FROM THE VOID, WITH LOVE !

             —   FROM THE VOID, WITH LOVE    !

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a masterpost for the drabble series by yours truly. a revisitation of a well-loved story; watch two forever-lovers fall in love again. canon divergent, set during loki (2020). 

READ ME !  /  completed  ;  8/14/21

1.    the beginning of the beginning  2.    apartment CMY9 3.    dress code 4.    pester pester 5.    absolutely miserable 6.    blunder #1 7.    expectations 8.    control variable 9.    a time disguise 10.  fingers entwined 11.   half a sandwich 12.  beauty sleep 13.  the perfect storm 14.  a million meteorites 15.  keep on 16.  home is the heart 17.  petal-mouthed 18.  rib of adam 19.  desperation 20.  heart-haunted 21.  touch 22.  one more almost 23.  an ode to the void 24.  the catharsis of venus 25.  the end of the beginning

SCROLL ME !

1.   the sacred timeline 2.   the variant timeline files 3.   the tag 4.   the god & the scientist 5.   fan art

malware.c

#define WORD_COUNT 10427

#define WARNINGS_AND_TAGS {hacker!armin arlert, con to dubcon/noncon to con to dubcon, unprotected vaginal sex, oral sex (f! receiving), pussy job, dry humping, masturbation (f! & m!), mentioned toy play (dildo), cum eating, creampie, forced porn watching (of yourself), light spanking, overstimulation, HEAVY dacryphilia kink (TONS of crying), breeding kink, praise kink, heavy petting, implied aftercare, fear play and power dynamics, slight degradation and humiliation, pet names (baby, pretty girl), emotional manipulation, stalker and yandere behaviors, armin is unhinged and obsessive, ooc! just to play it safe, very dark themes!!!}

#define SUMMARY {armin arlert thought it was real cute that you genuinely believed your cheap VPN and nude-filled folder labeled as "homework" would ever be enough to protect you from the likes of him.}

#define NOTES {this is self indulgent and super fucked up. not that it should have to be said but: do NOT do this kind of shit irl! hacking is bad!!! okay anyway, carry along now hehe}

You should have known better. 

You should have known better than to trust the blond-haired, blue-eyed, pink-blushed, quiet-toned threat that sat beside you every class. 

Innocent was considerably the most misleading way to describe Armin Arlert. He appeared that way— gentle and polite, only speaking when prompted. But, it couldn't have been further from the truth. He knew it too.

He knew better.

And you should have too.

When asked why you chose to be a computer science major, you'd usually respond with some bullshit about how you "love" math and technology. You'd say you're enjoying the major, that it's fulfilling with how difficult it is. How you always felt challenged, but in a good way. That was a lie. If you were honest with yourself, you were on the brink of a mental breakdown every other day because of your course load, the never-ending cycle of assignments piling up on your back until you had to be the one to ask yourself:

Why did you choose to be a computer science major?

Was it worse that you didn't have an honest answer? Half-truths and the delusion you fed yourself to make it through the week were all you could scrap together. Despite the existential crises you rode, one thing kept you stable. Whenever you felt at a loss, all you had to do was look around and find everybody else's body already on the ground in defeat. There was comfort in that— knowing that you struggled but so did everyone else. Well, not everyone.

Armin Arlert was an exception to almost every rule you'd ever held to be true. Nothing about him screamed male computer science major. For one, he showered often. He was impossibly clean and neat, as if he worked extra hard just to fight the stereotype all of his other classmates only aided in feeding. So spotless you felt you were offending him each time you walked into class late with bedhead and a slightly wrinkled graphic tee. You figured you'd never catch him dead in a tee-shirt, not unless it were one for volunteering or a fundraiser. He dressed like he was always prepared to be taken home to somebody's parents. Sweaters with a white button-down underneath, the crisp collar peeking over the nice wool material, the non-itchy and probably stupidly expensive type. Everything about him was both domestic and yet modernly polished. 

You knew it made him cringe to see you with a Macbook laptop, the back littered with stickers that he was sure would never fully come off. But he never commented on it once. Armin wouldn't dare say a word to you unless you initiated the conversation. That was pretty rare, as you were slightly intimidated by him. It was no secret that Armin was top of the class— no, top of the major. But, one day, curiosity struck. 

"Why did you choose to be a computer science major?"

He blinked a few times before responding, ensuring you were, in fact, speaking to him, even with the physical confirmation of your body twisted to face him. 

"I want to make an impact on the world. It's evolving rapidly, and I'd like to have a place in it. Besides that, I enjoy using tactical and deep thinking, and coding allows me to utilize that side of myself. It's good exercise for the mind, I think. Our brains are capable of much more than we use them for. I just want to reach that full potential. I enjoy pushing myself that way. I've never really been into sports— only mind games."

Your mouth opened slightly, but you had no intention to speak. It's the first time you've heard the question answered without a stutter or slice of indecisiveness. His ears noticeably reddened after speaking, as if he was embarrassed he'd let himself ramble even if you asked him to. You made a quick effort to dismiss that insecure thought of his.

"Mind games? Like chess?" 

You appeared to be genuinely curious, and that was your first mistake. Your fatal flaw was how mesmerizing a glint of interest danced in the heart of your eyes. The sight alone warmed Armin to the point that his undershirt clung to his skin, and his hand twitched with a rush of excitement. So warm, he was curious what it'd feel like to burn. 

But, he never got to respond. The professor began class, and he could only watch as you sulked in your seat in disappointment. A final project was announced, and the entire class groaned in response. All but Armin, of course.

You frowned when learning that the project would be group work. The assignment was to be done in pairs, which were randomly assigned. Armin knew better than to get his hopes up, accepting that he wouldn't be paired with you and really he wouldn't be paired with anyone because he knew he'd be doing all the work, anyway. But—

"Hey so, what days are you free to meet up?"

Armin was unsure who to thank for his name being called right after yours in the drawing of groups. He knew total randomness in algorithms was virtually impossible. No computer acted on spontaneity, not like a human would, at least. Everything was calculated— Armin's whole life was calculated, much like a machine. But you? You were so painfully human in comparison. A reminder that Armin was not content in life, no matter how much he convinced himself to be. 

Occasionally, he'd hold his breath solely to feel the discomfort of his body's instinctual desire to conserve itself and survive. Any sign of life was a sign that he was still trapped in living it. He'd made friends, more than you'd ever know, as he was secretive about his social life— separating work from pleasure, you could say. But Armin was never truly content. 

He's too young to feel stiffness in his joints, but he can't help it. Something about him is so mechanical— static, almost. There's no give in his life, or, at least, he's never slipped up enough to see if anything would catch him if he did. 

Armin is so incredibly still, which gave him no time to respond to the sinkhole disaster that was your scarlet beating heart. So human and flawed, he finds himself choking on your blood as he carves a spot into the burrow of your chest. He'd build a home there, if he could— in the crux of your love. He fell so hard he didn't even remember to say goodbye to the man he used to be, and now all he can see is you.

Now all he wants to know is you. How you feel, how you smell, how you taste. He wants to devour you like the night does the Sun. 

And so, Armin knows it's not just some coincidence. The proclaimed random name generator was calculated, just like Armin. Calculated, but it felt like fate.

"God, I hate when it does this," you groan, leaning a little too friendly into Armin as he curiously peers over his shoulder to study your screen. 

"Another bug? Let me see," he reaches behind your back to carefully push your laptop towards him, allowing you to nuzzle into his side as you mutter something under your breath.

It's been hours since you first started working. You've been meeting with Armin almost every day since being assigned the final project, allowing you to get closer to him. 

Armin is surprisingly charming. He's a little reserved, but eventually, he softens to you. There's a lot to learn about the man hidden under the perfect, clean collared presentation and prestige of Armin Arlert. He's definitely not perfect, for one. You've caught him stuck at times; not understanding a pop culture reference you drop on him because he doesn't digest that kind of media. But he's quick. Soon he's the one learning about your fields of interest and is springing discussion you're not capable of carrying— flipping his weaknesses into your own.

