#Gideon is a soft boy | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

cerisereids · 12 days

Text

𝗽𝗹𝗲𝗮𝘀𝗲 𝗱𝗼𝗻’𝘁 𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗲 𝘀𝗼𝗺𝗲𝗯𝗼𝗱𝘆 𝘄𝗮𝗶𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗼𝗻 𝘆𝗼𝘂- 𝘀.𝗿.

pairing- s1!spencer reid x bau!reader

w.c.- 3.9k (wtf omg)

summary- spencer reid is your best friend. you’re in love with him, he wants someone else.

warnings- the jeid narrative in s14 pissed me off so bad i wrote this, miscommunication trope, reader obsesses over his hair (same), idiots in love, wingwoman!penelope

a/n- to be clear i am not a jj hater, i love her. i just don’t like what the writers tried to make happen between her and spencer

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

the soft glow of the morning sun floats through the window, coating the bullpen of the behavioral analysis unit in a peaceful golden light. you bask in the soft start of your morning, a rarity in your line of work, sipping your coffee as your fingers clack against the computer keys. the peace of your morning is ripped from you suddenly, though, when gideon and hotch barge from their offices in quick pursuit of the conference room. the team immediately follows suit, scurrying after one another to follow the two men.

hotch stands at the head of the room, sternly describing the case file he’s just received. there is a serial killer in the d.c. area, obsessed with leaving texts of ancient egyptian script at the crime scenes. as an analyst for the bau, you’re assigned to stay in the conference room with spencer in order to help decipher what the killer is trying to tell authorities. you share a smile with the boy next to you, both eager to tackle yet another assignment together.

you were hired to the bau as a young academic fresh out of graduate school, the same year as spencer. you two initially bonded over your shared love of reading, of analyzing text. it’s this skill that’s made you an asset to the team. you can decipher handwriting left by criminals in order to profile them; you can understand and analyze complex documents left for you at crime scenes, just like in today’s case. you found a partner in spencer very early on. you two were assigned those kinds of analytical tasks often, and proved to be very good at it, good at working together, at being together.

it wasn’t long before the mere sight of him started to give you butterflies, your chest constricting with affection. you cherish the late nights you’ve spent with him, in and outside of the office, inspecting documents and handwriting samples, the times where you’ve reached for the same file and your fingers brush together. movie nights at his place on the weekends, when you get so tired you allow yourself to curl into him, to let him wrap his arms around you, to pretend you’re something more. something in your stomach grows hot, and your palms start to sweat. you barely even notice that everyone else has gone off on their own assignments, leaving you and spencer alone in the conference room together. he sends you a million dollar smile and you get to work.

after a few hours of hard work, you suggest taking a lunch break. your lungs rejuvenate from the fresh air as you eat in the courtyard. you close your eyes and tilt your head up, feeling the glow of the sun warm your face, sighing as the vitamin d floats through your body. you can feel spencer’s eyes on you, and your heart kicks against your chest. how much longer you can take without confessing to him, you’re not sure. the limbo of being in love with your best friend is a torturous predicament to be in, especially when you work with him.

“hey, i need to ask you something,” spencer mumbles, and you see him pull out two tickets to a cowboys football game.

your heart now hammers against you, like a boulder spasming in your chest. your hands are sweating, shaking; is this it? could he be doing the hard part for you?

“gideon gave me these on my birthday. i don’t know if you knew this, but it’s j.j.’s favorite team. i was thinking of asking her on a date with them, but i haven’t watched a football game in over ten years,” he chuckles sheepishly, squinting his eyes down from the sun. “do you think it’s a good idea? i thought i should come to you since you’re my best friend, you wouldn’t steer me wrong.”

best friend. those words pierce through your gut like you’ve been shot with an arrow. you’re thankful his eyes are turned away from you, so he can’t see the infliction of those two fateful words.

“um-yeah,” you breathe out, barely audible, “i think it’s a great idea. it doesn’t matter if you don’t really watch football. if she likes you she’ll want to spend time with you, no matter what,” you fake a smile and pray to anyone that would listen to please convey the true message of your words, what you’re really saying. you know it falls on deaf ears, though, as you turn to throw your half eaten lunch in the trash, returning inside 30 minutes earlier than agreed upon.

“woah-where are you going?” spencer hastily cleans his things and jogs to catch up with you.

“i just think we need to get back to work. this case isn’t going to solve itself,” you shoot him a bitter smile, opening the door and not holding it open for him behind you, like you always do.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

j.j.? you think to yourself as you now delegate your portion of the work at your desk. the thought of being trapped in that conference room alone with him after your conversation at lunch unzips a shiver down your spine. your forehead is resting in your palm as your brain fights to focus on the case, and not drift back to spencer.

you were in complete and utter disbelief that the object of his affections has been j.j. this whole time.

j.j. is your friend, and you’re not mad at her. it’s not her fault that she’s the one spencer’s developed feelings for. you’re just completely caught off guard, utter shock clinging to every nerve in your body. you thought, after all of those shy smiles you’ve shared alone in conference rooms, the late night conversations on the jet, the nights you’ve spent at his place, that they meant something more. you’re just shocked none of it did, and that you’ve completely misread your entire relationship with him.

if gideon gave him the tickets, that means he sees what’s going on between them, too. you furrow your brows, squeezing your eyes closed at this revelation. god, you feel so stupid. how could you have let your own feelings blindside you from what your best friend actually wants? you have no future in profiling, that’s for certain.

you see a shadow looming over your desk from your peripheral vision, and you know who it is merely from the outline of his hair. you look up to find a sheepish spencer reid, seemingly nervous to even be approaching you. you hate that. you hate the idea of him on a date with j.j. even more, though.

“what’s up?” you try to sound interested, but you can both hear the restraint lacing your tone.

“i think i found something. we, uh-we need to gather the rest of the team,” he states.

his voice is quiet, small, his big brown eyes are boring into yours. you nod. the tension grows thicker the longer you stare at each other, eyes desperate to convey everything your mouths are too afraid to say. the file spencer was holding slips through his fingers, falling on your desk with a crisp clack. the noise cuts through the trance you find yourselves in, and you go red as a tomato, looking in your lap to avoid those lethal eyes.

“let’s go,” you mutter, walking past him without so much as a glance.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

over the course of the next week, you spend many work hours nursing your bruised ego in penelope’s batcave of an office. as the two analysts of the team, a lot of your work overlaps, so hotch didn’t raise a brow at the sudden change in your routine, not working with spencer so much. you’re able to tell her about everything going on with him during your brief moments of down time, when you’re filing paperwork or doing light research.

“oh. my. god.” she gasps, aware of your feelings of him from the start, “babe. no way,” she swivels her chair so she’s fully facing you, “i’m sorry! i thought he was into you, too,” she frowns, handing you a unicorn plushie from her desk drawer, “here, take mr. unicorn. he’s the best man on the planet.”

you chuckle sadly and squeeze the soft animal, utilizing its comfort as much as you can. “thanks, pen,” you settle your cheek on the squishy animal’s head and look at her sadly, eyes glassy and big, “i think it was too good to be true. he’s almost too perfect, maybe this is a sign.”

you see her deflate at your defeated tone, her hand reaching out to grab yours, running her thumb over your skin. you stay like that for a moment, allowing yourself to feel the complex emotions you’ve suppressed throughout the week. you’ve only spoken to spencer two or three times this week, about work things only, and it’s wednesday. each day that passes like this weighs heavy, like an anvil on your heart. the feeling is so overwhelming you have no choice but to suppress it until you get home, lest the floodgates are unleashed in the same vicinity as the perpetrator.

paperwork it is.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

that following monday, you sit, stewing at your desk, desperate to blend in to the background. you think back to one week ago, one week since you’ve had that fateful conversation with spencer. you nearly have whiplash from how fast things have changed in only a week. you yearn for the softness of that morning, of the blissful ignorance in thinking that you actually had a chance with spencer reid. your heart aches, the vulnerable throb in your chest paralyzing you. you rest your chin in your hands as your eyes mindlessly drift over emails you missed from the weekend, willing your brain to not work so hard unless absolutely necessary.

you’re snapped out of your pity party by the click of a door unlatching, the soft patter of converse on tile filling the bullpen. your eyes involuntarily follow spencer as he barges in. he’s impossible to ignore, clad in the most adorable button up/sweater vest combo you have ever seen in your life, walking full speed ahead with a scowl planted firmly on his face. the look on his face is so wholly unfamiliar, a look of hurt masking his usually soft features, the light in his eyes gone. the contrast is enough to shock you back to life once more, now registering a flustered penelope hot on his tail. the click of her heels echo through the bullpen in a desperate attempt to keep up with a man who is nearly a foot taller.

“spencer-wait! ugh!“ penelope grunts as spencer falls into his desk chair, immediately using work as a means to deflect. his back is to her as he sifts through the files littering his desk.

you study him from where you sit, his brows furrowed, his shoulders slumped, and lips in a tiny pout that pokes and prods at your heart. penelope gives up quick, turning away with a grunt and a look on her face that read ‘don’t ask’. on her way past your desk, though, she leans in and whispers, “meet me in my office after our meeting,” making your eyes go wide and your heart pick up in speed.

you use the new case to distract your mind from what could possibly be going on with spencer, and opt to stay back with penelope during this case. when you make your decision known in the conference room, spencer flinches. you just barely catch it out of your peripheral, you’re not sure you would have even registered it had garcia not smacked you in the thigh immediately after it happened. hotchner’s eyes flit from you, to penelope, then to reid. morgan coughs. the team is then dismissed.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

“she brought you to the date?!” you can’t believe what you’re hearing.

“yes! i had no idea it was the date,” penelope gushes. you’re setting up materials for the case, waiting for the team to land for more information. in the meantime, she fills you in on the weekend, “i’d just assumed it was a separate event. it never occurred to me that she would invite another person to that. poor spencer’s never been so disappointed to see me,” her tone turns a bit guilty at that, and now it’s your turn to flinch at his name.

“that’s insane, why would she do that?” you ask, bewildered.

“to be honest with you, i have a few ideas…” penelope teases, setting up her computer for the day.

your eyes narrow into slits as she files her nail, feet up and resting on the desk as the rest of her equipment loads.

“what?” you breathe out, even though you both knew.

“come on,” she kicks her feet off the desk and swivels to face you, frozen in front of a box of files, stricken by what you both know is coming next, “it’s you. he has feelings for you, for sure. j.j. knows it too, everyone does. we all see it.”

“really?” you once again can’t believe your ears. relief floods your veins, the rush too sweet to pay attention to your conscious, desperate to sprinkle some guilt in there. you don’t care, though, not after the pure and utter agony of the past week.

“yes, of course! he likes you, i have no doubt about it,” penelope states matter of factly.

you round the corner of the desk and come to sit on a chair opposite her, “what makes you say that?” you’re unintentionally severe, palms resting flat on your thighs, leaning into her as to not miss a word. luckily for you, though, penelope is just as intense.

“it became clear to me when i saw them interact at the game. yes his ego was bruised a little, but he was light, airy. almost relieved. nothing like how he came in today,” she remarks, and your brows knit together in confusion.

“so you’re saying he was at ease with her, but nervous and grumpy when he had to be around me. that doesn’t make any sense,” penelope rolls her eyes at your denial, but you’re quick at the defense with a new argument, “and he told me gideon gave him those tickets to ask her out on a date. it’s her favorite team.”

you cross your arms across your chest and lean back, “i appreciate what you’re trying to do for me, penelope, but if the best profiler on the team could tell he likes her, then he likes her. not me.”

just saying it causes the crack in your chest to reappear, callusing your heart once more.

“ugh, no!” she exclaims, “you two are the most stubborn people i’ve ever met in my life, i swear!” she rolls her eyes and turns back to her now fully loaded equipment as your jaw hangs open in shock.

“what is that supposed to mean?” you lightly scoff.

“all i’m saying is that he was relieved that j.j. brought me, that he was being rejected. after the initial disappointment passed, that is. you’re going to have to get the rest of the information from spencer himself,” she decides, just as her phone starts to ring. saved by the bell, damn her. “talk to each other. you miss each other. everybody can tell and it’s getting sad, like watching two lost puppies roam aimlessly without each other.”

before you can give an answer to her crazy analogy, she turns away from you and flips open her cell phone, “talk to me!” she chirps, and hotch’s stern voice brings you back to the task at hand. you’ll simply have to talk to spencer later. great.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

the team was able to land back at home that same night, luckily closing a quick case. after penelope says goodbye to you and spencer, you’re both the last ones in the bullpen. you two anxiously glance around, desperate for anybody else to be there, to break the suffocating tension between you two, thick and heavy with unanswered questions, words unsaid.

as you walk past spencer’s desk, he goes to walk with you, next to you. you haven’t been this close in proximity to him in a week, and the smell of his cologne, his aftershave, makes you heady. you both stop at the elevator, unsure who should go first. you decide on impulse that it has to be you, you can’t take this any longer. you turn to face him, and say the first thing that comes to your mind,

“she brought penelope?”

had it been anybody else, you may have kicked yourself for shoving your foot squarely into your mouth, but it’s spencer, so he laughs. it’s an eye creasing, cheeks bunched up, teeth showing kind of laugh, and you have no choice but to laugh, too. there’s a pang in your heart as this familiarity dawns upon the two of you once again. you’re desperate to keep it, so much so that you don’t move when the elevator dings and the doors open. neither of you do. you stand there, taking each other in, cheeks warm and breathing heavy, as the doors slide close once again.

“yeah. yeah, she brought penelope,” he remarks, red ears hiding behind his slickened hair. your eyes focus on one particular lock that’s fallen over his forehead, nearly in his eye. a sense of longing pierces your heart like cupid’s arrow, you fall in love with him all over again.

“you should wear your hair curly more,” you croak. spencer is unphased at your sudden change of topic, and sends you a small smile.

you’re the only one on the team that’s seen him with his hair curly. you revel in it any time you’re lucky enough to get a glimpse, when you’re sharing a hotel room or his couch on movie night. a strange nostalgia seizes you as you take in his hair, not realizing how much you’ve missed it, missed him until you’re standing there, taking all of him in.

“maybe i’ll start,” he says back gently, another silence falling between the two of you.

“l-listen, i have something i need you to know,” he says, turning to face you, tone growing more confident as he speaks, “gideon told me to ask out j.j. because i’ve been heartbroken over you for weeks.”

time stops.

“heartbroken?” you’re incredulous. “why? what did i do?” you’re nearly panicking, racking your brain for what you could have done to your best friend.

