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amica-aenigmata-naboo · 7 months

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COLLISION

Astarion x Y/N - Chapter 1 - 2.6K WC

Masterlist

Chapter 1 (you are here!)

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5 NSFW 18+

Chapter 6 NSFW 18+

Chapter 7 NSFW 18+

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You sat at your desktop and sighed. The clock in the corner of the screen read 2:38 AM. You could feel your eyes throb, the blue light from the screen was going to cause them to be bloodshot tomorrow you just knew it. You should probably call it a day but the Gauntlet of Shar was kicking your ass and you felt beyond dejected. Saving your progress you quit the game. You stare at the screen which had the Baldur’s Gate III loading screen, the green “play” button tempting you despite just logging off. Shutting down the computer you went through your night routine. Shower, brush teeth, pet the cat. You slid into your bed and sighed. Life felt so mundane, you wished you could adventure. Maybe that’s why the game was so appealing to you. You were already thinking about playing tomorrow after a grueling day of work. You set your alarm and slowly let yourself relax before going limp into a deep sleep.

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You could feel the migraine in your head before you even opened your eyes. You groaned before you realized you could also smell grass and feel a slight breeze on your brow. Suddenly a swift kick was planted into your side. Your eyes squeezed shut as you curled into yourself, holding your right side and coughing.

“What the fuck!” You yelled.

Coughing some more before you felt cold metal against your throat. You finally opened your eyes to see six people standing around you. People is a lose term as some had horns, tails, scales, etc.

“Give me one reason I shouldn’t slit your throat where you lay istik.” Said the green woman in dazzling armor.

You couldn’t speak. Your heart was beating so fast it felt like it stopped. This was a dream. A fucked up dream. You really gotta lay off the Baldur’s Gate III because this is ridiculous.

You knew everyone looking at you but they did not know you. The blade pressed further into your throat and you let out a whimper. You did the only thing you could think of. You slowly put your hands up next to you head, palms open to show you meant no harm. Lae’zel let up ever so slightly but kept her eyes fixed on you.

“She asked you a question.” Said Karlach as she crossed her arms over her chest, looking at you with curiosity but also caution.

“Y/n…. My name is y/n.” You squeaked out, feeling the blade start to dig into your neck.

“And how is it that you managed to stumble upon our camp?” Asked Astarion with an unimpressed tone.

“I - I didn’t… I wasn’t looking for you I swear…. I just woke up here and I don't remember anything else.” Is sputtered out quickly, praying they believed you.

You felt a sharp sting and a… wriggle? Behind your eye, Shadowheart forced herself into your mind. Just as quickly as she had entered, the pain stopped.

“She’s telling the truth.” She said.

“Are you friend or foe? Speak now so I may offer you a clean death istik.” Lae’zel spat.

“Friend! Definitely a friend! I don’t want any trouble I promise!” Your voice shook and you could feel tears brimming in your eyes as you felt the blade draw blood.

Karlach gave a “tsk” before pushing past Astarion and Wyll. She stretched out a hand to you. You glanced at her, then back to Lae’zel.

Karlach looked to Lae’zel before speaking, “They look like a scared puppy you can’t possibly think they’re a threat Lae’zel.”

Lae’zel let out a huff before withdrawing her sword, your hand immediately flying to your throat only for it to be coated in blood. You looked at Karlach and quickly took her hand, scrambling to stand up before hunching over when you felt the shooting pain in your side.

“Ahhhh fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck” you whispered to yourself.

“Any sign of aggression and I will not hesitate to smite you.” Lae’zel said before walking back to her tent.

You finally straightened out. Looking at Karlach you spoke, “Thank you.” You gave her a smile, or what you could manage as a smile in the moment.

She looked you over before smiling brightly at you, “No worries soldier! I’m Karlach, pleasure to meet you.” She said while vigorously shaking your hand.

“Y/n.” You said softly while looking around. “I’m sorry, do any of you have a mirror?”

“Not even with us for more than five minutes and you’re already preening for a mirror. Petty vanity will get the best of you darling. Besides, not much to admire if you ask me.” Astarion said with a sassy yet disinterested tone.

You scoffed. Karlach pulled out her sword, you went to take a step back, ready to book it, before she held it horizontally in her hands. She looked at you before glancing at the sword. You stepped closer.

“You’ve gotta be shitting me…” you said, feeling your face and hair. The reflection looking back at you was your Tav from Baldur’s Gate III. You pinched and pulled at yourself not believing what you were seeing.

“Something wrong?” Asked Shadowheart whom you made eye contact with in the reflection.

“I - I ummm… I’m um….. I’m not myself…” was all you could manage. Karlach sheathed her sword and you turned to finally face everyone. “Come find me when you want your bedroll y/n, I should have an extra one somewhere…” Karlach said before walking to the bonfire.

Shadowheart looked you up and down before shrugging “Lady Shar’s blessings upon you stranger. Please join us, you must be in want of a meal.” she gave a soft smile before going back to her tent.

Gale and Wyll introduced themselves. Gale healing the cut on your throat after mumbling a quick apology about Lae’zel stating she was the definition of overprotective and outrageously homicidal. Everyone had seemingly returned to their tents or the bonfire in the middle of camp.

You sat back down in the clearing you woke up in. This was not real. No damn way. Maybe you’ve had a severe psychotic break. Maybe you have a brain eating parasite (literally). Maybe you ate a cordycep and this was the end for you. Literally anything else would make more sense than “Oh my ass got Jumanji'd”. You stared off into space, trying to keep your shaky breathing consistent. You felt the air chill around you as the sun fell behind the horizon and Shar’s embrace consumed the night.

“You know it’s rude to stare.” said Astarion without looking up from you from his tent, the closest to your clearing and the direction you just so happened to be honing in on.

You slowly shifted your eyes down, resting your head against your forearms as they rested on your knees. You just wanted to curl into a ball and disappear. “Sorry.” was all you could whisper.

“Ugh gods, Karlach was right, you look like a scared puppy. Honestly, I don’t know how you’ve survived this long if you’re so…. fragile.” he continued his tone laced with a tinge of venom.

Your eyes started to water. You stood up, your joints yelling at you as they snapped and popped. You walked into camp, trying to make yourself as quiet and invisible as possible, walking swiftly to Karlach’s tent. You took your bedroll silently and found a spot in a clearing under a tree opposite to the clearing you woke up in. Leaning your head against the trunk you closed your eyes, crying silently until you fell asleep.

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Astarion gazed at you from his tent for a large chunk of the night. Everyone else was fast asleep and he had just returned from a hunt. He could hear your heartbeat: soft, steady, calm. He heard your heartbeat when you arrived in the clearing, he’s the one who called the others to investigate with him. He was surprised you were so still when he found you. Your heart was beating hard, fast, endlessly. Terrified. He hadn’t heard a heart beat like that in a while. It was how all his victims' hearts sounded after he gave them to Cazador. He pushed the thought out of his mind, which wasn't hard as it was overtaken by another, more overwhelming thought. Why had he only heard your heartbeat and felt the immediate urge to find you and protect you? He felt something stir inside his chest when he laid eyes on you. That wasn’t allowed. That wasn't his purpose. He didn’t get to feel his own feelings. Everything was consumed by Cazador and the looming threat of him returning to Astarions life. He shuddered. He could smell the faintest scent of your blood that was dried on your hand from earlier. Gods it was sweet, even thinking of it made him salivate. His best option was to avoid you enough and reject you enough that the feeling inside him would cease. It was easy. You were already distressed. How much more could you fall emotionally? And yet, as he watched the gentle rise and fall of your chest he couldn’t help but think of anything else beyond how soft you looked. How peaceful. Your face relaxed, your jaw unclenched, your eyes puffy, fly aways clinging to your face, eyelashes still wet, short breaths being exhaled from your mouth. You were… cute.

Shit.

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You awoke just as the sun started to rise. The sky is a beautiful mixture of blues, pinks, and purples. You sat up as if it would get you a better view of the heavens. Astarion walked up behind you quietly. “You’re up early.” he stated. You jumped slightly before facing the sky again. “Early riser.” you said back. Astarion hummed back before walking down the hill of your clearing. You followed him swiftly, not wanting to be completely alone in a camp full of sleepers. Astarion bent down softly into the small stream, gathering the water in his hands and gently rubbing it into his face. You sat silently next to him, gently letting your fingers dip into the rushing stream.

“What is that?” Astarion asked, glancing at your boot. You looked at him confused. He leaned over and pulled out the object.

There, in all its glory, your phone. You quickly snatched it from Astarion, his voice fading into the background. You turned your phone on, it had no service but it still worked and that was a great comfort. Suddenly it was ripped from your grasp.

Astarion stood up, holding the phone up and away from you. “What is this? Must be important.” He teased with a sneer. “Is it powerful?”

You stood quickly, putting your hand out “Please give it back its mine.”

“Oh I don’t doubt that it is yours. You need to answer my question though before I’ll consider giving it back.”

“I… I don’t know how to explain it… they don’t have these devices in your world…” you trailed off.

Astarion rose an eyebrow at you, “My world? So you’re from another world? Now I know you’re lying.”

“Wait! Maybe… maybe I can show you something with it.” You said in a small voice, reaching your hand out once again. “Something you’ve wanted for a long time…”

He eyed you up and down repeatedly before tossing your phone at you, “This better be worth it.”

You opened your phone's front-facing camera and stood next to Astarion, gently turning the phone in his direction. You saw his face drop then he just… stared. You started to bring the phone back down before his hand caught your wrist. His hold was gentle and cold, “Just a moment.” he whispered.

You nodded and let him hold the phone. He gazed at his eyes for ages before opening his mouth. He licked over his fangs, gently tracing his lips with his fingertips. “What is this thing? Why can I see myself?” He spat at you, suddenly angry. He tossed the phone at your feet before storming off to camp, leaving you alone at the stream. ____________________

The sun was now high in the sky and you had enough of sulking by the stream. If you were going to be stuck here for a while, better start working on making some friends. You walked back to camp before seeking out Gale.

“Morning! Is there something I can help with, you have an inquisitive look on your face.” he smiled at you.

You gave a small smile before asking, “I was hoping you could help me… enchant something? It needs power to survive, usually electric power but I don’t think that will work right now… can you try?”

Gale looked away as if thinking about what he could do; he snapped his fingers, “Ah! Yes, I think I might have something for that, Mystra willing and all. Can I see what you are talking about?”

You nodded quickly, shoving the phone into Gale’s hands.

“This little thing?” he glanced back at you. You nodded and gave a pleading look.

He nodded and sent you a soft smile before speaking strange words over it. Colorful beams of misty light enveloped your device, now floating in between Gale’s hands. He finished his incantation, all the beams shooting into your phone before he caught it as the spell seemingly ended. He smiled brightly and handed it back to you before crossing his arms over his chest. “Well… did it work?” he asked you, unsure how the device worked he was iffy about his magic in this instance.

You turned your phone back on, full battery that seemed unchanging for now. You smiled back at Gale “Yes! Thank you so much…. I appreciate you and your kindness towards me as a stranger.”

“With pleasure friend, bring it back should it start to falter, I’d be more than happy to fix it.” he said.

You smiled at him one final time before walking towards Karlach who was currently accompanied by Shadowheart and Lae’zel. Slipping your phone back into your boot, you quietly walked up to them. Their conversation died down once they saw you walking over. Lae’zel shot daggers at you, her gaze alone felt violent. Shadowheart and Karlach sent you small smiles.

“If you are going to travel with us we need to know your strengths. How are you useful to us and our endeavors?” Lae’zel questioned “You’re obviously no warrior, so what are you?” she gritted out.

“I’m a cleric… I practice under Ilmater… though I haven’t seen a battle before.” You spoke, picking at your nails instead of focusing on the women in front of you.

Lae’zel spat on the ground, “Not only have we taken in another mouth to feed, we have taken in a useless cleric with no combat experience. We may well have taken in a child.” she went back to her tent, wildly slashing at the poor practice dummy as if to further demonstrate her displeasure.

You winced watching, imagining every blow aimed at you. Shadowheart put her hand on your shoulder. “Perhaps we should go see Gale. He’s a follower of Mystra and I of Shar, I’m sure we can teach you a few things. Do you know much about Ilmater?” she asked, leading you by the back of your arm towards Gale. You shook your head no. “Well, my knowledge is limited, but if I recall correctly he is the protector of the persecuted and oppressed. There are worse gods to be in service to.” she chuckled. You smiled and gave her hand a squeeze as a soft ‘thank you’ for her simple kindness.

“I overheard, let's get to work shall we?” Gale asked you both before conjuring the weave, creating a safe, fragmented reality to practice in without causing any real damage.

Hello! This is my first ever public fic so please be gentle lol I'd love some drabble requests in the mean time before I send out chapter 2. I hope you enjoy! :)

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morimakesfanart · 1 year

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Sindria's Prophet #30

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[AO3] [wattpad]

~POV Mori~ Being neurodivergent can be very inconvenient, but because of it I'm able to find joy in things that neurotypicals might only give a glance to. Sure, I had things to worry about, but nothing else matters in the face of learning more about something I love. There were only a few detail shots in the anime and even less panels in the manga to define the items in the Treasury. ((And I didn't draw backgrounds for most of the art for this chapter either oops XD)) I was definitely going to enjoy being able to look at everything. I recognized that room with guards at its entrance before we got close enough for me to see into it. Once we were close enough for the view to match the framing in the anime I commented, "It's just like my 'visions.'"

King Sinbad gave me a confident smile, and led us inside the Treasury. There was something I had to see in person before anything else. I b-lined to the right side to start my search. When I found it I looked back at Sinbad. "Can I pick things up to get a better look?"

The King was standing a few paces back -just watching me with his arms crossed. "Go ahead."

I was allowed to look with my hands! I immediately picked up and put on the clawed gauntlets that Morgiana tries on while looking for something to be her metal vessel. They didn't have the best articulation and were heavy, but they weren't uncomfortable. I couldn't hold in my giggles as I examined them.

"You like things like that?" Sinbad's voice asked from behind me.

"Yes!" Ever since I was little I've wanted a suit of armor. I've never been able to decide what time period or country's style I wanted, and pricing replicas immediately removed it from a possibility.

Sinbad watched me for a moment before asking, "Do you want those?"

'Oh right! I'm supposed to be picking something out.' I took them off, and put them back where I found them. "Not really. They're just a part of a moment I found charming so I wanted to try them on once."

"I see."

As I made my way around the room I found the group of jewelry shown in both the manga and anime versions. These pieces were in the close up shots to help establish the location. The bracelet and ring with purple stones were obviously my favorite color, but it was different actually seeing the way light bounces through them. "They're prettier in person." I picked up the bracelet, and turned it in the light a few times. Maybe amethyst? I had seem amethyst that looked like this. That would make this a bit cheap considering Sinbad's level of opulence. Maybe tanzanite? I don't know much about identifying gem stones. I was pretty sure Topaz, sapphire, and diamond could make this color too.

I heard Sinbad's steps on the stone floor behind me, so I wasn't too surprised when his voice came from right next to me. "Are you considering that one?"

If it's really okay then, "Definitely." I slipped it onto my right wrist. "It's violet so I want it on me." It was a bit heavy, but I didn't think it would be a problem. I was left handed so it wouldn't get in the way of my writing as long as I wore it on my right arm.

Sinbad's chuckle set off an alarm in my head but I couldn't place why. He asked, "Is that so?"

"Yes...?"

He smiled and nodded like he was agreeing with something profound. "It looks good on you." Even though I understood the flow of our conversations, his compliment felt like it had little to do with me wearing the color purple.

"Thanks?" He was making a pass at me, but I couldn't tell what started it.

My response only seemed to amuse Sinbad more. He looked down at the ring in front of me that also had a violet stone. "You're welcome to choose another piece if you find anything else you like." Two pieces of jewelry was nice as a bonus for my work, but I couldn't shake the feeling that I was walking into a honey trap. I watched him for some type of explanation. Sinbad read my expression and added, "Consider this next one payment towards the Fate Scrolls you've been making."

As long as all of this was payment and not a bribe masquerading as a present, then it should be okay... right? I had been making the Fate scrolls for myself, so it didn't occur to me I might get paid for them. What would they even be worth? They contained things that already happened. If everyone talked about their past experiences with each other then there'd be nothing to gain from the scrolls. That level of transparency between people isn't really something viable, so it's definitely worth more than the materials and time it took to make it. I left that spot to look around more.

Sinbad questioned, "You don't want the ring?"

I looked back at it. "It's nice, but I'd like to see if there is anything else I'd like better."

He laughed.

I followed the waves since they seemed to want me to go to a specific spot. There were many rings of different shapes and designs with a just as wide variety of gem stones -same with necklaces and bracelets, of course. None of them stood out to me until the sight of a specific necklace made me freeze.

Sinbad watched me and when I didn't explain, he asked, "Does that necklace have some special significance?"

"Yes and no." I couldn't look away from the golden choker. It only existed as a scribble in some Magi concept art; there was no official final depiction; yet I recognized it instantly. "I'm surprised to see it because there's no reason for it to exist in this version of Fate."

"Oh?" His voice rose with genuine interest.

"It would have been a Djinn's metal vessel, but it's Capturer has a different metal vessel for it in this path." The sky light made the large ruby hanging off the front of the choker sparkle. It was perfect for a Queen.

I didn't look at Sinbad's reaction but I could tell that surprised him. "It was a metal vessel? Is there a reason that Dungeon Capturer won't need this as a replacement vessel in the future?"

That made me laugh. I looked up at him; I didn't want to miss his shock. "She's not a woman in this version of Fate, and he's not the type to wear something like this." Male Sinbad did look good in chokers, so it might not be the worse look, but he didn't seem the type to wear something like this unless it was a part of his Djinn Equip.

Sinbad's dumbfounded expression was cute, and easily my favorite. He blinked a few times before responding. "Wait- You're saying that a woman in one Fate is a man in this one?"

"Yup." I smiled and kept the fact that I was talking about him to myself.

The King crossed his arms and starred down at the necklace.

After a few moments of watching his expression I looked back at the choker. There really wasn't any reason for it to exist in this world since Sinbad was a man. I got the feeling that the writer of this fanfiction put this here for me to see -that it was here for my benefit. Why else would the waves lead me right to it? A greedy voice in the back of my mind whispered that it was here so it could be mine. '...Sin did say I could pick one more item.'

Sinbad asked a question I should have seen coming, "Which Dungeon Capturer is it?" I smiled up at him. His eyes held excitement with curiosity. It took a few moments for Sinbad to realize I wasn't going to answer. "You're not going to tell me?" His mild surprise made me want to tease him more.

It didn't matter if he knew the answer or not, so why not tease him? "Why do you want to know? Do you want to try to picture what he looked like as woman? Who knows, maybe she was your type." I laughed. "I know she's my type as both a woman and a man."

Sinbad stared down at me. He opened his mouth but then closed it as he continued thinking. He looked back at the necklace and hummed. I didn't know what questions he was forming or what conclusions he was coming to, but his growing concern made him start pouting. I couldn't help finding it cute. He brought a fist up to his face and coughed into it at whatever thoughts he was having. Without looking at me he asked, "Was I a woman in any of the Fates you've seen?"

"Yes!" I said it with probably too much enthusiasm. He flinched but didn't say anything, so I couldn't hold back, "You were a woman in the first version of this world. It was only in later versions of Fate that you were a man." Sinbad and Aladdin were originally planned to be women, but their cisgenders changed after picking their namesakes and probably by demand of the publisher.

The conqueror of seven Djinns finally looked back at me dumbstruck. "You're serious?"

"Yes." I answered again.

"I can't imagine it."

"You weren't much different than you are now." I picked up the choker to examine it while I talked. "You were still over confident, and lucky enough to get away with your antics." It was a little lighter than I expected considering it was gold with a large stone. "You were still a master of seven Djinns, and leader of the Seven Seas Alliance."

We both went silent as I continued examining the necklace. Chokers had a few common ways that they were handled way back when. Many were open in the back, overlapped itself, or had something tied; clasps, the way we think of them, weren't really a thing until around the industrial age. This one had cloth cables that ended with tassels like some traditional Indian jewelry I read about.

Sinbad's voice had a slightly playful warmth to it. "It would pair well with the earrings I gave you." I became aware of his gaze on my neck where my earring dangled.

Looking at the design closer I could see he was right. "They are both gold with rubies, and this motif is similar." The choker had a similar petal motif as the gold feathers in my earrings. This was definitely here for me. The waves raised as if to agree with me.

"Would you like to have it?" Sinbad's question went exactly where I was thinking -he had asked that no matter what I picked up though. He pushed, "You said yourself that its original owner won't need it."

I didn't have to think about my answer. "Yes. I want it."

He smiled. "Then it's yours."

"Thank you." I smiled down at the choker. True or not, Sinbad had written that I was his biggest simp and that would be most people's first impression of me, so what did it matter if I indulged in self marking? Ja'far had even said the rumors would solve themselves eventually so I didn't need to worry. And it's not like anyone other than myself would know the significance of this item.

I had a delicious thought that would make this even more of a self indulgent fanfiction. My face warmed as I faced Sinbad. "Would you tie it on for me, my King?" I offered the choker to him and the waves rose around us. Since he wore this in the concept art, it would be poetic if he was the one to put it on me now. Besides, Sinbad clearly enjoyed flirting with me; there was no way he would say 'no.'

Sinbad leaned towards me clearly amused with my request. "I'd be honored." His warm hand covered mine exactly where his waves said it would, and took the choker from me slowly. The rising waves made it feel like the world outside this room no longer existed. Instead of marking myself, I had gotten him to mark me directly. If he was anyone else, I'd feel like I was taking advantage of him. Instead I just felt like I was beating him at his own game. --- ~POV Sinbad~ There was no way Mori was going to be able to refrain from falling into Sinbad's hands for long. He had wondered what was holding her back all this time, and he finally had his answer: her their gender. Now that Sinbad had quelled their fears, there was nothing blocking their heart from him. His Beautiful Prophet was going to dedicate their life to him fully. Mori said that he couldn't seduce their loyalty but there was no way that was true when they looked at him like this.

"Thank you." Mori's smile made the waves swirl.

They looked slightly away and reached for the bow tied at the base of their collar. They pulled out the bow with a deliberate slowness that built anticipation. The view of the nape of their neck, and cleavage stood out extra thanks to the angle they were facing. Mori looked up at him with knowing eyes while flattening their collar out of the way. They closed their eyes with an amused hum and turned their back to him. That show of undoing their collar was absolutely on purpose! Mori had read his Fate so, of course, she would know how to get under his skin like no one else. Sinbad's heart started pounding.

The gold branch decoration stood out strongly against Mori's nearly black hair. It was secured into a bun at the base of their ponytail. He had thought they cut their hair at first, but no, this was a style where the hair was tied in a knot close to the skull to form a ponytail and secured with pins. Sinbad wouldn't have known if he hadn't undone this exact hairstyle on women he had taken to bed back in Reim. Mori's hair would still reach their hips if he had the opportunity to take those pins out later.

Sinbad brought the choker around in front of his Beautiful Prophet. Should he hold her from behind when he was done? He was in the perfect position to do so. Since Mori was riling him up on purpose, he'd at least return the favor. As Sinbad wrapped the choker around her neck, he let his knuckles lightly graze her exposed skin. Mori tensed momentarily under his touch, and he watched as goosebumps made a wave on her neck. The bottom of Mori's ponytail tickled his hands as he tied a bow. Sinbad had technically finished the job, but he didn't want to remove his hands from her skin yet. A part of him lamented not kissing her neck before tying the bow. It wasn't like him to hold back when it was just him and his conquest. If it wasn't for their height difference he would have went for it already. He had other ways to move things along. He wouldn't have been nicknamed 'the Womanizer of the Seven Seas' if he didn't.

"Don't." Mori's words made him pause. "I said I was only comfortable with flirting."

Sinbad let go of the choker, took a few steps back and crossed his arms. "Of course. Do you think I won't respect your boundaries?" How did she figure it out? What had he missed? Did he take too long? Move too quickly?

The Prophet turned back towards him with a frown. "You can't hide it; your waves gave you away." After noticing his pose, they crossed their arms as well.

"Ah." The Womanizer of Seven Seas was not used to being turned down before he even asked. Even so, she was obviously intentionally turning him on. She wouldn't be a tease on purpose, would she? "Do you really expect me to believe you don't want more from me with that display of yours?"

Mori's expression reminded him of Jafar's usual reaction until Sinbad's words sunk in. Her eyes went wide. "Oh my gosh! You can't handle a taste of your own medicine." They covered their mouth with one hand as they chuckled into it.

"Huh?"

"I told you the other night: I'm doing the same things you do to woman all the time," they broke into more laughter, "I know you'll never fall in love so I'm seducing your body instead of your heart!" Mori cupped their own face with both hands and closed their eyes. "To think, the Womanizer of the Seven Seas can't handle a widdle ol' tease like me."

That- "You were being a tease on purpose??"

Mori opened their eyes ecstatic that he was finally on the same page. "Yes! Just like you are!" How was he supposed to respond to that? "Only unlike you I already told you where I would draw the line -twice!"

This was the wake up call he needed. "You did." It hadn't even been an hour since Mori reaffirmed their boundaries. Sinbad pressed his fingers into his closed eyes. Something was definitely wrong with him. It wasn't like him to be this impatient.

Their voice calmed but didn't lose the amused tones. "If it's too much for you, just say so, and I won't tease you like that any more."

Sinbad removed his hand from his eyes. Mori held their hands behind their back as they looked up at him with a charming smile. He finally responded, "That won't be necessary." It wasn't like he didn't have options to relieve that tension. "Now that I better understand this game of yours, I'm looking forward to seeing how you'll try to seduce me next time." There was no way this wouldn't go beyond the game eventually.

She hummed before responding. "Understood." After a moment the Prophet added, "Actually, I'd like to clarify some rules to the game."

"Go on."

Mori nodded. "Neither of us can verbally lie about our intentions either directly or by obviously assumed intent." They put up one finger. "I won't say anything that comes across as willingness to sleep with you, and you won't imply you have genuine romantic feelings for me." They put up a 2nd finger. "This is a bit obvious, but both of us can call off the game or add rules whenever. If you ever realize there's something I do that makes you uncomfortable, don't hesitate to tell me."

Sinbad couldn't imagine Mori would do anything like that. "Of course." As long as his partner felt comfortable, she might become more daring with him. --- When King Sinbad had exited the scribe's building and saw Mori a ways off it had spurred a strange feeling in him. Now that Mori walked ahead of him again as they left the Treasury he was feeling it again. There was no way he was disappointed at the idea of parting ways for the day. There were things waiting for his approval.

The Prophet stopped and looked back at him. "Was there anything else you needed me for? I made sure to keep the rest of today clear, but that doesn't mean you aren't busy."

Exactly, he was a King with responsibilities to get back to. "That's true," he laughed.

"I see." Mori took a half step towards the courtyard. "In that case, good luck with the rest of your day, my King." He really liked the way she said that.

If only he could bottle that excited and content feeling Mori gave him. If it was an alcohol, it would easily become his favorite. "Actually, Mori," a little longer wouldn't hurt, "I was thinking it's about time I give you a tour of the Palace."

((OMGOSH so much happened while I was making this chapter. The biggest being: my computer crashed and wouldn't turn back on. My friend who built it figured out what happened and was able to save all of the data and get me a new drive for it. I wanted get this chapter out before the end of the year, and somehow I did it.

I really wanted to draw more of this chapter but 1. I ran out of time, and 2. Tumblr only allows for 10 images per post. I tried to narrow it down to the moments with the biggest impact. There were a few I thought were really funny and could be better than what I ended up choosing, but when I looked at how close those moments were to each other, I'd either make more longer comics or have breaks between them that the text might get lost in. I had really wanted to draw the moment when Sin asks about him being a woman in another reality, and the rest of Mori teasing him, but that was when I'm computer died. I only had time left to do the last & longest comic which I still had to cut shorter than I originally planned. ;-;

*edit- I thought tumblr only allowed 10 images, but apparently it's been raised. I found out because one of the images wasn't posting right and test splitting it into 2 and it worked...

Anyway, thanks for being with me this past year and reading my fanfiction. I really enjoy reading and rereading everyone's comments :3 Also, thank you to everyone who made fanart and fan edits :D You all have no idea how much of a boost it all is. When I'm feeling down I look at them to feel better. Thanks for being one of my favorite parts of 2022.

I wish you all a Happy New Year, Mori))

#magi prophet fanfic #sinbad magi #magi sinbad #sinbad x oc #magi sinbad x oc #king sinbad #magi fanfic #magi fan comic #magi fanfiction #magi fanart

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thehopesquadhq · 8 months

Text

The Adventures of the Hope Squad (Reboot)

Season 1: Chapter 1: The Green Light Lab

(Part 3)

______________________________________________________________

When he arrived, most of the prodigies were already eating their meals, so, the there were no lines. All he had to do was grab a tray, fill it with his meal, and sit on his table at the corner.

The kind of meal they had on the lab was not tasteful by a bit. All they could eat was a ‘Nutritive Goop’, a bland goop that had all the nutrients the scientists needed to survive, and only enough to make sure they wouldn’t be over-weight.

When he sat, though, he was stuck with a deep feeling of grief, because his three best friends weren’t there anymore to share that moment with him.

“Oh gosh… how have things ended up like this” the blue prodigy said to himself. He put a part of the nutritive goop on a bag, stored it in his pocket and decided that, with a good number of projects to show at the science fair, it was time to actually think about himself. It was the first time in months he managed to do that.

He couldn’t help but remember his whole trajectory until the present moment.

4 years ago, he was just an introvert boy that draw fanart and watched cartoons that no one cared that much about, that wanted to hang out with his friends and do great things with them.

Now, he had to see so many innocent people suffer in the hands of his vile superiors, and constantly worry about not making it on the next day.

He had to learn so many things he hated just to survive. Heck, he hated lying, and now, he had to lie 24/7, just to make sure he won’t get himself or someone else killed.

The only thing that gave him strength was the will of helping as many young scientists as he could, and make sure they wouldn’t have the same fate that his friends had.

“One day at a time… one day at a time…” He repeated his motto to himself, to keep his hope and motivation alive.

Then, the silent atmosphere of the refectory was interrupted by a loud noise of a plate being broken.

“This is unacceptable!” a loud voice said, obviously on a tone of complicated.

All young scientists turned their heads to look at the source of the sound.

