Yup

Elementary, Chapter One

gif credit: @magnusedom

pairing: pre-outbreak!joel miller x teacher!reader

chapter rating: M (no smut yet but all my works are 18+, talks of children with difficult home lives, widowed/single dad!joel, unbeta’d and unedited bc i refuse to proofread my shit)

word count: 2.8k

series masterlist | joel masterlist

The sound of your alarm clock buzzing hit you like a brick, the burn in your eyes causing you to wonder if you got any sleep at all. You rolled out of bed with a yawn, your back cracking as it adjusted to being upright.

“Christ,” you groaned as you stood up and padded your way over to the bathroom. “And only twenty-eight.”

As you stood in the shower nearly catatonic, you thought about the day ahead of you. Parent/teacher conference day. The worst day of the year.

Typically, you loved going into work. Your class of fifth graders were a godsend, making up for all the mischievous ten and eleven year olds you had last year. But today wasn’t about the kids, even if it was supposed to be. Today was about dealing with their opinionated, or even more tragic, absent parents.

No matter which way they leaned on the spectrum—involved or absent—none of them ever seemed to be pleased with your assessment of their child. If their children were straight A students, you simply weren’t challenging them enough. If they were rowdy, it must be your fault because “they aren’t like that at home”. Never satisfied.

But the worst and most draining part of the day was sitting there with your students waiting for their parents to show up, both of you knowing they wouldn’t. You had to watch the light fade from their eyes as the minutes ticked on. You had to watch them struggle to ask to use your desk phone to call home. On more than one occasion, you had to watch the child go off in the backseat of a police car, their parents MIA and having no other way home. It broke your heart in ways they never taught you about in school, ways you never prepared for.

Sitting down at your desk, a half hour left until the first bell rang, you flipped through the pile of report cards, ordering them by meeting time rather than the alphabetical order they were in now.

“Morning, Miss,” a small voice called your attention, your eyes lifting from the papers to watch as Sarah Miller, one of your better students, walked in.

“Sarah, class doesn’t start for another half-hour.” Your brows furrowed as she hung her backpack on her chair and sat down.

“My dad had to be at work early,” she informed, tugging out a book and cracking it open.

“Well, why don’t you go have some breakfast since you’re here early?” you suggested, unsure of her home situation given that her father missed last semester’s conference, leaving them unacquainted.

“No, we had breakfast burritos on the way,” she assured, already lost in her book. You nodded to yourself and resigned to having some company as you went through your morning prep.

As you jotted down today’s date and lesson objectives, Sarah called your name.

“Yea, Sarah?” You turned around to look at her, her brow laced in concentration as she pointed at a word in her book.

“What’s this mean?” You walked over and looked at the spot she was pointing to, sucking your teeth at the word at least two grade levels ahead of hers.

“Assiduous—means careful,” you read it out loud so that she could hear it pronounced, her small voice repeating the word earning a nod from you. “What are you doing reading such an advanced book?”

“It’s my dad’s,” she shrugged, flipping to the cover. “Figured if he’s smart enough to read it, so am I.”

You laughed and nodded, amused and impressed by her wit.

“I don’t know your dad, but I’m sure you’re right.” The bell rang signaling the start of the school day, your door opening as your class of thirty started to file into the room. “Good morning, everybody. Did everyone have a good weekend?”

“My cat died!” Tommy, one of the more talkative students announced to the class over a sea of other responses.

“I’m so sorry about that, Tommy,” you sympathized, watching as he shrugged.

“It’s okay. He was kind of a jerk.”

You weren’t sure whether or not to laugh, so you refrained, taking a deep breath before clapping your hands together.

“Alright then. Let’s, uh, let’s get out our journals and start our morning logs, shall we?” You stood at the front of the classroom and watched as your students tugged out their composition notebooks and cracked them open. “The subject for today is dreams. You can write about your dreams for life, for the future, for yourself and for family, or you can write about an actual dream you had. Whatever you end up writing about, remember to use some describing words. Set the scene. Just because you can see it in your head doesn’t mean the reader can, so really try and paint a picture with your words. Alright, everybody ready?”

You pressed the timer after your students confirmed they were ready to start, and walked back over to your desk to check your emails. As you sat down, your phone lit up with a message alert from the guy you’d gone on a date with on Saturday—a guy who almost literally bored you to tears.

Hope your day is going well! Can’t get you out of my head. 💞

You sighed at the message, locking your phone and flipping it over as you shooed your failing live life out of your mind to focus on work.

“Sorry,” Sarah apologized as she paced around by the door, her eyes glued to the hallway as the two of you waited for her father to show. “He promised he’d show—“

“Hey,” you heard a man’s voice from in the hall, Sarah’s relief clear as she welcomed him inside.

You were a little taken aback by how attractive and young he was, his dark brown hair matching his eyes as he stepped over to your desk. He held his hand out for you from over your bulky computer and you accepted it quickly.

“Sorry I’m late, I, uh—“

“Just over here,” you interrupted him to lead him over to the half-circle table at the back of your class, Sarah joining the two of you.

“I just started a contracting company, and it’s…hectic to say the least,” he offered you a polite smile, hoping to wipe away the look of disappointment on your face as you seemingly wrote him off as just another absent parent. “It’s just me, so…hard to be in two places at once.”

“It’s completely understandable, Mr. Miller,” you assured with a warm smile, forcing your eyes away from his handsome face to grab Sarah’s report card and your progress notes. “So, Sarah is doing incredible this year, as I’m sure you already know.”

Joel looked over at his daughter with a proud smile, nodding at her.

“Her grades are great, her attendance is great, the only concern that I have is her social skills.” You watched as his smile faded into the frown that you’d come to expect in these meetings.

“Her social skills? What’s wrong with her social skills?” he asked defensively.

“Nothing! Nothing. She’s an excellent communicator and teammate when she’s put in groups,” you flickered your eyes over to her, watching as she looked guiltily at the table. “But she rarely socializes with her classmates outside of team-assignments. Have you considered putting her in some extracurricular activities? So that she can socialize a bit more and make some friends? I know the soccer season is starting soon.”

“Sure,” he nodded, looking to his daughter. “Whatever she wants to do, you know, I give my permission.”

“I don’t want to be on the soccer team,” Sarah chimed in, glancing at her father. “No one would show up to my games anyways.”

“Hey, now,” Joel sounded hurt as he shifted in his seat to face her better, your eyes falling to the tabletop awkwardly as you let them talk it through. “I’m tryin’ my best here.”

“I know,” she assured with a sincere tone and a nod, no malice in her voice, just resolution. “But it’s still true.”

“It doesn’t have to be soccer,” you spoke again, wanting to ease the tension. “A book club is always an option. I lead a women-only book club every week at the public library on Saturday afternoons. It’s ladies of all ages, our youngest is a five year old who comes with her mom, and our eldest is ninety-seven. Why don’t the two of you swing by and check it out this weekend?”

“Am I allowed?” Joel asked with a hint of a playfulness, bringing a smile to your face.

“We’ll make a one-time exception,” you assured.

“Appreciate it,” Joel chuckled and stood up, holding his hand out for yours again. “Well, thank you for all you do. It was a pleasure to meet you. I’ll see ya on Saturday.”

“On time, hopefully,” you teased and felt your chest swell in pride as his smile widened.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Joel was standing at the stove, scrambling a pan of eggs while he waited for the pancake in the other pan to be ready for a flip when Sarah came hurdling into the room, still half-asleep. Joel shot her an amused look, chuckling at her disheveled state.

“Mornin’, baby girl,” he greeted.

“You’re up,” she croaked with confusion.

“Yep.”

“You never wake up on your own,” she noted suspiciously as she slugged her way over to the fridge, tugging out a bottle of orange juice before catching sight of the freshly flipped pancake. “And we’re having pancakes? Who died?”

“Nobody,” he quickly replied. “I’m just tryin’ to get us to your book club on time.”

“Yeah, so you can see my pretty teacher,” she teased, elbowing his side as she stood beside him at the stove, tending to the eggs.

“I should’a never told you that,” he sighed, his momentary lapse in judgement leading him to make a comment about how much prettier you were than he was expecting on the drive home from the meeting on Monday.

“It’s okay if you have a crush,” she assured, her words mildly surprising him. He’d expected her to be against the idea, her loyalty to her mom who passed away five years ago causing him to avoid the dating scene entirely. “I just don’t know if she’d be into your whole…situation.”

“My situation?” He questioned her with a smirk as he plated their breakfast before carrying them over to the table.

“Yeah, you know, the whole overworked, messy, single dad thing.” Joel stared at her in playful disbelief as she listed off his flaws casually, seeing so much of her mother in her. “But maybe she’s into that.”

“We aren’t goin’ to get me a date, we’re goin’ so you can make some friends,” he reminded as he cut into his pancakes.

“Maybe you can make a friend, too,” she pointed out. “Maybe somebody who can help you with your time management skills.”

“Time management,” he repeated her words. “You’re gettin’ too smart for your own good.”

“Good.”

“Alright, I know we’re all eagerly awaiting the reveal of this month’s book, so without further ado—oh.” You were interrupted by a familiar father-and-daughter duo sneaking into the room quietly, Joel mouthing a silent apology as he took a seat with Sarah in the back. “We’ve got a new face today—well, two new faces, technically. Everybody, welcome Sarah and her father…”

“Joel,” he introduced himself, surprised that he forgot to do so during the conference.

“You arrived just in time for the reveal of this month’s book,” you smiled as you walked over to the stack of books hidden underneath a table cloth. “Are we ready?”

“Yeah!” The five year old you’d mentioned during the meeting cheered, making you laugh.

“Alright, this month’s pick is…” you pulled the tablecloth off and lifted the cover up. “Sense and Sensibility by Jane Austen.”

“About time,” croaked the eldest member of the club, Harriet, the book having been her vote every month since she’d joined the club a year ago.

After handing out copies of the book to the entire room, including Joel, you announced that it was “mingling time” and were delighted to see Joel and Sarah making a beeline for you.

“I’m glad you guys came,” you greeted them with a smile, pointing at the book in their hands. “It’s a pretty good read, not my usual cup of tea but not bad. And given the books you’re used to reading, Sarah, I’m sure you’ll be able to handle this one.”

“Hey,” a girl Sarah’s age approached her with a friendly smile. “I’m Jessie.”

“Sarah.”

You and Joel looked on as the two eleven year olds got swept away in conversation about some show you’d never heard of, both of you proud of her for branching out.

“So what’s this club all about?” Joel asked, the two of you now alone as Sarah walked off with her new friend. “Just reading and snacks?”

“Pretty much,” you confirmed with a chuckle. “We do more throughout the month—activities based on the book we’re reading and stuff—but it’s the first meeting of the month, so it’s usually just spent with all of us catching up and hanging out.”

“Well, she looks happy,” he pointed out before holding up the book in his hand. “Anything I should be worried about her reading in this?”

“As in sex, drugs, and violence? No. But if you’re worried about 19th-century gender dynamics, then yeah, there’s some stuff.” Joel laughed and nodded, tapping the paperback against his palm. “You, uh, you made progress. Only five minutes late this time.”

“And I woke up early, too,” he added before flushing in embarrassment as he revealed his eagerness to get here on time. “Yeah, uh, Sarah’s used to pullin’ me outta bed—she was floored to see me already awake when she woke up.”

“Sounds like you need a better alarm.”

“Or more days off to actually get some decent rest,” he replied with a sigh, shaking his head.

“She knows you’re not intentionally doing it, you know?” you offered, the affection you felt for both him and his daughter teetering in inappropriate given that you were simply her teacher, but you couldn’t shake it no matter how hard you tried to all week.

“I feel so guilty,” he confessed, suddenly looking more vulnerable and exhausted. “She’s missin’ out on bein’ a kid and havin’ to take care of herself all because I decided I wanted to be self-employed.”

“Her mom—“

“Passed away five years ago,” he filled you in softly as you walked him over to the snack table to grab a water bottle. “Just got her uncle and I left.”

“Well, you guys aren’t doing too bad,” you complimented with a smile, watching as he rolled his eyes. “Seriously, she’s a funny kid. Quick, too.”

“That’s all her mama,” he replied with a smile that screamed affection.

“Well, she must’ve been quite a woman, then.”

“She was,” he nodded, his eyes turning away from yours as he reached to grab a water of his own. “Thank you, by the way.”

“Oh, you don’t need to thank—“

“No, I do,” he shushed you gently. “Sarah’s other teachers never cared enough to look out for her like you do. It’s really…I appreciate it. You’re even extending that kindness to me, so…thank you.”

You felt overwhelmed by his words, having never received such kindness in your career. You were used to crying over criticism, but now your eyes began to well for a whole new reason.

“Oh, I didn’t mean to make you cry—“ Joel reached to touch your shoulder but refrained, not wanting to cross any lines without consent. You sniffled and wiped away the tears that had yet to spill from your watery eyes, chuckling at your own emotional state.

“No, I’m just…not used to a parent being so nice,” you laughed again and this time Joel joined you. “So, thank you and, by the way, I appreciate you too.”

“Maybe we can—“

“Oops, I spilled my wine!” Harriet announced, cutting off Joel’s attempt at asking you out.

“Harriet! Where’d you find wine? This is a public library,” you scolded, starting off towards her before turning back to Joel. “Sorry, I, uh, I have drop-off duty on Monday morning, so I’ll see you when you drop Sarah off?”

“Yeah,” he nodded, swallowing his failure. “See ya then.”

five and one

rafa x gn!reader, 7598 words, canon typical drug use, hurt/comfort/angst, no happy ending(!!!)

the five times you were his friend, and the one time you weren’t 

a/n: this has been in my docs waiting to be finished for sososo long omg finally the rafito despair is here. enjoy!

taglist: @ashlingiswriting​ @drabbles-mc​ @cositapreciosa​ @hausofmamadas​ @cherixrosa​ @purplesong1028​ @mandaloria314​ @dashavau​ @yeetintomadness @thesandbeneathmytoes​ (as per i have forgotten who wants tagging and who doesnt sorry!)

1

Rafa’s been asking you for weeks. Come smoke, carnale, come on. I have something to show you.

Soon, you told him. I’m busy with school, work, I have to pick my Abuela up from church—I’m the only one who can drive her, remember?