“n-nothing really. i think i heard you talking to penelope about me one day, about how you don’t see me in that way,” he stutters a bit, his head turned down to hide his flushed cheeks, “i thought there was something between us, but after hearing that-i-i just assumed you didn’t feel the same. it made sense, girls like you don't typically go for guys like me.”

your heart cracks in your chest, “spencer,” you whisper out, “don’t say that,” it’s all you can muster. he’s the most beautiful man on the planet. you’ve never been so sure of anything.

he rolls his eyes and you want to shake him until he believes it, “well, he gave me the tickets to try and put myself out there with someone else. j.j. is great, don’t get me wrong, but she’s not you. no one is,” he says, eyes boring into yours.

you take in every word falling from his lips, your brows marrying together. your brain is flying at a mile a minute trying to remember the conversation he’s talking about. suddenly, you stop. your gaze turns to him, eyes wide as the memory comes to you. it had to have been two months since then, but you knew that wasn’t a problem for spencer. if he overheard, he remembers every word out of your mouth.

you were chatting with penelope in the empty conference room. it was a monday, and you had gone out on a date the weekend before. he was the topic of conversation right before spencer came in, how he was ‘so cute’ with his ‘brown eyes and curly brown hair’, how he was ‘the perfect height- like 6’1-6’2’. and yet, you only liked him as a friend. the reality was, you were searching for spencer in every man you pursued, and none of them ever measured up to him. how could they?

“spencer,” you groan, hiding your face in your hands, “i went on a date that weekend. that’s who i was talking about. not you,” the last part comes out in a whisper as realization dawns on spencer’s face, uncertainty dancing through his big brown eyes.

“why didn’t you tell me you had a date?” he asks, puzzled, “is that why you couldn’t come over for movie night that weekend?”

your heart breaks even more, if that’s possible at this point, you wanted to be there. you wanted to be there so badly.

“i had convinced myself that it would never happen. you and me,” you start, and his eyes grow even wider than before, “i was looking for you every time. in every date. that’s why i never told you. it would never work out anyway, because they weren’t you. i wasn’t brave enough to admit that to myself until just now, i guess,” you grow a bit sheepish as you finish your explanation, your eyes glossy. your gaze finds the floor to avoid his piercing gaze. those eyes will kill you one day.

“what does that mean?” he says, so gentle, so spencer.

“it means i’m in love with you. i have been for years, since we started together,” you gush, tears finally falling over your lash line at your confession.

his eyes shut too, a gentle flutter of lashes against his cheek. you see a tear escape down his cheek, too.

“i love you, too. god, i love you too,” he whispers, moving immediately to scoop you up in his arms. he presses the elevator button again, finally getting you two out of there. he keeps you in his arms, carrying you into the elevator, refusing to let go as he squeezes you tight, legs wrapped around his waist as the doors close shut behind you.

as you descend, you reluctantly put your shaky legs on the floor, pulling away slightly to find his gaze.

“hi,” you whisper, biting your lip to try and suppress the cheesy smile taking over. you fail, grinning so wide and so bright, you’re afraid you might blind him.

“hi, beautiful,” he whispers back, brushing your hair back softly with his hand. he then cradles your jaw in his palm, pressing his soft lips against yours.

it’s a gentle kiss, but a passionate one. you both wish desperately to convey every single time you wanted each other, how long you’ve loved each other.

spencer pulls away from you for a brief moment to ask, “do you want to be my girlfriend? i think maybe we should try dating each other,” his sarcasm has you grinning from ear to ear.

“i think that’s the most genius idea you’ve had yet, doctor,” you lean in to kiss him again. he groans at the title, lips surrendering back into yours.

the ding of the elevator breaks your kiss, and you can’t hide your cheesy grins as you walk into the parking garage, your pinkies linked together.

“do you wanna come back to my apartment tonight? we can watch a movie?” spencer suggests nervously, like you’d say no. god, you love him.

“that sounds perfect,” you smile, pulling him in for another kiss. you can tell he’s expecting a light peck, but you deepen it, your hand finding the nape of his neck. your lips softly click together as you move against each other, your tongue just barely slipping into his mouth.

“see you at home,” you wink and get into your own car, leaving a flustered spencer reid in your wake.

#criminal minds #spencer reid #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you #spencer reid blurb #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid smut #spencer reid drabble #spencer reid fic #matthew gray gubler #mgg

2K notes · View notes

delacoursshp · 9 months

Text

you wanted me to explain, right? i'll explain.

fred weasley x fem reader- no use of y/n, reader is in gryffindor, both are of age

warnings: smut, 18+, doggy, hot steamy n roughhh, unconsensual consent, spitting, sort of blowjob

this is a short, straight to the point story 😭 but i hope y'all enjoy! @delacourss.hp

"fred!" you yelled frustratingly, "fred, come here this instance!"

fred anxiously hurried from the boys dorm room to the common room where you had been standing.

"wussthematta?" he replied half-asleep, eyes heavily lidded with one hand rubbing his eyes, and the other scratching his firey red head.

the common room was entirely dark, except for your lit wand, which was pointing to a piece of parchment on the floor. your nostrils were flaring as your widened eyes and frowned brows signaled fred to look at the paper.

"uuhh," as he slowly realized what he was looking at, "uh, wow, wicked thing to do really, innit?" he yawned, pretending to be so oblivious.

"fred, gideon, weasley." you spoke in a dangerous tone. fred looked up at you, looking as if he was about to be cruciated. you pointed your still-very-lit wand up at him, making his face whiter than before and his vision blurred.

the piece of parchment showed a talently drawn woman, her clothes shed off and her tongue out. the woman seemed to look an awful lot like you.

"do i even have to speak? it's YOU who should do the explaining, fred!" you said angrily.

fred sighed and let his arms fall limp to his sides, still partly blinded by your wand. "how are you even assuming it's mine? you've got no proof whatsoever!" he told defensively.

you scoffed, drawing your wand away for him, muttering something that lit up the whole common room and then picked up the piece of paper, which now had clearly shown strands of red hair covering the thighs of the woman.

"oh come off it, it could've been george or- or ron!"

you gifted him a look of disbelief. "alright, so tell me you didn't do it then." you spoke firmly.

fred groaned. he had this issue ever since he met you, the one where he just fully can't lie to you. he closed his eyes in defeat.

"aaaalright, it was me. congratulations, now may i continue dreaming about perce eating rotten pies? it was a quit enjoyable dream" he asked, simply, as if this was nothing.

you yanked him by his ear, faces now cm's away from eachother. "i do, NOT, tolerate this piece of filthy work!" you grunted. fred 'ouched' in response.

you let go of his now red ear, picked up the piece of paper, held it next to your head, and handed fred your wand.

you waited impatiently, as fred just looked confused.

"well?? do it!"

"aughh", fred just groaned dissapointedly, "expelliarmus!"

a shot of yellowish red light flew towards the parchment, and it dissapeared out of your hands, leaving a few white dots on the floor.

you sighed in relief. "wasn't so hard was it? now, i'm expecting an explanation, so i hope you prepared one whilst i was waiting."

"oh, come on. you must have some idea why." fred said, tone low and soft, glaring at you like you were some sort of prey, "don't act so innocent, love."

your expression changed. can it be? no, that would be weird. you guys are friends after all. fred smirked and playfully winked at you.

"don't be silly, fred." you had decided to say. "c'mon, it's late, let's head to bed before anyone sees us."

you were glad you chose to change topics, it was getting a little awkward, which it never usually is between you and fred.

fred followed you but before you could land your feet on the stairs, fred grabbed you by your hips.

"you wanted me to explain, right? i'll explain."

"oh fuck! oh yes!" the boy relentlessly pounded into you from behind. the force of his thrusts were beyond powerful."fredd- freddie! rightt.. fucking... there. ah!" you moaned. fuck, it felt so good you never wished for it to end.

"mhmmm, yeah? you like that huh, love?" fred shakingly spoke in your ear, sending you goosebumps, which only added to your incoming orgasm.

your back was flush with his chest, and you struggled to keep your legs still. he snaked his arm around your waist as he fucked into you, his other arm too occupied rubbing your little clit.

this sudden but slight change made you grasp his hair with your right hand, the other hand trying to push his pelvis away as the pleasure became overwhelming.

"mmh, don't push me away. you know you want this." he groaned.

"shit, shit, shit!" you kept gasping. the man showed no mercy, as he lifted one of your legs by your thigh, so he could be even deeper, if that was possible.

"too deep, freddie! too f-fucking deep!" you screamed. fred only chuckled at your helpless noises, feeling so proud of himself that he could get those sounds out of your pretty lips.

he sped up his merciless pace, skin-slapping noises lewdly contrasting against your high-pitched moans and freds deep grunts."yes! yes!" you kept whining, as he hit your g-spot over and over again. your eyes rolled back, and, for a moment, all your senses blacked out, and if it wasn't for freds strong grip on you, you would've fell.

"aah, fuck yeah." fred groaned, as he looked down to where you were connected to see a splash of white, sticky, hot liquid all over his and your pelvis.

he quickly pulled out, spinning you and immediately shoving you down on your knees.

your mind was still hazey as you were still coming down from your high. looking up at him, you saw him look back while roughly stroking his cock. finally understanding his gaze, you opened your mouth and stuck your tongue out.

well fuck, this was just like the drawing.

"mm, keep looking at me like that, sweetheart." he said, in a strained voice. "i'm.. almost.." he moaned, "...there."

the sight infront of you was so delicious, you just had to do something about it. you licked his tip, kissed it and then spit on it.

fred seemed surprised, and stroked faster then ever, before shooting his load onto your tongue."ahaa, oh yeah.." he sighed.

you made sure, once his eyes opened, that he saw your semen covered tongue, and then you swallowed.

not even caring what it tasted like, but caring about how fred reacted, you giggled as you saw him smirk and raise his eyebrows as if he was impressed by your actions.

"you get it now, beautiful? was that a good enough explanation?" fred said, lifting you up by your arms, and carrying you to the gryffindor bathroom.

"mhm, that was a perfect explanation, fred."

.・゜-: ✧ :-　　

aaaa! was this good?😭 goshh i hope so. gimme tips n stuff, i'd rlly appreciate it!! :)

#harry potter #cedric diggory #fred weasley x reader #fred weasely x y/n #fred weasley smut #fred wealsey fic #fred weasley fic #harry potter smut

2K notes · View notes

azsazz · 4 months

Text

Little Sneak

Daddy!Azriel x Mommy!Reader [Zuzu Centric]

Summary: Anon Req: What about a part 2 to Sticking Together where all the children are older and Zuzu is upset about not being able to go to the camps like her brothers and cousins. Maybe she ends up sneaking off and gets hurt or something. Some lovely angst would be appreciated. Only if you want to of course, pls and thank you.

Warnings: Angst, suggestions of a child going to be harmed (child is not actually harmed)

Word Count: 2,357

_________________________________________

“Why must all my children defy me?” Azriel questions, pacing the length of the room. You’re almost dizzy with it, how long his strides are and how short the path he’s making is. He’s nearly turning in circles now, wings flared with agitation, growing larger and larger the more he works himself up. When he nearly knocks a lamp burning low with a single faelight over, you slip from the bed.

You halt your mate with a soft hand to his shoulder. His wings tuck in tight, not because you’re going to touch them, because his body automatically moves to give you room. You take it, curling yourself against his chest, hands snaking around his waist and thumbing soothing patterns across the dip of his back.

You can feel his muscles contract as he shifts his wings to cocoon the both of you. Darkness shrouds you, but the light casts red through the membranous skin.

It’s a safe place for the both of you, tucked away from the rest of the world without actually removing yourselves from situations where you’re needed. You and Azriel had found yourselves in this position many times—when you first found out you were pregnant with Wren and Azriel was worried you’d have trouble delivering a babe with wings, when Baz nearly burned his hand on an unattended fire. When you had found out that Knox wasn’t going to be able to speak, and when your eldest sons wanted to be allowed to train in the Illyrian camps.

It’s funny that you find yourself here for the exact same reason. Your daughter, Zuzu, Mother bless her, yearns to join her brothers. Both Wren and Baz have completed a year, along with Nyx and Gideon. The four have formed a group just as their fathers had, not taking anyone’s shit no matter how much larger in size they may be. With the High Lord on their side, the young boys got away with much more than they should, though Rhysand does his best not to stick his nose into matters that should be left to camp leaders.

They’ve found their places as young warriors, and though they often get into trouble, you and Azriel are able to spend more time in Velaris, working on a schedule with both Cassian and Rhys, so that one of them is always staying in the family cabins when the boys are in training.

The beat of Azriel’s steady heart is strong, comforting, even though you know he feels as helpless as you do. Each and every one of your children are as stubborn as their father, even the more stoic of the six, like Jax and the twins. Malos could hold a grudge for ages, even against her own siblings. And poor Azriel refuses to admit that it’s a trait he’s bestowed upon the shadowsinger clan.

You squeeze your mate tighter, breathing in his comforting scent. Night-chilled mist from the long fly he’d had to take when Zuzu had told him the news. He hadn’t wanted to hear any part of it; his firstborn daughter wanted to train with males in the camps that will do nothing to look after her well-being. They won’t care if she’s beaten into the snow until she’s unable to move, if she can train as hard as the males, if she can do aerial maneuvers better than them. All they’ll see is a little girl who should be put in her place by the only means they know how.

The females won’t take kindly to her either. They’ll likely be jealous of the girl who’s wings are in perfect shape, who has the ability to fly and train and doesn’t have to spend back-breaking hours washing or cooking. No one but her brothers and cousins will be nice to her.

But she’s determined and headstrong. She’d confided in you first, and while you’d tried to talk her into joining Valkyrie training, she insisted that if there were young girls here willing to fight and join such a cause, why wouldn’t they extend the opportunity to those in the mountains? Your heart aches for your little girl, who wants to see the best in people, give them the chances they’ve long since needed. If she can encourage a single girl in the camps to join them as warriors, she will be proud.

“She means well,” you sigh against Azriel’s chest, hugging him tighter.

“Does she have to mean this well?” he asks, exasperation lining the frown on his face. He rubs your back in a soothing motion, and you know it’s helping him as much as it helps you. His chin rests on top of your head and a moment of silence stretches on as his shadows crawl from the walls, whispering in his ears, reporting back to him on how all of his children are under one roof, sleeping peacefully in their beds. “In a few years, Asteria will want to follow, and I think Rhys will actually kill me.”

“I won’t let him,” you grumble stubbornly, but it doesn’t carve a smile on Azriel’s face like it normally would. “And neither will Zuz.”

All your mate can do is sigh and hold you closer. “I hate that they’re growing up.”

“Me too,” you answer sadly, rocking in place with Az. He caresses the nape of your neck, tilting your face to meet his sad, hazel gaze. “Why didn’t anyone prepare us for the part where our children start growing up?”

Azriel shakes his head, dipping down to kiss you softly, tenderly. You are always his rock in the storms of his life. Always will be.

“I don’t know,” he pecks you on the mouth again, and there’s a glint in his eyes that has your body growing warm. “I do know that we can have another. Then we’ll have a little babe. It will make me feel like I’m not so old, that our youngest aren’t five-years-old.” He says it with a grimace.

