welcome to @weird-writes, a fanfic side blog for @weirdsociology. i use this space to both reblog fanfic i want to comment on/boost/be able to find later, and to publish my own occasional fanfic.
multi-fandom madness abounds but it’s all tagged accordingly. everything here is 18+ and probably explicit. hope you enjoy it as much as i do.
rainbow armorer icon by the exceptional @starwarsbookclub
masterlist
series
creed - A non-linear series about din djarin and his favorite... distraction. (the mandalorian, din djarin x reader, explicit)
one-shots
hot off the trail (11k) - You've been comrades-in-arms for years, and you'd trust him with your life. So when Saw Guerrera's best rifleman offers to help you blow off steam, what's the harm in saying yes? (andor/rogue one, benthic 'two tubes' x reader, explicit)
Jack Abbot Does Nude Yoga; The Pitt S2E09 Spoilers; Jack Abbot is a Tease (The Pitt); Jack Abbot is a Little Shit (The Pitt); POV Michael "Robby" Robinavitch; Michael "Robby" Robinavitch Loves Jack Abbot; plot what porn; Nudity; Jack Abbot Has the Body of a Greek God; Michael "Robby" Robinavitch Hates Yoga
Summary:
How Robby finds out that Abbot does “nude yoga at sunrise”.
Or
Robby walked in on Abbot doing naked yoga. Things did not go where he hoped they would.
—————
… Jack was on his yoga mat in the middle of the living room floor.
In the sunlight.
Wearing absolutely nothing.
BICEPS, Robby’s brain announced, with the crisp authority of an ER attending running triage for the Magic Mike hospital of humanly beauty. QUADRICEPS. TRAPEZIUS. PECTORALS MAJOR!
thanks to @anextrapart for the inspo! trigger warning: suicidal ideation
The most fun aspect of his self-loathing is that it’s factually correct.
He served in the military. He signed up for ROTC right there in the cafeteria of his high school, valedictorian of a class of sixty-two and desperate to get out. He believed the promises and the patina of patriotic bullshit, swallowing it willingly. And it was easy, for the next eight years, to keep doing that.
By the time he owed the American military close to four hundred and fifty grand for his education, the only options he saw for himself were to go all-in or kill himself. So to Fallujah he went, and then to Ranger School, and then a second deployment, a third, a fourth. And every time he threw himself back onto American soil and into the arms of a wife who loved him, it made less and less sense.
The first time Jack Abbot tried to kill himself was in the Tangi Valley in 2011, the night a CH-47 helicopter carrying thirty-eight American and Afghan servicemen was shot down by the Taliban. The night he first realized he’d wished he’d been with them and sat, service weapon loaded, the barrel finding its way into and out of his mouth again.
Not even his therapist knows that.
The second time was fall 2020, when every shift was spent helping people die with their loved ones on FaceTime. Gen was isolating at home with her parents while he stayed in a hotel, calling her three times a day as she underwent chemo and radiation and sweated out neutropenic fevers. His wife was sick, his wife was dying, everyone was dying. And he was a doctor who couldn’t save anyone, not strangers, and not the woman he loved more than anyone else in the world. Robby pumped his stomach full of charcoal after he swallowed a bottle of Valium, threw back half a bottle of Jim Beam, and decided it would be polite to tell Robby he wouldn’t be showing up for his next shift. Or any of the other ones after that.
The third time was in 2022, two months after Gen died in their living room, bloodstream swimming with morphine and fentanyl that did very little to quell the pain of late-stage cancer. He stopped eating, stopped bathing, stopped sleeping, stopped doing much of anything, let the house get foreclosed on and ran the math on how to die easiest without traumatizing anyone else. It was Walsh who pulled him out of his dark bedroom and shoved him fully clothed into the shower, and made his first appointment with his therapist.
He’s not allowed to kill himself.
That much the universe has made clear to him. So he shows up to therapy once a week when he’s doing okay, and twice a week when he’s doing poorly. He’s compliant with his meds. He logs his symptoms in an app. Every once in a while, his therapist throws a little exercise at him. Keep a notebook or a piece of paper in your pocket. Write down good things that happen that day, and review it before you go to sleep. Good things do happen to you. Don’t let PTSD control the narrative of what your life can be.