He has these incredibly dark humor jokes you'd never expect to leave his always perfectly moisturized pinks lips. He has the cutest dimples when he smiles. He's an only child, and he acts like it too. He goes to bed before midnight and wakes up before the Sun does. He wants to get a dog in the future. There's no strong preference on the breed, but it'll need the capability to go on runs with him. He likes that his initials are the same letter; he finds the consistent symmetry to be comforting. He prefers hardcover books over soft— but doesn't everyone?

He's everything he's been claimed to be and more. You wish to know him in a way nobody ever has— nobody ever will. You wish to be his.

So, although all the other groups gave up and went home by now, and you're becoming drowsy, you remain right there beside him. You don't mind that it's a Friday night and you're missing a party you'll probably forget anyway, because you enjoyed your time with Armin. He made you feel smart when you were with him, despite how noticeable the gap in your intelligence was. He'd never judge you for your clumsy mistakes that caused a troubling amount of syntax errors or how you always forgot to add an argument while running your program even after he constructed the shell command to prompt for it. He'd never complain because he enjoyed his time with you just as much or even more. 

You were constantly praising him for his abilities, and he was continually shutting them down for your peace of mind. You didn't need to know everything. You didn't need to know his full capabilities— his mind games. 

"Ahh, yeah, that's a problem," he chuckles softly, pointing to the line in your script, "You never declared the last index of the char array to be null, so the computer is unable to parse through it correctly. It's the indicator that the input is done; the processor knows the segment is complete once the pointer reaches null. It's a bit redundant, and you'd think the program would just know, but it doesn't. To play it safe, I usually just set the whole array to null before the actual initialization process begins."

You nod slowly like you understand his explanation, but you're only partially following him. You heard some similar descriptions in class, at least. But you definitely didn't retain it as Armin did.

"It's a common mistake," he adds as he begins typing away, adding a comment above the code segment for you as a reminder before fixing the issue for you. You watch his fingers dance on the stage of keys with quick, confident, and precise movements. 

Armin was the kind of person who knew every single shortcut by heart, even on machines that weren't his own. During your first meeting, he inspected your programming setup, his eyebrows furrowed in slight distraught once he realized you were editing files in Vim on your terminal. It would be impressive had he not known you only did it because you were too nervous to ask how to set up your VM on Visual Studio Code with git and ssh keys. Noticing his reaction, you asked him what was wrong, to which he only responded, "Can I do something real quick?" He installed about twenty IDEs and debugging tools in seconds flat and cloned your Github to VS Code for you. 

That was one of the first moments you realized Armin was really out of your league computer knowledge-wise— out of everyone's league, really. He was sharp and humble about it all. He never made a mistake.

"I make a lot of those, I've noticed," you huff, but you can't help but smile despite your slight embarrassment. He chuckles in response with a shake of his head.

With him this close, you can fully take in his scent. Armin smells like a new car you drive off the dealer's lot in the pouring rain, the dewiness of fresh-cut grass streaming in as you lower the windows carelessly. Mellow and soft, like fresh cotton and gentle detergent because his skin's too sensitive for actual fragrance. He smells like the kind of hug that's unsure at first. A cautious grip around your body until he feels you hold him back, and then suddenly, it's a tight squeeze. He smells like how cool marble feels beneath your feet as you step out of the shower. Similar to how water tastes past midnight in your pajamas on a Tuesday night. It's neither sweet nor musky, practically unidentifiable— it's just Armin, and it's enthralling. 

"Hey, Armin?" You tilt your head up, peering at him with sullen eyes and an increasingly sleepy expression.

He gulps as he looks down at you, taking a short breath before replying, "Yeah?"

You smile before speaking, like his response was already more than enough, "I've been having issues with my Mac lately. I think I downloaded something I shouldn't have, and I was gonna bring it to IT, but... Those guys are dicks and don't even know what they're talking about half of the time. So, I was wondering if maybe you could check it out? Only if you want to, that is. I just figured you'd know—"

"Of course," it's a bit rushed, coming out much too quick, but the enthusiasm doesn't phase you. 

You nod to yourself before allowing your lids to grow heavy enough to shut, shamelessly dropping onto his shoulder as you drift into a light slumber. He stares at you for some time, figuring you'd finally been spent, and now he can actually get to work. There were about seven significant errors in your code that Armin noticed hours ago but didn't mention because he knew it meant less time with you. Now that you're asleep, he quickly cleans up your sloppy work, ignoring how his cheeks sting with heat as he feels your body's warmth against him.

He should probably wake you, staring blankly at your screen as his mind swirls with possibilities. He has a sinful thought, but shuts it down multiple times, almost afraid of himself for having it. He couldn't do that to you. No. No, he couldn't. 

So then, why did he?

Armin has an answer to everything but that. If he had to give it his best shot, he'd say it's adrenaline and mortal curiosity. 

So, just like that— Armin inserts one of his mind games into your laptop with shaky hands and a tight feeling in his chest, watching as his program begins to corrupt your computer and gain access to all of the remaining privacy you have left. He glances down at you while shattering your boundaries and stomping on your trust. He almost has to laugh. The process is quick and simple, almost too easy. Well, for someone like him, at least.

Armin was never really interested in using one of his creations with ill intent. It was more of a competitive thing he had going with himself after reading about the notorious USB Rubber Ducky and figuring he could do better himself. It was simply a fun project for him to do in his free time, but it seemed to come in handy now. 

All he needed was an Arudino compressed into teensy size and code he could have written in his sleep to pull it off. The device, identical to a USB, is detected by your computer as a keyboard or mouse. That meant he could send keyboard and mouse commands to your laptop, the system not detecting any threat throughout the entire process. He uses his expansive knowledge for iniquity and your ignorance for luck. It's excellent luck too. He's able to get all of the passwords to your accounts. All the information, even you didn't know, was kept logged and tucked away. 

Just like that, your world is his.

He fears for you in a certain regard, but part of him also finds it to be endearing. Armin thinks it's real cute that you genuinely believed your cheap VPN and a nude-filled folder labeled "homework" was enough to protect you from the big bad wolf that is the seemingly puppy dog Armin.

It's like stealing candy from a baby, but oh so much worse. There's nothing sweet about how he delves into your world without permission once he finally gets back to his apartment. 

It's terrible. Awful, vile, disgusting, cruel, really anything bad but make it tens times worse because, God— God, is it so sinfully and addictingly incredible.

His cock twitches as he furiously pumps it in an eager grip. He fucks his fist to the scandalous videos you keep tucked away for "safekeeping." The intent is unknown, but they're all recent and have never been sent to anyone. It crosses his mind that maybe, just maybe, he's the cause of the influx of nudes you've been taking. That's how he rationalizes it. He figures he's done nothing wrong because these pictures and videos, your everything, are meant for him. 

Ridden with guilt after coming all over his soft peak abs, he takes a long shower and contemplates his actions. He's in too deep to back out now, and he's unsure if he'd even leave if the door were open to allow it. It's an ongoing dilemma until he sees new activity on your iCloud, which he now has full VIP granted access to.

I think I have a crush.

Armin's heart races as he watches the three small dots of your friend typing a responding text.

omg who?

He waits hopelessly as you take your time to reply, his body tensing as he impatiently bounces his knee.

this guy who I got paired with for a CS project. he's so fucking attractive it's criminal.

Sighing with relief, Armin runs a hand through his hair as he allows the rest of the conversation to play out.

whatttttt??? you're kidding you told me all of those guys are creeps.

he's different I swear. super smart and sweet. and clean. pfft.

yeah? you gonna fuck him?

omg chill. you're such a perv.

well?

idkkkkk.

c'mon yes or no?

maybe... idk I don't think he likes me like that. he probably thinks I'm annoying.