“Prodigy Violet, what’s is the reason for such a tantrum?!” Teal asked, approaching the girl with a threatening look on her face.

Violet was from the Purple Ranking… the lowest actual ranking on the hierarchy. They basically had no rights, their punishments were intense, and they were hanging on a thread from the ultimate punishment.

Those on this ranking are usually because they are either seen as useless with no dedication, or because they are ‘too rebellious to their own good’, as the Lab superiors would say.

“Percy only failed in one of your rigged tests, and you punished him by taking away his right to eat. He is younger and more fragile than us, he won’t survive much longer like this!” Violet retorted, not losing her stance.

“He failed in a basic test of pain resistance. All of those who disappoint the lab deserve this fate” the older scientist said with anger and malice on her voice.

“Oh, so all of you are allowed to disappoint young children by filling their heads with empty promises and lies, and bringing them to this sci-fi hell, and we can’t feel even once? How can this be fair?!” the girl screamed with indignation.

“Enough, you ungrateful brat!” Teal screamed, grabbing a small device on her pocket. She used it to electrocute Violet and leave her unconscious.

“I am done of your rebelliousness, Young Violet. If you refuse to behave properly, then… it’s time for you to go to the red ranking… finally, you will be useful” the older scientist said, calling two Orange Ranking guards through her armor to collect Violet and bring her to the Containment Room.

Most of the prodigies were shivering in fear… the word red ranking brought awful memories to all of those that were present.

The red ranking (which, honestly, was only a proper ranking because of the denomination, because it was anything but a ranking) was the equivalent of rock bottom at the lab. This ranking was destined to those on the purple ranking that had no other way of being solved.

As stated before, the lab did a lot of… immoral experiments, to both humans and animals. And, this sort of experiment was what happened on the lowest ranking.

They injected serums, removed body parts and did a lot of cruel tortures and changes to these people, making them into mindless killing machines, who only served to do the dirty work that the lab wanted to hide.

Harry lost two friends to the red rankings, and he knew better than anyone that it was a fate worse than death.

‘I can’t let this happen!’ the indigo prodigy thought to himself, determined to stop an atrocity of happening as soon as possible.

#my writting #heroes #superheroes #oc #original character #ocs #writers of tumblr #dc comics #batman

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gaiuswrites · 3 years

Text

King of Cups || Chapter 7

Chapter 7: The Fool

Archive: ao3 | masterlist | six

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!Reader

Summary: It all spills over.

Word count: 8.8k~

Rating: Explicit

Warnings/tags: SMUT (WE MADE IT FOLKS), thigh riding, fingering/hand job, very brief breathplay/choking, cum eating¿? Angst/emo shit (I'm so sorry i have no self control)

Notes: HI FRIENDS, wow it's been a minute. Sorry for the massive delay. For anyone wishing to start KOC, now would be the perfectly spicy chapter to do so! This chapter was Herculean. idk why. Love you guys, enjoy! x (gif credit : @djarinsgf)

“Maker,” you bemoan, shielding your face from the heavy beat of the suns.

You’ve known warmth—you were raised in warmth. This is beyond it.

It’s not just warm, it’s sweltering. The heat is oppressive, congealing the air to mist; you can barely see through it what with the sweat running into your eyes. Tall, craggy dunes line the valley of desert, trapping the planet’s hot pulse within their walls. Your steps crunch along the dry, pebbled earth as you swat at the gnats buzzing in ribbons around your head.

A muffled gurgle sounds from behind you and you slow to a halt, boots gritting into the cracked top soil.

“You doing alright back there, Munch?” you ask, craning your head to the child nestled into the carrier fashioned onto your back. A green ear pokes free from the top, and you can see the jewel of his black eyes peering at you through the gauzy cloth you draped over it. He grunts, and you give a small shrug—shifting the pack by the straps, eliciting a giggle out of him. “We can always turn back, okay? I’m not going to be mad.” Another noise, a happy coo this time, and you shimmy your shoulders again, jostling the bag playfully.

“Well, you just let me know.”

Your conversations usually unfold this way. They leave much to be desired, but you’d like to think you understand one another—in fact, you probably understand the kid more than you understand his dad.

You’ve grown close with him, you’ll be the first to admit it. You’re attached to each other. The little one has been your constant companion for these months and in some ways, you suppose he takes care of you just the same as you take care of him. The chamber of space can be lonely; it’s cold and unkindly reflective, stranding you to the echoed chain of your thoughts—but when he tugs at your hair or slobbers spittle down the front of him or crawls up into your lap to nestle into your tunic, it feels like you belong there—there on the Crest, streaming through the galaxy.

And maybe, simply, it feels good to do right by a child—as if you could make up for it somehow, within yourself. To do better than you were given.

Squinting, you raise your wrist to check the coordinates on your comm and shade a hand over the screen, blocking the glare cast onto the display. “Almost there,” you mumble, resuming your stride as you begin the last leg of the trek to the settlement you and Mando discussed that morning.

“What?” he asked, planted some paces away from you.

You hummed a curious note, glancing to him.

“What is it?”

You were trying to be small all morning—shrunken and shy, avoiding the thought and avoiding him all together. You quieted yourself, as if to not take up space, but the attempt was fruitless; of course he picked up on it – you get good at reading people on the job, he’d said – and of course he called you out on your behavior. You took a big gulp of your caf, gaze flickering down—increasingly more and more invested in the scuffs marked into the table you sat at.

“Dala,” he said pointedly, arms folding over the breadth of his chest.

Shit. Who did you think you were fooling? Playing possum with a Mandalorian?

Worrying your lip, you stood. You couldn’t bear to look up at him, just looming there across the table from you, so you paced around the deck as you rambled. “Okay, so you know how I’m still connected to the RRM channels? Well, I’ve been checking the message boards and I—there’s a settlement here out in the Wastes. It’s small and new and they’re looking for volunteers and—”

You whistled in a breath. Fuck it.

“And I want to help.”

Like the toggle of a switch, you went from having a career—having a purpose—to having nothing. And all your gratitude for the transport he’s offering couldn’t fill that empty lull that’s settled inside you.

“Would you be comfortable with letting me take the kid? I know I’m probably asking a lot—and I will fully respect whatever you decide—but I can keep him by me the whole time, I swear, I just—” You shook your head, pinching your eyes shut before sighing, “I need to be doing something. Anything.”

There was a long pause. You scratched at the torn skin around your cuticle, nervously searching the pitch of his wordless visor. He didn’t move a muscle. He didn’t even twitch.

“That’s fine,” he finally remarked, graveled.

You blinked, taken aback at his agreement, and all at once your fidgeting ceased and a bright grin broke out over your features in its place.

It nearly brought him to his knees.

“Wait, seriously?” you asked, bouncing on the balls of your feet and he nodded, a subtle tilt to his helm. “Maker, thank you,” you exclaimed, and without thinking you flew towards him, flinging your arms around his neck and sealing yourself to his armored frame. His arms escaped out from his chest in surprise, suspended and stiff, before falling measuredly to his sides. You could’ve been imagining it, but you swore you heard the distinct grit of his teeth grinding together under his helmet.

“Really Mando,” you beamed, pulling back to lay your eyes on him, to let him see the earnest there: you have no idea how much this means to me. “Thank you.”

You gave his shoulders a squeeze, thumbs brushing along the scratchy fabric of his cape before tearing yourself away. Swiping up your mug of caf, you wound down the corridor - airy, buoyant - back to your makeshift quarters to prepare for your outing. It took him another minute just to get his damn feet to move from the spot on the durasteel you welded him to.

Din told you to be safe.

You smiled, and promised you would.

You left the Crest before him and it was strange, surreal. For the first time, you stood in each other’s shoes, leaving Din there on his own while you set off into the world. He watched you go—you and his boy—watched you walk away into some great unknown without him.

And he didn’t like it.

He soured, somewhere in the deep of him—within that pit he called a gut, he twisted sick.

Your feet hit the ramp, dull and tinny, and it sounded like goodbye—it sounded like you leaving. It’s what it will look like when time and fate touch, and inevitability catches up with him. It’s what it will look like when he takes you home. You’ll walk out of his life, down that same ramp, and your steps will echo those same beats. You won’t look back.

And Din, with all his strength, all his unshakeable resolve—Din will let you go.

///

The encampment is settled into the shadow of a cliffside, seeking respite there from the blazing suns, the taupe of the canvas shanties camouflaging into the arid landscape. Some crawl their gaze up as you enter the village, and you offer them smiles they do not return. Others do not acknowledge your presence at all— unstirred as your footsteps sound past, their heads bound heavy towards the earth. It’s not long before a decisive voice cuts through the hush that’s claimed the settlement.

“Are you with the RRM?”

You turn and are greeted by a woman ducking out of a tent—the grey of her woven tunic browned with sand, heat collecting in her black, coiled hair.

“Yes, I’m with the Movement.” It’s not a total lie. Sure, you’re on leave, but that doesn’t discount you completely. What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.

With a sharp exhale like a prayer of relief, she makes her way towards you. “Where’s the rest of your division?” Her eyes narrow discerningly, flitting behind you as if expecting to spot the rear of your party trickling in.

“It’s, uh—it’s just me,” you confess, pressing your lips together in a thin smile.

She rakes a hand over her hair, over her face. The skin around her knuckles is split, the beds of her nails chalked with days of unwashed grime. “Alright,” she concedes begrudgingly, without any better option presented. “And who is this?” She nods to the child, emerging from the pack and staring curiously at her.

“This is—” You take a moment to consider it—consider the secrecy around the child, the bounties, the life on the lam. Less is more, you decide. Again, it’s not a total lie. “I’m babysitting.”

The kid grunts an emphatic patu.

You both share a look—a quirk of her dark brow, an apologetic heft of your shoulder—and she sighs. “Well, I’ll take all the help I can get,” she quips dryly with a wave of her hand, leading you into the settlement.

///

She’s coarse, this woman—Arlaani, she told you—matronly and effective. She has a calculating gaze and powerful shoulders that she holds steady as she shows you through the camp. There are lines around her eyes, carved into the curves of her mouth. She knows what you know—what all women learn: sometimes you must be hard in order to keep others soft.

You walk shoulder to shoulder, matching her long strides with your own.

“The Black Sun has taken the southern hemisphere; their numbers have only grown since the Battle of Yavin. Pirates, mercenaries, spice runners—they’ve ransacked one half of the planet and have the officials of the other half in their pocket,” she scowls. “They have stolen our land, our homes—we’re moisture farmers, mechanics, mothers and fathers. We are simple people and we have been forgotten by our government—by those who vowed to represent us, protect us.” Arlaani draws in a long breath. “We’re on our own out here in the Wastes.”

You survey the area; the lifeless ocean of rock and sand, the few scattered trees that have died on their feet—roots withering bone dry in the suns. “Why settle here if it’s so uninhabitable?”

She huffs a humorless laugh. “Because, it’s uninhabitable,” Arlaani explains. “No one robs a beggar. There is nothing in the Wastes the Black Sun wants.”

There are no buildings, no structures; the whole area is undeveloped and raw. Tents are dotted sporadically in clusters, crates of supplies and water canteens stationed every other one. Children dawdle idly, tired and overheated, leaning against boxes and posts—their bellies distended and skin parched taut. Flies land on their shins, on their cheeks. They do not go to shoo them away.

“The Movement supplied those for us when we landed,” she comments, nodding to the crates. “That was two months ago.”

“No one has come back to check on you since?” you ask, brows notching together.

She shakes her head solemnly, jaw set rigid. “Our little ones go hungry, our elders are sick with red fever. We will run out of water before the week is through,” Arlaani says before she turns to you, holding your gaze—the seriousness evident in the stone of her eyes. “I thank the gods you are here.” She presses a palm to your shoulder. You feel the weight of it, the weight of her—of the lives she carries on her back.

“I thank the gods.”

///

You stop by each tent delivering what little food and medicine you brought with you from the Crest, and after each encounter—the people so grateful, so weary—your mind strays further and further to Mando.

Din, you scold yourself. Not Mando, Din. Din Djarin.

You still can’t bring yourself to say it.

He spent that whole fateful day nearly two weeks ago bristling at the very sight of you, going out of his way to limp to the other side of the ship just to ignore you better, only to do you in for one final head spin and give you his name.

Two weeks, and you still haven’t said it. There’s no other excuse: plainly - pitifully - you’re scared. You’re scared he regrets it.

Because how horrible of a truth would it be? To be offered something out of carelessness or guilt; to be the product of pity, or even worse, a mistake that cannot be unmade, cannot be rectified. He can’t take his name back, can’t unspeak it any more than you can unhear it, and this fear, picking at you like an old scab—it’s so painfully human, so terribly universal:

what if I’m not worth it?

And isn’t it easier to neglect the answer, then it is to ask the question.

So you’ve buried his name for both of your sakes, keeping it somewhere secret and private, there to garner dust in the quiet of your mind.

You’re brushing through the draped entrance of a tent when you spot him: a small boy hiding behind a supply crate, the top of his dusted head poking out over the ledge. You catch him peering at you, and he ducks down shyly. A honeyed grin blooms across your face.

“I think we’re being watched Munch,” you coo. The little ball of robes blinks up at you from your arms, earning his nickname tenfold as he crams his mouth with a flakey cracker. “You want to say hi?” He hums in response and you crouch, letting him wiggle free from you to toddle over to the other child. With small steps, he eventually makes it over to the other and immediately, without hesitation or provocation, extends one of his crackers to him.

Your heart swells until it bursts, proud and beautiful in your chest.

Munch leads him out from behind the box, the two boys shuffling slowly through the dirt back to you. He can’t quite meet your eyes—his gaze lands somewhere around your chin, your collarbone, and you fold forward, bent at the knees to meet his height.

“Do you have a name, sweetheart?” you ask kindly.

He nods, nibbling quietly on the cracker, and you breathe out a chuckle. “Not much of a talker, huh? I can respect that,” you say, eyes crinkling fondly with a smile. “Well if you want to tell me, you can—or not. That’s okay, too.”

He nods again, and you fish out more salty treats from the sleeve in your pack, gently handing them to the other—a gesture he nervously accepts, dirty fingers trembling as he plucks them from your open palm. This boy is precious—sweet faced and cherubic, he must not be a cycle over the age of seven.

And the realization comes so suddenly that it blindsides you—struck by it, there between your lungs: Din was his age when it happened—when life happened to him. When this could have happened to him.

You can’t help but think of it—think of him and everything he told you that night he came bleeding through the Razor Crest. You can’t stop imagining him; Din as a little boy tucked away, his people—his parents—decimated overhead. He is a Mandalorian by proxy. Displaced from his home, from his past, saved by a sect with an affinity for orphans—to protect those who cannot protect themselves. The irony of it all is not lost on you:

Din is a refugee too.

You see him in this boy, and in all the faces here—in every set of eyes, young and old alike. Each are individual - idiosyncratic - but they each wear the same qualifiers. The same exhaustion. They each fight the same tired battle, leaving them with identical sets of marks.

Does Din? If you were to see him, truly see him, would you find them there? You’ve seen the scars he’s earned from being a Mandalorian.

You wonder if he has any from simply being a man.

Pushing yourself to stand upright, you cradle Munch back into your chest, his teensy claws riddling your shirt, and offer the boy your hand—outstretched in front of you.

He’s cautious. Too cautious for a boy so young, for a child who should know nothing but abundant love and fearless imagination. He shouldn’t have had to learn this lesson: that some hands should not be taken, that some people should not be trusted. He studies you, hesitant but hopeful, and you smile softly—cycles of hard-won patience and empathy curving the corners of your lips.

He lays his small hand in your own. You walk on together.

///

The day blows by like hot desert wind, chafing at your skin. Minutes have ripened to hours—morning has crawled to midday.

The three of you finish your rounds— distributing rations throughout the camp, pitching tents, taking stock of the dwindling supplies for you to relay to the Movement once you return to the Crest and have access to your holopad.

It’s then that you notice Arlaani again. She’s speaking in hushed tones with another man, the both of them hunched over a large carton. You see the concern ticked clearly along the man’s jaw, the dread grooved into her brow, her crossed arms. With a frown, you plop the child down onto a nearby petrified log and the other boy joins, hopping up next to him, all too happy to get off his feet. You tell them not to wander off— a kiss to Munch’s forehead, a ruffle of the boy’s hair— before making your way to the couple.

“Hey,” you call, jogging over. “Is everything alright?”

Arlaani wheels around as you approach. It hasn’t been long since you’ve seen her, but somehow she looks older. Hollowed, drained— like there’s less and less in her. “It’s the water,” she grits out, “sand mites have gotten to the crates, to the canteens.” She tosses you one of the flasks. It’s littered with holes, porous and leaking— the remnants of water splashing out of the orifices bitten into the sides.

Arlaani dives through the crate, rifling through the supplies. She’s tense, upset, her voice is rife with it. “They’re all like this. Ruined, fucking—” She heaves out a hissed exhale and props herself up on the edge of the box, neck bowed between her shoulder blades. “This was the last of it, and now—now…”

The man tries his best - how do you comfort marble? - as he places an arm around her, his thumb drawing patterns there, reassuring and calm but she wants nothing of it; she gruffly shrugs it off as if stung, weaseling out of his hold. “I can’t— I need to think,” Arlaani bristles, as she paces away from the settlement, receding deeper into the Wastes.

“I’m sorry,” he stutters, “I have- I have to—” His eyes follow her shrinking form, worry apparent in the shape of them. It’s so obvious. He’s terrified of that woman—probably loves her, too.

“Go,” you say, and with a knowing expression, he turns and trots after her.

Heavy footed, heavy hearted, you trudge back to find the children exactly where you left them. Once there, you collapse to the hard ground, dust and dirt puffing up as you recline onto the log. Your palms run over the earth—scooping up sand and rock and letting it slip through the cracks of your fingers, gaze trained out onto the encampment—the people milling about, the miasma of helplessness stifling the air.

This isn’t enough. You’re not doing enough— these impermanent little nothings, your measly good deeds. It’s not going to matter. They’ll be bones by the time the next wave of volunteers rolls through. They’ll be grain.

You need to do something that lasts, that outlives you when you leave.

You glance over to the kid and his new friend, their little legs swinging off the edge of the trunk, heels thumping against the old wood. They look to you, two pairs of big eyes—crackers in their tiny fists.

“You boys ever dig a well?”

///|||///

The suns roast into his beskar, blistering him from the inside out.

The day has been long and it’s only half over. It took him longer than it should have to gather himself— his fob, his rifle, his fucking head—and depart the Crest. Longer than it should have to hunt the bounty here—some marauder scum who’s number is up and luck has run out. Longer than it should have to set up his sniper’s nest, sculpted into the mountainside.

Din is distracted, has been all day— has been since you left.

He can’t stop feeling you. Your warmth pushing against his chest, your arms looping around his neck, the heat of your palms searing through his flight suit. Din can smell you on him still— like citrus and moss, you cling to his cowl from where you buried your head.

It’s intolerable. It feels like an infection with how it’s been building, how this has spread— slowly but surely rearing to an unignorable head. Serpentine and insidious as it crept through him, this growing affliction— this morbid curiosity that spoiled like rotting stonefruit into infatuation— slipping along his bones and organs, blemishing Din in faint little licks— imperceptible to the naked eye but there all the same.

How did this happen? How did he become this?

You’ve been more relaxed now, bolder in some ways. Transparent. Sometimes, you’ll touch his arm as you walk by him or sweep your hair from your neck when you sit by his side in the cockpit, star shine on your jaw. You’re quick with a laugh, lips pulling back into a pretty grin. He’s even caught you staring at him, there out of the corner of his eye—from where he steals those same glances under the safety of his helm.

He spied you once, just a glimpse of your backside, padding quietly away from the shower with only your underwear on, drops of water tracking down your spine. It was brief, you were fast—you must have forgotten your shirt in your bunk—but he had to lock himself in his quarters and fuck his hand before he could even think about piloting the Crest into the stratosphere.

Din is a lot of things, but he isn’t daft. A part of him knows. A part of him is aware that you are two very human people with very human needs—and that you’ve been ignoring these primal aches with premeditated dereliction for months now.

And you can only dance around each other so long before one of you snaps.

And Maker, he’s so desperate to be rid of you—to get you out of his fucking system; to let him sleep without dreaming of you, to let him wake without plunging into his briefs and jerking himself off. You are everywhere. In his ship, in his galley, in his thoughts. He has no privacy, he has no sanctity— he has no idea how you have managed to worm yourself so deep into every living part of him. Others have tried and they have failed, and you— you did it in your sleep. From that very first fucking night, curled up in his chair, gore and ash stained tunic rising with your slumbered breathing. You snored.

You fucking snored.

And now you’re killing him— just as the suns above, you are blistering him from the inside out.

His level-headedness has all but evaporated. He’s peeved. Not only is Din distracted, but he's angry— has been since he plodded up this damn hill, waiting for his quarry to pass through the ravine between the valley of mountains—because instead of performing his job, he’s consumed with you. All of you.

He kneels, flattening himself against the rocky sand— your hands, so small and soft against him— and unclips the rifle from the strap on his back—how good you’d feel on his skin—he aligns his sights— the weight of your breasts in his palms—

His helmeted head clunks to the ground and he loses his aim, a frustrated growl emanating out from him. Focus, Mando. Fucking focus.

Din reorients his crosshair, training it on the gang of pirates in the gorge below. They lean haphazardly over their speeders, their cargo nets packed full with different wares and spices, jeering loudly and chugging from the jugs of spotchka they undoubtedly looted earlier that afternoon. He inspects the rabble, searching for his target and—those pretty lips that smile so easy for him, stretched around his length.

Fuck. He pinches his eyes shut.

You whispering husky into his ear as you ride him, you bent over the pilot’s chair begging for his cock, you sprawled out over the deck while he laps at your sweet cunt.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck— he can’t do this. He can’t fucking do this. You’re everywhere everywhere everywhere— you buffer his vision, his senses, his sight. He’s blinded with you. You’re blinding him.

With an infuriated heave he shoves himself off the ridge of the dune, bounty-less, and reverses his course back to the Crest—heart beating furious and bloody against his ribs.

///

The settlers surround the trench, peering down at you as you work. Hours ago, when you originally proposed this idea to Arlaani, they insisted on helping— to which of course, you insisted they didn’t. And so they watch— the refugees, Din’s foundling, the nameless boy— mangling their hands restlessly, animated with an inkling of that all too lethal substance long sought after by those of all species and creeds: hope.

You sink the shovel into the dry earth and your muscles burn with the effort—the skin on your palms stings from the rough grate of the wooden dowel and the yawn of your back strains as you pitch forward.

You’ve missed this.

You’ve been so distracted. You’ve grown comfortable in your routines, you’ve let yourself go listless—living in blissful ignorance—all because of a metal man in his metal ship with the most impossible and darling child you’ve ever known. All because your body reacts at the very sight of him, all because your belly flips when he speaks, that modulated purr rumbling loose from his beskar, all because, because—

You like him.

You wish you didn’t—you hardly know why you do—but you’ve soaked your fingers enough times in your rack to realize that this thing residing within you burns.

You can’t even see his face, and you don’t have to. His presence alone— that raw, vacuous energy that surges from him—it’s addicting. It's engulfing. It makes you whimper into the night, massaging your pearled clit as your other hand muffles your moans and you come over and over and over again, chasing after the fantasy you so dangerously harbor for this man. The man who’s piloting you back to Coruscant—the man who sleeps just down the hall.

But that isn’t real. That’s not real life— that’s not your life. This is real—the fuchsia of the setting suns blazing through the horizon, the sweat on your brow. You’ve missed this— Maker, you need this. Working with your hands, making an impact. You’re wanted here and kriff, does that not feel so unabashedly right. To be wanted. To be important.

Your back groans, the sinew woven over your spine aching in protest and you know, without a doubt, you’ll feel this for the next week. Half of you dreads it—being cooped up and sore, lactic acid compacting your joints— while the other excites at the prospect; the memory of a good deed lasting long after it’s finished. That reminder always there, always present: see, there’s still hope in the galaxy. We can still do good. There’s goodness where you look for it.

You fling dirt over your shoulder as you burrow lower and lower. With each shove, the soil changes hue, changes density—the striations darker, more definitive. It’s less dry now, thicker too—turning from sand to clay the deeper you dig. Again, you drive the spade into the sod with a taxed grunt, when you hear a distinct, wet squish.

You pause, stilling your shovel in the dirt. Everything - everyone - freezes.

Adrenaline thrums through you as you drop to your knees, using your hands to brush away loose silt piled atop the loamy floor, excavating what lies beneath.

Prayers and hollers erupt above you and you lurch your focus up to the sound, a feverish grin plastered to your face. The little boy jostles the child excitedly, and his green talons rumple the other’s tattered tunic. Your head falls back, cushioned by the dirt wall and you laugh - gargled, relieved - as water begins to seep through the tired ground.

Bubbling up, bubbling up—unearthing.

///

The promise of ridding yourself of your soiled clothes was the singular thought that fueled your trek back to the Crest. Every inch of you was filthy, caked in dried mud and gritty sand and you wanted nothing more than to strip from those dirty layers and melt into your bedroll. The kid, that lucky little bugger, had passed right out; sun drunk from his long day, he’d slept the entirety of the return trip—stirring only once when you placed him in the hover pram and sealed it shut.

Your bones are worn. Your tissue, your tendons— every little scrap that keeps you stitched together craves sleep. You reckon you should feel miserable, what with the tell-tale stiffness already burdening your spine and the fresh callus from the shovel’s handle reddening your palm.

But you’re not miserable, not even close. No, you’re happy—you’re glowing; fulfilled and serene, humming as you wash your pants in the basin, kneading at the sopping fabric. You wring out the article, shaking free the excess droplets before draping it on a metal rung overhead. You peel off your shirt and bra band next, leaving you only in your underwear as you plop them into the bowl and begin to scrub at the stains, concentrating on a particularly dirty patch at the sleeve.

The grating mechanics of the Crest’s great jaw unhinging sends your stomach bounding frantic to your lungs.

Kriff—shit shit shit, he’s back early.

Clutching onto your modesty, you cover your breasts and scramble to your quarters, quickly shimming a loose tunic over your head. Its hem barely covers the curve of your ass and you tug long at the cloth before peeking cautiously from the doorway and tiptoeing out of your room.

“Hey,” you warble, rounding a corner as solid feet pound up the ramp—you can feel their reverberations in the floor under your own. You pad into the galley, pulling at your shirt as you go, to tidy up the washing you left unattended. “Sorry, I wasn’t expecting you so—”

You falter.

He’s there at the mouth of the ship, the ramp drawing slowly up behind him and he’s fuming; you can practically see the steam lifting from his armor and his breathing is labored—chest rising, plummeting violently. You both stand immobilized on opposite sides of the hull—you, bare-legged and exposed and Din, all but anonymous under the steeled fury of his armor. Finally, the sound dampens, ship shuddering as she seals shut—sealing you in—and the leather of his fist creaks in the silence hanging dense like smoke around you.

“Mando...?”

He doesn’t grace you with a response. Instead he begins to stalk forward, stripping weapon after weapon from himself with every thundering step—rifle, blaster, vibroblade—he sloughs it all, metal clanging against metal as they clatter to the deck.

“Hey, what’s wrong-”

He’s not stopping. Fuck, he’s getting closer and closer and instinctually you back up—staggering until you’re pressed against the bulkhead—his broad frame crowding you until all you see is the silver polish of his beskar. You jolt when his hands fly up and slam into the wall behind you, framing either side of your head, fencing you between his forearms. Your lips part, wide-eyed and confused, and you gulp around the nervous lump threatening your voice.

“Do you have any idea,” he seethes, “what you do to me?”

“W-What-” Your stammering is cut short as he slots his thigh between your legs and you have to tilt your chin to meet his visor, a gasp finding itself on your tongue.

“Strutting around my ship, putting your hands on me, that kriffing smile…” Din ruts his knee into your heat, and you’re practically hoisted onto your toes. Your core pulses against the blunt pressure, blood racing to the throb at your center.

Maker, you could fucking faint.

“Do you know how long I’ve thought about this—about you?” His voice is tar black—smooth like obsidian—and you succumb to it. You can’t speak; any and all language evaporating from the forefront of your mind, because he’s everywhere. He’s inescapable and smothering and his scent floods over you, intoxicatingly wild—like iron and sand and something dangerous. Something heady, carnal.

“Is this what you want?” he hisses.

You’ve gone dumb. You’ve imagined this, you’ve dreamt of this, but now it’s actually happening—here, in the flesh, it’s finally happening and you’re trembling with the reality of it. All you can muster is a shaky nod, tongue darting out over your lip.

“Tell me,” he orders, scanning your face behind the guise of his helm. You feel his gaze rove over your eyes, your cheek—fanning across your lips.

Your breath hitches.

“Yes,” you whisper, “yes I want this.“

It’s all it takes.

Din is rougher than he means to be. He wears this as he wears his armor, plating the soft parts of himself he doesn’t want anyone touching. He doesn’t know anything else. He doesn’t know how to be anyone else but this.

He grabs a handful of your waist, rooting you still as he rolls his thigh against you. You inhale an airy noise, grappling onto his other arm stationed by your head and you bite your lip, sucking it into your mouth. Your cunt spasms for him as he presses up into your mound, fightless against the groan that seeps through you.

“You like that?” he pants. ”You like fucking my thigh?”

Din manhandles your hips, his hold on you vicious as he rocks you back and forth on his plated leg, your clit catching on the cold edge of his thigh guard with each motion. It sends hot sparks down your spine and you trap a moan behind your teeth, letting the sound rumble there before you swallow it. His hand weaves up from your waist, the drag of his glove setting fire to your skin as he passes over the swell of your clothed breast, and you arch into his palm as he swipes a thumb over a nipple. “You want more?”

He splays his large hand, groping at your plump flesh, and pinches your nipple hard until it pebbles through your shirt. With each sharp twist, his intention becomes clearer: it won’t be enough to skate by on moans alone.

“I asked you a question.”

Din slides his other hand to the small of your back, drawing you flush to his front, and you can feel him— the outline of his firm length twitching under his flight suit against your hip. He cranes over you, intimidating and menacing and achingly devious. The panel of his visor has never looked darker.

“Use your words, dala,” he husks.

