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djarinsbeskar · 3 years

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Foul - Boxer!Din AU

Definition - To break one of boxing’s rules (i.e. hitting an opponent below the navel, ear or while they are down), which can ultimately lead to point deductions if they are repeated.

A/N: The results of my Boxer!AU poll told me that the majority were interested in a jealous/protective boxer so I hope I have delivered! As always, relaxed fit = unedited, no beta. We also have a sneaky introduction to Paz in the Boxer verse which is super exciting! His concept art has been completed by the insanely talented @ronnieiswriting when I said I saw a mix of Jason Momoa and Winston Duke as our heavy. PLEASE heed the warnings in this chapter. There is nothing explicit but the topics hinted at might be triggering.

Word Count: 7k

Rating: 18+ (NO Minors)

Warnings: SMUT! (unprotected sex), blood and violence, toxic masculinity and derogatory speech, hints at discussions of non-con, somewhat possessive behavior, spanking, dom!Din and everything that comes with it.

Main Masterlist | Boxer Materlist

He might as well have been in hell. A colosseum of decaying humanity and dirt floors that erupted in a burst of dust like poisonous ash every time his next opponent fell. The hollow thump of pure muscle meeting the ground of the makeshift ring only drowned by the cheers of spectators. Masked, shadowed—unseen as they dropped hundreds – thousands sometimes – on which gladiator would remain standing in the end.

He felt like a king, a god among men within the confines of his realm of rope and canvas. It was easy to forget—standing under the spotlights that highlighted the sweat and blood and sculpted beauty of primal masculinity that it was a hollow victory any time he fought in the seedy underground rings of Akiva.

Every gladiator was a slave. Even the victor.

Why the fuck did he think it was a good idea to let you come to one of these fights?

“Enough!”

Paz’s unassailable strength banded around Din’s chest, pinning his arms to his side—attempting to contain lightning in a glass jar. Sweat, blood—it all dripped into Din’s eyes as he growled at his opponent, passed out in the middle of the dirt ring—face swollen and puffy from Din’s fists.

Laser focus and animosity spilled from charcoal eyes as he tried to break free of his friends hold with a vicious yank forward of powerful shoulder and an unfaltering purpose. The bastard had it coming. One round a few punches wasn’t enough to slake Din’s anger, the fumes of rage seeping into his skin and clouding his senses until all he could think of was making the asshole on the ground before him pay.

The practiced speed that Din wrapped his hands slowed at the rowdy group on the other side of the room. Dammit, for all the money they brought in, could these cheapskates not provide separate fucking changing rooms so he didn’t have to be subjected to idiots jacking themselves up on testosterone and false hope?

But pissing contests and fragile masculinity weren’t what caught his attention. He could tune that bullshit out like a fine art. What caught Din’s attention was the obvious death wish one of his possible opponents had – if he even managed to get that far up the ranks to Din – when he waved a red flag in front of the boxers’ metaphorical bull.

“See that one in the front row? You know the one I’m talking about.”

Bawdy agreements and asinine gestures raked up Din’s spine, thorny—and prickling nerves of instinct that made him pause the music blaring in his ears. He fucking hated the scum he came across in these fights. Gang members, criminals—the dredges of humanity he sometimes worried he was part of.

“Gonna get her on her knees choking on my cock before the night is out. Sluts like that love titles, champions—why else do they attend? Good excuse to win tonight, eh fellas?”

“Do you wanna completely destroy your career?” Paz yelled over the chortles and raucous cheers for more, for revenge—for everything under the poor fallacy of a sun that strung in dim, bald bulbs along the notoriously infamous Avika fighting ring.

Din thought you would be safe, arrogantly assuming people would avoid even looking at you once they saw who you were with. And you had been—you were safe, but even he couldn’t protect you from the thoughts of others.

The larger man struggled with him, dragging him out of the ring when it was obvious his words were falling on deaf ears. All Din could hear was the little pricks voice in his head from hours before.

Din stood.

Inhaled, exhaled—tried those bullshit breathing exercises that were supposed to focus his mind before a fight. Help to rein in a temper like his from overflowing in devastating tidal waves to destroy all around him. Din didn’t lose his temper often—but when he did, it was lethal.

The breathing exercises didn’t work.

Because the idiot kept talking.

“Did you see the ass on that?”

Leers sounded from his group of friends. Encouraging the vile words that Din always knew came from a man who felt entitled to a woman’s body. He had seen enough of the underbelly of the world to know what that led to time and again. Din might have been shameless in his youth and even until recently when it came to sex, to one night stands, to women—but he fucking respected the girls he fucked or didn’t fuck.

“Traipsing around in a dress like that? She’s looking for the attention,” the asshole defended himself when one of his party voiced an alternative point of view. They were promptly shut down and didn’t speak again.

Din’s blood turned to ice. An image of you running a hand down his arm on your way to your seat when you parted ways for him to get ready, dress sinfully tight but effortlessly classy—a zip front he was dying to pull open with his teeth later that night.

“It’ll look so good with my cock buried in it…”

The ice in his blood turned to fury, white hot and molten as he tied off the tape at his wrists—throwing the roll into the dingy locker he had been given for the evening. The clatter of noise from where it slammed against the metal back was the only warning he was planning on giving them. The lull of conversation was fleeting, his warning going unheeded—when dim-witted morons didn’t read the murder in his gaze.

Looks like they weren’t nearly as intelligent as the pigs he thought them to be.

Grabbing his water bottle and phone, Din stalked towards the chipped door—distracting himself with a text of “don’t go anywhere alone in this place, sweetheart. Ask Paz to go with you” sent to you without a second thought.

The immediate response of “Yes yes I know, for the thousandth time. Don’t worry and focus on yourself” did little to assuage the roar of blood in his ears. There was only one thing he heard over the noise, one thing as his vision became hued in red and fixated on a single target.

“Wonder if she’ll let me fuck her there too—can’t imagine she’s a virgin but her ass will still probably be tighter than her cunt.”

Bald headed and littered in scars and tattoos of a gang known for their viciousness, the other boxer – if he could even be called that – thrust vulgarly into the air, mimicking the hold he would have on the girl. Din’s girl.

The fucker had a death wish.

And Din was only too happy to play the part of the grim reaper.

His friends voice hardly registered over that same ringing in his ears, the roar of protective aggression at the lecherous sneer on the other man’s face who now lay in a heap in the dirt, the filth he spewed about his masseuse, his girl. How beady eyes, cold and villainous dared to drift away from Din before the bell sounded—over his shoulder, to where he knew you were sitting. Knowing your body had been tainted by the gaze of a man who would sooner take what he wanted from you by force than look at you with anything akin to the respect you deserved—it made something snap inside of Din.

And he attacked.

He was lucky he had only been disqualified.

He was damn lucky no one called the cops.

But the perks of underground fighting, was that everyone who attended had something to hide. And no one wanted to be caught in the middle of shady transactions or betting on fighters to beat each other to a pulp. Hell, the savagery Din subjected the other guy to was exactly what half the fuckers who showed up hoped to see.

Din wasn’t just a nameless street fighter though, not anymore. He had something to lose. Any smear on his record for assault and he would be suspended from tournament participation quicker than the asshole’s body dropped after a crushing blow under the jaw by Din’s right uppercut.

