into the ignition and turns it, and the truck rumbles to life. A quick glance at the dashboard reveals that it’s well past midnight. Only then does he realise the extent of his exhaustion.

He backs out of the parking lot, pulling onto the main street and training his eyes on the road ahead. If he squints, he can still make out the red taillights of your car.

The journey back to his apartment passes in no time. Harry climbs sluggishly up four flights of stairs, tumbling into his home and pressing the door shut with one hand. He drags his feet down the hall and past the threshold of his bedroom, pausing only to rip his t-shirt from his torso before collapsing onto his mattress. Obscure silhouettes dance across his eyelids as they drift shut.

The last thing on his mind before sleep overtakes him is the gentle slope of your smile.

February 21, 2021

One month and a handful of late-night sessions later, Harry finds himself inundated with guilt. He’s constantly plagued by memories of your virtual conversations—short, brief little interactions consisting primarily of him letting you know that he’s free to train that evening. Your responses, ripe with exclamation marks and prattles of gratitude. You’ve taken up the habit of texting him after each lesson, too, composing a quick thank-you message before shutting your phone for the night.

And Harry regrets everything—agreeing to teach you how to box, letting you know when he’s available to meet, encouraging you as your technique progresses. On several occasions, he’s considered breaking things off, telling you that he’s too busy, that you should be focussing exclusively on school instead of on how to throw a right hook.

But then you look at him like that. With bright, trusting eyes and open features and that easy, dazzling smile. And the wall that he’s been trying so hard to build back up—not that it was particularly robust to begin with—comes crashing down.

His match is set to start in fifteen minutes, and you’re not here. You have a midterm tomorrow—your father had mentioned it in passing. You’ve been holed up in your room all weekend, he said, permanently absorbed in the pages of your textbook.

And Harry’s nervous, because you’re his lucky charm. What the fuck is he supposed to do, now?

The minutes seem to fly by—before he knows it, he’s stepping out into the ring with the crowd’s thundering screams echoing in his ears. His opponent isn’t the biggest man he’s ever gone up against, but he’s definitely not scrawny. Harry’s maybe two inches shorter than him—under normal circumstances, the height difference wouldn’t have fazed him. But he’s already on edge due to your absence, so even the smallest observations are proving to be exceedingly disconcerting.

Looking back, he supposes that he should’ve known.

Doomed from the start, destined to fail—whatever you want to call it.

Point being, he loses. Horrendously.

And he’s not quite sure when they bring the stretcher out and peel him off of the floor of the ring, but he knows that it’s sometime after the second round. He blinks rapidly, fading in and out of consciousness as moisture trickles down the side of his face. Somewhere beneath the wooziness, he’s well aware that the match is over. Your father is standing over him, walking at a brisk pace to keep up with the two men carrying him out of the arena.

“What do you mean, he called in sick?” your father spits, his eyes alight with anger. “You couldn’t find anybody else?”

The man behind Harry’s head says something that he can’t quite discern. His response makes your father grit his teeth and pinch the bridge of his nose. He fishes his phone out of his pocket, punching in a number and bringing the device up to his ear.

A few moments later, his expression lights up, relief flooding his features. “Gioia? Yeah, hi…”

Harry’s vision fades to black.

~*~

“…going to have some strong words with the bastard that did this—”

“Gioia, please. That’s how the sport works.”

An outraged scoff. “Who the hell kicks a man while he’s down?”

No reply.

Harry drifts off once more.

~*~

When his eyelids flutter open, it takes a moment for him to regain his bearings. Through the blurriness of his vision, he sees a dim light hanging from the ceiling, bathing his surroundings in a pale white glow. He blinks rapidly, hoping that his sight will sharpen with each flutter of his lashes. There’s a dull pain throbbing against the right side of his torso, battering against his ribcage and pulling an agonized groan from his lips.

The low sound is met with a high gasp. Seconds later, a face is looming over his own. Harry forces himself to concentrate on the person’s features—kind, worried eyes, raised brows, and pretty, parted lips. His heart begins to gallop in his chest.

“Harry,” you breathe. A few gentle fingers card through his hair. The sensation of your nails against his scalp makes him shiver. “How are you feeling?”

“Peachy,” he croaks, his voice hoarse.

Despite the worry swimming around in your irises, you emit a shy laugh.

“Are you able to sit up?” you ask, pulling your hand out of his hair. He nearly whines at the loss.

“Think so,” he mutters. He places his palms flat against the surface beneath him—a bed, perhaps?—and pushes himself onto his elbows. The muted pain in his side flares fiercely, making him choke on his own breath. You reach out for him, setting one hand down on his shoulder while the other wraps delicately around his bicep.

“Easy, easy,” you soothe, tutting disapprovingly. “Be careful.”

“’M always careful,” Harry says.

“Yeah,” you reply sarcastically, nodding your head. “And that’s how you ended up like this, right?”

A short, wheezing laugh punches its way out of his lungs. “Touché.”

Once he’s sitting up, he takes note of the room—well, it’s not really a room. The only thing separating the two of you from whatever lies outside is a thin curtain drawn over what he presumes to be the exit. To his left, a single cabinet with multiple drawers stands only a few feet away. You’re both tucked into a little alcove in the wall, no bigger than a standard bedroom. Harry glances around, his gaze landing on a single plastic chair facing the bed. Everything is set up like a hospital room (but far less comfortable, and severely lacking in terms of medical equipment).

“Where’s Coach?” he asks, creases forming along his forehead.

“He went to go grab us some coffee,” you explain, your eyes scanning his face. “It’s late.”

“How late?”

“Nearly two.”

“Fuck.” His head snaps toward you. “Don’t you have a midterm tomorrow?”

“Yeah.” You chew nervously on your bottom lip. “But it’s fine.”

“No, it’s not,” he says, gritting his teeth and glaring at you sharply. “What the hell are you doing here?”

You recoil a bit at his harsh tone. “Your stupid medic took a sick day,” you tell him, your voice hard. “And my dad asked me to come in and have a look at you. Who knows where you’d be if I hadn’t shown up.”

Regret washes over him. He slouches back against the bed—it’s more of a cot, really—and blows out a heavy sigh. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

“It’s okay.” You wave his apology away with a quick flick of your fingers. “Just…be quiet for a second, alright? I need to examine you.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he mutters under his breath. He doesn’t miss the way your lips twitch as the words sink in.

“Can you move to the edge of the bed?” you ask, gnawing on the inside of your cheek. “I need to see you properly, but I don’t want to make you stand just yet.”

“Sure.”

He shifts his body to the right, slowly dragging his legs off of the cot with a distressed wince. The floor is cold when his feet make contact with the ground, but he pays it no attention. He’s shirtless, clad only in the shorts he’d been wearing when he first stepped into the ring. He purses his lips and feels something stiff realign against his cheek. When he brings his hand up to his face, he finds a cottony piece of fabric taped onto his skin.

“What—?” He looks up at you in confusion.

“It was bleeding pretty badly,” you tell him. “I had to stop it, somehow.”

For the first time that night, he takes you in properly. You’re wearing a baggy t-shirt and a pair of grey sweatpants—it looks like the type of outfit that one would shrug on if they were in a rush to leave the house. Another pang of guilt jolts through his chest.

“What happened?” Harry croaks, pulling his hand away from his cheek.

“My dad told me that the other guy was wearing a bracelet,” you say; frustration drips from your words. “He didn’t take it off before the match started. It’s not a big cut, but it’s deep. You’ll probably need a few stitches.”

“And you know how to do that?” he asks, watching as you circle around the bed and approach the cabinet on the opposite side. He twists in an attempt to keep his eyes on you, but then grunts lowly at the ache that thrums against his side. When he looks down at his torso, he discovers a large splotch of blue and purple decorating the skin covering his ribs.

“I watched my mom do it back when my dad used to coach Artie,” you say absentmindedly, rifling through a few drawers and collecting the supplies that you need. You pause, your eyes clouding over with something forlorn. “Now that I think about it, that’s probably why I want to go into medicine. I think…it would’ve made her proud.”

“It would’ve,” Harry agrees.

He watches you carefully as you make your way back over to him, afraid of prying or saying the wrong thing. Your mother’s death had hit your family hard; he rarely hears you or your father mention her. But maybe that’s for the best—wounds can’t heal if they’re being ripped open time after time again. He would know.

You dump a handful of materials down onto the bed—disinfectant, cotton swabs, tissues, gauze, a needle, thread, and a pack of medical sutures. Harry swallows heavily.

“Do you mind if I…?” you trail off, pursing your lips timidly. Somehow, he understands exactly what you’re referring to.

“No, not at all,” he says. The words fall from his mouth a bit too quickly.

With no further preamble, he spreads his legs, and you step into the space made available between his knees. You lean to the side, reaching for the disinfectant and cotton swabs on the bed, but then nearly lose your balance in the process. Harry’s hand flies upward reflexively, settling on your hip to keep you steady.

You glance down at him with wide eyes, and he hastily removes his palm from your body. “Sorry,” he mutters, looking away.

“It’s okay,” you tell him, and is it just his imagination, or do you sound a bit…breathless?

“You’ve got a couple of scrapes on your face,” you continue. You clear your throat, uncapping the antiseptic and dipping a cotton swab into the bottle. “This’ll hurt a little.”

“It’s alright—fuck!” he swears, scowling deeply at the sting that blooms across his chin. You chew on your bottom lip, dragging the swab over his injuries with practiced, nimble fingers. His toes curl against the cold, concrete floor.

Once you’ve finished sterilising his minor wounds, you turn your attention to the massive bruise on his torso.

“Can I?” you ask softly, extending your arm but pausing only inches away from his skin.

He nods, not trusting himself to speak.

He fights back against a shudder when your fingertips ghost over his ribs. You hesitate, applying a bit more pressure and cringing when he groans. “Sorry,” you whisper, making a move to pull away.

“No,” Harry breathes quickly. He catches your hand in his, trapping your palm back against his side. Briefly, he notes the unmistakable softness of your knuckles, so different from his own. “’S okay. Do what you need to do.”

You nod tautly, pressing your fingers against the bruise once more. Harry grinds his teeth together, trying his best to withstand the pain. You prod around for a few seconds, your brow furrowed in concentration. When you don’t appear to find anything worrisome, you sigh in relief and drop your arm so that it rests limply at your side.

“No broken ribs,” you announce quietly. “At least, not as far as I can tell.”

“That’s reassuring,” he jokes.

A weak laugh falls from your mouth. “I haven’t gotten into med school yet, remember?”

He chuckles. Your eyes suddenly darken, and an angry scowl curls along your lips.

“He kicked you while you were knocked out,” you murmur, shaking your head in disbelief. “Fucking asshole.”

Harry’s eyebrows fly upward, his mouth twitching at your vulgar words. You catch sight of his amused expression, but instead of mirroring it, your frown only deepens.

“It’s not funny,” you say. “He fought dirty.”

“This whole setup is illegal, baby,” he says. Neither of you comment on the pet name that slips out of his mouth. He hopes that you view it as part of an expression, and not a proclamation of his affection. “Fighting dirty—they don’t care about that. If anything, it just gives them one hell of a show.”

“Still,” you mutter, gluing your eyes to the discoloured skin covering his ribs. “He shouldn’t have done it.”

Harry smiles softly, reaching out and tucking two fingers beneath your chin. Your lips part in surprise, and he tilts your face up so that he can look at you properly.

“Thank you,” he says, his tone entirely sincere, “for taking care of me.”

Your throat bobs with a hefty swallow—he can feel it against his knuckles. You lift your hand up to his face, and for a moment, he thinks that you mean to stroke his cheek lovingly. But then you scrape your thumb over the bandage covering his cut, and he’s reminded that this doesn’t mean anything.

You’re here to stitch him back up—nothing less, and certainly nothing more.

“I’m not done yet,” you say.

The two of your drop your fingers at the same time. Harry clears his throat, trying to absolve the tension in the air. You seize some of the other supplies still strewn across the bed, laying them out properly before getting to work.

You’re diligent, removing the bandage on his cheek and using a few tissues to mop up the blood that immediately begins to drip downward, rolling over the jut of his jaw. He curses when you pass another cotton swab over his injury, screwing his face up at the smarting prickle of the antiseptic.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur absentmindedly, keeping your eyes trained on the wound. “We definitely don’t want this one to get infected.”

“Yeah,” he grunts, because he can’t exactly nod with your fingers probing around.

“This is going to be the worst part,” you warn, pulling back and opening the pack of stitches.

You unwind a piece of thread from its spool, taking the string between your lips and severing it with your teeth. Harry watches you closely, anxiety frothing in the pit of his stomach. In all of his years spent boxing, he’s only needed stitches once—the procedure hurt like a bitch, especially since there had been no anaesthetic available. He remembers the pain like it was yesterday, and he’s not looking forward to having to endure it again.

When you guide the first stitch through his skin, he balls his hands into tight fists. His lips tuck themselves into a thin line, and an agonized moan bubbles up in his chest. You squeeze your eyes shut for a brief moment; upon reopening, they glisten with unshed tears.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you whisper. Your voice shakes.

“It’s okay,” Harry grits out. His blunt nails dig into his palms. “Keep…keep going.”

“A few more,” you babble; he’s not sure whether you’re trying to comfort him or yourself. “Just a few more.”

It takes you roughly fifteen minutes (you haven’t really had much practice, after all) to sew his wound closed with five stitches. It is by no means the cleanest application, but it’s not bad. You retrieve another cotton swab and dip it into the bottle of disinfectant, running it along the seam of his injury one last time. After that, you finally blow out the stale air that has accumulated in your lungs.

“Thank you,” Harry mutters. “Truly.”

“No problem,” you breathe. You busy yourself with gathering up all of the supplies, cradling them to your chest and making your way around the bed. As you dump everything back into the top drawer of the cabinet, you say, “Harry. Can I ask you something?”

“Go for it,” he hums. He’s nervous about speaking too animatedly, afraid to disrupt the work you’ve just done on his cheek.

“How long have you been boxing?”

He peers at you from over his shoulder, eyes following your movements as you return to his side of the cot and sit down next to him. “Er…,” he pauses, thinking, “…about ten years, now.”

“You started at sixteen?” you say, blinking in surprise.

“Yeah.”

“Oh.”

He smiles softly before remembering the sutures sewn into his skin. A beat of silence passes.

“Can I ask you something?” he questions.

You nod. “Of course.”

“Why did you want me to teach you how to box?” he says. You open your mouth—to feed him another lie, surely—but he carries on before you get the chance to speak. “And don’t say it’s because you were just curious, or some bullshit like that. I want the truth.”

“Harry…,” you begin softly, looking at him with pleading eyes. He shakes his head, adamant and unmoved.

“The truth.”

Your shoulders slump in defeat. Instinctively, you reach for your throat, tugging at the rose-gold chain hanging there and fiddling nervously with the pendant nestled between your collarbones. It looks like you’re trying to figure out what to say, how to approach the situation without revealing something that could potentially make it any worse.

“Do you remember that guy I was seeing a few months ago?” you say, your voice small. “James?”

And oh, Harry remembers. He remembers watching the two of you swap spit on top of the bleachers at one of his matches. He remembers imagining James in the place of his opponent, and then making sure to aim all of his punches directly for the face (he won, that night.) He remembers seeing the sparkle in your eyes slowly start to dim the longer you stayed with him. He remembers the aftermath of your breakup, when James had shown up at the gym and screamed at you to come outside, deterred only after Portia threatened to call the police.

He fucking remembers.

“Yeah,” he spits. The affirmation is coated in a thick layer of venom. “What about him?”

His eyes widen a touch when it all clicks, then, like pieces of a puzzle falling perfectly into place.

“What did he do?” he demands immediately, fixing you with a stern glare. “Did he fucking touch you?”

“No!” you exclaim, shaking your head quickly. “No, no, it’s just…I’ve been seeing him around. A lot. And I’m not sure if I’m just being paranoid, maybe, but—,” you inhale deeply, “—it feels like he’s following me.”

Your name slips past Harry’s lips in a hard, firm tenor. When you look up at him warily, he stares straight into your eyes, leaving no room for you to break away.

“You need to tell someone about this,” he says steadfastly. “You need to go to the police.”

“I don’t even know if I’m right,” you tell him. Your mouth curls down into an apprehensive frown. “I don’t want to cause a fuss, especially if it all just turns out to be one big coincidence.”

“When was the last time you saw him?” Harry asks. A bitter taste settles on his tongue. “How often has this been happening?”

You tilt your head to the side, lost in thought. “Two days ago,” you finally say, shrugging helplessly. “And…I don’t know. I’ve seen him, like, nine or ten times in total.”

“Ten times,” he hisses, “in a few months? That’s not normal, and you know it.”

“Harry,” you plead, tugging nervously at the hem of your t-shirt. “Please. Don’t turn this into something it’s not.”

“How can you—?” he starts, but then you lurch forward, putting a dainty hand on his thigh.

“Please,” you repeat, shaking your head softly. “Just…keep this between us, okay? The last thing I want is for my dad to find out.”

And maybe it’s the tenderness brewing in your eyes when you meet his gaze. Maybe it’s the wilt in your voice, the feeblest he’s ever heard. Maybe it’s the feeling of your fingers on his leg, burning a hole through his shorts and searing a mark—a brand—into his skin. Harry sighs, looking away from you and running his fingers anxiously through his curly hair.

“You’re bloody stupid, you know that?” he asks, scoffing quietly.

“Yeah,” you reply, the corners of your mouth kinking up into a half-hearted smile. “I know.”

“Got you a latte, gioia—”

The dinky curtain in front of you is pulled back by none other than your father, who is holding a tray of coffee in his right hand. He blinks at the scene laid out before him—you and Harry on the small cot, sitting a bit too close for comfort. Your hand on his thigh. You both jump, breaking away from each other and inhaling sharply. Harry clears his throat as you cough into your elbow, standing up and reaching for one of the drinks nestled in the tray.

“Thank you,” you murmur quietly, pressing a gentle kiss to your father’s cheek.

His eyes bounce between the two of you, forehead wrinkling in curiosity as he asks, “What’d I miss?”

You peer down at Harry from over the rim of your cup, panicked and beseeching. He just shrugs his shoulders nonchalantly; the tattoos inked into his skin ripple with the act. His tone is steady when he meets your father’s gaze.

“I’ve got some bruised ribs and a wicked headache, but aside from that—,” he lies, “—nothing at all.”

~*~

Your father ends up driving him home.

He parks the car just in front of Harry’s apartment complex, watching with worried eyes as he slips out of the passenger door.

“You sure you’ll be alright?” he asks.

Harry just nods, waving away his concerns. “I’m fine, Coach, really. Thanks for the ride.”

Your father nods—still looking a little unsure—before speeding off.

Climbing up four flights of stairs with bruised ribs is hell, Harry soon learns. By the time he reaches his floor, he’s panting and wiping a thin sheen of sweat from his brow. He pulls his keys out of his coat pocket, unlocking the front door and staggering into his apartment. A pained whimper slips out of his mouth as he shrugs the jacket from his shoulders.

He slowly makes his way into the bathroom, cupping his battered side over the material of his t-shirt. The water is cold when he first turns the shower on. He grits his teeth, fiddling with the temperature and meticulously removing his clothes as it warms.

The moment the first droplet hits his skin, he lets out a deep, guttural groan. He hadn’t realised just how tense he was until now. He stands under the spray of the water, tipping his head back and letting it wash away every trace of dirt and grime on his body. His hair grows heavy with moisture, sticking to his scalp and his forehead. He leans against the wall of the shower, inhaling deeply. His eyelids flutter shut, and your smiling face appears amidst the darkness.

Almost subconsciously, his hand finds its way to his cock.

Part of him is disgusted with himself. He shouldn’t be thinking of you. He shouldn’t be thinking of you. He shouldn’t be—

He moans.

In the realm of his perverse imagination, you’re straddling him, your arms looped leisurely around his neck and your whimpers echoing into the cavern of his mouth. Your hips roll against his, unhurried and languid and deep. So fucking deep. Harry reaches down with one hand, squeezing greedily at the curve of your ass, and you whine in response, encouraging him to do it again.

He pumps his length in the shower, panting quietly.

Your fronts are pressed together as you rut into his lap, your nipples brushing against the ebony birds on his chest and your silky walls wrapped around him like a vice. He grunts; you swallow the sound down, your hot, heavy breaths wafting out onto his chin. His fingers dig into your thighs when you steady yourself on your knees, doing your best to bounce up and down on him properly. It’s frantic, it’s uncoordinated, it’s sloppy, but…it’s perfect.

Your nails scrape down his back as the two of you move together, a steady series of push and pull, like water under a bridge. If you’re the moon, then he’s the tides, bending and swirling under your gentle light. Every time you rock forward, he meets you there, your bodies connecting with faint slaps of skin on skin. You gaze at him with hooded eyes, lust simmering beneath your lashes. Electricity tingles across his shoulders.

The noises that you emit are music to his ears. Delicate sighs when he nips at your breasts, earthy groans when he hits that special spot inside of you. And woven between them, imploring pleas, murmurs of right there and oh, yes and so good.

It’s embarrassing, how quickly he finishes.

He stands there, leaning against the tiles with his cock in his hand and his release dripping from his fingertips. He has the decency to feel appalled by his actions, at the very least. If you were aware of what he had just done, he knows for a fact that you would never speak to him again.

He cleans himself up, shampooing his hair and scrubbing down every inch of his body. When he steps out of the shower and shuts the water, a wave of exhaustion washes over him, making him sway on his feet. His lips vibrate with a soft sigh.

His phone chimes from where it’s perched on the bathroom counter. When he taps on it, he finds a message from you.

Feel better soon, it reads. The guilt festering in his chest increases tenfold.

Thank you, he says back, shoving the remorse down. Good luck on your midterm tomorrow.

A moment later, your reply comes through.

Thanks! Goodnight, Harry.

Goodnight, he types. He pauses for a moment, debating over whether he should include a little red heart after the word. But then he shakes his head, rolling his eyes at his own insolence and sending the text without a second thought.

He doesn’t even bother drying himself off before padding across the hall and into his bedroom. He collapses onto his mattress, still covered in tiny droplets that bead along his shoulders and trail downward, wetting the duvet. He doesn’t care. It’ll dry, and so will he.

He falls asleep moments later, the repaired skin of his cheek tingling in the dark.

~*~

PART III: Hook

PART IV: Uppercut

if you’re enjoying this series so far, please consider donating to my ko-fi! thank you bunches <3

#harry styles smut #harry styles imagine #harry styles one shot #harry styles fanfiction #eeeeeee okay here it is!!! i love this part a LOT so i hope u guys do too 💘#harry writing #boxrry

2K notes · View notes

whenimaunicorn · 5 years ago

Text

The Split

The Mandalorian x female Reader

(gif contributed by @bennskywalker) (much love and undying gratitude to @equalstrashflavoredtrash for constant cheerleading, support, and beta services, and saving me every time I felt stuck on a scene; and also to @cptnbvcks for indulging the Big Meat headcanon and guaranteeing it’s happening in all my fics)

Rating: Explicit Content Warnings: choking, spanking, dominance/submission, threats during intimacy, rough sex Words: 8478

Summary: The Reader is a fellow Nevarran bounty hunter, working with the Mandalorian to catch a quarry and splitting the reward. They keep renegotiating the split until passions spark and other, kinkier interests start slipping out.