You should be embarrassed by this—by your need made evident through the soaked lining of your underwear—but you aren’t. The heat that stipples your cheeks isn’t born from shame, it’s sprung from lust—pure and primal—and you can’t afford to give it any further consideration because all there is is this man wrenching sounds from you like an animal— and he’s scarcely even touched you yet.

“Your fingers,” you whimper, “I want your hands."

He learned this lesson within those first weeks—relearns it every fucking day. You could ask him for anything - everything - and he would oblige.

He can’t say no to you.

He shifts out from between you, hooking into the elastic of your panties and tears them down your thighs to rest just above your knees, the spread of your legs keeping them from dropping to your ankles.

Patiently - tortuously - he scrapes up your legs, leaving embers in his wake as he trails higher higher higher to where you need him most. You’re shivering—nerve endings fried and frayed—and every atom inside you hums with anticipation, with unbridled impulse.

The orange tips of his gloves dimple your inner thighs - squeezing, massaging - before he tilts his helmet, angling himself to see you better, and paws your swollen lips apart.

Your pussy is drooling for him.

He moans something indecipherable— a curse in Mando’a—at the sight of you glistening for him under the dimmed lights like this, and immediately you buck your pelvis to him, hungry for his touch—and the pathetic noises babbling out of you prove too much for him to bear.

“Fuck this,” he snarls, ripping a glove off and tossing it aside, “I need to feel you.”

Your eyes have dilated with want, blackened as you watch Din retrace his bare hand—that gorgeous thing you’ve never seen, only ever fantasized about—back to your heat and slowly - so fucking slowly - pass a finger through your slit.

You throw your head back, knocking against the durasteel. The mewl that escapes you is inhuman.

He’s so warm. His tan skin is molten—it’s like he brought the sun in with him, as if he’s burning that star straight into your sex. You’re slippery with arousal; you can feel how glossed you are, you don’t have to look. You can hear it—hear the obscene squelches he’s stroking from your seam.

“Maker, you’re - shit - you’re wet,” he groans loudly, reveling in the way you pitch your hips—seeking his warmth, his friction. He’s been toying with you, drawing patterns along your pussy and playing with your puffy folds, but he hasn’t even come close to your clit. You know it’s no accident. Din is methodical in all things, he doesn’t make mistakes. This is a decision—it’s intentional. You think, perhaps, he’s looking to break you—some sort of retribution for these months you’ve spent swimming in circles around each other—and you think, perhaps, you’d let him.

That you’d like it.

When Din grants you mercy, finally gliding his index along your neglected bundle of nerves, reflexively you fist into his cowl, knuckles going pale.

“Stars-” you exclaim—just like that.

He handles your body like he does one of his pistols - practiced, unparalleled - encircling your clit with precision, his finger on your trigger—blinding, perfect agony swiveled into your sweet cleft.

When he pushes himself inside you, all the oxygen gets punched out of your lungs.

“Fuck, and so tight,” Din growls, bending at the knuckle to curl over that spongy spot of your walls that makes you gape, makes your brain go slack. Your arms scamper around his pauldrons, nails scraping sharp over beskar. The heel of his hand presses into your clit and you grind against him, each roll of your hips pleading a filthy please please please as you chase after the orgasm he’s baiting you with.

He responds to that, bourboned praise dripping smug from his smirk. “Fuck, look at you, so desperate—gonna cum for me already?”

You don’t have the wherewithal to formulate a response. He’s fit another finger into you, fucking up into you hard—fucking you exactly how you need him to. It feels like you are about to shatter right there on your feet. It’s almost unbearable, this mounting tension that’s climbing within you. You’ve been so starved for this, so deprived of a kind touch and a good fuck, and within no time at all he’s coaxing you to the ledge of your release.

“Mando,” you sob, entwining your fingers into his cape, grinding grinding grinding into his palm when suddenly, without warning, his ministrations cease—that burning coil abating to a simmer. You let out a rasped pant, collapsing forward onto his shoulder— your climax ripped away from you at the last, pivotal second.

Your eyes are screwed shut, you don’t see the movement—you can only feel it once it’s already there: the bounty hunter’s glove grating over your neck. You sputter out a gasp as he forces your jaw up to align with the chill of his visor, trapped in the unrelenting strength of his grasp. Your eyes clamber around the chrome boxing you in, gulping back the fear coalescing in your mouth.

“You say my name,” he gravels. “You say my name when I’m inside you.”

Your cunt spasms around the fingers still seated within you—aching for movement, aching to cum—and your lower lip quivers as he leers. “I gave it to you—say it,” he commands.

For a fleeting moment, in the remaining rational corner of your brain, it occurs to you that you’re terrified—that there may be no going back once you speak it. There’s no unmaking this choice. Like a door—a door that swings both ways—once it is cracked ajar, it cannot be closed again. Because you know yourself, you loathe to admit it, but you know his name will crumble you; that you will bend—that you will want to give and give and give to him— and still, despite, you lay onto the handle and fling that door wide open.

“Din.”

“Fuck,” he seethes. His reaction is visceral—the whole of him stiffens, leathered pads of his fingertips searing into your throat. “Again.”

“Din,” you whine as he rocks his fingers into your walls.

He moans, wanton and guttural, at the way his name tumbles from you like velvet. “Good girl—fuck, that’s good.”

He vanishes from your neck, bringing his hand down to cup his cock bulging painfully against the fabric there and your gaze snaps to it, saliva pooling in the well of your mouth. You slither your hand down his breast plate, over the paneling of his flight suit, trailing south until it lands on the hide of his glove. You stop, waiting there - breathless - until he nods curtly.

His hand falls away. You mold your palm to his length.

“Din,” you give freely, high-pitched and girly, and his cock brays under your hand. Fuck, he’s big—you can feel his mass through his pants and your pussy flutters around his fingers moving deliciously lazy inside you. Your eyes latch onto his, the brown of them hidden somewhere under the helm, and you can feel his own bore into you, weighing leaden there—

before you both simultaneously rupture.

Din’s fingers slip out of you to fiddle with the hem of his pants, unbuttoning in a clumsy flourish until he springs free with a groan of relief.

Maker.

He’s fucking divine—long and veined, with a patch of dark curls padding around the base of him. Din weeps for you already, frustrated and pent up from the confines of his restraints, beads of arousal dappling his head. He hisses as you swipe a digit over his cock, smearing his precum down the silken slope of him. You’re transfixed—the both of you staring as you wrap your hand around his shaft and he shudders, keening in to your touch.

“Mm, fuck you’re soft- kriff-”

Din dwarfs you—you barely fit around his girth—and he can’t help but buck into your palm as you begin to move in tandem. Din flicks at your clit, mirroring your pace as you get each other off. It’s awkward and lewd and perfect—both of you, a tapestry of woven limbs and sweat and you pump him harder and harder, choking his cock with your fist. You fuck him raw, the dry drag of your satin hand ripping curses from his mouth.

“Fuck, dala,” he pants, “I-I’m not—” I’m not gonna last. His words are snuffed out as you circle your wrist and brush a thumb over his leaking tip, forcing him to shiver. He doesn’t have to finish his thought, you understand plenty well. You’re dancing along that same precipice, flirting with the fall.

“Stars, yes,” you plead. Fuck, you want him to cum— you need him to. You need to make him feel good, to let him know that you’re here - you’re right here - and that he means more to you than you care to admit; that you want him—have since you first laid eyes on him, since he rescued you, since he took you back to the Crest and gave you the last of his bacta to heal all your splintered bits. That he deserves this—with all that he’s done for you, all that he’s doing for you—

with all that he his.

“Din—please.” Fuck, you don’t even know what you’re asking for—more of him, all of him—and a groan tears through his modulator at the sound of you begging his name—like he’s wounded, like it pains him to hear you say it.

It’s a race now—the two of you hurdling headlong towards this terrible, messy collision. You’re both sloppy—wet sounds and slaps of skin—as you stumble closer to the brink of release. He’s been rendered incoherent, chiseled down to the basest of grunts and broken words you don’t recognize. His thumb finds a devastating pressure on your swollen nub and your legs begin to vibrate, nearly unable to stand on your own two feet with how fucking perfectly he’s working your pussy.

This thing inside you feels giant - monstrous - and that slow wave that’s been building and building and cresting is here, upon you. You’re trapped in the barrel of it, and it’s going to crash at any moment and sweep you out to sea. Drown you—happily, gladly. “I’m - oh fuck—"

“That’s it, good girl,” he praises, tightening his circles on your clit. “Cum for me, cum on my hand-”

A crack of lightening streaks up your middle, the whole of you shaking as your orgasm rushes through, a sputtering cry let loose into the ship. You feel yourself gush, dripping past his thickness stuffing you full, dripping down your inner thighs. Din pulls out from you and you whimper at the loss—his absence leaving you gaping, leaving you bereft. You’re siphoning down air, dizzy from your release, when he raises his hand, glistening with your fluids, and traces your bottom lip—asking for entrance.

Fuck.

You part for him, eager and pliant, and he snakes two fingers inside—tasting your own tang and the leather residue left there, stamped into the whirls of his fingerprints. Your tongue swirls around them, laving him clean, and you drag over the ridges of his shaft— still hard and throbbing and waiting in your grasp. He bobs his fingers in your mouth, matching you thrust for thrust, and you let out a depraved little moan, humming around him, and all Din can do is watch.

Watch as he disappears between your lips—his skin pulling and catching on your plush flesh— watch as you suck on them, watch as he practically fucks your throat. And Maker, you take him so fucking well, letting him do what he pleases with your all too supple body.

He can’t even begin to imagine what his cock would look like—what it would feel like nestled in the hot cavern of your mouth, hollowing your cheeks to suck him like hard candy. Din doesn’t let himself—can’t. If he did, fuck, that’d be it. He’d be done for. He knows he’d cum in a flash and he wants to make this last—to hold on to this - onto you - for as long as he can, allow himself this singular concession. The only time, he convinces himself, the last time.

He won’t think about you again.

You quicken your rhythm and Din bucks wildly into your palm, his seizing and twitching alerting you to how close he is. He slides from your mouth, a string of saliva trailing along after as he clasps onto the back of your neck.

“I’m gonna cum, I’m—” Din knots into your hair, gripping you rough, panting frantic. “Fuck. Fuck, dala— cyare-”

With a hoarse shout, he slams his gloved fist into the durasteel and spills over himself in hot, thick pumps, spurts shooting out to splatter on your tunic, on his flight suit, on your knuckles. You ease him through it, his cum glazing down his cock before you slow to a languid stroke, his seed sticky under your palm. You’re panting, the both of you, spent noises reverberating ugly and loud against the metal sidings.

Din sinks his helmet to your forehead while you catch your breath, his cold beskar kissing your flushed skin—the density of it comforting, grounding. Your eyes teeter shut and you let yourself lean into him, a dazed grin tugging at your wet lips. This is— nice; so much gentler than the pace he drove not minutes before. Head to head, his hand buried in your hair, your arm slung over his hulking shoulders; your fingers thread into the askew fabric behind his neck to discover a sliver of skin treasured away underneath. You trace there - lightly, whispered - earning a fizzle of static sent whirring through his vocoder.

“Fuck,” Din mumbles, before unweaving himself and separating from you. Your legs have gone useless and rubbery—you almost face plant forward without him there— and by the time you blink open, he’s already tucked himself into his pants and picked up his glove, slotting it over those skilled fingers that had just filled you to the brim. He turns back round to find you staring at him through the haze of your afterglow, eyes glassy and fucked out; your fluids dribbling down towards your underwear still bunched above your knees, hair tangled with sweat and saliva and cum—his and yours.

You look wrecked—disheveled. You’re so fucking pretty it makes Din want to scream.

He picks up a stray rag from a crate and offers it to you, before silently sliding your panties back up to your hips in one dexterous swipe. He lingers there but for a moment, savoring the touch of you—grazing a digit into the crease of your hip. You’re rendered mute— your brain can hardly string a sentence together— but finally you manage, your voice weak when you find it again.

“Thank you,” you croak, wiping away the traces of him off your knuckles, and you smile coquettish, delirious. “That was… that was, uhm—I really enjoyed that.”

A quiet beat slogs by.

And then, everything shifts.

Din’s hand descends from your waist, holstering it to his side, and he moves away. He moves away from you.

You can feel it immediately—like a gust of chilled wind, the change in the air nips at you. Din’s armor is anything but warm—his presence, his aura, anything but inviting—but now, he seems farther from you than ever before, his visor tempered and steely.

You know him. You know this man. You’ve travelled with him, you’ve mended his ills, you’ve taken care of his son, you’ve spoken his name, you’ve laid prints on his skin and deeper still—

And here, before you, Din is white noise. Indiscernible. Unreadable.

Nervously, you twiddle with the frayed edge of the stained cloth, worrying your cheek. You swear, just for a second, that you see him inch towards you— you think you sense him, some part of him, breaching the chasm that’s formed between you. But it’s only a trick of the lowlight—a trick of your cruel heart, winged and errant beneath your ribs, misconstruing your thoughts to fancy.

Because he doesn’t. He doesn’t come to you like you want. He doesn’t touch you again, he doesn’t hold you like you need.

It feels like you’re withering—your legs too bare, your tunic too short, hair too mussed, eyes too bleary—everything feels wrong now, misplaced. “Din,” you start, you try—you try to keep attached to this tether, to this thin strand you’ve sewn between your bodies, but he shrinks back. He severs it. He is as you first met him. Rigid. Distant. A Mandalorian bounty hunter— the best in the parsec. He is as he was months ago, when you were strangers.

When you were nothing.

“I—” He silences himself, teeth clenching shut around the unspoken sentiment you so long to hear, and instead takes another step backwards. Farther away. Farther from you.

He stands straighter, impossibly taller, and you feel

small.

“Goodnight,” Din gives, his voice shrouded and cloaked by his modulator. He pivots on his heel, retreating into the depths of the Crest and leaves you there, the ghost of his hands on your neck, on your breasts, in your heat— still tingling from where they haunt you. Exhausted, you thud back into the bulkhead, unfocused and unseeing.

“Goodnight Din,” you murmur, but it falls upon deaf ears. He’s gone, and the empty hull swallows your words—burying them.

taggies:

@girlimjusttryingtoreadfanfics @pedros-mustache @miranhas-art @djarrex @bookloverfilmoholic @keeper0fthestars @misguidedandbeguiled @bookishofalder @helmet-comes-off @grumpymuffinmama @niiight-dreamerrrr @spideysimpossiblegirl @janebby @greatcircle79 @djarinsbeskar @sammysdaisy @whataperfectwasteoftime @mandobloggin @silver-streaked-wings

#din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #din djarin x fem!reader #mando x reader #mando x you #mando x fem!reader #din djarin #the mandalorian #pedro pascal #star wars fanfic #the mandalorian fanfic #king of cups #mandalorian smut

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andypantsx3 · 3 years

Text

statistically significant | 6 | bakugou/reader

length: 23,490 words | 7 chapters

summary: You’re the scientist who developed a neural net to model the value of assists. Now that your work is feeding into the hero rankings, pro hero Ground Zero has a bone to pick with your results.

tags: romance, enemies to lovers, sexual tension, reader-insert

warnings: aged up characters, eventual smut, m/f threats of violence, problematic behavior

Mina, Kaminari, and Bakugou did not waste any time.

No sooner had Bakugou spoken than he had you on your feet, shepherding you to the door. His movements had completely changed--no longer was he loud, aggressive, the most volatile thing in the room. Now, he slipped behind you like a shadow, his body pressed firmly and protectively over you, lithe armor at your back.

Mina and Kaminari moved with you, looking solemn.

“We’re going for the surveillance room,” Bakugou growled, “Need to see what the fuck is happening.”

The hall was barren as you emerged into it, silent and still until another explosion rocked the foundations of the building.

“And fast, we need to get Y/N out,” Mina added.

You didn’t protest. You didn’t know what the hell was going on, but you knew distant explosions couldn’t mean anything good.

The surveillance room made it all too clear exactly what was happening. Tens of people were pouring into the top levels of the building, smashing through windows on the business floors, blowing the sides of the building clean open near marketing. A few men dressed in dark coats appeared to have the gall to waltz straight through the front entrance. Everywhere, Miruko’s civilian employees were fleeing in all directions, uncertain of where to run in the chaos.

Your pulse spiked wildly and you watched as Bakugou’s gaze narrowed to scarlet pinpricks as he seemed to spot something familiar to him.

Kaminari made a choked noise. “Is that--?”

“Sugimoto,” Bakugou growled, tapping the image of a tall man surrounded by some kind of glowing purple forcefield quirk. A crackle of sparks lit off from Bakugou’s palm, hot and sharp, and you jumped in surprise.

“What’s Sugimoto?” you asked, looking up into his face.

His lip curled disdainfully. “He’s head of a crime syndicate. Miruko agency raided them a couple months ago in coordination with the police, took down almost the entire syndicate in one straight shot. Miruko killed both of his brothers during the firefight--I’d bet anything he’s here for revenge.”

You suppressed a shiver. Either the man was incredibly confident in his own ability to take on the number seven hero and her entire agency, or he was fucking insane and desperate for revenge. Either way, you did not want to be caught in the crossfire.

“Raccoon, Pikachu, get up to the business level,” Bakugou commanded, a calloused hand closing around your arm. “I’m gonna get the nerd out first, and then I’ll be back to roast Sugimoto in his fucking skin.”

Kaminari nodded and Mina gave you a smile and a reassuring pet over your hair. “Don’t be too late or we’ll get to have all the fun,” she said to Bakugou, winking.

And then she and Kaminari were gone, disappearing in the direction of the stairwell. Your heart rate stuttered nervously, watching them go. Mina’s confidence was reassuring--she was fucking terrifying when she was in her element, and Kaminari was powerful too. But there had been so many people flowing into the building, like the rising tide of a sudden tsunami. You hoped they would be okay.

“You in there, nerd?” Bakugou’s voice cut through your flurry of doubt.

You looked up at him, steeling your features. He was still streaked with dirt and scratches from the training room. You hoped having trained so much already wasn’t going to disadvantage any of them in their fight. “Yeah, sorry. I’m fine.”

He considered you, blonde brows turned down. “You’re gonna be fine, nerd. I’ll kill anyone who fucking looks at you.”

A small strangled noise like a laugh escaped your throat. He was so bad at being reassuring, it was almost reassuring in and of itself. He still was going to be entering the fray several hours into using his quirk already, however. You wondered if his self certainty was going to be enough.

“You don’t think I will?” he demanded angrily, looking absolutely incensed. He looked like he might storm out of your office again, like you had just said the word help to him.

“It’s not me I’m worried about,” you said. “When you go back in, just--be careful, okay?”

His eyes picked over you curiously. Then a small, mortifying smirk appeared at the corner of his mouth. “I fucking knew you had a crush on me, you little freak.”

Your face heated as you gabbled out a protest. “This is so not the time. And I didn’t say that.”

Bakugou rolled a strong shoulder, looking far more relaxed that he had any right to. “Yeah, whatever. You’ll be singing a different tune when this is over.” He watched you for a long moment, his expression looking strangely contemplative.

And then he leaned down and kissed you on the mouth.

Your brain went empty. This could have been just another day at the office for all the thought you were giving the fight upstairs. This could have been any day anywhere, because suddenly you couldn’t remember where you were or what the fuck was going on at all. Bakugou’s mouth was hot and insistent, and he curled a strong arm around your waist to draw you closer, biting down gently on your lip.

You grabbed a fistful of his shirt for dear life, knees going strangely weak, as he swore into your mouth and pressed you into him harder.

“Fuck, I’m not finished with you,” he said when he released you, pressing one last hard kiss to your mouth. “You’re gonna stay right the fuck where I put you, got it?”

You nodded dumbly, trying to will your fingers into unclenching from his shirt. “Y--yeah.”

He smirked, looking far too pleased with himself. You felt your eyebrow twitch reflexively, despite everything that had just happened. “Alright, stay close, nerd. I’m gonna get you the fuck out of here.”

You nodded again. He pulled you behind him, letting you fist your hands in his shirt again, and then lead the way down the hall, keeping close to the wall, the line of his body tense and alert. Some of your earlier uneasiness settled back over you, oppressively heavy, weighing down your every step. The training had been truly terrifying but this was much, much worse, the dread and anticipation coiling in your gut until you thought you might be sick.

You made it to the stairwell and flipped up several floors without incident, though you could hear with some clarity the scuffles ongoing on the floors above you. You encountered no one, not even fellow heroes or civilians, until you hit the ground floor.

Bakugou reached behind him, pressing you even closer to his back with a firm hand. “Alright, nerd. Stay close while I move. If I stop, stay still and trust me, alright?”

Your blood pounded in your veins and you took a calming breath. You could hear the sounds of a fight just beyond the door, but there was no other way out of the stairwell. You’d just have to go through the main floor. “Okay. I’m ready.”

“Good girl,” he said. And then he kicked open the door.

Your brain short circuited and you had just enough mind to register that he was moving, scrambling to keep up with him as he stalked forward through the doorway. You held on to the back of his shirt, pulse spiking wildly, and not just because of your apprehension.

There was a deafening boom like thunder and the hall in front of you went up in a flash, the walls splintering into pieces. Over one of Bakugou’s broad shoulders, you could see the explosion blowing two men straight through the window at the end of the hall, glass shattering around them.

From down the hall came Miruko’s harsh tone, her breath a little labored. “Katsuki, fucking watch it! That’s my window.”

“Yeah yeah,” Bakugou growled, not sounding the least bit chastened. He pulled you to the side as something cold went sailing past your left shoulder, firing off another blast from his palm to shoot the person right through the hole in the window he’d just made.

The two of you crossed through the halls slowly but surely, Bakugou sending anyone who came across your path straight through the wall. To your surprise, he ducked into rooms as he went, demanding that the agency employees hiding under their desks “stop acting like little piss babies and get a move on.” Soon there was a small squadron of people following after his back, and Bakugou had you out of the building and blinking in the sunshine before any of the villains caught the group escaping.

“Stay with these extras,” Bakugou commanded imperiously, shoving you after the group of employees towards the end of the street where the growing swell of sirens could be heard. “I’ll see you soon, nerd.”

He paused, fingers brushing over your mouth for a moment. And then he was gone, shooting himself straight back into the fray. The sirens at the end of the street got louder, and soon several squad cars were pulling around the corner. You joined the flow of people streaming out of Miruko’s agency towards the police, though you couldn’t rip your eyes from the agency building.

The windows had been blown out tens of floors up, and you could hear the crackle of quirks in use, see the flash and bang of Kaminari’s lightning, the blue glow of an unknown quirk on the fifth floor, a tangle of vines wrestling several men out of a window on the fourteenth floor. Mina appeared at a window briefly, covered in acid hardened to an armor, easily deflecting what might have been a devastating blow and kicking a yakuza straight through the glass.

You bit down on a whooping cheer. Now wasn’t the moment.

You tried to keep sight of what was going on as the police shepherded you behind a makeshift blockade, cordoning off the area and sweeping the nearby buildings to help evacuate. The crowd of people around you chattered and shifted restlessly. The longer the fight dragged out, the more anxious you became, your senses heightened to the point of strain, looking for any sign of Bakugou and the others.

Then, to your horror, detonations went off on several of the floors, blowing out the remaining windows, and the building itself shuddered and groaned. A chorus of screams went up from inside the agency as pieces of the building began to detach themselves, crumbling to the ground. Your heart leapt into your mouth, blood icing over in your veins.

A few terrified looking civilians appeared at the windows on the top floors, clinging to the window frames as the foundation lurched. You went still, hardly breathing. Oh my god, were they going to jump? They were several stories up, odds were low they would survive if they did. But--the building shuddered again--fuck, they weren’t going to make it if they went back inside.

Oh my god you were going to watch people die right in front of you.

No sooner had you had the thought than someone was rocketing straight up at them from the ground. Your heart rate spiked, recognizing that mess of blonde hair--Bakugou. Without ceremony he grabbed two people and leapt back off the side of the building, using his explosions to slow their descent. They’d barely met the ground before he was up again, catching another two around the middle and hurtling straight for the ground once more.

Your fingers twisted in the hem of your shirt, watching him anxiously. There were just a few more, just three more people and he would have everyone. You willed your breathing to slow, eyes glued to the scene before you.

Then there was a purple glow, and Sugimoto appeared behind the civilians.

You stopped breathing.

Sugimoto kicked one of the civilians in the back of the knee, sending him out of window, careening head over heels towards the ground. Bakugou had barely just enough time to react, tackling the man in mid air and hitting the side of the building hard with his shoulder before he was able to correct their trajectory.

The building gave another rattle as he did, a crack splitting straight up the middle, spiderwebbing into a thousand smaller fissures.

A blur of pink appeared at the base of the building, Mina materializing just as Bakugou hit the ground with the civilian. A crowd of heroes dragging injured civilians followed her, several of them immediately grabbing onto the people Bakugou had gotten to the ground and towing them out of arm’s reach.

You looked back up to the top floor where Sugimoto had the last two employees in his grip, the edges of that forcefield rippling and roiling over him. His mouth moved like he was saying something but you were too far to hear it, though you could guess the implication. He had a forcefield quirk in a building he’d engineered to collapse. The heroes could choose to go after him but the building was seconds away from imploding, and there wouldn’t be enough time to grab both him and the civilians. Even if Bakugou went up, he only had enough capacity for two people--he’d have to pick between the civilians if he also wanted to grab Sugimoto. And besides that, he wasn’t indestructible. Bakugou didn’t have a quirk that could shield him the same way Sugimoto did as the building went down.

The idea hit you at the same time it appeared to hit Mina and Bakugou. The people around you began to murmur in alarm as Bakugou sank back on the concrete, laying down flat on his back like he was going to take a nap in the sun. In the midst of a crisis the visual was certainly out of place, and a soft “what the fuck is he doing?” from behind you reaffirmed it.

Quick as a flash, Mina had coated herself in hardened acid, and then she was stretching out over Bakugou’s lean form, her vicious smile visible even from where you stood. Bakugou raised his hands to her stomach and called something to the heroes nearby. They all went stumbling back, tearing away from him as fast as they could.

All was still for a second. And then a blast of heat and fire ripped through the street, a roar like thunder rendering you deaf for a moment. You closed your eyes against the wave of hot wind and dust Bakugou’s explosion kicked up, and when you managed to crack one open, Mina was hurtling through the window like a rocket, hitting the edge of Sugimoto’s shield and driving him straight back into the building.

The civilians dropped from his grip.

Bakugou braced his hands against the ground and let off another massive explosion, propelling him straight upwards. He met the civilians in seconds, managing to grab them and flip around in mid air, aiming another series of blasts at the ground to control their fall.

A shocked cheer went up behind you when they hit the street, and you couldn’t contain your own gleeful noise that escaped you, though you couldn’t tear your eyes from the spot where Mina had disappeared.

Bakugou barely had time to get the civilians clear before the top floor began to crumble as the building shook, plaster dislodging itself from the ceiling and slapping down in loud thuds you could hear even from where you stood. You watched anxiously, waiting for Mina’s reappearance, as the building gave one final shudder and then caved in.

The second it did, a head of wild pink curls appeared and Mina flung herself off the top floor, just as the floor gave out underneath her. Bakugou was already moving, breaking into an all out sprint. He flung his arms out behind him, explosions ripping up the ground underneath him, and he collided with Mina mere feet from the ground, wrapping an arm around her and blasting them both back up just as chunks of the building slammed down where they had been.

The entire building came crumbling down in a shower of grey dust, shaking the street and sending a wave of car alarms sounding. Bakugou and Mina came down in a semi-controlled spiral, managing to hit the street just beyond the police barricade, Bakugou rolling in the same move he’d done with you earlier to disperse some of their momentum.

A wild cheer went up and you shouted too, elation rising in you like a flood, crawling through your limbs like a slow shiver.

Miruko hopped the barrier beside you, rushing over to where Bakugou and Mina lay. They were both panting, covered head to do in grey dust, looking worse for wear but alive.

“Sugimoto?” Miruko demanded.

Bakugou pushed himself up on an elbow, the red of his eyes bright against the dust covering him, like a spot of blood on a tissue. Mina popped up next to him, nosy bloody, but grinning.

“Unconscious,” she announced. “Shoved him out the back of the building before it collapsed. I melted the floor under him and he lost focus for a second. That’s all I needed to hit him and encase him in acid. He should be a little injured from the fall but alive.”

Miruko grinned savagely, leaning down to ruffle both of their hair. “You did good work, brats.”

“Get the fuck offa me, hag,” Bakugou complained. You noticed he made no move to dislodge her hand, though, and you stifled a laugh at how obvious he was. Mina had said he had a thing for girls who fucked with him...

Then Kaminari was bursting past Miruko, throwing himself onto the two of them in a whirlwind of tears and flailing limbs.

“That was the coolest shit I have ever seen!” he declared at a deafening volume. “You launched Mina through a building! It was fucking awesome!”

“I’ll launch you through a building if you don’t get the fuck off me,” Bakugou growled, shoving Kaminari’s weight straight onto Mina. He rolled to his feet before Kaminari could come back for more, cocking his head to look into the crowd like he was looking for something. An EMT to patch him up? An officer to make a report, maybe?

Then his eyes locked onto you, and you realized.

Oh, he was looking for you.

He was on you in seconds. You didn’t have time to even squeak out his name before he was swallowing it up, pulling you close to him. He tasted like ash and dust, frankly kind of gross, but you were so disturbingly relieved that he was okay that you didn’t even care, pressing even harder against him as he kissed you.

And okay. So maybe you did have a thing for him, you thought. Maybe. Just a little.

He was still annoying as hell, but he’d just saved a ton of people. Just now, you hadn’t even seen him engage in combat except to rescue people, he’d saved dozens of people including you and Mina, and he’d pulled off the most awesome assist that you had ever seen, letting Mina take down the big bad instead of haring in after the dude himself.

He could, maybe for now, totally get it.

Bakugou smirked down at you when you finally separated, red eyes and white teeth bright against all the grime on him. He leaned in, placing a hand on your cheek.

And in the haughtiest, most migraine-inducing tone ever, he said: “Now who’s the fucking best?”

You made no effort to conceal your eye roll. Well, you supposed, there was only so much about a person that could change in a month.

Instead of complaining, you let him kiss you again.

#bakugou x reader #bakugou katsuki x reader #bakugou katsuki #bnha x reader #my hero academia #bnha #katsuki bakugou

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brokenbeskar · 3 years

Text

The Pact

Chapter Six of Memories Reforged (Din Djarin x F!Reader)

Word Count: 6.1k

Summary: Following a possible lead for your bounty on Canto Bight, you need a way to sneak in undetected.