The time is flying by, watching your children grow. Wren is a teenager now. A teenager, Mother help you all. And Baz is only growing rowdier with age. Zuzu wants to join her brothers and cousins in the camps, and Jax is still the stoic little boy you’ve ever seen, focused on working through his powers daily. He still struggles sometimes, needs to cuddle up with his father or you for a moment's peace, and he hasn’t shown any interest in being a warrior like his elder siblings, though if Azriel allows Zuzu to join, you’re sure he won’t be far along after. The twins are as inseparable as ever, stirring up mischief with their pesky little shadows. It’s nice to have them all still so close, but you know it won’t be that way soon.

“Can you imagine another one?” You ask, amused at the thought. More chaos, and you’re not entirely sure how your six children would react. You already have so many, what would they think?

“Yes,” Azriel answers, tone heated. He presses his hips more firmly against your own and you can feel the hardness of his cock in his pants. It makes your thighs go molten, especially when he’s looking at you like that. Like he’s going to both devour and worship you all night long. “Let’s put this conversation on hold.”

You can’t disagree with that.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•

His shadows wake him up.

Azriel has gotten used to their presence, but his body is accustomed to them, awakening at the slightest sort of unease from them. Like right now.

He bolts from the bed, awakening you in the process. He almost feels bad at the hammering of your heart he can feel echoing in his chest, if it weren’t for the fact that he’s been alerted that one of his children is currently missing from his home, and she hasn’t been located in the darkness of the camp yet.

“What’s going on?” You’re alert now. There’s something seriously wrong, by the look on Azriel’s face. The way that it’s set in stone yet his brows are furrowed with worry. Not the kind of worry where something is amiss in Velaris, but it looks like he had when Knox had been taken from you, the horror riddling his hazel gaze makes your stomach plummet.

“Zuzu isn’t in her bed,” Azriel answers, and he’s already dressed and heading out into the cold. You don’t expect him to wait for you, the both of you have a way of attacking these things as a team now, and you’re safer here with the rest of the children, anyway, and he curses himself once again for allowing his children to train at the Illyrian camps.

He doesn’t know how she’s managed to evade his shadows this time. His children are sneaky, quickly learning and testing how to keep from his radar, but Azriel is 500 years old and prides himself on his alertness.

Up until now.

He doesn’t even know where to begin. His mind is a mess with ‘what if’s’ and he can’t allow himself to begin pulling at that thread or he might very well decimate this entire camp.

He very well might, anyway.

Azriel’s already reaching out to Rhysand, waking him from his deep slumber and alerting the Inner Circle. He knows the High Lord will be here within minutes on a plume of black that no one wants to see. Zuzu has been Rhysand’s favorite from the moment she decided to toddle behind him into the longest meeting he’s ever had the displeasure of attending. But Zuzu had made it bearable, sitting in his lap and cuddling up in his arms like he wasn’t discussing convicts in the Prison nor how his armies might be able to help Springs.

A soft yelp is carried on a wisp of darkness from his shadows, his head whipping to where they’re alerting him. It’s Zuzu, and she’s whimpering a little as sharp nails dig into her coat, despite the thick jacket she’s pulled haphazardly around her shoulders. Her boots are untied, and the powdery snow is downtrodden with her footprints.

Azriel moves as quick as the night. He’s known for being undetectable, a whisper of a chilled breeze chasing through the trees. Tonight, though, he doesn’t mask the crunch of his boots in the snow, doesn’t smother the bright blue beaming from the seven stones adorning his armor. His knives are unsheathed at his side, steel singing for the promise of blood.

There’s a soft sound, like his daughter's cry has been muffled, and it fuels his anger, letting his body fill with black ink. It spills off of Azriel in waves, a death god come to seek his vengeance.

The clearing is a circlet of trees and fresh snow. The moon drips down into the open field, where Zuzu scratches at her captor. The female trying to pin his little girl to the ground hisses as her skin breaks beneath Zuzu’s nails. Azriel’s heart swells with pride as his daughter fights back, but this moment alone has made him realize that she does need proper training, and if she wants to join the ranks with her brothers and show all of these Illyrian swill what she’s made of, she will get that.

Azriel doesn’t recognize the female as he rips her away from his daughter by a fistful of hair. The female yelps in surprise, then screams in fear as she topples backwards, the avenging shadowsinger towering over her.

As if she thought she could get away with attempting to harm one of his children.

He feels the night air shifting behind him as he makes sure that his daughter is okay. Rhysand and Cassian appear before the female can gain her footing and take off, Cassian planting a foot in the middle of her back to keep her pinned to the frozen ground while Azriel consoles his daughter. Zuzu’s sniveling, fat tears rolling down her red cheeks as they escape. She doesn’t want to cry, she doesn’t want to show her father that she’s scared, but they fall without her permission anyway.

“I’m sorry, daddy.”

Azriel’s heart cracks a little, molten lava of anger filling the cracks. This female won’t last the fucking night. And if she does, it’s because he’s going to make her death last as long as possible for even thinking of touching his daughter. For making her cry.

He hushes her, a soft noise that makes her clutch onto his shoulders tighter. Azriel’s not wearing a coat, but he’s used to the temperatures, and the adrenaline rushing through his veins helps quell the bitter chill. He sends a reassuring feeling down the bond to you and your relief flushes his body tenfold, his shoulders dropping slightly.

“Are you okay, my love?” Azriel asks her, wiping the tears from Zuzu’s eyes. He swings her up into his arms, pressing gentle kisses to her forehead as he pins the female to her spot in the snow with furious golden eyes. “Are you hurt?”

Zuzu shakes her head and his knees nearly give out with relief. He sways them back and forth, whispering reassurances into Zuzu’s ears until she’s calmed down, before passing her off to Rhys who holds her just as tightly.

“Uncle Rhys is going to take you back to mommy, okay, Zuz? I’ll be back in a little bit.”

She agrees, blinking up at him with her big eyes. Azriel watches her try to look over her uncle's shoulder to see the female spitting vitriol at Cassian. Rhys doesn’t allow her gaze to see what’s going on over there, instead drawing her attention to him, shifting her so she can’t see, and disappearing into the night to bring Zuzu home.

Cassian crouches down to the female, grinding her face into the snow to stop the comments spewing from her lips. He whispers something so low that makes her entire body freeze, then thrash as if she actually has a chance of escaping.

Azriel steps up to her, a murderous look in his eyes, and he lets his blades do the talking.

#azriel x reader #acotar #azsazz #acomaf #acowar #azriel #azriel/reader #daddy!azriel #azsazz zuzu

490 notes · View notes

engie-ivy · 5 months

Text

@wolfstarmicrofic 3rd: Mistletoe

582 words

If You Kissed Me Now, I Know You'd Fool Me Again

Last Christmas - Wham

It was bound to happen at some point.

And Remus thought he could handle it by now. Time had done its thing, and he had moved on.

“Oeh, Remus and Sirius are under the mistletoe!” Hestia exclaims, pointing to somewhere above the boys’ heads. She's been dating Peter for a little over six months now, so still new to their group. There are certain things from their past that she doesn't know.

Mary, who's hosting the party and is responsible for hanging the mistletoe, looks panicked. “There's no need, no need!” She yelps. “We can just ignore it! You don't need to do anything, we'll just pretend nothing happened.”

Hestia blinks. “But you guys said that everyone who ends up under the mistletoe together has to kiss!”

“Not when it's Remus and Sirius,” Gideon hisses.

“They… have a bit of a history,” Fabian adds.

“Oh,” Hestia says. “I'm sorry.”

“It's okay.” Peter wraps an arm around her. “You didn't know.”

“In any case,” Lily says. “If we all agree, we can make it so that it doesn't apply to Remus and Sirius.”

“Oh, come on,” Marlene scoffs. “Like it's a bloody crime to not kiss under a mistletoe! If you don't want to bloody kiss, then don't bloody kiss! It's not a bloody law.”

“It's not a law,” James agrees. “But it is a rule. A Christmas Rule. But-” He raises his finger before the others can protest. “Rules have exceptions. So we can all decide together that Sirius and Remus are an exception to this rule.”

The others nod in agreement.

Remus exchanges a look with Sirius, who gives him a small ‘can you believe this?’-smile, before he turns back to the others.

“Please you guys,” Remus says, rolling his eyes in exasperation. “We broke up five years ago. I'm sure that by now we can handle an innocent kiss under the mistletoe between friends without it completely messing with our heads.”

“Yes,” Sirius agrees. “It's been so long ago, and we've moved on. It's no big deal.”

Remus turns to Sirius, and gives him a ‘let's get this over with’-look. Sirius shrugs, so Remus steps forward and places a hand at the back of Sirius’ neck, softly pulling him in. Sirius responds by placing a hand on Remus’ waist as he steps closer.

That should've been their first warning, really. How natural it still goes, how automatically they come together.

Sirius’ lips are soft, warm, and still so familiar. A warm feeling coils in Remus’ stomach and spreads through his entire body. A feeling of belonging, of coming home, of ‘Oh, hey, there you are. Where have you been all this time?’

Sirius wraps his arms around him, and, hardly being aware of it, Remus melts against him, like his body somehow knows these are the arms he belongs in. It's like a knot in his chest that he didn't even know was there loosens, and he can finally completely relax as everything is finally right.

Remus’ fingers grip Sirius’ hair a bit tighter, and when had they even moved to his hair? He feels Sirius lightly suck on his bottom lip and a spike of arousal shoots through him as he involuntarily gasps against Sirius’ lips. It's a delicious, addictive, impossible combination between calmness and comfort, and excitement and exhilaration.

They suddenly break apart and pull away from each other in shock. Faces flushed and lips slightly parted, they stare at each other with wide eyes.

“Well, shite.”

#my tumblr writing #wolfstar microfic #wolfstar christmas fics #wolfstar christmas #wolfstar holiday fluff #wolfstar #wolfstar fanfiction #wolfstar fic #marauders #marauders fanfiction #marauders fic #sirius black #remus lupin #remus x sirius

243 notes · View notes

buckyysdoll · 7 months

Text

should’ve been there

જ⁀➴ — • summary: a case gone wrong has you needing the comfort of the one man you love most; inspired by that one specific james bond scene in casino royale <3; • pairing: aaron hotchner x f!reader; • cw: mention of child death, shock & grief themes, emotional breakdown

MAIN MASTERLIST

The cold water sliced through the starch of your shirt, long since gone transparent and soaked. It had been white, crisp white, pure in symbol as you weren’t, not since the case had gone so wrong today.

You couldn’t bring yourself to cry.

You didn’t even know how long you’d sat for here for; thirty minutes? twenty? less? But the numbness in your extremities went down to your bones from beneath the high overhead faucet.

From here, curled up on the floor with your back to the wall and your knees to your chest, you could only stare blankly into nothing and shiver, those words on repeat in your head:

i killed him i killed him i killed him. His blood, that blood, all the blood on the floor.

There was so much of it, great red tides, and yet none of it mine.

It should have been mine.

So lost to your stupor, to guilt, to the oily black void that your thoughts had slipped into, you didn’t even hear the bathroom door open, the footsteps that moved a man straight to your side.

They were footsteps that might’ve pounded hard, but that suddenly slowed, going tender, moving soft. He knew to be steady when approaching the one who needed that safety, stability, most.

You’d been a special agent for the BAU for near on five years now, having transferred on the honoured advice of your fellow agent husband, and your old high school sweetheart. The transition from med school to the federal bureau was a rough one, and not without challenge — bad jobs, missions failed, were just part of the work.

But this? It was all your fault.

Aaron came steady towards you, just off in your dim dark periphery of sight. Black dress shoes splashed in the shallow, filled pool that you sat in, the drain overwhelmed; cold water lapped at your ankles, and your shoes, socks, trousers — whole body — were soaked.

Fresh tremors racked you, and you just couldn’t move —

Couldn’t cry, couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.

The boy was dead.

“Sweetheart.” The voice was one that you knew, that cut through you, even as you kept still. You’d have known it blind, and yet now — the water rushed on down around you, and you couldn’t turn your head. He knelt by your side in an instant, hands reaching for a wife that was yet lost to him.

Knelt right down in that shallow cold water, beneath the jet stream of the shower above.

It was Aaron, your Aaron, his scent in your nose, and that one thought alone cut through. Your head turned left and your husband was there, hands ready but waiting to reach out to you.

You let out a whimper, tried to say a word, anything, and yet the speech just wouldn’t come. It took time, maybe minutes or just seconds, but at last it did. Your voice was soft, hoarse. “Aaron?”

Your stare, so vacant that it pulled on his heart, was trained somewhere over his head.

You still couldn’t meet his warm eyes, or face the concern breaking steady within them.

You understood now exactly what Agent Gideon had felt with that bomb case in Boston; he’d been there today, as had Elle — Hotch and Morgan were assigned to escorting the survivors.

They hadn’t witnessed those last final moments where the unsub had almost, very nearly won out.

In the end though, what did it matter that he’d finally been caught? The young boy was still dead, gone.

You knew by the look on Aaron’s face that he’d been filled in on what he had missed; on the life that had somehow been lost, that you’d lost, just because while you were quick, they were quicker.

On the whole ride back from the scene, you hadn’t even spoken so much as a word; when you’d got to the unit you’d only insisted that you needed to change, get those clothes off your back.

And now here you were. They’d tried to talk you out of your shock, knew that frozen panic well, but you’d needed your space. That’s what you’d told them, but now, looking into the eyes of your husband, that could not be less true.

The tears came.

You choked out a sob, reality cresting and dawning at once as your adrenaline banked, and as your mind focused you could really just look at him now — see the concern etched deep in the soft, worry lines of that beautiful, well-loved face.

Water sluiced down his skin, great rivulets running down his tanned neck, to his collar. His suit was just sodden, irreparable, dark hair an inky mass at his forehead, but he cared for it none. Droplets ran steady, falling fast from the strands and onto the chequered square tiles, onto his clothes and your hands that he clutched in his own held between you, the only anchor you had.

“Honey I’m here, I’m right here.” His words were so tender, but his voice was your strength. “You don’t have to take this alone, I’m right here.” He made soft, shushing noises to soothe.

A whimper escaped you, and it was that sound that broke him, too; his thick, dark brows were pinched low, but for you he’d stay steady until you could stand on your own.

For just now he knew what you needed, knew that when depleted you were two of a team. Where one of you faltered, the other would carry the weight as it had been since you were sixteen.

He pulled you up against him, broad hands warm — strong and heavy on the chill of your skin. Supported by both his frame and his love, one of his hands cradled yours with the other at your back.

Aaron held firm as though any second now you might be taken, might be lost to him again; you couldn’t be closer if you physically tried, but still you buried your face into the warmth of his neck.

You shook harder in the circle of his arms and and as your sobs came up choked you couldn’t breathe quick enough. The only hold to Earth that you had was the man by your side, and his soft, steady grace.

At the juncture between his shoulder and neck you could breathe in his scent and pretend it was fine, pretend that you didn’t have the stain of lifesblood on the very hands he’d never not hold.