Full Fic:

There’s one thing you can appreciate about working with the Mandalorian: he sure knows how to be terrifying to his quarry. It’s not about bluster with him, or wild threats that can make a hunter seem unhinged; it’s in his sheer presence. He’s caught up to the quarry you’ve been tracking together, and now he looms over his prey like he’s inevitable.

‘Course, you’d never let him know he even made you shiver. “Enough with the dramatics,” you say to him, coming up behind the cowering bounty and yanking her arms together behind her back. “I’m the one that got her blaster out of her hand, and that’s the hardest part. Once they’re disarmed it’s all over. That ups my cut to 70%.”

A frustrated little hiss emanates from your business partner. He points that looming mask more squarely at you. “Fifty-five was what we agreed,” he says, words clipped. “And that was only because you had the specific location—”

“Without which your schedule wouldn’t have been worth shit,” you finish for him, pressing the binder around your quarry’s wrists. At least, the metal cuff clicks shut around one of them…

Suddenly the woman is whirling around, slamming the solid metal of the binder, hanging off just one wrist, right into your stomach.

You try to grab her but the momentum is not in your favor, especially with the wind knocked squarely out of your gut. You brace your hands on your knees, willing yourself not to fall completely down as you fight the pain, not in front of Mando, and manage to suck in a decent breath as you look up with involuntary tears forming in the corners of your eyes.

Just in time to see the Mandalorian grab the woman by the throat, stopping her escape in its tracks. He shoves her to her knees, bristling with frank irritation, and presses the muzzle of his blaster to the side of her skull. “Stay down.”

You stagger one step in their direction. Your gut hurts just about as much as your pride.

You can’t see a smirk on that cold metal face, but you know there has to be one as he looks over at you. “What were you saying about the hard part of the job being over? I’ll take that seventy.”

“This gets you maybe an extra five,” you wheeze, stomping to the quarry kneeling at his feet and jamming her other hand into the binder where it belongs. “And you’re forgetting that I was the one that noticed her sneaking out that hatch in the back.”

Another one of his annoying silences follows, the one where he stands so still and makes you wait, just guessing what thoughts might be bouncing around inside the helmet. “And she’s going back in my ship. My fuel, my carbonite. I’ll take sixty.”

You huff.

“You’re the one that started this. I would have been fine with the original agreement.”

You roll your eyes. “We’ll talk about it after she’s loaded in.”

“Up,” the Mandalorian barks at the quarry, digging those orange-tipped fingers into the cloth covering her shoulder and hauling her to her feet.

The woman complies, looking defeated, and you all start walking across the plateau toward where the Razor Crest has been hidden. Mando’s been in the game too long to pay docking fees at an official spaceport on a planet so chaotic that you can get away without.

Soon enough, the quarry says what everyone with a price on their head says, once the binders are tight around their wrists. “You know, you two really don’t have to worry about your split. Just let me get back to my guys, I can pay you each as much as that whole price on my head.”

You snort. “If that were true, we wouldn’t have found you working in such a shit-hole. No way the syndicate values you that much.”

“I seem to recall a story about you taking up a quarry on an offer like that once,” Mando’s modulator emits at you. He slows his pace so he can see your face as the three of you trudge across the uneven ground. “Didn’t it end with another Guild member finding you stripped and tied up in a cellar? That would have been a sight to see.”

“I heard that story too,” you shoot back. “Wasn’t me. But if you want to see me like that, Mando, maybe you can try to play your cards right a little later…” you force your mouth to close. Not the most well-thought-out comeback. Nor the kind of thing to say if you want a fellow Hunter’s respect. Which you do. It’s just that there’s something about the Mandalorian that’s damned enticing, that makes you wonder if he ever loosens up even a little, lets anyone touch the warm body that’s gotta be somewhere underneath all that armor.

“I know a good hotel in the East Quarter,” the quarry pipes up before Mando gives you a response, “soft mattresses, and real good soundproofing in the walls. Maybe you two need to work out some of this sexual tension before taking me back to the ship? You can just stick me in another room until you’re done.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you’d just twiddle your thumbs and wait real nice for us.” You stick your blaster into her ribs and prod her to move faster, just for being annoying. “Sweet of you to be so generous, but don’t worry. He and I’ll have plenty of privacy while you’re stashed away in carbonite for the ride to Nevarro.”

The Mandalorian’s helmet turns toward you sharply.

“What? It’s not that I don’t trust you, Mando, but I always collect in-person. I’m riding with you.”

Mando’s ship is a real bare-bones operation; it’s not much more than a cargo hold and a cockpit. It’s almost enough to make you regret insisting on coming along. You can’t find a spot to get comfortable in, and there’s nothing to do. Mando’s not helping; he’s been sitting at the controls of the ship, back perfectly straight, since take-off. The course has already been set; the eerie lines of hyperspace are streaking by, and there’s nothing in this cockpit that actually requires his attention unless something goes wrong.

“So… what do you usually do while you’re in hyperspace?” you finally ask, slouching against the cockpit wall.

Mando’s hands turn palm up. “This.”

“You serious?”

He shrugs. “Good time to meditate.”

You look out at the rushing stars. “You have got to be kidding me. I’d go completely crazy in about five minutes.”

“You probably would,” he says. So calm, so matter-of-fact.

You look down at him sharply. He hasn’t moved a muscle, though he could be looking at you sideways through his visor and you’d never know. Infuriating. You plop down into the seat behind him. “You don’t think I’m capable of being quiet?”

“I’ve never known you to be.”

You flip your hair. “Some of us have a thing called ‘people skills.’ But it doesn’t look like they cover that in Mandalorian school.”

Now he turns his face toward yours. “Is that what you think you have.”

You nod, stifling the quick words that heat up your tongue so you can prove how quiet you can be.

“I’ve seen you try to get free drinks from soldiers that haven’t had shore leave in months, and still not be able to seal the deal.”

Mando? Teasing you? That’s new. You scoff at the accusation. “You just left too early. You would have seen where that night went. Try loosening up a little sometimes.”

Another silence. Then he swivels away from you, back to his perfect posture. “No thanks.”

“What are you jealous?”

The stack of armor in the pilot’s seat gives you no reaction at all.

You exhale loudly. “You know, I always thought you must have had some other kind of life to go back to, the way you drop those pucks off with Karga and never stick around.” You glance down the ladder at the empty cargo hatch, thinking of the junky little cot you saw crammed into a closet down there. “But you really live like this? Nothing but work for you, huh. Is that what it takes to be the best hunter in the sector?”

His helmet moves a fraction in your direction. “At least you can admit it.”

Your face gets hot. You did not mean to give that to him. “Some people say that about you.” You cross your arms, trying to get more comfortable by throwing your feet up on the control panel to his left.

He rolls his neck, beskar facing pointedly at your feet until you huff and move them.

Your frustration cracks into all-out mockery. “Ooh,” you blurt out in a sing-song voice, “I’m Mando, when I’m not hunting I sit perfectly straight and stare into space; my capture rate is near-perfect because I never sleep and guns are my religion.”

His helmet tilts above his metal-encased shoulder, dangerously close to actually looking at you again. “If you’re going to keep running your mouth like that, I can think of a few ways to make you shut up.”

It takes you a moment to recover from the rush that shoots through your body, a confusing mix of adrenaline and frank arousal as he speaks to you with the tone he usually reserves for quarries. Then you bark out a laugh. “Mando! Did you just make a dirty joke?”

Slowly he swivels the chair toward you, until he’s facing you squarely with his legs spread and fists on his knees. “I suppose you could take it that way.”

And then he just sits there, staring at you, as you decide which way to take it. Was he trying to say he hadn’t meant it as a come-on? That you’re the only one here with a dirty mind, that immediately imagined him shoving his cock down your throat? Fuck. Or does he want you to take it that way, to climb into his lap and sit your ass down on the battered metal plate covering his thigh…

You have to shake your head a little to make the thoughts stop. That is so not what he means. “You’re just mad that we make a great team,” you say, standing up and grinning, trying a new tactic. “That after almost bungling the hunt today,” the helmet cocks sharply at that accusation, “you realize that you need me. I’ve got skills you can’t even come close to.”

It’s hard to determine what sound comes out of his modulator, but you think it’s a snort. “What are you talking about.”

“My aforementioned people skills, for a start. Don’t forget I was the one that took in that warlord on Strigoth by getting him to follow me out to the edge of town without any of his guards. Not everything has to be a shootout. And I knew the quarry today was going to run before you did.”

Mando crosses his arms over his chestplate. “Keep telling yourself that. I’m still not raising your percentage.”

“I can hack any security system since the final Imperial update release, which is most of them in the Rim, and on top of all that”—you swing your left hand in like you’re going to slap him upside the helmet, and when he lifts his arm to block, you smack him over the ear with your right—“I’m faster than you.”

You jump back instantly, not sure how he’s going to react. His body tenses up into a fighter’s crouch, starting to come up out of the chair toward you. Then he sits back down, body language deliberately relaxing. He adjusts his helmet with one hand. “You’re a child.”

“I call it playful,” you shoot back, the adrenaline rush of what you just did almost making you giggle. “Another asset you seem to be lacking.”

He only shrugs in response, then swivels back to facing the oncoming stars.

He’s given you an opening that’s impossible to resist. As soon as his back is turned you swing your open hand forward. He’s ready for it, which you basically expected, and he knocks your arm away before you can make contact with his helmet this time. And ouch, that gauntlet of his jars your forearm all the way to the bone. You make a frustrated little noise. “Well, if you want to stick to business, we still have to talk about the final terms of the split. We can go back to 55-45, if you admit that today I had the superior skills.”

“With you taking the forty-five?”

“Hell no.”

He pauses, and you think he’s about to say something mature and reasonable, like he always does. Instead, he comes back with a very calmly-worded: “I could put you out the airlock right now.”

You swear there’s a wry little tone to that modulated voice. “You’d have to catch me first”—you slap the bucket on his head again—“and we’ve already determined I’m faster than you.”

“Stop that,” he growls, finally standing up. His cloak swirls dramatically and you try to suppress the primal feelings that make you a little weak in the knees when he comes up to his full height in such close quarters.

“Make me.” The words are out of your mouth before you can decide if they’re really such a good idea.

The Mandalorian’s helmet tilts. Now it’s his turn to try and work out what you may or may not be implying. When he finally speaks, there’s a new tone in his voice, one that catches something deep in your belly and drags. “You think you can take me?”

…Can you? You may be as good a Hunter as he is, but you couldn’t say unarmed combat is one of your strong suits. And you don’t even want to think about how much he out-weighs you, especially with all that armor on. But how can you possibly eat your pride and back down after you’ve provoked this?

You look around the tiny space of the Razor Crest’s cockpit. Mando’s helmet stays squarely aimed at your face.

“A lot of expensive equipment in here,” you say casually. “Wouldn’t want to damage anything throwing down right now.”

“Mm-hmm.” His skeptical hum makes the modulator crackle. Did he just lean in closer?

At this point the sexual tension is thrumming like a mis-firing engine in the space between you. If he had a face you could read, a mouth you could tilt your face up and kiss, you’d know what to do, but this? Even your renowned ‘people skills’ are failing you now.

You look away from the impassive, dark lens that covers his eyes, and that’s when he retaliates. One heavy gloved hand whips around your side and thuds a stinging strike right into your ass. The impact knocks you forward, almost into his chest, but you stop yourself before your hands touch his breastplate.

You suck in a breath and freeze, wide eyes drawn like a magnet back to that beskar face. Mando just spanked you. Hard. Mando�� just… The pain ignites an arousal so sudden and strong that you’re worried you’re about to start trembling. It would absolutely kill your reputation if any Hunter found out that your sexual tastes ran submissive, that a deep secret part of you wanted nothing but to be overpowered and forced, to be used by someone stronger than you, better than you…

You can’t think of anything to do but flee. “I… uh…” His helmet tilts again, watching your face closely as you stutter. “Yeah, I guess I was being a little too childish. I’ll stop…stop trying to make you lighten up.” Your eyes slide away from his helmet’s eye slit, unable to handle even the imagined eye contact. “I’ll leave you alone to do whatever it is you do up here. Meditate. I’m gonna go down and…” you make for the ladder to the cargo hold, “and clean my blaster.”

He just watches you go. You can still feel the impact of his hand on your ass, with every movement of your leg as you climb down the rungs of the ladder. Fuck, it’s making your pussy tingle just a badly, too. Your head has just dropped below the hatch when Mando’s modulated voice follows you down with a suggestion that sounds suspiciously like a command. “Why don’t you clean mine, too.”

You feel your face and chest getting hot as soon as you get down to the relative privacy of the ship’s lower level. If you were trying to maintain control of the conversation, you’d say something sassy back to that, not let him win an inch of dominance, but you’re not in control anymore, are you? Not of yourself, not of whatever this is that’s going on between you. And it’s so dangerous. How would you keep his respect, if your top competitor in the Guild knew this about you, what you wanted him to do to you…

Mando’s weapon rack is set into the wall across from the ladder. Certainly there’s cleaning supplies stashed somewhere in that section, but you’re too shaky to get right to work. Instead, you walk down along the racks of carbonite, idly inspecting his cargo as you try and pull yourself together.

Four of the racks are currently occupied; the Mandalorian has been busy. Each one is tagged with a bounty’s chain code. You recognize two of them from Karga’s list. Quarries that you had passed on, that seemed too difficult to be worth their price. Bastard was about to show you up again when he unloaded these trophies.

You take a deep breath when you reach the end of the line. Your ass still tingles in the most tantalizing way, but you grit your teeth and tell yourself to ignore it. Maybe if you just stay down here, avoid your traveling companion until the ship reaches Nevarro, everything else will go just fine. No more bruises to your pride, no dirty secrets revealed. Yeah. That’s smart.

You turn and Mando is just there, boxing you in between the racks of carbonite carriers. How can a guy covered with so much metal be this stealthy? You try not to let shock show on your face; which only means you end up freezing like a prey animal.

“You liked that.” He makes the accusation solidly, with the weight of heavy interest bearing down behind it.

“What are you talking about.” You know, but you don’t want to answer for the heat that surely showed in your face when Mando spanked you. You try to wiggle past him, but he doesn’t acknowledge your intent, makes no move to make way for you.

“You know.” He’s just staring down at you.

You twitch in irritation and decide if he’s ignoring personal space, so can you. Your chest and thigh slide against solid armor as you force your body through the gap between him and the carbonite. “Get out of my way.”

His helmet is the only thing that moves, tracking your labored progression. “Make me.” He echoes your earlier challenge with an amused little tone.

“Fine.” You use your entire body weight to slam him into the rack on the other side. But he recovers too quickly; when you try to step away, into the center of the ship’s hold, he gets an arm around your chest.

As if your adrenaline wasn’t spiking already; now your combat reflexes kick in and you pull him in tighter, squatting low and grabbing that arm for leverage. With a quick burst of effort from your legs, you flip him over your shoulder.

You follow him down, taking advantage of the way a fall inside all that metal has to stun him, and climb on top of his body. “Fifty-five percent.” You also attempt to change the subject.

He reaches up and it’s a struggle to control his arms. He’s kriffing strong, and you’ve already taken off your combat equipment with the hidden tricks you usually use to deal with opponents that are bigger than you. He twists underneath you, in some way that you don’t expect, and with a rough shove and a brief crushing sensation along one leg you find yourself flat on the deck beneath him. “Are you really going to pretend you don’t like this?” his modulator purrs down at you.

Subject not changed. Every one of your nerve endings is in high gear now, and there’s a powerful urge inside you that wants to mewl and spread your legs apart for him right here, like a bitch in heat acknowledging the alpha male. You push the image back with a growl between your teeth, and use your thighs only to try and throw him off you.

Mando responds to your offensive by smothering you back down with his hips. Something solid crushes into the apex of your thighs, and you remember his armor does not have a codpiece.

A feral little moan escapes past your lips. Mando stops, lifting up just a little off your body and cocking his helmet to the side where it hovers only a hand’s breadth above your face. “What was that?” he asks, voice pleased.

And just like that, the whole game has changed. You were so worried he was trying to embarrass you, get one over on you. But if he likes it like this too… You reach your hand down boldly and throw his question back at him. “What’s this?” you ask as your palm makes contact with a delightfully solid bulge straining against the thick fabric of his pants.

A deep rumble purrs out of his modulator. “If you can manage to behave, maybe you’ll find out.”

How does he know exactly what to say to make you squirm? Your body floods with heat as you inwardly flail around to find a non-submissive answer. “And what happens if I don’t behave?”

“Then, maybe things get really interesting.”

Oh. Fuck. Now there’s an option. Maybe you don’t even have to submit to get the kind of tumble you want from him. You bare your teeth in a ferocious, challenging grin, and take advantage of the way he’s pulled his weight back to twist out from under him, knocking his helmet one more time with your elbow as you go.

You scramble across the deck out from under him, but a heavy hand catches your belt before you can get very far. You kick but Mando’s already inside your reach; your heel glances off his armor without even slowing him down.

He tugs on your belt, harshly, and climbs over the backs of your legs to force you down. “Where do you you think you’re going?” His voice is tight with the effort of getting himself positioned on top of you, squishing your belly into the deck.

“Mmf” is the sound you make in response, because now he’s pressing a forearm into your back and putting most of his weight on it.

“Hold still.” You give him a little token resistance, but mostly you let him get settled how he wants, holding you down to the floor evenly with the left side of his body. Leaving his right hand free. “So. What happens when you don’t behave.”

He spanks you, solid and centered and sharp.

You expected it just enough to hold your breath, and make sure you don’t cry out. You may be face-down on the floor under the Mandalorian, but you still have your pride. The first smack is followed by two more, and he grunts when you still don’t make a noise.

Heavy fingers smooth over the sting in your flesh. His hand feels amazing as it covers the swell of your ass, a slow, deliberate drag that feels warmer than it ought to and much more soothing than you expected.

“What’s it going to be, Y/N?” he asks. When you don’t answer fast enough for him, he swats at your other cheek, lazy and powerful.

Maybe he got a little noise out of you with that last one; it’s just too hard to stay quiet and not flinch both at the same time under the strength of that arm.

His helmet comes closer down to your face. “It’s okay to let go.” He speaks with such confidence, such seductive calm. “I can tell you want to submit. You don’t have to keep fighting it.” He shifts on top of you. “Though I do like it when you struggle.”

Your body rolls enticingly underneath him, without your brain’s permission. “Don’t you dare tell anyone you got me like this.”

“Of course not.” His answer is immediate. You remember how he’s always been an honorable man, that part of his reputation impeccable. Perhaps you really can trust him with this side of you. He sticks to the Code, he honors his promises, and lives by the Way of the Mandalore.

That last one begs a certain question, of course. “I wasn’t sure that Mandalorians could even have sex.”

A throaty noise makes the modulator crackle. “We have our ways.” A pause. “Is that what you want?”

You lift your head a little higher. He doesn’t give you much freedom, but he shifts just enough to help you feel comfortable breathing again. “If that’s what you’re offering, yeah, I wouldn’t be opposed to things ending up there.”

His hand gropes over your ass, fingers diving to tease more sensitive flesh between your legs. “After we… resolve a few things.” He grips tightly, almost cruelly. You agree in a sound that comes out much more high-pitched than you intended as he palms your ass and kneads it boldly. “Like whether you’re ready to start behaving like a good girl now.”

You still can’t bring yourself to just say yes, as hot as his words are making you. But you curl into his hand, just a little. To encourage him.

He growls something in a language you don’t know. It sounds like a curse and his weight is pressed down on you again as he scrambles with your belt, loosening your pants just enough to shove everything off the curve of your hips, baring you to mid-thigh in the ship’s cool air. When he spanks you now it’s sharper, the sting lighting up your tender flesh under every open-palmed strike that just keeps coming and coming. “Rubbing your ass on me does not count as an answer.” Smack. “I want to hear you say it.” Smack. “That you submit.” Smack. “That your ass is mine tonight.” A few involuntary cries squeeze out of your throat before he relents and rubs you again, the leather of his glove singing over your overstimulated skin.

You slow your panting breaths before you speak up, endeavoring to match his even tone. “Maybe I’ll play along for a little while.” You twist further, until you can stare up into his silver mask. “What do you want me to do?”

He pulls back, sitting up on his hip. From the angle of his helmet you’d guess that your answer does not really count as the submission he was looking for. Nor did you mean it to be. Someone’s gonna top you, they’ve got to earn it. Even if they are already, physically, on top of you. His moment of thought ends. “Take off your clothes.”

His hand squeezes at your ass one more time as you shift, like he’s loathe to let go while you comply with his command. You make as quick of work with your boots as you can, then push your bottoms off after them. Mando’s sitting beside you, leaning up against a large cargo crate, helmet fixed on your slowly-revealed body.

You’re so self-conscious that your skin feels like it could be glowing, as you bare it for him inch by inch. There’s nothing to read in that cold helmet, but its angle never wavers, riveted on you.

Once you’ve gotten yourself completely naked, he beckons you to come to him with two curling fingers. It’s amazingly erotic to move toward him with nothing on, while every inch of the Mandalorian warrior is still covered in battle-scarred plates.

He reaches out, palm up for your hand. You place your hand in his and he draws you in, until you’re kneeling right beside him. His fingers trail up your arms, over your shoulders, coaxing you closer. His touch is lighter than you expected. But you can hear him breathing through the mask. He’s struggling to stay this calm. To savor this.

His helmet tips down as his fingers knead harder; he watches himself press and squeeze the flesh of your shoulders, your neck, your jaw. The modulator translates another buzzing hum. Does it fascinate him, to see so much bare and vulnerable skin, when he can show none?

You feel your nipples tighten, a silent craving for contact. This feels good, but you want so much more. You look right into his eye slit. “I won’t break,” you say, twisting yourself tighter into the grip of his hands.

The Mandalorian growls and rises up to his knees, helmet filling your vision as he presses himself close and rakes his fingers down your back. He’s looking down at your panting chest and squeezing your ribs, watching the way your pristine tits are so close to brushing against his dirty metal chestplate. He clutches you in, pressing your belly against his, betraying a desire for closeness that he just can’t achieve.

Your hands come up to his shoulders, burrowing through the cowl wrapped around his collar, trying to make contact. Your fingers curl up the column of his neck, where the thinner fabric lets you feel a hint of his body heat. He stiffens when you come close to the bottom of his helmet.

“Leave it,” he snarls, just as you’re telling him “Don’t worry, I wasn’t—"

He scoops you up tightly and sets you on top of the cargo crate he had been leaning against. Your legs open and wrap around him of their own volition as he presses between them. You cross your ankles underneath his cloak, locking his body in close. You let your hands rest on his shoulders, just inside the pauldrons, but don’t attempt to slide under anything again.