A/N: Sorry for the long wait between updates! I’ve been picking up some extra work. Also, this one does end on somewhat of a cliffhanger, but not to worry! Chapter 7 is already in progress! enjoy!

“And what exactly are you planning to do once we break in?” The Mandalorian questions. The three of you were only a few hours away from Cantonica at this point. You got some intel on an underground blackmarket auction that would be happening in Canto Bight, and knew without hesitation that's where Yanu would be to sell off those crystals she stole.

The only problem now was figuring out how to get her. She’s already slipped through your fingers once, and you weren’t exactly ready for it to happen again. And the two of you, clad beskar, weren’t exactly subtle. Much less welcome in a place where criminals and underground scum bags were looking to make some quick credits.

“Haven’t gotten that far yet, we’ll figure it out when we get there.” You shrug. So far the only thing you’ve managed to do is map out the route to sneak into the place itself. Apparently Canto Bight had a pretty extensive network of underground systems where weapons dealers and blackmarket sellers could easily smuggle their items and trade. And you, after hours of searching through holomaps, found the perfect route to avoid all big traffic areas and, if you manage to pull it off, make it into the auction house without drawing any attention.

“We’re going to need a better plan than that. She’ll get away again if we draw too much attention.” He tilts his helmet in your direction without looking at you as he focuses on his flying.

“I know.” You sigh. You didn’t have a lot of options here. Perhaps you could pose as bodyguards? But for who? Not to mention Yanu would recognize the two of you right away. The beskar was far too recognizable. You couldn't be seen at all, but you know she’s too smart to be lingering around alone for you to pick her off. If only there was a way for you to become invisible…

“I’ll go alone.” You blurt out suddenly when you get the idea.

“Going alone isn’t going to change anything. They aren’t just going to let you walk in without a fight--”

“I’m leaving the armor.” You cut him off and your words seem like they cut through the air of the cockpit like a knife. And with how quickly he turns to look at you, you know he's surprised.

“She doesn’t know my face. I can sneak into the auction and blend right in, no one will know I don't belong there.” Your gaze settles on the floor of the cockpit while you explain. The idea of leaving the armor behind is terrifying. Not only would you be left totally unprotected while surrounded by people who would love nothing more to kill you, but this armor was all you had left of him. Your late husband. The light of your life, smothered out much too quickly.

“Are you sure you want to do that?” You think you heard concern in his voice, but you tell yourself that's just you projecting.

“We don’t have another option.” You remind him, “I’ll keep a commlink on me so we can keep in touch, I’ll corner her off and we’ll ambush her. I’ll try to get her cut off from the crowd so we don’t draw any unwanted attention. Keep it a clean capture.” You’re still staring at the cockpit floor as you explain your plan, using every fiber of your being to stay grounded and seem strong and unbothered by the prospect despite feeling quite the opposite.

“We can find another way.” He speaks as if he didn't even hear your plan. You finally look up to find he's turned his seat to face you completely, leaning forward slightly to meet your gaze, “You don’t have to do that if you don’t want to.”

It’s only now you’re realizing that you aren’t projecting. In fact, it’s only just now dawned on you that he’s probably the one person in the galaxy who understands you in this moment. He’s the only one who could possibly understand what it means to leave your armor behind for this. In the same way you understand him, and his creed. The same reason why you said you’re going alone, why you would never even suggest he do the same.

But at the same time, that's why you have to do it. There weren’t many options, and Canto Bight would come faster than you want. Unlike him, you could take your armor off, you only swore to keep it safe, defend it with your life. As uncomfortable as you may be working a job without it, you could.

“I’ll do it.” You finally say, after a long silence between the two of you, “But I do genuinely appreciate your consideration.” You give him a reassuring smile, and he gives you a light nod of acknowledgement.

Just as he turns back to the front of the ship, however, you interrupt him, “But you have to promise me you’ll keep it safe.”

He slowly turns back to face you again, and you give his visor a firm, steady, glare -- a warning, “I’ll go alone and leave my armor behind, but you have to agree you’ll keep it safe. This armor is everything to me. If I’m to leave it with you, then I need to be able to trust you to defend it with your life, in the same way I would my own.” You say it with such conviction. The weight of what this means to you hangs heavy on every one of your words.

“It’s a deal.”

He doesn’t even hesitate in his reply. His visor locked to your gaze when he says it, and he sounds just as resolute as you do, unwavering and determined. It fills you with confidence that he’ll uphold his promise, and the confidence you need to get you through this job.

-----------------------------------

Walking down the streets of Canto Bight in nothing but your old day clothes feels...wrong. Everything about it feels strange. There's too much wind, everything smells too strongly, not to mention how much lighter your whole body feels no longer having to bear the weight of all that beskar.

It’s not like you’ve never taken it off before. You’ll readily take off the helmet whenever you feel like it's safe enough to do so, grab a quick bite to eat or even just scratch an itch. You’ll frequently take off the entirety of the armor too, granted that's usually only in the confines of your ship while you're safely flying through hyperspace, but you take it off regardless. That's not even accounting for the fact that you used to go on hunts without any armor at all, before this armor even belonged to you. You’ve only taken to wearing the beskar for just over a year and a half, but it’s already become such a big part of you.

So you guess it shouldn’t really be a surprise that it just feels so weird to be back in your old clothes, totally exposed, with nothing but a vibroblade strapped to your thigh and a blaster on your other.

It does help that even without the beskar, you definitely don’t fit in here. Canto Bight is flashy and extravagant. A place to readily flaunt your wealth and relish in the finer things. You tried to wear your nicest clothes, but to you that was just clothes that weren’t battle worn and fit you. It’s nothing compared to the extravagance of costumes passing you by. This was a rich person's playground, and you were a bounty hunter just barely scraping by.

Luckily you're pretty good at ignoring stares at this point, but it’s definitely more difficult with how exposed you feel.

“How’s it going down there?” the Mandalorian’s voice crackles over the comlink you have strapped to your wrist. A serious downgrade from the one in your helmet.

“It’s...well, it’s going alright.” You speak into your wrist as you walk, “Should’ve brought a jacket, I’m a bit chilly. Who knew that wind was cold?” You laugh.

He gives you a small noise of acknowledgement that barely reads through the static.

“...Feels weird.” You finally confess, leaving your sincerity alone in silence for a second before chiming back in, “But I feel really light on my feet now, like I could run a whole parsec without getting tired.” You laugh again. You can’t help but try to make light of it, play it off like it's not bothering you nearly as much as it is.

That earns you a very light chuckle from him and you take it as a victory, a wide grin filling your face and allowing you to temporarily forget your discomfort.

“I almost feel naked, I haven’t worn this little clothes in ages. I usually layer up a lot, so my chestplate doesn't slide around too much.” You explain, taking comfort in talking to him, even if his responses are short. It’s almost...easy, talking with him about this. It’s probably because you know he can relate on some level. It's the one thing the both of you have in common-- well sorta.

You still don’t really know the limitations of his creed, honestly you hadn’t bothered to ask. It really wasn’t any of your business, and you figured if he felt like sharing he would. Even still, you know in his own way he gets you.

“When’s the last time you went without it?” He asks. It takes you a bit by surprise. He’s not usually one for conversation, and definitely not one to initiate. Maybe he can tell you’re taking comfort in it.

“Hmm…” You take a second to think, “If you mean like...outside the ship then probably not since I started wearing it-- or I guess, when I finally made the decision I would wear it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well uh...I knew I had to keep it. I wasn’t about to just leave it somewhere for someone else to steal, the armor was very much a part of him...but I had no idea what to do with it.” You explain, trying to remember your thought process back then. It really wasn’t that long ago, but you weren’t in a good place. All of those moments are hazy, drowned in sorrow, and shitty spotchka. “I cleaned it up the best I could and kept it safe, but there was a while where it was just kinda sitting in the hold. It hadn’t really crossed my mind to wear it honestly.”

“So what changed?” Even through the static he sounds genuinely curious.

“Well…” You clear your throat, “It’s a bit embarrassing to admit now and it’s a lot to explain. So, long story short, I was desperate for fuel and had no credits, so I took a...let’s say-- questionable job. I wore the helmet out as a way to protect my identity. Not that a mandalorian’s helmet is exactly subtle, but I wasn’t exactly thinking straight at the time…”

You let out a long sign before you continue, “I felt really guilty about it after. Like I disrespected him somehow.”

“We’ve all done things we aren’t proud of out of desperation.” His response makes you wonder what kinds of things he’s done he regrets. What has he done that he’s not proud of? What was it that made him feel desperate enough to do something regretful? For a man who seemed so put together, so absolute in his resolve--in his creed, it’s nearly impossible to imagine him ever being in the same state of low you once were.

It almost makes you wonder if it was ever his creed that was on the line. How desperate would he have to be to break that?

But you don’t dare let any of those questions leave your mouth.

“I know in my heart that he would have understood. He wouldn’t have been angry or felt disrespected at all-- in fact! He probably would have found the whole thing pretty amusing.” You allow a smile to creep back across your face at the memory of your late husband, “But that's how I made the decision to start wearing it. Felt like I needed to redeem myself somehow. Once I started wearing it--it just...it felt so right. Like that's exactly what I should have been doing the whole time.” You look up to the sky above you, looking up to pick out what stars you can through Canto Bight’s blaring city lights.

“So you kept wearing it.”

“Exactly. My reason has evolved since then--means something different to me now...but no matter what it feels right. It’s something where I know he would have never asked it of me, but if he could see me now I think it would make him happy.”

You think maybe he makes a noise of acknowledgement, but it barely reads through the static so you may have just imagined it altogether. Not that it matters, you welcome the comfortable silence that falls between the two of you as you make your way through Canto Bight backstreets.

You close your eyes as a particularly brisk breeze brushes past your cheeks, the low static of the open commlink on your wrist allowing you to fall deeper into your thoughts. If you kept your eyes closed like this, you could almost trick yourself into believing nothing has changed. You could almost pretend the armor was never yours to wear, that you were simply working a job just like you used to. And maybe, if you focused hard enough, you could forget the tragedy of your husband’s death altogether. Like he never left you.

Maybe if you waited just a few more moments...you would hear his voice breaking through the static.

“You’re coming up close to the entrance, keep your eyes peeled.” The Mandalorian’s voice ringing out instead yanks you back to reality with a heartbreaking force.

“Copy that.” Forcing yourself to stay composed, you scan your nearby surroundings as you slow down your pace. There’s hardly anyone around you now that you've made it to a more secluded backstreet. You aren’t really sure what you’re looking for until you find a grate situated on the ground just before a wall.

“Found it.” You kneel down in front of it and give it an experimental tug. Well, it's not bolted down, but it's definitely stuck. Getting to your feet while keeping a steady hold on the grate, you prop a foot onto the wall in front of you for leverage. You take a breath and give it a strong yank--

it doesn’t budge.

“Dank Farrik!” You grunt out as you strain to continue to tug on the grate.

“Need my help already?” His mocking tone only fuels your frustration.

“Shut up, Shiny!” You growl through clenched teeth.

You let out a surprised yelp when the grate suddenly pulls loose and sends you stumbling backwards. Thank the maker you didn’t land on your ass.

“I got it.” You toss the grate to the side and start to climb into what you assume to be a ventilation system of some kind. It...definitely looked bigger on the holomap. You were expecting to maybe have to duck a bit at most, but with how low you’re having to crouch to make your way through, you’re thinking it might almost be easier to crawl your way to the auction house.

“Remind me again why I agreed to take this job?” You grunt into the comm as you struggle your way through the tunnel.

“Probably the sixty thousand credits you were offered.” He tosses back to you, and you can hear the baby babbling in the background, probably getting into trouble.

“Y’know I’m starting to think sixty thousand isn’t enough for how much trouble we’re going through.” You make a point to strain the words through your teeth, make sure your struggle is obvious, even if it was a bit dramatic.

“You really think we would have been offered sixty thousand each if it was gonna be easy?” He grunts back out in between shuffles and the baby giggling. You hear a quiet but stern “Knock that off!” and you know for sure the child is up to no good.

“Funny, you’re giving me a lot of sass for someone sitting cozy in the cockpit while I do all the work. I think I deserve a higher cut.” You tease.

“I’ve been your personal taxi service for this entire job. I deserve a higher cut just for having to put up with you.” He deadpans in return, and the implication takes you by surprise.

“What’s that supposed to mean?!” you nearly shriek at him, your voice climbing several octaves

“Exactly what I said. Turn left at the split ahead.”

You grumble curses under your breath as you continue your way through the tunnel.

“Hey, at least I’m better company than the kid.” You try to reason, tilting your head a bit even though he can't see it.

“Debatable.”

“Wow!” You gasp out, insulted at his insinuation that Grogu, an absolute demon of a child, is more enjoyable to be around than you. “Well I, for one, think I make excellent company.” you chide back.

You hear him let out the faintest of chuckles and you can’t help the smile that breaks out across your face. The banter between the two of you continues as he navigates you through the tunnels. It’s such a stark contrast from how you were back on Coruscant, and you definitely prefer it this way. It makes the whole thing so much more tolerable--almost enjoyable. Before you know it, you’ve already made it to where you need to be in what felt like no time at all.

You’re peering through the vent beneath you, checking to see if it's safe before you pull off the cover and jump down. According to the holomaps you routed earlier, this should be a backroom of the auction house. It’s connected to the main hall, but secluded enough that there's no reason for any patrons to be wandering in or out.

You can never be too careful though.

“Seems clear.” You whisper into the commlink strapped to your wrist, “I’m gonna drop down. I’ll keep my end of the comm on.”

“Copy that. I’ll be standing by if you need me.” You hear him click off his end of the comm and without the low static; everything is painfully quiet. Being alone in the silence makes your feelings of exposure and nervousness return.

You take a deep breath as you remove the cover from the vent and move it beside you. You slowly lean down and peek your head out cautiously to do one last sweep before dropping down into the room below you.

It’s some kind of storage room. It’s filled floor to ceiling with black market wares. Most everything is covered with thick fabrics, probably to both protect the items and discourage prying eyes before the auction even starts. It’s dead silent in here other than the muffled ambience of the patrons in the room next door and smells heavily of stale dust. You slowly make your way through the maze of items, work your way around stacked crates, and large weapons--too big to be stored in a box, until you make it to the door at the far end of the room.

Hitting the control panel on the wall, you're immediately hit with the full sound from all of the people in the auction house before you. Or maybe it's more of an...auction room? It's a large spacious round room gently illuminated by warm incandescent light from scattered lanterns. The warm light highlighting the wide array of individuals idling about the space while they wait for the auction to start.

You try to peer through the crowd without drawing any attention as you snake around the back wall, searching for any glimpse of your quarry. You think her bright pink skin would be easy to spot, but you don’t catch sight of her anywhere.

You definitely feel less out of place here. There's a few extravagant outfits here and there, but there's also plenty of others who are dressed in a similar fashion as you. Bounty hunters and spice runners probably looking for their chance at some new equipment.

You lean casually against the wall, crossing your arms in front of you as you watch for any sign of Yanu. Trying your best to blend in as much as possible.

It works. Better than you were expecting. No one even bats an eye at you, you might as well have blended in completely with the wall, faded entirely from the crowd, nothing about you stranding out in the slightest. Honestly it’s nice, you could definitely get used to this. The only problem is, there's still no sign of Yanu, and you’re starting to get antsy.

You’re really missing the assistance of your helmet's HUD, the ability to easily zoom in and out, to focus in on specific conversations, and highlight certain faces from the crowd. All of that was impossible without it. You’re straining to pick up bits of conversation here and there, but it's difficult with all of the white noise from the rest of the bustling in the room. What you do manage to pick up is completely irrelevant to you, things people are looking forward to buying, who to watch out for in a bidding war, how much money they won or lost betting at the racetracks or at slot machines, or what's rumored to be up for auction later.

You’re just beginning to lose hope and wonder if you and your tin man hunting partner had wasted your time altogether when you catch something about “Hutts”, and “Rare jedi crystals”, and “Beautiful pink woman”, and you immediately perk up.

You quickly kick off the wall from where you were leaning and start to navigate through the crowd. Okay. so she was definitely here, good!

But....Hutts? That’s definitely bad news. No, that's terrible news. You need to comm that chromedome and tell him what you heard as soon as possible.

You part your way through the room as fast as you can without arising suspicious, quickly making your way past patrons, gently nudging past them, to cross the great expanse of the space.

You hit open a door when you make it to the other side, and immediately shut it behind you. Making your way through a mostly empty hallway aside from a few stragglers, and finding another door to a hopefully empty room so you can safely communicate the situation with the Mandalorian.

As soon as you get the door open and shut it behind you, you toggle your comm as you quickly stride your way farther into what appears to be another storage room.

“Hey, Mand--” You freeze and cut yourself off immediantly when it registers that you hear other hushed voices in the back of the room.

You take a moment to try and decipher what's being said, but you can’t make out anything from this distance. You duck down behind the clutter and slowly sneak closer to the source.

You’re getting closer, you can tell because the volume of the voices is definitely louder, but you’re still struggling to make out what's being said. It’s not until you’re nearly right next to them that you realize half the conversation isn't even in basic. It’s huttese.

“Look I already told you, the crystals are yours, I don’t care what you want with them.” A female voice breaks through the conversation much louder than the others as you cautiously peek your head up to peer over the crate you're hiding behind.

Sure enough, you’re met with the sight of the pink skin of your quarry ahead of you, leaning against some clutter as she addresses a large redbrown, seemingly unimpressed hutt standing before her. He has what you assume to be a translator next to him, and two guards on either side of him.

“But before I give them to you, I need a favor.” Yanu continues, crossing her arms in front of her chest.

The oversized slug grunts out back to her in an annoyed manner, and you hardly know any huttese, so you're thankful when the translator turns to Yanu and begins to address her.

“Zambu wishes to know what kind of favor requires you to go back on your originally agreed upon deal.”

“I told you! I’m not going back on my deal!” Yanu nearly shouts back in irritation, pointing an accusatory finger at the hutt before her.

She sighs defeatedly and crosses her arms in front of her again, “I’ll give you half off our original agreed upon price. How does that sound?”

The translator looks to Zambu, who gives Yanu a satisfied nod while replying in huttese.

“Zambu says he will consider a new deal with the agreement of a new price.” The translator relays back to Yanu in basic.

“Good because I have two Mandalorian bounty hunters after me and I need them dealt with as soon as possible. You want those crystals? Keep me out of carbonite.” Your heart sinks at her words. The last thing you need is the hutts after you. This was all kinds of bad.

The hutt and the translator exchange some words before the translator turns back, folding their hands together at their waist.

“Zambu accepts the terms of the new deal, under the agreement that he gets to keep the armor.”

Yanu lets out a hearty laugh, “Keep it! I don’t give a bantha’s ass about the beskar. Just show it to me as proof you dealt with them when we make our exchange.”

Fuck. You need to comm the Mandalorian--and now.

You’re just about to sneak away when you suddenly feel someone come up and grab you from behind. You let out a yelp of surprise as they haul you out from your hiding spot, and before you know it all attention is on you.

You don’t know how you didn’t see him earlier, but apparently Zambu had a fifth bodyguard around, who managed to catch you eavesdropping, and was now roughly hauling you forward in front of your newfound audience. You struggle slightly under his unrelenting grasp until he wrangles you so he's got both your arms held behind your back, and pushes you down to your knees in front of the imposing hutt.

Yanu straightens up from her spot and tilts her head at you, looking you up and down and you immediately panic. It takes you a second to remember the whole point of you coming down here alone and armorless. She doesn’t recognize you, without your helmet she has no idea who you are.

She lets a devilish smile spread across her face, “Well, well, well. What do we have here?” She sounters her way in front of you to get a better look and leans forward just enough so she's closer to your level, but still high enough you have to tilt your head up to meet her gaze, “Eavesdropping on hutt business? You must have a death wish.”

You remain silent as you scowl up at her, trying not to let your fear get the best of you. She may not know who you are, but you knew in your heart you were out of options regardless. There was no way for you to get to your blaster or your blade with your arms being held back like this. Besides, even if you could, you were outnumbered and would be quickly cut down before you could manage anything. No matter the scenario, the outcome would be the same.

You don’t flinch when she reaches for your face, grasping either side of your jaw tightly with one hand to tilt your head up even farther towards her.

“Who do you work for?” She questions as she tilts your face for her to inspect. You glare daggers directly into her violet eyes, refusing to utter a single sound.

Neither of you break eye contact when you hear the powerful hutt behind her mutter something in his native language before the translator speaks up, “Zambu wishes to know what you think should be done with her, Yanu.”

She hums low in her throat as she considers. It’s easy for you to see now why the stranger you ran into in that Coruscant alleyway fell in love with her. She was unmistakably stunning, every piece of her was utterly captivating. Even as she was gripping your jaw like this, holding your fate in her deadly hands, you couldn't help but admire her. From her smooth, flawless pink skin, long glossy red hair, to her sharp and intimidating eyes, every bit of her was perfect.

Her grip on your jaw tightens and her wicked smile grows, “I think anyone who tries to steal information, especially from Zambu, deserves to be taught a lesson. Don’t you?” She was just as dangerous as she was beautiful, and you were about to find that out first hand. She gives Zambu a wink over her shoulder without releasing your face, and Zambu roars with laughter in return before speaking.

“Zambu trusts you to take care of it.” The translator nods to Yanu before turning to leave with Zambu, leaving the guards behind.

Yanu turns back to you, her smile quickly fading as she practically throws your head from her grasp. You don’t even have time to right yourself before she rounds back and kicks you right in the side, knocking all the wind from your lungs and sending you flying out of the body guards grasp and onto the floor.

You’re gasping and trying to push yourself off the floor when she kicks you again right in the gut, the force of it sending you rolling in the other direction, causing you to fold in on yourself from the pain. You desperately clutch your middle while you curl into a tight ball to protect yourself best you can from any further blows. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes and every breath is a struggle.

You hear Yanu let out a dark chuckle from where she stands above you, her footsteps like thunder in your ears as she advances closer to you. You curl into yourself even tighter, expecting her to kick you again, but it never comes. Instead she leans over your crumpled figure on the floor. Maker, you must look pathetic. “Oh you poor little thing, we aren’t even close to being done, and look at you.” She chuckles again darkly and nudges you with her foot before backing away and turning to address the guards Zambu left behind, “Go on! Earn your paychecks! Teach her a lesson.”

Knowing this is your last chance to do anything, you quickly muster up all of your remaining strength, and pick yourself up off the floor and onto your knees. You go to reach for your blaster--

You cry out in pain--just as you get a grip on your weapon a blaster bolt makes contact with your thigh where your holster is, blowing it right off your hip. Thankfully the pain in your hand is nonexistent, a tingling numbness consuming it instead.

Not so thankfully, you’re not sure you have a hand anymore.

You only get a second to look down at the offending area to see blood gushing from both your hand and your thigh where you were hit, before you hear Yanu tut-tutting.

“You really thought you were going to get away with that didn’t you?” She shakes her head to shame you, lowering her blaster to her side and leaning back against a nearby wall to watch the show that was about to take place before her.

The guards move to rush towards you. You shakily grab hold of your vibroblade, holding it out in front of you in a reverse grip while you try your best to get to your feet with an injured leg. You realize your odds are slim. You, equipt with nothing but a mediocre vibroblade, barely able to stand upright, while five guards are moving to surround you with long range spears. It’s almost laughable.

But, if this is how you were going to go out, then you would go out swinging. Fighting until your last breath, because you know that's what he would have wanted.

If only determination was the only thing needed to get you through battle. It’s almost embarrassing how quickly you go down. When the guards rush you, you’re able to block a couple blows with your pathetic excuse for a weapon, but being as outnumbered as you were, a guard easily manages to make contact with you from behind, sending a paralysing shock of electricity through your body and sending you collapsing right back to the floor.

They give you a few more shocks for good measure, and you scream out in pain with each one. Electricity coursing through your bones as you convulse on the floor, the sting from each shock lingering over every inch of you. Yanu says something, but you don’t hear it. At this point your body is giving out despite your will to fight.

You’re not ready to give up yet. No, you have to keep fighting. You writhe on the floor, trying to figure out which way is up so you can lift yourself back to your feet, but suddenly there's an explosion above you disorienting you further. The blast of it is deafening, and the whole room rumbles violently as a portion of the ceiling collapses.

Rubble crashes down around you, filling the room with a fine dust. You hear the guards yelling, scrambling with the sudden interruption, and with the way one of them is screaming you think maybe he got injured from the blast. You want to know what's going on, so manage to lift up just enough to see the hazy, yet familiar glint of silver of the Mandalorian crouched down in the center of it all, bracing himself from where you assume he dropped.

Maker above, you have never been happier to see him. You look over to where Yanu was, to find her staring in an odd mix of confusion, fear, and anger. She locks her eyes with yours through the falling debris, uncontrollable rage filling her features as she glares daggers into you, finally realizing who you are.

She puffs her chest in rage, and quickly draws her blaster, firing a few quick rounds at your partner as she begins to make her retreat. The mandalorian blocks the oncoming shots with a lifted vambrace before he's rushing to where you are on the floor.

“Can you stand?” He quickly asks you, grabbing your arm and attempting to pull you to your feet.

You try your best to get your footing, but your knees give out beneath you and you fall limply onto him. He holds you up the best he can, trying to quickly maneuver you so he can support the majority of your weight. Once he gets you situated, he goes to make a break for it, run the both of you out towards the auction room, but before he can even get one step in, both of you are once again surrounded by the guards.

He’s quick to draw his blaster, even while working to support you against him, he’s a deadly shot. You’re barely hanging onto consciousness at this point, but you witness him manage to shoot down two of the guards. An impressive feat considering his limited mobility. Unfortunately it’s not enough, and with one quick tap from one of the guards' electrified spears to his beskar, the both of you are tumbling back to the ground.

He drops you, but manages to catch himself on his knees, fighting the paralyzing effects of the electricity with every fiber of his being. You barely notice the blurry glint of light reflecting off his helmet as he looks up to the hole in the ceiling, before you feel him reaching for you and tugging you back into his arms.

He barely gets you in his grasp, and is moving to stand upright when you hear him let out an agonized yell through his helmet's vocoder. He collapses right back down onto his knee and all you can hear is his pained breathing in your ear.

His grip on you tightens like a vice, you hear him activate a button on his vambrace and before you can even register what's going on, the both of you are rocketing upwards through the hole in the ceiling he appeared from. The two of you collide with the edge of the opening--

And then everything goes black. *** Previous - MASTER - Next

#the mandalorian #din djarin #din djarin fanfiction #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #din x reader #din x you #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x you #mando x you #mando x reader #reader insert #the mandalorian fanfic #the mandalorian fanfiction #din djarin fanfic #fanfic

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liquid-luck-00 · 4 years

Text

Connections 5

Chapter 5

this is based on @thepeacetea daminette soulmate au

Masterlist *** First *** Previous *** Next

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Marinette is now 7 and this is Mari’s first time back to Paris since the fair.

---

Summer break was always a pain and that was because she spent it with only Jean-Pierre and in her suite in the hotel. Chloe wouldn’t ever leave the hotel because she was the daughter of Style Queen and that meant she had a reputation to maintain. Except that all changes when Marinette comes to Paris.

That girl is the person who knows Chloe, other than a rich stuck-up brat, but that doesn’t mean other kids know that.

“Clo are you in” the little noirette called as she walked in, but she was different the bottom half of her midnight hair was bright purple just like her dad’s and it suited her.

“Mari-bug!” the blonde ran into her friend and hugged her. “That’s new” she said as she flicked her best friend’s hair.

The girl giggled, “yeah dad and Penny let me do it when we started the tour, I like it” the noirette laughed and Chloe smiled.

“it looks good” Chloe smiled; I can’t do that mom would freak. “So, any plans on how to sneak out this time?”

Mari smirked and shoved a backpack at her friend “Of course!”

“You are ridiculous…”

“Utterly ridiculous. I know” she was then pushed into another part of her room by the girl. “Now get dressed”

---

Chloe walked out in a pair of yellow gold leggings, under a dress that fell to her knees it faded from the bottom a silver to white at the top and was splattered with gold. She wore black flats and her hair was in her signature ponytail.

“This isn’t much of a disguise Mari” the blonde stated.

“Well not yet it isn’t” Mari pulled out a silver can with a black cap. “Now hold still” Mari was tugging the blonde’s hair and spraying it and when she finished most of her friend’s hair was black save for a few streaks of her golden hair. “How does it look now” the bluenette smirked, as she watched her friend’s reaction.

“If I add some glasses no one will know!” The blonde was jumping with joy as Mari reached into her bag and pulled out a pair of black glasses with bees along the legs and two golden bees in the corners.

“Like the Queen Bee you are” Mari stated as she looked at her friend. No one will be able to tell this is Style Queen’s daughter. Chloe is now just another regular Parisian kid and Paris is not going to know what hit them.

“What about you Mari” as soon as her friend said that she smiled and walked into the other room. When she walked out Mari was dressed in a pair of dark jeans and a red shirt covered in black spots. On top of it she wore a dark grey cardigan that fell to her knees, and a pair of black and red high tops. She finished by putting her hair in two space buns tucking the purple away and rearranging her bangs to fall from a center part. “Wow, a bee and ladybug are amount to storm Paris” Chole remarked. Oh, how right she was although she didn’t know it.

“Then let’s go Bee”

“Alright Bug” the two girls ran out of the hotel and made their way to the park. For the three days Mari spent in Paris everyone was talking about the chaos that was brought by the ‘Ladybug’ and the ‘Bee’ as they seemed to draw everyone’s attention. In the span of three days the two planted orange tiger lilies that covered every school potted trees, they snuck into an made a cameo in her dad’s interview with Nadia Chamock, and they somehow managed to make every bird in Paris land on the Eiffel Tower. They didn’t even try to do it, they just wanted to feed the pigeons but soon every bird in the city was there. By the end of the week the ladybug and bee were nicknamed the Lilies of Paris.

Summer was too quick to end but Mari didn’t seem to mind. That just meant that she would be returning to Gotham and would be with her brothers. Not to mention that they were in essence training her when she was with them.

---

Most of her time with the boys was mainly spent with Dick. She and Dick would parkour all around the cave and she was a natural at gymnastics. She got the hang of her yo-yo when transformed and that was when they noticed that her strength and stamina was off the charts compared to other children.