They weren’t made up excuses, even if he thought they might’ve been. You didn’t like it either, having no time for him, but it’s how it went. How it is. He dropped out of school, never made it to college. You did. It gives you different markers now, different structures to shape the friendship around. When you were classmates it was easy, natural: before class, in class, after class. Simple. There you were, there he was. Now, you have to pencil him in like any other obligation.

He isn’t an obligation. You try not to let him feel like one.

Lees verder

charm

let her breathe?!?!? 😭😭😭

Ni Ceta, Cyar'ika

Dark!Din Djarin x Jedi!Female Reader

Warnings: corruption arc, murder, death of minor character (i don't wanna spoil it but I wanna make sure no one is caught off guard. it's axe woves), possessive behavior, loss and anxiety, light smut, mentions of being intimate

Word Count: 7,842

Summary: Din Djarin is a man who lost everything. His home, his son, his Creed. But at the end of the day, he still had you. He still had you, and he was determined to keep you.

[a/n: if dark fics aren't your forte, don't worry this isn't super dark. well, not as dark as i originally planned to go. more psychological horror than physical]

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"i denied death for you. and i'd die for you again. kill for you. i'd tear the stars down from the heavens to fashion you a crown. you are my heart. my queen. i'd do anything and everything you ask me."

-Jay Kristoff

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Looking back, you had no chance of not falling in love with Din Djarin. Even despite having plenty of reasons not to. You were on the run from the Empire, trying to keep a padawan safe from them. He was hired to collect said padawan as a bounty. He was a Mandalorian. You were a Jedi. Needless to say, the odds had been stacked against you both, but falling for him was the simplest thing in all the worlds.

You had a lot of reason not to, sure, but you also had no chance in avoiding it. Not with the way he put you and Grogu above everything else⏤ even himself. Not with the way he balanced trusting you to hold your own in a fight versus protecting you when you were overwhelmed. Not with the way his hand would softly brush against you as if he wanted so badly to touch you but thought himself unworthy. Not with the way his hoarse voice whispered your name in the softest concern and care.

Never before had you put any belief in the concept of soulmates, it seemed silly, but after meeting Din you weren’t so sure. The two of you seemed made to fit one another. Complement. Make the other stronger, better. The way you both understood one another, the care and love that came so easily… It was as if you loved him in another life. Like the two of you were destined to find one another in every lifetime. Made of the same stardust and shaped by the galaxy itself.

You loved Din Djarin. You loved him so damn much, and it made watching him crumble that much harder.

“Din.” You mumbled. Boba had swooped back to pick the lot of you up after the successful rescue mission. Though calling it successful seemed…bittersweet. Grogu was safe, but Grogu was gone. You wandered closer to where Din sat in a chair. He had isolated himself the moment you all boarded the ship. He was slumped over, elbows on his knees, and head hanging down. You knelt down by his side and squeezed his arm. “Hey. I wanted to check on you.” Din nodded, but stayed silent. His helmet stayed facing down, away from you, and it broke your heart to see him so devastated. “Tell me what you need, baby. I can stay or I can give you some space.”

Again, Din did not respond, but he turned his arm just enough to grasp you by the hand. You gave it a slight squeeze and just stayed there. For the rest of the flight neither of you moved. You knew Din felt like he couldn't complain. Grogu was safe with Skywalker, set to train and harness his gifts. Softly, you reassured him that whatever he was feeling was alright. He stayed silent.

Boba and Fennec’s goal was to reach Tatooine so you and Din tagged along. It wasn’t far. You all got there in a matter of hours and when you parted ways, Boba encouraged you or Din to call him if anything was ever needed. It didn’t take long for you to get a room at an inn. 

That night in bed you held Din close. The room had been darkened so even if you did open your eyes all you could see was his silhouette. He loved you with soft touches and thankful whispers, and when the both of you were spent and exhausted Din collapsed into you. Typically, he liked being the big spoon. Din loved wrapping his body around yours, all encompassing, as if he needed to protect you even in sleep. However, tonight, Din clung to your side⏤ an arm draped over your waist as he laid his head on your bare chest. You held him close, raking a hand through his hair tenderly.

The room was filled with quiet breaths, and when Din spoke his voice was so hushed that you nearly missed it.

“Don’t leave me, cyar'ika.” He seemed to beg. “I can’t lose you.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” You said firmly. Holding onto him tighter. You continued to whisper promises of staying by his side long after he fell asleep.

Din wanted to find the covert. That was what he told you he needed. You had no qualms with that. You wanted to do whatever you had to in order to help him find some semblance of normal. Coruscant was not one of your favorite places in the galaxy, but you’d walk through hell as long as Din was by your side. As you followed him, his eyes tracking signs and clues you couldn’t see, your own gaze continued to drift to the saber hanging from Din’s belt. His newest acquisition.

Ages ago, when it had been time to build your own lightsaber, the kyber crystal you chose had really chosen you. Everybody had certain strengths, even within the Force, and yours was reading energies. Your kyber crystal seemed to sing to you. The energy it gave was warmth. It was protective. It was loyal. Building your lightsaber had been a time honored tradition you treasured. Having it hang from your hip was something you did not take lightly. It gave you strength.

The energy coming from the darksaber felt…wrong. It was hard to put into words. It was muted to you, as if trying to hide, but still the darksaber seemed to weep a negative energy into the air itself. You didn’t like it, but you had no significant reasoning why other than ‘it feels bad’.

When the two of you reached the covert, Din was adamant about you coming in with him. Even when you told him you thought it was a bad idea, he still tangled his hand in yours and dragged you in. Just as you thought the other two Mandalorians there were unhappy with seeing you. In part because of the lightsaber on your hip, but more so because you were not their kind. You were not Mandalorian. Auretii. That’s what the Armorer called you. An outsider. It wasn’t inaccurate. 

The interaction started bad and only got worse.

Paz Vizsla challenged Din for the darksaber, a man you knew that Din considered to be a brother even despite rough disagreements in the past, and watching Din use the saber sent a chill down your spine. It was too heavy in his hands, and with every swing the blade was more difficult for Din to use. You could see it in his stride. You didn’t know how to explain it⏤ it was always difficult to explain the way an energy felt to you⏤ but the saber was fighting. It was annoyed.

Din won the battle.

“Din Djarin, have you ever removed your helmet?” The silence that followed the question broke your heart. “Have you ever removed your helmet?” You felt useless watching Din endure this pain. It was the same watching Skywalker carry Grogu away. You were a witness to his suffering. “By Creed, you must vow.”

“I have.”

“Then, you are a Mandalorian no more.”

The walk back into the depths of Coruscant was silent and painful. You slipped your hand into his, giving it a reassuring squeeze. I’m here. I’m not leaving. You will not lose me. Din returned the squeeze, but the pain was radiating off him in palpable waves. A feeling washed over you and your eyes darted to Din’s hip where the saber rested. Smug. It felt smug. 

The two of you walked into the covert as Mandalorian and Jedi, but left as Apostate and Aruetti.

You had the opinion that Din never got to properly mourn the loss of the Razor Crest. With everything going on at the time, it seemed like the least of the problems you both had. However, it's loss was felt now. Even in the short time you spent with Din and Grogu, the ship had become a place of comfort. For Din, the Crest had been all he had for so long⏤ it was his home. It held all his belongings and in a singular second it was all gone.

That aching wound was constantly festering, but when the two of you were forced to ride in public ships to get from world to world you could tell it stung Din the most. That’s how you’d have to get off Coruscant, but a small victory came in the form of a message from Peli. 

“Din, you’re not gonna believe this.” You grinned as he returned from whatever errand he had to do. “Peli has a possible Razor Crest replacement. She just messaged me. If we can just get to⏤”

“No.”

Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion, but Din took you by the hand and began to travel the opposite way of the small inn you were staying in. “What?”

“I found a ship. Here. Already purchased it.”

Surprise washed over you. “Wait.” You tried to get him to stop and look at you, but Din seemed like a man on a mission. “You bought it already? Without even asking me?”

“It was my credits.”

The words stung. It was so dismissive. Nothing like the way Din usually spoke to you. He always discussed big decisions with you, just as you did with him. The two of you were a team. Through and through. Din seemed to sense your displeasure and his steps faltered.

“Cyar'ika, ni ceta.” Din murmured. You recognized the apology. He turned and settled a hand on the side of your face. “I…I don’t know what came over me. I suppose I was just excited.”

“It’s…” You lifted a hand to cup the one tenderly caressing your cheek. Din had just lost his Creed. The cornerstone of his existence. Of course, he’d be short. You’d be more worried if he wasn’t showing signs of being upset. You gave him a tight lipped smile. “No, I’m sorry. Are you alright? How do you feel?” Din didn’t respond. “Baby?”

He shook his head, his voice quiet. “I’m just ready to be off world.”

“I understand.” You gave him a smile. “Show us our new home then.”

Din let out a small chuckle and you took that as a victory. He led you to a yard of ships and pointed out a black ship with burgundy accents. It was nothing special. It wasn’t the Razor Crest. However, it had enough space for the both of you.

“This is nice.” You explored the cargo hold. 

“It’ll do.” Din countered.

You jumped when you heard the ramp closing and as Din passed you to get to the cockpit, he set his hand on your lower back to take you with him. As you settled in the passenger seat, you watched as Din familiarized himself with the control panel. When the ship reached the atmosphere, you leaned forward.

“Hey, maybe we should go see Peli anyways. Say hello.” You suggested. “She can look the ship over and tell us if we need anything…” Peli would just rip you off, but she was a familiar face. Boba and Fennec were on Tatooine as well. You thought Din could use more than just you. A reminder that he had more in his life than he thought. “Din?”

“No.” Din replied. He placed in a set of coordinates and you recognized them to be Nevarro. Well, maybe that would work. Karga was there. Cara too. Last you heard, Mayfeld was kicking around the newest establishment. The ship slipped into hyperspace and Din held a hand out to you. When you took it he yanked you toward him and you fell onto his lap. “We’re needed in Nevarro. Karga.”

He said it as if the name was enough. Before you could ask for further clarification, Din was tossing his gloves aside. He hit a button that shaded the windows, dimming the room till it was nearly impossible to see then he whispered to close your eyes. It was natural for you to do just as he asked. His hands grasped at your hips, pulling you down to grind against your core, and a pair of lips began to leave open mouth kisses along your neck.

“Cyar'ika…” Din breathed as he wrestled your shirt off you. Rough and desperate. Yanking your breast band off with it. The moment you were bare to the chilly air of the cockpit, Din’s hot mouth wrapped around one of your nipples, teeth grazing sensitive skin, and you moaned. Din pulled away and you already missed his mouth. “Need you. Need all of you.”

Din loved you with rough hands and frantic begging. When the two of you were spent, breathless and sweaty, you slumped against his body. Din trailed his hands up and down your spine as if he couldn’t fathom not touching you.

“I can’t lose you.” He murmured in your ear. “Not you, cyar'ika.”

“You won’t.” You reassured him. “You won’t lose me.”

The reason Din stopped in Nevarro, stopped to see Karga, was for bounty pucks. You had never seen him take so many at once and he said less than ten words to the High Magistrate of Nevarro before dragging you back to the ship. 

A distraction. You convinced yourself. It was just a distraction. 

Din needed something to keep his mind busy and what better than bounty hunting? As long as you were there to keep an eye on him, make sure he’s cared for, then everything would be alright. It might take time, but it would be okay. That’s what you told yourself. Over and over and over. You wondered if the reassurance was more for your benefit. 

The first couple of bounties went normal, but slowly things began to feel…different. Wrong. The quarries Din brought in were more often cold than warm these days. He seemed to be favoring the darksaber as well. It had gone from a weapon used as a last resort to one of his regulars. Din got better with the weapon after every quarry, and the saber’s energy felt like it was singing. As wrong as it all felt, Din seemed himself still. In fact, he almost seemed closer to his normal self. The aching sadness and mourning wasn’t so present. 

“Din?” You called out from where you sat at the small table. Rather than staying on the new ship, the two of you had rented a room at a local inn. It put you closer to where the current quarry was hiding. “You in the mood for something specific? For dinner, I mean?” Din had stepped into the bathroom to clean up and still had yet to come out. “Baby?”

Concern began to take root, but the door opened and you felt it slip away only to be replaced by shock. A stranger in familiar armor stood in the doorway. Din. Din was helmetless. You quickly shut your eyes with a curse. Heavy footfalls crossed the room to stand in front of you and you felt Din’s warm hands on your cheeks.

“Cyar'ika, look at me.”

“Din, what are you doing?” You gasped. It had been nearly two months since the covert, but even then he kept his helmet on. Never took it off. You didn’t understand what had suddenly changed now so suddenly. “I⏤”

“I want you to see me.”

“But⏤ But, why now?”

Din’s thumbs were tracing your cheek and he wouldn’t answer your question. He murmured again for you to open your eyes and you hesitantly peeked through your lashes. Din stood towering above you. From where you sat, you had to look up to admire his features. His appearance was never important to you. You fell in love with the soul inside that armor. Din always swore you’d see his face one day, but the context would be different. He’d whisper about a future together as you both laid tangled in bed. 

He was handsome. Strong features, pretty dark brown eyes, scruff along his jaw. And his hair, you were finally able to see the dark slightly loose curls that you’d run your fingers through. You slowly stood and lifted a hand to trace his features.

“Am… Am I okay?” Din asked. 

The phrasing of the question was odd and it took you a moment to garner a guess. You cupped his face with a broad smile. “You’re more than okay. You’re perfect. Maker, it’s kind of not fair how handsome you are.” You kept your tone teasing and Din chuckled. The sight of his smile warmed your chest. “What brought this on?”

“I am an Apostate.” Din said firmly and you felt your own smile falter. His dark brown eyes stayed locked onto yours and though they held the depth and soul you always knew they would there was something else there. “I am no longer Mandalorian. Why should I hide my face any longer?”

“Din…” You mumbled. Concern leaking into your voice. This was quite the huge and sudden leap to make. “You⏤”

He leaned in and pressed a light kiss against your lips. The kiss turned deeper as Din began to devour you. Needy and wanting. Desperate. Soon he had you picked up into his arms so he could slam you against the wall. It always felt like Din craved you⏤ that wasn’t in debate. Right now though, he was like a man starved. As if he had never had never had you before and was worried he’d never have you again.

Din loved you like a man possessed. Pressed between him and the wall he was unrelenting. Still, held tight by the man you were in love with, Din moaned and begged for you to stay with him. He didn’t even pause to let you reassure him. Just praised the way you felt and pleaded for you to be his. 

