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luxaofhesperides · 5 months

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Surprise husbands + "How are you real?" ; requested by @vehan-tikkun-olam-and-stuff!

They may not have planned to get married, or even wanted it all too much at the beginning, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t going to treat each other right. It was rough going, with both of them coming out of relationships and having secret identities, but time had softened the hurt feelings and allowed them to actually get to know each other.

And Danny, Duke has discovered, is a really good husband.

Neither of them ever saw themselves as married at 20, but sometimes life throws horrible curses at you and the embodiment of balance and life and death swoops in to save your life. Via marriage.

His life is weird, okay? Duke has made his peace with it.

The thing is, if they had met naturally and started off as friends, Duke could see himself falling for Danny and asking him to marry him in a far off future. Instead, they’re doing everything backwards: married, then going on dates to know each other, and finally feeling close enough to be friends.

It helps that Danny does his best to communicate and that helps Duke find the words he needs as well.

He’s sweet, too, so kind and doting and affectionate. Like a really lovable cat, honestly. Duke’s never been cuddled so much in his life and he’s loving every minute of it.

He… might be falling in love with his husband. What a revelation.

“Duke?”

He blinks, looking up from his half-empty plate, pulled out of his thoughts suddenly. Tim and Dick stare at him, concerned, and he realizes he’s missed the entire conversation because he was so preoccupied thinking about Danny. In his defense, it was their one year anniversary the night before and Danny had kissed him for the first time after a date night spent playing video games and talking shit about their respective rogues.

Tim snaps a finger in front of his face, and Duke startles. He got distracted by his Danny Thoughts again.

“Yeah, what’s up?”

“You okay? You’ve been out of it all day,” Dick says, clearly concerned.

“Oh, uh, yeah, it’s all good. Just… adjusting.”

“To what? Did something happen?”

Duke shrugs, scooping up another forkful of pasta to shove in his mouth. “Yeah, I… this is going to sound kind of stupid, but I think I’m in love with my husband.”

Tim, taking an ill-timed drink, chokes and spits out his Zesti. Dick springs back, trying to get out of the spray zone but doesn’t move far, shocked still by Duke’s words.

“Oh, yeah,” Duke realizes, “I didn’t tell you guys, did I?”

“You’re married?!” Tim shrieks as Dick clutches at his chest, eyes wide.

“You didn’t tell me?” Dick asks, offended.

“Seriously? That’s what you focus on?”

Duke smiles as they begin to bicker. They do it constantly, but this time it’s halfhearted, as if they’re just going through the motions of something familiar to distract themselves from the bomb he’s dropped on them.

In all fairness, Duke did forget that he didn’t tell them that he’s married to Danny. He’s also only mentioned Danny once or twice and heavily implied that Danny was just a classmate at GCU. And then forgot that he didn’t tell them, assuming that they’d figure it out eventually being Batman trained detectives, after all.

Well.

Oops.

Clearly that is not the case. Duke hurries to finish his pasta before Tim and Dick finish their joint freak out and get their senses back together enough to interrogate him. He can’t escape it, but he refuses to have this discussion with an empty stomach.

He just barely manages to scrape the last mouthful off the plate when his fork is being yanked out of his hands. Tim and Dick close in on him, standing to either side of him, trapping him in place, and look at him with knife-sharp smiles.

Here we go, Duke thinks tiredly, and resigns himself to clearing up this misunderstanding.

Somehow, he manages to explain the situation (I got cursed, he saved my life, we ended up married because magic is bullshit, he treats me so well) and Tim and Dick both agree to not hunt down Danny to show him the wrath of older brothers on one condition: Danny has to join them for a family dinner.

“Don’t worry, we’ll catch everyone up on your… situation,” Dick says, pulling on his jacket to head out. Tim is already on his phone, no doubt telling someone already.

“Great,” Duke says, unenthused. “You’ll also be answering all the questions because I’m not in the mood. So if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to figure out a day that works for all of us, and then I’m going to kick my husband’s ass in Mario Cart.”

He walks out the door, grinning as he hears them scramble after him, then twists the ring on his finger (not a wedding ring, but a magic portal making gift) and steps into the portal. It closes quietly behind him, leaving him in Danny’s lair, a comfortable, spacious house with high ceilings and little bits of his personality scattered about. There are soft rugs with geometric patterns on them, star maps on the wall, stained glass windows that throw colors across the floor, and a giant couch and pillow pit in the living room.

Danny’s asleep in it, curled up and looking completely at peace. Duke toes off his shoes and carefully makes his way over, footsteps silent so he doesn’t wake him up, all plans of Mario Cart fading away instantly.

Danny doesn’t get much sleep, with the stress of school and an internship and ghost fights to worry about. It’s why his lair is so quiet and comfortable; it’s what he needs, and he doesn’t let anyone else in without invitation, rare as it is.

Duke is allowed to waltz right in thanks to the ring Danny gave him. It never stops making him feel overwhelmed by how much trust Danny puts in him to allow him unlimited access to what is his only true sanctuary, letting his lair be a place of safety and respite for Duke as well.

He crawls into the pillow pit, There’s no way to do this without waking Danny up since he can’t fly, so he isn’t surprised to see Danny blink his eyes open, still looking soft and content. He smiles when he sees Duke, reaching a hand out to him that Duke gladly takes, bringing it up to his mouth to kiss his palm.

Sitting up, Danny tilts his head up in a silent request. Duke happily obliges, still reeling over the fact that he’s allowed to do this! He can kiss his husband whenever he wants!

Yeah, he’s going to be riding that high for a while.

“Hey,” Danny murmurs, sleepy and quietly pleased to see him.

“Hi honey,” Duke returns fondly, “Have a nice nap?”

Danny nods, leaning into Duke and closing his eyes again. “Mhm. How long are you staying? I wanna cuddle.”

“I got nothing going on today. I’m all yours, baby.”

“C’mon,” Danny tries to tug him down. Duke goes slowly, covering Danny’s body with his own, but holds himself with one hand before he blankets his husband completely.

“Wait. There’s something we need to talk about.”

Immediately, the sleepy haze is fading from Danny’s eyes, leaving him alert. “What’s up? Is something wrong?”

“Not really? You know how we agreed to keep our marriage a secret until we weren’t in danger anymore and all those cultists and sorcerers were taken care of?”

“...Yes?”

“Well.” Duke sucks in a breath and offers a bashful smile. “Guess who forgot to tell people we were married after that whole mess was dealt with?”

The nervousness clears from Danny’s gaze as he stares up at Duke with incredulous amusement. “No. No way.”

“Yeah. Kinda dropped a bomb on them and they started freaking out over me being married. Anyways, they want you to come to dinner?”

“When?”

Duke leans back, sitting on his heels. “Let me check.” He pulls out his phone and sends a quick text to the group chat asking for a day they could have a family meal to meet his husband.

His phone is bombarded with texts and calls immediately until Barbara, bless her entire soul, forcibly mutes all of them and puts in a poll with a few dates, setting the poll to close in 24 hours.

“Okay, well, they’re deciding now, but probably soon.”

Danny nods. “Alright. I know these aren’t normal circumstances at all, but I’m so excited to meet the Bats.”

“You do not mean that after hearing all my stories about them.”

“No, I do!” Danny laughs, surging up to wrap his arms around Duke and pull him back down to lay among the giant pillows with him. “They sound nice!”

“The Bats sound nice?!” Duke repeats in horror. “Did you hit your head?”