She and Tim would mostly work on hand to hand combat but that mostly resulted in Tim on the floor, while Mari stood triumphant.

Bruce specifically tried to keep Mari from Jason, in fear that he would teach Little Mari how to shoot. But his attempts were in vain, to his credit Jason didn’t show her how to shoot a gun but how to disarm and disassemble different gums in a safe way. That was actually pretty good thinking and he should have thought of that.

To Bruce’s astonishment, or he should really say utter horror, little Mari loved Jason’s motorcycle. It got to the point that not even Jagged could argue whenever Jason picked up Mari from school on his bike. Both he and Jagged swear that Jason is going to end up teaching her to ride before either of them teach her to drive. Jason just loves the fact that Mari loves to ride with him, and Bruce doesn’t oppose this as Jason is always more careful whenever she is with him, or around them in general.

Bruce could tell that this little pixie, yes even he admits that he calls her pixie, has changed the entire family. He would however not let her out as the Ladybug holder in Gotham, but she was adamant on changing their suits and crafted them. Hell, he knew she was a wizard with design but even he was shocked at what she could do. What that girl could do with a needle, thread, and Kevlar reinforced fabric and armor plating was amazing.

He would force her to even make some for their daily lives. Dick, Tim, Alfred, and Himself had gotten several suits that were damn impossible to tell what they were made of. Jason got several more casual outfits and many leather jackets. Mari even made herself several outfits, particularly her favorites were legging that she wore with her uniform and when she rode with Jason. It came to the point that Bruce practically forced Mari to only wear reinforced clothes for her protection, thankfully Tikki was on his side and she did, the only exception was her uniform.

---

Mari was never a normal kid and that much was evident, it wasn’t until she and Tikki were talking during a stay at Wane manor when she was 9 that everything came to light. Alfred walked into the room and that was nothing out of the ordinary, but it was Tikki that changed his perception.

Tikki was floating in front of Miss Marinette, looking sad and trying to comfort the child. Alfred immediately went to the girl and noticed what was happening.

“Miss Mari” he tried to get her attention, but she simply stared straight forwards. The family began to come into the room and silence permeated the manor.

That was when she stared at Jason with tears running down her face, “J… Jay… Jay-Jay why are… why are you covered in chaos magic” everyone was staring at the girl quiet as they realized what she was saying. “Why are you covered in magic from the Lazarus Pit?” the collective in the room were shocked no one made a sound. As Alfred looked around, he even saw Tikki shake in what appeared to be a mix of sadness and fright.

“How do you know that name, Mari?” the little god spoke finally breaking the silence.

“I” she looked around seemingly unsure if she should continue “I just heard it, I saw it, it was it was like a ritual”

“Tikki is this normal for a miraculous holder” Bruce asked attempting to take the attention from little Mari.

Tikki simply shook her head “No it isn’t. seeing the Lazarus arura is for a Ladybug, but this knowledge is not normal…” then she simply stared at the girl. “Mari do you think?” the question was left unfinished, but the meaning was not lost on Mari.

Miss Marinette looked shocked and seemed close to tears. Resigned she finally spoke “it might be, it’s the most logical” after this the child went silent.

“What does this incur exactly?” Alfred spoke from kneeling beside Marinette.

The little god seemed to think before finally stating “Her soulmate” that left everyone quiet once again. “Mari knows how to fight, that much you know but what you don’t is that she has never had any type of training. The same goes for several languages she has never studied, she can read a person’s body language without any difficulty, and now this.” the little goddess states. The boys simply stare at her.

Bruce kneeled down and pulled Mari into a hug. And seemed to whisper something into her ear. Her eyes widened in surprise before she began to cry, and she was taken into Bruce’s arms and they walked out. The next thing Alfred knew was that it was loud, and the boys began to rush after Bruce. They finally found him in Mari’s room speaking softly, to softly to overhear, that they had to open the door but were met with an icy glare and left.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Taglist🐞🦇

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baoshan-sanren · 4 years

Text

Chapter 48 & Chapter 49

Emperor Wei WuXian And His Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Birthday

The Imperial guard who approaches him is very careful, almost reverent in his posture.

Lan XiChen is resting. He has been ordered to do so by uncle, who has done precious little resting himself, only stepping away from the guqin when his fingers are on the verge of bleeding.

Since Wei WuXian had been moved from the grand hall, not a moment has gone by without the sounds of Cleansing weaving throughout the Emperor’s chambers, a continuous exertion of spiritual energy that no single Lan cultivator could have maintained. But there are three of them, and although their skills and abilities differ, the Emperor is no longer in danger, his chest rising and falling smoothly with unlabored breaths of deep sleep.

WangJi has only abandoned the guqin when ordered to do so, and only so he may move closer to bed, settling down on the floor by Wei WuXian’s shoulder. The position does not look restful; WangJi’s tense figure is stiff with coiled worry, his eyes locked on the Emperor’s face, as if by sight alone he can infuse more color into his cheeks. XiChen can hear the soft murmur of Lady Jiang’s voice, and WangJi’s equally as soft response. Some steps away, the Rogue Prince stands motionless, his vigil silent.

“Young Master Lan,” the Imperial guard whispers, “forgive me for interrupting. General Nie is outside, requesting to speak with you. What would you like me to tell him?”

XiChen needs a few moments to formulate an appropriate response.

The Imperial guard waits patiently, deferentially even, comically folded in half so he can hear XiChen’s response. XiChen finds this entire situation beyond absurd.

The Young Master of the Lan Sect should not be asked if he wishes to speak to the General of the Emperor’s army. The Young Master of the Lan Sect can be issued an order by the lowest court official, and would have no choice but to obey. Yet, he thinks, if he were to tell this Imperial guard that the General must wait, or come back at a later time, the guard would jump to follow instruction.

The rest are no better. For hours now, they have tiptoed carefully around all three of the Lan Sect members, as if charged with protecting royalty. Most of them even hesitate to look at uncle directly, their eyes never quite managing to rise past uncle’s knees. Uncle’s performance during the Gifting Ceremony had been impressive to be sure, but the current level of veneration for a man who had been dismissed and spurned only a day ago, seems far beyond excessive.

XiChen had not spoken to Nie MingJue since issuing the misguided invitation. This is neither the time nor the occasion for the conversation they must have, not to mention that XiChen feels ill-prepared to have it even under the best of circumstances. But now, in the midst of their attempts to keep the Emperor breathing, in the midst of his brother’s obvious anguish, his uncle’s exhaustion, his own fatigue, XiChen cannot face the prospect of further heartache.

Still, he cannot have the guards turn the General of the Emperor’s army away, regardless of their willingness to do just that. He rises slowly, and the guard steps back, as if XiChen would scold him for standing too close.

Nie MingJue waits just outside the entrance, facing two dozen Imperial guards. He is wearing full armor, his hand resting on the pommel of his saber.

The General of the Emperor’s army looks as if he may need to fight his way past the Imperial guards in order to enter the Emperor’s chambers. This implies a great deal about the powers currently in charge, and most of these implications are alarming in nature.

Is the Emperor still the Emperor?

XiChen does not know. No one else has come or gone. No inquiries have reached them, no orders, no edicts. There could be a bloody war outside the Jade Sword Palace, and none of those in the Imperial chambers would ever notice it being waged.

All these are legitimate concerns and worries, but XiChen cannot find the words to voice them. In the Nie battle armor, both chest and shoulder plate depicting the sneering Beast’s Head sigil, Nie MingJue is terrifying to behold. But the moment his eyes land on XiChen, his posture shifts, his face softens, the change clearly visible and devastating to see.

The hand on his forearm is careful as it draws him some distance away from the guards.

“XiChen,” MingJue says, “Are you well?”

It is a struggle to find his voice, but XiChen manages, “The Emperor is recovering well. It may be some hours yet until he wakes, and it will take many days for his strength to return. Uncle says he had fought back, attempting to expel the resentful energy on his own. This had saved his life, but it has also significantly depleted his--“

The hand tightens on his forearm, cutting his words in half.

“XiChen,” MingJue says again, “I asked if you are well.”

It is a basic rule of politeness, that the question once blatantly ignored, should not be repeated. But such rules have no effect on Nie MingJue.

XiChen is tired of suppressing the constant and unrelenting waves of anxiety. The calluses he had built up over the years cannot hold up to the punishing pace they had set to keep the Emperor breathing. His fingers hurt. His shoulders hurt. He has suffered greater discomforts in the past, and borne them with dignity. But now, he feels very small, and very tired, and he wishes that he could say these things to Nie MingJue, perhaps the only person who would not think less of him for hearing them.

He exhales, a shuddering breath that feels much too revealing, “I am well. I am only tired. Why are you here? Is the Emperor still in danger?”

Nie MingJue glances back at the Imperial guards and pulls XiChen a little further away, out of their hearing range.

“The Jiang Sect has taken charge of the Imperial guards,” he says, “Which was to be expected. The Jiang and the Nie have always stood together as brothers-in-arms in the defense of the Emperor. But there are... tensions. Multiple sects are calling for a war with the Wen. The High Councilor appears to be in agreement. Perhaps he sees such an action as a logical response to the attack on the Emperor. Or perhaps, he is resentful of the fact that HuaiSang is in possession of an edict naming him the guardian of the successor.”

The carefully concealed anxiety blooms in XiChen’s chest, leaving him breathless.

“Can the Council declare war? Without the Emperor’s approval?”

“No,” MingJue says, “but they may try and do so regardless. If I refuse to follow their orders, this will result in different war, right here in the palace halls. I do not want to lead the army against the Imperial guards. This must be prevented.”

“How-- what do you need? What can I do?”

“I need the Emperor,” Nie MingJue says bluntly, “The sects need to hear that the Emperor is well, and recovering quickly. They need to hear this from the Lan Sect Leader.”

They are far enough away where XiChen can no longer hear the sounds of the guqin, but he knows that the Cleansing has gone on uninterrupted.

He shakes his head, “My uncle-- the Emperor is not yet well enough to be left to the care of WangJi and myself. I will come in his place.”

Chapter 49

Nie HuaiSang has never sat on the dais alone.

He has wielded almost as much power as the Emperor himself. He has frequently sprawled on the Emperor’s seat, worn the Emperor’s clothes, used the Emperor’s seal. But he has never before felt so utterly alone.

His personal guard, the members of the Nie Sect charged with his protection, are lined up behind him. The High Councilor is to his left; to the right, the empty space where A-Jue should be is a constant source of anxiety and irritation. In front of him, the receiving hall is crowded with every Sect and clan leader in the Immortal Mountain City, only some of them trustworthy, and nearly all of them unpredictable. The seat underneath him feels akin to a death trap, waiting for an opportune moment to snap closed on his tender backside.

His hand tightens around the fan, then relaxes. Tightens, then relaxes.

With Wei Ying by his side, he could hide behind the fan. He could do anything, say anything, act in any way he pleases. With Wei Ying by his side, the obvious clusters of hostility in the hall would be an insignificant source of amusement.

His eyes meet Jiang Cheng’s, only for a moment, neither acknowledging the contact. In the back of the hall, three members of the Wen Sect stand under guard. Wen Qing is cool and collected, her head held high, her robes bright and striking next to the muted Nie greens. HuaiSang can see A-Lin making a conscious effort to emulate his sister, but being a nervous creature by nature, he is only managing to appear more rigid. Granny Wen is in possession of composure that HuaiSang very much envies at this moment. Their lives are on the line as much as his own, but one would never know it by looking at Granny Wen’s face.

The rest of the Wen Sect is in the Jade Sword Palace courtyard, under guard, and awaiting their fate. HuaiSang has managed to stall the calls for an immediate attack on QiShan, but only by insisting that the Emperor’s condition must take precedence. Still, with each moment that passes with A-Jue conspicuously absent, the tension in the hall seems to rise, the hostility and the resentment thickening.

HuaiSang would very much like to keep all of the secrets that must be kept, and not start a war today. He has an unpleasant feeling that he may not get to have both.

It is difficult to conceal a sigh of relief when A-Jue finally enters the hall. The Lan Sect Leader is absent, but Lan XiChen’s placid countenance is almost an improvement. It is no secret that Lan QiRen is generally disliked for his personality alone, the man’s icy facade only serving to agitate the existing resentment. Lan XiChen, infinitely serene in the face of animosity, patient and humble to a fault, may be precisely the type of calm presence that can soothe the waves of unrest in the hall.

There may be some question as to whose authority is higher in this instance. The Royal Companion, often perceived as the Imperial Consort, technically does not outrank the High Councilor. His status as the guardian of the successor only gives him power once the Emperor is no longer among the living. Still, Lan XiChen does not hesitate. His first bow and greeting is given to Nie HuaiSang. He turns to the High Councilor next, a perfect mirror image, the bow no less deep, the greeting no less courteous. But the hierarchy the Lan Sect recognizes has been made clear. This acknowledgment is significant, considering the current position of the Lan Sect, both as the saviors of the Emperor, and their future connection to the throne through marriage.

Nie HuaiSang greets Lan XiChen politely in turn, feeling as if his seat is now a little less likely to collapse under his anxious bottom.

“Young Master Lan,” the High Councilor says, “the Council requires an update on the Emperor’s condition.”

“The Emperor is recovering well. His life is no longer in danger.”

The hall had hushed to hear the response, but now a low murmur rises, the word traveling among those placed furthest away from the dais.

“Are you quite certain?”

“I am certain,” Lan XiChen says, his voice unwavering, “The Emperor should wake soon, although he may still require days of rest to regain the spiritual energy he had lost.”

All of HuaiSang’s bones seem to turn liquid at once. It is by force of will alone that he manages to stay upright, instead of slumping against the throne in relief.

“The Royal Companion had summoned the Lan Sect Leader,” Jin GuangShan says carefully, only two steps below the High Councilor, “Is there a reason that the Young Master is here in his place?”

Lan XiChen smiles, but the smile does not reach his eyes, “The Jin Sect Leader is very observant. The Lan Sect is honored to be an object of the Jin Sect Leader’s concern. My uncle believes that the Emperor’s recovery must take precedence over other matters. Please forgive my humble presence in his place.”

Nie HuaiSang feels that he has been quite unjust to the Young Master of the Lan Sect in the past. He also believes that he could become quite fond of the man in the future. It has been somewhat... difficult to reconcile himself to A-Jue’s single-minded focus on Lan XiChen, a person who is still essentially a stranger. It is a common failing of siblings, to find their future in-laws unworthy despite all evidence to the contrary. But Nie HuaiSang is willing to admit his error.

“The Emperor’s health, of course, takes precedence,” the High Councilor says, “We are grateful to the Lan Sect for their assistance and dedication. As the Emperor is recovering swiftly, I believe all decisions may wait for his judgment.”

A louder murmur rises at his words, and Nie HuaiSang braces for the inevitable.

Which comes, to no one’s surprise, in the form of Sect Leader Yao.

“Are we to simply allow the Wen Sect to go free? After such a betrayal? The Emperor himself had stated that their lives are to be forfeit if Wen RuoHan ever dared orchestrate another attack. Do you mean to act against the Emperor’s orders?”

This, of course, is all Wei Ying’s fault. Nie HuaiSang had offered to have Sect Leader Yao killed years ago. The man would have been infinitely more useful as dust and bones, than he is now, with his flapping mouth always sowing discord.

“The Wen Sect will be placed in the dungeons to await the Emperor’s judgment,” Nie HuaiSang says coldly, “Only the Emperor may decide the means of executing traitors. These decisions have never been within the purview of the powers given to the Council.”

“The Royal Companion is correct,” Jin GuangShan’s voice raises the hair on the back of HuaiSang’s neck, “and yet, my own disciple was jailed by no other than the former First Prince’s servant. The Jin Sect has yet to receive an explanation for this action.”

“Your disciple was jailed by my orders,” A-Jue says dismissively, “and will wait for the Emperor’s judgment along with the Wen Sect.”

HuaiSang winces. He loves his brother, but diplomacy is not Nie MingJue’s strong suit.

“Sect Leader Jin,” HuaiSang says meekly, “Your disciple had displayed suspicious behavior in the wake of the attack on the Emperor. Perhaps he is innocent, but surely, you do not begrudge us an overabundance of caution. I can guarantee that your disciple will come to no harm until the Emperor himself has had a chance to address the matter.”

He knows that there is nothing that influences the High Councilor quite as much as a reasonable argument delivered in a reasonable tone. HuaiSang has always wondered why such a man would choose a life companion that is rarely ever capable of calm and reasonable argument. As he expected, Jiang FengMian is nodding even before HuaiSang has finished speaking, making it clear that between the two of them, Jin GuangShan will find his complaint neatly swept to the side. Familiar with the High Councilor’s tendencies to fold in the face of mildest possible pressure, Jin GuangShan appears unhappy, but offers no further complaints.

“Young Master Lan,” the High Councilor says, “the Council requests to be informed of any changes in the Emperor’s condition. Until then, I believe we have no further need of you.”

Lan XiChen bows, and is escorted out of the hall. HuaiSang fights a small stab of resentment that A-Jue escorts the man personally, when a dozen Nie Sect members would have done just as well. Maybe he no longer needs A-Jue’s support, now that the Emperor’s seat is no longer in peril, but he would have liked to have that support nonetheless.

“I believe that we may rest easily tonight, and meet again on the morrow,” Jiang FengMian says, “Is the Royal Companion in agreement?”

The Royal Companion is very much in agreement. He may have promised Jin GuangShan that his disciple will come to no harm, but HuaiSang has no qualms about breaking his word.

#the untamed #cql #mdzs #ficlet #m #wwx emperor au #two in one #both are short chapters so i figured what the hell #probably wangji's pov in the next chapter #then creepy story time by xue yang in the one after #i would like to go back to being three chapters ahead of the published #but it's looking like two will do for now #ily chickens

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thewritewolf · 3 years

Text

Adventure to the Heart Chapter 7: Homemade Gifts

Marinette gives her party a gift from the heart

First | Previous | Next | Last

@adrinetteapril

Enjoy!

Read on Ao3

Adrien pulled up a seat between Rose and Nino, who gave him an excited slap on the back.

“Dude!” Nino’s eyes trailed across the table, landing on each of the other players. The private library room was stuffed and they could barely manage to get all eight of them to fit. “This has gotta be like the first time we’ve all been here since session numero uno!”

“Oh yeah, definitely.” Adrien pulled his arms in so he wasn’t bumping elbows against Rose. “The most we’ve had since then has been like five players.”

“Wait.” Nino blinked in surprise. A grin spread across his face. “Dude did you actually pull it off?”

“Huh?”

“Gettin’ to each of those meet ups.”

“Well yeah.” Adrien smiled and raised an eyebrow. “I did say that’s what I was going to do, right?”

“Sure but I didn’t actually think it’d happen.” Nino took off his cap and ran his fingers through his short hair. “With how ragged your daddio runs you, this is like some kinda miracle!”

“What can I say?” A small smile tugged at Adrien’s lips. “This is something I really wanted to be a part of.”

Nino gently punched his shoulder. “That’s what I like to hear. And stickin’ it to man is just an added bonus.”

The murmur of conversation died out when the door to the private room flew open and their dungeon master burst in, a wild look in her eye as she breathed heavily. One hand clutched a sketchbook to her chest while the other was gesturing wildly as she rambled about… something. Normally Adrien could somewhat follow what she was saying when she went off on tangents like this, but with her sentences broken up by wheezes, it was almost impossible to get anything out of it.

Eventually, though, she collapsed into the only remaining chair and dumped her things onto the table. Adrien rubbed his hands together excited, ready to pick up where they left off last time.

Instead of reaching for her rulebook like usual, though, Marinette instead opened up her sketchbook. She’d taken a few deep breaths and although she was still a little red in the face, it looked like she wasn’t winded any more.

“So, um… I completely lost track of time-”

“Not surprised there,” Alix teased with a grin. There was a smattering of laughter from the others.

Marinette rolled her eyes playfully. “I actually had a reason this time! I was drawing these.”

Out of her open sketchbook, she pulled out a few loose pages and started passing them out. Each person in the room got one. The excitement was building as everyone stared wide eyed and amazed at their paper. It was only when Adrien got his that he realized why.

Staring back at him was his Sir Barthelomew himself, lovingly rendered in ink. His plate armor, the sword of his order, the holy symbol of the sun gracing his tabard… all there and even better than he could have imagined it.

“So… do you guys like it?”

Adrien looked up at Marinette just as she was turning his way. A smile spread across his face and he said as earnestly as he could:

“This is my favorite gift I’ve ever gotten.”

#Miraculous Ladybug #Dungeons and Dragons #Adrien Agreste #Marinette Dupain-Cheng #Nino Lahiffe #Adrienette #AdrinetteApril2021 #ml fanfiction #my writing #Adventure to the Heart

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twoidiotwriters1 · 3 years

Text

Iron 7 (Peter Parker x F!Oc)

Words: 2, 323

Masterlist

Chapter 6

Post-credits scene (Iron man 1) / Chapter 8

2010

"It's unfair that I can't go," Lily complains, walking into the living room.

"You should get used to it," Jess says without taking her eyes off the television where they’re playing the replay of the grand opening of Stark Expo. "No one else can find out who your father is.”

Lily leans against the back of the chair where Jessica is.

“It’s unfair. My dad hasn't even said anything about going, lots of kids have fun there,” She sighs.

The screen highlights the dance of some women in small red shorts and tops, referring to the armor. And to Tony with a huge smile showing his great achievement.

"Even he has more fun than me,” She grimaces. "Although, I think he’s more cocky now than before…”

“Big word,” says Jess. "Stop complaining. Maybe one day, I can take you.”

"Seriously?"

"If your father lets us visit him for free, of course,” She turns to see her and smiles. “Now finish your homework.”

“Fine."

Lily returns to the table with all the homework that her math teacher left her after her private class. She expected to go to school like a normal girl, but Pepper and Tony insisted on hiring several teachers to visit her during the week. "We can't risk it," They said, much less when reporters and practically the whole world follows Tony in every move since he broke the news about the Iron Man.

She can’t complain, some subjects are fun and she advances very fast, if she were in a school, she wouldn't be able to do it. In addition to the private lessons she has some with Happy, she appreciates that too. It's fun to see Happy struggling to learn the subjects with her.

"Hey, Lily. You have to see this,” Jess says from the living room. Lily returns and this time sits on the couch to see her father in the Senate or the military committee. Obviously, television doesn't show everything, but enough to see that her father just makes fun of everyone, especially that businessman Justin Hammer.

"Very cocky.”

Both girls nod.

***

"And I also learned about worldwar-two, but Professor Edwards said it would take us longer to do our research because there is so much information," Lily informs walking next to Pepper.

"I'm glad you're enjoying your classes, honey," She says with a smile, but then sneezes.

"Are you sure you shouldn't be resting?" The worried girl asks.

"I'm fine, don’t worry.”

They both go down the stairs until they reach Tony's workshop. Pepper puts the combination and they enter. Lily, seeing Tony for the first time in a few weeks, runs towards him. Tony gets up from the chair and receives her with a hug, bending down to her height.

"You should also greet me this way, Pepper," Tony teases. Pepper rolls her eyes, but she can't help a smile at the cute image.

"Why didn't you wake me up when you arrived?" Lily asks as they part. She crosses her arms.

"I could hear your snoring outside,” He jokes. “No nightmares?"

"Didn’t have any this week.”

“Good, and enough waiting for me on the couch, last time you complained about back pain. Those complaints are not allowed until you’re fifty years old... or thirty, it depends,” He nods, ruffling the girl's hair making her laugh.

The moment ends when Pepper remembers why she was upset with Tony. Now they both walk around the workshop discussing things. Lily listens to them as she sits in the chair where Tony was. She frowns when she sees a brown box, but Pepper's comment distracts her.

"The Expo is a gigantic waste of time.”

“There’s nothing more important to me than the Expo,” answers Tony. “It’s my primary point of concern.”

"Hey!" Lily complains. “What about me? I’m your daughter! And you haven't taken me to Stark Expo yet, so unfair…” She says with a pout.

"What?" Tony says from the other side. “I'm sorry, kid. Grown ups talking here!" He answers by pretending not to have heard her.

Lily makes a face.

"The Expo is your ego gone crazy,” follows Pepper.

Lily stopped listening. Photos of boring cars on Tony's computers are more interesting than Pepper scolding her father. She only lifts her head when they return to the entrance. Tony trades a painting for an Iron Man painting. Then, suddenly, Tony appoints Pepper CEO of Stark Industries.

"Trying to figure out who a worthy successor would be,” says Tony over a few glasses of champagne, "and then I realized, well since she's only eight, she can't run a company,” He points out to the girl.

"Yet!" She yells from her place.

"It’s you. It's always been you.”

***

"I think I'm ready for that training," says Lily pulling the ropes of the ring in the middle of the room.

"Not yet, Smarty," Happy replies.

"But I'm eight now and I can outrun you.”

"Anyone can outrun Happy, kid," adds Tony.

"So why did you tell me to come if you won't let me train?"

“Watch us and learn.”

Lily makes a face. She’s getting tired of everyone forbidding her so many things.

It doesn't take long for Pepper to walk in asking Tony for a signature. Lily walks over to the white chair near Pepper. She sighs, she's about to complain to her, but the presence of another redhead interrupts her. She had never seen that woman and apparently she also distracts the two men.

"What’s your name, lady?" Tony asks

"Rushman. Natalie Rushman,” She introduces herself.

“Hi," greets Lily. Natalie looks at her with a smile.

"Wait, I thought no one should know about Stark Jr.'s existence,” Tony points out.

“She’s already signed a confidentiality contract. Don’t worry.”

Tony shrugs and invites Natalie into the ring. She obeys. Pepper sits on the couch next to Lily and Tony pulls her aside to sit on the same couch.

"Now she’ll be your assistant?" Lily asks. Pepper nods. “Wow, you used to be Tony's assistant, now you have one. I wish I had one,” She says.

"I want one of those too," says Tony. And with that, they argue again. Lily rolls her eyes, but something else interrupts her thoughts and the discussion.

Apparently Natalie is more than capable and better trained than Happy since she manages to throw him to the floor in one movement. The three of them get up from the couch.

"Happy," Pepper squeals.

Lily goes back up to the edge of the ring and smiles seeing how Happy gets up with difficulty. She raises her head to see Natalie.

"Cool! Can you teach me to do that?"

“Sure."

"Definitely not," Pepper and Nat say at the same time.

"Why not?" Lily frowns and steps out of the ring

The second redhead clears her throat, she puts on her shoes and talks to Tony about some documents. In the end, they finally finish the paperwork for Pepper to become CEO. Natalie leaves. Tony and Pepper start talking about a trip to Monaco.

"What? Are you going to travel again? You just arrived,” The girl complains, drawing their attention.

“It'll only be a couple of days, Lily," replies Pepper.

"That's what you always say.”

“Hey." says Tony. "It's a business trip, kid.”

"That too you always say,” She rolls her eyes. Pepper looks surprised, that's not how she used to act before. "Can I go this time? I can do my homework there.”

“Sorry, but no. Remember that you’re still a ghost." says Tony

She frowns.

"That's not fair. You always leave me here, I can't even go to a park and you don't let me accompany you, you’re hardly home anymore,” She says, raising her voice and causing a certain tingling to appear in her hands.

"Watch your tone, Lily,” says Tony starting to get annoyed. He looks down at the girl's clenched hands. "Turn that off, now.”

"Just this once, I promise to be good. If you want, I'll stay at the hotel,” She insists with a frustrated sigh. She opens her hands to avoid making a mess.

"I said no, young lady.”

"But-"

"Lily Stark, I said no,” Tony ends with a firm voice.

The little girl clenches her teeth and runs out of the place before they can see her cry from anger.

"Huh, it brought out your moody side too, Tony," Happy says from across the room.

Stark sighs.

"I'll talk to her when we get back.”

Pepper feels guilty. Maybe they’d been more absent since Tony announced the identity of Iron Man and now it’ll be worse because of the new job. She wants to follow her, but she knows better to leave her alone for a moment.

***

"Hey, you broke your record," Jess says, handing a bottle to the girl, who gasps. She takes it and sits on the chair next to the girl.

It's been a couple of hours since Lily started running through the gated area of the Stark property.

"Can we do something else?" Lily asks.

Jess takes out the notebook where the itinerary is written.

"I suppose we can rest for a while," Jess replies, taking off her sunglasses.

"You didn't do anything, what are you going to rest from?" Lily says with a smile.

"I can't be in the sun that long, I want to be tanned, not burned.”

"If you say so.”

After the break, Lily continued with her task, finishing earlier that she is used to. The rest of the day, they both decided to just relax with some masks that Jess had brought.

"Why do they smell funny?" Lily asks feeling the texture of her mask.

"That's coconut, you'll get used to it,” answers Jess. “Afterwards we’ll paint our nails, we’ll watch romantic movies while we eat ice cream. It’ll be fun.”

"Why are we doing this?"

"It's what some girls are used to doing when they are alone or with their friends.”

Lily nods. "Why?"

Jess laughs. At this point she’s already used to the onslaught of questions that she sometimes receives.

“It's fun, it's also girls quality time, you know, they talk about handsome people, the boys they like from school. It’s a distraction that sometimes we need, even from parents.”

Lily frowns.

"Do you need a distraction from your parents?"

“Okay,” Jess gets comfortable on the bed to sit in front of the girl. “Many times, especially when you’re a teenager, you argue with your parents and it’s normal. That’s why it’s good to have friends with whom you can vent. Trust me, if I didn't have my friends, my relationship with my mother would be a disaster. But it's not a bad thing,” She clarifies when she sees Lily's grimace. "Parents also need to get away from their children a bit.”

"Is that why Tony travels a lot?"

"I don’t think so. He’s an important businessman and he just wants to take care of you, that's why you should stay here.”

"It's not fair,” She crosses her arms.

“Yes, you should get used to that too. When you’re older it’ll be a little easier.”

Lily's head fills with more questions.

“Jess."

"Yeah?"

“We're friends?”

"Of course.”

"Can I vent to you about my dad?" Jess laughs.

"Tell me everything.”

They both talk about many things and do girlish stuff. Lily learns a few things as Jess tells her about her life as a student and everything she does when she’s not taking care of her. At one point, she wishes she had that life, but, even if she could go to normal school, she couldn't have all of that, at least not like Jess.