Sometimes he even does them, even when it feels stupid at first.
When he first starts, his lists are a compilation of sentence fragments about the patients he’s able to save, new restaurants on DoorDash, and journal articles he read and enjoyed. Sometimes he mentions the weather, or a card from one of his sisters, or a dog he saw in the park. The farmer’s market starts up again, and he can buy homemade sourdough. The flowers are blooming. Samira Mohan smiles at him at handover.
Samira Mohan makes eye contact when an MS4 is overly arrogant.
Samira Mohan shares her protein bar with him at the Hub, because she remembers that he loves chocolate and peanut butter.
Samira Mohan lends him a pen when his explodes in his hand in the middle of shift.
Samira Mohan lets him drive her home because it’s snowing.
Samira Mohan looks at him.
Samira Mohan smiles.
Samira Mohan.
Four months into his little experiment with intentional positivity, Robby has disembarked Pittsburgh and possibly his sanity on his motorcycle, and Jack’s lists have become a pad of sticky notes kept in a zippered pocket, marked neatly with blue and black ink tally marks.
Times that Dr. Mohan has spoken to him, grinned at him, sought him out in the Pitt, texted him the link to something that she read on PubMed. Cups of coffee and tea, shared sandwiches on the roof, babies held and rocked and soothed in Pedes, minutes spent on the park bench after a rough night. Times they’ve handed each other a scalpel or a clamp or catheter. Times they saved patients. Times they lost them.
The door of his fridge becomes a compendium, but he still needs proof positive of her regard for him. Something that definitively answers that she sees him as a friend, as someone worth trusting, as someone worth remaining in her orbit and her light. He knows that come July she’s moving back home to New Jersey, that they might never have the opportunity to work together again. He is no longer acclimated to base reassignments and deployment groups and loss. He wants to keep her. He wants her to stay.
When she smiles at him, it makes it a little easier for him to remain in his own skin, in his own body, in his own arms and legs and his final five toes. And when he thinks of her leaving, moving six hours away to a hospital he’s never seen, let alone heard of, the stomach acid that crawls up his throat chokes him harder than charcoal as it came back up into an emesis bag.
His fridge is crowded with pieces of little yellow paper—fluttering on the door whenever it opens or shuts, the adhesive on the oldest ones drying and starting to lose tack—on the day she tells him that she’s forgoing a fellowship at all. I think I’m done postponing the rest of my life, she says, leaning on the railing. I think that’s what I’ve been trying to do all along. So I’m staying here.
That night the post-it note that goes on the fridge only says one thing. She kissed me.
“Well, doc, what’s the verdict? Do I get to keep the arm?”
Samira bites back her smile as she collects the detritus of her handiwork: the gauze she’d used to catch run-off from irrigating Jack’s graze with saline solution; the cotton swab he’d handed her without protest that came away scarlet when she pressed it to his abraded skin; the packaging of the Tegaderm now covering the starburst wound and several precious freckles.
Slowly, she peels off her gloves and discards the lot, then comes back around to wheel the overbed table away and take its place in front of him. Runs her hands through his curls: one settling to cup his skull and tilt his head back just so, the other trailing down to his neck, her fingers fitting perfectly atop the tan lines there. “Depends,” she finally answers. “Still trying to decide if hacking it off will make me feel better.”
(Sure, it was just a graze, but it was a large one, skin scraped raw in a way that called road rash to mind; and anyway, what is it that he had said? A high-velocity projectile doesn’t have to penetrate to damage.)
Jack gives her a boyish grin. “Hey now,” he says, his voice pitched low and spackled through with grit. “I thought you liked my hands.”
He brings them to her waist as if she needs the reminder, when really, when isn’t she thinking of his hands on her? Of his coarse-heeled palms kneading her breasts then roving lower, spreading her thighs apart and holding them to the mattress to eat her with ease? Two fingers pressing on her tongue then into her cunt, slick enough that the saliva is more for play than for added lubrication—
Samira shudders. If the strategic placement of his black undershirt obscuring his lap is anything to go by, she bets if she were to ask him to plead his case right here, right now, he would.
They don’t have the time, though, so she settles with, “Yeah. Yeah, I do. Spared this time, Abbot.”