“They do sound nice! You talk about them so fondly, and yeah they have problems and are dysfunctional, but they’re heroes. Of course they have problems. Even with all their baggage, they’re kind. And you clearly love them, so I do too.”

It’s hard to resist the urge to hug Danny tight enough to make him squeak while peppering his face with kisses, so Duke doesn’t. He just goes and does it, because he’s allowed to shower his husband (!) with affection (!!!) as much as he pleases.

“How are you real?” he says against the corner of Danny’s lips. “How are you so perfect! To me specifically! Honey, if we weren’t already married, I’d be going down on one knee right now.”

“I mean, you still can. We never got a proper wedding either. Think if we offer them a chance to help plan our wedding, they’ll forgive us for secretly being married for so long?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Duke says. He’s already giddy, just imagining what their wedding will look like, what song they’ll play for their first dance, where they’ll have the ceremony… He should create a Pinterest account to start putting ideas together.

Later, though. He wants to woo Danny properly and take him on so many dates.

Dates which include dinner with the Waynes and Wayne-adjacents, apparently.

“You sure you’re okay with meeting them over dinner?” he asks, just to be sure. He knows how intense they can be, even when pretending to be normal civilians. It took him years to get used to them, himself, and he doesn’t want to push Danny into doing something he’s not ready to do.

Danny cups Duke’s face in his hands and gives him a quick, reassuring kiss. “I’m sure. If nothing else, it’ll be fun to see how long it takes for them to realize I’m not fully human.”

“I really am glad it’s you.”

“Yeah, me too. I’d choose you all over again if given the choice.”

“Took the words right out of my mouth,” Duke laughs, wrapping an arm around Danny’s waist.

“Can we nap now? Now that you’re here and holding me, it’s taking everything I’ve got to stay awake.”

“Yeah, we can nap now.” Duke settles into the pillows, Danny cradled in his arms and closes his eyes to bask in the quiet easiness of it all.

He really couldn’t ask for a better husband, unexpected as he was. The others will see that too, once they meet him. It’s impossible to not love Danny once you meet him; Duke knows this all too well.

He loves his husband.

And his husband loves him back.

Duke is fully prepared to keep making that choice for the rest of his life.

#ghostlights #dc x dp #dp x dc #dcxdp #dpxdc #dc x dp fic #dp x dc fanfic #prompt fill #my writing #it was such a struggle to keep this one short but i WILL do it. it will stay below 3k words. i promised myself this #wasnt too sure what the surprise husbands trope was so i winged it lol. i hope you enjoy reading this anyways!!#its all about choosing love and choosing each other and taking care of each other in a bad situation #turning it into something good and soft and kind bc neither of u want to hurt each other and its nice to have someone always by ur side #its abt choosing each other every day!!#these two are out here speed running love while doing it backwards. icons.#thanks for the prompt!!

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theshotsheardacrossworlds · 2 months

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Pushing hair back behind the others ear

(Thanks Anon! <3)

"Do you mind if I do something?" You ask Astarion, who looks up from his book with a bemused look on his face. Since he came clean to you about his feelings, you and he have spent every evening together in his tent (usually on his bedroll, like tonight)---reading, talking, and more cuddling than you had anticipated. Who would've thought he'd love it so much!

"What, darling?"

You scooch closer to him and tuck one of his beautiful silver curls behind a pointed ear. Smiling, you sigh. "I really did mean it when I said I love the way your hair curls behind your ears."

He blinks a few times, his ruby eyes full of confusion. "Y-you did, and I was--"

You tuck another curl behind his ear and giggle. "A twat."

He closes his book and sets it aside. He then wraps an arm around your thick waist, his pretty mouth a hair's breath from your cheek. "Tell me more, sweetness...tell me what you love about me. I want to hear it all." Astarion teases.

"Even if there are things I love that you don't necessarily like?" You turn your head slightly to face him, your own teasing smile on your lips.

He rolls his eyes. "I suppose. Go on then, darling."

"I love the way your hair curls around your ears. It's so cute." Your lips touch his briefly. "I love your laugh lines...I love your laugh. It's so very you and lovely." Oh he looks not happy that I mentioned the laugh lines, but tough nuggets, love! "I love how you always check in on me after a fight or something awful happening by touching the small of my back. I love the way you hold my hand. I love your hands. I love how expressive your eyes are. I love how you pick locks so easily and with so much flair. I--"

Astarion silences you with a sudden kiss, and your parasite tingles.

Laugh lines?! REALLY!?!? It's a good thing you're cute, my sweet.

Really.

Really?!

Really really.

He pulls away and smiles, and a pale, cold hand caresses your cheek. "I adore you, you know."

You know he means it. You know there is more he wishes to say but cannot right now.

So you say it for him.

"I love you too, Astarion."

The rest of the evening passes with him insisting on holding your soft, warm body close to his.

And when you finally drift off to sleep, he only holds you tighter.

#astarion x reader #prompt fill #ask and you shall receive #astarion bg3 #plus size reader #astarion ancunin #the way his hair curls behind his ears ;_;#soft astarion #set in act 2 sometime idk lol

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wisteriagoesvroom · 1 month

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WIZ ITS ELLIE. soft + landoscar please?

Oscar doesn’t know why they’ve found time to sneak down to Oakleigh. Or how, exactly. Just that he had a contact of a contact, and they were always going to welcome him back here. And they’ve given the both of them some race suits, free run of the track, and a “go have fun”.

They’d found this place, like a shared secret. Clattering through the gates and sneaking away from their handlers. Each making an excuse about quiet time. Nobody questioned either of them about it, chalking it up to the general air of celebration after Albert Park. That’s the beauty of being golden children, you see. When you win. Standing in the sun, silverware in your hands, in front of a camera. Oscar hadn’t even needed to pretend at all - he beamed at Lando because he really meant it. P3, P4. For the team. Nothing to do with the way Lando’s smile creeps into him like sunlight. Nothing like Oscar’s own reflection staring back at him from the dish, gently held in Lando’s hands.

Besides, Oscar knows he’s hungry. He wants more. But it’ll be his time.

And right now, he gets to relive his memory of karting, on the track where he started. Growing awkward into his limbs that didn’t work how he wanted to yet, a fierceness that he hadn’t tamed, conscious of the knowledge that there were boys always faster, faster, faster than him. And chasing people like them, chasing Lando, was like driving towards an apex and knowing you would hit it — it was just a matter of time. How fast you could launch yourself at it, come close to bending time. Oscar has tried, and he will try still. There is something in him that will not be sated, and it is in Lando, too.

But for tonight: they rest. Just him, and his teammate. The floodlights. Boisterously loud crickets. Their own helmets, in their own hands. Two karts. Back to the beginning. Except the beginning is here, it’s when he was seven years old and dad helped him climb into the kart. It’s him in an airplane with one stop going to a cold and wet country where vegemite has the wrong name. It’s Rokit and Prema and Alpine and lawsuits and loud chatter and media distractions.

It’s a sea of eyes assessing him, but only one person’s that he cares to remember. Blue-green eyes, daring to ask the question without words: who are you? what will you become?

Oscar knows, because he has looked into the mirror and asked himself the same, too.

Those blue-green eyes search his own now. Then they steady.

The two of them. Same height, barely two years between them. Same dreams.

Then Lando smiles. Eyes the colour of soft streaking sky, the way it is when Oscar’s in the car and has a chance to look up.

“Ready for me to kick your arse?”