Night comes, Jess sleeps in the guest room leaving Lily in her room. The great Stark mansion is completely silent, the nightmares that had not tormented the girl for several months return and this time, they’re worse.

She’s on the floor of an empty room, the four walls are completely white. She doesn't see anyone else, but she knows someone is watching her. She wants to ask for help, she wants to scream, but no matter how much she opens her mouth, nothing comes out of her. Her torso and arms are trapped with a straitjacket. She tries to get out of it, but everything is useless.

The tickling starts in her hands, but this time she’s not in control and quickly spreads throughout her body. She wants to burn the straitjacket, but in the dream it’s not possible.

"Lily!"

The girl suddenly wakes up sitting on the mattress. She looks everywhere, but her mind is still in that empty room. She falls off her bed, but keeps moving until a wall stops her.

“Lily, it's okay! Quiet! You have to breathe…” Jess says in the dark.

“Don't!" screams Lily. Her chest rises and falls rapidly. "Please don't hurt me!” She sobs. “Please, please…”

"Lily, it's me!” The girl approaches the girl and touches her arm, but she removes it immediately when she feels the high temperature. Jess screams in fright, causing Lily to jump in place of her. "J.A.R.V.I.S, turn on the lights!” She orders and the AI obeys.

Lily blinks trying to focus her vision, when it happens, what she sees is another fear: Jess is in front of her looking at the blisters on her hand.

She had done that. Lily burned Jess.

Memories of when this happened with her mother come to her mind, causing her panic to escalate.

She doesn't hesitate twice to leave the room, ignoring Jessica's calls. She runs through the house, down the stairs and to the workshop. J.A.R.V.I.S lets her in and sets the code so that no one else could enter. Finally, Lily goes to one of Tony's cars and hides underneath it. She bends her legs and hugs them to her chest. The only thing that can be heard in the workshop are the uncontrollable sobs of the girl.

Taglist

If your username is crossed out it’s because Tumblr didn’t let me tag you, sorry. If you want to be removed from the taglist, you can tell us, we also make mistakes, lol

@stardusthigh @silenthappyplace @yourbonesareinmybody @aylauwuuniverse @tyb1 @skittles-skittles @hufflepuffzutara @poetryislife0715 @21bruhs

@just-here-to-escape-from-reality

@heavenlymistakes @lauramacch @i-am-scared-and-useless-bisexual

#Iron #peter parker fanfiction #Peter Parker #Peter Parker x Oc #Peter Parker x reader #Avengers #Avengers fanfic #Marvel #Marvel fanfic #Tony Stark #Lily Stark #Star! reader #Pepper Potts #James Rhodes #Iron Man 2 #Spider man #Iron man

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thecagedsong · 3 years

Text

Forgotten Light: Chapter 9: Leads

1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6 / 7 / 8 / 9 / 10 / 11

Chapter 9: Leads

“Caretaker, I present Ruta, Hollea, and Mizelle, Dryads of the South and East forests, to present their case to the caretaker,” Henrick bowed and the ladies stepped forward. Official business must be what let them walk on the road.

Agad whispered behind Seth, “Ask them the nature of their visit.”

“Ah, welcome,” Seth said, feeling a little silly, “Um, what is the nature of your visit?” His mouth quirked up at the pun. They all looked a little familiar, they must have crashed the Zzyzx opening and closing party.

“That information is private,” a blue haired one, Ruta, said. “It regards the recent adjustments of leadership and a possible danger to the fae of this preserve.”

Seth glanced at the sun, he’d guess it was a little past 10 AM, “Uh, how long is this going to take? Because if we could meet up tomorrow, that would work so much better for us.”

“I believe you will want to hear us now, Caretaker Sorenson,” the middle one said, standing a bit behind the other two. Pure black hair was tied up in a bun, rounded narrow black eyes demanded respect over high cheekbones. She was the only one armed.

“Alrighty then,” Seth said, turning to Agad, “Uh, where’s the best place to talk with…our friends?”

“Ladies, please follow me,” Agad said with a bow.

When the four of them were a little ways away, Seth stepped up to Henrick, “Hey, you missed some important stuff,” Seth whispered, “Grandma and Grandpa are in the winter study, they need your help and can catch you up. I’ll check on you guys after this, but you can go on without me.”

Henrick nodded, then reported at normal volume, “My rounds on the preserve show that everyone is restless. Far more restless than they usually are, so soon after the solstice when they tend to be tired. Repairs to the roads are happening on schedule, the Taurans have settled back into their domain, and many creatures are awaiting news of the next confrontation between you, your sister, and Celebrant.”

“I wouldn’t want to disappoint my adoring fans,” Seth joked, “I’ll make sure it’s a good one. I got to go.”

Agad had just turned a corner around the outer wall, and Seth ran to catch up. Sitting there was a room like the safe huts along the road. They weren’t restricted to mortals, however, and Mizelle was seated at a round table with seven chairs, while the other two waited outside.

Seth walked in, took a seat opposite the dryad and said, “Okay, what can I do for you?” he wished the other two dryads were here, Mizelle scared him a little.

From a pouch at her waist, Mizelle produced an hourglass, and turned it over. The number four was embossed in gold at the top. Mizelle glanced at him.

“Ah, nipsie. You are welcome at this table, if the caretaker gives you all his confidence,” Mizelle said graciously.

Once again, Seth had completely forgotten about his friend. A slight jerk in the corner of his eye where Agad was standing suggested that the wizard had too. Whoops, sorry about all those secrets.

Seth took Calvin from his pocket and placed him on table. He bowed, “My lady.”

Mizelle smiled, “Rise, small sword. Know that while the four of us talk, none can overhear us. This trinket thought up and enchanted by my sister Nika ensures that.”

“Marvelous,” Agad said, examining the item.

“Yes, but we are here for business,” Mizelle said, “Specifically, your sister, where she is, and what she is doing.”

“Do you know where she is?” Seth asked, “Ronodin and the Sphinx captured her after she lost her memory. We’re looking, but haven’t found anything yet.”

Mizelle slammed a hand on the table, “How could you let that happen!”

“Hey, Ronodin got the drop on Bracken,” Seth shot back, trying to cover up that she had made him jump, “I don’t see why Kendra is any more at fault than him.”

“Oh don’t worry, my brother won’t be spared my ire either. The fool just barely got out of captivity, and he so quickly jumps back in.” Mizelle spat. “When will that fool learn to keep his horns where he can see them!”

Seth pulled back, “Wait, brother?”

Agad blinked, “Excuse me for not recognizing you earlier. You are a unicorn?”

Mizelle nodded, “I am the eldest child of their royal majesties, and the leader of the warrior fairies of our realm.

“You’re… more intense, than I expected a unicorn to be,” Seth admitted. He’d met Bracken, the Fairy Queen, and the Fairy King, and he’d never seen a look as intense as the one that Mizelle was shooting him right now.

“Yes,” was all she said. “I take it Kendra did not explain the full nature of her abilities?”

“I am familiar with the abilities of Fairy Kind,” Agad said. “But I fear their nature is a closely held secret. I assumed it functioned similar to how fairies share their power with the fairy struck.”

Mizelle nodded, “Kendra had permission to inform her brother and grandparents. It appears she did not take it. Kenda is literally a receptacle for the Fairy Queen’s power in the mortal world. It is similar to the relationship between the Fairies and their fairy struck, but instead of a gift of shared magic, it is an open spring. She is a direct connection to Mother and the magic that fuels Fairy Realm, and therefore, is a direct weakness. This is the secret, and of the few people that understand this magic, Ronodin does.”

Seth paled, “Ronodin is hurting Kendra?”

Mizelle shook her head, “Worse. It appears he is taking advantage of her memory loss, and teaching her to poison her magic and my mother by proxy. He is leading Kendra quickly down the path he used so many years ago to corrupt his own horns.”

“Kendra would never do that.”

“That is obviously what my Mother thought,” Mizelle said drily, “With effort and training, Kendra is able to use the wellspring of fairy magic inside her and craft magic. Not as a wizard or a unicorn crafts, but as mortal does. Should she tend to a herb garden, those plants will take on magical properties. Should she weave thread with intent to protect, the cloth will become armor. When trained, her abilities are a fairy’s creation magic inspired by human emotions and ingenuity, a power Mother should not have released on the world so easily or in one so young, but here we are. Ronodin is teaching her to craft curses and items to harm and poison. It will pervert her magic, and the effects will reach straight into my mother’s heart.”

“Oh dear,” Agad said, head sinking into his hands. “I am getting too old for this. How is the Fairy Queen?”

“She is attentive and well-attuned to her magic. She noticed the change immediately, and analyzed it as much as she could before cutting her connection with Kendra completely. An unfortunate necessity, especially since my mother can’t undo the changes she wrought in Kendra and is merely cutting the girl loose, but it is the only solution that slows down the taint.” Mizelle said, “Kendra is much farther from aid than we feared.”

“What do you know about where she is?” Seth asked.

“Kendra was in the realm opposite my mother,” Mizelle explained, and held up a hand at Seth’s outraged look, “Not the demon prison. The realm of the Underking. Demons can survive surrounded by light, and as my father has shown, beings of light can survive surrounded by demons. The denizens of the Underking are fundamentally incompatible with my kind. Their darkness will extinguish our light, and our light will extinguish their darkness. Many fairies have died, trying to light up the darkness for even a moment. Mortals refer to the Underking’s domain as the Phantom Isle.”

“How does the Queen know that’s where Kendra is being kept? Does she know where the Phantom Isle is currently located?” Agad asked.

“It is part of the connection Mother shares with Kendra, is it unequal to even what she shares with her family.” Mizelle said, massaging her temples, “The magic flow remained strong, but that is the only place on earth where her senses are truly dulled. Ronodin is somehow protecting Kendra’s light from going out, but he is only preserving it in order to mutate it. If he corrupts Kendra to a level near his own corruption, the source that Kendra and Mothers draw from will become poisoned, and the realm of light falls.”

“Okay, Phantom Isle, how do we get there?” Seth asked.

Agad shook his head, “It moves around. It has connections to our world all over the place, but very few beings are able to utilize them. The Underking’s realm is the home of phantoms, zombies, liches, wraiths, and every other possible thing that made a deal to give up living for longer life.”

“Okay,” Seth said, “Not a popular vacation spot. Is it an actual island? Cause that explains the barrel underwater bit.”

They both nodded. Mizelle didn’t consider any information about barrels to be important, and didn’t ask.

“Do you know anything else about Kendra?” Seth asked.

Mizelle shook her head, “I can tell you that it will take time to turn her. Mother felt shadows passing over the soul, but that is the first step to a long descent that Ronodin has taken over the course of his life to replace all his light with darkness. However, Ronodin is cunning, he is skilled. It will be that much easier if Kendra has no memories of goodness. Unfortunately, Mother will not be able to continually check on her.

“Think of the source that Kendra and Mother draw from as a well with a pipe directly to the Fairy Queen. From the Fairy Queen, magic flows to all creatures of light. When making Kendra Fairy Kind, Mother expanded the width of the pipe, and created a secondary pull from the Source before the magic reaches her to reach Kendra instead. An offshoot pipe before my mother’s reservoir. Kendra’s poison is travelling back up the pipe towards the source, and to prevent immediate contamination, Mother had to build a wall separating the streams of magic. Because of her actions, it will take the corruption much longer to reach Mother. Kendra will have to poison the source first before it reaches the Fairy Kingdom.”

“That’s fascinating, is that really how fairy magic works?” Agad asked.

Mizelle shot him a deadpan, “No. It is incredibly more complicated. I am describing astrophysics to someone who hasn’t figured out how to make fire yet. But it is a sufficient metaphor for what you need to know.”

“Could you give us a timeframe?” Agad asked.

“That depends on Kendra’s resistance,” Mizelle said. “With the circumstances as they are…find her before the fall equinox. That is the soonest Kendra could reach that level of corruption. Find her as soon as you can, but that is your deadline. We are unable to help you more without declaring another war that we are sorely ill prepared to handle. As a mortal, Kendra does not belong there, but nor is she banned from it.”

“I’m going to get her back much sooner,” Seth swore, meeting the intimidating gaze full on.

Mizelle met his gaze, and when he didn’t waver, she gave him a small nod, “I don’t doubt your courage or will, and I pray for your success. Of all the beings to reach the heart of the Underking’s realm, a shadow charmer has a better chance than most. Not a good one, but you have proven yourself before.”

Mizelle stood up, “Hurry, but do not go unprepared. I will be busy managing the affairs of the Fairy Realm, let no one know of its weakness. You have been a good ally to us before, Seth Sorenson and Agad the Young. Unfortunately, we must rely on you once more.”

There was still a little bit of sand left in the hourglass, and Seth stood up too. “It’s my sister. I’ll dig a hole there myself if I have to.”

“Mortals,” Mizelle said, somewhere between scoffing and amusement, “I did not inherit Mother’s love of mortals, nor did any of my sisters. Only Bracken claims that. In addition to most of her looks, it’s why he is her favorite. I, personally, am still struggling to see the appeal.”

“Wait until we…er,” the sand in the hourglass ran out, “Wait until we manage your request, and you will see what mortals can do when people we care about are at stake. I think you’ll figure out why we’re pretty cool.”

“I await proof, Caretaker,” Mizelle said, offering a hand. Seth shook it. Agad stood up and shook her hand as well.

After seeing the envoy of “dryads” off, Seth didn’t move. He was hoping that any spy had left him for more fruitful pastures after seeing they couldn’t overhear what the dryads wanted.

“Send Marat to the stables,” Seth said, quietly, waving at the departing figures from the archway. “See which mounts are interested in another adventure. Then go to Grandma and Grandpa, if their plans look good, approve it.”

“Where will you be?”

“Shadow hunting. I’ll take a late lunch.”

He turned back towards the Keep, speaking at a normal volume, “Their issue wasn’t that big, right? Henrick can help them.”

“If you tell him to,” Agad agreed. “First we should weather tonight.”

Seth started walking towards the winter study, but sidetracked into a…music room? They had a music room? The map was going to be useful all on its own.

He turned off the lights, drew his sword, and started walking. He tried to turn off all the lights around him, but it was hard when only some of the rooms has electricity. Most were gas lamps, and for about the hundredth time he wished he was a fully trained shadow charmer. According to the Sphinx, a shadow charmer can dim flames, bring cold, and a bunch of other cool stuff that would be really useful for figuring out if there was a spy in the Keep.

He decided to start at the top and make his way down, following Tess’s group wasn’t going to be any good if the spy was doing that already.

Luckily, the Keep was meant to be a fortress, and there no windows on the ground floor. When he approached the winter study, he listened carefully, looking for another spy, but didn’t find anything. Agad was talking about the best way to inform the staff, so Seth moved on.

Seth made his way to the dungeons next, checking various rooms as he followed the strained whispers of the undead. Unable to see in the dark, he stuck close to the walls. He approached the room with the barrel in it, hidden amongst the empty cells. One of the minotaur’s, not Brunwin, was guarding it along with a dwarf.

Seth imagined himself as part of the darkness, and tested how close he could get.

Seth could have stabbed the Minotaur through the chest. He was within the torchlight hanging near the entrance, but with the sword helping him, still the guards hadn’t noticed. Then Seth was actually standing behind the minotaur, reaching for the gate, when the dwarf saw him, cursing in dwarvish, as he pulled his shortsword free.

The Minotaur spun around, and Seth held up his hands without letting go of his sword, “Don’t attack! It’s only me,” Seth said. “Sorry, I was just trying to see how far my shadewalking and this sword could get me without being noticed.

The Minotaur lowered his axe, shaking his head, “I didn’t see you at all. I didn’t smell or hear you either.”

“And you can do all that now?” Seth asked.

They both nodded.

“Okay, good to know,” Seth said, “I’m going to go in the cell, check up on the barrel. Is there anyone in there right now?”

“Agatha,” the dwarf said, “She’s keeping watch over your note.” The dwarf handed him the key.

“We got a believable threat to Blackwell that’s supposed to come tonight,” Seth said, “My grandparents will fill you in soon, but be as vigilant as you can. Okay?”

They both nodded and Seth walked in. Agatha was apparently one of the old women, she was knitting an enormous sock, and smiled pleasantly when she saw him.

“Ahh, Young Master. The letter remains untouched and unmoved,” she said.

“Err, awesome. Good job,” Seth said. He felt a little uncomfortable having the old woman be the last or first line of defense should something happen with the barrel, but something about the click of her needles made him think she wasn’t as harmless as she appeared. There was no one else hiding in the cell with her, so he walked back out and continued towards the Blackwell.

As he wound closer to the Blackwell, he heard Doren, “Look, it’s really not necessary to go closer. Seth even told us not to touch this place.”

“He isn’t the boss of me,” Knox said, a slight tremor in his voice. He wondered how bad it was this close to the Blackwell for people without magical fear immunity, “We should look in, figure out the shape for the map, then we can go.”

“I don’t want to go any closer,” Tess said, almost crying.

“You don’t have to,” Knox said, sounding braver. “I’ll just crack open the door.”

Seth waited, pulling himself into a little nook around the corner of the prison door. It was round indent, about three feet deep, and he pressed himself to the wall, focusing on listening.

“Well, it won’t open. And if it’s locked for us, its probably locked for everyone one else. Move along now, we still need to get through the first floor before lunch. I for one, don’t plan on missing a meal because we stared at a door too long,” Newel said, “Off we go.”

Seth watched, holding his sword ready. Any tails the group had would have to back track, if Seth remembered right. He kept his eyes peeled for movement, ears alert for the sound of shoes separate from the others. Surprisingly, the ghostly wailing wasn’t overwhelming like he remembered the first time. Seth could firmly place it within his head, and it quieted while he focused on his non-shadow hearing.

His friends passed without a sound. Newel was holding the torch, the rest their papers and clipboards.

Seth waited for Tess to point to him and ask to talk, but her eyes slid right past his hiding spot. He felt the light touch him, but a single torch wasn’t enough to take away his advantage in this area. That meant that while she could see through distractor spells, shadow magic eluded her. It all depended on what the spy was using.

The group continued forward, and Seth waited.

And waited.

He made himself wait longer, just because time flew when you were waiting for something to happen. A trained spy would know that, even though the group was out of earshot.

Nothing happened.

It didn’t make sense. If the spy was tailing this group, which he thought any reasonable spy would be, he or Tess should have seen the person. This was a dead end! The spy wasn’t tailing his grandparents, he didn’t think. Any plan of the Sphinx’s and Ronodin’s wouldn’t be thwarted by increased security. Did the person stick to Agad, knowing the old wizard was the most powerful of their group? That didn’t seem right either, Agad had been as clueless as the rest of them in the meeting, and Seth had put him on magic defenses, which were already confirmed to be holding strong. Tailing Seth? The Dryads and Mizelle’s item would have found the spy if they were using distractor spells, and Seth would have found them using shadow disguise magic.

Sending two children and the satyrs through the nooks of the lower levels clearly presented the most unassuming group, and therefore the most suspicious. Considering they hadn’t even considered a spy until mid-morning, the spy wouldn’t have assumed Seth to be a good enough strategist to do what he did. Seth hadn’t been banking on the spy following this group, but even if the spy wasn’t listening in on the War Room meeting, the four of them tromping through the underground should have caught the spy’s attention.

Seth was looking at this wrong. Or maybe it was crazy, thinking there was a spy already here. Maybe the spy had known about the dead end and hadn’t bothered to follow them towards the Blackwell already, and instead stopped before —

Seth froze, then immediately forced himself to relax. He stood up straight, as though getting ready to leave and stepped from the nook.

Seth spun with all his strength, sword extended. Steel sparked against stone wall. A dark figure crouched, sparks landing on their hat. Seth had put too much force into the swing, and had trouble pulling back. The figure used that millisecond to run. An arm shot out, shoving him.

“Hey!” Seth yelled, scrambling to his feet. “Intruder!”

Seth ran, eyes darting everywhere, looking for the figure, catching the barest flicker of movement turning corners. He hit the main hallway, and there was nothing. No doors swinging, no locks rattling, no flickers of coat. Seth hurried forward and reached the cell with the barrel, and found the minotaur and the dwarf, braced and ready for action.

“Did you see anyone?” Seth asked as he rushed closer.

They jumped, only spotting him as he spoke.

“Right, new plan,” Seth said, putting a hand on his head, trying to think through this.

He was planning on taking the barrel with him out of Wyrmroost in the late afternoon. It had seemed so much more likely that they were going to attack at night. Now that the spy had been spotted, would their enemies try to move up the plan? What did Seth want the spy to think? If Seth did nothing, the spy would know that something was going to happen.

If Seth saw the intruder, and Tess didn’t, that meant shadow magic. Being unable to see in the dark meant that even if he could see past the shadow magic, he wouldn’t be able to find the intruder easily. That was a dumb trait. There had to be some aspect of being a shadow charmer that let him sense others in the dark.

But it was reality, and it meant that keeping their biggest weakness at the bottom of the dungeon, near the Blackwell, was a mistake.

“Okay, uh, remind me of your names?” Seth asked apologetically.

“Borum,” the dwarf said.

“Romnus,” grunted the minotaur.

“Right, Borum, you’re on guard duty with me. We’re moving the barrel, Romnus is going to carry it. I know this is one of the most protected areas, but we’re dealing with someone even better at shadow stuff than me. This is going too the High Judgement Court,” Seth said.

“Where?” Borum asked.

Seth opened the door to the cell, “Oh, uh, the center thing at the top. It doesn’t have any walls?”

“He means the pavilion,” Romnus said. Seth put his back to the cell door as Romnus explained the situation to Agatha.

“You lead, I’ll bring up the rear,” Seth said. Borum nodded, and they made their way out of the dungeons. Seth’s eyes were starting to hurt from spending so long trying to decipher the darkness, but he didn’t stop looking until they made it all the way to the top.

They attracted a trail of people, running into Tess’s group on the first floor, then Marat and Agad as they made their way to the kitchens.

They all asked Romnus, Agatha, and Borum questions, but they were directed to Seth who shook his head, motioning for everyone to follow quietly.

With everyone gathered at the pavilion, the harsh sunlight let Seth finally lower his sword. He sheathed it and looked in the barrel. The note remained, having shifted only a little bit during the trip.

“Okay,” Seth said, “I found the spy. Didn’t get a good look at them, but they are definitely using concealment shadow magic to hide themselves. Something I can sort of see through anyway. Which means its definitely going to be weaker up here.”

“Until nightfall,” Romnus said. “New moon tonight.”

Seth nodded, “Yes. This will still need to be guarded, but I already feel a lot better with it away from the Blackwell. Any conversations you have from now on, we should probably assume we’re being spied on. With the barrel up here, assuming they still go forward with their plan, the spy will have to wait until nightfall. If their plans involved the Blackwell, they’re going to have a lot farther to go, giving us a chance to stop them.”

“Is there anything else we can do? Tess didn’t find anyone,” Knox said.

“Oi, Tess was looking for people?” Doren said, “I thought we were making a map!”

“I thought the point was to get the spy to follow us,” Newel said.

Doren looked betrayed, “You knew it wasn’t about my map making skills!”

“Guys, it was all those things,” Seth said. He crouched and put a hand on Tess’s shoulder, who looked scared, “Hey, you did great. I never would have found the spy without you.”

He waited until she nodded and gave him a smile.

Seth stood up, “I want your map in the War room, because there’s always the chance that we missed a weakness down there. Agad, I want you to go over it with Marat after lunch, see if everything looks like you remember. I’m pretty sure the spy was following you guys the whole time, which means the rest of our conversations were probably private. Let’s head down to lunch, see if we can think of anything else. I’m starving.”

The Satrys whooped and hurried down, Tess and Knox following after.

“I have been giving some thought to where you need to go,” Agad said. “And I am starting to believe it was a mistake to think you didn’t need to be trained in your Shadow Charmer abilities. A fully trained shadow charmer would have been able to sense the shadow and concealment magic, and would be able to sense it now.”

“I’ve had plenty of people offer,” Seth admitted, “No one I felt like I could trust. Kendra told me that a demon she knew vouched for other demons that hate the dragons a lot more than they hated humans, but I already forgot their names. She didn’t want me learning from demons anyway.”

“But still she told you,” Agad said gently, “She would have let the information die with her memory if she didn’t trust your judgement. Demons are different among the denizens of the magical world, they are not always bound to their word as Fairies and Underbeings are. In order to deal with demons successfully, you must always have your goals aligned. Is there anywhere she would have written it down?”

“The journal of secrets,” Seth admitted, “But she writes that by umite candle and in fairy languages.”

Agad hummed, “There is a surprising store of Umite candles in the stockroom, and I believe that with Tess, fairy languages aren’t the bar Kendra trusted them to be.”

Seth grinned, changing direction at a hallway, “It looks like Tess has some homework. Do you think being a Shadow Charmer would help me rescue Kendra?”

“Having your abilities fully trained would indeed let you walk among the denizens of the Phantom Isle. From what I understand, you could no more walk on the Phantom Isle unseen than you could walk in the Fairy Realm without the Queen’s knowledge.” Agad said, “But if there is a way to take back what belongs in the light, a trained shadow charmer has a much better chance than many others.”

Agad stopped Agatha, who they had caught up to in the halls, and requested a set of Umite candles be brought to the kitchen. She nodded, and went to do it.

“The staff has been put on alert, watch and rotations set, for your information,” Agad said.

“Great,” Seth replied opening the door to his sister’s room. He immediately went to the desk in the corner and looked at the underside. It was much lower to the ground, and the journal wasn’t there. He checked Kendra’s other hiding spots, and in her desk for good measure. Agad watched.

“I have the feeling this isn’t your first time snooping on your sister,” Agad said.

Seth pulled the Journal of Secrets from the inside pocket of her duffle bag, which had been folded to fit inside the bottom of her laundry basket.

“Sisters, you know?” he said, grinning and tucking the book under his arm. “I wonder if Patton finished writing in it before or after the stingbulb was made? The first half is his journal, the rest of it is Kendra’s.”

Patton. The stingbulb had only a day left, how could they make sure Patton was used to the fullest extent?

Seth once again changed course.

“The kitchen is this way,” Agad said, amused, “It seems you really do need a map.”

“We want to go somewhere no has ever been, that constantly moves locations, and survive to tell about it?” Seth asked, smiling again, “Ten bucks says Patton knows where he left the t-shirt.”

Patton’s eyes lit up, but the rest of his features had only a hint of amusement, “Seth, I hope you aren’t suggesting that you think I rang the Underking’s doorbell for the fun of it? There isn’t a fairy shrine there.”

“Patton,” Seth said, cracking his own smile, “I’m obligated to let you know that if you haven’t ding-dong-ditched the Underking, it’s going to be a crushing letdown for one of your biggest fans.”

Patton laughed, “I had a good reason, I swear. But the particulars of it elude me. Stingbulbs don’t retain a perfect memory, you know. There is a ship, mildly haunted, that a shadow charmer should be able to strong arm into giving a lift.”

“Lady Luck?” Seth asked.

Patton raised his eyebrows, “You’re familiar with it?”

Seth winced, “Yeah, you left some stuff for me with Cormic, and we used her to get to the Shoreless Isle to stop Zzyxx. I think the bell and whistle ended up at Fablehaven, but I left the music box in the Presence’s cabin. I didn’t think I’d survive, much less need it again.”

“You’ll get a lot farther if you assume you will survive,” Patton said, stroking his mustache, “And if you don’t, you leave some nice pieces for the next adventurer to pick up. It is possible the music box remains in the cabin, but if not, a Shadow Charmer can summon the presence of spirits, I hear.”

Something else he’d need to be trained on. He caught Agad’s eye, and nodded. Training him had to be part of their plan before they went to the Phantom Isle.

“Can you think of another way?” Seth asked.

Patton shrugged, “The old stories suggest sailing to the end of the world and falling off it, but that has obvious issues. There are many caves that lead to the Underking’s domain, but those are also constantly shifting and extremely well hidden.

“The Underking has a clever boat he uses to ferry his servants across the water, but I don’t know of any others like it. There are also certain fairies that strive to find their way to the Phantom Isle, they were born with a need to light up the deepest darkness. Called Nova Songs, they are exceptionally rare, but they could lead a normal ship to your destination.”

“Right,” Seth said, “Could you write those down?”

“Of course, my boy,” Patton said, accepting a piece of paper from Tanu. He started writing. “I’m glad I could help this much. I get the sense Patton was hoping I’d be able to be more of an assistance than what I have been. Aside from getting the winged mounts, I fear I haven’t lived up to Patton’s hopes.”

“Those mounts are more important than you think,” Seth said, thinking of their plan for escape. Was there anything Patton could do in the next half a day? Probably not with Kendra, that was clearly going to take longer.

“Actually,” Agad said, “There is something you can do. I refrained from asking about your journey here before, but is it true you hid one of the keys to the vault in the Dragon Temple?”

“I suppose I can’t make myself any less popular with the dragons than I am right now,” Patton said, handing Seth the note detailing his ideas, “I did indeed. I had a couple of important items that let me get past the guardians, a lot of time, and an urgent need.”

“You used the Unicorn horn to get past Stilletta, didn’t you?” Seth said.

Patton arched an eyebrow, “As did you, I assume.”

“We killed her,” Seth replied, “The unicorn horn fed by Kendra’s unending power helped us purify her to a crisp. By the time she figured out to use her claws, she was dead.”

Patton grinned, “Quite clever. Though taking a dragon’s life shouldn’t be done lightly, Stiletta was a piece of work. I procured myself a set of Pegasus boots. Allows for increased speed while hovering three inches above the ground. That, along with a scarf that turned the wearer invisible while moving, allowed me to make it into the Temple and out again.”

“How would you like to revisit it?” Agad asked. “The dragons have declared war, voiding the treaty that gave them the right to certain treasures. We will be needing them back. Any information on the status of the temple guardians would be most welcome.”

“I believe I can do that,” Patton said, “How will I be able to convey the information back to you? I will likely expire before I can make the return trip.”

“I believe I have something that will do the trick,” Agad said, “Follow me to the library. Seth, I believe your stomach is still growling, why don’t you take your sister’s journal to Tess, see if you can scrounge up any secrets that might have been lost with Kendra’s memory.”

“Hey Tanu? When can you be all packed up?” Seth asked.

Tanu nodded, mixing two vials. “Patton’s help was greatly appreciated. I will be ready to go by 4 this afternoon.”

Marat came up to him as he approached the kitchen, but thankfully didn’t try to pull him in a different direction. He really was starving.