Your nails dug into the starch of his dark work blazer in half crescent moons, and if it hurt then he didn’t show it — just rocked you back and forth, pressed his lips to your crown.

You’d known and loved this man since you were sixteen years old, and he spared no thought for anything now but you; cared for nothing else.

That realisation broke the dam on your heartache, and grief poured freely on out.

“Aaron, it was all my fault.” Your shivers had by now grown violent, intense. They wracked up through your body, made speaking a futile effort through your clenched teeth. “It was all my fault, and I killed him, the blood — it’s still on me, I can feel it, I can —”

“Honey, there’s no blood now, it’s gone. Do you hear me? Sweetheart, you didn’t kill him.” He reached with the hand at your back to the faucet just above the reach of his head, deftly turned off the water until only a thin trickle of it dispersed your grief-thickened state.

Both your voice and his were low, quiet; with every passing second, the fight in you banked.

“I should’ve been there,” he said beneath his breath, though too softly for you to make out.

This wasn’t about him, and he wasn’t now going to let his regret take centre stage. He could just hold you, and steady your tremors, and love you enough for the both of you, now.

And god, did he love you to the ends of the earth and beyond it, beyond all that he knew.

“Aaron, the blood, he was bleeding —” the broken pleading of your voice spread in echoes in the room. You tried just to show him, to bare up your palms but he just couldn’t see, didn’t know it was there.

“Sweetheart, look? No blood.” He pressed a soft kiss to the pads of your fingers, giving one each to your middle and pointer. Next he brought your whole hand to his mouth, your palm flat — pressed a kiss there that went right to your bones. “Do you see, love? There’s no blood on you now.”

He hadn’t been there — he should’ve been there — and the sight of you like this was hell. “It wasn’t your fault, I’m here now,” he just said, and still left those featherlight, little kisses; kept on pressing that hand to his mouth, and would touch you like this, would hold you just like this —

Until the fever of your guilt burst its banks and your heart found reprieve from remorse, however brief.

The responsibility needn’t be on your shoulders, and he knew for fact it was not your fault. He didn’t need to have been there to know it, and once he’d been filled in didn’t linger on even the thought of your blame.

And so while you’d actively tried to avoid him he just could not let you this time. You were his wife and you wouldn’t have to shoulder this alone for as long as he lived by your side.

“You’d got there as fast as you could, and it wasn’t your fault that the unsub was faster. No one, not Gideon, not Elle or Morgan, Reid — no one thinks it was your fault. It was terrible, yes, but it couldn’t be stopped.” It was sometimes the way the job went.

All the strength had left you by now, and you turned your head once more, looked at him. Silent tears still streaked down your face and you tried to withhold them, couldn’t cry anymore.

You knew after how Gideon was treated, word could spread around the office of your blunder, your shame. You wanted to believe when Aaron told you no one saw it like that, but a life had still been lost either way.

Irrespective of your guilt, or the lack of need for it — a boy was still dead, while you lived.

But right now, there was just you and Aaron. You two and the steady drip drip of the faucet. You knew you wanted, needed, to believe him; your blood slowed its racing underneath your chilled skin.

His eyes were steady on you, on your own eyes, and scanning your face — looking for further hurt. “Okay?” He asked as he tucked back a strand of your hair, pressed a kiss to your forehead.

You knew it wasn’t so much a question as a spoken reassurance that it would be, it would. Maybe not now or not even in months, but eventually, sometime, you would make it through.

Together. As always, together.

Your hands were still joined as you stayed leaned against his sure warmth, and you whispered, “okay.”

215 notes · View notes

mariasont · 28 days

Text

Our Minds Entwined-----------------------

ch 1, ch 2, ch 3, ch 4, ch 5, ch 6, ch 7, ch 8, ch 9, ch 10

MDNI----------------------------------------------------------------

pairings: aaron hotchner x oc x spencer reid

summary: in which jason gideon's daughter joins the fbi as the newest, brightest member

warnings: implied smut, evelyn annoying the fuck out of hotch pt 2

Chapter Nine:

The morning light filtered in Evelyn's bedroom, casting a lazy glow across the room as Spencer's kiss melted into Evelyn's lips. She stretched languidly across the bed, the soft fabric of her lounge set--a cozy ensemble chosen for the day's travels--wrinkling beneath her. The scent of mint lingered in the air, a fresh reminder of her morning routine now complete. Spencer stood, the sheets sifting, his departure slow and reluctant.

"You're not leaving me already, are you?" Evelyn's words were a playful whimper, her eyelids fluttering open to reveal a hint of feigned distress. Her hand lazily patted the empty space beside her as if to say there was no good reason for him to get up just yet.

"I'm going to engage in a necessary biological process commonly referred to as 'using the restroom'," Spencer said, the corners of his mouth lifting in a smile. "You're very needy in the morning,"

"'M not," Evelyn protested with a drawn-out whine, but she puckered her lips in a pout that begged contradiction, her hands pulling on his sleeve. "Round two?"

Spencer's laughter was a soft rumble, his lips grazing the delicate spot beneath her chin, causing a ripple of giggles to escape her. "Tempting as it is, I should get out of here before Hotch shows up. I'm not sure 'we were just analyzing sleep patterns' would fly as an excuse."

"Yeah, I doubt he'd buy that."

As the bathroom door closed behind Spencer, Evelyn sank back into the pillows. Casual was a term she had never associated with sex before--yet here she was in a no-strings attached arrangement. The simplicity of it all was good and so was the sex--god the sex was good. Evelyn never knew it was possible to want to have it all the time, yet here she was feeling like she could jump his bones at every minute of the day.

Spencer re-entered the room, his eyes sweeping over the space with an inquisitive glint. The room was a reflection of Evelyn herself--unapologetically girly, with walls adorned with soft pastel shades and shelves lined with an array of romance novels. He paused at the collection, an eyebrow raised in amusement.

Evelyn shot him a look, her arms crossing defensively. "Listen, not everyone finds the dictionary to be a page-turner."

"I didn't say anything," Spencer replied, his hands raised in surrender, the ghost of a smirk on his face.

"You didn't have to," Evelyn retorted, "I could hear you thinking it."

Spencer's fingers grazed the spine of particularly worn novel. "May I?"

"Hands off, pretty boy!" Evelyn's protest was cut short as she bounded from the bed, trying to intercept Spencer's reach for the book.

Spencer's chuckles echoed in the room, the book just out of Evelyn's reach as she hopped in vain. With a quick, fluid motion, he captured her wrists with one hand, and with a gentle firmness, her pressed her against the wall. She stood on her tiptoes, the top of her head barely reaching his chin.

"Spencer Reid, if you don't put that book down this instant, I'll--" Evelyn demanded.

"Patience," he replied, the pages flipping rapidly under his gaze. "I'm conducting research."

"Research, huh? In that case let me assist," she trailed off, her hands catching the hem of his shirt, coaxing him back to the bed.

With a laugh, Spencer closed the book. "Evelyn, Hotch will be here any minute. Are you even packed?"

"Of course, I am," she replied, "I'm just gonna miss our nights together while I'm gone, Dr. Reid."

"I'll miss you too," Reid admitted. "Did you know that the heart doesn't actually 'miss' in a literal sense? It's a brain colloquialism for the activation of the brain's reward system, particularly the anterior cingulate cortex and insula, which respond to emotional stimuli..."

Spencer's lecture on the heart was cut short by a sudden, firm knock on the door. Evelyn's eyes widened as she darted a glance through the window, spotting the familiar black SUV outside.

"It's Hotch," she hissed, a note of urgency in her voice. "Please tell me you parked in the garage."

"I did," Spencer assured her, a hint of amusement in his voice.

"Okay you stay here," Evelyn directed, her gaze flickering from Spencer to the door as she snatched up her suitcase. "Make sure you wait until we're gone to leave, mkay?"

"Yes, ma'am," Spencer replied, a soft chuckle in his voice, punctuating his words with a gentle tap on her ass as she made her way out.

Evelyn moved to the door with a fluid grace, pulling it open to find Hotch in an uncharacteristically casual stance. He was dressed down for the flight in a soft, gray henley that accentuated his build, paired with jeans that were a far cry from his usual suits. She found the sight disarmingly attractive. Hotch, in turn, was struck by how Evelyn's casual outfit clung just right, only seeming to enhance her natural elegance.

"Morning, sunshine," she chimed, her smile sharp and gleaming as she tore her gaze from his body.

Hotch's gaze fell to the overstuffed suitcase at her feet, one brow arching higher than the other. "Planning to move in, or is that all for three days?"

"Oh, Hotch, you wouldn't last a day with me as a roommate. I'm a handful and then some," Evelyn teased. "And this," she gestured to herself, "takes a suitcase full of effort. It's not sorcery, but it's close."

Hotch watched her with a measured gaze, finding himself momentarily lost in thought. Inwardly, he doubted the necessity of her suitcase's contents. She hardly needed meticulous preparation to look the way she did. It was a thought, he chastised himself for having, he was her boss, and such considerations were definitely beyond the scope of the role.

Evelyn made a move for the suitcase, but Hotch was already one step ahead, effortlessly hoisting the luggage before she could. Side by side, they walked to the car, their footsteps in quiet accord. With a swift motion, Hotch stowed the luggage in the car, and they both climbed into the car.

Evelyn settled in and her gaze fell to a coffee cup awaiting her. "Hotch, is that for me?"

Hotch started the engine, feigning indifference. "Let's just say I prefer my mornings peaceful, and a caffeine-deprived Evelyn is anything but."

She grinned, noting the vanilla scent wafting from the cup. "And you got my favorite?"

"I make it a point to remember the important details--unlike like someone."

"You know, I had a feeling you'd bring that up," Evelyn said with a roll of her eyes. "A girl's entitled to one coffee mishap, isn't she?"

The early morning drive to the airport was a quiet affair, punctuated only by the soft hum of the engine and the occasional melody that Evelyn couldn't resist singing along to. It seemed that every song on the radio was her 'favorite,' and she serenaded Hotch with a gusto that was inversely proportional to her musical accuracy. Hotch's expression might have read as mildly pained, but in truth, he found her off-key notes unexpectedly charming.

Evelyn navigated the narrow plane aisle with a practiced grace, sliding into the middle seat. On the window side, Hotch had already claimed his spot, his gaze fixed on the world outside. The aisle seat remained vacant but not for long. A man, older and with a certain disheveled charm that bordered on sleazy, soon occupied it.

His suit was a tad too shiny, the kind that tried too hard to impress, and his hair was slicked back in way that seemed to defy both age and gravity. Evelyn, ever the person she was, didn't seem to mind as she offered him a polite smile, the kind that was courteous yet distant. The man returned the gesture, revealing a gold tooth that glinted in the cabin light.

"Well, isn't this cozy?" the man started, "I must say, you make our cramped quarters seem rather pleasant."

Evelyn flashed a polite smile. "That's very kind."

Hotch sat quietly, his gaze fixed on the exchanged with an intensity that betrayed his calm exterior. His protective instincts were fully engaged, a subtle tension visible only in the slight clench in his jaw. He watched as Evelyn navigated half the flight with her usual poise, responding to the main's veiled advances with nothing more than polite nods and neutral smiles.

Oblivious to any underlying intentions, she carried on with an air of kindness, her attention occasionally drifting to the window. Hotch, ever watchful, noted the subtle cues--the way the main leaned in, the too-warm chuckles, the searching glances. Yet, Evelyn seemed unaware.

"Your choice of material is quite... enlightening," the man remarked, his knee brushing against Evelyn's for the umpteenth time.

"Oh this?" Evelyn remarked casually, holding up the romance book. "Just a little light reading for the flight."

The man chuckled, his tone dripping with innuendo. "Careful, those can set quite the mood. Might be more than you bargained for."

Confusion flickered across Evelyn's features, failing to grasp the full intent behind the man's comment. Hotch, however, was all too aware, his patience wearing thin with each 'accidental' contact between the man's knee and Evelyn's.

In a moment of quiet resolve, he leaned towards her, his voice a soft murmur meant only for her ears. "You said you prefer the window seat, correct?"

Evelyn's eyes widened, the corners of her mouth curving into a smile of genuine surprise. "Are you offering it to me?"

He confirmed with a simple nod, his eyes holding hers with a gentle firmness.

She lowered her voice, a playful smile dancing on her lips. "You're just full of surprises today, aren't you? I better start taking notes; the team's never going to believe this."

Evelyn stood up, her movements betraying a slight reluctance as she moved to switch seats. Meanwhile, Hotch stood from his seat, his stature filling up the limited space between them. As Evelyn edged by, the proximity caught her off guard, sending a surge of warmth through her, her heartbeat thundering in her ears.

"Oh, sorry," she breathed out, barely audible, as a wave of crimson flooded her cheeks, her mind chastising her for the clumsy encounter.

Hotch offered a silent nod, his own heartbeat imperceptibly faster.

Time stretched on and as the drone of the engines filled the cabin, Evelyn rose yet again, her movements fluid yet mindful in the confined space. The narrow space forced Evelyn to turn her back as she edged by, her focus solely on the beckoning call of the restroom. Hotch, his composure momentarily slipping, masked his distraction with a cough that sounded almost strained against the quiet chatter.

Hotch was a man of control, yet as Evelyn moved past him, her presence was undeniable and quite literally right at eye level just like her ass. The fabric of her attire accentuating her every move, leaving an imprint on his watchful eyes that lingered longer than necessary. Hotch's gaze followed her every move, tracking her discreetly until she merged with the aisle.

The man beside Hotch, leaned in closer than necessary. "Quite the view, huh?" he commented in a hushed tone, a sleazy grin spreading across his features.

Hotch's expression hardened, his jaw setting a firm line. Facing the man, his eyes were steely, his voice a low rumble of warning, "I'd suggest you keep your observations to yourself. It's a long flight, and I'd hate for it to become any longer for you."

The remainder of the flight passed without incident, the earlier tension dissolving into the cabin's recycled air. Evelyn, none the wiser to the exchange between Hotch and the man, mused to herself about the sudden peace.

As they disembarked in Miami, Evelyn and Hotch were greeted by the warm air that wrapped around them like a welcoming shawl. The hotel loomed around them, a sprawling resort nestled amidst lush gardens and shimmering waters.

"Hotch, look at this place! I think the Bureau's expense department got their wires crossed," Evelyn gushed as they entered the lobby, where her attention was swiftly stolen by the sight of the pool through the floor-to-ceiling windows. "I half expect to see a celebrity or two lounging by that pool. Speaking of which, how strict do you think they are about conference attendees taking a 'research break' in the water? Asking for a friend, of course."

"Evelyn," he began, "what you do in your free time is at your discretion. However," he continued, his gaze locking onto hers, "we have a dinner engagement this evening with some key figures from the conference. It's an informal setting, but impressions matter. I trust you'll bring your usual insight and professionalism to the table."