There was something wrong with Din.

As you sat in the dingy alley, panting heavily from your near death experience, that was the first thought to occur to you. A hunt had gone wrong. One of the quarry’s allies had gotten the jump on you. You had taken a few hits, saw an opening to save yourself, but before you even had a chance the goon was being ripped off of you. Din had saved you, but it didn’t feel like being saved from where you sat.

Din had ripped the man off you and rather than use the darksaber he chose to beat the goon bloody with his hands. Blood splattered in the alley, on his otherwise spotless armor, and you found yourself trembling. The man who had been attacking you was long dead, but Din did not stop. His face was twisted in rage and hate. You called out his name, more than once, and eventually he paused in his onslaught to catch his breath. His chest was heaving from exertion and you could tear your eyes away from the red that stained his silver beskar.

Slowly, Din rose and stalked toward you. For a brief moment, you didn’t recognize Din. You didn’t know the stranger towering over you. He knelt down and reached out to cup the side of your face. The hot blood of the man Din had slaughtered smeared across your cheek. You could feel it and it sent a chill of fear down your spine. The hate began to dissipate from his eyes. There was a softness you recognized now, but for the first time you’d describe Din as hollow.

“Are you okay, cyar'ika?” He breathed. You nodded nervously. Din grabbed you by the arms and pulled you to stand. He let out a sigh of relief and wrapped you into a tight hug. He pressed you against his blood stained armor and laid his head on top of yours. Din shook his head, a shaky breath slipping from his lips, “I won’t lose you. I can’t lose you. No one will take you from me. I swear it, cyar'ika.” 

Relief and love radiated from Din, but all you could feel was the humming possessive energy that the darksaber blasted into the air around you both.

The sensation of dropping out of hyperspace woke you up. You blinked and reached out to a cold bed. Din had gotten up and was now dropping you out of hyperspace? You pushed up and slid out of bed. You found Din in the cockpit and the sight of an unfamiliar world hung in view just outside the ship. 

“Where are we?”

“Mandalore.”

You sat down in the passenger seat and grabbed Din by the knee forcing him to set the ship to drift and turn to face you. “What the kriff do you mean Mandalore?” Din didn’t respond. He leaned back in his seat and just stared at you. You were still trying to get used to seeing him without his helmet. Din rarely wore it these days. Even in a fight. “Din.”

“We’re meeting allies here.”

“For what?!”

“We’re recovering our home.”

Din was answering the questions as if you were being ridiculous for even asking them. As if you had been privy to this knowledge. Frustration made your temper flare. “Din, are you serious!?” He didn’t react and somehow that was worse. “We need to talk.”

“Then talk.”

Things had only gotten worse with Din. You were scared of what he was capable, but never in relation to you. No matter how cold his eyes grew, no matter how lost in got in a brutal fight, no matter how bitter the darksaber made the air, you knew Din wouldn’t hurt you. That knowledge was ingrained in your very soul. What worried you⏤ what kept you awake at night⏤ was your worry for Din. He always said he couldn’t lose you, but it felt like you were the one losing him.

“Baby.” You murmured and rose to take a seat in his lap innocently. Just trying to get closer to him. You cupped his face and at your contact the cold, distant look in his eyes briefly cracked. Din stared up at you in adoration and love. “I’m… I’m scared.”

Din furrowed his brow and sat up. His arms wrapped around your waist. “Don’t be. You never have to be scared. I’m never going to let anything hurt you.”

“No, Din, that’s not what I’m scared of.” You replied. “I’m scared for you. I’m worried about you.”

“I’ve never been better, cyar’ika.”

You raked a hand through his hair trying to convey every ounce of passion you felt for him in the simple motion. “Din… I’ve been wanting to say this for some time.” You shook your head. “The darksaber.” There was a flash of something unrecognizable in his gaze, but you pressed onward. “It’s… dangerous. You know when I told you about my lightsaber. It’s energy.” He nodded. “The darksaber gives off an energy too, and I don’t like it.”

“What do you mean?” Din asked.

“It feels like,” You winced and struggled for a description to match, “poison. Din, baby, it feels like poison.” Din shook his head as if he still could not understand what it was you were trying to say. “I think it’s a bad influence.”

Din scoffed but the curl of his lips made it seem like he wasn’t taking your statement seriously. “Cyar’ika, it’s a sword. It can’t influence me.”

“It’s not just a sword, Din. It has a kyber crystal in it and⏤”

“Are you trying to tell me I need to get rid of it?” He pressed. You gave a small nod. “I can’t. I need it.” You opened your mouth to argue, but his arms tightened around you. “If we’re going to take Mandalore back, recover it, then I have to use the darksaber. Be Mandalor.”

Your eyes widened. “Since when did you want that title??”

“But more importantly, I need it to protect you.” He whispered, ignoring your question entirely. Din leaned his forehead against yours and the touch was so soft and reverent that you shuddered. He took in a slow deep breath. “You are my priority. Always. The darksaber grants me the power to keep you safe.”

You pressed a tender kiss to his lips and Din’s breath hitched. As you spoke, you kept your lips close enough to brush against his with every word. “You never needed it before. And I’m not helpless. You know that.” Din closed his eyes and you dragged your fingers through his scruff. “We were fine without the darksaber. We don’t need it.”

Din leaned in to capture your lips with his. For the first time in a very long time, the kiss was slow and patient. He took his time tasting you and he leaned back to allow your hands to travel and explore him. It was so reminiscent of the days before everything fell apart that you almost cried.

Eventually, he pulled back and focused his heavy gaze on you. Din gave you a small smile, a hand tracing your jawline. “No, cyar’ika. The saber stays.” Your own smile faltered and fell. He left one last chaste kiss on your lips. “I love you. I will protect you.”

Your life on Mandalore was odd. Din left you out of the loop of everything. All you knew was that more and more Mandalorians arrived by the day to follow Din Djarin. It didn’t surprise you. The Din you knew and loved was a natural born leader whether he liked it or not. He had a magnetic draw to him. You didn’t see that side to your Din very much anymore. 

The city around you was slowly being rebuilt and you pondered your next move. Two months you had been on this rock seeing Din from a distance. Watching him turn into someone you didn’t recognize. When the palace was reestablished, a sentence you found obnoxious and ridiculous, Din moved you there to stay. He’d work all day, drift into your shared bedroom at night, and you mourned the days where everything was easier. Simple.

“Cyar’ika.”

You glanced over your shoulder to see the Mandalor approaching. The king of this world looked like Din, still stared at you as if you hung the moon and stars, but all you could see was the darksaber. It’s possessive energy clung to the man you loved. Two Mandalorian guards followed behind him, and you briefly admired the thick, fur lined cape that hung off one shoulder.

Din came to a stop in front of you and motioned to himself with a sheepish smile, “What do you think?”

“Very regal, Mandalor.” You teased softly.

Din drifted closer and took your hands in his. “Ni ceta, cyar’ika.” He mumbled. “I know I haven’t been around.”

“You’ve been busy. I get it.” You shrugged and tried to keep the bitterness out of your voice.

“But you come first. You always come first.” Din said firmly. “Things will be better from here on out. We’re stable. We’re established. And… I have a surprise for you.” Nervously, Din lifted your hands to tenderly press a kiss to them. “I have no right to ask, but will you give me your time today.”

It was so sweet. It was so Din. You were too overwhelmed to do anything but nod. Things could always turn around, you told yourself. All your time here, distanced from Din, you had planned. He needed a little exposure to his old life. You were the only person Din kept. Maybe seeing Boba and Fennec, seeing Peli, seeing Karga, seeing anyone would bring him back to the surface more permanently. You had even wanted to get in touch with Skywalker or Ahsoka to plan some kind of visit. If Din could see Grogu, you had no doubt he’d snap back into reality. He’d set aside the darksaber. The issue was, Mandalore still had thick storm clouds that prevented any outside interference or messaging. 

You felt isolated.

Din looped your arm through his and you walked by his side down the long hallway. You weren’t sure where he was taking you quite yet, but he spoke casually about his day and asked about yours with real interest. His smile was so warm and sincere that you could almost ignore the negative energy that damned saber gave off.

“Where are we going?” You asked as Din turned down a hall you knew would lead outside. “If we go out, I’m gonna need to grab my jacket.” Mandalore’s seasons still confused you and it almost seemed like the previous attacks had thrown the natural order out of balance. Lately, it had been rather cold.

“It wouldn’t be much of a surprise if I told you.” Din chuckled. He paused by the doors and you couldn’t help but glance at the two silent Mandalorian guards still standing near. Movement made you glance back in time to see he had shrugged out of his thick robe. Din settled the heavy article on your shoulders and you were surprised by the warmth it encased you in. “Comfortable?”

You nodded with a small smile. The robe smelled like him. Din captured your face in his gloved hands and you gazed up at him in awe. Din was in a good mood. It had been so long since you saw him like this. Light hearted. Excited. “Are you happy?” The question fell from your lips before you could even think.

“Of course.” Din replied quickly. His tone suggested he was surprised you’d ask. “I have you.”

“You’ve always had me.” You mumbled.

Din’s face faltered, only for a second, before he bowed his head to rest on yours. Forehead to forehead. “Ni ceta.” He breathed the apology out sincerely. “I know things have been hard and…you’ve put up with so much. I’m so thankful for you, cyar’ika, and my greatest regret will always be making you question that.”

“I never questioned it.” You lifted a hand to place on top of his own. “I love you, and I know you love me. I’ve just…been worried about you, baby. I want you to be happy.”

“I am.” Din replied. “You make me happy.” He closed the space to press his lips to yours. Tender. Loving. Passionate. Din’s tongue traced the curve of your lower lip and you allowed him to deepen the kiss. Your hands shifted to tangle in his hair. Din pulled you closer, flush against his body, and it didn’t even matter to you that two other Mandalorians stood off to the side as witness to this scene. Din pulled back, separating the two of you, but he quickly set two more chaste kisses against your lips as if he couldn't bear the thought of being apart. Din whispered a promise under his breath. “For the rest of my life, I will make you happy. I’ll keep you safe.”

You had endured the hell of watching Din suffer and begin to lose himself in sorrow. Perhaps, this was the light at the end of the tunnel. Din had found stable ground, and he was now returning to a man you recognized.

Din turned away to push open the doors, but he kept your arm looped through his. The courtyard which typically sat unused and in a semi state of shambles had been cleaned and polished. Mandalorians as far as you could see stood waiting and as Din walked you down the path you spotted a medium sized platform, nearly a stage, and on it was a chair⏤ no, a throne. That was the only word to describe the heavy, dark metal seat. Standing on the platform, you recognized Bo Katan. She stood on one side of the throne. On the other side stood two others that you recognized, you had seen them with Din often, but you didn’t know their names.

“Din?” You whispered his name.

He shot you a smile but continued on. Suddenly, you found yourself on the platform standing beside Din as he faced the crowd. He lifted one hand, as if in greeting, and you stared at him as he spoke Mando’a. His voice was loud and firm. Powerful. This was a king among men. You never thought Din Djarin of all people would look like he belonged in this setting. You knew he had the attributes that would make a fair and just king, but Din had never enjoyed the spotlight. The future he craved, the future he painted while speaking to you in the dead of night, was a humble one. A home, some land, a family. Peaceful.

A bark of Mando’a, in a voice you vaguely recognized, interrupted Din and you watched as his shoulders stiffened. The crowd parted and a Mandalorin in dark blue armor approached. Axe Woves. That was his name you believed. You didn’t know what he was saying, but you could feel the tension in the air.

Din set his hand on your waist and pushed you back. You only stumbled back a few steps before Bo Katan took you by the elbow and dragged you back further.

“What⏤ What is going on?” You asked.

“Challenge.” Bo Katan said. Din drew the darksaber from his belt and as it came to life you felt your own heart plummet. It’s poison was spewing in the air⏤ suffocating you. Smug. Arrogant. Angry. Insulted. You sucked in a sharp breath. “Axe Woves has challenged Din for the darksaber. For rule.”

The fight started in a clash of weaponry. 

It was a blur of beskar, but all your eyes could focus on was the arc of the darksaber. The burning glow that was now seared into your eyes. Seared into your brain. You wanted nothing more than to take that damned thing and throw it into the darkest pit you could find. Every time you watched Din used it, you hated it all the more. The fight did not last long.

Axe Woves was a good fighter, but he was not Din Djarin.

Soon, the air was silent as Din held the edge of the darksaber just under Axe’s jaw. Close enough that the man had to have felt the heat. Axe was breathing hard, but you couldn’t see his face⏤ his back was to you. Din stood where you could see his face and he looked to be the picture of calm. 

“Cetar.” Din demanded. Bo Katan whispered, her eyes not leaving the scene, as she translated the Mando’a. ‘Kneel’. Din asked him to kneel. You felt a chill run up your spine and it wasn’t from the cold air. The darksaber was singing. Excited. Eager. It craved and craved and craved. Din repeated the command. “Cetar.”

“Nayc.” Axe replied. You didn’t need that word translated. 

At the sound of his refusal, you watched a flash of an emotion you didn’t immediately recognize in Din’s eyes. However, it was clear to see the way his lips briefly curled up into a smirk. You opened your mouth to scream, but all your words caught in your throat. Thick, heavy, and unwilling to be heard. Before you could overcome your hindrance, Din shoved the darksaber through Axe’s chest with not even a singular hiccup of hesitation. Your mouth hung open in shock and disbelief, but the horror didn’t land until Din leaned in and used his vibroblade to slice through the man’s neck in one swift motion. Blood sprayed out and the darksaber was screaming in pleasure.

“He had to make an example.” Bo Katan whispered. “It’s unfortunate, but Woves brought this upon himself.”

Din deactivated the saber and set it back onto his belt. While Axe Woves’ body slumped to the ground, Din tucked the still bloody vibroblade back into his boot’s holster. You stared at him wide eyed and horrified as Din marched back to the platform. He spoke before the crowd again, but it felt like your ears were ringing. The man you fell in love with would never have cut a man down in cold blood. The duel had been over. It didn’t have to end with blood. 

You couldn’t tear your eyes away from Din as he crossed the platform to sit on the throne. His legs were spread out in dominance as he lounged in the seat radiating confidence and pride. His eyes snapped to yours and Din held his hand out to you. Bo Katan gave you a small nudge and you stumbled toward the throne with hesitant steps. Din’s cold features melted away as he stared up at you as he always did, loving, but it only made the splattering of blood on his face that much more daunting. 