“You won’t.” Oscar says, easily back.

It’s taken them a year, but Oscar thinks he gets it. Talking to Lando is like holding a bird in the palm of your hand. A fluttering thing, fast.

And he thinks of the journeys birds take. Of comings and goings, of the silent effort of flight. He thinks of being two years behind and too small, and looking at the boy in the go kart, on the screen of his phone, who believed in himself enough to do it too.

Oscar zips up his race suit. And he grins. Lando’s eyes glitter with promise.

“But I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

#landoscar #Oscar Piastri #Lando Norris #f1 rpf #twinklaren #mctwinks #prompt fills #wisteriawritesstuff #asks #thank u el!!!#this snippet is like if back to the beginning by djo was smooshed together with the papaya blorbos I reckon #kinda sorta #inspired by that snippet of Oscar talking recently about oakleigh #and lando visiting it #idk that this qualifies as soft #but for now???? an adjacent Attempt #goodnight world

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bigfootsmom · 10 months

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Slow dancing for the soft prompts?

“C’mon, up you get.”

Eddie’s voice cuts through the gentle hiss of rain against the windows and the soft staticky music leaking from the small radio perched next to the fridge.

Buck lifts his head from where it had been resting on his folded arms, blearily searching the now dark kitchen for his husband. He can feel the beginnings of a headache pounding in his temples and his mouth feels like he swallowed sand.

“Wha– what time is it?” Buck asks, throat clicking as he tries to rewet his mouth.

Scrubbing his hands over his face, Buck twists in his kitchen chair to look at the clock hanging on the wall. It takes him a moment to read the small numbers, but when he does finally manage it he’s surprised to see how late it is. He had planned to already have dinner ready, but the remnants of half completed prep is strewn around the countertops. Halfway through preparing the food, Buck had to sit down at the kitchen table — the ache in his leg becoming too persistent to ignore.

“It’s time for you to go to bed,” Eddie hums, smoothing a warm palm across Buck's shoulders. Buck leans into the contact, shifting toward Eddie’s warmth like a sunflower seeking the sun.

“Mm— not tired,” Buck mumbles, tilting his head up for a kiss.

Eddie complies with the request, easily planting one against Buck’s lips before asking, “oh really? Why were you sleeping on the table then?”

Buck sags, knee and hip twinging as if to remind him why. “I was just resting.”

Calloused fingers card through his probably wildly unkempt curls, and Buck finds him sinking more and more against the solid warmth of Eddie pressed against him. Just when he thinks he could actually nod off like this, Eddie breaks the silence.

“Is your leg bothering you?”

Biting his lip, Buck sighs as he spins his wedding band around his finger. The warm metal glints in the lowlight of the hall light filtering into the kitchen. There are more days than not that his leg ends up bothering him. But that’s to be expected when he had fallen through the floor of a burning warehouse and landed on his previously crushed leg. Today is just particularly bad.

Buck had known it was coming, had woken up with the telltale stiffness in his joints. But he had ignored it, not bothering to do any of the stretches his PT had taught him, hoping to muscle through like he used to be able to do. He knows that was stupid of him. There’s a small curl of embarrassment settling in his belly, and he debates not telling Eddie. He doesn’t even have a good reason he can provide for why he didn’t do anything. Not one he can articulate at least.

In the end, he decides he doesn’t like lying to Eddie, even by omission. “Yeah, it is.”

“Did you do your stretches?”

Buck’s silence is answer enough and Eddie nods to himself. “Okay, c’mere.”

Eddie gets a big hand wrapped around Buck’s bicep and helps him stand from the kitchen chair. Buck goes willingly, letting Eddie pull him up and into his arms.

At first, he thinks they’re just embracing, and he’s not complaining about it, soaking up all the heat radiating off of his husband. Then Eddie starts rearranging Buck’s arms, getting them loosely looped around his neck before Eddie’s palms slide to Buck’s waist, holding him gently.

The music coming from the radio is low, too low for Buck to identify the song that’s playing. But he can hear enough to realize that Eddie is moving them in a slow shuffling rhythm around the kitchen that matches the staticky rhythm humming through tinny speakers.

“Babe, what are you doing?”

“Dancing— we’re dancing,” Eddie replies, swaying their bodies together as they rock side to side.

Buck shoots Eddie an incredulous look, but he just leans forward and kisses it off Buck’s face. “We can do your stretches instead, if you would like?”

With a laugh, Buck shakes his head fondly. “You’re ridiculous,” he mutters, but continues to follow Eddie’s lead, letting himself be slowly spun around the kitchen.

It helps. The ache doesn’t leave him entirely, but the stiffness slowly bleeds from his joints — the slow gentle movements of their “dancing” and the warmth of Eddie helping to ease the persistent discomfort.

Gradually, Buck finds himself relaxing, allowing more of his weight to settle on his husband. Eddie accepts it gracefully, a pillar of strength against Buck.

“There you go, baby,” Eddie murmurs, pressing a kiss to Buck’s temple.

Tucking his head into the hollow of Eddie’s throat, Buck sighs out, “thank you.”

“Always,” Eddie says as if it’s just that easy.

Maybe it is.

send me a soft prompt and I'll write a little something!

#this one got away from me i will admit #maybe that's why my prompt fills are taking so long #i just keep getting so long winded #i hope you enjoy this one! the slow dancing really took its sweet time to appear #ask game #soft prompts #molly writes #buddie #buddie fic #evan buckley #eddie diaz #911 #911 fox #911 fic #molly got mail #dancy-nrew #prince-buck-diaz

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geraskierfanficprompts · 8 days

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Prompt 13

How was Jaskier supposed to know that the lovely woman he spent the night with had a husband? Let alone a husband in a big scary poacher gang? So Jaskier is hauling ass through the forest, only to get his leg caught in a beartrap. He faceplants (very daintily, prettily, and most certainly not with an embarrassing wail, thank you very much) and begins sobbing with the pain. Not to mention his cheap lute breaking into splinters. Great. Just great. What a LOVELY day he's having! A pure white werewolf with bright golden eyes suddenly prowls out of the bushes, growling at him, and Jaskier decides that today really is his worst day. No matter how majestic the beast is, this is cearly the end of Jaskier the bard. He sobs and begs to live, apologizing profusely, and the last thing he sees is the monstrous snout getting closer. Geralt, the werewolf, is stalking for food for his pack, only to come across one of those humans in their own traps. Except... This human isn't one of them. He's wearing brightly colored delicate clothing, and wasn't familiar with where their traps were. It's an innocent human. One that smells very nice, under all the stench of blood and fear. Wolf!Geralt creeps closer, and pries open the trap, intending on releasing the human back into the wild, but it just kind of stares at him in horror before passing out. Hm. Well, it appears it needs more care than he initially thought. So imagine the other witcher's surprise when he doesn't bring food back to the pack, but instead brings a human to patch up. The moon dips out of the sky, they all turn back into their witcher-human forms, and now they're all SCRAMBLING over what they're meant to do!? HOW DO YOU CARE FOR A HUMAN AGAIN??? FUCK- I DON'T KNOW! Geralt stop petting him, he doesn't like that, he's human, not a wolf! What do you mean he likes it? Oh shit- EVERYONE QUICK PET HIM! No wait- He doesn't like it any more- One at a time pet him! And uh- Fuck- What do normal people eat!?

