Warnings: orgasm denial, handjob, oral sex (m & f receiving), PIV sex (cowgirl), honestly its very soft this one
A/N: Ya’ll know i love a good denial fic skfjksjkfksdjal and I feel like I’ve written it with all the queen and borhap guys so I figured I’d branch out and try my hand at denying Pedro lmao.
You’d never known Pedro to be overly superstitious about anything really. Maybe one or two little rituals he’d do when he watched Chile in the world cup (he was adamant he had to sit in a particular seat) but nothing extreme. He wasn’t afraid of black cats or open ladders and you’d never seen him throw salt over his shoulder after spilling it. And then, out of nowhere, came the audition superstition.
Like a lot of superstitions it started by accident. You and Pedro had been fooling around in the morning, nothing too energetic just sort of making out and feeling each other up. Before too long you were trying to grind against his thigh so he decided to take pity on you, kissing down over your stomach and thighs before eating you out until the words oh god had lost all meaning. Of course, you’d returned the favour, taking your time to lick and suck his cock which had grown hard as he'd pleasured you. At least, you’d half returned the favour. Before he could finish an alarm had begun to scream from the bedside table and it was only then that either of you realised the time. You’d let him slip from between your lips with the intention of telling him to shut the damn phone up but he was a step ahead, already reaching for it. Except instead of switching it off and encouraging you to continue, he'd sat bolt upright and swore under his breath, quickly swinging himself out of bed.
“What’s the matter?”
“Audition!” he’d yelled as he raced to the bathroom to brush his teeth.
“D’you want me to finish you off?” you’d asked, following him to the bathroom but he’d shaken his head and said something about there not being time through a mouthful of toothpaste foam. And nearly as soon as he was dressed, he’d kissed you quickly and run out the door, waving in response to your call of, “good luck!
A few weeks later he’d got a call saying the job was his which had thrilled him. He’d joked that having blue balls had made him perform better, something about it creating the right energy for the character. You’d suggested he’d have to film in the same state which earned you a loud bark of laughter and a tight hug.
“I’d have to hide you in my trailer for after we’d finished each scene so you could finish me off.”
“Not without a producers credit.”
And then you forgot all about it. At least until he’d had his next audition and lost out on that job. He’d been so disappointed and all you’d wanted to do was make him feel better. So, in an attempt to joke about the situation, you suggested that his performance had been affected by the orgasm he’d had the night before. That they’d been looking for blue balls energy and he’d not had it. You counted it as a win when the idea made him chuckle softly but, little did you know, he was taking it much more seriously. In the days after the rejection, he swore up and down that you were correct, speaking with a conviction that was almost amusing in context. He went on about how sports stars had the same routine, that they’d not have sex at all and certainly wouldn’t orgasm the night before a big match or race. You rolled your eyes but he just smiled and said you’d see the next time he was going up for a role.
When next time came you weren’t totally aware of it. Pedro slipped into bed with you that night, leaning over to mouth at your ear as you tried to read. He made it very hard to concentrate, muttering softly about how he wanted you, how sexy you looked in your daggy pyjamas, how irresistible you were. You snapped your book shut, finding it much too difficult to focus when just his lips on your jaw had your breath coming harder, and turned to kiss him, drawing him in deeply. His large hand had roamed over you, cupping your jaw and squeezing your breasts and pulling you in tight against him so you could feel his growing excitement. And then he’d encouraged you to ride him, reaching up to tease your nipples as you found your rhythm, constantly praising you for how tight and wet you felt and how much he loved seeing you on top of him. When you were close he gripped your hips tightly, helping to pull you down onto his cock hard, over and over until you came with a moan of his name, and collapsed forward. His lips had found your throat then, hands rubbing over your back soothingly, the praise continuing only now spoken into your skin as you came down from your high. You’d tried to keep going, tried to finish Pedro off too but he’d stopped you and said he didn’t want to.
“Is this because you have an audition tomorrow? You really believe that nonsense?” you’d asked with a laugh as you settled beside him again.
He gave a jerky half shrug, “Maybe. We’ll see how tomorrow goes.”
And then, low and behold, he got that job too.
It seemed to cement things in Pedro’s mind and edging him before auditions quickly became the norm. You still weren’t convinced edging was necessary but it was hard to say no when he was looking at you with his big brown eyes, telling you it was important to him. And before long he didn’t even need to ask. You discovered that edging him was fun and became an eager participant each time he wanted it. You’d gotten quite good at it too, able to judge how much he could take before the risk of accidentally cumming became too much. It helped that he always made sure you came, using his mouth or his hands mostly. Sometimes though, if he felt daring or you felt like pushing him he’d fuck you too, whining as he held off his own release while trying to bring about yours. It was intoxicating, the control he gave you, the sounds he made to encourage you, the way you felt when you came knowing he wouldn’t.