Leather-clad fingers rake up your ribs, dragging up the sides of your body before they close over your breasts. Finally. You arc into him and let your eyes close, feeling the texture of his gloves across sensitive skin, the hungry twisting and tugging against your nipples.

“Open your eyes,” he demands, voice breathy with as much arousal as you’re feeling. “I want you to look at me, keep looking at me, let me see…”

He trails off, but you can guess what he means. Let him see what it feels like to be touched. You tip your chin down and lock your eyes on that T-shaped window in his helmet. His fingers pinch around both your nipples at once and your jaw drops. He tickles around the edges, then grabs up the full swell of your tits and squeezes. Your eyes try to flutter shut; it’s already hard to remember his instruction.

He settles into an entirely delicious rhythm, kneading your peaks, watching every crease of your brow, reading every gasp and twitch of your lip so that he can tweak at your nipples just right, until the pleasure is almost unbearable. You don’t even realize your eyes have fallen closed until his hand disappears from one of your tits and slaps at your cheek.

It’s not hard, just a slight sting, the corrective swat of a playful alpha. “Eyes,” he reminds you, then goes right back to his blissful torture.

Your core is warming almost unbearably. Every tug at your nipples is drawing a tingling line of pleasure right down between your thighs, taking the heat that had already awoken there during your spanking and fanning the flames, until the need for more is almost unbearable. “Mando,” you moan, tilting your hips forward on the crate, “please…”

A pleased little sound comes out of the modulator. “Please what?”

“Urmmm,” you moan at him, twisting your body, trying to scoot your hips a little closer to him. “I need more.”

He responds by pinching your nipples harder, just enough pain to make you gasp and curl. You pout up toward his helmet. “That’s not what I meant.”

“But you like it.” He does it again, and this time you cry out. A stabbing ache deep between your legs reminds you you’re still not getting what you want.

Fingers tickle down your belly, brushing across your inner thighs. Then they slide around behind and pinch you hard on the ass. You wail in frustration.

Mando tips his helmet closer to your face. “Tell me again how I don’t know how to be playful.”

“Fuck!” you cry through gritted teeth.

“Fuck what?”

Your hands scramble down his armored chest, aiming for his belt to just reach down and show him what you want.

“Uh uh.” He grabs your wrists before you can do more than pop the buckle on his utility belt. “Hands stay on my shoulders.”

You immediately comply, too far gone now to be contradictory. “Fuck me, Mando.”

“Oh yeah?” He straightens up a little, his posture cocky as he stands there wrapped in your naked legs. “You ready to say it?”

“I’m yours.” You don’t even hesitate. “Do whatever you want with me.”

He takes his belt the rest of the way off with one hand, lets it drop to the floor. The other hand is busy squeezing your ass, then traveling around your hip. He pushes your legs open a little wider, then his thumbs come running down your inner thighs, pulling at your labia, spreading you even more. You lean back, curling your hips up, to give him a better view.

His breath hisses out from under the helmet. “You want me to fuck this little pussy?”

“Yes,” you moan, as his thumbs stroke up and down, just around its edges.

He pulls you open wider. “You ready to be a good girl, and do exactly as I say?”

“Fuck, yes.”

“Exactly,” he repeats, and a ghost of a chill runs down your spine in the midst of all this heat. He takes one of your hands from his shoulder, and turns it palm up near your mouth. “Spit.”

The thumb of his other hand is still sliding up and down next to your opening, not touching your wetness. You appreciate that he’s not about to let his dirty gloves make things unsanitary. You gather up saliva to the front of your mouth and carefully coat your first two fingers.

Mando keeps his grip on your wrist, and pushes your hand down to your entrance as soon as he’s done watching your lips and tongue work over your own fingers.

You smooth the spit over your slit, Mando’s grip still guiding you, making sure you do a thorough job lubricating yourself. His other thumb creeps down over your clit, rocking across it carefully, steadily, his helmet angling back up to watch your face.

It’s a struggle to keep your eyes open against the pleasure of that pressure, finally right where you need it. But you remember his rule. You keep your gaze locked on the beskar as your own fingers find a rhythm underneath his, the gloved hand locked around your wrist urging you to press into yourself deeper, faster, in coordination with his rolling thumb. You find yourself clutching at the back of his neck just to keep your balance as the needy pleasure explodes. “That’s it,” his voice soothes over the modulator, “get yourself ready for me.”

You’re doing more than getting ready. Even just this much touch from him is sending you straight toward a spiraling orgasm, now that all the wild pleasure built up by every slap and struggle and pinch finally has somewhere to go.

He sees it coming, the way your eyelids go tight at the effort to keep them open and looking at him. “Don’t,” he warns. “Save it.”

He stops moving his thumb, though he doesn’t release its pressure. He swirls your hand inside of yourself one last time before drawing it out, then setting it back onto his shoulder in line with the other one.

You can��t help but roll your hips against his thumb while Mando starts loosening his own clothing. You want to call him cruel when he removes that hand too, bringing it up to caress your neck, but you have no ability to talk back anymore. Especially when his fingers curl up underneath your jaw. “Now. The most important thing.” You can feel him pulling himself out of his pants, though he’s brought his body in closer and you can’t see that far with your head tilted up in his hand like this. “Don’t look down.” His fingers squeeze tighter around your jaw, the heel of his hand pressing into the top of your throat. “If you look, I’ll have to kill you.”

He could be exaggerating, just to make this hotter for you, more intense, but you remember what he said to some over-curious bitch at Karga’s tavern once. No living thing has seen me without my helmet. Apparently The Way is preserved if violators quickly become only the formerly living.

“Yes,” you say quickly, voicebox buzzing against his wrist, words mumbling together against the unrelenting pressure in his fingers, “I understand.”

A few more quick movements down where you can’t see, and then you feel something warm and thick pressing up against your core. You both moan together as he slides his head up and down your slick folds, only fumbling a little before he finds his aim. Fuck. This is what you’ve been craving. You brace yourself against the cargo crate as best you can, squeezing your legs around him to invite him in.

You think you're ready to take him, but you're not. He crushes in bigger and wider than you’re used to, and you wail up into that impassive beskar face and try in vain to remember how to relax and take a dick like this one.

His breath is catching in little straining grunts; apparently this is pretty overwhelming for him, too. When he’s halfway in he removes his guiding hand from his own shaft and returns his thumb to your clit; that helps. The more familiar pleasure of his pressure helps melt your walls into the stretch of him. “You’re so. Fucking. Tight.” His hand never wavers on your jaw as he starts to pump, in and out, getting a little bit deeper into you with every thrust, groaning a little louder with every inch he gains.

Fuck. This position has every muscle in your body straining, which is probably why it’s so hard for him to fit in, but you don’t even care because the intensity of it is everything that you’ve been craving. “Fuck—” he adjusts his grip just a fraction, so you can talk a little easier, “fuck me just how you want, Mando, I can take it.”

He groans and takes his thumb off your clit, bringing that big hand around to grab onto your hip and brace you for a wilder pace. You only bemoan the loss of his thumb for a second, because the new angle slides his cock against a wicked spot deeper inside you.

“Ahh!” you wail, and wrap your arms tighter around his neck, needing him to hold you up as he fucks up into you at an angle that destroys the precarious balance you had been maintaining on the edge of this cargo crate. His controlling grip on your neck is choking you just a little, a sensation so erotic that you can feel your impending orgasm sizzle and tighten all around his cock the more you focus on it. “Mando, I—Can I?” you pant, your face so close that your breath is fogging up the beskar.

“Yes, fucking come for me,” he orders, then presses into you harder, his grip momentarily cutting off your airway completely. A second later your orgasm hits you like a ton of bricks, spasming every muscle in your core, your thighs, in your silent, breathless chest, and Mando just keeps fucking you through it all.

As soon as the heel of his hand slides off your throat you’re screaming through your teeth, the sound bouncing along with his thrusts. His pace is relentless until your orgasm finally peaks, and the stiffness of your body starts to melt against him. You realize that you’ve wrapped your arms fully around his helmet, getting as close as his controlling grip on your jaw would allow.

His pace slows, but it does not stop. From the aching deep inside your belly, you know that he’s still fully hard, just giving you a brief moment to recover yourself.

You sigh into the side of his head, a long, lovely sound. Your body shivers with aftershocks around his solid shaft, keeping your pleasure brimming, not letting it fade. That hand controlling your jaw pushes you back, gently, until he can see your face again.

His grip spasms on your ass. He must like what he sees. “Close your eyes.” You do, and he starts to pull away. “Keep them closed. I’m turning you over.”

You unlock your ankles from behind his back as he draws his length out of your body, both of you gasping and shuddering as he withdraws. Your legs come down to the ground rather stiffly, and you’re glad of the way he manhandles you along, until you’re bending over the crate with your thighs pressed into its edge. You’re not sure your legs would have held you up without his help.

Mando wastes no time lining his cock back up again. You hold onto the edges of the cargo crate as he presses in eagerly. A gasp rips from your throat as your head lifts up in an involuntary bend of your back; this position lets him drive in deeper, forcing you to adjust to his size all over again.

A split second after your head comes up, Mando’s fingers squeeze through your hair at the base of your skull, using that grip to hold you steady and facing forward. You really weren’t trying to turn and look, but you suppose he can’t risk it. He keeps control of your head, pulling your hair a little in time to his thrusts, as he groans out a deep, pleasured sound. You give voice to how you’re feeling, too, letting little sobbing moans spill out in time to his insistent thrusts. He can’t see your face anymore, and you barely have the leverage to move your hips against him, so this is the only way to keep the connection.

“Oh, keep making those sounds,” Mando pants, then the modulator keeps crackling with more of his soft grunts as he plumbs your depths. “You take me so good.” When he flattens his hips against your ass it definitely hurts; he’s reached the end of you, and is trying to stretch past it, deep inside. But even that pain is erotic; you wail and submit under his praise and his smothering need.

His grunts and his thrusts both start coming faster, and just as you fear that you’re hitting your limit, that you can’t take any more, some new dimension of release and submission open up inside you, and all that suffering transforms into a pleasure so fierce that your walls are clenching and your mind is wiped by an orgasm that turns the rest of your body to jelly.

When your mind clears you find your cheek flush to the surface of the cargo crate. Mando’s hand is pressing it there, with his fingers wrapped across your eyes, and he’s groaning through his teeth as he smashes himself as deep into your body as he can get. He shudders and bucks, roaring through his orgasm, the modulator translating the sound with an almost musical edge.

When he’s done he sags partially on top of you, his belly resting on your hips while his arms keep his chestplate from digging into your back. His cock is keeping you plugged, a thick presence that makes you feel stretched even when it’s going soft. One of his hands is still resting over your eyes, but all the tension has gone out of it. You wonder if he’d feel the flicker of your eyelashes against his glove if your lids accidentally parted. You keep them closed.

He hums, fingertips running softly up your back. You wonder if he’s looking down, admiring your bare skin once again. Your entire body is thrumming, the satisfaction spreading to every muscle fiber. You know things will feel awkward soon, but for now you really don’t want to move.

Eventually Mando pulls himself gently out of you. A spurt of warm liquid follows, running thickly down your leg. Fuck, how backed up was he?

“Don’t move,” he warns, lifting his body up off of yours.

You give him a contented little murmur and stay perfectly relaxed. “Eyes still shut,” you reassure him. You’re not even annoyed at the lack of trust these constant reminders might convey. This is something he has to control strictly. Certainly it’s a great privilege that he even took the risk with you. You listen to his footsteps retreat and return, as you lay draped over the cargo crate and enjoy the bliss that is only just beginning to fade.

“You can open them now,” he says softly once he’s standing over you again. One hand slides over your ass, pausing at a spot that feels surprisingly sensitive. “I’ve given you a welt or two here.”

“Souvenir,” you grin up at him, twisting your spine while keeping your hips relaxed under his hand. “Thanks.”

Mando nods his helmet back at you. He’s got a cloth in his other hand, dampened from the fresher, and he wipes up the mess he’s left between your legs with careful, steady dabs. “I should be the one thanking you,” he says softly, maybe even a little awkwardly. “That was…”

“Overdue?” you quip, as he’s wiping all the way down to your ankle to clean up the enormous load he had for you.

“Maybe just a little.” He steps away to trade the towel for a thin, precisely-folded blanket, which he shakes out and spreads over you. You stand up in his arms as he does, guiding him to wrap it around your shoulders. You hold it tight and lean in toward him for a snug embrace. The blanket makes pressing your bare body against his armored plating much more comfortable. “Come here,” he mutters, and draws you to sit on the floor with him, leaning up against the cargo crate and each other. Even the afterglow of wild sex with the Mandalorian doesn’t make his spare ship any less uncomfortable, but you focus on the way his arm holds you tucked in tight against his body, the way you can feel him breathing against your ribs.

“That was good,” you breathe.

“Yeah.”

You lean your head tentatively against his shoulder, wondering how much intimacy he’s going to allow now. His arm shifts, helping you get more comfortable, and his thumb is dragging back and forth, idly, along the top of your thigh.

There’s one question you have to ask.

“Would you really have had to kill me, if I looked?”

He holds his breath for a moment, then lets it blow out with a soft glottal sound. “Most Mandalorians would. But honestly? To me, that wouldn’t have made a difference. Even if you didn’t live to tell the tale, my honor would still be smirched. I’d know I’d failed a central tenet, and from every day after I’d be living a lie.”

Your brow creases, and you turn to look up at him even though you can’t read his face. That was kriffing serious. “So it’s not just about the helmet.”

His beskar mask nods. “Not the way I was raised.”

You turn your gaze away, idly looking across the cargo bay. “Wow.” You’d never seen him not covered head to toe, and you never would.

“But I think…” he trails off as his hands burrow under your blanket, coming around to meet each other in front of your belly and fumbling with something. “I think this is acceptable.” His hand finds one of yours, and air rushes into your chest in a silent, measured gasp as you realize the fingers winding between yours are his, warm skin, completely bared to the wrist.

You sit together in silence for a long time, feeling the twin pulses of living palms pressed together, the small twitches of muscle and the sparkle of nerve endings when a finger softly strokes across the back of a hand. The more you imagine how much this must mean to him, the more it means to you, until your head is spinning and you can barely handle the intimacy of the kind of touch you’ve always taken simply for granted.

You’re afraid to ask what this means. This whole encounter was so unplanned; you don’t even know what you want from the Mandalorian, much less what he wants from you. Is he doing this just because of the afterglow rush of soft hormones, or does he think you and he could be something more?

And when you feel awkward, you talk. People skills, remember? You squeeze his hand and restart an old conversation. “Told you we make a good team.”

He grunts.

Maybe you should just shut up and enjoy the cuddle. But his non-answer does not help your racing mind to still. The urge to tease him starts taking over again. “You know, we’re still not done negotiating that split.”

Mando groans softly. “The only split I want to think about is how far I can split open your legs.”

A new thrill runs up your spine, but you stay on track with only a small giggle escaping your throat. “How about we round it back up to sixty percent for me, and as soon as that big dick can get hard again, I’ll throw on a blindfold and give you the best head you ever had in your life.”

Mando’s fingers card through yours, and his other hand comes up to play with your hair. “Tempting.” There’s a rumble deep in his throat that makes your aching cunt tighten. “But let’s just call it 50-50, and we can fuck all the way to Nevarro.”

Part Two here

My Mando Smut Masterlist

Taglist: @mabelleen @lokiaddicted @aethersghoulette @nolivingthingdroid @pinkmoontribe-blog @baar-ur @otherthingsinhead @biolo-tea @greendragonzz @aesikupills @of-narwhals-and-ink @doubtedbus409 @kittyatemytaco @wish-i-was-a-mermaid @space-princesssss @okilover02 @debonaire-princess @myfruitgummies @pinstripeninja13 @taman-a @mandowhoreian @cptnbvcks @funmadnessandbadassvikings @soapjay @otherthingsinhead @onebatch--twobatch @lilwickedred @mabelleen @stardancerluv @naiomiwinchester @equalstrashflavoredtrash @laketaj24 @themaskismyface @pascallorian @shadowfoxey @thatkidofwarandpeace @pokeasleepingsmaug @anniemar

#the mandalorian #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x you #din djarin x reader #mandalorian smut #the split fic #Mando smut

4K notes · View notes

jaceyneedsabetterusername · 5 years ago

Text

Firsts and Lasts

Pairings: Finn Shelby x Reader

Warnings: Prostitution (but no actual smut), talk of abuse

Summary: You grew up with Finn Shelby but after moving and losing contact with him, you find yourself in a desperate position to survive.

A/N: I looked it up and Finn’s 21 and I’m trying to make the reader over 18 as well so please don’t come for me about underage stuff. I did say that she started working at 17 but that’s just cause realistically I can see that happening in this situation but there’s no actual depictions of underage stuff.

A/N 2: It felt weird to write Linda as being excited about prostitution but this is set in season 4 episode... 3? (I think). Anyways, Linda is like canonically excited about it so yeah. Hope it's not too OOC the way I wrote it. I tried making her too exciting and bubbly about it cause I'd imagine she doesn't know how to act? Whatever, I'll shut up now 😂

___________________________________

This room, your clothes, everything about this life you lived, you hated. This room that you sat in, decorated with lavish, indulgent red and purple fabrics, reminded you of the disgusting, lustful men that consumed your time and body. The dress you wore was cut provocatively short and the sleeve was torn from that disgusting drunk last night. Your eyeliner had run down your cheeks from the tears of the early morning.

In all honesty, you weren’t sure why you even cried anymore. It had been like this since you were seventeen and Paul, the man who ran the brothel you worked in, had found you desperate for money and taken advantage of it, manipulating you into prostitution. His abuse quickly became apparent but you knew you didn’t have the means to make it on your own yet so you’d agonizingly decided to stick with it until you had enough money to get as far away from the streets as possible.

“You’ve got yourself a job, Y/N.” Paul announced when he walked into the room you were sitting in. Your eyes shot up, the nerves that always started bubbling in your stomach when you were called on beginning to act up.

“Who is it?” You asked, standing as Paul walked towards you. The man may have looked respectable enough but it wasn’t hard to see past that slick exterior to the perverted, greedy man beneath. He was a pimp after all and as much as he would like to believe people saw him as a legitimate business man, everyone in town saw him as nothing more.

He began to fidget with your hair that hung in loose messy curls around your face, most of them having fallen since curling them last night. Last night was Friday. That was the brothel’s busiest day of the week. “Don’t know exactly but it was a Shelby boy who called. Don’t know which. But he asked for the best of the best and that’s you today, love.”

What a compliment. The best of the best today. Not that being the best of the best when you’re a prostitute was really a compliment anyways. As he ran a hand down your face, you tried your hardest not to flinch away from his touch, feeling nothing but his filth on your skin. When he’d first picked you up and hired you, you’d fallen for this trap before. This false gentle exterior. But you flinched when he’d gotten a little too close for comfort and before you knew it, his open palm blew across your face. You learned quickly.

Suddenly, his hand moved from your face to twist your hair around his fist and yanked your head back. You gritted your teeth through the pain and tried to maintain eye contact with him as he spat, “Now, girl, these is the Shelby boys. You treat ‘em good. You treat ‘em right. You don’t say no to anything. If I hear anything went wrong, you’ll be gettin’ the drunks tonight, ya hear?”

Trying your best not to step out of place, you nodded silently, even though all you wanted was shoot daggers through the man. You knew better than to step out of place, at least in this position.

“What was that?” He questioned, pulling harder on your hair.

“Yes sir.” You managed through grit teeth.

Finally, Paul’s grip on your hair loosened and he threw a piece of paper at you. You caught it clumsily and unravelled it, seeing an address written there. “Be there at noon, go through the back. And for the love of God, make yourself look presentable.” Paul sneered at you in disgust before walking out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

Shit, the Shelby’s. This would be humiliating. You’d lived a few houses down from them for years and had even played with Finn growing up, him being the same age as you. The older brothers shipped out about the same time as your father. Over that time, your mother wasn’t able to afford the house anymore so you had to move and hadn’t seen any of the Shelby’s since. Maybe, if you were lucky, they wouldn’t remember you.

You glanced at the ornate clock that hung on the wall, the one that Paul bought to try to impress clients. It was 11:20 already and you knew that the address you had to go to, Shelby Company Ltd., was a twenty minute walk. That gave you twenty minutes to try to look presentable.

Making your way to the back room that was full of beds that all the other girls who worked in the brothel slept in, you sat on the sad excuse you called a bed and pulled a mirror from the small trunk under it. Your H/C hair stuck up in an unruly ghost of what was yesterday’s curls. Your makeup was smudged and barely there where it needed to be. Your lipstick had rubbed off to be just a faint tint on your lips, which maybe was better than it being fresh. It made less of a mess this way. You’d noticed you were still in the same clothes as last night, having worked into the early hours. The shoulder was ripped too. Things definitely needed to be changed.

Quickly, you fixed up your makeup and hair and changed into a different dress, no less provocative but much more intact. By 11:40, you were on your way to Shelby Company Ltd. and at noon sharp, you were knocking on the back door.

While you waited for the door to be answered, you silently wondered which of the Shelby boys had called for some company, for lack of a better word. You had a feeling it wasn’t Tommy. He didn’t frequent the whore-houses much anymore. Arthur and John were married but, honestly, you wouldn’t put it past either of them to seek out companionship elsewhere. Your heart raced with anxiety, not looking forward to having any form of sexual relation with any of the Shelby boys that you’d grown up with, especially since they were so much older. God, you prayed they wouldn’t remember you.

Suddenly, the door swung open to reveal a blonde woman you didn’t recognize, a big giddy smile on her face, “You’re here! Oh my gosh!” She squealed excitedly.

A woman? This would definitely be the first woman that had ever requested your services but money was money. But as she reached down, pulling you excitedly into the building, you noticed the gold cross hanging from her neck and immediately doubted your initial assumption but you could be wrong.

“Oh! Um, hello Miss…. Shelby?” You guessed.

She shrugged, “Please, call me Linda. Now you’re sort of a surprise for our boy Finn, here. He’s a virgin so be nice though.” She whispered the last part with a smile, leading you through the mostly empty building.

Oh my God, you thought. It was Finn. You were supposed to do things with Finn, the boy you played with as children. Please, you prayed, don’t let him recognize me.

“She’s here!” Linda squealed into a room, pulling you along before you could even see who she was speaking to.

“Oh shut up, Linda, before the poor boy hears you!” Another woman responded, her voice sounding vaguely familiar.

You found yourself led to an open office where a man stood with his back to you. Linda knocked on the door and then ran off, leaving you standing there nervous and confused. The man turned around and immediately, you knew it wasn’t Tommy, John, or Arthur. This had to be Finn but he wasn’t the little boy you grew up down the street from.

This Finn was tall now and his hair was cut in the trademark Peaky Blinder style, shaved close on the sides and longer on top. His skin was only slightly more freckled than you remembered from all those years ago. And even through this strange stoic attitude he now had, something you’d imagined was also learned through years of being raised by his brothers, you still saw an insecure boy in his eyes.