I doubt it. you should make a move on him. I bet he'll faint.

you're so mean! I swear he's so cool. stop being a prick.

fine. but you really should just try. just flirt and wear a tight shirt or something. always works.

yeah yeah yeah... we'll see we'll see.

Armin checks out for the rest of your discussion, as all he really needed to hear was that slice of validation. He wonders if maybe he can have his cake and eat it too. And maybe, just maybe, he'll have a slice of you. 

It'd been eating him alive. He could barely look at you anymore, not without imagining you with your fingers stuffed in your tight cunt as you jerked and whined. Obsession was an understatement for the illness Armin was struck with when he fell madly and deeply in love with you. He knew everything about you. He digested anything he could get his slender and quick hands on. He knew about your family and friends; your entire existence was practically an open book to him. He felt that he knew you better than you knew yourself at times, remembering aspects you'd often forget, which happened to cause a few slip-ups.

"Armin, you have to try the new ice cream place that just opened up. I went on Wednesday, and oh my god, they make this boba tea ice cream, and it is to die for," you gushed while walking beside him after class.

"You went on Tuesday," Armin corrected you, causing you to raise an eyebrow in suspicion though a look of horror almost immediately replaced it.

Armin began to panic, afraid for your reaction and what thoughts were swarming in that pretty little mind of yours. He measured the believability of a few excuses and responses to whatever the following words out of your mouth would be, but was astounded to find them to be an apology.

"I'm sorry, that's so embarrassing. I totally forgot I told you about that place already," you looked down meekly, feeling caught for having such a bad memory as you tried to redeem yourself, "But, anyway, I was gonna ask if you maybe wanted to go together?"

You hadn't told him about it before. Armin only knew you went to the new ice cream place on Tuesday because you took about a billion photos of the cone, and it practically flooded your photo drive in the most annoying manner. He held back the urge to delete a few of the pics; because did you really need all forty-seven of them? It made it more difficult to scroll up to see your pretty face or body, or really anything that wasn't that stupid fucking ice cream cone. 

"It's alright. I forget stuff all the time." He started, which was, of course, a complete lie.

 "I would love to get ice cream with you, though." That at least was the truth. A strong one too.

He's unsure what's worse. Did getting caught yield more guilt than getting away with it? Regardless, he's grateful for your forgetfulness, and as a result, the overwhelming urge to protect you grew to be prominent. 

He'd seen you at your most vulnerable state, at the brink of an orgasm, eyes screwed shut with that shaky high-pitched cry you often muffled with your pillow. Hell, Armin's seen you naked more than he thinks he's seen himself naked. It made him feel in debt to you, in a way. Armin isn't really much of a fighter, though. He's never been overly physical, though he maintains shape with morning jogs and has recently picked up lifting to impress a certain someone. But, despite his passive nature, Armin knew above all it wouldn't be a barrier from his incisive need to shield you from the world.

You had mentioned a barista bothering you one day, making crude and perverted remarks that made you so uncomfortable Armin swears he saw your waterline on the brink of filling. He calmly asked you if you knew the worker's name, and you thought nothing of it, mumbling it into his chest as he held you in a tight hug. You never saw that barista again after that day. Armin had leaked information regarding the man to his boss and gotten him fired. But that wasn't all. To ensure you never had to interact with that man again, Armin also leaked his information anonymously to the police. It was pure luck that he found incriminating activities from him, but Armin would have found a way even if he had not. After all, Armin could always solve an issue if he put his mind to it.

Which resorts to now. The issue at hand being that skimpy little camisole you're wearing as if it doesn't give the poor man heart palpitations. The straps are digging into your shoulders just a little bit, the way it pinches your skin... he has the urge to bite you. Just to feel the give of the meat of your shoulder between his teeth. And your cleavage— God has favorites and it's not Armin because it is Hell on Earth to attempt to keep eye contact with you as you bounce in your seat laughing at one of the insanely dark jokes he just spewed. 

The short little excuse of a skirt you decided on wearing today also didn't help. Armin's noticed you beginning to dress a little more put together lately— fewer sweatpants and oversized tees and more form-fitting wear that left little to the imagination, not that Armin needed it. But this was perhaps your boldest move yet. He presumes you weren't trying to hide your advances anymore, not with how blatant you are showing up to his apartment that you requested meeting at because "The labs are too busy, and I work better in silence." and "My roommates are so nosy they'd never leave us alone."

 Usually, Armin would be able to avoid his temptations strategically, but you've become too much of an exception, and it was beginning to become a problem. Worst of all, in one of your latest videos, his name slipped right past your parted lips while fucking yourself with that dildo you appeared to love so much. That was his last straw. 

That was your last mistake.

"I think we're almost done. I'm just proofreading the report," you beam, placing a hand on Armin's thigh with a light squeeze before removing it and turning back forward to continue editing the Word document.

Your touch leaves a burning sensation on his skin. Even protected under the layer of his pants, it stings as it aches for more. He sucks in a breath with a delayed nod.

It's torture to be so close to you, huddled up next to each other at his desk that he pulled a chair up to accommodate a place for you. Every so often, he glances over and discretely gets a view of your tits, granted from the revealing low collar of your top. He's grateful that he can type without even needing to look at his screen for confirmation and even more thankful that you can barely type without looking at the keyboard. It allows him to peek as often as he pleases without getting caught. 

"I'm really happy we were selected to be partners. It's been a lot of fun working with you," you confess, tilting your head toward him as your lips curve up into an adoring smile, "I know that probably sounds weird, considering I'm miserable a majority of the time and frustrated while debugging, but, you know. It's been nice."

Armin smiles back helplessly, his blood pumping loudly in his ears as he scrambles for a response. For once, he finds himself at a loss, unable to speak anything completely coherent.

"Y-yeah. Yeah, it's been really nice. I, uh, I like you a lot," he clamors, both of his hands gripping his knees and creasing his pants in the process. 

A soft giggle tumbles from your lips, watching his cheeks redden like strawberry fields as blood rushes to the area. Feeling bold, you place a hand on his thigh furthest from you.

"You like me, Armin?" Your eyes drop to his lips before flickering back to those baby blues you dreamt of swimming in. 

"Uh, yeah," he stutters on a breath as you slide yourself onto his lap, back pressed into his chest.

"What are you doing?" He exhales in slight distress, unsure where to put his hands, ultimately deciding to let them go limp by his sides. He watches as you begin scrolling down the shared document on his laptop, finding the place you were on your own, and start typing again. 

"I don't know," you reply earnestly, ignoring the nerves prickling at your fingertips as you press them down into the keyboard, "Is that okay with you?"

He wants to comment that it's a little too late to ask. Your ass is already pressing into him, and it's as if you've injected venom into his veins as he fights his own body to not get immediately hard from it. 

"Sure. Yeah. Yeah, that's okay," he mutters in a strained tone, gulping silently as you shift on his lap to get comfortable, causing Armin to tense beneath you.

"I like you too," you admit after a moment of nothing but tension and calculated breaths, waiting patiently as you let grammar check process the document.

Armin doesn't know how to respond to that. Instead, he releases a pathetic sound that's a mix of a hum and huff. As if he's choking on his heart and can only release hot air onto the nape of your neck. 

You're not sure what to say either. You didn't think that far and were sort of hoping that Armin would have for you. He always had a plan; some decision made no matter the situation. Instead, you sit in silence. You sit in silence until it becomes unbearable and—

"Armin..." 

You speak so softly. So softly that Armin's afraid he imagined it, his heart jerking violently in the burrow of his chest in anticipation.

"Armin, you're hard."

"I-"

"It's okay," you whisper, slowly dropping your hands to pick up his own, bringing them to your lips. You kiss his knuckles carefully, each one given praise before you flatten his palms against your neck and drag them down your chest.

"It's okay. I like you, Armin."

He whimpers when you mold his hands beneath yours to squeeze your tits. His fingers dig into the light padding of your bra, a tiny gasp leaving you that sends him into a total frenzy of mania.