When you placed your hand in his, your fingers were trembling. Din squeezed your hand in comfort and he carefully pulled you back so you sat in his seat. Bo Katan was addressing the crowd and you stared and stared at Axe Woves’ dead body. Still laying on the courtyard’s ground, the pool of blood around him growing larger and larger.

You felt Din’s breath on your neck. His hands settled on your hips as he sat up to press his chest against your back. His breath was replaced with his lips. Din mumbled about how much he loved you and how important you were to him against your skin. All this time, all the hope you had, was for naught. The man at your back was a stranger.

“I’m sorry you had to see that.” Din pressed another hot kiss to the back of your neck. "But I just wanted to show you our new throne, my queen. Surprise."

As it turned out, the light at the end of the tunnel had turned out to be just more hellfire.

In the dead of night, you ran. 

You had hoped Din would return to his senses, become the man he once was, on his own accord. You hoped he had only needed time, but this had been proof. You were out of your depth. Din needed more than just time, he needed more than just you. As soon as you got past the thick, stormy atmosphere on Mandalore, you’d call for help. 

The plan had been to take Din’s ship. It was the only one you were familiar with the controls enough to not have to worry about running into any issues. As it turned out, flying was not going to be the biggest problem you faced.

“Cyar’ika.”

Your blood ran cold. Slowly, nervously, you turned around to see Din stood not far away. His shoulders were slumped in disappointment, and the look in his eyes could only be described as absolute and total devastation. He took one step forward and you took one back. Din’s jaw locked.

“Din…”

“What are you doing?” Din murmured. 

You shook your head. “Listen to me⏤”

“Listen??” Din scoffed. He took in a shuddering breath. “How could you⏤ Cyar’ika, I… Why?”

His voice cracked and you felt your heart ache in your chest. Din took another step toward you and you held a hand up which brought him to a sudden halt. You pressed your lips together then tried to explain that you were doing this for him. “Din, you’re not…you’re not yourself. You need help.”

“I need you.” Din replied firmly. “Everything is fine.”

“You murdered a man in cold blood today.”

“Is that what you⏤ You truly think so little of me?” Din asked. “It was a duel, cyar’ika. A challenge on my rule. I had no choice.”

You took a step toward him. “Din, you slaughtered him. And you enjoyed it.”

Din’s eyes darkened and the energy that slammed into you was possessive. For so long, you assumed that was how the darksaber felt. However, seeing the way he stared at you now, you realized the possession went much further than how the saber felt for him. He stormed forward and on pure instinct your hand drew your lightsaber without activating it. A warning. His steps stuttered. You didn’t know it was possible to visually see a person’s heart break, but you were witness to it right now.

“Cyar’ika,” Din whispered, “I would never hurt you. You know that, right?”

That was true for the man you fell in love with. 

Was it still true?

“I…I…” You struggled to find your words.

Din held his hands out, palms up, in surrender. He took slow steps toward you as if you were a skittish animal he was trying to calm. The tenderness in Din’s gaze cracked your resolve. He reached out and let his hands slowly drag down your arms until they reached your hands. You felt your body tremble. It was easy to make the decision to run when you stared at Din’s features covered in blood, but now? His warm, brown eyes reminded you of every soft touch and tender word of love. 

“Just come back with me.” Din whispered. “Talk to me, cyar’ika. I know…I know things haven’t been right.” He squeezed your hands and pushed the one holding the lightsaber back to your hip. “Let me fix this. Let me make this right. Give me a chance.”

Din leaned forward to set his forehead against yours. A familiar motion that brought you comfort. You let out a soft sigh. One more night. You could spend it talking with Din, gauging a better plan, and it wasn’t like you would be able to leave right now anyways. Not with him right in front of you like this. The look in his eyes told you he wasn’t just going to let you walk away and the absolute last thing you wanted to do was fight him. 

“Please?” Din pleased.

“Okay.” You murmured. 

The bright smile of relief that crossed his face made your heart flutter. Din pulled you into a tight hug and he clung to you like a lifeline. This would be alright. This would be okay. You’d make sure of it. Din slipped his hand into yours and carefully tugged you alongside him. The entire walk back to your bedroom was silent. Din’s thumb traced patterns against your skin.

“I love you.” Din said the moment you were back in your shared room together. His words came out as a desperate ache. “I’m sorry…”

“No, Din, I…I love you. I will always love you.” You replied. “I was leaving to help you.” Din’s brows furrowed in confusion. “I just think you’ve lost sight of your path.” You pressed your lips together then settled your hands on his chest. “I think we should leave Mandalore. Not forever, just⏤ I think we should visit Boba or Karga. Peli? Or… Or maybe we can reach out to Skywalker. Try to visit Grogu.”

Din’s eyes widened at the suggestion. 

He wrapped his hands around your wrists then lifted your hands so he could press a soft kiss against one palm then the other. Din nodded. “Okay. Tomorrow. I’ll be better, cyar’ika.” You gave him a small smile and he leaned in to crash his lips against yours. The way his lips moved against yours made you feel like he was trying to physically beg you to stay with him. Din had never been a man of many words, he’d whisper kind sentiments, but he always showed how much he cared by action. “I love you.” Din’s mouth dropped to your neck as his hands began to tear at your clothes. “You are everything to me.”

 Your hands reached out to unlatch Din’s armor. It was muscle memory for you. How many times had you done this exact same action in the dark during your time with him? Too many to count. His besker fell to the ground and the second he was bare of any armor, Din scooped you up and carried you to bed.

In the morning everything would be okay.

You’d make it so.

A familiar hand caressing the side of your face is what you woke to. You forced your eyes open, groggy, to find that Din was sitting on the side of the bed leaning over you. He wore his armor once more. Din leaned down and pressed a feather light kiss to your forehead.

“Ni ceta, cyar’ika.”

“Din?” You questioned.

“I want you to know that everything I do is because I love you.” Din said. “I’ve lost everything, but you.” He cradled the side of your face. “Even this, accepting the title and responsibility of Mandalor, I did with you in mind.”

There was a tone in his voice that was making you nervous. Slowly, you sat up and shook your head, “Din, I never asked you to do that.”

“I know.” He replied. “But this is how I protect you.”

“Din⏤”

“There is nothing in this galaxy that will harm you while I’m around.” Din said firmly. He stood up off the bed and gave you a tight nod. “I won’t lose you. I can’t lose you. This won’t last forever, I swear it. But I can’t leave anything to chance. Not when you mean so much to me.”

Din began to walk toward the bedroom door to leave and you stared at him in confusion. Quickly, before he could leave, you threw the blankets off your body and jumped out of bed. There was a heaviness around your left ankle, a coldness, and with every movement came a rattling. You glanced down to see a shiny, silver chain locked around your ankle. It trailed to the wall beside your bed.

“Din.” You breathed. He stopped but said nothing. “Din?” He turned around with sad eyes. Panicked, you began to rush toward him, but a few feet away from him the chain caught your ankle and you nearly fell to the floor. Warm hands caught you by the arms and pulled your back to your feet. Teary eyed, you shook your head. “What have you done?”

“It’s temporary.” Din repeated himself. “Just until I know you won’t hurt yourself by leaving.”

“Hurt myself⏤ Din, I⏤”

“Cyar’ika, I'm doing this for you. To protect you.” Din gave you a tight lipped smile of regret. “Or until I can make you understand.” Din leaned his forehead against yours. The soft action you loved ruined by his words. “You are mine, cyar’ika. You are mine, and I am yours.” That look of possession was in his eyes again. “And because you are mine, I have to take care of you. And that’s exactly what I plan to do.”

Din was beginning to step back so you quickly cupped his face between your hands. This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be. As softly as you could manage, trying to bite back the fear and panic in your voice, you mumbled. “Din, baby, you’re losing yourself. I love you, but you’re losing yourself and it’s breaking my heart. Let me go. Let me help you.”

He turned his head and gently kissed the inside of your palm.

“Maybe I am.” Din murmured. “But if that’s the cost of keeping you, then it’s one I will happily pay.”

Din left without another word and you crumpled to the ground in tears. You mourned for the man you lost and cursed the man who took his place.

mando'a translations

ni ceta: i'm sorry cyar'ika: darling, sweetheart cetar: kneel nayc: no

lee jeno x fem!reader (idol AU)

IMAGINE: you keep your relationship as private as possible

• he comes to pick you up every chance he gets when you have closing shift.

• you only do home dates, mostly at yours.

• lots of movie nights and take away dinners.

• cuddles are your night routine fr.

• "you're so warm and soft"

• during comeback season you don't hangout as much and he suffers the lack of your touch.

• "i miss you so much i think i'm gonna die" "you won't die, baby"

• shower sex is his thing. he loves it for some reason.

• "your skin is something else, i swear"

• he LOVES watching you getting ready in the morning, he knows your skin-care steps by heart.

• "you're very creepy, just there staring at me" "i'm very in love with you"

• a lot of skin-ship, he loves to touch and caress you.

• you're his comfort place.

• he doesn't speak a lot when you hangout but when he does, his deep and lazy voice never fails to turn you on.

• he's very good at using his hands and his tongue.

• when you complain about him going to the gym instead of spending time with you, he records himself doing some exercise and send you the video. you shut your mouth immediately.

• "you're the sexiest thing i ever saw in my life, istg" "(.◜◡◝)"

𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐳-𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐬 ☿ 𝟖

☿ 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐲 "𝐑𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫" 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐰 𝐱 𝐘𝐨𝐮 (𝐏𝐨𝐫𝐧 𝐍𝐚𝐦𝐞: 𝐂𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐀𝐫𝐬𝐚𝐧) ☿ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: You have a nightmare. Home feels like a layered word right now. ☿ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 8.3K ☿ 𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐳-𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐨𝐧 𝐒𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐟𝐲 ☿ 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐳-𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐬 ☿ 𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐛𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ☿ 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐥𝐲 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐭. 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐚𝐛𝐬𝐨𝐥𝐮𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭--𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝟏𝟖+. 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐲 𝐛𝐞 𝐮𝐩𝐬𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠. 𝐫𝐞𝐟𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐜 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬. 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐦𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐦𝐞 𝐢𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬. 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐚 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐝𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐧 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝟕𝟎𝐬--𝐚 𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐞𝐫𝐚.

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐄𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐋𝐨𝐬 𝐀𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐬, 𝐂𝐀 𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐡 𝟐𝟔𝐭𝐡, 𝟏𝟗𝟕𝟗

You’re in your childhood home back in Nebraska. 

Chicken shit coats your throat and nostrils thickly;  it’s been waiting for you to come home. The lights above you, strung up beside sticky fly traps and cobwebs, are buzzing. It’s cold in here. Maybe because there’s still a foot of snow on the ground--or maybe because you’re stark naked. 

The kitchen table is set with an old gingham tablecloth--one that has been constantly darned and sewn and patched in its sad life. There’s chipped china at every burlap placemat, the plates smothered with oily peas and thin gravy and chewy steak. The silverware isn’t very silver anymore and the cloth napkins are so worn that they’re translucent. 

 The table itself is an antique--older than you and your brother--and it creaks and groans with every movement, even if it’s only your brother reaching for the salt or your father cutting his steak. It’s hard and solid beneath your naked body, splintering the soft skin of your rear and the delicate flesh of your thighs.

All around you, in their usual spots, your family is eating dinner. You can hear every little human sound: chewing, sighing, sniffing, smacking, swallowing. You can’t move, though nothing is actually holding you against the table. 

They are eating their dinner, their oily peas and thin gravy and chewy steak, with their not-so-silverware as they watch you. Their eyes are glassy, far-away. No one’s face reads any obvious emotion: no one looks horrified, resentful, furious, disgusted, morose. They’re all just watching you like this happens every night.

They can see you lying here. But none of them have acknowledged your presence--and you haven’t said a word to any of them. You’re just lying here under the buzzing light, counting the flies on the flytrap.  

What is strange about all of this is that you thought that you would feel ashamed. The only time you were ever caught by your brother, when he pulled you out of the truck and got you sent to California, you felt the heat of shame for a few moments. Shame that something so private as sex had been shown to your family. But then that shame suddenly snapped and dissipated because of Dennis fucking Goldman. Now you can be naked in front of your family at dinnertime and it doesn’t matter.

“Good thing she can’t get herself in trouble,” your brother says suddenly. 

You know that he’s talking about getting pregnant. 

Your lips are paralyzed, congealed with faux sealant.  

“Doctor told us when she was fourteen,” your mama adds, sighing. She’s chewing still, her eyes untrained but lingering on your form. “Knew something was wrong earlier, of course. Hadn’t gotten her menses yet. Girls in my family always get it young. I was ten myself. Happened in church--I was wearing all white.” 

Swallowing hard, you try to drown her out. You try to just listen to the humming lightbulb. But you can’t. 

“She doesn’t ovulate,” your mama continues, shaking her head. A steady stream of gravy flows down her chin--she doesn’t move to clean it. “No eggs wanna take that chance.” 

Quit it, mama you want to hiss. You don’t move. 

“We weren’t heartbroken,” your mama continues, glancing at your daddy. “Were we?” 

“No. No we were not,” your daddy answers. He sits back in his chair with his arms folded over his chest. “Apples don’t ever fall far from the tree.” 

Your brother snickers.

“She’d leave all her apples on the ground. Rotten, maggot-infested. Nasty things,” your brother says. He’s chewing with his mouth wide open--there’s mashed peas in his back molars. “God knew what he was doing.” 

“Amen,” your daddy says.

“Pass the peas, ma,” your brother says. 

You wake up suddenly. 

The waterbed is sloshing beneath your form as you sit up straight, gasping for a breath of the cool breeze floating in through your open window. Your lungs feel stunted, like you can’t fill them up all the way. And when you press your palm to your chest, all the heat of your skin makes your hand sizzle. 

“Fuck,” you whisper, blinking through the darkness.

It’s late, past three in the morning. You should be sleeping still, should be getting all the shut-eye you can get for the shoot in a few hours. 

Instead, though, you throw your covers off and plant your feet firmly on the shag carpet, blinking at the dark. Your thighs are quivering, your lip wobbling. 

Fucking Hell.   

This is the first time you’ve dreamed of home since you left it. And you hope--sincerely and truthfully--that it is the last time you ever dream about it. It’s a strange thing really, because you knew you were home: the flyraps, the big kitchen table, the chipped china, the chicken shit. But it didn’t feel like home anymore--it just felt like a place you used to live. 