Your favourite way to do it was to lie on your stomach between his legs and stroke him slowly, using lube or, if you'd ridden him to orgasm, your pussy juices to make his shaft slick. You’d trace his length with your hand, feeling all the ridges and veins as your palm glided over him. Watching as his head grew darker, precum forming before you swiped your thumb through it and dragged it down his shaft until your fist was wrapped around the base of his cock and you could start again. Every so often you’d break the slow, steady pattern, speeding up your strokes, spending extra time teasing his tip, using your other hand to gently fondle his balls, anything to surprise him. But you’d always return to that slow pace, loving the way it made him whine. He’d try to talk you into going faster, try to buck up into your grasp, but you’d just slow down more, eke it out so you could hear all the pretty whimpers and whines and groans he made.
Laying like that, so close to his cock, made it easy to dribble spit over him when you wanted, or to take him between your lips when he was already worked up, knowing the wet heat of your mouth would drive him wild and have him on edge in no time. But mostly you preferred it because of the vantage point. You liked how he looked in your hand, how big he seemed poking out the top of your fist. It made you wet, your pussy clenching at the reminder of how huge he felt inside you and how he’d praise you for taking him so well. The way you lay so close to him meant you saw how his skin blushed and the way his tip would deepen in colour the longer your played with him and the more edges he endured. You could watch the way his thighs would tighten as he got closer to his release, how his shaft would twitch and his balls would contract as you pulled your hand away and stopped his building pleasure so suddenly, hearing his matching gasp or whine from the head of the bed. And then you’d watch as his muscles relaxed again, the orgasm slipping away from him as you gave him nothing more than a light kiss on his knee and soft good boy to tide him over until he was sufficiently relaxed for you to start touching him again.
And then it would start over, the slow strokes and your rapturous attention. After his second edge you’d trace your fingertips over his hip as he calmed again and ask if he wanted more. Usually he’d say yes, accepting at least a third edge before he’d had enough. His groans and whines would get louder with each one, the doomed orgasm rushing up on him faster and faster until he couldn’t accept any more for fear of going over. His record was six (a feat that you were endlessly proud of and which had turned his whimpers into sobs) but you made sure to tell him he’d done well even if he pushed you away after the first.
When he was satisfied that he could take no more, that the superstition had been sufficiently catered to, he’d pull his underwear up over his throbbing cock and go down on you if he hadn’t already (or if he wanted to again) and then he’d help you clean up. You’d turn off the light and join him in bed again, able to feel his lingering erection as he pulled you into a grateful kiss. Inevitably you’d settle against him, draped over his chest or else spooning him and dropping soft kisses to his shoulder and neck. He’d whisper that he loved you into the dark and pull your arm tighter around him so he’d be guaranteed a good night's sleep.
I was trying some Colors i got from My neighbours,But please DON'T burn me,I am a sketche artist with Hand shaking problems....meaning that i put Pressure on Pencils....that one of the reason i hate using colors.
Having a Childhood Conditions is on of the Things that keep me aways from writing on a notebook,I draw in a messy Rush because i got memory skills but my hands never help me with colors, sooooo PLEASE DON'T Burn me. 😟
Full drawing got cut off because the light quality,but Mando is holding the Darksaber,Just the Purple and white got cover by the dark Colors
if you see me become a cowboy bebop blog in the next couple weeks no u didn't
#.txt #i feel like rewatching the anime before the show comes out #and i kinda wanna make gifs 😅 esp of.spike #lol in case ur wondering my main fandoms are still #star wars#pedro pascal#wwdits #but the season finale is tomorrow so thats ending soond #and i guess im gonna be posting abt bebop a lot the next few weeks
Warnings: Smut, unprotected p in v sex, public sex, rough sex, creampie, orgasm, thigh-riding, hair-pulling, swearing, fluff
Word count: 1.4k
Summary: These last few months you’ve been hiding out on Naboo. You’ve been a real good help, working at the orphanage, making sure children don’t have to go through the trauma of not having a family, like you did when you were a child. One night after work when you’re having something to eat in the cantina, you hear a familiar voice whisper into your ear, “Long time, no see, mesh’la.”
Divider credit: @firefly-graphics
Feedback and reblogs are appreciated
Series masterlist | Previous | Next | Tag list
“Long time, no see, mesh’la.” A familiar voice whispers down your ear, sending shivers down your spine.
“Hey, Mando. What are you doing here?”
“I’ve been on a hunt.” He replies to you. “So I see that you’ve finally started doing as you’re told?” He chuckles, teasing you.
“Well I actually want to live, believe it or not.”
You both giggle. This meeting is much better than your first, where he chased you through Tatooine with his blaster. That was actually quite terrifying, to be honest. But this time—much better. He’s relaxed around you. He’s joking with you. He’s being so gentle with you. You like this side of him.
“Are you doing anything, right now?”
“No, not really. I’ve finished eating now.” You reply to him. “Why, what’s up?”
“I was just wondering if I can take you on a short walk for a while. I like you and I want to get to know you more.”