"You're so smart and sweet," you murmur, shutting your eyes as you begin to move your hips and grind against the length of his clothed cock, "And cool. You're so cool."

"Yeah?" It's not cocky. It's pure desperation escaping his trembling lips as he politely begs for reassurance.

"Y-yeah. Yeah, I think you're kind of cool," you grin sheepishly, releasing your touch to allow him to grasp at his own taste. Your hands drop onto the keyboard clumsily due to your eyes remaining closed, the startling clashing sound causing you to swipe them open in embarrassment.

"Oh god, I'm so sorry," you rush an apology, knowing how protective Armin was over his laptop and figuring he wouldn't be too amused with your slip-up.

You scan the screen, prepared to delete any characters accidentally added to your document, but are instead greeted with something else entirely. Your mouth dries, your body frozen as you feel your lungs burn— squeezed under the compression of your growing panic. 

It's you. It's all you. Your naked body displays on the thin sheet of glass as Armin sucks in a breath.

"A-Armin?! What, W-what the fuck is—"

He clamps a hand over your mouth, causing your eyes to widen as he sighs as if he's annoyed. 

"Shh, not too loud," he hushes you, his other hand leaving your chest to grip your hip harshly, continuing the motions you halted as he drags your hot, barely covered by the thin material of your panties, cunt against him. He groans at the return of friction, his voice much darker and more profound than before. 

"I'm sorry, I really am," he hisses as he feels your teeth catch the skin of his middle finger, but doesn't flinch, "It's really fucked up, huh? Yeah, I know. I know."

You attempt to fight his restraints, but the extra movement only causes heat to pool at your core, Armin's hardness only punishing your body's resistance with every squirm and budge. 

"But, it's too late to be shy now," he argues, exhaling deeply as he feels your jaw slack beneath him, "There you go. Good girl, just... relax."

He waits until you've behaved long enough to ensure compliance to drop his hand, planting it onto your other hip as he listens closely while you choke and gasp for air. 

"What did you do?" You breathe, biting back a moan as your clit catches on the rugged fabric of his pants.

"A lot. I did a lot of bad things," he confesses, watching along with you as you grip his laptop in shock, a video of your finger tracing up your calf to your bare pussy playing. 

"Do I scare you?" His mouth is by your ear, and you whine as he presses you harder down into him.

"W-why? How could you?" You don't answer his question. You have too many of your own.

"I told you, didn't I? I like you. I like you a lot," his lips drag on along your neck before placing a gentle kiss on your pulse point, feeling it throb beneath him. 

"Do I scare you?" He repeats himself more directly this time as he waits patiently for your response.

"I don't know," hot tears slip past your cheeks and onto your lap, your body shuddering as you stutter on a sob.

"You don't have to be scared. I can protect you. I have protected you," he pecks your shoulder, the combination of your gentle giggle from the video playing and the silent cries you sing for him creating a sinful contrast.

"I want to protect you. You'll let me, right?"

You sniffle as you slowly turn back to face him, your nose becoming runny, all composure vacant as your voice shakes, "Please— Please just d-don't show anyone. Don't, I'm begging. I don't want to be scared. I-I don't want to be scared. I want to like you. Want to b-be protected."

"Okay," he coos, eyes dropping to the skirt that's shoved up over your hips as you move to straddle him, your tits dangling in his face as you lower yourself, "I promise, okay? I'd never hurt you. I don't ever want to hurt you. Don't wanna see you like this."

That's partially a lie. Armin doesn't want to see you upset, that's true, but he can't hide the fact that your dampened by tears cheeks don't have his dick straining in his pants. Pretty— he thinks you look oh so pretty when you cry. Like an angel who scrapped their knee falling from Heaven and into the depths of Armin's Hell. Pretty. 

His thumb brushes underneath your nose, and he uses his free hand to wipe your eyes dry with the sleeve of his shirt. You feel yourself calming down— drowning out the sound of your light whine streaming in from his laptop. It's easier when you see his face. Easier to trust him though he doesn't deserve it.

"I'm gonna keep you safe. No one's gonna ever find this, mm? No one but me, baby. Is that alright?" His eyes race over the flux of emotions displayed on your features, finding a sense of submission under the flickering horror.

You nod timidly, avoiding his piercing gaze as you focus on his collar, fisting the material of his sweater in your hands as you grip it, "They were for you anyway... The videos."

"For me?" A shameless smile breaks on Armin's lips, and he almost sounds sweet, maybe even innocent, as he beams in excitement.

You yelp as his hands dig into your sides again, lifting you as he stands and walks you over to his bed. 

"I knew it. Knew it was for me," he sighs as he drops onto the mattress, the spring of the motion causing you to bounce on his lap as your palms flatten on his chest to brace yourself.

"I'm embarrassed," you blurt, eyes wide as you suddenly feel the need to take in your surroundings, jolting on top of him when you find your reflection on his laptop screen. When you focus hard enough, past the glare from his desk lamp, you remember what you've been trying to ignore. Your legs spread as you tease your nipples, the camera cutting off your face, but you're smiling like a kitten just barely in frame.

Armin grabs your chin between his thumb and index finger, squeezing it as he carefully brings your face back to his. 

"Don't be embarrassed. You sound so adorable in them. Look so perfect. You drove me insane," his tongue swipes past his bottom lip, dropping his hold, his chest rising and falling with a drag of his breath.

"You're so pretty," he praises, eyeing you for permission as his other hand trails up your thigh, but it's not like it's stopped him in the past. He'd done a lot without your consent; he'd invaded your privacy without you even knowing. Him acting so polite now was probably compensation, but part of you didn't mind that. As long as he kept looking at you like that, everything felt like it'd be okay.

"Can I?" He asks directly, his fingertips playing with the heam of your panties as you nod, eyes anywhere but his.

His cock twitches as he peels your panties to the side, the way they stick to your wet folds causing him to mutter a soft "fuck" as you whimper at the cool air hitting your bare cunt.

"Never be embarrassed. You've got the prettiest little cunt. So fucking cute."

You almost couldn't believe Armin was speaking such crude remarks. It's as if a flip has switched inside him, like he doesn't have to act like the picture-perfect student anymore and can finally just be him. It's shocking, but you figured nobody would ever guess you thought it was fun to make borderline sex tapes in your spare time. Everyone had their secrets. Everyone had their games. 

He chuckles lightly when you grab his waistband, the way your hands shake completely contradicting the bold gesture. 

"You can," he answers before you could ask, saving you from the humiliation as you nod in response and begin undoing his pants.

His hips lift as you rise onto your knees, hovering over him as you pull the material down along with his boxers. You gasp when his cock slaps his stomach, precum dripping onto the expensive fabric of his sweater. Heat stings at your cheeks like a cactus prickling under the desert sun, the pale pink shade of his tip reminding you of ripe peaches and cherry blossoms. So delicate-looking and yet swollen and aching, desperate for your touch as you absent-mindedly swipe your thumb over his slit, scooping precum into your mouth as you curiously suck on your finger.

Sweet and tart. Enough to make your lips pucker and Armin grins at your nose crinkling up. 

"Not so good, huh?" He teases, squeezing your thigh before he sits up to remove his undershirt and sweater.

You shake your head quickly while replanting your hands on his chest, afraid to offend him, as you scramble to find an excuse, "No, no, no. It just doesn't taste—"

"As good as you?" He finishes your sentence though he knows it's not where you were heading. Your eyes widen at the insinuation, skin crawling as you hear yourself hum a raspy "Mmm." from his laptop's speaker. You turn to look briefly, watching your pixelated self lick up the length of your index finger that was just inside you moments ago.

"It's okay," Armin cuts off your moment of fruition, gaining your attention by tapping your cheek, "I don't want you to get your mouth all dirty like that anyway. You're too pretty for that. I just want you to kiss me. C'mere."