Thank fuck Din’s main sponsor was equally as shady. A good man by Din’s logic, but merciless when it came to succeeding. Din being benched was the surest way to make his benefactors patience run out. No, Paz was right—Boba even more so when he clocked Din good in the cheek after Paz wrestled the irate male out of the ring.

“You fucking idiot, bloodlust is an ugly image, boy—”

“I am not a boy—” Din snapped at Boba, teeth bared and bloody from his split lip, neck straining when he spat the words viciously at his long-time coach. He ran his tongue over the metallic tang of blood before spitting it out of his mouth onto the dirt flooring by the chaotic rows of metal seating.

“You almost killed a guy in the ring, you little shit,” Boba snarled with equal venom, matching the anger reflected in Din’s gaze with furious sense Din didn’t want to witness.

“Let me go,” was all Din growled, eyes never leaving his coach’s even when Paz loosened his arms around his chest. Heaving, coal black eyes darkened dangerously and stabbed the former boxer with a dare to try and restrain him again. The other man shook a rope of dreadlock that had come loose from the strip of leather he kept his hair tied in and made to say something when Din interrupted,

“Where is she?”

Paz closed his mouth, heavy brows furrowing over his eyes as recognition dawned in their dark hues,

“Is that what this is about? Dammit, vod—it’s not like she’s your girlfriend, isn’t that what you always say?”

“Don’t fucking try me tonight—” Din snapped aggressively, the threatening hum between the two men charged to dangerous voltage.

“Din?”

Your voice washed over him – aloe on the burns his fury had scorched his skin with – and he was making his way over to you in the next moment, mind battling with instinct as he ignored the calls and curses of his friends.

Mine.

Not yours—

Mine.

He moved with feral grace, parting the sea of people who bleated from the sidelines but cowered in his presence once his attention was facing them and there was no canvas or rope to separate boxer from spectator. They were lucky. He didn’t see them. Would step on them if they were stupid enough to stay in his path. All he could see, was you—watching him with confusion and concern marring those pretty features, absent of fear in the face of an incensed, adrenaline fueled boxer post fight.

He exhaled a growl as he came to stand before you, the sound cavernous and deep in his chest—the hands you had lifted to examine his face intercepted by his own when he grabbed them. His fingers wrapped fully around your wrists, and he was reminded of how fragile you were – even if you worked out whenever you could and had a will of iron that would make you whack him for saying that – and just how easily a man like him, any of the fighters here tonight—could hurt you.

Never.

They wouldn’t dare.

Not with him around.

But how could they know?

How would they know to stay the fuck away from you?

Knuckles stained with dirt and blood; his hand rasped against the softness of your palm as he dragged you in the direction of the unused backstage waiting room fighters had been offered as a changing room. Where this whole fucking thing started.

“Din—Din, what the hell happened up there?”

You jogged behind him to keep up with his pace, long legs taking him farther than your shorter ones could when confined to the heels you had worn for the night out. He stalked through the dimly lit corridors to the flaky, chipped door with a temporary sign on lined paper with “ATHLETES” scrawled along the front of it like some ironic joke.

He almost bent the worn, cheap metal handle in half—nearly pulled it from its socket with how hard he tore the door open and dragged you over the threshold inside.

You whirled on him with a huff, eyes flashing and hands planting on your hips in growing annoyance.

“Din will you just—”

You didn’t get another word out.

His wrapped hands cupped your cheeks between them, his mouth on yours hungrily when he bent over you. Biting, clawing, desperate—the kiss was more a battle of tongue and teeth than anything else. There was nothing soft, nothing slow or affectionate about the way his teeth sank into your bottom lip so hard you gasped. The way the blood seeping from his split lip painted yours in a crimson rouge—smeared and varnishing you in a visceral mark of his claim.

“Mine,” he snarled unknowingly into your mouth, lapping his tongue along the prairies of your tastebuds, plundering the depths of your mouth to brand every inch of you he could reach. Inside and out. His hands had the same idea, forming down over the shape of your curves as he walked you back blindly to the disused vanity pushed against the closest wall. Topped with a row of mirrors undoubtedly used by performers for whatever this place had once been used for, the glass was now aged with discoloration.

It didn’t matter.

He didn’t have eyes for anything but you as he hiked your legs up to perch you on the edge, your fingers curled into the taut muscles at his neck and clawing down over the sweat slick muscles of his pecs—catching on flat nipples that made ripples of pleasure heat his body further. Mad him tangle a hand in your hair, yank your head back harshly and meet your eyes with dark desire before dropping to your neck. His newest target.

“Din…” your irritated, questioning tone had morphed to fervent sighs. His tongue mapped a trail from the corner of your mouth – tasting the tang of his own blood – to the rapid tattoo of your pulse, a delicate sheen of perspiration beginning to shimmer on your flushed skin from the arousal. Another layer of flavor for him to get drunk on.

So fucking hot under his hands.

So beautiful.

So his.

“Mine,” he repeated into the curve of your neck, framed by tremulous stretches of muscle either side that he carved with scrapes of his teeth to leave tracks of slow fading pink grazes before he bit into it. Your legs – already open and inviting him to settle between them – crossed at the ankles around his narrow hips to keep him close. It was fucking intoxicating the way he could make you feel, the desperate need he had for you.

Months of sleeping together, of knowing his body so intimately had given you a rare insight to his emotions whether he knew it or not. And you knew he didn’t need to talk right now, he needed to fuck. To work through whatever had affected him so badly in hard kisses and rough hands on your soft flesh. It didn’t stop your stomach from flipping at his possessive words though, deliriously spoken but whispering the unacknowledged desires you had for him beyond his body.

“Yours,” you admitted before you could stop yourself, your hand cupping under his jaw to lift his mouth back to yours. His raspy moan at your agreement turned positively filthy when you carded short nails through his damp hair. Din was weak to having his hair stroked, his staunch dominance buckling in violent shivers of pleasure when you dragged those skilled fingers down the back of his skull and neck.

Traipsing around in a dress like that…

His eyes flew open, and he broke the kiss—ripped his mouth from yours to press his forehead to yours, eyes searching while his free hand ran indulgently up your torso to the neckline of your dress,

“Never let anyone disrespect you, sweetheart—” he rumbled, his fingers already undoing the zip of the dress, the nude pink material tempting to the eye and celebrating those features you were most proud of—that he found irresistible to know you loved. That someone could make you uncomfortable in those clothes… fucker. He snarled and pressed a long kiss to your mouth, large hands spreading the sides of the dress open wide – no underwear, baby? – and shucked the material down your arms to leave you bare before him.

His appreciation for your body – fucking gorgeous – was only tampered by the frustration he had with himself at the noise of confusion you made at his words. Of course, you hadn’t heard anything that asshole had said thankfully—but fuck, he couldn’t get it out of his head. You read his desperation somehow, and nodded slowly with puzzled eyes, teeth sinking into your swollen bottom lip as you leaned back on your hands.

So trusting…

Fuck.

It made alarm and something akin to fear rise swell uncomfortably in his throat.

He tried again.