“Sure! I’d love to.”
You and Mando are sitting in a boat, travelling across this gorgeous, heaven of water. It’s too big to be the river. Too small to be the ocean. Too gorgeous to be the sea. You don’t know what it is, but you know one thing. You absolutely adore it. What makes it even more beautiful is that the sun is setting. So the sky is painted with purple, orange and pink streaks.
You and Mando are sitting next to each other. You’re in your own world gazing off into the view, appreciating the true beauty of this world. You feel Mando’s hand brush against your own. You look up and him and your eyes fixate onto his visor—where you assume his eyes are. Your fingers entwine and you give him a loving smile, before you look back at the sunset.
For the first time in your life, in that moment, you felt what it was like to receive some sort of affection. Family—friendship—love. You’ve never felt any kind of affection before—well, at least, not for a very long time. Your parents died when you were six. As a grown woman, you unfortunately don't have much memory at all from them and that makes you sad. Also, growing up you didn’t have any friends. Your schoolmates would think you were weird because of how your parents died—in the hands of the empire. As a woman, you never really had any look in dating either. Of course, you’ve dated, but it never really went anywhere because guys would get bored of you pretty easily.
“We’re here now.” Mando announces, as you pull up to the dock. Mando’s a gentleman, he keeps hold of your hand, helping you get off the boat.
Still holding hands, you and Mando walk across the dock to this gorgeous, gorgeous monument. It’s like this huge balcony. It’s just stunning. That’s the only way you could describe it.
You and Mando stop at the railing at the very end of the balcony. You both look down into the water. Wow, it’s even more beautiful up here, than it was down there. You wonder to yourself, “Why did he take me here?”
“Mando, it’s absolutely gorgeous up here.”
“I know. I knew you’d love it.”
“Why did you take me here?” You ask Mando, curiously. “It’s stunning here. It has to have some meaning behind it.
For a few moments, Mando doesn’t say anything. You almost think he’s about to ignore the question completely, but then he breaks the thirty second silence by saying, “Because it reminds me of you. It looks so gorgeous and heavenly up here and you… you’re as gorgeous as an angel.”
You blush. Then you turn to face Mando. You hold onto his helmet with both hands where his jaw would be and you place a kiss on where his right cheek would be.
That does stuff to him. Gets him feeling a certain way. In love. Your eyes lock with his visor again. And oh heavens, he can’t take his eyes away from yours for a second. The beauty of your eyes just overtakes him. It turns him from a hard, tough bounty hunter to a soft man, who’s in love. Deeply.
You place your hand on his right arm that’s unarmoured and start to gently stroke it with one of your hands. The intimacy he feels is heart-warming. Right there in that moment he knows you love him too. But none of you say a word about it to each other.
The feeling of your soft, gentle touch on his arm, sends shivers throughout his entire body. It sends blood to his cock, causing an erection. He can’t control himself. He needs to have you now. He grabs you by your waist and pushes you up against the railing—visor staring down on you, taking in your entire body.
Mando places a knee in between your thighs. Lying perfectly against your pussy, giving you the beautiful amount of pleasure you need. You moan from the sensation, as you grip onto Mando’s sides.
As Mando applies even more pressure against your cunt with his thigh, you throw your head back, arching your back and let out another moan. This time much louder.
“What’s up, mesh’la?” Mando asks you, teasingly. “You want my cock inside you again?”
You nod desperately, wanting him to fill you up again. You expect him to just drop his trousers again and fuck you. But no. Instead, he chuckles darkly and removes his knee from your cunt, stepping away from you. You whine in response.
“What are you doing, Mando?!” You whine, disappointed in the withdrawal of contact. You want him knee back in between your legs. Or even better, you want his cock splitting you open.
“I wanna see how much you want it.” Mando replies to you in a low voice. “You can’t just have everything handed to you on a plate. Nodding, doesn’t really prove how bad you want this. I want you to beg for my cock.”
“Please please please please please please pleeeaaseeee.” You beg Mando, desperately. “I want you cock. I need your cock. I want to feel it deep inside me. I want to feel your cum deep inside me.”
Mando cups your cheek, looking deep into your eyes and says, “Good girl. You’re such a good girl. Y’know what good girls get? Rewards.” Then he slides his hand up your dress, removing your panties in one quick movement.
Mando unbuttons and unzips his trousers, pulling them down to his knees, along with his underwear. He then lifts your dress up, exposing your soaking wet cunt to him. He lifts your right leg up onto his shoulder and slowly pushes the tip into your entrance, causing you to let a moan escape. He withdraws his cock, before slamming straight back into you, balls deep, causing you to cry out in pleasure. With each devastating thrust, your cries get louder and louder, as you repeatedly beg him for more and more, like a prayer. He moves his right hand up into your hair, tugging on it, as he fucks even harder into you.