In the middle of this dark almost-morning, you blink at the painting on the wall and wonder, for the first time, if there exists a home for you. It prickles the skin on your thighs to think about it--a place you exist and keep existing that feels like yours. Home. 

You don’t turn any lights on as you walk, barefoot in your nighty, across the quiet house and to the telephone in the foyer. Rooster doesn’t sleep well usually--you don’t want to disturb him, not over something as trivial as a nightmare. A part of you, one that is stunted in its growth, wants to slink into his bed and snuggle into his chest and selfishly wake him up so he can comfort you. 

Instead, you dial the number. It’s something you’ll never forget--you know that. Does anybody ever forget their home phone number? 

A part of you still feels like you’re dreaming--like everything is fuzzy and warm and confusing. Nothing quite feels real yet, especially since the sun has not risen and your eyes are still puffy with exhaustion. Even the phone against your ear, all the heavy and hard plastic that purrs as it rings the ugly rotary phone on the kitchen counter in Nebraska, feels more like a toy than anything else. 

It’s five in the morning in Nebraska, which means that your family is up. Your mama starts the coffee at four-thirty and has breakfast ready by the time your daddy walks out of the bedroom in his overalls and mucking boots at five-fifteen. Right now, your mama is probably frying bacon and dropping biscuits in a cast iron pan, her hair pulled back into a bun and her face void of any color. It’s still winter there. It always snows in March in Nebraska. 

You don’t even really know what you’re doing. What are you doing? 

The line rings and rings, your grip growing moist around the telephone. 

Home. It seems like a very far away place. And not even just in distance--but in memory. You aren’t sure what kept you there for so long--that little shitty room and your mean older brother and your quiet daddy and your unhappy mama. Why were you bringing the ax down on chickens day in and day out when you could’ve been here the entire time?

You shift all your weight to the left side of your body, holding your hand to your cheek, wondering why you haven’t hung up yet. You wonder, too, why no one has answered. You know that they’re awake. You know that your mama is only a few paces from the telephone. You know your brother is probably sipping coffee now. 

It rings for a long time. No one picks up. 

With a breath caught between your teeth, the thought of your mother’s lips stained with gravy still pressed into your frontal lobe, you let the phone fall back on the receiver. 

Rooster isn’t sleeping. He feels like he never is, even when his entire body is sore from the afternoon he spent on the beach with you yesterday. He wants to sleep--wants to sleep so badly that he’s had his eyes closed for the past two and a half hours, unwilling to interrupt what might happen. 

So, when he hears your bare feet on the tile outside of your room, he finally opens his eyes and glances at the alarm clock on his nightstand: 3:10 AM. You must not be able to sleep either. He knows you’re trying to be quiet--you always feel bad about waking him up--but you can’t exactly be quiet in such an open, cavernous house. Even your bare feet on the tile echo down the hall and into his room. 

He hears your footsteps coming closer just after 3:17. What have you been doing for seven minutes? Certainly not getting a snack--you haven’t been eating much these days, especially not in the middle of the night. 

You knock on Rooster’s door hesitantly, something resembling grief sitting thick and heavy on your tongue. Your lip is still wobbling, your breaths still stunted.

“Come in,” Rooster calls at once, sitting up on his elbows. 

The door swings open and you stand in the doorway, dressed in that little red nighty. Your hair is wonky from the pillow and your eyes are little slits, but what makes Rooster’s spine stiffen is your posture. You usually stand so straight and proud, your shoulders squared and your jaw stiff. But right now, you’re almost cowering: shoulders drooping, legs bowed, eyes downcast, lips bitten. 

“Hey, daddy,” you sigh. You still haven’t gotten off the Daddy Warbucks jokes--Rooster is beginning to think you never will. “Want some company?” 

Rooster pats the chilled sheets beside him, eyebrows knit. 

“C’mere, baby.” 

Closing the door behind you, you crawl into bed with him, glancing at the Joni Mitchell painting mounted above the bed before you climb on top of Rooster. He takes it in stride, opening the covers for you, letting you nuzzle your face into his throat and slot your legs between his. He even tucks you both in under the covers, pulling them up to your neck before he encircles you in his arms and holds you against him. 

He likes to lay with you like this, even if his legs eventually fall asleep. He can feel everything you do--breathe, swallow, sigh, speak, flex, hiccup, fidget, twitch. All those little things that keep you alive, he can feel against his skin. 

“Can’t sleep?” Rooster whispers, kissing the top of your head. 

You sigh softly, shaking your head. 

“I was asleep,” you whisper. “Then I had this gnarly nightmare. I mean, it was a nightmare and a half.” 

Rooster nods. He knows about nightmares--his mother used to have them a lot towards the end. He can still remember pressing the cool cloth against her forehead, shushing her, luring her back to a fitful sleep. 

“Oh, yeah?” He asks softly, pressing his fingers to the back of your neck. You nod against him. “What, did you dream you were living at Hangman’s pad instead of mine?” 

Pinching him softly for teasing you, you shake your head. 

“I don’t think I even wanna talk about it,” you mumble. 

And really--you don’t. What are you supposed to say, anyway? It was just a nightmare. It doesn’t mean anything.

“Okay, okay,” Rooster whispers. “What should we talk about then?” 

“Don’t you wanna sleep?” 

Rooster scoffs.

“Me? Sleep?” He asks. “C’mon, baby. Get real.” 

“Why don’t you sleep anyway? Don’t jive me.” 

Rooster swallows hard. He hasn’t been asked that in a long time. A million years ago, when Phoenix would spend the night in his bed, she tried just about everything under the sun to get him to sleep. Lavender on his bedside table, chamomile tea after dinner, even acupuncture once. But she never thought to ask why he doesn’t sleep well. The only person who had asked was his doctor a handful of years ago, who only half-listened, anyway. 

You’re waiting patiently for his response, not pushing and not pulling. You’re content in your spot on his body, just waiting for his answer as you measure your breaths in terms of calmness and softness. You know, even without really knowing, that’s what Rooster needs right now. 

“Remember how I told you about my ma? And how she was sick?” He asks you. You nod against him. He clears his throat, smoothing his palm down your spine and letting it rest at the base. “Well, I was taking care of her and filming for Dennis, you know? So, I was spread pretty fuckin’ thin. Needed to be bright eyed and bushy tailed for filming, but had to wake my ma up for her meds during the night, too. To give it to you straight, baby, I just didn’t have time to sleep. That’s how I got on speed.” 

Speed. You try to imagine it--Rooster on cocaine. But you can’t really imagine him high, can’t imagine his pupils blown and his mouth wide open. 

He feels it when your body stiffens just slightly, when you jolt with realization. 

“I didn’t know that,” you tell him. 

He swallows. 

“No one does, kid,” he tells you. “Anyway, she used to get these night terrors, too. Nasty side effect of all those pills she was on, you know? So, I guess I kinda got used to not sleeping.” 

“You adapted,” you whisper to him. “Like a survival tactic. Evolution.” 

He nods.

“I guess I did. I was strung out all the time.” 

What he doesn’t tell you, what he hasn’t told anybody in the world, is that he sleeps like a baby when you’re in his bed. You’re an impolite sleeper, throwing yourself across his body, attaching your lips to his chest, needling your limbs through his. He thought that would make sleeping worse, thought that your hot breath on his throat would keep him up. But then he woke up late in the morning, eyes crusted with sleep, muscles slack. 

You sit up slightly, just enough for you to look into his eyes. They’re big and brown, staring back into yours just as sadly as yours are looking into his. You cup his cheek, swipe your thumb along his stubble. He holds you tighter against him like it’s an instinct. 

“You’re so good,” you tell him, really meaning it. “Do you think we deserve each other?” 

His throat is entirely dry. 

“How do you mean, baby?” 

“I’ve never done anything good in my life,” you tell him. You’re not exactly upset by this--it’s just something you’re stating. “You know, I’ve never, like, lived for anyone else. It’s always been the Cherry Show. You dig?” 

He thinks for a moment, not really sure what to say. He studies you, your creased brow and your earnest eyes. You look so honest bathed in the moonlight, nothing to hide from him. 

“Who says we’re supposed to live for other people?” Rooster asks.

“The bible,” you answer. 

He chuckles lightly. 

“Oh, yeah, I forgot how religious you are,” Rooster teases. “Cherry, I didn’t choose to live for my ma. There really wasn’t any other option.” 

You nod, chewing your lower lip. 

“But you did it,” you tell him.

“Yeah,” he sighs. “I did.” 

“And you’d do it again, I bet,” you answer. 

He doesn’t even have to think about it. He just nods. 

Yeah, he’d do it again. He would.

“What do you think it means that I can’t have babies?” You ask him. 

You’ve never asked anyone else this before. Honestly, you’ve never really wondered about it. It doesn’t break your heart. It’s a reality you’ve been living with since you were fourteen-years-old. 

“Nothing,” Rooster answers without missing a beat. “Nada. Zilch.” 

Cheek returning to his chest, you nuzzle yourself against him. 

“Do you think it’s some, like, cosmic sign?” You ask him. “Like, I’m too fucked up to be someone’s ma. My apples are rotten or something.” 

Rooster shakes his head profusely, tutting. 

“You could never make something rotten,” he tells you seriously. He holds you tight against his body, tight like he’s about to shoot the both of you off into outer space and he has to keep you buckled into him. He has to keep your bodies together when gravity is gone and you’re all each other has. “You’ve done plenty of good in your life, kid. I know it. I swear it.” 

It’s quiet for a moment as you two settle into each other. You sleep together often, not bound to your room by anything other than conventionality. Your room is his room and his room is your room. More often than not, you fall asleep on the couch with your head in his lap or by the pool during a party or in his bed after fucking. 

His body is solid beneath yours, anchoring you to this waterbed, this earth. 

Your body on top of his is heavy with comfort, something he is used to now.  

“Do you think they miss me?” You whisper. 

Rooster knows that you’re talking about your family. 

He swallows. You’ve never talked about them before--not in terms of your absence. 

“Sure, I’ll bet they do,” Rooster answers. “Unless they’re dumb.” 

Maybe they are dumb. 

“You know, I called them just now. Let it ring. No one picked up. I don’t think anyone’s tried to find me,” you whisper. You don’t sound sad about this exactly--just factual, serious. “Like, I don’t know how they would. I’m not a minor, you know? And I’m not a Californian legally. But--I don’t know, I guess I thought there’d be something. Like, maybe I’d show up on a milk carton sometime. Or at least a flier.” 

“Is that what you want, kid?” Rooster whispers, tone even and fair. 

You shrug. 

“I don’t know,” you whisper. “I don’t wanna go back. I don’t even really wanna, like, see them ever again. I feel like I’ve made my peace with that. But then sometimes I think about how I left home and never came back. And I think about what they did with all my stuff--not that I even care about it, anyway. But where is it? Did Carlton take my room?” 

You’re almost positive that you know the answers to these questions. Your stuff is probably ashes now, burned out in the east pasture when it was dry enough--that’s what your family does with trash. Carlton probably didn’t take your room, not when his has enough space for a double bed. 

Rooster just listens. 

“And--what, do they think about me? Or did I just, like, peace out and they were stoked? All the photographs of me on the wall and the art I made when I was little--where does it go now? Do they have a daughter still?” 

Both of you are quiet for a moment. 

“Cherry,” Rooster whispers. He kisses the top of your head again, letting his lips linger there as he breathes in the soap on your scalp. “Do you want them to be your parents?”

Slowly, you shake your head. No. You don’t. 

“Then they aren’t,” he tells you. “Simple as that.” 

“Says who?” You whisper. Your eyes are growing heavy. 

“Says me,” he tells you. “We can be orphans together, huh?” 

“You’re twisted,” you laugh. 

He keens at the sound of your laugh--you’re okay. You’re okay. 

“Untwist me, then,” he mumbles. 

You sigh, raking your fingers across the hair that grows on his chest. 

“Can’t,” you breathe. “I’m twisted, too. Perverted, really.” 

Rooster’s grinning now. 

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I’ll prove it to you.”

He kisses the top of your head again and inhales all of that Cherry that sits so thickly there. 

“No more doom and gloom tonight, baby,” he tells you. “Why don’t you go to sleep, huh? I’ll stay up and scare off any more nightmares, okay?” 

He used to tell his ma that, too, all those years ago. He’d take a few bumps, sit in a wooden chair beside her bed, and watch her face contort as she slept. He would wake her up before the nightmares would twitch her awake. 

“I love you, Roo,” you tell him. 

“I love you, Cherry-girl,” he tells you. “You’re my baby.” 

☿

The bump you took with Jake before filming sets in as you’re standing in the shitty saloon the prop team threw together in a few days, a tight bustier pushing your breasts up to an almost unnatural height. You’re backed up against the wall by Jake, who’s wearing a leather vest and no shirt with a cartoonishly large cowboy hat. 

“Well, I do declare that you are the rudest man I’ve ever encountered!” You say, clutching your faux pearls. There’s a slight Southern twang lilting your voice, one you and Jake worked on for a little bit a week ago. “I am a spoken-for woman, Mister Cowboy!” 

Jake is feverishly kissing your throat, nipping and sucking, caging you against the wall with his hands firmly planted on the wood. The camera is close to you two, zooming in on his lips against your skin. You know better by now than to look directly in its lens unless Dennis directs it. 

“Shut your trap, lady,” Jake responds. You two ran lines for an hour before shooting, then each took a bump to get your blood pumping. The two of you can recite this script forwards and backwards by now. “If you really wanted me to stop, you’d use that gun I know you’re holding!” 

The prop gun--a silly five-barrel pistol--is pressed into the cheap fabric of your skirt. You pull it out, just like you rehearsed, and press it against Jake’s taut belly. 

“Fine! You caught me. Don’t underestimate me, boy! I will shoot you dead! You’re an outlaw, afterall. Everyone will thank me!” 

Dennis is sitting in his usual chair, smoking a cigar, following along with the script. He’s pleasantly surprised at how easily you memorize scripts and how seamless your line interpretation is. 

He’s already had a couple calls from other big producers asking about you, trying to sniff out your contractual obligations. But Dennis isn’t fretting about it--you’re locked in tight with him. And with the way things are going now, your popularity rapidly on the rise, he knows you’re gonna be bringing him the big bucks. 

Jake’s pupils are blown. As you look into each other’s eyes, hearts racing, you both recognize that the other is high. Yes, the bump has definitely got your blood pumping. 