You hesitate before following his command, slowly lowering yourself as fresh and hot tears drop onto his face from where you hover over him. You can't stop crying. It's as if the flow won't reach an end, and you'll shrivel up and crumble once your body has finally had enough.

Armin swipes his tongue to the side to catch the wetness traveling down his cheek, flashing a warm smile as his hand wraps behind your neck. 

"You're such a baby," his thumb swipes across your jaw, taking a moment just to stare into the void of your dilated pupils before he sits up to meet your lips. 

You shut your eyes tight, allowing him to guide all movements, following his kisses like a lost puppy desperate to find a home. He tastes carbonated water and chapstick. His tongue slipping into your mouth has your mind fizzing, nerves bubbling and a pit forming in your stomach as he groans while deepening the connection. His nose is nuzzled beside your own, so close you're confident every breath you take is directly from his exhales. 

He pulls back to give you some air and releases the hand wrapped behind your neck, letting you sit up. 

"See? Much better, right?" He traces up and down your arm, both of your palms remaining flat on his chest as you focus on keeping your hips up to fight the urge to rub yourself along his length.

"Yeah, but... are you sure you really don't want me to, uh... y'know," you peer down at his abdomen, then back up to Armin, who tilts his head in amusement at your question. 

"You're eager to please," he grins, shaking his head lightly as you frown, "You know I can tell when someone is doing something because they think it'll make someone like them more and not because they want to. It's pretty easy to spot."

His hands find your hips, lowering you as your eyes widen in shock, a choked moan escaping when the length of his cock slots between your sticky folds. 

"You look to the left when you lie or feel uncomfortable, I've noticed," Armin sighs as you drop onto his chest, hiding your face into the crook of his neck as he glides your hot pussy along his shaft, letting your arousal coat him.

"I've noticed a lot, actually. I've noticed how you don't ever come in the videos. Not even once," his grip tightens on your hips, his tip catching your clit as he grinds you harder into him, "You fake it."

"As soon as you get close, you stop doing what feels good and just fake it. I've been wondering why for a while now, but I think I get it now. You're just too sensitive."

You whine into his shoulder, confirming his beliefs as you squirm above him. 

"You can't finish because you're just too sensitive to continue. Maybe even too scared to feel what it's like, mm? You need someone to help you. You need me."

You rise to look at him, hopeless and terrifyingly vulnerable.

"Is that what you want, pretty girl?"

You nod in a trance, dropping to meet him in a needy kiss that he smiles into. It's then he knows he has you. He watches as you sit up and begin moving your hips to his rhythm, removing your camisole and bra just to rip one of his hands from your side and demand he plays with your breasts. Armin wants to laugh at the gesture, not because it's funny, but because it's cute. 

"I want you," you reassure him, pulse dangerously increasing, a mix of fear and arousal plaguing your mind as you glare down at him, "I-I need you. Please."

He brings both of his hands up to massage your chest, pinching your nipples and sitting up to take one into his mouth as you continue rocking your hips down onto his cock. 

"God, you're so fucking wet. What a mess," he hisses under his breath, laying his cheek onto one of your tits as he turns to watch his monitor, smiling to himself as he watches the video playing. You're close, legs spasming as high-pitched sounds are dragged out from your parted lips, but there it is—

"See? You're so close, and then, ah- see? You're such a fucking liar."

Your eyes follow his voice to glare at the screen, a whimper leaving you as he cups one of your tits and nibbles on the delicate flesh. He's right. Armin's always right. The change is minuscule but there nonetheless. You watch as your fingers quicken to a pace that simply cannot feel good— forced pleasure that has your mind bored and senses dulled as you begin feigning sounds of bliss. It's bleaker than you had realized now that he'd pointed it out, causing you to still on top of him as you continue to scrutinize the act you've been putting on for years now.

"How long were you gonna wait to show me these?" He grins to himself, eyeing your shoulders, neck, and lips until he reaches those pathetically wide eyes you have going for him as they flicker to meet his. 

"How long were you going to suffer in silence?" He takes hold of your hips, picking up where you left off, dragging you slowly along his cock until a moan fights its way out of your chest. 

"How long, baby?" 

You're unsure. Ever since Armin crawled by the elbows and knees into your mind, you've felt yourself change. You felt the overwhelming urge to earn his approval. He always seemed to have things figured out, clean-cut where all you had were ragged, hand-torn pieces of scrap paper. Sometimes, not even that. He drove you into a frenzy without even being asked. He made you feel so painfully scrambled. He left you scribbling instructions onto a restaurant napkin or the palm of your hand so you wouldn't forget how to breathe. He drove you to create desperate amateur porn because it felt sinful not to document the insanity that was Armin Arlert imprinting himself into your life, your everything.

How long? You'd have to say you've been waiting an eternity. 

But you don't answer. How could you? You can't, not with his thumb dragging your bottom lip down before he slips his index finger past it and slowly lowers you onto your back. You don't even notice the switch of positions until your head hits the mattress, and suddenly he's hovering over you, slotted between your thighs with his finger in your mouth as you suck on it without a thought. 

He presses down on your tongue, guiding your mouth open as he stares at you with a crazed yet balanced expression. He adds a couple more fingers, letting you get them all nice and wet as his attention shifts back to his laptop. The first video has ended, provoking the next to play— Armin's favorite. He swiftly removes his digits from your swollen lips, sighing as he uses them to pump his dick as if it wasn't already dripping from your slick. He just needed an excuse to feel your tiny hot mouth around him once and indulge in case this was his last chance to take what he wanted. In case you came to your senses and realized just how unhinged he genuinely is— despite it all being in your best interest. Or at least, that's how he rationalized it.

"It doesn't matter now," he cups your face with his dry clean hand, not wanting to dirty the fresh obsession he has beneath him. 

Both of your hands wrap around the wrist of the palm caressing your cheek; a soft sigh of anticipation dragged out from your pout as he tugs his pants down completely. He taps your hip, gesturing you to lift yourself as he pulls your panties down to your ankles with one hand, letting you kick them off. He leaves your skirt on, only flipping it up to give full access. It's simply too cute to remove, he thinks.

Armin carries himself with unwavering confidence and certainty as he taps his tip against your clit, which catches you off guard slightly. Was it crude to have thought he was a virgin up until now? Possibly, but it's not entirely your fault. You couldn't have known that Armin was more experienced than you, not until now— that two of his close friends had taught him the ropes in hopes he'd be as successfully active as his male friends. Mikasa and Annie practically trained him to become what he was today, and just like in any subject, Armin excelled wherever there was a challenge to face. He never used his skills past those lessons despite their purpose, but perhaps he knew he'd save them for someone worthy. Someone who was in desperate need. For you. 

"Doesn't matter cause I'm here now," he finishes his thought, smiling slyly as he catches you staring at his cock with your jaw slacked, practically drooling at the sight, "Tell me what you want, and it's yours."

"Just wanna feel good," you muster, nails digging into his wrist as he continues to tease your clit, even going so far as to spit on it, so the sound of his cock hitting it sounds even lewder. 

"Awe, poor thing. C'mon be greedy. You've caught my attention; you've already infiltrated my every thought. You've overtaken my life, Y/N. Now tell me what you want. Tell me what you need."

"Armin, I just—" You sound frustrated, close to the verge of tears again with the way he stares at you so demandingly, making you feel naked beyond skin level, "Please, I just want you. Need you. All I can think about is you too. Haven't I made it clear enough?"

You tilt your head to his laptop, gesturing your long-lived desire before finding his face again, which softens as you continue, "Don't make me beg."

He pauses for a moment, his heart aching as he watches you almost cower into his palm, using it as a shield, your breath hot and sticky against it before he peels it away. He glides his hand behind your head, cradling it as he lowers himself to plant a deep and dizzyingly passionate kiss. Sloppy and wet as his lips clash with yours, you gasp into his open mouth when his tip prods at your entrance.