♡!Optional addons!♡ • (ORIGINALLY A TAG) Is Aiden a werecat or also a werewolf? And if he is a werewolf (and/or a werecat I suppose), perhaps he's from a rival pack (against his will) and needs to be rescued by Lambert as a sideplot • Maybe the poachers find poor trapped Jaskier and Geralt has to fight them off first, or perhaps they come back later, intent on killing the White Wolf • Perhaps Geralt turns Jaskier into a werewolf (Either with his consent or without his consent ONLY if he has to do it to save his life, we don't fuck with forced bonds here, people)

#I just want to see a bunch of dumbass witcher werewolves care for their bard #Geraskier #And/or MonoPoly Witchersexual Jaskier #Please someone write any of my prompts i need something good after shane madej and ryan bergara broke my heart by becoming capitalists :(#fanfiction prompts #geralt x dandelion #geralt x jaskier #witcher fanfiction #the witcher #geralt loves his bard!#writing prompts #requited unrequited love #optional smut of course #the regular werewolf sex shenanigans #maybe a knot #maybe a lil scent marking #maybe a lil growling and biting #its up to you darling #werewolf #werewolves #WerewolfAU #Werewolf au #Werewolf Geralt #Is aiden a werecat? or a werewolf like the rest of them? Coen and Letho could also be there to fill up the pack some more #Aiden could be from a rival pack against his will that Lambert helps break him out of as a side plot #if we felt extra gay #lambert x aiden #a soft spot of mine

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floral-force · 11 months

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Can I have "I'll show you how much I love you" with Hunter x reader where he sees reader's scars from her past and he kisses them make it fluffy!

of course you can!! thank you for the request, I hope you enjoy this little fic of protective!hunter goodness.

(requests are open! search the tags #prompt requests or #prompts and send me an ask!)

Healing

hunter x f!reader

summary: You're injured during a skirmish, and your lover, Hunter, takes it upon himself to tend to your wounds--past and present.

words: 2k+

warnings/tags: not explicit, but my blog is 18+ ONLY. protective!hunter, brief mentions of injury (blood, pain, darkening of skin from a bruise (no color mentioned), needle), past scars from battles, gentle!hunter is my weakness!!

read on ao3 | masterlist

The injury had been your own fault. The cost of your amateur mistake led to you getting a blaster bolt to the bicep and a bruised ego—painful, but nothing you couldn’t handle. Luckily, Wrecker had been there to cover for you as you scrambled behind some bushes to quickly slap something over the wound as a temporary field fix. As soon as you’d all made it back to the ship with the chip Rex had asked for, Tech and Echo blasted off into hyperspace, and you set down your rifle and removed your helmet, saying you were going to patch yourself up and denying offers of help. A broad shadow followed you despite your curt refusals.

In the moment on the field, Hunter had kept his cool, remaining the fierce, steady leader of the Batch even when you announced that you’d been hit over comms. In the private, quiet space of the Marauder’s tiny medbay, however, Hunter was a totally different man.

You plopped down onto the tiny bench and winced when your right arm was jostled. The adrenaline had finally worn off, and now you were left to deal with the pain on your own. You were still applying pressure to the area, your palm growing wet as the emergency bacta became saturated with your blood. Part of you worried this was more serious than you’d initially thought, but you shoved that thought away—it’d do you no good right now.

The shadow had materialized at your side despite your annoyed groans and rolled eyes. Hunter was digging through the cabinet and shelves next to you, pulling out various medkit items and muttering to himself.

“Hunter, I can do this myself.”

“I won’t let you,” he declared, giving you a stern look. “Is it just your arm?”

You shook your head, removing your chest plate. “Think I got a bruise or something, even with my armor.”

He clicked his tongue, that over-protective streak within him bubbling to the surface at your admission. You knew his actions came from a place of love and tenderness, but sometimes it could be overbearing, especially when it was a wound you could patch up yourself. Your fearless lover was a caring man at his core, and he seemed to project that trait onto you whenever he could since his brothers were resistant to it at times.

Hunter removed your shoulder pauldrons and vambraces, dark eyebrows furrowing when you hissed as he worked on the armor on your wounded arm. “You need to be more careful.”

“I am,” you protested with a roll of your eyes. It felt childish, especially as he began to prep various med items for your injury once your armor sat piled next to you. “Shit just happens, you know that.”

“Seems to happen a lot for you,” Hunter countered, raising an eyebrow.

Heat singed the tips of your ears, and you pressed down harder on your wound. There was silence as his brown eyes looked you over, searching yours and softening when he saw you wince.

“I have to take your top off.”

“Buy me dinner first,” you teased, trying to lighten the serious mood Hunter had filled the air with.

Hunter huffed and held back the smile that quirked the corner of his plush lips. “Since I don’t want you moving your arm, I’m gonna cut it off.”

Hunter whipped his knife off his tac belt, turning around and crouching in front of you. You had no qualms about it—you didn’t want to move your arm more than you had to—but you were thoroughly annoyed about losing one of your blacks. Cutting the top meant losing the rest of it. Hunter didn’t care even though he knew this; he cared more about making sure you—his girl; his sweet, precious thing—were safe and sound. So, you acquiesced with a nod of your head, grimacing as you heard the blade slice the fabric and rip from the pull of his rough hands. The fabric split open down your front, exposing the chest band you wore under your blacks.

“Let go of your arm for a moment, gotta cut this sleeve off.”

You knew Hunter could tear it with his bare hands and sheer determination, but there was that gentleness again. You glanced at your palm as you set it in your lap, gulping at how red it was. Judging from the way Hunter’s breath hitched after peeling off your cut sleeve, you assumed the bacta patch had done a shit job. At least it had stopped the bleeding long enough for you to make it back with the rest of the Batch, though, and for that, you were both grateful.

Hunter’s eyes met yours, then flicked back to your wound and trailed down your torso from your neck to your bellybutton where the ripped fabric hung off around your hips.

“I didn’t realize—” Hunter started, then stopped, shaking his head and grabbing a bottle of antiseptic and gauze.

“Didn’t realize what?” you questioned.

He grunted to himself. “Nothing. This might hurt a bit, baby.”

His pet name soothed you for only a few second before the first gentle press of antiseptic-soaked gauze made you hiss in pain. You squeezed your eyes shut when you felt a burn on your arm, tiny pinpricks agitating your angry wound with each dab. He shushed you and repeated your name, his rumbling voice taking on that sweet, velvety tone he only shared with you.

“Kriff, love,” Hunter mumbled.

“Is it bad?”

“Might need a bacta shot.”

You leaned back into the metal wall with a sigh, looking up at the ceiling. “Do what you gotta do, babe.”

You heard him hum and stand up and watched him take a needle out of a black pouch. Without a word, he quickly stuck the needle in your arm and pressed down on the plunger. You looked at him the entire time, his warm brown hand coming to rest over yours once he was finished with the shot, a calloused thumb stroking across the back of your hand. Hunter was a natural at soothing you, whether it was a panic attack in the middle of the night or playing along with you when you ran to him after getting a tiny cut. Even fully dressed in his armor, blaster on his hip, smears of dirt on his cheeks and the tip of his broad nose, he was your gentle lover, the man you’d run to in times of pain and uncertainty.

The burning was soothed by smears of a cool gel, tingling at first before smoothing into soft waves of relief. Hunter gently applied a bacta patch, his hands wrapping around your bicep as he pressed down the edges, making sure it was in place. You smiled up at him, glad when he met yours with his, the tender one he saved just for you.