“I reckon you’re too much of a lady to shoot a gun,” Jake says, giving you his best snarl. You look up at him with big doe eyes and parted lips, your cheeks hot. “Prove me wrong, sugar. Shoot me.” 

You’ve rehearsed this bit a few times--you gritting your teeth and attempting to squeeze the trigger. Jake staring down at you with a smirk, still holding your body against the wall. Then you gasping melodramatically, letting the gun fall to the floor. 

“See,” Jake smirks. “I’ll bet I can make you do some unladylike things, sugar.” 

And at that, just like you practiced, Jake swiftly rips the bustier wide open and exposes your bare breasts. After you gasp, widening your eyes and pressing your shoulders against the wall, Jake hungrily kisses down your sternum and starts to kiss your breasts. 

“Perfect,” Dennis says from behind the camera. He takes a long drag, crossing his legs. “Make sure you’re still biting, Hangman. You’re an outlaw.” 

Something is cold in your belly, coiled up like a snake. When your eyes flutter shut as Jake sinks his teeth into your nipple, your mind hums with nothingness. You’re not really here right now, you’re somewhere else. Somewhere on your own, somewhere that your face is on every milk carton and where every lamppost has fliers covering every square inch of them. You’re somewhere wrapped up in Jake and Rooster, smushed between them, keening at their lips against your cheeks and their warm bodies against yours. 

“Cherry,” Dennis says, suddenly pulling you from that warm place. “You missed your line, babydoll.” 

Wrenching your eyes open, you blink at Jake and then at Dennis. Jake is cupping your breasts for decency purposes so you’re not entirely exposed in front of the crew. Brows furrowed, he’s staring down at you. 

“God, I’m such a space cadet today! I’m sorry, Dennis!” You say, heat spreading across your chest. “It won’t happen again! Swear it!” 

Dennis nods, lips flat. 

“We’ll pick it back up from I turn little ladies like you into whores. Alright? Let’s fuck.”

Jake nudges you with his forehead, eyes finding yours. 

“Y’good, berry?” 

You nod hurriedly. 

“Never better,” you whisper.

By the time you wrap up, it’s almost sunset. You’re sore from being fucked so harshly, which is what Dennis called for, but you’re satisfied at least. The coke is wearing off and you’re in your jumpsuit again now, sprawled out over the couch in Jake’s dressing room as he combs his mustache in the mirror. 

“Y’alright, Cherry-berry?” He asks, glancing at you. 

You’re twiddling your thumbs, blinking up at the ceiling. 

“Yeah,” you answer. “I’m groovy.”

He knows you aren’t telling the truth. You’re quiet. Usually, after filming, you’re asking for notes and telling Rooster how stellar he was and buzzing. You practically bounce off the walls after filming. Even though this is your first scene with Jake, he knows all this. He knows that something is off about the way you’ve totally thrown yourself over the couch.  

“Something’s on your mind,” Jake says softly. You won’t return his gaze, eyes trained on the ceiling as you fidget. You haven’t even bothered to take off the Western-themed makeup, so your cheeks are ridiculously pink and there’s a little beauty mark above your lip. “Lay it on me, honey.” 

The truth is that you’ve been thinking about it all day--why your parents didn’t answer the telephone. They were all in the kitchen, just a few paces away from the telephone. Your family will answer the phone during meals--even supper. They never go out of town overnight. There is no possible way they knew you were the one calling besides intuition, but even then, it seems unlikely. Why didn’t they pick up? 

Rooster made you feel better--holding you close, stroking your hair. But as soon as Jake picked you up this morning to drive to the set, that doom and gloom rolled in like a thick fog in the distance.  

“Cherry,” Jake says, drawing you from the dark corners of your brain. He’s facing you now, arms crossed over his chest. “C’mon. What’s going on?” 

Finally, you turn your cheek and look at him. His pupils are still blown, but his gaze is unwavering and earnest. 

“Had a wicked nightmare,” you tell him. You sigh, swallowing hard. “Just…thinking about that, I guess.” 

Jake studies you for a moment. You look deflated, tired. He doesn’t know it, but you slept with Rooster last night, letting your head rest in the crook of his neck all night. The nightmare disturbed you, but your parents not answering your one and only call disturbed you to the point of needing human connection. Jake doesn’t know any of this, but he knows that you need some air pumped back into you. 

“What was it?” He asks. He leans against the mirror now, still staring at you. “Trust me--I’m a dream decoder on the weekends.” 

You bite your lip. 

“Finally had to get that side-gig, huh?” You tease. “Shame that fucking didn’t work out for you, cowboy.”

Jake waits quietly for you to tell him, a smile tugging on his lips. 

“It was bogus, really,” you finally start, his silence nudging you towards the truth. You run your palms up and down your bare arms, your eyes untrained and lingering on the naked bulbs that line the mirror. “Back home in Nebraska, lying naked on the dinner table like a cadaver or something freaky like that. Family just eating dinner around me like everything’s hunky-dory. Started talking about me being all…twisted up inside. You know, like, baby-wise.” 

Jake nods. His fingers are beginning to tremble. He needs another bump, but he’s straining through the cold sweats and the dry mouth to listen to you. He cares about you--more than he expected himself to--and he cares about what you have to say about nightmares and dreams. He thinks, even, that he would listen to you talk about paint drying. He just cares. Simple as that. 

He’s trying to be good for you. He hasn’t tried to be good for anyone since Gentry.  

“What else?” He asks. 

In the warm glow of the room, you look very soft right now. In fact, for the first time since he’s met you, Jake thinks that you look young. That’s what you look like--a girl. A lost little girl. But then he blinks and you’re Cherry again, sinking your teeth into your lip and stretching your arms above your head.

He really needs a bump. 

“I guess that’s all,” you answer, sighing. “It’s kinda just given me bad vibes all day. You dig?”

You aren’t sure why you’re telling these fragmented truths. You aren’t sure why you’re telling two halves of the truth to different people, allowing integral parts of the story to stay shrouded in the dark. Rooster knows that you called. Jake knows what your dream was. Maybe if they ever talk about you with each other, maybe if they connect the dots, they’ll understand a part of you that even you don’t understand right now. 

“Here,” Jake says, fishing in the pocket of his jeans as he crosses the room to you. He sinks to his knees, the buttermints container in his hand. “I’ve got something that’ll put a little pep in your step.” 

He strokes your hair and you bite your lip again, eyes trained on the container. 

“I don’t think Rooster digs it when we get high and he doesn’t,” you tell Jake, wringing your hands together. “He kinda gets stuffy, doesn’t he?”

You’re thinking about what Rooster told you last night--how he used blow to stay up and keep staying up. You can’t imagine, really, just how spread thin he was by the end of it all.  

Rooster doesn’t outwardly try to be in a bad mood when you and Jake are high--but you know that he is. You’re hypervigilant to his moods, which is something that happened suddenly and completely one day. Every twitch of his mouth, wrinkle of his nose, nod of his head reads so clearly to you. You know when he’s losing his patience, when he’s holding in a laugh, when he wants to say more but won’t.   

Jake scoffs, cupping your cheek. His palm is clammy on your face. 

“That’s just cause he’s got a stick up his ass about sobriety,” Jake tells you. He pinches your cheek softly. “C’mon, we don’t have to go to his pad. We can go anywhere you want, Cherry-berry. The beach, The Dresden. Shit, we can go to fucking Vegas for all I care!” 

You sit up on your elbows, chewing the inside of your cheek. You want to feel better--you want that more than anything right now. You don’t want to feel bare naked anymore today unless you’re neck deep in the ocean. 

“Vegas? You really are an idiot savant, cowboy,” you tell him, grinning. You nod for him to open the container and he beams at you. 

“I ain’t just a woofin’, honey,” he tells you, making quick work of opening the container. “I’m the real deal.” 

“No phonies here,” you agree. 

He takes a bump first, a long and hard snort. And then, like he always does, he spreads the flowery stuff against your gums. You swallow, letting your eyes fall shut as the familiar feeling numbs your mouth. 

“I’ll never get over how foxy you are,” Jake tells you, shaking his head. 

He means it, too--you sucking on his finger, eyes fallen shut, blue eyeshadow caked on your eyelids--you really do something to him.

“Eat your heart out,” you tell Jake, grinning.   

He kisses you suddenly, quickly. His lips are wet and parted, his tongue pressing itself onto yours as he holds your neck gently. 

“Let’s go to the beach, huh?” You whisper against his mouth. “We can skinny dip in the ocean.” 

“Don’t be a bunny,” Jake tells you, resting his forehead against yours. “We’ve gotta eat before then, huh? Let’s purge on some burgs!”

☿

Rooster watches the sunset outside, hands on his hips and foot tapping impatiently on the concrete, in between incessantly checking his wristwatch. You left early this morning, detangling yourself from him and pressing a thousand kisses to his face before bounding out the door. He knows you must be done shooting by now--but you’re not home. 

It isn’t that he has plans for the two of you or anything. You’re not late for some big dinner, you don’t have a date, he doesn't have Cockwalk 3 for you to watch, he doesn’t necessarily have anything planned for the two of you except to sit in each other’s company. 

And he hates it, really, that it’s upsetting him so much. He expected you home by dusk, if not earlier than that. He expected to order a pizza and have a few drinks--maybe even go out and grab dinner. You’ve been talking about getting your own car now that you’ve gotten a  few paychecks--he thought you could talk about that tonight.  

He hates it that he’s worried about you not having a cardigan with you because even though you tell everyone you’re hotblooded, you get cold. And he knows that your ego is too big to admit it--which is why you always nuzzle yourself into him as the night grows darker, cooler. He hates that he knows that if you’re with Jake, he won’t recognize that you’re cold. He isn’t Rooster--he won’t shrug off his jacket and give it to you and you won’t ask.

He hates that he feels like a father waiting for his daughter to come home. He hates that he feels like someone’s old man left in the dust, worrying himself sick about you being cold or lost or hurt or upset. 

He hates that he was waiting all day for you to come home, replaying your conversation before bed, rubbing the knots out of his spine from your body weight resting on him all night. He’s been smiling today, finally well-rested. He hates that he slept so well last night, hates that he only sleeps that well when you’re in his bed.    

He doesn’t even have it in him to finish his Tom Collins. He leaves it on the tiki bar, ice melting in the highball glass, and doesn’t bother to shoo any of the bugs away when they come to collect its sugary contents. 

Just past midnight, you’re leaning against the passenger door of Jake’s car, damp hair dancing in the wind as Jake drives you home. You’re still in your jumpsuit, though it’s soaked thoroughly with ocean water now. Your shoes are tossed somewhere in the backseat, your makeup is smudged, and there’s sand all over your body--from your bellybutton to your toes to your ears. 

You’re coming down now, having taken more bumps today than you even care to remember. That ecstasy is fading as the morning grows nearer and nearer, as unavoidable as Rooster’s going to be when you get home. 

Jake is still high, taking a bump just before hopping behind the wheel, and he has the radio turned up too loud. Pretty Baby by Blondie is thumping through the speakers and vibrating your tongue. 

You feel like you can’t talk right now. You’re so full. Full of burgers, coke, cum, sand, ocean water. And even if you were clean--if you were freshly bathed and crawling into clean sheets--you would still feel too full. Too much emotion, too much regret, too much sex. You’ve been fucked five times today, all by Jake, and you’re sore all over. 

Cherry Arsan is always game--but right now, you just want to go home and sleep. Maybe that means you’re not Cherry right now. Or maybe you just don’t know her as well as you thought. You’re too tired to decide what is right and what is wrong. 

You don’t even know that you’re asleep until you’re suddenly being lifted from the front seat of Jake’s car and thrown over his shoulder.

“Oh,” you say softly, balling his shirt in your hands. It’s still wet, still sandy. “Didn’t mean to be a buzzkill, cowboy.” 

Jake shakes his head, starting for Rooster’s front door with you still slung over his shoulder. Your jumpsuit is wedged between your cheeks and you don’t have it in you to fix it. You don’t even have it in you to hold your head up--you’re just limp on his body. 

“It’s alright now, honey,” Jake tells you, perky as ever. His high hasn’t faded yet--he isn’t sure if it’s from his orgasm or the coke, but he is far from complaining. “Just chill.”

Rooster’s waiting in the foyer. He heard Jake from all the way down the street, tires screeching and radio booming. He drives too damn fast, especially when he’s high--it irks Rooster. 

 “Honey, we’re home!” Jake sings loudly as he bursts through the front door. 

Jake is surprised when he sees Rooster standing right in front of him. Rooster is still in his collared shirt and slacks, his belt and wristwatch still intact. Usually, by midnight, Rooster would be in his pajamas. And if that isn’t indication enough that something is off with Rooster, his body language is a dead giveaway. His arms are crossed over his chest, his posture is stiff, his eyes are narrowed, and his jaw is set. 

Rooster is, simply put, fucking furious. 

“Jesus Christ, what the fuck is wrong with you?” Rooster hisses, crossing the foyer and pulling you off Hangman’s shoulder and onto your feet. “You can’t carry her like that!” 

Jake just rolls his eyes, bumping you with his elbow. 

“I think dad’s pissed,” he whispers to you, eyeing Rooster. 

Rooster doesn’t smile.

“You alright, kid?” Rooster asks. 

“Groovy, baby,” you tell him. Your voice is quiet--thin. “Just need to get some shut-eye.” 

Then begins his examination of you. He tilts your face from side to side, taking note of the heat in your cheeks and the sand in your hair. He notices the little bite marks scattered along your collarbones and chest and the way your jumpsuit is ruined with saltwater and sand. Your makeup is running off your face, your skin is peak-ed, and your shoulders are slumped. There’s even a dash of white powder on your top lip and he knows exactly what that is. 

Jake is whistling, kicking his shoes off and heading towards the bar to make himself a drink. 

“Did you nab any more Aperol?” Jake asks. “You’ve been out for a hot minute, brother!” 

Rooster chews on his bottom lip.

“You’re not on my good side right now, man,” Rooster tells Jake, his tone still even but deep and serious. “I think you need to just go the fuck to bed.” 

Your ears are ringing. You’re exhausted, wilting where you’re standing. 

Jake just raises his eyebrow at Rooster, still looking through his liquor collection. 

“But, dad! I’m not tired! Please let me stay up until the television signs off!” Jake teases, chuckling.    