“Never let anyone take advantage of you,” he whispered against your mouth in earnest, his hands running up your bare thighs to press his thumbs into the seams of your legs and hips, “tell me—”

His mouth dropped to your collarbone, funneling those feelings into lapping down to your heaving breasts, sucking a nipple into his mouth with a groan and befuddling your mind to his request until he nipped the swollen peak – say it, baby – and caused your head to fall back against the mirror,

“Yes—yes,” you moaned, “I won��t—”

He snarled internally, dammit. Hearing you say it didn’t help. He wanted to say how he wouldn’t let anyone disrespect you, how he wouldn’t let anyone ever take advantage of you. But he couldn’t. Had to frame it like advice he would give any woman he knew instead of speaking it like the promise he wanted to make.

Din had been fucking you for the last few months now, exclusively after only a few months—but it never went beyond that. He had no reason, no excuse to be worried over your life or safety or what you did when you weren’t in his bed. He wasn’t expected to be involved in your life the way a friend or family member was. Not the way a boyfriend was.

He didn’t do relationships. Never had. Too much trouble and frankly—he liked his privacy, his space—and liked not being accountable to anyone but himself. The consequences of any shitty decisions he made would fall on him and him alone. If he demanded that of the women he slept with and then insisted on inserting himself into their lives in the next breath, he would be a hypocrite. And Din hated hypocrites.

He couldn’t.

But fuck. He never wanted to hear someone speak that way about you, never wanted them to think they had the slightest chance with a woman like you. His blood boiled at the notion of someone else’s hands on you, his tempered flared when he imagined your pleasure or smiles, or laughter give to someone who didn’t deserve you.

Like he did?

Fuck no, he knew he didn’t.

He never said he wasn’t selfish though, and he coveted you with sinful greed.

“Fuck me, baby—please, please—” you mewled into his neck as your hands that had started all of this with that first massage, fit into the sliver of space between your bodies to stroke along his cock over his shorts impatiently. His head fell back, and his mind blissfully emptied for a moment, grunting your name at the frisson of pleasure before those damned memories resurfaced again.

Look at the ass on that.

That.

Her. You weren’t a thing, a possession. You were—

He snarled. Misplaced anger manifesting in aggressive passion as he grabbed your wrist from where you stroked him to pin behind your back on the vanity.

“Always so eager, aren’t you—” he grinned darkly when you nodded, “turn around.”

The command was delivered low and dangerous, more a rumble of noise—deep echoes of jungle predators crackling like the kindling of threat, inspiring awareness that one wrong move would be fatal. But you never made a wrong move—not for as long as he had known you. Whether it was alleviating a pain deep in his muscles that had bothered him for months or pushing yourself slowing off the vanity to your feet as you were now—you always knew what he needed.

Wisps of hair fell into his eyes as he watched you—the decided turn of your naked body to dace the mirror—eyes never leaving his even as they caught them again in the aged glass. Bending forward, your ass pressed into the front of his shorts, and you rested your elbows on the vanity.

Perfect.

He didn’t realize he had whispered the word as he pressed his mouth between your shoulder blades, tongue trailing down the arch of your spine while his hands kneaded plush cheeks—spreading them and exposing your slick cunt to the cool air. The hitches in your breath, small squirms of your hips for relief—they all fed into his desire for you.

And he desired you. Constantly.

“I’m gonna eat your pussy until you can’t stand, baby—and then I’m gonna fuck you until you can’t speak,” he muttered against the shell of your ear, massive bulk bowed over your back and shadowed eyes – the duality of warm walnut and lethal obsidian – bore into yours through the glass.

“I want them all to know who you belong to,” he nipped your ear, flicking his tongue along the cartilage—the black ink on his back catching the light as his muscles rippled with movement, a roll of pleasure from your ass grinding back against him with a whimper of his name, “so don’t be quiet this time, sweetheart.”

Your eyes fluttered open molasses slow from where they had dropped closed at his words,

“What—what hap—” you tried to turn your head, the concern mingled with lust in those gorgeous, honest eyes making warning bells blare painfully – too close – and he silenced you with a kiss. Swallowing the worry that hinted at feelings that surpassed those expected from a fuck buddy, he buried it deep inside himself, in the shadows like a coward. To be locked away where he would remain safe from it.

Your tongue grew sloppy with a moan when he ground his crotch into your ass—dragging the solid thickness of his clothed cock between your soaked folds and up against your tight rear entrance.

Wonder if she’ll let me take her there…

Bastard.

He sucked on your tongue with a groan of your name, hand releasing your cheeks to fan up your ribcage and cup your breasts. You jerked in sensitivity when rough hands pinched sore nipples – he fucking loved how sensitive your tits got just before your period. The cry you released was nothing short of musical, tempting him lower as he kissed down your spine—wrapped hands sanding down over your ribs again when he lapped around the rim of your ass, circling it before he traced lower.

You were dripping.

He dropped to his knees behind you, eyes drunken with an ingrained pride that he was the one in this position, looking at the petals of your swollen pussy glistening with arousal he inspired from just a few kisses and rolls of his hips. He kept his eyes on the steady trickle of wetness from your twitching entrance, his teeth grazing distractedly down the back of your thigh as he did so.

A finger ruddy with flecks of dried blood caught a string of your arousal – don’t waste a drop – and he sucked it between his lips with an approving groan, the noise of your whimpers the perfect accompaniment. Blood and lust. The essence of humanity, that was what he tasted when he sucked his finger clean. It tasted like life. And he wanted more.

A sharp crack echoed through the room when his hand came down hard on one cheek, and again... and again—each strike making that dripping wetness gush until he couldn’t hold back anymore. He buried his face in your cunt, nosing at your entrance and tongue spreading puffy lips apart so he could trace in pitter patter swipes through your folds—greedily gathering anything he could get on his tongue before swallowing. Dehydrated on the sands of depravity and sordid company—your cunt was an oasis of relief where he eagerly drank his fill.

You tried to move, your hips slamming up against the edge of the vanity – that’ll bruise – and you keened with a shuddering cry when his mouth simply followed your attempt to escape the onslaught of pleasure that was too much too soon.

“Fuck—fuckfuckfuck—” you gasped, dropping a hand back to tangle in his hair, dragging him closer despite your protests. Mm, he loved when you got like this—overstimulated from the first touch. No matter how much you whined, no matter how many times he wiped tears that smudged your makeup when he unraveled orgasm after orgasm from the knots inside you—he knew you loved the intensity as much as he did.

He spanked you again – take it – your cheeks red and beautiful when he spread them side for him to spit directly onto your quivering cunt. His saliva dribbled and mixed with your juices to gather over your clit, his mouth forming over the little bud enthusiastically, urged by your slow ruts back against his face to streak his face with your essence.

“More—” you whimpered.

“Greedy—” he growled back.

The sound of your breathless laugh meshed delightfully with the swallow of a moan – guttural and primal – and made his cock twitch in his shorts. His hips snapped up uselessly from where he was kneeling—finding no purchase or warm embrace to bury itself in as his tongue took that pleasure for itself.

It licked and curled with practiced, seemingly illogical strokes along your clit and up to your entrance—sloppily kissing it before his tongue dove into your tight depths, thumb working in quick circles over your clit. He knew exactly what to do to make you come undone.

Your first orgasm was sudden—strong and surprising. He hadn’t even fucking fingered you and you were already spasming around nothing. Your muscles tensed as you went on your toes to lean even further on the vanity, trying to escape his tongue that worked you through each wave—drowning you in the pleasure he knew only he could give you. You were his. His his his his h—

You sobbed his name, a raw answer to his internal mantra his mind struggled against and failed to overcome.