You start to feel that beautiful sensation, pooling low in your abdomen. A sign that you’re close—very close to reaching your climax. Mando is also very close, you can feel his cock throbbing from deep within you and his thrusts have grown much slower and more shakier, as he trembles with pleasure against you.
With two more shaky thrusts, he’s finally here—he’s finally dissolved into his orgasm. He lets this gorgeous, modulated grunt escape his helmet, as he pours all his cum deep inside you. You have also reached your orgasm—as soon as you felt him cum paint your pussy walls.
Once you and Mando come down from your orgasm, Mando helps you get decent again—putting your panties back on for you and then pulling your dress back down to normal length. After that, he gets himself decent—pulling his underwear and trousers back up.
After that, Mando walks you back to your house. He can’t stay though. Before he bumped into you he’d chucked a bounty that he’d just caught into carbon freeze, so he needs to finish the job. Then maybe he can come back and see you again.
Summary: Cee and Ezra make the long trek through a humid forest
How was it so hot on this god-forsaken planet? Ezra had wondered that at least a dozen times since he, Cee, and the rest of their digging party left for their dig site that morning. Rare were the times when prospecting jobs took them to worlds where the air was safe enough to breathe and Ezra thanked the stars that this job would offer such a rare treat.
The blazing humid air had soured this small gift rapidly.
He wiped the sweat from his brow and licked his lips. He was so fucking thirsty and their traveling companions had been less than keen to stop at a stream and refill their water bottles. He knew there was very little left in his canteen. After thirty more minutes of walking through the air that was equivalent to a wet blanket, his thirst won him over. Reaching into his bag, he pulled out their canteen.
“Hey Ez, could you pass me some water?” Cee, who was walking in front of him, queried.
Ezra took a look at their canteen and licked his lips. There was just enough for one person to parch their thirst and nothing more. They would be out after this last swig. Without hesitation, he handed the canteen to Cee.
Feeling how light it was in her hand she peeked at the amount left before turning back to look at her guardian. “Is this all we have?”
“Yeah. It’s hotter than a furnace in the desert here and it seems you and I have quite the unquenchable thirst.”
Cee cocked her eyebrow at him and moved to hand the almost-empty canteen back to him but he held up his hand, halting his progress.
“Never mind that now, Birdie. I’ve had my portion. You go ahead and finish it off.”
“Are you sure?”
Cee gave him one more questioning look before she downed the rest of the water and handed the canteen back to him. Ezra chuckled as he returned the empty container to his pack and tried not to think about how hot and thirsty he was.
“Just imagine Cee. Soon we will have more riches than we’ll know what to do with. Our fortunes and glory will be unbound and we shall have the pick of any location to establish our home.”
“It’s gonna be great, Ezra,” Cee replied.
“Mm-hm,” Ezra hummed in agreement.
The pack traveled on and the prospector could feel himself getting a bit dizzy as sweat rolled down his face. He would give anything for just a few drops of water to wet his parched tongue and lips. He plodded along and tried to focus his spinning mind and avoid giving in to its dizzying motion.
“Yes indeed with all that buried treasure you and I’ll be fat as kings. We can have the pick of any abode, maybe even in Central!”
Cee couldn’t help but smile as she listened to Ezra’s musings. He was a dreamer, just like her father was. But unlike her father, she knew Ezra would risk skin and bone to deliver on his promises. He’d done it before.
“I’ll procure a spot in the finest of academies. You’ll get to read and write to your heart’s content, Birdie. It’ll be grand,” Ezra continued to ramble as the world continued spinning. His vision started to gray out as nausea rose in his gut. “B-Birdie?”
Before he could alert to his condition any further, his vision faded and he was falling into a dark abyss.
Ezra wake up!
Ezra groaned as his eyes opened and he felt something press against his lips.
“Here, drink up,” Cee’s voice encouraged and he did as he was told. Another groan slid from his throat as the cold water rolled down his dry throat. It was the most relieving sensation he’d ever experienced.
“Thank you, Cee,” Ezra rasped once he was finished drinking. Glancing around, he noted that they were alone. “Where has the rest of our crew gone?”
“Left us behind. They threw the canteen at me and told me they wouldn’t dig with weak links,” Cee said flatly and Ezra let out a frustrated sigh as he laid back on the forest floor once more.
“Shit. I’m-I’m sorry Cee. That was good money I just threw out.”
“I wouldn’t be so certain of that,” Cee replied with a smirk. Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out the worn map their companions had been using.
“You light-fingered channel rat,” Ezra scolded but Cee could see the impressed look on his face. “When did you pilfer this?”
“Stole it this morning. I had a feeling they were trying to cut us out of the deal. Besides, they were going the wrong way anyway. We’re gonna be filthy rich, Ez.”
“Well now that just put a little fire back into my system. I daresay I am keen enough to get moving again.”
Hey y’all! Thanks to @the-purity-pen for these prompts! Enjoy!