Rage is burning hotly in his veins now, which he isn’t all that familiar with. He usually doesn’t let himself get this angry, especially not at Jake. But there’s something about the state you’re in right now that’s changing that. 

“I’m not fucking around,” Rooster tells Jake, hands on his hips. “If you wanna keep partying, fine. But you’re not doing it here.” 

Jake freezes finally, heart racing still. 

He straightens himself, beholds Rooster standing in front of you with his chest puffed out like he’s some sort of hero. 

“Yeah? How come?” Jake asks coolly. 

“I had no idea where you two were tonight,” Rooster says, narrowing his eyes at Jake. “And I was expecting Cherry home by dinnertime, man. I was worried sick.”

Jake blinks at Rooster.

“Baby’s got a bedtime, huh?” He says, glancing at you. “She didn’t tell me that.” 

“I don’t have a fucking bedtime,” you sneer quietly, reaching for the buttons of your jumpsuit, which you fumble with. “Get real.” 

“Listen,” Rooster says, holding a hand up at Jake. “You can tease and fuck with me all you want, but I’m not gonna sit here and act like this is hunky-dory, alright? If you wanna fuck around, get high, and fuck on the beach then do that. But don’t drag Cherry into it!” 

Jake scoffs. 

“Yeah, she wasn’t exactly kicking and screaming, man,” Jake tells Rooster. “Don’t know if you know this, but she’s not your fucking orphan, man. She can make her own choices. Which she did--and she chose to fuck around with me tonight. Sorry that pisses you off.” 

Now Jake is pissed, anger burning the tips of his ears. 

Rooster and Jake stare at each other, both of their jaws tight with irritation. You slink out of your jumpsuit and leave it in a wet heap on the tile. You’re almost naked now except for the panties you have on, which are ripped from earlier today. 

“I find it hard to believe that she asked you to get her high,” Rooster says finally. 

When you walk out before him, fully intending to get away from the two men that are arguing over something that’s making your head pound, he suddenly reaches out and halts you with a big hand on your shoulder. 

“Really?” Rooster asks Jake, scoffing. “Had to mark her up, huh? Jesus, man. You can’t be doing that. Not in this line of work.” 

He’s talking about the love brands that cover the back of your throat and the top of your back, little purple bruises.  

 Jake holds his hands on his hips, growing hotter under the collar. 

“Oh, cause you didn’t mark her up nice and good over Valentine’s Day, huh?” Jake asks. Rooster pales a bit, but doesn’t break his gaze from Jake. “She wanted it, man. That’s why I did it!” 

It’s true--you did want to be marked up a bit. You were high when you asked him to do it and he was already taking you from behind up against the hood of his car. In that moment, as he suckled your skin and bruised it, you felt like you belonged to someone. Like actually, thoroughly belonged to someone. 

“Yeah, ‘cause I’m sure you’re all about what Cherry wants, right? And you never do anything because it’s what you want, huh?” Rooster spits. He shakes his head at Jake and scoffs, running a hand through his hair. “Don’t fucking jive me, man.” 

“What’s your problem, man?” Jake asks, truly incredulous. “Cherry isn’t yours.” 

Cherry isn’t yours. 

It echoes in the house, knocks against your skull like a brick. It sobers you, opens your eyes, stops the pounding in your ears. 

“Fuck off,” you suddenly sneer, lips twisted. Jake stumbles in place, eyebrows raised. But then you turn to Rooster and narrow your eyes at him, too. “Both of you.” 

They’re both shocked--blinking at you with their mouths agape. How you’ve managed to render them speechless--smaller, younger, and naked--is truly a power that only you possess. 

“Don’t fucking talk about me like I’m not here,” you say, stepping out of Rooster’s grip and looking at the both of them. Their shoulders are starting to wilt. “I can do whatever the fuck I want, alright? I can fuck whoever I want, I can eat whatever I want, I can snort whatever I want. Don’t fucking box me in, man.” 

“I wasn’t trying to box you in,” Rooster says, his voice even again. “I was worried about you.” 

Liquid magma is boiling in your belly. 

“Well, don’t worry about me!” You tell him, hands raised. There’s suddenly water in your eyes now, weighing down your lashes. “It’s pointless.” 

What you mean is: you can go missing and no one will look for you--not even your parents. And they won’t answer the phone, either. 

You turn to Jake, ignore Rooster’s gaze burning the back of your head. 

“Don’t call me a baby,” you tell Jake. He nods. “I’m not a baby--I’m not anyone’s fucking baby.” 

It’s quiet for a moment--the only sound is your heavy breathing. 

“Cherry,” Rooster starts, cheeks pink. “Listen, I’m--!”

“Goodnight,” you sharply interrupt, spinning on your heel and heading towards the bathroom. 

You slam the door shut. Jake and Bradley both startle at the sound, cowering in each other’s gazes. All the anger has suddenly dissipated, vanished. 

“Is it cool if I sleep in the spare?” Jake asks softly, testing the waters. 

Rooster nods. 

“Of course, man.” 

☿

Rooster isn’t sure what to do. 

He’s been waiting outside the bathroom for thirty minutes now. And before that, he was turning off all the lights and throwing your jumpsuit in the dirty laundry and changing into his pajamas. You’ve been in there for a long time--too long, really. 

He has decided that he won’t be able to even lay down if he knows you’re upset with him. He doesn’t even know where it all went wrong, really. He was just worried about you. He just wants you to be okay. And right now, he doesn’t think that you are--not with makeup all over your face and love brands all over your body. He knows he fucked up, which he doesn’t often do. And he knows that he has to make it right. 

Another ten minutes pass and he’s still standing motionless outside the bathroom. And finally, finally, he gets the courage to knock very softly a few times. 

Your response is immediate. 

“Come in.” Your voice is so little, almost lost beneath the crack of the door. 

Rooster’s response is also immediate--at once, he’s turned the handle and come into the bathroom, beholding your wilted form before the counter. You’ve showered and shrugged your robe on. Now, you’re looking at yourself in the mirror, your cheeks tear-stained and your lips swollen. 

“Baby,” Rooster whispers. He freezes when he remembers your words: don’t call me baby. I’m not anyone’s baby. But you don’t move to correct him. And your face doesn’t screw up with disgust. “I’m sorry.” 

You nod, sniffling. There’s still makeup staining your face, despite having tired to scrub it all off in the shower. 

“Me too,” you tell him. “I didn’t want to worry you. Was your night a total bummer?” 

Rooster shakes his head. He wants to reach out and hold you close to him. He wants to kiss your face. But he keeps thinking about what Jake said, what you didn’t dispute: Cherry isn’t yours. 

  “No, baby,” Rooster says quietly. “But I’m glad you’re home.” 

Home. The word feels so layered right now.

“Yeah,” you respond quietly. 

There is almost too much to unpack right now. You have a million things to say to Rooster, all of which make you cry. And Rooster has a million things to say to you, each one achingly close to a confession of some sort. But it’s too late. You’re too tired, he’s too upset, Jake is too close, you’re still coming down. You can talk about all of it when you’re sober, when you haven’t been crying. 

“Here,” Rooster says, catching your gaze in the mirror. He nods to the counter. “Hop up.” 

You do without a word, facing him with your shoulders slouched. 

He slots himself between your legs and takes the washcloth from your hand. He turns on the tap, lets it run warm as you fix your gaze on his bare belly. And then he holds your chin, tilts your face so you’re looking up at him. There’s that little hot coal sitting in both your bellies when you look at each other--all that honesty, all that love, all that respect, all that affection. It’s there, even now, after you told him to fuck off. Even after Jake said you weren’t his. 

Tenderly, very tenderly, he begins to dab at the leftover makeup on your face. The washcloth is so warm that it prickles your spine. And Rooster’s gaze is so endearing, so full of adoration for you, that your bottom lip wobbles. He’s never seen you cry before--but he knows that’s what is going to happen when you start to blink rapidly. 

But he’s good about it. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t call attention to it. Even when fat tears begin to roll down your cheeks, he just dabs at them and continues to wipe your face clean. When you sniffle, when snot begins to drip down your top lip, he doesn’t flinch: he just wipes it clean. 

You two don’t speak for a long time. For a long time, the only sound in the room is him dipping the washcloth in the water, wringing it out, then pressing it to your skin. Little sniffles and wet breaths occasionally echo off the tile, too, but you know it’s something that you can’t stop and Rooster knows it’s nothing he can stop either. So, it just happens. 

“There,” he whispers, setting the washcloth beside you and resting his palms on either side of your thighs. “All clean, baby.” 

You’re still crying. 

“Thanks a million,” you whisper to him. Your chin trembles. “I’m your baby, right?” 

Rooster’s brows knit, but he nods immediately. 

“Of course,” he tells you. “And you know what? I was about an hour away from calling the pigs and getting a search party started, baby. We’re talking every milk carton, every lamppost. Fliers plastered on department stores--the whole nine yards, baby.”

It makes you laugh, a thin and pathetic thing. And then it makes you sob. 

That’s when Rooster finally wraps his arms around you, when you finally let yourself go and cry openly into his bare shoulder. And the scent of his skin, vetiver and cigar smoke, makes something settle in your belly. 

This is home, you realize. This shoulder, this skin, this man, these arms. 

This is home. 

☿ 𝐚/𝐧: posting this here now that Tumblr has let me out of horny jail. I need all of you to know that I absolutely adore you and my time in Tumblr jail would've been miserable if not for all of you people. you're all my little chickens and I love you!

☿ 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫

☿ 𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠

☿ 𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐛𝐨𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐳-𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐬

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Hips Don't Lie || Pedro Pascal

a/n: my Spanish isn't the best now that I'm older, so if what i wrote is wrong, I'm so sorry 😭. i made A's and could actually speak fluently, but then i lost it after high school and college 😡. i may just have to re-teach myself in my free time. it's always good to know multiple languages! plus. Spanish is such a beautiful language, oh my word.

warnings: alluded smut at the end, Pedro being cheeky about having dessert first, sweetness, established relationship 💗

word count: 699

Pedro Pascal Masterlist || My Library

“What on earth are you doing?” You ask your boyfriend as you stumble into the kitchen. Music blared from the speaker, Shakira’s Hips Don’t Lie. Pedro had a spatula in hand, brown eyes heavily focused on the pan on the stove. 

Whipping his head up, brown locks disheveled slightly from what appeared to result from a much-needed nap, Pedro’s smile fans across his face. 

“I was trying to surprise you?” He says. “I didn’t think you’d be home this early, sweetheart.” He motions you over. 

A soft giggle escapes you as you wrap your arms around his waist. “Smells amazing,” You look down into the pan of red pasta sauce. 

“Let’s hope it tastes good,” He laughs. He takes some of the sauce onto the spatula and brings it to your mouth. Parting your lips, you take some into your mouth, moaning at the luscious taste. The moment he sees your eyes tip back, he knows he’s declared the winner. 

“Shakira?” You chuckle. Pedro was unavoidably moving his hips in enchanting circles, your eyes focusing on his backside that jostled back and forth in a pair of athletic shorts. 

“Can’t go wrong with her,” He winks, bringing you forward after setting the spatula on the ceramic plate. He takes your fingertips, lacing his through yours, and begins to move you back and forth. 

Laughter escapes you as you allow him to move you. Front and back the two of you go.

“Come on, baby!” Pedro exclaims, holding your hips. He pushes them in fluid motions. “I know you’ve got it in you. I’ve seen you dance.” 

Giggling, the fluidity of your hips put Pedro in a trance, his eyes hyper-fixated on you. “Esa es mi chica,” He purs, accent flooding your ears. 

He twirls you in circles, bringing your back to his chest. “Back and forth, there you go,” Pedro continues holding your hips. 

“You’re putting us in a questionable position, Mr. Pascal,” You giggle. 

“Any position is questionable with you, mama.” He laughs in return, kissing your neck. He glances over his shoulder and puts the stove eye on a lower heat before returning to you. 

You’ve got each other by the hand, taking turns around the bar in your kitchen. He’s soon picking you up, your legs wrapping around his waist. 

“Pedro!” You squeak as the backs of your thighs meet the cold countertop.

“Mmm?” Pedro purs, finding the softness of your neck with his lips. Still dancing to the beat of the music, he holds your hands in the air while kissing your sweet spot, inflicting the roll of your eyes. You arch your back slightly, feeling him slowly drop your hands. 

Pedro pulls his fingertips down your arms while yours lace over his shoulders, caging him to you. He grins against your throat, slowly finding his way up. With playful pecks leaving a hot trail on your skin, he’s under your jaw.

“You smell so good, baby,” He inhales your perfume. He wants to fall into a pool of it. 

You’re not able to break the smile from your face. You lace your fingers around his cheeks, stroking lightly the stubble on his cheeks. 

“What happened to dinner?” You ask him, cocking an eyebrow.

Pedro being quite the prince of seduction, allows his eyes to sinisterly trail the length of your thighs before promoting the floodgates to open based upon the daring look he gave you.

“Dessert sounds good right about now…” He bites into his lip, taking one of your hands and bringing it to his warm mouth. 

“You’re always so horny!” You giggle.

“Are you complaining? The counter’s a wonderful spot to be. You’re off the ground, you’re essentially on a plate for me… Come on, baby,” He giggles. You roll your eyes at him, but feel as he hops on the vacant side. 

“Pedro!” You yelp, especially when he starts to push your back to the cold surface now, gently holding your head on the way down.

“What can I say, baby?” He sighs. “I can’t resist you. No matter how hard I try.” 

With that, he seals his lips to yours, solidifying the fact that dinner wouldn’t be until much later.

Blow by Blow | 0.2 | Bradley Bradshaw x Reader au

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Synopsis: Bradley’s washed up before his career has even really begun. He doesn’t want to fill his father’s shoes and he doesn’t want someone else to either. Stuck in limbo, living the same way he always has, the opportunity to step up wanders through the door of his gym in a mini dress and heels that are a size too big.

Warnings: violence, probs boxing inaccuracies somewhere along the line, blood and injuries throughout the fic but will be specified in the warnings of the chapter. Smut and other 18+ content, minors dni, no warnings in particular for this one

…

The apartment above Bradshaw’s is about as glamorous as it sounds. Air Conditioning in the form of a couple of cracked windows and a dated fan that now only works on one of its three speeds, the middle one. Exposed brick and beige wallpaper. The highlight is the original hardwood flooring, a deep walnut colour. It’s got a couple of chips taken out of it here and there, but it works.