“You didn’t have to do all of that for little ol’ me.”

He kissed your temple, a thumb stroking your chin. He whispered into your skin, “I love doing it for you.”

“I know you do,” you smiled, the pain from your wound fading with another kiss pressed into your forehead.

“Want me to take care of that bruise?” he asked, gently poking the darkened skin on your left side underneath your last rib. When you hissed in pain, he gave you a doleful look. “I think I have a cooling pack in the cabinet.”

You noticed his eyes lingering on your torso and wandering across your skin, and you swallowed thickly, realizing what he was so captivated by.

“Hunter,” you called, directing his attention to your face and away from the scars littering your skin.

“How did you get all of them?” he asked hesitantly. You could tell he was hiding his anxiety underneath his stony expression, his dark curls bouncing on his shoulder when he turned his head suddenly to reach for a white pack in the cabinet.

You shrugged, dropping your gaze to your boots as he cracked the pack and shook it. “I’m clumsy,” you said with an embarrassed chuckle. “They’re just souvenirs from my life before I had you watching over me.”

Hunter gently pressed the pack to your bruise, letting you rest your stained palm over the back of his hand. He cared for you in his own way, and you knew he was torn up about your scars. You’d done a piss-poor job of patching them up, so now you carried artifacts of your past life before the Batch barreled into it, ancient relics of a time without the tenderness of your lover, fossils from your time spent fighting alone. You realized he’d never seen them in the light before; only a few were raised, but he’d never commented on them. He just ran his broad fingertips over them as he kissed you in the confines of your bunk, your legs tangled with his muscular thighs.

You’d felt the scars littering his warm brown skin when he held you at his side, tucked into his arm and surrounded by his protective embrace. You ran your hand over his soft stomach and chest, mapping out the jagged positions, stretching your hand across his collarbone and plotting the coordinates of the splotches scattered on his bicep before diving to his muscular thighs and discovering the ones hidden there. Hunter was a man of action, a fierce soldier, a loyal brother, a tender lover. Your gentle touch lit something within him—you could see it in his eyes when you kissed the raised, discolored scar resting under his right ribs, could see it in his smile when you tended to a new wound of his after a skirmish.

You never asked, and he never asked you, either. All you knew was that he was yours now, and you were his, and he’d protect you with every fiber of his being, every bone in his body.

“And now that I am,” Hunter said, kissing the corner of your mouth, “I’ll show you how much I love you.”

“How do you plan on doing that?” you murmured, head suddenly light.

His hands urged you to press the pack against your bruise with your palm as he lowered to his knees in front of you. You sucked in a breath at the sight of him between your legs, something warm pooling within your chest. Nothing sexual or arousing, something warm and affectionate, something Hunter reserved just for you.

His warm hands gently moved the torn fabric of the top of your blacks, trying to force it back and out of the way. You twitched when his fingers brushed against your waist, goosebumps peppering the skin of your forearms when you felt his warm breath linger above your belly button, lips hovering near an old, nearly faded scar. He looked up at you, a soft smile painting his face.

“I’ll start by kissing this.” He pressed a delicate kiss to the scar, gently placing his hands on your waist to hold you in place as if he was afraid you’d fly away and out of his grasp.

Hunter’s eyes fluttered closed as he moved to kiss a scar a few inches under the cold pack. “And this.” His plush lips worshipped your sore skin with a delicate kiss.

“This one, too.” He straightened his spine and kissed a scar right below your chest band, lips warm on the discolored splotch.

Your throat had grown tight and hot, your eyes starting to brim with tears as he continued his adoring expedition across your scarred skin. When he reached a scar on your collarbone, he kissed it, then stood and bent his head to touch his forehead to yours. Your eyes searched his dark ones, leaning into his warm palm when he cupped your cheek. You’d forgotten almost entirely about the dull throb in your bicep and the sensitive bruise on your belly. All you could feel was Hunter and his love for you as he hovered his lips over yours, gentle breaths coating your parted lips.

“I’ll always take care of you, my love.”

You closed the gap, nodding and kissing him deeply, breathing him in and giving in to him.

He pulled back and smiled affectionately at you, his thumb stroking across the apple of your cheek. “I’ll always protect you, my sweet, sweet girl.”

“I know you will, Hunter,” you whispered.

“Always,” he murmured, sealing his promise with a kiss to your forehead.

masterlist | send a request

taglist (join here):

@hardlystrictlystarwars @dheet @kalea-bane @sinfulsalutations

#thank you for the request!!#I'm so weak for gentle and soft hunter #hunter x you #hunter x reader #hunter x fem!reader #tbb hunter #hunter fanfic #tbb hunter x reader #tbb hunter x you #the bad batch fic #hunter the bad batch #my fic #floral answers #prompt fill

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omaano · 2 years

Text

Don't talk to the marshal before his third cup of caf unless someone seriously needs shooting >_<

For Day 1 of @dincobbweek - Sharing/Living Arrangements

#dincobb #dincobb week #dincobbweek2022 #the mandalorian #star wars #the mandalorian fanart #marshalorian #marshmando #din djarin #cobb vanth #my art #nobody is a morning person here #din is probably just having the space equivalent of jet lag and just hasn't acclimated yet #or he's just LIKE THAT #also yes grogu handpainted that mug for him #what would happen if I were ever on time with prompt fills? the world would end probably #I'm real pleased with how soft Din's face ended up as

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honeyteacakes · 9 months

Note

For the soft prompts meme: Dreamling, 17. fixing the other persons clothes absentmindedly or like tucking their hair behind their ear

❤️❤️

(from this prompt list, requests always welcome! 💖)

The problem, Hob supposes, is that Dream's appearance has always been... immaculate. Never a stitch or hair out of place in all of the years that Hob has known him.

Though Hob had only been able to see him once a century, and always at an appointed date, so that may have contributed to the illusion. Dream had always been thoroughly prepared for their encounters, dressed in the latest styles and manicured to perfection. Those meetings had all been indoors, and at least two of them had been shamefully brief, so- all things considered- Hob's experience with Dream's appearance has been somewhat limited. Until recently.

Now they stand together on a paved embankment overlooking the Thames. It had been a lovely afternoon, now bleeding forward into evening and dusk, and the temperate weather had motivated Hob to make the most of it. He wanted to seize what remained of the summer, and Dream had been persuaded to indulge him, to exchange their usual drinks at the Inn for a stroll along the river.

The breeze coming off of the Thames runs through Dream's dark hair- messier this century than in previous ones, and now encouraged into an unruly riot by the wind. Dream scarcely seems to notice. His eyes are closed; his face is tilted forward into the breeze, as if the sensation of it is somehow novel to him. Hob's eyes are drawn over the sharp edge of his profile, down over moon-pale skin and rose-pink lips. He's gorgeous, mesmerizingly so, which is why Hob doesn't even think. He doesn't realize that he's moved until he's already in motion. He sweeps a particularly rebellious lock of hair back behind Dream's ear.

Dream's eyes open. He glances back at Hob, just out of the corner of his eyes, as if only curious at the gesture. He says nothing, but blinks slowly, as contented as a cat, and returns his gaze to the river.

When he looks away from Hob, his lips tease at a smile.

#dreamling #dreamling fic #mine #thanks for the prompt!!! 🖤🖤🖤#i hope this is suitably soft <3 #prompt fills #mytumblrsandmanfics

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apuckishwit · 1 year

Note

“Don’t look yet but-“ for Steddie?