Day Twenty-Seven -- Corruption/training
Kinktober 2021 Masterlist
“Shh, bebita, keep going...you’re doing such a good job,” Javi coos as you choke around his cock. His warm brown eyes gaze down at your tear-streaked cheeks and swollen lips as his thumb caresses your stretched jaw patiently. When you told him that you’d never given anyone a blow job before, Javi insisted that he be the one to train you, secretly pleased that he’d be the one to claim your mouth first. He started you out slowly -- lips only, then tongue, and now finally, your throat -- so that you could get used to the thick weight of him blocking your airway.
The bar he attached to your ankles keeps your legs spread, giving Javi a full view of your glistening pussy. His hand is firm on the back of your head, keeping your nose buried in the hair around his cock, chin pressed up against his cum-heavy sac. “Now, bebita,” he purrs, “I’m going to move and I want you to stay relaxed for me. If you can do that, I’ll reward you with a mouthful of cum, okay?” Your eyes crinkle excitedly and you tap his thigh once in affirmation. Javi groans, his moustache twitching up in a smirk, “Good girl. Now remember to breathe through your nose.”
The diamond base of the plug sparkles beautiful against your bare skin, nestled tightly between your sore cheeks. You’d made the mistake of teasing Max while at a gala, whispering how you could feel it move inside you with each step and how it felt so much better than his cock, prompting Max to excuse the two of you to one of the empty, upstairs offices. Now, you’re spread over his thighs as Max reclines on a couch, admiring the plug he eased into you before leaving for this event. “I don’t know why you’re being such a brat, princess,” he murmurs, “A lot of girls would love to have a million dollar diamond decorating their--”
You cut him off with a whine, “Please, daddy...just wanna go home and put the next size in! I’m a big girl, I can take it!” Max swats your bottom for the sixteenth time tonight, his gold rings bruising your soft skin and making you yelp.
“Did I ask you to speak, sweetness?” he grunts, smirking when you desperately shake your head ‘no,’ “I’ll decide when you’re ready for more. After tonight, I think I might even move you back down to a smaller one.” You pout defiantly and are about to speak when Max wrenches you up by the hair, growling in your ear, “Can’t keep quiet, hm? Get on your knees and suck my cock, baby girl. Now.” As you take him down your throat with practiced ease, Max leans down to tilt your ass up, giving him a teasing view of the gleaming jewel keeping your tight hold stretched open for his pleasure.
Pairing: Din Djarin, Javier Peña, Marcus Pike, Frankie Morales, Marcus Moreno, Jack Daniels x F!Reader (blurbs for each individually!)
Words: ~500-800 each (AO3)
Notes: Something different for today! I got requests for almost all the characters for this prompt--so enjoy a short blurb for each one! Includes fluff and potential for canon typical violence for each character, and probably cuss words!
“This is all your fault!” you seethe. You should have never agreed to a joint bounty from Karga. Should have never partnered with the Mandalorian. Should have taken the full reward for your own.
“My fault?! I’m not the one who let the target get away because you were too proud to ask for help!” He growls back.
“I let him get away! You were the one who was supposed to be watching my back! It’s not my fault your intel was bad and he had four guards with him! You just had to go another way, and I almost died!” You’re stomping ahead of the Mandalorian; sand fills your boots with each angry step, but you continue as he walks behind you, equally as peeved.
“Well, what’s your plan now, then, since you seem to know so much?!” You don’t even look back before spitting a reply.
“To get as far away from you as possible, you ruthless, selfish, miserable bastard! You couldn’t care less about anyone but yourself!” Perhaps it was a low blow, but the heat was getting to you, and Mando had certainly shown his ruthlessness before; he was well known throughout the parsec for it. And it was clear he had no respect for your partnership; sure you two had fought over bounties before, but you thought Mandalorians honored their word. If you were partnering with someone, you had their back. No questions asked. You continue to stomp away, the sand muffling the fact that Mando’s stopped in his tracks over your words. He takes a deep breath before jogging to catch up with you.
“Look, the nearest settlement is almost a cycle’s walk away, and without the speeder—”
“Oh, and who broke the speeder, hm?” you poke, remembering your crashed vehicle when Mando took a turn to sharply.
“Would you just listen for once! You’ll never survive on your own out here.”
“Oh, now you care about whether I survive. Too little, too late, Mando.” You continue to walk, but he keeps pace with you. You know he’s right; the sun is quickly setting, the temperature dropping rapidly. You had prepared for an easy job, in-and-out, and surviving the night in a barren desert wouldn’t be easy. But you’re fueled by rage alone.
“Listen! Let’s just set up camp. You can do whatever you want tomorrow, I just—we need to stick together tonight. Neither of us will survive otherwise.” You pause, looking at him; he still stands proudly, the colors of the sunset reflected in his armor as you consider the options. One, die in the middle of the desert, alone; two, survive the night, but probably die at the hand of the missing bounty. Neither seemed appealing, but you had to pick one.