"Professionalism? Oh, you've got it, boss man. I'll be the picture of professionalism--so much so, they might just mistake me for you," she teased, her grin suggesting she was only half-joking. "As long as you keep me on the guest list for these conferences."

Hotch's gaze lingered on Evelyn for a moment, a silent warning conveyed in the briefest of looks. "I need to meet with some representatives from the BSU," he said, "Here's your room key," he added, handing her a small envelope with a practiced hand. "Remember, 'be good' isn't just a suggestion, it's an expectation."

"Oh, Hotch, when have I ever been anything but good?" Evelyn asked, batting her lashes with an exaggerated innocence.

Hotch offered nothing but a deadpan look in response to Evelyn's words, the unamused mask firmly in place as he turned and walked away with measured steps.

Evelyn's delight was unmistakable as she made it to her room. The space was more than nice--it felt luxurious. From the plush bed to the breathtaking view that beckoned from the window. But the room couldn't contain her restless energy for long. She swiftly changed into a comfortable pair of jeans and tank top.

Evelyn's casual stroll through the hotel brought her to a halt outside a bustling conference room where Hotch stood, surrounded by a circle of professionals. One woman in particular caught her eye--a vibrant figure with a small tattoo adorning her exposed shoulder, her proximity to Hotch just shy of intimate. Her laughter rang out, a decibel too high, piercing the hum of conversation. The sound seemed to echo in Evelyn's ears, stirring an unfamiliar jealously as she watched, a sense of possessiveness she hadn't anticipated washing over her.

"What am I doing?" Evelyn questioned herself, a frown marring her usually carefree expression. She shook her head, trying to scatter the unexpected feeling that clouded her thoughts. She was already with one coworker. With one last look at Hotch and the woman, she turned, her footsteps echoing through the hall.

The evening had settled over the resort, casting a soft glow of the evening lights. In her room, Evelyn stood before the mirror, draped in a black dress that embraced her form with an almost immoral familiarity. The neckline offered a glimpse of the swell of her breasts that made her second-guess the appropriateness for dinner. She pondered if the dress crossed the line from chic to scandalous, especially since Hotch had left the dress code to her imagination.

As she reached for her lipstick, a knock at the door interrupted her thoughts.

Opening the door, she was greeted by the sight of Hotch. His dark suit was crisp, the lines clean and authoritative, setting off the steely look in his eyes. For a fleeting second, Evelyn found herself at a loss for words, her usual quick-witted banter deserting her. She marveled at the sharpness of his jawline, the intensity of his gaze.

She blinked, a rush of warmth flooding her cheeks as she took a moment to appreciate the man before her. Regaining her composure, she greeted him. "Well, if it isn't Agent Hotchner, looking sharp enough to cut through red tape."

His eyes softened as his gaze dragged up her figure. It was rare when words, typically his steadfast ally, seemed insufficient. Clearing his throat, he allowed a genuine smile to touch his lips. "Evelyn, you look beautiful."

The unexpected warmth in Hotch's voice sent a flutter through Evelyn's stomach. A blush crept up her cheeks as she stammered. "Oh--uh, thank you, hotch," she managed, her voice a notch higher than usual. She stepped aside, gesturing him in. "Just give me one sec, I need to... uh, apply my lipstick," she said, her hands fumbling for the cosmetic.

As Evelyn carefully twisted the tube of lipstick, she began to speak. "So, who exactly is going to be at this dinner...?" She trailed off, focusing on the precision of the crimson shade as it glided over her lips, forming an 'o' shape. "And the seating arrangements, I hope they're not too formal. It's always so awkward to make conversation when--"

Hotch found himself unexpectedly transfixed, leaning casually against the doorframe yet entirely absorbed by the scene before him. Evelyn's lips, parting and pressing as she spoke, were all he could see. She was speaking--something about the dinner, the guests--but the words seemed to drift away. All of it was drowned out by the delicate precision with which she painted her lips, the occasional catch of her teeth against the plush red, the way he could imagine those same lips wrapped around his cock. The mundane task, one he had never given much thought to before, suddenly seemed the most fascinating thing in the world.

Evelyn caught the distant look in Hotch's eyes and paused, her lipstick hovering mid-air. "Hotch?" she probed, a note of curiosity in her voice.

He snapped back to the present with a slight start. "Huh? Oh, yeah, sounds great," he mumbled, almost as if on autopilot.

Evelyn eyed him quizzically for a moment but then shrugged it off with a smile. "Well, I'm all set," she said, slipping her lipstick into her purse. "Shall we?"

The restaurant was a cocoon of warmth and subtle elegance, its walls adorned with tasteful art and tables set with crystal and fine china that caught the glimmers of the chandeliers overhead. As Evelyn and Hotch made their way through the hushed conversations and the soft clinking of cutlery, she felt a flutter of anticipation mixed with the slightest edge of nerves.

As Evelyn neared the table, a sharp pang of recognition coursed through her--the woman from before was there. The woman who had flirted with Hotch, her casual elegance now a sharp thorn in Evelyn's side. The closer they got to the table, the more Evelyn felt the bitter vine of jealously winding its way up, tightening around her voice. It made it all worse as she realized the same woman that was flirting with hotch was the infamous Lillian Lewis, best-selling author and behavioral analyst. She was a legend in their work.

Hotch, ever composed, acknowledged the table with a subtle nod. "Professor, gentlemen," he began, "this is Special Agent Evelyn Gideon."

The men at the table, both influential benefactors of the BAU, received her with a warmth that melted away some of her stiffness. "Agent Gideon, a pleasure," the man, Thomas Weller, remarked, his handshake warm and reassuring.

Dr. Reeves greeted her with a thoughtful nod and a smile. "Welcome, Evelyn. It's always good to see new faces in the field."

Evelyn mirrored their greetings, her smile unfurling effortlessly, softening the formality of the moment. Her voice turned to one of admiration as she tried to push aside the knot of discomfort in her stomach. Despite her confusing feelings to Hotch, game recognizes game. And Professor Lewis was one of the best.

"Professor Lewis, it's an honor. Your work on micro expressions has been a game-changer in high-stakes negotiations."

Professor Lewis gave a curt nod, her 'Thank you' slicing through the air, sharp and devoid of the earlier warmth. Her eyes, a steely grey, seemed to appraise Evelyn with a scholar's critical gaze, flickering over her with an air of polite disinterest.

As they took their places at the table, Hotch smoothly slid Evelyn's chair out for her. As she eased into it, she shot him a teasing smile. "Such attentiveness, Agent Hotchner. I wasn't kidding about taking notes, the team will need a full briefing when we get back."

Hotch leaned in, his breath a whisper against her ear. "Remember how I said being good wasn't a suggestion?"

The warmth of his breath left her momentarily dazed, a tingling sensation lingering where his words had landed. She shrugged softly at his words, shooting him a quick wink.

As the dinner conversation ebbed and flowed around them, Dr. Reeves leaned forward, drawn by the familiar ring of her last name. "So, your father is Jason Gideon?"

Evelyn affirmed with a modest tilt of her head. "The one and only."

With a scrutinizing look, Professor Lewis cut into the conversation, injecting dryly. "Must've been nice having that as your golden ticket."

The comment hung in the air, and Evelyn felt a momentary discomfort. She recovered quickly, though, with a light-hearted retort. "Well, it certainly wasn't a Wonka bar, but it did come with its own set challenges," she said, hoping to deflect the tension with humor.

Without missing a beat, Hotch offered a measured nod in Evelyn's direction. "Evelyn has earned her place on the team. Her record stands on its own."

Evelyn managed to navigate the rest of the dinner with grace, her laughter blending seamlessly into the restaurant's hum. It was easy for her to charm the benefactors just like Hotch assumed she would: the way she remembered personal details, the easy way she joked about the appetizers, or how she gracefully deflected any praise to her team, specifically her unit chief.

As the clinking of glasses subsided, Mr. Weller nudged Hotch with a knowing look. "The bureau's lucky to have someone like her," before shooting a wink to Evelyn, he added, "And hey, if you ever get tired of this guy, give me a ring, huh?"

As they prepared to leave, Hotch's hand found its way to the small of Evelyn's back, guiding her through the crowd. The warmth of touch sparked a cascade of tingles down her spine, and she couldn't help but press back against his palm, a subtle gesture not lost on the observant eyes of the professor.

"Did you hear that, Hotchner?" Evelyn teased as she pressed closer to him. "The bureau is lucky to have me."

Hotch's fingers gave a gentle squeeze on her back, his voice low and teasing. "I knew that would go to your head."

The hotel's quiet corridors echoed with the soft tread of their steps as Hotch accompanied Evelyn to her door. The distant hum of the air conditioning lent a subtle rhythm, while the floorboards yielded a soft protest against their weight.

Evelyn paused at her door, her palm grazing the cool metal of the doorknob. Her gaze flickered up to Hotch. "Guess I'm not high on Professor Blake's list, huh?"

A smile of quiet assurance played on Hotch's lips, his gaze steady. "I wouldn't quite put it that way," he murmured, his voice low. "That's just her way."

Evelyn exhaled a breath tinged with mock amusement, her gaze honing in with accusation. "Well, she sure seemed to have a different way with you earlier," she insinuated, her words just loud enough for him to catch.

"What was that?" Hotch asked, an eyebrow raised in silent invitation for her to elaborate.

"Nothing," Evelyn retorted with a swift dismissal.

Hotch shook his head, a silent chuckle in his throat.

He lingered, his eyes savoring her--the contours of her face, the curve of her beck, the line of her shoulders. Hotch found himself captivated, unable to divert his attention. As the hallway seemed to condense around them, Hotch found his gaze on the delicate bow of her lips, the color seeming to tempt him in more ways than one.

"Goodnight, Evelyn," he finally managed.

"Goodnight, Hotch," she voiced evenly, her words smooth and controlled, a veil over the wild drumming of her heart.

With a final nod, Hotch turned and walked away. Evelyn retreated into her room, the door's click sealing her inside, its sound a faint punctuation in the quiet. She exhaled a deep, satisfied breath, a serene smile playing on her lips. She moved with a soft deliberateness, preparing for bed, her slow and purposeful movements discarding the dress.

She pulled out her pajamas, the fabric soft and familiar between her fingers. A shade of blush with tiny hearts, the material hugged her just right. Dimming the lights, she climbed into the plush bed, the sheets cool against her skin.

taglist: @nonamevenus @aceofspades190

100 notes · View notes

notedchampagne · 9 months

Note

holds gun to your head. what are your the locked tomb gender hcs. i like your art

thank you!! in no particular order:

harrowhark: thats a Thing. being she/her is like a thing that came with being reverend daughter as a job and she refuses to acknowledge gender beyond that- but she would fucking kill it with it/its pronouns lets be real

gideon: butch. thats all. kind of that middle ground between being gnc and transgender in any direction but shes fine being a girl its moreso the focus on being a lesbian. ive seen some top surgery gideon art which i love but thats not my primary hc because i think A) she loves boobs on other girls so much it goes back around to appreciating her own B) im gay

camilla: boygirl. shes transmasc but also still a woman mostly due to nonchalance about the whole thing. shares she/he with palamedes thats my dream

palamedes: sorry i meant girlamedes. girlboy. also like if he was a girl but still a boy, but contrary to cams side its because hes both, like if you overlaid two layers at 50% opacity to make a new color. blue-green. shares she/he with camilla. quinn @thatneoncrisis once said hes soft butch which is so real i adore that

tridentarii: the twins to me are cis (dont leave yet) primarily because i think if i stick to the bit of them being cis white women everything they do is a fucking riot and it simply is the height of all humor. that aside sometimes i do get tired of the bit and corona is so trans woman to me and i know with certainty that when ianthe was in babs body she was doing drag.

naberius: i dont think about him LMFAO

second: i also dont think about the second much due to lack of substance, but i can get behind judy. nonbinary woman to me

fourth: jeannemary baby butch for SURE. thats canon. maybe a she & sir if i think about it. in modern aus gideon will babysit them and immediately clock isaac as a future he/they

fifth: t4t

seventh: dulcie has woman swag. not sure if shes cis i feel as if im intruding if i wonder about it. protesilaus is some guy

eighth: who cares

pash: worlds most beautiful trans woman ever to ME. i love her dearly there needs to be more representation of women just absolutely fucking coated in dirt and motor oil with bad manners if you offer them water. she is not fucking cis that is in the hair

nona: she just decided to be a girl because she thinks girls are pretty and she likes them. hope this makes sense <3 shed fucking adore some neos

john: karkat vantas

#talking back #the locked tomb #tlt meta #tlt

211 notes · View notes

greygaunt · 2 months

Text

How the Slytherin boys would react to being on the opposite side during the Battle of Hogwarts

Theodore Nott

The air crackled with tension as you burst onto the courtyard, seeing Neville and Luna standing stoic, wands pointed at Blaise and Adrian. You pushed through the crowd. You scanned those opposite you, realising you were stood directly opposite Theodore. Your eyes raked over his figure, tense and hard, like a shield. He looked afraid, but fierce. He raised his wand and pointed it at you, a vindictive smirk crossing his face. You swallowed and looked down at your feet, deeply breathing to quell your anger. Your eyes flitted across the rest of your opposition, acknowledging the dead look in their eyes. You looked back to Theo, his face was once a comfort to you, but you didn’t recognise him. Both of your wands raised in silent acknowledgement of the conflict that had torn your bond asunder. His voice, usually filled with love and laughter, was now laced with a bitter edge as he spoke. "So, you've chosen to stand against us," he spat, his words dripping with scorn. "I didn't want it to come to this, Theo," you replied, your voice tinged with regret. "But I can't stand by while innocent lives are at risk." His anger flared at your words, his wand hand trembling with suppressed emotion. "You always were too soft," he snarled, his facade of indifference slipping for a brief moment. "You think you're doing the right thing, but you're just getting in the way.” Theo launched into attack, spells flying from his wand with a ferocity that shocked you. You defended yourself, each flick of your wand a response to the hollow ache in your chest. Just beneath the surface, there was a timid shadow of grief behind his eyes. Theo's attacks were fuelled by a mixture of rage and sorrow, his movements frantic as he grappled with the conflicting emotions tearing him apart. His eyes grew dark as he shot spell after spell your way, his eyes unwavering as he watched you fall. You struggled from the floor, desperately defending yourself until he hovered over you, casting an intimidating shadow. “I may be a pawn in his game, but at least I’m not a weak little coward.” His words bruised you like rotten fruit, and you sagged under the weight of his hatred.