"Don't look yet, but..." Eddie trails off, his hand slipping from Steve's as he takes a few steps away, his boots crunching over gravel. Steve keeps his eye onediently closed, as he has since Eddie asked him to a few miles back.

He might not have been able to, once. Wouldn't have been able to just shake his head with a fond smile, leaning back against the seat and just relaxing while someone drove him to God knows where, for God knows what. Wouldn't have been able to just laugh when that someone pulled to a stop and told him to take their hand, wouldn't have been able to just follow, nothing more than a 'watch your step, sweetheart, ground's kinda rough' to clue him into his surroundings. He'd almost forgotten what it was like, not having to look constantly over his shoulder. Not having to be so terribly, terribly alert, always in all ways. Always bracing for the next blow, the next crisis, the next loss.

The Upside Down has been gone for years, sealed and closed and gone, and he's only just started to be able to let down his guard, let go of his readiness, let go of the man it made him into. The kids--not kids anymore, Erica is a senior this year, they've all grown up and moved on, but they'll always be his kids--have helped. Eddie has helped. He's as close to healed as he's ever going to get these days, as close to 'normal' as he's ever going to be, and he owes so much of it to his friends. To the man he can feel standing just in front of him.

As if sensing his thoughts, he feels Eddie's calloused fingertips just barely ghosting over his cheek, sliding down the long white scar that runs from his temple all the way down to tangle across his throat (he'd nearly died, but the demogorgon would have gutted Lucas if Steve hadn't shoved him out of the way...it was worth every ounce of pain, every permanent reminder left on his body). He smiles when Eddie thumb swipes over his lips, pressing against the bottom one just gently.

"You're so pretty," he says, reaching up now with both hands to cradle Steve's face. "I'm the luckiest bastard in this whole goddamn town."

He snorts, still keeping his eyes closed. "Shallowest too, apparently." The words are teasing, though, and he turns slightly to press a kiss into Eddie's palm. "Can I look, yet?"

Eddie's hands tighten briefly on his cheeks, and then his boyfriend backs away, gravel crunching under his boots again as he starts pacing. "Okay, so, despite what it's gonna look like, I need to preface this by saying I have absolutely no expectation and I don't want to pressure you. You can, uh, you can say no. I really, really want you to say yes, but nothing changes between us if you say no. Okay?"

"Eddie, Jesus Christ, are you proposing? Cause if I get engaged to my boyfriend before Robin gets engaged to her girlfriend she might actually kill me...like, we beat her to every other milestone and I've only known I was queer for, like, five years and she's been doing it her whole life and--"

"Okay, I know this is about your whole weird, one soul in two bodies thing you have going with Buckley, but what I'm HEARING is that you'd totally say yes if I was proposing. I'm not, by the way. Robin WOULD actually kill us."

"Well good. But for the record, I'd say yes."

"Even if it wouldn't be real?" Eddie asks softly, that quiet wondering note he gets in his voice sometimes when Steve does or says something that reminds him that Steve is just as in this thing between them as he is. Like he can't believe it, like he can't understand how he got so lucky, when really it's the other way around.

"It'd be real to us," Steve says, just as softly. "It'd be real to everyone that matters."

Eddie kisses him, then, fast and hard and overwhelming, and he almost opens his eyes, almost spoils whatever surprise his boyfriend has cooked up.

"Okay. So...okay," Eddie says when he pulls back again. "So, you remember when I went up to Indy to fill in for the guitarist in that band that Jeff's cousin is in?"

"Yeah?"

"Well, turns out there were a couple people in the industry at the show. One of them got my number from Jeff's cousin and, well, they want me to come to LA to work for their label."

Eddie's hands come up to cover his eyes as they pop open, just a flash of blue sky and the shadows of what look like several large vehicles before he's blinded again. He grips his boyfriend's wrists.

"Seriously?! Holy shit! Eds, that's everything you've ever dreamed of! Why didn't you tell me?"

"Cause I wanted to be sure they were legit. It's not a record deal or anything--I'd be working in their studio doing backup instruments, maybe some sound mixing. Basically, I'd be an in house guitarist. But they've got some decent names signed with them. There'd probably be opportunities to tour with some of the bands. It's...it's a foot in the door, basically. But it's a really good opportunity. The pay's not great to start, but...uh...I think it'd be doable. Especially if I had someone with me."

His hands slip from Steve's eyes and Steve is left blinking in the dazzling October sunlight.

They're standing on a used car lot, surrounded by RV's. Eddie has led him to stand right in front of one of the smallest--really just big enough for two, maybe three people. It's definitely an older model. Dirty and a little beat up. But the price written on the sign taped to the window is pretty reasonable and Steve knows Eddie wouldn't even look at it if it didn't have a good engine.

"Lady Applejack is graduating this year. They've all gone on to their own adventures...and I'll always make sure we have enough to hop on a flight immediately if any of them need us. But, uh, I think...I think it's time I went on an adventure too. And I really want you to come with me, Stevie. In fact--I don't think I can do this without you."

And there's really only one answer, isn't there?

"Bill," he says decisively, laughing when Eddie frowns in confusion. He gestures toward the RV. "We have to call it Bill...like the pony?"

The confusion clears, and he's suddenly got an armful of Eddie. "You know how I get when you talk nerdy to me!"

#steddie #stranger things #my writing #fic prompt #prompt fill #Ugh this is so soft #I love that for it

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amrv-5 · 2 months

Note

oh god 6 or 18 for the cuddle meme would destroy me

AH HELLO PRAX HAPPY THURSDAY!!! and THANK YOU -- I hope it's alright I combined 18 with @bbjkrss-blog request for 35 (and THANK YOU for the prompt, also!!!!!), they fit really well together!! Anyway -- lovvved writing this one it was so so soft:

18. 'just a short hug' turning into 'just one more second' turning into 'but I just can't let go of you'

35. cuddles to keep the other from leaving the bed (from this prompt)

Hawkeye lost his grip on the edge of the mattress. “Beej,” he complained, laughing, as BJ dragged him back under the duvet, holding Hawkeye to his chest.

“I can’t have a hug?” BJ asked, kissing the back of his neck. He resettled the blankets so Hawkeye was tucked in up to his chin.

“Of course you can.” Hawkeye turned in his arms. BJ tossed a leg over his hip and drew him in tighter, nosing into the hollow of his throat. “But just for a second. I don’t want to jog to the bakery again.”

“Mm,” BJ said, breath warm against Hawkeye’s neck. He slid a hand up the back of Hawkeye’s thin sleeping shirt. It wasn’t a bid for anything more, unless a nap counted as an ulterior motive.

“They’re going to run out of the good baguettes,” Hawkeye said. It was a reminder to himself, too; the blankets were still sleep-warmed and cozy. BJ’s arm was comfortably heavy over his waist. It was more tempting every second to stay in bed.

“So get the less-good ones,” BJ murmured, rubbing his face against Hawkeye’s chest. “I don’t mind the sesame.”

“I mind the sesame,” Hawkeye tried to convince himself. It seemed a weak argument, comparatively, when BJ was rubbing circles into his lower back. The touch was warming him through, and he pushed himself more tightly against BJ, despite his determination to get out of bed soon. “One more minute,” he brokered, glancing at BJ’s watch on the nightstand.

“One more minute,” BJ agreed.