Din wanted you.

He wanted your body, your mind, your time—he wanted what Paz had.

Fuck.

The way the older man mooned and gazed with shameless adoration for the little baker he had fallen for in so short a time. Hell, Din teased him over it constantly. And maybe he didn’t want that—but he wanted something. Din wanted something with you. Wanted you to visit him in the gym and stop him mid set just to kiss him and tell him that you would wait for him to finish so you could go home together. He wanted to buy you flowers without having to think of a fucking excuse like last time to distance himself from the sentimentality. He wanted to open his front door and feel our presence as more than just a visitor. That a toothbrush and the stray pieces of clothing you forgot at his place would turn to shoes at the door and your taste in décor mixing with his.

Din wanted you.

But he had no idea how to do anything but fuck you. He didn’t know how to date or be romantic. Was clueless to things like companionship—to the softer emotions he knew you craved. That all people craved. Din had no idea how to do any of it.

You lay with your cheek on the wooden surface of the vanity, eyes half-closed and spacey as you watched him lift his head from your pussy, face shiny from your release and when he licked over his lips, still hungry for more—you mewled.

“Don’t tap out on me yet, sweetheart.”

You shook your head, a whimper and almost childish refusal while your cheek remained plastered to the vanity, all strength having left your body and an adorable pout trying to lie and tell him you couldn’t take any more.

“Mm, yes you can—” he answered you, dragging his mouth back up your slit and along your tight ass where he lapped at the rim again. Later. It took time for him to stretch you to take his size—it was better left for when he had you in his apartment and could take his time.

His hand followed his mouths direction as it continued up to meet your mouth—smirking against your lips at the whimpers you made from the slaps he gave your pussy—the obscene, wet sound filling the area with each slap slap slap until his hand was damn near slipping every time he struck your cunt from how wet it was.

A bang on the door—a harsh slap to your pussy so you would moan just right for him, and he growled out a threatening “occupied” to whoever was outside. You were too high strung to even notice.

“No one else can have you,” he rasped darkly into your temple, his free hand tangling in the strands to pull your head back against his shoulder—the position no doubt edging on uncomfortable with the way your spine and neck were arched back—moUlded into his hard frame. Your eyes fell to half mast even as your lips parted—still smeared with specks of blood you hadn’t yet licked or chewed off—and he bit your jaw in warning.

“No one else—” you parroted, your hot breath fanning over his cheek even as you rocked back against him, a steel confidence entering your fucked out gaze—mercurial in the swirling heat, “just like no one else can have you.”

The boldness of your words, the conviction spoken in that voice of wooden flutes and bubbling creeks made his blood light with fire—yes. As much as he anted you, he yearned for you to crave him in return.

“No one else,” he repeated your words back to you, rutting his hips against you when his cock pulsed with a negligent ache that demanded to be addressed. He kept one hand in your hair when he pushed his shorts down enough to free his leaking cock, the turgid length swollen and angry as he rubbed the tip between your lips.

Maybe he would buy you flowers tomorrow, after all.

Din gave you no time to prepare yourself – that’s my girl – sliding inside you with one brutal thrust that had you pushed up against the mirror and his cock engulfed in fiery bliss. He felt the heat run up his spine, a volcanic metamorphism into marble as his muscles froze in an immediate pause to stop himself from spilling inside you after one damn thrust.

You weren��t doing much better—one hand clawing for purchase on the mirror and the other digging your nails into his hip as you panted his name, an incoherent string of curses and praise as your sensitive walls convulsed around him. The position had him pressed right against that one spot he cock curved up against that could make you see stars and your care for being caught dissipate in cries of ecstasy.

“Baby—fuck please, so—too deep—” you whimpered in inane babbles, tightening in residual spasms from your orgasm and the sudden intrusion of his cock, still a stretch after all these months. Too deep… he snorted, rolling his hips hard to try shove himself deeper still. He could never get deep enough, always wanting more—always seeking to conquer the untouched lands of your body.

“Mm, want me to stop?” he teased, dragging his hips back with a smirk at your immediate rejection of no no no fuck—please, no—hand pathetically trying to drag him closer to you by the hip. Lovely little thing… thinking you were strong enough.

“That’s better…” he purred, relief washing over him when he pulled out—the walls of your cunt stretching around him, refusing his exit, and trying to keep him nestled inside you. The pace he chose was brutal. He fucked you like he fought tonight. Violently, mercilessly—and deaf to the calls to relent. But where he wanted his opponent to suffer, he wanted to devastate you with pleasure, enrapture you with ecstasy and leave you moaning his name where others would curse it.

Wet cock slapping as he pounded into you in short, frantic ruts – need you baby… fuck I need you – there was no time for you to catch a full breath before he was knocking it out of you again. His fingers had to tighten in your hair to keep you up – your body trembling under his as he sank his teeth into the taut muscle at your neck and his cock sank into your welcome body – exposed and waiting for him to litter in his signature.

He would never get enough of the way his marks looked on your skin—the way you decorated him in yours. You were powerless to do much else than accept them right now – likely getting him back later – boneless and weak under the attack of his mouth and the dominance of his body.

He would make sure everyone in this fucking shithole of a place knew who you were with. They would have to be blind not to notice the blotches of poppy bruises snaking down your neck with the elusion to more hidden from unworthy eyes. The smudge of your mascara as tears pearled like crystals in the corner of your eyes when you glanced at him in strung out bliss.

“M-more—” you begged, dropping one of your hands between your legs to rub at your clit—fingers splitting around the girth of his cock as he fucked you to feel the thick length disappear into you over and over, the soaked mess amassed from your frantic desire for each other trickling down your thighs.

“Yeah?” he grinned, breathless and sweating for much more pleasing reasons than he had been in the ring, a languid kiss to your neck as he hiked one of your knees up onto the vanity—spreading you wider for him to sink deeper.

You spasmed, your head falling back against his shoulder with a cry.

“Yes—there, there baby, fuck you feel so good…” you rambled, fingers working feverishly over your clit in wet strokes, grazing his balls every time they slapped against your skin and making him muffle his moan in your neck.

Rolling a nipple between his fingers, his large—bloodied hand completely swallowed your breast, squeezing it and tickling sounds that belonged to him from you and into his mouth when you kissed him. One last kiss before you collapsed back onto the vanity, and he stood to his full height so he could ruin you with his cock.

His name was the only thing you remembered as he split you open with full, hard thrusts—the entire length of his cock stretching your tight walls around it and playing along raw nerves already on the brink of another orgasm.

“Gonna cum, sweetheart—” he strained, desperate for release as he watched himself fuck you in the mirror—him behind your smaller body, squirming under the pleasure while his muscles bunched and relaxed with each snap of his hips—the veins in his forearms prominent and tendons taut as he poured all that training and dedication and determination into you, into pleasing you.

“Inside—inside, Din fuck, please—”

His mind emptied. Nothing else mattered about tonight—not the fight, not the disqualification, not the rage. Your eyes—cloudy with lust and achingly trusting as you looked back at him were all he could think about. Nodding without even realizing, the thought of filling you running in his mind on a loop.