He hums. She can practically feel it in her chest, as acutely as she can feel the mindless fractal patterns he’s begun tracing over her iliac crests with his thumbs. “Lucky me.” Then, far from subtle: “Any, uh, plans for after your shift?”
She knows what he’s actually asking. It’s still new, this thing between them, but she’s already begun spending more time at his place than at her own. Even before his injury, she’d planned on keeping him company tonight, an extra buffer against the fireworks; so now, with the sound of gunfire fresh on his mind—
“Mmm, I don’t think I’ll be going to my apartment.”
“No?” Samira has never heard so much thinly-veiled hope in a single syllable.
“Nope. Thing is,” she reaches past him to take his tactical zip in hand, folding it into a neat square she’ll place in his locker as he scrubs up, “I have this patient I’m going to need to keep an eye on. I don’t usually make house calls, but he’s special. Reckless, sure, and a bit of a cowboy, but special nonetheless. A real heart of gold. Anyway, I’m going to want to check on him. Make sure I let him know that his instinct to put himself in danger to ensure someone else’s safety is noble but—” her gaze tracks up from the bloody sleeves to his eyes, all traces of previous teasing gone, “but that I hope it isn’t rooted in the belief that he’s expendable, because he isn’t. Not to anyone here. Not to me.”
Besotted. It’s the only word that comes close to describing the look on Jack’s face. Like he’d give her the world if she just asked, and maybe even before then, too. He swallows thickly. “He sounds like a piece of work,” he manages, his throat tight.
“Oh, he is,” she agrees with a quirk of her lips. “It doesn’t feel like work with him, though.”
“Yeah?” he whispers. Urges her closer, hands somehow more reverent than before; she didn’t know that was even possible. “What does it feel like?”
She noses at Jack’s hair: sweat, and the remnant of his curl cream that she’s taken to using herself, and a faint tang of heated metal under the antiseptic of their surroundings. Years ago, if she’d been asked to describe the scents of home, she never would have imagined the blend to be her answer. But it is now, and she lets herself sink into it for a moment longer before the fray pulls both of them back in.
Vulpes Inculta/f!courier - Lots of Ulysses yapping. Implied past relationships with major characters. PORN WITH PLOT.
Chapter CNs: SEX. ALL CONSENSUAL. A little bit of blood kink. Power play, power dynamics, throwing your partner around, biting, light breeding kink stuff, rawdogging on a workbench, some light knifeplay as foreplay, being hornyscared, spanking, impact stuff, loose D/S dynamic, Vulpes thinking like an absolute insane person, really full on stalker vibes, possessive Vulpes, Vulpes having feelings but not processing them normally because he's unhinged but thats ok because so is Six, brief mention of torture, psychological warfare and manipulation on both sides.
Summary: The Courier has managed to keep up a delicate balancing act in her pursuit of an independent New Vegas, but with both the Bull and the Bear vying for her allegiance, she can only continue on as is for so long. When she's summoned to walk the Lonesome Road, she hopes to learn who she was before this mess in the hopes the past might provide her with clarity. However, the answers she finds are not what she was expecting. If she didn't learn to let go in the Sierra Madre, she's about to learn it from the last person she'd expect.
Oh, and also, Vulpes Inculta won't leave her the fuck alone. What's up with that? Fucking weirdo.
⋆⋆⋆
Part 2: Starving [Ao3 link]
Preview:
『 He knows what it is as soon as he feels it, the sharp, cold edge of a blade pressed to his jugular, directly below the edge of her hand. She holds it in position that will grant her a near guaranteed kill if she wants, the best method to slit someone’s throat cleanly, a method that he taught her. The lightbulb has finally lost enough momentum for the shadows to slow, Six’s face now well lit enough for Vulpes to see her eyes clearly — and his breath catches when he does.
There she is. Enraged. Ready to kill. Happy to slit his throat there and then and think nothing of it as he bleeds out before her. A killer. A predator. The most beautiful thing he has ever seen.
He has never wanted her so badly before.
“Novac,” he finally admits, coming to the conclusion that she would only hold enough conviction to murder him like this if she’d learned the truth somehow.
“Why?” She asks.
“Your achievements had caught the curiosity of Caesar.”
She applies pressure to the blade, not enough to break the skin, but enough to make it feel as though it may give and split open at any moment. Just as he’d taught her. He feels himself harden inside his stolen military fatigues as it dawns on him that she may, actually, kill him this time. He loves her so dearly.