"You're right," Armin drags his lips down your jaw before finding a place beside your ear, his voice deep and concentrated as he slowly lowers his hips to sink into you. 

Your choked moan is raw and rugged, entirely contrary to his warm and crisp hum of satisfaction as he enters you about halfway and halts to speak.

"You don't deserve to beg. You've been so patient— I'm sorry. I'm gonna take care of you. Just like you need," he plants a kiss on your cheek before sitting up, grabbing both of your hips as he glares down at his cock being sucked in by your eager cunt. 

"Gonna make you feel good, and," he pauses as he drives himself further into you, sighing when he bottoms out, and you pathetically reach to squeeze his biceps, silently begging for time to adjust to his size.

"And, I'm not gonna let you fake it. I'm not gonna let you get close and give up. You wanna know why?" 

Your back arches as he slowly pulls out, feeling every vein brush your gummy walls as you clench down on him in response. He groans at your body's attempt to keep him close— so needy.

"Well, I'm not gonna stop," he ruts his hips forward, filling you again with one thrust that has your whole body shaking.

Armin grunts as he raises your hips to hit you deeper, setting a pace that forces you to babble on curses and whine his name. Your eyes squeeze shut as your tits bounce with every pulse, and Armin sucks in a breath at the way tears prickle before dampening your wispy lashes, clumping them together, each strang hugging the other as you hold him for stability. 

"Look at me," he commands, making your eyes forcibly swipe open as you struggle to hold contact with his, "Watch me fuck you. I want you to watch."

Your gaze lowers obediently, focusing on his soft abs prickling with beads of sweat as he rams his surprisingly thick cock into you, tilting himself up to catch the spot that keeps you twitching beneath him. 

"G-good, fuck," he slurs, squeezing your sides as he rocks his head back, "I've been waiting so long for this. You feel so good, baby. Better than I ever could have imagined."

His words trigger your memory, your body tensing as you realize the depth of what Armin had to of done to have your private videos streaming on his computer right now. How much did he know? How much did he know?

"I was waiting for the perfect time, after the semester ended, maybe. But, fuck, I couldn't have waited much longer," he grunts at your walls tightening around him, inklings of fear staining your body as you watch Armin smirk at your appearance. 

"I said I'm sorry. I know it wasn't cool of me to hack you like that, but I was curious, and you were—" He sends a particularly harsh thrust into you, emphasizing every word as he power fucks you, "So. fucking. tempting."

"I couldn't help myself. I can't help myself. You're just so cute. Naive and cute," his head turns to the video, and he perks up when he notices what part it's reaching— the part where you finally say his name. 

"Armin, turn it off," you tug on his arm, trying to catch his attention as you focus on sounding stern and not moaning to not stroke his humiliation fantasy, "Y-you're making fun of me."

"Making fun of you? No, no, never," his face whips back to you, shaking it rapidly as he slows his pace, dropping a thumb to your clit and earning an involuntary whine, "Why would I ever do that? I love the videos. I loved them so much; you had me fucking my fist every night."

"Y-you're just being n-nice," you suddenly feel self-conscious, stupid even— dumb. Of course, that's how he sees you. Naive and cute, like an idiot.

"Nice? There's nothing nice about it. I stole your data and got off on that lost privacy. Fuck, I even got off to pictures of just your face. I'm not being nice," Armin swipes his tongue past his bottom lip in concentration, trying to engage in the conversation but constantly getting distracted by your pussy death gripping him through your insecurity.

"I don't believe you."

Armin exhales deeply, stilling abruptly inside you before begrudgingly pulling out, trying desperately to ignore the filthy wet sound the motion causes. 

"Get up."

You blink at him blankly in response, gulping as he climbs off the bed and reaches an arm out for you to take. You slowly slide onto your feet, wincing slightly from the sting and emptiness between your legs before allowing him to guide you back over to his desk. He shoves a chair to the side, making room on his workspace for you before he positions you by your hips in front of the mahogany edge.

You don't question a single move he makes, complying with ease as he presses his palm flat into the square of your back, gently shoving you down onto the cool wood of the desk. He uses his index finger to tilt your head to the side, laying your cheek flush down so you're directed towards his laptop, which he adjusts to face you. 

"You're so stubborn," he notes while lining himself up, watching as your arms reach back to grip the edge of the desk beside your hips. Armin nudges his knee between your thighs, forcing them to spread so he's granted better access.

"If you don't believe me, we can watch together, and you can feel just how much I love these films of yours, mm?"

You let out a muffled protesting mewl as he enters you, slow and teasing. He folds himself on top of you so he can whisper into your ear, muttering fifth before he raises to begin his thrusts. 

"I'm gonna fuck you to your own rhythm, baby."

His hips slap your jiggly ass as he juts them forward, a low growl escaping the burrow of Armin's throat as he mimics the pace of you fucking yourself with a dildo in the video. He hits exceptionally deeper from this angle, causing your mouth to gape open to release annoyingly high-pitched cries, ones your sure penetrate past every thin wall this apartment holds and leaks into the halls. 

"Armin."

There it is. 

Armin grins to himself like he's received an award, his name streaming in through his laptop's speakers as your face burns in embarrassment against the desk.

"So fucking cute. Calling my name like that when you're all alone. How could I ever hate that? God, you can be so dense," he shakes his head, his jaw clenching as he watches your body jiggle on top of the space he usually reserves for studying and reading. 

"Armin," it's the real you this time, your whimper desperate and weak as your voice shakes, "P-please, don't make me w-watch. So embarrassing—"

You yelp when he lands a light smack on your ass, silencing you as he continues to rut into your soaked cunt. 

"Nuh-uh, this is important now. I want to teach you something," he dismisses as you tighten around him, heat spreading across his chest like a forest fire, a natural disaster that only drives him to slam his hips harder into you.

"See? You're about to stop, again," Armin notes, tsking to himself as realization hits you, again.

"W-wait," you stumble to find the words, feeling the building tightness in your tummy become overwhelming as your skin tingles and prickles, "A-armin wait!"

Your hands reach back desperately, attempting to stop his movements just like you're about to stop pumping the dildo inside you in the video. Armin sighs while collecting both of your wrists into one of his large hands at your back, not faltering for a moment as he continues his assault on your worst habit— the inability let yourself go.

"You're okay, baby. It's just me. F-fuck, yeah, just— Fuck, just come on my cock. I promise I got you," he stammers, finding himself reaching his own peak from how you're practically milking his dick right now. 

"S-scared," you confess, your body shaking, thighs tensing and threatening to close as Armin shuts his laptop to focus on you. 

"Shh," Armin coos, scooping under your stomach to bring you up to his chest, your back arching into him as his hand glides up your chest and neck, "I'm right here. Nothing to be scared of just— just let me take care of you."

He forces your chin to tilt to face him, eyes piercing yours as you silently cry a final shattering moan. Your blood feels like molten lava, muscles tense and then putty as you convulse in his hold. It is scary, but not so much when you have the calm and reassuring blue wave of stability in Armin's eyes as they glaze over you in adoration.

"There you go. See? Not scary. Feels so good— You did so fucking good. Fuck, I'm gonna come too. Gonna fill your tight little cunt— Fuck, fuck, fuck."

You can barely hear him, feeling limp against him as he securely wraps an arm in front of you and quickens his pace to reach his own high now that you've claimed yours. Your eyes slam shut at the overstimulation, but you can't help but encourage him with a small confession. 

"Please, Armin. Want your cum, want to be yours."

It's like you want him to die, and Armin practically does. He feels his balls tighten and mutters unlimited cusses under his breath as he empties himself into you. 

His lips are on yours in seconds flat, clashing mouths and small pathetic "thank you"s exchanged between spit and kisses. Armin smiles into your praise, kissing you back with fever and desperation— until he's forced to pull back just to breathe. 

His eyes lower to where you meet as he pulls out slowly, leaving you confused as he drops to his knees shortly after.