“Fuck—!”

He wanted you to cum before him, he always did—but he was so high strung, so tense that he couldn’t stop himself, burying himself to the hilt with several punched out moans—exhaled rapture with every pump of his seed against your waiting womb. Your eyes rolled closed at the amount, bloating you with his release and as he came, you worked your clit frantically—chasing that addictive edge you gladly hurled yourself over at just the thought of him coming inside you.

Din dropped his forehead to your shoulder with a gasp, your spasming walls too much on his sensitive length but he had to stay inside—the contractions of pleasure, the gush of your release might push his out. He couldn’t have that. So, he gritted his teeth, mumbled husky praise – good girl, that’s it—just like that, soak me – to work you through your orgasm and pressed open mouth kisses to sweaty skin, the salt tickling his tongue as he caught his breath.

His mouth worked over the sweep of your shoulder, up your neck to your jaw when your orgasm subsided, purring your name and nonsensical strings of words he had no idea made sense or not. He finally eased his softening cock out of you slowly when you shifted your hips—testing your strength and finding it lacking when you realized both he and the vanity were what kept your legs up.

“Feel… feel better?”

“Mhm…” he confirmed noncommittally, nuzzling the marks beginning to bloom and darken like a forbidden garden only he was allowed indulge in the scent of. One of his hands ran absently down the back of your thigh, feeling for his release—pleased to feel nothing but your sticky arousal, his own still nestled inside your sore cunt.

“Want one of those crepes you’re always raving about from that twenty-four hour place?” he purred, helping you stand—going so far as to pull the straps of your dress back up so that zipping the metal teeth would be easier. Your eyes brightened despite the lazy, satiated fatigue hiding in their orbs.

“Gino’s?”

“Mm,” he nodded, looking down from his greater height and lips quirking in an annoying desire to smile when one – bright as daylight – broke out on yours.

You nodded quickly, looping your arms around his neck to drag him down to your mouth, kissing him good and proper while his hands fell under the still open sides of your dress to settle on bare hips,

“Are you ever going to tell me what set you off tonight?” you mumbled against his lips cautiously, the ghost of a smile from the promise of dessert still lingering but a hesitant worry entering your gaze, unsure if his mood would sour again.

It didn’t.

He nudged his nose along yours, aquiline curve slotting along yours as he hummed in thought, thumbs rubbing lazily into your hips,

“Maybe later,” he settled on and captured your lips again.

You left the changing room together, his gym bag slung over one shoulder and his free arm wrapped around your shoulder—nose never leaving your temple or nuzzling into your hair with blatant affection as you blushed at how obvious it was to anyone who saw you what you had been doing.

You had both tried to tidy yourselves—cleaning the corners of your makeup and trying to flatten your mused hair was about all you could do. Din didn’t even attempt to cover the freshly fucked look of messy hair and heavy eyes as he pulled an unzipped Mythosaur Gym hoodie on over his muscle shirt.

A group were passing in the corridor as you asked him something—his former opponent with one eye swollen shut from the bruises forming around his eye, jaw, and cheeks. Din answered you easily, an automatic response to whatever you were asking as his eyes met his opponents, cold fury and arrogant pride flashing in their depths.

You remained none the wiser as you passed the group, Din’s body protectively placed between you and them. He probably should have told you; he knew you wouldn’t be swayed by it—comfortable in your body as you were, but he couldn’t bring himself to. He could protect you from slander and toxicity at the very least—and he planned to. Even if he had to do so in the shadows for now.

For himself, the swelling and bruising on the idiots’ face weren’t the only thing he had to satisfy himself with. He was the one whose cum was still buried inside you, clinging to your thighs and keeping you slick and wet for him to add more to later when he got you back to his place. And as you glanced up at him with a disarming smile after he dropped his hoodie over your shoulders without a thought once you both were outside in the crisp air of the early morning darkness—he secretly hoped that he would be the only one to have that privilege from then on.

Taglist | Form

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#din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #din djarin smut #boxer!din #the mandalorian smut #mando smut #din djarin #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x you #mando x reader #mando x you #pedro pascal #din djarin fic #din djarin fanfic #the mandalorian fic #the mandalorian fanfic #star wars smut #star wars fic #star wars fanfic

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procrastinatorimagines · 4 years

Text

I Only Have Eyes For You

Fandom: Chicago Med / One Chicago

Character/s: Connor Rhodes x Reader,

Warning/s: none

Word Count: 3,162

Request: Hi there, can I get an imagine for reader x Connor Rhodes. Lightly based upon 01x03 Fallback where Connor treats on one of his father's employees and his father tried to take him off the case. So like the reader and Connor are married (got married during their residency) and the father flirts with reader who also works at med not knowing that's his son's wife as he didn't think someone like Connor could snag a girl like the reader. The ending is up to you. Thank you x

“Maybe you should talk to him,” you suggested, putting your hand on your husband, Connor’s, shoulder as he stared distantly into his locker, his mind clearly elsewhere.

“I don’t want to talk to him Y/N, I’ve barely spoken to him in years,” Connor sighed, slamming his locker closed and turning to face you. He hadn’t expect to see his dad today, heading into Med behind an ambulance basically demanding to speak to Miss Goodwin and his son at once. Connor had been in surgery at the start of shift so he hadn’t actually come face to face with the man yet, but it was only a matter of time.

“Well now might be your chance, he is in the ED afterall,” you reminded him and he rubbed his face with his hands. It had been a long surgery, starting off the last shift of a very long week, and you knew the last thing your husband wanted was to talk to his father, but maybe he needed to.

“He’s downstairs because one of his employees got hurt on the job and he’s trying to do damage control before a lawsuit is filed, he isn’t here to see me,” Connor all but snapped, his face softening when he realised and squeezing your hand apologetically. There had been some kind of mishap at one of his stores from what you could gather, and one of Cornelius’ workers had found himself practically crushed under a bit of the structure that wasn’t as up to code as it should be.

“I get that, really Connor I do, I’m just saying that while he’s here, maybe you should talk to him, even if it’s just to say your piece,” you tried, knowing that Connor still had a lot of baggage surrounding his father, baggage that had been putting a bit of a strain on your marriage, or more specifically, any discussion of having children. Getting things off of his chest might be the only way for him to move forward, you reasoned.

“I have nothing to say to him, Y/N, he’s the parent, not me, it shouldn’t be on me to be the bigger person,” Connor replied, and he was right, but damn if the Rhodes men weren’t the most stubborn men you’d ever met.

“But you are the bigger person, the better person-” you began, knowing that Connor was ten times the man his father was, and maybe it was about time Cornelius Rhodes saw that for himself, but you were starting to realise that you were crossing a line as Connor interrupted you.

“Y/N, the last time I tried to reach out to my father he decided he’d rather go on a business trip than attend his own son’s wedding,” he said, the bitter undertones very clear as you remembered how crushed he’d been. No matter how bad their relationship was, and even if he wouldn’t admit it, you knew Connor still loved his father, and for him to not show up to his own wedding had broken his heart. “Baby he’s never even met you, and that’s that on him, he’s made his priorities perfecrly clear.” he continued, cupping your face in his hands.