Mattheo Riddle

Your breath was ragged as you joined Harry and Luna in the courtyard. The air was thick with spells and the sound of clashing metal and distant explosions. In the calm of the courtyard, sides began to form. It was almost as if a ravine had split across the stone, two groups stood facing each other. Amidst the standoff, you found yourself standing at the forefront, surrounded by fellow defenders of Hogwarts. Your resolve was unwavering as you faced the onslaught of dark forces that threatened to engulf the castle in darkness. Across the eerie quiet of the courtyard, you caught sight of Mattheo. His figure stood tall and imposing, his eyes gleaming with a fervent intensity that sent a shiver down your spine. He was flanked by a group of dark wizards, their allegiance evident in the way they brandished their wands with aggression. For a moment, time seemed to stand still as you locked eyes with Mattheo, the distance between you feeling like an unbridgeable chasm. In that fleeting moment, you saw the weight of his choices etched upon his features, the conflict waging within him mirrored in the depths of his gaze. Was that… longing? It couldn’t be, your relationship was irreparably ruined. He has made assurance of that. But there was no time for hesitation, no room for doubt. You knew what was right, and you intended to fight for it. With a sigh of composure, you squared your shoulders and raised your wand. Mattheo’s eyebrows raised as you stood so confidently. He wasn’t expecting you to be so ready to challenge him. Mattheo's eyes, once filled with warmth, now glinted with a dark determination. His wand gripped tightly; he raised it. You mirrored his stance, your heart heavy with the realisation that the only way to end this was to face him in combat. Without a word, Mattheo’s face drained of all emotion as he unleashed a barrage of curses. You deftly dodged and countered, the combat techniques he taught you now working against him. "You could have stood with me," Mattheo sneered, his voice cutting through the chaos. "But now you're just another obstacle to overcome." You parried his attacks, your own spells flashing brightly in response. "Mattheo, there's still a chance to turn back. We can find another way, a better way." He was unyielding, his resolve unbroken. The duel between you intensified; the ebb and flow of magic continued. Beneath the surface, there was an unspoken sadness, a shared history that lingered in every bolt of light.

Lorenzo Berkshire

The castle was clouded with bolts of light and screaming. You were running across the bridge back towards the courtyard when a figure blocked your exit. You came to a sudden halt, your eyes tracing Lorenzo’s figure like he was a predator. His eyes were burning with a simmering violence. "I never thought I'd have to face you like this," Lorenzo sneered, his voice laced with bitterness. "I trusted you, believed in you, and you fucking betrayed me.” The air around you was cold as you baited your breath. Lorenzo raised his wand and wordlessly flung spells at you, threatening the bridge you were stood on. "You're a coward," he spat, his words cutting through the chaos. "Turning your back on everything we worked for, everything we believed in. I never thought you'd be so weak. Not fighting back?” You let out a groan of defiance and raised your wand, parrying his attacks with a wild anger. "Lorenzo, it's not about weakness. It's about saving innocent people! There’s another side to this.” He scoffed, his laughter filled with bitterness and vitriol. "Another way? You're fooling yourself. This is the only way, and you're too blind to see it." The spells were flying with vengeance, wands waving and flicking with such disgust. Lorenzo's hurtful words continued to pierce through the chaos, leaving wounds that went beyond the physical. "You were supposed to be my ally, by my side,” he hissed, a dark fire burning in his eyes. "But now, you're nothing. Just another obstacle to overcome. I don't need you. Actually, I’m not sure I ever did. You disgust me.” The bitterness and disappointment lingered like a toxic cloud. You refused to yield. He was not going to win this, he would not best you. His face was cold and detached. You heard footsteps behind you, your head flying to see Harry and Seamus. “Beat it, Berkshire. You sly git.” Seamus yelled, flinging his arms about in a rage. Lorenzo shot you a scornful, hate-filled look and left you with one final seething graze: “I let you ruin me. I take delight in knowing you’ll be gone soon.”

Blaise Zabini

In the midst of the chaos, you had found yourself unexpectedly face-to-face with Blaise whose heartache and disappointment were evident in his eyes. He stood, eyes blinking slowly as he recognised you, covered in cuts and scrapes. His wand trembled in his hand, his movements hesitant and uncertain, as if torn between loyalty to his cause and the love he still harboured for you. You took a deep breath and raised your eyebrows, shrugging your shoulders at him. "I can't do this," Blaise murmured, his voice barely audible over the din of battle. "I can't fight you." You met his gaze, the weight of his words suffocating you. It took everything for you not to be consumed by your guilt. “Blaise, please," you pleaded, hoping to reach the part of him that still remembered the bond you shared. "There's still a chance to end this madness. We don't have to be enemies." But he shook his head, a mixture of anguish and determination engrained on his features. "I trusted you," he whispered, his voice choked with emotion. "I believed in you, and you betrayed me. I can't just forget that. We were supposed to be here together.” With that, he raised his wand higher and misfired spells at you. Blaise's movements were hesitant, his spells faltering as if he couldn't bring himself to truly harm you. You deflected his attacks with ease, each clash of magic a painful reminder of the rift that had formed between you. "Blaise, listen to me," you urged, desperation creeping into your voice. "I never wanted to hurt you. We can still make things right." But he turned away, his expression filled with sorrow and regret. "It's too late for that," he murmured, his voice barely audible in his emotional state. "I can't keep pretending that everything's okay when it's not. I have to go." With that, Blaise fled, his heart heavy with the weight of his decision. You watched him run, feeling hollow inside as you realised the damage was truly irreparable, you were finished. Both of you.

Draco Malfoy

Draco had his wand pointed at your chest, but his arm was wavering slightly. His face was scornful and cold with disgust, but his eyes were pleading with you. Draco's spells seemed to miss their mark, veering wide or fizzling out altogether. It was clear he was holding back, his hesitation palpable in the air. "Draco, just stop!" you called out, your voice barely audible over the roar of battle. "We don't have to do this. We can find another way. I don’t want this.” The pleading in is eyes dissolved, they were now swirling with a tumultuous mix of hatred and longing, refusing to meet yours. "It's too late for that," he muttered, his voice tinged with pain. "You made your choice, and now we have to live with the consequences. You did this.” Despite his words, his spells continued to miss, each one a silent plea for forgiveness amidst the hatred. It was clear that Draco was conflicted, torn between his duty to his father and the love he still held close for you. With each missed spell, the tension between you grew, the weight of unspoken words hanging heavy in the air. Draco's movements became more confused, his frustration mounting as he struggled to reconcile his conflicting emotions. Draco's resolve seemed to waver. With a final, desperate glance in your direction, he lowered his wand, his shoulders slumping in defeat. "I can't do this," he whispered, his voice barely a breath. "I can't fight you, not like this. I-“ With that, Draco turned and dropped his wand, walking away from you. You felt empty. “Draco, wait!” You called out, picking up his wand. But he had already gone, leaving you stood there like a fool. You were drenched in your sadness and your guilt, drawing in your grief.

#slytherin boys react #blaise zabini #draco malfoy #lorenzo berkshire #theodore nott #mattheo riddle #slytherin #greygaunt #Spotify

72 notes · View notes

aliorsboxostuff · 1 year

Note

So how about sub din who is just started to date Dom reader and hasn't taken his helmet off yet. So things are getting steamy with them both and is din sitting on readers lap grinding on him and reader asks if he wants to take a step further and din nods yes. And reader makes sure that din is comfortable and says to leave the helmet on for din and doesn't want to rush him. And leads to din first time with reader and is riding him in the control room in the razor crest. I hope you are doing good and really glad that you are taking mandalorian requests.-🐸

A/N Oh 🐸, you with your amazing ideas, and always so descriptive! Though I gotta change the 'Started dating reader' part because the Din in my heart is a socially awkward mf that needs at LEAST 6 months of relationship development before holding hands. I also hope you are doing well! Yall gotta bear with me here this is gonna be my FIRST take on a star wars fic, let alone a Mandalorian fic, so if I do make any mistakes while writing some Mando'a words here, feel free to DM me or reply so I can fix where I wrote it wrong! As always, apologies for some mistakes, english is my 2nd language, and enjoy dear Readers! <3

Ner Din'ika

Tags: Din Djarin x m!Reader, Grogu, Luke Skywalker, he's there as Grogus's teacher tho lmao, Mando'a words (Translation at the end), Bottom!Din, soft!Din, Keldabe kiss, First Kiss, Riding, Pet names, touch-starved!Din, fluff, fluff and smut, aftercare.

Din's first time with you is—as expected—filled with yearning and want and scalding touches and a kiss?

[Takes place around the time frame of Grogus training in Book of Boba Fett, but i refuse to let The Razor Crest explode so here we are]

You stand at the mouth of The Razor Crest, watching as Din supervised Grogu’s latest training with Luke. The kid has flown a total of five little pebbles and an even more impressive number of bigger boulders, seven now counting. Din, worry and protectiveness practically oozing from his armor, stands off to the side, just near the tree lines, eyes watchful of his foundling as Luke, yet again, lets the little boy fly over his head. You’d deem it dangerous, stars, maybe irresponsible. But what do you know about Jedi training?

Instead, your eyes follow the line of Din's stature. His arms are crossed, leaning against some of the bamboos. Clearly trying to resemble a sort of relaxed stance, but you can see the tension, feel it even. Comes with being a Mandalorian’s boyfriend, you chuckle. Those broad shoulders lean back, Beskar reflecting the shining light of the growing evening, slowly he turns his head to glance at you sitting on the Crest’s mouth. You meet his visor, grinning, before he curtly turns back to where he was watching his kid. Your smile widens.

You met him through Cara Dune. She’s a good friend of yours, the one who pulled you out of your boring everyday life on Sorgan, used to fish the little morsels from your villages ponds, to hanging around her and earned her respect. Until that Beskar donned man and his little green kid came. Thought he wanted to take in Cara and you were ready to step in his way, but after they dueled, they came to a truce and started their alliance. He helped the villagers fight off the raiders that once terrorized the place, and once that's done he opted to leave, not before you hitched a ride to Nevarro with Cara.

It had to be admitted, the kid did catch your heart and held on to it, so you offered to help him and Grogu find his kind. Cycles after your initial meeting, you’ve grown close with both Din and Grogu, curious at the man’s past and equally drawn to him. Then that imperial bastard, Moff Gideon, had to up and steal the kid. So you, Cara, Bo-Katan and Hell, Boba Fett himself, joined forces to save him.

The universe truly is bountiful to its protector, because you didn't take into account that saving The Mandalorians kid would give you the honor of learning his name and, by stars, becoming his boyfriend. Remembering back to those months, you still think you're the luckiest warrior in the whole galaxy to be blessed with such an amazing and loving clan of three.

Reeling back to reality, far into the field, you see Grogu has gone tired and Luke has halted their training for the day, the little green guy already slumping into the dirt below and curling in on himself. You sigh fondly, walking down the ramp and jogging to wear Grogus doe eyes are already half lidded, and he yawns.

“Come here kiddo,” You coo as you pick up his little body, cradling him in your arms. You see Luke talking to Din, too far away for you to catch, but you could see him nodding to Lukes animated chatter. You smile, glancing back down to Grogus little head burying himself deeper into your warmth, he’s already pawing at the jacket you're wearing, which makes you giggle and pull it around his little body.

Luke walks over to where you’re standing, smiling as he sees Grogu already bundled up by you. “We should have dinner first before we sleep, right Grogu?”

Now that made his floppy ears perk. Grogu immediately turns from where you were hugging him, making grabby hands and incoherent words at the idea of food, which you smile at before handing him to Lukes waiting arms.

“We’ll join you in a bit,” You said, and Luke nodded, already turning back into the direction of his temple.

On cue, Din approaches you and slides an arm around your middle, pulling you to him at which you welcome the tug. With a steady hand on the cool Beskar chest plate, the two of you watch as Grogu flails his arms around, undoubtedly talking about something that only Luke could understand, the serenity of the fields surrounding you lulls you into a sense of peace. You turn to meet Dins visor, directed at Luke and Grogu, before it slowly turns to you, making you smile softly. Slowly, you bring your hand to caress the side of his helmet, fingers edging slightly under it, taking in the feeling of that powerful metal that has saved your boyfriend countless times. His gloved hand holds your wrist, not tugging away, just an anchor, a testament to his trust in you to know you’ll never take off his helmet, to know you’re patient to let Din take his own pace.

The hand holding his helmet pulls slightly, and Din comes with. Your eyes flutter close as you feel the cold Beskar touch your crown, sighing when a shaky hand cups your jaw, bringing you closer. Despite the gap the armor creates, you’re never tired of feeling Dins hand on your nape, heavy over your pulse, burning even through his gloves. You smile, pulling back slightly, before you press a kiss to where his cheeks would be. “Let’s eat, cyar’ika,” You whisper, and you feel him nod.

You smile when he pulls back, arm still securely on your hips while the other smoothes over your jaw. You chuckle, pulling him to the smell of dinner being prepared by Luke, tugging him by his hand.

—

After dinner is done and cleaned, Din has given Grogu his nightly bath and the kid is ready to pass out at any moment. Luke has taken him to his quarters and settled the little one on his own bed, just on the other side of his room. The bots have yet to make more sleeping quarters, still focusing on more classes and storage area, so the only available bed room would be Lukes, where Grogu is also staying.

You and Din have known this from your last visits, opting to sleep in the privacy of the Crest instead. So you and Din bid the two a good night, and trek up the clearing where the ship is docked.

Din’s arm never left your side, holding and pressing slightly, making you arch a brow at him. He only stares at you, undoubtedly false innocent eyes inside that helmet. You scoff, nudging him aside before pressing the button to close the ramp, submerging the two of you in the darkness of the Crest, shards of the twin moons the only thing leading you and Din up into the hull of the ship.

His hands now roam around your body, pushing you slightly until your back hits the wall, you return his desperate touch with the same fervor. Finding the sliver of body suit on his hip not covered by his armor, you snake insistent fingers into the fabric and squeeze, his helmet not able to hide his groan.

“Easy dearest,” You smooth your hand over the area, other hand holding the side of his neck, thumb drawing soothing circles. “Let's take these off, alright?” He nods shakily.

You lead him to the compartment next to the sleeping pod, the table there clean of clutter and made to store Dins armor. Piece by piece, starting with his shoulder pauldrons, each part eased off with care, pressing a kiss to the Mudhorn signet, you can hear Dins stuttered breath. Then down to his vambraces, littering kisses from his shoulder and leading a path down to his forearm, then hands as you carefully pry off those thick gloves. You push Din slightly so his waist hits the edge of the table, pressing another kiss to the bare skin of his hand, half lidded eyes meets his visor at which you hear him exhale a ragged breath.

Carefully unbuckling the belts around his breastplate, setting it on the table before you pull off the breastplate, the bodystocking stretches over his broad chest deliciously. As you put the armor piece aside, your hand smoothes over the fabric, pressing slightly where you know Din is sensitive the most, watching him inhale sharply before you smirk, littering kisses on your way down. As you crouch, you move to take off each leg piece, first tigh guards, pressing light kisses on the exposed fabric, then shin guards and the belts on top of it, then finally the knee-pads and his heavy boots. Gentle hands stoke up slightly, pushing the end of his pants up until you feel the tickle of leg hair, Din visibly shaking on top of you, gripping the table behind him until his scarred knuckles turn white.

You smile, languidly making your way up his body, unwrapping his cape and setting it aside. The final divide between you and your boyfriend. His last brick, and the wall crumbles down.