Camp is set up quickly under the dwindling light; Mando manages to find some flammable materials, starting a fire with his flamethrower. You manage to catch a few small animals, cooking them over the flame and silently leaving one for Mando at the edge of the fire. You were still mad at that guy, but unlike him, you did care if he lived or died—he was your ride off the planet, after all.
Despite the fire, the temperature dropped significantly by the time you settle in for the night; the clothing you picked this morning, meant for a quick jaunt across the desert, leaves you shivering. Of course, Mando notices the weakness, picking at it.
“Nope. Balmy, actually,” you reply sarcastically, visibly shivering.
“You’re allowed to ask for help, you know.”
“And you’re allowed to care about other people.” The air around the fire is tense and quiet; still, Mando moves quickly and silently, and soon, his thick woolen cape is draped over your shoulders.
“I don’t need your charity, Mandalorian,” you spit, moving the cloak off your shoulders. Immediately, the chill is back, but you fight it.
You sit silently for a few more minutes, Mando unmoving. Once you think he’s asleep, you quickly wrap the cloak back around you, relishing its warmth and smelling the thick scent of blaster residue and pine oil in the threads. You look at his blank visor once more; unmoving, likely still asleep, you think, just maybe, he has a point about asking for help.
Underneath the helm, Din’s eyes follow your movements, watching as you wrap the cloak around yourself. It feels almost domestic, stirs some feeling of home he’s had locked away for some time to see someone else in his cape; you’re dirty, exhausted, anger is still set in your brow, but highlighted by the moonlight, he can’t help but admire your beauty. And he thinks, just maybe, he could try showing he cares a bit more.
You’re not supposed to be here. You’re not DEA, not CIA, not in with the narcos, not supposed to be here. Javier has gone full panic mode; the sting they had planned for the marketplace, where the suspected sicarios were supposed to be, but instead, there you were—his sweet, lovely neighbor. He had done his best to keep you out of this part of his life; to put distance between you two, to keep you safe. All he wanted was to keep you safe.
That’s how his feet move faster than his mind, how he’s pulling you into an alley, away from the market. You fight at first, ever the spirited woman, but relax when you see it’s just him, allowing him to pull you away as you question him.
“Javi? What are you doing here? Did you see those azaleas? They’d go perfect on your balcony—what are you doing?”
“Listen to me, querida. The streets are all blocked off. No one in, no one out. I want you to take this.” He starts stripping himself of his bulletproof vest, but you push back.
“Javi, what’s happening? Why?”
“I—I don’t have time to explain, please,” he begins to strap it on you, pulling each Velcro piece tightly. “I—I need you safe. Please, querida. Just—let me do this.” You nod, allowing him to finish his ministrations until you’re tightly bound in the vest. He holds you there a moment, looking into your eyes; he begins to pull away, but before he can, you grab his wrist.
“Javi—be safe. For me, too.” He can only nod, making his way out of the alley and back to his undercover post.
He doesn’t see you when it all goes down. Shots are fired; people scream. Every one he worries is you. He’s sweating buckets, having chased the sicario down in the hot Colombia sun; he doesn’t even realize it’s blood running down his arm until the man is safely in Carrillo’s custody and Steve forces him to take in a breath; he’d been grazed by one of the many shots fired. Dozens of people lay prone on the ground; his eyes search for you, but come up empty. Steve all but forces him into an ambulance, but Javier can’t stop searching for you; not until the bus rounds the corner and the scene is out of sight.
He’s tired by the time he gets home. Worried. His arm aches, dull and annoying under the bandage. He thinks about knocking on your door, seeing if you’re there—but it’s late. Steve hadn’t heard anything about you. He worries he didn’t do enough.
Like you heard his thoughts, when he rounds the staircase to his apartment, there you sit on the stoop, his vest in your hands. You look up when you hear him coming; within an instant, you’ve thrown your arms around him, and he pulls you to him tightly, pain in his arm be damned. The two of you embrace for a long minute, before you pull away, lifting the vest; in the center, right over the heart of it, a bullet is lodged.
“You saved me, Javier,” you whisper. He looks from the vest, to you, and back at the vest again. “I—I wouldn’t be here if not for you. But what about you? You gave this to me, and you got hurt--” Tears stream down your face; he brushes them away with a thumb.
“I—I didn’t want you to see any of that. I knew it’d be violent, knew it’d go down poorly—I was trying to protect you from it. I—I don’t care about what happens to me.”
“Well I do,” You respond resolutely. “I care about you. And if you care about me, you need to care about you, too.” He waits a moment; seeming to weigh the options. He thought he had lost you, thought he couldn’t protect you. But you’re here. He did.
“Okay, querida. Anything for you.”
“Who steals art and brings it to East Bumblefuck, Alaska?” You lament loudly—though not for the first time—to your partner, Marcus Pike. The two of you had been hot on the trail of two art thieves in Washington, DC, and when the intel pointed to the idea that the men may have relocated, you were tasked with following them. Hence, the artic tundra.