Hawkeye relaxed against him, curling into the blankets, closing his eyes against the midmorning light. He grasped BJ’s upper arm where it rested across his waist, and held it. BJ kissed his collarbone. Hawkeye realized it was almost impossible to open his eyes. It was far easier, and more comfortable, to melt against BJ.

BJ’s breath slowed, and his hand stilled under Hawkeye’s shirt.

“Don’t fall asleep,” Hawkeye warned them both, though he was certain he’d allowed the one-minute mark to come and go. He couldn’t bear to open his eyes to check. Sleep was holding onto him even more determinedly than BJ. “We’re getting up. Any minute now we’re getting up.”

BJ sighed, more than half asleep. He rolled over, pinning Hawkeye under his weight, a full-body press that threatened to snuff out the last, weak flicker of Hawkeye’s willpower.

It felt phenomenal. Hawkeye sighed, basking in the totality of the contact, BJ’s warm presence soothing something deep within him. “Damn. I can’t let go of you,” he confessed, rubbing their faces together.

“It's a mutual problem.” BJ inhaled deeply, pressing Hawkeye flatter against the mattress.

Hawkeye hummed happily and held on. Maybe he’d have to learn how to make baguettes at home. It couldn’t be too hard, really—no harder than leaving bed on a Saturday morning.

#thank you both again!!!! loved this one. so so soft #sub-500 short & sweet #beejhawk #hunnihawk #prompt fill #my fic #persianflaw #bbjkrss-blog

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queen-scribbles · 2 months

Text

Fic Stats Meme

tagged by @vorchagirl

Rules: give us the links to your fics with the most hits, second most kudos, third most comments, fourth most bookmarks, fifth most words, and fic with the fewest words.

Most Hits: Of Wardens & Pariahs (DA:O, 1,891 WHAT THE HELL)

Second Most Kudos: Third Times the Charm (PoE, 92)

Third Most Comments: The Thought That Counts (ME:A, 8)

Fourth Most Bookmarks: Damage Control (SWtOR, 5)

Fifth Most Words: The Maker's Mercies (DA:O, 19,773)

Fewest Words: A Good Story (DA:I, 418*)

#tagged #queens fic #i think a good story is going to haunt me the rest of my life #which is ironic bc it's about varric's own words doing the same to him :))))#oh god maker's mercies is so OLD #at least nine years #bc i was still at the bookstore #(I say like owap and tttc aren't EVEN OLDER)#* i know i have shorter prompt fills etc on tumblr but since this is ao3 stats¯\_(ツ)_/¯#also tttc got beaten out for kudos by unspoken #so apparently ppl like my fics involving soft-spoken blue eyed men and RIDICULOUS AMOUNTS of pining xD

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jomiddlemarch · 1 year

Note

I can't resist another one. Darklina + 35. Hold My Hand

“Hold my hand,” Aleksander said softly. They were waiting in the antechamber for their introduction, Alina wearing the jeweled diadem and lace veil she had unsuccessfully fought to refuse, Aleksander’s head bare but the cape that fell from his shoulders to the floor was richly embroidered with gold and silver thread, clasped at the throat with a cabochon emerald encircled with diamonds.

“I’m not scared,” Alina replied. “They’re already well-aware we’re a united front, we don’t have to do a big symbolic gesture.”

“For the first time, I have someone beside me to walk into the room where they’re all waiting—it would feel good to have your hand in mine, to know I’m not alone,” he said and smiled, a boy’s shy smile, a rare expression that she knew had not been seen for many centuries.

#darklina #prompt fill #aloveforjaneausten #romance #fluff #literally soft!darkling #holding hands #you are not alone #means he is not alone #canon au

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crispyjenkins · 2 years

Note

I do love Jango having a lower midi-chlorian count than the average rock, but how about this- Jango is found by the Jedi, Obi Wan taken in by Jaster. They meet on Galidraan. Jango isn't meant to be there, he has a vision or sees the mission info and has a feeling. Either way, the force has apparently decided its his job to save a random mandalorian (the random mandalorian, who can't be any older than him, turns out to be the mand'alor. There goes hoping he can keep this quiet from the council)

(well howdy do would you look at that, jango's got the force visions now

there was not supposed to be so much Yearning on jango's part, but well. what am i if not a writer of jangobi longing

also sorry if the Force bits are a little hard to read: i want them to be all mooshed together to like. convey how rushed and confusing they are. but also i have dyslexia. so i’m trying out this way)

The captain of the Mandalorians they had been sent to deal with is... even younger than Jango is.

He freezes after managing to knock said human’s helmet clean off, watching their head jerk with the blow, watching their flushed, freckled face flinch in momentary pain before twisting into a snarl with blood in their teeth.

nothimnothimdonotharmhimdonotharmhim

Jango stares breathlessly at the scowling man before him and barely manages to dodge the ferocious swing of a Mandalorian sword right at his face. He stumbles back a few steps, wildly bringing up his blue lightsaber to deflect the next blow, and it’s only with the realisation that his opponent must have a sword made of beskar that Jango realises the importance of the Mandalorian coming at him with cold rage saturating the Force between them.

lostlostheislosthelphelphimhemust comebackdonotharmhimdonotharmhim

Jango leaps backwards to put some distance between them and nearly careens right into a snowdrift, stumbling on landing and leaving his defense wide open; Master Tahl is absolutely going to have his ass on drills for months if he even manages to survive thi—

Except the Mandalorian doesn’t take advantage of Jango’s opening, instead stilling right where Jango had left him.

The battle continues on the other side of the ravine, Jango unsure when he had gotten so far away from his fellow Jedi, and the cold air only amplifies the echoing blasterfire and ’saber strikes and screaming. This is hardly the first skirmish Jango has been a part of, but for some reason, it feels infinitely more important than any other battle he’s been in before.

Looking up at the teenager that can only be the kriffing, Force-damned Mand’alor, maybe it isn’t so mysterious a reason.

And the Mand’alor stares right back at him, heaving breaths painting the air before their parted lips in clouds, lips that Jango had bruised and split with the blow landed to their head. Lips that are no longer snarling, the Mand’alor instead furrowing their brow at Jango in confusion, with their sword angled in front of themself in defense.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck, knocking their helmet off was a fucking mistake, because now Jango has to watch blood drip from their nose over a perfect cupid’s bow, down a chin with an endearing scattering of moles, and has to meet eyes so brown they’re almost black even in the harsh sunlight reflecting off the snow.

yesyesyesyesyeshemustlive

Their hair is a perfect copper-red, Jango notes a tad hysterically, cut short to not be a bother inside the helmet, but with two braids framing their face in front of either ear, not... not unlike a padawan braid, actually. A simple, black metal circlet rests on their forehead with the majority disappearing into their hair, a single red gem in the center matching the Mand’alor’s black and red armour perfectly.

A slightly-crooked nose implies a break that had not healed properly, and they have a smattering of small scars on their right cheek, a couple clipping through their eyebrow, that could have only been caused by shrapnel. The tatters of a red rapier cape hang from one shoulder, having seen much better days with a large stain taking up what little of it Jango can see. A blood stain.

hisnothishisbuirhelosthisbuirheis tooyoungaking

To the Jedi’s knowledge, the Mand’alor was a middle-aged human man, so his death must have been recent because the Temple certainly hasn’t heard about a shift in leadership until now. Amd the last Mand’alor must have been this one’s family, Jango realises, for why else would he have taken up the mantle so young?