"Armin?—"

You gasp when you feel his tongue lay flat between your sticky folds, his hands spreading your thighs and ass as he delves into your dripping heat.

"Got you all dirty," he comments plainly, his tongue dropping to glide up your inner thigh, scooping any arousal that trickles down it. You cringe at the thought, flooded with embarrassment for what feels like the hundredth time tonight.

"Armin, I thought you said that it was gross," you mumble meekly, referring to his refusal to let you take him in your mouth earlier.

He doesn't respond right away, too busy practically making out with your cunt, sucking on your lips feverishly, making a fucking mess of his face as he laps up his and your release. He has to grip your thighs harshly just to keep you steady, the slight pain only adding to the stimulation of his tortuous licks. 

"Mm, no, baby. Tastes like you. Fuck, you're so perfect," he ignores your concern, eating out your abused cunt like it's his final prize, a grand reward in his long-term hunt that's led him to now.

But it's not. It's not because it's only the first of many others because Armin has you in a suffocating chokehold that only his lips can provide CPR for. It's not because you get an A on your project and find yourself glaring at the sheet for next semester's classes with overwhelming irony hanging over your conscious. "Computer and Network Security"— a required elective that came a little too late on your end. But you don't mind, because truly, you got what you wanted. It's not because maybe you're not as intelligent as Armin is, but you're not dumb— 

"C'mon, let me actually clean you up now, yeah?" Armin raises after what feels like an eternity between your thighs, guiding your weakened legs to his bathroom as you nod in response, a small smile playing on your lips.

Before stepping outside of his room, you look back, searching quickly for that small red flickering light hidden and perfectly angled from your backpack. Your shoulders drop in serenity at the sight, turning back to an unsuspecting Armin as he nestles your body closer to his. 

He should have known better. 

He should have known better than to trust the seemingly clumsy, bashful, ditzy, shaky-toned threat that sat beside him every class. 

A cheap camera nuzzled in your bag with footage stored directly onto an SD card; hardware Armin could never corrupt with it hidden cleverly in the inseam of one of your old jackets. A piece of you and him he could never touch with how much confidence he held in himself over you— that he owned you in the multitude of ways he'd stolen from your realm. Insurance is what you'd have to call his confession, his everything all on a tiny chip. Or really, more so, a mind game.

Naive was considerably the most misleading way to describe you. You appeared that way— consistent mistakes, slip-ups and all. But, it couldn't have been further from the truth. You knew it too.

You knew better.

And he should have too.

© all content belongs to @eremikan, do not modify or repost

aot taglist (open): @hennnyyyyy98 @po3ticb3auty @shoto-daddy @sailewhoremoon @thebeardedmoon @i1k @kenmasbimbo @butterfliesroses @brooks-lin @yeagerfushiguro @cottonheadedninnymugggins @prblmtic @tashayy @arminscanongf @softjaegerhours @missyasma @thegreatgreenghost @dorkange @im-sidney @mamslovebug @lordbugs @its-me-miles @ghostbeam @gukitup @venusflytrapstar @nikkialex @magicboytrash @greeniegreengreen @dukina @dezibou

Ewan McGregor interview in the Star Wars Complete Saga Blu-ray

yeah my boyfriend’s pretty cool

just found out birbs is hot . 4 dead 12 injured . abt to become ungovernable

oops

[ 𝐇𝐔𝐆 ] with our husband, our lovely husband, din djarin

✶  ———  REUNION  ;   d.d.

summary: din comes back to tatooine, and you both have tender confessions to share after nearly a year apart

pairing: din djarin x gn!reader, friends-to-lovers

warnings: bro i made myself emotional with this, fluff and comfort, a little angst, and a rlly fun make-out with din

a/n: it's like 2019, i am back writing for din again like a starved woman — enjoy some mechanic!reader content that i've alluded to in the past, but with a dash of OH HI YOU'RE BACK. the beautiful gif is by @hayden-christensen from this stunning set that made me sit at my desk and like the lisa simpson meme. you know the one.

"There's someone you'll probably want to see."

Fennec looks cunning when she says it, and she goes so far as to toss him a smirk over her shoulder as she saunters down towards the lower level of the Palace.

Din's footfalls falter momentarily.

Before he can even twist his frown away and grit out a follow-up question, he hears your voice.

Your voice.

Fennec can't see Din Djarin's eyes, but she can interpret the look. The well-kept expression behind the mask of beskar? That's surprise. The tension in his shoulders tells her enough. It's apprehensiveness that slows his steps. It's yearning that twitches in his fingers.

"I thought you said you were the best mechanic in the Rebellion—" comes a voice, far off in the deep cistern of a hangar.

"One," comes your voice, anointed with a grunt of disproval, "I never said that. Two, that's a hell of a lot of mouth coming from the kid who asked for my help—"

At your jest, there's a quiet clamor of laughter.

Fennec watches Din as the two hunters circle around the Slave I; her warm eyes are crinkled at the corners. It's a sense of satisfaction that's settled across her face. The soft, tender promise of this reunion... A non-promise in a swirling void of chaos. Fennec's gloved hand skims the bow in the ship's hull as she follows — and she waits in the wings when Din finally lays his eyes on you.

It's been months.

Nearly a year.

And you're here.

In truth, you'd never left.

You're under a... scooter? A colorful little speeder sits neatly on jacks, and you're on your back — rag and wrench in hand. He can see the bare skin of your arms, smeared with grease, and thick gloves that crawl up your wrist. Your boots scuffle a bit as you roll father back and let you a little curse.

"Seriously, what did you think would happen?" you huff haughtily, "The propulsion vents on this model aren't built for finer grit dune sand—"

You're lecturing a gaggle of teens. Scrappy, amused teens that are hanging on your every word — even when you raise a hand and waggle your wrench in frustration. They laugh a little, and Din feels gutted with a deep pang of longing. The same sort he's been wrestling with for the last year. But, this time, you're right here.

He's hardly put together that he's been standing there, a few meters from you, for a few seconds. Not until one of the teens, one with warm skin and a cyberized orbital implant, coughs.

"We have a guest," Fennec projects, spurring you to pause.

Easily, you wheel yourself out.

Sitting up is the easy part. Wrangling your goggles off your face, and smearing the sweat from your cheek isn't as easy, but it's habit by now. Days and days spent doing just this — not that you can complain. Fixing helps. Keeps you busy. Has you feeling useful. Hell, even that is an easy realization to come to.

All that is certainly easier than the jarring actualization that Din Djarin is standing right in front of you.

Din.

It's been months.

Nearly a year.

And he's here.

Like he never left.

In the same glittering, beautiful beskar — and you can see your breath robbed from your lungs in the reflection. Your wrench meets the pavement of the hangar, and you forget about any attempt at grace.

Scrambling up, his name is like a petal on your tongue. Its springtime in his heart and Din is moving before he can remind himself to slow down. Din is half-ready for the planetary impact brought about by your orbit colliding with his — in a dizzying spell of limbs and gravity. The collision is as gentle as a year of longing can be — not nearly as brutal as the nights spent alone, not nearly as hollow as the ache of forgetting the sound of someone's voice.

"Din."

He knows — deep in his heart — he's never heard his name said sweeter. Maybe it's the horrible, lonely circumstance. Or, maybe it's the fact you've wound your arms around his neck and you're proving him wrong, that he hadn't lost you when he left this planet on the promise of duty-owed. When he left you.

You can feel his gloves wind themselves tightly into the back of your mechanic's jumpsuit. You nearly trip as you push yourself up onto the tips of your boots and cling — hardly the reaction you'd rehearse in your head a thousand times. No, no you promised yourself you'd be tangibly cool, perfectly calm.

Truth be told, you're far from it.

You pull back, gloved finding the curved sides of his helm as you settle back down and look him over. An inspection, a breathless one, that's halted with the deliberate press of his helmet to your forehead. It's cool. Smooth. And his hands, you realize, have moved to hold your shoulders steady. To follow the curve of your arms, and to settle along your jaw.