“Why?” She repeats.
Their gazes are interlocked, as though Vulpes would look elsewhere, as if there’s anywhere else he’d want to look right now. He loves her with such intensity that he’d follow her into any field, any battle, any conquest, but he will be at peace if she kills him instead because he can think of no better death than to surrender his life at her hands.
“You had caught my curiosity,” he finally admits. “You fascinated me.”
Sorry, sorry, but manipulative hurt/comfort is fucking cocaine to me. The predatory aspect of it. The vulnerability—500% better if the hurt party knows they're being manipulated and is past the point of caring. The juxtaposition of sweet and sharp flavours. Barkbarkbark
i want it known that i literally wrote this on my phone at the office LMAO OOPS, also under the cut because... yeah; from this list!
Under the right amount of pressure, anyone will break.
It isn't necessarily something that Cassian likes that he knows, but he knows it all the same, and he knows all sorts of ways to apply that knowledge. He knows that interrogations don't have to last days, don't even have to last hours, and don't have to synonymize pressure with cruelty, as the Empire makes its practice to believe — just knowing where and how to press is enough. With just one question. One word.
One touch.
There's no one in the galaxy more impressive than Jyn — her stubbornness and determination are unparalleled, a fire that's somehow always burning even on the darkest of days — but as impressive as she is, she, too, will break. She'll fold under his touch eventually, the pressure he's applied too much for even her durasteel resolve to withstand, and he'll have the victory of watching her come undone underneath him.
(It's favorite game for both of them, this.)
And eventually, he knows, isn't far.
He can feel her thigh shake as he presses his lips to it, as he lets his stubble drag lightly over her skin in the way he knows drives her wild. He can feel, just from the barest graze of a thumb, how wet she is, can hear, in the strain of her breaths, just how much of an effort it is for her to keep from arching into his hand in search of the friction, the release, she so desperately wants. All he needs is to apply just a little more pressure.
All he needs is just one more push.
"Come on," he murmurs against her thigh. "I want to hear you beg for it." His lips drift higher. Closer. "Beg me to fuck you."
He drags his lips closer again. This time, his thumb is a precise and targeted brush over her clit. And —
Jyn writhes under him.
"Fuck." It's a groan more than an actual word, concession, pent-up frustration, cracked pressure all at once. "Fuck me, or I swear I'll —"
Her empty threat is lost, drowned out by the noise that claws out of her throat the instant he puts his mouth on her.
Cassian allows himself the indulgence, just one, of a smile before setting to work.
summary: at first, it had been you who had found a problem with each one he’d landed at. but, at some point between your clothing being around your ankles, you’re sure he’d begun to find problems with you leaving too.
warnings: mentions of smut/alludes to smut. bad star wars writing (probs, i'm new forgive me). no use of y/n. brief mention/allusion of hand necklace (thanks @rhoorl for the term), m!oral, p in v. loosely season one/two, although likely au.
wordcount: 1.7k
an: a huge massive thank you to @saradika for firstly convincing me i could do this, and then letting me show her this so i could be assured i didn't butcher him. ily so much 🤍
It’s beautiful.
The sound of wind rustling through it, how it waves in spots up and down the hill—moving side to side like a cosmic wave.
You thought you’d known green until now; thought you had known silver too, assumed you understood the way reflections worked and how quick movements could be. But that was before him.
Before you’d known the feel of his solid body lay on top of yours.
Then, you discovered a lot of things. Like how easy it was to spread your thighs on either side of him. For your fingers to seek in the dark—how they effortlessly hunt and find the parts he’ll expose to the night, but never to the light.
You even found you don’t hate the sound of your name when he says it. Somehow makes it longer, more impactful—like it has meaning when it comes from his mouth.
All of which were things you’d never known before you convinced him to bring you.
A promise, a barter—an exchange. Your hand clutching his blaster slugs, tears clutching to your lashes, flowing from your eyes—aware of what you look like, aware of the desperation you reek of.
Just take me to a different planet. A suitable one. Please.
At first, it had been you who had found a problem with each one he’d landed at.
