contains: smut, afab!reader, no pronouns used, established fwb between din & reader, mutual masturbation, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, creampie
a/n: it's been a while since i've posted but i needed to get this out so bad so enjoy. also this gif of din leaning back and making me feral. repost for tags
imagine being on a mission with din in a dense, busy city. din tracks down the target to a famous spa, known for its luxurious and private bathhouses. unlike a seedy bar or cantina, din can't barge in demanding answers or he risks blowing the whole thing. you suggest pretending to be customers, banking on the hope that the receptionist doesn't recognize him—she doesn't.
she offers several service packages, but you settle on the hot bath for simplicity's sake. the slight curve of her lip says something. when she leads you to the changing rooms and hands you a single key, she once again emphasizes that these are private before walking away.
"and so we wait," din says.
"i hope you mean in there." you point your head to the bathhouse door. "don't want to waste those credits."
you go into two separate changing rooms on either side of the bathhouse. once you strip down and put on a robe, you open your entrance into the bathhouse first. you peel off your robe, self conscious even though no one is watching, then sink into the comfortably hot water.
a hard knock comes from din's side of the bathhouse. the door opens slightly. "i'm coming in. could you turn around?" din asks.
you does as he asks, water swishing around you. din waits a second. you hear the door slide open. soft footsteps pad across the tile floor, not the heavy, thumping boots you're used to.
the water shifts again as din sits in the bath. he clears his throat to announce his presence. you try to get comfortable. it's hard when your eyes are stuck to the wall.
din notices. he scoots himself to the corner closest to you. "here-" din wraps his arm around your waist. he pulls you in between his legs, your back against his chest. "is this fine?"
"yes," you say.
you tilt your head back against din. his hands roam your body in all the spots he's familiar with. his lips press against your bare shoulder, then your neck, gently suckling. you feel his facial hair graze your skin, more grown out than it was last time. he grips the curve of your waist, your breast, up your neck and down your navel.
you shift, not out of discomfort, to feel him grow and press into your lower back. din's hand stops below your stomach. even though he knows what you want him to do next, he always asks, "can i keep going?" and you always say yes.
din's fingers rub your clit before he goes lower. he pushes two fingers in you, feeling a wetness different from the water. his other arms steadies you as you let out a soft moan. you reach behind, taking him in your hand with a squeeze. din groans into the space connecting your shoulder and neck. the two of you continue this until you're both squirming and aching for more.
you place your legs on either sides of din's thighs. he holds you up by the hips as you guide him in, then sink down. despite the several times you've done this, you will never get bored of how he satisfies you. how he keeps his hands roaming your body, steadily playing with your clit until you're whimpering.
through your heavy eyes you catch glimpses of din's hands, his taut arms, the occasional sight of his stubbled cheek in your peripheral. it's a strange exchange to have him see you whole and bare while you're still piecing parts of him together—but you wouldn't trade it for anything in the galaxy.
when your eyes are shut, din cranes his neck to kiss you. gently, sloppily, light pecks across your cheeks or his tongue far into your throat. he feels sloppy today, unafraid of the saliva on the corners of your mouths. granted, it's been a while since you two have done this.
din moans louder when he's close. he holds your hips down as he pushes himself as deep as he can. you bite your lip in anticipation, waiting for the-
"i'm gonna- fuck- can i?"
"yes, please yes-"
din rocks you on him until he's spent. you let your head fall back again, his breath on your back as you both pant in exhaustion. you sit in the bath for a minute until you go to your respective changing rooms. before you leave, din kisses your jaw, then your lips face on, lingering on your mouth for a moment.
the target does in fact arrive at the spa. din, back in his mandalorian armor, catches him with ease. you both escort him out the spa before he gets a chance to relax. when you leave the spa, you notice the receptionist eyeing you and din for a second too long. you glance over your shoulder at her. she winks.
contains: deadpool/wade wilson x gn!reader, rough makeout, suggestive content. images from pinterest
thinking about wade wilson insisting that you kiss him while he's still in his dirty, bloodied suit because he's had a "long, hard day" and wants to blow off steam. he teasingly calls you gross for wanting him like this, but he kisses you first through the mask because he's just so impatient.
he likes when you run your hands up and down his taut muscles, groaning in pain and satisfaction when your squeeze the sore spots. he's shamelessly a masochist—he likes it when you’re rough. and he's certainly not complaining when you take off his mask and push your tongue in his mouth.
"someone's- excited-" wade mumbles through kisses.
you push his jaw to the side, exposing his neck. "shut up."
"hey, that's my line- oh."
wade's knees buckle a little when your teeth lightly dig into his throat. "feisty. but you know what that means." wade hooks his arms under your thighs and fastens your legs around his waist. "just gotta tame you extra hard."
contains: no pronouns or y/n, ex bf!simon, making out, suggestive content, mentions of drinking/alcohol
it's friday night. earlier in the day you decided to join your team at a bar for a weekend kickoff. nothing unusual, you've done this plenty of times before and have always had a good time. get drinks, share some laughs, then nurse a hangover the next day.
this night is different.
you're both slightly tipsy, overly warm, and ignoring the fact that the alleyway outside the bar where your other coworkers are is not the smartest place to makeout. also ignoring your no contact agreement with your ex, lt. simon riley.
yes, everyone warned you about dating your co-worker, but you took the shot anyway. while it may not have lasted long, you ended amicably and both agreed you would never try this again—for the sake of both your jobs. and, you would only communicate outside of work for urgent reasons.
getting some action after 6 months of abstinence is pretty urgent. simon didn't say it out loud, but his hand grabbing your ass would agree. his tongue pushes into your mouth as you grip the hair at the familiar space in the nape of his neck.
he switches between holding your waist and hips, gently knocking you against him where something rubs against your pants. a quiet moan rumbles from his throat. you kiss him harder, teeth knocking together, softly biting his lips when—
"ow."
you pull away. a thin string of saliva snaps between your and simon's lips. his face is flushed red, lips a bright pink, broken by a tiny sliver of split skin. simon touches the cut with his fingertip.
"did i bite you?"
simon nods. "yes, fuck. i thought i was a rough kisser, but you're rougher."
your face burns from a mixture of alcohol and embarrassment. you cover your mouth, muffling a laugh. "ohmygod, what the fuck was that?"
simon stares at you. there's a slight touch of bewilderment in his eyes. he's wondering the same thing.
you groan. "that was such a bad idea, right?"
"what was?"
you and simon startle at the sound of another voice. soap stands at the entrance of the alleyway, arms crossed with a knowing grin. he's probably as tipsy as you two, maybe more, but the sight of this has sobered him up.
"nothing," simon cuts in. "we're coming back in."
"yeah. 'coming' for sure." soap laughs at his own joke.
simon glances at you before he stalks out the alleyway, not before making sure you're behind him. he holds the door open for soap, who can't get rid of his smirk as he looks between you and simon.
"fuck off, soap," you throw at him as he walks past. simon smiles at you in approval. after soap goes inside, simon lingers for a moment before he closes the door.
"so. my place or yours?"
you tilt your head and look at the sky as if weighing your options. "well, our agreement says neither, and i know you're a man of your word..."
"fuck the agreement."
you smile. "my name happens to be 'the agreement.'"
simon flicks your chin with his knuckle. "then i'll stick to my word."
summary: when borrowing steve’s car ends in an accident that leaves it completely wrecked, you’re left shaken and terrified of how he’ll react. except when he finds you, it’s painfully clear he couldn’t give a fuck about the damage.
word count: 2.1k
warnings: car accident, totaled car, panicked sobbing, slight bleeding minor injuries, blood on face/hair, guilt, hurt/comfort, comfort, reassurance, overthinking.
“He’s going to kill me.”
The words spill out of you before you can stop them, thin and shaking, ripped straight from your chest.
You barely recognize your own voice. You’re staring ahead, eyes unfocused, fixed on nothing and everything at once. Not the spiderwebbed windshield. Not the hood crumpled inward, steam ghosting up into the air.
All you can see is Steve’s face when he finds out. When he sees the car. His precious car.
“Oh, sweetheart,” the older woman says gently. “Try not to worry about that right now.”
You shake your head, breath hitching. “No, you don’t understand. He’s—fuck—he’s going to lose it.”
Because not even twenty minutes ago, you’d been driving just fine. Careful and hyper-aware, even, because it was Steve’s car. His stupid, perfect red BMW that he loved more than most people, the one he washed by hand and showed off whenever he got the chance to.
The road had been clear, that’s until a cat darted into your headlights, and your body reacted before your mind could, wrenching the wheel to avoid it—sending the car headfirst into the tree instead.
If it weren’t for the passing car that saw the whole thing, for the woman and her daughter pulling over without hesitation, you don’t know what you would’ve done.
Steve’s car, though, was completely fucked. And that thought keeps looping in your head, loud and relentless, drowning out everything else around you.
The woman —who’s name you learned to be Mrs. Dunne—sighs and gives your shoulder a careful squeeze before stepping away. “I’m going to call for help, all right? My daughter’s a nurse. She’ll look at you.”
She hurries across the road toward the phone box, sensible shoes crunching against gravel.
You’re still trying to slow your breathing when the car door opens again.
“I need a number,” she says gently, already leaning across the seat. “Who owns the car?”
Steve’s name sticks in your throat, except you can’t even pull the words out. You point instead. “Glove compartment.”
She finds it quickly — a worn little address book, containing numbers and details— and flips until she nods. “Got him.”
“Hey,” a voice says nearby. “I’m Vickie.”
You look up to find a girl. She can’t be much older than you, short hair pulled back, a canvas bag slung over one shoulder.
“Can I take a look at you?”
“I’m fine,” you say immediately, the lie automatic. Then your mouth trembles. “I mean—I’m not fine. But I don’t think I’m that injured.”
Vickie gives a small, understanding huff of a smile. “Okay,” she says gently. “Still gonna check you.”
She guides you toward the back seat of the car—which is much less damaged than the front, one hand hovering near your elbow like she’s afraid to startle you. The air smells like antiseptic and gasoline, sharp and overwhelming your senses.
“I swear I wasn’t speeding,” you blurt, words tumbling over each other. “The road was clear, and then there was a cat, it just ran out in front of me and I didn’t even think, I just—”
“Hey,” Vickie says softly, crouching in front of you. “Pause. Breathe first. Then talk, alright?”
You try. The breath stutters anyway.
“That’s okay,” she murmurs, already pulling gloves on. “We’ll take it slow.”
She tilts your chin carefully, eyes scanning your face. “You’ve got a split lip and a cut on your temple.” Her voice stays calm. “Any dizziness? Nausea?”
“I feel sick,” you admit. “But I think that’s just because of… everything.”
“That makes sense.” She presses gauze gently to your forehead.
You hiss despite yourself, tears spilling hot and fast. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be,” she says quickly. “Glass scratches bleed a lot. It always looks worse than it is.”
“It is worse,” you choke. “Steve’s going to see this and he’s going to lose it. Oh, God—the car—”
She stills, eyes lifting to meet yours. “Steve’s your boyfriend?”
You nod, but it only makes the lump in your throat worse. The words spill out before you can stop them. “It’s his car. His brand new BMW—which he, by the way, saved up forever for it. He literally paid an insane amount of money for it and shows it off every chance he gets.”
A laugh slips out despite the fear and guilt coursing through you, and you hate it. “I’m dead. I’m actually so dead.”
Vickie gives a small, incredulous smile. “I don’t know your boyfriend, hon,” she says, smoothing the tape down with careful fingers, “but cars can be fixed. People can’t. I really don’t think he’s going to care about the car when he sees you like this.”
“He will,” you say immediately, shaking your head. “He’s gonna take one look at it and just—God. I shouldn’t have borrowed it. I shouldn’t have touched it at all. I should’ve just walked, I—fuck.”
“Well, my mom already called him,” Vickie says softly, not stopping her work. “And she called your friends too. He’s already on his way.”
Your chest tightens at that, panic blooming fresh and hot. “No. Oh my God.” You drag a hand under your nose, trying to breathe around the pressure. “You should go, both of you. You’ve done more than enough, and I really don’t want you here when he—when he sees it.”
The image won’t leave you alone: Steve’s face hardening, his furious rage leading him to probably— rightfully so— break up with you. Your stomach twists at the thought, nausea rolling up hard enough to make you swallow.
Vickie shakes her head before you’ve even finished. “Yeah, that’s not happening.”
From across the road, her mom’s voice carries over, firm and unmistakable. “None of that, honey!”
Mrs. Dunne walks back toward you, arms folding like she means business. “We are not leaving you stranded and scared on the side of the road. Not for a second.” She softens just a touch as she looks at you. “We’ll stay right here until your boyfriend or one of your friends gets here. That’s that.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Dunne.” you smile warmly at her despite the worry churning in your guts.
Time stretches thin and horrible. Every passing car makes your heart jump. Your thoughts spiral tighter and tighter, replaying Steve handing you the keys earlier, the grin on his face, the way he’d said, Be careful, okay? like it was a joke, like nothing bad could ever happen to you—
A sharp screech of tires cuts through the air.
You flinch hard, breath catching painfully in your throat as a truck skids to a stop on the side of the road, door flying open before it’s even fully parked. Steve steps out, and the look on his face steals the air from your lungs completely.
You’ve never seen him look like that. Not angry, smug, or teasing.
Terrified.
His eyes scan the wrecked car, the tree, the road, wild and frantic, until they land on you. His face goes slack with shock and then he’s moving fast, running like the ground is on fire beneath his feet.
Vickie and her mom both straighten. “Well,” Mrs. Dunne says softly, already reaching for you. “That’ll be him.”
They each pull you into quick, careful hugs, murmuring reassurances you barely register.
Then they step back, giving you space, watching until Steve reaches the door and drops to his knees in front of you like his legs have given out.
“Oh my God,” he breathes, voice breaking. “Hey. Hey—look at me. Fuck—are you okay?”
The Dunnes’ car pulls away slowly, tires crunching over gravel, taillights glowing red before disappearing down the road. The quiet that follows is almost worse as you try to register Steve’s frantic words.
He keeps saying your name, softly at first, then a little louder, but it barely reaches you through the ringing in your ears.
“Hey. Hey—look at me, okay? Baby, c’mon.”
You can’t.
Your eyes stay glued to your shaking hands, to the dark flecks of blood dried beneath your nails. Your chest heaves in sharp, ugly bursts as the sobs finally tear loose, choking and uncontrollable.
“I’m sorry,” you manage, words tripping over each other. “I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean to, I swear, it just happened so fast and I tried to stop and—and I know how much you love it and I shouldn’t have taken it and—”
“Hey.” His voice cuts through, “Hey. Stop.”
Your voice cracks completely. You hiccup on a breath as the words choke out, panic spiraling tighter.
“I know it was stupid,” you ramble, tears blurring everything. “I know it’s your car and it’s new and you worked so hard for it and I ruined it and I didn’t mean to, Steve, I swear it was an accident—”
“—look at me,” he says, low and steady.
Steve’s hands come up suddenly, firm and warm, cupping your face on both sides. His thumbs press just under your cheekbones, forcing your head up despite your instinct to pull away.
Your eyes flicker up at last, red and glassy, breath stuttering.
“Breathe, baby,” he says immediately, softer now. “Just breathe with me. In and out. Come on.”
You suck in a shaky breath.
“Good. Out. Yeah, that’s it. Again.”
You follow him, lungs burning as you inhale and exhale in uneven pulls, his thumbs brushing lightly under your eyes, grounding you.
“That’s it, good job,,” he murmurs. “You’re okay. I’m here.”
Your body trembles again as he studies your face, eyes moving fast, cataloging every mark and every scrape.
“Now,” he says, voice firmer, sharper, like he’s trying to anchor you to reality. “Are you hurt?”
You swallow hard, your throat tight, and the words come out all wrong, tripping over themselves. “No—but your car, it’s—”
Steve’s jaw snaps tight, his hands gripping your face just tight enough to make your skin tingle.
“Did I ask about the goddamn car?” His voice cuts through the trembling air, sharp enough to make your heart drop.
You freeze, the panic climbing higher, and he leans closer, pressing just slightly, like he’s trying to pin you in place—but it’s not dominance, it’s urgency.
“I asked if you’re hurt,” he says again, softer but no less intense. “not the car.”
You look up at him, and it hits you as your stomach drops. The expression on his face, the tension coiled in his body, the raw, frantic light in his eyes—it isn’t anger. It’s terror. Pure, unfiltered, all-consuming fear of losing you.
His hands tremble as they cup your face, thumbs brushing away the tracks of your tears, and for a second, you see the world mirrored in his eyes—a world where nothing matters but you, and every fierce, frantic care he holds is yours alone.
You shake your head slowly, trembling. “No,” you whisper, voice barely audible over your racing heartbeat. “M’not.”
He exhales hard through his nose, “Does your head hurt? Your temple?” he says gently now.
You sniff, shaking your head again. “No. It stings, but—there was an old woman and her daughter. They saw the accident. The daughter’s a nurse. She helped me.”
Steve nods. “I know. She called me.”
Before you can say anything else, he pulls you into his chest suddenly. His arms wrap around you in a bone-crushing hug, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other pressing you so tight to his chest it knocks the air from your lungs.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he breathes into your hair. You cling to him, fingers twisting into his jacket as the last of the sobs shake out of you.
“Don’t ever do that to me again,” he murmurs, voice thick. “You hear me? Don’t scare me like that. I thought something much worse happened to you.”
In truth, the moment he’d gotten that phone call, his heart had dropped straight through the floor. He hadn’t thought about the car. Not even for a second. He’d pictured you bleeding, broken, or worse; not breathing.
He’d borrowed a truck, hands shaking so badly he could barely turn the key, every worst-case scenario slamming into him one after another.
He pulls back just enough to look at you again, forehead pressing briefly to yours. Then he kisses you, quick and desperate, like he needs to feel you over and over again.
You blink up at him, voice small. “So… you’re not mad about your car?”
His expression softens instantly, the tension melting out of his features. “Mad?” he echoes. “No. God, no.”
He shakes his head, a small, breathless laugh escaping him. “I don’t give a damn about the car. I can replace it, sweetheart—hell, I can buy another one tomorrow if I wanted.”
You laugh against his chest, still sniffling. “I don’t think you’re that rich, Steve.”
He snorts, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face. “Oh, come on. I might not have a Scrooge McDuck vault full of coins, but I can definitely scrape together a replacement BMW. You? Not so lucky.”
You pull back a little, squinting at him through your tears. “Are you seriously laughing right now? I just totaled your baby!”
“I’m laughing at the ridiculousness of you panicking like this,” he says, voice shaking with relief and amusement. “You looked like someone had just told you the world was ending.” His hand slides to your cheek, thumb warm against your skin. “Besides. You’re my baby. Not that damn thing.”
Your throat tightens all over again, heart warming up at his sweet words.
“Now, come on,” he murmurs, shifting closer, careful as he helps you to your feet. “Let’s get you checked out at the hospital.”
You hesitate, glancing down at the gauze. “But Vickie already wrapped me up—”
“I know,” he says softly, squeezing your hand like he needs the contact as much as you do. “I just need to hear it from a doctor, alright? Humor me.”
You nod, letting him guide you toward the truck, his arm never leaving your back, like if he does you might disappear.
steve harrington masterlist
a/n: likes, comments, and reblogs are all highly appreciated <33
You don't talk to Simon. Unless the job calls for it, you hardly utter a "hello" at each other when passing by. A curt nod is already pushing your limits. It's not that you don't like each other, you've just never felt compelled to interact with him. He sets his mind on the job, and you know better than to disrupt a man when his head is in the game. You're the same way. You dedicate yourself to work, and God forbid anyone tries to step in or else you'll flip out.
Meticulous, cold, calculated—all the traits that keep you and Simon away from each other to avoid conflict. No one would suspect the two of you to cross paths outside of work.
The day it happens comes as a complete shock. You and the rest of the 141 settle at a bar. While everyone else drinks past their max capacity, you nurse the same glass of whiskey on the rocks that's becoming more watered down by the minute. You prefer it this way. Sure, it'd be fun to break that professional wall and get shitfaced with a bunch of your burly coworkers, but you don't have it in you tonight. Instead, you'd rather observe. Someone's bound to get too drunk to go home and you'll be there to help.
Simon sits on the other side of the group, also keeping to himself. You don't notice him until a bunch of drunk heads bob out of the way, giving you a clear view. You catch each other's eyes. He's just as sober as you are. For some reason, you give him a smile. You raise your glass in a toast only he can see as everyone else is off in their own world. To your surprise, he raises his glass back. You both take a sip of your watery drinks. The most you've ever interacted with him "unprofessionally," you think.
When you go outside for air, you don't expect Simon to follow you. Or, more-so, he happens to get air at the same time you do.
The two of you don't talk much besides the polite, "They'll be alright in there, right?" and "It's nice outside."
When you walk, he follows. You don't stray too far from the bar, knowing fully your coworkers will probably need your help later. You're far enough that it's quiet except for the thrum of streetlights and distant cars passing by. You and Simon are tucked in a little alley, surrounded by closed shops. You switch between standing and sitting on one of the nearby stairs, unsure of what to even say to him. You don't know anything about this man besides his work profile, and he could say the same for you.
After sitting on the steps for a moment, you stand, only to stumble. It's so mild that there is no way in hell you could've fallen, yet Simon catches you anyway. A firm hand on your tricep, his fingers wrapped around your muscle even though you're steady on two feet. It really doesn't do anything. You definitely caught yourself. Yet, you thank him for the gesture, and he nods in response, but his hand is still there.
You're so close to each other. Why the fuck is he staring at you with such blank eyes, and why do you stare back?
You don't remember who acts first. It doesn't matter, because all you can remember is how his lips moved against yours with such fervor, searching for them whenever you pulled away for even a second. His hand grips the back of your neck, the other still on your arm. Never once have you thought this would happen with Simon of all people, and the idea of him wanting you was too much to make sense of. Surely these are drunk actions, you wish you could say. But both of you had the least to drink out of everyone the whole night, and you're damn near stone-cold sober.
When you stop kissing, you say almost nothing to each other, mostly out of shock. You see it in his eyes, a strange mix of emotions having realized you've gone from barely talking to tongues in mouths. That should've been the end of it.
"You want to get out of here?" Simon says under his breath, almost ashamed.
Then you're laid out on his bed, Simon on top of you, holding you down as he fucks you. Your legs wrap around his waist while his hands pin your wrists. Even though you're here, even though he's inside you, part of you still can't believe it. Lieutenant Simon Riley's kissing your neck, nipping at your skin, groaning into you because you can't stop fucking squeezing around him and he doesn't know how much longer he can take it. He's muttering shit in your ear, talking about how good it feels and how fucking hot and wet and tight you are. In turn, you can't stop moaning into his mouth, kissing him as much as you can until another moan breaks out.
You go back to work as usual. No words, only brief glances. But when the days are slow and you need something to distract you, Simon's sharp eyes turn to dark yearning. You're pulled into an empty room, closet, anything where he can be on his knees, pulling your pants and panties down, then licks you until you're shaking and cumming on his face. The funny thing is that Simon never asks for anything in return, though sometimes you do insist, and he doesn't say no. He can't when your mouth and tongue are equally warm and wet on his cock.
You don't ever really talk about what this is. Hardly a friendship before, and it still doesn't feel like one. But non-friends also don't memorize which parts of each other make them tremble the most or kiss for hours on end until your mouths run dry. For now, you don't mind this arrangement too much.
Trying to get Din to dance was like trying to get mountains to move. Each time you tugged on his gloved hand towards the dance floor, he reminded you of your purpose in these flashy, boisterous cities—work. It was always work. Some task you had to finish, an item needing to be grabbed; he rarely let himself loose outside of the Razor Crest, and even then he kept to himself, tending to the child or sleeping while you manned the ship. He couldn’t even enjoy these pleasantries if he wanted to; the helmet was to blame.
Tonight was no different. The seasoned bounty hunter had no trouble drowning out the chatter in his ear, denying drinks and services coming his way. He let you roam around until he was done, promptly exiting when the meeting was over. Part of touring the galaxy with the Mandalorian was missing out on the things you enjoyed in your youth. Drinking, dancing, acquainting yourself with people you’d never meet again. Din said nothing of your sacrifice, saying it was a small price to pay for the things you both had in store. Yet he couldn’t get over how sad you looked back in the Razor Crest, the neon lights still visible across the horizon from the cockpit.
You picked at the dirt beneath your fingernails and occasionally tossed the silver ball to the child who babbled and tugged at your sleeve. Behind his helmet, Din’s face was something of annoyance and mild panic. He had never dealt with these types of emotions before; growing up, things were routine and clinical, down to the way you conducted yourself. His days as a bounty hunter did nothing to help him expand his emotional experience until the child came along.
Din rid himself of his cape and his weaponry, lightening the load. His boots clunked against the metal floor of the ship, slowly approaching the cockpit where you sat in the pilot’s seat, gazing out into the night. Din stood in the doorway with his hands on his hips and cleared his throat. The pilot’s chair spun around to reveal your miffed expression which you quickly covered with an empty stare.
“Yes?” you said quietly. Grogu continued to babble in the copilot’s seat, swimming in his loose tunic. He looked up with large, curious eyes, holding the ball out to Din.
“Do you…want to dance?”
Your brows furrowed and raised skeptically. “Like, in the bars?”
“No,” Din said slowly. “Just…in here. The ship.”
He didn’t miss the slight glimmer in your eye as you rose from your seat, scooping Grogu into your arms before setting him down on a crate. You still weren’t one-hundred percent sure of Din’s idea of dancing; there was no music, no crowd, no energetic ambience. The metal of the ship amplified each step and shuffle, making the interaction even more awkward than it already was to begin with (and heightening Din’s embarrassment).
“What kind of dance were you thinking?” you asked, offering your hand to him. Through his helmet, he stared for a while before the leather slid onto your bare skin. His fingers twitched against your palm before you grasped them gently, but confidently.
Din’s voice grew quiet. “Anything.”
Through the darkness of his helmet, his eyes bore emptily into yours, transfixed on the smile creeping across your face. If he didn’t have it on, he might’ve felt the soft puffs of your breath on his face or your knuckles on his cheek when you accidentally knock them against the beskar and sucked in a pained breath.
“Now I know why they’re no match for blasters,” you teased.
Your other hand rested on his shoulder, his reaching tentatively for your hip. Din was never one to be afraid when someone stepped close, always holding his ground, but he suddenly felt it grow increasingly warm beneath his armor when you were inches away. Even though you couldn’t see his face, he still flushed and did his best to remain composed.
You took a small step back and squeezed Din’s shoulder for him to follow. He mimicked every move thereafter—each turn, shuffle, and even the smile on your face (shame he couldn’t show his). The first few moments were rough. His heavy boots had come down on yours a few times, followed by whispered apologies, but you laughed it off. There was a moment where you encouraged Din to spin you, and it would’ve worked if he hadn’t stepped on the laces of your boots, tripping you.
Grogu had fallen asleep. Curled in his tunic, you paused to gaze in awe at his little face. Your hand slipped from Din’s shoulder to his chest while his remain loosely on your hip. In that brief moment, Din glanced at you and swallowed thickly. Perhaps you had simply zoned out, but the way you held him felt oddly familiar—the exact picture of his parents who also once stood like this, looking at Din with adoration in their eyes.
His cough broke the silence, and you quickly snapped back, jolting when you realized your hand had wandered to his chest.
“Do you want to continue?” he asked.
“Do you?”
The double suns of Tatooine could not make his face this hot. He gulped—Din Djarin didn’t gulp, especially not in…nervousness? Yet under the burning gaze of your round innocent eyes, the prospect of melting through the floor was welcoming.
Din hadn’t realized how long his silence had stretched until your smile faltered. Polite, almost clinical it became, the same smile you gave to a stranger. You started to slip away, but Din’s grasp held you firm.
“Oh,” you muttered with a tinge of shock.
“Yes,” Din said almost mechanically. “I want to keep going.”
He kept his hand steady on your lower back, stiff at first for support. You continued to lead the dance despite how elementary it was. Step, sway, step, sway. Eventually Din found himself taking bigger steps to your surprise. What took your breath away, however, was when he kept himself an arm’s length away and gently twisted your hand. Taking the hint, you did a successful spin without getting your laces stepped on again.
Din was glad the helmet kept his face covered because—well, he wouldn’t know what to say if you saw his elated smile. Not as bright as yours but still more than he thought was possible. Although it was quiet, Din couldn’t have wished for anything more.
Soon your activities got the best of you. The pair of you stood in the center of your makeshift dancefloor, taking in light breaths and wiping away the first bit of sweat from your skin. Your body moved away from Din. He had to hold himself back from reaching out.
Brushing your sweaty palms across your pants, you looked at Din with a twinkle in your eye. In these moments, with only silence between you, you wished you could peer into that pesky mind of his.
“Not bad for a beginner,” you laughed. “Maybe next time you’ll finally let loose on our missions.”
Your raised your fist and gave Din’s helmet a few playful knocks. Din’s hand pressed your palm flat against the cold beskar. Your eyes widened for a moment as he moved it to where his cheek would be.
“Close your eyes,” he said.
You stared blankly at him, the words not yet seeping in.
“Close your eyes,” Din repeated. Then, “...please.”
“This isn’t some backstabbing ploy, right?” Your words came out drier than you intended. Sensing Din’s waiting, you obliged.
“Don’t peek. Not one bit, or else I might actually have to backstab you.” There was a slight tremor in the humility of his tone—uncertain and afraid.
With your vision filled with black, your ears tuned in to the sounds around you. The soft shuffle of leather, quiet clanks of boots on metal, and your breathing. Din nudged your hand away from his helmet. You let it fall back to your side and squeezed it in an anxious fist. More shuffling, then he took your hand again.
When Din guided it back to his face, you gasped. Skin. Warm, lined with stubble, and human. You wanted to laugh, make a joke about how you swore Din was a droid all this time. But nothing came from your dry throat. Your fingers traced the edges of his face, feeling the ridges of his nose, brows, and chin. In front of you, blocked only by your eyelids, was Din Djarin bared.
He knew, and you knew, this was not right. Though you hadn’t actually seen anything, the notion of feeling him somehow felt more sacrilege than anything else. Still, a warmth bloomed through you. Din was real.
He lowered your hand to his chest, letting it fall over his heart.
“Open your eyes.”
You squinted against the bright lights of the ship as your eyes readjusted. Back in front of you was Din—well, he was always there—the one you were most familiar with. Faceless. Yet in the few seconds you were able to reach underneath the mask, you felt the most connected.
You stared at Din, biting the inside of your cheek and pondering. He tilted his head to the side.
“It’s…late. We should head—”
Your hands gripped both sides of his helmet, fingertips pressed into tough metal. You half stepped towards him, half pulled him in until your lips haphazardly smashed into the beskar and knocked your teeth. You winced, but you kept your mouth planted firm. In hindsight, it was idiotic and comparable to kissing a wall. In the moment, it was all you wanted and more.
Din’s hand came to rest in the curve of your back as you pulled away. Wide-eyed and stunned, every thought ceased to exist in your mind. You could only focus on the mark of your lips on his precious helmet. When you went to wipe it away, Din gently grabbed your wrist.
“You’re a good dance teacher,” he uttered in a breath. His grip on you hadn’t loosened.
You cracked a grin. “If you wake up early tomorrow, we can squeeze in another lesson.”
contains: rivals to lovers, canon typical violence, elements of dark romance, obsessive!kylo, slight ooc kylo (he rambles), implied jedi!reader
word count: 0.9k
a/n: sentence starter from nightprompts, inspired by the song "for your love" by maneskin
“For being someone you hate, I’m on your mind a lot.”
Your words come out through gritted teeth, more of a spit than a sentence. Every inch of your body exerts as much force it contains to hold off against the clash of colors before your squinted eyes. Heels dug into the dark soil, your frame remains stagnant despite Kylo’s imposing bruteness. The crackling red of his lightsaber fills most of your vision, swallowing the color of your blade completely whole. A hesitant gulp runs down your throat. You hate how you can feel the heat of the blades across your cheeks, even in the wintery air.
Kylo sees past your sarcastic facade; you assume he can despite the helmet that obscures his face. His breathing comes out slow but heavy, signaling his exhaustion. To credit yourself, you did put up a good fight. The large crack on the side of his helmet where part of his singed hair peeks through sits as a testament to your force. Still, you’ve strained yourself far past your limits. The adrenaline may have given you a boost before. Now you can hardly keep your legs from shaking.
Despite the close proximity of the two blades, neither of them seem to come any closer. Through your fatigue, you notice Kylo hasn’t moved. His saber may be pressed against yours, holding position, but that’s all there is to it. There’s a sudden stillness to the air, a stark contrast to the tremors of the Force surrounding you two as you fought moments before.
“You are.”
The words take a moment to settle in your ears. You blink blankly at Kylo, grip loosening around the hilt of your weapon. In the split second you let up, Kylo’s lightsaber swings to attack your legs. Instinctively, your saber comes down to block him. You notice it again, the sudden stillness, the fact that he let you defend yourself before his weapon fully came down.
“You are.”
The helmet makes Kylo’s voice come out mechanical, as if programmed by a droid. Yet you can hear the slightest hint of his own unobscured tone. Desperate, like the confession pains him. Kylo’s lightsaber reaches for your shoulder, once again slow enough for you to block. Rather than hold the position, Kylo continues to barrel his lightsaber at you. His relentless attacks drive you further back. Though each clash covers part of his speech, you still hear the words clearly.
“I hate you. I hate you. I can never escape you, no matter how far I go.”
You can’t suppress your scoff. “You, escape me? If I’m not mistaken, you’re the one who keeps coming for me. You’re the one with the army and the forces and the utter brashness to spend your resources on me, Supreme Leader.”
Your foot catches in the root of a tree, throwing you back. You brace yourself for the fall, but an invisible force keeps you upright. Looking forward, Kylo’s hand is outstretched. It quickly falls back to his side. You bring both of your hands back to the hilt of your lightsaber, holding the burning blade between the two of you. Kylo’s still burns, though he doesn’t wield it.
“Everything…All I do…is for you.”
A hot flash of anger replaces the icy chill in your spine. “What in Maker’s name are you talking about?”
“Everything! The armies, the droids, the battles—I did it all for you!” Kylo steps closer. Through the helmet, you sense his face twisted in half anger and agony. “I wanted, I needed you to rule beside me. Create an empire no one else in the galaxy could touch. You could’ve had anything you wanted. I would’ve given you everything you wanted.”
Kylo takes off his battered helmet. You want to tear your eyes away. It’d be easier to dismiss his claims as a possession of the dark side of the Force if you couldn’t sense the genuinity in his pleading eyes. The Supreme Leader has toppled out of his throne.
“Of all things,” you manage to utter, “you thought I’d want destruction?”
“Power,” Kylo spits, his typical curtness returning for a brief moment. “Even the purest of minds want power. The power to heal, the power to help.”
You shake your head no as Kylo takes more steps toward you. You push your lightsaber foward, forcing a bigger gap between you and Kylo. “I’d rather be thrown to the rancors than take anything from you.”
Kylo’s lightsaber is disarmed, now a hunk of metal in his hand. Yours continues to burn and crackle. Drive it through him. Silence him. End this now. Your hands tremble as Kylo’s wraps around them, disarming your lightsaber for you. The leather is warm to the touch, softer than you expected. You imagine your eyes to be like that of a porg’s—round, dark, and helpless. What remains of the space between you and Kylo is only a few inches that shrink with each passing second. Your nose picks up the scent of blood, fuel, and earth from his skin.
To deny the curiosity that nags at your brain is to deny the strange warmth that blooms across your skin. Both run rampant, and in Kylo’s presence only grow. The dark side of his Force coming in contact with your light side creates a dangerous thrum you feel in your veins. Both of you can sense its potential growing, and neither reject it.
“Why?” you whisper as Kylo’s forehead nearly grazes yours. “Why did you do it?”
His hand holds you steady by the nape of your neck. You gasp when he brings his lips close to your ear.
“For your love.”
a/n: this is a repost... anyway if you haven't listened to the song pls pls do it's so obsessively slutty every time i listen to it i go yes!!! this is kylo's song!!!
summary: your side of the infirmary seems to be the supreme leader’s favorite place
contains: mild makeout, mentions of scars, wounds, and blood, reader is a medic
word count: 0.8k
The scars on his hand are thick. They start from the center of his palm and branch out like the edges of a star. Though long healed, it’s easy to tell how deep they must’ve been once. Naturally, the curious shape of it sparks your inquisitive nature, but you hold your tongue.
The infirmary hums with the delicate sounds of electronics pulsing. Aside from data pads’ occasional chirp, all is mostly quiet. It’s almost easy to forget that it’s the Supreme Leader who sits on the bed in front of you in only his sleep pants, his helmet and suit left behind. His hand is heavy in your palm, pliable as you turn it over to inspect the skin.
This is the second night in a week Supreme Leader Kylo Ren has asked you to tend to his old wounds. You see nothing wrong with them, likely because it’s been so long, but he insists there is always something bothering him. An itch, a sting, a cramp—you tell him it’s because of the stress he puts on now, yet Ren is always surer than you. Though he bickers, you don’t mind it all too much. His voice, unobscured by his helmet, is always low and smooth, easy on the ears. Sometimes you purposefully tease him just to hear the slight laugh in his words versus the mechanical drone during his work hours.
As you suspect, there isn’t much to treat. But you keep his hand in yours anyway, fingertips running along the jagged skin. “What happened?” you ask. An injury of this nature was no accident. It’s too focused to be from a battle or simple cut.
He pulls back slightly. “It was a while ago.”
“Didn’t know ‘a while ago’ could do this.”
Ren blinks slowly for a few moments. Then, he upon seeing your growing grin, he scoffs, though the corners of his mouth also move. As much as you’d like to know the story of it, amongst the dozens of other scars across his skin, you decide it’s best not to dig too deep. The vast plane of his back holds the most, defined by his taut muscles. As he twists in his seat to grab his shirt, you notice a scratch along his shoulder blade, still red and swollen. When you touch it, Ren winces and sucks in a breath.
“When did you get this?”
“Yesterday.”
Little specks of dried blood cling to the wound, still somewhat fresh. He must’ve slept on it, or ignored it, for it to be like this.
“Here, can you pass me the gauze there?”
Ren grabs the pile of white cloths from the bedside table along with a small roll of tape, then turns his back to you. With a cotton ball, you dab the wound with an antiseptic. Ren jolts—you probably should’ve warned him. He remains still as you apply and tape down the gauze, all after spreading a little ointment on the surrounding skin.
You pat the gauze softly. “Good as new.”
You can’t help but let the tips of your fingers glide across his back before he turns to you again. Like a constellation, your finger drags from one mark to another, connecting the sporadic shapes. Ren says nothing; his head peers over his shoulder to watch, less stiff. Too lost in the details of his skin, you don’t notice how close you’ve become until you look up, his breath hitting your cheek.
Then your mouth is on his, and when you realize what you’ve done, it’s too late. His lips remain frozen for a moment before they move against yours. Instinctively, you want to jump back—he’s your superior, for crying out loud. And you’ve just kissed him as if none of that matters. You guess, deep down, it really doesn’t.
A warmth floods your entire body, half from how he’s pulled you against his bare chest, half from the blush that makes every inch of you want to melt. As wrong as it may be, neither of you fight against it.
Ren’s mouth continues to capture yours, hungry and fervent. Your head grows light from the lack of air, but you can’t bring yourself to stop, not when his hand rests on the back of your head and pushes you deeper into him. Only when you cough does he finally let go, and even then his lips are still seeking yours. Eyes blurred and dazed, the only thing that comes to your mind is—
“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I shouldn’t— That was—”
He utters your name in a whisper. “It was perfect.”
You’ve let your head fall, looking down at your knees. With his knuckle, Ren lifts your chin to meet his. The embarrassment dissipates when, after catching his breath, he kisses you again, just as aching as it had been a few seconds ago. When you meet his dark, heavy-lidded eyes, you understand. It doesn’t matter to him, and it never had. All the after hours in the infirmary for no good reason, the excuses, the arguing. So painfully obvious, yet you can’t ever fathom why he willingly chooses you. But he did—he does. And you’d be a liar if you said you weren’t happy with it.
a/n: i’ve been in a big writing mood but everything i produce is a) shit or b) mega shit so i hope this was somewhat enjoyable
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