It's a quiet reunion.

One that's watched by an audience, you remember, when Skad pointedly clears his throat and delivers a good-natured jab.

"I take it you two 'ave met, then?"

Din wishes you wouldn't pull away — not until he's finished the thankful prayer on his tongue. His hands fall to yours, and you squeeze them tightly when you turn your cheek. The entire time, he's watching you. Assessing the change. You've started wearing your hair in a new way. There's a wrinkle, between your brow, he doesn't remember being there before. He notes a new scar along the curve of your clavicle.

The entire time he's welcomed by the great Daimyo and his enclave of collected followers, his attention remains on the one person he's been unable to push from his thoughts. Fennec supposes there's something rather romantic about that — and even though she can't be sure that T-visor is trained on you the entire time, she knows well enough.

Din notes a litter of new scars along your knuckles.

During dinner, you try to keep your tender-mouthed yearning quiet. You have a hundred questions for him — but bide your time picking out the best parts of the prepared meal to bring to his quarters after. You plate fruit and meat and little bits of love carved right from your rib. You sit there, flicking up your gaze to find his attending look each time. It makes your heart feel heavy, and so you pile on more sweetsalt berries to his plate.

Laughter comes and goes as do the questions about his armor, conversations about the current politics, and full-bellied lull of a Tatooine evening. Somewhere, a balcony curtain billows — and the three moons hang warm and pink in the sky.

"I trust you can show our guest his living arrangements."

Boba's eyes are kind.

When you stand, gathered plate in hand, there are few questions — just heavy, tender looks from the Daimyo and his Master Assassin. Just a strong hand planted warmly on Din's shoulder in passing. A smile, even, from Fennec to you.

Din is quiet as he follows. The quiet tinker of beskar and the cool breeze of the evening air is all there is — even when you nudge open the door to his quarters. It's one of larger rooms, with a balcony and a rotunda and a bed big enough for a Hutt. It's not entirely dissimilar from your own arrangements.

As you set Din's dinner down on the table near the balcony, he speaks. The door slides shut with a hiss, and you steal a berry to tide over your yearning.

"I thought you'd be angry with me."

You flick your eyes to him. He's stopped in the center of the room. The sunset has settled into the glimmering curves of his armor, and you can't help but feel your heart tighten at the words.

"I was."

Din inhales.

Your expression is solid — but not cruel.

"For a while," you continue, "But, I'm not anymore."

"Why?" he asks in a quiet breath. It sounds far away through the helmet's vocalizer. Like a glacial rift tearing itself apart.

You frown — and almost immediately Din wishes he could take the question back. He watches you reach for another berry, and then you drift away from the balcony. Back to the center of the room, back towards him. You step around him for a second, like a star in orbit. Somehow, you find his eyes beneath the visor. He's always been struck dumb by your uncanny ability to do it. He's not sure if you know, but you've done it. The eye contact he so dreads, until it's you.

And then he feels home.

Like he never left.

You push the berry past your lips and shrug. You drop his gaze, and you turn your cheek towards the rising moons.

"Did you find them?"

"Yes," you're deflecting — and Din can play the game just as well, "I thought you said you were going to go home."

Suddenly, you look panicked.

How do you tell him he was home all along?

Your mouth goes dry, and you shrug away the burn of anxiousness.

You promised yourself you'd be honest with him if you ever saw him again — you promised yourself you'd ask him to never leave again, to let you stay by his side no matter the risk. No matter the circumstance. You promised yourself night after night that someday you'd see Din Djarin again and tell him exactly how you felt.

Your eyes are wide. The wrinkle he noticed before is back. He realizes it's one born out of worry.

"I..." your words slip away. You blink, then shake your head, "I was going to. Then, I realized some things."

Din wishes someone would take the dark saber and carve his heart out. It's the tension, the fear of admitting what you both know — and the edge of fear that perhaps it's not shared.

His voice is raspy. He takes a leap.

Quietly, he steps forward with his confession. "I should have never left."

You shake your head. "We both know you had to."

"They exiled me," he says, then, as he stands over you in the moonlight; Din's words are heavy and they sink into your heart, "And I had no one. All I did was think of you, every night I was gone."

"Exile," you breathe; you don't like the sound. You try to distract yourself with it, and not the crushing cosmos of feelings swirling in your chest at his pretty admittances.

"And then, I thought I'd come back here," Din says with an edge of fear, "And you'd be gone. And I'd never see you again."

You can feel the lump in your throat. You wish you had more of the spotcha at dinner. It would have given you enough of an edge to compose yourself, and not bow into Din the moment he touched you. Your cheek meets the smooth plate of his chest piece when he touches your hand, and you bend into an embrace that surmises a year's worth of unspoken feelings.

"I missed you," he says as his arms wrap themselves tightly around your shoulders, "I'm sorry I ever left you."

"I'm sorry I agreed to it, to part ways," you laugh shakily as you settle your chin on the lip of the beskar, "It was the worst mistake I ever made—"

His gloves hands are cool against your cheeks.

Again, with fluttering lashes, you find his eyes beneath the visor.

There are a lot of things being said between the words, and Din feels himself settling into them. You've relaxed — gone nearly pliable in his hands as you touch his knuckles with your own calloused fingers.

"Exile?" you ask mournfully after a moment of content quiet as you rub the curve of his thumb.

Din's gaze falters. "For showing my face."

Hurt flicks across your face. You know he could have lied. He could have told the Clan that no, he hadn't. But, Din Djarin is a good man — and in his truth, he'd bore the brunt of his punishment.

"But," he says after a moment, "I find myself... bargaining."

"Bargaining?" you ask with a wry look, one half-etched with confusion and half with amusement.

"I'd bear the weight of a thousand exiles if it meant I could kiss you."

Oh.

Oh.

There he goes again, robbing you of breath — this time with words so soft and honest that you can hardly find the right reaction; and it worsens, when a gloved hand moves to tip the lip of his helmet back and the beskar bends the light. Blues and pinks and orange flicker along the rotunda, and you watch greedily as the warm skin of throat, of chin, of lips appear.

He's slow — tentative. The gap is closed with steady hesitancy that meets in an exceedingly gentle press of the lips. Your nose slots next to his, chin tilting, and you can't help the way you slip into bliss at the dreamed touch.

You hardly notice that the beskar falls to the floor when he really kisses you — you hardly hear the bell-like sound that rings in a year worth of want. Can anyone blame you? When a Mandalorian bends his creed to kiss you, soften his war-hardened hands to cradle you? You swear you'll never be able to love again, at this moment, and the Mand'alor holds not only the dark saber in his hand but your heart.

When he draws himself, slowly, away from your kiss, you keep your eyes shut firmly. The sort of thing you'd always negotiated when you'd first started feeling these things for him, back when you'd only been an impromptu live-in mechanic for the Razor Crest.

You can feel his smile tickle your cheek after a moment of quiet. Your own smile is big. Din, sans his helmet, huffs a little laugh from his nose. It's a nasally sound, a warm one. You know he's smiling now.

"I can save you exile," your lashes kiss your cheeks as you keep your eyes firmly shut, "I promise, I'm good at not looking."

You had, after all, spent nearly a year and a half aboard that small freighter playing this exact game — in tight living quarters with a Mandalorian meant snapping eyes shut at a moment's notice.

Then, a gloved hand cradles your face as he presses a series of kisses to your cheek. Over and over. Each is punctuated with a little bit more force than the next. And on the last, he keeps his nose to your cheek as he muffles a laugh. His voice is warm against your ear.

"Just open your eyes," he says lowly, "Before I offer marriage as an alternative."

You laugh and swat at his chest. But, it has you cracking one eye open.

And there's Din Djarin.

It's been months.

Nearly a year.

And he's here.

Like he never left.