Shaking hands clasps at your back as you press kisses on his still covered clavicle, making the fabric damp and warm as he squirms. You hear his breath grow ragged, then you bite down, just enough to hear him groan and drop his head to your shoulder, his hands holding onto you like a lifeline.

“Sleeping pod or-”

“T-the cockpit…” He falters as you press another kiss nearing his neck. “Please,”

You hum, nodding against his neck before leading him by the hand, careful touches along his hips as you usher him up the stairs. You follow suit, not forgetting to grab the lube from the compartment on the wall.

When your feet touch the cockpits floor, Din impatiently pulls you up, hands stroking over your chest, down to your hips at which he breathes raggedly under your chin. You chuckle, moving him back until he feels the control panel. He almost jumps to sit on it, but you sit back on the captain's chair, you pull him towards you, making him stumble into your lap. His whine reverberates through his helmet's modulator adding a static edge to it. You made sure he’s comfortable before sliding your hands to his back, reaching to tug the zipper down.

The zippers opens his backside into the night's cold air, making him arch into your warm touch, pressing his clothed cock to your lap. He whines from the movement, holding on to your shoulders, almost crushing them. With each skin slowly being revealed into the night's air, you press your lips against it, reveling in each whine and ragged breath you got out of Din. With every part of the suit being peeled, Din’s tanned skin is shown, bathed under the light of the moons and stars. Scars on his body paint an infinite constellation, your eyes following each one, from the deep ones to those that have grown lighter than Dins expanse of skin.

Finally, he pulls at the tight bodysuit, discarding it somewhere on the floor, and his hands paws at your jacket, labored breath impatiently prying it off of your figure. You grin, shrugging the article off, followed by your shirt, leaving the both of you shirtless and breathless. Dins shaking hand strokes down your shoulder, to your arms, before he arches into you when your languid fingers trace his sensitive back, sending jolts rippling through his body.

“Please…” Despite his helmet still perfectly secured on his head, you could feel his warmth ghosting at your neck. It truly has been a while since you and Din shared some privacy, always jumping from planet to planet, looking for more Mandalorians to repair broken bonds and doing favors that benefit Din’s covert. Only now did you and your boyfriend get to breathe in the warm embrace of peace within this planet, so you're not surprised just how sensitive Din has gotten.

“What do you need kar’ta?” Your hand holds Dins hip, no doubt leaving marks to be cherished in the morning, letting him grind himself on your thigh, broken moans and breath singing into your ears. You pride yourself for learning bits of Mando’a if only to hear his gasps each time you use it. “Hm? What do you want?”

“I- ugh,” Din grunts as he feels one hand snakes into his trousers, stroking him steadily, his precum easing the movement. You smirk, other hand tweaking one of his perked nipples, bumping your head against his, making sure the amber in your eyes burns through his visor. The need melts into his skin.

You’ve never gone past reverent touches and helping each other get off by hand, you haven't even gotten the pleasure of seeing Din fall apart by your mouth, but from the way he grinds into your touch, broken moans filling the room, his desperation leaks into your body. “Want me to fuck you?”

“Stars- Yes.” He moans when you tighten your hand just so. You nod, easing your hand away from his cock which makes him whine, until you begin to help him out of his pants.

“Okay, alright,” Your breath stutters when Din grinds over your cock, already tenting in the confines of your pants. Between you and Din’s relationship, the both of you haven't truly moved on from scalding touches and helping each other get off by hand. This is a new territory for Din, and you have to make sure he feels safe and comfortable in your embrace.

You carefully slide him out of his trousers along with his briefs and discard it with the same pile as his top, feeling his strong thighs shake underneath your touch. Fumbling for the bottle of lube, you pour just enough on your hand and warm it up a bit, before following Din’s tailbone down to the top of his arse. He shivers, whining into your shoulder as he feels your digits ghosts over his hole, already squirming in your hold.

“Come on, please,” He begs, nails scratching at your back. You slowly insert one finger, the tip first, letting the Din situate himself to the foreign feeling. He groans, burying himself deeper between the crook of your neck, his mandibles digging slightly at your jaw. The lube easies your finger to push more, deeper, until you hear his high pitch, broken moan, then slowly push in another. At that, he jerks his head to the side, chest still flushed with yours.

When you begin scissoring, Din throws his head back, arches into your touch, which beckons you to chase him, biting at the now exposed column of his neck, making sure to leave marks no one but you know and Din could feel. Din feels delirious, deeply intoxicated from both your fingers and the feeling of your warm mouth pressing over sensitive skin and old scars, jolting each time you bite down or kiss longer to leave darker spots. He scarcely remembers moaning out broken syllables that should form your name, making your hold on his hips tighten, squeezing the scarred skin.

After deeming it enough prep, you carefully pull your fingers out, pressing kisses on the planes of your boyfriend's chest, feeling him take ragged breaths, a steady hue of red throughout his body. You shuffle to discard your pants, hissing when you feel the cold air hit your heated skin. You could feel Din growing impatient, if the way he squirms could be interpreted as that, so you tug your pants off and align yourself under Din.

“Slowly baby, slowly,” You remind him, his thigh shaking with anticipation. Hands holding under his thigh, making sure gravity doesn't take hold, you lower Din’s shivering body, inch by inch. The tight heat of his hole almost stutters your hold, making you groan, feeling the head of your cock inside him. You can feel Dins graps digs into your shoulders as he gasps.

Finally, your thighs are flushed with Dins, feeling the man shudder above you as you try to regain some sort of composure, breathing in shaking breaths. Din claws his way from your pellicals to your chest, making red rivers across your chest. You groan, pushing into his touch, which in turn shifts where you sat, enough to make your boyfriend shiver.

"M-move." He manages. "Move, please."

"Anything for you mesh'la," You say as your teeth dangerously ghosts over his pulse.

Planting your feet on the metal floor, you suppress the cold that shoots up your bones and instead focus on holding Din upright, thrusting into him with each movement. His arms shakes, moves back to grip the control panel, his scarred knuckles a hue lighter. A deep growl rumbles through you when you feel Din’s hole clenching around you, raking blunt teeth across his chest. You trail reverent kisses across a deep scar that runs from his left clavicle to just under his abdomen, Din shivers. In a more tender moment, slowed down after release with the two of you tangled together, you would've asked what those scars meant, wondering about the stories of your boyfriend's life. Maybe later, much later in the night.

When you hear a mewl, almost a hurt sound coming from the man currently flushed on top of you, your lips curls into a sharp grin, before hauling Din from gripping at the ships console to fall into your grasp, his arms immediately around your neck with a choked gasp from the sudden change. With the chair supporting both of your weight, you have the advantage to claw at Din’s hips, digging calloused fingers into his skin, using your strength to push Din up and down.

You feel yourself nearing the edge, with Din clenching around you it’s hard to keep up the pace. The side of his helmet would leave an angry mark on your shoulder, making you grunt when Din lets out a broken whimper and buries his head to the crook of your neck. “C-close, baby,”

“Me too…” He lets out a breathy moan when your hand finds his dick, pumping it hastily, pushing him to his limit.

“Stars i-” You stutter when Din clenches around you. “Fuck- Wish i can kiss you,”

Slip of a tongue. Shit.

Your movement falters, a shiver shoots up when Din pulls his head back, dark visors looking straight to you, assessing you.

"Din i-" But before you could sputter out a reason, an apology for forsaking the trust he gave you, darkness suddenly envelops your vision, rendering you blind. Dins hand covers your eyes, you could feel his calluses over your skin.

Then, as if a searing star itself break the atmosphere, you feel slightly chapped lips against yours, a tickle of stubble and- Is that a mustache?

Din grunts into your mouth, realizing you still have one hand wrapped around him. He moans, moving with your thrusts, his kiss devouring your gasps as you push at him, deepening it. His tongue traces yours and confidently moves in, effectively rendering your brain into a short-circuit. Your mind briefly wonders how such a reserved man has this much skill in kissing, he’s no virgin but surely he hasn't kissed anyone beside you. Then he bites at your lower lip before bringing you deeper again with a hand on your nape, and all hell breaks loose.

You growl into the kiss, basking in the whimper he lets out as your hand moves faster and thrust grows sloppier, but definitely still hitting that spot that makes Din scream. He pulls back, inhaling sharply when you bite lightly on his jaw, feeling the hair that decorate it. Oh you’d worship him just to see his debauched face without being blind, and the thought is enough to make you cum.

You feel yourself release inside Din’s warmth, making him shiver and let out a broken moan of your name. With your hand jerking him off, he follows suit, throwing his head back, painting his chest with strings of pearly cum. Once spent, he slumps into your embrace, helmet already in place and breathing raggedly next to your ear. You pry his hand off your eyes and press a kiss to the sliver of neck you could reach.

Blinking away the little dots from your eyes being closed and pressed by his hand, you slowly steady your breath as you rub circles on Dins pelicals and lower back, feeling him sigh and melt at your touch. You can't help to let out a chuckle, which earns you a questioning sound from your boyfriend.

“Nothing, just…” You smile, licking at your lips, trying to savor Din’s taste. “Best kiss I've ever had.”

That made him chuckle, nuzzling the cool helmet against the side of your neck. “Me too.”

Your smile widens, closing your eyes and simply letting the warmth of after-sex wafts through the cockpit. Speaking of which, you should probably clean up and sleep in the proper sleeping pod. The seat, plush as it is, won't do your back any good. So you reach for your scattered pants, looking for the fabric you always keep in your back pocket. When you finally find it, you shift Din a bit to clean up the mess that went up to both his and your chest, then carefully pull out of the man, making you groan as he shivers, wiping down what leaks out of him and the remaining lube around your length.

Standing up and making your way down takes another effort, but nothing you can't do for Din, sleepy and content Din in your arms. Pushing the button to open the sleeping pod, you set him down on the edge of it before handing him a bottle of water.

“Drink, love,” You grin, before busying yourself on the table where another water bottle is kept and downing it. You hear the hushed shh of Dins helmet as it’s being taken off, then the cap of the water bottle turning. You swallow another gulp of water, before flashes of earliers heated kiss shocks you and makes you choke on the water slightly. You cough, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand before closing the bottle and setting it back.

“You uh… Done?�� You clear your throat.

“Yeah,” You nod, turning back to see Dins helmet back on and him extending his arm, returning the bottle to you. You set it on the table and push him back to lie down in the pod. It’s always been a tight fit with both you and your boyfriend sleeping in it, but you make do.

When the doors are shut and the lights turned off, another hiss of Dins helmet makes your heart thump harder, but he shifts to place it on a small compartment off to the side and lays his head on your chest, one arm around you. You hook your arm around him, the other playfully raking through his curls. You could tell just from how it coils around your fingers, Din practically purring into your touch like a Loth Cat. You grin, pressing a kiss to his forehead before shifting to get comfortably on the pillow.

“Good night, Din'ika,”

“Good night, Cyar’ika,”

Cyar'ika: Darling, beloved, sweetheart

Kar'ta: Heart

Mesh'la: beautiful

Requests are open!

#din djarin x reader #din djarin x male reader #din djarin #din djarin fanfiction #the mandalorian fanfiction #din djarin x you #lio writes #star wars fanfiction #x m!reader #x male reader #din djarin x m!reader

282 notes · View notes

unhelpfulfemme · 5 months

Text

I think Lymond's early scenes with the Somervilles gain a lot more nuance and impact and emotional punch when you reread them.

Because, okay, on the first read they seem like kind, intelligent, respectable people who love each other very much - the warmth and connection and the instinctual wordless understanding between Gideon and Kate is immediately palpable - but at that point you don't really know enough about Francis to understand how they appear to him specifically. At this point he just seems like a callous cunt who takes pleasure in offending anyone who isn't Christian.

But think about it - artistic, intellectual boy grows up in a family full of constant acrimonious conflict (Mother bought a crate of books, Father burned it, they fought over it, Father drank...), his interests cnstantly belittled as too soft and his things smashed against walls until he learns to be vicious enough to defend himself. Father seems resentful about his very existence, angelic little sister has suicidal tendencies, Mother loves him but can be a manipulative bitch. He's a POW at sixteen, then groomed by an older woman, then sent to a probable death by that same woman. He's accused of treason over an incident that killed the sister, spends years as a slave suffering through every kind of abuse imaginable, tries coming back home but Father kicks him out because he doesn't believe him.

Ends up running a band of outlaws and considering how he later admits to hating the St. Mary's lifestyle - where his officers are all middle class intellectuals handpicked by himself - because he misses his music and his clever conversation and being friends with women? Can you imagine how he must have felt with the outlaws, where he, who used to read books on ethics for fun, had to constantly keep them entertained so they don't rape and pillage their way across their own countryside?

And then he goes to Flaw Valleys and sees a music room? And one of the first things to come out of Kate's mouth is how must not get many opportunities to play the harpischord with his kind of lifestyle, and how he must miss it a lot? She has no idea how much she's hit it right on the head.

And then he gets to know them, and they're... probably his Platonic ideal of a perfect family? He probably didn't think families like that existed outside of his own imagination (just compare them to every other family we see in the series). And then compare them to Francis's own interests and personality.

The husband is an accomplished musician, and the wife adores him for it and begs him to play every opportunity she gets. When he's in a mood, she knows how to draw him out of it skillfully and subtly and wittily and without being too intrusive. He, in turn, knows her well enough to anticipate her every need and delights in making her happy and giving her everything he can. There's palpable love and respect and understanding between them - they seem to understand each other wordlessly. They're both kind and empathetic and well-educated and keep themselves up-to-date on current events, on which they have nuanced and insightful opinions beyond picking a side. The wife is a master of witty conversation and enjoys and can keep up with Francis's own barbed back-and-forth. The husband and Francis come to an immediate understanding over politics despite technically being on opposite sides of a very complicated war. The husband's managed to keep his hands clean throughout it. Their daugher is already growing up to be a person of intellect, talent, and bold personality, because she's growing up surrounded with love and care and support and books and music and opportunities to be carefree and make messes and run around with the village boys.

He's barely twenty and he's been to hell and back so many times that he feels subhuman, and these picture perfect people take him in even though he's done nothing but treat them like shit, and they offer him their kindness and care and support and try to help him every way they can despite having zero reason to trust him or like him.

Can you imagine the kind of pedestal he'd put them on? It's no wonder he keeps coming back and maintains that friendship through everything. They're like the only stars he can see from his pitch-black gutter.

And I think this makes all his hand wringing over Philippa a lot more understandable, especially considering how he now sees himself as subhuman in ten additional ways after the extra trauma of the intervening years? On the first read you kind of just want to smack him because he's being so unreasonable, but really at that point you've spent so much time in Philippa's head and so little in Francis's that she's just Philippa to you (despite all the admiration she gets), while Francis is the one everyone is constantly panting over.