“Mr. Shelby?” You began, cautiously but still trying to sound seductive. This was always how you began house calls like this, with a ‘Mr.’ in front. Some men got angry when addressed by their first names by a “low-life whore” as you’d learned the hard way.

The man looked at you curiously, studying you in a way that most men didn’t. He wasn’t imagining you naked or trying to figure out the fastest way to get down to business. Judging by the way his brows furrowed slightly, he almost looked like he was trying to figure out who you were. “Yeah. Who are you? Did you have an appointment with Thomas?” He asked, hands in his pockets. He looked so official like this.

Show time. You walked towards his desk, running your fingers gingerly along the chair as you made your way to him, “No… no… I actually would like to meet with you.” Your voice was sweet but thick, sexy eyes in full effect.

Finn watched in a daze, his eyes following every sway of your hips, as you made your way around the desk and closer towards him. “What’re you doing?” He asked with no real momentum behind the question, totally trapped in your trance.

You came up behind him, running your hands along his shoulders and down his biceps, “I’m just admiring the handsome powerful man in front of me.” You purred into his ear. His body shuddered slightly under your touch. As long as you could keep him under this spell, you were sure you could get in and out of here quickly and smoothly.

Finn stiffened just slightly, “Wait, did Tommy send you? Are you a prostitute?” He looked over his shoulder at you and you could see the trance beginning to break. You could tell he was uncomfortable by this idea.

“Oh, Mr. Shelby, don’t you worry. I’m just here to make you feel good. We won’t do anything you don’t want.” You snaked around to the front of his body, your breasts rubbing against his chest as you leaned up on your toes to whisper in his ear, “But we can do whatever you do want.” You leaned back biting your lip to find him with his eyes closed, leaning in to your every word.

Slowly, you slid your hands down his chest and towards his pants, not going to undo them just yet but beginning to rub your hand skilledly over his growing bulge. His breathing hitched at the contact and you decided to start biting gently on his neck. A small breathy moan fell from his lips.

Deciding he was ready, you pulled back and bit your lip, looking up at him through your lashes, “Any preference on how we do this?” You asked, keeping your smile and overall demeanor a little sweeter than you usually would. He was a virgin, after all. Be nice, Linda had said. Your fingers danced on his chest, choosing to tease him slightly.

But before he answered your question, he looked into your eyes and a look of sudden realization washed over his face. He grabbed your wrist and pulled it away from his chest. At first, you panicked, thinking you were about to get hit. It wouldn’t be the first time. Instead, though, he looked almost hurt, “Y/N L/N?” He asked, his entire demeanor shifting. “Is that you?”

Your eyes widened and you were sure you looked like a deer caught in headlights. “No?” You tried your hardest to lie but the panic rising in your throat made the word come out more as a question.

Finn let your wrist go when he saw your eyes flicker over to where his hand gripped your arm. “What’re you doing?” He asked, unable to comprehend that his childhood best friend could possibly be in this line of work.

You didn’t know how to respond to the question. “I have to.” Your voice cracked when you spoke. Gosh, you hated how weak you sounded but there had been few times in your life when you’d felt this humiliated. You swore up and down since you started this at seventeen that you were only doing what was necessary to survive but you’d never had to face someone you actually knew while doing it.

“No, no you don’t. Not if you don’t want to.” Finn insisted, looking down at you with worry filled eyes.

You gave a sad laugh, looking away, “I do, though, Finn. But look, I’m not here looking for sympathy. I think those women out there called me to give you a good first lay. We can do this still if you want.” You straightened up, putting back on a sterner voice that you were sure wasn’t going to betray you.

Finn shook his head, “I don’t want this. Not like this.”

You nodded with pursed lips, secretly grateful that he didn’t want to continue. You weren’t sure if you could with him. “Alright then, I’ll be leaving. But, um, if you don’t mind… I know it’s lying but would you mind pretending like we did something. Anything, I don’t care what you say. I just need my employer to think that you were… satisfied.”

Finn looked at you with sad confusion, “Wait!” He reached for you, when you went to leave, stopping you, “Wait, no, just, just wait a second.” You allowed him to pull you back into the room and push you gently to sit on the desk. His hands rested on your shoulders, his big brown eyes looking sincerely into yours. “What happened?”

He knew the question was open but he wanted to know it all. You and he were best friends as children who did everything together. You were close with the Shelby family and were pretty much on track to join the company when you got older. But then you just disappeared one day without an explanation.

You sighed, all the memories from the past that you tried to suppress coming back with a force, “Well, y’know that my dad got drafted about a year before your brothers. My mum couldn’t afford to keep the house after two years so we had to move. I didn’t know why we were moving back then and I didn’t even know we were leaving until the night before we did so I couldn't tell you. But we did. We moved to the far eastside of Birmingham.”

Your voice began to crack, the part you tried your hardest to keep buried coming to light, “We got a letter saying that my dad was killed in the trenches right after we moved. Then my mum died of the Spanish Flu right after. I think I was about eleven. The police forced me into an orphanage but the older kids never got adopted so they ushered me out when I turned seventeen. I didn’t really have anywhere to go, no money, no home. I didn’t know anybody. And then this man Paul came up and told me he could help.”

You didn’t need to elaborate any further for Finn to understand. “I’m sorry.” He said, unable to think of what else to say, “If we would’ve known, I’m sure we would’ve helped.”

You shook your head, standing again, “Thank you but I don’t need your sympathy or pity. I didn’t come here for that. I’m fine.”

“Are you though? Cause it doesn’t look like it! You’ve been doing this for, what? Two, three years? Are you happy?” He asked.

You scoffed, whatever pride you had left threatened by him. “I’m fine.” You repeated.

Finn groaned, “That’s not what I asked. Are you happy? Do you like your life?”

“No! Is that what you wanted? No! Of course, I’m not happy being treated like a fucking sex slave and forced to the will of whatever man makes a deal with Paul! But if this is what I have to do to survive, then I’ll fucking do it!” You were pointing harshly at him, using anger to mask every other unpleasant emotion.

“What if you didn’t have to do it anymore?” Finn suggested quietly, looking seriously at you.

You rolled your eyes, “I don’t need your money, Finn.”

“I don’t mean that. I mean a job. What if I could get you a real job here at Shelby Company Limited?” You scanned his face for any hint of a cruel joke but he looked at you with nothing but concerned sincerity.

Could this be it? That opportunity that got you out of the sheets of violent drunks and into a real job? But just as that glimmer of hope began to shine, it faded away with the thoughts of reality, “I can’t. Paul… he’s beat girls for trying to leave before.”

“He won’t touch you. You’ll be running with the Blinders. If he tries anything, we’ll fucking kill him.” Finn was serious, his eyebrows raised.

He was right, you realized. If Paul found out that you were working with the Peaky Blinders, he’d never touch you. You could finally be safe from him. You looked up at Finn with tearfully grateful eyes and hugged him tightly, “Thank you, Finn.”

Finn was taken off guard by your sudden affection, especially since you were yelling at him just moments prior, but relaxed and hugged you back, holding your body against his. Honestly, he knew he had no actual right to hire you or send out a hit on Paul without Tommy’s permission but that was beside the point right now. He’d find a way to keep you safe.

#finn shelby #finn shelby imagine #finn shelby x reader #finn shelby fanfic #Peaky Blinders #peaky blinders fanfiction #peaky blinders smut #peaky blinder imagine #peaky blinder headcanon

318 notes · View notes

randomguywithwords · 5 years ago

Text

Thanks For The Assist Chapter 1 (Itsuka X Neito)

26/5/20 Update: Posted on AO3 with the proper edits (I hope I got them all). https://archiveofourown.org/works/24384310/chapters/58814230 . Enjoy!

––––––

The stage meant something to Neito Monoma. It was a platform for performance, for showmanship, for bedazzling and leaving your audience awestruck. But it was also a place to wear a mask, or several. The character on the stage is not the same as the actor leaving it, no matter how dedicated they are to the role.

And as a famous playwright said, “All the world’s a stage, and the men and women merely players.”

As he walked to the test ground, he surveyed the crowd. A large ensemble cast present, all doing their own thing. Some were concentrating in silence, some looked as though they were about to breakdown (stage fright, he smirked), and others were engaged in excited conversation.

He wondered how many of those faces were masks. Perhaps the nervous-looking ones were simply trying to let their competitors’ guards down so they could upstage them in the midst of the exam. The ones chatting – he saw their masks just fine. It could not have been more plainer. All of them were thinking the same thing, Will I beat you?

Exams were like that. A cutthroat competition, and he played along. He wouldn’t be able to do anything first but watch the rest use their quirks.

His lips widened into a grin as he overheard a conversation behind him. Some side character talking about his quirk. “I can launch any object I pick up at high velocity! This test’s gonna be easy dude!”

Spinning around with invigorated interest, he gave a light slap on the guy’s back and smiled. “Dude, that’s an awesome quirk! You just gotta throw it?”

The student looked startled at first, but quickly put on his cordial mask. “Yeah!”

“Wow, I’d wish you good luck, but I don’t think you’d need it!” Monoma stroked that student’s ego, eliciting a prideful look from him. Neito could practically see the plot device’s chest inflate twice as large.

Then, as he bent down to pick up a couple of stones, he heard the buzzing of the horn. Then it was a race, as the crowd of students poured through the gates like the bulls at Pamplona, leaving Monoma behind with the slower lot.

He’d have to work out if he got in.

Dashing into an alleyway, away from the rabble, he grinned as he encountered a 3-pointer. Feeling his stolen quirk activating, his fingertips ignited with a warm feeling as the stone in his hands grew warmer with kinetic energy. With a yell, he threw his pebble straight at the robot point-blank.

And watched in a mix of horror and embarrassment as the pebble sailed just past its head, disappearing into the sky.

He had to throw another one to take it down in a shower of sparks.

“My accuracy needs work too, apparently.” He sighed as he moved on. He had around 4 minutes left on that quirk, and with luck, he could net a decent amount of points before he had to take someone else’s.

The next few minutes he spent chucking random objects at whatever robots he could find, whether they were stones or pieces of metal from the robot corpses.

As he sniped one from 20 metres away in a stroke of luck, the person who had been attacking that robot turned back to glare at him with venom. He shrugged it off. Part of the game, pal.

He heard that person shout, “Don’t steal my points, asshole!” but he was already moving on to the next.

Not very hero-like, buddy, he quipped, but didn’t say it. Then he growled in annoyance as he realised his time was running out. 10 seconds, tops.

With a last throw, the quirk ran out of time. Damn, I need another person –

And a Deus Ex Machina appeared in the form of a figure slamming a robot on the ground beside him – a figure with abnormally large hands and long orange hair tied into a ponytail. Ah, thanks.

“Sorry about this.” Neito felt awkward touching a girl, but in the heat of battle, he hoped she wouldn’t mind. He tapped her left hand (it wasn’t hard), and dashed off before she could reply.

Enlarging both his hands, he raked aside an oncoming 1-pointer and slammed another into the ground like a pancake.

Damn, this is weird to control. It’s not that much heavier, but swinging it gives too much momentum.

Could he shrink his hands down? He didn’t dare try it, for fear he couldn’t enlarge them again.

“Watch out!” He turned to see a 2-pointer barrelling towards him get punched into a building by that girl, spraying dust eveywhere.

“Thanks,” Monoma said, Point-stealer. I would’ve gotten it anyway. Gritting his teeth, he charged into another onslaught of robots. He wouldn’t lose to that side character. He was going to pass this test.

He spent the remaining time wielding his hands as weaponry before switching to another quirk, some fireball quirk. And then one that threw porcupine quills.

By the end of the exam marked by the horn, he collapsed onto the ground in exhaustion. His arms were sore, his hands were even worse, having to adapt (which was partially unsuccessful, he might add) to the quirks he’d taken. His hands were singed slightly from wielding fire, bruised from punching robots and bleeding slightly from where the quills were shot out. Not to mention the first quirk he had taken that made his arms ache.

Gratefully, he took the candy that some of the robot helpers were offering – they claimed it would help with their injuries. He watched some of the other students eat it first before munching down on his. Could be some sedative or poison.

He sighed, chuckling to himself at his overdramatisation, but it faded as he spotted a glare from the corner of his eye.

It was that person that he took the two points from. Pretending he hadn’t noticed, he closed his eyes and leaned against the wall to rest.

After waiting for a minute or two, the loudspeaker blasted Present Mic’s voice, telling them that they could leave the exam venue.

Getting to his feet, Monoma shuffled out alongside the many other tired ones, stifling a yawn. He prayed he did enough. He had lost count of his points midway through.

He was nearing the train station, trailing through a parkway when he saw a couple of familiar faces in a reflection off a dustbin. Shit, it’s those guys.

They were following him. His eyes flickered to the sides. No one, huh? That’s convenient for them. I just gotta make it to the station.

But those behind him knew it too. The footsteps sprang into a sprint as a hand latched onto him and dragged him to a stop.

“What?” Neito scowled as he faced Fireball and Guy-Who-He-Took-Points-From, and a couple more.

“We were talking, apparently you took our quirks and stole some of out points. We wanna settle the score.”

“How barbaric.” Neito said with a bored tone, incensing them into expressions of rage. I touched that guy, what’s his quirk? I don’t recognise him.

He noticed that a few of them were wearing the same uniform. Presumably they were Fireball’s goons. Classic.

“Get him.” Fireball’s orders sent the two goons to grab Neito’s arms.

Fuck, should I just use whatever quirk he has?

“Hey!” A feminine voice rang out, drawing the attention of all of them to it behind them. Monoma’s eyes widened in realisation as he placed her as that girl with big hands. “Get off him!”

“Get out of here, girl. This doesn’t concern you.” GWHTPF (Monoma abbreviated it) gave a dismissive wave.

“I already took a picture of you lot. I’ll send it to U.A if you guys don’t leave him alone now.” She held her phone up to signify her threat.

The colour drained from their faces as they quickly backed off. “Alright, alright,” Fireball said, chuckling with laced worry. “Just delete that picture, and we’ll call it even.”

The girl did a couple of taps and showed a blank photo library to them. “Done, now get out.”

They might not keep up their end of the deal, Monoma thought. Jerks like them never do.

But to his bewilderment, they actually stalked off with constricted fury in the opposite direction (all this walking just to beat me up? Neito scoffed internally), leaving just the girl and him, who helped him up.

“Thanks,” Monoma said truthfully. “I assume you have a score to settle with me as well?”

The girl frowned. “No? Why would I?”

“Those guys were pissed I stole points and their quirks during the exam.”

“I see, so that’s your quirk? You take other people’s quirks?” She pocketed her phone. Before he could respond, she followed up, “Are you heading to the station too?”

“Yeah.” The two continued down the path. “To both questions, but I don’t take them. I just borrow them for a short while.”

“I see.” She pouted. “I thought I met someone with a similar quirk to mine. I’m slightly disappointed.”

Neito chuckled. “Sorry to disappoint. My name’s Neito Monoma, by the way.”

“Itsuka Kendo.” She gave a smile, and Neito was confused to see that it wasn’t a mask. Was she always this friendly to strangers?

“So you took some of their points?” Itsuka’s question sounded more like an interrogation.

“Well, y’know, it’s part of the exam.” He shrugged. “I’m desperate.”

“Fair enough, I suppose,” She said. Neito studied her expression. She looked like she had something to say, but didn’t.

“Your quirk was the hardest to get used to, though. I have no clue how you do it,” Neito said, changing the subject.

Itsuka rubbed her head bashfully. “Yeah, it took me a while to learn how to use it well. Hope you enjoyed the trial run.”

“Does that mean there’s a subscription?” Neito joked.

“Well, if we both pass the exam and become classmates, it could be,” Itsuka replied with a cheeky smile, just as they reached the station.

“Fingers crossed. Good luck then. I hope you pass.” Neito said. “I’m, uh, going this way.” He jerked a finger behind him.

“Ah, ok then, I’m going on the opposite line. Good luck to you too, Monoma!” Itsuka gave a last wave as her train arrived. Then she boarded it, leaving Monoma on his side of the platform, and with the realisation that he meant what he had said.

Fingers crossed.

––––––

Ĭ am way too tired to edit this, so I apologise for any grammar or spelling errors. It’s 2am and I’m gonna go sleep. But I wrote this to get rid of my writer’s block, and honestly I really like this and it might become a full story. I’ll do some more planning and see how this turns out.

Really like this ship, originally I was hoping for some Monoma X Kodai (but I just really like Kodai’s character). Maybe ItsuYui? Dunno. I’ve never tried writing an FxF full story. I’m nervous writing from a female perspective, since, you know, I’m a guy. So, idk.

Hope you guys liked this piece. I’d appreciate it if you had any feedback.

#bnha #mha #my hero academia #boku no hero academia #bnha fanfiction #bnha fanfic #mha fanfic #mha fanfiction #itsuka kendo #bnha itsuka #monoma x kendo #monokendou #monoma #neitomonoma #mha neito #bnha neito #mha itsuka #neito monoma #bnha shipfic

6 notes · View notes

balls-y · 7 years ago

Text

74 : “Are You Challenging Me?” for Jeankasa

words: 1588 (goddang)

AN: @it-sucks-to-be-jean This took me so long; I’m so ashamed. Mostly cuz them two bitches named School and Procrastination. But without further ado, here is your request!

Jean hadn’t slept well since he woke up one night to Bertholdt's screaming.

It wasn’t uncommon; some trainees wet their pants, some cried in their sleep, and some, like Bertholdt, screamed. But that certain wail frightened Jean so, he couldn’t close his eyes for fear he’d wake screaming too.

He didn’t wake screaming; he woke mad.

“Kirschtein, are you skipping training again! That’s five laps for you, cadet!”

Jean sprung from the breakfast table, his wooden chair toppling over from the momentum. His heart pounded in his ears, the only feeling he could perceive as he briskly pounded his chest in a salute.

“Sir!” He was so lingering on the divide of consciousness and unconsciousness that his feet took him away from the table and toward the door for his punishment. But the voice echoing in his head was feminine and had no hint of the power that came with authority.

He whipped around to see who had made him a fool, flustered with anger and embarrassment. “The fuck- Mikasa!”

He was about to open his mouth and spill his aching heart and just why he was slumped at the breakfast table when the oriental girl plopped down on the edge and smirked, silencing him.

“Did you have nice dreams?” She rose an eyebrow, her black hair sticking to her cheeks, her face flushed with the heat of outside. He had skipped training after breakfast to take a nap at the breakfast table. Obviously he’d been punked.

“Yes, “ Jean growled, crossing the floorboards to where she sat, looking damn innocent. “Until you shattered my ear drums.”

He folded his arms over his chest, trying his hardest to look stoic despite the prior events and the fluctuation of his voice. He paused, even though his mind was running with the lingering effects of adrenaline, to take a few calming breaths. What a show it would be to spaz on the woman he harbored feelings for.

“Mikasa,” he started after a few moments of him squinting at her, “Why are you here?”

Her hand rose up to fiddle with the dark strands of hair in her eyes. She dropped her arm to her lap before answering after a few moments. “There was no one to spar. I beat everyone willing to duel against me.”

“You beat everyone willing to duel against you.” Jean repeated slowly, not surprised; he’d seen the way she’d thrown Reiner the day before. No doubt she could throw everyone else the same way. He massaged his forehead, the imprinted remnants of his interrupted nap. His heart had slowed to a normal pace, but his thinking was hardly clear.

“Wow - even me?” he offered, barely serious, barely aware.

She lifted her eyes to his, unblinking. She swiped at the hair clinging to her face as she said, slightly playfully, “Even you? Is that a challenge, Jean?”

“Wha- ?” His eyebrows rose in bewilderment as he registered what she’d said. Then he scowled. “Mikasa, you know I can’t- Mikasa, no.”

She slid off the table and walked toward him. “I wouldn’t mind dueling against you, Jean.” Her eyes flashed like fireflies as she stopped in front of him. “Unless you’re scared, of course.”

Jean looked down at her, arms still crossed over his chest. Scoffing, he said, “Naturally, I’m frightened, taking into account what you can do to people.” He leaned in to her, his breath across her nose. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not willing.”

“Then consider it a duel.” One hand was on her hip, the other prodding his chest. She looked like a child. Her eyes narrowed challengingly, dangerously, and he knew he’d made a mistake.

Jean grinned uneasily, stepping back from her as he shrugged off his training jacket. He needed to be light as possible and have every advantage he could muster. This girl was no joke. She could injure him beyond repair if he wasn’t careful. He lifted his fists into a simple boxing stance - the only real fighting stance he knew.

The way Mikasa fought was unnerving. She had no stance and made no prior adjustments. She stood a few meters away from him with her whole body relaxed. He felt like tapping out already.

He knew she was waiting for him to strike first, and this worried him. He didn’t know if he could trust himself to be in full control of his body. But this was Mikasa. Mikasa Ackerman, he reminded himself. Anything he did would mean nothing anyway, so he swallowed his fear and pride and decided to just go with all he had.

He took a strong step forward and hooked the inside of his right elbow toward her, his left hand flying up in unison to rise up under her left shoulder. He could see it in his head: his right hand grabbing his left wrist behind her head; his right foot kicking up her legs as he fell on top of her in headlock. It was a movement he’d seen Annie perform on Eren. It was potentially ravaging - for both parties.

It could work! he thought wildly as he moved.

The image of success quickly shattered in Jean’s mind as Mikasa’s rough hands latched on to his and yanked him forward. He was caught off balance, and his feet scrambled beneath him to find strength to resist her. But he was ignorant to assume that an experienced fighter, such as Mikasa, wouldn’t use their entire body to secure a win. Her knee connected with his gut, his breath catching and head hanging with the impact and sudden pain. He gagged, but still willfully tried to gain a balance between their two bodies using the best of his abilities.

Because one of her legs no longer was touching the floor, he could easily knock her off center if he acted swiftly. He swept the leg opposite to the one in his stomach and moved to latch it behind Mikasa’s sole stationary ankle.

But Jean was sluggish, partly because he had never fought so seriously and partly because he’d been gasping for air. Her leg had come down from his chest to secure her balance and her hands had twisted his forearms in the time it took for Jean attempt an attack at her ankle.

Mikasa’s foot rose between them in the space between heartbeats and the heel of her booted foot connected with his stomach. A thought that he’d have to remove a kidney after this flashed through his brain - though, uneducated on his part, the kidneys were behind the stomach. He coughed and gasped for the second time that day, metal in his throat.

“Damn, Mikasa,” said his ragged voice.

Her leg dropped back to the floorboards with a light thud, and he was left there, drooping his head between his pinned arms. He knew he should think of a counterattack, but seeing as how his others had gone, his nerve was quenched.

Jean’s hands had been free - for a split second - and then they were banging against the floor. She had let go of his hands and then lunged for him, her right arm pressing against his throat as she pinned him to the ground. Her other hand pressed his shoulder to the wooden floor, keeping him below her.