“Okay, okay,” you nodded, realising you weren’t getting anywhere with this conversation, “do you want me to drop it?” It was what you always asked each other when it seemed like you were going to have an argument, or whether you weren’t sure if you’d crossed a line in a conversation, you tried to respect each others boundaries as much as possible.

“Please, I know you’re trying to help but my relationship with my father is basically unsalvageable, and I’m moving forward,” he smiled but it didn’t reach his eyes, he was trying hard to make you believe him but you both knew you really didn’t, this wasn’t the kind of thing you just moved forward from.

“If you’re sure, he won’t be around forever,” you gave it one last try before letting it go for now, telling yourself you’d broach the subject again at a later date.

“I know, and I am,” he said, giving you a quick kiss before pulling away and grabbing his stethescope off of the table next to you, “thank you, though,” he added.

“For what?” You asked finally closing your own locker.

“For being so very you,” he smiled, a genuine smile this time as he looked back to you, “I love you.”

“I love you too,” you replied, kissing his again as your phone vibrated in your pocket. Stepping back you fished it out, seeing a text from Will. “Oh that’s me, Will wants me in three to help with Mr Harris,” you explained to Connor as you both headed out the door towards the ED.

“My father’s guy?” Connor realised, opening the door for you and letting you out first as you checked over the message; apparently Cornelius was demanding a second opinion, clearly not satisfied by Will’s, but you decided not to tell Connor that right now.

“Yeah that’s the one,” you nodded, slipping the phone back into your pocket before he could see the rest of the text as you noticed Maggie signalling for you to hurry it along, that couldn’t be good.

“Good luck, you’re gonna need it,” Connor noted Maggie’s impatient gestures as you picked up the pace.

“You’re all the luck I need,” you joked, winking at him as you parted ways, Dr Latham needed him upstairs in 5 for a consult, a fact which he was more than happy with since he was supposed to be working the ED all day.

“Ooh cheesy, go on get out of here,” Connor laughed as you waved your goodbyes, heading to three.

Maggie met you half way and handed you Mr Harris’ chart, looking irritated.

“Everything okay?” You asked, noting the angry voices you could now hear coming from the room to your right, the curtains not providing much in the way of sound proofing, not that you thought Cornelius cared much.

“How Connor turned out the way he did with a father like that is beyond me,” Maggie told you quietly as you quickly flipped through the chart, “he’s been demanding this, that and the other since he got here, and now he thinks Dr Halstead’s not telling Mr Harris all his option because he just wants to ‘extort him for more money’,” she mimicked in a hushed tone as you rolled you eyes, it’s not like he couldn’t afford it anyway, you thought, but there was something about having more money that made some people think they were so damn entitled...

Putting on your best cordial smile you pulled back the curtain and entered, the men stopping in their heated conversation as you did, frozen on some discussion about cost. Will did his best to hide his relieved look when he saw you and Cornelius grumbled in frustration, completely unaware he was standing face to face with his daughter-in-law for the first time.

“Everything okay in here?” You asked, looking between the two men on their feet and the tired, slightly embarrassed, looking man in the hospital bed.

“Terrific sweetheart,” Cornelius retorted sarcastically and you internally rolled your eyes. Externally, you kept your features schooled and looked to the patient in the bed.

“Hi Mr Harris, my name is Doctor Y/L/N,” you told him, having kept your last name when you’d married Connor, a fact you were pretty glad about right now. You offered your hand and he shook it gratefully.

“Pleasure,” he said as you stepped back, facing Cornelius Rhodes as he rubbed his temple before looking to you, taking you in for the first time as he straightened his posture and cleared his throat.

“Cornelius Rhodes, it’s lovely to meet you,” he offered his hand and you shook it, the way he was looking at you making your skin crawl a little as he finally let go. “I was just discussing with your collegue over here the best treatment for my man here, and we seem to be having a disagreement,” the way his demeanor had changed in your presence was alarming, and Will was clearly taken aback by it too, he’d gone from demanding to charming in the blink of an eye.

“I see, well from reading Mr Harris’ chart it’s clear that there are only two option available, the impact seems to have done some internal damage that, while it might heal on its own over time, will most likely require surgery,” you explained in your perfected doctor voice as Will threw you a grateful glance. Cornelius clenched his jaw as he tried to maintain his own facade, pretending to mull over your words even though you knew Will would have said basically the same thing, and that Cornelius had already made up his mind.

“Surgery really is the best option Mr Harris,” Will told the patient, but instead of replying he looked back to Cornelius, the man who would be paying for either option no doubt. The surgery would be expensive, you knew that, and it grated you to know that the fate of this man’s life possibly rested on the greed of Cornelius Rhodes. Could Connor talk some sense into him? You mused to yourself as he began to answer.

“I understand your concern,” he said finally, addressing you alone, a far cry from the accusations of greed he’d thrown at Will before you arrived, “but that kind of surgery is not only expensive, but the recovery time would put him out of work, and he wouldn’t want that.” You hid your grimace as Mr Harris nodded, clearly feeling like he had to agree.

“I have deadlines coming up,” he spoke up as Cornelius gestured to him as if to say, see, there you have it, settled, as you did your best to maintain your friendly face.

“I understand where you’re coming from Mr Rhodes,” you lied, regreting ever trying to get Connor to patch things up with this vile, self-serving man. He didn’t deserve Connor for a son. “But if we leave it and it gets worse, the surgery will be much more invasive and expensive further down the line, not to mention the high risk and potential complications,” Mr Harris paled a little, but still waited for Cornelius to answer.

Seriously? He could sue this man and yet he was still scared of him, the man probably had no means of paying for the court bills that would require anyway, he needed Cornelius’ paychecks to keep a roof over his head. And he was making decisions about his life like he was a god damn asset and not a person.

“Well, that would be unfortunate,” Cornelius pondered and Will looked like he was close to losing it. It was no secret he prioritised his patients over all else, even their own wishes sometimes, and it was also no secret he’d never liked Cornelius Rhodes.

“Mr Rhodes-” Mr Harris voiced up but he was shushed, the other man still thinking. You didn’t know whether you or Will were closer to punching the man, Mr Harris clearly wanting to have the surgery now in fear of more severe future complications. If Cornelius wasn’t such an arrogant-

“Alright, if you thinking it will save money in the future- and more important of course Joseph’s well-being, then I suppose we could do the surgery,” he decided and Mr Harris sighed in relief. Cornelius smiled smugly, like he’d done something so generous, it made you sick to your stomach.

You consciously twisted the wedding ring on your finger as Will fetched the paperwork and soon Mr Harris was being wheeled off to wait for his surgery in a room upstairs, clearing the bay in the ED for the next patient. Will was more than happy to take the next person through the doors as you finalised the paperwork with Maggie, scheduling in his surgery in the system.

Connor texted you then as Cornelius was practically stalking towards you at the desks. He was letting you know that he was finished with Dr Latham and had thought about what you’d said, and maybe it was a good idea to talk to his father before he left. He’d be coming down any minute, but before you could reply Cornelius had reached you at the desks, a predatory look in his eyes that set off your fight or flight response.

“Dr Y/LN,” he grinned and you returned a polite and professional smile as he invaded your personal space, looking you up and down in a way that was so not okay, even if you weren’t his son’s wife. “Thank you for your help in there, your input was very... refreshing.”