A bogus reason, a ploy—all stemmed from a rising infatuation with the man under beskar. But, at some point between your cheek against the wall of his ship and your clothing being around your ankles, you’re sure he’d begun to find problems with you leaving too.
But, this place is a gift—it’s a slice of heaven.
It had been a stop gap you’d almost pleaded at him not to make, a pause in the travel plan. Now you’re not sure you want to leave it.
Because here is a sea of greens, a variety, a never-ending display of every shade between the letters which make up the name. Some are more saturated, some are deeper; some are tinged with yellows and others are blotted with dark spots that aim to discolour, but just make them more unique.
There’s no bounty here—no collection to be made.
Just a sight for your eyes and a moment for him. And, you think you could sit here for hours and bask in it. Take it in. Allow the air of this planet to fill your lungs and carve a space inside of you that no one will ever be able to rip from you.
Stroking your fingers through the ground, you feel how your tunic presses to your spine—how it’s held there by the perspiration on your spine. The fabric desperate to blow, to whip around your ribs and the sleeves to float around your arms.
You don’t care that it’s warm—don’t mind that you can feel your skin prickling under it.
Because you’re lost in it, the limitlessness of this place. How surreal it is that each blade points north to the sky, all upright, anchored pleasingly to the ground it came from.
Things had been beautiful earlier too, you remind yourself.
When you had been enveloped by darkness, not a slither of light—not that there’d be the space for it in the small cot. His hands, forever a staple, an anchor, to your hips, determined to pin you there.
He’s a man who chases after those who run, and you suppose it’s ingrained in him. This belief that everyone, at some point, will leave—will go. You think it’s why he holds you tightly when you’re nothing but bare; you suppose it’s why after, when he unsheathes himself, he always traces his thumb over the places his fingers have been, reminding your skin he’s kind, just in case you need another reminder not to leave.
“We should go.”
You hum because you should. Yet, your mind rationalises that the baby is still asleep and there are more minutes to sit in the silence, to not dwell—you suppose it’s why your hand reaches up, and brushes over the gloved fingers instead.
Action is easier than words when it comes to him.
A game the two of you play, one of silence and strategy—wondering who’d be the first to crack and speak more words than necessary. You suspect it’ll be you in time, likely soon enough.
It’s why you clutch, cling. Weaving and working until you’re holding his fingers at an odd angle, a silent plea there, a wishful hope spoken without using syllables or your lips and mouth.
“One more minute.”
“Okay,” you respond.
Watching the strands move again, swaying, dancing.
A content sigh rolls from you, and briefly—in the back of your mind, you wonder if you’re really awake. Whether this is some form of peace your brain has concocted after the sight of him stained in crimson; his palms flat in the air, modulator expelling he’s fine, it isn’t his, he’s okay, it’s okay—
For a while, you’d believed him, until you felt the bruises—all pulsing and colouring in shades you can’t imagine. An image being drawn, shaded in—forever in black and white, just outlines and half-concocted feelings you have on what lives under his armour.
He sighs next to you, it rattling out through his helmet.
And you wait to hear it, the confirmation he normally hands you. Deep, even through his modulator that this “isn’t it” either.
It’s been a routine ever since the two of you began this dalliance. Ever since you’d smuggled yourself aboard his ship with the promise that you’d never ask him for anything else.
Neither realising how false that would be.
You beg for a lot. For more, for his lips, his fingers and his cock. You wait for the darkness, count down to it—thrum with excitement for it when he steps down the ladder and his helmet is aimed in your direction.
Somehow, no words are said, just mutual acknowledgement, acceptance. Or that's what you call it. It being seemingly better than admitting that you crave it—him. That you care, that the sight of him smeared in ruby still haunts you—lingers there, bleeds into good days and casts shadows while you wait in the hull. The child in your arms, soothing him—telling yourself you’re giving him comfort, when you suppose you gain more from the small being than you could ever provide.
“This isn’t it,” he eventually says from above.
His helmet turned, and you imagine the eyes that live under it. Question if they’re almond-shaped or hooded, whether they’re brown, green or blue. You also wonder if he looks at you with curiosity or want, whether it’s with a thousand thoughts running or none at all.
“No?”
“No. Not this one.”
That’s when you close your eyes. Let your ears do the seeing.