He groaned in pain: His hands ached, his ribs ached, his pelvis ached. “Agh,” he gasped out. He took a few deep breaths to strengthen his will to carry on grappling with her. He wondered if she would even allow him to tap out. Jean thought he could feel her smirk - he knew she would be based on the chain of events. He clenched his teeth and squeezed his eyes. Here goes my last resort. Then he gathered all his might into his upper body to resist the arm against his throat as he swung his head straight toward hers.

Jean had been hoping he could strike her, or that she’d jump back out of preservation, but rather, she used sheer strength to contain him. There goes my last resort. He slumped down beneath her and groaned, her nails digging into his shoulder.

“Mikasa,” he cleared his throat and spoke through his fractured pride. “I can’t match you.”

She grunted lightly as she lifted herself up off him, he heaving himself into sitting position. He looked up at her and her silver eyes crinkled at the edges, her face soft. She offered him a delicate hand and he grabbed it, his smile complicated as she pulled him up.

“Nice spar,” she commented, a good-natured smile on her lips, her hand still holding his. “You were a tough opponent.”

Jean made an articulate sound in his throat: yeah, right, you liar. “You kicked my ass. I think my ribs are bruised.”

“It was better than running five laps, though, wasn’t it?” She remarked, amusement in her voice.

He stared at her for a moment before saying, “We could run them together.” The proposal heated his cheeks, and he crossed the floor as he said it, retrieving his jacket. His back was to her as he slid it on, her replying softly,

“Perhaps.”

Jean turned around and walked toward her, a grin stretching across his lips and red spreading upon his face. He tugged the hem of her sleeve, tilting his head to the door. “Then come on, Mikasa; we don’t want to be missed.”

As they exited the cabin, his fingers still clutching her sleeve, Jean thought that maybe, maybe, he’d be able to sleep better tonight.

This is so bad goddamn it

#aot #aot fanfiction #jeankasa #jean kirstein #jean kirschstein #mikasa ackerman #my fic #my shit

72 notes · View notes

ivyfics · 7 years ago

Text

Is this a Joke? - (fic)

To the far back of the room, a banner. Up high and lopsided, with big baby-blue sparkling letters that read, “April Fool’s!” Stone cold dread sinks his gut to the floor. “Oh no,”he moans. “No.This can’t be happening.” His legs spring up in shock, bracing his arm against the table. “This cannot be happening.”

Kuroo confesses. Or a least he tries to.

Read on AO3

Pairing:KuroTsuki Rating: T

He’s been quiet since he sat down. Fidgety, too, running his hands through his hair more than usual. He can’t phantom what that mess looks like right now, but his hair isn’t what is on his mind at the moment.

Tsukki is reading quietly beside him, unmoving since Tetsurou gave him a jerky wave and dumped himself in the hard yellow plastic of the chair next to him. The cold air of the library seeps in through the gap between his low socks and the cropped hem of his jeans, meaning he accidentally grabbed one of Bokuto’s tailored ones from the fresh pile of laundry they haven’t sorted instead of one of his own.

That’s fine. Jeans don’t matter today because today, oh-oh , today is the Day. Tetsurou’s bed was witness to one of the worst night of tossing and turning, planning and thinking, going over and over if should or shouldn't; if he can or can’t or ‘maybe it’s a bad idea’ until he gave up on it closing in on four in the morning and said ‘Fuck it’ with a big-ass, capital F.

Tetsurou is just on the right side of sleep deprived to make it work, coming out of a hellish week where three different deadlines piled up, two of which involved working with others. A careful cocktail of energy drinks, coffee, adrenaline, and lack of sleep are running through his veins and making it possible for him to saddle-up and do it. It doesn’t aid his fidgeting, but you win some, you lose some.

Tsukki looks as naturally put-together as he usually does, clad in a navy hoodie and light wash jeans, hair tousled in a that careless way that makes him look soft and inviting. ‘Soft’ and ‘inviting’ are not what he would use to describe the prickly blonde if anyone asked, but the past six months of wearing Tsukki down has given Tetsurou the privilege of finding both of those in their shared space in a quiet library.

That safe mood he finds comfort in is exactly what makes him so nervous—and he’s nervous out of his ass. Blame it on the caffeine or the fact that he’s about to try and ask Tsukki out, but this is the most terrified he’s felt in a while.

In the end, there’s nothing else to do but bite the bullet.

Tetsurou clears his throat, hyping himself up. “So, Tsukki…”

“Are you finally saying whatever it is that you’ve been squirming about? Go ahead.”

Tsukki glances up from his book (he’s so pretty, fuck, what the fuck, especially with how the sunlight from the window halos his hair), but he doesn’t keep his eyes on Tetsurou, something to show he’s listening without the added pressure of eye contact. Sometimes Tsukki is a saint like that.

This is his time. He’s practiced this in front of a mirror a thousand times. He opens his mouth—

But Tsukki glances up again, this time hooking his warm honey eyes on Tetsurou and whatever plan there was evaporates as he rushes out. “I kinda like like you.”

Whelp.

Tetsurou deflates, running out of steam halfway and finishing the terrible, awkward sentence with, “So, do…. uh—you want to do something?”

The quiet around them is deafening. The mood around them falls into a chill that runs up Tetsurou’s spine, giving him the wrong kind of goosebumps.

Tsukki’s eye are the hardest they’ve ever been. “Do you think this is funny?”

Tetsurou wasn’t expecting Tsukki to fall to his feet in joy or whatever but he was expecting at least a positive response. “What?”

Tsukki looks mad. Mad, mad. Actually, genuinely upset as he briskly picks up his belongings around him and starts shoving them in his bag. “You know, out of everyone I expected this from, you were not it. You can be insufferable but I didn’t think you were an asshole.”

“Tsukki?” He reaches out to hold Kei’s elbow when it’s clear he’s walking away from their table, “Hey,where are you—”

Tsukki jerks his arm away from Tetsurou’s grasp and quietly fumes as he leaves.

Tetsurou is lost. He is sure he had read it right, and even in the case he hadn’t, Kei isn’t the type of person to reject someone like that. He’s confused. His eyes roam around, trying to get his bearings and then halting completely.

His world stops when he sees it, spinning out of its axis.

To the far back of the room, a banner. Up high and lopsided, with big baby-blue sparkling letters that read, “April Fool’s!”

Stone cold dread sinks his gut to the floor. “Oh no,” he moans. “No. This can’t be happening.” His legs spring up in shock, bracing his arm against the table. “This cannot be happening.”

Gray metal of the chair clatters against the floor in his haste, gathering the eyes of those around him and one particularly vicious shhh! from the librarian. He stumbles, a little, and sends an apologetic wince her way before righting the chair and gathering his things with shaking hands.

The second he steps foot outside the sacred temple of books, he lets loose every ounce of jittery adrenaline.

Tetsurou sprints. He runs. Runs harder and harder, weaving himself through the crowds of snail-paced pedestrians with seemingly nothing better to do than stand in his way until his lungs hurt and his legs burn.

Curse Tsukki’s perfectly long legs, and his huffy irritated walk that is too cute to come from something Tetsurou did wrong. Those scarce minutes he stood there collecting himself were enough to have Tsukki’s gait carry him beyond Tetsurou’s line of sight. Luckily for him, they’ve walked this way together more than once. More than several times, actually.

It keeps him steady. He did not spend the best part of a month trying to get the courage to do this only to have Tsukki be hurt, or confused. Even for a single day.

Tetsurou knows he’s been insufferable, he knows . He hasn’t been able to stand himself, pining and sighing away for someone who likes him back, too afraid to make the first move. It’s clear to him, a mirror of his own timid affection.

He can read it in every shy look sent his way when he’s too busy pretending he’s not looking back. It’s telegraphed in every bump of their shoulders when Tsukki’s walls are weak and he joins them in being an idiot, laughing at nothing and everything and driving them all crazy with his stupid arguments.

When they fight just to fight because it’s fun .

Tetsurou catches him at the bus stop. He sees a head of blonde hair and a pair of white headphones and he pushes his body forward until momentum makes him almost dive head-first into the lady standing next to Tsukki. It earns him the most judgemental side eye of his life, but it’s worth it when he’s stopped by Tsukki’s hand tangling in his shirt.

He swerves, hitting Tsukki’s side.

“Just what are you doing?”

“You—I—didn’t,” he heaves, and just out of shape is he? He needs to get back to the gym. “I didn’t know the date!” Tetsurou huffs out hard once, and then back in, muttering a fucking April fool’s under his breath. “It’s not a prank. It’s not. I wouldn’t do that.”

He’s met with an eye-roll. “You really expect me to believe that a weird ’ I kinda like you, do you wanna do something ’ is how you ask people out? You are not that awkward. I’ve seen you eloquently argue against bread. ”

Tetsurou sputters, because not only has he argued against bread, Tsukki joined in and helped him , “That’s not the same!”

Arms crossed, Tsukki asks, “How is it different?”

“I don’t want bread to be my boyfriend!”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. I mean—my bad, obviously, but…”

Tsukki looks unsure still. The bus arrives, the breaks loud and startling when both of them have been paying attention to anything but the road. Tetsurou straightens out completely, finally forcing Kei’s hand to leave his shirt. “Pretend it didn’t happen or, or, that it was a trial run or something. I’ll ask again. Better. A lot better.”

After a moment or two, Tsukki nods, and Tetsurou can take a full breath of air again. There’s an awkwardness around them that Tetsurou will take the blame for, but he won’t give up. Tomorrow, he’ll ask out Tsukki in the best way and then they can forget about this whole thing.

Before getting on the bus, Tsukki turns. The corner of his lip is held by his teeth before he takes a deep breath and brings his hands up to remove his human mask, fingers finding the seam that joins his neck piece and face together. His blonde hair comes with it, falling to the floor along with his black frames, now unneeded.

Green, shimmery scales are exposed to the April breeze, glistening from the hard, reflective material they are made of. Tsukki shakes his head to fluff out his scales, making their hue turn from deep sappy green, to golden ochre, to chartreuse, unknowingly giving Tetsurou a boner. His large beady eyes glow yellow in the day, a forked pink tongue coming out to hiss and prod at his own rounded snout, the slits that make up his nostrils flaring.

He’s beautiful.

Tetsurou falls to his knees in awe of the beautiful lizardman that stands before him, unable to gaze at him godly features with his measly human eyes. “Please. End me, you gorgeous, majestic beast,” Tetsurou pleads.

Tsukki nods again, unhinging his jaw and eating Tetsurou whole.

They’re dating now.

Together.

Forever.

#kurotsuki #haikyuu!!#Kuroo Tetsurou #kuroo trying to confess #but like failing at it #april fools #my writing

16 notes · View notes

blame-canada · 7 years ago

Text

At The Start - Creek

Craig and Tweek are young, in love, and not at all prepared for the rest of their lives. The first Walmart trip that inevitably comes on move-in day is only the start.

This was a fic that was originally (somewhat) requested by my dear friend @creekfucker, to whom I apologize for taking so long to finish this! I hope you still like it, months later. The working title for this fic was ‘hi im tweek tweak and he's craig tucker and welcome to jackass’- just a fun fact. Enjoy!

“Okay, you got the list?” Tweek bit at his thumb, pausing a moment to let the automatic doors sense his weight and part for him to enter.

Craig didn’t look away from his phone, but he tilted it up to gesture with it. “Got the list.” He clicked out of the random email he was clearing from his inbox and switched over to the note he and Tweek had carefully written out a few hours before. A rush of air conditioning assaulted his face, and when he looked up he caught an eyeful of fluorescent, painfully unnatural lights.

They’d forgotten more than a couple essentials before they moved into their new apartment.

In their defense, neither of them had done it before. The closest Craig had ever gotten was a dorm room in college, and Tweek had only ever commuted to school. ‘New’ was a very nice way to put it too- it was, in all honesty, a sad excuse for a home, but their budget was low enough that they couldn’t quite afford to be picky. At least this one didn’t have water stains all over the ceiling or a busted up window, and Tweek didn’t feel like the protagonist of a horror movie when he walked through the neighborhood to test the waters.

Who even thought of a shower curtain when they moved out? Nobody, Craig was convinced.

He scrolled through the list quickly, scanning for which sections of the store they had to visit (most of them) before he clicked his phone off and smiled, shaking his head to himself. “It’s a shame,” he said, an open invitation, and Tweek took the bait, looking over his shoulder at him while he dislodged a shopping cart from the messy chain shoved up against the wall.

“Uh, w-what is?”

Craig’s smirk grew even wider, and he said, “That you thought this was going to be a productive shopping trip.”

With that, he hip-checked Tweek away from the cart, hijacked control of the rickety contraption, and surged forward with his hands firmly planted at the ends of the handlebar. Tweek made a strangled noise of distress but Craig had already started to pick up speed, letting his strides match the growing momentum of the cart as it barreled forward into the throes of the store.

“Craig you god dam—Craig, w-what the fu—what are you doing?” Tweek asked, stumbling around swear words so clumsily he may as well have shouted them anyway. He had to hop a little faster than Craig to keep up, and his face was turning cherry red from a combination of nerves, embarrassment, and sudden physical strain.

Craig tried his hardest to keep his straightest face when he replied, “Shopping.”

“You-! You asshole,” Tweek hissed, reaching to grab him by the arm and hook himself onto it, dragging alongside him to get the cart to slow down. “Quit it!”

“Okay,” Craig said with a shrug, and he dramatically lifted both hands from the cart to let it fly forward unmanned. Tweek gasped and jumped ahead to grab it before it careened right into a kiosk full of cheap jewelry nobody ever bought.

Tweek paused, his back to Craig, and for one fleeting moment Craig felt rather certain he was going to die. Tweek looked over his shoulder, and scathed, “Behave.”

“Nah,” Craig replied, and he pointed northwest. “The shower curtains are probably down here.” Tweek grumbled irritated nonsense to himself, but Craig saw the smile he was desperately trying to hide. That meant he wasn’t completely in the dog house yet, which boded well.

Walking through the store with Tweek had a strange feeling attached to it that he couldn’t quite define. They’d gone on trips before, of course, to grab snacks or run an errand for their parents here and there, but it felt different with a brand new key resting in his right pocket. It was a key to a place where Tweek would be beside him every day, and the thought made him so anxious and so excited that the only way that made sense to release that energy at the time was to annoy the fuck out of his boyfriend at Walmart.

“Clear or white?” Tweek asked, effectively slamming the brakes on his daydreaming, and he looked over to see him holding up two nearly identical packages.

“I mean, I don’t mind a show, but if we ever have guests I dunno how they’ll feel about the clear.” Tweek turned red and Craig internally pat himself on the back while he shrugged. Nice.

“This is the liner, Craig, not the actual curtain. No one’s gonna see this part!”

“Oh,” he said. “Who cares, then..?”

Tweek rolled his eyes and tossed the clear one into their cart, replacing the other on its hook. “You’re killing me,” he moaned, stomping his feet a little in a tantrum.

“You love it,” Craig replied, and when Tweek huffed, he accepted it as a victory.

“Can we do food next?” Tweek asked, and when he shrugged in agreement, he smiled and took hold of the end of the cart, steering it toward the food aisles. Sometimes, watching Tweek do nothing at all made Craig feel a certain kind of weird. It was the kind of feeling that made him smile involuntarily, and his hand itch with the desire to take his. He guessed it was love, probably, but like, a lot more of it all at once. It was kind of great. Watching Tweek pull the cart, his back to him, his hair swirled more erratically than most days, Craig felt an awful lot of that feeling. Maybe one day, after living together for a little while, he’d feel more comfortable talking about and expressing it. For now, though, it came out in bouts of ruthless teasing.

“Hey Craig,” Tweek snorted, giggling quietly, “Craig, h-hey—”

“What?”

“Do you think I’d fit in this?” His finger trembled from contained laughter as it pointed to the bottom shelf of a display of what appeared to be dog beds.

“Hmm”—he clicked his tongue—“not without difficulty. You’ll have to take into account the height of the shelf.”

Tweek raised his fist to his mouth, rubbing his knuckles under his nose while he thought. “Yeah, but also the bed will get smaller when I lay on it, assuming it’s as fluffy as it looks. Bet you two thingies of ice cream I can make it work.”

Craig raised his brows, the wager proving steep, but he was feeling confident that it would at least be endlessly amusing to watch him try to shove himself into a shelf. “Deal.”

Tweek rubbed his hands together and paused to let out a few more cackles. Craig looked around quickly, suddenly very aware of where they were because it was different when he was misbehaving. “Come on, go,” he urged, and Tweek rolled his eyes.

“Don’t be so nervous, I’ve seen worse. Actually, remember that video where those guys made like, a-a whole apartment in the toilet paper aisle or something? Man, I’ve always wanted to do that—”

Craig raised his hand, cutting him off. “While your enthusiasm is admirable, we do still have shit to do at the apartment. We resolve the bet, and then we get groceries.”

Tweek whined at him and scowled. “You got to be a little shit earlier,” he grumbled, and he got on his knees to crawl into the shelf. He pressed down on the bed, testing its resistance, and when it gave way easily and created a lot more space between the bed and the next shelf, he looked back at Craig with his eyebrows raised and a shit-eating grin. “I’m making you buy flavors you don’t like,” he said, snickering, and Craig crossed his arms.

“Just do it, Jesus Christ,” he muttered, now nervous about his chances of winning, and Tweek shrugged his shoulders and got into a crawling position.

“Should I like, match the shape and then try to slide in? Tetris it? I think that might work.”

“We’re in a bet. I’m not helping.”

“What if I get s-stuck!”

“Then you lose the bet and I leave here with two extra thingies of ice cream.” Tweek made an ugly snarling sound of irritation, and Craig did his best to contain laughter, though his shoulders still shook a few times. Tweek aligned himself with the bed, put both his left limbs out, and started pushing himself inside.

“I’m gonna do it. Dude, this is the easiest bet I’ve ever won,” Tweek said, and he wiggled around on his stomach to get himself deeper into the shelf and onto the dog bed. His head disappeared, then his shoulder, then his arm, and it wasn’t until he was completely hidden from view that he said, “Yes!” and cheered through the muffling caused by the fluff.

Craig took a moment to stare, note how well Tweek was hiding in the fluffy dog bed abyss, and check their list before he cleared his throat and announced, just loud enough for Tweek’s compromised ears to hear, “Goodbye, Tweek.”

He heard a distorted voice shriek, “What?!” The dog beds started to move and Craig ran around the end of the cart to grab the handle and dash away, looking over his shoulder and watching Tweek’s limbs thrash out from the shelf like some sort of eldritch horror beast. Craig stopped at the end of the aisle just so he could watch him struggle, no longer attempting to hold in his laughter, and Tweek’s flailing limbs slowly eased out of the shelf. He could only guess what sort of expletives he was spewing as he fought to escape from his own prison. As soon as his head was free, he yelled, “Craig!” and Craig ducked around the corner of the aisle, a rush of silly fear striking his chest like a cheap thrill. When he straightened his cart a mom with a drooling baby in the front basket glared at him, and he gave his best mild-mannered smile. Then his boyfriend whipped around the corner.

He was breathing unusually heavily, his hair staticky and reaching impressively well for the ceiling, and his clothes wildly askew. “What the fuck, Craig,” he said, and when the mother shot him an even nastier glare, he rolled his eyes, and said, “Calm down, it’s too young to understand human speech anyway.” She let out a disturbed gasp and hurried away from the aisle, clearly angry. Craig felt very in love with him after that. As soon as she was far enough away and the aisle was empty, Tweek punched Craig’s arm. “You left me there to fend for myself. I coulda been stuck!”

“Yeah, but you weren’t.” Craig bit back the grin he was desperately trying to contain, but it wasn’t working, and he finally just let himself chuckle as he brushed Tweek’s hair down and straightened his shirt.

Tweek swatted at his invasive arms. “You don’t have to groom me, Jesus Christ,” but he smiled anyway, and he didn’t object when Craig slipped a hand down to clasp his at their sides.

“What flavors do you want? I’m a man of my word,” Craig said, and Tweek thought about it, scratching at his chin while he held some thrilling debate in his mind.

“Wanna just get the usual?” he suggested, his smile earnest.

“Didn’t you want to get flavors I don’t like?”

“You like pretty much anything,” Tweek admitted, “a-and I’m feeling particularly generous.”

“Well then.” Craig released his hold on the shopping cart and Tweek’s hand to clap his hands together, and said, “One Cherry Garcia and one Coffee Toffee Bar Crunch it is.”

With the promise of ice cream to load into their new and empty freezer, they rolled to the grocery section of the store with enthusiasm and excitement buzzing on their nerves, because they were finally moving in together, and life was good. After a few more chases down aisles and giggle fits to earn the glares of several old people, they paid an unfortunately steep price at the register, and Craig’s stomach did flips while he thought about the simple but beautiful fact that he was driving home. Their hands met above the center console of his car. Craig twisted the steering wheel left, comforted that in time such a motion would become wonderfully second-nature.

Craig took pictures of Tweek turning the apartment key, and they ate pints of ice cream on their bare kitchen floor.

#i hope u like it <3 <3 #south park #south park fanfiction #craig tucker #tweek tweak #creek #creek sp #sp creek #sp fanfiction #south park fanfic #sp fanfic #my fanfic #fanfiction #my fanfiction #aged up au #domestic au

214 notes · View notes

noctomania · 4 years ago

Text

Were I To Dream Big

If I could accomplish

one

thing in life

I think it would be to make information/knowledge

- like studies, data, etc -

accessible to all no matter status, ability, form, color, interest, identity

but also in terms of accessible as in ...

comprehensible practically a child with a basic understanding of their primary language would grasp.

I'm actually shit at reading.

It took me nearly 30 years to really realize/admit that I am shit at reading.

I have regularly utilized the "simple english" form of wikipedia many times (you can find it in the language options on the side listed as simple english)

I regularly have to look up words, even ones I have used many times before - much to my ...

chagrin <- just had to look that up to make sure i was going to use it right.

It's a combo of things I think. But that's not the point.

The point is,

Everyone should know as much about life and themselves as possible

Everyone should be able to know as much as they can.

It's inhumane to deprave the human mind of the ability to expand more broadly into it's infinity.

I truly believe that the roadblocks to proven knowledge - history for instance - have made a major contribution to the current state of overwhelming ignorance and arrogance.

Of course, other factors have. But in what world would a just society

put fucking important findings behind a paywall. Literally and figuratively.

Listen, I studied education. Yeah I know I just said I can't read and I'm not brilliant or even maybe smart but goddamnit listen

I love knowledge.

I love learning.

I love ever expanding my perspective of the human experience and processing etc.

Our education system is busted.

I want a dream big.

I want to break it all down and start from scratch. We can't keep stuffing 33 kids in a room with a teacher and a T.A. and cross our fingers everyone has the mental stability to make it through yet another year, squeezing em out through the wringer.

It was bad enough when I was in school.

I was rather ignorant in various ways but also could be stubborn and occasionally like to be obstinate. But not often, not much. Not enough in the right ways in my opinion but I really am so weak.

But I cannot fathom how it would feel today to be a student

I salute every student of every type who happens across this post who is powering through

even if you aren't I do not blame you or judge you honey you are just trying to live through this and I am

SO PROUD OF YOU.