“Of course, I was just doing my job, I’m glad Mr Harris is able to get the treatment he needs,” you replied tightly, realising that this conversation was far from over as he continued talking.

“It was the least I could you,” he said, seeming to take your statement as some kind of thanks or compliment to his ‘generosity’. “Say, how about you and me grab a coffee in the cafeteria so you can explain more about how this procedure works, on me of course. If you’re busy now, maybe after you finish work?” As he finished talking he inched closer to you, eyeing you suggestively.

Was he making a pass at you? Was this actually happening right now? You blinked in shock and it took you a second for your brain to process what was happening before you could answer him.

“Mr Rhodes, I’m flattered” you began and he grinned, like he already had it figured out that you were going to say yes even though you were far from actually flattered, “and while I would be happy to discuss your employee’s treatment with you in a professional manner, I’m... I’m married,” you explained, flashing your ring at him, the ring that his son had put on your finger.

“Well I don’t see him around anywhere,” Cornelius winked at you and you took an instinctive step back, but he either didn’t notice or didn’t care, probably the latter if you were honest. “He’d never know.”

“Oh I’m certain he would,” a voice said from behind you and you turned to see Connor heading towards you both, anger clear on his face as he looked from you to his father.

“And why’s that?” Cornelius asked defiantly, practically looking down his nose at his son, clearly not getting the hint from what he had said about who your husband was.

“Because I am her husband,” Connor said definitely, standing next to your side as you relaxed, feeling instantly better in his presence. Cornelius balked a little, he really had had no idea who you were this entire time. It took him a second to regain his composure but when he did, instead of opting for the apology you’d expect from any normal person, he did the exact opposite, actually defending his slimy actions.

“How was I supposed to know that?” He huffed like he wasn’t invited to your wedding, when he’d made the decision to not come of his own accord. Connor put a protective hand on the small of your back, aware you were drawing a bit of attention as April had paused her typing on the computer.

“Well, dad, maybe if you’d come to our wedding, or our anniversary, or any of my birthdays, you would have known that Y/N’s been my wife for the past three and a half years,” Connor’s voice wasn’t raised but you could tell he was getting more and more aggitated by this encounter. He wouldn’t have liked anyone making a move on his wife, let alone his own father.

Cornelius had the nerve to chuckle at that, “honestly I’m just surprised a boy like you could wrangle a woman like this,” he said as you clenched your jaw, so many parts of that sentence rubbing you the wrong was. You could tell Connor felt the same, his stance very defensive as you replied.

"What is that supposed to mean?” You demanded before Connor could speak, Cornelius’ eyes snapping to you like he’d forgotten you were an actual person and not just an object to fight over. “What about me and Connor is so surprising to you?”

“Honestly, you could do better.” he said matter-of-factly and you rolled your eyes, any appearance of a professional facade gone as you faced your father-in-law.

Now it was Connor’s turn to laugh, but it was a dry laugh as he said: “and what, you think your ‘better’?” Cornelius shrugged, the look on his face telling you that that was in fact what he meant. Connor shook his head in disbelief, the first time he was seeing his father in a long time and all of his reservations and fears were being entirely justified as he stood before the two of you.

It was time to end this, you decided, folding your arms and squaring up to Cornelius. “Better? The man who’d rather save money than a man’s life, who thinks it’s appropriate to not only hit on a woman while she’s at work, but to blatantly tell her to... cheat on her husband when she tries to politely tell you she’s not interested. Connor’s a good man, a much much better man than you, inspite of the fact that your raised him, and he doesn’t owe you another second of his time, neither of us do.” You took a breath as both Rhodes men blinked at you in shock. “Now, Mr Rhodes if you’ll excuse us we actually have jobs to be doing, I’d be happy to have somebody escort you to where you can wait,” you finished, seeing April grin out the corner of you eye as Cornelius got a little flustered, clearly not used to anyone, especially women you reckoned, putting him in his place.

“I’m had enough of trying to reach out to you, I felt like I still had something to prove to you, like it was on me to mend what was broken between us. But you’re not worth it dad, you’re just not worth it. We’re done here, stay away from me, and definitely stay away from my wife,” Connor told his father, gesturing with his head for security to come show him to the waiting room.

“Oh this is far from over,” Cornelius raised his voice, pointing his finger at his son as security reached you. But Connor didn’t waiver, clear for the first time as he just looked at his father, shaking his head before turning to walk away. Everything that needed to be said had been said, and he was finally ready to walk away from his father, quite literally in this case as you went to follow your husband.

This wound would never go away entirely, but now, maybe, you really could move forward.

#connor rhodes #chicago med #one chicago #connor rhodes imagine #connor rhodes x reader #connor rhodes imagines #chicago med imagine #chicago med imagines #connor rhodes one shot #chicago med one shot #one chicago imagine #one chicago imagines #one chicago one shot #one shot

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promptmepairings · 7 years

Text

In Another Life [Chapter 2/??]

Title: In Another Life [Chapter 1]

Pairings: HakuKai / SaguKai

Rating: M

Word Count: 2,010

Summary: No matter how many lives they meet in, Kaito is still a thief. And no matter how many times their love ended in tragedy, Kaito still loved him. Reincarnation AU || Kind-of based on “In Another LIfe” by Vienna Teng.

Read it on AO3

The first life was vivid, detailed, and long. He could remember nearly every moment, every feeling. The middle ones were less so, they were muddled and often confusing. They sometimes blurred together, bringing him new, equally confusing lives. The second one occurred in the 1900’s, once again in Japan. He’d been the son of a baker whose mother died giving birth to him. He had the smallest inkling from this memory that his father had hated him for it. Kaito had been there too; he visited the shop twice a week, buying a single loaf of bread each time. And Hakuba had fallen for him all the same. He was a thief then too, a master pickpocket. Their love affair had been brief that time, ending with Kaito being killed in a carriage accident while crossing the street to get to the bakery.

The next was shocking. He could remember bits of it. Things like what his house looked like and what he did for a living (he was a welder this time; hardworking, honest). And he could remember the knight that had wandered into his shop one day, all smiles and confidence. He could remember what he said when the knight had asked if Hakuba could create a hollow sword handle, one with a needle embedded in the hilt: “That seems like cheating.” And the smirk that followed, “Kinda like stealing victory, eh?” Years of friendship delving into something else, ending with a bloodstained newspaper dropped on his doorstep, headline: Famed Knight Beheaded for Sodomy. The last memory from that life was a feeling of hopelessness, though at the time he didn’t understand why.

His fourth life was long. Late 2010’s America, a child of Japanese descent whose parents had landed jobs in northern Ohio. He never seemed to be at home, though he’d been here since birth. At a young age he had researched reincarnation, his fourteen year old self finding the idea fascinating. The internet had everything to tell him about it; it was filled to the brim with philosophies, research, and theories. Apparently that had sparked something in him, as his memories from his previous three lives came flooding back with flourishing detail. The happiness, the pain, the recurring people, and the people who never came back. His parents were always different; his friends were always different; he was never in the same place. But there were two constants in his lives, he learned. One: that he’d fall in love with Kuroba Kaito, and Two: that, inevitably, Kaito would die because of him. Had they not planned to run away together, Kaito may have lived. Had he never worked at the bakery, Kaito may have lived. Had he never kissed him one late night after a siege, Kaito may have lived.