But to him she's part of a family so perfect and loving and healthy and aligned with all his ideals that he can't quite bring himself to believe that not only do they exist but they also like his miserable self, a family to whom he owes a great personal debt he can never repay (as he tells Kate in RC) and Philippa's the brightest and most impressive and accomplished member of that family. She is on a pedestal so high there's literally nothing he can do to measure up to what she means to him short of becoming a god.

And then consider how he later thinks that she's broken herself beyond repair over him. They're the only pure and flawless thing he knows of, the literal embodiment of how he dreams of people being in an ideal world, and he's destroyed it.

#lymond chronicles #I'm on a roll these days I guess #francis crawford of lymond #philippa somerville

62 notes · View notes

asgardwinter · 1 year

Text

remember that night?

summary | After months since he left you behind in Nevarro, Din Djarin was knocking at your shop. As always, it wasn’t anything besides business to have him come back, or so you thought.

pairing | Din Djarin x fem!Reader

warnings | SPOILERS FOR S3EP01!, tiny angst and discomfort, a lot of reminiscing about the past…

word count | 3k

author’s note | ok, so… I’m trying something out here and I hope it’s reasonable… I might continue this through the other episodes — it only depends on my inspiration and time… Anyways, I hope y’all enjoy this!! I wrote this while listening to “Remember That Night?” by Sara Keys.

Misc. Characters masterlist | join the taglist! | Main Masterlist

Welcome to Nevarro, independent trade anchor and Outer Rim Hyperlane port. The greeting droid said through the comms. Please state the purpose of your visit.

Din Djarin didn’t know what he felt as he prepared to land in Nevarro. The planet brought back mixed emotions to the surface, things he kept to himself during the last months and didn’t plan to relieve.

“Here to meet an old friend.” The mandalorian announced. The thought of someone else passing through his head before stating the Magistrate as the friend.

…

“Is there a problem here, Magistrate?”

Until Din decided to step into the discussion there were a lot of sharp words and hidden threats exchanged. The pirates were clearly after some trouble with the High Magistrate, but he also knew that Greef Karga was great enough at looking after himself and Nevarro. The truth was that he didn’t want to overstep or get into something if there wasn’t a clear need to.

But the conversation had gone long enough for his personal taste.

“Is there a problem here?” Greef repeated the question, this time looking to the pirates. “What do you think?”

“Not if you serve me a drink.” Vane continued to insist on the drink request — that was also not so much of a request.

“Not in my school.” The Magistrate was firm.

“You hear that, boys?” He started his dramatic number with his colleagues, making a very dramatic pause. “His school.” And finished it with a laugh at his current adversary. “You paid us for murder and mayhem inside these doors. Sounds like you went soft.”

“You think so?” He showed the gun, ready in its holder, a direct response to Vane’s threat. “Try me.”

The staring contest continued, the tension was up and everyone in the audience was waiting to see who would shoot first in that duel.

No surprise to see it was Greef Karga, the blaster falling from Vane’s hands.

“Tell Captain Gorian Shard that Nevarro is no longer friendly to pirates. Now get out of here.”

The other pirates were ready to counterstrike, turning to shoot the High Magistrate. But the mandalorian was of great help, shooting two of them while the other was taken care of by Greef. The people around the scene were tense, some even screamed with surprise, Navarro really had changed.

In the end of the confrontation Vane was standing there alone, hurt and with no back up.

“Get out of here, Vane. Now.” Greef repeated himself.

“Sure you wanna let him go?” Din was a bit worried, looking at the pirate that was already running from the scene to save his skin.

“Yes.” He nodded. “He'll let it be known that Nevarro is respectable now and not to be trifled with.”

Soon the droids were cleaning the scene up and leaving the street exactly as it was before the small struggle, just as if pirates had never touched the place.

“Yes, sir, right away.” The droid started to complete the task, running around to communicate the responsible droid squad.

“I gotta level with you, Mando. I need a marshal.” Greef confessed.

“What about Marshal Dune?”

“After she brought in Moff Gideon, she was recruited by Special Forces.”

“And what came of Gideon?” Din was curious about it.

“Ugh. He was sent off to a New Republic War Tribunal.” Yeah, that wasn’t truly the best of news but it’d do the job. “So... What do you say? Are you ready to put on the stripes and collect a healthy…”

The mandalorian’s eyes got lost somewhere along the street, a gate that was clearly very well made was open and he could have a peek inside a workshop. A new one that wasn’t there the last time. Between scattered pieces from ships and droids, tools that were high quality even with some dirt covering them from regular use, he found a familiar face.

You.

Very concentrated on the machinery placed in your working table you barely listened to the shooting outside. Din couldn’t really count the huge amount of times he called you out for that same thing.

You need to pay attention to your surroundings even when you are working inside the Crest.

That seemed like a lifetime ago. And you looked just the same from that distance.

That hurt even more,

“You'd make a very fine lawman.” Grief repeated himself.

Din picked up the conversation from where it had stopped. “Why not request one from the New Republic?”

It was going to be a hell of a discussion.

…

Life in Nevarro was quite simple after Din left.

Right, you couldn’t deny the huge hole left in your heart that had the exact shape of one mandalorian and his small green foundling. You could only sit on the sleepless nights and remember your times on the Razor Crest with them.

But did someone ever die from a broken heart? Well, maybe someone had, but not you.

You made everything work in your own way, just like you were used to doing before you crossed paths with Din Djarin. You were a damn good mechanic, that’s how you met him in the first place, so it wasn't a problem to get your own workshop to attend the region.

You had your bad days too, the competition between the mechanics in the region wasn’t that healthy and you might have used Din’s reputation to your own benefit.

All with the best of purposes.

But with the whole remodeling of Nevarro it got easier and less threatening. Being in the good graces of Greef Karga was great too, really helped with business and the prestige around the planet. You specialized your abilities in droids as well as ships, expanding your business and even getting two reasonable assistants to help you with the demand.

It was a good way to live.

Not as good as traveling around the galaxy with Din Djarin and Grogu. But reasonably good.

You could say that at least you had a story to tell, telling people you visited some planets, got into adventures, was trained in self defense by a Mandalorian and almost defeated him in a hand-in-hand because you already knew how to fight…

If you thought enough you could almost hear his laugh through the modulator from that day, the way his hands held yours and you shivered even with his and your gloves in the way.

Those were all good stories.

Bitter memories now.

So when a huge wall of beskar entered your shop you were more than surprised.

Of course, you did expect that he would eventually come back to Nevarro, given how much the place was growing as an independent trade center in the Outer Rim.

But you didn’t expect him to be right at your door.

“Din Djarin.” You said looking at his shiny helmet.

Your eyes went searching for the small green frame that was always glued to his father and you smiled to see the little guy. You missed him so much.

“Grogu, it’s very nice to see you.” You winked and he cooed at your gesture. “And what brings you here to my humble shop?”

Din continued to be silent for some time, his helmet showing he was looking around, maybe for any threats because he didn’t trust you right? Just the same man you remembered him to be.

“We need to reconstruct IG-11.” He announced and you were suddenly in a laughter crisis. “What?”

After breathing for about five times you recovered yourself. “Find another droid.” You advised. “IG-11 was destroyed.” He continued to stare at you from behind the cold helmet, until you felt the need to explain yourself. “Look, I’m not a big fan of the disposable way most people view droids these days, but he can’t be recovered. Besides, I can make you a pretty reliable droid and…”

“It’s that droid or nothing.” He was short at his answer.

“Do you even have the pieces?” You asked him.

Easily, he placed IG-11 — or what was left of him — in the top of your table. It was much more than you thought there was in the first place, but it was still far from good news.

“He has hooked up to power and we even woke him up, but we believe he defaulted to his old programming.” DIn started to explain as you examined what was left of your old friend. “He tried to attack Grogu and I had to shoot him.”

“Several times, if I may point.” You looked surprised to see the several recent blaster marks.

There wasn’t much to analyze or diagnose, the droid seemed like a lost cause. The memory circuit was broken and it would take forever to find or make a new one, as well as no promises you would recover IG-11 as he was in the moment of his death.

“We took him to the Anzellans but… I wanted your opinion.”

That was new. Din Djarin assuming he wanted you to say something about the situation? The world wasn’t the same anymore.

“I don’t believe I can fix him Din. Rebuilding a body is a piece of cake, but the memory circuit is jammed, lost actually.” YOu explained, still looking at the drawing for something more exhilarating than that. “I can’t make a new one right now and those are impossible to find these days. And if you find it, they are extremely expensive… So no IG-11 for now.” You concluded, getting away from the working desk.

“What if I find you this circuit?” He considered. “Can you fix it?”

“I’m sure I can. But, even for you, it would be a complicated mission.” You were still trying to put some sense in the head of your the mandalorian. “I’m sure a new one would be…”

“No. It’s IG-11 or nothing.” There was the stubborn man.

“What do you even need him for?” You asked, turning from the starfighter’s parts you were organizing on a shelf.

“We are going to explore Mandalore.”

It sounded even crazier than the plan of fixing IG-11.

“We? What? How’s that?”

“Me and Grogu.” He detailed. “I need to find the living waters under the mines of Mandalore. Because of… Mandalorian reasons.”

“Oh, I see.” You understood he didn’t want to tell what that s=was about, so all you did was hide the little it hurt you. “If you bring me that piece I can fix it, but just know that you don’t deserve it.”

“I’ll be leaving in the morning to find it.”

That was the last thing he said before exiting your shop and leaving you behind with your work. You were going to need some alcohol after that interaction, you thought as you just hoped for the day to end sooner.

…

One thing that came with all the change in Nevarro was the nightlife. Of course the bars were still filled, but the patrons had changed from pirates to different types of trades and merchants. So when you chose a random bar on your way home it was less crowded than it’d been a couple months ago, a bit calmer too.

You didn’t need calm.

In a matter of seconds your usual drink was in your hand and you account missing a few credits.

You just wanted to forget that Din was in town, that you had seen him, talked to him and offered your help with IG-11. That was such a terrible idea even for you. You heard him call your name and it was like a sign to down the cup in one gulp.

Kriffing hell, you were even imagining his voice? Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to drink after the encounter…

But it happened again and you turned to look, already cursing yourself for the insanity of it.

And there he was.

“What are you doing here?” Was the first thing you could think to ask.

“Gathering information.”

“Okay. There are other seats in the bar though…” You pointed to the area in the back filled with empty chairs.

Din didn't answer. Instead you ordered another drink and he rushed you to pay for that, leaving some credits on the counter.

“I don’t want you to pay for my stuff.” You warned him without looking at his face. “Don’t want to owe you a single credit, Djarin.”

“Well, I believe I owe you, am I wrong?”

It was time for you to stay in silence. He did owe you, not in a monetary way though, it was more about the time you wasted though you had something.

And that’s how, after several months of distance and no interactions, you found yourself drinking— and by drinking you meant you sipping on a suspicious alcohol and staring back at that huge wall of beskar — in the company of Din Djarin. It could’ve been the very same bar in Nevarro if it wasn’t for Greef Karga’s remodeling of the place.

“I saw you got the kid back.” You tried to start some conversation between the two of you.

“After I completed the mission he found his way back to me.” He explained in such a shallow way you don’t even try to extract more of it.

You wouldn’t try to make a grown ass man talk to you. At least those two were together again, it was easy to remember how the mandalorian was without the little green friend.

That could’ve been a little push towards that fucking night he just disappeared.

You remembered how vague he was with explaining his new mission, and tried one more time to talk to the man, more out of curiosity than the pleasantness of the conversation. “What is the truth about that whole Mandalore thing?”

“I need to bathe in the living waters under the mines of Mandalore. Because I removed my helmet and I am no longer a mandalorian.”

“So, sort of a redemption?”

He nodded and your eyes found the wall behind him.

Silence again.

If you closed your eyes you could pretend it seemed so much like those late nights inside the Crest. You’d sit side by side and just stay there enjoying the presence of each other — or at least that was what you thought you were doing.

Now you were just trying to not lash out on him, trying to be the bigger person and ignore the past for a second. You could come back to hating him after he left again, even if you never managed to hate him properly how you should.

If you maintained the good behavior you could at least have some more time with Grogu, who you missed even more than the mandalorian.

“Thank you for your help.” He said.

“It’s going to cost you.” You reminded him. “I don’t work for free. Only with a small exception for family.”

That word loomed above you two, weighing more than a whole spaceship. Your old spaceship.

And just as if he was reading your mind he talked a few more words. “There’s no space in the starfighter.”

Your heart skipped a beat. “What happened to the Razor Crest?”

“It’s a long story.” Din told you, adjusting himself in the bar’s stool. “But it doesn’t exist anymore.”

It was just one more thing into that pile of wreckage that was your relation with Din Djarin — if you could even call it that. You knew already you were a fool to expect that it could all be some sort of misunderstanding, a terrible joke the universe was playing on you, but it was real life.

The mandalorian was just a huge jerk.

“There’s no space in the starfighter.” He repeated himself, more serious this time as if that was possible.

“Oh, I see.” It was your turn to be blank and right to the point. “Believe me, I do. So, if this isn’t some catching up with friends what is it?”

“I—” It wasn’t the first time you saw the mandalorian falther to answer something, but was one of the few of those.

“Why are you here, Din?” You spat it before he could continue. “Why did you really come here tonight? Shouldn’t you be preparing to find that goddamn piece?”

“That’s just what I’m doing.”

“You know Din, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.” The alcohol was giving you a bit more courage and that was all you needed to do what you wanted and dreaded for those last months. “Why did you kiss me that day?”

The mandalorian was mute to your question, not a word or a move slipped out of his armor and you decided you were best by yourself trying to heal from something you had imagined.

“Well, I guess this explains a lot.”

You got up from the stool you were sitting and downed the rest of your drink in one large sip. Turning to go out the cantina, you stopped in your tracks once more, just to ask Din one more thing.

“Just one thing.” You were a bit more loud with those words. Nothing that would turn looks towards you but just enough to prove a point. “What the fuck was I to you this whole time we travelled around?”

“You were my mechanic.” It was like default words, like he was a droid programmed to say. “The Razor Crest was a huge job for someone to do it alone.”

What were you expecting anyways?

“I’m going to reassign the job to the Anzellans. They are better with lost causes anyway. And reliable to hire.” You warned him, with a tip in the end because you just couldn’t help yourself. “Goodbye, Din Djarin. I… Don’t show up anymore, ok? It’s just too hard to see Grogu if I can’t spend time with him.” You whispered the last part, walking towards the door and, later, to your room in the back of the shop.

The streets were not too crowded, it was working days anyway so not many people were drowning themselves in drinks or the nightclubs around town. You walked slowly, trying to postpone the moment where you’d lay your head on the pillow and have deep reflections slipping inside your head with no invitation.

At least you knew he wouldn’t stay too long in town.

Right?

#asgardwinter writes #din djarin x reader #din djarin x female reader #din djarin x you #the mandalorian reader insert #mando x reader #din djarin angst #mando x you #star wars reader insert

385 notes · View notes