- you deserve better

I hate that we operate with a system that makes so many students - from the ones who don't want to learn to the ones that do - resent education. Truth be told I'm not really even convinced there are people who don't want to learn something. It's just the process is so off-putting for so many in so many different ways.

Different parts of learning appeal differently to different people. Why not use that to your advantage rather than see it as something you have to fight? Why fight the current of what is naturally occurring in humans: VARIETY.

A system originally built to be so narrowly accessible and so regimented has been adapted only so far as such a rigid system could yield to. I believe we have hit that breaking point tbh.

What's worse is we have been watching this train derailing for a long time. Before you. Before me. Before our birth parents. Since it began, in fact.

Nobody has ever liked the education system, it's just that we don't all agree on what is the worst part.

IT'S ALL SHITE. SHITE BEGET SHITE.

do you try to reform your shite or do you flush it and clean the damn toilet?

I'm certain I don't know the solution. But I think it would look more fluid. More student centered. More accessible. Less reprehensive. More compassionate. More "I want you to want to learn" Less "I will make you learn".

Let me dream a minute, but I also want you to dream of what you think it could look like. Maybe you have ideas from others I welcome those as well. I know I've not read nearly enough.

I can imagine:

Less centralized. We can do the at home learning thing I'm sure of it. We can utilize other ways to socialize kids. This would open up so much to not only disabled kids or families, but also those who are living far away or who don't have a ride to a school

Knowledge being a choice. I truly believe the desire to learn is primary in actually learning something. If you are learning because you must it will not stick.

Schools still utilized. They can still be resources not only for current students but also adult learners who may have more ability to congregate for smaller classes and tend to imo seemingly do better sometimes that way - among peers. Children tend to want to socialize more when they congregate which is great but difficult to manage sometimes and i believe it shouldn't be so restrained. They can also have libraries accessible as public libraries to the general public. The building can remain education-focused.

Buses still utilized. They can be helpful perhaps for disabled adult learners - adapted if need be. Also much like they do now they can also deliver breakfast, lunch, and imo dinner too to those in need. Perhaps to the whole family if they need; occasionally, temporarily, or indefinitely. Left over fresh foods from grocers should go to this.

Reality-based. Bring the fuckin home-ec back. I never got that and I wish so badly I had. I've been told about it and I feel green with envy. Utilize what we know about things people have to experience and build educational lessons around that. I mean sex ed in my schools really felt like an afterthought tacked onto our system as like a week-reprieve from the usual lessons of the class. It could be a stand alone class. All year sex ed. I do not see a problem with that. There is a lot to cover that simply is not. Also more experiential opportunities. Theorizing things is far different from experiencing them.

Less hierarchy. A title you got never imo gives you a right to belittle anyone the way I was or saw others be belittled. At no age do you deserve that treatment. Older does not mean wiser, teacher does not mean know-it-all. Jane Elliott said the origins of the word educator would define it as someone who leads someone else out of ignorance. Last I checked if you are leading someone through the dark, you can't very well hold their hand if you tower above or stay away. You must be willing to reach them where they are at. Sometimes that's the hardest part for educators is meeting people where they are at.

---so i got this far then i had to go to a meeting and now i have lost all momentum so this is all you get BYE

#im shit at trying to express myself #dont mind me just ranting #education is a fucked game in this country it just makes me so mad #bc its so fundamental. you literally spend more time with teachers than with your parents probably

0 notes

artlessictoan · 7 years ago

Note

Inoten OO: ??

damn nonny’s got taste!

(femslash feb requests open all month!)

—

InoTen - Mission

—

Leaves flurried around her as she darted through the trees,each powerful step pushing her several feet ahead, but, even though she’d beenrunning at almost full-speed for a few minutes now, she wasn’t at all short ofbreath.

She glanced back over her shoulder, sharp eyes spotting thethree distant figures trailing far behind her. Frowning, she stumbled on hernext step, letting her weight carry her into a forward roll – not stopping herdead, but slowing her as she rebalanced and found her rhythm once more – onelast glance back confirmed that her pursuers had taken advantage of it and madeup some of the distance.

The chase was unbelievably dull, the hardest part so far hadbeen not completely outpacing them,but, unfortunately, she couldn’t let them out of her sight and she couldn’tjust turn around and beat the living daylights out of them either.

She lazily threw a kunai back – not even bothering to look,she didn’t want to accidentally hitthem after all – letting it slice a fine line into a tree trunk as she passed.

There were now four such gashes decorating it, so she wasjust about to start her fifth lap.

How much longer was this going to last? She couldn’t evenclaim it was good training because Gai-sensei going easy on them – not that theman knew what ‘going easy’ even meant – was more intense than this.

Her dark eyes skittered to the right, hoping that maybeshe’d catch a glimpse of the enemy stronghold-

Ah.

Tenten smirked briefly, perfect.

One last glace back, she slowed her steps a little, justenough that they were within fifteen feet of her, before she charged forwards,directly into a thick tree trunk. One foot pressed into it, she launchedherself up, letting her momentum and chakra-coated feet carry her almosthalfway up, before making a neat one-eighty-degree spin and pulling a tinyscroll out of her pack in a single, fluid movement.

They hadn’t even managed to adjust for the suddenverticality of their chase when she let loose a wide net, iron weights slamminginto the soil with a dull thud, one had just managed to escape it, but hedidn’t escape the green-glowing hand that gently tapped at the back of hisneck.

Grinning wide, Tenten let herself slide back down to solidground, watching her partner as she methodically performed the same jutsu tothe six ninja still struggling with iron-strong wire.

Only when every man and woman was unconscious did Inofinally turn to look at her. “Tenten, what the hell took you so long?!”

Her blue eyes were blazing and her fingers were tappingagainst crossed arms in the way that always signalled that she was ready tothrow down, but she didn’t have a single scratch on her and not one golden hairwas out of place. Tenten felt a tension she hadn’t even been aware of meltaway. “Hey, not my fault these guys are so slow, if I’d gone full speed theywould’ve lost me. Take it your side went well?”

Ino scoffed, opening her hip-pouch just enough for Tenten tocatch a glimpse of the scrolls stashed inside. “Of course it did!”

“Man, this mission was a joke,B-rank my ass…” she muttered, gathering up her net now that its occupantsweren’t going to struggle anymore; tutting at a few lightly frayed cords.

She squealed at the cold hand suddenly brushing against herarm, Ino grabbed it before she could instinctively jerk away, holding her stillas healing fingers sewed together a tiny cut that she hadn’t even noticedbefore now.

Ino didn’t look up at her, even when it was completely gone,only a light scar that would fade in a few days left. “You were supposed to becareful, idiot.”

“I was careful,they didn’t even touch me, I probably just ran into a sharp branch orsomething-”

“That’s not the point!” Ino snapped, head finally snappingup to look her in the eye, looking furious and dangerous and distressingly gorgeous. “You weren’tsupposed to get too far away, the plan was stay within two-thousand feet at alltimes, so I’d always be able to sense your location.”

She frowned at that, did she seriously think she needed tobe babied like this? “What’s the problem? It’s me, I was always gonna be fine, even if these guys weren’t useless.”

Hands clamped against shoulders and she was shaken lightlyas Ino spoke, “Not. The. Point!”

“I-” her words were stalled for a few seconds as she wasjerked back and forth a few more times, just to get Ino’s message across, but shewas eventually allowed to stand still; the hands stayed firmly in place however.“Wait… Ino, were you just worriedabout me?”

“Of course I was worried! Why wouldn’t I be worried?!”

She probably shouldn’t be laughing, Ino certainly didn’tlook like she appreciated it, but she just couldn’t help herself. “Oh, baby-”

Ino slapped a hand across her mouth. “Don’t ‘oh baby’ mewhen I’m trying to be mad at you!”

There was a brief struggle for control of her mouth –quickly won once she decided to just lick across her girlfriend’s palm,resulting in a frankly hilariousexpression that Tenten wished she had to opportunity to document – hershoulders still shaking the entire time, but she quickly managed to pull Inointo an awkward half-hug half-wrestle and snicker into her neck.

“Hey, c’mon, I’m safe, you know I can handle myself; we’veboth gone on way more dangerous missions than this.”

She could still feel a little resistance, but her girlfrienddid relent enough to wrap the arm that wasn’t trapped uncomfortably betweentheir bodies around her. “Yeah, but I’m not usually there for that, it’s different when I know you should be nearbybut I can’t feel you.”

Ah, shit.

Pulling back now that she knew Ino wasn’t going to try andrun – or punch her – she brushed a hand carefully through slightly messed blondelocks. “Ok, sorry, I didn’t really think of that, but you don’t need to keeptabs on me all the time, I mean if you were thinking about me then you wereprobably a little distracted from the mission, right? What if someone hadcaught you off-guard?”

Ino’s soft expression immediately dropped into one ofirritation.

She snickered, stopping her idle stroking to instead poke atthe crease between her brows. “Exactly! Look, you know how good I am and I knowhow good you are, let’s just both trust that we’ve always got each other’sbacks, huh?”

Her finger was slapped away. “Ugh, fine, but you’d better let me fuss over any injuries you get andscold you when it’s because you did something stupid!”

Tenten leaned forwards to press their grinning lips togetherbriefly. “Deal, now how about we sort out these goons before they wake up, hmm?I’m not about to play chase with a bunch of toddlers a second time.”

—

#ictoan writes #ictoan answers #inoten #tenino #tenten #ino yamanaka #naruto #i haven't actually proofread this bc i've gotta go make dinner now #whoops #this ship is That Good Shit though so please let the cute ninja girlfriends distract you from the 500 typos #Anonymous

6 notes · View notes

amillionsmiles · 7 years ago

Text

quantum mechanics, smirks, and other complications of the universe (Pidge/Lance)

Summary: It’s the littlest things that are hardest to measure. Pidge tries anyways. A/N: birthday fic for @flusteredkeith !!! you know how much I love you and basically every other fic I write ends up dedicated to you anyways but here’s a lil something short and sweet set in the canon universe <3 have a beautiful day~~ A/N2: partially inspired by this art by @shiros-sugar !

[Read and review on Ao3] or continue under the cut.

The Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle says this: the more you know about the position of a particle, the less you can know about its momentum, and vice versa.

Pidge’s Field Guide to Her Friends (Version 2.0, after extensive beta testing) says this: in precisely ten ticks, Lance will approach the tall, four-eyed, four-armed alien with a wink and a pick-up line.

Sure enough, the experiment begins right on time. Lance saunters over, all long limbs and diamond-edged smile, leaning casually against the pillar to deliver his pièce de résistance: “Are you from space? Because your body’s out of this world.”

Based on Pidge’s calculations (after all, a scientist is only as good as the notes she keeps), this line has a 67% success rate.

The alien looks at Lance, all four eyes staring at him blankly, before excusing itself from the conversation. Pidge turns around to hide her snicker, taking out her palm pad so that she can update her data. The column keeping track of “overtures made” goes up from 27 to 28.

“What are you doing?” Hunk appears at her shoulder.

“Testing a hypothesis. Have you ever thought about how Lance is kind of like Schrodinger’s Cat?”

Hunk strokes his chin. “Not really. Explain.”

“The cat is both dead and alive until you open the box. Lance is both charming and not until he opens his mouth, and then he’s just… not.”

“Hey!” This comes from over her left shoulder; Pidge nearly jumps out of her skin upon realizing that the topic of their conversation has… decided to join the conversation.

“How long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough to hear you talking about me behind my back,” Lance pouts. “Not cool, Pidge. I thought we had something.”

“Sorry, I’m taken by science.”

Lance snorts and rolls his eyes, bumping her on the shoulder before his attention gets caught by the arrival of a new prospect. In no time, he’s jumped right back in, and Pidge wonders, briefly, what that must feel like. To throw yourself into something without any idea of where the chips will fall.

Out of the corner of her eye, she catches Hunk smirking at her.

“What?”

The grin widens. “You think he’s charming.”

“Psst, Pidge!” Lance accosts her on the couch, draping himself over the back of it to speak right in her ear. “I need your help.”

At this point, Pidge is proud to say that she’s gotten better at managing her reactions to Lance sneaking up at her. Coolly, she closes her laptop, turning over her shoulder to ask: “With what?”

Lance shoots her a cryptic smile, shoving his hands in his pockets as he moves around the couch to stand in front of her. “Come with me and you’ll see.”

Several scenarios flash through her mind. 1) Prank—a bucket rigged to spill on her head. 2) Surprise—Lance is a generous person, after all, and he did joke once that he was going to knit her a sweater. 3) Lance actually needs help.

Statistically speaking, it’s probably option three.

Sighing, Pidge gets to her feet and follows him out of the room. Lance whistles, hands braced behind his head and elbows jutting out in the air as he leads them, cheerfully, through the halls. They come to a stop in front of a set of doors, the scent of manure hitting her as they slide open, a low moo echoing from inside.

“Kaltenecker,” Pidge gasps, feeling immediately guilty. “I forgot.”

Lance has already crossed the room in a few quick, easy strides, bringing a hand to Kaltenecker’s flank. She moos again, turning toward him slightly; Lance raises an eyebrow at Pidge, gesturing her over with a slight tilt of his head.

So Pidge goes. It makes her feel bad, wondering if Lance has been checking up on Kaltenecker all this time without her. Cautiously, she reaches toward the cow; Kaltenecker nudges against her palm gently, nostrils puffing warm air, nose slightly wet.

“There, see?” Lance is saying, stroking Kaltenecker’s side. “Mom didn’t forget about you, she was just busy.”

It takes a beat for the words to hit. “Mom?”

Lance scratches the back of his neck, looking sheepish. “I mean, it felt weird to refer to myself as just the owner—that’s so cold, you know? I figured we’re basically like Kaltenecker’s parents, so you’re Mom and I’m Dad—” Halfway through, Lance breaks off. “Okay, now that I’m saying that out loud and to your face, it sounds pretty weird.”

“A little.”

“I mean, if you have an alternative…”

Pidge purses her lips. “Why am I the mom, anyways? Why can’t you be the mom and I be the dad?”

“Fine, I’m the mom,” Lance says, not missing a beat. They hold each other’s gaze for a solid ten seconds before a laugh bubbles up Pidge’s throat, and then she’s snorting into the back of her hand while Lance snickers.

“Who gets custody if we fight?” she asks.

“Hunk.”

“That’s actually what I was thinking, too.”

“Good to know we’re on the same wavelength.” Lance grins.

Kaltenecker snuffles against her hand again, and Pidge says: “Lance?”

He pauses his motions, tilting his head. “Hm?”

“We should do this more often.”

Lance’s brow furrows. “The accidentally adopting a cow part, or the taking care of Kaltenecker?”

“Just—hanging out,” Pidge says, and she doesn’t know why those two words summon a burst of heat to her face, but she turns away slightly to hide it, not wanting Lance to get the wrong idea.

“Yeah,” Lance says, maybe a touch too quickly. “Yeah, of course.”

“Lance. Laaaaance.”

“What—dammit, Pidge!” says Lance, scowling as he turns his face straight into the finger Pidge has poised by his cheek. “I can’t believe I fell for that.”

In the aftermath of their bout of Killbot Phantasm 1, Pidge sets her controller down and sprawls out on her back, the metal flooring cool against the base of her head. There are a host of things to attend to: checking up on Green, helping Hunk in the kitchen, trying to advance another level in the Altean language training program. But, for whatever reason, she wants to prolong this moment.

“You’re just a sucker,” she teases, folding her hands on her stomach.

Lance joins her after a beat. The hair on her scalp prickles at his nearness. “Enjoying the view?”

There’s nothing much to look at, just the cavernous arches of the ceiling. Pidge traces a beam with her eyes, wondering briefly about what the rest of Altea’s architecture must have looked like, before she asks: “Lance, were you any good at spotting constellations?”

Matt had been good at it. She remembers lying on a picnic blanket, sandwiched between him and her dad. The stars glimmering to life one by one, the strength of their light growing as the night wore on, deepening. Making a game of who could find Orion or Perseus first.

“Not really,” Lance admits. “I could basically just find the Big Dipper and…that one swan one.”

“Cygnus?”

“Yeah.” Lance is quiet for a beat, and then he adds: “It makes sense that you’d be good at them.”

Pidge frowns. “What makes you say that?”

“I was just thinking of what you did with your Galra finder—”

“Technically, it wasn’t made to find them, just to predict their most likely locations—”

“Okay, predictor, whatever,” Lance says, nudging her slightly with his elbow. “But that’s the point, right? You find patterns. You connect the dots.”

This last part is said…differently, somehow, and Pidge turns her head, startled to find Lance already looking at her instead of the ceiling. His face is frighteningly close, lashes dark against the smooth, tan skin of his cheek. For the first time, Pidge notices the gentle slope of his nose, how it would only take a few inches for her to bump against it, to touch foreheads. A small adjustment.

Lance’s lips part slightly. To take a breath, or say something else. Something that’ll ruin this between them, whatever this is, and Pidge can’t take it, would rather not have her hypothesis confirmed. (I think of you like—)

She jolts away. Sits up. Something flashes across Lance’s face, too quick to catch.

“I forgot—I promised Hunk I’d help try to translate some of the Altean ingredients in the kitchen today.”

“Yeah.” Lance doesn’t miss a beat. “Yeah, you should go.”

At the doorway, Pidge pauses.

A theory: it will hurt if she looks back.

It’ll hurt more if she doesn’t.

She risks a glance over her shoulder. Lance is still lying on the floor, hands braced behind his head, now, staring up at the ceiling. His cowlick is more evident from this angle, like a little sprout. She imagines squashing it flat with her hand, then squashes that desire, too.

The quandary of quantum mechanics: when you get down to the tiniest level, the very act of measurement affects what you’re trying to measure. Hence the inability to know for certain both things at once—momentum and position, for instance.

Memory is a little like that, too. Pidge has read about it—how every act of recollection alters it, slightly. And with the number of times she’s replayed certain moments—a joke made over their communications line, but just for her ears; a brush of fingers; the upward tick of Lance’s eyebrow; a razor-thin smirk shot across the dinner table—well, her data’s skewed now, isn’t it?

Some things don’t make any more sense under a microscope. You can spend all night turning them over in your head, and the harder you look, the more they seem to shift, made inscrutable. It’s the difference between observing things and actually living them, maybe. The risk of getting too close.

Pidge excuses herself from the celebration after a few rounds of mingling. She’ll dive back in later, but it’s looking to be a long night and she needs to recharge. Some people draw their energy from others; Pidge, on the other hand, has always preferred programming to people.

Jespora’s two moons are bright, the stars scattered between them like tiny jewels on black velvet. There aren’t any constellations that Pidge can recognize, here, so she entertains herself with drawing some of her own. The quiet reminds her of sneaking out onto the roof of the Garrison, tuning in to the chatter of the universe. Ears straining for answers, Matt and Dad somewhere out there, still. Send me a sign.

“So, you come out here to rock out?”

The voice is right in her ear. Pidge flails, and it really is like they’re back on the Garrison roof—Lance crouched over her, a single eyebrow raised. The only difference is that they’re both wearing formal wear, this time, and the collar of her suit suddenly feels too constricting.

“Something on your mind, Pidge?” Lance presses, settling down next to her. He stretches his legs out, leaning back on his hands. No hesitant “Can I sit here?” Lance just slots himself into place, buoyed by an easy self-assurance that Pidge envies, sometimes.

Pidge eyes him warily, reorganizing her body into her earlier cross-legged position. Careful not to accidentally brush against him with her knee. She’s not used to being this aware of her limbs around Lance; yet another thing that snuck up on her, before she knew what to do with it.

“I just needed some space,” she admits. “Sometimes it feels like…like there are too many people to keep up with.”

Lance reaches over, gently fixing the tassel of one of her epaulettes. “Yeah, I get it.”

“You’re good at this stuff, though,” Pidge says, forcing herself to be still under his attention. “Talking to people, making them laugh…” She trails off, hugging her knees to her chest. “Why’d you come out here, anyways?”

At her shoulder, Lance’s fingers pause. “Honestly? There’s this girl I wanted to hang out with, but she bailed.”

Pidge snorts. “Typical,” she says, proud that her voice comes out with its usual blend of sarcasm and annoyance. Green with envy. Never have her paladin colors been more apt. But Lance is never going to get a read on her, not if she can help it.

She can still feel his attention on her face, though, which is all wrong. Pidge is the one who keeps track of everyone, categorizes strengths and weaknesses, takes notes. Lance’s job is to crack jokes and come up with dumb team slogans and—

Lance sighs. It’s the heavy, long-suffering sound of someone giving up. Giving in.

“You have no idea who I’m talking about.”

“Um, no, was I supposed to be keeping track?” Pidge retorts. Rhetorical question, since she does. Keep track. Not that Lance has to know. Pidge pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, wondering if it was the tall alien lady with the pink eyes and blue hair buns. Probably.

“It’s you, Pidge.”

The ground tilts, just a fraction, beneath her. This isn’t part of any mathematical model she could fit to their interactions, not something she could have predicted.

“What?” she says, a little shrill.

“It’s you,” Lance repeats, blue eyes boring into her, and she wants to ask him about what that means. If he has some sort of plan in his head for where to go from here. If it’s just a spur of the moment thing, a whim that’ll fall, unspoken, through the cracks, forgotten by morning. Pidge thinks all this but doesn’t have the right words to formulate around them. Just sits.

It’s such a Lance thing to do. Offer up vulnerability without any meditation on what it might cost him. Say something simple and leave her spinning, still caught up in the uncertainty of it all.

In the end, though, it comes down to a simple truth. Like wave-particle duality or the law of universal gravitation, this is what Pidge knows: Lance will do his best to catch her as she falls.

“So what do you say, Pidge?” Lance gets to his feet, offers a hand. “It takes two to tango.”

“You’re so weird,” she finally manages, wrinkling her nose, but she lets him pull her up, lets him spin her out with a flourish, connected by their hands, until somehow they end up pressed close in the moonlight, her head resting against his chest.

She can hear his heartbeat, thumping just a tick too fast. Unexpected, but right, somehow. She swallows.

“Interesting.”

“Good interesting?” asks Lance, vulnerable beneath his teasing. Both smug and uncertain, as only Lance can be.

“Unclear,” Pidge considers, tilting her head to blink up at him. “Needs more data.”

Lance chuckles and hugs her tighter, her chin digging into the knobby bone of his sternum, and Pidge smiles, too, a particle firing in the dark—unsure of when this feeling started or how fast she’s been barreling into it but knowing, down to the electron, that her heart is exactly where it should be.

#plance #pidgance #flirtyrobot #pidge #lance #voltron #my writing #ff: voltron #fanfiction #otp: teenage dream meme team

160 notes · View notes

thewidowstanton · 5 years ago

Text

Wes Peden, juggler: Zebra, London International Mime Festival

Recognised as one of the most innovative jugglers ever, American Wes Peden – who comes from Rochester, New York – has been voted the world’s most popular juggler nine times. His father, Jeff Peden, taught him to juggle when he was five, and they started performing together when Wes was eleven. At 14, he won the gold medal in the International Juggling Association Juniors Championship. He went on to study at the Dance and Circus University in Stockholm from 2007-2010. Wes holds countless juggling world records, won a bronze medal at the 33rd Cirque de Demain festival in Paris, and has appeared internationally from Tokyo to Broadway, including before the King and Queen of Sweden, and at Perlan glacier museum in Iceland.

Based in Stockholm, Wes tours his solo shows and gives masterclasses. UK audiences may have seen him in Water on Mars by Plastic Boom – the company he formed with Tony Pezzo and Patrik Elmnert – and his sizzling guest spot in Gandini Juggling and Alexander Whitley’s Spring. He now returns to the UK, bringing his solo show, Zebra, to the 44th London International Mime Festival. It runs at the Southbank Centre’s Purcell Room from 24-26 January 2020. Wes chats to Liz Arratoon from Helsinki, while rehearsing for an opera.

The Widow Stanton: What is the opera you’re working on? Wes Peden: It’s a circus opera, CircOpera. They’ve written a story that uses some classic opera songs and lots of different circus disciplines to try to have, like, a fun way to introduce kids and families and people that might not necessarily go to see a traditional opera to the art form.

Do you find that your juggling work is combining more with other art forms now? Well, I definitely get inspired by other art forms and it’s very often when I’m in group shows it’s not just other jugglers, you know. Gandini has worked with many other types of dance, and I’ve been in shows that have theatre in them or other circus disciplines, and I definitely get inspired by the type of music in the show. For example, opera music, I’m performing to a soloist playing Flight of the Bumblebee on a tuba. That kind of inspires a different sort of juggling than I would ever do on my own. So, definitely.

Let’s go back to the beginning; is or was your dad a professional juggler? Yeah, he still does perform quite a bit. Before we were juggling together he was already doing about 100 shows a year. When I started getting more and more into juggling we created a duet show, and were performing that for a few years, with many shows around the east coast of the States.

Did it come naturally to you as a kid or was it just a lot of hard work? Kind of both. I felt like I had a natural talent for it in one way and it made it not feel like work. When you’re young and you learn some things, it doesn’t seem so surprising that you can’t… you don’t get embarrassed that you can’t do anything at all. You can’t juggle, but you can’t ride a bike either. It’s all normal. There are many things you can’t do at that age. Also I was dyslexic and asthmatic, so school was very difficult because of my dyslexia and sport was hard because of my asthma, but then juggling, I was like, ‘Oh, here I am at least on an equal playing field as everybody else’. Having limitations in those other areas kind of pushed me to follow my skill in the juggling world.

How would you describe your juggling style? The main thing that defines me is that the reason I juggle is to create new tricks, new forms of juggling and to try to make something that someone has never seen before within the juggling world. I want people to come out of my show thinking: “I’ve never seen anything like that. I didn’t know juggling could be like that. Those were some tricks I didn’t imagine would ever be possible.” Because I was lucky enough to juggle for many, many years – 24 years I’ve been practising – I had a lot of time to build a lot of technique. I had a lot of skill with many different props so I try to make these new ideas as technically advanced as I can, to use my full energy and my full skill to make as high-quality new ideas as possible. But what defines my style is creative and new shapes but still a really high skill level.

Were you inspired by any of the great jugglers from the past? Absolutely. I watch juggling constantly to get inspired by things that have happened already and by what elements I can see, like, ‘Oh, what made that trick so special? What’s important about this juggler’. There are a few jugglers of more recent years, because juggling is still quite young, so lots of the important jugglers are really not that old, they’re still alive. There’s Kris Kremo, who does incredible stuff with balls and hats that really inspires me, and another is Sean McKinney.

I saw him when I was nine years old at this competition where everyone was performing with, like, jazz music, in a vest [waistcoat], kind of in this Kris Kremo-type old-school way but at this time everything was a little stricter for no real reason, and then this guy comes skateboarding on to the stage in jeans and a T-shirt and does incredible new beautiful kind of punk juggling. I was like, ‘What is this guy?’ and he inspired me that juggling didn’t have to be done in just one way. It didn’t have to have a certain aesthetic, that it was broader than I’d ever imagined. So when I saw him at that young age I was like, ‘OK, juggling isn’t this, juggling is whatever you want it to be’.

When you’re creating intricate patterns and sequences how do you plan them? There are certain aspects of juggling that you can do best on paper, for me anyway, and certain aspects that you have to be literally trying it to see what works, where the momentum is and how fast you can move or what makes sense with the flow of where the catches are. So it’s a combination of both. It will often be that I’m working on a trick and then I realise something about it, ‘Oh, the momentum of this part makes me want to throw the ball round there’. I film it on my phone and next time I’m on a plane or a train I look at the videos and ‘OK, now I realise that new aspect of the trick’. I will write down many ideas of how to twist that or expand a new idea. Then next time I’m in training I’ll look at my notebook and try all those new things, film them, so it kind of bounces back and forth between literally work in the studio to see how you body and objects work best together and then more, like, academic work back in the office or while I’m travelling.

You have so many records; it’s not about numbers but how many of each prop do you juggle? [Laughs] I have some, but to tell you the truth, it gets a little bit tiring, like, trying to add just one more ball or one more club. I might have invented the most five-club tricks that have ever existed but I don’t juggle the greatest number of clubs that has ever been done. I perform seven clubs and seven balls but I try to… yeah… OK, to be able to juggle seven, eight, nine balls you need speed and accuracy and dedication, and how many hours would I need to put in to add one more ball? That would give one image and it would be amazing, but if I took all of those hours and that dedication and then added my creativity to it and instead used that time to try to make something that no one has ever gone for before.

Up until I was, like, 16 or 17, I was going after just the hardest trick, the biggest trick, the most clubs and after I went to circus university and had more classes in dance and composition I started banging my time and my skill more into composing things that are a little bit harder to put your finger on, because when someone says: “How many of this can you juggle,” it’s easier to compute than, ‘Well, I’ve developed this new technique where rings spiral around my arms in hundreds of different ways. By the time you see the end of the piece you’ll have a whole new vision of how things work. It’s a bit harder to envision, but you have to come to see the show’. [Laughs]

Do you prefer one prop to another? It depends. When I was young I absolutely preferred clubs, like, clubs are the way to be, they can flip this way, the other, rotate, roll… there are many options with them. Then when I started to learn a bit more about how to move my body, I got more interested with balls because you can use them to go around your body, they’re easier going down to the floor and back up. And now I can kind see every prop for what they are good at and if I have an idea of one way of using juggling, like, ‘Oh, this new cross-armed behind-the-neck idea’, what prop will work in that idea best? So now my juggling is more about concepts and then I pull whichever object works with that concept the best. I see them all now like different colours for a painter, whatever is most suitable for this next painting.

What is the best tip you could give to a kid just starting to juggle? I would say to remember that you don’t need three balls to juggle, you can start with one, or any object and try to invent a trick that is fun; something that you think is cool to do. Maybe take your shoe and throw it up and clap behind your back and you catch it again. Or maybe you can set up some spoons on the table and flip one with the other… not to think that juggling is just getting three balls in the air. Juggling is just a relationship between you and objects and making fun tricks that express yourself. I’d say, make sure you’re having fun and, you know, keep going. You will teach yourself as you invent things and gradually build skill. But always make sure you’re having fun.

You mentioned circus university, why did you choose DOCH? I was watching lots of juggling videos and different jugglers from around the world and trying to figure out where they all came from and who taught them and where their different styles were developed, and I realised a lot of my favourite jugglers were from Sweden, or Denmark, or Finland. And then I found out that a bunch of them were going to this school, DOCH. The head teacher at the time was Jay Gilligan, who is a very great juggler; a very clever guy in the modern world of juggling. That was it, ‘I already know his work, I want to juggle like the other guys, so let’s go there and study’.

What did it add to your already considerable skills? When I got to the school Jay explained to me: “OK, we have three years to juggle. We're going to be spending the first year developing your technique and making sure you understand everything you can about literal juggling; the tossing, the throwing, making sure everything is clean. The second year we're gonna teach you how to compose, which will not necessarily have anything to do with throwing and catching.” There were certain things when I was supposed to make an interesting routine while holding a watering can, which I wasn't allowed to throw or catch. You have to forget about your skill as a juggler and just use your creativity to make something good without skill. So for a year I did many different composition exercises, like, 'OK, make 100 tricks in 15 minutes'. You’re like, ‘Uhh!’. It really works your brain in the same way that juggling in previous years had worked my muscles and my muscle memory.

And then in the third year you use your skills developed in the first two, you combine your juggling skill, your composition, you figure out what you want to express and put those skills to work in something from yourself. I think that is the main difference between juggling just on your own and going to a school and having someone make you do composition exercises that really got out the creative side of me and let me develop something that was unique to me.

What happened to Plastic Boom? The trio performed quite a bit together and then had a contract working in Vegas on a show. The others have stayed there but I got a replacement for my part so I could continue to do my own full shows and live a more artistic career, so we've kind of split ways a little bit.

Are you affiliated with Gandini Juggling? When they first started to make Spring, me and the two other jugglers from Plastic Boom, all three of us were going to be in the show, but then when we got the offer for the show in Vegas, it kind of was hard to organise with the creation time period of Spring so we jumped out of the project. But then when I wanted to leave Vegas I was partially in the Spring show. I’m good friends with Sean [Gandini], we really share similar visions of why we like juggling, where it can go. We both have energy to develop the art form constantly and now they are my producers.

Did winning a medal in Paris help you? Yes, it did. In a way, my life is kind of a balance of performing in other group shows, like what I’m in now in Helsinki, and doing my own solo work. And after doing Cirque de Demain I got offers doing some varieté theatre in Germany, where I worked two months a year for a few years. Always while I was just doing an act in another show it gave me an opportunity to be in the same place for a couple of months and really work on the stuff that would be in my next show. In happenstance, after Paris, I got booked for one show in Germany, and I had a huge apartment for that show in the theatre, with a high ceiling, so every day I would spend six or seven hours working on all this new juggling that is now in Zebra. So everything kind of connects… win that, get a good space to juggle, make the juggling for the next show that starts to tour.

vimeo

Tell us about Zebra. Zebra was kind of a balance based on a show I’d done previously called Volcano VS Palm Tree, which was very explosive and kind of chaotic, and I wanted something more precise where every place my arm was put, every step, every throw was perfectly organised and a bit more, yeah, very, very precise. So this show is about that, and composing juggling with normal juggling objects but in such a way that it doesn’t look like traditional juggling. Let me explain that a bit. For example, there’s a part where I juggle balls where the rule of the whole piece is that it has to be ball juggling where everything is bouncing off my arms. I’ve composed that and developed it over a few years so that by the time you’re a few minutes into the piece it stops to look like ball juggling and starts to look just like elbow bouncing and kind of this new family, this new language of ways of working… to keep it really specific like that.

There’s a piece with five clubs where I’m facing away from the audience and the light is just above my head, so I’ve made the juggling where the only part of it that matters is what’s in the air and you start to forget that I’m throwing and catching and there’s any skill involved because it’s made around watching these waves, or these triangles or these shapes transform into different constellations. So trying to remove the idea of you’re watching it to be impressed and more that you’re watching an idea unfold and evolve and focus more on the content of the ideas within the juggling. In the way you watch a dancer, you’re not, like, ‘Wow, look how high they jump’, but you’re following the idea of what the choreographer is making onstage.

It sounds fantastic! You’ve performed in London before, but how do you feel about being in the Mime Festival? I’m very excited to be there. Whenever I’m in a festival and can look at all the other shows in the programme and think, ‘I want to go to every single one of these’, I feel at home, and think, ‘Great! I’m in a like-minded space. I’m really happy that my juggling is fitting into a world that I made it for, and I know that the type of audience that goes to these types of shows will see the juggling in the same way that I do’. And I really think that’s it’s a good home for the show. I’m very happy to be part of it.

Can pick out, from your lengthy career, any particular highlights? I really remember the first time I performed Zebra was in Paris. I’d been working on it for a few years and I really wasn’t sure how it would go, because I was like, ‘Are the people going to respond to this? I’m trying to make something quite different. Is it going to work the same way for them as I see it?’, because sometimes when you’re in your own work for too long, you can’t see it anymore from someone’s eye that’s never seen it before and yeah, when I came offstage and everything had gone so well…

I was also very nervous because the show was all run on vinyl records; there are times when I’m like, throwing them, and bouncing them and if I break one, that’s it. That’s my little twist on the idea of jugging being dangerous, because it’s often dangerous for the juggler, juggling chainsaws or whatever, and now I try to work very closely with the objects and I want to do juggling that a ball would want to do. Or if I was a record, how would I like to be juggled? And now there is danger for the object [laughs]… it could break, and danger for the entire show. But it went OK, I didn’t get so nervous that I broke a record. It went great. That was one of the best feelings I’ve had.

I also make juggling films. I often work for a few years at a time making juggling films that are kind of like skate films, where I collect the coolest tricks and find themes to edit them around and I release those every couple of years for the juggling community. My most recent one is called Gumball, which people can see pieces of on YouTube. When I released that it had been in the works for almost three years and that was one of my highlights that I could make film-specific juggling and had a lot of tricks that I’d never seen done ever before. Yeah, it was like a big expression of who I am and this is how I believe it can be and, here we go, I hope you like it. Sending something like that out to the world feels great.

youtube

Wes appears in Zebra at the Southbank Centre’s Purcell Room from 24-26 January 2020 during the London International Mime Festival

Picture credits: Headshot, Pierre Feniello. Zebra in order, Avi Pryntz-Nadworny; Brend Van Kerckhove; Florence Huet; Luke Burrage; Sonia Sleurs

Wes’ website

For tickets to Zebra, click here

London International Mime Festival, what’s on

Twitter: @WesPeden; @MimeLondon; @southbankcentre

Follow @TheWidowStanton on Twitter

#wes peden #juggler #circus interview #doch stockholm #London International Mime Festival #southbank centre #Gandini juggling #zebra

0 notes

storiesof2018 · 6 years ago

Photo

Against the contrasts of dense forest, glimmers of moonlight haloed over towering pines that bordered snow banks; the pristine whiteness blanketed the entire domain. Flurrying gusts bombarded the valley pass, creating a tumultuous obstruction for herds of caribou to breach the marked hunting grounds. This was an unprecedented world of conjured existence, measures of survival were tested with unbridled endurance, relentless speed, and lethal tactics to salvage new life.

Nothing could be rivaled against predatory surges of dominance, the inherent caliber of untamed menace that possessively channeled through her stoking veins-it was a morphic convergence of banking power-adrenaline that beckoned to become unleashed at the first scent of exposed prey. A fresh drop of blood in the snow heralded a potent response that Selina couldn't discard.

A few days before, Selina was captive in a fevered delirium, feeling mutated and intolerably furry. It wasn't an easy feat to prowl on four paws, command a bushy tail to lift up-she traded her humanity-kittenish beauty by making a votive choice to be no longer separated with Bucky-her sniper wolf -after irritably coaxing the Asgardian parasite-Loki to infuse her with the sorcerous essence that had changed Bucky into a massive dire wolf, she was careened into his world of being a she-wolf.

Right now, Selina guardingly composed herself to remain impassively detached, resting at the entrance of the den, with her mahogany fore-paws crossed and luminous bronze orbs intently gazing at three pudgy furballs-pups wedged snuggly against the furred length of Bucky's protruding girth; the young alpha was resting contently on his side, his long, whiskered muzzle slack and silvered fore-paw braced underneath his canine head, conveying define ease after a long-haul of nursing. He tended to amply engage overlong napping while sating down their babies' insatiable appetites.

This was a breadth of hibernation mode, and since most of his kill-zones weren't overrun by sustainable prey to quench down the baby pups rapid influxes of unevaded hunger, Bucky had to exhaustingly offer his milk reserves to feed them during the inevitable winter months."Are the little furballs hungry yet, handsome..." she whispered in a gentled rasp, coolly watching his massive paw consciously slide off his scrunching muzzle as he groaned throatily.

"Lina?" He purred with a tired voice. A low rumble bubbled at the back of the alpha wolf's throat and his jaw flexed itself open to acclimate to consciousness. His focus was muggy until his nostrils inhaled a collective gust of cool air and sharpened his senses. His steel blue gaze narrowed in on the entrancing sight of a familiar she-wolf lounging comfortably near the entrance of their cozy den, her unshakable gaze shifting from him towards the blanket white world beyond their warm enclosure. Her question triggered a flow of recent memory and he gazed down at his softly snoring pups huddled close to him. His precious babies. "For now yeah. These kids sure can eat. I think they got enough to fill even an alpha's belly," he joked while nuzzling them affectionately.

Mattie yawned adorably with a squeaky sound while curling her paws closer towards Aurora's back. Brennen as ever, occupied a wider space due to his uncanny ability to toss and turn in his sleep like a greedy child hogging the sheets. His belly rumbled with a chuckle as he gently nudged his little guy towards his sisters until they were all curled around each other, relying on their collective warmth they provided. Once he was certain they wouldn't miss his presence for a few moments, Bucky rose up to his paws and padded towards Selina. "You're up early. You get any sleep, darlin'?"

Registering the genuine sincerity huskily chasing in his graveled masculine timbre, Selina felt her pointed ears reactively tip back as he became moodily standoffish, trying to effectively dodge the infinite question that lingered between them.

Lowering the sleekness of her head down; Selina teasingly flashed him a vehement glare of jeweled coffee and forced a vixenish quirk to stretched fleetingly over her lithe canine muzzle. "I'll admit it's a little packed in for me..." she murmured snarkily, gesturing a paw towards the heap of blankets that he used as a nursing bed. "Something else I need to adapt on, I guess..."

"I know its not easy," Bucky murmured as he rested on his hind-paws beside the she-wolf. The scent of her cinnamon fur both calmed and spurred his masculine urges that were ever on high-alert whenever he was around her. Only the distance between them kept him from treading delicate ground. Selina was still adapting to her new form and he wouldn't push her beyond wanted territory. He didn't the only thing he could do and spoke his inner-most thoughts to both distract himself and help her. "When I first turned, it was like looking at a whole new world through a different set of eyes and ears. Nothing was the same even if it actually was. Letting go of our human capabilities is the hardest part." He admitted. Recalling all the frustrating instances when he would try to pick up an object only to realize he no longer possessed hands or fingers to do so. A paw wasn't meant to lift things, only a wolf's mouth could.

Enforcing charming tack, Bucky tentatively kept his muzzle level with hers at mirroring distance, his glacial aquamarine depths were groggily half-lidded as he eased down beside her. Damn his ardent scent that was intoxicating, a woodsmoke musk infused with frosted mint that evocatively wafted off his thickened chestnut fur. It was too addictive and sense-ravaging potent. His revelation to their shared existence felt knifing against her riotous spirit.

It was downright irksome for her to harness unnatural abilities, her svelte canine form was heightened-weaponized to become a lethal predator of unremitting-murderous attack. The flavor of raw blood was nauseous to ingest, Selina abhorred viciously burying her muzzle into a punctured limb of a slain deer, varnishing her silken fur with blood-red and being disconnected from humanity. She was a fugitive locked in the crosshairs. The earthy den-burrow was utilized as his convenient safehouse-a refuge point to keep his infant pups concealed from unwanted intruders.

He was commanded by effusive, unparalleled instinct that couldn't be easily warded off. It still felt unnaturally unstable to fight against the continuous onslaught of imploding bloodthirst. He was 'showing her the ropes' on how to tackle down hostile-unhinged savageness that wouldn't ebb away. "A new world, huh?" she groused derisively and narrowed her vexatious gaze at the remnants of blood that seeped into her mahogany fur. Unnerved beyond measure, she flashed him a glimpse of incisor fang, stiffly."I guess you don't mind tasting blood every day...Chasing down some furry sucker out there because you're the big bad wolf that kills in the dark..."

The coldness of her tone gave Bucky pause as he couldn't help but inwardly grimace at it. For a moment he contemplated the depth of her contempt towards this new way of life and the manner of which she touched upon his existence. "Its never something I've relished." He admits after a lengthy pause. "Back when we were humans, it was easy for me not to think beyond my daily diet. Animals were cattle to feed us humans. Reaping them for food was something I would've never have done personally, but being a wolf means you have no other choice. Especially when you got little precious furballs to look after." He whined at that. As a man or wolf he was a killer, justifiable or not. "If its something I have to do so you don't gotta...then I'm fine with that."

Remaining unshakeable in her poise of indifference, Selina feigned a wince against the pressure of her throbbing jaw as curved incisors gleamingly jutted out. A feverish chill arrowed through her veins as she faced the extension of a blighted reality that barraged over her like an encroaching storm. Venting a frustrated breath, her dark gaze steered back at the heap of collected blankets, watching tiny clawed-paws swat in unison as fussy squeaks disrupted the palpable stillness around her. "Honestly I don't know if adapt to all of this, James..." she replied pointedly in a hushed undertone, tilting her muzzle down to convey her uncompromising resolve. She bit down on her underlip with a harsh pinch, trying her damnedest to avoid the soulful glint of his frosted sapphire orbs, she couldn't openly disarm her warring emotions with him. "I did this change for you..."

"I know you did," the alpha wolf rumbled with a low purr. The bite in his tone hinted at a provoked storm of rampant aggression. The beastial urges within encroached on his conscience, urging him to race out into the snowy wilderness to find a prey to sate his hunger. He expertly ignored the gnawing sensation. The man within maintained control with a metaphorical leash that kept the beast reigned in. He was reminded of the struggle that brought them here. How Selina signed away her humanity to live out this simple and secluded existence with him and their children. The overwhelming love and emotion he felt for her lingered at the forefront of his conscience. Despite the reservations he held towards easing her adaptation, he couldn't help but bring himself to nuzzle the side of her face with slow and comforting circles.

"And I love you for that, darlin'. I know this won't be easy, but you'll find a to get used to it. You'll have me to help you every step of the way." He purred.

As she felt his muzzle's tactile caress fringe against her vibrant mahogany fur, she became inadvertently paralyzed against the suffusing wake of unimpeded desire that was manifesting within intimate gravity between them. With stilted momentum of her restless heartbeat, she wanted to abandon the altered world with him, create a visceral firestorm of passion as the steeliness of his corded muscle flexed headily against her curvaceous form with beckoning need. Predatory resilence grew into dueling aura of a new sensuous caliber.

A throated groan dangerously escaped Bucky to the awareness of relief, possessively as his larger muzzle buried into whitened layers of her chest with nuzzling ministrations. A devious smirk quirked over her fanged muzzle as she revealingly felt the furred expanse of pudge that was heavily swelled his girth.

This was the definite reality of their mirrored existence-no switchbacks as something beautifully pure and cherishingly adorable had anchored them back to the grounds of unbreakable devotion—love. "Don't you mean until the end of the line, Brooklyn boy," she quipped out teasingly, and unerringly rested her canine head with natural ease over the powerful bulk of his furred shoulders as Bucky unabashedly expressed a breathless snort of joviality. She knew their connective moment intimacy would be short-lived; the dozy infant furballs greedily demanded a full gallon of milk every four hours, one little squeak would mechanically rein him in. "So just how much time do we have before it's downtime for you, handsome..."