You keep to yourself as much as you can in those first few days, making sure you aren’t walking too loudly, aren’t showering too late and aren’t dropping things that could disrupt the people below. That being considered, you’d have to be being pretty loud to disturb the gym.

They’re much less concerned about raised voices and loud music.

Laying on the middle of the metal framed bed, the door to your room open, looking around your new place, listening to the dull whir of that old ceiling fan in the living room.

This entire thing would have been much less bearable without your friends. As much as you’ve kept the worst parts of your relationship from all of them, not one of them is sad to hear that things are over between you and Jett — they were more than happy to help you get back on your feet.

The white sheets with pale blue flowers on them, those are Cassidy’s. The clothes, those are from Amy and Beth. The kitchenware is a mix of what was here already and Zoe’s — she always buys too many glasses and mugs, she was happy to get rid of some. The rug under the bed. The mattress topper that stops the decades old mattress under you from keeping you awake at night. They gave you what they could until you’re able to get your stuff back.

If you ever do.

You roll onto your left side, facing the built in closet at the far side of the room. It’s got slatted doors, letting you see exactly how dark it is in there. That thing gives you the creeps. It’s hard to decide which is worse — facing it, or sleeping with your back to it.

A bang outside. It’s childish, but you pull the covers up to your chin and press your weight deeper into the spongy mattress topper. A car backfiring, you’re reassured by the sound of tires squealing away.

Living alone had sounded terrifying your entire life. Growing up, you had always pictured a boyfriend, or a roommate — someone, being here in this dusty old space with you. It’s just as the wish passes through your brain that you’re instantly wishing it never had. As keys slot into the lock of the back door, you’re quick to wish that no one was here — that the person about to let themselves in would just disappear.

The door to your room is halfway open. It had seemed like a good idea before, you had been scared of not knowing who was out there. Now, you’re terrified of knowing who is.

The lock complies with a click and a heavy weight falls into the door, swinging it open. You flinch, squeezing your eyes tightly shut. Another car squeals by outside. Heavy footsteps on that walnut flooring. Stumbling. The door slams shut again, heavy handed enough to make the windows behind your bed shake.

You hold your breath, not daring to open your eyes.

More footsteps, moving from the kitchen into the living room space. The footsteps get softer sounding after two small thuds. Your brows squeeze together softly. They took their shoes off. Stumbling again. The footsteps slow for a moment, maybe to catch their balance.

Curiosity gets the best of you, you peak one eye open. His back is to you, and he’s shirtless. It’s hard to see in the dark, but the muscled back and defined dimples at the bottom of his spine are just about visible. You swallow softly, shrinking back again, pulling the covers up higher.

It’s not Jett — but now you’re faced with a similar problem to the one with the closet. It’s not him, but perhaps it’s worse that it’s a stranger.

Your eyes widen at the sound of a belt jingling. He’s still not facing you, but he is taking his clothes off. You press your elbow into the bed, pushing yourself up, holding your breath as you slide the covers back. His zipper tears open loudly. You wince, cautiously shifting your weight closer to the edge of the bed and then up. Those ancient floorboards betray you, creaking under your weight.

He’s already turning anyway, heading for the bedroom as he kicks his jeans down his legs. There’s a lamp on the floor beside your bed — it should be on an end table but you don’t have one of those yet. You reach behind you, crouched at the side of the bed. Fingers splayed out, searching for your life line. He struggles, stumbling again as the jeans catch around his ankles.

Cool metal against your fingertips, you sigh in relief as you grab hold of the lamp. He steps forwards, almost slipping, still trapped in his own jeans, slamming his palm into the lightswitch beside the bedroom door. He’s standing right in the doorway now, facing you. It’s too dark to see his face for just a split second, but that’s about a second too long.

The lamp is already ripped from the wall and midair as he’s illuminated by the overhead light in the living room. He groans, squeezing his eyes shut in complaint at the sudden brightness, lifting his hands to shield his eyes. Your jaw drops as you suck in a sharp gasp — that’s about the only warning he gets.

It’s a plain white lamp shade on a golden coloured metal stand, about sixty centimetres from top to bottom. Well, it was. It slams into the muscle of his shoulder and clatters noisily to the ground. Just another chip in the hardwood flooring.

“Fuck!”

Still caught by the ankles in his jeans, and completely blindsided by the projectile you just launched at his head, Bradley hits the floor and lands flat on his back. Luckily, he’s too drunk to really feel that.

He pushes himself up so that he’s sitting just as quickly as he fell. Moving maybe a little slower than usual, he blinks a couple of times and squints at you. You stare at him, heart racing, chest heaving.

Rooster groans again and slumps back down onto the floor, draping an arm over his eyes. “Fuck, I forgot you were here.” He mumbles, slurring every other word, his voice muffled by his heavy arm over his face.

You swallow.

He’s on his back in the doorway to your bedroom, wearing socks, boxers and — you’re not sure if you can count the jeans, they’re technically still on, but not covering much. He’s not moving. For a second, you’re worried you might have concussed him, maybe the wire had hit him in the head.

You tiptoe closer until you’re standing at his feet.

He’s wearing white Calvin Klein boxer briefs. Natasha mentioned that this place was struggling financially, you wonder if you should mention that he probably has a future in underwear modeling.

Thick thighs, leg hair that can’t quite decide whether it’s blonde or brown and a toned chest. You stare at him for a second. The arm that isn’t over his eyes is stretched out above his head, muscles on full display under the dim light.

Reminding yourself of who this is and where you are, you nudge his foot softly with yours. He groans in complaint.

“What?”

“Are you… going to stay there?” You ask cautiously, trying to ignore how dry your mouth suddenly feels. He brings his arm down from above his head and adjusts his boxers, making your eyes widen. You pick a spot on the ceiling and focus your gaze right there. There’s a cobweb in the corner.

“You tried to kill me,” He mumbles into the crook of his arm. He opens his mouth like he’s going to say more, then sighs tiredly and settles into his spot. You can see him getting comfy.

“Rooster, um —“ You aren’t sure how to say this. It doesn’t feel right to kick him out, you’ve only been here for a couple of days and it is technically his. But then, you’re not going to be able to sleep with him settled into a pile of smashed glass and wires on your floor. “Could you… um, maybe…”

“Can I take the couch?” He asks tiredly, without lifting his arm up. Clearly, he was already aware of the fact that you were about to kick him out. You appreciate him asking, but saying no clearly isn’t much of an option in the condition he’s in.

At least if he does stay, you’ll be able to just close the door to the bedroom, and if a real intruder comes, they’ll see Rooster first.

“Okay.” You croak out, taking a step back from him as he starts to move. He kicks his jeans the rest of the way off of his ankles, grabbing onto the door frame for leverage as he pulls himself unsteadily to his feet.

He stumbles forwards and catches your shoulders, trying to find purchase. You wobble under the sudden pressure of his weight, unprepared for it. He stops and looks down at you, brows scrunching together. He smells like spiced oak and vodka, you pull back slightly.

“Is that my shirt?” His hands move from your shoulders, catching hold of the fabric in it’s centre. He lifts his gaze to look you in the eye. You’re almost knocked off balance by him again, and this time he’s barely touching you.

His hair is messed from an evening of running his fingers through it, and letting the cute bartender who had been giving him free drinks all night run her fingers through it. Up close, his eyes are soft and brown and his lips are blush pink and pursed and — fuck, right in front of you.

You remind yourself that he’s waiting for an answer, glancing down with wide eyes at the white philadelphia eagles shirt that you’re wearing. You give a small shrug of your shoulders.

“Um… I’m not sure, Phoenix told me to help myself to the stuff in the closet.” You answer quietly. Bradley nods, so, it’s his. He drops his hands back to his sides and nods.

He moves to take a step back and then stops. “Can I have a blanket?”

Oh, so he’s going to pretend that that didn’t just happen. That’s fine, you can do that to. You step back, turning around and heading for the closet. He leans against the doorframe, watching as you search for something for him.

You turn around and pass him the blanket, then press one knee onto the bed and grab one of the pillows. He seems taller this time when you turn around, arms folded over his bare chest. Now that the light is better, you wonder if he regrets wearing white boxers.

They don’t do much to hide his modesty, considering he’s standing in front of a stranger. He doesn’t seem phased.

“Here you go.” You breathe, passing the blanket and pillow into his arms.

“Thanks,” He stands before you, holding the blanket and pillow, not moving. His gaze falls down to his shirt once again. He was wondering where that went.

You shift uncomfortably under his gaze, wondering if the white of his shirt is as sheer on you as the white of his boxers are on him. He steps back, barely avoiding the glass on the floor as he turns away from you.

“G’night.” He holds his hand up and waves you off without looking back, dropping the pillow onto the couch and then following behind it. He settles onto his back and drapes the blanket over his legs, tucking an arm behind his head. Your fingers curl around the door handle, standing in the doorway.

He raises his brows expectantly, figuring that there must be some reason you’re standing there and staring at him. There is a reason, you’re staring at the tattoo on the inside of his bicep. You swallow and step back, starting to shut the door.

“Goodnight.”

“She threw a lamp at you?” Javy whoops, throwing his head back, holding his stomach. He’s got an infectious laugh, a goofy little giggle that doesn’t quite match the way he looks. Jake chuckles at his side.

Bradley checks for a bruise in the mirrored wall by the weights section, struggling to keep the smile off of his face — it’s not that he finds the situation funny, it’s just that Coyote’s laugh gets him every time.

“Nailed me — she’s got good aim.” Bradley breathes out, shaking his head. His memories of last night are fuzzy, but he remembers hitting the floor last night and then you standing over him.

He remembers waking up on your couch this morning in his underwear. Even if he didn’t remember that, his stiff neck is evidence enough that he spent the night on a couch that’s a foot shorter than he is.

“Shh, shh - she’s coming.” Rueben hushes them, leaning forwards on the ropes. All four of them turn quickly, catching sight of you as you round the corner into the gym. You’re wearing a short skirt and a tank top — middle of summer, no air conditioning upstairs, limited resources, there are a million excuses for what you’re wearing.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Jake turns on the charm as he rests back against the base of the ring. Javy and Jake are standing on the ground, leaning back, Bradley and Rueben are in the ring, leaning forwards. All of them watch as you walk closer. “Heard about your run-in with Rooster last night.”

They’re looking for a witty remark to embarrass Rooster, or perhaps an even funnier event that he may have forgotten given how drunk he was.

Instead, they’re met with a slowed pace, widened eyes and a soft, “Oh.”

A non-starter, a morning full of jokes dragging to a dull stop. You can tell that you’re slowing down the moment, but you’re really not sure what they would like you to say. Laughed at or laughed with. It’s a blurred line and you haven’t had much practice with the latter recently.

“Hey.”

Heads turn once again as Maverick steps out of his office at the back of the gym and holds up his palm in greeting. The guys look back towards you.

“Sorry, excuse me.” You say gently, stepping around them and walking cautiously towards their boss. If that’s what Mav is, he seems to be, with the way they get all serious when he’s around.

“Morning, kid — you ready to talk?” Pete greets you, stepping out of his way and motioning for you to go ahead of him into the office. You smile softly as you pull your laptop from your bag and step into the office.

“Sure, Mr. Mitchell — I got started with a website, it’s kind of bare but I wanted your opinion on the basics before I fleshed it out.”

His office is messy and poorly lit. The overhead lighting is harsh, it’s a single bulb in the centre of the ceiling with no lampshade. It might not be winning any awards for interior decoration, but there are plenty of other awards that adorn the room. Trophies, medals, belts. Framed photos.

There’s one on his desk of him with his arm around a young boy. It takes you a second to recognise the man who was laying almost naked on your floor last night, looking back at you as a fourteen year old. He’s much smaller then, shorter than Maverick and skinny. They’re standing in the ring and grinning together, holding a trophy that’s now on a shelf behind the desk.

They look happy.

“Alright, show me what you’ve got.” Maverick smiles, sitting down on the creaky desk chair and motions for you to sit opposite him. The leather chair opposite is old, the leather is cracking and it squeaks softly as you sit down. He moves his chair around the desk so that he’ll be able to see the screen.

It smells like dust and sweat in here.

Still, you show him the basics of the website, quietly amused at how impressed he is with even the most basic work.

“So, do you have a job at the moment?” Pete asks, leaning back in his chair. You give a small shake of your head. Some savings, but that’s all. He nods understandingly. “Would you like one?”

You raise your brows at him, fighting the yes that rises in your throat — you pause, knowing that you should ask more first.

“What kind of job?”

“Consider it like a social media coordinator. Put this place on the map like those gyms I see up town. What do you say — you think you could do something like that?”

Bradley grunts softly as Rueben catches him square in the ribs, the leather glove striking into his skin.

“Don’t hit him in the stomach — I don’t want to be cleaning up vodka puke today.” Jake calls from the side of the ring.

It’s not that Bradley’s off his game, or that Rueben is a full-time professional whereas the rest of them are semi-pro. It’s just that Bradley had been staring through the blinds into Mav’s office, and he just saw you shake his Uncle’s hand.

He looks over there again as he recovers, breathing out as you step out of the office, smiling.

Things between Rooster and his Uncle Mav have been rocky for a long time — Rooster periodically makes it worse, sometimes on purpose, sometimes not.

He catches sight of Rueben’s glove in his peripheral and ducks back. Payback Fitch is at the top of his game recently, and so far the most successful out of all of them — and yet, he still continues to train here. Bradley turns and swings, blocked.

You walk slowly towards the ring, holding your laptop against your chest, looking up at the two of them sparring. Swinging, dodging. You wince as Bradley’s glove makes contact with Rueben’s eye socket.

They go on for a while. You’ve never been one for violence, and up close, it usually just makes you cringe. But you like the way that they work together, in tune and paying attention. Maybe the fact that they’re sweaty, muscles glinting under the overhead lights, maybe that’s not so bad.

Jake raises his eyebrows at you from the other side of the ring, lips quirking softly.

“Enjoying the show, kid?”

You swallow, then look back up at Bradley as he and Rueben stop for a break. Rueben heads to the other side of the ring for water, Bradley walks to your side and grabs his towel. Standing over you, he looks down.

You turn your head and look at Jake.

“Could I try?”

…

THE FRECKLES THE MESSY HAIR THE EYES HIS CHEST THE BODY HAIR THE CHAIN THE EYELINER OH GOD OH FUCK OH LORD OH MY GOD I'M SO INSANE RIGHT NOW WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCKKKKK