#quinlan x reader

[wrr000]

i'm so sad the strain fandom is dead bc i wanna write for quinlan so bad.. anyone out there?

[sammyquarius]

The Master’s Prize

You were used to blood, screams, and the desperation of New York nights. Being a police officer meant running toward chaos when others ran from it. But you hadn’t expected to become part of a war older than time itself.

When the outbreak worsened, you thought you’d be dead within weeks. Instead, you learned something terrifying—you were immune. The strigoi never took you, no matter how many times their stingers lashed at your skin. They recoiled as though burned.

Setrakian was the first to recognize it. Quinlan was the first to understand what it meant.

And the Master? The Master saw you.

It happened during a raid—two strigoi cornered you in a subway tunnel. You emptied your clip, fought with your baton, and when one finally pinned you, its stinger lashed uselessly against your cheek.

But then its body went rigid. Its milky eyes clouded, then darkened. A new voice filled the air, deep and resonant, ancient.

“It cannot be… you.”

Through the strigoi’s mouth, the Master spoke, its jaws cracking grotesquely to form words. You froze, breath caught in your throat.

“Your face… I know it. I knew her. And now—her blood lives again.”

You fought harder, finally breaking free, but not before hearing the Master’s final whisper through the creature’s ruined mouth:

“You belong to me.”

From that moment, Quinlan rarely left your side. He claimed it was strategic—your immunity was valuable—but there was more. You had been kind to him, where most treated him as a monster. You looked him in the eye. You thanked him.

And for Quinlan, that was dangerous. He’d never known kindness without cost.

The Master noticed. He noticed the way Quinlan stood too close, the way his gaze lingered on you when you spoke. And it drove him mad.

Through his strigoi, the Master watched you constantly. He whispered to you during attacks, his voice dripping with hunger and longing:

“He cannot protect you from me. He is half of me, my mistake, my shadow. You are meant for more than guarding shadows.”

When Quinlan touched your shoulder once after a fight, steadying you, the Master’s rage tore through the horde. That night, dozens more strigoi descended on your safehouse, fighting harder, angrier. As if each creature carried a piece of his jealousy.

One night, separated from your group during a sweep, you found yourself cornered again. A lone strigoi stood in the dark alley, but instead of attacking, it bowed. Its throat convulsed as the Master’s voice spilled forth.

“I will not harm you. I only wish to speak.”

You raised your weapon, your voice cold. “Get out of my head.”

The strigoi tilted its head, lips twitching with words that weren’t its own.

“I loved her. Do you understand? For centuries, I loved no one. She was… gentle, as you are. She treated me as a man, not a monster. And now you stand before me, her blood alive again. You are my redemption.”

You spit on the ground. “I’m not yours. And I never will be.”

The strigoi’s mouth split into a too-wide grin.

“We will see.”

Days later, the strigoi attacks shifted. They no longer rushed you head-on. They circled, guarded you. Some even slaughtered humans before they could harm you.

“You see?” Setrakian muttered, voice heavy with dread. “He sends them to protect you. Like wolves circling their chosen mate.”

Quinlan grew more protective, his eyes burning with something he never voiced. When you joked about his vigilance, he only said:

“It is not a joke. He will never stop. And if he takes you, it will be worse than death.”

Eventually, it happened. A coordinated attack—too many, too fast. Quinlan fought like a demon, but sheer numbers overwhelmed. You were dragged into the dark, chloroform burning your lungs.

When you awoke, you were no longer in New York. You were in a cathedral-like chamber, carved in stone, lit by flickering torches.

And then you saw him. The Master—his towering form looming, eyes glowing, his voice filling the chamber like thunder.

“At last.”

He didn’t chain you. He didn’t need to. You were surrounded by his children, the strigoi kneeling like supplicants.

He didn’t speak of war, or power. He spoke only of you.

“Do you know how long I have waited? Centuries, lifetimes, watching bloodlines fade. And then you appear. My lost love reborn. Do you not feel it? The pull? We are inevitable.”

You glared, refusing to yield. “You don’t know me.”

The Master leaned closer, his voice softer now, dangerously tender:

“I know everything. I know the way your heart stirs when you fight. I know the fire in you that mirrors hers. You will see, in time. You will choose me.”

And he was careful with you gentle, in a way that made your skin crawl. No harm was allowed near you. Blood and gifts were laid at your feet. He even brought books, artifacts from centuries past, trying to court you like a suitor.

But his eyes—those terrible eyes—never left you.

Palmer hated it. He wanted the Master’s attention on victory, on power. Seeing him so fixated on you stirred something ugly—jealousy, and fear.

Eichorst, however, found it fascinating. He watched you with a predator’s smirk, circling like a vulture. He whispered of how “special” you must be, to make their god weak.

But both men knew better than to touch you. The Master’s protectiveness was absolute.

And yet, despite the Master’s devotion, one thing gnawed at him endlessly: your bond with Quinlan.

When you whispered Quinlan’s name in your sleep, when you clung to the memory of his protection, the Master’s fury cracked the walls of his lair.

“He is nothing!” he roared, the strigoi cowering. “A mistake! A shadow! I will tear him apart before your eyes!”

But still—still—you refused him. And that refusal only deepened his obsession.

[vodika-vibes]

Pearl

Summary: You have a habit. Every morning, as the sun rises, you run on the beach near your home. It’s your way to center yourself and prepare yourself for the day ahead. And, every day for the last couple of weeks, you’ve found a perfectly formed pearl. You’re starting to think that they’re gifts.

Pairing: Quinlan Vos x F!Reader

Prompt: MerMay!

Word Count: 2085

Warnings: None

A/N: This doesn't feel well written to me, but I think I'm lying to myself. I hope you all like it!

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The cool morning air feels nice against your skin. Though you can tell, even with the sun barely peeking over the horizon, that it’s going to be a hot day.

Which means it won’t be long before the beach is filled with tourists and locals alike looking for a way to beat the heat.

You’re not too worried, though. You’ll be gone long before even the earliest of early birds decide to stake their claim on the beach.

You stretch your arms over your head and inhale deeply, allowing the sea air to fill your lungs, and you slowly exhale as you lower your arms. You love this time of day. When the whole world is still asleep, and you don’t have to worry about anything.

Swiftly you move through your morning stretches, you wouldn’t want to pull a muscle after all, then you check to make sure your running shoes are comfortable, and finally you slip your earbuds in your ears and start the music on your phone.

The best way to start the morning is with a nice run, after all.

It’s two miles from your back porch to the pier. Add the fact that you’ll be running on sand, it should take you roughly an hour to finish your run and get back home.

Not bad.

You open the back fence that blocks off your home from the beach, taking care to shut and lock it behind you, and walk down to where the more solid sand is located near the water.

For a moment, just a moment, you stop and look out over the water. You genuinely love the life you live now.

Sure, it’s been hard work.

It took you years to get your medical degree. And everyone who was supposed to support you told you that you couldn’t do it. That you were too frail to do medical school and the residency. That living at the beach would be too much for your immune system to handle.

You proved all of them wrong. You beat the cancer. You graduated as valedictorian from your medical school. You had your choice of hospitals to do a residency at. And you made enough money within a year of finishing your residency that you could afford a house on the water in the most expensive resort town in the country.

And you’re employed as a Pediatric Oncologist in the most well respected Cancer Center in the country.

Yeah.

You love your life.

Sure, you don’t have a romantic partner. But that’s mostly because you’re so busy and because you refuse to date any of your coworkers.

Although, you’re starting to think that someone is trying to woo you.

After all, you’ve been finding pearls on your morning run every morning for weeks. And they’re always left in the same place.

A tiny smile lifts your lips. You hope you find another one today. The one you found yesterday was naturally blue.

You shake your head and pull yourself from your thoughts. You need to start your run, or else you won’t have time to make your morning breakfast before you have to start getting ready for work.

And so, you check that your watch is centered properly on your wrist, so it can read your heart rate properly, and then you start your run, allowing all of your worries and all of your anxieties about the day to fade away with every step you take.

Quinlan Vos is a holy man.

Well. Presumably.

He was raised as a holy man, at least. A peacekeeper. A mediator. A member of the Jedi Order. A group of merpeople who are called on to negotiate and mediate peace between people.

At least, in theory.

Quin, himself, is more of a spy than a peacekeeper.

And he enjoys it. He loves the thrill of stumbling over a conspiracy—which happens more than one might think—and he loves the rush that comes with being in dangerous situations.

Is he an adrenaline junkie? Yeah, probably.

But, these last few weeks Quin hasn’t been able to work. He had gotten hurt while on his last mission and is, technically, still in recover.

Not that he actually listens to the healers, of course.

If he had, Quinlan would have remained in his home within the city, rather than swimming up to the shore to watch the humans run around on the beach under the sun.

And if he hadn’t done that, he wouldn’t have seen her.

At first, it was just a fascination. The clothing she wears cling to her like a second skin, and she glistens under the morning sun, as though she had just been swimming.

He watched her stretch on the sand, twisting herself into positions that shouldn’t be possible for someone with bones, and stretching herself in a way that proves that she’s insanely flexible.

And Quin knows that he wants to watch her more.

He leaves her a pearl, one of the ones his master cultivates, and he watches as she finds it and picks it up, and then looks around as if wondering if someone lost it.

And it becomes his early morning habit.

He wakes before the sun, and swims to the pier, to watch his human do her morning stretches, before leaving her a gift of a pearl.

The first time she finds a pearl that isn’t white, she grins. A bright expression that makes Quin’s heart skip a beat. And he wonders if she would ever grin at him like that.

After over a month of this, Quinlan is willing to admit, if only to himself, that this has moved passed simple fascination and onto something more akin to obsession.

He finds himself wondering what her skin would feel like under his fingers, what her hair would feel like against his skin, how she would look clad in the skimpy clothing that some women wear while swimming.

He wonders what her lips would feel like against his, and what she would sound like if he kissed down her neck.

He wonders how she’d look at him.

Would she smile at him like she does the pearls?

Would she be afraid of him? Or would she be as fascinated with him as he is with her?

Quinlan knows that he’s treading a dangerous line, and he swears to himself that this is the last time he’s going to come up and watch her. This is going to be the last pearl he leaves her.

And so, he settles himself under the pier and he watches her for the last time.

He doesn’t expect this time to be any different than any other time.

After all, he’s been coming to watch her for weeks and nothing bad has ever happened. Not to him, or to her.

Only today is a little different.

The pier is old and not as well maintained as it should have been. And Quinlan releases a sharp hiss as he drags his arm along a nail that he doesn’t see.

And her head snaps up in his direction.

Quinlan knows that he needs to leave before she comes over to him. He knows this.

And yet, he can’t seem to bring himself to move.

She leaves the beach itself and peers around one of the wooden poles used to support the pier, and her eyes land on him.

The only thing that Quinlan can think is that she has pretty eyes, and that it makes sense since everything else about her is pretty too.

You like to think that you’re a pretty easy going person.

You’ve seen things that you can only call a miracle, after all. Kids on the brink of death coming back as if they’ve never been sick in the first place, cancer vanishing almost over night, that kind of thing.

And you genuinely believe that thinking humans are alone on this planet you call home is arrogant at best.

But even with all of that, you’re still not quite sure what to think when you come face to face with an actual merman.

He’s handsome, dark skin covered in striking yellow tattoos, and his hair is pulled into dreadlocks and decorated with what you can only assume is sea glass and pearls.

His tail is black and has, what you can only call, yellow racing stripes down the sides.

He must be the person leaving pearls for you.

And then you see the blood, and you immediately snap into doctor mode. “You’re hurt.” You move to his side and crouch to get a good look at arm.

He stares at you with dark eyes, a strange look on his face as you lightly touch his arm to lift it so you can see better. “There was something sharp—” He offers.

“Probably a nail,” You mumble, more to yourself than him, as you twist your bag around so it’s on your chest rather than across your back, “I’ll clean it and wrap it as best as I can, but if it was a nail you’ll need a tetanus shot—” You pause and squint at him, “Can you get tetanus?”

“I’m sure the city hospital back home can answer that question better than I can.” He replies with a broad grin.

“A city?” You ask, and then you shake your head, “Right. Of course there’s a city. You can’t be alone, after all.” You dig a clean cloth out of your bag and press it against the cut on his arm, to stop the bleeding.

“I’m alone right now,” He replies.

You glance at his face, and have to avert your gaze when you see how he’s staring at you, “Are you the one who’s been leaving the pearls?”

“Did you like them?” He asks as an answer.

“Yeah.” You glance at him and offer a small smile, “I put them all in a jar at home so I can see them every morning.”

“Then this injury is worth it.”

You shake your head, “Nothing is worth an injury,” You scold, “And...honestly, I’m not sure why you gave them to me.”

“Because they made you smile.” He says it so simply, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world, and you feel your face burn. “My name is Quinlan, by the way.”

“Well, it’s nice to meet you Quinlan.” You say through your embarrassment, and then you jolt when he trails the fingers of his free hand up your bare arm.

“You’re soft,” He murmurs, something like awe in his voice, “I didn’t expect you to be so soft. Are you this soft everywhere?”

“Um...yeah, I guess.” You shiver as his fingers trail to your neck, “I mean, I use lotion and stuff to keep my skin soft. So it doesn’t crack or whatever.”

Quinlan hums as a response, and just keeps trailing his fingers across your skin. So you elect to ignore him so you can patch him up.

You’re just about to start cleaning his injury, when he speaks, “I have a confession.”

“Oh?”

“Today was going to be the last day that I watched you,” Quinlan says, “But I really, really don’t want to stop.”

You glance at him, “You don’t have to stop if you don’t want to.” You point out logically, “And, I can switch my morning run for a morning swim. Probably.”

His entire face brightens, “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Swimming is actually better because it works the whole body—”

“No, I mean, you want to get to know me?”

“—I can’t think of a single woman who wouldn’t?” You admit.

A wide grin crosses his face, “What if I told you I’ve been thinking about kissing you?”

You laugh and press a finger against his lips, “I’d say, ‘slow down there, cowboy’. Maybe in a couple of weeks. This is my first time meeting you, after all.”

“Deal!”

You laugh again, and finally start to wrap his arm, “Normally, I’d say don’t get this wet, but since that’s not an option, I’ll say this instead. Get yourself to your doctor as soon as you can for proper treatment.”

“Yes ma’am!”

“And I’ll see you tomorrow?” You ask.

“It’s date,” His grin becomes mischievous as he leans in and presses a kiss to your cheek, “Do you swear the same type of swim clothes as some ladies wear? The ones that barely cover anything?”

And you grin as you tap his nose, “That’s a secret, isn’t it?”

@heidnspeak

@justiceandwar98

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@silly-starfish

@msmeredithrose

@cdblake1565

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@moose-ubi

[alokedbox]

i saw ur post about how ur writing requests are open and i am humbly requesting literally any quinlan vos x reader content,,, there is so little of him and he is my husband !!! (quinobi x reader is also totally welcome ehe :3) also congrats on 50 followers !!! im happy for u !!!!

MY FIRST REQUEST FUCK YEAHHH

okay so I don’t really know if I got his voice right but here he is. This request gave me a lot of freedom so you get antagonistic!reader my beloved. I also trieeeed doing the romantic? I’m aroace myself so not sure if it came across ^^

Requester: @shadowheads-shitshow

Word count: about 1.5k

Pairing: Quinlan Vos/reader (romantic)

Rating: Teen (swearing, sex jokes)

Trigger Warnings: mention of wounds (they patch each other up), mild.

Synopsis : Bounty hunter reader meets up with Quinlan when they both take the same job by accident.

By the time you see Quinlan, it's evident he's been watching you for quite some time.

He's perched on a rooftop, a level above you, and gives you a taunting little wave when he sees you looking over. You flip him off. He's far enough away that you can't make out his face, but you can tell that he's smiling when he ducks out of there rooftop, suddenly out of sight. Bastard.

This was your karking bounty — you were well off enough at the moment that you didn't really need the money but, well, it was really a matter of principle — and you weren't about to let it get poached by a Jedi. You'd be a laughingstock.

Even if the Jedi in question was an annoyingly endearing asshole. With pretty eyes.

With that in mind, you stalked off to find your next informant, renewed vigor in your stride.

The next time you saw him, it was at the door to the smuggling ring's main operation. He was there before you, which was infuriating considering that you had paid off a few people specifically so that the information would not get to him. Either your informants were traitors or he had people you didn't know about.

On the plus side, he was pretty clearly struggling with the door. You watched, bemused, as he made wavy hands at the door panel and then huffed when it didn't do anything. He was pouting a bit. It was cute. Force shit wasn't working, it seemed.

Clearing your throat, you decided to announce your presence. "Having some bad luck today, aren't we?" You asked, leaning against the wall and giving him the same little wave he'd taunted you with earlier in the tenday.

He grinned, turning to face you. "Must be good luck if it lead you to me," he said, abandoning the keypad. "Since I know my favorite bounty hunter always has solutions to my problems,"

"Are you planning to pay me for my wonderful solutions?" You asked, eyebrows raised.

"Only with the pleasure of my company," he said, stepping closer, " and I'm told that's quite valuable."

"Really? I can't imagine who would be out placing value on being separated from their sanity, but I'm told core worlders are strange like that." You volleyed back.

"Isn't sanity overrated, anyways?" Vos asked, gesturing wide, "and I rather think you could learn a lot from core worlders. Like generosity and helping others out of the kindness of your own heart."

"I don't have a heart." You said, lips quirking.

He took another step closer, till the two of you were breathing the same air. "Well I know that's not true."

"Bounty hunters aren't known for their truthfulness." You reply, taking note of how his lashes fluttered as he thought of a reply.

"Well I rather thought I might be an exception," He said, hand reaching up to-

You're both interrupted by a tall man with a plasma rifle slung over his shoulder and an unpleasant expression. "Who the fuck are you?" He asked, interrupting you both quite rudely. You had a stunner aimed at his throat in a millisecond, but Quinlan beat you to it, waving his hand and sending the guy straight up into the ceiling. When Quin dropped him, he's out cold.

"Too slow." Vos said, turning back to you with a cheeky grin."Your reflexes are all wasted away, aren't they, without me around to keep you on your toes."

"I think my mental state is the better for it." You returned dryly.

He clapped his hands together, a noise which was startlingly loud in this empty greeting room. "Back to business. I don't suppose you've got any help you'd be willing to give?"

You hummed noncommittally. "I want the bounty claimed in my name. You were never here."

"Alright," he nods, "but there's a few documents in there which I'm gonna need to grab."

"It's a deal," you offer, grabbing a plasma cutter and getting to work on that door.

It's dull work. The cutter is slow, not as fast as a lightsaber would be. Quinlan pretty obviously doesn't have his lightsaber on him. You'd be worried if your intel didn't say that most everyone in the den would be high out of their minds this time of day. Easy pickings.

Quinlan leans against the wall, looking you up and down. "That's a new arm guard," he says, starting up a relatively neutral conversation. 

"Yeah, the old one got blown up in a hutt pit." You smirk, still working that plasma cutter. "You've got some new ink."

The sleeveless tunic he wore showed a line of tattoos running down his arm. You recognized mort of them.

"Maybe I should get your name inked on next." He said, shooting you a glance. "And you get mine. We could match."

"Yeah, and they'll be calling me next time you get yourself locked up." You scoffed. "Too much responsibility for me, no sir."

After a pause, you added, "It'd look awful pretty though. Nice thought."

The cutter was nearly all the way through now. "Been a bit, hasn't it," you said, pointed. He'd disappeared before this bounty for a little while. A few weeks, not enough to have you making a search party, but enough for you to get nervous.

His smile turned sheepish. "Surprise undercover assignment. I would've warned you if I had the time."

It wasn't an apology. It was as close as the two of you got to one.

You weren't each others one and only, not any kind of soulmates, but you had something. You had each other to count on. What the two of you had was rough and loud and abrasive, just the way you both liked it.

The cutter was finished, or close enough to it. You kicked down what remained of the door with a grunt.

Offering Quinlan an arm, you nodded towards the now open door. "Onward, my prince." You deadpanned.

After you both had taken over the den — it was easy work, and comforting as you and Wuin found your flow again — you noticed him limping on the way out. You caught his eye, flicked your gaze down to his leg, and then made eye contact again. 

"It's nothing," he said, trying to look like he wasn't hurt.

You frowned, eyebrow raised.

"If you're planning to lie, you could at least do it better than that." You said, crossing your arms. "You got your goods?"

He rolled his eyes. "They're receipts, not spice packets. But yeah, I've got em."

"Good. My ship. Now." You point in the general direction, setting off with a brisk stride. You'd slow down for him, but you knew he knows the way. There's only one parking spot you ever use on this planet.

When you got to your ship, you opened up the hatch and left it open, waiting for him while you took out your bacta and med kit. You started on your own wounds while waiting for him to show up, which weren't too serious or hard to reach. Finally, he poked his head in through the hatch.

"You know, most people would wait for an injured man." He said, fake irritation splayed across his face. 

"I'm here waiting for you, aren't I?" You asked, gesturing for him to sit on the bed.

You grab a roll of gauze and some disinfectant. "Shirt off." You ordered.

He complied with a smirk. "If you wanted me to start undressing, there are less roundabout ways of asking-" He cut himself off with a hiss of pain as you swat him in the shoulder. 

You might have forgotten he was hurt. You offered him the bacta spray by way of apology, dabbing the antibacterial ointment in larger wounds. He gestured for you to turn around.

"That cut behind your shoulder needs stitches." He said, grabbing a needle and medical floss. You stayed still as he stitched it up. Each pinprick of pain is followed by the warmth of this, this ritual. The knowledge that neither of you have any obligation to be here, that you were here because you cared. 

Once he was done with your wounds, you turned back to his, checking the tightness of the bandages you'd wrapped earlier. 

He grabbed your hand, wrapped in gauze, and skimmed his lips along your knuckles. "There, I kissed it better."

"Aren't you going to do the same?" He asked, pointing to a bandage on his cheek.

"I'll do you one better," you murmur, capturing his lips in a kiss. It's slow, sweet. You're both alive. You have time to bring down the walls a little.

"I've missed you." He said, candidly.

Your heart skipped a beat. "Me too," you confess, and go in for another kiss.

[keulixeutin]

Aching

summary: quinlan deliberates on a familiar aching in his chest. quinlan x f!reader. she/her pronouns used.

cw: fluff, some quinlan pining, swearing, implied one-sided gus x reader.

word count: 1,054.

Quinlan had learned early on that the ache for another was a human curse.  He had thought he had come to terms with it in his early years, after long centuries of wandering, consuming flesh and blood and warmth when he could.  There were times when the yearning hit him particularly strong, when things began to shift and change, but the cold always returned.

Years, centuries, millennia spent in a frosted shadow—and then you came.

And you brought the aching with you.

But he was older now.  He understood that there were some yearnings that were made in the dark, and should be left there.  Not all desires were to be satisfied, his least of all. And he was okay with that.

This belief didn’t stop the aching, of course.  Sometimes, when you passed by, he felt the twitch in his fingers, the throbbing in his arms, in his chest.  The air was always heavier when you were in the room, your scent thickening the atmosphere—but it wasn’t the smell of your blood or your flesh.  It was your shampoo.  Your perfume.  Your breath, lingering in the air like a cloud.

Quinlan was the only one who could truly sense the way you lit up the room in soothing fragrances, but perhaps others realized it on a subconscious level.  Heads turned to you.  Dutch always waved you over.  Gus always found space by your side, a reason to touch your shoulder.

And Quinlan always followed your movements out of the corner of his eyes.

He thought you did the same to him.  Multiple times, his gaze had caught yours darting away just as he turned—but, perhaps, secret glances weren’t enough to solidify anything.  After all, if one watched you closely—and he was watching you very closely—one could see that you stared at anyone, everyone, especially when they weren’t looking.  When he shifted things back into perspective like that, it was difficult to think that he wasn’t simply another nearby presence for your gaze to fix upon, that he wasn’t particularly special to you.

And he was okay with that.  You were melting the frost, you were bringing back the ache, but Quinlan had survived for eons in the shadow, ignoring whatever pulsing or beating or fluttering was against his chest.  He was content to do the same in this era, too.

Some people, however, simply wouldn’t let allow him peace—Fet Vasiliy being at the top of that list.

“So!” Fet had exclaimed one day, leaning against the wooden fence beside Quinlan who had been standing statue still and watching the perimeter for rogue strigoi—well, for the most part.  You were in the vicinity with Gus, tinkering with an old tractor to see if it or its parts were reusable, so there was an uncompromising need to look your way every time the wind blew your scent toward him.  “Should I be concerned or—god strike me for even asking—is this part of some weird vampire mating ritual?”

Thousands of years to develop an unrivaled mastery over stoicism and, yet, all interactions with Fet almost crumble it every time.

Quinlan maintained his eyes on the horizon, slowly skimming the tree line.  “Should I even deign that with a response, Mr. Fet?” he asked.

Fet jerked his head in your direction.  “[Name], she’s cute, huh?”

Quinlan didn’t miss a beat—“Is that something Ms. Dutch would appreciate?”

The skin near Fet’s eyes wrinkled in that aggravating way they did when he stumbled upon something great or something humiliating.  “No, no, no, you’re not getting out of this one—I’ve seen you look at her,” he pressed with a snicker, “and I’m still trying to figure out if a monster can become smitten with someone or if this is your idea of picking out an entree.” 

“If I were picking out an entree, I would go for the most irritating one,” Quinlan corrected.

Fet honed his gaze onto Quinlan’s face.  Maybe he was trying to put physical pressure on getting a true answer, or maybe he was trying to decipher the guarded passiveness, but Quinlan didn’t meet his scrutiny, continuing to stare resolutely at the horizon instead.

After a minute, Quinlan added, “I can spell it out in simpler terms if needed.”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it.”  Fet pushed off the fence, walking away before pausing to turn around and say, “I was just kidding about the monster part. I’m sure the heart you have is fucking huge to make up for being dickless, eh?”  The sound of his laughter could be heard as he rounded the corner; even Gus and you glanced up, faces and hands smeared with oil and dirt.

Though the barking laugh faded, Fet’s words echoed as Quinlan returned to perimeter watching. He wouldn’t say he was heartless, but he wouldn’t say he had a heart, either.  It didn’t matter to him, anyway.  Questions about what he was and what he had were put to rest hundreds of years ago, and he didn’t need to know what the throbbing in his chest was to know that it was just as useless as a heart.

Abruptly, interrupting his thoughts, you yelled out, “Forget it, Gus!  Let’s just move the damn thing into the stupid shed and we’ll re-eval it later.  Quinlan!”

Quinlan turned his head slightly in your direction, acknowledging your call while trying to maintain a nonchalant cool and ignore said throbbing behind the diaphragm.

You waved him over.  “Can you come move this?” you asked, pointing to the rusted green tractor.

He didn’t react.

“Come on!  We obviously can’t!”

Keen eyes flickered over to the immediate frown on Gus’s face.

Well—useful or not, this aching wasn’t so bad, Quinlan thought as he turned and headed toward your grinning face, the humming in his rib cage telling him to both move faster and slow down.

[a-dorin]

“if you don’t, i will.”

pairing: quinlan vos x jedi!reader

word count: 840

warnings: cursing, some light teasing, references to marriage, references to violence 

a/n: this is my first time writing for the true himbo himself, quinlan vos. this is also my seventh prompt in my 31 days of fics for 2021! full list of prompts can be found here. ahah, anyways, i hope you guys like. :)

prompt: “hold my hand.”

“is there really no one else i can partner with this for the mission? anakin? luminara? even you, kit?” 

plo koon swivels his head, sharing an amused glance with obi-wan kenobi, as well we kit fisto. obi-wan’s lip twitch as he coughs, holding back a chuckle. kit bears a cheeky grin, turning to you, 

“well, i’m afraid we’re all preoccupied with our own missions.”

“you want me to work alongside quinlan vos?” you groan, rolling your eyes, “he’s absolutely dreadful--”

“a true jedi does not share any resentment with their fellow peers,” plo koon rumbles, clasping his talons together, “i have complete faith that you will learn and grow from this mission, young one. although his methods are not necessarily the most -- practical, he is a great warrior. an ever greater jedi too.”

“speaking of quinlan,” obi-wan’s eyes shift towards the corridor, a figure coming into the light, “he’s right here.”

“i thought i heard my name,” you snort as he puffs out his chest, “are you ready for our little mission?”

“are you speaking to me?” you arch a brow, folding your arms across your chest. 

quinlan cocks his head, brow furrowing with confusion, “who else am i speaking to, sweetheart?”

“sweetheart?” you echo, scorn laced in your tone, “who are you calling sweetheart?”

“oh boy,” kit inhales sharply, “well, i have to get going.”

“as do i,” plo clears his throat, “good luck on your mission. may the force be with you.”

“may the force be with you,” you mumble, lips falling into a pout as the two jedi depart from the group, laughing amongst themselves. 

“are you two aware of the task at hand?” obi-wan queries, shuffling a pair of commlinks in his hand. 

“yes,” quinlan nods, “we infiltrate the planet, destroy some clankers, then get the fuck out of there.”

obi-wan exhales, fingers flying to his temple, jaw clenched, “no droids are to be destroyed. you’re supposed to be slipping in undetected, as common civilians.”

“well that’s no fun,” quinlan mutters darkly, brightening as the shuttle lands in the distance, “looks like our ship is here. let’s get this show on the road!”

“may the force be with you,” obi-wan states, his voice crisp and cool, “these are your commlinks. use them to communicate with one another. also, ensure you’re hasty about this. the information you’re extracting is crucial.”

“got it,” quinlan stuck up a thumb, “let’s ride, sweetheart. we got a ship waitin’ for us.”

“i hate you,” you sneer, plucking a commlink out of obi-wan’s hand. 

“hate is not the jedi way,” quinlan counters, almost taunting you to retaliate. 

“let him be,” obi-wan cuts in, his voice soft as quinlan strides over to the docking port, “he’s just messing with you.”

“one more smart remark and he’s getting a hilt to the head.”

“be patient with him. his head may be full of air, but he’s got a good heart,” obi-wan chuckles warmly, “now go, or else he’ll leave you behind.”

squeezing your eyes shut, you inhale deeply, gulping in a long breath. following quinlan, you stroll towards the shuttle, the ship humming with life as quinlan leans against the open entrance, fingers drumming against the cool metal. 

“took you long enough. had to give kenobi a good-bye kiss or something?”

“what the fuck is wrong with you?” you growl, shouldering past him, “let’s go.”

clambering into the cockpit, you punch in the coordinates, only to realize that they were already entered, “did you punch these in?”

“sure did,” he beams, fiddling with his commlink, “hey, did you see the briefing? they want us to act like civilians, like we’re married.”

“i’m well aware,” your jaw tightens as the ship throttles, hovering above the surface. 

quinlan settles into his own chair, flipping a few switches, “don’t worry, i’m just as thrilled as you are.”

“great! glad we’re on the same page,” you laugh dryly, “let’s make this as quick as possible, vos.”

“we will, just have faith in me sweetheart.”

the ride to the moon was short, only a matter of hours. the moment you landed at the port, anxiety bubbled up within you as quinlan threw on a beige poncho, running a hand through his locks. you linger about, smoothing out the wrinkles on your own poncho. 

the two of you didn’t even look like you’d be a couple, let alone a married pair. 

however, a piece of folded parchment burns in your pocket, only sealing the deal. 

a forged piece of identification, last name changed to vos. 

“hey,” quinlan murmurs, “you ready?”

“ready as i’ll ever be,” you glance out the hatch, rays of light filtering in. 

“hold my hand.”

his voice is smooth, palm reaching out to yours, fingers wriggling. pausing, you clutch your chest, “excuse me?”

“you’re my wife now,” quinlan flashes a bright grin at you, “you need to hold my hand.”

“no--” you protest, recoiling, “we’re not even married.”

the hatch opens, quinlan’s hand ready for yours. 

“yes we are. hold my hand. if you don’t, i will.”

☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆

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[sammyquarius]

Anybody watch the Strain? I'm taking requests. Comment your requests!

[sammyquarius]

Imagine Quinlan being fasinated and protective of you

The ruins of Manhattan have gone quiet too quiet. You learned long ago that silence isn’t safety. It’s a signal.

For weeks, you’ve been moving alone through the city, tracking and killing Strigoi that slip through the cracks. Word of your precision spread fast. Some say you’re cursed. Others whisper that even the Ancients have started watching you.

You don’t know that one of them already has.

Quinlan has followed you for days that blurred into weeks, never close enough to be seen, but always near enough to strike. The Strigoi that wander too close never live long enough to scream. You find their remains sometimes ash piles scattered like snow and assume it’s luck.

It isn’t.

When you finally cross paths with him, it’s almost anticlimactic. He steps out from the shadow of a collapsed building, sword dripping, eyes burning faintly gold under the moonlight. You raise your weapon, pulse hammering.

“You’ve been following me.”

“Protecting you,” he corrects, voice calm, too calm. “Though I suspect you would have managed.”

You don’t lower your weapon. “Why?”

His gaze lingers. For someone who claims to be half-dead, he looks at you like you’re the first living thing he’s seen in centuries.

“Because,” he says finally, “you draw their attention. And… mine.”

He doesn’t sleep unless you’re near.

You find that out later, long after the first uneasy truce becomes companionship. When you rest, you sometimes wake to find him sitting a few feet away silent, unmoving, sword across his knees. His eyes are open, fixed on you.

You’ve asked him once if he ever sleeps.

“Not when you’re near,” he said. “It’s… unnecessary.”

But the way his eyes soften when you stir tells another story. He’s not guarding the camp.

He’s guarding you.

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