Allow your other senses to kick in, to swallow the lack of sight and make do. You end up lingering on the gloved hand in yours—the one which sometimes slides around your neck, lightly pinches either side as you moan at the feel of him. The same hand which slides down your spine to aid your motion, or lingers there when the terrain isn't trouble-free.
It's the remembering which makes you let go of it, of him.
Quickly managing to pretend your hand doesn’t feel cold when you do. Stuff down the emptiness that begins to drown you in the space you put between you, as you stand up. A part of you admitting defeat, silently saying goodbye to tall stands of green and the rolling hills adorned with shades.
“Thought you’d be sick of me by now.”
It rumbles from you. All heavy, laced in its own metal—ready to slam into him and take him down.
It doesn’t. You’re not sure any words ever could.
You suppose it’s why he says nothing, silently following, not too far so that you’re alone, but not close enough that you can feel the ghost of his touch. The distant measured, all purposeful. It remains so until you’re back aboard, until the door closes behind you and you’re once again surrounded by metal.
A part of you knows you shouldn’t grow used to him, shouldn’t be waiting for him to flood your spine with his chest. But you do—you really fucking do.
It’s why you don’t move, don’t take a step closer to check on the baby or even unclench your hand from around the strands of green you’d stolen. The ones you’d ripped up from the ground, roots tickling your wrist—the rest remaining tucked closely between curled fingers and a sweaty palm.
Yours. The smallest piece of a place you’ll likely never see.
“You should sleep.”
It’s an order. Direct—practically thrown at you. Followed by a tight grip on your waist, fingers finding the same place they always do. His place. The one not needing a mark, but he leaves them all the same, ownership, a possession.
Sometimes in the throes of it, you hear him hiss mine, jus’ mine—your head nodding in the dark, because you are, you know you are, the same as you suspect he knows he’s yours. It’s another thing which festers behind your teeth, keeping lips clamped shut, knowing it requires no confirmation, no words in exchange for the momentary slip-up he lets escape. But then, you offer nothing when you trace mine against him with your tongue, when you muffle the words around his shaft as your mouth widens to take more of him.
It’s just pleasure, an easy-to-choose solution to another body being in proximity—a lie you tell yourself.
One you bargain with when he sleeps and you’re coated in the dark, convincing yourself until sleep carries you away and you wake to find yourself either alone or the very opposite.
Because it’s easier, simpler. Far better than admitting your heart does a double take when he returns, that you yearn for him in the days that pass when he leaves you on the ship.
It’s less complicated than asking him if you’ll ever be worthy of seeing him.
And you’re not the type of person to question. So you don’t.
And so the routine continues.
an: you don't know how much long this has been burning in my head.
One of my favorite little fanon quirks given to Din is that he’ll do silly and light-hearted activities to keep Grogu happy but still play it 100% serious and gruff like he usually does with strangers. Like he’ll rush to join an important meeting discussing the terms for a bounty hunting opportunity while his flight suit is still just covered with rainbow chalk dust and crayon marks because Grogu was feeling artistic, or he’ll sit in a sleazy cantina giving an cold and daunting stare behind his helmet to anybody who dares look over at him for too long while also helping his son poke his straw into his apple juice box and not spill it on his robe. And if anybody thinks to question it or gives him an amused look he’s just like “Is there something you find funny? 🤨” and threatens to shoot them while Grogu sits in a baby harness on his chest and nibbles on his sleeve in the meantime.
HEY that's MY emotional support morally ambiguous misunderstood full of trauma touch starved yearning for love drenched in blood responsible for numerous atrocities comfort character who is TRYING & u will TREAT them with RESPECT
the fight over maarva saying fuck the empire is still so funny to me like
andor creators: "we already recorded it! you can't tell us she can't say fuck!"
disney: "i don't care. dub it over. she can't say fuck"
andor creators: "here is a memo on why it is economically and socially prudent to allow maarva to say fuck"
disney: " ...? no!"
andor creators: "...fine. we'll dub it over." *they dub it but cut to an extreme close-up of maarva's face right as she says "FUCK", so that it's beyond obviously visible on her lips*
I'm hard of hearing and I thought the subtitles were wrong because her lips say "fuck" so clearly. I had to go back and listen to it again because I was so certain she'd said "fuck" and they'd just censored the subtitles. the pettiness is inspiring