“Maybe they thought we wouldn’t follow them,” Marcus hums. He’s entertained your complaining for the entire trip; never once getting short or annoyed with you. It’s one of the many things you liked about your partner—the two of you seemed to just mesh. For every dash of cynicism you added, he was a beacon of positivity. For every complaint, a voice of reason. For every ebb, he was your flow. You two were practically opposites, but you supposed that’s why you worked so well together.
You also supposed that’s why you had been harboring feelings for him for the last six months. But he told you about Teresa, about how he wasn’t ready to date again, and you respected that. You settled on being his partner, pretty sure he would never harbor feelings for you like you did for him, allowing him the distance he seemed to crave.
You were on a stakeout now; the car was turned off, and your breath was starting to fog the windows of the car. There was no movement inside the house; despite the cover of darkness, not even a light turned on.
“I don’t think they’re here.”
“Same—let’s call it a night.” With that, Marcus turns the key in the ignition; the car turns over a few times, then sputters out. He tries it again, and again, but the car never turns on. You both share a distressed look.
“Marcus, this isn’t funny.”
“I’m not—the car won’t turn on!” He tries again; nothing. You pull out your phone.
“There’s no cell service out here…”
“Fuck,” you both say in unison. You’re beginning to panic, but forever your opposite, Marcus seems collected.
“Let’s go inside. We established they’re not in there—and hopefully it has heat.” You nod, following Marcus out into the snow. With a good shove, the door to the little shack you’ve sat outside all day gives, and it’s clear no one has been inside for months, maybe years. But there’s a fireplace with some stacked wood nearby, a few old newspapers. You can make it work.
“I’ll get a fire going. The local office should come looking for us by morning—they knew we were out here, so when we don’t return—” You sigh loudly as he speaks, trying to calm your chattering teeth.
Marcus is surprisingly good at starting a fire in the old hearth; the flames quickly pick up, and the chilly air is warmed. You decide to take shifts, one person staying awake to watch for any trouble while the other rests, and Marcus graciously gives you the first rest period. Despite the fire, the chill has made its way straight to your bones, and you still shiver uncontrollably. You don’t want to complain any more than you have; the danger of your current situation becoming more and more known, the worry that you’ll be stuck here until you die. It doesn’t help your shaking, until suddenly, a new warmth comes over you.
You don’t open your eyes; you’re supposed to be asleep, but you move your hands carefully, pulling the new, heavy weight closer into you as you try to identify it. The feeling of a zipper does it for you—it’s Marcus’ coat, warmed from his own body heat. You didn’t even realize, but your shivering has stopped finally, and sleep is threatening your every cell. Before it can pull you under, you reach a hand out of the warmth of your cocoon, somehow finding Marcus’ in front of the fire. His hand is just as warm, and you squeeze it once in thanks. He squeezes back, and with the small amount you’ve opened your eyes, you see him grin boyishly, bringing your frigid fingers up to his lips to breathe warm air over them.
Before you fall asleep fully, you feel the soft press of his lips meet your knuckles; warmth seems to radiate out from the spot, and for the first time, you think Alaska might not be so bad.
It wasn’t supposed to go like this. It was supposed to be clean, in and out, money in their pockets. Now Tom’s dead and they’re stranded in the jungle in who-knows-where South America and its raining and its cold and everything has gone to shit.
Frankie’s only brought out of his pity party when you whimper beside him. He’s pretty sure it was involuntary; you’re lying on the dirt ground, attempting any shot at sleep you can get while he watches over the campsite. He wishes you were lying next to him in bed; wishes he could take you to that nice Italian place for dinner instead of eating whatever game Pope caught in the night. Wishes he didn’t cause the gash in your head from the helicopter crash. Wishes he ever had the courage to tell you how he really feels; the deep love he carries for you and you alone. Wishes, wishes, wishes.
You whimper again, so Frankie moves closer; you’re shivering, cold deep into your bones, soaked through. The slice in your head hasn’t been able to scab, the rainwater keeping it open and bloodied. You had always been as tough as any of the guys—tougher, if you asked Frankie—but you look downright pitiful now.
He doesn’t have to think. He pulls your limp body up from the mud and closer to the sad excuse for a fire. He leans you against him, enveloping your body with whatever warmth he has left. And he takes off his jacket, placing it overtop both of you; that’s when you finally seem to stir.
“W--What about you?” It’s quiet, barely stammered through chattering teeth.
“I’ll be okay,” he whispers back.
“F-Frankie—” you take a moment to continue, your shivers not stopping despite the relief his warmth brings. “If I don’t make it—make it out of here--”
“We’re getting out of here, baby,” he cuts you off resolutely.
“Frankie, listen to me—”
“No. We’re getting out of here. And I’m gonna take you to that craft brewery you like so much, that I hate—”
“—Because it’s pretentious.”