“The flying mounts have agreed. The destination?”

“Err, Fablehaven, I guess,” Seth said, looking around. “Think they can go that far?”

“It is approximately 1600 miles,” Marat said, “It would take a dragon three days, two days without rest. I do not know how fast your mounts fly, but I would plan for a week.”

“A week? I don’t have that much time to spend roadtripping,” Seth said, “After we get to human towns, think we could buy plane tickets to Fablehaven? They’re Luvians, they should be able to make it to Fablehaven without riders.”

“I will consult with them, though that plan has merit,” Marat said. They made it into the kitchen and Seth finally got a lunch of barbeque and some kind of mashed potato thing.

Seth dived in.

“When do you intend to implement the second part of your plan?”

“You’ve been up to something else?” Grandpa asked, sitting down with his own plate beside him.

Seth swallowed and grinned, “Always,” he said. To Marat he said, “It’s what, 1 o’clock? Let’s save it for 4:30-ish, have everyone gather at the High Judgement Pavilion. That’s when Tanu will be ready to go.”

“It’s only because I heard about your encounter with our spy that I’m letting you get away with your secrets Seth Sorenson,” Grandpa warned. “We will be discussing this.”

“I appreciate your input as my assistant,” Seth said, nodding.

“Mind your grandfather,” Grandma said.

“Yes Grandma.”

#Forgotten Light #fablehaven #dragonwatch #Seth Sorenson

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shinjukuspiritcommittee · 3 years

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Top 20 2021

My Favorites (updated)

Hello my readers, it’s been a while since I just posted something not related to a headcanon and I am doing one right now. I just wanted to take a bit of a break to just get SOMETHING on here on my days off work. Plus I’m just trying to find my groove when it comes to writing again so hopefully this helps me just get back into the mood of making a post more often lol. I wanted to revisit this topic for a while just because we’ve had a lot more events and a lot more alts in the game were added. And I know for a fact LifeWonders reads these posts in some capacity because I have meme’d an AR into the game with my top picks from the last list I did for Christmas 2019. No I didn’t. I’m just joking around and I know LifeWonders doesn’t read this.

Anyways rather than just make up a list on the spot like last year I decided to use the Housamo Sortmaker (Link: https://club.housamo.xyz/sortmaker/ ) to try and make a list that’s more revealing to what I was thinking at the time. Since I talked about 20 characters ish last time I’m just gonna read from my 20th place to my 1st place spots and try to justify whatever I was thinking at the time. Anyways-

20: Marchosias and Susan: This one was a surprise for me if I’m being honest but I’m just gonna blame the fact on Shukou’s recent involvement with LifeWonders in the form of Live A Hero and how Ryekie and Mokdai live in my headspace rent free whenever I think about the characters in that game. Maybe we can see about getting some LAH headcanons since that’s a LifeWonders property too). So out of all the characters Shukou drew for Housamo why did I pick Marchosias? Easy, it’s been 4 years and this poor man has yet to receive a proper alt or any kind of skin for that matter and I think that it’s a crime. Sure he’s not my favorite but he’s definitely grown on me because he’s just a gentle dad kind of character and his design has grown on me over the years. I just hope he doesn’t get left behind since he has a lot of really interesting and potential things to look forward to in the future given how the main story has unfolded.

19: Shiva/Algernon: The helmet heads are together because DAI XT quickly became my favorite artist for Fire Emblem Heroes and I really just like their designs. DAI XT just knows how to draw robots, armor and muscles well. Also Chapter 11 with Shiva you can read into some interesting perspectives. I don’t want to spoil any of the untranslated content for anyone who’s waiting for the official english translation. But if you are curious Roureem has a blogspot where he posts summaries of the newly released events.

Link: https://housamosummaries.blogspot.com/

18: Cthugha: I love this goober so much. He’d constantly try to act super sentai just trying say good morning everyday. He may not be very bright but that just adds to his charm and honestly I enjoy how he always tries to play the hero in a lot of scenarios because it’s refreshing when they implement him after a bunch of heavy hitting story stuff. I’m not gonna spoil too much about it but I will say he’s more than welcome after everything Chapter 10 and 11 put the reader through.

17: Mineaki: I’ve made a post about him being one of my least favorites way back when I first started this blog and let me just say how times have changed and I’ve learned the value of not judging a book by it’s cover. I still think there’s something a bit off about Kowmei’s style for his characters, but Mineaki has definitely grown on me. He’s a caring instructor who does watch out for his students even if it’s not always in the most direct way possible. Not to get into too many spoilers he’s got a lot of intrigue around him as well and I am curious to see his role get expanded down the line.

16: Ded: Housamo is the reason I really like christmas. The Christmas stories despite following a similar structure to each other do tend to be my favorite stories. Ded himself is also just another good dad character. He’s also two guys for the price of one, so I mean… you know… you’ve got the forever ask your other dad situation. There wasn’t much thought put into this choice I just like santa as a concept because I think the outfits are cute, it’s always nice to get something for people you care about on Christmas and Ded is the perfect embodiment of both sides to Christmas.

15: Shinya: Everyone we need to manifest buff Shinya for 2021, this is not a drill. This is legitimate. We must make Taromati’s and my wish come true. To be more serious again he’s just a sweet and gentle character. He’s also drawn by my favorite Housamo artist. Their characters always just look so naturally good. I’m just surprised he hasn’t gotten much of an alt given he’s perfect material for Valentine’s day. He’s just a soft boy and I would love for him to be in more things because I just enjoy seeing him.

14: Jacob: I have to be honest Jacob is on here because every time I look at him he just gets more handsome to me. I wasn’t all that impressed with his introduction and we don’t know much about his background but I’ve just been drawn to him more and more. Maybe it’s just because he’s drawn by GomTang? I just like looking at him and I can’t help it. To speak a bit less crass he’s another gentleman kind of guy and those are always nice.

13: Shennong: Yeah I like the doc a lot. Firstly, I’m a huge sucker for big bulls and Shennong fits the bill. The white fur really adds to his appeal visually and the purple horns give off a bit of an unnatural appearance. Shen feels like someone who’s been touch starved and alone for a long time given how he acts as a character and when we actually hug him I just lost it. He always has others well being on his mind so he’s not afraid to jump in and help, or give a much needed lecture about when you need to take better care of yourself. He just comes across as very well balanced overall.

12: Heracles: I won’t lie- at first he didn’t interest me much. He looked incredibly plain when among the rest of the cast and he seemed like the typical “bait” character since the banner had Echo, Barguest, Gyumao and Snow. But after reading the translation for Valentine Time Slip I was taken aback at how much of a gentle giant he turned out to be and I just really liked his interactions with the others in that event. And honestly his special quest from that year was one of the more unique ones given the slower pace and more romantic vibe it had. After the event warmed my heart I did a complete 180 and I just knew I really liked him.

11. Yasuyori: Before I start praising him I feel I have to justify why he didn’t quite make top 10 and it will have some mild Chapter 10 spoilers. To be as vague as possible his resolution just didn’t vibe with me at the end of Chapter 10. Like it wasn’t a bad resolution and it was the right choice to make but in my opinion there really wasn’t a moment I felt was clear where he made a choice for himself. Everything just sort of happened around him and it felt like he didn’t really do much to improve his situation. To an extent I kind of see that being the idea given his origins and the story he’s based on and there is some semblance of him coming to terms with himself alongside his isolation being portrayed pretty well, but I just wasn’t satisfied with it as much as I would like to be. With that out of the way, oh my god I just want this boy to never stop smiling and I just want to give him hugs constantly please he just deserves to be happy!!! Yasuyori is a character who’s got a lot of baggage and he’s just trying to find ways to properly cope with his trauma and not repeat past mistakes and I just really like that idea. His role in Xmas 2020 (sorry I just forgot the name of that event, but its when he gets his alt) was a much better representation for his character in my eyes. I’m not gonna spoil anything like I keep saying but he isn’t one to disappoint in future appearances and I just hope this lovable lug keeps getting the support he deserves.

10: Hephaestus: A spicy way to start the latter half of the list. I just want to give this lad a hug and tell him he is worthy of love. But at the same time he is a little shit… and I love that. I can’t fully explain why I grow a paternal instinct in me seeing this grown man sob about his mother but I just do. I want to keep him safe and give him all the affection he wants. Though I am aware a lot of Hephaestus’s interest in his parental figure is… questionable. I am just gonna say I would accept his love for what it is and he just wants approval.

9. Shuten: I’ll be honest I have no proper reason for why I like Shuten so much. He’s just a cool and reliable guy. He just seems like a go with the flow kind of person most of the time and he’s a bit more direct than most of the characters which I always appreciate. Plus I have an unspoken bias for naop guys in Housamo.

8. Durga: While not number 1 on this list, I still really like Durga. She’s quirky but not to an annoying degree, she’s determined and definitely very confident in her own abilities. Her growing to be more sociable throughout her events is something I enjoy seeing because it really creates this sense of growth.

7. Kyuma: I get a lot of people don’t like Kowmei’s art but I really think we should look past it because Kyuma is one of the sweeter picks. He’s someone who just wants to prove himself for his own worth and not what David can provide, but David is part of him and it just creates the potential for a good arc. Plus this boy is unintentionally smooth and will just take your heart when possible. I honestly want to see Kyuma more in events because he’s honestly the jock that carries 3 of the 4 brain cells. He’s also the last one without an alt so I’m just hoping he gets one in 2021 because he really deserves one in my opinion. (Also fan art makes him really cute).

6. Tomte: Tomte is relatively new but honestly his event in 2019 really endeared me to him. I’m trying to be spoiler free because the best way to enjoy these stories is for yourselves but let me just say his arc in the event was really endearing to me and much more than I was expecting. His fan service is also incredibly hammy and I love it. Visually Tomte is one of my favorites, I love his multi colored hair and starlit pupils cuz it makes his otherwise more generic look have some flare. I knew I liked him out the box and when I read about him in the summaries and can’t wait to read the official translation for him. I was just very endeared.

5. Tetsuya: Tetsuya fucks. Moving on…

Jokes aside this one’s a bit simple. I have no shame in admitting I think he’s attractive and his whole resistance towards wanting a relationship is cute in a weird roundabout way. When he says no I just want it MORE. I just really like duo haired tsunderes.

4. Kengo: Kengo 3rd alt 2021. Please LifeWonders I need my favorite Summoner. He’s a bro and that’s what counts. Kengo has got your back, not afraid to rely on you, a very fun and dynamic guy. Sure he’s not that bright when it comes to making plans or any book smart, but there are times where he’s the best at being able to read the room or just understand what someone needs to hear even if it isn’t always what someone wants to hear. His bullheaded nature is actually one of his redeeming qualities because it’s nice to just not overcomplicate things and just understand what’s actually going on. Yes the early story didn’t do many favors for him but to me the events, especially the later ones, do much more work for his character. To me, at least.

3. Ashigara: Ashigara is best bear, and I will defend that stance in 2021. The main thing that draws me to Ashigara is that I can see a bit of myself in him. He gets very emotional when he gets left alone, he’s very loud when with his friends, has a tendency of speaking his mind- just someone who wears his heart on his sleeve. I also appreciate that in spite of the negative he isn’t someone who backs down when the going gets tough and in a few instances he’s able to hold his ground physically at least.

2. Wakan Tanka: Love at first sight. This ray of sunshine still persists as the number 1 husband, but number 2 character. Firstly I am a huge fan of the partial beast aesthetic. The buffalo ears and the horns are absolutely adorable. Secondly he’s a perfect body type; he’s not too muscular but not exactly flabby. Third he is just so positive and I love that. He’s someone I admire and wanna hug.

1. Taurus Mask: The more things change the more they stay the same. I’m still a big Taurus Mask fan for all the same reasons as last time. I just… relate to this boy. He is an incredibly shy boy who uses his public persona for confidence. Maybe I’m reading too much into it but it’s like we’re soul bros!

So yeah, my tastes haven’t changed in a year and a half.

#tokyo afterschool summoners #housamo #Just Thoughts #qna #sfw

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argylemnwrites · 3 years

Text

Facts, Fibs, and Futures

Pairing: Mal Volari x MC (Raina - f!human)

Book: Blades of Light and Shadow (Chapter 4)

Word Count: ~3300

Rating: PG-13 (innuendo)

Summary: A evening of games, cards, and fortune-telling gives Mal a better understanding of Raina.

Author’s Note: Wish I had time to do more for @bladesappreciationweek, but happy to have at least snuck this piece in under the wire for Day 7 - MC/wildcard. It’s a little bit about my MC, a little about the gang in their early days, and a little glimpse at some early Mal/MC flirtation.

“...And so I convinced the Contessa of Ditorilla that I was merely a figment of her imagination, conjured up by her deepest desires.”

Raina couldn’t help but snort as she caught the tail end of the undoubtedly false story Mal was spinning for Nia and Tyril as she walked towards them on the deck. She’d been staring at the horizon, trying to calm her stomach. She didn’t want to admit it and give Mal more of a reason to see her as naive, a kit with no experience, but the truth was that the rocking of Gerhard’s ship on the waves left her fairly nauseous. She hoped she would get used to the sensation soon, but in the meantime, she had to resort to attempting simple solutions. Hopefully, the hour she just spent by herself along the railing would be seen as her just wanting to take in the ocean. Not that that would make her seem any less like a damn kit.

“Based on Raina’s reaction, I am going to go with ‘fib’ on that tale.” Tyril’s voice floated through the air, drawing Raina out of her introspection.

“Come on, Kit. It’s bad enough that you are shockingly skilled at this, but now you have to ruin it for me when you aren’t even playing?” She stopped and glanced over at Mal, tipping back in his chair, one foot braced against the deck, the other resting on the edge of the table where he was sitting with Nia and Tyril. When they made eye contact, he winked at her before placing his hand on his chest in mock pain.

“Raina, you should join us!” Nia called out, twisting around in her chair to flash a bright smile.

“Yes, please do,” added Tyril. “This… ruffian has convinced us to play some sort of game where we have to determine whether a statement is the truth or a lie.”

“Yeah, Fib or Fact,” Raina said as she sat down in the free chair between Nia and Tyril, “but you aren’t really playing unless you are drinking.”

“See! Thank you! I told you guys this was a drinking game!” Mal cried out, gesturing across the table to Raina with a flourish.

Tyril shook his head briskly. “I do not understand the human fascination with needing to create banal games to drink.”

“I don’t know; I think it’s just a fun way to pass the time.” Raina glanced over to her left and gave Tyril a little shrug.

“But we know Elf Boy here would rather die than have fun.”

Tyril opened his mouth, but before he could respond, Nia cut in. “Please, we can’t be at each other’s throats constantly.”

Tyril glanced between Nia and Mal, the openingly-mocking grin plastered on Mal’s face clearly fueling the fire that Nia was trying to extinguish. After a few tense and silent seconds, he gave a terse little nod. “Fine, but if I have to listen to any more stories of his romantic... conquests, I make no promises.”

Nia let out a little sigh. “Good. Well, maybe we should pick a different game anyway, since Raina is always right at this one.”

“Is that so?”

Raina smiled and tilted her head to the side. “I’m very good at reading people. Particularly his Magnificence over there.” She gestured across the table towards Mal, who plastered a fake shocked expression on his face, eyebrows raised and eyes wide, as he mouthed “Me?” before grinning and shooting Raina a wink.

“They played quite a bit on our journey to Port Parnassus,” Nia added. “I think Mal only got her four or five times.”

“Well, nevermind then. Let’s keep playing,” Tyril said, leaning back slightly and crossing his arms, the corners of his lips quirking upwards as he glanced back at Mal.

“Nah, don’t want to offend your delicate sensibilities with my more scandalous accounts,” he responded, waggling his eyebrows.

“Does anyone know any other games we could play? I don’t know if I want to gamble again.” Nia said, clearly trying to move past any sniping between the two males of their little party.

“Awww, priestess. Didn’t enjoy your first taste of betting?”

Her cheeks flushed as she shook her head. “I don’t think it’s for me, Mal.”

"Just you wait. We'll bring out your wild side one of these days," Mal said, winking at Nia before giving her a very genuine looking smile. "Since cards are out, does anyone have any other ideas?"

Tyril didn't move to suggest anything, sitting still, his arms still locked across his armor. Nia kept glancing around the group, a hopeful gleam in her eyes that made it clear that she was counting on someone else to offer up an idea.

Raina found her mind drifting to Kade. He always knew how to entertain a group. He could tell stories, pull out random facts and tidbits of info. He just kept the conversation flowing.

"Maybe we can still use the cards," she said, tilting her head to the side. "My brother would sometimes use the deck to tell fortunes. I think I remember the basics."

"I can do you one better than that, Kit. I happen to be a fortune telling expert." Mal was grinning widely as he shuffled the deck while he stared her down.

"Really." Tyril's deadpan answer conveyed extreme skepticism.

"Yes, really. Are you doubting my skills?”

“As a rule, yes. But doubly so here, seeing as you lack any ability to channel the Light.”

“Don’t need your Light to do this, just pure intuition. So how about it, Elf Boy? Want a chance to glimpse into your future?”

Raina thought Tyril might unsheathe his blade right there, but after a moment he merely shook his head and pushed his chair back as he stood up rapidly. “I’ll pass. Goodnight, Nia. Raina. Vagrant.” And with that he was off, heading below deck without a glance back. Nia looked worried at his rapid departure, but Mal seemed utterly unfazed, leaning forward and letting the front legs of his chair fall to the deck as he spun to face Nia.

“What about you, priestess? Care to see what’s in store for you?”

“Oh! I think I would rather just watch, if you don’t mind.”

“I guess that leaves you, Kit. You up for it, or are you scared of what the cards might hold?”

Raina laughed, leaning across the table and grabbing the cards from his hand. “Oh, I definitely want to see this.”

Mal chuckled in response. “Alright, you’re going to need to pick out seven cards and-”

“Lay them out in a row in front of me; I know.”

“Wow, talk about pushy! You aren’t even giving me the chance to explain how this works to poor Nia.” Mal’s tone was light and carefree, making it clear he had no qualms about letting her get started.

“Seeing how much you love to hear your own voice, I just figured I would actually get to work while you talked her ear off,” Raina replied, throwing Mal a teasing smile as she shuffled the cards and placed one slightly to the left in front of her.

Nia giggled as Mal clutched his shirt and gasped in exaggerated shock. “Raina, you wound me.”

“Something tells me you’ll survive that devastating blow. Nia, have you ever seen this done before?”

She shook her head, watching as Raina placed cards down one by one in a row.

“It’s pretty simple, really,” Raina said, shuffling the deck again before selecting her next card. “I’m supposed to select seven cards that ‘speak to me’ and place them face down in front of me. The first two are said to represent elements of my past, the middle three my present, and the final two my future.”

“Does it work?”

“Of course! Don’t you trust me? Would I make something up?”

“Constantly,” said Nia, causing Raina and Mal to both burst out laughing.

“Slowly but surely, we’ll get you out of your Drakna shell, priestess. It’s inevitable,” said Mal before taking the remaining cards back from Raina. “You happy with your seven?”

“Just get started, Mal. Let’s see if you can back up your bragging with some action.”

“What type of action are you interested in, Kit? Cause I can do a lot-”

“-That’ll make Nia feel real uncomfortable. So how about we stick to the fortune telling for now.”

“For now? Oh, I can work with that,” he said with a wink before pointing to the card Raina had set further to the left. “Alright, first card here is the Base Card. It reflects your origins, your roots.” Mal flipped the card over, showing a village burning, humans crying in the streets, causing Raina’s breath to catch in her throat for just a second.

“The Destruction,” she finally said, trying to hide her shock.

“Yeah. Obviously not a very happy card. In this position, it usually means death and tragedy.”

It was a very fitting card for someone orphaned in a bandit massacre. Raina didn’t quite know how to process it. She didn’t put much stock in things like this. In fact, when she’d watched Kade do this before, he’d never had something so… perfect come up. He usually had to spin things with some very nebulous interpretations to make the cards even remotely work for the person in front of him. But Mal had stumbled into an accurate first card for this reading, and he knew nothing about that part of her past.

“Raina, is that-” Nia started, but she stopped abruptly. Raina glanced up from the card to see Mal shaking his head subtly. Given his reluctance to discuss his own history, it made sense that he could recognize a similar desire in her at this moment.

“Keep going.” Raina said after a few seconds of tense silence. Mal only paused for a second more before he kept going.

“Second card is the Core Card. It is still about your past, but it focuses more on the personal, the fundamentals of your personality more than your background.” He turned over the next card and started laughing as what could best be described as two elves in a very intimate embrace was revealed.

“The Passion. Tell me, Kit - you have a lot of heartbroken lovers pining for you back in Riverbend?”

Raina chuckled, glancing up and staring Mal straight in the eye. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“Absolutely,” he said without missing a beat, causing Raina to laugh in earnest and Nia to cough into her Bristlegreen tea.

“Let’s just say I have no objections to your reading so far,” Raina said with a smirk. Mal joined in laughing at that, while Nia’s cheeks flushed very dark.

“I think I might turn in,” she said, placing one of her hands against her cheek, her bracelet catching the moonlight.

“Aww, sorry priestess. I promise this is the most scandalous card in the deck,” Mal said, giving Nia a contrite little nod.

Nia glanced between Mal and Raina before shaking her head. “No, it’s alright. I’m rather tired, and something tells me the innuendo will find a way to come back with you two.”

“Nia, we’re sorry.”

“Yeah, we can keep it clean… or at least mostly clean,” Mal added with a little shrug that was probably meant as an apology.

But Nia just shook her head. “It’s fine. Enjoy the rest of your evening.” She gave them both a gentle smile before standing up, waving as she made her way below deck to their shared quarters.

“And then there were two,” said Mal. “You want to keep going, or do-”

“Of course,” said Raina. “You promised me a glimpse at my future. I expect you to deliver.”

Mal grinned before shifting his hand towards the third card positioned in front of Raina. “This position is the Breaking Card. It’s supposed to represent the turning point that takes you from your past to your present.”

“Kade always said the Breaking Card represented the transition from childhood to adulthood when he did this.”

Mal shook his head. “Sometimes that’s the case, but it is more about growing up in the abstract, not literally aging.” He flipped over the card, revealing an unbalanced scale.

“The Unjust? What is that supposed to mean here?”

“It is usually interpreted to mean an imbalance and loss of stability, an upsetting of how life had been. Sometimes it refers to political upheaval or a change in power structure, but it can also be more personal, like a messy break up or the loss of the family business-”

“Or the entrapment of a brother in the Shadow Realm?”

He glanced up at her, wincing a little bit. “Uhh, yeah. That would apply here.” He moved as if to grab her hand, but apparently thought better of it, dropping his fingers to the table and tapping them restlessly a few times instead. “Do you want to stop, Raina?”

She shook her head. “This reading feels shockingly accurate. Who would I be to turn down a chance at knowing my future?”

He nodded, then moved to the middle card. “Alright, so the middle position is considered the Drive Card. It reflects the biggest event of your present.” The card he flipped over showed white light pouring from above colliding in the center with dark smoke from below. It was the Morality, the card that everyone who did readings like this interpreted as a conflict between good and evil forces.

“Well, that’s easy enough to interpret. Battle between light and dark has to represent our taking on the Shadow Court. Keep going.”

“Woah, I thought I was the one doing this reading, Kit.”

Raina smiled and shrugged. “I told you Kade liked to do this around the tavern. Besides, I’m far more interested in the outcome of the Drive Card,” she said, tapping next to the sixth card.

“Ahh, yes. The Reckoning Card. But first we need to see your Key Card to figure out what part of your present is going to be most important for your future. Shape your journey going forward.” He revealed the Twins, a male and female orc with nearly identical features.

“Well I knew the accuracy couldn’t last,” Raina said with a little laugh. “I know for a fact I don’t have a long lost twin waiting for me out there.”

Mal shook his head. “No one interprets this card so literally, Kit. It usually thought to indicate meeting someone with a… similar soul.” He paused before finishing that thought, almost as if trying to find a less emotional phrasing.

“I’m surprised your head didn’t explode from saying something so sentimental.”

“Hey, I don’t make the rules! I’m just the messenger.”

“Uh huh. So I’m going to meet someone very like me and they’re going to define the rest of my life?”

“Yeah, that’s a fair interpretation of this card in that position.”

“So, you’re saying I’m going to meet someone else with a drive for adventure and to see as much of the realm as possible and what? Go into business with them?”

Mal took a sip of his ale without breaking eye contact. “Possibly. The key card is usually read in a more passionate light than that, though.”

“Is this considered a romantic card then?” Raina found herself staring at Mal, unable to break his gaze.

“For humans, yes. The Key Card in general is often considered to be a romantic card. Or at least it usually gets interpreted that way.”

“So I’m going to fall for my fellow adventurer?”

He kept looking right at her as he said, “Well, that would be the most common way the Twins are read in this situation.”

Things suddenly felt tense and loaded, far more expectant than they had any right to be. Not wanting to dwell on the implications of that card, Raina looked to diffuse the moment. “Of course, given that my Core Card was the Lovers, it might just be that I flirt with this adventurer until the next best thing comes along.” Raina knew she was ignoring the fact that the Key Card was supposed to carry the reading from the present to the future, but she didn’t know how to process the depth of such a statement. Not now, when so much was left to do to defeat the Shadow Court and to save Kade. And certainly not when she was staring at the person she felt more similar to than anyone else she’d met in a long time.

Mal seemed to sense her desire to not address the realities and details of such a prediction, instead laughing at her joke. “Love ‘em and leave ‘em your style, too?”

She smirked as she gave him a coy little shrug. “No comment.”

“Fair enough. I want stories later though, Kit.”

Raina waved him off and shook her head. “Just finish my reading, Mal.”

“A valid subject change, I’ll grant you that. So, you already told me that you know that the Reckoning Card represents the eventual outcome of the Drive Card. Ready to see how things go on your mission of doom?”

She rolled her eyes, but nodded. With how attuned this whole reading had been, she found herself eager to see the next card, almost believing it might actually represent their future.

Mal pulled the card toward him, drawing out the reveal. “Huh,” was all he said before placing the card face up in front of her.

“The Double-Edged Sword?”

“Yeah.”

“Does that mean we defeat the Shadow Court?”

Mal shrugged. “This card usually reflects either a desired outcome at a high price, or a wish come true that causes a new set of problems.”

“So not exactly the greatest card for the Reckoning Card.”

“But not the worst either. It’s often portrayed as a mixed outcome. Most tellers would interpret this as reflecting success when it comes to the Shadow Court, but either after suffering some steep consequences or having to traipse through all three hells. That sort of thing."

“Well, I guess that’s better than outright defeat.”

“That’s the spirit! Surviving by the skin of your teeth is all you need, anyway! Easy success is overrated.”

“And highly unlikely?”

“Yeah, that too. You ready for your final card?”

“Hit me with it.”

“Alright, so the final position is the Unwinding Card. It’s supposed to represent the overall course of your life once you’ve fully moved out of the present.” Mal flipped the final card over, showing a golden, gleaming, cup, letting out a little whistle as he saw it.

“The Golden Chalice feels like a good card here.”

“It’s a great one, Kit. It represents comfort, pleasure, contentment. In this position, it’s basically saying your life will be filled with all you could want in the future.”

Raina nodded. “Well, at least it seems like no matter what the Shadow Court deals us, we come out of it alright. Unless you are just an awful fortune teller.”

Mal chuckled at that, sliding the seven cards back into his deck. “I make no promises for the accuracy of these predictions.”

“Where did you learn how to do this anyway?”

Raina noticed that he swallowed roughly as he tucked the cards back into his sack. “That’s a story for another time,” he said finally. “You ready to call it a night?”

She shook her head. “Not just yet."

"You want any company?"

Raina gave him a smile and nodded. “Sure, that would be nice.”

And so he moved over into the chair next to her, following her gaze as she looked up at the stars. The silence was comfortable and easy and for several moments, she just soaked in the night sky.

“So really, how many jilted lovers are we talking for you?” Mal’s teasing question pulled Raina out of her thoughts.

She laughed and shook her head. “Let it go, Mal. Some facts are just better left unmentioned.”

“Fair enough, Kit. Fair enough.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Perma: @walkerswhiskeygirl @octobereighth @kimmiedoo5 @mom2000aggie

Blades: @marshmallowsandfire

Mal x MC: @anotherbeingsworld

#bladesaw #mal volari #mal x mc #tyril starfury #nia ellarious #blades of light and shadow #blades fanfic #choices fanfiction

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tailorvizsla · 4 years

Text

A Proper Mandalorian Courtship - Chapter 1

Title: The Armorer and an Introduction Word Count: ~2350 Pairing: Paz x Reader Rating: PG-13 Warnings: Cursing, canon-typical violence, crack humor that’s also serious Summary:

Mandalorian courtship is very simple: declare your interest in someone, spend time together if they reciprocate, and get married after a year or so. Getting married is even easier – simply swap the vows and announce it a few days later to the Tribe so you can all celebrate the happy news. Then spend the next few months fending off the nosy Elders (who all want to know when they can expect to hear more little feet on the ground). At the end of it all, Mandalorians court the same way the rest of the galaxy does.

Except for Paz Vizla. Despite his Traditionalist background, he goes about this courtship and marriage business in a very nontraditional way...a very, very, very nontraditional way. This can also be found at AO3. Chapters: 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10

📚 My Master List 📚 Author’s Notes:

This is my first attempt at a multi-chapter story in a very long time.

I’ve been working on this since February. It’s been finished for a few weeks now, but I’ve been procrastinating in posting because I have had such a hard time justifying why Paz behaves the way he does even though we only see him for like 3 seconds in the series. I’m not sure if anyone else does this, but I like having a reason to write a story, even if it’s just to get the fluff out. For this, I wanted to flesh out Paz’s character for future works, but I have had such a hard time figuring out the words for it that I just...didn’t post. It felt wrong to continue forward without being able to explain to myself why he does what he does. Something that @plexflexico said in one of their responses to a review I left resonated with me and finally inspired me to post this publicly.

“Paz might have had less than a minute of screen time, but that time was VERY enlightening because both scenes were at moments of great tension and high emotion. I felt that any man who could succinctly put his people’s plight into words, and was so angry over this betrayal by someone who should have known better that there was no way this was simply a brute. This is a man who thinks and feels, deeply.”