With a breathless heave, Bucky reeled back nonchalantly, emitting a hearty chuckle as he steered a glanced attentively over his cradle of enveloped blankets; a tiny dark paw cuttingly slashed the frigid air with a dagger stroke, that he immediately recognized from his pudgy little guy-Brennen. For a moment he was alighted captive in a jubilant stupor, readying himself to instinctively usher back to his nursing bed.

The heaviness in his bloated girth disruptively evoked a guttural moan that stilted his grounded resistance-the vitality of his newborn pups was all that he would center his world on for the coming winter months. The unbidden tension between them clambered edgier as Bucky's luminous aquamarine depths became unwaveringly fixed on their slumbering litter-that sudden awareness of detachment felt like a gaping rift. In a feigned effort, he staved back his urges and focused on the beautifully alluring she-wolf sitting on her haunches, desirously beside him. "M...Uh pretty sure downtime isn't gonna be that soon, kitten," He curved his muzzle widely, evident to the playful arch of his brow. "We kinda have some breathing space..."

"I'm not sure it will last, Barnes," Selina rebuffed heatedly, and with a stubborn thrust of her muzzle, dubiously she huffed out a caustic breath, underlying her soul-deep vexations. She needed to foster the infinite acceptance of being no longer human; she couldn't disguise her turbulent emotions with a motherly charade of sugarcoating rapture-she wasn't wired to reactively answer the beckoning volumes of pitchy squeaks. Her indifferent poise betrayed nothing. "Just answer me this, James, what's it like to feel them gang up on you..."

A low rumbling chuckle came from Bucky's throat as he considered her question. "Its not as bad as say being an antelope that's about to be pounced on by a pack of cheetahs. I'd think of it more like being the star quarterback about to be dog-piled by a bunch of line-backers. Its all fun and games, but exhaustin' darlin'." He explained. "Truthfully if we were still human, we'd have our hands full either way. Everything changes when you become parents...most often for the best," he rumbled affectionately as he watched his sleeping litter. Little Aurora opened her tiny jaws and yawned in her sleep, though it came off more as a tiny squeak. He resisted the urge to nuzzle her with deep affection in fear of waking her. It was amazing how much children could change a person. He never felt as free and leisurely as he did now.

Evicting her last vexatious remnant, Selina lowered her muzzle with deft ease, catching the delicious-natural puppy scent wafting off the nest of blankets as she dared to breach the litter's proximity. For a moment of hesitance, she felt vulnerable as her paws moved on their own accord against the wonderous-precious gravity that she haphazardly waded through against the trepidatious conjure of restraint.

A warm shiver of phantom heat chased her pulse as Bucky steered her closer, a flex of reverence was invested in the sensuous pressure of his muzzle, his whiskers pricked into her mahogany fur-they both echoed tentative intent as their canine heads shadowed protectively over the dark chestnut pups-little feisty pudge-balls. It felt so damn perfect as their slanted gazes of bronze and aquamarine locked challengingly with amorous intensity. The babies were indescribably adorable-downy chestnut fur burnished by winter's light as they nestled snug into protective folds of blankets. "So what kind of trouble do you get into when the furballs are napping, Barnes?" she urged, coaxingly, giving him an impish smirk.

"Nothing too extreme to sicc some kind of hunter after me. But you know me, I can never just sit still too long. Good thing I find taking a little stroll in the snow enough to take the edge off. Care to join me?" His invitation was delivered with a deep throaty growl that would've sent the hair rising off the backs of lesser creatures out of fear or exhilaration. Bucky exuded confidence and a dangerous aura as his silhouette stood at the entrance of the den with the light of the outdoors shining at his back. His glacial blue eyes looked at her with equal parts mischief and desire, his posture that of an alpha predator seeking to release his energies with a thrilling hunt and a playful dance in the snow. It would help not just him but also Selina to better adapt and relax to their new way of life. Once his invitation was made, he turned and raced out into the white wilderness.

Setting her incisor fangs with a gritting clench, Selina became poised like a hammer-trigger, the atmospheric elements of the wintry domain implosively beckoned her to rival his alluring distance. A riptide of suffusing adrenaline rushed through the sleekness of her lithe form, the frigid air gusted against her muzzle, flurrying drifts powdered her thickened fur as she propelled her enhanced speed out of the den, her claws reacted to subtle vibrations of heartbeats-a converging transcendence that surged in her blood as the ravaging wake of clashing desire grew headily ardent. With a fleeting glance of her bronze irises, she found no trace of Bucky who was irrefutably practicing his sniper tactics of Russian caliber on her. "Playing hard to get, handsome," she gnarred out sultrily, tipping her muzzle to the direction where the smokiness of his virile scent ghosted distractingly near a barren log. "I can see that might be a challenge in this whiteout since your big furry ass can't blend in..."

"Where's the fun in making it easy?" His deep baritone called out playfully. A rustling in the bushes caught her attention followed swiftly by a soft rumble in the snow beneath her feet. Her sharpened senses detected multiple surroundings noises where nature would be disturbed by another presence. It baffled her when she realized too suddenly that she was being misdirected by the Big Bad Wolf. From a suspended tree-long, a swift-movement caught her peripheral vision. She spun around just in time to find herself being pounced upon by cinder-gray furred wolf who tackled her into the soft mounds of snow. "Got ya!" Bucky purred with heaving breaths. It was the wolf-form of laughter. His tongue hung lazily as his tail wagged and he began to nip and lick her neck.

Feeling the solidity of his muscled-canine- form bracing above her with smooth grace of balance; Selina was conscious of his reined urges thrumming within his veins, his massive forepaws of silver and black were sinking in the mound of snow on either side of her angled head, a graze of his claws kneaded through her disheveled fur as her muzzle nudged into the furred pillowing expanse of his bulked chest that heavily flexed sensually against tantalizing contact of her exquisite curves. Hypnotic attraction burningly effused her as his breathy rasp gratingly feathered over her twitching ears, gripping her senses with an unrelenting promise to the anchored level of their divested-shackled existence.

She wouldn't comply for his tack of supremacy-not yet. Giving him a deceptive moment to savor the reality of her lithesome body arrested beneath the shapely length of him, while she fought the brazen compulsion to wickedly drag a paw over the snow heap. "Don't you know, that I never go down that easy, wolf boy..." she grinned vixenishly with a teasing arch, capturing his aqueous gaze before drenching his brunette fur with an icy blast of gathered snow wielded by devious precision.

Most men or wolves would've balked at the cold blast of snow striking them across the face, but Bucky couldn't help but feel a surprising surge of elation by it. It told him his kitten was still as spirited as ever and unwilling to just roll-over and make things easy for him. "So that's how its gonna be huh?" He rumbled with deep playfulness. As the cold chill permeated his thick coat, the alpha wolf wagged his face to rid himself of the wet snowy flakes. "Its on, kitten." He released a yip of exuberance as he pounced off of Selina, turned around and proceeded to use his hind paw to toss his own snowy retaliation at her.

Anticipating a barrage of snow, unerringly without a disarmed variant in her smooth poise; Selina whirled on her paws in fluidic involuntary response as she coolly evaded the suddenness of his unrivaled sniper precision that marked her into his crosshairs. A cluster of snow careened noisily against the log at the second she vaulted up, thrusting her acrobatic momentum stealthily as her claws scythed a hairbreadth over his tensing back, trying to unfalteringly catch him off guard. Reaching her descent, her svelte form intentionally collided into him, ensuing a breathless- ooph."You have to admit Barnes, I'm the only girl who can knock you off your feet..." she indignantly quipped.

The swiftness of her movements nearly caught Bucky off guard as he angled himself to directly face her. The moment he turned about, he found himself barreled upon by the she-wolf's pouncing weight. A startled yelp came from him, one he found himself cringing with towards, as he became pinned beneath her vivacious form. The mischief and amusement that twinkled in her brown eyes was like a fireworks that caused his spirit to soar. It was all so familiar, so invigorating and entrancing. "You got me," he conceded with a toothy grin. Somewhere at the back of his mind, the alpha was displeased at the reality of being taken off his feet, but Bucky couldn't bring himself to care, not when she was so close, so wolfishly radiant in the snowy atmosphere that surrounded them.

"Sharp as ever darlin', some things don't change." He said to her with a revealing tone, hoping she would see not everything about who they were had changed. That no matter the outcome, they would always be Bucky Barnes and Selina Kyle. "Do I get a consolation prize?" He rumbled with a coaxing nuzzle across her paw near his head.

A stark gleam of naughtiness conveyed boyish resilience against the fringe of their connecting muzzles; the reverent wake felt shockingly intoxicating of sensual variances-a banking desire that was mounting rapturous. Dizzingly, coupled breaths were hitching with stoked pants as the rawness of intimacy reigned in the mirrored cadence-the flexing of their canine bodies. Tilting his muzzle a fraction against hers of overshadowing heat, his fangs grazingly tugged at her underlip with addictive pressure, naked heat rapt into a vibrant pulse echoing on the blinded paces of their dueling fusion.

Groaning roughly in tremulous pants, Bucky's furred jaw flexed to shift the angle of recapturing intensity that she answered. He felt conquerable against the lavishing thrust of her muzzle-the onrush of unimpeded desire that locked their damned souls for the ascent.

The feather-light glide of his tongue evoked a clamorous resonance within his veins, for a stalled moment he felt heat contrasting her silken fur under a tracery of reverence of his stroking fore paw—an ephemeral touch of humanity. Groaning barely against a pant, Bucky quashed down the miasmic apparitions of soul-stealing reluctance, Loki had mercilessly cleaved them apart with forbidden distance-making them feel lost on an unparalleled realm of existence. Having Selina as his mate—dance partner refueled his despondent spirit-it was an overture to eternity. Every heavy muscle pulsed headily against the snowfall's powdery coolness encompassing over them.

For eleven unbearable months, the Asgardian spellcaster had viperously forced Bucky to become a hostage in a stuporous extension of chimeric thrall infused by cosmic magery. By the prevailing deliverance of unshakeable grace, they were finally reunited, away from the horizons of carious malice—free to engage a new dance in the shadows of their welcomed domain.

Smirking kittenishly as she felt the protrusion of his furred girth bulging taut with masculine vitality underneath her lithesome weight, Selina wanderingly splayed a chaste paw over the swelled expanse with reserved kneading ministrations as he released a guttural breath of pent-up satiation. "I think a belly rub is all you're going to get from me, krasivyy (handsome)," she played out snarkily, as Bucky did his utmost leash down his a chuckle inadvertently teaming for release.

Bucky didn't have time to compute her response before he felt her begin to rub and nuzzle his belly. It was in that moment that he remembered he was ticklish. "No-no, Selina stop!" He barked, feeling desperation take over as he attempted to scurry back into the snow but his kitten was nothing if not determined as she playfully continued to rub him. Bucky laughed if his deep panting was any indicator. The fur along his body was caked with fresh snow as he rolled with her along the path. Somewhere at the back of his hearing he could hear a faint squeaking. It triggered an alert reaction from the alpha as his paternal instincts flared with concern. "Do you hear that?" He asked worriedly.

Before Selina could answer, the two parents were in the for a most unexpected surprise when a trio of little furballs rushed out of the den, yipping loudly as they bounced towards their parents. "Oh boy," Bucky groaned as he watched the leader of the charge, the pudgy little hellraiser he called Brennen, make a mad-dash for him. "Brenn-wait..."

The pudgy pup collided against his side with a loud and exuberant squeak. "Daddy! Hungry!"

The chubbiest of the wolfling triplets' determined paces accelerated fervently with revamped speed as Selina amusingly watched little Aurora attempt a shortstop tag with her tiny paws as he executed a headlong slide of baserunning momentum for home plate, shiving the ice as Bucky's thickened chestnut undercoat became soaked with the muscle- jarring collision of demanding puppy weight. Tamping down a feral urge to aggressively snarl, Bucky remained achingly immobilized with a recognized tactic of deceptive stillness on his back as imminent hunger beckoned.

A throaty resonance of an unabashed snort explosively racked out of Bucky's throat as he automatically braced his forepaws with a blinding sweep over the male pup's rotund form, locking him against the furred-sheathed planes of his chest—he was really sweetening the moment on the edge of unstinted contentment that just came instinctive to him.

A telltale slack of her beast machine's bulked mass was revealingly evident to his cool aquamarine irises as Bucky eased onto his side with tentative motion-he was going into nursing position while keeping his thrashing pup staddled down while he smirkily quirked his long muzzle when his luminous gaze of fatherly light beamingly chased the advancing kittenish prowess of his youngest baby girl-Madison. The dainty mahogany pup was infused with the delicate sleekness of Selina's ravishingly enchanted beauty-a decadent heartstopper incarnate that didn't detract from Aurora's rebellious spunkiness. Both their angelic-puppy visages were strikingly alluring in contrast.

Nonchalantly with an errant smirk against tangible distance, Selina reacted with feigned impatience to the ambient- infectious tempo of untamed playfulness radiating from him as Brennen greedily piped out his onerous demand, digging his stubby muzzle into Bucky's unkempt fur."Very smooth, Brooklyn boy," she whispered huskily in a smoky undertone, gesturing a blatant paw over his inflated girth. "...although I can't get used to all the expansive packaging, it's not a good look for you..."

"Now you're hurting my feelings, darlin'. Guess i'll have to work on my charm better if I'm gonna keep breaking hearts with this bloated body..." Bucky playfully grumbled as he eased himself on his side on top of a soft mound of snow. "These little guys need to eat until they're big enough to hunt their own meals out here." He revealed as Selina settled into the snow across from him. Little Mattie settled herself between Selina's paws, yawning adorably as she made herself comfortable and rested her head against her mother. Bucky felt his heart swell at the sight while Selina appeared to visibly struggle against herself. Finally, the she-wolf lowered her head and nuzzled the baby-pup with then softly licked her head affectionately.

"Does it get any easier?" Selina asked him with a serious look.

"It does if you're open to it," Bucky responded. Looking down at Brennen and Aurora resting beside him as they indulged in their morning meal. The alpha wolf released a grumbling snort as he watched them growl aggressively at each other. These two would be trouble growing up if they were this competitive already. "You wake up to these little guys each mornin', know how much they depend on you to keep them loved and protected; and the rest is easy. You just gotta want it, darlin'...Do you?"

Selina knew the answer deep in her heart, despite how often she had tried and searched for an alternate course for not just herself but for Bucky...and their children. Nothing made them safer and more at peace than living in his solitary life, far away from the troubles and chaos of the world, with only themselves to worry about and protect. She could honestly think of nothing better. Smirking, her canines gleamed in the bright morning as she wrapped her paw protectively around Mattie and kept her close and safe. "I'd love to find out."

0 notes

yoongisbbydoll · 8 years ago

Text

temerity, (m.)

⇢ pairing ─ min yoongi, reader

⇢ genre ─ domestic

⇢ length ─ 1,676 words

⇢ warnings ─ smut, overstimulation

⇢ synopsis ─ Fuck game night--if you know what I mean.

Game night means a house full of rowdy boys and no sleep. The whole house is awake, almost all the lights turned on, shouts of joy and anger bouncing through the empty hallways. You dread this night every time it comes around, but each time, Yoongi makes a promise. “If my team wins, I’ll fuck you like we’ve never done before.” He says each time before opening the front door, welcoming in his friends.

They all wave and smile, team colors painted across their faces and clothing. You would be kind for the first hour, delivering snacks and sitting on the opposite couch, acting interested. Then as soon as the game picks up speed, you sneak away to the basement and work yourself on the elliptical until your legs are numb.

Unlike Yoongi and his friends, you prefer to spend your time watching heart wrenching dramas, frightening thrillers, or comedies that have your stomach muscles toned within the first ten minutes. It’s easy to forget about game night with your headphones suited over your head, volume up all the way, first episode of a new drama propped in front of you, elliptical humming away beneath you.

Two episodes or one movie is your maximum, but even then, game night upstairs is still going on. So, you take your sweaty ass up two flights of stairs—which seem more like hell after a long workout—and hop into a cold shower. Even with the water beating down on you like pouring rain, it isn’t enough to drown out the screams coming from your living room.

You roll your eyes, keeping Yoongi’s promise in mind as you wash up. When you hop out the shower, the house is silent. A few lights have been turned off, but for the most part, the house is still lit up like a jack-o-lantern on Halloween. The television continues to blare phony commercials, audible on all floors. You worry your neighbors will call a noise complaint to the police station.

You patter to your bedroom, pushing open the door. Your eyes land on the bed. Yoongi is dressed up in his football gear, shoulder pads and helmet and all. You can see him smirking through the facemask of the large helmet. “Guess who won?” Yoongi asks playfully from the bed, spreading his legs just a little bit wider.

Without replying you head to the closet, holding your towel tightly around your body. Yoongi, in shock at your blatant disregard, doesn’t move from the bed. You quickly change and return to the bedroom, crossing your arms at the foot of the bed. “Will you move? I’m exhausted.” You bark, your voice is harsh and a cold chill runs through the room.

“Baby—” Yoongi tries, but you shake your head and climb into bed as he shuffles off.

“Don’t baby me. Ever since we moved here, all you care about is work, football, and sleep. In that exact order. So why don’t you go to sleep, it’s next on your list anyways.” You huff, pulling the sheets up over your shoulders.

Yoongi pounces on the bed, springs squealing. He moves to hover over you. “Are you forgetting my promise?”

“What promise?”

This time, Yoongi grips your jaw, pulling it and forcing you to face him. But your eyes wander to the side of the room, focusing on the wall. Yoongi, with one hand, pulls off the helmet, tossing it to the floor where it lands with a dull thud. The sheets are pulled back and Yoongi runs his hands up and down your sides. “I have something new in mind, but I’m only going to do it if you let me.”

You roll your eyes. “I’m not convinced this is going to be any fun for me. Now, will you let me sleep?” Most of your sexual adventures have led to Yoongi’s gratification and your disappointment. He always makes sure to finish you off, but for once it would be nice for you to be the one receiving most of the pleasure, not the other way around.

“How can I convince you?” He hums, cheek grazing yours as he nuzzles into your hair. Yoongi bites down on your earlobe, then just under your ear, slowly making his way down the low collar of your shirt.

Without a moment of hesitation, Yoongi pulls back and slips under your shirt. He begins to leave a trail of hickies down your chest, between the valley of your breasts, stopping just below your navel. He peaks out from under your shirt with a smirk, “Shall I continue?”

You nod your head shamelessly, closing your eyes as Yoongi slips your panties down your thighs and then forces your legs open. He presses his lips to your slit, daringly poking his tongue out to tease you. For a second, Yoongi doesn’t do anything, just stares up at your face with a neutral expression. But before you can blink, he’s got your legs over his shoulders and his face pressed between them.

Slick tongue rolling over your clit, lips suckling on the sensitive skin. You knot your hands in his hair, tugging on the dark strands, arching your back. Yoongi slips a hand between your legs, using his thumb to circle the sensitive bundle of nerves while his tongue explores your glistening cunt. Pleasure is a soft wave, coming over you slowly. Every stand of hair, down to the tips of your toes that curl in delight. Heat pools in your stomach, you become tunnel visioned, all you can focus on is chasing your high.

Yoongi pulls away, your slick heat gleaming against his chin. He wipes it away with his sleeve before sitting up between your legs, holding them apart with his own. He slips the football jersey over his frame, letting it clatter to the floor. Next come the shoulder pads, shorts, boxers. Once he’s completely bare, he returns to his position, hovering over you.

He leans down towards you, and at first you think he’s going to kiss you until you feel the tip of his cock just barely touching your entrance. Yoongi smirks, “Safe word?”

You shake your head, arms wrapping around his neck, pulling him to you. Yoongi’s cock slips inside of you, and he lifts your right leg up, using the angle to push into you all the way. Your lips slip away from his, deliria tugging at your heart strings.

Your moment to adjust to Yoongi comes to and end and he picks up a voracious speed, skin slapping skin. The color behind your closed eyes is magenta as Yoongi relents inside of you. You try your hardest to stay level headed, but it’s impossible with Yoongi’s lips attacking just below your jaw, his cock swiftly moving in and outside of your tight cunt.

Breaths choppy and hindered, Yoongi comes inside of you. But he doesn’t quit, even after you clench around him. You come slightly after, digging your nails into his brawny arms. Your breaths are harmonious and Yoongi stares down at you with twinkling eyes, a bead of sweat rolling down his temple. You reach up and push his hair out of his eyes as he continues his belligerent movements inside of you.

Pain begins to sear in the pit of your stomach and you groan. You wonder how the pain could be so pleasurable, but you give into the sensation of Yoongi ravaging your body like never before. All too quick, you find yourself coming to our second high, symphony of Yoongi’s name slipping past your swollen lips.

Yoongi quickly follows, and, much to your surprise, he doesn’t halt. You wonder where this sudden burst of energy is coming from but he keeps going, hot breaths fanning over the side of your neck as he comes down from his second orgasm.

He pulls out of you, hands wrapping around the base of his aching cock. “Yoongi?” You sit up on your forearms, staring at his pained expression as he tightens his grip.

“Give me a second,” he holds up his other hand.

You tilt your head. Yoongi lets out a deep sigh then looks up at you, eyes wild. His hand wraps around your neck, pulling you towards him. His lips connect with yours, teeth clashing sloppily as he uses the momentum to force you to straddle him.

You barely notice as he slips his cock into you again, too caught up with his tongue sliding dauntingly over yours.

Yoongi begins snapping his hips up to yours and you pull away, scrunching your eyes closed as heat coils in stomach once again. Your body slumps over Yoongi’s, spent from working out and Yoongi’s rough movements. You try to tighten around Yoongi but pain spikes inside of you, somehow converting into something pleasurable.

A volcano of pain and pleasure bubbles in the pit of your stomach, you lean your forehead onto Yoongi’s shoulder, panting. Please, please, please, you beg. For what, you’re not entirely sure, but your body longs for another release and Yoongi slips his hand between your intertwined bodies.

Quickly after his nimble fingers reach your swollen clit, pain floods the entire bottom half of your body. Your legs shake and your walls clench around Yoongi so tight he can barely feel himself think. His slips out of you, cum dripping onto the bed.

You lay on Yoongi for a moment longer, trying to regain your composure. But as soon as you try to move, your legs completely give out.

Yoongi chuckles, rubbing circles into the small of your back. “Was I too rough on my babygirl?” He whispers in your ear, “Maybe we should come up with a signal.”

You shake your head, “I’m okay, I just need a minute.”

He hums in sarcastic agreement, slowly rolling you onto your side. He plants a kiss on your forehead before slipping away. When he returns with new clothes and something to clean you up, you’re already passed out.

A smirk tugs on Yoongi’s lips, “I was that good—huh?”

note : inspired by this request. this is the longest thing i have written in awhile, and even if it isn’t extremely long, it means a lot to me.

Thank you for reading! Read more from me, July, here.

190 notes · View notes