So he made a pact with himself that time. He’d written it down; he’d signed it; he’d locked it away in the top of his bedroom closet: he would not get involved with Kuroba Kaito, should he meet him ever again. There had been enough heartbreak and he had done enough to hurt him. But he hadn’t met him yet this time.

Years passed and the promise, the vow, still weighed heavy in his mind. Dreams of his past lives haunted him, from both ends of the spectrum. Happy memories he wished would happen again (quiet days in bed, hands held loosely over the dinner table). Sad memories he wanted to forget (death; Kaito dying in his arms, the blood pooling around his body in the dirt road). His head ached from loss of sleep for months at a time; he either never wanted to wake up or never go back to sleep. School was monstrous; the expectations from his parents daunting and looming. His grades were impeccable (all-nighters were easy when you dreaded sleep). Nothing seemed to interest him; he was lost and he didn’t want to be found.

And a Kuroba transferred to his school late into his junior year; he didn’t quite catch the first name as he focused in on the new student’s face, his heart skipping a beat when the syllables that fell from their mouth formed the dreaded ‘Ku-ro-ba’. Unisex clothes, no ‘reliable’ gender markings, and Hakuba could clearly see the resemblance this person had to the Kaitos of his past lives. They came in to class every day wearing everything from dresses to flannels, heels to work boots, and Hakuba was easily smitten with them physically. He was hesitant. He ignored them; he didn’t see why a stranger warranted such curiosity from the other kids. And Kuroba, well, they had no reason to talk to him.

But, oh, his classmates were curious, and curiosity mixed with puberty was never a good combination. They bickered and argued in hushed whispers for weeks. Hakuba caught a few of the conversations accidentally, not realizing he was eavesdropping until it was too late. Mixed murmurs of “of course Kuroba is a girl,” or “bro, I bet you 20 bucks he’s a boy” and Hakuba couldn’t care less. The culmination of this curiosity ended in a group of boys cornering Kuroba on his way out of the school: half-circle built around them and Kuroba’s back to the wall in an adjacent hallway. Hakuba had nearly passed them by without stopping, his vow of neutrality heavy on his mind. But he could hear them talking and it sent a chill down his spine. Teenagers were vile things, really. And could he actually pass by someone in need?

He took a step toward them and Kuroba’s face came into view. His breath hitched when he saw it; the smirk that Kuroba was wearing was one he’d seen before. They locked eyes and it fell for a moment, only to flicker back across his face when they refocused on the group of boys. A snap of his fingers and a puff of smoke, doves bursting from the cloud and scaring off the circle of boys. He’d learned later that week that all of their wallets were missing, vanished seemingly out of thin air. People seemed to lose interest in Kuroba, the luster of being the new kid in school fading. And Hakuba felt a strange sense of relief.

Two weeks, five hours, and twelve minutes went by before he thought about them again. His pens had started to go missing from his desk; his pencils next, followed by his dream notebook. He’d also noticed Kuroba hanging around in the halls after school let out, strolling through with that ever-present smile carefully placed on their face. And Hakuba didn’t pay any mind to it, really, until the dream journal showed up again. Exactly a week after he had noticed it missing, he had found it, propped up on the top shelf of his locker. He picked it up, turned it over in his hands, flipped through the pages, and that was when he noticed it—little notes in the margins of the pages, little thoughts of ‘I know, that was awful,’ and ‘you see, this was what was going on with me.’ And his heart nearly stopped, he was sure of it, and then started right back up again, jumping to his throat, when a hand gently touched his shoulder.

“I remember you too, ya know,” Hakuba turned at the voice, calm, calm as it always was, calm as it always had been, “I wasn’t sure at first…” Kuroba broke off, their head falling the slightest bit, “I wasn’t sure if you were you, and I was almost certain you didn’t remember me. But…the way you looked at me that day when I was cornered. Blind adoration, it’s how you always look at me, y’know, how you always have. So I took a chance and stole that little journal you’re always scribbling away in.”

“Kuroba,” Almost a whisper, Hakuba could feel his chest growing tighter. All the guilt, guilt, guilt. Kuroba took his hand, kneeled to the ground and kissed it.

And with that tell-tale crooked smile, “Yes, Angel?”

Hakuba pulled them up and wrapped his arms around them; he clutched at the other person, trying to get his brain to recognize that this was real, Kaito was here, they were safe, dear lord, they were safe, and they remembered him too and they wanted to know him again.

Kaito went home with Hakuba that day, under the guise of studying. In reality, they wanted to exchange stories. It felt odd to Hakuba. He felt like he’d known this person for his entire life and yet he knew nothing about them. It wasn’t until they’d swapped stories of their most recent lives together that he recognized how well he knew Kuroba Kaito.

“I wondered how they got proof on you then, but I suppose back in those days the courts didn’t need things like proof or even reliable accusations.” Hakuba was lounging on his bed, back against the headboard, looking intently at Kaito. Said Kaito was sitting in Hakuba’s desk chair, spinning around like an idiot and playing with a pack of cards they’d pulled out of literally nowhere.

“Well, it was kinda like that. The men I’d been travelling with had been caught, ya know—in the act—and they were tortured into confessing. In the process, they’d asked about me, their only travelling companion, and they’d told the men torturing them that I was also involved with another man. SO,” A dramatic twirl in the chair, their head resting languidly on their right hand, propped up on the chair’s armrest, “they arrested me. Tortured me. Told me I’d tell them, or they had other ways to find out who I had been involved with. But I didn’t break as easily as they thought I would. They ended up killing me, though I wasn’t beheaded. I can’t imagine what the poor S.O.B they used to impersonate me in front of the masses went through. It seems they never found you, though, from what you remember.”

“I’m so—”

“No.” They paused, “you don’t get to say that. It’s not your fault. None of this was ever your fault, idiot.” Kaito had crossed the room and was now sitting beside him on the bed; they flicked Hakuba’s forehead. Saguru glared, huffing and turning toward them.

“I never said it was,” He started, stopping before he could finish with ‘but it felt like it was, every time.’

Kaito sighed and leaned against him; they took Saguru’s hand and intertwined their fingers. The warmth of them on Hakuba’s side, the same callousing of fingers sliding against his own, it brought back so much. For the first time since he was fourteen, he felt at ease.

Remembering was a lot easier in pairs, he found. Piecing the holes of his second life together through Kaito’s dramatically-over-done retellings, he found that the inkling he’d had about his father was true—he had despised Saguru for killing his mother, and through Kaito he had learned his father was an intensely physical man, to put it nicely, and that Kaito had been planning on taking him away somewhere in that life as well.

“I was actually on my way to tell you that I’d saved up enough money to get a horse to take us two towns over when I got hit by that carriage. I swear they were aiming for me too. Carriages are slow, dammit, how could you just ‘not see’ a person?” And they’d laughed about it with that old laugh; the laugh that had wheedled its way into Hakuba’s heart, bringing that warm-at-home feeling to his chest, even when they was joking about their own death. It had been too long since he’d heard it last, long enough to forget just how it made him feel.

But, they never mentioned that first time, that first life. Apart from calling Saguru ‘Angel’, the only remnants he got were the occasional slip that Kaito made into rough Japanese, things Saguru knew he’d heard before but couldn’t quite place. Memories, it seems, are complicated things.

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