This. This is exactly what I couldn’t find the words for. This, to me, is Paz Vizla. I have seen stories/HCs that portray him as a brute in an attempt to show him as a strong, confident, and masculine character. I am not fond of that portrayal because it lacks depth. I don't see that from a man whose culture embraces competency and skill before gender or sex. For those of you who have not read Asterism, go do it now, I promise you will love every single word. @plexflexico perfectly captures every emotion and thought of each scene just perfectly. This is Grade Amazing Super Plus Rank writing and Plex deserves an award for their work. And also for the inspiration because her Paz is the man everyone who wants a man deserves to have in their life.

The Foundry is the most sacred place for any Tribe blessed enough to have one of its own. It is the physical manifestation of the Resol'nare: education and armor, self-defense, the tribe, the language, and the leader. Here, children and new recruits receive their first set of beskar'gam and swear their oaths to follow the path, making the Foundry the spiritual birthplace of every member of the Tribe.

At night, when the work is finished, and the flames are dimmed, the young and old gather within so they may learn from and educate one another. Most importantly, this is where most individuals begin their first lessons in Mando'a, under the guidance of the Elders. The foundry is where the armaments are made and dispensed for the protection of each person and the Tribe as a whole. When a hunter returns with their offerings, they return to the Foundry, and disperse it to those who depend upon them for sustenance and care. Finally, the Foundry serves as a place for the leadership to gather.

Armorer has had the distinct honor and privilege of being both armorer and leader to her people for many years, though she is now only the armorer for the tribe. Upon joining with tribe Marell, she relinquished her role as the Alor. However, the respect and authority she commands is not diminished in any capacity. Should Alor Dezha not be available to decide on a course of action, the Tribe will come to her, and her decision will be both supported and respected. Dezha respects her a great deal, and he will often seek her opinion if his path is unclear. Despite the differences in their interpretations of the Oath, they have come to live in harmony with one another. They strengthen what is weak in each other, and that is how it should be in a flourishing Tribe.

Tonight, she once more has the honor of being part of a marriage ceremony. Lifting her heavy hammer, Armorer brings it down onto the glowing ingot of metal, watching as it flattens and spreads under her blow. She continues to strike the metal with slow, methodical precision until it reaches the proper thickness. Then the Armorer takes it back to the flame, where she allows it to glow blazing white. It only takes a few moments, and she returns it to the anvil. The steady clang clang of her hammer is punctuated only by the occasional trip to the flames.

The union of two Mandalorians in marriage is – and always has been – a joyous occasion, for that union brings forth stability for the children and the Tribe. Traditionally, the parents take turns hunting, or if the Tribe has the numbers, both parents will hunt together, and leave their children in the care of the rest of the family. Having that one trusted person, the one who knows their every strength and weakness by their side, leads to success, both in the field and at home.

She pauses once more to check the ingot. When she sees it is properly folded, she divides it in half, and begins to form each blade precisely with her smaller hammer. Two Mandalorians, forged into one soul and body by marriage, whether they are together, or they are apart. Two blades, made from a single piece of steel, to symbolize that union. When they are formed to her satisfaction, she takes the blades to the oil vat and quenches them, a satisfying hiss escaping the bubbling liquid.

Then she returns to the forge, narrowing one of the flames to begin the differential tempering process. Here, the tang and the edges of the blades will be hardened to resist shattering, yet the spines will remain flexible, so that they may flex as needed. Once joined, the couple hardens themselves to outsiders; instead, they will turn their affection and respect inward, so they may grow together. Where one is brittle, the other is flexible, and together, they become stronger than they would be individually. She withdraws the first blade from the flame just as the pale amber color creeps to the edges of the blade and plunges it directly into the water bath to cool.

It takes hours to sharpen the ceremonial blades on the grinding belts, but she works steadily and carefully, honing the edges with precision. The hilts are left bare; they will be wrapped by the parties entering the marriage. When they speak their vows, they will exchange blades, so they may carry a piece of the other with them when they are physically parted. She nestles the blades into separate boxes lined with soft fabric. When she delivers the blades tonight, the newlyweds will handle the rest on their own. Armorer lowers the heat of the flame before she returns to her quarters. There she draws the curtain across her living space. Exhaling, she takes a seat at her low table with a pot of hot tea to await being summoned by the Elders to acknowledge the vows. Her shoulders are tense and tight. It is a good sign of hard work.

It has been many years since she has witnessed a proper Mandalorian courtship unfold and blossom into marriage. The Armorer has known from the start that Paz would be the one to fully embrace the traditional ways. Now, he has chosen to make himself an example to the younger Mandalorians and enter the bonds of matrimony. Her heart swells with pride as she imagines the future progeny they will gift to the Tribe, whether they are born or found. However, she takes the time to close her eyes and pray to the spirits. The newlyweds will need guidance.

Hopefully, the wedding night will not result in nearly as much structural damage as the courtship had.

The first time Paz ever laid eyes upon you was shortly after the Armorer had finished negotiations to join with yours. It took nearly three weeks of negotiations, but your Tribe had ultimately yielded. No sane alor would turn away a dozen Hunters and their children, anyway. Paz admits that he did not find you all that impressive at first. You were – and still are - pretty average. Your armor at the time consisted of a bes’kar helmet and a steel chestplate that looked like the Armorer’s. Everything else was made of leather.

Tradesperson, he thought to himself, and he put you out of his mind.

As time went on, Paz came to like you, and even enjoy spending a few minutes with you here and there as his duties allowed. Even though you openly admitted that were an average warrior (at best), you did your job freakishly well. You had made your desire for a large family vocal, and that, combined with your skills, had caught the attention of several Hunters visiting to deliver the latest news. According to the Elders, the offers of marriage had come flooding in the instant you completed your first hunt, even though you hadn’t completed it until your twenty-third birthday.

When the average Mandalorian completed their first hunt by their nineteenth.

And Paz completed his on his seventeenth.

It didn’t take long for him to understand how you earned the loving-yet-frighteningly-accurate nickname shu’shika from the Tribe – you truly are a tiny disaster. You are dearly loved by your Tribe, but there is a tendency for things to break while you are around.

You are stubborn to a fault. That Paz can deal with. Over the past thirty or so years, he has had plenty of practice to out-stubborn his subordinates, and he always wins. The same holds true with his bounties. With you? There have been a few situations where he has come dangerously close to cracking and losing his temper. It is only your terrible self-defense skills and his affection for you that keep him from simply putting you in a headlock until you submit.

Paz sometimes wonders if you provoke him on purpose because you know he will not throw fists with someone who lacks proper training. He takes no pleasure in winning a fight if it was never a true fight to begin with.

Far too often, you get mouthy with him, to the point where he sometimes wants to grab you around the waist and launch you straight into the lake for being such a brat. You are never truly disrespectful, but you have no problem telling him what you think. Even when he does not ask for your opinion. He does, however, appreciate your honesty with him, since others are usually too intimidated by him to be as direct as you.

You’re kriffing fearless, to the point of recklessness. His threats to launch you into the lake have gone from true threats to playful teasing, and it always earns a laugh from you.

Your forgetfulness…it is truly obnoxious. At this point, he has stopped reminding you to pick up your shit. He has grown used to simply picking up your things off the floor (or the couch, or the tables, or the showers), stuffing them in a bag, and dumping it all on your table in the workshop. Just like everyone else in the Tribe does for you. Or, if he wants to see you, he will pocket your datapad until you come wandering into the common areas, and hand it over without a word. It never ceases to amaze you that Paz somehow seems to know exactly what you are looking for.

Paz has no doubts that if you ever set your bucket down, you will lose it. He kind of finds it endearing. But only from you. He has no problems holding armor, weapons, or personal property for ransom if some idiot leaves it unattended.

If there is even a single power cable in a wide-open room, you will invariably find it and trip over it. Stairs have to be clearly marked with vibrant tape to remind you of their existence even though they’ve been there for ten kriffing years. Your navigational skills are nonexistent. It is all Paz can do to refrain from simply attaching a tracker to your backside to keep you from getting lost whenever someone takes you to the market.

The first time he had taken you to the market, he lost you within forty-eight seconds. He panicked the entire time he looked for you. Fortunately, he found you trying to dig enough money out of your bag to buy some ice cream, with no regards as to how you were going to eat the kriffing ice cream with a damn bucket on your head.

Sometimes, Paz feels like his relationship with you is going to give him a full head of grey hair before his fiftieth birthday. But he thinks you are the most beautiful disaster he has ever seen in his life.

You get his dumb jokes and laugh at his silly puns. You let him steal the end pieces of the bread when you bake. You try so damn hard to improve your hand-to-hand combat skills, even when Doctor Shen threatens to tie you to a bed to keep you from hurting yourself. You turn to him first when you want to learn a new technique. You play hunters-and-prey with the children for hours, like you don’t care that the others are grumbling about you spoiling the kids. You listen to him ramble about whatever random topic he has picked up that week, and while you may not know anything about it, you ask questions and take the time to learn more about what makes him happy. You even offer to share your tiingilar with him, even when you only have a quarter ration of it.

He has spent most of his forty-four years alone in life. His eight-year relationship had ended exactly ten years ago when his partner chose to commit adultery. He was on the verge of proposing marriage when he caught them in his bed. Neither had been wearing their helmet. It was a privilege his partner had never granted him, even after nearly a decade together. After that gut-wrenching betrayal, something had shattered in him. Paz invested himself in his work fervently, his bitterness turning him away from the possibility of a long-term relationship. Now that he is older and wiser, he feels a sort of emptiness to his days. Like his successes mean nothing without having someone to share them with. He wants someone there to encourage and support him in his hunts. Someone who is not as cynical and burnt out from the constant threat of death and war. Someone who still has that shereshoya – that Mandalorian lust for each new day and every experience that it brings. That brightness in your soul draws him to you like a moth to the flame. It is your hidden gentility that has him so happily trapped in your orbit.

He wants to make you strong where you are weak.

He wants you to make him strong where he is weak.

Seeing you waiting for him at the shooting range brings a spring to his step. Hearing your laughter at one of his awful jokes makes him glad he wears a helmet so no one can see the ridiculous grin on his face. Smelling the sweet, flowery soap that you use makes his knees go all wobbly, though he’s not sure if it’s from affection or just from age. Just feeling your hand brush up against his makes him turn into a sweaty, flushed mess.

Paz Vizla feels like he’s strapped to the wing of a TIE fighter spinning out of control as it plummets to the ground below, or something like a fully-grown rath’tar has wrapped itself around his heart to squeeze. His belly is jam-packed with spice-crazed minochs and his heart is pounding wildly. When he thinks about kissing you one day, maybe just gently pressing his helmet against yours, his heart gets so full he can barely breathe.

You make him Feel Things he has never felt before.

Paz Vizla turns into a hot kriffing mess under his armor when he is around you, and he wants off this malfunctioning jetpack.

Feel free to leave comments, concerns, or critiques. I love all sorts of feedback <3

#star wars #the mandalorian #paz vizla #paz vizla x reader #paz vizsla x reader #romance #humor #the armorer #din djarin #original characters #tailor's world #tv: the mandalorian #paz vizsla x f!reader #paz vizla x f!reader #tailor writes #series: a proper mandalorian courtship

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rohirric-hunter · 3 years

Text

Léonys of Rohan Part 8

Part 1 | Part 7 | Part 9 | Part 10

This chapter:

Is long. Over eight single-spaced pages in Google Docs. I thought about splitting it into two or three parts, but that didn’t spark joy so I didn’t.

Is gory. It’s still “canon-typical” violence, but I went a little ham on detail. I wouldn’t mark it as mature, personally, but there’s a lot of blood.

Contains a bit of suicide ideation not in any particular place, just kind of all over, until the very end.

Is very dark. Léonys is in a bad headspace right now.

Kicked my ass.

I also didn’t draw at all from the game’s version of the post-battle events, but I don’t expect that to be relevant. Mostly this will happen simultaneously and not intersect with that, unless the game does something like, really weird, in which case I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.

***

This is how it is to be Léonys of Rohan:

There is more blood, you think, coming from Hathellang than there had been from Candaith, and in this moment he seems heavier, although Candaith is undoubtedly the taller of the two men.

***

Hope unlooked for surges across the battlefield as the standard unfurls on the black ships, and for the first time in many days your heart sings. There are Dúnedain on those ships, and they bring with them hope, and for a few precious moments you believe, truly, that this endless raging battle, fear and hatred and wrath swirling together into a miasma of death, may yet be conquered.

You ride for the Harlond on a borrowed horse, for Wídethym had run wild and thrown you when the Black Shadow came, and you do not know where she is now. This steed can sense how high-strung you are and responds to commands slowly, and shies away from some areas entirely, and your progress is slow. You try to direct him to the right, to circle the flaming ruins of a siege engine, but he rears and whinnies nervously, and you wonder if running on your own two feet might be faster. Perhaps you ought to have stayed on the hillock, with the remains of the King’s Men, where only a few moments before you had thought to sell your life dearly in defense of Éomer, now King of the Mark. No dishonorable way to go, certainly, but in that moment it had seemed to you that perhaps, after everything, it was not what you wanted, not really. You do not know what you want.

That is when you spy him, Hathellang, astride a horse galloping toward the Harlond. He has been in the battle; that much is clear from the battered state of his armor, one pauldron undone and flapping loosely and his helm missing entirely. You raise a hand and call out, but your voice is lost in the din of war and though his eyes seem to touch you, briefly, they are foiled by the armor of Rohan that you wear, and he is preoccupied, one hand struggling to tighten his loose pauldron, and he rides on, and passes you.

***

Your grip on Hathellang slips and he shifts to your right and there’s more blood, running down the green-dyed leather armor you were given at the weapontake a thousand years ago, staining it dirty brown and reeking of death and copper, and you pause to adjust your grip and resettle him across your shoulders. Is he still alive, you wonder, and somehow it’s dry, curious, not desperate and terrified as it should be.

***

You were delayed, drawn into a battle against a raging mûmak with Legolas, and Elladan, and Elrohir, and though it was clear to you that they needed aid, regret surges within you for it, because when you turn the corner and find Hathellang, at long last, he stands alone, weapons drawn, back to a wall, and before him, casting him in evil shadow, is a towering cloaked figure with blades at the ready, and when your steed comes to a halt and prances nervously you find yourself in full agreement, for here is a Nazgûl, and dread hangs in the air like fog. You slide from the steed’s back and as soon as he feels your weight leave he turns and flees, and you let him go, slipping unnoticed behind the ruined wall of what was perhaps once a farmhouse.

The voice, when it speaks, is sharp enough to crack stone and heavy enough to weigh all your limbs, hatred given form. “The end has come for you. My brethren may have fled the battle, but I remain.” You notch an arrow to your bow. Neither Hathellang nor the Nazgûl have seen you. “I stand here with no orders, only to see you pay for what you have done to the Corsairs of Umbar.” Hathellang seems to cringe away from the voice, as if it is itself a weapon wielded against him. “In another life --” You inhale slowly, take aim, and release.

***

The ground ahead of you slopes upward into a steep ramp and you stagger forward, forcing one foot in front of the other. How many circles has it been? How much farther do you have to go? “Hang on,” you gasp, and your voice is hoarse and rough. “We’re almost there, hang on, don’t go, don’t go, don’t go,” and then you stop, because talking is using valuable breath that you need to keep climbing.

***

The full weight of a Nazgûl’s malice turns upon you, and the battle becomes sharper, every detail demanding equal attention, every sound louder than you could dare imagine. You choke on death as everything swirls together and your bow falls from nerveless hands. Had you dared to hope? When evils such as this stalked the battlefield? When soldiers as weak as yourself rode from Rohan? When the city already stands cracked open, gates twisted and ruined? Why did you come here? Why did you ride with the Rohirrim, or follow the Grey Company, or indeed leave Lady Hackberry’s house at all? Darkness will come to all, but to some places slower, if only by virtue of being too insignificant to attract the attention of the great and powerful.

He advances on you, and you cower, falling to your knees, and your hands fly to your head, covering your ears but not blocking out the shriek, the death-knell, a sword of ice piercing your heart and tearing open wounds that have not yet begun to scab over. It all swells up inside again, grief, and pain, and fear, and anger like red-hot coals, and you are not enough to contain it all. There is no victory, no way to win, for if Mordirith and Lheu Brenin still walk your nightmares then does death exist for foes such as this? You are screaming, you think, but it is lost in the miasma of hatred and fear and rage that tears at you. Darkness dwells somewhere beyond that, you know, darkness and escape, and you reach for it, not thinking, knowing only that nothingness, silent, eternal, nothingness is safe.

***

The ramp comes to an end, a landing before another slope turns back the way it came, and you stagger and lean against the wall. Someone pushes past, armor clinking as they run by, and you think to ask for help, but you blink and they are gone, and you wonder if they were ever really here at all. Your arms tremble and your fingers are deathly numb from clutching Hathellang, who is silent, whose eyes were closed when he lay unconscious on the battlefield, but you dare not look now, for what if they are not? What if you look and they are open, glassy and cold in death? Ah, there is the fear and desperation, bubbling up inside, like boiling oil, scalding to your very soul, and it always was, and you do not know what was broken inside, that you did not feel it before.

***

Metal screeches against metal, and a scream echoes, cutting like knives, a human scream of pain, and when you force your eyes open the blood has come, crimson and angry and flaming, painting the world. Hathellang’s sword lies on the ground before you, the hilt near cloven through, fingers still wrapped around its grip even as their owner falls to his knees before you, left hand clutching his right arm to his chest as the blood wells up between his fingers and spills down him like a fountain.

The Nazgûl shrieks again, raising his blades and swinging them downward and this time you scream as they connect, because Hathellang does not; he merely collapses forward and lies still, facedown, and the earth beneath him is damp with blood.

***

You stagger up this new ramp, lungs screaming for air and tears of exertion carving a path through the blood and dirt dried on your face. One more step, you promise yourself, then you can stop again, and one more, and one more.

Hathellang is stubborn, but he always bends, eventually. When Lady Hackberry had first sat him down with a knife and a piece of treated leather, he had fought her every step of the way. He did not want to be a tailor, he said, he had a job and wanted for nothing, and you had laughed, at the time, quietly, smuggled away behind a nearby doorframe, as the obvious lies flowed as easily as the blood does now. He had not wanted to use a running stitch to finish his first project, a lopsided belt that was stained unevenly and too long to be practical; he already knew a blanket stitch, and it served him well, why should he learn anything different? And when he had learned through experience that if the thread juts from the leather it will wear away and the whole project comes apart, you had laughed in his face. He had not wanted to follow you to the Old Forest, when he had first pursued you out of Bree-town months ago, and he had wanted to even less when he heard who had sent you there, but when you had spoken of Archet, and of Amdir, and the shadowy terror that led strange men to do unthinkable acts, he had taken your hands in his and pressed his forehead against yours and whispered that he would help you, with just this one thing, and then the two of you would return to Lady Hackberry’s and to your lives.

You take one more step, and promise yourself that if you take one more you can rest.

***

A shout echoes from beyond the Nazgûl, from the direction of the quays, and it turns, shrieking once again, and beyond it you spy, for a moment, two men in the grey-green garb of the Rangers of the North, who step back and quail as the creature’s dread presence settles over them, and a woman who does not quail, but raises a shield and advances, and you see no more, because you are crawling towards Hathellang, mud caking on your greaves and bracers as you drag yourself towards him. The Nazgûl’s blades have sliced through the armor he wears and bit into his back, and blood wells from the gashes as you take his shoulders in your hands and shake him desperately. His skin is washed white as bone against the black of his hair, and you are weeping now, because how could you not have foreseen this, when you had asked him to follow the Grey Company, or when you had sent Nona to him knowing it would lead both of them to more danger, and when he had begged you to return to Bree and you had not responded, but asked him to accompany you across the haunted Barrow-downs? You clutch at him and think that you did not want to share a death with him, not so soon, but what else have you?

***

“Are you all alone? How far have you carried him?” You open your eyes to meet those of a young man, a boy, really, who peers up at you curiously.

“From the battle,” you say, though it comes out a whisper. “They said the Houses of Healing are on the sixth circle.”

“They are,” he says, “and you are nearly there, but you are injured! Wait here. I am bringing a message to the Houses now, and cannot tarry, but I will send someone to aid you.”

“I am not injured,” you say, but he is gone, and in the stillness that follows you sink to the ground, finally robbed of the will to carry on. The grey flagstones melt into a chilling mist and rise up and bury you in a featureless tomb, penetrated only by the occasional sounds of people passing nearby, taking no notice of you. Hathellang slides from your shoulders and slumps limply against a house nearby, leaving streaks of red across it. You can only kneel there and stare, taking in everything like you’re seeing it for the first time, from the loose pauldron on his left shoulder -- he never did fully tighten it -- to the clammy pallor of his skin, to the bundle of dirty bloodstained rags that Candaith had used to staunch the bleeding at the end of his right arm after the Nazgûl had been banished.

“Léonys,” he had said sternly. “He may yet be saved if we act swiftly. The Houses of Healing are on the sixth circle of the city. Take him there, now.” And somehow, somehow, you had pulled him up over your shoulders, balancing him like one of the may young deer you’ve brought home to your family for food and leather, and made for the city, working your way through lulls in the fighting until you came within a stone’s throw of the walls, where men from the city held their ground and you were able to jog along, carrying him toward the gate. But the road had stretched out before you, and climbed its winding way through the streets and towers of Minas Tirith, and you had moved slower and slower until your feet dragged, and the spark of will that had come with Candaith’s promise had faded as despair crawled from the cracks between the stones of the city and choked you in their fumes once again.

You do not know how long you sit there, before a man fades from between the mists and greets you, and you can barely find it in yourself to acknowledge him, until he kneels beside Hathellang. “Can you help him?” you try to say, but the words catch in your throat and you gasp out, “Can -- help?”

He looks at you and does not speak, and you are no fool, but he lifts Hathellang and bids you follow him with a word, and you do, eyes never leaving your unconscious -- unconscious, you tell yourself, eyes still closed, not dead -- companion as you pass through the streets winding between statues and fountains, among alleyways and streets and around people -- there are rather a lot of people here, you notice, all rushing this way and that and many carrying burdens of some sort, though they go about their business silently and the city remains quiet. The clamour of the battle has faded, whether you have climbed high enough above it that you can no longer hear or because the battle has ended you do not know.

You pass through a gate and find yourself standing among fair gardens, bustling with men and women laden with bandages and medicines and more, and there are soldiers, many soldiers, of Gondor and Rohan, brought here by their fellows, or entering themselves alone or in bands, and all bear the signs of battle, and all bear wounds, and you laugh out loud, for you no longer have the strength to weep.

A woman comes to Hathellang and looks him over, brushing a hand over his forehead, and whispers a curse, and then her eyes turn to you with the same analytic look.

“I am not injured,” you say. “I brought him here. Please, can you help him? They said you could help him, that he might be saved. Please.”

“We will do what we can,” she promises, and she waves the man into the door behind her. She raises a hand to stop you as you move to follow. “The Halls are crowded, lady, and we have room only for the injured and those who might aid them. We will send for you soon, but you must understand that we may only be able to ease his passing. His wounds are grievous, but some other evil is at work here, that we may not be able to banish.”

And then she is gone, and Hathellang is gone, and you stand alone on the walk before the Houses of Healing, and it is too much again, building and swelling like vinegar in an old wineskin. You fear you will burst.

“Are you injured?” someone asks, and there is a man at your elbow, looking at you in concern, and you wonder, if anyone else asks you that, if you will be able to hold back the scream that is building in the back of your throat.

“No,” you say. “I brought a… friend here.”

“Come,” he says, and he tries to catch your arm in his. “There are places set aside for the uninjured to rest nearby.”

You begin to follow him as he urges you down the path, and then you stop, because the thought has entered your head that if you follow him to a place of rest, then you will rest, and if you rest, then you might think, and you stop, pulling your arm away. “No,” you say. “I must do something. Please. What needs to be done? I cannot rest.”

“You were in the battle,” he says gently. “You have earned rest.”

You laugh again, for you have earned nothing, and you do not want rest; the only escape from the terror is in action, is in not stopping, or slowing, or thinking, and it is clear that he was not in the battle, or he would know that. “I cannot rest,” you say again. “Surely there is something to be done?”

He pauses, and looks you over appraisingly, and then speaks. “You are Rohirrim, are you not? We have here in our care a hundred and fourteen soldiers of Rohan, who found their own way here or were brought. Their commanders will be taking stock of their companies and listing their dead. Find the commanders of the Rohirrim, or perhaps their king, and bring them this news, and bear back any message they give you.”

You nod, and then turn and without speaking make your way back to the gate, pausing on the landing just outside it and gazing out over the White City, and the Pelennor below.

The sun shines and the wind from the south sweeps away the smoke from burning wreckage on the plain. All is quiet as the city begins to move again, people creeping from crevices and crannies like maggots to look over the ruins of their lives, and take the first steps towards rebuilding. Black ships lie at Harlond, and the fields are alive with scattered armies, searching among the dead and wounded, and regrouping, and you wrap shaking arms around yourself and then start forward, allowing your mind to sink into simmering emptiness as your feet lead you down the road, toward the battlefield below.

***

Hours pass like minutes as you seek out Éomer and deliver your message, and then, since you have been to the Houses and back once, he sends you to guide a company of injured men there, and you do, one of them leaning heavily on you the whole way, his hand pressed to a wound in his side which you fear might be lethal. When he asks you how far, as you pass out of the tunnel on the third circle, you force a smile and tell him it is not much further, which is not true, but he smiles back weakly and forges forward.

When you reach the gardens the healers come and lead the men away, and the same man as before finds you and tells you that five men of Rohan have died, and that forty-seven new arrivals are there, and you absorb the information and turn away.

The King of the Mark is nowhere to be found, and you make your report to Elfhelm, who nods and finds three more injured soldiers, one of whom lies unconscious and breathing shallowly, his armor dented into his chest by some violent impact. A frame has been made of spears and cloaks to carry him, and you help one of the others to lift it, and bear it toward the city. The streets are crowded now, and forcing your way through is no small challenge, but you manage it, somehow. When you reach the gate to the sixth circle your arms are sore, and you lower the injured man to the grassy ground before the High Hall gratefully.

“Come quickly!” someone calls, and it takes a moment for you to realize they are speaking to you. “Come quickly!” they say again, and you turn to see an older woman standing there, waving to you. “It is your friend. Come at once!”

You had thought you were too numb to feel pain again this day, but your heart throbs, bloating with the unexpected panic and sorrow but empty within, and you do not follow immediately, standing instead before the door with shaking hands and tears welling, seemingly not all yet spent.

The woman turns to look at you expectantly. “Come,” she says, and you force one foot in front of the other, climbing the steps and coming in through the door.

The interior is beautiful, not at all what you had expected, overflowing with flowers and punctuated by the sound of running water, well-swept tiles and a ceiling open to the sky, which is streaked with red as the sun leans toward the west. The room floats with the distant, half-remembered aroma of athelas, and as you breathe it in some of your weariness does not fade, but settles. The woman leads you up a flight of stairs, then turns to the right and up another flight, and here there are rows of beds, and healers moving between them, stooping over patients and administering medicines. And there, in one of the beds, lies Hathellang, and your breath catches.

His eyes are closed in sleep, and it is plain to see that he is merely sleeping, because the color has come back into his face and his chest rises and falls and you sway on your feet.

“It’s a wonder,” the woman is saying, and you think she has been talking for some time. “They never woke before, not fully, but that man came, and he called for kingsfoil -- kingsfoil! -- and then he just spoke to them, and they woke! And Mithrandir said to me, he said --”

You take a shaking step forward, and then you stop. Hathellang is lying in a clean bed, and his face has been cleaned of the mud and blood and filth that had caked it when you had dragged him from the dirt, and his right arm, which is lying on top of the white linens of the bed, is wrapped in clean, white bandages, and you are still covered in filth, armor streaked with dried and drying blood, muck packed into the cracks under your bracers and greaves, tear tracks carved through something dried to your face, hair dripping with sweat and worse things. And you are still pursued by the fear, and you cannot stop, cannot rest, cannot think. With a cry you turn and flee from the House.

On the steps you halt. Aragorn is on the lawn below, leaning over a man lying on neatly folded blankets. He is cloaked in grey, and exhaustion drips from slumped shoulders, and he looks more like Strider the Ranger than he has since before even Archet and the Blackwolds, the last time you had seen him in the Pony before then, hands wrapped around a pipe like it was his only source of warmth, taking in the common room with weary but observant eyes.

You meet those same eyes now, as he opens them and looks around, grounding himself in the moment, and you see recognition in them for a moment, before he looks down to the man beneath him. They exchange brief words, before Aragorn straightens up, and you step forward.

“Thank you,” you say, and a thousand other words catch in your mouth, but you have to hold it together, you can’t burst, not here, not now.

He looks you up and down, seeing more than you are showing as always, and offers you a nod of acknowledgement. “Hathellang asked for you, when you awoke,” he says, “but you could not be found.”

Guilt wells up, almost refreshing in its novelty, but he raises a hand before you can speak. “It would be good for him, for you to be there when he wakes again. And you should rest.”

“I should rest?” you ask, wrapping your arms around yourself. You’re deflecting, you know. Aragorn is most likely right in this, as he is right in so many things, but still you fear the silence. “If I should rest, I daren’t think what you should be doing.”

He cracks a weary smile and glances at the westering sun. “Soon,” he says, and then he looks at you intently and seriously. “Go,” he commands, “and if you see the wisewoman Ioreth, tell her I have need of more kingsfoil, if any is to be found.”

Your hand slips to a pouch at your waist, where you carry an arrow fletching kit, to repair your arrows and make new ones, two extra bowstrings, a pair of bootlaces that matched your old boots that were taken from you in Isengard, a few extra coins in case your purse is stolen or lost, and one or two other oddments that you keep at your side for when your pack is not at hand. At the bottom, wrapped in a handkerchief, are a few leaves of athelas, long dried and a little crushed, which you have carried with you since Archet.

You hand him the handkerchief and he unfolds it just enough to see what it contains, and then nods again. “This will do,” he says, and you turn away, back to the door to the hall. “Léonys,” he says, and you pause with a hand on the door handle and look back. “There is little that a healer can do for him now. He needs companionship, and encouragement, and love.”

It is your turn to offer a nod, and then you take a deep breath, open the door, and face the silence.

Part 1 | Part 7 | Part 9 | Part 10

#lotr #lotro #lord of the rings #lord of the rings online #lord of the rings online fanfiction #lotr oc #leonys of rohan

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