“Because it’s pretentious,” he confirms with a small smile.
“It—It’s a date,” you stutter, but Frankie’s chest warms.
“Yeah, baby—a date. You can take me to all the pretentious places you want, okay? But we’re getting out of here. Together. Promise me that. I—I need you to promise me that.” You nod, nuzzling further into Frankie. Your shivering has stopped, and the rain seems to have dissipated to a mist.
“I promise, Frankie.”
“Why is it that every office has to be freezing?!” You look over at your coworker, Danielle—she was huddled under a blanket at her desk, a sweater over her shoulders as she typed away with a shrug. You had been working with her for years now, both starting as receptionists at the Heroics Headquarters and moving up in the group. She was now Miracle Guy’s assistant; you were Marcus Moreno’s. Still, your desks remained close, as the Heroics’ desks needed to be close. You shiver again. “Seriously, I—I’m going to find the thermostat,” you announce decidedly. You were dressed for the weather; pants, boots, a cardigan, but it still felt sub-zero. You wandered the hallway for a few moments, finally finding the little box—which was locked away in a metal cage to prevent people from adjusting it.
“Ugh—seriously?” You groan, pulling the lock a bit. When it doesn’t budge, you give up, staring at the box. It suddenly starts rattling, metal shaking like it’s shivering itself, until the lock on the cage practically explodes, and the cage opens on its own accord. You whirl around to find Marcus Moreno behind you with a smirk.
“Marcus!” You scold, but he shrugs.
“Came looking for you, Danielle said you came to change the thermostat,” he laughs, approaching closer. He watches as you turn the dial a few degrees. “Are you cold?”
“Yes, it’s freezing in here!” You exaggerate, but he just laughs, beginning the walk back to your desk. “Oh, what did you need?”
“You said you were looking for me.”
“Oh, uh—yeah. Just to chat. No worries.” You nod, watching as he enters back into his office. Danielle gives you a pointed look.
“I’ll stop when you two stop giving each other heart-eyes.”
“I’ll stop giving heart-eyes when you stop pretending you’re not driving over to Miracle Guy’s after work.” Danielle’s eyes widen, and you proudly get back to work with your little win. You barely get a few sentences typed before a heavy, comforting weight is placed around your shoulders. You look up to find Marcus standing behind you, placing his leather jacket around your shoulders.
“You—you said you were cold. Here, have my jacket.” You break into a broad smile, his face splitting to match yours. The leather feels warm and buttery, and Marcus’ thoughtfulness dispels the remaining chill in your bones. He runs a hand over your shoulder gently before tapping it, then going back into his office. When you come out of your dreamy state, Danielle is pretending to work like she didn’t watch the whole thing happen.
“I said stop.”
“I didn’t say anything,” she replies innocently, and you both break into a laugh as you pull the worn leather closer around your body, enveloping yourself in Marcus and the way he makes you feel.
Jack “Whiskey” Daniels
“We got ‘im, darlin’,” Whiskey drawls, both of you watching as the local police lead the criminal of the week out in handcuffs. You were at some gala; schmoozing with the upper class, pretending to be a husband and wife involved in the same shady dealings as the criminal in question. It was the hardest case you’d worked yet; not because your dress was uncomfortable, or because you had trouble remembering your undercover name. No, it was because pretending to be married to Agent Whiskey was torture of the sweetest kind.
You couldn’t tell your partner you had been crushing on him for years. Couldn’t risk revealing your hidden feelings when he held your hand, or called you sweetheart, or pecked you on the cheek, his mustache tickling your skin. Couldn’t admit that this was everything you had dreamed of when you fell asleep at night, wishing he was in bed beside you. No—you had to accept that, with the capture of the target, whatever façade you were living under, no matter how pleasant, was over.
You and Jack follow the police out to the entrance of the banquet hall; fall is just turning winter in New York, though the reporters and paparazzi snapping photos and screaming questions as their high-profile mark gets placed in a police car don’t seem to mind.
A shiver runs up your spine before you can stop it; the cool breeze infiltrating every inch of you in the flimsy dress you had to wear. You liked it--slinky, fitted, beautiful—but you wished you were in a sweatshirt and jeans instead, warmed from the cold outside, the cold creeping over your heart now that Jack would go back to being your partner instead of your husband. You look back at him when you feel the heavy weight of something placed over your shoulders; he’d moved behind you as you watched the scene play out.
“Here, have my jacket, sweetheart,” he murmurs, placing the heavy tweed over your shoulders then running his hands up and down your arms to warm you. “Can’t have my girl gettin’ cold.” The jacket is warmed from his body, it smells like whiskey and tobacco and him, and it feels like it’s thawing your heart.
“You don’t have to pretend anymore, Jack,” you chuckle. “But thank you.” He makes a noncommittal noise; his arms stop stroking yours, instead coming around you to pull you to him. His voice hums low in your ear, the warmth of his breath tickling the shell of your ear.