Jango himself is not yet twenty, and the teen before him is obviously several years younger still. He can’t even imagine what that sort of responsibility is like: he’s not due for the knight trials for at least another five years, if not more, which says nothing of the decades until mastership, and even more to qualify for Head of the Order. How can someone even younger than him lead and care for an entire people?

Actually, that thought makes Jango suddenly question this whole mess of a mission. Why would an incredibly new ruler suddenly attack protestors on a planet far out of their borders? If it was a contract, why would they have taken it at all? He suddenly questions how easy it would have been to manipulate a teenager into a vulnerable position, especially if said manipulators wished them harm.

And isn’t that the saying? All are enemies of Mandalorians (especially other Mandalorians.) Who doesn’t wish them harm these days?

A shift of boots over snow wrenches Jango back to the very present problem of facing down the actual Mand’alor of the actual Supercommandos of the actual Mandalorians. Don’t the Supercommandos have a creed of as little violence as possible?

His distraction costs him this time, the Mand’alor shifting their grip on their sword before snarling that perfect face again and launching themself at Jango. He barely gets his ’saber up in time, but is still slammed onto his back into the snow, knocking the breath from his chest and leaving him panting.

Panting as the Mand’alor straddles his chest and bears all their weight down on their connected blades. Instead of afraid, or panicked, or even offended, Jango feels nothing but awe as he as he’s forced to stare at the teen above him, entranced by brown eyes that turn the inky purple of Wild Space in the blue sparking light of beskar against kyber, as this Wild Mandalorian tries to take his head 0ff. And Jango is no poet (despite Master Tahl’s continuous effort), but if he could simply name the colours that ripple over their face in infinitely more shades than blue, Jango thinks he would make a very fine poet indeed.

Now if the Force would just allow him the time to start counting them.

yesyesyesyesyES

savehim.

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rubberstains · 1 year

Text

lestappen secret Santa

words: 1k

pairing: max/charles

warning(s): little explicit at the end

Charles deals with his new feelings regarding Max, like Max's hair, his eyes, his hands... Whilst an oblivious Max receives a funny secret Santa. They're both idiots.

Charles felt like he was always chasing Max, scurrying after the trail Max’s tenacious shoulders had cleared. When Charles’ hair flopped down into his eyes, they had karted against each other, but Max was first to progress into Formula One. Charles chased him, joined Ferrari, and felt the ever-present weight of expectations gnawing at his muscles just like Max surely had.

But every time Charles would spy the angled eyebrows and pursed lips, the icy blue stare, Max seemed to be unfazed.

The impulsive snap of his jaws mellowed after his first championship. The frostiness in his eyes melted, darting pupils seeking out Charles in the paddock. He would gaze unabashedly at Charles, squinting in facile joy, relentlessly littering fleeting touches along the grooves of Charles’ back and waist. Max’s long fingers easily engulfed him, broad palm a steady, heavy weight on Charles’ skin.

So Max occupied Charles’ thoughts in a different way. No longer did he have to swallow down the ugly bile of jealousy clawing up his throat. Or lock away the frustration accumulating into incessant throbbing headaches.

Charles would flinch awake, chest heaving, skin glistening under the pale moonlight that sneaked through flailing curtains. He could only remember a vague blur of his dreams; the golden flash of skin emphasised by the intense embrace of sunlight, the murky gradient of blues, and a blase rasp of laughter.

He would fling the damp sheets off his body and rub his thighs together to confirm the stickiness painted along his skin. Blood would rush through his head like sand grains in a timer. He stripped off his underwear, silk boxers ruined, and carelessly chucked them into a laundry bin. A cold shower eased the erratic gush of blood in his heart. He’d flick the switch for the fan off, then the lights, hastily rub a towel over his body, and trundle back to a sheet-less bed and fall asleep. It became a routine that Charles found himself having to repeat at least twice a month.

The sexual frustration was beginning to rattle Charles and his ability to function normally. A track walk became precarious, eyes itching to spot a glimpse of any Red Bull team members so he could avoid them. Max’s pallid, calloused fingers grazed the fine hair on the back of Charles’ neck. Max’s frame caged Charles in inadvertently, the sharp lines of his jaw and nose daring Charles to move away.

Charles felt his dick twitch in his pants whenever he replayed that particular memory. He squeezed his eyes shut almost painfully, reopening them when pulsing patterns of white and black swam under his eyelids.

A woman handed him a bright, childish Santa hat which he pulled over his ears. Her hair was brown with streaks of blonde that reminded Charles of—

“Alright. Ready to find out who you’re going to be secret Santa for?” A nondescript crew member behind the camera asked, handing over a pouch with strips of paper inside.

Charles tentatively reached inside and grabbed the first piece of paper he could.

His eyes wrinkled subconsciously. His lips parted to emit a light, disbelieving giggle.

“Max Verstappen,” he said, still laughing, unable to mask the glee blooming across his face.

xxx

Thanks for the gift mate. Haha! Loved it.

The text was so Max, breezy and sincere all at once. Pierre had told him Max had asked for his Whatsapp so he could thank Charles for his present.

When the video finally came out, a few days before Christmas, Charles was hunched over in his bed, sheets messily drawn around him like a nest. He turned the brightness up on his laptop and sunk back into his pillows.

Max’s Santa hat rested atop his Red Bull cap, of course, and his erupting throaty laughter as he ripped open the wrapping paper and saw a photoshopped Charles tripled across the cover of the F1 video game, made Charles pause the video and collect himself.

Max’s lengthy fingers delicately cradled the Ferrari notecard, turning it over and laughing that raspy, breathy chuckle of his. "For my biggest fan" he read out, voice delectable. The combination made Charles distinctly aware of the prickly sensation dancing above his skin.

What he did next Charles was not proud of. He dragged his hoodie over his head in one rapid pull. The heater whirring through Charles’ apartment did little to alleviate the balmy flush of his chest.

The video, forgotten on Charles’ laptop, had ended. Charles manoeuvered his laptop off his lap so it lay to his left.

With his right hand, he rubbed loose circles on his naval. With his left he replayed a section of the video, chewing on his lip as he concentrated on how tight Max’s shirt was around his upper arms.

Charles snaked his hand under his boxers and hissed at the dry scrape of skin against skin. He’d been hard since the first viewing of Max’s portion of the video. He gathered the pre-cum that had accumulated at his tip and used it to soothe the glide of his hand.

Max’s section ended and Charles dutifully rewound to play it back. He briefly wondered if he should try and loop it.

Charles’ groan snagged on his throat, hand working faster as Max giggled again, eyes narrowing until they were two arched slivers of blue.

Charles could not help his eyes fluttering shut as he spilled into his hand, the image of Max in a stupid red hat and navy team shirt burned into his eyelids. The whisper of Max’s name curled around Charles’ tongue.

Dick barely softened, Charles smacked his laptop shut and stretched for his phone. He unlocked it and located Whatsapp. Max’s profile picture glared at Charles like he knew what the Monegasque had just done. His face erupted into a shade resembling vermillion. The colour bled through to his neck and sweat-covered chest.

Charles swallowed the guilt. It instead settled in his gut.

With his clean hand, he slowly typed out a message.

Hey Max. Would you like to go to Jimmyz tonight with Pierre and me?

His phone buzzed with Max's reply as he was crumpling dirty tissues.

Yeah sure. See u tonight.

#prompt fill #lestappen #charles leclerc #max verstappen #pining charles #oblivious max because lets be honest #please feel free to request more. esp lestappen that's my soft spot for sure #im lowkey still not over their secret santa interaction

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